​​He came to us in 2004 and there was something about him. He had a smile like a card player who knew what everyone else at the table was holding. He had seen the same hands played over and over again and he seemed to know the outcome each time. That’s the way I felt about his personality. He was a little older and a little wiser and he knew how to shepherd his flock. He had a secret and he wasn’t afraid to share it . . . “Jesus is The Way, and The Truth, and The Life!” I wanted to follow him.

I first came to know Father Bob Duggan when he attended one of our Parish Social Ministry meetings and I learned early on that he was a man of God. He knew what was important in our ministry and he wasn’t afraid to “shake the branches” in order to get things done and he encouraged me to do the same. He seemed to meet allies in every place that he went and we all knew that we could trust his direction. I believe that all of his decisions were based on what he thought Jesus would do.

I later learned that Fr. Bob was born on February 2nd 1935. It stuck with me because my own father, who was also “Bob,” was born on February 4th of the same year. I attended mass one Sunday and Father’s homily was about honoring our mothers and fathers. It hit home with me and I reconciled with my own father after being in “the outs” with him for several years. I learned that he had emphysema and was on oxygen treatments. For the first time, I developed empathy for the life he had lived and we developed a new relationship. After visiting with him regularly for almost a year he was diagnosed with lung cancer after a lifetime of smoking. Dad had cut himself off from most of his children and grandchildren and it was important to me that he died with a sense of dignity and respect. After he passed away late one night I called Fr. Bob for a consultation and he agreed to meet with me right away.

The whole ordeal was a lot harder than I had thought it would be and Fr. Bob was great. He had seen a lot of death in his time and he knew that my Dad was in a better place. He knew just what to say and I felt like I was the only one who mattered to him at that moment. The Holy Spirit was present also in his church office and my grieving was met by a healing that I can’t describe. I mentioned to him that the family wanted to do a memorial service and Fr. Bob made several suggestions to help in the planning of it even though Dad wasn’t Catholic. I really appreciated his help.

According to “The Testimony of Catalina,” the Holy Mass is something quite different from what most of see when we celebrate the Eucharist. In the spiritual realm, we are all invited to participate in the mass, and after adequate preparation, live it with our hearts. We should reconcile ourselves, pray for transformation, and offer ourselves as a holocaust so that Jesus may transform us by his own merits. At the mass is Mother Mary, located behind the priest, as are all of the Saints and the Blessed of Heaven. Thousands of angels arrive to witness the moment of consecration and at the moment that the priest says the words he is surrounded and wrapped by Jesus Himself. The walls of the church melt away and we are all brought to the foot of Calvary, to the moment of the crucifixion of Christ. He asks for forgiveness to the Father, not only for the ones who killed Him, but also for each one of our sins. Jesus tells Catalina “I rejoice in embracing a soul who comes with a clean heart to receive me.” Fr. Bob knew all of this and he made it his mission to prepare us each Sunday for the week ahead. I am grateful for the way he made his messages simple so that we could follow.

In the spring of 2008 my in-laws began attending mass with me, my wife, and our children. My father-in-law heard about a “Christ Renews His Parish” Men’s Retreat that was coming up and he quietly expressed an interest in attending. I went over to his house one afternoon and asked him if he was really interested. He said that he didn’t want to attend it alone and I said “Good, cause I signed both of us up!” At that time, I had been married to Tony’s daughter for 26 years. We had done a lot of things together in that time but the CRHP retreat sealed our relationship. It was also good to see Tony form a relationship with Fr. Bob that weekend.

In August of 2008 Tony had a series of mini –strokes. His health deteriorated over the next several months and he began to develop dementia. He also had kidney dialysis treatments three times a week and it was hard on our family. Fr. Bob was always there to counsel us and he made himself available when we needed him. As the end was nearing, Fr. Bob came over to my in-law’s house. Tony was lying down in a hospital bed and there were several family members in the small bedroom with him. Fr. Bob entered the room and a miracle took place. Tony, who no longer recognized anyone, hadn’t spoken a word in several days and none of us thought we would hear him speak again. He looked up at the old priest’s smile and said “Fr. Bob! You came to see me!” My daughter, Lori said that his painful disposition seemed to wash away and for just a few minutes her grandfather was back! He was coherent and the two older men even talked about baseball. The Holy Spirit was strong in that place and everyone present who wasn’t a believer became one. Fr. Bob gave the whole family comfort when Tony passed away days later and he officiated the funeral mass.

The Most Holy Trinity Catholic Church in Angleton, Texas lost a great leader a couple of weeks ago. He was called father, brother, friend, confidant, ally, padre, preacher, minister, teacher, uncle, cousin, counselor, story teller, and wonderful listener. We were lucky to have him in our lives and I am forever grateful that he was in mine. He was 80 years young and he helped to keep us all on the path to salvation. He reminded us of the moral compass we are all born with and he made us realize that sin is part of the human condition. We are all called to find God in our lives and it is the responsibility of each of us to evangelize others so that all may be reunited with Him. Fr. Bob taught me that and he didn’t always use words.

The short story, “Quantum Leap” was inspired by the life of Robert “Bob” Shoemaker. My father was a larger-than-life character for the 72 years that he was alive and I always said that if I were to write a story about him it would be fiction. A lot of his stories were “made up” and he may be the reason why I have such a great imagination. He told as many stories as I have written . . . maybe more. The difference is that he claimed to live the stories that he told.

