STORYTIME TAPESTRY

The Newsletter devoted to spreading love and cultural awareness throughout the world

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Nov 11, 2005? 

Today??™s Announcements:

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And the winner is:?  The winner of our Halloween Contest is none other that Sharon Bryant. Congratulations girl!

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Our runner up was Debra Shiveley and Kathy Baker came in third.?  Thank you again for a wonderful contest and exceptionally good stories this year.

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Remembering our brave soldiers who fought to keep and to continue to keep our great lands free;?  today is veterans day, in Canada, ? and the USA.?  Remember to say a prayer, if you are fortunate enough to know a veteran, shake his hand, if?  you know a soldier who is deployed, give a quick telephone call to his/her family.?  Support the people who gave their lives so we could live in the beautiful countries that we do.

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Today we welcome Shirley Soodeen, writer # 261 for Storytime Tapestry.?  Please email her and encourage her to continue sending us her wonderful work.

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

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Today's Queue Stories
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? ValueSpeak

A Weekly Column

By Joseph Walker

valuespeak@msn.com? 

WILLING TO SERVE

Dad never spoke much about his military experiences during World War II.

Oh, he talked about being drafted into the Army as a 34-year-old father of four-going-on-five. He told about going to the draft board to see if they were really serious, and pleading with them to let him do "war work" that would allow him to stay close to his family. He joked about being reminded by the board that he was, after all, an insurance salesman, "and the only thing less vital to the war effort than an insurance salesman is an artificial flower maker."

I heard him tell that story a hundred times, and I laughed every time he told it. So did he.

He also chuckled at the memory of how he tricked the Army into giving him a little extra time to get his affairs in order before he was inducted, during which he enlisted in the Navy??™s officer training program. He called himself one of the Navy??™s "90-day wonders," which meant he participated in a training course that took him from being an almost elderly insurance salesman to being a fit, fully functional lieutenant j.g. in a little less than three months.

He was pretty open about how he felt when his fifth child, little Bobby, was born while he was at training camp. They announced the baby??™s safe arrival over the camp loudspeaker. Dad celebrated as best he could while peeling potatoes on K.P. duty.

He also talked about how he felt more than two years later when he finally came home from the war and little Bobby came running up to him at the train station, holding up his chubby arms and calling out with some uncertainty: "Daddy?"

Tears would come to Dad??™s eyes when he remembered that. Mine too.

So, yeah ??“ Dad would talk about events leading up to his service during World War II, and he would talk about events after his stint was over. But I hadn??™t heard much ??“ if anything ??“ about his time as a communications officer stationed at Pearl Harbor (arriving two years after the infamous attack there) until I asked him about it seven or eight Veteran??™s Days ago.

Dad was in his late eighties, and he had already started sliding down the slippery slope of Alzheimer??™s. He could remember what he and Mom had for breakfast the morning after they were married in 1937, but he couldn??™t remember what he had for breakfast two hours earlier. I knew that if Dad was going to shed any light on this subject, it would have to be soon.

"So, Dad," I ventured one day when we were driving in the mountains, "you??™ve never told me about what you did while you were stationed at Pearl Harbor during the war."

"I was a communications officer," he said, staring out the car window. "Junior grade."

"Yeah, I know that," I said. "But what did you DO?"

"I sent messages . . . and received messages . . . and did whatever I was told to do every day," he said, still staring out the window. "Then I came home."

"But wasn??™t it kind of scary to be out there in the middle of the war?"

He shook his head and smiled, still looking absently at the passing scenery. "No, I was very safe," he said. "It was like . . . a job. I??™d go to work, then I??™d play tennis."

So that??™s why he never talked much about it, I reasoned. It was boring. We drove in silence for a few minutes until I noticed him digging in his pocket for his hankie. I looked at him. His eyes were moist and red.

"I played tennis," he said, looking at me for the first time, his voice edged with emotion. "Other men went out on ships. Many of them never returned. And I . . played . . . tennis."

