Dusty, the Wonder Dog By Mary Saracino When I was a kid, my godparents, Uncle Nell and Aunt Frances, brought me a four-month-old puppy. She was half German shepherd, half collie. As her pink tongue tickled my face with wet licks, it was love at first hug. My family named the puppy Dusty. Although I wanted to make sole claim to her affections, in a family of seven kids, no one lays permanent claim to the family pet. Dusty was our dog, not my dog. We soon realized that she had the patience of Buddha. My baby sister often transformed Dusty's warm fur into a nap-time pillow - falling asleep on the rug. Like a protective mother, Dusty waited - without moving - until my sister woke. Dusty doubled as a school crossing guard, too. Monday through Friday she'd walk us kids two blocks to St. Patrick's Parochial, looking both ways to check for traffic before allowing us to cross the street. We'd wave good-bye as we entered the door, knowing Dusty would be waiting at the school door to claim us at the close of the school day. Of all the contributions Dusty made to our family, one incident stands out far and above all others. Late one night, Dusty rushed to my parents' bedroom. She barked and barked. When she got no response, Dusty raced upstairs to my bedroom and my brothers' bedroom and barked again and again. When she failed to fully wake us, she flew back down the steps and returned to my parents' room. Finally, she got Mom's attention. "What are you doing, Dusty?" Mom snapped, still halfway in dreamland. Dusty persisted. Finally my mother gave in. "Okay, what is it?" Dusty whined and rushed out of Mom's room. Thinking the dog needed to be let out to relieve herself, my mother followed Dusty to the front door. When Mom opened the door to let her out, Dusty tore across the street, not stopping to do her business as my mother had assumed. Then she discovered what Dusty already knew. The house across the street - where my best friend, Marianne, and her family lived - was on fire. All of Dusty's middle-of-the-night craziness had served a purpose: she'd been trying to call for help. My mother alerted the fire department immediately. Soon, the firemen in their trucks roared up the street, squelching the blaze and saving my best friend's family from harm and their home from total ruin. My mother refused to take credit. "It was Dusty," she told the firefighters. "She saved them. Not me." I put my arms around my dog's neck and kissed her square of the tip of her wet nose. "Thank you for saving Marianne," I whispered into Dusty's tan and black ear. "You're the bravest dog I've ever known." Dusty wagged her tail and licked my face. That old familiar rush of puppy love overtook me. I smiled and promised to let her sleep in my bed for the rest of her life. .·:*´¨`*:·..·:*´¨`*:·. *: * Richiele * * *·. .·* `*·-:¦:-*´ ³´`*:»§«:*´`³

August 25 By Gail Valla Before me stood a tall man, about sixty years old. He had a perfect crew cut, even though it was not the current style. He had bright blue eyes and wore a wide smile. He extended his right hand to mine, simultaneously reaching his left hand to my shoulder. It had been the warmest greeting I'd received in over three years. Then he handed me a business card that read "J. Richard Cook" on one side and "Happy Birthday to me - Remember August 25" on the other. I had been startled by his humility because I already knew who he was. The inmates referred to him as their "guardian angel." He was the counselor to the Project Workers at the Plummer Community Corrections Center, a work-release facility. Project Workers are inmates who have a prison sentence but are permitted to serve their sentence at the Center instead of a traditional prison facility. Project Workers are the cooks, maintenance people, groundskeepers, janitors, receptionists, switchboard operators and mail sorters. Project Workers who have their GEDs or their high school diplomas also serve as peer tutors to help others earn theirs. The Plummer Center Project Workers are also involved in community projects, from mowing lawns at churches to clearing snow from city streets and sidewalks. The workers live in a converted house called the Mandatory Building. Their bunk beds are in a crowded bedroom instead of a cell. The building has a kitchen, dining room table, living room furniture and a TV. When the workers' loved ones comes to visit, they may hug them and eat the food prepared especially for them. One worker shared, "As Dr. Cook and I sat and talked, I realized that he knew more about me that I know about myself. As we spoke about my crimes and my shortcomings, truth was the only option. There was no room for excuses or blaming others. He listened intently without judging or pitying me." Dr. Cook would ask a worker, "Did you use your incarceration time wisely?" Then he'd briefly review their various responsibilities and how they were responsible to be on-call twenty-four hours a day. He'd say, "Your integrity must be beyond reproach. Nothing less will be tolerated." After Dr. Cook met with a worker, he'd stand up, shake their hand and say, "Doctor, nice talking with you." He called people Doctor when he forgot their names. In spite of that, he still left the workers feeling more positive about themselves. Dr. Cook escorted the workers to funerals, weddings, hospitals to visit a family member or to a train station when it was time to go home. I'd watch him take them through the prison gates. He could have used a state-owned car, but I knew he didn't, because the license plate read "AUG 25." Dr. Richard Cook not only gave of his car, but he gave of himself. He was always there to guide the workers. He was a mentor, friend and critic - even if it hurt. He was a man with a colorful sense of humor. He had a basement full of treasures he stored for the inmates until their release and a phone bill lined with collect calls. What did this man expect in return? Birthday cards, no matter whether they were from a store, homemade or from a computer. It didn't matter, but he only wanted one signature per card. He was even known to buy a box of cards and hand them out. He received cards from inmates released years before. Many had moved to other states and new successful lives. Dick Cook loved his birthday and everyone knew it. On October 15, 1997, the Earth stood still. Our most beloved Dr. J. Richard Cook passed away in the place he loved - the Plummer Center's Mandatory Building - surrounded by those he loved and those who loved him. The Mandatory Building was renamed. The Cook Building and a tree now stand there in his honor. People still send birthday cards every year to our facility on August 25, even though they know Dr. Cook is no longer physically here. His spirit is alive and well. Thank you, Dr. Cook, and happy birthday. .·:*´¨`*:·..·:*´¨`*:·. *: * Richiele * * *·. .·* `*·-:¦:-*´ ³´`*:»§«:*´`³

