Willard

You know, every once in a while, someone comes along—and you have a hard time forgetting them. Maybe it’s a lover? A teacher? A bestie from school? Willard was none of those things, but an unforgettable pillar of strength, courage and love.

I had picked up (another) Cathy in Denver. We knew each other from the Pineal Tones choirs, and she offered to join me on the last leg of my journey home. I wanted to camp,  and being by myself in the woods—didn’t seem like such an astute idea. There was always safety in numbers, right?

So, at her suggestion, we had landed at the Loft Mountain Campground, which is part of the Shenandoah National Park in Virginia, also known as The Blue Ridge Mountains. The forecast called for rain, this particular Wednesday, our first day in the park, so we ventured off to Mt. Vernon—beloved home of George Washington, and a figure near and dear to my heart. The next day, we agreed to hike down to what was called

Lower Doyles River Falls, weather cooperating. And, so it was that we set off down the trail to the falls. We were just getting started when we came upon an older gentleman standing off the path dressed appropriately in hiking boots, and wearing long hiking style khaki pants, buttoned shirt, army green fishing vest, cap and glasses on a cord hanging around his neck. We stopped to say hello, and he showed us a small acorn under his magnifying glass. He confided that he was an artist—but seemed somewhat shaken after our conversation—as we parted ways—-asking if it was alright if we gave him a hug good-bye.

I had seen him at his campsite when we slowly drove the asphalt drive into the campground, looking for the spot to we would call home for the next three days. However—somehow his apparent circumstances stood out from the “normal” RV,  family, couple or weekend hiker; he was sorting things at his picnic table, as we passed by.

After our “chance” encounter, we visited him several more times, and invited him to our campsite two nights later to enjoy the campfire. He shared his artwork, which was neatly contained in a folder. His story seems unremarkable—just a guy traveling by himself—camping—until you realize that he was 86 years old and had gotten wind that “they” were getting ready to place him in a nursing home. What, I thought? There was nothing about this man that warranted placing him in a facility for the aged or ill. He

 shared that he had lived in Vermont for 40+ years—built his home there. His wife of many years had passed several years before and he had a daughter who lived in the LA area. He had a sister that wanted him to live with her in Virginia.

Getting wind of obviously someone’s else’s plans for him, he told us that he bought a copy of Consumer Reports—found the most reliable and economical car they advised and traded in his old one. He found a close-out tent for $24.00 and collected the rest of the miscellaneous camping supplies he would need—and off he went. Arizona was where he spent last winter and felt he would be heading back that way when the weather began to turn. He knew he didn’t want to be around the inclement winters because as he said, he didn’t want to slip on the ice and break a hip.

My mind since, has reflected back to my own Mother and her circumstances and her desire to live her remaining days in her home; a wish my brother-in-law refused to honor. Things are not always as they seem. But, Willard’s story brings up many ideas about parking people in nursing homes—when they are in fact vibrant, and “not ready” to be housed in group homes. Where is the freedom to choose? And, where does that truth lie?

As we were parting good-bye, we wished him well on his journey. He wished us well too. There was a soul connection and something profound and unspoken, we all knew; we could feel it. We also knew that there would be no way to remain in contact; this was it. No email. A sister’s address for legal purposes. A flip phone with limited airtime. No text. I had the knowing it was just the way it was meant to be. As we said our good-byes, he stopped. “You know, on the trail, that first day, I was a bit shaken,” he confided. I had witnessed his welling-up but had said nothing. I saw your light, he said, and it startled me. I smiled and so did Cathy. “I am keeping this as a reminder, he softly noted looked us in the eyes and then slid the tiny acorn into his shirt pocket. I smiled again and gave him another hug. We walked away.

Ironically, the acorn, is a symbol of strength and power. That was who he was—and that was what he held in his hand. It is the same for us. No matter where our life starts—or from our own humble beginnings, we All have the ability, just like the Willard and the tiny acorn. We have the strength like the mighty oak; it’s not inside some of us. It’s inside All of us! We need only to believe. Namasté

 

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About Cathrine Silver

Cathrine Silver, HC, AADP, is a Certified Holistic Health Coach in private practice in Lauderdale by the Sea, Florida. She works collaboratively with clients on their desires regarding disease, relationships, spirituality, and loss. Suffering through her own loss in 2005, Cathrine motivates and empowers others to be the heroes in their own lives, becoming fully responsible for their own happiness, joy and well-being.

