The Legend of the Starfish

"The Legend of the Starfish"
Author Unknown

"A vacationing businessman was walking along a beach when he saw a young boy. Along the shore were many starfish that had been washed up by the tide and were sure to die before the tide returned. The boy was walking slowly along the shore and occasionally reached down and tossed a beached starfish back into the ocean.

The businessman, hoping to teach the boy a little lesson in common sense, walked up to the boy and said, “I have been watching what you are doing, son. You have a good heart, and I know you mean well, but do you realize how many beaches there are around here and how many starfish are dying on every beach every day. Surely such an industrious and kind hearted boy such as yourself could find something better to do with your time. Do you really think that what you are doing is going to make a difference?”

The boy looked up at the man, and then he looked down at a starfish by his feet. He picked up the starfish, and as he gently tossed it back into the ocean, he said, “It makes a difference to that one.”

Christmas Past

I'm sitting here this evening remembering the Christmas seasons of my childhood.  In this world where most folks feel as though they must shop until they drop, it surprises me that I can recall very few gifts of Christmas past.  I remember mostly other things.

I remember when I was very small, while my family lived in St. Paul with my Grandmother, my Dad would take Mother and me downtown to see the Christmas displays in the store windows.  They were a wonder.  There were scenes set up in the windows where Santa filled stockings or flew in his sleigh over the rooftops or the elves hammered and sawed in the North Pole workshop making toys.  These were mechanical moving pieces, as this was waaay before computers were used.  There were beautifully decorated Christmas trees and all sorts of wondrous things to see.  It was all magical to a child.

When I was older, living in Willmar, Dad would pile the family into the car and take us on a drive around town to see all of the houses decorated with Christmas lights.  We always drove through a neighborhood that Dad called "Pill Hill," because a number of doctors lived there and that neighborhood always had some of the best light displays.  I still enjoy seeing all the decorated houses this time of year.

Sometime during the holidays we always made molasses taffy.  Dad would cook it up on the stove, pour it onto a buttered cookie sheet and set it out on the porch to cool, and then each of us would grab some and pull and pull and pull until it was just right.  We cut the taffy ropes into pieces and wrapped them in waxed paper.  Then if we were lucky, Dad would make his "World Famous Peanut Brittle."  I swear that it was so much better tasting than any other.  I miss Dad and his peanut brittle especially now.

Mom made tons of Christmas cookies - gingerbread men, red and white candy canes with real crushed peppermint candy sprinkled on top, date filled cookies and always, sugar cookie cut-outs decorated with red and green sugar.  She made divinity and old fashioned fudge, enlisting me to beat the fudge with a spoon until it was just right.  We made popcorn balls, wrapped them in colored cellophane and tied them with ribbon, for treats on Christmas Day with relatives.  And then there was the smell of baking bread as Mom made buns and cinnamon rolls for our dinner with aunts, uncles and cousins on Christmas Day.

We always had a real Christmas tree, with the exception of that unfortunate year when Dad brought home this silver, shiny aluminum tree that looked like rolls of tin foil had exploded.  There was the smell of pine in the house, what with the tree and Mother's decorating every available space with pine boughs and shiny Christmas balls and red velvet ribbons.  The tree had some of the old large-sized lights and some lights made to look sort of like candles, but when they heated up a bit, liquid inside the glass tubes would bubble.  There were beautiful, shiny glass balls and tons of tinsel.  I think the tinsel was to mask some of the bare spots in the tree, but I loved it.

Dad always read the Christmas story from the Bible before we opened gifts on Christmas Eve.  He and Mother wanted to be sure that we children understood just what it was that we were celebrating.  I sometimes feel that the reason for our Christmas season has been forgotten, what with news reports about how many of millions of dollars have been spent on holiday shopping, advertisements of some stores staying open for the entire 48 hours before Christmas in order to rake in more money, and the TV commercial that shows people dancing through a mall, shopping bags in hand!  I guess that the lesson that my parents wanted me to learn was, indeed, learned.  For it is the memories of family and love and and the shared moments that have nothing to do with gifts, that are uppermost in my mind this Christmas Eve.

I pray that my grandchildren, when they reach my age, will remember less about whatever gadget or toy is under their Christmas trees and more about family being together and enjoying each others company.  David has taken his wife and children to spend Christmas Eve with his Grandmother, and I am so glad that he did.  I have many good memories of Christmas spent with her and I am happy that his children will also have those memories.  For no present can compare with the memories made with family.

I wish you all a very Merry Christmas with the hope that you all make good and lasting memories with your families, and wish for nothing but good things for you throughout this coming year.

Cousin Curt

I received word this morning of the death of my cousin, Curt Matheny.  The news was not unexpected, for he had been very ill for quite some time, but no matter how prepared we think we are, the loss of a loved one still hurts.

