HELLO AGAIN

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My precious Buddy crossed the Rainbow Bridge sixteen years ago.

And while Buddy was a female dog, a Shih Tzu, I endowed her with a moniker which expressed the quality and depth of the relationship which I, ultimately, established with her. And I could not have given her a more appropriate name. Buddy.

Her life was simply a grace, and she was, as scripture characterizes it, “a friend who loves at all times.”

I have previously written about Buddy’s unique wherewithal to complete the mission which I am convinced that God assigned her; before He made the worlds.

The dear little bedraggled pooch showed up in my front yard one day in 1996; having apparently “made good her escape” from parts unknown. From that time forward she became “part and parcel” of our lives, and, (as any dog owner can relate) she soon became “family.”

However, for a very brief period of time, we kept her in the garage. And one day, as she patiently waited to become a full-fledged member of the family, and my wife was home alone, Jean heard the garage door go up, and Buddy began barking. As soon as the door went up, it came back down. And while Buddy’s 15 pound physique was more bark than bite, her bark was apparently enough to scare the intruder away.

Then, there was the time when our daughter was involved in a divorce, and had temporarily moved back into our home. As “Kinsey” lay on her bed crying, Buddy found a place on the floor beside her. And though I tried to get her to ride to town with me, (and more than once), she maintained her empathetic, solitary vigil.

Then, there was the time when Buddy began following my wife around the house, a habit that only abated when Jean lay down one day, and was overcome with despair, and a sensation that she was dying. Given Buddy’s apparent wherewithal to literally smell the ‘villain,’ and the emotions which overcame my wife, I encouraged her to make an immediate appointment with her doctor; upon which a mammogram was ordered, and a malignant tumor was discovered; (which thankfully was remedied by a lumpectomy).

 

I have often surmised that our little Buddy fulfilled her mission in life; (while many people never do). And in retrospect, I have mused that if any creature possessed the wherewithal to make herself known after her demise, Buddy was a very likely candidate.

Pt. 2

Our precious pooch had only recently crossed the Rainbow Bridge, and I was grieving her; as I had never grieved man, or beast in my almost six decades on this planet.

One late evening, after I resorted to my bed, and was attempting to sleep, I sensed something; an extraordinary something. For something invisible, but which manifested weight, was suddenly lying against my right shoulder! And there was this uncanny sense of respiration! In and out. In and out. And while I don’t recall actually hearing that recurrent exchange of oxygen, the proximity of the being beside me allowed me to feel it.

Since my wife is a nurse, and we ‘enjoyed’ different schedules, she and I had long since maintained separate bedrooms. Buddy slept on my bed. And this dear little critter spent her last night on earth on my bed.

I can tell you that while I was surprised at the foregoing development, there was absolutely no fear. But rather, a sense of comfort, and the identity of my nocturnal visitor was readily apparent to me.

At this juncture, I can’t tell you how long the miraculous visitation lasted, perhaps as little as a minute; perhaps as many as five. And in like manner, I cannot begin to tell you now whether the second manifestation occurred on the same, or on a different evening.

But as I was drifting off to sleep on that, or a different night, I sensed a familiar ‘something’ at my feet.

I kept a pillow for Buddy at that end of the bed, and when wakefulness gave way to drowsiness, it was her practice to seek out that small piece of rectangular comfort. And while our dear pooch had ceased to live and breathe and move, the pillow has remained in its same old place. (And though almost a decade and a half has come and gone since she “gave up the ghost,” I have maintained the practice of laying a pillow at the foot of my bed).

I suddenly felt an invisible weight lying against my right foot. Invisible, yet tangible. And I felt that same sense of comfort, as I did when she lay against my shoulder. I was afraid to move. I wanted whatever grace I had been momentarily given to linger.

But as I recall, when I finally dared shift my position, the magic ended, and the weighty sensation with it.

Pt. 3

As I was walking in my neighborhood one evening, perhaps a month after the loss of my beloved Buddy, and I found myself reminiscing about the old girl,

…I saw it,

(or should I use a different pronoun)?

…I saw her.

Suddenly, not ten feet ahead of me, what seemed to be a little white pooch appeared out of nothingness, slowly walked across my path way, and entered my neighbor’s front yard.

And as quickly as she appeared, she immediately relinquished her physicality.

I can’t account for why I was blessed to realize such momentary manifestations of my precious pooch.

