From: Jackie <daniellb@mail.icongrp.com> To: Maggie_Ohio-L@rootsweb.com <Maggie_Ohio-L@rootsweb.com> Date: Tuesday, October 20, 1998 10:50 AM Subject: Story:Get Your Kleenex Ready -->THE OLD MAN AND THE DOG….. > >"Watch out! You nearly broad sided that car!" My father yelled at me. >"Can't you do anything right?" Those words hurt worse than blows. I >turned my head toward the elderly man in the seat beside me, daring me >to challenge him. A lump rose in my throat as I averted my eyes. I >wasn't >prepared for another battle. > >"I saw the car, Dad. Please don't yell at me when I'm driving." My >voice was measured and steady, sounding far calmer than I really felt. >Dad glared at me, then turned away and settled back. > >At home I left Dad in front of the television and went outside to >collect my thoughts. Dark, heavy clouds hung in the air with a promise >of >rain. The rumble of distant thunder seemed to echo my inner turmoil. >What could I do about him? > >Dad had been a lumberjack in Washington and Oregon. He had enjoyed >being outdoors and had reveled in pitting his strength against the >forces >of nature. He had entered grueling lumberjack competitions, and had >placed often. The shelves in his house were filled with trophies that >attested to his prowess. > >The years marched on relentlessly. The first time he couldn't lift a >heavy log, he joked about it; but later that same day I saw him outside >alone, straining to lift it. He became irritable whenever anyone teased >him about his advancing age, or when he couldn't do something he >had done as a younger man. > >Four days after his sixty-seventh birthday, he had a heart attack. An >ambulance sped him to the hospital while a paramedic administered CPR >to keep blood and oxygen flowing. At the hospital, Dad was rushed into >an operating room. He was lucky; he survived. > >But something inside Dad died. His zest for life was gone. He obstin- >ately refused to follow doctor's orders. Suggestions and offers of help >were turned aside with sarcasm and insults. The number of visitors >thinned, then finally stopped altogether. Dad was left alone. > >My husband, Dick, and I asked Dad to come live with us on our small >farm. We hoped the fresh air and rustic atmosphere would help him >adjust. >Within a week after he moved in, I regretted the invitation. It seemed >nothing was satisfactory. He criticized everything I did. I became frus- > >trated and moody. Soon I was taking my pent-up anger out on Dick. >We began to bicker and argue. Alarmed, Dick sought out our pastor and >explained the situation. The clergyman set up weekly counseling appoint- > >ments for us. At the close of each session he prayed, asking God to >soothe Dad's troubled mind. But the months wore on and God was silent. > >A raindrop struck my cheek. I looked up into the gray sky. Somewhere >up there was "God." Although I believe a Supreme Being had created the >universe, I had difficulty believing that God cared about the tiny human > >being on this earth. I was tired of waiting for a God who didn't answer. > >Something had to be done and it was up to me to do it. > >The next day I sat down with the phone book and methodically called >each of the mental health clinics listed in the Yellow Pages. I >explained >my problem to each of the sympathetic voices that answered. In vain. >Just when I was giving up hope, one of the voices suddenly exclaimed, "I > >just read something that might help you! Let me go get the article." I >listened as she read. The article described a remarkable study done at a > >nursing home. All of the patients were under treatment for chronic >depression. Yet their attitudes had improved dramatically when they were > >given responsibility for a dog. > >I drove to the animal shelter that afternoon. After I filled out a >questionnaire, a uniformed officer led me to the kennels. The odor of >disinfectant stung my nostrils as I moved down the row of pens. Each >contained five to seven dogs. Long-haired dogs, curly-haired dogs, black > >dogs, spotted dogs–all jumped up, trying to reach me. I studied each one > >but rejected one after the other for various reasons–too big, too small, > >too much hair. As I neared the last pen a dog in the shadows of the far >corner struggled to his feet, walked to the front of the run and sat >down. It was a pointer, one of the dog world's aristocrats. But this was >a >caricature of the breed. Years had etched his face and muzzle with >shades of gray. His hipbones jutted out in lopsided triangles. But it >was >his eyes that caught and held my attention. Calm and clear, they beheld >me unwaveringly. > >I pointed to the dog. "Can you tell me about him?" The officer looked, >then shook his head in puzzlement. >"He's a funny one. Appeared out of nowhere and sat in front of the >gate. We brought him in, figuring someone would be right down to claim >him. That was two weeks ago and we've heard nothing. His time is up >tomorrow." He gestured helplessly. >As the words sank in I turned to the man in horror. "You mean you're >going to