Finally I understood why he never talked about it. He went where he was assigned to go. He did what he was trained to do. But he was safe and secure and playing an occasional game of tennis at Pearl Harbor while others were fighting and dying in horrible conflict. He felt guilty.

I??™ve thought about that every Veteran??™s Day since that afternoon drive with Dad. I think about the men and women who have accepted the call to duty. I think about those who made the ultimate sacrifice for freedom ??“ and those who were willing to. And I thank God for them all.

Whether or not they talk much about it.

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~**~**~? 

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My Garden

Maria Doherty

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? My garden has probably been the source of more writing inspiration than any other place. I do a little work in it daily but the most special part is simply observing it, a daily ritual of looking very closely and lovingly at what has flowered, what has budded, what is starting to fade, what has died and needs to be cleared away. Every season brings new magic and in the winter months the sight of green shoots pushing up from the frozen earth brings renewal to my spirit.

There is constant philosophical inspiration in every moment I spend in my garden. All of life, death and rebirth becomes clear when you walk in the garden, eyes open to the soul.

There are the visual delights from the flowers, planted for both their beauty and to provide food for beneficial insects which enable me to garden organically. Then there is the magnificence of the trees swaying in the wind, sometimes wildly dancing to invisible music, sometimes gently nodding as though they are merely inclining their heads to acknowledge our presence. Our giant chestnut tree is now taller than our three storey home and feeds entire tribes of squirrels in the Autumn, as well as providing generations of small boys with shining conkers to play with.

All through the spring, squirrels use our balustrade as their own personal highway across the upper garden, driving Jessie, our dog, to distraction with their insolent invasion of her territory. Once a mother fox brought her cub on a tour in the evening light of a bright June day; we watched her from the comfort of our sitting room without her even being aware of our presence. Birds of every description inhabit the woods that surround the garden's southern border and they find a rich source of food here. They also give me hours of entertainment as they splash in the beautiful stone bird bath my husband and son gifted me for my fiftieth birthday.

Then there are the auditory pleasures of a hundred bees buzzing in nectar drunken delight, the lulling peace inducing murmuring of the waterfall, the gentle whisper of the stream when it is flowing slowly, and its loud rushing power when the rains have been heavy and prolonged. Bird song wakes us every morning of the spring and summer; all year round the silence of the night is disturbed by the owls who hunt in the little wood. We smile and continue our dreaming.

In warm pockets of scented air, you can catch the richness of wallflowers, the delicate sensuality of the rose, the head spinning notes of jasmine.

Yes, my garden is often the inspiration for my writing, and on a particularly receptive day, I rush indoors, alight with the ideas that have come to me in a quiet moment of contemplation. A little like today.

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mariadoherty@blueyonder.co.uk

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Growing Pains

Shirley Soodeen

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What do I remember the most about my father? If I close my eyes and let the emotions rise from the bottom of my mind; I remember a particular moment. It was late afternoon, we were sitting in an armchair in my grandmother??™s sitting room and I was being cuddled against him. I was nine years old at the time. My mother had asked me to approach my father to discover why the family had to move away to another country. This kind of request was not new to me. My mother had always exploited the bond between my father and me. She often sent me ahead as her envoy when she was not able to discuss things openly with him. My job, as her personal emissary, was to probe and negotiate in her best interests. I knew this but fulfilled the role with pride as I loved my father dearly and cherished the close bond we shared together.

He always gave me maximum space, encouraging me to express myself. Even though he was caring, he was a lousy teacher, prone to quick outbursts of anger and impatience. I remember when he taught me how to read the alphabet. He made me learn the letters by heart by enunciating each one with care. After, he would point to them at random and I had to remember which one it was. He would get cross when I failed to give him the right answer and rapped my knuckles hard with a wooden ruler. My mother yelled at him for being so harsh. To this day, I need to recite the whole alphabet in my head to remember the correct sequence of the letters. But he inspired me to learn about words and once I grasped their meaning, I became a voracious reader.

