Serrendipitous Song

Suddenly, I found myself rising from my seat at the IHOP restaurant in the Brick, NJ waiting area just inside the front door and turned around to face the old man in the wheel chair.  He was parked somewhat in the middle of the room with his back to the people sitting on the benches that lined three walls.  He was toothless, had hollow cheeks, and had thinning gray hair that slightly brushed the tops of his ears.  A younger looking beach-comber type man with a dark tan appearing to be around forty-five sat in back of him with both his hands holding the arms of the wheelchair.  He was positioned so that when the waitress called their name he could easily wheel the older gentleman to their table.

Once inside the waiting area my friends, Marie, Anna, Lorraine and I, looked for a seat.  There wasn’t room for all four of us together, but I found a spot on the other side of the almost filled seating area next to the man with his hands on the wheel chair.  Within minutes, Marie’s attention went to the wheelchair and she commented on what a nice chair it was due to the updated style.  Almost simultaneously, everyone turned their head and all eyes were on the wheelchair. 

And, that’s when the impetus to rise hit me.  Everyone was talking about this man’s shiny, steel wheelchair as if he wasn’t even there.  Perhaps it was something I’d learned from my nurses training from over forty years ago that you speak directly to people in wheel chairs and that you make eye contact.  That being in a wheelchair doesn’t mean a person is deaf, dumb, or blind.  Or, perhaps it came from my inability to sit still.  Or, maybe it was just the excitement of having a couple of days away at the New Jersey Shore for rest and rejuvenation and getting caught up in the fun and frivolity we were enjoying as friends

But, what really stood out as I leaned over to make myself eye level with the old man in the wheelchair, was his black ball cap with the bold, gold lettering.  It read, WW II.  I was stunned.  Right in front of me sat a veteran who had fought in a war over sixty years ago.  Wearing my own ball cap of stars and stripes to cover a bad hair day, I slowly shuffled around so not to startle him and stood off to the side. 

 Cheerily, I greeted the veteran and asked his name.

 “Jooohnnnn”, the man in the wheel chair replied. 

It was then that I saw his murky blue gray eyes.  What they must have seen during war times.  Unsure of what was driving me to engage in conversation with this old man, I continued making polite conversation, “How old are you, John?” I inquired with a smile.

“85”, he said, though his response was more mouthed than spoken.  Still, I heard him loud and clear.

“Wow!” I said, amazed.  “Eighty-five years old”.  Sixty years ago on the battlefield, he would have been in his early twenties.  So young; so brave “It’s my birthday”, he said, with some effort.  Now, I was in over drive. 

“Your birthday”! I exclaimed.  “Ok, everyone, let’s all sing Happy Birthday to John.”  As our voices rose in unison, a roomful of strangers became united in spirit.

We didn’t learn why John was in the wheel chair but when his party was called, the man I’m assuming to be his son, spoke up with heartfelt emotion,  “Thank you very much”, he nodded to me while pushing the wheel chair past us and through the door to their table.  The simplicity of the moment was so powerful tears began welling in my eyes.

Yes, my girlfriends and I laughed, talked, walked the Point Pleasant Boardwalk stopping at Jenkinsons for black licorice, had ice cream at The Music Man in Lavallette, ate pizza, strolled along at the craft fair in Avon by the Sea, and even went to a concert to see Ronan Tynan, the Irish tenor, in Ocean Grove at the Great Auditorium.  But, the silly, serendipitous conversation that began over a steel wheel chair that took on a life of its own, left us all a little prouder to be an American living in the land of the free and the home of the brave.

 

Three feathers, two teens, and one fish.

"Three feathers, two teens, and one fish."

 

It’s barely one week into summer and already the living is easy.  Last night as I was leaving the Shop Rite supermarket in <?xml:namespace prefix = st1 ns = "urn:schemas-microsoft-com:office:smarttags" />Hillsdale, NJ, the carefree tug of a June evening caused me to succumb to my inner child that is never far away.  Besides, what was my rush?  To get home, go inside, and spend the rest of the evening missing the possibility of who knows what?  So, I made a right at the corner and headed for the local walking path at Wooddale Park. 

Adding to the tug was the warm wind and an evening sky of dark hued clouds that gave way to hints of the occasional clearing followed by more mystery with slate grey creations swirling from east to west.  But, it was the soft whispers of the wind that I found inspiring.  With each drift blowing through my hair and kicking up my skirt, it seemed to be whispering “good-by” to any dark clouds that may have taken up residence in my head that day.  The gentle drifts seemed to push out worry and fretting while letting in peace and serenity.

After pulling into the parking lot I hoped out of my Jeep to join the steady progression of walkers.  There were couples arm in arm with some carrying a cane for steadiness, young lovers, kids on bikes whizzing past, the token male jogger, and mothers pushing buggies with babies, all circling past me.  Rounding the first bend, I noticed two teens fishing and found myself wandering down the small slope to the waters edge.

