Tui xin một cái topic nhé....

THE LOST ART OF WHISTLING
by Ron Gold
Except for teapots, I think I'm the only thing that still whistles.
I don't hear that high pitched breathy sound as much as I used to.
And I miss it.
When I was a kid just about everyone whistled. It was the way a guy
or girl with an insufficient voice performed the hit songs of the day. He
or she did not have to remember lyrics, just melodies.
While I enjoyed its musicality, I always related whistling with
happiness and self-satisfaction. Whistlers tend to be good folks. You
can't wear a frown and whistle well at the same time.
The local bully never whistled. The sound of whistling irritated the
grouches, who felt you shouldn't whistle in polite company. Whistlers
never whistled when they delivered bad news. Movie villains never
whistled; heroes were more the whistling type, like Snow White and the
Seven Dwarfs. But that was a different time in America.
We whistled during the devastating economic depression because we
couldn't afford musical instruments -- and there, right under our noses,
was our whistling equipment. Nothing to buy. No sheet music to read. No
upkeep cost. No protective equipment to carry. No strings to break or
reeds to split. Got a hangnail, laryngitis or a broken limb? Well, they
won't stop you from whistling.
Some people became so good that they whistled professionally. Bing
Crosby and Al Jolson could pucker with the best of them. Elmo Tanner had a
number one hit recording with Heartaches and he imitated birds for Disney
movies. On the radio, The Whistler whistled the theme of his mystery show.
And the Hartz Mountain Hour featured what sounded like thousands of
whistling canaries. Even Anna in The King & I whistled a happy tune.
Remember the haunting whistling background themes in such movies as The
High and Mighty, or The Good The Bad and the Ugly?
How do you call a taxicab in traffic? You whistle. How do you get
man's best friend's attention? Same way.
Even something as wholesome and as smile-bearing as whistling can be
corrupted. Listen as pretty girls pass a construction site. "Clean as a
whistle?" Hardly.
"They ain't whistlin' too much on the street now," a stockbroker
friend told me. "Not like before. Got less reason to whistle these days."
You never whistle in the theatre, in funeral parlors or in foxholes.
If I recall correctly, there are still sixty seconds in a minute,
sixty minutes in an hour, twenty-four hours in a day. Think quantitatively
and you realize there's a lot of time to whistle.
Think qualitatively and you realize it takes more than "puckerpower"
to make those happy sounds -- it takes peace of mind, a touch of joy and a
sense of self-satisfaction, as well as the feeling that you want to share
your good fortune.
If you don't know how to whistle, remember Lauren Bacall's directions
in the movie To Have And Have Not, "just put your lips together and blow."
So feel good. Get happy. Keep me company. Whistle.
-- Ron Gold <outthinkresumes @ aol.com>
Cha Mẹ nuôi con như biển hồ lai láng .
Con nuôi Cha Mẹ sao tính tháng , tính ngày .

MAY YOUR SEEDS BE MANY
by Allen Dormuth
Each spring, one of the first plants in my yard *****rvive the winter
is the dandelion.
It stands tall above the awakening lawn, proudly displaying it's
sun-colored blossoms. It seems so full of life and energy. It is a very
independent plant that respects no rules and insists on living where you
don't want it to be.
The dandelion is in great demand by some and hated by others. I
called my eighty-five year old mother one day last spring. Usually I check
on her once a day by phone. I tried calling her several times during the
morning. Each time there was no answer. Finally, I drove the twenty-three
miles to her house, only to find her on her hands and knees in the front
yard. My first thought was that she had fallen and was trying to get up.
After running over to help her she said, " Leave me be, I am just picking
some dandelions. I always have them in the spring. They are my spring
tonic."
Down the street, her ninety year old neighbor was engaged in the same
process. She was only picking the blossoms. She saw me staring with my
mouth open I think, and hollered, "I am picking the flowers to make
dandelion wine. It is good for what ails you." A man across the street
was busy with his lawn spreader, applying feed and weed. He just looked at
me and shook his head. He knew, as I did, that in a few days these pretty
yellow plants would turn white and provide millions of seeds that would
blow across the street into his velvet like weed free yard.
It is interesting how the human species is like the dandelion. When
young and full of life, we are the first one up in the morning. A two year
old is always into something and most likely where he is not supposed to
be. As the dandelion matures, its flower turns to white. It's mission in
life is to spread around as well as it can to perpetuate it's species.