My dad was a very self-centered individual. He thought and talked about himself all of the time and one of his favorite things to do was to tell people about all of the experiences that he had, true or not. Because most of what came out of his mouth was pure fantasy, as his stories went, it is hard to know what to discard and what to truly believe. To this day, I don’t know why he felt the need to make stories up about himself. I think the life that he lived, or rather the facts about his life, were plenty interesting. I didn’t see a need for there to be more but I guess he wanted people to be enthralled with his tall tales. I’ll never know for sure.

A “pathological liar” is someone who tells unbelievable stories and does it convincingly. Although this condition is not itself a mental illness, it often correlates itself with a number of personality and mental disorders. I believe that Dad had a narcissistic personality disorder and his lying was a way to draw attention. That’s just my opinion. I’m not a doctor but if I had gone to school to be one I probably would have chosen the behavioral science field because it interests me. Mother got me a book once upon a time that was titled “My Father Was a Pistol and I’m a Son of a Gun.” That seemed to sum us both up when I was a young man but I’m not the rebellious person that I was back then.

It wasn’t always easy living with Dad but he had other qualities that made up for it. He had a positive outlook on life and he liked to have fun. I think those were his best qualities. He also had charm and compassion. He was a good provider and quick to learn things. He wasn’t the best teacher but I learned things from him, probably because I am a quick learner as well and I spent a lot of time with him as a teenager when he and my mother divorced. We were a team and he taught me some domestic chores as well as some simple lessons in life, like how to change the spark plugs in my car. Between him and my mother, they had set me up for independence.

There have been several television series and movies about people who live eccentric lives or have “jumped” from one to another. The earliest in my memory was “Quantum Leap,” starring Scott Bakula and it’s where I got the title to this short story of mine. Bakula’s character “leaped” in and out of different lives in order to make certain moments happen so that the right outcomes would happen in real time. Another series that caught my attention was “The Pretender,” starring Michael T. Weiss. That character went from living one life to another in order to escape government operatives before they could capture him and bring him back to the facility where they had raised him since being a child prodigy. Another inspirational story to me was “Catch Me if You Can,” starring Leonardo DiCaprio. This young man was a product of his environment, the son of a con man, played by Christopher Walken. DiCaprio’s character’s best con was playing the part of a pilot. He always had a harem of young stewardesses around him and he was able to cash fake airline payroll checks for a living . . . until the FBI caught up with him.
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I was thinking about how to write this story and I thought what if all of Dad’s claims were the real deal and it was “everyone else” who was living a lie? I decided to make it so and came up with “Quantum Leap,” the story about a man who “leaped” in and out of different lives and was powerless to prevent the phenomenon from happening. The result was a character who lived a lot of experiences – many more than the average bear. The character in “Quantum Leap” starts out as an astronaut, a pure fantasy role for most people. Sam holds a degree in molecular biology as well as being a first-rate pilot in the Air Force. In addition, he holds a degree in electrical engineering as if the first two weren’t enough. This is inspired by my father, who claimed to hold two degrees in his life: One in Electronics & Electrical Instrumentation and the other in Electrical Engineering. The truth is that he didn’t have any degrees though he did go to trade school to become an electrician. Dad had never claimed to be an astronaut but I thought that it was fetching enough . . . unbelievable. And then there was Adrienne. Dad had been married seven times in real life and Mother once told me that he liked to have a “mistress on the side.” Adrienne was that mistress . . . someone who was not taken by another man but she was also someone who was not interested in marrying again.

The next life for the Quantum Leap character was a telephone lineman. Glen Campbell’s “Wichita Lineman” was the catalyst for this character. It is one of my favorite Campbell songs and I still enjoy going to “You Tube” to listen to it. The profession seems like an honest, simple, blue-collar job and it reminds me of the job Dad had when I was growing up. He was an electrician and he had his own business. It was a good living and he seemed to live a good life as a family man while he had that occupation. Although that life had its rewards it didn’t seem enough to ground him. The lush green prairie that the lineman looked down to see compares with the attitude that Dad seemed to always have about life: “The grass is always greener on the other side of the hill.” Dad always had a need to start anew: a new state, a new town, a new job, a new wife, new children, new furniture, & new surroundings. He would come back to his family now and then, for a visit it seemed, and then he would go out in search of something else. He was a restless man.

The “Quantum Leap” character is next a prisoner of war in North Vietnam. Strange enough, Dad was in the ASAF during The Vietnam War. I have his service picture – one of the youngest pictures of Bob Shoemaker in my collection. He never talked about his service to me although Mother said that he never did leave the states during the time that he was enlisted. She did say that he received a dishonorable discharge but that’s all I know for sure. I once asked my dad about a scar on his leg. I was young and we were taking a drive one summer in his pickup truck . . . it was just the two of us. Dad was wearing shorts and was steadily changing gears in his “three-speed on the column” Chevy and my attention was diverted to his left knee as he kept pushing in the clutch. “I fell on a railroad spike,” he told me. Years later, I again asked him about the scar, forgetting the answer he had given me before. “I got in a knife fight with a guy in the service and he stabbed me there” was his answer that time. On a third occasion, sometime in 1977 or 1978, when we were “bachelors” living together, he told me that he had gotten shot escaping from a Vietnamese concentration camp. I think that I had blocked all of that out of my memory until just after he died. We had a memorial service for him and there were people there from several “compartments” of his life. We were in the reflection part of the service and people volunteered to tell personal stories of their time with our Dad. One fella got up and told a story that I had never heard. He ended it by saying that he respected Bob because of all the time he had spent in the POW camp in North Vietnam. I was “floored” by the remark but it was not the time or place to debate such a story so I simply saved it in my memory to use in my own story later. This one is for you, whoever you are.

