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bert lohman

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From The Book

MIRACLE AT PISMO

by

BERT LOHMAN

Some moments in life are different. These occur when things change and everything is altered. Your life changes completely.

For me that moment was Wally... Pismo Beach,,,and clams.

In such a moment your life will be altered completely. Yes, This is where the new starts! The event should resemble a clarion call. Clear. Unambiguous. Your life must undergo an upheaval, a restructuring. It should resemble an epiphany, a blinding vision. An unclear event will not qualify. In such a case a new You has not blossomed. However laudable, minor behavior cosmetics and good deeds, do not qualify. It will soon become obvious that nothing of great consequence has occurred. Our present history hopes to discuss a Tsunami-type of life change. Deep subterranean alterations must appear.

What I will present is the result of an experience that happened seven years ago. I call it the Miracle at Pismo.

While wading for clams at Pismo Beach, I met Wally, the Tsunami’s human agent who caused the life-altering Tsunami to wash over me.

Do not draw hasty conclusions.

The temptation is to ask, “Clamming?...You mean that going clamming can result in a spiritual make over? Just experience a vigorous session of clamming---That can bring about a life transformation?

Of course not. Don’t be silly.

My spiritual, Tsunami make-over was far more than that-- more than a week-end get-a-way. It demanded that I expose my city-dweller soul to an un-edited version of primal nature. Thus I would become sufficiently sensitized to react to the secret stirrings of the invisible life source that swirls around us. Do not be misled. Pismo did not provide the magic. It was merely the place of the appointment where I was to experience the magic...and the clams. In retrospect, I now know that I had been scheduled for a tsunami experience which was scheduled to happen in Pismo...with Wally...and...clams.

That’s how these things seem to happen, almost by whimsy. Only later does the awareness creep in that a series of pre-destined, inevitable steps has brought it about.

Let me stop right here. Confession is tough. It’s hard for me to reveal my innermost thoughts, especially when they’re not flattering or painful. But now– seven years after the event--people I love have asked me to reveal the details of my internal revolution. Other needy ones, they claim, might also catch the same vision of the miracle of Pismo’s clams. According to them the whole thing was miraculous, So much life changing took place and....., they say.... is still going on.

As Wally was later to say: Pismo Beach is more than clamming. It’s the big Ahoy! at the beginning of the spirit’s adventure as it journeys to discover its roots.

So what is this clamming thing? The process is simple and has nothing to do with techniques or equipment. You wait for an historically low tide, at which time the deep-growing clams become exposed. What it really comes down to is this: you merely expose the natural laziness and the normal comfort of your body to primeval nature. This will permit your spirit to receive such astounding gifts as intense discomfort, bone-chilling cold, unending noise, and (of course) succulent clams (along with sand).

The hidden surprise?

You may receive the one true gift you really need--- the one you did not expressly come after.

(In later days you may even wonder : Whatever made me go to Pismo?) As for right now, put yourself there in spirit. Place yourself barefooted into the shallows of the inflowing and outflowing surf to where it washes in and to the level of your knees. When your toes sense a partially-buried clam, reach down with your clamming fork and bring it up. That’s it! Couldn’t be simpler.

But this is where the faint of heart go astray. They want to believe that a mystic set of rituals should initiate such an event. Go there ! Do this ! Follow the proper sequence...Develop a formula.......

I would say: Avoid the rituals. Yield to the spirit. Lean in to the spirit and let it float you up high. I know there is a tsunami waiting for you.

It is very, very early in the morning as your feet hit the almost icy water at the moment of the super-low tide. The night’s still dark; the misting spray is bone chilling, the surf is chanting out its monotonous music, and battalions of sea gulls are squawking ferociously. Every sensual experience that stabs you implants one dominant thought: Any return to warmth and comfort is a good thought.

This did not represent a negative thought to me; on the contrary! All was well with my world! In my imagination I was already feasting on clam chowder and warm Italian bread.

I was brought to sudden attention by a booming, male voice from behind me. The voice was rich, free, uninhibited. “Praise the Lord!” .

