STORYTIME TAPESTRY

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

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Nov 22, 2005? 

Today??™s Announcements:

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Happy Birthday Barbara Carey

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We have three new writers today to introduce to our writers fold.?  First I would like to introduce a budding new poet, Amanda Doyle, writer # 266 and two new writers, Terry Ploeckelmann, writer # 267, and Christina Day, writer #268. Please email them to welcome them to Storytime Tapestry and to let them know just how much you value their work.

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On November 22, 1963, when he was hardly past his first thousand days in office, John Fitzgerald Kennedy was killed by an assassin's bullets while in Dallas, Texas. Kennedy was the youngest man elected President; he was the youngest to die. In commemoration of this event, Debra Shiveley has written a piece about her personal experiences when finding out about President Kennedy??™s assassination.

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

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Today's Queue Stories
~**~**~**~

The Day John F. Kennedy Died

Debra Shiveley

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I remember the day so clearly.?  I was ten days shy of my eleventh birthday and was sitting quietly at my desk. We were working on our Catechism in preparation of our upcoming Confirmation and?  I was bored.?  I??™d memorized all 99 questions weeks ago and the drone of familiar questions and answers left me fighting to stay awake when a rapid knock on our classroom door caused me to jump to attention.? ?  The sound of knuckles on wood had barely faded when?  Mother Mary Catherine walked in.?  Mother, tall, pale and of a Nordic, ethereal kind of beauty, was a woman of firm convictions.?  As Principal, she conducted the affairs of our school according to the strict dictates of the Franciscan order:?  she was stern; she was controlled; she was the consummate nun.

I knew the minute she walked into our classroom that something was wrong.?  A trill ran along the nerves of my arms, causing the fine hairs to stand on end.?  Mother Mary Catherine, the calm, the stalwart, the formidable, was crying.?  Facing our class, hands clasped before her, she whispered: ???President Kennedy has been shot. We must go to the church to pray.???
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There was a moment of stunned silence. The news simply would not sink in. Numbly, we stumbled to our feet and, seizing rosaries, chapel caps? and prayer books, walked single file to the nearby church.
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I loved my church. I loved everything about it: its pink muraled dome; gilded plaster separating its soaring surface into sections where Michelangelo-inspired angels floated majestically above; the marble altar depicting the Last Supper; the columned communion railing in matching stone, and the musky smell of incense, which always calmed my heart.?  I would breathe deeply of it, savoring the feelings of awe and the sensation of something bigger than myself that it always evoked.
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I knelt down upon the padded kneeler, pulling my rosary from my sweater pocket.?  As usual, I drew the scent of the incense into my lungs. This time there was no calming.?  I was frightened. President John F. Kennedy, our own JFK, the King of Camelot, had been shot and my world appeared to be falling apart.

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I leaned forward against the back of the pew in front of me, pressing my breastbone against the polished wood, hoping that the pressure would ease the ache I felt in my heart. I began to say the rosary, passing the shiny beads through my fingers as I completed each prayer. The sound of the beads clicking together was a familiar sound and I began, finally, to calm a little.

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It felt as if we prayed for hours. There was a rustle of robes and the clack of black rosary beads as my teacher, Sister Cecile slowly rose, crossing herself as she did so. She walked to the first pew, which held the members of my class, and signaled that we were to leave. We stood and, once again in single file, left the dim church, exiting into the November sunlight.

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We left the dimness of the church by the side door and stepped immediately into the rose garden.?  I remember the sunlight so vividly. I remember the feel of the sun on my face, blinking my eyes to adjust to the bright light, gazing over to the garden to seek out my favorite rosebush. Instead, my eyes fell upon Mother Mary Catherine. She walked slowly toward us, Monsignor beside her, his large, ruddy hand cupping her elbow. I was struck by the fact that both were weeping and I felt the sun leave.

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???President Kennedy is dead,??? Monsignor rasped.

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My memory from that moment until I found myself walking home is almost dreamlike. I was in shock, as we all were. I do remember gazing up into the sky, a sky now dark with clouds, and seeing a group of planes in a V formation.? ?  I watched as one of the planes veered and flew off, leaving a gap in what had been a perfect V.? ?  Later when I asked my stepfather, I found out that this was called the Missing Man Formation. He explained that it was a tradition started in Britain: pilots would fly their planes in the form of a V and the wingman would spiral away, leaving a hole in the formation.? ?  So these had done, for JFK.

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The rest is dim; none of my memories are as vivid as of those first few moments. There is, however, this crazy slide-show in my brain that sometimes plays over and over again as my memories race to try to piece together those days of national grieving. I remember people crying in public. I remember going to the grocery store and seeing people suddenly pulling out hankies and pressing them to their eyes. I remember walking down the street and gazing into the barbershop only to see the proprietor, his face in his hands, weeping.? ? 

