Green Ham And Purple Potatoes By Mike Freeman

 Green Ham And Purple Potatoes

By Mike Freeman

Men have roughly 10 colors through which they evaluate the world. Black, brown, purple, red, orange, blue, green, yellow, white, and maybe pink. We feel very sophisticated if we can distinguish between colors like light and dark blue. Or maybe combine colors like blue-green. If a man uses the word "Burgundy," he is talking about wine, not a shirt color.

We love color, but keep it simple. We are too busy doing detailed spatial calculations with our brains. We associate color and the objects in the world around us in concrete terms. Green lettuce is good, but green meatloaf recently discovered in the refrigerator is not. Red sky in the morning, sailors take warning. Red sky at night, sailors' delight. You can eat white snow, but leave yellow snow alone.

Women seem to see an infinite number of colors and give each a name. These color names confuse men and are beyond our comprehension. Women discern colors called puce, salmon, fuchsia, rose, coral, blush, and peach. Men see those same colors and call them pink. Pink adequately describes the world for us. God made us this way. I don't know why.

Some people see everything in black and white. Both men and women. I am excluding colorblind people because they have a medical condition. Seeing the world in black and white is a perceptual challenge. Things are either good or bad, pretty or ugly (pretty ugly doesn't really exist), right or wrong, and so on. There are no "shades of gray" or diverse opinions and perceptions. It is one way or the other. I am not talking about these kinds of people. I find it hard to spend much time with them.

Most people view the world through a rainbow of colors. These are the people I am talking about. Men classify these colors in roughly 10 basic groups. Women utilize half a kabillion groups.

Karen and Joyce invite me over to dinner one evening. Karen is attending San Diego State University and is one of my younger sisters. Joyce attends the same school and grew up in our neighborhood. I am out of graduate school, working my first career job as a system analyst/programmer in IT at a local shipyard.

Dinner with my sister and neighborhood friend should be an enjoyable, casual affair. I ask if I can bring anything to the dinner they are preparing. They say no, they have everything under control. I miss this first vital clue that mischief is crouching at my door.

I show up with a bottle of wine in hand. We exchange pleasantries at the door to their apartment and move into their living room. Smells from the kitchen are intoxicating.

As a bachelor, I have a few award-winning dinners that I serve to wow my date or friends. Some use a crockpot, others a brown-in-bag, and many a barbecue grill. The aroma emanating from their kitchen is delicious, and I am very hungry.

They can tell I am very interested in the scrumdilicious dinner they are preparing. We update each other on current life events and laugh over some shared memories of the neighborhood. Man, I am really getting hungry. We start to talk about what our future lives might look like. I find myself losing interest in my future as the hunger pains grow.

They scurry in and out of the kitchen, making sure all the different foods are to perfection. We’ll be ready to go in a few minutes. I am starving and thinking about putting ketchup on one of their couch pillows to eat.

"Dinner is served!" They chime.

I attempt to walk to the table with great reserve and dignity. Running to it is beneath a big brother's self-respect.

I sit down, look at my plate, and say, "Smells absolutely delicious!"

"We hope you like it," Karen says with a Cheshire cat smile. I miss this critical clue to the upcoming devilry.

Karen presents the first dish to me with a wondrous flair. It is a delectable green ham! The smell of it makes my hunger nearly insatiable. The look of it does something else to me.

I have confronted green ham before in my life. It occurs too often in the refrigerator of my bachelor's apartment, along with moldy cheese, old mayonnaise, brown lettuce, and stale bread. Regretfully, it always gets thrown out.

But this green ham smells incredible. It is actually healthy to eat! The food color she added to it confuses the eye and brain. I take my first bite. It is beyond delicious, especially with a dash of pink mustard. My taste buds are all in! My stomach screams for more.

The big brother in me cannot allow my little sister to have this moment at my expense. Family gatherings will never be the same. When the group is large and the time is right, I know Karen will jump into the existing conversation, turn to me, and say, "Remember the night I stuffed your face with green ham… and you liked it!"

