Tui xin một cái topic nhé....

IOU1
by Bob Perks
I see them all the time -- license plates that carry a message most
often understood only by the owner.
Mine says IBLEVNU.
I love to look in my rear view mirror and see people mouthing the
words. "I believe in you."
These "vanity plates" as they are called seem to be offered in most
every state here in the United States.
I wrote a story about a wonderful woman who held a sign in the window
of her car that read "Heartwarmers" as she drove by. She had read a story
of mine there and recognized my license plate.
Small world.
"IOU1" the plate read on the car in front of me. Normally I'd just
read it and continue on, but this one had a handwritten sticker next to it
and I knew I had to meet this person.
He wasn't headed where I wanted to go, but this seemed more important.
So I decided to follow him. Luckily he pulled into the post office in
town. Otherwise, I might have been writing this from on the road
somewhere.
I got out of my car and approached the man.
"Excuse me, sir. May I ask you about your license plate?"
"You wouldn't be the first one," he said as he kept walking.
My curiosity kept pace with him as he entered the post office and
stayed with him until he returned to his car.
"I understand the "IOU1" on your plate. I've said "I owe you one"
many times in my life."
"Did you pay up?" he asked with a smile.
"Pardon me?"
"Did you pay back the ones you owed?"
"Oh, sure... I mean I guess I did. That's something you say so freely
after someone does you a favor. I guess I meant it," I told him.
"Well, I'm still working on this one," he said.
"That sticker you have next to your plate. Is that part of it?"
"It surely is. It'll take the rest of my life to pay this one back,"
he said.
He then stopped at the door suddenly, almost causing a pile up of
people behind us.
"In fact, it could probably take two lifetimes to pay this one back,"
he said.
We continued out the door heading back to his car.
"Would you mind telling me what happened?" I asked.
"No, not at all. It's part of my pay back. I promised to tell as
many people as I could, any time and any place."
He then stopped behind his car, leaned on the truck near the plate and
began to tell his story.
He went on to tell me about an accident he was in with his family.
The car had flipped over and his youngest daughter, still seated in her
child seat, somehow flew out the car door in the accident. He was pinned
inside. Hanging upside down the only thing he could see was the back of
her car seat sitting about ten yards in front of him.
Not being able to free himself, he prayed for her.
"God, if you make sure my baby is alright, I'll owe you one," he said
in his prayer.
She was. They found her sitting there untouched and smiling.
That explained it all.
His license plate read "IOU1" and the sticker said "God!".
-- Bob Perks <Bob @ BobPerks.com>
Chúng Ta Yêu Nhau Chỉ Mong Thế

