Underarm Deodorant

Old Woman

Not everyone is lucky enough to know their great-grandmother, but I was. Grandma Patterson is what we called her. From Oklahoma during the Dust Bowl, she and my great-grandfather brought their many children over to California for a better life. She spent her time working in the laborious fields and raising her 10 children.

When I knew her, she was already old. She wore her hair pulled back tightly into a brown bun that rested on the back of her head. She mostly wore long straight dresses that hung like giant t-shirts. She was overweight some, and she hunched over when she walked.

And her eye vision was failing.

Back then, people didn’t always wear sunglasses when working outside in the fields, and a lifetime of abuse from the unforgiving sun did a number on my Grandma Patterson.

When I was in the sixth grade, I was chubby with an acne covered face and a mouth full of metal. My undiagnosed OCD caused me to slick my hair straight down with a perfect part so not a single hair would ever dare go out of place. I was extremely shy, awkward, and my best friends went by the names of Nintendo and Sega. Needless to say, I didn’t have girls chasing after me, and I didn’t blame them.

For Christmas that year, I remember unwrapping a Christmas present from Grandma Patterson. I think it was the last one I ever remember receiving from her. It was a green bottle of spray deodorant.

Yes, underarm deodorant.

I opened it up not knowing how to react. I was still at the young age when body odor didn’t exist, but I didn’t want to be rude, so I forced out a “Thank you!” with a decent smile.

My great-grandma stood up and walked over to me hunched over. She leaned in close to me and said, “You spray a little of that here and there, and you’ll have to fight those little girlies off of you.” She motioned like she was spraying it on both sides of my neck.

It then made sense to me and my observing parents that my Grandma Patterson thought she bought me spray cologne. Like I said earlier, her eyesight was failing.

Not too long later, I visited her with my family, and she said to me, “Terry, I bet all those little girlies are after you now, aren’t they?”

I answered awkwardly, “I don’t know.”

She continued, “Well, this is what you do. You need to get yourself a baseball bat in one hand and a croquet stick in the other, so when the girlies come after you on the right, you can knock them off with the left, and when they come after you on the left, you can knock them off with the right.”

I thought she really must not be able to see the dorky looking kid standing right in front of her; the girls at my school didn’t want anything to do with me.

On our way home that night, I silently chuckled in the backseat of our family minivan. And after thinking about it some more, it was nice to have someone see something in me I didn’t see in myself, even if that person was going blind. It was encouraging that she saw something in me that she thought others would find attractive.

A few years later, my acne cleared up, my braces were taken off, and my hair hung more loosely and naturally as it grew out in a blond, suffer style. I lost weight and spent time outside swimming in my family’s new pool as my skin darkened into a healthy shade. With my newly gained confidence, I traded in my timid shyness for a gregarious, extroverted personality.

And the girlies started to chase after me.

My Grandma Patterson didn’t get to see me graduate high school or college. She didn’t live that long. But she didn’t need to see those events because even with her blind eyes, she saw me—the real me.

I pray to be a little more like her and see others not with my eyes but with something more. I hope to see their future possibilities. I desire to be a builder of people and error on the side of encouragement.

There’s already enough honest evaluation. There’s enough tough love. Even after the silly self-esteem movement in the 1980s and this crazy post-modern society we live in now, we still need people to see in us what isn’t there yet.

We all need a Grandma Patterson who will give us our own underarm deodorant.

 

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The Librarian

I was around eight years old, and it was about once a month that our teacher took us to the school’s library to check out a book. For me, this was an exciting time. Out of all the books in the entire library, I got to choose one to take home for an entire month.

But I couldn’t really read that well.

With my speech disorder, sounding out words didn’t really work (if it ever works). But I knew there was something valuable about them—stories.

I think Mr. Bo, the librarian, knew that too. He was an elderly man who shared a resemblance with Mr. Rogers, the children’s show host.

I distinctly remember him having our class all sit together on the carpet as he gently brought out a worn book that he treated like an old friend. He carefully held the green book and lightly turned each page as he read to us The Giving Tree by Shel Silverstein. He ended the story in a dry voice as he read about how all the boy wanted was to be with the tree and how the tree was happy. He slowly closed the book, sat it down on the table next to him, and patted it with his weathered fingers.

