Counting All the Stars

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If you know me, you know that I am a retired teacher. I taught little ones for 38 years. Loved it. After that I turned to writing fiction. I've finished three manuscripts and have been pitching them like crazy. No luck so far. But I'm compelled to continue writing. In between trying to find an agent or a publisher, I've been working on my fourth book. This one is a supernatural thriller. Far different from the other three. 

Here's the first chapter of the new one tentatively called Counting All the Stars. I'd love to know what you think. 

One

Saturday, June 9, 1973

“Stop the car, Liam,” Sean Byrne says in a small voice, an insistent voice, a voice that means he won’t take no for an answer. 

“Just a second.” Liam knows better than to argue. He checks his mirrors and pulls off 57th Avenue deep into the brambles at the side of the road. He pops out the flasher button on the old Chevy station wagon as Sean, not waiting for the car to come to a stop, opens the passenger door and bails out into the wild raspberry vines, heedless of the wicked, hooked thorns ranging across the verge.

Liam throws it into park and hustles to where his Sean sits cross legged on the dusty roadside, something bundled into his lap. “What is it, buddy?”

Sean keens and rocks, his eyes squeezed tightly shut. It reminds Liam of when Sean was a baby, when he rocked and bumped his head against the door over and over. Just the front door, nowhere else.

Liam kneels in the roadside rubble, cinders digging into his knees. Sean opens his eyes and stares into the eyes of a large black and white cat across his lap. No collar, ragged ears, skin and bones. One of its back legs is broken, crushed really, a cracked femur poking out through its skin and fur. Blood oozes from its nose. The cat still breathes—its eyes glazed and unfocused, dusted with road grit.

Most ten-year-olds are self-conscious of their tears. Not Sean. He cries as if he’s lost his best friend. 

Drivers, often heedless of the 35 mile per hour speed limit on this stretch of 57th, fly by in what serves as Merrillville, Indiana’s rush hour. Liam eyes the oncoming traffic. He’s parked off the road but close to it. He’s only been driving without a grownup for about a week. He’s a decent driver, but lack of experience makes him a cautious one. “We can take him to the Crossroads Pet Hospital, Sean. They might be able to save him.”

Sean gazes into the cat’s eyes which are undirected and seem to look far away. “It’s a female. She’s dying. It would take 14 minutes to drive there. She only has a minute, maybe two.”

Liam forgets the cars driving too quickly just a few feet away. He plunks down beside his ten-year-old brother and puts a comforting arm around his shoulders. Sean rarely lets anyone else touch him.  At least not on purpose. “What’s she telling you, Buddy?”

“She has a litter. It’s in the spook house in Maysack’s Woods.”

Only then does Liam notice the teats on the dying feline. “What else?”

“She was hungry.” Sean’s voice is monotone, like he’s translating a foreign language into English, like he’s in a trance. “She’d been with the kittens and hadn’t eaten in two days. She left them to… forage.” Sean’s eyes are still locked on the big mama cat’s. Blood trickles from her snout onto Sean’s leg, already crisscrossed with raspberry bramble scratches. Some are bleeding. But not bad. He wears cutoff jeans. He doesn’t care about the blood. He touches her head tenderly. “She was chasing… a rabbit. That’s all she remembers. She’s… leaving now.”

Liam doesn’t ask how Sean understands these things. He simply does. Liam doesn’t ask if Sean is sure. He is. Liam has witnessed Sean’s ability to read into the lives of others since Sean was a toddler. They never talk about how it happens. Fact is, Liam doesn’t talk about Sean’s ability with anyone. Sean never said not to. Liam simply understands that Sean is already considered peculiar. Sean’s tears roll down his cheeks, which makes Liam start to leak as well. Seventeen is definitely too old to cry in public. Right now, Liam doesn’t give a shit. 

Sean’s voice is emotionless. “She’s… worried about her litter. There are four alive. They’re in the living room near the fireplace. It smells like mold, like rotting wood and leaves. There are broken windows. It’s wet there.” There are droplets of milk on the dying cat’s teats and more frothy blood oozes from her nostrils. 

