Serendipity

By Madonna Dries Christensen

Serendipity: Moments in time and place

A diverse blend of storytellers from around the world share their experiences with the mystery, magic, and power of serendipity.

• Language: English
• Publisher: iUniverse
• Release date: Sep 3, 2015
• ISBN: 9781491776421

Madonna Dries Christensen

Madonna Dries Christensen previously compiled the anthologies Dolls Remembered and Toys Remembered. Three times nominated for the Pushcart Prize, Madonna’s work has appeared in more than 100 publications over the past 30 years. Her other published books are: The Quiet Warrior; Swinging Sisters; Masquerade: The Swindler Who Conned J. Edgar Hoover; In Her Shoes: Step By Step; The Orator And The Sage; and Patricide. Patricide was a finalist in the 2015 Indie Excellence Book Awards. Madonna is a monthly columnist for Extra Innings and Today’s Seniors, and recently retired from 20 years editing and publishing Doorways, a memoir publication. She has written several editions of family history and compiled a couple dozen personalized booklets for family members and her three grandchildren.

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SERENDIPITY

Copyright © 2015 Madonna Dries Christensen.

Front cover art by Terry Owenby—text by Jeff Owenby

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ISBN: 978-1-4917-7641-4 (sc)

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iUniverse rev. date: 09/01/2015

Serendipity

Research tells me that this melodious word was coined by the writer Horace Walpole in 1754, referencing serendip, an old term for what is now Sri Lanka. He explained that he based the word on the title of a fairy tale, The Three Princes of Serendip, in which the trio made discoveries by accident and sagacity while not in quest of such things.

When I conceived this anthology, Walpole’s definition was the concept I had in mind. I soon learned that if I limited myself to that single idea, I would not have a book; I’d have maybe a dozen stories. I needed to figure out what, beyond Walpole’s definition, constitutes serendipity. I needed to keep an open mind and begin a quest for a wider range of material. I decided to divide the book into three sections, using these definitions found online:

An unsought, unintended, unexpected, but fortunate discovery—

Looking for something specific; finding something better—

Combined happenings which, coming together immediately or years apart, produce a good or welcome outcome—

Still, given any of these definitions, serendipity is difficult to determine. Running into a high school classmate on a gondola ride in Venice, Italy, would be an astonishing and extraordinary chance meeting, but unless something significant transpired from this meeting, it’s coincidence, not serendipity.

With some submissions, I had no doubt; the messages are as clear as the twinkle in Santa’s eyes. A friend calls this kind of obvious serendipity, which might include a dash of magic or whimsy, Godwinks. In other stories or poems the theme is subtle, and in still others you might need to explore in order to see the threads holding the piece in the serendipity realm. The majority of the material fell into the slot of Walpole’s unexpected discovery—with the events as complex as algorithms or as simple as Mother Nature sending colorful emissaries to bring moments of joy to a woman during a mourning period. Some stories overlap into more than one definition; I placed those where the experience seemed to fit best.

It’s been said that serendipity accounts for one percent of the blessings received in life; the other ninety-nine percent is due to our efforts. We might call what happens along the way coincidence, fate, luck, meant to be, fortune, karma, synergy, destiny, synchronicity, miracle, God’s will, divine intervention or ordination, angel intervention, happenstance, fluke, providence, free will, intuition, premonition, apparitions, choice, or that all important timing. Timing put some people in the Twin Towers on that fateful September day in 2001, while others, running late for one reason or another, lived to tell their story.

All of the above word choices could be synonyms for the same thing—an elusive hidden force that holds sway over our lives. The onset of serendipity isn’t noteworthy until a second thing happens, maybe a third, or fourth, until finally all the pieces create a unique outcome. Think of it as a quilt whose separate pieces are scraps piled in a basket, but when stitched together the illustration is clear.

Some stories have a sad or tragic beginning, but the end result is satisfying; a resolution has been attained, or a catharsis accomplished. Serendipity can involve several people or only one—perhaps a moment of clarity when an unhappy aspect of life is resolved, or a person is redirected when a hidden talent is uncovered and results in a successful career or a lifelong pleasant diversion. The route might be a beeline (direct), or circuitous and complicated. When serendipity strikes, there’s a moment of disbelief when a person realizes the connection. It can be chilling, eerie, startling, or a merry surprise.

