Rude Awakening - Part 2

Later in the day, I headed over to Veterans Tribute Park. Exercise is another way to clear your mind. I need some activity to take my mind off these frivolous worries. As I walked around the trail, past the dog park when I saw an older gentleman with a German shepherd pup that just broke away dragging his leash. I could hear him yell, “Twitch, stop, get back here.”

As with children, the young dogs don’t listen. Twitch ran carelessly toward the street.  Since I was walking in the direction of his escape, I was able to grab his leash before he ran into the oncoming traffic at the park. The speed limit is fifteen, but to most people speed limits are merely a suggestion. The car was going at least thirty-five. Lucky for me the shepherd was a pup, because it’s doubtful that I would have been able to stop him if he was full grown. 

I walked back to the older man with Twitch in tow tugging on the leash trying to free himself. When he looked up, I was surprised to see . . .Rocco. I handed him the leash. Rocco nodded. “Grazie, amico.”

I smiled. “Prego.” I didn’t know much Italian, but I did know salutations.

“He hasn’t been fully trained yet, but he’s a smart dog.” He double wrapped the leash around his hand. “I’m Rocco. You have a good day.”

“I will, thanks, I’m Ben.”

He tipped his hat and we both went our own way. I continued my walk with a feeling of satisfaction. I couldn’t help but smile. Rocco no longer seemed scary. In fact, he seemed like me, normal. Then my brain did an auto-correct, you’re not normal. I laughed a little inside because I knew it was true. But what’s normal and how many of us are normal? Really, what’s so great about being normal.

Despite everything that happened or maybe because of everything that happened, I was feeling good. Positive things were headed my way. I drove home and as I pulled into the garage, I spotted a woman leaving Stan’s house. I did a double take and squinched my eyes to get a better look. The woman looked like Claudia, the psychic. No, that couldn’t be. I had to be mistaken. What the hell would she be doing at Stan’s? Just when things were going so well she turned up. After I parked, I sat in my car, watching through the rearview mirror. When she pulled away, I went over to see Stan.

I knocked on Stan’s front door. When he opened it, I said, “The woman who left your house looks familiar.”

“That’s Claudia. She’s a psychic who occasionally works cases for the police.”

“Fascinating.” What the hell Stan, she’s a scam artist! “So, are you back working cases part time?”

“Nah! I’ve known her for a few years. We started dating a month ago, now that I no longer work for the PD, there’s no conflict.”

Holy shit, she’s spying on me. “Oh! That’s great. I’m glad you’re getting on with your life after the divorce.”

“We’ll have you and your wife over for dinner next week. I think Claudia and Stacy will get along great.” 

“That would be nice.” Over my dead body. “I’ll be sure to warn . . .  tell . . . Stacy.”

I left, deflated after all that happened today. First I’m feeling good about my encounter with Rocco, then down finding out about Stan dating Claudia, the psychic bitch who was following me. I knew there was no proof of that. A coincidence, likely but it’s too convenient. When I got home, I went straight to the refrigerator for a beer. Sitting in the recliner gave me time to think, which is a good way to mull over the situation. Was I overreacting? Yes of course. That was my go-to reaction with most situations, but I rationalized the negative thoughts away with a little alcohol.

Stacy and the kids would be home tomorrow afternoon. She always has a calming effect on me. The day flew by quickly. I was busy at work, which occupied my mind with productive thoughts.

This was my last evening in an empty house. When I finished up after work, I popped by Mannino’s to get a bottle of cabernet. They also carry a selection of Kentucky bourbons. I don’t often drink bourbon, but I spotted a bottle called Rude Awakening. That name was too good to pass up, so I grabbed the only bottle left. Not wanting to cook, I called a pickup order into Mandarin Gardens for a General Tao Spicy Chicken entree and a side of Crab Rangoon. I arrived early and waited inside when in walked Rocco. He nodded in a friendly way, after recognizing me.   

This seemed like a good time to strike up a conversation. So, I asked, “How’s Twitch doing?”  

“He’s a pup, rambunctious as ever.”  

I laughed. “Dogs are great companions, but they need a lot of attention.” 

“Don’t I know.” He pointed at my order sitting on the counter. “Are you eating alone?” 

“Yes, my wife’s out of town with the kids. She’ll be back tomorrow.” 

“Bring your dinner over to my place. Break bread with me and Twitch.”  

