Tag Archives: fiction

Valuable Life Lessons from a 94-Year-Old Neighbor

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Last spring, my 94 year old nextdoor neighbor, Euel, voluntarily turned in his car keys. “I’m concerned I’ll hurt someone or myself and I don’t want to risk that.”

Euel has been a widower about six years, but remained active driving to Denny’s each morning to see the “regulars” at breakfast, bowling with his long-time team and chairing the local Coca Cola Club meetings.

All that stopped when he quit driving.

It took a couple of weeks of his car not being parked in front of his house for me to realize something had changed. He told me he had made arrangements with a grand niece (the only relative in the state) to take him grocery shopping, the doctors and other errands. She was only coming by once a week though.

I take multiple short walks daily and so started knocking on his door once a day asking, “Do you want to take a walk?”

he was unsteady at first I decided it was the cane his doctor told him to use. Not sure who’s idea it was to put people on a cane for balance when the cane actually causes one to lean over.

So I went to REI and bought Euel trekking poles. He immediately stood straight and had much better balance. We walk not once, but twice a day now. He always says “yes” when I knock on the door.

He knows more about current events than most anyone you’ll meet, but we agreed we have to limit those talks because we are both horrified at what our country has become. So he tells stories and I listen to clues about what he wished he’d done to be better prepared to be ninety-four.

His first lesson: Keep Up With Technology. Euel has not. He has an old computer and basically can only look at existing files. he’s not updated the program and so can’t view most of what he searches.

He has a flip phone and struggles to see who’s calling and how to return the call.

He can’t order Uber or Lyft or Door Dash.

In short, he is radically dependent upon others for everything. He knows that not such a good thing.

Other neighbors have noticed I take walks with Euel and their reactions have been interesting:

-One said, “You’re making us look bad, Betheny.”

-Another said, “I don’t really know what to do around old people.”

-A third has started taking him to the market with her each week and asks him to walk on the days when I’m out of town.

I remember Euel’s Lesson #1 : Keep Up With Technology each time I want to be lazy and have my husband or son do something on the computer for me because I can’t figure it out.

Ugh, but good for my future.

The Christmas Hunt

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Once again, my grandfather’s ancient pickup truck required a “rolling start.” He released the brake and we rolled down the hill behind his farmhouse where he parked for just such occasions.

My grandfather, or Gaga as I called him, turned the ignition Nothing.

“One,” I thought.

He tried again with a little more force.

“Two.” I looked out the windshield with several weeks’ worth of bugs splattered on it.

He turned the ignition once more. This time there was a little bit of a grind to the motor.

“Three.” At least we’re getting closer. I looked at the back of the truck and saw Joe, my grandfather’s bird dog, shivering, partly because it was cold and partly because of the excitement of “going somewhere.”

Another turn of the ignition. The motor caught, my grandfather popped the clutch, and we lurched forward, bouncing out of the yard onto the gravel road in front of the house.

“Whoa!” we both said as we hit one more bump and flew off the truck’s vinyl seat.

As we bounced down the road, I smiled and pulled my winter coat up around my neck, settling in for the ride to the “bottom” to hunt for a Christmas tree. We’d been doing this for as long as I could remember. The weekend before Christmas we would always go the low land in the country we called “the bottom.” We’d search through as many pastures as it took before we found the perfect tree.

Mo matter what, it was always cold and a little damp, but we would go, he and I. It was our tradition. Joe’s too.

I think the bird dog knew when it was time to “go hunting.” He’d see Gaga throw the hand saw in the back of the truck, and then Joe would come running and hop up with it.  He wagged his tail so hard that it would literally shake his body back and forth, a perfect case of the tail wagging the dog.

Everything was gray. The sky. The trees. Even the grass. But not Joe. He was white and brown and stood out as much as anything could on a gray day.

Gaga and I usually didn’t talk very much on these trips. We’d just drive along in that old white truck of his and wonder if any heat would puff out of the vents so our feet wouldn’t freeze. His truck didn’t have any insulation or padding on the dashboard, the sides or the ceiling. I don’t know if it ever had any or if it had been ripped out or fallen out before or after Gaga bought it from someone in town.