While in the “hole,” character number three has an epiphany and is able to recollect some repressed memories . . . some “snipets” of other lives he has lived. This was a chance for me to offer up a couple more experiences that Dad had. The first was a college professor and this one is kind of true. In the first year that we lived in Texas Dad had gotten a job with GULF STATES, a contractor for Dow Chemical, as an electrician. Dow sponsored short non-accredited classes at Brazosport College for local employees to learn a craft or further their knowledge in their field of expertise. There was a need for someone to teach a 12-week class on electrical code and the current year’s code book would be the text for the class. Dad always talked about how well he knew the code and he was able to convince someone that he had the credentials for the job. I remember him coming home early every Thursday night to shower and change and he would leave for the college with his brown, hard-shelled briefcase. Inside the case were a small paperback code book and his reading glasses. He taught the class for several weeks and then he just stopped. I never asked what happened but he confided in me the year before he died that the college had let him go because they were unable to verify his Bachelor of Science degree from the University of Southern California – the degree in electrical engineering.

Another story that Dad told me was about his days as a running back for the Buffalo Bills. I had stayed with him for a few days after his wife (number five) died and he was telling stories like he usually did. He talked about his days as a young man and the athletic gifts that he had been given. He talked about running cross country in high school and eventually running in the New York City Marathon. He also played baseball and was a diver on the swim team. He then went to his bedroom and returned with a duffel bag that had a large Buffalo Bills logo on the side. He said “This is the last thing I have from my days with The Bills.” When I told him that he had never told me that story he went on to say that he was a “walk-on” and that he went to try-outs after seeing an ad in the paper and they put him on the team as a first-string running back. He practiced with the team for several weeks but blew his knee out just a week before the regular season started. When it was apparent that he would not return they cancelled his contract. I actually laughed out loud at this one and he laughed with me. I mentioned that Walmart carries the same duffel bag and he changed the subject to something else. Just for fun, I just now looked up something about the Bills. As Dad was born in 1935 he would have had to play for their team somewhere between high school and his first marriage. That would have been 1953 or 1954. The city of Buffalo is rich with football history and the earliest recorded team played in 1915. Their name changed a few times from the “Buffalo All-Stars,” to the “Buffalo Indians,” to the “Buffalo Bisons,” and then to the “Buffalo Bills” in 1947. However, they didn’t become part of the American Football League until 1959. The first Super Bowl wasn’t until 1967. Maybe I’m just being petty.

I did some research for the POW Camp part of my story. There was a lieutenant named Ellis who was shot down and brought to “The Hanoi Hilton.” He spent time in the same place as presidential candidate, John McCain and he wrote a book that detailed the daily life inside the camp. What I read was from “Stars and Stripes,” an online newsletter and in it Ellis talks about a return trip that he made with his family to see the prison, which is now a museum. He detailed “The Pretzel,” a torture that the North Vietnamese once used on their captives. Reading his words nearly brought me to tears. I have lived a good life, a life of freedom, and it’s hard to read about the atrocities that men like Ellis went through. Their hardships were real and not part of a Hollywood blockbuster movie. I am ashamed that my father claimed to have lived through that.

There were three other “Dad stories” that I mentioned at the end of mine. First, Dad said that he went to Las Vegas after getting out of the service. He had phoned home and told his folks that he was going to spend all of his money on gambling before returning to the city of Williamson, New York . . . his home. But, he couldn’t keep from winning and hotels “comped” him so that he would spend back the money that he had won. After a month or so, he tired of being a high roller and paid cash for a new Cadillac from a local new car dealer and drove it to New York. He got caught in a snow storm just 50 miles outside of his hometown and had to abandon his new car on the road because the roads were impassable. He returned to get his car several days later and realized that it had been stolen. The second story is about a job he claimed to have in Hollywood. He had gotten a job as an exhibition chef. I used to get confused between this story and the one he told me about being a porter in a hotel where he once brought a carton of cigarettes to Jackie Gleason’s hotel suite. Gleason was hosting a poker game with other celebrities. Maybe the restaurant was in the same hotel. Who knows? I just know that Gleason gave him a $100 tip! The third story is about Dad’s relationship with royalty. When he moved to Texas, Bob had an affair with a woman he met shortly after he got there. He told her that he was married to the princess of Ontario, Canada. I didn’t hear those words come out of his mouth but the woman once asked me if it was true. My last line was “Well, if it’s not . . . it should be.” I got that from the “Jebediah Nightlinger” character in “The Cowboys.” If you haven’t seen that movie, go and watch it as soon as you can. It’s one of John Wayne’s best.

I had a tumultuous relationship with my father. There were good times and bad and there are a lot of stories to be told about our adventures and the affiliation that we had. I came to terms with his personality a long time ago and I forgave him his trespasses, if only to drop a load that I had carried alone for so long, and that happened a few years before he died. The way he lived is a truth to be told and I often chuckle at the way he talked about it. The writing of “Quantum Leap” was enjoyable for me and the writing of this backstory was good therapy. I have my father’s features and the red tint in my hair comes from his mane. I enjoy having fun in life and I satisfy myself with a hard day at work like he did. I try to remain positive in all things that I do and I often look to him to succeed in this goal. Lastly, I love to tell stories. Most of mine are non-fiction but I do dabble in the ridiculous.

