The ayes have it.

Don't you just hate anniversaries??

I have an annual appointment with my eye surgeon ever since he removed a pterygium (ter-ig-e-um, but you pronounce it any way you like) from my left eye in 2007, this has been to check on the growth of cataracts that have been developing on both eyes.
Well on Fridays anniversary visit he discovered another pterygium this time on my right eye, as this is by far my "best" eye in a fairly badly matched pair, we need to have it removed as quickly as possible, so I'm booked in to have the "cut and paste" done on July 20.
The surgery last time was not at all painful, the knowledge that he was jabbing a needle into my eye, then cutting away the damaged bit, then cutting away a "patch" from an area beneath my eyelid, then stitching the patch over the first area, all of which I could see a very hazy view of through the eye under attack was distinctly off-putting.
Then there was the joy of finding that he had left a handful of sand, cleverly disguised as the 12 stitches he had attached the patch with, in my eye, the next 24 hours were not particularly pleasant as I silently (in the main) wept away said handful of sand... Oh the joy of being able to relive all this again!!!
There is the added joy of the $800.00 out of pocket expense just to plant a little flag in that sand.

And how has your week been???

Also a very happy 4th of July to those who celebrate it.

This is only a pretend post

My most frequently used key.

I know a lot of this was in my previous post and that it’s all pretty boring anyway but I had an offer of help from a blog buddy “Connie” and as I wrote to her about my experiences I was reminded of similar incidents in the past that became funny with the passage of

time, besides it will give all the clever IT people and the smug Apple Mac users something to chuckle about.

Now that's what you call a computer crash.

My lengthy email to Connie;

Hi Connie, thanks for your comments on my new laptop, it’s a Satellite Pro M200 different to most companies the Pro model from Toshiba comes with less features than the normal Satellite, no web-cam, fingerprint sensor, just the Pro style working gear (which was what I wanted).

It has a 14 inch widescreen display, 2GB of Ram, it has a 32 Bit dual core OS, it came with only an 80GB hard drive (ONLY!! My first computer only 5or 6 years ago came with 1GB) and has a VISTA Business installed, you now know more about it than I do because you probably understand most of that.

Just to complicate my life a little more I also bought and installed Windows Office Student and Home Edition, which can be installed on up to 3 computers, this also is pretty different to my old Office 2005 so I’m learning all the time with it too, I’m not sure whether its just that I’m dumb, but it took me at least 10 minutes to find the Select All feature!!! (This is starting to sound like one of my posts Hmmm??).

OK, the problems that I know about to date;

I have 3 flash drives that work fine on XP but will not work on VISTA, they are a 256MB EasyDisk, a 512 MB Rundisk, and a 1GB Sony, I have visited all the manufacturers web sites in search of up to date drivers without success, so yesterday with a burst of brilliance I bought yet another Sony 1GB drive which was clearly marked VISTA compatible, joy of joys it worked, so I copied all the driver files from it to the old Sony.... and it bloody well won’t work!!!!

Enough with the flash drives.... at least I got my Maxtor 250GB external hard drive to work although it took updates from both Maxtor and Windows to get there, no such luck with my Canon pixma ip3000 printer after hours of re-loading and downloading from Canon and Windows it loaded.... well it said it did anyway but I can’t print with it!!!!

I think I may have mentioned the joy of Loading some 13,000 photos on to Windows Photo Gallery file by file as I tagged them (whatever that means) I read with some alarm your comment about not being able to install Nero which is a program I use a lot, so I haven’t even tried it yet.

I do so look forward to the day that you alluded to when VISTA becomes easier to use than XP, I am inclined to believe that security has been tightened up a lot, not that I ever had very much trouble but to date none of my security programs have found any problems.

I had anticipated problems with my Quicken Personal Plus program and my genealogy program Personal Ancestral File but both worked with a minimum of fuss ( a couple of strange differences with Quicken but nothing I can’t get around, on yet another lighter note I looked for the defragmenter for a looong time before I found it and when I finally found it I found that it worked behind closed doors so there is no indication of what stage it’s at... frustrating rather than a problem, I had 6,000 photos and files in the rubbish bin at one stage so I knew the files were gonna be everywhere... and they were, it took about 5 hours for a week old hard drive to be defragmented.

We haven’t touched on my favourite subject yet.... the internet... I got my wireless broadband connected without much trouble (ie about half a day) but to date still have had no joy getting my Computers networked, as well as all the above I have downloaded heaps of stuff and got it installed and working so there is a glimmer of light at the end of the tunnel, I just pray it’s not the tilt train zooming toward me at 150 KPH.

As to your last line about offering help, short of being able to sit at my desk and physically do some of the things that elude me, I thank you for the offer but I’m guessing that from a distance there isn’t much anyone but me can do.

I do feel better having got all, or most of it, out of my system though.

Kind regards, Peter.

The Sandpiper

I got this as an email from three people, an omen? that I should post it?

Let me set the scene for you..... this is a tear jerker, so have the Kleenex handy as
you read this, but read it anyway..... you will love the story it tells.

The Sandpiper.

by Robert Peterson

She was six years old when I first met her on the beach near where I live.
I drive to this beach, a distance of three or four miles, whenever the world
begins to close in on me. She was building a sand castle or something
and looked up, her eyes as blue as the sea.

"Hello," she said.

I answered with a nod, not really in the mood to bother with a small child.

"I'm building," she said.

"I see that. What is it?" I asked, not really caring.

"Oh, I don't know, I just like the feel of sand."

That sounds good, I thought, and slipped off my shoes.

A sandpiper glided by.

"That's a joy," the child said.

"It's a what?"

"It's a joy. My mama says sandpipers come to bring us joy."

The bird went gliding down the beach. Good-bye joy, I muttered to myself,
hello pain, and turned to walk on. I was depressed, my life seemed
completely out of balance.

"What's your name?" She wouldn't give up.

"Robert," I answered. "I'm Robert Peterson."

"Mine's Wendy... I'm six."

"Hi, Wendy."

She giggled. "You're funny," she said.

In spite of my gloom, I laughed too and walked on.
Her musical giggle followed me.

"Come again, Mr. P," she called. "We'll have another happy day."

The next few days consisted of a group of unruly Boy Scouts, PTA meetings,
and an ailing mother. The sun was shining one morning as I took my hands out
of the dishwater. I need a sandpiper, I said to myself, gathering up my coat.

The ever-changing balm of the seashore awaited me. The breeze was
chilly but I strode along, trying to recapture the serenity I needed.

"Hello, Mr. P," she said. "Do you want to play?"

"What did you have in mind?" I asked, with a twinge of annoyance.

"I don't know. You say."

"How about charades?" I asked sarcastically.

The tinkling laughter burst forth again. "I don't know what that is."

