I had been in the Tavern for less than ten minutes, but those five guys might as well have grown up here. They were rough, rowdy boys, the kind who thrived on chaos. The guy with the wrench prowled closer… too close for comfort. I slid out of the booth, slow and deliberate, my heart thumping louder than the jukebox. I crossed the floor, slapping five twenties onto the table—no change, just a statement.

Bruno, the leader, loomed tall and imposing, his blond hair catching the dim light. The shadows twisted around him like faithful followers. Years of survival had taught me one crucial lesson: confidence was my only shield. I knew I had to say something, anything, or I could end up six feet under. But I held my ground, meeting his icy gaze without flinching. Silence clung to the air, thick and heavy, as I waited. No words escaped my lips.

Bruno’s jacket bore his name in bold letters. He radiated calm, a predator sizing up its prey. Behind me, the other four closed in; I caught their movements in the bar’s mirror—the shuffle of boots, the clink of metal. One gripped a pipe, another a muffler, and my skin crawled at what that meant. I stood there, heart racing, a lone wolf surrounded by a pack. The room dropped into a suffocating silence. I could taste the whiskey on Bruno’s breath, the stench of danger thickening between us . . .

Iron Rebel Audio Book: Chapter One

Iron Rebel PDF Version: Chapter One

The instructions are there. Take a seat, enjoy the view, stay awhile. The plastic Adirondack chair facing the ocean is red in color and a little faded from the sun and surf. It sits on the concrete perimeter of lifeguard station number 11 on the north side of Buccaneer Beach in Oceanside.

Nothing special. Just a chair, a view, and a little bit of magic.

Not many people know about the magic. I certainly didn’t when I first saw it. Just a cheap plastic chair in a strategic location that affords the lucky occupant sitting in it a commanding view of waves, surfers, and gorgeous sunsets.

Because of the popularity of the view, someone has taken a Sharpie marker and written; Please share the chair. This implies a time limit. No one quite knows what that period of time is, but I figure it to be about five minutes. Long enough to enjoy the view, see a couple of sets, and then let someone else sit for a spell.

Life is pretty regulated these days, but I still hold out hope for humanity, if nothing more than the use of this chair. Beach folk are a kind lot, and few souls overstay their welcome.

Download the rest of the story in PDF format: The Red Chair

Listen to the story in Audio Format: The Red Chair MP3

Here are some graphics and test files for a new short story series that I’m working on called Return to Windhawk Ridge.

Windhawk Ridge Audio Book Test of Chapter One.

Windhawk Ridge Audio Book Test of Chapter Two

Youtube Short Test for Windhawk Ridge. https://youtube.com/shorts/qNCvcFOPrw0

Like a letter from the IRS, I tend to hold these at arm’s length until I can muster up the nerve to break the seal. My name is Cory London, I’m a guy, 35 years old, and been through a lot, but the fear is still there, especially in the last case that had a gun pointed at my chest.

Thankfully, as I entered the train that morning, my two train mates were already on-board car number three, sitting at our usual table number one.

Smiling, I said, “Good to see both of you this fine Monday morning.”

Both nodded. Shelly said, “It’s too early for that big of a smile, Cory. What’s up?”

I held up the envelope. “Look what I have. Another sealed envelope. Care to open it with me?”

My petite French friend Amie sat forward, with an inquisitive look in her eye. “Oooh, an envelope. What kind of mystery will this bring?

Shelly laughed, “You sound like Nancy Drew, Amie. Maybe it’s ‘The Mystery of the Crooked Stick.’ Possibly the ‘Mystery of the Haunted Bridge.’ Could it be the ‘Secret of the Hidden Lair?’”

I piped in, “Maybe it’s ‘Footsteps Under the Window,’ like the Hardy Boys.”

Amie shook her head. “I don’t get it, who are Nancy Drew and the Hardy Boys?”

“Those are American children’s detective series heroes. Nancy Drew for girls and Hardy boys for the guys.” I said.

