straw hat in the wind

Mama,that summer,on the way to Klitsemi,my straw hat flew down the mountains.Mama,do you remember,the old straw hat you gave to me ?
I lost that hat long ago,adult Christmas Gemmy Airblown Inflatables it flew to the foggy canyou. Mama,I wonder what happened to that old straw hat which fell down the mountain-said and whirled out of my reach like your heart. Suddenly that wind came up,stealing my hat from me. Swirling gust of wind blew it higher ,and higher …… Mama,that old straw hat was the only one I really love.But I lost it,no one could bring it back,like tha life you give me.
Mama,that summer,on the way to Klitsemi,I lost me straw hat.The lilies along the road wilted.And under that straw hat,the crickets wept every night ……

Nightmares

It was just like in Lucy's recurring dream. The one where she's at work, typing on her computer, and her tongue finds its way to her lower teeth. When she slowly pushes on the teeth, they move. More a nightmare than a dream really.
It seemed very unreal. Lucy ran to the bathroom and watched in the mirror as she wiggled her bottom teeth from canine to canine.buy Air Dancer She clenched her jaw. She'd have to get dentures. She was just a temp and wasn't eligible for health insurance or the dental plan. If she left for the day, she wouldn't get paid. Lucy remembered that when you lose a tooth you're supposed to put it in milk.
"Charlotte," Lucy whispered over the dividing cubicle wall. "I need to leave."
"What?" Charlotte, the temp in charge of the other temps, had on her headphones, listening to the Murder CD of the Johnny Cash anthology. Charlotte had no interest in God or Love. She kept track of the timecards. It was important to be Charlotte's friend. Lucy was still unsure of where she stood with Charlotte.
"My teeth are loose," Lucy said.
"They're not loose," Charlotte said. "You're just moving your jaw up and down."
"I'm not." Lucy said. "Watch." She wiggled the teeth with her index finger again. "See?"
By now, the heads of other temps were popping up over cubicle walls. Ron, another temp, came over to Charlotte's cube.
"What's up, ladies," Ron had the annoying habit of always referring to women as ladies.
"Lucy's teeth are, well, loose," Charlotte said, embarrassed at the unavoidable play on words. Charlotte pointed at Lucy's mouth.
Lucy clamped her mouth shut.
"That's like a nightmare I've had," Ron said. He turned to Charlotte. "I've heard it means you're going to get married soon."
"Really?" Charlotte shook her head. "I've heard it means something good will happen, like finding money." She turned to Lucy. "Maybe you'll get hired on permanent here, Lucy."
Lucy took her finger out of her mouth. It was depressing discussing her nightmare loose teeth with Ron and Charlotte. Lucy wanted to run out of the office to find a dentist, but she hadn't been to one since college when her parents still paid her medical bills, four years ago. She didn't even know the name of a good dentist or whom to ask. She looked from Ron, leaning against the cubicle wall, to Charlotte in her vintage blue dress and three-inch platform Mary Janes.
This wasn't even Lucy's worst nightmare. The very worst started with Lucy having to make contact with someone from her past, usually the boyfriend she had in college, her first love, or he'd be lost to her forever. So Lucy would dial the phone, rotary, push-button, or payphone. Inevitably, the dial would stick, or the phone wouldn't take the begged, borrowed, or stolen change. Occasionally, she could dial, but when the person on the other end picked up, the connection would break. You didn't have to be a dummy to know what this nightmare meant. So many times the people she loved were lost to her forever, and not because of telephones.
"If I leave to go to a dentist will you count it on my timecard?" Lucy asked. This was the first time she'd ever asked anything of Charlotte. Of anybody, to tell the truth.
"I'm supposed to," Charlotte said. She shrugged her shoulders.
"What do you care, Charlotte?" Ron asked. He crossed his arms in front of his chest. "You didn't count me out when I had that doctor's appointment last week."
"You're right," Charlotte said. "What do I care? It's not like it's my money."
"Thanks," Lucy said. She walked back to her cubicle and found a dentist using the online yellow pages. The first time she tried calling the office, however, she forgot to dial a 9 and got Ian in Accounts Payable. He was nice enough when she told him she dialed the wrong number, so they chatted for a bit, and even made a lunch date for Thursday next week. Finally, Lucy got an appointment to see the dentist.

Love, I Love You

Love, I love you
not only for what you are,
but for what I am when I am with you.
I love you,Inflatable Slide house not only for what
you have made of yourself,
but for what you are making of me.
I love you for the part of me
that you bring out, I love you
for reaching out and touching my heart,
and passing over all the foolish, weak things
that you can't help simply seeing there,
and for drawing out into the light
all the beautiful belongings
that no one else had looked
quite far enough to find.
Love is entrusting our faults to one another.
Love is belonging in each other's thoughts
with care as well as feeling.
Love is beautiful. You are enhanced by my love.
I am enhanced by you,
Love. I love because of you,
and you are the reason for all of my tomorrows.

Roses for Rose

Red roses were her favorites, her name was also Rose. And every year her husband sent them, tied with pretty bows.wholesale Christmas Decorations The year he died, the roses were delivered to her door. The card said, "Be my Valentine, "like all the years before.
　　 Each year he sent her roses, and the note would always say, "I love you even more this year, than last year on this day. ""My love for you will always grow, with every passing year. "She knew this was the last time that the roses would appear. She thought, he ordered roses in advance before this day. Her loving husband did not know, that he would pass away. He always liked to do things early. Then, if he got too busy, everything would work out fine. She trimmed the stems, and placed them in a very special vase. Then, sat the vase beside the portrait of his smiling face. She would sit for hours, in her husband's favorite chair. While staring at his picture, and the roses sitting there.
　　 A year went by, and it was hard to live without her mate. With loneliness and solitude, that had become her fate. Then, the very hour, as on Valentines before, the door－bell rang, and there were roses, sitting by her door. She brought the roses in, and then just looked at them in shock. Then, went to get the tele phone, to call the florist shop. The owner answered, and she asked him, if he would explain, why would someone do this to her, causing her such pain？
　　 "I know your husband passed away, more than a year ago, " The owner said, "I knew you'd call, and you would want to know. " "The flowers you received today, were paid for in advance. " "Your husband always planned ahead, he left nothing to chance. "
　　 "There is a standing order, that I have on file down here. And he has paid, well in advance, you'll get them every year. There also is another thing, that I think you should know. He wrote a special little card. . . he did this years ago. "
　　 "Then, should ever, I find out that he's no longer here. That's the card. . . that should be sent, to you the following year. "
　　 She thanked him and hung up the phone, her tears now flowing hard. Her fingers shaking, as she slowly reached to get the card. Inside the card, she saw that he had written her a note. Then, as she stared in total silence, this is what he wrote："Hello my love, I know it's been a year since I've been gone, I hope it hasn't been too hard for you to overcome. " "I know it must be lonely, and the pain is very real. For if it was the other way, I know how I would feel. The love we shared made everything so beautiful in life. I loved you more than words can say, you were the perfect wife. "
　　 "You were my friend and lover, you fulfilled my every need. I know it's only been a year, but please try not to grieve. I want you to be happy, even when you shed your tears. That is why the roses will be sent to you for years. "
　　 "When you get these roses, think of all the happiness that we had together, and how both of us were blessed. I have always loved you and I know I always will. But, my love, you must go on, you have some living still. "
　　 "Please. . . try to find happiness, while living out your days. I know it is not easy, but I hope you find some ways. The roses will come every year, and they will only stop when your door's not answered, when the florist stops to knock. "

Those who Laugh Last,Laugh Best!

I want five hundred pounds, and I'll come to your house to get it. You may have four days to get the money ready. yard Inflatable Advertising Five hundred pounds is not very much for a rich man like you. "Why must I pay？"you will ask. I'll tell you the answer. I knew your father. He made banknotes, didn't he？Do you want everyone to know this？I don't think so. I'll tell everyone if you don't pay. So have the money ready when I come. One－pound notes, please, and old notes. Don't tell anyone. Be alone when I come. I don't like the police.
A. B. C
　　 Kendal's face was troubled. He was rich now, but in the old days he was poor. When he was a boy at Camber, his father got into trouble with the police. His father had a small room at the back of the house. He made bad money in this room. He made banknotes, hundreds of them. But the police came to the house one day, and they found some of the notes. They did not find all of them, because his father hid a lot, but they found some and they caught his father. That was the end of the boy's home life. The police took his father away, and young Henry left home. Everyone in Camber knew his father, and the boy did not like to stay in the town. He left his mother and ran away. He came to Norton.
　　 At first the boy got some work in a shop. But after some years he found work at the bank. Everyone liked him. He worked hard. He had a happy face. He helped everyone when he could. He got better and better work at the bank, and now he had the highest place there. A lot of people knew him well and liked him.
　　 His father was dead now, but someone knew about him。What could Kendal do？"If anyone tells people about my father," he thought, "I must leave the bank. That will be the end of my happy life. "But Kendal was a fighter. "If life is hard", he thought, "I must fight it. There must be something that I can do. I don't want to tell the police. Is there another way？What shall I do？"
　　 Four nights later, Kendal was sitting at his table at home. He heard the noise of a car far away. It came nearer, but it did not come to the house. The car stopped some way along the road.
　　 The sound of a man's feet came to the door and Kendal went to open it. There was not much light outside. "Kendal？"asked the man who stood there. Kendal could just see a face which was partly covered with a piece of cloth. Two hard eyes looked out through two holes in the cloth.
　　 "Yes. "said Kendal. "Are you the man who calls himself A. B. C？"
　　 "Yes. Are you alone？"
　　 "Yes. Come in. "
　　 "Walk in front of me. "said the man.
　　 Kendal turned, and the man shut the door. Kendal took him into the house. In the light of the room, Kendal could see better. The man was carrying a gun. The man came into the room and turned his head to left and right.
　　 "There's no one here, "said Kendal. "You can put that gun away. You're a bigger man than I am. There's a chair by the fire. Sit down. "The man sat down in the chair by the fire and put his gun away. His eyes never left Kendal's face, but he laughed.
　　 "So you're going to pay, "he said. "You're right. Kendal. It's better. What will people think if I tell them about your father？Will they want you to stay at the bank？I don't think so, and you don't think so. "He laughed again.
　　 Kendal walked over to his table. The man's hard eyes under the cloth looked at him. Kendal took out some banknotes. He did not speak. He put the money into the man's hands. The notes were old and dirty.
　　 "Good!"said A. B. C. . "The notes are old. "He turned them over in his hands，one by one. "Yes，"he said. He stood up. "There are five hundred，as I told you. We 've had no trouble，and I'm glad，Kendal. "He walked to the door of the room and opened it quickly. No one was outside.
　　 Ten days later Kendal was sitting in his own room at the bank when a policeman came in. The policeman gave him a one－pound note. "Will you look at that，Sir? "he asked. Kendal put the note on his table and looked at it. Then he put it up to the light of the window and looked through it. "This note's bad，"he said. "We though t so，"said the policeman.
　　 "Yes，it's bad. Where did you get it? Are there some more bad notes in the town? "
　　 "Yes，I'll tell you about them. "Said the policeman. "Some shopkeepers brought us some notes like this. They were all bad. Have you seen any bad notes at the bank? "
　　 "No，I don't know of any. "
　　 "That's a good thing. Someone in the town was buying things at the shops with bad money. We started to look for the man. It happened just lately. We never had any before. "
　　 "Where did he get them? Do you know? "
　　 "No. We asked him，but he didn't tell us. "
Kendal sat back in his chair. "What will happen to him now? "he said.
　　 "Oh，we shall. . . er. . . take him away. "
　　 Kendal went to the door with him. "What is the man's name? "he asked.
　　 "Alan Brian Carroll. "
　　 "Oh，yes，I see. Alan Brain Carroll. A. B. C. ，"Kendal laughed. "I did very well when I kept some of my father's bad old notes and gave them to A. B. C. . "

