Burning Out in a Good Way #T

Flameout

I walked out the front door on a very gray day.  Pulling my eye full into the lower center of the pear tree was a lone leaf among the dark greens and mauves and burgundies, a lone leaf that seemed to light up the world.  I stepped closer and observed that this leaf and all its companions are accompanied by hundreds of little pears. The tree at its most beautiful.  The tree just before its bare branches present themselves to winter's onslaught.

I thought how like this lovely tree are the lives of some people I have known.  Like the tree, they flourished in the springtime of their youth, put forth leaves, and flowers, and ultimately produced the fruit, the seeds within a promise of future life.  Then as they aged, their work finished, an inner glow emanated from them, radiating sunlight and cheer in the environs where they had thrived.  And they know, and we all know, that they will soon fall even as the leaves fall.

Imagine, if you will, a world in which everyone developed such beauty, a world in which our demise would indeed be our finest hour!

Brighten the corner where you are!

While the glory of young men is their strength,

    the splendor of older people is their silver hair.

 --Proverbs 20:29 (Names of God Bible)

Remembering Elvis

Copied directly from post on STSTT ten years ago today.  Thus today would be the 84th anniversary of Mr. Presley's birth.

Love Me Tender

January 8, 1935

The birth date of Elvis Aron Presley, of course. There is nothing I can say in tribute to his contribution that his fans don't already know better than I; and there is nothing I can say to persuade the naysayers of the error of their ways. So we would wish the King a happy 74th birthday had he not departed this life so prematurely.

Posted by vanilla at 6:07 AM

All Saints Day, 1924

Revisiting Unlce Jep's Halloween tale, 1924.


Happy Halloween, Mr. Principal
 
Did I tell  you about the time your Daddy and your uncles pranked the principal on Halloween? Well, them boys was sump'n, let me tell you.  Now I don' 'spose your Daddy's ever tole you of the onry-ness a them kids?  Anyways, there was a whole passel 'n'm kids, mostly boys and your pa right in the middle the bunch.  Now one a them boys was just a year older'n your pa, and another'n a year younger.  Whut a trio they made.  No, they warn't no singin', but mischief! Lawd, ha' mercy.

So anyhow there was this October when they was prolly 13, 14, and 15 year ol'.  Halloween a comin.'  Now the principal a the school over there was Ward Livengoodll, he was "livin' good," what with his nice income from the second-best job in the county.  Har! har! Livin' good.  I sometime crack myself up.  Anyway, ol' Ward, he come out here from Indiana, had him a dee-ploma from Oakland Normal School, doncha know.  What was the best job in the county?  Why sheriffin', I reckon.  You got no idee the ways them fellas can line they own pocket.  But that's a tale for another time.  So ol' Livengood marry a sweet thang from over to Terre Haute, and headed West.  Lureen Tuttle, she was, and the only way I would know that is she never cease from tellin' ever' one she meet about "the Tuttles from Terre Haute."

So Principal Livengood got the school over there, an' that school were the centerpiece a McClave. They had just built hit a couple years afore, and it were a two-story brick, three ya count the basement.  Now Livengood drive him a little ol' Model T Ford car, runabout, they call hit.  So anyway, morning of November 1 he walk on over to school-- didn't even notice his car wasn't aside his house, on account he only drove hit to work but rarely.  But he get to school, unlock the building and clumb on up the stairs.  Imagine his surprise when he get to the second floor, and there a settin' in the hallway smack again' his office door is his very own personal Model T!


And do you think that trio and they cohorts had anythin' to do with that?  Not much, they didn't; no more'n hit was them left Fred Sparks's outhouse in the middle George Watt's broom corn field.

© 2013 David W. Lacy

Reminder:  Uncle Jep's tales are collected
under the "Stories" and "More Stories" 
tabs at the top of the page. 

Everybody Ought to Go to Sunday School #T

 This story was presented about three years ago.  As I was thinking about the Sunday post I read this  tale again.  It amused  me.  Again.  Here it is again.

Margot Goes to Sunday School
 
Somewhere, Indiana was a quiet not to say bucolic village of some five or six thousand souls.   And as to the tending of souls, the community was well-supplied with churches.  There were by most accounts twenty-three churches in the immediate environs of the community.  One was Roman Catholic, eleven were Baptist, and the remaining ones were protestant churches of various stripes.  These twenty-three do not include a Kingdom Hall and an LDS facility, both well outside the town proper, and outside the consideration of the citizenry with the exception of the adherents and devotees of those respective faiths.