"Then let's just walk."

Looking at her, I noticed the delicate fairness of her face.
"Where do you live?" I asked.

"Over there." She pointed toward a row of summer cottages.

Strange, I thought, in winter.

"Where do you go to school?"

"I don't go to school. Mommy says we're on vacation."

She chattered little girl talk as we strolled up the beach, but my mind was
on other things. When I left for home, Wendy said it had been a happy day.
Feeling surprisingly better, I smiled at her and agreed.

Three weeks later, I rushed to my beach in a state of near panic. I was in no
mood to even greet Wendy. I thought I saw her mother on the porch and felt
like demanding she keep her child at home.

"Look, if you don't mind," I said crossly when Wendy caught up with me, "I'd
rather be alone today." She seemed unusually pale and out of breath.

"Why?" she asked.

I turned to her and shouted, "Because my mother died!" and thought,
My God, why was I saying this to a little child?

"Oh," she said quietly, "then this is a bad day."

"Yes," I said, "and yesterday and the day before and -- oh, go away!"

"Did it hurt?" she inquired.

"Did what hurt?" I was exasperated with her, with myself.

"When she died?"

"Of course it hurt!" I snapped, misunderstanding,
wrapped up in myself. I strode off.

A month or so after that, when I next went to the beach, she wasn't there.
Feeling guilty, ashamed, and admitting to myself I missed her, I went up
to the cottage after my walk and knocked at the door. A drawn looking
young woman with honey-colored hair opened the door.

"Hello," I said, "I'm Robert Peterson. I missed your little girl today
and wondered where she was."

"Oh yes, Mr. Peterson, please come in. Wendy spoke of you so much.

I'm afraid I allowed her to bother you. If she was a nuisance,
please, accept my apologies."

"Not at all -- she's a delightful child." I said, suddenly realizing
that I meant what I had just said.

"Wendy died last week, Mr. Peterson. She had leukemia.
Maybe she didn't tell you."

Struck dumb, I groped for a chair. I had to catch my breath.

"She loved this beach, so when she asked to come, we couldn't say no.
She seemed so much better here and had a lot of what she called happy days.
But the last few weeks, she declined rapidly..." Her voice faltered, "She left
something for you, if only I can find it. Could you wait a moment while I look?"

I nodded stupidly, my mind racing for something to say to this lovely young
woman. She handed me a smeared envelope with "MR. P" printed in bold
childish letters. Inside was a drawing in bright crayon hues -- a yellow beach,
a blue sea, and a brown bird. Underneath was carefully printed:

A SANDPIPER TO BRING YOU JOY.

Tears welled up in my eyes, and a heart that had almost forgotten to love
opened wide. I took Wendy's mother in my arms. "I'm so sorry, I'm so sorry,
I'm so sorry," I uttered over and over, and we wept together. The precious
little picture is framed now and hangs in my study. Six words -- one for each
year of her life -- that speak to me of harmony, courage, and undemanding love.

A gift from a child with sea blue eyes and hair the color of sand
-- who taught me the gift of love.

---

NOTE: This is a true story sent out by Robert Peterson. It happened over

20 years ago and the incident changed his life forever. It serves as a

reminder to all of us that we need to take time to enjoy living and life and
each other.

The price of hating other human beings is loving oneself less.

I wish for you, a sandpiper.

How about a Tear Jerker for a change

It seems like a really long time since I posted a tear jerker, lets remedy
that right now.
I know you have probably read this before, so had I, read it again I
guarantee it will clear your sinus' and make you feel good.

Traveling alone.

Right before the jetway door closed, I scrambled aboard the plane going from LA
to Chicago, lugging my laptop and overstuffed briefcase. It was the first leg of
an important business trip a few weeks before Christmas, and I was running late.
I had a ton of work to catch up on. Half wishing, half praying I muttered, "Please
God, do me a favor; let there be an empty seat next to mine, I don't need any
distractions."

I was on the aisle in a two seat row. Across sat a businesswoman with her nose
buried in a newspaper. No problem. But in the seat beside mine, next to the
window, was a young boy wearing a big red tag around his neck:
"Minor -- Traveling Unattended."

The kid sat perfectly still, hands in his lap, eyes straight ahead. He'd probably
been told never to talk to strangers. "Good," I thought.

Then the flight attendant came by. "Michael, I have to sit down because we're about to take off," she said to the little boy. "This nice man will answer any of your questions, okay?"

Did I have a choice? I offered my hand, and Michael shook it twice, straight up and down.

"Hi, I'm Jerry," I said. "You must be about seven years old.

"I'll bet you don't have any kids," he responded.

"Why do you think that? Sure I do." I took out my wallet to show him pictures.

"Because I'm six."

"I was way off, huh?"

The captains' voice came over the speakers, "Flight attendants, prepare for takeoff."

Michael pulled his seat belt tighter and gripped the armrests as the jet engines roared.

I leaned over, "Right about now, I usually say a prayer. I asked God to keep the plane safe and to send angels to protect us."

"Amen," he said, then added, "But I'm not afraid of dying. I'm not afraid because my mama's already in Heaven."

"I'm sorry." I said.

"Why are you sorry?" he asked, peering out the window as the plane lifted off.

"I'm sorry you don't have your mama here."

My briefcase jostled at my feet, reminding me of all the work I needed to do.

"Look at those boats down there!" Michael said as the plane banked over the Pacific. "Where are they going?"

"Just going sailing, having a good time. And there's probably a fishing boat full of guys like you and me."

"Doing what?" He asked.

"Just fishing, maybe for bass or tuna. Does your dad ever take you fishing?"

"I don't have a dad," Michael sadly responded.

Only six years old and he didn't have a dad, and his Mom had died, and here he was flying halfway across the country all by himself. The least I could do was make sure he had a good flight. With my foot I pushed my briefcase under my seat.

"Do they have a bathroom here?" he asked, squirming a little.

"Sure," I said, "Let me take you there."

I showed him how to work the "Occupied" sign, and what buttons to push on the sink, then he closed the door. When he emerged, he wore a wet shirt and a huge smile.

"That sink shoots water everywhere!"

The attendants smiled.

Michael got the VIP treatment from the crew during snack time. I took out my laptop and tried to work on a talk I had to give, but my mind kept going to Michael. I couldn't stop looking at the crumpled grocery bag on the floor by his seat. He'd told me that everything he owned was in that bag. Poor kid.

While Michael was getting a tour of the cockpit the flight attendant told me his grandmother would pick him up in Chicago. In the seat pocket a large manila envelope held all the paperwork regarding his custody. He came back explaining, "I got wings! I got cards! I got more peanuts. I saw the pilot and he said I could come back anytime!"

For a while he stared at the manila envelope.