A Clean, Well-Lighted Place

"He had a wife once too."
"A wife would be no good to him now."
"You can't tell.kid Inflatable Obstacle He might be better with a wife."
"His niece looks after him. You said she cut him down."
"I know." "I wouldn't want to be that old. An old man is a nasty thing."
"Not always. This old man is clean. He drinks without spilling. Even now, drunk. Look at him."
"I don't want to look at him. I wish he would go home. He has no regard for those who must work."
The old man looked from his glass across the square, then over at the waiters.
"Another brandy," he said, pointing to his glass. The waiter who was in a hurry came over.
"Finished," he said, speaking with that omission of syntax stupid people employ when talking to drunken people or foreigners. "No more tonight. Close now."
"Another," said the old man.
"No. Finished." The waiter wiped the edge of the table with a towel and shook his head.
The old man stood up, slowly counted the saucers, took a leather coin purse from his pocket and paid for the drinks, leaving half a peseta tip. The waiter watched him go down the street, a very old man walking unsteadily but with dignity.
"Why didn't you let him stay and drink?" the unhurried waiter asked. They were putting up the shutters. "It is not half-past two."
"I want to go home to bed."
"What is an hour?"
"More to me than to him."
"An hour is the same."
"You talk like an old man yourself. He can buy a bottle and drink at home."
"It's not the same."
"No, it is not," agreed the waiter with a wife. He did not wish to be unjust. He was only in a hurry.
"And you? You have no fear of going home before your usual hour?"
"Are you trying to insult me?"
"No, hombre, only to make a joke."
"No," the waiter who was in a hurry said, rising from pulling down the metal shutters. "I have confidence. I am all confidence."
"You have youth, confidence, and a job," the older waiter said. "You have everything."
"And what do you lack?"
"Everything but work."
"You have everything I have."
"No. I have never had confidence and I am not young."
"Come on. Stop talking nonsense and lock up."
"I am of those who like to stay late at the cafe," the older waiter said.
"With all those who do not want to go to bed. With all those who need a light for the night."
"I want to go home and into bed."
"We are of two different kinds," the older waiter said. He was now dressed to go home. "It is not only a question of youth and confidence although those things are very beautiful. Each night I am reluctant to close up because there may be some one who needs the cafe."
"Hombre, there are bodegas open all night long."
"You do not understand. This is a clean and pleasant cafe. It is well lighted. The light is very good and also, now, there are shadows of the leaves."
"Good night," said the younger waiter.
"Good night," the other said. Turning off the electric light he continued the conversation with himself, It was the light of course but it is necessary that the place be clean and pleasant. You do not want music. Certainly you do not want music. Nor can you stand before a bar with dignity although that is all that is provided for these hours. What did he fear? It was not a fear or dread, It was a nothing that he knew too well. It was all a nothing and a man was a nothing too. It was only that and light was all it needed and a certain cleanness and order. Some lived in it and never felt it but he knew it all was nada y pues nada y nada y pues nada. Our nada who art in nada, nada be thy name thy kingdom nada thy will be nada in nada as it is in nada. Give us this nada our daily nada and nada us our nada as we nada our nadas and nada us not into nada but deliver us from nada; pues nada. Hail nothing full of nothing, nothing is with thee. He smiled and stood before a bar with a shining steam pressure coffee machine.

Two Types of People

There are two types of people in the world. Although they have equal degrees of health and wealth and the other comforts of life,kid Inflatable Santa Claus one becomes happy, the other becomes miserable. This arises from the different ways in which they consider things, persons, and events, and the resulting effects upon their minds.
The people who are to be happy fix their attention on the conveniences of things, the pleasant parts of conveniences of things, the pleasant parts of conversation, the well-prepared dishes, the dishes, the goodness of wines, the fine weather. They enjoy all the cheerful things. Those who are to be unhappy think and speak only of the contrary things. Therefore, they are continually discontented. By their remarks, they sour the pleasures of society, offend many people, and make themselves disagreeable everywhere. If this turn of mind were founded in nature, such unhappy persons would be more to be pitied. The tendency to criticize and be disgusted is perhaps taken up originally by imitation. It grows into a habit, unknown to its possessors. The habit may be strong, but it may be cured when those who have it are convinced of its bad effects on their interests and tastes.
Although in fact it is chiefly an act of imagination, it has serious consequence in life, since it brings on deep sorrow and bad luck. Those people offend many others, nobody loves them, and no one treats them with more than the most common politeness and respect, and scarcely that. This frequently puts them in bad temper and draws them into arguments. If they aim at obtaining some advantage in rank or fortune, nobody wishes them success. If they bring on themselves public disapproval, no one will defend or excuse them, and many will join to criticize their misconduct. These people should change this bad habit and condescend to be pleased with what is pleasing, without worrying needlessly about themselves and others.

Three Days to See

Suppose you set your mind to work on the problem of how you would use your own eyes if you had three more days to see.giant Inflatable Bounce If with the oncoming darkness of the third night you knew that the sun would never rise for you again, how would you spend those three precious intervening days? What would you most want to let your gaze rest upon?
I, naturally, should want most to see the things which have become dear to me through my years of darkness. You, too, would want to let your eyes rest long on the things that have become dear to you so that you could take the memory of them with you in the night that loomed before you.
I should want to see the people whose kindness and gentleness and companionship have made my life worth living. First I should like to gaze long upon the face of my teacher, Mrs. Anne Sullivan Macy, who came to me when I was a child and opened the outer world to me. I should want not merely the outline of her face, so that I could cherish it in my memory, but to study that face and find in it the living evidence of the sympathetic tenderness and patience with which she accomplished the difficult task of my education. I should like to see in her eyes that strength of character which has enabled her to stand firm in the face of difficulties, and that compassion for all humanity which she has revealed to me so often.

To Beth’s First-Grade Teacher

I didn't know the man in front of me that morning. But I did notice that we both walked a little straighter, a little more proudly,cheap Inflatable Santa as our daughters held our hands. We were proud but apprehensive on that important day. Our girls were beginning first grade. We were about to give them up, for a while at least, to the institution we call school. As we entered the building, he looked at me. Our eyes met just for a minute, but that was enough. Our love for our daughters, our hopes for their future, our concern for their well-being welled up in our eyes.
You, their teacher, met us at the door. You introduced yourself and showed the girls to their seats. We gave them each a good-bye kiss, and then we walked out the door. We didn't talk to each other on the way back to the parking lot and on to our respective jobs. We were too involved thinking about you.
There were so many things we wanted to tell you, Teacher. Too many things were left unsaid. So I'm writing to you. I'd like to tell you the things we didn't have time for that first morning.
I hope you noticed Beth's dress. She looked beautiful in it. Now I know you might think that's a father's prejudice, but she thinks she looks beautiful in it, and that's what's really important. Did you know we spent a full week searching the shopping malls for just the right dress for that special occasion? She wouldn't show you, but I'm sure she'd like you to know that she picked that dress because of the way it unfurled as she danced in front of the mirrors in the clothing store. The minute she tried it on, she knew she'd found her special dress. I wonder if you noticed. Just a word from you would make that dress all the more wondrous.
Her shoes tell a lot about Beth and a lot about her family. At least they're worth a minute of your time. Yes, they're blue shoes with one strap. Solid, well-made shoes, not too stylish, you know the kind. What you don't know is how we argued about getting the kind of shoes she said all the girls would be wearing. We said no to plastic shoes in purple or pink or orange.
Beth was worried that the other kids would laugh at her baby shoes. In the end she tried the solid blue ones on and, with a smile, told us she always did like strap shoes. That's the first-born, eager to please. She's like the shoes – solid and reliable. How she'd love it if you mentioned those straps.
I hope you quickly notice that Beth is shy. She'll talk her head off when she gets to know you, but you'll have to make the first move. Don't mistake her quietness for lack of intelligence. Beth can read any children's book you put in front of her. She learned reading the way it should be taught. She learned it naturally, snuggled up in her bed with her mother and me reading her stories at naptime, at bedtime and at cuddling times throughout the day. To Beth, books are synonymous with good times and loving family. Please don't change her love of reading by making the learning of it a burdensome chore. It has taken us all her life to instill in her the joy of books and learning.
Did you know that Beth and her friends played school all summer in preparation for their first day? I should tell you about her class. Everybody in her class wrote something every day. She encouraged the other kids who said they couldn't think of anything to write about. She helped them with their spelling. She came to me upset one day. She said you might be disappointed in her because she didn't know how to spell 'subtraction.' She can do that now. If you would only ask her. Her play school this summer was filled with positive reinforcement and the quiet voice of a reassuring teacher. I hope that her fantasy world will be translated into reality in your classroom.
I know you're busy with all the things that a teacher does at the beginning of the school year, so I'll make this letter short. But I did want you to know about the night before that first day. We got her lunch packed in the Care Bear lunch box. We got the backpack ready with the school supplies. We laid out her special dress and shoes, read a story, and then I shut off the lights. I gave her a kiss and started to walk out of the room. She called me back in and asked me if I knew that God wrote letters to people and put them in their minds.
I told her I never had heard that, but I asked if she had received a letter. She had. She said the letter told her that her first day of school was going to be one of the best days of her life. I wiped away a tear as I thought: Please let it be so.

