The Hauntings of Hood Canal

The Adventures of Chantrell George

Consider the Salvation Army. Consider, especially, the concept of Grace. Think of hymns played on big city street corners; cornets and clarinets and snare drums nearer to God than we, playing beneath eyes of storm; no pay for players, a new pair of shoes, the love of fellow man behind the blat of spiritual messages.

Consider also the customers: the junkies, alkies, down-and-outers, the hookers, runaways, the insane and the sick, the confused; the tired people beat-to-hell because of excess by themselves or by a system that thrives not on Grace.

Because there is a difference between charity and Grace (Grace is not deductible). Grace flies free and without deserving as it rises from Sally’s Army and other armies of the street that snag the occasional bum, the one, who, with a stirring of soul, would choose (if he could) not to be a bum… For it is true that a bum who holds glimmers of hope, and ability to offer a little trust, can be floored when encountering Grace.

Consider also, that Chantrell George, being a country boy, knows nothing of Sally’s Army, and certainly nothing of Grace. As he wanders, confused, past drug deals on Second Ave. in Seattle, past drunks and hookers, his shoulders slump and his belly is so empty he’s sure his throat has been cut. His straggledy hair hangs limp, and his eyes see only the pavement in front of his feet. He steps timidly as he approaches the sound of a cornet; “Amazing Grace,” and, as he steps toward this new experience we may back away from consideration of this whole deal—while experiencing a glimmer of hope.