Cathrine holds a degree in Speech Communication from the University of Washington, is a graduate of the Institute for Integrative Nutrition and holds certifications in Reiki, Matrix Energetics, Hypnosis, Biological Decoding and Grief Counseling. She is the author of the book, Riding the Light Beam: How Any Woman Can Find the Hero

www.Cathrinesilver.com (Website)

www.cathysilver.me (Blog)

cathysilverhealth@gmail.com (email)

Cathy Silver Holistic Healing (Facebook)

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A piece of Cake

Sometimes things are just plain unexplainable, period. We call it synchronicity and coincidence, but speaking now, for myself, amazes me whenever these “chance” alignments occur. I’ve heard it referred to ‘physics with an attitude’. (And, infinite LOVE is at the center of physics.) Examples in real life though, help us to believe that the Universe conspires to bring like-minded things together in a vibrational sequence. It’s about living in the moment, being open to possibilities and certainly going with the flow.

Some things just seem to be beyond our control. Or perhaps, everything is?  Are we riding in the passenger seat, while larger invisible life forces known as our higher self and soul drive things around us based on our very personal intent? We are after all co-creators, right? Or sometimes, we deliver the messages of what others’ need to hear—or are in need of? Do we serve as divine message carrier?  More and more, I am beginning to feel this is Truth with a capital T.

I was out on the Olympic Peninsula for just about the entire month of July. I had volunteered to make dinner for friends, and the decision as to the menu was entirely up to me. After a number of considerations—I decided homemade pizza—sans homemade crust; store bought refrigerated crust would have to do this round. Scrolling mentally through my mental list of ingredients, I quickly realized, my pizza stones were at home in Florida. I was spending more and more time on the Peninsula, so, why not invest in the proper equipment and leave it here? Easy thought and idea, huh?  As you know, many things do not go as planned, and this was no exception!

With instant delivery, overnight service and that giant known as Amazon, I assumed this purchase would be a piece of cake.  My Friend Brad didn’t have a mailbox at his Sequim home, but I thought for sure, Amazon would have lockers nearby. After all, Ft. Lauderdale certainly did, and I snubbed them every time I walked into the local Whole Foods.

To make a long story short, Amazon and Walmart did not have what I wanted—or should I say—couldn’t get it to me with the speed I had become accustom to. It was Wednesday and dinner was Friday. Plan B: There had to be one.  

Now Sequim is the gateway to the Olympic rain forest, the Pacific Ocean and the playground for hikers and RV’s. But, it’s often a challenge to manifest things in an instant or so I thought!  Therefore, an idea occurred. I’ll call this Plan B. I would drive the 40 minutes to the touristy town of Port Townsend. I had visited there a few years ago, and It seemed to me there was a small kitchen store. They certainly would have the large pizza stone I was in search of. And, so the adventure unfolded. 

On the way into town, I stopped at the Goodwill. You know, one man’s unwanted clutter is another man’s treasure. No pizza stone, but a bargain for a William-Sonoma muffin tin. 🙂 Onward ho . . . I had spoken to Brad’s neighbor on Whidbey Island to see if she was available to meet in PT for lunch. “Oh, Cathy,” she said, I am elbows deep in cookie dough, going to be at my daughter’s house tomorrow.” “Next time, raincheck,” and I hung up the phone.  During our brief phone conversation, Joan had suggested the Mercantile Quimper, just beyond the ferry loading dock. The store was cute, and had a lot of stuff—in fact small 12” pizza stones, but that wasn’t what I had in mind. I continued my quest . . . the cooking store, the Green Eyeshade, back to What’s Cookin’, Don’s pharmacy (which still had a working soda fountain), Henries Hardware, and back up the hill out of town. I had passed Habit for Humanity’s store on the way in and decided to give it a go. Who knew what I might find in peoples’ discarded household articles and unwanted items? I parked, and spoke to an employee loading chairs into an elderly woman’s Toyota as I walked to the entrance. “Pizza stone, yea, we get them from time to time, but they’re not a high demand item.” I nodded my head in agreement, I guessed he was right. And, this was where things got interesting . . . 

