--part1_185.54aad2d.29c7f9cd_boundary Content-Type: text/plain; charset="US-ASCII" Content-Transfer-Encoding: 7bit << A guy walks into a pharmacy and wanders up and down the aisles. The salesgirl notices him and asks him if she can help him. He answers that he is looking for a box of tampons for his wife. She directs him down the correct aisle. A few minutes later, he deposits a huge bag of cotton balls and a ball of string on the counter. She says, confused, "Sir, I thought you were looking for tampons for your wife?" The redneck answers, "You see, it's like this. Yesterday, I sent my wife to get me a carton of cigarettes and she came home with a tin of tobacco and some rolling paper. So, hell, I figure if I have to roll my own, she can too!" >> --part1_185.54aad2d.29c7f9cd_boundary Content-Type: message/rfc822 Content-Disposition: inline Return-path: <FRathbun@aol.com> From: FRathbun@aol.com Full-name: FRathbun Message-ID: <171.a74cddb.29c78b0a@aol.com> Date: Mon, 18 Mar 2002 13:25:14 EST Subject: TIT FOR TAT To: Macalusotree@aol.com, teana_rathbun@hotmail.com, Mutat@aol.com, prr@cyberramp.net, SMillou@aol.com, TxSihing@aol.com, revl.wilson@juno.com, KlausGermany@aol.com, UFFDAMTN@aol.com, JJGRAVITY@aol.com, UFFDA4@aol.com, Debhug68@aol.com, GOOFYAJ@aol.com, dugndan@xpressweb.com, Nativesoul7@aol.com, dick_rathbun@hotmail.com, Greek2468@aol.com, Cindy.Thompson@solvay.com, ctomson1@flash.net, ChuckRobberts@netscape.net, Balla396@aol.com, Lilhitler3@aol.com, BLR111@worldnet.att.net, BJordan605@aol.com, Sugarmtwo@aol.com MIME-Version: 1.0 Content-Type: text/plain; charset="US-ASCII" Content-Transfer-Encoding: 7bit X-Mailer: AOL 5.0 for Windows sub 139 A guy walks into a pharmacy and wanders up and down the aisles. The salesgirl notices him and asks him if she can help him. He answers that he is looking for a box of tampons for his wife. She directs him down the correct aisle. A few minutes later, he deposits a huge bag of cotton balls and a ball of string on the counter. She says, confused, "Sir, I thought you were looking for tampons for your wife?" The redneck answers, "You see, it's like this. Yesterday, I sent my wife to get me a carton of cigarettes and she came home with a tin of tobacco and some rolling paper. So, hell, I figure if I have to roll my own, she can too!" > > > > > > > --part1_185.54aad2d.29c7f9cd_boundary--

