Dinner at the Brick

It's a tough economy for many people. No doubt about that.

I read in the paper that this resort town I live in has some citizens forced from homes into travel trailers and cars.

"I don't see that," I remarked to a friend, who showed me the article. Janet is a retired woman friend who volunteers a few Sundays a month preparing and serving "Dinner at the Brick" which is advertised through local media and charitable institutions. Anyone can come eat for no charge. The Brick is the Presbyterian church basement at 9th and M Streets. Coincidently, it's across the street from the house my family lived in when I was a teenager. It's sanctuary is made of bricks with a castle front. Dates back a hundred years or so, and is very beautiful inside and out. There are elaborate stained glass windows, wooden beams and an organ with brass pipes that reach twenty feet or so.

Janet said just drive up and down the alleys and you'll see the homeless. I did that, but I thought people always parked their RVs and extra cars behind their houses. Whatever the case, I told Janet I'd like to come and help with the dinner sometime, and a date was set.

In an earlier story, I wrote about my first weeks in 1968 Anacortes at twelve years old, having arrived from California suburbia, and what a culture shock that was. In one "scene" I described a man staggering up the sidewalk with a pistol in his hand. He was on his way to confront a prostitute girlfriend a few doors from ours. He thought she was spending too much social time with clients, apparently.

That man, Bob, was the first person I met when I parked my car at the church. He hadn't disappeared in the forty years or so when I first saw him. He'd been a barfly until his later years, then he'd be seen sitting on the bench in front of the Post Office with his best drinking buddy from the old days. Neither of them had much spark left in the past ten years or so.

This day, Bob was pushing a walker along the walkway and making slow progress toward the basement stairs.

"I'm going the same place you are," I said to him, "Let's see if I can help you get there at the same time."

I saw a sign indicating an elevator lobby at the other end of the building.

"Should we use the elevator?" I suggested. No, he said. He'd always gone in this way.

Very well. We tucked the walker into a corner and I took his arm, with my elbow under his armpit, nursing home style.

He smiled and said it was a pleasure having such a beautiful lady accompany him to dinner.

Well. Thank you.

I think if he'd started down the stairs on his own, dinner would have been interrupted by paramedics.

There is a nice commercial kitchen in the church basement and a large gathering area adjacent. One end is set for meetings with a podium and piano. About twelve big round tables are at the kitchen end. I took Bob to his customary seat and went back for the walker.

Janet introduced me to the volunteers in the kitchen. There would be about five of us serving and cleaning up. One woman had made a big pot of "cowboy stew" and Janet herself had produced homemade bread. Costco salad mix rounded out the meal. As good or better than my family might get at home.

I watched the guests arrive. Some I'd seen around town, some I hadn't seen before. In trying to describe this gathering, I can say if you looked closely you might see a mental imbalance here and there, but it could have been any gathering of family and friends. The volunteers were not condescending, and the dinner guests were well-mannered and sociable (to varying degrees).

All were dressed in clean clothes and I did not smell intoxicants. Some even dressed up a bit, however oddly. Clearly this evening was an event.

One man, a Lummi Indian named Robert, sang songs and recited poetry he'd written. He played a handmade elk skin drum to accompany his voice. I'd seen him walking up and down Commercial Avenue over some years and thought he was one of those crazy guys. He's actually educated and a very good writer. Not nuts, but certainly eccentric. Robert was offering handmade jewelry items based on cedar bark weaves and glass beads. He displayed two baseball caps out of woven cedar bark. Very precise and creative work, no plastic. Janet bought two pairs of earrings for $20 each. She praised his work and said to me in the kitchen, "That should keep him going for a little while."

I waited for the sermon I thought would preceed the meal. There was only a brief prayer of thanks for the food and fellowship.

Dessert was all homemade, too. Apple pie, rhubarb crisp, blueberry coffee cake.

Janet counted the plates as they came back into the kitchen. Second helpings are also counted. When the meal was over, the leftovers are plated and sacked for whoever wants them. Those plates are counted, too.

"We served forty-six meals," a volunteer reported. This somewhat inflated tally is necessary for some agency somewhere, but the costs of this meal are so minimal. I wondered if the real purpose is of the count is to show a strong need to keep the dinners happening.

When the last diner had left the building and we were putting away the clean china plates and glassware I said to Janet, "This is a social evening for these people, like a treat, isn't it?"

She said, "You got it."

Salad Bowl 2009

What a beautiful day today! After months of virtual wet-blanket weather (short days, mostly cloudy and rainy) we have the sun and it is bright and hot!