Every thing the next generation needs to know is contained in those white
blossoms, (hair if you will) and is passed on. We, on the other hand,
don't usually turn white before we spread our "seeds". But, most of us
spend twenty or more years educating our "seeds" with the knowledge they
need *****rvive. That is of course, if we don't pull it all out first.
The winter finds the dandelion resting under the snow surviving on
nutrition stored in its root. The now elderly parent survives, living off
his savings and Social Security at home or in a nursing home.
Sometimes the dandelion gets to live another season, unless he is in a
weed and feed yard. We humans don't have zealous neighbors to poison us,
but we do have nature's weed killers to contend with -- we call them
cancer, heart disease, accidents, war, etc. When the weed killer gets the
dandelion, there are many seeds left behind to carry on. When life's
killers attack us and win, there is a new generation to take up life's
challenges.
May your "seeds" be many and your "weed killers" be few.
-- Allen Dormuth <bigal @ ultraisp.com>
Cha Mẹ nuôi con như biển hồ lai láng .
Con nuôi Cha Mẹ sao tính tháng , tính ngày .

SO PROUD
by Kim Krowlek
Mother's Day this year was like any other day.
I even had to go to work as a cashier at my local IGA store. I had to
endure inconsiderate customer comments like, "What are you doing working
today? You should have the day off since you're a Mom".
But my husband had given me a very simple gift that touched my heart
so much that nothing was going to ruin my day.
Here is that letter:
Dear Kim,
I have been hearing all week about the lady who suggested
the idea of Mother's Day, and how she was so opposed to
people buying cards instead of sending a personal letter
to their mothers that she spent the last few years of
her life trying to have Mother's Day removed.
I know you are not my mother, but you are the mother
of our children so I want to personally thank you for all
you do. I know that the duties of a mother are so easily
overlooked and taken for granted. But I am so glad you
have so willingly sacrificed for our children. You chose
to be a stay-at-home mom instead of pursuing a career.
You chose to do without things so the kids would have
things. You chose to open our home to care for other
children. You chose to give our children something that
so many kids today don't have -- a stable and loving
environment. You chose to put up with my failures
and shortcomings so we could remain a family when
so many others would have called it quits. You chose
the rewards of life that money can never buy.
We may not have a life of luxury, but we do have a love
for each other that continues to grow. I can't promise
you a better tomorrow but I can promise I'll be there
tomorrow to continue to give you love and support.
I didn't buy a gift or a card because I truly believe what
you told me -- that all you wanted is for Graybie (our cat)
to have her surgery. I know that means more to you than
anything right now.
There it is again -- that wonderful love of a mother that
you have -- not only for our children, but for our pets as
well.
I am so proud that you are my wife. I appreciate the love
and compassion that you have for others. Hopefully, that
will continue to rub off on me.
You truly are a gift from God to me. I love you more than
words can say. Happy Mother's Day!
Forever Yours, Jim
-- Kim Krowlek <jkrowlek @ maxiis.com>
Cha Mẹ nuôi con như biển hồ lai láng .
Con nuôi Cha Mẹ sao tính tháng , tính ngày .

THE BEST FRUIT ****TAIL
by Michael Segal
Rituals are very nice and my family has had one for many years.
Every Friday night we would always eat spaghetti for dinner followed
by fruit ****tail in heavy syrup for dessert. It would never fail. It was
like clockwork. The kids all loved that menu.
One Friday night, as usual, my mother dished out our spaghetti -- not
too heavy on the meat sauce as always. Mom explained that was because it
was her "special recipe". However, years later, we realized it was only
because she wanted to economize. That did not matter to us. We all loved
the fact that some things would never change and, for us, that meant Friday
dinner with spaghetti and fruit ****tail.
On one specific Friday night, after the kids had all gobbled up their
pasta, we (my oldest brother, Jeff, aged 8, at the time, and my sister,
Lisa, aged 4, and myself aged 6) naturally expected the can of fruit
****tail to be opened by our mother for dessert.
However, that Friday night was different.
I could tell as mom did not have her can opener -- not even the can
for that matter. I was becoming frantic.
"What would we do without the fruit ****tail?!"
Just then my mother got up and spoke. "Kids, I have a surprise for
you -- a wonderful surprise."
That explained it -- instead of fruit ****tail, we were going to have
pie! I wondered what kind it would be. Apple was my favorite, but I liked
cherry too. However, I quickly looked towards the oven in the kitchen but
it was turned OFF! Something was wrong -- cold pie? My mother would never
do that.