The ”bottom” wasn’t much more than a low area in an otherwise completely flat part of central Texas, but, standing on Gaga’s front porch, you could see a gradual and definite decline in the terrain. And that’s where we would go.

We followed a precise ritual. We’d drive down to a place in the middle of the bottom and pull the truck off on the side of the road.  Gaga never pulled too far off because he had done that once and ended up sliding into the ditch.

Once he parked, we would climb out and walk to the back of the truck. As excited as Joe was, he would never leave the truck bed until Gaga lowered the tailgate. Of course, it would always take a couple of yanks before the tailgate would oblige. Once down, Joe would scamper out and head for the fields.

He’d run out ten to twenty yards then turn and run back to us, jumping and barking. Then, he’d run out again, and, again, come back to us, jumping and barking. He’d keep this up until we lifted the tailgate, grab the saw and set out in some particular direction.

We usually didn’t walk very far before we had to get to the other side of a barbed wire fence. So that we wouldn’t leave some “momento” of our journey hanging on the fence, Gaga would  hold the top strand of the barbed wire with one hand and push down the second strand with his boot. It was easy to loosen the wires because most of the fences in this part of the state were as old as Gaga’s truck. I’d lean over and climb through the opening Gaga made for me and my short legs.  Gaga would just step over the top of the fence with his long, long legs.

Once we’d cross the fence, we’d walk. And walk. And walk. We could never select the first tree we found. You just didn’t do that when you only went “hunting” one time a year.

Sometimes Joe would catch the scent of something and head off in a certain direction. But, he never went far. If he did start to stray too much, Gaga would call for him. “Joe” was all he would say, and Joe would come right back.  I once asked my grandfather how he was able to get Joe to return with just saying his name once when I knew most people would yell and scream at their dogs. He shrugged and said, “Joe’s his name. I’m not gonna call him Larry.”

Joe would bound back, pink tongue hanging out and a steamy breath smoking in the chill. He’d run straight to me, jump, put his muddy paws on my coat and slobber. That was our ritual.

When we found a tree we thought might be “the one,” we’d circle around it. Gaga would squat down and study its base, looking for rotting wood, ants or anything else that might be a problem. He’d stroke the needles, feeling for brittleness. He’d scape some of the bark with his thumbnail checking for moistness.

Somehow, we would both know at the same time when we found the right tree.  I’d usually say, “This looks like the one for this year, Gaga.” He would walk around it and mentally measure its height to make sure that it would fit inside the house. He’d bend over and look under the branches. Then, without saying a word, he would draw out his saw and cut down “our” tree.

Hauling it to the truck was never easy. We each had to stand on one side of the base, grab a limb and drag it back over  “I-don’t-know-how-many-steps” we had taken back to the challenge of getting through the barbed wire fence, now with a six foot tree. But, that too, was part of the hunt. The struggle was always worth it.

The years have passed now, and so have Gaga and Joe. I don’t “hunt” for Christmas trees anymore. I don’t even have a real tree. I have an artificial one. It’s better for the environment and my allergies. Still, “hunting” for Christmas trees remains as much a part of my Christmas tradition as it did all those years ago.

Today, when the rush of the holiday season becomes too much and the commercialism too unbearable, I climb into my white truck, go home, turn down the lights, sit with my son and husband in front of the fireplace, and tell stories about Gaga, Joe and finding the perfect tree.

copyright 2025 Betheny Lynn Reid

http://www.bethenylynnreid.com

Headwinds

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cardinals

I didn’t expect a difficult ride.

The trees weren’t blowing, I didn’t think there was a breeze. It was a sunny, happy morning.

So I headed north on the trail. The pedaling was hard. I dropped a gear. Still a struggle.

I mumbled, complaining about it the entire ride. Until the turn.

Heading south, I felt no wind at my back, but the ride was easy.

I saw the pair of cardinals, fluttering in their faithfulness.

The rabbits with their fuzzy faces full of grass, munching.

So many birds were singing.

Had I missed all this just moments before when I was riding north, complaining about unexpected struggles with my cycling?

Had I missed many other beautiful things in my life when I was in the middle of things not “going as planned?”

Probably.

Sky

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hiker at cliff's edge

I stood at the edge

of that high, high cliff

and saw the expanse of All.

