Real life seems to have no plots. Ivy Compton-Burnett
Travel and Living
Thursday, December 19, 2002
Wednesday, November 20, 2002
A Passionate Flight Attendant
By Glenn Van Ekeren
"Good morning, ladies and gentlemen! Welcome aboard United Airlines flight number 548, direct from Palm Springs to Chicago."
Wait a minute! My mind starts racing. I know it's early in the morning, 6:50 a.m. to be exact, but I was sure this flight went to Denver.
"Now that I got your attention," the voice continues, "my name is Annamarie and I'll be your first flight attendant today. Actually, we will be in route to Denver, so if you were not planning to go there, now would be a good time to get off the plane."
I breathe a sigh of relief as Annamarie continues: "Safety is important to us so please take out the safety card in front of you and acquaint yourself with it. Come on everybody, take out those brochures and wave them in the air!"
Seventy percent of the passengers chuckle and do as they are told, 20 percent aren't awake yet, and the other 10 percent are sourpusses.
"In the event that we mistakenly land in a body of water, a decision must be made. You can either pray and swim like crazy, or use your seat as a flotation device."
About half of the 20 percent start to emerge from their stupor. "We will be serving breakfast in flight this morning. On the menu I have eggs Benedict and fruit crepes - not really, but they sound good to me. However, the flight attendants will be offering you a choice of an omelet or cold cereal."
By now, even a few of the sourpusses are venturing a smile. Thanks for an enjoyable flight, Annamarie. And thank God for flight attendants who are passionate about their jobs!
By Glenn Van Ekeren
"Good morning, ladies and gentlemen! Welcome aboard United Airlines flight number 548, direct from Palm Springs to Chicago."
Wait a minute! My mind starts racing. I know it's early in the morning, 6:50 a.m. to be exact, but I was sure this flight went to Denver.
"Now that I got your attention," the voice continues, "my name is Annamarie and I'll be your first flight attendant today. Actually, we will be in route to Denver, so if you were not planning to go there, now would be a good time to get off the plane."
I breathe a sigh of relief as Annamarie continues: "Safety is important to us so please take out the safety card in front of you and acquaint yourself with it. Come on everybody, take out those brochures and wave them in the air!"
Seventy percent of the passengers chuckle and do as they are told, 20 percent aren't awake yet, and the other 10 percent are sourpusses.
"In the event that we mistakenly land in a body of water, a decision must be made. You can either pray and swim like crazy, or use your seat as a flotation device."
About half of the 20 percent start to emerge from their stupor. "We will be serving breakfast in flight this morning. On the menu I have eggs Benedict and fruit crepes - not really, but they sound good to me. However, the flight attendants will be offering you a choice of an omelet or cold cereal."
By now, even a few of the sourpusses are venturing a smile. Thanks for an enjoyable flight, Annamarie. And thank God for flight attendants who are passionate about their jobs!
Monday, November 11, 2002
Featuring video stories about countries and cultures rarely seen on American TV, this PBS companion site offers a deeper understanding of "globalization." Video journalists document clashing values and societal changes that happen both too fast and too slowly in less explored corners of the world. In addition to video, the site features a wealth of articles, interviews, factoids, historical analysis, timelines, and links to help viewers understand different perspectives. Follow a Romanian expat's return to his old haunts in the land of Dracula. Watch how Internet access affects children in India, and see what happens when TV comes to the remote kingdom of Bhutan. Learn about international weapons dealers in Sierra Leone, and hear about a multinational consortium leasing the rain in Bolivia. Explore the site by place or story -- either way, you'll find these powerful tales help make the world a smaller place.
This site illustrates what happens when good buildings go bad. Sure, the site is the demolition industry's "worldwide source for news and information on building implosions, blowdowns and all other types of structural blasting projects." In that respect, it accomplishes its goal of providing an informational resource for professionals. But in addition to those worthy pursuits, the explosive content provides an entertaining forum for those of us who don't know the difference between dynamite and RDX. The Photos section features demolitions of sports stadiums, public housing developments, hotels, and more, while Blasts from the Past chronicles unique and challenging projects from around the world. If you're looking for more action than a still photo can provide, check out the Cinema Explosif', a collection of the "finest in explosive cinematic adventures." Because when it comes down to it, who doesn't like to watch a good implosion?