“Oh, I’ve seen French copies in one of the larger bookstores in Paris. So now this adventure will have to have a certain air of mystery. You’re a writer, Cory. You need to chronicle our adventures and come up with compelling titles. Now I definitely want to see what’s inside the report.”

I put the official-looking government envelope on the table in front of us. As I ran my finger along the tab to open it, I could see both girl’s eyes firmly staring at the contents. As I pulled out the usual three sheets of paper, I did a quick perusal and then handed the materials to Shelly. “Since you have a new position as County Office Manager, Shelly, why don’t you give us an overview of the case?”

She took a minute and looked over the three pages and then went back to the summary. She said, reading aloud, “This is a case of robbery at a Tina Tahiti clothing and accessories store in the beach town of Encinitas. It appears that expensive one-off fashions and jewelry are missing from thefts overnight. According to the report, complete outfits are disappearing off the main mannequin in the window, while other mannequins are in different positions in the morning that they were the night before. The alarm never sounds, and there is no apparent break-in.”

I laughed. “So, we have a case of mannequins coming alive at midnight. Sounds too funny to be true.”

Continue the story here. A PDF will open in a new window. Click Here

“What’s up, Amie? You look so down today. Hey, it’s Friday. The weekend is upon us.”

Amie shook her head. “My Aunt Edith is missing. Dad’s older sister. Her mail has been piling up, and the postman wondered if something was wrong. They tried knocking on the door, but there was no answer. Her car was still in the garage, but there was no sign of her. One of her neighbors called late last night and left me a message. I dialed her back first thing this morning.”

“That sounds serious. Did they break in and check?”

“They looked in the windows and went around back. The house looks empty. No lights on at night. The doors were all locked. That’s when the neighbor dug up my number and called me. After I talked with her, I tried my aunt’s phone. No answer, and the message cache was full.”

“So, what are you doing on the train this morning?”

“I have a critical architect meeting this morning at 9 am on a huge new hi-rise in the Seaport Village area. French contractor. I am part translator and part project liaison. It won’t go on without me.”

“Could your roommate Shelly check on her?”

“This is her Friday off. She left early this morning on a camping trip with friends to the mountains. Won’t be back until Sunday.”

“Where does your Aunt live? Maybe I can have my dad send a sheriffs’ car by?”

“She lives in the old original part of Escondido. Wood frame, two-story, built in the late 1880s. She used to run a fortune teller business out of the original parlor. Always had a strained relationship with the Escondido police.”

“Darn, Escondido wouldn’t be my dad’s jurisdiction. The County Sheriff doesn’t cover that area. I’d be glad to help, but as usual, I don’t have a car or a driver’s license. Is there a train that goes there?”

“You can take the Sprinter Train out of the Oceanside Transit Center.”

“So, you mean I’d have to take the Coaster back all the way north to Oceanside and then take the Sprinter. That would take forever.”

“That’s it. The San Diego Trolley doesn’t go that far. Probably some kind of bus, but good luck with that.”

“So how long is your meeting this morning?”

“Probably a couple of hours. Out at eleven, most likely. But one of the contractors always wants to do lunch. I doubt I’d be able to catch the late morning train north.”

“So, you’re saying you won’t get home until late afternoon and have your car to be able to run to Escondido. If that’s the case, I’ll get off at the next stop or two and catch the first northbound train to Oceanside. I’ve got a quiet day at work so that I can work remotely. Give me her address, and I’ll get there as fast as I can.”

“You’d do that for me? I don’t need you to go out of your way for someone you don’t know.”

“After all we’ve been through, you’re like family to me, Ms. DuBois. This situation sounds serious. I looked at the schedules on my phone. I can get back to Oceanside by 8:30 and then take the Sprinter to Escondido and arrive about 9:30. Got the backpack with me with some lock pick tools. Take me a few minutes to get in and check things out. What’s the neighbor’s name that called? I need to touch base with her before I go breaking in and having the cops show up and get dragged to jail.”

Read the rest of the story here. PDF opens in a new window. Click Here

It was the first Monday in August, and my petite French friend, Amie Dubois, seemed restless. Usually, Mondays brought a happy face, but something was amiss. Her smartly bobbed dark hair framed a look of sadness instead of her trademark pleasant smile.

