An Early Christmas Story
[UPDATE: From Rev. Dan Shutters, I received the following information: "The story you posted about the Christmas of 1881 on another site was written by Rian B. Anderson and entitled "The Rifle". Be a responsible person and give the guy credit." I am appreciative for Rev Shutters for supplying such information and delighted to give credit to the worthy author of said story. Is the title not simply apt?]
Received via email, and either totally fabricated or lacking proper attribution,* but the sentiment expressed is worthwhile. Enjoy and remember those who do not have it as well as you do and your and give what you can to your more deserving neighbors this holiday season!
This is a really nice story....*Any intrepid soul that cares to do so is free to check for authenticity and who might have authored same. Your actions will be appreciated by all, I am sure.Pa never had such compassion for the lazy or those who squandered their means and then never had enough for the necessities. But for those who were genuinely in need, his heart was as big as all outdoors. It was from him that I learned the greatest joy in life comes from giving, not from receiving.
It was Christmas Eve 1881. I was fifteen years old and feeling like the world had caved in on me because there just hadn't been enough money to buy me the rifle that I'd wanted for Christmas. We did the chores early that night for some reason. I just figured Pa wanted a little extra time so we could read in the Bible.
After supper was over I took my boots off and stretched out in front of the fireplace and waited for Pa to get down the old Bible. I was still feeling sorry for myself and, to be honest, I wasn't in much of a mood to read Scriptures. But Pa didn't get the Bible, instead he bundled up again and went outside. I couldn't figure it out because we had already done all the chores. I didn't worry about it long though, I was too busy wallowing in self-pity. Soon Pa came back in. It was a cold clear night out and there was ice in his beard. "Come on, Matt," he said. "Bundle up good, it's cold out tonight." I was really upset then. Not only wasn't I getting the rifle for Christmas, now Pa was dragging me out in the cold, and for no earthly reason that I could see. We'd already done all the chores, and I couldn't think of anything else that needed doing, especially not on a night like this But I knew Pa was not very patient at one dragging one's feet when he'd told them to do something, so I got up and put my boots back on and got my cap, coat, and mittens. Ma gave me a mysterious smile as I opened the door to leave the house. Something was up, but I didn't know what.
Outside, I became even more dismayed. There in front of the house was the work team, already hitched to the big sled. Whatever it was we were going to do wasn't going to be a short, quick, little job. I could tell. We never hitched up this sled unless we were going to haul a big load.
Pa was already up on the seat, reins in hand. I reluctantly climbed up beside him. The cold was already biting at me. I wasn't happy. When I was on, Pa pulled the sled around the house and stopped in front of the woodshed. He got off and I followed. "I think we'll put on the high sideboards," he said. "Here, help me." The high sideboards! It had been a bigger job than I wanted to do with just the low sideboards on, but whatever it was we were going to do would be a lot bigger with the high sideboards on.
After we had exchanged the sideboards, Pa went into the woodshed and came out with an armload of wood---the wood I'd spent all summer hauling down from the mountain, and then all Fall sawing into blocks and splitting.
What was he doing? Finally I said something. "Pa," I asked, "what are you doing?"
You been by the Widow Jensen's lately?" he asked. The Widow Jensen lived about two miles down the road. Her husband had died a year or so before and left her with three children, the oldest being eight. Sure, I'd been by, but so what? "Yeah," I said, "Why?"
"I rode by just today,"Pa said. "Little Jakey was out digging around in the woodpile trying to find a few chips. They're out of wood, Matt."
That was all he said and then he turned and went back into the woodshed for another armload of wood. I followed him. We loaded the sled so high that I began to wonder if the horses would be able to pull it.
Finally, Pa called a halt to our loading, then we went to the smokehouse and Pa took down a big ham and a side of bacon. He handed them to me and told me to put them in the sled and wait.
When he returned he was carrying a sack of flour over his right shoulder and a smaller sack of something in his left hand. "What's in the little sack?" I asked. "Shoes. They're out of shoes. Little Jakey just had gunny sacks wrapped around his feet when he was out in the woodpile this morning. I got the children a little candy too. It just wouldn't be Christmas without a little candy."
