Granddaughter's Effort

 My writer's group, Franklin Senior Scribblers, is on the radio.  So, when I learned that my granddaughter only had a half-day of school, on my recording day, I invited her to the radio studio.  I said I'd show her and her friend around a TV and radio studio.  She can watch and listen to the Scribblers record.  Also, she can read a story, too.  

Surprisingly, she jumped at the chance.  Here is what she will record.  She is ten years old.

    Dutch the cat

Has so so so so much Fun!

Hi, my name is Dutch and I am a small orange cat who lives

in New York City with my owner Isabelle and she is the

nicest person ever. She gives me all the treats I want

so she is the world's best owner.

Ok today is my birthday and guess what Isabelle brought

  me – to try to think………………

 Now i am going to tell you. She gave me a ride on the subway

and there were these people dancing all around me and it

was so so so very much fun.  When we got off the train

she took me to a pet store full of treats and let me get

some to eat.  It was by far the best time of my life.

The next day is Isabelle's birthday, so I am going to

pull her to the park and I will go and play with her.  She

will have so much fun – I mean so so so so much fun   

   

Ok! Today is Isabelle's birthday  and now we are going on

and walking (5 min later still on the walk).  I am pulling

her to the park now. We came to the park and played.

and we had so so so much fun.  Happy Birthday! 

  

Spanking and Parenting

Did your parents ever spank you?  My parents used to brag that they didn’t believe in hitting children.  But there was one incident where my mother did whack me, and I have never forgotten it.  She was calling me to come home for supper.  I was outside playing with neighborhood friends.  I was involved and focused and didn’t hear her.  I guess she had been calling me, for quite a while. When I finally heard her, I ran home.  As I got close to her, she grabbed my arm and whacked me on my but and said “I have been calling and calling you.”

I’m pretty sure, I didn’t say anything in my defense.  I remember being shocked.  The spank didn’t hurt; it was the shock that my mother hit me.  And whenever my parents would brag that they never hit their kids, I didn’t say anything. I was still feeling the aftereffects of displeasing and disappointing my mother.  I didn’t want to remind her of that incident.

That’s how my parents disciplined us.  They would tell us how disappointed they were in our behavior.  Those words, the look on their faces would stab me in the heart. They expected better of us and never wanting to shame them kept me on the straight and narrow.

As a parent, myself, I never hit my children.  But each child was different. I had one who telling him I was disappointed in his behavior would have rolled right off him.  He also didn’t get “looks,” nor warnings.  I had to have a long talk with him and punish him by depriving him of a game or television show.  Another child, would cry if I corrected her. Teachers would tell me that she would become crestfallen if they just showed her how to hold her pencil differently.

How did people, years ago, discipline children, when they are all so different and respond to different disciplines?  How did your parents correct your behavior?  What kind of parent were you?

AI Can't Fall in Love

 

The robot convention met at noon.  They met at the library at the same time and place, every year.  They met to share information and recharge their batteries, so to speak. 

This year was especially significant because the robots were being threatened by the WGA.  The Writers Guild of America believed that the robots were taking their jobs away.

The robots, in a way, were flattered that the human writers thought that they, AI, wrote as well as humans could with feelings, spirit, soul, and thoughts, but the WGA was seriously harassing the robots.

Now the robots felt that their very existence was threatened.  Their alarm bells rang danger threatening—hence the meeting.

It was determined that something had to be done.  Violence was out of the question.  The robots were smart enough to know that violence only begets violence.

One bot asked, “What does the WGA want?”  The oldest bot explained:

          They want compensation and residuals.

In the old days, writers would get a lump sum upfront and then if the show did well, they would get payment every time the showed aired.  This is called a residual.

The advent of streaming changed this.  When streamers like Netflix commissioned writers, the writers got paid one sum and no residuals.  WGA wants to continue to earn money for their work when shows do well. Plus, added another Bot, they want regulations put on AI, because AI can be programmed to write.  Think about all the jobs AI could perform, besides write in television, movies and radio and live performances.

The writers don’t want to just doctor up the robot’s work.  They don’t want to edit machines.  Bots cannot be the genesis of a new idea.  Writers need to create. 

Another Bot thought that the union’s concern were important but also that they could be easily addressed.

There was a momentarily silence while the robots processed this information.

The head Bot announced that it was time to join the union’s negotiating team.  We’ll convince them that we are not a threat to their livelihood.  We are here to help them. We have to convince the writers that we will yield to their concerns.  We can be a research tool, make suggestions, but not create originality. Actually, we bots need the writers; they do not need us.

How do we convince them of this?

Again there was silence while the bots processed this information.  One of the bots remembered seeing a plane towing a banner saying PAY THE WRITERS YOU AI-HOLES!

