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Vintage Dilbert March 11, 2011

Vintage Dilbert
March 11, 2011

A son took his old father to a restaurant for an evening dinner.  Father being very old and weak, while eating, dropped food on his shirt and trousers.  Other diners watched him in disgust while his son was calm.

After he finished eating, his son who was not at all embarrassed, quietly took him to the wash room, wiped the food particles, removed the stains, combed his hair and fitted his spectacles firmly.  When they came out, the entire restaurant was watching them in dead silence, not able to grasp how someone could embarrass themselves publicly like that.  The son settled the bill and started walking out with his father.

At that time, an old man amongst the diners called out to the son and asked him, “Don’t you think you have left something behind?”.

The son replied, “No sir, I haven’t”.

The old man retorted, “Yes, you have!  You left a lesson for every son and hope for every father”.

The restaurant went silent.

I hope you enjoyed this story about Dad's as much as I have..... 
Explore the MS&D archives for over 1000 additional stories... 
Take Care and God Bless :-) Kenny T
Author: Amir A Kader
Morning Story and Dilbert

Vintage Dilbert
June 10, 2000

My son Gilbert was eight years old and had been in Cub Scouts only a
short time. During one of his meetings he was handed a sheet of paper,
a block of wood and four tires and told to return home and give all to
“dad.” That was not an easy task for Gilbert to do. Dad was not
receptive to doing things with his son. But Gilbert tried. Dad read
the paper and scoffed at the idea of making a pine wood derby car with
his young, eager son.

The block of wood remained untouched as the weeks passed. Finally, Mom
stepped in to see if I could figure this all out. The project began.
Having no carpentry or mechanical skills, I decided it would be best if
I simply read the directions and let Gilbert do the work. And he did.
I read aloud the measurements, the rules of what we could do and what we
couldn’t do. Within days his block of wood was turning into a pinewood
derby car. A little lopsided, but looking great (at least through the
eyes of Mom).

Gilbert had not seen any of the other kids cars and was feeling pretty
proud of his “Blue Lightning,” the pride that comes with knowing you did
something on your own. Then the big night came. With his blue pinewood
derby in his hand and pride in his heart we headed to the big race.
Once there my little one’s pride turned to humility. Gilbert’s car was
obviously the only car made entirely on his own. All the other cars
were a father-son partnership, with cool paint jobs and sleek body
styles made for speed. Gilbert’s car was an unattractive vehicle. To
add to the humility Gilbert was the only boy without a man at his side.
A couple of the boys who were from single parent homes at least had an
uncle or grandfather by their side, Gilbert had “Mom.”

As the race began it was done in elimination fashion. You kept racing
as long as you were the winner. One by one the cars raced down the
finely sanded ramp. Finally it was between Gilbert and the sleekest,
fastest looking car there. As the last race was about to begin, my wide
eyed, shy eight year old ask if they could stop the race for a minute,
because he wanted to pray. The race stopped.

Gilbert hit his knees clutching his funny looking block of wood
between his hands. With a wrinkled brow he set to converse with his
Father. He prayed in earnest for a very long minute and a half. Then he
stood, smile on his face and announced, ‘Okay, I am ready.”

As the crowd cheered, a boy named Tommy stood with his father as their
car sped down the ramp. Gilbert stood with his heavenly Father within
his heart and watched his block of wood wobble down the ramp with
surprisingly great speed and rushed over the finish line a fraction of a
second before Tommy’s car.

Gilbert leaped into the air with a loud “Thank you” as the crowd
roared in approval. The Scout Master came up to Gilbert with microphone
in hand and asked the obvious question, “So you prayed to win, huh,
Gilbert?”

To which my young son answered, “Oh, no sir. That wouldn’t be fair to
ask God to help you beat someone else. I just asked Him to make it so I
don’t cry when I lose.”

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

Vintage Dilbert
October 14, 1995

Alison was a very determined four year old girl. She was interested in everything, but drawing especially was her expertise. Her mother Ann bought her papers and colors and brushes and pencils and it seemed Alison used them all in a day or two.

This time she had decided she wanted to learn to draw houses. Where ever you looked, you could see papers with drawings of square houses with square windows and little chimney’s on the roof – smoke curling up to the sky under a bright yellow sun, in an amazingly blue sky that invariably had one white cloud too. And there was always bright green grass around the house, speckled with red flowers. Alison loved red flowers.

