tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-17041246194984238352023-11-16T05:08:28.064-08:00Tell Me Your StoryTell it to me brothers and sisters...Unknownnoreply@blogger.comBlogger18125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1704124619498423835.post-70282896507077355802017-03-21T18:22:00.000-07:002017-03-23T05:53:55.580-07:00Heroes of Heroes<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiIKlrBqpkh6RBsAMbyHyp9gUcVMr4nBZ2TKQPXTKxS40eGRf5IXQcioWBjyolf4_njk_vaMqQ0PcBixyhTTlieNsbEMcpSKCpvKhKfaSqeM11mfu78JXWC-EbSM18k0Nb0kRYuYKYAfQ4/s1600/chuck3.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiIKlrBqpkh6RBsAMbyHyp9gUcVMr4nBZ2TKQPXTKxS40eGRf5IXQcioWBjyolf4_njk_vaMqQ0PcBixyhTTlieNsbEMcpSKCpvKhKfaSqeM11mfu78JXWC-EbSM18k0Nb0kRYuYKYAfQ4/s200/chuck3.jpg" width="172" /></a></div>
Years ago, I came to know blues legend, Taj Mahal, through some business dealings. I was working for a software company that helped pioneer digital content distribution. We thought we’d try distributing MP3s. I asked myself which artist I’d most enjoy working with. Taj Mahal was my answer, so I wrote him an email. A couple days later he called me from his hotel<span class="text_exposed_show"> in Chicago. We really hit it off. </span><br />
<span class="text_exposed_show"><br /></span>
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<br />
He sent me a box full of every album he’d ever recorded. We arranged to meet when he visited Oregon for a concert. I showed up backstage before his show. He asked me about the package he’d sent — if I’d heard anything new. I mentioned a song I especially liked, but I didn’t remember the title. Taj said, “sing it to me.” <br />
Singing is the last thing in the world I want to do — especially to a Grammy winner in front of professional musicians. But fuck it. I sang: <br />
“Flying across the desert in a TWA,<br />
I saw a woman walking across the sand<br />
She been a-walkin' thirty miles en route to Bombay.<br />
To get a brown eyed handsome man<br />
Her destination was a brown eyed handsome man.”<br />
<br />
Taj smiled. He leaned back in his chair and pulled his Epiphone across his lap. He started to play. A couple bandmates joined in for a few bars. <br />
In his gravely voice, he said “Ah, man, I didn’t write that one. Chuck Berry wrote that song!” And he said the name “Chuck Berry” as though he was talking about his own father. I understood who his musical hero was.<br />
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Shared by<a href="https://www.facebook.com/search/top/?q=john%20willis" target="_blank"> John Willis</a>.<b></b><i></i><u></u><sub></sub><sup></sup><strike></strike></div>
Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1704124619498423835.post-1781858607064415292016-11-25T02:28:00.000-08:002016-11-25T02:35:55.912-08:0012 Flash Stories for Thanksgiving<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhzuQnKknz8RLseqEjExYPn2AdZxfn9WOtcffkZtaJJtPb_tn7fi7kjGVu9OXdKZq6UqKEpBnPVrlbKCZtaeOwFvPGDy8LDoREtX-45EQ5Lz7zpB3GrNBiGBigxar1ciSW4S6CNJNmBx88/s1600/tellittome.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhzuQnKknz8RLseqEjExYPn2AdZxfn9WOtcffkZtaJJtPb_tn7fi7kjGVu9OXdKZq6UqKEpBnPVrlbKCZtaeOwFvPGDy8LDoREtX-45EQ5Lz7zpB3GrNBiGBigxar1ciSW4S6CNJNmBx88/s200/tellittome.jpg" width="198" /></a></div>
I received these via email on Thanksgiving Day. I don't know the authors. They are too good not to share.<br />
<br />
<div id="yui_3_16_0_1_1479955842679_7429">
<span id="yui_3_16_0_1_1479955842679_7437">1. <br />
Today, I interviewed my grandmother for part of a research paper I'm working on for my Psychology class.
When I asked her to define success in her own words, she said, "Success is when you look back at your life
</span>and the memories make you smile."</div>
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2. <br />
Today, I asked my mentor - a very successful business man in his 70s-what his top 3 tips are for success.
