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THE FUNNY THINGS KIDS SAY
Riley, 6, was at his grandmother''s house and they were playing
outside, along with his younger sister and brother. There was an egg that
a bird had knocked out of the nest lying on the grass. Later his
grandmother saw that the egg was cracked on the patio. She asked, "Did you
crack this egg?" Riley said yes. His grandmother replied, "Oh, I thought
maybe it was going to turn into a baby bird." Riley said, "Oh, I just
thought it was a scrambled egg!" -- Lana Turner (grandmother of Riley) of
Red Oak, Texas
Evan went to the pet store with his mother and aunt. While looking
around the store, he heard the birds making a lot of ruckus and wanted to
look at them more closely. He noticed one bird was noisier than the rest.
His aunt said, "That bird sure is making a lot of noise." Evan said, "I
guess he got up on the wrong side of the branch!" -- Trina Richey (mother
of Evan) of Evansville, Indiana
Cassie wanted a snack but she couldn''t remember the name of what she
wanted. It finally came to her. "I know what it is," she shouted. "I
want Peter Cottontail!" It took Bobby a few minutes before realizing
Cassie meant fruit ****tail! -- Bobby Cardwell of Gray, Tennessee
Jackie took her two daughters, ages 6 and 7, out for lunch. They each
had a lollipop (of the same flavor) after lunch. The youngest said hers
was "delicious." The older daughter tasted hers and said it was "gross!"
Her younger sister replied, "Well, we don''t all have the same taste ''bugs''
you know!" -- Jackie Pluim of Cambridge, Ontario
Jared, 21 months, and Debbie were sitting on the couch by the window
while it was raining. Debbie has a duck pond and if you look out the
window just right you can see the ducks and geese on the pond. After a
while, the ducks were gone and all was quiet. Jared looked at Debbie and
asked, "Duckies go?" Debbie said, "Honey, I bet the ducks went to go find
some lunch. Then he came back with, "Duckie goooooooo?" So Debbie, who
couldn''t think of anything else to say, asked, "What do you think the
duckies are having for lunch?" He thought real hard and then said, "UM
PIZZA!" -- Debbie Pipkin of Ypsilanti, Michigan
Karen was babysitting Rowan who had an imaginary playmate by the name
of Stanley. One day Karen''s mother, Bunty, offered Rowan, 4, a chocolate.
He took one, bit into it and thought he could do better. So he put it
aside, saying, "This one is for Stanley," and he reached for another. --
Sister Lita Camozzi of Toronto, Ontario
When Dallas'' son was young, he loved to watch cowboy shows. One day
he was watching a western and they performed a wedding. When it was
finished, he looked up and asked, "Daddy, Why do they say ''waffle-headed
wife?'' (lawful wedded wife)!" When he started school he came home singing,
"My country tizzles me, sweet land of livertree..." -- Dallas Phillips of
LaGrange, Kentucky
Mike had four sisters and he always said he wanted a brother. When
his mother, Delia, came home with a new baby boy Mike wasn''t happy at all.
"Why aren''t you happy?" his mother asked. "I got you a brother." Mike
replied, "I wanted a brother... not a baby!" -- Delia of Minnesota
Hayley''s church had vacation Bible school recently. The "motto" was
"Ready! Set! Race to Jesus!" The kids were supposed to say the words
with excitement, really loud. The leader asked the children what the
little lines (exclamation points) at the end of each word were and one
little girl shouted out, "They''re acceleration points!" -- Hayley Hodge of
Hilliard, Florida

BIG MAC
by Bob Shaw
It was in the early ''80s, and I had been out of work for some time.
Like a lot of others, I decided to head for the booming job market in
Texas. I figured it wouldn''t take long to find something and send for the
family. I''d been there for a few days, and landed one of those "sort of a
jobs", but it kept the wolf away from the door. At least there was a door.
It wasn''t long before I felt a bit lonely and homesick.
As I was leaving the grocery store one day, I noticed a flyer on the
bulletin board. It said Red Bird Dog for sale. It had been a year since
I''d lost my Brandy, an Irish Setter, and was curious to see this one. I
figured it might be nice to pet and visit. I had always been a sucker for
a dog.
When I got to the address, I asked to see the dog and was taken to the
backyard. He wasn''t what I expected. The dog was on a chain in a fenced
yard, terribly thin, and hadn''t been groomed in a long time, if ever. He
could have been a beautiful Irish Setter, but instead, he was a frightened,
and I suspected, a mistreated and abused animal.
The young teen who showed him to me said he probably wouldn''t come to
me. I asked if I could be alone with him for awhile, and the boy said,
"Sure, but it won''t do any good".