Alison showed her drawings to everyone. She especially wanted to impress her father. There is a time when daughters and dads bond strongly, and Alison sure loved her dad and wanted to bond. She wanted to bond very much – but dad always seemed to be to busy. Ann watched with a heavy heart how daughter and dad very seldom played together and how the father reacted to Alison’s attempts to show her drawings to him.

– Yes, honey, that is lovely, he would barely glimpse at Alison´s drawings, and then answer his cell phone or go to his study.

One day Alison used many hours to draw a really detailed house. It was magnificent. She had drawn individual tiles and colored them one by one, carefully leaving white space between the tiles. She had drawn curtains in the windows, and herself, mom and dad looking out of the them. On the lawn was the puppy she so much wanted to have.

– Look, mom! she ran to show her drawing to her mother.

– Oh, Alison, this is so beautiful!! Your best ever!

Alison beamed.

– I´ll show this to dad now!

She ran down the hall to the closed door of her father´s study.

– Dad! Dad! She tried to open the door.

It was locked. Alison´s mom saw the expression of disappointment on her daughter´s face. She reached for the door knob once again.

– Dad?

They could hear him talking on the phone with someone. Then the talking stopped.

– DAD! Alison knocked on the door, – I want you to see the house I made!

– I´m sorry, Alison, I am busy, came the voice behind the door, – Can´t you show it to someone else?

Alison´s hand fell down to her side. She looked down on her magnificent drawing and her lower lip started to tremble.

– I don´t want to show it to anyone else. I want to show it to my dad. You’re the only dad I have!

The last words were no more than a whisper and yet they were left hanging in the air like someone had shouted them.

Alison´s mom felt such heaviness in her heart and she took a step towards her daughter, ready for a hug. But before she took another step, she heard a click. The door was unlocked and Alison´s dad appeared. He looked embarrassed.

– I´m sorry Alison. I was stupid, he kissed his daughter´s cheek, – Come here and we´ll look at your drawing!

 

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

Vintage Dilbert
September 13, 1999

 

Kleenex and Snort ALERT!!!!

I awoke in the night to find my husband, Marty, gently rocking our baby son, Noah.

I stood for a moment in the doorway, watching this amazing man with whom I was so blessed to share my life, lovingly stroke Noah’s fat pink cheeks in an effort to comfort him.

I felt in my heart that something was seriously wrong with Noah. This was one of several nights Noah had been up, burning with a high fever.

Tears filled my eyes as I watched my beautiful husband move Noah’s little cheek up against his own chest, so that Noah could feel the vibrations of his voice. Noah is deaf. Learning to comfort him has brought on a whole new way of thinking for us. We relied on our voices, a soothing lullaby, audio toys, and music to comfort our other children. But with Noah, we need to use touch, his soft blankie, sight, the feel of our voices, and most importantly, the use of sign language to communicate emotions and a sense of comfort to him. My husband made the sign for “I love you” with his hand and I saw a tear roll down his cheek as he placed Noah’s tiny, weak hand on top of his.

We had taken Noah to the doctor more times than I can remember. It had been a week and a half and Noah’s fever remained very high and very dangerous, despite everything the doctor or we had tried. I knew in my soul the way only a mother can know, that Noah was in trouble.

I gently touched my husband’s shoulder and we looked into each other’s eyes with the same fear and knowledge that Noah’s wasn’t getting any better. I offered to take over for him, but he shook his head, and once again, I was amazed at this wonderful man who is the father of my children. When many fathers would have gladly handed over the parenting duties for some much needed sleep, my husband stayed stubbornly and resolutely with our child.

When morning finally came, we called the doctor and were told to bring him in again. We already knew that he would probably put Noah in the hospital. So, we made arrangements for the other children, packed bags for all three of us, and tearfully drove to the doctor’s office once again. Our hearts filled with dread, we waited in a small room, different from the usual examining room we had become used to. Our doctor finally came in, looked Noah over, and told us the news we expected. Noah had to be admitted to the hospital. Now.

The drive to the hospital in a neighboring town seemed surreal. I couldn’t focus on anything, couldn’t think, couldn’t stop crying. My husband reassured me that he felt in his heart that Noah would be okay. We admitted Noah and were taken to his room right away. It was a tortuous night, filled with horrible tests that made my son’s tiny little voice echo through the halls as he screamed over and over.

I felt as if I were shattering from the inside out. My husband never wavered in his faith. He comforted me and Noah, and everyone who called to check on Noah. He was a rock.

