Monday, December 28, 2009
Ring Out Wild Bells -- Tennyson
Click on the player to hear Dane Allred reading Alfred Tennyson's "Ring Out Wild Bells".
Ring Out Wild Bells
Alfred Tennyson
Ring out, wild bells, to the wild sky,
The flying cloud, the frosty light:
The year is dying in the night--
Ring out, wild bells, and let him die.
Ring out the old, ring in the new--,
Ring happy bells, across the snow:
The year is going, let him go;
Ring out the false, ring in the true.
Ring out the grief that saps the mind,
For those that here we see no more;
Ring out the feud of rich and poor,
Ring in redress to all mankind.
Ring out a slowly dying cause,
And ancient forms of party strife;
Ring in the nobler modes of life,
With sweeter manners, purer laws.
Ring out the want, the care, the sin,
The faithless coldness of the times;
Ring out, ring out my mournful rhymes,
But ring the fuller minstrel in.
Ring out false pride in place and blood,
The civic slander and the spite;
Ring in the love of truth and right,
Ring in the common love of good.
Ring out old shapes of foul disease,
Ring out the narrowing lust of gold;
Ring out the thousand wars of old,
Ring in the thousand years of peace.
Ring in the valiant man and free,
The larger heart, the kindlier hand;
Ring out the darkness of the land--
Ring in the Christ that is to be.
The Little Match Girl
Click on the player to hear Dane Allred reading Hans Christian Andersen's "Little Match Girl".
The Little Match Girl
by Hans Christian Andersen
Most terribly cold it was; it snowed, and was nearly quite dark, and evening-- the last evening of the year. In this cold and darkness there went along the street a poor little girl, bareheaded, and with naked feet. When she left home she had slippers on, it is true; but what was the good of that? They were very large slippers, which her mother had hitherto worn; so large were they; and the poor little thing lost them as she scuffled away across the street, because of two carriages that rolled by dreadfully fast.
One slipper was nowhere to be found; the other had been laid hold of by an urchin, and off he ran with it; he thought it would do capitally for a cradle when he some day or other should have children himself. So the little maiden walked on with her tiny naked feet, that were quite red and blue from cold. She carried a quantity of matches in an old apron, and she held a bundle of them in her hand. Nobody had bought anything of her the whole livelong day; no one had given her a single farthing.
She crept along trembling with cold and hunger--a very picture of sorrow, the poor little thing!
The flakes of snow covered her long fair hair, which fell in beautiful curls around her neck; but of that, of course, she never once now thought. From all the windows the candles were gleaming, and it smelt so deliciously of roast goose, for you know it was New Year's Eve; yes, of that she thought.
In a corner formed by two houses, of which one advanced more than the other, she seated herself down and cowered together. Her little feet she had drawn close up to her, but she grew colder and colder, and to go home she did not venture, for she had not sold any matches and could not bring a farthing of money: from her father she would certainly get blows, and at home it was cold too, for above her she had only the roof, through which the wind whistled, even though the largest cracks were stopped up with straw and rags.
Her little hands were almost numbed with cold. Oh! a match might afford her a world of comfort, if she only dared take a single one out of the bundle, draw it against the wall, and warm her fingers by it. She drew one out. "Rischt!" how it blazed, how it burnt! It was a warm, bright flame, like a candle, as she held her hands over it: it was a wonderful light. It seemed really to the little maiden as though she were sitting before a large iron stove, with burnished brass feet and a brass ornament at top. The fire burned with such blessed influence; it warmed so delightfully. The little girl had already stretched out her feet to warm them too; but--the small flame went out, the stove vanished: she had only the remains of the burnt-out match in her hand.
She rubbed another against the wall: it burned brightly, and where the light fell on the wall, there the wall became transparent like a veil, so that she could see into the room. On the table was spread a snow-white tablecloth; upon it was a splendid porcelain service, and the roast goose was steaming famously with its stuffing of apple and dried plums. And what was still more capital to behold was, the goose hopped down from the dish, reeled about on the floor with knife and fork in its breast, till it came up to the poor little girl; when--the match went out and nothing but the thick, cold, damp wall was left behind. She lighted another match. Now there she was sitting under the most magnificent Christmas tree: it was still larger, and more decorated than the one which she had seen through the glass door in the rich merchant's house.
Thousands of lights were burning on the green branches, and gaily-colored pictures, such as she had seen in the shop-windows, looked down upon her. The little maiden stretched out her hands towards them when--the match went out. The lights of the Christmas tree rose higher and higher, she saw them now as stars in heaven; one fell down and formed a long trail of fire.
"Someone is just dead!" said the little girl; for her old grandmother, the only person who had loved her, and who was now no more, had told her, that when a star falls, a soul ascends to God.
She drew another match against the wall: it was again light, and in the lustre there stood the old grandmother, so bright and radiant, so mild, and with such an expression of love.
"Grandmother!" cried the little one. "Oh, take me with you! You go away when the match burns out; you vanish like the warm stove, like the delicious roast goose, and like the magnificent Christmas tree!" And she rubbed the whole bundle of matches quickly against the wall, for she wanted to be quite sure of keeping her grandmother near her. And the matches gave such a brilliant light that it was brighter than at noon-day: never formerly had the grandmother been so beautiful and so tall. She took the little maiden, on her arm, and both flew in brightness and in joy so high, so very high, and then above was neither cold, nor hunger, nor anxiety--they were with God.
But in the corner, at the cold hour of dawn, sat the poor girl, with rosy cheeks and with a smiling mouth, leaning against the wall--frozen to death on the last evening of the old year. Stiff and stark sat the child there with her matches, of which one bundle had been burnt. "She wanted to warm herself," people said. No one had the slightest suspicion of what beautiful things she had seen; no one even dreamed of the splendor in which, with her grandmother she had entered on the joys of a new year.
This is another episode of “Abundance”, with Dane Allred reading Hans Christian Andersen's "Little Match Girl". Tune each week from 7 to 8 P.M. Mountain Standard Time (9 to 10 EST) or listen on any web browser at www.k-talk.com.
Time Travel
To hear Dane Allred's podcast of this blog, click on the player below. Please feel free to share this and other episodes with anyone you think may enjoy it.
A Funny Thing Happened on the Way to Dane Allred
Time Travel
I time travel all the time. So do you. Most of us set an alarm to get us up in the morning. Then the next morning, the alarm goes off because you have traveled to the future to remind yourself to get up.
My memory is getting so bad I need to leave myself notes. I’ll put a note on the seat of my car in the morning at work to remind me to do something after work. Many of you use planners to remind us what to do in the future.
What if we read a note from ourselves 50 years from now that said, “Don’t forget to be happy today.”?
I like reminders, except when I don’t want them. Like a reminder to get a colonoscopy, which I know I need but don’t want to be reminded about. I don’t like it when the dentist reminds me to come and get my teeth cleaned. I don’t want to be reminded I need to get my car inspected and registered, but that is a nice reminder.
When I travel in time, most days now it is back in time. I think I am much younger than I really am, and working with young people most of the time doesn’t help. The time travel machine called a mirror is one I really hate. When I walk past it I curse it for the wrinkles it adds to what I still consider my youthful face. But I wouldn’t trade the experiences I have gained for renewed youth.
Reminders can come in many forms. We learn to like our birthdays less and less as we get older, but they really shouldn’t cause us to mourn. We should be thinking about how lucky we are to make it to another landmark. I have some friends who didn’t.
I’ll be sharing another story about Dane Bromley in a minute, but I remember the day I was sitting in my drama class. I was called on the intercom to the office, and my mom was on the phone. She told me Dane had been hit by a truck and killed.
He was walking down the street and a truck hit him. I don’t know if the truck was too far off the road, or if Dane was walking too close to the road. All I know is he was dead, and I had a sickening, sinking feeling and broke out in tears. I hadn’t seen him in years, but we were as close as two guys with the same name could be. I composed myself and went back to class with red eyes.
The next week was a blur, as I went to the church, the funeral, acted as a pallbearer, and only remember a little about the whole thing. I only have a few things left to remind me about the great times we had together, but this memory is like travelling back to junior high.
Since we were both named Dane, not a really common name, we immediately struck up a great friendship. We must have terrorized the halls, because one day the vice-principal came up to both of us as we were sitting in the hall on the floor. He asked us why we had been tormenting our student teachers, who up until that point we both thought really liked us. That just shows how clueless we were, and probably is a good indication of what trouble-makers we were. We had caused her to cry, and we thought she really liked us.
But that’s the way guys are in junior high. We even used to slug girls we liked. What was that about? But time travel also works both ways. I try not to think about how my grandfather always carried a handkerchief and used to blow his nose pretty often. I now carry a handkerchief, and yes, I do blow my nose more often than I like. Leon Trotsky said it this way, “Old age is one of the most unexpected things to happen to a man.” I guess that includes women, too. I’m also guessing Leon Trotsky said this in the last part of his life, not the first.
The point of all the rambling is that we are on a journey where we get one day at a time, and most of us take it for granted. As Henry David Thoreau said, we should not get to the end of our life and discover we had never lived.
Let us live so when our daily reminder to get up in the morning goes off, whether it’s an alarm, the sun or something else, we acknowledge the fact. Let’s live, I mean really live, and recognize today is the only day we have been given.
As Horace said, "Seize the day".
A Funny Thing Happened on the Way to Dane Allred
Time Travel
I time travel all the time. So do you. Most of us set an alarm to get us up in the morning. Then the next morning, the alarm goes off because you have traveled to the future to remind yourself to get up.
My memory is getting so bad I need to leave myself notes. I’ll put a note on the seat of my car in the morning at work to remind me to do something after work. Many of you use planners to remind us what to do in the future.
What if we read a note from ourselves 50 years from now that said, “Don’t forget to be happy today.”?
I like reminders, except when I don’t want them. Like a reminder to get a colonoscopy, which I know I need but don’t want to be reminded about. I don’t like it when the dentist reminds me to come and get my teeth cleaned. I don’t want to be reminded I need to get my car inspected and registered, but that is a nice reminder.
When I travel in time, most days now it is back in time. I think I am much younger than I really am, and working with young people most of the time doesn’t help. The time travel machine called a mirror is one I really hate. When I walk past it I curse it for the wrinkles it adds to what I still consider my youthful face. But I wouldn’t trade the experiences I have gained for renewed youth.
Reminders can come in many forms. We learn to like our birthdays less and less as we get older, but they really shouldn’t cause us to mourn. We should be thinking about how lucky we are to make it to another landmark. I have some friends who didn’t.
I’ll be sharing another story about Dane Bromley in a minute, but I remember the day I was sitting in my drama class. I was called on the intercom to the office, and my mom was on the phone. She told me Dane had been hit by a truck and killed.
He was walking down the street and a truck hit him. I don’t know if the truck was too far off the road, or if Dane was walking too close to the road. All I know is he was dead, and I had a sickening, sinking feeling and broke out in tears. I hadn’t seen him in years, but we were as close as two guys with the same name could be. I composed myself and went back to class with red eyes.
The next week was a blur, as I went to the church, the funeral, acted as a pallbearer, and only remember a little about the whole thing. I only have a few things left to remind me about the great times we had together, but this memory is like travelling back to junior high.
Since we were both named Dane, not a really common name, we immediately struck up a great friendship. We must have terrorized the halls, because one day the vice-principal came up to both of us as we were sitting in the hall on the floor. He asked us why we had been tormenting our student teachers, who up until that point we both thought really liked us. That just shows how clueless we were, and probably is a good indication of what trouble-makers we were. We had caused her to cry, and we thought she really liked us.
But that’s the way guys are in junior high. We even used to slug girls we liked. What was that about? But time travel also works both ways. I try not to think about how my grandfather always carried a handkerchief and used to blow his nose pretty often. I now carry a handkerchief, and yes, I do blow my nose more often than I like. Leon Trotsky said it this way, “Old age is one of the most unexpected things to happen to a man.” I guess that includes women, too. I’m also guessing Leon Trotsky said this in the last part of his life, not the first.
The point of all the rambling is that we are on a journey where we get one day at a time, and most of us take it for granted. As Henry David Thoreau said, we should not get to the end of our life and discover we had never lived.
Let us live so when our daily reminder to get up in the morning goes off, whether it’s an alarm, the sun or something else, we acknowledge the fact. Let’s live, I mean really live, and recognize today is the only day we have been given.
As Horace said, "Seize the day".
Wednesday, December 23, 2009
Luke 2 verses 1-20
Luke 2:1-20 (King James Version)
Luke 2
1 And it came to pass in those days, that there went out a decree from Caesar Augustus that all the world should be taxed.
2 (And this taxing was first made when Cyrenius was governor of Syria.)
3 And all went to be taxed, every one into his own city.
4 And Joseph also went up from Galilee, out of the city of Nazareth, into Judaea, unto the city of David, which is called Bethlehem; (because he was of the house and lineage of David:)
5 To be taxed with Mary his espoused wife, being great with child.
6 And so it was, that, while they were there, the days were accomplished that she should be delivered.
7 And she brought forth her firstborn son, and wrapped him in swaddling clothes, and laid him in a manger; because there was no room for them in the inn.
8 And there were in the same country shepherds abiding in the field, keeping watch over their flock by night.
9 And, lo, the angel of the Lord came upon them, and the glory of the Lord shone round about them: and they were sore afraid.
10 And the angel said unto them, Fear not: for, behold, I bring you good tidings of great joy, which shall be to all people.
