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Daniel S. Green, Author of The Perfect Pitch

Last Updated: 11/23/2009

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Gender: Male
Status: Married
Age: 35
Sign: Gemini

State: California
Country: US
Signup Date: 8/3/2007

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Wednesday, July 23, 2008

Chapter 2 of "The Perfect Pitch" (part 2)

Off To The Beattys - Chapter 2 (part 2)

That afternoon, all the kids that were in school, including seven

year-old Priscilla, were taken back home and were allowed to pack

what few clothes and toys they had into little boxes. Within minutes,

the three girls were ready to go to the ranch, and the two boys were set

to go with the social worker to their new foster home. Priscilla, with her

brown hair and brown eyes, then sat on the bed, which she shared with

her sisters, and began to think about the times she had in that house.

She remembered when she fell out of a tree and broke her collarbone.

To avoid a costly medical bill, she wasn't allowed a hospital visit but

instead had to let it heal on its own, often keeping her up for hours at

night. She recalled the "haunted house" that she and her brothers and

sisters visited, and how her dad had to go catch chickens in the back

yard and cut their heads off so they could have dinner. She also remembered

how she was recently baptized with her brother, Philip, in

the small, storefront church where her dad was a pastor for a short time.

It had been only six hours earlier, at five o'clock in the morning,

that Ross had awakened and walked into the rooms of his children.

Roger, age ten, and Philip, age seven, were still asleep, as well as all

the girls. Quietly, Ross walked over to their bedside and prayed over

each one. He finished praying and then stood watching them, rolled up

in their blankets.

He felt helpless.

In his thoughts, he imagined himself much more successful, perhaps

something like his wealthy, younger brother and entertainer, Jack.

He imagined a world with the kids running around in perfect contentment,

and in that world, he could have time to play catch with his boys,

buy dresses and toys for his girls, provide wonderful things for his

wife, have warm cooked meals every night, go to restaurants, or go hiking

in the mountains. He even dreamed of one day being able to go to

the Holy Land and be baptized in the Jordan River.

All these things he pictured as the things a family should be able to

do. Even so, he was an honorable man. He knew that he served God

and kept God's commands despite the lack of material wealth. He

didn't feel disappointed in his role of father, whose measure of success,

ultimately, was in depending on God and teaching his kids the ways of

the Lord.

But sometimes he just wished he could do more.

He wanted to take all the blame, but he knew that if the word blame

was used, it had the unmistakable tinge of failure, and as long as he

served his God, nothing he did, as a faithful husband or father, would

ever be seen as a failure. This, however, did not keep him from envisioning

a life not of excess but at least of reasonable comfort.

By now the kids were standing quietly, waiting for their dad to help

load the car. Then Ross walked into their rooms to see if they were

ready. As he noticed their small, cardboard boxes, packed neatly with a

few clothes, he was determined to one day bring his family back together

again. Disheartened that he was sending his kids away to live

somewhere else and unsure for how long, he began to feel the pressure

all around him, as though he were the rag doll packed tightly between

folded clothes, and locked in a small suitcase.

But it was time.

They collected all of their belongings, got in the car, and headed to

Beatty's Ranch. Roger and Philip said their goodbyes and left with the

social worker. It was easy as long as each other's car was in sight, but

the moment the two cars took different streets, the moment the Owens

kids could no longer see each other through the back windows was the

moment that hurt. It was the beginning of their separation, and as incomprehensible

as time and distance were to their young minds, so too

was it perplexing that they should find themselves thrown into new

lives, new environments, and new worlds.

Edith and Harold Beatty welcomed them as they drove up. It was

12:00 noon, and Mrs. Beatty already had lunch made for the carload of

shy but hungry Owens girls. Ross promised to stay for only an hour, as

he had to get back to his work. The girls, Ruth, Priscilla, and Esther,

took an immediate liking to the place.

They ran around the ranch as if every dog, cat, horse, and donkey

were waiting just for them. Ross went inside and talked with Edith and

Harold, while the girls examined the place like exuberant gumshoes

looking for signs of life. The only thing that interested them more than

the black and white Shetland ponies was their pink, blue, and white

bedroom, decked out with blankets, mirrors, books, and vases full of

magnolias, daisies, sunflowers, and tulips. The window was open, and

the wind flung the curtain up and down, boasting an inviting, cool

breeze that whirled throughout the bedroom.

They walked back to their dad, shy but smiling nonetheless, as if to

say about the ranch, "We'll take it."

"Looks like they plan on staying," said Mrs. Beatty with a

large grin.

"I believe so," said Ross.

