Tui xin một cái topic nhé....

TEN PAINFUL PUNS
1. Two vultures board an airplane, each carrying two dead raccoons.
The stewardess looks at them and says, "I''m sorry, Gentlemen. Only one
carrion allowed per passenger."
2. Two boll weevils grew up in South Carolina. One went to Hollywood
and became a famous actor. The other stayed behind in the cotton fields
and never amounted to much. The second one, naturally, became known as the
lesser of two weevils.
3. There were two Eskimos sitting in a kayak. They were cold so they
lit a fire, and the craft sank. It only proved, once again, that you can''t
have your kayak and heat it, too.
4. A three-legged dog walks into a saloon in the Old West. He slides
up to the bar and announces, "I''m looking for the man who shot my paw."
5. Did you hear about the Buddhist who refused Novocaine during a
root canal? He wanted to transcend dental medication.
6. A group of chess enthusiasts checked into a hotel and were
standing in the lobby discussing their recent tournament victories. After
about an hour, the manager came out of the office and asked them to
disperse. "But why?" they asked, as they moved off. "Because," he said,
"I can''t stand chess nuts boasting in an open foyer."
7. A woman has twins and gives them up for adoption. One of them
goes to a family in Egypt and is named "Ahmal." The other goes to a family
in Spain and they name him "Juan." Years later, Juan sends a picture of
himself to his birth mother. Upon receiving the picture, she tells her
husband that she wishes she also had a picture of Ahmal. Her husband
responds, "They''re twins! If you''ve seen Juan, you''ve seen Ahmal."
8. These friars were behind on their belfry payments, so they opened
up a small florist shop to raise funds. Since everyone liked to buy
flowers from the men of God, a rival florist across town thought the
competition was unfair. He asked the good brothers to close down, but they
would not. He went back and begged the friars to close. They ignored him.
So, the rival florist hired Hugh MacTaggart, the roughest and most vicious
thug in town to "persuade" them to close. Hugh beat up the friars and
trashed their store, saying he''d be back if they didn''t close up shop.
Terrified, they did so, thereby proving that Hugh, and only Hugh, can
prevent florist friars.
9. Mahatma Gandhi, as you know, walked barefoot most of the time,
which produced an impressive set of calluses on his feet. He also ate very
little, which made him rather frail and with his odd diet, he suffered from
bad breath. This made him... what? Answer: A super calloused fragile
mystic hexed by halitosis.
10. And finally, there was the person who sent ten different puns to
friends, with the hope that at least one of the puns would make them laugh.
Unfortunately, no pun in ten did.



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

IS IT A WEED?
by Al Batt
Is that a weed or a flower?
That is an age-old question. A weed is a flower growing in the wrong
place and is often a plant that we do not define as being "beautiful."
Emerson defined a weed as, "A plant whose virtues have not been
discovered." Lowell said that a weed was, "No more than a flower in
disguise." A weed could star in its own version of "The Beauty and the
Beast."
Bluestem was a weed to the pioneers breaking ground. Grass that may
be desired on a lawn is a weed growing in a farm field. Creeping Charlie
was once sold as a groundcover. It is very good at what it does.
Burdock is considered by almost everyone to be a weed. I have hiked
and brought home the burrs from this plant more times than I could count.
These little beggar''s buttons use their hooked spears to attach themselves
to clothing. They are especially attracted to Velcro, which is only
natural as the idea for Velcro was said to have originated with the burrs
of this plant. This biennial, with its tap roots reaching down as far as 3
feet, has been used as salad greens and eaten like asparagus. Its roots
have been used to make tea and soup. The burdock has been utilized for a
number of different medicinal purposes. I have crushed the leaves and
rubbed them on bites from insects and have seen others do the same for the
sting of nettles.
If a dandelion was hard to grow, we would all be cultivating them in
our gardens and bragging about the beauty of the yellow flower, instead of
cussing it for ducking under the blades of the lawn mower. The dandelion
has long been used as a food item.
Common milkweed is a native plant that grows 2-3 feet tall and has
large oval leaves and round clusters of cream or pink colored flowers. A
weed? Through the years, its silky seeds were used to stuff pillows, pin
cushions and dolls. During World War II the seedpods of the milkweed were
collected and used in life preservers. It was said that 3.5 pounds of the
pods could keep a man afloat for 3 days. The milkweed is an important host
plant for the Monarch butterfly caterpillar.
