Author: Gail

A Legend in the Making 

The 1960s ranch-style house with the faded white paint and wrought iron bars on the windows is located on a corner lot in a nearby city. A notice, printed on faded computer paper, is taped to the glass on the door. It reads:

“YOU WALK ON THE GRASS,
WE CHARGE YOUR ASS!”
This is one of many signs posted throughout the building of this popular tattoo parlor. In order to enter the premises, it is necessary to ring the doorbell and wait to be admitted. Once inside, the heavy wooden door’s dead bolt is locked, although it is only early afternoon.  Semi-darkness envelopes the room where vibrant images of tattooed body parts become the focus against wood paneling walls. The following messages are scattered among the tattooed designs:
“RELAX!” screams out in dark bold letters. 
“NO WHINING” is illustrated in that familiar symbol of a circle drawn with a slash through it over the word ‘whining’.
“DO NOT TOUCH THE DESIGNS!”
“We accept MASTERCARD & VISA with a $5.00 service charge, or cash, but absolutely no checks!”

A shabby, thread-bare, gold plaid couch in the reception area directs your attention to a dusty Mediterranean-style coffee table with numerous scratches and chipped corners.  The table is cluttered with three-ring notebooks of design possibilities featuring everything from familiar cartoon characters to menacing skulls and fire-breathing dragons. A couple of straight-back vinyl chairs placed here and there fill the corners opposite a portable television set supported by two plastic orange crates. The low-pile gray carpeting underneath has been stained with gum, cigarette burns, and dirt. Contrary to presumption, the area lacks the sterile medicinal odor one might expect.  

Surprisingly, the room is full of eager customers anxiously awaiting a turn to be permanently inked with signature emblems. Every artistic choice has significance and importance to the master tattooist.  Each person has a story to tell.  A legend in the making. Heavy Metal music fills the air, and yet, the intermittent buzzing of the drill, which slightly resembles an electric shaver, is heard in the background.  It is not unusual to see a customer signal the doorman to be released from these surroundings before service is rendered. Perhaps the required patience of being in limbo, not knowing if one is ready for the finality of the action, is unsettling. 

Invasion of the Coffee Pods

I woke up one day and got lost in the coffee aisle at the supermarket. Am I the only one?  Recently I made my usual trip to the local Kroger to replenish a can of Maxwell House French Roast and as I pushed the partially-filled cart past the island of spices I came upon a wall of compact pre-packaged single-cup disposable coffee choices. No longer was the 11-ounce can a sophisticated bold and hearty favorite, let alone a mindless staple, but now it was necessary to scan the shelves on a quest to locate it!  “Am I the last coffee lover on earth still using an automatic-drip Cuisinart?”, I muttered aloud.  Stacked in countless rows before me were boxes of multi-colored pods, k-cups, instant cappuccinos, and iced coffee concentrate all vying for the same attention.  House Blend, Mocha, Vanilla Hazelnut, Morning Blend, Skinny, Caramel, and more.  To add to my confusion, the Tossimo collection stared back as if throwing down the gauntlet in double-dog-dare defiance to refuse the Café Collection Crème Latte.  This little espresso number boasted “pure bliss at your fingertips with a frothy layer of milk creamer from their special T Disc”.  By this time I was beginning to feel a little lightheaded and woozy from lack of caffeine.  Collecting my items, I rushed to the checkout and paid for the groceries. Next stop: the nearest Starbucks!  If I was going to combat this Invasion of the Coffee Pods, it would require reinforcement.  “I’ll have a venti White Chocolate Mocha, please, with an extra shot of espresso.  Thank you.”

Jesus is For Real

The back seat windows were covered in a film of fog as the teenage daughter mindlessly scribbled a game of tic-tac-toe on the glass. Holiday music could be heard throughout the car reminding everyone it was Christmas Day, 1967.  This family of seven, ranging in age from six months to 37 years, was embarking on a journey that would change their lives forever.  They decided to do something a little different this year which is why, after opening gifts that morning, they tumbled into the car for their first Christmas dinner at a fancy restaurant thirty miles away.  Unbeknownst to them, Life would never be the same again.  Minutes before they reached their destination, they were struck head-on by a drunk driver who blew through a stop sign at high speed. Both cars slammed together creating a tailspin that released them in opposite directions.  Witnesses from a nearby motel came pouring out to the wreckage dragging the injured bodies of five crying children onto the ground where they were covered in warming blankets until help arrived.  Both parents, in critical condition, were rushed by ambulance to the local hospital in a race against time.  The unharmed middle-aged drunk driver paced back and forth muttering, “What have I done?  In God’s name, what have I done?”