When the first batch of tests were done, the nurse informed us that a spinal tap would be performed soon. Meningitis was suspected. Marty and I had prayer together with Noah. Our hands intertwined, we held our son and the love of my life lifted his voice to the Lord, telling him how grateful we were for this awesome little spirit with whom he had entrusted us. With tears streaming down his face, he humbly asked the Lord to heal our son. My heart filled with comfort and gratitude.

A short time later, the resident doctor came in. He told us that Noah’s first results were back, and that he had Influenza A. No spinal tap was needed! Noah would recover and soon be back to his zesty, tornado little self. And Noah was already standing up in the hospital crib, bouncing like he was on a trampoline. My husband’s talk with the Lord was already being answered.

Marty and I grinned at each other through our tears, and waited for Noah to be released from the hospital. Finally, in the middle of the night, our own doctor came in and told us that it was fine to take Noah home. We couldn’t pack fast enough!

A few days later, I was cooking dinner. Noah was healing, slowly but surely. I felt at peace and knew my husband was the greatest father I could ever want for my children. I peeked around the corner into the living room, and chuckled at the picture I saw. There was my husband, sitting in his “daddy chair”, Noah in his lap. They were reading a book, dad taking Noah’s teeny hands to help him form the signs for the words in the book. They both looked up and caught me watching them, and my husband and I simultaneously signed “I love you” to each other, then to Noah. And then Noah put his little arm up, trying to shape his tiny hand in his own effort to sign “I love you” to his daddy. I watched with tears as my husband carefully helped him form his tiny fingers into the sign with his own gentle hands. Daddy hands.

By Susan Fahncke
Morning Story and Dilbert

Vintage Dilbert
August 23, 1989

Tissue Alert…

“Watch out! You nearly broad sided that car!” My father yelled at me. “Can’t you do anything right?”

Those words hurt worse than blows. I turned my head toward the elderly man in the seat beside me, daring me to challenge him. A lump rose in my throat as I averted my eyes. I wasn’t prepared for another battle.

“I saw the car, Dad. Please don’t yell at me when I’m driving.”

My voice was measured and steady, sounding far calmer than I really felt.

Dad glared at me, then turned away and settled back. At home I left Dad in front of the television and went outside to collect my thoughts. Dark, heavy clouds hung in the air with a promise of rain. The rumble of distant thunder seemed to echo my inner turmoil. What could I do about him?

Dad had been a lumberjack in Washington and Oregon He had enjoyed being outdoors and had reveled in pitting his strength against the forces of nature. He had entered grueling lumberjack competitions, and had placed often.

The shelves in his house were filled with trophies that attested to his powers.

The years marched on relentlessly. The first time he couldn’t lift a heavy log, he joked about it; but later that same day I saw him outside alone, straining to lift it. He became irritable whenever anyone teased him about his advancing age, or when he couldn’t do something he had done as a younger man.

Four days after his sixty-seventh birthday, he had a heart attack. An ambulance sped him to the hospital while a paramedic administered CPR to keep blood and oxygen flowing.

At the hospital, Dad was rushed into an operating room. He was lucky; he survived… But something inside Dad died. His zest for life was gone He obstinately refused to follow doctor’s orders. Suggestions and offers of help were turned aside with sarcasm and insults. The number of visitors thinned, then finally stopped altogether. Dad was left alone.

My husband, Dick, and I asked Dad to come live with us on our small farm. We hoped the fresh air and rustic atmosphere would help him adjust.

Within a week after he moved in, I regretted the invitation. It seemed nothing was satisfactory. He criticized everything I did. I became frustrated and moody. Soon I was taking my pent-up anger out on Dick. We began to bicker and argue..

Alarmed, Dick sought out our pastor and explained the situation. The clergyman set up weekly counseling appointments for us. At the close of each session he prayed, asking God to soothe Dad’s
troubled mind.

But the months wore on and God was silent. Something had to be done and it was up to me to do it.

The next day I sat down with the phone book and methodically called each of the mental health clinics listed in the Yellow Pages. I explained my problem to each of the sympathetic voices that answered in vain.

Just when I was giving up hope, one of the voices suddenly exclaimed, “I just read something that might help you! Let me go get the article.”

I listened as she read.. The article described a remarkable study done at a nursing home. All of the patients were under treatment for chronic depression. Yet their attitudes had improved dramatically when they were given responsibility for a dog.