This seems an awfully ponderous introduction to a light-hearted tale about a little girl and her Sunday School experience.  Yet it is somewhat germane in that it clearly points out that Somewhere was if not a religious place at least a place where the citizens respected or at least supported religious institutions.  And Margot's parents were considered to be heathens by the social standards thereabouts. Oh, Tad and Marsha were nice enough people, good moral people.  They were well-educated and successful in their chosen fields of endeavor.  But they cheerily and cheerfully ignored all attempts by friends or neighbors, laity or clerical, to entice them into participation in religious services.

But seven-year old Margot, while not a social butterfly, had developed a friendship with Luanne.  Lu's parents were staunch Methodists, pillars of Brookside UMC one might say.  Inevitably Luanne prevailed upon her friend Margot to attend Sunday school with her.  And Margot presented the case to her mother.  Mother was open-minded and not averse to the idea that her pride and joy be exposed to the other side of things, and gladly agreed that Margot might go to Sunday school.

Sunday morning Margot skipped down her front steps, blue dress, white bonnet with a broad blue ribbon and blue bow tied just above the brim.  Her Mary Janes were new and white stockings completed the ensemble.  The child skipped along the sidewalk and up the steps to the house next-door but one.  Presently Luanne joined Margot and the two skipped merrily along the walk, a bluebell and a jonquil bobbing along side by side to the Methodist Church a mere block away.

Mrs. Leffler was enthusiastically explaining to the children how God formed Adam from the dust of the earth,  then deciding the man should have a companion put him to sleep, removed a rib and formed a woman.  "Oh," exclaimed Margot, "that's disgusting!"

Startled, Mrs. Leffler said, "Excuse me?"

"First God made a man out of mud then he cut him open and took a bone to make a woman?  Mud and blood and bone?  That is disgusting."

"But, Honey, this is God's word.  It is completely true and this creation story reminds us that we are not all that high and mighty."

"Whatever.  My Mama says I am made of sugar and spice and everything nice!"

"That is a pretty thing for your mother to say, but we must take God at his word."
 ,
"Well, I am going with my Mama on this one."





Sunday school was over and the girls met Luanne's parents in the foyer.  Mrs. Jarrett said, "Won't you join us for the worship service, Margot?"

"Oh, no, thank you Mrs. Jarrett.  I gotta get on home now."

Up the front steps, in the front door.  Mama called, "Is that you, Muffin?"

"Yes, Mama."

"How was Sunday school?"

"It was fine, Mama."

"What did you learn?"

"You wouldn't believe me if I told you," Margot said as she closed the bathroom door behind her.

And on that issue Margot was completely right.

Word of the day: ponderous

Lifted Paragraph Project -Seven

This paragraph was posted a triad of years ago.  It is reposted here not because of elegance of expression or excellence of writing, but because it expresses a notion about which I am passionate.

"It is my belief that it is the responsibility of the parents to teach the child as it grows and develops that he is not Caesar, and that the world does not exist for the purpose of gratifying his every whim." 

The Reason for the Season

The Cat and the Christ Child

The cat crept into the cave. Stripy, she was, in the daylight.  But now, well past sunset and the settling of darkness, she was as black as any other cat.  The tabby's left ear twitched, cocked over her left shoulder as she heard the rustling in the straw strewn over the floor.  A great ox lying nearby snorted softly as he dropped his head to the ground.  His horn made a clack! as it made contact with the rock.  He exhaled.  His nares vibrated briefly then all was still.

The cat remained motionless.  Long moments dragged slowly by.  In the distance an owl called to its mate.  Then the rustling began again as the mice resumed feeding on the loose grain in the straw.  The cat's right fore paw inched forward, settled softly, then the left paw raised, advanced, soundlessly touched the rock, then pounce!  Her prize in her claw, then between her jaws, she nestled close to the belly of the ox and dropped the mouse.  Stunned and addled but still with a will to live the creature staggered and attempted to run.  But the cat casually reached out, dragged it back.  Again she released it, this time allowing the creature to "get away."  But the cat sprang, recaptured the mouse and lay down again.  She played her cruel game with the small captive for several minutes, but finally tired of it and overcome with hunger she crunched its skull between  her teeth, then dined on her catch.

