By: Noway Hosay
Warning: This story is not a normal story. It is a story of such emotional intensity that every so often it is deemed necessary to insert an intermission. This so that the reader is not unnecessarily overwhelmed by whatever emotions may be aroused by the graphic tragedy this tale contains.
The Story: Jane was a fairly normal girl growing up as I recall. She enjoyed all the normal things that girls her age enjoyed: dolls, cats, food (except pickles and olives), the color "red", hippopotumuses, and romantic crime novels (just kidding). She was always safety conscious and was careful to pray for protection on her way to school, on her way home from school, on her way to church, on her way home from church, on her way to her friend's house, etc., but she never thought about THE DUMP. And so that fateful day crept upon her unawares...
The sun shone brightly out of the East with not a cloud to hinder the view across the horizon. It was a very nice day, even nice enough to go to the landfill, Jane thought as she rode in the passenger seat of her dad's 2 year-old Ford Pickup, F-250, 4x4, with just 20,000 miles. As they drove into the landfill back to where the garbage was disposed of, she noticed the 2 foot deep ditch, complete with plenty of sludge, off to her right.
"What!" Her dad shouted, interrupting her thoughts, "Can't you stay on your side of the road? I pay taxes too, okay?"
"I am on my side," Jane replied.
"Not you! Him!"
Just then Jane noticed a large Mack truck heading right toward them! She screamed and covered her eyes as her dad swerved uncontrollably and sunk into the ditch. In desperation, he gunned it, but alas, his truck did not move.
INTERMISSION
"Whatever are we going to do?" Jane wailed, as they sat at a 45 degree angle.
"Never fear, my dear, I'll lock the hubs, and we'll put it in 4 wheel drive," Dad replied in his best Harlow impression.
"But, Dad, you already have it 4 wheel drive."
"Oh, right, just checking to see if you were paying attention. Heh, heh, heh!"
But Jane was not laughing; she just wanted to get out of there. Her dad rocked the truck back and forth, and with much mud spewing everywhere, managed to get the truck back on the road. Fortunately, the rest of the trip was uneventful, but little did she know of the danger that lurked around the corner in her future...
Well, several years passed, and Jane managed somehow to avoid getting stuck -- well, if she did, she always got unstuck without too much difficulty. However, the evening came when her parents insisted that she stay with her Aunt Matilda Cheepscate. There was no getting out of it; so she bravely faced the fact that she might as well make up her mind to ingest Aunt Matilda's gruel and stale bread.
"Oh dear child, you look positively scrumptious!" Jane's aunt gushed
How disgusting! Jane thought, but then she realized that her aunt didn't mean it literally. After all, she was no where near the 40 watt bulb that Aunt Matilda used for cooking. Still, Jane seemed strangely unaware of the potential this opportunity presented her for being stuck; whether it was denial or whether it was an oversight, I'm not sure.
"Where are we going?" Jane wondered as Aunt Matilda jerked the wheel on her aging, rusted-out Pinto with over 300,000 miles on it.
"Oh, it's a surprise."
No! No! Not The Dump! Jane thought. But it was. It was a local grease joint that everyone referred to as The Dump. It was a building with unsteady walls (held together with rotting wood siding, baling wire, and duct tape), sagging doors, broken windows, curled up shingles; and there was trash strewn all over the yard. It was by no means as attractive as my description makes it sound.
The aroma of dead fish and rotten eggs greeted Jane and Matilda as they staggered through the door and found a table.
"I'll have the Greaseburger with Limpid Fries, please," said Aunt Matilda.
"Just the Trashcan Sandwich and Muddy Water, for me," said Jane fighting off the urge to gag.
Fortunately Jane was hungry enough that she could avoid offending Aunt Matilda by choking down the suspiscious food without too much difficulty. However, when it was time to leave, with a rising sense of panic (and heartburn), she suddenly felt like...
INTERMISSION
...like she was permanently affixed to her chair. Must've been the remains of someone's Molassesburger...from 1980, she thought ruefully. Not being one to walk around with a chair protruding from the hinderparts of her dress, she jerked repeatedly on the chair until it came loose (along with parts of her clothing).
"Let's get outta' here," Aunt Matilda said.
For once, Jane couldn't agree with her more. They paid and hurried out of there; Jane's tattered dress rippling in the breeze. How embarrassing! She could feel others staring at the gaping holes in her dress even as she climbed into the car and slammed the door. Boy, did she feel about 1" tall right about then! But it was nothing -- I repeat -- nothing compared to the sheer embarrassment that would come to pass years later...
Contrary to her parents' expectations, Jane did eventually grow up. Not only that, but she even became entrenched (not stuck) in a dating relationship with Jose. And even more than that, she decided to take a position at Morlern Truth Programs (without checking into the potential of deranged maniacs lurking about the place). Soon after taking on the position, she bid her new deranged coworkers farwell and headed off to a place called Planty Unwideness in order to teach Bible school with Jose and some of her more normal friends.
One night as they sat around listlessly sorting their sock collection, Jose had an idea.
"Hey, you wanna' go to The Dump with me?",
Jane, being bored enough to have forgotten all her other close calls at The Dump, said, "Sure, why not? It's only 11 O'Clock."
"This shouldn't take long; I wouldn't worry about mosquito repellent." Little did they realize that these are famous last words of those who get stuck at The Dump...
The half moon hid behind the clouds as wolves howled in the distance. A large hungry-looking bear stood by the road staring at them as they entered The Dump. Jane shuddered at the eerie picture this left on her mind.
"I'm sure glad we're inside right now."
"Yeah, imagine getting eaten by wolves, bears, and mosquitoes all at once. That would constitute a Bad Evening; wouldn't you say?" Jose asked.
She was still thinking of the "Bad Evening" part when without warning the van jerked to the right ...
INTERMISSION
...as the right side of the van sank up to its axles in the soft sand. Jose tried rocking the van, until Jane pointed out that throwing rocks is not how you rock it. She started to get out and push (like several guys had done for her when her van was stuck in the ditch in front of the chapel, but that's another story), but the sight of the hordes of mosquitoes, followed by a couple of bears ambling towards them while licking their chops, stopped her.
"Oh well, welcome to our date!" Jose said trying not to laugh at the ridiculousness of the situation.
"This is... 'different'! Maybe we should pray that someone back at Planty Unwideness sends out a search party." Jane suggested.
"Great idea! I love parties!"
"Jose!"
"Just kidding, just kidding!"
They prayed and talked, and then they prayed and talked some more. The night wore on; the bears looked hungrily in the windows, and the wolves slunk about in the inky shadows. Finally, after a long time (which was roughly the equivalent of the time it took for the rise and fall of the Roman Empire), they spotted headlights coming toward them.
"Hey, why are there head lice out here?" Jose wondered.
"I SAID "headlights" not "head lice!" Jane said in disgust.
"Oh, sorry."
Jane saw the headlights of their search party, and she was thankful -- thankful that God had sent a search party. Then she thought of her date, and she was sad and glad all at the same time. She was sad that her obstreperous coworkers would find endless hours of amusement in regaling her about her "trashy date". However, she was glad -- glad that she was able to spend lots of time with Jose, instead of with someone boring.
THE END
*Based on "Why God Let C.K. IV Fall Out Of The Shower" by Dustin Miller.
Sunday, December 27, 2009
Wednesday, December 23, 2009
Why God Let C.K. IV Fall Out of The Shower
By: Dustin Miller
This story is not a normal story. It is a story so intense that every so often there must be a break ( some call it an intermission ) so that the listener is not unnecessarily overwhelmed by whatever emotions are aroused as they hear the details of this tragedy. Actually, this is one of those breaks and I bet I caught you off guard because it came so soon ( heh, heh, heh ). Anyways, from now on I will signal the intermissions and the teller of the story is responsible to do whatever he feels appropriate. Oh, I guess you wanted to hear the story. My bad!
C.K. IV was a fairly normal boy growing up at home with his parents, as I recall. He was very safety conscious and his boyhood prayers especially reflected this characteristic. He would ask God to keep him safe on the way to school, on his way to church, on his way home from church, on his way to see his friends, etc..... BUT, he never thought about THE SHOWER; and so the fateful day crept upon him unawares.
Well, C.K. IV eventually became a young man and went to Bible school. He studied hard and learned much and then the day came when the students left to go on a musical tour across the United States. That day C.K. IV, as well as all the other students from the Bible school, rolled out of the little driveway onto the road to spend the month singing. It was a beautiful day for C.K., a nice nap on the road, a good program, very hospitable hosts, but they say a day isn't over until it is over. As he relaxed, he wondered whether he should take a shower that evening or the next morning. He made his decision, stepped into the shower, and...
INTERMISSION
Where was I? Oh yes, he stepped into the bathroom and took a shower and went to bed to dream peacefully of seagulls soaring up and down, occasionally splashing into the water to grab little fish.
Well, as tour progressed, C.K. IV continued taking showers ( quite surprising, after that first memorable experience, isn't it? ). Then one evening, after a fairly uneventful program, C.K. IV and his sidekicks Moe and Joe stayed at the same place and they had....a shower.
That night C.K. dreamed again, and this time it was about a cat that was running around a rocking chair. The lady in the chair rocked back on the cat's tail, causing him to jump on the table, knocking over an oil lamp and setting the house on fire. In his dream, C.K. was uncomfortably close to the burning house and the flames grew hotter and hotter, until he could barely stand it. Suddenly, his eyes flew open, only to discover Moe assaulting his face with a hair dryer and the news that he better get on the ball if he wanted a ride on the bus.The fateful day had arrived, but C.K. had no clue that danger was lurking nearby.
He stepped into the shower and turned the water on just as he realized he had forgotten to get a washcloth out of the bathroom cupboard. He began to step out of the tub/shower combination, not thinking about the two inch difference between that tub and his tub at home. Well, he started to step out and....
INTERMISSION
Well, the trip to the bathroom cupboard and back was uneventful, and C.K. tried again to take his shower. Showers were not new to C.K. IV, and he was not easily frightened, but this time he feared for his life for some strange, unknown reason. But he went ahead and turned the water on again, anticipating its warmth. But then he noticed that...it was getting hot very quickly. "Oh no!" cried C.K., as he frantically tried to push the little button with his foot that would turn the shower off so he could adjust the temperature.
Let us take a moment to describe the shower curtain and rod in some detail. The rod was placed at a height at which C.K.'s shoulders were well above it. Consequently, the shower curtain came down the full height of the tub wall, plus some. Back to the story.
