Abundance: November 2010

Tuesday, November 30, 2010

Bright Space -- Circling Spheres

Go to Abundance for more selections by Dane Allred, including other episodes from Bright Space, plus lots more!!

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Circling Spheres

Now we are in the darkness,
Separated from the bright light,
But never far from remembering all we knew in that bright space.
As we circle in our own spheres,
We may seem to be apart,
But when my world bumps into yours
When our spheres seem to cross
And that brightness sparks the connection between us,
We remember for a moment, and then forget.

We were all once together until we decided to learn all
We could learn apart.

My sphere isn’t any different than yours
Except it is completely different
And someday, we will all join again together and share
All that we have learned by spinning in
Our separate spheres.

I remember you, and the peace we shared in that bright space.
I long to be there with you again,
But not until we have both learned all we were sent here to do,
All we were sent here to learn,
All we were sent here to share
Before we once again gather, and share that bright space
With everyone once again.

But while we are in this dark space,
Revolving around ourselves,
Seeming separate, but at once united
In our goal to use this time to learn, to grow and experience
The bitter and the sweet
The joyful and the sad
The height and the depth
We could not experience as one.

Watch me as I circle in my sphere inside the dark space.
I am watching you as you circle in your sphere inside the dark space.
When you and I contemplate all of us,
Who are circling in our spheres inside the dark space,
We understand that we are the bright space when we are all together,
And there is no darkness.

That is why I have that feeling I know you
Because I have always known you
And will always know you
We have always been together.
Even though our spheres seem separate
We are part of the whole, and the whole is part of us.

Monday, November 29, 2010

Bright Space -- Past Connection

Go to Abundance for more selections by Dane Allred, including other episodes from Bright Space, plus lots more!!

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Bright Space
by Dane Allred

Past Connection

You can feel that past connection
With everyone and everything
From when we were all in the bright light
Together.

There is that residual effect
Where one part of you connects
With another part of the universe
Somewhere distant
But still calling to you
And you are calling to it.

Remember the time we were all one
And we were content?
We basked in the glow of that bright light
And felt that nothing could ever separate us
Nothing could make us want to be apart
Nothing could be better than that time when
We were all one.

But perhaps the brightness blinded us
To what we would have to lose
When we went into the darkness
And gathered ourselves into a separateness
To wonder about that past connection we feel.

We wanted to experience all there was to know
To return and share all we had learned
To understand how good and evil can exist together
And how some cling to the light still within in them
And how others are drawn into the darkness.

We left that perfect place for one less perfect
Knowing it was the only way we could know
All there was to know.
That in our separateness, we would search and reach,
We would learn to find each other again
And realize, we had never really parted.

Though darkness fills the sky
The light connects us.
Though we seem to be apart
We are all there ever was, ever is, and ever will be.

The unity remains, though the separateness seems overpowering.
We struggle to remember those bright moments when we were one
And nothing could have been better.

Unless there was a something, someplace better,
And we realized we had to find out on our own
To live our own individual experiences
To once again return and share
All that is meant by “being”
Because we will have been all there ever was, ever is or ever will be.
I can feel that past connection still.

Bright Space -- You and I

Go to Abundance for more selections by Dane Allred, including other episodes from Bright Space, plus lots more!!

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Bright Space
by Dane Allred

You and I

I don’t know when I became self-aware.
I mean in this body, at this time.
There was that self-awareness I had forgotten.
From when we were in that
Bright space together.

But here, and now, I don’t recall when I decided
I am me
And
You are you.

I watch the small children playing and see they know who they are.
They don’t answer to the names of the other children
And seem to know they are separate.

We all remember the time when the universe revolved around us,
When everything was designed to serve us,
To amuse us,
And ceased to exist when we went away to something else.

This fragment of memory of our time together in the
Bright space holds us in a spell
Telling us we are all connected
We are all the same
We have been together before,
But then the separateness denies that truth
And parts us into our own worlds.

I move about in mine,
Forgetting that you and I came here to experience all we could
So that we could be together again in that
Bright space
And share all that we had learned.