Hours later, once intermittent  x-rays were taken, family members were sporadically admitted into different rooms due to an already overcrowded situation. The 13 year-old daughter was gurneyed  into the hospital Supply Closet across from the third floor Nurses Station due to a shortage of rooms available.  Tears were shed uncontrollably as countless terrified questions went unanswered.  Were her legs broken?  Would she ever walk again?  Where was her family?  Did her parents survive?  And her siblings?  The last image of her father pictured him slumped unconsciously over the steering wheel bleeding profusely from the forehead. And her mother?  Could anyone survive after plunging headlong through the windshield?  What about her six-month old sister?  Was she still alive?  There were no baby car seats or safety belts at that time. 

In the darkness of terror, the depth of pain, and the isolation of doubt, she focused her blurry wet eyes pass the blood-stained bandages covering her crushed kneecaps.  Across the room, through a haze of salty tears, the questions calmly subsided.  The frightened sound of her pounding heartbeat slowly diminished and was replaced with the tranquil words, “Fear Not!”.  In a direct line of vision, nailed to the wall of this rural Catholic Hospital, hung a shiny white crucifix reminding her of Jesus’ eternal love.  At that moment the comforting lyrics of the beloved Sunday School song came pouring from her lips.  Softly and steadily, in a broken fragile voice, she sang, “What a Friend We Have in Jesus” over and over again until she fell asleep. 

“What a friend we have in Jesus,
All our sins and griefs to bear!
What a privilege to carry
Everything to God in prayer!”

When God entered her heart this day, she knew He was for real. Four months later, with her entire family in attendance, she confirmed her faith on Palm Sunday and embarked on the spiritual walk of a lifetime. 

The Art of French Kissing 

“Why do you think what you have to say is not important?” He leaned toward her and placed his palm over her tightly clasped hands.  Her desperate glance around the table made her palms sweat and her heart race.  No, this was not what she wanted. It was evident the conversation had stopped mid-sentence while all eyes rested on her.  “I-I’m just listening”, her voice quivered.  It was her boyfriend’s cast party and he was suppose to be the center of attention. Isn’t that why he left her alone among strangers to mingle with his peers in the gourmet kitchen?  Ultimately, the company of actors in the adjoining room gathered in obscurity around the butcher-block island sipping micro brews and California wine. Muffled laughter and relentless teasing could be heard between leading characters as murmurs of infatuations filled the air.  Apparently they were swapping inside stories that confirmed the longer-than-necessary kisses exchanged onstage.  “More than a peck!”, someone grumbled.  “And wet”, another snickered.  “Admittedly it was French!”, a female voice confessed. Suddenly a slap on the back was heard in good fellowship and the troupe dispersed. 


At the end of the night, his date recalled the previous cast party they attended together. In a crowded room one man stood and offered her his chair.  It was a mannerly gesture, innocent enough, but afterwards at home the accusations flew.  She had been shamelessly flirting, he ranted.  The bitter outburst was enough to make the entire relationship questionable.  This evening didn’t help.  Eventually, a month later, she found her voice, along with a dose of self-respect. They split up and parted ways.  To him and his peers she became nothing more than “that blonde he used to date.”  He went on to star in another theatrical production where he began an onstage romance and later married.  She, on the other hand, improved her French accent and took a long-overdue trip to Paris.  In the romantic “City of Lights” she discovered fine cuisine, unbridled passion, and perfected the art of French kissing. 

A Bump in the Road

How many airport maintenance personnel does it take to change a lightbulb?  At last count, six, if you include the two who just passed by in neon yellow vests carrying clipboards.  So far Air Jet Flight 4859 had been delayed one hour and fifteen minutes. The intercom announcement to the confused travelers explained one of the overhead cabin reading lights was no longer operational. Thus began the delay.  One exasperated couple turned and headed to Customer Service muttering something about missing connections.   Meanwhile, a harried flight crew of three came rushing in as replacement staff for those who had timed-out.  The uniformed pilots looked at each other wondering why they raced through the yellow light narrowly missing the group of teenagers in the intersection.  One glance at the female flight attendant and you could practically hear her shout, “I just woke up!  I’m going on board anyway.  I need to apply make-up and fix my hair.”  Forty minutes later, the next report came blasting overhead.  “The guys are checking out the repair now as we speak.”  With that bit of refreshing news I couldn’t help but wonder…..don’t they just flip the switch like we do at home?  Before I knew it, an impatient ticket holder with arms flailing charged forward and pummeled the desk attendant with derogatory comments.  With glaring eyes and flared nostrils, he demanded a logical explanation to these cryptic announcements.  An elderly man of faith stepped forward placing his hand on the abusive man’s shoulder.  He spoke in a calm, steady voice, “Easy Son, these things take time.  Safety first.  Let them do their job. You’re not ready to face the alternative if they’re wrong, are you?”

