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THE ARTIFICIAL LIMB
by Kay Seefeldt
"Something orange just flew into the thicket," I excitedly told my
husband as I stood up from digging weeds in our "swamp" garden. "It has to
be an oriole!"
We'd been feeding birds ever since moving to our Itty Bitty Dirt Farm
in 1978, but never had a Baltimore oriole graced our expanding bird
sanctuary.
Roy and I waited for a glimpse of orange to reappear, but it didn't
happen. In the evening, when Roy had a phone chat with his elderly mother
in Wisconsin, she suggested putting out orange halves to "toll them up" as
they like eating them during nesting season.
The next day Roy nailed an orange feeder he'd built to the cherry tree
near where I'd seen the flash of color. Within a couple of days, it was
obvious an elusive diner had been partaking of the citrus halves. Closer
inspection revealed hornets hovering over the fruit. Could it be they were
responsible for eating the fruit clean to the rind? We resorted to
espionage from the bathroom window hoping to "catch" our mysterious
visitor.
"Look, Babers, something is on the orange feeder," Roy announced, "but
it's definitely not an oriole." Drawing the image closer with his
binoculars, he caught Mr. Chipmunk "red-footed" gorging himself on the
fruit. Being the cool little critters they are, we continued supplying
oranges for our furry friend while hoping the oriole might welcome our
hospitality as well.
Our patience paid off.
Ms. Early Bird was feasting at the orange feeder one morning and a few
more mornings before she went incognito for the rest of the season.
The following spring, anticipating the possible return of the orioles,
we put out oranges the first of May and hung a plastic oriole feeder filled
with orange colored nectar. To our delight, both male and female orioles
began eating from the fruit, but wouldn't take a sip of the orange nectar
-- preferring instead, to raid the hummingbirds' red nectar. (Is this
similar to the grass is always greener concept?)
After draining it down as far as their beaks could reach, they'd
cleverly jump onto the feeder from a nearby pole or branch causing it to
swing back and forth. As the nectar sloshed toward the openings, they'd
siphon off the rest. (Bird brains?)
Eventually, we noticed the female making numerous flights into the
high branches of one of the huge poplar trees near the end of our house.
The pair had constructed their long stocking-like nest only several yards
from our living room window! How exciting! We would have a prime view of
the goings on.
One afternoon, a severe but quick moving thunderstorm hit our area.
When we arrived home from grocery shopping, leaves and twigs littered the
driveway and lawn. Immediately, we investigated to see how the nest had
weathered the storm. My heart sank upon discovering a large branch had
crashed to the ground. The oriole's nest lay limply on the rain-soaked
ground beside it. Amazingly, it was still attached.
Gently, Roy lifted the edge of the nest and peering inside discovered
four dull, white eggs.
"I can't believe this! They're all miraculously intact! What are we
going to do?" I asked.
"With any luck, I am going to perform tree surgery and give it an
artificial limb," Roy chuckled and headed for the barn.
He returned carrying his twenty foot ladder, his cordless power drill,
and a carpenter's apron full of sheet rock screws. While I steadied the
ladder and held my breath, Roy balanced on a top rung juggling the branch
in one hand and drill in the other.
"Mission accomplished," he said at last and descended to terra firma.
The reattached limb proudly jutted towards heaven once again, and the nest
was none the worse for the ordeal.
"We've done all we can do. Now we can only hope the mother will
reclaim her nest and the eggs haven't cooled off," Roy said. We exited the
scene together with a silent prayer in our hearts.
Stationed at the window, we were totally relieved as the female went
directly to her nest from wherever she'd been hiding.
Our greatest joy came from seeing mommy and daddy oriole feeding their
four hungry fledglings as they huddled together on the same branch that had
nearly turned them into scrambled eggs.
Every spring since, Itty Bitty Dirt Farm has been blessed with a
bumper crop of brilliant Baltimore orioles -- quite possibly the children
and grandchildren of that original pair. They devour nearly a bag of
oranges a week, still trespass at the hummingbird feeders, and continue to
call the wimpy poplar "Home Tweet Home" trusting in Roy to make any
necessary home repairs.
