daneallred

Who is the Master?

Who is the Master?

There is no love more true than that of a pet, and for a pet. There is something magical about interacting with a different species, often being the sole source of food and water, love and affection, and attention and care.

I’ve had many pets over the decades, starting with a grey and white Chihuahua. Cece was a wonderful pet, providing many hours of patient love and attention to me. She had puppies which we sold, and I went off to college and left her behind. I seem to have a natural ability to get along with dogs. There really have been very few dogs I haven’t been able to connect with, and pet almost as soon as we meet. There was one Doberman who wanted to bite me once when I was trying to deliver flowers, but luckily I had on tight enough pants the teeth just kept slipping off the denim. And then the owner answered the door.

My children grew up having pets around, and they really were members of the family. Some of them have been purebred, and others were mongrels. We seem to attract cats to our house, and since there are mice running around in the fields, we feed them and that makes them want to stay. I really don’t like cats as much as dogs, but don’t tell the cat who is living with us now. My daughter rescued him years ago from someone who couldn’t have a cat anymore. He stays outside and rubs up against me when I go outside, and likes to be petted. Most cats aren’t really that social around the dogs we nearly always have around.

Really the only dog who has bit the hand that feeds her was a cute little Schnauzer who had just been run over by a car. She was one of the sweetest dogs, and as she was crossing the street, someone who was texting didn’t see her and both my wife and I watched as this poor little dog rolled under the car. I had read you really shouldn’t pick up a dog who is hurt, but when one of your pets is hurt, most of the common sense we have goes away. As I tried to pick up this dog, she firmly latched onto my hand, then bit my wife and bit me again. I told my wife to go get a towel we could wrap her in, and we took her to a vet, but she was too seriously injured and died shortly after the accident.

When the kids have grown and left, sometimes the dogs become the kids. The shock of seeing this small innocent animal killed was too much of a shock for my wife not to replace the dog, and the very next day she drove for several hours to get our newest addition to the family.

The small Maltese has been a wonderful ray of sunshine in our house, though we still miss the other dog. She gets along with the cat, who likes to paw at her, and I think the cat might think this small dog is really a white rat. The other dog gets along with her really well, and though the older dog is a border collie, she thinks she is also a lap dog.

The Border collie only wants to serve, and since there are no sheep around to chase, she often herds me to the backyard where she loves to play. Once this dog learned to catch a Frisbee, there was no stopping her insistence that anytime is playtime. I once tested her while I was watering the garden, and kept throwing the Frisbee, trying to determine how long it would be before she got tired of it. She faithfully brought that plastic disc back every time for over two hours, only stopping briefly to dunk herself in our small pond so she could cool off. I got tired before she did, and I think she would have rather dropped dead from exhaustion than stop catching the Frisbee.

So what does a house with two humans and two dogs look like? I wonder who the master is sometimes. I have to check and make sure there is food and water, and if the food runs out, I am the one who has to go to the store and buy more. When the dogs have been good, they get treats, but I don’t get treats for training them so well. It would be nice to have someone scratch my every itch, but they don’t even worry about if I have an itch. They just want to be scratched and petted, and would like nothing better than a continuous head to toe massage.

I think I want to be someone’s pet. Where do I apply?

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Advanced Placement

Advanced Placement

Sometimes barriers are placed in our way to test our resolve. Obstacles are clearly meant to be overcome, but how we overcome some of the obstructions in our world depends on our own creativity and convictions.

After taking the ASVAB, the Armed Services Vocational Aptitude Battery, which tests to see if you know which nut belongs to which bolt and other things, I found out I could be a lawyer. The interest survey included with this test lets students choose the kinds of work they think they would like based on questions about their strengths, hobbies and desires. I think my category told me I was socially oriented, and in that category were teachers, social workers, and lawyers. For no other reason than I wanted to make lots of money and I thought being a lawyer sounded cool, I decided I would be a lawyer. I had no other interest in law before that, and luckily, I ended up as a teacher. I love my job and wouldn’t trade it for all the cash in China. But to get to be a teacher, I had to think I was going to be a lawyer first.

I checked to see what kind of education was necessary for lawyers, and noticed I was not enrolled in the right classes. Tracking is a way schools channel students into various classes, and even though it is technically not supposed to exist, the tracking of students takes place every day. I was a trouble maker in school, so I didn’t really belong in the advanced classes. But to be a lawyer I had to go to college, and I could get college credit while still in high school by taking advanced placement classes. I would have to pass the AP test at the end of the year, but I have always been a good test taker.

Getting into AP history was easy enough, and once I was signed up for one AP class I wanted another. AP English. But I had to take a test to see if I really could be an AP student, when really, it should have been up to me to try and fail on my own. But the entrance test showed I should be able to handle the class, or they just wanted to shut me up, so I was enrolled.

I was a busy senior, acting in plays, doing the morning announcements, even speaking at graduation. But this meant I was not always in class receiving the precious words of wisdom from my teachers, which meant there was no way I would be able to pass the test at the end of the year. Both of my AP teachers told me not to waste my money by taking the test. This only strengthened my resolve.

Think about the benefits of passing the test. If I could get a passing score, I could have 24 college credits on my transcript before my first day at the university. Back then, you didn’t even have to pay to get the college credit; they just added it to your total. Today, most colleges charge what the tuition would have cost for those credits, but at least you don’t have to spend the time. I would get a double free-ride if I passed!

I’m not sure why we discourage people from trying to achieve. Maybe we think the specter of failure will permanently disfigure them. What really happens is most people who are knocked down and get up again gain a valuable lesson. They learn how to get back up again when they are knocked down. It’s really not so bad on the ground, unless that’s where you stay.

I’m sure both of these teachers thought they had my best interests in mind when they told me not to take the tests. But I don’t take that kind of obstruction seriously. Easily overcome, I marched into the tests with my head held high, knowing I was the master of my destiny, and if I failed the tests, I would only be out a hundred dollars or so. But if I passed the tests, I would save myself thousands of dollars and cut time off my degree.

I passed both tests and had 24 credits. After I took some other College Level Examination Program tests, I had tested out of a year of college. I finished a four year degree in three years. If I had listened to the nay-sayers who were sure I wasn’t college material, I would have missed out on all the fun I’ve had since then.

