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Fulfilling a dream is worth at least $20 right?
If you live outside the Dallas area and would like to book DISCOUNT travel for the event,
visit:Book Discount
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Self-Publishing Seminar
(art, music, poetry, stories, essays and novels)
2 p.m.-5 p.m., Saturday - August 6, 2005
TOPICS INCLUDE Write/Edit/Package Design, Price & Copyright
Publishing & Distribution Royalties & Promotions
Dallas Marriott Suites
2493 N. Stemmons Freeway, Dallas, TX 75207
$20 RSVP required

RSVP today, and mail payment by July 20th -mari@bepublished.org
(214) 369-6279
The Conglomerate
7414 E. Grand Ave., #633
Dallas, TX 75214
LECTURER - Mylia Jaza
Plea For Peace Seen In Other Words
Life Is Beautiful: La Vita Es Hermosa
Life Is Beautiful: La Vita E Bella

Sponsored By:
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Feel free to visit our events page
or the Be Published website

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Hearts With Soul New Book
Tinker & Poo, The Boys Write

Bill Walker tinkerpoo2000@yahoo.com
Purchase, "The Boys Write"
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The stories inside the covers of this book can only be described as "enchanting!" You will be doing yourself a favor to flip through the pages, even if you only read a few stories. However, you will then be captivated.....

Tink and Poo write from Rainbow Bridge. Young and old alike will find these tales charming. This is a book for all ages, and perfect for parents to read with their children. These two boys not only tell of the happenings at the bridge; they even give a history lesson now and then. If there has ever been a book written for "everyone," this is it!

The author, Bill Walker, is a truly amazing man. At the age of 70 he purchased a computer and began writing. His style cannot be duplicated. It is folksy, country, unique, and will warm your heart. His humor is delightful, and regardless of the nature of a particular story, you will find that humor hidden within it somewhere.

Please, please do yourself a favor -- take a few moments to enjoy these writings.

Review by Kathy Baker, LnStrLady@aol.com

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Celebrating Men
A Special Love
David Langerfeld
dlangerfeld@HarrisburgBaptist.org
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Her family had come to America from Sweden. She had a typical Scandinavian look... Long blond hair; blue eyes; long slender legs; soft, blemish-free skin; high cheek bones.

She was gorgeous - she was beautiful. In fact, a professional international photographer in her hometown thought she was so pretty that he used a photograph of her to advertise his business.

But that was not her real beauty.

She was raised by some wonderful Christian parents and had become a Christian at an early age. Integrity, honesty and sweetness were just a few of her characteristics. In fact, at her engagement party, her sister, who knew her better than anyone, said that she had never heard her tell a lie. All of her friends said the same thing about her: She was the sweetest girl they knew. She would never speak a harsh word about anyone. Everyone loved to be around her.

A young man she met in her freshman year started dating her and fell in love with her - both her exterior photographic beauty and the wonderful godly character of her inward beauty. She fell in love with him and they spent every free moment they could with each other over the next four years. They were committed to each other and they believed in waiting long before the "True Love Waits" Campaign ever existed.

One week after they graduated from college, they were married. They loved each other's company. They would walk together, exercise together, go on bike rides together, chaperone youth trips together -go to movies, watch TV, eat pizza, travel - all the things any normal couple would love to do together. They were so much in love.

She taught school for a year and then became a bookkeeper for a surgical supply company. One day while she was working, for no apparent reason she lost her balance and fell on the floor. She was later able to get up and went to see a doctor that night. He set her up to see a Neurologist. The following day, it happened again. For no apparent reason, she lost her balance and fell. This time, though, she couldn't get up. She had lost all feeling in her legs. They wouldn't move.

Her husband had to come to the office and pick her up in his arms and carry her to the hospital. After six days in the hospital, the doctor gave this beautiful, active young lady the dreadful news. She had Multiple Sclerosis and she would continue to deteriorate.

This young couple, who had now been married only 18 months - who loved to go everywhere together and do everything together - would now face some new challenges. All their future plans would change, everyday life would change. They would change.

For the next 30 years, this young lady did deteriorate. She had to take steroids (not the kind athletes use, but anti-inflammatory steroids). Her bones became brittle, breaking easily. Her face became puffy and bloated and she could not even put on make-up. Her body was a mess. She went from a walker, to an electric scooter, to a wheelchair. She could no longer feed herself, write her name, or control her own bodily functions. She now had to have someone stay with her 24 hours a day.

If that couple had not had the kind of committed love that's based first on a personal relationship and a commitment to Jesus Christ and second, on a love that's based on a commitment to each other, the marriage never would have lasted. In fact, a large percentage of the marriages where a spouse has MS, the other spouse leaves them. The other spouse won't stay committed to the constant care and the continual physical, psychological and mental changes that continue to occur.

Please hear me carefully - those two people are not heroes. They are not super-saints or super-Christians. They will be the first to tell you that they are not super Christians. Those two people are normal, ordinary people, empowered by the Love of God and a love for each other, to do what the world considers beyond normal and extraordinary.

I know this for a fact - because that woman, that beautiful young lady who will never walk again, who can't even feed herself, is Lynda Langerfeld - my wife. She's not a hero. I'm not a hero. We're children of God, doing what the children of God are supposed to do. Doing what His children are called to do. Doing what God expects of every man and every woman who make a vow before God on their wedding day.

Often, Hollywood will portray a "hero" sacrificing his life for his "heroine" in a film. In the world's eyes, he's a hero. In God's eyes, he's an ordinary man making an extraordinary sacrifice that every Christian who's committed to his spouse ought to make. Sacrificial, Committed Love is the rule, not the exception. We're not super-saints, we're not heroes when we're being faithful and committed to our mates. We're doing what God has called every husband and wife to do since the beginning of time.

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Celebrating America’s Military
Unknown Soldier
Roger J. Robicheau
poeticplumber@hotmail.com
Any Soldier
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You need not ever know my name
This unknown soldier seeks no fame

I'm here to bring out thought from you
May your heart see more than your view

America, we marched with pride
We gave our life, for you we died

How well we knew the time might come
When life could sound that final drum

Please think of us as life moves on
We tried so hard till that last dawn

Do let our spirit fill the land
Pass treasured freedom, hand to hand

God blessed this country with such love
Hold in your heart, abundance of

And when you stand before my grave
Think not of one, but each who gave

**Please visit the following sites to hear Roger's music supporting our troops
Give to the Troops
Give to the Troops Gallery

God Bless You All,

Roger

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Political Views
IF IT WALKS LIKE A DUCK:
AMNESTY INTERNATIONAL,
THE INTERNATIONAL RED CROSS AND AMERICA’S PRONOUNCED WADDLE
Lonnie Hodges
santini47@yahoo.com
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I am an ardent supporter of the American Red Cross. They helped me and my family as a young soldier and I have never forgotten their kindness. The American Red Cross continues to work hand-in-hand with military bases worldwide to provide social, recreational and financial comfort to U.S. troops. That is in addition to the masterful humanitarian work that has aided disaster and tragedy victims from every country for decades (A mere 140 year history,) and their ongoing preventative medical interventions among other things.

The American Red Cross and the International Red Cross, though joined at the hip in many ways, are two distinct organizations: The former is funded by you, and please do not ever stop, and the latter is endowed by governments around the world. The U.S. is a huge contributor, but if the Republicans have their way the IRC may be passing the hat to more open contributors.

A Republican led Senatorial group recently wrote an article that is getting plenty of media attention. It chides the IRC for not advancing U.S. interests. I haven’t read their charter, but I am pretty confident that the IRC did not pattern it after the U.S. constitution.

I am waiting for Bush to deploy troops to Switzerland, The U.N., and the IRC to arrest mobsters like Koffi Annan, hold them like our other "ghost detainees," and wait for the U.S. Supreme Court to come back from some overseas junket to get the O.K. from Bush to deny them a trial. Then we will take over administration of their groups until democratic elections can be held. Rumsfeld and Bolton will, of course, be appointed interim Goodwill ambassadors.

These humanitarian organizations have, in varying degrees, pointed fingers at the U.S.: mainly for its handling of enemy combatants, suspected terrorists and U.S. detainees--as well as for allegations of abuses of civil rights under the Patriot Act.