"What are you thinking?" I asked Michael.

He didn't answer. He buried his face in his hands and started sobbing. It had been years since I'd heard a little one cry like that. My kids were grown -- still I don't think they'd ever cried so hard. I rubbed his back and wondered where the flight attendant was.

"What's the matter buddy?" I asked.

All I got were the muffled words, "I don't know my grandma. Mama didn't want her to come visit and see her sick. What if Grandma doesn't want me? Where will I go?"

"Michael, do you remember the Christmas story? Mary and Joseph and the baby Jesus? Remember how they came to Bethlehem just before Jesus was born? It was late and cold, and they didn't have anywhere to stay, no family, no hotels, not even hospitals where babies could be born. Well, God was watching out for them. He found them a place to stay; a stable with animals."

"Wait, wait," Michael tugged on my sleeve.. "I know Jesus. I remember now." Then he closed his eyes, lifted his head and began to sing. His voice rang out with a strength that rocked his tiny frame. "Jeeesus looooves me--thiiiiiis I knowwwwwww. For the Biiiiiible tells meeeeee sooooo....."

Passengers turned or stood up to see the little boy who made the large sound. Michael didn't notice his audience. With his eyes shut tight and voice lifted high, he was in a good place.

"You've got a great voice," I told him when he was done.. "I've never heard anyone sing like that."

"Mama said God gave me good pipes just like my grandma's," he said. "My grandma loves to sing, she sings in her church choir."

"Well, I'll bet you can sing there, too. The two of you will be running that choir."

The seat belt sign came on as we approached O'Hare. The flight attendant came by and said, "We just have a few minutes now." But she told Michael that it was important that he put his seat belt on. People started stirring in their seats, like the kids before the final school bell. By the time the seat belt sign went off, passengers were rushing down the aisle. Michael and I stayed seated.

"Are you gonna go with me?" he asked.

"I wouldn't miss it for the world, buddy!" I assured him.

Clutching his bag and the manila envelope in one hand, he grabbed my hand with the other. The two of us followed the flight attendant down the jetway. All the noises of the airport seemed to fill the corridor.

Michael stopped, slipping his hand from mine, he dropped to his knees. His mouth quivered. His eyes brimmed with tears.

"What's wrong Michael? I'll carry you if you want."

He opened his mouth and moved his lips, but it was as if his words were stuck in his throat. When I knelt next to him, he grabbed my neck. I felt his warm, wet face as he whispered in my ear, "I want my mama!"

I tried to stand, but Michael squeezed my neck even harder. Then I heard a rattle of footsteps on the corridor's metal floor.

"Is that you, baby?"

I couldn't see the woman behind me, but I heard the warmth in her voice.

"Oh baby," she cried. "Come here. Grandma loves you so much. I need a hug, baby. Let go of that nice man." She knelt beside Michael and me.

Michael's grandma stroked his arm. I smelled a hint of orange blossoms.

"You've got folks waiting for you out there, Michael.. Do you know that you've got aunts, and uncles and cousins?"

She patted his skinny shoulders and started humming. Then she lifted her head and sang. I wondered if the flight attendant told her what to sing, or maybe she just knew what was right. Her strong, clear voice filled the passageway, "Jesus loves me -- this I know..."

Michael's gasps quieted. Still holding him, I rose, nodded "hello" to his grandma and watched her pick up the grocery bag. Right before we got to the doorway to the terminal, Michael loosened his grip around my neck and reached for his grandma.

As soon as she walked across the threshold with him, cheers erupted. From the size of the crowed, I figured family, friends, pastors, elders, deacons, choir members and most of the neighbors had come to meet Michael. A tall man tugged on Michael's ear and pulled off the red sign around his neck. It no longer applied.

As I made my way to the gate for my connecting flight, I barely noticed the weight of my overstuffed briefcase and laptop. I started to wonder who would be in the seat next to mine this time. .... And I smiled.

~By Jerry Seiden~

OK, need a little laughter now? try this on for size.

Children.

To those of us who have children in our lives, whether they are our own, grandchildren, nieces, nephews, or students... here is something to make you chuckle.

Whenever your children are out of control, you can take comfort from the thought that even God's omnipotence did not extend to his own children.

After creating heaven and earth, God created Adam and Eve.

And the first thing he said was "DON'T!"

"Don't what?" Adam replied.

"Don't eat the forbidden fruit." God said.

"Forbidden fruit? We have forbidden fruit? Hey Eve, we have forbidden fruit!"

"No Way !"

"Yes way!"

"Do NOT eat the fruit! " said God.

"Why?"

"Because I am your Father and I said so! " God replied, wondering why He hadn't stopped creation after making the elephants. A few minutes later, God saw His children having an apple break and He was ticked!

"Didn't I tell you not to eat the fruit? " God asked.

"Uh huh," Adam replied.

"Then why did you? " said the Father.

"I don't know," said Eve.

"She started it! " Adam said.

"Did not! "

"Did too! "

"DID NOT! "

Having had it with the two of them, God's punishment was that Adam and Eve should have children of their own. Thus the pattern was set and it has never changed.

BUT THERE IS REASSURANCE IN THE STORY!

If you have persistently and lovingly tried to give children wisdom and they haven't taken it, don't be hard on yourself. If God had trouble raising children, what makes you think it would be a piece of cake for you?
THINGS TO THINK ABOUT!

1. You spend the first two years of their life teaching them to walk and talk. Then you spend the next sixteen telling them to sit down and shut up.

2. Grandchildren are God's reward for not killing your own children.

3. Mothers of teens now know why some animals eat their young.

4. Children seldom misquote you. In fact, they usually repeat word for word what you shouldn't have said.

5. The main purpose of holding children's parties is to remind yourself that there are children more awful than your own.

6. We childproofed our homes, but they are still getting in.

Advice for the day: Be nice to your kids. They will choose your nursing home one day.

And finally:

If you have a lot of tension and you get a headache, do what it says on the aspirin bottle;

“Take two aspirin” and importantly, “Keep away from children.”

How does your site rate?

I found the site for these tags over here at Laurie's site, and was
pleasantly surprised to find that holtieshouse was 2/3 good and only
1/3 evil, I had a horrible premonition it might have gone the other way.

In an effort to retain this reatively good rating I am posting a nice
one today

Keep Your Fork.

There was a young woman who had been diagnosed with a terminal
illness and had been given three months to live. So as she was
getting her things "in order," she contacted her pastor and had him
come to her house to discuss certain aspects of her final wishes.

She told him which songs she wanted sung at the service, what
scriptures she would like read, and what outfit she wanted to be
buried in.

Everything was in order and the pastor was preparing to leave when
the young woman suddenly remembered something very important
to her.

"There's one more thing," she said excitedly.