Mullein (pronounced "mullen") is a slender, solitary plant that grows
4-6 feet tall and brightens our roadsides with the few delicate yellow
flowers that adorn its spike. Also known as flannel leaf, hare''s beard,
beggar''s flannel, candlewick, bunny''s ears, shepherd''s club and Jacob''s
staff, this plant is a biennial that produces low rosettes of soft green,
velvety leaves the first year and a flower stalk the next. The stalk
browns, but remains erect. The seeds from the stalk are able to remain
dormant for many years. That''s why this plant pops up in newly cleared
ground. Our pastures were always dotted with them, as the cows wouldn''t
eat them because of the barbed leaf hairs. Sounds like a weed, right?
Read on.
The stalks of the mullein were once used as torches. The leaves were
slipped into poor shoes to help keep feet warm. Some Native Americans
smoked the seeds in a pipe to help relieve a cough. German fishermen
sprinkle mullein seeds on the water in the hopes of guaranteeing themselves
a plentiful catch. Many believe that if the blooms of the mullein are low
on the stalk, an early snow can be expected.
So is it a weed or a flower?
There is one simple test that you can use to tell if it is a weed or a
flower. Give it a good yank. If it pulls out easily, it''s a flower. If
it refuses to let go of its grip on the earth, it''s a weed.
-- Al Batt <SnoEowl @ aol.com>



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

FOWL PLAY
by Clara Wersterfer
"You need to go to the store," mother said. "I want to make chicken
and dumplings for Sunday dinner and will be needing a chicken and a few
other things."
The store was only a block away and mama usually sat on the porch and
watched me go and return, pulling my little red wagon behind me.
We lived in the mountains of North Carolina. Our grocery store was
not a supermarket, but rather a small, one person operation. There was no
large freezer except the one for the ice cream. However, the store had a
big refrigerator case for storage of meat and poultry. Mrs. Bradley had
chickens in coops in back of the store. Each morning she would kill and
clean several for that day''s sales.
Our fridge at home was small and only had freezer space for ice trays.
This made for daily trips to the store. When I arrived at the store, Mrs.
Bradley had sold out of chickens. She went out back and brought a large
red hen inside. Holding her feet, Mrs. Bradley placed the chicken on the
scales -- all the time squawking, screeching, and rapidly blinking. The
chicken seemed to look straight at me and let out a loud sqawk that sounded
exactly like HELP!
I asked, "Miz Bradley, whatcha gonna do now?"
She said, "This one is big enough, so I will kill and clean it for
your mama to cook."
Right then my first lie came out.
I cried out, "Oh! No, Miz Bradley. Mama don''t want it killed. She
told me to bring it alive."
I was swallowing hard around the lie, big as an egg, in my throat.
Mrs. Bradley turned her head to one side and looked at me kind of funny,
like she suspected "fowl" play here.
She said, "I''ve known your mama a long time, and she''s not one to
clean a chicken."
My next lie came easier.
"Well, we might go eat with my granny after church tomorrow and if we
do, that ole chicken won''t get cooked and it may go bad. It''s better if I
take it alive, then if we don''t eat it right away it will be okay."
Mrs. Bradley hesitated for a moment, and I was fearful she would call
my mom on the phone. But instead, she said, "Well, all right."
Mrs. Bradley tied the chicken''s feet together to keep her from running
off if I dropped her. After paying and packing my items in the red wagon,
I headed home with the chicken tucked under my left arm, clucking softly,
as if she knew she had received a stay of execution.
Mama was sitting on the porch in the rocker. As I neared the porch,
she jumped to her feet and yelled, "Has Mrs. Bradley taken leave of her
senses? She should have known I wanted that chicken killed and cleaned for
cooking. What am I supposed to do with a live chicken?"
My mind went into a tailspin trying to think of an answer, but telling
a lie is like lighting a string of firecrackers. Once the first is lit, it
sets off the next one and then the next.
Crossing my fingers behind my back to make lying to Mama seem less
painful, I replied, "Mama, it was near about closing time, and Miz Bradley
had no chickens left and no time to kill and clean this one. She wanted to
go to the revival meeting over at the church. Miz Bradley thought maybe
daddy could kill and clean this chicken for you."
Mama seemed to search my face. Not able to look her in the eye, I
dropped my gaze to her feet. She shifted her weight from one foot to the
other.
"When in your life have your ever seen your daddy kill a chicken or
anything else?"