As the Coaster train left the Carlsbad station, I asked, “You seem down this morning, Amie. Anything wrong?”

She thought for a second. “Do I look depressed? I’m not sure what’s wrong other than I’m bored. My mind craves a challenge. TV is in reruns; the newspaper has old news, my friends are on vacation, even my cat is bored. She didn’t even greet me at breakfast.”

I smiled. “Here is a test for my favorite sleuth. What did I do this weekend?”

Amie chuckled. “A challenge from my friend Monsieur Cory London. Well, let me see.” Her face brightened. She stared at me for a moment and then said, “I see you were early to the train station and excited about something, so much so, you missed breakfast. Whatever you are excited about revolves around an item you could only get at the station. Noticing the white paper on your seat, I would say it involves the Coastal Times, the local community newspaper. Seeing your half-empty coffee from the train station mini-mart, you have already read the article in the paper and are hoping for my help with the contents of the white legal envelope containing a cold case from your father.”

“You amaze me. You are right as usual, but I have no idea how you knew I read the article in full and that I missed breakfast.”

“You’re an open book, Cory. The crumbs on the side of your mouth from a granola bar indicate you were eating on the run, without a napkin. Your photo-gray glasses are clear, which means you were sitting under the roof of the train station outside the mini-mart for a considerable period. Since you walk from home to the train, they would be dark gray if you had just trekked up as you usually do.”

“And the cold case. How did you know about that?”

“The off-white color and thin monogrammed edges are a dead giveaway of a government-issue envelope. Since your dad is a sheriff’s detective, it seems most likely that it would involve a case–one that involves a train–since you take one every day and help him with cases from time to time. The envelope indicates it is cold and filed away. I remember you saying that he mails inactive cases involving Amtrak or Coaster trains. If it was active, you would have it in an email. Whatever the case is about, it probably relates to an article in the local paper.” “There,” I said with a laugh, “I made you think. Did that little exercise liven you up?”

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Detectives On a Train.

Sally took the Amtrak north out of San Diego. Dressed in pearls and a polka dot dress, she was looking for a new life. Her husband of three years had left her the month before. She had a little boy named Robert-two years old- who was staying with Mom till she got settled. With her life savings of five hundred dollars in her purse, she got comfortable in her seat and looked out the window.

Getting settled, she thought, was the adventure she was on. Taking the train to some far away destination. The year was 1970, the month was May. The weather was pleasant and Sally knew that she would go till she could go no further. She figured the train would take her north to Oregon or Washington. Maybe she would end up in Portland or Seattle. Far enough away to forget the bad times and start a new life.

She hadn’t figured on the train breaking down in San Juan Capistrano, only ninety minutes away from the painful memories in San Diego. But breakdown it did. Blew the engine right out the side of the locomotive. Smoke and fire and lots of excitement. As she exited the train with her suitcase, she sought providence and a place to stay. It was midday and the sun was hot. She looked around, got her bearings, then walked across the tracks and headed down a tree-lined street adjacent the tracks. Los Rios historic district was the name painted on a fence. She had made a pact with herself-one part grit and one part prayer-that she would go until an answer came. That’s when she saw the sign.

It simply said, Room for rent. It was stuck on the front gate of an old house halfway down the narrow avenue. She walked in, met an older Hispanic woman and made a deal right then and there. Fifty bucks a month with use of the kitchen. Private bath and an external door so she could come and go as she pleased. A hundred bucks first and last.

Now that she had a place to settle in, she needed lunch. She asked her landlord Maria for advice. “Any good places to eat in town?”

Maria smiled. “There are a few, but the most consistent is El Adobe. One block down to the right. Good food and the price is right.”

After a short five minute walk, Sally found the restaurant. It was housed in an original adobe structure from the 1700’s. A good-looking young waiter smiled at her and asked for her order.

“Got any specials,” she asked.

The waiter nodded. “One of our best today. Chilaquiles.”

Sally shook her head. “Chil-a what-a?”

