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It's A Duesy - a story by Joyce Brandt from St. Louis, MO

Seeing a 1929 Auburn Condor Duesenberg, designed by visionaries like Alan Leamy and Gordon Briehnig is an awesome experience. These automobiles exude pure elegance and represent an era of extravagance beyond comprehension.
It was 90 degrees in the auction pavilion at the 38th Anniversary of the Ebay-Kruse International Classic Car Auction in Auburn, Indiana. Three hundred thousand people descended on the Classic Car Festival grounds this year. They were able to experience a time, a place, and a way of life long gone, and capture a glimpse of past tradition that has been replaced by the High Tec. present.
I was sitting in the front row of the Blue revolving platform when "IT" appeared. A 1929 fully , frame up, restored Black and Green Boat tail Duesenberg Speedster.
It was the gentleman driving the beauty of an automobile that I noticed as much as I noticed the car.
He ascended the ramp much like royalty.The only thing missing was the long necked buglers in purple velvet waistcoats heralding the entrance of the event.
He doffed his straw bowler hat and opened the door of his horseless carriage.
The only sound heard was that of the ladies fans moving the hot Indiana summer air from their face.
The chant of the Auctioneer began.
I didn't pay much attention to the frenzied antics of the gentlemen eyeballing the bidders. Their hoots and howling and sharp pointing gestures mixed with the rapid firing voice of the auctioneer degraded the moment for me.
What I focused on was a stately old gentleman who had brought his pride and joy to Auburn for the world to see. He found his Duesy sometime in the early 1950's when they were "cast away as worthless orphan used cars". Now he was an old man who spent 50 years of his life painstakingly restoring to perfection this incredible piece of art. This was his life's accomplishment. Every bolt, screw, wheel strapping and headlamps returned to its original glamour.
He was bent in the back and had a hard time raising his legs out on to the turntable, but once he stood straight, he turned his back to the audience and began showcasing his baby. He move slowly to the front of this beauty and gently raised the side hood panel of the engine for all to ogle. It sparkled like it had just come from the factory. He then moved precariously off the turn table and stood back quietly reflecting on this magnificent creation he had raised to fruition.
Tears welled up in his old eyes as the harsh cry of SOLD boomed through out the auction hall. Composure took hold and for one brief moment I observed a young, tall, proud, stately gentleman realizing in his life long Dream Come True.
He opened the door to his Duesy, slid into the drivers seat, donned his straw bowler, and with chin held high, exited the arena to a standing ovation.

Family Matters - a story by Sandra Walsh from Edwards, MO.

It was shortly after noon when I picked up the phone to hear my brother screaming at me. He was issuing orders, making demands , and pronouncing ultimatums. I could envision his face; it was beet-red and the blood vessels at his temples were pulsing wildly. his knuckles were white where he was gripping the phone and his free hand, fisted with his index finger pointed out, was aimed directly at my chest. His voice covered two octaves and cracked on every fourth word. The shouting lasted five very long minutes before I heard his receiver slam down, ending the tirade.
I was in total shock as I stood by my phone, the receiver still in my hand, and not believing that this "conversation" had really, really taken place. I must have dreamed it. This was David, the third of my four younger brothers. We had never had an argument all the time we were growing up. We had kept in touch over the years. At one time we lived only three hours apart and were able to spend holidays together and enjoy each other's kids. We were adults, for pete's sake, and middle-aged adults at that!
I slowly hung up my phone and realized that he hadn't asked me my side of the situation. He didn't know the whole story, which meant that he hadn't yet heard the truth. That explained it! Putting myself in his shoes, I better understood what had just happened. Although I still considered his reaction severe, I was sure, given a chance to explain, that everything could be ironed out. I would just wait a while, giving him a chance to calm down and regain his composure. I'd be the first to admit to David that this newly exposed, twenty-six year old family secret was totally shocking and beyond most people's comprehension. It wasn't the family secret that I had faithfully kept all these years, but the reaction of my brother that made this experience so devastating.
I waited two hours before I called him back. His wife answered the phone and started to tell me it probably wasn't a good idea to talk to him yet. Before she could finish her sentence, he had taken the phone from her.
"Perhaps you didn't hear me correctly," he fired back. "I told you not to bother me until you get this mess straightened out and things are back where they once. were. When that happens, I'll know it, and until then, don't call me. Don't call my wife. Don't call my kids. Until then, we don't want anything to do with you."
His phone slammed down again. Again, I stood in total shock. Tears began to well up in my eyes, and I could feel my whole body trembling. Now what? How could I fix this? I couldn't! I was soon wracked with sobs that lasted until I didn't have an ounce of energy left. This was family. This was my brother. Why wouldn't he at least listen to me?
Slowly, my attitude began to change, and I became angry. Then I became very angry. I sat down and wrote him a letter, sparing no details, nor was I concerned abut hurting anyone's feeling. How dare he speak to me that way. Who was he to issue me orders? Why, I used to wipe the snot off his nose! Once, when the two older boys wouldn't let him play with them, I walked him to the shopping center and bought him an ice cream cone. This was a fine way for him to show his gratitude.
I finished the letter, slapped a stamp on it, and immediately dropped it off at the post office. That was on a Saturday, and the mail at our house had already been picked dup. This letter was too important to wait until Monday; I had already begun to anticipate its effect and formulated my response. Two weeks late, I got the letter back, unopened, and across the front, David had written "Refused".
I was livid. I'd show him. I decided to fax the letter to his office. He, being the business manager of ABC, Channel__, in ______, could then explain the situation to his entire staff. All I had to do was find a fax machine I could use. I put the letter and his fax number in my briefcase.
All this happened the summer of 1996. my birthday and Christmas have come and gone twice now. I didn't hear from my brother on any occasion. The letter and his fax number are now in my desk drawer. I can't bring myself to carry out my plan of revenge, but neither have I been able to drop the letter in the trash. Someday, I hope I'll be able to do just that, and I think it might even be rather soon., I realize that revenge will only make this situation worse. In the meantime, I readily admit that I both love and miss my brother, David.