"What's that?" came the pastor's reply. "This is very important,"
the young woman continued.

"I want to be buried with a fork in my right hand."

The pastor stood looking at the young woman, not knowing quite
what to say.

"That surprises you, doesn't it?" the young woman asked.

"Well, to be honest, I'm puzzled by the request," said the pastor.

The young woman explained. "My grandmother once told me this story,
and from there on out, I have always done so. I have also, always tried
to pass along its message to those I love and those who are in need of
encouragement."

"In all my years of attending church socials and potluck dinners, I
always remember that when the dishes of the main course were being
cleared, someone would inevitably lean over and say,"

"Keep your fork'"

"It was my favorite part because I knew that something better was
coming like velvety chocolate cake! or deep-dish apple pie.
Something wonderful, and with substance!'

So, I just want people to see me there in that casket with a fork in
my hand and I want them to wonder,
"What's with the fork?".
Then I want you to tell them:

"Keep your fork ... the best is yet to come."

The pastor's eyes welled up with tears of joy as he hugged the
young woman good-bye.

He knew this would be one of the last times he would see her before
her death.
But he also knew that the young woman had a better grasp of
heaven than he did.

She had a better grasp of what heaven would be like than many people
twice her age, with twice as much experience and knowledge.

She KNEW that something better was coming.

At the funeral people were walking by the young woman's casket and
they saw the pretty dress she was wearing and the fork placed in her
right hand.

Over and over, the pastor heard the question

"What's with the fork?"

And over and over he smiled.

During his message, the pastor told the people of the conversation he
had with the young woman shortly before she died.

He also told them about the fork and about what it symbolized to her.

The pastor told the people how he could not stop thinking about the
fork and told them that they probably would not be able to stop
thinking about it either. He was right.

So the next time you reach down for your fork, let it remind you ever
so gently, that the best is yet to come.

Friends are a very rare jewel, indeed. They make you smile and
encourage you to succeed. They lend an ear, they share a word of
praise, and they always want to open their hearts to us.

Show your friends how much you care. Remember to always be there
for them, even when you need them more. For you never know when
it may be their time to

"Keep your fork."

Stay tuned folks we'll be back to normal with the next post I'm sure.

My Kleenex Shares need a Boost.

Fireman Ben.

In Queensland, Australia a 26-year-old mother stared down at her
6 year old son, who was dying of terminal leukemia. Although her
heart was filled with sadness, she also had a strong feeling of
determination.

Like any parent, she wanted her son to grow up & fulfill all his
dreams. Now that was no longer possible.
The leukemia would see to that. But she still wanted her son's dream
to come true.

She took her son's hand and asked,

"Ben, did you ever think about what you wanted to be once you grew
up? Did you ever dream and wish what you would do with your life?"

"Mummy, I always wanted to be a fireman when I grew up."

Mum smiled back and said, "Let's see if we can make your wish come
true."

Later that day she went to her local fire Station in Brisbane, Australia
where she met Fireman Bob, who had a heart as big as Queensland.

She explained her son's final wish and asked if it might be possible to
give her 6 year old son a ride around the block on a fire engine.

Fireman Bob said, "Look, we can do better than that. If you'll have
your son ready at seven 'clock Wednesday morning, we'll make him
an honorary fireman for the whole day.

He can come down to the fire station, eat with us, go out on all the fire
calls, the full Monty!

And if you'll give us his sizes, we'll get a real fire uniform for him, with
a real fire hat - not a toy -- one-with the emblem of the Queensland
Fire & Rescue Department on it, a yellow slicker

like we wear and rubber boots. They're all manufactured right here in
Brisbane, so we can get them fast."

Three days later Fireman Bob picked up Ben, dressed him in his uniform
and escorted him from his hospital bed to the waiting truck.

Ben got to sit on the back of the truck and help steer it back to the
fire station.

He was in heaven.

There were three fire calls in Brisbane that day and Ben got to go out
on all three calls.

He rode in the different fire engines that day

He was also videotaped for the local news program.

Having his dream come true, with all the Love and attention that was
lavished upon him, so deeply touched Ben, that he lived three months
longer than any doctor thought possible.

One night all of his vital signs began to drop dramatically and the head
nurse, who believed in the hospice concept - that no one should die
alone, began to call the family members to the hospital.

Then she remembered the day Ben had spent as a fireman, so she
called the Fire Station and asked if it would be possible to send a
fireman in uniform to the hospital to be with Ben as he made his
transition.

The Officer in charge replied, "We can do better than that. We'll be
there in five minutes.
Will you please do me a favour? When you hear the sirens screaming
and see the lights flashing, will you announce over the PA system,
that there is not a fire?
It's the department coming to see one of its finest members one more
time.
And will you open the window to his room?

About five minutes later a hook and ladder truck arrived at the hospital
and extended its ladder up to Ben's third floor open window--------
16 fire-fighters climbed up the ladder into Ben's room.

With his mother's permission, they hugged him and held him and told
him how much they LOVED him.

With his dying breath,

Ben looked up at the fire chief and said, "Chief am I really a fireman now?

"Ben, you are, and the Head Chief, Jesus is holding your hand,"
the O.I.C said.

With those words, Ben smiled and said, "I know, He's been holding my
hand all day, and the angels have been singing...”

He closed his eyes one last time.

My instructions were to send this to people that I wanted God to
bless and I picked all of you.

Please pass this story on there is nothing attached, PLEASE do not
break this pattern, tell the story to your friends;

Uplifting stories are one of the best gifts we receive.

There is no cost, but a lot of rewards, let's continue to uplift one
another!!!

Have a “Wonder Bra” day.

Shay's Story

Look I know I’ve posted this before and we all ran out of Kleenex, but I just got
it again as an email, and if I’m cryin’ so are you !!!

Shay’s Story

What would you do? You make the choice! Don't look for a punch line; There
isn't one! Read it anyway. My question to all of you is: Would you have made
the same choice?

At a fundraising dinner for a school that serves learning disabled children
the father of one of the students delivered a speech that would never be
forgotten by all who attended. After extolling the school and its dedicated
staff, he offered a question:

"When not interfered with by outside influences, everything nature does is
done with perfection. Yet my son, Shay, cannot learn things as other
children do. He cannot understand things as other children do. Where is the
natural order of things in my son?"

The audience was stilled by the query.

The father continued. "I believe, that when a child like Shay, physically and
mentally handicapped comes into the world, an opportunity to realize true
human nature presents itself, and it comes, in the way other people treat
that child." Then he told the following story:

Shay and his father had walked past a park where some boys Shay knew were
playing baseball. Shay asked," Do you think they'll let me play?" Shay's
father knew that most of the boys would not want someone like Shay on their
team, but the father also understood that if his son were allowed to play, it
would give him a much-needed sense of belonging and some confidence to be
accepted by others in spite of his handicaps.