He sloshed toward me, a dark, shadowy hulk proudly flourishing his trophy, a large four-inch clam.

Parental up-bringing prompted me to mumble a polite, “Gosh, that’s great. Most of mine are real small.”

I held up the bag of clams slung over my shoulder and did not pursue the conversation further. Past experience had taught me to inhibit conversation with anyone with Huzpah enough to invoke the creator of the universe over a mere clam. One quicky learns that even on a dark night a fanatic God talker can whip out a blur of bible verses. My friend with the clam seemed to be just such a one. If he were in any way encouraged this could be just the beginning! One hour later, voila!...an Excedrin headache.

But Wally didn’t need my cooperation to keep the conversation flowing. He was spending an indeterminate number of weeks here on the beach, along with his sister and his baby daughter. “We all need this kind of experience,” he said. “We need to remain close to creation.”

I was to meet them shortly. They were even now making coffee and readying breakfast.

As I look back on those early moments of my encounter with Wally, I’m amazed at how smoothly I was drawn into the conversation, despite the shrill warnings of my inner alarm, None of this dawned on me until hours later.

It all occurred during a twenty-minute walk up the beachfront to his vacation trailer. He learned all about my romances, my education at State, even my advanced degrees in math and literature.. This was strange and uncharacteristic of me. Normally I never respond garrulously to any man who speaks naturally and unaffectedly about God and the Bible. But here I was! Within the space of five hundred yards his laugh and infectious attitude of interest had disarmed me. I had become secure enough in his presence to launch my store of well-rehearsed convictions about God, the Bible, and all bigoted Bible thumpers with closed minds.

In retrospect I realize my tone was pompous, “Those of us who are involved in science realize that we no longer need God and the Bible. We’re too high in the evolution of man’s development to need the support of superstition” This was the mighty generalization that guided my ultimate beliefs. But being polite, I added, “although we certainly understand that many are weaker and need religion as a crutch..” I tried to gentle this over with condescension and a friendly smile.

I was puzzled when the expected sharp retort that usually followed this intellectual flatulence did not arrive.,

“Very interesting,” was all he said. His tone was understanding and his smile warm, His hand casually patted my bag of clams. “I have come out from a similar position.”

I glanced up at him, puzzled, and trudged along, not knowing how to answer. It’s more than difficult--it’s impossible-- to contend with a friendly man who has smilingly insisted that you join his family for breakfast.

He sneaked a look into my bag of clams, picking up several of them, and continued “I can tell you have given the subject of religion a lot of thought. You’ve had training in mathematical logic. That’s good.”

He abruptly changed the thought as he dropped the clams back into my sack, “You lied,” he said with a chuckle. “You’ve out-clammed me.”

He couldn’t hear my silent smile as I continued, “Sorry, Wally, but I find it impossible to treat some ideas and concepts--like God and angels--as serious. You know, non-material beings with human thoughts.” The statement was intended to be gentle but came off as pedantic.

My newest friend took it well and laughed. “Like I said, Bruce. I come from a similar position. You’re not the world’s first and only atheist. ”

As he spoke he guided me to the front steps of a large vacation trailer parked a few hundred yards up the the knoll that separated the beach area from the bottom end of the main camp ground . “And now you can meet my females.”

My curiosity had been whetted. Wally’s conversation had centered on the death of his wife following an automobile accident with a drunken driver. His sister, as he called her, had slipped almost completely into the roll of foster mother to his two-year-old, orphaned baby daughter, Ruthie. The unborn baby had miraculously been saved on the frantic race of the dying mother to the hospital. Now I was about to see both little Ruthie and Wally’s sister Naomi.

After a quick scramble into the cozy tinyness of their travel trailer Wally turned to introduce me to his sister, “Bruce here is my clamming buddy; seems nice enough, but does have a dark side. He out-clammed me. Watch out for him.”

