Even if the disastrous predictions of the Mayans come true and the world as we know it ends, I’ll be prepared to make my last year on earth the greatest period of my life.

So, welcome apocalypse!

Toward the end of 2011, I busily planned and prepared for the coming turbulent year. This included not only planning my writing schedule, but finishing and/or starting quite a few exciting endeavors.

First, I wrote an entire first draft of a book during NaNoWriMo in November. I was pretty proud of this because of the many life changes I’m currently going through. In fact, I finished so fast, I started another writing project.

Next, I created a podcast and got it listed in a ton of directories, including iTunes and Blackberry. I even created a YouTube channel and uploaded the first installment of the podcast as a preview.

In addition, I’m finishing the final touches on the first of two articles on the subject of writing for a monthly online magazine.

Ang I’m still editing that novel that seems to be hanging around a bit longer that I’d hoped. If I could just get that completed by early 2012, that would be such a relief.

Yeah, I’ve been a very busy guy the past couple of months.

The first few days of 2012 have already included several rejections, so I’ll have to prepare for those, too. And, as it’s been pointed out to me many times, rejections are a part of the life of a writer. And just as I did a few years ago, I still collect the various rejection notices I’ve received—whether on paper or in digital format. It goes back to what I learned after 20 years in business: you have to get a certain number of NO’s before you get a single YES. So, I always keep tract to remind myself my YES is just around the corner.

But rejection still stings, no matter how much you tell yourself it doesn’t. This is my way of relieving that sting, as crazy as it may sound.

So, if the world does indeed end in 2012, I hope to be sitting at my laptop tapping away on the next story or with one of my manuscripts in hand busily editing. I can’t see a better way for a writer to go, can you?

And if I’m fortunate to make it Heaven, maybe I’ll be greeted at the pearly gates with the ultimate question: “So Lawrence, did you ever get that novel finished or what?”

But eventually my stomach settled and my still-frequent visits to the john had slowed to a less frenetic pace. I had time to fully appreciate the sight of my torso.  To say I was shocked at what I saw would be an understatement. I saw a body I hadn’t seen in many years. A welcome stranger, if you will. My belly had flattened considerably and I could actually see the contours of my ribs. It made me think—

Ribs…mmm…I could go for a full rack right now!

Could anyone blame me? For the entire period more substance had left my body—seemingly out of every orifice—than I had taken in. I was in need of a good meal, if for no other reason than to have something solid to expel.

I continued to the bathroom. I decided to hop on the scales. When the final number popped up, I learned I had lost 2 kg—or 4.6 pound for my American readers—in the last day and a half.

Wow!

Then, I decided to do some calculation. I wanted to know how much weight I had lost since my last medical check-up, which was March of this year.

I opened one of the shipping boxes at the bottom of my wardrobe. I pulled out the large manila envelopes contained inside until I came to the one marked “Medical.” I carefully opened it and flipped through the papers until I came to the notes of my last physical, date March 11, 2011.

Oh my God!

Including the 4.6 pounds I had just melted away, I had lost a total of 30 pounds!

Since I had been in the land of Hessen, I was aware my clothes were starting to fit loser. After the shock of seeing my recent weight loss, I decided to try on my two custom-fitted suits I had bought in LA a few years ago. They weren’t too tight when I arrived, but I always feared I would gain weight and they would no longer fit. Buying similar suits here in Germany would be an expense I couldn’t afford at the moment.

But I discovered just the opposite had happened.

When I put on the black suit, it looked like a part of me had disappeared. It was a straight-button suit but with some slight adjustments, I could fold it over and it could become a double-breasted suit quite comfortably. The same could be said for my dark green suit and dark sport coat. With my fiftieth birthday approaching, I was finding my body was thinning faster than my hair. Thank God for that!

I could also feel my energy was getting better. I guess living on the third floor of a building with no elevator does wonders for your stamina. Well, at least I’ll be in better shape to blow out all of those candles.

The buildup of water began to rapidly run. The few drivers who decided to brave the elements were forced to turn on their lights as they slowly made their way down the stormy streets. As I stared out the window, I could hear the drumbeat of the pounding rain on the ceiling window of my small apartment at the top of the building.