But then again, I was in the work force full-time by the age of twenty-one. Maybe I should have overcome those obstructions at a slower pace. I must really love my work.

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The Cost of Conformity

The Cost of Conformity

Honesty is an interesting concept. There must be more honest people in the world than dishonest people or we wouldn’t be able to function as a society. Some people feel the world is just getting worse each day, but in the long run. I think most people eventually figure out its easier to live honestly in the world than dishonestly. It does seem young people who commit crimes eventually get the message as they get older.

I think the most disturbing part about the whole concept of honesty is we really aren’t honest with ourselves. We are mostly conformists. There are things we do every day which we only do only because other do the same thing. It is a basis for society and for sociability, but it makes me wonder how much of what we do is just because others are already doing it. There is a scene in an old black and white movie called “Metropolis” made back in 1925 which reminds me of how many of us conform.

In this old classic, the workers live underground and march off to work in a big square, with everyone wearing the exact same hat, shirt and pants. It’s an eerie image, and when you seen the second shift walking home from work twice as slow, but still all looking exactly the same. It was an interesting prediction to make 85 years ago, but if you look around today at the number of people wearing baseball caps, levis and t-shirts, that kind of conformity has come to pass.

Are we honest because everyone else seems honest? Do you do things because other people do? If other people are speeding down the road, do you go the same speed even if you don’t want to?

Some of us attend church so we can make a good impression. Do we not shop on Sundays because others don’t? Or do we do what we want when we want because we want to do it?

Conformity is something that takes the individuality out of our lives and denies the world the unique contribution we might be here to make. When we really pay attention to our purpose, we may find a whole new life out there waiting for us. How do we find our purpose? Why would we want to find our purpose?

Finding a purpose can give meaning to what you do in life. It could guide and direct your actions, and give you clear directions for the big decisions you may face. It could break us out of our automatic conformity. It may motivate you to do different things than you have been doing, and help you survive failures. You’ll be able to face rejection if you are truly committed to your life purpose.

Unfortunately, there is no universal formula for finding a life purpose, especially since everyone will have to find their purpose in their own way. It takes time and should be thought of as a lifetime process. Our purpose may change as our lives change. But by identifying our strengths and our passions, and causes in which you believe, you will be on the right path to find something meaningful to do with the time and talents you’ve been given.

Find a way to do some work on those things that interest you. Using your strengths and passions, working on things you think you might enjoy will help you understand if you really are on a path which is right for you.

Real enjoyment happens when we lose ourselves in whatever it is we are doing. Time seems to fly, and when we realize hours have passed, this is a good indication we may be doing something true to our purpose. Some people call this “being in the moment”, and when you are completely present in the moment, everything else vanishes and you are not thinking, doing, but you are just being.

This is what happens when we are going something we truly enjoy. Many people experience this with their favorite recreation. Time doesn’t pass in the same way. My favorite way to make time disappear is gardening. When I am working in the yard, time stands still, but also seems to pass so quickly. I have projects on which I have been working for years, and while they may be done someday, then I will move on to another project which will be completed in its own time.

A real purpose in life can make the difference between a life fulfilled, and a life of misery. Today is the day to start that journey which puts you on the path which will make a difference for you, and for the world. You will never know unless you take the chance to find the reason you are here now.

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Lost or Stolen

Lost or Stolen

I looked on the back of my debit card. It says, “If lost or stolen, please call 1-888-555-1212”. So let me think about that for a moment. If I lose my debit card, I’m supposed to have the number somewhere else so I can call and report it is missing? And if someone finds it, what are the chances they will call in and report they found it? Or would the normal everyday passerby be tempted to see if it worked?

I can’t tell you how many times I’ve used the card and entered the wrong pin, and then was told by the clerk to just run it as a credit. This means anyone else could do the same thing if they find my card. It doesn’t make me feel secure.

Some people feel like the world is a more dishonest place. I’ve had things stolen from me before, but usually it’s my fault. I remember how excited I was to get a class ring when I was in high school. It was really nice, and they are way too expensive, but what do we know when we are 17 years old? We just know we can’t live without it, so we sacrifice and get it or just have mom and dad buy it.

I was working one summer cutting pine poles, and stopped at a service station on the way to the stand of timber. I took off my ring to wash my hands in the bathroom and left my ring on the sink. I realized later in the day what I had done, and after a long day getting the chain saw to work, dodging falling trees, trimming limbs and hauling logs to the truck, I went back to the gas station later that night and surprise! no one had turned in a lost ring. Who would want a high school ring from another school? No one I went to high school with would have been even close to where I was. It wouldn’t be their school colors. But, nonetheless, the ring was gone and someone had a new trinket.

It wasn’t the last ring I had stolen, although technically, I lost my class ring before someone kept it. My wedding ring was stolen one night when I was in the middle of a performance. For those of you who know who Howard Ruff is, you may be surprised to know he like to sing opera. In fact, I got to help him put on a show called H.M.S. Pinafore by Gilbert and Sullivan. One of the scariest moments during rehearsals was when Howard had a kidney stone attack. I drove him home in his car and my wife followed me to his house. I knew he was in a lot of pain, but I didn’t know how much until I passed my first kidney stone about five years ago.

So when the performances were finally started, we were all singly mightily on stage while someone else was going through our stuff backstage. They waited until a scene where everyone was on stage. Howard lost a couple of hundred dollars, and they stole my wedding ring.

That’s right. A plain silver wedding ring. Well, really white gold, but I still can’t understand why anyone would want someone else’s old ring. I guess someone was supporting a drug habit and needed some cash. So think about this. Whoever stole my ring has to go to a pawn shop and claim they don’t want their wedding ring anymore. Or the person who usually buys their stolen goods knows better than to ask where the ring came from. Either way, it seems like way more work than getting a regular job.

But this may be where most of us actually are dishonest without really thinking about it. On our job, our employers trust us to give an honest day’s labor for our wage, and if we don’t like the pay we can always go get another job. But as a society, we tend to think our employers owe us more somehow, and taking time off work to do our personal errands seems acceptable. Employers complain about employee theft, but is it really a big deal? The National Retail Security Survey estimated retailers lost $15.9 billion in 2008, and they expected 2009 to see an increase in employee theft. You want abundance?