The waiter leaned in and pointed to the description on the menu. “Chilaquiles are corn tortilla pieces that are fried, cooked in salsa, and sprinkled with cheese. We serve them for brunch with eggs and a side of beans. Today we have them with marinated chicken pieces. Delicioso, senorita.”

Sally put her menu down and replied with gusto, “Chilaquiles it is.”

The waiter said, “You will not be sorry senorita, The chef’s name is Humberto. He is part owner and the best cook in town. Your taste buds will explode with pleasure. I guarantee it.”

Sally laughed and noticed the waiter’s name badge. It said, Humberto too. “I see you have the same name as the chef. Any relation?”

The young waiter replied, “He is my uncle. Famous man in town. He got me this job. Very generous. I like working here.”

Sally nodded, “I’m new in town. Do you think he could get me a job?”

Humberto stood back for a second, then replied, “Do you know how to sing? We just lost Julia our serenader. She sings at night with our guitar player, Pablo, but now is very pregnant. Nothing too hard. Just a few songs, a pretty face, and a soothing voice. The audience tips really well after a few margaritas.”

Sally shrugged. “Do you think your uncle would hire a blonde to sing in a Mexican restaurant? I don’t know Spanish.”

“Why not. Most of our customers are gringos. Some of the songs are in English.” Humberto went up to the front counter, picked up a book and put it on the table in front of her. “Tell you what. Take this songbook, practice a few bars and come back tonight at six. I’ll introduce you. What’s your name?”

“Sally.”

He shook his head. “Sally what?”

“Sally McNulty.”

He shook his head again. “That won’t work. What’s your middle name?”

“I’m Sally Ann.”

“Perfecto. Sally Ann is it.”

Sally smiled. “What should I wear?”

“Come just as you are. The pearls and polka dots are cute. Completely the opposite of Pablo. He looks like a gunslinger with a bad haircut.”

He laughed. “Maybe you’ll soften up his image.”

Sally nodded. “OK, I’ll be back at 6. Now bring on those Chilaquiles.”

In a few minutes, Humberto brought out a huge plate of fried tortillas in green sauce, covered with chicken and sour cream.

“Oh my God,” she replied as she took the first bite. “These are wonderful. As you say, Muy Delicioso.”

“I told you. Humberto would not lie to you. The food here is very good.”

As she dug into the plate, she perused the songbook, recognizing very few of the tunes. In a few minutes, as Humberto brought out the check, she said, “I’ve sung in the church choir for years, but never have I belted out the song, Tequila, during service. This should be fun.”

Humberto picked up the check as she went for her wallet and tore it in little pieces. “The food is on me Senorita Sally Ann. Come back at six and let’s hear your rendition of that drinking song. That one helps us sell a lot of booze. The audience usually gets into it.”

Sally smiled. “I will.”

Sally went back to her new digs in Los Rios and looked at the songbook. Most of the songs were in Spanish. This was going to be a problem. She tried a few, but couldn’t get the words or the accent right. She really needed the job if she was going to make it in this new town. She tried a few more but ended up after fifteen minutes in tears. It was hopeless.

She walked up to the front of the house and talked with Maria. “Can you teach me these songs? I don’t know Spanish and I have an audition tonight at six at El Adobe.”

Maria said, “There is no way I can teach you the language and the pronunciation in that short a time. But I do have a songbook that might work for you. Come with me.” Maria walked into her living room, sat down at her piano and pulled out a songbook from a stack on the mantle.

“Here it is,” she said. “A gringo songbook. One of my favorites. I’ll play the tune on the piano, you sing along.”

Sally recognized the songs immediately and within minutes she was crooning the tunes expertly along with Maria.

She said, “These songs are great but will Pablo be able to play them? Will anyone want to hear them in a Mexican restaurant?”

Maria smiled, “Pablo can play anything. Just take him the book. As far as the restaurant goes, I don’t know. Humberto is very kind. You’ll just have to audition and see.”