I was taken aback, since our first meeting had not gone so well. “That’s very nice, but I don’t want to put you out.” 

“No, no not at all. Twitch and I love company. We don’t entertain much, so having dinner with a new friend would be nice.” 

Well, how could I say no to that! “Thank you. Much appreciated.” 

“Just follow me. My home isn’t far.” 

He didn’t know I knew where he lived. Now I felt a little guilty for following him after our encounter at Mannino’s. “Great, thanks so much.” 

It turned out to be a fun evening. Rocco was very interesting and hospitable. We drank the wine and even had a glass of Rude Awakening. Rocco held up his glass, “This bourbon is excellent, and I love the name.” 

“I’m not much of a bourbon drinker, but the name is what got me to buy it.” I stood up to leave. “Thanks, what a great evening. Keep the bourbon. It would take me years to finish it.” 

“Thanks, I’ll keep it for the next time we get together.”

I drove home and retired for the night. 

The next morning, I woke up well rested. I wanted to be home when my family arrived, so I only worked a half day.  

After the long car ride and my wife was tired and as expected, the kids were wired. Stacy asked me to pick up a pizza for dinner. I placed an order with Imo’s. One large pepperoni and a medium four cheese. The kids only ate cheese. Stacy called while I was at Imo’s, requesting another pizza, a large Canadian bacon and pineapple, for our drop-in guests.  

Agreeing I said, “You know, Canadian bacon isn’t real bacon. It’s just ham, and pineapple is for fruit salad.”   

“It’s not for you. Just place the order.” She hung up before I could ask who our guests were. 

Finally arriving home with the takeout, who do I see sitting in the kitchen with Stacy? My neighbor Stan with his new girlfriend Claudia. Super, just freaking super. “Hi, what a surprise.” I patted Stan on the back. “Nice to see you again” Stalker… “Claudia.”

She seemed as surprised as me, but she nodded and fake smiled. “You too, Ben.”  

Stacy opened the cabinet and took out some plates. “I didn’t know you knew each other.” 

“We don’t really. We had a brief encounter at Panera’s a few days ago.” 

“Well, this is great.” Stacy said with excitement. “Did you know Claudia is a psychic?”  

“Yes, I am aware of that.” Too hard to find a real job!. “Very interesting.” Now the pineapple pizza makes sense.

“I guess you can tell Ben’s a skeptic.” Stacy sat down next to Claudia. 

“I’m not surprised. There are many.”

  Just then the kids ran in to grab a few slices. They were oblivious to those in the room. All they wanted was pizza. But my wife wanted them to grow up properly, so she introduced Claudia. 

They both said, “Hi.” 

She explained, “They’re not much for conversation.” Stacy handed each of them a plate. “Claudia is a psychic. Isn’t that fascinating?” 

The kids looked at each other then, both answered, “Cool.” 

Stacy said, “It is. Do you know what a psychic is?” 

Ben Jr. responded, “Yes, some kind of scientist, right? 

I looked at my wife. “Are we still paying for private school?” 

Stacy and Stan laughed, then we shooed the kids out of the room. 

After we ate, and our surprise guests left, we put the kids to bed. I sat down next to Stacy on the couch and commented, “You and Claudia have become fast friends. What’s your fascination with the psychic?”

“Isn’t it obvious. She’s smart, interesting to talk to, and has a great job.” She turned toward me with a puzzled look. “Your paranoia is starting to show. I know you’re suspicious about her job, but just because you don’t understand doesn’t mean you can judge her.”

I let the conversation drop because I knew it was futile and went to bed. I needed some rest. Perhaps a good night's sleep would improve my view of Claudia.

I woke up the next morning, but my opinion of Stacy’s new friend had not changed. 

Throughout the next few weeks, the more time Stacy spent with Claudia the more worried I became. Now, since Stacy and Claudia seemed to be attached at the hip, I conjured up a plan to protect myself. I was so paranoid that I even suspected my wife. I considered hiring a bodyguard so I went online and set up three interviews. 

I decided to meet a few potential bodyguards to get an up-close-and-personal feel for their style. The first two didn’t impress me. They seemed uninterested in my concerns. No enthusiasm at all. They were only interested in a paycheck. Today was my third and final interview with a bodyguard. I’d meet him at Starbucks. 

I was early. I’m always early. As I sat sipping my brew, a guy walked over to my table and asked if I was Ben.

“Yes.” I smiled, “Are you with Shaker Security Services?”

