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The Reformation

The Reformation

Nothing so needs reforming as other peoples habits. Mark Twain One of the great things about a routine is it does predict what will happen during the week. Working is a great way to get into the habit of doing some of the same things everyday. Get to work, get going, go to lunch, finish up, go home. We even end up doing some of the same things every night. Changing what we do is often very hard. Once we are in the grips of habit, it is very hard not to stop and have the giant soda every morning. We get to know the people at the store, get used to the drive, and find ourselves in the same place every day. When I was a junior in high school, I used to have the same lunch every day, even though it wasn’t very healthy. If you have had a Suzy Q, a delicious Hostess product, you know the whipped cream center surrounded by devil’s food cake is not the best daily lunch. Chase that sugary goodness with a little Fanta Orange soda, and you have the preferred lunch of my 11th grade year. I can even see myself sitting on the steps of the old Jordan High School at about the same time every day. Routine is good for us if we want to earn a living. When we are working for others, showing up on time and leaving at the appropriate time are considered good behaviors. Completing our work is usually a good indication we will keep the job, and routine can help us get things done. I find I get the most done early in the morning, but that might be because my job allows time to prepare in the morning. I do most of my teaching later in the morning and in the afternoon. I also teach some evenings, so if I get prepared for the day early, most of the rest of the day goes well. I hate when I don’t have time to get ready, and luckily, that happens less and less the longer I work. But it doesn’t take much to upset a schedule. There could be an accident delaying traffic on the way to work, or there could be extra errands. With recent construction on our roads, I have had some interesting delays. One of the changes was a left turn to go south. The light was adjusted to let the freeway traffic have the right of way most of the time, since that was the only freeway entrance into our fair city. So every morning for a year, almost without fail, I got to wait about a minute and a half at that light waiting to go south. I reformed my ways and decided to use the time better. Instead of getting impatient and wondering why I had to sit and wait, I decided to use the time to clean the garbage which is always accumulating in my car. Now that the road is finished, I almost miss the chance everyday to clean the car. Going to work a different way has also helped me save a little time now, so I can use those extra minutes to be better prepared for the day. Sometimes we have to reform our ways because we want to keep living. When the doctor tells me to stop using so much salt, I guess I better listen if I want to stay around. When I’m told to stop eating broccoli and spinach, I guess can I stop that, too. I really do like broccoli and spinach, but I don’t want any more kidney stones. I’ll bet I probably will get another kidney stone, but it won’t be from the oxalates in those vegetables. Some reform is fun. Deciding to do something new because we want to is a good reward for all the other stuff we may have to do we don’t like. During the last year, I’ve learned some new things about the computer, and about a few computer programs. That’s been fun for me because it isn’t what I do every day. But if you are a computer entry person and have to be on the computer every day, I probably wouldn’t like it. I’ve learned how to do some things I didn’t know I would need to know. In the past 10 years I’ve learned to blog, podcast, and text. I’ve learned to use a computer in ways I never imagined. I guess it hasn’t hurt me any, but it does make me wonder what kinds of things I’ll have to learn next. I hope it’s easier than texting. I’m still pretty bad at that. Let’s hope it’s not too technical or complicated. I just hope I understand it.

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The Cop and the Anthem by O'Henry

The Cop And The Anthem

by O Henry

On his bench in Madison Square Soapy moved uneasily. When wild geese honk high of nights, and when women without sealskin coats grow kind to their husbands, and when Soapy moves uneasily on his bench in the park, you may know that winter is near at hand.

A dead leaf fell in Soapy's lap. That was Jack Frost's card. Jack is kind to the regular denizens of Madison Square, and gives fair warning of his annual call. At the corners of four streets he hands his pasteboard to the North Wind, footman of the mansion of All Outdoors, so that the inhabitants thereof may make ready.

Soapy's mind became cognisant of the fact that the time had come for him to resolve himself into a singular Committee of Ways and Means to provide against the coming rigour. And therefore he moved uneasily on his bench.

The hibernatorial ambitions of Soapy were not of the highest. In them there were no considerations of Mediterranean cruises, of soporific Southern skies drifting in the Vesuvian Bay. Three months on the Island was what his soul craved. Three months of assured board and bed and congenial company, safe from Boreas and bluecoats, seemed to Soapy the essence of things desirable.

For years the hospitable Blackwell's had been his winter quarters. Just as his more fortunate fellow New Yorkers had bought their tickets to Palm Beach and the Riviera each winter, so Soapy had made his humble arrangements for his annual hegira to the Island. And now the time was come. On the previous night three Sabbath newspapers, distributed beneath his coat, about his ankles and over his lap, had failed to repulse the cold as he slept on his bench near the spurting fountain in the ancient square. So the Island loomed big and timely in Soapy's mind. He scorned the provisions made in the name of charity for the city's dependents. In Soapy's opinion the Law was more benign than Philanthropy. There was an endless round of institutions, municipal and eleemosynary, on which he might set out and receive lodging and food accordant with the simple life. But to one of Soapy's proud spirit the gifts of charity are encumbered. If not in coin you must pay in humiliation of spirit for every benefit received at the hands of philanthropy. As Caesar had his Brutus, every bed of charity must have its toll of a bath, every loaf of bread its compensation of a private and personal inquisition. Wherefore it is better to be a guest of the law, which though conducted by rules, does not meddle unduly with a gentleman's private affairs.

Soapy, having decided to go to the Island, at once set about accomplishing his desire. There were many easy ways of doing this. The pleasantest was to dine luxuriously at some expensive restaurant; and then, after declaring insolvency, be handed over quietly and without uproar to a policeman. An accommodating magistrate would do the rest.