-- Kay Seefeldt <birdnest @ megalink.net>
Cha Mẹ nuôi con như biển hồ lai láng .
Con nuôi Cha Mẹ sao tính tháng , tính ngày .

A HALLMARK MOMENT
by Gail Gross
A couple of months ago my husband asked what I missed about the States.
We have been in Germany four years, and after much thought I replied,
"I cannot think of anything except family and friends." My grandmothers
are soon to be 89 and 90 years old, and I have not seen them since we moved
to Germany.
After more thought, and an attempt to buy my husband an anniversary
card, I changed my answer to include, "Hallmark's Gold Crown Stores!"
Ah, the Hallmark Stores -- you know them. Stores where you walk in
and there are acres and acres of greeting cards. There are birthday cards,
anniversary cards, blank cards, "thinking of you" cards, funny cards,
sympathy cards, baby shower cards -- every kind of card imaginable. They
also have wrapping paper for every occasion, stationery and journals and
bookmarks galore.
Hallmark stores -- where in July you can buy collector's e***ions
Christmas ornaments and Independence Day gifts at the same time; where the
shelves are lined with Cherish Teddies and Precious Moments figurines and
pictures; where you can get scented or unscented candles and sachets for
your spirit and sensibilities; where you can easily lose hours and wonder
where the time went.
I NEED a Hallmark Gold Crown Store moment!
Living here in USAREUR (United States Army Europe) headquarters is a
blessing, but when it comes to buying an anniversary card you go to the
(AAFES) Military Main Exchange where you will find 2 racks of cards. No,
not two racks of anniversary cards but two racks of cards total. They may
have a few rolls of wrapping paper and bows, but the same four choices are
available throughout the year, except the Christmas paper which is never
available in December.
Buying a card in Germany isn't easy. I catch the Army residential
shuttle bus to the PX. While the PX installation is only about 10 minutes
from our home, it takes about 20 minutes to search the bus and ID the
occupants after arrival at the PX main gate. When I arrive, I find three
-- that's it -- three anniversary cards for husbands! I choose the card
most suited to my husband and, with my task complete, I now have
approximately 47 minutes until the Army shuttle bus arrives for the return
trip home.
Many people say, "Why not shop on the economy (in a German store)?"
The answer to that is simple -- the language barrier. While Germany does
have Wal-Marts, they have Wal-Marts with German products. Greeting cards
are not sold at Wal-Mart anyway -- they are sold at specialty paper (paper
or stationery) stores and greeting cards are, you guessed it, only printed
in German.
Although I consider myself extremely blessed to be living in Europe,
there are times when I miss the American economic system. I do have a dear
friend that sent me many, many greeting cards the first year we were here
but I have used all of them! I never used to miss any occasion, but now I
have taken to sending e-cards from Hallmark. But nothing is better than
actually browsing and reading the card racks!
I merely ask that all my friends and family forgive me for slacking in
the card department. I promise one of my first shopping sprees when I get
back to the States will be to a Hallmark store! I can hardly wait!
-- Gail Gross <Gail @ KingGross.com>
Cha Mẹ nuôi con như biển hồ lai láng .
Con nuôi Cha Mẹ sao tính tháng , tính ngày .

HERDING TURKEYS
By Al Batt
The telephone rang on a hot, humid night.
It was an August evening best described as "stuffy." The caller was a
friend and neighbor of mine. He had a few wild Turkeys that he had raised.
The big birds were wild, but not really.
There was one male turkey, a "tom," which had declared itself a "watch
turkey." It patrolled the farm like a pitbull with feathers. Visitors
were hesitant to get out of their vehicles when encountered by the imposing
turkey.
My neighbor told me that his turkeys were out on the road and that he
was worried that a big truck might come along and run over the whole flock.
He asked if I would be willing to help chase them home.
