Tui xin một cái topic nhé....

COW CHIP TEA
by Pamela Jenkins
One morning, my Dad sat in the backyard swing, watching my mother
place a gallon jar on the patio. Inside, three tea bags floated in water.
As the sun warmed the water, it would steep the tea bags to make sun tea.
This gave Dad an idea. If the sun would warm and steep the tea bags, why
couldn't the same idea work on a larger scale?
Dad set up a large barrel near his garden spot and filled it with
water. He proudly showed the contents to me one day.
"I use a watering can, and just skim some water off the top of the
barrel. I use it to water the baby tomato plants in the garden. Should
give me the best crop I ever had." Dad was proud of his brew.
"Why is the water so brown?" I asked as I peered into the murky depths.
Dad gave me a grin and answered, "Cow chips. Nature's own fertilizer."
This was just like my father, I thought. He was doing his bit to
recycle, in his own way. But the idea stayed with me, especially when I
saw his bumper crop of tomatoes that summer.
I'm not much of a gardener, but I do enjoy flowers. I considered
making my own cow chip tea but the ingredients weren't readily available in
my town. Besides, what would the neighbors think?
After a few more years of city living, my husband and I moved to the
country. It was wonderful! There was more room for the kids and the dogs.
Also, to my heartfelt joy, a house begging for flowers to grace the yard.
All went well the first year. I dug a bed for the plants. I used
rocks to line the borders. I bought petunias, rose moss and begonias.
Friends gave me starts of Jacob's Coat and naked ladies. My favorites were
the fuscia geraniums.
The next spring, the flowers were just beginning to bloom when the
cows paid me a visit. Forty head of rangy-looking mama cows broke through
the fence next door. They moved down the dirt road and turned up my
driveway, trampling my lawn and leaving piles of manure across my yard.
Soon the rancher came looking for them, tooting his pickup horn. I suppose
this is the bovine equivalent of a dinner bell. The cows eagerly followed
the pickup down the road to their pasture gate.
What a mess my yard had become! The hoof prints were deep, and the
cow patties were everywhere. That's when I got an idea.
I went to the old barn. In a dusty corner I found an old barrel with
no top. I rolled it out into the yard and rinsed it with the garden hose.
Then I grabbed a shovel.
I hauled a lot of manure that day. Back and forth across the yard,
scooping and dumping the lot into the barrel. It was about a quarter full
when I decided I had enough. Then I turned on the water hose and filled it
to the rim. Now the sun would do the rest.
A few days later, I took a bucket and started to water my flowers. I
walked over to the barrel and wrinkled up my nose. The smell was awful.
The thick, black goo was nothing like my Dad's fertilizer. Maybe a few
more days of steeping was in order?
By the end of the week, I knew my concoction was a mistake. It was
thick as sludge and buzzed with flies. I tipped the barrel over and hoped
the rain would wash it out of the yard. The only good thing that came of
it was a rich crop of crabgrass the next spring.
I told Dad about the experience. He raised his eyebrows and looked at
me blankly. Then he began to smile.
"Ah, you used fresh cow chips, didn't you? Ha ha! You're only
supposed to use a couple of old, dried out ones!" He continued to laugh
out loud. Just like my father, I grumbled, to leave out critical,
need-to-know information like that.
It's been a dozen years since I tried to make natural fertilizer. I
learned a valuable lesson from that experience.
Now, I just stick with Miracle-Gro!
-- Pamela Jenkins <bunnies-n-birds @ juno.com>
Cha Mẹ nuôi con như biển hồ lai láng .
Con nuôi Cha Mẹ sao tính tháng , tính ngày .

TIME ENJOYED, TOGETHER
by Kimberly Stauder
I live in an older established area where people regularly walk their
dogs and dogs regularly walk their people.
We even have dogs that walk themselves.
