I’m never quite sure how to broach the subject, or whether to bring it up at all. Second sight, ‘the gift’, precognition, all of them sound a little bit over the top, to many people. To my family, it was pretty well an accepted trait that could show up in one of the family in any given generation. It wasn’t like we were all fortune tellers complete with a crystal ball, but it was, definitely, there.

My mother had it, but, her mother had seen it as an evil trait, that could be whipped out of a child, so Mom was very careful about what she revealed when she was younger and didn’t talk about it, outside the family, when she got older. She had once talked a friend out of taking an airplane flight, and the plane had crashed on take-off. She could tell your future by ‘reading the cards’, not tarot cards, just plane old Bicycle playing cards. But, the stories about my brother, Orville (Ringo), and his particular abilities were some of my favorites.

When Orville was four, my parents moved their family of four from Eastern Colorado and settled in a small house in Laramie, Wyoming. As always, they were strapped for money and a telephone was a luxury they couldn’t afford. This made communication with my Aunt Ruby (Mom’s sister) and her husband, Uncle Mike, very slow. They had promised to make the seventy-five mile trip from Ault to Laramie when Mom and Dad were settled.

A couple of weeks had passed and my mother had written to her family upon arrival and getting a house, but now she sent a letter to Ruby on Friday, asking if they would like to bring their family up for a visit on the following weekend. The next day, Saturday, Orville had been outside playing and came in to the kitchen to get a drink. He told Mom, “Aunt Ruby and Uncle Mike are coming for a visit.”

Mother told him, “I know. I wrote to her yesterday and they’ll probably be here next Saturday or Sunday.

“No,” was his reply, “they’re going to be here today.”

Mom used to tell us that she had to stop and think before she asked the next question, which was, “Will they be here in time for lunch?”

“Yup,” was the reply, and he went back out to play.

She said that the look on Ruby’s face was priceless when she and Mike and their two girls showed up for a ‘surprise’ visit only to find lunch was ready and waiting for them. When they asked how she knew, she told them that Orville had told her. Ruby knew how their mother had felt about this ‘talent’, and shared the discomfort, and she didn’t mention it again.

The next incident wasn’t so easy for my mother to deal with or something that Orville could understand. They had been in Laramie for a couple of months and, as happens in small towns, Orville had gotten acquainted with a teenage boy who made a little bit of money by doing odd jobs in the neighborhood. He had learned his name, Bobby, and would wave to him as he passed by on the way to or from a nearby house.

One afternoon Orville came bursting through the front door and ran into the kitchen and told Mom that Bobby had gotten hurt. Mom dried her hands on her apron and started toward the door saying, “Come on, let’s see if we can help him,” thinking that the accident must have happened in the street.

Orville grabbed her hand and said, “No, mama, he’s not out there. He got hurt at his house.”

This made Mom pause, as she didn’t know where Bobby lived. She knelt down and asked Orville, “Do you know where Bobby lives?”

He thought real hard and then said, “No.”

“How bad is he hurt?”

She said that his voice got a little shaky and he said, “I think he’s hurt really bad, Mama. A policeman shot him with a gun and there’s a lot of blood.” Mom was stunned. Bobby had not seemed like the kind of kid who would get into trouble with the law. However, this seemed to solve the problem of what to do. “Son,” she said, “if a policeman has shot Bobby, then there will be a doctor to take care of him.”

He had taken a deep breath and said, “Okay, mama.”

The next day my mother was horrified to hear from a neighbor that Bobby had been killed. She asked, “Are you sure?”

“Yes. You know he lived next door to Charlie Johnson, the policeman. He heard the shot and came out of his house and saw Bobby had been shot and was lying on the back porch of his house. He said he couldn’t see anyone else around. They have no idea who did it.”

Mom didn’t pursue the story any further, then, but she had told my father what Orville had seen, and, a few weeks later he told her that he had heard that Charlie Johnson had had a run in with Bobby over Charlie’s treatment of his dog. It hadn’t seemed that big of a deal, at the time, but, now, it might mean something, but they had nothing they could take to the law. You can’t go to the police and say, “My four year old saw a policeman shoot Bobby in a vision.” It haunted my mom that Bobby was murdered and nothing was ever done about it.