I'll wear shorts today! Not being one to reveal the prison-like-pallor of my legs to the gentle public, I applied the fake-and-bake and looked outside toward the pond. Standing on the shore of the island was a very large raptor bird. Not a bald eagle... this was larger, and dark brown with a light colored mantle. Before I could get the camera, it took flight and flew right past the kitchen window! I keep a field guide handy for identification of the many birds that visit, and easily identified this one as a golden eagle! Quite a thrill! I ran out on the lawn to watch it rise up and up and gone.

Now that my blood was stirred up, I looked around for a project. In the direction of the eagle's appearance I was reminded of the raised planter next to the pond. I'd bought seeds a few weeks ago and had been procrastinating. Still on my feet, I made the decision to keep moving and get the project started.

My oldest son, Chris, built the oval raised garden for me. The past two years, we've planted tomatoes in it hoping that proximity to the pond would get enough light from the sky and the reflection from the water to get them ripe before autumn frost. Without a long, hot summer tomatoes are a gamble in this part of the world. We threw the dice and lost twice, so this year I decided we'd plant salad.

I located the double-edged action hoe in the garden shed. A powerful and resolute-sounding title has this tool. Some call it a hula hoe, but I think that sounds insensitive. With it's assistance I was able to prepare the soil in about half an hour, clearing out last year's remnants of failed tomato plants.

The trout in the pond can feel footstep vibrations, and they thought it must be feeding time. I tried to ignore their leaping and boiling while I traced the seed furrows with an alder stick. Basil and spinach at either end, then rows lengthwise of iceberg, romaine, and red leaf lettuces, with one row of carrots in the middle. I planted sunflowers on the pond side edge for decoration.

The last step was liquid applications. Generous watering, then a big circle of a black goopy potion called "Deadline" around the base of the planter. We cannot grow big tomatoes in Washington, but we sure can grow huge slugs. The subject species is called "banana slug" locally because they resemble small, slimy bananas. Without Deadline to quell the pests, the lettuces would never get past sprouts.

Now that the seeds were tucked in, watered, and immunized, I could sit down and visit with the fish. I tossed the chow into the dark water and enjoyed the supper dance of my chilly little friends.

Although we'll still have rainy days through spring and even through summer, we'll have enough sunny days to produce salad greens from mid-June until late September. I'll hope California sends good tomatoes to the local Safeway.

Van Halen - Panama (Music Video)

Spring Cleaning

Ok. I'm going to clean out the kitchen drawer that grabs the stuff I'm clearing from the counters when company is imminent. That false impression I like to give that it's tidy around here. Sometimes it is.

Receipts are easy. Those go in a folding file. The M-80s I took away from the teenagers can stay there until July. Here's the silver plumeria earring I thought I lost. And here's a sample of barbecue rub... I'll just put that on the counter. I might use it tonight.

Here are two ticket stubs from July 2006. Crosby Stills Nash & Young at Red Rocks Ampitheater, Denver, Colorado. My adult son, Chris, and I were there. Unforgettable. David Crosby said in his second biography that the Red Rocks Freedom of Speech gig was one of the best they ever played. Hey! We were there!

The itinerary from here to Spearfish, South Dakota was one of my good ideas. Nobody in my household was interested in the Hoverson family reunion but me. "South Dakota in July? Too hot! Are you nuts?" Mom and Dad would drive, as usual, out of consideration for the little dog that goes everywhere they go.

Airfare from Seattle or Bellingham to Rapid City was about $700. But what if I flew into Denver and visit with my friend, Amber, then rent a car and drive from Denver to Spearfish and back? Those airplane tickets are $220. I looked around for things to do in Denver (why not?). Never been to Denver before.

"Hey, Chris. Wanna fly to Denver with me? We can see Crosby Stills Nash and Young at Red Rocks Amphitheater, stay overnight, and then drive up to Spearfish for that family reunion. We'll stay two days and drive back to Denver for the flight home. Wouldn't that be an adventure?"

My 29 year old son has inherited my good sense, so he could see a good time and quickly agreed. After all, we could both fly and ride for less than the cost of one direct ticket. Two for one. And rock and roll superstars in brand new territory.

The Denver airport is not in Denver but quite a ways east in Aurora. Right in the path of lightning storms and blizzards. We avoided the blizzards, it being July, but did arrive with lighting around our heads. Landing was ok, but it was waiting for baggage that took an hour or so. They can't send the baggage carriers out it for fear of lighting strikes, but the clouds move by like trains with several minutes in between.

