Hello, strangers. I have been practicing reliving the future.  I was mediating one early morning when some memories came blazing in  from my subconscious to my frontal lobe, exactly like shooting stars.  Come watch the show.  

I entered the empty preschool classroom and there sat poor little Traci. The teacher noticed me and nodded at Traci who jumped up like a puppy off its leash and ran toward me. I opened my arms and she jumped in.

“Traci, you know better than to run in the classroom! And remember from now on to use your inside voice when class is in session,” flowed the words from an unsympathetic, unsmiling set of terse lips. I wanted to give this teacher a quick lesson in leaving my little five-year old dear alone but instead ignored her and sprinted out to the van at full speed as Traci held on and giggled with delight.

We were driving along without a word on the country road leading to our home when she blurted out,  “Bob, let's just keep driving on straight forever.” I thought that was indeed a grand idea.

A few months later,  after the break-up, I saw her walking near my fourth grade classroom with her eyes focused on the ground. I opened my back door and called out,  “Traci!” She gave a little wave with no energy behind it and came in my room. “Hi, Trace.  How you been doing?” I asked.

“Think you'll ever make me another grilled cheese sandwich?” she asked with her lower lip quivering.  I never got the opportunity.

I had that thought come in the other day before I took a bite of a grilled cheese I had ordered.

 One Saturday morning during the Nixon era in 1972, I was struck by a very vivid sunrise as I stooped down to pick up the paper from the back porch.  I was admiring the angel yellows, vibrant pinks and purples when my Dad pulled into the carport in his Pinto.  

"Geez, Dad.  Where have you been so early?" I asked him as he slowly closed the car door. He surprised me by grabbing me in a bearhug, this normally very undemonstrative man. 

"Get me a cup of coffee and I'll tell you about it," he said as he mechanically took off his coat and hat and hung them on the hall tree.  He let out a sigh, slumped into a chair, grabbed his head in his hands and put his elbows on the kitchen table.  I couldn't take my eyes off  him and eased into a chair. 

"Dan called me this morning and asked  if I would go out with him to the highway near Silcott Island. He said he had to see it for himself.  Kelly and two other girls were killed out there in a terrible crash last night," he said. 

The words pinched my soul.  I had known Kelly and played with her since she was a little girl.  Her family lived across the alley from my parents and our  families were the best of friends. 

After a few moments of silence he looked up at me. "Bob, we've had our differences and too many arguments about the damn war.  It has created a distance between us, son.  I never want to argue with you again." 

My mother came in dressed in her worn, pink, terry-cloth robe and gave dad a huge hug.  I joined them for a few seconds, grabbed my coat and took off out the back door.  I never did tell him about the ring in my right hand coat pocket that Kelly and I had picked out less than a week earlier. 

We never argued after that day. Any questions? HA!

Two years ago I had all seven of my clients out with me to share lunch and play pool together at this bar and restaurant that they all enjoy.  We had finished our meal and I was playing pool with Gary, who uses a wheelchair,  as my partner against the team of Tom and Sly.  I was waiting for my turn when an attractive college age girl appeared from nowhere, gave me a  kiss on the cheek and left without a word.  

What a nice thing to do for someone.  Certainly made my day.

When I was teaching fourth grade in this one rural community, I slept in which I never had done before. I didn't have a phone out at my isolated place.  I looked at the clock in horror, threw on some clothes and raced the eleven miles into town.  I got there at 9:30-a full half hour late- and knocked at the back door of my classroom. I hustled in and noticed that my entire class was doing silent reading quietly sitting at their desks.  There wasn't a sound.   Becky, a sweet little missy that was my teacher's pet and with good reason, came up to me and whispered,  "I got them all to do silent reading.  We didn't want you to get in trouble." 

I bought them all ice cream bars at lunch. 

I swore that my mother would never be placed in a nursing home.  But after her third serious fall, the doctor would not release her from the hospital unless she was placed in a full-care facility until all the tests came back.  I visited every morning at six am and always brought in a couple of newspapers to mom and her three regular breakfast pals.  My favorite of the three was Marge, a stroke victim who used a wheelchair, and would often struggle with getting out the right words when she tried to speak.  I made it a habit to tell Marge a little joke each day and her face lit up whenever I approached the table.  

One day, mom was struggling and in real pain.  She was having trouble getting on her bib which she had to now wear during meals.  I took the bib and carefully and clumsily got it on her.  She looked up and said, "Can you believe this life, Bob?  Did you ever think you would be putting a bib on your own mother?" We laughed.  

"Hey girls, " I said to the breakfast crew.  "You will not believe what I saw out on the front lawn here yesterday.  There was a group of old prostitutes lying out naked on chaise lounges in the sunshine.  I was embarrassed but curious.  I asked one of them what was going on." 

"Well, we're all retired working girls, if you know what I mean.  We decided to have a yard sale today," said one.  Marge gagged on her oatmeal and nearly choked with laughter.  

I got mom an apartment in a nice and expensive assisted living facility.  I had moved most of her stuff the previous evening and she was already settled in  her new place.   I showed up at the old nursing home in the early morning,  loaded up the rest of her clothes and was about to take them down to her, when I impulsively switched off the car and headed for the dining room.  I saw the breakfast crew sitting together with one empty chair.  I greeted them.  Marge took one look at me and took off at full speed in her chair, her face covered with  tears. 

