All That Is BeautifulMild Prose

Dad Sure Could Play that Mandolin

My father was a self-taught mandolin player. He was one of the best string instrument players in our town. He could not read music, but if he heard a tune a few times, he could play it. When he was younger, he was a member of a small country music band. They would play at local dances and on a few occasions would play for the local radio station. He often told us how he had auditioned and earned a position in a band that featured Patsy Cline as their lead singer. He told the family that after he was hired he never went back. Dad was a very religious man. He stated that there was a lot of drinking and cursing the day of his audition and he did not want to be around that type of environment. Occasionally, Dad would get out his mandolin and play for the family. We three children: Trisha, Monte and I, George Jr., would often sing along. Songs such as the Tennessee Waltz, Harbor Lights and around Christmas time, the well-known rendition of Silver Bells. "Silver Bells, Silver Bells, its Christmas time in the city" would ring throughout the house. One of Dad's favorite hymns was "The Old Rugged Cross". We learned the words to the hymn when we were very young, and would sing it with Dad when he would play and sing. Another song that was often shared in our house was a song that accompanied the Walt Disney series: Davey Crockett. Dad only had to hear the song twice before he learned it well enough to play it. "Davey, Davey Crockett, King of the Wild Frontier" was a favorite song for the family. He knew we enjoyed the song and the program and would often get out the mandolin after the program was over. I could never get over how he could play the songs so well after only hearing them a few times. I loved to sing, but I never learned how to play the mandolin. This is something I regret to this day.

 Dad loved to play the mandolin for his family he knew we enjoyed singing, and hearing him play. He was like that. If he could give pleasure to others, he would, especially his family. He was always there, sacrificing his time and efforts to see that his family had enough in their life. I had to mature into a man and have children of my own before I realized how much he had sacrificed. I joined the United States Air Force in January of 1962. Whenever I would come home on leave, I would ask Dad to play the mandolin. Nobody played the mandolin like my father. He could touch your soul with the tones that came out of that old mandolin. He seemed to shine when he was playing. You could see his pride in his ability to play so well for his family. 1962 1 When Dad was younger, he worked for his father on the farm. His father was a farmer and sharecropped a farm for the man who owned the property. In 1950, our family moved from the farm. Dad had gained employment at the local limestone quarry. When the quarry closed in August of 1957, he had to seek other employment. He worked for Owens Yacht Company in Dundalk, Maryland and for Todd Steel in Point of Rocks, Maryland. While working at Todd Steel, he was involved in an accident. His job was to roll angle iron onto a conveyor so that the welders farther up the production line would have it to complete their job. On this particular day Dad got the third index finger of his left hand mashed between two pieces of steel. The doctor who operated on the finger could not save it, and Dad ended up having the tip of the finger amputated. He didn't lose enough of the finger where it would stop him picking up anything, but it did impact his ability to play the mandolin. 1950 1957

 After the accident, Dad was reluctant to play the mandolin. He felt that he could not play as well as he had before the accident. When I came home on leave and asked him to play he would make excuses for why he couldn't play. Eventually, we would wear him down and he would say "Okay, but remember, I can't hold down on the strings the way I used to" or "Since the accident to this finger I can't play as good". For the family it didn't make any difference that Dad couldn't play as well. We were just glad that he would play. When he played the old mandolin it would carry us back to a cheerful, happier time in our lives. "Davey, Davey Crockett, King of the Wild Frontier", would again be heard in the little town of Bakerton, West Virginia. In August of 1993 my father was diagnosed with inoperable lung cancer. He chose not to receive chemotherapy treatments so that he could live out the rest of his life in dignity. About a week before his death, we asked Dad if he would play the mandolin for us. He made excuses but said "okay". He knew it would probably be the last time he would play for us. He tuned up the old mandolin and played a few notes. When I looked around, there was not a dry eye in the family. We saw before us a quiet humble man with an inner strength that comes from knowing God, and living with him in one's life. Dad would never play the mandolin for us again. We felt at the time that he wouldn't have enough strength to play, and that makes the memory of that day even stronger. Dad was doing something he had done all his life, giving. As sick as he was, he was still pleasing others. Dad sure could play that Mandolin! 1993 8

A Love Letter Lette Pain is a constant companion and isn't a very good one. I try to reason with it, and I end up feeling miserable. I cannot help but think about you. You who had so much to give and share with me. Even when I was young, you were a constant figure. You were there to see me grow up. I cried, I laughed, I learned, and you were there to guide me. With your gray hair and chunky glasses, I would watch you think and brood, and your sudden smile would light up your face as quickly as it came. That is the very thing I love about you. Your smile. I think about the times I missed being with you. So many years have passed since I saw you again, and for a brief moment, I imagined you not being in my life. I wanted to cry. But I knew you would be there, as you always were. The gray hair has turned to white, and with that came a wiry frame that was fragile. Still the eyes were as vibrant as ever, and a mind that was well-running. You taught me to be strong and live for my dreams. With your voracious hunger for knowledge you taught me to love learning; always telling me that knowledge is a constant thing. You were so strong, so wise and your presence was always a comfort. I always loved being by your side. You always gave me a hug when I felt down. I never loved crowds, and you always seemed to understand that, not pressuring me to joining the others or pretend to have a good time. I get lost in the books you taught me to read. Those books which you gave me to learn more about the world, to never give up on things, to help me know myself and more. I read them constantly, ever so often reminded of the things you taught me. You always loved books. You never said much, but I always knew that every time we saw each other, you were glad to see me. As I always am glad to see you. I remember you with a teary face and a wistful smile. My pain is more insistent as I try to hold on to the hope that you will pull through this, like the strong person that you are. I love you, grandpa.