--part1_146.b49c518.29c7f984_boundary Content-Type: text/plain; charset="US-ASCII" Content-Transfer-Encoding: 7bit << HOW DO YOU GET HOLY WATER? > You boil the hell out of it. > > WHAT DO FISH SAY WHEN THEY HIT A CONCRETE WALL? > Dam! > > WHAT DO ESKIMOS GET FROM SITTING ON THE ICE TOO LONG? > Polaroids. > > WHAT DO YOU CALL A BOOMERANG THAT DOESN'T WORK? > A stick. > > WHAT DO YOU CALL CHEESE THAT ISN'T YOURS? > Nacho Cheese. > > WHAT DO YOU CALL SANTA'S HELPERS? > Subordinate Clauses. > > WHAT DO YOU CALL FOUR BULLFIGHTERS IN QUICKSAND? > Quattro Sinko. > > WHAT DO YOU GET FROM A PAMPERED COW? > Spoiled milk. > > WHAT DO YOU GET WHEN YOU CROSS A SNOWMAN WITH A VAMPIRE? > Frostbite. > > WHAT LIES AT THE BOTTOM OF THE OCEAN AND TWITCHES? > A nervous wreck. > > WHAT'S THE DIFFERENCE BETWEEN ROAST BEEF AND PEA SOUP? > Anyone can roast beef. > > WHERE DO YOU FIND A DOG WITH NO LEGS? > Right where you left him. > > WHY DO GORILLAS HAVE BIG NOSTRILS? > Because they have big fingers. > > WHY DON'T BLIND PEOPLE LIKE TO SKY DIVE? > Because it scares the hell out of the dog. > > WHAT KIND OF COFFEE WAS SERVED ON THE TITANIC? > Sanka. > > WHAT IS THE DIFFERENCE BETWEEN A HARLEY AND A HOOVER? > The location of the dirt bag. > > WHY DO A PILGRIM'S PANTS ALWAYS FALL DOWN? > Because he's wearing his belt buckle on his hat. > > WHAT'S THE DIFFERENCE BETWEEN A BAD GOLFER AND A BAD SKYDIVER? > A bad golfer goes whack, "damn." A bad skydiver goes "damn," whack. > > HOW DO YOU CATCH A UNIQUE RABBIT? > Unique up on it. > > HOW DO YOU CATCH A TAME RABBIT? > Tame way, unique up on it. > > WHAT DO YOU CALL SKYDIVING LAWYERS? > Skeet. > > WHAT GOES CLOP, CLOP, CLOP, BANG, BANG, CLOP, CLOP, CLOP? > An Amish Drive-By Shooting. > > HOW ARE A TEXAS TORNADO AND A WEST VIRGINIA DIVORCE THE SAME? > Somebody's gonna lose a trailer. > > >> --part1_146.b49c518.29c7f984_boundary Content-Type: message/rfc822 Content-Disposition: inline Return-path: <FRathbun@aol.com> From: FRathbun@aol.com Full-name: FRathbun Message-ID: <cf.14293504.29c787f2@aol.com> Date: Mon, 18 Mar 2002 13:12:02 EST Subject: WHAT WHEN, AND HOW To: Sugarmtwo@aol.com, BJordan605@aol.com, ILuvPolarBearz@aol.com, BLR111@worldnet.att.net, Lilhitler3@aol.com, Balla396@aol.com, ChuckRobberts@netscape.net, ctomson1@flash.net, Cindy.Thompson@solvay.com, Greek2468@aol.com, DICK_RATHBUN@email.msn.com, Nativesoul7@aol.com, Dotnrob@aol.com, dugndan@xpressweb.com, cfoster@richnet.net, GOOFYAJ@aol.com, gorbercole@aol.com, HBCLM@prodigy.net, Debhug68@aol.com, UFFDA4@aol.com, JJGRAVITY@aol.com, UFFDAMTN@aol.com, KlausGermany@aol.com, revl.wilson@juno.com, TxSihing@aol.com, SMillou@aol.com, Wwjd8221@aol.com, Mutat@aol.com, teana_rathbun@hotmail.com, Macalusotree@aol.com, Young1188@aol.com MIME-Version: 1.0 Content-Type: text/plain; charset="US-ASCII" Content-Transfer-Encoding: 7bit X-Mailer: AOL 5.0 for Windows sub 139 > HOW DO YOU GET HOLY WATER? > You boil the hell out of it. > > WHAT DO FISH SAY WHEN THEY HIT A CONCRETE WALL? > Dam! > > WHAT DO ESKIMOS GET FROM SITTING ON THE ICE TOO LONG? > Polaroids. > > WHAT DO YOU CALL A BOOMERANG THAT DOESN'T WORK? > A stick. > > WHAT DO YOU CALL CHEESE THAT ISN'T YOURS? > Nacho Cheese. > > WHAT DO YOU CALL SANTA'S HELPERS? > Subordinate Clauses. > > WHAT DO YOU CALL FOUR BULLFIGHTERS IN QUICKSAND? > Quattro Sinko. > > WHAT DO YOU GET FROM A PAMPERED COW? > Spoiled milk. > > WHAT DO YOU GET WHEN YOU CROSS A SNOWMAN WITH A VAMPIRE? > Frostbite. > > WHAT LIES AT THE BOTTOM OF THE OCEAN AND TWITCHES? > A nervous wreck. > > WHAT'S THE DIFFERENCE BETWEEN ROAST BEEF AND PEA SOUP? > Anyone can roast beef. > > WHERE DO YOU FIND A DOG WITH NO LEGS? > Right where you left him. > > WHY DO GORILLAS HAVE BIG NOSTRILS? > Because they have big fingers. > > WHY DON'T BLIND PEOPLE LIKE TO SKY DIVE? > Because it scares the hell out of the dog. > > WHAT KIND OF COFFEE WAS SERVED ON THE TITANIC? > Sanka. > > WHAT IS THE DIFFERENCE BETWEEN A HARLEY AND A HOOVER? > The location of the dirt bag. > > WHY DO A PILGRIM'S PANTS ALWAYS FALL DOWN? > Because he's wearing his belt buckle on his hat. > > WHAT'S THE DIFFERENCE BETWEEN A BAD GOLFER AND A BAD SKYDIVER? > A bad golfer goes whack, "damn." A bad skydiver goes "damn," whack. > > HOW DO YOU CATCH A UNIQUE RABBIT? > Unique up on it. > > HOW DO YOU CATCH A TAME RABBIT? > Tame way, unique up on it. > > WHAT DO YOU CALL SKYDIVING LAWYERS? > Skeet. > > WHAT GOES CLOP, CLOP, CLOP, BANG, BANG, CLOP, CLOP, CLOP? > An Amish Drive-By Shooting. > > HOW ARE A TEXAS TORNADO AND A WEST VIRGINIA DIVORCE THE SAME? > Somebody's gonna lose a trailer. > > --part1_146.b49c518.29c7f984_boundary--