11 For unto you is born this day in the city of David a Saviour, which is Christ the Lord.
12 And this shall be a sign unto you; Ye shall find the babe wrapped in swaddling clothes, lying in a manger.
13 And suddenly there was with the angel a multitude of the heavenly host praising God, and saying,
14 Glory to God in the highest, and on earth peace, good will toward men.
15 And it came to pass, as the angels were gone away from them into heaven, the shepherds said one to another, Let us now go even unto Bethlehem, and see this thing which is come to pass, which the Lord hath made known unto us.
16 And they came with haste, and found Mary, and Joseph, and the babe lying in a manger.
17 And when they had seen it, they made known abroad the saying which was told them concerning this child.
18 And all they that heard it wondered at those things which were told them by the shepherds.
19 But Mary kept all these things, and pondered them in her heart.
20 And the shepherds returned, glorifying and praising God for all the things that they had heard and seen, as it was told unto them.
From the weekly broadcast of “Abundance”hosted by Dane Allred, this is Luke 2:1-20. Tune each week from 7 to 8 P.M. Mountain Standard Time (9 to 10 EST) or listen on any web browser at www.k-talk.com.
Yes, Virginia, There is a Santa Claus
“Yes, Virginia, there is a Santa Claus.”
"DEAR EDITOR: I am 8 years old.
"Some of my little friends say there is no Santa Claus.
"Papa says, 'If you see it in THE SUN it's so.'
"Please tell me the truth; is there a Santa Claus?
"VIRGINIA O'HANLON.
"115 WEST NINETY-FIFTH STREET."
VIRGINIA, your little friends are wrong. They have been affected by the skepticism of a skeptical age. They do not believe except [what] they see. They think that nothing can be which is not comprehensible by their little minds. All minds, Virginia, whether they be men's or children's, are little. In this great universe of ours man is a mere insect, an ant, in his intellect, as compared with the boundless world about him, as measured by the intelligence capable of grasping the whole of truth and knowledge.
Yes, VIRGINIA, there is a Santa Claus. He exists as certainly as love and generosity and devotion exist, and you know that they abound and give to your life its highest beauty and joy. Alas! how dreary would be the world if there were no Santa Claus. It would be as dreary as if there were no VIRGINIAS. There would be no childlike faith then, no poetry, no romance to make tolerable this existence. We should have no enjoyment, except in sense and sight. The eternal light with which childhood fills the world would be extinguished.
Not believe in Santa Claus! You might as well not believe in fairies! You might get your papa to hire men to watch in all the chimneys on Christmas Eve to catch Santa Claus, but even if they did not see Santa Claus coming down, what would that prove? Nobody sees Santa Claus, but that is no sign that there is no Santa Claus. The most real things in the world are those that neither children nor men can see. Did you ever see fairies dancing on the lawn? Of course not, but that's no proof that they are not there. Nobody can conceive or imagine all the wonders there are unseen and unseeable in the world.
You may tear apart the baby's rattle and see what makes the noise inside, but there is a veil covering the unseen world which not the strongest man, nor even the united strength of all the strongest men that ever lived, could tear apart. Only faith, fancy, poetry, love, romance, can push aside that curtain and view and picture the supernal beauty and glory beyond. Is it all real? Ah, VIRGINIA, in all this world there is nothing else real and abiding.
No Santa Claus! Thank God! He lives, and he lives forever. A thousand years from now, Virginia, nay, ten times ten thousand years from now, he will continue to make glad the heart of childhood.
From the weekly broadcast of “Abundance”, this installment is called “Yes, Virginia there is a Santa Claus”. Tune each week from 7 to 8 P.M. Mountain Standard Time (9 to 10 EST) or listen on any web browser at www.k-talk.com.
Longfellow's "Christmas Bells"
Henry Wadsworth Longfellow (1807-1882)
Christmas Bells
I heard the bells on Christmas Day
Their old, familiar carols play,
And wild and sweet
The words repeat
Of peace on earth, good-will to men!
And thought how, as the day had come,
The belfries of all Christendom
Had rolled along
The unbroken song
Of peace on earth, good-will to men!
Till ringing, singing on its way,
The world revolved from night to day,
A voice, a chime,
A chant sublime
Of peace on earth, good-will to men!
Then from each black, accursed mouth
The cannon thundered in the South,
And with the sound
The carols drowned
Of peace on earth, good-will to men!
It was as if an earthquake rent
The hearth-stones of a continent,
And made forlorn
The households born
Of peace on earth, good-will to men!
And in despair I bowed my head;
"There is no peace on earth," I said;
"For hate is strong,
And mocks the song
Of peace on earth, good-will to men!"
Then pealed the bells more loud and deep:
"God is not dead, nor doth He sleep;
The Wrong shall fail,
The Right prevail,
With peace on earth, good-will to men."
From the weekly broadcast of “Abundance” hosted by Dane Allred, this is his reading of Longfellow's "Christmas Bells". Tune each week from 7 to 8 P.M. Mountain Standard Time (9 to 10 EST) or listen on any web browser at www.k-talk.com.
Tuesday, December 22, 2009
The Gift Of The Magi
by O’Henry
One dollar and eighty-seven cents. That was all. And sixty cents of it was in pennies. Pennies saved one and two at a time by bulldozing the grocer and the vegetable man and the butcher until one's cheeks burned with the silent imputation of parsimony that such close dealing implied. Three times Della counted it. One dollar and eighty-seven cents. And the next day would be Christmas.
There was clearly nothing to do but flop down on the shabby little couch and howl. So Della did it. Which instigates the moral reflection that life is made up of sobs, sniffles, and smiles, with sniffles predominating.
While the mistress of the home is gradually subsiding from the first stage to the second, take a look at the home. A furnished flat at $8 per week. It did not exactly beggar description, but it certainly had that word on the lookout for the mendicancy squad.
In the vestibule below was a letter-box into which no letter would go, and an electric button from which no mortal finger could coax a ring. Also appertaining thereunto was a card bearing the name "Mr. James Dillingham Young."
The "Dillingham" had been flung to the breeze during a former period of prosperity when its possessor was being paid $30 per week. Now, when the income was shrunk to $20, though, they were thinking seriously of contracting to a modest and unassuming D. But whenever Mr. James Dillingham Young came home and reached his flat above he was called "Jim" and greatly hugged by Mrs. James Dillingham Young, already introduced to you as Della. Which is all very good.
Della finished her cry and attended to her cheeks with the powder rag. She stood by the window and looked out dully at a gray cat walking a gray fence in a gray backyard. Tomorrow would be Christmas Day, and she had only $1.87 with which to buy Jim a present. She had been saving every penny she could for months, with this result. Twenty dollars a week doesn't go far. Expenses had been greater than she had calculated. They always are. Only $1.87 to buy a present for Jim. Her Jim. Many a happy hour she had spent planning for something nice for him. Something fine and rare and sterling--something just a little bit near to being worthy of the honor of being owned by Jim.
There was a pier-glass between the windows of the room. Perhaps you have seen a pier-glass in an $8 flat. A very thin and very agile person may, by observing his reflection in a rapid sequence of longitudinal strips, obtain a fairly accurate conception of his looks. Della, being slender, had mastered the art.
Suddenly she whirled from the window and stood before the glass. Her eyes were shining brilliantly, but her face had lost its color within twenty seconds. Rapidly she pulled down her hair and let it fall to its full length.
Now, there were two possessions of the James Dillingham Youngs in which they both took a mighty pride. One was Jim's gold watch that had been his father's and his grandfather's. The other was Della's hair. Had the queen of Sheba lived in the flat across the airshaft, Della would have let her hair hang out the window some day to dry just to depreciate Her Majesty's jewels and gifts. Had King Solomon been the janitor, with all his treasures piled up in the basement, Jim would have pulled out his watch every time he passed, just to see him pluck at his beard from envy.
So now Della's beautiful hair fell about her rippling and shining like a cascade of brown waters. It reached below her knee and made itself almost a garment for her. And then she did it up again nervously and quickly. Once she faltered for a minute and stood still while a tear or two splashed on the worn red carpet.
On went her old brown jacket; on went her old brown hat. With a whirl of skirts and with the brilliant sparkle still in her eyes, she fluttered out the door and down the stairs to the street.
Where she stopped the sign read: "Madame Sofronie. Hair Goods of All Kinds." One flight up Della ran, and collected herself, panting. Madame, large, too white, chilly, hardly looked the "Sofronie."
"Will you buy my hair?" asked Della.
"I buy hair," said Madame. "Take yer hat off and let's have a sight at the looks of it."
Down rippled the brown cascade.
"Twenty dollars," said Madame, lifting the mass with a practised hand.
"Give it to me quick," said Della.
Oh, and the next two hours tripped by on rosy wings. Forget the hashed metaphor. She was ransacking the stores for Jim's present.
She found it at last. It surely had been made for Jim and no one else. There was no other like it in any of the stores, and she had turned all of them inside out. It was a platinum fob chain simple and chaste in design, properly proclaiming its value by substance alone and not by meretricious ornamentation--as all good things should do. It was even worthy of “The Watch”. As soon as she saw it she knew that it must be Jim's. It was like him. Quietness and value--the description applied to both. Twenty-one dollars they took from her for it, and she hurried home with the 87 cents. With that chain on his watch Jim might be properly anxious about the time in any company. Grand as the watch was, he sometimes looked at it on the sly on account of the old leather strap that he used in place of a chain.
When Della reached home her intoxication gave way a little to prudence and reason. She got out her curling irons and lighted the gas and went to work repairing the ravages made by generosity added to love. Which is always a tremendous task, dear friends--a mammoth task.
Within forty minutes her head was covered with tiny, close-lying curls that made her look wonderfully like a truant schoolboy. She looked at her reflection in the mirror long, carefully, and critically.
"If Jim doesn't kill me," she said to herself, "before he takes a second look at me, he'll say I look like a Coney Island chorus girl. But what could I do--oh! What could I do with a dollar and eighty-seven cents?"
At 7 o'clock the coffee was made and the frying-pan was on the back of the stove hot and ready to cook the chops.
Jim was never late. Della doubled the fob chain in her hand and sat on the corner of the table near the door that he always entered. Then she heard his step on the stair away down on the first flight, and she turned white for just a moment. She had a habit for saying little silent prayer about the simplest everyday things, and now she whispered: "Please God, make him think I am still pretty."
The door opened and Jim stepped in and closed it. He looked thin and very serious. Poor fellow, he was only twenty-two--and to be burdened with a family! He needed a new overcoat and he was without gloves.
Jim stopped inside the door, as immovable as a setter at the scent of quail. His eyes were fixed upon Della, and there was an expression in them that she could not read, and it terrified her. It was not anger, nor surprise, nor disapproval, nor horror, nor any of the sentiments that she had been prepared for. He simply stared at her fixedly with that peculiar expression on his face.
Della wriggled off the table and went for him.
"Jim, darling," she cried, "don't look at me that way. I had my hair cut off and sold because I couldn't have lived through Christmas without giving you a present. It'll grow out again--you won't mind, will you? I just had to do it. My hair grows awfully fast. Say `Merry Christmas!' Jim, and let's be happy. You don't know what a nice-- what a beautiful, nice gift I've got for you."
"You've cut off your hair?" asked Jim, laboriously, as if he had not arrived at that patent fact yet even after the hardest mental labor.
"Cut it off and sold it," said Della. "Don't you like me just as well, anyhow? I'm me without my hair, ain't I?"
Jim looked about the room curiously.
"You say your hair is gone?" he said, with an air almost of idiocy.
"You needn't look for it," said Della. "It's sold, I tell you--sold and gone, too. It's Christmas Eve, boy. Be good to me, for it went for you. Maybe the hairs of my head were numbered," she went on with sudden serious sweetness, "but nobody could ever count my love for you. Shall I put the chops on, Jim?"
Out of his trance Jim seemed quickly to wake. He enfolded his Della. For ten seconds let us regard with discreet scrutiny some inconsequential object in the other direction. Eight dollars a week or a million a year--what is the difference? A mathematician or a wit would give you the wrong answer. The magi brought valuable gifts, but that was not among them. This dark assertion will be illuminated later on.
Jim drew a package from his overcoat pocket and threw it upon the table.
"Don't make any mistake, Dell," he said, "about me. I don't think there's anything in the way of a haircut or a shave or a shampoo that could make me like my girl any less. But if you'll unwrap that package you may see why you had me going a while at first."
White fingers and nimble tore at the string and paper. And then an ecstatic scream of joy; and then, alas! A quick feminine change to hysterical tears and wails, necessitating the immediate employment of all the comforting powers of the Lord of the flat.
For there lay The Combs--the set of combs, side and back, that Della had worshipped long in a Broadway window. Beautiful combs, pure tortoise shell, with jeweled rims--just the shade to wear in the beautiful vanished hair. They were expensive combs, she knew, and her heart had simply craved and yearned over them without the least hope of possession. And now, they were hers, but the tresses that should have adorned the coveted adornments were gone.
But she hugged them to her bosom, and at length she was able to look up with dim eyes and a smile and say: "My hair grows so fast, Jim!"
And then Della leaped up like a little singed cat and cried, "Oh, oh!"
Jim had not yet seen his beautiful present. She held it out to him eagerly upon her open palm. The dull precious metal seemed to flash with a reflection of her bright and ardent spirit.
"Isn't it a dandy, Jim? I hunted all over town to find it. You'll have to look at the time a hundred times a day now. Give me your watch. I want to see how it looks on it."
Instead of obeying, Jim tumbled down on the couch and put his hands under the back of his head and smiled.