The U.S. is the world's largest per-capita jailer, its third biggest executioner (four countries account for 84% of the world's executions,) and it elected a President from America's execution capital. The U.S. now allows the FBI to snatch and grab bookstore and library patron files, posts spy cameras in poor neighborhoods, allows surveillance in churches (penance takes on a whole new meaning for Catholics) so, it should be scrutinized. And America needs to be held accountable for atrocities at Guantanamo and Abu Ghraib, as we would demand that any other country be held responsible (if we bombed an aspirin factory while the President was getting pleasured sexually, who knows what we would do?) for similar abuses of American citizens.

It may be one of us one day who needs the attention of the IRC, or Amnesty International, or who prays to be rescued by one of the U.N.’s big black helicopters should we be detained in a country hostile to an American agenda--and sadly that list is growing so fast that a newcomer to Sesame Street can count our remaining supporters. The IRC should not be thwarted in its efforts to gain access to the any of the world's prisons, in an effort to prevent torture and ensure basic human rights, and especially not for their refusal to yield to one country's current political leanings.

The ARC and the IRC are wonderful organizations. They are usually left to clean up the bloody messes left by a small minority of fanatics and the knee jerk results of political feuds—even America’s incursions. They strive to protect the people injured by disasters and war, the people ordered into conflicts and the families that love them—be they Muslim, Jew, Hindu, Christian, Humanist or even Republican.

In my view the IRC is fighting for the ideals we once claimed we supported and they are doing it with investigation, publication, kindness, and truth, as they see it: these are lethal weapons that eventually will tear down the walls of hatred abuse, and oppression. We don’t have a military big enough to fight that battle. We should be grateful these organizations exist.

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Choosing Joy
Don't Miss A Moment
Joseph J. Mazzella
joecool@wirefire.com
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I am truly amazed at how rapidly this year seems to be going by. It seems like only yesterday it was Christmastime and now we are already headed for June. I think this may be a good sign, though. They say that time flies when you are having fun. I am sure then that time flies even faster when you are choosing love and sharing joy.

I am becoming aware, however, at just how short even the longest life here on Earth is. I see children swinging at my son’s school and I can remember when I attended that same school and swung on those same swings. I give my son and daughter a hug and notice that they are almost as tall as me now. I can remember, though, when I could hold them in the crook of one arm while I rocked them to sleep. I mow the lawn near the graveyard by my home and remember all of my loved ones who have passed. Then I realize that my body too will one day be resting under a headstone and that my time on this wonderful world will be over as well.

I am doing my best then not to miss a moment of this glorious life I have been given and I urge you not to miss a moment of yours either. Enjoy every day that God in His love has given you on this world. Take the time to pet your dogs before you put on their leashes for a walk. Take a second to smell that baby’s hair when you hold her in your arms. Take a moment to sneak a kiss when you bump into your dear one in the kitchen. Take a little while to watch the sun go down and the moon rise up. Take a hour to walk among the trees and flowers and feel God’s gentle, loving breezes on your face. Take a minute to call your Mom, Dad, Grandma, Grandpa, Aunt, or Uncle and tell them that you love them. Take the time to write an inspiring letter or say an encouraging word to a friend. Take all of the precious days of your life and use them to bring more joy, love, and oneness with God to this world. Life is short. Don’t miss a moment of it.

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Interview With Bill Walker
Tinker & Poo, The Boys Write
Teri Wilber
Missyt6597@aol.com
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All of the Dollies have been working diligently for, "Tinker & Poo, the Boys Write". It has been a conglomerate effort to find questions that we hope will give you a better understanding into Bill Walker and his boys! I feel certain if you have questions of your own Bill would be more than happy to answer them. wildbill6807@yahoo.com

Dollie When did you first purchase a computer and why?....
Bill Walker I had thought and wondered for some time about why would anyone have a use for such. Then I got to watching others use one, one day I just had to have one, that was about 7 years ago. The why, well I figured there was a chance I might learn something. You see I have little in way of school housin. I have learned a little.

Dollie At what age did you begin writing?....
Bill Walker This came about when I was 70

Dollie What was it that inspired you to write?....
Bill Walker A lady who became the first Dollie, name of Lynelle Dawson asked if I ever, or was I a writer.

Dollie How did you develop this "story teller" writing style?....
Bill Walker I think it is the way I talk. I talk to myself as I write. I never do anything like an out line of where the story is going. Someone says something, or I see something, or I think of something in the past, I just take off on it.

Dollie It has been said that your writing style is much like the late Will Rogers and Frank Tolbert. Are you familiar with either of their writing styles?....
Bill Walker I have always liked what Will Rogers said. I think of him as just a common person who said what was on his mind. He used common words. He had a way of telling things. Just keep it simple, people will get the point. The other fellow I have heard of him, I guess he was much on the same style.

Dollie I understand that you are published in many e-zines. Could you tell others how you found them, or did they find you?....
Bill Walker I don't know who found who. Some kind hearted lady that has HWS put up with me to get the show going. That would be Dollie Wilber, she I guess is Dollie number two. Her name changes from time to time. Pet names that is, Princess to Witch. Just depends on how hard she is on me about my grammar.

Dollie You mention Rosie's in many of your stories. Tell us more about Rosie's.....
Bill Walker Rose is a lady that worked in this taveran, she waited tables in the evening. She works in a Jewerly store in Lincoln making and repair of jewerly. Quite good at it. She took second prize in a 4 state contest while back. That not bad when you think of what and now many was in the contest.

Dollie Have you lived in Beatrice most of your life? Have you gotten support from your neighbors?....
Bill Walker Somewhat yes. I have to say, there seems to be some that likes to read what I have, while I think it is normal to have others say, trash it. He is a nobody.

Dollie You are always talking about Dollie's you must have a list long of Dollies. We seldom hear you mention men friends. Do you have men friends you pal around with?....
Bill Walker Well about Dollies, these are just ladies that write to me from time to time. If they allow it they will become a Dollie. I think every girl, lady, should be a Dollie to someone. Men, well yes I have a few of those. Dollies are more fun. Something always going on, those is happy or jumping about something I said or didn't say, but they read between the lines.

Dollie Where did this concept of Tinker and Poo, 2 dogs as writers originate?...
Bill Walker I don't know now just how it came to my mind. I watched those two, got to thinking about what they did, and how they might think about something. Got to wondering if they laid around plotting things up.

Dollie Do you believe they communicated these thoughts to you or is this simply your imagination?
Bill Walker Well I believe it was a little of both. One never knows for sure what anyone thinks, why would I really know what went on in their minds. Again, it was just watch and see what happens. I don't think any animal is dumb, they reason things out. They know enough to get by on.

Dollie Now that Tink & Poo are greeting so many pets at the Rainbow Bridge do you dream about them and come up with this information?....
Bill Walker Dream? Tinker and poo comes to me in a dream from time to time, all the others before has done that. I think anyone will dream about something or someone in the past that is no longer here from time to time. Your mind is a store house of memories. Why wouldn't a couple dogs you dearly loved come back to visit in a dream?

Dollie What can you tell us about this Princess, and will she have her own column?
Bill Walker You mean Little Girl? Well she is a beauty. A normal female, talks a lot. I think as time goes on, yes she just may do a lirrle writing, she tried it out the other day, and I think did very well for first run.

Dollie Living in a rather small town, do you find meeting new friends on the internet has changed you in any way? It is my understanding that you have a number of email friends - are they important to you, and in what way?
Bill Walker We all change thoughts a little over time. The change is slow, so I can't really say. Maybe others might see a little change. Yes I have a number of I guess one would say Internet friends. I have come to know some very fine people. I think we have helped one another with some little problem from time to time. That is what friends are for. I have wrote a story or two based on what one tells me about something. Some I hint at as to who they are, while others I leave no real clue. I think most know of one I write about quite often. Tink and Poo thought she was just grand.

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Reporting from Rainbow Bridge
Tinker & Poo
Special Report,"Our Book is Ready!"
tinkerpoo2000@yahoo.com
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We understand that our little book is ready to be where you can pick up a copy in a few days. In fact it may all ready be so by the time you read this little note. We are told there is a few copies put out as a test to see, if all the things is in order. So If you are one that has an early copy, be sure and see if the publisher got the "I' doted, and the "T" crossed. We wished all could have a first copy, but we hear this is the way it is done. But we are told it is only about a week after the test run, the press will crank up and be rolling, so by the time you read this note the book will be ready.