So Stripy, sated, slept.

A ruckus arose within the stable.  A pair of human creatures shuffled into the space, one carrying a blazing fagot in one hand as with the other he supported the woman who staggered in and collapsed on the floor.  A donkey followed them.  Then entered a large nondescript dog close on the heels of the ass.  He went to the female human creature and started licking her cheek while the man wedged the torch into a notch in the wall that served as a sconce. The presence of the canine got the attention of the sleeping cat, which started and sprang to her feet.  She scaled the flank of the ox where she settled, thus attaining a full view of the goings-on.  The ox slept on.

Soon there was frantic activity, the man bustling around the woman, the woman writhing and screaming in obvious pain. All the creatures in the stable stirred restlessly, the sheep bleated, and even the ox raised its head and voiced his concern.  Following a protracted episode of heavy breathing and intermittent screams, everything fell silent for a few moments.  Then suddenly the mewling of a new man-child pierced the quiet.

The man patiently worked at cleanup chores, handed the infant to its mother.  Everyone except the man, the woman, and the cat finally went back to sleep.  Then the woman cradled the tiny human creature in the straw the man had laid in a manger. The tabby, her tail erect and switching from side to side drawing esses and zees in the air, left her perch on the ox and sauntered casually toward the small human.  As the cat approached the child, the dog lifted its head, raised itself up on its two forelegs.  The cat made not a sound but gave the canine the evil-eye.  The dog lay back down.  The cat circled the child and we might imagine that she was thinking, "Big deal.  Just another human." Then she went back and snuggled into the warmth of her bovine friend again.

 Which all took place before the gaggle of rough and ragged men began to fill up the space, babbling about a Heavenly Presence that came to them in the fields praising God and telling them that this child  in the stable was The Christ!

The cat was wrong.

Merry Christmas!

and let there be peace, at least between you and me. 

©David W. Lacy 2015

Grasshoppers in the Bible #T

As I was walking across the backyard, I espied a grasshopper hopping in the grass.  Though the rascals have been in near-plague proportions at times in my life, I seldom see one these days.  My inner Little Boy insisted he have it.  I stooped and grabbed for it, but my outer Little Boy no longer exists, and Hop!  She eluded me.  However, I am much the larger creature, and slow and clumsy as I may be, a couple of steps and a reach enabled me to capture her.

I opened my hand.  There she perched, yellow and brown, perhaps two inches in length.  The insect gazed at me, crawled out onto the second joint of my index finger, pondered her next move for a few moments, then launched herself into the freedom of the air.  She landed a dozen feet away.

Reading the Bible the next morning, I came across a reference to the grasshopper in Amos 7:1 where the creature is characterized as destructive. wreaking havoc on the young crop.  My mind drifted to the much earlier incident  in which the Israelite spies reported back that  "we are as grasshoppers" in our own sight, and in theirs  Here the grasshopper represents insignificance.  (Numbers 13:33)

What other references do we find to the grasshopper?  In Leviticus 11:22 we find that the grasshopper is fit for human consumption, nutrition.  In the Book of Judges, we find the insects represent great multitudes.  (6:5, 7:12)

In Job 39:20, the grasshopper represents timidity.  Isaiah uses the creature, again to represent insignificance. (40:20)  Jeremiah uses the imagery of vast numbers. (46:23)
So scripture gives us that the grasshopper is variously nutrition, timid, insignificant, multitudinous,  and destructive.  And this doesn't even consider the references to locusts.

What is the difference between locusts and grasshoppers?  A lot has been written on the topic, and I am not an entomologist, but I have distilled my reading to this, which satisfies me.  Locusts are simply grasshoppers that have gone into a color-changing and swarming stage in their existence.  You can read about the role of serotonin*click* and all that stuff, if you are so inclined.

Consider this. God used the insignificant grasshopper as a scourge against resistors (think Egyptian ruler), as sustenance for his people and his prophet (John*click* comes to mind), and in numerous instances throughout His Word as simile or metaphor to convey His message.

The Lord who can use such a minor creature can also use you.  The difference is the grasshopper had no choice; you have.

The green grasshopper visited our yard a few years ago.  It was much smaller than the one this story started with.

This is another instance of String Too Short to Tie paying it forward.  Post originally published in 2014.