I followed his instructions and soon found myself in their “kitchen” department. Quickly, another female employee greeted me, and asked me what I was looking for. I explained my quest—and she shook her head. “The woman who runs this department is off today, but I haven’t seen one lately.” Shortly, a conversation ensued as I was obviously talking to another cook like myself and we were discussing the finer points of homemade pizza and alternatives to my pizza stone dilemma. Minutes later, a slender 40ish looking man in a blue t-shirt and jeans appeared from around the corner. “Excuse me”, he said politely, “I am sorry, but I overheard your conversation, and I have a pizza stone if you’d like it.” Wow, that would be fantastic I thought and the woman and I glanced quickly at each other. “No charge—I will give it to you.” He continued, “my wife doesn’t like it, and she told me to get rid of it. You can have it.” I shook my head and smiled, “sure, that would be great. Thank you.” 

He, Matt—now I knew his name, had another stop in town before heading back to his house. We traded numbers, and he said he would text me when he arrived back at his house. In the meantime, I decided a quick bite to eat would kill the hour or so wait, and based on the suggestions from the women at the counter, I headed down the road to find The Cup for a bowl of chowder.  “Wow. That was divine intervention” said another older employee who stood behind the counter as I headed out the door. Yes, it was! 

It was a cute little restaurant in what looked like an old remolded house—painted latte-brown with a few scattered red umbrella’s and some outdoor furniture—for those celebrated warm days in the Northwest. I was seated and ordered my chowder, grabbed a piece of the local paper to read and I waited for my food. As I paid my tab, I wanted to leave the waitress a larger tip and dug into my wallet to pull out a Susan B. Anthony coin that had been riding in my wallet for months. I looked up, most of the lunch crowd had disappeared, and I caught her eye. “I’m leaving this dollar and I wanted to let you know, it wasn’t a quarter—with the other singles on the change tray,” I said smiling. “I collect those for my grandson, thank you”, she said. We chatted for a minute about her grandkids, and then I got up and headed the towards to the door. 

Now, I happen to be wearing my purple WASHINGTON husky wind breaker that my father had sent me several years ago—and a man working behind the counter looked at me, and asked me, “Did you play ball for Washington?” “Yes, actually I did—about a 100 years ago”—and smiled back, and stoping to talk for a moment. I can’t remember the exact sequence of our chat, but I had to be me—and shortly into our “light” conversation, I stopped and said, “You know, you were born magnificent.” He was wearing a baseball cap and pulled it over his eyes and bent his head downward, placing his hands on the high counter in front of me that separated us. I continued, “Maybe that’s the real reason I came in today?” “You know we all carry divinity inside—but sometimes we just need to be reminded.” We are all part of the One.” With that, I detected, for whatever reason—and whatever his story caused a welling-up deep emotional reaction.  I reached over to the counter, where he had laid his hands, and put mine on top of his, giving his fingers a squeeze. He gave my little finger a squeeze back.  He had had all he could take and I silently walked out the door. 

Whatever your Truth, sometimes we all need to be reminded of our divine magnificence. I left the restaurant, and followed my GPS to Matt’s house, where I happily accepted his gift, and my new pizza stone. I left Port Townsend with a smile. There were so many things to be grateful for—and the Universe had conspired in a most unique and exciting way to make everything happen perfectly. I just followed the cosmic crumbs! It had been a day of soft sweetness—and the Universe had delivered me a delicious piece of cosmic cake.

 

Blowing in the Wind

The answer, my friend, is blowing in the wind, sang Bob Dylan in 1963.  Was there an even deeper message within the song and its famed lyrics?  A message for humanity and our potentials here on Earth, perhaps?

Fast forward to June 2019. Over the equinox, I attended a very esoteric conference at Mt. Shasta. It’s not for everyone, but it’s “my thing”. I have also participated in a number of Dr. Todd’s pineal tone choirs—where we sing special tones—a “light language” with intentions like “Returning to the first breath of source”. During these choirs, one of the pair sets we “sing/chant” is the sound of the wind—the group of 400+ of us make quite a breeze.  All this, of course, to our Star Mothers; those who gave us the divine spark and the consciousness to seek our true nature, our Magnificence and our divine cosmic roots. Perhaps, too much for some to even imagine and eye-rolling for others. It’s always bigger—much bigger. We often get stuck inside our box.

I have to preface this, because during my “calling” up the mountain and then subsequently thereafter, the wind seemed to speak to me in a multidimensional way that my consciousness and my 3D linearity could not understand, but my soul, higher self and heart seemed to recognize. Out of total silence, came a breeze at the top of the trees. What were they trying to tell me?