Apart from that moment, my father never punished me again. During childhood and adolescence, he always encouraged me to read, giving me a free rein to fill my precocious mind with notions of botany, philosophy, sexuality, literature. He encouraged me to explore and question the world around me. I was voracious in my thirst to understand about other religions and beliefs, sharing with him a common desire to explore the unknown. I listened with wonder about his initiation into different philosophical groups and his admiration for ancient forms of worship in antique Egypt. My mother went up in arms. Her strict catholic upbringing rebelled against his permissive behaviour and they often argued about this issue. But he seemed to enjoy shocking her. She tried to protect our young minds from the pollution of such thoughts by goading us to follow her to church where I would sit and observe those around me, bored beyond redemption. Instead I chose to follow my father??™s open mindedness. My mother always blamed my lack of religious fervour on ???those??? books I used to read.

Father always discussed with me on an equal basis, or at least it felt like that to my young mind, and guided me to become an independent thinker who searched for my own answers instead of swallowing preconceived notions. Under his guidance I opened up my mind to other forms of thought, pushing my intellectual limits without any kind of barriers. He enabled me to venture outside the limits imposed on me by my cultural and religious background.
I think my father always believed that I was strong and capable of taking care of myself. He viewed crying and complaining as signs of weaknesses, so I tried not to disappoint him. I never asked his opinion about any of my personal issues nor did I ever discuss my emotional matters with him. I learnt to keep my growing pains to myself until I reached my own conclusions. He wished me to be strong, I obliged by turning into a model of fortitude and resilience.

Likewise he never shared his emotions and private feelings with me until the day he announced that he was leaving us. I felt as though I had lost a close ally. Mother and I had never been close. She did not stimulate me intellectually, instead she blindly followed the rules instilled by her education and expected her children o follow her footsteps. At the time, I failed to understand the emotional depth she carried within her, partly because I had never been pushed to connect with my emotional side. I considered her to be weak and passive and wished go with my father. Instead, I stayed with her to nurse her through the trauma of her separation.

That was the time I also felt betrayed by my father. I was about nineteen or twenty years old and remember that whenever I went o visit him, he no longer seemed to have the time or inclination to listen to me. Worse of all, he seemed to be abandoning me to manage a situation I did not know how to handle. At home, my mother required the presence of someone with inner strength and I slowly came to realize that I was to become that person. The strength that my father had nurtured in me became my protective shield against my mother??™s emotional and psychological assaults. In her rage she lashed out against my father until any vestige of pride we may have felt for him was destroyed forever.

Facing her turmoil, I felt robbed of a support that I badly needed but was unable to ask for help. I never sought my father??™s advice about what to do at home as I felt a sense of obligation towards my mother and could not betray her sense of trust in me. I craved for someone??™s support and was hoping my father would understand this without me having to ask for it. He never offered his assistance. I began to distance myself from my parents. I only wished to get from all the unhappiness that had accumulated around me and made my own plans to walk away from it all.

For many years later, I hung on to the notion of a protective father, who would come and rescue me from life??™s hurts and pains, until I realised that I would never be able to regain my past. I came to understand that my father was not to blame; instead he had given me something precious, the courage that comes with freedom of thought. That courage required me to tackle my personal circumstances head on during my own journey in life, pushing me to find my own truths by distancing myself from accepted rules and norms.

I have learnt to trust and depend on my inner strength, and not to wait for someone else to create my happiness. My parents, through their rage and sorrow have showed me the importance of loving our inner child so it does not need to lash out at others in hatred and pain. I know I am loved by my father and mother, but it is my own love that has given me the courage and strength to soar on my own wings above my life circumstances. The protection I have sought for has always been there, inside of me. Today I know no fear.

Thank you Mum. Thank you Dad.