That was the first time in my life that I was startled by eyes. Now don’t get me wrong, lots of stories describe girls’ eyes, and hers were not too much different from most girls who have large, blue-gray eyes. It’s just that hers were placidly floating in the most serene face I had ever seen. She evinced no outward response to her brother’s humor. Quite obviously she would never be the boisterous life of the party. But she couldn’t conceal everything. There were tiny hints and glints. Dancing eyes and the faintest whisper of a smile revealed a fully developed sense of humor.

“Oh posh!!” she said, then smiled at me. “ Follow me and I’ll show you to our spacious and luxurious personal hygiene chamber.”

As I watched her, the germ of a revelation awakened within me. Maybe that was that magical moment when I first began to see the limitations of bachelor life. That was odd. Naomi wasn’t pretty; nor did she pass for what was presently being called beautiful; or pert; or cute. That a face so different from the popular standard of beauty of the day could so fascinate me annoyed me. Popular stereotypes of the day had thus far dictated my choices of beauty. Now for the first time I was straying from the stereotypes that the magazine and movie culture force feed on all of us. I have since discovered that this isn’t strange. True beauty will part company with the herd, and will often sire its own imitators.

When I returned from the tiny cubicle of the bathroom Wally’s sister, holding a large platter of pan cakes, sausages, and eggs, turned around from the kitchen stove. After placing them on the table she reached down and picked up a little moppet in a homemade flour-sack dress and held her toward me. “Say hello to Bruce, Ruthie.”

Warm moments in my life were piling up. I received the moistest kiss of my life along with the tightest hug. From that moment on two large eyes peering out from under a ring of curls kept an unwavering vigil on a stranger of evident interest to both her Uncle Wally and Aunt Naomi. Some days later I was to discover reasons for this Ruthie’s only other point of focus was Naomi’s face.

The large travel trailer was warm and made cozy with unusual friendliness. I watched Wally in particular as he helped Naomi with the dual chore of preparing the breakfast and looking after Ruthie. His earthy reality struck me. Women would be attracted to him. Though highly educated, he projected a natural, unassuming strength.

“Pass the pancakes to our guest, Ruthie,” he said. It was slightly more than a statement. It was an order, spoken quietly but in a tone that expected obedience. Missing were the shopworn words of social workers and teachers, the nasally twanged Thang cue’s of child-worker- speak ; and the false tones of respect in the required sing-songy pleeeze that must accompany any request to a child..

“For you, Mr. Bruce,” Ruthie said and passed the plate over to me from her child seat atop a kitchen chair.

Naomi was watching intently as I lifted off two hot cakes for myself. She nodded approval when I pantomimed placing one on Ruthie’s plate.

I was exulting. Two very attractive ladies were seemingly happy with Bruce, master clam fisherman of Pismo.

As we sat around waiting for something to happen, Little Darling looked up at her father questioningly.

He understood her unspoken question. “Of course,” he answered. “Go ahead.”

She in the flour-bag dress knew the drill fluently and brought her family to attention with a firm strike of her spoon on the bottle of orange juice. “We will give thanks,” she said.

I watched with quiet awe as she proceeded in what was a well-studied role. She thanked God for her family, for her Uncle Wally, her Aunt Naomi, and now the food. Finally she gave thanks for me, a very special friend God had brought into their family. I was touched. So strange!

The Amen’s were followed by a pleased smile from her royal little highness and a puzzling look from Naomi to me which mingled gratitude and surprise. It delivered a message, tinged with cryptic sadness and an element of fear. I was not to forget that look. Wally’s broad grin on the other hand was a signal that he and I seemed to be developing a special bond-- a bond whose name was Ruthie. He crowned this communique with a wink.

The cozy shelter of the mobile home, so filled with the love and affection among its members revived my spirit. I began to relax, looking forward to sharing a simple meal with this interesting family

I studied Naomi as she leaned over to cut Ruthie’s pancakes into mouth-sized pieces. It struck me that she was functioning more as a mother than an aunt, so amazing was the almost uninterrupted love-and-touch between them. An attitude-changing documentary that illustrated the phenomenon of bonding in nature immediately leaped to my mind . It shed light-giving insight on the question....What powerful instinctive force causes a helpless new-born to recognize its mother?

That answer startled me.