Every morning, one elderly resident and her aging pet shuffle by my
house. Both are stooped over as they inch along. The woman always carries
a coffee cup and walks about six feet behind her dog. The animal is
attached to a leash that drags behind him on the sidewalk. In all the
years I have noticed this pair of friends walk by, I have never seen the
woman pick up the leash. The pair quietly acknowledges our community leash
law that, in all probability, never states a person has to be attached to
the other end of the leash.
It is common to see children being dragged along behind dogs twice
their size, or pets straining so hard at their leashes they spend most of
the walk at a 45-degree angle to the sidewalk. There are the new mothers
trying to get back in shape that run by with the family dog attached to the
baby stroller.
This dedication to good health is a mystery to me but certainly looks
impressive. One man had been out of work for months and walked by with his
beagle, Toby, at least five times a day. The endless hours of walking the
pet and observing his neighbors paid off for Toby's owner. Bob decided to
start his own pooper-scooper business noting several opportunities right
under the dog's nose, so to speak.
Evening is when I see the men of the neighborhood and their furry
companions. Whether trying to work off the stress of a busy workday or
avoiding a chaotic home life, they are very happy to be out with man's best
friend. The men will congregate on the street corners to play with their
dogs and share "guy time". This surprises me, as the women who walk their
dogs always seem to be on a schedule and rarely stop to chat.
With the recent change in the weather, I have spent the last several
days outside planting flowers. This has afforded an opportunity to meet
and greet many neighbors and their dogs that have been housebound during
the difficult St. Louis winter. There is an endless stream of spring
puppies in need of serious training that flop happily down the sidewalk.
Every spring, I am aware that several of the elderly dogs did not make
it through the cold months. Sometimes I never see their owners again. The
pain of losing their faithful friends remains too great to ever entertain
another pet.
Over time, I have come to know all the dogs of my neighborhood by
name. However, I can only identify their owners as Denver's mother or
Sam's dad.
The neighborhood canines are well groomed though I wish I could say
the same for their owners. People will wear virtually anything when
walking their dogs. I have seen an abundance of mismatched clothing and
ridiculous headgear. A person who will spend hours brushing and grooming
their pet will neglect to brush their own hair before taking Fido out for a
walk.
Yes, it is true -- a great many pets and their owners do resemble each
other. The woman up the street with the very large thighs waddles by with
her two hefty bulldogs as the trim jogger runs along side a sleek
Greyhound. My elderly neighbor with the gray beard takes daily walks with
his gray bearded Schnauzer, Max. And the redheaded woman at the end of the
block enjoys the company of two splendid Irish Setters.
The majority of the people who walk by with their furry friends don't
have the first clue as to what type of collar or leash is appropriate for
their breed of dog, nor do they understand how to train their pet to walk
appropriately on a leash. And many forget to carry doggy bags to pick up
pet droppings left in unwanted places on neighbor's lawns.
I could write an entire column on these issues, however, I am aware of
something much more important -- people simply want to spend time with
their dogs.
Young people, old people, young pets, or old pets -- it is just time
enjoyed -- together.
That is the true beauty of owning a dog.
-- Kimberly Stauder <Misscristy2001 @ aol.com>
Cha Mẹ nuôi con như biển hồ lai láng .
Con nuôi Cha Mẹ sao tính tháng , tính ngày .

JUMPING TO CONCLUSIONS
by Ron Gold
Let's face facts.
While small town boys know very little about girls, they are a bit
more knowledgeable about what's important in their lives and what makes
them tick.
And, even when they grow up, small town boys merely become taller
small town boys.
Early in life we learn not to "judge people solely by their failures"
and that true friendship is more than a fleeting rite of passage.
Here's a case in point:
Both my teenaged pals worked at our local hospital. "Peanuts"
Kolokowski, a small, wiry, bowlegged patient transporter, worked inside the
hospital. And Dominic LaRussa, a tall, slender automotive mechanic, worked
in the motor pool.