Sean’s silent tears trickle down his cheeks and chin, some falling onto the raggedy feral cat. The boys have been raised Catholic, go to Catholic school, have spent many mornings serving ad altar boys in Mass. Liam considers Sean’s tears almost essentially a baptism. Or the one Catholic sacrament no one wants to think of, extreme unction—last rights.

For a moment the cat’s eyes lock on Sean’s. There is a fleeting knowing, a recognition, a kinship. Then, those eyes with their bright green irises and vertical slits lose their luster. The eyes dilate and the cat’s body shudders then relaxes. Blood stops drizzling from its snout. 

“We’ll bury her here.” Sean lays the cat on the ground tenderly. “My scout shovel’s in the trunk.”

Liam gets the keys without question.

Sean does the digging with the small fold-out shovel. The ground is sun-dry-hard and chock full of rocks. Cars scream past. A big rig blares its horn at them which makes Liam flinch. Sean, normally sensitive to loud sounds, doesn’t register the shattering reverberation. His mind is still with the cat.

When they finish, Sean drips sweat, his shirt sticking to his back. “We have to go to the spook house.”

“I know,” says Liam. 

“There’re four kittens by the fireplace.” 

Liam has no doubt. 

The kittens are exactly where Sean described them. Eyes still closed; their mews faint and weak. One has died since they found the mama beside 57th Avenue, since the mama remembered them and shared that memory with Sean. There are more tears. They leave the spook house in Maysack’s Woods with three puny, bloody kittens barely clinging to life rolled up in Sean’s t-shirt. He walks into the house on Adam’s Court bare-chested. 

Only one kitten lives to the next morning. 

Sean names her Maxine. 

 

"There is Music" and "Where I'm From"

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There Is Music

There is food

           There is water

                   There is air

                           There is music

I heard a tune

In the wind-chime

Familiar, yet elusive

If only I'd had my guitar

Perhaps I could have 

Snatched that phrase

And stretched it

Polished it

Riffed it

Smoothed it

Drawn it out

And searched its meaning

The energized mockingbird

Couldn't seem 

To get locked in

So it kept on singing

And riffing

And mocking

And teasing

Almost there

Not quite right

Another direction

A different idea

An exercise in theme and variation

Here’s a personal variation on George Ella Lyon’s 

“Where I’m From”

I am from Ruck and Jack and a house full of playmates

From backyard games and kick-the-can nights

I am from too hot sand and too cold Lake Michigan water

That greeted you like an old friend, but would kill you if you weren’t careful

I am from beach bonfires and smoke in my eyes

From silly birthday songs and Billy Krump’s candle

I’m from Saturday morning cartoons and merciless teasing

From sitting on warm floor vents on cold winter days

I’m from penny candy and walking home from school

And the too fast cars going down 57th Avenue

I am from Maysack’s Woods and thirsty mosquitos

From hand-me-downs and help-me-ups

I am from show tunes played on the hi-fi

From Zero Mostel and Carol Channing

I am from giant pots of spaghetti 

And hot watermelon afternoons

I am from hippies and peace signs

And “Hell no we won’t go!”

From the Chicago Democratic convention 

And black and white TV

I am from neckties and daily mass

From asphalt playgrounds and confession

I am from altar boys and CYO band

From Biddy Basketball and Kadar’s driveway

I am from Michigan City summers and 

Wearing nothing but shorts all day

From sunburned shoulders and peeling noses

From fishbones in my feet and treehouses

I am from dune grass and blinding sunsets

From giggling bedtimes and “hush up in there”

From trains in the distance 

From drive-in movies 

From moonlight on my blanket

I am from a mess of brothers and sisters 

Best friends

I am from love

A Couple Poems

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Here are a few poems written over the last couple years. 

(Inspired by I Love You the Purplest, by Barbara Joose)

Heidi, I love you the pale greenest

the color of spring touching the forest at the tips of the branches

the color of your eyes when we first met among the coeds, that dormitory food, the spring of the bicentennial year, so long ago and so many memories away

I love you the color of centipede grass, of honeysuckle vines, of new cana lily leaves uncurling

I love you the cool color of jade, of the praying mantis, of shamrocks, of moss in forest crevices

I love you the green of an anole when it’s mellow, of a green tree frog in a curled banana leaf

Our first hug in the morning and the last whisper of love at night

Heidi, I love you the pale greenest

How is Your Heart?