He stuck his hand out. “Jersey, nice to meet you.” He sat down. “Let’s get into it. How can I help you?”

I liked his name. A good name for a bodyguard. Actually, that shouldn’t be important as long as he was qualified, but it was to me. He was confident and listened, unlike the other two I’d met. I explained in general terms my concerns but didn’t go into extreme detail because of my paranoia.

“Ben, don’t worry I got this. We’ll figure it out. I’ve been doing this for years and have many contacts in the area.” 

“Contacts? I’m not in a position to pay others.”

He waved his hands. “No, no, everything is covered in my contract with you.” 

His name was strong and fit the job. He worked alone and lived locally. Jersey had a vibrance and a confidence that impressed me. I was feeling good about my choice. 

Just then Claudia walked up to our table. “Hi Stew. I haven’t seen you around much lately.”

“I’ve been busy, but I was going to call you later about a case I’m working.” Jersey/Stew looked at her then me. “I’d like to introduce you to a new client of mine. This is Ben.”

Claudia nodded. “Hi Ben. Great to see you again.”

Jersey said, “I didn’t know you two knew each other. Claudia is one of my sources I spoke about earlier.”

“Good to know.” Stew Baby. I stirred my coffee. “I met Claudia” Psycho “a week or so ago.”

“Well, I don’t want to interrupt your meeting. I’ll talk to you later, Stewart.”

“Small world,” Jersey commented.

“Yes it is. Do I call you Jersey or Stewart?”

“Either works for me. So, shall we get this contract signed?”

“I want to hold off a day or two” Stewie the bodyguard, what the hell? “but I’ll call you as soon as possible.”

“Thanks, really nice meeting you.” Stew waved. “Talked to you soon.”

I held up my coffee cup. Well, this went sideways quickly. Why the hell would I hire a guy named Stewart as a bodyguard? This isn’t working for me. His combined name could be a soup. Give me a small cup of Jersey Stew with a croissant. 

 

Rude Awakening - Part 1

The day started out pleasant. I stopped at Mannino’s market to get a loaf of Italian bread. The store was busy, but I wasn’t getting anything from the deli, so I didn’t need a number. I weaved my way through the crowd pointing at the bread so the other customers would know I wasn’t butting in line.

My mood was upbeat, which is how I like to approach the day. But I must have offended an older gentleman because a menacing scowl appeared on his face. His expression gave me a chill. Have you ever had a bad feeling about a person without words being spoken? His face had a rugged appearance like life had been difficult. 

I smiled and nodded but his look grew more intense. He dressed well, with a fedora and a tailored overcoat, which seemed too formal in a small town.  I could feel his stare until I moved away. Nothing could be done so I shrugged it off, thinking he was having a bad day. With other errands to do, I quickly forgot about our encounter.

           Later, at home his image reappeared. I thought Whitey Bulger, the Boston crime boss. He hid in plain sight for many years without being discovered. As my thoughts about the old guy swirled around in my head, the more my imagination blew up. The picture I painted was of a retired mob boss living out the remainder of his life in the small town of Cottleville, Missouri.

A week passed and thoughts of the old guy evaporated. Life goes on, as did mine. The Italian bread at my house was getting low. In my life, there is no better bread than Italian. I’ve eaten it since being a kid. Every couple of weeks our neighbor, Sam would bring us a loaf from ‘The Hill’. A memory of simpler times. So, after stopping at the bank and post office, I popped into Mannino’s. 

This time I wanted to get some deli meat, turkey and hard salami, so I pulled a number, grabbed a loaf of bread and waited for my turn. Chatting with a woman I casually mentioned my encounter with the old guy last week. She raised her eyebrows. “Yes. That sounds like Rocco.”

“Hm! Rocco?” I laughed. “Sounds like a hitman’s name.”

“I don’t know his story, but rumors say he had a questionable past.” She lowered her voice. “He’s mysterious and creepy. He scares me, so I do my best to avoid him.” 

After my number was called, I collected the deli meat and then checked out. While the cashier rang up my items, I asked her, “Do you know Rocco? A customer who wears an overcoat and fedora?”

“Rocco!” She twitched. “I don’t talk about Rocco.” She handed me the grocery bag. “My advice . . . Don’t ask any more questions.”

