Morning Story and Dilbert

Vintage Dilbert
July 23, 2003

Kleenex Alert!!!

Dar and I loved to dance. It was probably the first thing we did together, long before we would share our lives. We grew up in a small Oregon mountain community where dances were held almost every Saturday night, sometimes at the Grange Hall, sometimes at the home of Nelson Nye. Nelson and his family loved music and dancing so much that they added a special room to their house, large enough to accommodate at least three sets of square dances. Once a month or more, they invited the entire community to a dance. Nelson played the fiddle and his daughter, Hope, played the piano while the rest of us danced.

In those days, the entire family went together – including the grandparents, the farmers and loggers, the schoolteachers and the store owner. We danced to songs such as “Golden Slippers” and “Red Wing,” side-by-side with contemporary ones like “Red Sails in the Sunset” and “It’s a Sin to Tell a Lie.”

Smaller children always had a place to sleep among the coats, close at hand, when they tired. It was a family affair, one of the few entertainments in a small mountain town climbing slowly out of the Great Depression.

Dar was seventeen, and I was twelve, when we first danced. He was one of the best dancers on the floor, and so was I. We always jitterbugged. No slow dancing for us, nothing remotely romantic. Our fathers would stand along the wall and watch. They weren’t friends. They didn’t talk to each other, not even a casual conversation. Both good dancers themselves, they were proud of their kids. Every once in a awhile, Dar’s dad would smile a little, shake his head and say, to no one in particular, but so my dad could hear, “Boy, my kid can sure dance.”

My dad never blinked an eye; he acted like he’d never heard. But a while later he would say, to no one in particular, “That girl of mine can sure dance.” And being of the old school, they never told us we were that good or had stirred that tiny bit of boastful rivalry along the wall.

Our dancing together stopped for five years while Dar was in the South Pacific in World War II. During those five years, I grew up. When we met again, Dar was twenty-two, and I was almost eighteen. We began to date – and dance again.

This time it was for ourselves – finding our moves, our turns, our rhythms – adjusting, anticipating, enjoying. We were as good together as we remembered, and this time we added slow dancing to our repertoire.

For us, the metaphor fits. Life is a dance, a movement of rhythms, directions, stumbles, missteps, at times slow and precise, or fast and wild and joyous. We did all the steps.

Two nights before Dar died, the family was with us as they had been for several days – two sons and their wives and four of our eight grandchildren. We all ate dinner together, and Dar sat with us. He hadn’t been able to eat for several weeks, but he enjoyed it all – told jokes, kidded the boys about their cribbage playing, played with two-year-old Jacob.

Afterward, while the girls were cleaning up the kitchen, I put on a Nat King Cole tape, Unforgettable. Dar took me in his arms, weak as he was, and we danced.

We held each other and danced and smiled. No tears for us. We were doing what we had loved to do for more than fifty years, and if fate had so ordained, would have gone on doing for fifty more. It was our last dance – forever unforgettable. I wouldn’t have missed it for the world.

By Thelda Bevens
Reprinted by permission of Thelda Bevens © 1997, from Chicken Soup 
for the Couple's Soul by Jack Canfield, Mark Victor Hansen, Mark 
& Chrissy Donnelly and Barbara De Angelis.
Morning Story and Dilbert

Vintage Dilbert
July 21, 2014

A couple, whom we shall call John and Mary, had a nice home and two lovely children, a boy and a girl. John had a good job and had just been asked to go on a business trip to another city and would be gone for several days. It was decided that Mary needed an outing and would go along too. They hired a reliable woman to care for the children and made the trip, returning home a little earlier than they had planned.

As they drove into their home town feeling glad to be back, they noticed smoke, and they went off their usual route to see what it was. They found a home in flames. Mary said, “Oh well it isn’t our fire, let’s go home.”

But John drove closer and exclaimed, “That home belongs to Fred Jones who works at the plant. He wouldn’t be off work yet, maybe there is something we could do.” “It has nothing to do with us.” Protested Mary. “You have your good clothes on lets not get any closer.”

But John drove up and stopped and they were both horror stricken to see the whole house in flames. A woman on the lawn was in hysterics screaming, “The children! Get the children!” John grabbed her by the shoulder saying, “Get a hold of yourself and tell us where the children are!” “In the basement,” sobbed the woman, “down the hall and to the left.”