A friend of mine asked me—"How is your heart?"

It caught me off guard

Hardly knew where to start

There's laughter and springtime

And loved ones and art

But children are hiding 

From bombs they call "smart"

There's flirting and romance

And families torn apart

There's dancing and loving

And death tolls on charts

A friend of mine asked me—"How is your heart?"

It caught me off guard

Hardly knew where to start

The River

(Maybe not a poem. Just musings.)

He looked out over the space that had become so sacred—those trees, now showering leaves of amber, ochre, crimson, the cabin itself, rustic, smelling of earth, and wood and simplicity. Most especially the river. Would he ever return? Would he walk the muddy bank, smell the freshness, bathe his face in the foggy mist, feel the beloved rocks beneath his feet? 

He was already years older than his own father at his passing. Would the opportunity present itself? Travel, relationships, health… life. There were many obstacles between this encounter with the river and future visits.

He gazed one final time at the mist rising from this water rushing ever onward to the sea. He looked through the sun-drenched leaves, smelled the funky still waters cut off from the flow by recent drought, felt a kinship with the hickory, walnut, and oak. There was the distant aroma of skunk, of manure from the horse pasture. He watched whirligigs and water striders in the small eddies behind the rocks, and a trout hiding furtively under a ledge waiting for the inevitable shiner. 

Would he live to stand in this space, to feel the river’s breath once again?

Tears cooled his cheeks as he climbed the bluff and walked into his tomorrows. 

American Beauty - Drew Holcomb

If you don’t know Drew Holcomb and the Neighbors’ music, I’d highly recommend them. This is one of theirs called “American Beauty.” It’s about that first young love, the one you think is gonna be forever. I read an interview with Drew where he talks about the song… “The idea formulated around the thought that everyone has that someone who got away. You know, the love that never really happened but that you thought was a sure thing. It’s like a black and white photograph, looking at that summer from years ago. It’s something that pop culture has sort of whacked off as summer love and not important.” Thanks for listening. She was a good companion, eyes like the Grand Canyon She was an American beauty She was a long goodbye, she was the best alibi She was an American beauty With her Wayfarers on in the summer sun Her touch felt like a loaded gun Wish I had held her longer Wish I had held her longer

At the Restaurant

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I wrote this piece a while ago and it was recently published by a periodical called "Treasured Moments." It was created to benefit Samaritan's Purse, a nondenominational Christian organization providing spiritual and physical aid to hurting people around the world. 

Since 1970, Samaritan's Purse has helped victims of war, poverty, natural disasters, disease, and famine. 

My story is called, "At the Restaurant." I hope you enjoy it.

I’m by myself in a crowded place. It’s perfect for people watching. There are so many interesting faces,

clothes, hair, and accents.

It’s Friday night so the place is hopping. This is a large strip mall and there are a great many people milling around, laughing, teasing, flirting. I’m seated inside a busy restaurant next to the window, my notebook open.

It’s warm for the first time in months so people are showing more skin than they have in a while. Earlier this week it was so cold we had to take plants inside so they wouldn’t freeze. But now it’s balmy. There’s a late afternoon breeze—one of the first true harbingers of spring. It’s an hour before sunset so there’s this reddish orange glow that makes people look beautiful. Most folks just seem happier. It’ll get cold again, we know it, but for now it’s the perfect time to get outside, to celebrate the weather, to enjoy the end of the week, to go to the mall.

Girls are wearing low risers (Is that the term? We used to call them hip huggers). Young guys swagger with sagging pants, their hands reaching back to hoist them up like windshield wipers on intermittent. There are young families with kids in tow and babies in strollers. Military men and women wear small-checked camouflage fatigues. I guess they haven’t had the chance to change from their work clothes. They’re not camouflaged very well here.

Two lovely young African American teens with beautiful braids and twists walk by. Those two care about hair. Best friends sharing secrets. Beaming. 