In that nano second, I asked myself, could this be a form of communication? A soft message—that I have yet to understand? My intuition “nodded” the affirmative. Now, do I understand it? No. Do I believe it? Yes. Many things that occur on this earth plane have very little understanding in our modern day “know it all” world. But, I believe there is more—vastly more, we do not understand that is simply discounted as ridiculous, laughable, absurd and “unscientific” by most. You dear reader may be one? However, history tells us that there are many things the ancients “knew”, that we are just confirming as truth. What will be verified in a thousand, or more years beyond today?

The Australian Indigenous teach that all living things contain a spirit. They say it is our true nature. To look at a spirit of the trees is a comprehensive look at how our beautiful trees serve, delight and have the potential to heal us during our time here on planet earth. The spirit of trees reminds us we are all one living thing connected together by the universal glue of love according to psychic and medium Ian Scott.

Forest ecologist Dr Suzanne Simard, from the University of British Colombia, writes that the trees actually communicate with each other. What about with us? The Fox tribe of the Native Americans, also known as the Meskwaki believed that the spirits of their ancestors lived in cedar trees and murmuring in the wind—was the ancestors’ voices. It is also a Native American belief that we must respect, appreciate and protect all life. That includes the natural world and animals.

Do the trees want to share a deeper knowledge? We share a common home. Isn’t it time to honor the Earth as a true soul group? A philosophy that says now is the time to respect and honor each other as a piece of divinity. WE must transcend the low thoughts of winner take all, and instead decide that we all can live in peace, harmony, tolerance, love and compassion towards each other. There is enough for ALL.

Nature has created a balance. Can we live that way as well? What do the forests, the rivers, the mountains and the animals want to teach us?  Or as Dylan sang in the 60’s, “How many times can a man turn his head pretending he just doesn’t see?”

 

 

 

 

 

“More Stars in the Sky Than Grains of Sand on Earth.”

I have read that there are more stars in the sky than grains of sand on the Earth, and it certainly seemed to be true the night Brad and I camped at Whiskeytown Shasta – Trinity National Recreation Area in northern California. The vastness of the Universe has held humanity’s attention for eons—and tonight was no exception for me. It was a rather spontaneous stop garnered by a quick internet search earlier that afternoon.  Yes, we were able to reserve a camp spot—and even pay the nominal fee over the phone with a credit card.  That was the easy part. As was our greeting by the National Park security who checked our name off the list and gave us verbal instructions and a cryptic map which designated our “C-16” spot that would be our “home” and rest spot for the night. However, by the time we reached the parking lot—complete darkness had set in—and in spite to producing two small flashlights—the layout—the paths—the markings and the darkness made the discovery of our campsite a bit of a challenge.  Was this a metaphor for us, for humanity as well?

Our persistence paid off and after about 45 minutes, our 3-4 minute walk downhill to the water and our camp site numerous times had us somewhat settled in—tent, sleeping bags and even two folding chairs—which provided the scenic views to the heavens.  We literally tailgated on the back of the pickup truck on the asphalt parking lot finishing cold chicken and fruit and by 11:00 P.M. found ourselves back down sitting in our observation chairs—sipping a glass of wine and relaxing in the fairly quiet wilderness.  (The “neighbors” kids finally began to get quiet and the dog was at last peaceful—lol—woof-woof.) So much as a break from suburbia!

As I stared out into the heavens, I wondered, what lay beyond the boundaries of our human existence?  Who were we really, behind the cloaked veil that our daily lives consumed?  And, where did we come from?  There are many who believe that we are seeded from the stars—that philosophy, when I thought about it, felt right.  Were we seeded from the Pleadians two hundred thousand years ago?  Were these light beings our divine parents from a lineage billions of years old?   Were we the “new kids” on the block? There were many indigenous and ancient peoples whose creation story linked us to the stars—and each story to each other, even though there was no means of communication between them.  These stories were etched and painted upon the caves and artifacts over the millennium.  There were sightings of lights where no electricity existed—Mt. Shasta was certainly one—Hawaii and Uluru were other places of magic. Our knowledge so limited, and our technology still primitive—gave us little understanding of the vastness and infinite makings of the multiverses and galaxies beyond our closest frontiers.

And, so it was, as I drifted off to sleep—thinking about my adventure to east Texas to reclaim my old MGB with my friend Brad and the stars that filled my imagination and my fascination.  It had been a long hot day and we had already crossed many miles when my tired body laid upon the air mattress. What did we really know?