Being the eldest of six children carries many responsibilities. You have to break in your parents regarding every life experience, good and bad. The eldest has to be a role model for the younger spawn. Younger siblings think the eldest have it easy since everything they receive is new. The eldest does not have to deal with hand-me-down clothes, toys, and reputations. There is one sacred rule for the eldest. Never, ever, let a younger sibling pull a successful prank on you.

It is tempting to reply to her green ham introduction with a sarcastic response saying, "I read the book, Sam I am, you know my feelings, for green eggs and ham!"

I decide not to. With the mental strength of an eldest child, I focus on taste and not sight. The ham is delicious.

The agility of my eldest-child mind gushes forth, helping me to turn to my sister and Joyce, saying, "Best ham I have ever tasted! Don't tell Mom I said that. What other incredible dishes do I smell for dinner?"

Then comes the introduction of purple mashed potatoes. I quickly determine to defeat the color purple and my sister's evil scheme.

"Pile them on!" I roar with glee. "I love mashed potatoes, especially purple ones!"

I am successful in getting Karen and Joyce to laugh with me and not at me.

"What else have you got? Pink rolls? Black broccoli? Red milk?" I ask in a loud, theatrical voice.

Joyce proudly brings out the blue corn.

We dig into our banquet. My  brilliant eldest-child mind now wonders. Could I use the ages-old strategy of "turning the tables" on my younger sister and Joyce? Typically, it works well on young siblings and can even be devastating. It is time to find out.

"Please pass the butter." I quietly ask.

I know there must be an ambush lurking beneath the butter dish cover. I take off the cover, grab a large slab of grey butter, and lavishly spread it on my turquoise roll.

I smack my lips as I eat the roll with relish and glee. Karen and Joyce momentarily lose their composure at the sight of me eating. The grey butter squishing into my mouth is too much for them. I finish with a flourish by doing the "big brother open mouth" chewing routine.

They recover quickly, but my moment of triumph is forever!

The feast continues as we all laugh over their clever dinner plan. We are amazed at the impact different colors have on the tasty food in front of us. It violates our trained perceptions of acceptable edible food colors. It is an incredible struggle for our taste buds and hunger to override our visual understanding.

We discover that exposure to the new color schemes over time helps us fully appreciate our mouthwatering banquet. The food flavor explodes as our minds adjust to the new color status.

Perceptions are tricky. We discover the mind-bending value of viewing the familiar from a new perspective or a different color.

Our perceptions and worldview well up from our past experiences and biases. Testing them with new colors helps us keep an open mind. As a male, I can now tell the difference between pink, salmon, and fuchsia. I can now discern when eating green ham is a safe and tasty idea!

Sand by Don Taco

                                                               Sand 

                                                                                                                                                                             copyright 2026 by Don Taco

                                                  

I went to the beach, with my young daughter, like you do. She loves to dig around in the sand and discover things. I like to sit still and not think about the work I need to do. It's a match made in heaven.

Ever really looked at the sand? We toss the word around like it's a common, generic item, barely worthy of our attention.

Ever looked at a mountain, and realized that it was mostly an enormous piece of rock that got all displaced by the forces that shape our world, slowly, oh so slowly, but inexorably all the same. And all around the mountain are the pieces of the rock that have broken off and fallen downhill. And at the bottom of the valleys, that the rivers make when the rains run down the mountain are smaller and smaller pieces of rock that water and wind and weather have broken up, tossing them around, and smashing them against each other, and wearing the edges smooth. Down to the gravel that fills the places between the rocks, and the sand that fills the places between the gravel.