The Most Beautiful Heart

One day a young man was standing in the middle of the town proclaiming that he had the most beautiful heart in the whole valley. A large crowd gathered and they all admired his heart for it was perfect. Inflatable Jumpers There was not a mark or a flaw in it. Yes, they all agreed it truly was the most beautiful heart they had ever seen. The young man was very proud and boasted more loudly about his beautiful heart.
Suddenly, an old man appeared at the front of the crowd and said, “Why your heart is not nearly as beautiful as mine.” The crowd and the young man looked at the old man’s heart. It was beating strongly, but full of scars, it had places where pieces had been removed and other pieces put in, but they didn’t fit quite right and there were several jagged edges. In fact, in some places there were deep gouges where whole pieces were missing.
The people stared — how can he say his heart is more beautiful, they thought? The young man looked at the old man’s heart and saw its state and laughed. “You must be joking,” he said. “Compare your heart with mine, mine is perfect and yours is a mess of scars and tears.”
“Yes,” said the old man, “Yours is perfect looking but I would never trade with you. You see, every scar represents a person to whom I have given my love — I tear out a piece of my heart and give it to them, and often they give me a piece of their heart which fits into the empty place in my heart, but because the pieces aren’t exact, I have some rough edges, which I cherish, because they remind me of the love we shared. Sometimes I have given pieces of my heart away, and the other person hasn’t returned a piece of his heart to me. These are the empty gouges — giving love is taking a chance.
Although these gouges are painful, they stay open, reminding me of the love I have for these people too, and I hope someday they may return and fill the space in my heart. So now do you see what true beauty is? ”
The young man stood silently with tears running down his cheeks. He walked up to the old man, reached into his perfect young and beautiful heart, and ripped a piece out. He offered it to the old man with trembling hands.

How To Be a Good Wife

This is allegedly actual text from an American home economics text book, circa 1950.
Have dinner ready.house Inflatable Tunnel Plan ahead, even the night before, to have a delicious meal on time. This is a way of letting him know you've been thinking about him and concerned about his needs. Most men are hungry when they come home and the prospect of a good meal is part of the warm welcome needed.
Prepare yourself. Take fifteen minutes to rest so that you will be refreshed when he arrives. Touch up your makeup, put a ribbon in your hair and be fresh looking. He has just been with a lot of work-weary people. Be a little gay and a little more interesting. His boring day may need a lift.
Clear away the clutter. Make one last trip through the main part of the house just before your husband arrives, gather up school books, toys, paper, etc. Run a dust cloth over the tables. Your husband will feel he has reached a haven of rest and order; and it will give you a lift too.
Prepare the children. Take a few minutes to wash the children's hands and faces (if they're small), comb their hair, and if necessary, change their clothes. They are little treasures and he would like to see them playing the part.
Minimize all noise. At the time of his arrival, eliminate all noise of the washer, dryer, dishwasher, or vacuum. Try to encourage the children to be quiet. Be happy to see him. Greet him with a warm smile and be glad to see him.
Some Don'ts: Don't greet him with problems and complaints. Don't complain if he is late for dinner. Count this as minor compared to what he might have gone through that day. Make him comfortable. Have him lean back in a comfortable chair or suggest that he lie down in the bedroom. Have a cool drink ready for him. Arrange his pillow and offer to take off his shoes. Speak in a low, soft, soothing and pleasant voice. Allow him to relax and unwind.
Listen to him. You may have a dozen things to tell him, but the moment of his arrival is not the time. Let him talk first.
Make the evening his. Never complain if he does not take you out to dinner or other pleasant entertainment. Instead try to understand his world of strain and pressure, his need to unwind and relax.

A Letter in the Wallet

It was a freezing day, a few years ago, when I stumbled upon a wallet in the street.Inflatable Santa Claus cheap There was no identification inside. Just three dollars, and a crumpled letter that looked as if it had been carried around for years.
The only thing legible on the torn envelope was the return address. I opened the letter and saw that it had been written in 1944 — almost 60 years ago. I read it carefully, hoping to find some clue to the identity of the wallet's owner.
It was a "Dear John" letter. The writer, in a delicate script, told the recipient, whose name was Michael, that her mother forbade her to see him again. Nevertheless, she would always love him. It was signed Hannah.
It was a beautiful letter. But there was no way, beyond the name Michael, to identify the owner. Perhaps if I called information the operator could find the phone number for the address shown on the envelope.
"Operator, this is an unusual request. I'm trying to find the owner of a wallet I found. Is there any way you could tell me the phone number for an address that was on a letter in the wallet?"
The operator gave me her supervisor, who said there was a phone listed at the address, but that she could not give me the number. However, she would call and explain the situation. Then, if the party wanted to talk, she would connect me. I waited a minute and she came back on the line. "I have a woman who will speak with you."
I asked the woman if she knew a Hannah.
"Oh, of course! We bought this house from Hannah's family thirty years ago."
"Would you know where they could be located now?" I asked.
"Hannah had to place her mother in a nursing home years ago. Maybe the home could help you track down the daughter."
The woman gave me the name of the nursing home. I called and found out that Hannah's mother had died. The woman I spoke with gave me an address where she thought Hannah could be reached.

I phoned. The woman who answered explained that Hannah herself was now living in a nursing home. She gave me the number. I called and was told, "Yes, Hannah is with us."
I asked if I could stop by to see her. It was almost 10 p.m. The director said Hannah might be asleep. "But if you want to take a chance, maybe she's in the day room watching television."
The director and a guard greeted me at the door of the nursing home. We went up to the third floor and saw the nurse, who told us that Hannah was indeed watching TV.
We entered the day room. Hannah was a sweet, silver-haired old-timer with a warm smile and friendly eyes. I told her about finding the wallet and showed her the letter. The second she saw it, she took a deep breath. "Young man," she said, "this letter was the last contact I had with Michael." She looked away for a moment, then said pensively, "I loved him very much. But I was only sixteen and my mother felt I was too young. He was so handsome. You know, like Sean Connery, the actor."
We both laughed. The director then left us alone. "Yes, Michael Goldstein was his name. If you find him, tell him I still think of him often. I never did marry," she said, smiling through tears that welled up in her eyes. "I guess no one ever matched up to Michael..."
I thanked Hannah, said good-bye and took the elevator to the first floor. As I stood at the door, the guard asked, "Was the old lady able to help you?"
I told him she had given me a lead. "At least I have a last name. But I probably won't pursue it further for a while." I explained that I had spent almost the whole day trying to find the wallet's owner.
While we talked, I pulled out the brown-leather case with its red-lanyard lacing and showed it to the guard. He looked at it closely and said, "Hey, I'd know that anywhere. That's Mr. Goldstein's. He's always losing it. I found it in the hall at least three times."
"Who's Mr. Goldstein?" I asked. "He's one of the old-timers on the eighth floor. That's Mike Goldstein's wallet, for sure. He goes out for a walk quite often."
I thanked the guard and ran back to the director's office to tell him what the guard had said. He accompanied me to the eighth floor. I prayed that Mr. Goldstein would be up.
"I think he's still in the day room," the nurse said. "He likes to read at night...a darling old man."
We went to the only room that had lights on, and there was a man reading a book. The director asked him if he had lost his wallet. Michael Goldstein looked up, felt his back pocket and then said, "Goodness, it is missing."
"This kind gentleman found a wallet. Could it be yours?"
The second he saw it, he smiled with relief. "Yes," he said, "that's it. Must have dropped it this afternoon. I want to give you a reward."
"Oh, no thank you," I said. "But I have to tell you something. I read the letter in the hope of finding out who owned the wallet."
The smile on his face disappeared. "You read that letter?"
"Not only did I read it, I think I know where Hannah is."
He grew pale. "Hannah? You know where she is? How is she? Is she still as pretty as she was?"
I hesitated.
"Please tell me!" Michael urged.
"She's fine, and just as pretty as when you knew her."
"Could you tell me where she is? I want to call her tomorrow."
He grabbed my hand and said, "You know something? When that letter came, my life ended. I never married. I guess I've always loved her."
"Michael," I said. "Come with me." The three of us took the elevator to the third floor. We walked toward the day room where Hannah was sitting, still watching TV. The director went over to her.
"Hannah," he said softly. "Do you know this man?" Michael and I stood waiting in the doorway.
She adjusted her glasses, looked for a moment, but didn't say a word.
"Hannah, it's Michael. Michael Goldstein. Do you remember?"
"Michael? Michael? It's you!"
He walked slowly to her side. She stood and they embraced. Then the two of them sat on a couch, held hands and started to talk.Inflatable Jumpers giant The director and I walked out, both of us crying.
"See how the good Lord works," I said philosophically. "If it's meant to be. It will be." Three weeks later, I got a call from the director who asked, "Can you break away on Sunday to attend a wedding?" He didn't wait for an answer. "Yup(=yes), Michael and Hannah are going to tie the knot!"
It was a lovely wedding, with all the people at the nursing home joining in the celebration. Hannah wore a beige dress and looked beautiful. Michael wore a dark blue suit and stood tall. The home gave them their own room, and if you ever wanted to see a 76-year-old bride and a 78-year old groom acting like two teen-agers, you had to see this couple.