"Dell," said he, "Let's put our Christmas presents away and keep 'em a while. They're too nice to use just at present. I sold the watch to get the money to buy your combs. And now suppose you put the chops on."
The magi, as you know, were wise men--wonderfully wise men--who brought gifts to the Babe in the manger. They invented the art of giving Christmas presents. Being wise, their gifts were no doubt wise ones, possibly bearing the privilege of exchange in case of duplication. And here I have lamely related to you the uneventful chronicle of two foolish children in a flat who most unwisely sacrificed for each other the greatest treasures of their house.
But in a last word to the wise of these days let it be said that of all who give gifts, these two were the wisest. Oh, all who give and receive gifts, such as they are wisest. Everywhere they are wisest. They are the magi.
As recorded on "Abundance", a weekly radio program by Dane Allred. Tune in every Sunday from 7 to 8 P.M. Mountain Standard Time (9 to 10 EST) or listen on any web browser at www.k-talk.com.
Click on the bar below to hear the podcast of this episode.
by O’Henry
One dollar and eighty-seven cents. That was all. And sixty cents of it was in pennies. Pennies saved one and two at a time by bulldozing the grocer and the vegetable man and the butcher until one's cheeks burned with the silent imputation of parsimony that such close dealing implied. Three times Della counted it. One dollar and eighty-seven cents. And the next day would be Christmas.
There was clearly nothing to do but flop down on the shabby little couch and howl. So Della did it. Which instigates the moral reflection that life is made up of sobs, sniffles, and smiles, with sniffles predominating.
While the mistress of the home is gradually subsiding from the first stage to the second, take a look at the home. A furnished flat at $8 per week. It did not exactly beggar description, but it certainly had that word on the lookout for the mendicancy squad.
In the vestibule below was a letter-box into which no letter would go, and an electric button from which no mortal finger could coax a ring. Also appertaining thereunto was a card bearing the name "Mr. James Dillingham Young."
The "Dillingham" had been flung to the breeze during a former period of prosperity when its possessor was being paid $30 per week. Now, when the income was shrunk to $20, though, they were thinking seriously of contracting to a modest and unassuming D. But whenever Mr. James Dillingham Young came home and reached his flat above he was called "Jim" and greatly hugged by Mrs. James Dillingham Young, already introduced to you as Della. Which is all very good.
Della finished her cry and attended to her cheeks with the powder rag. She stood by the window and looked out dully at a gray cat walking a gray fence in a gray backyard. Tomorrow would be Christmas Day, and she had only $1.87 with which to buy Jim a present. She had been saving every penny she could for months, with this result. Twenty dollars a week doesn't go far. Expenses had been greater than she had calculated. They always are. Only $1.87 to buy a present for Jim. Her Jim. Many a happy hour she had spent planning for something nice for him. Something fine and rare and sterling--something just a little bit near to being worthy of the honor of being owned by Jim.
There was a pier-glass between the windows of the room. Perhaps you have seen a pier-glass in an $8 flat. A very thin and very agile person may, by observing his reflection in a rapid sequence of longitudinal strips, obtain a fairly accurate conception of his looks. Della, being slender, had mastered the art.
Suddenly she whirled from the window and stood before the glass. Her eyes were shining brilliantly, but her face had lost its color within twenty seconds. Rapidly she pulled down her hair and let it fall to its full length.
Now, there were two possessions of the James Dillingham Youngs in which they both took a mighty pride. One was Jim's gold watch that had been his father's and his grandfather's. The other was Della's hair. Had the queen of Sheba lived in the flat across the airshaft, Della would have let her hair hang out the window some day to dry just to depreciate Her Majesty's jewels and gifts. Had King Solomon been the janitor, with all his treasures piled up in the basement, Jim would have pulled out his watch every time he passed, just to see him pluck at his beard from envy.
So now Della's beautiful hair fell about her rippling and shining like a cascade of brown waters. It reached below her knee and made itself almost a garment for her. And then she did it up again nervously and quickly. Once she faltered for a minute and stood still while a tear or two splashed on the worn red carpet.
On went her old brown jacket; on went her old brown hat. With a whirl of skirts and with the brilliant sparkle still in her eyes, she fluttered out the door and down the stairs to the street.
Where she stopped the sign read: "Madame Sofronie. Hair Goods of All Kinds." One flight up Della ran, and collected herself, panting. Madame, large, too white, chilly, hardly looked the "Sofronie."
"Will you buy my hair?" asked Della.
"I buy hair," said Madame. "Take yer hat off and let's have a sight at the looks of it."
Down rippled the brown cascade.
"Twenty dollars," said Madame, lifting the mass with a practised hand.
"Give it to me quick," said Della.
Oh, and the next two hours tripped by on rosy wings. Forget the hashed metaphor. She was ransacking the stores for Jim's present.
She found it at last. It surely had been made for Jim and no one else. There was no other like it in any of the stores, and she had turned all of them inside out. It was a platinum fob chain simple and chaste in design, properly proclaiming its value by substance alone and not by meretricious ornamentation--as all good things should do. It was even worthy of “The Watch”. As soon as she saw it she knew that it must be Jim's. It was like him. Quietness and value--the description applied to both. Twenty-one dollars they took from her for it, and she hurried home with the 87 cents. With that chain on his watch Jim might be properly anxious about the time in any company. Grand as the watch was, he sometimes looked at it on the sly on account of the old leather strap that he used in place of a chain.
When Della reached home her intoxication gave way a little to prudence and reason. She got out her curling irons and lighted the gas and went to work repairing the ravages made by generosity added to love. Which is always a tremendous task, dear friends--a mammoth task.
Within forty minutes her head was covered with tiny, close-lying curls that made her look wonderfully like a truant schoolboy. She looked at her reflection in the mirror long, carefully, and critically.
"If Jim doesn't kill me," she said to herself, "before he takes a second look at me, he'll say I look like a Coney Island chorus girl. But what could I do--oh! What could I do with a dollar and eighty-seven cents?"
At 7 o'clock the coffee was made and the frying-pan was on the back of the stove hot and ready to cook the chops.
Jim was never late. Della doubled the fob chain in her hand and sat on the corner of the table near the door that he always entered. Then she heard his step on the stair away down on the first flight, and she turned white for just a moment. She had a habit for saying little silent prayer about the simplest everyday things, and now she whispered: "Please God, make him think I am still pretty."
The door opened and Jim stepped in and closed it. He looked thin and very serious. Poor fellow, he was only twenty-two--and to be burdened with a family! He needed a new overcoat and he was without gloves.
Jim stopped inside the door, as immovable as a setter at the scent of quail. His eyes were fixed upon Della, and there was an expression in them that she could not read, and it terrified her. It was not anger, nor surprise, nor disapproval, nor horror, nor any of the sentiments that she had been prepared for. He simply stared at her fixedly with that peculiar expression on his face.
Della wriggled off the table and went for him.
"Jim, darling," she cried, "don't look at me that way. I had my hair cut off and sold because I couldn't have lived through Christmas without giving you a present. It'll grow out again--you won't mind, will you? I just had to do it. My hair grows awfully fast. Say `Merry Christmas!' Jim, and let's be happy. You don't know what a nice-- what a beautiful, nice gift I've got for you."
"You've cut off your hair?" asked Jim, laboriously, as if he had not arrived at that patent fact yet even after the hardest mental labor.
"Cut it off and sold it," said Della. "Don't you like me just as well, anyhow? I'm me without my hair, ain't I?"
Jim looked about the room curiously.
"You say your hair is gone?" he said, with an air almost of idiocy.
"You needn't look for it," said Della. "It's sold, I tell you--sold and gone, too. It's Christmas Eve, boy. Be good to me, for it went for you. Maybe the hairs of my head were numbered," she went on with sudden serious sweetness, "but nobody could ever count my love for you. Shall I put the chops on, Jim?"
Out of his trance Jim seemed quickly to wake. He enfolded his Della. For ten seconds let us regard with discreet scrutiny some inconsequential object in the other direction. Eight dollars a week or a million a year--what is the difference? A mathematician or a wit would give you the wrong answer. The magi brought valuable gifts, but that was not among them. This dark assertion will be illuminated later on.
Jim drew a package from his overcoat pocket and threw it upon the table.
"Don't make any mistake, Dell," he said, "about me. I don't think there's anything in the way of a haircut or a shave or a shampoo that could make me like my girl any less. But if you'll unwrap that package you may see why you had me going a while at first."
White fingers and nimble tore at the string and paper. And then an ecstatic scream of joy; and then, alas! A quick feminine change to hysterical tears and wails, necessitating the immediate employment of all the comforting powers of the Lord of the flat.
For there lay The Combs--the set of combs, side and back, that Della had worshipped long in a Broadway window. Beautiful combs, pure tortoise shell, with jeweled rims--just the shade to wear in the beautiful vanished hair. They were expensive combs, she knew, and her heart had simply craved and yearned over them without the least hope of possession. And now, they were hers, but the tresses that should have adorned the coveted adornments were gone.
But she hugged them to her bosom, and at length she was able to look up with dim eyes and a smile and say: "My hair grows so fast, Jim!"
And then Della leaped up like a little singed cat and cried, "Oh, oh!"
Jim had not yet seen his beautiful present. She held it out to him eagerly upon her open palm. The dull precious metal seemed to flash with a reflection of her bright and ardent spirit.
"Isn't it a dandy, Jim? I hunted all over town to find it. You'll have to look at the time a hundred times a day now. Give me your watch. I want to see how it looks on it."
Instead of obeying, Jim tumbled down on the couch and put his hands under the back of his head and smiled.
"Dell," said he, "Let's put our Christmas presents away and keep 'em a while. They're too nice to use just at present. I sold the watch to get the money to buy your combs. And now suppose you put the chops on."
The magi, as you know, were wise men--wonderfully wise men--who brought gifts to the Babe in the manger. They invented the art of giving Christmas presents. Being wise, their gifts were no doubt wise ones, possibly bearing the privilege of exchange in case of duplication. And here I have lamely related to you the uneventful chronicle of two foolish children in a flat who most unwisely sacrificed for each other the greatest treasures of their house.
But in a last word to the wise of these days let it be said that of all who give gifts, these two were the wisest. Oh, all who give and receive gifts, such as they are wisest. Everywhere they are wisest. They are the magi.
As recorded on "Abundance", a weekly radio program by Dane Allred. Tune in every Sunday from 7 to 8 P.M. Mountain Standard Time (9 to 10 EST) or listen on any web browser at www.k-talk.com.
Click on the bar below to hear the podcast of this episode.
Sunday, December 20, 2009
My Favorite Christmas
Another episode of "A Funny Thing Happened on the Way to Dane Alllred"
One particular Christmas holds some of my best memories, not because of the presents I received, but because of the presents I gave. I wanted to give something to those who were needy in our neighborhood, so I collected some money from those in the area and ended up with a little over a hundred dollars.
When I visited with the single mother who seemed to need the most help, I asked what she would like us to use the money to buy. I’m not sure why I didn’t just give her the money, but I guess I wanted to do some of the shopping to make sure the donations went for presents instead of rent.
She humbly requested a turkey or a ham. She told me her son wanted moon boots. I also noticed they didn’t have a tree. I don’t remember much else, except for how I felt when a couple of us from the neighborhood delivered the stuff.
I used my own money to buy a Christmas tree, and the hundred dollars went a lot further than I imagined it would. I know I spent a lot more than this on my own family that same year, but I can’t remember anything our family received.
If she was embarrassed by our assumption she needed help, she never showed it. She was not too proud to refuse our offer, and I wondered how magnanimous I would feel delivering these few items later.
What a different feeling I had when we finally came back. I have never felt so humbled, so grateful for all I had, and so thankful I had an opportunity to help someone else.
This was a woman who had recently divorced and was living with her children in a basement apartment. It was cramped and dark, but you could tell this was a much better situation than the family had been in before. Apparently, the husband had been abusive, and it took all the courage this good woman could muster to leave him. They were a humble, happy and very poor family.
As I brought in a bag of flour and sugar, which she hadn’t asked us to bring, she began to cry. We gave her a turkey and the packages already wrapped for the children. It was such a small thing to do. Most of the neighbors had given five or ten dollars, and it wasn’t a great sacrifice for them.
But to see the happiness these few things brought to this family was incredibly satisfying. It was almost nothing, especially when contrasted with the bounty the rest of us would receive. It made me wish I had collected two hundred, or three hundred dollars.
But you could tell it wouldn’t have mattered if it had only been ten dollars. We had moved from our petty daily concerns, thought about someone outside of ourselves, and shared a little of the bounty we had been blessed with.
You would have thought we had delivered gold bars. We were thanked repeatedly, and embarrassed by the show of appreciation, had beat a hasty retreat. It was an incredible, satisfying, momentous occasion in my life. I had spent was a few dollars and some of my time collecting from others, done a little shopping, and delivered our paltry offerings.
But to be humbled by this act of service was the greatest gift I have ever received. I was able to get outside myself for a brief moment, and consider that someone else might benefit from a few simple acts of kindness.
English author and artist John Ruskin said this about humility:
"The first test of a truly great man is his humility. I do not mean, by humility, doubt of his own power. … [But really] great men … have a curious … feeling that … greatness is not in them, but through them. … And they see something Divine … in every other man …, and are endlessly, foolishly, incredibly merciful."
It wasn’t me, the neighbors, the donations, the flour, the sugar, the turkey or the Christmas tree. It was the ability I was given, for just a moment, to see the divine in someone else, that other person who is just as important as I am, but who is receiving not from me, but through me.