“Do you know what that book reminds me of?” he asked the class of children on the floor.

No one answered.

“My parents,” the old man said.

Being only a kid, I somehow knew that was a good book, and I also knew Mr. Bo was a good man.

For a number of months, I would always check out the same book. It was a large illustrated book of fairytales. To me, it was so much better than the other books because it contained multiple stories instead of just one.

While the students were allowed to look through all the books, I looked with them even though I knew I was going to renew the book of fairytales once again. Finally, I stood in line to have the book renewed.

When I placed the old book on the counter, Mr. Bo said, “This book is getting old, isn’t it?”

I nodded.

“An old book like this needs to retire to a special home where someone can take care of it? Would you want to take it home and take care of it?”

I smiled and shyly said, “Yes.”

Mr. Bo opened up the front cover and took out the library card covered with dated stamps. He then very carefully pulled out the cardholder that had been glued on the back of the front cover. He handed me the book and smiled.

At the end of the school year, my school held its end of the year awards assembly. My mom was in the back videotaping it with her large, rectangular, over the shoulder camcorder. I was just a regular kid, so I never got the best reader award or the best athlete award. I was always the good, quiet kid in class.

Towards the end of the awards assembly, the principal announced there was one more award that was very special. It was the library award, and only one student in the entire school would receive it.

Mr. Bo steadily made his way up the stairs.

My name was called.

I feel like Mr. Bo believed in me. He didn’t really know me. We never held a real conversation. But he saw something in me. And I saw something in him.

After I moved from that small town, I remember hearing that he passed away, and the school named the library after him.

I still have that old book of fairytales somewhere up in my attic safely stored away in a box. That collection of stories prepared me for the real stories I would encounter in life.

The stories I would experience, create, and tell.

Mr. Bo saw something in me and was a small part of my story although he never knew it. As leaders in this sometimes-confusing world, I hope we can see things in others. I pray that we can believe in people even after years of disappointment.

Let us be stories.

Childhood Home

There’s something special about one’s childhood home. I was born in Bakersfield, California. When I was two, my parents moved out to Derby Acers. Just to give you an idea of this area, some people called it “Dirty Acers.” But to me it was home, and a wonderful home at that.

My parents were in their very early twenties when they bought a brand new, double-wide mobile home and placed it on a quarter acer of land. They put up a nice fence and divided the backyard for a horse corral. I remember having a swing set, a tree to climb in, a little area designated for our doughboy pool, an orchid for my mom, a long, extended drive to skateboard down, and still plenty of room for a young boy’s invisible adventures. It was in that backyard that my best friend Matt and I fought off alien soldiers who hovered over us in a giant flying saucer. Other days we were fighting off medieval warriors who were invading our castle as I was a knight and Matt was a wizard.

A dog named Boy barked in excitement at the imaginary scenes as my mom baked a cake inside waiting for my dad to get home from work.

I lived in that house until my family moved to Bakersfield at age 10, so the majority of my innocent childhood was spent there.

It really was a perfect place to grow up as a kid. I left my bike in the front yard, and there was never a thought about someone stealing it. Doors were often left open for a sweet breeze, and most of the time they were unlocked. We had horses, cats, bunnies, dogs, chickens, a pig, and three-wheelers.

The foothills and mountains that surrounded the valley were close and always clear, and there was something special about the sunset that fell down over them. There was time then too. Time to watch cartoons. Time to play outside. Time to stare at my mother as she made dinner or organized her records and folded laundry. Time to wait on the front porch to see if I could spot my dad’s work truck driving home on the main road a few blocks away. Time to think.

My younger sister, Amber, was about seven years younger than me. Since we moved to Bakersfield when I was nine, and she was around three, she didn’t get to experience the same childhood I did.

A few years ago, when I was in my early thirties, and she in her twenties, we made plans to grab lunch as we tried to do every few weeks. Christmas was approaching, and we were looking for some place special to eat. I thought up the idea of driving out to Taft for lunch and another 15 minutes to Derby Acers to show her where she first lived. I was surprised that she wanted to join me on this adventure. She had recently gotten engaged, and we would get to use the long drive to catch up.