A mom and daughter stroll arm in arm wearing matching cutoffs, probably for the first time in months. Their legs are pale. The young girl, maybe twelve, has almost white-blond hair, long and straight. She has bright blue eyes. Mom’s eyes are the exact same color. Her hair used to be real blond; you can tell. They make each other laugh. Then they tilt their heads together and the mom suddenly looks about twenty years younger.

The next pair that walks by has been fighting, I think. Her head is down; blackish-red hair covers her face. Low risers. Her shoulders are slumped in a shuffling sad walk. She has torn tennis shoes and her arms are crossed over her chest. There’s a name tattooed on her sleeveless triceps. Adam. She’s crying. Adam (I presume) looks nonchalant, like he doesn’t have a care in the world. The young woman says something I can’t hear. He answers. I can’t hear him either, they’re on the other side of the glass. But I can read his lips easily. It isn’t pretty, what he says. They walk on by.

An older couple walks into the dining room slowly and carefully. I’m not eavesdropping, but I can hear. They’re close. They approach the booth next to mine. “You always like a booth,” he says. They’re holding hands.

“And you always let me have the booth,” she says. I think, how many times have they said that? “Thank you, dear.” Her voice is so soft, so southern.

They are old. Eightyish, maybe older. The woman has on rouge, and lipstick, and eye shadow. She’s well put together. She has an obvious limp. Maybe a bum hip. She moves into the booth gingerly. Her man helps her as much as he can. And he is gentle. So gentle. He scoots into the booth across from her. Their eyes shine for each other. They put the little pager on the table between them, the one that buzzes and lights up when their food is ready.

Then it strikes me that this beautiful woman looks a lot like my Heidi—at least how Heidi might look in twenty years. This gal has had her hair dyed, Heidi probably won’t do that, but her eyes are clear, and she has that kind of natural beauty that one doesn’t outgrow. She has a beautiful presence as well. She doesn’t just look at her man when they talk, she looks into him. I know that look. I’m in love with it. I have been for over forty years.

Their table buzzer startles them. He slides over to the edge of the booth and stands up slowly, a little creakily. He makes two trips and when he returns with their food trays, he slides back in. They get everything adjusted in front of them, drinks, silverware, sandwiches, napkins. Automatically, as if they have done this a million times, they reach their hands across the table and lace fingers. They bow their heads and close their eyes. They sigh identical long sighs. I think, how many times have they sighed that sigh?

The man says, “Lord, we thank thee for this day you have made. Bless this food to the nourishment of our bodies and our souls. Lord, let us pause before we eat and think of those in need of food, and shelter, and love.” Pause. “And Lord, thank you so much for the love of this beautiful woman.”

Eyes closed; they smile. Not so much at each other now. They’re smiling at God. And I think, how many times have they thanked God for each other?

Then they unlace their hands and look at each other with love. Quietly, slowly they begin to eat.

I realize how I forgot to bless my food. Hey, I am in a restaurant. Hey, this is a public place. Then I close my eyes, and sigh, and I take a moment to give thanks once again for my Heidi. And I am grateful for that little moment. After a hectic day, a long week, it wasn’t just chance that led me to sit at that table, in that restaurant, with my notebook and eyes open. 

I am grateful.

I get up and bus my table and look back at the couple before leaving. They have eyes only for each other. It is so sweet, so God.

Things We Can Learn From a Dog

 

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This is a little ditty I picked up recently.  Author Unknown.  It's not philosophical rocket science, but I have a big yellow dog who loves to hang her head out the window of a fast moving car.  She looks ridiculous with her tongue hanging back, her ears folded inside-out and her jowls flopping open and closed, dog spit flying.  She doesn't care how crazy the whole thing looks.  What could be more exciting to her than blasting wind through her nose at 60 mph?  I have seen it dozens of times and it still makes me laugh uncontrollably.  Ridiculous?  Sure.

Never pass up the opportunity to go for a joy ride.

Allow the experience of fresh air and wind in your face to be pure ecstasy.

When loved ones come home, always run to greet them.

When it's in your best interest, practice obedience.

Let others know when they have invaded your territory.

Takes naps and stretch before rising.

Run, romp and play daily.

Eat with gusto and enthusiasm.

Be Loyal.

Never pretend to be something you're not.

If something you want lies buried, dig until you find it.