kill him?" >"Ma'am," he said gently, "that's our policy. We don't have room for >every unclaimed dog." >I looked at the pointer again. The calm brown eyes awaited my decision. >"I'll take him," I said. > >I drove home with the dog on the front seat beside me. When I reached >the house I honked the horn twice. I was helping my prize out of the car > >when Dad shuffled onto the front porch. >"Ta-da! Look what I got for you, Dad!" I said excitedly. >Dad looked, then wrinkled his face in disgust. "If I had wanted a dog I >would have gotten one. And I would have picked out a better specimen >than that bag of bones. Keep it! I don't want it" Dad waved his arm >scornfully and turned back toward the house. >Anger rose inside me. It squeezed together my throat muscles and >pounded into my temples. >"You'd better get used to him, Dad. He's staying!" Dad ignored me. >"Did you hear me, Dad?" I screamed. At those words Dad whirled >angrily, his hands clenched at his sides, his eyes narrowed and >blazing with hate. > >We stood glaring at each other like duelists, when suddenly the pointer >pulled free from my grasp. He wobbled toward my dad and sat down in >front of him. Then slowly, carefully, he raised his paw. >Dad's lower jaw trembled as he stared at the uplifted paw. Confusion >replaced the anger in his eyes. The pointer waited patiently. Then Dad >was on his knees hugging the animal. > >It was the beginning of a warm and intimate friendship. Dad named the >pointer Cheyenne. Together he and Cheyenne explored the community. >They spent long hours walking down dusty lanes. They spent reflective >moments on the banks of streams, angling for tasty trout. They even >started to attend Sunday services together, Dad sitting in a pew and >Cheyenne lying quietly at his feet. > >Dad and Cheyenne were inseparable throughout the next three years. >Dad's bitterness faded, and he and Cheyenne made many friends. Then >late one night I was startled to feel Cheyenne's cold nose burrowing >through our bed covers. He had never before come into our bedroom at >night. I woke Dick, put on my robe and ran into my father's room. Dad >lay in his bed, his face serene. But his spirit had left quietly >sometime >during the night. > >Two days later my shock and grief deepened when I discovered >Cheyenne lying dead beside Dad's bed. I wrapped his still form in the >rag rug he had slept on. As Dick and I buried him near a favorite >fishing >hole, I silently thanked the dog for the help he had given me in >restoring >Dad's peace of mind. > >The morning of Dad's funeral dawned overcast and dreary. This day >looks like the way I feel, I thought, as I walked down the aisle to the >pews reserved for family. I was surprised to see the many friends >Dad and Cheyenne had made filling the church. The pastor began his >eulogy. It was a tribute to both Dad and the dog who had changed his >life. And then the pastor turned to Hebrews 13:2. "Be not forgetful to >entertain strangers." I've often thanked God for sending that angel," he > >said. > >For me, the past dropped into place, completing a puzzle that I had not >seen before: the sympathetic voice that had just read the right >article... >Cheyenne's unexpected appearance at the animal shelter. . .his calm >acceptance and complete devotion to my father. . .and the proximity of >their deaths. And suddenly I understood. I knew that God had answered >my prayers after all. > >Jackie > > -----Original Message----- From: WesBlair <sinatra@magiclink.com> To: GEN-ROOTERS-L@rootsweb.com <GEN-ROOTERS-L@rootsweb.com> Date: Tuesday, October 20, 1998 10:46 AM Subject: Re: [GEN-ROOTERS-L] Posting >I don't know if this is helpful or redundant --- our page has a section on tracing >Mormon pioneers -- you've probably already seen it, but......if not, maybe you'll >get lucky. The address is http://www.geocities.com/Vienna/Strasse/7222 --- then go >to the cultural and ethnic page............. >We were down in Utah at my daughter's wedding, so I missed the original >message.....sorry if this is repetitive. >Pam (in Idaho) > >Gene Warner wrote: > >> >Someone make a suggestion!! >> >> Dianne, >> Was anyone able to help the lady that needed information on the following? >> >> Subject: [WARNER-L] MORMON Warners >> Does anyone have knowledge of the family which immigrated to Salt Lake City >> in the Handcart company listed below? >> >> Edmund Ellsworth Company Roster >> (First Company) >> Left Iowa on June 9, 1856 and arrived in Salt Lake City on September 26, 1856 >> >> Warner, James (60), wife and family >> Warner, Ann (49) wife >> Warner, Sarah Ann (14) >> >> Note: This is the only Warner entry found on these rosters of the 10 >> handcarts listed. >> >> ==== GEN-ROOTERS Mailing List ==== >> To Post items on one of the mailing lists send it to GEN-ROOTERS-L@rootsweb.com >> >> listowner questions to AZDEE@aol.com > > > > >==== GEN-ROOTERS Mailing List ==== >Helping each other is how we find our ancestors. Share information with others researching the same surname. > >listowner questions to AZDEE@aol.com > > > > > >