There were other incidents through the years, but nothing specific comes to mind until Ringo came home from serving in the Army in Germany. He told us of going out on his first visit to the German countryside with a buddy. They were ‘tooling’ along a small country road when he pulled over and told his friend there’s a little town over the next hill. His friend laughed and said, “From what I can tell, there’s a small town over every other hill in Germany.”

Ringo told us, “I told him that I knew this town. He just laughed and said, ‘Bull shit’, you got to Germany the same day I did’.”

Then Ringo turned to Mom and said, “Mom, I knew every little shop in that town. I knew where the tobacconists shop was, and the butcher shop, and the bakery. We went up and down almost every street in that little burg, and it was scary how well I knew the place. I know that I lived there once, as crazy as that sounds.”

Mom just said, “I don’t think it sounds crazy, son. You know what is true for you.” She was the last person who would judge someone about this type of thing.

About five years later my Uncle Bert, Aunt Gretta’s third (or fourth) husband, fell ill. Ringo had come by for a visit and, as he wasn’t in constant touch, what with a job and a family, I thought he might not know, so I told him. He just gave me an odd look and said, “I know.”

“Did Mom call you?” I asked.

It was a few minutes before he answered, then he said, “No. She didn’t need to call. I always know.”

It took me a moment to come up with an explanation as to how he could ‘always’ know, then I asked, “Do you always know when someone is going to get sick?”

He said, “No. But I always know when they’re going to die, and Uncle Bert isn’t going to make it.”

I felt shivers run up my spine. “Do you mean you always know when people are going to die?”

He gave me a haunted look and replied, “Only when it’s someone I know.” When I didn’t say anything, he continued, “I’ll wake up in the middle of the night, thinking I’ve heard a dog howling, but there’s no sound when I wake up. About a week or two after the howling, I just know who’s going to die.”

“Christ”, I said, “How long has this been going on.”

“About six years, I guess. I’m not absolutely sure, because it took me a couple of ‘incidents’ before I tied it all together. First there’d be the dream with the dog, then, a week or so later, I’d start thinking about this one person a lot and worrying about them, and then,” his voice got softer, “then they’d die.”

I had to ask, “Are you ever wrong.”
He gave me a twisted smile, “I’d like to be, but, I’m not.”

Ringo had had no children of his own (though he had helped his ex-wife raise six step-children) until he was in his late forties. He had remarried and he and his wife had decided to try to have a child. He was ecstatic when he found out he was going to be a dad, but, when he called to tell me, he said, “I won’t live to see him start school.” And, he didn’t. Within a year he had begun to show symptoms of a respiratory disease, and he died when his son, Beau, was four.

He and I talked on the telephone fairly often the last year of his life, but I never asked him if he had heard the dog. Maybe I’m a coward, but, I didn’t want to know when.

BLUE ANGELS by Judy Williams

The August 1993 Harvest Crusade brought people in the tens of thousands to Angel Stadium in Anaheim, California. Among the 50,000 plus crowd sat twelve Sunshine Outreach volunteers. We had carpooled north from Mission Viejo to enjoy the preaching and the music, not necessarily in that order!

Harvest Crusades, sponsored by the Calvary Chapel movement, are widely attended because they showcase country and rock musical talent with lots of drumming and strumming, God-honoring lyrics...and, best of all, it’s free! It was the year that the hand-clapping, foot-stomping “Let the Walls Fall Down” was the theme song.

Let the walls fall down. Let the walls fall down.
Let the walls fall down. By His love, let the walls fall down.

One by one, we’re drawn together. One by one, to Jesus’ side.
One in Him, we’ll love forever. Strangers he has reconciled.

In His love, no walls between us. In His love, a common ground.
Kneeling at the cross of Jesus, all our pride comes tumbling down.
©1993 Maranatha Music.

It was a beautiful, clear summer night and the air was full of excitement. Many had invited non-believers in anticipation of the altar call that might tug hearts toward the salvation message preached by Pastor Greg Laurie, even then being touted as the next Billy Graham.

“The stadium is shaking!”
“It’s swaying!”
“It’s rocking!”
“It’s collapsing!”