Listen to what super salesman and marketing guru Joseph Sugarman says about honesty. “Each time you are honest and conduct yourself with honesty, a success force will drive you toward greater success. Each time you lie, even with a little white lie, there are strong forces pushing you toward failure.” Honesty can make us more successful. Dealing with the consequences of being dishonest take a much bigger toll. It may make you fail.

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The Plodder's Mile -- Chapter Eight

CHAPTER EIGHT

When the news was broadcast later that night, John Graham was sitting in his comfortable living room with Reba, his wife. They were back on level ground again now that the first of the month money fights were over, and watching the local news was their way of winding down the day.

John was not prepared for what Paula Rogers would be reporting that night. He had decided not to tell Reba anything about the money until is looked like he would be able to keep it. Until they would be able to keep it. He was biding his time, but finding the money had added an incredible pressure to his days, as he had to remember not to say anything about the money, then he had to pretend he didn’t know anything about a robbery, and that he hadn’t visited with and turned evidence over to the police.

Paula Rogers seemed to be trying to change all that. “Look, it’s Greg,” Reba said, pulling on John’s shirt sleeve and turning up the television sound. “It’s that nice Paula Rogers girl reporter, too.”

John had a sudden sinking feeling.

Paula Rogers said “One hundred thousand dollars”.

John could feel the knot growing in his stomach. It felt like an empty pit as he willed the pre-recorded event not to mention his name. Would Greg mention where the evidence had come from?

Paula Rogers said “another Paula Rogers exclusive”.

The lump in his stomach softened a bit. Reba turned to him. “Can you believe that? Right here in our little town. Nothing like that ever happens here.” She looked at him and waited for a response.

“Yeah.”

“Is that all you have to say, ‘Yeah’?” said Reba. “Your friend is on the television helping with a major investigation and you say ‘Yeah’?”

Now he was incapable of speech.

“What’s the matter with you?” Reba inquired, leaning toward the man she had been married to for a quarter century. She sensed there was more than she was being told.

“Uh, maybe Greg will be able to keep the money,” he probed for her reaction.

“Yeah, right,” she laughed. “And maybe he’ll give some to us.”

John Graham laughed too, but it didn’t really sound sincere. He wondered if Reba noticed.

Smitty played the flashlight over the murder scene. There was not much blood, but that didn’t make Mike Shepherd any less dead. From what they could see before the officials arrived there was trauma to the back of the head, probably from a sharp instrument.

“This must be the attendant”, Smitty said to the small crowd of officers gathered around the body. “But what is he doing so far from the booth? Why not just kill him and leave him there? There doesn’t seem to be any indication of dragging a body to this location.”

Three other flashlights played over the ground back towards the station. Zabronsky spoke up first. “Maybe the kid decided to take the money back.”

It was likely what had happened. There was some trauma around the face and hands, like a fight had taken place. “But no one’s life was worth the couple of thousand that was probably stolen,” Smitty thought to himself.

The T-Bone was just one of those greasy spoons along the roadway, but since most places like that served some of the best food around, it was always busy. Paula was glad, since that meant she could work on Greg a bit more seriously than if she had to worry about being overheard.

Approaching the booths which had seats covered with red naugahyde, Greg was ready with his favorite first joke at the restaurant. “Makes you wonder just how many naugas had to die to make this bench,” he said. Paula just smiled. It was Greg’s familiar old saw to help him get comfortable, which meant he was comfortable enough to encourage him a bit. She turned away from sitting opposite him in the booth, and scooted him over into the corner and sat on the same bench with him.

“Will you protect me from the wild naugas that invade the restaurant to avenge their dead brothers?” She leaned in close and wrapped herself around his closest arm.

Greg recognized the approach and slowly disengaged his arm from the entanglement. “You really think I live a life of shoot ‘em up adventure, don’t you? Or are you just making fun of the sedentary life I lead in a one-cop town?

Paula was not to be put off so easily. “A one and a half cop town, Officer Jones,” she said seductively. “A man with all that power is irresistible.”

“You are making fun.” Greg was still taking it good-naturedly. “We can’t all live in the big city with all the big important news reporters, you know. Some of us have to live out here in Hicksville, and protect Ma and Pa Kettle.”

“Don’t start,” she said. “I know you love it here and would never move. So don’t start humoring me with bad-mouthing the people you adore. And who adore you.”

She was right as usual. And this is where the conversations of the past had usually led. She wanted adventure and would probably move from city to city as the affiliates raised her salary and counter-offered each other. He would probably be buried up in the cemetery on the hill after living here his entire life. Greg wanted the conversation to be different tonight, so he decided to take charge of its direction.

“I really do want to thank you for the broadcast,” he said to her as she stared into his eyes. “I think it will really help to flush out whoever robbed the bank. There’s a short guy still out there who will be coming to town to find that money.”

There was a short guy just across town sitting with his mouth open. He, too, had just finished watching Paula Jones reporting on the found money, and even as she trying her hardest to seduce the local police captain, Ray was making other plans for Greg Jones.

So the money was here in town, and the local cops were so kind as to keep it safe until Raymond Johnson decided to pick it up. It was almost too easy. This little hamlet couldn’t have more than a few hundred people in it, and that meant the local cop was just a step above the blue-light special cop at the local department store. Ray had enjoyed his past encounters with backwater cops. He had shot a cop or two and could remember the looks on their faces when they realized they were not the fastest draw in the West, that the warm feeling running across their clothes was their own blood, and as they dropped down on their knees, the look of disbelief that crossed their faces just before they died was almost comical. Ray wondered why people, who were pretty easy to kill actually, were so surprised when they found out they were dead.

Maybe someday, he would spend time for the murders he had committed. But he wasn’t above a few more murders before the sentence. He also decided that the risk of getting caught doing this murder was very slim. Probably the state cops wouldn’t even bother to investigate. What did he have to lose, besides 100 grand?