Superman Redux

This interview with Superman appeared in STSTT four years ago.  We are seeking a follow-up interview with the superannuated intrepid crime fighter.

 

Daily Planet

Last phone booth removed from Metropolis
Superman thwarted

Metropolis- The last remaining phone booth belonging to RD&D (Ring a Ding and Ding) Telecom Corporation has been taken away by its purchaser, I.D. Ott, the well-known collector of memorabilia from the mid- to late twentieth century.

As we all know, the phone booth was a crucial aid to Superman in his relentless fight against crime in the City.  He now has no place to change while maintaining his anonymity.  We caught up with Superman recently as he sat nursing a nourishing drink at Sourduck's Health Bar on Third Avenue.

Planet:  Superman, we have noted a decrease in your activity recently.  Surely this is not due to a drop in crime?

Superman: No, unfortunately.  But remember, I started leaping tall buildings of Metropolis three-quarters of a century ago.  I like to think I am not in my dotage, but I'm not so young as I once was, and a twelve-story building taxes me these days.

P:  What about flying?  Are you still able to pursue the bad guys by swift flight?

S:  Flying is for the birds.  Besides, I have rather lost my enthusiasm for crime fighting since Lex Luthor died.  One just naturally needs a nemesis to keep him focused, to keep him in the air, so to speak.

P:  Do you consider yourself retired, then?

S:  I've been drawing Social Security since 1981, and with some good IRAs I built up over the years, I really don't need the work.

P:  I am sure the Metropolitans will miss you and your exploits.

S:  Well, they can get their thrills from TV reality shows; or better, by simply being out and about.  Crime is so rampant these days one can hardly miss being in the middle of it.  Catch your own crook.

And there you have it as Superman finally flies, er, ah, strolls off into the sunset.  

Kate and Tommy Reprise

In Springtime, they wander through the flowers, walk in meadows, long, happy hours.  “A year this June,” Tommy said, “in yon church we will be wed.  You’ll meet me at the garden gate.  My carriage comes.  Don’t be late!”

Summer’s languid afternoon found Kate and Tommy on the ground, the picnic blanket spread, their hungry bodies to be fed.  “Not yet,” said Kate, “Mama counseled me to wait.  The pleasures of wedded life to be shared by man and wife.”  “I’ll wait 'til then, don’t be late.  Meet me at the garden gate.”

That Fall needles on the ground from dark green pine trees all around.  “Here, Love, lie with me on the duff.”  “Oh, Dear One,” said Kate, “That’s not enough.  I’ll hold and keep you evermore after we exit the church house door. I’ll meet you at the garden gate.  And, oh, Tommy, don’t be late!”

Winter's winds now harshly blow as Kate walks alone through the snow.  Her heart, though is far away for on this cold December day Tommy’s ship is hast'ning home and nevermore shall Tommy roam.  His last words to her had been, “Don’t be late; I’ll meet you at the garden gate."

And at June’s first full moon breezes aloft softly croon.  Kate in gown of white shimmering in evening’s light was waiting at half ‘til eight at end of lane, at the garden gate.

The moon is high, no longer evening; bright, starry sky.  Tommy’s horse and shay have not appeared this summer day.  Mama comes to hold Kate’s hand.  The girl sobs, “I don’t understand.  He said he’d meet me at garden’s gate; promised he would not be late.”

“Kate,” Mother said, her voice severe, “Each mid-June you have stood here.  Tommy’s ship went down, you know.  It’s time for you to let him go.  It’s now been eight long years.  Get up, sing again, and dry your tears.  Tommy cannot meet you at the gate; life marches on, and you’ll be late.

©2015 David W. Lacy

A Christmas Eve Story Retold

The Cat and the Christ Child

The cat crept into the cave. Stripy, she was, in the daylight.  But now, well past sunset and the settling of darkness, she was as black as any other cat.  The tabby's left ear twitched, cocked to her left as she heard the rustling in the straw strewn over the floor.  A great ox lying nearby snorted softly as he dropped his head to the ground.  His horn clacked as it made contact with the rock.  He exhaled.  His nares vibrated briefly then all was still.