Christmas Morning

A light drizzle was falling as my sister Jill and I ran out of the Methodist Church, eager to get home and play with the presents that Santa had left for us and our baby sister, Sharon. Across the street from the church was a Pan American gas station where the Greyhound bus stopped. It was closed for Christmas, but I noticed a family standing outside the locked door, huddled under the narrow overhang in an attempt to keep dry. I wondered briefly why they were there but then forgot about them as I raced to keep up with Jill. Once we got home, there was barely time to enjoy our presents. We had to go off to our grandparents house for our annual Christmas dinner. As we drove down the highway through town, I noticed that the family was still there, standing outside the closed gas station. My father was driving very slowly down the highway. The closer we got to the turnoff for my grandparents house, the slower the car went. Suddenly, my father U-turned in the middle of the road and said, I cant stand it! 180 What? asked my mother. It's those people back there at the Pan Am, standing in the rain. They've got children. It's Christmas. I cant stand it.

When my father pulled into the service station, I saw that there were five of them: the parents and three children two girls and a small boy. 5 My father rolled down his window. Merry Christmas, he said. Howdy, the man replied. He was very tall and had to stoop slightly to peer into the car. Jill, Sharon, and I stared at the children, and they stared back at us. You waiting on the bus? my father asked. The man said that they were. They were going to Birmingham, where he had a brother and prospects of a job. Well, that bus isnt going to come along for several hours, and you re getting wet standing here. Winborns just a couple miles up the road. Theyve got a shed with a cover there, and some benches, my father said. Why don't yall get in the car and Ill run you up there. The man thought about it for a moment, and then he beckoned to his family. They climbed into the car. They had no luggage, only the clothes they were wearing. Once they settled in, my father looked back over his shoulder and asked the children if Santa had found them yet. Three glum faces mutely gave him his answer.

 Well, I didnt think so,my father said, winking at my mother,because when I saw Santa this morning, he told me that he was having trouble finding all, and he asked me if he could leave your toys at my house. We'll just go get them before I take you to the bus stop. All at once, the three children's faces lit up, and they began to bounce around in the back seat, laughing and chattering. When we got out of the car at our house, the three children ran through the front door and straight to the toys that were spread out under our Christmas tree. One of the girls spied Jills doll and immediately hugged it to her breast. I remember that the little boy grabbed Sharons ball. And the other girl picked up something of mine. All this happened a long time ago, but the memory of it remains clear. That was the Christmas when my sisters and I learned the joy of making others happy. My mother noticed that the middle child was wearing a short-sleeved dress, so she gave the girl Jills only sweater to wear. My father invited them to join us at our grandparents for Christmas dinner, but the parents refused. Even when we all tried to talk them into coming, they were firm in their decision. Back in the car, on the way to Winborn, my father asked the man if he had money for bus fare.

His brother had sent tickets, the man said. My father reached into his pocket and pulled out two dollars, which was all he had left until his next payday. He pressed the money into the mans hand. The man tried to give it back, but my father insisted. Itll be late when you get to Birmingham, and these children will be hungry before then. Take it. Ive been broke before, and I know what its like when you can t feed your family. We left them there at the bus stop in Winborn. As we drove away, I watched out the window as long as I could, looking back at the little girl hugging her new doll.

True Love

An ancient Hebrew text says: "love is as strong as death." It seems that not everyone experiences this kind of strong love. The increasing poverty, crime and war tell us that the world is in desperate need of true love. But, what is true love? Love is something we all need, but how do we know when we've experienced it? True love is best seen as devotion and action, not an emotion. Love is not exclusively based on how we feel. Certainly our emotions are involved, but they can not be our only criteria for love. True love is when you care enough about another person that you would lay down your life for them. When this happens, then love truly is "as strong as death."

 ,. . ,. ,. ,"" How many of you have a father or mother, husband or wife, son or daughter or friend who would sacrifice his or her own life for yours? Those of you who truly love your spouse and children would unselfishly lay your life on the line to save them from death. Many people, in emergency rooms with their loved ones have prayed, "Please God, take me instead of them". ,,()? . , ", ". Find true love and be a true lover as well. May you find the love which is not only stronger than death, but which leads to a truly fulfilling life. . , .

Dad's Kiss A goodbye kiss

The Board Meeting had come to an end. Bob started to stand up and jostled the table, spilling his coffee over his notes. "How embarrassing. I am getting so clumsy in my old age." Everyone had a good laugh, and soon we were all telling stories of our most embarrassing moments. It came around to Frank who sat quietly listening to the others. Someone said, "Come on, Frank. Tell us your most embarrassing moment." Frank laughed and began to tell us of his childhood. "I grew up in San Pedro. My Dad was a fisherman, and he loved the sea. He had his own boat, but it was hard making a living on the sea. He worked hard and would stay out until he caught enough to feed the family. Not just enough for our family, but also for his Mom and Dad and the other kids that were still at