"I'd be happy to," I said. "It should be a piece of cake. Those
turkeys are dumber than a box of rocks."
It was stifling hot by the time I joined my friend in the dogged
pursuit of the wayward turkeys. It was an evening so hot that a fellow
could work up a sweat just by blinking his eyes.
We learned a lot about turkeys that night.
As we pursued them, we discovered that a turkey could run at about 25
miles per hour without working up a sweat -- that is, if turkeys could
sweat. We found that the gobblers could fly 55 miles per hour almost
immediately upon becoming airborne. They would fly up ahead of us with a
rush of air that would nearly blow our hats off.
My neighbor and I quickly discovered that we did not know any of the
well-kept secrets of successful turkey herding. We spent two, long,
miserable hours chasing those turkeys. I was hot, tired, thirsty, hungry
and testy. It wasn't exactly the high point of my life.
"That does it!" I told my neighbor.
"I am sick of chasing those stupid birds. I hope a big truck comes
along and greases the entire flock. Then at least we would have something
to eat."
I secretly wished them each a future as hot dogs. My neighbor agreed
with my assessment. We were a couple of failed turkey herders.
We hoofed it back to my neighbor's farm.
The turkeys followed us home.
-- Al Batt <SnoEowl @aol.com>
Cha Mẹ nuôi con như biển hồ lai láng .
Con nuôi Cha Mẹ sao tính tháng , tính ngày .

CASEY GIRL
by Sheila Talley
On a cold and rainy May day, I sat shivering and frustrated in a
Burger King parking lot in Blair, Nebraska. I was hoping that the Animal
Control truck would arrive soon with its precious cargo.
I had signed up in early 2002 for a Schnauzer rescue volunteer group
and forgot all about it, until one day in late May when I received an email
telling me of a female Miniature Schnauzer at a local shelter who was going
to be put down that week.
When Rick, the animal control officer finally arrived, I accompanied
him anxiously to his van and waited to see the undoubtedly adorable animal
who would emerge, tail wagging, to greet me.
I was shocked at what I saw -- a trembling, elderly, gray mass of cold
wet fur, barely recognizable as a Schnauzer.
I bundled her into the car, chastizing myself for not bringing a
blanket for her. I cranked up the heat and petted and talked gently to her
throughout the forty mile drive back home. She never once stopped shaking.
When we got home, my three Miniature Schnauzers displayed their usual
friendly curiosity toward the newcomer, but she was too terrified and sick
to reciprocate. For that evening, I placed her in a kennel with blankets,
food and water, and decided to sort her out later.
When I took her outside to groom her the next morning, I learned a new
facet of meaning of the word "horrified". Her little ears were filled with
wads of hair and black goo. She stood patiently, never complaining, for an
hour while I pulled out hair with a hemostat. I clipped her matted fur
only to discover numerous ticks attached to her body. She was about 10
pounds overweight, and she was barely able to walk around and lift herself
up from the floor. Obviously, she had terrible arthritis, ear and eye
infections, and a mouth full of rotten teeth.
My rescue group provided the funds for shots, treatment of her
infections, and dental surgery.
The rest was up to Casey O'Schnauzey (I named her) and me.
I soon discovered she did not know what toys were or how to play with
other dogs. She was obviously a very good house dog for someone, because
she knew all the good house behaviors. She had never been abused, but she
had been ignored.
She soaked up love like a sponge.
Within a couple of days she was coming up and sticking her nose in my
hand, wanting to be petted. By the end of a week's time she had been
promoted to sleeping in my bed with the other pets. She learned that she
liked having a blanket over her to sleep at night.
After a few weeks, my teenaged daughter and I decided to take Casey to
the lake. She got very nervous in the car, fearing being dumped again, I'm
sure. But, as we approached the lake, and the water scents hit her, she
became a different dog!
When we got out, she RAN to the water and jumped right in! I thought,
"OK, we have a water dog here!" My next stop was to pick up a kiddie pool
and fill it up for her. She spent the entire summer playing in that pool!