I began to think and think -- becoming sadder by the second. I
realized there was not going to be pie -- not apple, not cherry, not even
peach. But mom said that she had a wonderful surprise.
What in the world could it be?
My mother began to speak. "Kids, Dad and I have some wonderful news.
You're going to have either a baby brother or baby sister!"
With these words my mother looked so happy and excited. With those
words the children looked so sad and depressed. The kids were all
thinking, "No pie for dessert. Not even fruit ****tail."
It has been over thirty years since that eventful Friday night. We
still gather practically every Friday night at our parents' home for
dinner. The main course for dinner is still usually spaghetti. However,
we no longer have fruit ****tail.
Instead, we have Scott -- our brother.
Sometimes I long for fruit ****tail. (Just kidding Scott.)
-- Michael Segal <msegalhope @ aol.com>
Cha Mẹ nuôi con như biển hồ lai láng .
Con nuôi Cha Mẹ sao tính tháng , tính ngày .

OVERCOMING BULLIES
by Chris Courtney
The old saying goes that you are what you eat.
I hope that's wrong. I don't think I'd like to awaken one morning to
discover I've morphed into a super size McBurger meal (with a Diet Coke -
gotta counteract those biggie fries somehow!)
Better still, there is an old proverb that hits the mark much truer:
"As a man thinketh in his heart, so is he."
Thousands of people suffer from low self-esteem, the product of wrong
belief about one's self. "I'm dumb", or "I'm ugly", or "No one will ever
love me" -- these wrong thoughts soak into the very belief system of the
low self-esteem sufferer. It is reality as they see it.
People often suffer low self-esteem because they believe a lie.
Along the line somewhere in their life, somebody told them they were
stupid, or ugly, or would never amount to anything. That somebody could be
a father- or mother-figure, a teacher, a schoolmate... somebody trusted and
respected. Perhaps they were teased at school, singled out for cruel,
childhood ridicule. Whatever the reason, they heard the lie. And they
believed it.
People who run other people down and cause them pain have two common
denominators: 1) They are bullies. 2) They, too, have low self-esteem.
Bullies become bullies to overcompensate for some psychological
shortcoming they have. They tend to attack the weaknesses they perceive in
others that are the same as (or close to) the weaknesses they see in
themselves.
One of the hardest things for self-loathing individuals to do is look
in a mirror. I don't necessarily mean that literally, but figuratively.
Looking at one's self, the very essence of who they are, is painfully tough
(if not excruciating) for those with self-image problems. True, healthy
inner reflection is not one of the benchmarks of low self-esteem.
Realizing this, here are four steps to help people with low self-esteem:
1) YOU WERE WONDERFULLY CREATED. If you believe God is the creator of
all, then He created you. You were created for a purpose, because God
never created anything just for the fun of it.
2) YOU ARE NOT DEFINED BY OTHERS. Even if the Pope himself told you
you're ugly and your mother dresses you funny, don't believe it! No other
human being has the right to impose his or her judgment on you. Often
times, bullies are just casting off dispersions they've received and cannot
handle. When bullies attack you verbally, remember: they do not know your
heart, so don't let them judge your heart.
3) LOVE THE BULLIES. When people bully, they are merely acting out of
anger and pain because they know no other way to deal with it. The only
way through a heart of stone is to soften it with love. A lump of
moistened clay is much more malleable than a hard brick. Love is the
answer (isn't love always the answer?). If you will refuse to accept the
lies of the bully and, instead, show him love, one of two things will
happen: either the bully will go away and leave you alone, or you'll have
won a friend and softened a heart. Either way, you win.
4) LOVE YOURSELF. Love others as you love yourself. However, if you
don't love yourself, it's a bit hard to love those around you. Forget the
lies you've been told. Recognize that you have gifts, talents and beauty.
Just because someone else hasn't noticed doesn't mean they aren't there.
Before anybody can see the good in you, you have to show them. If it's
hidden, who's going to see it?
I write this in love, because I used to be a sufferer of low
self-esteem. I couldn't see any value in myself. But, let me tell you,
once I grabbed hold of the truth that I am a creative, beautiful, lovable
(and much loved) creation of God, my life began to change.
So, go look in that mirror. It's OK. Don't be frightened by what you
see. Pray and look deeper and you'll find there is an awful lot of good
within you.