We rode the two miles to Widow Jensen's pretty much in silence. I tried to think through what Pa was doing. We didn't have much by worldly standards. Of course, we did have a big woodpile, though most of what was left now was still in the form of logs that I would have to saw into blocks and split before we could use it. We also had meat and flour, so we could spare that, but I knew we didn't have any money, so why was Pa buying them shoes and candy?
Really, why was he doing any of this? Widow Jensen had closer neighbors than us; it shouldn't have been our concern. We came in from the blind side of the Jensen house and unloaded the wood as quietly as possible, then we took the meat and flour and shoes to the door. We knocked.
The door opened a crack and a timid voice said, "Who is it?"
"Lucas Miles, Ma'am, and my son, Matt. Could we come in for a bit?"
Widow Jensen opened the door and let us in. She had a blanket wrapped around her shoulders. The children were wrapped in another and were sitting in front of the fireplace by a very small fire that hardly gave off any heat at all. Widow Jensen fumbled with a match and finally lit the lamp.
"We brought you a few things, Ma'am," Pa said and set down the sack of flour. I put the meat on the table. Then Pa handed her the sack that had the shoes in it.
She opened it hesitantly and took the shoes out one pair at a time. There was a pair for her and one for each of the children---sturdy shoes, the best, shoes that would last. I watched her carefully. She bit her lower lip to keep it from trembling and then tears filled her eyes and started running down her cheeks. She looked up at Pa like she wanted to say something, but it wouldn't come out.
"We brought a load of wood too, Ma'am," Pa said. He turned to me and said, "Matt, go bring in enough to last awhile. Let's get that fire up to size and heat this place up." I wasn't the same person when I went back out to bring in the wood. I had a big lump in my throat and as much as I hate to admit it, there were tears in my eyes too.
In my mind I kept seeing those three kids huddled around the fireplace and their mother standing there with tears running down her cheeks with so much gratitude in her heart that she couldn't speak. My heart swelled within me and a joy that I'd never known before, filled my soul. I had given at Christmas many times before, but never when it had made so much difference. I could see we were literally saving the lives of these people.
I soon had the fire blazing and everyone's spirits soared. The kids started giggling when Pa handed them each a piece of candy and Widow Jensen looked on with a smile that probably hadn't crossed her face for a long time. She finally turned to us. "God bless you," she said."I know the Lord has sent you. The children and I have been praying that he would send one of his angels to spare us."
In spite of myself, the lump returned to my throat and the tears welled up in my eyes again. I'd never thought of Pa in those exact terms before, but after Widow Jensen mentioned it I could see that it was probably true. I was sure that a better man than Pa had never walked the earth. I started remembering all the times he had gone out of his way for Ma and me, and many others. The list seemed endless as I thought on it.
Pa insisted that everyone try on the shoes before we left. I was amazed when they all fit and I wondered how he had known what sizes to get. Then I guessed that if he was on an errand for the Lord that the Lord would make sure he got the right sizes.
Tears were running down Widow Jensen's face again when we stood up to leave. Pa took each of the kids in his big arms and gave them a hug. They clung to him and didn't want us to go. I could see that they missed their Pa, and I was glad that I still had mine.
At the door Pa turned to Widow Jensen and said, "The Mrs. wanted me to invite you and the children over for Christmas dinner tomorrow. The turkey will be more than the three of us can eat, and a man can get cantankerous if he has to eat turkey for too many meals. We'll be by to get you about eleven. It'll be nice to have some little ones around again. Matt, here, hasn't been little for quite a spell." I was the youngest. My two brothers and two sisters had all married and had moved away.
Widow Jensen nodded and said, "Thank you, Brother Miles. I don't have to say, "'May the Lord bless you,' I know for certain that He will."
Out on the sled I felt a warmth that came from deep within and I didn't even notice the cold. When we had gone a ways, Pa turned to me and said,"Matt, I want you to know something. Your ma and me have been tucking a little money away here and there all year so we could buy that rifle for you, but we didn't have quite enough.
