Explanation

During my early teen years, my mother gave me a book of short stories called, “The Reason for Ann”.  In the first story, two guardian angels watched down upon a young man who could kindly be called a rogue.  He drank, smoked,  gambled and probably treated his mother or cats poorly, I can’t recall.  Along the way, one angel kept track of the sins in red ink; the other kept track of the fellow’s few good deeds in black ink.

Halfway through the story, the man met a comely, kind, virtuous lass named Ann.  Her presence in his life confounded the watching angels.  Her goodness gave shame to his antics, and the angels fretted that he would sully her.  They could not understand why “He” had put Ann in harm’s way by sending her to this cad.

The fellow joined the army and went to fight in Europe, circa 1944.  By and by, his plane met the expected fate and the angels, seeing him dangling, unconscious, in a tree with his tangled parachute practically serving as a spotlight for German guns, the “debits” angel went off to watch sentencing, sure that the many pages of red would send this poor miscreant’s soul downward.  The angel who kept track of the man’s good deeds sat forlorn and dejected.  But his compatriot returned, mystified, to report that the man had not appeared in heaven to face his judgment.

Suddenly, they realized that the Record Book had become filled with lovely black ink, page after page.  They peered downward to see the man being rescued; and then, glancing over to the man’s home town, they saw Ann, kneeling in church, her hands folded, her head bowed, and as quickly as she prayed, the marks of grace appeared in the Record Book.  At last, they knew the reason for Ann.

Tonight I came home to a flood of water pouring down on either side of my street.  Annoyed, I stood on the center line, aghast, peering upwards, one block, two, straining to discern the origins of the torrent.  Why on earth do I have to deal with this? I grumbled to myself, as I slung my bag from the car seat.  I stood by the front of the car and tried to determine how I would cross the river which flowed between me and the sidewalk.  I could not fathom why this malady had to befall me on this, of all nights, the one night every other week when I actually have a standing place at The Wellness Table of my friend Cindy Cieplik, where good food would be eaten, and wonderful conversation would be shared.  Why did this have to happen now?

I saw a figure walking towards me on the sidewalk,, striding slowly, but purposefully, heading southward on the sidewalk adjacent to the swiftly moving stream of water.  As the woman grew closer, I could see a wide smile, a smooth brow, a friendly manner.  She stopped near my car and greeted me. She spoke her name, Brenda; and I spoke mine.  Encouraged by her presence somehow, I steadied myself with one hand on the hood of my car and stepped across the water, landing safely on the parkway, then easing myself to stand beside her.

We spoke for a minute or two about where we each lived; there, I said, gesturing to my house.  She told me she lived two blocks south and we smiled; practically neighbors.  We gazed at the rapidly flowing water and she mentioned that it originated two blocks further north and to the west, flowing down 61st street, around the corner, and on down Holmes.  Then she looked around, smiled, and told me that she worked at UMKC and walked to and from work as much as she could, at least until the weather became unbearably hot.  I shifted my bag, and found myself smiling.  Brenda.  My neighbor, Brenda.  Who works at UMKC.  With a serene face, and clear eyes, and time enough to walk home from work on a cool day in June.

She nodded, we said goodbye, and she continued on her way.  I went into the house, no longer wondering why the waters of the city burst forth and spilled on my roadway.

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