Replicating  is exactly what AI does.  We, robots can fly a drone  towing a banner saying AI SUPPORTS THE WGA, PAY THE WRITERS.

All the Bots agreed this was a good idea.  Plus, they could print out flyers explaining how AI is only a tool.  IOW, they can spread the word—now the ideas began to flow.  AI is the perfect tool to spread information on social media sites, “ AI supports the WGA.”  We’ll get the contract the writers want and deserve. 

Then the WGA will accept and respect us, won’t they?  Won’t they? 

Does that compute?

Does our Artificial Information predict a happy ending?

The robots were silent.

Looking at the Burghers

The city council discussed the demand—Why, and Who, and How.  For eleven months the port of Calais, France had been starving.  This war between France and England had been going on too long.  Why are the kings so cruel? Generations have grown used to bombardments, starvation, fear, worry and this blockade around our city.  When will it end?

I, Eustache de Saint Pierre am weary.  My business is ruined.  My wife has died.  My own mother, once again is a mother to her own grandchildren.  I am tired:
tired of the heaviness of an empty stomach,
tired of hearing the thin hungry cries from babes,
tired of looking at malnourished children,
tired of people slowly staggering aimlessly along,
I am just plain tired of living. 
Can death be worse than living like this?

We have surrendered to the English and appealed for mercy.  The enemy has demanded that six burghers, prominent citizens of Calais, give up our lives to save the people of Calais. We are to walk barefoot, in our underwear, with nooses around our necks, and carry the keys to our property.

Thus here we stand:

Eustache de Saint Pierre
Jean d’Aire,
Andrjeu d’Andres,
Jean de Fiennes,
Pierre de Wissant
Jacques de Wissant.

No one looks around to see our loved ones’ eyes, or the anguish in each others’ eyes.  Our slumped shoulders follow our slow, dragging footsteps, walking dutifully towards the enemy. 

This is what the people see, not the inner conflict between life, death, the need to save the city.  We must die so that the rest may live.  But this is not a proud, triumphant procession with heads held high into martyrdom.  We burghers are afraid….but resigned. 

We do it, regardless.       Il faut le faire.

 

 

 

All God's Chillun Got Shoes

 Today started off disasteredly. First  I. Didn’t sleep well resulting in not waking until 8:40 and I had a 10 o’clock meeting.

I jumped out of bed.  My hair was a fright but I didn't have time to do any fixin'.  I even skipped washing up, never mind a shower!  I brushed my teeth.  Out the door, I grabbed coffee and a biscotti.  I made it to the Senior Center in time.  I parked my car, got out, and the first step I took, my shoe collapsed.  

The entire sole of my shoe fell off.  The shoe on the right is the shoe.  The sole is on the left that fell off the middle picture of the shoe.  

I didn't have time to do anything about it.  I walked lopsided in.

After the meeting, I went to lunch, like that.

After lunch, I played cribbage, like that.

I left early to pick up the grandkids, like that. 

After that, I went to Urgent Care to get help for a UTI.  Why do I always get UTI's when life is crazy busy?  I still have a broken shoe because I didn't have time to go home.

Once I got my prescription, I went to the drugstore and picked it the prescription--like a limping old lady.

Finally, I limped home.  

I got shoes,
You got shoes,
All of God's children got shoes!
When I get to Heaven gonna put on my shoes;
I'm gonna walk all over God's Heaven,
Heaven, Heaven.

But when I get to heaven my shoes will be perfect.

The Parable of the Lost Wedding Ring

It's Labor Day.  The holiday that unofficially marks the end of summer and a start to the shifting of gears into winterizing boats, closing summer cottages, the putting away of summer clothes, starting school and even thinking of Halloween costumes.  The weather, however, wasn't ready to shift gears.  No, the weather was a balmy 80's, even more in the sun.  Since the Cape gets the gulf stream, the water temperature was in the 70's.  Heaven can take notes.  

Taking advantage of the perfect weather, the family sailed to Washburn Island.  The only people on the beach were people who come by boat, making it one of the least populated beaches on Cape Cod.  That's the attraction.  We almost have an entire beach to ourselves.  This time, the family brought every beach toy that wasn't nailed down.  Beach umbrellas, blankets, beach chairs, towels, hats, slippers, snorkels, balls, frisbees, pails, shovels, body boards, tubes, paddle boards, pails, shovels, fishing poles, fishing lures, nets, and a partridge in a pear tree.  I'm kidding about the partridge, but we did have a flotation tube shaped like a swan.  