When someone is having a bad day, be silent, sit nearby and nuzzle him or her gently.

Thrive on attention and let people touch you.

Avoid biting when a simple growl will do.

When you're happy dance around and wag your entire body.

No matter how often you're scolded, don't buy into the guilt thing and pout.

Run right back and make friends.

Delight in the simple joys of a long walk.

Sunflower With Bumblebee

 

Falling Forward - Chapter One

 

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Most of my life, I’ve been a teacher of little kids. Big kids too, on occasion. I taught a bunch of graduate classes, seminars, workshops, etc. But working with little ones was my passion. 

I wrote non-fiction for teachers in the past, much of it with my wife, Heidi Mills. That kind of writing is fun, because so much of it came from children I shared classrooms with. And Heidi, with her wisdom and deep knowledge of best educational practice, helped me to refine it, to make it feel important.

Since retiring, I’ve been writing fiction. A lot. I’ve completed three novels—working on a fourth. The writing is a blast! The pitching to agents and publishers, not so much. 

On this space, I’ll post some bits of those manuscripts. I’d love your feedback in the comment section on this blog, or on Facebook where you’re most likely to see it. Or you could email me at timtokeefe@aol.com. I’d love your counsel. And, of course, if you know an agent or a publisher…

Here’s a bit from my query letter for Falling Forward…

The 1967-68 school year brims with turmoil in America, and for 6th grader Tom O’Brien, it’s life-changing. He and his friends must endure Sister Rachel Marie, the harshest teacher in his Catholic school. Because Tom is a bit of an old soul, he acquires life lessons imparted by his elderly neighbors: one, a Holocaust survivor; her husband, an exquisite carpenter who gives back to the church that saved his beloved; the passion of his sister, who actively protests the Vietnam War; the cruel racism of their eighth-grade tormentors; and the gentleness of a humble priest and nun. Fortunately, Tom has drawn close to an unusual group of friends, including cynical Marilyn Malloy, shunned by her classmates due to phocomelia, where one arm is formed too close to her body. Tom is struck by her audacity when she dares to question Sister Rachel Marie’s authority. Together with Tom’s lifelong comrade, Geno, and the school’s first and only Black student, Ruthanne, the four form an unlikely friendship and combat the challenges of a grueling year.

And now, chapter 1.

Chapter 1 – Don’t Waste Your Sorry On Me

Merrillville, Indiana - Tuesday, September 5, 1967

“I hate that we gotta wear these chokers every day.” Geno Svoboda tugged at his tie and kicked hard at the road on their walk to Saints Peter and Paul Catholic School.

“I miss summer already,” said Tom. Black dress shoes shined, white shirts bleached, hair trimmed. This was the freshest they would look until May 31, the final day of sixth grade.

The classroom smelled the same as last year’s class: the waxy odor of new floor coating, dusty books, mixed with the scent of juniper bushes just outside. The open windows let in a welcomed breeze reminiscent of baseball, fort making, and snake catching. Those activities would be reserved for weekends and vacations.

Sister Rachael Marie, dressed in her “penguin costume,” sat at her desk, regarding the children as they entered. Only her hands and face were exposed. Even her forehead was covered with a stiff, white piece of fabric. Her black nun's habit with its long, loose sleeves, reached the floor. Hot as it was on this early September day, Sister had to be roasting.

She shushed the class occasionally, but otherwise studied her seating chart, then looked up at the eager faces as she formed her first impressions. 

After nodding to Sister Rachael Marie and looking around the room, Tom zeroed in on his name, written on a piece of trimmed masking tape atop his desk in impeccable cursive: Thomas O’Brien. He studied the name on the desk in front of his: Mary Malloy.

Tom didn’t know Mary but hoped she was cool because he’d have to look at the back of her head for the next one hundred seventy school days. 

Tom checked out the girls in their white blouses, shiny black shoes, and pleated skirts. Through sixth grade the girls wore beanies—little round cloth caps held in place with bobby pins.  

The children waited quietly. All but one. Mary Malloy hadn’t shown up yet. 

Sister said, “Another O’Brien, hmm?” Uh-oh. Tom hoped she wouldn’t judge him from his brother Matt’s shenanigans. He slunk down in his chair.