I was warned to turn off all electrical power and prepare for the worst. Although I’m from Southern California, I’ve travel to many places in this world and I’ve lived through a multitude of weather conditions, I’ve experienced everything from earthquakes to hurricanes to tornados to floods. This initially seemed like an unnecessary precaution. But I complied, if for no other reason than the urgency in the voice the one giving the warning. Better to be safe than sorry.

I decided to continue to write my thoughts using my Blackberry, moving from window to window as I watched the dramatic scene unfold.

I could see the flash on the sides of houses as the lightning continued. The powerful thunder was almost deafening as it cracked again and again. A few times it sounded and felt like it was happening in middle of the tiny Dachwohnung in which I lived.

The village was not huge, but not small either. The horizon began to disappear into the heavy curtain of water as the storm made its way. Then, as suddenly as it appeared, the storm had completely moved over the horizon, making its way to destroy the tranquility of the inhabitants of the next village.

Thirty minutes and it was over.

Now, it’s back to editing the novel before the next storm comes. I’m told I only have a few hours.

One hot summer day, a car made its way down a Texas highway. Inside sat a middle-aged couple with their daughter and her one-year-old child in need of feeding. Fortunately, they neared a restaurant. They stopped and asked the owner if it would be possible to warm the infant’s bottle.

“Sure,” the owner said. “Ya’ll just go ‘round back.”

The young mother was livid. Her immediate reaction was to refused to accept such treatment. But her parents grudgingly complied. The year was 1962. The family was black and as was the custom for that time in the American South, if they wanted service in such an establishment, they had to use the back door.

And even though they probably endured such treatment more than they cared, the grandparents did what so many black people were forced to do. They thought about their child and put their own needs second. The young mother’s mom took the bottle around back to be warmed because her young grandchild needed to be fed.

This story was first told to me a couple of years. And to say I was surpised to learn the identity of this child would be an understatement. That hungry child was me. My mom is the one who told me this tale and as soon as she did, I went home and wrote down the details. I felt I might be able to use it at a later time. Just another one of those interesting facts in our family’s history.

The first time I thought about it again was in the midst of the storm over whether President Barrack Hussein Obama was actually born in the United States or whether he was born in Kenya, therefore making him unworthy to maintain the office to which he was elected.

I asked the following as I watched people spend countless months debating his fitness to be President base on a “phony” birth certificate and a “planted” news item in a Honolulu newspaper 50 years earlier:

Do you really think someone in 1961 believed an infant born to a white mother and a black father who gave him such a name really thought he would someday be President of the United States? Really?

Well, if this is possible, I think the mastermind who cooked up such a scheme should be President. Or maybe he already is. {wink}

As we all know by now, President Obama recently turned fifty. A belated-Happy Birthday to you, Mr. President. Next month, someone else will be joining you in the 50-Club. Me! And although I haven’t reached the heights of greatness that you’ve achieved, in recent days I’ve began an early 50-year reflection on my life. That is when I began to think about my mom’s story a second time. You know, my life could have been better in some areas and it hasn’t been bad in others. But there have been those few moments when I’ve asked myself, “Man, did you really do that?”

Thinking of the stories of my family gives me a greater understanding of how blessed I truly am and what special gifts I’ve received from both my grandparents and my mom.

My grandparents had to endure so many indignities in their lives to ensure my mom and her children were in a better position than they were. Yet, they were never bitter. They were always fair, kind, generous, helpful, hard-working, and patient. Very patient. I often struggle with the latter.

My mother also has those traits but there was one other important thing I’ve learned from her: standing up for myself when it’s necessary. As anyone who knows me will attest, when I feel I’m right, I don’t like to back down. And I like to make my own decisions. They may not always turn out to be right, but they are mine. I believe if I have to live with the consequences, I should be the one who makes the decision.

These traits in me are often difficult for people to accept, but unfortunately—or fortunately, depending on your outlook—it’s who I am, no matter how much I try to “smooth” out the edges. It’s what I was taught by people who are very special to me. And as I became older, I have more and more pride and honor in treasuring my family’s rich history. It reminds me how much responsibility I have in making sure what my predecessors did for me were not done in vain.