I had known Curt my entire life.  He was just a few years older than me, and we played together as children.  I remember as a small girl, playing in his playhouse in the woods on his parent's farm in northern Minnesota.  I think his father must have built it for him out of pine slabs, and there was furniture in it that was made from logs.  I always thought how lucky he was to have such a wonderful place to play.

We stayed in touch in our younger years through letters, and I would see him on our family trips to visit relatives, at family reunions and more often when I lived in northern Minnesota for a number of years, for it was his at his family home that I liked to spend time.  Curt had a talent for woodworking and made some beautiful cabinets and furniture.  He made his living this way for many years.

I guess I am feeling a bit melancholy today.  Also a bit nostalgic.  It seems that so many of my father's family have gone on to their reward and there are so few of us left now.  I understand that this is the natural order of things, but that doesn't make it any easier.

Good-bye Curt.  I treasure the memories.

Memory is a Wonderful Thing - When it Works

So, this morning I get ready to leave my apartment and head downstairs to see what wonderful advertising junk mail is in my mailbox.  The box is more than likely full to overflowing by now, as I stayed in all day yesterday and didn't check the mail.  No wonder my mailman is so grouchy.  I would be, too, if I had to haul around all of those sale fliers and catalogs this time of year.  The same ones that I haul out with my trash.

Anyway, I reached into the little glass bowl that sits on the buffet next to my apartment door.  The bowl that holds quarters for the washers and dryers, a stray cough drop or two, some miscellaneous odds and ends and most importantly, my keys.

I always drop my keys in the bowl when I return home.  Always.  Well, almost always.

I reached in and.........no keys.

The search was on.  Turned the bedroom upside down.  No keys.  Shoveled various and assorted papers and, yes, junk off of my desk top.  No keys.  Did I drop them in the one of the desk drawers?  Nope.  Not there.  Checked cushions on the couch and chairs.  Nary a key was to be seen.  Nowhere in the living room did I find them.  Even checked the little doggie bed that Lily the Yorkie snoozes in.  She loves to find a scrap of paper or a ball of yarn or a quilt piece that is within her reach and haul it to her bed, where she hides it under a toy or her blanket.  Nothing there except three toys, a very old used bone, three pieces of kibble and a doggie treat she must have been saving for later.

Next was the kitchen.  Not on top of the fridge (Good Lord - I really need to climb up on a chair and clean that!)  Not under the table.  Not behind the buffet.  Not in the freezer.  Nowhere.

So I poured a cup of coffee and sat down.  There is no problem that can't be solved with a good cup of coffee.  Now, what did I do the day before yesterday, which was the last time I saw my keys.  I walked to the store three blocks away and bought dog food.  Had the keys when I got back.  Then I took the dogs out for some air.  Jesse walked and loved it.  Lily didn't.  Typical dog outing - walk one and carry the most stubborn one.  Unlocked my door with the keys.  Then I did a couple loads of laundry.

That's it!

Yep.  There they were.  Inside the pocket of the pants I put in the laundry basket that evening.

Now I understand why ladies of my vintage wear their glasses on a chain around their necks.  It has come full circle.  I used to,  more years ago than I care to think about, have to wear mittens that were attached to a string, to keep from losing one.  Never lost two - always one.  Wonder if the string thing works for keys.

Don't Tick Us Off

I am in the process of updating my list of blogs that I enjoy.  When I first started this blog, I was all about quilting, but since that time my priorities and interests have changed somewhat, so within the next couple of days I will be deleting those blogs that I no longer read and adding many that I do.

One of the blogs that I enjoy is "Coffee with the Hermit"

This morning he had a post that had me giggling like a schoolgirl, particularly since I had just this past week had conversations with the Social Security Administration and the people at Medicare, trying to find out why money had been deducted from my check for the insurance, while at the same time I was not listed on the rolls of the insured through Medicare.  It was an interesting battle, just getting to talk to someone who might possibly know the reasons for this oversight.  I really wish I had read the following before starting that journey of telephone insanity!

Jim from "Coffee with the Hermit" has kindly given me permission to post this letter, which is a classic.

"Shown below, is an actual letter was sent to a bank by an 86 year old woman. The bank manager thought it amusing enough to have it published in the New York Times.

Dear Sir:
I am writing to thank you for bouncing my check with which I endeavoured to pay my plumber last month.

By my calculations, three nanoseconds must have elapsed between his presenting the check and the arrival in my account of the funds needed to honour it.

I refer, of course, to the automatic monthly deposit of my entire pension, an arrangement which, I admit, has been in place for only eight years.

You are to be commended for seizing that brief window of opportunity, and also for debiting my account $30 by way of penalty for the inconvenience caused to your bank.

My thankfulness springs from the manner in which this incident has caused me to rethink my errant financial ways. I noticed that whereas I personally answer your telephone calls and letters, --- when I try to contact you, I am confronted by the impersonal, overcharging, pre-recorded, faceless entity which your bank has become.