THE INHERITANCE We converged from far distances, some from across the wide Pacific Ocean, each enduring the hardships of travel to this remote island in the south of the country. But, we all did it willingly to say a final adieu to the world's greatest heroine: Our mom. After we had put our mom to rest and took care of countless details, we settled around a big brown milk box. What would it be like inside, we wondered. My father absented himself because he knew mom specifically left the box for us. It was a precious moment. With our throats dry and our eyes full of unshed tears, we carefully opened it. To be honest, we all thought mom had left us a windfall. We knew she had several stock certificates, money, and jewelry. But what we saw were faded photographs, Christmas, birthday and valentine cards, and a few documents tied with a blue ribbon -- all crammed inside that box. There were also letters for each of us, as she had promised. By the time we finished going through everything, we realized the box held more than all the treasures of the world put together. It held a fortune that money could never purchase. It held the finest inheritance anyone could ever leave us: the gift of love and self-sacrifice. The faded photographs were of us, in the small house of our childhood. Oh, how happy we looked in those humble surroundings. Those pictures spoke volumes of her never-ending sacrifices as a parent coping with five children, with only the modest remittances from our father who worked far away. We never had much, but I distinctly remember that we were happy. Her jewelry was simple and nothing extravagant or very expensive. What made them priceless were the tags each had on them. The girls knew what they got and so did our brothers. We could tell that she spent a lot of time dividing them fairly -- she always was a fair mother. But more than anything, the simplicity of her ornaments bespoke of her choice to feed and educate us, rather than decorate herself. As for her money, there was a letter attached to some passbooks and instructions with what to do with her money. Most of it was to pay off funeral expenses. She didn't want us to have to pay for anything. She didn't leave us any loans. The stock certificates were there all right -- duly signed and transferred to her nine grandchildren. But the most precious things were our diplomas and graduation pictures that she treasured. She had bequeathed to us an indestructible weapon with which to face the world -- a legacy with a lifetime guarantee against ignorance. Going through that treasure chest was an experience that will forever be engraved in our hearts and minds. I don't even remember when we stopped crying. But sometimes through our tears, we laughed at some funny pictures or we read aloud poignant poems from cards or letters. Somehow, we had this wonderful sense of connection. It made us feel like we always belonged together. By the time we finished going through it all, there was something that extended beyond that moment. Everything in that box made us feel cherished. In the end, we once again separated into the far distances of our homes, as the richest people in the world, having learned that the bond that held us together was not just of blood, but of joy and respect in each other's lives. -- Marisol L. Verallo .·:*´¨`*:·..·:*´¨`*:·. *: * Richiele * * *·. .·* `*·-:¦:-*´ ³´`*:»§«:*´`³

PROOF IS IN THE PUDDING! I stood in the aisle of the market for nearly ten minutes trying to make a simple decision about what type of pudding to buy. My life is such that anything with an "instant" label on it grabs my attention. But oh the memories of my Mom making chocolate "cook and serve" pudding. As I stood there in the market, I could see myself as a child waiting by the stove and watching my Mom slowly stir the pudding until it reached that creamy velvet rich texture. I could see her pouring it into the cups, leaving just enough stuck to the sides of the pot to entice me to take the stirring spoon and scrape every morsel, until the pot barely needed to be cleaned. The process of making this dreamy dessert takes patience and time. Two things I find myself lacking in my life today. On one hand, the instant is easier and requires one bowl. No muss. No fuss. But too many times in my life I have taken the easy way. Oh yes, I have reached my goal in the process. But to what gain? Instant stuff brings little satisfaction in life. A solid success that one hangs proudly on the wall is one that requires the same special attention as "Cook and Serve" pudding. First the right ingredients. You can't make a cake with a pie recipe. Your life needs all the right ingredients as a foundation to true happiness. Love, commitment, family, friends, faith, hard work, and dedication make for a solid foundation on which to create happiness and fulfillment. Secondly, patience and time. As my 85 year old friend Violet tells me, "Hurry slowly." Keeping a watchful eye on the pudding, as the instructions suggest, by "stirring constantly" permits one to be aware of the process. Controlling the heat as prescribed in the recipe prevents burning and scorching. My tendency has always been to think that if medium heat takes 15 minutes, than high heat should take only 7. I'll get there quicker. But in life, as in this recipe, applying the right amount of heat assures steady, constant change. Watching the pudding thicken slowly builds anticipation and greater appreciation of the final product. Taking my time with my life goals puts more value in the experience and I find the changes to be permanent rather than temporary. Finally, the celebration. Having taken so much time in preparing the pudding, I have bonded with it. After dinner I place a cup in front of each of us. They dive right in. But I, the creator of this masterpiece, savor this moment. I take my spoon and, off to one side of the cup, I break open the chocolate seal that has formed in the cooling process, much like the closure created on a job well done after long dedicated hours. I don't fill that first spoon to capacity. Just a taste will do. The first taste of success is always the sweetest. Placing the spoon in my mouth, I close my eyes and once again I am a child and I swear I could hear Mom ask, "Well? How is it? I made it special for you." Yes you did Mom. Everything you did was special. Because you took your time, followed the recipe, added a lot of love and gained the satisfaction of a job well done. The proof... is in the pudding. -- Bob Perks .·:*´¨`*:·..·:*´¨`*:·. *: * Richiele * * *·. .·* `*·-:¦:-*´ ³´`*:»§«:*´`³

