New Memories

The night I decided to talk to her she sat in front of glowing campfire. We'd been camping neighbors at Sugar Point Campgrounds for two nights, she in her tent along with her golden retriever, me in my truck camper, alone.

I hadn't seen her during the day, only at night as she sat in front of a fire in a folding chair, her dog lying by her side.

I'd spent my daytime hours on the lake fishing, getting up at sunrise—she was still sleeping in her tent—returning just before dusk, then cleaning fish, making supper in my camper, and hitting the sack early.

What did she do all day? Why was she alone except for her dog? I mean, she was a very attractive blond-haired lady of perhaps forty—my age. The license plates on her mini van indicated she was from the same county in the eastern part of the state as I was. Did we live in the same city?

On the third night, curiosity getting the best of me, sucking in a deep breath, not knowing what to expect—she might think me a predator—I approached her campsite, coffee pot and two Styrofoam cups in hand.

"Hi," I said, as she looked up from her chair. "Great fire. Nice cool night." I gazed up at the oblong moon surrounded by a zillion stars, then at her. "Thought you might like a cup of coffee. Decaffeinated, so it won't keep you up all night."

Her dog rose to a sitting position, wagging its tail. "Lady, stay," she said. Then to me, "I'd love a cup of coffee. It's the one thing I forgot to pack."

I set the cups on the picnic table, poured, and handed her one. "I've got sugar—"

"This'll be fine—I don't have another chair."

"No problem," I said. "Name's Chad Arnold. Attorney, from Lewistown."

"Dawn Davidson. Principal, Roosevelt Junior High. New Liberty. Just down the road."

That info pleasing me, we shook hands. Then I sat at the picnic table, and she smiled.

That's all it took to start us off talking. As the oblong moon drifted across the sky and crickets started singing, she told me she was a widow. Her husband had died two years ago. When everyone was younger, the family camped every summer. She was alone now. Her boys had married and moved away. "I did this last year," she said. "Just Lady and me, camping. It's a way to stay in touch with some of my fondest memories."

"I agree—keeping memories alive is important." Then I felt obliged to tell her my story. Divorced five years ago. No kids. Camped and fished with my mom and dad when I was young. Started camping and fishing last year by myself to get away and relax.

She smiled again in the firelight—I loved her smile. Her eyes appeared to be blue. "We didn't fish," she said. "Hiking, waterskiing, swimming, and cooking over a campfire—that was our thing. Lots of singing around the fire, too. My husband played the guitar."

I thought of asking her to go fishing with me in the morning, but since she'd probably never fished before—and I guessed she liked to sleep in—I tossed the idea. She thanked me for the coffee, and we said goodnight. Climbing into my camper, I chided myself for not asking her if she liked to eat fish—we could have a fish fry tomorrow night. But maybe she'd think I was coming on too strong. What to do?

When I came in early from fishing the next afternoon, she and Lady had left in her mini van. The tent was still there, though—she hadn't gone home. I still had a chance. Shortly after I cleaned my fish and showered, she returned. Setting three bags of groceries on her picnic table, she then shuffled over to my campsite, Lady beside her, tail wagging.

She looked flushed, pink rising in her cheeks. Nervous maybe. "Um...I was wondering"—her eyes were definitely blue—"um...if you'd like to eat a campfire supper with me tonight. Hot dogs. Bratwurst."

I swear, my heart jumped into my throat, and it took a moment before I could find my voice. "This is so weird," I said. "I was going to ask you to eat fish with me."

Another smile. A big one that made those blue eyes sparkle. "I asked you first," she said.

"I know. And I can't believe it. Hot dogs and bratwurst it is! You ever been crappie fishing?"

"Uh-uh. You ever been blueberry picking?"

"Nope."

We both smiled this time. And when she said, "I think we've got a lot to talk about," I pictured both of us perhaps making a new set of memories.

The End
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Neighbors

My new neighbor—a beautiful, slender redhead—wobbled near the top step of a six-foot ladder on a sunny spring afternoon, tossing last fall's soggy leaves out of the gutter along the front of her house.

I parked in my drive and hopped out of my car.

The ladder—an old, rickety wooden one—appeared ready to buckle.

At any moment, I expected her to tumble and hit the ground. She'd be lucky if she didn't break her neck. I yelled: "Need any help?"

But she didn't answer, so I scuffed across the lawn, waving at her. When she spotted me, she clambered down the ladder and waved back. Despite dirt smudges on her chin and cheek, she smiled a most winsome blue-eyed smile.

"Hi, I'm Lilly Carter. We're neighbors, I guess."

"Carl Foster," I said, and extended a hand.

She whipped off a brown glove and we shook. I confess, at the touch of her warm hand in mine, I my heart jumped, but if I thought we were going to be friendly neighbors, I was disappointed. She refused my help with the gutters, saying, "I've got to do these things myself."

"But everyone needs help once in a while," I said. "It's what neighbors are for."

She thanked me but dismissed me.

I tried to help her a few more times. When she attached her garden hose to the outside faucet and water squirted everywhere, I recommend she insert a washer at the end of the hose. When she couldn't start her lawnmower—one that the previous house owner had left in the garage—I told her I could change the spark plug and oil and clean the fuel filter, but she refused my help. She came home the next day with a new lawnmower.