Dumbfounded, I took my bag and walked to the exit. So befuddled, I pushed on the wrong door just as another customer was trying to enter. We both pushed until I realized I was keeping him from coming in. I stepped back and waited until he stepped in, then apologized, “I’m so sorry.” When I looked up, there was Rocco.

He walked in and mumbled, “Cafone.”

I left the store and quick stepped to my car, started it up and drove away. But about a half block away I pulled over and turned around. I wanted to see what car he was driving and where he went. I needed to tail him. The thought crossed my mind that if he was a retired mobster tailing him wasn’t a smart move. Smart has never been an adjective that described me. No, not a MENSA candidate, but I am curious.

While parked near the store, I searched the Internet on my phone for the Italian word he used. Maybe cafone was a compliment about the leather jacket I wore. Nope it was not. Loser, he called me a loser. 

My wait was short, only five minutes. Rocco left the store and got into a black Lincoln. Of course, I should have guessed. I scooted down in my seat looking through the steering wheel to watch him. When he pulled out of the parking lot, I followed him at a safe distance, at least I hoped. This was the first time I followed anyone, so my experience was restricted to what I learned from TV detective shows. 

He turned onto Weiss Road, then made a right turn on a private road. I didn’t follow him. Smart enough to recognize a bad idea. There were quite a few acres with a good-sized house sitting in the back of the property. Home sweet home.

Now I knew where he lived, but that didn’t comfort me. Why would it? With all the acreage he owned, there was room for many bodies. Ground-penetrating radar might reveal something interesting. My grip tightened on the steering wheel. Trying to knock these stupid thoughts from my brain. I yelled out loud. “No. No.” Then I slapped myself on the side of my head. I needed to relax. This has happened before, my paranoia is taking over. I always blow things out of proportion and worry about ridiculous scenarios. I slapped myself again. Ouch! That one hurt a little bit.

Before I ended up beating the crap out of myself, I knew it was time for a distraction. So, on my way home I stopped by my neighbor's house. Stan was a retired detective who worked in major crimes. I wanted to find out if he knew of any rumors about crime bosses living quietly in St. Charles County. Stan and I were friendly but not close. This may not seem like the kind of distraction I needed, but it depended on the answer Stan gave me. I laid out the story and asked for his thoughts.

“The police department does a good job keeping track of criminals.” He typed on his computer keyboard and turned the screen toward me. “There are websites that keep track of registered offenders like pedophiles, but retired mafia bosses don’t normally volunteer their locations to the police.”

“Well, of course. I get that, but I’m sure you hear things on the intel from your CI’s.”

“I do, but it’s not always reliable. Can you be more specific about your concern?”

“Have you heard of a guy named Rocco who lives off of Weiss Road?”

Stan nodded. “Yes, he’s a cranky old guy. Barks more than he bites.”

“He gives off a mysterious vibe.” I crossed my arms. “Seems like he might have ties to the underworld.”

“He does in a way.” Stan smiled. “Rocco’s a mystery writer. He has written a number of novels about mafia characters.” 

“Well, that’s a relief. I guess his stories have affected his personality traits.”

“No question Rocco is rough around the edges.” Stan explained. “He keeps to himself, very unsocial. He’s a weird guy, but aren’t all writers weird? Or is it because he writes about the underworld?”

I felt the tension fall away. “Thanks Stan, you have been really helpful.” As I turned to leave, I said, “What’s his last name? In case I want to check out some of his books.”

“He goes by the pen name, Tony Gillette.”

I walked over to my house, relieved to learn about Rocco, the writer. After putting the groceries away, I decided I would go to the library to see if they had any copies of Tony Gillette’s novels. The guy still interested me. A retired crime boss living in the area is fascinating, but a secretive mystery novelist is cool as well.

The librarian looked up his name and found that he has written eight novels. All murder mysteries, but they only had three available to check out. I took all three. The titles included, Born into Crime, The House of Evil and Danger is My Middle Name. My wife was out of town visiting her parents for the weekend. So, I spent the rest of the day and well into the night reading. It turns out Rocco was a good writer with a talent for suspense mysteries. His novels were very detailed, and I surmised he was great at research. Of course, that’s a big part of writing.