BILL'S PASSION
by William Santoro
I used to accept "unassigned" patients at the nursing home.
This was how I met Bill Marussio. Mr. Marussio had Alzheimer's and it
had become too difficult for his family to care for him. He also had
talent -- lots of it. He was a renowned violinist who played all over the
world.
Under his bed was a very expensive violin. I was told it was worth
$250,000. Although the Alzheimer's was robbing him of his mind, it had not
taken his passion for music away. Whenever I visited him, I asked him to
play. The joy in his eyes was undeniable. He would put his violin under
his chin and the most beautiful sounds emanated. He played while I wrote
in his chart.
The year was 1989. My son, Justin, was three and recently diagnosed
with Autism. While watching Itzhak Perlman on 60-Minutes, Justin came
running into the room. Perlman playing the violin mesmerized him. There
was a definite connection. I knew he had to meet Mr. Marussio.
I introduced Justin to Mr. Marussio the next week. Justin's reaction
to the music was the same as it was for Mr. Perlman's -- pure pleasure. I
knew this was our new routine.
Whenever possible I brought Justin to the nursing home to visit with
Mr. Marussio. Seeing us, he would go into his room and get out his fiddle.
I found it odd he called this valuable instrument a fiddle.
Justin sat on the bed and Mr. Marussio would tell us the most
intricate details about the violin. He told us the height of the bridge.
He talked about the curvature in the wood. He even talked about the number
of fibers in the bow. He always asked if Justin had a request. Justin
once asked him to play "Spring" by Vivaldi. He started to play it, but
halfway through, forgot what he was playing and finished with "Twinkle
Twinkle Little Star."
I brought a camera during one visit and we went through our usual
routine. Mr. Marussio started playing one song and finished with a
different one. Justin correcting him, trying to get him to finish the song
he started.
Then Mr. Marussio did something different. He asked Justin if he
wanted to play the violin. A child of few words, Justin simply said,
"Yes."
Mr. Marussio handed Justin the violin. Justin put it under his chin
and ran the bow across the strings. As I watched, I thought to myself,
"Here's a man with Alzheimer's handing a quarter of a million dollar violin
to a child with autism and what am I doing -- taking pictures."
If I been handed the violin I know the only sound I could create would
be described as noise. However, the first time Justin bowed that violin
music came out -- not a song, but definitely music.
Several months later, Mr. Marussio had a stroke. In the hospital, I
saw he was having trouble with physical therapy. I told the therapist to
get a violin. The therapist used the violin as therapy. The day he was
readmitted to the nursing home I did not bring Justin with me because I was
not sure how Mr. Marussio would be. I helped him sit up in his bed. He
put the violin under his chin. He closed his eyes as he ran the bow over
the strings. All we mortals heard was noise, but the look on his face told
me that all he heard was beautiful music.
Mr. Marussio died several months later peacefully in the nursing home.
He was still playing music only heard in his heart. My son still
remembers him. He incorporates his name into songs that he makes up and
sings.
Justin became involved with music therapy shortly after Mr. Marussio's
death. His therapist started him with the keyboard before introducing the
violin. I remember Mr. Marussio saying every child who wants to play the
violin should first play the piano. Being completely devoid of musical
talent, I still do not understand why.
In no time, Justin was playing the violin and his instructor informed
us that it was no longer therapy. Justin was playing as well as any other
child his age. To this day, we still believe Justin's music is therapy.
Justin works very hard at his music. The rewards dwarf the effort.
Justin's music gives him and those who hear it comfort. Throughout his
life, and especially in his last days, music gave Mr. Marussio comfort.
Mr. Marussio's and Justin's paths have paralleled each other --
sometimes going the same direction and sometimes going in opposite
directions, but always ending in the same space.
What started out as therapy for Justin has become his passion. What
started out as a passion for Mr. Marussio became his therapy.
-- William Santoro, MD <Drsantoro @ aol.com>

====​

WHAT NOW?
by Jim Orr
When I went inside the owl cage to give my recuperating Barred Owl his
chicken thighs, he really startled me by suddenly flying from one side of
the cage to the other, right over my shoulder. The cage (kennel) is only 6
feet wide, 10 feet long and about 6 feet tall, so an owl with a three foot
wing span flying over your shoulder is what I call highly stimulating.
This was the first time he flown since I had rescued him from the
highway late at night three weeks ago. At that time, he was in shock with
a concussion and a large wound on his wing where he had apparently been hit
by a car. He was sitting in the middle of the highway in a trance.
I did not have my animal containment tools or cages with me, so I had
to use my coat to wrap him up and hope he did not get loose in the truck on
the way home. I tried not to think about what might happen with a large
injured and angry wild raptor loose in my vehicle while I tried to
negotiate the winding mountain roads at night.
Since I no longer had my coat on, I was vulnerable to his 3/4" talons.
Every time I heard a rustle from the back seat, I'd envision him lining up
his beak on one of my ears for a midnight snack. We got home without
incident and I treated his wounds with Neosporin and gave him three days
antibiotic and stress (steroid) injections. He had no visible broken bones
but was comatose.
I had to force feed him. On the third day, he was still in shock, but
now eating out of my hand. Later, I only had to leave a couple chicken
thighs in the cage each night. He would eat everything bone and all. Talk
about a sharp and powerful beak!
I tried to release him about 10 days ago but he was unable to fly so I
returned him to the kennel to recuperate further. They tell you in
rehabilitation class that the animals will tell you when they are ready to
go and he was obviously ready. Seeing him fly around his cage after
staying immobile for almost three weeks was a pretty clear message. The
trick is to capture a now fully healthy owl without hurting him or myself.
It would be terrible to reinjure him by getting him panicked in the
confines of the cage.
As I entered the cage and closed the door behind me, I started
thinking about ear snacks again. It actually worked quite easily. I
covered his head with a towel which caused him to remain still while I was
able to pick him up -- properly pinning his wings from behind to avoid his
talons and beak, either of which could cause significant injury.
Owls can be particularly difficult because they can turn their head
180 degrees. This causes two problems. First, you can't tell the owl's
front from his back, and second, when you take the towel off, they can turn
their head around behind them and almost reach your hands. It takes a lot
of confidence in your training to not panic when they pull this exorcist
routine on you.
All went very well however, and fortunately, the Barred Owl was no
where near as aggressive and ferocious as the Great Horned Owl I had a few
months ago. Horned owls called "Tigers of the Sky" have been known to
chase eagles off their own nests.
Finally, I uncovered and released my patient and he hopped from my
gloved hand to my leather sleeved arm. He calmly looked me over one last
time making direct eye contact, as if to say, "What now?"
He flew to the ground and I began to wonder if this would be a repeat
of the last attempted release. I went inside to get a camera and when I
returned he flew up into a tree before I could get a photo. He sat there
for a few minutes watching me and then flew away into the late afternoon
sky.
I felt really fulfilled, and as I walked into the house, I felt my
ears noticeably relax.
-- James Orr <JOrr268411 @ aol.com>