Naomi was actually being the mother--- !

not by reason of birth–but by nature’s bonding miracle.

In the documentary the ducklings did what they had been programed to do. A cosmic encryption had dictated and assured their survival. The helpless newborns were constrained by their inborn nature to accept the very first nurturing creature who cared for them as their mother.

This first nurturing creature became their mother!

Regardless of specie. Regardless of sex.

That this first nurturing creature was a human being and not a duck is interesting, but not essential. It was touching to see a train of ducklings waddle after their adopted human mother much like obedient children–all the way to the pond-- obediently and in single file. Interesting!—without pleeze and without thang-cue

This wasn’t difficult to understand. Nature (God is a more rigorous translation) programed them this way so they can survive a completely helpless babyhood. The helpless newborns claimed the very first nurturer as their mother, the one who would keep them alive....by teaching, feeding, and protecting them. Perhaps, I mused, this was a definition of love.

I wondered on. How would this very-visible bond between Naomi and Ruthie survive should Wally choose to marry again? Would Ruthie and Naomi then be separated? Would Ruthie go with her Uncle Wally-- her biological daddy--- or stay with her Aunt Naomi, the deeply-bonded mother of her birth miracle? It was strange that my thoughts led me in this direction.

Wally raised his fork, and pointing at me, addressed Naomi. “Bruce, here, is my clamming companion,” he said. “I want you to be very kind to him. He has a very serious problem. He needs urgent help.” There was a mock seriousness in his voice. Evidently something was at work.

His sister turned to me and said, “Bruce, forgive him. He’s trying to be funny.”

Then she turned her fire on her brother, “And the humor isn’t working.” While she pouted at him, she patted me on the arm.

I looked from one to the other, relieved when I saw that Wally was smiling.

He looked at his sister pointedly, “Beetle,” he said. It was an underscored word, probably a code, a secret communication between them.

Yes, there was something at work.

They both became quiet. Beetle was obviously a secret signal between them.

Naomi attempted to conceal a smile of understanding. “Don’t look so confused, Bruce,” she said, and turned to butter Ruthie’s pancake. “We’ll have to explain that to you one of these days.” and she nuzzled Ruthie’s fat little upper arm.

“Huh?” I thought, stunned.

“One of these days....?....What’s going on?...I’m to be kept prisoner?“ I knew that to be silly. Nevertheless the confusion stayed.

Wally caught my look of bewilderment. “Yes, Bruce,” he began. “Naomi, Ruthie, and I held council of war while you were cleaning up. We decided that we should invite you to be our guest for the remainder of the time you are here. Your own camping rig is only few yards away. We can share meal times..... and other things....like fishing, shopping...barbecues.”

I looked from one to the other, seeking help or some sort of confirmation. Naomi nodded, and looked down, as if concealing embarrassment at her own approval. Shyly, I thought.

Ruthie came to life with much more exuberance. “Yes, Please! Yes, Mr Bruce, please,” she pleaded.

I demurred for a confused minute, “Well,” I answered, “Maybe a week or two.” I really had nothing else to say. I knew that I had no legitimate excuse. There was nothing to to lure me back--- to anywhere. Nothing but future lay ahead of me. And none of it looked enchanting.

Little Darling squealed and hugged Naomi who, in turn, smiled up

at me.

“Well, you’ve certainly made her happy,” Naomi said.

*****

The sun was beginning to beginning to make headway over the clammy morning mists when Wally and I reached the end of the pier where we had planned to stake out our fishing domain. We leaned our poles against the railing and plopped our back- rests down.

“Gotta leave room for the girls,” Wally said as he readied his backrest. “Better move your pole over a little, Bruce. The girls don’t really come out here to fish, but they do like to have a line in the water. Then they can look out over ocean...and chatter.”

I smiled, “Sure thing! What kind of bait you using?

“Sardines...at least until the girls come. They can’t stand to see the little wigglers skewered on the hook. They make that ugly Yaach sound and other shuddering noises.”

I understood. “It’s in their D.N.A.” I joked.