We move about from day to day as if there was no connection
Between all I do and all you do,
All that is done by everyone else everywhere else.
We forget all that has been done
Connects us to this very second
To this very thought at this very moment
And then we move on to the next moment to see what else we can learn.

It has taken me a while to see that
I am You
and
You are Me.

Circulating about in our own lives to create this shared meaning now
And to create the end result.
Some have endured hardship, affliction, and suffering
So we can all discover how deep these pains can be.

To share all we have learned,
To realize all we have in common.
To appreciate the experience of each and every one.

Bright Space -- Beginnings

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Bright Space
by Dane Allred

Beginnings

You were there.
So was I.
Everyone and everything that ever was, is, or will be
Was there.
There was nothing else, no other place, and no other time except
That bright space where we all were.
All united in the peace of that bright space
Yet at once all individual.
We were content.
We were at rest in the never ending and
Never beginning
Bright space.
Every idea, every thought
To be thought was there.
There was no time because there was all time.
There was no rush because there was nowhere to go.
At peace, we rested in the blissful knowledge
Of all that was,
Of all that is,
Of all that ever will be.

But then that nagging doubt began.

What if there is something else?
Something not here now
That we could discover if we were not
Resting together in that bright space?

Something we could only discover if we
Became separate
And left the bright place
Of peace and content and rest.

Could there be more if I was not with you
And you were not with me?

What would such a something else be like?
What would make me want to leave you
And for you to leave me
That would be worth abandoning
All that we had ever known
All that we had ever been?

That was when the answer appeared.
Apart, we could be more.
Apart we would find things we could never find
If all of us remained in this peaceful, restful, contented
Bright space.

So we decided to leave.
We would have to become separate for a while
So we could experience all we couldn’t experience together.

We agreed to return and share all that we had learned
So that in our new bright space
We would have no more doubt about
What could be
What we could know
What we could become.

We promised we would remember all we would experience
When we were together again.
And then truly be at peace.

Walking into Walls

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Walking into Walls

Even if you have lived in the same place for decades, my advice is not to walk around in the dark. I had been lulled into a false sense of security. I have walked across our front room for more than 20 years, but usually it is daylight, or at night the lights are on. There are three different lights in the front room, including the ceiling light, two table lamps hooked up to another wall switch, and the front entry light. Every time I needed illumination, it was there. The sun or the lamp, dependable and always available, and this was my downfall.

When you cross a space confidently for years, day after day, night after night, you begin to believe no light is necessary. Take a certain number of steps to the hall, at a certain angle, and walk directly back to the bedroom or den, or even the bathroom. After five decades, I was secure in the knowledge of my stride, the speed and orientation necessary to make it into the hall every time. My pride welled up and puffed my chest, and made me believe there was no new thing to be learned in the front room. So who needs light?

If I hadn't hurt myself so many times in the past with such alarming frequency and impunity, I probably would have excused myself this one lapse. But I know better than to try adventuring in the dark. Never mind that I had been lying on the couch reading for half-an-hour, and rose up confidently to go to bed. No matter that as I weaved from the couch to the light switches on the wall, I was a little wobbly. Lying down on a bed and getting up fast can be deadly when you're this old anyway, especially if you consider the medications I take, one of which can cause fainting if you rise too fast. It's a good medication with a small side effect, and I am pretty dizzy most times anyway. Light-headedness is a small price to pay for better health.

But on this particular night, and for no particular reason, I concluded that my long years of trekking across this same front room meant I no longer needed light. I confidently switched off the hall light, the small table lamps, and without another thought, the ceiling light. After all, it was only a few steps across the carpet to the hall, where I could switch on the hall light if I wanted. I swaggered across the darkness, fully expecting to run the gauntlet of the hall without trouble to a peaceful night's sleep. But somewhere between the beginning of my journey and the other side of the room, in the six or seven steps across the carpet, I veered seriously to the left. I was walking at a good clip, nonchalantly anticipating my entry into the hallway, when what to my wandering feet should appear but the far wall of the room.