home." He looked at us and said, "I wish you could have met my Dad. He was a big man, and he was strong from pulling the nets and fighting the seas for his catch. When you got close to him, he smelled like the ocean. He would wear his old canvas, foul-weather coat and his bibbed overalls. His rain hat would be pulled down over his brow. No matter how much my Mother washed them, they would still smell of the sea and of fish." Frank's voice dropped a bit. "When the weather was bad he would drive me to school. He had this old truck that he used in his fishing business. That truck was older than he was. It would wheeze and rattle down the road. You could hear it coming for blocks. As he would drive toward the school, I would shrink down into the seat hoping to disappear. Half the time, he would slam to a stop and the old truck would belch a cloud of smoke. He would pull right up in front, and it seemed like everybody would be standing around and watching. Then he would lean over and give me a big kiss on the cheek and tell me to be a good boy. It was so embarrassing for me. Here, I was twelve years old, and my Dad would lean over and kiss me goodbye!" He paused and then went on, "I remember the day I decided I was too old for a goodbye kiss. When we got to the school and came to a stop, he had his usual big smile. He started to lean toward me, but I put my hand up and said, 'No, Dad.' It was the first time I had ever talked to him that way, and he had this surprised look on his face. I said, 'Dad, I'm too old for a goodbye kiss. I'm too old for any kind of kiss.' My Dad looked at me for the longest time, and his eyes started to tear up. I had never seen him cry. He turned and looked out the windshield. 'You're right,' he said. 'You are a big boy....a man. I won't kiss you anymore.'" Frank got a funny look on his face, and the tears began to well up in his eyes, as he spoke. "It wasn't long after that when my Dad went to sea and never came back. It was a day when most of the fleet stayed in, but not Dad. He had a big family to feed. They found his boat adrift with its nets half in and half out. He must have gotten into a gale and was trying to save the nets and the floats." I looked at Frank and saw that tears were running down his cheeks. Frank spoke again. "Guys, you don't know what I would give to have my Dad give me just one more kiss on the cheek....to feel his rough old face....to smell the ocean on him....to feel his arm around my neck. I wish I had been a man then. If I had been a man, I would never have told my Dad I was too old for a goodbye kiss."

Beauty

Beauty means this to one and that to the other. And yet when anyone of us has seen that which to him is beautiful he has known an emotion which is in every case the same in kind. A ship in sail, a blooming flower, a town at night, a lovely poem, leaf shadows, a child's grace, the starry skies, apple trees in spring--the thought of beauty--these are the drops of rain that keep the human spirit from death by draught. They are a stealing and a silent refreshment that we perhaps do not think about but which goes on all the time. Beauty is the smile on the earth's face, open to all, and needs but the eyes to see, mood to understand.

Catch the Star that will Take You to Your Dreams

Catch the star that holds your destiny, the one that forever twinkles within your heart. Take advantage of precious opportunities while they still sparkle before you. Always believe that your ultimate goal is attainable as long as you commit yourself to it. Though barriers may sometimes stand in the way of your dreams, remember that your destiny is hiding behind them. Accept the fact that not everyone is going to approve of the choices youve made, have faith in your judgment, catch the star that twinkles in your heart, and it will lead you to your destinys path. Follow that pathway and uncover the sweet sunrises that await you. Take pride in your accomplishments, as they are stepping stones to your dreams. Understand that you may make mistakes, but dont let them discourage you. Value your capabilities and talents for they are what make you truly unique. The greatest gifts in life are not purchased, but acquired through hard work and determination. Youre listening to Faith Radio Online-Simply to Relax, Im Faith. Find the star that twinkles in your heart for you alone are capable of making your brightest dreams come true. Give

your hopes everything youve got and you will catch the star that holds your destiny.

A Business Creed

To respect my work, my associates and myself. To be honest and fair with them as I expect them to be honest and fair with me. To be a man whose word carries weight. To be a booster, not a knocker; a pusher, not a kicker; a motor, not a clog. To base my expectations of reward on a solid foundation of service rendered; to be willing to pay the price of success in honest effort. To look upon my work as opportunity, to be seized with joy and made the most of, and not as painful drudgery to be reluctantly endured. To remember that success lies within myself; in my own brain, my own ambition, my own courage and determination. To expect difficulties and force my way through them, to turn hard experiences into capital for future struggles. To interest my heart and soul in my work, and aspire to the highest efficiency in the achievement of results. To be patiently receptive of just criticism and profit from its teaching. To treat equals and superiors with respect, and subordinates with kindly encouragement. To make a study of my business duties; to know my work from the ground up. To mix brains with my efforts and use system and method in all I undertake. To find time to do everything needful by never letting time find me or my subordinates doing nothing. To hoard days as a miser does dollars, to make every hour bring me dividends in specific results accomplished. To steer clear of dissipation and guard my health of body and peace of mind as my most precious stock in trade.

 Finally, to take a good grip on the joy of life; to play the game like a gentleman; to fight against nothing so hard as my own weakness, and endeavor to grow in business capacity, and as a man, with the passage of every single day.

The Reading Child

There are five hundred reasons why I began to write for children, but to save time I will mention only ten of them. Number 1) Children read books, not reviews. They don't give a hoot about the critics. Number 2) Children don't read to find their identity. Number 3) They don't read to free themselves of guilt, to quench the thirst for rebellion, or to get rid of alienation. Number 4) They have no use for psychology. Number 5) They detest sociology. Number 6) They don't try to understand Kafka or Finnegans Wake. Number 7) They still believe in God, the family, angels, devils, witches, goblins, logic, clarity, punctuation, and other such obsolete stuff. Number 8) They love interesting stories, not commentary, guides, or footnotes. Number 9) When a book is boring, they yawn openly, without any shame or fear of authority. Number 10) They don't expect their beloved writer to redeem humanity. Young as they are, they know that it is not in his power. Only the adults have such childish illusions."

You!