He smiled and said, "Read something no one else is reading, think something no one else is thinking, and
do something no one else is doing."</div>
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<span id="yui_3_16_0_1_1479955842679_7976">3. <br />
Today, after a 72 hour shift at the fire station, a woman ran up to me at the grocery store and gave me a hug. </span><span id="yui_3_16_0_1_1479955842679_7974">When I tensed up, she realized I didn't recognize her. She let go with tears of joy in her eyes and the most </span>sincere smile and said, "On 9-11-2001, you carried me out of the World Trade Center."</div>
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4. <br />
Today, after I watched my dog get run over by a car, I sat on the side of the road holding him and crying. And just before he died, he licked the tears off my face.</div>
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5. <br />
Today at 7AM, I woke up feeling ill, but decided I needed the money, so I went into work. At 3PM I got laid
off. On my drive home I got a flat tire. When I went into the trunk for the spare, it was flat too. A man in a
BMW pulled over, gave me a ride, we chatted, and then he offered me a job - I start tomorrow.</div>
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6. <br />
Today, as my father, three brothers, and two sisters stood around my mother's hospital bed, my mother uttered
her last coherent words before she died. She simply said, "I feel so loved right now. We should have gotten
together like this more often."</div>
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7. <br />
Today, I kissed my dad on the forehead as he passed away in a small hospital bed. About 5 seconds after he
passed, I realized it was the first time I had given him a kiss since I was a little boy.</div>
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8. <br />
Today, in the cutest voice, my 8-year-old daughter asked me to start recycling. I chuckled and asked, "Why?" She replied, "So you can help me save the planet." I chuckled again and asked, "And why do you want to
save the planet?" Because that's where I keep all my stuff," she said.</div>
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9. <br />
Today, when I witnessed a 27-year-old breast cancer patient laughing hysterically at her 2-year-old daughter's
antics, I suddenly realized that I need to stop complaining about my life and start celebrating it again.</div>
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<div class="yiv4355318433m_5514635502470962102ecxx_MsoNormal">
10. <br />
Today, a boy in a wheelchair saw me desperately struggling on crutches with my broken leg and offered
to carry my backpack and books for me. He helped me all the way across campus to my class and as he was
leaving he said, "I hope you feel better soon."</div>
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11. <br />
Today, I was feeling down because the results of a biopsy came back malignant. When I got home, I opened
an e-mail that said, "Thinking of you today. If you need me, I'm a phone call away." It was from a high school
friend I hadn't seen in 10 years.</div>
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<div class="yiv4355318433m_5514635502470962102ecxx_MsoNormal">
12. <br />
Today, I was traveling in Kenya and I met a refugee from Zimbabwe. He said he hadn't eaten anything in over
3 days and looked extremely skinny and unhealthy. Then my friend offered him the rest of the sandwich he
was eating. The first thing the man said was, "We can share eating it.</div>
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<div class="yiv4355318433m_5514635502470962102ecxx_MsoNormal">
The best sermons are lived, not preached.</div>
<b></b><i></i><u></u><sub></sub><sup></sup><strike></strike><br />Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1704124619498423835.post-45779500135513986602016-10-21T23:15:00.002-07:002016-10-21T23:15:42.910-07:00What's Goin' On?I've heard that a picture's worth a thousand words. This video must be worth a million. The love just oozes out of every note, and the smile of each person in the background.<br />
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<center>
<iframe allowfullscreen="" frameborder="0" height="344" src="https://www.youtube.com/embed/2iDj1D2OimM" width="459"></iframe></center>
Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1704124619498423835.post-39778272704087105292014-09-06T08:09:00.000-07:002014-09-06T12:53:24.701-07:00Carrot or Stick?<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjPZDjOIxnsr8QIqT7tHoDXFTrXsGA7ZQSI6KVnMZTpcaiVOwT4Jrcy8GmlDc89D3doHGz8yvFhKRxC-SR4jZfh0hiI4nGo34Mm7VaDzQv4kCAn51wN5oKf1wTzpdKhkfB364oIzcJi5d8/s1600/sewer.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjPZDjOIxnsr8QIqT7tHoDXFTrXsGA7ZQSI6KVnMZTpcaiVOwT4Jrcy8GmlDc89D3doHGz8yvFhKRxC-SR4jZfh0hiI4nGo34Mm7VaDzQv4kCAn51wN5oKf1wTzpdKhkfB364oIzcJi5d8/s1600/sewer.JPG" height="143" width="200" /></a></div>
<span style="color: #141823;"><span style="font-family: Helvetica, Arial, lucida grande, tahoma, verdana, arial, sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: 10pt;">Yesterday
the plumber confirmed we had a broken sewer pipe from when the gas
company put in the new gas lines.. He told me I needed to try and get
the city to fix it.. He warned me this would be a long process, and
said I should have our lawyer contact them. The "committee of
old dudes" who live on our street popped over to see what the
hell was going on.. they too warned me about dealing with the city.
They told me to raise hell and demand the city earn the taxes we pay.
I chose not to do this. I called the city. Due to a bad connection I
had to go down there. One of the public works guys came out and told
me I needed to contact the gas company. </span></span></span><span style="color: #141823; font-family: Helvetica, Arial, 'lucida grande', tahoma, verdana, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 10pt; line-height: 0.2in;">He gave me two names. So I did,
I called, and they said they'd look into it. I figured that was their
way of giving me the runaround.</span></div>
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<span style="color: #141823;"><span style="font-family: Helvetica, Arial, lucida grande, tahoma, verdana, arial, sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: 10pt;"><br /></span></span></span></div>
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<span style="color: #141823;"><span style="font-family: Helvetica, Arial, lucida grande, tahoma, verdana, arial, sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: 10pt;">Today,
Fred from the gas company came out to investigate. "Guilty as
charged", he said. "We did work here. If it's broke it's on
us." He left to notify the contractors who did the work. Within
an hour he called and said they'd be out today to fix it... within an
hour of that call he was here waiting for the backhoe to arrive. I
was shocked, thanked him for being "johnny on the spot". He
replied, "well, you were civil. If you would have yelled at me
about it I probably wouldn't have worked with you. You can get a lot
done if you're decent." From there he told me stories of people
who were jerks to city workers and inspectors and were treated poorly
because of it.. One guy was fined over 15,000 bucks for not filling
out proper paperwork before tearing down his house. When the code
enforcer showed up to tell him he needed to stop work immediately,
the guy said, "who the fuck are you to tell me what to do on my
property." That line cost the guy over 15,000 bucks, the code
enforcer was just going to make him stop and get the proper permits,
but after that he decided to fine him.</span></span></span></div>
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<span style="color: #141823;"><span style="font-family: Helvetica, Arial, lucida grande, tahoma, verdana, arial, sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: 10pt;">Our
sewer line has been has been fixed. The contractors came out at lunch
time and did it. In less than 24 hours of reporting it, the problem
was solved. I never once had to raise my voice, or demand anything.