The road went from straight, long lanes to hilly roads and then to a small two-lane road surrounded by oilrigs and foothills. Turning into our, I guess you could call it a neighborhood, the road faded to dirt. My sister jerked around in my truck as we went over the uneven dirt.

We drove past my old best friend’s house, Matt, and then turned left. There in the middle of the dirt road, I stopped in reverence to show my sister her first home.

After a few seconds of silence and an odd look on my sister’s face, she said, “Why did Mom and Dad live here?”

I looked to examine my childhood home. The fence had fallen. The grass has turned to dirt. The orchid was gone to just an empty dry space with scattered weeds. The pool has vanished. No dog barked eagerly to see me. It was a pathetic sight.

I tried to explain to Amber what it was once like—the fine details of every bit of energy that Mom and Dad put into it to make it a fine home for their two children. But then I realized something.

It was more accurate in my memory than it was in real life. What now stood wasn’t my childhood home, for it was gone forever.

Or maybe, it was forever saved in my memories, where it will always be real.

That’s the moment I understood that the past can’t be revisited in real life but only in the heart.

I looked at my sister. Graduated from college. Engaged. Grown. Accomplished. Faithful. Kind. Wise. She is what I still have from that past. Not some house.

We drove to Taft and ate at a Mexican food restaurant. It was mostly empty inside. There was a huge Christmas tree with colorful lights across from our table. My sister and I laughed and smiled as we told stories and revisited jokes while eating our food. And I enjoyed the present before me—my grown little sister who would only hold the same last name as me for a few more months.

Let’s be thankful for the past and hold it dearly in our hearts, but let’s be thankful for all God’s given us in the present and never neglect for a moment what we have now because in time, it too will be gone.

Last Dance

lady-in-red

In normal high school experiences, the only thing that is worse than being dumped by a wonderful person is having to break up with a wonderful person. That was me during my junior year. She was a great girl—pretty, smart, clean, classy, but we just had different missions in life. I felt that I had a different calling than she did, so during my junior year, I had to decide to do one of the most difficult things ever; I had to leave someone who loved me crying on her front yard after I took her home after school, as I drove off alone.

Don’t worry. She’s fine now. She has a beautiful family and a good career.

But back to the past, it was towards the end of my junior year in high school, and the prom was approaching. This would be the first high school dance I would go to without my ex-girlfriend. She already had her date, a decent guy.

It hurt in a way. I understood everything. It all made sense. But it still hurt.

I knew what I had to do. It’s what any teenage guy would do in high school. I would ask the hottest girl I knew to be my date. Someone who would be the type of girl to wear a blazing red, short dress. Someone who would latch onto my arm long enough, so I could walk through those huge, double doors of the prom’s entrance to have my ex see me for just a moment and miss me.

Now I thought, where would I find such a girl?

My youth group, of course.

I asked her with a folded note during a Wednesday night service, back before text messaging. She happily accepted. I’m still not sure if it was because of me or because she went to another school and wanted to be allowed to attend my school’s prom, which was on the opposite side of town.

Bringing this girl to prom wasn’t purely selfish. I was hoping I would find something amazing about her and that she would win me over, like one of those 80’s movies or something like that.

Prom night finally came, and with the financial help of my generous grandparents, we arrived in a limo. She wore a short, red dress and had taken on the essence of stereotypical, high school beauty. We walked in those double doors, and she was latched on my arm. The music vibrated through the souls of our shoes as our eyes looked up to be caught by the flashing strobes. My school’s ASB has once again transformed a regular building hall into something quite magical.

My date and I quickly found my group of friends as the guys lit up in surprise as they set their eyes upon my mysterious date. Then something happened that I’ll probably always be unsure about. My ex-girlfriend walked up to my date and said something before walking away angrily. My date’s mouth dropped in awe.

“What?” I asked.

“She just called me a skank!” my date said in her most high, feminine voice.

“She did?”

“Yes, she did!”

Now that was very out of character for my ex-girlfriend, but I honestly, I laughed a little in my mind, and maybe a small smirk broke through onto my face. The night was going just as planned, which is odd in life.

Just then a popular song came on, and my friends eagerly rushed closer to the center of the dance floor.