They shared a carefree but competitive New England adolescent
lifestyle -- bowling, shooting pool, playing baseball, basketball, football
and pinball, Saturday movies, Sunday Masses, summer days at the beach,
winter days shoveling snow, then sledding down "hospital hill".
Peanuts and Dominic also vied in small town macho challenges. Who
could drink the most beer? Who could chug-a-lug a quart of beer the
fastest? Who could get a date with Rosie Piero, the pretty red-haired
pediatric nurse?
On a more daredevil-ish plain -- who could win a footrace at the Mill
River waterfall, without falling onto the sharp rocks below? And who could
jump furthest off my back porch roof?
It was that roof-jumping contest that originally differentiated them.
The jump was more dangerous than it sounded. While the tarred,
sloping roof was not very high and the jump target was only Mr. Howser's
soft, newly planted garden, a jumper could easily strangle himself on Ms.
Redd's clotheslines. Or impale himself on a beanpole.
On the day of the big jump, the "gang" claimed fifty-yard-line seats
on our fire escape. The big bet? A 5-cent, 12-ounce Pepsi Cola.
Tutti Mondinello stood atop the fire escape, covering dollar side bets
from the onlookers, backing his faith in "Peanuts" with coin of the realm.
Peanuts warmed up by stretching his parenthesis legs and by grinning.
Dominic was more cautious. He examined the clotheslines, stared at the
tall beanpoles, shook his head and said, "Not today, guys". Then he told
Peanuts, "You still have to jump to win."
Peanuts smiled, walked to the end of the roof, made the sign of the
cross, and jumped. He cleared the clotheslines and the beanpoles and
landed flatfooted in Mr. Howser's collard greens. The thirteen witnesses,
perched on the fire escape, immediately lost their faith in Dominic. And
as Tutti collected his side bets, he made chicken noises, pointed his
finger mockingly at Dominic, and called him a coward and a loser. And he
laughed.
"I knew he couldn't lose," Tutti chuckled. "I seen Peanuts jump
before. There's nothin' chicken about my Peanuts. He's got guts. I
remember him before he started jumping -- when he had straight legs and was
six foot tall."
But Peanuts and Dominic's friendship endured beyond that jump.
Peanuts was best man when Dominic married Rosie Piero. He was also
Godfather to their son, Roger.
Both men were drafted into the Army shortly after Pearl Harbor was bombed.
Peanuts was permanently assigned to the Walter Reed Medical Center in
Washington, D.C. Dominic volunteered for the Paratroops and was ordered to
England.
On June 6, 1944, a jumpmaster pushed Dominic out of an airplane's
jump-door over a Normandy beach. Dominic was killed by German ground fire
as he floated down to earth in his parachute harness.
There were no chicken calls or mock laughter that day. Just a lot of
gunfire, pain and explosions, and the silent sounds of good souls meeting
their maker.
For more than 50 years -- every June 6th -- Peanuts, Rosie and her
son, Roger, attend Mass together. And they hold hands and walk to our
town's Honor Roll, where they leave an unopened bottle of Pepsi Cola just
below Dominic's gold star memorial plaque.
-- Ron Gold <outthinkresumes @ aol.com>
Cha Mẹ nuôi con như biển hồ lai láng .
Con nuôi Cha Mẹ sao tính tháng , tính ngày .

FUNNY THINGS KIDS SAY
When Nancy asked her husband who would be going to the town hall to get
their dog's license, their 6-year-old yelled, "Twister is going to drive
the car?" -- Nancy Petrunyak of Rockaway Township, New Jersey
When June asked Katie, 3, what happened to her gum, she
matter-of-factly answered, "It went down my drain." (She'd swallowed it!)
-- June McKinney of New Orleans, Louisiana
Baillie, 5, was telling her friend Amanda that she was given some new
earrings. Amanda asked her if they were diamonds. Baillie replied, "No,
they're not diamonds, they're more like circles." -- Jay Miller
(grandfather of Baillie) of Slaterville, Utah
Alicia was shopping and she used her cre*** card to pay the bill. The
clerk said, "Thank you, Alicia," when she handed back the cre*** card.