But at least for me, there remains that quiet reassurance that our pets are alive and well, and reside in a land where the roses never fade, and no tear dims the eye.

At least if you believe Psalm 36:6,

“You, Lord preserve mankind and animals, alike.”

Pt. 4

My little Buddy crossed the Rainbow Bridge far too soon. Like many of her breed, she experienced allergies, and had to have steroidal medication to keep her from scratching her eyes out. As a result, through the years her liver values rose. I often mused that it was like taking poison to stay alive. She left us literally in the course of a night, and only graced this earth an all too brief decade in time.

And after she left us, I could hardly be consoled. However, among those who offered their consolation, I recall two in particular. Darlene M. and Melodi W. The former sent me a lovely card which I scanned, and still post on the social media pages of those whose pet pooches have recently crossed the Rainbow Bridge. The latter of these wonderful ladies offered me an encouraging written sentiment which included, as I recall, the hope and the promise that I would see my precious Buddy again one day.

(And as I have recounted, I both saw her again, and experienced her unseen presence; sooner than I had any reason to expect).

Recently, I recounted some unexplained visitations:

“Today is the 14^th anniversary of my dear Buddy’s journey across the Rainbow Bridge. And while I haven’t seen or heard ‘hide nor hair’ from her since those manifestations immediately after her passing, some mighty peculiar things have been happening the past few days.

Nearly a decade and a half after my Buddy’s ethereal trip across the Rainbow Bridge, she (or perhaps God, Himself) made the decision to expend a bit more grace upon me.

I was lying in my easy chair in the wee hours of the morning, and sleeping well when…

I heard something in our back room.

Like a dog shaking water off her back after a summer swim. And two unspoken words seemed to accompany the auditory sensation I have previously described.

 

“Hello again!”

Pt. 5

My dear little Buddy had returned; if only for a moment. And yet, for the brevity of her visitation, I was both excited and encouraged by her unexpected visit. And it was then that I glanced at the time on my cable box, and noticed it indicated 3:16am. (And for anyone who is versed in scripture, those numbers are especially meaningful).

And I thought, Grace. And indeed, I could not help but think of this “strange and wonderful” occurrence, as anything but Grace.

The same thing happened again a few days later. And I thought,

“If any creature God ever made deserved an opportunity to make herself known, after he or she had left this earthly sphere, it was my little Buddy.” (And it occurred to me that my precious little creature had managed to do something that Harry Houdini, the great magician, had promised to do, but failed to keep his promise).

But to return to my account.

“A couple of days ago I was seated at a table, (the location is unimportant) when suddenly something touched my right leg, as if an unseen creature had thrown its front paws up onto my thigh. And I knew. I just knew.

“Buddy was saying, ‘Hello again!’

“14 years since the lovely little creature crossed the Rainbow Bridge. 14. 7x2. Seven being the perfect number. 7x2 = 14.

“Without question, or contradiction, Buddy was doubly perfect.”

Well, I would soon discover there was a lot more to the second round of Buddy’s posthumous visitations, than I have described, above.

Pt. 6

For you see, a few days ago I received a message from my friend, Melodi W. Her precious pooch, Angelo, a Jack Russell Terrier, crossed the Rainbow Bridge last week.

Melodi told me that she adopted the precious creature when he was one, and that he was fifteen when he crossed the Rainbow Bridge. She went on to say,

“The past few months I would carry him out to the yard, and he would lift his nose to heaven with his eyes closed, as if he was smelling the sky.

“I told him that’s what he has to look forward to, and that is what heaven will be like. I could almost feel he would be there shortly. I think my Dad needed him, and is showing him all the mountains, and valleys, and places to run.”

My friend continued her account.

“Angelo loved to play ball, and chicken. He loved to run with me and sleep in my bed. He knew when I was sad, and wouldn’t leave my side. He was a big baby, and loved to lie on his back, and let me massage his stomach. He would fall asleep upside down.”

Apparently, Angelo left in a moment, and didn’t suffer. And I thought, “It was especially merciful that both my Buddy, and Melodi’s Angelo left us with little or no suffering.”

And it suddenly occurred to me.

Whereas, Buddy had chosen to remain silent, and unseen since just after she pitter-pattered across the Rainbow Bridge, I think her excitement knew no bounds when she discovered Angelo was about to make the same journey, and join her in the hereafter.