Now, because no one wants this elderly girl besides me, she has a
wonderful life. I cried the first time she picked up her green bear and
carried it around in her mouth! She tries to play with the other
Schnauzers now and has lost most of her excess weight. With her hair
properly grown in, her arthritis treated, and most of all her heart healed
with love, she is a beautiful 9-year-old lady!
Two nights ago she walked over and actually jumped up and put her paws
up on me while I was sitting down. That would have been impossible for her
to do just a few months ago.
I love my Casey girl and I am so glad she is here with me! And yes,
some stories DO have happy endings!
-- Sheila Talley <SLT7863 @ aol.com>
Cha Mẹ nuôi con như biển hồ lai láng .
Con nuôi Cha Mẹ sao tính tháng , tính ngày .

FATHER OF THE BRIDE
by Christina Abt
Recently, one early Sunday morning I allowed myself the "lazy-day"
luxury of engaging in the All-American sport of channel surfing.
While flipping through the myriad of cable news shows and infomercials
I wondrously happened upon the movie classic, Father of the Bride.
Now I realize that for many, their connection to this film may be
attached to the more recent reincarnation starring Steve Martin and Diane
Keaton. Yet if you have never seen the original cut featuring "everyman"
Spencer Tracy as the tortured father and a youthfully innocent Elizabeth
Taylor as the dewy-eyed bride, then, in my opinion, you are missing
cinematic perfection.
I'm not really sure how many times I have watched the original Father
of the Bride, but I believe that as significant as the number of viewings
are the time frames from which I have viewed them.
Beginning with my first screening during my teenage "wanna-be bride"
years through to my most recent "left behind parent" stage, this movie's
well-written script and "right on" performances have always struck a chord.
The common denominator this particular Sunday came about
three-quarters of the way through the film. It was at the precise moment
when Spencer Tracy realizes that his daughter is not only getting married,
she is assuming a new identity, a new life, and will never again be his,
"kitten." It's a shock that sends Tracy reeling with a relentless
melancholy through to the movie's closing moments when, finally, Elizabeth
Taylor remembers to call home and tell her "pop" how much she loves him.
I can so relate!
In a few months, my daughter will celebrate her tenth wedding
anniversary. It is a most momentous occasion for all of our family and one
we proudly acclaim. She and her husband are a well-matched couple who set
an example in their devotion and love for each other.
That being said, ten years after the fact, there are still days when,
ala Spencer Tracy, I find myself wondering how my child can possibly be
happy, living with her husband in their own house, rather than at "home"
with me where she belongs. The good news is that after a few moments in
this delusionary wonderland I always manage to come to my senses and
realize that, like it or not, my children establishing their own lives is
simply the order of the real world.
Within Spencer Tracy's perfect Hollywood world, his parental angst was
soothed in a movie sequel entitled, Father's Little Dividend. In this
film, Tracy's empty nest was re-feathered with a grandchild, which is the
point where Spencer and I differ.
While I have no doubt that I would cherish a new family generation to
bounce upon my knee, I'm also quite sure that grandchildren could never
take the place of either of my children -- they who filled my days and
nights for more than half of my life and my heart forever.
So, I'm thinking that maybe I could work out a deal with my
son-in-law. Offer him a lifetime supply of my garlic-mashed potatoes and
homemade fudge sauce in exchange for sharing his wife's company every other
week.
Seems like a reasonable compromise to old Spencer and me.
-- Christina Abt <christinaabt @ adelphia.net>
Cha Mẹ nuôi con như biển hồ lai láng .
Con nuôi Cha Mẹ sao tính tháng , tính ngày .

FUNNY THINGS KIDS SAY
After church on Sunday there was a sudden, brief rainstorm. Then the
skies started to clear... and the skies were beautiful. Tera, 7, looked up
and said, "Boy, God does do art in heaven!" She had been learning the
Lord''s Prayer in Sunday school and was thinking of the phrase "who art in
heaven." -- Denise Carey (mother of Tera) of Pennsylvania
When Callie''s son was 6 they were sitting in the bedroom watching
television. Coins from her husband''s pants pocket had fallen on the floor.