They also have assured me any bills or costs from this will be
reimbursed in full.. just goes to show you can get a lot further by
not being a douchebag.. it's taken me 30 some years to get here, if
only I'd learned this lesson a bit earlier in life...</span></span></span></div>
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<span style="color: #141823;"><span style="font-family: Helvetica, Arial, lucida grande, tahoma, verdana, arial, sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: 10pt;"><br /></span></span></span></div>
<div align="left" style="line-height: 0.2in; margin-bottom: 0.06in; margin-top: 0.06in;">
<span style="color: #141823;"><span style="font-family: Helvetica, Arial, lucida grande, tahoma, verdana, arial, sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: 10pt;">from <a href="https://www.facebook.com/michael.d.goscinski?fref=ts" target="_blank">Michael Goscinski</a></span></span></span></div>
Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1704124619498423835.post-57918540343446799692014-09-06T07:53:00.003-07:002016-10-21T22:57:18.439-07:00You Can Earn Respect or Disrespect.<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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Being
nine years old was no excuse for what I'd done.<br />
It all
happened at a grade school carnival. I'd left a booth, opened a paper
sack, and saw my prize--a green toy with a yellow propeller. Not
much, but it was mine.<br />
A security guard stood by a hallway pole.
His gut hung over his gun belt.<br />
As I passed, he snatched my
prize. He smiled. "What have we here?"<br />
I stopped. "Give
it back."<br />
"Just a minute now."<br />
"Give
it."<br />
He raised my prize higher, higher, and higher. I tried
to reach it by standing on my toes. Once I jumped. Then I looked at
his holster.<br />
While he laughed, I took his gun.<br />
He
dropped my toy. "That's not funny, kid."<br />
"You took
my toy."<br />
"That's different. I was just playing. Now hand
over my gun."<br />
I stepped back. "No." But after he
frowned and held out his hand, I returned his weapon.<br />
He
wasn't through with me. "Don't ever do anything stupid
like that again."<br />
The guard never apologized for taking my
prize, and I never apologized for taking his gun. I knew what I'd
done was wrong but felt no shame.</div>
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<div align="left" style="line-height: 138%; margin-bottom: 0.06in;">
Shared by <a href="https://www.facebook.com/steve.attkisson.5?fref=nf" target="_blank">Steve Attkisson </a></div>
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Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1704124619498423835.post-13220325285150615612014-08-10T11:17:00.000-07:002014-08-10T11:17:02.472-07:00High School Flashback<div style="background-color: white; color: #141823; font-family: Helvetica, Arial, 'lucida grande', tahoma, verdana, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 19.31999969482422px; margin-bottom: 6px;">
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There was an unusual kid in algebra. One day a couple kids were harassing him. I told them to knock it off. Then I started sitting by that kid in class. I don’t remember his name, but I remember this:</div>
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You know those afternoons when you couldn’t keep your eyes open? When you had to lay your head on your desk? He was having one of those. Eyes drooping. Head nodding. He put his head down in the center of his algebra te<span class="text_exposed_show" style="display: inline;">xt. And then . . . and then . . . a string of drool emerged from his mouth like a snake. It stretched, down, down, until it made landfall on his book. I looked around. His arm encircled his head, shielding the view. The slobber began to flow. It formed a viscous puddle, pouring into the binding. For forty minutes it flowed.</span></div>
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Nearing the end of class his eyes opened. Half-mast at first. Then they burst open WIDE, I presume from the wetness. But he did not move. He had to plan his escape. He had to extricate his face from the the spit-lake without drawing the attention of a single student. Still feigning sleep he looked down. He brought his fingertips to investigate. It was worse than he imagined. The size of a pancake.</div>
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After a moment of planning, in a single elegant move, he raised his head, swiped his face with his jean jacket sleeve, then folded the book halves together, gently. Drool squeezed out the top and bottom. He cleaned it with a surreptitious waxing motion of his forearm. His face — reconciling terror and resolve — panned the room. Three of us had seen it, I’d say. He could see that we had. But that it could have been us, well, it could have been. And we didn’t say a word.</div>
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<div style="margin-bottom: 6px; margin-top: 6px;">
Written by<a href="https://www.facebook.com/jwesleywillis?fref=nf"> John Willis</a> </div>
</div>
Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1704124619498423835.post-18376516606289331222014-07-31T04:49:00.000-07:002014-07-31T04:51:19.361-07:00Land of the Free and other Lies<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh70fH-ofSEa4avhxJCrHUqplmLC2wkOmtSNt5TplRbUAno4h5Bh-dPrMo_nkHHrg-Haw7ZbxKrNnhByg3-nEftvFLCF0nzwtm5FUL1Sv4TbsRN2a60-g_aafN0VKkbN7jwqm2T7qJ4Gp4/s1600/election_day_3.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh70fH-ofSEa4avhxJCrHUqplmLC2wkOmtSNt5TplRbUAno4h5Bh-dPrMo_nkHHrg-Haw7ZbxKrNnhByg3-nEftvFLCF0nzwtm5FUL1Sv4TbsRN2a60-g_aafN0VKkbN7jwqm2T7qJ4Gp4/s1600/election_day_3.jpg" height="200" width="152" /></a></div>
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You took civics in high school. Well, because they made you take civics in high school, but
hey. You know that you live in a
democracy where everyone has a vote, the majority rule, and even if you’re born
poor in a log cabin with a dirt floor, you can become the President of the
United States some day. And of course
you believe this because your teachers, parents and probably even your pastor
told you this. But it’s a lie.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
The truth is you are ruled and regulated by a slim minority
who decide what they want you to do, and what they don’t want you to do. This same minority decides things like how
much you’ll pay in all kinds of taxes, what you can and can’t say, or hear,
even if you can marry the person you love.