It was 1973 and the day had arrived.  Dressed in my blue shirt and my yellow neckerchief, I anxiously waited with my friends and comrades of Pack 162 near the front door of the Clyde Post Office.  Not only were the Cub Scouts marching in the annual Memorial Day Parade . . . the Boy Scouts of Troop 172 were there also and a whole lot of other people.  There was electricity in the air and I couldn’t hold my excitement!  Scattered all around the downtown square were groups of different ages, all eager for the festivities to begin.  Members of the Clyde Volunteer Fire Department were dressed out in front of the Fire House and old men in military uniforms stood tall with flags and banners.  People lined the street in front of places like Bramer’s Store and Bud’s Barber Shop.  They held small flags of red, white, and blue and the mood was very upbeat.  The Clyde-Savannah Golden Eagles Marching Band was in attendance and one could hear the sounds of drums, trombones, trumpets, and French horns finding their place in the music that was about to start. 

The Village of Clyde is in Upstate New York and is nestled halfway between Rochester and Syracuse.  In 1973 it boasted a population of nearly 3,000 souls.  It’s rich with history of wars of yesterday like many small towns in America and growing up there gave a young person like me a huge respect for those men and women who served in our armed forces.  Fifty years before the Revolutionary War Clyde was an outpost on the fur trade route.  It was named after the River Clyde in Scotland and became a village in 1811.  It became a major commerce area after the opening of the Erie Canal in 1825.  The Canal passed straight through the village as did the railroad that opened in 1850.  Clyde was a “wood and water stop” for the steam engines of the day and it was where Abraham Lincoln stopped on his way to his presidential inauguration in 1861.  During the American Civil War (1861-1865), men from Clyde served in B Company of the 111th New York Volunteer Infantry.  The 111th New York was present at, among others, the Battle of Gettysburg, the Battle of the Wilderness, the Battle of Cold Harbor, and the Appomattox Campaign.  During the Battle of Gettysburg, the 111th took the second highest casualties as a regiment of the entire battle. Throughout the war, the regiment took a total of 1803 casualties, of which 158 were killed in action, 557 were wounded and 1088 were missing in action.  Many sons of Clyde were lost in World War I (1914-1918) also and in World War II (1939-1945).  Grave markers in both village cemeteries reflect these early years and soldiers are remembered to this day by the annual parade.

 The parade started promptly at ten o’clock and there we went, marching south on Glasgow Street and over the bridge.  The Cub Scouts were grouped behind the Veterans of Foreign Wars and we young boys were privy to the respect given to those old men from others along the parade route.  Old men saluted the veterans and young men removed their hats.  Older women held their hand to their chest and young mothers corralled their children briefly as the old soldiers passed by.  There was a cadence shouted out by one of the veterans and we tried to keep up with “Left, right, left.”  As it turned out, we didn’t have the patience for it and our attempts were short-lasted.  By the time we reached St. John’s Catholic Cemetery, southwest of the village, our young legs were tired and our brows were wet.  We turned the parade around and marched to Maple Grove Cemetery on the southeast side and my march quickened as I saw people from my own neighborhood on both sides of the street.  Attention and respect was given to those graves as well and then the parade turned again to return to the downtown square where we started an hour before.  One final stop was made in the middle of the bridge where the old men threw flowers into the canal as a final remembrance.  It seems like yesterday.

 Memorial Day is a time to remember those who served and died for this great country of ours.  It’s a time to remember our brothers at arms, our grandparents, parents, uncles, aunts, sons, and daughters and others who continue to serve.  For me, it’s a time to reflect on what I have now and how it all started in my young life a million years ago.  Thanks to all of you who have had a hand in helping to establish and maintain freedom in this world.  Happy Memorial Day!

Sam Cordall was hanging upside down outside the space station, working on a camera that was no longer transmitting.  It was true that he was an American astronaut but he had a degree in electrical engineering and was familiar enough with the workings of a simple remote camera.  Fixing it was just the excuse he needed to get out of his cramped quarters.  This view of The Earth was breathtaking and he couldn’t think of a better place to be right now.  His mind wandered to thirty-four months ago when he had accepted the offer to live in this place with his partner, Adrienne.  The two of them had sacrificed a lot to come up here, including their marriages.  They were more than halfway done with their five-year mission and they had come to respect each other in more ways than one.

Over the headset, Adrienne’s voice said “Sam, dinner’s almost ready!”  Funny, she’s not the domestic type at all, he thought.  In fact, it was probably the absence of her domestic talents that cost her four-year marriage to that railroad engineer in Ohio.  One could argue that you can’t call operating a food replicator a domestic talent.  “I’m almost done, dear!” replied Sam.  He thought she might like that response as he chuckled at the life they had made for themselves in this place.  He jokingly compared their lives with Desi and Lucy, but without children of course.  The truth was that they were nothing like the married television couple.  They were scientists sent to space to learn more about extraterrestrial life.  Adrienne Cuniculus’ field was quantum physics and Sam’s specialty was molecular biology.  But, for all practical purposes, they were a match made in Heaven, or at least somewhere between Heaven and Earth.