C.K. managed to get the shower button thing pushed down with a minimum amount of scalding, but as he brought his foot back...
INTERMISSION
As he brought his foot back, he unsuspectingly places it on the extreme edge of the shower curtain underneath of which is the curve connecting the horizontal and vertical parts of the tub. Needless to say, his foot continues following the curve of the tub to the left, and the top half of his body begins its descent to the right. The shower curtain and rod did not have a chance, if you'll remember their height compared to C.K.'s.
Back in their room, Moe and Joe became alarmed when they heard an eardrum-shattering crash from the general vicinity of the bathroom. They rushed to the door, but it was locked. "Should we call 911?" Moe asked Joe. "No, let's just bust the door down and see if he's alright." After several minutes of intense discussion, they decided to call his name and hope he would answer. "C.K.!" "C.K. IV! Are you alright?" Over and over they called through the door, into the bathroom.
Meanwhile C.K. sat helplessly in the bathroom, totally drained of his strength from trying to disentangle himself from the shower curtain. "Oh my, what will everyone think when they find out? What will they say?" Over and over he moaned these words, weeping a flood of tears.
What was that? Had he heard a voice? Yes? Through the plastic shower curtain he heard his name being called over and over, wondering if he was alright. " Yeah, I'm fine," he said disgustedly, as he finally unraveled himself from the shower curtain. Then C.K. thought of his shower. He was sad--and glad at the same time.
Emergencies were not new to Moe and Joe, but this time they feared for C.K.'s life. But, ten minutes later, they were glad to see him in one piece.
The legend of C.K. IV and his showers lives on in the hearts and minds of his dearest friends. And while this is based on a true story, I must state that it is fiction and must be regarded as such.
This story is not a normal story. It is a story so intense that every so often there must be a break ( some call it an intermission ) so that the listener is not unnecessarily overwhelmed by whatever emotions are aroused as they hear the details of this tragedy. Actually, this is one of those breaks and I bet I caught you off guard because it came so soon ( heh, heh, heh ). Anyways, from now on I will signal the intermissions and the teller of the story is responsible to do whatever he feels appropriate. Oh, I guess you wanted to hear the story. My bad!
C.K. IV was a fairly normal boy growing up at home with his parents, as I recall. He was very safety conscious and his boyhood prayers especially reflected this characteristic. He would ask God to keep him safe on the way to school, on his way to church, on his way home from church, on his way to see his friends, etc..... BUT, he never thought about THE SHOWER; and so the fateful day crept upon him unawares.
Well, C.K. IV eventually became a young man and went to Bible school. He studied hard and learned much and then the day came when the students left to go on a musical tour across the United States. That day C.K. IV, as well as all the other students from the Bible school, rolled out of the little driveway onto the road to spend the month singing. It was a beautiful day for C.K., a nice nap on the road, a good program, very hospitable hosts, but they say a day isn't over until it is over. As he relaxed, he wondered whether he should take a shower that evening or the next morning. He made his decision, stepped into the shower, and...
INTERMISSION
Where was I? Oh yes, he stepped into the bathroom and took a shower and went to bed to dream peacefully of seagulls soaring up and down, occasionally splashing into the water to grab little fish.
Well, as tour progressed, C.K. IV continued taking showers ( quite surprising, after that first memorable experience, isn't it? ). Then one evening, after a fairly uneventful program, C.K. IV and his sidekicks Moe and Joe stayed at the same place and they had....a shower.
That night C.K. dreamed again, and this time it was about a cat that was running around a rocking chair. The lady in the chair rocked back on the cat's tail, causing him to jump on the table, knocking over an oil lamp and setting the house on fire. In his dream, C.K. was uncomfortably close to the burning house and the flames grew hotter and hotter, until he could barely stand it. Suddenly, his eyes flew open, only to discover Moe assaulting his face with a hair dryer and the news that he better get on the ball if he wanted a ride on the bus.The fateful day had arrived, but C.K. had no clue that danger was lurking nearby.
He stepped into the shower and turned the water on just as he realized he had forgotten to get a washcloth out of the bathroom cupboard. He began to step out of the tub/shower combination, not thinking about the two inch difference between that tub and his tub at home. Well, he started to step out and....
INTERMISSION
Well, the trip to the bathroom cupboard and back was uneventful, and C.K. tried again to take his shower. Showers were not new to C.K. IV, and he was not easily frightened, but this time he feared for his life for some strange, unknown reason. But he went ahead and turned the water on again, anticipating its warmth. But then he noticed that...it was getting hot very quickly. "Oh no!" cried C.K., as he frantically tried to push the little button with his foot that would turn the shower off so he could adjust the temperature.
Let us take a moment to describe the shower curtain and rod in some detail. The rod was placed at a height at which C.K.'s shoulders were well above it. Consequently, the shower curtain came down the full height of the tub wall, plus some. Back to the story.
C.K. managed to get the shower button thing pushed down with a minimum amount of scalding, but as he brought his foot back...
INTERMISSION
As he brought his foot back, he unsuspectingly places it on the extreme edge of the shower curtain underneath of which is the curve connecting the horizontal and vertical parts of the tub. Needless to say, his foot continues following the curve of the tub to the left, and the top half of his body begins its descent to the right. The shower curtain and rod did not have a chance, if you'll remember their height compared to C.K.'s.
Back in their room, Moe and Joe became alarmed when they heard an eardrum-shattering crash from the general vicinity of the bathroom. They rushed to the door, but it was locked. "Should we call 911?" Moe asked Joe. "No, let's just bust the door down and see if he's alright." After several minutes of intense discussion, they decided to call his name and hope he would answer. "C.K.!" "C.K. IV! Are you alright?" Over and over they called through the door, into the bathroom.
Meanwhile C.K. sat helplessly in the bathroom, totally drained of his strength from trying to disentangle himself from the shower curtain. "Oh my, what will everyone think when they find out? What will they say?" Over and over he moaned these words, weeping a flood of tears.
What was that? Had he heard a voice? Yes? Through the plastic shower curtain he heard his name being called over and over, wondering if he was alright. " Yeah, I'm fine," he said disgustedly, as he finally unraveled himself from the shower curtain. Then C.K. thought of his shower. He was sad--and glad at the same time.
Emergencies were not new to Moe and Joe, but this time they feared for C.K.'s life. But, ten minutes later, they were glad to see him in one piece.
The legend of C.K. IV and his showers lives on in the hearts and minds of his dearest friends. And while this is based on a true story, I must state that it is fiction and must be regarded as such.
Actual Headlines
Drunk Gets Nine Months In Violin Case
Survivor Of Siamese Twins Joins Parents
Stolen Painting Found By Tree
Two Sisters Reunited After 18 Years In Checkout Counter
Never Withhold Herpes Infection From Loved One
War Dims Hope For Peace
Red Tape Holds Up New Bridge
Astronaut Takes Blame For Gas In Spacecraft
Local High School Dropouts Cut In Half
Old School Pillars Are Replaced By Alumni
Hospitals Are Sued By 7 Foot Doctors
Include Your Children When Baking Cookies
Iraqi Head Seeks Arms
Survivor Of Siamese Twins Joins Parents
Stolen Painting Found By Tree
Two Sisters Reunited After 18 Years In Checkout Counter
Never Withhold Herpes Infection From Loved One
War Dims Hope For Peace
Red Tape Holds Up New Bridge
Astronaut Takes Blame For Gas In Spacecraft
Local High School Dropouts Cut In Half
Old School Pillars Are Replaced By Alumni
Hospitals Are Sued By 7 Foot Doctors
Include Your Children When Baking Cookies
Iraqi Head Seeks Arms
Monday, December 14, 2009
This is not a normal story. It is a story so intense that every so often a break is inserted so that the reader is not unnecessarily overwhelmed by whatever emotions are aroused as he or she reads this story. Facial tissues are recommended.
Why Konner Let Konner Con Her Over The Phone*
By I. C. Thruyu
Konner was a fairly normal boy growing up with his parents, as I recall. He was very careful to tell the truth, and his boyhood prayers especially reflected this characteristic. He would ask God to help him tell the truth at home, at school, at church, at his friend's house, etc. BUT he never thought about telling the truth on THE PHONE. And so that fateful day crept upon him unawares.
Well, Konner eventually became a young man and applied to go to the camp as a counselor. He was accepted, according to the letter he had received from the camp. He was very excited. "Eureka!" He exclaimed, as his brother watched him read the letter. He looked up in time to see his brother hold his nose shut. He guessed he must not smell too great either. He brought his mind back to the subject at hand, and he realized that he had never been anywhere near a camp. So he immediately began studying books on how to camp (Camping for Dummies).
One day while he was away, the camp secretary called and spoke to his mother.
"Is Konner there?" She wondered.
"No, but I could take a message, and he can call you back," his mother replied. When Konner returned later that day, his mother relayed the message to him. However, in his haste to return the call he forgot all about his effort to always tell the truth. Was this a perfect opportunity to disguise his voice and make up an alias? He picked up the receiver and dialed the number. He waited and waited, and after two rings she answered. He opened his mouth and . . .
INTERMISSION
He told the truth without any problem, and he gave her the required information without any vagueness on his part. That night he went to bed and dreamed that he was a happy buffalo chasing some butterflies (or was it mosquitoes?). After this, he dreamed he had made up a story that he was working for a place called Camplake Resort where they offered many amneties such as golfing, skiing, horseback riding, and fishing. What are amneties, and why couldn't he say amenities in his dream? These were his thoughts as he awoke. And why did I have to wear socks there anyway? Buffaloes don't wear socks.
At last the day came for him to go to camp, and when he got there he had a good time working as a counselor. He was a good counselor because he always told the truth, and he did return as a counselor for many summers afterward. He had decided the campers sure could use a lot of counselling. However, his days as counselor were coming to an end. The day came when the camp needed a maintenance guy, and Konner decided to apply for the position never thinking that there he might have to use . . . The Phone.
Once again, he was accepted, and he immediately moved into the new position and even used The Phone on occasion without incident. Things were going well in his job, and by now he was well into his term. It was a nice position, interesting work, pleasant coworkers, comfortable apartment, but they say a term isn't over until it is over. As he relaxed one evening after a hard day of changing lightbulbs, he wondered if he should surprise his mother by calling her that night or wait 'til the next. He made his decision. He slowly picked up The Phone and . . .