We got the rental car, and nice stodgy Ford Taurus, and set out for Denver. Not knowing where I'm going has never stopped me and I'm used to surprises. The hotel was in Lakewood, not Denver. The concert was in Morrison, not Denver. "Denver" doesn't mean Denver, necessarily, and all of these places are twenty miles from downtown. Fortunately, Lakewood is on the same side of Denver as Morrison is. Amber lives in Golden. Not too bad.

The hotel clerk suggested we get an early start for Morrison to beat the traffic. She said parking was pretty far from the event, and we might like a taxi. We took her advice and she called one for us. Very easy ride to a place we never would have guessed was there. The amphitheatre is tucked into foothills that rise into the Rocky Mountains.

We stepped out of the cab and looked for the entrance. I bet we walked a mile up switchbacked trail until we reached the seating. Remembering we started upward from "the Mile High City," we took our time. There were paramedics at two stations for those of us whose hearts might seize up from the altitude and aerobics. It happens.

Ah, here we are. We walked through a gauntlet of charitable organization groups occupying booths and practicing free speech. You can speak freely, too, if you agree with them. Otherwise prepare for nasty insults. I'd learned that lesson long ago, so went straight for the beverage vendors. Chris and I each got a tasty beer, then climbed another 70 feet in altitude to our assigned seats.

What a beautiful place! The City of Denver owns this huge, perfectly acoustic venue. Rock formations and boulders make it perfect for the outdoor performances that have been going on since the early 1900s. It can seat over 9,000 people.

We got Kosher hotdogs and waited for the performance.

Rock gods! You can read reviews of the three concerts given that weekend at Red Rocks, so I won't even attempt one. As the sky grew dark, we could see lightning storms over the city of Denver and its skyscrapers twenty miles or so away. There were no clouds where we sat.

"Guinevere" and "Helplessly Hoping" gave me goosebumps. "Almost Cut my Hair" made me laugh. The old guys played until almost midnight.

Back at the entrance, we looked around for a taxi. Someone said there'd be plenty of them arriving soon. We observed tour buses near where we stood. A van unloaded six cases of Stella Artois. I asked one of the drivers, "Is the band here?" He said heck no, they'd left for their hotel right after the last note played. Hmmm... well, I wouldn't bother them, but at least I was standing pretty close. That's kinda exciting.

We got up the next morning as early as we could stand it and found the road to Spearfish woven through greater Denver, past the airport and north on Interstate 25. About two hours into the drive, we thought we could eat. Fort Collins Next Exit. Hey, that's where Dan's Bake Sale was! Let's go check it out!

For those of you in Rio Linda who don't know what Dan's Bake Sale was about, I should spare you the story... but those of us who know would want to check it out.

There aren't any signs of that 1993 event in Fort Collins now, but it is a really nice little college town (University of Colorado). It's also the home of New Belgium Brewery and a bunch of tech companies. It's got to be one of the prettiest places I've seen, with the Pouder River running through it, lots of green park area, and the Colorado Front Range alongside.

We found a really great Japanese restaurant with sidewalk tables. We watched the slow and easy downtown traffic and enjoyed the warm breezes, just right. Ok, we'll stop at one brewery.

O'Dell Brewery for just a few minutes... we shared a sampler. Pretty darned competent brewer. I bought a six pack to take home to John, without thinking about the season and outside temperatures. As a result, I carried it with me the whole trip to avoid letting it sit in the car and overheat. Just like a handbag.

Back in the car for hours and hours. Cheyenne, Wyoming was interesting, but we couldn't stop because we'd lost too much time in Fort Collins. Prairie dog towns line the freeway... hundreds of miles of rodent condos. Holes and mounds. A sentinel here, a sentinel there. No trees, no water, no cell phone signal. They could send a good 30% of Wyoming up to Alaska and no one would miss it, I think. Big ranch lands with long gravel driveways that disappear into seemingly nothing. One driveway had a billboard that said "Boner Ranch 10 Miles East." Chris made me turn around and stop the car so he I could take his photo standing next to it. There were other ranches that had signs mentioning an ownership by the Boner Family Ranch. You couldn't help but think... oh, never mind.

You can google "Boner Ranch" and you can find that lots of people have found this photo op irresistible. Amazing, since you can drive over an hour at a time and not meet another car.

The map required us to leave I-25 at US-85, which leads one from Lusk to Newcastle. My cousin told me that from Newcastle we had three choices of highway to Spearfish, but she couldn't give me a preference having never traveled to Newcastle herself.