“I told one of my friends that I would dance with him for one dance since I’m at his school. Can I go find him to dance with him, so I can get that over with, and then we can dance for the rest of the night together?” my date so innocently asked.

“Sure, that’s fine with me,” I sent her off into the dark, teenager abyss of moving bodies.

I wasn’t really bothered by her request because I honestly just wanted to dance with my own friends. Most of them only brought friends as dates, so they could dance with others.

Half an hour went by. Then a full hour. Two. Three. Still no sign of my prom date. Someone asked if I knew where she was. I didn’t. Maybe she was nearby camouflaged with the other countless short, red dresses that moved around, near, and on sweaty guys. Someone else asked if I thought she was okay? “I’m sure she’s fine,” I answered.

I continued to dance with my friends and tried to pretend that I was having just as good of a time as I did at every other school dance. But I wasn’t.

I wasn’t second guessing my decision of breaking up with my ex, but I was sad. Maybe mourning in a way. And I was alone. The familiarity of the environment made me remember first dancing with her my freshmen year, and how I felt like the king of the world back then, when everything was still brand new. I gave her up. Now she was dancing with someone else, looking happy and pretty as ever.

Eventually, all my friends were coupled up with the help of the mood of a magical environment. I awkwardly stood there by myself. I watched time fade by like the last two years of my high school life. I felt like the fool. People started noticing that I was alone, and it was weird, so I had to go.

But I had nowhere to go. I couldn’t just leave my date, although she left me. I looked for a hideout, some place unnoticed safe—the restroom.

Surrounded by the cold, tall, echoing walls of the boy’s restroom, I could still hear the songs vibrating through the floors in muffled words of bass. My feet were now sore from my dress shoes—maybe tired. I looked into the scratched mirror and examined myself. Sharp dressed in a pressed shirt. A red tie to match a missing date. Hair still perfectly styled. But alone.

What this going to be my future now? Were the best days of high school already behind me? I was once the school’s vice-president for two years in a row. But not anymore.

I now second guessed my decision of breaking up with her. I felt wholeheartedly that it was the right thing to do at the time. I prayed through it. I felt confirmation.

I looked back into the mirror.

“What’s up with this, God? This isn’t how it’s supposed to be. I don’t even know.”

I heard the bass under the souls of my shoes start a new song—Lady in Red, the 90’s slow song that became the signature last dance at all my school’s dances. I gave a wry smile and thought how pathetic was I to hide out during my high school prom. I remembered who I was.

A child of God.

Someone bought with a great price.

Someone loved unconditionally.

I straightened up my posture and walked out of that restroom with a confident smile to see my world turning together in slow motion to the magical mood of the music.

I stood there hoping for a miracle. Waiting. Even enjoying the happiness of others.

Then, I felt a tap on my shoulder.

I turned around to see Britney, a friend of mine. Not anyone I ever flirted with. Not anyone I ever considered dating, but just a friend. She said, “I thought you might be feeling along there, stranger. Want to dance.”

“Thanks.”

We slow danced together at a friendly distance for the rest of that song, and I wasn’t alone.

Although we are friends on social media, Britney and I don’t talk much. We don’t comment on each other’s posts really or even “like” each other’s photos, but there will always be an element of gratitude connected to any thought of her. And although there have been many forgotten dances with many different girls, that one dance would never be forgotten.

After the lights came on and people rushed to find their purses and jackets, I finally found my date. She told me some dramatic story about searching all over for me. I didn’t believe her, but I wasn’t upset. I knew she wasn’t the girl for me.

I really didn’t give her much thought after that night, but I did think about Britney. I recalled how she was involved at her church. I remember visiting her youth group from time to time, and she was always there and involved with something. I can never remember hearing her say anything bad about anyone, not even once. She was never the center of attention. She mostly just blended in, but she always seemed faithful in all that she did.

I believe wholeheartedly that she walked in the Spirit. I believe the Holy Spirit gave her discernment to see what I was feeling. I can imagine her notice my out of character prom date. I can picture her watching me glance through the crowd at my ex-girlfriend every now and then. I can see her searching for me during the last dance of the night and feeling a bit of relief when she found me.

We know the Spirit leads us when we’re seeking after others instead of ourselves. When we dance with people in this crazy thing called life. When we embrace those who are hurting and alone.

