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Vintage Dilbert August 13, 2002

Vintage Dilbert
August 13, 2002

 

Today, I interviewed my grandmother for part of a research paper I’m working on for my Psychology class. When I asked her to define success in her own words, she said, “Success is when you look back at your life and the memories make you smile, not the money!”

 

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Vintage Dilbert March 1, 2011

Vintage Dilbert
March 1, 2011

Once all the villagers decided to pray for rain. On the day of prayer all the people gathered, but only one boy came with an umbrella.

That’s FAITH

When you throw a baby in the air, she laughs because she knows you will catch her.

That’s TRUST

Every night we go to bed, without any assurance of being alive the next morning but still we set the alarms to wake up.

That’s HOPE

We plan big things for tomorrow in spite of zero knowledge of the future.

That’s CONFIDENCE

We see the world suffering, but still we get married and have children.

That’s LOVE

On an old man’s shirt was written a sentence ‘I am not 80 years old….I am sweet 16 with 64 years experience’

That’s ATTITUDE

 

I hope you enjoyed this story as much as I have..... Explore the MS&D 
archives for over 1000 additional stories... 
Take Care and God Bless :-) Kenny T
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Vintage Dilbert
October 14, 2004

A woman who died found herself standing outside the Pearly Gates, being greeted by St. Peter.

She asked him, “Oh, is this place what I really think it is? It’s so beautiful. Did I really make it to Heaven?”

To which St. Peter replied, “Yes, my dear, these are the Gates to Heaven. But you must do one more thing before you can enter.”

The woman was very excited, and asked of St. Peter what she must do to pass through the gates.

“Spell a word,” St. Peter replied. “What word?” she asked.

“Love,” answered St. Peter.  The woman promptly replied, “L-o-v-e.”

St. Peter congratulated her on her good fortune to have made it to Heaven, and asked her if she would mind taking his place at the gates for a few minutes while he went to the bathroom.

“I’d be honored,” she said, “but what should I do if someone comes while you are gone?”

St. Peter reassured her, and instructed the woman to simply have any newcomers to the Pearly Gates to spell a word as she had done.

So the woman is left sitting in St. Peter’s chair and watching the beautiful angels soaring around her when a man approaches the gates. She realizes it is her husband.

“What happened?” she cried, “Why are you here?”

Her husband stared at her for a moment, then said, “I was so drunk when I left your funeral, I was in an accident. And now I am here. Did I really make it to Heaven?”

To which the woman replied, “Not yet. You must spell a word first.”

“What word?” he asked.

The woman responded, “Czechoslovakia.”

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Vintage Dilbert
October 3, 2015

The pastor of the church I attended as a young man was a distinguished, dignified and always impeccably dressed man who also happened to have a warm and compassionate heart. He was so formal and well-groomed that newcomers would expect this tall, handsome man with a PhD from an Ivy League school serving a large, affluent suburban church to be cold and distant. But he wasn’t; he was warm and sincere.

Then I had one lesson in how he remained that way.

I signed on to serve as Scripture reader, and on the first Sunday sat on a chair behind the pastor’s podium. It was rather large, semi-circular pulpit with a chair directly behind it. The pastor entered and sat down. He was, as always, impeccably dressed: blue pinstriped business suit, silk tie carefully knotted, starched white shirt with cufflinks, and on his feet, black shoes polished like mirrors. This was not a man who wore a Rolex or drove a Porsche. But he was always careful to dress well, from his pocket handkerchief to his tiepin.

Then, just before the sermon, I watched the pastor reach down and untie both of his expensive leather dress shoes. He slid his feet out of them, and then reached under the cuffs of his tailored suit. He pulled off his black dress socks as well. I was completely bewildered. He then pushed both shoes and socks to the side and stood up for his sermon. No one else knew it, but our dignified, dapper, classy pastor preached his sermon barefoot, in his tailored suit and silk tie.

When the sermon was over, he unobtrusively pulled on both shoes and socks, and left the podium.