====​

Joseph Walker
I don't think any of the friends with whom I grew up were actually Irish.
But every year at this time we became a pack of
Welsh/Scottish/German/Navajo leprechauns, patrolling the schoolyard to
enforce time-honored rules governing the annual wearin' o' the green.
I'm not sure where these rules came from. They weren't written down
anywhere, and I'm reasonably certain no governing body enacted them. They
are just something that you know when you are 11. And at that time in your
life, they are important.
The rules were simple.
You were supposed to wear green on St. Patrick's Day. No exceptions.
Of course, how and where you wore it were matters open to private
interpretation. You could wear a green outfit, which is what
kindergartners and first graders tended to do. Or you could wear it
covertly, which is what the older kids preferred. The main thing was, you
had to wear something green -- somewhere.
It didn't have to be visible, but it had to be showable. Showability
was especially important when it came time to mete out punishment. And, oh
yes, punishment was involved.
Do you think my friends and I enforced the wearin' o' the green as a
fashion statement? If you came to school on St. Patrick's Day without any
green on, everyone could pinch you.
According to my friend Albert, the pinch represented a bite from the
snakes St. Patrick drove off of the Emerald Isle. Since Albert was Navajo
and knew a lot about snakes, that seemed to us to be a reasonable
justification for pinching people. Especially girls.
Being fifth grade boys, touching girls was usually pretty much out of
the question. But on St. Patrick's Day it was not only allowed, it was
expected. Hence our unusual determination to comply with playground policy
-- written or otherwise.
Now, I should point out that the severity and the location of the
pinch punishment was left to individual interpretation. Needless to say,
it could be a long and painful day for anyone who forgot to wear green.
However, if you were clever enough to hide your green and got pinched
undeservedly, you were entitled to hit that person in the arm once you had
shown them your green. I'm assuming that the hitting response to an
unrequited pinch represented whacking a snake with a sheleleigh, but I'm
not sure. Albert never ventured an opinion on the matter.
By the time I got to fifth grade I was pretty good at hiding my green.
The feeble pinches I received on my chubby arms were well worth the slugs
I dished out in return. Which is why I was excited when my parents gave me
my first pair of boxers for my 11th birthday -- and they were lime green!
For more than a month I planned my strategy. I went out of my way to
make sure there was nothing even remotely green in anything else I wore
that day, and I carefully rotated my underwear to make sure the green
boxers were in my drawer on March 17. Albert, George and Dean all pinched
me on the way to school that morning -- and they all got hit by me after I
showed them my boxers. My plan was working to perfection.
Then I heard a voice behind me.
It was soft and sweet -- and unnerving. In other words, it was JoAnn.
"It doesn't look like you're wearing any green," JoAnn said to me,
smiling sweetly.
"Uh... er... umm... " I sputtered (which is what I did whenever JoAnn
was around). JoAnn's sweet smile turned instantly vicious as she pinched
my arm. Hard. Never in my life had I experienced such emotional
cacophony. I felt pain from the pinch, but at the same time there was the
extraordinary sensation of her fingers briefly on my arm.
She actually touched me! On purpose!
Then there was the feeling of triumph, knowing I had suckered in
another victim, followed immediately by the horrifying realization that in
order to fully enjoy my victory I was going to have to show JoAnn my
underwear.
Yeah, right. Like THAT was going to happen.
So I just grimaced at JoAnn. "Yeah," I said. "You got me."
She laughed joyfully. And then ran to tell her friends, who for some
reason felt they had to come and pinch me too.
What was I supposed to do?
It couldn't look as though I had allowed JoAnn to get away with an
unrequited pinch. That would be... unacceptable. So I just stood there
and took it. All day long.
The bruises on my arms had pretty much healed by the time the next St.
Patrick's Day rolled around. But the memory hadn't faded. I wore green
socks.
Hey, you don't have to be Irish to add a new rule for the wearin' o'
the green.
-- Joseph Walker <valuespeak @ earthlink.net>
Chúng Ta Yêu Nhau Chỉ Mong Thế

A daughter's story

My father died when I was very small, so there was always just my mother and I. Sometimes I used to wish that I had a brother or sister, not so much for someone to play with, but to take some of the pressure of my mother's expectations off me.