Consider YOU. In all time before now and in all time to come, there has never been and will never be anyone just like you. You are unique in the entire history and future of the universe. Wow! Stop and think about that. You're better than one in a million, or a billion, or a gazillion You are the only one like you in a sea of infinity! You're amazing! You're awesome! And by the way, TAG, you're it. As amazing and awesome as you already are, you can be even more so. Beautiful young people are the whimsey of nature, but beautiful old people are true works of art. But you don't become "beautiful" just by virtue of the aging process. Real beauty comes from learning, growing, and loving in the ways of life. That is the Art of Life. You can learn slowly, and sometimes painfully, by just waiting for life to happen to you. Or you can choose to accelerate your growth and intentionally devour life and all it offers. You are the artist that paints your future with the brush of today. , Paint a Masterpiece. God gives every bird its food, but he doesn't throw it into its nest. Wherever you want to go, whatever you want to do, it's truly up to you.

All I Ever Really Needed to Know I Learned in Kindergarten

Robert Fulghum

Most of what I really need to know about how to live, and what to do, and how to be, I learned in Kindergarten. Wisdom was not at the top of the graduate school mountain, but there in the sandbox at nursery school. These are the things I learned: Share everything. Play fair. Don't hit people. Put things back where you found them. Clean up your own mess. Don't take things that aren't yours. Say you're sorry when you hurt somebody. Wash your hands before you eat. Flush. Warm cookies and cold milk are good for you. Live a balanced life. Learn some and think some and draw and paint and sing and dance and play and work some every day. Take a nap every afternoon. When you go out into the world, watch for traffic, hold hands, and stick together. Be aware of wonder. Remember the little seed in the plastic cup. The roots go down and the plant goes up and nobody really knows how or why, but we are all like that. Goldfish and hamsters and white mice and even the little seed in the plastic cup - they all die. So do we. And then remember the book about Dick and Jane and the first word you learned, the biggest word of all: LOOK . Everything you need to know is in there somewhere. The Golden Rule and love and basic sanitation, ecology and politics and sane living. Think of what a better world it would be if we all - the whole world - had cookies and milk about 3 o'clock every afternoon and then lay down with our blankets for a nap. Or if we had a basic policy in our nation and other nations to always put things back where we found them and clean up our own messes. And it is still true, no matter how old you are, when you go out into the world, it is best to hold hands and stick together.

Big Rocks

One day, an expert in time management was speaking to a group of students and, to drive home a point, used an illustration those students will never forget.

As he stood in front of the group of overachievers he said, "OK, time for a quiz." He pulled out a one-gallon, wide-mouth jar and set it on the table in front of him. He also produced about a dozen fist-sized rocks and carefully placed them, one at a time, into the jar. When the jar was filled to the top and no more rocks would fit inside, he asked, "Is this jar full?" Everyone in the class yelled, "Yes." The time management expert replied, "Really?" He reached under the table and pulled out a bucket of gravel. He dumped some gravel in and shook the jar, causing pieces of gravel to work themselves down into the spaces between the big rocks. He then asked the group once more, "Is this jar full?" By this time the class was on to him. "Probably not," one of them answered. "Good!" he replied. He reached under the table and brought out a bucket of sand. He started dumping the sand in the jar and it went into all of the spaces left between the rocks and the gravel. Once more he asked the question, "Is this jar full?" "No!" the class shouted. Once again he said, "Good." Then he grabbed a pitcher of water and began to pour it in until the jar was filled to the brim. Then he looked at the class and asked, "What is the point of this illustration?" One eager student raised his hand and said, "The point is, no matter how full your schedule is, if you try really hard you can always fit some more things in it!" "No," the speaker replied, "That's not the point. The truth this illustration teaches us is if you don't put the big rocks in first, you'll never get them in at all. What are the 'big rocks' in your life? Time with your loved ones, your education, your dreams, a worthy cause, teaching or mentoring others? Remember to put these big rocks in first or you'll never get them in at all." So, tonight, or in the morning, when you are reflecting on this short story, ask yourself this question: What are the 'big rocks' in my life?

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Cinderella - The Real Story Yvonne Augustin I'm sure you have all heard the story of Cinderella. You know the beautiful girl with the two mean step-sisters, and wicked step-mother. Well you already know the ending, the beautiful girl marries the handsome prince, and they live happily ever after. Well that was the fairy tale, this is the real story.

My name is Oscar and I am a mouse. I am not related to Mickey, Minnie, or Mighty, (even though there is a small resemblance to that super-hero Mighty mouse). I live in the attic in Cinderella's house. You might say Cindy and I were roommates. When she was small, and her father was alive, we shared a beautiful room downstairs. But after her father died, she was put in the attic. I naturally followed, because I knew she would need my company. And need me she did. At first, she thought of me only as a common ordinary mouse. Night after night she would throw me crumbs. (I thought she was very kind). Then one night, after her step-mother locked the door, she began to cry. I climbed up on Cindy's lap. She talked to me and gave me my name. I thought at the time it was a nerdy name, "Oscar", but I am used to it now. I even kind-of like it. Everyday I watched Cindy work so hard. Finally one day, quite by accident, I found a way to help her. You see, her step-sisters were ordering her around, and they made her cry. Cindy cried a lot. ( I never knew a girl could hold so much water!.) Anyway, I ran to Cindy and they saw me. Boy, you should have seen them clear the room!. Faster than a speeding bullet-- they almost broke their necks as they ran screaming from the room. You should have heard them! "Eeeek... a Mouse!", "Mother!!", "Help!!!". Cindy and I laughed so hard. It was a really good moment. Then there was the time when I hid on a plate of food that was meant for Cindy's step-mother. When she saw me, first she fainted, then she had hysterics for three days!.