“What are you catching”, I called, intrigued, by the young lads who were fishing with such earnest.

“Sunnies,” came the reply from the taller of the two.

“Want to try?” he quickly added.

              “Ohhhh,” I said, intrigued and somewhat surprised as I didn’t expect the offer.  I hadn’t inquired about the sport of fishing, or acted like I knew a thing about catching a fish, yet right in front of me on this balmy, summer evening, was an opportunity not to be missed.

“Sure,” I exclaimed enthusiastically.  I’d love to cast a line and see what happens. 

After laying my cell phone and keys off to the side, Brian, 13, whose name I later learned, promptly placed his fishing pole in my hand.  His fishing buddy, Justin, helped place some bread bait on the hook

            “Just lower it,” Brian said confidently wit a nod of his head.  “Don’t cast or anything and you’ll get a bite.”

            “Hum.”  These two are experienced fishermen. 

Carefully, I slowly dropped the pole with the bread bait into the murky waters upon which swarms of sunnies appeared.  In less than a minute, the bait was gone!

            “Do you want to do it again?” Brian offered.  You bet I did!  Didn’t take me long to catch the fishing fun, bug.

            After a few more tries, I did catch a sunnie and whooped with glee before the slim fish flopped off and back into the lake.

            “Beginners luck,” Justin grinned.

            Whoa, been down that path, while grinning back, but I wasn’t about to bore these boys with stories.

            While saying my good-byes to my new fishing friends, I discovered that the two teens lived on the same street and had been fishing pals for several years. 

Continuing my walk, my inner child was still at work when I came across a small, soft grey feather.  In less than twenty steps, another was at my feet.  As I reached my Jeep to head home, a third perfectly positioned lay in my path.  Once inside my apartment, I headed straight for a suitable container for displaying my quills as a reminder that at 61, we can still enjoy the whimsical wonders along the byways of life. 

I’ll never know what prompted the two young teenage fishermen to extend a fishing invitation.  But, I do know it was an experience that filled my spirit and still puts a smile on my face.

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Spring Surprises in Big Sky Country and over the Continental Divide

You may notice that I've not written since when I wrote about the wolves and my visit with my daughters to Howler's Inn in Bozeman, Montana.  After catching my breath after the start of 2006, and then a trip to the West Coast in early February to visit my parents, I was about to settle down to work on my second book when an early morning phone call altered my plan.  I was needed back in Bozeman for a family matter. 

 As you can probably attest, life goes on even during a crisis.  And so it did for me during the month of March in Bozeman.  Though it was a time of stress and matters beyond my control, I felt showered from time to time with those little unexpected surprises that seem to lift your spirits.  In the beginning, when quiet and rest were needed, the first blessing came in the form of house sitting in a beautiful and serene setting with sun setting on the Spanish Peaks.  When my daughters and I needed light moments, joy and celebration was our friend when my daughter, Leas, performed in The Vagina Monologues.  More special surprises came when I sat in with my oldest daughter, Nicole, during her shift as a 911 dispatch operator.  I had the privilege of seeing her handling emergency calls with calm professionalism.  I was so proud of them both.

On one occasion, while headed toward Billings, I ended up having a marvelous experience in spite of a somewhat challenging two hour ride.  I was on I-90 going east and hit fog.  Then, I passed a logging truck around Livingston, enjoyed the Absaroka Range, and watched the Yellowstone River dip back and forth from one side of the road to the other.  The open prairie and rolling hills seemed vast yet there was plenty of excitement for snapping photos along the way.  Somewhere around Big Timber, or beyond, a sleek train roared down the tracks just north of the Interstate.  To the south, the rugged Beartooth Mountains jutted in the far distance.  Just past Reed Point in Sweet Grass County, I snapped a photo of an old car that caught my eye.  After arriving in Billings, I snapped a photo of the Rimrocks, the most striking natural feature that rise 400 feet above the Yellowstone Valley and run the length of the city and beyond. 

Another day, my destination was the Butte area.  Another town I'd not driven to before.  But, in my mind, it seemed reasonable that if one could survive the New Jersey Turnpike, one could certainly handle the Interstate in Western Montana.  However, that declaration was made before driving to Butte because, boy, was I in for surprises.  

Once you get past Manhattan, Montana and Three Forks, there isn't much out there except the Lewis and Clark Caverns.  Once you start going through Deer Lodge National Forest and crossing the snow covered peeks of the Continental Divide, you feel as if you could almost touch Heaven!  I'd crossed the Continental Divide once before in Yellowstone National Park, but didn’t have any photos for posterity.  This time, I had my digital camera at my fingertips and readily clicked away. 

My month in Montana and Big Sky country, even in March with still freezing temperatures and snowy days, changed my perspective.  Walking the land where the West was won helps gives someone, even a California transplant, renewed fortitude to forge ahead.  

Top Blonde taking the day...see you next time!