Wally continued. “Or else we can start with the jigs. They work real well here. The fish won’t be huge. But sometimes you hook four or five at once, and that’s kinda fun.” With that he leaned his pole against the railing and, keeping the reel in his hand, sat back comfortably to lure the fish into catching themselves. He sighed, began to close his eyes, and said, “This is living,!”

Pier fishing is one of the good things in life, provided, of course, you don’t take it too seriously. It lets you sit and have the sun begin to warm you—while the real you mentally floats out over the shimmering ocean surface to watch seagulls screeching noisily as they dive to retrieve scraps of bait and food. You can sit in a somnolent state, unaware that you have become hypnotized, while secretly hoping no greedy fish will come along to disturb your quiet

Wally’s pole snapped suddenly erect.

I awoke with a start. “Got something?”

“Nah. Only something messing around with my bait. How are you doing?”

“Having a ball,” I answered. “Just sitting here thinking about a word you mentioned the other day.”

Wally didn’t answer, as if he hadn’t understood.

I sat up and leaned on one arm to look at him closely. “Beetle!” I said, underscoring the word carefully. “Couldn’t understand whether you meant insect or singers.”

My companion registered understanding; and got up slowly from his seat, a bit stiffly, and placed his pole against the railing of the boardwalk. He stood there for a considerable moment, staring out over the wide expanse of the sea, as if trying to extract an answer from it. Four miles off shore an oil tanker appeared like the painting of a ship steaming out from under a pillar of black smoke trailing from a gray blanket in the sky.

His face was intent and burdened with a touch of sadness. He turned slowly, and looked deeply into my eyes before he spoke, “Bruce, I want you to know that I have really come to think of you as a brother.” I felt his hand land gently on my shoulder.

This was probably the first time in my life I wasn’t able to put even a single thought together. I just stood there staring straight ahead, my mind as blank as my face, stunned and unable to speak.

He didn’t await my response. “My whole future is riding on you.”

Again! Another mind-rocking explosion. I tried to answer, but couldn’t. I couldn’t get past My whole future is riding on you. This was crazy. Where was it coming from?

He stood, quietly looking at me, his hand still on my shoulder. So far he had clarified nothing, contributing only a new confusion that left me as bewildered as before. I turned to the railing, not knowing what to say. That’s when my bobbin began a frantic dance. “Got a bite!” I cried. It was a heaven-sent diversion.

For the next several minutes the conversation hung in limbo as the two of us hurried to get my crappies into the creel. Our poles stood by patiently as they waited for us to get finished with our personal issues.

“O.K. I’m ready to talk,” Wally said as he placed our two poles back on the railing, but this time without baiting them. “Just one favor, Bruce—Don’t leap to any conclusions until you have heard me out. All of what I’m about to tell you will seem strange. Very strange.”

He placed two plastic-coated metal cups on the railing and began filling them from the thermos. What a strange setting, I thought—seagulls, fish, chilly sea breeze. Almost like a spy novel. Now maybe I’d discover the meaning of Wally’s cryptic remarks.”

“Here, Bruce,“ he said as he pushed a cup in front of me. He kept his gaze straight ahead into the path of the B.P. oil tanker. “And plant the following thought deep into the crevices of your mind—“

I glanced at him sharply. His voice had become urgently intense.

“I am a dying man.”

No one can answer a statement like that. By keeping my eyes fixed on the oil tanker I was able to keep from looking absolutely blank. This news had come from far beyond any experience in my reality. We both stood in silence.

I was the first to break the rigidity of our frozen pose and turned to face him. He stopped me. “I’ve got exactly six months.”

I continued my interrupted stream of meaningless mumbles, “Aw Wally, you can’t...”

“No, Bruce. It’s fixed. It’s incurable.”

I stood silent, shaking my head in disbelief, thinking of Wally’s happy little circle of love in the trailer unit. Something was going terribly wrong.

“I’ve got six months,” he said. He reached into the bucket of unused wiggling sardines and tossed a handful of them into the water below us, his hand on my shoulder. “I’ve already had to waste six months in finding and researching you. Now my time has finally begun to run out.”

