Storytime Tapestry Newsletter

The newsletter devoted to spreading love and cultural awareness around the world.

August 16, 2006

Today’s announcements

Now onto the good stuff!

Today’s Queue Stories

~**~**~

Memories

Janice Bumbalough Marler

I was born in 1939, the year World War II had been declared.  Franklin Delano Roosevelt was in office.  He was our thirty-second president.  In nineteen-twenty one he was stricken with polio and served his terms in a wheelchair.  He died in nineteen-forty five. 

Unemployment was on the rise in 1939.  My father never went to war, but he did work for The Civilian Conservation Corps, known as the three C’s, repairing roads, dams, and planting trees.  The three C’s provided work for a total of 3,000,000 employees during its existence. (Ref: Britannia Encyclopedia, Book 10, page 140)  I’m not quite sure what year dad stopped working for the three C’s, but I do know we moved to Clark county Ohio sometime around nineteen-forty one.  He worked on a farm owned by an elderly gentleman.  Mother called him, ‘Mr. Waddle’.  He was a tall slender man.  I remember his dark blue bibbed overalls and I remember his Stetson hat with the crease on top.  Although I was only seventeen months old when my sister was born, I have vivid memories of the farm, Mr. Waddle, and of my new baby sister.

I remember pulling her over in the bassinet where she slept.  Mother thought I pulled the bassinet over on purpose.  I was standing on the bar on the bottom of the bassinet when it toppled. I wanted to see what she looked like.  I can still remember the feel of the smooth, white bassinet and the feel of Mother’s hand as she popped my bottom. (It wasn’t considered child abuse in the forties).  My parents never abused us, but they did pop us when we did something that required the popping.  There was too much love in our family for abuse.   It’s fascinating how the brain stores memory, the good and the bad. 

I must have been around seven or eight when my father and mother re-dedicated their lives to Christ. My father would lie on the couch and teach us the books of the new and old testaments.  I had a problem memorizing the books after Micah, in the Old Testament, because the words were too difficult to pronounce.  I still have a problem today recalling them.  He taught me the follow equation: Thirty nine books in the Old Testament.  39…3 x 9 = 27.  There are twenty-seven books in the New Testament.  We learned to memorize the beatitudes, the names of all the apostles, and the fruits of the Holy Spirit under his tutelage.  

As we age, we seem to lose our short term memory: i.e.: “Where did I put those car keys?” or “Where did I put my glasses?” They usually can be found on our heads, etc., but our long term memories stay with us.

I am thankful I was raised in a Christian environment and to have had two wonderful Christian parents.  How extremely important it is to raise our own children to believe and love God.

Train up a child in the way he should go and when he is old he will not depart from it. Proverbs 22: 6

LK 18:16 But Jesus called them unto him, and said, suffer little children to come unto me, and forbid them not: for of such is the kingdom of God.

EPH 6:4 And, ye fathers, provoke not your children to wrath: but bring them up in the nurture and admonition of the Lord.

Janice Bumbalough Marler

poetrybyjan@aol.com

poetrybyja@msn.com

~**~**~

He Died In My Arms

  Helen Dowd

To my recollection, the first time I saw Uncle Bill was when I was seven. He was in the navy during World War II. On leave he would use our place for a stop over. I am sure he wouldn't have come if he had had any other place to go. He wasn't fond of my dad, his oldest brother, and he hated kids. And there were six of us, all ranging in age from twelve down to two.

When we children saw Uncle Bill coming down the street we jumped up and down, hardly able to contain our glee. He looked so handsome in his navy suit. As soon as he entered the house we all clambered for his attention, wanting to feel his shiny buttons and touch his crisp navy blue uniform. His response was, "Get away from me with your sticky hands, you monsters." And then he would rub his uniform with his handkerchief, and vanish into the kitchen, where we children were forbidden to go, unless invited.

I don't remember much more than that about Uncle Bill during my growing up years. And throughout my teens I saw him rarely. Whenever I did, he paid little attention to me.

So in 1989, when he asked my husband and me if we would come and stay with him we were surprised. We had no ties, except for our pets, to which he had no objection; so we agreed to move in with him. He was failing in health and needed someone to stay with him.

The next year and a half was a series of ups and downs. I think I could say that it was one of the most difficult periods in my life. But it was also one of the best. I remember sitting in the living room with him, and thinking, "I really love this man." And often I would see him looking at me with a twinkle in his eye, and I got the feeling that he loved me, too. How that happened, I don't know.

"How did I end up here?" I would often think. When I was a child he didn't even know I existed, except for my sticky fingers.

For a year and a half we saw Uncle Bill deteriorate. He suffered from a strange ailment, Addison's Bronze disease, which caused sudden mood swings. We were never sure when his next temper flare would come, or at which of us it would be directed. Always, though, he would try to get back into our good books by taking us out for a meal.

I am not sure how we got through that trying time, but I know that God was with us. We were able to have some good talks with our uncle. Although he liked to discuss Bible doctrines, he had bitterness in his heart that exploded right in the middle of the discussion. As time went on we noticed his bitterness melting slowly. He would sit with tears in his eyes, asking us if we thought God could forgive him for his wicked ways, away back when he was young. I know God helped us show him that forgiveness was for anyone who asked.

