Christmas Eve – one of the most magical days of the year – if you are a child. If you are an adult it is a night when you are exhausted, frustrated looking for those darned scissors, and suffering from paper cuts.
The Christmas Tree is up and decorated, gifts are wrapped and under the tree, and that bottle of Christmas cheer is getting low.
HAPPY BIRTHDAY!
Today is my Mother-in-Law’s birthday.
It is her 98th birthday.
Born in 1920, a Child of the Great Depression she was at home in Texas teaching school during World War Two while her husband served the cause of Freedom in the Pacific.
After the war she had three children who were raised to be successful, ethical, and caring human beings.
Now, at 98 years, she continues to put her trust and faith in God.
Her Family is with her even if they are living around the country.
Happy Birthday, Lola!
Throwback Thursday from October 2015 –
OK. THAT SOUNDS A LITTLE CYNICAL, I SUPPOSE. I’m not against Halloween or anything like that. It’s just that it paints me into a corner every year. What kind of costume should I have? Should I buy something or make it myself? Should it be in good taste or just the usual?
I haven’t gone “Trick or Treating” for years. I finally figured out that people don’t like to part with their Snickers when the bag is being held by a guy with a white beard – a real white beard.
Nowadays I wear a costume when I’m handing out the goodies at the door or when we go to a party. Neither one is as much fun as hitting up the neighbors for a Reese’s Peanut Butter Cup.
Fiction Saturday – “A Conversation By The River” – Conclusion
Conclusion
“Some Monks pray while farming, some while cooking, or writing. I walk. I walk without a physical destination. Today I am here. I think I am here to talk with you.”
“And with the fish?”
“Yes – And with the fish. Walking is my way of praying. Each step is a prayer – a prayer for understanding and for thanks.”
I was getting confused with all of this.
“’Thanks? For what?” The Monk smiled at me and I relaxed.
“I give thanks for each step because I know that a time will come when I can no longer walk and the steps will have to be taken by someone else. Aren’t you thankful for something – your life? For your mother and father, for your home, your friends, and for this lovely spot by the river?”
“I guess so. I never thought about it before. Now that you put it all that way though I guess I do have a bunch of stuff to be thankful for.”
“Good. Now let’s be quiet so this fish and I can talk things out.”
The Monk and the fish might have been talking, but I didn’t hear anything. I stayed quiet because I know that you are supposed to be quiet while fishing and I didn’t want to scare the Monk’s fish.
It seemed to me like we were going to be there all day when the Monk broke the silence.
“That fish,” he said, “Makes a very good case for himself. Much better than me. Tonight I go hungry. My young friend I might as well be on my way.”
“You’re leaving? Where are you going to go?”
“Like I said earlier, I m going nowhere and everywhere as well, but I think I will start by going through your village. How far is it from here?
“The village is around that bend in the path and then an hour – less for you – you take bigger steps than me.” While I spoke he gathered together his things. He pulled his empty hook from the river, dried it and the twine on his red sash before carefully folding it and wrapping it around his body and over his shoulder. I wondered how many times he had done this before when a fish out talked him. When everything was in its place he stood up and bowed to me.
“It has been a pleasure to have spent this time with you and I wish you wisdom and happiness as you grow.”
He started across the grass toward the path. I hurried after him.
“Mr. Monk, can I walk with you awhile? My house is that way too, around the bend.”
“Of course, my friend. Let us both pray with each step we take.”
He was taller than me and I had to take more steps to keep up with him. He saw me trying to keep up and he slowed down to make it easier for me.
“What will you do when you get to the village?”
“I will beg. I am sure that some kind person will feed me and give me a place to sleep tonight. There is almost always someone in each village I visit. People are good.”
We walked on.
“This path goes on all the way to The Great Ocean they say. What will you do when you get to the end of the path?”
“I will turn around and walk back to the Monastery high up in the mountains. It is my home.”
“How long have you been walking?” He looked down at me.
“I began my prayer when I was no bigger than you. It is my entire life, my prayer.”
I was amazed. I could not imagine leaving everything behind and walking for such a long time. He was an old man compared to me – older than my father.
“I’m sorry that I ask you so many questions, but I’ve never really talked with a Monk before.”