I’m grateful to them for what they have done for me, just as I’m sure President Obama is grateful to his mom and his grandparents. They all did what they did to sacrifice for us so that we would be prepared to stand on their giant shoulders. Because in spite of everything, their son (or grandson) just might grow up to be President of the United States…or just a writer like me.

©2011 Lawrence D. Elliott

Caution in Germany

Imagine…you’re a guy in Germany. You have a basic knowledge of German and you’re working hard every single day to improve your language skills. You visit a bird park on a beautiful Saturday afternoon. You’re strolling by the exhibits admiring the wonderful array of birds from all parts of the world. Then, a beautiful woman walks up to you with a smile and asks, “Bist du gut zu Vögeln?”

How would you answer? It depends on what this beautiful woman means. I first learned of this possible dilemma before returning to Germany this year after being away for over 25 years. And now it comes up.

Let me explain…

Vogel is the German word for bird. It is capitalized because all German nouns are capitalized. This is great because you can pick out a noun just by looking at the sentence. The plural for this word is Vögel. However, in certain situations, the letter N is added the end of some words. This is one of those situations and one of those words. It has always been difficult for me to remember the rules of this practice, so I just try to learn as many of these words as I can.

So, this woman is asking, “Are you good with birds?”

But is she? You see, there is a problem with this particular word in another situation. It is not that it carries a different meaning. It becomes an entirely different word!

Let me explain…

The other word is vögeln. It’s a verb, not a noun. That’s why it is not capitalized. As I said before, the meaning of this word is completely different. It’s a more explicit verb for having sex. It is much like an American word that is not something that would be said in mixed company. I don’t think I need to go into more detail about this word, but if I tell you the first letter is an F and the last one is a K, I’m sure you can fill in the rest for yourself.

So, now you know the dilemma such an situation could pose.

Is she asking, “Are you good with birds?”

Or is she asking if I’m good at something entirely different?

Seeing either of these sentences in writing would most likely give one a clear understanding of what the other person meant. However, when spoken…well…it’s not so clear, is it? I guess the best thing to do before answering is to be aware of your surroundings. At a bird park…the obvious answer would be yes

However, if you’re in the bedroom section of a German department store, you might want to consider your answer carefully. As for me, I’m not currently looking for anyone with whom to vögeln. Trust me on that one.

And by the way…this is just a hypothetical situation. But you knew that, right? {wink}
© 2011 Lawrence D. Elliott

This time, that feeling was so strong and I felt so emotional that I decided to create a Facebook Fan Page.

Me…with a Facebook Fan Page?

That’s another thing that was a bit hard to grasp.

Here is my new “About Lawrence” page:

On a September morning in 1973, a group of San Diego children began their journey on a very special first day of school. The vast majority were minority children from the inner-city as participants in a new voluntary integration program to provide them with a chance for a better education. I say voluntary because it was not a government mandated program. The information was given to parents and they were asked to discuss it with their children and enroll them if it was something in which they wanted to be involved. But I was living in my mom’s home. She felt I would get a better education than what I could receive in the then decaying inner-city schools. So, I was enrolled. The debate ended before I was allowed to render my argument.

And on that September morning, our wonderful bright yellow bus made its way through the streets and on the freeways of San Diego to our new school: John J. Pershing Middle School. Our wide eyes stared out of the windows as our familiar surroundings changed.

To say that first year was filled with tension would be an enormous understatement. Not only were mean and hateful words exchanged, but fights broke out constantly. One broke out when one white kid spit on a black one. During the year, a so-called mini-riot broke out. The police were brought into the situation because it was reported a firearm was discovered in one of the student lockers. This situation had to be squelched immediately or this “experiment” would have ended very soon.

Then something happened to me that on the surfaced looked like the most devastating event in my life. Some test I had taken showed that I had a reading deficiency. That meant I had to be placed in a remedial reading class. I was crushed. Now it wasn’t just the bigots who were judging me as “inferior.” Now, the education system made its decision. I can remember that first day trying unsuccessfully to fight back the tears as I walked through the door.