There are few times in life when we are able to get outside ourselves and stop considering our petty problems and complaints. It is in these moments we are most alive and vibrant. They don’t happen everyday, but they do happen often enough to remind us there are others on this planet. These moments occur when we stop the introspection, and begin to notice all of the wonderful people who are on this journey with us.
Listen to this episode by clicking on the button below:
Another episode of "A Funny Thing Happened on the Way to Dane Alllred"
One particular Christmas holds some of my best memories, not because of the presents I received, but because of the presents I gave. I wanted to give something to those who were needy in our neighborhood, so I collected some money from those in the area and ended up with a little over a hundred dollars.
When I visited with the single mother who seemed to need the most help, I asked what she would like us to use the money to buy. I’m not sure why I didn’t just give her the money, but I guess I wanted to do some of the shopping to make sure the donations went for presents instead of rent.
She humbly requested a turkey or a ham. She told me her son wanted moon boots. I also noticed they didn’t have a tree. I don’t remember much else, except for how I felt when a couple of us from the neighborhood delivered the stuff.
I used my own money to buy a Christmas tree, and the hundred dollars went a lot further than I imagined it would. I know I spent a lot more than this on my own family that same year, but I can’t remember anything our family received.
If she was embarrassed by our assumption she needed help, she never showed it. She was not too proud to refuse our offer, and I wondered how magnanimous I would feel delivering these few items later.
What a different feeling I had when we finally came back. I have never felt so humbled, so grateful for all I had, and so thankful I had an opportunity to help someone else.
This was a woman who had recently divorced and was living with her children in a basement apartment. It was cramped and dark, but you could tell this was a much better situation than the family had been in before. Apparently, the husband had been abusive, and it took all the courage this good woman could muster to leave him. They were a humble, happy and very poor family.
As I brought in a bag of flour and sugar, which she hadn’t asked us to bring, she began to cry. We gave her a turkey and the packages already wrapped for the children. It was such a small thing to do. Most of the neighbors had given five or ten dollars, and it wasn’t a great sacrifice for them.
But to see the happiness these few things brought to this family was incredibly satisfying. It was almost nothing, especially when contrasted with the bounty the rest of us would receive. It made me wish I had collected two hundred, or three hundred dollars.
But you could tell it wouldn’t have mattered if it had only been ten dollars. We had moved from our petty daily concerns, thought about someone outside of ourselves, and shared a little of the bounty we had been blessed with.
You would have thought we had delivered gold bars. We were thanked repeatedly, and embarrassed by the show of appreciation, had beat a hasty retreat. It was an incredible, satisfying, momentous occasion in my life. I had spent was a few dollars and some of my time collecting from others, done a little shopping, and delivered our paltry offerings.
But to be humbled by this act of service was the greatest gift I have ever received. I was able to get outside myself for a brief moment, and consider that someone else might benefit from a few simple acts of kindness.
English author and artist John Ruskin said this about humility:
"The first test of a truly great man is his humility. I do not mean, by humility, doubt of his own power. … [But really] great men … have a curious … feeling that … greatness is not in them, but through them. … And they see something Divine … in every other man …, and are endlessly, foolishly, incredibly merciful."
It wasn’t me, the neighbors, the donations, the flour, the sugar, the turkey or the Christmas tree. It was the ability I was given, for just a moment, to see the divine in someone else, that other person who is just as important as I am, but who is receiving not from me, but through me.
There are few times in life when we are able to get outside ourselves and stop considering our petty problems and complaints. It is in these moments we are most alive and vibrant. They don’t happen everyday, but they do happen often enough to remind us there are others on this planet. These moments occur when we stop the introspection, and begin to notice all of the wonderful people who are on this journey with us.
Listen to this episode by clicking on the button below:
Saturday, December 5, 2009
Running for Rolls
A Funny Thing Happened on the Way to Dane Allred
Running for Rolls
I went to an ancient high school, so old that it had four stories. When I was going to the old Jordan High School, the school district was building what was supposed to be the new high school. But then tremendous growth happened and both schools remained open. It was eventually torn down and a new Jordan High School was built, but it just isn’t the same. I’ve been to the new school and even sit at this moment wearing a hoody I bought there, but I still miss the old school. I guess it’s the same with any old building.
One of my favorite memories was when lunch was served. The bell would ring and a mad dash would begin to the lunchroom, which was formerly the basketball court. With four stories, that meant you had to hustle if you wanted to get some of the delicious, fresh rolls they served every day. I remember dashing down four sets of stairs as fast as my little legs could carry me. It probably wasn’t very safe, and in today’s risk management society, I’m surprised more people didn’t break their legs back then. Maybe we were just more coordinated.
As I sit wearing Jordan High School memorabilia proudly, I wonder what it was that made those rolls so good we would risk life and limb. One of my friends didn’t like the rolls, so each day he would throw his roll into the air for the rest of us to grab at. This means four or five people were fighting over the roll, and we would each end up with a smashed scrap. But we didn’t care. We were getting bonus bread, for free.
Once a school has reached a certain age, the additions begin. There were so many passages to the same place it really was easier to just take someone where they wanted to be. Telling them the directions would take twice as long. This is a building that lasted a hundred years, and besides having four floors and a basement, there were wings out to the side. There was a courtyard converted into some classrooms and a counseling center. We also had an ancient stage which I remember as especially small.
The best part of the school was the tradition my family had of attending there. Just before it was torn down, I was in a movie at the old school. I got to sit in the front office for several hours, and I wasn’t even in trouble. I used the time to thumb through several old yearbooks. I found myself, my dad and several of his siblings and took a picture with them all spread out on a desk.
Now that I teach high school, it’s hard to imagine I was as young as my students when I went to school. The guy who used to throw his roll in the air was prematurely bald, and so he looked like he was forty when he was a teenager. I saw him 30 years later and he still looked the same.
This is the same friend I tortured every year by making him squirt milk out his nose. All I had to do was wait until he was drinking his milk and deliver a well timed funny remark and out would come the milk. He had enough manners not to spit it out all over us; he would simply laugh it out his nose. I thought it was hilarious. He was cautious around me, trying to make sure he was drinking his milk at safe moments. But once every year, I was able to get him.
Then he started drinking pop. You may call it soda. I don’t know if you have ever snorted carbonation through your nose, it is not a pleasant experience. Milk is bad enough, and water hurts. But any carbonated drink passed through your nasal passages it excruciatingly painful. It hurts for quite a while.
For some reason, we feel ageless when we are in high school. I was talking to my father-in-law about this a while ago. Though in his eighties, he told me he still feels the same way he did when he was in high school. It’s such a defining time in the development of our personalities; it becomes our definition of ourselves.
I guess it can be good and bad. One of my students from a few years ago dropped by this week. When I asked him what he had been doing, he said he just got out of jail. He was a student who didn’t really like school, and probably felt he was being punished with an education. I wonder if my friend remembers the good old bad old times, and then is grateful not to be drinking anything at the moment.
Listen to a podcast of this blog by clicking the button below:
Running for Rolls
I went to an ancient high school, so old that it had four stories. When I was going to the old Jordan High School, the school district was building what was supposed to be the new high school. But then tremendous growth happened and both schools remained open. It was eventually torn down and a new Jordan High School was built, but it just isn’t the same. I’ve been to the new school and even sit at this moment wearing a hoody I bought there, but I still miss the old school. I guess it’s the same with any old building.
One of my favorite memories was when lunch was served. The bell would ring and a mad dash would begin to the lunchroom, which was formerly the basketball court. With four stories, that meant you had to hustle if you wanted to get some of the delicious, fresh rolls they served every day. I remember dashing down four sets of stairs as fast as my little legs could carry me. It probably wasn’t very safe, and in today’s risk management society, I’m surprised more people didn’t break their legs back then. Maybe we were just more coordinated.
As I sit wearing Jordan High School memorabilia proudly, I wonder what it was that made those rolls so good we would risk life and limb. One of my friends didn’t like the rolls, so each day he would throw his roll into the air for the rest of us to grab at. This means four or five people were fighting over the roll, and we would each end up with a smashed scrap. But we didn’t care. We were getting bonus bread, for free.
Once a school has reached a certain age, the additions begin. There were so many passages to the same place it really was easier to just take someone where they wanted to be. Telling them the directions would take twice as long. This is a building that lasted a hundred years, and besides having four floors and a basement, there were wings out to the side. There was a courtyard converted into some classrooms and a counseling center. We also had an ancient stage which I remember as especially small.
The best part of the school was the tradition my family had of attending there. Just before it was torn down, I was in a movie at the old school. I got to sit in the front office for several hours, and I wasn’t even in trouble. I used the time to thumb through several old yearbooks. I found myself, my dad and several of his siblings and took a picture with them all spread out on a desk.
Now that I teach high school, it’s hard to imagine I was as young as my students when I went to school. The guy who used to throw his roll in the air was prematurely bald, and so he looked like he was forty when he was a teenager. I saw him 30 years later and he still looked the same.
This is the same friend I tortured every year by making him squirt milk out his nose. All I had to do was wait until he was drinking his milk and deliver a well timed funny remark and out would come the milk. He had enough manners not to spit it out all over us; he would simply laugh it out his nose. I thought it was hilarious. He was cautious around me, trying to make sure he was drinking his milk at safe moments. But once every year, I was able to get him.
Then he started drinking pop. You may call it soda. I don’t know if you have ever snorted carbonation through your nose, it is not a pleasant experience. Milk is bad enough, and water hurts. But any carbonated drink passed through your nasal passages it excruciatingly painful. It hurts for quite a while.
For some reason, we feel ageless when we are in high school. I was talking to my father-in-law about this a while ago. Though in his eighties, he told me he still feels the same way he did when he was in high school. It’s such a defining time in the development of our personalities; it becomes our definition of ourselves.
I guess it can be good and bad. One of my students from a few years ago dropped by this week. When I asked him what he had been doing, he said he just got out of jail. He was a student who didn’t really like school, and probably felt he was being punished with an education. I wonder if my friend remembers the good old bad old times, and then is grateful not to be drinking anything at the moment.
Listen to a podcast of this blog by clicking the button below:
Tracker Towing
A Funny Thing Happened on the Way to Dane Allred
Tracker Towing
Those who know me well know I love my Tracker. Not tractor. Tracker. It’s a jeep kind-of a all-terrain vehicle made by Geo, but really made by Suzuki. Think of the Suzuki Samarai, just made for Chevy. Chevy even puts its own brand on the Tracker now, but I got mine back in the bad old days when everyone was worried they would flip over. I’ve never had that problem, but then again, I’m not trying to flip my car on its roof.
A steal when I bought it 15 years ago, I have squeezed every penny out of what I was charged for this car. I like it so well I put another engine in last year, and now have 15,000 miles on the second engine. The odometer reads 220,000 miles, and I hope to see 400,000 but you never know. I have had many repairs done on this car, mostly from wearing out water pumps and other parts never designed to last more than 100,000 miles.
It was brand new when we bought it, but now it’s 15 year old. There’s a rust-spot on the back where a daughter backed into something and broke out the rear taillight. I replace it myself, which is another thing I really like about cars. I like fixing things myself if I can, but I am repairing less and less as the years go by. I have a loose belt right now, and I know it’s an easy adjustment to tighten one nut, but I have also banged my knuckles on nuts and bolts enough to know it may be worth the twenty dollars I’ll pay.
I was once young and stupid enough to think I was a great mechanic. Our Volkswagen broke down in Las Vegas. The quote for overhauling the engine was ridiculous. I could have towed the car back home and overhauled it myself for half the price. Which is exactly what we did. We rented a U-Haul and a tow bar, and pulled the car back to the house. Here’s a good hint for those prepared to do the same. If your steering wheel locks unless the key is in, remember to put the key in so the steering wheel can turn. I forgot, and since I made a “U” turn just before returning home, the steering wheel turned a couple of times – and locked. Now that the front tires were turned, I dragged the car for the next 500 miles. If you drive long enough with the wheels turned sideways, the tires heat up, the rubber begins to peel, and when you arrive you may notice the tires are very hot and the rubber actually rubs off like an eraser. I must have worn off 20 or 30 thousand miles of tread.
I bought a manual called “Volkswagen Repair for the Complete Idiot”. It was a great book, and I followed the directions on how to overhaul an engine, which included the instructions to lower the engine to the ground after removing the four bolts holding it. You place the engine on a piece of plywood, jack-up the car and drag the engine out. It only weighs a couple of hundred pounds, and the plywood makes it easy to move.
I did my best, but the car still wouldn’t start. I took it to the dealer, who spent 10 hours diagnosing some electrical problems. I am proud to say the car did run again, and we put at least another 20,000 miles on the rebuilt engine.
I use my Geo Tracker to haul my windsurfer to the beach, and sometimes I get to do some surprising things with this little vehicle my daughter calls my “Barbie Car”. It really does look like the car Ken might pick out for Barbie. But it does have some surprising get up and go.
When I drove up and saw the Ford truck stuck in the sand, I knew I could help, but you could tell the other drivers were dubious. I just pulled out the hook with the flat rope and hooked it around the truck. Moments later, they were unstuck and I had proved smaller is not necessarily inferior.
It happened again a couple of months later. The big truck was stuck, and up I drove with the little Barbie car and offered to pull them out. They looked at my all-terrain vehicle, and I could see the doubt in their eyes. But they were stuck, and really didn’t have any choice but to let me try. I assured them I had pulled another truck out of the sand, but they still looked doubtful. Seconds later, with the torque of the small wheel base, they were unstuck.