UNSELFISHLY She is so very beautiful her love is from within, How can I praise this special woman where do I begin? She always knows just what to say and what I need to hear, And when I need that special someone she is always near. She always knows just what to do when I am feeling lost, Her kindness and compassion comes without a hidden cost. Unselfishly she shares her love and asks none in return, Love that's unconditional from her is what I've learned. She stands so tall and elegant a goddess in my eyes, The older that I get it seems the more I realize, How very wise and understanding she has always been, And now I understand that she has been my dearest friend. She always gives and never asks to receive in return, And many times I thought the way I acted just might ruin, The bond we have created or the closeness that has grown, But she is always there for me I never am alone. There are some times we've disagreed and I felt we would part, But always she was waiting for me with a loving heart. Forgiving all my attitudes and loving me for me, Looking way beyond the things that other people see. Even when I make mistakes I know that she will say, Gone are yesterday's mistakes this is a brand new day. No matter if I still rebel or her advice I spurn, She says experience is not the only way to learn. When I am up and all is great she shares my happiness, But when my world comes crashing down she also shares in this. She always has a word to say about what I should do, But right or wrong she never says the dreaded, "I told you." I understand the force behind her love on Mother's Day, Advice that she has given me has helped me find my way. I try with all my heart to love unselfish like my mother, But on this day she needs to know how much I really love her. -- James "PoppyK" Kisner .·:*´¨`*:·..·:*´¨`*:·. *: * Richiele * * *·. .·* `*·-:¦:-*´ ³´`*:»§«:*´`³

> My son came home from school one day, > with a smirk upon his face. > He'd decided he was smart enough, > to put me in my place. > > "Guess what I learned in Civics Two, > that's taught by Mr. Wright? > It's all about the laws today, > The "Children's Bill of Rights." > > It says I need not clean my room, > don't have to cut my hair. > No one can tell me what to think, > or speak, or what to wear. > > I have freedom from religion, > and regardless what you say, > I don't have to bow my head, > and I sure don't have to pray. > > I can wear earrings if I want, > and pierce my tongue & nose. > I can read & watch just what I like, > and get tattoos from head to toes. > > And if you ever spank me, > I'll charge you with the crime. > I'll back up all my charges, > with the marks on my behind. > > Don't you ever touch me, > my body's only for my use, > not for your hugs and kisses, > that's just more child abuse. > > Don't preach about your morals, > like your mama did to you. > That's nothing more than mind control, > And it's illegal too! > > Mom, I have these children's rights, > so you can't influence me, > or I'll call Children's Services Division, > better known as C.S.D. " > > Of course my first instinct was > To toss him out the door > But the chance to teach a lesson > made me think a little more. > > I mulled it over carefully, > I couldn't let this go. > A smile crept upon my face, > he's messing with a pro. > > The next day I took him shopping > at the local Goodwill Store > I told him, "Pick out all you want, > there's shirts & pants galore. > > I've called and checked with C.S.D., > who said they didn't care > if I bought you K-Mart shoes > instead of those Nike Airs. > > And I've canceled that appointment > to take your driver's test. > The C.S.D. is unconcerned > so I'll decide what's best. " > > I said "No time to stop and eat, > or pick up stuff to munch. > And tomorrow you can start to learn > to make your own sack lunch. > > Just save that raging appetite, > and wait 'til dinner time. > We're having liver and onions, > a favorite dish of mine. > > He asked "Can I please rent a movie, > To watch on my VCR?" > "Sorry, but I sold your TV, > for new tires on my car. > > I also rented out your room, > you'll take the couch instead. > The C.S.D. requires > just a roof above your head. > > Your clothing won't be trendy now, > and I'll choose what we eat. > That allowance that you used to get, > will buy me something neat. > > I'm selling off your jet ski, > dirt-bike & roller blades. > Check out the "Parent's Bill of Rights", > It's in effect today! > > Hey hot shot, are you crying, > and why are you on your knees? > Are you asking God to help you out, > instead of C.S.D.? > .·:*´¨`*:·..·:*´¨`*:·. *: * Richiele * * *·. .·* `*·-:¦:-*´ ³´`*:»§«:*´`³