In spite of Mary’s protests John grabbed the water hose and soaked his clothes, put his wet handkerchief on his head and bolted for the basement which was full of smoke and scorching heat. He found the door and grabbed two children, holding one under each arm like the football player he was. As he left he could hear some more whimpering. He delivered the two badly frightened and nearly suffocated children into waiting arms and filled his lungs with fresh air and started back asking how many more children were down there. They told him two more and Mary grabbed his arm and screamed, “John! Don’t go back! It’s suicide! That house will cave in any second!”

But he shook her off and went back by feeling his way down the smoke filled hallway and into the room. It seemed an eternity before he found both children and started back. They were all three coughing and he stooped low to get what available air he could. As he stumbled up the endless steps the thought went through his mind that there was something strangely familiar about the little bodies clinging to him, and at last when they came out into the sunlight and fresh air, he found that he had just rescued his own children. The baby-sitter had left them at this home while she did some shopping.

Author Unknown - Please comment if you know the author
 so credit can be given
Morning Story and Dilbert

Vintage Dilbert
July 21, 2011

At first I saw God as my observer, my judge, keeping track of the things I did wrong, so as to know whether I merited heaven or hell when I die. He was out there sort of like a president. I recognized his picture when I saw it, but I really didn’t know Him.

But later on, when I met God, it seemed as though life were rather like a bike ride, but it was a tandem bike, and I noticed that God was at the back, helping me pedal.

I don’t know when it was that He suggested that we change places, but life has not been the same since. When I had control I knew the way. It was rather boring, but predictable. It was the shortest distance between two points. But when He took the lead, He knew delightful long cuts, up mountains, and through rocky places at breakneck speeds. It was all I could do to hang on!

Even though it looked like madness, He said, “Pedal!” I worried and was anxious and asked, “Where are you taking me?” He laughed and didn’t answer, and I started to learn to trust. I forgot my boring life and entered into the adventure. And when I’d say, “I’m scared,” He’d lean back and touch my hand.

He took me to people with gifts that I needed; gifts of healing, acceptance and joy. They gave me gifts to take on my journey. And we were off again. He said, “give the gifts away; they’re extra baggage, too much weight.” So I did, to the people we met, and I found that in giving I received, and still our burden was light.

I did not trust Him, at first, in control of my life. I thought He’d wreck it; but He knows bike secrets, knows how to make it bend to take sharp corners, knows how to jump to clear high rocks, knows how to fly to shorten scary passages. And I am learning to shut up and pedal in the strangest places, and I’m beginning to enjoy the view and the cool breeze on my face with God as my delightful constant companion.

And when I’m sure I just can’t do anymore, He just smiles and says,

“Pedal!”

 

Author Unknown - Please comment if you know the author so credit can be given

Originally posted on S.P.I.R.I.T Ministries:

Photo Credit Wikipedia

Photo Credit Wikipedia

I would like to share an amazing story with you my friends. Many of you know that I did many years in prison. Given the opportunity, would I change it? I can say absolutely not. Why you may ask? Prison is where I met my best friend and many good brothers. My best friend happens to be Jesus Christ my Lord and Savior.

I met  a guy in prison many years ago. It was before I ever knew anything about Jesus Christ, God, or the Holy Spirit. I was living in the flesh full throttle. I was in the long-term segregation unit in El Dorado under investigation for my conduct. One day they released me from segregation and placed me in his living unit. He got me a job in the laundry and we became good friends. We looked out for one another until he was transferred to…

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morningstoryanddilbert:

…today I was flipping through some old MS&D Post and found a real “Keeper”  -  Enjoy the Re-Blog!!! Take Care and God Bless  :-)  Kenny T

Originally posted on Morning Story and Dilbert:

dilbert

I grew up in the ’50s with very practical parents. A mother, God love her, who washed aluminum foil after she cooked in it, then reused it. She was the original recycle queen, before they had a name for it.

My father was happier getting old shoes fixed than buying new ones. Their marriage was good, their dreams focused. Their best friends lived barely a wave away.  I can see them now, Dad in trousers, tee shirt and a hat and Mom in a house dress, lawn mower in one hand, dishtowel in the other.

It was the time for fixing things. A curtain rod, the kitchen radio, screen door, the oven door, the hem in a dress. Things we keep. It was a way of life, and sometimes it made me crazy.  All that re-fixing, eating, renewing, I wanted just once to be wasteful.  Waste meant affluence. Throwing things…

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Morning Story and Dilbert

Vintage Dilbert
July 16, 2014

In a university commencement address several years ago Brian Dyson, CEO of Coca-Cola Enterprises, spoke of the relation of work to one’s other commitments:

“Imagine life as a game in which you are juggling some five balls in the air. You name them – work, family, health, friends and spirit and you’re keeping all of these in the air. You will soon understand that work is a rubber ball. If you drop it, it will bounce back. But the other four balls – family, health, friends and spirit are made of glass. If you drop one of these, they will be irrevocably scuffed, marked, nicked, damaged or even shattered. They will never be the same. You must understand that and strive for balance in your life.