The sitting crowd was clapping hands and stomping feet singing with ever-increasing fervor “Let the walls fall down! Let the walls fall down!” And it appeared that the walls and seats and floors in the upper deck where we sat were listening! The upper level was dipping and lifting, up and down, mostly down, then back to its normal place, then down again as the crowd stomped. While terror struck my every molecule, people in the upper level could see the swaying but seemed to think it was good fun to watch the concrete wave – they stomped even harder! After all, it was a rock concert!

GOD NO! I closed my eyes. I knew we were all about to die. PLEASE SAVE US, GOD! I opened my eyes. Amazed at what I saw: three times taller than the stadium, stately and strong, three blue angelic creatures with wings so huge that the stadium and all the people in it looked the way a cup of coffee looks in my hand. I had never seen that hue of blue before and I have never seen that color again.

In my mind I heard, “You are safe. Do not fear.” And my fear did melt as I realized it would only take one of the angels to scoop all 50,000 of us up with one of its finely feathered wings and take us to heaven if the walls truly did fall down. The crowd sang and stomped louder and stronger, louder and stronger. I started to laugh along with them at the power being generated that made the entire upper deck bow and weave. I joined in clapping and stomping with unbridled joy.

I cupped my hand to my husband’s ear and had to yell for him to hear me, “Do you see them?” He did not. “There are three of the most amazingly huge blue angels standing just beyond the walls,” I said. They remained for the entire service. Even after the music stopped and preaching began, they were still visible to me. Maybe they are always there since it is Angel Stadium, Home of the Angels, after all!

###

“For He will give His angels charge concerning you, to guard you in all your ways. They will bear you up in their hands, lest you strike your foot against a stone.”
Psalm 91:11,12

Reiss

When a friend calls to say goodbye
When life is at its final stage
What can we say, what’s the right reply
When a friend calls to say goodbye?

When a friend calls to say goodbye
When we dare not, no, we dare not cry
What is right and what is wrong
When a friend calls to say goodbye?

When a friend calls to say goodbye
When we reach into our hearts and try, yes, try
What to do, what to think, what to say
When a friend calls to say goodbye?

When a friend calls to say goodbye
When our best is not enough
What to feel, where to hide
When a friend calls to say goodbye.

Sylvia's Sister

The news skittered up and down our street like summer raindrops: a new cereal called Cheerios had appeared on the shelves at our neighborhood market, and it looked like tiny donuts, or so the story went. We were all dying to see for ourselves whether this marvel was really true. Kids were considered “lucky stiffs” if their mother included a box of it along with the bread, milk, and bologna in her weekly bag of groceries. How can the children of today, with their vast array of breakfast food choices, imagine what a stir this innovative product caused among the kids of small-town America in the 1940s?

Up to that time, our morning cereal had been predictable.
It was mostly flakes, as in corn, and shredded wheat, which my mother softened with a dash of boiling water before drenching it in canned evaporated milk. There were also the ordinary hot cereals: oatmeal and cream of wheat. Both could strike misery in the hearts of children if they contained the dreaded lumps. But now there was a cereal in an undreamed-of round shape, and it opened up a new world of adventure for a few weeks before becoming commonplace.

Sylvia, my friend next door, had an older sister whose name escapes me now. When all the neighborhood kids gathered to play in the street on hot, steamy Nebraska nights, Sylvia’s sister never indulged in our rowdy outdoor games, but she was willing to join in our quieter evening fun around the table when bad weather kept us indoors.

It was Sylvia's sister who came up with the idea of making jewelry out of the Cheerios, and we spent hours stringing the tiny circles on old-fashioned store string. This was the string that grocers tied ar ound the white paper-wrapped packages of meat our mothers bought at the local market. For kids lucky enough to have a pet, the butcher sometimes sent home free liver for the cat or soup bones for the dog. This meant more store string for us to use for any purpose conjured up by our active imaginations.

My claim to neighborhood fame in those days was that I knew the words to every song that played on the radio. It annoyed Sylvia’s sister that a little brat of ten would make such an audacious claim, and she frequently quizzed me as we strung.