I said nothing and just assumed he had reasons of his own. Perhaps his feet hurt? I forgot about it, especially as it did not happen again for the next few Sundays.

Then, two months later, I noticed the pastor sliding his feet out of a pair of spit-polished tasseled loafers, followed again by the socks. I was again confused and slightly amused by the contrast between the fancy business suit and the soles of his bare feet which appeared when he leaned forward with enthusiasm.

After the service ended, I went up to the still barefoot minister and respectfully asked why he did this.

The pastor looked slightly embarrassed, picked up the shoes and socks and told me a story from his student years:

“My seminary professor told me I was a fine preacher, but that I had one fault. I was too arrogant. Too proud. I remembered that. And I remember my roots, too.”

He then told me that he had grown up as a janitor’s son and took his shoes off when he visited his Dad. Those were his roots. In the years since, he had earned several degrees and his gifts had brought him to this church. He was successful and praised, but he never wanted to forget where he came from.

“Whenever I start getting too proud and smug, I look down at my shiny Brooks Brothers shoes and fancy socks and realize it’s time to take off my “successful well-dressed suit-and-tie pastor” feet and put on the feet of a janitor’s boy. It keeps me humble. It’s hard to be smug when I’m barefoot.”

And with that the pastor grinned, put on his Italian tasseled shoes and socks and left the pulpit.

by: Ken Wells © 2004
Morning Story and Dilbert

Vintage Dilbert
September 12, 2011

Bernard Mears had arrived in America in his mother’s arms.

He was two years old in 1878. The Mears family were all hard workers and made a place for themselves in the land of opportunity.

Bernie was smart and wanted to be his own boss. When Bernie was 25 he took a wife. Bernie had saved some money and decided on a dry goods and grocery store combined.

He and Marie found an empty building to rent and proceeded to fill it with inventory. There was an apartment upstairs. They were not blessed with children, so the two of them worked side by side to become established and build a trade.

Marie had a knack for arranging the merchandise to appeal to customers and Bernie didn’t mind the long hours. He was happy, life was good.

The business thrived until the great depression hit the entire country. No one had money to purchase pretty things or even food. In 1930, Marie had a heart attack and left Bernie alone.

Following Marie’s death, which Bernie felt was brought about from worry about the store, he lost interest in everything. He was keeping odd hours of opening and closing the store. He had few customers and did not make them feel welcome. Bernie wandered about the store, dusting a bit and sweeping the floor. His inventory remained almost the same, as nothing much was sold. After awhile, he stopped sweeping and dusting.

The grocery part still had canned foods but little else. Bernie was loosing weight and not eating much once his fresh meats and cheeses were depleted. A deep depression set in. He had lost Marie, his true love, and now his business seemed lost as well. Why did he want to live?

A few houses down the street lived a family who had also fallen on hard times. They seldom had three square meals a day. Julie, the youngest girl was fourteen. Julie worried about Mr. Mears getting so thin. At meal time, she would take a portion of their meager meal to Bernie. She would stay and talk to him, dusting and cleaning.

After several months Bernie began to improve. He still had no customers to speak of, but from what he had left in the store, he would sack a few cans to take to Julie’s family.

In early spring, Julie saw her father planting a garden. This gave her an idea. She suggested to Bernie to make a garden in the big space beside the store, which they had once thought would become a parking lot, and sell the produce really cheap in the store. It would help the neighbors and also Bernie to have money for new merchandise. They would plant half the garden space now and half in three weeks giving them fresh produce for a long time.

Julie prayed hard as they placed the seeds in the ground. When the seeds sprouted, Julie looked anxiously at the rows and there were no empty spots. They all came up and produced the best crop of vegetables Bernie had ever seen. Julie gave another prayer of thanks.

You might say those two had the idea for the first Dollar Store as they reduced the prices until nothing in the store cost more than a dollar with many items a penny or nickel. They soon became well known in the community for having the best prices and finest produce in town. They also extended credit to their neighbors and accepted various items as trade for merchandise.