Monday, October 21, 2002
Miracle of the Stray E-mail
By Barbara Baumgardner
September 11, 2001. I watched in horror as the World Trade Center towers were erased from the skyline of New York City. Glued to the television, I felt deep sorrow for the families of thousands who would be grieving intensely. There was no warning, no good-byes and for most, no bodies to bury. There was only stark horror and lives forever changed.
I so regretted that my book, A Passage through Grief, had gone out of print in December. It could have helped in this desperate time of need. As a hospice and church volunteer, that book had been my text and guide in leading grief support groups. It offered encouragement and hope. Now, the people of New York City needed both.
Before the sun went down on that horrible day, God began laying a burden on my heart too big to ignore. I felt he wanted me to send 10,000 copies of my out-of-print book to the grieving survivors. Incredible, in place of any doubts, I felt excited and empowered by the task.
I told no one until the following Sunday, when I shared my plan with Pastor Syd. He was supportive but questioned how I would distribute the books once they were delivered to New York. All I could answer was, "If God gets them there, He'll also get them distributed to the right places."
The next morning I called the publisher inquiring about the process of printing and donating 10,000 books. And then I waited. God seemed to be saying, Trust me.
Two days later, I was excited to get an e-mail from the publisher saying they were checking prices on printing the books in paperback instead of the original hard cover. While waiting, I talked to several writers about printing costs and heard prices from $2.80 to $4.00 each. Suddenly my mission became raising thirty to forty thousand dollars. Yet God was still saying, Trust Me.
I spent hours at my computer sending e-mails to everyone I knew, asking them to send e-mails to their friends. I told them there would be no profit or royalties paid to anyone for this project. "I can't do this alone. I need your help," was my plea. I gave them the address of my home church as a fund-receiving center.
I'll have to admit I was counting up any of my own personal resources that could be liquidated to pay for the books if I didn't get donations. I had a small inheritance from my mom who'd died in June. And I could sell my motor home. It surprised me to have such perfect peace about doing that as I continued to pray, "Please God, send the rest of the money."
Meanwhile, Pastor Syd, still concerned about distribution, wrote an e-mail to two men he knew who would be involved in counseling in New York City. He hit the "send" button and went home. When he returned to work the next morning, messages of willingness to help were waiting, but not from the recipients of his e-mail. Upon investigation, he found that he had apparently hit a wrong button and mistakenly sent his message to every Conservative Baptist church in the United States. Messages came all day: We just received your e-mail. . . We would like to get the word out to our congregation. . . Please let us know where we can send contributions. . . We would like to include the address in this week's bulletin. . .
Other messages came: I'm not sure why I got this e-mail but I can share some input with you. I am currently in New York City working as a part of the NW Medical Trauma Counseling Team. I can see that in the coming months there is going to be a need for material such as you are suggesting. I would suggest you look for a release date about a month from now. . . I am praying for you. . . We are planning to take up a special collection for you next Sunday.
Later that day, Pastor Syd sent me an e-mail that said, "Now I seldom get too excited, but today I laughed out loud. God doesn't make a mistake, but He uses human mistakes!"
As the days went by, we saw more and more of God's perfect plan for this project. My publisher generously decided to get involved, pricing the books below their cost. However, I would have to prepay the order before the printing could begin. In faith, I charged it all on my two credit cards. I felt certain that the money would come to pay for them - and it did. Money came from all over America - it came from other writers, friends, my family, churches and strangers who I probably will never meet.
God's inconceivable plan even included a distributor. The day I ordered the books, I received an e-mail from a Baptist church in New Jersey that had received my pastor's stray e-mail. They wrote: "We have a 'Heart for the Nation' fund that may be able to help. Is it possible that we could have books sent directly here. . .? We are fifteen miles from the World Trade Center and have a great need to meet in this area. Thanks."