As Callie''s son lay across the bed, he looked down at the floor and said,
"Mom, if we picked up all that money on the floor we would be millimeters!"
(He meant millionaires.) -- Callie Sampson of Clinton, North Carolina
Riley, 7, and Nicholas, 4, were playing in Jimmy''s bedroom, which has
glow in the dark stars on the ceiling. When Jimmy turned off the lights
and Nicholas saw the glowing stars, he said with awe, "It''s a miracle!" --
G. Marsh (mother of Jimmy) of Belmont, New York
Jade, 7, was playing with a fishing game. As the boat was moving
across the game''s water, his grandmother noticed trees under the water.
"Jade," his grandmother asked, "why do they have trees under the water?
They can''t live there." Jade quickly replied, "Grandma, you remember Noah
had to build an ark and God flooded the earth and it went over the trees,
too!" -- Martha Pickett (grandmother of Jade) of Kokomo, Indiana
When Celeste was 3, she and her grandmother used to listen to
children''s Christian songs on the way to preschool. When Celeste asked to
hear "the Cheerio song," her grandmother was puzzled until she figured out
Celeste was talking about "Swing Low, Sweet Chariot!" -- Darlene
(grandmother of Celeste) of Apex, North Carolina
Cha Mẹ nuôi con như biển hồ lai láng .
Con nuôi Cha Mẹ sao tính tháng , tính ngày .

FOSTER MOM FLUNKIE
by Angela Walker
I have always loved dogs and have embarked on a new journey.
Let me first explain that I purchased my first house almost two years
ago. For my housewarming present, my sister gave me my first big dog. She
is a gorgeous Collie. Although, at 6 months old, she was not all that
pretty -- her hair had not grown out yet. Anyway, she has been such a true
joy.
A couple of months ago, I decided I was ready to get a second Collie.
In my opinion, they are the best breeds of dogs. They are wonderful with
children and as loyal as can be. Most Collies are really smart and learn
tricks very quickly. At least mine did.
Well, after much searching I decided against buying a dog. I would
just check with the rescue organizations to see if they had any puppies. I
discovered there was a rescue group in Houston, which is only about fifty
miles from where I live.
Then I had a better idea! I would just be a foster home for an
unwanted Collie. So I applied to be a foster home for the Houston Collie
Rescue. I was approved, and on March 10, 2003, I received my first foster.
She was turned over to Houston Collie Rescue after wandering the streets
of Houston and you could tell she was starving for attention.
I received word about a month after she came to stay with me that they
had received a wonderful adoption application for her. Well, let me tell
you, I was really upset. You see, I had fallen in love with her, not to
mention she had made herself quite at home. She had begun sleeping on my
couch, which I never let my first Collie do. (By the way, one sleeps on
the couch and the other one sleeps on the loveseat.)
When her adoption fell through I just decided to adopt her myself. I
had failed the fostering program! I was not the first person this has
happened to though.
On April 10, 2003, she became officially mine.
I now have a new foster baby -- a boy. It was a little hairy at first
because they all wanted to be leader of the pack but now they are all
getting along.
The whole point of this story is to tell people to think twice about
buying a dog from a breeder. There are some wonderful dogs out there that
need a home. In my opinion, if people keep buying from breeders they will
continue to breed and that just leads to more dogs that have to go into
rescue programs later on. Check your local animal shelters and rescue
groups in your area -- they pick up new dogs daily.
This has become my new journey in life to educate people about rescue
dogs and to be a loving foster home for the unwanted until they are found a
forever home.
-- Angela Walker <alwalker @ academicplanet.com>
Cha Mẹ nuôi con như biển hồ lai láng .
Con nuôi Cha Mẹ sao tính tháng , tính ngày .