I stood motionless during most of the next minutes of Wally’s discourse, delivered slowly in a low voice with not the least straining for an emotional effect.

“When I learned the bad news, I was faced with a severe dilemma, one that I’ve had to live with every minute of every day for the last half year.”

I nodded. I was beginning to get a glimmer. “Ruthie,” I whispered. “Your baby.”

“Yes. Bruce. But that’s only part of it.”

Again I was ahead of him. “It’s Naomi, too–isn’t it?

As I looked across at Wally I could see the tear forming in his eye. “You may not be aware of it, Bruce, but They’re much more than Auntie and niece.“ He looked away as he searched for words. “Naomi is the only mother Ruthie has known.”

This time I supplied the steadying hand to my friend’s shoulder. “They have become Mommie and her baby!” I explained gently. “They are naturally bonded.”

We stood silently by the railing, lost in a miraculous moment of completely wordless communication. We both knew that both of us knew. A gravely serious dilemma faced Wally...and Ruthie...and Naomi.

I knew that somehow, in some way, I was to play a role in its solution.

Wally had spent six months researching me? And then followed me here? How strange!...Why?

*****

“I was there, Bruce, when the doctor told him,” Naomi said simply and flatly, letting the battered fish fillet she was holding sizzle into the fry pan. Her look begged me to to stop the questioning. “He told both of us,”

So she knew! And now what next?

“I’ll go fetch Ruthie and Wally to dinner,” I said, hoping to end a conversation that was becoming awkward for me.

“Make sure Ruthie goes to the toilet,” Naomi called after me, “and make sure she washes her hands.”

I slipped into the tiny bedroom that Naomi and her baby shared and found Little Darling sitting cross-legged on the bed. She was holding an alphabet card in her hand and sounding out the purest, nasal “nnnnn” sound ever heard in Pismo Beach

No man lives thirty-three years without surviving some tumultuous surprises. Mine, it seems, were happening now and threatening to continue. The events of recent weeks were beginning to resemble a mystery novel. I wasn’t aware of it, but the most startling chapter was about to begin.

As I plopped down beside Little Darling I discovered the entire sequence of lesson cards from Dr Bruce Leonard’s “Read by Three.” I shook my head in disbelief. My book! ...My own unpublished book!....Here in Pismo!...In the hands of Little Darling.

Something very strange would have to be explained soon. But duty first!.......Come on, Darling! Toilet! hands! Supper! Auntie has called!

Surprise! A tiny hand reached up, took mine, and let out a happy chirp, “O.K., Uncle Bruce.”

My name had changed from mister to uncle.

*****

I pulled into the tourist center of Pismo and glanced over at Wally. “Now we can talk,” I said. “And eat.”

“Right by me,” my silent companion answered. “Heaven knows, you’ve earned some answers. Order me sunny-side up and bacon, with rye-bread toast.” Chuckling, he added, “You get to pay. That’s for kidnapping me.”

While I placed our order with the waitress, Wally spoke up, “You get to ask a question. I’ll try to answer it. You may then proceed to your next one. O.K.?”

It’s hard to ask a good question, a fact I was soon to discover. My first gem was scarcely a work of glory. “O.K., Wally, What’s going on?”

Wally laughed uproariously. “That doesn’t qualify as a question. It’s a demand for a performance. You want me to do all the work. But don’t worry... I understand. You’re confused. Quite frankly, you’ve been taken advantage of. If I were in your place I’d be plotting a murder.”

When the coffees came I looked over at my companion and spoke In a subdued voice, “I think...I know–in a general way–what happened.”

“Oh?”

I think that the seriousness of my tone seriousness affected him. He sat very quietly, spinning his coffee cup round and round in its saucer...slowly.

“Yes, I do,” I continued, “You sat around in a funk feeling sorry for yourself. Wife dead. Your little baby girl, your first-born-- motherless. Poor, pretty little thing! And then you snapped out of it! Suddenly you found yourself a real lallapalooza of a solution.

“You discovered that little Ruthie and her Aunt Naomi had bonded ! They had become baby and Mommie.”