Three days of peace!, that was really nice!. The only other person who was not afraid of me was Esmerelda. She was Cindy's fairy God-Mother. We called her Essie for short. She just popped up on the day of the big ball. Poor Cindy had run herself ragged waiting on those step-sisters, trying to do the impossible, and make them.. not beautiful..but just presentable. I mean they were sooo ugly... it wasn't skin deep, it was all the way to the bone!. Anyway, Cindy was talking to me in the garden, when this strange looking woman walked through the gate. Most people think she magically appeared in a beautiful white light, but she didn't.

She just walked in the yard with a brown Foodtown shopping bag in her hand. I really thought she was here for a hand-out. Cindy must have thought the same thing, because she offered her a glass of milk and some cookies. She didn't look much like a fairy God-mother, either. Her dress was torn, her shoes had holes, and her hair... well, let's just say I've seen a better hair-do on a horse I used to know.

I mean, this fairy God-mother looked like she needed a fairy God-mother. I was about to say something like "Hit the road", when Essie asked Cindy why she was not preparing to go to the ball. Cindy told her she had no clothes or transportation. Well!, faster than you could say " the rat ate the cheese", the old woman reaches into her bag and pulls out the most beautiful blue ball gown you have ever seen!. It was royal blue, with little white stars, and it was just Cindy's size!. Then, she reached in her bag again and pulled out a white evening bag, a silver crown, and the famous glass slippers. ( I had to turn my head while she provided the unmentionables.) Then she told Cindy to hop to it, and go change her clothes, while she sees what can be done about the transportation. I told her to call a cab, but she said "One does not arrive at a Kings palace in a cab or a rent-a car!

Anyway, while I'm looking around for something to use, the old girl goes in the bag again, and pulls out a small coach. It was just about my size. She put it on the ground, and darned if the thing didn't begin to grow!. I ran for cover. When the coach finally stopped growing, it was just right for Cindy. The wonders of modern science! Right then Essie called me, and.. like a dumb-dumb, I came. Before I knew what hit me, I had four hoofs and a tail. Seeing my alarm, Essie assured me it was only temporary. I didn't mind a little sacrifice for the cause (but I hate oats!). By this time Cindy appeared, and she was looking hot!. (I even tried to whistle, but it came out a whinny). Cindy got into the coach and then we all realized the old girl had forgotten one thing... a driver.

Run, Patti, Run! Mark V. Hansen At a young and tender age, Patti Wilson was told by her doctor that she was an epileptic. Her father, Jim Wilson, is a morning jogger. One day she smiled through her braces and said, "Daddy what I'd really love to do is run with you every day, but I'm afraid I'll have a seizure." Her father told her, "If you do, I know how to handle it, so let's start running!" That's just what they did every day. It was a wonderful experience for them to share and there were no seizures at all while she was running. After a few weeks, she told her father, "Daddy, what I'd really love to do is break the world's long-distance running record for women." Her father checked the Guiness Book of World Records and found that the farthest any woman had run was 80 miles. As a freshman in high school, Patti announced, "I'm going to run from Orange County up to San Francisco." (A distance of 400 miles.) "As a sophomore," she went on, "I'm going to run to Portland, Oregon." (Over 1500 miles.) "As a junior I'll run to St. Louis." (About 2000 miles) "As a senior I'll run to the White House." (More than 3000 miles away.) In view of her handicap, Patti was as ambitious as she was enthusiastic, but she said she looked at the handicap of being an epileptic as simply "an inconvenience." She focused not on what she had lost, but on what she had left. That year, she completed her run to San Francisco wearing a T-shirt that read, "I Love Epileptics." Her dad ran every mile at her side, and her mom, a nurse, followed in a motor

home behind them in case anything went wrong. In her sophomore year, Patti's classmates got behind her. They built a giant poster that read, "Run, Patti, Run!" (This has since become her motto and the title of a book she has written.) On her second marathon, en route to Portland, she fractured a bone in her foot. A doctor told her she had to stop her run. He said, "I've got to put a cast on your ankle so that you don't sustain permanent damage." "Doc, you don't understand," she said. "This isn't just a whim of mine, it's a magnificent obsession! I'm not just doing it for me, I'm doing it to break the chains on the brains that limit so many others. Isn't there a way I can keep running?" He gave her one option. He could wrap it in adhesive instead of putting it in a cast. He warned her that it would be incredibly painful, and he told her, "It will blister." She told the doctor to wrap it up. She finished the run to Portland, completing her last mile with the governor of Oregon. You may have seen the headlines: "Super Runner, Patti Wilson Ends Marathon For Epilepsy On Her 17th Birthday." After four months of almost continuous running from West Coast to the East Coast, Patti arrived in Washington and shook the hand of the President of United States. She told him, "I wanted people to know that epileptics are normal human beings with normal lives." I told this story at one of my seminars not long ago, and afterward a big teary-eyed man came up to me, stuck out his big meaty hand and said, "Mark, my name is Jim Wilson. You were talking about my daughter, Patti." Because of her noble efforts, he told me, enough money had been raised to open up 19 multi-million-dollar epileptic centers around the country. If Patti Wilson can do so much with so little, what can you do to outperform yourself in a state of total wellness?