Thanks Turk, That was pretty good. Thanks again Patti In a message dated 3/18/2002 4:52:02 PM Central Standard Time, turkm.turkmcgee@verizon.net writes: > Ocupayshun, cencus taker: > > " I am a cencus taker for the city of Bufflow. our city has groan very fast > in > recent yeers & now in 1865, it has become a hard & time consuming job to > count > all the peephill. There are not many that con do this werk, as it is > nesessaree > to have an ejucation, wich a lot of pursons don not hav. Anuther atribeart > needed > for this job is gud speling, for meny of the peephill to be counted can > hardle > speek Inglish, let alon spel there names!" > >

I'm looking... until later, how's this one? Ever wonder why the census never makes sense?? Ocupayshun, cencus taker: " I am a cencus taker for the city of Bufflow. our city has groan very fast in recent yeers & now in 1865, it has become a hard & time consuming job to count all the peephill. There are not many that con do this werk, as it is nesessaree to have an ejucation, wich a lot of pursons don not hav. Anuther atribeart needed for this job is gud speling, for meny of the peephill to be counted can hardle speek Inglish, let alon spel there names!" > Good Evening All, > > I hope everyone is doing well. I was wondering if anyone has ever heard of a > census story. I believe it took place in Kentucky and was about a census > worker going from farm to farm. There were a lot of "misunderstanding" type > comments such as when asking someone's age they'd say "older than dirt" which > would mystify the census taker but really the neighbor's name was "Dirt". > If anyone has a copy of this or knows where I can find it I'd really > appreciate it. > > Thanks > Patti

Hi Everyone! One of the mother's in our Girl Scout troop used glue to apply her daughter's badges onto her vest and some of the patches and badges were in the wrong place and had to be removed. My question is, how to get the glue off the vest? Any ideas? Angie

NASA Science News for March 12, 2002 Today the Red Planet is dry and barren, but what about tomorrow? New data suggest that the long story of water on Mars isn't over yet. FULL STORY at http://science.nasa.gov/headlines/y2002/12mar_waterplanet.htm?list489379 ---

NASA Science News for March 14, 2002 NASA's soon-to-launch GRACE mission will reveal some of what lies hidden beneath the surface of Earth's oceans by measuring tiny changes in gravity. FULL STORY at http://science.nasa.gov/headlines/y2002/14mar_grace_oceans.htm?list489379 ---