If you take a good look at a handful of sand, with a magnifying glass, or through a microscope, you'll see that it's anything but homogenous.There's every kind of shape and color imagineable, all ground down and thrown together by the waves and the friction of the world. And every sort of material, from the darkest obsidian to the gaudiest garnet, with plenty of granite, and even man-made materials like colored glass, and undoubtedly some plastic, plus seashells and bits of stick, perhaps some dried kelp, and possibly even whalebone, although not enough to even begin to duplicate your great-great-aunt's corset. Maybe one for an actual ant. Not to mention any and every color you ever dreamed of.

So, there I am, resting in the sand, giving no consideration to the wonder of it all, when my daughter races up to me with her plastic bucket full of bits of broken glass and shells and tiny stones, in all the glorious colors that caught her eye that day, and says, with all the love that's in her, "I got something for you!"

And I, with all the love that's in me, say, "Oh? And what is it?"

And she hands me the pail, full of broken colored bits, and says, "It's a box of rainbows!"

What happens to us when we get all caught up in the machinery of being an adult and working to survive and thrive and suffer the indignities of this troublesome world, what happens to us is that we forget how to see the world and the wonder in it. But there's always a new generation who haven't forgotten yet, and in that is where all our hope for our future lies.

"It's a box of rainbows!"

Road Reflections By Mike Freeman

Road Reflections

By Mike Freeman

My parents ride their bicycles throughout Europe on their three-month honeymoon. They take an ocean liner home to the United States. My conception occurs during that watery journey. That is what the math says. Their first wedding anniversary present to each other is me. Travel is my destiny!

My first travel memory is looking out an airplane window at either a sunset or sunrise. My mom joins me as we enjoy the splashes of color across the clouds. I am four years old. We are traveling to visit my parents' families in Michigan and Vermont. I have no other memories of that trip.

I am now 11 years old, and the eldest of six children. My parents take the entire family on a three-day, two-night train trip to Chicago. We explore the large, glass-domed car, where passengers view the majestic countryside. We find adventure eating in the dining car and sleeping in small compartments.

The train is making stops along the way. For an unknown reason, I am curious about Denver and get off the train. The train whistle signaling departure blows loudly. Looking out the train window in horror, my mom spots me wandering on the platform. There is a shrill shout. My father dashes off the train, scooping me up just in time to safely return to the train. My mother is relieved. My brother and four sisters are apathetic. They miss the entire show. I could have been an orphan in Denver. I suspect my siblings would enjoy that.

We visit the farm my mom grew up on in Michigan. My brother and I pass the time throwing fallen apples over the barn. The local farm boys watch in amazement. Working the farm leaves them little time to play baseball. We try to teach them to throw properly, but with little success.

The next day, they take us to a corral with a large brown horse.

"Jump on," they say. "He is easy to ride. You don't need a saddle!"

I jump on the horse from the corral fence. The horse takes off running. I panic and grab its neck, hanging on for dear life. I finally find a way to get off the horse without killing myself. Everyone laughs but me.

My respect grows for the farm boys, even if they can't throw apples over a barn. I am envious when I discover they drive tractors at the age of 12. The downside is that they drive them to work the fields. I begin to realize that people live vastly different lives.

We continue our travels to visit family in Vermont. One day, we are barbecuing steaks with my cousins. They wrap their steaks in aluminum foil before grilling. I find this odd. We season our steaks and throw them directly on the grill. We love the barbecue flavor. My cousins do not. I gain another insight. Different people enjoy different things. And that is wonderful!

I take a two-week trip to Mazatlan, Mexico, with my friend Ralph and his family. I am 15 years old and excitedly drive the car on occasion. We stop at Guaymas on the way south to snorkel. We see numerous color-strewn fish and hammerhead sharks. Large manta rays are playing around our small boat. They leap out of the water and do loud belly flops on the surface. My wonder for nature, different cultures, and languages begins to flourish.

Everything we see underwater is enthralling. I forgot to reapply sunscreen, resulting in the worst sunburn of my life. I am like a reptile, sloughing my old skin off over the next few days. I gain another life insight. There are consequences in life for the things we do and don't do.

