Time quickly slipped by and Daniel T Reese finished high school. Went then and served in the military and obtained a four year collage degree after his fulfillment of military tour of duty.
Daniel contacted all his old buddies and invited them to his home on a Saturday for a cook – out and cold beer. That day was extremely perfect. Sunny, no wind and all that were invited showed. All had wives and kids. They all came. Daniels cook – outs were always full - up
Daniel had never married. Was now single, no children and so was available. His Buds, of course, continually tried to get him, as they would say – settled.
“I am now going to tell you guys a story about someone I met while I was searching for an apartment in downtown Portland, Oregon,” had Daniel said to Joey and the rest of the gang. “We are going to sit right here in my new digs and eat and drink while I tell you what happened.
“Now this story is about a truly beautiful being inside and out—and I am extremely proud that I met and befriended her. I have to admit, and I am joyful in doing so, that this superb mortal captured my heart. I hope that I do a good job telling you about her so that you might see her through my eyes and feel her love. So here goes. I hope none of it bores you. Just sit back and take it all in. It will do you all good.
“We met now and again by her fountain in Old Town in Portland, down by the river—the Willamette, not the Columbia River. She would tell me about all of her goings and doings. The leaves had begun to lose their coat of summer green. Slowly, yet so quickly, the golden colors of autumn turned them into golden bronze, burnished brass, and tarnished copper. Rain and morning fog appeared with a steady frequency that signaled the onset of winter, but not before the passing of Indian summer.
“It was during that maverick season, sandwiched between summer and winter, and stubbornly interrupting the flow of one season into another, that Portland, Oregon’s, finest entered into our world. Amidst the rubble, flotsam, and jetsam beneath one of the many bridges that span the Willamette River in the downtown Portland area, a lone woman wrapped in an array of clothes that consisted of begged, borrowed, and stolen items, painfully and laboriously brought forth a beautiful female child. The mother was an Indian. One of those who made their way into Portland in search of work, a better life, and identity, and end up for several reasons rejected and neglected in Portland’s Old Town skid-row streets.
“If it had not been an Indian summer, the child would never have survived. Her receiving blanket was several pages of an old newspaper, and later that day, her only clothing had come from a remnant torn from her mother’s ancient, tattered overcoat. Although the mother had not taken good care of herself during the pregnancy, the child had been born wholesome and healthy.
“The mother had no idea who the child’s father was. There had been numerous men whom she had been with out of necessity to acquire food and shelter, as well as to drown out the emptiness, the loneliness, and the futility of her life.
“Once the mother had recovered somewhat from the pain and the effort of childbirth, she bundled up the tiny infant as best she could and held her to her breast. As the baby suckled and shared her mother’s warmth, the day’s misty fog cleared away, providing a view of the moon, which was either late or early in its trek across the Pacific Northwest sky, at ten in the morning. Looking down at her child, the Indian woman gently spoke. ‘My beautiful, innocent baby, I have given you life, but I have nothing else to offer you other than a most proper name, which will match your beauty. You shall be called Ramona Day-Moon. Look! Look my baby, is not the beautiful floating there in broad daylight?’ Where they lay beneath the bridge, she held the child up toward the open sky.
“The years that followed the girl’s birth were lean and hard. Her mother’s health, both physical and mental, rapidly deteriorated, and the child was barely looked after. Nevertheless, Ramona Day-Moon grew and flourished. She was a happy child, full of life and wonderment. Seldom was she a bother to anyone, and in fact, even at the very young age of two when she took her first steps, she would find her way to those around her who needed comforting.
“Her world was that of poverty, hunger, and cold. In her meager surroundings, Ramona Day-Moon never knew any luxuries other than those she provided herself from such sources as trash cans and discarded items of clothing, and now and then a broken toy or a half colored-in coloring book.
“The only family she was to ever know consisted of the men and women of skid row. All of them were just as poor, needy, and forgotten as she was. Faces came and went, and with them also went everything that the child had to give. She gave to those who needed anything that she would find and bring with her to wherever she and her mother were staying at the time.
“By the time little Ramona Day-Moon reached her seventh year, she knew every bit of Portland’s Old Town. She had learned which grocery stores would throw out fruits and vegetables that had begun to spoil, and she would collect them. Later, she would cut away the rotten portions and distribute the edible leftovers to the old, the crippled, and the very young among her people: bums, winos, and derelicts—lost souls who had found their way to her world.
“Her favorite place was the fountain on the south side of the Burnside Bridge. Not the new fountain of arching aluminum tubes; she liked that one, too, but she loved the old one three blocks further south by the little park alongside the firehouse. It was right in the middle of the crowds that gathered for the Saturday Market. Sometimes a man with a pony cart would be there to sell rides to kids, and once he picked her up and lifted her onto the seat next to him. He didn’t take anyone else on that trip, and the two of them went around many streets. The man never spoke to her, only smiled kindly and then gently took her hands and placed them on the reins just above his so that she could get the feel of guiding the horses. For the rest of her life, that ride would be the fullest and happiest time she was to ever experience.