Insert your own joke about size here.
Click here to listen to a podcast of this blog:
Tracker Towing
Those who know me well know I love my Tracker. Not tractor. Tracker. It’s a jeep kind-of a all-terrain vehicle made by Geo, but really made by Suzuki. Think of the Suzuki Samarai, just made for Chevy. Chevy even puts its own brand on the Tracker now, but I got mine back in the bad old days when everyone was worried they would flip over. I’ve never had that problem, but then again, I’m not trying to flip my car on its roof.
A steal when I bought it 15 years ago, I have squeezed every penny out of what I was charged for this car. I like it so well I put another engine in last year, and now have 15,000 miles on the second engine. The odometer reads 220,000 miles, and I hope to see 400,000 but you never know. I have had many repairs done on this car, mostly from wearing out water pumps and other parts never designed to last more than 100,000 miles.
It was brand new when we bought it, but now it’s 15 year old. There’s a rust-spot on the back where a daughter backed into something and broke out the rear taillight. I replace it myself, which is another thing I really like about cars. I like fixing things myself if I can, but I am repairing less and less as the years go by. I have a loose belt right now, and I know it’s an easy adjustment to tighten one nut, but I have also banged my knuckles on nuts and bolts enough to know it may be worth the twenty dollars I’ll pay.
I was once young and stupid enough to think I was a great mechanic. Our Volkswagen broke down in Las Vegas. The quote for overhauling the engine was ridiculous. I could have towed the car back home and overhauled it myself for half the price. Which is exactly what we did. We rented a U-Haul and a tow bar, and pulled the car back to the house. Here’s a good hint for those prepared to do the same. If your steering wheel locks unless the key is in, remember to put the key in so the steering wheel can turn. I forgot, and since I made a “U” turn just before returning home, the steering wheel turned a couple of times – and locked. Now that the front tires were turned, I dragged the car for the next 500 miles. If you drive long enough with the wheels turned sideways, the tires heat up, the rubber begins to peel, and when you arrive you may notice the tires are very hot and the rubber actually rubs off like an eraser. I must have worn off 20 or 30 thousand miles of tread.
I bought a manual called “Volkswagen Repair for the Complete Idiot”. It was a great book, and I followed the directions on how to overhaul an engine, which included the instructions to lower the engine to the ground after removing the four bolts holding it. You place the engine on a piece of plywood, jack-up the car and drag the engine out. It only weighs a couple of hundred pounds, and the plywood makes it easy to move.
I did my best, but the car still wouldn’t start. I took it to the dealer, who spent 10 hours diagnosing some electrical problems. I am proud to say the car did run again, and we put at least another 20,000 miles on the rebuilt engine.
I use my Geo Tracker to haul my windsurfer to the beach, and sometimes I get to do some surprising things with this little vehicle my daughter calls my “Barbie Car”. It really does look like the car Ken might pick out for Barbie. But it does have some surprising get up and go.
When I drove up and saw the Ford truck stuck in the sand, I knew I could help, but you could tell the other drivers were dubious. I just pulled out the hook with the flat rope and hooked it around the truck. Moments later, they were unstuck and I had proved smaller is not necessarily inferior.
It happened again a couple of months later. The big truck was stuck, and up I drove with the little Barbie car and offered to pull them out. They looked at my all-terrain vehicle, and I could see the doubt in their eyes. But they were stuck, and really didn’t have any choice but to let me try. I assured them I had pulled another truck out of the sand, but they still looked doubtful. Seconds later, with the torque of the small wheel base, they were unstuck.
Insert your own joke about size here.
Click here to listen to a podcast of this blog:
Spare Change
A Funny Thing Happened on the Way to Dane Allred
Spare Change
I have a different sense of humor. Sometimes it takes a while for people to understand just what I am saying, and realize I’m joking. Teaching high school means some students come to school not feeling their best. Either mom or dad or both work, and they can’t stay home. Sometimes their folks make them go to school even when they are sick. So I get to deal with some unhappy kids at times.
It’s not hard to see who is suffering. They are not their usual selves, and when I go up and ask them how they are feeling, they usually try to put on a smile and say they are okay. If they are really feeling sick, they sometimes admit it and say something like, “I don’t feel good.” To try to lighten up the moment, I will usually put my hand on their shoulder and tell them, “You feel all right to me.”
So it does take a minute for them to think about it; remember, they are feeling sick. So when they finally get it, I usually get a smile from them. They look at me and sometimes shake their heads; remember, Dad humor is really not funny, it’s mostly stupid. But it is stupid enough to make you laugh.
I sometimes take it a little far. I really should only use this kind of humor with people I know. But most of you know by now if you’ve been paying attention that I really don’t pay attention all that well. The first time I tried my smart-aleck Dad humor on a total stranger was in Washington, D.C. as my wife and I were walking on the street.
I really don’t like it when people on the street beg from me. I know there are programs and places available to everyone who is willing to try to get help.
So with my bad sense of humor and my general lack of common sense, the following scenario probably was unavoidable.
We were walking along and there were several people begging on the street. After saying no a few times, one guy we passed leaned out and pointed his cup at me. He said, “Spare change?”
My mind works pretty fast, and my wife often has to point out most people have a hard time keeping up sometimes. So when I looked at him and said, “No thanks, I have some.”
He looked at me with a kind of dumbfounded stare for a minute and processed what I had just said. We kept walking, and from behind me I heard him laugh a bit and say, “No, I want your change.” But we were already too far away, and I just sort of chuckled.
My wife was furious, and told me to “knock it off”. She was worried I might have made him angry, and didn’t want a confrontation. She’s usually right. I’m just not smart enough to keep my mouth shut sometimes. But when someone offers a great opening like that, my brain goes on automatic and my mouth starts talking without thinking first.
My daughter was in the car with us recently and we saw a guy begging at WalMart. She’s worked in homeless shelters and knows the programs available to the needy. She started rattling off the different things someone who really needed help
could do, and started talking about how angry it made her when people begged. I asked her if she wanted me to roll down the window and let him know. Before she could answer I said I didn’t think that was the kind of help he was looking for.
One of my former students was an aide to Senator Orrin Hatch. She has a great story about people begging from when she was back in Washington, D.C. She and her husband are successful lawyers now and actually named a son after me. Back in D.C. she used to give some of her lunch money to this same beggar every day. Then one day she was at a hot dog stand, and there was this same guy paying for his lunch with a wad of bills she described as almost too big to hold in his hand.
She was indignant, and Regina was not one to hold her tongue. She was an award-winning debate and public speaker, so she spoke right up and demanded her money back.
He turned to her, probably recognized her and simply said, “I fooled you, didn’t I?” This story only confirmed what I had always thought. There must be some good money in begging if you don’t care about the hit your self-esteem takes.
Last spring I did it again, and I even had two witnesses.
Try it. Just remember.
“Spare change?”
“No thanks, got some.”
Click on the button below to hear a podcast of this blog:
Spare Change
I have a different sense of humor. Sometimes it takes a while for people to understand just what I am saying, and realize I’m joking. Teaching high school means some students come to school not feeling their best. Either mom or dad or both work, and they can’t stay home. Sometimes their folks make them go to school even when they are sick. So I get to deal with some unhappy kids at times.
It’s not hard to see who is suffering. They are not their usual selves, and when I go up and ask them how they are feeling, they usually try to put on a smile and say they are okay. If they are really feeling sick, they sometimes admit it and say something like, “I don’t feel good.” To try to lighten up the moment, I will usually put my hand on their shoulder and tell them, “You feel all right to me.”
So it does take a minute for them to think about it; remember, they are feeling sick. So when they finally get it, I usually get a smile from them. They look at me and sometimes shake their heads; remember, Dad humor is really not funny, it’s mostly stupid. But it is stupid enough to make you laugh.
I sometimes take it a little far. I really should only use this kind of humor with people I know. But most of you know by now if you’ve been paying attention that I really don’t pay attention all that well. The first time I tried my smart-aleck Dad humor on a total stranger was in Washington, D.C. as my wife and I were walking on the street.
I really don’t like it when people on the street beg from me. I know there are programs and places available to everyone who is willing to try to get help.
So with my bad sense of humor and my general lack of common sense, the following scenario probably was unavoidable.
We were walking along and there were several people begging on the street. After saying no a few times, one guy we passed leaned out and pointed his cup at me. He said, “Spare change?”
My mind works pretty fast, and my wife often has to point out most people have a hard time keeping up sometimes. So when I looked at him and said, “No thanks, I have some.”
He looked at me with a kind of dumbfounded stare for a minute and processed what I had just said. We kept walking, and from behind me I heard him laugh a bit and say, “No, I want your change.” But we were already too far away, and I just sort of chuckled.
My wife was furious, and told me to “knock it off”. She was worried I might have made him angry, and didn’t want a confrontation. She’s usually right. I’m just not smart enough to keep my mouth shut sometimes. But when someone offers a great opening like that, my brain goes on automatic and my mouth starts talking without thinking first.
My daughter was in the car with us recently and we saw a guy begging at WalMart. She’s worked in homeless shelters and knows the programs available to the needy. She started rattling off the different things someone who really needed help
could do, and started talking about how angry it made her when people begged. I asked her if she wanted me to roll down the window and let him know. Before she could answer I said I didn’t think that was the kind of help he was looking for.
One of my former students was an aide to Senator Orrin Hatch. She has a great story about people begging from when she was back in Washington, D.C. She and her husband are successful lawyers now and actually named a son after me. Back in D.C. she used to give some of her lunch money to this same beggar every day. Then one day she was at a hot dog stand, and there was this same guy paying for his lunch with a wad of bills she described as almost too big to hold in his hand.
She was indignant, and Regina was not one to hold her tongue. She was an award-winning debate and public speaker, so she spoke right up and demanded her money back.
He turned to her, probably recognized her and simply said, “I fooled you, didn’t I?” This story only confirmed what I had always thought. There must be some good money in begging if you don’t care about the hit your self-esteem takes.
Last spring I did it again, and I even had two witnesses.
Try it. Just remember.
“Spare change?”
“No thanks, got some.”
Click on the button below to hear a podcast of this blog:
Write Your Own Recommendation
A Funny Thing Happened on the Way to Dane Allred
Write Your Own Recommendation
Graduating from college is exciting, but the worst thing is you now have to find a job. You can’t sign up for another fencing class, because it’s time to get out in the real world. I’m a drama teacher, so that kind of specialization does limit your potential employers. Drama teacher tend to keep their jobs a long time, and when I graduated there were no jobs available in the state.
I called about 300 places in California to see if there were any jobs, and found three or four potential interviews. But I needed something to make me stand out, so the people interviewing me would have something to remember.
Then I recalled my step-father had an uncle who was the acting president of Westminster College. They were looking for a replacement, and he really had no experience in running a college, but he had great business connections. He was retired from other leadership positions, and he was doing a great job for them. If I could only get a recommendation letter from the acting president of another educational institution; that would really be a feather in my cap.
I had already interviewed this man for a radio class I had taken earlier in college, so I really didn’t think this was going to be a problem. I brashly walked into the administration building without an appointment and asked to see the acting president. The secretary paged him, and I was let right in.
This was way easier than I ever thought it would be. So I went right into my pitch. I was graduating and I was looking for a recommendation. I paused.
This guy was a master. He had negotiated multi-million dollar contracts, led important organizations, even had his life threatened a time or two. He didn’t get where he was by writing recommendations for step-relations who were about to graduate from college. I was sure he say he didn’t have the time.
He turned and looked at me and simply said, “Sure.” Then he smiled a bit a continued. “You write it, and I’ll sign it.” He gave a few sheet of letterhead with Westminster College and the official sounding title of “Acting President”.
I was dumbfounded. I was to write my own recommendation?
He just sat silently and smiled at me.
I mumbled a “thank you” and said I would be back in a couple of days.
I don’t know if you have ever been asked to write a recommendation for yourself, but it is much more difficult than it sounds. I’ve already mentioned this is a guy who had been around the block a few times, and if I try to pad my resume, he’ll know it. I also have the delightful opportunity to try to describe what I feel are my strengths without sounding too egotistical. I am responsible for making sure it sounds like he wrote it, when in fact I really wrote it myself. I have to be good enough at this that no one who reads it will think I wrote it myself and had him sign it.
I struggled and struggled to find the right wording for sentences, descriptions, and tried not to slather on the praise too much. I worked harder on this single page of about three paragraphs than I had ever worked on any writing assignment in college.
I worked even harder on this than the paper I wrote for one of the few English classes I took. The sad part about that 20 page paper is it was the entire basis for the grade in the class. I went to every class, read the books, commented in class; I thought I was the best student in the class. Little did I know I was writing the paper completely wrong, and got an F in the class. It was a great surprise to me when I read the comments of the teacher on my 20 page labor of love. He wrote “I have no idea what you are trying to say in this paper.” There was a large “F” on the front page, too, but I don’t remember if it was a big red “F”. I just remember it was “F”. It’s okay; I didn’t need it for credit.
I was actually repeating it since I had signed up for the same class earlier with my wife. She had prudently dropped the class, while I had lagged behind until the drop deadline had passed. I received an “F” that time, too. So the second “F” wasn’t such a big deal. But on my transcript there is an “F” crossed out and replaced with another “F”.
I didn’t put that in the recommendation letter.
The acting president signed it and never even read it.
Click on the button below to hear a podcast of this blog.