Someone has referred to it as “Poetic License,” …but I can just see Jesus scooping up my bless-ed pooch in His arms, and with a whimsical smile on His face, He whispers in her ear,

“Buddy, you never knew Melodi, and you never met her wonderful little friend, Angelo; (though the two of you shared a little time and space on the beautiful planet I created).

“My servant, Melodi encouraged your master after you crossed the Rainbow Bridge, and joined me in this marvelous place. And it will soon be Angelo’s turn to cross over, and join us here. And… I think the two of you should meet.”

And it all became crystal clear to me.

This is why Buddy chose to say, “Hello again.” For I think she was overwhelmed with joy that our Lord had chosen a special companion for her, and that Angelo would make his appearance in a few short days. And my precious pooch longed to share her joy with the someone who had loved her so well, and for so long.

And now, with a wink and a nod, and as He bent to place the little Shih Tzu upon the golden street, the Savior’s voice erupted like a stream of mighty waters, and His victorious shout reached a thundering crescendo…

“Go. Go share your joy with your earthly friend. But come back quickly. Don’t delay. Your former master will understand soon enough.”

And with this, the bless-ed creature looked lovingly into the eyes of the One who created her, and seconds later she momentarily relinquished her Heavenly Home in favor of an earthly one.

Pt. 7

Of course, after my dear friend, Melodi shared the news of her sweet’s Angelo’s passing with me, “my eyes were opened” and I could not help but share my newfound insight with her.

It was my turn to encourage Melodi. (And what a joy for me to do so).

And she responded with,

“Awe, Dr. Bill!!! Thank you for this hope and reminder!!! I really needed this right now! I was visiting with my Mom when Angelo passed away, so I wasn’t here to tell him ‘good bye.’ I am so happy you had this experience because it was for me too!!! Angelo was my best friend, and walked through my divorce, and my Dad’s homegoing. I could always count on him!

“Last night the sunset had a silver lining around the clouds, and I felt like God was saying to me that, ‘There is always a silver lining in every situation, even as dark as it may seem.’

“I love you, and I’m thankful you shared this story with me!!!

“My dad adored Angelo, and I can see Jesus saying,

‘Get ready, Bob. Your buddy is almost here!’

“Maybe my Dad needed someone from our family, and Jesus didn’t want to take me, or my Mom away; because we still have work to do here.”

(and)

“Your words and encounter with Buddy the past few weeks were meant to help me! God knew you could share this with me to give me peace that they are closer than we know. I’m trying to stay busy because everything around me reminds me of him.

“He was such a huge part of my everyday life. He was always beside me. I believe my Dad knew and was waiting for him. He loved Angelo so much and would throw the ball to him for hours. I love and appreciate your encouragement more than you will ever know.”

Pt. 8

On the back cover of my little volume, “A Man’s Tribute to His Beloved Dogs,” I wrote a reflection for anyone who loves their pets, and expects to see them again one day.

(And I think the following reminiscence should encourage the Bill’s and Melodi’s, and all the other believers of the world, that their Buddy’s and Angelo’s will… be waiting for them).

“But perhaps our Savior will smile, and beckon with His hand, as if to say, ‘Well, there she is. What are you waiting for? There’s fields and flowers and trees aplenty. Romp and run and carry on. Love that little puppy of yours for all you’re worth.’

“And with this, I’ll turn and my most favorite creature will be looking up at me expectantly; eyes shining, ears twitching and tail wagging. With this, my heart will skip a few beats, and I’ll scoop her up in my arms, and she will rest contentedly against my shoulder. And best of all, we will remember one another, and the love we knew will be undimmed and stronger for the years we were apart.”

 

I can just see Bob and Angelo playing a game of catch on the heavenly streets. And now, the precious pooch misses one toss, and the ball bounces up to the foot of their Savior.

Bob and Angelo seem frozen in place, as our Lord looks down at the glorious pavement; where gold is as common, and plentiful as the concrete and asphalt of an earthly street.

And then, the Alpha and Omega, the First and the Last, the Lion of the tribe of Judah, the Holy One of the ages, the great “I AM,”… smiles a smile that would light up the world, bends at the waist, recovers the ball, and tosses it to Angelo. And it seems the puppy’s joy knows no bounds. And he scampers off to retrieve it.