Sam finished up his task and worked efficiently to collect his tools.  Adrienne confirmed that the camera was again working and he felt satisfied with his repair job.  He worked quickly but carefully to put all of his tools in their place in the toolkit.  Getting in too much of a hurry could be very dangerous when one was wearing a spacesuit.  The fabric could tear or a hose could be jarred loose and there were plenty of horrendous consequences.  In fact, just being outside the structure was dangerous enough.  Sam made his way to the hatch. 

“Life lock!”  Was that voice in his head or was it coming over the headset?  His vision was tunneling and his breathing was becoming labored.  “Adrienne, what are you saying?” he asked.  Sam’s hands and feet were feeling numb and cold and he felt like he was beginning to black out.  “Life lock!”  Every movement took all of his energy and focus and he could barely make out the hatch door about ten feet in front of him.  “Life lock!”  Sam was close to being out of it but he was conscience enough to realize that the voice he heard was his own.  “Life lock?”  What did it mean?  Why were those words coming out of his mouth?  “Adrienne?” he shouted.  “I need your help!  Can you hear me?”  All he could see was blackness.  Either Adrienne wasn’t answering or Sam could no longer hear.  He did, however, have an awareness of consciousness but all of his senses were numb or no longer working.  Was he dead?

“Jim?  Are you still there?” said a voice on the other end of the line.  He felt like he was waking from a dream.  “Jim, have you fallen asleep up there?” she asked.  Mable started laughing and Sam opened his eyes.  “Holy crap!” he thought to himself.  Sam’s left hand had a hold on a large iron spike and he held a telephone handset in his right.  He was at the top of a telephone pole, talking to someone on the phone!  “Jim?  Is that my name now?” he asked himself.  “I think we have a bad connection,” said Mable.  “Call me back when you get it fixed,” she chuckled to herself.  “Wait a minute, Mable” said Jim.  “There, I think I’ve got it.  How’s that?”  “Well, I thought I was talking to myself for a minute,” laughed Mable.  “I’ll see you in a couple of hours!”  Mable was gone.

Jim looked below him and saw the lush, green prairie grass below.  He knew where he was and why he was there.  He worked for Bell Telephone in Sedgwick County, Kansas and he had climbed this pole to check the connection on the phone line.  He remembered that his name was Jim Williamson and that he had eggs and ham for breakfast this morning.  “What the Hell?!!” said Jim out loud.  He checked his harness and saw that he was still securely fastened to the pole and his lineman boots were tied tight and ready for the next pole climb.  “I was Sam.  Sam Cordall.  What is happening to me?”  He stayed where he was and looked out to the miles of landscape before him.  It was dotted with cattle and he remembered that he had a few head of his own to take to auction tomorrow up in El Dorado.  “I don’t understand,” he said to himself.  “I have memories of this other life and yet I have memories of this jim-guy, too!”   His thoughts changed to his family as he straddled the long, wood pole that pointed upwards.  He reached into his back pocket and pulled out a wallet.  His wallet.  It didn’t look like the one he owned but it was familiar.  Wait a minute.  It didn’t look like the wallet that Sam owned, but neither did these clothes or these boots.  Jim’s mind was going a mile a minute.  He reached inside the leather and found the pictures.  There was his wife, Jessie . . . just as beautiful as the day they married.  Has it been fifteen years?  There were two more pictures.  His two children.  There was Patrick, now twelve years old, and Shelley, who was ten.  They were good kids.  “No one is going to believe this,” thought Jim.  “I don’t believe it.”

Jim left his gear at the switching office and walked out to his pickup truck in the parking lot.  Mable was right behind him and said “Get some rest this weekend, Jim.  I don’t want you falling asleep at the top of any more telephone poles!”  “Sometimes, that’s the best kind of sleep,” he replied.  Jim got in his truck and cranked it over.  Willie Nelson’s “On the Road Again” was playing on the radio and Jim’s mood quickly became upbeat.  It had been several hours since his adventure at thirty feet in the air.  It felt like a dream and the details of his last life were starting to diminish.  “I need a stiff drink, and some sleep,” he thought to himself.  He turned out of the parking lot and headed out of town towards the Interstate 35 turnpike.  Jim lived just outside of Hanover and it was a good 30 minute drive home.

It was an early summer evening and there was a light, dry breeze.  Jim could smell the peony flowers as soon as his feet hit the gravel driveway.  There was also a trace fragrance of lilacs in the air as they grew wild all around the area and were in full bloom.  Shelley was on the front porch with her dolls when her dad drove up and she ran up to meet him as he walked toward the house.  “Daddy, you’re home!” she shouted.  “Hey, little girl!” he yelled back.  The sight of her made him forget the day’s happenings for a little while and he quietly wondered how he could have ever not known about his simple life in the country with his family.  Jessie was in the kitchen making supper.  Jim could smell the meatloaf and his wife was finishing the prep work for an apple pie that was about to trade places with the meat dish.  “Are you ready for a beer?” she asked.  “Do I still have that bottle of Scotch?” he asked back.  “Uh oh . . . it sounds like a day that you want to forget!”  she answered back.  She reached inside the tall cabinet and pulled down a full bottle of liquor and set it on the counter.  She then retrieved two glasses from the dishwasher and said “I’ll have a little bit of what you’re drinking.”  They both took a swallow from their glasses and then looked at each other.  “Is everything okay?” she asked him.  “Yes, it is now” he replied. 