In my daily reading of essays, memoir, and poetry, I became easily distracted by my project. I paused, wondering if what I just read had a touch of serendipity. On several occasions, it did. Quite likely, my theme had not been the author’s intent, but because I was looking for something specific, Walpole’s sagacity reared its timely head. I contacted the authors, requesting permission to use their story or poem. All graciously consented, and the previously published credits appear at the end of the book.

More than one incident of serendipity occurred while compiling this anthology. Through Facebook, I became reacquainted with two sisters I knew when they were children. They each shared a happy tale.

One day I was sorting research material I had used several years ago for my book, Masquerade: The Swindler Who Conned J. Edgar Hoover. I wondered what to do with the FBI records, newspaper articles, detective magazines, and photos—toss them, or hang on to them? I kept them. Within a week, I received an e-mail from the great-nephew of the man who was the subject of Masquerade. He plans to read my book and then we’ll correspond and exchange information. I will most likely give my material to him. A sociology professor, he’s thinking of writing a book about his relative, a different slant than my fictional account.

Another story arrived almost on my doorstep. Leaving the house for a morning walk, my husband and I discovered a huge, brilliant, sharply defined rainbow spread across a nearby cul-de-sac. The sight reminded me of a family story about meaningful rainbows. I contacted my nieces to refresh my memory so that I could include the story.

And finally, due to a delay caused by a request from the publisher, I was able to add several remarkable stories to the revised manuscript.

Although serendipity is abstract and intangible, as it weaves its spell toward culmination it might gather objects or information into its web, things that will have meaning to someone. Several generations of a family are often linked through an article of memorabilia that surfaced after decades and provided answers to mysteries. In one story, however, a question remains. A young woman from the Civil War era couldn’t bear to part with a treasured photo of her fiancé who had died in battle. Her descendants do not know his name; still, the early photographic image has been passed from one generation to the next— a passport for this soldier’s serendipitous journey through the ages.

Among other stories in this collection, a 1950s Navy veteran becomes a medium between the past and the present lives of two World War II veterans who do not know each other. A woman reunites with a childhood treasure; a man finds a tangible piece of his father’s past; another man finds an entire family he never knew. An aria sung in a hotel hallway brings together two people who discover a link to the past. An isolated young mother with postpartum depression gains hope from a gift left in her rural mailbox. One story is steeped in tragedy, but 70 years later a family is reunited with a book holding a clue to a mystery scribbled on its pages. And after an unsettling encounter with two strangers on the same day, one man chooses a career he’d never considered, which ultimately benefits countless people across the country.

Given today’s instant global news and social media, stories about serendipity seem almost ubiquitous. Love letters and dog tags from World War II are found and returned to the owners or their family. Two war buddies, decades later, moved next door to each other. A mother and daughter, separated at birth by adoption, ended up finding each other in the same workplace. A pediatrician delivered a premature baby who had a slim chance of living. The doctor stayed with the baby continuously until he was out of danger. Thirty years later the doctor was rescued from a car accident by paramedics. At the hospital, learning their names, the doctor realized one man is the person whose live he saved as a baby.

A four-year-old girl unintentionally scattered scraps of food in the yard as she played. Before long, a murder of crows appeared, following the food source. Then the crows began bringing thank you gifts: beads, metal scraps, buttons, glass, smooth rocks, bone, jewelry, anything shiny and colorful, and even a camera lens cap dropped by the girl’s mother. The child has cataloged these gifts by date and where the crows left them.

In 2009, when a woman learned she had cancer, she and her husband signed their names on separate one dollar bills, a token of their love. He kept both bills in his wallet, but a year later he accidentally spent them. Five years later, the man and his granddaughter bought lunch at Subway. Among the change the man received was the dollar bill bearing his now deceased wife’s signature.

These mysterious circumstances intrigue and charm readers world-wide.

A wisp of serendipity holds together my past and present—beginning with my introduction to reading in the children’s area at the public library in my small hometown in Iowa. Back then, and even later, a writing career was not something I sought, or even considered, so it was unexpected and fortunate when, at age 50, I submitted a Christmas memoir to a Virginia newspaper and they published it. My first two published books are the result of ideas falling into my lap unexpectedly. I uncovered the first unique story through genealogy, and the second after a business friend of my husband’s died and we learned the truth about his intriguing past life. Thirty years later, coming full circle, this anthology, Serendipity, will be shelved along with my other books in the Iowa Room in that same library.