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
And guess what?
That’s all your fault. Yup. Because it is a democracy, and you let the
minority do this to you. How, you
ask? By not voting. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
There are 10 million people in my state of Michigan. About 75% are registered voters. That’s pretty much 100% of the people who
are eligible to vote. But it is
forecast that next Tuesday, the 5<sup>th</sup> of August, only 20% of
registered voters will show up for the State’s primary election. So if 51% of the people who vote that day
decide something, it would be a little less than eight hundred thousand voters
telling ten million residents what they’re going to do. And that, my friend, is called majority
rule. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Bullshit, you say?
Well, try smoking in a bar in Michigan.
That right was taken away by this exact kind of majority rule a few
years ago. Land of the free. Uh huh.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Before you toss that off with “It’s only the primary” you
should know that a lot of the people who win their primary will be unopposed in
the November election. Also, ballot
issues will be given a thumbs up or down next Tuesday.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
What? You say you
didn’t even know there was an election next Tuesday? </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Thank you very much.<br />
<br />
.</div>
Unknownnoreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1704124619498423835.post-1871190432386741962014-07-30T04:25:00.000-07:002014-07-31T04:50:48.974-07:00A Kind of True Story<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhF076yljmXvBNxfdzW9qXF11gvmIIgNOIfoy_lvllBWCiIkd6RkZLXfiFiqxzGhKL3Q3shfz2j8Q63fXhZ5Z6-tDcRKCdD1bQMBuXwEtx7Ffyd1voHmwwtMaGs673iI4bVBjOq2zLE-XI/s1600/True.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhF076yljmXvBNxfdzW9qXF11gvmIIgNOIfoy_lvllBWCiIkd6RkZLXfiFiqxzGhKL3Q3shfz2j8Q63fXhZ5Z6-tDcRKCdD1bQMBuXwEtx7Ffyd1voHmwwtMaGs673iI4bVBjOq2zLE-XI/s1600/True.jpg" height="200" width="141" /></a></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Yes, this really happened.
It was just another ordinary day when you answered the phone. The voice at the other end explained that
she was a doctor; that you had given a blood sample to a donation bank, and now
there was someone who needed a kidney, a man who was a perfect match with
you. And so after the procedure you
eventually went back to work and he eventually went home, grateful to you for
giving him a second chance at life.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
But it didn’t end there.
A few months later you took another call, from someone you did know,
asking if you’d seen the papers. The
man you helped had killed some people a time ago, and had just been
charged. He was going to trial, and
could face the death penalty.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Then you felt like you’d been punched in the stomach. Was all that sacrifice for nothing? Endangering your own well being, and your
family's, for what?</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Well this is a kind of true story. And it does involve you; and a man who killed a lot of
people. Except the man wasn’t a man, it
was a corporation. And the donation
wasn’t a kidney; it was an eleven billion dollar bailout. Your tax
dollars. Our tax dollars. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Now the corporation is going to trial, and the result might
be death, the bankruptcy we thought we helped avoid. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I don’t know about you, but I feel punched in the
stomach.<br />
<br />
.</div>
Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1704124619498423835.post-72028642607374258192014-07-03T06:11:00.002-07:002014-07-03T06:11:28.353-07:00Tell Your Stories!<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj1RAaZIUaR89k9kUWXu7Yi3TCo3hOjYNVDMPnysUwbDQwaOiXO2uiJ6Qf3Y-EigKx-QkPVCjul_oMvdn0ETxPU0E45gI2A8RghXRW2-Y5hs56jPXkgb7JSJB871Kboql5QY8Vkhg26R4A/s1600/books.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj1RAaZIUaR89k9kUWXu7Yi3TCo3hOjYNVDMPnysUwbDQwaOiXO2uiJ6Qf3Y-EigKx-QkPVCjul_oMvdn0ETxPU0E45gI2A8RghXRW2-Y5hs56jPXkgb7JSJB871Kboql5QY8Vkhg26R4A/s1600/books.jpg" height="400" width="400" /></a></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
Thanks Anne Lamott </div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
and</div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://www.facebook.com/TitleWaveforBooks">TitleWaveforBooks</a></div>
<br />Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1704124619498423835.post-70579618301071931382014-05-20T04:46:00.002-07:002014-05-20T04:47:18.273-07:00Sometimes All You Need is a Little Perspective.<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg55AzO-YCyDDyksBh4U1prnuxnwb4OMa_1m4NxbNM512wABDDkUrRJoheFpnyUfp4CAUmByHwhnYF8fJ2soZsl45Y-mQ8rxvzeQWgNocv_QfJtem8suUfJs7AfhLhzxku6r_oIiZI6aes/s1600/patientintractionweb.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg55AzO-YCyDDyksBh4U1prnuxnwb4OMa_1m4NxbNM512wABDDkUrRJoheFpnyUfp4CAUmByHwhnYF8fJ2soZsl45Y-mQ8rxvzeQWgNocv_QfJtem8suUfJs7AfhLhzxku6r_oIiZI6aes/s1600/patientintractionweb.jpg" height="137" width="200" /></a></div>
The bank teller had just finished helping a very grouchy customer. It was a slow afternoon and the lobby had emptied. He turned to the teller next to him and said, "Boy, I hope that guy pulls the stick out of his ass before he comes back again." Without looking up the second teller replied, "Well, you'd feel like that too if your wife had just been in a car accident, and was lying in the hospital with half the bones in her body broken."<br />