"What about ‘I Surrender, Dear’? Bet you don't know that!”
I sang a few lines to prove my mastery of the song, and she challenged me anew. "Well, how about ‘Indian Love Call’? Do you know the words to that one? Or “White Cliffs of Dover?”

She never asked me the easy ones like “Home on the Range” or “The Sheik of Araby.” Everyone knew those. And, of course, every child in America could sing:
“The stars at night
Are big and bright
Deep in the Heart of Texas!”

No, they were never part of the quiz. She liked to try to stump me on the fairly obscure songs that didn't appeal to the average kid, especially love songs like “Smoke Gets In Your Eyes.” Somehow I always managed to retain my title of “Best Memorizer of Radio Songs.”

Sylvia's sister was no slouch herself when it came to music. In our eyes, she was practically a grown-up. On warm summer evenings, she would sit for hours on her front porch swing with a boy from the neighborhood, while the phonograph cranked out records in the living room behind them as they talked and laughed.

The carefully crafted Cheerios necklaces and bracelets we created around the table on cold winter nights became really elaborate when Sylvia’s sister suggested that we use red fingernail polish to paint each individual little donut. We then honored our mothers with gifts made from the cereal and fingernail polish that they themselves had purchased. Most mothers didn't care, though, because these tokens of affection were put together with their little darlings’ painstaking efforts and elbow grease. Another plus for the hardworking parents was that this activity kept us entertained and out of their hair for hours at a time.

When December came, someone had the bright idea of stringing Cheerios the way we did popcorn: as a decoration for the Christmas tree when the holidays rolled around. That plan was abandoned when Sylvia’s sister pointed out to us that just one long decorative string would require more boxes of Cheerios than any of our mothers' food budgets could manage.

As we worked at these innocent pastimes, secure in our own little places in our families and the community, we were still too young to realize how harsh the world could be, and how judgmental. One day Sylvia's sister was there; the next, she was simply gone. The official word from her family was that she didn't like the high school in town and had gone to live with relatives in a distant city. Sylvia never spoke of her sister after that, but I noticed the downcast eyes and heard the lowered voices of the adults when anyone mentioned her name.

The canny intuition of a child told me there was more to the story than was being admitted, but we were trained not to be too inquisitive about matters that didn't concern us. One day as I lolled on the front porch reading a book, the voices of my mother and a visiting friend drifted through the window and into my always alert ear.
"But what else could they do?" the neighbor asked. "Think of the disgrace, the shame! It would have been simply dreadful for the family!"

And my mother's answer came softly and sadly. "But how could anyone love a child for all those years, raise her and protect her, and then send her to live among strangers and pretend she doesn't exist anymore?" Then in a stronger voice, "I hope it never happens to my daughter, but if it does, she will need her mother's love more than ever. And to give the baby away, when it's part of your own little girl . . ."
There was a sharp "shh” and the voices descended into whispers.

I think I vaguely understood then what had happened to Sylvia's sister. I was sad for her, being so far away from her home and family. It would be years before I realized fully that there are unwed fathers as well as unwed mothers, a fact that society in its questionable wisdom didn't choose to acknowledge then.

I didn't brood over it long because there was so much that was mysterious to me. Anyway, we moved away shortly after that, clear to the other side of town. The new neighborhood lacked the camaraderie of the old one, so the days of outdoor games and stringing Cheerios were over for me. It didn’t matter, though, because by that time, I was mad for movie stars and spent most of my spare time writing fan letters requesting autographed pictures. Telephones were still rare in homes then and we didn’t own one, so I pretty much lost touch with the old gang. Now and then I would meet one or two of the kids at the movies or at a carnival, but I never saw Sylvia's sister again.