After reading until 2 a.m., I slept late into the morning. Since my wife was on a mini vacation, so was I. After showering, I drove to Panera’s for breakfast. Simple, easy and ready in minutes. I sat at a small table thinking about nothing at all, just enjoying my coffee and spinach bacon souffle when a middle-aged lady walked by. She picked a table in the same section as mine. I didn’t know her, but something was familiar. I’d probably seen her around town. We are creatures of habit, so a familiar stranger is not uncommon in Cottleville. She only sat for a few seconds when she got up and walked over to my table. “I’m sorry to bother you, but you gave off a strong vibe when I passed by.” She paused for a second. “My name is Claudia.”

“I’m Ben. What do you mean vibe?”

“You have an active aura that surrounds you.” She grimaced. ”Sorry, I don’t usually approach a stranger, but I’m getting a strong feeling that you may be in danger.”

“That’s disturbing. Who are you and what makes you think I want your opinion?”

“Look, I didn’t mean to upset you, but it would be wrong of me to not say something.” Without asking she sat down at my table. “I have worked for many police departments on some of their toughest crimes. I’m a reputable psychic.”

“Those two words don’t even go together.”

“Okay, you’re a skeptic. I get it, but all I’m saying is, be careful.” Claudia walked back to her table. 

I left feeling uncomfortable, which reinforced my paranoia about all the suspicions I had toward Rocco and now Claudia. There was no solid evidence that either of them would do me any harm, but that didn’t lessen my anxiety. I was prone to believing the worst would always happen. I violently shook my head to clear all the negative thoughts from my brain, which helped to reset my thinking. But those thoughts eventually return, sometimes with more persistence. There’s a lot of work involved to ensure my sanity. Believe it or not, these methods help. Don’t we all have our own ways to dispense with bad juju that comes our way? 

Being Grandpa

Being a grandpa is a privilege. It means you’ve made it through life’s struggles and adventures, but survived. You may have a few scars inside and out, but they are now like a badge to represent your achievements.

     A grandpa is not always politically correct, actually it’s rare when he is on point with his advice. No one will question him about that, except grandma, whom he usually ignores.

     Life was different when grandpa was young, people were more direct. They weren’t mean, but they didn’t fluff up their comments to hide the meaning because someone might be offended. They said what they believed and you could take it or leave it. People are different now. They seem to be guarded, always searching for words that offend them. Grandpas don’t fit in very well, because they speak their mind and some people get offended. It isn’t intended to offend, but it’s your choice to be offended. 

     Maybe that’s the way of life. The older you get the less you are valued. Sure grandpa does things the old way, but the new way is not always the best. I think it would help if more young people would listen to their grandpa without writing him off just because he’s old. We all have something of value to say, old and young. Listening isn’t a bad way of connecting with each other. No body is right all the time. Grandpas should listen too.

     What would happen if we all listened to someone with a different opinion?  I mean really listen to understand. We may still disagree, but we might understand better. What would be better than a world of understanding people? “Just Saying . . .”

     

Italic-Dash

     Italics are tricky to use, but not as confusing as dashes-----. Dash this but not this. Dash-Away, Dash-Away, Dash-Away all, that’s what Santa said. What am I supposed to do? It’s such a troubling issue. I think in italics, that’s what I’m told. 

     To dash or not-to-dash, that is the question. Damn-the–italics! Full dash ahead! I think. Life is full-of-problems, but none so dashing as the use of italics in the proper-way. It’s all just a trap, ready to snap. There is no answer set-in-stone.

     So much-to-do, so little-time. It’s just a dash-away to freedom if you ignore the rules. What rules? There are no rules.  I live in an italic world, and the dash is my enemy.

     Dash-it-all. Don’t-worry-about-it-just-use-italics-whenever-you’re-in-the-mood, but for-God’s- sakes don’t forget the commas.

Cliché Touché

Writers are always warned to avoid clichés when writing stories because they are overused. So I do my best to avoid them, but I thought it would be fun to write a story with as many clichés as possible. So here it is. Go ahead count them and tell me what you came up with.

Cliché Touché

It was a dark and stormy night when I walked to the coffee shop. I arrived as it was about to close, just in the nick of time. It’s said laughter is the best medicine but coffee warms your soul, which is what I needed on this dark, dank night.

            I headed back to work. I needed to finish my project or it would be lights out for me at this firm. My boss was as old as the hills, but he scared the wits out of me. I knew this job wouldn’t last an eternity. It was just a matter of time before I would be canned.

            It was easy to read between the lines. I was a diamond in the rough but he disagreed. He said I was weak as a kitten and couldn’t live up to the challenge. I finished my project with time to spare. I hoped he would like my work so we could kiss and make up but only time will tell.