By the time desert came, Paula had messed up Greg’s hair a few times, and by the looks the locals were giving him, they were probably enjoying it more than him.

“Paula…”

“Greg, it’s all right,” she cooed into his ear. “We’re both above the age of consent, and this is nothing most of these people haven’t seen before.”

“I was going to say, let’s go somewhere more private.” Greg’s eyes met hers, and the surprise in her eyes made him laugh out loud. “Sorry, I guess this is kind of sudden.”

Paula didn’t need to be asked twice. She was gathering up her purse as she commented to Officer Jones on his speed. “Yeah, this is really a sudden change of mood, after two years of me chasing you shamelessly, now you are sitting there shamelessly and letting me chase you.”

Greg laughed again. “You’re right. You are the world’s most patient woman. I’m sorry it’s taken two years for me to come around.”

He flipped a twenty on the table and they practically dashed out of the diner.

Anyone investigating Officer Greg Jones house at 11:30 that night would have had an interesting report to file. It would have begun with two people writhing together on the couch. The passion was building, and Paula could feel the objections melting that had stood in her way for two years.

Greg was also aware of the passion that smoldered beneath him. Paula was doing all she could to go slow, because this obviously was not Greg’s usual nightcap. He was being careful, far too careful, but being a patient woman, she was able to wait a few moments more.

A dark figure passed outside the house, and almost tried to twist the front door knob. But then he heard a moan from within the darkened house and he froze in his footsteps, waiting and holding his breath. When he heard some more noise from inside of the house, he lightly stepped off the front porch and left quickly, but as quietly as he had approached.

Inside the house, Paula Jones had decided to speed things up a bit. She grabbed Greg’s broad shoulders and twisted him onto the floor. He was surprised by the sudden movement, but didn’t fight, and rolled onto the carpet with Paula on top of him. Then she raised up, as their hips stayed together.

“Not your usual date, I’m guessing by the shocked look on your face,” Paula said.

“I definitely think I’m in unknown territory here,” he confessed. “Thanks again for bringing the show to town,” he said, but this time he was not referring to the broadcast.

She leaned down slowly and kissed him lightly, then rose back up again, still sitting across his waist. “Glad to oblige”, she whispered. “I’ve visited enough these past two years, it’s about time we got down to business.”

“Thanks for coming to my town to share,” Greg said slowly. He pulled her down towards him. Paula had a strange look on her face, and hesitated. Then Paula leaned back slowly and said, “What was that?”

“I’m just grateful you’ve been so patient with me,” he said, rising up on his elbows. Something was not quite right.

Paula stood up, and he was left lying on the floor.

“No,” she said. “What did you just say about sharing?”

Greg stopped and looked up.

“All I said was I was grateful.”

Paula stepped back. “You said you were grateful I was sharing. What did you mean?”

“I’m not very good at this, am I?” he apologized. “You must be used to guys who are a little more smooth.”

Paula was now at least 3 feet away, and Greg was left kneeling in the middle of the room by himself. She straightened her blouse and pulled at her jeans.

“What did I say?”

Paula turned around and tried to gather her thoughts. This was not turning out how she had hoped, and she was sure this was not what Greg had planned for this evening either.

She sat down on a nearby chair.

Greg was still unsure what he had done. Now it was his turn to bow his head and wonder how to rescue this night.

He could hear her sobbing quietly. He went over and tried to comfort her as best he could, wondering what he could do to make this better. Sitting beside her, he let her have a good cry, during which she turned and sobbed on his chest while he drew her close.

“Let’s just call it a night. I’ll take you back to your motel.” Greg could feel her head nod slightly, and he also heard a sigh. It sounded like a sigh of relief, which made him sigh with relief, too.

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Misery by Anton Chekhov

MISERY

by Anton Chekhov

"To whom shall I tell my grief?"

The twilight of evening. Big flakes of wet snow are whirling lazily about the street lamps, which have just been lighted, and lying in a thin soft layer on roofs, horses' backs, shoulders, caps. Iona Potapov, the sledge-driver, is all white like a ghost. He sits on the box without stirring, bent as double as the living body can be bent. If a regular snowdrift fell on him it seems as though even then he would not think it necessary to shake it off. . . . His little mare is white and motionless too. Her stillness, the angularity of her lines, and the stick-like straightness of her legs make her look like a halfpenny gingerbread horse. She is probably lost in thought. Anyone who has been torn away from the plough, from the familiar gray landscapes, and cast into this slough, full of monstrous lights, of unceasing uproar and hurrying people, is bound to think.

It is a long time since Iona and his nag have budged. They came out of the yard before dinnertime and not a single fare yet. But now the shades of evening are falling on the town. The pale light of the street lamps changes to a vivid color, and the bustle of the street grows noisier.

"Sledge to Vyborgskaya!" Iona hears. "Sledge!"

Iona starts, and through his snow-plastered eyelashes sees an officer in a military overcoat with a hood over his head.

"To Vyborgskaya," repeats the officer. "Are you asleep? To Vyborgskaya!"

In token of assent Iona gives a tug at the reins which sends cakes of snow flying from the horse's back and shoulders. The officer gets into the sledge. The sledge-driver clicks to the horse, cranes his neck like a swan, rises in his seat, and more from habit than necessity brandishes his whip. The mare cranes her neck, too, crooks her stick-like legs, and hesitatingly sets of. . . .

"Where are you shoving, you devil?" Iona immediately hears shouts from the dark mass shifting to and fro before him. "Where the devil are you going? Keep to the r-right!"

"You don't know how to drive! Keep to the right," says the officer angrily.

A coachman driving a carriage swears at him; a pedestrian crossing the road and brushing the horse's nose with his shoulder looks at him angrily and shakes the snow off his sleeve. Iona fidgets on the box as though he were sitting on thorns, jerks his elbows, and turns his eyes about like one possessed as though he did not know where he was or why he was there.

"What rascals they all are!" says the officer jocosely. "They are simply doing their best to run up against you or fall under the horse's feet. They must be doing it on purpose."

Iona looks as his fare and moves his lips. . . . Apparently he means to say something, but nothing comes but a sniff.

"What?" inquires the officer.