Then, she appeared. My 7th grade remedial reading teacher: Ms. Davila. That is when this devastating moment became the most important moment in my life. She not only gently and patiently guided me through the process of improving my reading, but she learned something about me that I didn’t know. She discovered I could write. Imagine a kid from the inner-city who had a reading deficiency being able to write.

Once she learned this, she gave me an assignment to write one new essay each week. I loved it so much, I wrote three or more. My life’s passion was revealed to me and it has stayed with me to this day.

But it did so much more. It gave me a reason to believe I was worth something. That I had something to offer this world. And what was the most excruciatingly painful experience become so different. The 50 minutes in that class was my escape from the turmoil of the outside world. And when the bell rang and it was time to leave, I really hated to do it! Often, I was late to my next class because I wanted to discuss my next essay idea with Ms. Davila.

And there was a hidden treasure in this experience. I cannot remember any of my teachers being anything but professional and kind under what must have been a pressure-cooker for them. But Ms. Davila became the catalyst for coming to the correct conclusion about what was going on outside the classroom.

Not all white people will hate me. Not all white people are evil or bad. Some are nice. Some are really nice. Some are willing to help me if I am willing to put in the work.
I just had to learn to find the good people of all colors and kick the twigs to curb.

And Ms. Davila was more than just nice. I’ve had several teachers who have shaped my life in a positive way, but Ms. Davila was definitely the most inspiring. She is the main reason I’m a writer today and that will always make her one of the most important people in my life.

Something else special happened that first year. One day, I came home from school and found a wonderful surprise sitting on the desk in my bedroom. My mom and Moma (her mother), who was an avid garage sale sleuth, found a second-hand Remington manual typewriter. I now had an instrument to craft my ideas. I even took typing class the following year.

My life has taken quite a few turns:

• a childhood that included a period where we didn’t know where we would sleep or from where our next meal would come

• a tour in the US Air Force where I spent almost 4 years in Germany

• a near-death experience that almost ended my quest to make my dreams come true before it even started

• almost 20 years in real estate business

But today…I can say with great pride…I am a published author! I’m not only proud, but so grateful. I worked hard to achieve my goals, but how many people work hard and don’t accomplish their dreams? I’m very grateful for what I have received and I believe the best is yet to come!

Currently, I live in the town of Bensheim, Germany. I’m on a personal journey of rediscovery as I edit my first novel and outline two others.

I’m in a different location, but I’m the same writer.

The Cornelia Rose

I held on to the wheel of my Candy Apple Red ’66 Chevy Chevelle as it swerved out of control. It was only the second blown out tire I’d ever had, but I was able to safely park the vehicle to the side of the lonely desert highway.

“You’ve got to be kidding me!”

I jumped out of the car, slamming the door in anger. I immediately walked around the car until I saw the right rear tire was the problem. It was completely destroyed. I opened the trunk and pulled out the spare. Fortunately, I was wearing blue jeans and a dark shirt. Hopefully, it wouldn’t later show any stains.

I made sure the car was on level ground and placed the jack in its proper place. I worked it to the up position and changed the tire out under the hot desert sun. When I finished, I threw the blown out tire in the trunk and pulled out a bottle of water and a roll of paper towels I had stored. I washed my hands. Then, I took the remaining water and poured it over my head and body to cool myself from the heat that must have been over 120 by then.

I bent down and checked the tire again before taking off. Then, something caught my eye. Just a few feet away, in the dry desolate desert ground was something so beautiful I thought I was imagining it. It was a flower. A single white flower growing out of the cracked dirt. I walked over to it, while checking to make sure I didn’t miss any restless snakes along my path. As I drew closer, I could see it wasn’t completely white. It was white with a blend of pink. I looked around as if I still couldn’t believe what I was seeing.

I ran back to the car and took out the small metal jack. Then, I took out a plastic grocery bag and poured the contents out. I ran back to the flower, kneeled down, and careful bored into the dirt around the roots. I took the flower out and put it in the bag. I returned to the car and put the bag on the front passenger floor. I drove off, hoping I could get it suitably potted before it died.