At six o’clock, Maria showed up and was introduced to Uncle Humberto. He was a large man with a vibrant smile. He said, “So you want to sing at El Adobe? Maria called me and told me you are a good singer and that you would be bringing a gringo songbook with you. I tell you what, Give me the book and we’ll go out front onto our little stage. A trial by fire in front of our patrons. If they like your singing, you’ve got the job. Pick three songs and let’s go.”

Sally was nervous but folded back the corners of three pages, and Uncle Humberto gave the book to his guitar player Pablo. He spent a minute tuning his six-string and then stood ready. Humberto took the microphone and said, “Ladies and gentleman, I want to introduce our new talent, Sally Ann. She has three favorites of hers for your enjoyment.”

Pablo picked up his guitar and started playing the first song. Sally picked up the microphone and started with Patsy Cline’s wonderful song, I Fall to Pieces.

I fall to pieces
Each time I see you again
I fall to pieces
How can I be just your friend?

Sally’s voice was so smooth and she made such a contrast to Pablo. The audience went crazy.

She followed with the songs, South Of The Border (Down Mexico Way) and San Antonio Rose.

The audience stood and went nuts. A stand ovation. A country singer in a Mexican Restaurant. Who would have guessed?

That was the start of a lifelong singing career for Young Sally Ann, known fondly to her audiences as the Princess in polka dots and pearls. She fondly remembers how she ended her audition on her first night. Pablo along with Humberto on trumpet finished the set with a rousing rendition of Tequila. But as the music came to the part where they would say the word tequila, Sally replaced the word with Chilaquiles!

It was magic!

She raised her hand . . .

Chilaquiles!!

Billy, as his parents called him, had something of joy and wonder in his pocket. His uncle Charles had given it to him. Good ol’ Uncle Charles. Part media mogul, part charlatan, had said with pride that the ticket that young William held in his hand would one day be valuable. As he handed it to the young lad, he said, “Billy, keep this ticket stub. It’s the first day. This thing is going to be big.”

Billy remembered his dad laughing at the thought. Uncle Charles always had “something big,” working in his life, but the big thing was usually a dream, not a reality. This one would be no different. He had presented the three tickets to the family as a gateway to the land of tomorrow. It sounded mysterious and oh so cool to a ten-year-old boy. But his dad warned, “Don’t get your hopes up, Billy. You know how Uncle Charles exaggerates.”

He was right. Uncle Charles always had a deal going. 1950 it was a gold mine in Yucaipa, 1952 it was a carburetor for your car that would guarantee a hundred miles to the gallon, 1954 was the grand whopper of all, waterfront property on the Salton Sea. All of these dreams had left Uncle Charles broke and that was why he was selling these golden tickets for a whopping twenty bucks apiece.”

Billy’s dad was a well to do architect in town, so he usually humored uncle Charles with a donation, even though he knew it would be fruitless. Hey, three tickets to the land of tomorrow was cheap in comparison to the other schemes he had dreamed up; that crazy carburetor had cost him a whopping five hundred bucks, and it would give him an excuse to take Friday off and take the family on an adventure.

As the day came for the trip, the family dressed up. Dad had a new sports coat for the occasion, mom had a new dress and a pair of high heel shoes. Billy knew this was serious if mom had new shoes. As they waited at the Del Mar station at six on a misty Friday morning, the train whistle could be heard in the distance. They would soon be heading to a mysterious adventure ninety minutes away.

Billy had been on the train numerous times before. There was no freeway to San Diego in the mid-fifties, so the train was a primary way north. He loved to sit by the window and look out at the ocean and then repeat the city names as the conductor would yell them out. Solana Beach came first, then Carlsbad, Oceanside and San Clemente. Soon the train lurched to a stop at their destination of adventure, Anaheim California.

The family stepped off the train and headed to one of the buses marked “Special.” The crowds filing into seats on the bus were intense. There was something to this event. Many other people had tickets in their hands. Within minutes the buses stopped in a row on Harbor Boulevard. There was excitement in the air. Then the doors opened and the towers of a large castle could be seen in the distance.