My father had been in the Army, and apart from a small pension, we were quite poor at first. But my mother trained as a teacher and managed to get herself a fairly well-paid post at a girls' private school. We must have had enough to get by on, but some how money always remained a major topic of conversation. I remember sometimes feeling bad for eating because she worked so hard to provide our food. Apart from teaching at school, she used to give private lessons and she also had a part-time job in a local library.

By the time I was 8, I already knew she wanted me to be a lawyer or a doctor. It never happened to me to say no, or to wonder what I would really like to do. I would have been too scared of hurting her. I felt I owed it to her to make her proud of me.

When I was about 16, a man she knew became very interested in her. I liked him and thought it would be great if they got married. My mother would be happy, and she wouldn't have to work so hard and worry all the time. I could realise she liked him too, but she wouldn't hear of marrying him. SHe said sho couldn't because of her responsibilities to me. I felt utterly miserable.

I worked terribly hard at college and actually managed to get a first class degree in law. I remember feeling a sense of relief that I had finally given her what she wanted. But it was all done for her, not me.

Two years later, I married John, a barrister. My mother adored him. But it was around this time that I began to realise how unhappy I was with not having taken any of my own decisions about my life. Eventually, John and I split up and I decided to switch careers and become a social worker. I had never seen my mother so upset. It was as if I had destroyed her life. We had an absolutely furious row and we have never been close since.
Love is the feeling I get when I'm with you

How much can all of you understand this topic. Like introducing works or stories, maybe!
So fell autumn rain washed away all my pain
So fell autumn rain washed my sorrows away

THE LADY WAS A HERO
by Bob Shaw
When this dog was found in a ***ch next to a busy highway, she was mud
covered, starved and scared.
The animal shelter cleaned her up, and found a beautiful Tri Colored
Collie hiding beneath all of that Texas mud. She was very shy at first,
always staying at arms length, away from anyone that tried to comfort her.
It was obvious she had been mistreated.
It only took a few days for her to be adopted. That's how she ended
up at the apartment complex where I worked.
My first introduction to her was through the gate on the fenced patio.
She was almost as surprised as I was, but I've usually been able to make
friends with animals. Looking around, I noticed she didn't have any food
or water, so I took care of that for her. Her owners were at work, and I
figured they had just forgotten. I decided to keep an eye on her for the
next few days, and living just across the street, it really wouldn't be a
problem.
We were sitting in the kitchen one morning, and heard a noise at the
window. Looking up from the paper, I saw a dog looking in from the
outside. It was her. Somehow, she had gotten out of the fence, picked up
my scent, and followed me home. When my wife, Ronni, went to the door to
let her in, she backed away, especially when she saw our Sable and White
Collie, Duke.
When I went out to see her, she recognized me right away, and came to
me. I brought her in to meet Duke and Ronni, and in no time at all, she
felt right at home. Even Duke could sense she was hungry and backed away
from his bowl to give her room. As she edged up to the food bowl, she
gingerly took a few bites, and backed away. I noted that she was acting
like the Lady now. Ronni looked at me and smiled. We both came to the
same thought, the perfect name -- she became "The Lady".
I went across the street to check with her owner, and found the gate
standing open, and her food and water bowls empty. I told him that if he
couldn't take better care of her than that, I was taking her. He said I
was welcomed to her. Her barking was keeping him awake. I figured he
didn't have enough sense to know why she was barking.
That was when we became the owners of another Collie. Besides, Ronni
had already decided that he wasn't getting her back.
Duke was Ronni's dog. The Lady became mine. She went with me on my
rounds of the property at night. It seemed like nothing missed her gaze.
Then one day, I took her with me to check the mail. She was street
wise, knew the dangers of the road, and had more common sense than a lot of
people I've known.
When Lady took off, I had no idea what was going on.
She had seen a toddler wander out of the open gate at the pool. When
the baby went out into the street, she ran to her. Blocking her path only
slowed her down a little, so Lady grabbed her by the diaper and pulled her
back toward the fence.
As she was pulling her back, one of the residents, an elderly lady,
saw what was happening, and thought Lady was attacking the child. Coming
to what she thought was a rescue, she raised her cane and brought it down
across Lady's shoulders. By the time I reached the scene, she had raised
the cane for a second blow. As I caught the cane, Lady crept around behind
me, cowering from the beating.
She screamed at me to leave her alone, that the dog was attacking the
baby. I just looked at her and said she was mistaken. I reached down to
touch Lady and to reassure her, then got down to her level, and gave her a
big hug. She leaned into me, almost melting. Her soft dark eyes seemed to
say thank you for the kindness. I promised her she'd never be hit again.
Whether she understood or not, I didn't know, but the look in her eyes was
that of uncon***ional love, something I wondered if any human really
deserved.
Just then, I heard Audrey, the manager of the complex, ask what was
going on. The woman told her that the dog had attacked the child and that
I had insulted her.
Audrey smiled and informed her that she had been making coffee in the
club house kitchen, and had seen the whole thing. She had been heading for
the door when she saw a black, white and tan blur take charge of the child.
The following night, Lady and I made our rounds on the property. As
we walked, people started coming out of their homes, and let the kids meet
and pet the dog. Lady was in Seventh Heaven. She loved all the attention.
Word had spread around the complex about what had happened, and it seemed
that everyone knew "The Lady was a Hero".
Three months later, we lost our Duke. There were some problems with a
surgical procedure, and our big friend was put to rest. Lady was there for
us, to fill the void, and made a special place for herself in our hearts.
In the corner of every pet lover's heart is a special place just for
certain pets -- whether they're fur, feathers or fins. Their time with us
is far too short, but leave us with a life time of memories.
Just on the other side of this existence is a place called The Rainbow
Bridge with a most joyous welcome for old friends.
-- Bob Shaw <caperabbit @ semo.net>