That rebuff hurt. I wondered if we'd ever be anything but strangers living next to one another.

The next week, a buddy clued me in about Lilly. I'm a plumber, and my buddy Jeff's an electrician. He'd come over to hook up a new electrical box for me and recognized her the second he spotted her pruning the hedges in front of her house.

"We went to high school together," he said. "Lost Nation. About a hundred miles from here. Homecoming queen. Every guy in school was dying to date her. Her family's rich, man. Her old man's a real estate developer. She should be a fashion model living in New York. What's she doing living next to you?"

"Beats me."

A week later disaster befell me. On a Saturday morning I dashed outside to get my mail from the box at the curb, and when I dashed back, I realized I'd pulled my front door closed and had locked myself out of the house.

I had two choices: Break a window to get in. Or ask my not so neighborly neighbor for help. But would she?

Standing on her front porch, while she smiled at me warmly, I explained the situation. "All my windows are locked," I told her, "except the bathroom one. But it's high up and the window's narrow." I felt sheepish. "I need someone slender to climb through."

Her eyes brightened. "I'd be glad to. Where will I find your keys?"

"Kitchen table probably."

My ladder sat in my basement; hers was broken. So I hoisted her up to the window. She wiggled through, no problem, suddenly out of sight. "You okay?" I called.

Smiling, she stuck her head of blond curls out the window and dropped my keys down to me. "You left them on the bathroom sink," she said.

I unlocked my back door, and when I entered the house, I found her sitting at the kitchen table. "I'd like to talk to you," she said, blushing a little. "I haven't been a good neighbor—I'm trying very hard to be an independent woman."

Intrigued and smitten, I sat down across from her.

She said her parents were wonderful, loving, kind, and thoughtful, but she needed her freedom. That's why five years after earning her degree in marketing, she'd finally taken a job away from home as manager of a cosmetics store here in the mall. "But I do realize, like you told me when we first met, everyone needs help once in awhile."

"That's true. Everyone."

She lowered her blue eyes, then looked up at me hopefully. I loved her eyes and curly hair. "The old gas grill I found in the garage won't light," she said.

"Spider webs clogging the burners, probably. Propane tank might be empty. I can fix all that. If you'll let me."

Her smile was the brightest ever. "Then perhaps we can have a cookout tonight, neighbor."

I nodded slowly and felt a grin breaking wide across my face. "Yes, we can," I said. "Yes, indeed—neighbor."

The End
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Listen for the Music

My head snapped to the left when I heard the harmonica music drifting across the St. Luke's Hospital campus on this bright spring afternoon. When I stopped to listen, my therapy dog Sadie—a golden retriever—halted and sat at my side.

        A man sitting on a bench under an oak tree tapped his right foot on the grass while he belted out "You Are My Sunshine."I saw that he'd lost his left leg just below the knee; a pair of crutches leaned beside him on the bench.

When Sadie and I approached, the music stopped and the handsome, dark-haired man's face lit up. "Good morning, you two," he said.

"Love your music," I said. "Brightens an already sunshiny day."

"Thank you! And who have we here?"

"Sadie. She's a therapy dog. We're on our way to make our rounds in the children's wing of the hospital."

Maybe the world's friendliest dog, Sadie didn't wait for any other introduction. She sat in front of the man and wagged her tail fiercely, begging to be petted.

"What a beautiful dog," the man said, scratching her behind the ears, then stroking her forehead. "I'll bet she makes every kid's day."

"She's an attention seeker is what he is." I glanced at my wristwatch. "Look, I'm sorry, but we've got to run. I love your music," I added and rushed off.

Over the last three years, Sadie and I have volunteered to visit hospitals, nursing homes, and assisted living centers. This was the first time we had encountered what I thought must be a war veteran, perhaps getting fitted with a prosthetic leg.

His ready smile and handsome features intrigued me. He looked to be my age, forty; and I wondered if Sadie and I would see him again. Though I thought our chances slim, we left early for our next Friday hospital visit, and there sat the man under the oak tree, belting out "Oh, My Darling Clementine."

Sadie tugged at her leash, eager to visit her new friend, and I followed—admittedly, just as eager.

"Hope you two would come by!" he said, smiling and reaching out to pet Sadie as she sat in front of him.

"I'm Megan Hanley," I said. "Sadie and I spend Friday afternoons visiting kids in the hospital."

"Cody Marshall," he said. "Retired Marine Master Sergeant. Getting a final overhaul of my prosthetic. Sometimes the wait is long—you know how that goes. So I sit outside, entertain myself, and wait for a call on my cell phone."

"Love your music," I told him again.

"My granddad taught me all the old, old songs." He smiled, and his warm, dark eyes sparkled. "Sit down and tell me about you and Sadie."

Thus started a conversation that sounded like old friends catching up on each other's life. I told him I was an insurance agent. I was also a widow who adopted Sadie from a shelter. A friend convinced me I should have her trained as a certified therapy dog.