I went to where he could reach me on his chain, and sat down. I
talked in a low smooth voice, trying to coax him to me. Finally, I just
sat and waited. Little by little, he came closer. He sniffed my hand and
I started talking to him. He was shaking pretty bad and wasn''t used to a
gentle touch but I could see something stirring in those big brown eyes
that might be a glimmer of hope.
We spent some more time together and I knew I wouldn''t be able to
leave him there. I paid for him and took him back to the small apartment.
I knew this would be another problem but it was still better than the life
he knew. I had the next few days off so it would be a good time to get to
know each other.
I stopped at the local corner store for some dog food and McD''s for
supper. Then I took him to what I figured was his first real home.
Then the battle began. It was bath time. By the time I finished we
were both soaked. He wasn''t sure if he''d found a friend or another
tormentor. With a gentle touch and a calm voice, we finally emerged from
the bathroom with something that looked more like a dog than a briar patch
and tangle. By the time I''d finished his grooming, he''d transformed into a
beautiful dog -- skinny, but beautiful.
I had to find a name for him. I couldn''t just keep calling him "dog".
As I looked toward the table, I spotted the remains of supper and came up
with his name -- Big Mac. I figured if he could have talked he''d probably
say he was glad I didn''t have Chicken Nuggets that night.
As the days went by, Mac settled in to his new life. I knew the
apartment was hard on him and I had to do something to find him a good
home. I asked around at work and found a family that was looking for a
dog. She was a single mother trying to raise a daughter and wanted a dog
to keep her company. The little girl had been wanting a dog for quite some
time and I asked the mother if they could come by to see Mac.
When they got to my place, Mac was groomed and fed and looked more
like the dog he was born to be. When the little girl saw him, she just got
on her knees and said in a barely audible voice, "Oh Momma, he''s so
beautiful".
Mac hesitated, then walked over to her. She put her arms around his
big hairy neck and Mac put his head over her shoulder in something like an
embrace that seemed to last forever.
Her mom looked at me with tears in her eyes and asked me how much I
wanted for him. I told her what we were looking at couldn''t be purchased
with money. A dog will choose his master.
They went home together, both with their dreams. She had her dog and
Mac had his own kid.
They spent many happy years together, each loving and protecting the other.
-- Bob Shaw <caperabbit @ semo.net>

SMILING BACK
by Michael Segal
Whenever I was distraught as a teenager, my father was always by my
side to feel my pain.
However, nothing could compare to his agony when on February 18, 1981,
my life was dramatically changed forever.
I was at the wrong place at the wrong time, being an innocent
bystander of an armed robbery. I was shot in the head execution style by
one of the thieves. Very few people thought I would survive, much less be
a productive member of society.
In the hospital waiting room, my father was thinking only of me,
believing that I could be dying any second. He asked himself what he could
have done differently. If he could have spent more time with me. These
were irrational thoughts, but understandable given my father''s state of
mind. He was devastated.
My parents met with the neurosurgeon in the morning who coldly told
them that he was surprised that I was still alive and that he needed to
operate. He then proceeded to say that there was only a 40% chance of my
surviving the surgery, and if I did survive, almost a 100% chance of my
living in a nursing home, not being able to walk or communicate.
My mother refused to listen to the pessimism.
She told my father, "We need to rent a mini warehouse to keep Mike''s
furniture until he returns to school."
My father, still stunned, replied, "Toby, did you hear the surgeon?
Mike will be lucky if he spends the rest of his days at a nursing home."
My mother quickly and angrily barked back, "That doctor does not know
my son, my Michael." My father did not want to argue, especially not at
such a delicate time. Therefore, they rented a mini warehouse in Austin.
I beat the neurosurgeon''s odds and survived surgery.
I was in a coma and with each day that I showed no progress, my father
agonized even more. Then, "miraculously," I came out of the coma. True, I
had opened my eyes, but I still had a long, long way to go to even begin to
be functional. I was completely paralyzed on my right side, could not
speak, and I was hallucinating.
When the doctor informed my parents that I was stable enough to fly
home to a rehabilitation hospital in Houston, my father finally had reason
to hope.
Seven weeks after being hurt, I began to utter some words. Now, my
father thought, was the perfect time for him to work with me. At first he
would drill me on very, very simple things, such as pointing to a 1, then a
2, then a 3. My father was so happy when I accomplished the goal, only to
be devastated the next time when I was unable to do the simple task.
As time progressed, I continued to improve. My verbal skills were
improving daily. After my father''s busy day at work, he would come to the
hospital, ready to work with me. I still remember his bag filled with
flash cards. My father would continuously drill me on subjects such as
math and spelling. He would stretch my leg. My father would do whatever
might be beneficial for me.