STICKY NOTES I received an email from a friend of mine today sharing the good news that he had been promoted to vice president in a prestigious company. Now, I'm not certain what this means, but added to his retired government employee pension, I'm fairly sure it translates into pretty big bucks. Was I pleased for him? I should have been. He puts in staggering hours at work, and is extremely productive -- an all around great guy. I sometimes wonder if his good wife remembers what he looks like. But I wasn't pleased. In truth, I was just plain jealous! Why him, I thought? I'm pretty productive myself, but at my annual evaluation I received a meager 4% raise and nothing resembling a promotion. I lay awake nights worrying about the hefty home equity loan I had to take out to keep the roof over our heads, literally. I pray that my college age daughter doesn't overdraw her checking account, again. I peek at the mileage on my '93 Camry, and tell myself that 135,000 miles is nothing for a Toyota. Instead of wishing my friend well, I was wallowing in self-pity -- staring in envious stupor at the computer. Ah, but the Lord indeed moves in mysterious ways. Something caught my eye. Two tattered sticky notes, attached to my computer. They've been there for a few years, so I don't usually "see" them anymore. But today I saw them again, as if for the first time. One is lime green with the message, "Have a great day Mom! I love you!" That one is from my daughter Helen. She was probably 11 or 12 when she wrote it. She's 15 now, and besides being an excellent student, my little hospital candy striper is a beautiful and caring young woman. She still asks for a hug, and still wants her "mommy" to tuck her in at night. Now there's something money can't buy. The second note is lemon yellow. This one is from my son Stephen, now 10. By the wobbly handwriting, I'm guessing this note is vintage 6 year old. It simply says, "I love you Mom." He continues to echo that sentiment every day in a long-standing ritual. When I drop him off for school, I'll say, "I love you Stevie". His reply is, "I love you. Angels around you and your car!" I look around my office and see the homemade artwork, and the cluttered array of photos. I see a favorite picture of my oldest daughter Annie, except in this picture she is an awesome little blonde creature of two, clutching her stuffed cat Ming and leaning against her (wow...young!) mom. Ming hasn't changed much over the years, but Annie has. Despite the overdrawn checkbook, she constantly amazes me with her self-motivation. I am convinced that Annie can do anything she sets her mind to, which includes making her crabby mother laugh when she needs it most. She is still awesome. I realize with infinite gratitude that my friend can keep his vice president's title and all the money that goes with it, with my best wishes for success. I wouldn't trade my title for any other, and no one in the world will ever share it. I'm Annie, Helen and Stevie's mom. Priceless! -- Maureen Deutermann .·:*´¨`*:·..·:*´¨`*:·. *: * Richiele * * *·. .·* `*·-:¦:-*´ ³´`*:»§«:*´`³

Beep if You Love America By Harriet May Savitz We become a large town during the summers when our tourist population swells. But after Labor Day, we have a population of about five thousand in Bradley Beach, New Jersey. On this day, September 13, 2002, we stood in front of a World War I monument, in honor of those who perished and those who survived September 11, 2001. Members of the clergy spoke to the crowd and so did the mayor. We lit candles and cried together and shared stories about the day and how it affected us. Many had stories about friends, about family, who did not come home. Over and over, we heard the same refrain, "They just never came home that Tuesday." There were children of all ages, holding candles and flags. They were listening. Later, when the memorial service was over, the children left the park to stand on the corner, and we stood around aching to do something more. We hugged. We talked. We told each other it would get better. But there were no smiles and there was no laughter. Suddenly, we noticed horns honking up and down Main Street, as if a parade was passing through town. As if there was a celebration. We couldn't imagine who would celebrate on a day like today. And then we heard the children's chants. "Beep if you love America!" they shouted. Again and again. "Beep if you love America." They stood at a four-way intersection, on the curb, jumping up and down, waving their hands to get attention, holding the American flags in front of their chests, pleading, "Beep if you love America." And everyone did. The night air was filled with horns honking and people waving as the children jumped in the air, holding flags in front of them and shouting, louder and louder, "Beep if you love America." Their energy galvanized the people standing there and those passing in the cars. Perhaps the drivers were coming from work or going shopping. Undoubtedly they had on their radios and were listening to the accounts coming in, lives saved, lives lost. And yet, there were youth on the corner and energy on the corner, shouting and waving over and over, "Beep if you love America." It went on for a long time. The town resonated with honking horns. People smiled from their car windows. We heard ourselves laughing with the children. We began to wave also to the passing cars. We let the children lead us that evening. Even though they had read the papers, looked at the television, watched the adults around them cry and vent their anger, even though they knew something really terrible had happened to their country, a new feeling had taken hold of them - one they couldn't even explain to themselves. It had something to do with the flags they were holding. It had something to do with their country, America. It had something to do with their love for freedom. That night, for a while, we let the children lead us and heal us. "Beep if you love America," we roared. And we knew America would hear us. .·:*´¨`*:·..·:*´¨`*:·. *: * Richiele * * *·. .·* `*·-:¦:-*´ ³´`*:»§«:*´`³