The books were paid for and shipped on October 29th. The conservative Baptist church in New Jersey went to work distributing 5,000 copies all over the area. Books were given to churches for use in grief support groups and chaplains gave hundreds of them to firefighters and police officers at Ground Zero. The Metro Baptist Association of the Southern Baptist Convention distributed 2,000 books, many of those in Christmas packages given to families of those who died. And the Salvation Army took the remaining 3,000, and used my newly revised leader's guide for training at a weekend conference for grief counselors. I was amazed at God's plan.
Pastor Syd never did get an answer from either of the two men he sent the original e-mail to. But the misrouted e-mail did the job God intended it to do.
By Barbara Baumgardner
September 11, 2001. I watched in horror as the World Trade Center towers were erased from the skyline of New York City. Glued to the television, I felt deep sorrow for the families of thousands who would be grieving intensely. There was no warning, no good-byes and for most, no bodies to bury. There was only stark horror and lives forever changed.
I so regretted that my book, A Passage through Grief, had gone out of print in December. It could have helped in this desperate time of need. As a hospice and church volunteer, that book had been my text and guide in leading grief support groups. It offered encouragement and hope. Now, the people of New York City needed both.
Before the sun went down on that horrible day, God began laying a burden on my heart too big to ignore. I felt he wanted me to send 10,000 copies of my out-of-print book to the grieving survivors. Incredible, in place of any doubts, I felt excited and empowered by the task.
I told no one until the following Sunday, when I shared my plan with Pastor Syd. He was supportive but questioned how I would distribute the books once they were delivered to New York. All I could answer was, "If God gets them there, He'll also get them distributed to the right places."
The next morning I called the publisher inquiring about the process of printing and donating 10,000 books. And then I waited. God seemed to be saying, Trust me.
Two days later, I was excited to get an e-mail from the publisher saying they were checking prices on printing the books in paperback instead of the original hard cover. While waiting, I talked to several writers about printing costs and heard prices from $2.80 to $4.00 each. Suddenly my mission became raising thirty to forty thousand dollars. Yet God was still saying, Trust Me.
I spent hours at my computer sending e-mails to everyone I knew, asking them to send e-mails to their friends. I told them there would be no profit or royalties paid to anyone for this project. "I can't do this alone. I need your help," was my plea. I gave them the address of my home church as a fund-receiving center.
I'll have to admit I was counting up any of my own personal resources that could be liquidated to pay for the books if I didn't get donations. I had a small inheritance from my mom who'd died in June. And I could sell my motor home. It surprised me to have such perfect peace about doing that as I continued to pray, "Please God, send the rest of the money."
Meanwhile, Pastor Syd, still concerned about distribution, wrote an e-mail to two men he knew who would be involved in counseling in New York City. He hit the "send" button and went home. When he returned to work the next morning, messages of willingness to help were waiting, but not from the recipients of his e-mail. Upon investigation, he found that he had apparently hit a wrong button and mistakenly sent his message to every Conservative Baptist church in the United States. Messages came all day: We just received your e-mail. . . We would like to get the word out to our congregation. . . Please let us know where we can send contributions. . . We would like to include the address in this week's bulletin. . .
Other messages came: I'm not sure why I got this e-mail but I can share some input with you. I am currently in New York City working as a part of the NW Medical Trauma Counseling Team. I can see that in the coming months there is going to be a need for material such as you are suggesting. I would suggest you look for a release date about a month from now. . . I am praying for you. . . We are planning to take up a special collection for you next Sunday.
Later that day, Pastor Syd sent me an e-mail that said, "Now I seldom get too excited, but today I laughed out loud. God doesn't make a mistake, but He uses human mistakes!"
As the days went by, we saw more and more of God's perfect plan for this project. My publisher generously decided to get involved, pricing the books below their cost. However, I would have to prepay the order before the printing could begin. In faith, I charged it all on my two credit cards. I felt certain that the money would come to pay for them - and it did. Money came from all over America - it came from other writers, friends, my family, churches and strangers who I probably will never meet.
God's inconceivable plan even included a distributor. The day I ordered the books, I received an e-mail from a Baptist church in New Jersey that had received my pastor's stray e-mail. They wrote: "We have a 'Heart for the Nation' fund that may be able to help. Is it possible that we could have books sent directly here. . .? We are fifteen miles from the World Trade Center and have a great need to meet in this area. Thanks."