And, one more thing. If you find your mother is, in fact, dressing
you funny... maybe it's time mother stopped dressing you. Just a thought.
-- Chris Courtney <e-ncouragement316 @ cfaith.com>
Cha Mẹ nuôi con như biển hồ lai láng .
Con nuôi Cha Mẹ sao tính tháng , tính ngày .

WAKE UP AND SMELL THE CAT FOOD
by Maria Harden
I was sound asleep in my comfortable bed, dreaming of being kissed all
over my face, when suddenly it felt suspiciously like reality.
Groggily, I struggled to open an eye, but a wet sandpaper tongue
licked my eyelid before I could. I groaned, knowing my favorite feline was
awake and ready for his breakfast. Six o'clock every morning, rain or
shine, was my wake-up call. Who needed an alarm clock when you have a
hungry cat on the prowl?
Still tired, I tried to ignore Cinder's administrations but to no
avail. More licks with the sandpaper tongue, first on one eyelid, then the
other, until I was forced to open my eyes. When my furry friend saw me
partially awake, he literally danced with glee.
"Breakfast, Mom, and now!" he seemed to say with his persistent and
loud meow.
Stalling for time, I rolled over on my stomach, and a second later, I
felt my hair being pulled. Cinder knew the routine. If at first Plan A
doesn't work, then resort to Plan B. This too-smart cat put his claws in
my hair and then retracted them, which resulted in my head being literally
yanked. He knew how to get my attention.
I still wasn't moving fast enough, so now he resorted to Plan C. If
you know what fingernails scraping on a chalkboard sounds like, multiply it
tenfold and that is the sound of a cat's claws scratching the wall behind
the bed. I cringed at the harshness of the sound, and finally gave up.
Cinder had won, again.
In the kitchen, I opened a can of cat food while Cinder danced around
my legs. He was obviously starving, the poor thing. Not having been fed
for several hours, this pitiful fat cat was wasting away to a mere shadow
of himself. Another moment and it would have been too late. Famished, he
gulped down a mouse size portion of cat food, then licked his whiskers and
sauntered away, sated for the moment. My duty was done.
Cinder was an appropriate name for this cat as he was entirely black,
with just a few barely noticeable stray white hairs. He was so gentle when
playing with children, allowing even the smallest child to carry him around
in the most undignified position. Halloween was always fun, because Cinder
sat at the big living room window and watched the costumed children who
came trick or treating. They thought he was a Halloween prop. What better
way to add to the ambiance of Halloween than a black cat!
My mother always said that when a cat looks out the window, he is
reading his newspaper, as the outdoors is a cat's world. I always
commented that he was reading the Feline Free Press. Cinder never ventured
out of the yard, instead he stayed hidden behind the shrubs so he could see
out and no one could see him. We had an outside screen door, and when we
heard a "ping, ping" sound, it was Cinder, flicking the screen with his
claws. We called it the cat doorbell.
Cinder had a passion for green olives and celery leaves, and was even
known to nibble on bits of raw carrots. Whoever heard of a vegetarian cat?
He liked to sit on a chair at the kitchen table and watch us eat our
meals. He never begged or tried to get anything off the table, but only
wanted to be part of the family. There was one particular chair that he
claimed as his and heaven help anyone who sat there. If an unsuspecting
guest was not quick enough to be seated, we would have to move a very
annoyed cat. If looks could kill!
Cinder was an only cat until he was about twelve years old. When we
got Smoky, Cinder's nose was out of joint at this new young interloper who
stole his thunder. Smoky, being a kitten, wanted to play, and Cinder,
being an older cat, did not. Cinder tolerated Smoky, but just barely.
Smoky, of course, got his moniker from his smoky grey fur.
When we get another cat, we are told we should continue the pattern,
get an orange cat, and call him Flame.
-- Maria Harden <mharden @ escape.ca>
Cha Mẹ nuôi con như biển hồ lai láng .
Con nuôi Cha Mẹ sao tính tháng , tính ngày .

TWINKIE TAX
by Christina Abt
Higher taxes, lower incomes, fewer services, less jobs.
These days, across the nation, the news is constantly focused on
economic downturn with little or no hope in sight.
Yet recently, I heard an increased tax tale that absolutely crossed
the line and pushed me over the "woe is me" edge.
It was a story that came out of The National Nutrition Summit in
Washington, D.C., where a leading group of nutritionists decreed that
America as a population is overweight and over fed. It is a situation
that, in their words, has become "an obesity epidemic".