“There is no need to apologize. How else can you learn? I ask questions all the time.”
We rounded the bend in the path and up ahead I could see where the path split. One part went on to the village. The other led to our farm.
“This looks like where we part ways. I go on to the village and you to your home. Again, I thank you for our time together.”
I had an idea. I had one more question.
“Do you have to go to the village tonight, a rule or something? I’m asking because my mother and father are kind people and I’m sure that they would be happy to give you something to eat and a warm and dry place to sleep. Would you come with me? I’m sure they won’t be upset.”
“Even your father who thinks we Monks are all wealthy?”
“Yes, I’m sure. He likes to go fishing too. You two could talk about that. But I don’t think he talks with the fish. He uses bits of bread as bait. Please come there with me.” The Monk paused. He looked at me and at the path into the village.
“Young man, every road that I walk splits, and I have often wondered where my life would be if I chose to take that other pathway. My prayer is in my step, not in the road beneath my feet. All roads go somewhere. This road,” he said, pointing off down the path, “It goes to your village and eventually to The Great Ocean. But this other path would take us to your farm and your family. The village and the ocean will be there tomorrow, but if I go that way today I will miss the gift of seeing your family. That chance is only mine for today, never to return.”
He sat down in the dust and looked at both paths.
“I need to think and pray. Give me a moment.”
I watched him close his eyes. He folded his legs like I had seen him do when he first came and sat by the riverbank. I said a prayer of my own that he would come with me.
After a couple of minutes the Monk opened his eyes. He smiled at me.
“My young friend, you prayed. I could feel it. It was a very good prayer. You prayed and I listened for the Wisdom to tell me what to do.”
“What did you hear?” I could feel my heart pounding in my chest.
I heard that you are an honest and truthful boy and that I am blessed by having this time with you today. Today is not done and there is more time to share.”
“Does that mean you’ll come back to my home with me?”
The Monk held out his hand to me.
“It does. Now help me up and let me get this dust off my robe. I don’t want your father to think that I am there to beg.”
And so we walked together to my home and with each step I learned more of the power of prayer.
WE ALL MAKE MISTAKES. Some are pretty obvious from the outset. With others it can take some time before we realize that we have stuck our foot in it. I have been collecting a few examples of some wildly errant boo-boos that deserve retelling.
One of my favorites dates from 1959. The fine folks in Ottawa, Ontario were gathered to celebrate the grand opening of a new modern terminal at the Canadian Capital’s Airport. Everyone was having a great time…until it all fell apart.
Staying up in the tree once he knew that I was up there seemed silly to me. I climbed down. The Monk had moved back to his spot – my spot – by the riverbank. He didn’t pay any attention to me. I stayed by the tree trunk not knowing what to do next. He told me.
“Come and sit down. It’s a beautiful riverbank you have here.”
I went and sat down next to him by the water’s edge. He ignored me.
“You’re a Monk aren’t you?” As soon as I said that I knew it was a silly question.
“Yes, I am. Are you a farm boy?”
“Yes, I am,” I said, but being here in the middle of all the farms around here and with me looking like I do, his was a silly question too.
“What does a Monk do, Sir?”
“There is no need to call me ‘Sir.’ And as to what a Monk does it is really very simple – we pray.”
“What do you pray for?” I thought that was a reasonable question.
“We pray to understand.”
“To understand what?”
“To understand why we are here and what we should do to be worthy of this life, this river, this conversation we are having.”
“You must pray a lot,” I said to him.
He began to fiddle with his red sash. He took out the twine and the fishing hook.
“Yes, I pray all the time.”
“You don’t look like you’re praying now. You look like you’re going to try to catch a fish.”
He tied the hook to the frayed end of the twine.
“Fishing calls for a lot of praying, my young friend.”
He dipped the hook into the water and sat quietly. At least he got that part right. After a few minutes I had to say something.
“You really are going to need to pray. You don’t have any bait on that hook. You won’t catch any fish that way.” For a man who looked so smart he seemed pretty dumb when it came to fishing.
He looked at me and smiled.
“I’m not trying to catch a fish. I am waiting for the fish to put himself on my hook. It has to be his decision. It is his life and I cannot take it. He must offer it up.”