The night before he died he asked me if I would sit with him and read Psalm 23. He fell asleep while I was reading it. I am sure that God hovered that night over his bed, gently leading him through the valley of death. I went to my bed at two o'clock in the morning, and awoke with a start, much later than I usually get up. I rushed to his bed. He was breathing his last. I will never forget the experience of holding someone in my arms while he passes over the River of Jordan.

I wrote this poem in memory of my Uncle Bill:

Long years ago, it now has been, since we lost Uncle Bill. But in my mind I still can hear his whistle, oh so shrill. Out to his porch, down to the yard, or maybe just to talk, he'd blow a blast. I'd run so fast: he'd like to take a walk. "Take me to town. No, turn around. I want to have a sleep." And so it went, day after day—nerve wracking pace to keep.

One summer he had asked us if we'd come and stay awhile. "I'd like to have some company," he said with a sly smile. "I'd like to sit on my front porch and watch the world go by. 'They' said that I can't stay here. Can you imagine why? 'Unless you get some help,' said they, 'we'll put you in a Home. We cannot take the chance you'll fall. You cannot stay alone.'"

So that is how it came about we went to live with Bill. Although he made life difficult, it wasn't all "up hill." Some days were bad; some days were good; some days just in between. Some days he'd be so pleasant, and others, just plain mean.

He couldn't help his temper flares, so we tried hard to please. Poor Uncle Bill was ailing with Bronze Addison's disease.

And then one day in '90—a hot day in July—he bussed to town, without us—we still can't figure why? We think it was to vex us. He said, "I'll go alone. I don't want you to follow. I know my own way home."

A full three hours later we heard a frantic knock. A policeman told us gently, "We found him on the walk."

Now Uncle Bill was elderly, well nigh on eighty-six; so it was not so easy, a broken hip to fix. But he was also feisty. He said, "I'll be home soon. So you make sure you cut the lawn, and keep the raspb'rries pruned. And never mind the laundry; you wash far, far too much. And don't clean up the basement. My tools, don't you dare touch."

But we just smiled and told him, "Don't worry, Uncle Bill; when you come home, all mended, your house will be here still."

But Bill did not recover—not like he was before. He'd walk, and then he's stumble and land hard on the floor. So age and illness conquered. Poor Uncle Bill grew worse. We had to watch him carefully—to be his constant nurse. Sometimes it was depressing to sit there by his bed, to watch him just deteriorate, refusing to be fed.

On the twenty-third, December, at 9:05 a.m. I held my uncle in my arms. He died right there and then.

We missed our dear old uncle, although he'd been a trial. We often think about him, and the thought brings us a smile. He'd talk of God and politics: of things he thought not right. And if you dared to disagree, he was ready for a fight.

He'd rage about a lot of things, like poverty and such. But weather didn't bother him; at least, not very much. In winter he'd be on his porch, all wrapped up in a gown. In summer he would suntan, until his skin was golden brown.

We've run across his likeness in other old, old men. And our mind zooms back to "those good old days" with Uncle Bill again.

© Helen Dowd

Author: Helen Dowd

Email address: hmdowd@telus.net

Website: www.occupytillicome.com

Poetry Section

~**~**~

~Ageless Beauty~

Mary Dees

Skin deep,

Beauty will lie.

Underneath,

Sadness cries.

Know me..never,

Pulling away.

My eyes confirm,

The game you play.

Sweetly telling,

 Me to care.

You think I'm pathetic,

And unaware.

I know you,

You can not hide.

Pull your thorns,

Out of my side.

Step away,

Back off fast.

You ignorance will linger,

And my beauty will last.

Mary M. Dees

marlena7694@yahoo.com

~**~**~

" GOD'S GREAT LOVE "

Mary Carter Mizrany

Has the love of God EVER been so
desperately welcomed as in this time
in which we live?
A time so filled with Unrest, Unpeace
conflicts raging in nation after nation?
Oh, dear ones, there is ONLY ONE
who shall EVER bring PEACE to this
world. HIS NAME IS JESUS CHRIST !

You may ask me ~ "How do I receive
this PEACE of which you are writing?"
How glad I am you asked:-)
Since JESUS  is  the Prince of Peace;
you must needs ask HIM to be the Lord of your
life.   There will be no peace for you without HIM.

Allow JESUS to speak peace to YOUR
heart.     Ah ~ my friends ~ when HE lives
      within us, though "ALL HELL"   may be breaking loose around us
we have security of mind, body & soul.
We serve the ONE who gives PEACE that passes ALL understanding !

This PEACE comes from knowing that
GOD LOVES US.   God loves us
just as we are.   Yet,  does not leave us there.
Our Father begins 'growing us up' ~ HE Knows us so much
better than we know ourselves.   He begins tearing down
and  building up.   He is the Potter ~ we are the clay.
God remolds us on His  potter's wheel. 

God's WORD tells us HE knows us
so well, even the very hairs of our head
are numbered by HIM ~ Hallelujah !
The least little thing that is important to
to us, GOD is concerned about.
When we walk with God and fellowship
with HIM; HE becomes our Guide,
our Wonderful Counselor and our
PRINCE OF PEACE ! Oh, glory to HIS NAME !!!