Patrick came down from his room just long enough to sit at the table and eat supper with the rest of the family.  “I’m taking a dozen head to the auction in the morning and I’d like for you to come with me” Jim told his son.  “You’ll need a good night’s sleep,” he continued.  Patrick let out a long, audible sigh and asked “Do I have to, Dad?  I was going to hang out with Chris and Joey at the skate park!”  “Take a rain check, son.  I need your help with a couple of those cows.  They’re mean and ornery!”  Patrick conceded and asked “Can we stop at the sporting goods store on the way back?  The ‘One-Wheel’ is in and it’s so cool!”  “Is that the one with the hub motor and lithium battery?” Jim asked with interest.  “For sure!” said Patrick.  “You just lean forward to go and lean back to slow down.  It’s awesome!”  “It’ll be mid-afternoon by the time we’re finished.  No promises,” said his father.  Patrick climbed the stairs back to his room and Jim knew that his son had returned to his world of music and video games.  “The day out will be good for him,” Jim thought.  Jessie started washing the dishes and Jim cleared the table.  After taking out the trash he wandered out to the barn and prepared the cattle trailer for tomorrow’s run.  The sale of those cows will make their mortgage current and relieve some of the stress that he and Jessie had been feeling. 

Jim looked up at the ceiling.  It was two a.m. and he hadn’t slept a wink.  The moonlight poured into the master bedroom and he was able to find his slippers without stubbing his toe.  He slinked quietly into the hallway while Jessie slept soundly on her side of the bed.  Both of the kids were fast asleep as well.  Patrick’s light was off and Jim could hear the sound of stillness from behind his closed bedroom door.  No music and no video gaming noises.  Good, he would need the rest for tomorrow’s work.  Well, actually it is today’s work – six o’clock will come soon enough.  Jim walked up to Shelley’s doorway and peered inside.  Her Minnie Mouse night light was on and he could see her angel face surrounded by covers and Barbie dolls.  “This is a good life,” he thought.  “Why would I want another?” 

Jim Williamson walked down the stairs to the living room and sat down at his laptop computer.  “Life lock,” he wondered.  “Where did that come from and what does it mean?”  He punched in the words at www.google.com.  LIFE LOCK was the name of an identity theft protection service.  “That’s almost appropriate,” he thought.  Jim thought about his five-year mission and the space station where he lived with Adrienne.  He tried to remember his life before the space station but the details were fuzzy. “I was once married, wasn’t I?  What was my life like before the mission?  Did I have a house in the country?  Was I happy?”  As hard as he tried he could not remember one thing about his life on Earth as Sam Cordall.  “Who am I really?” he asked himself.  Was Adrienne real?  He wasn’t sure how to investigate this alternate life of his.  Was it all a lie?

Jim received a fair price for his cattle at the auction and he and Patrick were eating a fine meal at “Oklahoma Boys BBQ.”  They made it a point to stop there whenever they were at auction because the food was great and the prices were reasonable and it was a place all their own.  Jessie and Shelley seldom came with them to El Dorado and if they did they would probably find a different restaurant cause this was a “man’s place to eat.”  Both of them were in great spirits and Patrick asked “So, are we going to the sporting goods store?”  “You betcha!” said his dad and they were off to one of Patrick’s favorite places.  An hour later, they were pulling up to “Modell’s Sporting Goods” in Hanover.  Jim turned the truck off and walked along the side of the empty cattle trailer, looking for tire wear, loose gate latches, or anything else that might become a safety issue on the short run from here to their house.  Patrick was “hyped up” on Dr. Pepper and was anxious to get inside the store.  Jim’s cell phone rang and he told his son “Go ahead.  I’ll meet you over by the skateboards in just a minute.”  Patrick said “Sweet!” and he darted to the front door as quickly as he could.  Jim didn’t recognize the number on his caller ID but he answered it anyway.  “Hello?” he asked.  “Life lock!” said the person on the other end.  Jim’s lips went dry and his heart began racing.  “Hello?’ he asked again.  “Life lock!” replied the caller.  Jim’s vision again tunneled to a small porthole and his ears felt like he was under water and not able to hear noises clearly from above.    “It’s happening again!” he thought.  “I’ve got to stop it!”  Jim Williamson looked all around himself and saw several vehicles in the parking lot.  His son was out of sight, presumably trying out one of those new-fangled skateboards in the store.  Jim could see no one close to him but he yelled anyway.  “Help me!”  he shouted.  Suddenly, all was black and Jim passed out. 

He awoke to a sore, cramped body.  It was more than that . . . he was in pain and it felt like there were “things” crawling all over him.  He was sitting in water that was almost knee-deep and underneath the water was mud.  “Am I in some kind of hole?” Jim wondered.  It was also very dark in this place and he had a hard time getting his bearings.  “Was that light coming in through the roof?”  He was mumbling to himself now as he asked out loud “Is that a roof or is it some kind of wood door that keeps me trapped inside this hole?”  Jim was trying to remember his last “life” but this new one was right up in his face.  His senses were on overload and he couldn’t help but feel that he was being kept here against his will. This was scary and he was feeling more than a little bit anxious.  It was hot in this place . . . extremely hot and humid.  Jim wasn’t sure which was worse:  the heat, the claustrophobia, the “things” all over him, or the fact that we was in a lot of pain and sitting in mud and water.  He reached down and felt around for something that he could grab.  “Is anyone there?” he asked softly.  There were several small stones along the wet dirt wall and he began throwing them in all directions.  By the sound that they made, he concluded that he was in a large dirt hole approximately six foot wide by six foot long.  The roof, if you wanted to call it that, was probably about ten feet above him but there didn’t seem to be any way of getting to it.  He guessed that it was probably fastened in some way.  Jim touched himself on his arms and legs.  He was skin and bones!  He ran his fingers along his rib cage and was astonished to find little in the way of fat or muscle on his body!  He felt weak and tired, and there was extreme pain in his joints, his torso, and all over his head.  “Where am I?” he thought.