The staff at the hospital, I believe, wasn''t very happy with my
father. My father is a Rabbi by profession and he did not finish his
synagogue duties until 8:30pm. Then he would quickly go to the hospital to
work with me. The hospital staff felt that I would get frustrated if I
worked past their ordinary therapy hours of 3pm and visiting hours of 8pm.
That didn''t matter to my father. He knew what was best for his son. No
one would be able to persuade him otherwise.
Even though very few of the medical staff at either hospital believed
that I would ever be able to return to college, that is exactly what I did
almost a year and a half later.
A major reason why was my father. He always encouraged me to look for
the positive, even when there was very little to feel positive about.
Four years after returning to the University, I graduated at the top
of my class with many honors including my election to Phi Beta Kappa,
graduating summa cum laude, and being honored as one of the Dean''s
Distinguished Graduates.
As I limped up to the stage to get my diploma from the Dean, I
received a standing ovation. I smiled as one of the many thoughts racing
through my head was of my father -- the man who helped me throughout my
ordeal -- the man who has always been there for me, no matter what.
Even though I could not see his face in the huge au***orium, I knew my
father was smiling back at me. I will always love him.
-- Michael Segal <MSegalHope @ aol.com>
MY DAD
Somewhere in this world,
They say we have a twin,
But I think that if you searched
This world from end to end,
And looked everywhere there was,
You still could never find,
A man who even could come close,
To matching this Dad of mine.
His hard and calloused hands,
Are soft and gentle on my cheek,
And his powerful, commanding voice,
To me softens when he speaks.
He''s often held me in his arms,
And he''s always made it known,
That I''ll always be his baby,
Even after I am grown.
Maybe somewhere in this world,
There''s someone who disagrees,
But I can''t think of a better Dad,
Than the one God gave to me.
-- Anita Burney <Neets7 @ aol.com>

HOW PROUD I AM
by Janet Seever
My father grew up as an only child of second-generation German
immigrants, a rigid upbringing.
In his early twenties, he married his high school sweetheart from a
neighboring farm. I was the first of five children.
Dad expected his children to excel at school and whatever else they
did. As the oldest, I worked hard to meet his expectations.
In this era, fathers did not hug or kiss their children. Praise was
sparse because it might "go to their heads and make them proud."
I remember a few occasions when we did things together. Dad would
carefully mark rows in the garden early each spring when the ground was
still cold and damp. My brother and I would follow him as he planted the
first long rows of peas. I also remember planting spruce seedlings with
him as part of a conservation project.
A few times I fished with dad and my younger brother in Dad''s old
wooden boat. When the lake was high, huge sunfish hid around the roots of
up-ended willow trees.
How I longed for him to say "I love you" and give me a hug, but it
never happened. Did he approve of me? It was difficult to tell in my
teenage years.
I grew up, graduated from the university, and eventually married.
Unfortunately, my husband and I often lived hundreds of miles away from my
family, and at times our work took us overseas. Mom wrote weekly, telling
of events back home, what my dad was doing, and news of my siblings. But
dad never wrote. He left that up to mom.
When we came home to the farm, our visits were cordial, but dad and I
were never close like some fathers and daughters.
In 1986, it was time to say goodbye for another of our overseas
assignments. My husband, two children and I, stood with mom and dad, our
arms around each other. My husband prayed for God to watch over all us
while we were apart.
Afterward, I hugged Dad and said, "I love you." It was still awkward.
"I love you too," he said and I noticed him brushing a tear from his eye.
How I wished we had been closer over the years.
My parents were in their early sixties, so I expected to have many
more times together in the future. We''d be back from our work in Australia
in four years.
Then two and a half years later, a life-shattering call came from
home. That Sunday afternoon, Dad had been snowmobiling around the edge of
the farm property, visiting neighbors. When he failed to return home, my
brother-in-law searched for him and found him in the snow, dead of a
massive heart attack.
Friends urged me to go home to Minnesota for the funeral.
"You''re not doing this for your father," they said. "You''re doing
this for yourself." How true it proved to be.
At the funeral, people had wonderful stories of dad -- a man of
integrity with a quiet faith. Their stories were fresh, recent. They knew
him so well.
"Dad, how I wish I had really known you!" I screamed inwardly. It was
like a song without an ending, a book with the last pages torn out. I
grieved for him and the close relationship that would never be.
Then, three years after his death, my mother died as well.
After the funeral, all of us five adult children came back to the farm
and sifted through the treasures we had left behind in the attic of the
family farmhouse. I was going through a box of my memorabilia when I came
across a small canvas bag.