Then yesterday a man who owed me a little money from years back cam by to make things square. Your ma and me were real excited, thinking that now we could get you that rifle, and I started into town this morning to do just that. But on the way I saw little Jakey out scratching in the woodpile with his feet wrapped in those gunny sacks and I knew what I had to do.
Son, I spent the money for shoes and a little candy for those children. I hope you understand.
I understood, and my eyes became wet with tears again. I understood very well, and I was so glad Pa had done it. Now the rifle seemed very low on my list of priorities. Pa had given me a lot more. He had given me the look on Widow Jensen's face and the radiant smiles of her three children. For the rest of my life, Whenever I saw any of the Jensens, or split a block of wood, I remembered, and remembering brought back that same joy I felt riding home beside Pa that night. Pa had given me much more than a rifle that night, he had given me the best Christmas of my life.
In a recent personal disclosure,
In a recent personal disclosure, Steppe of Failed Southern Lady related the following:
Blinded by the PrettyShe then went on to list several clues that this guy was an abusive person, clues which she overlooked untilI had a conversation the other day with a coworker about stupid dating decisions. By far, my dumbest dating moment was when I was 20 and dating a state trooper. He was incredibly good looking - he would have to be one of the best looking guys I've ever gone out with. And, he had handcuffs...
He had been a Ranger in the Army before becoming a state trooper. So, he had an incredible body. And, then there was this sexy southern accent he had going for him. All he had to do was whisper "babydoll" in my ear, and my clothes just fell off all by themselves.
He was separated from his wife at the time. He failed to mention that when we started going out. His mother slipped over Sunday dinner by asking something about a meeting with his lawyer and when would this all be over. I could not believe he FORGOT to mention he was still married. He also had an 18 month old son - very cute kid. The married thing was a huge red flag, but I ignored it... Let me also catalog the other red flags I chose to ignore:
He picked me up by my hair one afternoon.Whereas she seems to believe that her fault lay in being blinded by his physical appearance to such a degree that she disregarded the truth about his personality, if truth be told, it was a much deeper physical attraction. Steppe should awaken each day thankful that she didn't open her eyes to his nature until after she has conceived a child with the man, unlike his previous paramour.
Raise 'em up --- raise your spirits up!
I found a great new blog: The Positive Approach, which promotes a more optimistic approach to life.
A simple method of punishment can be an effective teaching tool
I found this anecdote on Velociworld. It is good to see that some people actually do take responsibility to ensure their children learn valuable lessons from their mistakes:
I watched a black woman bring her daughter into the building with her to pay her phone bill today. The girl was about fifteen, and was wearing a sandwich board sign. Poster board in front and back, and on both sides was written in large black marker:[source]I have been WAY NAUGHTY!!!I found that sign brutally poignant. And highly effective. This girl was shamed, but seemed very repentant. I believe that bit of public degradation did more to straighten her out than any ass whipping could have accomplished.
I've been suspended from school and my mother is VERY UNHAPPY with me!!! From this day forward I will obey all rules my teacher and mother tell me.
I am sorry.
Remember the GOOD things
One day a teacher asked her students to list the names of the other students in the room on two sheets of paper, leaving a space between each name. Then she told them to think of the nicest thing they could say about each of their classmates and write it down. It took the remainder of the class period to finish their assignment, and as the students left the room, each one handed in the papers. That Saturday, the teacher wrote down the name of each student on a separate sheet of paper, and listed what everyone else had said about that individual.On Monday she gave each student his or her list. Before long, the entire class was smiling. "Really?" she heard whispered. "I never knew that I meant anything to anyone!" and, "I didn't know others liked me so much." were most of the comments. No one ever mentioned those papers in class again. She never knew if they discussed them after class or with their parents, but it didn't matter. The exercise had accomplished its purpose. The students were happy with themselves and one another. That group of students moved on.
Several years later, one of the students was killed in Viet Nam and his teacher attended the funeral of that special student. She had never seen a serviceman in a military coffin before. He looked so handsome, so mature. The church was packed with his friends. One by one those who loved him took a last walk by the coffin. The teacher was the last one to bless the coffin.