Iona gives a wry smile, and straining his throat, brings out huskily: "My son . . . er . . . my son died this week, sir."

"H'm! What did he die of?"

Iona turns his whole body round to his fare, and says:

"Who can tell! It must have been from fever. . . . He lay three days in the hospital and then he died. . . . God's will."

"Turn round, you devil!" comes out of the darkness. "Have you gone cracked, you old dog? Look where you are going!"

"Drive on! drive on! . . ." says the officer. "We shan't get there till to-morrow going on like this. Hurry up!"

The sledge-driver cranes his neck again, rises in his seat, and with heavy grace swings his whip. Several times he looks round at the officer, but the latter keeps his eyes shut and is apparently disinclined to listen. Putting his fare down at Vyborgskaya, Iona stops by a restaurant, and again sits huddled up on the box. . . . Again the wet snow paints him and his horse white. One hour passes, and then another. . . .

Three young men, two tall and thin, one short and hunchbacked, come up, railing at each other and loudly stamping on the pavement with their galoshes.

"Cabby, to the Police Bridge!" the hunchback cries in a cracked voice. "The three of us, . . . twenty kopecks!"

Iona tugs at the reins and clicks to his horse. Twenty kopecks is not a fair price, but he has no thoughts for that. Whether it is a ruble or whether it is five kopecks does not matter to him now so long as he has a fare. . . . The three young men, shoving each other and using bad language, go up to the sledge, and all three try to sit down at once. The question remains to be settled: Which are to sit down and which one is to stand? After a long altercation, ill-temper, and abuse, they come to the conclusion that the hunchback must stand because he is the shortest.

"Well, drive on," says the hunchback in his cracked voice, settling himself and breathing down Iona's neck. "Cut along! What a cap you've got, my friend! You wouldn't find a worse one in all Petersburg. . . ."

"He-he! . . . he-he! . . ." laughs Iona. "It's nothing to boast of!"

"Well, then, nothing to boast of, drive on! Are you going to drive like this all the way? Eh? Shall I give you one in the neck?"

"My head aches," says one of the tall ones. "At the Dukmasovs' yesterday Vaska and I drank four bottles of brandy between us."

"I can't make out why you talk such stuff," says the other tall one angrily. "You lie like a brute."

"Strike me dead, it's the truth! . . ."

"It's about as true as that a louse coughs."

"He-he!" grins Iona. "Me-er-ry gentlemen!"

"Tfoo! the devil take you!" cries the hunchback indignantly. "Will you get on, you old plague, or won't you? Is that the way to drive? Give her one with the whip. Hang it all, give it her well."

Iona feels behind his back the jolting person and quivering voice of the hunchback. He hears abuse addressed to him, he sees people, and the feeling of loneliness begins little by little to be less heavy on his heart. The hunchback swears at him, till he chokes over some elaborately whimsical string of epithets and is overpowered by his cough. His tall companions begin talking of a certain Nadyezhda Petrovna. Iona looks round at them. Waiting till there is a brief pause, he looks round once more and says:

"This week . . . er. . . my. . . er. . . son died!"

"We shall all die, . . ." says the hunchback with a sigh, wiping his lips after coughing. "Come, drive on! drive on! My friends, I simply cannot stand crawling like this! When will he get us there?"

"Well, you give him a little encouragement . . . one in the neck!"

"Do you hear, you old plague? I'll make you smart. If one stands on ceremony with fellows like you one may as well walk. Do you hear, you old dragon? Or don't you care a hang what we say?"

And Iona hears rather than feels a slap on the back of his neck.

"He-he! . . . " he laughs. "Merry gentlemen . . . . God give you health!"

"Cabman, are you married?" asks one of the tall ones.

"I? He he! Me-er-ry gentlemen. The only wife for me now is the damp earth. . . . He-ho-ho!. . . . The grave that is! . . . Here my son's dead and I am alive. . . . It's a strange thing, death has come in at the wrong door. . . . Instead of coming for me it went for my son. . . ."

And Iona turns round to tell them how his son died, but at that point the hunchback gives a faint sigh and announces that, “Thank God!” they have arrived at last. After taking his twenty kopecks, Iona gazes for a long while after the revelers, who disappear into a dark entry. Again he is alone and again there is silence for him. . . . The misery which has been for a brief space eased comes back again and tears his heart more cruelly than ever. With a look of anxiety and suffering Iona's eyes stray restlessly among the crowds moving to and fro on both sides of the street: can he not find among those thousands someone who will listen to him? But the crowds flit by heedless of him and his misery. . . . His misery is immense, beyond all bounds. If Iona's heart were to burst and his misery to flow out, it would flood the whole world, it seems, but yet it is not seen. It has found a hiding-place in such an insignificant shell that one would not have found it with a candle by daylight. . . .

Iona sees a house-porter with a parcel and makes up his mind to address him.

"What time will it be, friend?" he asks.

"Going on for ten. . . . Why have you stopped here? Drive on!"

Iona drives a few paces away, bends himself double, and gives himself up to his misery. He feels it is no good to appeal to people. But before five minutes have passed he draws himself up, shakes his head as though he feels a sharp pain, and tugs at the reins. . . . He can bear it no longer.

"Back to the yard!" he thinks. "To the yard!"

And his little mare, as though she knew his thoughts, falls to trotting. An hour and a half later Iona is sitting by a big dirty stove. On the stove, on the floor, and on the benches are people snoring. The air is full of smells and stuffiness. Iona looks at the sleeping figures, scratches himself, and regrets that he has come home so early. . . .

"I have not earned enough to pay for the oats, even," he thinks. "That's why I am so miserable. A man who knows how to do his work . . . who has had enough to eat, and whose horse has had enough to eat, is always at ease. . . ."

In one of the corners a young cabman gets up, clears his throat sleepily, and makes for the water-bucket.

"Want a drink?" Iona asks him.

"Seems so."

"May it do you good. . . . But my son is dead, mate. . . . Do you hear? This week in the hospital. . . . It's a queer business. . . ."