Space Weather News for March 17, 2002 http://www.spaceweather.com AURORA WARNING: An explosion on the Sun hurled a coronal mass ejection toward Earth late on Friday, March 15th. The CME could sweep past Earth as early as Sunday night and trigger auroras. High-latitude sky watchers -- e.g., those in northern Europe, Canada, and the northern tier of US states -- should remain alert for Northern Lights after sunset on Sunday and perhaps again on Monday. It's possible that auroras might extend to lower latitudes as well; the crescent Moon will not overwhelm faint auroras. No matter where you live, the best times to watch will be during the hours around local midnight. Stay tuned to SpaceWeather.com for updates. PHOTOGENIC COMET: In recent weeks star gazers have enjoyed watching Comet Ikeya-Zhang, whose faint blue color and turbulent tail have made it one of the most photogenic comets in years. On March 18th the comet's orbit will bring it only 0.5 AU from the Sun -- its closest approach to our star in nearly four centuries. Solar heating could further brighten the comet, which glows now like a 4th magnitude star, and cause more dusty debris to evaporate from its icy nucleus. March 18th will be a good day to look as the comet lines up in the western sky with 3 planets and a crescent Moon. Visit SpaceWeather.com for details....

NASA Science News for March 18, 2002 Playing catch looks easy, but there's more to it than meets the eye. A ball-catching experiment in space has revealed that human brains have a built-in model of gravity. FULL STORY at http://science.nasa.gov/headlines/y2002/18mar_playingcatch.htm?list489379

Little Brown Boy Danielle was only four when she burst through the front door, having just gotten off the school bus, after preschool. Charging through the living room, she spotted me in the dining room and launched into a speech while she headed toward me. While it was comical to see such a little person behave so dramatically, her outrage seemed real enough that she had my full attention. "They are MEAN to him!" she raged, her little fist hammering the table top for emphasis. "Who is mean to who?" I interrupted. "Those kids on the bus! They are MEAN to the little brown boy!" She looked up at me, hands on her hips, her eyes wide, incredulous. I knew she expected me to right this injustice immediately. It was the first one she had discovered in her very new Out In The World On Her Own adventures. "They make fun of him and make fun of him and make fun of him." Her golden head nodded emphatically with each repetition. "They laugh at him. They copy the way he talks. They hurt his feelings!" I watched her while I listened. This was something very different for her, this little girl I knew so well. I had never seen her just this way before. I even saw flashes of anger in her green eyes. "The way he talks...?" I prompted, as if she needed prompting. I sat down at the table and set her on my lap. "He doesn't talk perfect, but that's just because he's a little kid!" this four-year-old elderly person informed me loudly, inches from my face. She looked directly into my eyes, needing answers. "WHY are they so MEAN?" My husband and I had been a little apprehensive about sending her to and from preschool ("Headstart") on a bus with many of the kids so much older and bigger and tougher than she was. This was our baby of the family, our sheltered miniature princess, and it was not easy to back off and let her face the world without us for a few hours a day ... Alas, even princesses grow up. "Do you think they might be doing that just because he's new?" I asked her. She thought for a minute. "No. When I was new, they didn't make fun of me." I took a deep breath. "Do you think maybe they tease him because his skin is black?" She thought for a minute, clearly puzzled. Then she wrinkled her nose and said, "You mean brown?" I nodded and she went on: "Because he's BROWN? You don't make fun of someone just because of that!" I told her I hoped she was right. She was learning lessons none of us should need to learn. Man's inhumanity to man ... Kid's inhumanity to kids ... Whatever the reason, people can be so cruel. (Since we were looking into that subject, and since Danielle has a Downs' syndrome sister who rode on the same bus, I asked quietly, "Does anyone on the bus make fun of Shannon, Danielle?" I'll never forget the look she gave me. My question threw her totally off guard. Her brow furrowed, her nose wrinkled again and she asked, "Why in the world would they make fun of Shannon?" The very idea was ludicrous. Her mother could be so silly sometimes ... Relief was great ... But just in case, just in case there really was a flash of racial prejudice or any other mean-streak residing in the preschool bus in our little rural neighborhood, it was necessary to take a bit of action. First, I telephoned the principal and informed him that my preschooler had come home upset because of the way a little boy was treated on the bus. I told him what she had told me, and he asked me to thank her for him, for alerting us to a possible problem, something that needed his attention. He assured me he would look into it and he appreciated Danielle's and my concern. She was happy. We had done something. Then, for good measure, she and I sang a song together: a song we both knew very well. "Jesus loves the little children All the children of the world. Red and yellow Black ('AND BROWN', I threw in) and white, All are precious in His sight. Jesus loves the little children of the world." I don't know how the principal chose to handle the problem: I don't know what he said to the kids. But rest assured Danielle kept me posted on Life on the School Bus, and there was not even one more negative incident involving the little brown boy. A princess had seen to that. Alison Peters .·:*´¨`*:·..·:*´¨`*:·. *: * Richiele * * *·. .·* `*·-:¦:-*´ ³´`*:»§«:*´`³