The Sound That Gravel Makes - a story by Carter Remington from Summer, WA.
One night on the corner of this gravel road, I accidentally throttled my car and through the spraying gravel and nocturnal dust, I thought it only a mailbox I had hit.
The next morning at my leased gas station in this small town a heavyset biker that I knew well and liked despite the fact that he always carried a loaded pistol approached me. He said that I had hit his car. I tried to explain. "The hell you didn't," and pointed at a spit of green on my car. He further explained that he had it sold and now that I must buy it.
It was an old Buick that only had one operational door, but I paid the necessary 350 dollars.
I asked a friend of mine what he would do. He looked amused, pointed at this spot of gravel between my station and the thin strip of asphalt that ran through town. "Park it here," he said, "and put a $350.00 'For Sale' sign in it."
Two days later I heard the roar of flying gravel followed by an impact. There were 4 emigrant orchard workers in a Camaro parked right in the only door that worked. As I walked up they began searching through their wallets.
I guess that was the sound of the gravel I remember most was going to my office to sign the title over. Our feet crunching through the gravel...

Baking and Making - a story of Important ways to celebrate Christmas

important ways to celebrate Christmas by Roberta Greenwood
When my children were much younger, I had very little money to spare for Christmas gifts. What cash I had went to the kids; friends had to settle for baked bread, fudge, and cookies. I remember how much pleasure I had in my small, cramped kitchen, mixing ingredients to the sounds of my mother's Nat King Cole Christmas album. (You can guess how long ago this was; our youngest child has never seen an album!) As the years passed, I got a better job, bought a house, raised my sons and spent every Christmas Eve putting together Christmas plates for neighbors. As the boys grew, so did their protests about walking and delivering our gifts to the houses that surrounded us; couldn't we afford to give "nice" presents to our friends?
Funny, but even now, I get requests for my "special banana and pumpkin breads; and no one can forget my Christmas fudge of 1984 that turned mysteriously into fudge topping for ice cream! Those same sons, now grown with traditions of their own, put in their requests and always notice who eats more fudge before dinner. This year, we travel to the homes of our married children to celebrate the holidays - and I will take small, decorated plates of Christmas love to share with them once again - and a copy of your article.

The Move - A story of making changes in one's life by Jane Stapleton
A recent article in New York magazine got my attention. The story was about a young writer and the risks she took moving from Manhattan to Cheyenne. Well, after 30 years in Colorado we relocated to Massachusetts based on a one week visit and if you add up our ages we're 114 years old. Now that's a challenge.
When we hatched this idea I expected opposition. But everyone thought it was exciting. Now I'm wondering if I mixed up my meds, because this escapade so far has produced horrific hot flashes and sleep patterns as erratic as the Richter scale after a .7 quake.
After 11 days of straight rain this summer, I would have killed for a day so dry it takes two coats of chapstick to smile. Here the air is thick enough to eat – a slice of life by the sea – which is why we came.
I'm a sea groupie. Any body of water that has waves and smells salty makes me weak in the knees. I don't actually squeal out loud, but I do get goofy. My mouth turns up, my eyes mist over, and I start to hum an old ditty that nobody but me can remember.
On that flimsy basis we settled near where The Perfect Storm was filmed. This is the movie that explains why going too far into the ocean is dangerous. Particularly if you end up in a place called the Flemish Cap, which may sound like a Dutch birth control product but isn't, so I have no intention of getting out of the sight of land.
I'm staying on the beach where I've noticed kids don't cry, people hold hands and if you fall down it doesn't hurt. I'm hoping this is true in January as well as June.


It's Bed Time Son
A Story by Samir Rantisse to help us realize the blessings we have to be thankful for.
My three and a half years old son Amir quickly threw his arms around my legs,clung to me as he burst into a hysterical cry with the sound of the first explosion that very much sounded like the shell has fallen into our backyard. It was around 7:00 pm last night (November 22) in our house in Ramallah's neighborhood of Sateh Marhaba, which is less than half a Kilometer away from where Israeli tanks and heavy machine guns at the settlement of Pisagot practice their daily live drills against our neighborhood. My wife, Suha, looking extremely shaken by the explosions, ushered to me to carry Amir and hug him. She was carrying at the same time his shocked but silent twin sister Sama who always prefers to keep her emotions inside whenever she is extremly freightened. I hugged Amir, kissed him, and whispered in his ears:
"Don't be afraid, it's only the sound of thunder"
But my words went unheard in little Amir's ears. As he strongly clung his arms around my neck, he burried his head in my chest and his loud cry turned slowly slowly into a freightened weeping voice. Again and again, I kept telling him the same words and explaining to him:
"It is winter season, and you know, in winter and before it rains, we see lightenning in the sky, and then we hear loud thunders, but it really doesn't hurt us, in fact it is good for us, because after the lightenning and the thunder, comes the rain, and it provides us with drinking and bathing water, and it makes trees blossom."
My little Amir suddenely stopped weeping, looked at me with tearfull eyes and said:
" I don't like winter."
I answered:
"Why? It's good for us"
He looked at me again and said:
"If it's good for us, why does it make all these horrible sounds and freighten us?"
For a moment I didn't know what to answer, I was searching for some logical argument, but he didn't even allow me to continue my search, his soft voice mixed with his weeps cut through my thinking as he said:
"Daddy, you tell me that a liar goes to hell. I don't want you to go to hell. This is not thunder daddy, this is a (saroukh) rocket. (Al-Yahudi) the Jew shells us. I know, my friend Mahdi at school says that the Jew shells us with rockets every night.Yesterday, my other friend Anwar said at school that his brother Hammoude was shot by the Jew. He said that his face was full of blood, and then they carried him on a bed (meaning a coffin) and took him away."
I found myself asking him:
"where did they take him to"?
My little Amir answered as he cried louder:
"They took him to where he dies."
He burried his face again in my chest and shouted as he continued crying and weeping:
"I don't like to die daddy, I don't like to die..."
Later in the night , as the shells and heavy machine gun fire kept us all very sober, I tried to put Amir to bed and have him get some rest. He strongly kept resisting to be put in his bed. When I asked why he doesn't want to sleep in his bed as he usually does, his answer was:
"I am afraid, they will come and carry me and take me to where I die, like Hammoude."
I took my little Amir to my bed, and had him sleep next to me. As he closed his eyes and started going into a deep sleep, I found myself telling him:
"Sleep my little one, Sleep, have sweet dreams, it's bed time here, I just hope that death time goes away very far before you grow up into your youthful years.!"