Soapy left his bench and strolled out of the square and across the level sea of asphalt, where Broadway and Fifth Avenue flow together. Up Broadway he turned, and halted at a glittering cafe, where are gathered together nightly the choicest products of the grape, the silkworm and the protoplasm.

Soapy had confidence in himself from the lowest button of his vest upward. He was shaven, and his coat was decent and his neat black, ready-tied four-in-hand had been presented to him by a lady missionary on Thanksgiving Day. If he could reach a table in the restaurant unsuspected success would be his. The portion of him that would show above the table would raise no doubt in the waiter's mind. A roasted mallard duck, thought Soapy, would be about the thing--with a bottle of Chablis, and then Camembert, a demi-tasse and a cigar. One dollar for the cigar would be enough. The total would not be so high as to call forth any supreme manifestation of revenge from the cafe management; and yet the meat would leave him filled and happy for the journey to his winter refuge.

But as Soapy set foot inside the restaurant door the head waiter's eye fell upon his frayed trousers and decadent shoes. Strong and ready hands turned him about and conveyed him in silence and haste to the sidewalk and averted the ignoble fate of the menaced mallard.

Soapy turned off Broadway. It seemed that his route to the coveted island was not to be an epicurean one. Some other way of entering limbo must be thought of.

At a corner of Sixth Avenue electric lights and cunningly displayed wares behind plate-glass made a shop window conspicuous. Soapy took a cobblestone and dashed it through the glass. People came running around the corner, a policeman in the lead. Soapy stood still, with his hands in his pockets, and smiled at the sight of brass buttons.

"Where's the man that done that?" inquired the officer excitedly.

"Don't you figure out that I might have had something to do with it?" said Soapy, not without sarcasm, but friendly, as one greets good fortune.

The policeman's mind refused to accept Soapy even as a clue. Men who smash windows do not remain to parley with the law's minions. They take to their heels. The policeman saw a man half way down the block running to catch a car. With drawn club he joined in the pursuit. Soapy, with disgust in his heart, loafed along, twice unsuccessful.

On the opposite side of the street was a restaurant of no great pretensions. It catered to large appetites and modest purses. Its crockery and atmosphere were thick; its soup and napery thin. Into this place Soapy took his accusive shoes and telltale trousers without challenge. At a table he sat and consumed beefsteak, flapjacks, doughnuts and pie. And then to the waiter be betrayed the fact that the minutest coin and himself were strangers.

"Now, get busy and call a cop," said Soapy. "And don't keep a gentleman waiting."

"No cop for youse," said the waiter, with a voice like butter cakes and an eye like the cherry in a Manhattan cocktail. "Hey, Con!"

Neatly upon his left ear on the callous pavement two waiters pitched Soapy. He arose, joint by joint, as a carpenter's rule opens, and beat the dust from his clothes. Arrest seemed but a rosy dream. The Island seemed very far away. A policeman who stood before a drug store two doors away laughed and walked down the street.

Five blocks Soapy travelled before his courage permitted him to woo capture again. This time the opportunity presented what he fatuously termed to himself a "cinch." A young woman of a modest and pleasing guise was standing before a show window gazing with sprightly interest at its display of shaving mugs and inkstands, and two yards from the window a large policeman of severe demeanour leaned against a water plug.

It was Soapy's design to assume the role of the despicable and execrated "masher." The refined and elegant appearance of his victim and the contiguity of the conscientious cop encouraged him to believe that he would soon feel the pleasant official clutch upon his arm that would insure his winter quarters on the right little, tight little isle.

Soapy straightened the lady missionary's readymade tie, dragged his shrinking cuffs into the open, set his hat at a killing cant and sidled toward the young woman. He made eyes at her, was taken with sudden coughs and "hems," smiled, smirked and went brazenly through the impudent and contemptible litany of the "masher." With half an eye Soapy saw that the policeman was watching him fixedly. The young woman moved away a few steps, and again bestowed her absorbed attention upon the shaving mugs. Soapy followed, boldly stepping to her side, raised his hat and said:

"Ah there, Bedelia! Don't you want to come and play in my yard?"

The policeman was still looking. The persecuted young woman had but to beckon a finger and Soapy would be practically en route for his insular haven. Already he imagined he could feel the cozy warmth of the station-house. The young woman faced him and, stretching out a hand, caught Soapy's coat sleeve.

"Sure, Mike," she said joyfully, "if you'll blow me to a pail of suds. I'd have spoke to you sooner, but the cop was watching."

With the young woman playing the clinging ivy to his oak Soapy walked past the policeman overcome with gloom. He seemed doomed to liberty.

At the next corner he shook off his companion and ran. He halted in the district where by night are found the lightest streets, hearts, vows and librettos.

Women in furs and men in greatcoats moved gaily in the wintry air. A sudden fear seized Soapy that some dreadful enchantment had rendered him immune to arrest. The thought brought a little of panic upon it, and when he came upon another policeman lounging grandly in front of a transplendent theatre he caught at the immediate straw of "disorderly conduct."

On the sidewalk Soapy began to yell drunken gibberish at the top of his harsh voice. He danced, howled, raved and otherwise disturbed the welkin.

The policeman twirled his club, turned his back to Soapy and remarked to a citizen.

"'Tis one of them Yale lads celebratin' the goose egg they give to the Hartford College. Noisy; but no harm. We've instructions to lave them be."

Disconsolate, Soapy ceased his unavailing racket. Would never a policeman lay hands on him? In his fancy the Island seemed an unattainable Arcadia. He buttoned his thin coat against the chilling wind.

In a cigar store he saw a well-dressed man lighting a cigar at a swinging light. His silk umbrella he had set by the door on entering. Soapy stepped inside, secured the umbrella and sauntered off with it slowly. The man at the cigar light followed hastily.