He quickly thought of Jessie.  “I doubt if she and the kids know I’m here,” he discerned.  Judging by the intense amount of weight loss, he guessed that he had been here for a while.  But why were his memories of his family and Kansas so fresh in his mind if he had been here for so long?  Why didn’t he remember anything of this life before waking up in a pit?  How about the space station?  Yes, those memories were still intact.  Were there other memories?  There were!  He remembered being a college professor and standing at a podium while lecturing to more than two hundred students!  Here comes another one!  He was playing football on a large field with thousands of fans in the stands!  It’s Rich Stadium in Orchard Park!  Jim was a young man and he was an offensive guard for the Buffalo Bills!  Only, his name wasn’t Jim Williamson . . . it was Albert something or other. 

The door above opened and chatter from Vietnamese soldiers made its way down to Jim.  Bright light filtered down as well and he could see that the door was made of bamboo, lashed together with some sort of cord.  Their dialogue was foreign to him but, as they let down some kind of makeshift ladder, they made it known by the motioning of their arms and hands that they wanted him to climb up.  He made a couple of attempts to ascend but he simply didn’t have the strength to lift his frail body.  Suddenly, their words became sharp and insistent and it was clear that he had better make it up on his own accord.  Otherwise, there would be consequences and he didn’t want to know what those might be.  He found the strength, one rung at a time, and he was exhausted by the time he reached the sunlight.  He was grabbed by two soldiers, one at each arm, and he was whisked away to a hut about 60 feet from the pit.  Waiting for him there were two more soldiers in front of the hut, who straddled a structure that was about eight foot tall.  The structure was comprised of two posts coming out of the ground and a beam at the top that was fastened to both posts.  These two new men in uniform tied his legs together from knees to ankles and then laced his arms tightly behind his back until his elbows touched.  His shoulders were screaming with pain and he felt like they were being pulled out of joint.  Just when he thought things couldn’t get worse one of the Vietnamese men tied one end of a long rope to his wrists and threw the other end over the top of the structure.  They were going to hoist his pretzel-like form up off the ground with his arms bound behind him!  Jim looked out in front of the hut to see several other men that looked like him.  All were suffering from malnutrition and most had their attention focused on Jim and the two Vietnamese torturers who flanked him. The ritual that was about to start was for all to see and Jim Williamson, or whatever his name was now, was the main character in a most gruesome stage show .  Jim had “leaped” back in time to the sixties or early seventies and he realized that he was in a prisoner-of-war camp.  He was a pilot in the United States Air Force and these other men were also American servicemen.  Jim again thought of his family in Kansas and prayed that he would see them again. 

“Hope can be a dangerous thing,” thought Jim.  He knew that his captors were breaking his spirit and would most likely break his body if he remained hoisted for long under this structure made of wood.  The reasoning behind this production was that his persecutors wanted to remove all hope from the Americans in this place.  Suddenly, Jim found some kind of inner strength from the depths of his soul.  “Don’t let them take your love!”  he shouted to his comrades.  “Love is powerful and it will win over the hate in these people!”  Jim’s body was hoisted up and the resulting pain tormented him terribly.  He uttered just two more words . . . “Life lock!”

Jim woke up to find himself laying on his right side.  His body felt rested and his bedding was soft.  When he opened his eyes he could see that the morning sun was waking as well and its light was beginning to brighten the room.  Jessie was laying the same way in front of him and he moved close to her, wrapping his left arm under hers.  He squeezed her gently and she hugged him back.  They lie there, motionless for a minute or so and then she rolled toward him.  There were no words spoken.  There were only kisses and gentle caresses, followed by deep breathing and love-making.  He was home.

Several years had passed.  Jim was retired from the phone company and he was doing some consultant work for a cattle ranch farmer in Kansas City.  The kids were grown and both had families of their own.  He and Jessie still had their place in Hanover but they spent a lot of time traveling these days.  They were currently on a Royal Caribbean cruise and were on their way from Montego Bay to The Cayman Islands.  Jessie was determined to make her tan the envy of every woman in Kansas and she was spending her afternoon in a lounge chair on the top deck of the “Navigator of the Seas” ship.  Jim sat at a Blackjack table in the casino on deck four and looked at his chips.  He had been sitting there for almost an hour and was “up” by a couple of hundred bucks.  He had once jumped into the life of a professional gambler and he knew a lot about winning at Blackjack.  He could stay longer and win some more but he didn’t want to draw attention to himself.  He collected his winnings and walked over to the first watering hole he came to.  The sign above the door read “Schooner Bar.”  Jim walked in and sat on a barstool near the back of the establishment.