Now we had thought about putting everyone’s name in this note. Both those that made the book possible, the ones with pets, that is named in the book and so on. There is so many, that has done so much to help in so many different ways. Each has helped in so many ways. Those that wrote in a few words, those that has said a few words, all the most kind thoughts. We could never get all put in. We might miss one, and they would feel left out, and that wouldn't be right.

We will love each and everyone that gets a copy of the book. We hope each finds something to enjoy, and remember us by, that is us or a pet that has lived with them for a short time, and is now here waiting for them to come home. The Home where there is nothing but happy times. Remember each day we have a party here. There is always a home coming party for someone and their pets..

Bye for now. The Gang

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Cheap Therapy
A Lesson in Value
Jim Spence
Smooth0262@aol.com
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One of my hobbies (if you can call it that) is working as an usher at the city's brand new baseball stadium. I get to wear red suspenders and a black derby, escort people to their seats and answer questions about the new stadium - all while watching the game.

As an usher, I get to the stadium two hours before the first pitch to clean my sections and to make sure that everything is in order for our fans; this also means that I'm in the park during batting practice. Because of this, I collect any errant baseballs that find their way into my sections. Then, during the game I hand them out discriminately to various children.

Regardless of what they pay me to work at the park, my greatest reward comes from the wide-eyed innocence of a child when he or she is presented with a real, honest to goodness baseball. Their parents are always most appreciative, and the children seem to be hypnotized by this simple act.

I've made a lot of friends that I'll never meet again, thanks to a few foul balls.

Last night was no different than any other; I found four balls, then gave them away to four young children, watched four sets of small eyes light up, and received thanks from four sets of parents.

At least, last night was no different until the game started; then I got lucky - and I was reminded of the value of a simple act.

Our home team is struggling this year, made up of 18 to 21 year old 'men', in their first year of professional baseball. In the bottom of the first inning we had the bases loaded, and a young man named Grant Richardson, a 20 year old rookie (but, they're all rookies) stepped to the plate. In a game earlier this year, Grant had hit two home runs, the only two of his brief professional career … until last night. With the bases loaded, he sent the first pitch he saw not only over the left field wall, but out of the park entirely, bouncing into the parking lot of a business across the street.

The place went wild … a grand slam home run, the very first grand slam in the brief history of our brand new stadium - and the first grand slam in Grant's career.

As we were all celebrating, two young men of about 14 ran from the park, across the street and found the ball. Smart fellows, or so I thought.

A few minutes later, I saw these same two young men tossing this ball back and forth, and I realized that they had no idea what that ball represented, to the park OR to the young man that hit it.

So I gave these two young men a lesson in economics. I had $28 in my wallet, and I borrowed a $50 bill from one of my co-workers. I walked over to them (cringing as they tossed this memorable ball between them) and offered them $10 for the ball. I was prepared to not only pay them the $78 I had in my pocket but to write them a check for any reasonable amount that they wanted.

Once I said "$10", the young man holding the ball said "sure!!! Can you give us two $5s?"

Ten bucks … I got the ball for ten dollars.

The very first grand slam in the history of our park, and the first career grand slam for one of our young men - and I had the ball.

For a brief moment, I thought of how this ball would look in my basement, where I have quite a bit of sports memorabilia already displayed. I spent the next few innings thinking about how I would build the display case, and what I would have inscribed on the plaque.

But it didn't take me long to realize that, as much as this ball would mean to an avid sports nut like myself, it would mean much more to the young man who hit it.

So at the end of the game (which we won 10 - 0) I made my way down to the home team side where the players were signing autographs for the young fans in the stands and, since I'm an "employee", I walked out onto the field and approached Grant Richardson.

My very first thought upon seeing him up close was "my goodness, he's just a kid"; granted, at 6'3" he was taller than me, but … he was just a kid himself.

As he was signing autographs for his young fans, I held the ball up and said "I think I have something you're looking for". I could tell by the look on his face that he thought I was merely seeking his autograph, and he continued to sign the various articles thrust in front of his face.

When I realized that he had no idea what I held, I said "the kids that had it didn't realize how valuable it was, so I bought it from them."

And that's when he realized what I was holding. He suddenly stopped signing autographs, and his eyes got wide - as wide as any four year old's eyes would get when receiving a real, honest to goodness baseball. He was speechless. His first grand slam, and here was the ball.

I handed him the ball and smiled. I stuck out my hand to shake his, but he didn't extend his hand; no, he didn't shake my hand - instead, he gave me a bat. And not just any bat, mind you. He gave me the bat that delivered that ball out of the park.

Apparently professional baseball players hold a ball in higher regard than they do a bat. He had the ball; he didn't need the bat.

I asked him if he'd autograph the bat, which he was most happy to do. And then, he stuck out his hand to shake mine, and to smile down at me one more time, and that's when I saw the gleam in his eyes.

I wonder what that crowd thought; two adult males, standing in a sea of children, both with tears in their eyes.

don't think I've ever heard the words "thank you" said with more meaning or more sincerity in my life. I patted Grant on the shoulder, offered him a few simple words of encouragement and walked away with my bat.

So now I sit here and think about the display case that I'm going to build for my bat, and the words that I'll have inscribed on the plaque.

And I think about the two young men who found that ball, and didn't realize the value of what they had.

Someday they will.

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Look What Love Has Done
Joseph B. Walker
valuespeak@msn.com
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Allison (not her real name) is approaching the end of her first year as a single mom.

As you might expect, it hasn’t been an especially fun year. Countless l

essons have been learned – some pleasantly, some painfully. “I have gained so much respect for the women I’ve known throughout my life who were single moms,” she told me recently. “I just had no idea what they were going through.”

Allison is the first to admit that as hard as the year has been, she has it better than many single moms. Her brother and his wife live nearby, and they have helped a lot with childcare, shared meals and a shoulder upon which to occasionally cry. She has loving, supportive friends who have sustained her. And although her relationship with her ex-husband is understandably strained, they have been able to work together cooperatively for their daughter’s well being. “I don’t know how other single moms do it,” she said. “I have been so blessed.”

Still, she struggles – especially financially. Thankfully, she’s been able to stay gainfully employed, but without a college education or much employment experience, her options are limited – as is her salary range.

Which is why she started nail school.

“My goal is to have my own full-service salon – hair, nails, make-up, that sort of thing,” she said. “So I’m going to start out learning to be a nail technician, then I can use that training to help me earn my way through my hair salon apprenticeship. Then I can go to work and save up enough to open my own business.”

And that will be great – down the road. But for right now, financial survival is a struggle. Nail school tuition and fees pretty much wiped out her meager savings, and class and lab attendance requirements made it so she had to quit her full-time job. She’s working part-time at a convenience store while going to school full-time. Between living expenses, childcare costs and the high price of gasoline to take her from home to school to work, there is barely enough to meet the demand, let alone any additional costs.

Like new nail equipment.

“Our tuition paid for enough stuff to get us through nail school,” Allison said. “But now they’re telling us that to be marketable in the workplace we will need to upgrade our equipment. Like there’s this drill we will need that costs $150. Where am I going to come up with that kind of money? I barely make it through the week as it is.”

Enter Marie (not her real name, either). Marie is one of Allison’s classmates at nail school. Although she is old enough to be Allison’s mother, the two women have become good friends. So Allison didn’t think it unusual when Marie took her aside during a break the other day.

“So, did you get your new drill yet?” Marie asked casually.

Allison laughed a little sarcastically. “Yeah, right,” she said. “When pigs fly!”

“Better get out your umbrella,” Marie replied as she pressed an object into Allison’s hands. “It’s raining bacon.”

Allison looked at the object in her hands. It was the new $150 drill she needed. Overwhelmed, she started to protest, but Marie just held up a hand.

“I was a single mom too, and I know how hard it is,” she said. “I never would have made it without help from caring people. So let me do this for you now. Then someday, when things are better for you, you can pay me back by doing something like this for another single mom.”