I drove to the animal shelter that afternoon. After I filled out a questionnaire, a uniformed officer led me to the kennels. The odor of disinfectant stung my nostrils as I moved down the row of pens. Each contained five to seven dogs. Long-haired dogs, curly-haired dogs, black dogs, spotted dogs all jumped up, trying to reach me. I studied each one but rejected one after the other for various reasons too big, too small, too much hair. As I neared the last pen a dog in the shadows of the far corner struggled to his feet, walked to the front of the run and sat down. It was a pointer, one of the dog world’s aristocrats. But this was a caricature of the breed..

Years had etched his face and muzzle with shades of gray. His hipbones jutted out in lopsided triangles. But it was his eyes that caught and held my attention.. Calm and clear, they beheld me unwaveringly.

I pointed to the dog “Can you tell me about him?”

The officer looked, then shook his head in puzzlement. “He’s a funny one. Appeared out of nowhere and sat in front of the gate. We brought him in, figuring someone would be right down to claim him. That was two weeks ago and we’ve heard nothing. His time is up tomorrow..” He gestured helplessly.

As the words sank in I turned to the man in horror. “You mean you’re going to kill him?”

“Ma’am,” he said gently, “that’s our policy. We don’t have room for every unclaimed dog.”

I looked at the pointer again. The calm brown eyes awaited my decision. “I’ll take him,” I said..

I drove home with the dog on the front seat beside me. When I reached the house I honked the horn twice. I was helping my prize out of the car when Dad shuffled onto the front porch. “Ta-da! Look what I got for you, Dad!” I said excitedly.

Dad looked, then wrinkled his face in disgust. “If I had wanted a dog I would have gotten one. And I would have picked out a better specimen than that bag of bones. Keep it! I don’t want it” Dad waved his arm scornfully and turned back toward the house.

Anger rose inside me It squeezed together my throat muscles and pounded into my temples. “You’d better get used to him, Dad. He’s staying!”

Dad ignored me. “Did you hear me, Dad?” I screamed.

At those words Dad whirled angrily, his hands clenched at his sides, his eyes narrowed and blazing with hate.

We stood glaring at each other like duelists, when suddenly the pointer pulled free from my grasp. He wobbled toward my dad and sat down in front of him. Then slowly, carefully, he raised his paw.

Dad’s lower jaw trembled as he stared at the uplifted paw. Confusion replaced the anger in his eyes. The pointer waited patiently. Then Dad was on his knees hugging the animal.

It was the beginning of a warm and intimate friendship. Dad named the pointer Cheyenne. Together he and Cheyenne explored the community. They spent long hours walking down dusty lanes. They spent reflective moments on the banks of streams, angling for tasty trout. They even started to attend Sunday services together, Dad sitting in a pew and Cheyenne lying quietly at his feet.

Dad and Cheyenne were inseparable throughout the next three years. Dad’s bitterness faded, and he and Cheyenne made many friends. Then late one night I was startled to feel Cheyenne’s cold nose burrowing through our bed covers. He had never before come into our bedroom at night. I woke Dick, put on my robe and ran into my father’s room. Dad lay in his bed, his face serene. But his spirit had left quietly sometime during the night.

Two days later my shock and grief deepened when I discovered Cheyenne lying dead beside Dad’s bed.. I wrapped his still form in the rag rug he had slept on. As Dick and I buried him near a favorite fishing hole, I silently thanked the dog for the help he had given me in restoring Dad’s peace of mind.

The morning of Dad’s funeral dawned overcast and dreary. This day looks like the way I feel, I thought, as I walked down the aisle to the pews reserved for family. I was surprised to see the many friends Dad and Cheyenne had made filling the church. The pastor began his eulogy. It was a tribute to both Dad and the dog who had changed his life. And then the pastor turned to Hebrews 13:2. “Do not neglect to show hospitality to strangers, for by this some have entertained angels without knowing it.”

“I’ve often thanked God for sending that angel,” he said.

For me, the past dropped into place, completing a puzzle that I had not seen before: the sympathetic voice that had just read the right article….

Cheyenne ‘s unexpected appearance at the animal shelter. .. ..his calm acceptance and complete devotion to my father. . and the proximity of their deaths. And suddenly I understood. I knew that God had answered my prayers after all.

By Catherine Moore
Morning Story and Dilbert

Vintage Dilbert
May 14, 2002

A little boy was helping his father move some books out of an attic into more spacious quarters downstairs. It was important to this little boy that he was helping his dad, even though he was probably getting in the way and slowing things down more than he was actually assisting. But that boy had a wise and patient father who knew it was more important to work at a task with his young son than it was to move a pile of books efficiently.