The cat remained motionless.  Long moments dragged slowly by.  In the distance an owl called to its mate.  Then the rustling began again as the mice resumed feeding on the loose grain in the straw.  The cat's right fore paw inched forward, settled softly, then the left paw raised, advanced, soundlessly touched the rock, then pounce!  Her prize in her claw, then between her jaws, she nestled close to the belly of the ox and dropped the mouse.  Stunned and addled but still with a will to live the creature staggered and attempted to run.  But the cat casually reached out, dragged it back.  Again she released it, this time allowing the creature to "get away."  But the cat sprang, recaptured the mouse and lay down again.  She played her cruel game with the small captive for several minutes, but finally tired of it and overcome with hunger she crunched its skull between  her teeth, then dined on her catch.

So Stripy, sated, slept.

A ruckus arose within the stable.  A pair of human creatures shuffled into the space, one carrying a blazing fagot in one hand as with the other he supported the woman who staggered in and collapsed on the floor.  A donkey followed them.  Then entered a large nondescript dog close on the heels of the ass.  He went to the female human creature and started licking her cheek while the man wedged the torch into a notch in the wall that served as a sconce. The presence of the canine got the attention of the sleeping cat, which started and sprang to her feet.  She scaled the flank of the ox where she settled, thus attaining a full view of the goings-on.  The ox slept on.

Soon there was frantic activity, the man bustling around the woman, the woman writhing and screaming in obvious pain. All the creatures in the stable stirred restlessly, the sheep bleated, and even the ox raised its head and voiced his concern.  Following a protracted episode of heavy breathing and intermittent screams, everything fell silent for a few moments.  Then suddenly the mewling of a new man-child pierced the quiet.

The man handed the infant to its mother then patiently worked at clean up chores.   All creatures except the man, the woman, and the cat finally went back to sleep.  Then the woman laid the tiny human creature in a cradle of straw the man had constructed.  The tabby, her tail erect and switching from side to side drawing esses and zees in the air, left her perch on the ox and sauntered casually toward the small human.  As the cat approached the child the dog lifted its head, raised itself up on its two forelegs.  The cat made not a sound but gave the canine the evil-eye.  The dog lay back down.  The cat circled the child and we might imagine that she was thinking, "Big deal.  Just another human." Then she went back and snuggled into the warmth of her bovine friend again.

 Which all took place before the gaggle of rough and ragged men began to fill up the space, babbling about a Heavenly Presence that came to them in the fields praising God and telling them that this child  in the stable was The Christ!

Merry Christmas!

and let there be peace, at least between you and me. 

©David W. Lacy 2015

Honoring the Spouse

 This was posted nearly eight years ago.  BBBH has put up with me, stood by me, cared for me during the intervening years and she still sings!  So in her honor here is a repost.

Several years before I met her, BBBH published a book of poems and songs she had written. I submit here lyrics to one of the songs. I particularly enjoy hearing her sing this.

Take a Look It's All in the Book

The Bible says we can be free

From all our sins and misery

That the Lord's the only way

Not many paths, like people say

Says we can claim His every word

Of His promises be assured

That we can know He loves us so

And that He just wants us to know

Says in the word that we can find

In the book He left behind

That He shed His blood for me

Took my stripes at Calvary

In His kingdom we can share

Because He'll always be there

He came to set us free from sin

So open your heart and let Him in

So take a look, take a look,

It's all in the book

So take a look, take a look

It's all in the book

John 3:16

Copyright Grace JoAnn Harrison 1995. Used by permission.

Thanksgiving in another time, another place

 Thanksgiving in the Bowl

Did I tell you about the time we had but one bird and thirty-five people for Thanksgiving?  Well, your Aunt Grace decide we gonna be thankful whether we had anythin' or not.  She didn't miss hardly a fambly member, sayin' to 'em all, "We gonna have Thanksgiving over to our place this year.  Jep and me has been blessed, and we'd be disappointed you didn't join us."  Now in the manner of the times, I guess we had been blessed.  We was still alive, and we managed to scrape somethin' together each day to keep our souls connected to the bodies.

It was Dust Bowl days, doncha know, and nobody had much a nothin'.  We was much better off 'n many around us, 'cause we had saved a little coin which I had failed to put in the bank back in '29.  Always was a bit leery them suited guys with they green visors.  So anyway, we weren't total broke, and I gone up to Canon where I was able to get a few things, couple hunnert weight a cracked corn, hunnert pound a cornmeal, pinto beans, enough for the whole town.  So it looked like beans and cornbread for some time to come.  I'ma thinkin' you was maybe three, four years old at the time, 'cause your Mama and Daddy come on down for Thanksgivin'.