The two of them worked hard throughout the 1930s and made a very successful business. Julie earned a salary. As the economy picked up, so did sales at the store.

Bernie was now in his 66th year. Julie was doing most of the work while Bernie clerked a bit and kept books. They had hired a man to plant and tend the garden.

One afternoon when Bernie closed his ledger, he smiled at Julie.

“We are now knee deep in black ink, Julie. Our hard work has paid off. Please give me a dollar bill.”

Julie had no idea why he wanted a dollar, but pulled one from her purse and gave it to him. Bernie smiled.

“Julie, you now own this store. I have given it much thought, and since my parents have passed and my sister married well, there is no one I want to leave it to, or who deserves it more. You saved me and the store years ago. As soon as the paperwork to transfer title to you is complete, I plan on going out and seeing the rest of this great country.”

Julie thanked him and added that she would always keep the name of Mears Family Store, and he could come back when he wanted to.

A few days later, Bernie packed and loaded his car and left among many tears and good luck wishes from the neighbors. Many postcards, letters and phone calls would be forthcoming over the years. Bernie would meet many interesting people in his travels, and view wondrous things.

Julie sighed, wiped her hands on the big white butcher apron she wore and went back to work. She sat down at Bernie’s big desk and thought to herself, who would ever imagine a Jewish man, a part Indian girl and a few seeds would have survived the worst this country could throw at them and come out on top?

We truly reap what we sow.

 Author - Clara Wersterfer, Copyright © 2008 
Morning Story and Dilbert

Vintage Dilbert
September 10, 2010

Mary and her husband Jim had a dog named “Lucky.” Lucky was a real character. Whenever Mary and Jim had company come for a weekend visit they would warn their friends to not leave their luggage open because Lucky would help himself to whatever struck his fancy. Inevitably, someone would forget and something would come up missing.

Mary or Jim would go to Lucky’s toy box in the basement and there the treasure would be, amid all of Lucky’s other favorite toys. Lucky always stashed his finds in his toy box and he was very particular that his toys stay in the box.

It happened that Mary found out she had breast cancer. Something told her she was going to die of this disease….in fact, she was just sure it was fatal.

She scheduled the double mastectomy, fear riding her shoulders. The night before she was to go to the hospital she cuddled with Lucky. A thought struck her…. what would happen to Lucky? Although the three-year-old dog liked Jim, he was Mary’s dog through and through. If I die, Lucky will be abandoned, Mary thought. He won’t understand that I didn’t want to leave him. The thought made her sadder than thinking of her own death.

The double mastectomy was harder on Mary than her doctors had anticipated and Mary was hospitalized for over two weeks. Jim took Lucky for his evening walk faithfully, but the little dog just drooped, whining and miserable.

Finally the day came for Mary to leave the hospital. When she arrived home, Mary was so exhausted she couldn’t even make it up the steps to her bedroom. Jim made his wife comfortable on the couch and left her to nap. Lucky stood watching Mary but he didn’t come to her when she called. It made Mary sad but sleep soon overcame her and she dozed.

When Mary woke for a second she couldn’t understand what was wrong. She couldn’t move her head and her body felt heavy and hot. But panic soon gave way to laughter when Mary realized the problem. She was covered, literally blanketed, with every treasure Lucky owned! While she had slept, the sorrowing dog had made trip after trip to the basement bringing his beloved mistress all his favorite things in life. He had covered her with his love.

Mary forgot about dying. Instead she and Lucky began living again, walking further and further together every day. It’s been 12 years now and Mary is still cancer-free. Lucky? He still steals treasures and stashes them in his toy box but Mary remains his greatest treasure.

Remember . . . live every day to the fullest. Each minute is a blessing from God. And never forget…. the people who make a difference in our lives are not the ones with the most credentials, the most money, or the most awards. They are the ones that care for us.

If you see someone without a smile today give them one of yours! Live simply. Love seriously. Care deeply. Speak kindly. Leave the rest to God.