=========​

WATCHED THEM GO
by Jerry Plantz
I watched with sorrow
I watched with woe
I bit my tongue
As I watched them go.
Yesterday they answered the role
Of various occupations
Now they're on a list
To join with other nations.
There they are, there am I
Anxieties build and mount
Fearing to let go
Making every second count.
I am here to wish them well
I know nary a one
Yet I know all of them
Mother, father, daughter, son.
It wasn't long ago
With tears in our eyes
We stood on these docks
With remorseful sighs.
I held my husband's hand
I gazed into his heart
I felt our wedding vows
Until death do us part.
I pray the sorrows of tomorrow
May never surpass
The pains of the present
And their burdens of the past.
And from the ship that call
The call to assemble
I know it all too well
As tender hearts tremble.
Every depth of sorrow
Lingers with each disband
Even the smallest infant
Senses a trembling hand.
Like leaves in deepest Autumn
Which reluctantly let go
To join their scattered brethren
On the grass and streets below.
No one moves as the vessel sails
On that sea of reality
Carrying that precious cargo
Into a storm of finality.
Where is history taking them?
Who among them will return?
What will we have garnered?
What will we have learned?
Those questions reverberate
From one generation to another
I lost my dearest husband
And I will love no other.
We, they, you bear a sacrifice
In our own patriotic way.
Yet saying good bye, perhaps forever
Are the saddest words we'll say.
I watched with sorrow
I watched with woe
I bit my lip
As I watched them go.
-- Jerry Plantz <poetusa @ swbell.net>
Cha Mẹ nuôi con như biển hồ lai láng .
Con nuôi Cha Mẹ sao tính tháng , tính ngày .

FROM BEYOND?
by Linda Keller
A couple of years ago, I wrote about my beloved Sissy.
She was an abused Shepherd mix that had adopted us and lived to the
ripe old age of 16. Many of your readers may remember the story of how
Sissy left me two mice as presents after she died. I knew this meant she
was happy and able to run and chase mice again.
I had to write again to tell you that if anyone doubts that their pets
have spirits that live on, they need to hear our latest...
About a week ago, I spotted a mouse in our house. This wasn't your
everyday, run of the mill mouse -- he was VERY bold and would come out in
the middle of the day and run across the room in plain sight!
When Sis was alive, we never had a problem because she was such a good
mouser and would catch the mice for me. One night, she actually caught a
mouse in the bedroom and knocked it into a wastebasket at the bottom of the
bed!
I thought our newest ad***ion, who is an Alaskan Malamute/Husky mix,
would be a good mouser as well, since she loves to chase the squirrels and
other small animals in the yard. Unfortunately, she just ignored this
little guy, even when he ran right in front of her!
After trying for several days to catch this elusive mouse, I was
sitting at the dining room table one evening and saw him scurry across the
floor. I said out loud, "OK, Sissy where are you? I'm tired of this
mouse. I wish you'd catch it!"
About a half hour later, I was taking my bath and my husband came up
the steps and exclaimed, "What in the world? There's a dead mouse out here
in the hallway!"
Sis never hurt the mice she caught while she was alive and there were
no marks on this mouse to indicate the other dogs had caught it. The mouse
was right outside the bathroom door and still warm!
I know some folks would say this is just a coincidence but both of my
dogs had been outside and had just come in. In fact, they came up the
steps just ahead of my husband!
So... you can draw your own conclusions, but the next time I spot a
mouse in my house, I know who to call!
-- Linda Keller <Grandmadank @ aol.com>
Cha Mẹ nuôi con như biển hồ lai láng .
Con nuôi Cha Mẹ sao tính tháng , tính ngày .