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Your morning thought for the day:
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June - -the month of weddings and romance.
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Michael Segal''s harrowing experience. However, you don''t know the details
of how his soulmate, Sharon, stood by him in his hour of need.
Today, you''ll find out about a lasting love made in heaven.
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SOULMATE
by Michael Segal
"PUUUSH... PUUUSH," I called out to my friend, Jeff.
But it appeared that there was no use in trying. My car was stuck in
the mud. Worse yet, I was on a double date.
Being a 16 year old, I wanted to make a good impression. However,
hearing the motor rev with the car still stuck in the mud did not earn
"brownie points" for my friend or me in the eyes of our dates.
Sharon, my date, was revving the car''s engine while Jeff and I were
pushing. Finally, I said, "Enough!"
Embarrassed, I approached Sharon as she sat behind the wheel of my
mother''s red station wagon. Before I could speak I noticed the gear on the
car -- it was set on NEUTRAL! I set the gear to "Drive," instructed Sharon
to wait until I gave her the signal to press down on the accelerator, and
then went back to help Jeff push the car out of the mud.
That was our first date.
Even though it resulted in my getting mud on my slacks, Sharon caused
me to have love in my heart. I was "stung" by the Love Bug.
Sharon and I dated seriously throughout high school. I went away to
college as Sharon was finishing her senior year. Our love, which was
blooming, was only matched in size by our long-distance telephone bills.
The next year, Sharon joined me at the University of Texas. We were
so happy. We thought we were at the top of the world. We thought our
lives were set.
That was true until that fateful evening when, in a split second, our
lives changed forever.
On February 18, 1981, we were studying at the library of the
University. It was late and Sharon told me that she had to return to her
dormitory to go to sleep. We slid into my car and headed toward her dorm,
but, unfortunately, my gas gauge was on empty. I pulled into a nearby
convenience store, borrowed $2 from Sharon, and walked into the store to
pay for the gas.
Unfortunately, the store was in the midst of a robbery, and one of the
thieves forced me into the cooler. He followed me, pushed me to the floor,
and calmly shot me in the back of the head -- execution style!
Yes, the criminal thought I was dead. By killing me, he had
eliminated any witness to the crime. However, when the thieves left the
store, I still had a faint pulse. Very few people believed I would remain
alive much longer. That''s why the police transferred my case to the
Homicide division.
The neurosurgeon rushed to the hospital to see me, but returned home
when he believed an operation would be futile. When the doctor returned
the next morning, he was shocked to see me alive. He told my parents that
an operation was necessary, but added he would be surprised if I survived.
I would probably never be able to communicate with anyone. Basically, the
surgeon stated, I would be a vegetable.
Hearing those words, my father told Sharon, "Get on with your life."
Sharon quickly replied, "Mike is my life."
Even though we were not yet married, Sharon believed in the vows, "in
sickness and in health." She dropped out of college for one semester to be
with me, spending her time with her drooling boyfriend in the hospital,
while other college freshmen were spending their time at parties.
Eventually, Sharon returned to Austin to continue her college education.
Once again we had enormous phone bills.
My goal was to return to school and rejoin her. Eighteen months after
no one thought I would survive, I accomplished that goal. One of the
primary reasons was Sharon -- my love, who refused to give up or give in.
Four years after returning to college I graduated. For me, that meant
I could finally propose to Sharon -- my light at the end of the dark
tunnel. She was the one who would always encourage me to look forward and
not to focus on the past.
On a beautiful day in May, Sharon and I exchanged vows and were
married. We were meant to be together. We had dated for nine long and
eventful years, but I realized at the wedding that it was worth everything.
Sharon was truly my soulmate.
We have been married for many years and we have a beautiful daughter,
Shawn. We have experienced so much. Some bad, but more -- much more --
good.
Sharon, I love you so very much!
-- Michael Segal <msegalhope @ aol.com>

Cha Mẹ nuôi con như biển hồ lai láng .
Con nuôi Cha Mẹ sao tính tháng , tính ngày .