The Dexterity of Mountain Goats
A Story by Liz Wallace - A Denver Post reader
I joined the Castle Rock Recreation Center with great trepidation. I moved from the flatlands of Kansas just weeks before and could barely climb a flight of stairs without gasping for breath let alone perform any strenuous exercises.
The total fitness program advertising aerobics and step class caught my attention. A twenty-year racquetball veteran, I’m still reasonably fit for my age but I needed to adjust to the higher altitude. My confidence turned to dismay when I attended the class and watched in awe as the women performed the step class. They leaped and bounded across their steps with the dexterity of mountain goats, and, to add insult to injury, they held weights too! At the end of the program, much of which I missed, I felt completely intimidated and took the instructor aside. I told her that her mission, should she wish to accept was to get me through the whole class without calling the paramedics.
My instructor, Tara McCarthy Sanford, took the challenge. She is very fit and leads the class while making jokes and smiling. As we whirl and spin around, she tells us which foot to lead with so that we're facing the right direction. I'm constantly getting it wrong, I do hear the instructions, but getting my legs to do what my brain tells them is another matter. One misstep and I'm scrambling to catch up with the group. Anyone who has performed a step class will understand and empathize.
Over the months Tara has encouraged, motivated and inspired me to get fit. She always stresses the importance of going at one's own pace, not to over exert ourselves nor do any exercise we feel uncomfortable doing. Tara has completed her mission with me but there are new "recruits" every week. Do they look at me and see the dexterity of a mountain goat while I perform my step class? - It's a nice thought but I don't think so.



The Journey of Life
A poem about life's journey by Gregory Schmuland, Wetaskiwin, Alberta, Canada
As we search throughout life's journey
For that never ending road
Our life slips right by us
Each moment that we go

Looking for the answer
To why we are here
While all the time the answers
Are lying so very near

We are here for each other
To make the journey its most
To cling to our togetherness
As our time draws close

For as the road ends
As surely it will
We're left with the memories
That our journey did fill

The reflection of faces
Instilled in our minds
The journey was well worth
Our moment in time.

The Lessons I Learned
A Story about lessons learned from her experience by Laura J. Watt
I am one of those brave cancer survivors you wrote about (October 24), a wise woman who realized that denying reality can be the catalyst for creating a reality that is not compatible with life - death by advancing cancer. Breast cancer itself does not always kill; the fear and procrastination about which you wrote could take some responsibility should the cancer not be detected in time. (An exception to this is that certain types of cancers are so aggressive that even if detected early, lives can not always be saved.) But lest that latter statement be cause for further procrastination, be assured that most breast cancers can be arrested if detected early, and lives are saved. Mine was one of them.
It is one of life's greatest ironies to admit that in the cancer experience were hidden blessings. I was one of those who had courage to face the unknown, go through everything it took to survive, and face my mortality. And I am proud of myself...more proud that anyone can possibly imagine who has not faced a life-threatening situation and made multiple decisions on many levels to choose life. I have now assimilated cancer's valuable lessons into a plan for the rest of my life - one that I believe to be at least 35 more years. I look back at the physically and emotionally challenging experience, and I believe that the caner - conquering adventure - a lumpectomy, chemotherapy and radiation - revealed hidden treasures, life's guarded secrets only exposed to those who travel through extreme circumstances. I truly wish everyone could know these secrets without actually having to experience cancer itself.
And just what are these precious lessons? Above all, live and love in the present moment. Each moment, each experience, is precious - the good and the bad - as these moments added to moments are the very essence of life itself.
Practice forgiveness; let go of the past with its resentments, and quit distressing about the future. The future is this afternoon, tomorrow morning, and maybe this weekend. (This is not to say don't plan for the holidays, contribute to an IRA or set a long-term goal. Just do them and let them go. No agonizing.)
Don't sweat the small stuff, and stop all crazy, hurried, busy, manic behaviors. Life will happen whether you are manic or not, and "not" is healthier on all levels.
No guilt - do the best you can. "Don't should on yourself." The "I should be doing this" doesn't promote optimal mental or emotional health. Discard the "should" as fast as you can; take a short nap instead.
And laugh. Along with your annual smash-o-gram and monthly breast self-examinations, do a humor check. If you don't find yourself laughing several times a day, a humor adjustment is needed.
The last lesson? Compassion and kindness. Remember that a person acts appropriately given his or her view of the world. If we all viewed the world exactly the same, this world would be a dreary, monotonous place.
All those lessons - love, laughter, compassion, living in the moment - are powerful prescriptions for life. Add some courage to get the annual mammogram, do your monthly breast self-exams and know that even though the tests don't always give the results you want, at least you will be able to make a choice for life.
In all experiences are hidden blessings. I now hug my children tighter, laugh with my friends longer and louder, and practice receiving and giving more kindness in my life. I also take more naps without guilt.
I would never wish breast cancer on anyone. But at the same time, I would never deny its transforming force on my life. in some inexplicable way, it was an experience to cherish. In the depths of the disease and its challenging treatments, the experience surrendered priceless insights into life's greatest blessings. The challenge is now to remember those insights and live them daily, moment to moment.
Now - go follow through on that mammogram.

A Day on the Beach
A Story about receiving by Gloria Effertz, Independenc,MO
I have six mosaic rocks in a bowel on my kitchen table. They are souvenirs from a walk on the beach on Whindbey Island (Whindbey is a short ferry ride to Seattle, Washington.) Three years ago, as a combination Christmas/birthday present, my older brother sprung for plane fare. I stayed with him in his two-room house on the island.
It was one of the most peaceful times I've know in quite a while.
My brother, Bob, was a psychologist in a junior high school in Seattle.
Beyond the double glass doors from his kitchen, lay the ocean, with the bluest water I've ever seen. Past that point, the mountains rose majestically through the morning mist to greet each new day.
I was there from Friday night through Tuesday morning in March of 1997. We walked the neighborhood. One evening we went to "The Raven", an amateur music house. Bob was one of the entertainers, playing a tune on a stringed instrument called a dulcimer. Others performed on drums, guitar and most supplied vocal accompaniment.
Between acts, the music director would lead us in impromptu song. one of which was, "What do you do with a drunken sailor? Put him in charge of an Exxon tanker!".
Sunday ,we went to church, a special day for many as it was this day that many children were dedicated.
It was heartening seeing couples standing with their young ones, speaking of their children's uniqueness and how much meaning these children brought to their parent's lives.
Sometimes, when day-to-day activities threaten to overwhelm me, I gaze upon my island rocks. It is then I choose to count my blessings, one by one. One day at a time.


