Storytime Tapestry Newsletter

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

June 7, 2007

Today’s Announcements

 We have two birthdays today, and both of these men are husbands of our very dear writers.  Happy birthday to Jody, Sharon Bryant’s husband: 1946@bellsouth.net and happy birthday to Bill Rosanne Catalano’s husband:  ctrosanne@verizon.net

Today’s Stories

~**~**~

Dad and The Confessional 
Marilyn Nicholson

I was raised a Catholic. My mom had always been Catholic, but my dad hadn't been. When it was time for them to be married, in order for them to have a Catholic wedding, dad had to convert. So he did, mostly to please mom.
That didn't actually mean he went to church or confession though. That took place on weekends and by Friday night, he was well.......drunk. He was a weekend and any-time-off from work, vacations and such, drunk. He couldn't go to church as he was really drunk by Sundays, passed-out drunk.
While I got stuck going to Sunday school, Wednesday school, confession and church each Sunday, dad had the days off. mom took me.
I didn't like confession. I was a kid and didn't really know what to say to the Priest. What did I do wrong each week? Not much. So, I made up stuff to give me wrong things to get punished for by saying penance up at the alter. Sure, I lied every week - to the Priest who wanted to know what I did wrong. Seemed pointless as I wouldn't have lied if I didn't have to go there. But, even as a kid, you do what you gotta do. What made it even worse, was that it was a really small town and that Priest knew everybody.
One Friday, when dad wasn't too drunk yet, he told mom that on Saturday he wanted to go to confession with us so that he could go to church that Sunday. He said he wanted to take communion and for that he had to go to confession. We didn't believe it and just figured he'd be too drunk on Saturday to remember it.
Saturday came around and though he was good and drunk, he remembered and got in the car, unfortunately, to drive us all. We weaved, sped and slowed down all the way to the church. I do believe that God was watching over us that day. When we got there, mom and I went first and dad sat down.
Then came his turn. Obviously he hadn't been watching mom or me, as the confessional is set up like three little cubicles, with the Priest in the center one and the sinners on each side. Where did dad go? Right in with the Priest of course! In he staggered and the Priest must have told him that he was in the wrong place as he staggered back out and into one of the sinners sides. He came out awhile later and we got home in one piece.
After we got home, mom asked him how it went. He said it went OK, but the Priest asked him if he drank. He apparently said, "Not really." (his breath alone could've gotten anyone drunk at that point)
Sunday came and we waited to see if he'd actually go to church, but again, he passed out on the couch, so we went alone again, thinking it was probably better than if he'd passed out in church.

 Marilyn Nicholson

nicholson.m@earthlink.net

~**~**~

 Something Borrowed

Marilyn Nicholson

Rubber walls are my living space.

     Don't know how I got here,

          or how to get out.

               Doctors come and go with uncaring faces,

                       some talk and I try to listen; others give me pills.

I want to go home, I think.

     Though I don't know where home is and can't remember.

          But if I ever get out of here,

               I'll take something borrowed; words that they say,

                  and will make them all my own.

                  
Maybe I'll say I was a Doctor,

     or that I worked with and helped troubled souls.

          I wonder if anyone will believe me,

               or will people know I'm not telling the truth.

                    Is something borrowed the same as stealing?

In the end, it doesn't matter.

     I've heard the quiet whispers.

          from the people who come and go.

               They act like I'm not only crazy, but deaf too,

                    when they say I'll never leave.

Marilyn Nicholson

nicholson.m@earthlink.net

Poetry Corner

~**~**~

How Lovely
Cynthia Groopman

How lovely is the face of the sky, radiating a smile of extreme joy,
as our eyes sparkle and dance with intense elation,
how lovely are the twinkling stars that shine with majestic elation.
How lovely is the blossoming springtime flower, sweetly fragrant,
as the perfumed mild air enchants us with her aroma so elegant.
Oh, how lovely is the gleeful laugh of a jubilant child,
embracing us with a love that is tender and mild.
Oh, how lovely was my mom's gentle sweet caress,
that filled my cup of life with overflowing happiness.
Memories of sights, sounds and emotions abide in rejoicing hearts,
and only joy and gladness, they do lovingly impart.

Cynthia Groopman
Cynthia.Groopman@verizon.net

Copyright ©2004 Cynthia Groopman

~**~**~

Who Is A Hero
Cynthia Groopman

Who is a hero, I often ask,
is he someone who possesses power and might,
protecting us from the fears and ravages of a frightful night?
Does he hit, kick or throw a ball with enormous power,
or risk his own life saving others from a burning crumbling tower?
Does he perform feats of valor on a bloody battlefield with grace?
Or does he exhibit a hostile and angry face?
Does he fight with every ounce of courage to the bitter end,
is he the one upon whom we can depend?
For courage is not found in wealth, brawn or muscular might,
but rather it is displayed by overcoming obstacles, fury and fright.


Cynthia Groopman
Cynthia.Groopman@verizon.net

~**~**~

 Please Listen
Cynthia Groopman

Please listen, the glory of nature is alive with magnificent radiance,
as the brook babbles with melodic eloquence.
Please listen as each little raindrop gently tiptoes in jocund dance,
as upon the windowpane it will sprightly dance.
Please listen to the early morning bird's greeting song,
as the notes are powerfully strong.
Please listen to the waves rushing gushing sound,
and listen to the glistening grains of sand as they swirl around.
Please listen to the wind's cheerful blow,
tossing the leafy trees to and fro
Please listen to the little star's twinkle, so gentle and calm,
and the budding of the rose buds as they dazzle us with elegant charm.
Yes, I shall listen to everything great and small,
as God chants His blessing of eternal caress, tenderly embracing all.


Cynthia Groopman
Cynthia.Groopman@verizon.net
Copyright ©2004 Cynthia Groopman

 ~**~**~

A Tribute to Jackie Robinson

Cynthia Groopman

Sixty years ago,

Young Jackie basked in achievement golden glow.

Strong and powerful was he,

God blessed him with courage and inner serenity

.He did hit the baseball so far,

As he became a major league hitting star

.He broke the color line with dignity and grace,

Never shouting angry words, and having a smile on his face.

Although he was taunted and mistreated,

He victoriously preserved and never was defeated.

So, Jackie, you paved the way for many others to play,

As all pay homage to you on this 60th anniversary day.

The Raging Storm, By Cynthia Groopman

With extreme fury and harsh overpowering might, the brutal storm fiercely raged from morning till night.

Gushing torrents of water everywhere,

Ruining homes, property and possessions with lionesque flare.

Mother Nature was not at its best,

Not smiling or full of lovely zest.

The sky was crowned with an ugly frightful frown,

As howling winds tore power lines down.

Oh,storm , so vicious and mean,

You interrupted life's tranquil beautiful scheme.

But there  is hope in our hearts,

Very shortly the rain and wind will depart.

God will return with a glorious rainbow,

Once again all will bask in sunshine's smiling golden radiant glow

Cynthia Groopman

Cynthia.Groopman@verizon.net

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