I turn 16 and am off on another family adventure. My parents pack the entire family into a 25-foot-long RV for a one-month trip across the United States. Eight of us are living in a 200-square-foot space, traveling at 65 mph. How can there possibly be any problems? Our experience helps us quickly learn lessons about sharing space and privacy.

We arrive at our grandmother's farm in Michigan. The barn is a playground. We swing on ropes, jump from rafters into piles of grain, and find endless hiding places for hide and seek.

Now, my future All-Star softball sisters can throw apples over the barn. The local farm boys still cannot. They have low enthusiasm for our games in the barn. I avoid riding any horses. Despite our differences, we enjoy several wonderful days together.

Our trek continues to a lakefront home outside Montreal. The owners are my aunt and uncle. We swim, canoe, and wage massive water fights with local kids. We enjoy their French Canadian accents. They accuse us of having a southern drawl. Endless arguments erupt about pronouncing certain words.

Tracy, a fun-loving, blonde, French Canadian girl, becomes my first crush. Our few days at the lake quickly go by. My uncle and I scheme to delay our departure. He tells me to remove the rotor from the RV's engine distributor, which prevents the engine from starting. The night before our departure, I wrestle with the devious act of sabotage. I decide not to.

The next morning, my uncle informs my father about our plot. My dad, understanding my hopelessly love-sick condition, goes to test the RV's engine. It starts up immediately. We depart right away, leaving my broken heart in Canada.

We arrive in Vermont and visit a local swimming pool with 1-meter and 3-meter diving boards. I am a diving competitor on my high school swim team. I decide it is time to show off my skills to the people of the great state of Vermont.

I perform a 2 1/2 front somersault off the high dive. Next is a back 1 1/2 somersault, layout position. Finally, I wow the crowd with a reverse one-and-a-half somersault, tuck position.

Bernie, the pool lifeguard, walks over and introduces himself. A fast friendship forms. He introduces me to the local youth, including his sister, Pat. They become friends for life. I am discovering there are incredible people everywhere in North America.

We travel down the East Coast, arriving at our nation's capital. I notice a gathering crowd as we wander around the Washington Monument. A large number of uniformed Nazi party members are speaking to the growing crowd. They speak poorly about Jews, Blacks, and people who believe in democracy. Everyone in the crowd must be Jewish, Black, or believe in democracy. The crowd becomes very agitated and shouts down the uniformed speaker. The group of Nazis cannot understand why people do not support them. I learned a vital lesson in public speaking: read the room.

We turn west toward home, soaking in the vast beauty and diversity of our country. Our one-month expedition is quickly over.

I am 19 and struggling to find a job to pay for my college. The economy is very rough.

One Sunday afternoon, my father pulls me aside and says, "Your grandparents will give you a job in Vermont for the summer. You will earn a minimum wage of $1.65 per hour and work 5 1/2 days a week. They will supply your transportation, food, and housing."

I am sweeping the floor of my grandfather's heating supply store in Vermont within a week. I reconnect with Bernie and Pat for the Fourth of July celebration at the local pool. We find many adventures together that summer. I visit my aunt and uncle outside Montreal twice. Tracy is at the lake both times. I fall in love all over again.

The drinking age for alcohol in Vermont is 18. I savor the newfound freedom of going to bars and buying beer. Returning to California is depressing. The legal drinking age there is 21. The two-year wait in California to legally purchase beer goes by very slowly. I learn patience regarding different rules in different places about the same thing.

Pat and Bernie have a one-week vacation a year later. They journey across the USA to visit me in San Diego with two of their friends. They stay for three days and two nights. I throw them a huge party. Then they drive straight back to Vermont. Only incredible friends drive both ways across the USA in nine days to visit me.