"My umbrella," he said, sternly.

"Oh, is it?" sneered Soapy, adding insult to petit larceny. "Well, why don't you call a policeman? I took it. Your umbrella! Why don't you call a cop? There stands one on the corner."

The umbrella owner slowed his steps. Soapy did likewise, with a presentiment that luck would again run against him. The policeman looked at the two curiously.

"Of course," said the umbrella man--"that is--well, you know how these mistakes occur--I--if it's your umbrella I hope you'll excuse me--I picked it up this morning in a restaurant--If you recognise it as yours, why--I hope you'll--"

"Of course it's mine," said Soapy, viciously.

The ex-umbrella man retreated. The policeman hurried to assist a tall blonde in an opera cloak across the street in front of a street car that was approaching two blocks away.

Soapy walked eastward through a street damaged by improvements. He hurled the umbrella wrathfully into an excavation. He muttered against the men who wear helmets and carry clubs. Because he wanted to fall into their clutches, they seemed to regard him as a king who could do no wrong.

At length Soapy reached one of the avenues to the east where the glitter and turmoil was but faint. He set his face down this toward Madison Square, for the homing instinct survives even when the home is a park bench.

But on an unusually quiet corner Soapy came to a standstill. Here was an old church, quaint and rambling and gabled. Through one violet-stained window a soft light glowed, where, no doubt, the organist loitered over the keys, making sure of his mastery of the coming Sabbath anthem. For there drifted out to Soapy's ears sweet music that caught and held him transfixed against the convolutions of the iron fence.

The moon was above, lustrous and serene; vehicles and pedestrians were few; sparrows twittered sleepily in the eaves--for a little while the scene might have been a country churchyard. And the anthem that the organist played cemented Soapy to the iron fence, for he had known it well in the days when his life contained such things as mothers and roses and ambitions and friends and immaculate thoughts and collars.

The conjunction of Soapy's receptive state of mind and the influences about the old church wrought a sudden and wonderful change in his soul. He viewed with swift horror the pit into which he had tumbled, the degraded days, unworthy desires, dead hopes, wrecked faculties and base motives that made up his existence.

And also in a moment his heart responded thrillingly to this novel mood. An instantaneous and strong impulse moved him to battle with his desperate fate. He would pull himself out of the mire; he would make a man of himself again; he would conquer the evil that had taken possession of him. There was time; he was comparatively young yet; he would resurrect his old eager ambitions and pursue them without faltering. Those solemn but sweet organ notes had set up a revolution in him. To-morrow he would go into the roaring downtown district and find work. A fur importer had once offered him a place as driver. He would find him to-morrow and ask for the position. He would be somebody in the world. He would--

Soapy felt a hand laid on his arm. He looked quickly around into the broad face of a policeman.

"What are you doin' here?" asked the officer.

"Nothin'," said Soapy.

"Then come along," said the policeman.

"Three months on the Island," said the Magistrate in the Police Court the next morning.

 

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A Little Too Much Honesty

A Little Too Much Honesty

I believe in being honest. I recently asked one of my classes if they took the spare change from vending machines. They are poor college students, so most of them said “Yes”. I told them it wasn’t their money, but one student insisted it was like finding money on the street. I assured them when I was a starving student, I, too, used to take the money left by someone else in a vending machine. It was found money. But now, I usually leave the change for someone who really needs it.

I’ve also asked students why they hate Abraham Lincoln. They look at me and wonder why I am saying such a strange thing. I tell them in the building where I work, enough students leave pennies lying around for the custodians to pick up that they can usually have a pizza party at the end of the year. The custodians tell me they pick up sixty or seventy dollars in a year. I tell the students it just shows a rampant disrespect for our sixteenth president to just leave him lying around like that. I tell them people in the future will wonder why we hated pennies so much.

I also asked the students if we could be too honest. One guy reminded me we don’t want to answer one question in particular too honestly. Guys know what question I’m talking about. If a woman ever asks you “Does this dress, these pants, this skirt, this Mumu, make me look fat?” There is no correct answer, but it does make me laugh when I think of Chris Farley’s response from “Tommy Boy”. You can never say it out loud to anyone, but he is immortalized on film saying, “No, your face makes you look fat”, or something like that. Honesty is a relative quality, and the closer the relative, the more dishonest you may have to be.

Really, though, honesty is overrated most of the time. No one wants you to be honest with them, and most times, you are asked to lie for someone else. Tell me you didn’t tell the boss his last idea was great when you really thought it was inane.

I’ve lied and taken the blame for someone else’s poor driving and denting of a van. I’ve lied about my weight, but it’s not what you think. I weigh about 180 now, but all during high school I was probably about 130 or 135. But there is no way I would have admitted that to anyone. I think I put 140 on my license just in case someone checked. So when I got fat in my late twenties, no one was happier than me. It may sound strange to be glad to carry around extra weight, but I am so much happier being fat than skinny.

Most of us aren’t really comfortable in our skin. We have a perfect image we really want to be, and almost no one is ever happy with how they are right now. When we ask others, they try to assure us we look fine, our lives are fine, and that we should be happy with our lives. But there always seems to be someone else happier, skinnier, richer, or whatever than we are. It’s a sad way to live, and while we wish our lives away, we are really being dishonest with ourselves.

Can I just be happy with this day, with this body, with this spouse, with this job, with this life? There are really only two choices. Happy, unhappy. Most of us choose to spend our days, weeks and years yearning for something we will probably never see. My wife gave me a great compliment the other day, and I don’t think she realized she did. She said to me, “But you don’t care what other people think about you.” She may be right. I think there is a small part of me which vainly wishes praise, but it is dominated by the comfortable part of me which want to wear pajama pants to Walmart. She’s even brave enough to be seen in public with me, since nearly everyone we know is aware she has to put up with me.