Write Your Own Recommendation
Graduating from college is exciting, but the worst thing is you now have to find a job. You can’t sign up for another fencing class, because it’s time to get out in the real world. I’m a drama teacher, so that kind of specialization does limit your potential employers. Drama teacher tend to keep their jobs a long time, and when I graduated there were no jobs available in the state.
I called about 300 places in California to see if there were any jobs, and found three or four potential interviews. But I needed something to make me stand out, so the people interviewing me would have something to remember.
Then I recalled my step-father had an uncle who was the acting president of Westminster College. They were looking for a replacement, and he really had no experience in running a college, but he had great business connections. He was retired from other leadership positions, and he was doing a great job for them. If I could only get a recommendation letter from the acting president of another educational institution; that would really be a feather in my cap.
I had already interviewed this man for a radio class I had taken earlier in college, so I really didn’t think this was going to be a problem. I brashly walked into the administration building without an appointment and asked to see the acting president. The secretary paged him, and I was let right in.
This was way easier than I ever thought it would be. So I went right into my pitch. I was graduating and I was looking for a recommendation. I paused.
This guy was a master. He had negotiated multi-million dollar contracts, led important organizations, even had his life threatened a time or two. He didn’t get where he was by writing recommendations for step-relations who were about to graduate from college. I was sure he say he didn’t have the time.
He turned and looked at me and simply said, “Sure.” Then he smiled a bit a continued. “You write it, and I’ll sign it.” He gave a few sheet of letterhead with Westminster College and the official sounding title of “Acting President”.
I was dumbfounded. I was to write my own recommendation?
He just sat silently and smiled at me.
I mumbled a “thank you” and said I would be back in a couple of days.
I don’t know if you have ever been asked to write a recommendation for yourself, but it is much more difficult than it sounds. I’ve already mentioned this is a guy who had been around the block a few times, and if I try to pad my resume, he’ll know it. I also have the delightful opportunity to try to describe what I feel are my strengths without sounding too egotistical. I am responsible for making sure it sounds like he wrote it, when in fact I really wrote it myself. I have to be good enough at this that no one who reads it will think I wrote it myself and had him sign it.
I struggled and struggled to find the right wording for sentences, descriptions, and tried not to slather on the praise too much. I worked harder on this single page of about three paragraphs than I had ever worked on any writing assignment in college.
I worked even harder on this than the paper I wrote for one of the few English classes I took. The sad part about that 20 page paper is it was the entire basis for the grade in the class. I went to every class, read the books, commented in class; I thought I was the best student in the class. Little did I know I was writing the paper completely wrong, and got an F in the class. It was a great surprise to me when I read the comments of the teacher on my 20 page labor of love. He wrote “I have no idea what you are trying to say in this paper.” There was a large “F” on the front page, too, but I don’t remember if it was a big red “F”. I just remember it was “F”. It’s okay; I didn’t need it for credit.
I was actually repeating it since I had signed up for the same class earlier with my wife. She had prudently dropped the class, while I had lagged behind until the drop deadline had passed. I received an “F” that time, too. So the second “F” wasn’t such a big deal. But on my transcript there is an “F” crossed out and replaced with another “F”.
I didn’t put that in the recommendation letter.
The acting president signed it and never even read it.
Click on the button below to hear a podcast of this blog.
Tuesday, December 1, 2009
Three Car Pileup
A Funny Thing Happened on the way to Dane Allred
Three Car Pile-up
I drive the speed limit. I didn’t always. I used to drive a Mazda RX-7. My mom sold it to me after she had driven it a few years. I talked my wife into buying it. She was dubious until we pulled up and she remembered what the car looked like. As we pulled into my mom’s driveway, my wife turned to me and said, “Can I have it?”
She drove the car for a while until she had cancer. She’s fine now, but after chemotherapy she decided the car smell like chemo, and we bought her a new car. I loved driving that sports car. It could take corners at just about any speed, which isn’t good for your driving point total. I don’t know how many tickets I got, but eventually I had enough points to endanger my driver’s license. I could get the points reduced in half by going to traffic school, and so I did.
Eventually the car wouldn’t pass inspections, so I sold it. I got older and started going the speed limit. It’s just not as fun unless you are in a sports car, so I rarely get tickets anymore. The contradiction to this statement happened when I decided to leave the slow lane on the freeway.
There is a place on the freeway where every day there seemed to be a slow down at a particular part of the road. All of the cars were going around a slight corner, and for some reason, no one was able to keep going the speed limit. So everyone slows to a crawl.
I decided to leave the safe, slow right lane where I am nearly always found these days. I went to the middle lane, and it was slowing down, too. So I moved to the fast lane, and I was still going way too fast. The cars in the fast lane were stopped. The car in front of me was stopped. I didn’t think I was going to be able to stop.
I was right. I skidded a bit and hit the car in front of me going about 5 miles per hour. It was really more of a soft tap so I doubted there was even going to be a dent. But then I looked in the mirror. The guy behind me was not slowing down. He was going about 35 to 40 miles per hour, and he rammed my car hard enough to bounce me into the car in front of me again, and this time I hit the guy in front of me hard enough to knock his hat off.
So now I had been in a three car pile-up. We were the only three who had an accident. Everyone else was cautious enough to not hit someone else. So we checked out our damage and pulled off the side of the road. The police officer had us pull to the next exit to clear the freeway, and I was supposed to be teaching in about an hour. Here’s the problem. I got a ticket for hitting the guy in front of me. The guy behind me got a ticket for hitting me. So writing the tickets took longer than I thought it might. I had to call one of the students in my class and tell them to go home.
The guy in front of me had an old junker like me. He checked for damage on his car, and decided there really wasn’t a reason to file a claim. He was just glad he wasn’t carrying big pieces of metal in the back of his car like he usually did. My car also didn’t seem to be damaged at all, and I attribute that to the spare tire which hangs on the back of my Jeep type car. The guy behind me had hit right into the tire. I later saw that the tire and the door were moved a bit forward, and the door wouldn’t open any morebut I usually don’t use that door anyway.
So the two of us, in the front had little or no damage. Who I really felt sorry for was the guy who hit me. He was driving a fairly new pickup truck, and the tire on the back of my car had demolished his front end. The hood was bent up, the fender was crushed, and the headlights had fallen to the ground. There must have been thousands of dollars in damage. He had no one to blame but himself.
Of the three cars involved, he was driving the nicest. Of the three cars, he had the most damage. Is there a moral to this story?
It may be drive a junker, and stay in the slow lane.
Listen to this blog as a podcast by clicking the button below:
Three Car Pile-up
I drive the speed limit. I didn’t always. I used to drive a Mazda RX-7. My mom sold it to me after she had driven it a few years. I talked my wife into buying it. She was dubious until we pulled up and she remembered what the car looked like. As we pulled into my mom’s driveway, my wife turned to me and said, “Can I have it?”
She drove the car for a while until she had cancer. She’s fine now, but after chemotherapy she decided the car smell like chemo, and we bought her a new car. I loved driving that sports car. It could take corners at just about any speed, which isn’t good for your driving point total. I don’t know how many tickets I got, but eventually I had enough points to endanger my driver’s license. I could get the points reduced in half by going to traffic school, and so I did.
Eventually the car wouldn’t pass inspections, so I sold it. I got older and started going the speed limit. It’s just not as fun unless you are in a sports car, so I rarely get tickets anymore. The contradiction to this statement happened when I decided to leave the slow lane on the freeway.
There is a place on the freeway where every day there seemed to be a slow down at a particular part of the road. All of the cars were going around a slight corner, and for some reason, no one was able to keep going the speed limit. So everyone slows to a crawl.
I decided to leave the safe, slow right lane where I am nearly always found these days. I went to the middle lane, and it was slowing down, too. So I moved to the fast lane, and I was still going way too fast. The cars in the fast lane were stopped. The car in front of me was stopped. I didn’t think I was going to be able to stop.
I was right. I skidded a bit and hit the car in front of me going about 5 miles per hour. It was really more of a soft tap so I doubted there was even going to be a dent. But then I looked in the mirror. The guy behind me was not slowing down. He was going about 35 to 40 miles per hour, and he rammed my car hard enough to bounce me into the car in front of me again, and this time I hit the guy in front of me hard enough to knock his hat off.
So now I had been in a three car pile-up. We were the only three who had an accident. Everyone else was cautious enough to not hit someone else. So we checked out our damage and pulled off the side of the road. The police officer had us pull to the next exit to clear the freeway, and I was supposed to be teaching in about an hour. Here’s the problem. I got a ticket for hitting the guy in front of me. The guy behind me got a ticket for hitting me. So writing the tickets took longer than I thought it might. I had to call one of the students in my class and tell them to go home.
The guy in front of me had an old junker like me. He checked for damage on his car, and decided there really wasn’t a reason to file a claim. He was just glad he wasn’t carrying big pieces of metal in the back of his car like he usually did. My car also didn’t seem to be damaged at all, and I attribute that to the spare tire which hangs on the back of my Jeep type car. The guy behind me had hit right into the tire. I later saw that the tire and the door were moved a bit forward, and the door wouldn’t open any morebut I usually don’t use that door anyway.
So the two of us, in the front had little or no damage. Who I really felt sorry for was the guy who hit me. He was driving a fairly new pickup truck, and the tire on the back of my car had demolished his front end. The hood was bent up, the fender was crushed, and the headlights had fallen to the ground. There must have been thousands of dollars in damage. He had no one to blame but himself.
Of the three cars involved, he was driving the nicest. Of the three cars, he had the most damage. Is there a moral to this story?
It may be drive a junker, and stay in the slow lane.
Listen to this blog as a podcast by clicking the button below:
Twas the Night Before Christmas
Twas the Night before Christmas
by Clement C. Moore
Twas the night before Christmas, when all through the house
Not a creature was stirring, not even a mouse.
The stockings were hung by the chimney with care,
In hopes that St. Nicholas soon would be there.
The children were nestled all snug in their beds,
While visions of sugar-plums danced in their heads.
And mamma in her ‘kerchief, and I in my cap,
Had just settled our brains for a long winter’s nap.
When out on the lawn there arose such a clatter,
I sprang from the bed to see what was the matter.
Away to the window I flew like a flash,
Tore open the shutters and threw up the sash.
The moon on the breast of the new-fallen snow
Gave the lustre of mid-day to objects below.
When, what to my wondering eyes should appear,
But a miniature sleigh, and eight tiny reindeer.
With a little old driver, so lively and quick,
I knew in a moment it must be St Nick.
More rapid than eagles his coursers they came,
And he whistled, and shouted, and called them by name!
"Now Dasher! now, Dancer! Now, Prancer and Vixen!
On, Comet! On, Cupid! On, on Donner and Blitzen!
To the top of the porch! To the top of the wall!
Now dash away! Dash away! Dash away all!"
As dry leaves that before the wild hurricane fly,
When they meet with an obstacle, mount to the sky.
So up to the house-top the coursers they flew,
With the sleigh full of Toys, and St. Nicholas too.
And then, in a twinkling, I heard on the roof
The prancing and pawing of each little hoof.
As I drew in my head, and was turning around,
Down the chimney St. Nicholas came with a bound.
He was dressed all in fur, from his head to his foot,
And his clothes were all tarnished with ashes and soot.
A bundle of Toys he had flung on his back,
And he looked like a peddler, just opening his pack.
His eyes-how they twinkled! His dimples how merry!
His cheeks were like roses, his nose like a cherry!
His droll little mouth was drawn up like a bow,
And the beard of his chin was as white as the snow.
The stump of a pipe he held tight in his teeth,
And the smoke it encircled his head like a wreath.
He had a broad face and a little round belly,
That shook when he laughed, like a bowlful of jelly!
He was chubby and plump, a right jolly old elf,
And I laughed when I saw him, in spite of myself!
A wink of his eye and a twist of his head,
Soon gave me to know I had nothing to dread.
He spoke not a word, but went straight to his work,
And filled all the stockings, then turned with a jerk.
And laying his finger aside of his nose,
And giving a nod, up the chimney he rose!
He sprang to his sleigh, to his team gave a whistle,
And away they all flew like the down of a thistle.
But I heard him exclaim, ‘ere he drove out of sight,
"Happy Christmas to all, and to all a good-night!
Hear me read this classic Christmas with a short introduction to the poem by clicking the button below:
by Clement C. Moore
Twas the night before Christmas, when all through the house
Not a creature was stirring, not even a mouse.
The stockings were hung by the chimney with care,
In hopes that St. Nicholas soon would be there.
The children were nestled all snug in their beds,
While visions of sugar-plums danced in their heads.
And mamma in her ‘kerchief, and I in my cap,
Had just settled our brains for a long winter’s nap.
When out on the lawn there arose such a clatter,
I sprang from the bed to see what was the matter.
Away to the window I flew like a flash,
Tore open the shutters and threw up the sash.
The moon on the breast of the new-fallen snow
Gave the lustre of mid-day to objects below.
When, what to my wondering eyes should appear,
But a miniature sleigh, and eight tiny reindeer.
With a little old driver, so lively and quick,
I knew in a moment it must be St Nick.
More rapid than eagles his coursers they came,
And he whistled, and shouted, and called them by name!
"Now Dasher! now, Dancer! Now, Prancer and Vixen!
On, Comet! On, Cupid! On, on Donner and Blitzen!
To the top of the porch! To the top of the wall!
Now dash away! Dash away! Dash away all!"
As dry leaves that before the wild hurricane fly,
When they meet with an obstacle, mount to the sky.