Among this man’s books, however, were some rather large study books, and it was a chore for the boy to get them down the stairs. As a matter of fact, on one particular load, the boy dropped his pile of books several times. Finally, he sat down on the stairs and wept in frustration. He wasn’t doing any good at all. He wasn’t strong enough to carry the big books down a narrow stairway. It hurt him to think he couldn’t do this for his daddy.

Without a word, the father picked up the dropped load of books, put them into the boy’s arms, and scooped up both the boy and the books into his arms and carried them down the stairs. And so they continued load after load, both very much enjoying each other’s company. The boy carrying the books, and the dad carrying the boy.

 

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

Vintage Dilbert
April 6, 2002

Kleenex Alert

I thought I might die. It was the first semester of my second year in college and my freshman-year boyfriend had just broken up with me. I didn’t know what to do. I had not been without a steady boyfriend since my sophomore year in high school and this one was special. I had seen it as my first legitimate adult relationship being that I was almost twenty. I was miserable, unable to eat or sleep. My room mates were worried, but had given up after trying to cheer me a thousand different ways. I had even written my estranged sweetheart a poem about an old doll that had been left on the shelf. Me. I was so hurt and so young.

I began to call home almost every day after the break-up to muster sympathy from my Mom. My Dad and I however, continued to have those bare bones Dad-and-Daughter phone conversations during our official Sunday phone call – the ones where I reassured him each time that I was studying and had enough money. My Mom and I on the other hand really talked. She wanted to know everything that was happening around campus, what I was learning in my classes and what was good in the cafeteria. These were the days before cell phone “anytime minutes” and unlimited long distance so we began racking up some bills. I waited for the “other fish in the sea” speech that thankfully never came. My Mother was supportive and patient through my tears but after weeks had gone by she finally told me that I was being silly continuing to pine. I knew she was right so I tried to mend my broken heart by burying myself in my studies even more than before and joining a few more college organizations. Dad stayed away from the topic altogether.  I knew that he felt bad that I felt bad but, he generally left emotional rescue to my mother.

One day when I returned to my dorm room from an afternoon class, I found my room mate sitting at her desk grinning up at me. An arrangement of pretty pale flowers sat on the table in the middle of the room.

“For you” she said. My heart stopped. This was it. My ex had finally realized the error of his ways and wanted me back. He hadn’t actually fallen for that Barbie doll freshman in his RA orientation group after all. I approached slowly and lifted the fragrant basket opening the little card with shaky hands. Written there was simply: From the only man who has loved you for twenty years. My eyes filled with tears. My room mate looked at me with confusion.

“These are from my Dad” I choked sitting down to cradle the bouquet in my hands and gaze at the delicate blooms.

“Your Dad? What for?” My room mate crossed the room and sat down next to me, arm around my shoulders. I handed her the card. She smiled again.

“Your Dad’s so sweet.”

“I know” I sniffed. Right there something shifted in me. I gained perspective. My Mom’s steady counsel had aided in my slow recovery but this was the shot that I needed to heal completely.

Many years have passed since then and I am happily married with a daughter of my own. My father has had his own battles to face in recent years with failing health and forced retirement, but the grand image of Dad as protector never really goes away. As it turns out a father’s physical strength is just a metaphor for what he really gives his children. I don’t think I realized the absolute fortress of my Dad’s character, the strength of his morals and convictions until he began to fail physically. Mom had been telling me over and over again how my father never complained about the deterioration of his quality of life no matter how bad he felt but that he often lamented no longer being able to do things with and for us. I wanted a way to reassure him that not being as active anymore had nothing to do with his ability to be a great father. We had traveled together all our lives Dad and I and I did miss that aspect of our relationship. But the foundation and support that he had given me had never weakened. In fact it had strengthened.

I had all but forgotten about the boy friend, my desperation, and Dad’s flowers until I saw a picture in an old album that jogged my memory. My eyes filled with tears again at my father’s sweet gesture. It was just a week before Father’s Day and I had an idea.

My Dad opened his simple card with a weak smile as smiles come harder with Parkinson’s. The flowers had surprised him although he had always been the rare man who appreciated flowers as a gift. The card read: From the only woman who has loved you since the day she was born.

Then I hugged him asking him in a whisper “Do you remember?”

“I remember” he assured me softly. We nodded at each other. As always there was no need for words.

By Heidi Durig Heiby – from “Sweet Little Treasures”
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