Inside the bag were drawings I had done, old letters, and photos. In
the midst, I discovered two letters from my dad written years back when I
was finishing university -- the only personal thing I had in his
handwriting.
How could I have forgotten that they existed?
I carefully pulled out the yellowing paper. The first one was about
things on the farm. The second was about an honor society I had been
elected to at the university.
When I read the first paragraph of the second letter, my eyes welled
with tears, for he had written, "How proud I am to have a daughter like
you."
-- Janet Seever <jseever1 @ shaw.ca>

IF ONLY
by Adelaine Foo-Lei
Dear Heartwarmers:
Thank you so much for the beautiful story of a father''s love. It
brought instant tears to my eyes as I recalled my dad''s love and sacrifices
for us and his family.
My dad passed away in 1998, due to cancer. He is deeply missed by my
mum, my brother and me. Not a day passes by without thoughts of him, and
it gets especially difficult when Father''s Day comes around.
My dad always placed others before himself and he would go without so
others could have. As a young man, he was left to fend for his family upon
his beloved mother''s death and both my mother and him had to be surrogate
parents to 8 brothers and sisters, sacrificing the early years of their
marriage and all their dearest wishes of a newly married couple.
Although he was not one to show his affections for my brother and me
openly, we never doubted his love, and he was always there *****pport and
encourage us through life''s sunshine and storms.
I wish to dedicate the following poem to my dad, in memory of his love
and devotion:
IF ONLY
Daddy, if only I could have just one more day with you...
I would take you out to have your favourite meal,
Show you where I work and introduce you to my friends,
Take you on the LRT, go about town, stop for a drink,
Talk non-stop, while showing you so many things.
Daddy, if only I could have just one more hour with you...
I would tell you how grateful I am for all you have done,
How very proud I am of you,
All the while holding your hand
Taking comfort in your words.
Daddy, if only I could have just one more minute with you...
I would tell you how very much I miss you,
How my heart aches without you,
And how I wish you could stay, but
Most of all how very much I love you..
Daddy, if only...
-- Adelaine Foo-Lei
Kuala Lumpur, Malaysia <wyfoo @ klcc.com.my>

THAT WAS MY FATHER
by James Colasanti, Jr.
I miss the dandelion wine.
Recollections of this -- the golden-colored liqueur served only on
special occasions -- are centered around my father, one of the sources of
my Italian heritage.
Both of my parents came to America from Italy by boat in the 1920s.
My father had been born in Rome, and my mother was from Graniti, Sicily,
which was at the foot of Mount Etna.
My fondest memories are of my childhood as an only child growing up in
an Italian family in upstate New York. Tra***ion became and was a way of
life for us.
Every year in early summer, earthenware crocks with a wide dark brown
band at the top and a lighter beige band at the bottom lined the perimeter
of the back porch. When the days began to warm and the dandelions began to
bloom, my mother, Mary, and her sister, my Aunt Tina, would go into the
back fields and pick the dandelion flowers.
The speckled blanket of golden-yellow flowers covered the untrodden
landscape.
My mother''s and my aunt''s hands would take on a bronze cast from the
stains, a gift from the bushel upon bushel of flower pickings.
But the handiwork of crafting this potent liqueur was all in the
chemistry hands of my father, James Sr.
The right amounts of sugars, both brown and white, the raisins,
oranges, lemons, and everything secret or otherwise made this fermented
liquid such a hit with friends and family, were all part of his mental
recipe. Every trip passing through the porch to go out the back door
became a citrus-filled extravaganza that stimulated the senses.
Although great quantities of flowers, fruits and fructose went into
the liqueur, only a few bottles were produced each year, making each one
that much more special. Anticipation for this godly nectar was an endless
vigil of waiting. That golden sweet taste has lingered long in the minds
of all those lucky enough to have sampled its fragrant essence.
In ad***ion to his wines, my father tended to his vegetable gardens
with his lush large tomatoes and his hot peppers that would bring tears to
your eyes. His flower gardens had a sea of tulips in every color of the
rainbow, and his old world roses possessed a scent so strong they attracted
every honeybee in the neighborhood.
My father also had a special way with animals that would later be
passed on to me.
Perhaps only because there are so many of them, the dearest memory of
my father remains that special day in the woods. It is the time that I can
vividly remember being 12 years old and my father saying to me, "James
(only my parents were allowed to call me James) come with me. I want to
show you something."
We started across the five-acre pasture of corn toward the edge of the
woods that bordered it. We walked across the field with a purpose -- my
father was on a mission to teach me something that would benefit me in
later years, and I with the curiosity of an adolescent growing up in a
world of mystery.