KALEIDOSCOPE

We lay side by side so close together our bodies touch. I feel his skin next to mine. His hands, once so warm, smooth, and sensuous sent sparks of energy rejoicing through my veins until every nerve in my body danced to his touch. Our body heat rose as we embraced. His large smile, that contagious smile, spread across his face so that his lips collided with his cheekbones and never failed to make me laugh. We were so certain of our commitment to love one another we became arrogant in the knowledge that our lives would never be different.
Now the body next to me is cold, dry and flaky, afraid of water. Now, the corners of his mouth are frozen into a downward slope, laughter gone replaced by fear.
He lays in bed, curled, fetal position, facing into his pillow, covered with a sheet or blanket to above his shoulders convinced he is dying of some undiagnosed form of cancer. He rises now and then for nourishment, not unlike a child who reaches out instinctively for food. Part of the day he lies awake staring at the dresser beside his bed where his glasses sometimes hang on the handle of the drawer, when he remembers to put them there. But most of the time his eyes are closed his thoughts veiled in some obscure memory.
"What are you thinking?"
"I have cancer and I'm dying."
"Please don't die. I'll miss you! Can I get you anything? Juice, water?"
"Nothing," he replies but his large brown eyes bulge with fear as he looks suspiciously at a fading world which daily becomes more difficult for him to grasp.
It is a cruel irony to watch my husband's mind disappear into tangle's of plaque that steal his memory of a life that provided him with an acute sense of curiosity, wanderlust, adventure and most important, the ability to laugh.
He walked into my life the 19th of November 1982 at 12:50 PM. After months of refusing to meet him, I finally relented hoping my friend would then leave me alone as she was convinced that if we met we would marry.
A tall, thin, long legged man, wearing jeans with a dark blue sweater and tennis shoes, confidently approached me and with his large, so very soft and gentle hands, reached out to introduce himself. My forty-five minute lunch stretched into nearly four hours.
"You were right," I told my friend. "I am going to marry him."
He became my "Shining Knight," wrapping me within his warm, secure arms, making me feel protected. I was finally safe. He would never let me be hurt again. I would never be alone.
Our lives became an exercise in spontaneity, a "why the hell not," philosophy. At noon I said yes to dinner at Herb's favorite fish restaurant. I didn't know that eight hours later I would be dining in San Francisco. And I didn't know that we would bike from Los Angeles to San Diego on the tandem bicycle he bought as a surprise. Could I have dreamed that when I agreed to have lunch with him on a Friday afternoon in November, I would be driving down the Baja to Cabo San Lucus in a broken down 1969 Volkswagen camper just one month later? We had no reservations, no trip tic just Fodor's guide books and a need to escape into our very own fantasy. It never occurred to me that this would be only the first of many excursions into Mexico. We drove our camper on every road in every state celebrating Thanksgivings, New Years Eves, and Anniversaries on white isolated beaches that we would accidentally wander onto. We took ferries and trains and traveled like college students avoiding the well-known tourist spots. We drove through the Isthmus of Tehuantepec into the Yucatan through a town called La Ventana and nearly had the only Volkswagen camper convertible.
We visited ruins, meditated at an ashram, and accidentally steered our horses across the border into Guatemala. We dared our 1980 Diesel Mercedes with 350,000 miles to get us safely past Cancun, past Tolumn and nearly into Belize when the road ended and forced us to turn back. We drove on roads that we were told were impassable. We were run over by a boat and hospitalized. We got Montezuma's revenge, were infected by bugs, and nearly drove off the highway where the road collapsed. We were caught in rainstorms, a hurricane in Cabo, stuck at road closures, threatened by the Federales, and nearly arrested in Mexico City. But we kept going back for more and more.
We criss-crossed the United States and Canada 5 times always taking the Blue Highway's and when possible stayed close to water using bridges, tunnels, and ferries. National and State Parks became our back yards. During the summer of 91 we prayed that winter would come very early to Alaska so we could be stranded in Denali Park.
We drank Chianti in Italy, ate Tapas in Portugal, Paella in Spain, falafel in Israel, drank beer, and ate rice in China.
Every moment was filled with new temptations. We had no time to waste. Perhaps we had a premonition, an intuitive sense of urgency that the perfect world we created would have to come to a halt.
Now I'm left with only glimmers of memory that twirl around inside my head like colored shards of glass within a kaleidoscope; that burns my eyes and constrict my vision. Yet I am grateful, for these are the sensations that keep me connected to this dependent shadow of the man I love and cherish. And though the lines of time have blurred for him, for me they stand as vivid portraits of who he was and it is only through these snapshots that he exists.