“One day, when she returned to the small, rundown apartment that was shared by eight or ten people who came and went and never remained the same, Ramona found her mother stretched out on the floor and covered with an old tablecloth. She had died several hours before the little girl had come back to her. Someone had gone to find a police officer so that the body could be removed. Someone else took Ramona Day-Moon aside and told her not to say anything or else she, too, would be taken away.
“Through her tears and strangled sobs, the seven-year-old child heard the voice tell her that she could stay there and that she would always have a place to sleep and a free place to come to out of the rain and the cold. The girl was told that her mother would be buried by the city and that there was nothing that anyone could do for her now.
“Confused, frightened, and feeling more alone than ever before, the tiny little girl child slumped into a corner and watched through huge, tear-blurred eyes as the two men in white uniforms placed her mother’s body onto a stretcher and took it away forever. The pain in the child’s heart was more than she could stand. As she caught a last glimpse of her mother’s matted hair spread out beneath the sparkling white sheet, total numbness overtook her, and the child fainted away.
“Several days later, the child’s life continued much as it had always been. Ramona Day-Moon went on striving to survive and continued her boundless determination to help those around her. The desire to give of herself, to share with anyone who needed kindness and warmth anything that she had to give or could get, continued. The child’s love for everyone and everything came as second nature to her.
“She became aware that certain containers such as soda pop bottles and cans, beer bottles and cans, and even plastic milk cartons had value. Every day, she would take an old tattered “sea bag” and scour the streets, alleyways, and city parks for returnable discards. The money that she received did not go for candy or any kind of sweets for herself. She would take the nickels and dimes and buy canned food or medicine for the sick and the hungry in her skid-row world.
“A day came when a young man drifted into the place where she lived. Cold, hungry, and too sick with the flu to fend for himself, he was soon under the tender care of Ramona Day-Moon. She provided an old but warm blanket to cover him. She brought him fruit and bread, cough syrup, and aspirin, as well as a gentle, loving smile and fathomless compassion.
“The young man slowly regained his health, and as he did so, he began to strum the old guitar that he had carried with him for years. He played soft, soothing music, and he sang pretty songs. Ramona Day-Moon would listen and watch his fingers pick at the strings and slide up and down the long neck of the instrument to form the chords. Sometimes, she would sit perfectly still for hours on end, and the young man knew that she, too, wanted to hold the guitar and make it hum. Not once, though, did the child in anyway let her feelings show. She only exhibited pleasure and a dreamy contentment when he played and sang.
“One morning, the little girl awoke and the young man was gone. His small backpack and navy watch cap were not there either, and she knew that she would never see him again. Laying next to her was a large, irregular object wrapped in the old warm blanket that she had provided to comfort the young man. He had wanted to pin a note to it, but he knew that she could not read. Instead, he left her his most, and only, valued possession. With gratitude and a return of genuine love, he bequeathed to Ramona Day-Moon his guitar!
“Now the little girl could be found every Saturday sitting on the ledge of her favorite fountain right in the middle of the Saturday Market crowds. At first, she would only strum the strings softly as she sat in the morning sun, keeping time to the splashing of the water as it streamed from the fountainheads. Then one day she added her tiny voice to the gentle music, and it was as beautiful and wonderful as the very nature of the child.
“From the very first time that she gave voice to her haunting music, people gathered around, and most would remain for long periods of time, drinking in the sight of the beautiful scene: a lovely tiny girl sitting at the water’s edge with the antique fountain rising behind her, with the sound of her guitar strings and her enchanting voice making their spirits soar.
“Someone placed an empty soft drink cup on the fountain ledge alongside the little girl and put several pieces of change it. Within minutes, the cup overflowed with not only an assortment of coins but also dollars, and even one or two five-dollar bills.
“As was her way, at the close of the day, Ramona Day-Moon headed for the little corner grocery store where she always cashed in her bottles and cans. This time, there had been no need to collect returnables. She had more money in her tattered dress pocket than she had ever seen. All totaled, her singing had generated a little over $30, which was enough to purchase two-and-a-half bags of food. She did not forget the new baby down the hall from her grimy apartment. For that week-old infant, Ramona Day-Moon bought cans of condensed milk and a bottle of Karo Syrup. The mother had told her a day before that that was what the baby needed.
“For herself, Ramona Day-Moon bought nothing special. She would share the food with one of the women who lived in her apartment building, who would prepare it on the old hot plate. More than half of the groceries that she bought would be distributed along the way to her needy friends and even those that she had never met, but who looked tired and hungry and helpless. To do this, the child borrowed one of the few shopping carts that the store had. The owner gladly let her take it, for he knew that she would return it right away, and he trusted and liked her.
