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Look carefully...at the seemingly small moments...in the constant shaping of souls.- Neal A.Maxwell

Waiting

A small back page article in our local newspaper took me back 20 years. 

 

It was 1989, I was newly wed and newly moved from a small town in Utah to the San Francisco bay area.  My husband and I rode the train into the city together every morning.  Him for school, me for work.  He usually finished before me so I often rode the train home alone.  This was the case one evening when, while underground, the train swayed and came to a stop.  The Giant's were playing and the passengers joked that the crowd must have been doing the wave a little too vigorously.  The mood was light until the conductor announced that an earthquake had hit.  Over an hour passed before we evacuated the train and I could get to a phone.  My husband sounded relieved when I called, he said he had been sitting by the phone waiting for my call.

 

The train was shut down, the Oakland bay bridge had been severely damaged, hotels were filling up and I did not know my way around the area.  My husband told me he was coming to get me but he did not know how long it would take.  I joined a group of people sitting on the steps of Macy’s.  Five hours later, after crossing the San Rafael, the San Mateo and the Golden Gate bridges, passing through inspection points and crawling through traffic, my husband pulled up to Macy’s.  Two women asked if they could ride back with us and find a ride to their homes from ours.  Of course they could come, but why, my husband asked, should someone come get them when he could just take them home.  After another five hour drive – ten hours total for my husband – we pull into our drive.  I was so grateful for my husband and to be home – and then I saw a chair placed facing the phone.  My husband said, “I told you I was waiting for you to call.”  That, to me, is romance.

 

(Above is where I would choose to end my story - accuracy may require an addendum.  I told my husband what I wrote, he says that although he would have driven 10 hours and over 3 bridges he thinks it might have been a few less hours and 2 bridges.  Is my memory magnifying?  Is his memory minimizing?  In it's own way - this too is romance.)

The Red Dress

After a long day of running errands with my mother I was tired and ready to go home.  She promised, "After just one more stop."  We went to Keith O'Brien and mom started looking at red dresses.  She could not find one that suited her so she asked a sales associate for help.  The associate brought a number of pretty dresses.  They weren't red and mom insisted on red.  After what seemed like hours to my child's mind a dress to her liking was found.

Back in the car I started complaining about how long she had taken and why did the dress have to be red and why couldn't mom just make herself a dress like she usually did.  Mom explained that the dress was not for her it was for Barbara, Barbara's favorite color was red and mom wanted the dress to be just right because Barbara needed to feel pretty.  At the time all I knew of Barbara was my mom spent a lot of time talking to her on the phone ant that her head was shaved with big scars running across her scalp.

Years later, as an adult, I mentioned the red dress to my mother.  She did not remember buying the dress but she did remember Barbara.  Barbara's husband had left her and their 3 teenage children.  She had tumors in her brain which affected her vision, the only color she could really see was red.  Christmas red has added meaning to me now.

55 words

My 16 year old's homework assignment was to write exactly-55-word stories.  I am impressed with his creativity.  This one made me laugh:

Picture Perfect

I'm here to prove that most witty sayings you may hear are not true.  I have been taking a Spanish class in school for over two years.  I have now meticulously memorized every picture in the Spanish text book.  If a picture is worth a thousand words, then why have I failed every vocabulary test?

 

And on a more serious note:

Forgiveness

Sorrow, regret, that's all I could feel.  "I'm sorry Max," I whispered.  "It's O.K." my 5 year old brother replied.  My eyes couldn't help but to fill with tears.  I gratefully gave him a hug.  Some grown men can't ever forgive.  When I grow up, I want to be just like my little brother Max.

Interesting e-mail

My sister-in-law sent this to me today:

 

If yuo cna raed tihs, yuo hvae a sgtrane mnid too.

Cna yuo raed tihs? Olny 55 plepoe out of 100 can. 

I cdnuolt blveiee taht I cluod aulaclty uesdnatnrd waht I was rdanieg. The phaonmneal pweor of the hmuan mnid, aoccdrnig to a rscheearch at Cmabrigde Uinervtisy, it dseno't mtaetr in waht oerdr the ltteres in a wrod are, the olny iproamtnt tihng is taht the frsit and lsat ltteer be in the rghit pclae. The rset can be a taotl mses and you can sitll raed it whotuit a pboerlm. Tihs is bcuseae the huamn mnid deos not raed ervey lteter by istlef, but the wrod as a wlohe.. Azanmig huh? yaeh and I awlyas tghuhot slpeling was ipmorantt!  

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