I like the subtle

I like the subtle fresh green budding from the branches of the tree -- the herald of spring,Inflatable Snowman airblown ushering in the dawn...
I like the subtle flow of cloud that makes the sky seem even more vast, azure and immense...
I like the subtle wind. In spring, it steals a kiss on my cheek; in autumn, it caresses my face; in summer, it brings in cool sweet smell; in winter, it carries a crisp chilliness...
I like the subtle taste of tea that last long after a sip. The subtle bitter is what it is meant to be...
I like the subtle friendship that does not hold people together. In stead, an occasional greeting spreads our longings far beyond...
I like the subtle longing for a friend, when I sink deeply in a couch, mind wandering in memories of the past...
Love should also be subtle, without enslaving the ones fallen into her arms. Not a bit less nor a bit more...

Marriage,Love and Freedom

You are asking, "Is it possible to be married and to be free?"
If you take marriage non-seriously, then you can be free. If you take it seriously, then freedom is impossible. Take marriage just as a game -- it is a game. Have a little sense of humor, that it is a role you are playing on the stage of life;Inflatable Jumpers wholsale but it is not something that belongs to existence or has any reality -- it is a fiction.
But people are so stupid that they even start taking fiction for reality. I have seen people reading fiction with tears in their eyes, because in the fiction things are going so tragically. It is a very good device in the movies that they put the lights off, so everybody can enjoy the movie, laugh, cry, be sad, be happy.
If there was light it would be a little difficult -- what will others think? And they know perfectly well that the screen is empty -- there is nobody; it is just a projected picture. But they forget it completely.
And the same has happened with our lives. Many things which are simply to be taken humorously, we take so seriously -- and from that seriousness begins our problem.
In the first place, why should you get married? You love someone, live with someone -- it is part of your basic rights. You can live with someone, you can love someone.
Marriage is not something that happens in heaven, it happens here, through the crafty priests. But if you want to join the game with society and don't want to stand alone and aloof, you make it clear to your wife or to your husband that this marriage is just a game:
"Never take it seriously. I will remain as independent as I was before marriage, and you will remain as independent as you were before marriage. Neither I am going to interfere in your life, nor are you going to interfere in my life; we will live as two friends together, sharing our joys, sharing our freedom -- but not becoming a burden on each other.
And any moment we feel that the spring has passed, the honeymoon is over, we will be sincere enough not to go on pretending, but to say to each other that we loved much -- and we will remain grateful to each other forever, and the days of love will haunt us in our memories, in our dreams, as golden -- but the spring is over.
Our paths have come to a point, where although it is sad, we have to part, because now, living together is not a sign of love. If I love you, I will leave you the moment I see my love has become a misery to you. If you love me, you will leave me the moment you see that your love is creating an imprisonment for me."
Love is the highest value in life: It should not be reduced to stupid rituals. And love and freedom go together -- you cannot choose one and leave the other. A man who knows freedom is full of love, and a man who knows love is always willing to give freedom.
If you cannot give freedom to the person you love, to whom can you give freedom? Giving freedom is nothing but trusting. Freedom is an expression of love.
So whether you are married or not, remember, all marriages are fake -- just social conveniences. Their purpose is not to imprison you and bind you to each other; their purpose is to help you to grow with each other. But growth needs freedom; and in the past, all the cultures have forgotten that without freedom, love dies.
You see a bird on the wing in the sun, in the sky, and it looks so beautiful. Attracted by its beauty, you can catch the bird and put it in a golden cage.
Do you think it is the same bird? Superficially, yes, it is the same bird who was flying in the sky; but deep down it is not the same bird -- because where is its sky, where is its freedom?

The Three Fishermen 2

"You're early enough for eggs and bacon if you need a start." Eddie added, his invitation tossed kindly into the morning air, his smile a match for morning sun, a man of welcomes.Sumo Wrestling Suits cheap  "We have hot cakes, kulbassa, home fries, if you want." We have the food of kings if you really want to know. There were nights we sat at his kitchen table at 101 Main Street, Saugus, Massachusetts planning the trip, planning each meal, planning the campsite. Some menus were founded on a case of beer, a late night, a curse or two on the ride to work when day started.
"Been there a'ready," the other man said, his weaponry also noted by us, a little more orderly in its presentation, including an old Boy Scout sash across his chest, the galaxy of flies in supreme positioning. They were old Yankees, in the face and frame the pair of them undoubtedly brothers, staunch, written into early routines, probably had been up at three o'clock to get here at this hour. They were taller than we were, no fat on their frames, wide-shouldered, big-handed, barely coming out of their reserve, but fishermen. That fact alone would win any of us over. Obviously, they'd been around, a heft of time already accrued.

< 3 >

Then the pounding came, from inside the truck, as if a tire iron was beating at the sides of the vehicle. It was not a timid banging, not a minor signal. Bang! Bang! it came, and Bang! again. And the voice of authority from some place in space, some regal spot in the universe. "I'm not sitting here the livelong day whilst you boys gab away." A toothless meshing came in his words, like Walter Brennan at work in the jail in Rio Bravo or some such movie.
"Comin', pa," one of them said, the most orderly one, the one with the old scout sash riding him like a bandoleer.
They pulled open the back doors of the van, swung them wide, to show His Venerable Self, ageless, white-bearded, felt hat too loaded with an arsenal of flies, sitting on a white wicker rocker with a rope holding him to a piece of vertical angle iron, the crude kind that could have been on early subways or trolley cars. Across his lap he held three delicate fly rods, old as him, thin, bamboo in color, probably too slight for a lake's three-pounder. But on the Pine River, upstream or downstream, under alders choking some parts of the river's flow, at a significant pool where side streams merge and phantom trout hang out their eternal promise, most elegant, fingertip elegant.
"Oh, boy," Eddie said at an aside, "there's the boss man, and look at those tools." Admiration leaked from his voice.
Rods were taken from the caring hands, the rope untied, and His Venerable Self, white wicker rocker and all, was lifted from the truck and set by our campfire. I was willing to bet that my sister Pat, the dealer in antiques, would scoop up that rocker if given the slightest chance. The old one looked about the campsite, noted clothes drying from a previous day's rain, order of equipment and supplies aligned the way we always kept them, the canvas of our tent taut and true in its expanse, our fishing rods off the ground and placed atop the flyleaf so as not to tempt raccoons with smelly cork handles, no garbage in sight. He nodded.
We had passed muster.
"You the ones leave it cleaner than you find it ever' year. We knowed sunthin' 'bout you. Never disturbed you afore. But we share the good spots." He looked closely at Brother Bentley, nodded a kind of recognition. "Your daddy ever fish here, son?"
< 4 >
Brother must have passed through the years in a hurry, remembering his father bringing him here as a boy. "A ways back," Brother said in his clipped North Saugus fashion, outlander, specific, no waste in his words. Old Oren Bentley, it had been told us, had walked five miles through the unknown woods off Route 16 as a boy and had come across the campsite, the remnants of an old lodge, and a great curve in the Pine River so that a mile's walk in either direction gave you three miles of stream to fish, upstream or downstream. Paradise up north.
His Venerable Self nodded again, a man of signals, then said, "Knowed him way back some. Met him at the Iron Bridge. We passed a few times." Instantly we could see the story. A whole history of encounter was in his words; it marched right through us the way knowledge does, as well as legend. He pointed at the coffeepot. "The boys'll be off, but my days down there get cut up some. I'll sit a while and take some of thet." He said thet too pronounced, too dramatic, and it was a short time before I knew why.
The white wicker rocker went into a slow and deliberate motion, his head nodded again. He spoke to his sons. "You boys be back no more'n two-three hours so these fellers can do their things too, and keep the place tidied up."
The most orderly son said, "Sure, pa. Two-three hours." The two elderly sons left the campsite and walked down the path to the banks of the Pine River, their boots swishing at thigh line, the most elegant rods pointing the way through scattered limbs, experience on the move. Trout beware, we thought.
"We been carpenters f'ever," he said, the clip still in his words. "Those boys a mine been some good at it too." His head cocked, he seemed to listen for their departure, the leaves and branches quiet, the murmur of the stream a tinkling idyllic music rising up the banking. Old Venerable Himself moved the wicker rocker forward and back, a small timing taking place. He was hearing things we had not heard yet, the whole symphony all around us. Eddie looked at me and nodded his own nod. It said, "I'm paying attention and I know you are. This is our one encounter with a man who has fished for years the river we love, that we come to twice a year, in May with the mayflies, in June with the black flies." The gift and the scourge, we'd often remember, having been both scarred and sewn by it.
< 5 >
Brother was still at memory, we could tell. Silence we thought was heavy about us, but there was so much going on. A bird talked to us from a high limb. A fox called to her young. We were on the Pine River once again, nearly a hundred miles from home, in Paradise.
"Name's Roger Treadwell. Boys are Nathan and Truett." The introductions had been accounted for.
Old Venerable Roger Treadwell, carpenter, fly fisherman, rocker, leaned forward and said, "You boys wouldn't have a couple spare beers, would ya?"