I couldn’t help but laugh.
“That’s asking a lot of a fish, Mr. Monk.”
“Very true. I have a life and so does the fish. Our lives are of equal value. They both came from the same place – from The Creator. I want to eat to stay alive and so does the fish. My hook has no bait because that would be cheating, tricking the fish.
“The fish and I must negotiate and debate about whose need is more important today. If we agree that the fish is more important today – who knows what lies just downstream for him, then I will go hungry today. If what lies down this path is more important for me, then the fish will take the hook and I will eat. Do you understand?”
He turned back to focus on his empty fish hook and I looked at him and then down into the water. There was a fish looking at the hook, but he didn’t look convinced.
“That must be why my father says you Monks are always begging for food. You can’t talk a fish into biting on an empty hook.”
“Your father is a wise man,”
We sat there, silently, for quite awhile. It was a nice day and I was enjoying my time with the Monk even though I really didn’t understand him a lot. Before he came down the path I was just sitting here daydreaming. Now I am, thinking. I’m not used to that. He had me thinking and climbing a tree.
“I saw you coming down the path for a long time. Where are you going?
“Nowhere. Here.”
“What does that mean?”
To Be Continued…
I CAN UNDERSTAND THAT DESPERATE TIMES sometimes can call for desperate measures, but…
The other day while I was going up and down the aisles at my local Kroger supermarket I was confronted with just such a situation, or at least that what I was supposed to think.
As I was pushing my cart up the aisle past the pickles I saw a man with a cart coming the other way. His cart was empty and he was pulling a small wagon behind him. In the wagon was a small child, a toddler.
When the man (in his 30s I’d say) pulled up next to me he asked me if I had a dollar and could he have it? This guy was rolling through the store panhandling.
A Conversation By The River
The banks of the river are my favorite places in the whole world. In the afternoon after my chores have been done and I’ve finished my studies too I go to the river.
The river is not very big, but it has come a long way. From high in the mountains the river has wandered down through forests and the hill country, by the city where the Emperor lives, and then to us and our farms. I have been told that, eventually, the river ends as it flows into the Great Ocean. Someday, when I am grown, I would like to make a boat and sail it down the river all the way to the sea. But now I just go to the river and sit by the water and dream.
Yesterday I was sitting on the grass by the river. I was watching the fish swim around in the water. The sun was still hot and I had found a spot underneath one of the big trees. Its leafy branches kept me from the heat of the sun and made it the perfect place to be.
From my place under the tree I could see down the dusty path from our village and, in the other direction, I could almost see the hazy shape of the mountains to the west.
As I looked up the path I could see someone, a man, walking slowly in my direction. As he got closer I could see the little clouds of dust that his sandals kicked up with each step he took. In the bright sunlight it looked like he was dressed in a golden robe. When he got closer I could tell that he was dressed in yellow with a red sash around his waist and over one shoulder.
I have seen men dressed like him before. My parents said that men dressed like that were Monks, holy men, who travel throughout the country. My mother said that they bring good luck. My father said that they were pests, always begging and wanting food for free.
The Monk was coming toward me down the dusty path. I wasn’t sure what to do. I didn’t have anything to give him, so I decided that the best thing for me to do was to hide. I climbed the tree and hid myself in the branches.
I could see the Monk clearly as he got close and, instead of passing by and going toward the village, he stopped and sat down under my tree in the very same spot where I had been. I watched him. He didn’t make a sound. He sat there with his eyes closed.
The Monk was bald. There was not one hair on his head and he was clean shaven like my father. He sat with his legs folded up underneath him and his hands rested in his lap/ I didn’t move either. I didn’t want to make any noise that would tell him where I was hiding.
After a few minutes the Monk opened his eyes and stretched out his legs. He took off his sandals and dipped his dusty feet into the water of the river. He sighed and smiled. He had a kind face.
He undid his red sash and unfolded it on the grass next to him. He had several things, but not a lot, that he carried with him.
I saw a spool of twine and a fishing hook, a small knife – not big enough to scare anyone, a book not much bigger than my hand, a flint, and a cup. That was all he had. He was not a rich Monk like my father said that they all were.
He took his cup and bent over to get himself a drink of water. Even though it was a hot day the water in the river was always cool having come down from the mountains.