INTERMISSION
Where was I? Oh yes, he called his mother, and they had a pleasant conversation. He forgot to disguise his voice and use an alias, but told the truth instead. That night he dreamed again. This time his mother called him and interrupted his guitar playing and singing. She disguised her voice and even used some French, but he knew right away who it was. He hung up. The person singing at his feet had disappeared, but at least he still had his guitar in front of him. He tried to play, but his arms were stuck, they wouldn't move! Fighting panic, he awoke to the sound of ripping duct tape as his coworker wrapped yet another layer around Konner's arms. Konner tried to jerk his arms free, but it was no use.
"Help!" He cried, causing his coworker to laugh at his plight.
"Relax," said his coworker after regain his composure, "we're just practicing for the boy's club. I'll free you after awhile. (Right after you tell me what you did with the double-stuffed oreos.)" Well, Konner was sure glad that was all it was. For awhile he was afraid he had been lured into his old shed and captured by the notorious prison escapees, Rick and Bubba. He pushed aside all thoughts of being captured, as he considered the list of things that needed to be done that day. He decided he would work on the left cabin. The Phone in the left cabin.
The fateful day had arrived, but Konner had no clue of the danger lurking nearby. He spent most of the morning working on the communication system, and at last he was finished. Now for the test. His eyes fell on The Phone right beside him. After returning his eyes back into their sockets, he dialed the camp number. It was ringing through. So far so good, he thought. Then she answered and without thinking he opened his mouth . . .
INTERMISSION
And said in a disguised voice, "Could I have a place to stay tonight?"
"For just you?"
"Yes, just me. Oh, and my seven children. We're at the bus station in town and need a place to stay. Just for tonight. Oh, and could you pick us up too?"
"Oookay. Let me check. May I ask who's calling?"
"Uh, this is Ko -- this is Lonner. Yes, Lonner."
"Please hold while I check."
Well, Konner could contain himself no longer, and burst into gales of unbridled mirth much to the consternation of the person on the other end. Oh no, he thought after he hung up. What did I do? I just wanted to know if The Phone worked and I got carried away with my false story! What if she tries to get back at me? What if she hides behind one of the many doors we have here and jumps out and scares the socks off of me? (Then I would be in violation of dress code.) What if she calls me out of the blue instead of using The Phone? And what if she disguises her voice and . . . and . . . and talks in . . . French? He shuddered as he thought about how desperate someone would have to be to resort to using French.
Days went by, and he eventually forgot about any threats on his physical well-bean. Well-being, that is. But little did he know that one day while he was away, some perpetrators had broken into his apartment to teach him a lesson about the truth. He unsuspectingly opened the door to his apartment filled with uncharacteristic good cheer over the prospect of taking a trip to Him Thortons that night. He strode over to his bedroom, not realizing that his bedroom door was hanging open approximately two inches more than normal. He grasped the knob to push the door open and . . .
INTERMISSION
There before him were all seven of his children! Shocked? Yeah, you could say that. Shocked and slightly embarrassed at the sight of his room being in such a mess. Also, he had forgotten to iron the tablecloth in the kitchen/dining/living area. But he brought his thoughts back to the subject at hand.
"How did they get all of them in here?" He said to no one in particular. "And how'd they get them to stay in one place?" It was then he realized that -- wait a minute -- these weren't his children, these were balloons taking the form of his children! They even had names printed on their faces. How thoughtful. How sweet.
When Konner saw his children, he was glad. Now he would not have to worry about any more revenge from the phone operator. With these thoughts in mind, Konner went about his peaceful existence for the rest of his term at the camp. He told the truth regularly, even on The Phone. But after his term had ended, he left the camp and went on a lengthy road trip with some former coworkers. During this time, he called the camp for a phone number and disguised his voice and . . . well, that's another story.
The legend of Konner and The Phone lives on in the hearts and minds of his dearest friends. And while this is based on a true story, I must state that it is fiction and should be regarded as such.
*Based on "Why God Let C.K.IV Fall Out of the Shower" by Dustin Miller
Why Konner Let Konner Con Her Over The Phone*
By I. C. Thruyu
Konner was a fairly normal boy growing up with his parents, as I recall. He was very careful to tell the truth, and his boyhood prayers especially reflected this characteristic. He would ask God to help him tell the truth at home, at school, at church, at his friend's house, etc. BUT he never thought about telling the truth on THE PHONE. And so that fateful day crept upon him unawares.
Well, Konner eventually became a young man and applied to go to the camp as a counselor. He was accepted, according to the letter he had received from the camp. He was very excited. "Eureka!" He exclaimed, as his brother watched him read the letter. He looked up in time to see his brother hold his nose shut. He guessed he must not smell too great either. He brought his mind back to the subject at hand, and he realized that he had never been anywhere near a camp. So he immediately began studying books on how to camp (Camping for Dummies).
One day while he was away, the camp secretary called and spoke to his mother.
"Is Konner there?" She wondered.
"No, but I could take a message, and he can call you back," his mother replied. When Konner returned later that day, his mother relayed the message to him. However, in his haste to return the call he forgot all about his effort to always tell the truth. Was this a perfect opportunity to disguise his voice and make up an alias? He picked up the receiver and dialed the number. He waited and waited, and after two rings she answered. He opened his mouth and . . .
INTERMISSION
He told the truth without any problem, and he gave her the required information without any vagueness on his part. That night he went to bed and dreamed that he was a happy buffalo chasing some butterflies (or was it mosquitoes?). After this, he dreamed he had made up a story that he was working for a place called Camplake Resort where they offered many amneties such as golfing, skiing, horseback riding, and fishing. What are amneties, and why couldn't he say amenities in his dream? These were his thoughts as he awoke. And why did I have to wear socks there anyway? Buffaloes don't wear socks.
At last the day came for him to go to camp, and when he got there he had a good time working as a counselor. He was a good counselor because he always told the truth, and he did return as a counselor for many summers afterward. He had decided the campers sure could use a lot of counselling. However, his days as counselor were coming to an end. The day came when the camp needed a maintenance guy, and Konner decided to apply for the position never thinking that there he might have to use . . . The Phone.
Once again, he was accepted, and he immediately moved into the new position and even used The Phone on occasion without incident. Things were going well in his job, and by now he was well into his term. It was a nice position, interesting work, pleasant coworkers, comfortable apartment, but they say a term isn't over until it is over. As he relaxed one evening after a hard day of changing lightbulbs, he wondered if he should surprise his mother by calling her that night or wait 'til the next. He made his decision. He slowly picked up The Phone and . . .
INTERMISSION
Where was I? Oh yes, he called his mother, and they had a pleasant conversation. He forgot to disguise his voice and use an alias, but told the truth instead. That night he dreamed again. This time his mother called him and interrupted his guitar playing and singing. She disguised her voice and even used some French, but he knew right away who it was. He hung up. The person singing at his feet had disappeared, but at least he still had his guitar in front of him. He tried to play, but his arms were stuck, they wouldn't move! Fighting panic, he awoke to the sound of ripping duct tape as his coworker wrapped yet another layer around Konner's arms. Konner tried to jerk his arms free, but it was no use.
"Help!" He cried, causing his coworker to laugh at his plight.
"Relax," said his coworker after regain his composure, "we're just practicing for the boy's club. I'll free you after awhile. (Right after you tell me what you did with the double-stuffed oreos.)" Well, Konner was sure glad that was all it was. For awhile he was afraid he had been lured into his old shed and captured by the notorious prison escapees, Rick and Bubba. He pushed aside all thoughts of being captured, as he considered the list of things that needed to be done that day. He decided he would work on the left cabin. The Phone in the left cabin.
The fateful day had arrived, but Konner had no clue of the danger lurking nearby. He spent most of the morning working on the communication system, and at last he was finished. Now for the test. His eyes fell on The Phone right beside him. After returning his eyes back into their sockets, he dialed the camp number. It was ringing through. So far so good, he thought. Then she answered and without thinking he opened his mouth . . .
INTERMISSION
And said in a disguised voice, "Could I have a place to stay tonight?"
"For just you?"
"Yes, just me. Oh, and my seven children. We're at the bus station in town and need a place to stay. Just for tonight. Oh, and could you pick us up too?"
"Oookay. Let me check. May I ask who's calling?"
"Uh, this is Ko -- this is Lonner. Yes, Lonner."
"Please hold while I check."
Well, Konner could contain himself no longer, and burst into gales of unbridled mirth much to the consternation of the person on the other end. Oh no, he thought after he hung up. What did I do? I just wanted to know if The Phone worked and I got carried away with my false story! What if she tries to get back at me? What if she hides behind one of the many doors we have here and jumps out and scares the socks off of me? (Then I would be in violation of dress code.) What if she calls me out of the blue instead of using The Phone? And what if she disguises her voice and . . . and . . . and talks in . . . French? He shuddered as he thought about how desperate someone would have to be to resort to using French.
Days went by, and he eventually forgot about any threats on his physical well-bean. Well-being, that is. But little did he know that one day while he was away, some perpetrators had broken into his apartment to teach him a lesson about the truth. He unsuspectingly opened the door to his apartment filled with uncharacteristic good cheer over the prospect of taking a trip to Him Thortons that night. He strode over to his bedroom, not realizing that his bedroom door was hanging open approximately two inches more than normal. He grasped the knob to push the door open and . . .
INTERMISSION
There before him were all seven of his children! Shocked? Yeah, you could say that. Shocked and slightly embarrassed at the sight of his room being in such a mess. Also, he had forgotten to iron the tablecloth in the kitchen/dining/living area. But he brought his thoughts back to the subject at hand.
"How did they get all of them in here?" He said to no one in particular. "And how'd they get them to stay in one place?" It was then he realized that -- wait a minute -- these weren't his children, these were balloons taking the form of his children! They even had names printed on their faces. How thoughtful. How sweet.
When Konner saw his children, he was glad. Now he would not have to worry about any more revenge from the phone operator. With these thoughts in mind, Konner went about his peaceful existence for the rest of his term at the camp. He told the truth regularly, even on The Phone. But after his term had ended, he left the camp and went on a lengthy road trip with some former coworkers. During this time, he called the camp for a phone number and disguised his voice and . . . well, that's another story.
The legend of Konner and The Phone lives on in the hearts and minds of his dearest friends. And while this is based on a true story, I must state that it is fiction and should be regarded as such.
