Storytime Tapestry Newsletter

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

October 10, 2006

Today’s announcements

We a few birthday wishes to send to day:

Happy birthday to Ellie Braun-Haley our most gifted writer: shaley@telusplanet.net

And a happy birthday wish goes out to our subscribers: 

Sheila Talley: SLT7863@aol.com

Jim Geddes: bonniegeddes1@sbcglobal.net

Now onto the good stuff!

Today’s Queue Stories

~**~**~

The Cascade Affect: A Mexican, A Dead Dillo, and a Deputy

Mike Firesmith

The Cascade Affect is what happens when you get pecked to death by parakeets. It's nothing big that happens to you, it's a lot of little things. Lots and lots of little things. So many little things that it's like trying to figure out which raindrop caused the flood. Little things turn into many more little things and before it's over and done with, it's like a sandstorm in a shower.

It was getting close to lunchtime, about 11:30 and I was going to go to the office and write during lunch. Most people are gone at lunch and no one messes with me when I'm writing. But there was a deputy's car in the suicide lane and he seemed to be stopped trying to help someone, so I decided that I'd stop and help out with traffic control if I could.

It's not part of my job to stop and help cops but I certainly am drawn to it. I like cops. The cops that helped us out on the night work project saved our asses from drunks and bad drivers more than once. It's time to repay the favor, I decided and so I pulled in front of both vehicles, creating a box that we could work in and have positive protection from both directions. The deputy looked at me like I had lost my mind for a second then he realized what I was doing. I looked at him and realized that he was being pecked to death by parakeets. The day was Cascading on him.
He had stopped because a van was parked in the suicide lane and there was a guy underneath it. The Mexican under the van was being pecked to death by parakeets, too. Unknown to us all, the van had been full of parakeets, and they were now taking their vengeance upon us.

The first thing to go wrong was it was hot. Ungodly hot. It was already pushing ninety degrees and there was no wind. Then there was the armadillo. The Universal Order Of The Brotherhood Of Shelled Mammals had cast him out of their lot and he was to be tried by tires. If he could survive being on that road for one hour then they would know that the Gods favored him. Alas! The Fords favored him and for the last few days his body had done what bodies do in August.

So much for any attempt at lunch.

But then the tire jack wouldn't work and the deputy had to let the Mexican borrow his jack. The Mexican didn't speak a word of English. Neither the deputy nor myself spoke Mexican, or for that matter much English ourselves, being from South Georgia. But the Deputy did get manage to get the van jacked up, and then one of the bolts holding the tire on stripped off.
It got hotter. The Armadillo did what armadillos do in August.
Meanwhile, the deputy and I are talking shop. We both work traffic and we both work wrecks, so we have a lot of notes to compare. Meanwhile, the Mexican keeps staring at a vacant house across the street. I don't want to know. I don't look. The deputy doesn't look either. I think he didn't want to know. We get the tire off and it looks like we'll get out of there in a few minutes at the worst. But the spare is one of those doughnuts ( doughnuts, hmmmm) that's bolted to the bottom of the van. The bolt holding it on is stripped too. I hear parakeets swarming.

The Mexican cannot communicate with us, nor we with him, but this is getting out of hand. I get into the van to hold the bold with a pair of vice grips that Columbus used to hold the Nina together. The nut still will not turn. I begin sweating buckets. The deputy spells me and it still doesn't work. The Mexican pulls out a hacksaw blade and begins to saw. It's so tight a fit he can only move the blade back and forth about a hundredth of a millimeter. At this rate, I know where I'll be when I retire. And die of old age.

But let me be honest here. The man who is truly suffering here is the Mexican. Not one, but two, governmental agencies has shown up. He has to lie on the asphalt to work on the tire under the van. He has to put up with the Armadillo being twenty feet from him. And so far nothing he's done has worked. He's sawing away, sweating tears and wondering if we'll arrest him when all of a sudden the bolt is cut through. The tire lands on his face. Because the van has been drive on red clay roads there's a ton of dirt caked on the tire. The Mexican looks like he's been attacked by an Avon Lady selling orange pancake face make-up.

The parakeets dive in from all directions at once.

The poor guy gets all the dust out of his eyes while we put the tire on for him. It's flat. The deputy has a can of air in his truck and we get the tire inflated and the Mexican stands there and thanks us. The deputy doesn't realize what he's done when he does it, but he tells the Mexican that there is a tire place not two miles from here. He'll follow the van until it reaches the tire place.

All this is going on via sign language and poorly English...by both parties. The Mexican just wants to thank us, profusely, and for us to leave. The deputy doesn't realize there might be a reason the guy wants us to leave first. I have no dog in this fight. It's time for me to get. I get into my truck to leave and the Mexican assumes that what the cop is telling him is to follow me. He does. The cop falls in behind the Mexican and away we go.