Iona looks to see the effect produced by his words, but he sees nothing. The young man has covered his head over and is already asleep. The old man sighs and scratches himself. . . . Just as the young man had been thirsty for water, he thirsts for speech. His son will soon have been dead a week, and he has not really talked to anybody yet . . . . He wants to talk of it properly, with deliberation. . . . He wants to tell how his son was taken ill, how he suffered, what he said before he died, how he died. . . . He wants to describe the funeral, and how he went to the hospital to get his son's clothes. He still has his daughter Anisya in the country. . . . And he wants to talk about her too. . . . Yes, he has plenty to talk about now. His listener ought to sigh and exclaim and lament. . . . It would be even better to talk to women. Though they are silly creatures, they blubber at the first word.

"Let's go out and have a look at the mare," Iona thinks. "There is always time for sleep. . . . You'll have sleep enough, no fear. . . ."

He puts on his coat and goes into the stables where his mare is standing. He thinks about oats, about hay, about the weather. . . . He cannot think about his son when he is alone. . . . To talk about him with someone is possible, but to think of him and picture him is insufferable anguish. . . .

"Are you munching?" Iona asks his mare, seeing her shining eyes. "There, munch away, munch away. . . . Since we have not earned enough for oats, we will eat hay. . . . Yes, . . . I have grown too old to drive. . . . My son ought to be driving, not I. . . . He was a real cabman. . . . He ought to have lived. . . ."

Iona is silent for a while, and then he goes on:

"That's how it is, old girl. . . . Kuzma Ionitch is gone. . . . He said good-by to me. . . . He went and died for no reason. . . . Now, suppose you had a little colt, and you were own mother to that little colt. . . . And all at once that same little colt went and died. . . . You'd be sorry, wouldn't you? . . ."

The little mare munches, listens, and breathes on her master's hands. Iona is carried away and tells her all about it.

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Anton Chekhov

Welcome to Biography

As a doctor, he saved lives, delivered babies, dispensed medication. Yet he refused to let other doctors diagnose his tuberculosis. He would later die at an early age, only 44 years old. But he is best remembered for his famous plays, which were said to offer a "theatre of mood" and a "submerged life in the text.” He once said, “What seems to us serious, significant and important will, in future times, be forgotten or won’t seem important at all”. You may recognize his most famous plays, “The Cherry Orchard”, “Uncle Vanya”, “The Seagull” and “The Three Sisters”. He worked closely with Constantin Stanislavski, the Russian actor and director. Who was this famous doctor, playwright, and author of many, many short stories?  We’ll find out next on “Biography Out Loud”.

Anton Chekhov, Russian playwright lived from 1860 to 1904. He has been called “the greatest short-story writer in the history of world literature” by the Encyclopedia Britannica, and influenced many other writers. Trained as a doctor, he used his interactions with all different kinds of people to populate his stories.

He once said, “I feel more confident and more satisfied when I reflect that I have two professions and not one. Medicine is my lawful wife and literature is my mistress. When I get tired of one I spend the night with the other. Though it's disorderly it's not so dull, and besides, neither really loses anything, through my infidelity.”

His father went bankrupt and left the family, fleeing to Moscow to avoid debtor’s prison. Anton Chekhov helped his family and paid for his education by tutoring, selling goldfinches, and also sold short stories to local newspapers. He once said, “When you live on cash, you understand the limits of the world around which you navigate each day. Credit leads into a desert with invisible boundaries.” After becoming a doctor, he made little money treating patients and he charged the poor nothing.

Though he had many struggles in life, he said, “We learn about life not from pluses alone, but from minuses as well.” He also said, “The person who wants nothing, hopes for nothing, and fears nothing can never be an artist.”

He wrote about poor conditions on Sakhalin Island, a prison colony run by Russia. He was disgusted with the conditions he found there, where children were imprisoned with their parents. “Love, friendship, respect, do not unite people as much as a common hatred for something.”

He was disappointed with the first production of “The Seagull”, but Constantine Stanislavski restaged it in Moscow to critical praise.

Success with “The Cherry Orchard”, “The Three Sisters” and “Uncle Vanya” helped Chekhov gain national recognition, and then international praise. Raymond Carver called him “the greatest short story writer who ever lived”.

He worked for over a year on some plays, and once said, “You need to work continually day and night, to read ceaselessly, to study, to exercise your will.... Each hour is precious.” Optimistically, he proclaimed, “There is no Monday which will not give its place to Tuesday.”

Of his urge to write he said, “I have in my head a whole army of people pleading to be let out and awaiting my commands.” Once he became a successful writer he said, “I don’t care for success. The ideas sitting in my head are annoyed by, and envious of, that which I’ve already written.”

Of marriage, Anton Chekhov said, ““If you are afraid of loneliness, do not marry.” He did marry Olga Knipper, an actress he had first met in rehearsals of his play “The Seagull”. He also said, “I observed that after marriage people cease to be curious.”

Constantly plagued by tuberculosis, he moved to Yalta to improve his health. He once said of illness, “It’s even pleasant to be sick when you know that there are people who await your recovery as they might await a holiday.”

He died at the age of 44 from the tuberculosis which had plagued him for years. Of death he said, “Death can only be profitable: there’s no need to eat, drink, pay taxes, offend people, and since a person lies in a grave for hundreds or thousands of years, if you count it up the profit turns out to be enormous.”

At the end of the “Three Sisters”, Anton Chekhov writes, “Time will pass on, and we shall depart for ever, we shall be forgotten; they will forget our faces, voices, and even how many there were of us, but our sufferings will turn into joy for those who will live after us, happiness and peace will reign on earth, and people will remember with kindly words, and bless those who are living now. Our life is not yet at an end. Let us live.”

Anton Chekhov continues to live through his works, as one of the world’s greatest authors.

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Snow Day

Snow Day

I live where there are seasons. I really do feel sorry for people who don’t. The seasons really do help me mark time, and are a reminder of how little time we really have on this wildly spinning planet. You may sit on the beach in California thinking you have all the time in the world, but remember we are flying through space at 67,000 miles per hour on our yearly journey around the sun, and each day we have to spin at 1000 miles per hour to make it from night to day.