Out the back door the girls went, off to retrieve their belongings

from the car and to bring them to their room. Since lunch was waiting

for them, they were allowed to eat before they unpacked, even though

unpacking for them might have taken only minutes. Still, there would

have been the time-consuming, inevitable matter of "who-gets-to-sleepwhere"

and "who-gets-what," so unpacking could wait.

Nonetheless, the Owens girls were apprehensive at being somewhere

completely new. The fact that Mrs. Beatty was as welcoming as

chocolate chip cookies and teddy bear hugs certainly helped win their

affection, so that within a day they were already calling her Aunt E.

She served peanut butter and jelly sandwiches and fruit juice for lunch

that first day, and that didn't exactly hurt the cause either.

After lunch, Ross said goodbye to the Beattys and to his girls. Ross

found it hard to leave them there, but as usual it wasn't noticeable on

the outside. As they waved from their porch, they disappeared into the

distance from his rear view mirror. He strategically placed the little

ones, Elizabeth and Lois, in the back seat so he could have the privacy

he needed to let his streaming tears fall in peace.

Elizabeth and Lois were getting restless, since they weren't getting

enough sleep. Ross was sure that they would be knocked out in no time

with the warm temperature and the cool breeze coming through the car

windows during the drive back home.

He was right.

The social worker and the two Owens boys had already made it to

their new home. The middle-aged couple escorted the boys inside. It

wasn't an impressive place, and neither were the people. But after all,

not everyone could be like the Beattys.

Roger and Philip weren't exactly thrilled with their new home, but

it had to do for now. They unpacked their things in their new bedroom,

and the couple responded hospitably, which was out of their character

but well timed under the watchful eye of the social worker. Finding it

acceptable, the social worker said goodbye to the foster parents, shut

the door, filled out paperwork in his car for a few minutes, and drove

off. Suddenly Roger and Philip felt as though the only ones they had in

the world were each other.

Roger and Philip looked around their room. They knew it needed

some Dodger pennants on the wall. The boys did their best to make the

best of things, but having someone other than their own parents tell

them that it's late and it's time to clean up and go to bed just seemed to

make the whole situation worse.

A week later, the boys began noticing how much beer and wine

their new foster parents were drinking. To them, this was a foreign and

moral intrusion on their living space. They were not accustomed to the

presence of alcohol in their house. Every sip of wine and chug of beer

seemed as threatening as thunder and lightning. They lived under a

cloud of grief and felt the downpour of discomfort, and within a couple

of months, they desperately wanted to call their dad.

Roger and Philip consoled each other in their room at night, often

sharing all the things that they saw the couple do or say. One night,

Roger and Philip were working on a jigsaw puzzle together. Roger

couldn't help but think how he missed listening to The Lone Ranger on

the radio every night after doing his homework. Somehow, he wished

that the Lone Ranger would learn about their misery, and, while riding

Silver, crash through the front door, splintering it into a million pieces,

and rescue him and his little brother.

It had been just a few months, and the Lone Ranger finally arrived.

It wasn't the masked man, dressed in sky blue, white hat, and red neckerchief,

guns drawn, and riding a gallant horse. It was a man they were

much happier to see.

Dad.

Although dismayed at the circumstances, Ross knew he still had to

find another place for his boys. He had talked with the social worker to

find a place for Roger and Philip that would be as fun and exciting as

Beatty's Ranch for girls. They did, or so it seemed.

7:34 AM

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Wednesday, July 23, 2008

Chapter 2 of "The Perfect Pitch" (part 1)

Off To The Beattys - Chapter 2

The next morning Ross got a phone call from Patton State Hospital

in San Bernardino, California. He had called them previously to

explain that his wife required medical attention for her mental condition.

They told him that some hospital officials should be arriving soon

to pick up Mary and bring her to the hospital. Elizabeth, age two, and

Lois, age one, stood quietly as Ross was on the phone. After the phone

call, Ross sat down on the sofa. Elizabeth and Lois carefully walked

over to the couch, where he picked them up to sit next to him. He sat in

silence but reminded himself of all the other things that needed his attention.

He had to make several phone calls to the social workers, as

well as fill out an application for financial relief through the county

agency. He also thought of how he would deal with his kids living in

foster homes and how they would deal with it too. Ross began to feel

the pressure build within, and it made him start to sweat.

He paused.

Suddenly, he felt tears well up in his eyes. Wiping them as fast they

appeared, he bowed his head, then got up and told his girls that he

would be right back. He headed for the bathroom and, once inside,

bowed his head in front of the sink.

He cried.

He began to talk softly as though to himself, but he was praying.

As he prayed, he admitted his weaknesses but asked for strength.