You won't see much town in Lusk. Newcastle is clearly the center of activity for a hundred miles in any direction. There may be 3,000 people there but you'll only see 25 of them, maybe. We found a cafe on the top floor of an old granary. There was a drive-through liquor store on the ground level. What are you going to do?

The Old Mill Inn is probably the cleanest eatery I've ever set foot in. All paneled in melamine, it really shines. There is a dining room in the rear that has antelope antler chandeliers and a prime rib buffet on special nights. We waived the ambiance for the efficiency of the cafe front and had some pretty good cheeseburgers.

We asked around for directions to Spearfish using road map we got at the last gas stop. Everyone we asked peered at it and pointed at one of the three routes saying things like, "This one looks the shortest," "This one goes through the prairie and around the hills." "I think I've been on this one once." It turned out that no one we asked had ever been to Spearfish even though it was only about 60 miles away! We chose the one that went through the prairie and around the Black Hills just because someone said antelope are active at night and like to jump out in front of cars. We'd seen the carcasses positioned along the freeway, about one every five miles in differing states of decomposition. Straight, flat road sounded like the best visibility now that it was nighttime. Could someone have mentioned that 20 miles of that road was in gravel because of a repaving project? How would they know?

Three hours later we found Spearfish, the motel, and the boxy beds. But we slept very, very soundly. Chris came out of his room first and brought me coffee, sweet thing. Then we went to meet the relatives at the Booth History Fish Hatchery, where my cousin Randi is curator. Tours and lunch, then on your own until dinner for everyone at the Bay Leaf Cafe, $20 per person.

Mom and Dad arrived just in time for dinner, after an engine change in Billings, Montana. That's another story, and so many bad things could have happened to them except for the good nature of so many small town Americans. May God bless that mechanic.

I won't describe the town of Spearfish and the family reunion except to say that the Black Hills is beautiful country and there are lots of really old people who go to those things. We had a very nice visit and even got to see the Reptile Gardens in Rapid City. If you get a chance, be sure and see this most famous roadside attraction. It's been perpetuated with great class since 1937.

The car ride back to Denver was long and dull. It was hard to miss anything on the first pass through because there is so little to see. Lots of odometer watching. Cheyenne might be worth exploring someday.

We spent that night at Amber's house (she was back from a business trip), got a mini tour of Golden and downtown Denver the next day, then back to the friendly skies. We were home just after midnight and thoroughly worn out.

So today, I'm staring at these concert tickets and the messy drawer. I've wasted a half hour daydreaming, remembering... now I need a nap.

There's still enough room in the drawer for more junk. Why worry?

Trio

Three Canadian geese are on the pond this morning. These are migrators, not the crowd that hang around golf courses and wear out their welcome. They'll be here just today, maybe tomorrow for awhile and will continue their travel north.

When we bought this house four years ago, the pond was a big attraction to us. It's about two and a half acres and has a quarter acre island in the middle. It was created by the contractor who built the Scimitar estate up on the ridge. He quarried the rock under a wet area (all permitted by the state) to build the access road for the Scimitar mansion. What was once swampy is now nicely drained. The pond is home to frogs, herons, beavers and an otter . The waterfowl that you see are migratory, and it's interesting to watch the parade through the calendar months.

Two pair of mallards raise their babies on the far side of the pond. They stay pretty close to the beaver dam and only when it's really quiet do they enter my sight. Wood ducks nest somewhere on the ridge. I see the family throughout the summer. Six babies, then five babies, then four babies... no doubt the otter thins them out. Two of them will likely reach adulthood.

I've only seen a beaver twice. They work at night, I think. You can see bits of alder floating in the water. These are evidence of food gathering.

The first summer of our residence, John placed a floating trampoline mid-way to the island. It needed an anchor to stay put, and that was easily done. The boys enjoyed bouncing on it in the warm months. When the Fall arrived John retrieved it to storage for the next summer.

What should we mark the anchor with? What kind of buoy? I thought a duck decoy would look charming out there, so John went to Ace Hardware and picked out a big plastic Canadian goose. It worked very well through the freezes and thaws of winter into spring.

One April morning a trio of Canadian geese splashed down. I watched them from the kitchen table as they pulled themselves up to the lawn for breakfast. They are herbivores, and find nothing tastier than the grass blends we plant on developed plots. They eat alot of lawn and they... well, you know if you've ever walked around where they hang out. Watch your step!