I decide to hitchhike across the United States after my friend, Linc, encourages me. He is an expert hitchhiker with deep travel experience. His water polo nickname is "The Missing Linc." I think it is a worthwhile adventure before starting graduate school. At the last minute, Linc cancels.

I announce to my nervous parents that I am going anyway. They make me an offer I cannot refuse. I can drive their Fiat automobile if I take my sister, Kathy, and my next-door neighbor, Cathy. I agree. I begin my trek with boundless optimism and $500 for all my expenses.

Our original plan is to travel up the West Coast to British Columbia. Relatives warn us about an early winter. We immediately decide to head east toward Michigan.

The first night, we camp out in southern Utah. A monster rainstorm drenches everything. I tell the two ladies to camp in the dry women's bathroom. They move there and are miserably cold but dry. Hand dryers provide no heat. I sleep in the car, dry but cramped.

Later, they insist I got the better end of the deal. I think I am being noble. This argument continues today. I gain the insight that some arguments are unsolvable.

We arrive at a fabulous feed at my grandmother's farm in Michigan. Eating road food is OK. Nothing is better than farm-fresh everything. We visit family and friends and continue to Montreal, Canada. Kathy and I renew old friendships while visiting our aunt and uncle. We introduce Cathy to everyone. It is a wonderful few days of splashing fun on the lake.

Tracy is there. My girlfriend, Shannon, is waiting for me in San Diego. I discover Tracy is also in a relationship. I am experiencing my first heartache dilemma. What to do? Tracy and I resolve to be just friends. Who knows our future?

Fall colors are blazing with brilliant reds, yellows, oranges, and greens. We decide to follow the color change down the eastern seaboard until it fizzles out, somewhere around Florida. My wonder for the beauty of nature continues to expand.

We head south to Brattleboro, Vermont, visiting my grandparents and friends. Time with Bernie, Pat, and friends quickly passes. We move 100 miles south every few days to enjoy the leaves changing color.

We arrive at our nation's capital just in time to meet our father. He is on a business trip and getting ready to return home. He treats us to a tasty dinner. My sister, Kathy, decides it is time for her to head home. Her boyfriend beckons. She also wants to help our sister Mary Beth, who has just given birth to my parents' first grandchild, Bryan. She leaves with our dad. Cathy and I continue our exploration.

We continue following the diminishing colors of fall. They fade in southern Georgia. Continuing into Florida, we visit Cape Canaveral, the Everglades, and drive out to Key West. Traveling up the West Coast of Florida, we pass Naples. Cathy decides she wants to go to Disney World. I have no interest. I have been to Disneyland too many times.

I drop her off at Disney World and journey to St. Petersburg. I enjoy a few beers on a beautiful beach. I drive back to Disney World, pick up Cathy, and we continue our road journey.

It is time to head west. We arrive in New Orleans. I take Cathy to the French Quarter to enjoy its unique music. We go into Preservation Hall to relish the Dixieland music masters. We begin discussing the next day's travel plans to Houston, Texas. I tell her I know a friend's family in Houston. I will call Kirk's parents the next day.

There is no need. I look at Cathy as we sit down. Kirk's parents are on the other side of her! What are the odds? They are returning to Houston the next day and invite us for a visit. Coincidences like this are common when traveling.

We enjoy everything in Houston with Kirk's family. Then onto Austin and the Alamo at San Antonio. I am running very low on money. It has been three months of travel across the USA. Five hundred dollars does not go as far as it used to!

Cathy and I beeline for home. We enjoy the national parks of Texas, New Mexico, and Arizona. The immensity, beauty, and diversity of our country are incomprehensible.

We arrive in San Diego on fumes. I literally have two cents in my pocket. I fall into the welcoming arms of Shannon. Cathy says goodbye and heads home to Anaheim.

This trip results in major life changes for me. I left thinking my career path would be as a high school literature teacher and water polo coach. Instead of earning a teaching credential upon returning, my growing sense of adventure guides me to do what was inconceivable as an undergraduate. I take business classes and earn a Master's in Business Administration degree.

