Angels

Angels in Bloom

jbloustein — Thu, 11 Feb 2010 12:58:18 -0600

Hydrangea Hideaway
My nephew Everett had a way with words.

He was two years old when he grabbed me by the hand. “Come on. Let’s go visit the angel garden,” he announced. I wondered what in the world that child could possibly be talking about.

I had no choice but to follow Everett outside. I held on tight as he led me over to a neighbor’s yard and pointed at her hydrangeas. “Aren’t they beautiful?” I said.

Steve's First Song

batch — Tue, 30 Jun 2009 20:23:08 -0500

Born in December, Steve was our Christmas baby. He woke up on his 35th birthday especially joyful. Steve could never express his joy in words, but we understood.

Steve had Down syndrome. He'd spent years in speech therapy, but the words didn't come. "You just have to listen to Steve with your heart," his grandmother always said. Grandma and Steve were especially close. Her room was next to his, with a bathroom in between.

On the House

batch — Tue, 30 Jun 2009 20:23:08 -0500

Keeping track of seven children is hard under any circumstances, so my sister, Angie, and I were on triple alert when we took all the kids to the Martin Luther King, Jr., Day parade.

"It's a long way back to our car," Angie said when the celebration was over. "I don't know if the little ones will make it."

"I'll wait here," I said. "Pick us up with the car."

Jingle Kitty

batch — Tue, 30 Jun 2009 20:23:07 -0500

Peace and quiet in the Chequamegon-Nicolet National Forest. Our family vacation was going perfectly when I noticed our son, Tim, open the door to his camper. Kitty, his cat, made a beeline into the darkness.

Everyone grabbed a flashlight and panned out, calling Kitty's name. There we were in the woods in the black of night, searching for a black cat. Lord, if we find her it'll be a miracle.

Heart to Heart

batch — Tue, 30 Jun 2009 20:23:03 -0500

No more putting it off. I would spend the day on my spring cleaning. I started in the kitchen, polishing, organizing.

I wiped a spot from the wall where the little wooden heart, no bigger than the palm of my hand, hung.

I'd originally bought it for my mother, who'd hung it right up on her wall. Mom lovingly displayed all the gifts from her children, be it a picture made of macaroni, a dime-store figurine or a piece of fine china. They meant so much to her. After she died I hung the heart in my house.

Strike Up the Band

batch — Tue, 30 Jun 2009 20:23:05 -0500

Even after he grew up, my son, Larry, never lost his love for the saxophone or for the musical friends he made at Denham Springs High School.

When he died of complications from his diabetes, many of his old bandmates attended the funeral.

The preacher stood up to say a final good-bye. He opened his Bible. A band struck up in the distance. Larry's friends strained forward to listen. It was the Denham Springs school band, practicing on the field a mile away.

Good Catch

batch — Tue, 30 Jun 2009 20:23:04 -0500

We set out the cake on the picnic table by the lake to celebrate Mom's birthday.

I might have picked another spot had I noticed the fisherman before my son, Chandler, did: "Can I go watch him? Please?" Chandler had been begging me to take him fishing. It was just the kind of thing I worried I couldn't provide for him, now that his father was gone.

"Okay, but don't be a bother," I said. "Fishermen tend to like things quiet."

Poochy 'n Me

batch — Tue, 30 Jun 2009 20:23:01 -0500

Two miles separated my house from Carver's General Store, but I didn't mind the trip when Poochy was with me.

I pedaled my J.C. Higgins bike down Graham Road. Poochy always ran right alongside me, round velvety ears flapping, pink tongue hanging out. Poochy was my best friend that summer in the 1940s. My only friend. I was 11.

Wake-Up Call

batch — Tue, 30 Jun 2009 20:23:02 -0500

There were worse things for my family than to have the alarm part of our clock go on the blink, but for me, a seventh grader and an altar boy, the situation was grave.

I was trusted to serve every morning at the 5:30 mass at St. Margaret's, two blocks from our house in Milwaukee, Wisconsin. While the rest of my family slept, the alarm woke me at five o'clock sharp. I always got myself to St. Margaret's in plenty of time. But now the means that made certain my faithful service were denied me.

Old-Timer

batch — Tue, 30 Jun 2009 20:23:01 -0500

Old-timer. That's who I saw standing on the pitching mound when I went up to bat in our northern Alabama independent baseball league. I would show this old guy a thing or two.

Minutes later I was back in the dugout. He'd struck me out! Four times that Sunday afternoon I went to bat. Four times I struck out. I sulked in the dugout after the game. How could I go 0 for 4 against an old pitcher who threw junk?

"How old are you, son?" It was the pitcher.

I mumbled, "Sixteen."