Common Angels, Little Town: A Front Porch View of Heaven

By Dick Dedrick

Donald Brown Miller has a year to live. At least that's what his guardian angel has told him. He'd like to shrug it off as a strange dream but he can't, it seems much too real. If he does have a guardian angel, why would she want him to know? Couldn't she do something about it?

There'll be other angels. Old friends and acquaintances, even complete strangers. All have one thing in mind; they want him to die a happy man. They're here to help.

This won't be easy, he has issues. So do they.

• Language: English
• Publisher: WestBow Press
• Release date: Dec 6, 2016
• ISBN: 9781512760002

Dick Dedrick

DICK DEDRICK is an award winning radio and television producer. A member of Broadcast Pioneers of Colorado, he and his wife Bobbe live in Denver. They have four children and ten grandchildren. Some of Dick's CDs available at CDBaby.com ... Hymnbook History Postwar Stories from Ernie Pyle The View from Holiday Hill

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Common

Angels,

Little Town

A FRONT PORCH VIEW OF HEAVEN

DICK DEDRICK

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Copyright © 2016 Dick Dedrick.

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced by any means, graphic, electronic, or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, taping or by any information storage retrieval system without the written permission of the author except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.

Silhouette Images © 2015, CanStock Photo

This is a work of fiction. All of the characters, names, incidents, organizations, and dialogue in this novel are either the products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.

WestBow Press

A Division of Thomas Nelson & Zondervan

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1 [phone]

Because of the dynamic nature of the Internet, any web addresses or links contained in this book may have changed since publication and may no longer be valid. The views expressed in this work are solely those of the author and do not necessarily reflect the views of the publisher, and the publisher hereby disclaims any responsibility for them.

Any people depicted in stock imagery provided by Thinkstock are models, and such images are being used for illustrative purposes only.

Certain stock imagery © Thinkstock.

ISBN: 978-1-5127-6001-9 (sc)

ISBN: 978-1-5127-6002-6 (hc)

ISBN: 978-1-5127-6000-2 (e)

Library of Congress Control Number: 2016916868

WestBow Press rev. date: 11/10/2016

Contents

Early May—Midmorning

Late June—1995

Mid-May, This Year—a Week Ago

Mid-May—Last Week

Mid-May—This Evening

Still Mid-May—Tomorrow Morning

Late May—Early Morning

Early June—Yesterday Afternoon

Early July—1995

Late June—This Evening

Early July—a Week Ago

Mid-July—Late Morning

Late July—Two Weeks Ago

Early August—a Day Ago

Mid-August—Late Night

Late August—Mid-Morning

Early September—Mid-Morning

Mid-October—1995

Mid-September—Late Afternoon

Early October—Early Morning

Early October—the Next Day

Mid-October—Early Afternoon

Late October—Mid-Morning

Early November—Late Afternoon

Mid-November—Mid-Morning

Early January—Mid-Afternoon

Early February—Early Evening

Late February—Mid-Morning

Early March—Early Afternoon

Still Early March—Two Days Later

Mid-March—Early Morning

Late March—Late Afternoon

Early April—Mid-Morning

Late April—Toward Evening

Early May—Mid-Morning

Still Early May—the Next Afternoon

Still Early May—a Few Days Later

Mid-May—Early Evening

Still Mid-May—Three Days Later

Late May—Mid-Morning

Still Late May—a Few Days Later

Still Late May—a Week Later

Early June—Mid-Morning

Still Early June—a Few Days Later

Mid-June—Early Morning

The First Day of Summer

For A. J.

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Look at the birds of the air: they neither sow nor reap nor gather into barns, and yet your heavenly Father feeds them

(Matthew 6:26)

Special Thanks

Roger Chance

Circle of Friends

Bobbe Dedrick

Jay Dedrick

Kyle Dedrick

Rollie Deering

Harriet Freiberger

Dave Jackson

Linda Jackson

Tom Mulvey

Barry M. Winograd

Gordon Yates

Sharon Yates

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Early May—Midmorning

My granddad ate apples with a pocketknife. He’d slice one in half, crosswise to create two perfect stars formed by five seeds. He said that’s the way apples were meant to be eaten, with a little salt.

My name is Donald Brown Miller. My granddad’s name was William Brown Miller, but he was just Bill to everybody. That’s his house over by the water tower—the one with the wraparound porch. He and a neighbor built it back in 1927. Bought a kit right out of the Sears and Roebuck catalog for $845, plus freight. I live there now, but it’ll always be Granddad’s house.

Donald’s just turned eighty, and he’s been thinking, Which is better, dying young or growing old? That’s a question he’ll have to ponder.

Right now, in his daily daydream, he’s on Holiday Hill, just south of Levs, Kansas. But he hasn’t been on Holiday Hill in years. He’s just been on his porch swing, rocking with the breeze, eyes closed and a wisp of a smile on his face. I’ve known Donald since he was born, but he has no idea who I am.

I’m his great-great-grandmother. I’m also his guardian angel. This is his story, but I’d like to help tell it. There are some things he’s forgotten and some things he’d sooner forget.

That’s Levs down there where I was born and raised. Population 3,900 or so. I left in 1953 when I was eighteen, with no intention of coming back for anything other than reunions and funerals.

Levs is a one-horse town with a one-syllable name. How many great cities other than Rome have one-syllable names?

Towns like this never grow big enough to support a Walmart or even a McDonald’s—or to put up a building more than two stories high. Towns like this like to play it safe. That’s why I move d to Omaha. After twenty-some years I was making twelve hundred a week selling phone-book ads. That’s when my boss called me in and said the company was taking a new direction, whatever that meant. But it was clear I wouldn’t be a part of the picture.