LADY IN RED
by Lisabeth Abt Pieters
My dress was pink.
Not pure white, not ivory, off-white, eggshell, or alabaster. It was
pink -- which was fine with my pale Irish skin, but not my Catholic
up-bringing!
It was a very light pink raw silk. So light, in fact, that the
salesclerk and my mother said "most wouldn''t notice it." But I fretted.
What would the in-laws think of me prancing down the aisle in a
less-than-white dress?
When I had narrowed my dress selection down, my dad actually came to
the store to see it. This was not a normal father-daughter activity for
us. We went to father-daughter dances, he drove me in to high school and I
was often a part of golf tournament galleries where I invariably watched
him win.
But shopping? Now, this was a first! A bridal salon? Not exactly in
his repertoire! Nevertheless, he gave the dress his blessing. I walked
out relieved and with a strategy.
"Just tell everyone the dress is red," he said. "Anything less then
red won''t be a shock." So, I did.
From my fiance to the bridal party, the word was out that my dress was
a very tongue-in-cheek red. Any recognition of the pale kiss of pink when
they saw it would be unsurprising.
Being the calm, multi-tasking, delegating bride that I was, my father
was in charge of the song to which we would dance. I completely
relinquished control of that detail of the day, showing the ultimate trust
in dear old dad. It was one of the few details of the wedding to which I
didn''t give another thought.
The morning of the wedding started at 6am with everyone getting their
hair done. The bride has a seating chart to finish, a honeymoon to pack
for, and was looking for some shred of sanity.
Dad? He was downstairs quietly reading the paper. He remained calm
for me when we realized his cummerbund had been taken to the church by
accident and got me in the car when we had 25 minutes before the ceremony
was to begin at a church 30 minutes away.
In the back of the church, he hurriedly put on his cummerbund and we
knew the rest would be one big blur. I closed my eyes, took a deep breath,
and held on to my dad for dear life. He thought I was going to pass out.
Up until then, I hadn''t had a single moment of nervousness. Dad gently
got me started and by the end of the aisle, I was completely focused on my
husband to be. Dad raised my blusher and stepped back.
Vows, pictures, receiving line, congratulations, toasts, dinner,
cake-cutting, my first dance with my husband, all joyful, tra***ional
wedding moments.
Then the DJ called my dad to the floor. It was time for the
father-daughter dance -- that teary moment when strains of "Daddy''s Little
Girl" or "Sunrise, Sunset" plays to a crowd of sniffles and "awww''s" around
the dance floor.
As I made my way towards my dad, I heard the rock and roll singer
Meatloaf''s "On a hot summer night, would you offer your throat to the wolf
with the red roses? I bet you say that to all the boys..."
WHAT HAD I DONE? Trusted my father? I was dancing to Meatloaf on one
of the most important days of my life for one of the most sentimental
memories. This was hardly a hallmark moment!
I stood across from my dad in shock and with a smile. If this is what
he wanted to dance to, that was fine with me. It was always easier for him
to joke than be serious and emotional.
In the split second these thoughts went through my head, the music
changed. He had spliced on a second song. It was slow and vaguely
familiar. It began, "I''ve never seen you looking so gorgeous as you did
tonight. I''ve never seen you shine so bright. You were amazing. I''ve
never seen so many people want to be there by your side and when you turned
to me and smiled, it took my breath away."
The crowd around the dance floor (still recovering from the Meatloaf
opener) had their attention focused on the words wondering about the
relevance. I realized the connection before they did and fell into his
arms, hanging on for the most wonderful dance of my life. I realized I
hadn''t seen my dad all day since he got me in the car and down the aisle.
It was one of the only times in my life I could remember having him
all to myself and I cherished every step, twirl and sway.
As he spun me around into the chorus, the words, "The lady in red is
dancing with me" echoed around the dining room and everyone privy to my
dress dilemma started bawling. The song continued, "There''s nobody here.