My forehead met the wall first. I must lead with my forehead when I walk, and I must have been walking 3 or 4 miles per hour. The wall was not moving at all.

If you have ever head butted someone, you will be familiar with the very next sensation I experienced. If you have never had the thrill of banging your head forcefully against the forehead of another person, try walking into a wall. It was so similar, for several seconds I believed I had head butted my wife in the middle of the hall, and proceeded to apologize profusely. The wall stood stoically and took it. When I didn't find my sweetheart's collapsed form on the floor, I realized I had fallen victim to my own hubris. I reached up and felt the blood running into my eyes from the cleft in my skin. A one-inch gash split my forehead wide open.

Turning on the hall light and walking directly to the bathroom, I patted the blood from my forehead for the next hour as the wound eventually sealed. I thought about going to get 5 or 6 stitches at the emergency room, but that would involve driving myself to the hospital with one hand or waking up the wife and asking her to take me, and then I wouldn't have a badge of honor to wear for my stupidity.

There is a nice thin scar running vertically just above my left eyebrow. Sometimes a visual reminder is better than a lecture. I'm sure I won't be walking across the front room in the dark for at least another decade or two. But with how slowly I learn, it may happen again next week. Just remember, lights are our friends. They can help you from head butting the wall.

Wednesday, November 24, 2010

Abundance Kids Nov. 21st

Go to Abundance for more selections, including other original pieces by Dane Allred and his audio versions of many famous short stories and poems called Literature Out Loud, plus lots more!!

Click on the player to hear the entire episode of "Abundance" called "Kids" from Nov. 21st.

Thy Holy Face by Dane Allred

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Click on the player to hear this selection from "Prayers of Devotion".

Thy Holy Face
by Dane Allred

As I draw near by word and prayer
To Thou my Lord so true,
I now behold Thy Holy Face
In all I see and do.

I marvel at thy mighty works
Near me on every side.
I now behold Thy Holy Face
In thy works far and wide.

Surrounded now on every side
By friends and family,
I now behold Thy Holy Face
In all those that I see.

In all the people of this world
In both those near and far,
I now behold Thy Holy Face;
Be Thou my guiding star.

Tuesday, November 23, 2010

The Night Before Thanksgiving by Sarah Orne Jewett

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The Night Before Thanksgiving

by Sarah Orne Jewett

I.

There was a sad heart in the low-storied, dark little house that stood humbly by the roadside under some tall elms. Small as her house was, old Mrs. Robb found it too large for herself alone; she only needed the kitchen and a tiny bedroom that led out of it, and there still remained the best room and a bedroom, with the low garret overhead.

There had been a time, after she was left alone, when Mrs. Robb could help those who were poorer than herself. She was strong enough not only to do a woman's work inside her house, but almost a man's work outside in her piece of garden ground. At last sickness and age had come hand in hand, those two relentless enemies of the poor, and together they had wasted her strength and substance. She had always been looked up to by her neighbors as being independent, but now she was left, lame-footed and lame-handed, with a debt to carry and her bare land, and the house ill-provisioned to stand the siege of time.

For a while she managed to get on, but at last it began to be whispered about that there was no use for any one so proud; it was easier for the whole town to care for her than for a few neighbors, and Mrs. Robb had better go to the poorhouse before winter, and be done with it. At this terrible suggestion her brave heart seemed to stand still. The people whom she cared for most happened to be poor, and she could no longer go into their households to make herself of use. The very elms overhead seemed to say, "Oh, no!" as they groaned in the late autumn winds, and there was something appealing even to the strange passer-by in the look of the little gray house, with Mrs. Robb's pale, worried face at the window.

II.

Some one has said that anniversaries are days to make other people happy in, but sometimes when they come they seem to be full of shadows, and the power of giving joy to others, that inalienable right which ought to lighten the saddest heart, the most indifferent sympathy, sometimes even this seems to be withdrawn.