I have found Jesus to be so FAITHFUL & TRUE.
He does not wait for us to "get it all right" ~
before HE meets our needs; else He would
STILL be waiting. NO ~ HE meets us exactly
where we are and begins answering
our prayers while they are yet upon our lips.
If you are facing some hard places in
your life, I urge you to CALL upon JESUS.
IF you are facing a season of drought right now,
ask JESUS to FILL YOUR CUP !
He WILL, dear ones. JESUS will calm
any storm in our lives ~ HE DOES MINE:-)

Mary  Carter Mizrany©

musingByMary@aol.com
April 1, 2003

The writings of Mary Carter Mizrany have been
published in books, magazines, newspapers, and in many
venues on the web.   Her website is: www.onwingsoffaith.com,
where can be found inspiration and encouragement.
Do visit to see what the Lord has for you:-)  Love in Jesus,  Maryxo

~**~**~

 This poem I believe was written because I must go to the VA Hospital tomorrow for a piddaly urinary tract infection.  Last time I was there I saw some of the returning wounded from our other mess., Irac.  If you would have seen, you would also get sick.  These kids did not ask for that.  We can all sit back in our easy chair because these kids gave their lives and many more before.  I saw some as they were coming back from therapy, some with half their face blown off.  And believe it or not, Uncle Sam is not going to take care of them.  It will be up to private insurance if they have it.  Shall we all sing and shout for these kids.  Yet that is all you are doing.  The look is something that will live with me, the look of desolation.  You can call them heroes but they don't give a damn.  They've lost their whole lives.  This one little girl has no legs and she turned her face from me as I was talking to a fellow vet.  It shall always follow me, her eyes.  She will never know the joy that we have of giving birth because of another man's war.  I am not sure I can go over there for an appointment because I so disagree with what we are doing to our kids.  I am pro life and love and happiness and non of this fits in.  I had to write this.  Love and hugs, Founder Sharlett

Fighting Another Man's War

Sharlett F. Hunt

Scud missiles, sounds of bombs

Roadside bombs all sounds the same

In the meantime I want to run and hide

For the sounds of yesterday still ring

Wasn't that just yesterday, I saw my friend Joe.

That was Viet Cong that killed him, right?

Or was it or does it still exist?

In man's need for greed?

In this mind there is no beginning or end

When will the bombing stop?

They call me an activist

When will they learn?

I sat and saw the end of a world

That could be beautiful and pure

With all this pain

No way to endure

I suppose I can crawl back in my rock

And pretend that it doesn't exist

But the proof is in the limbs

That will ever be missed

Let's put a stop to this and stop the rest who want to disagree,

I see children with nightmares because of trying to fight for you and me

What do we teach them when we say

It's honorable to go have your limbs blown away?

Sharlett Hunt

Sharlette863@aol.com

Readers Feedback

Clara certainly has been well trained,,,,,,,,,,just like me.
Thanks
Mark Crider

Carol,

Computers can be a pain in the backside for sure. Thank you for sharing your computer woes with us. We've all been there a time or two.

Hugs,

Dianna

I know the feeling, Carol. I have had such an experience with my computer several times. I get so frustrated because I don't know what to do about it and my son is 85 miles away. So, if something goes wrong with mine, I have to call a computer tech.

Hang in there, it will be alright. Just keep praising the Lord and everything will work itself out.

Blessings,

Nell

Wow, Carol. I'm so sorry this happened to you and hope you can get it fixed quickly.

Sara

Senior Writers

Chief writer: Sharon Bryant

Chief researcher/historian: Hartson Dowd

Agee, Vance; Apted, Violet; Baker, Kathy; Batt, Al; Berry, Nell; Blaine, Pamela; Boda, Ginger; Booher, Paula; Buhagiar, Victor; Cassady, B.J.; Costner, Joan Clifton; Cavalera, Robyn; Crider, Mark; Dees, Mary; Deming, Barb; Doherty, Maria;  Dowd, Hartson; Dowd, Helen; Gilbert, Robert, Jr.; Gold, Ron; Goodier, Steve; Grisham, Mary-Ellen; Braun-Haley, Ellie; Harris, Kathy Anne; Henry, Linda Ann; Hunt, Sharlett; Hymes, Christina; Jacobson, Gary; Kiser, Roger Dean; Kerens, Claudia; Kevin, Tim; Jenkins, Pamela; Liles, Norma; Lily Jodi Flesberg; Lock, Joyce; Marlor, Janice Bumbalough; Mazzella, Joe; Mizrany, Mary Carter; Morris, Deepak; Ojeibge, Georgewaters; Petry, Dianna Doles; Roberts, Susan; Shiveley, Debra; Shaw, Bob; Sims, Richard; Streidel, Saskia; Swarner, Ken; Vaknin, Sam; Verhoeff, Jan; Walker, Bill; Walker, Joe; Warner, Gordon, K; Walsh, Sue; Weymouth, Barbara J.; Whirity, Kathy;

Wainland, David; Westerfer, Clara; White Robert;

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