<br />
<br />Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1704124619498423835.post-29730169580825063432014-03-19T15:49:00.000-07:002014-03-19T15:49:24.120-07:00Trust Among Strangers<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh0iQnoVefmDgvXjJTLQ0Ch7TAMrtixqMgOuoXcupAEY3XdNOfDu8_RKCmr07fNME3ZWo6KmpwjOlKwvjbSKmYO9lSAuZsLg-PD8DAbf7aULK4EUJEp3AGXdJgxOwvRgockEJQ-B1wx0-w/s1600/ski.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh0iQnoVefmDgvXjJTLQ0Ch7TAMrtixqMgOuoXcupAEY3XdNOfDu8_RKCmr07fNME3ZWo6KmpwjOlKwvjbSKmYO9lSAuZsLg-PD8DAbf7aULK4EUJEp3AGXdJgxOwvRgockEJQ-B1wx0-w/s1600/ski.jpg" height="245" width="320" /></a></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="background: white;">
<span style="color: #222222; font-family: Calibri; font-size: 11pt;">It was the last day of the last ski trip I
was to take in 2014, and I was skiing solo. I’d recently been practicing
the art of the pick-up, introducing myself to others in hopes that I’d find
company on the slopes. As it turns out, good skiing, like fine dining, is
best shared in the company of others. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="background: white;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="background: white;">
<span style="color: #222222; font-family: Calibri; font-size: 11.0pt;">It was about<span class="apple-converted-space"> </span><span class="aqj">noon</span><span class="apple-converted-space"> </span>and I’d already been skiing the slopes
of Snowbird alone for a couple of hours. Not that I preferred that, but
it was an uncrowded day on the slopes. I stood waiting to take the next
tram uphill and I let some space open up in front of me. Two women seized the opportunity to fill
that void and I couldn’t let their action go unnoticed. I spoke up; now it was
my turn to seize an opportunity. As we
rode the tram skyward I started a conversation that helped secure a positive
response when I suggested we ski together.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="background: white;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="background: white;">
<span style="color: #222222; font-family: Calibri; font-size: 11.0pt;">Carol and Jean are high-energy retirees,
both seventy-somethings with lots of spunk. They've stayed mentally and
physically active well beyond the point at which they gave up their careers as
flight attendants. After just a few runs, Carol was ready to call it a
day. Jean, however, suggested she’d stay on for a few more runs.
What followed was a full afternoon skiing some of the most demanding slopes on
the mountain. With Jean in the lead, I
left the map in my pocket.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="background: white;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="background: white;">
<span style="color: #222222; font-family: Calibri; font-size: 11.0pt;">I was enjoying Jean’s company, and I never
stopped to consider that this person was a total stranger to me, as I was to
her. We got acquainted through the usual banter of where we live, what we
do (or did) for a living and my picking Jean’s brain about how to best prepare
for retirement. As we concluded our last run of the day, Jean mentioned
she’d lost her ride home when Carol left and she’d have to catch a bus.
Without considering how inappropriate it might sound, I offered to drive Jean
home. “Do that and you’ll earn a dirty martini as a reward”, Jean
said. Within the hour we were sitting in Carol’s kitchen as Jean mixed up
what she claimed would be the best martini I ever had. It might have been
premium ingredients or a world-class recipe that made that martini taste so
good, but I like to think it was the company. I offered to take us all
out to dinner but Carol said she’d rather cook and invited me to stay. I
couldn’t believe my good fortune. Total strangers just hours before and
now an invitation to enjoy a home cooked meal with my new friends.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="background: white;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="background: white;">
<span style="color: #222222; font-family: Calibri; font-size: 11.0pt;">It’s true, skiing and fine dining are best
shared with great company. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="background: white;">
<br /></div>
<br />
Submitted by Dr. Steven Blaine, PhDUnknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1704124619498423835.post-42876323840179522442014-03-13T05:45:00.000-07:002014-03-13T05:45:10.943-07:00The Birthday Boy<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhueqGLnwjKF0a-Dh8QX4AZZx_SZSaYesYxc0rRkYQYxoo7O2AHRMQSRWoI1Q33kmWSUNQf7eBwMlwFw86lNxQ6lJum1VFjDZZ_OcKQO5eBDsqQvdl80O_GNfnHIvv-1VUq0jYjce23hI0/s1600/0229_mexicanAP.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhueqGLnwjKF0a-Dh8QX4AZZx_SZSaYesYxc0rRkYQYxoo7O2AHRMQSRWoI1Q33kmWSUNQf7eBwMlwFw86lNxQ6lJum1VFjDZZ_OcKQO5eBDsqQvdl80O_GNfnHIvv-1VUq0jYjce23hI0/s1600/0229_mexicanAP.jpg" height="250" width="320" /></a></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
When our children were in school my wife and I got involved
with an exchange student program from Mexico and Central America. We hosted students, not for the entire
school year, but for six to eight weeks over their summer vacations. Some of the students enjoyed themselves more
than others, but all in all everyone seemed comfortable living with our family.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I remember one trip to the airport and greeting our
student. It was the boy’s birthday.