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I remember the four days of television coverage and the day Jack Ruby shot Lee Harvey Oswald on live TV.?  I remember Walter Cronkite.?  I remember the film of the actual assassination, Jackie climbing to the back of the limo, the people standing along the road sobbing, sometimes hysterically.
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I remember Jackie and Caroline kissing the coffin. I remember the funeral. I remember John-John saluting his father. I remember the riderless horse with the stirrups on backward.?  I remember the Eternal Flame.

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It was a sad time, a black time.?  A time when I became aware that even the strong can be cut down.?  It was a time to weep, not just for the death of a man, but for a way of life.?  It was a time that I will never forget, not until the day I die.

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Copyright ?© 2004 Debra Shiveley Welch

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Debra - Mitakuye oyasin - We are all related.

Author of "A Very Special Child" http://www.whodathunk.org/averyspecialchild.htm -- I firmly believe that I have received the same child I was meant to receive whether I gave birth or adopted.?  The same soul, the same entity was meant to be mine from the beginning of time. D. Erin? Welch "A Very Special Child"We love our life on the lake where birds and animals of every description abound
www.merribuck.com
"Making the decision to have a child is momentous -- it is to decide forever to have your heart go walking around outside your body.
- Elizabeth Stone."

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Mom??™s Fresh Baked Bread

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Terry Ploeckelmann

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I??™d like to pay tribute to my mom. A few years back my mom went home to be with the Lord. Actually, she passed while in my arms. She was the greatest cook. As a small child living in the country, I rode the bus. The bus stop was several blocks away from our home. To this day I have fond memories of stepping off the bus and smelling fresh baked bread coming straight out of mom's kitchen. Me and my lil' dog (who always met me at the bus stop) would take off running for the aroma. Bursting through the door, there they were, five or six loaves draped in tea towels cooling down. Mom would say, "Wash your hands first before you touch my bread." While washing, it was dad's job to do the slicing...oh such thick ones too. I always asked for the heel...it was the best. Holding that heel in the palm of my hand, I would lather it up with fresh butter, and it simply melted right into the hot bread. Finally, getting it to my mouth was the best part??¦Mmmmmmm! I would also give lil' pinches to my lil' dog Gidget. Ahhhhh...those were the days...mom's fresh baked hot bread. Mom had a great collection of cook books, but most of her cookin' was done from scratch...as is mine.

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-Terry Ploeckelmann

9-2005

raphapublishing@yahoo.com

~**~**~

? Memories of? My Childhood

Christina Cameron Daly

Mum was the sort of person who devoted her life to her children and home. Although she was active in our communities, her family was her raison d'??tre.?  Like many of our Mothers, she will be remembered both for her love and sacrifice and those less than stellar moments which had us screaming that we would never do this to our kids??¦of course, we did in spite of our resolve.

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Mum was an old fashioned person with a stern eye toward manners.?  We sat down for dinner as a family, and these feasts weren't always the most comfortable times. Mum insisted that dinner be a time to learn and practice good manners. We were only allowed to talk about certain topics, were to sit up straight, hold our knives and forks correctly, and NEVER giggle. Of course, when kids are told NOT to giggle, what inevitably happens.....you guessed it, we couldn't hold our guffaws inside. Many times one or more of us were? banished to eat our dinners in our bedrooms because of our distinct lack of civility. In fact, there were times when we "kids" would purposely giggle just so that we could all eat our dinners in our bedrooms together and? behave like animals. There were also many fried eggs found under rims of the table when the smell finally? bore witness to our disgraceful lack of respect for healthy repasts.? ? ? Along with those stern moments, I have warm memories of home baked cookies waiting for us on the kitchen table when we returned home from school....every single day.? 

I distinctly remember our midnight snacks. We would wait until the house was dark and everyone was asleep, and then we "kids" would shine our flashlights in the hall in a code-like fashion quietly heralding the time to convene in the walk in closet for a secret midnight snack and ghost stories. I'm sure our parents knew about it, but we thought we were being sooo sneaky.

I have equally fond memories of our camp outs. Off we'd go in our woody station wagon to the hills for a week of communing with nature. We packed heavy with our sleeping bags, tents, camping stove, freezer with food, the DOG and fold up chairs.?  There were? many bathroom stops and games in the car...and choruses of "are we there yet," which drove Dad nuts. We particularly loved breakfast with the smell of coffee, bacon, and pancakes and Dad slaving over a hot camping stove. Somehow it all tasted better in the mountains. We'd giggle (seem to do a lot of that back then), run around, and finally would take one longgggg, uphill hike each day. I was the sissy who had to stop every few feet to eat something, my sister was the one inspired to lead the pack and make it to the top the fastest. When night arrived, we would sit around the camp fire and chat and then time for bed. All of us kids in one tent; Mum and Dad in another. Again, after dark it was time for ghost stories. We would actually scare one another A LOT.?  With the pitch dark backdrop of hooting owls, cracking twigs which clearly were menacing animals or ax murderers, the wind howling through the trees...there was many a? ghostly night when we were convinced that we wouldn't survive to see the light of day.?  We got creative with our plot lines and I'm sure put Stephen King to shame.? These scary stories? back fired on us...in a titillating way.? 