Janelle, 7, asked, "How did you know my Mom's name?" The clerk replied,
"I'm a mother. I know everything." Janelle shot back, "What's my name?"
-- Alicia Snow of Kendallville, Indiana
One evening Lisa and her husband were playing cards with another
couple. The kids were sitting around the kitchen table, watching. During
the course of the game, one of the players called a "miss deal." Lisa's
8-year-old daughter asked, "Mommy, who is Miss Deal?" -- Lisa of Missouri
Ashley, 3, and Allison, 5, were visiting their grandmother. She was
doing some cleaning, and she asked Allison to take the broom and sweep off
the large front porch. Allison didn't hesitate. When the grandmother saw
the 3-year-old watching her big sister sweep, she was afraid she would feel
left out so she asked, "Ashley, why don't you help clean off the porch."
Ashley stuck out her lower lip, rolled her eyes and said, "I'm NOT your
Cinderella!" -- Lottie Royal (grandmother of Ashley and Allison) of Wray,
Georgia
Gene decided to get a curly perm. Getting the curly perm made him
about two hours late getting home. Stephen, 2, had never seen his father
with curly hair. He had been waiting at the door, watching for his father.
When his dad came through the door, Stephen did not go immediately to his
father. He looked at his father for several minutes -- almost as if he
didn't know him -- and then said, finally, "Dad, you got circles in your
hair!" -- Reba Wagner (mother of Stephen) of Dunlap, Tennessee
A UNIQUE JOB
by Debbie Farmer
A father's job is unique.
If parents had job descriptions mine would read: organize bills,
playdates, laundry, meals, laundry, carpool, laundry, snacks, outings, and
laundry.
The only thing on my husband's description would be the word "fun"
written in big red letters along the top. Although he is a selfless
caregiver and provider, our children think of him more as a combination of
a jungle gym and Bozo the clown.
Our parenting styles compliment each other. His style is a nonstop
adventure where no one has to worry about washing their hands, eating
vegetables, or getting cavities. My style is similar to Mussolini. I'm
too busy worrying to be fun. Besides, every time I try, I am constantly
outdone by my husband.
I bought my children bubble gum flavored toothpaste and I taught them
how to brush their teeth in tiny circles so they wouldn't get cavities.
They thought it was neat until my husband taught them how to rinse by
spitting out water between their two front teeth like a fountain.
I tried singing fun songs as I scrubbed behind my children's ears
during bath time. They enthusiastically sang and clapped until their
father came in and taught them how to catapult the soap into the sink with
the washcloth.
I took the children on a nature walk and, after two hours, I managed
to corral a slow ladybug into my son's insect cage. I was "cool" until
their father came home, spent two minutes in the backyard, and captured a
beetle the size of a Chihuahua.
I try to tell myself I am a good parent even if my husband does things
I can't do. I can make sure my children are safe, warm, and dry. I'll
stand in line for five hours so the children can see Santa at the mall --
or be first in line to see the latest Disney movie. I'll spend more than
my monthly mortgage payment on a bucket of popcorn and a soda. But I can't
wire the VCR so my children can watch their favorite video.
I can carry my children in my arms when they are tired, tuck them into
bed, and kiss them goodnight. But I can't flip them upside down so they
can walk on the ceiling or prop them on my shoulders so they can see the
moths flying inside of the light fixture.
I can take them to doctor appointments, scout meetings, or field trips
to the aquarium, but I'll never go into the wilderness, skewer a worm on a
hook, reel in a fish, and cook it over an open flame on a piece of tin
foil.
I'll even sit in the first row of every little league game and cheer
until my throat is sore and my tonsils are raw, but I'll never teach my son
how to hit a home run or slide into first base.