When we met him at the gate we were surprised.
He was from Mexico, but he had red hair, fair skin and freckles. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
As we went to collect baggage we saw other families
gathering up students. One family came
over to speak to us and it came up in conversation that it was our student’s
birthday. Everyone in that family
turned to my youngest son, the one who looks like me, with dark hair, brown
eyes, and olive skin, and wished him a happy birthday. He was embarrassed but we laughed it off and
started home.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Stopping at a restaurant for lunch, we explained to our
waitress that we had a Mexican exchange student with us and that it was his
birthday. Again, she turned to my
youngest son and wished him a happy birthday.
At this point I think both boys were pretty uncomfortable with the
obvious assumption that Mexicans all have dark complexions. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
After having about six students over the years, I can tell
you we never saw another student with red hair or freckles, but we did discover
that wherever they come from, people have much more in common than they realize. Most of our students had two parents who
worked. Father’s enjoyed things like
hunting and fishing. Mother’s liked to
shop and cook. Free time was spent
visiting with extended family. The
children enjoyed bicycling, going for walks and joining in family chores. One boy liked to hunt and we ate squirrel
one night. One girl was very sad that
we didn’t have a mall in our town, a place of only about a hundred families.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I can tell you something else. Stereotypes hurt. They
hurt the one who embraces them the most, because preconceived notions limit
your thought process. It’s as if you
were trying to thread a needle with a baseball mitt on. Leave yourself open to possibilities. Five year olds can play the piano. Eighty year olds can dance. And red heads can come from anyplace!</div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1704124619498423835.post-69500427822311308752014-03-09T07:17:00.000-07:002014-03-09T07:48:03.594-07:00A Tale of Two Peninsulas<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgXZERqeVgMkaPpVaJHYhlSnoIfZ-xouePOJJxRc9pw_HPsGGn8ChDyViRfDzPNMKfmHrHghRkETiMplLqfPuv9SUTnJxVcxv2q_w7z05RXlBGc1R8d7dITk3PSlbvrDM3pQVdAFGWybbM/s1600/mac.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgXZERqeVgMkaPpVaJHYhlSnoIfZ-xouePOJJxRc9pw_HPsGGn8ChDyViRfDzPNMKfmHrHghRkETiMplLqfPuv9SUTnJxVcxv2q_w7z05RXlBGc1R8d7dITk3PSlbvrDM3pQVdAFGWybbM/s1600/mac.JPG" height="157" width="320" /></a></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Many people from outside of Michigan don’t realize how large
our state is, or that we have two peninsulas.
Driving from Detroit to New York City is about the same distance as
driving from Detroit to Ironwood, our state’s westernmost municipality. Both trips run about 600 miles. On our southern border Michigan abuts three other
states, Ohio, Indiana, and Wisconsin.
It’s that upper peninsula that abuts Wisconsin. Our westernmost counties lie in the Central Time Zone. And Ironwood? Ironwood is
actually west of Saint Louis. Missouri.
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Before the Mackinac Bridge was opened in 1957, people had to
take a car ferry to get from the lower to upper peninsula. Each fall, when deer season would approach, cars lined up for miles as hunters from southern towns and cities waited for their turns to get across. So you might figure that there would be a
little rivalry, maybe even some animosity, between the residents of the upper
peninsula, the Yoopers, and the residents of the lower peninsula. Ever since that bridge was built, we who
reside in the lower section have been called Trolls, because we’re from “below
the bridge.” </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
One winter I was traveling across the upper peninsula for
business. From where the bridge empties
into Saint Ignace, I took state route 2 west.
There are towns every so often for the first part of this trip, until
you pass the town of Iron Mountain.