He drank his cupful of water and then he did something most strange. He bent over again very close to the water. It looked like he was talking to the water, but I couldn’t hear what he was saying. When he finished talking he put his hand onto the surface of the water, like he was petting an obedient dog. That made no sense to me. It was like he was thanking the river for the water he had taken,
The Monk sat quietly by the water for a few minutes and then dried his feet, put his sandals back on, and stood up. I thought that he was going to leave and continue walking down the path. Instead he walked over to the trunk of the tree and, without looking up, he spoke.
“Why don’t you come down? I won’t bite.”
That startled me and I almost fell from my place in the branches.
“Come down and we can talk.”
To Be Continued…
Throwback Thursday from September 2015
I WAS JUST LOOKING AT THE LIST of the most popular names for newborn babies in 2014. For 2015 I assume we won’t know for a while what names will make the Top Ten.
When I first saw the list of girl’s names I was struck by how “traditional” and even 19th century many of them seemed.
Sophia? Emma? Emily?
I guess the trend of recent years for “new” names or names that had a more nontraditional flair has waned at last.
I know of two families that have daughters named “Brooklyn.” Personally, I would no sooner name my child Brooklyn than I would name her East St. Louis or Beaver Falls (The town where I grew up).
Names like Sophia, Emma and Emily carry elegance about with them. They conjure up a gentler, and more polite, time. When I hear Brooklyn I think of black and while newsreel footage of crowded streets and Ebbet’s Field – Home of the Brooklyn Dodgers. I can almost smell the cigar smoke and perspiration. (I’m gonna hear about this – I just know it.)
Here is the complete Top Ten List of Girl’s Names for 2014, courtesy of BabyCenter.com.
There’s not a Brooklyn or an East St. Louis among them.
I recall that a few years ago the name “Madison” was a very popular choice for both boys and girls. There are a number of names that do double duty, but the only reason this sticks out in my memory is that once, during an interview with some sportscaster, Giants’ Pitcher Madison Bumgarner mentioned that he once had a date with a girl who was also named Madison Bumgarner. He claimed that they were not related, but he grew up in a small town in North Carolina. I’m just saying…
Doubling up on both names just raises eyebrows and visions of children running around with extra thumbs.
All of these girl’s names are incredibly better than what Inventor and Aircraft Designer, Bill Lear (The Lear Jet) did to his daughter. He saddled his baby girl with the first name of “Shanda.”
10 Most Popular boy’s Names for 2014
The one thing that leaps out at me about this list of boy’s names is that several of them are, what I would consider to be, last names or family names.
Nos. 1, 4, 6, and 10 are not first names.
Take no. 1 for example.
Let’s assume, for the sake of discussion, that little Jackson’s last name is “Thomas.” Years from now he will be asked to fill out some forms for a job or for some government program and they will ask that he do so “Last name first.” He will dutifully fill in the blanks with “Thomas, Jackson.”
I freaking guarantee that the clerk who is processing his paperwork will see that and think that Jackson is an illiterate fool and trashcan his application. He will not get the job, become disheartened, fall in with a bad crowd, and descend into a life of crime and despair. All because his parents got cute with his name.
Numbers 4, 6, and 10 – I’m sorry to say, but you’re screwed.
And number 8 – “Caden?” That’s not a name. It sounds like a dental term. “I’m sorry; Jackson, but you have a bad case of Caden. It’s going to be painful and expensive.”
Of course, as was the case with the girl’s names – it could be worse.
I do know of a young boy here in Terre Haute (That’s French for, “My first name is Pierre.”) who has the legal first name of “Buckshot.”
Is that a crime statistic in the making, or what? Why not just name the kid, “The Defendant.”
I do believe that parents should be able to name their kids as they like, but if you’re going to give your child a stupid name, I think that the clerk authorizing birth certificates should be legally empowered to take Daddy and Mommy out back and slap them silly upside the head.
Throwback Thursday from April 2015
The other day the temperature got into the 70s and I was actually able to go out wearing one of my Hawaiian shirts (Wal-Mart Wonders) without feeling cold or having people stare. They do that anyway, but we’ll save that for another day.