Never Judge a Book by Its Cover

A lady in a faded gingham dress and her husband, dressed in a homespun threadbare suit, stepped off the train in Boston, and walked timidly without an appointment into the president of Harvards outer office .The secretary could tell in a moment that such backwoods country folk had not business at Harvard, and probably didnt even deserve to be in Cambridge .She frowned. We want to see the president, the man said softly. Hell be busy all day, the secretary snapped. Well wait, the lady replied.

For hours, the secretary ignored them, hoping that the couple would finally become discouraged and go away. They didnt. And the secretary grew frustrated and finally decided to disturb the president. Maybe if they just see you for a few minutes, theyll leave, she told him. He signed in exasperation and nodded. Someone of his importance obviously didnt have the time to spend with nobodies, but he detested gingham and homespun suits cluttering his office. The president, stern-faced with dignity, strutted toward the couple .The lady told him, We had a son that attended Harvard for one year .He loved Harvard, and was very happy here. But he was accidentally killed. And my husband and I would like to erect a memorial to him somewhere on campus. The president wasnt touched, and she was shocked, Madam, he said gruffly, we cant put up a statue for every person who attended Harvard and died, this place would look like a cemetery. Oh, no the lady explained quickly, we dont want to erect a statue .We thought we would give a building to Harvard. The president rolled his eyes. He glanced at the gingham dress and homespun suit, and then exclaimed, A building! Do you have and earthly idea how much a building costs? We have over seven and a half million dollars in the physical plant at Harvard. For a moment the lady was silent. The president was pleased .He could get rid of them now. The lady turned to her husband and said quietly. Is that all it costs to start a university? Her husband nodded .The presidents face wilted in confusion and bewilderment. Mr. and Mrs. Leland Stanford walked away, traveling to Palo Alto, California where they established the university that bears their name -------a memorial to a son that Harvard no longer cared about. You can easily judge the character of others by how they treat those who can do nothing for them or to them.

A Plate of Peas

My grandfather died when I was a small boy, and my grandmother started staying with us for about six months every year. She lived in a room that doubled as my father's office, which we referred to as "the back room." She carried with her a powerful aroma. I don't know what kind of perfume she used, but it was the double-barreled, ninety-proof, knockdown, render-the-victim-unconscious, moose-killing variety. She kept it in a huge atomizer and applied it frequently and liberally. It was almost impossible to go into her room and remain breathing for any length of time. When she would leave the house to go spend six months

with my Aunt Lillian, my mother and sisters would throw open all the windows, strip the bed, and take out the curtains and rugs. Then they would spend several days washing and airing things out, trying frantically to make the pungent odor go away. 6 6 This, then, was my grandmother at the time of the infamous pea incident. It took place at the Biltmore Hotel, which, to my eight-year-old mind, was just about the fancies place to eat in all of Providence. My grandmother, my mother, and I were having lunch after a morning spent shopping. I grandly ordered a Salisbury steak, confident in the knowledge that beneath that fancy name was a good old hamburger with gravy. When brought to the table, it was accompanied by a plate of peas. 8 I do not like peas now. I did not like peas then. I have always hated peas. It is a complete mystery to me why anyone would voluntarily eat peas. I did not eat them at home. I did not eat them at restaurants. And I certainly was not about to eat them now. "Eat your peas," my grandmother said. "Mother," said my mother in her warning voice. "He doesn't like peas. Leave him alone." My grandmother did not reply, but there was a glint in her eye and a grim set to her jaw that signaled she was not going to be thwarted. She leaned in my direction, looked me in the eye, and uttered the fateful words that changed my life: "I'll pay you five dollars if you eat those peas."

 5 I had absolutely no idea of the impending doom. I only knew that five dollars was an enormous, nearly unimaginable amount of money, and as awful as peas were, only one plate of them stood between me and the possession of that five dollars. I began to force the wretched things down my throat. 5 5 My mother was livid. My grandmother had that self-satisfied look of someone who has thrown down an unbeatable trump card. "I can do what I want, Ellen, and you can't stop me." My mother glared at her mother. She glared at me. No one can glare like my mother. If there were a glaring Olympics, she would undoubtedly win the gold medal. I, of course, kept shoving peas down my throat. The glares made me nervous, and every single pea made me want to throw up, but the magical image of that five dollars floated before me, and I finally gagged down every last one of them. My grandmother handed me the five dollars with a flourish. My mother continued to glare in silence. And the episode ended. Or so I thought. 5 5 My grandmother left for Aunt Lillian's a few weeks later. That night, at dinner, my mother served two of my all-time favorite foods, meatloaf and mashed potatoes. Along with them came a big, steaming bowl of peas. She offered me some peas, and I, in the very last moments of my innocent youth, declined. My mother fixed me with a cold eye as she heaped a huge pile of peas onto my plate. Then came the words that were to haunt me for years. "You ate them for money," she said. "You can eat them for love."