“Maria Bartolomeo. I pray you have a better work ethic than your brother, Anthony.” 

“Yes, Sister,” she replied.

“You must call me Sister Rachael Marie. No informalities in this classroom.”

“Yes, Sister Rachael Marie,” Maria nodded so hard her beanie almost fell off. 

A pretty girl entered. It had to be Mary. Tom noticed how her bright eyes contrasted with her dark hair.

“Your seat is right there, young lady.” Rachael Marie motioned to the empty front desk. 

Mary’s black hair fell forward. She opened her desktop and tossed in her school supplies, her beanie tucked into the waist of her skirt. That won’t do, thought Tom.

“Mary, put your beanie on.” 

Mary looked at Sister questioningly. 

“Mary!” Sister said, as she pointed to the top of her own head.

Mary still looked perplexed. Sister shoved her chair back. Uh oh.

“Mary! Beanie. Now!”

“My name is Marilyn,” she whispered. “I thought you were talking to someone else.”

“In this room, you will be Mary. There is no Marilyn in the Bible. I will have no unchristian names in my classroom.”

“My parents named me Marilyn.” Her black eyebrows scrunched together.

“They may call you whatever they wish, but this is a Catholic school. Children in this room will be called by Christian names. Marilyn is variation of the name Mary, which is derived from the Hebrew name Miryam. I will call you Mary.” No question in her voice—this was a pronouncement.

Tom could think of plenty of kids in school who didn’t have Biblical names. 

“Now, put your beanie on.”

“Sister, we didn’t have any bobby pins. I just enrolled and…”

“I expect you’ve been raised very informally, Mary, given your name. In this classroom you will give me my rank.”

“Ma’am?”

“You will address me as Sister Rachael Marie at all times.”

“Yes, ma’am. Yes, Sister. Yes, Sister Rachael Marie,” Marilyn-Mary stammered.

Sister’s sharp tone and squinted eyes revealed intensity that spooked Tom. “You will wear your beanie to class every day. Today you will buy pins from me. I charge two pennies each.” 

“Sister, I don’t…” 

Tom thought about offering his milk money. He had a nickel in his pocket.

“Pay me tomorrow, but you will wear your beanie today.” 

Sister spoke slowly, as if addressing a small child. Marilyn-Mary’s cheeks flushed. Sister opened her drawer and pulled out a card covered with bobby pins. She pulled two off and walked over to Marilyn-Mary’s desk. They dropped with a tink-tink.

“Well?”

Marilyn pulled the beanie from her waistband and pinned it in place.

Sister nodded and returned to her desk to call the roll.

Later, when she went to open her desktop, Tom glimpsed Marilyn-Mary’s right hand—but it wasn’t a hand at all. She grabbed the lid before it slammed closed. She reached up with an arm that wasn’t an arm, with a hand that wasn’t there. Her right arm ended above the elbow. The hand at the end of that short arm had only one tiny finger curving out from the side. It was about the size of the end of Tom’s pinkie.

Tom stared. This girl was so pretty, so normal in every other way. But that claw gave him the creeps. No matter if they were going over the spelling words, cursive writing practice, memorizing vocabulary—he searched for her stump. He couldn’t look away.

As Sister handed out the heavy history books, Marilyn-Mary’s stump snaked out to lift her desktop. Sister noticed the malformed hand, as did many of their classmates.

“Mary…”

After a morning of setting out her high expectations for conduct and academics, after leading the class in prayer, after guiding everyone in the proper recital of the Pledge of Allegiance—where she hadn’t noticed Marilyn-Mary using her left hand to cover her heart—Sister fell silent.

 “Yes, Sister Rachael Marie?” 

“I’m sorry,” Sister finally said, eyes focused directly on Marilyn-Mary’s arm.

“Sorry?” Marilyn-Mary’s cheeks flushed; her eyes burned bright. “Don’t waste your sorry on me, Sister Rachael Marie.”

But nobody pointed out that the web itself is a miracle.

But nobody pointed out that the web itself is a miracle. "What's miraculous about a spider's web?" said Mrs. Arable. "I don't wee why you say a web is a miracle—it's just a web."