As a mother I can do a lot of things for my children, but no matter
how hard I try -- I can never be their father.
-- Debbie Farmer <features @ familydaze.com>
Cha Mẹ nuôi con như biển hồ lai láng .
Con nuôi Cha Mẹ sao tính tháng , tính ngày .

Thanks, gio_mua_dong for this touching story. I feel happy for I have the love and care of both : my mother and my father. My father is not sportive or adventurous like the one in the story. However, he is a teacher; therefore he tutored me in all subjects when I went to school. Thanks to him, I grew up mentally. My mother, on the other hand, cooked and took care of me. Thanks to her, I grew up physically.
I can never thank them enough for what they've done for me.
"Nguyện anh CXR bỏ cái motto đi"

BIG STUFF!
by Ern Grover
Buddy was my hiking companion for thirteen years.
Each spring we'd make our pilgrimage through the melting snowfall in
the White Mountains of New Hampshire, while tourists arrived at the
seacoast beaches to soak up the sunshine. When I lost her, I wanted to
give up hiking. Depression followed, then I couldn't focus on my work.
My wife, Anneke, and I agreed that it was simpler not to have pets.
We'd have to neither find a dog-sitter nor worry about food and water for a
long day out of town.
We both knew we were lying to ourselves.
While out for a Sunday drive, I signaled and turned to the local
animal shelter. Anneke looked at me, half expecting what was to follow. I
guess I was looking for another "Buddy". We went from pen to pen but
couldn't find the right dog.
"Yip, yip!" a squeaky bark came from the shaggy wisp of a dog out in
the quarantine area of the shelter.
Anneke approached the little dog whose tail wagged its entire body.
Within seconds, he jumped into her arms. He appeared to be a mix of
Pomeranian and longhaired Dachshund, but mostly, he was all wag and
appreciation.
Adoption was completed after another week. "Charlie", as we named
him, jumped in and took to the backseat. As we pulled away from the
shelter, his little head appeared between us as he stretched his little
ten-pound body from the seat to the center console. He'd found his
rightful place and never stopped wagging his tail all the way home.
A season has come and gone since Buddy's passing. I was hesitant to
take Charlie to the Whites. Buddy's memory still burned deeply within, and
I didn't want Charlie to take her place. Then I realized how selfish this
was. True, Charlie couldn't replace Buddy. Charlie was Charlie and
represented a new beginning for both of us.
"C'mon, little guy!" Charlie loved the lingering scent of my
campfire-scented backpack, since I'd taken him out on a couple of local
overnight hikes. He was as excited as I was.
As we began our hike to Mt. Zealand, Charlie pranced ahead, stopped,
looked back, and then ran ahead a couple hundred feet. Then I heard the
familiar bark that indicated discovery of some sort. My pace quickened.
A juvenile bull moose stood at the A-Z Trail Intersection, rather
tolerant of Charlie's barking. He wasn't big, but he was bigger than
Charlie. Fortunately, moose have poor eyesight. Finally the moose turned
and fled down the pathway of the side trail.
Frantically, I called for Charlie to return. Fear replaced concern as
I continued calling for the little guy. I advised the other hikers in my
group to go on ahead. My eyes welled up in tears. A half hour elapsed,
and Charlie was still out there -- somewhere in the Pemigewasset
Wilderness. I didn't want to leave, but, as leader of the group, I had to
catch up with them.
As I turned toward Mt. Zealand, I shouted one more time. "Charlie,
Charlie, c'mon little guy!"
As only Charlie can do, he darted between my legs, turned and jumped
into my arms. Charlie was out of breath, and those wet kisses arrested the
tears in my eyes.
Mind you, that look of laughter on his face said it all.
"I showed him, Daddy! You should have seen him run!"
"Big stuff, little guy!"
I gave him another hug and hooked his leash.
-- Ern Grover <grovers @ timegoes.com>
Cha Mẹ nuôi con như biển hồ lai láng .