Maybe I’m just a little too honest. I should probably care more about how I look, but when I pointed out to some of my colleagues I had the hanger wrinkle on my dress pants. This particular woman was incredulous. She couldn’t believe I didn’t use special hangers for pants. They are even called pants hangers. I don’t use those for pants. Well, I do hang my pajama pants with them. That is my wife hangs them up for me. If it was my choice, I would probably just fold them up. Honestly.

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Value Meal

Value Meal You know I claim I don’t like to complain, but it does seem that’s mostly what I do. Since I’m trying to be honest today, I think I should honestly say I don’t like to complain. But today I will. I probably will tomorrow, too. I really do try to be honest, and I want others to be honest with me too. I think I have two examples which are bothering me today, so let’s get down to brass tacks, which I think means, getting to the heart of the business. Brass tacks must be used underneath the fabric, and where people can see, the upholsterers must use some other kind of tack. Anyway, I was really excited to have an Arby’s French Dip sandwich on the way to teach one of my night classes. I usually leave the high school with plenty of time to get something to eat before my college classes at 5:00, and I was cutting it pretty close. The French Dip, for those who are unfamiliar with one of the most delicious sandwiches ever invented, is roast beef on a stale bun. This must have been popular back when bread didn’t have all the preservatives, but the reason you don’t mind having a stale bun is because you dip the whole thing in au jus. Perhaps another explanation is necessary here if you don’t know what au jus is. The Encarta dictionary, which pops up on demand in my word processing program, tells us that it means “in it’s own juice”. I think it is French. In other words, meat juice served with meat. I would have guessed it was salty water dyed brown, but even if it is just brown salty water, it is also delicious. You dip the sandwich, soak up the salty goodness of au jus, and “Voila”, which is also French for “there you are!”, the formerly stale bun is now a sop, which means “food dipped in liquid”. I love the Encarta feature – who cares if it is right? Does this mean a donut dipped in coffee is also a sop? I think by now you understand my attraction to the French Dip sandwich has more to do with the au jus than the sandwich. Which is why I was not too pleased when I opened my order, after driving 10 miles to where I could eat a sopping sandwich, and found out there was no au jus. I know it is probably an honest mistake, but that’s what we are discussing today, isn’t it? An honest mistake is one not necessarily made on purpose, but still upsetting nonetheless. I was too far away to go back and get the delicious accompaniment to my now mostly just roast beef and stale bun sandwich, so I suffered in silence, and really, can I take offense if someone forgot to give me my au jus? I just love saying that phrase. Now let’s move to another “honest mistake”, which I think cost me one hundred dollars today. My daughter drives the Jeep, and the starter quit working, so I paid five hundred dollars yesterday to get it fixed. No complaints yet, since this is about typical for that car ever so often. I understand cars don’t last forever, and I do want mechanics to be there when I need them, so sometimes I may have to be the one making sure they stay in business. Maybe next week it will be you. So my daughter gets in the Jeep this morning, and since it was below freezing this morning, she turned on the rear defroster. Again, the car won’t start. So she calls me while I am in class, so I have to ignore her call and the text, which tells me her car won’t start again. By the time I call her at lunch, she has read my mind and called the shop to tow it back and see what is wrong. So here’s the report I get later in the day. Surprise! The wiring for the starter and the defroster are somehow connected! And it cost me one hundred dollars for the mechanic to find this out. When I called to make the payment over the phone, I asked about having the towing waived. For the uninitiated, if the car doesn’t work and it’s the shops fault, you usually aren’t charged to have the car towed back in. So when I questioned the towing charge, the person in charge waived it much too quickly. I mean it was a wiring problem, not a starter problem, and how could they have predicted they were wired together? Here’s what I think happened. Yank on the starter wires and you might short out the defroster wires. But they still got another hundred dollars from me.

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The Robber Bridegroom by the Brothers Grimm

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THE ROBBER BRIDEGROOM FAIRY TALE

By the Brothers Grimm

Once upon a time... There was once a miller who had one beautiful daughter, and as she was grown up, he was anxious that she should be well married and provided for. He said to himself, 'I will give her to the first suitable man who comes and asks for her hand.'

Not long after a suitor appeared, and as he appeared to be very rich and the miller could see nothing in him with which to find fault, he betrothed his daughter to him. But the girl did not care for the man as a girl ought to care for her betrothed husband. She did not feel that she could trust him, and she could not look at him nor think of him without an inward shudder.

One day he said to her, 'You have not yet paid me a visit, although we have been betrothed for some time.' 'I do not know where your house is,' she answered. 'My house is out there in the dark forest,' he said. She tried to excuse herself by saying that she would not be able to find the way thither. Her betrothed only replied, 'You must come and see me next Sunday; I have already invited guests for that day, and that you may not mistake the way, I will strew ashes along the path.'

When Sunday came, and it was time for the girl to start, a feeling of dread came over her which she could not explain, and that she might be able to find her path again, she filled her pockets with peas and lentils to sprinkle on the ground as she went along. On reaching the entrance to the forest she found the path strewed with ashes, and these she followed, throwing down some peas on either side of her at every step she took. She walked the whole day until she came to the deepest, darkest part of the forest.

There she saw a lonely house, looking so grim and mysterious, that it did not please her at all. She stepped inside, but not a soul was to be seen, and a great silence reigned throughout. Suddenly a voice cried: 'Turn back, turn back, young maiden fair, Linger not in this murderers' lair.' The girl looked up and saw that the voice came from a bird hanging in a cage on the wall. Again it cried: 'Turn back, turn back, young maiden fair, Linger not in this murderers' lair.' The girl passed on, going from room to room of the house, but they were all empty, and still she saw no one.