Now, my little Buddy appears, and in some mysterious way known only to God, the precious pooches recognize each other. And with tails wagging, and eyes glistening, they run towards one another, and their noses touch.

 

And now, Angelo forgets his game of catch, (but not his dear friend, Bob), and he scampers towards a nearby stream. And my precious little Buddy is not all that far behind him.

by William McDonald, PhD

CROSSING JORDAN

3876

My sister forwarded a photo of my dad to me today; one which I don’t recall seeing before.

The picture depicts my dad at the age of perhaps 65 or 70; 15 to 20 years before our Lord called him home to Glory. When I asked her, Linda informed me that the photograph was snapped in Robbinsville, NC; along a river where my parents had purchased a cabin. It seems my dad was in the process of building a dock, though no structure, whatsoever, can be seen.

In the picture Daddy is wearing the most bedraggled clothes I have ever seen him wear. His jeans are replete with holes, and stains, and his upper body is clothed in a dirty t-shirt. In spite of the condition of his clothing, my father appears to be staring directly into the camera lens, wearing a smile which might easily compete with the sun, and with one hand raised in greeting, (or farewell).

Interestingly enough, as recently as I came into possession of this unique picture, it has become my all-time favorite of my dad.

And I think I like it so much because it so well characterizes the journey we know as life and death.

I think the river represents the threshold between this life and the next. That both literal and proverbial river we call Jordan.

My father’s torn and dirty clothing speaks to the trials, troubles and turmoil of life, and the manner in which it inflicts pain and suffering on all of us.

Whereas, the exuberant smile, and raised hand is all about the conclusion of such momentary symptoms, the joy which awaits the redeemed, and that one final opportunity to bid a fond “fare thee well,” but not goodbye.

And if I could select one scripture to accompany the photo, I think I might affix the following caption:

“For I reckon that the sufferings of this present life are not worthy to be compared to the glory which shall be revealed in us.” (Romans 8:18)

By William McDonald, PhD

FAIRY TALES CAN COME TRUE

3875

When I was little my mother told me about the time she and her friends climbed up to a beer billboard and threw snowballs at people passing by. Not long after I heard the story a huge billboard of Tom Selleck went up in Times Square. He was dressed in a cowboy hat and a tuxedo and grinned out at me from a red sports car with a Chaz license plate.

 

I wanted to climb up there, not to throw snowballs but just to sit.

 

Alas, neither my mother nor I could find a way to climb up and I figured the police were a lot more observant now than they had been when my mom was a kid. Reluctantly I surrendered my fantasy of sitting next to Tom Selleck.

 

Fast forward to Labor Day forty years later. I was seated in the American First Class Lounge awaiting my flight from LAX to JFK.

 

Flipping idly through the LA Times I looked up when I heard a familiar voice. Tom Selleck had entered the lounge and taken a seat not ten feet from me. My heart banged; maybe I would get a chance to talk to him and this time, really do it.

 

See, I had had chances to talk to him before; his television series about Las Vegas shot on Jamie’s lot and whenever I was there, I would ask casually whether they were on set that day. Jamie answered every query with a scowl that would have melted the abominable snowman, so I never visited the set.

 

One afternoon I asked Jamie’s close friend Robert Santoro, a Teamster captain who worked on the show, what Mr. Selleck was like. He assured me that he was very nice and wouldn’t mind signing an autograph for my mother and me. At that Jamie raised one eyebrow. “She won’t get the opportunity to find out,” he stated firmly, facing Robert but really talking to me. “He is on this lot to work not to entertain fans.” As he returned to the papers stacked on his desk, I resisted the urge to stick out my tongue like Lucy Ricardo and instead looked sadly at Robert. He shrugged helplessly.

 

Well, today was the day to test Robert’s hypothesis. Since Mr. Selleck was not here to work and he wasn’t with his family, I would see just how nice he was. I dug in my purse for a pen and a scrap of paper and approached him. Planting myself directly in front of him, I “ahem”med loudly. He raised his eyes over his reading glasses.

 

“Mr. Selleck,” I began. “My mom and I have had a crush on you since you were the Chaz man. May I please have your autograph for her?”

 

He smiled slightly and reached up. “What is your mother’s name?”

he asked kindly. I told him.

 

He wrote then handed me the paper.

 

I accepted it then said, “You know, when I was a little girl there was a billboard of you in Times Square. It was the last shot in the commercial where you roped cows . . .”