The books were paid for and shipped on October 29th. The conservative Baptist church in New Jersey went to work distributing 5,000 copies all over the area. Books were given to churches for use in grief support groups and chaplains gave hundreds of them to firefighters and police officers at Ground Zero. The Metro Baptist Association of the Southern Baptist Convention distributed 2,000 books, many of those in Christmas packages given to families of those who died. And the Salvation Army took the remaining 3,000, and used my newly revised leader's guide for training at a weekend conference for grief counselors. I was amazed at God's plan.
Pastor Syd never did get an answer from either of the two men he sent the original e-mail to. But the misrouted e-mail did the job God intended it to do.
Tuesday, August 20, 2002
The Most Beautiful Flower
By Cheryl L. Costello-Forshey
The park bench was deserted as I sat down to read
Beneath the long, straggly branches of an old willow tree.
Disillusioned by life with good reason to frown,
For the world was intent on dragging me down.
And if that weren't enough to ruin my day,
A young boy out of breath approached me, all tired from
play.
He stood right before me with his head tilted down
And said with great excitement, "Look what I found!"
In his hand was a flower, and what a pitiful sight,
With its petals all worn - not enough rain, or too little light.
Wanting him to take his dead flower and go off to play,
I faked a small smile and then shifted away.
But instead of retreating he sat next to my side
And placed the flower to his nose and declared with
overacted surprise,
"It sure smells pretty and it's beautiful, too.
"That's why I picked it; here, it's for you."
The weed before me was dying or dead.
Not vibrant of colors, orange, yellow or red.
But I knew I must take it, or he might never leave.
So I reached for the flower, and replied, "Just what I need."
But instead of him placing the flower in my hand,
He held it midair without reason or plan.
It was then that I noticed for the very first time
That weed-toting boy could not see: he was blind.
I heard my voice quiver, tears shone like the sun
As I thanked him for picking the very best one.
"You're welcome," he smiled, and then ran off to play,
Unaware of the impact he'd had on my day.
I sat there and wondered how he managed to see
A self-pitying woman beneath an old willow tree.
How did he know of my self-indulged plight?
Perhaps from his heart, he'd been blessed with true sight.
Through the eyes of a blind child, at last I could see
The problem was not with the world; the problem was me.
And for all of those times I myself had been blind,
I vowed to see the beauty in life, and appreciate every
second that's mine.
And then I held that wilted flower up to my nose
And breathed in the fragrance of a beautiful rose
And smiled as I watched that young boy, another weed in
his hand
About to change the life of an unsuspecting old man.
By Cheryl L. Costello-Forshey
The park bench was deserted as I sat down to read
Beneath the long, straggly branches of an old willow tree.
Disillusioned by life with good reason to frown,
For the world was intent on dragging me down.
And if that weren't enough to ruin my day,
A young boy out of breath approached me, all tired from
play.
He stood right before me with his head tilted down
And said with great excitement, "Look what I found!"
In his hand was a flower, and what a pitiful sight,
With its petals all worn - not enough rain, or too little light.
Wanting him to take his dead flower and go off to play,
I faked a small smile and then shifted away.
But instead of retreating he sat next to my side
And placed the flower to his nose and declared with
overacted surprise,
"It sure smells pretty and it's beautiful, too.
"That's why I picked it; here, it's for you."
The weed before me was dying or dead.
Not vibrant of colors, orange, yellow or red.
But I knew I must take it, or he might never leave.
So I reached for the flower, and replied, "Just what I need."
But instead of him placing the flower in my hand,
He held it midair without reason or plan.
It was then that I noticed for the very first time
That weed-toting boy could not see: he was blind.
I heard my voice quiver, tears shone like the sun
As I thanked him for picking the very best one.
"You're welcome," he smiled, and then ran off to play,
Unaware of the impact he'd had on my day.
I sat there and wondered how he managed to see
A self-pitying woman beneath an old willow tree.
How did he know of my self-indulged plight?
Perhaps from his heart, he'd been blessed with true sight.