So as a result, these research geniuses have decided that the cure for
our flabby ills is a preventative measure called the "Twinkie Tax".
Yes, that's right.
These nutritional eggheads have decided that if the government would
just institute higher taxes on fatty junk foods and lower taxes on "good
for you" foods that people would accordingly eat less of the junk and more
of the fruits and vegetables.
To which I -- as a confirmed chocoholic, cookie monster, bet you can't
eat just one aficionado -- reply, you gotta be kidding me!
To begin with, there are a lot of issues in which the government has a
right to play a lead role, but personal fat intake is definitely not one of
them. If I want to eat breakfast, lunch and dinner in a chocolate induced
stupor then that is my choice to make -- no government interference needed
or desired, thank-you very much!
Secondly, what in the world could ever possess these nutritional
scientists to imagine that the imposition of tax on a food as integral to
the American way of life as Twinkies will stop people from eating them?
Come on, let's get real here. Food essentials such as Twinkies and Hostess
Ho-Hos are as American as mom and apple pie.
Why I can still clearly remember my earliest memory of Twinkie induced
nirvana. It was during my early teenage years when, as a school girl, I
would travel in packs with other school girls searching out sugar laden,
after school treats.
One of our ultimate indulgences involved Twinkies, which we would
split in half. Then, we would stuff M&M's into the sticky, gooey bed of
artificially flavored whipped cream. Finally, we would ceremoniously
reseal the two halves back into the original mouth watering golden sponge
cake form. The resultant taste treat was indescribable.
But, I digress.
From all I've heard about this nefarious Twinkie tax, the anti-fat
fascists are planning a national media blitz on this issue. They are being
aided in this cause by those who shaped the recent anti-smoking campaign,
which eliminated the addictive weed from all public spaces in New York
State.
Now, it's one thing to pick on a substance that can hurt those
standing near the poison as much as those actually inhaling it. However,
my M&M laced Twinkies effect no one but me. There's no second hand fat
danger. I'm not blowing addictive fat fumes into people's faces with every
gooey bite. I'm just enjoying some good old-fashioned American,
sugar-laden food.
So I say, back off all you health food fanatics.
When it comes to Twinkies, my well being and the well being of all
Americans, is not about government regulation. My body belongs to me and
what I chose to fill it with is my own personal choice, not something you
can govern with a tax.
Furthermore, I'm sure that I recall from some long ago history class
that somewhere in the Amendments to the Constitution, there is a clause
that protects every American's right to eat Twinkies to their heart's
delight. From that ideal, I pledge to defend, to the death, the rights of
any citizen in these United States to split open their Twinkies and stuff
them with their favorite chocolate indulgence.
Twinkie tax -- what, are they nuts??
-- Christina Abt <christinaabt @ hotmail.com>
Cha Mẹ nuôi con như biển hồ lai láng .
Con nuôi Cha Mẹ sao tính tháng , tính ngày .

WINNIE AND POO
by Bob Shaw
I've always enjoyed living in a small town with a close neighborhood.
There's always a friend to talk to, and you usually knew most of your
neighbors and their dogs on a first name basis.
Winnie was a little gray haired lady that lived just down the street
from us. She had a small white Poodle she called Poo.
She'd been widowed for several years and her children had moved out of
the state, leaving her and Poo to look after each other.
Our local veterinarian was someone I usually saw only once or twice a
year. That day, I'd taken our Collie, Duke, in for his annual checkup and
shots, and saw Winnie and Poo through the office window in the examining
room. The receptionist let me go through to see them, and I found out that
Poo had been diagnosed with cancer. Her health had been declining for some
time, and after painful consideration, Winnie had brought her in. They'd
been together for over thirteen years.
After some preparations, we went to a small room in back of the
office, and Poo was given the injection. With tears running down her face,
Winnie slowly rubbed her little head, talking softly, and telling her that
her momma loved her -- that someday, they'd be together again.
In what seemed like a final gesture of uncon***ional love, Poo reached
up and licked her hand. Moments later, she closed her little eyes, and
went to sleep.
The room was so quiet, and not a dry eye in it. I put my hand on
Winnie's shoulder, and asked if I could help and take Poo to the car for
her. With all her strength and dignity, she smiled and said no -- this was
a journey they needed to make together.