Beyond the Huddle By Charlene Baldridge Realizing that she needed an occupation, Ruth Henricks moved to San Diego and began working for tips in her sister-in-law's neighborhood restaurant, "The Huddle." Ruth took to "waitressing" like a duck to water. It put her in touch with people, and Ruth loved people. "I found I was a valuable person," she admits. "I had already raised my children and had a home. But I needed to feel the kind of self-worth you get from being able to say, 'Here's something I can do well!'" Getting into the restaurant business was just the beginning for Ruth. Eventually, she and her sister-in-law became partners in an additional coffee shop. They opened the downtown San Diego Armed Services YMCA that catered to single men. In 1981, Ruth noticed that an excessive number of customers were becoming sick and dying. "It was very hush-hush," Ruth says. "No one ever said they were dying of AIDS, but looking back, I know that was the case." When her sister-in-law retired, Ruth purchased "The Huddle." Among her loyal customers was a darling young man named Scott, who came in for meals every day. Six feet tall, long blonde hair and friendly blue eyes, Scott was very good looking. He told Ruth he had AIDS. He seemed to grow weaker every day, despite Ruth's hearty meals. As he steadily deteriorated, Ruth became his sounding board. He talked with her each day, explaining a little bit of what was happening to him. Scott was appreciative for the treatment he received at "The Huddle." He would drag himself into the restaurant and say, "When I come in, I'm greeted by everyone. They know my name and they pat me on the back and ask how it's going today - no matter how I look. I'm so grateful for you and the home-cooked meals." Scott admitted he no longer had the energy to shop or to prepare food. "I depend on you for my meals, Ruth. If I'm not at The Huddle you'll know I'm not eating." One day Scott failed to come to The Huddle. When he didn't come on the second day, Ruth became worried. His haunting words echoed in her ear. She realized she didn't even know his last name or where he lived. Agonizing over Scott's disappearance and feeling totally helpless for days, she finally confided in her regular customers and friends. Among the customers was a doctor from the nearby medical center. He suggested that she post a note on the cash register, offering to deliver meals to people with AIDS. The response was overwhelming to an unmet need. Ruth, the physician, and her supporters met in The Huddle's little dining room and signed papers of incorporation giving birth to the San Diego Special Delivery. In addition to running The Huddle, Ruth also manages her "troops" - a cadre of two hundred volunteers - one hundred of them drivers - who prepare, wrap and deliver home-cooked Huddle meals to about one hundred and seventy- five people living with AIDS. "Special Delivery" is a one hundred percent volunteer organization. Through her association with Scott, Ruth has touched the lives of thousands. "I'm amazed at the heart I find in each of my volunteers," she says proudly. "All of us realize we have some kind of talent. Although we can't do everything, there is at least one thing we can do. Scott's probably looking down from heaven right now. He came to me a stranger and changed my life. He got me to look way beyond our little family restaurant." Ruth Hendricks found something she could do well for others. .·:*´¨`*:·..·:*´¨`*:·. *: * Richiele * * *·. .·* `*·-:¦:-*´ ³´`*:»§«:*´`³

> Giorgio is in this country for about 6 months, he > walks to work > > every day and passes a shoe store. > > > > Each day he stops and looks in the window and > > admires a certain pair of Bocceli leather shoes. > > > > After about 2 months he saves the $300.00 the shoes > cost and > > purchases them. > > > > Each Friday night the Italian community gets > together at a dance > > at the church basement, so Giorgio seizes the > opportunity to wear > > his new Bocceli leather shoes to the dance. > > > > He asks Sophia to dance and as they dance he asks > her, "Sophia, > > you wear red panties tonighta yes?" > > > > Sophia, startled, says, "Yes, Giorgio, I do wear red > panties > > tonight, but how do you know?" Giorgio replies, "I > see the > > reflection in my new $300.00 Bocceli leather shoes. > How do you like > them?" > > > > Next he asks Rosa to dance, after a few minutes he > says to her, > > "Rosa, you wear white panties tonighta yes?" Rose > answers, "Yes, > > Giorgio, I do, but how do you know that?" He answers > "I see the > > reflection in my new $300.00 Bocceli leather shoes. > How do you like > them?" > > > > Now the evening is almost over and the last song is > being > > played, Giorgio asks Carmela to dance. Mid way > through the > > dance his face turns red. He says, "Carmela, stilla > my heart, > > please, please tell me you wear no panties tonighta, > please, > > please, tella me this is true." > > Carmella answers,Yes Giorgio, I wear no panties > tonight." > > > > Giorgio gasps and says ...."Thanka God ... I thought > I had a CRACK > > in my $300.00 Bocceli leather shoes." > > > > > .·:*´¨`*:·..·:*´¨`*:·. *: * Richiele * * *·. .·* `*·-:¦:-*´ ³´`*:»§«:*´`³

> The Sunday School Teacher > > By Robin Lee Shope > > Miss Swan couldn't take being a Sunday school teacher any longer. Not for > another Sunday! This handful of disrespectful teenagers snapped their gum > during prayer time and read magazines during Bible study. But most awful of > all, at prayer request they asked the Lord to increase their weekly > allowances! > > "I have had it with you. I quit!" she screamed at the students. > > "Cool," Rick said nodding in approval. He was the rudest kid she'd ever > met. > > It took two months to find a new replacement for that Sunday school class. > The pastor escorted Miss Betty Ray in to meet the pseudo-angelic-looking > group. New in town, she hadn't heard of their reputation for chasing off > teachers. By the look of her pink dress, one size too small, and her bad > blonde bleach job, the students obviously felt they had an easy mark. Soon > bets were taken as to how long Miss Betty would last. > > Betty introduced herself, stating that she recently came from the South. > She certainly looked like a southern belle who wore outdated clothes and > whose beauty had peaked a decade earlier, only she didn't know it yet. > Snickers rippled in the room as she rummaged through the huge shoulder bag > she carried for a purse. > > "Have any of you ever been out of state?" she asked in a friendly tone. A > few hands went up. > > "Anyone travel beyond five hundred miles?" One hand went up as the > snickering diminished. > > "Anyone visited outside the country?" > > No hands went up now. The silent teens were puzzled. What did this have to > do with anything? Was she using psychology on them, or was she just plain > clueless?" > > Finally, Betty's bony hand struck on what she had been searching for in her > handbag. Pulling up a long tube, she unrolled a map of the world. > > "What else do you have in there? Lunch?" someone cracked. > > Betty smiled lightly and answered, "Cookies for later." > > "Cool," Rick quipped. > > Then she pointed with a long fingernail to an odd-shaped continent. > > "I was born here," she tapped with her finger. "And I lived here until I > was about your age." > > Everyone craned their neck to see where it was. > > "Is that Texas?" someone sitting in the back asked. > > "Not even close. It is India." Here eyes twinkled with joy. > > "How did you get way over there to be born?" > > Betty laughed. "My parents were missionaries there, and that is where my > mother was when I came into the world." > > "Cool!" Rick leaned back in his chair duly impressed. > > Betty fumbled again in her purse, this time pulling out a handful of old > wrinkled pictures along with a tin of chocolate chip cookies. They passed > the pictures around, viewing each with great interest. Dark faces stared up > from the photos, frozen in time. The kids studied them as they bit into the > sweets. > > "You don't have to be a missionary – everyone can do something in this > world to help another," Miss Betty said. > > The hour quickly slid by as she told them her stories about faraway places > and what the people were like there and how they lived. > > "Wow, this is as exciting as TV!" one young girl told her. > > Sunday after Sunday, Betty came to class, tying her lessons to their > everyday lives. She told the teens how they could make a difference right > now. The students grew to love her, bleached blonde hair and all. The more > they liked her, the lovelier she became. > > Betty taught that Sunday school class for twenty years. Though she never > married, or had children of her own, the town came to think of her as a > surrogate parent since she taught two generations of children. > > At last, her hair grew into a natural gray. Increasing wrinkles about her > mouth and eyes added character to her cherub face. Her hands began to shake > with age. Every now and then, she received a letter from a former student. > There was a doctor, a research scientist, a homemaker, a businessman, and > many teachers among them. > > One day she reached into her mailbox and pulled out a blue envelope with a > familiar foreign stamp in the upper right-hand corner. In the left corner > was the name of a boy in that very first Sunday school class, years ago. > She recalled how he'd always liked her cookies and seemed so interested in > her lessons. A picture slid out of the envelope and onto her lap. Squinting > her eyes, she smiled at the man in the photo, still seeing the teenage boy > in him. Standing in the rubble, in the city of Delhi, India, he stood with > other volunteers who had come to help the earthquake victims. > > The caption read, "Because of you, I am here now." > .·:*´¨`*:·..·:*´¨`*:·. *: * Richiele * * *·. .·* `*·-:¦:-*´ ³´`*:»§«:*´`³

