STORYTIME TAPESTRY

March 22, 2005

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Good day everyone, today we are featuring another new writer for Storytime Tapestry, Mr. Michael Smith, writer # 186, for

Storytime Tapestry.  Michael has two wonderful submissions.

Please encourage him to write more!

Animal awareness series endorsed by Shiloh and Hank our mascots; all stories must receive their approval.

Now on to the good stuff..........

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FEATHERED FIDELITY 
by Michael Smith

      It's a sad reality.
      All relationships start with love and promise, but all too often
we see them weaken, crumble and finally fail.
      It's too bad all relationships don't go to the birds.
      I know that sounds strange, but read on.
      Many years ago, when I was just a young boy, a small yellow bird
hit our front door.  When I looked outside, I saw its tiny, unmoving
body on our deck.  I opened the door to see if it was just stunned,
or worse, dead.
      I was kneeling over it when my mom joined me.
      "Michael, I think it may be dead.  I heard the bang on the
glass.  It hit pretty hard."
      "Mom, should we bury it?"
      "I'm not sure, Michael.  When I first looked out I saw another
bird land beside it.  It looked like it was trying to pick this one
up.  I think we should let nature take care of this.  Let's put it on
the roof of the car and see what happens."
      We placed the unmoving, little bird on the roof of my dad's car
and went back into the house.
      From our living room window we watched as the bird's mate flew
to its side, carefully grip the back of the dead bird's neck in it's
tiny beak, and with a strength only love and devotion could provide,
lifted its mate in the air.
      It carried the body from the car, across the street, over the
meadow on the other side and into nearby trees.  It flew only a few
feet off the ground.  Sometimes it would get up to six feet high and
then the weight of its companion would pull it lower again.  Its
struggle was great, but the desire not to be parted from its mate was
greater.
      Thirty-five years later, I stepped out of my home on a warm
summer morning.  I looked toward my next door neighbor's -- we lived
in attached townhouses -- and noticed a single strand of a spider's
web strung from the bush by the corner of their townhouse to the
wheel of one of their cars.  I thought it was strange for a spider to
spin such a web, especially just one tiny strand.
      I moved closer to investigate.  When I reached down to break the
web I discovered it wasn't a web at all.  It was a piece of fishing
line.  I gave it a tug and saw it was tangled in the bushes, and the
other end was knotted under the car.
      One of the boys was sitting on the front deck of the house.
      I remarked, "Looks like someone booby-trapped your friend's car."
      He came closer to see what I was talking about.  I gave the line
a tug.  It was tightly jammed under the wheel of the vehicle.
      "Strange, it seems to go all the way under," I said.
      I walked to the back of the car and saw a robin.  It fluttered
to get away, but the line, which was wrapped around its tiny leg,
held it firm.  The poor bird flapped around on the pavement with only
a foot of line for it to move.
      Slowly I approached and reached to grab it.  When my fingers
first touched his feathers it squawked and flapped away from me.  I
moved faster on the second attempt and managed to get a grip around
his trembling body.  It squirmed and twisted its head to snap at me,
but I held tight.
      The boy came closer for a look, and then went for a knife.  When
he returned I realized he would probably break the poor bird's leg
when the knife pulled the string tight before cutting it through, so
I sent him for scissors.  He came back and we carefully removed the
string.
      The bird was free, but I held him a little longer, so I could
remove one last strand of the line from his tiny leg.  It made a
great effort and escaped from my grasp.  He flew low across the
pavement, under a row of mailboxes, and up into a tree.
      It was free again.
      Then I noticed a second robin fly down from a nearby tree and
land next to the newly-freed robin.  It had stayed close by, as its
mate struggled for freedom, and would not have left until freedom or
death ended their relationship.
      The birds I witnessed mated for life and the struggles that come
with it.  Now don't you wish a lot more relationships would go to the
birds?
      I know I do.

mtsmith @qwestonline.com

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Today's Queue Stories
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The Happiest Day Of My Life 

Michael Smith

It started innocently.

Many years ago I worked in an office with large windows facing a busy overpass. I was standing by one of those windows one day when a woman in a passing car looked up and made eye contact. Naturally, I waved.

A chuckle escaped my lips as she turned and tried to identify me. It was the beginning of a year of window antics. When things were slow, I would stand in the window and wave at the passengers who looked up. The strange looks made me laugh and stress was washed away.

Co-workers began to take an interest. They would stand from view, watch the reactions I received, and laugh along.