The Three Fishermen 1

There were three of them. There were four of us, and April lay on the campsite and on the river,inflatable christmas adult  a mixture of dawn at a damp extreme and the sun in the leaves at cajole. This was Deer Lodge on the Pine River in Ossipee, New Hampshire, though the lodge was naught but a foundation remnant in the earth. Brother Bentley's father, Oren, had found this place sometime after the First World War, a foreign affair that had seriously done him no good but he found solitude abounding here. Now we were here, post World War II, post Korean War, Vietnam War on the brink. So much learned, so much yet to learn.
Peace then was everywhere about us, in the riot of young leaves, in the spree of bird confusion and chatter, in the struggle of pre-dawn animals for the start of a new day, a Cooper Hawk that had smashed down through trees for a squealing rabbit, yap of a fox at a youngster, a skunk at rooting.
We had pitched camp in the near darkness, Ed LeBlanc, Brother Bentley, Walter Ruszkowski, myself. A dozen or more years we had been here, and seen no one. Now, into our campsite deep in the forest, so deep that at times we had to rebuild sections of narrow road (more a logger's path) flushed out by earlier rains, deep enough where we thought we'd again have no traffic, came a growling engine, an old solid body van, a Chevy, the kind I had driven for Frankie Pike and the Lobster Pound in Lynn delivering lobsters throughout the Merrimack Valley. It had pre-WW II high fenders, a faded black paint on a body you'd swear had been hammered out of corrugated steel, and an engine that made sounds too angry and too early for the start of day. Two elderly men, we supposed in their seventies, sat the front seat; felt hats at the slouch and decorated with an assortment of tied flies like a miniature bandoleer of ammunition on the band. They could have been conscripts for Emilano Zappata, so loaded their hats and their vests as they climbed out of the truck.
"Mornin', been yet?" one of them said as he pulled his boots up from the folds at his knees, the tops of them as wide as a big mouth bass coming up from the bottom for a frog sitting on a lily pad. His hands were large, the fingers long and I could picture them in a shop barn working a primal plane across the face of a maple board. Custom-made, old elegance, those hands said.
< 2 >
"Barely had coffee," Ed LeBlanc said, the most vocal of the four of us, quickest at friendship, at shaking hands. "We've got a whole pot almost. Have what you want." The pot was pointed out sitting on a hunk of grill across the stones of our fire, flames licking lightly at its sides. The pot appeared as if it had been at war, a number of dents scarred it, the handle had evidently been replaced, and if not adjusted against a small rock it would have fallen over for sure. Once, a half-hour on the road heading north, noting it missing, we'd gone back to get it. When we fished the Pine River, coffee was the glue, the morning glue, the late evening glue, even though we'd often unearth our beer from a natural cooler in early evening. Coffee, camp coffee, has a ritual. It is thick, it is dark, it is potboiled over a squaw-pine fire, it is strong, it is enough to wake the demon in you, stoke last evening's cheese and pepperoni. First man up makes the fire, second man the coffee; but into that pot has to go fresh eggshells to hold the grounds down, give coffee a taste of history, a sense of place. That means at least one egg be cracked open for its shells, usually in the shadows and glimmers of false dawn. I suspect that's where "scrambled eggs" originated, from some camp like ours, settlers rushing west, lumberjacks hungry, hoboes lobbying for breakfast. So, camp coffee has made its way into poems, gatherings, memories, a time and thing not letting go, not being manhandled, not being cast aside.

When The Wind Blows

Years ago a farmer owned land along the Atlantic seacoast. He constantly advertised for hired hands.Inflatable Santa custom
 Most people were reluctant to work on farms along the Atlantic. They dreaded the awful storms that raged across the Atlantic，wreaking havoc on the buildings and crops. As the farmer interviewed applicants for the job，he received a steady stream of refusals.　　　
Finally，a short，thin man，well past middle age，approached the farmer. “Are you a good farmhand？”the farmer asked him.　　　
“Well，I can sleep when the wind blows，” answered the little man.　　　
Although puzzled by this answer，the farmer，desperate for help，hired him. The little man worked well around the farm，busy from dawn to dusk，and the farmer felt satisfied with the man's work.　　　
Then one night the wind howled loudly in from offshore. Jumping out of bed，the farmer grabbed a lantern and rushed next door to the hired hand's sleeping quarters. He shook the little man and yelled，“Get up！ A storm is coming！ Tie things down before they blow away！”　　
The little man rolled over in bed and said firmly，“No sir. I told you，I can sleep when the wind blows.”　　　
Enraged by the response，the farmer was tempted to fire him on the spot. Instead，he hurried outside to prepare for the storm. To his amazement，he discovered that all of the haystacks had been covered with tarpaulins. The cows were in the barn，the chickens were in the coops，and the doors were barred. The shutters were tightly secured. Everything was tied down. Nothing could blow away.　　　　
The farmer then understood what his hired hand meant，so he returned to his bed to also sleep while the wind blew.　　　

The Littlest Fireman

The 26-year-old mother stared down at her son who was dying of terminal leukemia. Although her heart was filled with sadness,Sumo Wrestling Suits sale
 she also had a strong feeling of determination. Like any parent she wanted her son to grow up and fulfill all his dreams. Now that was no longer possible.
The leukemia would see to that. But she still wanted her son's dreams to come true. She took her son's hand and asked, "Billy, did you ever think about what you wanted to be once you grew up? Did you ever dream and wish what you would do with your life?"
"Mommy, I always wanted to be a fireman when I grew up."
Mom smiled back and said, "Let's see if we can make your wish come true,"
Later that day she went to her local fire department in Phoenix, Arizona, where she met Fireman Bob, who had a heart as big as Phoenix. She explained her son's final wish and asked if it might be possible to give her six-year-old son a ride around the block on a fire engine. Fireman Bob said, "Look, we can do better than that. If you'll have your son ready at seven o'clock Wednesday morning, we'll make him an honorary fireman for the whole day. He can come down to the fire station, eat with us, go out on all the fire calls, the whole nine yards! "And if you'll give us his sizes, we'll get a real fire uniform for him, with a real fire hat - not a toy one - with the emblem of the Phoenix Fire Department on it, a yellow slicker like we wear and rubber boots. They're all manufactured right here in Phoenix, so we can get them fast."
Three days later Fireman Bob picked up Billy, dressed him in his fire uniform and escorted him from his hospital bed to the waiting hook and ladder truck.
Billy got to sit on the back of the truck and help steer it back to the fire station. He was in heaven. There were three fire calls in Phoenix that day and Billy got to go out on all three calls. He rode in the different fire engines, the paramedic's van and even the fire chief's car. He was also video taped for the local news program.
Having his dream come true, with all the love and attention that was lavished upon him, so deeply touched Billy that he lived three months longer than any doctor thought possible.
One night all of his vital signs began to drop dramatically and the head nurse, who believed in the hospice concept that no one should die alone, began to call the family members to the hospital. Then she remembered the day Billy had spent as a fireman, so she called the fire chief and asked if it would be possible to send a fireman in uniform to the hospital to be with Billy as he made his transition. The chief replied, " We can do better than that. We'll be there in five minutes. Will you please do me a favor?
When you hear the sirens screaming and see the lights flashing, will you announce over the PA system that there is not a fire? It's just the fire department coming to see one of it's finest members one more time. And will you open the window to his room? Thanks."
About five minutes later a hook and ladder truck arrived at the hospital, extended its ladder up to Billy's third floor open window and 16 firefighters climbed up the ladder into Billy's room. With his mother's permission, they hugged him and held him and told him how much they loved him. With his dying breath, Billy looked up at the fire chief and said, "Chief, am I really a fireman now?"
"Billy, you are," the chief said.

You Have a Choice

You have a choice I woke up early today, excited over all I get to do before the clock strikes midnight.Abominable Snowman adult
 I have responsibilities to fulfill today. I am important. My job is to choose what kind of day I am going to have.
Today I can complain because the weather is rainy or I can be thankful that the grass is getting watered for free.
Today I can fell sad that I don’t have more money or I can be glad that my finances encourage me to plan my purchases wisely and guide me away from waste.
Today I can grumble about my health or I can rejoice that I am alive.
Today I can lament over all that my parents didn’t give me when I was growing up or I can feel grateful that they allowed me to be born.
Today I can cry because roses have thorns or I can celebrate that thorns have roses.
Today I can mourn my lack of friends or I can excitedly embark upon a quest to discover new relationships.
Today I can murmur dejectedly because I have to do housework or I can feel honored because the Lord has provided shelter for my mind, body and soul.
Today stretches ahead of me, waiting to be shaped. And here I am, the sculptor who gets to do the shaping.