"If daddy can''t kill her and you can''t kill her, guess we have to keep
her, huh, Mama? I just love her already, and she won''t be no trouble to
you. We can name her after you mama, since you have red hair. I promise
to take good care of her."
Mama thought for what seemed forever before answering.
"If none of us can kill her and I can''t eat a chicken that I''ve seen
alive, guess we have a pet chicken."
Mama went to the cupboard and took out a can of peas and one of corn
and handed them to me along with the can opener.
"Until the feed store opens on Monday we have to give her something to
eat. You can start taking care of her right now by feeding her."
I did as I was told and fed the chicken some corn, delighted that she
ate so well considering her recent close shave with the axe!
It never crossed my mind that I would be feeding that old red hen for
the next eight years! Every time I had to clean out the chicken house
daddy built for her -- a chore I truly hated -- I knew this was my
punishment for telling all those lies!
On Sunday, when we sat to eat, daddy said the blessing like this:
Dear Lord in Heaven,
Thank you for the macaroni and cheese.
We thank you for the turnips
and greens and the corn bread, but
most of all we thank you for that red
chicken in the backyard that''s eating
a lot better than we are! AMEN!
-- Clara Wersterfer <cbwest @ webtv.net>



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

SWEET JOSEY LANE
by Kathy Baker
When I needed an angel, somehow God knew,
I searched and searched, then he led me to you.
A perfect little lady in each and every way,
For me it was the happiest of all my birthdays!
The day that we found you, tears of joy wouldn''t let up,
By the time we got home you were a soggy little pup.
From the very first day we were bonded like glue,
And now the tears flow again since I no longer have you.
Into all of our lives you brought nothing but joy,
And for Maggie too, as she''d just lost her own boy.
The moment I saw you, joy filled my heart,
In our lives you played a most important part.
You were Mom''s little helper, earning your keep,
Bringing in the newspaper each day of the week.
Sometimes you struggled, but to the kitchen it came,
Then rewarded with a treat and a "Good Josey Lane!"
You started each day nearly prancing on air,
We shared our food as you sat in YOUR chair.
Now mornings feel empty as I force down my toast,
Starting each day with you is what I''ll miss most.
Now who will remind me when it''s time to eat,
Pick up your bowl, come find me, and drop it at my feet.
Your cute mannerisms are more than I can name,
But, I promise to remember them my sweet Josey Lane.
From the kitchen I''d hear faint tap, tapping sounds,
Sweet Josey at the pantry, where treats could be found!
So gentle you were - never scratching the wood,
Oh, to hear that sound once more, if only I could.
Living without you just doesn''t seem right,
For an angel like you brought such joy and light.
You were smart, beautiful, and precious as could be,
Your memories are many and will always be with me.
You were a mentor to Shiloh from her very first day,
Taught her all you knew, and then you two would play.
Even though she''s grown now, if she didn''t quite understand,
We''d see her looking to you, for your helping hand.
She misses you already and doesn''t understand,
Whatever could have happened to her very best friend.
She''ll have to work hard to fill the void you left,
They say dogs don''t remember, but YOU, she won''t forget.
Your crossing of the Rainbow Bridge is now over,
I picture you and Maggie just romping in clover.
You chase those butterflies and run free like the wind,
Until the day we can all run together again.
-- Kathy Baker <LnStrLady @ aol.com>​

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

QUIET STRENGTH
by Jaye Lewis
The first thing I noticed was the hyena laughter, grating on the edge
of my nerves.
Then I saw them. Pointing and hooting, they could barely stand up,
they were so overcome with mirth. As a single Mom and a secretary at the
main campus of a large university, I was sick to death of teenage boys
pretending to pursue an education, and I wondered, as they pointed in my
direction, if they were laughing at me. Then I saw him. Standing in the
middle of a street, trembling violently, apparently unable to move. The
boys thought it was simply hilarious.
Suddenly, I felt a terrible rage. I recognized the professor, though
I had never met him. Immediately I tore across campus, anger giving wings
to my feet. I wanted to reach those boys and just annihilate them. I
wanted to be the strongest man in the world and beat them to a pulp! But I
raced toward the helpless professor instead, who was having one of his most
violent attacks. Professor Smythe had Parkinson''s Disease.
When I finally reached him, cars were zooming around him, blowing
their horns, and there I was, no power at all, and not a rock within reach.