Three Angels and a Truck

 

Three Angels and a Truck

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[Firing up the old blog. It feels good to get back at it. Hey, I've been busy... I retired from teaching, wrote a novel, went back to teaching for a year, retired again, wrote two more novels, my beloved has had a few bouts of cancer, chemo, radiation, I had a hip replaced, our oldest son and his wife had their first child, our youngest graduated from a nuclear medicine program... Just life, you know? Probably more about all those things in future posts. Meantime, I'd like to reboot with the very first post on this blog. I've tweaked it, of course. I think I've found a steadier voice, become a little clearer, a little stronger. I hope so, since I'm currently pitching three books and working on a fourth. But I've left it more or less intact. Thanks for joining me on the return to my writing journey. ~ Tim]

The other day a cool thing happened. I guess it isn't just ordinary. My wife and some new friends and my son and his sweetie were helping a friend in distress. She was moving her things out of her estranged husband's place. It was hard. Not the work—the situation. She was incredibly sad. She and her husband had worked hard fixing up this beautiful place. A years long labor of love.

It was a big old building. They had to tear it apart before rebuilding. Sweat. Tears. Years. The estranged husband was there while we were organizing, collecting dusty boxes, emptying out closets, swatting mosquitos, getting fire ant bites. He was there sort of creeping around almost out of sight. Playing his symphonic music REALLY loud. We would catch peeks of him lurking.

Our friend was in pain. She took us on a lengthy tour of the place. It was magnificent; the work was brilliant. While there was still a lot to do, her work there was finished. She was not only saying good bye to this home, this project, the years of labor and love she put into it, she was also bidding farewell to years of marriage and commitment to a guy who wasn't nice for a long time. There were lots of tears. When the morning became afternoon I became more and more angry with her husband and sadder and sadder for her. It was a wretched scene.

In the early afternoon three guys came from Two-Men-And-A-Truck. To me they were sort of faceless. I'm embarrassed to say it but I was so absorbed in my friend's pain, and my anger at her husband, that I never even looked these men in the eye. While we had sort of organized things and pulled some of the boxes together, these three men did the real work. Dressers, wardrobes, stuffed dusty boxes. They did the physical work and I didn't even say a word to them. These strong young men were putting their backs into the real labor, while we sort of huddled around our friend. We were doing our job. They were doing theirs.

After the truck was loaded we were getting ready for the long ride back to her new place. Three cars and the moving truck. One of the young movers said, "We need to circle up." I wasn't sure what he meant at first. "C'mon, man. Why don't you go get the lady? She needs a circle." I tracked down our friend. As I walked up to the door she came out into the sunlight with red-rimmed eyes and wet cheeks. She had just been saying good bye to her dog who was also staying behind. The rest of our group stood in a semi-circle. Waiting. When she came over, tear-streaked and wretched, we all held hands under the direction of one of the movers. The Three-Men-And-Truck guy took off his hat. His head was shiny bald. He tucked it under his arm and held hands with one of the other guys.The Three-Men closed their eyes and bowed their heads.  

"God," he said reverently. "Please send down your love upon this good woman. She's goin' through some hard times and she needs some of your love right now. Thank you, God, for these good friends who have gathered 'round to give her comfort. Please be sure that she sees some of your kindness and mercy real soon." Long pause. The other Three-Men guys nodded their approval.  

"Thanks," our friend said quietly. "That was beautiful."  

I was crying and I think some of the others were as well. The words were perfect. The sentiments exactly what were needed. The blessing so pure and sweet. Of course these good men had seen the pain and sorrow there. They were tired, probably not all that well paid. And yet they gave back to all of us in a way that nothing else could.  

We left that place soon after. It was one of those real times, one of those lessons about human worth and dignity that just jumped out at me. When I shared this little story with some friends it occurred to me that there are small important moments that happen all the time in my life. I work with small children. I am married to my best friend and have two wonderful sons to fill my life with joy.  

It was this bright little moment that made me think I should start another blog. This one will be a combination of Just Ordinary Thoughts and stories of a life. It will also contain short stories and bits of fiction that I have written over the years. Since I am a teacher, it will probably contain stories of wonderful children and the lessons they teach me.  

September 25, 2008