Jones of Old Lincoln (Chapter 8, page 1 of 8)

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Chapter 8

With a small screwdriver in my inside coat pocket, I was at Mr. Wyatt's shop the next morning when it opened at a few minutes after ten.

My night's dream adventures had been mixed. One was of a summer day in the neighborhood school playground, near where we'd lived in Anderson Township, Ohio, an eastern Cincinnati suburb, when our two boys were eight and four. Their mother and I were pushing them in swings, she Amos and I Adam, and we were all singing "Bingo the Dog." Joy and goodness radiated from that memory, that yearning, that perfection, that irreplaceable loss. Grace is love fulfilled through acceptance of one's own regrets and responsibility.

There followed another dream episode in which I was driving my old '54 Chevy home from town late at night in some long, long ago. In my mind, as I drove old 110's curves, I was seeing Helen's smiling face. She had given me a warm hug and said, "Take care." Then I became aware of the occasion of that returned remembrance-our 1966 high school graduation.

There, we said goodbye. She had gone on to her life and I to mine. I danced with her at a high school reunion some fifteen years later, my heart soaring and hurting at the same time.

She and I had kept in touch off and on over the years since our class walked across the stage for that validation of our possible potential, a high school diploma.

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