The vet gently placed her in her arms, and led her to the door. Very
gently, she placed her Poo on the seat beside her, and took her home.
It was nearly four months later and I'd almost put the incident out of
my mind, when we received word that Winnie had passed away. I was saddened
by the news, but smiled at the thought of Winnie and her precious Poo,
together again.
Just on the other side of "here" is a Rainbow, and a Bridge -- a place
where loved ones are reunited, where there's no tears, no pain, and good
bye will never have to be heard again.
-- Bob Shaw <CapeRabbit @ semo.net>
Cha Mẹ nuôi con như biển hồ lai láng .
Con nuôi Cha Mẹ sao tính tháng , tính ngày .

LOCKED OUT
by Barbara Hergenroder
It was a wonderful early spring day -- perfect to air out the house
and go outside for a little yard work. I raised a couple of windows, left
the back door open and headed outside.
I gave my four-year-old, Wayne, a tiny rake and shovel to play with
while I started on the scattered remnants of old winter vegetation. It was
nice feeling the warm sun on my bare arms. I had several free hours to
work in the backyard.
You know how one thing leads to another? The cleared flowerbeds and
grass looked so good that I started tidying the uneven edges of the
walkway. Much better! But since the walkway was made of brick, there were
lots of places where the new grass poked up between them. I pulled a few
clumps by hand. It was harder than it looked. There wasn't enough room to
get anything larger than a screwdriver between the bricks to pry out the
grass. I managed to do only a couple of feet of walkway.
Lightbulb moment! I got the hose, and by adjusting it to the pinpoint
setting, loosened the grass clumps enough that they came out much easier.
This worked great until I sprayed a spot and the cold water and mud bounced
back into my face! Wayne thought that was hilarious!
I continued on with the hose and screwdriver. Every once in a while,
I'd get a little more bounce-back. That was ok. I was making really good
progress. Nobody but my little boy could see me here in the backyard. I'd
grab a quick shower afterwards and toss my muddy clothes in the washer.
Wayne continued to play here and there while I worked on the walkway.
Our dog, who had delivered puppies a couple of weeks before, was right
beside him. After a while, Wayne went inside to use the bathroom. He
wandered out later, picked up his shovel and started digging in a
flowerbed.
I finished the walkway, put away the tools and stepped back to gaze
with satisfaction at the greatly improved view before me.
I called Wayne to gather his toys so we could get cleaned up before
Daddy arrived home from work. It was noticeably cooler since I stopped
working. My wet clothes felt uncomfortable, especially my soggy pants,
which had stretched way longer than my legs.
I reached for the doorknob. It wouldn't open!
I belatedly recalled my lectures to Wayne on door rules -- keep it
shut, locked, etc. The little guy remembered this time, as evidenced by
the tightly locked door.
There was no way I'd go next door for help. I was too filthy, and
Wayne didn't look much better. The open windows were too high for us to
reach.
"Mama, I'm cold!" Wayne looked up at me with questioning eyes.
"OK. Let's go in the garage," I said. I hoped we would find an old
sweater or something for him in there. The garage, about thirty feet back
from the house, was divided into three rooms. One of them held the washer
and dryer. At the back of the room was a large cardboard box housing the
mama dog and her pups. We looked everywhere, but the only thing I could
find was an old piece of pink plastic curtain.
I said, "Wayne, how would you like to take a nap with the puppies?"
He was delighted at the suggestion. He crawled in with the pups and I
called the mama dog to get in with them. In a few minutes, the box of
squirming life settled down and they were all asleep.
I wrapped the plastic curtain around me like a big shawl and sat down
on the floor to wait. The curtain looked ridiculous, but it was
surprisingly warm. My husband, Ron, would be home in less than an hour.
No problem.
Soon, I heard his car in the driveway. I started outside to meet him
when I caught sight of another car right behind his, so I ducked back into
the garage. I'd just keep quiet until the person left. Then I heard
voices coming closer.
Oh, No! They were headed for the garage! What was I going to do now?
The dog box was too small or, I swear, I'd burrow under the pups and cover
up with the stupid curtain!
I could see the confusion in Ron's eyes as he caught sight of me
standing there in all my glory. At least I'd had the forethought to
discard the curtain -- for all the good it did me.
My well-dressed husband turned to the equally well-dressed man behind
him and said, "I'd like to introduce you to my wife."
I was uncharacteristically speechless for a moment, thinking things
COULDN'T get any worse, when Wayne's head popped up out of the cluster of
pups and he gaily shouted, "Hi Daddy! Me and Mama got locked out!"