I wanted to lean forward

and just fly – float- forever

so I could see everything that is offered.

Go into the Expanse that is not limited Self.

For a moment I imagined myself there.

Then I stepped back

to the grounding of the rocks and trees,

taking some of that Sky with me.

Are There Guns In Heaven?

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man in cloud

Steve Connors was a good man. A conventional guy meaning he played football in high school, made B’s and C’s at the state University, graduated, rabble-roused a little bit in his youth, got a job, married a good woman he had known a long time, had two kids, only cussed with his buddies or when alone, was a good son, was a good son-in-law, and paid his taxes.

He knew something was really wrong when he woke up. Everything was white. White sheets, white walls, white…

“What is that?” He wondered.

“White mist? Am I on a friggin’ cloud?”

Steve bolted up. He was wearing white cotton pajamas. “I never wear white cotton pajamas.” He looked around. There was no furniture, no windows, no doors.

“Am I in an insane asylum?”

He was feeling sweaty, agitated, confused, and a bit scared though he was good at keeping that last emotion in check.

He looked at the floor. White mist.

“I’m in a cloud.” He decided not to step down.

“I’m dead.”

He pinched his skin.

“Nope.”

He yelled, “Hello?!”

Silence. Absolute silence.

“Hello, Steve.”

“Holy shit!” Steve jerked. “Where’d you come from?”

“Just right there,” She said pointing nowhere. She looked older than Steve, but younger than his mother.

She’s kind of pretty Steve thought.

“Where the fuck am I… sorry about my bad language.”

“You’re in between.”

“In between what?”

“Life and death.”

Steve felt numb. He didn’t move at all for several minutes.

“It’s confusing I know. But you and I have to talk about some important things right now, Steve.”

“Is this one of those near-death experiences I hear about? People going to the light and then come back into the body?”

She smiled.

“Something like that.”

Steve shifted around in the bed.

“This is fucked up shit. Am I drunk?”

“No.”

“Then where am I? What is this place? Are we on a cloud?”

She smiled again.

“It’s like a cloud. You are between living on Earth or leaving Earth. You and I need to talk about some very important things. She paused. “ And then you have to decide what you’re going to do.”

“Decide what?”

“Decide what you’re willing to do if you return to Earth.”

“If!”

“Yes, Steve. You made a deal with me before you were born on Earth and you’ve not lived up to your part. Yet.”

“Lady, I’ve never seen you before.”

“You have. You just don’t remember.”

“Am I in a hospital dying from cancer or a car accident?”

“No. You were one of nineteen people shot at your daughter’s school picnic. A gunman with an AK-15 assault weapon walked onto the grounds and fired multiple rounds into the children, also hitting some parents.

“Fifteen children are dead. Four of you are being rushed to the hospital. Two will die on the way. Two of you are having conversations with your Guides right now.”

Steve had his hands on either side of his head trying to hold in his racing thoughts.

“Fifteen children are dead?”

“Yes.”

“Two more will die?”

“They just have actually.”

“Who?”

“You didn’t know them.

“I’m sorry to tell you that your daughter, Annabella, died earlier.”

Steve screamed and started to get out bed, but looked down at the mist then fell back on the sheets.

“She was one of the ones who just died?”

“No, Steve. She was killed instantly. She didn’t suffer.”

Steve was sobbing. Shoulders slumped. Defeated.

“My precious baby girl.”

Steve rolled onto his stomach and buried his head in the pillows, crying.

He woke with a start.

“Shit. Am I in the same place?”

He flipped around. She was still there.

“How long was I asleep?”

“A while.”

“What is happening to me on Earth?”

“You’re just now entering the emergency room.”

“What? It’s been forever.”

“Time and space are different here, Steve.”

Steve closed his eyes. Rubbed them. Shook his head.

“OK. What is it I’m supposed to learn? What deal did we make? And why did Annie have to die!” He was screaming again.

“Annie died because she fulfilled her purpose on Earth.”

“She was only eight. What purpose could have been done by then?”

“The deal she made before being born was that she was willing to die the way she did.”

“She knew she would be killed?”

“She knew while she was here, but she didn’t know it on Earth. Steve, because she fulfilled her agreement she did not suffer at all when she died.”