Battle Cruiser

I met the truck only the afternoon before.  My friend Brad had named it the Battle Cruiser with the plate to match: BTLCRSR.  I must admit, it was certainly not a pretty sight. The yellow paint faded—exposed rust in certain places and green moss covering parts of the exterior and hood. It’s four and a half decades were evident; it was a work horse.

After some coaxing, the loyal truck came to life.  I was happy to see the life return as the deep throaty motor sounded like a tired warrior awakening as daybreak arose too early: Brad pumped the gas pedal and cajoled the old Ford pickup into being.

I had a mission—and needed the Battle Cruiser’s help.  The instructions from Brad were simply that first gear was not necessary—to low a gear to start. “Use second” he said. Easy enough I thought and nodded, as I climbed in the next morning and sat in the driver’s seat, starting the engine.  After decades of smaller and smaller cars—and trucks—this old relic was immense.  As tall as I am—and as long a reach as I have—I could not, even leaning over and stretching, open and unlock the passenger door from the inside.   Were the vehicles really this big???  Wow.

And, so it was, I shifted the truck into gear, lifted the clutch and headed up the wooded driveway finding my way to the 101 and to the Kingston-Edmonds ferry off the Olympic Peninsula and toward Bellevue; my childhood home. I thought about my mission to save the trash burner—a request out of my Mother’s house—before it’s fate met the awaiting bulldozer; demolishing it to the ground.  Another era gone.  As I pulled out of the driveway and on to the Sequim neighborhood graveled road, I felt my Father sitting in the passenger’s seat.  Perhaps, he felt my bit of nervousness, apprehension, or trepidation with the old truck?  At any rate, I felt the reassurance as the memories of familiar childhood adventures surfaced.  This time however, I was driving—and he was riding.  I continued my drive south 42 miles to the Washington State Ferry terminal; my mind concentrating on the road as I roared along feeling like something out of Mad-Max Road Fury.

I thought about the laughter that ensued when I voiced my request for the trash burner; I had my reasons and I didn’t really care what anyone thought.  I pulled up to the toll booth to purchase my round-trip fare.   “Lane six”, said the woman in the toll booth as she handed me my change and receipt.  I smiled and thanked her, easing the truck back into gear and driving forward into my designated parking lane to await the Ferry’s arrival into Kingston terminal. Settled, I hopped out of the Battle Cruiser and headed up to grab a cup of coffee—standing in line—I heard someone shout—“Here comes the ferry.”  I abandoned the line and headed back to where the truck was parked.  The adventure had been so smooth thus far and all was going as planned.  Or so I thought.

Lane five moved beside me and I turned the key in the ignition to start the engine.  Nothing. I turned the key off and on once again.  Nothing. I pumped the gas pedal and tried several more times to start the engine . . . nothing.  Not even a peep from the mechanical beast from which I sat behind the steering wheel slightly panicked and watching the other vehicles and passengers drive past me and onto the loading dock—and onto the green and white vessel that crosses Puget Sound so regularly.

“Are you in trouble?” the WSF* system employee shouted, I nodded—“yes, I think I am,” I answered back.

“I’ll get someone to help you.” And, I climbed out of the Battle Cruiser wondering, what just happened?

Within minutes, another, employee named Sarah had wheeled over a portable battery charger to jump the truck.  She stopped—and pointed to the winch on the front bumper.  I turned my head and stared, “Oh, sh-t,” there was smoke coming from the winch. Whirling back towards the terminal—she said—“I’ll be right back—stand back.” I looked at the winch with disbelief, and within moments she was back with a large fire extinguisher ready to douse any flame should it appear and this situation become worse.   With the 11:55 am ferry loaded—I watched my ride sail away—wondering how long I would be sitting on the Kingston dock—somewhat helpless and wondering what was next?

Before I realized, there was more than five WSF employees who appeared from almost nowhere—pitching in to work on the truck. Now, I will tell you, that I feel I have many talents—but auto mechanic—is NOT one.  I was raised helping my Dad with horses, not automobiles and besides having the oil changed, stopping for gas or running the car through the car wash—my desire ended there.  So, the fact that this help had arrived with a positive attitude and generous giving spirit brought me tremendous gratitude to my uncertain circumstances. I explained, that I had just met the truck the previous afternoon . . . it was on loan from a friend.

And, so with an obvious quick assessment of a trauma medic, it was agreed that the winch wires needed to be cut; disconnect the source of the problem! In agreement and with a plan, we began, focused on the task at hand.  I choose to look under the front seat for something that might be able to help cut the wires to the bilious dying winch—and happily came up with a small pair of wire cutters.  Phoning Brad, I explained the dilemma and what had happened.   He offered to come save me—but I told him I thought I was in good hands; I would certainly let him know if I needed his help.