How? Don’t undermine your worth by comparing yourself with others.
It is because we are different that each of us is special.

Don’t set your goals by what other people deem important.
Only you know what is best for you.

Don’t take for granted the things closest to your heart.
Cling to them as you would your life, for without them,
life is meaningless.

Don’t let your life slip through your fingers
by living in the past or for the future.
By living your life one day at a time, you live ALL the days of your life.

Don’t give up when you still have something to give.
Nothing is really over until the moment you stop trying.

Don’t be afraid to admit that you are less than perfect.
It is this fragile thread that binds us to each together.

Don’t be afraid to encounter risks.
It is by taking chances that we learn how to be brave.

Don’t shut love out of your life by saying it’s impossible to find.
The quickest way to receive love is to give;
the fastest way to lose love is to hold it too tightly;
and the best way to keep love is to give it wings.

Don’t run through life so fast that you forget not only where you’ve been,
but also where you are going.

Don’t forget that a person’s greatest emotional need is to feel appreciated.

Don’t be afraid to learn.
Knowledge is weightless, a treasure you can always carry easily.

Don’t use time or words carelessly. Neither can be retrieved.

Life is not a race, but a journey to be savored each step of the way.
Yesterday is History, Tomorrow is a Mystery and Today is a gift:
that’s why we call it  -     The Present.

Author Unknown - Please comment if you know the author
 so credit can be given
Morning Story and Dilbert

Vintage Dilbert
July 15, 2014

He was scary-looking. Standing about 6 foot 6 inches tall, he had shoulders the width of my dining room table. His hair hung to his shoulders, a full beard obscured half of his face; his massive arms and chest were covered with tattoos. He was wearing greasy blue jeans and a jean jacket with the sleeves cut out. Chains clanked on his motorcycle boots and on the key ring hanging from his wide leather belt. He held out a hand the size of a pie plate, in which lay a tiny, misshapen kitten.

“What’s wrong with Tiny, Doc?” he asked in a gruff voice.

My exam revealed a birth defect. Tiny’s spine had never grown together, and he was paralyzed in his back legs. No amount of surgery, medicine, or prayer was going to fix him – I felt helpless.

The only thing I could tell this big, hairy giant was that his little friend was going to die. I was ashamed of my prejudice but I felt a little nervous anticipating the biker’s reaction. Being the bearer of bad news is never pleasant, but with a rough-looking character like the man in front of me, I didn’t know what to expect.

I tried to be as tactful as possible, explaining Tiny’s problem and what we could expect, which was a slow, lingering death. I braced myself for his response.

But the big fella only looked at me with eyes that I could barely see through the hair on his face and said sadly, “I guess we gotta do him, huh, Doc?”

I agreed that, yes, the best way to help Tiny was to give him the injection that would end his poor pain-filled life. So with his owner holding Tiny, we ended the little kitten’s pain.

When it was over, I was surprised to see this macho guy, the size of an oak tree, just standing there holding Tiny, with tears running down his beard. He never apologized for crying, but he managed a choked ” Thanks, Doc,” as he carried his little friend’s body home to bury him.

Although ending a patient’s life is never pleasant, my staff and I all agreed that we were glad that we could stop the sick kitten’s pain. Weeks passed, and the incident faded.

Then one day the oak-sized biker appeared in the clinic again. It looked ominously like we were about to repeat the earlier scenario. The huge man was wearing the same clothes and carrying another kitten in his pie plate hand. But I was enormously relieved upon examining “Tiny Two” to find he was absolutely, perfectly, wonderfully normal and healthy.

I started Tiny Two’s vaccinations, tested him for worms and discussed his care, diet, and future needs with his deceptively tough-looking owner. By now, it was obvious that Mr. Oak Tree had a heart that matched his size.

I wonder now how many other Hell’s Angel-types are really closet marshmallows. In fact, whenever I see a pack of scary-looking bikers roaring past me on the road, I crane my neck to see if I can catch a glimpse of some tiny little kitten poking its head up out of a sleek chrome side-car or maybe even peeking out from inside the front of a black leather jacket.

By Dr. Dennis K. McIntosh
from Chicken Soup for the Pet Lover's Soul
Copyright 1998 by Jack Canfield, Mark Victor Hansen, Marty Becker
and Carol Kline
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