 

“Steer.”

 

“What?”

 

“Steer. They’re not cows, they’re steer.”

 

“Oh. Okay, steer. Then you showered and dressed in a tux and climbed into that red Corvette. . . ”

 

“It was a Ferrari.”

 

I squinted at him. “Really?”

 

He nodded.

 

“Well, I guess you can tell I grew up in New York and know nothing about either cows or cars.”

 

He smiled then turned as his name was called. His escort had arrived to take him to his flight.

 

“Well, ‘bye,” I said. “Thank you.”

 

He nodded, hoisted his brown leather bag, and turned away.

 

I looked at my watch and realized that I should get ready to walk to the boarding gate, too. I slipped the autograph into my tote bag and headed for the ladies’ room.

 

Within about ten minutes I was boarding my plane. Flashing my boarding pass for seat 1A at the flight attendant I turned right and saw Tom Selleck sitting in 1 B.

 

“Hi Mr. Selleck!” I exclaimed.

 

He looked up from his script and peered over his reading glasses.

 

“Hey, it’s Corvette Girl,” he smiled.

 

I tossed my carry on in the overhead bin and couldn’t stop myself from giggling as I plopped into the window seat.

 

“What is so funny?” my seat mate asked.

 

I told him about my childhood dream about climbing the Chaz billboard and sitting next to him high above Times Square.

 

He laughed.

 

“Well, today you will be higher in the air than the billboard was,” he observed.

 

I looked at his script. “Is that the new cop show you are going to star in?” I asked nodding at the script.

 

He nodded. “It looks like a really good show. I hope it does well.”

 

“My mom and I will watch it, although she will miss Jesse Stone. She loves those.”

 

“Oh, tell her that they aren’t going away. We have three more scheduled.”

 

“My husband will watch, too, even though you are no longer shooting on his lot.”

 

At his raised eyebrow I added, “My husband Jamie runs Culver where your last show shot and I always wanted to meet you and get your autograph, but he said he’d kill me if I bothered you. Robert said you wouldn’t mind but I never did, anyway. I remember one day when someone’s daughter hung around the set all day mooning after Josh Duhamel, his agent chewed Jamie’s ear off. I learned from her mistake.”

 

Mr. Selleck nodded. “Robert who?” he asked curiously.

 

“Santoro.”

 

“My driver?”

 

“Yes, he is friends with my husband.”

 

“You should have asked him to get it for you. I would have signed. Robert is a great guy.”

 

So, I sat next to Tom Selleck all the way to New York and he was charming. When he fell asleep I thought of laying my head on his shoulder and snapping a selfie but just my luck he’d be a light sleeper and I would turn into Lucy Ricardo yet again when she chats with the sleeping Van Johnson and he wakes, embarrassing her.

 

When we landed at JFK, Mr. Selleck’s next escort arrived to walk him from the plane to collect his luggage. Just before exiting, he turned and hugged me.

 

He smiled that Magnum smile, turned again, and was gone.

By Laura Cella

 

THE THINGS WE LEAVE BEHIND

 

3874

Our twenty pound Papillon, Toby, has an infuriating habit of barking at fast food workers. As a result, when my wife and I decide to do pizza or burgers for dinner, Jean lets Toby and me out as we stop to order, and I walk the little fella in the parking lot or the grassy area which borders it.

A couple of days ago, we pulled into a fast food establishment in our hometown of Bartow, Florida. And given there was a long line of cars ahead of us, I decided to walk a bit further than I am generally prone to do.

Suddenly, I was a man on an (admittedly minor) mission. For you see, about fifty yards from the restaurant stands the old Bartow Civic Center; a venue where local teens once danced, and children once swam in the outdoor pool. The old civic center remains, although a new one has long since replaced it. This building was used as a private school for several years, but now sits empty.

I presume the building and pool were built during the Great Depression. The outside walls of the edifice are adorned with what I refer to as ‘phosphate rock,’ although I suppose it would properly be called limestone. The pool was much like any other neighborhood pool of its day, except it’s perimeter walls were also made of limestone, and 5 foot long iron bars were driven along its top; a foot wide margin between each one.

The pool has been filled in now, and its 30x50 foot expanse is covered in grass. However, the walls are still there, though a few of the iron bars have been broken, and bent inwards where they meet the limestone wall, as though someone, not knowing any other way to get in, hoped to swim in a pool that no longer existed.