Holidays were ALWAYS wonderful. Mum and Dad made certain of that.?  The sweet, sweet scents of cooking and the fire burning brightly, the nuts and nutcracker, lots of merriment and laughter. We didn't have lots of outside people in but our immediate family gathered as one big happy crew. Moving a lot caused us to be a tight knit group of revelers and our New Zealand relatives were a? faint presence in our lives.?  Our immediate family was it??¦.and we did make the best of it.

I also remember Mum when we were sick. She was a vigilant nurse...and Dr. Otto. He was our family doctor in California who made house calls when we? were sick. It seemed to me that he made lots of trips to the Cameron household. I don't know if this happened to any of you, but when I was sick I would feel miserable UNTIL the doctor arrived and then I miraculously healed. It embarrassed my Mum no end. I remember all of us being herded off to the hospital to have our tonsils out at the same time, and my brother hemorrhaging that night and me fainting when Mum mentioned "blood." We all healed beautifully, sans tonsils.

I remember my sister and? me pretending to be one another when our dates would come to court; we sure had 'em fooled. My brother's name was Christopher and mine Christina and our friends called both of us "Chris," so the memory of Mum answering the phone and in her English accent asking if? the caller? wanted the "girl of the boy" brings a smile to my face. I warmly remember our wonderful dog, Blackie! Always with us wherever we went. I will also never forget the day that I fainted when he ate my parakeet!

Now that we've all grown, we've all gone in vastly different directions and are no longer the? close knit group? we once were.?  My brothers married women who wanted to loosen their ties with our band of gypsies, and my Sister became mentally sick and ultimately committed suicide. My Father died quite young of Hep C caused by a blood transfusion after open heart surgery, and Mum is chugging along at 90 years old. We still gather at holidays, but the magic is gone.? ?  I suppose that magic was childhood.

My son and I repeated the Cameron tradition. Now he has grown and married a woman who wants to loosen the ties we had, and his world will take on a life of it own. He and his wife? will bring? their personal traditions to? their family.? 

Life moves on and the generations repeat themselves with memorable accuracy. Now we? "kids" sit? around the table at holidays and talk about our family tree and trace it back hundreds of years, each generation and each branch having its own happiness and sorrows. The tree remains in tact while the blossoms change with the seasons.?  Such is the beauty of family.

Christina?  (Cameron) Daly

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? Cristydaly@aol.com

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Christina L. Daly, President
A Business Services HUB
FREE One-Stop Outsourcing Connection
T: (408) 993-1368
C: (408) 605-6277
F: (408) 993-1333
http://www.conciergeforbusiness.com/

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Poetry Section

~**~**~

Those Who Will Not See

Violet Apted

Close your eyes and close your mind
There is so much you will not see.
The smile that lights up a baby??™s face,

or the tears of joy that can be shed.
You will miss the glory of flowers in May
The happiness, of the sunshine??™s caress

Close your eyes and close your mind
The loss is yours! You will never see
The beauty, that surrounds you every day.

Moonlight reflecting on the gentle waves
As they lovingly caress the shore.
Close your eyes and close your mind

Not seeing the beauty of the countryside,
or the magnificent glory of the trees.
The Flora and Fauna, will fail to impress,

Because, you simply do not want to see.
You do not care enough my friend.
What will the future generations will find

If you close your eyes and close your Mind.

Copyright ? Violet Apted

violet77 @optusnet.com.au

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Work: Freelance writer and Tutor U3A
Creative writing

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I am Originally from Sussex, Kent, UK, Australia, Queensland .

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I can write in any genre and have many stories and poems published in
Magazines. I self published a book of my own poetry book, Titled `A POSY OF
VIOLETS and a book of poetry for my pupils.

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I have completed my first novel a Murder abduction story and now writing my
second. I think my favourite writing would have to be children's stories.
(Pen name Violet Apted) http://www.powerup.com.au/~strummer/violet /Htmls/
MainFrame1.htm

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? ~**~**~

The Snowstorm
Amanda Doyle

An old man,
All alone in a snowstorm,
Walks.
I watch him,
Wondering if he has a place to go,
Home?
I want to help,
Show him where to go, give him something,
Hope?
I want to know,
Is there anyone waiting for him,
Worrying?
Does he know?
Know what it feels like,
To be loved?
I want to love him,
Show him someone cares, someone wants to help,
Anyone.
An old bench,
Sitting all alone in a snowstorm,
Becomes his home.
Newspaper,
Strewn by careless passerbys,
Becomes his cover.
The storm,
Raging on throughout the night,
His only companionship.
Does he see?
See the people as they walk by him,
Gawking,
They walk,
All alone in a snowstorm,
Going home,
Why?