Through the eyes of a blind child, at last I could see
The problem was not with the world; the problem was me.
And for all of those times I myself had been blind,
I vowed to see the beauty in life, and appreciate every
second that's mine.
And then I held that wilted flower up to my nose
And breathed in the fragrance of a beautiful rose
And smiled as I watched that young boy, another weed in
his hand
About to change the life of an unsuspecting old man.
Thursday, July 25, 2002
A Typical Day
By Brian Totzke
As a high-school teacher, I have understandably become concerned not just about the future of our profession but the public perception of it as well. I decided recently, therefore, to take advantage of the so-called "spare" time that I have in my work day to take a leisurely stroll around the building and see for myself just what goes on outside my own classroom.
The first door I passed was that of a math teacher who was providing individual attention to a student who was quite obviously having some difficulty. The student's face said it all: frustration, confusion, quiet desperation. The teacher remained upbeat, offering support and encouragement.
"Let's try again, but we'll look at it from a slightly different point of view," she said and proceeded to erase the chalkboard in search of a better solution.
Further down the hall, I came across the doorway of one of our history teachers. As I paused to eavesdrop, I witnessed a large semicircle of enthusiastic students engaged in a lively debate regarding current Canadian events and issues. The teacher chose to take somewhat of a back-seat role, entering the fray only occasionally to pose a rhetorical question or to gently steer the conversation back toward the task at hand. They switched to role-playing and smaller groups of students chose to express the viewpoints of various provinces. The debate grew louder and more intense. The teacher smiled and stepped in to referee.
Passing the gym balcony, I looked down to see a physical education teacher working with a group of boys on a basketball passing drill.
"Pass and cut away!" he shouted. "Set a screen. Hit the open man."
Suddenly there was break in the action.
"Hold on, guys," he said. "Do you guys really understand why we're doing this drill?"
A mixture of blank stares and shrugged shoulders provided the answer, so he proceeded to take a deep breath and explain not only the purpose of the drill, but exactly how it fit into the grand scheme of offense and team play. A few nods of understanding and the group returned to its task with renewed vigor.
The next stop on my journey was the open door of a science lab where, again, a flurry of activity was taking place. I watched intently as a group of four students explained and demonstrated the nature and design of a scientific invention they had created. As they took turns regaling their small but attentive audience about the unique features of their project, a teacher was nearby, busy video-taping their entire presentation.
As I was leaving, I heard her say, "Okay, let's move the television over here and see how you did."
Finally, on the way back to my room, I couldn't help but investigate the roar coming from down the hall. Music blaring, feet stomping, instructions straining to be heard above the din. Dancers of every shape and size were moving in seemingly random directions, although their various destinations were obviously quite well-rehearsed. Good things were happening here: hard work, sweat, intense concentration. And then, a mistake. One of the dancers offered an explanation, which led to a discussion among several of them. The dance teacher intervened and facilitated a resolution. A half-hearted plea by one of the students for a quick break fell on deaf ears.
"We'll have our break when we get this part right," she called out. A brief pep talk imploring them to push themselves just a little further seemed to create some new energy, and once again the place was hopping. "Now, from the top..."
My excursion complete, I returned to my corner of the school and reflected on what I had observed. Nothing surprising really. It was essentially what I had expected to find: goal-setting, problem-solving, teamwork, critical analysis, debate, discussion. In short, learning.
The only thing that you may have found surprising, but I didn't, was that when I began my journey, the regular school day had already ended an hour before.
By Brian Totzke
As a high-school teacher, I have understandably become concerned not just about the future of our profession but the public perception of it as well. I decided recently, therefore, to take advantage of the so-called "spare" time that I have in my work day to take a leisurely stroll around the building and see for myself just what goes on outside my own classroom.
The first door I passed was that of a math teacher who was providing individual attention to a student who was quite obviously having some difficulty. The student's face said it all: frustration, confusion, quiet desperation. The teacher remained upbeat, offering support and encouragement.
"Let's try again, but we'll look at it from a slightly different point of view," she said and proceeded to erase the chalkboard in search of a better solution.