A reminder about the passing of each season is a great thing. I lived in California for two years, making the mistake of moving there in August. It was August there for two years. This winter, we have been blessed with great snow, both the light, powdery kind and the heavy, sticking kind. I’ve shoveled snow already, and at least once before the winter ends, I will have to go skiing.

It took me almost 18 years to ski. My friends took me to the top of the lift and left me. I made it down somehow. I try to ski every year, especially when I am getting really down about the cold and the snow. It changes my attitude about how wonderful snow can be.

When you are falling down the mountain, without falling, but are controlling that fall by using a couple of boards strapped to your feet, with the wind rushing in your face and the snow blowing around you, well, there really is no way to describe the feeling. It’s an exciting, compelling rush of a feeling much like those times you sped down the hill on a sled or a tube. It’s a way of being cold without feeling the cold, of feeling the exhilaration of gravity, speed and control.

So later, when you are shoveling another foot or two of snow, it’s a good reminder of the great reason for snow. And at least once this winter, I will see two or three frozen road workers trying to put some asphalt in a hole in the road, I’ll utter thanks that I get to work in a warm building all day. So why is it so exciting to make yourself cold by sliding down a mountain?

It’s a great reminder of how most of the things in life are relative. It’s a great reminder our attitude usually dictates how we are feeling about any particular moment. We can be strapped to skis and enjoying the ride, or we can be freezing on the way to work in a less than warm car with a soft top. It’s still the same weather, climate, temperature. It’s an arbitrary decision we make when we decide to hate Monday’s, and one of my colleagues has correctly pointed out it’s a miserable way to spend one-fifth of our working years. Bill Cosby has observed that his employees are in pretty bad shape by Monday, and it’s probably a good thing the weekend isn’t longer. Just remember, it really isn’t a Monday, but just an arbitrary name we gave an arbitrary part of what we call a week. We pass from one season to another without even paying attention at times. Don’t let the wonder of winter pass you by without some kind of acknowledgement. We are put here to pay attention.

Don’t get me wrong. There are times when we need to pay attention or we will end up doing cart-wheels down the mountain in the snow. Not a metaphor, by the way. And this was back in the day when skis were attached to you by short cords – not designed with snow brakes. This means as I was cart-wheeling down the mountain my skis were flying around my head, banging me on the back and my knees. It was only my second time skiing, and my ski pass was also scraped off my jacket. I went home and lived to ski another day.

But there are days where you are standing on the top of the mountain, looking down into the valley miles below, thinking about the hustle and bustle going on in every office, on every road, in everyday life. The wind is blowing lightly up from the slope below, and some of the loose snow is blowing into your face – normally not a very pleasant thing. But since you are about to hurtle down the mountain at slower speeds than most on the hill, but it still feels very fast to you, it is a time to realize there is more to life than complaining about the snow, or the wind, or the rain, or the heat. Try to enjoy the wintery frostiness – in six months it will be 101 degrees.

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Clock Time

Another episode from "A Funny Thing Happened on the Way to Dane Allred".

Clock time

Clocks are a reminder of where we are in our day. I wonder what it must have been like when there were only ten clocks in a village, instead of ten clocks in my kitchen. None of them have the same time. I wonder if listening to the town clock tower ring the parts of each hour gave villagers a comfort of the exactness of time.

I like the movie “The Gods Must Be Crazy”. There is one part where the narrator talks about the concept of time to a Kalahari bushman. There is no Monday, no 8:00 A.M. no quitting time. No deadlines about this hour, this day, this minute. Some things can be done this week; some can wait until next week. No rush hour, no such thing as late to work, no overtime, and no such thing as clocks.

Clocks have been a useful thing to standardize our world. How can you leave Japan at such and such an hour and arrive in New York at a particular time unless there is way to keep track of the seconds, the minutes, the hours and the days.

The atomic clock keeps track of microseconds, and every year or two we have to adjust the “world clock” because the earth doesn’t spin in a orderly and timely manner. It doesn’t know that slowing down a bit screws up our clock, but then, the earth probably doesn’t care if we have to reset our clocks.

Here’s the problem with time. I teach students who are three times younger than me, and I like to play a mind game with time with them. Here’s the scenario. Say I am your teacher and I am 45 years old. If you are 15, then I am three times your age. If you add 15 years to both of our ages, then I will be 60 and you will be 30. I am only twice as old as you. I tell my students, if I live long enough, you will catch up, and maybe even pass me.

I wait for them to try to understand how I can be three times as old, and then only twice as old. They start to fear I might be right, that they would continue to age and pass me by. I even say to them I will patiently wait while eventually they get older than me. They look skeptical.

I don’t really carry a watch. I do have the time on my phone, which is another strange development. When you ask someone what time it is, now instead of looking at their wrists, they dig out the cell phone and tell me the time. One cool feature is that my phone can be updated with the “correct” time. What is the correct time? It’s beamed to my cell phone from some cell tower which gets it from some satellite somewhere or something like that. I still don’t trust it, but it is the “official” time.

It still makes me wonder what happened back in the day. I can see the close approximation of noon – the sun is straight above. You could use a sundial if the sun was shining. I really don’t know when we became so pre-occupied with time, but as we mark the new year, just remember, it’s just an artificial date chosen from all of the available dates we could have begun our calendar with.

If January 1^st, is too soon for you, then celebrate the Chinese New Year on the 26^th of January. Sorry, that was 2009. The Chinese New Year begins on February 14^th in 2010. It can be anytime between late January and late February. It’s the year of the Tiger in case you were wondering.

There are New Year’s celebrations in March, April, in the fall, and there were even two in the Islamic calendar in 2008. Well, not two for them. They had one, but during our year, they had two. See how confusing it can be.

Even worse, if you are paying attention on New Year’s Eve, you will realize many, many people will celebrate the arrival of that fateful hour before you. Time zones are another thing I really wonder about. You step one direction and it’s an hour later or earlier. One step one way or the other and it’s another day? This is why those who are really wise tell us to live in the moment. That way, you’re never late since that moment is now, I mean now, I mean now.

Really, living in the moment means paying attention, and if that means enjoying the tradition of marking a new year, you will have to pay attention to that moment. May your new year bring all the hopes and joys you desire.