> Copper Mixing Bowl > > The serious home cook may want to invest in a copper mixing > bowl. Copper conducts heat or cold almost immediately. It > is the best bowl for whipping egg whites. Batters come out > fluffier and lighter. Preparations like zabaglione (Italian > custard) or sabayon (French custard) benefit from the use > of a copper bowl. When not in use for cooking, the bowl > .·:*´¨`*:·..·:*´¨`*:·. *: * Richiele * * *·. .·* `*·-:¦:-*´ ³´`*:»§«:*´`³

A group of Geography students studied the Seven Wonders of the World. At the end of that section, the students were asked to list what they think were considered to be the present Seven Wonders of the World. Though there was some disagreement, the following got the most votes: 1. Egypt's Great Pyramids 2. Taj Mahal 3. Grand Canyon 4. Panama Canal 5. Empire State Building 6. St. Peter's Basilica 7. China's Great Wall While gathering the votes, the teacher noted that one student, a quiet girl, hadn't turned in her paper yet. So she asked the girl if she was having trouble with her list. The quiet girl replied, "Yes, a little. I couldn't quite make up my mind because there were so many." The teacher said, "Well, tell us what you have, and maybe we can help. "The girl hesitated, then read, "I think the Seven Wonders of the World are: 1. to touch 2. to taste 3. to see 4. to hear She hesitated a little, and then 5. to feel 6. to laugh 7. and to love Then the room was so full of silence it was deafening! It is far too easy for us to look at the exploits of man and refer to them as "wonders" while we overlook all God has done for us, regarding them as merely "ordinary". May you be reminded today of those things which are truly wondrous! "Do all the good you can, for all the people you can, while you .·:*´¨`*:·..·:*´¨`*:·. *: * Richiele * * *·. .·* `*·-:¦:-*´ ³´`*:»§«:*´`³

THE MANY NAMES OF CHRIST To the ARTIST He is the One Altogether Lovely. To the ARCHITECT He is the Chief Corner Stone. To the BAKER He is the Living Bread. To the BANKER He is the Hidden Treasure. To the BIOLOGIST He is the Life. To the BUILDER He is the Sure Foundation. To the CARPENTER He is the Door. To the DOCTOR He is the Great Physician. To the EDUCATOR He is the Great Teacher. To the ENGINEER He is the New and Living Way. To the FLORIST He is the Rose of Sharon and the Lily of the Valley. To the GEOLOGIST He is the Rock of Ages. To the HORTICULTURIST He is the True Vine. To the JUDGE He is the Righteous Judge, Judge of All Men. To the JEWELER He is the Pearl of Great Price. To the LAWYER He is the Counselor, the Lawgiver, the Advocate. To the NEWSPAPER He is the Good Tidings of Great Joy. To the OCULIST He is the Light of the Eyes. To the PHILANTHROPIST He is the Unspeakable Gift. To the PHILOSOPHER He is the Wisdom of God. To the PREACHER He is the Word of God. To the SCULPTOR He is the Living Stone. To the SERVANT He is the Good Master. To the STATESMAN He is the Desire of All Nations. To the STUDENT He is the Incarnate Truth. To the THEOLOGIAN He is the Author and Finisher of our Faith. To the TOILER He is the Giver of Rest. To the SINNER He is the Lamb of God that taketh away the sins of the World. To the CHRISTIAN He is the Son of the Living God, the Savior, the .·:*´¨`*:·..·:*´¨`*:·. *: * Richiele * * *·. .·* `*·-:¦:-*´ ³´`*:»§«:*´`³