Another lesson learned – pleasantly. Or at least, as pleasantly as possible when it’s raining bacon.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Tales Out of School
Tell Him Now
Vance Agee
vgagee@adelphia.net
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

“If the experiences of life do not cause you to cry, you have not been alive.” VA

That summer morning in 1961, my mom said to me at 16 years of age, “You know, you were the apple of his eye.” It hit me, and I did cry, for about an hour. I had never ever told him! *************** From eight, I grew up in Buffalo at 65 Monticello Place, near Sisters’ Hospital, where I had been born. My dad was from central Tennessee—hence, our unusual names—I was a “junior”—I always disliked my name—until recent years. My dad? Well, he and mom had me late in life. He had high blood pressure, smoked “Lucky Strikes”—“LSMFT” (remember or ask!), and ate fatty food. The doctor warned him, but the cigarettes and fried eggs and candy and sports on the radio were the only things that made his life “ok”. When he left the South, he left all the advantages of family. He worked in maintenance at Universal Engraving Company in Buffalo. He was very smart, but had completed only the eighth grade. In the evening, we would often play board games, just he and I. He knew that I loved science (actually all learning—only school spoiled that!!!) I hated, despised school (are you surprised?), with it’s dumb questions at the end of the chapter (I knew the answers). I would fake illnesses and often miss 30 days a year and still do well with no difficulty. But back to dad... My dad decided that, unlike his boyhood, I would have some money. Each pay day, he would lay out that tiny pile of $50.00 cash for the week ahead, and there would be my eventual $2.50! A kid’s fortune! I saved for the largest chemistry set, a good microscope, two telescopes, and plenty of books. I also sent to store and bought my first 22 rifle in the mail! My dad taught me how to shoot and how to ride a bike. Also, each and every Sunday, he took me to the Museum of Science, a beautiful walk though the old Humboldt Parkway. He and mom also enrolled me in a Christian school at grade 5, Martin Luther School. Whenever we had a bad storm, we would all assemble in the first floor of our two family house, in which we rented the second floor from my grandparents, George and Charlotte Gaiser (German side of the gene pool), who also rented a room to my friend and bachelor uncle, Dave Gaiser. My dad would tell us stories of the old Agee family and its founder, Mathieu Agee, who came from France via Denmark in 1690 to settle on a Plantation in Virginia. He told us about my Agee grandfather, a southern preacher-farmer, and his dad, also a southern preacher-farmer. He told us about huge tornadoes and about straws driven through trees. This was true adventure, as the lightening flashed and the rain filled the Buffalo streets, and the lights flickered. Dad and mom argued all the time. In those days, one did not divorce, just argue. Since my mom was also a huge influence on me, she won over my sympathy. As the years went on, “Daddy” became less important to me—I thought! Actually, he never really became “Dad”, just the memory of the Daddy, who held me for photos, who taught me how to shoot, who played board games with me, who gave me his best! He worked a plain hard dirty job five days a week for mom and me. I recall well the school year 1961, when I was a sophomore at the then very academically tough Buffalo, NY Bennett High School. That marking period, the son of a simple maintenance man scored a GPA of 99.0 %, number one on the honor roll out of 2000 students! I remember the applause on the Bennett stage. Wes Johns from the old Courier Express Buffalo newspaper called me downtown for an article: the “All High Honor Role”—I was in the paper! Wes liked my attitude and placed me first in his article, because I gave God and generous teachers as much credit as hard work—or more. My dad was proud. He was proud with all the guys at work. I was not the son of one of the doctor or lawyer or business parents, but of a common working man. That is America! He was proud. But dad was not to attend my graduation, to see his son valedictorian, 1/400 in the Class of 1963, for that summer, my dad died from a massive stroke. Yes, I was, as mom said, the “apple of his eye”, but I never ever told him that I loved him. I was just a “know-it-all” smart, rude teen. I cried for a long time. Now I know. *************** Now I can only pray that he knows that I love him. Tell your dad, now!

Call, visit, travel, do whatever you must, but tell him now. Tell him now!

Dad.

P.S. *Moms: whatever your relationship to your children’s dad, do not let this go by, or you will hurt them forever. Even the most imperfect guy among us needs to hear: “Dad, I love you”, the only true Fathers’ Day gift.

Dad, thanks for everything, and I do love you. Vance

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
The High Lonesome
Kathleene S. Baker
LnStrLady@aol.com
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The High Lonesome deer lease sprawls across the rolling hills of West Texas. This is 5000 acres of untouched land that teems with wildlife, wildflowers, and unsurpassed nighttime skies of ebony, abundant with stars of shimmering silver.

It’s a paradise made for the male species whether they are there to hunt, or for a few days of male bonding. Some members are serious hunters, while others come to socialize in the wide-open spaces and enjoy nature at its finest.

The High Lonesome is so remote there is no TV, no phone service, not even a cell phone signal unless you drive miles into the high country, and even then there is no guarantee.

In the midst of all this beauty sits “the shack.” Yes, it is home away from home with all the necessities. Nonetheless, the name fits! A total of 10 bunk beds line three walls; there is a small bath, and the remainder of space is kitchen and eating area. The dining table is a large handcrafted picnic table. Seating is an assortment of mismatched desk chairs that swivel and roll. Most were purchased for a song at thrift shops, flea markets, or possibly pulled out of Dempsey dumpsters. Gazing at the ceiling, one is in awe of the decorative, exposed insulation hanging in disarray. It brings to mind the folds of a flag as it waves in a breeze.

When “doe season” is over, hunting ceases until fall. Larry, and Joe (a.k.a. “Locksmith”) couldn’t pass up one last trip, even though the weather forecast was horrid. January in Texas can be as wretched as any part of the country.

The first evening they shared a stand named Motel 6. Yes, these men name their deer stands! (Oh, Motel 6 leaves entirely too much to one’s imagination.) There they sat listening to one another’s teeth chatter and bones rattle as they shivered beneath layers of insulated clothing. A number of wild hogs from the out-of-control population were removed, but they returned to “the shack” without a doe. After thawing in hot showers, they opened the door to 20-degree temperatures, did half-gainers into their sleeping bags, and were snoring like buzz saws by 8:00 p.m. They claim to have slept like babies with the pristine frigid air blowing a gale through their sleeping quarters, while ice crystals formed in their nasal passages. Luckily, the local mountain lions didn’t wander through the open door in the middle of the night.

Each morning would find them planted in a different deer stand; some stands being ground level, while others are perched in trees. One can only envision tree houses for “big boys” to play in! After sitting perfectly still for long periods of time, they would then moan and groan as they slowly crawled back into the Bubba Jeep, and returned to “the shack” for a hearty breakfast. The evening routine is pretty much identical, with the added thrill of playing “musical deer stands.” If the morning stand brought no luck, then a change would definitely be in order. And, it seems all deer stands are not equal when it comes to comfort. Some are not well built, with wind blowing through cracks and crevices, and chairs that could destroy the strongest of backs. Others, such as ones built by Larry, are airtight and constructed to last a lifetime or two; all they lack is a commode in the corner. Some stands are built for two occupants, while others are one-man stands. Rotating from one stand to another seems to be how it’s done in the Texas wilderness, by these great white hunters.

Two days into the trip weather conditions improved, although the hunting didn’t. Still, everyone enjoyed telling tall tales, eating enormous meals, playing poker, and simply doing inexplicable “guy things.”

The last evening Joe was dropped off at Jake’s Valley deer stand, which sits 15 feet high in a tree. Larry headed off to Boucher’s Tripod. An approximate time was set for Larry to return and pick up Joe.

When that time arrived, Larry pulled up to see Joe frantically waving his flashlight out the window of the stand and shouting, “I’m locked in and I’ve got to get out of here now! Mother Nature is calling and I can’t wait any longer! I didn’t think you were ever gonna show up.”

Larry could barely answer as he gazed upon Joe’s panic-stricken face. Through his laughter he yelled, “Don’t you see the white string by the door? Just pull on it! It really doesn’t require a locksmith to get out of there!”