Anyways, when I left Canon to come on home, I stopped by Arly's over to Florence and wha'd'ye reckon?  Ol' Arly had hisself half-dozen turkeys he'd been nursin' along.  Scrawny they was, too, eatin' what they could scratch up.  Arly give me one a them birds, insisted I have it, so I tuk hit.  Well, I bring that bird home, and glory be! I have all that cracked corn and two months 'til Thanksgiving.  Well, son, I kept that bird pretty close, pen him up in the ol' tool shed.  Yessir.  Fed him good and give him more water than I tuk myself.  Well, talk about surprises!  When people start gatherin' in our house on that Thursday mornin', the aroma like to knock 'em down, hit smell so great.  Some a the fambly had had little enough, and then some, when it come to meat in Lord only knows when.

Well, your Aunt Grace had kept the winders sheeted over purty good, and the sugar and flour were kept wrapped tightly and inside half-gallon Mason jars.  Couldn't set out a sugar bowl, nor even keep it in a cabinet, 'cause even with a lid on hit, the dust would just natural get inside.  Gritty sugar ain't fit'n to use.  So Grace had been bustlin' around two days gettin' fixed for dinner on Thanksgivin'.  Now she only invited people to come, she never ask them to bring anything, but they all come with they hands full, and those ladies were bringin' the best they had.  Why Marcella Dean, you know Marcella, her'n Larry brought they six kids along, but Marcella make the best "apple" pie you can imagine from nothin' more'n pie crust, sody crackers, and vinegar and sugar.  I don't rightly know how she done it.

Anyway, the feast was on, and Grace would have it no other way but that she would make a little speech afore we et.  And she lay it on.  She said as how times had been bad for a long time, and some folk was gettin' discouraged.  Why the whole Palmer tribe, she says, done lit out for Cally-forny, and if we was all givin' up, wouldn't be nothin' here no more but tumble-down shacks and rattlesnakes.  And wouldn't you know, like right on cue in a stage play or somethin', Fred Baker speaks up and says, "Let the snakes have 'er.  She ain't no good no more no how."

And Grace let him have it.  "That," she says, "is just what I'ma talkin' 'bout.  This is Thanksgivin', and y'all need to be thankful.  Be thankful that we are still a makin' it.  Be thankful that we have loved ones who care about us and would give the shirt off'n they back to he'p ary one of us.  Y'all buckle in, keep the faith, he'p one another and pray, I mean pray like you believe the promises of God, and pray some more, day and night.  We will be okay.  Now Darryl, please to offer thanks to the Good Lord over these vittles, and we'll tuck into 'em!"

So right then and there the prayer meetin' start, but hit warn't so drawed out thet the food get cold!  No sir, we done justice to that spread, let me tell you.  And that bird with the fixin's fed them thirty-five people plum easy.  And the prayin' continue, and behole, the very next Fall the drought breaks and the rains come.  And then, well we are still here, hain't we?

© 2013 David W. Lacy

Still my favorite

I am making this an annual event.  That is how much I like it.  Hope you like it.
 
Today is Halloween.  It has become quite a big deal, commercially, that is.  Why, I would guess that the dollar turnover on decorations and partying is as big as Christmas.  Yet I don't think of Halloween as a holiday.  A day for fun and mischief, perhaps, but even the mischief has gotten carried away from fun into wickedness.

But that's not the reason for this post.

Here is the reason:  Wishing you a fun and safe good time on Halloween.  And,

inflicting on you once again my all-time favorite Halloween cartoon.  You are welcome.

Purely for your entertainment (and to keep you out of trouble) check out these rules for sharing your Halloween spoils.

Birds Still Diving

I wrote this verse four years ago and present it again here, for though the avian personnel may be of a new generation, the game is still the same.
 

Desiccated and sere a blob of bird poop right here

in the center of the windshield.

 

The bucket, rag and soap; now it’s clean, for good we hope.

Wring the rag, swirl the pail, toss the water in the grass.

 

Awk! What iridescent flash o’er my head did I see pass?

Grackle Bomber in a dive on the scene does now arrive.

 

*           *             *

**

*SPLAT*

**

*

*

 

Dead-center hit.

The windshield again besmeared with it.