He asked God to take care of his wife and to help him through all of

this. He looked in the mirror and noticed how blood shot his eyes had

already become. What had seemed like an eternity in the bathroom, in

reality was only a few minutes. He wiped his face clean with running

water and made his way back to the living room. His girls, both cute

little brunettes with big brown eyes, looked at him cheerfully, kicking

their legs in the air since they were too small to reach the floor. He

smiled at them, and the tension in his stomach eased.

An hour had passed and Ross was drinking a glass of water as he

heard a car outside. Mary had her things ready to go, and they escorted

her out to the car. Ross walked with her and kissed her cheek before

she got in. As they drove away, Ross felt weak and went inside to eat

something and have more water.

He picked up the phone and called the social workers to see if they

were ready to go to the school to pick up his kids. They said they were,

and upon hearing their confirmation, Ross called the school and spoke

with the principal to notify him that he would be there soon to take his

kids out.

About a week earlier, Ross had personally visited one of the

county-approved places for the girls to live. He had noticed it was not

only a foster home, but was a ranch located in Alpine, California. He

had picked up the phone, dialed, and had spoken with Mrs. Beatty. She

and her husband lived on the ranch and took care of their animals. The

Beattys previously lived in a smaller house, but moved to a larger ranch

as their foster care grew. They had arranged a meeting, and Ross drove

there.

On the way there, it was sweltering inside Ross' car. His tie and

collar were both undone, and his gray fedora would have been soaked

through had he not placed it on the seat next to him. The soft sound of

displaced dirt on the road under his car was exchanged for louder,

earthier sounds of grumbling gravel as he approached their country

house.

As the mid-day weather heated up like an oven ready to bake oatmeal

cookies, it brought warm, dry air, and the Beatty ranch appeared

to be an oasis of hospitality. He grabbed his fedora and looked uncomfortably

conservative in his gray tweed suit. Dipping his hat, he

introduced himself. Mrs. Beatty, wearing a light-blue dress with white

lace ruffles and an apron tied around her wide waist, welcomed Ross

with a smile that warmed him beyond the 90 degrees outside.

They walked inside.

As if the ginger bread characters sewn on her apron weren't welcoming

enough, she had a pitcher of home-brewed lemonade, sweating

as it beckoned him. The sparkling ice cubes were dancing, diving, and

circling as she picked it up and poured him a glass. If it weren't for the

business at hand, Ross would have fallen asleep to the gentle humming

of the round, metal fan in the kitchen as it sent refreshing cold air to his

face. He noticed the bucket of ice placed in front of the fan to make the

air cooler. Then Mr. Beatty walked up the wooden stairs of the back

porch, stomped his heavy boots free of dirt, and opened the screen

door. He leaned over and kissed his wife, and then he gave Ross a

smile so wide that it covered up his eyes. He wiped his hands on his

faded overalls, cleared his throat, and welcomed him like they were

long lost friends.

"Hello Mr. Owens. I'm Harold Beatty. How are ya, sir?" he asked

as they shook hands like aging, amiable heavyweights.

"Just fine, thank you. You can call me Ross," he replied.

"My wife, Edith, here makes a mean glass of lemonade, don't you

think?" Mr. Beatty asked.

"Yeah she certainly does. I think I'll just let you describe how the

ranch looks, and I'll sit here with the pitcher," he said as they shared a

laugh together.

Mr. Beatty invited Ross to take a look around their house as well as

the ranch outside. He strolled through the living room, holding his hat

at his side, and followed the Beattys. They gave him a grand tour including

all the bedrooms. The house had all the touches of a benevolent

country home, with family photographs, hand-sewn coffee coasters

with houses stitched into them, a Bible on the coffee table, lamps with

doilies under them, wonderfully decorated rooms for young girls to

stay, and the smell of dust and cinnamon everywhere.

They took Ross outside, and they went over to the animals. The

heat had been long forgotten, but as they made their way to the horses,

the heat seemed to be an overbearing intruder. Ross took a deep breath

and turned slowly in a circle, capturing the panoramic moment in his

mind. He turned around, patted the horses, and then followed the Beattys

around the ranch until they decided that Ross had seen everything.

Whether he had seen the entire ranch or not, he knew that he missed

being indoors.

He looked at his watch and realized he had other errands to do.

They watched him and politely gave him the opportunity to get back to

his day's business.

"Thank you Ross for visiting us today," said Mrs. Beatty.

"It was my pleasure," he replied.

"Well, when you decide to bring your girls, we'll be here," said Mr.

Beatty.

"Okay then," he added.

"Would you like more lemonade before you leave?" she asked him.

"I'd appreciate that very much," he replied. They walked back inside.

He finished two full glasses and eyed the pitcher. He would have

had two more, but he would have emptied it.

"Thank you both again. Take care and God bless," he said.

"You too, Ross. We'll wait to hear from you real soon," Mr. Beatty

added.