Con nuôi Cha Mẹ sao tính tháng , tính ngày .

NEW FATHER FOG
by Michael T. Powers
My wife Kristi has been extremely creative in how she tells me I am
going to be a father.
When she knew she was pregnant with our first son, Caleb, she took me
to a nice restaurant for dinner. At the end of our delicious meal, the
waitress handed me the bill and a sealed envelope. She told me it was from
someone in the restaurant. I looked around, searching for a familiar face,
but found none. I opened it, and read the typed message. In the meantime,
all the employees, including the chefs from the kitchen, started moving
closer to our table.
The message read, "Michael, this is to inform you that you will be
changing the kitty litter for the next nine months. In other words,
congratulations, you are going to be a father!"
The following months were filled with anticipation and moments of
wonder. I remember hearing the sound of my baby's heartbeat. Nothing
prepares a man for the moment he hears his child's heartbeat for the first
time. The chugging that came through the speakers sounded just like a
train to me. I know that doesn't sound too exciting or romantic, but to me
it was incredible.
Looking back now, I am amazed at how long, and how short, nine months
can be.
We never did get to rush off to the hospital like you see on
television because Caleb decided he liked it too much inside. After being
three weeks overdue, the doctors decided to induce labor. So there we sat
in the hospital waiting for something to happen. Kristi wanted a CD player
in the room so she could listen to relaxing music as she went through the
huffing, puffing, and pushing. I thought it would be funny to put in a CD
by Salt-N-Peppa and play their song, "Push It". But when I looked up, I
saw Kristi and her mom giving me the death stare. Not even a crack of a
smile. I switched back to the soothing music in a hurry!
Labor finally set in -- twenty hours of it. At the end of the twenty
hours the doctor told us he would have to do a C-Section. At this point I
was a little worried, but trusted that God and the doctors knew what they
were doing.
Then it finally happened! I was sitting at the head of the operating
table, holding Kristi's hand, when the doctor said, "We have a healthy baby
boy."
There he was! I could almost hear the angels singing as my precious
baby boy was brought into the world. He was perfect in every way, and the
tears began to fall.
"Oh Kristi! He's beautiful!" was all I could stammer.
I was in the "new father fog".
In reality, Caleb looked terrible. His skin color changed about four
times in the first five minutes, and I wouldn't have been surprised to be
on the cover of the National Enquirer -- "Reptile Boy Born in Wisconsin!
Man fathers chameleon in real life X-Files episode!" His hands and feet
were extremely wrinkled, like he had been in the pool too long, and all
kinds of bodily secretions were oozing from his pores.
Everything else seemed fine though -- except for THE TWO HEADS! Yes,
my boy had two heads, and that was the first thing Kristi noticed when the
nurse handed Caleb to her for the first time. She told me later that she
was thoroughly convinced that she had married a psycho.
You see, because Caleb went through twenty hours of labor, but had
been too big to fit through the birth canal, it was obvious where his head
had been stuck all that time. It had swollen up like a balloon in two
different places, and it really did look like he had two heads. Being the
proud father, I figured that was God's way of storing all the brain matter
he inherited from me. The swelling did go down in a few days, but Caleb
wasn't looking his best at first.
It is amazing, though, how being a new father blinded me to certain
realities. I kept telling everyone how beautiful he was. It wasn't until
a year or so later, after looking at photos, that I realized what Caleb had
really looked like. To me though, he was the most beautiful creation that
had ever appeared on the earth.
Fatherhood. You gotta love it!
-- Michael T. Powers <Heart4Teens @ aol.com>
Cha Mẹ nuôi con như biển hồ lai láng .
Con nuôi Cha Mẹ sao tính tháng , tính ngày .

SHARING THE BOUNTY!
By Mary-Ellen Grisham
The February days were cold and dark -- almost as austere as the
sacrifice of the Lenten season of which they were a part.