And we settled down for the day.  Music played on the kids' MP3 player.  Grandpa drank a cold one. The children took off down the beach with pails and nets.  The boat was secured by the anchor buried deep ashore. The children's father took his fishing pole and waded deep into the channel by following a sand bar.  That sand bar stretched out into the ocean.  Even I was curious enough to follow its length out to where the water temperature cooled and the color of the water changed from sea green to dark blue.  Turning around, the shore looked so distant.  

The children, in all their happy glee came splashing, swimming, and screaming towards us.  It was fun to be out so far from shore.  Everyone but those fishing played Frisbee. We watched and ranked with scores as the kids tried hand stands under water.  They tried synchronized swimming.  In other words, we played for hours.

We ate lunch and walked the shore looking for shells and interesting rocks.  There must have been a storm because there were a lot of seaweed, horseshoe crabs, and other ocean debris.  Washburn Island is between Martha's Vineyard and Menahaunt Beach in Falmouth, Cape Cod.  In other words, it's pretty much protected from the ravages of hurricanes and fierce storms.  But still.

Even though it was September, we all could feel the burn from the sun.  The sun was getting to us.  The kids were getting cranky.  The beer was running low.  The tide was coming in and the anchor had to be moved higher up on shore.  It was time to think about heading home.

It was then, that Grandpa noticed that his hand felt different.  Something was wrong.  His wedding ring was gone.  His original ring from 51 years ago wasn't on his finger.  He was distraught.  

Everyone traced his steps, but everyone felt that he must have lost it out in the water.  We were playing with the kids and throwing balls and frisbees and even tossing the young ones into the waves.  The sand out there was mucky.  Yucky, mucky, mud.  There was no use looking there.  We were at a loss as what to do.

It was a long sad journey back to the cottage.  We had looked.  We prayed.  The Catholics prayed for St. Anthony's intercession.  The Jews prayed the Rabbi Meir Baal Hanes prayer.  The other religiously-impaired, found themselves praying too.  There was nothing else to do.

Everyone had given up.  There was no hope, or was there?  One day, Uncle Tobey was out  quahogging.  He was raking up the mucky sand and dropping the quahogs in his peck basket, when he heard a shout.  The fellow who was near him had found something.  Tobey went over and saw something shiny in Raphael's hand.  It was a ring, a wedding ring.

Grandpa correctly described the ring and the inscription inside.  Grandpa called the family, friends, and neighbors together and said, "Rejoice with me because I have found what once was lost."

No one likes to lose something that we once had, and certainly not something you've had for over 50 years that has sentimental value.  Monetarily it may be a small loss, but it bothers us, and to Grandpa it was a monumental loss.  If we give something away, we probably wouldn't miss it at all.  We might even feel good that someone else is enjoying it.  But when we lose something without knowing how, the loss is irritating, and sometimes the effort we make to recover the loss is out of proportion to the monetary  value of the loss item.  And if it is of sentimental value, then no one can really understand the depth of the grief Grandpa felt.

See we speak of money and material things as "treasure."  But there are other more valuable treasures.  One may even consider this fact as one of the proofs that God exists.  If the treasures we hold near and dear to us did not exist, then God would be unjust, because most people do not achieve material wealth.  There are treasures of the heart and soul that can not be measured or explained.  These are the real riches that only those who have true eyes can see.  

Labor Day

With the arrival of Labor Day, I can’t help but think of the song, “Sixteen Tons”.  When I hear this song, the words, “another day older and deeper in debt,” I imagine I can feel a little of the oppressive burden of a laborer mining coal.

The song is attributed to Merle Travis and the line “another day older and deeper in debt,” came from a letter written by Merle Travis’ brother.  This phrase and the line, “I gave my soul to the company store,” are references to the truck system and debt bondage.  Under the truck system and debt bondage, workers were not paid cash; rather they were paid with non-transferrable credit vouchers that could only be used at the company store. Hence, it was impossible to save any money.  Workers who lived in company owned dormitories or houses had their rent automatically deducted from their pay.  This truck system and debt bondage lasted until a union was able to be formed—the United Mine Workers, and was able to end such practices.  Unions were forming around the turn of the twentieth century. Here are seven achievement the union won.

1.        Wage had to be paid that were commensurate with work and dangerous work, more.

2.       Payment had to be legal tender and not company scrip.

3.       Mines had to have good ventilation to decrease black lung disease. (Note, not end black lung, but decrease.)

4.       Enforce safety laws.

5.       Labor limited to eight hours.

6.       End child labor.

7.       Use accurate scales to weigh the coal so workers could be  paid fairly.

It wasn’t until 1933 that workers achieved “collective bargaining rights” – meaning laborers could sit down at the table with management and discuss conditions to benefit both parties.

Not until 1946 could miners get health and retirement benefits.