It has been my good fortune along the way these many years to meet a host of talented writers who contributed stories for my anthologies with no monetary compensation. Meet these accomplished people through their bios at the end of this book. Their generosity, as well as readers’ purchases, allows all royalties to go to Down Syndrome Association of Northern Virginia. They, and I, are ever grateful. In an ironic twist, Down syndrome crosses paths with more than one contributor to this anthology.

Madonna Dries Christensen

Sarasota, Florida

Part One

An unsought, unintended, unexpected, but fortunate discovery—

The probability of a certain set of circumstances coming together in a meaningful way is so low that it simply cannot be considered coincidence.

V. C. King, author, Titanic: Relative Fate

Index

Finding Dottie—Brenda Kay Ledford

On Land And Sea—Gary L. Christensen

Precious Gifts—L. A. Kennedy

My Grandfather’s Fiddle—Margo Lemieux

Barn Razing—Madonna Dries Christensen

Handwork—Jennifer Graf Groneberg

Found In A Window Seat—Peg Russell

You Little Rat Fink—Randi O’Keefe

Margaret Remembered—Madonna Dries Christensen

When The Nightingale Sang—Richard Ong

Behind The Mysteries—JB Hamilton Queen

The Wizard Returns—Madonna Dries Christensen

Beyond The Rainbow—Connie Dries Madole

London’s Literary Gift To The Black Hills—Paul Higbee

Amid The Grief — Moments Of Joy—Mary Ellen Glaze

Linked Through An Autograph Book—Madonna Dries Christensen

The Shrine On An Autumn Road—Robin Oliver Abner

Knitting Lessons—Toni Clark

Silver Lining—Carrillee Collins Burke

A Living Doll—Nadja Bernitt

Remember The Days—Madonna Dries Christensen

Silent Flight—Michael Young

Angel In The Wings—Kathryn Kelley

The Forgotten Gift—Margo Lemieux

Touching Norma—Madonna Dries Christensen

The Soldier’s Picture—Peg Russell

Mother’s Secret—Carrillee Collins Burke

What’s Your Name?—Helga Harris

The Upper Sanctum—Ellen Marks

A Graveyard Meeting—Madonna Dries Christensen

My Letter To Dana—Sharlya Gold

A Night In Heaven—Carrillee Collins Burke

Special Delivery—Beth Daub Vick

Sunset On Grandfather Mountain—Margo Lemieux

My Golden Parachute—Natalie Bartlett

A Fresh Start—Ken Devine

On Pandapas Pond—Barbara Dryman

Left And Found—Madonna Dries Christensen

Finding Dottie

~~~

Brenda Kay Ledford

My 30th birthday––I close my eyes and savor this peaceful morning. The sun licks my naked arms and tension melts from my body. Azure skies kiss the Blue Ridge Mountains.

Bales of hay cure in the fields around the John C. Campbell Folk School in Brasstown, North Carolina. Bluegrass music carries on a honeysuckle breeze across the campus. Folks dance and demonstrate mountain crafts during the fall festival.

An elderly lady sits on the porch at the woodworking studio and carves. I watch her wrinkled hands whittle the wood and create a lifelike cardinal.

I saunter past the clay studio and watch a potter throw clay on the wheel. At the fiber arts building, artists quilt, and weave rugs.

I take a creek-side trail, cross Rainbow Bridge, and come to an old log cabin. Walnuts plop on the moss-covered roof and a squirrel scampers into the pine thicket. I climb the rickety steps to the porch. Wiping dust from the windows, I peer through spider webs. Stacks of newspapers reach the ceiling. I gaze at the door latch and wonder if I should touch it.

The heavy wooden door squeaks as I enter the musty room. I stumble across a rocking chair and blink until my eyes adjust to the darkness. I meander toward the fireplace and scream when a cat hisses and dashes out the door.

I feel guilty trespassing, but a familiar object slumps against a spinning wheel. I brush away dust and peel a spider web off the doll’s pink satin dress. I stroke her blonde hair, lift it off her neck, and see where I scribbled years ago with a crayon her name. Dottie. Tears fill my eyes as I cuddle Dottie. She was my first store-bought doll. Mama had always made wooden toys for me until that Christmas.

I recall Daddy was working on a construction job in Wilkesboro, North Carolina, that year. He stayed in the city through the week and came home on Friday evening.

It was Christmas Eve and we didn’t have any presents under the Charlie Brown tree. My brother, sister, and I cut paper dolls from the Sears and Roebuck catalog, strung popcorn, made paper chains, and decorated the little pine tree. I asked Mama if Santa could find our Appalachian home. She assured me Rudolph would have no problems.

The night before Christmas, we were waiting for Daddy to come home. Snow glowed beneath a full moon and icicles hung from the tin roof of our red plank house. I fell asleep watching Lassie on the black and white television. Rover’s barking awoke me.

Someone stomped across the front porch and Mama flipped on the light. The door swung open and Daddy barged into the living room, leaving a trail of snow. He carried a load of presents.

Merry Christmas and happy New Year! he shouted, and handed each of us a present. My sister received a wrist watch, and Harold got a cowboy hat and toy guns. I hopped on Daddy’s lap and ripped the paper off my present. How did he know what I wanted?

Oh, how bootyful! She’s so bootyful! I clapped my hands and hugged my first store-bought doll. Mama, Daddy, Harold, and Barbara laughed. I pouted because I didn’t see anything funny.

Thirty years later, I cuddle my doll and wash her gritty face with tears. I don’t know how she got into this log cabin, but the memory of my first doll fills my heart with joy.

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Author’s addendum: I later learned that Mr. Mercer Scroggs’s family had given the land to the John C. Campbell Folk School. I was asked as a freelance writer, by a local newspaper, to interview Mr. Scroggs about his antiques collection. I told him about finding my doll in the log cabin at the folk school. He informed me that his mother had been a doll collector and she had probably gotten the doll at a yard sale. My mother had done spring cleaning and must have included my doll in the box she donated for a benefit yard sale. Mr. Scroggs told me that since his mother was deceased that I could have the doll.

On Land And Sea