Billy was excited now and so were the crowds but he knew some of the other people were talking nonsense. They said things like you could fly with Peter Pan over moonlit London, or tumble into Alice’s nonsensical world of wonder or maybe even take a spaceship to the moon. Dreams flew through his mind. If only such things were possible. If they were, Uncle Charles would be the coolest uncle ever. But Billy had such dreams dashed in the past. Uncle Charles knew how to dream, but reality always caught up with him.

Except this day was different. The Castle turrets were now clear, marching bands could be heard playing, and the crowds talked joyously. Everyone was going to someplace special. After waiting in line for over an hour, Billy and his family followed thousands of other people past a sign that said:

Here you leave today and enter the world of yesterday, tomorrow, and fantasy. Welcome to the magical world of Disneyland.

It was not only a world of tomorrow but one of yesterday and one of adventure. To a ten-year-old boy, it was so amazingly cool. Way past what he could have imagined. Billy couldn’t believe it. Uncle Charles had really come through. The family joined other guests behind a row of television cameras to hear Walt Disney give his opening remarks. He recast the dream . . .

To all who come to this happy place: Welcome. Disneyland is your land. Here age relives fond memories of the past, and here youth may savor the challenge and promise of the future. Disneyland is dedicated to the ideals, the dreams, and the hard facts that have created America, with the hope that it will be a source of joy and inspiration to all the world.

The day was magical, even though it was a hundred degrees and mom’s new high heels had sunk in the soft asphalt and the water fountains didn’t work because of a plumbers strike. By the end of the day, little Billy was wound to the max after consuming a number of Pepsi drinks.

Overall it was a day to remember, and now that Billy was seventy years old, still one of his favorite memories. Uncle Charles had passed away soon after the great adventure, and it was revealed that there were over fifteen thousand forged invitations that day. Certainly, the ones that Charles had given the family were bogus, but William had kept the printed invitation book just the same.

In fact, after visiting the Del Mar Train Station with a sense of nostalgia, William went home and pulled out the old invitation. He pulled the printed invitation card out of the envelope and read it again, but then noticed there was a small piece of paper folded in the back. He pulled it out and found a handwritten note. It simply said . . .

To Charlie,

You have been one of my most loyal employees over the past few years. You stood by me when everyone doubted. You believed the dream.

Please take these tickets as a gift for all your hard work with the team.

Dis

A hand written note by the Walt Disney himself to Uncle Charlie.

A man who believed the dream!

Barbara Ann Renaldi bought the trailer and the dreams that went with it. She took it home to the little room she rented off of Fourth Street and perched it on top of her dresser, right where she could see it anytime she would be in the room.

At first, the daydreams were mild. She would hook the trailer up to an imaginary truck, and tow it to the beach. She could see the trailer glistening in the sun, the sand and the waves in the background. She could hear the surf and the gulls in her mind and smell the sea spray.

The first encounters brought back memories of her childhood, playing with dolls with her friends at home. She had a couple of Barbies and always dreamed of adventure. The beach was always one of their first destinations. One of her chums had a Ken doll, and he had a truck. Now that’s what she needed now; a guy with a truck to tow her trailer. While she loved the vision, she missed the interaction with her girlfriends.

Sitting in her comfy chair, Barbara came back to reality for a moment. She missed a lot of things lately. The divorce had been long, painful, and expensive. The big house on the hill was gone, and many of her closest friends were hundreds of miles away. Her two kids were grown and living back east, busy in their own lives. The room she rented from a long time friend in the old part of Carlsbad was nice, but the move from the Bay Area cost her so many friendships. Sure, she could call on the phone, but it wasn’t the same. You couldn’t have those deep conversations like she used to have and, she laughed, you certainly couldn’t play with dolls and a pink trailer on the phone.

When Barbara first moved to town, she took on a job at one of the boutique clothing stores in the Village. She met a lot of people and enjoyed the extra spending money the job provided, but one day there was a little sign on the door that said, back in five minutes. Unfortunately, the owner never came back and her part-time job was over.

Now she was alone most of the day. Her landlord/friend worked all day. Daytime TV got old quickly, so she would go for walks, mainly to the beach and through the downtown area. She kept her eyes out for help wanted signs.