Pt. 2

There was a time when the building and pool were new; completed just moments ago by the hands of skilled workmen. The first quarter was yet to click its way down the metallic mechanisms of the new jukebox, and the sound of teenaged feet had not yet reverberated off the cement floor, and sheetrock walls. The bottom of the pool was still dry, and the blue aquatic paint which lined its walls was still wet.

As I reminisced about my days of yore, I found myself returning to a mental topic which had flooded my synapses many times in the past.

“The things we leave behind.”

Whereas the old civic center and what remains of the pool remain, the hands which so diligently built them have ceased their labor. The workmen who poured the concrete, who laid the blocks, and who installed the limestone have long since gone on to their reward.

Of course, the same could be said of a myriad of buildings and pools, and a million million other manmade things which were ever built, created or invented.

My dad was an artist. During the course of twenty or thirty years, he painted some pretty impressive landscapes. His paintings are scattered across central Florida, and perhaps the entire country. No sooner had he hung one in a local bank or restaurant, the phone rang, and a manager or clerk told him to come pick up his money. And while Daddy is no longer with us, several of his paintings grace my walls.

As I type out these words, a Victorian red velvet wooden chair sits not five feet behind me. It is a beautiful thing. No doubt, the workman finished hid masterpiece, and paused to admire what he had so skillfully accomplished; well over a century and a half ago.

Pt. 3

Speaking of workmen, and builders, and artists, I was never gifted with manual dexterity, and even the shadowbox I created in high school shop class was lop-sided, and I have no idea, (nor do I care) where it now resides.

However, I am a workman and builder and artist nonetheless. For you see, I trade in… souls. (Yes, I do). Souls are my workmanship, and I have been privileged to mold and shine many of them ‘til they shimmered like diamonds. For you see, I am a counselor and a mentor, and many of those whom God has set in my pathway have gone on to do wonderful things.

There was one, in particular, who summed it up well, and her words are so reminiscent of my implications here.

“Dr. Bill, I don’t want to disappoint you. I’ll go for you when you can no longer go. I’ll speak for you when you can no longer speak. I’ll reach, teach and keep people in your name long after you have gone on to your reward.”

Just as those wonderful craftsmen of old built edifices which have outlived them, I find myself doing much the same thing. For one day it will be said of me, “He left something behind.” For one day I will cease to be referred to as “He is,” and I will be remembered as “He was.”

When this workman has passed from the earth, my work will remain, and I will, in essence, continue my work through another. And they will be able to say, (as I have said before them), “I am the only reason that he ever lived and moved and breathed on the earth; (since he is incapable of doing anything more, and is depending on me to carry on what he once began”).

Afterward

I think Providence has granted all of us a destiny. And whether walls or buildings or pools or paintings or lives happen to be our calling, I think we ought to get about doing what our destiny dictates that we do.

For ultimately, there is nothing more satisfying or essential than leaving something behind.

by William McDonald, PhD

TWO PEOPLE DRIVING ONE CAR

3873

It was mid-afternoon, and Jean and I were on our way home from church, (or some other place long since forgotten.) She was driving our old green 1980 something Oldsmobile; a somewhat larger and heavier vehicle than one generally sees on the road today. We were traveling at 50 MPH, or more, and as we neared an intersecting road on our right, which was marked with a stop sign, a small blue car pulled into our pathway.

I could plainly see a man and woman in the front seat, and a little boy and girl in the back seat. I will never forget those precious little human beings as they sat there, eyes wide open, peering helplessly out the window, as our car swiftly approached them.  Less than 50 feet separated our two vehicles, and Jean proceeded to lock up the brakes. An accident was inevitable. As with so many traumatic events, time seemed to slow down. (Interestingly enough, I have read that this syndrome occurs because the brain is processing more information than usual in a miniscule amount of time.)

It was obvious that my wife had every intention of plowing headlong into the smaller car, (and no doubt, all the occupants of that vehicle would have been seriously injured or killed.) And though we were driving a much larger automobile, we also would not have been spared, since foolishly we weren’t wearing our seatbelts.

Suddenly, I just KNEW what I had to do.

I reached over with my left hand, took the steering wheel from Jean, and began steering it in a direction that would take us around the rear of the small vehicle. Amazingly, we cleared the back bumper of the little car by a foot. Both my wife and I found ourselves leaning hard in the direction of our passenger window. (As a result of that event, I can easily relate to the G-forces astronauts endure as they reach maximum acceleration.)