~~~

Gary L. Christensen

My brother-in-law’s brother, Lowell, served in the Army in World War II. He was badly wounded in the invasion of Southern France and was awarded a Purple Heart.

My brother, Wayne, was in the Navy and served on landing crafts in the invasions of North Africa, Sicily, Anzio, and Southern France. Twelve years my senior, I was a mere boy when Wayne left for the war.

Many years later, during a summer visit to Lowell’s Iowa farm, he and I retreated to the barn while the women chatted in the house. At one point, aided by two canes, Lowell hobbled his lanky frame toward a dusty shelf and lowered the volume on a vintage radio. He mentioned that the radio had played for decades; he never turned it off.

I don’t recall who initiated the conversation about the war, but there in the quiet countryside, Lowell recounted the day of his wounding. Badly injured, he crawled to cover in the brush and lay on his back, supported by a small tree. From there, he watched a single Luftwaffe attack plane circle and then bomb an Allied landing craft—before the plane was shot down.

Later, at my brother’s Dakota farm, I began telling Lowell’s story to Wayne. The two men did not know each other. Midway through, Wayne interrupted with, That’s right; and then … .

I remained speechless while Wayne told the same story Lowell had told, but from a different point of view. During the invasion, Wayne had stood double watches on his landing craft, getting troops to the beachhead. The captain ordered him to another ship for rest. The ship Wayne had been on then left for the beach, where it unloaded troops. As it pulled away from the beach, a single circling Luftwaffe attack plane dropped a bomb on the ship. The crew managed to steer the ship out of the landing zones before it sank. All Wayne’s shipmates were lost.

Lowell was hospitalized in Italy. Wayne went on to serve in the Pacific Theatre from Guam to the Philippines. Except for this story, and the route through which it emerged that day on the farm, Wayne never talked to me about the war.

There are confluences in life that are inexplicable, but this one raises the hair on the back of one’s neck.

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Lowell Reiners—Photo by Jean Reiners Johnson

Precious Gifts

~~~

L. A. Kennedy

I enjoyed playground duty when I worked at an elementary school in Southern California. Children often came up to me for a hug or to hold my hand and walk with me. One day I noticed a little girl leaning against the building during recess sucking on her finger. When I looked at her, she looked down or turned her head. I made a point of smiling at her every day. Eventually I won her trust and she held my hand when I reached out to her.

Amelia was quiet. I learned she was new to this country and still learning the language. She communicated her feelings with her big brown eyes. And she was shy. She watched children hug me, but holding my hand was her limit. I was satisfied that at least she was no longer leaning against the wall during recess.

On the last day of school she was waiting for me