The Holly Trees By Melody Carlson Growing up in the sixties wasn't easy when your parents were divorced and your dad seemed to have disappeared off the face of the planet - especially when everyone else seemed to be living like Ozzie and Harriet. And although my mom worked hard to keep us clothed and fed, when Christmastime rolled around, life suddenly seemed rather bleak and barren. About the time of the school Christmas party, all I could think about was making that three-hour drive to my grandparents' house where Christmas was really Christmas. Where food and relatives abounded, and artificial trees, like the cheesy tin-foil job in our tiny living room, were not allowed. You see, every year, my grandpa cut down a tree tall enough to touch the high ceiling in their old Victorian house. We often got to help; but some years, especially if we arrived just before Christmas, the tree would already be up, but we'd still help decorate it. One year, just two days before Christmas, we arrived and the tree wasn't up. I asked Grandpa if we were going out to the woods to get one. He just smiled his little half smile, blue eyes twinkling mischievously, and said we weren't going out to the woods this year. I worried and watched my grandpa all afternoon, wondering what we were going to do about the tree, but he just went about his business as if nothing whatsoever was unusual. Finally just after dinner, Grandpa went and got his ax. At last, I thought, we are going to cut down a tree. But in the dark? Grandpa grinned and told me to come outside. I followed him, wondering where he could cut a tree down at night. My grandparents' large home was situated on a small lot in the middle of town, with no U-cut trees anywhere nearby. But Grandpa went out to the parking strip next to their house and began whacking away at the trunk of one of his own mature holly trees - the tallest one, a beautiful tree loaded with bright red berries. I stared at him, in silent shock. What in the world was he doing? And what would Grandma say? "The city says I gotta cut these trees down," he explained between whacks. "They're too close to the street. I figure if I take one out each Christmas, it will keep us in trees for three years." He grinned down at me, and the tree fell. Then my sister and I helped him carry it into the house, getting poked and pricked with every step of the way. I still wasn't sure what I thought about having a holly tree for a Christmas tree. I'd never heard of such a thing. But when we had the tree in the stand and situated in its place of honor in one of the big bay windows, I knew that it was not a mistake. It was absolutely gorgeous. We all just stood and stared at its dark green glossy leaves and abundant bright red berries. "It's so beautiful," said Grandma. "It doesn't even need decorations." But my sister and I loved the process of decorating, and we insisted it did. We began to hang lights and ornaments - carefully. It isn't easy decorating a holly tree. But with each new poke we laughed and complained good- naturedly. For three years, we had holly trees for Christmas. And now, whenever I get pricked by holly, I think of Grandpa. Later on in life, after my grandpa passed away, I learned about the symbolism of holly and why we use it at Christmas - and how the red berries represent droplets of Christ's blood. I don't know if my grandpa knew about all that, but he did know how to be a father to the fatherless. And he knew how to salvage good from evil. My grandpa didn't like to waste anything. .·:*´¨`*:·..·:*´¨`*:·. *: * Richiele * * *·. .·* `*·-:¦:-*´ ³´`*:»§«:*´`³