Below the double windows of the dining room, the seedlings were
pushing their way up through the dark planting soil. The rows and rows of
white cups sat on trays in the wan light. I smiled as I imagined how
carefully Dad had filled the cups to the right level, planted the seed, and
watered them just enough. I knew that he had planned to have the best
garden ever, using plants that had been started the right way.
I put my arm around mom's waist as we stood looking at the tiny,
delicate plants. She had tears in her eyes, but she assured me that she
would try to plant a garden in the spring as a tribute to Dad. He had just
passed away on Ash Wednesday, and her feelings were as raw and dreary as
the weather.
When I left at the end of the week to go back to the town where I was
teaching, I didn't hold out much hope for the fragile seedlings. I
promised to come home again at Spring Break and, when I did, Mom was
rallying and the seedlings were growing. She had plans to get help from a
neighbor or two, and we walked down to the generous gardening area, close
to a small lake that condominium management had provided. This was the
first year for the new garden plots.
When I returned home for a summer visit, the garden was flourishing.
Tomatoes, lettuce, cucumbers, squash, peppers, carrots, onions and green
beans were growing with gusto. Stunned, I stood looking at the healthy
plants and knew we were going to have a bumper crop.
"Mom," I said, "what's your secret?" She just laughed and said she'd
had a little help from her neighbors, but I could see she was very proud of
the hearty plants.
As the time for harvesting drew near, with great reluctance, Mom left
to go on the trip she and dad had planned and reserved. She was taking a
friend with her, and she left me detailed instructions about the care of
the garden. I pulled weeds, watered the plot every evening, and chatted
with the friends and neighbors down at the plots. Soon it was time to
start picking the bounty.
The lettuces were huge, and there were six or more ready at once, so I
began calling relatives and friends. Then the tomatoes came in thick and
fast. Though I could dawdle about picking the rest of the "crops," I knew
that I was going to have to give some away. Conscientiously storing, I
saved as much as possible for Mom, but I shared with family and many of the
condominium residents.
When Mom returned, she was miffed, if not downright mad! Most of the
garden was harvested, and though the refrigerator was stuffed with veggies,
she thought I had given away too much. As we pulled onions and bagged the
still ripening peppers, I pointed out to her that Dad would have been
pleased to know that the produce from his tiny seedlings had been shared
with so many people. When I listed the people, she began to smile.
"Besides," I pointed out, "You'll have cucumbers and squash to share
on into the fall."
She knew, as did I, that it was like Dad's final gift to them all. He
was still sharing with those he knew and loved the most. The real clincher
was that my brother, a non-veggie meat-eater, relished the garden's bounty,
and I'm sure we were all healthier for the sharing of that overwhelming
harvest.
I think it was the taste of love that made it all so special!
-- Mary-Ellen Grisham <meginrose @ empowering.com>
Cha Mẹ nuôi con như biển hồ lai láng .
Con nuôi Cha Mẹ sao tính tháng , tính ngày .

MR. C
by Toni Kryszak
Does anyone remember the song, Norwegian Wood?
Well, if you do, sing or hum along with these substitute words. "I
once had a bird or should I say he once had me?"
I will relate my story and let you decide who had who.
For years we had a male cardinal and his mate visit our bird feeder.
When they came over to feed, I would talk to them and call him Mr. C and
her Mrs. C. I don't know how long it took but he became so tame that he
actually came to our wooden fence or a nearby tree when I called him.
Our friends would marvel at how he would come when he was summoned.
I'd just go out in the yard and yell "Mr. C" and he would come flying from
somewhere to about six feet from where I was. I had to prove it a lot
because people just wouldn't believe it. He'd come flying from across the
street or the neighbor's yard.
When Mr. C was on the ground feeding and I'd put my dog out, he would
just hop under a nearby shrub. He was a brave little thing and he would
fight all the sparrows for his sunflower seeds. I had always been told
cardinals were very timid but not him!