 

The End

Margot Goes to Kindergarten: Reread

TBT:  I presented this little tale about a year ago.  Maybe I haven't run out of anything to say, but an encounter of sorts with Margot recently suggested it might be fun to revisit the five-year-old Margot, especially given that a new crop of kindergartners are starting school.
 
Little Margot sat primly at the table.  The pink bow tied her long honey-colored ponytail, the perfect accent to the pink-on-white polka dot pinafore she wore.  Margot's hands were folded atop the table and she listened intently as Miss Roz was giving first-day instructions to the new kindergarten class.  It was a bright, hot August day outside, but the whir of the air conditioning fans overhead promised comfort in the classroom.

The table accommodated five scrubbed and enthusiastic, or frightened, or subdued children and Curtis.  Miss Roz knew within moments of the day's opening exercises that Curtis would be a handful.  What she had yet to learn was that Tina, seated next to Margot and across from Curtis would,  over time, make Curtis appear to be angelic, in a manner of speaking.

Curtis was jumping in and out of his chair grabbing pencils and books that did not belong to him.  Miss Roz, not yet frazzled,  was making a valiant effort to corral the tyke. Tina leaned toward Margot and said, "That is the ugliest dress I ever saw."  Margot, stunned, never said a word, but a tear formed in the corner of her left eye.  And Tina said, "Why don't you cut off that awful hair?  It looks like throw-up down your back."  The floodgates opened and Margot's cheeks were inundated with tears.  She turned toward Miss Roz, but Miss Roz had heard what was going on.  She, too sweetly Margot thought, chastised Tina and asked her to apologize.  Tina turned to Margot again and said, "I'm sorry you can't take a joke, you skinny stick.  Bet your mama starves you so she can eat it all herself, the fat pig."

Margot turned full in her seat, faced Tina, put her pointer finger within an inch of Tina's nose and said, in a clear voice, "You're just a little shit."

This is essentially a true story, especially the last line which is a completely accurate quote.  I have lived to see Margot elected to the local Board of Education. Names changed of course to mask the identities of the real-life participants in this little tableau.

Word of the day: pinafore
 © 2015 David W. Lacy

Sparrow Revisited

I was reading this verse I wrote two years ago and enjoyed it such that I think not that it is prideful to reprint it today.  Hope you like it, too.

The sparrow stands upon the fence, 

his fight for survival is intense.

Think not that he merely flits around

filling the air with lovely sound.

This bird's every sense is heightened

By each nearby movement he is frightened.

That cat, yon hawk, the monster with machine in hand

Could any one bring his life to end.

Poor bird.  And he must find insect or seed

He is required to fulfill every need.

And that not of himself alone

Nestlings await him there at home

With open mouth and unseemly squawk.

Oh, thinks he, could I only talk

I'd lecture the Maker of this universe.

No, wait, I would doubtless make it worse.

Oh, look! A cricket there!

Snatch it now, say a prayer.

"For what we are about to receive

Make us truly grateful."

 With this little update free of charge: 

Little Sparrow in the yard

I know that your life is hard

In spite of wings on which you soar.

You must always find one bug more

Or seed lying in the grass.

Two years ago did I watch

Your parents in that same swatch

Struggle to feed you as you now tend 

Fledglings there in yonder hedge?

I think so; life rushes on.

Take it away! Please.

 I wrote this little piece and posted it on STSTT six years ago yesterday.  Maddening as it is, the use of the hated expression has only gotten worse, i.e., more frequent, more pervasive.

You may say take it to the bank, or take it on the chin; take it away! or take five. Take me out to the ballgame. Take your time; take a letter, or take a picture. Take it easy, take me home. Take the A-train, take me to Rio. Take me out to dinner or take me out of the game.

I brought you into the world and I can take you out (Mama said). Take it off! Take two aspirin and call me in the morning.

But whatever you do, FOR RIGHTEOUSNESS SAKE, DON'T SAY TAKE IT TO THE NEXT LEVEL.

Cycles

One year ago today *click*

Pretty much the same this year.

Eggs and Milk

I offered this little vignette a few years ago and read it again yesterday.  It amused me anew. I hope you will enjoy a re-read.   True story and walking up the hill with the male parent is a pleasant memory.
 
The lad is carrying two pails as he walks alongside his dad, footsteps crunch, crunching in the gravel as they walk. One pail is the milk bucket, the other the near-gallon lard can for collecting eggs. Daddy insists that this is the day the boy will "learn to milk the cow."