“On a day-to-day basis, everything remained much the same for Ramona Day-Moon. She would go out and collect usable items of clothing, a pair of shoes now and again, and, of course, all the bottles and cans that she could find. Come Saturday, and then later Sunday also, she would play her music and sing her songs for herself and for all who cared to stop and listen. That old fountain will never be the same without her sitting there on its ledge.
“Not once did the now eight-year-old girl ever think of herself other than to eat when she was hungry and to put on an extra piece of clothing when she felt cold. She knew that better things existed; she saw them in store windows and on the people who went to the Saturday Market. She liked those nice things. She liked how the men and women, the boys and girls, looked in their clean clothes that fit them well and did not have patches or torn spots. She admired the shining new shoes and the various types of sneakers with no holes in them. She fully acknowledged the fact that there were a lot of nice and pretty things in life—things that she did not have, things that no one she knew had. What she did not know was that she, too, could have those things someday. Never did she covet or in anyway envy those who had what she did not. Her life was full—made so by her giving, her helping, and her love for all and everything around her.
“Her eighth year came and went, and then in the winter of 1978 and 1979, when there was snow that lasted for several days, Ramona Day-Moon became ill and weak with cold and hunger. No longer was the Saturday Market active, for after Christmas, it is too cold until March or April to have crafts and food booths out in the open. Now the child had to depend solely on the deposit money from bottles and cans. There weren’t too many to be found, and she had to venture out far and for long periods of time to fill her sea bag. More often than not, she appeared at the corner grocery store late in the evening, cold and tired, and with only a third of her sack filled with returnables. Still, Ramona Day-Moon gave away most of what the deposit money bought. Her strong, unfailing determination to do for others continued to take her out early each day and kept her out late with her searching.
“All too fast, her illness turned into pneumonia, but still she went out daily to make her rounds. She became gaunt from the loss of weight, and her normally clear eyes became hazy; her beautiful face was marred with sickly blue-black circles that developed under her eyes, and all the color drained from her body.
“In early 1979, a heavy ice storm hit Portland during the night. The following morning gave light to a scene of destruction yet sheer beauty. Everything was coated with nearly an inch of sparkling ice. The weight of it had broken trees, power lines, and poles. Falling objects had damaged automobiles and buildings. Streets and roads were blocked throughout the entire Portland area, and it was cold!
“There was an old, old man staying in the little girl’s apartment and he, too, had come down with pneumonia. Ramona Day-Moon had already been caring for him as best she could, but he got worse each day. She knew that he must have some type of medicine and hot food: soup and maybe some fruit juice. Bundling herself up in all that she had in the way of clothing, the child, now nine years old, took her old sea bag and went out into that morning of ice.
“Ramona Day-Moon made her way through the streets and parking lots, through city parks and alleyways. Her pace was slow and labored because of the ice and her illness, but she searched on and on. By nightfall, she had collected only a handful of cans and bottles, yet the small weight of them slowed her even more.
“As the city lights began to blink on, the child found herself in a small park along the Willamette River. Weak and exhausted, she realized that she would not be able to reach home that night. The natural good health that she had been born with had carried her through bad colds and the flu in the past, but not this time. This time the pneumonia, her greatly congested lungs, and the searing pain in her chest robbed her tiny body of all its strength. She could not go much further.
“Crawling on her hands and knees over the ice on the grass, dragging along her precious cargo of cans and bottles, Ramona Day-Moon made her way to a nearby bridge. That bridge afforded little shelter, and by fate or sheer coincidence, it was the very same bridge under which her mother had lain and given life to her. Huddled up in that very same spot, half frozen by the numbing cold, shivering uncontrollably, and feverish and totally alone, the girl thought only of the sick old man that she would not be able to help.
“Ice extended from the banks for several yards over the river and added to the cold radiated by the steel and concrete of the bridge structure. As the biting cold and the boiling fever overtook her, all feeling began to leave the child’s tiny body. No longer did she feel the terrible pain in her chest or the bone-crushing cold. She did not feel the emptiness or the loneliness that surrounded her. She felt only an extreme serenity and peace as her small life ebbed out of her.
“Ramona Day-Moon saw a deep darkness before her, deeper than any she had ever known. Then she began to see light that became soft and bright, warm and soothing. She felt the touch of kindness and gentleness and love for the first time in her existence as the angel embraced her with his gossamer wings. He had come and sat momentarily alongside her to return to her some of the comfort that she had so readily given to others all her life. He had come to Earth to enfold her in his goodness. Ramona Day-Moon looked up into his face and gazed deeply into his loving eyes. She saw in them a better life—the one that she always knew was waiting for her. With her last breath, she smiled her lovely child’s smile.