The noonday sun, a sweltering blur through the haze of clouds, bathed
the cornfield with its celestial rays. The silken tufts sprouting from
each ear of corn and the dark green leaf blades of the stalks wafted at my
hair as we traversed the densely planted rows to the edge of the woods.
In his hands, my dad carried a small bundle of dried ears of corn.
Watching him as we walked, I noticed that the beads of sweat on the back of
his neck were gradually soaking into the back of shirt collar imparting a
darkened hue to the rough-woven fabric.
When we arrived at the forest''s edge, he said, "I want you to wait
here for 20 minutes. At the end of that time, come into the clearing where
all the big tree stumps are. I''ll be there waiting for you."
I sat under a tall old pine tree sucking on a long hay straw and
waited patiently, very curious as to what my father had in mind. Even at
midday the forest was dark with only scattered intermittent rays edging in
through the tree leaves. My old Benrus ticked away the minutes and when
the very last one was gone, I got up and made my way to the clearing.
There, sitting on an old tree stump, was my father, surrounded by
three wild deer, all of whom were eating the dried ears of corn out of his
hands. The peace and serenity of the scene enveloped even the treetops,
and to this day, remains an indelible imprint on my mind.
The lessons I learned from that eventful day have inspired me in my
daily life and my passion for rescuing stray dogs. Moments such as these
remind me that trust, loyalty, and love are the best things in life and the
most lasting. And to me, nothing is more important in life than those with
whom we share it.
All of us can remember a certain someone who could arouse a feeling or
inspire an action -- a very special someone -- be it coach, mentor, friend
or teacher.
For me, that was my father.
-- James Colasanti, Jr. <onegooddog1 @ bellsouth.net>

THE FUNNY THINGS KIDS SAY
When James, 4, heard that there was going to be a new baby in the
house, he insisted that he was going to have a baby sister. He wouldn''t
even consider the idea that it might be a brother. He was right. His
sister is now a year old, and he adores her. A few days ago he was
cuddling her, and his grandmother heard him say, "Oh, Janae, I just missed
you so much when you were still in Mommy''s tummy." -- Betty Jean Parker
(grandmother of James and Janae) of Cheyenne, Wyoming
When Nancy''s 18-year-old grandson was a toddler he wanted Nancy to cut
his toenails. She was trying very hard to be careful, but he was
concerned. "Mawmaw," he said, "be careful. Don''t cut me. You''ll let all
the air out of me!" -- "Mawmaw" Nancy of Laverne, Oklahoma
It was a couple of days before Mother''s Day and Colleen, 3, and
Colleen''s mommy were picking out outfits. Colleen was asked what dress she
would like to wear for Mother''s Day and she said, "Something for the rain."
When asked what she meant, she replied, "Rain, rain go away come again
Mother''s Day (another day)." -- June Reister (mother of Colleen) of Gary,
Indiana
Pat has seven grandchildren, five of whom live close by. During the
warm months, they try to have a BBQ and swimming on Sundays. Grandson
Justin, 3, has an older brother who he tries to emulate. Justin was having
fun trying to do jump cannonballs into the "little pool" (spa). Just
before making another jump, he said, "Watch! When I was little, I couldn''t
do this." -- Pat Smith of southern California
When Debbie was little, she was travelling cross-country with her
family. As sunset neared, the sun sent individual rays down through the
clouds. "Look!" Debbie said with great excitement. "It''s God''s blessings
coming down on sliding boards!" -- Deb of Chicago
When Rhonda''s children were helping their grandma wash the dishes,
Grandma started bragging about them. At one point she said, "It''s not just
that you''re pretty outside; you are pretty inside, too." Breanna, 5, said,
"Grandma, I''m pretty when I go outside." Grandma laughed and tried to
explain what she meant. After the explanation, Breanna said, "OK, my bones
are pretty... but they don''t have any hair!" -- Rhonda Bodeker of Ash
Flat, Arkansas
Aaron, 6, and his sister Stephanie, 9, went to the dentist for
check-ups and then to their grandmother''s house. She gave them each a soft
drink. Aaron said, "Oh, I don''t know Granny if we can drink them or not
because we just got back from the Tooth Fairy!" -- Jenny (grandmother of
Aaron and Stephanie) of Mayfield, Kentucky
Aaron, 3, wanted to tell his grandmother in Wisconsin what he had for
breakfast that morning, so he said, "I had monkey legs!" Aaron is now 12,
but he still likes "Smoky Links" for breakfast! -- Aaron''s grandmother in
Shipshewana, Indiana
When Sandee''s mother was in her nineties they would pick her up each
week to take her shopping and out to eat. They would have her
great-grandson, Joey, at the same time. When they would arrive at her
house she would always turn around, and say to Joey, "Bye, Doll." After
several weeks Joey, who was about 18 months, started saying, "Bye, Doll" to
her before she could say it to him. Sandee''s mother called all her
grandchildren and great-grandchildren her "precious cargo." She passed
away several months ago, and they made sure "Doll" was on one of her
ribbons. -- Sandee Dougherty of Ohio
Aulora, 6, was with her grandparents and mother Mysti at a local pizza
place. She asked her grandpa for a dollar to go play video games with, so
of course he gave her one. She neglected to thank him, so Mysti prompted
with, "Aulora, what do we say?" Aulora looked at her grandpa and said,
"Granddad, give me ALL your dollars!" -- Mysti Garrett (mother of Aulora)
of Lubbock, Texas

COWBOY HEART
by Roger Dean Kiser
"Silt, Colorado!" hollered the Greyhound bus driver, as he pulled off
to the side of the road.