Shay's father approached one of the boys on the field and asked if Shay
could play, not expecting much. The boy looked around for guidance and said,
"We're losing by six runs and the game is in the eighth inning. I guess he
can be on our team and we'll try to put him in to bat in the ninth inning."

Shay struggled over to the team's bench put on a team shirt with a broad
smile and his Father had a small tear in his eye and warmth in his heart.

The boys saw the father's joy at his son being accepted. In the bottom of
the eighth inning, Shay's team scored a few runs but was still behind by
three. In the top of the ninth inning, Shay put on a glove and played in the
right field. Even though no hits came his way, he was obviously ecstatic
just to be in the game and on the field , grinning from ear to ear as his
father waved to him from the stands. In the bottom of the ninth inning, Shays
team scored again. Now, with two outs and the bases loaded, the potential
winning run was on base and Shay was scheduled to be next at bat.

At this juncture, do they let Shay bat and give away their chance to win the
game? Surprisingly, Shay was given the bat. Everyone knew that a hit was all
but impossible 'cause Shay didn't even know how to hold the bat properly,
much less connect with the ball.

However, as Shay stepped up to the plate, the pitcher, recognizing the other
team putting winning aside for this moment in Shay's life, moved in a few
steps to lob the ball in softly so Shay could at least be able to make
contact. The first pitch came and Shay swung clumsily and missed. The
pitcher again took a few steps forward to toss the ball softly towards Shay.

As the pitch came in, Shay swung at the ball and hit a slow ground ball
right back to the pitcher.

The game would now be over, but the pitcher picked up the soft grounder and
could have easily thrown the ball to the first baseman. Shay would have been
out and that would have been the end of the game.

Instead, the pitcher threw the ball right over the head of the first baseman
out of reach of all team mates. Everyone from the stands and both teams
started yelling, "Shay, run to first! Run to first!" Never in his life had
Shay ever ran that far but made it to first base. He scampered down the
baseline, wide-eyed and startled.

Everyone yelled, "Run to second, run to second!"

Catching his breath, Shay awkwardly ran towards second, gleaming and
struggling to make it to second base. By the time Shay rounded towards
second base, the right fielder had the ball, the smallest guy on their team,
who had a chance to be the hero for his team for the first time. He could
have thrown the ball to the second-baseman for the tag, but he understood
the pitcher's intentions and he too intentionally threw the ball high and
far over the third-baseman's head. Shay ran toward third base deliriously as
the runners ahead of him circled the bases toward home.

All were screaming, "Shay, Shay, Shay, all the Way Shay"

Shay reached third base, the opposing shortstop ran to help him and turned
him in the direction of third base, and shouted, "Run to third! Shay, run to
third" As Shay rounded third, the boys from both teams and those watching
were on their feet were screaming, "Shay, run home! Shay ran to home,
stepped on the plate, and was cheered as the hero who hit the "grand slam"
and won the game for his team.

That day, said the father softly with tears now rolling down his face, the
boys from both teams helped bring a piece of true love and humanity into
this world.

Shay didn't make it to another summer and died that winter, having never
forgotten being the hero and making his Father so happy and coming home
and seeing his Mother tearfully embrace her little hero of the day!

The Folded Napkin.

I promised June that I would post a picture of my John Deere tractor.
well here it is june, just love that green machine.
















Well folks now I’ve got some good news and some bad news;

The bad news is; I’ve found another tear jerker.

The good news is; I’ve bought a parcel of shares in Kleenex,
so let those sobs and tears go folks.

(Aw c'mon be fair folks, I haven't posted a tear jerker for months.)

The Folded Napkin ..

A Truckers Story (If this doesn't light your fire, your wood is wet!!!)

I try not to be biased, but I had my doubts about hiring Stevie. His
placement counselor assured me that he would be a good, reliable busboy.

But I had never had a mentally handicapped employee and wasn't sure I
wanted one. I wasn't sure how my customers would react to Stevie.

He was short, a little dumpy with the smooth facial features and
thick-tongued speech of Downs Syndrome. I wasn't worried about most
of my trucker customers because truckers don't generally care who buses
tables as long as the meatloaf platter is good and the pies are homemade.

The four-wheeler drivers were the ones who concerned me; the mouthy
college kids traveling to school; the yuppie snobs who secretly polish their
silverware with their napkins for fear of catching some dreaded "truck stop
germ" the pairs of white-shirted business men on expense accounts who
think every truck stop waitress wants to be flirted with. I knew those
people would be uncomfortable around Stevie so I closely watched him for
the first few weeks.

I shouldn't have worried. After the first week, Stevie had my staff wrapped
around his stubby little finger, and within a month my truck regulars had
adopted him as their official truck stop mascot.

After that, I really didn't care what the rest of the customers thought of
him. He was like a 21-year-old in blue jeans and Nikes, eager to laugh and
eager to please, but fierce in his attention to his duties. Every salt and
pepper shaker was exactly in its place, not a bread crumb or coffee spill
was visible when Stevie got done with the table.

Our only problem was persuading him to wait to clean a table until after
the customers were finished. He would hover in the background, shifting
his weight from one foot to the other, scanning the dining room until a table
was empty.

Then he would scurry to the empty table and carefully bus dishes and
glasses onto his cart and meticulously wipe the table up with a practiced
flourish of his rag.

If he thought a customer was watching, his brow would pucker with added
concentration. He took pride in doing his job exactly right, and you had to
love how hard he tried to please each and every person he met.

Over time, we learned that he lived with his mother, a widow who was
disabled after repeated surgeries for cancer. They lived on their Social
Security benefits in public housing two miles from the truck stop. Their
social worker, who stopped to check on him every so often, admitted they
had fallen between the cracks.

Money was tight, and what I paid him was probably the difference
between them being able to live together and Stevie being sent to a group
home.

That's why the restaurant was a gloomy place that morning last August,
the first morning in three years that Stevie missed work.

He was at the Mayo Clinic in Rochester getting a new valve or something
put in his heart. His social worker said that people with Downs Syndrome
often have heart problems at an early age so this wasn't unexpected, and
there was a good chance he would come through the surgery in good shape
and be back at work in a few months.

A ripple of excitement ran through the staff later that morning when word
came that he was out of surgery, in recovery, and doing fine.

Frannie, the head waitress, let out a war hoop and did a little dance in the
aisle when she heard the good news.

Belle Ringer, one of our regular trucker customers, stared at the sight of
this 50-year-old grandmother of four doing a victory shimmy beside his
table, Frannie blushed, smoothed her apron and shot Belle Ringer a
withering look.