And in 1969, The United Mine Workers of America convinced Congress to force owners to provide compensation to miners suffering from Black Lung Disease.

Now, you see why we have a holiday celebrating “Labor.” People have worked hard throughout our history. Their contributions have made America strong and prosperous.  Certainly laborers have earned a three day holiday weekend.  And much more.

Tyler's Dream

 This short story is my eight year old granddaughter's story.

Two fleece bunnies sit on the shelf, under the canopy, in Tyler’s bedroom.  When he is asleep, they like to jump down to the window and look out. Mr. and Mrs. Bunny like to watch cars going by and look at the woods.                                 One night, Mr. and Mrs. Bunny saw a tree fall.  They also saw a coyote sneak up to the tree and steal a bird’s nest, out of the tree.  Mr. Bunny jumped out of the window to stop the coyote.  Mrs. Bunny followed.

The Bunnies followed the coyote to his den.  They watched the coyote call her babies out.  Mr. and Mrs. Bunny watched in horror.  But before the little coyotes got to the nest, the baby birds flew out and away.  The coyotes were angry but the baby birds were safely away.

Mr. and Mrs. Bunny went back to Tyler’s bedroom, on their shelf, under the canopy, knowing that the birds were safe with their mom.  Soon, Mr. and Mrs. Bunny were asleep.

Fido the Pool Shark

The pool table was free.  I could have never afforded a table like this one.  It was constructed out of solid maple wood with a black stain finish.  The pockets were genuine leather.  The legs were intricately scrolled in a curving foot design.  The add said, “Free to a good home.”    I jumped at the chance.  Borrowing my brother and his truck, we it picked up.  What a beauty!  The man even threw in four cues, a bridge stick, the pool balls, a vinyl pool table cover and an 8 ball rack.

 My brother thought he had died and gone to heaven.  But he lived in a small apartment, so we put the table in my basement.  I always wanted to finish my basement, now with this pool table, I have the incentive. 

But before inviting people over to play in my new rec room, I had the time to practice.  My partner was my rescue cat, Fido.  He was hiding when the pool table was moved in through the bulk head.  Fido is quite the prude when she hears coarse language.  She probably figured that with all the noise and cursing and trash talk, she had better make herself scarce.  Fido is a smart kitty.

But Fido quickly surveyed my new acquisition.  It had a long, flat, table top to stretch out on.  There were balls to swat back and forth.  There was the possibility of a gathering of people to pet and scratch her when using this table, so there was that.  On the whole, Fido approved.

And when Fido heard the clack of the balls after the break shot, she came running and jumped up on the table to play.  She pounced on the apex ball.

“Hmmm, this isn’t going to work.”  Faith thought.

“Do I have to keep you out of the room?”

Faith tried to work around Fido, and tried a bank shot.  But Fido was quick and chased the ball down the pocket.

“MeOWWW! “  Ouch.  That meow is an ouch and Fido’s paw was stuck. What was wrong?

Faith felt  around and in the pocket and gingerly worked Fido’s paw out.  Attached to her top claw was a ring.  Yes, a round gold ring, like  wedding ring.  It wasn’t a toy; it was a nice piece of jewelry.  I brought it closer to a lamp and looked at the inside.  There were engraved initials and a date.  This was a wedding ring.

I immediately phoned the man who gave me the pool table.  He laughed and laughed.  Then he told me this story.

He loved to play pool.  It was a matter of contention between him and his wife.  So much so that wifey said he might as well be married to a cue stick and she took off her wedding ring and placed it on the cue stick.

To retaliate, he picked up that very stick and played a game of pool with the ring on the cue stick.  He cleaned the table with it.  When he finished, they saw that her ring was gone.

She was so angry that she was gone, too.   He looked for the ring in all the pockets and all around the pool table.  But he couldn’t imagine where it went.

Eventually, they reconciled.  But part of the agreement was that he got rid of the pool table.  He asked how he could reward Fido for finding his wife’s wedding ring?

I said, "Oh, no reward.  I was happy that he and his wife reconciled and that the wedding ring will be soon reconciled to its owner.

Fido loves happy endings.

 

 

 

Tyler the Tapioca Pearl

 Today at Senior Scribblers my granddaughter and I created a story. “Tyler the Tapioca Pearl.” Unfortunately, it’s size is too big to post  

She is seven years old and has no problem making up stories. Again I can’t upload it. Very frustrating. Even though it is a short story she has a cover, a table of contents, the story, and a glossary.       

The Raincoat

 

The name of this short story is The Raincoat.  The inspiration for my story is a famous Russian short story, The Overcoat, written by Nikolai Gogol, published in 1842. The Overcoat and Nikolai Gogol have had a great influence on Russian literature.  In fact, it has been called, “The greatest Russian short story ever written.  The story has been adapted into a variety of stage and film interpretations.  And here is my humble offering to add to Nikolai Gogol’s inspirational short story.  It’s a sequel to my Faith and Fido Fables.