I grabbed my small bag and climbed off the bus. Sitting beside the
road was a large man who was standing beside an old Army jeep.
"Are you Roger Kiser?" he asked me.
"Yes, Sir," I replied.
"My name is Owen Boulton. I own the Rainbow K Ranch," he said as he
stuck out his hand to shake mine.
I had been sent to Colorado by the Juvenile Judge in Florida so that I
could work on a ranch. It was a program that had been set up to help
troubled teenagers.
Within a week, I had been turned into a full fledge cowboy.
I had been assigned a large horse named "Brownie" and had been given a
full outfit of western wear, as well as a list of never ending duties which
started at around 4 o''clock each morning.
Things went rather well for the first couple of months. We worked
from 4am until 6pm, seven days a week. We bailed hay, branded cattle,
collected chicken eggs, mended fences and shoveled cow manure. It was a
never ending job.
The best part was my horse, Brownie. I guess she had been given that
name because she was brown in color. In ad***ion to my other chores, it
was my job to care for her. I fed her, bathed her and brushed her down on
a daily basis.
Every morning when I would come out to collect the eggs from the
chicken coop, she was always waiting for me by the gate. I would walk over
and pet her on her side. She would toss her head backwards and make a
strange sound like she was blowing through her lips. Slobber would fly
everywhere.
"I bet you could sure whistle loud if you had some hands," I would
tell her. She would stomp her feet and turn around in a circle.
There were not very many things that I loved on the face of this earth
when I was a young boy. But that horse was one thing that I would have
died for.
After we ranch hands had eaten our breakfast, I was told that I would
have to go with several of the older men and repair fences up on the
northern range. We loaded the jeep with fencing materials and tools and
off we went. It was almost 7pm when we got back to the ranch.
As we drove up to the barn, I saw about twenty ranch hands all sitting
around in a circle. I got out of the jeep and walked toward the large
crowd.
"What''s going on?" I asked.
"It''s your horse, Brownie. She''s dead," said one of the men.
Slowly I walked up to where Brownie was laying in the corral. I bent
down and petted her on her side. It took everything I had to keep from
crying in front of all those men.
All at once, the corral gate opened and Mr. Boulton came riding in on
an old tractor. He began scooping out a large hole right next to Brownie.
"What''s he gonna do?" I yelled out.
"We always bury the horses right where they drop," said one of the
ranch hands.
I stood to the side while he dug the hole for Brownie. I would wipe
the tears from my eyes as they rolled down my cheeks. I will never forget
that feeling of sadness for as long as I live.
When the hole had been dug, the men all stood back so that Brownie
could be moved into the large hole. Mr Boulton lowered the large tractor
scoop and moved toward Brownie.
"PLEASE MR. OWEN SIR! Please don''t move Brownie with that tractor
bucket. You''ll cut her and mess her up!" I yelled out at him.
I ran out in front of the tractor, waiving my hands and arms up into
the air.
"Look here boy," said Mr. Boulton. "We have no choice but to do this
when a horse dies. She is just too heavy to move by hand."
"I''ll get her in the hole. I swear I will Mr Owen, sir." I screamed
as loud as I could. I ran over to Brownie and I pushed on her head as hard
as I could, but she barely moved. I pushed and pushed but her body was
just too heavy. Nothing I tried to do would move her any closer toward the
hole. Finally, I stopped pushing and I just lay there in the dirt with my
head resting against Brownie''s side.
"Please don''t use that bucket scoop on Brownie," I kept saying, over
and over.
One at a time, the ranch hands began to get down off their horses.
Each positioned himself around the large brown horse and they began to push
and pull with all their might. Inch by inch, Brownie moved toward the
large hole in the ground. All at once she began to slide downhill. I
raised her head, as best I could, so that her face would not be scarred.