Check Your Bag By Robert Lalonde My brother Maurice and three of his buddies - Sam, Renwick and Earl - have a regular golf game every Friday during the summer. In order to make the game interesting and even, they use handicaps. As a result of this, Maurice and Brian are partners, and Sam and Renwick play together. Maurice never walks the golf course and is always trying to get one of the other guys to ride with him. This particular Friday in July, it was very warm, and he asked Renwick to ride with him. It just so happens that Renwick had been on a health kick for a couple of months, so he told Maurice that he would prefer to walk. Renwick had lost about twenty pounds, and had just purchased a carry bag from the pro shop, deciding that toting, rather than using a pull cart as he walked the course would help him stay in shape. Maurice candidly cautioned Renwick, "Remember, you are fifty-eight years old. Walking the course is one thing; carrying your bag for eighteen holes is something else. Nevertheless, Renwick insisted on walking, and off they went. After nine holes, Renwick said to one of the other guys who was walking, "I think Maurice was right. Carrying this bag is wearing me out." Naturally, the other guy suggested that Renwick ask Maurice for a ride in the cart. To which Renwick stubbornly replied, "Not a chance. If you think I will admit this to Maurice, you are crazy." They continued on. Renwick struggled, but refused to give Maurice the satisfaction of giving up. At about the twelfth hole, Sam confided in Maurice, "Renwick realizes carrying the golf bag was a bad idea, but will not admit it to you because he knows he will be in for a real good ribbing." Shortly after hearing this, Maurice called Renwick over and said, "Are you getting tired of carrying that golf bag? Why don't you take a load off and put the bag on the cart?" Renwick grimaced but replied, "No thanks. It's not bad at all." With a sly grin, Maurice continued, "Then why don't you unzip that side pocket and lighten your load?" Knowing he'd been had, Renwick unzipped the side pocket, where he discovered two rocks - slightly smaller than a couple of footballs - that he had been carrying for twelve holes! Needless to say, Renwick had some choice words for Maurice, while Sam and Brian were rolling on the tee, laughing until they were crying. And rest assured, Renwick now checks his bag for foreign objects before every golf game...particularly on Fridays. .·:*´¨`*:·..·:*´¨`*:·. *: * Richiele * * *·. .·* `*·-:¦:-*´ ³´`*:»§«:*´`³

APOLOGY TO A FRIEND I'm an American citizen, and it's time to say "I'm sorry" to a best friend. The United States and Canada have been best friends for well over 100 years. Every year, tens of millions of Americans and Canadians cross the longest undefended border in the world and share a rich history of brotherhood and commerce. We've laughed and cried together over the generations -- celebrating a peace between neighbors that other countries around the globe can only envy. Canada's natural beauty is only matched by its hospitality. It's a place where the world feels welcomed and visitors are treated like royalty. While Canada sets the "gold standard" for its Maple Leaf, the purest gold bullion coin in the world, it also holds the standard for something much more valuable -- its goodwill. Americans have come to love Canada and its people. Just recently, we cheered when the Olympics justly awarded Canadian figure skaters Jamie Sale and David Pelletier their well deserved gold medal. And you didn't see too many Yankees shed a tear when the Canadian team beat the United States in the Olympic finals to take Canada's first hockey gold in 50 years. Moreover, the Toronto Blue Jays have been the only non-American team to rightly earn the honor of being called World Series Champions. Americans have always been inspired by Canada's determination, its guts and its talent in all fields of endeavor. Canada has always been there for us. During World War I and II, Canada sacrificed over 100,000 lives for the cause of liberty. Canada even sent its Atlantic naval fleet to cover the American northern flank during the Cuban Missile Crisis. And we will never forget what Ken Taylor did in 1980. He was the Canadian Ambassador to Iran who risked his own life to rescue Americans trapped during the Iranian Hostage Crisis. When tragedy stuck the United States on September 11, most of the countries around the world offered sympathy and condolences. But few countries were actually ready to stand up and be counted. Canada could have watched the whole thing from the sidelines, but she took it upon herself to get involved. Canada sent troops to Afghanistan to stand shoulder to shoulder with America. It was more than a hollow gesture. Canada bravely assumed her role as a full partner, willing to sacrifice the lives of her young people to combat the evils of terrorism. However, that partnership was strained this past week. Canadians heard the devastating news that four of their soldiers were killed and eight were wounded. Sadly, these casualties were not due to enemy fire, but rather "friendly fire" by an American bomb mistakenly dropped on their position. The incident is being investigated now, but the fact remains -- a fatal accident occurred that has cracked the foundation of trust our two countries have proudly built over the years. Some Canadians realize war is a place where accidents happen. Other Canadians are understandably angry, defiant, and question Canada's role in Afghanistan. The political debates will continue on, from the coffee shops to the Canadian Parliament. Canada will determine her own course, as she always has. But there is one thing that cannot be debated -- one thing that Canadians must understand. While I am only one citizen, allow me to speak for millions of Americans: While no words can bring your soldiers back, we are truly sorry that this accident happened. Obviously, if we could make this all go away, we would. However, no matter what the detractors say, don't believe them. If they tell you Americans or the international community don't appreciate you, they are not telling the truth. We are eternally grateful for your support and partnership. If they say your participation is being taken for granted, don't believe them. Don't think for a second that the American citizens aren't fully aware of who is standing by us, and who is not. Canada is renowned throughout the world, especially in the United States, for its defense of freedom and its courage to fight for what is right. There is little I can say to heal the emotional wounds that have been inflicted upon the brave soliders' families and Canadian society. We are all sorrowful and filled with remorse. Our regret is sincere. But please hear this simple message: If and when the situation ever arises, you can be assured that the American people will be there for you to help Canada in its hour of need -- with our money, our resources, and yes, even our lives. I truly hope that Canada will never need the U.S. to respond to such a tragedy as September 11. But just in case it does, you can bet American citizens will see to it that Canada never carries such a burden alone. We will never forget what you have done for us, and we will teach our children that Canadians have given their lives to help the cause of freedom. We will make sure that our elected representatives understand and carry out this simple, but powerful, mandate from the people: America will ALWAYS stand by Canada, as Canada has stood by us. It's the least we could do, and it's the least we WILL do, because Canada is more than just a neighbor -- she is also a best friend. .·:*´¨`*:·..·:*´¨`*:·. *: * Richiele * * *·. .·* `*·-:¦:-*´ ³´`*:»§«:*´`³