Location. Location. Location.

“Ohmygosh!  Look up in the pine tree!”, I caught myself screaming in a shrill voice to my husband.  His back was turned away since he was focused on the rumpled banners curled around the flagpole.  We had just returned from a springtime walk down Dorna Lane.  The country air was refreshingly crisp and still slightly cool.  It was the kind of evening where the darkened shadows of leafless trees balefully resembled Slender Man peering out from within the woods on the edge of the stream.  And now this.  Bobbing above a low branch over the split rail fence hung an enormous, gray, teardrop nest.  It’s intimidation was boldly apparent.  Logic and Common Sense became our allies.  Since the weather had been frigidly cold these past few months, its residents were probably evicted last Fall after the first hard freeze.  Still, there’s something ominous about recognizing a vestige of nature.  


Upon my husband’s skillful removal, carcasses of worker hornets and larvae lay crumbled among the empty hexagonal chambers.  The queen was nowhere to be found.  Without a doubt, she most likely fled to a place more warm and cozy to design her next humble abode.  Judging by the abundance of fence rails and tree bark nearby, she’ll waste little time in stripping wood to shred into new construction. This Sleeping Beauty is a wise sojourner who ascertains the benefits of “Location, Location, Location”.

A Bridge Over Troubled Waters 


Dairy Queen, also known as the DQ, is one of those Midwest favorites that carries with it childhood memories throughout Life’s journey.  It’s not only for the young, it’s for the child in all of us.  Picture this, a triple high tower of creamy vanilla soft serve puffs atop a crunchy-checkered bakery cone.  I mean, who could resist that enticing signature curlicue?  Ah yes, the “right-of-passage” that Summer is upon us—-even if it’s only a sunny day in late March with a Northern wind still nipping at your heels. It practically makes your eyes roll back as you savor each delicious nibble.  Yum!  It was here, at the local DQ, that Jesus suddenly appeared to our grandson in a lesson he would never forget.  Having received a treat from my husband (a.k.a. Grandpa), I was already sitting on a bench outside enjoying my favorite ice cream cone and basking in the afternoon sunshine.  Landen, being 7 years old with eyes as big as saucers, ordered the extra-large icy blue raspberry slushy drink…..mostly because he knew Grandpa would indulge him, too.  After all, that’s what grandparents do:  fill ’em up with sugar and then send them home, right?

Landen was so excited holding a cup he could barely wrap his hands around, waiting patiently for Grandpa to remove the protective covering from the plastic straw.  In the next moment, with the straw unwrapped, Grandpa leaned over Landen and poked the straw through the slot in the lid.  As it slid into place, the force of the action caused the gigantic cup to slip through Landen’s hands and it fell to the ground in what appeared to be slow motion.  We were all aghast as we stared at the bright blue gooey mess spreading over the concrete sidewalk!  Landen’s lower lip began to quiver when he realized what had just happened.  Moments later, before a tear was shed, the DQ server appeared with a refill, a long-handled broom and a bucket of water.  She smiled as she handed him the drink and said, “It’s okay.  Accidents happen.  All is forgiven.”  She then proceeded to sweep away the stain and wash it out of sight.  

That sequence of events gave Grandpa the opportunity to remind Landen that our God is a forgiving God.  As it is written in Acts 3:19 he explained, “So then, let your hearts be changed and be turned to God, so that your sins may be completely taken away, and times of blessing may come from The Lord.”  He went on to further explain that Jesus died on the cross to erase all our sins, even the ones we don’t mean to commit.  Something as simple as a spill on the sidewalk gave him the opportunity to share a message about Jesus Christ.  I can tell you, afterwards the sky looked a brighter blue…..you might say as bright as a blue raspberry slushy drink.