*Based on "Why God Let C.K.IV Fall Out of the Shower" by Dustin Miller
Friday, December 11, 2009
Mr. Johnny Came Home
Mr. Johnny died the other week. He was a chain smoker, was known to be an alcoholic back in the day, and generally led a rough life. Maybe because he was a logger, but probably not. Most likely it was because he didn't know the Lord.
I saw his widow this week, and she told me all about the events leading up to his death. She's one of those that, once you get her started . . . well, let's just say you just might sit there awhile. So she recounted how he ended up in the emergency room and then in hospice. He was there for 2 weeks before he died.
In the past year he'd been going to church when he could, but he was never ready to make any kind of commitment. He did have a pretty good relationship with the preacher of a local baptist church, though. The Preacher must be a remarkable man, because at the funeral he described how God woke him up at 4 am and told him to go visit Johnny. He did.
When he walked up to the room where he was staying, he could hear Mr. Johnny himself praying out loud. Strange, but he sure did show up at the right time. Wouldn't you know The Preacher led him to the Lord right there? Mr. Johnny made things right with his family, and then a few days later, he died. It was a good story.
Talk about last minute repentance! Some of us had prayed for him, and we've (mostly me) wondered if he would ever repent. Sometimes a person just feels like giving up on praying. But then when you least expect it, something changes. One never knows.
I thought of the old Steve and Annie Chapman song, "Uncle Bud Came Home."
Some come home in the mornin'.
Some come home at noon.
Some come home when the sun's goin' down,
Uncle Bud came home by the light of the moon.
Uncle Bud came home . . .
I saw his widow this week, and she told me all about the events leading up to his death. She's one of those that, once you get her started . . . well, let's just say you just might sit there awhile. So she recounted how he ended up in the emergency room and then in hospice. He was there for 2 weeks before he died.
In the past year he'd been going to church when he could, but he was never ready to make any kind of commitment. He did have a pretty good relationship with the preacher of a local baptist church, though. The Preacher must be a remarkable man, because at the funeral he described how God woke him up at 4 am and told him to go visit Johnny. He did.
When he walked up to the room where he was staying, he could hear Mr. Johnny himself praying out loud. Strange, but he sure did show up at the right time. Wouldn't you know The Preacher led him to the Lord right there? Mr. Johnny made things right with his family, and then a few days later, he died. It was a good story.
Talk about last minute repentance! Some of us had prayed for him, and we've (mostly me) wondered if he would ever repent. Sometimes a person just feels like giving up on praying. But then when you least expect it, something changes. One never knows.
I thought of the old Steve and Annie Chapman song, "Uncle Bud Came Home."
Some come home in the mornin'.
Some come home at noon.
Some come home when the sun's goin' down,
Uncle Bud came home by the light of the moon.
Uncle Bud came home . . .
Monday, November 30, 2009
Going South
Things went south even as we proceeded to go south. Well, sort of. Wengerd took the wheel in I Falls and headed south on 53. He'd done it often enough that incompetence should not have been an issue.
Whatsoever.
Well, things were pretty normal considering we'd just pulled out from Subway and he was cradling a 12" Chicken Marinara Sub on a 9 grain honey oat bun loaded with every conceivable vegetable known to Subway in his lap. He set his cruise control on the borrowed Nissan Sentra and began the navigation process with his legs while unwrapping this 12" sumptious delight with both hands. Ahhh, the smell was delightful. And so was the taste. But this was normal.
Even the napkin/bib stuffed down his shirt. That was normal too.
But, alas, things went south from there. We got into Duluth, a massive conglomeration of confusing intersections, and he set about exiting onto I-35 S when in reality we wanted I-35 N which ran in conjuntion with US 53 S. Even in the gathering darkness, the local scenery was not looking very familiar to him. He woke his snoozing passenger with the words, "I think I missed 53."
The awakened passenger dutifully opened up the map while shaking the cobwebs that had settled in his brain as he rested his eyes. "I think you want 2 East. That should get us to 53."
And it was so, even though the residents in the rear parts began to snicker at Wengerd's wanderings. Later, when we joined US 2 E/US 53 S, we continued our journey in a southerly fashion. Little did Wengerd realize that 53 did the splits with US 2 in the town of Wentworth, WS, not far at all from Duluth/Superior.
Half an hour later he wondered at a sign he saw. US 2 and something else, but no US 53! How could they miss putting up such an important sign on this major road? Maybe there was one further up. There wasn't. This would explain the lack of expected four lanes. So once again to the peacefully napping passenger, "Uh, could you look at the map? I think I missed 53."
He tried to ignore the ridicule emanating from the rear of the vehicle. One rider thought maybe it was time for a change in staff manning the wheel. He laughed appreciatively at their juvenile humor as he turned around and headed for some obscure back roads that appeared to offer some hope. It turned out we had not been headed south, we had been headed east. We did need to go east, but not there we didn't.
So at the direction of our staff passenger/navigator we got on 27 headed south. This was really out in the boondocks. No houses. No cell phone service. Nothing, just trees. We nearly went right by county road A. Wengerd slammed on the brakes just in time to make a hard right turn turn into the left lane of A. Of course there was no one there, which was handy. (I thought I saw some deer standing along the highway snickering, but I'm not sure. jk.)
Indeed A took us to our beloved US 53 S. Albeit Business US 53 S, but it worked. And things didn't go quite so far south after that, but we did. Praise the Lord.
Whatsoever.
Well, things were pretty normal considering we'd just pulled out from Subway and he was cradling a 12" Chicken Marinara Sub on a 9 grain honey oat bun loaded with every conceivable vegetable known to Subway in his lap. He set his cruise control on the borrowed Nissan Sentra and began the navigation process with his legs while unwrapping this 12" sumptious delight with both hands. Ahhh, the smell was delightful. And so was the taste. But this was normal.
Even the napkin/bib stuffed down his shirt. That was normal too.
But, alas, things went south from there. We got into Duluth, a massive conglomeration of confusing intersections, and he set about exiting onto I-35 S when in reality we wanted I-35 N which ran in conjuntion with US 53 S. Even in the gathering darkness, the local scenery was not looking very familiar to him. He woke his snoozing passenger with the words, "I think I missed 53."
The awakened passenger dutifully opened up the map while shaking the cobwebs that had settled in his brain as he rested his eyes. "I think you want 2 East. That should get us to 53."
And it was so, even though the residents in the rear parts began to snicker at Wengerd's wanderings. Later, when we joined US 2 E/US 53 S, we continued our journey in a southerly fashion. Little did Wengerd realize that 53 did the splits with US 2 in the town of Wentworth, WS, not far at all from Duluth/Superior.
Half an hour later he wondered at a sign he saw. US 2 and something else, but no US 53! How could they miss putting up such an important sign on this major road? Maybe there was one further up. There wasn't. This would explain the lack of expected four lanes. So once again to the peacefully napping passenger, "Uh, could you look at the map? I think I missed 53."
He tried to ignore the ridicule emanating from the rear of the vehicle. One rider thought maybe it was time for a change in staff manning the wheel. He laughed appreciatively at their juvenile humor as he turned around and headed for some obscure back roads that appeared to offer some hope. It turned out we had not been headed south, we had been headed east. We did need to go east, but not there we didn't.
So at the direction of our staff passenger/navigator we got on 27 headed south. This was really out in the boondocks. No houses. No cell phone service. Nothing, just trees. We nearly went right by county road A. Wengerd slammed on the brakes just in time to make a hard right turn turn into the left lane of A. Of course there was no one there, which was handy. (I thought I saw some deer standing along the highway snickering, but I'm not sure. jk.)
Indeed A took us to our beloved US 53 S. Albeit Business US 53 S, but it worked. And things didn't go quite so far south after that, but we did. Praise the Lord.
Friday, November 27, 2009
Doing turkey-in-the-hole with Gary officiating.
1. Take three turkeys and slather them in margarine and seasonings. Make sure there’s at least one health fanatic around to throw conniptions. This causes endless entertainment to the normal people gathered about.
2. Snap lots of photos with the perpetrators in various poses appropriate for the occasion.
3. Pack with ice and wrap (do not rap) turkeys in 14 layers of foil. This layer number has been refined over many years of trial and error by the head turkey-in-the-holer.
4. Rig up a wiring system around carcass so as to easily hook it and thereby extract from the fire at the appropriate time.
5. Build fire on green logs centred (we’re in Canada) over hole. Have logs collapse in hole prematurely. Use old garage door tracks instead. The idea is to have hot coals fall down in hole, then at the right time, bury turkeys in these coals.
6. “Sleep” on foam and blanket by the fire all night. Of course, we use the term “sleep” as liberally as possible.
7. Stoke fire often because it’s birch firewood, not oak.
8. Remove from hole 8 hrs. later. Very tasty. One was marinated, and I think the others were injected with marination.
It was a pretty good feast for a bunch of Canadians celebrating US Thanksgiving: turkey, dressing, baked corn, jello, sweet potato soufflé, pumpkin pie, and homemade ice cream. Kevin and Albert made the pies. And nobody perished from food poisoning. We cranked the ice cream maker by hand, but unfortunately the gears were wearing down. They kept catching, and actually left a not-so-pleasing film of metal shaving dust on the lid. This had a way of working its way into the ice cream itself. Even though we scooped some of it out, we did wonder why the ice cream was darker than normal. Just kidding. Again, there were no casualties from the ingestion of the contents, for which we are grateful.
1. Take three turkeys and slather them in margarine and seasonings. Make sure there’s at least one health fanatic around to throw conniptions. This causes endless entertainment to the normal people gathered about.
2. Snap lots of photos with the perpetrators in various poses appropriate for the occasion.
3. Pack with ice and wrap (do not rap) turkeys in 14 layers of foil. This layer number has been refined over many years of trial and error by the head turkey-in-the-holer.
4. Rig up a wiring system around carcass so as to easily hook it and thereby extract from the fire at the appropriate time.
5. Build fire on green logs centred (we’re in Canada) over hole. Have logs collapse in hole prematurely. Use old garage door tracks instead. The idea is to have hot coals fall down in hole, then at the right time, bury turkeys in these coals.
6. “Sleep” on foam and blanket by the fire all night. Of course, we use the term “sleep” as liberally as possible.