            When he walked in the next morning he was quiet as a mouse. 

            “Cat got your tongue?” I asked.

            He picked up my completed project and sneered. “All that glitters isn’t gold.”

            I knew the writing’s on the wall. I was toast!

            He leaned over the desk and threw my project in the trash. “Haste makes waste.”

            I looked up and smiled without a care in the world. “That project had my blood, sweat and tears.”

            “You’re fired. Hit the road and don’t let the door hit you in the ass.”

             “I’ll be gone at the speed of light.” I walked to the door. “What goes around comes around.”

            “That’s all you got?”

            I shook my head and said. “A leopard doesn’t change its spots.”

            It was a Mexican standoff. I walked out knowing I was better off. Every cloud has a silver lining. All’s well that ends well.

            

Literally the Most Overused Word in the English Language

Exactly, precisely, unquestionably, indisputably are just a few of the words that correspond to the meaning of the word literally. When used informally, which is often the case, there seem to be no rules. Here are a few examples when literally is used for emphasis or to express strong feelings without being literally true.

     “That song is so good it literally blew my mind.” The literal translation would mean that your head is no longer attached to your body.

     “Ann literally wins ‘Words with Friends’ every time I play her.” This means you have never won a game against Ann, which could be true, literally, but if so why do you still play her? 

     “I am so tired, I literally can’t see straight.”  The translation is that fatigue makes you see crooked. Please get out of the driver's seat. 

     “That movie literally scared me to death.” You’re dead. No need for further explanation.

     “Put that down or I’ll beat the living daylights out of you, literally.” This translation is confusing since it implies that you might be killed in daylight, but maybe you come back at night as a zombie. See it’s confusing, but I would advise you for your own safety to just, Put It Down.

     “This is literally the best coffee on earth.” This implies that you have tasted every coffee produced. Nobody cares. Get a job.

     “That comedian is so funny, I literally laughed my ass off.” I see a number of problems here and sitting is just one.

     “This is literally the last time I warn you about this.” Now you’re treading in dangerous territory. I’m not sure what’s going to happen, but you aren’t getting any more warnings. I would not step out of line if I were you.

      “This is literally the last sentence I’m writing about literally.” That was a lie, a literal lie.

A Hat Full of Memories

When I was just a kid I’d be told to get a bucket of water for Grandma. An old well sat in the courtyard. Papa had it drilled many years ago, still in use today, even though running water had been piped into the house. Grandma, being old school, thought the well water was better than tap water, so she’d send me out to the well daily when I visited.

            The truth is I didn't mind doing it because I felt helpful. The well had a circle of stones surrounding the pit and two large posts that held a crank with a rope to lower the bucket into the spring water. Papa built a roof over it because Grandma didn’t want bird droppings, leaves, branches, or other debris falling into the well.           

            Papa passed away a few years ago, but Grandma had a circle of friends to share her stories. Grandma spoke of Papa often and missed his companionship. They made great memories together. 

            He always wore a straw hat. It wasn’t fancy, something old farmers wore, and a red band trimmed the crown to honor a friend lost in the war.

            About a year before his passing, as he was getting water from the well, he set his hat on the circle of stones. When he reached to grab the bucket, he knocked it into the well. Just an old straw hat, but Grandma had given it to him, so it was special, and suddenly it was gone. 

            Grandma bought him a new one, but he said it didn’t have that same comforting feel of the old one. People would compliment him on his new hat, so he wore it, but not every day. He missed the old one. I didn't understand why it made a difference, but for him, it did. He said the old straw hat had memories in it. 

            My sister was born two weeks after Papa died. Grandma called it the circle of life to celebrate the passing of one life and the beginning of another. I stayed with her that summer to help around the farm and keep her distracted when she got sad. 

            One morning while getting water from the well, the bucket got snagged as I pulled it up. I used a tree branch to push on the bucket. When the bucket broke loose, I removed the branch and noticed Papa’s old straw hat stuck on the end. A bit more tattered than I remembered and now it had a new hole, but still a treasure to me. In my excitement, I dropped the bucket, grabbed the hat and ran inside to show Grandma. 

            I held it high over my head. “Look! I found Papa’s straw hat.”

            She smiled ­– then a tear rolled down her cheek. “It’s a sign. Papa’s waiting for me.” Grandma was so pleased.

            She’s with Papa now, and I wear his hat because memories are in it.