So poor old Mary Ann Robb sat at her window on the afternoon before Thanksgiving and felt herself poor and sorrowful indeed. Across the frozen road she looked eastward over a great stretch of cold meadow land, brown and wind-swept and crossed by icy ditches. It seemed to her as if before this, in all the troubles that she had known and carried, there had always been some hope to hold: as if she had never looked poverty full in the face and seen its cold and pitiless look before. She looked anxiously down the road, with a horrible shrinking and dread at the thought of being asked, out of pity, to join in some Thanksgiving feast, but there was nobody coming with gifts in hand. Once she had been full of love for such days, whether at home or abroad, but something chilled her very heart now.

Her nearest neighbor had been foremost of those who wished her to go to the town farm, and he had said more than once that it was the only sensible thing. But John Mander was waiting impatiently to get her tiny farm into his own hands; he had advanced some money upon it in her extremity, and pretended that there was still a debt, after he cleared her wood lot to pay himself back. He would plough over the graves in the field corner and fell the great elms, and waited now like a spider for his poor prey. He often reproached her for being too generous to worthless people in the past and coming to be a charge to others now. Oh, if she could only die in her own house and not suffer the pain of homelessness and dependence!

It was just at sunset, and as she looked out hopelessly across the gray fields, there was a sudden gleam of light far away on the low hills beyond; the clouds opened in the west and let the sunshine through. One lovely gleam shot swift as an arrow and brightened a far cold hillside where it fell, and at the same moment a sudden gleam of hope brightened the winter landscape of her heart.

"There was Johnny Harris," said Mary Ann Robb softly. "He was a soldier's son, left an orphan and distressed. Old John Mander scolded, but I couldn't see the poor boy in want. I kept him that year after he got hurt, spite o' what anybody said, an' he helped me what little he could. He said I was the only mother he'd ever had. 'I 'm goin' out West, Mother Robb,' says he. 'I sha'n't come back till I get rich,' an' then he'd look at me an' laugh, so pleasant and boyish. He wa'n't one that liked to write. I don't think he was doin' very well when I heard,--there, it's most four years ago now. I always thought if he got sick or anything, I should have a good home for him to come to. There's poor Ezra Blake, the deaf one, too,--he won't have any place to welcome him."

The light faded out of doors, and again Mrs. Robb's troubles stood before her. Yet it was not so dark as it had been in her sad heart. She still sat by the window, hoping now, in spite of herself, instead of fearing; and a curious feeling of nearness and expectancy made her feel not so much light-hearted as light-headed.

"I feel just as if somethin' was goin' to happen," she said. "Poor Johnny Harris, perhaps he's thinkin' o' me, if he's alive."

It was dark now out of doors, and there were tiny clicks against the window. It was beginning to snow, and the great elms creaked in the rising wind overhead.

III.

A dead limb of one of the old trees had fallen that autumn, and, poor firewood as it might be, it was Mrs. Robb's own, and she had burnt it most thankfully. There was only a small armful left, but at least she could have the luxury of a fire. She had a feeling that it was her last night at home, and with strange recklessness began to fill the stove as she used to do in better days.

"It'll get me good an' warm," she said, still talking to herself, as lonely people do, "an' I'll go to bed early. It's comin' on to storm."

The snow clicked faster and faster against the window, and she sat alone thinking in the dark.

"There's lots of folks I love," she said once. "They'd be sorry I ain't got nobody to come, an' no supper the night afore Thanksgivin'. I 'm dreadful glad they don't know." And she drew a little nearer to the fire, and laid her head back drowsily in the old rocking-chair.

It seemed only a moment before there was a loud knocking, and somebody lifted the latch of the door. The fire shone bright through the front of the stove and made a little light in the room, but Mary Ann Robb waked up frightened and bewildered.

"Who's there?" she called, as she found her crutch and went to the door. She was only conscious of her one great fear. "They've come to take me to the poor-house!" she said, and burst into tears.

There was a tall man, not John Mander, who seemed to fill the narrow doorway.