Ross got back in his car, undid his collar and tie, and placed his fedora

back on the seat next to him. They stood waving at their doorstep,

and he waved back. He drove off, exhaled deeply, and felt relief.

He got back home and went straight for his bed. Exhausted from the

drive and heat, he sat down on his bed and lay back with his arms over

his head and the top of his hands on his brow. He stared at the ceiling

and thought of the ranch. He remembered Mrs. Beatty and her brown

hair, curled into a perm, and Mr. Beatty's slicked back silver hair and

denim overalls. His thoughts, like the horses he had seen, galloped until

they put him to sleep.

After an hour he woke up and washed his face. He felt refreshed

and decided to make some phone calls to a social worker to find a place

for his boys. After talking on the phone, he went outside to find if the

car needed maintenance. He opened the hood and checked the oil level.

A friendly neighbor lady walked over to him. Mary and the lady were

friends, and she knew what had been going on lately with the family.

"Hello Ross. How are you doing today?" she asked kindly.

"Fine, thank you ma'am. How are you today, Tillie? How's John

and your children?" he responded.

"Just fine. Just fine. Ohh they're just doing swell, thank you," she

said while grinning the kind of smile that had as much gums as it did

teeth. "So have you found a place for the girls yet, hmmm?" she continued.

"Not yet, but I visited one today that was promising," he said politely

as he added motor oil to the car.

"Well if you can't find a home to take all those girls, I could surely

help. If it would be helpful, I wouldn't mind adopting little Esther.

With her short blonde hair, she's just cute as a --," she added.

"Adopt?" Ross answered abruptly. "My kids aren't up for adoption.

I plan on keeping my family together." He lifted the hood high and let

it shut. He wiped his hands on a towel, wiped the sweat off the top of

his head and forehead with his handkerchief, excused himself, went

inside, and shut the door.

After cooling down, he sat down on the edge of his bed and prayed.

A few days later, he called Mrs. Beatty to let her know of his decision

to send his girls there to live.

"Hello, Edith?" asked Ross.

"Yes this is Edith," Mrs. Beatty responded.

"This is Ross Owens. I'm calling to let you know I'd like for my

girls to stay with you at the ranch. I think it would be a good place for

them to be right now. There will be three at first, but perhaps after six

months, I'll bring the two little ones, Lois and Elizabeth," he said.

"Well good. We are planning to have other girls living here later

on, but as you know there is plenty of room. When would you like to

bring them?" she asked.

"Well, I'm working with a social worker on this, but I'm sure

within two days. Is that okay with you?" he asked.

"That'll be just fine, Ross. We'll be here," she added. As soon as

they hung up the phone, Mrs. Beatty began preparing a room for the

three Owens girls to stay.

Now, Ross found himself sitting in the front seat of his car, Elizabeth

and Lois in tow, trying hard to start the stubborn car so that he

could get his kids out of class and take them to their new homes.

Ross was physically prepared to go, but he wasn't emotionally

ready. To say he was ready to give his children over to new homes

would be to imply there was contentment in his life. He was not content,

especially with no certainty of the kind of life it would mean for

his children.

He drove to the school and headed toward the office building. He

asked for the principal. The man, who was older, lean and had a gray

mustache, acknowledged Ross and promptly had a secretary fill out

forms to summon Roger and Ruth out of class. She told her young student

assistant to go to each class and deliver the summons to each

teacher. The social worker was already there, waiting for almost twenty

minutes. Ross noticed him and greeted him as everyone waited.

In class, Roger sat reading quietly along with the rest of the students.

Ruth, in another class in an adjacent building, saw some of her

classmates raise their hands in eagerness to answer a math question.

They both watched as their teacher was handed a small piece of paper.

They were told to report to the principal's office right away. In both

classes, it was quiet enough to hear every "oooooh" from the other

kids. Roger and Ruth were shocked that they would be asked to visit

the dreaded principal's office.

While the teachers restored order, the brother and sister were off to

the main office building. Roger got there first, and then Ruth walked in.

They both were now slightly frightened at the sight of their dad. It

didn't matter that he was an imposing figure at six feet who had the

aura and look of a respected fire chief. It didn't matter to them what he

did for a living either, whether he was out to stop spreading fires or,

simply, was on fire for spreading the Gospel. At that moment, they just

knew that their father was in the principal's office. Ross told Roger and

Ruth the news and how they would be on their way to foster homes that

same day. The two were puzzled at how quickly things could change,

but nevertheless they trusted their dad's judgment.

7:12 AM

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Wednesday, July 23, 2008

Chapter 1 of "The Perfect Pitch"

Excerpted from The Perfect Pitch © Copyright 2008 by Daniel S. Green. Reprinted with permission by Llumina Press. All rights reserved.

