His name was Dave...

although I didn't find that out until deep into the conversation.  

His wife died nine years ago, but before that, they had bought regional cookbooks for his mother who lived in California.  Cookbooks from the Montana Centennial Cattle Drive, from the Red Lodge ladies societies, from the Miles City civics clubs...any sort of those community project compilations in which the main dishes were sure to include many, MANY ground beef recipes; preferably with sour cream and noodles.  

I was in a hurry to get all my groceries, get out of Reynolds and drive like the wind blows to Cohagen to get my kids from school.  Typical day in Miles City, you know?  I'd noticed in passing this little older gentleman with his brother (or so I thought)....they were wandering around near the lunch meats and bacon section where I needed to go.  Their cart was empty and I suspected it was more of a "get out of the house" mission than anything.  

When I came rushing out of the chips 'n' junk aisle (yes, I'm that kind of mother), this well groomed, neat, 70-something gentleman said, "You go ahead; you're faster than me, anyway." and smiled.  

God places speed bumps fortuitously, I believe, and I couldn't stand the thought that I might have been rude, so I replied, "I'm not sure where I'm headed, to be honest, so it doesn't matter if I get there fast or not!" 

It wasn't entirely true, but how could I run over such a good spirited fellow?

WELL...

This was an obvious opening to a conversation that I was quite unprepared for!  

He noticed the cookbook I had in hand and wondered if I was working on a recipe, to which I showed him the California Hangover slush plan for my reading group.  

And that's when he started telling me about the cookbooks and his mother and his wife and his daughter who died at age 20 but appeared to his mother when she read the cookbooks he sent to California.  

Did I think it was crazy that his mom caught moments with his daughter, even though the girl died years before?

No...I told him that I thought we lived with sweet spirits all around us and some people were more in tune and less afraid of that.  

So, then he told me about growing up in Florida and how there were mansions with "spirits" hanging around them; he and his wife (bless her soul) had met a few of them.  

And here I was, standing in the middle of the cold cuts in a straightforward little old market in Miles City, Montana, talking about ghosts with a codger named Dave.  

His brother, it turned out, was a dear friend who just seemed like a brother; when I said I thought they WERE related as I observed them, they both shook my hand heartily and thanked me.  And told me I had beautiful eyes that were friendly, that it was no coincidence that we'd "met" and that good things would be mine.  

With good tidings to each other, we parted, and I finally had access to the beef cotto salami and went clipping on my way.  Last I saw of them, they were further into the meat aisle, discussing chicken with the butcher who had no way of knowing there would be ghost stories forthcoming....the cart was still empty.

The funniest thing about the whole deal was that I had started the day praying that God would make me open...not that I would have an open heart, because that's when mine gets wounded and I end up crying about things I have no ability to "fix" (like the Syrian business and junk on the news)....no, just OPEN.  Help me not be so very self absorbed and self important. (When one lives in a small world, the focus gets skewed...) Help me to be aware and kind!

Had I not prayed for openness...

I might have missed Dave!  

I might not have had the grace to spend 20 minutes listening to a kind man with an empty cart who needed to tell stories about people he loved and his life experiences (albeit supernatural in the south).  

I might have rushed past the lunch meat and not have had a courtly gentleman admire my cookbook and wish me good fortune in my life.

Sometimes, being impulsive and interested is such a blessing!

(Now I have to bake the teacher some bread or something, because I was 20 minutes late picking the kids up from school and all I had for an excuse was "there was this old guy in the grocery store telling me ghost stories...")