"Come, let me in!" he said gayly. "It's a cold night. You didn't expect me, did you, Mother Robb?"

"Dear me, what is it?" she faltered, stepping back as he came in, and dropping her crutch. "Be I dreamin'? I was a-dreamin' about-- Oh, there! What was I a-sayin'? 'Tain't true! No! I've made some kind of a mistake."

Yes, and this was the man who kept the poorhouse, and she would go without complaint; they might have given her notice, but she must not fret.

"Sit down, sir," she said, turning toward him with touching patience. "You'll have to give me a little time. If I'd been notified I wouldn't have kept you waiting a minute this stormy night."

It was not the keeper of the poorhouse. The man by the door took one step forward and put his arm round her and kissed her.

"What are you talking about?" said John Harris. "You ain't goin' to make me feel like a stranger? I've come all the way from Dakota to spend Thanksgivin'. There's all sorts o' things out here in the wagon, an' a man to help get 'em in. Why, don't cry so, Mother Robb. I thought you'd have a great laugh, if I come and surprised you. Don't you remember I always said I should come?"

It was John Harris, indeed. The poor soul could say nothing. She felt now as if her heart was going to break with joy. He left her in the rocking-chair and came and went in his old boyish way, bringing in the store of gifts and provisions. It was better than any dream. He laughed and talked, and went out to send away the man to bring a wagonful of wood from John Mander's, and came in himself laden with pieces of the nearest fence to keep the fire going in the mean time. They must cook the beef-steak for supper right away; they must find the pound of tea among all the other bundles; they must get good fires started in both the cold bedrooms. Why, Mother Robb didn't seem to be ready for company from out West! The great, cheerful fellow hurried about the tiny house, and the little old woman limped after him, forgetting everything but hospitality. Had not she a house for John to come to? Were not her old chairs and tables in their places still? And he remembered everything, and kissed her as they stood before the fire, as if she were a girl.

He had found plenty of hard times, but luck had come at last. He had struck luck, and this was the end of a great year.

"No, I couldn't seem to write letters; no use to complain o' the worst, an' I wanted to tell you the best when I came;" and he told it while she cooked the supper. "No, I wa'n't goin' to write no foolish letters," John repeated. He was afraid he should cry himself when he found out how bad things had been; and they sat down to supper together, just as they used to do when he was a homeless orphan boy, whom nobody else wanted in winter weather while he was crippled and could not work. She could not be kinder now than she was then, but she looked so poor and old! He saw her taste her cup of tea and set it down again with a trembling hand and a look at him. "No, I wanted to come myself," he blustered, wiping his eyes and trying to laugh. "And you're going to have everything you need to make you comfortable long's you live, Mother Robb!"

She looked at him again and nodded, but she did not even try to speak. There was a good hot supper ready, and a happy guest had come; it was the night before Thanksgiving.

Monday, November 22, 2010

Two Thanksgiving Day Gentlemen by O. Henry / William Sydney Porter

Go to Literature Out Loud -- Short Stories for a complete list of all short stories available at Literature Out Loud.

Two Thanksgiving Day Gentlemen

by O. Henry
William Sydney Porter

There is one day that is ours. There is one day when all we Americans who are not self-made go back to the old home to eat saleratus biscuits and marvel how much nearer to the porch the old pump looks than it used to. Bless the day. President Roosevelt gives it to us. We hear some talk of the Puritans, but don't just remember who they were. Bet we can lick 'em, anyhow, if they try to land again. Plymouth Rocks? Well, that sounds more familiar. Lots of us have had to come down to hens since the Turkey Trust got its work in. But somebody in Washington is leaking out advance information to 'em about these Thanksgiving proclamations. The big city east of the cranberry bogs has made Thanksgiving Day an institution. The last Thursday in November is the only day in the year on which it recognizes the part of America lying across the ferries. It is the one day that is purely American. Yes, a day of celebration, exclusively American.

And now for the story which is to prove to you that we have traditions on this side of the ocean that are becoming older at a much rapider rate than those of England are--thanks to our git-up and enterprise.