At last she came to the cellar, and there sat a very, very old woman, who could not keep her head from shaking. 'Can you tell me,' asked the girl, 'if my betrothed husband lives here?' 'Ah, you poor child,' answered the old woman, 'what a place for you to come to! This is a murderers' den. You think yourself a promised bride, and that your marriage will soon take place, but it is with death that you will keep your marriage feast. Look, do you see that large cauldron of water which I am obliged to keep on the fire! As soon as they have you in their power they will kill you without mercy, and cook and eat you, for they are eaters of men. If I did not take pity on you and save you, you would be lost.'

Thereupon the old woman led her behind a large cask, which quite hid her from view. 'Keep as still as a mouse,' she said; 'do not move or speak, or it will be all over with you. Tonight, when the robbers are all asleep, we will flee together. I have long been waiting for an opportunity to escape.' The words were hardly out of her mouth when the godless crew returned, dragging another young girl along with them. They were all drunk, and paid no heed to her cries and lamentations. They gave her wine to drink, three glasses full, one of white wine, one of red, and one of yellow, and with that her heart gave way and she died. Then they tore of her dainty clothing, laid her on a table, and cut her beautiful body into pieces, and sprinkled salt upon it.

The poor betrothed girl crouched trembling and shuddering behind the cask, for she saw what a terrible fate had been intended for her by the robbers. One of them now noticed a gold ring still remaining on the little finger of the murdered girl, and as he could not draw it off easily, he took a hatchet and cut off the finger; but the finger sprang into the air, and fell behind the cask into the lap of the girl who was hiding there. The robber took a light and began looking for it, but he could not find it. 'Have you looked behind the large cask?' said one of the others.

But the old woman called out, 'Come and eat your suppers, and let the thing be till tomorrow; the finger won't run away.' 'The old woman is right,' said the robbers, and they ceased looking for the finger and sat down. The old woman then mixed a sleeping draught with their wine, and before long they were all lying on the floor of the cellar, fast asleep and snoring. As soon as the girl was assured of this, she came from behind the cask. She was obliged to step over the bodies of the sleepers, who were lying close together, and every moment she was filled with renewed dread lest she should awaken them. But God helped her, so that she passed safely over them, and then she and the old woman went upstairs, opened the door, and hastened as fast as they could from the murderers' den. They found the ashes scattered by the wind, but the peas and lentils had sprouted, and grown sufficiently above the ground, to guide them in the moonlight along the path.

All night long they walked, and it was morning before they reached the mill. Then the girl told her father all that had happened. The day came that had been fixed for the marriage. The bridegroom arrived and also a large company of guests, for the miller had taken care to invite all his friends and relations. As they sat at the feast, each guest in turn was asked to tell a tale; the bride sat still and did not say a word. 'And you, my love,' said the bridegroom, turning to her, 'is there no tale you know? Tell us something.'

'I will tell you a dream, then,' said the bride. 'I went alone through a forest and came at last to a house; not a soul could I find within, but a bird that was hanging in a cage on the wall cried: 'Turn back, turn back, young maiden fair, Linger not in this murderers' lair.' and again a second time it said these words.' 'My darling, this is only a dream.'

'I went on through the house from room to room, but they were all empty, and everything was so grim and mysterious. At last I went down to the cellar, and there sat a very, very old woman, who could not keep her head still. I asked her if my betrothed lived here, and she answered, "Ah, you poor child, you are come to a murderers' den; your betrothed does indeed live here, but he will kill you without mercy and afterwards cook and eat you."'

'My darling, this is only a dream.'

'The old woman hid me behind a large cask, and scarcely had she done this when the robbers returned home, dragging a young girl along with them. They gave her three kinds of wine to drink, white, red, and yellow, and with that she died.'

'My darling, this is only a dream.'

'Then they tore off her dainty clothing, and cut her beautiful body into pieces and sprinkled salt upon it.' 'My darling, this is only a dream.' 'And one of the robbers saw that there was a gold ring still left on her finger, and as it was difficult to draw off, he took a hatchet and cut off her finger; but the finger sprang into the air and fell behind the great cask into my lap. And here is the finger with the ring.' and with these words the bride drew forth the finger and showed it to the assembled guests.

The bridegroom, who during this recital had grown deadly pale, up and tried to escape, but the guests seized him and held him fast. They delivered him up to justice, and he and all his murderous band were condemned to death for their wicked deeds.