7. Stoke fire often because it’s birch firewood, not oak.
8. Remove from hole 8 hrs. later. Very tasty. One was marinated, and I think the others were injected with marination.
It was a pretty good feast for a bunch of Canadians celebrating US Thanksgiving: turkey, dressing, baked corn, jello, sweet potato soufflé, pumpkin pie, and homemade ice cream. Kevin and Albert made the pies. And nobody perished from food poisoning. We cranked the ice cream maker by hand, but unfortunately the gears were wearing down. They kept catching, and actually left a not-so-pleasing film of metal shaving dust on the lid. This had a way of working its way into the ice cream itself. Even though we scooped some of it out, we did wonder why the ice cream was darker than normal. Just kidding. Again, there were no casualties from the ingestion of the contents, for which we are grateful.
Thursday, November 12, 2009
Ever wonder about the advantages to being fat? Consider this for one: Fat people are harder to kidnap. Also they make for more interesting stories. Now I am in neither endorsing nor condemning the essence of being fat. There are both advantages and disadvantages to being overweight, but it seems to me that the disadvantages outweigh the advantages. (Okay, that was a bad joke.) Here's one story I heard not long ago.
The Nine Hundred Pound Man
Many years ago, in the South, there lived a man that during his lifetime put on plenty of weight. So much that when he died, he weighed in the neighborhood of nine hundred pounds. (And he weighed nine hundred pounds in his neighborhood too.) Now the funeral director had no way of dealing with the actual burial of one so heavy. So he did the only thing he could do; he called the local pourer/hauler/setter of septic tanks. This guy had a truck with a boom and winch that he used for septic tank installation.
So there he was, with his old, dirty truck in the the funeral procession, when one his steel pieces fell off the truck. Since this piece would be mandatory for lowering the casket, there was nothing to do but to halt the procession while he ran back to retrieve the piece.
When they got to the grave, they chained up the casket and let it down slowly. However, since his winch was kind of the way it was, it turned out to be a rather jerky descent down into the hole. ("Steady by jerks," they used to say.) After the body was lowered, they tried vainly to pull the chains out, but it was no use. They were hopelessly stuck under all that weight. So they threw them in and buried him with chains.
Da Nein Hunnaht Pund Mann
(PAD version)
Yoahra zrikk, in di Saud, es voah en mann es blendi feel gvicht druff gedua hott ivvah sei layves-zeit. So feel es ivvah di zeit vo eah gshteahva is hott eah nein hunnaht pund gveekt. Nau di leicht ivvah-saynah hott kenn vayk katt fa ebbah so shveah fagrawfa. So hott eah en calli gekawld es septic tanks gleahed un gsetzt hott fa sei eahvet. Eah hott di dingah als gsetz mitt sei truck es en boom un winch druff katt hott.
So datt voah eah, mitt sei alt, dreckichah truck in di leicht lein. No uff aymol shleid ayns funn sei shtawl shtikkah ab funn sei bett un fald uff da vayk. Siddah es deah shtikk oahrich notvendich voah fa da lohd nunnah lossa, hott eah missa di lein uff hayva deveil es eah zrikk ganga iss fa's shtikk zrikk hohla.
Vo si an's grawb kumma sinn, henn si ketta unnich da lawt gedua fa's shloh nunnah lossa. Avvah siddah's sei winch voah saddah da vayk es es voah, hott's da lawt oarich jerky nunnah in's loch glost. Noch demm es da leib nunnah voah henn si beviaht di ketta ruff zeeya, avvah's voah kenn gutt. Si voahra zu veesht kshtukka unnich awl's gvicht. Si henn uff gend si nei shmeissa, un henn een fagrawva mitt ketta.
(Anyone know the word for "jerky"?)
The Nine Hundred Pound Man
Many years ago, in the South, there lived a man that during his lifetime put on plenty of weight. So much that when he died, he weighed in the neighborhood of nine hundred pounds. (And he weighed nine hundred pounds in his neighborhood too.) Now the funeral director had no way of dealing with the actual burial of one so heavy. So he did the only thing he could do; he called the local pourer/hauler/setter of septic tanks. This guy had a truck with a boom and winch that he used for septic tank installation.
So there he was, with his old, dirty truck in the the funeral procession, when one his steel pieces fell off the truck. Since this piece would be mandatory for lowering the casket, there was nothing to do but to halt the procession while he ran back to retrieve the piece.
When they got to the grave, they chained up the casket and let it down slowly. However, since his winch was kind of the way it was, it turned out to be a rather jerky descent down into the hole. ("Steady by jerks," they used to say.) After the body was lowered, they tried vainly to pull the chains out, but it was no use. They were hopelessly stuck under all that weight. So they threw them in and buried him with chains.
Da Nein Hunnaht Pund Mann
(PAD version)
Yoahra zrikk, in di Saud, es voah en mann es blendi feel gvicht druff gedua hott ivvah sei layves-zeit. So feel es ivvah di zeit vo eah gshteahva is hott eah nein hunnaht pund gveekt. Nau di leicht ivvah-saynah hott kenn vayk katt fa ebbah so shveah fagrawfa. So hott eah en calli gekawld es septic tanks gleahed un gsetzt hott fa sei eahvet. Eah hott di dingah als gsetz mitt sei truck es en boom un winch druff katt hott.
So datt voah eah, mitt sei alt, dreckichah truck in di leicht lein. No uff aymol shleid ayns funn sei shtawl shtikkah ab funn sei bett un fald uff da vayk. Siddah es deah shtikk oahrich notvendich voah fa da lohd nunnah lossa, hott eah missa di lein uff hayva deveil es eah zrikk ganga iss fa's shtikk zrikk hohla.
Vo si an's grawb kumma sinn, henn si ketta unnich da lawt gedua fa's shloh nunnah lossa. Avvah siddah's sei winch voah saddah da vayk es es voah, hott's da lawt oarich jerky nunnah in's loch glost. Noch demm es da leib nunnah voah henn si beviaht di ketta ruff zeeya, avvah's voah kenn gutt. Si voahra zu veesht kshtukka unnich awl's gvicht. Si henn uff gend si nei shmeissa, un henn een fagrawva mitt ketta.
(Anyone know the word for "jerky"?)
Sunday, November 8, 2009
Shvatz un Veis
I was in Colorado anyway, so I thought I'd stop in and see Dallas Knepp (and family) in Canon (read: canyon) City. "Do you want to come to the banquet Saturday night?" He wondered. I thought I might. Yet, when he called me back, he had yet another question/request. "Would you like to serve at this banquet?"
Of course, I asked the first question that immediately pops into a guy's mind. (No, nothing involving . . . well, never mind.) "Will there be lots of free food?" There was. Nevertheless, I forgot to ask that very critical question. Instead of addressing important issues such as this, he let me know that we would be dressed in black and white ("shvatz un veis" for you Dutch people that don't know English). Not even the most colorblind person could say that the green and tan I had along was "close enough". So we did what all good Mennonites do, we borrowed what we could, and the rest we got at Goodwill for $3.99+tx. Even though I looked like I could have fit 2 of me in the white shirt I borrowed, I decided to wear it anyway. The black pants were bought. (I like pants?)
It turned out that approximately 80% of the servers also moonlighted as New Horizon Ministries Thrift Store workers. "Why didn't you go to OUR thrift store?" This was a typical response to my very insensitive decision to shopping at their competitor's place of business. So I responded with typical sensitivity by laughing in their faces.
Maniacly. Okay, not really. But I did point out that since they were closed at 4:00 that Saturday, I would have had to enter by means of the brick-through-the-window-approach. This I feel would have negatively affected the exterior decor, since they don't go for the "broken glass" look.
Besides, I did enough damage for the night when I tried to carry 4 empty mugs on 3 saucers and learned that it's 1 too many. But on the positive side, I didn't dump hot coffee in anyone's lap or on their cell phones (So coffee does hurt those things?). Nor did I flip my tray bearing all manner of salad plates on the floor (2 minute rule anyone?). And I didn't trip over a chair leg whilst carrying the hot food. So it could have always been much more "interesting".
Of course, I asked the first question that immediately pops into a guy's mind. (No, nothing involving . . . well, never mind.) "Will there be lots of free food?" There was. Nevertheless, I forgot to ask that very critical question. Instead of addressing important issues such as this, he let me know that we would be dressed in black and white ("shvatz un veis" for you Dutch people that don't know English). Not even the most colorblind person could say that the green and tan I had along was "close enough". So we did what all good Mennonites do, we borrowed what we could, and the rest we got at Goodwill for $3.99+tx. Even though I looked like I could have fit 2 of me in the white shirt I borrowed, I decided to wear it anyway. The black pants were bought. (I like pants?)
It turned out that approximately 80% of the servers also moonlighted as New Horizon Ministries Thrift Store workers. "Why didn't you go to OUR thrift store?" This was a typical response to my very insensitive decision to shopping at their competitor's place of business. So I responded with typical sensitivity by laughing in their faces.
Maniacly. Okay, not really. But I did point out that since they were closed at 4:00 that Saturday, I would have had to enter by means of the brick-through-the-window-approach. This I feel would have negatively affected the exterior decor, since they don't go for the "broken glass" look.
Besides, I did enough damage for the night when I tried to carry 4 empty mugs on 3 saucers and learned that it's 1 too many. But on the positive side, I didn't dump hot coffee in anyone's lap or on their cell phones (So coffee does hurt those things?). Nor did I flip my tray bearing all manner of salad plates on the floor (2 minute rule anyone?). And I didn't trip over a chair leg whilst carrying the hot food. So it could have always been much more "interesting".
Friday, November 6, 2009
1800 miles and arriving in not too many pieces . . .
We made it to CO. The last day involved some white-knuckle moments with the steering wheel as I went swinging around various curves in the Rockies. Swinging, because with the trailer load I was pulling, a bump/curve combination would cause the trailer to sway hither and yon. But maybe this is how character is developed.
Today we unloaded and packed most of their (I refer you to the previous post) worldy goods in two storage units. And there were frequent exclamations (not from me) saying things like, "What were we drinking when we decided to bring all this stuff?" Or, even worse, "We brought a dehumidifier out HERE?!" If you understand the arid climate here, you will appreciate that. But with the help of copious servings of Mexican food from Taco Bell*, we were able to get it safely stored in a short time thereafter.