The warm air made me think of my youth. By youth I mean age six to twelve or so – those years when you do stuff just because it is fun and not because you think it will fool your parents.
I grew up in a small steel mill town near Pittsburgh. Back then there were five mills operating. We lived two blocks away from one of them.
Every summer my brother Jimmy and I would try to come up with some way to earn some money to cover our vital needs (Candy, Baseball Cards, Soft Drinks – aka “Pop,” and miscellaneous inexpensive toys).
One scheme we used almost every summer was the Sidewalk Kool-Aid Stand. Our house was situated at the top of a hill, a two block walk up from the steel mill. The workers would finish their shift, walk uphill, and encounter our oasis of ice cold Kool-Aid. What a racket we had going there. It was like shooting fish in a barrel. These guys were dead tired and we were there with cold drinks that had enough sugar in them to kill a diabetic.
“Ten cents a glass! Get your ice cold Kool-Aid right here!”
We did alright with that little enterprise. Our secret weapon to increase the profit margin was to look innocent and pretend that we couldn’t make change for anything above a Quarter.
“Aw, keep the change, kids.”
That Kool-Aid stand was our tried and true operation for several summers, but it was not the only thing we had going. Not by a long shot.
Just up the block was what would today be called a “Senior Citizen Community.” We called it an, “Old Folks Home.” On those hot and sultry summer days their front porch would be packed with people trying to cool off. I saw them as an opportunity.
We didn’t make Kool-Aid deliveries, so we came up with another business plan.
What do hot, sweating people want -To not be hot and sweating, of course? A quick trip uptown to the store that sold Art supplies, back to our big dining room table, and presto!
“Don’t Sweat – Get Cool! Get your own personal, handmade fans, right here! Only ten cents!”
Just about everything we sold was “ten cents,” and, of course, we had that same problem making change.
The fans were made from heavy duty construction paper and really did work quite well. The Old Folks cooled off and we had enough cash to buy some cheap balsa wood airplanes to throw around until they either crashed and broke or got run over by one of the steel hauler trucks that drove past the house every day.
I also tried selling newspapers to the Old Folks, but that fell apart once they realized I was selling them yesterday’s papers.
Not every idea can be a winner.
These businesses faded away as I got older and started spending my money on things like girls and Aqua Velva. When you are eight years old and kinda cute you can get away with things that just don’t work when you look like you need a shave.
I AM A BIG FAN OF CREATIVITY. It comes in all sorts of flavors. Some people are creative with words, others paint, while others create the things that make the world operate on a daily basis. Then there are those whose creativity is manifested by seeing tomorrow in new and amazing ways. Me? I crack jokes and hope to make each day a little more palatable.
That’s OK by me.
NOT LONG AGO I WAS CHATTING with one of the younger members of the family. She is in the sixth grade and turning into an interesting human being. She is past that Baby stage and is thinking about her future.
I asked her if she had given any thought to what she would like to be when she grows up. She answered me.
I CAN AND WILL CONTINUE TO SLEEP just about anywhere. I can sleep on airplanes. I can sleep on a crowded bus. I even fell asleep on stage one time. I’m good at sleeping.
As I write this we are down in Texas once again. Family business brings us to the Corpus Christi area for the fifth month in a row and Christmas will send us south once again. This means a lot of sleeping in strange beds and some strange sleeping.
I DROVE PAST MY NEIGHBORHOOD TACO BELL yesterday. I was glad to see that they are continuing to value their staff by naming another “Employee of the Month.” This month’s winner of the coveted “Golden Taco” is named “Ant.” That’s it. Just “Ant.” I’m going to go out on a limb and assume that “Ant” is a nickname.
“Ant,” Not “An Ant.” Thank Heavens; I’d hate to think that one of the ways to work there and be named “Employee of the Month” would be to have six legs. Although during a busy time at the restaurant that could be an asset.
Our Congratulations go out to Ant.
LATELY WE – READ MY WIFE, THE LOVELY AND SIGNIFICANTLY TALENTED, DAWN, AND I – have been doing a lot of binge watching on those evenings when there are no Giants games on TV.
Our binging has had us plowing through four seasons of American History with “Turn – Washington’s Spies.”