Oh, despair! Oh, devastation! Now, too late, came the dawning realization that I had unwittingly damned myself to a hell from which there was no escape. "You ate them for money. You can eat them for love." What possible argument could I muster against that? There was none. Did I eat the peas? You bet I did. I ate them that day and every other time they were served thereafter. The five dollars were quickly spent. My grandmother passed away a few years later. But the legacy of the peas lived on, as it lives on to this day. If I so much as curl my lip when they are served (because, after all, I still hate the horrid little things), my mother repeats the dreaded words one more time: "You ate them for money," she says. "You can eat them for love." 5

Touch Me

Touch me. Don't be afraid. I can't hurt you. Go ahead and touch my smooth surface. Feel the cold, glass-like smoothness and the crevices and lines that make me what I am. Use both hands if you wish. We are more similar than you dare to believe. Touch my face. Yes, I have a face like yours. It has weathered the centuries as yours has the years. My face portrays my evolution. Yours, the birth and death of a generation. My face has aged like yours as we have endured together the testimony of earth's elements. ,

 I have eyes like yours. My inscriptions stare out at you as I search for the meaning of why we are here. I look into your eyes and see who you are. Who am I? I was formed millions of years past and now you see the results of my evolution. I can feel your hands and the sweat from your palms flow into the countless combination of the letters that make me. I know you. I have known you since I was able to breathe in the air as my smoothness began to take shape and my color matured along with natural flaws. You have known me since the days when you came to take me from my mother. You cannot hear me. I am static and unmoving. But, I can hear your murmurs and your cries of pain and sadness. Your sons and daughters ask why? There are no answers. I am very old. I have seen everything and I am none the wiser for the pain and suffering I have witnessed since I rose from the bowels of the earth. I have witnessed the conflict, the death, the civilizations, and the societies that have come before you. Yet I remain mystified about this day. I feel sad yet alive with a purpose. I have come to know those who are now an integral part of the reason for my being here at this place and time. That purpose has become apparent as I stand before you on this day while your brethren gather to witness my reflections and the changes of light that mirror your soul. I am a reflection of you . . . I am all of you . . . I am your spirit . . I am The Wall.

Clouds

Touch me. Don't be afraid. I can't hurt you. Go ahead and touch my smooth surface. Feel the Ive opened the curtain of my east window here above the computer, and I sit now in a holy theater before a sky-blue stage. A little cloud above the neighbors trees resembles Jimmy Durantes nose for a while, then becomes amorphous as it slips on north. Other clouds follow: big and little and tiny on their march toward whereness. Wisps of them lead or droop because there must always be leading and drooping. The trees seem to laugh at the clouds while yet reaching for them with swaying branches. Trees must think that they are real, rooted, somebody, and that perhaps the clouds are only tickled water which sometimes blocks their sun. But trees are clouds too, of green leavesclouds that only move a little. Trees grow and change and dissipate like their airborne cousins. And what am I but a cloud of thoughts and feelings and aspirations? Dont I put out tentative mists here and there? Dont I occasionally appear to other people as a ridiculous shape of thoughts without my intending to? Dont I drift toward the north when I feel the breezes of love and the warmth of compassion? If clouds are beings and beings are clouds, are we not all well advised to driftto feel the wind tucking us in here and plucking us out there? Are we such rock-hard bodily lumps as we imagine? Drift, let me. Sing to the sky, will I. one in many, are we. Let us breathe the breeze and find therein our toots in the spirit. I close the curtain now, feeling broader, fresher. The act is over. Applause is sweeping through the trees.

After A Long Winter

Up earlier than usual. The air is calling. Spring air is different from winter air. Tree branches are serrated with red bud teeth. Later, they grow chartreuse fuzz, making pale green auras in the sun. Summer leaves will be dark, shading, but spring leaves let the light through. Spring trees glow in the daytime, spreading translucent canopies.

The birds are out, racketing their news from bush to branch. Cats are still curled up on fire escapes. They are in no hurry to get about in the brisk morning air. They know it will warm up later. They are watching the birds. They can wait. The air is clear, clean, cool. The smells are tiny smells, little whiffs of green, a ribbon of brown mud, the blue smell of the sky. Midday is mild enough for shirtsleeves. I eat my lunch outside, sitting on a warm brick wall. The breeze lifts my hair and riffles the edge of my skirt. I have to squint. Everything tastes better. Until today I had been too huddled in my winter coat to notice the quiet coming of flowers. Suddenly, daffodils smile in my face, parrot tulips wave their beaky petals, and fragrant white blossoms are pinned to dogwood trees like bows in a young girl's hair. The evening is soft, I need my thin jacket. It's still light out when I walk home from the Metro. I could walk for hours. Like a kid playing street games with her friends, I don't want to go in. When I went to work this morning, I left my windows open. Spring came in through the screens while I was gone. It's as if I had used a big silver key and rolled back the roof like a lid on a sardine can. The indoors smell like the outdoors. It will be like lying down in the grass to sleep. The sheets are cool. The quilt is warm. The light fades outside my windows. This weekend, I think I'll wash my car.

My Left Foot

I was now five, and still I showed no real sign of intelligence. I showed no apparent interest in things except with my toes more especially those of my left foot. Although my natural habits were clean I could not aid myself, but in this respect my father took care of me. I used to lie on my back all the time in the kitchen or, on bright warm sunny days, out in the garden, a little bundle of crooked muscle and twisted nerves, surrounded by a family that loved me and hoped for me and that made me part of their own warmth and humanity. I was lonely, imprisoned in a world of my own, unable to communicate with others, cut off, separated from them as though a glass wall stood between my existence and theirs, thrusting me beyond the sphere of their lives and activities. I longed to run about and play with the rest, but I was unable to break loose from my bondage. Then, suddenly, it happened! In a moment everything was changed, my future life moulded into a definite shape, my mothers faith in me rewarded and her secret fear changed into open triumph.

