A Counting On a Miracle Selection - A Lesson
There will come a time when I will pick up one of my old books and try reading it from cover-to-cover.
I don't know if it's possible.
Yet the other night I was searching through an old drawer and I found the black notebook I used for notes while writing Counting on a Miracle. All of those notebooks are around here somewhere along with journals back to the early 80's.
Someone please burn 'em when I'm gone.
Yet I found this story that I included in the book.
It speaks for itself.
I had been to the grocery store three times on that Saturday. Yet, just after dinner, Kathy informed me that we were out of formula for Sam. I complained about it for a few moments, but eventually I decided that I would return the beer and pop cans that had accumulated in the basement. If I had to go to the store again, I might as well make it a productive trip.
I pulled into the parking lot of the grocery store. It had been a bright, sunshine-filled day and the evening sky was bright orange. I had opened the latch on the back gate of my truck and had begun putting the cans into a cart when I heard what sounded like an animal grunt coming from the car right next to me. The passenger side window came down, and a huge man grunted again. I turned to him when I realized that he was trying to say hello.
“Hi,” I said.
“Beer cans?” he answered.
Immediately I realized that the man was mentally ill. I wondered about the person that had driven him to the store. How could they just leave him sitting in the parking lot?
“Yeah, I got a few beer cans,” I said. “We had a party.”
“I used to like Beck’s beer,” he said.
It was a strange comment, but I just let it pass. How did he know about Beck’s beer?
“You got pop cans too,” he said.
“The kids like pop.”
“How many kids you got?”
The last thing I needed was a long conversation, but something made me stay and talk.
“Three boys,” I said.
He laughed real hard and smacked his hand on the side door panel.
“I have five boys,” he said. “Always remember to love your kids.”
Now, I was really intrigued. I moved closer to him. “My name is Cliff.”
“I’m Fred,” he said. “Do you work at the Ford plant?”
“No,” I said.
“I used too,” he said. “How old are you?”
“Thirty-six,” I answered.
Fred looked as if he were trying to figure something out. His face went blank as he searched for the words to his next sentence.
“I was thirty-nine when I had my stroke,” he said.
My heart dropped into my stomach. I considered his five children and the tragic turn of events that shaped the remainder of his days.
“I used to make a lot of money,” he said. “Do you make a lot of money?”
I noticed the approach of Fred’s wife from clear across the parking lot. She was already apologizing for her husband, but I waved her off.
“Fred and I are just catching up a little,” I said.
I reached into the car and shook Fred’s hand.
“It was a beautiful day, wasn’t it?” Fred asked.
I wanted to tell him that he had made it a little bit better for me, but his pretty wife was sliding into the driver’s side, still apologizing for him.
“Remember what I said about those boys of yours,” Fred said.
I watched their car move towards the exit. Fred’s eyes never left me, and I stood outside the store watching him, a cart filled with empty cans right in front of me. Why had he asked me if I made a lot of money? How come he kept mentioning loving my children?
Was he a walking, talking lesson?
I don't know if it's possible.
Yet the other night I was searching through an old drawer and I found the black notebook I used for notes while writing Counting on a Miracle. All of those notebooks are around here somewhere along with journals back to the early 80's.
Someone please burn 'em when I'm gone.
Yet I found this story that I included in the book.
It speaks for itself.
I had been to the grocery store three times on that Saturday. Yet, just after dinner, Kathy informed me that we were out of formula for Sam. I complained about it for a few moments, but eventually I decided that I would return the beer and pop cans that had accumulated in the basement. If I had to go to the store again, I might as well make it a productive trip.
I pulled into the parking lot of the grocery store. It had been a bright, sunshine-filled day and the evening sky was bright orange. I had opened the latch on the back gate of my truck and had begun putting the cans into a cart when I heard what sounded like an animal grunt coming from the car right next to me. The passenger side window came down, and a huge man grunted again. I turned to him when I realized that he was trying to say hello.
“Hi,” I said.
“Beer cans?” he answered.
Immediately I realized that the man was mentally ill. I wondered about the person that had driven him to the store. How could they just leave him sitting in the parking lot?
“Yeah, I got a few beer cans,” I said. “We had a party.”
“I used to like Beck’s beer,” he said.
It was a strange comment, but I just let it pass. How did he know about Beck’s beer?
“You got pop cans too,” he said.
“The kids like pop.”
“How many kids you got?”
The last thing I needed was a long conversation, but something made me stay and talk.
“Three boys,” I said.
He laughed real hard and smacked his hand on the side door panel.
“I have five boys,” he said. “Always remember to love your kids.”
Now, I was really intrigued. I moved closer to him. “My name is Cliff.”
“I’m Fred,” he said. “Do you work at the Ford plant?”
“No,” I said.
“I used too,” he said. “How old are you?”
“Thirty-six,” I answered.
Fred looked as if he were trying to figure something out. His face went blank as he searched for the words to his next sentence.
“I was thirty-nine when I had my stroke,” he said.
My heart dropped into my stomach. I considered his five children and the tragic turn of events that shaped the remainder of his days.
“I used to make a lot of money,” he said. “Do you make a lot of money?”
I noticed the approach of Fred’s wife from clear across the parking lot. She was already apologizing for her husband, but I waved her off.
“Fred and I are just catching up a little,” I said.
I reached into the car and shook Fred’s hand.
“It was a beautiful day, wasn’t it?” Fred asked.
I wanted to tell him that he had made it a little bit better for me, but his pretty wife was sliding into the driver’s side, still apologizing for him.
“Remember what I said about those boys of yours,” Fred said.
I watched their car move towards the exit. Fred’s eyes never left me, and I stood outside the store watching him, a cart filled with empty cans right in front of me. Why had he asked me if I made a lot of money? How come he kept mentioning loving my children?
Was he a walking, talking lesson?
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Tammie