Bob's Corner
From our weekly issue dated January 23, 2008
This was the week I was going to talk about being sick, but I’m sick of being sick. It makes me ill to think about it.
Then I was going to type some words about picking apricots with my cousin, Cliff, at his grandpa’s farm in San Bernardino, Calif. around 1954. But as we become unwell after sitting in a fruit-laden tree and eating way too many apricots, that made me feel under par, so I’m going to avoid that topic.
Therefore, I will devote this space to recalling two strangers, one of whom might have been an angel of a sort. This first stranger appeared, so to speak, in 1961, as I was registering for my first (and only) semester at University of San Diego. I was only 17, and rather disconnected from reality. It was late in the afternoon on a hot day; I had not eaten breakfast; I had no dinero for lunch.
Suddenly (to my enfeebled brain) I saw a man in black. It was not Johnny Cash. No, it was a Catholic priest, striding back and forth in front of a nearby building while reading his breviary. I timidly approached him, ostensibly to ask for directions to the parking permit office. But when he spied me, he stopped striding and reading. “Say,” he said, “you look hungry.” He reached into his right-front pocket, pulled out a five dollar bill, and handed it to me with the words, “Now here’s a nice piece of change. Go eat.”
I did. In the school café, where I enjoyed a BLT, iced tea, and lemon meringue pie. And still had change. (It was 1961). Never saw the priest again, so I kept the change.
Another impressive stranger, probably not an angel though, showed up one Sunday afternoon out Caves Hwy. in Cave Junction. I had just acquired a rebuilt ‘57 Chevy short with a 327 cui engine. It ran well. Mostly.
But as I roared up the highway, the engine suddenly (there’s that word again) sputtered, coughed and quit. It would not restart. And there I was. Stranded. I don’t know a carburetor from a wing-doodle, and was feeling pretty alone.
But a man appeared from a yard across from where I had coasted to the shoulder. He helped me push the car into his driveway. “I heard the engine quit,” he said, “and I think I know what the problem is and can fix it.” I said, “OK.”
He spent quite a while repairing the problem, meanwhile telling me about his checkered background. Put down his tools, and told me to “fire it up” while he watched the engine. It not only started; it ran better than before. He would take no cash for his time or efforts. “Glad to help,” he said.
I drove away, a happy man. I never saw that guy again either, same as the priest. Maybe he was an angel after all ...