But our wild ride was only beginning. Our ungainly old car began a 180 degree slide. Suddenly, the back end was where the front end was just seconds before. Now we were sliding backwards. As the car lost momentum, we neared a wooden fence to our left which paralleled the side of a house. We finally slid to a stop in a grassy area, a few feet from the fence, very shaken, but not a scratch on either of us. 

As we ended our unexpected journey, I saw the little car as it turned left into the opposite lane of the four lane highway. The man didn’t even have the courtesy to stop and inquire about our well-being. The decent thing to have done, the only thing to have done, would have been to stop, especially since he had pulled in front of us, and caused a near fatal accident.

However, while this traumatic event was in the process of happening to us, another car pulled up to the stop sign. Having seen the spectacle falling together around him, I have no doubt that the driver watched in awe. The motorist asked if we were okay, and after we assured him we were, he drove away.

Only God. Only God. Nothing less than an abject miracle. The two occupants of our car and the four occupants of the other car might easily have died that day. And the spot which Jean fills in the audience tonight would be vacant, or filled by another, and I would be just as invisible now, and you would not be listening to the sound of my voice, nor been exposed to my obvious charm, or handsome face.

And I have no doubt He gave His angels charge over us that day, and when we needed a miracle, well, He gave us one. And I have no doubt, any one of you could step behind this podium and share something equally wonderful and amazing that our Lord has done in your own lives.

by William McDonald, PhD

 

THE ARNOLD RICHARDSON STORY (re. the last scene in "A River Runs Through It")

3872

HELENA, Mont. — Arnold Richardson was not the best-known Montanan to appear in a Hollywood movie, but his solitary bit part — as the elderly Norman Maclean in "A River Runs Through It" — remains one of the most iconic cinematic images of the state, partly responsible, for better or worse, for the explosion in the popularity of fly fishing in the 1990s.

For Richardson, who retired to Townsend and died Dec. 6 at 96, the response to a casting call in a Livingston newspaper led to an enjoyable brush with fame and a well-paying job one autumn. It was also a fitting highlight in a lifetime of love for Montana's fish and streams and wild places.

"He could spend literally days on a river," his stepson, Norman Spencer, said by telephone from his home in Florida. "The whole concept was almost transcendent. ... It's almost like he was transformed when he got on a river."

"Hours would go by," Spencer said. "I'd be ready to go home. He'd still be there fishing and have no concept of what time it was. He would just really get lost in it."

It's been said, Spencer noted, that trout don't live in ugly places.

"They live in some of the most beautiful, serene areas, the mountains, in cold clean water," he said. "It's always very picturesque types of locations, where the water is always pristine. Because the fish need to have ice cold water to live."

Richardson was born in Maine in 1914 and worked with his father in construction endeavors. After he finished high school, they moved to Washington state, where the elder Richardson created a company making wooden blinds.

Arnold became a bricklayer and spent much of World War II as a civilian on government projects throughout Alaska, before moving back to Maine.

But the life of a bricklayer involved lots of travel, and some of that brought him to Montana, where he learned to fly fish in the late 1940s, Spencer said.

A big moment in his fishing life came around 1948 outside Mack's Inn, on the Henry's Fork of the Snake River in Idaho, where he caught so many fish, in such spectacular fashion, that it earned him a free T-bone steak.

"The chef told me his customers seated at the window went wild over my fishing," Richardson told the Independent Record in 2005. "He said that any time I wanted to come and fish outside the restaurant, he'd give me a free meal."

He also got work as a fishing guide, which paid more than bricklaying. He kept on guiding, and his reputation grew, into the 1950s, Spencer said.

A construction accident — an electrocution — sent him back to Maine, where he met and married Frances, Spencer's mother, in the mid-1960s. Construction work kept the family traveling, and finally they settled in Livingston in the mid-1970s, by Spencer's estimation.

There, they ran the Sherwood Inn, a senior living center, for about 15 years.

In 1991, Robert Redford and crew arrived in Montana, and Spencer persuaded his father to respond to a small ad, seeking men in their 70s. "Must be excellent fly casters," the notice read.

"I was the one that kind of pushed him into it," Spencer said.