“Why would she agree to die like that?”

“So you would have the chance to correct your life.”

Steve could only look at her.

She stood silently. Her face was gentle.

“Okay okay. So what have I done wrong?”

“It isn’t a case of doing something wrong per se. It’s a case of do you want to fulfill your greatest purpose on Earth instead of just living an average, decent life?”

“A good life isn’t good enough I guess. I don’t know what you mean by me living my greatest purpose. I’m a good man.”

“Yes you are. She waited. “And you agreed that you would be more.”

“Can you just tell me what I need to do? I’m getting really tired of this conversation.”

She smiled again. “Why do you think it was a gunman with a powerful, military-type assault rifle that  killed your daughter, sixteen other people, and has you and another person pending?”

“I don’t know. I don’t know. I’ve always been responsible with guns. Granddaddy taught me to respect guns. I’ve always had to clean my rifle before and after we went hunting. That was my Granddaddy’s way of creating patience and respect for guns. We always eat what we kill. I have never been sport hunting. I don’t believe there such a thing as ‘sport’ hunting.”

“Exactly.”

“Exactly. Exactly what?”

“You have always been very respectful of guns. You have always been very careful. Why do you let others talk and behave irresponsibly about guns?”

“I can’t stop people from buying what they are legally allowed to buy. Shit. Is this about gun control?”

She smiled.

“You’re fucking kidding me!”

“Steve, I think it’s a little bit more than just that since you’re here. You made a deal with me before you were born on Earth that you were going to be the voice of reason about guns. You’re agreed you would be willing to stand up to your friends and the NRA so that things did not get out of hand about guns the way they have.

“You’ve done nothing about it for years.

“Steve, people like you. People respect you. People follow you. You have never been out of control with guns. You have never been unreasonable with the type of guns and ammunition you purchase.

“The deal was that you would use your credibility as “one of the guys”, a hunter, to be a leader in your country to bring sanity to the type of weapons and ammunition that are available, and more importantly, how people gain access to guns.

“Annabel agreed to be your daughter knowing she was be gunned down if you didn’t step up to your higher purpose.

“You have a choice now. Her death can mean nothing or you can step up and live your higher purpose on Earth.

“You mean I live?”

She smiled.

“Yes, you live.”

Steve closed his eyes and cried again.

When Steve Connors opened his eyes, he saw his wife sitting beside him. Her eyes were red and swollen from crying. She sobbed when she saw that Steve was now waking up after his surgery.

“It’s a miracle, thank you God, it’s a miracle,” was all she could say when she collapsed into Steve’s arms.

“Honey, it’s okay. I’m okay.”

“Annie…” his wife started to say.

“Honey, Annie is okay. I know she’s gone from us here, but I’ve been to heaven. I know Annie didn’t die with pain.

“And she won’t die in vain either, honey.

“Babe, there are no guns in heaven… and we’re going to bring some of that heaven here on earth.”

Stranger in Her Backyard

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Maris wasn’t a light sleeper, but her ear would catch unusual sounds in the house at night and wake her for investigation.  Her husband of twenty-seven years literally slept through lightning striking the tree outside their open window once, so she knew, if there was ever a noise, she would have to look around the house on her own.

So when she woke to the sound of running water, she lay still in her bed, listening over the hum  of the ceiling fan, to determine the source.  Her first thought was to wonder if it was Sunday or Thursday, her automatic sprinkler days.

” No. No, that’s not it because it’s Saturday… Unless my timer has screwed up.

“That sounds like the water faucet just outside our bedroom window.”

Without thinking, she reached out and touched the spot next to her where her cat always slept. He wasn’t there. She rolled around to look toward the bedroom window where she saw him sitting on the edge of the sill, staring at something outside. His head was slowly moving back and forth, following motion outside the window.

Maris got out of bed and tip – toed to the window, hoping to peek out the sliver of a gap in the curtain made by her cat’s body.  No luck. She leaned forward so her head was at the same level as her cat’s. Still no luck in having the right angle needed to see what was going on.

The water shut off. She froze.

“Did he see me? Why do I think he is a he? It could be a woman. Would that make a difference? Why am I thinking all this right now?”