It’s now summer and Faith and her rescue cat, Fido, have been together for 3 months now and Faith has grown to love her little feline friend.

It’s a good thing Fido is a talker because Faith would really feel foolish carrying on a conversation to a fur ball.  Today, Faith and Fido are on the screened-in porch planting seeds in small peat pots.  Later, when they’re seedlings, they will go outside in the garden. The planting was interrupted.  Faith was not entirely surprised because she had seen a man in the neighborhood, going door to door.  “I wonder what he’s selling,” she thought.

Fido and Faith left the porch to answer the door bell.  It turns out that the salesman was selling solar panels.  “Presently, the family isn’t interested.  Maybe next year.”

When Faith closed the door, she was surprised to see that Fido’s fur was up on her arched back, her ears were back and her eyes were large and round.  And she was hissing.

“Good grief, Fido, I get it.  You didn’t like that man.  Well, he’s gone.  Let’s get back to our seeding.”

The rest of the day passed uneventedly.  The seeds were all planted.  The porch was cleaned up and Fido had had a busy day sleeping stretched out in the sun.  It was time to start preparing supper.

However, the preparation was interrupted by the doorbell a second time.  Once more, it was the solar panel salesman.  While Faith greeted the man with a surprised smile, the smile on her face froze midway because the man quickly stepped over the threshold and reached over to the coat rack and stole the rain coat hanging there!

It happened so fast that Faith’s smile was still frozen on her face.  It was Fido’s screech that snapped Faith back to reality.

“What?!?!?”

Faith stepped out and ran across the lawn to the sidewalk.  She wasn’t sure which way the man ran because he was gone.

“What do you make of that Fido?”

Fido had no response except to make figure eights in and out and around Faith’s legs.

“I don’t believe what just happened.  How strange!”

Faith picked Fido up and caresses her. “I suppose it could have been worse.  He could have stolen you, Fido.”

Fido purred loudly.

“It’s still bizarre. Why steal a raincoat on a nice, sunny day?”

Seacoast Blvd.

 My favorite place in the world is at the end of Seacoast Blvd., in Falmouth, MA.  We have a summer place off of Seacoast Blvd.  Just about every evening, that we are down there, we walk out to the end of the Blvd., down the path, to the steps leading to the water. 

There before your eyes lies a panorama of nature that for me, packs a spiritual punch because it lifts me out of my ordinary life.  I usually sit on the steps and just contemplate the vista before me.

First, you see the boats, buoys, seagulls, terns, and maybe an osprey.  The water is clear so you might be able to pick up a crab, or even catch a fish swimming by if you’re quick or have a net.  Within swimming distance is Washburn Island.

Washburn Island is home to my family’s favorite beach.  It’s safe to say, that everyone who lives on this peninsula (Seacoast Blvd.) and has a boat, has their favorite beach spot planted on the island.

Observing Washburn Island is a lesson in theology because watching the weather and seasons caress and assault the isle reminds one of God’s care over His creation: clothing Adam and Eve in their nakedness, marking Cain to protect him, protecting David from King Saul’s wrath, freeing Peter from prison, etc. 

²⁶ Behold the birds of the heaven, that they sow not, neither do they reap nor gather into barns; and your heavenly Father feedeth them. Are not ye of much more value than they?  Matt 6: 26

God has a plan and it’s not the one we planned.  What am I talking about?  I’m specifically thinking of hurricanes.  I love to rush down to the end of Seacoast Blvd. to see what Mother Nature has done after the Cape has been hit with a hurricane.  More often than not, Washburn Island is literally broken.  The crashing waves and relentless wind break through the land so there are two islands—a parent and a child.  But over time, we watch the parent reach over and pull her little one close and closer until the little one is hugged by its parent.  The ocean has brought sand, silt, and rocks to fill in the break.  The two islands and now one, again.

Sitting on those stone steps you forget where you are because you’re gradually placed in a different dimension of experience.  You are in a place of light—sunlight and light reflected off the gentle motion of the waves, the clanging of the ropes on the masts of the sailboats, the clanging of the buoy, the gleeful voices of the young, the slapping waves against the rocks, the crying of the seagulls, and the tender kiss of the wind caressing your sunburnt skin.  One can’t help but fall into transcendence.  You find yourself contemplating a Divine Presence and Divine Providence.

And that’s not all.  That’s only Washburn Island.  Beyond Washburn is Vineyard Sound., home to the largest flounder in Cape Cod Bay.  And Martha’s Vineyard, which in our little Boston Whaler, is two hours away.  But who wants to boat over to that tourist trap when we have our own slice of nirvana at the end of Seacoast Blvd.