Joe spun around, spied the string, gave it a yank, and the door magically flew open. “None of the other stands have locks like this, and I didn’t see that stupid string. What idiot built this thing anyway?” He was nearly airborne as he scrambled down the steps and sprinted to Bubba Jeep. “Drive fast, Larry! I’m not jokin’…”

Away they went, but within seconds Joe had broken into a cold sweat. Larry was driving like a lunatic over the rocky terrain, and the old Bubba was clangin’ and bangin’ like a bucket of nuts and bolts. “Stop this thing right now – my time is up!” Joe stammered. He launched himself out of Bubba before they even came to a full stop. The last thing Larry saw was Joe heading into some scrubby brush, while removing layer after layer of clothing. His outer coat went one way, and within a few steps a lighter weight jacket was tossed the other direction; then a sweatshirt went soaring into the air and landed in some bushes. As he vanished from sight, Larry could see him struggling with the straps on his overalls………

Once Larry regained control and dried his eyes, he realized Joe had one more problem. He reached into the back of Bubba, grabbed a 5 pound coffee can, and followed the trail of clothing. When he finally spotted the top of Joe’s head, he hurled the can that direction and hollered, “You’re probably gonna need this!” The can whizzed by Joe’s ear nearly scaring him to death in the dark underbrush, as well as almost making him lose his balance! “Oh, son-of-a-gun, Larry! Can’t a man have a little privacy? This is no time to be throwing stuff at me, and it darn near smacked me in the head. What the…what…er…a coffee can? Are you crazy or something?”

“Just relax and pipe down! I keep a roll of toilet paper in that coffee can so I’m always prepared. Figured you could use it about now,” snickered Larry as tears ran down his cheeks yet again.

Finally they were headed back to “the shack” with Joe begging Larry not to tell the others about his “lock” dilemma. He knew he’d never hear the end of it once he was exposed, and this group of fellas would be relentless. After miles of bantering, begging, and plea-bargaining, Larry finally promised to keep his mouth shut.

All seemed to be going well once they rejoined the group at “the shack.” The conversation drifted from one subject to another, and Joe was finally convinced that Larry truly was going to keep his word. He breathed a huge sigh of relief as he entered the bathroom to shower. He had just stepped under the soothing warm water when he heard a deafening explosion of laughter that would rattle the rafters. He’d been had, and had bad! Joe could hear the smart remarks through the paper-thin walls and wanted to simply vanish; but there wasn’t even a window to use as an escape route. In a matter of hours he’d gone from being locked in a deer stand, to being trapped in the john.

At last report Joe and Larry, who happen to be brothers-in-law, were still on speaking terms. Little more needs to be said, except the deer lease gang seems to have a passion for nicknames, and Joe returned home with a new one. He’s now known as The High Lonesome “Locksmith!”

Footnote: This is a true story, although names have been changed to protect “Locksmith” from further embarrassment!

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
The Funny Farm Meets Tinker & Poo
Jan Price
mercyandpercy@yahoo.com
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Percy finds an interesting web site while reading Jan’s email. "Hey, Buddy," he calls, "Merci, come here! You won’t believe what I found."

Buddy races into the room, yelling, "It it’s edible, it’s mine!"

Merci walks carefully into the room behind Buddy, who has nearly knocked her down in his haste to reach Percy.

Percy is so excited he can barely sit still in Jan’s chair at the computer. "Look at this."

Merci stands with her paws on the desk to see the web page displayed on the monitor screen. Buddy rests his head on the desk and reads the encouraging messages on for The Boys Write by Bill Walker. "The boys write what? And who cares?" "We care!" Percy exclaims. "Especially you, Buddy. You have been driving us all crazy trying to come up with a scheme to make money so Jan can afford to keep you. This is it!"

Buddy is perplexed.. "What is it? I don’t get it."

"The boys," Percy says slowly and deliberately, "are named Tinker and Poo. They’re dogs. You know, dogs, like you and Merci. Dogs that wrote a book that is being published." Buddy’s face is still blank. "For money," Percy adds.

"Oh," Buddy begins to see Percy’s point, "you mean they write, just like the Funny Farm

Writing Club members do, only they’re going to make money on their stories. Let’s see, if their stories sell for $100 each, they’ll make - How many stories are in the book, Percy? Never mind, it doesn’t matter. If I could sell just one story at that price, that should feed me at least one day. Jan will have to keep me if I can pay my own way."

"I don’t think that’s how it works with a book," Percy says. "I think people pay a one-time fee to read the book. The club has seven official members and one honorary member. If the seven members write one story per week, we could put out a new book each week, but at the rate you eat, you would only have grocery money for three of the seven days. You’d have to moonlight to make meals meet."

Merci scrolls down the page. "Wait a minute. There’s no price listed for the book. Don’t get your hopes up. What if the stories are only worth a dollar each? That wouldn’t keep you in water for the day."

Cameron leaps onto the desk and joins the discussion. "I heard the club mentioned. Are we going to write another story for Jan? If so, as the club Treasurer, I must warn you that you’ll have to pay your dues first. You’re all in arrears."

"Forget the dues. We’re going to help Buddy," Merci tells him. "That is, if all the members agree."

Percy calls the other cats into the room. "Crystal. Cotton. Cyndi."

They all groan when they learn the topic. "You mean we work and Buddy eats?" Crystal gripes.

"Stop complaining," Percy insists. "Buddy is family."

"I’ve been reading some of their stories while you guys were talking," Merci says, thoughtfully. "They aren’t bad. Not as good as ours, of course, but then we learned by Jan’s mistakes, so we had a prolific teacher. This Bill probably didn’t make as many mistakes for Tinker and Poo to learn from After all, Bill didn’t start writing until he was seventy years old. By that time he must have been all out of mistakes. Maybe we can do something to help these guys."

Percy is triumphant. "I knew the club would want to help! We four-pawed writers have to stick together."

"So what do we do?" Buddy asks.

"I found the link in something called Hearts With Soul Newsletter. It’s from someone named Teri who wants folks to post a message onHeartsWithSoul about the book. And Tinker and Poo have some sample stories posted there."

"What do we say?" Cotton wants to know.

Cyndi suggests, "I think we should say we’re proud to share a writing heritage with these guys. Who are they again?"

"Tinker and Poo," Percy reminds the club. "Teri wants us to write about whether we enjoyed the sample stories and whether we would buy the book. I think we should offer to buy seven books, one for each of the club members, to help further the canine/feline writing cause. Jenny’s blind, so it wouldn’t do any good to buy her a copy, but we can read the stories to her."

"But we don’t have any money," Buddy protests.

Cameron begins to laugh so hard he rolls off the desk. "I knew it! I knew the day would come when you guys would regret not paying your club dues."

Crystal sighs. "I hate to admit it but Cameron is right. We should have paid our dues."

"How are we going to buy seven books without a treasury?" Cyndi wants to know.

"That’s easy," Buddy interjects. "We’ll just use Jan’s credit card."

"Jan doesn’t have a credit card," Merci reminds him sadly.

Percy sags in Jan’s chair momentarily before coming up with a solution. "I know. The Funny Farm Writing Club will apply for its own credit card. And when we get it, we can buy Jan a copy of the book too."

"All in favor?" Cotton asks.

Crystal nudges her hard. "I’m the President of the club. I’ll take the vote, thank you." He looks around at the club members. "All in favor?"

"Aye," the club responds in unison.

"Motion carried," Crystal says happily. "So where do we get a credit card application?"

Percy whips a stack of papers out from under the keyboard. "I’m glad you asked. I just happen to have one handy."

Note to self, Percy: Email Bill our thanks for sending the photo Cherlyn used to design the book cover for The Boys Write. Her site has music and so many graphics that I typed the entire meeting minutes while waiting for her home page Itscherlyn to load. Now, that’s cooperation!

Percy,

Secretary of the Funny Farm Writing Club

email mercyandpercy@yahoo.com

To read more of the Funny Farm stories visit Jan's Funny Farm

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Where Angels Walk
Lynn Fullman
joan@joanwanderson.com
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Members of the Methodist church had long ago outgrown their meeting spaces and had been holding Sunday morning classes in the choir loft and in corners of the sanctuary. Badly in need of more room, the membership worked to raise enough money for an education building. But, once the money was together, a spate of several rainstorms delayed the project.

The morning when the concrete floor was scheduled to be poured, Pastor Kenneth Bishop was up at 5 a.m. The sky was filled with dark clouds.