“The angel gathered her up in his arms and carried her off to a place where she would be loved and cherished forever and ever. He had come down from heaven to claim Portland’s finest!
“Short, short story, yes. Ramona Day-Moon’s life was not only short but also devoid of all but her devotion to caring for others. Her entire world during her short stay on Earth was only a square mile or so. Yet so much was she that, for me, the bright beauty of Earth dimmed with her passing. So much was she that Michael—the archangel—insisted on fetching her home himself.
“This is only one of many, many stories—happy, sad, tragic, and so on—that are the makeup of humanity. There are so many that even I cannot account for them all.
“Ramona Day-Moon’s first day on Earth was under a bridge swaddled in newspaper and a scrap of cloth, but, oh, I wish you could have seen her. Her life was short, and those of us outside looking in may feel that it was harsh and sad. She felt otherwise. It gave her happiness to be able to help anyone in need, and she saw her world as a worthy place. Rather than complain or feel sorry for herself, she felt contentment.
“Telling her story places my heart in a vise, but you know what? When I am allowed, I rejoice in being with her and visit with her where she now resides.
“She really did exist and this poem is for her.
In the hush of a new day dawning
Or at its end,
Gazing into a clear day or starlit night
Now and then,
A small and fragile gentle bird
Through my memory in silence
Makes her flight.
The flutter of her wings touch
Here and there, oh so lightly,
Slowly and sweetly,
One feather at a time.
The treasures buried in my mind
She coaxes from recesses and crevices
Held there tightly,
All the images, thoughts, and deeds,
That she can find.
“So ends the story of Ramona Day-Moon. She was one of a kind for sure, and again I say how happy and enthralled I am to have know her,” Daniel said.
Joey replied, “How come all this cool and amazing stuff happens to just you?”
“You know, Joey, I too, have often thought and pondered upon just that, and I don’t have an answer,” Daniel said. “I am extremely grateful that my life is what it has been. All of us have been very fortunate. We have wonderful families that love us, and at our age, we are all very close in that we all are pretty well set. All of us have great educations and great jobs and good incomes. So how can you, Joey Napes, say that cool stuff happens to just me? Look at you. You have a beautiful wife and two wonderful kids—a boy and girl only a year apart. Now, is that not the coolest of the cool?”
“Yeah, Joey,” the other three friends shouted in unison. They, too, were happily married and two others had children.
“Hey, hey!” shouted Joey. “How come you have never married, Daniel? You do like woman, right? Please, please say that you do. If not, we men will still hang out with you. Won’t we, guys?”
No one said anything for a long couple of minutes.
“Well,” said a smiling Daniel, “I always thought that you, Joey, were cute as a button. Come to me and give me a big hug.”
All four boys—men now—backed away from Daniel with wide-open eyes and mouths agape.
“Jeez,” Daniel said. I’m just funnin’ you dudes.”
The guys all sat around in Daniel’s elegant living room, and together they righted all the wrongs of the world. Then it was time to say good night and all departed except Joey. He hung back to help Daniel clean up the evenings frolicking.
“So why haven’t you married, Danny? You make enough money to be able to support a family in righteous luxury. Will no chick have you?” Joey queried.
“No, it’s not that. I have had a few lady friends over the years, but I suppose the love bug has not ever taken the time to bite me. Yes, I do wish to fall in love, marry, and have children, but I’m in no rush to do so.
“But the story about my skateboard accident keeps coming up in my thoughts. You’ve told me over and over about how I bashed my head on the sidewalk and was knocked out, and I believe you. Also, one day I spoke with Mrs. Riley about it. I waited several weeks before I went to talk with her because I didn’t know how to explain the hair and absent stitches. She told me that she did not see me eat sidewalk but she did go look at me and then called 911. The other guys that were there with us saw me knocked out and bleeding. The ambulance crew saw me, the hospital people saw me, the doctor and nurse who sewed me up saw me. My father and mother saw me before the shaving and stitches.
“The hospital lab tests confirmed beyond a doubt that the blood on the bandages was mine and the DNA matched. So what’s the story, Joey? How did all this happen to me? Something happened to me to make all of this possible, but what? The whole thing was so fantastic that everyone at the hospital agreed that it was a huge mystery. Unexplainable. So all the hospital staff agreed to just sweep it under the table as if it never happened.
“But we know differently, don’t we? It did, my lifetime friend, indeed happen. So how and why did it all disappear? At night when I am alone and all is quiet, my mind wonders to a place that I can never determine because nothing is clear and focused. I can never get a grasp as to where I am and then it all goes away.
“Besides that, Joey, my life could not be better, happier, or more fulfilled and precious. But something did happen to me, Joey, somewhere at sometime. I have a strong feeling that someone did at one time put a hand on my head and ruffle my hair. That someone, I think, was more than angel.”