A few miles down the highway, I found a small store with a gas station. I could fill the car up, get something cold to drink, and a snack or two for the road. Perhaps I could also get something decent to store my little friend in.

I eased the car next to a pump, then grabbed the bag with the flower and heading into the store where I was greeted by a gray-haired man and woman.

“Hello, young man,” the man said from the behind the cash register.

“Hi,” I answered.

“Can we help you with anything special?” the woman asked. Her eyes were looking down at the bag I was clutching.

“Uh…maybe you can.” I walked toward her. “I found this flower planted on the side of the road.”

“Really?” she asked. “Wow!”

“I was surprised, too.”

“Young man,” the man said as he walked toward the back room, “today is your lucky day. My wife has a real green thumb.”

“Really?” I asked her. “Great! What is this?”

“Well, this is what’s called a Cornelia Rose.”

“A Cornelia Rose,” I answered. “I’ve never heard of it.”

“They’re very popular back East.”

“Can we save it?”

“Sure, my husband went to the back room to check for a pot and some soil.”

“Really? Did he now?”

“Of course,” she said with a chuckle. “Mr. Landers and I have been married for 40 years. He knew what I wanted the moment we knew what you had.”

“Oh.” That made me laughed.

“Yes, I haven’t seen one of these in a while. This is known as s hybrid. It was originally bred by a fellow named Pemberton in the UK back in the 1920’s. Beautiful isn’t it?”

“Yes…very. I wonder how it got there.”

“That’s a very good question, young man.”

Mr. Landers returned with a pot and a bag of soil. We all stepped out to the front of the store and we men watched Mrs. Landers as she skillfully potted the rose with the soil. She also poured in a liquid from a bottle, then soaked the soil with the nearby hose.

“That should help her get stable until you get where you’re going. How much longer do you have?”

“Not too much. A few hundred miles.”

“Ok,” Mrs. Landers said. “Just make sure you keep water in it until you get home. You can look up how to care for her on the Internet.”

I looked at her with an expression that must have been one of great surprise.

“Don’t look so surprised, young man,” Mr. Landers said. “We have the Internet, too. We’re not dead yet!”

Again I laughed. Then, I thanked Mrs. Landers for her great work. I was starting to really care about my little Cornelia Rose.

I returned to store and purchased a couple of bottles of green tea, chips, and a large bag of Gummi Bears. It would be great chewing food as I hit the highway. Once again, I thanked them both for their kindness.

“Take care of her,” Mrs. Landers said as I started out the door.

“Her?” I asked. “You keep referring to the rose as her.”

“Sorry,” Mr. Landers replied, “my wife thinks all flowers are like women.”

“Really?” I asked. “How so?”

“Well, young man, think about it,” she said with a warm smile, “if you give her the love and care she needs—in this case, give her the sunlight she requires and the water she needs—she’ll share her beauty with you and gently touch your heart every day. If not, well…”

“She’ll make your life a living hell,” Mr. Landers added.

“Stop it!” Mrs. Landers exclaimed. Then she continued…

“But this beauty…she must have survived the most brutal environment without that tender love or care, while still maintaining her beautiful dignity. It was almost like she had a strong spirit within and was just waiting for some sweet little soul like you to notice her and take her in your loving arms.”

“Forgive me, young man,” Mr. Landers interrupted again. “My wife’s a bit of a romantic. Too much for the likes of some folks around here.”

“No,” I said, “It’s kind of nice. Well, I’d better hit the road. You both take care.”

They bid me a safe farewell as I walked out. I put my bags on the front passenger seat, then returned to pick up my new companion. I sat her on the floor of the right rear passenger seat and moved the front seat back enough to secure her. I gassed up and climbed into the driver’s seat. I started the car, then I looked back at Cornelia, my name for her.

“Well, My Little Cornelia,” I said as my face grew warm with what I knew must have been a smile, “are you ready to make a new life with your Sweet Little Soul?”

With a laugh, I drove off and we both headed down the less lonely road.