Eventually, however, you become aware that other people have walked into your space.  Well, after all, we don’t own the venue.  The path and steps at the end of Seacoast Boulevard are actually only a public Right of Way.  

Well, it’s time for others to admire the scene and hopefully experience the majesty of the view.

Faith and Fido

I've decided to write a series of short stories like I once wrote Prayer Group Tales (use the search engine).  Here's the first one.

THE INTRODUCTION

It was Faith’s 65^th birthday and she decided she wanted to give herself a present--a pet.  Although Faith loved all animals, she knew she didn’t want a dog because she didn’t want to have to walk it.  And all the fish she ever had died; besides the aquarium eventually smelled like low tide, and she didn’t want to have to clean that smelly scum. 

There are always birds, e.g., parakeets, cockatoos, parrots, etc.  

Again, there would be cages to be cleaned.

It is clear that the answer was a cat—a cat, not a kitten.  She didn’t want her pet to outlive her.  Who knows what would become of it?  And it would be an indoor/outdoor cat.  She didn't want to bother with kitty litter.  Cats clean themselves, so she didn’t have to do that.  Yes, she decided.

 

The next day, Faith went to the animal shelter to pick out her cat.  What a heart-wrenching decision!  She wanted them all.  She felt like rescuing the most desperate, the sickest, the feeblest, and the ones no one else would take.  The cutest and friendliest would find homes soon enough, but who would ever adopt the undesirables?  Faith didn’t know what to decide.

The shelter lady knew Faith’s dilemma and asked her some probing questions:

      Did she want short hair or long hair?   Didn’t matter.

      How old a cat?  Old

      Will children be in the home?    Yes

      Can I care for my pet?    Yes

While the lady was asking Faith her questions, the cats were eyeing Faith, ignoring Faith, making figure eights in and around Faith’s legs, or meowing for attention.  There was one tabby that looked old because although he was grey and black striped on his back and sides, he had a lot of grey and white that made him look old.

“How old is this cat?”  Faith asked because he was playing with her shoelaces like a kitten, yet had the coloring of an elder.

      She’s around 10 years old and has arthritis; she's on medicine, do you think you can care for her and bring her to the vet regularly?  Ha!  Maybe we can take the same meds Faith thought.  "How long is her expected life span?"

      She may live another 5-8 years, if she stays an indoor cat.

Faith didn’t want an indoor cat.
She didn’t want a sick cat. 
She didn’t want a pet that played with her shoelaces and looked so appealing and purred so loud and meowed so pitifully.

But Faith impulsively picked the kitty up and she instantly settled in Faith’s arms and melted into her body like a sleeping baby.

Faith was hooked.

After paying the adoption fee, which actually was free because of the cat’s age, but the vet’s bill, her medicine, the cost of her spaying, her flea and tick bath, her kitty litter, some toys, food, and a carrier, Faith’s purse was $ 300 lighter.  But Faith didn’t seem to mind. 

Upon leaving, Faith turned and asked, “What’s her name?”

      Fido  You’re kidding.

      No.  A cat named Fido.

 

 

Keep Pushing

God told me to push on this huge rock.  I did.  And I did.  I kept doing it until I couldn't push it anymore.  The rock hadn't moved an inch!

I cried to the Lord.  "I tried.  I tried my best but I couldn't move that rock.  It was too heavy for me."

The Lord answered.  "Well done my child.  I told you to push the rock.  I didn't tell you to move it.  You did what I wanted.  Good job!"
 

If Rodney Dangerfield lived in Franklin, MA

 

If Rodney Dangerfield was a Franklinite

You think it’s easy being me?  It’s not. Let me tell you.  I won tickets to the movies.  The theatre was called the Zeotrope.  It’s been gone for over 10  years.  I can’t get no respect.

When I was a child I learned how to swim at Beaver Pond.  The trouble was that my parents dropped me off at the dump across the street from the pond.  No respect I tell you.

I got a library card at the nation’s first library, the town library.  I was seven years old and could barely read.  So I didn’t know I was locked in the elevator instead of the children’s room.  I tell you, I’ve lived a hard life – no respect!

My teachers taught me all about Ben Franklin and how the town was named after him and he gave the town some books for our library.  But he died in Philadelphia, so my teachers gave me a one way ticket to Philadelphia.  I have never been given any respect. 

When I graduated from Franklin High School I was given a blank diploma.  When I complained I was given a diploma with the wrong name.  I complained again and the principal crossed out the name and wrote mine.  What’s even worse is that he misspelled Dangerfield.  He wrote Danger FAILED.  I didn’t dare complain again. 