It happened so quickly, so simply after all the years of waiting and uncertainty that I can see and feel the whole scene as if it had happened last week. It was the afternoon of a cold, grey December day. The streets outside glistened with snow; the white sparkling flakes stuck and melted on the window-panes and hung on the boughs of the trees like molten silver. The wind howled dismally, whipping up little whirling columns of snow that rose and fell at every fresh gust. And over all, the dull, murky sky stretched like a dark canopy, a vast infinity of greyness. Inside, all the family were gathered round the big kitchen fire that lit up the little room with a warm glow and made giant shadows dance on the walls and ceiling. In a corner Mona and Paddy were sitting huddled together, a few torn school primers before them. They were writing down little sums on to an old chipped slate, using a bright piece of yellow chalk. I was close to them, propped up by a pillow against the wall, watching. It was the chalk that attracted me so much. It was a long slender stick of vivid yellow. I had never seen anything like it before, and it showed up so well against the black surface of the slate that I was fascinated by it as much as if it had been a stick of gold. Suddenly I wanted desperately to do what my sister was doing. Then without thinking or knowing exactly what I was doing, I reached out and took the stick of chalk out of my sisters hand with my left foot. I do not know why I used my left foot to do this. It is a puzzle to many people as well as to myself, for, although I had displayed a curious interest in my toes at an early age, I had never attempted before this to use either of my feet in any way. They could have been as useless to me as were my hands. That day, however, my left foot, apparently on its own volition, reached out and very impolitely took the chalk out of my sisters hand. I held it tightly between my toes, and, acting on an impulse, made a wild sort of scribble with it on the slate. Next moment I stopped, a bit dazed, surprised, looking down at the stick of yellow chalk stuck between my toes, not knowing what to do with it next, hardly knowing how it got there. Then I looked and became aware that everyone had stopped talking and were staring at me silently. Nobody stirred. Mona, her black curls framing her chubby little face, stared at me with great big eyes and open mouth. Across the open hearth, his face lit by flames, sat my father, leaning forward, hands outspread on his knees, his shoulders tense. I felt the sweat break out on my forehead. My mother came in from the pantry with a steaming pot in her hand. She stopped midway between the table and the fire, feeling the tension flowing through the room. She followed their stare and saw me, in the corner. Her eyes looked from my face down to my foot, with the chalk gripped between my toes. She put down the pot. The she crossed over to me and knelt down beside me, as she had done so many times before.

Ill show you what to do with it, Chris, she said, very slowly and in a queer, jerky way, her face flushed as if with some inner excitement. Taking another piece of chalk from Mona, she hesitated, then very deliberately drew, on the floor in front of me, the single letter A. Copy that, she said, looking steadily at me. Copy it, Christy. I couldnt. I looked about me, looked around at the faces that were turned towards me, excited faces that were at that moment frozen, immobile, eager, waiting for a miracle in their midst. The stillness was profound. The room was full of flame and shadow that danced before my eyes and lulled my taut nerves into a sort of waking sleep. I could hear the sound of the water-tap dripping in the pantry, the loud ticking of the clock on the mantelshelf, and the soft hiss and crackle of the logs on the open hearth. I tried again. I put out my foot and made a wild jerking stab with the chalk which produced a very crooked line and nothing more. Mother held the slate steady for me. Try again, Chris, she whispered in my ear. Again. I did. I stiffened my body and put my left foot out again, for the third time. I drew one side of the letter. I drew half the other side. Then the stick of chalk broke and I was left with a stump. I wanted to fling it away and give up. Then I felt my mothers hand on my shoulder. I tried once more. Out went my foot. I shook, I sweated and strained every muscle. My hands were so tightly clenched that my finger nails bit into the flesh. I set my teeth so hard that I nearly pierced my lower lip. Everything in the room swam till the faces around me were mere patches of white. But I drew it the letter A. There it was on the floor before me. Shaky, with awkward, wobbly sides and a very uneven centre line. But it was the letter A. I looked up. I saw my mothers face for a moment, tears on her cheeks. Then my father stooped down and hoisted me on his shoulder. I had done it! It had started the thing that was to give my mind its chance of expressing itself. True, I couldnt speak with my lips, but now I would speak through something more lasting than spoken words written words. That one letter, scrawled on the floor with a broken bit of yellow chalk gripped between my toes, was my road to a new world, my key to mental freedom. It was to provide a source of relaxation to the tense, taut thing that was me which panted for expression behind a twisted mouth.

What I Have Lived for

Bertrand Russell
Three passions, simple but overwhelmingly strong, have governed my life: the longing for love, the search for knowledge, and unbearable pity for the suffering of mankind. These passions, in a wayward course,are over a deep ocean of anguish, reaching to the very verge of despair. ;, ,, I have sought love, first, because it brings ecstasy-ecstasy so great that I would often have sacrificed all my rest of life for a few hours of this joy. I have sought it ,next because it relieves loneliness-that terrible loneliness in which one shivering consciousness looks over the rim of the world into the co1d unfathomable lifeless abyss. I have sought it, finally, because in the union of love I have seen, in a mystic miniature, the prefiguring vision of the heaven that saints and poets have imagined. This is what I sought, and though it might seem too good for human life, this is what-at last-I have found. ,, ,(, ,,, , ,, , With equa1 passion I have sought knowledge. I have wished to understand the hearts of men. I have wished to know why the stars shine. And I have tried to apprehend the Pythagorean power by which number holds sway above the flux. A 1ittle of this, but not much, I have achieved. ,, Love and knowledge, so far they were possible, led upward toward the heavens. But always pity brought me back to earth. Echoes of cries of pain reverberate in my heart. Children in famine, victims tortured by oppressors, helpless old people a hated burden to their pain make a mockery of what human life should be. I long to alleviate the evi1, but I can't, and I too suffer. ,, ,,, ,,

 This has been my life. I have found it worth living, and wou1d gladly live it again if the chance were offered me. ,