AN OPEN LETTER TO HOLLY

Contrary to popular opinion, I am not dead.

I have to apologize for my absence, Dear and Gentle Reader. I have had a whopper of a writing assignment that has covered my whole desk for two weeks and I have only now just gotten out from underneath it. The Grand Pooh-Bah commissioned an article, and seeing as how I can deny him nothing, I threw myself at it like I was jumping into an oncoming train. Not only did he ask for an article, he offered to pay me.

Now he is my friend, and I am always delighted to help out a friend, but when he first offered to pay me, I turned it down flat. He insisted. I declined. He insisted some more. As a compromise, I offered to have him buy me some beer and we would call it even. No. It had to be cash.

I thought I would just take the cash and buy beer for Tiki one night and share my good fortune with everyone. It only seemed fitting.

So I started to write. I had lots of ideas and planned on a good story that everyone would enjoy. It was to be funny yet thoughtful, well reasoned yet whimsical. It was on the topic of Peace.

I worked and worked. I knew what I was shooting for, but I could never quite nail it down. I thought that I could hammer it out in an evening or two. No. It was as much work as the Trans-Continental Railroad. I sweated. I fumed. I labored. I must have gone through twelve drafts. But finally, I finished with a draft that I could live with.

Now during these two weeks I got my regular paycheck from my regular job. I got paid on a Friday and that night my dear wife sat down to pay the bills. Everyone got their money and that left $20 for the family to squeak by on for 11 days. The wife drives three hours a day to and from work. The kids drink a gallon of milk every two days. The gas tank on my Jeep hadn’t read over 1/8 for two weeks because I had been waiting for payday to fill it, rather than just buy it two gallons at a time. We were broke. Backs against the wall broke. I kept trying to think of something that I could sell or pawn.

The Grand Pooh-Bah loved the article. He plunked down $90 on the bar and said, “I owe you ten.” At any other time I would have handed his money back and would have felt good about doing it. Not this time. I was strapped. This was money that I could accept with a clear conscious. I had worked hard and received a generous payment. My kids could have milk. My wife could buy gas. There would be something to eat in the house besides ramen noodles. Don’t get me wrong, I love ramen noodles, but once in a while, a choice is nice.

I told you that story so I could tell you this one.

The night that I read the story to the Grand Pooh-Bah, (I always have to read it to him) Guido showed up. Guido is an old friend of the Grand Pooh-Bah and works with the professional golf tour. Guido invited a friend named Holly. I had never met her before. She sat down and took in the whole majesty that is the Tiki bar while I got her a beer. She listened as I read my story for the Grand Pooh-Bah. When I had finished, she was kind in her praise, and asked me if I could write something for her. She said that in a few weeks she was going to be teaching a class at the local college on faith and worldviews and would I like to contribute. “Yes,” I said, “be glad to.”

Now here comes the snag. I gave her the web address for this blog and that was it. I didn’t catch her last name. I don’t have her phone number. I know she lives near the fairgrounds, but that is no help. I don’t have any way of contacting her at all, short of smoke signals, and that doesn’t seem very promising, as this could easily be confused with the local tire fire.

So Holly, if you are out there, leave me a note in the comments section below. I am just groaning with faith, and I have a worldview that you might find helpful.

Doc