FREDDIE FALCON
by Lori S. Anton
I was a 24 year old, newly relocated single parent with no wheels and
two preschool aged sons.
After escaping an abusive marriage and moving half way across the
state in the hopes of a fresh start, I'd expected to encounter new
challenges. But, what I hadn't expected was how nearly impossible it would
be to fulfill work and parental duties without collapsing from exhaustion,
simply because I didn't own a vehicle.
Working as a secretary in a semi-private high school was the perfect
job. I was able to acquire a small ground floor apartment right on campus
in exchange for performing dorm duties. As dorm parent, I was responsible
for the welfare of eight energetic teenagers boarding one floor above me,
for five evenings a week, 5pm to midnight.
Getting to and from work wasn't a problem. After all, I lived but a
hop and a skip from the administration office where I worked. But, getting
my children to and from the day care center across town was an entirely
different story.
I rarely got a full five hours sleep at night. My late night dorm
duties, combined with full-time secretarial work and caring for two active
children, pretty much accounted for most of my time and energy. I didn't
even own a clothes washer or dryer, so every Saturday, I trudged to a
nearby laundromat, juggling dirty laundry under one arm, while balancing a
2 year old in the other. The 3 year-old clutched at my coat hem and
stumbled along beside.
Eight months into this lifestyle, I found myself in the hospital from
sheer fatigue. At this point, my parents decided to intervene. The offer
was made to secure a second hand car if I was willing to make small monthly
payments.
All I had to do was get a driver's license.
So, that's what I did. After a written exam to acquire the learner's
permit, I promptly wrote the governor of my state and explained my unique
situation. To my amazement, he interceded and waived the required three
month waiting period before scheduling a road test. Within two weeks, I
was off to nab a driver's license.
I was rewarded with the sight of a beautiful light brown car, albeit a
seasoned veteran. It pulled up to the curb outside my apartment and
stopped. I finally had my own vehicle!
I have often heard old clunkers affectionately bestowed with such
feminine names as Old Bessy, Bertha, or Effie May, as in, "Effie may, but
then again, she may not" -- a favorite uttering before undertaking a long
journey.
Well, my first car was a Freddie. He was a light brown 1963 Falcon 2-door.
When I rushed outside to greet my new companion, Dad made a big
production of lifting the hood. Standing back with arms extended
dramatically, he gushed with unmistakable pride, "Just look at that motor!"
I stood looking in bewildered silence. All I could see was what
appeared to be wires and hoses crisscrossed recklessly over a round flat
"thingy" in the middle, connected to a lot of other things like belts,
knobs, hoses, and fan blades that stuck out in silly places.
To make matters worse, dad proceeded to bend over the motor and
identify various parts, using names and terms totally foreign to me. I was
horrified! What did I care what those greasy little twisted metal parts
and dusty old hoses were called. I'd waited 24 years for this moment, and
it was being ruined!
I wanted to stop all this nonsense and get down to the real business
at hand. I wanted to climb in the seat and view the world from inside my
very own car! I wanted to check the interior, run my hand over the
upholstery, turn on the radio and see how the speakers sounded. In other
words, I wanted to get to know Freddie Falcon intimately!
Over the course of that first year, Freddie and I shared a love affair
few understood. I stopped kicking tires and filling the radiator whenever
Freddie sputtered but refused to start. And, I came to realize rocking
frantically back and forth while wrenching the key in the ignition and
grinding my teeth wouldn't rev Freddie to life once he decided to sleep in
on cold mornings. I learned to respect Freddie's unique personality.
Despite minor mechanical problems, Freddie Falcon proved a lifesaver.
He eased hardships and helped to liberate me. I gained confidence, and
simple chores were kept simple. He provided fun family rides and
inexpensive trips to the beach, as well as other outings I otherwise
wouldn't have been able to provide for myself and young children.
The year 1977 with my little Falcon was a good one. My relationship
with Freddie proved to be one of the most satisfying male gender
relationships I had experienced up to that point.
Freddie Falcon was a life saver, and a friend indeed!
-- Lori Anton <lanton @ tctwest.net>
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Con nuôi Cha Mẹ sao tính tháng , tính ngày .