When they get to the chicken coop, the boy sets the milk pail down and goes in to collect the eggs. For the most part, this is an easy job. Forget the squawking, the feathers flying around-- pft! pft!-- and the dust the birds kick up. Just go to the nests and gently lift the eggs and place them carefully in the bucket. But of course Old Broody will not get off the nest, and when the youngster attempts to reach beneath her, a quick and painful peck on the wrist encourages quick retreat. David steps out of the enclosure with his bucket of treasure and Dad says, "Did you get Old Broody's eggs?" "She wouldn't let me have them." "Get in there and throw her off the nest." You see where this is going-- caught between the mad dad and the angry hen.  So back into the coop, grabbed the hen and threw her across the house.

Now we take the pail and enter the milking stall, where the "little Jersey" patiently awaits the relief she so desperately needs. She places her head in the stanchion, the boy gets the stool and places the bucket beneath the cow, all the time thinking, "There's no way I'm going to milk her." David sits on the stool and tentatively reaches for a teat. The tail whips around the back of the boy's head. He flinches and complains loudly. "Get your head up in her flank. Don't let her push you around." The boy obeys, reaches again for a teat. A bit of fumbling around with no visible result, unless one counts an increasingly impatient cow and ever more impatient "instructor." Finally the mentor gets down and demonstrates the proper finger motions, starts a stream. The boy again fumbles around with the resulting trickle further irritating both animal and parent.

"Get away from her," says the parent, "I'll do it myself." And he did.

The original title is "Red Hen, Red Cow ."

Revisiting John in the Wilderness

I really do on occasion entertain myself by reading a few of the posts of the past. Sometimes they amuse me and once in a while I bring one forward for your perusal. This one is a rerun from 2013. Oh, neither of the principals has changed his mind since the story was first told. 

 Louie, my brother in Christ, has been a friend for the past decade.  We enjoy discussing various facets of life.  We do not always agree, but we disagree in a most agreeable way.

A few evenings past, Louie and I touched on the ministry of John the Baptist in the wilderness.  In Matthew 3:4, we read of John, "his raiment of camel's hair, and a leathern girdle about his loins; and his meat was locusts and wild honey."  

I remarked that though the provision may have been monotonous, it was no doubt plentiful.  "Imagine," I said, "eating grasshoppers and robbing bees of their honey.  Quite nutritious, nevertheless."

When he recovered his equanimity, Louie said, "No, no. He never ate grasshoppers.  I heard a preacher who had visited the Holy Land many times explain that the "locusts" were the pods from the locust tree which is plentiful in the area."

"No doubt there are such trees, but he ate grasshoppers."  (See how agreeably we disagree!)  Well, we left the conversation with neither of us convinced that the other was right.*

Now I have eaten a few grasshoppers in my day, and I am told they are quite nutritious.  Also, I have read the Book of Leviticus (that's heavy sledding), and I found among the dietary rules this from Leviticus 11:22 "Even these of them ye may eat; the locust after his kind, and the bald locust after his kind, and the beetle after his kind, and the grasshopper after his kind."  And thus it is that I am quite certain that as we are told John ate locusts, John ate locusts.

A few days ago while walking the dog I observed a row of black locust trees.  I plucked some leaves and pods therefrom (see above picture).  I sent the picture along with the following to my friend:

Dear Brother Louie,

This afternoon I was in the parking lot at Aldi with the dog whilst JoAnn was inside shopping.  As I was walking around, I spotted a row of black locust trees along the west side of the lot, so I walked over and plucked a couple of leaves and some pods.  Come on over; bring the wild honey.  We’ll have a feast!

A bit of study shows that the locust tree of America is native only to the western hemisphere, but it has been widely spread by transplanting throughout the world.  It is believed that it was named “locust” by early Jesuit missionaries who mistakenly thought it to be the tree that “fed” John in the wilderness.   In reality, the “locust tree” of the Bible is  the carob, also called St.John’s bread, and its pods are edible and commonly eaten by mammals of the region.  John may have eaten them with his honey.  And I still think he ate grasshoppers as well.

Blessings, and bon appetit!

David

Ultimately, the point is God provided sustenance for John in the wilderness, and He provides for us as well!

*Louie holds his opinion still.  And I hold mine.