He grinned. "OK, Frannie, what was that all about?" he asked.

"We just got word that Stevie is out of surgery and going to be okay."

"I was wondering where he was. I had a new joke to tell him. What was
the surgery about?"

Frannie quickly told Belle Ringer and the other two drivers sitting at his
booth about Stevie's surgery, then sighed: "Yeah, I'm glad he is going to
be OK," she said. "But I don't know how he and his Mom are going to
handle all the bills. From what I hear, they're barely getting by as it is."

Belle Ringer nodded thoughtfully, and Frannie hurried off to wait on the
rest of her tables. Since I hadn't had time to round up a busboy to replace
Stevie and really didn't want to replace him, the girls were busing their
own tables that day until we decided what to do.

After the morning rush, Frannie walked into my office. She had a couple of
paper napkins in her hand and a funny look on her face.

"What's up?" I asked.

"I didn't get that table where Belle Ringer and his friends were sitting
cleared off after they left, and Pony Pete and Tony Tipper were sitting
there when I got back to clean it off," she said. "This was folded and
tucked under a coffee cup."

She handed the napkin to me, and three $20 bills fell onto my desk when I
opened it. On the outside, in big, bold letters, was printed
"Something For Stevie".

"Pony Pete asked me what that was all about," she said, "so I told him about
Stevie and his Mom and everything, and Pete looked at Tony and Tony looked
at Pete, and they ended up giving me this." She handed me another paper
napkin that had "Something For Stevie" scrawled on its outside. Two $50
bills were tucked within its folds. Frannie looked at me with wet, shiny
eyes, shook her head and said simply: "truckers."

That was three months ago. Today is Thanksgiving, the first day Stevie is
supposed to be back to work.

His placement worker said he's been counting the days until the doctor said
he could work, and it didn't matter at all that it was a holiday. He called
10 times in the past week, making sure we knew he was coming, fearful that
we had forgotten him or that his job was in jeopardy. I arranged to have
his mother bring him to work. I then met them in the parking lot and
invited them both to celebrate his first day back.

Stevie was thinner and paler, but couldn't stop grinning as he pushed
through the doors and headed for the back room where his apron and busing
cart were waiting.

"Hold up there, Stevie, not so fast," I said. I took him and his mother by
their arms. "Work can wait for a minute. To celebrate you coming back,
breakfast for you and your mother is on me!" I led them toward a large
corner booth at the rear of the room.

I could feel and hear the rest of the staff following behind as we marched
through the dining room. Glancing over my shoulder, I saw booth after booth
of grinning truckers empty and join the procession. We stopped in front of the
big table. Its surface was covered with coffee cups, saucers and dinner plates,
all sitting slightly crooked on dozens of folded paper napkins. First thing you
have to do, Stevie, is clean up this mess," I said. I tried to sound stern.

Stevie looked at me, and then at his mother, then pulled out one of the
napkins. It had "Something for Stevie" printed on the outside. As he
picked it up, two $10 bills fell onto the table.

Stevie stared at the money, then at all the napkins peeking from beneath
the tableware, each with his name printed or scrawled on it. I turned to his
mother. "There's more than $10,000 in cash and checks on that table, all
from truckers and trucking companies that heard about your problems.

"Happy Thanksgiving,".

Well, it got real noisy about that time, with everybody hollering and
shouting, and there were a few tears, as well.

But you know what's funny? While everybody else was busy shaking hands
and hugging each other, Stevie, with a big, big smile on his face, was busy
clearing all the cups and dishes from the table.

Best worker I ever hired.

If you shed a tear, hug yourself, because you are a compassionate person.

Oh, by the way, I got the photos a little mixed up before, the first one lives at
"Fosters Farm" the one below is mine, it's just a little down-sized.


- -
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~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~-

Sarah

Rather than repost this poem, please check it out on my other site.

Gold Wrapping Paper

 Get the tissues out again folks.

This is the last one in the locker, at present.

The story goes that some time ago a mother punished her
5 year old daughter for wasting a roll of expensive gold
wrapping paper. 

Money was tight and she became even more upset when
the child used the gold paper to decorate a box to put under
the Christmas tree.

Nevertheless, the little girl brought the gift box to her mother
the next morning and said,

"This is for you, Momma."

The mother was embarrassed by her earlier over-reaction,
but her anger flared again when she opened the box and
found it was empty. 

She spoke to her daughter in a harsh manner. 

"Don't you know, young lady, when you give someone a
present there's supposed to be something inside the
package?"

She had tears in her eyes and said, "Oh, Momma,
it's not empty! I blew kisses into it until it was full."

The mother was crushed. 

She fell on her knees and put her arms around
her little girl, and she begged her forgiveness for
her thoughtless anger.

An accident took the life of the child only a short
time later, and it is told that the mother kept that
gold box by her bed for all the years of her life.

Whenever she was discouraged or faced difficult
problems she would open the box and take out an
imaginary kiss and remember the love of the child
who had put it there.

In a very real sense, each of us, as human beings,
have been given a Golden box filled with
unconditional love and kisses from our children, 

family, friends and GOD. 

There is no more precious possession anyone
could hold.

Senior Fun

Working people frequently ask retired people what they do to make their days interesting. Well for example, the other day I went into town and went to a shop in the City.

I was only there for about 5 minutes. When I came out there was a cop writing out a parking ticket. I went up to him and said, "Come on mate, how about giving a senior a break?"

He ignored me and continued writing the ticket. I called him a Nazi. He glared at me and started writing out another ticket for having worn tyres.

So I called him a piece of dog sh**.

He finished the second ticket and put it on the windshield with the first. Then he started writing a third ticket. This went on for about 20 minutes.

The more I abused him, the more tickets he wrote.

Personally, I didn't give a sh**.

I came into town by bus.

I try to have a little fun each day now that
I'm retired!

It's important at my age.

RED MARBLES

 Barbara Miller was bagging some early potatoes for me. 

I noticed a small boy, delicate of bone and feature,

ragged but clean, hungrily appraising a basket of freshly 

picked green peas.
I paid for my potatoes but was also drawn to the display 

of fresh green peas. I am a pushover for creamed peas and 

new potatoes. Pondering the peas, I couldn't help 

overhearing the conversation between Mr. Miller and the 

ragged boy next to me.“Hello Barry, how are you today?”

“H'lo, Mr. Miller. Fine, thank ya, jus' admirin' them peas 

sure look good.”
“They are good Barry. How's your Ma?”“Fine. Gittin' 

stronger alla' time.”“Good. Anything I can help you with?”

“No sir. Jus' admirin' them peas.”“Would you like to take 

some home?”“No sir. Got nuthin' to pay for 'em with.”

“Well, what have you to trade me for some of those peas?”