Great Story
A Story of making a difference in someone's life by John Bolego, St. Louis, MO
I'm not a man given to sappy emotions. I was raised with John Wayne in the 50's, was stirred by the "Ask not...." words of JFK and came of age during 17 months of Vietnam military service. Last weekend (10/14/00), during my 35th high school reunion, I may have found the meaning of life.
I saw an old friend - someone I had not seen since high school - approached him, introduced myself and we shook hands. "Al," I said "I sure am glad to see
you!". He tightened his grip on my hand, grasped my shoulder with his other hand, looked straight in my eyes and said: "I've been looking for you. When you were my grandmother's mailman, you stopped to talk to her when she was out. My grandmother and I were very close - even born on the same day - she passed on 4 years ago. She told me how much she appreciated your kindness and I want to say thank you for being nice to my grandmother. It meant a lot to her and that means a lot to me!"
The striking thing is that I was only her mailman for a short period of time and that was more than 15 years ago! Apparently, I touched her world back then, and, when I least expected it, she touched my world now.
The moral? Touch someone's live in a positive way today. When the touch is returned it is many times more meaningful.


My Sister
A Story of a special baby by 10 year old Katelyn Thiessen, Wetaskiwin, Alberta, Canada
This story is about my sister Sydney who died of down syndrome when I was four. She was born May 11th, 1994. She died on November 29th, 1994. It was really tuff for my mom and dad to get over the fact that she wasn't with us anymore. In fact it was pretty hard for everyone. I didn't really understand what was going on. I was only four.
When my sister was born, she was diagnosed with down syndrome. Mom had a C-section when my sister was born. My parents were a little bit sad but they just wanted her alive. About a week later (mom was still in the hospital) the doctor said that my sister had two holes in her heart and that she would have to have surgery. Then my parents got very worried and weren't really happy (I can understand why).
Our family got a few months with her before the surgery. They were the best months of my life. When it
was the time for her surgery everyone gave their hugs and kisses to my sister. About seven hours later it was done. The doctor came out in not a happy mood. My parents knew something had went wrong. She was dead.
Four years later and everything was back to normal. One night my parents sat me down and told me that I was going to have a brother or sister. September 10th, 1998 I had a brother. He was the cutest thing ever until he turned two. Now he is a devil!!!! But I still miss Sydney. No one is ever going to take her place.
Someone once told me this saying: "When the moon goes down, the sun comes up". It's sort of like my story; when Sydney died something good happened, Kindren was born. I think both my brother and sister mean a lot to me.


Life Is Fragile
A story by Margaret Murphy
My friend suffered a stroke 2 years ago. When the leaves fall, he lapses into a malaise. When the flowers wither, he cries, seeing the dying blossoms. For many, autumn is sweet, smoky fires, football, and cider. For my friend, it is soft whisperings..."The time is short. The dark long and deep. And spring a time he may never know."

Down Sizing
A story by Maria D'Amicis, Sugar Land, Taxas
This word brings the shakes to people in the business world This means pack your things, say good-bye to friends and foe alike, trey not to burn any bridges behind you and don't let the door hit your backside when you leave.
Now, this word brings the same emotional whirlwind to anyone moving from a large abode to a smaller one. The word smaller home, means deciding which treasured keepsakes you take with you and which you abandon. The word abandon is a harsh word to me, yet that's exactly what we are doing with some of our prized processions. I have gone through this dilemma twice, first from a large home to a much smaller home, then to an apartment.
Just thinking of this gives me a headache. Now that this final move is over, I love the location of the apartment, the treasured furniture I kept and the grandest feeling that all the excess baggage is gone.
When I look into every room I realize that I made a wise choice.
A traumatic move like this tends to weed out the surplus furnishings (just like separating the men from the boys.) Now I can settle in for the leisurely ride over the rainbow, into the land of my twilight years as my lucky star shines brightly overhead.
Twas a long and sweet journey but I wouldn't have it any other way.

THE SALT SOCK AND OTHER REMEDIES
A Story by Linda Avery, Tacoma, WA.
The flu season will soon be here again. Last year when I got the flu, I did not go to a doctor as so many of my co-workers did. You see, I came from a family that treated illnesses with warm water, ginger ale, bed rest, and sometimes, kerosene in a spoonful of sugar. My father said drinking warm water first thing in the morning would keep us “regular.” At the time I imagined it meant cleaning out all my “pipes.” To this day, I drink a glass of warm water when I first get up in the morning.
Our mother treated our stomach flu episodes by sitting up with us, holding a shallow enamel pan. Sometimes my sister and I took turns throwing up in it. Later, our mother would give us ginger ale or drops of peppermint in warm water, when she thought we could keep it down. One day later, we got squiggly gelatin made with ginger ale instead of water, served to us in cubes piled up in a soup bowl. Later that evening mama served us little pieces of oranges, sprinkled with powdered sugar, each piece with its own toothpick so we wouldn’t get all sticky-fingered in bed. That is how we got over the stomach flu.
For earaches Mama used one of my daddy’s discarded gray socks and partially filled it with salt; then she heated it in a cast iron pan on the stove. Meanwhile daddy warmed the mineral oil, and used an eye dropper to put a few drops of warm oil in the ear that hurt. Then mama placed the warm sock over the ear. After that, the pain always went away. It was easy to fall asleep with the warmth so close.

And to cure croup? Three to four drops of kerosene on a teaspoon full of sugar. This was a popular remedy from the great influenza epidemic in the 1920’s. We loved the sugar and didn’t mind the kerosene, and we always felt better after the treatment. None of us gave much thought to possible long-term damage from the kerosene.
For just about everything else there was the tin of Alboline salve in the hall closet. It was brought out for rashes, burns, chapped and sunburned skin and anything else that couldn’t be cured with sugar-covered oranges, warm peppermint water and Daddy’s warm soft sock filled with salt.