Stuffy Pete took his seat on the third bench to the right as you enter Union Square from the east, at the walk opposite the fountain. Every Thanksgiving Day for nine years he had taken his seat there promptly at 1 o'clock. For every time he had done so things had happened to him--Charles Dickensy things that swelled his waistcoat above his heart, and equally on the other side.

But to-day Stuffy Pete's appearance at the annual trysting place seemed to have been rather the result of habit than of the yearly hunger which, as the philanthropists seem to think, afflicts the poor at such extended intervals.

Certainly Pete was not hungry. He had just come from a feast that had left him of his powers barely those of respiration and locomotion. His eyes were like two pale gooseberries firmly imbedded in a swollen and gravy-smeared mask of putty. His breath came in short wheezes; a senatorial roll of adipose tissue denied a fashionable set to his upturned coat collar. Buttons that had been sewed upon his clothes by kind Salvation fingers a week before flew like popcorn; strewing the earth around him. Ragged he was, with a split shirt front open to the wishbone; but the November breeze, carrying fine snowflakes, brought him only a grateful coolness. For Stuffy Pete was overcharged with the caloric produced by a super-bountiful dinner, beginning with oysters and ending with plum pudding, and including (it seemed to him) all the roast turkey and baked potatoes and chicken salad and squash pie and ice cream in the world. Wherefore he sat, gorged, and gazed upon the world with after-dinner contempt.

The meal had been an unexpected one. He was passing a red brick mansion near the beginning of Fifth Avenue, in which lived two old ladies of ancient family and a reverence for traditions. They even denied the existence of New York, and believed that Thanksgiving Day was declared solely for Washington Square. One of their traditional habits was to station a servant at the postern gate with orders to admit the first hungry wayfarer that came along after the hour of noon had struck, and banquet him to a finish. Stuffy Pete happened to pass by on his way to the park, and the seneschals gathered him in and upheld the custom of the castle.

After Stuffy Pete had gazed straight before him for ten minutes he was conscious of a desire for a more varied field of vision. With a tremendous effort he moved his head slowly to the left. And then his eyes bulged out fearfully, and his breath ceased, and the rough-shod ends of his short legs wriggled and rustled on the gravel.

For the Old Gentleman was coming across Fourth Avenue toward his bench.

Every Thanksgiving Day for nine years the Old Gentleman had come there and found Stuffy Pete on his bench. That was a thing that the Old Gentleman was trying to make a tradition of. Every Thanksgiving Day for nine years he had found Stuffy there, and had led him to a restaurant and watched him eat a big dinner. They do those things in England unconsciously. But this is a young country, and nine years is not so bad. The Old Gentleman was a staunch American patriot, and considered himself a pioneer in American tradition. In order to become picturesque we must keep on doing one thing for a long time without ever letting it get away from us. Something like collecting the weekly dimes in industrial insurance. Or cleaning the streets.

The Old Gentleman moved, straight and stately, toward the Institution that he was rearing. Truly, the annual feeling of Stuffy Pete was nothing national in its character, such as the Magna Charta or jam for breakfast was in England. But it was a step. It was almost feudal. It showed, at least, that a Custom was not impossible to New Y--ahem!--America.

The Old Gentleman was thin and tall and sixty. He was dressed all in black, and wore the old-fashioned kind of glasses that won't stay on your nose. His hair was whiter and thinner than it had been last year, and he seemed to make more use of his big, knobby cane with the crooked handle.

As his established benefactor came up Stuffy wheezed and shuddered like some woman's over-fat pug when a street dog bristles up at him. He would have flown, but all the skill of Santos-Dumont could not have separated him from his bench. Well had the myrmidons of the two old ladies done their work.

"Good morning," said the Old Gentleman. "I am glad to perceive that the vicissitudes of another year have spared you to move in health about the beautiful world. For that blessing alone this day of thanksgiving is well proclaimed to each of us. If you will come with me, my man, I will provide you with a dinner that should make your physical being accord with the mental."