 

Lost in a Grocery Store

lost-in-a-grocery-store

I often hear parents talk about how rambunctious their grown children were when they were young—how they would have their hands into everything that wasn’t theirs. How they would talk a stranger’s ear off. How they would break down and throw a fit in public when they didn’t get their way.

Honestly, my parents didn’t have these problems with me, not to say I didn’t come with my own share of unique problems.

I was shy. I had some unclear speech disorder that wasn’t properly diagnosed. I was an only child for seven years, until my sister came along. Yeah, I was that kid who played the first Nintendo Entertainment System and only had a few select friends who played with me. And the rest was all imagination.

I remember being about four years old and walking around the small town grocery store with my dad. Our home was about 15-20 minutes from the well-lit store, and it was a happy occasion to get to go with Dad for a dinner run. This was a time when stores were a more decorated for every holiday—individual and custom decorations for each season. Every once in a while, I would even get to pick out a toy from the isle across from the cereal. I don’t think my parents will ever realize how a five dollar piece of plastic would make my day.

So there I was walking through the store with wide eye wonder holding my dad’s hand. Then all of a sudden, I looked up and the hand I was holding was not my dad’s. This was terrifying for a four-year-old. He was a complete stranger, and I didn’t know where my dad was. My young brain couldn’t comprehend how this had happened. One minute, I was with my dad, and the next, a perfect stranger.

The older man looked down at me and said, “You’re a cute, little guy, but you’re not mine.” I turned all over to finally find my dad standing nearby and quickly reached out for his hand—embarrassed, frightened, confused; I wanted to cry, but I wasn’t one of those kids.

As an adult now, occasionally I’ll see small children who lose their mom or dad at a grocery store. A painful terror comes over them, and after a few seconds of desperately looking all around and realizing the scary truth of their situation, their eyes begin to water, their lips quiver, and then they cry. A loud cry from someplace in pain. Sometimes a scream, as all the other children continue walking quietly holding their parent’s hand, wondering what’s wrong with that kid.

Sometimes I get discouraged being a believer in this modern world. I’m bombarded with so many anti-Christ statements, philosophies, and ideologies yelled from rooftops. I see them printed online, in magazines, in newspapers, on television, and cluttered all over social media. I start to think that the whole world holds these same views, while a few others and myself are the only ones who still attempt to have some sort of desire to follow Christ.

But I’ve learned this is not true. The church is well. The church is strong. The church is winning. This is because the church is God’s bride, and God’s faithful to his bride. And in the end, God wins.

This world is full of believers who seriously love the Lord. Famous rock stars, actors, writers, artists, athletes, politicians. They are all out there and living for the Lord.

But why can’t we hear them? Why don’t we hear true Christians proclaiming their beliefs all over the media?

Because they aren’t lost.

They are holding their father’s hand.

Children aren’t terrified when they have their father’s hand. Believers have a peace that the lost children don’t understand.

Lost children in this world cry. They shout out. They don’t understand. They are angry. They hurt others. They take, steal, lie. They are hurting. They do anything they can to help themselves because they are lost—without a father.

It’s sad really. So very sad.

When we see the lost world, let’s remind ourselves that we are not losing simply because we are quiet. Let’s remind ourselves that we aren’t alone just because other believers aren’t yelling out. We are just at peace holding our father’s hand—the very best place to be.

A Visit from Saint Nicholas

writers

“There’s something out there. I don’t know what it is, but it’s out there. I know it,” whispered Emma. She began to move again, back and forth in her ancient rocking chair. Her cracked hands squeezed nervously the quilt that was covering her legs from the winter’s cold.

Nicholas, a slightly overweight man with light hair, looked around the hoarded home and then to the door. “There’s nothing out there. Just a lot of snow. And beyond that, trees covered by even more snow.”

He was still a young man in his early thirties. He attended college to study psychology to become a therapist, but ended up working for a church instead. He wasn’t a pastor per say, but something in between. The church called him a “leader.” One of his jobs was to visit the sick and the elderly.

Although he fought it with all his might, apprehensiveness still appeared on his face when Pastor Brad asked him to visit Emma Huffington, the 92-year-old widow who quit coming a number of years ago. Her only son had moved away for a girl, leaving her utterly alone. Now Christmas was approaching, and Pastor Brad believed and taught that no one should be alone on Christmas.