Later we stopped at Paul Hershberger's to pick up an elk head that his brother Ray (from my area) got mounted. Since the residents wherein it was stored were out of town, we weren't sure if we'd have to resort to illegal methods of entry (jk!). Fortunately, not only was the basement door not locked, the door wasn't even latched. After being entertained by Paul's vast repertoire of hunting stories, we ended up lating the head on the back of Marv's truck bed. On top of the cover. Since we were only going about a mile, I, being of __(?) mind, agreed to sit on the back to prevent this thing from ending up resembling roadkill. But as I sat on the back with my legs dangling over the tailgate, I wondered what would prevent me from becoming something resembling roadkill? Especially as we were being followed. Arriving at our destination in the growing darkness, I heard someone cry out, "Dude, they got their elk!" If they only knew . . .
*There are those among us that would argue that what passes for Mexican food in Taco Bell is not really Mexican (or food). They're probably right, but with enough sauce packets, it did the job.
Today we unloaded and packed most of their (I refer you to the previous post) worldy goods in two storage units. And there were frequent exclamations (not from me) saying things like, "What were we drinking when we decided to bring all this stuff?" Or, even worse, "We brought a dehumidifier out HERE?!" If you understand the arid climate here, you will appreciate that. But with the help of copious servings of Mexican food from Taco Bell*, we were able to get it safely stored in a short time thereafter.
Later we stopped at Paul Hershberger's to pick up an elk head that his brother Ray (from my area) got mounted. Since the residents wherein it was stored were out of town, we weren't sure if we'd have to resort to illegal methods of entry (jk!). Fortunately, not only was the basement door not locked, the door wasn't even latched. After being entertained by Paul's vast repertoire of hunting stories, we ended up lating the head on the back of Marv's truck bed. On top of the cover. Since we were only going about a mile, I, being of __(?) mind, agreed to sit on the back to prevent this thing from ending up resembling roadkill. But as I sat on the back with my legs dangling over the tailgate, I wondered what would prevent me from becoming something resembling roadkill? Especially as we were being followed. Arriving at our destination in the growing darkness, I heard someone cry out, "Dude, they got their elk!" If they only knew . . .
*There are those among us that would argue that what passes for Mexican food in Taco Bell is not really Mexican (or food). They're probably right, but with enough sauce packets, it did the job.
Saturday, October 31, 2009
Next week I plan to help move Marvin Coblentz's various and sundry possessions from South Carolina to Colorado (which is close to 1800 miles). For them it involves a Penske rental truck, a Honda Odyssey, and a 16 ft. enclosed trailer. For me it involves my dearly beloved Dodge Ram 2500 towing the aforementioned trailer. All I can think of is how it could go as outlined by:
How to Move Lots of Stuff 1800 Miles in 12 Easy Steps
by: Wo Nelly
Step 1. Install 8 ft. high box on 16 ft. flat bed trailer of your choice -- preferably one with a sufficiently low weight rating.
Step 2. Fill above box chock full with large dense objects all the while avoiding even distribution of weight. Proceed to wonder why hitch is only 6 in. off the ground.
Step 3. At 6 am (before dawn), pull truck/trailer combination out of garage but in the process scrape concrete with this special low-clearance hitch. Proceed to wonder why trailer lights are now suddenly nonfunctional.
Step 4. Discover sheared wires under recently scraped trailer hitch. Reconnect wires in dark.
Step 5. Open box to redistribute weight.
Step 6. Travel approximately 20 miles (a respectable 1% of the way) before experiencing trailer tire blowout (not to be confused with a tire blowout sale).
Step 7. Call wife (if married*) to bring extra jack.
Step 8. Proceed to struggle to raise wheel/axle with 2 jacks (in the process stripping the gears of one). After raising it to unsafe levels, dig dirt out from under tire to remove.
Step 9. Use the wife's van to drive into town to get tire replaced.
Step 10. Reinstall wheel.
Step 11. Allow wife to talk you into eating lunch at McDonalds with the family yet before departing.
Step 12. After lunch take truck/trailer rig to tire repair shop for evaluation of the squattage levels of tires.
Step 13. Witness extreme incredulity from tire guy over the obviously excessive load on rig.
Step 14. Return home and unload half the load. (Find out later that current load is still overweight. See step 16.)
Step 15. At 4 pm leave for destination.
Step 16. Realize before long that due to weight content of load, 55 mph is max safe speed. Otherwise experience the adrenaline-inducing experiences of rig uncontrollably swaying back and forth in certain situations. Also realize that the 16 year-old relief driver is not yet qualified to drive in such a stressful situation.
Step 17. Arrive after 36 hrs. of driving time, having driven the whole way without assistance (see last part of step 16).
Step 18. Personally capture and torture author of these directives with hot pokers for writing this nonsense.
*If not married, refer to the guide: How to Get Hitched Without Feeling "Whoa" in 18 Easy Steps.
How to Move Lots of Stuff 1800 Miles in 12 Easy Steps
by: Wo Nelly
Step 1. Install 8 ft. high box on 16 ft. flat bed trailer of your choice -- preferably one with a sufficiently low weight rating.
Step 2. Fill above box chock full with large dense objects all the while avoiding even distribution of weight. Proceed to wonder why hitch is only 6 in. off the ground.
Step 3. At 6 am (before dawn), pull truck/trailer combination out of garage but in the process scrape concrete with this special low-clearance hitch. Proceed to wonder why trailer lights are now suddenly nonfunctional.
Step 4. Discover sheared wires under recently scraped trailer hitch. Reconnect wires in dark.
Step 5. Open box to redistribute weight.
Step 6. Travel approximately 20 miles (a respectable 1% of the way) before experiencing trailer tire blowout (not to be confused with a tire blowout sale).
Step 7. Call wife (if married*) to bring extra jack.
Step 8. Proceed to struggle to raise wheel/axle with 2 jacks (in the process stripping the gears of one). After raising it to unsafe levels, dig dirt out from under tire to remove.
Step 9. Use the wife's van to drive into town to get tire replaced.
Step 10. Reinstall wheel.
Step 11. Allow wife to talk you into eating lunch at McDonalds with the family yet before departing.
Step 12. After lunch take truck/trailer rig to tire repair shop for evaluation of the squattage levels of tires.
Step 13. Witness extreme incredulity from tire guy over the obviously excessive load on rig.
Step 14. Return home and unload half the load. (Find out later that current load is still overweight. See step 16.)
Step 15. At 4 pm leave for destination.
Step 16. Realize before long that due to weight content of load, 55 mph is max safe speed. Otherwise experience the adrenaline-inducing experiences of rig uncontrollably swaying back and forth in certain situations. Also realize that the 16 year-old relief driver is not yet qualified to drive in such a stressful situation.
Step 17. Arrive after 36 hrs. of driving time, having driven the whole way without assistance (see last part of step 16).
Step 18. Personally capture and torture author of these directives with hot pokers for writing this nonsense.
*If not married, refer to the guide: How to Get Hitched Without Feeling "Whoa" in 18 Easy Steps.
Tuesday, October 27, 2009
Wednesday, October 14, 2009
While Sane People Sleep
Recently I transferred my bones and et cetera to Canada to do some work on the fireplace at BLC. In the process of time, Mr. Darren of HQ fame just happened to be canoeing down Gullwing Creek one afternoon/evening, and he just happened to have his bow ready . . . just in case. Okay, he didn't just "happen" to be doing all these things. It's called moose hunting. It's intentional.
So there they were, on Gullwing, him and his cohort, Karl steering the canoe towards certain moose execution (hopefully). (That is, execution for the moose, not execution of the canoe by the moose, but . . . you never know.) As these things took place, a cow (not a Holstein) emerged from the bush and made her way to the edge of the creek little realizing that great danger lurked a mere 20 metres off (this is Canada; we have to be metric). Great danger in the form of a moose hunter in camoflauge clothing and a very sharp arrow and a bow that he wasn't afraid to use.
Alas for the moose, but not alas for Darren, the arrow found lodgings within the lung area of Female Moose. But did she immediately roll over and play dead? No, she did not. Instead she thrashed her way back up the hill into the bush where she keeled over and gave up the ghost and forthwith began the process of bloating (not be confused with the process of boating, which is what part of our group did to aid in the retrieval of said Female Moose).
Well after marking the spot, Darren and Karl made haste to return to HQ where they spread these tidings of great joy, and would we be partakers of this by helping to carry what promised to be a heavy carcass? After we all responded with something like, "You know, normally I would be glad to bear large burdens of mooses on our shoulders, but unfortunately this old back has been giving me fits." Or, "Yeah, right after I take a double dosage of this heart medication. Hope I'm not a burden by collapsing on the trail." Or, "Oh Hank, my leg! Oh, my leg!" (Oops, wrong story.)
But Darren and Karl must have been able to spot slackers, because next thing we knew, 5 of us had joined them to participate in the fine art of moose retrieval. It was about 9 pm when we left HQ, as I recall. Why it had been just the night before that we were being entertained by the story of how Kevin shot his moose last year. And when it came time to locate it, it was dark and foggy, and the underbrush was thick, and the blood trail ended in oblivion. But in spite of these pleasant tracking conditions, they had managed to milk the locating-of-the-target-process until 1 am. After which they began the process of carrying the moose chunks to the canoe that was supposedly where they thought it was . . . well, let's just say they wondered up and down the creek looking for the elusive canoe whilst carrying their burdens. Turned out they were searching the wrong end of the creek. Anyway, they finally made it back by 7 am.
So with these thoughts in mind we made our way down the creek toward the alleged moose that had recently kicked the bucket. We ended up in 2 parties, 3 in the HQ boat coming in via Gullwing Lake, and 4 in 2 canoes put in at the creek itself. Norm had brought his 4 hp boat motor so we didn't have to do much paddling -- except when it would die because of lack of gas tank venting. After portaging at one point, we finally located the fallen prey. This is where Darren realized that in his haste to get to the moose and get it cut up, he had forgotten to bring his hunting knife along (!). Fortunately Norm and Karl had not. So Darren and Karl worked on quartering it and gutting it, while Norm and I generously offered to help by staying out the way. But we ended up loading the first hindquarter on our shoulders, and because it was dark, and because we had move in such close proximity to each other, we didn't move towards the canoe with much ease and grace. Mostly stumbling and tripping. So we just flopped it on the ground near the canoe and decided that solo quarter carrying might be more advantageous.