That is what the old Gentleman said every time. Every Thanksgiving Day for nine years. The words themselves almost formed an Institution. Nothing could be compared with them except the Declaration of Independence. Always before they had been music in Stuffy's ears. But now he looked up at the Old Gentleman's face with tearful agony in his own. The fine snow almost sizzled when it fell upon his perspiring brow. But the Old Gentleman shivered a little and turned his back to the wind.

Stuffy had always wondered why the Old Gentleman spoke his speech rather sadly. He did not know that it was because he was wishing every time that he had a son to succeed him. A son who would come there after he was gone--a son who would stand proud and strong before some subsequent Stuffy, and say: "In memory of my father." Then it would be an Institution.

But the Old Gentleman had no relatives. He lived in rented rooms in one of the decayed old family brownstone mansions in one of the quiet streets east of the park. In the winter he raised fuchsias in a little conservatory the size of a steamer trunk. In the spring he walked in the Easter parade. In the summer he lived at a farmhouse in the New Jersey hills, and sat in a wicker armchair, speaking of a butterfly, the ornithoptera amphrisius, that he hoped to find some day. In the autumn he fed Stuffy a dinner. These were the Old Gentleman's occupations.

Stuffy Pete looked up at him for a half minute, stewing and helpless in his own self-pity. The Old Gentleman's eyes were bright with the giving-pleasure. His face was getting more lined each year, but his little black necktie was in as jaunty a bow as ever, and the linen was beautiful and white, and his gray mustache was curled carefully at the ends. And then Stuffy made a noise that sounded like peas bubbling in a pot. Speech was intended; and as the Old Gentleman had heard the sounds nine times before, he rightly construed them into Stuffy's old formula of acceptance.

"Thankee, sir. I'll go with ye, and much obliged. I'm very hungry, sir."

The coma of repletion had not; prevented from entering Stuffy's mind the conviction that he was the basis of an Institution. His Thanksgiving appetite was not his own; it belonged by all the sacred rights of established custom, if not, by the actual Statute of Limitations, to this kind old gentleman who bad preempted it. True, America is free; but in order to establish tradition someone must be a repetend -- a repeating decimal. The heroes are not all heroes of steel and gold. See one here that wielded only weapons of iron, badly silvered, and tin.

The Old Gentleman led his annual protégé southward to the restaurant, and to the table where the feast had always occurred. They were recognized.

"Here comes de old guy," said a waiter, "Dat blows dat same bum to a meal every Thanksgiving."

The Old Gentleman sat across the table glowing like a smoked pearl at his corner-stone of future ancient Tradition. The waiters heaped the table with holiday food--and Stuffy, with a sigh that was mistaken for hunger's expression, raised knife and fork and carved for himself a crown of imperishable bay.

No more valiant hero ever fought his way through the ranks of an enemy. Turkey, chops, soups, vegetables, pies, disappeared before him as fast as they could be served. Gorged nearly to the uttermost when he entered the restaurant, the smell of food had almost caused him to lose his honor as a gentleman, but he rallied like a true knight. He saw the look of beneficent happiness on the Old Gentleman's face--a happier look than even the fuchsias and the ornithoptera amphrisins had ever brought to it--and he had not the heart to see it wane.

In an hour Stuffy leaned back with a battle won. "Thankee kindly, sir," he puffed like a leaky steam pipe; "thankee kindly for a hearty meal." Then he arose heavily with glazed eyes and started toward the kitchen. A waiter turned him about like a top, and pointed him toward the door. The Old Gentleman carefully counted out $1.30 in silver change, leaving three nickels for the waiter.

They parted as they did each year at the door, the Old Gentleman going south, Stuffy north.

Around the first corner Stuffy turned, and stood for one minute. Then he seemed to puff out his rags as an owl puffs out his feathers, and fell to the sidewalk like a sun-stricken horse.

