I saved three lives in the last week.  Maybe.  Could be.  Probably not really, but anyway.

First one.  My sister and my friend Linda are in the car with me.  We are driving on the State Beaches road.  It's about nine-thirty at night and dark.  No streetlights here.  There is parking along the beach wall to the right of the car as we drive toward the freeway entrance about a mile away on this two lane road.  Ahead of us, I watch as one of the parked cars turns on its lights and pulls out onto the road.  But the driver of the car pulls out into our lane and doesn't seem to realize he's in the wrong lane.  The lights of the almost invisible car head right toward us.  I am calm.  "Look at that," I mutter, and about the time my sister and Linda see what's happening, I have moved over onto the shoulder of the road.  The driver of the car finally does realize his mistake and moves over into the correct lane.  Would it have been too late, if we had kept driving?   Would the car have plowed right into us?  Would I have made a dangerous swerve onto the shoulder, rolling the car? We'll never know.

Second one.  My friend Maggie comes over so we can go for a walk.  We walk through Kimball Park down onto the eucalyptus pathway to Barranca Park.  It's a beautiful day.  We take a turn around the park and come back the other side of the eucalyptus path, back through Kimball Park to the Kimball signal.  This signal that leads into our housing tract is notoriously short.  So we are sure to push the walk sign before crossing.  The light turns greeen and the walk sign comes on.  A woman in an SUV starts out quickly to make a left turn right into our crosswalk.  I don't think she sees us, so I start waving my hands above my head in large, wide half-circles.  The woman sees me and rolls down her window.  From her car she thanks me, says she didn't see us.  I understand, and we smile at each other.  If I hadn't waved my hands, would she have stopped in time?  We'll never know.

Aw...we'd would've been okay. Or would we?

There's a homeless guy we see down at the Promenade sometimes.  He has his bicycle with all of his possessions piled on the back.  I haven't really paid attention to him.  I couldn't tell you what he looks like, only that he has a bicycle.  Oh, and he has a dog.  And his dog has a teddy bear.  Every time I see that guy and his dog, his dog is carrying his teddy bear in his teeth.  I'll see him trotting across Harbor, and there he is, carrying the teddy bear.  He is never without it.  A dog with a teddy bear.  Well, I never.

It was silly of me, of course.  But the trail was unexpectedly pretty.  There was a creek bordered by high grasses and real cattails.  There were geese flying overhead and honking.  A cool breeze blew the clouds through the sunlight, and when I reached the park, I saw a skunk!  I walked around the park, singing a prayer.  I was all alone.  Then I sat on a park bench and pulled out my iPhone and played Words With Friends.  That was a mistake.  All I get lately are Ns, Ts and vowels.  Well.  I breathe out my frustration.  Time to return to the hotel.

I walk out of the park and onto the trail, but here comes a crossroads.  I don't know which way to go.  The little map the hotel gave me offers no help.  There's a squiggly line showing the route and some landmarks, but they don't tell me when to turn, only that I do.  And I was so taken by the kingfisher and the heron and the crane that I didn't pay attention.  How many wetlands did I pass?  Did I go over this bridge?  Did I walk next to the highway for this long?  So I pull out the iPhone again and go to Maps and the little blue bubble tries to help.  But it's giving me the most direct route back, a way over concrete and asphalt.  I don't want to go that way.  I want back on the Saint Thomas Aquinas trail by the creek where the ducks swim.  I take a few false trails and then find myself back at the big question mark fork in the road.  There's a bicyclist there.  So I hurry to catch him before he takes off.

"Oh," I say.  "You're looking at a map.  That can't be good."
The sign he's looking at displays a map of the area.  "Does it show where we are now?" he asks.
"Well, there is the park."  I point to the park I have just visited.
We lean forward as if proximity will provide clarity.
Another bicyclist is approaching and I flag him down by waving and calling out, "Help, help."

He stops and I tell him we're lost.  I show him the hotel map and he sees the trail and tells me where to find it again.  I start out while he stays to discuss routes with the other cyclist.

Soon they are passing me, riding side by side, sweeping by in their helmets and bike shorts, chatting and carefree.

The way back is hot.