The little tube television in the corner of the house was silently playing The Christmas Carol, the original 1938 version, but Emma didn’t seem to care. She stared at the window even though it was closed with a curtain.

“There’s something moving out there. I can hear it,” she continued.

Nicholas replied courteously, “What’s out there?”

“I haven’t seen it yet, but I’m nervous.” Emma’s fingers dug into the quilt a little more.

“When I walked up, there wasn’t anything but snow, Emma.”

“It’s dark now, and that’s when it comes out. In the end. When everything goes dark.” She coughed a deep cough that came from too many years of smoking although she had quit years back.

A gust of wind blew against the small, weathered house, and Emma’s eyes turned to Nicholas. They were wide and alarmed.

“Just wind,” Nicholas said to calm her.

She replied, “It’s just two words.”

“What?”

“They scare me, those two words.”

“What two words?” He was really confused now.

“The scariest two words ever spoken.” She learned towards him and whispered, “What if,” and she froze in that position for a moment.

Nicholas mentally recalled his academic training of psychology and his few years of experience counseling people at church. “Emma, do you have regrets that are bothering you? If so, everyone has regrets. It’s okay.”

The largest smile broke through Emma’s wrinkles on her face, “Papa said Santa is coming! And I’ve been good all year, I think. I hope I have. Santa Claus is coming to town. He’s making a list. He’s checking it twice. And… I’ve been nice. Jolly old Saint Nicholas, lean your ear this way. Don’t you tell a single soul what I’m going to say.” Her smile vanished and her eyes dimmed a little. “There’s something out there. Soon.”

Another gust of wind hit the house, and Nicholas quickly stood. “Emma, can I get you anything? Water, coffee? Do you have any?”

“I have coco. Would you mind getting me a cup of hot coco. It’s on the counter near the microwave. I always drink hot coco around Christmas time.”

“I would love to.” He moved into the crowded kitchen, careful not to knock anything over. As he waited on the microwave, he noticed some photos in the hall. He studied them carefully. Emma was once beautiful and her husband, strikingly handsome. Nicholas saw a framed black and white family portrait. Her Papa and mother he presumed.

The microwave dinged, and Nicholas brought Emma her hot coco.

“Here you go. I hope it’s not too hot for you.” He carefully handed her the cup and saucer.

“What’s your name?” she asked completely lost.

“I’m Nicholas.”

“Oh, Saint Nicholas! Papa said you would come. Momma said so too. If I was good. Did you get my letter?” She was giddy in excitement.

“I’m from the church.”

“Yes, yes! Okay, Santa Claus, I need to change my letter. I don’t want a doll and stroller anymore; I want something else.”

Curious, Nicholas asked, “What do you want, Emma?”

She thought for a while and was fighting who she was. She went back and forth from child to elder until settling somewhere in between. “I want Robert back.” Her head sunk into her shoulders in that stagnant rocking chair. I told him to go fight. He could have stayed. He asked me what the right thing to do was, and then I sent him off in his uniform. I know he did what was right, but what if I would have told him to stay with me? With me and Jimmy. What if? He had already served his time. What if I would have told him to spend Christmas with me and go another year, or never go? My boy would have been raised right with a father. I would have been held in the cold of night. But I told him to go. And he did. And he fought. Brave. And he never came home.”

Emma pulled out the golden heart that hung around her neck by a purple ribbon. Just then another gust of wind pushed against the house.

The tired woman forced a broken smile and said to Nicholas, “You’re from my church, right?”

“Yes, Grace Community Congregation.”

“Will Jesus give me grace?”

“Do you believe in Jesus?”

“There’s no other name to believe in.” She motioned up to the cross hanging over her doorway.

“He will give you grace, Emma. God loves you so much.”

“Enough to cover my what if’s?

“He will wipe away every what if.”

Her eyes blinked longer now as she appeared even more sunken down into her chair.

She whispered, “Every what if?”

“Emma, they are all gone. Completely wiped away. You have been forgiven of every mistake.”

Her words grew softer and weaker: “Jolly old Saint Nicholas, something’s outside.”