When the ambulance came the young surgeon and the driver cursed softly at his weight. There was no smell of whiskey to justify a transfer to the patrol wagon, so Stuffy and his two dinners went to the hospital. There they stretched him on a bed and began to test him for strange diseases, with the hope of getting a chance at some problem with the bare steel.

And lo! an hour later another ambulance brought the Old Gentleman. And they laid him on another bed and spoke of appendicitis, for he looked good for the bill.

But pretty soon one of the young doctors met one of the young nurses whose eyes he liked, and stopped to chat with her about the cases.

"That nice old gentleman over there, now," he said, "you wouldn't think that was a case of almost starvation. Proud old family, I guess. He told me he hadn't eaten a thing for three days."

Sunday, November 21, 2010

Kids is Kids

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Dane Allred’s Rules of Engagement

Kids is Kids

As positive as I try to be, there are times when I do have a bad attitude. I didn’t like hearing the word “grandpa” from a grandchild for the first time, but with a little work, I think I’m getting used to it. My mother especially liked calling me “grandpa” until I reminded her she was now a great-grandmother.

Even though my blood type is B positive, even though I teach in room A1, and even though I try to remember to sign my name with a little hidden plus sign underneath to remind me to be positive, I too can have a bad reaction once in a while. But that just gives me an opportunity to try and apply my “be the abundance” philosophy to myself. When I realized I was going to lose a Saturday recently for which I had planned other events, I got the chance to first react badly and feel cheated out of my plans. But when I calmed down and re-examined the situation, I realized I would be able to do much more good if I buckled down and helped out. I got to spend a Saturday with grandkids, they helped clean up a play area which they played in for hours, and I even got to do some of those things I had planned to otherwise do on that day. I even geared up my best attitude adjustment and did the dishes.

My daughter has just been blessed with the birth of two twin boys who are healthy, happy and back home from the hospital. Someone once said, “A baby is the universe’s opinion that this world should go on.” So twins give me a double boost of optimism for the future of this spinning blue marble. Someone out there wants us to keep trying.

Don Herold said it this way, “Babies are such a nice way to start people.” I don’t think there is a person alive who can’t wonder at the miracle of life when holding a newborn baby, and you ought to try holding two at the same time. It will give you a whole new attitude about your own problems. Groucho Marx illustrated this when he said, “My mother loved children -- she would have given anything if I had been one.” Another anonymous speaker summarized having kids like this, “Having children is like having a bowling alley installed in your brain.”

Parents won’t agree with what George Bernard Shaw said about children. He said, “There may be some doubt as to who are the best people to have in charge of children, but there is no doubt that parents are the worst.” Those of us who are now grandparents are just grateful we can send unruly children back to their parents. But when you are a parent, what can you do. It reminds me of another old saying, “Having children will turn you into your parents.” Most of those who have become parents can relate to this idea. The first time you hear those same words you used to hear your mother or father warn you with coming from your own mouth are very surprising moments. Just don’t make me turn this car around.

But we don’t have to lose our youthful outlook and optimism as we age. Just because we know more about the suffering and struggles of the world doesn’t mean we can’t keep working to make this a better place. But you may feel like John Wilmot, who once said, “Before I got married I had six theories about children. Now I have six children and no theories.” Maybe it’s time to invent a new theory about how this world can work.

Think about it this way. We can’t seem to get along, even though we are all related in one way or another. You could use the Adam and Eve story to illustrate the point, but really, there were so few people in the past that there is no way mathematically that we aren’t direct descendants of almost everyone who lived a couple of thousand years ago or more. We’re all related to Jesus, Buddha, Confucius, and Muhammed. If we are all consanguineous, or related by blood in one way or another, why can’t we get along? Maybe that is the answer. See that Cain and Abel story for details.

But think about it this way. If you have ever changed a diaper, you may have the perfect perspective on how to change the world. If it stinks, throw it out. If it needs changing, ignoring it won’t make the room smell sweeter. Instead of complaining about the problem, get up and do the work.

Just remember, if your parents didn't have any children, neither will you. If you don’t fix the problem, who will?

Abundance Increase Nov 14

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