I didn''t know him, except to exchange greetings, but he always had the
most angelic smile. What was he doing in the street, alone? Usually his
graduate students guarded him like faithful dogs, walking with him wherever
he needed to go, and protecting him from bullies and jerks. His courage
amazed me.
I reached him, without a plan. I tried to talk to him, to find out
what to do, but he was shaking so violently, he couldn''t speak. So, I did
the only thing I could think of. I threw my arms around him, and I held
him close, whispering in his ear.
"Shush. Sshh. Everything will be all right. I''m here. I''ll help
you. Sshhh."
I held him, as close as I could, ignoring the hoots and hollers of the
idiots in the street, and I rocked him, speaking in low tones, much as I
did for my own baby daughter, when she would sob those breathy sobs that
children often do.
After a time, the professor''s trembling calmed a little, and I was
able to help him to the sidewalk. I walked with him until we came upon his
student, who had been unavoidably detained. He got so upset when he heard
what had happened, that he vowed to make certain that at least two students
would always be there to accompany the professor.
I began to time my lunch to coincide with his walk across campus. I
looked for opportunities to speak to him. He was forgiving, and the
kindest man I had ever known. There was no treatment for Parkinson''s in
1969, but Professor Smythe was never resentful. He would often say that
perhaps he could give people a reason to practice kindness. Perhaps people
would reflect upon life''s blessings, believing that "there but for the
grace of God, go I."
I said, that perhaps God was just making a bigger place in hell, for
the one''s who never had a thought. He laughed, but he let me know that he
felt no ill will towards them. I figured it was good that I never saw
those two boys again, because I fantasized their demise, in gut wrenching
detail.
One of the last times that I saw Professor Smythe, he told me that as
he stood there trembling in the street, he had prayed that God would send
him an angel, to help him.
"And God sent you," he said, looking at me with his kind eyes.
It gave me a chill to hear that, and it made me want to become the
kind of person that Professor Smythe believed I was.
After the spring term came and went, Professor Smythe never returned.
He died six months later. Though I''ve never been able to completely
overcome my temper, I think I have become a more gentle person, because of
that precious man, and his quiet strength.
-- Jaye Lewis <jlewis @ smyth.net>



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

FAIRY GARDEN
by Mary-Ellen Grisham
Every late summer, my front gardens put on "spring" attire.
When we first moved to this house, I noticed the strange late season
output and began to cultivate a fairy garden. Instead of chopping out the
plants with thick green leaves and lush growth, I let them bloom -- tiny
white flowers that cluster thicker than snowflakes.
The Grow-Forevers began spreading until I have five or six large
clumps between two small gardens. These are full of light mauve blooms and
draw bees and butterflies on sunny afternoons. I transplanted old rose,
dusty pink mums, from another garden, to my pink and white front gardens.
They took hold quickly and started spreading rapidly.
Now, when all the world is turning scarlet and gold, orange and brown,
my Fairy Garden is a dream in whites and pinks. These mystic pastel
gardens close to the house give a fantasy feeling to that part of the yard.
Floating delicately like a spring dream, they give a sense of spring in
fall -- a sense of joy and new beginnings.
And, of course, I know that I am cultivating some weeds and wild
flowers along with the tra***ional blooms, but I keep them trimmed, shaped,
and under control. In turn, my gardens give us a touch of lightness, a
springy step from fall to winter.
At dusk, the pinks and whites take on a light purple glow, and
imagination runs riot over the blooms. I can almost see a crowd of wee
folk dancing among the plants. I am sure my Scotch-Irish ancestors would
get a chuckle from the imaginative play, and I certainly hope that anyone
young at heart would enjoy the following prose-poetry tribute:
Faerie Garden
by Mary-Ellen Grisham
In a world turned autumn gold and gray
the plot was out of place, enchanted white and rosy,
alabaster posy, quite startling in a quaint old-fashioned way --
white fairy flowers and willowy leaves, mums in pink and mauve
like spring -- a sweetheart''s garden, colors of the young-at-heart,
bound together with lacy leaves and wispy slips of gauze,
a dreamy place of magic and whispering , wafting breezes --
I saw a slender fairy pause and shake a blonde fluff head;
She winked a merry eye and murmured ancient rhymes
and all the fay folk ''round about came dancing all the day
until the frosts of evening begat a somber, sober play --
The garden gnome stopped chuckling, laid a finger by his nose
The brownies arrived behind times, with tiny coats in brown and tan
The fairies hidden down in bloom-forever cozies, still green with rosy bloom,
crept forth to get their winter clothes from creatures of the clan --
Tiny coats and milkweed mittens, monarch wings and downy slippers,
their see-through wings and dresses checked into dry pod containment
for winter storage; and through the harvest moonbeams, I could see
a troupe of winter fairies take flight from frozen flowers to nooks
in neighboring trees, as friendly squirrels and creatures welcomed
them in for winter comfort, into holes of hollow trunks and under
arching roots where winter wonders would be visible to fairies
safe and warm.