Late afternoon was the best time - rush hour traffic filled the overpass with cars and transit buses, and providing lots of waving material for the end-of-day routine. It didn't take long to attract a following - a group of commuters who passed the window every day and looked up at the strange waving man.

There was a man with a construction truck who would turn on his flashing-yellow light and return my wave, the carpool crowd, and the business lady with her children fresh from day care. But my favorite was the transit bus from the docks that passed my window at 4:40pm. It carried the same group every day, and they became by biggest fans.

After a while, waving became boring, so I devised ways to enhance my act. I made signs: "Hi," "Hello," "Be Happy!" and posted them in the window and waved. I stood on the window ledge in various poses, created hats from paper and file-folders, made faces, played peek-a-boo by bouncing up from below the window ledge, stuck out my tongue, tossed paper planes in the air, and once went into the walkway over the street and danced while co-workers pointed to let my fans know I was there.

Christmas approached, and job cuts were announced. Several co-workers would lose their jobs, and everyone was feeling low. Stress in the office reached a high. A miracle was needed to repair the damage caused by the announcements.

While working a night shift, a red lab jacket attracted my attention. I picked it up and turned it in my hands. In a back corner where packing material was kept, I used my imagination and cut thin, white sheets of cloth-like foam into trips and taped them around the cuffs and collar, down the front, and around the hem. A box of foam packing and strips of tape became Santa's beard and when taped to the hat, slipped over my head in one piece.

The next working day I hid from my co-workers, slipped into the costume, walked bravely to my desk, sat down, held my belly, and mocked Santa's chuckle, as they gathered around me laughing. It was the first time I had seen them smile in weeks. Later my supervisor walked through the door. He took three steps, looked up, saw me, paused, shook his head, turned and left.

I feared trouble. The phone on the desk rung a few moments later, "Mike, can you come to my office please?" I shuffled down the hall, the foam beard swishing across my chest with each step.

"Come in!" the muffled voice replied to my knock. I entered, and sat down. The foam on the beard creaked, and he looked away from me. A bead of sweat rolled down my forehead, the only sound was the hammering of my heart. "Mike..." This was all he managed before he lost his composure, leaned back in his chair, and bellowed with laughter. He held his stomach, and tears formed in his eyes, as I sat silent and confused. When he regained control he said, "Mike, thanks! With the job cuts it has been hard to enjoy the Christmas season. Thanks for the laugh, I needed it."

That evening, and every evening of the Christmas season, I stood proudly in the window and waved to my fans. The bus crowd waved wildly, and the little children smiled at the strange Santa. My heart was full of the season, and for a few minutes each day we could forget the loss of jobs.

I didn't know it then, but a bond was forming between my fans and me. It wasn't until the spring following the Santa act that I discovered how close we had become.

My wife and I were expecting our first child that spring, and I wanted the world to know. Less than a month before the birth I posted a sign in the window, "25 DAYS UNTIL B DAY." My fans passed and shrugged their shoulders. The next day the sign read, "24 DAYS UNTIL B DAY." Each day the number dropped, and the passing people grew more confused.

One day a sign appeared in the bus, "What is B DAY?" I just waved and smiled.

Ten days before the expected date the sign in the window read, "10 DAYS UNTIL BA-- DAY." Still the people wondered. The next day it read, "9 DAYS UNTIL BAB- DAY," then "8 DAYS UNTIL BABY DAY," and my fans finally knew what was happening.

By then, my following had grown to include twenty or thirty different busses and cars. Every night they watched to see if my wife had given birth. Excitement grew as the number decreased. My fans were disappointed when the count reached "zero" without an announcement. The next day the sign read, "BABY DAY 1 DAY LATE," and I pretended to pull out my hair.

Each day the number changed and the interest from passing cars grew. When my wife was fourteen days overdue she went into labor, and the next morning our daughter was born. I left the hospital at 5:30am, screamed my joy into the still morning air and drove home to sleep. I got up at noon, showered, bought cigars, and appeared at my window in time for my fans. My co-workers were ready with a banner posted in the window:

"IT'S A GIRL!"

I wasn't alone that night. My co-workers joined me in celebration. We stood and waved our cigars in the air as every vehicle which passed acknowledged the birth of my daughter. Finally, the bus from the docks made its turn onto the overpass and began to climb the hill. When it drew close, I climbed onto the window ledge and clasped my hands over my head in a victory pose. The bus was directly in front of me when it stopped dead in heavy traffic, and every person on board stood with their hands in the air.

Emotion choked my breathing as I watched the display of celebration for my new daughter. Then it happened: a sign popped up. It filled the windows and stretched half the length of the bus, "CONGRATULATIONS!"