Fortunate Son - Chapter 1:

In through the large, open doors of the hospital entrance, the cold, morning wind flowed. The air was charged with the scents of carnations and tulips planted outside, and as it drifted indoors, it contrasted with the frozen, sterile odor of the place. A tall, jovial mail clerk paused his routine to join the group of people standing at the receptionist's desk and listening to the radio. The front entrance seemed to be the only quiet place, as they stood transfixed by the President's words. Some stared at their shoes in silence, and others looked at the ceiling, but all were dependent on the assurance found in ..:namespace prefix = st1 ns = "urn:schemas-microsoft-com:office:smarttags" />Roosevelt's voice. Nevertheless, the hospital was busy, and it seemed as though the warmth in the receptionist's smile was reflected on the faces of every doctor and nurse. The red roses on every desk gave it away.

It was Valentine's Day, 1943.

The mail clerk's attention was now fixed on delivering the mail. His duty carried him to every area of the hospital. As he walked down the clean hallways, he noticed reprinted masterpieces from Monet and contemplated the many techniques of an artist's paintbrush. An artist himself, the mail clerk sighed at the thought of ever visiting the Louvre in Paris. However, the colors of his thoughts were smudged like turpentine on oil paint as audible cries of newborns carried through the hallways. With his curiosity getting the best of him, he decided to stop outside at least one delivery room and listen to the excitement within.

"Heyyy! Praise God for our son!" shouted the young, boisterous, Welsh father.

"Congratulations, Mrs. Owens," said the doctor to the young Italian mother, sitting up with a pillow behind her and enjoying a moment of serenity.

Just over a year before, these two people met in a church service, where many still mourned the previous month's devastation at Pearl Harbor. It was 31 year-old Ross Wheeler Owens, Jr. who literally kicked the feet of a 27 year-old registered nurse named Mary Nicoleta DiRisio. Her feet were resting under the pew on which he had been sitting in front of her. He turned around to apologize and was immediately captivated. From there, "pardon me" became "I do" nearly three months later. They were married on March 6, 1942. Mary, who was charmed with how much a gentleman her husband was and with his caring and loving ways, was soon expecting a child. On February 14, 1943 they had their first son, Roger Daniel Owens.

Roger Owens, who received his middle name from Mary's immigrant father Daniel, was taken home that day from the hospital in Glendale, California, to their small home in Eagle Rock. As they pulled into the driveway, a boy hopped along the sidewalk in front of their house, dragging a stick across the picket fence, which badly needed a paint job. With the words of a song stuck in his head thanks to his grandmother, the boy sang "Jeepers, creepers, where'd ya get those peepers" over and over again in his best Louis Armstrong voice. Ross noticed the boy and waved to him, while the kid went merrily along. Ross, glowing with pride, opened the screen door for his wife and new baby and then followed them inside.

Roger's father, Ross, only four years earlier had left Tulsa, Oklahoma at the age of 28. He had already graduated with an A.A. Degree from a community college in Wichita, Kansas. He arrived in California, and by the time Roger was born he had found employment as a shipping clerk at a pickle factory. On the side, Ross was an ordained Baptist minister, whose goals included reaching out through missionary work and helping unify various church denominations throughout the Los Angeles area. Mary had left behind her small town life in Homesville, Pennsylvania and worked as a nurse in New York. After some time, she moved to California to find work and to enjoy the great weather. Now Mary worked less and stayed at home to take care of their newborn. Within a few months, Ross and Mary learned they were on their way to having their second child. It was another curly towhead, but this time a little girl named Ruth Josephine Owens, born on July 9, 1944, barely a month after D-Day.

It was the end of summer, 1945, and World War II was over. After the war, Ross witnessed to people how America might have helped win a war, but it was not "off the hook" in God's eyes. There was still much work to be done to improve the country's condition. True or not, America would survive. Many Americans sought higher levels of opportunity and prosperity. The people of America had faced the barren, dimly lit back alleys of the Great Depression and had lived through a hard-fought, four-year war. Americans embraced a sense of normality and looked once again to the simpler things in life to carry them through the workday. The country rolled up its sleeves and began a new era of working hard and playing hard. But Americans also needed lazily spent weekends with barbecues and picnics to find sanity, entertaining friends and family with stories of baseball games and baseball legends of bygone eras. Whether people lived near the choppy, wind-blown seas of the vast Atlantic, along the banks of the massive, winding Mississippi, or near the glittering waters of the awesome Pacific, every American found something to relate to, but nothing held the country together like baseball.

Every town had its heroes.

Williams. Spahn. "Lefty" Grove. Greenberg.

Feller. Musial. DiMaggio. Snider.