So up to the house-top the coursers they flew,
With the sleigh full of Toys, and St. Nicholas too.
And then, in a twinkling, I heard on the roof
The prancing and pawing of each little hoof.
As I drew in my head, and was turning around,
Down the chimney St. Nicholas came with a bound.
He was dressed all in fur, from his head to his foot,
And his clothes were all tarnished with ashes and soot.
A bundle of Toys he had flung on his back,
And he looked like a peddler, just opening his pack.
His eyes-how they twinkled! His dimples how merry!
His cheeks were like roses, his nose like a cherry!
His droll little mouth was drawn up like a bow,
And the beard of his chin was as white as the snow.
The stump of a pipe he held tight in his teeth,
And the smoke it encircled his head like a wreath.
He had a broad face and a little round belly,
That shook when he laughed, like a bowlful of jelly!
He was chubby and plump, a right jolly old elf,
And I laughed when I saw him, in spite of myself!
A wink of his eye and a twist of his head,
Soon gave me to know I had nothing to dread.
He spoke not a word, but went straight to his work,
And filled all the stockings, then turned with a jerk.
And laying his finger aside of his nose,
And giving a nod, up the chimney he rose!
He sprang to his sleigh, to his team gave a whistle,
And away they all flew like the down of a thistle.
But I heard him exclaim, ‘ere he drove out of sight,
"Happy Christmas to all, and to all a good-night!
Hear me read this classic Christmas with a short introduction to the poem by clicking the button below:
Burned Rice Twice
Burned Rice Twice
I may be the world’s laziest cook. I do know how to make an omelet, and I even took a cooking class in high school called “Bachelor Survival”. The only think I remember cooking was chocolate mousse, and since no one in my group liked how it tasted, I ate five or six servings. I broke out in hives and had to stay home for a couple of days.
I am also cheap. I don’t like to spend a lot for breakfast or lunch. Since I eat lunch at school, I tried cooking potatoes for a while. It was just a plain potato cooked in a microwave, but after a while it got kind of boring.
About this time I realized I probably needed to start eating breakfast more regularly. So here’s the routine I find myself in nearly every day. I like to cook some oatmeal before school since it only takes a couple of minutes. I don’t really like milk, so I only put some maple syrup on it. Oatmeal is supposed to be good for lowering cholesterol and it also counts as roughage, so I’ve done two good things as the day begins.
Continuing in the single food category, I cook brown rice at school. Brown rice take a while for some reason, so this may be the extent of my culinary skills. Five minutes on high, forty-five on medium, and I have a very filling lunch which can be topped with a little salt or a little sugar. That’s right. Nothing else on the rice; no milk, no spices, no nothing.
The rice is another serving or two of roughage, and the argument I offer for rice everyday for lunch is: 3 billion people who eat rice for every meal can’t be too wrong. Here’s the really strange part of the breakfast and lunch scenario. I’ve gotten used to eating this every day, as in I’ve been eating oatmeal and rice everyday for three or four years now. I ought to do a commercial.
Some people make fun of the fact I eat the same thing every breakfast and lunch. But the good news about rice for lunch is it seems to keep me more awake in the afternoon, where I used to fade before I started the routine.
The only problem with being so regular is that the habit sometimes overtakes the logic of what goes into such a simple meal. The following problem happened not just once, but twice. I thought it happened again the other day, but someone else was responsible that time.
Here’s what happened.
Rice is simple. Shake in the hundreds of grains, fill up with water, maybe add some salt and start cooking. But remember, brown rice cooks for 50 minutes; forty-five minutes at medium after five minutes on high.
The only time I really have problems with this simple recipe is when I get distracted. Usually, I am talking with someone else, or I have something else on my mind. So I’m trying to do two things at once, and since I don’t want to be rude, somewhere in the conversation I forget one of the steps. There really is no excuse, but at least twice I have tried to cook rice without any water.
If you have never been blessed to smell rice cooked without water for fifty minutes, I can give you a few details to help you understand the smell. Think about toast burned completely through, with some hints of coffee. I don’t think there was smoke, but everyone on that side of the building was sure there was a fire somewhere, but they just couldn’t figure out where.
It’s the worst inside the microwave. I’m just glad it didn’t start on fire. I could see the fire department pulling out my plastic bowl of smoking rice and trying to identify who was the idiot who decided to fry rice in the microwave.
Needless to say, the first time I burned the rice there was a general uproar about the fire which was burning somewhere in the building. Imagine my surprise when I opened the microwave and saw a pile of dark brown burned something. I wasn’t smart enough to keep quiet about it, so everyone made fun of the fact I couldn’t even cook plain rice.
They really enjoyed teasing me the second time I burned the rice. Now I am paranoid. Sometimes I go back and double-check to make sure the bowl has rice and water. A couple of weeks ago I smelled what I thought was burning rice and rushed to the microwave. I had remembered to add water, and breathed a sigh of relief.
Someone somewhere was burning toast. That’s okay.
As long as I didn’t get blamed for it.
Listen to this blog by clicking the button below:
I may be the world’s laziest cook. I do know how to make an omelet, and I even took a cooking class in high school called “Bachelor Survival”. The only think I remember cooking was chocolate mousse, and since no one in my group liked how it tasted, I ate five or six servings. I broke out in hives and had to stay home for a couple of days.
I am also cheap. I don’t like to spend a lot for breakfast or lunch. Since I eat lunch at school, I tried cooking potatoes for a while. It was just a plain potato cooked in a microwave, but after a while it got kind of boring.
About this time I realized I probably needed to start eating breakfast more regularly. So here’s the routine I find myself in nearly every day. I like to cook some oatmeal before school since it only takes a couple of minutes. I don’t really like milk, so I only put some maple syrup on it. Oatmeal is supposed to be good for lowering cholesterol and it also counts as roughage, so I’ve done two good things as the day begins.
Continuing in the single food category, I cook brown rice at school. Brown rice take a while for some reason, so this may be the extent of my culinary skills. Five minutes on high, forty-five on medium, and I have a very filling lunch which can be topped with a little salt or a little sugar. That’s right. Nothing else on the rice; no milk, no spices, no nothing.
The rice is another serving or two of roughage, and the argument I offer for rice everyday for lunch is: 3 billion people who eat rice for every meal can’t be too wrong. Here’s the really strange part of the breakfast and lunch scenario. I’ve gotten used to eating this every day, as in I’ve been eating oatmeal and rice everyday for three or four years now. I ought to do a commercial.
Some people make fun of the fact I eat the same thing every breakfast and lunch. But the good news about rice for lunch is it seems to keep me more awake in the afternoon, where I used to fade before I started the routine.
The only problem with being so regular is that the habit sometimes overtakes the logic of what goes into such a simple meal. The following problem happened not just once, but twice. I thought it happened again the other day, but someone else was responsible that time.
Here’s what happened.
Rice is simple. Shake in the hundreds of grains, fill up with water, maybe add some salt and start cooking. But remember, brown rice cooks for 50 minutes; forty-five minutes at medium after five minutes on high.
The only time I really have problems with this simple recipe is when I get distracted. Usually, I am talking with someone else, or I have something else on my mind. So I’m trying to do two things at once, and since I don’t want to be rude, somewhere in the conversation I forget one of the steps. There really is no excuse, but at least twice I have tried to cook rice without any water.
If you have never been blessed to smell rice cooked without water for fifty minutes, I can give you a few details to help you understand the smell. Think about toast burned completely through, with some hints of coffee. I don’t think there was smoke, but everyone on that side of the building was sure there was a fire somewhere, but they just couldn’t figure out where.
It’s the worst inside the microwave. I’m just glad it didn’t start on fire. I could see the fire department pulling out my plastic bowl of smoking rice and trying to identify who was the idiot who decided to fry rice in the microwave.
Needless to say, the first time I burned the rice there was a general uproar about the fire which was burning somewhere in the building. Imagine my surprise when I opened the microwave and saw a pile of dark brown burned something. I wasn’t smart enough to keep quiet about it, so everyone made fun of the fact I couldn’t even cook plain rice.
They really enjoyed teasing me the second time I burned the rice. Now I am paranoid. Sometimes I go back and double-check to make sure the bowl has rice and water. A couple of weeks ago I smelled what I thought was burning rice and rushed to the microwave. I had remembered to add water, and breathed a sigh of relief.
Someone somewhere was burning toast. That’s okay.
As long as I didn’t get blamed for it.
Listen to this blog by clicking the button below:
Monday, November 30, 2009
I Am Grateful
I am grateful for the abundance in my life and will celebrate those good things in my life and hope to never forget to honor this abundance.
I am grateful for God, the Creator, the source, the all-knowing, all-loving, and will obey those teachings of truth I encounter and never deny the goodness in this universe.
I am grateful for my blessings and will strive to remember them and be thankful.
I am grateful for life and the thousands of experiences, relationships and opportunities it offers me.
I am grateful for joy and seek to live so as to experience joy.
I am grateful for work which develops my talents, helps me express my creativity and makes me use my physical body.
I am grateful for employment and the means it gives me to support myself and my family.
I am grateful for my wife and partner and will try harder to show my love for her.
I am grateful for my extended family - mom, dad, sisters, grandkids, aunts, uncles, cousins, nephews, nieces, grand-parents and others who bless my life like family and I will honor them in all I do.
I am grateful for friends and will strive to be a better friend.
I am grateful for my children and will strive to be a better parent.
I am grateful for my citizenship and dedicate myself to improving my country.
I am grateful for an ability to teach and will use this gift to bless the lives of others.
I am grateful for my gender and the opportunities and advantages it gives me and will continue to help women gain greater benefits in this world.
I am grateful for my health and the ability it gives me to function and will work to keep myself healthy.
I am grateful for honesty and will honor the opportunities to be honest and celebrate those who are honest.
I am grateful for the years I have been blessed to live and will continue to seek wisdom and not just longevity.
I am grateful for government and the order it gives to my life and will devote my time to preserving the honorable efforts of my government.
I am grateful for an ability to act, to sing, to dance and perform and will use these talents to benefit others and not just gratify myself.
I am grateful for the opportunity to hear and be heard, and will strive for all voices to be heard.
I am grateful for happiness and will encourage others to be happy.
I am grateful for productivity, both my own and of others, and will honor the work we do.
I am grateful for leisure time and will use it to become a better me.
I am grateful for disposable income and will use it to bless others and myself.
I am grateful for belief and the comfort it gives me and will share my beliefs with others.
I am grateful for to drive and have the freedom to drive where I wish and will use this privilege wisely.
I am grateful for creativity and will strive to create for the benefit of all.
I am grateful for society and the interactions we have with one another and will acknowledge the humanity of every person I meet.
I am grateful for my race and the advantages it gives me and will work to give opportunity to those of
other races who may suffer from my advantage.
I am grateful for organizations which bless me and will support their efforts.
I am grateful for Christ and his sacrifice for me and will strive to be like him in all I do.
I am grateful for the freedom to speak without repercussion and will defend all those who wish to speak their own truths.
I am grateful for physical activity and will focus on keeping my body and mind strong.
I am grateful for humor and will help others to find the humor in life.
You can also listen to this blog read by the author, Dane Allred, by clicking the bar below.
I am grateful for God, the Creator, the source, the all-knowing, all-loving, and will obey those teachings of truth I encounter and never deny the goodness in this universe.
I am grateful for my blessings and will strive to remember them and be thankful.
I am grateful for life and the thousands of experiences, relationships and opportunities it offers me.
I am grateful for joy and seek to live so as to experience joy.
I am grateful for work which develops my talents, helps me express my creativity and makes me use my physical body.
I am grateful for employment and the means it gives me to support myself and my family.
I am grateful for my wife and partner and will try harder to show my love for her.
I am grateful for my extended family - mom, dad, sisters, grandkids, aunts, uncles, cousins, nephews, nieces, grand-parents and others who bless my life like family and I will honor them in all I do.
I am grateful for friends and will strive to be a better friend.
I am grateful for my children and will strive to be a better parent.
I am grateful for my citizenship and dedicate myself to improving my country.
I am grateful for an ability to teach and will use this gift to bless the lives of others.
I am grateful for my gender and the opportunities and advantages it gives me and will continue to help women gain greater benefits in this world.
I am grateful for my health and the ability it gives me to function and will work to keep myself healthy.
I am grateful for honesty and will honor the opportunities to be honest and celebrate those who are honest.
I am grateful for the years I have been blessed to live and will continue to seek wisdom and not just longevity.
I am grateful for government and the order it gives to my life and will devote my time to preserving the honorable efforts of my government.
I am grateful for an ability to act, to sing, to dance and perform and will use these talents to benefit others and not just gratify myself.
I am grateful for the opportunity to hear and be heard, and will strive for all voices to be heard.
I am grateful for happiness and will encourage others to be happy.
I am grateful for productivity, both my own and of others, and will honor the work we do.
I am grateful for leisure time and will use it to become a better me.
I am grateful for disposable income and will use it to bless others and myself.
I am grateful for belief and the comfort it gives me and will share my beliefs with others.
I am grateful for to drive and have the freedom to drive where I wish and will use this privilege wisely.
I am grateful for creativity and will strive to create for the benefit of all.
I am grateful for society and the interactions we have with one another and will acknowledge the humanity of every person I meet.
I am grateful for my race and the advantages it gives me and will work to give opportunity to those of
other races who may suffer from my advantage.
I am grateful for organizations which bless me and will support their efforts.
I am grateful for Christ and his sacrifice for me and will strive to be like him in all I do.