Back into the water, the trio noticed the buoy sitting still about 50 feet away. Very cautiously, they approached, swimming big circles, then smaller circles. Two of the geese went back to the lawn and the one lingered next to the plastic bird.

She splashed. She nudged. She splashed some more and made a submissive mating posture in front of the stoic figure. She swam slow circles around it for awhile, then joined the other two geese on the lawn. She gazed longingly across the water to her new interest.

At the mid-afternoon, two of the geese took to the air for the next stop on their flight plan. The third bird did not join them. She settled down on the edge of the pond without taking her eyes off the decoy. Once or twice she swam around "him" but did not appear to notice the others had left her.

Early the next morning, she was sitting in the water next to her beau. The pair returned and swam close to the single in greeting. She lowered her head and chased them away. The pair stayed all day, flying up and trying to pursuade the single to budge. She would not.

John came home around 4:00 and I briefed him on the story.

"You'll have to go out there and get that decoy. 'He's' breaking her heart." I said.

John took one of the peddleboats from the dock and did the job, taking the plastic goose and replacing it with a nondescript oblong buoy. The single stood on the island and watched the departure.

She swam to where he'd been moored. And stayed.

About an hour later the pair returned. They approached her again. She faced them, but did not chase.

The pair rose to flight and made a circle around the pond, while the single remained where she'd last seen the decoy.

Another circle around the pond. Then one more.

Suddenly the single flapped her wings. She became airborneand connected her flight with the pair's. The three flew west, out of sight. I have to admit I got a little teary-eyed.

For third consecutive April, the three geese are here. I can't be sure it's the same trio, of course, but I like to think so. I'll enjoy their company as long as they stay today.

They are favorites.

Departure

Not long ago, an acquaintence of mine took his own life. He was well-known to most of the town, but no one could see this coming. Not me, not any of his friends, not close associates in the business community.

And there were many, many people who loved him.

In late middle age, Chad had a catering business. Chad had been a florist, a landscaper, and a general building contractor. He worked with his hands, and although you couldn't say his work was that much better than his competitors, it was his charm that won him clients. And he was our first openly homosexual business leader. He was matter-of-fact about it, and he didn't "look like one." Chad could act a little "swishy" if he thought that's what you wanted to see, but really he was a fairly modest man.

"Some of them are as good as me, some of them are better than me, but they don't have that faggot touch," he'd laugh.

Not so good with money. He loved fine food, fine wine, and beautiful surroundings. His mother left him her house, which was a 50's working-class single level home on an average lot a couple of blocks from downtown. He'd put loads of money into it. Stuccoed interior walls with coved ceilings, Brazilian cherry cabinets, French doors, oriental rugs and a commercial kitchen inside. Meticulous plantings, terra cotta tile and even a brick oven outside. Many pieces of art were purchased from local artists because he loved to socialize with them and sponsor them. The piece de resistance was a ten year old Bentley parked in the driveway.

Rob Peter to pay Paul was his financial practice. I'm sure it enraged some people, but Chad could pull the fat out of the fire, so to speak, at the last moment most times.

Chad often donated his services at charity events. He might offer a dinner for eight in his home to the highest bidder at a live auction for, say, Youth Sports Coalition, and that would be one of the most popular and highest premium items.

I used to visit with one of his secretaries who is a good friend of mine. Cheryl and I had worked on political fundraisers in years past, so we'd talk about current events, how people we knew in politics were faring, the weather, family news... Sometimes Chad would join us, always in good cheer.

I remember one day we were talking about gay issues. I asked Chad those things a person might typically ask like "How and when did you know? "Are gay men any kind of threat to young boys?" "Should gay people marry?" He said I could ask him anything. But what I remember most, was the saddness in his voice when he told me he was lonely.

I said I didn't understand that because I knew he lived with a man named Jacob and they were seen everywhere together.

Not everyone knew, he explained, that he and Jacob were not lovers, but were friends.

"We're like a couple of old ladies." I remember those words very well, although I wasn't sure what he meant.

I heard through the buzz around town that Chad sold his business to pay IRS liens. I heard he put his beautiful home up for sale and leased it to a family until it could sell. He was renting a room somewhere. Someone said Jacob moved to Oregon.

I don't know who it was that found Chad's body. He was in his Bentley in a closed up garage with the engine still running. He had been drinking a twenty-year-old Bordeaux and listening to opera cds.

There was a big Catholic funeral. The church overflowed and the wake went well past midnight.

Then life went on. Months later, the house is still on the market like so many houses are in this recession, and the catering company is struggling. Some say it's closing it's doors.