The master's degree unlocks opportunities previously unavailable or unrecognized before my trip. My 40-year business career includes frequent travel all over the globe. I take a four-month break from it to backpack throughout Europe.

From the moment I gaze out an airplane window as a child to the miles crossed by train, RV, boat, and battered Fiat, travel becomes the thread stitching together my family, friendships, heartbreaks, lessons, and dreams. Each journey quietly shapes the person I become.

The road teaches me resilience, curiosity, humility, and gratitude for the vast diversity of people and places that make up our world. A childhood adventure grows into a lifelong calling, guiding my career, deepening my faith, and broadening my understanding of life.

Footsteps by Ricki T Thues

Footsteps

Ricki T Thues

 

The shadow hurried ahead of Reggie Stanson with the regularity of shadows. It swung behind him with the coming of each streetlamp. It peered into tonight's memories of smooth jazz and slow dancing, disturbing the singular privacy of a man in his 50s. Stanson's intellect shut the door on the prying of the strange phantoms. Shadows are harmless, even at 1 a.m. in Chicago's South Side.

 

The ten blocks from the I.C. train station to the apartment were lonely, except for his shadow-companion. Stanson almost enjoyed its company, despite the quiet, annoying unease he felt. He talked to the phantom for five or six rows of tenant houses. The shadow did not add to the conversation, but somehow made Reggie’s musings easier. Escape from Janice, his young, bickering wife, to the Loop and its Jazz parlors had been a relief. “She doesn't like jazz, she doesn't like dancing. I don't think she likes me. She said that she was done with me,” he thought. At least Rush Street is exciting, unlike the solitude of 54th Street in Hyde Park.

 

Stanson's monologue faded, allowing the soles of his shoes to pick up the conversation. The deserted street mimicked leather-on-concrete words; houses, shadow, houses, shadow. Stanson listened intently to the tap-slap sounds as he watched 54th Street draw nearer. His wife would be waiting. There would be words to endure and a cup of hot tea for comfort.

 

That comfort was still six blocks away when Stanson noticed an echo in the voice of his boots. He paused. The echo bounced twice, then stopped too. A shock of anticipation made his heart skip a hard beat. He continued walking, and so did the echo. He assured himself that he was alone with his shadow and his imagination. His speeding heart was not buying the argument.

 

In the next two blocks, the regularity of his footfalls was reassuring to the businessman. His life was, after all, a thing of order. Rush Street had been a bad-boy break in the monotony of his routine. He chuckled unconvincingly to himself. Almost musically, he felt power in the ordered pattern of footsteps. Step, step, step, step, slap, step… Stanson stopped, but a step, step…continued.

 

Stanson listened, all quiet now. He resumed walking. His shadow still followed him like a careful, watching spy. The stalking footsteps also resumed. “Echoes from these empty streets,” he said, embarrassed. In another block, he stopped again…step, step…continued. One block to go. Unable to move, caught in a sort of trance where a half-second expanded into hours, Stanson saw only two things: the apartment with its locked door and waiting tenant, and the phantom shadow, now stretched out longer than his own along with the stalking step…step…step. The advancing shadow had not stopped…Step…Step…Step. The shadow grew, engulfing him. The only thing louder than the footsteps was the beating of his heart. Panic at the sound broke his paralysis.

 

Stanson found himself running down the sidewalk. Would the apartment never come? It was only a few houses away. The row of houses stretched before him. Glance back? No. Just run, run. For God's sake, run.

 

The door. At last, the door. Ring the bell. Is it ringing? “I don't have my key.” Stanson pounded, pounded till his knuckles bled. His heart beat hard in time with the pounding, breath shallow. He clutched at his chest. Gasping for breath, he opened his mouth once more and collapsed.