“It’s windy outside.”

“Santa, I want my Robert back.”

Her eyes stayed closed longer before they opened again.

Another gust of wind.

“Open the door. Robert’s here.”

“It’s just the wind, Emma. Get some rest, okay?”

“Just open the door for me.”

“It’s cold out; you’ll freeze.”

She whispered slowly, “Please, open the door.”

Nicholas apprehensively stood up and moved to the door. Emma’s weary eyes fought to stay open. As Nicholas turned the rusty doorknob, the door flung open, pushing him out of the way, and to his disbelief the snowy wind that flew in was in the faint shape of a man.

Years later Nicholas would recall that the faint shape of that snowy wind resembled a smiling man in a uniform, but he was for certain that Emma Huffington passed away that windy night with a hint of a jolly smile on her face, peacefully in a rocking chair.

The Late Night Visitor

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It was that evening when he first developed an affinity for guns—an unexpected knock at the door interrupted his usual microwave dinner of Salisbury steak and mashed potatoes. Action scenes from the television cast a luminescent glow into the living room as he played with his rubber wrestling men on the shag carpet. His mother was in bed reading another 400-page novel, which would steal her full attention from anything going on in the real world. But he didn’t mind because it was guy time with his dad, and scenes of Vietnam bloodshed and men practicing Karate didn’t really hold his mother’s attention too well.

After hearing the knock, his father looked to him with a silent glare that meant, Stay right there, and don’t move. He then rushed to the back room and came out loading bullets into his rifle. The heavy rifle reminded him of something from a scene right out of the wood covered television box.

His father looked to him again before opening the door and said, “Simon, keep your eyes open, okay?”

Simon nodded faithfully.

The door opened, and a shadowed figure of a man stood backlit in the yellow porch light that attracted fluttering moths.

Feeling alarmed Simon waited as he tried to decide whether to go and get his mother. He looked to the heroic men on the television screen and decided against it. Instead, he paced back and forth making tracks in the still freshly vacuumed carpet until he hurried to the kitchen area to pull a barstool over to the front window. He climbed up on it, so he would be able to see through the mini-blinds. He wondered if he would be seen if he peaked through. What if his father needed some backup against this late night visitor?

Simon heard murmuring of a conversation over the television box and took a quick peek to find his father looking disturbed and deep in thought as he listened to the stranger. Simon tried to get a clear look at him, but his father’s head seemed to block the stranger’s face every time he turned. He did notice that his father’s rifle was no longer in his hands but slung across his shoulder in a safe position.

Observing a few more movements, Simon could tell that the man was a few years younger than his father. When his father caught Simon’s eyes through the thin blinds, he shook his head in disapproval, so Simon hopped off the stool and went back to his wrestling toys with a few bites of his mashed potatoes, and he washed them down with a drink of watered down sweet iced tea.

After a long time had passed in the opinion of a six year old, Simon’s father finally came back into the house. He seemed tired and worn, but when he saw his son waiting for him, he sat down on the couch near Simon and leaned forward to say, “Son, always know that I love you. No matter what, or when, remember that your father loves you.”

Simon barely heard his father’s sincerity; his eyes were more focused on the rifle. Simon studied the scope that reflected light from the television set in its glass. His father put away the rifle, and they enjoyed the remainder of the action movie together before going to bed.

***

Almost 30 years later, Simon sat in front of his flat screen television that hung on the wall. In one hand was a remote control and in the other was his cell phone dimming into power saving mode with a text message still on the screen: I know you still have feelings for me, but you really need to understand that we’ll never be together again. Please don’t text me anymore. Goodbye, Simon.

He heard a noise hitting against the window. He knew it was probably branches being pushed by the wind, but he still picked up his pistol lying next to him on the couch to go investigate the noise. He took precautions such as these because he lived alone. Very alone.

Simon looked through thick, white, wooden blinds seeing that the sun was setting. This inspired him enough to tuck his gun into the back of his pants and step out into the windy evening.

The wind took control of this hair and clothes, blowing them wildly as he looked towards the remnant of the sun—a sky of vivid colors slowly fading to black. He remembered the text message again with a wince, which he had forgotten for a few seconds.