Every store had customers who were convinced their team would win the World Series. But New York had the privilege of having three teams, the Dodgers, Giants, and Yankees. Rivalries betweens the teams only proved that while wars fought over the future of humanity might have ended, wars for pennants and championship rings were always being waged. Veterans of World War II, the true heroes who helped preserve the country and its way of life, could now find comfort in watching baseball games. In family picnics all across the nation, it was possible to find at least one young man, back from the fighting lines, sitting peacefully with his young family on the cool grass and recalling one U.S.O. show in particular. While reminiscing about how Bob Hope brought out a stunning Greta Garbo to show the uniformed boys what they were "fighting for," the young man opened his eyes and smiled as he affectionately ran his fingers over his father's old ball cap, its once royal blue now faded and its stitches of the white letter "B" now unraveled. The young veteran knew immediately that all the soldiers fought for more than Garbo. They fought for a free way of life.

They fought for baseball.

While this sentiment was shared among people day after day, every street corner soon filled with neighborhood kids eager to grab their mother's broom handle and a beat-up baseball to set up a game of "stick ball." While some of the kids sat on their front porches thinking of their beloved Brooklyn Dodgers, other kids daydreamed about how their mighty Yankees could easily beat the bunch of Brooklyn bums from across town.

Little Roger, with blonde, curly locks and glistening blue eyes, was a growing boy still unaware of the desperation his father faced in providing for a family, which was soon to include a set of fraternal twins, a girl named Priscilla Louise and a boy named Philip Appleman, and by 1948, another sister named Esther Anne Owens. As Roger sat down to eat breakfast one morning, his mother looked at Ross.

"We're always running out of food. I can't buy milk fast enough, because the kids are drinking it up as soon as I buy it," Mary said.

The steadfastness of Ross' faith in God was evident in his response, even though the stress should have brought beads of sweat rolling down his balding head. He calmly said, "I know, Mary. For my part, I can drive a milk truck, and for the Lord's part, He will provide." Little Roger didn't quite comprehend the determination of such a faith, but he did know that Mom and Dad were praying that they would get through tough times. After all, they were starting to receive food and clothing from several people at church.

Roger always found time to play with his younger sister Ruthie. Even Ross' mother Emeline, who lived in Los Angeles, would love to visit just to watch the little ones. On many occasions, Mary dressed them up and took pictures. With a teddy bear in tow, or dressed in little sailor outfits, they could get away with anything. Roger was proud to have a little sister like Ruthie, with her sky-blue eyes and hair that was slowly turning from blonde to brown. They also adored their younger siblings. But growing up during the end of the 1940's and into the early 1950's meant increasing distress because the Owens family was barely getting by.

They moved to a small house on 2130 Palm Avenue in National City, near San Diego, California. The house was built next to a large dry canyon. Staring out of the bedroom window, six year-old Roger watched the cotton clouds, their edges glowing in the mid-day sky. He rested his hands on the windowsill and noticed how pleasing the warmth from the sun felt on his hands. Standing there, he saw how fat the cumulus clouds were, yet how empty they must be to touch. Suddenly, he heard his stomach grumble. Lately, it was a sound that everyone in the Owens family had heard. The creaking of wooden floors and the crying of babies throughout the night proved to be stressful. But nothing could compare to the frustration of having empty stomachs and empty cupboards, and when Mary's stomach growls interrupted her own prayers, she wept uncontrollably.

Some days, Roger noticed how his mom wore the same tattered house clothes for days in a row. He wanted to believe things would get better. He saw Ruthie playing with her dolls, but that did little to reassure him. After a while, they began to get adjusted to their new place. Things stayed the same with the Owens family, but within a year, Mary was expecting another child.

The time had passed, and finally Mary was ready.

She was going to have her next child, so they gathered all that they needed, and Ross' old Ford took off like a steam engine locomotive, slow at first, then full speed. They arrived at the hospital and, although this was familiar for Mary, she was nervous. Finally, after several hours of agonizing labor, she gave birth to a daughter. Already decided, Ross and Mary announced the baby's name, Pauline Elizabeth. While they smiled, the doctor suddenly noticed the baby wasn't responding well.

"Mrs. Owens, we need to help the baby. Just sit tight for me okay?" the doctor said resolutely, but with an underlying uneasiness.

They ran some tests, but time was running out, and the baby began to show signs of losing its first and only battle. The doctors did all they could, but after several hours they could do no more.

Little Pauline died in the delivery room.

Ross held his wife's hand firmly.