On one of these walks, she passed one of the independent coffee shops in town. In the cool morning sun, there were a number of women in vibrant conversations outside. She so wanted to sit down and join in, but all the chairs were taken. She got a coffee and continued her walk. The next day she started her walk earlier. She thought to herself, I’ll get there earlier and snag a chair. This worked great except, the other women pulled chairs to the other tables. She had a coffee and a table all her own.

As she sat there, a tear came to her eye. Here she was in a vibrant downtown area, sitting on a nice sidewalk close to the beach, yet she felt so alone. There were people around and wonderful conversations going on, but she wasn’t part of them. Her longtime friends were so far away. Her kids were living their own lives. She needed to do something.

That’s when an idea came to her.

Tomorrow would be different.

The following day Barbara took out a large shoulder bag and arranged things inside. She left her house early and stopped by the antique/thrift store on her way to the coffee shop, picking up a few older items. Now she was ready.

As she approached the coffee emporium, she staked out a good chair on the edge of the sidewalk facing the street. She ordered a coffee and muffin and then was ready. She sat down at the table and put her large handbag on the chair next to her. Over the next five minutes, she set up the table in front of her, her pink trailer as the centerpiece. Next, she brought out the three vintage dolls that she picked up in the store and laid them out. Then with a stroke of a Sharpie pen, she took out a folding tent card and wrote in large letters, Come Play!

At first, the few patrons at adjacent tables just stared at her.

Barbara sipped her coffee and broke off a piece of muffin.

Down the street, a group of women approached.

As the walked by, one of them stopped.

“Is that a Fashion Dawn Doll?”

Barbara nodded. “Yes, it is.”

The woman said, “I had a lot of different dolls as a little girl. Do you remember the Tammy family of dolls? I had a  Misty, Glamour Misty, and a Pose N’ Misty.”

One of the other women spoke up, “I had a number of Barbies, but my favorite was the Samantha Doll from the Bewitched TV Show. My mom special ordered it for me. 1963 I think.”

Another gal said, with a twinkle in her eye, “I had a Debbie Drake fitness doll. She did calisthenics. I could probably use some calisthenics now.”

Everyone laughed and soon there was a vibrant group of women all talking about their childhood experiences sitting around the table. That’s when two older guys walked by. The taller one of them said, with a wink, “Where’s Ken?”

Barbara replied, “I’m not sure, but I need him and his truck to pull my trailer.”

The other guy motioned. “I’ll be right back.” Barbara saw him walk up the street and get something out of the back seat of his car. As he returned, the man was holding a vintage Tonka Truck. “My grandson loves these trucks. Used to play with this one myself. I’m sure it will have enough power to pull that pink Airstream trailer.”

He put the truck on the table in front of the trailer. “Perfect size, he said. Where do you want to go?”

Barbara laughed, looking the handsome gentleman in the eye. “Anywhere with you would be Heaven.”

The man smiled and then laughed and held out his hand, “Kenneth Baldwin is the name. And who is the doll with the trailer?”

Barbara held out her hand, “Barbara Renaldi.”

One of the other women yelled out, “Oh my God, it’s Barbie and Ken.”

Everyone cracked up. The two guys took a seat and the conversation went back to the sixties and seventies.

That my friends is how Barbie and Ken met.

It’s a year later now, and the couple was married right in front of the Carlsbad Coffee Emporium. Ken has his Tonka Special Edition Chevy pickup, and Barbara has her silver Airstream trailer with a pink sign on the side that says I heart U.

Inside the trailer, on a table, is a pink and red airstream trailer with Barbie and Ken dolls sitting outside. Destination Heaven.

I have gone to a number of meetings like this with my wife Joyce over the years. She has late onset M.S. and like so many in the room, has a variety of symptoms. She has good days and bad. Some of these meetings are very technical, with medical terms thrown around like a basketball on a court. Others, like this one with Dr. Rosenberg, are more down to earth, more real. These are the matter of fact talks that face reality head-on. M.S is a dreadful disease and at this time, there is no cure.