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The Plodder's Mile -- Chapter Seven

CHAPTER SEVEN

“If I find out someone else has my money,” said Ray to himself, pacing in the rut that was once the carpet, “I’m gonna massage him with the butt of my gun and then shoot him.”

Ray had decided to stay in town and search the tracks for one more day. There really wasn’t a chance of finding the train now, and there was no practical way to search all those miles of track. He had also decided to go back to the town where Tommy was being held tomorrow and watch for evidence to be leaked to the press, like it always was in cases like this. Then he might have an idea if the cops had the money, and he could figure out what to do next.

Ray hated feeling helpless. It reminded him of the days he spent being beat on by his older brothers, who hated being beat by their dad. The pecking order in the Johnson household had ended with him, with the beatings usually getting worse as they were passed down the line.

Even when social services had split up the family and sent Ray to foster homes in the hopes of a better environment, most of the families he ended up with were in it for the money. They didn’t really care about Ray, and they usually had their own kids to prefer to the freeloaders the state had sent. Why else would someone want the kids no one else wanted?

Being cheated out his money just when it was in his grasp, ready to be spent, the golden dreams had been dashed again. Ray was determined that this time, he was going to get what was his, and he didn’t care who had to get hurt in the meantime.

Smitty had some good advice for Jones. There were a couple of ways to handle the investigation, and one was subtle, the other pretty obvious. Jones had decided to do both.

He was on the phone with the local television station. “Paula Rogers, please. This is Greg Jones.”

Paula was one of the local reporters who owed Captain Greg Jones a few favors for the quick and reliable information he had often shared with her. The scoops had made her a local celebrity, and the bigger stations were looking at her for anchor jobs. She knew Greg liked her, and Greg was more than happy to have her attention, if only for his sources. She picked up almost immediately.

“Greg!” He could almost hear the smile over the phone. “What have you got for me now?”

“How do you know I’m not calling you up for a date?” said Jones playfully.

“First”, she said, “you have never called me up for a date yet, and second, last week when I asked you out, you found some kind of paperwork you had to do.”

Now Greg was smiling. She was right. He wasn’t ready to take that step, but she really wanted him to. He knew she wanted him to. But he just couldn’t do it. Even though she had made it a point of “dropping in” every week or so, he still couldn’t work up the nerve. They had been on dozens of dates, all of which she had arranged.

“You’re right, I’m a big chicken,” he chuckled. “So are you ready for the hot tip of the day?”

“If you really did call me every day,” Paula said, “then that really would be something to get excited about.”

Now Jones was blushing. To stop this train of thought in its tracks, he began another conversation about another train. “Did you hear about the bank robber they arrested on the train here in town…?”

It was after lunch. John had been able to spend an entire lunch period talking with the guys he regularly ate lunch with without even raising the topic of money, which usually was a favorite topic around the table. Now John Graham was wondering what he would be able to tell his history classes today that would keep them from sleeping on their desks, and would keep him from thinking about that money.

Today they were scheduled to talk about Watergate and other topics from the ‘70’s, but the distraction of his newfound wealth was beginning to cloud every 30 seconds of thought. He decided to just strike out into the subject and see where his subconscious and the kids in class would lead him.

“So who here knows why we all know Richard Nixon’s name?”

“This is Paula Jones with another WGHH exclusive.” She was looking especially lovely today, thought Greg as he watched her from the sidelines. Her blonde hair flipped up at the ends and made her look much younger than she was, which he was sure was the desired goal.

Greg Jones was a little too shy for his own good, which is probably why he was still single at the ripe old age of twenty-eight. He had been involved with several women, only to be too slow to keep them interested. He had decided it was a personality fault, and that it wasn’t going to change anytime soon. He was not prepared, however, for the unique patience of Paula Rogers.

She had been burned twice by flashy rich guys. Paula had been engaged twice, and had come as close as M-Day minus one month until the last jerk had pulled the plug. She had her sights set on Greg Jones, and while he may not have known it, she was ready to be as patient as was necessary to catch this one. Though she was younger than Greg by a few years, she had much more wisdom than him when it came to catching a mate.

She smiled and looked over at Greg.

“Local Ridgeway police captain Greg Jones has been credited with recovering some of the $100,000 stolen two days ago from the First National Bank in Delan,” she intoned, without a pause, hitch, or hiccup. “Though all of the money has not been recovered, Captain Jones has been recognized by the state authorities for his quick response. Investigations will continue while officers inspect the money that was found for fingerprints.”

Greg was always amazed at the calmness with which Paula delivered the news, even when it involved grizzly details. She was a pro. She was looking into the camera to wrap it up. “We’ll keep you up to date with any new developments here at WGHH, and this has been another Paula Jones exclusive.” She always wrapped with that same tag-line, even when it wasn’t a story exclusive to her. She had explained it to Greg, “Only Paula Jones can have a Paula Jones exclusive.” It made the viewers think they were getting information they couldn’t get at another station, and it was one of the reasons her network had been rated number one since shortly after her arrival. It was the main reason so many other stations wanted Paula Jones to work for them.

Paula handed the microphone off, and took Greg by the elbow and ushered him off to their own little private corner of the office while the camera crew packed up. “So, how was that, boss?”

Greg could feel himself beginning to redden. “Thanks, Paula, that was exactly what I needed. We want whoever robbed the bank to come and try to get the rest of his money.”

Paula looked concerned. “Doesn’t that put you in danger? I mean,” she said, taking both his hands and pulling him to face her, “won’t that robber come armed and dangerous?”

“Well, probably, but I don’t think he’ll come in demanding the money,” Greg explained, pulling her hands down to his side. “We think he’ll just want to find out where it is, and then we can catch him trying to take it. We’ll put some surveillance on the office. I shouldn’t be in danger, but I think I can handle myself. I am a big, strong man, after all, you know.” He puffed up his chest.

She took the invitation to lean over and tousle his hair, with the other hand pressed on his chest. “I know you can handle yourself. I’m just wondering if you can handle a dinner with a friendly reporter.”

Greg blushed now. She was always able to throw him off his guard, just when he thought he was in control. He liked it.

“Sure, let’s go to the T-Bone,” he said, and took her hand, leading her out the door.

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