I paused. “Your sister had become Mommie.”

I could see the tears welling in his eyes. “Right?” I demanded.

He was nodding as the waitress came in with our orders. He put his hand on hers and said, “A favor, please, Miss. Put the plates down and wait with us for a moment. We need to pray a life-saving prayer, and an additional heart would really help if it agreed with us.”

The young lady, looking surprised, nodded and set down our servings.

I know what my mother would have said about her. “She has a gentle look about her. Life has hurt her.”

There are thousands like her to be found in restaurants and diners throughout the country. Some are young and go to school, others are married and have families. Universally they are expected to be happy and friendly. They serve a valuable service in providing an oasis of human contact in a world whose key ingredient is loneliness. I guessed that personal tragedy had visited her. But, then, a hint of sadness is not a detriment to a girl who is strikingly attractive in a simple waitress uniform.

Wally, looking at her name tag, said, “Thank you, Eunice,” and then began his prayer in his normal voice, which meant that it penetrated every corner of the small diner.

“Dear Father, we come into your presence by the authority of your son Jesus. We remind you of our on-going special need just as you have told us we should. The problem is still with us, but ever-so- much improved, thanks to your recent miracles. Oh, how could we ever survive without your love? May all of us learn to love each other the same way....Amen”

1. Amazing! My friend Wally had just converted a small tourist diner into a cathedral. An elderly couple by the window, dropped their heads and united with us. A younger couple, somewhat subdued, joined in the Amen,

Yes,” Wally said after Eunice, our waitress, left. “I know that you’re very confused, Bruce. I know that I’d be. So, what’s your next question?”

This is where it became murky. My rational mind declared that all of Wally’s obvious problems were pretty well solved. Ruthie had an almost gloriously perfect mother. So far as I could tell there should be no real problems facing Mommie and baby. At his death, Daddy Wally would be leaving his family adequately provided with insurance and survivor benefits. So what was the problem? Why the mysteries? What was the missing key piece of the puzzle?

This manner of thinking had caused me to stray from my central concern, What was I doing here...in Pismo.---involved so very directly in these strange goings- on?

I had been researched? What for?...For my book and educational expertise?

I found myself starting to worry. It was becoming apparent; I could wait no longer. The time had come to level a direct shot at my breakfast companion, and this was not easy; I had become fond of the man.

I let my coffee cup strike the saucer with a sharp clink and stared at him directly, “Wally,” I said, “Straight answer! Use simple, short words and tell me how my unpublished manuscript got into the hands of Little Darling. I caught her honking out phonic drills from my book!”

I could see him wrestle with the grenade I had thrown him. For a moment he looked as if he wished to reneg on his promise. Then I saw the resurgence of resolve to keep his word. After a considerable silence, it came, “It was Mary, your secretary in the linguistics department at State U. She ran them off for me-- two complete books. Even had them bound–--along with all the drill cards.”

He studied my reaction.

My eyes became hypnotized. The accumulated surprises were unsettling-- Mary...at State!

Wally continued, “My search had led me to her. She cried when I told her about my medical problem and baby. She was very kind and understanding.”

I nodded vigorously. That really described Mary.

Wally’s voice had become tender, “In addition she told me how, using that very book, you had her own little nephew reading at fifth grade level before he entered kindergarten.”

Wally’s encounter with Mary --and the book episode--- shot by me like a wild Whoosh!

“Your program is a work of genius, Bruce,” he added. “A shame it wasn’t published and inserted into every school curriculum in he country. We wouldn’t be seeing our present generation of clods shuffling off, lockstep, to Gomorrha.”

Amazing! My new friend had profound insights for one who was trapped in a simplistic, no-thought, religious world view.

“Thanks, Wally. It helps to have intelligent people validate my work. You’d have thought I had declared world war III when I tried to introduce that program into my school district,”

“First they had hired me to study and improve their reading problem, Then they practically accused me of treason when our city-wide testing program revealed their modern methods to be a disastrous sham,”

Copyright 2007-2008, bert lohman (Expires May 29, 2008)

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