Further down the hall, I came across the doorway of one of our history teachers. As I paused to eavesdrop, I witnessed a large semicircle of enthusiastic students engaged in a lively debate regarding current Canadian events and issues. The teacher chose to take somewhat of a back-seat role, entering the fray only occasionally to pose a rhetorical question or to gently steer the conversation back toward the task at hand. They switched to role-playing and smaller groups of students chose to express the viewpoints of various provinces. The debate grew louder and more intense. The teacher smiled and stepped in to referee.
Passing the gym balcony, I looked down to see a physical education teacher working with a group of boys on a basketball passing drill.
"Pass and cut away!" he shouted. "Set a screen. Hit the open man."
Suddenly there was break in the action.
"Hold on, guys," he said. "Do you guys really understand why we're doing this drill?"
A mixture of blank stares and shrugged shoulders provided the answer, so he proceeded to take a deep breath and explain not only the purpose of the drill, but exactly how it fit into the grand scheme of offense and team play. A few nods of understanding and the group returned to its task with renewed vigor.
The next stop on my journey was the open door of a science lab where, again, a flurry of activity was taking place. I watched intently as a group of four students explained and demonstrated the nature and design of a scientific invention they had created. As they took turns regaling their small but attentive audience about the unique features of their project, a teacher was nearby, busy video-taping their entire presentation.
As I was leaving, I heard her say, "Okay, let's move the television over here and see how you did."
Finally, on the way back to my room, I couldn't help but investigate the roar coming from down the hall. Music blaring, feet stomping, instructions straining to be heard above the din. Dancers of every shape and size were moving in seemingly random directions, although their various destinations were obviously quite well-rehearsed. Good things were happening here: hard work, sweat, intense concentration. And then, a mistake. One of the dancers offered an explanation, which led to a discussion among several of them. The dance teacher intervened and facilitated a resolution. A half-hearted plea by one of the students for a quick break fell on deaf ears.
"We'll have our break when we get this part right," she called out. A brief pep talk imploring them to push themselves just a little further seemed to create some new energy, and once again the place was hopping. "Now, from the top..."
My excursion complete, I returned to my corner of the school and reflected on what I had observed. Nothing surprising really. It was essentially what I had expected to find: goal-setting, problem-solving, teamwork, critical analysis, debate, discussion. In short, learning.
The only thing that you may have found surprising, but I didn't, was that when I began my journey, the regular school day had already ended an hour before.
Wednesday, June 19, 2002
> GARY : I don't think I deserve a zero on this
>test.
> TEACHER: I agree, but it's the lowest mark I can
>give you.
> MOTHER : Why did you get such a low mark on that
>test?
> JUNIOR : Because of absence.
> MOTHER : You mean you were absent on the day of
>the test?
> JUNIOR : No, but the kid who sits next to me was.
> TEACHER: If you received $10 from 10 people, what
>would you get?
> SASHA: A new bike
>test.
> TEACHER: I agree, but it's the lowest mark I can
>give you.
> MOTHER : Why did you get such a low mark on that
>test?
> JUNIOR : Because of absence.
> MOTHER : You mean you were absent on the day of
>the test?
> JUNIOR : No, but the kid who sits next to me was.
> TEACHER: If you received $10 from 10 people, what
>would you get?
> SASHA: A new bike
> TEACHER: How old were you on your last
> birthday?
> STUDENT: Seven.
> TEACHER: How old will you be on your next
> birthday?
> STUDENT: Nine.
> TEACHER: That's impossible.
> STUDENT: No, it isn't, Teacher. I'm eight
> today.
> TEACHER: Willy, name one important thing we have
>today that we
>didn't haveten years ago.
> WILLY : Me!
> SUBSTITUTE TEACHER: Are you chewing gum?
> BILLY : No, I'm Billy Anderson
> birthday?
> STUDENT: Seven.
> TEACHER: How old will you be on your next
> birthday?
> STUDENT: Nine.
> TEACHER: That's impossible.
> STUDENT: No, it isn't, Teacher. I'm eight
> today.
> TEACHER: Willy, name one important thing we have
>today that we
>didn't haveten years ago.
> WILLY : Me!
> SUBSTITUTE TEACHER: Are you chewing gum?