Mother Teresa's Final Analysis People are often unreasonable, irrational, and self-centered; Forgive them anyway. If you are kind, people may accuse you of selfish, ulterior motives; Be kind anyway. If you are successful, you will win some unfaithful friends and some genuine enemies; Succeed anyway. If you are honest and sincere people may deceive you; Be honest and sincere anyway. What you spend years creating others could destroy overnight; Create anyway. If you find serenity and happiness, some may be jealous; Be happy anyway. The good you do today, will often be forgotten. Do good anyway. Give the best you have, and it may never be enough; Give your best anyway. In the final analysis, it is between you and God; It was never between you and them anyway. by Mother Teresa .·:*´¨`*:·..·:*´¨`*:·. *: * Richiele * * *·. .·* `*·-:¦:-*´ ³´`*:»§«:*´`³

Beneath the Layers of Filth By Douglas Burgess Being easily identifiable as a Jew in one of Michigan's prisons isn't always the smartest thing to do since it makes the person a perfect target for every bigot with an attitude. I know. I am an incarcerated Jew who wears a kippah (skullcap), beard and tallit katan (a small under-shirt with ritual fringes attached) despite the inevitable heckling such attire draws. Several years ago, at a weekly Torah study group, the prison's chaplain allowed me to lead. A new participant arrived late - one who I immediately knew wasn't Jewish. In our little group he stood out like a piglet among puppies. It wasn't that our group was exclusively Jewish either. We had men from several other faiths. It was his closely cropped hair and numerous tattoos displaying swastikas and other Nazi-like memorabilia that quieted our group and set him apart from us. After a moment or two of staring at one another, he dropped his gaze to the carpet and asked in a barely audible voice whether or not he could join us for the evening. To say that I was shocked is an understatement, but I recovered quickly enough so I didn't gawk at him too long before rising and inviting him to take a seat across from me. What followed is something I would never have expected from within a prison's hard, cold walls. Although it shames me today, I didn't treat Ron very well that first night. I could only see the symbols that had doomed six million of my people to their horrible deaths. Whether following my lead or through revulsion of their own, none of the other members tried to engage Ron in conversation, leaving him very alone in an otherwise crowded room. The next week was a repetition of the first. Prior to the third session, Ron asked for a minute of the group's time. "By now you're probably wondering why I'm here," Ron said in his quiet voice, fixing his gaze firmly on the tabletop. "I'm here to change. I'm here to learn how to stop hating others...to stop hating myself." Ron then spent the next half hour pouring out his heart to us about how he'd grown up in a dysfunctional, racist family in California, gotten busted for hate-related burglaries and ended up in some of California's toughest prisons, where he became a fervent member of the Aryan Brotherhood. After earning a delayed parole, Ron came to Michigan to escape his past, only to wind up falling back into his old patterns of behavior - a decision that led to his present incarceration. When Ron finished, he looked up. There were tears flowing down his cheeks. It was at that point that our group was forever changed. We spent the first portion of each session over the next few months working with Ron, challenging his beliefs and exploring his reasons for wanting to change. It was a difficult task and one that I frequently thought he'd abandon. Ron continued to take great emotional and physical risks to come to terms with the things he'd done. I knew Ron wasn't the same man I'd first met when he started walking the yard with me - an act that publicly shouted Ron's renunciation of hate to those who once counted him among their bigoted elite. To his credit, Ron silently withstood his ex-friends' taunts and continued seeking new ways to improve himself. Eventually, when our entire group was satisfied that Ron wasn't pulling some type of elaborate con game, we pooled our money and paid to have Ron's tattoos covered up by one of the prison's best illegal artists. We also put him in touch with several outreach organizations and convinced him to help others who were blindly stumbling down his old path. Ron had come to our group seeking positive change. He found it. He also became a person I am proud to call a friend. Ron, however, also changed me. He renewed my waning belief in mankind's ability to overcome its senseless hatred - to find its goodness buried beneath layers of encrusted filth. From this one individual, and from within an openly hostile environment, dozens have learned acceptance of that which is different. I will go to my grave knowing few greater accomplishments. .·:*´¨`*:·..·:*´¨`*:·. *: * Richiele * * *·. .·* `*·-:¦:-*´ ³´`*:»§«:*´`³