Cody said he was divorced long ago—his former wife hated military life. A roadside bomb in Afghanistan "deprived" him of the lower half of his left leg. As a kid in college, he'd dropped out to join the Marines. After retiring from the service, he finished his degree and now worked as a PE teacher at our local high school.

"You must be a great inspiration to high school kids," I told him.

This time his smile was sheepish. "I have bits of advice I can offer them, yes."

I glanced at my watch. "I'm sorry, but Sadie and I have to go."

He tilted his head and ran a hand through is dark hair. "Will I see you again, Megan?"

My heart stopped. I admit I felt attracted to his handsome Marine veteran. Three years, after my husband died of a heart attack, I'd adopted Sadie to fill a dark avoid in my life, and for a long while I'd felt all we needed was each other. But with Cody Marshall sitting beside me, I wasn't sure.

"Um...Sadie and I'll be gone maybe three hours."

His dark eyes warming me, he said, "I'll be right here.

I'll have my prosthetic back by then. Just listen for the music."

My heart danced to the music in his words. I heaved a big sigh. I patted Sadie's head, and her tail thumped the ground like a hammer. "All right," I said, knowing she highly approved. "Sadie and I will listen for the music."

The End

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Customer Service

One of the things I love about spring is the sight of all the women parading by ABC Auto Repair, where I work as the lead mechanic. Some dressed in suits, others in colorful dresses, these women park their cars in the parking ramp at the edge of town and scurry off to offices downtown,

where they work as clerks, tellers, secretaries, and executives.

During the year, many of them—especially the single ones—leave their cars at ABC for an oil change and tire rotation, or a brake job and muffler replacement.

I know many on a first name basis, but I've never hit on anyone. Still, one lady truly caught my eye this winter. A petite redhead with close-cropped curly hair and midnight-blue eyes, she's the secretary for the vice-president of our local bank: Chloe Jacobs. I'm Mike McCormick. I'd give anything to ask her out, but I don't think it'll happen.

On this cloudy, rain-threatening morning, I'm outside the shop, crouched under the hood of an old Ford Escort checking its battery, when horns blare, tires squeal, and a female screams.

I jerk up. I don't see what happened, but I've seen the scenario before. Two cars nearly collided at the busy intersection adjacent ABC—there's no streetlight. One thing is different this morning, though. Standing at the corner across from ABC is Chloe, her hands clutching either side of her head.

Thinking she's injured—she's obviously in great distress—I drop everything and dart across the street.

I'm breathless. "Are you all right?"

"No!"

Now I'm really worried. "Did you get hit with flying debris or something?" I look her over. Only a touch of makeup—eye shadow, mascara, pink lip-gloss. She looks trim dressed in her dark-blue pants suit. Her flowery scent is heavenly.

But her cheeks glow red with anger.

I go, "Are you sure you're okay?"

"Stupid me—I lost my iPhone!"

"Your phone?"

"I was checking the weather. My son has a T-ball game tonight. Those two cars, the noise—startled me, and I dropped the phone. I'm so mad at myself!" Then she points at the street drain at the curb where we're standing. "It's down there."

Oh no!

On my hands and knees, head lowered, I peer through the iron grate covering the drain and spot her white iPhone, six or seven feet below me. "Good news," I say, standing up, puffing out a breath, and smiling at Chloe. "I can see it."

"I'm running late!" she blurts. "I can't be late for work. Big meeting this morning. It's going to rain. The phone will be washed away. I have everything on it—Danny's baby pictures—just everything! Not to mention what it costs."

I raise a hand to calm her down. "Look, Chloe, there's more good news. I can retrieve your phone. You hustle off to work, and when you get off this afternoon I'll have it waiting in the ABC office."

Her eyebrows jump. "You can do that? Honest?"

"Honest. No sweat." I smile at her again. "It's called customer service. It's what ABC is noted for."

I have no trouble rescuing Chloe's phone before the rains come. With a crow bar, I pop the drain cover off, and with a six-foot long mechanical claw, I reach down and grab the phone. I leave it in the office where I said I would.

All day I think about Chloe. She has a son but no ring on her finger. Perhaps she's divorced, like me, but she probably hasn’t lost confidence in herself like I have—confidence in matters dealing with the opposite sex. It's an issue I'm desperately working on.

After work, I check in the office. Chloe picked up her phone, and that night I command myself to stop thinking about her.

The next morning, I'm in the garage early. I have a transmission to pull. I'm raising the car on the hoist when Chloe appears, stepping through the side door to the office into the garage. She cradles a huge, white, flat box in her arms.

"Donuts!" she beams. "You guys at ABC provide terrific customer service."

The three other mechanics in the garage stare. Then laugh and applaud.

She hands me the box, a delicious donut smell drifting out from under the lid.

My breath catches.

Her red hair and beaming smile, those midnight-blue eyes and pink lips—the sight of Chloe Jacobs rocks my lack of confidence: "Um...if you're available, would...would you like to do something over the weekend? Um...a date."

"Thought you'd never ask," she says, and rattles off her cellphone number. "Call me." Then she digs in her purse, whips out her iPhone, holds it up, and adds brightly, "See? I still have it."

The End

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