COMMON BOND
by Michael T. Powers
Ladies,
Saturday night you will play for a State Championship in girl's
basketball, and it is the culmination of four months of hard work.
Millions of girl's basketball players never get the opportunity to
play for a state championship in their high school careers. You get that
chance. You get that chance because you have earned it.
Four months ago, 128 teams started out with a dream to become State
Champions... and now it comes down to two teams. Four months of playing
your hearts out in games and practices and now that dream comes down to
thirty-two minutes.
Make every second count. Make every touch of the ball the most
important of the game. Every time a shot goes up, box out the opposition
and rip down the rebound. If you think you have played hard on defense
this year, think again!
Oh yes, we have played stellar defense, but it is nowhere near how
hard we are going to play this next game! Tell yourself to play defense
with your feet, and with the most important muscle in the game of
basketball -- YOUR HEART!
When you throw your heart into the game, your body will follow.
When you step to the free throw line, the crowd noise fades away and
you visualize the two swishes that will be taking place. You say to
yourself, "What were they thinking when they fouled me?! Don't they know
that I never miss!?" And then you see the swish in your mind.
You feel the smoothness of the ball as you release the most perfect
shot, with the most beautiful back-spin. It rises ever so slowly to the
peak of its arc, and then drops smoothly through the net. And all of this
happens in your head before you even receive the ball from the ref.
I can feel the energy building within you already. Each and every
pasta party has contributed the carbohydrates, and somewhere, deep down
inside your reserves, there is a ball of flame that is just waiting to
explode. All it will take is just one of you, just one player who decides
to set herself on fire. When the rest of you brush up against that player,
you burst into flame also! This flame will be so bright that our legions
of fans will have to look away for a moment or go blind. The student
section will pull out their sunglasses as they sit in the stands and bask
in the glow that is the Lady Cougars.
You know what is going to make the difference?
Confidence!
Confidence is the cement that binds a team together. Confidence is
contagious. Confidence is intimidating. From the time we step foot into
the Kohl Center, they will see the look of confidence on our faces, and the
other team will know the game is over before it even starts. The Lady
Cougars have years and years of tra***ion behind them. We are winners. It
is what we do.
However, being a winner is much, much more than just outscoring
another team. You ladies are winners because you love and respect your
teammates and coaches. You are winners because you have come together as a
family, through the good times and the bad, through the wins and the
losses, the pasta parties and the team talks, through the easy games and
the games where we sent players to the emergency room.
You are winners because you beat teams by playing tough basketball and
not by playing dirty. You say "thank you" to the refs each time they hand
you the ball and you look the other team in the eyes, shake their hands,
and mean it when you tell them they played a good game.
When the other team elbows you in the ribs, or shoves you to the
floor, you don't fight back. Instead you calmly walk to the line, sink
both free throws, and then slyly look at the scoreboard where you have just
inflicted "your" damage. You are winners because you study hard in school
and realize that playing basketball is a privilege that can be taken away
at any time.
You are winners because you are Lady Cougars: Amanda, Ami, Aundrea,
Brittany, Chrissy, Diedra, Hannah, Kim, Jacqueline, Kayla, Kelsey, Nancy,
Sam, Sarah, Stacey, and Tina. Powerful names by themselves, but a
monumental force to be reckoned with when you join hands and come together
as a team.
May all of you know how much we love being your coaches and how much
we love being a part of the incredible Lady Cougar tra***ion. Walk off the
floor Saturday night knowing that you played your hearts out, and that you
left every ounce of hustle and every drop of sweat on the court behind you.
Hold nothing back. Walk off the court with your heads held high, as
"The Champions" we know you are, no matter what the scoreboard says.
In basketball, and more importantly in life, all of you are winners in
our books.
I love ya!
Coach Powers
-- Michael T. Powers <Heart4Teens @ aol.com>
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Con nuôi Cha Mẹ sao tính tháng , tính ngày .