-- Barbara Hergenroder <barb.tipton @ verizon.net>
Cha Mẹ nuôi con như biển hồ lai láng .
Con nuôi Cha Mẹ sao tính tháng , tính ngày .

THE SHADOW KNOWS
by Ron Gold
"Come on, Ron, you can do better than that," Dick yelled as he burst
through the door and snapped the lights on in our off-campus apartment.
This same scene played out almost every Sunday at five.
I'd listen to "The Shadow" on the radio with the room lights turned
off so I could watch my Shadow ring glow through the darkness.
"You know how it's going to end. There's a criminal loose. Margo
Lane and Lamont Cranstorn chase him. But he corners them. Lamont becomes
the Shadow, hypnotizes the crook so the bad guy can't see him. The good
guys win and it's tune in next week for another same story with different
villains. The weed of crime bears bitter fruit."
"But you don't understand, Richard," I said. "This is not another
joke. There's more to it. It's more profound."
Dick laughed.
Dick Handler never let up on his "you can do better" or "you can get
more" attitude, which made him a superb e***or at our college newspaper
and, later, at The Hartford Courant, the oldest continuously published
daily newspaper in America.
Because Dick had a good eye for byline names, he changed mine. He
hated "Ronnie". "Not virile enough. Sounds like a sissy show-tune
singer". So he dubbed me "Ron", the name I've chosen to use ever since.
A year or two after my graduation from the University of Bridgeport, I
received a phone call from Dick.
"Lamont," he said, "I'm getting ready to tie the knot. You'll be my
best man! We're being married up in Carole's home town, Gloucester, Mass.
this summer."
"You could have picked a better time," I told him, commenting on the
heavy summer humi***y in the fishing town. "And you could have picked a
much more fragrant city. But you couldn't pick a better wife than Carole.
She's a charmer and she's got a good head on her shoulders."
Dick said, "Thank you, but you could have said it better -- without
the cliche. Carole deserves more than hackneyed imagery from you."
One of my best man assignments was to buy milk shakes for the bridal
party. New Englanders believe milk shakes ward off hangovers.
I ambled up to the drug store's soda fountain in my formal white dinner
jacket. Sweaty men and women stared as I ordered.
"You must be going to a wedding," one female customer said.
"Yes. At the Jewish temple."
"I've never been to a Jewish wedding," a second girl said.
"Then come on over. I'll see you there."
After saying their vows, Carole and Dick walked up the aisle.
"Who are those two girls in t-shirts, Levis and tears?" Carole asked.
"I don't know, "Dick responded. "Probably some girls Ron picked up in
town."
Life went on. We wrote and telephoned each other often. And Dick and
Carole visited me in New Jersey each time they drove to Florida.
Six years ago, I called Dick from my hospital room. Dick sounded cheerful.
"How 'ya doin', Lamont?"
"To tell you the truth, Dick, I just lost my leg. Went through a
below the knee amputation. Nothin' to laugh about."
"Lost your leg? That's tough. But I can do better than that. I've
got cancer -- stomach, liver and esophagus. I start chemo Monday. They
gave me six months. I'll do well. I've got Carole and my boys. I just
want a good quality of life."
He got his wish. He retired from The Courant and became a gardening
freak. He and Carole followed the UConn Huskies basketball team. They
also developed a fondness for Scottish Highland Games and local Indian
Pow-wows.
Less than a year later, Carole phoned.
"Lamont," she said, "he has very little time left." Knowing I
couldn't drive to Waterbury, I wrote my dying friend:
Dear Dick,
You have been up front in my mind and in the forefront
of my me***ations and prayers. For more than forty
years we have gone our separate ways, and we always
managed to keep in touch. We knew what we both were
doing. We care about each other. I remember the image
of Lamont Cranston I gave you. The Shadow is still my
hero -- the man who could make himself invisible at will.
Now, with your cancer, you are Lamont Cranston. You
won't have to be seen to remain effective. What you
have done in your life, and with your life, will be seen
and felt and treasured by your future generations. You
have been wonderful, and wonderfully blessed. I love you
and I will miss you. God bless you.
"Ron"
-- Ron Gold <Outthinkresumes @ aol.com>
Cha Mẹ nuôi con như biển hồ lai láng .
Con nuôi Cha Mẹ sao tính tháng , tính ngày .