-- Mary-Ellen Grisham <meginrose @ empowering.com>
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CAT SITTING TRIALS
by Shelley Hussey
"I''ll pay you $20 for two nights at the Cat House," said my daughter,
otherwise known as the Cat House Madam.
Mulling this proposition over, I wondered if I should try to negotiate
the price. I could tell from her manipulative manner that she was
desperate -- wanting to reel me in to fulfill her client''s wishes.
After much *****-footing around, I finally agreed to her request.
For the last two weeks she has been house and cat-sitting -- managing
the care, feeding, and emotional upkeep of four cats (emphasis on the
latter.)
The cat-sitting job paid very well, but there was one cat-ch. Kappie,
the fat, black, diabetic cat who looked like she swallowed a watermelon
whole, needed insulin shots twice-daily, which takes us to the start of our
story''s dialog. The conversation went like this:
Manipulative Cat House Madam: "Oh, Mommy, I need you to do me a small
favor, please! And it''s really no big deal and I know you can handle it!
I can''t be here to give Kappie her insulin shots the next two nights and I
need you to do it! I''ll even fill up the needles for you. It''s really
easy to do! And oh Mommy, you''ll just love Kappie," Mary Beth purred.
"She reminds me so much of Grandma (my dearly departed mother). She''s so
fat and sweet Mommy, and diabetic too -- just like Grandma! All she does
is lie around the house -- you''ll just love her!"
Me: (Thinking this girl really knows how to butter me up.) "Grandma
didn''t just lie around the house!
Manipulative Cat House Madam: "I know Mommy, I was just kidding about
that part. Listen, I''ll pay you $20."
So I went over to the Cat House to learn how to give Kappie the
diabetic cat an insulin shot. I had never injected anything into anyone my
entire life, but I was ready for the challenge, because I''m a bold and
brazen "shoot-em-up" type of woman.
Meanwhile, I was introduced to the rest of the Cat Family, whose
personalities strikingly resembled those of my own family. There was
Felix, a well-rounded, self confident, and happy cat -- that would be Mary
Beth.
Rachel was a very quiet and introverted cat, with great depth in her
eyes -- that would be my son James.
Kleskie was a long, lean cat who liked to rub up against me and follow
me around the house. Kleskie, of course, paralled my recently-retired
husband, Fred.
And you already know about the Grandma-Kappie connection. I decided I
was most like Kappie, too, only because I look like my mom, and have more
body fat on me than anyone else in our mostly famished-looking family.
Turns out that injecting fat cat Kappie wasn''t the hard part. Finding
the darn cat was. Kappie knew what was coming, and went into hiding. Mary
Beth and I looked under several beds and couches before we found him. We
then had to move a heavy couch, coax her out, and corner her before
catapulting the shot into her. We were both sweaty after shooting the cat,
who immediately went back into hiding while we collapsed.
The next night I was on my own. I spent 30 minutes trying to capture
him and another 15 minutes trying to locate the insulin needle that I''d put
down somewhere while chasing the cat. Tired and sweaty from the cat chase,
I held down Kappie while hyperventilating, pulled up the fur on the back of
her neck, and gave her the injection (which doesn''t hurt). While
attempting to put the cap on the needle, I accidentally "shot" myself in
the thumb!
Within a few minutes my thumb went numb and I momentarily freaked,
wondering if there were any drops of insulin left in the needle, and what
the effects of feline insulin would do to a human female''s body and brain.
Fortunately my thumb un-numbed itself, and the next night''s insulin
injection was without incident, except it still took 30 minutes to find,
chase, and corral the cat.
Sorry, Mary Beth. $20 doesn''t even BEGIN to cover my sweat,
exhaustion, getting shot up, my loss of blood, and possible cat insulin
overdose during my two nights at the Cat House. So scratch the thought of
even asking me again.
However, on second thought, if you throw in a couple cans of tuna, and
liver-flavored Meow Mix treats, I''ll think about it.
What we won''t do for our kiddies and their kitties.