 

His next-door neighbor, Bill, saw him fall. “What's wrong? What happened?" he yelled to Reggie, but Reggie did not move. Bill pulled out his cell phone and dialed 911. “My neighbor has collapsed. Send help.” Other neighbors begin to gather around. No one knew CPR.

 

Sirens blared from a couple of blocks away. The ambulance screeched to a stop, and the EMTs rushed toward Reggie.

 

"Coming through; we're EMTs, give us some air. Come on, clear out." They gathered around the collapsed man and began CPR. Minutes passed, then they all stood up. One of the attendants shook his head at a nearby policeman, then whispered something in his ear. 

 

"I'm afraid this man's dead," said the police officer to the crowd. "Looks like a heart attack. Move along, please.”

 

A woman came running down the street where Reggie had just come. “Officer, officer--let me through-what happened? Who said he was dead? That's my husband--what happened?"

"What's your name?" He asked, soberly.

"Jan... I live here, but ...is he…?”

"I'm sorry. ma’am. Come with me, please.”

 

As the crowd cleared and Janice followed Stanson's body into the ambulance, she mumbled to herself, half-convincing and half-bewildered. "Odd," she thought, "I wonder if the old guy saw me trailing him. He seemed happy enough before I turned the corner. He must have felt pretty guilty about sneaking into town to run away from me like that."

 

As the lights flashed past the ambulance, Jance watched the Chicago skyline in the distance. The tears had dried in thin streaks on her 20-year-old face. If the attendant had looked closely, he might have noticed the streaks were broken by a hint of a smile on the woman’s youthful features. Janice sighed lightly.

 

Ironically, one of Reggie’s favorite jazz songs played in Janice's head as she remembered the stalking. She mused to herself, “Well, this was easier than gathering evidence for the divorce.” 

What Goes Around...Comes Around by Den Watson

  \

What Goes Around...

   It’s 1962, and 2:30 AM on a dark and deserted street in one of LA’s many suburbs. Except it’s not quite deserted. Parked on the side of the road is an older model car with a black woman and a young girl standing beside it. I’m am on my way home from a late date in my even older stickshift coupe – just the one front seat.

   I pull over and a conversation begins. “Are you out of gas?” I ask.

   “I don’t think so,” she answers. “I don’t want to be a bother. Maybe you could stop at the next gas station and tell someone?”

   “No, ma’am” I say, “I’m not leaving you and your daughter out here at three in the morning. Where do you live? I’ll drive you home.”

   The protests begin. She might have been the most polite woman I’d ever met.

   “I can’t trouble you.”

   “It’s no trouble.”

   “I live too far away.“

   “Where do you live?“

   “Over near Atlantic.“

   “That’s only a mile or two away. Hop in.”

   We never exchanged names, but in a few minutes we were in a run-down neighborhood with dirt front yards and sagging chain-link fences. Except for one house in the center of the block with a white picket fence, a small green lawn, a well-tended flower bed, and a trim pathway the woman and her daughter now walked up and into their home which, I’m pretty sure, had a telephone.

                                                          ...Comes Around

   A few months later, I’m on the way home from night classes an hour away, and it’s about 11 PM when my car breaks down in South Central LA – also called Watts – pretty much an all-black area. I’m on one of the larger but now deserted city streets, standing next to my car with my books and my thumb out. Nobody goes by and I start walking. I’m at least 10 miles from home. A couple of cars go by but don’t stop. Then one car does. I approach the passenger window and look in at a black man in his 50s who says

   “Get in.”

   I do, and thank him.

   “You don’t wanna be out here this time of night. Where do you live?” 

   I tell him, and he says he’ll take me to the city limits. “I don’t want to be in your town this time of night, either,” he says, and drives me five or 6 miles closer to home.

   “Thanks for the ride. I really appreciate it. I can walk from here.”

   He u-turned and drove back to his neighborhood. It only took me another hour or so to walk home, and on that walk home, I thought, once again, about what’s wrong with this world—and what’s right with it.3