As she stood there, one of the soldiers who acted as pallbearer came up to her. "Were you Mark's math teacher?" he asked.
She nodded: "yes."
Then he said: "Mark talked about you a lot."
After the funeral, most of Mark's former classmates went together to a luncheon. Mark's mother and father were there, obviously waiting to speak with his teacher.
"We want to show you something," his father said, taking a wallet out of his pocket. "They found this on Mark when he was killed. We thought you might recognize it." Opening the billfold, he carefully removed two worn pieces of notebook paper that had obviously been taped, folded and refolded many times.
The teacher knew without looking that the papers were the ones on which she had listed all the good things each of Mark's classmates had said about him.
"Thank you so much for doing that," Mark's mother said. "As you can see, Mark treasured it."
All of Mark's former classmates started to gather around. Charlie smiled rather sheepishly and said, "I still have my list. It's in the top drawer of my desk at home."
Chuck's wife said, "Chuck asked me to put his in our wedding album."
"I have mine too," Marilyn said. "It's in my diary."
Then Vicki, another classmate, reached into her pocketbook, took out her wallet and showed her worn and frazzled list to the group. "I carry this with me at all times," Vicki said and without batting an eyelash, she continued: "I think we all saved our lists."
That's when the teacher finally sat down and cried. She cried for Mark and for all his friends who would never see him again.
The density of people in society is so thick that we forget that life will end one day. And we don't know when that one day will be. So please, tell the people you love and care for, that they are special and important. Tell them, before it is too late.
Cherish -- while you can
Received via email:
It was a way of life, and sometimes it made me crazy. All that re-fixing, reheating, renewing, I wanted just once to be wasteful. Waste means affluence. Throwing away things meant you knew there'd always be more.But then my husband died, and on that clear, cold morning, in the warmth of our bedroom, I was struck with the pain of learning that sometimes there isn't any more. No more hugs, no more special moments to celebrate together, no more phone calls just to chat, no more "just one minute". Sometimes, what we care about the most gets all used up and goes away, never to return before we can say good-bye, say "I love you".
So .. while we have it . . . it's best we love it . . . . . and care for it . and fix it when it's broken. . . . and heal it when it's sick. This is true . . .. . for marriage . . . . . and old cars. . . . and children with bad report cards . . . and dogs with bad hips and aging parents and grandparents. We keep them because they are worth it, because we are worth it.
Some things we keep - like a best friend that moved away or a classmate we grew up with. There are just some things that make us happy, no matter what. Life is important, like people we know who are special . . . .and so, we keep them close!
Taking back the streets
Gennie reported about an unusual condition of sentencing for a gas thief requiring her to prance around with a sign saying she stole gas from the place. I thought it apropos that she mentioned something about a Scarlet Letter Society, because that brings up the point that these types of ideas are actually not new, but hearken back to what was a big part of how this country came to be, when people had a stronger connection to a higher moral belief founded upon their belief in the Higher Power of Heavenly Guidance. It may be that people are too tainted by the deluge of scenes of crimes, their general sense that rules only apply to those that get caught, and the aftermath of the Dr. Spock debacle to feel any effects from such sentencing in this day and time. Still, however, it seems that one judge thought that it might not yet be too late to give it a try.
» CrabAppleLane Blog links with: Tuesday Linkfest
Miscommunication via the written word
I was checking some stats on my other site and say someone had hit this old post of mine from June 12 of last year: Read My Lips: Blogosphere: Community of Great Minds This would have been a couple of months after I first started blogging. I think it is worth of reprisal on this blog, but be mindful that the links go to dead pages. I am unsure to which posts they refer or would fix the links to point to the exact same posts on the munu server. But the links are actually not important, it is the message that is:
I have been playing around on this Blogosphere for a few months and have noticed a few things. The very foremost and primary situation that I notice is the same item I have noticed in almost every other communicational medium I have been a part of since I have been connected to the Internet: miscommunication.Over these past few days, I have already offended someone who misread the meaning of my post, and was surprised at the way someone else reported the content of my post. Miscommunication seems endemic to written communication in this age. Written communication was almost a lost art, as telephones usurped letter writing as the means of contact over distance. With the advent of the Internet, written communication reclaimed its place as the foremost form of communication, but on a scale heretofore unimagined. Any of us, with just a few keystrokes, can publish anything while instantly giving access to millions of others to what they have just produced.