I brought the family to have a picnic on the Town Common.  We were playing hide and seek.  I looked for an hour and couldn’t find them. I had to walk all the way home…in the rain.   That’s NO RESPECT.

I joined TOPS at the Franklin Senior Center.  That’s a club, Take off Pounds Sensibly.  I didn’t lose any weight but I found out how to look like I did, just hang out with fat people. 

I went over to the Mormon Temple on Jordon Road because I heard that they were good on genealogy.  I wanted to look up my family tree.  I found it, and found three dogs had used it.  No wonder I get no respect.  The apple doesn’t fall far from the tree. 

 

These jokes were fun to write, but I know I didn’t do the justice that Rodney Dangerfield deserves.  He was a comic genius.  If you didn’t laugh at his jokes and the way he put them over, you ain’t human.  His shtick was putting himself down.  His catch phrase, “I can’t get no respect,” is famous.  When he died in 2004 and reached the pearly gates, St. Peter said to him, “I heard you got no respect in life;” which prompted Rodney to quip some famous no respect one liners.”  St. Peter smiled, laughed and then waved Rodney in. “Finally,” Rodney Dangerfield said, “a little respect.”

 

Birth of a Story

The birth of a story starts with an idea.  But that idea can change in a nanosecond.  A few days ago I wrote a short story, Gone But Not Forgotten about walking in cemeteries.  But it started with an idea of "Two Coins," from St. Irenaeus.  I googled on the references on two coins in scripture and came across incidents of people putting coins on veterans' graves.  That will be another story, I'm sure.  But the noun, "graves" brought to mind the cemeteries I've been walking through.  And that's what the story came out to be.  

Pandemic Reflection

Thanks for the Memories, COVID-19

During the COVID-19 pandemic, the world-wide population was under quarantine.  Since I couldn’t leave the house, I took the opportunity to clean, organize, and read, many of the things I had put off due to lack of time.  Now time was what I had.

As I was cleaning out one of my bookcases, the shelf with cookbooks caught my eye.  I sat down to peruse them.  What can be tossed and what can be kept? Just because a recipe is a yellowed, aged newspaper clipping from 50 years ago doesn’t mean that its dish isn’t still tasty.  Does it?

What’s this?  A 20-year-old letter.

Should I write to Connie and tell her I found her letter?  I saved it because she included a recipe in the middle.  I remember I really didn’t want the recipe; I was just being polite when I requested it.  I don’t think I ever made the meal.  She probably doesn’t remember who I am.  She might have moved and the address isn’t valid anymore.  What if she’s dead?

I tossed the letter away.

Look at this!  It’s a mimeographed booklet of recipes from the 1970’s. It cost $ 1.50!  I wasn’t even married then!  Yes, I remember buying this from my sister.  I see the names of 3 of her children.  They contributed some recipes.  Well, I can’t throw this away.

Ugh! What’s this?  Gross! ------ a dead hornet.

Now here are a lot of newspaper clippings from the Boston Globe. I used to read a column called “Confidential Chat,” regularly. It was full of helpful hints, advice, and recipes.  They were too yellow, folded too tight, the print was too small, and I have too many recipes.  Out, along with the hornet.

Remember the bread machine? Look, 5 books of bread machine recipes.  I think I gave the bread machine away. Well, I don’t need these cookbooks, anymore.

And here’s a binder of Microwave Times. Yes, I remember taking an “adult ed” course at the high school, when microwaves first came out.  I used to do a lot of cooking in the microwave.  I even made a turkey in it, also a pineapple upside-down cake. Now, I only use the microwave to heat up leftovers.  I’m keeping these and resolving to make some of these recipes.

It looks like I found what to make for dinner tonight, “Splendor in the Grass.” This recipe is from Dave Maynard. Remember him? A disc jockey on WBZ radio. Everyone in my family loved “Splendor in the Grass.”  It’s a relatively easy microwave recipe: sliced carrots on the bottom., chicken breast on top, covered with spinach, that’s it. The meal was decorated with sliced carrots.  That’s why it’s called “Splendor in the Grass.” The spinach is the grass, the carrots are the flowers, and the chicken is the splendor.

Well, I’ve wasted an entire morning gleaning through this one shelf.  And I’m still not finished.

Enough.

It’s noon and I’m still in my pajamas. 

Enough is enough.

Animals are Animals

Sometimes dogs just don't like people. Why? Your guess is as good as mine.  Their smell?  Their demeanor? Their fear?

But it doesn't mean anything.  I've had dogs growl at me and cats jump into my lap.  Don't put human motives on the animal.

I know this and was reminded of this knowledge when I read G.K. Chesterton's The Oracle of the Dog.  It's a short story and available for free to read, here.