Maris walked to the den, which also had a view of the backyard. She peeked around the corner, but saw no person and nothing unusual. The house was quiet again. She thought about doing something else to see what was going on, but, for some odd reason, decided not to. So she went back to sleep.

The next morning she looked to see if the backyard faucet hose was off its holder or looked disturbed.  It was slightly jumbled, “but it always is,” she thought.

It happened again three nights later.

The sound of running water. Her cat in the window watching something. This time though, Maris decided she would pull the curtain back far enough to see who was out there. Again, she thought about waking her husband but knew he would simply say, “What do you want me to do?”

“What if, like a horror movie, his face is right outside the window and he’s waiting for me? I have to know what’s going on.” That was Maris’ approach to life, always curious, fearless in that curiosity.

She peeked through the curtain to see a bearded man, bare-chested, scrubbing his shirt under the running water.  He was very thin, gaunt. Maybe only 150 pounds on his 6’4″ body. His collar bones jutted out like sticks.

His boots and socks were sitting off to the side.  The socks appeared to be laid out to dry. The heels of the boots were worn almost flat. His tan workman’s pants were cinched tight with a brown belt blackened by use. A small backpack was sitting nearby on the grass.

He laid his shirt out on the hedges then turned to the faucet and started washing his face, neck, chest, underarms… He was meticulous in how he cleaned each part of his body. He cleaned his fingernails by running one nail under the other until all were clean. Or, at least, Maris assumed they were clean.

The moon was full and bright.  The natural light and the fact that he was only about four feet from her window made it easy for her to see that his skin was tanned mahogany, his hair was touching his shoulders and parted in the middle, his beard was full and hung mid-length at his neck, he stood very straight and appeared “refined, cultured, dignified… how to describe it?” wondered Maris.

He turned off the water and sat on the grass beside his drying clothes. Knees tucked under his chin.  He closed his eyes and seemed to fall asleep immediately.

She stepped away from the curtain.

“Who does he think he is coming into my backyard?” Maris tried to be angry and offended, but wasn’t.  “I need to lock the gates.”

“But why?” said another voice. “What has he done, but use a little water to clean himself?”

Her cat stepped away from the curtain and looked up at Maris as if to say, “Let’s go back to sleep.”  Bootsey jumped on the bed and started cleaning himself.  Maris peeked out the window. The man and all his belongings were gone. Disappeared.  It was just moments before that he looked like he was sleeping and now he was gone. “Is he a ghost? Or an angel? Or a test?”

Maris had a theory that anytime she encountered something that needed care it was a test by God to see what kind of person she was.  How did she respond when something, or someone, in front of her needed help.  It could be as simple as picking up trash to nodding “hello” to  homeless people, or giving them food.

“Food. I bet he’s hungry.  He certainly looks hungry. But is he coming back?”

Four days later, again before Saturday morning sunrise, Maris woke to the sound of running water and her cat sitting in the window sill, watching. Maris didn’t bother getting out of bed. She knew what she was going to do.

On Monday night, after her husband had fallen asleep, Maris filled a water bottle and put fresh bread and bananas in a zip lock bag.  She sat these items in a basket next to the water faucet outside her window.

On cue, before dawn Tuesday, she woke to hear the running water, saw Bootsey in the window watching, but decided to return to her sleep rather than getting up.  “Let him have his privacy.”

In the morning she checked the basket outside.  The food and water bottle were gone. The basket remained.

Maris sat food and drink out every Monday and Friday night for the next six weeks.  And every Tuesday and Saturday morning before dawn, she heard the water running outside. She added Ensure (“That’ll give him more nutrition”) and sandwiches to the basket.  She only used soft food because she assumed his teeth were bad and he wouldn’t be able to chew well.

When the first cool breeze of the fall came, Maris added a sock cap, scarf and socks to the basket.  She didn’t look out the window anymore when she heard the water.  She’d just look at Bootsey watching the Stranger and then return to her sleep.

Then it stopped.

One Saturday morning she woke on cue, but heard no running water.  Bootsey was asleep beside her. She couldn’t go back to sleep and just laid in bed until sunrise. While her husband still slept, Maris went into the backyard.

The food and drink were gone. In the basket was a note that said, “Thanks.”

Maris smiled. She knew he was gone. She’d passed the test.