This year, some of my work mates have already scurried off to physicians for flu. Me? I will keep drinking my warm water and I already have my cupboards stocked with gelatin and ginger ale. Nowadays if I get sick, I just sit home and feel cozy. If it gets really bad, I will heat up a salt sock and dream of childhood.


LOVE IN A TEAPOT
A Story of honoring loved ones by Peggy Peterson
I was away from home the day my mother dropped off the gift for my eighteenth birthday, a brown teapot with yellow and blue flowers painted on its small round sides. She left a note with it that said, "Happy Birthday, your house looks so nice and clean." It did not say she loved me.
On my twenty-fifth birthday she sent me a letter saying she was proud of me for the way I had kept my family together following my husband’s death. She did not say she loved me.
During the many years between my father’s death and hers, I became my mother’s primary support system. I found her an apartment a few blocks from our home. I stopped there every afternoon before going to work at my night job. I took her for groceries and for doctor appointments. I answered her frantic phone calls during her late night loneliness attacks. (I could not do the one thing she expected, the thing she really needed; I could not become my father.) Sometimes, after one of our many late-night trips to the hospital for treatment of yet another of her maladies, she would look at me and say, "You are so beautiful," words I needed as a pimply-faced teenager, not now. It was too late! It would not have been too late to say, "I love you."
The years folded away and the day came when she lay in a hospital bed, comatose, unable to speak. I murmured words of assurance, words of comfort that day, in that place, and caressed her stroke-frozen limbs. For the first time in many weeks, her hand moved. Her fingers closed over mine. Then I knew—she had always been saying, "I love you."


REMEMBERING BETH
A Story of honoring loved ones by Rachel Ophoff
Woven into the fabric of my Indian blanket are so many memories.
Beth's first picnic was on a beautiful September day like today, when I laid the blanket next to the river. Together, we cut Christmas trees and then sipped hot chocolate, caught the first warm rays of spring sunshine. The clouds became animals as we lay back on the blanket, enjoying our 'Beth and Mommy' days.
Summer was always the best. Beth loved to fish, and the high mountain lakes were our playground. On our blanket we cast out our lines, and talked of everything, and laughed.
On this perfect September morning, I grabbed the Indian blanket from the back of my car to wrap an accident victim on the road. When the EMTs arrived, they lifted him onto a gurney, still wrapped in the blanket; then sped off to the hospital, leaving me frozen in time.
I haven't been back to the Emergency Room since I went to identify Beth's body six months ago. Now I stand between yesterday and today, wondering how badly I want my blanket back.
Of course I go. Today is not horror; today is only sorrow, tinged with a residue of fear. The nurse on duty is the one who cleaned her up before I saw her. She sees me, and with instant recognition, hugs me while we cry. She asks me how I'm doing, and I shrug my shoulders, and we hug again. I thank her for her caring that day, and she tells me that she is a mom, too.
This afternoon, I will wash my blanket. I'll go again down to the river, where I will bury my face in the softness of wool that's been washed so many times over the years, and remember Beth.


I'VE DRIVEN THIS ROAD
A Poem by Margaret Murphy
I've driven this road so many times,
Always in a hurry
Forgetting to enjoy the cool green of spring
And the smoky brown of autumn

I stop my car next to the drooping fence
The barn sags too
The farm animals are long gone
The old house is still and lonely

The fields are weed-choked
A swing flaps idly in the wind
Next week there will be life again
Bulldozers will sweep house, coop, and barn

Hundred year old trees ripped out
Next autumn I will stop by again
This time to visit a new strip mall.


THE LAST OF J-BIRDS CAFE
A Story by Chuck MacDonald
I had my last breakfast this past Sunday. My last breakfast at J-Birds Café in Old Shasta that is. J-Birds (Jay’s to us local’s) has been a local icon of sorts, these past 20, 30 or more years. It was “The” hang out for all the locals in Old Shasta, especially the old timers. My wife and I and sometimes our running friends would go there on Sunday after our long run at the lake. If we were lucky we could sit at the counter if it was not too crowded. We could actually be almost one of the locals, Yakin with the waitress Dianne and listening to all the local gossip. It was always special at Jay’s, it would take you back in time almost to simpler days. It was small and not much on the menu. If it did not have grease and was not high in fat and calories it was not on the menu. Jay’s was from the time before low fat, low calorie good for you food. You went to Jay’s for Real Food, real artery clogging, grease dripping, great tasting food. We are all former grease junkies. Our long run seemed to justify our once a week Grease Fix at Jay’s. It is always worth it. Could it be that we run long on Sunday only so we can go to Jay’s. The pancakes, eggs and bacon are all cooked on the same (dare I say it) greasy griddle. There is no egg like a fried or scrambled egg in bacon grease, and no pancake like one cooked in bacon grease. I know my arteries are better off without Jay’s, but my spirit will miss it and the people there for a long time. So on this last day at Jay’s it was special as always, but sad too. Next Sunday no breakfast at Jay’s. The waitress said the owners were not making a go of it lately. Too few customers these days, not enough grease junkies. She said they were talking about a new sandwich shop. They would tear down our beloved Jay’s. In its place a new shinny, generic, cloned, sterile same as the rest sandwich shop, not our “Café”. (Can you tell that I do not like sandwich shops?) There seems to be a lot of that in the 90’s and the new millennium. In my mind all this new shinny, generic, cloned sterile same as the rest approach is very disappointing. (I was going to say it sucked, but felt that was a little strong.)
Well I got my last fix of grease, my last meal on the last day at Jay’s. Maybe because I am older now, I like old things, old cars, old people, old running shoes and old restaurants. Not all that is new is better I am convinced of that. Change is inevitable though and change is harder as you get older. I will not give up without a fight. The search is on now, for the new J-Bird’s Café replacement wherever that may be. I know in my heart that it will be the people and what Jay’s represented that I will miss the most. Good by J-Bird’s Café and may the new Jay’s replacement be half as good and I will feel fortunate indeed.

COME WITH ME
A poem by Becky Craig
Come with me now, where the warm wind blows,
Just for a little while,
We will fly to the moon and dance in the rain,
Just you and me, my child.