As I turned around to offer the red-handled tool to my new “pit crew” a man two rows over held a crescent wrench, another pair of cutters and gloves.  He began to disconnect the battery.  I turned back around and another lady asked for water.  I handed her mine—and she worked with precision filling the dehydrated battery cells.  I glanced over and noticed that another gentleman was leaning over the front fender and working in hyper speed skillfully cleaning contacts and then rerouting the wires that connected the solenoid, to the battery and to the ailing winch.  (Which apparently was the reason the truck wasn’t starting when jumped.)  This man, wearing a bright orange T-shirt with motorcycle designs, white hair and beard, and half smoked cigarette hanging from his mouth worked with such expertise we all sort of stepped back; everyone seemed to sense his mastery.  Before long, the “bull” arrived and another attempt at starting the disabled Battle Cruiser began.  We—the truck and I— had definitely developed a bond since I had first climbed aboard hours before.  This time when I turned the ignition—the resuscitation of the Battle Cruiser was successful and it issued it’s healthy roar.  I literally welled up as the “pit crew” and other waiting passengers in line clapped and cheered at our triumphal achievement.  I stepped out with a big smile and thanked everyone. The battery cable clips came off and the hood came down—just as the next ferry was pulling into the dock.  The lady in the car next to me handed me a wet wipe—she said, “they’re really for make-up but I think they will work great for the grease on your hands.”  I hadn’t even noticed.  Another woman came up to me—and said, “If they load and you aren’t signaled—please go ahead to me.” I thanked her too.   This was a reminder of humanity at its best.

I waved and honked in gratitude as “Sarah” waved me on . . . I was the first one on the ferry for that crossing and I felt very honored.

I reflected back on all the chaos in Washington D.C—the hatred and vitriol spewed by so many these days. There was certainly no fence sitting anymore; all was being revealed.  You could not be someone you weren’t.  I believe deeply we are all the same; okay—we may look a bit different—but we are all pieces of the divine.  I believed humanity was proving it’s chance for goodness and light; in fact we seemed to be at war with the darkness: greed and lack of integrity and hatefulness.

The event on the Kingston Dock certainly cemented my belief in humanity’s goodness—something I wished the evening news focused on more—not the inherent fear, fear and fear they sold to their vulnerable audiences daily. It is our power of intent—our desire of compassion—and our tolerances and acceptances of our differences which make us strong.  Our common goal must be one of LOVE—which if you haven’t heard, is the most powerful force in the Universe.  LOVE changes physical things and it will change our world too.  The time is now—and we are the Ones! The powerful  difference we each make based on our choices every day changes our world. And, that’s the world I choose to see and live in.

The rest of the trip was seamless and the trash burner is safely stored in Sequim—waiting for its return to service.  I on the other hand—look forward to the next adventure—whenever and however it presents itself. Namasté.

“Inspired Wellness from Within”

Cathrine Silver, HC, AADP

Cathrine Silver is a Board Certified holistic counselor with a practice in Lauderdale by the Sea, FL. She is the author of the book, Riding the Light Beam: How Any Woman Can Find the Hero Inside available at Amazon.com. She can be contacted via email at cathysilverhealth@gmail.com. For more information visit www.CathrineSilver.com.

As a post note:  I learned that the man in the orange T-shirt name was Richard.  He was a master mechanic and forensic scientist from the Tri-Cities who had been visiting his wife whose daughter was due to have surgery.  I had gone upstairs on the ferry to use the restroom and have a snack.  I purchased clam chowder and a water—and upon walking up to the cashier—made a last minute decision to add a beer.  LOL—it had been quite a morning.  I sat down—and Richard walked by.  I called his name, and asked him if he drank beer.  He replied—“On occasion.” 

“Can I buy you a beer”, I enquired? He nodded.  I got up and went back to the cashier and returned to the cafeteria where Richard sat.  “It’s the least I can do.”  “Thank you for everything” I said—“I have a feeling—I would still be sitting on the dock without you stopping by.”  He said, “I saw the hood of the truck raised.  I travel with my tools.” 

 I will always be grateful for all who gave me help that day.  On some level, we are always watched over—and he was one of my Earth Angels that day.  I was glad I could offer the simple gesture of thanks. 

*Washington State Ferry

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