-- Shelley Hussey <FSHus @ aol.com>
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THE FUNNY THINGS KIDS SAY
Linda was shopping for new school clothes with Jonathan, 6. They were
looking at some T-shirts folded on a table in a department store; Linda was
looking for matching shirts sized Small and Large so that her two youngest
boys could match when she noticed Jonathan sniffing some of the shirts on
the table. When she asked him what he was doing, he replied, "It says
SMELL!" He thought the "Small" T-shirts were scratch and sniff T-shirts!
(Or maybe he was just trying to sniff out a good buy!) -- Linda Maxwell
(mother of four) of Birmingham, Alabama
Timmie enjoyed his first day of school. When his grandma asked him
how his first day went he replied, "Fine -- and I even get to go back
tomorrow!" -- Cheryl of Ohio
Marlene has a licensed child care center in her home. Recently they
put some Monarch caterpillars in jars and fed them. The they anxiously
awaited their transformation into butterflies. They watched them go
through all the stages. Then one day a beautiful Monarch butterfly
emerged. Marlene gathered all the children outside for the "going away
party." Just as the butterfly cleared the top of the tree, Jesse, 2, waved
and said, "Bye beauti-fwy!" -- Marlene of Altamont, Kansas
Lynda went to a conference in New Hampshire. Her grandsons, Joshua,
9, and Timmy, 8, kept asking her to bring them a hampster when she got
back. When she returned they asked her in a matter-of-fact way how many
hampsters she had seen in "New Hampster!" -- Lynda Redus of San Antonio,
Texas
Michaela, 10, was listening to TV about who was running for governor.
She asked her grandmother, "Grandma, were we Republicans before we were
Christians?" -- Pat Bush (friend of Michaela''s grandmother) of Colorado
Springs, Colorado
Makenna, 3. was helping come up with names for her soccer team. One
child suggested "wildcats". Makenna said, "My cat, Simon, was a wildcat
until we got him fixed!" -- Angela Clark (mother of Makenna) of
Batesville, Arkansas
Nicki''s family was blessed with a small litter of kittens. While
Jayden, 3, and Nicki were talking about the kittens Nicki commented, "The
kittens sure are tiny, aren''t they?" Jayden corrected his mother by
stating "No, they''re little!" -- Nicki Veenstra of Reasnor, Iowa
Patty was driving around to yard sales when she saw some 5-year-olds
selling juice. They begged her to stop and buy some. She didn''t have any
change with her, except a dime, so one of the children said, "You can have
half a cup, but we need the cup back!" -- Patty Brinker of Independence,
Kentucky
Brothers Nicholas, 4, and Patrick, 9, were vacationing at a beach
house. When Nicholas asked their father if he could go in the rough surf,
his father said, "No, Nicholas, not until you are bigger." So Nicholas
said, "Then I''ll do it standing on Patrick''s shoulders!" -- Nancy Mone
(godmother of Nicholas) of New York
Maddie, 6, was telling her grandparents about the baby shower she had
attended. In an effort to learn where the shower had been held, her
grandfather asked, "Did you go in the car?" Maddie replied, "No, in the
Jeep." Her grandfather said, "Well, let''s not split hairs." Maddie paused
for a second and then asked, "PawPaw, why would you split rabbits?" --
Dennis Smith (grandfather of Maddie) of Oak Ridge, North Carolina
Brent, 3, came with his mother to visit Viola one afternoon. Viola
always has things for the children to play with, including a large box of
blocks and toys. Brent tried to pick up the box of blocks, but it was too
heavy. He studied the box and then removed a tiny, toy plastic horse,
probably weighing about 1 ounce. Then he picked up the box and carried it
away, with a satisfied look on his face.
Kelli, 7, and Clint, 3, walked out of the restaurant ahead of their
parents. While waiting in the lobby, Kelli spoted a 3-foot-high well with
a sign in front of it saying that the Lions Club would like donations for
the blind. After reading the sign, Kelli used all her strength to pick up
Clint so that he could look over into the well. Their parents came into
the lobby and told her to put Clint down. Kelli turned toward her mother,
wondering what she had done wrong. "Well, Mother, the sign said ''Help a
child see,''" Kelli explained. -- Lottie Royal (grandmother of Kelli and
Clint) of Wray, Georgia
When Cheryl''s kids were little, they planned a trip to Cedar Point
Amusement Park in Ohio. The two girls were discussing the various rides
with their younger brother; one of the rides they talked about was "Shoot
the Rapids." After getting to the park and walking around a bit, Cheryl''s
son asked when they were going to get a gun. Cheryl couldn''t imagine what
he was talking about and asked what he meant. "To shoot the rabbits," he
replied. -- Cheryl Allen of Fowlerville, Michigan
Jenna, 6, and Jessa, 4, were flowergirls in a cousin''s wedding. Joey,
2, was the ringbearer. Everything went well, better than anticipated.