The next thing I knew, I was being pulled down into the hole.
Suddenly, everything went totally silent. I just sat there at the
bottom of the hole with Brownie''s head resting on my lap. Dust and dirt
was settling all around me. Slowly, I got to my feet and I placed her head
flat on the ground. Then I positioned each of her legs so that they were
straight. I removed my western shirt and I placed it over her face so that
dirt would not get into her eyes. I stood there crying as my best friend
was being covered with dirt.
Most of that night I stayed in the barn cleaning Brownie''s stall. I
cried until I could cry no more. I guess I was just too embarrassed to go
back to the bunkhouse with the rest of the ranch hands.
Early the next morning, I walked back to the bunkhouse to shower and
change clothes before going out to collect the chicken eggs. As I entered
the small wooden house, the ranch hands were up and getting dressed.
Laying on my bunk was eight dollars and some change. On a match book cover
was written, "Buy yourself a new western shirt."
When I looked up, all the men were smiling at me. One of them said,
"You may be a city boy R.D. (that''s what they always called me) but you
definitely have the heart that it takes to be a real honest to goodness
cowboy."
I wiped my swollen red eyes and I smiled real proud like.
-- Roger Dean Kiser, Sr. <trampolineone @ webtv.net>

THE ANGEL THING?
by Roger Dean Kiser
I was not feeling very well when I got out of bed. I sat down in
front of the television and I began watching the morning news. After
finishing my coffee I walked into the bedroom and I put on my cut-off jeans
and a polo shirt -- jeans that my wife had threatened to throw away because
the legs had strings hanging down almost to my knees. I put on my baseball
cap, walked out to my truck, and I headed to the local book store.
"I''m looking for Chicken Soup for the Caregiver''s Soul and Chicken
Soup for the Friend''s Soul. Can you tell me if they have they been
released yet?" I asked the clerk at Books-A-Million.
"August and September are the release dates. That is what it shows
here on the computer," he told me.
I thanked the gentleman and then I walked over to see if I could find
any hard-cover e***ions of the Chicken Soup books which I already had
stories in.
As I approached the Chicken Soup section, there stood several young
girls reading a story from one of the books.
"That has to be the saddest story that I have ever read," she told her
friend.
I looked at the front of the book and noticed that it was Chicken Soup
for the Horse Lover''s Soul. I picked up a book and I began to look through
the pages.
As the two young women walked in front of me, I could see that the
story they were discussing was one that I had written. I wanted to tell
them that I had written the story but for some strange reason I just
couldn''t. For some reason I felt completely embarrassed.
I placed my book back onto the shelf and I walked over to the Joe
Muggs counter to get a cup of coffee. After ordering a coffee, I made my
way out to the terrace. Several minutes later, the two girls came out onto
the terrace, with an older woman, who I presumed was their mother. They
sat down at one of the tables and the young girl began to read my story to
the woman. When she finished reading, the three of them sat there
silently, for about a minute.
"I wish I could write stories like that," said the young girl, as she
wiped her eyes with a napkin.
"Katy, just put your mind to it and you can do anything that you
want," the woman told her.
"You gotta be real smart to write like that," said the girl, as she
closed the book.
I smiled when I heard those words, knowing all along I was not a very
smart person. I had only finished the sixth grade before being sent off to
the reform school by the orphanage.
I got up from my seat and I walked back into the bookstore to get
another cup of coffee. While I was at the counter, the three ladies walked
back into the store and asked the clerk for directions to the restroom. As
they were about to enter the bathroom the young girl rested the book on one
of the tables.
I walked over and I opened the book and I wrote: "COWBOY HEART by
Roger Dean Kiser. Katy, you can do anything that you want if you put your
mind to it." And then I signed it, "Your friend, Roger 6-17-04."
When they came out of the bathroom the young girl picked up the book
and the three of them proceeded to the checkout counter. The mother paid
for the book and they left the store.
I''m not sure how the girl will react when she reads what I had written
inside the front cover.
Will she look upon this as one of those strange miracles? Was this my
chance to do an "angel" thing?
-- Roger Dean Kiser, Sr. <trampolineone @ webtv.net>

COWBOY HEART
by Roger Dean Kiser
"Silt, Colorado!" hollered the Greyhound bus driver, as he pulled off
to the side of the road.
I grabbed my small bag and climbed off the bus. Sitting beside the
road was a large man who was standing beside an old Army jeep.
"Are you Roger Kiser?" he asked me.
"Yes, Sir," I replied.
"My name is Owen Boulton. I own the Rainbow K Ranch," he said as he
stuck out his hand to shake mine.