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Birthday Bash

Birthday Bash

Okay, it time for another birthday. I was kind of excited when I found out I would be on the air on my birthday. I checked to see how many years it would be before my birthday would be on a Sunday again, and it won’t be until 2016. I think this is because of leap year, since it should happen in seven years instead of six. But I don’t know what I’m going to be doing in six years, so we may as well celebrate it together. I don’t want phone calls or congratulations, because I have officially become an old fart. We don’t like to be reminded of our age. I’m fifty-two, and I don’t need another solicitation from AARP to join. I don’t need any more gray hair, and I don’t need more nose and ear hair, but it seems that is what is destined for the future. I don’t want to be asked if I want the senior discount, and even worse, I don’t plan on retiring. Ever. There are a couple of reasons. I don’t expect Social Security or even my pensions to be around when I’m old enough to collect them. I know my wife won’t let me retire, and to tell the truth, I don’t think I’ll let myself retire either. The Social Security promise was made when hardly anyone lived to be 65. Now almost all of us will make it. What does that mean? As there are more of us retirees, it will take more people working to support us since none of the money is actually saved for us anywhere. Back in the fifty’s, 16 people paid for one person’s retirement. Now it’s down to about 3.3 workers paying for one person. Soon it might be 2 people working to pay my retirement. I hope those two people are making lots of money. I feel the same way about my pension. It’s much too tempting for fat cats to run off with that accumulated money. Call me a pessimist about retirement, but it really doesn’t bother me. I’ll just keeping working. My wife will make sure of that. I have been informed she wants to be living in the future in the “manner to which she has become accustomed”. This doesn’t really leave much room in my future for retiring on a reduced income. I know that when we are home on the weekends I spend a lot more than I do when I am working. Here’s an example from last Saturday. I had an audition and invited my wife to go along to the big city. I thought maybe we could have lunch. The audition took so long she called the daughter who lives there, and invited her to come eat with us. Her friend was also invited. That was a seventy-five dollar meal. Then mom became worried our daughter is a starving student, so we then made a trip to the grocery store. Sixty-eight dollars. We had to get gas for the car, and stop at that excellent bakery on the way home. Thirty more dollars. I’m not brave enough to total the cost. When I spend the day at work, I might spend a couple of bucks for gas, a couple for breakfast and a couple more for lunch. I might even earn more money than I spend. At least that’s the way it’s supposed to work. But when we are out and about, the money disappears. Retirement would only be a daily drain on the cash. Finally, I really don’t want to retire. I really do hope to be able to do the things I do now until they carry me out of the room. I teach, I act, I write, and generally perform every day of my life. Why would I want to stop? I know I will slow down, and I might not be able to do all the things I “used ta could”, but I am amazed at how productive my life has become. I have heard that your fifty’s and sixty’s are supposed to be your most productive years. So far, well, at least two years in, I do believe I am the most productive I’ve ever been. At least I feel like I’m working harder than I ever have before. I feel kind of like that rat on the treadmill. The only problem is the treadmill seems to trail forever behind me, and I’m falling behind a couple of inches every day. I wonder what happens when I fall off the end? So I probably won’t retire. I really don’t want to, but we don’t always get what we want. Between financial demands and the need for attention, I think I could do this for another fifty-two years. Well, maybe just fifty.

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Floor It

Floor It

One of the reasons I believe we live in abundance is I look around and see so many wonderful things in this world. Even the mundane things we take for granted everyday are miracles compared with only 100 years ago. I thought about this as I was driving with dozens of other people on one of our modern freeways. Someone thought most of us were going to slow, and as he zoomed past me I marveled at the fact something like this was even possible. We live in a society where affordable and dependable transportation is available to nearly every one who needs it. Where I live a car is almost a necessity, but there is also public transportation available for those who need to get from here to there. We even have “on demand” transportation for those people who may not be able to use a bus or a train. But the point is, we can get from A to B and make a living, make a purchase, or visit those far away. When you thing about it, a car shouldn’t really be necessary for someone to work, but out here in the wide open spaces, there is definitely a need for many people. For example, my work involves driving twenty miles south. There is a bus which could get me there, but twice a week I also need to travel north thirty miles for one of my part-time jobs. Once a week I make a trip here to the radio station, and there really isn’t public transportation available on the weekend from where I live to where the radio station is. So for the purposes of everything I do, some kind of dependable transportation is a necessity. Multiply that by the thousands of people who work every day, and there will also be a need for roads and ways to keep all of us crazy drivers safe. I really don’t think it will change any time soon, but I am looking forward to the cars that climb up the sides of buildings like in Minority Report. The cars drive themselves and with the help of computer controls, the traffic should be much better. But there is something to be said for being caught in a traffic jam. When the freeway turns into a parking lot, I like looking around and trying to notice the other people, cars, and sights I usually drive past as fast as I can go. It really makes you appreciate the days when there isn’t a traffic jam and everything is going great. Commerce also drives what we drive. If you think about all of the business which is done and is centered around the flights of fancy we take in our cars and trucks, it is an amazing array of products and services never available to anyone in the past in the quantity and quality we enjoy today. A visitor from 1776 would be amazed to know today I travelled sixty miles north, audition for a movie, went to a fine restaurant, shopped at a well supplied grocery store and also stopped and buy some really excellent cookies before driving sixty miles south back to my home. In the day of the horse and buggy, thirty miles in an entire day would be a very good day of travelling indeed. And to get a delicious chicken dinner with mashed potatoes and asparagus, plus buy fresh oranges, yogurt, Pepsi – which I don’t think they would appreciate like I do – canned chili, a dozen frozen pre-prepared meals, and a big bag of pancake mix; well, I just don’t think they would believe you. I don’t think I would even mention the excellent bakery we also stopped at to get some delicious éclairs and roles. I haven’t mentioned all the other excellent stores and entertainment opportunities we drove past and could have patronized. But think about this. My family lives an hour away; my in-laws are two hours away. In one day, we can drive, visit and return home. Two hundred years ago, visiting my relatives could have taken up to a week. As the world has become smaller and faster, it’s true the demands on our time have increased. More is expected of us, but we are also able to do more. I can’t wait for what the future brings. I know we will continue to improve the quality of life for everyone. I just can’t imagine what form it will take. The abundance we enjoy is just a taste of what things may be. I hope you have the opportunity to enjoy all the wonderful things happening in this world today. As we pay attention and give thanks for all that we enjoy, I think you may realize what a great life you have.