Immediately after the ceremony, Jessa''s dad congratulated all the children.
He lifted Jessa into the air, swung her around, and shouted, "WELL DONE,
Brown family!" Jessa replied, "No, Daddy. We''re white!" -- Marian Hatton
(Jessa''s Mamaw) of Middletown, Ohio
After a parade, Nanny took all the grandchildren to the Hot Dog
Shoppe. Andre, 4, was talking away at the group, but no one paid attention
him. After they finished their lunch, Nanny took the kids to the van and
put Andre in his carseat. She was mortified to see him with one shoe
missing, and she said, "Andre, where is your shoe?" He looked at her and
yelled, "I''ve been telling you, Nanny, my who fell off my put!" ("My shoe
fell off my foot!"). After that, Nanny vowed to pay more attention to
Andre''s patter. -- Amy Parker (mother of the who-less boy) of Butler,
Pennsylvania
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SIR FRANCIS DRAKE
by Kathe Campbell
Living with any number of critters at Broken Tree Ranch has left my
husband, Ken, and I content, enlightened, and happily laughing our fool
heads off over animal antics.
Of course, the end result always comes with a sprinkling of sadness
and tears, but the strangest thing happened recently.
On a Saturday morning, while unloading the dishwasher, I lit my
sandlewood candle on the kitchen window sill and stood admiring the mallard
and blue duck family waddling across the yard. All but Sir Francis Drake,
that is.
Francis had been the poster kid on this place for at least 18 years, a
record of sorts. I watched him making his way slowly along this side of
the corral, seemingly uninterested in the other seven. I was neither
alarmed or surprised, as the old fella has slowed down in his dotage. He
had actually grown gray bill fuzz, and had long ago lost that macho curl
atop his tail feathers, a con***ion common in other males I''ve known and
loved!
Not two or three minutes later, our pooch, Corky, roared through the
doggy door all in a ***her over heehawing donkeys braying for breakfast.
Without bothering to dress, I slipped into my farm boots and coat over the
top of shortie jammies.
Nary a soul, lest a dozen or so wild and tame, are ever shocked or
interested in the spectacle. Their pleasures activate at the sight of the
white bucket that travels back and forth in our ten minute rounds morning
and evening. It felt so good to be treading across spring''s green carpet
instead of a foot of snow.
The dog and I threw hay to the big guys, and then poured three-way
into the rubber tubs for the waterfowl near Duck Soup Waterfowl Refuge.
I make a habit of counting heads at chow time. Yep, four geese, and
yep, seven ducks. Whoops...seven? I told Corky we had a missing duck and
it didn''t take me long to realize that it was our sweet old mallard. He
had always been first in line at mealtime.
"What''s holding him up?" I pondered upon surveying the yard.
Cork ran ahead of me quickly, but Francis was nowhere near the corral
area where we noticed him just ten minutes before. The pup suddenly
stopped at the corral gate to raised his schnoz as if sniffing something
unusual in his young repertoire of smells.
He bellied under the gate and walked guardedly to the place where the
corral dips over the hill. I watched and kept up a steady conversation
with him while he snuffled the ground and carefully pursued his
surroundings. Since I couldn''t see over the rise, I unlocked the gate and
walked to the place.
Sir Francis had gone where more than one critter on this place has
gone to call it a day -- the peace and tranquility of the creek at forest''s
edge. He obviously had a fatal seizure.
I picked up the still warm Francis by his old scaley web feet and
gently laid him atop newspapers in the burning barrel. Corky and Ken and I
bowed our heads whereupon cremation commenced. The smell of the bloody
carcass was gone and Corky was greatly relieved. Just one more important
learning experience on this place where the business of living and dying
amongst our furry and feathered friends has, nonetheless, become the
frosting on our lives.
Francis had come to us as a rejected urban Easter baby some 18 years
ago. He outlived six or eight wives and sired a few dozen offspring. He
obviously heard heavenly whispers to "go and multiply."