“Turn” follows actual historical characters through the ups and downs of the American Revolution from the American and British viewpoints.
A Reblog courtesy of:
A collection of fairy tales written by child refugees in Greece has gone on sale to help those like the book’s authors.
Travelling Tales features a rugby-playing dog, a king who grew to love animals and chickens fighting an alien invasion among its eight stories.
The book is the brainchild of Brazilian journalist Debora de Pina Castiglione and her sister Beatriz. The two combined their love of words and illustrations to create the book but the ideas came directly from the children.
Debora ran workshops with Syrian and Kurdish children aged between four and 14 years old, at three refugee camps close to Thessaloniki in Vasilika, Lagadikia and Oreokastro.
It gave the children something to do without focusing on their own lives.“The idea was not to have the children talk about their journeys or experiences fleeing war, at least not directly,” Debora said. “It was to let them tell the stories they wanted to, in ways they chose themselves.
“I think it’s important for young people to engage with one another. Children all over the world are watching the refugee situation, or hearing it on news programmes their parents watch and listen to, and as well as hoping it would be an interesting project for the children at the camps, I wanted to do something so the children outside of the crisis could see the children caught up in it on their own terms, as children with fun and interesting stories, just like they are.”
And there is something entirely captivating about the stories. In The Travelling Princess, Amira shuns her royal title to live as a poor person who goes around giving away gold she found as she explored the world.
In Aliens vs Chicken, Earth is under attack from extraterrestrials who want to steal all the chicken eggs in the world. While humans are relieved about the aliens’ demands, the chickens are not happy and fight back, reclaiming the eggs.
The story was written by nine-year-old Shahd who lives in the military camp of Lagadikia. Debora describes her stories as “full of adventure. Her creativity reminds us that there are heroes even where we least expect to find them.”
“We spent four months with the children,” Debora added. “In some cases, the children spoke English very well, and had quite clear ideas of their stories. In others, we worked with a translator, and also spent time with them to help them develop their ideas, to make the stories hold together better.
“But the point was that these are the stories of the children, so we didn’t change their words, or add anything they did not include themselves.”
Five professional illustrators helped to bring the stories to life, including Beatriz.
The book was published last month and is available in English as well as Greek, Portuguese, Spanish, French, Italian, German and Dutch. It is for sale via Amazon priced at £10.
Money collected from the sale of the book will be used to help support projects that look for alternative housing solutions to the military camps.
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“hope is a waking dream.”
-aristotle
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credits: the irish news, Debora and Beatriz de Pina Castiglione, child refugees in greece
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#teachers for refugees
A thousand Thanks to KSBeth for allowing me to share this with you.
I REALLY HAVEN’T WRITTEN MUCH ABOUT MY SAN FRANCISCO GIANTS LATELY. There is a good reason – they are not having a good year. No, it’s worse than that – they are stinking up the joint.
For the first time since the 1980s they have a chance to lose 100 games this season. That hurts.
I remember going out to games at the old Candlestick Park and watching them lose day after day. It was not easy to be a witness to that. Since then they have had some glorious years – winning three World Series rings in a three year period. But that was then and this is now.
THE PAST FEW WEEKS HAVE BEEN TRULY EXHAUSTING.
I’M A FAN OF JIMMY BUFFETT. I’m not a fan to the point of calling myself a “Parrothead” which is similar to avid fans of the Grateful Dead calling themselves “Deadheads.” No, I’m not a “Parrothead.” I don’t hitchhike around the country to attend Buffett concerts and I don’t have any Buffett tattoos. I can’t afford the ticket prices and I’m too old to start siring kids named “Cheeseburger” or “Margaritaville.”
I guess I’m more of a “Parakeet” than a “Parrothead.”
I just like his music and I admire him because as a man of 70 he can still take his show on tour without the need for a fulltime medical staff.
TODAY IS A SPECIAL DAY. IT IS A DAY FOR REMEMBRANCE.
Today is National Lost Sock Memorial Day.
This is a time to scratch our heads and wonder, “Where in the heck is the other sock?”
We have all spent time with our heads stuck in the dryer looking for the mate to the orphan sock we are holding in our hand. That other sock was there when we started the dryer, but now…
Down the Hall on Your Left 