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.

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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.

A distress call was made off the Channel Islands. The boat was taking on water. It wasn’t surprising, dad had just had the boat repaired for a cracked hull, for the third time. She had run the story in her mind a thousand times over the past three weeks. It was a defect they said. An old boat, a bad design, no warranty, and a boat manufacturer that had gone out of business. No one to blame.

The last call was made off Santa Rosa Island, twenty miles off the Santa Barbara coast. The boat and her parents were never found. Almost a month had passed, but the pain and grief were still there. Jeanne Victoria longed to see her parents again, but as she stood facing the slip that they always moored in when they visited Oceanside, she knew she would never see them alive in this world.

She had warned them that sailing in their eighties was a bad idea. Dad wasn’t as strong as he used to be. Mom had broken an arm once and it would certainly just be a matter of time till she broke a hip. But they wouldn’t stop. It’s what they did. They had a little house in Santa Barabara that had lived in for over fifty years, but their sailboat, the Sally Ann, was their love and joy.

Jeanne walked out on to one of the jetties and looked around. She imagined their old boat sailing in the harbor and pulling up to the slip. She imagined mom’s huge smile as she would wave to her only daughter. She imagined dad’s bearhug.

As Jeanne turned back to the sidewalk, the wind blew her hair into her face. It was a cold reminder of the grief she was still feeling. The estate was proceeding and she would soon have to deal with their Santa Barbara house and all their belongings. She was dreading that, fifty years in one house and all the accumulated things that went with it. She would have to deal with it all. Each piece of china, each nicknack with a heartstring attached. Jeanne was an only child and never married, so there would be no one else to help.

Jeanne turned and faced the sun as it dropped lower in the sky. She stared in the face of God and gave them up. “Welcome them home God,” she said softly under her breath. And then God whispered back . . . “Every time you see the ocean remember that they are with me.”

Jeanne smiled and knew that was true. She would always remember her parents and be reminded of them every time she would see the blue water. That was their legacy.

They had truly gone home . . .

Horace felt sad and helpless. His dad had passed away over a decade ago, and he had been left as the sole caretaker of his overbearing mom, Alice. It wasn’t that he didn’t love his mom, but her strict, overarching manner had pretty much ruled his life. He felt remorse as he looked at the slow-moving reflections of his puffy red face on the water in the sunlight. Yes, she had pretty much stolen his joy over the years. As an only child, she rued the day when someone would call her son anything else than his real name. There were no nicknames allowed in the Dillinger household. Horace was to be Horace, named after her grandfather Horace P. Carbunkle III.

The kids at school often made fun of his name, but he knew that his mom would have it no other way. One time his school chum Matt called him Ace within earshot of his mom. That was the last time Horace was allowed to play with him. She even marched down to the school and told his teacher and the principal that they were not to use nicknames with her son. Alice also told them in no uncertain terms that Horace would be an accountant. She wanted Horace placed in all the advanced math classes. Mathematics would be his salvation. Math was the modern way to prosperity, and by gum, he was going to be immersed.

Immersed he was. Through the sixties and seventies, he had accounting drilled into his head. After high school, he attended college with an accounting major. He did OK, but he really only had one problem. He hated math. But that didn’t sway his mother. She wanted her son’s name on the door of an accounting firm, and by God, he wasn’t going to be cheated. She got her wish when Horace turned forty. He had finally made it. He was now a partner at Schlessinger, Mayberry and Dillinger, public accountants.

Unfortunately, this job title came at a price. Alice saw to it that Horace divorce his wife, Sally. At 35, she was pulling him away from his career. It didn’t help that Horace and Sally lived next door to mom in a rented house. Sally became poison and Alice made sure that Horace knew it. For the last ten years, Horace lived alone in the tiny house next to his mother on the inland side of old Del Mar. He went to work and added things up. He came home and drank and smoked his sorrows away.

As he looked deeper into his reflection in the water, he reflected on his life. He was now forty-nine and a half years old. He was overweight, balding and totally out of shape. The cough from the cigarettes was bad. Two things had come in the mail yesterday, his mother’s death certificate and a strange white envelope. His mom had passed away two weeks before at age eighty. The funeral was pleasant, and she died a happy woman. Her life had been a success and why not. Her only son had his name on a door. He was a public accountant.

Horace looked up from the water and out across the marsh. He remembered vividly where the hangars used to be. His dad wasn’t home much. He was always working, fixing and doing something that Horace always longed to do. He flew airplanes. As a little boy, his dad would take him to the airport and let him sit in some of the planes. Unfortunately, when the 5 freeway came through to San Diego in 1959, the Del Mar Airport was decommissioned.

Horace reached into his back pocket and pulled out the thick envelope. As he opened it he laughed. It was the initiation letter from the AARP. At forty-nine and a half,  they were offering him all the benefits of being a senior citizen. He looked back down in the water and a feeling of despair came over him. His mom had become his whole life. Alice wasn’t there anymore to tell him what to do. Heck, would he even know what to do?

Now both his parents were gone. He was working a job he hated. He was out of shape, bored out of his mind, and now considered old. A senior citizen at 49, imagine that. What was there to live for? His life was a dead end, just like the bridge he was standing on.

For a second, he actually thought about taking his life.  His mom had never let him take swimming lessons. Don’t need those as an accountant. He’d just jump over the railing and drown. Then he looked a little closer and laughed again. The water in the river was only three feet deep. God, he couldn’t even kill himself.