“All I got's my prize marble here.”“Is that right? Let me

 see it.” “Here 'tis. She's a dandy.”“I can see that. 

Hmmmmm, only thing is this one is blue andI sort of go for 

red. Do you have a red one like this athome?”“Not zackley. 

but almost.”“Tell you what. Take this sack ofpea’s home 

with you andnext trip this way let me look at that red marble."

“Sure will. Thanks Mr. Miller.”Mrs. Miller, who had been standing 

nearby, came over to help me.With a smile she said, there are 

two other boys like him in our community,all three are in very 

poor circumstances. Jim just loves to bargain with them for peas,

 apples,tomatoes, or whatever.When they come back with their red 

marbles, and they always do he decides he doesn't like red after 

all and he sends them home with a bag of produce for a green marble 

or an orange one, perhaps.
I left the stand smiling to myself, impressed with this man. 

A short time later I moved to Colorado, but I never forgot the 

story of this man, the boys, and their bartering.
Several years went by, each more rapid than the previous one,just 

recently I had occasion to visit some old friends in that Idaho 

community and while I was there learned that Mr. Miller had died. 

They were having his viewing that evening and knowing my friends 

wanted to go, I agreed to accompany them. Upon arrival at the 

mortuary we fell into line to meetthe relatives of the deceased 

and to offer whatever words of comfort we could. Ahead of us in 

line were three young men. One was in an army uniform and the 

other two wore nice haircuts, dark suits and white shirts all 

very professional looking.      They approached Mrs. Miller, 

standing composed andsmiling by her husband's casket. Each of 

the young men hugged her, kissed her on the cheek, spoke briefly 

with her and moved on to the casket.      

Her misty light blue eyes followed them as, one by one;each 

young man stopped briefly and placed his own warmhand over the 

cold pale hand in the casket. Each left the mortuary awkwardly,

wiping his eyes.      

Our turn came to meet Mrs. Miller, I told her who I was and 

mentioned the story she had told me about the marbles. With her 

eyes glistening, she took my hand and led me tothe casket.Those 

three young men who just left were the boys I toldyou about! 

they just told me how they appreciated the things Jim traded them.      

Now, at last, when Jim could not change his mind aboutcolor or 

size....they came to pay their debt. We've never had a great 

dealof the wealth of this world, she confided, but right now,

Jim would consider himself the richest man in Idaho.      

With loving gentleness she lifted the lifeless fingers ofher 

deceased husband, resting underneath were threeexquisitely 

shined red marbles.Moral: We will not be remembered by our 

words, but by our kind deeds. 

Life is not measured by the breaths we take, but by the 

moments that take our breath.Today, I wish you a day of 

ordinary miracles....
A fresh pot of coffee you didn't have to make yourself. 

An unexpected phone call from an old friend. Green 

stoplights on your way to work. The fastest line at the 

grocery store. A good sing-along song on the radio. Your 

keys right where you left them.      They say it takes a

 minute to find a special person, an hour to appreciate them, 

a day to love them, but an entire life to forget them. 

Again I didn’t write this, nor do I know who did, I just know 

I’ve gotta stop posting them, I can’t afford the bloody tissues.  

On a lighter note ,Hoss, posted a good story about atwo legged 

pig today.Along similar lines; This guy was driving down the 

H’way at 60 mph, suddenly a three legged chicken zoomed past 

him, shortly after itturned off into a farm.He decided to enquire 

about this fast three legged chicken.“Excuse me” he said, “I just 

followed a three legged chicken into you farm,can you tell me 

anything about it.”“Yeah,” the farmer said, we breed ‘em here,

y’see me ,the missus and the youngunall like a leg when we have 

chicken.” “Oh,” said the guy, “what do they taste like?”“Dunno,” 

said the farmer, “we’ve never been able to catch one.” 

Boom boom!!

Memories: We hold onto

One day a teacher asked her students to list the names of the other students in the room on two sheets of paper, leaving a space between each name.
Then she told them to think of the nicest thing they could say about each of their classmates and write it down.
It took the remainder of the class period to finish their assignment, and as the students left the room, each one handed in the papers.
That Saturday, the teacher wrote down the name of each student on a separate sheet of paper, and listed what everyone else had said about that individual.
On Monday she gave each student his or her list. Before long, the entire class was smiling. "Really?" she heard whispered. "I never knew that I meant anything to anyone!" and, "I didn't know others liked me so much." were most of the comments.
No one ever mentioned those papers in class again. She never knew if they discussed them after class or with their parents, but it didn't matter.
The exercise had accomplished its purpose. The students were happy with themselves and one another. That group of students moved on.
Several years later, one of the students was killed in Viet Nam and his teacher attended the funeral of that special student. She had never seen a serviceman in a military coffin before. He looked so handsome, so mature.
The church was packed with his friends. One by one those who loved him took a last walk by the coffin. The teacher was the last one to bless the coffin.
As she stood there, one of the soldiers who acted as pallbearer came up to her. "Were you Tom's math teacher?" he asked. She nodded: "yes."
Then he said: "Tom talked about you a lot."
After the funeral, most of Tom's former classmates went together to a luncheon. Tom's mother and father were there, obviously waiting to speak with his teacher.
"We want to show you something," his father said, taking a wallet out of his pocket. "They found this on Tom when he was killed. We thought you might recognize it."
Opening the billfold, he carefully removed two worn pieces of notebook paper that had obviously been taped, folded and refolded many times. The teacher knew without looking that the papers were the ones on which she had listed all the good things each of Tom's classmates had said about him.
"Thank you so much for doing that," Tom's mother said. "As you can see, Tom treasured it."
All of Tom's former classmates started to gather around. Charlie smiled rather sheepishly and said, "I still have my list. It's in the top drawer of my desk at home."
Chuck's wife said, "Chuck asked me to put his in our wedding album."
"I have mine too," Marilyn said. "It's in my diary."
Then Vicki, another classmate, reached into her pocketbook, took out her wallet and showed her worn and frazzled list to the group. "I carry this with me at all times," Vicki said and without batting an eyelash, she continued: "I think we all saved our lists."
That's when the teacher finally sat down and cried. She cried for Tom and for all his friends who would never see him again.
The density of people in society is so thick that we forget that life will end one day. And we don't know when that one day will be.
So please, tell the people you love and care for, that they are special and important. Tell them, before it is too late.

Worth a read don't you think?

Who Teaches Who

I don't often post these sort of stories, or even pass them on very often, but this one had a little extra tug at the heartstrings, so here it is!