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It's Hot in Texas

It’s Hot In Texas

As much as I love flying, there are times when it’s not so much fun. I don’t like standing in lines, and security is usually a hassle, too. I hope I never get as relaxed as the businessman I first flew next to. He was asleep before the plane took off, and woke up after we landed. One time I was on a business trip to Dallas, and it was the middle of a long hot summer. I really liked the time I spent in Texas. The people were friendly, and except for the heat, it was a nice place. I also visited Houston. But by then I already knew how hot Texas could be. My wife and I went to MD Anderson for some of her cancer treatments. The doctor we were seeing in Houston said to us, “Welcome to the oven.” It really did feel like we were sitting in an oven. But there were some nice things about Houston, like the Miller Outdoor Theatre. They were offering a free show on one of the nights we were there, and so we went to the park to watch “Chorus Line”. Apparently, it was the same production which had just been on Broadway, so we were really excited. So we watched a really excellent show and I sat dripping in the heat. I was really excited for the night to come so things would cool off. Apparently, this is not something which happens in Houston. The sun went down. The moon came up. I kept waiting for the cool evening breezes to blow in. But it stayed just as hot as when it was daytime. I had never experienced anything like that before, and now when people say it’s not the heat, it’s the humidity, I think I know what they mean. It was eleven o’clock at night when the show ended, and it was just as hot then as when the show had begun. But it was a really good show, and it was free. I like Houston, but I wouldn’t want to live there. I live in one of the driest states, and we have very low humidity. So when it is 105 degrees, it still doesn’t feel like you are in an oven. I work outside most of the summer, and while it may be hot, there usually is a breeze. And at night, it cools down. People who come here from places like Texas have been heard to declare, “Hey, the shade here works!” I guess that means where they are from, it’s just as hot in the shade as in the sun. Or it’s just as hot during the summer night as during the day. Let’s just say I like my nights cooler than my days, and I like shade that works. What I learned in Dallas the first time I was in Texas is sometimes it is too hot to fly. I don’t think it affects the plane, but I found out if the runway is made of asphalt and it’s 110 degrees outside, the runway may be too soft for the plane to take off. It is not too hot for the passengers to stay on the plane. That’s right. We weren’t allowed off the plane. So it’s 110 outside, and who knows how hot it was inside that aluminum tube. We sat there sweltering and sweating. I adjusted the little fans above me, but they were only blowing more hot air onto us. Apparently, the cold air which usually comes from those vents is cold because the plane is high up in the cold air. I can’t remember how long we sat in the plane waiting for the runway to cool off enough not to melt under us as we took off. It’s one of those Catch 22 situations. You want the plane to take off so you can stop dripping with sweat, but you also want the plane to be able to take off and not get glued to the tarmac by melting asphalt. Do I want to die from heat exhaustion, or do I want to die in a fiery plane crash? This was more than 20 years ago, and I can still feel the hot, sticky cabin we were sitting in. So I decided to check and see how things were going in Texas this last summer. Let’s talk about San Antonio, which I have never visited, and don’t think I want to see anytime soon, especially in the summer. Last year, the temperature in San Antonio was over 100 degrees. For several days. In fact, for 57 days. Multiplied out, that’s 5700 degrees. The same temperature as an acetylene torch. Let’s just say it was a record-breaking summer for San Antonio. I’ll bet the shade doesn’t work there either.

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Windsurfing

Windsurfing

I used to hate the wind. When I was a kid, riding uphill against the wind was the worst thing ever. But now, I pay attention and hope for wind. Not a huge wind, but I am especially glad when there is just enough wind. Just enough wind for what?

Well, I have been known to shop around surplus sales for good deals, and a few years ago I saw a really interesting auction for something at the local air force base. I won the auction, and went to pick up my prize. I had won a windsurfer.

About 40 years ago, someone had the brilliant idea of combining a surfboard and a sailboat. You balance on the surfboard, hold the sail and let the wind drag you along. Once you learn to tack, or sail against the wind, you can go back and forth to just about anywhere you want. It took me a few times to get how to windsurf, since all I could do for a while is let the wind blow me wherever it wanted to. But it really has turned into a fun hobby.

It has been an interesting transition to go from hating the wind to looking forward to a nice breeze. Sometimes I leave work and feel that slight movement of air and try to decide if I have enough time before sunset to get some windsurfing in. I need to be careful, because sometimes I am not so smart.

One day in late October, summer returned and the temperature was in the 80’s. It was about four o’clock in the afternoon on a Monday night, and when I left work there was a perfect breeze and a couple of hours of light left in the day. I rushed home and loaded the board and sail onto the top of my car and hurried to the sandy beach where I usually launched. The water was on the cool side, but the wind was perfect. I felt like I could sail straight across the lake and back in record time, so I leaned into the wind and took off.

If you are tacking against the wind, you can go faster than the wind is blowing. This is because you are sliding sideways in the water. I don’t think I had ever gone as fast as I did that afternoon, and pretty soon, I was about halfway across the lake. I had traveled about 4 miles or more, and the sun was getting low. That’s when the wind stopped.

Without wind, a windsurfer is pretty much dead in the water. You can sit on the board and paddle a little, but you won’t get very far. The sun went down. It started to get colder, and I was wearing a swimsuit. The moon went down. It was almost pitch black, and I could see the water a few yards around me. I fell in the water a few times, and it was starting to get really cold. I figured I better not fall in again, because I didn’t think I would be able to stay warm enough to last the night. I sat on the edge of the board and paddled a bit, but I wasn’t going anywhere.

Someone had lit a bonfire pretty close to where I was parked on the beach. I knew I could use it as a reference point if the wind came back up. About one o’clock in the morning, the wind came back. I had been on the lake for about eight hours now, and there were times I was ready to give up. But with the wind blowing me back toward the fire, it didn’t take too long to land back on the beach. It was so dark I couldn’t see where my Jeep was parked. I guessed the wrong direction and walked about a mile on the beach until I found the fence that told me I had gone the wrong way. Meantime, the bonfire partiers were doing some target practice. I tried to stay calm, and hoped I wouldn’t end up shot instead of stuck on the lake. When I reached the board again, I continued about 100 feet and there was the car. I decided to carry the board to the car and stay quiet. When I was ready, I started up the car and went home. Nobody shot me.