We will roar with the sea, splash in the creek,
Ride on the spout of a whale.
We will chatter to squirrels, hop with toads,
And count all the fishes' scales.

We will slide down a rainbow, soar with birds,
Scurry with autumn leaves.
We will buzz and bumble with honey bees,
And tumble with tumble weeds.

We can go anywhere, do anything,
Simply by closing our eyes.
We can rock to sleep in the eagle's high nest,
And flutter with butterflies.

Too soon you'll be grown, upright and strong,
With the cares of the world in your eyes,
So, come with me now, where the warm wind blows,
Just for a little while.


I Built a Fort Today...
A Story by Kevin Rowatt
I built a fort today, and tore down some walls.
The walls I tear down today are of that of a close to middle age man who's been jaded buy his experiences, by his life by his failings.
I built a fort today and all I meant to do was fish.
I tear down the walls by going back, back to who I was who I always dreamed I would be. But how was I to know I would change, I would grow up and fall down. Today I remind myself of whom I am inside. For on this warm afternoon in December I take off my shoes and roll up my pants and feel the cold ocean against my toes. My 8-year-old daughter called it a teepee and she had the excitement in her voice. The voice deep and unmistakable, The one she gets from her mother a
voice I found alluring as a teenage boyfriend and find unique and adorable as a father. That voice that is my wives and now it belongs to both of them. My 11-year-old daughter didn't care what it was called. She was more interested in making sure it had a strong foundation. Packing the sand around the pieces of wood. The foundation that she regularly reminds me that we need to build with God. You see she too has much of her mother dwelling inside of her. As I was assisting in the construction I was convinced we were building a fort, a
fort of driftwood and seaweed and tumbleweeds smoothed by weeks maybe months in the unforgivable ocean.
And all I went to do was fish. Today I find myself reliving what I thought was lost. Down by the ocean at a place they call Salt Creek, a place I surfed as a teenager and now as an adult try to shake all that has transformed me. Today I am that child, a child who doesn't mind the tiny grains of sand creeping into his underwear. On this day I will ignore that my pants are half wet and are weighing me down like a father who forgets what it's like to be a child. And as I try to regain that feeling that I lost so long ago, I assist in the construction of the fort that my youngest calls a teepee. Piece by piece we build we perfect, each of us with our own vision of what it should look like. I forgot the attention span I had as a child. Soon they move on to other things, for there is a sand hill to climb and slide down. Cartwheels to perform on the shore. Now my children are exploring who they are and who they envision they will be, an architect, a mountain climber or maybe a gymnast in
the Olympics. I remind myself there are no limits to your dreams when you're a child.
As I walk with my youngest daughter back to our truck along the trail in the sand that the Lifeguard jeep has so perfectly laid down for us. My daughter looks up at me and says thank you daddy; daddy I could say thank you a
thousand times.
I am reminded of the rock I placed in my pocket, a rock that is a link to my past and the little boy I used to be, a symbol of who I have become weathered, and revealing many layers. This rock that that will hold a sacred place in my humble home. This rock nicked and scared that will forever be a reminder of the day that I decided to take a moment and roll back time and build a teepee, when all I planned to do was fish.

Early Days
A story of summer by Lee Rumbles, Boulder, CO.
I feel ill. The morning sunshine is warming my back, smiling faces are milling around me, and there she is in a heap of tears. She loves me so.
How, after so many weeks, how can I leave her? Haven’t all those hot days filled with swimming outdoors, barbequing, watching TV meant anything to me? How can I now simply turn my back and begin adventures on my own?
She senses the small skip in my step, the slight freedom now present in my day. She knows that I will fork in a direction without her, experience things she will miss out on. Her shoulders rise and fall, as she can’t quite stop weeping. The sun feels even warmer now.
It is early days. This is only Day 3 and she will move on. Other adults look at us, knowingly, not dismissing this show of emotion as indicative of a tantrum or sulk … it is genuine heartache. Unfortunately, these understanding glances only cause the lump to rise higher in my throat. I want to weep with her, tell her I understand how hard life is and, sad though it may seem, it only gets harder. I swallow.
Funny how we shuffle them through their little lives, always behind them shooing them along to the next step. “Don’t be silly,” we say, “you’ll do fine.” It’s all so much sometimes. I love her so and miss her during the day. I offer her feeble consolation – “but I have work to do and it would be so boring for you” – to which her chin crumples and she simple whispers, “I just want to be with you.”
Well, five hours to go and I guess I had better pull myself together and keep to my word … remembering I have work to do. While I sit sniffing, I just hope she is laughing on the monkey bars.

The Doggonest Tale
A Story by Sara Fortune Robison
An old English Sheepdog, named Inez, sits in the entry of our home. How it came to be there is a tale aching to be told.
Never one to do things by degree, my mother acquired not one, but two Old English Sheepdogs. Not so incidentally, Mother's Toy Poodle has been bitten by the female sheepdog.
As a Christmas gift for mother, I painted a plaster of Paris sheepdog. When Mother opened the gift, her poodle took one look and promptly left the room.
Mother's youngest brother, who lived in Nebraska, loved that painted canine. When Mother died, she left the dog to him. On the way home from Mother's funeral, my uncle had to stop a lot to relieve himself. He blamed the dog and began to call it Inez, after my mother.
When my uncle died, I asked to have the dog. As I carefully put it in our car, an aunt remarked, "I always thought that dog was atrocious." Of course, she didn't know I'd painted it.
And that's the story of how an Old English Sheepdog, named Inez, came to sit in the entry of our home.

My Black Thumb
A Story by Margret Murphy
The first seed catalogue arrived December 23rd. I spent hours drooling over the luscious berries, 200 pound pumpkins, and exotic flowers. Fruit trees are mysterious. I tried to grow a peach tree once, but blight, bugs, and squirrels robbed me of any produce. A lightning bolt split the tree and visions of peach butter and peach pie disappeared in the trash pile.
I have thought long and hard about my black thumb. I decided it stems from the fact that I am not fortunate enough to live in Iowa. Most seed companies have their roots in Iowa. The soil there is rich and black. Korean boxwood and Manchurian apricots thrive there. Not so in the barren ground around my house. I had the soil tested, bought every nutrient Earl May suggested, and harvested only a few stunted green beans. I once described my blighted garden to a clerk at Earl May. She sold me $25 worth of rosemary. Guaranteed to thrive anywhere. In July, the rosemary shriveled and died. Next year I plan to put potted plants in the garden. I am looking forward to late December, when the seed catalogues fill my mailbox with their siren songs.