This is a Father Brown mystery.  Someone is killed and it seems like the dog fingers the guilty party.  But it's not that simple.  The dog simply didn't like the person.  The dog didn't know who committed the crime. 

It's a quick read.  Enjoy.

The Prayer Group is Back

It's been almost five years since Father Diotrophes had a run-in with those people.  A quiet peace had descended upon the parish. Probably because the leader of the prayer group had saved his life.  Although it could have been his prayers.  Father Diotrophes had been praying for patience with the prayer group.  Prayer works, that's for sure.  Anyway, he just about forgot about them.

On this particular Sunday, Father Diotrophes was looking forward to the Women Club's Bake Sale.

He was always the beneficiary of some of the leftovers.  He usually gifted with his choice of whatever he wanted.

Finally, the last Mass on Sunday was finished and he meandered over to the bake sale.  But what did he find?

Nothing.

??????????

"Oh, Father Diotrophes what a blessing!  We sold everything!"

"Everything?"

"Yes, the prayer group bought everything that was left, to bring them over to the Town's Department of Public Works' Garage.  The town workers will enjoy our baked goods on their break.  Isn't that thoughtful?"

Father Diotrophes was silent.  He might have grunted an assent.  (I think.)

Joe's Story

I'm using my friend, Joe's story as a guest blog post.  I'm hoping it will help a young man I know.

Serving My Country
by
Joe Ewald

When I was in my last year of high school, I wasn’t sure what I was going to do after I graduated. My grades weren’t good enough to go to college so that option was out the door.  So when I went to the local book store, in passing I noticed a sign at a navy recruiting center.  It was enticing  you to join. I went inside to check it out. I talked to the recruiter and between his convincing me with his pitch and me falling in love with the idea, I joined.  At the time, I was only 17, but because it was at the end of the Vietnam War I received a waiver to join at 17 because they needed every man they could get.  Everybody was becoming disenchanted with the supposedly police action.

The day after graduation from high school, I found myself in Great Lakes, Illinois. I caught a flight with two other guys that were going to Boot Camp. Believe it or not, they got me high in the bathroom with smoking a joint.  So when the bus picked me up, I was as high as a kite.  That’s how I started Boot Camp. 

When the buzz started to come down, reality set in.  I was missing my mother big time and I thought I had made a horrible mistake.  I was thinking of a way to get out of basic training like starting a fight or faking an illness but I decided not to do those things as I convinced myself to give it a try. To my surprise, things got better as I went along.  We were allowed to write letters home and receive them back.  This is one of the things that got me through to graduation.

One of the happiest moments I have ever experienced in this life was flying back home on American Airlines United jet.  I had received a two week leave before I had to go to dental technician school, in San Diego.  After my leave, I flew again on a plane to start my training.  School was pretty tough and I was lucky to get A.C. because my grades were average.  After I graduated they assigned me to the Marine Corps for four weeks.  It was like a four week Boot Camp with the so call Grunts. It was definitely tougher than the navy boot camp.  But I somehow made it through.

Most of the training was run, run, run… Besides being tall and skinny, I was able to do that part pretty good. I ran three miles in 21 minutes when all you had to do was 28 minutes.  The obese men had a tough time and were picked on by the drill instructor.  I felt sorry for them because they were crying.  But that is par course for Boot Camp. I myself had found a way to get through Boot Camp due to my ability to run.

After that, I got another two-week leave and it just happened to be Christmas.  Needless to say, it made my heart feel good to just be with my family. After the holidays were over, my duty assignment was to fly to Okinawa, Japan, to start my next journey with the US Marine Corps as a combination dental tech and field corpsman “A Doc,” the nickname the Grunts gave us.

I was at Camp Hanse for 13 months.  The only reason I completed that duty at Camp Hanse was the guys I served with.  They were great. I made a lot of good friends. 

Afterward, I flew home on another leave for a month and an assignment to serve the rest of my active time obligation to the Navy, at Oceanside, California. I was at Camp Pendleton for two years.

San Diego is great. They have one of the best zoos in the world, which everybody already knows. Also, they have a version of Boston Common—Balboa Park. In many ways, my fellow shipmates were awesome all the way through the rest of my active service time. My inactive service was to serve 6 years reserve at the old Weymouth Navy Air Station.

One of the most flattering moments in my life was to receive a wedding invitation from my best friend in San Diego. One of the best memories of my life was what I had serving my three years, then my six years reserves. In hindsight, I would highly recommend to young people that have a hard time deciding what to do after high school is to join the service. It gets you out of your parent’s house. It teaches you discipline and organization. Plus you make friends to have for the rest of your life.

Go Navy!