Christmas Eve (Christnacht in German) in 1981

It was late in the evening and I had just completed editing session on my book. I was on Facebook chatting with Claudia, a friend I knew from Germany while I was stationed there with the United States Air Force in the early 1980s. We had recently reconnected. It had been over twenty years since I have even tried to speak German. It was fortunate that she spoke English well. But she remembered how well I had spoken her language in the “old” days. It was that evening that she got the crazy idea that my German was still rattling around in my head. I was not so convinced.

“Let’s make a deal,” she said. “You write to me in German and I will write back to you in English.”

“I don’t think that’s a good idea,” I said.

“Why?’ she asked. “Let’s try.”

So reluctantly, I gave it a shot. And just as I thought, it was difficult forming even the most simple sentences. But I continued to try.

And wouldn’t you know it? Claudia was right! Well, sort of. Some of my German I thought I had long forgotten was still rattling around in my head. It gave me a thirst to relearn the language once again. But could I learn German again, after over twenty years removed from it?

Often, we would have our German-English chat sessions and Claudia would make corrections to my errors—and there were many—and I would make a note of them. It helped me get better and I started to build my vocabulary once again.

And then came my experience with WKW.

WKW or Wer-Kennt-Wen—which translates in English to be Who-Knows-Whom—is a popular German social networking site. I was invited by Randy, an old Air Force buddy who was stationed at the same base as I during virtually the same period. He said it would be an interesting place to reconnect not only with those old friends we knew in German, but a few of our old Air Force buddies. And he was right. But when I initially enrolled, Claudia was not yet my German teacher. So I struggled through the process until I became a member.

Then, I completed my profile. I discussed how I was once stationed there and how I was working on a book of the medical struggles of being a caretaker to my wife and on and on. But it was in English. How many members could really understand what it said?

But as my German improved, I started chatting with members. It actually helped my language skills because I was able to immerse myself in it. I decided I could handle myself enough to complete my profile in German. Claudia was so kind to make corrections of my errors. That must have been the finishing touch because members started initiating contact with me.

There was Ute, with whom I would have these wonderful chats, often after one of my late night writing sessions. It turned out we knew some of the same people. In fact, she and Claudia were very good friends.

There was Hubert, a trained cook, who tried to explain how to make the German dish Spätzle. Even though I can handle myself in the kitchen, with his cooking skills I was not even playing in his league.

There was Conny, a photographer whose skill in capturing beauty in images were matched only by her talent of painting wonderful pictures in your mind with her delightful poetry of love and forgiveness…in bother English and German.

There was Monika, who made her home with her husband in Greece. The more she told about her life there, the more I regretted never having visited such a wonderful place.

I met so many great people and received so many compassionate messages of encouragement for my wife and me. And some were just eager to chat, even with my intermediate level of German.

I heard from members who were caring for an ill loved one. I met someone who had just recently lost her husband after caring for him for a period. It seems my story was not only shared by so many here in the US, but in other parts of the world as well. These were experiences I’d never imagined I’d have when I first signed up.

And then, there are the 5 Ilona’s on my list.

After an afternoon of writing, I lifted my stiff body from the easy chair in the corner of our living room. I immediately went into a stretch. Our dog Lacie, who was spread out across the middle of the floor lost in a deep sleep, jumped from the loud yawn that followed. It was then that it caught my eye. It was my copy of A Chicken Soup for the Soul Christmas on the book shelf. I flipped through the pages until I came to page 191. I began reading my story “Unexpected Guests,” the story of a Christmas Eve I spent with a young German couple. Reiner and Ilona were at that time strangers to me. I met them when a friend with whom I was walking to the base club. They not only welcomed us inside, but insisted on us staying for dinner. I felt awkward, but they both made us feel at home. As the night ended, it was the beginning of wonderful friendship. Their kindness was overwhelming. I was even allowed to accompany them on a weekend trip to their family home in Darmstadt.

Then, it hit me! I sat back in the easy chair, placed the book on the table next to it and opened my laptop again. I decided to search for my dear friends on WKW.