That’s when a grey-haired old man with a big ol’ smile named Hank happened by. He stood by the railing next to Horace and said, “I remember the time when there was an airfield there. They used to have blimps in a massive hangar during the war. Long time ago, mid-forties. Can’t believe it’s gone. I used to hang out there. Bummed a few rides on some small craft over the years. I love to fly.”

Horace replied, “My dad used to work there. Maybe you heard of him. Norm Dillinger was his name.”

The man smiled. “Everyone knew Norm Dillinger. Most helpful guy in the place. Always talked about his son, Ace. Always bragging how he was going to the moon someday. You must be him?”

Horace shook his head, “He called me Ace?”

“Sure did. Said you loved to fly.”

Horace smiled, “I sure do.”

************

I met Ace Dillinger yesterday on that same bridge. He told me his story. Told me his life was like the dead end bridge we were standing on. It was a dead end until he found out his dad truly believed in him. Found out his dad called him Ace. Found out he could fly and he’s been flying ever since.

He had a model plane with him. Radio controlled. He launched it off the back of the bridge and we watched it soar in the sky. The plane had a camera on it and as he flew it high above, he showed me the screen. “This is where the hangar used to be,” he said. “And this bridge here is where my life changed twenty years ago. This is where I became Ace Dillinger.”

(Please note: This is a work of fiction.)

Questions formed in my head. How did it get here and who left it? There were no stores with carts within miles of the station. My first thought was a homeless person, but the cart was shiny new and empty, and it was sitting in plain view at the end of a sidewalk. There was something different going on here. Then I saw it. The long black retainer strap. Now I remembered. I had seen this cart before.

It was usually pushed by an older gentleman from the Carlsbad by the Sea Senior Home a couple of blocks away. He used the cart to fill and transport five-gallon plastic bottles of water from the Carlsbad Alkaline Water facility across the street from the senior home to his apartment. The long black strap securely held them in place. I remember vividly the first time I met this man. He was out early in the morning filling a bottle as I happened by on a morning walk and photo shoot. I waved at him as I passed, and he said in reply, “You ought to drink the water from here. Healing properties. Make you live longer.”

He was a tall, ruggedly built older gentleman with a full head of white hair, and had a helpful attitude that was almost forceful. I liked the guy immediately. As I walked closer, I saw his name on a volunteer nameplate that he wore with pride. In small letters, it said Carlsbad by the Sea and in a large gold monogram, it listed his name, Marvin T. Harold. A man with two first names.

Out of curiosity, I asked him what his middle name was. He replied, “It’s Tiger. At least that’s what my friends call me. You can call me that too.” Then he winked, “Actually it’s Theodore. But no one, not even my wife when she was alive, ever called me that.”

We talked for a few minutes and he related some health concerns. “The doctor tells me I don’t have long to live. Bad ticker. Used to smoke for years. Nothin they can do. That’s why I drink this stuff. An elixir of life, I call it. I was supposed to be dead six months ago, but this keeps me going.”

I helped him secure the bottle in his cart and then he headed back across the street. As he walked away, he said, “My knees have bout gone out, but this cart is like a walker and a whole lot less wimpy. Don’t like to be seen with one of those. That’s why I volunteer. My daughter bought me this cart and I deliver things all over. Gets me out and about. Sometimes I have to hang on for dear life.”

I waved goodbye to Marvin and headed on my way.

Now, a few weeks later, I was looking at his cart abandoned on the sidewalk. I had to know more. I walked the block and a half to the Senior Home and walked in and talked with the front desk clerk.

She smiled. “I’m Clara, can I help you?”

I said, “I saw Marvin Harold’s shopping cart down by the train station. It was parked at the end of the sidewalk. Is he OK?”

The lady shook her head. “Unfortunately, he passed away earlier this week, but he left a note. Are you a friend?”

“I’m an acquaintance. I’ve seen him around town numerous times.”

She smiled, “Everyone loved Marvin around here. Always helping others. He hated getting old. Fought it to the end.”

“What did the note say?”

“Why don’t I show you a copy. We posted a few around here after he died. He wanted everyone to know what his plans were.” She reached under the desk and pulled out a xeroxed copy.

The note was written in his handwriting. It said . . .

I want you to know, I’m going on an adventure. I have a picture that I have to return to the USS Midway in San Diego. I ‘borrowed’ this small picture from the wall of one of the displays when I was visiting there with my daughter over a year ago. It’s the last known picture of my dearest friend, Jerry Hanks, who was a helicopter pilot. Jerry had saved my life during the war. I know it’s crazy, but it’s a memory I’ll always treasure. I need to get it back where it belongs before I die. I’m going to push my cart to the train station and take the Coaster down to the Santa Fe Depot. I have a cane and I can walk to the Midway from there. My ticker’s been acting up the past few days, so if I don’t make it back the same day, at least you’ll know where I went. God said in his bible that you are to forgive someone seventy times seven. It’s been almost seventy weeks since I took the photo, so I don’t want to run out of forgiveness.

If I make it back, you’ll never see this, but if you do read it, know that I love you all.

Marvin “Tiger” Harold.

Tears came to my eyes. “I take it he didn’t make it back.”

Clara shook her head, “He made it on-board the ship and returned the picture. As he was leaving the ship, his heart gave out and he passed away. We found the letter in his room after they called. The man from the ship said, ‘The Tiger roared one last time.'”

I nodded, “The incredible love of a friend for a friend.”

Clara smiled. “You can have the note. We’ll pick up the cart later. There is talk of displaying it in our Foyer as a tribute. Marvin will certainly be missed.”

I smiled back, “I’ve got a picture of the cart and the train. That’s how I’ll remember Marvin. The Tiger that roared.”

(Please note: This is a work of fiction, but one that could certainly happen)