It''s just you and me. It''s where I want to be. I never will forget the
way you look tonight."
As the end of the song approached, my dad guided me over to the
speaker on the dance floor holding me tight and said, "Listen to the end."
I faintly heard the whisper of "I love you" as he dipped me, pink
dress and all!
I''m lucky to have a picture of that moment that I keep very close to
my heart and look at every day. Dad may have always been the hard working,
voice of logic in my life, but he understood how important that sentimental
dance was. The song has moved on to Muzak and plays in department stores,
elevators and on easy-listening music stations. It brings me to tears to
this day. Driving in the car, if I am going to a meeting or event, I find
I have to turn the station to keep my mascara from running! If I''m driving
home or feeling particularly nostalgic, I relish every note and word,
relive every step and listen to the very end.
I love you too, Dad.
-- Lisabeth Abt Pieters <KPIETERS @ williamsvillek12.org>
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Con nuôi Cha Mẹ sao tính tháng , tính ngày .

THE LITTLE THIEF
by Bob Shaw
Seems like I was around 9 years old when she came to live with us.
Dad had been wanting a blonde ****er Spaniel for quite some time, and
friends of theirs had a litter of puppies. It took him awhile, but dad
finally talked mom into it, despite her original objections. One look was
all it took.
She was blonde with just a tint of red, and a nose full of freckles.
In no time at all, she became "Pinkey".
There was very little in her new home that she didn''t consider "hers",
including me, her only kid. It wasn''t long before shoes, furniture, and
anything else chewable became reasonably safe. One of her favorite tricks
was shining our shoes. She''d roll over on her back, and wiggle and squirm
on top of our shoes till she thought they were shined. The more we
laughed, the harder she''d work at it.
Living next to the fairgrounds held a fascination for her. She
burrowed a hole under the fence, and used it for hunting and whatever other
adventure she happened to be on.
One of the stands, from the fair, set up just beside her hole was a
"throw the baseball at the milk bottles" thing. She loved playing fetch.
She''d sneak under the tent, and grab the ball as it hit the ground, then
head for her hole, long ears flapping in the breeze behind her.
Before we knew it, our yard was full of baseballs. Dad worried that
she might be caught and hurt, so he gathered up as many of the balls he
could find and took them back to the owner. He explained what had happened
and wanted to make sure she wasn''t hurt. He also promised to return the
balls.
The man started laughing and told dad they had watched her steal the
balls and thought it was the cutest thing they''d ever seen. He assured my
dad that they''d never hurt the little dog but would appreciate the return
of the balls.
For the next several years, an old baseball would show up from some
hidden spot and bring back a memory.
I graduated from high school, and went to the military. Coming home
on leave, Pinkey was the last one I said goodbye to. She seemed to
understand every word I ever said to her. Those big brown eyes held so
much intelligence. Then I was off for the other side of the world,
Vietnam.
My first letter home was met with a lot of barking and enthusiasm.
She had caught my scent on the letter and when it had been read and left on
the table, she snuck up on the chair and snatched the letter. Mom found
her curled up with it in her bed.
"You little thief," she said. Then Pink looked at her with watery
eyes, pointed at the letter with her nose, and just looked back at her.
"Just broke my heart," my mom said.
From then on, Pinkey ended up with all the letters. She kept them on
her bed with her.
Several years later, mom called to tell me that she had passed on.
She was almost sixteen. She''d been put to rest in the backyard she loved
so much, and I found a marble slab to carve her name into. Over 30 years
later, I can still walk out to the backyard and see it. Just like it was,
then.
A few years ago, dad had some work done under the house. The workman
came out with what was left of an old baseball. We just smiled, and said
"The little thief!"
There''s a place called The Rainbow Bridge, where a little blonde
****er with a freckled nose is playing ball, and waiting.
-- Bob Shaw <CapeRabbit @ semo.net>
Cha Mẹ nuôi con như biển hồ lai láng .
Con nuôi Cha Mẹ sao tính tháng , tính ngày .