Mrs. Childs
A Story By Kimberly Nicol Bass
As a new school year starts, I wish the best for my daughter, Holland. She needs a supportive, caring teacher because it can take her time to warm up to new situations. Her current teacher has a hard act to follow. Holland's kindergarten teacher was a rare gem. She was just what Holland needed after an all business pre-school teacher that I never felt fit in that age group.
Just before kindergarten started, Holland received a personal note from her teacher saying how excited she was about having Holland in her class. She signed it Mrs. Childs. The name delighted my daughter. To me it held the promise of a teacher who cared about each child.
We were not disappointed. Initially, Mrs. Childs' delight in meeting the children seemed almost too good to be true. I though her attitude would surely fade in time. But her enthusiasm never waned. Her patience was abundant and her gratefulness to parent helpers was always verbalized. Her love of learning was passed on to each child and her love for each child was clear.
During the course of the year I learned from a child, who had Mrs. Childs the year before, that the whole class had been invited to her wedding. So her name had been different; of course, she wasn't born a Mrs.. But this inclusion of the children was just another piece of evidence of how clearly the name fit her. On the last day of school, Mrs. Childs read a poem about how she enjoyed the children and how she would miss them. Whether she'd written it herself or not, I don't know. But it was obvious she meant every word when she choked up while reading. And I don't think I was the only parent who did the same.

What School Doesn't Teach
By Will Trout
When I entered high school in 1925, we had one great advantage. Plenty of room to park our Model T-Fords.
I have often wished since then that someone would have told me a few things that I later learned the hard way.
May I pass them on to you?
Learn all you can, when you can. There is a lot of competition out there and knowledge cannot be taken from you.
You will never be prosperous as long as you work for money. The trick is to get money working for you.
Put some savings away before you spend. You will not miss it and you will certainly need it
You are responsible for what you do. Don't wait until a police officer has to tell you that.
Be optimistic. Everything happens for the best.
There is a reason for everything and you are not running the show.
Believe in a higher power. You may come to a time when there is no place to go but down on your knees.
Stay in the middle of the road.
Just a few beers and you may find you like alcohol. Alcohol can ruin your life and take your loved ones with you.
Just a few puffs on your first cigarette and you're hooked. Save your money and save your health. You will need them both.
A sample of drugs may not only start you down the wrong road, you may not even be able to find the road.
Enjoy getting up in the morning. There may come a time when you can't.
When you are young, you have a future. When you are old you have a past, so build some happy memories.

This is Lassie - This is Love
A story of a beloved pet from June Zuber, Tacoma, Washington
I have a four footed angel who is my ears and my protector. I have had many dogs, most of these were purebred, a lot of them having won ribbons and trophies. As much as I loved these purebreds and will never forget them, this half-breed, black-and-white Border Collie/Australian Shepherd has out shined them all.
Could it be her intelligence, her aptness to learn and work on her own? I don't know. If I wake up one morning and see a golden halo floating over her head I won't be surprised.
She takes her job (me) seriously. No more missed phone calls or knocks on the door. I do not worry about a fire either. I have two alarms, the one on the wall and the one on four legs. I do not worry about being alone, as she would protect me with her life - as she has proved it when she saved me from a car-jacker.
If you have never had a close relationship with a dog you might not understand and you don't know what you are missing.
How did we find one another? This is the hard part to relate to you but I will do my best to explain. She was found eating out of a dumpster, the most pitiful sight I have ever laid eyes on. She was emaciated, dirty, and had been horribly abused. When I use that awful word it means broken bones and scabs from burns and cuts. If I could have found the individual that had done this, what I was thinking was this: "You caused her to suffer untold agony, now it is your turn." Her veterinarian felt the same way. I am not a violent person, but I had to ask God's forgiveness that night. I asked the vet, "when I bring her home what should I do," as I had never worked with an abused dog in my life. The vet told me"(1) Do not push her; (2) Do not pick up anything - say like a broom - in her presence as she could confuse as a club'. Then he looked at me and said, "Listen here, Lady, your middle name is "Canine" and you have had dogs forever and you were even accepted into a wolf pack, so play it by ear." Wow, was my ear sore!
There were times when it was one step forward and two steps back. There were a lot of tears and banging my head against the wall, too, until one night I talked to her, just like I am writing to you. "Lassie, I've done all I could. I have no one but you and you have no one but me. If you cannot accept me, it will make me very, very sad. Girl, it's all up to you now." It had been close to 17 months of trying and I was just about all tired out. I looked into those brown eyes and went into the living room and sat down. I sat there with closed eyes and said "Lord, what went wrong?" Tears were running down my face. Then I felt a pressure on my leg. She had made up her mind. She laid that black-and-white head in my lap. I looked down into those brown eyes and they were filled with love. I think she knew too that it was now or never. She was my dog. She gave herself to me. From then on we became a loving team. I laid my hand on her head gently, we talked silently with our eyes and with our minds.
Do not ever think that you cannot communicate with your dog (or cat for that matter). Your voice, your touch, or eye contact is that communication. For those of us who read the Bible, turn to Job 12:7-10. "But ask the animals, and they will tell you; or the birds of the air, and they will tell you; or speak to the earth and it will teach you; or let the fish of the sea inform you. In His hand is the life of every creature."