``Not today,'' he thought. Bishop knew that once he ordered the concrete to be poured, he was committed. If it rained on the concrete before it had had time to dry, it would be ruined. And once ordered, the concrete would have to be paid for. If the cost of the concrete and the crew was wasted, the tiny church's dream of a new building might never come true. Or, at best, it would be delayed until members could raise more money. Bishop couldn’t take a chance. Disappointed to see the project delayed, he called the contractor and postponed everything until a better day.

However, an hour later, the dark clouds had passed and it looked as though the weather was improving. Bishop made a difficult decision - he called the contractor again. This time, he gave the go-ahead.

An hour and half after ordering the concrete to be sent, the minister went to the church to wait for the workers. But, by then, the sky had turned dark again and rains threatened.

Bishop's heart was heavy and his eyes filled with tears as he looked first at the building site and back to the road to watch for the concrete trucks and the workers. As clouds swirled overhead, Bishop walked to the center of the site, and knelt to pray.

``Don't let it rain today, Lord,'' he asked.

Then he remembered the farmers in this rural community. Rain here had been scarce until recently. As badly as he didn't need another storm, they did. Bishop changed his prayer. ``Lord,'' he asked, ``just don't let it rain right here.''

Within a few minutes, the crews arrived. Readying the earth for the concrete to be poured went smoothly as clouds swirled overhead.

noon, with the skies clear and several hours of work left to do, the workers left for lunch in their trucks.

Bishop was the first one to see them returning, almost in a panic. “What’s the matter?” he called, as the first of the trucks skidded up to him.

“Rain! All around us!” the driver yelled. A second truck pulled up. “It’s pounding so hard that we can’t get out of our trucks!” this driver reported.

Bishop saw no rain. But if storms were on their way, the work would have to progress as fast as possible. The other trucks returned, and the men skipped lunch, working tirelessly, running to finish before the downpour inched closer.

Hours passed. Dark clouds hovered, and the smell of rain filled the air. To the east and to the west, storms pelted the earth.

Perhaps it was angelic intervention, perhaps just a hug from heaven. But, on the site where concrete was smoothed and waiting to cure, where a faithful man had prayed for a miracle, the rains never fell.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Missouri Sage
The Wonderful Fourth of July
Bill Walker
wildbill6897@yahoo.com
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A day in history, so long ago. A day that is a national holiday. A day to remember then, now and forever. A day when men brave enough to put their lives, money and everything on the line to say, "King George go home."

We read much about those men that did so, but let us think about many others today. What about the ones who stood up on the front lines with a gun in hand and really put the teeth in the action? Not only the men, we read where there was women also. There was people of all walks of life that said, "King George go home." These were just the little common people, the store keeper, the farmer, the worker, just the little people of the land.

All through history we read much about the leaders or wind bags that do so much. It takes the little people to move the wagon. Without them nothing moves. I am not taking nothing away from the ones that put their name on the paper. What I am saying, there would have been no reason to risk putting name on paper if the little people was not fed up, and ready to take action. A leader of any kind looks to see which way the wind is blowing. Look at your political people of today, same then as now.

Now I think we should also remember another thing about the Fourth of July. We have fought many a war, in many places on this earth to keep the Fourth of July. Freedom is never total free, every so often free people has to go to war to stay free. We seen that in the past century twice. Two World Wars. Both times a major power was thinking about turn off the lights all over the world. The last one was three powers was at it very hard. Most people don't know it, but this nation was to be split between German and Japan. German was to take to the Mississippi east, Japan to the west. Well laid plans of mice and men sometimes just don't happen. Someone forgot to tell those people Freedom is the name of the game, and we will fight tooth and nail to keep it.

So this Fourth. Thank the soldiers, sailors, and all men of the armed for ices of now, past and in the coming days for your Freedom. Them, not the political people made you free and keep you free.

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The Purple Heart
Roger Dean Kiser, Sr
trampolineone@webtv.net
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

I decided to go to the Goodwill Store while my wife was next door, at the local Pharmacy.

While I was growing up I lived on the streets for many years, and had to depend upon clothes and shoes from such places. I swore that I would never purchase anything from those types of stores again. That day, for some strange reason, I broke my rule.

Walking around, I looked at all the racks of worn shoes, faded pants and shirts; all lined against the wall in the same way as it was forty-five years ago. It brought back many painful memories for me to enter such a place.

I stopped at a table with a small cardboard box and a tray of old tarnished silver-ware. It was the contents of the small container that caught my attention. I fumbled through the box of military medals, and was surprised to find a Purple Heart.

I had never seen one before. I picked up the medal and I stared at it, wondering what brave soldier had received this honor, and if he, or she, was still alive. I could not believe that anyone would discard such a precious item.

I placed it back into to the tray and continued through the store. No matter how hard I tried, I just could not get that darn medal out of my mind.

I walked up to the front of the store and asked the woman how much the medals cost.

"Twenty-five cents, each," she replied, with a smile.

"Why would anyone throw away something like that?"

"Maybe it belonged to someone who died, and when their estate was sold at auction the medal no longer had a value," she shrugged with little interest.

I immediately returned to the back of the store and retrieved the Purple Heart. Without a word, I purchased it for a quarter and I walked out to my truck, where I waited for my wife.

When she finally joined me she asked me if I had found anything of value.

"As a matter of fact, I did. I found something that was priceless, and I purchased it for only a quarter," I replied.

When we arrived home, I cleaned up the medal and its ribbon as best I could. Then I wrapped it in a small American Flag and I buried it with honor, along with a copy of the Bill of Rights, which I had kept from my junior high school days.

I no longer hold myself to that rule that I made many years ago. Unfortunately, there are many priceless items that can be found in the local Goodwill Store.

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Lea's Love Laundry
"Payback Is Alway Good" Part II
Lea Taylor
jaylasmomma2@yahoo.com
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Sara's husband, Mark is 32 years old and still hasn't gotten his act together. His brother, Jake is a couple years younger than him. Sara feels so alone even though she is married and has a 6 year old son that is not Mark's child and is pregnant with a little girl that she is going to name Renee, who is Mark's child, she hopes.

Everyone has there weak moments in life and Sara is no better than the rest of us. Mark has a bad habit of staying out late and partying until the wee hours of the morning. Well, one night, Jake came by to shoot the breeze with his brother and of course, as usual, Mark wasn't home. Sara decided that would invite Jake in, after all he's family right?

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Garlic Makes it Good
Carol Roach
winterose@videotron.ca
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When I feel each bite of my meal as a body to body hug I think of the pleasure I receive from the sheer warmth of human contact, love and compassion. The 17th century writer/philosopher John Donne once said, “No man is an island, entire of itself.” And for me, no truer words were spoken. Independently I can do a lot in my life in conjunction with others, I can do much more. As the old adage goes, “There is no “I” in the word Team.”

Since this piece is dedicated to food and humanity, let us examine the previous statement in accordance with people and food. One of the quests of a humanitarian society is to feed the hungry of this world. Individually we send our hard earned dollars to underprivileged countries and that is good. But, we do not do it alone. We have a great system put in place.

Very few people know the recipients of their generous donations personally. For the most part, their efforts are combined with those of many likeminded individuals who pool their resources, time, and effort into a large organization or charity dedicated to helping others. These charities are multileveled. The individual sends his heartfelt donations while the administrators direct this money to the people who are to receive it and pay out salaries, and other administration costs.

On the receiving end there are doctors, engineers, social workers, teachers, counselors, ministers, and numerous other staff and service workers dedicated to getting the money out for the purpose it was intended. Some of this money is earmarked for food, and some for education and medical care; which brings me to another old adage, “feed a man a fish, and you will feed his belly for a day, teach a man how to fish and you will feed him for a lifetime.” The work of any one individual could never accomplish this feat, and the help of every individual is necessary for the success of the project in whatever capacity he or she can offer.

When I return to my meal and the warmth from the hugs of humanity, I think of yet another adage “All we need is a melting pot.” The melting pot theory was conceived to wipe out racism and I don’t personally agree with it. Not because I believe racism is good because I will never believe that! But because on the surface, the idea sounds so wonderful, but when we dig deeper there are some serious flaws. When I envision a melting pot I see a chocolate fondue. The chocolate is rich and bubbly. It smells heavenly and tastes warm, smooth, decadent.