The Baby Eagle

Once upon a time there was a baby eagle living in a nest perched on a cliff overlooking a beautiful valley with waterfalls and streams, trees and lots of little animals, scurrying about enjoying their lives.
The baby eagle liked the nest.Christmas Decorations buy
 It was the only world he had ever known. It was warm and comfortable, had a great view, and even better, he had all the food and love and attention that a great mother eagle could provide. Many times each day the mother would swoop down from the sky and land in the nest and feed the baby eagle delicious morsels of food. She was like a god to him, he had no idea where she came from or how she worked her magic.
The baby eagle was hungry all the time, but the mother eagle would always come just in time with the food and love and attention he craved. The baby eagle grew strong. His vision grew very sharp. He felt good all the time.
Until one day, the mother stopped coming to the nest.
The baby eagle was hungry. "I'm sure to die," said the baby eagle, all the time.
"Very soon, death is coming," he cried, with tears streaming down his face. Over and over. But there was no one there to hear him.
Then one day the mother eagle appeared at the top of the mountain cliff, with a big bowl of delicious food and she looked down at her baby. The baby looked up at the mother and cried "Why did you abandon me? I'm going to die any minute. How could you do this to me?"
The mother said, "Here is some very tasty and nourishing food, all you have to do is come get it."
"Come get it!" said the baby, with much anger. "How?"
The mother flew away.
The baby cried and cried and cried.
A few days later, "I'm going to end it all," he said. "I give up. It is time for me to die."
He didn't know his mother was nearby. She swooped down to the nest with his last meal.
"Eat this, it's your last meal," she said.
The baby cried, but he ate and whined and whined about what a bad mother she was.
"You're a terrible mother," he said. Then she pushed him out of the nest.
He fell.
Head first.
Picked up speed.
Faster and faster.
He screamed. "I'm dying I'm dying," he cried. He picked up more speed.
He looked up at his mother. "How could you do this to me?"
He looked down.
The ground rushed closer, faster and faster. He could visualize his own death so clearly, coming so soon, and cried and whined and complained. "This isn't fair!" he screamed.
Something strange happens.
The air caught behind his arms and they snapped away from his body, with a feeling unlike anything he had ever experienced. He looked down and saw the sky. He wasn't moving towards the ground anymore, his eyes were pointed up at the sun.
"Huh?" he said. "What is going on here!"
"You're flying," his mother said.
"This is fun!" laughed the baby eagle, as he soared and dived and swooped.

A Boy Ought to Have a Chance

The little boy eyed all of the colorful items in the old fisherman’s tackle box. He wanted to touch, but he didn’t dare.
“You like to fish?” the fisherman asked.
“Don’t know. Never have,” said the boy, whose eyes never moved from the contents of the box. Inflatable Camping Tent kid
“You use all that stuff, Mr. Russell?”
“At one time or another. How come you never been fishing?”
“No one ever took me,” the boy answered.
The fisherman studied the little boy he had known for only a few weeks. Richard was a foster child living temporarily in my home. Soon the boy would be moving again to a permanent placement.
“Never been fishing,” the fisherman later repeated to me. “No one ever took him.” That just didn’t seem right to him. A boy ought to have the chance to go fishing. That was an important part of growing up. What kind of man would this boy grow up to be if he never went fishing, if he never patiently waited for the tug on a line?
The fisherman decided that Richard would go fishing before he moved. But going fishing wasn’t enough. The boy had to catch a fish. How could he be sure that the boy would experience the joy of hooking a fish and landing it? He decided to enlist the aid of another fisherman—his older brother Ernest.
The two men discussed the problem and decided on the solution. They would take young Richard to a fishing hole on their nephew’s place. The pond was overstocked with finger-size fish. Richard would get his chance to catch a fish. It might not be bragging size, but it would be a catch that Richard could delight in.
When the day arrived, the two men and the boy climbed into the pickup truck for the ride to the fishing hole. The boy watched as the men took turns getting out to open gates as they crossed one field after another. At last they stopped near a barbed-wire fence. On the other side was the fishing hole. They walked along the fence until they found the spot where the ground dipped a little. The men showed the boy how to get down and slide under the fence.
At first the boy was reluctant to move too far from the fence because of the nearby meandering cows, but the men assured him that he would be okay. They would protect him.
The men showed the boy how to bait his hook with the worms he had found earlier that day. Shortly after putting his hook into the water, the boy saw his float wiggle and then begin to bob up and down. One of the men told him to give his line a quick yank and pull it out of the water. Sure enough, dangling from the end of his line was a fish—small, very small, but a fish.
“Look, Mr. Russell! Look, Mr. Ernest! I got one!” the boy shouted.
“That is sure some fish!” one of the men responded.
“We got to get a picture of this,” said the other, pulling out the camera.
The old fisherman saw the boy catch his first fish that afternoon and helped create a memory that the child could take with him wherever he went. Three days later the boy was gone.
There were other young boys and girls who came, stayed awhile, and then left the temporary foster home. There were also some local kids who needed an unofficial “grandfather.” The man took the time to teach each one something. Becky learned to build a birdhouse. Jason learned to build a campfire on the first try with just one match. Beth learned to use a screwdriver and complete a project. Lisa learned to swim in a country pond, and Colby learned that someone cared enough about him to just sit and listen as he grieved over the loss of his father.

How to be a Friend of Yourself

Friendship with oneself is all important, because without it one cannot be friends with anyone else in the world.- Eleanor Roosevelt
We often focus on building relationships with others that we forget the essential first step: being friends of ourselves.Abominable Snowman yard
 That is the crucial first step if we are to have good relationships with others. How can we have good relationships with others if we don't even have good relationship with ourselves?
The problem might be worse than we expect. Maybe we don't like ourselves without realizing it. Here is a simple checklist; is there anything you don't like about yourself from these list?
Your past
Maybe you have made mistakes in the past which you feel bad about. You might be disappointed with yourself on why you could make such mistakes. Even if that happened in distant past, your subconscious mind still has a reason not to like yourself.
Your background
You might wish that you were born in different family, or that you have different background. Maybe you could not accept the fact that you are not as lucky as others, who seem to get whatever they want effortlessly because of their background.
Your personality traits
You might have some personality traits that you don't like. For example, you may be an introvert and you don't like it; you wish you are an extrovert.
Your achievements relative to others Others might have better achievements than you, and no matter how hard you tried, it might seem impossible for you to match them. You might then think that it's because you are not smart enough or don't have enough talents. Is there anything that resonate with you? All these give reasons to you not to like yourself. That in turn makes it difficult for you to be a good friend to yourself.
Fortunately, there are always things you can do to fix the situation. Here are some tips:
1. Forgive yourself
You may have made those mistakes in the past, but is there anything you can do about them? I don't think so, except learning from them. It's true that you are not perfect, but neither is everybody else. It’s normal to make mistakes, so do yourself a favor by giving yourself forgiveness.
2. Accept things you can't change
There are some things you cannot change, such as your background and your past. So learn to accept them. You will feel much relieved if you treat things you can’t change the way they deserve: just accept them, smile, and move on.
3. Focus on your strengths
Instead of focusing on your weaknesses, focus on your strengths. You always have some strengths which give you a unique combination nobody else have. Recognize your strengths and build your life around them.
Health Top Tips Nutrition Lifestyle
4. Write your success stories
One reason we may not like ourselves is we are too focused on what we don’t have that we forget about what we have. So make a list of your achievements; write your success stories. They do not have to be big things; there are a lot of small but important achievements in our life. For example, if you have some good friends, that’s already an achievement. If you have a good family, that is also an achievement.
5. Stop comparing yourself with others
You are unique. You can never be like other people, and neither can other people be like you. The way you measure your success is not determined by other people and what they achieve. Instead, it is determined by your own life purpose. You have everything you need to achieve your life purpose, so it's useless to compare yourself with others.
6. Always be true to yourself
You don't like other people lying to you, right? Similarly, you won't like yourself if you know that you lie to yourself. Whether you realize it or not, that gives your mind a reason not to like yourself. That’s why it's important to always be true to yourself. In whatever you do, be honest and follow your conscience. Remember this quote by Abraham Lincoln:

A Change of Heart

Grandma got Grandpa out of bed and helped him to the kitchen for breakfast. After his meal, she led him to his armchair in the living room where he would rest while she cleaned the dishes. Every so often, she would check to see if he needed anything.
This was their daily routine after Grandpa’s latest stroke. Although once a very active man, his severely damaged left arm, difficulty walking and slurred speech now kept him housebound.Inflatable Santa cheap
  For nearly a year he hadn’t even been to church or to visit family.
Grandpa filled his hours with television. He watched the news and game shows while Grandma went about her day. They made a pact—he was not to leave his chair or his bed without her assistance.
“If you fell and I threw my back out trying to help you, who would take care of us?” Grandma would ask him. She was adamant about their taking care of themselves and living independently.
The Brooklyn brownstone had been their first home and held wonderful memories. They weren’t ready to leave it behind anytime soon.
Immigrants from Ireland, they met and married in America. Grandma was friendly, outgoing and unselfish; Grandpa was reserved, a man devoted to his family. But he wasn’t big on giving gifts. While he wouldn’t think twice about giving my grandma the shirt off his back, he subscribed to the belief that if you treated your wife well throughout the year, presents weren’t necessary; so he rarely purchased gifts for her.
This had been a sore point in the early days of their marriage. But as years passed, Grandma realized what a good man he was. And, after all, anything she wanted she was free to buy herself.
It was a cold, gray February morning, a typical winter day in New York. As always, Grandma walked Grandpa to his chair.
“I’m going to take a shower now.” She handed him the television remote. “If you need anything, I’ll be back in a little while.”
After her shower, she glanced towards the back of Grandpa’s recliner but noticed that his cane was not leaning in its usual spot. Sensing something odd, she walked toward the recliner. He was gone. The closet door stood open and his hat and overcoat were missing. Fear ran down her spine.
Grandma threw a coat over her bathrobe and ran outside. He couldn’t have gotten far; he could barely walk on his own.
Desperately, she scanned the block in both directions. Small mounds of snow and ice coated the sidewalks. Walking safely would be difficult for people who were steady on their feet, much less someone in Grandpa’s condition.
Where could he be? Why would he leave the house all by himself?
Wringing her hands, she hardly felt the frigid air as she watched traffic rush by. She recalled overhearing him tell one of their grandchildren recently that he felt he was a “burden.” Until this last year, he had been strong and healthy; now he couldn’t even perform the simplest of tasks.
As she stood alone on the street corner, guilt flooded her.
Just then, Grandpa walked around the bend of the corner. Head bowed, eyes focused on the sidewalk, he took small, cautious steps. His overcoat barely draped the shoulder of his bad arm; his cane and a package filled his good arm.
Desperate to reach him, Grandma raced down the block. Relieved to see that he was okay, she started to scold.
“I only left you alone for a short while. What did you need so badly that couldn’t wait? I was so worried about you! What on earth was so important?”
Confused and curious, she reached into the brown bag. Before Grandpa had a chance to explain, she pulled out a heart-shaped box.
“It’s Valentine’s Day,” Grandpa explained. “I thought you might like a box of chocolates.”
A gift? All this worry for . . . candy?