I had been sent to Colorado by the Juvenile Judge in Florida so that I
could work on a ranch. It was a program that had been set up to help
troubled teenagers.
Within a week, I had been turned into a full fledge cowboy.
I had been assigned a large horse named "Brownie" and had been given a
full outfit of western wear, as well as a list of never ending duties which
started at around 4 o''clock each morning.
Things went rather well for the first couple of months. We worked
from 4am until 6pm, seven days a week. We bailed hay, branded cattle,
collected chicken eggs, mended fences and shoveled cow manure. It was a
never ending job.
The best part was my horse, Brownie. I guess she had been given that
name because she was brown in color. In ad***ion to my other chores, it
was my job to care for her. I fed her, bathed her and brushed her down on
a daily basis.
Every morning when I would come out to collect the eggs from the
chicken coop, she was always waiting for me by the gate. I would walk over
and pet her on her side. She would toss her head backwards and make a
strange sound like she was blowing through her lips. Slobber would fly
everywhere.
"I bet you could sure whistle loud if you had some hands," I would
tell her. She would stomp her feet and turn around in a circle.
There were not very many things that I loved on the face of this earth
when I was a young boy. But that horse was one thing that I would have
died for.
After we ranch hands had eaten our breakfast, I was told that I would
have to go with several of the older men and repair fences up on the
northern range. We loaded the jeep with fencing materials and tools and
off we went. It was almost 7pm when we got back to the ranch.
As we drove up to the barn, I saw about twenty ranch hands all sitting
around in a circle. I got out of the jeep and walked toward the large
crowd.
"What''s going on?" I asked.
"It''s your horse, Brownie. She''s dead," said one of the men.
Slowly I walked up to where Brownie was laying in the corral. I bent
down and petted her on her side. It took everything I had to keep from
crying in front of all those men.
All at once, the corral gate opened and Mr. Boulton came riding in on
an old tractor. He began scooping out a large hole right next to Brownie.
"What''s he gonna do?" I yelled out.
"We always bury the horses right where they drop," said one of the
ranch hands.
I stood to the side while he dug the hole for Brownie. I would wipe
the tears from my eyes as they rolled down my cheeks. I will never forget
that feeling of sadness for as long as I live.
When the hole had been dug, the men all stood back so that Brownie
could be moved into the large hole. Mr Boulton lowered the large tractor
scoop and moved toward Brownie.
"PLEASE MR. OWEN SIR! Please don''t move Brownie with that tractor
bucket. You''ll cut her and mess her up!" I yelled out at him.
I ran out in front of the tractor, waiving my hands and arms up into
the air.
"Look here boy," said Mr. Boulton. "We have no choice but to do this
when a horse dies. She is just too heavy to move by hand."
"I''ll get her in the hole. I swear I will Mr Owen, sir." I screamed
as loud as I could. I ran over to Brownie and I pushed on her head as hard
as I could, but she barely moved. I pushed and pushed but her body was
just too heavy. Nothing I tried to do would move her any closer toward the
hole. Finally, I stopped pushing and I just lay there in the dirt with my
head resting against Brownie''s side.
"Please don''t use that bucket scoop on Brownie," I kept saying, over
and over.
One at a time, the ranch hands began to get down off their horses.
Each positioned himself around the large brown horse and they began to push
and pull with all their might. Inch by inch, Brownie moved toward the
large hole in the ground. All at once she began to slide downhill. I
raised her head, as best I could, so that her face would not be scarred.
The next thing I knew, I was being pulled down into the hole.
Suddenly, everything went totally silent. I just sat there at the
bottom of the hole with Brownie''s head resting on my lap. Dust and dirt
was settling all around me. Slowly, I got to my feet and I placed her head
flat on the ground. Then I positioned each of her legs so that they were
straight. I removed my western shirt and I placed it over her face so that
dirt would not get into her eyes. I stood there crying as my best friend
was being covered with dirt.
Most of that night I stayed in the barn cleaning Brownie''s stall. I
cried until I could cry no more. I guess I was just too embarrassed to go
back to the bunkhouse with the rest of the ranch hands.
Early the next morning, I walked back to the bunkhouse to shower and
change clothes before going out to collect the chicken eggs. As I entered
the small wooden house, the ranch hands were up and getting dressed.
Laying on my bunk was eight dollars and some change. On a match book cover
was written, "Buy yourself a new western shirt."
When I looked up, all the men were smiling at me. One of them said,
"You may be a city boy R.D. (that''s what they always called me) but you
definitely have the heart that it takes to be a real honest to goodness
cowboy."
I wiped my swollen red eyes and I smiled real proud like.
-- Roger Dean Kiser, Sr. <trampolineone @ webtv.net>