I certainly can over do it with chocolate. When I start, I cannot stop, but you know what, there is a point that I have to stop. My throat seizes up. It will not allow me to down this wonderful food. My belly starts to ache and I feel sick. Yes, sick of chocolate. As a child I never thought I would ever say those words, let alone even think them. But there comes a time when I have eaten too much chocolate and this heavenly food leaves distaste in my mouth. It is no longer sweet, rich, and decadent to my palate. It becomes bland, heavy, lifeless, and useless.

The melting pot theory to me is the same. While everyone is trying to be just like everyone else, we loose the richness in our diversity as humans. We lose our cultural identities; we lose the beauty of what makes us unique, we dispel what brings richness and wonder, excitement, and joy to the tapestry of human existence.

Instead of the melting pot theory to overcome racism, I choose to adhere to the salad bowl theory. To make a good salad you must have a variety of ingredients, a variety of flavours, and tastes. Can you imagine a salad consisting only of lettuce and you ate it every day of your life? I would say with conviction that mealtimes would be very boring, just as I say with conviction that life would be boring as well.

To my way of thinking, a salad must be a celebration of flavour, always tempting, sometimes predicable, sometimes mysterious, but never the same. Let us start with the basic ingredient of most salads; lettuce. Let us look at lettuce as the dominant culture of any society; necessary, important, the building block and foundation of any great nation.

In terms of architectural design if you walk the great cities and towns of your country do find that every edifice looks exactly the same? I would hope not. Imagine if every house on every street looked exactly alike and every shop and every office tower looked exactly alike, and finally every restaurant and place of worship looked exactly alike – that to me would be dismal. Such as we have variety in our architecture, we have variety in our food and variety within the people we encounter everyday of our lives.

I will end this piece today with the words I began with.

When I feel each bite of my meal as a body to body hug I think of the pleasure I receive from the sheer warmth of human contact, love and compassion.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Faith For Healing
Donald Lee
donjlee@bellsouth.net
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

If you’re believing God for supernatural healing in your body, or if you’ve accepted the doctors’ fallible wisdom that says funeral arrangements are in order based on the particular illness or disease you’ve been diagnosed with, this week’s message is definitely for you.

It’s taken verbatim from a recent message shared by 52-year-old Dr. Lynn Morrison Jr., my pastor and father in the gospel, a Word of Faith prophet in Baton Rouge, La.: I know people have challenges, and I’m just trying to bring some reality here so that people can get to thinking. I know people have challenges in their bodies, you know?

And then as people get older and things start rising up in their bodies, they want to say, "Rev., c’mon anoint my head, give me some oil, give me some of that holy oil. You got some of that holy, anointed oil? Give me some of that oil. Sling it! Sling it on me, Rev.!!!" And you’re runnin’ a lil’ late. So you better hear this Word today.

And look, I’ll be here. Like I said, I’ll be here until I finish my course. I used to say until I’m 120 ( years old), but I changed my confession because when I finish my course, after I’ve done all God called me to do in this Earth, I might decide to go ( at that time). It’s on me. I might decide to go ahead and go home ( to be with the Lord) or I might decide to wait around a lil’ while. I’ll decide that when I get there. But I’m not leavin’ ahead of schedule. Amen.

I know Religion told you, "You never know who’s next." When I sit in them services and they say that, I say, "In the name of Jesus, I’m not next." They may say ( at a service), "You might walk out of here and a car could run over you." And I’ll say, "Not me. Ain’t no car runnin’ over me." Some people ( unwittingly) agree with that stuff, sayin’, "That’s right, Rev.! Hallelujah! Hallelujah!" I say, "Help ’em, Jesus. They know not what they say."

Go over to Isaiah 53:1 and watch the report of the Lord:

"Who hath believed our report and to whom is the arm of the Lord revealed?" It’s talking about Jesus. ( Verse two and subsequent verses continue) "For he shall grow up before him as a tender plant, and as a root out of a dry ground: he hath no form nor comeliness; and when we shall see him, there is no beauty that we should desire him. He is despised and rejected of men; a man of sorrows, and acquainted with grief: and we hid as it were our faces from him; he was despised, and we esteemed him not.

"Surely he hath borne our griefs ( that’s our sicknesses and pain), and carried our sorrows: yet we did esteem him stricken, smitten of God, and afflicted."

This is a prophecy that Isaiah gave hundreds of years before Jesus came on the scene. ( Reiterating verse four) he said, "Surely he hath borne our griefs, and carried our sorrows: yet we did esteem him stricken, smitten of God, and afflicted."

But, c’mon, church. Look at this now. Think about your own body, your own personal lives here. Now, get out of the Religion ( and) think about when the enemy comes ( to) knock on your door. Remember that "He ( Jesus) was wounded for our transgressions, he was bruised for our iniquities: the chastisement of our peace was upon Him; and with His stripes we are healed," verse five tells us. So that says Isaiah prophesied Jesus was going to take our place, I can have peace in this life, I can be healed in this life, ( and) I don’t have to walk around sickly all the days of my life. Jesus took that for us, right? It was prophesied before He even came on the scene. Remember Isaiah, the one who said, "no weapon formed against thee shall prosper ( Isaiah 54:17)."

So that means, yes, weapons can be formed against you. Yes, your body can go through challenges. Yes, you might have to deal with stuff for a period of time. But ultimately, you shall come out with the victory. I know people die every day. I know people who have died with cancer, tumors, I know babies die, I know all of that. But I know God and I believe God. And I believe He’s big enough to keep me around, like He said. And I trust Him for that.

And I’m never going to come in agreement with the doctors, as far as them telling me I got this and I got that. ( If) they say, "You’ve got high blood pressure," I’ll say, "I believe I’m healed." ( If) they say, "You’ve got diabetes," I’ll say, "I believe I’m healed"; "you’ve got cancer"; "I believe I’m healed."

You don’t be in denial. ( But) as an act of my will, based on the Word of God, I say what the Word says. I’m not in denial concerning the actual challenges and the realities of these things coming against me, but I choose by the act of my will, ( I repeat) to say what the Word says about me, and not what everybody else say.

They say facts, the X-ray tells you what it sees, but I got another report. That’s the faith life. That’s how you walk by faith ( 2nd Corinthians 5:7). Faith is the substance of things hoped for, the evidence of the things you don’t see ( Hebrews 11:1).

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Pam Blaine
pamyblaine@blaines.us
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What are you doing?” I asked Willie as I passed by his house on my way home.

“Awwww I’m just doin’ some porch sittin” he replied as he swung back and forth ever so slightly on his porch swing.

As a child, I would often see Willie out on his porch. He was an older man who still worked hard around his place but he often took time off for some “porch sittin’”.

“I got the radio on and the Cardinals will be playing ball here in a minute if you want to sit a spell,” Willie said as he scooted over on the swing and patted the seat next to him as he adjusted the volume on the radio.

It was summertime and many other scenes such as the one I mention above took place everyday where I grew up. “Porch sittin” was a common activity. Nearly everyone had a porch with a wooden swing that hung down from chains that were held by hooks on the porch ceiling. Most swings held two or three people and if neighbors showed up to sit a spell then more chairs would be brought out from inside the house. The younger folks might sit on the porch steps while children played in the yard or found a tree to climb.

The porch was like an extension of the living room because it was cooler out on the porch when the summer’s heat became uncomfortable. There wasn’t air conditioning so houses were often built so that they were situated where the breeze would waft across the porch and there was a roof that protected porch sitters from the sun and rain. Essentially, all the work that could possibly be done outdoors was transported to the porch where it was cooler and it seemed to make the job more enjoyable just by being outside in nature’s living room.

It seems like a lot of living took place on porches in times past. At least it was that way where I grew up. Seeing a person sitting on their front porch was pretty much the same as an invitation for neighbors to stop by and pass the time of day.

Many people did part of their garden work on their porches. It didn’t matter if it was snapping beans, hulling peas, or peeling apples someone was apt to sit down beside you and give you a hand with the chore.

I remember a lot of visiting, discussions, and even problems solved while snapping green beans. Women learned from one another and often offered help for whatever need that was mentioned. “Try using a little corn starch on that baby’s diaper rash,” a young mother might learn from an older neighbor lady, “And next time you need to work out in the garden, just bring that little one over here and I’ll watch him, I kind of miss having a baby around,” the neighbor might say.

Those were good times when porches were used for many things. Women did needle work or rocked babies, men whittled or fixed things, and children played “pretend”.