> BILLY : No, I'm Billy Anderson
Tuesday, May 28, 2002
The Millionaire
By William G. Wood
Submitted by Jane Madison
While driving home from work one day
My total wealth I did survey
My mortgaged home and ancient car
A bank account not up to par
Furniture from which I fear
We may not get another year
The TV set with stamp-size screen
Carpets with that well-worn sheen
Two suits of clothes not quite threadbare
"All-purpose" shoes that need repair
Sadly then I saw my plight
After twenty years of toil and flight
My Treasure Chest was somewhat small
With house and car and clothes and all
On I drove trance-like I fear
When suddenly my house was near
"Your daddy's home!" I heard her cry
As nine pairs of feet went rushing by
And smothered in arms and curly hair
I knew that I was a millionaire!
By William G. Wood
Submitted by Jane Madison
While driving home from work one day
My total wealth I did survey
My mortgaged home and ancient car
A bank account not up to par
Furniture from which I fear
We may not get another year
The TV set with stamp-size screen
Carpets with that well-worn sheen
Two suits of clothes not quite threadbare
"All-purpose" shoes that need repair
Sadly then I saw my plight
After twenty years of toil and flight
My Treasure Chest was somewhat small
With house and car and clothes and all
On I drove trance-like I fear
When suddenly my house was near
"Your daddy's home!" I heard her cry
As nine pairs of feet went rushing by
And smothered in arms and curly hair
I knew that I was a millionaire!
Wednesday, April 24, 2002
Monday, April 15, 2002
Nature has been for me, for as long as I remember, a source of solace, inspiration, adventure, and delight; a home, a teacher, a companion. -- Lorraine Anderson
Nature always tends to act in the simplest way. -- Bernoulli
Whenever man comes up with a better mousetrap, nature immediately comes up with a better mouse. -- James Carswell
Nothing is more beautiful than the loveliness of the woods before sunrise. -- George Washington Carver
Everything in Nature contains all the powers of Nature. Everything is made of hidden stuff. -- Ralph Waldo Emerson
The best remedy for those who are afraid, lonely or unhappy is to go outside, somewhere where they can be quiet, alone with the heavens, nature and God. Because only then does one feel that all is as it should be and that God wishes to see people happy, amidst the simple beauty of nature. As long as this exists, and it certainly always will, I know that then there will always be comfort for every sorrow, whatever the circumstances may be. And I firmly believe that nature brings solace in all troubles. -- Anne Frank
Nature is a collective idea, and, though its essence exist in each individual of the species, can never in its perfection inhabit a single object. -- Henry Fuseli
Nature goes her own way and all that to us seems an exception is really according to order. -- Johann Wolfgang von Goethe
Nature uses as little as possible of anything. -- Johannes Kepler
The law of nature is the strictest expression of necessity. -- Molescholte
Man is a complex being; he makes the deserts bloom and lakes die. -- Gil Stern
Nature always tends to act in the simplest way. -- Bernoulli
Whenever man comes up with a better mousetrap, nature immediately comes up with a better mouse. -- James Carswell
Nothing is more beautiful than the loveliness of the woods before sunrise. -- George Washington Carver
Everything in Nature contains all the powers of Nature. Everything is made of hidden stuff. -- Ralph Waldo Emerson
The best remedy for those who are afraid, lonely or unhappy is to go outside, somewhere where they can be quiet, alone with the heavens, nature and God. Because only then does one feel that all is as it should be and that God wishes to see people happy, amidst the simple beauty of nature. As long as this exists, and it certainly always will, I know that then there will always be comfort for every sorrow, whatever the circumstances may be. And I firmly believe that nature brings solace in all troubles. -- Anne Frank
Nature is a collective idea, and, though its essence exist in each individual of the species, can never in its perfection inhabit a single object. -- Henry Fuseli
Nature goes her own way and all that to us seems an exception is really according to order. -- Johann Wolfgang von Goethe
Nature uses as little as possible of anything. -- Johannes Kepler
The law of nature is the strictest expression of necessity. -- Molescholte
Man is a complex being; he makes the deserts bloom and lakes die. -- Gil Stern