CHAPTER 1

THE WISH

The town is a small southern town, maybe average size, withplenty of soft southern sunshine. It's one of those towns whereeverybody knows everybody. Almost, as if it were nestled in alittle valley forgotten by time, where keeping a secret is next toimpossible.

A quaint little breeze blows through the trees and flower gardensas a train whistle bellows lonesome in the distance. Looking aroundat the buildings was like looking back into the past. They wereold and ancient, but still looked pretty good. Folks around heretake a lot of pride and patience in preserving things. People arealways tinkering and patching, adding a little new with the old, andsomehow still managing to keep the old down home friendly face.It's a kind of laid back, slower look at life sort of place.

The old two room school house was fixed up pretty nice andwas made into a museum. The train depot is simply grand too.There's always something interesting to look at there. Just standinginside, you can almost hear the echoes of time moving all aroundyou. Makes you want to stop and listen as your mind wonders howthings were back then. Stepping outside next to the tracks you canalmost hear the conductor as he yells, "All Aboard!"

Yep, things are pretty neat around here, but my favorite placeis the old ball stadium. It's not like the fancy stadiums nowadays.It starts just beyond first base, circling home plate, and goes justbeyond third base. It's made mostly of oak and hickory boardsas wide as home plate. It's about fifteen or twenty rows of seatsreaching up toward the sky with a tin roof stretching out over thecrowd to keep the sun off.

You can stand on the field and look toward home plate andpretend you are in a big league park. It is one of my favorite placesto bring a lunch and sit in the shade listening to the boards pop andcrack. Sometimes, if it was hot enough, the boards popped so loud itsounded like a bat hitting a ball. The howling of the breeze throughthe cracks sounded like the cheer and chatter of the crowd. Somefolks say it's the ghosts of fans and ballplayers still having fun.

It was always fun to look at all the hearts, with initials carved inthem, to see who loved who throughout the years. Hee, Hee! Overin the corner is Dad's name, but mine is in the other.

Yes, this is a nice little town. We even have a town dog, oldJoe. He sleeps on the corner at the busiest crosswalk in town. He'sbeen there for years waiting on the school kids, looking for a paton the head or a leftover lunch. He's probably eaten more peanutbutter and jelly sandwiches than a bread truck could carry away.

The ice cream parlor on the corner is probably the busiest placein town. I believe every kid in town has used the old parking meterin front for a merry-go-round. I did, and still do from time to time.The concrete around the base has just about had all it can stand.That old meter is about as wobbly as a one legged duck on ice.It doesn't work anymore. It's had the same penny stuck in it fordecades. I believe everybody in town has had their pocket knivesin it trying to get it out. They say lightning struck it back in thethirties welding everything together. It's the only meter in townnow and has become more like a historical marker.

I've often heard the old men in town talk of the lightningaround here; near misses, strange happenings, unexplained eventsthat no one was able to figure out. Talk as if the lightning had amind of its own and eyes that look right into yours and could seeyour thoughts. As if its strands of light were fingers caressing anobject it admired, like a kid in a toy shop. There was also thathaunting laugh that no one had an explanation for. All kinds of talesand stories that kept a little boy sitting on the edge of his seat, witheyes and mouth wide open and his head under his pillow when astorm is coming.

I guess every town has had its moments or events that throughtime have been added to making mountains out of mole hills. Itsure makes for a good conversation, like the saying, "Believe It OrNot."

I see an old man in his late sixties, still able to walk unassisted,taking short choppy steps almost sliding his feet at times. His bodystooped with age and fingers that cannot bend enough to really gripanything tight. He looks like he might have been stout as an oaktree when he was in his prime.

He had worked hard all his life starting at an early age, workingon other people's farms and in the hot noisy factories. He put inmany a shift inside the earth digging coal. In those days, a manearned his money with a pick, a shovel, and the strength in hisback. Yes, looking at him now, time and hard work have taken theirtoll.

The lines run deep across his brow. His skin is dry andcalloused, feels and looks like ancient leather. He often spoke ofthose days as if each day or event had a name, especially the onesthat left a scar or special notch on his memory.

The old man is my dad. He lives with me now since mom died.Like most old folks, he's cantankerous and doesn't like to takeorders from little whipper-snappers like me. He said I hadn't livedlong enough to know anything, even if I was next to forty.

I'd listen to his stories of life and the "what I should havedones" and the "if a man could haves" with open ears, even thoughI'd heard them a hundred times. There was always a little advicealong the way. I tried not to let on like I was listening to that. Iguess I just wanted to hoe my own row without any help. Lookingback, that advice has been worth its weight in gold.

Today it seems the stories have taken on a whole newatmosphere; Kind of strange and chilling, but yet like a still calm, asmooth and sweet feeling. When a person gets used to something,it's always there; like a house, a tree, or a mountain. Then therecomes a day when for no reason it just looks different. Today wasthat day for me. I'd always looked up to him. He was my hero!Today for the first time in my life, he looked like an old man, tiredand worn, beaten down by time.

It was Sunday and he wanted to go down to the little park abouta half mile down the street. It was his favorite place to go, to sitfor hours in the cool breeze and shade. Just enjoying the beauty ofnature and recalling yesterdays.

There was a gazebo with a picnic table in it and benches alonga narrow path that winds around all through the park. There weretrees that took almost a dozen kids to reach around and a littlestream just big enough for small children to jump across. They hada good time cooling off. The smell of hotdogs and fried chickenwas always in the air.

It took him some time but he sat down on the grass in a clearingwhere he could see the children play. "The grass feels good here,"he said.

He seemed to get a lot of enjoyment from watching the kidsplay and giggle. There was a smile on his face and the look in hiseyes as if his mind was going back to another time. A time that wasgood in his life.

Getting out a cold drink and a piece of chicken from our picnicbasket, he said, "Nothing like Sundays and fried chicken.

Today seemed so slow, as if time was trying to stand still. Therush, rush, rush and hurry, hurry, hurry could not be found. Whatlittle noise there was seemed to be far off, barely able to be heard.Someone was ringing a church bell and it echoed throughout thewhole valley.

While we ate, we talked of the weather, old cars, some ofthe hot rods of his day. He talked about best friends, girl friends,baseball and Mom. A little boy caught a...