I got home at two o’clock in the morning. No one had seen my note about going windsurfing, and since I am often gone nights, everyone was sound asleep. I was glad no one had called search and rescue. I went to work the next day after a couple of hours of sleep. I didn’t windsurf again until the next summer. That’s probably a good thing.

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His First Flight by Liam O'Flaherty

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His First Flight

Liam O’Flaherty

The young seagull was alone in his ledge. His two brothers and his sister had already flown away the day before. He had been afraid to fly with them. Somehow when he had taken a little run forward to the brink of the ledge and attempted to flap his wings he became afraid. The great expanse of sea stretched down beneath, and it was such a long way down -- miles down. He felt certain that his wings would never support him, so he bent his head and ran away back to the little hole under the ledge where he slept at night.

Even when each of his brothers and his little sister, whose wings were far shorter than his own, ran to the brink, flapped their wings, and flew away, he failed to muster up courage to take that plunge which appeared to him so desperate. His father and mother had come around calling to him shrilly, scolding him, threatening to let him starve on his ledge unless he flew away. But for the life of him he could not move.

That was twenty-four hours ago. Since then nobody had come near him. The day before, all day long, he had watched his parents flying about with his brothers and sister, perfecting them in the art of flight, teaching them how to skim the waves and how to dive for fish. He had, in fact, seen his older brother catch his first herring and devour it, standing on a rock, while his parents circled around raising a proud cackle. And all the morning the whole family had walked about on the big plateau midway down the opposite cliff, laughing at his cowardice.

The sun was now ascending the sky, blazing warmly on his ledge that faced south. He felt the heat because he had not eaten since the previous nightfall. Then he had found a dried piece of mackerel’s tail at the far end of his ledge. Now there was not a single scrap of food left. He had searched every inch, rooting among the rough, dirt-caked straw nest where he and his brothers and sister had been hatched. He even gnawed at the dried pieces of eggshell. It was like eating part of himself.

He had then trotted back and forth from one end of the ledge to the other, his long gray legs stepping daintily, trying to find some means of reaching his parents without having to fly. But on each side of him the ledge ended in a sheer fall of precipice, with the sea beneath. And between him and his parents there was a deep, wide crack.

Surely he could reach them without flying if he could only move northwards along the cliff face? But then on what could he walk? There was no ledge, and he was not a fly. And above him he could see nothing. The precipice was sheer, and the top of it was perhaps farther away than the sea beneath him.

He stepped slowly out to the brink of the ledge, and, standing on one leg with the other leg hidden under his wing, he closed one eye, then the other, and pretended to be falling asleep. Still they took no notice of him. He saw his two brothers and his sister lying on the plateau dozing, with their heads sunk into their necks. His father was preening the feathers on his white back. Only his mother was looking at him.

She was standing on a little high hump on the plateau, her white breast thrust forward. Now and again she tore at a piece of fish that lay at her feet, and then scraped each side of her beak on the rock. The sight of the food maddened him. How he loved to tear food that way, scraping his beak now and again to whet it! He uttered a low cackle. His mother cackled too, and looked over at him.

Ga, ga, ga, he cried, begging her to bring him over some food. Gawl-ool-ah, she screamed back mockingly. But he kept calling plaintively, and after a minute or so he uttered a joyful scream. His mother had picked up a piece of the fish and was flying across to him with it. He leaned out eagerly, tapping the rock with his feet, trying to get nearer to her as she flew across. But when she was just opposite to him, abreast of the ledge, she halted, her legs hanging limp, her wings motionless, the piece of fish in her beak almost within reach of his beak.

He waited a moment in surprise, wondering why she did not come nearer, and then maddened by hunger, he dived at the fish. With a loud scream he fell outwards and downwards into space. His mother had swooped upwards. As he passed beneath her he heard the swish of her wings.

Then a monstrous terror seized him and his heart stood still. He could hear nothing. But it only lasted a moment. The next moment he felt his wings spread outwards. The wind rushed against his breast feathers, then under his stomach and against his wings. He could feel the tips of his wings cutting through the air. He was not falling headlong now. He was soaring gradually downwards and outwards. He was no longer afraid. He just felt a bit dizzy. Then he flapped his wings once and he soared upwards.

He uttered a joyous scream and flapped them again. He soared higher. He raised his breast and banked against the wind. Ga, ga, ga. Ga, ga, ga. Gawl-ool-ah. His mother swooped past him, her wings making a loud noise. He answered-her with another scream Then his father flew over him screaming. The he saw his two brothers and sister flying around him, soaring and diving.

Then he completely forgot that he had not always been able to fly, and commenced himself to dive and soar, shrieking shrilly.

He was near the sea now, flying straight over it, facing out over the ocean. He saw a vast green sea beneath him, with little ridges moving over it, - anti he turned his beak sideways and crowed amusedly. His parents and his brothers and sister had landed on this green floor in front of him. They were beckoning to him, calling shrilly. He dropped his legs to stand on the green sea. His legs sank into it. He screamed with fright and attempted to rise again, flapping his wings. But he was tired and weak with hunger and he could not rise, exhausted by the strange exercise. His feet sank into the green sea, and then his belly touched it and he sank no farther.

He was floating on it. And around him his family was screaming, praising him, and their beaks were offering him scraps of dog-fish.

He had made his first flight.

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