He wanted to talk to someone. He needed to talk to someone. And not just social jabber, but real talking. His friends were too caught up in their young families, which was expected during this stage of life. He knew is mother was too worn from the lackluster workday to start discussing anything deep, and his father… well, his father had become sick many years ago and was no longer with them.

It hit him; he knew what he had to do.

He walked over to his truck, pulled himself into it, reversed out of his driveway, and drove. He hadn’t been to his childhood home since he was 12, but he felt that just driving by and seeing it again for even a moment would give him some sort of understanding or direction or, at this point, anything at all.

Night fell as he drove, and the mighty wind caused his truck to swerve from time to time. The drive was a half hour out of town, and his reminiscing grew. He became possessed with strong emotions knowing he would soon see his old home again.

Simon put on his hoodie as some of the outside chill was making its way into his truck. The warmth of his hoodie reminded him of when his father would tuck him into bed and tell him stories. One of his father’s favorites to tell was of a time traveler who would have many different adventures traveling through the ages.

Once Simon asked his father if time travel was really possible. He replied, “Oh, it is very much possible. Everyone has their own personal time machine. It exists here and here,” he motioned to his head and heart.

Simon felt if there ever was a time that his mind and heart wanted to go back to a better time, it was now. And as he drove on, the wind pushed his truck into the other lane as dust storms temporarily blinded his view. But he kept driving, determined to go back. No wind, no dust storm would keep him from going back now. He desperately wanted it even more than life.

***

As he pulled up on the dirt road in front of his childhood home, the dust settled to a peaceful stillness. He was surprised that after all these years the dirt road had never been paved. He noticed that the old house had been kept up quite well—maybe a little too well.

And there, next to the family car was his father’s old truck. Simon didn’t understand what was happening, so he got out of his own truck and began to walk towards the house. His eyes focused on the door that would open up a world that had faded somewhere within his wistful memories.

Simon entered into the yellow porch light, waving a few moths out of his face, and knocked. There was movement behind the door and a long moment until he saw him—his father, Dad. He was free of wrinkles and thinner. He held that same rifle that he had once so admired, but this time, it was his father that he admired.

“Dad…”

His father softened when he looked into Simon’s eyes, “Son?”

“It’s me, Dad,” his breath was dry.

“You really did it. You really did it, Son!”

“I remembered the stories you told me. And I did it.”

His father froze for a moment. “But you weren’t supposed to come back. Even if you can. Is the future that bad?”

“Dad, you’re not there anymore. You—”

“No, Son! I shouldn’t know the future. I don’t want to know it.”

“But Dad—”

“Not even if it’s bad.”

There was a moment of painful thought, until his father carried on, “You married, Son? You got a girl?”

“Not anymore.”

“Any kids?”

“No.”

“You taking care of your mother?” He seemed nervous asking this question.

“The best I can, Dad.”

His father paused pondering the surreal situation.

“Did you come back to see me?”

“I couldn’t think of a better time in life than now, here.”

Simon saw his father shake his head towards the window, and then two little eyes disappeared behind some mini-blinds.

Simon said, “I remember this. I’m in there waiting for you. Mom is in the bedroom reading. But I never go in to see me; I just leave.”

“Son, I can’t let you in. There’s only room in the past for one of you and that’s not you; it’s him. You already had your time, and now you’re wasting your time being here. You need to go back and live. You must do the best with what you have even if it’s not what you would have chosen. I taught you that when you were little. I’m teaching him that now,” he nodded towards the house. “Sometimes in life we must be reminded of things we’ve forgotten more than learning new things.”

His father’s warming words were even more comforting than he remembered. Simon continued to listen with wet eyes.

His father continued, “You remember what I’m going to tell you when I get back in there?”

“Yes, Dad. I never forgot.”

“Then give me a hug and say goodbye. I think that’s why you’re really here.”

His father embraced his grown boy, and in the silence of that moment, Simon could hear the low noises of the television set that lit the room on the other side of the wall.

The next moment, Simon was walking back to his truck. He got in and turned the key, and when he looked back up, he saw the ruins of a foundation that once held up his childhood home, and his truck was parked on a paved road that was lined with new, little homes a few blocks down the street.

“Love you too, Dad,” he whispered as he began to drive back home, now ready to live.