The Manhattan Miracle on 37th Street { Part 2 of 4 }

© Dominic DeFilippo, Mr. Boots and the Harley ~ Undine DeFilippo 2012

Throughout that rainy afternoon
and into the evening, 
I went over the
mental pictures of the man
andthe umbrella. ​
I believed I would never
lay eyes on him again.

As I said my evening prayers,
​I added with great sincerity,

"Dear Heavenly Father,
in the name of the Lord Jesus Christ,
when I grow up,
PLEASE 
send me a husband just exactly
​like that man."  






A gawky twelve year old, already towering over all my classmates and growing taller
by the minute, I was very uncomfortable in my body. Other girls, women on the streets
and fashion magazines all looked like they were put together nicely,
while slacks and shirts were forever becoming too short for my long limbs. 

I had serious misgivings that there could be any husband, { ever ... at all, ! },
in my future and decided to pester God with my earnest request on a daily basis.
It would certainly  take a miracle. 
In fact, I consistently petitioned God for two years, until, one evening,
in hopeless exhaustion, I told God,

"I won't be asking You for this anymore. Whatever Your will for my life is, so be it."  

It was a great relief to let go of this issue and concentrate on things I  thought I could do
something about; swimming, singing and school.  Despite my drive to excel, a few years later,
during a Junior Olympics competition, I was hospitalized with a life threatening illness that
warranted immediate surgery and consequently became bed ridden for what seemed an eternity.

Schoolmates visited regularly to bring homework and I kept up with my studies.
For many, many months, I watched the world go by from my bedroom window. 
The neighbors definitely had their schedules and I came to know the hour by their activities.  

Most every afternoon, I heard a Harley approaching.  In secret, I watched the man,
foreboding in his gear, as he maneuvered the giant red bike to its spot.
His actions were always the same; climb off bike, remove helmet, tuck helmet under left arm,
run fingers once or twice through hair, look around, light a cigarette and enter a nearby building. 
An hour or so later, the distinct sound of the Harley's engine clued me that he was leaving. 
I innocently wondered, without resolve, what he might be up to.

Eventually I became well enough to return for the last few weeks of my Junior year of High School.
My girlfriends and I walked to and from school together. It was a happy, fun time for me. 
We often spotted the Motorcycle Man on our way home and dared each other to say hello.
Of course, not one of us had the guts.  We were convinced he was a Hell's Angel and certain trouble. 
College was prevalent in our minds and we giggled and chattered about possibilities,
knowing that our little group would soon split up forever.

TO  BE  CONTINUED...

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