He would sit on our wooden fence or outside on the crabapple tree near
our kitchen window and chirp until I would come out to feed him. He would
also chase the other birds from the bird feeder. He felt that was his
special domain -- and it was!
Sometimes I would imitate his chirps back to him and actually I had
gotten rather good at it. He would chirp three chirps then I would do
three. When he'd do four chirps, I would do four. This always continued
for several minutes when we'd use this unusual type of communication
between us.
Such a lover was our Mr. C. He used to feed his wife sometimes and
that was always great to watch. The interaction between the two was very
sweet.
The pair had their nest built in our pine tree and we would see both
parents coming and going feeding their offspring. Once in a while, we
would see a baby cardinal come sit on the ground. It was cute to watch
Baby C. on the ground wiggling his body with excitement waiting for his
parents to feed him birdseed. Then, in about a week, he or she was gone.
Oh, but Mr. C was a delight. Not only would he come when he was
called, but he would sit in the tree and watch for our sliding door to
open. Then he would come and either sing or chirp depending if he was
hungry or not. One time he even flew from tree to tree following me in the
yard. What a character! Mrs. C, on the other hand, was very timid and
would only come after she was sure it was safe.
They both had been around for years (and I wish I kept track of how
long) to the point that they started to gray around the beak feathers.
Then one day, something very strange took place. I saw Mr. C. with
another male cardinal. They would fly from here to there. Where the first
one would go, the second would follow. It was odd because I never had seen
another male cardinal in the yard, except the babies.
I saw Mr. C. once more two days later, and then Junior took over and I
never saw Mr. C or his mate again. I think they went to the Rainbow Bridge
and officially gave Junior the yard.
Now Junior and his wife are the resident cardinals. They feed at
least twice a day at our bird feeder, and once in a Blue Moon (or should I
say Red Cardinal Moon?) we are privileged to see some of their offspring
being fed by mom and dad.
I still think about Mr. C and I miss him. I think he was one of a
kind. But my original question remains, did I have him or did he have me?
-- Toni Kryszak <tk-dk @ juno.com>
Cha Mẹ nuôi con như biển hồ lai láng .
Con nuôi Cha Mẹ sao tính tháng , tính ngày .

TAKE ME OUT TO THE BALL GAME
by Ginger Boda
"Take me out to the ball game," cries a tiny hopeful voice.
His eyes are big and pleading, awaiting his father's choice.
He can smell the grass in the field,
He can hear the cheers of the day,
He wants to be a part of it all, although he's too young to play.
"Take me out to the Ball game," cries the voice of a boy of eight.
He's graduated from T-Ball, and he's proud of Double-A,
He's learned to be a team player,
He stands at the plate, proud and true.
Adjusting his hat, he eyes the ball... Eager to hit one for you.
"Take me out to the Ball game," cries the twelve year old who's grown.
He did his job in Triple-A, and has learned to slide in home.
He's now a little league major,
He stands with confidence.
He knows the game, he tips his hat... He's goin' for the fence!
"Take me out to the Ball game," cries the voice of a little league Dad.
Through the years, he's coached his son to rise above all the bad.
He looks back now with tears,
As he enters the Pro Stadium field.
Little did he know, back then, what joy the time would yield.
"Take me out to the ball game," sings the crowd of so many thousand.
The Dad beams proudly, as he spots his Major League son!
He tips his hat, eyes his dad,
They both know what they've shared.
Through the years of hits and wins, the strikeouts and despair.
"Take me out to the ball game"... 'twas this bond 'tween father and son.
And even if the game was lost, so many great things had been won.
They've smelled the grass in the field,
They've heard the cheers of the day,
Sweet memories made, precious time spent, nothing can take that away!
-- Ginger Boda <Rhymerbabe @ aol.com>
Cha Mẹ nuôi con như biển hồ lai láng .
Con nuôi Cha Mẹ sao tính tháng , tính ngày .