SIDE STEPPING
by James "PoppyK" Kisner
The photo album worn and old is sitting on the pile,
She flips the cover open just to reminisce awhile.
On the first page there she is, a baby in her lap,
Her son when he was one year old; she smiles as she thinks back.
That was taken in the park where she took him to play,
Funny how it sometimes seems like only yesterday.
But other times it seems those days are distant memories,
And all we have reminding us are pictures such as these.
She sees a picture of him with his second birthday cake,
And smiles as she remembered of the face that he would make,
When trying to blow out the candles he would have a fit,
He tried so hard to blow them out but they would all stay lit.
So Mom came to the rescue with a waving of her hand,
The same time that he blew on it she waved a little fan.
She smiles as she thinks back at all the things when he first tried,
When she would lend a helping hand and then just step aside.
She sees a picture of him standing holding his first bike,
And smiles when thinking how he said, "it's harder than a trike".
But she would run behind him holding on while he would ride,
Until he got his balance and then she would step aside.
She turns the page and sees a picture when he was in school,
Remembering he used to say that it was not so cool,
To have your mother waiting for the school bus at your side,
So when the bus would get in sight, she quickly stepped aside.
She goes on through the album like a trip down through the years,
And as she goes from page to page her eyes start forming tears.
All through his life she stood by him in everything he tried,
Until he could do it alone and then she stepped aside.
But even though she stepped aside she was always near,
With a mother's worried heart and with a mother's fear.
Knowing that a day would come when life would have a plan,
For her little boy who now has grown to be a man.
She closes up the album and looks at the fireplace,
She sees his picture on the mantle with his smiling face.
Called to active duty and he's serving now with pride,
And once again with worried heart, she had to step aside.
-- James "PoppyK" Kisner <PoppyK1 @ aol.com>
​

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Con nuôi Cha Mẹ sao tính tháng , tính ngày .

WHAT'S IN A NICKNAME?
by Jennifer Oliver
I love my name.
Mom said it was the most popular girl's name in the spring of 1963
when I was born.
Jennifer.
Dad called me Jenny. Both "pumpkin" and "Jenny" were his terms of
endearment for me. The way in which he said my nickname was laced with
such tenderness as if to single me out with love.
Mom's nickname as a child was Beppie. Her little sister's
mispronunciation of "Vesta" made the nickname "Beppie" stick throughout her
formative years.
My dad's nickname was "Sonny." It had nothing to do with "Joseph,"
but as the eldest apple dumpling of his mother's eye, "Sonny" it was. And
to this day his mother, who is in a nursing home and vaguely aware of her
surroundings, still talks about her Sonny.
I was called Jenny, Jen, and Refinnej. The last one is compliments of
my little sister who loved to say my name backwards. My brother lobbed the
nickname "pizza face" at me many times, but that's a whole 'nother story.
As a legally deaf child, while navigating the complexities that came
with being mainstreamed into regular classrooms, I came across a rather
unique quandary.
I had to decide what name to be called.
I've had lifelong trouble distinguishing between words. "Jennifer" --
as opposed to "Jenny" -- would be easier for me to distinguish in a place
like a crowded, noisy cafeteria. Or, if someone standing behind me in line
needed my attention, they could shout, "Hey, Jennifer!" before aiming a
spitball in my direction.
And so it was with great sadness that I kept my name formal to avoid
confusion throughout my academic life.
Many years passed with my father still calling me Jenny.
Then I met Stephen. Although introduced as Jennifer, my name evolved
into "sweetie." His love notes began with "Jenn" with two n's. Or "Jenni"
with a heart replacing the dot over the i.
He was singling me out with love.
And when my babies were born, Stephen began calling me "hot mama."
However, as my children found their voices and matured, it was their
nicknames for me that outshined all the echoes of Jen's, Jenn's, Jenni's,
and Refinnej's of my life.
"Momma," eight-year-old Cody says.
"Mom," seven-year-old Ethan says.
"Mommy," five-year-old Matthew says.
"Poo," announces Madison, pointing to her diaper. This two-year-old's
still a little young and has to be prompted to say the word "Mommy."
A nickname is simply a pseudonym for the word "love." But even if you
don't have one, as long as you're singled out with love... well, in the
end, that's all that truly matters.
-- Jennifer Oliver <four_ears @ msn.com>
Cha Mẹ nuôi con như biển hồ lai láng .
Con nuôi Cha Mẹ sao tính tháng , tính ngày .