Initially, I searched from Reiner using his first and last name. But this yielded nothing.

Then, I used Ilona’s first and last name. Still nothing came up in the results.

Then, I decided to search using just Ilona’s first name, just in case she had remarried. Now, in almost four years in Germany, I had only met one Ilona. My WKW search resulted in thousands of Ilonas! Some had pictures and others did not. Some had birth year and most did not. I knew there was no way I would get through all of them in one sitting. I was also faced with another dilemma—time. It had been over twenty-six years since I had last seen her. And, as I was finding with everyone from the “old” days—including myself—we were no longer the young kids we once were. Faces and hairstyles have changed for most of us. So I knew I would have to closely examine each picture.

So, I decided to set up a schedule to make my contacts. I would fit it in between my editing sessions. I created a simple email in German explaining my situation.

“…I am searching for two friends…They were good friends while I was stationed in Germany….”

The first few search sessions came up with nothing. In fact, most did not even reply. Those who did were very polite.

“…I’m sorry, but I am not your Ilona…”

After reading my profile, some of them were interested in making a WKW friend connection. And thus started my collection of Ilonas.

On the day of my fourth search session, I made an interesting contact. Unfortunately, she was not the right Ilona either. But she was kind enough and we exchanged a few messages. I learned she had a lot of family in the US, including California. At the end of her message was:

“…Where did do they live? Or where did they last live? Maybe I can find out…”

It was wonderful of her to offer. And to be honest, I thought she was just being polite. I gave her the last city I knew they lived in and I thanked her. I immediately went back to my searching.

Less than an hour later, I received another message from Ilona. It included the address that could possibly be Reiner. Then she said she would contact them, if she had a chance. This was turning out to be a wonderful woman, taking the time for me as she did.

Within 5 minutes, I received another message from Ilona.

“…I have spoken with Ilona…she told me that you were stationed with Reiner at Buechel Air Base…I think these are the right ones…They have thought about you a lot…”

I don’t know why, but I got very emotional. The tears welled up in my eyes. She turned out to be the right Ilona after all! Within four hours of my first contact, she had found my dear friends, Reiner and Ilona!

Reiner & Ilona - Christmas Eve (Christnacht) 1981.

I went running to my wife with excitement.

“Are you alright, Babe?” she asked me, seeing the tears in my eyes. “Is there something wrong?”

“I found them,” I said as I flashed the book.

“Who?” she asked.

“Reiner and Ilona!”

“Really? How?”

I told her the whole story as I watched her mouth and eyes widen in the shocked I was still feeling.

I also learned my Reiner and Ilona had a 21-year-old son named Alex, who contacted me shortly thereafter. We exchanged messages. He appeared to understand English very well.

His final message included—

“…my Mom will write u later on from my profile. Just wanted to say HI…”

I learned his parents were just as excited as I was. And when I received a message from them, I couldn’t believe I was actually reading it. And when I told them about the story I wrote about them, they were very excited. They not only joined WKW but also Facebook. Knowing my wife is very ill, they even became Facebook friends with her and chat with her often.

Then, one day I saw a set of pictures on Reiner’s Facebook page. They were from that Christmas Eve in 1981. The first thing my wife said when she saw them was, “You look like such a kid!”

But what I thinking was what a special night it truly was. So special, it has always stayed with me, even after almost thirty years. Perhaps because it has always been a constant reminder of the generosity people are capable of and how strangers can be friends you just haven’t met yet.

Reiner, Chris, and me (on the left).

My grandfather, L Hawthorne.

This past Veterans Day gave me a bit of an escape. No thinking of medical appointments or complicated medical procedures. The wonderful parades, the moving speeches and the beautiful ceremonies allowed Lisa and me to focus my attention on and remember those who have sacrificed for this great country of ours. I had the privilege of serving in the United States Air Force as a Security Policeman from 1980 to 1984. But I’ve always felt there was a special status for those who have faced battle in service of our country. They are true heroes.

And as the flags waved, I thought of my grandfather—a World War II veteran—who died in 1992. This year, my story about my grandfather’s influence on my life, titled “Well, I’ve Had A Plenty” was published in the book My Dad is My Hero: Tributes to the Men Who Gave Us Life, Love, and Driving Lessons.