A Goodbye Kiss

The Board Meeting had come to an end. Bob started to stand up and jostled the table, spilling his coffee over his notes. "How embarrassing.I am getting so clumsy in my old age."
Everyone had a good laugh, and soon we were all telling stories of our most embarrassing moments.Inflatable Tunnel cheap It came around to Frank who sat quietly listening to the others. Someone said, "Come on, Frank. Tell us your most embarrassing moment."
Frank laughed and began to tell us of his childhood. "I grew up in San Pedro. My Dad was a fisherman, and he loved the sea. He had his own boat, but it was hard making a living on the sea.He worked hard and would stay out until he caught enough to feed the family. Not just enough for our family, but also for his Mom and Dad and the other kids that were still at home."
He looked at us and said, "I wish you could have met my Dad. He was a big man, and he was strong from pulling the nets and fighting the seas for his catch. When you got close to him, he smelled like the ocean. He would wear his old canvas, foul-weather coat and his bibbed overalls. His rain hat would be pulled down over his brow. No matter how much my Mother washed them, they would still smell of the sea and of fish."
Frank's voice dropped a bit. "When the weather was bad he would drive me to school. He had this old truck that he used in his fishing business. That truck was older than he was. It would wheeze and rattle down the road. You could hear it coming for blocks. As he would drive toward the school,I would shrink down into the seat hoping to disappear. Half the time, he would slam to a stop and the old truck would belch a cloud of smoke. He would pull right up in front, and it seemed like everybody would be standing around and watching. Then he would lean over and give me a big kiss on the cheek and tell me to be a good boy. It was so embarrassing for me. Here, I was 12 years old, and my Dad would lean over and kiss me goodbye!"
He paused and then went on, "I remember the day I decided I was too old for a goodbye kiss. When we got to the school and came to a stop, he had his usual big smile. He started to lean toward me, but I put my hand up and said, 'No, Dad.'
It was the first time I had ever talked to him that way, and he had this surprised look on his face.
I said, 'Dad, I'm too old for a goodbye kiss. I'm too old for any kind of kiss.'
My Dad looked at me for the longest time, and his eyes started to tear up. I had never seen him cry. He turned and looked out the windshield. 'You're right,' he said. 'You are a big boy....a man. I won't kiss you anymore.'"
Frank got a funny look on his face, and the tears began to well up in his eyes, as he spoke. "It wasn't long after that when my Dad went to sea and never came back. It was a day when most of the fleet stayed in, but not Dad. He had a big family to feed. They found his boat adrift with its nets half in and half out. He must have gotten into a gale and was trying to save the nets and the floats."

You’ll Never Regret it

Time is running out for my friend. While we are sitting at lunch she casually mentions she and her husband are thinking of starting a family. "We're taking a survey,"she says, half-joking.Inflatable Obstacle adult "Do you think I should have a baby?"
"It will change your life," I say, carefully keeping my tone neutral. "I know,"she says, "no more sleeping in on weekends, no more spontaneous holidays..."
But that's not what I mean at all. I look at my friend, trying to decide what to tell her. I want her to know what she will never learn in childbirth classes. I want to tell her that the physical wounds of child bearing will heal, but becoming a mother will leave her with an emotional wound so raw that she will be vulnerable forever.
I consider warning her that she will never again read a newspaper without thinking: "What if that had been MY child?" That every plane crash, every house fire will haunt her. That when she sees pictures of starving children, she will wonder if anything could be worse than watching your child die. I look at her carefully manicured nails and stylish suit and think that no matter how sophisticated she is, becoming a mother will reduce her to the primitive level of a bear protecting her cub.
I feel I should warn her that no matter how many years she has invested in her career, she will be professionally derailed by motherhood. She might arrange for child care, but one day she will be going into an important business meeting, and she will think her baby's sweet smell. She will have to use every ounce of discipline to keep from running home, just to make sure her child is all right.
I want my friend to know that every decision will no longer be routine. That a five-year-old boy's desire to go to the men's room rather than the women's at a restaurant will become a major dilemma. The issues of independence and gender identity will be weighed against the prospect that a child molester may be lurking in the lavatory. However decisive she may be at the office, she will second-guess herself constantly as a mother.
Looking at my attractive friend, I want to assure her that eventually she will shed the added weight of pregnancy, but she will never feel the same about herself. That her own life, now so important, will be of less value to her once she has a child. She would give it up in a moment to save her offspring, but will also begin to hope for more years—not to accomplish her own dreams—but to watch her children accomplish theirs.
I want to describe to my friend the exhilaration of seeing your child learn to hit a ball. I want to capture for her the belly laugh of a baby who is touching the soft fur of a dog for the first time. I want her to taste the joy that is so real it hurts.
My friend's look makes me realize that tears have formed in my eyes. "You'll never regret it," I say finally. Then, squeezing my friend's hand, I offer a prayer for her and me and all of the mere mortal women who stumble their way into this holiest of callings.

Spring Thaw

Every April I am beset by the same concern-that spring might not occur this year. The landscape looks forsaken, with hills, sky and forest forming a single graymeld, like the wash an artist paints on a canvas before the masterwork. My spirits ebb, as they did during an April snowfall when I first came to Maine 15 years ago.Inflatable Bounce "Just wait," a neithbor counseled. "You'll wake up one morning and spring will just be here."
Andlo, on May 3 that year I awoke to a green so startling as to be almost electric, as if spring were simply a matter of flipping a switch. Hills, sky and forest revealed their purples, blues and green. Leaves had unfurled, goldfinches had arrived at the feeder and daffodils were fighting their way heavenward.
Then there was the old apple tree. It sits on an undeveloped lot in my neighborhood. It belongs to no one and therefore to everyone. The tree's dark twisted branches sprawl in unpruned abandon. Each spring it blossoms so profusely that the air becomes saturated with the aroma of apple. When I drive by with my windows rolled down, it gives me the feeling of moving in another element, like a kid on a water slide.
Until last year, I thought I was the only one aware of this tree. And then one day, in a fit of spring madness, I set out with pruner and lopper to remove a few errant branches. No sooner had I arrived under its boughs than neighbors opened their windows and stepped onto their porches. These were people I barely knew and seldom spoke to, but it was as if I had come unbidden into their personal gardens.
My mobile-home neighbor was the first to speak."You're not cutting it down, are you?" Another neighbor winced as I lopped off a branch. "Don't kill it, now," he cautioned. Soon half the neighborhood had joined me under the apple arbor. It struck me that I had lived there for five years and only now was learning these people's names, what they did for a living and how they passed the winter. It was as if the old apple tree gathering us under its boughs for the dual purpose of acquaintanceship and shared wonder. I couldn't help recalling Robert Frost's* words:
The trees that have it in their pent-up buds
To darken nature and be summer woods
One thaw led to another. Just the other day I saw one of my neighbors at the local store. He remarked how this recent winter had been especially long and lamented not having seen or spoken at length to anyone in our neighborhood. And then, recouping his thoughts, he looked at me and said, "We need to prune that apple treeagain."

Spring Thaw

Every April I am beset by the same concern-that spring might not occur this year. The landscape looks forsaken,Inflatable Bounce wholesale with hills, sky and forest forming a single graymeld, like the wash an artist paints on a canvas before the masterwork. My spirits ebb, as they did during an April snowfall when I first came to Maine 15 years ago. "Just wait," a neithbor counseled. "You'll wake up one morning and spring will just be here."
Andlo, on May 3 that year I awoke to a green so startling as to be almost electric, as if spring were simply a matter of flipping a switch. Hills, sky and forest revealed their purples, blues and green. Leaves had unfurled, goldfinches had arrived at the feeder and daffodils were fighting their way heavenward.
Then there was the old apple tree. It sits on an undeveloped lot in my neighborhood. It belongs to no one and therefore to everyone. The tree's dark twisted branches sprawl in unpruned abandon. Each spring it blossoms so profusely that the air becomes saturated with the aroma of apple. When I drive by with my windows rolled down, it gives me the feeling of moving in another element, like a kid on a water slide.
Until last year, I thought I was the only one aware of this tree. And then one day, in a fit of spring madness, I set out with pruner and lopper to remove a few errant branches. No sooner had I arrived under its boughs than neighbors opened their windows and stepped onto their porches. These were people I barely knew and seldom spoke to, but it was as if I had come unbidden into their personal gardens.
My mobile-home neighbor was the first to speak."You're not cutting it down, are you?" Another neighbor winced as I lopped off a branch. "Don't kill it, now," he cautioned. Soon half the neighborhood had joined me under the apple arbor. It struck me that I had lived there for five years and only now was learning these people's names, what they did for a living and how they passed the winter. It was as if the old apple tree gathering us under its boughs for the dual purpose of acquaintanceship and shared wonder. I couldn't help recalling Robert Frost's* words:
The trees that have it in their pent-up buds
To darken nature and be summer woods

Love and Time

Once upon a time, there was an island where all the feelings lived: Happiness, Sadness, Knowledge, and all of the others, including Love. One day it was announced to the feelings that the island would sink, so all constructed boats and left. Except for Love.
Love was the only one who stayed.Inflatable Arch for sale  Love wanted to hold out until the last possible moment.
When the island had almost sunk, Love decided to ask for help.
Richness was passing by Love in a grand boat. Love said,
"Richness, can you take me with you?"
Richness answered, "No, I can't. There is a lot of gold and silver in my boat. There is no place here for you."
Love decided to ask Vanity who was also passing by in a beautiful vessel. "Vanity, please help me!"
"I can't help you, Love. You are all wet and might damage my boat," Vanity answered.
Sadness was close by so Love asked, "Sadness, let me go with you."
"Oh . . . Love, I am so sad that I need to be by myself!"
Happiness passed by Love, too, but she was so happy that she did not even hear when Love called her.
Suddenly, there was a voice, "Come, Love, I will take you." It was an elder. So blessed and overjoyed, Love even forgot to ask the elder where they were going. When they arrived at dry land, the elder went her own way. Realizing how much was owed the elder,
Love asked Knowledge, another elder, "Who Helped me?"
"It was Time," Knowledge answered.
"Time?" asked Love. "But why did Time help me?"