The Reunion
A story of friends from Gayle Pylant, Houston, Texas.
It was the love for a friend and friends for each other that brought seven life-long buddies together after 25+ years. Jo Ann Lang, of Littleton, Colorado, decided it was time for a reunion with her church friends she had grown up with in Houston, Texas. In the springtime, plans were put in motion and the church youth reunion was set for the last weekend in July. Unfortunately, Jo Ann's health rapidly declined so that by early summer it became apparent she would not be able to make the trip to Texas. Determined that Jo Ann have her reunion on the scheduled date, six close friends wrote, phoned and made travel arrangements to take the reunion to her. Those friends came from Eden Prairie, Minnesota: Walker's Bay, Bahamas Islands; Fort Worth and Houston, Texas. Our visit found her in the middle of chemo treatments, however she assured us we were her best medicine as we hugged, laughed and shared memories as though time had stood still. Friends who could not make the trip sent cards, letters, balloons or called. We felt a common bond--roots which stemmed from "the church with a heart" where we first learned the value of true friendship. With misty eyes, we accepted her needlepoint gifts, "OLD FRIENDS ARE BEST" she hand-stitched for us on a few "good" days.
For each of us the Colorado Trip of 1995 was especially significant in that we realized it would probably be our last visit with Jo Ann. It was. She lost her battle with brain cancer June, 1996. Not a day passes that I don't think of my beloved friend. Thankfully, memories comfort me until we meet again for the final reunion. In the words of a wonderful, old Baptist hymn, "What a day that will be!" The exact date and time are unknown, but I am ready.

A Family Food Story
from Barbara Martzen, Selma, CA.
Dad drove to the closed gate and stopped. Mother nudged me, "Let me out." She walked to the gate to open it. The driveway led beside the barn and to the Victorian house which belonged to my grandparents, the Emmett Bensons. My three sisters and I raced across the covered porch, and through the door which led to the kitchen. It seemed Grandma always waited in front of the window to watch as we ran to greet her.
Our family anticipated the annual Benson reunion. This year, 1942, was no exception. About fifty of the large clan came to share a turkey dinner. The enormous oak table filled with the salads and desserts each family contributed. A well browned turkey dominated the table. Mashed potatoes and gravy in large bowls were placed next to the turkey. Mother made a shimmering tomatoe aspic salad as she usually did for the holidays.
The young people's and children's mouths watered as they quickly filled their plates and hurried to the sitting room and parlor to sit at tables prepared for them. The children's meals were soon finished. The staircases became a jungle gym as we ran up one staircase and down another. We slid down the banister with great speed and landed at the bottom with a thud, only to run up and slide down again.
When dinner finished for the older people in the middle of the afternoon, the men lingered at the table to discuss politics and religion. The women and older girls retired to the kitchen to clean the large stack of dishes. Some of the dishes were given to the Bensons for wedding gifts. My favorite was a crystal bowl called a spoon holder. Spoons were not placed at the place settings but in the bowl which was passed. I felt happy that I was still too young to do the clean up work except in a minor way.
"It's time for our football game." cousin Hal said. Hal was about ten years older that I was, and I admired him. Several cousins, young and older, ran to the top of the hill behind the house. Uncle Hugh walked up a little slower. There were enough older boys to teach the young girls how to handle a football.
"Throw me the ball. Throw me the ball," yelled Hal as I tried to block him. The game went on until dark, when the group retired to the parlor to play board games and to sing at the piano. My cousin, Evie, played the piano like an expert and several of the cousins developed pleasant voices. I listened to the voices blending in harmony. "I want to grow up to be as talented as my family.," I thought as I studied the painting hanging above the piano. My grandmother painted it as a teenager.
The music and art which became interesting to me as a child are an important part of my older age. I believe the traditions of my childhood have been ongoing even to old age.

As Broads Go, She's Gone!
A story from Phyllis A. Allen, Phoeniz, Arizona.
The sponsor of my weekly 15-minute radio fishing report called the station manager and said, "I'm sorry, but you have to get that broad off the air. I'm getting too much flak from my customers."
The caller owned the biggest sporting good store in southern Oregon. But, the "good ol' boys" who roamed the Rogue River summer weekends, just couldn't put up with a woman telling them where to fish, what to fish for, and what flies and bait were getting the best hits.
The news director pulled me off the program. I sputtered and spouted and bemoaned the injustice of it all to no avail. The sponsor was always right. So I continued to write the fishing report, but he read it. Furious at the Rogue River rednecks who scorned my superior fishing knowledge, and at the sponsor who caved to their demands, our family took our considerable tackle business to another store.
Those summer weekends on the Rogue, at places like Natural Bridge, the South Fork, and Woodruff Meadows; and tromping along dozens of small streams, will never be forgotten. Ever alert for snakes and bears, we hiked and fished up river and down, often holding salmon eggs in our mouths to warm them. Later, when our snelled hooks pierced the oil pocket in an egg, the Rainbow, Dolly Varden, Cutthroat and Brown trout would more quickly rise to the bait, or so we thought.
We fished for food, relishing every bite of every trout, drenched in corn meal and fried to a crisp brown in bacon grease. We made certain to freeze enough to enjoy Christmas morning--a family tradition.
Admittedly, the word "broadcast" came to have a new meaning for me. This "broad" could cast and catch better than most; but she was not allowed to broadcast her knowledge over the airwaves.

Lost and Found
A Garage Sale story from Paula Jennings
For most people, garage sales are an opportunity to find that perfect basket, used bicycle, or slightly rusted garden tool. But for brother and sister, Bob and Lois DeSalvo, who had lost track of each other nearly forty years ago, their "find" at a Sun City garage sale was one another.
As children, Bob and Lois always had a special bond. Growing up, they were the best of friends and at Lois' wedding, Bob walked her down the aisle. But a number of unexpected moves suddenly divided the family, and brother and sister lost track of each other.
Bob had searched for Lois for four decades. He thought Lois had moved to California and looked for her there. He contacted dozens of relatives with no success. He combed telephone directories and surfed the web. Now in their seventies, Bob's interest in reconnecting with Lois was strong. But he'd exhausted his resources.
What Bob did not know was that two years ago, they had both moved to Sun City in Las Vegas. As a matter of fact, they moved at approximately the same time, and Bob often walked his dog by his sister's house two blocks away. But neither one knew it.
The garage sale that brought Lois and Bob together could have been just an ordinary garage sale. A human error was the auspicious catalyst. Misplaced table numbers mistakenly put their tables side by side. Bob's wife, Yvonne, was selling her paintings and DeSalvo, their last name, was scrawled across the bottom. Lois' husband happened to notice. This serendipitous conversation sparked the revelation that their spouses were related.
Now reunited, Bob and Lois are catching up on 40 years. This priceless coincidence was one thing neither Bob nor Lois ever expected to find at a Sun City garage sale.



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