Tears formed in the corners of my eyes as the bus slowly resumed its journey. I stood in silence, as it pulled from view. More fans passed and tooted their horns or flashed their lights to display their happiness, but I hardly noticed them, as I pondered what had just happened.

My daughter had been born fourteen days late. Those people must have carried the sign, unrolled, on the bus for at least two weeks. Everyday they had unrolled it and then rolled it back up.

We all have a clown inside of us. We need to let it free and not be surprised at the magic it can create. For eight months I had made a fool of myself, and those people must have enjoyed the smiles I gave them, because on the happiest day of my life they had shown their appreciation.

It has been more than 18 years since that special time, but on my daughter's birthday I always remember the special gift they gave me.

Michael T. Smith

About 10 years after this event happened a version of the story was printed in a small local newspaper in Halifax, Nova Scotia - where the events occurred. The day it ran the editor had 3 calls from people who were on the bus. You just never know how you can touch the lives of others. Michael can be emailed at:

mtsmith @qwestonline.com 

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SUNDAY REFLECTION

Gabrielle Nichols Morgan

It is Sunday, cold and bleak. Grey clouds cover the sky. Steady rain and increasing puddles make the walk to my car more difficult than usual. With head down, I carefully negotiate my way in unsuitable shoes for such a venture.

A ten minute drive takes me to church. I feel it is important to feed my soul as much as to feed my body.

I arrive at St. Joseph??™s. The old, cream weatherboard church building looks welcoming. The fifty odd people who attend park their cars on the unmown wet grass. Once again I negotiate my way to the door wondering why I didn??™t wear rain boots.

Inside the church porch, the gifts to be given to the priest during the Mass are on a small table covered with a lace cloth. A small glass dish contains the hosts. As I enter I place one of the hosts into a silver chalice ready to be blessed for communion. Then I walk down the aisle to the front pew beside the organ where I belong to the choir of three. I am greeted warmly with a hug and a kiss by Annie, an eighty year old Dutch lady who plays the organ, and Angela, a Chinese lady who is married to the local doctor.

There is no heating in the Church and we all feel we must be doing Penance as the cold seeps into our bones.

Old faded pictures of the Stations of the Cross surround us. Behind the altar is a wonderful large, wooden crucifix with damaged statues of Jesus and Mary each side of it. An eiderdown, which has been used to keep the damp out of the organ, disused during the week, lies on the steps up to the altar. Even though the church was dusted dirt has dropped through the tongue and groove ceiling where the spiders frequently crawl out.

Despite all this there is a tangible sense of the spirit present. The altar is covered with a white cloth. Two candles glow at each end. Stiff white linen embroidered with a gold cross covers a silver chalice. An old worn leather Bible rests on its stand. Brightly coloured fresh flowers at the base of the statues give them new life.

The priest, dressed in black, carries a brown suitcase as he slowly walks down the aisle towards the sacristy to change into his robes. He is from a Parish in the next town. There is a shortage of priests and we are lucky to have him to celebrate Mass. He is special. There are no wasted words with him, but a deep sincerity and conviction of the Lord??™s presence in our lives. From a farm in Ireland to the work of a Priest in far flung Australia he brings a down to earth witness to the faith. There is charm in his Irish brogue as he describes people as "doing a mischief" in no uncertain terms.

Annie starts to play the organ at full pitch while we wait for the priest to enter. A father sits with his three small children in the pew opposite me. His son has the face of an angel and speaks to me while pointing to the crucifix and then to the Stations of the Cross. He wants me to notice them.

I see the Priest waiting to enter from the sacristy. I rise and greet everyone. "Good morning, all and welcome to St. Joseph??™s. Our first hymn will be ???We Stand for God.??™

We all stand, the Priest enters, and the Church fills with the rousing sound of the organ and the enthusiastic voices of the congregation.

And so Mass begins.

I no longer feel so much aware of my cold hands and the numbness of my feet. I am taken over by the spirit within this small worshiping community, the family next to me with the small boy like an angel and the humble devotion of our Priest.

After the Mass, I drive away from that old dilapidated Church I have grown to love with a new warmth. My feet are still cold and my hands blue as I try to see through the rain on my windscreen, but my spirit is renewed.