I left fully understanding but not knowing what to do.

Wife Wanda gave me a kiss as I was tending the fire and informed me that it was Vickie's birthday and she was heading out for her party.  It got late so I stoked the fire and got engrossed in a novel while in bed.  A little after midnight, the door opened and five or six wine-fueled voices were chatting in the living room.  I wanted to hear this girl talk so I sneaked up to the door and opened it a crack and listened. There were wisecracks about men in general and several in particular.  One voice got loud and said, "Sometimes when I get home and see his same face, hanging out in his same chair watching more of the same sports on TV, I want to turn around and leave or smack him."  There was a chorus of approval at this statement followed by laughter.  

When the giggles stopped I heard my wife's voice speak, recognizing the wine's influence from years of experience. She said, "I guess I'm  really lucky.  I am always happy to see Bob when I get home.  I mean always.  I really am lucky."  I eased the door closed and tip-toed toward the bed.  I pulled the covers around me almost purring in contentment at my wife's statement.  

 We were divorced fourteen months later. The moral of the story?  Wine-talk is unreliable.

I was coming out of the bank and a little girl, perhaps six-years old, almost slammed into me as I got on the top step of the escalator. I danced out of the way and smiled at the little spirit.

“Oh, sorry mister,” she said as if awaking from a dream. I grinned and gave her a soft pat on the head and started the pleasant glide down the moving stairs. As I got to the bottom, I noticed another little girl who I marked as the little one's slightly older sister, smiling at me while waiting patiently near the bottom of the disappearing stairs. I waved to her as I got off. I was about to open the door and head out on the street when I heard a single yell.

“GO!” the girl at the bottom hollered. She looked up at her sis and jumped on the bottom stair heading up. The little one at the top of the stairway hopped on her top step coming down. I watched for a few seconds as they stood motionless, these two little blonde pony-tailed jewels, one going up and the other down. I viewed the scene with some befuddlement before it dawned on me what they were doing. The little one waited with her eyes down totally focused and bounced off at the last instant to the landing, looking up at her sister who did the same thing at the top.

“It's a tie!” I hollered to them as I took off my backpack and slid it on the waxed floor into the corner.

“Okay, girls. I will time you this ride. Ready? One, two, three....” They happily hopped on and took another slow coast down the traveling stairs and slapped hands as they passed at the mid-point. They screeched with delight at the end and both yelled, “Tie!” A handsomely dressed blonde woman came out of the bank and gently took one of her daughter's hands and then came cruising down. I was putting my backpack on when she smiled.

“I hope the girls weren't bothering you.”

“No way. Actually, your two little angels just made my day, “ I said and waved.

Something was wrong with my Subaru so I headed to my mechanic friend and poker buddy's home where he ran a little car repair business in a shop out behind his house.  I knocked on the door and Scooter answered.

"Hey, Scooter.  Got a minute to check out my car?"

"Oh, hi Blackie.  I'm sorry man.  I feel like complete shit today.  Could you come back  tomorrow afternoon?" he asked.

I told him no problem, wished him well and left.  I came back the next afternoon, walked up on the porch and knocked again at the front door.   Scooter's eldest son, Jake, answered.   

"Hey, Jake.  Your dad told me to come over today so he could check out my car," I said.

"Ummm, Blackie.  He died last night."

Thomas was causing a ruckus, cussing and trying to pick fights out on the elementary playground.  I got word of this, wandered out there and had him follow me into my second grade classroom. 

"Thomas, what in the heck are you doing out there?" I asked him as he slammed himself down in one of the desk chairs.  

"That damn Benny called me a pig nose," spoke the little lips sheltered beneath a set of thick, loosely fitted,  black-framed glasses that he was constantly readjusting.  

"Well, are you?" I asked. 

"What you mean?" he said  pushing up his glasses. 

"Are you a pig nose?" 

"No!" he yelled back. 

"Then he must of been talking about somebody else," I said as I straightened up some papers on my desk.  There were a few moments of silence before he responded. 

 "Yeah! I ain't no pig nose! Can I go back out and play?"

"Okay, but if you find pig nose out there,  send him in here.  I need to speak with him," I said with a straight face. 

"Why?  He ain't done nothing."

I was having a discussion with my sixth grade class about spanking and discipline.  I had the class raise their hands if they supported spanking.  About half the kids  had their hands up. 

I said, "Okay, I have some questions for you.  Is a spanking just on the bottom?  Can it still be a spanking if it is smacks on the back or neck or even the head?"

 "Of course not," student Angie  said.  "That would be a beating, not a spanking."

"Spanking is to teach discipline so kids don't do things wrong or get in trouble," said Robbie. 

"Well, are there certain ways to discipline that are okay and others that are not?  For instance, if a child is riding his trike too close to a busy road and could get hit,  should I take his hand and put it on the burner of  stove to teach him to stay away from the traffic?" I asked. 

"Oh, no," several students yelled out impulsively. 

One big, very quiet boy, Carl, raised his hand.  " I think it's okay.  It worked on me," he said.

That is enough of the shooting stars of memories for one day.  These spurts of remembrance are some of my most vivid imprints.  Now, it is time for some music.

 _{It's a lonely fight-wish me luck}