As tears gathered, overfilled, and slid down the contours of their saddened faces, they remained still. Beads of Mary's perspiration formed on her forehead and then slid down the sides of her eyebrows. As they mingled with her tears, they glided down both sides of her face. Then, one by one, they dropped from her chin onto one of the petals of her flower-print hospital gown. Ross sat forward in his chair holding Mary's hand, and he quickly went into prayer before God. Ross and Mary sat there for nearly an hour, while Mary's soreness from delivering the baby was overshadowed by the aching of her spirit. To them, Pauline was a flower whose blossom would be seen not in the sight of men but of angels.

Despite this, Mary would always acknowledge Pauline as one of her children.

For many days, Mary walked around the house quietly. She didn't eat much, and if not for her children, she would have secluded herself within the four walls of her bedroom.

After some time had passed, the grief had run its course, and suddenly all the problems rushed back, like waves forming on the horizon and crashing thunderously on the shore. The family's situation wasn't improving. Ross' efforts to earn more money were hopelessly inadequate with five children to clothe and feed. His door-to-door campaign, which raised money for his missionary labor, was just not enough to bring financial stability.

Another year had passed, and Ross continued to work with the church as well as to find additional work as a taxi driver, but as always it wasn't enough, and the stress was volcanic.

It had been unusually quiet lately between Roger's mom and dad. At dinner, the only sounds were the clanking of forks on plates and the whining of his younger siblings.

One night, the threads of silence were tearing, as soft voices could be heard from inside the bathroom. Ross was speaking in deep, easy dulcet tones, but Mary was crying.

"We're having another one, Ross," Mary said solemnly as she stared down at her light-blue slippers. Ross lifted up her chin and looked at his wife compassionately. He saw no glistening in her deep-set, brown eyes. He noticed how the stress had taken its toll on her brown, slightly curly hair, turning many strands of it gray. Ross also saw her lips, pouting in sadness just above her strongly defined jaw. Yet, with the admission that a baby was on the way, Ross' heart filled with joy that God would provide yet another child. However, he was keenly aware of just how stricken with anguish he and his wife were. By now, Ross was working several jobs to make ends meet for his family, which was about to include his sixth child. For nearly a decade Mary's existence had been focused on taking care of the children or dealing with pregnancy. The only stability she knew, with regard to money and food, was that there was no stability.

Finally the day came to have the baby. They were prepared for anything. This time, it was a healthy baby girl. They named her Elizabeth Anne, taking the middle name Elizabeth from Pauline's name. Ross and Mary rejoiced and enjoyed the moment. "That's one more for heaven," said Ross jubilantly, as he did every time a child was born.

The doctors and nurses smiled.

After a few days the celebration came to an abrupt halt because of the many daunting challenges in their lives. It seemed as though their happiness was a candle's flame, flickering near an open window on a relentlessly windy day.

Mary was slowly losing hope. To add to her distress, in less than a year she was expecting yet another child.

One Saturday morning, she again bowed her head and told Ross the news.

As she told him, Ruthie, Philip, Priscilla, and Esther were playing with their toys. Roger, however, had the radio on, which was broadcasting a Saturday Dodger game. He listened with a grin the size of the outfield at Ebbets Field. He heard the crowd, roaring like a lion at the circus, tamed only by a Dodger victory. His mom and dad held each other, and again she cried uncontrollably and wailed loud. The sound was drowned by a 7th inning Dodger rally, Barber's plea for Robinson to be safe on a suicide squeeze, and the wild chanting of the Brooklyn crowd. He stared at his baseball pennants that were on the wall. Roger was happy.

During the next few days, Mary was busy with a few of her household routines, but she seemed solemn and demanded less of her kids, as though interaction was the biggest chore in her day.

"Dad, have you noticed how mom has been acting lately?" asked Roger.

"What do you mean, son?" replied Ross.

"Well, she said she was gonna take us to get ice cream. Then, she said that she never said that and wanted to sleep instead. Then today she stayed in her room all day. When she came out, I went up to her, but she walked right by me," he continued.

"I think she hasn't been getting enough rest. You can pray for her before you go to sleep, Roger," his dad responded. The day had come again. As she had done seven times before, Mary brought another child into the world. With a change of clothes packed, Mary was physically prepared, but she wasn't emotionally ready to give birth. To say she was ready to bear another child would be to imply that there was contentment in her life. She was not content, especially with having no certainty of adequate provision for her children.

She seemed more machine than woman, more programmed and less spirited.

The Owens family continued to suffer at the hands of poverty. Its grip held them tightly, slowly suffocating Mary's spirit. The newest arrival, Lois Marie, had been born months ago, but in her mind the labor pains still lingered. Growing inside her were thoughts of futility, sorrow, emotional stress, and desperation. Her thoughts gave birth to a hypnotic state of melancholy, and she considered ending her life. She held out for nearly a year, but when she realized one more baby was due, her very being was filled with despondency, as though receiving intravenous drips of depression. Drained of all hope, suicide was her only solution.