I am grateful for the freedom to speak without repercussion and will defend all those who wish to speak their own truths.
I am grateful for physical activity and will focus on keeping my body and mind strong.
I am grateful for humor and will help others to find the humor in life.
You can also listen to this blog read by the author, Dane Allred, by clicking the bar below.
Dents in the Van
Dents in the Van
I used to deliver flowers. It was a great job for someone who needed some extra money but can’t work all day. After school I would run by the flower shop to pick up the deliveries, and after thinking about the best route, I would be paid to drive around the city, listen to the radio and have happy people greet me when I showed up with flowers.
It really is a cool thing to have people thank you for doing your job. It’s like I sent them the flowers, and everyone is so excited when they get them. It’s not like I paid for them – I’m just the messenger. I guess the saying about don’t shoot the messenger also works in reverse. Why do they thank the messenger?
In this state, people really don’t tip well. I don’t know why we are so cheap, but this is a complaint I often hear from those who are paid poorly, using the excuse of tips to pay someone way below minimum wage. Waiters, waitresses, or do you call them waitpersons, delivery people like the pizza man, and yes, the flower delivery person are usually short-changed around here. I delivered thousands of beautiful bouquets, and I got tipped once. What was the grand tip? A quarter.
I understand being parsimonious, but a quarter? It was really an insult, and the contradiction here is I think I would rather have not received a tip. I often feel this way about being paid poorly; sometimes I would rather be volunteering my time than receiving a ridiculously low payment for something. Again, it doesn’t seem to make much sense, but that’s the way I feel.
The scariest delivery ever was at a really nice house. This may have been where I got the quarter. I was a little distracted though, since the owners had a Doberman pincer. This dog was very interested in protecting the property, but I usually get along well with dogs. I can proudly say I have never been bit by a strange dog – just my own pets. This dog barked fiercely as I approached the door, and as I rang the doorbell, the Doberman began trying to bit my leg. Two things saved me here; I was wearing incredibly tight jeans, and the dog was trying to bite my thigh. Luckily his teeth just kept slipping off the tight denim, and the owner answered before blood was drawn.
I liked delivering flowers so much during my high school years that I applied for the same job when I went to college. Again it really worked well with my schedule. The only problem with this job is the little old lady who owned the flower shop also liked her grandkids to help out. So when I get the job of washing and vacuuming out the van, guess who gets to come along and help?
The twelve-year old grandson thought it would be great to help clean the van, but I wasn’t very excited to be baby-sitting. There really wasn’t anything he could do to help, which gave him a little time to hatch a plan. While he watched me wash the outside, he decided it would be a really good idea to let him pull the van up to the vacuums.
When I finished the wash, I opened the door and saw him sitting in the driver’s seat. He begged me to let him pull the van up to the vacuums. So here’s the choice; I tell him no, and he complains to his grandma, or I let him drive 15 feet and make him ecstatic.
I should have remembered something that happened to me when I was a junior in high school. At a summer workshop, I ran out of gas, and had my girlfriend drive the car as we pushed the truck up to the pumps. We were going pretty fast when we got to the station, and she was pulling on the wrong side of the pump. So as I gave her directions, she ended up plowing right into the gas pump. We were lucky there wasn’t a giant fire – it just knocked the pump off the foundation. Whose insurance jumped the next quarter, even though he wasn’t driving at the time of the accident? You guessed it.
But I guess I chose to forget this earlier lesson, and I let him drive up to the vacuums. Don’t ask me how he did it, but he pulled too close to the vacuums, which were on the passenger side. He didn’t slow down, and he didn’t stop when the crunching started.
One giant gash in the side door later, I had another choice.
I told the old lady I did it.
The kid never blinked an eyelash.
You can also listen to this blog by clicking on the bar below!!
I used to deliver flowers. It was a great job for someone who needed some extra money but can’t work all day. After school I would run by the flower shop to pick up the deliveries, and after thinking about the best route, I would be paid to drive around the city, listen to the radio and have happy people greet me when I showed up with flowers.
It really is a cool thing to have people thank you for doing your job. It’s like I sent them the flowers, and everyone is so excited when they get them. It’s not like I paid for them – I’m just the messenger. I guess the saying about don’t shoot the messenger also works in reverse. Why do they thank the messenger?
In this state, people really don’t tip well. I don’t know why we are so cheap, but this is a complaint I often hear from those who are paid poorly, using the excuse of tips to pay someone way below minimum wage. Waiters, waitresses, or do you call them waitpersons, delivery people like the pizza man, and yes, the flower delivery person are usually short-changed around here. I delivered thousands of beautiful bouquets, and I got tipped once. What was the grand tip? A quarter.
I understand being parsimonious, but a quarter? It was really an insult, and the contradiction here is I think I would rather have not received a tip. I often feel this way about being paid poorly; sometimes I would rather be volunteering my time than receiving a ridiculously low payment for something. Again, it doesn’t seem to make much sense, but that’s the way I feel.
The scariest delivery ever was at a really nice house. This may have been where I got the quarter. I was a little distracted though, since the owners had a Doberman pincer. This dog was very interested in protecting the property, but I usually get along well with dogs. I can proudly say I have never been bit by a strange dog – just my own pets. This dog barked fiercely as I approached the door, and as I rang the doorbell, the Doberman began trying to bit my leg. Two things saved me here; I was wearing incredibly tight jeans, and the dog was trying to bite my thigh. Luckily his teeth just kept slipping off the tight denim, and the owner answered before blood was drawn.
I liked delivering flowers so much during my high school years that I applied for the same job when I went to college. Again it really worked well with my schedule. The only problem with this job is the little old lady who owned the flower shop also liked her grandkids to help out. So when I get the job of washing and vacuuming out the van, guess who gets to come along and help?
The twelve-year old grandson thought it would be great to help clean the van, but I wasn’t very excited to be baby-sitting. There really wasn’t anything he could do to help, which gave him a little time to hatch a plan. While he watched me wash the outside, he decided it would be a really good idea to let him pull the van up to the vacuums.
When I finished the wash, I opened the door and saw him sitting in the driver’s seat. He begged me to let him pull the van up to the vacuums. So here’s the choice; I tell him no, and he complains to his grandma, or I let him drive 15 feet and make him ecstatic.
I should have remembered something that happened to me when I was a junior in high school. At a summer workshop, I ran out of gas, and had my girlfriend drive the car as we pushed the truck up to the pumps. We were going pretty fast when we got to the station, and she was pulling on the wrong side of the pump. So as I gave her directions, she ended up plowing right into the gas pump. We were lucky there wasn’t a giant fire – it just knocked the pump off the foundation. Whose insurance jumped the next quarter, even though he wasn’t driving at the time of the accident? You guessed it.
But I guess I chose to forget this earlier lesson, and I let him drive up to the vacuums. Don’t ask me how he did it, but he pulled too close to the vacuums, which were on the passenger side. He didn’t slow down, and he didn’t stop when the crunching started.
One giant gash in the side door later, I had another choice.
I told the old lady I did it.
The kid never blinked an eyelash.
You can also listen to this blog by clicking on the bar below!!
Craft Services
Craft Services
I’ve acted in over 30 commercial and about 20 films. Most of the parts aren’t huge, so I get to spend a lot of time at craft services. If you watch you’ll see craft services listed as the credit roll in most movies, and I want to tell you how important a part they play. It has to do with the long hours shooting commercials or movies, and the tendency of actors to wander.
Let’s talk about the hours. A regular contract day is twelve hours. This means you work for about five or six hours before eating lunch, and dinner is usually about four hours later. If you end up working longer than twelve hours, then everyone starts getting overtime pay, which is time and a half.
The longest shooting day I’ve ever done was 18 hours. We showed up for a combined episode of “Touched by an Angel” and “Promised Land”. This means all of the stars have to be filmed and released earliest since they get twelve hours before they can be called to the set again. So after I showed up and got my cop costume, my fake ID badge and had my face powdered and hair approved, I sat with the other extras for twelve hours.
That’s right. We were ready, but they weren’t ready for us, and we are the least well paid actors on the set. I had lunch and dinner before shooting one scene. Since I had shown up at eight a.m., I started getting overtime at eight p.m. I finally finished my last scene at two in the morning, and the worst news of all is I don’t think any of the scenes I was in was used. It doesn’t matter; I still got paid.
But more important, I got to spend most of the day at the craft services table. As actors, we aren’t the sharpest knives in the drawer, and we tend to think of ourselves as the most important person on the set. So when we get hungry or thirsty, we start to wander, looking for something to eat or drink. We may wander off just because we are bored.
Enter craft services. Think of all the different kinds of food you may want to snack on. Add a variety of delicious drinks. The best part? Everything at craft services is FREE! That’s right. Lunch and dinner are free, too, but here is a collection of incredibly delicious snacks and you can have as much as you want of anything. Don’t tell the directors, but I would act in some parts just for the craft services.
Sometimes the people who are providing the craft services get a little creative. They try to serve healthy foods. I don’t like that as well. When a free chocolate donut is staring me in the face, who wants some hummus? But don’t get me wrong. I haven’t preserved my girlish figure by passing up free food. If all there is available is hummus, I’ll be eating all the free hummus I can get.
Now let me tell you about the best food I have ever had on a movie set. Henry Winkler and Ricky Schroeder were starring in a movie being shot at the old Jordan High School. I was playing the vice-principal, and again, I don’t think my scenes got used. Again, it’s okay. I still got paid.
But the best news is we were in the final days of shooting. When a film is done it’s called “a wrap”, and the food on the day a film is wrapped is amazing. Here are actors who have been working together for weeks on a film, and as it ends, a real celebration is necessary. The bad news is extras eat last. The crew eats first, so they can be back at the camera first. The stars eat next, so they can be ready for their close-ups. Extras are last, but on this very important wrap day, I had heard a rumor about what was being served. Again, this is free food, because no one wants actors wandering off to Wendy’s.
When lunch was called, I made sure I was at the front of the end of the line. That is, I was the first extra in line. We were being served the largest lobster tails I have ever seen. I can still taste how delicious it was. It may surprise you to hear that the caterers at these events are very, very good. I always look forward to the food at lunch, and if we are lucky, dinner.
Surprisingly, after getting used to the free food available at craft services and from the caterers, I have started to cut back.
After all, there are fewer parts available for hefty actors.
I’ve acted in over 30 commercial and about 20 films. Most of the parts aren’t huge, so I get to spend a lot of time at craft services. If you watch you’ll see craft services listed as the credit roll in most movies, and I want to tell you how important a part they play. It has to do with the long hours shooting commercials or movies, and the tendency of actors to wander.
Let’s talk about the hours. A regular contract day is twelve hours. This means you work for about five or six hours before eating lunch, and dinner is usually about four hours later. If you end up working longer than twelve hours, then everyone starts getting overtime pay, which is time and a half.
The longest shooting day I’ve ever done was 18 hours. We showed up for a combined episode of “Touched by an Angel” and “Promised Land”. This means all of the stars have to be filmed and released earliest since they get twelve hours before they can be called to the set again. So after I showed up and got my cop costume, my fake ID badge and had my face powdered and hair approved, I sat with the other extras for twelve hours.
That’s right. We were ready, but they weren’t ready for us, and we are the least well paid actors on the set. I had lunch and dinner before shooting one scene. Since I had shown up at eight a.m., I started getting overtime at eight p.m. I finally finished my last scene at two in the morning, and the worst news of all is I don’t think any of the scenes I was in was used. It doesn’t matter; I still got paid.
But more important, I got to spend most of the day at the craft services table. As actors, we aren’t the sharpest knives in the drawer, and we tend to think of ourselves as the most important person on the set. So when we get hungry or thirsty, we start to wander, looking for something to eat or drink. We may wander off just because we are bored.
Enter craft services. Think of all the different kinds of food you may want to snack on. Add a variety of delicious drinks. The best part? Everything at craft services is FREE! That’s right. Lunch and dinner are free, too, but here is a collection of incredibly delicious snacks and you can have as much as you want of anything. Don’t tell the directors, but I would act in some parts just for the craft services.
Sometimes the people who are providing the craft services get a little creative. They try to serve healthy foods. I don’t like that as well. When a free chocolate donut is staring me in the face, who wants some hummus? But don’t get me wrong. I haven’t preserved my girlish figure by passing up free food. If all there is available is hummus, I’ll be eating all the free hummus I can get.
Now let me tell you about the best food I have ever had on a movie set. Henry Winkler and Ricky Schroeder were starring in a movie being shot at the old Jordan High School. I was playing the vice-principal, and again, I don’t think my scenes got used. Again, it’s okay. I still got paid.
But the best news is we were in the final days of shooting. When a film is done it’s called “a wrap”, and the food on the day a film is wrapped is amazing. Here are actors who have been working together for weeks on a film, and as it ends, a real celebration is necessary. The bad news is extras eat last. The crew eats first, so they can be back at the camera first. The stars eat next, so they can be ready for their close-ups. Extras are last, but on this very important wrap day, I had heard a rumor about what was being served. Again, this is free food, because no one wants actors wandering off to Wendy’s.
When lunch was called, I made sure I was at the front of the end of the line. That is, I was the first extra in line. We were being served the largest lobster tails I have ever seen. I can still taste how delicious it was. It may surprise you to hear that the caterers at these events are very, very good. I always look forward to the food at lunch, and if we are lucky, dinner.
Surprisingly, after getting used to the free food available at craft services and from the caterers, I have started to cut back.
After all, there are fewer parts available for hefty actors.
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