I guess it's lost it's touch.

Where Do Angels Walk?

How many of us have seen those articles or even emails about angels? You can find talisman-like angels next to cash registers at Lowe's Hardware. Carry one of these charms in your pocket, and you will be blessed by some angel somewhere. Angels are all around us. Some are visible, some are invisible... so they say.

Go look in the mirror. See if you can find one there.

My father is getting pretty old. He worries about his physical body "going bad on him." He worries about his memory and his ability to do tasks that were once second nature. It takes him ten minutes to log on to the computer and find his email. He watches my mother's health deteriorate in tiny increments each day and worries about the day she might not wake up. What if he leaves a burner on the range and starts a fire? If Social Security and his savings fail to keep the house bills paid?

Larry Perl is twelve years younger than Dad. He was an apprentice to Dad way back in the 1960s when Dad owned an autobody repair business. He was a hippie, a musician... he had long hair. And he was a very intelligent, quick learner.

"He's got a gift for making something out of nothing," I remember Dad saying.

Larry knew every part in inventory, by number, by quantity, by quality. He could mix and blend paint colors effortlessly. Metalwork was flawless.  Dad thought he was pretty amazing. And Larry was cool. He played drums in a local rock band. We went to watch his band perform at a street dance near the high school. Very, very cool, I thought.

The young man helped us move from Livermore to Anacortes. We were packing boxes in June of 1968 while the tv news broadcasted reports of the assassination of Robert Kennedy. Late in the evening, Dad passed around take out chicken and Larry passed around that great California hippie wine, Red Mountain in the gallon jug.

I remember the evening winding down and Larry standing up from the table, saying, "Gotta make it... night all." How California hippie. How cool.

He came to visit us in Anacortes with his new wife and baby son. I was 13 or 14 and starting to get interested in listening to music other than what was on AM radio. He said the Allman Brothers are cool. Buy a copy of Eat a Peach. And then we lost touch.

Everytime I hear anything by the Allman Brothers I think of Larry Perl and wonder where he wound up.

So, not long ago, I was standing around with Dad in his front yard, and someone next door had the radio on. I could hear Duane Allman's song, "Melissa."

"Whatever happened to Larry Perl?" I asked my dad.

"Oh, gee whiz... I haven't heard from him since he came to see us on Ninth Street." said my dad. "It sure would be good to see him. I really liked that young man."

Dad smiled and said, "He's probably not so young anymore."

One night, during my middle-aged insomnia, I googled "Larry Perl." To make the long story short, I found an old article from a Livermore history page written by his sister. The Perl family, including Larry, were glider plane hobbiests and pilots. Then I googled his sister's name, found a bulletin board with her email address included and sent her a note.

"Yes," said Toodie Perl-Marshall, "That Larry Perl is the man who worked for your dad. And I remember your dad. We were just talking about him a few days ago. Such a good man your father is, and Larry would so love to hear from him. He has not had it easy for some time... quite a few challenges. I'll pass your contact information to him."

I heard from Larry within twenty-four hours. He told me my own dad was one of the people who influenced him the most, and someone he is grateful to for many good lessons. He'd often thought of how to get back in touch.

Dad and Larry are talking on the phone and writing to each other now. Invitations have issued. Dad is animated. He's talking about all the years they will catch up on. Mom is making up the guest room and looking up recipes to welcome Larry.

Dad is organizing the slide projector to show him the children, the grandchildren, and the single-engine airplane flights to Barrow, Alaska. Forty years of story telling are in the works, and I'm sure Larry is making the same preparations.

We did not know until today that Larry has a health crisis and has been in crisis for more than a decade. Only recently have his doctors found a resolution that looks very hopeful. In the next two weeks or so, Larry will know if he is out of the woods and can have some distance from the hospitals that keep him going. He says his goal is to come see my dad.

My friends and family would not tell you I am a religious person. I do not church. But I do believe the Spirit lives within all of us and does connect us. Maybe He speaks to us, and if we happen to be listening through the noise of day to day living, we can be instruments of small wonders.

I can't hear any better than anyone else does.

Could be I was listening at the right time, or maybe this is pure chance. My dad and his friend, Larry Perl, are helping each other be well.

I still can't say if I believe in angels. But I think I can say that each of us could be "as angels" in very simple ways.

I can't fix the economy, I can't make world peace, but I did facilitate a meeting that makes my dad (and his friend Larry) feel some happiness. Not too old or too sick to anticipate a renewed friendship.

A small miracle.