Shirley, my first wife, pretty much told me the same thing. So I headed back to Levs, and I’m still here, back where I started. Who says you can’t go home again?

Donald will talk like a city boy, but he’s a small-town boy at heart. In Omaha he would look both ways on a one-way street, glance upward when he heard an airplane, and wonder out loud where the fire was when the trucks went by.

I found work the first week back in Levs—feed and seed sales in the tristate area. Selling feed and seed was hardly a boyhood aspiration. For a while I sort of wanted to sing on the radio—country songs like my cousin J. D. Benning sang in Wichita. I had more pipe dreams than I care to remember—too many to handle. J. D.’s in a nursing home now over in Phillipsburg.

I should go visit him. I don’t drive, but I could take the bus. J. D. had himself a four-piece band. He’s ninety-seven or ninety-eight, but he’ll still sing his theme song for you while he taps out the beat on his leg.

After the war was over,

        And I’m sailing back home to you,

I saw a rainbow at midnight

        Out on the ocean blue.

I did all right in sales. My secret? Be whatever the customer was. If he was a Democrat, I was a Democrat. If he cussed, I cussed. If he told a dirty story, I’d tell a better one. If he was a churchgoing Christian, so was I.

Another rule of mine: never try to talk a customer into anything; make him think it was his idea.

I don’t believe Donald ever cared for sales, but he likes to talk about those days. He also likes to talk about his boyhood. The past is a big part of his present.

If you were to ask him about 1945, he could tell you everything he did that summer and what he got for Christmas. Ask him about 1995, and he’ll likely change the subject.

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Late June—1995

Bobbie girl, can we get a couple more Beam ’n’ sodas from ya? Thanks, sweetheart!

Norm’s Neon City seems to be a busy little place. And noisy. I think this Bobbie was one of Donald’s high school girlfriends. She’s a waitress here in Womer now, twelve miles east of Levs. She’s a nice-looking gal. That’s his best friend, Rodney, sitting across the table, lighting a cigarette. But right now Donald appears to be more interested in Bobbie as she walks back to the bar.

Both boys try to do their drinking out of town.

I was thinking, we go back to third grade, Rod.

Yeah, we do, Donny. Remember Mrs. Lindsey?

My favorite teacher! Lot of good memories from the forties and fifties.

Yes there were.

You’ve done all right for yourself, Rodney.

So have you.

Oh, nothing like you. You stayed put, worked hard, and made good. I’ve always admired that.

I’m just a small-town merchant. Why are you talking like this?

You may be a small-town merchant, but you’re the biggest grain dealer in the tristate area. And you’re my number-one customer. Numero uno!

Good for me. What’s your point?

I haven’t been exactly straight with ya.

What do you mean, haven’t been straight?

That order you placed with me in April? The check you gave me—I didn’t send it in. I kept it in my account. You never do fill in the ‘pay to the order of’ part.

You kept it? Why?

Futures. I started buying futures—with my own money, to start. But then prices started going down, and I had to put more in to cover my bet, my investment. I’m sorry. I’m gonna pay it back.

Yeah, yeah. How much did I give you? What kind of futures?

Beans. Bean futures. The check was for ten thousand and some dollars. I don’t know what I was thinking.

Okay. So how much is left in your account? How much, Donny?

Nothing. I’m overdrawn. They want me to pick up a check from you, Rod.

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Mid-May, This Year—a Week Ago

When he graduated from high school, Donald decided he was too big a man for Levs. He had all kinds of grand ideas but no idea how to put them to work. I suppose I went through my early years the same way—wanting more out of life but not sure of what I wanted.

I’ll admit I haven’t been much of a guardian angel. When I was alive, I’m not sure I even believed in guardian angels. They were just a nice thought. You know, like Santa Claus.

It took a while for me to find myself—and to like what I found. I was pretty much a lady of the night until I met and married Levi Bachman, a nice Jewish fella from Baltimore. I can’t say I was in love.

Love wasn’t all that important in 1890, not out here. But I bore Levi four children. I died of typhoid in 1903, the same year the two Wright brothers flew their aeroplane.

I spend a fair amount of time on Holiday Hill these days. It takes me back to better times.

Donald sees things with his eyes closed. Wish I had his imagination. I think maybe I did when I was a kid but not lately. Right now he’s dozed off in his easy chair. His head is bowed down almost like he’s praying, but he’s not. He’s daydreaming again.

The plaque on that bench over there reads:

DEDICATED TO OUR DOUGHBOYS

OF THE GREAT WAR

A Place to Rest and Remember

Class of 1920

I’ve been retired since 1997. A car accident left me half crippled in ’95. I did phone sales for the same feed and seed company for a while, but I didn’t do so well. My heart wasn’t in it. They eventually let me go.

After the car accident, Donald lost interest in things. It’s lucky he had funds his granddad left him—and disability.

Anytime you catch Donald in a down mood you can bet he’ll soon be heading for Holiday Hill.

Some people like to see things up close. I prefer a distant view. I’m like an artist who’ll step away from his canvas and squint. From up here, every house has a fresh coat of paint. Every kid has a brand-new bike. And every story has a good ending.

I’m sorry. There’s something I need to tell anyone who’ll listen.

I was sitting on this bench last week when I saw the owner of Erv’s Corner Tavern walk by. Erv’s been dead for fifty years. His car was hit by a train at the Rock Island crossing in a snowstorm. Anyway, he looks back, strolls over, greets me, and sits down for a visit. I know—it’s a hard story to swallow. It’s hard for me, too.

That’s my doing, I’m afraid. You see, Donald has only a year to live, and it’s my job to break the news to him in the