And did he grieve over the loss of a spouse? You bet he did, each
time spending days quacking his head off while searching every nook and
cranny.
Our special friend, Sir Francis Drake, has flown over Rainbow Bridge
where happiness is his, forevermore. His loss culminates in glorious
memories of many a creature on our ranch, too many to recall after 25
years.
At last, and for the first time, I almost forgot to cry.
-- Kathe Campbell <bigskyadj @ in-tch.com>
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SEPTEMBER''S GRIEF
by Ginger Boda
"Grief has it''s own timetable, one that does not always follow our
fervent desire to move on."
I recently saw the comment in reference to the terror that struck our
homeland on September 11, 2001.
I gazed at the sentence for a long time, pondering its truth. I''ve
not been a stranger to grief and heartache. I was sixteen when I lost my
own mother and nineteen when my father passed away. Both died from
terminal illness. Many family members and friends have since died as well,
causing grief to become a familiar face to me. Sure, there were some
periods of reprieve in between the pain, but the pain truly never goes
away. It just lessens its grip.
I was told, "After the loss of a loved one occurs, there are stages of
grief one must pass through."
I imagined it to be somewhat like an obstacle course or driving test.
Drive straight ahead, do a figure eight through those orange cones, look
back and go in reverse, parallel park and sit for a moment, look both ways,
climb that hill, then go back to where you began.
You get the picture.
If only the experience was so predictable, but I''ve learned that grief
is not a test of such simplicity. There is no grading system. No
instructor to fail or pass you. There is no point A, ending at point Z,
indicating that the test is over. And the obstacles one faces are not the
same for another. There are no set rules.
In my own grief, I remember many friends who said all the wrong things
to me. I didn''t blame them, because I knew that they meant well. Sympathy
was given, but empathy was harder to find. The most difficult comment to
hear was "Well, they are in a better place now." It was true, but it hurt.
The second was, "Don''t you think it''s ''bout time for you to get on
with your life and stop grieving?" That fervent desire to move on was
present, yes, but most of the time it was embedded in the hearts of others,
rather than my own. In fact, I had no idea how I was going to "move on"
let alone know when, or why.
The day our country watched in horror, as so many innocent lives were
taken without warning, was a day of much grief and shock that none of us
will forget. These last two years have been filled with memorials and
tributes through country songs, celebrity concerts, photos and prayer
lists, angel projects and flag waving. Confusion and helplessness merged
with pride and determination, as we''ve all tried to cope with the
devastation.
But if we took a closer look, we would discover the ones who have had
the most to contend with -- the ones who were left behind. A baby
somewhere, born after 9/11, whose first word wasn''t "Dada." A toddler now,
his own features are mirrored in the photo of a loving parent he will never
know. The new bride who became a widow, before her wedding band had the
chance to make an indentation on her finger. The mother of teens who has
cried at night, wondering how she''ll raise them alone. The young boy
filled with anger for the pain in his heart and the little girl who has
wondered who would walk her down the aisle one day. The husband who has
struggled to part with his wife''s belongings, and just stares out the
window. The parents who''ve incessantly watched old home-movies of their
child''s smiling face, while they cling helplessly to one another.
Yes, these are scenes of heartache for those who''ve been left behind
to gather up the pieces of their lives, while life goes on.
Whether we''re driving down the road, or looking out the window of our
homes, it''s obvious that life HAS moved on, regardless of the pain. The
seasons changed. New grass has grown. Fresh flowers have bloomed. The
rains fell, and the sun has risen and set each day. There has been a
predictable timetable for nature, for schooling, for sports, for elections.
For just about everything -- except grief. And "when" it comes upon us,
is just as unpredictable as "when" it leaves us alone.
September''s grief was huge. And there are still many walking wounded.
"What can we do?"
We can grieve alongside those who hurt. We can listen to their
hearts, as they talk about the memories, or dream about what could''ve been.
We can affirm their feelings. For those of us who pray, we pray for
healing to come, for memories to turn from painful to pleasant, for
splintered and angry hearts to be softened.
Yes, grief may appear to have its own timetable, but God knows what it
is. And only through His strength can the ones left behind follow their
fervent desire to move on. I know. I''ve been there.
Many fellow Americans suffered tremendous loss on that September day.
We have not forgotten their grief. And may these simple words, "In loving
Memory," earnestly portray this promise from the heart...
"We Will Always Remember -- with Love."
-- Ginger Boda <Rhymerbabe @ aol.com>
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