After that point you can drive hours without seeing anything man made
other than the highway itself. It was
in this stretch, with dark approaching, that I noticed a car parked on the side
of the road. I hadn’t seen anyone else
for a long, long time and wondered where the driver was on this freezing
evening. Eventually I came to a cross
road with a little store, a combination grocery and gas station. I stopped to use the rest room and buy a
snack. The owner was an older man who
worked alone. I casually mentioned that
there was a car abandoned by the side of the road a ways back east. “Yeah” the owner acknowledged. “He was here. Outta gas. Wanted me to
close and drive him back.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Well, I suggested, if he’d of stood out front with a gas can
in his hand, the first person driving east would have picked him up. “Yeah,” he admitted, “But I wasn’t going to
tell him that. He was from below the
bridge. He called the State Police and
they came and drove him back.” A State
Trooper heading east had passed me, so I felt relieved that the stranded driver
was safe. I paid for my stuff without
indicating my own appellation and drove off into the darkness, still a long way to travel before I slept in Ironwood that night.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: 12pt;">Years later I received some advice I’ll share with you
here. If you ever travel to Michigan’s
upper peninsula and a resident asks you where you’re from, just tell him you
live in a little town south of the Soo. </span></div>
Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1704124619498423835.post-23410673797654699452014-03-05T04:14:00.001-08:002014-03-05T04:14:27.604-08:00That's the Way We've Always Done It<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi37o0Rii55rbUQB2EEMTVWJNTfYLY6D21YBHGgdOURW5qv3v9Yfe0P1U2xA884ryv81PxuxFin5fvHf0Ff6DQLwOfj5-_quiC-7wOMilDIAwkt6rp1bHUzIRib_L546bOqcOV1xbC_x8Y/s1600/ham.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi37o0Rii55rbUQB2EEMTVWJNTfYLY6D21YBHGgdOURW5qv3v9Yfe0P1U2xA884ryv81PxuxFin5fvHf0Ff6DQLwOfj5-_quiC-7wOMilDIAwkt6rp1bHUzIRib_L546bOqcOV1xbC_x8Y/s1600/ham.jpg" height="213" width="320" /></a></div>
I was visiting with a friend over tea and a piece of pie this morning. We were venting about pet peeves. This friend was saying that the stupidest reason a person can giving for doing anything is, "That's the way we've always done it."<br />
<br />
Well I had to share this story. It was Easter, a long time ago, and the wife and I were guests at my sister-in-law's home for supper, along with the rest of their family. When sis got ready to put a boneless ham in the over she cut off each end and placed it in a roaster.<br />
<br />
Upon seeing that move, I asked why she did it, why she cut the ends off. She said she didn't know, that was just the way her mom had always done it. My wife said that she also did it, and for the same reason. But now I had piqued their interest.<br />
<br />
The girls went into the living room and asked their mother, "Why did you always cut the two ends off the ham before you baked it?" Mom replied, "Well, my pan was smaller than the one you have, and that was the only way I could get it to fit."<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
</div>
Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1704124619498423835.post-56679082026703780932014-03-03T04:57:00.000-08:002014-03-03T04:57:06.342-08:00If I Should Die<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgiIfGi4xPctcPDQo_qd9mjhgAtArI9l6_TIOPCVZVEgpZRCVuFPp14DZQXcBTpJE_OfNeQCxfGe3DEOTlTQIFuWOYne5saDnjv0la1cBIpE-Yax_R70P7c4HPL80CmFgMDp-ViK4swh9E/s1600/Pray.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgiIfGi4xPctcPDQo_qd9mjhgAtArI9l6_TIOPCVZVEgpZRCVuFPp14DZQXcBTpJE_OfNeQCxfGe3DEOTlTQIFuWOYne5saDnjv0la1cBIpE-Yax_R70P7c4HPL80CmFgMDp-ViK4swh9E/s1600/Pray.jpg" /></a></div>
When Laura was a young girl she spent several years in fear of her life. It was her mother's fault; she'd told Laura that if she didn't go to the bathroom, she was going to die.<br />
<br />
Laura tells me that she suffers from Aspergers Syndrome, and children of Aspergers often miss the subtlties of language. Her mother had noticed Laura making that "have to go" face while she was playing, but not taking time to make a trip to the bathroom. So mom told daughter, "If you don't go to the bathroom, you can die."<br />
<br />
Without any further explanations Laura became quite anxious about dying any time she became constipated, which can also be a symptom of her condition.<br />
<br />
Eventually Laura studied life science in school, and when she better understood the digestive process, both her misunderstanding and her fear were aleviated. <br />
<br />
But for about five years she says the worst part of her daily acitivities was going to bed where she was compelled to recite, "Now I lay me down to sleep, I pray The Lord, my soul to keep. If I should die before I wake..."<br />
<br />
Shared by Laura CushingUnknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1704124619498423835.post-11319785741218616252014-03-01T05:40:00.000-08:002014-03-01T05:40:38.394-08:00Old Fashioned Courtesy<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgXgYe6hRrTS8FxpOHz6i1Xt0kiSK1eFIJsYQUTYs2zqTnEGFaynH0pY08o4uNKfM7nutKdIaUc46N5nZuHnX1V1tngdxsFqa7AoPr1PrKrkEGsHAM1IBKRpnDa-OPjfDWjg9wuDf8VBh4/s1600/bike.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgXgYe6hRrTS8FxpOHz6i1Xt0kiSK1eFIJsYQUTYs2zqTnEGFaynH0pY08o4uNKfM7nutKdIaUc46N5nZuHnX1V1tngdxsFqa7AoPr1PrKrkEGsHAM1IBKRpnDa-OPjfDWjg9wuDf8VBh4/s1600/bike.jpg" height="320" width="212" /></a></div>
My wife and I like to visit different places and experience other cultures. On one trip we had a double treat, because after our tour of that new place, we got to spend a few extra days with some people we knew there. Vic and Melinda had retired back to Vic's homeland. They lived in the capitol city with about a million other residents, but in an outlying neighborhood. <br />
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On our first day the four of us took a walking tour of the nearby market and shops. Everywhere we went our hosts called the people we met by name, and were also greeted by name themselves. We stopped at a coffee shop and met the owner, who was the only person working. She brought us menus. I picked mine up but Vic quietly suggested we would get the best treats if we asked the woman what she recommended. I later found that this was because every food stuff was brought in fresh daily. <br />