As she stood in front of her 5th grade class on the very first day of school, she told the children an untruth. Like most teachers, she looked at her students and said that she loved them all the same. However, that was impossible, because there in the front row, slumped in his seat, was a little boy named Teddy Stoddard. Mrs. Thompson had watched Teddy the year before and noticed that he did not play well with the other children, that his clothes were messy and that he constantly needed a bath. In addition, Teddy could be unpleasant. It got to the point where Mrs. Thompson would actually take delight in marking his papers with a broad red pen, making bold X's and then putting a big "F" at the top of his papers.

At the school where Mrs. Thompson taught, she was required to review each child's past records and she put Teddy's off until last. However, when she reviewed his file, she was in for a surprise.

Teddy's first grade teacher wrote, "Teddy is a bright child with a ready laugh. He does his work neatly and has good manners.... he is a joy to be around...”

His second grade teacher wrote, "Teddy is an excellent student, well liked by his
classmates, but he is troubled because his mother has a terminal illness and life at home must be a struggle."

His third grade teacher wrote, "His mother's death has been hard on him. He tries to do his best, but his father doesn't show much interest and his home life will soon affect him if some steps aren't taken."

Teddy's fourth grade teacher wrote, "Teddy is withdrawn and doesn't show much interest in school. He doesn't have many friends and he sometimes sleeps in class."

By now, Mrs. Thompson realized the problem and she was ashamed of herself. She felt even worse when her students brought her Christmas presents, wrapped in beautiful ribbons and bright paper, except for Teddy's. His present was clumsily wrapped in the heavy, brown paper that he got from a grocery bag. Mrs. Thompson took pains to open it in the middle of the other presents. Some of the children started to laugh when she found a rhinestone bracelet with some of the stones missing, and a bottle that was one-quarter full of perfume. But she stifled the children's laughter when she exclaimed how pretty the bracelet was, putting it on, and dabbing some of the perfume on her wrist.
Teddy Stoddard stayed after school that day just long enough to say, "Mrs. Thompson, today you smelled just like my Mom used to."

After the children left, she cried for at least an hour.
On that very day, she quit teaching reading, writing and arithmetic. Instead, she began to teach children.

Mrs. Thompson paid particular attention to Teddy. As she worked with him, his mind seemed to come alive. The more she encouraged him, the faster he responded.
By the end of the year, Teddy had become one of the smartest children in the class and, despite her lie that she would love all the children the same, Teddy became one of her "teacher's pets."

A year later, she found a note under her door, from Teddy, telling her that she was still the best teacher he ever had in his whole life.

Six years went by before she got another note from Teddy. He then wrote that he had
finished high school, third in his class, and she was still the best teacher he ever had in his life.

Four years after that, she got another letter, saying that while things had been tough at times, he'd stayed in school, had stuck with it, and would soon graduate from college with the highest of honors. He assured Mrs. Thompson that she was still the best and favorite teacher he had ever had in his whole life.

Then four more years passed and yet another letter came. This time he explained that after he got his bachelor's degree, he decided to go a little further. The letter explained that she was still the best and favorite teacher he ever had. But now his name was a little longer.... The letter was signed, Theodore F. Stoddard, MD.

The story does not end there. You see, there was yet another letter that spring. Teddy said he had met this girl and was going to be married. He explained that his father had died a couple of years ago and he was wondering if Mrs. Thompson might agree to sit at the wedding in the place that was usually reserved for the mother of the groom.

Of course, Mrs. Thompson did. And guess what? She wore that bracelet, the one with
several rhinestones missing. Moreover, she made sure she was wearing the perfume that
Teddy remembered his mother wearing on their last Christmas together.

They hugged each other, and Dr. Stoddard whispered in Mrs. Thompson's ear, "Thank you Mrs. Thompson for believing in me. Thank you so much for making me feel important and showing me that I could make a difference."

Mrs. Thompson, with tears in her eyes, whispered back. She said, "Teddy, you have it all wrong. You were the one who taught me that I could make a difference. I didn't
know how to teach until I met you! "

(For those of you who don't know, Teddy Stoddard is the Dr. at Iowa Methodist in
Des Moines the one that has the “Stoddard Cancer Wing.”)

Warm someone's hearts today . . . pass this along. I love this story so very much, I cry every time I read it. Just try to make a difference in someone's life today? tomorrow? Just "do it".

Random acts of kindness, I think they call it? "Believe in Angels, then return the favor"
"I believe that friends are quiet angels who lift us to our feet.

Make A Wish

A couple were celebrating their 40th. Wedding anniversary in a quiet,
romantic little restaurant. Suddenly, a tiny yet beautiful fairy
appeared at their table and said 'For being such an exemplary married
couple and for being faithful to each other for all this time, I will
give you each a wish.'
'Oh, I want to travel around the world with my dearest husband' said the
wife. The fairy moved her magic stick and - abracadabra!- two tickets
for the QE2 luxury liner appeared in her hands.
Now it was the husbands turn. He thought for a moment and said ’Well
this is all very romantic- but an opportunity like this only occurs once
in a lifetime...so. I’m sorry my love, but my wish is to have a wife 30
years younger than me.'
The wife and the fairy were deeply disappointed, but, a wish is a
wish....
So the fairy made a circle with her magic stick and - abracadabra!- the
husband became 92 years old.
You see men might be bastards, but fairies are... female.


Todays word "abbreviation"
Why is abbreviation such a long word?

Two Pots

We all get such a lot of this type of thing via the email system that I hesitate to include one on my site.

However, just every now and then one comes along that is so totally inoffensive, makes no threats whatsoever about what will befall you if you don’t send it on or promises of joy for those who do send it on, that it deserves recognition.

Two pots is, to me, such a story, hope you enjoy it too.

Two Pots

An elderly Chinese woman had two large pots, each hung on the ends of a pole, which she carried across her neck. One of the pots had a crack in it while the other pot was perfect and always delivered a full portion of water.

At the end of the long walk from the stream to the house, the cracked pot arrived only half full.

For a full two years, this went on daily, with the woman bringing home only one and a half pots of water.

Of course, the perfect pot was proud of its accomplishments. But the poor cracked pot was ashamed of its own imperfection, and miserable that it could only do half of what it had been made to do.

After 2 years of what it perceived to be bitter failure, it spoke to the woman one day by the stream. "I am ashamed of myself, because this crack in my side causes water to leak out all the way back to your house."

The old woman smiled, "Did you notice that there are flowers on your side of the path, but not on the other pot's side?

That's because I have always known about your flaw, so I planted flower seeds on your side of the path, and every day while we walk back, you water them.

For two years, I have been able to pick these beautiful flowers to decorate the table. Without you being just the way you are, there would not be this beauty to grace the house."

Each of us has our own unique flaw. But it's the cracks and flaws we each have that make our lives together so very interesting and rewarding.

You've got to take each person for what they are and look for the good in them.

To all of my crackpot friends, have a great day and remember to smell the flowers, on your side of the path!