As I ate my delicious Italian dinner provided by one of the drug companies that makes a popular M.S. medicine, I found Dr. Rosenberg to be a folksy hero to many of the people in the room. He provided answers, solutions, and workarounds that made life better for so many patients in the San Diego area. As he finished his talk, he introduced the next speaker. I figured, like usual, it would be another doctor or healthcare provider. I wasn’t ready for the smiling young woman who walked to the front of the room.

She was blond, with hair in pigtails, and an engaging smile. She walked down the center aisle, making eye contact with everyone. She then broke out in song, singing lyrics from a country song, with a magnificent voice and a deep southern accent. The chorus went like this . . .

Wish I could roll out of town like a run-away train
I’ll do as I dare, let them call me insane
I’ll never sit on the sidelines of life, I’ll dance every dance
If I just had the chance

Julie Roberts then told her story in condensed form. She was an upcoming country music star. Record deals, live concerts, television appearances and even a movie deal. On stage with Reba and Blake Sheldon. Lights, camera, action. Then it happened.

During a concert, her vision went blurry.

Both hands then went numb.

Something was wrong.

Really wrong.

For months/years afterward, she was in denial.

She hoped the symptoms were gone

That they wouldn’t come back.

But they happened again.

Diagnosis: M. S.

Suddenly, her future was uncertain. The giant Hollywood door that was just about to be opened, was slammed shut. Record deals involving live concerts were canceled. Producers and agents stopped calling. Her vision and daily life were challenged.

She retreated to the refuge of Mama’s house and simply asked God; why?

The answer was slow in coming. The days got darker, the symptoms got worse.

Why did God close the door on so many good things?

Questions, anger, fear and a whole lot of tears followed.

But one thing that Julie found in those dark times was simple.

When God closes one door, he usually opens another.

Julie eventually found herself on a different stage.

Here in a restaurant in San Marcos California, two thousand miles from her home in South Carolina was a beautiful woman sharing a message of hope to an audience of people with symptoms just like hers. Many in the room with similar talents and visions affected by a dreadful, progressive disease. She shared her journey and some treatment options that helped her. While she still has a music career, she now has a voice to a whole different audience.

It’s easy to get down when things are taken away. It’s hard to be positive when you hurt and when your mobility is taken away.

Julie was the last person I expected to see at this meeting.

I expected doctors, nurses, and drug manufacturers.

I didn’t expect a twangy country girl in pigtails.

I expected another boring Powerpoint.

I expected fifty bullet points.

I expected to nod off.

Instead, I heard a song with lyrics that would affect my life, sung by a beautiful woman with an engaging smile and a silky voice.

God spoke to me through her words . . .

I’ll do as I dare, let them call me insane
I’ll never sit on the sidelines of life, I’ll dance every dance
If I just had the chance

I don’t have M.S. but her message rang true.

If I just had the chance.

The morning after I heard her talk, I found myself on an early morning photo shoot in La Jolla by the Scripps Pier. This is an iconic location favored by many photographers. The beach is long and flat, ideal for walking. Surfers love it for long sets of waves.

On this morning though, something was different.It was in the thirties and very cold on my hands yet there were over a dozen surfers in the water. The tide was way out. I had never seen it like this before. I felt like I could almost walk to the end of the pier on the sand. Many days the beach is covered with water when the tide is up. You can’t get past the pier. With the coastal hills jutting out, you are very limited how far you can go.

But on this cold morning, you could walk for miles down the coast. Parts of the beach that were usually under water were now walkable. Tide pools were opened up. Cliffs and caves now accessible. Things I had never seen before were now within a short walk.

If I just had the chance.

Now was my chance. I took advantage and walked down to coast into the Scripps Marine Preserve.

I saw so many beautiful things that had eluded me before.

The tide had gone out and opened up opportunities.

Yet I knew that it wouldn’t last for long.

The tide would come back in.

If I just had the chance.

In our lives, the surf goes in and out. Opportunities are presented, while others are taken away.

God opens doors and closes others.

When possibilities are presented.

Don’t sit on the sidelines.

Take the chance.