Shirley Soodeen

shirley.soodeen@alice.it

July 2005.

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Shirley Soodeen was born in Tanzania and spent her childhood? living in many countries, including Mauritius, Australia and France. She has worked in the human resources development field for over ten years and owns her consulting and training company. She is the author of a collection of short stories which reflect her interest in multicultural issues. She lives in Italy with her husband, Marco.

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~**~**~

I Love Uniforms
Clara Wersterfer

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Thirty or so years ago you could recognize a persons profession by the uniform. The milkman wore one, cab drivers and bus drivers wore uniforms. Cafeteria personel, bank tellers and custodians wore uniforms. Today uniforms are not very uniform.


My mother was a nurse for 34 years and never wore anything except white dresses and white pants suits with white accessories, plus that perky little white cap. No one ever had to ask if she was a nurse. It was obvious by the ....uniform.


The place I miss them the most is in health care. Go to any?  hospital today and I defy you to tell me which are nurses, maids, lab techs or?  doctors. Dressed in prints, colored pants suits, tennis shoes or plain old street clothes, I get very confused as to who is who.?  It may be true that Doctors never wore uniforms, but were usually dressed in suits and neckties. If they were in residency they wore a lab coat. They looked? professional.


My last trip to the ER the only clue I had that the young man in tennies, jeans and a tee shirt was even associated with the medical profession was his tee shirt which read "I gave blood". Oh, and he did have a clip board and a pen behind his ear.

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A couple of years ago I went to visit my husband in the hospital following surgery. I found him in a dire situation and rang for the nurse before running into the hall for help. The man I dragged into the room was a dietician, so I ran?  back and grabbed a person I thought was a nurse. She was the maid! Who could tell?


Bring back those uniforms, I say. Put a stethoscope around the neck of every doctor and one of those little mirror thingies on his head. And please, let those nurses wear the perky little white caps with the word nurse on it. Write it with a black marker if need be.
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I like things more, you know, uniform.

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Clara Westerfer

CBWEST @webtv.net

About me
Born in the mountains of NC, I learned to love story telling at a young age. For the past 36 years, I have lived in Texas. Three dogs, numerous cats and other critters share my home.

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Writers Feedback

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Prayer Requests and Updates

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? Hello Gang,

I have a dear online friend, Norma Gill of Norco, Calif? who is need of

your prayers.?  She is having terrific pain in her knee; 24/7

and so far, the doctors have not been able to diagnose the

problem.?  She is doing followup in whatever way that they

find necessary but in the meantime, she is hurting; finding

the only way to sleep is in her reliner.?  She said she had a

very bad night last night so please keep her close in your prayers.

Thanking you in advance,

Normie? ? ?  p.s. She has not been able to be online so her

husband has purchased her a laptop and she is waiting for it

to be connected; possibly over the weekend.

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? SENIOR WRITERS

Chief Writer: Sharon Bryant

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? Agee, Vance;? Apted, Violet;? Baker, Kathy; Batt, Al;?  Berry, Nell; Blaine, Pamela

Boda, Ginger;? ? Buhagiar, Victor; Cassady, B.J.;?  Cavalera, Robyn; Crider, Mark;? 

Deming, Barb; Doherty, Maria; Goodier, Steve; Halley, Ellie Braun;

Harris, Kathy Anne;? Hunt, Sharlette;? 

Jacobson, Gary;? Kiser, Roger Dean; Kerens, Claudia; Jenkins, Pamela;

Liles, Norma; Lilly, Jodi Flesberg; Lock, Joyce; Mazzella, Joe;? Morris, Deepak; Ojeigbe, 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, Gorden K; Walsh, Sue

Whirity, Kathy;? White, Robert;

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STORYTIME TAPESTRY STAFF

Publisher: Carol Roach-founder

Moderator: Thelma Hartselle-co founder

Moderator: Clara Westerfer

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