UNANSWERED LETTERS I read of a man who was involved in a tragic accident. He lost both legs and his left arm and only a finger and thumb remained on the right hand. But he still possessed a brilliant mind, enriched with a good education and broadened with world travel. At first he thought there was nothing he could do but remain a helpless sufferer. A thought came to him. It was always nice to receive letters, but why not write them--he could still use his right hand with some difficulty. But to whom could he write? Was there anyone shut-in and incapacitated like he was who could be encouraged by his letters? He thought of men in prison--they did have some hope of release, whereas he had none--but it was worth a try. He wrote to a Christian organization concerned with prison ministry. He was told that his letters could not be answered because it was against prison rules, but he still decided to commence this one-sided correspondence. He wrote twice a week, and it taxed his strength to the limit. But into the letters he put his whole soul, all his experience, all his faith, all his wit, and all his Christian optimism. Frequently he felt discouraged and was tempted to give it all up. But it was his one remaining activity, and he resolved to continue as long as he could. At last he got a letter. It was very short, written on prison stationery by the officer whose duty it was to censor the mail. All it said was: "Please write on the best paper you can afford. Your letters are passed from cell to cell till they literally fall to pieces." Author Unknown .·:*´¨`*:·..·:*´¨`*:·. *: * Richiele * * *·. .·* `*·-:¦:-*´ ³´`*:»§«:*´`³

it only does it to jokes ?? lol like it knows.. right now i have dsl and dial up talk about a pain!! but i do not wanna give up aol and i got my dsl from pac bell. missi > LOL~! :-) I knew you would notice that part Missi. :-) > I wonder why it cuts off the end sometimes~? > I have never had AOL, but manage to get plenty of aggravation with attbi ( > @home) > me > .·:*´¨`*:·..·:*´¨`*:·. *: * Richiele * * *·. .·* `*·-:¦:-*´ ³´`*:»§«:*´`³

> A Full and Complete Stop > By Mary Hanson > > A little while ago, I was on a flight back home from a > business trip. > After the aircraft landed and was taxiing toward the > gate, the head steward got on the PA system and began the > oft-repeated speech about destinations, gate locations and > the service people waiting to help you. > Then, as the plane approached the gate, some > passengers looked restless, and it appeared as if they were > about to stand up. > Seeing this, the steward announced, "We have invested > a lot of money to ensure that your flight has been safe and > comfortable. We are also looking for ways to save money, > and this aircraft is participating in a new experiment. To > reduce costs, we are asking for volunteers to help clean > the cabin upon our arrival. Those wishing to volunteer for > cabin clean-up, please stand up before we come to a full > and complete stop." > Not a single passenger left his or her seat until we > were at the gate, and the seat belt sign was turned off. > .·:*´¨`*:·..·:*´¨`*:·. *: * Richiele * * *·. .·* `*·-:¦:-*´ ³´`*:»§«:*´`³