The 3 guys on the boat had made it to the portage, so my team sent me off to take a load of meat/bone/hide/etc. to the portage. I was sent despite my exceeding helpfulness in the moose-cutting process called "staying out of the way". Well by about midnight, we finally got the moose parts (including the not-so-light head. do they ever get light-headed? ha ha ha.) loaded in the boat, along with 4 other guys. Because we had left one of the canoes on the other side of the portage for future hunts, we ended up with 3 guys in one rickety-sometimes-leaky-but-recently-caulked canoe. We hadn't gone far before we realized that Norm's 4 hp motor runs better when the gas tank is not empty. Apparently, when he tilted it up at the portage, he had failed to screw the gas cap back down. Thus gas dribbled out the tank whilst we were busy slaving away moving carcass pieces.
We pulled our gasless canoe alongside the boat and hung with our hands as we made our way back up the creek, all the while trying to avoid ramming into not quite submerged stumps/branches/rocks. Even though our hands got plenty cool from gripping the metal sides, we were glad for the good time we were making. Especially considering the fact that I didn't get back to BLC until 2:30 am. But at least it wasn't 7.
~written by N. Sayne
So there they were, on Gullwing, him and his cohort, Karl steering the canoe towards certain moose execution (hopefully). (That is, execution for the moose, not execution of the canoe by the moose, but . . . you never know.) As these things took place, a cow (not a Holstein) emerged from the bush and made her way to the edge of the creek little realizing that great danger lurked a mere 20 metres off (this is Canada; we have to be metric). Great danger in the form of a moose hunter in camoflauge clothing and a very sharp arrow and a bow that he wasn't afraid to use.
Alas for the moose, but not alas for Darren, the arrow found lodgings within the lung area of Female Moose. But did she immediately roll over and play dead? No, she did not. Instead she thrashed her way back up the hill into the bush where she keeled over and gave up the ghost and forthwith began the process of bloating (not be confused with the process of boating, which is what part of our group did to aid in the retrieval of said Female Moose).
Well after marking the spot, Darren and Karl made haste to return to HQ where they spread these tidings of great joy, and would we be partakers of this by helping to carry what promised to be a heavy carcass? After we all responded with something like, "You know, normally I would be glad to bear large burdens of mooses on our shoulders, but unfortunately this old back has been giving me fits." Or, "Yeah, right after I take a double dosage of this heart medication. Hope I'm not a burden by collapsing on the trail." Or, "Oh Hank, my leg! Oh, my leg!" (Oops, wrong story.)
But Darren and Karl must have been able to spot slackers, because next thing we knew, 5 of us had joined them to participate in the fine art of moose retrieval. It was about 9 pm when we left HQ, as I recall. Why it had been just the night before that we were being entertained by the story of how Kevin shot his moose last year. And when it came time to locate it, it was dark and foggy, and the underbrush was thick, and the blood trail ended in oblivion. But in spite of these pleasant tracking conditions, they had managed to milk the locating-of-the-target-process until 1 am. After which they began the process of carrying the moose chunks to the canoe that was supposedly where they thought it was . . . well, let's just say they wondered up and down the creek looking for the elusive canoe whilst carrying their burdens. Turned out they were searching the wrong end of the creek. Anyway, they finally made it back by 7 am.
So with these thoughts in mind we made our way down the creek toward the alleged moose that had recently kicked the bucket. We ended up in 2 parties, 3 in the HQ boat coming in via Gullwing Lake, and 4 in 2 canoes put in at the creek itself. Norm had brought his 4 hp boat motor so we didn't have to do much paddling -- except when it would die because of lack of gas tank venting. After portaging at one point, we finally located the fallen prey. This is where Darren realized that in his haste to get to the moose and get it cut up, he had forgotten to bring his hunting knife along (!). Fortunately Norm and Karl had not. So Darren and Karl worked on quartering it and gutting it, while Norm and I generously offered to help by staying out the way. But we ended up loading the first hindquarter on our shoulders, and because it was dark, and because we had move in such close proximity to each other, we didn't move towards the canoe with much ease and grace. Mostly stumbling and tripping. So we just flopped it on the ground near the canoe and decided that solo quarter carrying might be more advantageous.
The 3 guys on the boat had made it to the portage, so my team sent me off to take a load of meat/bone/hide/etc. to the portage. I was sent despite my exceeding helpfulness in the moose-cutting process called "staying out of the way". Well by about midnight, we finally got the moose parts (including the not-so-light head. do they ever get light-headed? ha ha ha.) loaded in the boat, along with 4 other guys. Because we had left one of the canoes on the other side of the portage for future hunts, we ended up with 3 guys in one rickety-sometimes-leaky-but-recently-caulked canoe. We hadn't gone far before we realized that Norm's 4 hp motor runs better when the gas tank is not empty. Apparently, when he tilted it up at the portage, he had failed to screw the gas cap back down. Thus gas dribbled out the tank whilst we were busy slaving away moving carcass pieces.
We pulled our gasless canoe alongside the boat and hung with our hands as we made our way back up the creek, all the while trying to avoid ramming into not quite submerged stumps/branches/rocks. Even though our hands got plenty cool from gripping the metal sides, we were glad for the good time we were making. Especially considering the fact that I didn't get back to BLC until 2:30 am. But at least it wasn't 7.
~written by N. Sayne
Monday, August 31, 2009
Let's be random
Now if we turn the dish this way . . .
How many Israelis does it take to secure a lookout?
Only 176 more steps to the top.
How many Israelis does it take to secure a lookout?
Meet the press.
But where can I get souvenirs from John the Methodist?
Friday, August 28, 2009
Tuesday, August 25, 2009
How to get to En Geddi . . .
It started out simple enough. Hike up Jaffa St., catch the bus to the central bus station, and then find the 8:00 bus going to En Geddi. So I boarded the bus for the central station . . . and cluelessly stayed on as we went by. I realized my mistake when I looked out the window to my right and saw a sign saying, "Central Station is that way." (It didn't say it like that exactly, but that's what it meant.) It turned out that "that way" was where we had just been.
We were stopped at a traffic light and one passenger had just talked the driver into letting him off there. So I tried the same thing. I don't think the drivers like to do it though because when I asked if I could get off there, the answer was quite negative. I believe it was your basic "no". So I said, "Okay."
Seeing I was a clueless tourist, he wondered where I wanted to go. "Central bus station," I said. Next thing I knew, the doors opened and I was on the street -- or more accurately, the sidewalk. I made it back to the bus station in good time, and after going through security (that pretty much ignored me thankfully), I wandered into the special departures section. This is where the cab drivers hang out. These guys prey on unsuspecting foreigners by charging exorbitant rates to transport them from point A to point B.
Usually they say something like, "You're going to the Dead Sea, yes? I have to go there and pick someone up. I'll take you there. Right now." If you ask how much, he will say, "Normally 500 shekels, but for you -- 200 shekels." This is your cue to stare at him in shock and disbelief, because you know that you can take the bus for 34.50 (shekels). AND it's even cheaper to buy a round trip bus ticket. But you may not be able to feign shock and disbelief if you don't know you can take the bus for 34.50.
Anyway, one of the cab drivers was kind enough to direct me to the bus terminal area, where later another cab driver found me and asked, "You're going to the Dead Sea, yes? I have to go there to pick someone up . . . " And Etc. You already can guess how that conversation went.
On the way to En Geddi, we had to go through a checkpoint complete with soldiers and AK 47's. One of the cars in front of us was receiving much lengthy instruction from one of the soldiers. Our dear bus driver who was not known for his great longsuffering character promptly laid his hand on the horn, and followed this with sweeping motions of the hands complete with facial contortions. She looked back and glared at him, causing him to honk even more. This had the desired result of producing another soldier at his window who made motions that could be interpreted to mean that he needs to cool his jets, which in turn caused the driver to lay forth into a barrage of Hebrew which could be interpreted to mean . . . well, I'm not sure, probably something along the lines of, "Get that other guy out of the way, and let us get on with the show!" But in the end the driver couldn't do anything but sit there anyway. I mean, are you gonna ignore the instructions of people who have AK 47's and know how to use them?
We made it to En Geddi without casualties (no holes shot in our tires), and got off the bus where we were greeted with a warm reception. Like, a hundred degrees farenheit (well, almost). We happened to be right beside the Dead Sea. It's August in the wilderness, and we were 400 meters below sea level. It felt like a desert, hot and dry. But in the midst of this wilderness are these springs with clear, cool water. Pretty nice.
They have quite a few hiking trails, and some of them are fairly steep ascents. It turned out that all the high ascents were closed due to extreme temperatures. After hiking the area that afternoon, I can understand. The heat just saps the energy right out of you. Also it requires a lot of water to keep going, which of course means more pack weight, which requires more energy to carry, which generates more body heat, which requires more water to keep cool . . . well, you see where this is going.
View of the Dead Sea.
En Geddi Lookout. My original plan was to hike up here.
Instead of the black trail, I followed the green and the red one into The Dry Canyon. Pretty neat.
We were stopped at a traffic light and one passenger had just talked the driver into letting him off there. So I tried the same thing. I don't think the drivers like to do it though because when I asked if I could get off there, the answer was quite negative. I believe it was your basic "no". So I said, "Okay."
Seeing I was a clueless tourist, he wondered where I wanted to go. "Central bus station," I said. Next thing I knew, the doors opened and I was on the street -- or more accurately, the sidewalk. I made it back to the bus station in good time, and after going through security (that pretty much ignored me thankfully), I wandered into the special departures section. This is where the cab drivers hang out. These guys prey on unsuspecting foreigners by charging exorbitant rates to transport them from point A to point B.
Usually they say something like, "You're going to the Dead Sea, yes? I have to go there and pick someone up. I'll take you there. Right now." If you ask how much, he will say, "Normally 500 shekels, but for you -- 200 shekels." This is your cue to stare at him in shock and disbelief, because you know that you can take the bus for 34.50 (shekels). AND it's even cheaper to buy a round trip bus ticket. But you may not be able to feign shock and disbelief if you don't know you can take the bus for 34.50.
Anyway, one of the cab drivers was kind enough to direct me to the bus terminal area, where later another cab driver found me and asked, "You're going to the Dead Sea, yes? I have to go there to pick someone up . . . " And Etc. You already can guess how that conversation went.
On the way to En Geddi, we had to go through a checkpoint complete with soldiers and AK 47's. One of the cars in front of us was receiving much lengthy instruction from one of the soldiers. Our dear bus driver who was not known for his great longsuffering character promptly laid his hand on the horn, and followed this with sweeping motions of the hands complete with facial contortions. She looked back and glared at him, causing him to honk even more. This had the desired result of producing another soldier at his window who made motions that could be interpreted to mean that he needs to cool his jets, which in turn caused the driver to lay forth into a barrage of Hebrew which could be interpreted to mean . . . well, I'm not sure, probably something along the lines of, "Get that other guy out of the way, and let us get on with the show!" But in the end the driver couldn't do anything but sit there anyway. I mean, are you gonna ignore the instructions of people who have AK 47's and know how to use them?