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Vintage Dilbert
September 4, 2002

My classroom was a sort of “dumping ground” at one point in my career.

The counselor, Mr. H., had a habit of coming to me with a timid smile and saying, “I have a kid for you who you’ll just love.

That was code for “I need to put a ‘bad’ kid in your class who’s gotten kicked out by another teacher.”

I sighed and answered, “Well, alright.” And thus, in walked Josh.

Some kids put up a little wall to prevent others from knowing their vulnerabilities. Josh had military-grade body armor.

He was a typical, tough-acting, fourteen-year-old boy: smack in the middle of adolescence, something to prove but nothing to prove it with just yet.

He didn’t like school and school didn’t like him.

The mention of Josh’s name yielded growls and steam in three grade levels of middle-school teachers.

I got him for four periods during his eighth-grade year.

He was in my history class, my study hall, my “student assistant” period, and he sat in my room during another teacher’s class, with whom he “didn’t get along.”

He worked some, but mostly, he drew lots and lots of pictures.

He brought with him frustration from other classes every day and would come in angry, ignore me, and get out paper.

I let him draw, but I frequently complained to him that he ought to be doing work for his other teachers.

He was difficult, so I just left him alone most of the time.

Pretty soon, Josh and I had come to an understanding. He held it together just enough to keep me sane.

When he was finished with his work for me he would ask for paper and pencils to draw.

I would reluctantly agree, as I knew it was not a battle I needed to pick during my busy day.

Other teachers had complained over and over that he drew pictures in their classes, so I was reluctant to encourage him.

He left a folder in my classroom with his drawings, but I never looked at it. I made it through the year, just barely, with my Josh-heavy experience.

At the end of the school year, I spoke briefly with Josh’s mother.

She explained that Josh’s father had been deployed for over fourteen months to Iraq and was frequently in combat.

I do not know how I didn’t know this — no one at the school had mentioned it.

I suppose there were so many deployments among our military families that it was overlooked.

Josh had to help her take care of his younger brother with special needs.

He hadn’t had a good year at school, but he’d had an even worse year at home.

The stress of the deployment had taken a toll on his family.

Because Josh liked to draw, the family psychologist suggested he draw whenever he felt frustrated or angry or sad or scared.

He drew all the time at home too. I felt so terrible.

Josh’s mother gave me a beautiful, handmade book. It had several of the most amazing drawings I had ever seen, and a couple of photos of Josh “to remember him by,” since they would be moving soon.

I couldn’t believe he was so talented and I had never taken a moment to notice.

He had drawn me working at my desk, the view out the classroom window, the furniture in my classroom, vegetables, fruits and many other things. They were amazing.

When I asked why she had given the book to me, she explained that she knew what a difficult child he was.

She told me that I was the only teacher who had not thrown his drawings away.

She said Josh had actually described me to the family psychologist as the “glue” that held his world together since his dad left. He said that I was the only teacher who was kind to him.

Because I had let him draw when he was sad or angry, he wanted me to have the book to say “thank you.”

She said he was too embarrassed to give me the book himself. She gave me a tearful hug and she left. I have not seen them since.

I do think about Josh a lot; I have one of his pieces — a radish — framed in my kitchen.

I am grateful that he thought of me as his school glue. But I regret not taking more advantage of a situation in which I could have more of an inspiration and encouragement to a young man who needed me.

I will not miss the opportunity again. I look for it in every encounter.

A teacher’s job is difficult. We forget sometimes, however, that day-to-day life can be far more difficult for many of our students.

I try to find something special in every student, but because of Josh, I try harder with the “complicated” kids.

I knew I had tried to be kind as difficult as it was sometimes, but I never knew I was glue — my eye opener.

But now I want to be more than glue; I want to be the cement stepping stone to encourage a child to the next level.

We all need a Josh to open our eyes to take a closer look at those around us to whom we can make a life a little brighter and be the glue that helps them keep things together.

Dorothy Goff Goulet
Teacher Tales
Chicken Soup for the Soul...
http://www.chickensoup.com
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