When I was young, my father abandoned the family and we were left without a place to stay. My grandfather would be that all-important positive male role-model that helped salvage my childhood. My story was a tribute to him.

He was born in the small Louisiana town of Lillie in 1922 as L Hawthorne. He was the only person I’d ever known who had a single letter for a name. When I was young, I asked him where it came from.

When he was born, a man in the parish decided on his name. And even though his parents may not have liked it, the times would not allow them to object or change it. It was the segregated South. His parents were black. The man was white.

“Larry,” he said calmly, “in those days, when a white man named you, you stayed named.”

I was in my militant teen years at the time, so I found it infuriating. He, on the on the other hand, seemed devoid of anger or bitterness.

“Baby,” he said calmly, “that’s just the way things was.” Noticing his demeanor had calmed me.

During the war, he served in the United States Navy in the Pacific. When it ended, he moved to San Diego with my grandmother—Moma—and my six-month old mother. He worked a variety of odd jobs—including janitorial—to support his family.

“If you’re going to have a family,” he would say about that period, “you do whatever you have to do to take care of your family.”

Finally, he landed a job with the City of San Diego in 1947—not an easy feat back in those days. He was never late and rarely sick. He faithfully did his part to repair the worn streets of the city for thirty-one years.

When I left the Air Force, I lived with them as I transitioned back to civilian life. Not only did I get my fill of those delicious sweet potato pies he baked so well, I also got to see my grandparents’ relationship up-close. After so many decades, they still seemed to have the love and respect for one another that was as strong as any I’d seen. Even after he retired—and Moma continued to work—he would get up early in the morning and make her a pot of coffee just so it would be ready when she needed it. I was amazed at his thoughtfulness.

But my grandfather always cautioned me that he was not a perfect man. He never let me forget that he had made his share of mistakes. As a kid, I never believed him. He always seemed to me to be as square as they came.

But having lived life, I understand what he meant. No, he wasn’t perfect. Yes, he probably had made his mistakes. But that only made me admire him even more. As a writer, I know a character with flaws who overcomes adversity is much fuller than one without them. It also let me know that just because you find yourself in a tough situation doesn’t mean you just give in to the dark side. It doesn’t mean you just quit or give up. It means you have to work even harder. It amplifies the necessity for doing the right thing.

For him, his faith was his guiding light. He wasn’t one to recite scriptures or preach you sermons. His life was his sermon. Whether you needed a ride to church or the doctor, he was there. There was many a time when we had to scoot over to make room for a needy traveler. And no matter how many times they offered my grandparents money, it was politely waved off. They felt their pay would come at a later time.

He was a member of his church for over fifty years, where he eventually served on the Board of Trustees and was instrumental in helping the church acquire land in the surrounding inner city neighborhood to expand its old facilities. It became a cornerstone in the community.

In his later years, he developed heart problems. I remember him telling me during one of his many hospital stays, that he didn’t want to waste away in the bed. He said, “I want the Lord to take me at church.”

God must have of felt him worthy of such an honor because he granted him his wish. He died at the church he had served so faithfully and loved so much. It was at a church celebration. Fittingly, he was singing one of his favorite hymns.

At his funeral—which lasted almost five hours—condolences came in from all parts of the country. I heard stories that went back to childhood. Even then-Governor Pete Wilson’s office, who was mayor of San Diego when I was a kid, showed their respects. My grandfather spent the better part of his seventy years on this Earth helping folks and they traveled from all over the country to pay their respects to this simple working class man.

And of course, my grandmother was presented with the flag of this country that he so proudly defended.

So on Veterans Day—as I do on so many other days—I thought of my grandfather. I contemplated what he might think of me. Would he be proud of what I’ve accomplished in my life? Would he be satisfied with how I’ve faced the adversities in my life? Would he be proud of how I was taking care of my wife when she can’t always take care of herself?

If I could be half the man he was, I would truly be a great man. Of course, I’d better brush up on my sweet potato pie baking skills.