Gabrielle Nicholls Morgan
Gabrielle_Nicholls @hotmail.com

About Me:
I LIVE IN A RURAL AREA IN EAST VICTORIA, AUSTRALIA. I AM

MARRIED TO   FELLOW WRITER AND ARTIST, MICHAEL MORGAN. I

BELIEVE IN PEOPLE, IN LOVE, AND IN WRITING I FIND THIS THE

DEEPEST WAY OF MAGNIFYING IT. I LIKE THE GENTLE. I HONOUR

WHAT HAS BEEN PROVEN TO BE OF GOODNESS, QUALITY AND

BEAUTY. THE ANGELS AND SAINTS INSPIRE ME.

 A Mother's Son

Sharlette Hunt

He was only nineteen,
Yet he seemed so mature.
His leaving is more
Than my heart can endure.

Just a moment ago
I was changing his pants,
Afraid he would fall
When he took a stance.

Then later he cried
When I took him to school.
All grown up today,
He's nobody's fool.

I went through the years,
The laughter and joy.
Although there was pain,
He was such a good boy!

A mixture of pride,
And anger and more,
In anguish I cry,
As he walks out the door.

He'll fight for our country,
I must let him go,
For God will be with him,
Watching him grow.

~**~**~

Sharlette863 @aol.com


About Me:

I was born in Alabama, the middle of
seven children. At about age four we moved
to Central Florida and I have lived here
most of my life. I am a Viet Nam Era
Veteran. I have always enjoyed writting
and as I get older it seems to come more
naturally to me. I believe
everyone has many stories inside them and
some are blessed to be able to share them.
*************

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Writers Feedback

Carol, this was indeed a thought provoking piece, and in that very successful, and thus work to be admired.

Gary Jacobson

Referring to "My Little piece of Heaven by Carol Roach...hugs Leona

P.S. I enjoy all of them but some are just a memory "jump-start" to help me as I am "Dancing With Life"  as I relate in my book being published...by the same name.

That brought back wonderful meditation memories and I was enjoying them when I was not aware that was what they were called either.

As usual The dog story met with my whole hearted approval. The one about granpa was great one too. I had some wonderful grand parents as well as great grand parents. my life would not be as great without my memories of them . Now I am a grandmother and love sharing my time and memories with them.

Nathalie Symonds

Hi Carol,

What a great story, just wanted to let you know how much I enjoyed it as I always do with your writing.  Sometimes I am in a hurry and don't take the time to tell you, I'm sorry about that.

Love you,

bette

The dog story was hilarious. and the poetry was equally a s nice. I have always had a dog of various sizes but my favorite was a little peke that did everything but talk

Nathalie Symonds

Good work Carol,

You actually made an emptiness of the story and finally came the live around. It is like a film I once watched; ???GHOST SHIP???, a guy was hit on his head, fell to the ground. He was there until his eyes began to see events that had occurred in the past, some 30 years behind right before him, before now the ship room was totally empty (a ghost life kind of portrayed here).

The fish stuff, that was really true, we humans just go doing things our ways forgetting that God is seated some where watching our activities.

George

I'm so lucky,,,, I took several different Dale Carnegie courses. Believe me, Dale Carnegie had it figured out. He knew how to sell and how to influence people and get this way. He didn't care if his name was on anything as long as the job got done(so he could make a profit). Take the Pullman Railroad cars that hauled millions across all the americas for decades. That was Carnegies idea. He approached Mr. Pullman with the idea and met with skepticism until he said the whole system would be such a great success if they called them Pullman Cars. Carnegie made most of the money off that whole deal. Genius? I think so. It's paid off for me,,,, big time.
Who cares as long as the job gets done and things happen.
My whole business scheme for decades has been patterned after Dale Carnegie, surround yourself with smart people, LET them do their jobs, listen, and everyone reaps the rewards. Everyone wins.
Now, how do you argue with success?

Mark

My dear, Carol, you are definitely loved--even by those who may never meet you face to face.
Barb

Love it Carol,  ( I know) what a great story, thanks for sharing with us.....!!

Barb Weymouth

am sorry   to say that there may be some discontented members since the change over to   zinester. <<

Hi Carol,

I'm sorry people are giving you a rough time. I know you've been struggling trying to get this new change going. I always enjoy all the stories and your hard work, so just know I'm not complaining and thank you for all your hard work!
Happy Easter!

Bev

I'm a contented customer. I don't care if you put this out on toilet paper as long as I get it!

HOORAY for all those who work so hard to get Storytime on our desktops!

Satisfied in Alabama

It is so much better, dear Carol, than it was at first. I cast my vote for hanging there and wading through the high waters until we reach dry land, so to speak. You are doing a wonderful job as always and we writers should appreciate the opportunity you offer us to showcase our work.

Poetry and prose by George Warner is simply beautiful.
Barb D.