From now on, I, like you, choose only to deal with a flesh-and-blood person.

My mortgage and loan repayments will therefore and hereafter no longer be automatic, but will arrive at your bank, by check, addressed personally and confidentially to an employee at your bank whom you must nominate.

Be aware that it is an OFFENSE under the Postal Regulations for any other person to open such an envelope.

Please find attached an Application Contact which I require your chosen employee to complete.

I am sorry it runs to eight pages, but in order that I know as much about him or her as your bank knows about me, there is no alternative.

Please note that all copies of his or her medical history must be countersigned by a Notary Public, and the mandatory details of his/her financial situation (income, debts, assets and liabilities) must be accompanied by documented proof.

In due course, at MY convenience, I will issue your employee with a PIN number which he/she must quote in dealings with me.

I regret that it cannot be shorter than 28 digits but, again, I have modelled it on the number of button presses required of me to access my account balance on your phone bank service.

As they say, imitation is the sincerest form of flattery.

Let me level the playing field even further. When you call me, press buttons as follows:

IMMEDIATELY AFTER DIALLING, PRESS THE STAR (*) BUTTON FOR ENGLISH

#1. To make an appointment to see me.

#2. To query a missing payment.

#3. To transfer the call to my living room in case I am there.

#4 To transfer the call to my bedroom in case I am sleeping.

#5. To transfer the call to my toilet in case I am attending to nature.

#6. To transfer the call to my mobile phone if I am not at home.

#7. To leave a message on my computer, a password to access my computer is required.
Password will be communicated to you at a later date to that Authorized Contact mentioned earlier.

#8. To return to the main menu and to listen to options 1 through 9.

#9. To make a general complaint or inquiry.

The contact will then be put on hold, pending the attention of my automated answering service.

#10. This is a second reminder to press* for English.

While this may, on occasion, involve a lengthy wait, uplifting music will play for the duration of the call.

Regrettably, but again following your example, I must also levy an establishment fee to cover the setting up of this new arrangement.

May I wish you a happy, if ever so slightly less prosperous New Year?

Your Humble Client

PS: Don't make old people mad. We don't like being old in the first place, so it doesn't take much to tick us off."

I love it!

In Praise of Front Porches

Front porches seem to be a thing of the past.  I notice that many of the older homes in the town where I live do, indeed, have front porches.  Most in the newer developments do not.  There may be a small covered area by the front door, but not a real front porch.  A front porch, to be a really truly front porch, needs to cover the entire front of the house and perhaps extend around to one side.

My Grandma Paul's house in St. Paul had a front porch across the front of her house and extending a little ways around one side.  I played there often as a child.  It was the one place I could play and pretty much stay out of trouble.  It was when I left the porch that bad things happened, like being enticed by neighbor kids, older than my four years, to sliding down a two by eight board that they had propped up on the fence.  Sliding down on my belly resulted in a visit to the hospital to have a large sliver of wood removed from the area of my waist.  Should have stayed on the porch.

The first house my family lived in after moving to Willmar had a front porch.  The landlady who lived in the downstairs of the house allowed my sister and I to play on the porch.  One winter while we lived there, Willmar was blanketed by a huge snow storm.  My sister, who was not much older than a toddler at the time, walked off the edge of the porch into the deep snow and promptly disappeared from sight.  Good thing my Dad was right there to haul her out.  Should have stayed on the porch.

The next house in Willmar where we lived had a kind of half front porch.  Wasn't much of a porch.  But then, it wasn't much of a house, being very small.  But in the summer there were vines growing up wire that Dad strung from the roof to the bottom of the porch rail, which made the front porch cool and kind of dark and a really good place to play on hot summer days.

The best front porch of all the houses I lived in as a child was the front porch of the house on the farm.  It was a wonderful porch that extended all the way across the front of the house.  It was screened in to keep the bugs out.  Dad had dragged an old vinyl covered couch that folded down into a bed, out to the porch.  As a young kid I spent many a summer night sleeping on that old couch out on the porch.

From the porch we could see across the fields and Dad and I would stand there, protected from the weather, and watch the black summer storm clouds roll across the sky.  I still like to watch the clouds on a stormy day.

There was an old kitchen table and some chairs on the porch, and in the summer when we had weekend company, Mom would make pitchers of real lemonade and serve them with gingersnaps, out on the porch where it was cool and the breeze felt good out of the heat of the sun.

I think that we need more front porches.  For with a good front porch comes the art of just sitting and watching the world go by.  Or watching clouds roll in.  Or just sitting.  And thinking.  And remembering.  And dreaming.  Which is always good for the soul.

Venison

My phone rang last evening.  David called to tell me to check my email as he had sent me a picture.

He also said that there was a venison roast or two in my future.

Woo Hoo!