Tough Decision By Kristi Powers "For you created my inmost being; you knit me together in my mother's womb. I praise you because I am fearfully and wonderfully made; your works are wonderful, I know that full well." -- Psalms 139:13,14 It is that time of year again...the time for rainy spring days, the smell of budding flowers, and the sound of chatter on the softball field… As I watch the tear-stained eighteen-year-old, I want to hug out all of the sadness and frustration she is feeling and tell her how much I love her. Tonight may be the last softball game of her high school career. A career cut short because a nagging knee injury needs surgery so that she can be ready to fulfill her athletic scholarship at college. As I gaze upon her face, I cannot help but think of how fortunate I have been to know this beautiful young lady. However, I know how easily her song could have been one that was unsung... It was almost nineteen years ago that a teenager trembled as she tearfully said to her mother and father the words that every parent dreads... "Mom, Dad, I'm pregnant." What a frightening time for a nineteen-year-old as she is just starting her adult life and already facing an uncertain future. What devastation for the parents as this is the last thing they would have chosen for their daughter. Thoughts of "we have failed her" to "I am too young to be a grandparent", fill their minds. In a heartbeat the atmosphere in the house becomes strained and the following nights are long for the teen as she drenches her pillow with tears. Tears that come only when she thinks no one can see or hear her. Many try to persuade her to keep her options open, but there is only one choice for this determined teen. The little life within her has now become her responsibility, and she will sacrifice all she has to see that this precious being grows to be the young man or woman God intended him/her to be. She is at peace with herself, and the choice she has made… A baby's first cries fill the air and an exhausted but proud, teenage mom holds her young daughter for the first time. She is inexperienced, but is determined to provide for her priceless daughter the best way that she can. If the first few days are any indication, she has a tough hill to climb. Because of no insurance, she leaves the hospital early and takes her daughter home, but the baby girl develops jaundice, and they are forced back to the hospital. Her pediatrician tells her to leave the baby in their care and to go home and rest. "You have got to be kidding me!" she exclaims, refusing to leave her baby girl for even a moment. Something inside her clicks, and, with a determination that surpasses anything she has felt up to this point, she comes to grips with the situation. "You are a mom now. Deal with it," she quietly tells herself. Life is not easy and many hopes and plans for the future are set aside. The early years are filled with tests and trials but it is a time in her life that she wouldn't trade for anything. During those rough days and nights, she need only look at this tender creation God has given her to realize that the best things in life are right before her in the smile, the coo, and the laugh of this darling baby girl. Those eighteen years have flown by, and I ponder all of these things as we slowly walk away from the softball diamond today. I think about all the joy this baby girl, who is now a young woman herself, has brought into my life and to those around her. I remember all the basketball and softball games that we as her family have sat through, proudly cheering her on. Not only is she the best all-around female athlete I have ever seen, she is also one of the classiest and I am most proud of who she is off the court. She conducts herself with grace and humility and shows kindness to all who cross her path. I cannot imagine life without my Jen, my darling eighteen-year-old niece. Tonight my heart is bursting with pride, love, and joy for this remarkable being who came into our lives. I shudder to think if she had not been born. How different our family would have been, not to mention the lives of an untold number of people whom she has touched in her everyday life. A scared but determined teenage mom made a tough decision all those years ago, and through it, gave us all the gift of Jen. Kristi Powers .·:*´¨`*:·..·:*´¨`*:·. *: * Richiele * * *·. .·* `*·-:¦:-*´ ³´`*:»§«:*´`³

aww ty sweetie (((((((((mary))))))))))))))) > > Happy Anniversary to Missi & Pauli!! > > Sorry I am late - but hope you had another wonderful > year and lots more. > > > {{{{{ Missi & Pauli }}}}} > > Mary > > > .·:*´¨`*:·..·:*´¨`*:·. *: * Richiele * * *·. .·* `*·-:¦:-*´ ³´`*:»§«:*´`³

Happy Anniversary to Missi & Pauli!! Sorry I am late - but hope you had another wonderful year and lots more. {{{{{ Missi & Pauli }}}}} Mary

Just a guess, but I'd say a big fat virus. Delete it and then empty your trash. First, Rootsweb doesn't send zip files. Second, that's the way the newest virus is being transmitted. So get rid of it pronto!! Janis TheRayne@aol.com wrote: > Hello All, > > I just recieved an e-mail from "request@rootsweb.com" In the subject it says > Director. It has a file to download that says "New.zip" Could someone > please tell me what this is? > > Thanks > Patti > P.S. I didn't download it.