Living in National City, but dying within, Mary was merely an ember of the fire that once burned so brightly. Quiet yet intelligent, she exhibited such an anchored character that only dire situations such as these could shake her. Her inability to make a difference financially shattered her fortitude and burdened her heart.

She stared into nothingness.

Her eyes blinked. They opened to a frightening new dimension.

Mental breakdown.

Devoid of promise and purpose, she gave into the voices that spoke to her. These same voices haunted her and held her down as they injected memories of her two twin brothers who had died as infants in the great flu epidemic of 1918, and of her beloved younger sister, Virginia, whose dress had caught fire from waving around sparklers on one July 4th, and whose life was extinguished before her very eyes. The voices also recalled a time when a menacing neighbor girl approached young Mary. She threw a small pebble at her, and it became lodged in Mary's right eye, leaving her partially blind. The voices taunted her about her present conditions, and she obeyed them. One day, she took a walk. One month pregnant, she strolled outside her house. She saw an oncoming car. Suddenly, the sounds of loud horns and the head-turning shriek of brakes became a concerto of catastrophe as Mary threw herself in front of the car. Fortunately, she survived.

One night, Mary made her way to the front door. She looked at the clock in the kitchen. It was 1:30 a.m. She closed the front door behind her and walked down to a nearby park and sat there. Holding her hands together, she looked down at the ground and other times stared up at the stars. After an hour, she sighed and walked back home.

"Mary? Where did you go?" Ross asked as he waited outside in front of the house.

"To the park," she replied.

"Why?" he added.

"I don't know," was all she could say. Ross put his coat on her, put his arm around her, and walked her back inside. A week later, Mary put on a coat and walked out of the house, but this time it was 2:30 a.m. She walked to the park and sat there for an hour. She talked to herself, and then sat in silence. Again she looked at the ground, as if she were studying encrypted scratches in the cement, and then looked up into the navy blue heavens, full of flashing stars, some of them burning out thousands of light years away. She took a deep breath and then sighed, as though exhaling all of her spirit. She walked back home.

"Mary, where did you go?" Ross asked as he again waited outside for her.

"To the park," she answered.

"Why?" he added.

"I don't know," was all she could say. Again, Ross put his arm around her, walked her back inside, and tucked her into bed. Less than a month later, in a moment uninterrupted by doorbells, phone calls, and crying babies, Mary walked into the bathroom and cut her wrists. She was found bleeding and was rushed to the hospital where she required stitches on both wrists.

These events were kept away from the kids, but Ross needed to address his children in a family meeting to pray for their mom.

One evening, Ross was in his room on his knees in prayer. He was thanking God again for an envelope he had found in their mailbox earlier that day. In the envelope there was $10 in cash. It had been left anonymously as a gift for the struggling family. After reviewing a few Bible verses, Ross stood up and went into the living room. Roger was doing chores in the kitchen when, suddenly, he heard his dad rounding up all the kids with his commanding voice. It was now 1953, and 10 year-old Roger was curious as to why his mom was taking a nap, missing the family prayer.

"Dad, shouldn't we go get mom so she can join us?" asked Roger.

"No Roger. She's resting."

To the older kids, it was clear that something was wrong even before Ross began to speak. Roger couldn't sit still. The only other time he got this nervous was when he was listening to his Dodgers over the radio, and the game was close. It was the ninth inning and they were down by two. The Duke of Flatbush, Duke Snider was at bat. He could win the game with one swing of the bat, since there were two Dodgers on base, Jackie Robinson on third jumping up and down in anticipation, and Pee Wee Reese on second. Roger sat closer to the radio, charmed as much by the noise from the Brooklyn crowd as the crack of Snider's bat as he swung mightily, sending the cowhide ball to its resting place over the wall in right-center field. But it was his dad's voice that brought him back away from Barber's play-by-play.

"Roger?" his dad boomed.

"Sorry, sir," Roger sheepishly answered.

"Roger, Ruthie, Priscilla, Philip, everyone listen up. Your mom isn't feeling well. I want all of you to pray for her right now okay?" he asked.

"Okay, Dad," said Roger and Ruthie harmoniously while the younger ones nodded their heads and stared with blank-eyed innocence.

They sat still and prayed quietly. Ross was on his knees praying beside them.

Roger tried not to look his dad directly in the eyes for more than a moment, but he often managed to catch a look at him when his dad wasn't aware. Sometimes, Roger saw his dad's steely blue eyes and, when they squinted in disapproval, they could snare the guilt out of him, like he had pulled a rug from under his feet. He continued to study his dad's face. Roger didn't know much about the purpose of one's life or the salvation that his dad believed in, but he did know that his dad's smile was enough to relax his soul.