I pull into the office, and the Mexican pulls in right behind me, and the deputy behind him.
And the parakeets are there waiting for us.

Take Care,
Mike Firesmith 

~**~**~

ENJOY THE RIDE

By: Joseph J. Mazzella

When I was a boy I used to love to go bike riding. There was a Summer 4-H camp full of paved roadways across the road from my home. During the Spring and Fall this camp was mainly empty and the roadways were clear for me and my bike. I would ride my old, banana-seat, foot-brake bicycle for hours. The camp grounds had a lot of steep hills that were tough to get up. Often I would have to climb off and push my bike up them. The downhill rides, however, made it all worthwhile. I felt like I was flying, and I barely had to pedal at all. It was pure fun, pure delight, pure joy, and pure happiness. I laughed all the way with the wind in my face, my heart in my throat, and my soul in Heaven.

Choosing love, joy, and oneness with God each day often reminds me of those childhood bike rides. It can take a bit of work to get going at first. You can even feel like you are pushing your bike up a steep hill full of problems, work, and worldly concerns. Once you get going, however, you find that the ride becomes easier and easier. Soon you feel like you are flying along without even having to pedal at all. Soon you feel wind blowing in your face, joy filling up your heart, and love radiating from your soul. You find yourself laughing more, smiling more, and singing more. You find yourself sharing more, giving more, and helping more. You find yourself loving others, spreading joy, and living the way that God meant for you to live. You find yourself realizing that God is love, that life is joy, and that we are all God's children.

If you choose then each day of your life can become a fantastic ride of love and joy that takes you a little further along the road to Heaven. The longer you ride too the less steep the hills will become. The longer you ride the faster and smoother you will go. The longer you ride the more you will feel God pedaling right along beside you and smiling all the way. Enjoy the ride.

Joe Mazzella

joecool@wirefire.com

~**~**~

Poetry Section

~**~**~

For Weeze:

~~~You and I~~~

 Mary Dees

From the beginning,

It’s been You and I.

How could we know,

How fast time could fly.

We would laugh for hours,

We would make castles in the sand.

We would talk in a way,

Only You and I, could understand.

We stood strong together,

And no one could defeat.

The friendship we found,

That would make our lives complete.

 You and I,

 Were never apart.

You knew every secret,

 Of my heart.

For me, you were my guiding light.

So for you, I was never afraid.

You were my star at night,

My angel in some way.

Still to this day,

Not a corner I will turn.

Without you there within my heart,

Just like you always were.

We have a lifelong bond,

That sometimes, only you and I can see.

And I'll go on being there for you,

Just as you are for me.

I'm not too old to say "I love You,"

At your door when I say goodbye.

No "so long" could ever fade

the memories of:

You

And

I.

By Mary M. Dees

marlena7694@yahoo.com

~**~**~

 What God Might Say

Mary Dees 

Visit my stillness,

Stay if you like.

Make my acquaintance,

I'm here day and night.

Swim in my colors,

Converse with the bright.

Allow me to lend you.

My devotional light.

Pronounce my vigor,

Give birth in my spring.

My patience will welcome,

The warmth of your wing.

Swing on my heart strings,

Compose in my band.

Acknowledge the meaning,

Of my casual plan,

Dance in my garden,

With unguided footsteps.

Place breath in my lungs,

With your moral concepts.

Take residence here,

Occupancy I require,

My choices are clear,

What is your desire?

My invitation groundless,

And my esteem will fall short.

Without the love of my children,

In my final resort.

Bathe in my water,

Your slate, Oh' so clean.

In motivating your faith,

You will rapture my dream.

By Mary M.Dees

 marlena7694@yahoo.com

~**~**~

Readers Feedback

Finders keepers.  Losers weepers, Helen Dowd: I just adore kittens and so I loved your story very much.  I can't wait for the sequel!

Sincerely,

David Fox

Helen, that was such a nice story about the kittys. I'm involved with all but one of our rescue ops here in Corpus Christi and one in Jourdanton.
Thanks
Mark Crider

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; Meeks, Carol; Mizrany, Mary Carter; Morris, Deepak; Ojeibge, Georgewaters; Petry, Dianna Doles; Roberts, Susan; Shiveley, Debra; Shaw, Bob; Sims, Richard; Smith; Michael; 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;

Storytime Tapestry Staff

Carol Roach - Founder/publisher

Thelma Hartselle - Co-Founder, Moderator

Clara Westerfer – moderator

Bob Johnston - moderator