The greatest of these

My day began on a decidedly sour note when I saw my six-year-old wrestling with a limb of my azalea bush.Inflatable Castle kid  By the time I got outside, he'd broken it. "Can I take this to school today?" he asked. With a wave of my hand, I sent him off. I turned my back so he wouldn't see the tears gathering in my eyes. I loved that azalea bush. I touched the broken limb as if to say silently, "I'm sorry."
I wished I could have said that to my husband earlier, but I'd been angry. The washing machine had leaked on my brand-new linoleum. If he'd just taken the time to fix it the night before when I asked him instead of playing checkers with Jonathan. What are his priorities anyway? I wondered. I was still mopping up the mess when Jonathan walked into the kitchen. "What's for breakfast, Mom?" I opened the empty refrigerator. "Not cereal," I said, watching the sides of his mouth drop. "How about toast and jelly?" I smeared the toast with jelly and set it in front of him. Why was I so angry? I tossed my husband's dishes into the sudsy water.
It was days like this that made me want to quit. I just wanted to drive up to the mountains, hide in a cave, and never come out.
Somehow I managed to lug the wet clothes to the laundromat. I spent most of the day washing and drying clothes and thinking how love had disappeared from my life. Staring at the graffiti on the walls, I felt as wrung-out as the clothes left in the washers.
As I finished hanging up the last of my husband's shirts, I looked at the clock. 2:30. I was late. Jonathan's class let out at 2:15. I dumped the clothes in the back seat and hurriedly drove to the school.
I was out of breath by the time I knocked on the teacher's door and peered through the glass. With one finger, she motioned for me to wait. She said something to Jonathan and handed him and two other children crayons and a sheet of paper.
What now? I thought, as she rustled through the door and took me aside. "I want to talk to you about Jonathan," she said.
I prepared myself for the worst. Nothing would have surprised me. "Did you know Jonathan brought flowers to school today?" she asked. I nodded, thinking about my favorite bush and trying to hide the hurt in my eyes. I glanced at my son busily coloring a picture. His wavy hair was too long and flopped just beneath his brow. He brushed it away with the back of his hand. His eyes burst with blue as he admired his handiwork. "Let me tell you about yesterday," the teacher insisted. "See that little girl?" I watched the bright-eyed child laugh and point to a colorful picture taped to the wall. I nodded.
"Well, yesterday she was almost hysterical. Her mother and father are going through a nasty divorce. She told me she didn't want to live, she wished she could die. I watched that little girl bury her face in her hands and say loud enough for the class to hear, 'Nobody loves me.' I did all I could to console her, but it only seemed to make matters worse." "I thought you wanted to talk to me about Jonathan," I said.
"I do," she said, touching the sleeve of my blouse. "Today your son walked straight over to that child. I watched him hand her some pretty pink flowers and whisper, 'I love you.'"
I felt my heart swell with pride for what my son had done. I smiled at the teacher. "Thank you," I said, reaching for Jonathan's hand, "you've made my day."
Later that evening, I began pulling weeds from around my lopsided azalea bush. As my mind wandered back to the love Jonathan showed the little girl, a biblical verse came to me: "...these three remain: faith, hope and love. But the greatest of these is love." While my son had put love into practice, I had only felt anger.

Do not miss the opportunity to

There is one particular blue flower that has always caught my eye. I've noticed that it blooms only in the morning hours, the afternoon sun is too warm for it. Every day for approximately two weeks, I see those beautiful flowers.
This spring,Inflatable Tent cheap I started a wildflower garden in our yard. I can look out of the kitchen window while doing the dishes and see the flowers. I've often thought that those lovely blue flowers from the ditch would look great in that bed alongside other wildflowers. Everyday I drove past the flowers thinking, "I'll stop on my way home and dig them." "Gee, I don't want to get my good clothes dirty..." Whatever the reason, I never stopped to dig them. My husband even gave me a folding shovel one year for my trunk to be used for that expressed purpose.One day on my way home from work, I was saddened to see that the highway department had mowed the ditches and the pretty blue flowers were gone. I thought to myself, "Way to go, you waited too long. You should have done it when you first saw them blooming this spring."
A week ago we were shocked and saddened to learn that my oldest sister-in-law has a terminal brain tumor. She is 20 years older than my husband and unfortunately, because of age and distance, we haven't been as close as we all would have liked. I couldn't help but see the connection between the pretty blue flowers and the relationship between my husband's sister and us. I do believe that God has given us some time left to plant some wonderful memories that will bloom every year for us.

Napoleon's cause of death

A study of Napoleon Bonaparte's trousers could put an end to the theory that the French Emperor was poisoned.

Napoleon died aged 52 on St Helena  Inflatable Games wholesale in the south Atlantic where he had been banished after his defeat at Waterloo.

His post mortem showed he died of stomach cancer, but it has been suggested arsenic poisoning or over-zealous treatment was to blame.

Now Swiss researchers say his trousers show he lost weight prior his death, confirming he had cancer.

The research, by scientists from the anatomical pathology department of the University Hospital in Basel and the Institute of Medical History at the University of Zurich, looked at 12 pairs of Napoleon's trousers.

Four were from before his exile and eight were pairs he wore during the six years he spent in exile on St Helena, including the pair he wore while dying.

The researchers also collated information from post mortems on the weights of patients who had died of stomach cancer.

They then measured the waists of healthy people to work out the correlation between that measurement and their actual weight.

This information was then used to calculate Napoleon's weight in the months leading up to his death.

The largest pair of trousers Napoleon wore had a waist measurement of 110cm; those he wore just before his death measured 98cm.

This, they say, shows he lost between 11 and 15kg over the last six months of his life.

The Swiss team says the presence of arsenic in Napoleon's hair, the source of the poisoning theory, was linked to his enthusiasm for wine.

whats puberty

　One evening, in the midst of dinner preparation, our 10-year-old daughter asked, "Mommy, what's puberty?" Inflatable Games My wife was rushed at the moment, so she suggested that Peggy look up the word in the dictionary, after which they could talk about it.

A few minutes later, Peggy returned. Her mother asked what the dictionary had said. "Puberty means," announced Peggy, "the earliest age at which a girl is able to bear children."

"What do you think of that?" my wife asked.

"I'm not sure," Peggy relied. "I've always been able to bear children. It's adults I can't bear.".

the national flag

it is the duty of every citizen to honor the national flag. Why? Because the national flag is the symbol of a (the) country.Air Dancer adult To respect it means to respect the country. In other words, if a man loves his country, he must love the national flag.
　　In school, the national flag is usually raised at a certain time every day. Then the principal, teachers, staff and students are to (must) stand before it and sing the national anthem. It is indeed extremely meaningful to attend such a ceremony.

dangerous sports should be banned by law

　When you think of the tremendous technological progress we have made, it’s amazing how little we have developed in other respects. We may speak contemptuously of the poor old Romans because they relished the orgies of slaughter that went on in their arenas.Inflatable Arch giant We may despise them because they mistook these goings on for entertainment. We may forgive them condescendingly because they lived 2000 years ago and obviously knew no better. But are our feelings of superiority really justified? Are we any less blood-thirsty? Why do boxing matches, for instance, attract such universal interest? Don’t the spectators who attend them hope thy will see some violence? Human beings remain as blood-thirsty as ever they were. The only difference between ourselves and the Romans is that while they were honest enough to admit that they enjoyed watching hungry lions tearing people apart and eating them alive, we find all sorts of sophisticated arguments to defend sports which should have been banned long ago ; sports which are quite as barbarous as, say, public hangings or bear-baiting.
It really is incredible that in this day and age we should still allow hunting or bull-fighting, that we should be prepared to sit back and watch two men batter each other to pulp in a boxing ring, that we should be relatively unmoved by the sight of one or a number of racing cars crashing and bursting into flames. Let us not deceive ourselves. Any talk of ‘the sporting spirit’ is sheer hypocrisy. People take part in violent sports because of the high rewards they bring. Spectartors are willing to pay vast sums of money to see violence. A world heavyweight championship match, for instance, is front page news. Millions of people are disappointed if a big fight is over in twon rounds instead of fifteen. They feel disappointment because they have been deprived of the exquisite pleasure of witnessing prolonged torture and violence.
Why should we ban violent sports if people enjoy them so much? You may well ask. The answer is simple: they are uncivilized. For centuries man has been trying to improve himself spiritually emotionally—admittedly with little success. But at least we no longer tolerate the sight madmen cooped up in cages, or public floggings or any of the countless other barbaric practices which were common in the past. Prisons are no longer the grim forbidding places they used to be. Social welfare systems are in operation in many parts of the world. Big efforts are being made to distribute wealth fairly. These changes have come about not because human beings have suddenly and unaccountably improved, but because positive steps were taken to change the law. The law is the biggest instrument of social change that we have and it may exert great civilizing influence. If we banned dangerous and violent sports, we would be moving one step further to improving mankind.