The place was busy and there were adults of all ages there.  It wasn’t the kind of bar that one would find a motorcycle gang frequenting.  Neither was it a place to hang out after work.  Everyone was on vacation and having a good time.  A young man sat down at the barstool to the left of Jim and ordered a rum and punch.  The bartender brought it to him, served with a little umbrella and an orange slice.  The young eyes looked at the older, wiser eyes of Jim and he said “This is the life!”  Jim took a liking to the younger man and they started a dialogue that lasted for hours.  Jim Williamson, after having a few, told the twenty-something year old about some of the lives he had lived, or visited.  He told him about the Cadillac that he had bought off the showroom floor after winning big in Las Vegas.  Jim talked about his days as an exhibition chef at LUCQUES restaurant in West Hollywood.  He finished with his romantic relationship with a member of the Canadian royals, the Duchess of Welland.  The young man took it all in and when it was apparent that the older man had finished his storytelling he asked Jim “is all of that really true?”  Jim finished his drink before getting up to leave and said “Well, if it isn’t  . . . it should be.”

I have been called a lot of names in my life . . . some of them good and some not so memorable.  The two most common names for me are Mike and Michael, the latter reserved for my mother and wife to use, but the calling of either will usually get my attention.  “Miguel” is a name that I have always been familiar with.  It’s the Spanish word for Michael and I have always preferred it over the French equivalent, Michel (pronounced “Me-Shell”).  It sounds too much like Michelle, the name for a girl, and I just won’t have it.  When Carlos came into my life he called me “Mr. Shoemaker,” even after I had told him not to.  This went on for the first year that he dated my oldest daughter, Stefanie.  “Call me Mike!” I told him.  Finally, he started calling me Miguel.  I never understood it but I went with it and I thought about calling him “Carl.”  I wonder if he would like that?

Stefanie and Carlos married a few years later and were expecting a baby a couple of years after that.  They were having a family get-together at their house for a “Guess the Gender Party.”  They were serving some appetizers and her Aunt Charlotte had prepared some cupcakes.  Inside one of the cupcakes was a plastic blue baby figurine and there would be just one winner to announce the gender of the baby.  It was kind of like Willy Wonka’s “golden ticket” except there really wasn’t anything to win except the opportunity to make the announcement.  Stefanie had been in to have an “ultrasound” that afternoon and she and Carlos were anxious to let the family know the answer to the question and this was a fun way of doing it (and an excuse to have everyone together for food).  Angie and I already knew the answer.  Stefanie had agreed to let us know as soon as she found out.  They were having a boy and I was secretly ecstatic about the news.  Angie and I have two daughters and a granddaughter and this would be the first boy in our little family. 

Things were going good.  They had a good showing and everyone was chatting and catching up after the holidays.  The cupcakes were served and once everyone knew that one of them had the figurine it was just seconds before someone yelled out “Boy!”  We all had a laugh and everyone made congratulatory remarks to Stefanie & Carlos, to Angie & me, and to Carlos’ parents who were also present for the announcement.  I immediately went to the kitchen and got a second helping of whatever I was eating and then started to prepare some coffee.  As it turned out, the announcements weren’t over yet.  “Announcements?”  Carlos and Stefanie stood up in front of the group and said that they would like to announce the baby’s name.  “That’s interesting,” I thought to myself.  Although they hadn’t settled on a name up to now, I had heard most of what names had made the final list.  They had talked about the name Antonio or a variation of it (Anthony, Tony) after Angie’s father.  There were a few others and I knew that they would eventually find one together.  I hadn’t even thought much about it lately, to be honest.

Carlos said “All of the men in my family are named Carlos.  Most of us go by our middle name though I am the exception.  Still, the baby’s first name will be Carlos.”  “That makes sense,” I thought.  “They’ll name him ‘Carlos Antonio’ most likely.”  Then he continued,  “The baby’s middle name will be Miguel.”  Stefanie stepped up and finished “We’ll call him Miguel.”  “Wow!” I thought.  “Are you serious?” I asked them.  “Yes, Dad, we’re serious!” they answered.  I was in hog heaven.  A boy and they’re naming him after me!  Well, almost.  When I got home I opened my Facebook account and changed my name to “Miguel Shoemaker.”  “Now, it’s done” I thought.  “They’re naming him after me.  Ha-ha.”

Stefanie’s due date was fast-approaching.  She was making weekly visits to the doctor’s office and she had an excess amount of Amniotic fluid in her tummy, according to her doctor.  She was having a hard time with daily tasks and Angie and I weren’t sure if she would carry the baby to term.  Spring Break was coming up and Stefanie was looking forward to a week off from teaching so that she could just rest at home.  Angie got the call on March 10th.  Stefanie’s water had “broke” and Carlos was taking her to the hospital.  Stefanie was almost a month away from her due date but Miguel was coming “Come Hell or low water!”  I was out of town and Angie texted me the news.  I agreed to meet her at the hospital before the baby came.

Miguel came shortly after noon.  Overall, the birth went very well.  He was a “Preemie” but his development looked good and his vitals were great.  He weighed in at 6 pounds 15 ounces and he was over 18” long.  The only worry was his breathing and skin color.  The breathing became a minor thing after a day or so but he had to be placed under a light to help his condition . . . he had Jaundice.  Stefanie was checked out on the 13th but Miguel would have to stay over the weekend.  The Neo-natal Intensive Care’s purpose is to look after all babies born prematurely but we all know that Miguel’s stay will be a short one.  I look forward to the many adventures that we will have with this little guy.  Stay tuned :)