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When we walked down by the supermarket Vic greeted a disheveled man by name and received a personal reply. He introduced us to John, and explained that when you went into the market, John would make sure nothing happened to your car. People were tipping John small coins. I smiled and said that in the larger cities in the U.S. this took place too, it was a racket. If you didn't pay, your car would be scratched. Vic looked mortified. Oh, no, he explained, as he tipped John. It's not like that. Melinda asked what happened to Steve, the man who used to have this job. Vic told her that Steve had been offered a better job helping a carpenter. Since Vic had tipped John, even though we'd arrived on foot, I surmised that there was no actual job, only kind hearted assistance from people who wished to help John while preserving his dignity through the appearance of work.<br />
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The next day I struck out to take a walk on my own. To my surprise, even though they had no idea what my name was, I could not pass anyone on the sidewalk without being greeted, or at least acknowledged by a nod of the head. One man who passed me from the rear even paused as he overtook me to smile and wish me a good day. <br />
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There was one person I saw who was not being greeted. He was standing in his front lawn shirtless, watering the grass with a garden hose. As men and women walked past his home they acted as if they saw nothing. I had read that it was considered impolite here to appear in public shirtless, unless you were at the beach. But rather than anyone clucking their tongue or giving him nasty looks for violating their social custom, they politely refused to notice at all, and simply went about their business.Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1704124619498423835.post-78266749654792282112014-02-28T14:24:00.000-08:002014-02-28T14:24:24.244-08:00Anonymous Friends<div class="MsoNormal">
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi2Vjoy9SNUuB6cSAFxK6AYk-4ZfwrSqE8Wee1vVY8Mx9nz7LF3vw_b7YYQ2CMGs_6is93BXvRkS2OiT58S6ns-RpOgz7Et1Ou1GbKjwT_aEaitHLbpklcXo5FLglDOHsn_HTjZawCOcwY/s1600/people.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi2Vjoy9SNUuB6cSAFxK6AYk-4ZfwrSqE8Wee1vVY8Mx9nz7LF3vw_b7YYQ2CMGs_6is93BXvRkS2OiT58S6ns-RpOgz7Et1Ou1GbKjwT_aEaitHLbpklcXo5FLglDOHsn_HTjZawCOcwY/s1600/people.jpg" height="189" width="320" /></a></div>
I met a nice lady
in town, but I forgot her name. She forgot mine as well. We still recognized
each other in passing. Our greetings rang fondly, and the illusion that we were
strangers disintegrated. Mid-hello, we experienced our discussion on
forgetfulness again. We felt like we were reunited refugees. Once, we gutted our
past together and displayed the innards. Then, we doctored them with
laughter.<br />
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<span style="font-family: Helvetica; mso-bidi-font-family: Helvetica;"> The specifics escape me, but I know
this: hyper honesty dove forward, before our hesitation could calculate the
jump. Somewhere, we exchanged our names automatically, but our ears listened to
our joined fogginess instead. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Helvetica; mso-bidi-font-family: Helvetica;"><br /></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Helvetica; mso-bidi-font-family: Helvetica;"> I was her son without the
discipline.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Helvetica; mso-bidi-font-family: Helvetica;"><br /></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Helvetica; mso-bidi-font-family: Helvetica;"> She was my mother without the
responsibility. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Helvetica; mso-bidi-font-family: Helvetica;"><br /></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Helvetica; mso-bidi-font-family: Helvetica;"> We’re friends minus the buildup.
<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Helvetica; mso-bidi-font-family: Helvetica;"><br /></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Helvetica; mso-bidi-font-family: Helvetica;"> Kinship’s engrained, and often
reserved. A friendship’s already activated, when </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Helvetica; mso-bidi-font-family: Helvetica;">worlds dissolve by shared
words. Life’s just a reference.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Helvetica; mso-bidi-font-family: Helvetica;"><br /></span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"></span>“What’s your name again... again?” And she laughed. </div>
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Submmited by Steven Leonardo Clifford</div>
Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1704124619498423835.post-61848373505929319202014-02-28T07:04:00.002-08:002014-02-28T07:04:49.689-08:00The Doctor and Cocaine<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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When we were young my wife and I belonged to a group of people who liked to cook and who held rotating dinner parties. Once in a while we would be the hosts, other times we went to someone else's home. We met an eclectic group of people, as the guests were never the same twice in a row.<br />
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We met a retired doctor once; a man who was at the same time elderly and in the prime of his life. He told us about the "good old days" when he went to med school, and took cocaine to cram for exams during "all-nighters." I had heard that during another time in history, Coca Cola actually contained cocaine. This man had grown up when using cocaine wasn't illegal and was often used as a stimulant. <br />
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He went on to tell us about his first practice. He moved to a rural village which I won't name here, although he told us where it was. In his first six months he had seen numerous patients with deviated septums, that is, a hole in the membrane that separates one's left and right nostrils. In med school he had been trained that this was the number one indicator that the patient was abusing cocaine, snorting so much that it was burning a hole through the septum. <br />
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His puzzlement wasn't in the condition, but the patients. This was a farming community and the people lived a simple, basic life that might involve a little drinking but surely not cocaine abuse. He went on to tell us that after a couple more months he figured the mystery out. Gesturing to his nose with his index finger he indicated that the people hadn't burned a hole through their nose, they'd simply picked their noses over and over until they'd picked right through them!<br />
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<br />Unknownnoreply@blogger.com2