His name was Charley and he gave me something.....

They say that children growing up need consistency. My brothers, sisters, and I could always count on that one thing every Sunday morning. Church. My parents made sure we were all there every Sunday morning. Church. During church, I perfected the science of daydreaming, the art of drawing '60's muscle cars, and honed my skills in tic-tack-doe. I learned the usefulness of having a watch so I could calculate how much time was left. And when the last Amen was sounded, the race was on. Every boy and girl knew what the race was. Fifteen or so of us would have to out maneuver and get through all those big, slow, gabbing adults. I would sometimes have to plan a race strategy. If I were unfortunate enough to be caught in the middle of a pew, with adults at both ends, I would have to do an under the pew switch-a-roo. I would migrate forwards or backwards under the pews till I found an opening in a pew end, then blast toward the aisle. The aisles presented obstacles also. Adults would stand there and talk and block your escape. If I found myself in this position, I would have to quickly look back over the field of play looking for a coveted empty pew. I could then perform the empty pew end around and exit through another aisle. I had to make it to the finish line, the back corner of the vestibule, the very end coat on the coat rack. That's where us kids met. Huddled together against the back wall, waiting anxiously for his arrival. And then, finally, an old man would appear from the sanctuary. He would walk slowly towards this mob of children. An old man in his seventies, short and stout, soft spoken, thin silver hair, black and silver eyeglasses, and always dressed in a suit, white shirt, and tie. Here came Charley. And like sharks anticipating a feeding frenzy, we all knew what he had for us. And when he finally reached us children, the mugging began. We would jockey for position, pulling on his coat or sleeve trying to gain his attention so he might offer us first dibs. We would shout, "Good morning Charley. Did you bring us candy?" or "Hi Charley. Did you remember to bring candy today?" And with a silent smile, he would reach into the pocket of his overcoat, that hung faithfully on the rack, and pull out a handful of candy bars.

(Now these weren't the down sized, economized candy bars of today's world. No, these were the big ones they made years before maximizing profits meant minimizing candy size.) And if you had positioned yourself correctly, you could be one of the first to thrust your little grubby paws into that pile and pull out your piece of gold. Many times we would reach for the candy before his hands were low enough for our beady eyes to see what we were grabbing. Other times so many hands dove at once that some candy went flying to the floor. But in the end, everyone received their own piece of candy. And although, for that short moment, we all acted like a wild starving pack of wolves, once candy was in hand, we would politely turn and say, "Thank you, Charley." And then make a mad dash to find a place to devour our treasure.

Through the past couple of years, my mind and memory has thought about Charley. I don't know why. Why does a mind choose to remember some events? I do remember Charley. I do remember that he came to church alone, all alone. I do remember this quiet old man who gave candy to every child who wanted a piece. But a curiosity inside me wants to know more about who Charley was. Was he ever married? Was he widowed? Did he have children? What was his life like? And, why did he give us candy?

Some answers I may never know.

His name was Charley and he gave me candy.

His name was Charley and he gave me a memory.

His name was Charley and he gave me his love - his special way.

This Christmas, search for a way to share with someone the best, the most beautiful and unique gift you will ever have to offer - your love. And give someone the gift they can cherish for life - a memory.

with love

jerry

P.S.- And remember to listen for echoes of love.