The Sparrow at Starbucks It was chilly in Manhattan but warm inside the Starbucks shop on 51st Street and Broadway, just a skip up from Times Square. For a musician, it's the most lucrative Starbucks location in the world, I'm told, and consequently, the tips can be substantial if you play your tunes right. I was playing keyboard and singing backup for my friend who also added rhythm with an arsenal of percussion instruments. During our emotional rendition of "If You Don't Know Me by Now," I noticed a lady sitting in one of the lounge chairs across from me. She was swaying to the beat and singing along. After the tune was over, she approached me. "I apologize for singing along on that song. Did it bother you?" she asked. "No," I replied. "We love it when the audience joins in. Would you like to sing up front on the next selection?" To my delight, she accepted my invitation. "You choose," I said. "What are you in the mood to sing?" "Well ... do you know any hymns?" Hymns? This woman didn't know who she was dealing with. I cut my teeth on hymns. Before I was even born, I was going to church. I gave our guest singer a knowing look. "Name one." "Oh, I don't know. There are so many good ones. You pick one." "Okay," I replied. "How about 'His Eye is on the Sparrow'?" My new friend was silent, her eyes averted. Then she fixed her eyes on mine again and said, "Yeah. Let's do that one." She slowly nodded her head, put down her purse, straightened her jacket and faced the center of the shop. With my two-bar setup, she began to sing. Why should I be discouraged? Why should the shadows come? The audience of coffee drinkers was transfixed. I sing because I'm happy; I sing because I'm free. For His eye is on the sparrow And I know He watches me. When the last note was sung, the applause crescendoed to a deafening roar. Embarrassed, the woman tried to shout over the din, "Oh, y'all go back to your coffee! I didn't come in here to do a concert! I just came in here to get somethin' to drink, just like you!" But the ovation continued. I embraced my new friend. "You, my dear, have made my whole year! That was beautiful!" "It's funny that you picked that particular hymn," she said. "Why is that?" She hesitated again, "that was my daughter's favorite song." She grabbed my hands. By this time, the applause had subsided and it was business as usual. "She was 16. She died of a brain tumor last week." I said the first thing that found its way through my silence. "Are you going to be okay?" She smiled through tear-filled eyes and squeezed my hands. "I'm gonna be okay. I've just got to keep trusting the Lord and singing his songs, and everything's gonna be just fine." She picked up her bag, gave me her card, and then she was gone. Was it just a coincidence that we happened to be singing in that particular coffee shop on that particular November night? Coincidence that this wonderful lady just happened to walk into that particular shop? Coincidence that of all the hymns to choose from, I just happened to pick the very hymn that wasthe favorite of her daughter, who had died just the week before? I refuse to believe it. God has been arranging encounters in human history since the beginning of time, and it's no stretch for me to imagine that he could reach into a coffee shop in midtown Manhattan and turn an ordinary gig into a revival. It was a great reminder that if we keep trusting him and singing his songs, everything's gonna be okay. ************************************************* "I AM too blessed to be stressed!" .·:*´¨`*:·..·:*´¨`*:·. *: * Richiele * * *·. .·* `*·-:¦:-*´ ³´`*:»§«:*´`³

> This Little Light Of Mine - AWESOME!!! > .·:*´¨`*:·..·:*´¨`*:·. *: * Richiele * * *·. .·* `*·-:¦:-*´ ³´`*:»§«:*´`³

> WHY MEN AREN'T SECRETARIES > > > > > > Husband's note on refrigerator to his wife: > > > > > > Someone from the Gyna College called. > > > > > > They said Pabst beer is normal. .·:*´¨`*:·..·:*´¨`*:·. *: * Richiele * * *·. .·* `*·-:¦:-*´ ³´`*:»§«:*´`³

Hi, While trying to find the story Patti wanted, I came across this and thought I would share. Mary It was the first day of census, and all through the land; The pollster was ready, a black book in hand. He mounted his horse for a long dusty ride; His book and some quills were tucked close by his side. A long winding ride down a road barely there; Toward the smell of fresh bread wafting, up through the air. The woman was tired, with lines on her face; And wisps of brown hair she tucked back into place. She gave him some water, as they sat at the table; And she answered his questions -- the best she was able. He asked of her children. Yes, she had quite a few; The oldest was twenty, the youngest not two. She held up a toddler with cheeks round and red; His sister, she whispered, was napping in bed. She noted each person who lived there with pride; And she felt the faint stirrings of the wee one inside. He noted the sex, the color, the age. The marks from the quill soon filled up the page. At the number of children, she nodded her head; And saw her lips quiver for the three that were dead. The places of birth she "never forgot"; Was it Kansas? or Utah? or Oregon -- or not? They came from Scotland, of that she was clear; But she wasn't quite sure just how long they'd been here. They spoke of employment, of schooling and such; They could read some, and write some, though really not much. When the questions were answered, his job there was done; So he mounted his horse and he rode toward the sun. We can almost imagine his voice loud and clear; "May God bless you all for another ten years." Now picture a time warp -- its' now you and me; As we search for the people on our family tree. We squint at the census and scroll down so slow; As we search for that entry from long, long ago. Could they only imagine on that long ago day; That the entries they made would effect us this way? If they knew, would they wonder at the yearning we feel; And the searching that makes them so increasingly real. We can hear if we listen the words they impart; Through their blood in our veins and their voice in our heart. Author Unknown