Sometimes the porch was used to just get off alone for a time and read, meditate, or just do some thinking…“woolgathering” Momma used to call it.

Even if the sun wasn’t shining, there was nothing quite like the sound of rain on the porch roof. It was such a secure feeling and a perfect time to curl up on the porch swing with a quilt and a good book and listen to the soft pattering of the raindrops.

The summer nights were also very good for “porch sittin”. We made friends with the night sky as we enjoyed God’s creation. As a child I learned about stars and constellations from my parents. I learned how to identify the Big Dipper, the Little Dipper, and then identify the North Star and the Milky Way.

There were all the different night sounds that were a little frightening at first until Momma explained the howling of the coyotes, the loud noise of the bullfrog, and the calls of hoot owls and whippoorwills. We also watched the mysterious twinkling lightning bugs flit around in the dark. A permanent picture is engraved in my mind of my mother standing in a long white nightgown, arms outstretched above her, as she caught lightning bugs in a jar for me one hot summer’s night.

Occasionally, when summer nights didn’t cool off enough to be comfortable for sleeping, some folks would sleep outside on their porches. My girlfriends and I thought that sleeping on the porch was a great adventure, except for that one time when the cat decided to bring us a gift and we woke up to find half of a mouse upon our quilt!

In later years, my parents enclosed our front porch for an extra room. I hated to see the porch closed in but I was glad when my parents simply moved the old porch swing and hung it from the huge old maple tree where the family still gathered. Daddy and my brother would often sit out there under that tree and play their guitars, usually with a dog or two stretched out beneath their feet as they played one more chorus of “Just A Closer Walk With Thee.”

I have always loved porch swings. After I was grown and married, the one thing that sold me on the house that we bought was the swing on the back porch that overlooked a pond.

I’m glad to see that some houses being built today are going back to adding porches. Yet, it isn’t the porches, it’s the people that make the difference. As I drive through neighborhoods these days I sometimes wonder, “Where are all the people? Are they all at Wal-Mart or inside watching television?” If so, they are missing out on a lot.

Why not shoo the kids outside and take a little time out for some “porch sittin”? Take something along to read or work on if you like but there’s nothing wrong with just sitting and doing nothing because it really isn’t doing nothing, it’s “porch sittin”. If practiced enough, you can become an expert at it.

It seems like “porch sittin” is nearly a lost art. Perhaps we can still revive it. If you don’t have a porch, don’t worry, a chair out under a shade tree will do. I don’t have a porch like I once had either but I have a great imagination and all of God’s creation is still right there to enjoy.

Well, it’s been a long day so I think I’ll go outside for a spell because it’s just about “porch sittin” time.

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Roses
Kathy Anne Harris
kathap@angelrays.biz
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Roses, with their intoxicating fragrance are so fresh and rich with life. Velvet petals, lush verdant foliage. One rose bush, yet each rose is bursting with colors that vary one from the other--from buds, to full bloom. Rather like each living thing--all change in appearance--not unlike the rose. Rose buds are babies, compact, bound together in a small body. As they open, they spread their petals out and lustrous colors unfurl, toward the life giving sun. After their unveiling occurs, they curl and shrink and their once velvety skin loses some of its vitality. The petals begin to surrender to the sun and the elements, and their color fades. The perfume they exuded in their youth is still there, in the heart of their bloom...You just have to get a little closer to the flower to discover its fragrance. Not much different, really, than the lives we experience from birth, through life's different stages, until we fall from the vine of existence in this world.

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Artists
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Healing Through Art
Ringo
Drummerboy5777@aol.com
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When I was hospitalized for the second time for severe depression my father and stepmother bought me this huge picture book of John Lennon so I spent the time while I was in there drawing John Lennon and Ringo Starr . see the Beatles music has the soundtrack to my world since the 1st time I heard them from my mother. I also listen to other 60s music as well but the Beatles have always been my # 1 band. I drew the art from free hand and i was amazed at what came out of it looks like cartoon characters cause I cant really draw portraits hehee hehee they always came out looking like cartoon characters. well that’s my story about the drawing I drew while I was in the hospital hope you all enjoy the pictures I drew . peace and love from Anthony

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Poetry
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Poet Works Press
PoetWorks Press@aol.com
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PoetWorks Press announces a call for poetry submissions for their next anthology PASSINGS to be released in the Fall/Winter, 2005. This anthology will touch emotions that each of us, at one time or another, must deal with. The subject is delicate and as individual as the poetry that will ultimately be selected for inclusion. Each of us have our own unique manner of dealing with the passing of a loved one, be it a parent, a spouse, a close friend or a child. We seek well written, intelligible verse that conveys the myriad emotions that a person may deal with after the passing of a loved one. We will tastefully select well written poems that touch the human spirit and embody a universality that transcends our mortal boundaries.
For more information please use the following URL: Information
The URL for submissions : Submissions

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Free Poetry Day Ecards From 123Greetings.com
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Grandpa
Leah Suiter
KOOOLSTUFFLEAH@aol.com
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Grandpa was my father
He wasn't by birth
He was there when
I got my first tooth
He helped me build
My first snowman
It was Mickey Mouse
A balloon we used
I would sit in his lap
He would read to me
My grandpa, my father
He provided the food
He provided the love
My father, My Grandpa

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Serving You
James O'Brian
poet@bak.rr.com
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I think of you so many times,
At night and in the day;
I think of you,
Yet in a deeper way.

I pray for you with soul’s intent
That blessings come to you,
And pray that joy will fill your heart,
In all you say and do.

And then I also pray for me,
That I may find the ways,
To love and serve you from my heart
Beyond our living days.

So with these prayers I humbly say,
And with this heart I give,
I hope that you receive my love
As long as we shall live.

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Where is the Me That I Knew
Carole Cunningham
carloync@yahoo.com
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I wake in the morning not sure if I even slept.
Try to get our of bed but the pain pulls me back down.
Looking for the me I know to get up.
Where is the me I know?
Why can't I awake feeling refreshed like before?
Smiling and stretching ready to start the new day.
Eager to get to work during the week,
and eager to do chores and spend time with family and friends.
Where is the me I know?
The me who could get up,
cook breakfast,
clean the house,
do the laundry,
go to work,
take care of the kids,
run errands,
work in the garden,
and still have energy left to spend time with family.
Where is the me I know?
Why does this pain get to me?
The me I know would fight.
Yet the fight is not there,
and the spirit is tired.
I am lost without the me I once knew.
Even the tears that flow are not the real me,
and they only reflect the me that I dont know.
Where has this illness taken me -
The me that I once knew.

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Tina
Prison Ministry
SeptLove62@aol.com
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My son has moved to florida. His new address is:
Bruce oliver 05-1504
1002 justice lane
Bunnell, fla 32110

And also my daughter is now in jail waiting to go to tdcj
Her address is:
Wendy oliver 42815
Po box 1928
Orange tx 77630
Right now they are just in jail waiting to be transferred

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New Businesses that Need Our Support
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Golf Enthusiasts
First Stick
theoyal@aol.com
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If ever, in the latter stages of your golf game, you start feeling tired when swinging the club and your golfing performance is not going as well as earlier, you can avoid this with a simple routine with the first stick™.

Because golf swing movements are unlike any other movements we routinely make, the muscles required need regular conditioning. Using the first stick™ increases flexibility and conditioning for the golf game as well as the ability to get greater distance hitting the ball.

The first stick™ is reasonably priced and so effective and easy to use, you'll want to keep one at the office to build and condition your golf swing and golf muscles.

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ATTENTION COLLEGE STUDENTS
BOOK BUCKS
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BookBucks.Biz was founded in Houston, TX and was created by students just like you! We know how expensive college can be and know that textbooks over the course of your college career are a large chunk of the total amount. You know the drill - you buy the book from the bookstore for $100, sell it back to them for $10 and then they sell the same book to your friend for $75. Our goal is to give students an alternative to the high priced bookstores allowing you to bypass the middle man and buy, sell and trade your textbooks directly with other students. You can do this by listing your textbooks on BookBucks.Biz where other students at your school or in your area can find them. You save money when you buy and make more money when you sell. It’s a “win-win” situation!

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Illusions Design
Birdie
morning_bird@illusions-designs.net
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