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Amanda Doyle

athenasbyamanda@yahoo.com

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I am a mother of two small boys, my oldest is 3 and my youngest is 9 months.?  I live in West Springfield MA, was born in Richmond Virginia but don't really remember it.?  I love to write but my writing has really taken a back seat to work and raising a family.?  I am a goddess with Athenas Home Novelties and really enjoy what I do.?  I love to help people and have found I am really good at helping people with intimate, personal problems like the ones?  deal with through Athenas because I am a compassionate person who doesn't judge thoughts around me (sometimes that's actually a fault of mine) and people seem comfortable talking to me...? 

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Writers Feedback

DEAR CAROL; I LOVED YOUR STORY VERY MUCH. YOU ARE DEFENTLY?  A GOOD
WRITER.?  I REALLY ENJOY ALL YOUR E-MAIL STORIES FROM YOUR MANY WRITERS.

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Carol,

? ?  I read your heart breaking story in Messages of Hope.?  I know that your sister will soon be in a place of never ending love, joy,

and light my friend.?  Yes, her pain will end soon and yours will end as well: in time.?  God bless you always.?  Wishing you every joy, Joe

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Sad about your sis. Cancer has to be terrible as I've known
a lot of people that have succumbed to it.
You might want to let the readers know about Lifeshares(Google it).
It give priorities for organs and donor recipients that could
save their lives while waiting.
Thanks
Mark Crider

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Carol, I'm so sorry to hear about your sister.?  Please don't be hard on yourself - you didn't create the complications in your life as regards either of your sisters.?  Let's just hope she? leaves this world? peacefully without more suffering......and you be kind to yourself.

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Kathy

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I just read the story at story time.?  God Bless you for all you have gone through in this ordeal..........

Laura

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Hi Carol-- Thanks for sharing the touching story about your sister and
your childhood relationships. How wonderful you've been able to connect
over the years. I cna't imagine what it must have been like for all of
you.?  Many Blessings.--K>

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Carol, I think "While She Lay Dying" is a powerful poem.?  It reached me? - a sense of her solitary battle with death.?  Great work

I am sad.?  Death is a monster.?  It steals from all of us.?  Louise

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While She Lay Dying is such a poignantly written poem.?  I could feel your sorrow.? ? Blessings, Sharlett? 

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Carol, I'm so sorry to hear about your sister Joyce and her long
struggle with cancer. May God be with her and with you in these last days.
Janet

Oh, Carol, I am so sorry to hear about your sister. My prayers are with her as she moves along this path, that she will be welcomed with shelter beneath the Lord's wings and know what it is to be bathed in love and have no pain.

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I pray for you, dear friend, that your burden will be lightened by looking back at the things you two shared and hope that your heart will be comforted in these sad times.

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Blessings,

Barb

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Dearest?  #3

This is Mom offering you a shoulder in your loss

of your precious sister, Joyce.?  I have had to give

up sisters over the years but it never is easy but

know that God is there for you through this most

difficult time.?  I offer you my consoling thoughts

from my heart to yours with utmost love,

Mom Normie?  ((((gentle warm huggs))))

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Sharon Bryant??™s Story - My mother once told me that you could tell a lot about the people who lived inside a house by the outside of the house.?  This probably does not apply well to apartment dwellings but I have found its reality in this rural area of Maine.?  You can also tell a lot about people by their caring for animals.?  Those who care little, care little for the environment and little for others.?  But, such caring is most often learned from parents.?  The inhumanity in this world defines the scope of parents??™ ? failings.?  Louise

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Prayer Requests and Updates

? I am back from the hospital now doing fine, Doctor said my heart is great,

It was chest wall pain from empizuma not to sure on the spelling, and to

much stress.

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Everyone treated me great in the hospital; they would wake me up to give

me a sleeping pill and take blood every two to three hours. The district

hospital is a nice place to visit as long as your are going to pray for the

sick only. Ha ha!

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Take care and smile God loves and so do all of us!!!!

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Richard & Jackie Sims

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? Hello to all;

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I wish to thank you for all of your prayers for me, God bless each and

everyone of you and thank you very much.

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Well they plugged me up to alot of mechines or what ever, Shaved my chest

and put wires all over me, took blood at least every two to three hours,

woke me up to give me a sleeping pill, and breathing treatments, but I must

say they did take good care of me.

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Doctor says my heart is good, no problems with it. he thinks it is chest

wall pains from my emphysema and lungs, he has moved my breathing

from ever six hours to ever four hours. I got home about three this afternoon,

Thanks again for all of your prayers for me, and God bless you all

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Sincerly

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Richard D. Sims

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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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