Some are better writers than others. Some are more able to find the perfect wording to convey thoughts, ideas, facts and emotions. It is this last factor that eludes some, however, and it is from that fact, primarily, that most miscommunication results. In our face-to-face communication, we hear the words accompanied by body language and tonal inflection. Neither body language nor varied intonation is apparent in purely written form, so unless the words are sufficient to denote the emotion or emoticons are emplaced, a sentence could be seen by one reader as serious, while another might understand it is sarcastic or facetious.
I am not reading a lot of blogs. I have limited my current reading list to the blogs currently on my blogroll. I do regularly read these blogs, and by doing so, have begun to distinguish between the relative personalities of many. There are so many great minds in the Blogosphere. There are so many varying viewpoints. While the Ph.ds and Professors have garnered the most prestige from their blogging efforts, not all of these are the best communicators. Some of these are on my list, but they are not usually among those I most enjoy reading.
Effective written communication is an art. It is time consuming. "Write like Hemingway, not like Steinbeck," I remember teachers berating. I wanted to write like Uncle Remus. There is always, however, the perfect way to convey your message with the intent you want it to have. It seems to come so easily to some. To those like me, there are immense pauses in train of thought, as we feebly attempt to divine from among the cobwebbed archives of our stored vocabulary that perfect word to convey our intent.
I personally fail in this endeavor often. I often reread my posts, sometimes several days after publication, and see something that could be phrased somewhat better, and change it. That is me, continually striving for perfection.*
As I have said, if you read enough of a person's writing, you begin to develop a feel for who they are. The Blogosphere mirrors the realm of the human experience. There are the givers and the takers. There are the pompous and the humble. There are the agitators and the peacemakers.
No matter what your take is on any issue, I never have a quarrel with allowing you your right to speak your mind. As an attorney, the biggest part of my life is dedicated to fully understanding both sides of any issue, despite which side I choose or am bound by my professional ethics to advocate. It is not your stance on the issue, people, that makes a difference. It is the manner in which you convey the argument that supports your stance. Fanatical diatribe is useless for any purpose other than to agitate and aggravate. What a waste of beautiful words.
One thing the Internet has done, it has allowed the idiots to display their idiocy. I do not know how many times I have to repeat this phrase: Truth is relevant to perception. No one tells the truth, they only tell what they believe to be the truth after their perceptions have tempered it with the flair of their personality. The truth is seldom known by anyone.
I suppose what really plagues me about this Blogosphere is that with all the great minds out there, why do some of them not use theirs?
*I make no claim of perfection, but do believe that the continual quest for perfection is the key to a fulfilling life.
Please read --- someone's smile depends upon it
Everyone's favortie* favorite "jackass," Bill,** is askin' for donations to a worthwhile cause, Operation Smile. Go, do what ya can. Everyone deserves the right to smile, don't ya think?
*Dab nabbed by the spellin' police, dabnabbit.
**As opposed to myself who is likely referred to as a horse's ass quite often. ;)
Using TIME wisely
John reflects on his past and how it has quickly passed:
Trust me, I remember all of these events; the questions that I just posed are my attempt to show how time, that I once thought went on forever, is preciously short. When I was young, the summers would drag on forever...as would the school year. But honestly, it seems like Hurricane Isabel only hit last week -- and it's almost been 8 months.Is it not unbelievable how little we all actually accomplish with our time? What responsibility do we owe to ourselves and others to wisely use our time? I would suspect that those who are unusually responsible make better use of their time than those that freely throw care and concern to the wind, but is this not one facet of our lives that we can all improve upon? I know that I can.