According to an account by John Dietsch, in charge of what he called the "casting casting call," for the role of the elderly Maclean in the film's final scene, he narrowed the field down to two men with beautiful casting ability: a younger one, who tied his knot in his line smoothly and with finesse, and an older man, who struggled and shook, mentioned that his eye's weren't so good, and spent a good five minutes trying to tie his knot — a Turle knot.

Dietsch recounts the episode in his and Gary Hubbell's book, "Shadow Casting: An Introduction to the Art of Fly Fishing." Dietsch reported back to Redford that the younger old man might be the best choice, but that the older old man's hands shook, and he might take on awful long time trying to tie a knot on cameras.

Redford asked to meet the older man — Richardson — and eventually hired him.

"The shaking hands struggling to tie a knot at the end of the film are a trademark of the movie, and tell a story in themselves," Dietsch wrote. "Looking back at it, in my haste to 'succeed,' I had lost my sense of compassion while working on the film, and in doing I had missed the magic that unfolded right in front of my eyes. I missed the message on the backs of the old man's veined, transparent, and leathered hands — the yearning that any man his age, feeling this passage of time, would have for his younger days — the gentle acceptance that indeed those days were gone forever."

Richardson enjoyed working on the film, although like any, it involved a lot of standing around waiting. He worked with Redford and with Brad Pitt and was paid well, Spencer said.

He had never read the novel — which elevated fly fishing to near-religious status — until he got the part.

In time, the couple retired, and chose Townsend because of the fishing in Canyon Ferry Lake, said Spencer. Richardson switched from wading directly in streams to fishing from boats, of which he owned a few at different times.

Beth Ihle and her husband, Kevin McDonnell, who lived next door to the Richardsons for several years in Townsend, bought Arnold Richardson's last boat. And they inherited the couple's cat.

"He was well into his 80s," Ihle said. "Frances was worried about him because he would stay out all day."

The boat included a 1970s-era outboard motor, Ihle said.

"He showed us how to run it, since it wasn't that apparent," she said.

One time, backing down a ramp, Arnold hooked part of his trailer on the dock, ripping a light off. It was a comic moment, but time to get Arnold off the lake, Ihle said.

"They were just great people as neighbors," said McDonnell. Frances in particular had a great relationship with Ihle's and McDonnell's four children, they said. "She knew more about what was going on in our house than I did," McDonnell said of Frances.

The couple loved seafood, including lobster and shrimp, which they would buy in large quantities — a legacy of their Maine heritage.

In the tradition of Maine fishermen, Arnold didn't brag about his movie stardom, although he did have a promotional poster of the movie signed by Redford.

"I didn't put two and two together," Ihle said. "He said, 'Yeah, I was in the movie.'"

Arnold Richardson shared some of his casting ability, along with his prestige from the movie, with local students. John O'Dell, teaches "A River Runs Through It," each year to his 10th grade English class at Broadwater High School. One year, Richardson came and spoke about the movie and demonstrated fly casting to the students.

"He talked about Montana, how important it was to him, and fishing," he said. "He kind of lit up. ... You could definitely see the youth and vitality come out when he was speaking."

Speaking just before Christmas break, O'Dell said the students had just finished studying the book and had viewed the movie, including the famous final scene.

"I was thinking today, how skilled he was," he said. "His rhythm was beautiful."

The love of fishing was passed to Norman Spencer, who said he's fished just about every stream in the state, from the Kootenai River to the Bighorn and everywhere in between.

"He often said, jokingly, that he was one of the main reasons that fly fishing became as popular as it did, and maybe in a way he was right," Spencer said. "The movie generated — I won't say a storm — but it created a keen interest in the sport."

That's meant more and more pressure on the blue-ribbon streams, with a nearly continuous flow of boats and rafts on some rivers during peak season. On the other hand, more and more people enjoy it, and it's created an economic bounty in the state from fly shops to guides to motels and more.

"He often said, maybe he created too much of a monster," Spencer said.

The Richardsons moved into Broadwater Health Center about five years ago after some ups and downs with health, say neighbors, and over the last few years Spencer made several visits from Florida, where he recently retired from a career in the shipping industry. Frances stayed relatively sharp, but Arnold's mental faculties declined the last few years.

Frances died Nov. 23; Arnold followed Dec. 6.

The last thing he said was, he was looking for Frances.

By Sanjai Talwaini