We made it to En Geddi without casualties (no holes shot in our tires), and got off the bus where we were greeted with a warm reception. Like, a hundred degrees farenheit (well, almost). We happened to be right beside the Dead Sea. It's August in the wilderness, and we were 400 meters below sea level. It felt like a desert, hot and dry. But in the midst of this wilderness are these springs with clear, cool water. Pretty nice.
They have quite a few hiking trails, and some of them are fairly steep ascents. It turned out that all the high ascents were closed due to extreme temperatures. After hiking the area that afternoon, I can understand. The heat just saps the energy right out of you. Also it requires a lot of water to keep going, which of course means more pack weight, which requires more energy to carry, which generates more body heat, which requires more water to keep cool . . . well, you see where this is going.
View of the Dead Sea.
En Geddi Lookout. My original plan was to hike up here.
Instead of the black trail, I followed the green and the red one into The Dry Canyon. Pretty neat.
On my way back, I met some hikers that were Israelis but were from New York originally. One of the guys said they live in one of the caves around here.
But he was joking, of course. This picture wasn't even taken at En Geddi, for that matter. ;-)
But he was joking, of course. This picture wasn't even taken at En Geddi, for that matter. ;-)
Thursday, August 20, 2009
Monday, August 17, 2009
Friday, August 14, 2009
As we relaxed, enjoying the nice view from Mt. of Olives . . .
We heard traffic approaching with much honking of the horns. Lo and behold, it turned out to be a wedding celebration/party of some Palestinians . . .
They poured out of their respective vehicles and started dancing. The groom ended up on the shoulders of his comrades . . .
Soon they were done and left honking and waving and shouting "thank you". It was not unlike a parade. (I'm still not exactly sure what they were thanking us for.)
They poured out of their respective vehicles and started dancing. The groom ended up on the shoulders of his comrades . . .
Soon they were done and left honking and waving and shouting "thank you". It was not unlike a parade. (I'm still not exactly sure what they were thanking us for.)Tuesday, August 11, 2009
A Fair Fare
"In spite of many of the advances made in travel in the last 30 years, many American tourists are surprised to learn that many foreigners still speak foreign languages." ~Dave Barry
So it seemed to be a typical day. We had made our way to Tel Aviv via taxi (van), where we had gone to help pack food parcels. After doing some sightseeing in Old Jaffa, better known in biblical times as Joppa, we headed back to the central bus station to find a returning taxi (otherwise known as a sherute). As I said, the day had been a fairly normal. Well, there was blowout I had on one of my sandals resulting in the loss of part of my soul. Uh, sole. Actually, that would be the sandal's, not mine. Thankfully the Lord has rescued my soul from loss. But I digress.
We boarded one of the sherutes and settled in for the approximately 1.5 hr. ride (wherein Daniel could forthwith catch up on his sleep), when we suddenly realized . . . that we were on the wrong taxi! Since we didn't desire a sherute to shuttle us to an unknown part of Tel Aviv, we removed our fleshly parts complete with their belongings from there and sought a sherute that was indeed going to Jerusalem (in Hebrew it sounds a little like "ye-ru-she-lem").
This time we found one, and it had seats for ten. There were five seated as we boarded. Daniel paid the obligatory fare for both of us. When it was finally filled, we were ready to take off. So we thought. But sometimes our thought processes don't line up with the reality of the situation as we shall see.
Apparently, the driver had collected nine fares and there were TEN PEOPLE ABOARD! Somebody did not pay, and he was not amused in the least. Some of us stared blankly at him as he went off at us in Hebrew. Well, mostly I stared blankly. That happens a lot when you don't know the language. (Also, blankness can sometimes be construed as innocence.)
Well, he thought he knew who didn't pay, the lady in black. But she insisted that she had paid by passing the fare to the women in front her, who in turn were supposed to pass it to the driver. This they vehemently denied. They said they'd never received it. So we were at an impasse. This taxi was not going to take ten people for the price of nine. And none of the accused would pay. So we sat there.
One guy suggested everybody kick in a few extra shekels to cover for the missing fare, after all, he pointed out this was the only sherute going to Jerusalem. (They wouldn't send another one until this one was filled apparently.) And if we didn't pay extra, we'd be stuck in Tel Aviv. Nevertheless there were some that held a dim view of aiding and abetting a supposed thief by paying extra themselves. So we sat some more . . . and some people's blood pressures continued rising. (Anyone know some good jokes in Hebrew?)
Finally the driver refunded everybody's fare, except the lady in black. Then we sat there.
A passenger got off.
Other drivers entered our taxi with the intention of talking us into paying but to no avail.
We sat there some more.
Another passenger got on.
After sitting there yet more, Mr. Kick-in-a-few-extra-shekels-everybody finally got enough passengers to listen to his voice of reason, and we had enough to to cover ten fares. After this we proceeded to make it to Jerusalem without casualties. I think it cost, like, 2.5 shekels extra per person. This is the equivalent to something like the outragous sum of $.65 USD!!
I know that might not seem like much, but think of all that it could buy! ____! This represents the blank my mind is drawing in answer to that statement. Not much. So even though it may not seem like much . . . in reality it's really not that much when you think about it. Okay, now I'm repeating myself repeating myself.
"Where your treasure is, there your heart will be also." ~Jesus of Nazareth
So it seemed to be a typical day. We had made our way to Tel Aviv via taxi (van), where we had gone to help pack food parcels. After doing some sightseeing in Old Jaffa, better known in biblical times as Joppa, we headed back to the central bus station to find a returning taxi (otherwise known as a sherute). As I said, the day had been a fairly normal. Well, there was blowout I had on one of my sandals resulting in the loss of part of my soul. Uh, sole. Actually, that would be the sandal's, not mine. Thankfully the Lord has rescued my soul from loss. But I digress.
We boarded one of the sherutes and settled in for the approximately 1.5 hr. ride (wherein Daniel could forthwith catch up on his sleep), when we suddenly realized . . . that we were on the wrong taxi! Since we didn't desire a sherute to shuttle us to an unknown part of Tel Aviv, we removed our fleshly parts complete with their belongings from there and sought a sherute that was indeed going to Jerusalem (in Hebrew it sounds a little like "ye-ru-she-lem").
This time we found one, and it had seats for ten. There were five seated as we boarded. Daniel paid the obligatory fare for both of us. When it was finally filled, we were ready to take off. So we thought. But sometimes our thought processes don't line up with the reality of the situation as we shall see.
Apparently, the driver had collected nine fares and there were TEN PEOPLE ABOARD! Somebody did not pay, and he was not amused in the least. Some of us stared blankly at him as he went off at us in Hebrew. Well, mostly I stared blankly. That happens a lot when you don't know the language. (Also, blankness can sometimes be construed as innocence.)
Well, he thought he knew who didn't pay, the lady in black. But she insisted that she had paid by passing the fare to the women in front her, who in turn were supposed to pass it to the driver. This they vehemently denied. They said they'd never received it. So we were at an impasse. This taxi was not going to take ten people for the price of nine. And none of the accused would pay. So we sat there.
One guy suggested everybody kick in a few extra shekels to cover for the missing fare, after all, he pointed out this was the only sherute going to Jerusalem. (They wouldn't send another one until this one was filled apparently.) And if we didn't pay extra, we'd be stuck in Tel Aviv. Nevertheless there were some that held a dim view of aiding and abetting a supposed thief by paying extra themselves. So we sat some more . . . and some people's blood pressures continued rising. (Anyone know some good jokes in Hebrew?)
Finally the driver refunded everybody's fare, except the lady in black. Then we sat there.
A passenger got off.
Other drivers entered our taxi with the intention of talking us into paying but to no avail.
We sat there some more.
Another passenger got on.
After sitting there yet more, Mr. Kick-in-a-few-extra-shekels-everybody finally got enough passengers to listen to his voice of reason, and we had enough to to cover ten fares. After this we proceeded to make it to Jerusalem without casualties. I think it cost, like, 2.5 shekels extra per person. This is the equivalent to something like the outragous sum of $.65 USD!!
I know that might not seem like much, but think of all that it could buy! ____! This represents the blank my mind is drawing in answer to that statement. Not much. So even though it may not seem like much . . . in reality it's really not that much when you think about it. Okay, now I'm repeating myself repeating myself.
"Where your treasure is, there your heart will be also." ~Jesus of Nazareth
Saturday, August 8, 2009
Thursday, August 6, 2009
. . . So then I ended up in Jerusalem, Israel. The end.
Oh, wait. I guess I forgot to tell about the beginning part. Let's see . . . I was born at a very early age and lived in . . . Okay, maybe not quite that beginning. How about several days ago I embarked upon a journey that would take me east across the Atlantic to the land flowing with milk and honey. That's more like it (although, I have yet to see very much in the way of milk and honey "flowing", as it were).
The first part of the trip went quite smoothly -- at least, the part of getting to the airport. And checking in. And going through security. I mean, there was hardly anyone else going through. But alas, I would be destined to have my bag searched, and in the bag they would find a very threatening substance . . . BEANS (oh, and salsa and horseradish sauce)! And then security officer would kindly allow me to return to my checked in luggage and pack it there. Which they did, by the way. Nevertheless, this would necessitate using the less than desirable option of eating the rest of my food "plain". Which turned to be no big deal anyway.
Our flights were early, and fortunately we ended up in Frankfurt 30 minutes early. This allowed me even more time to wander around in aimless confusion. The Frankfurt airport is not the least confusing place I've ever been. So as I wandered forth in search of Gate C-13 and listened to the bits and pieces of German being "sproched", I pondered upon the comments of a Holland bus driver who enjoyed making fun of the Deutsch language. Apparently he thought there were so many "sp" and "ch" sounds that caused enough, well, spit to fly, that he would often find himself in need of a shower after only a few of these conversations.
So I meditated upon this as I searched for my gate. After all, it was 7:30 in the morning -- 1:30 my time, not exactly the time of day that lends itself to deep and profound thought. It appeared that I needed to go through security to get to C-13, but they didn't look like they were open. However, there appeared to be another checkpoint that was open and I could see signs for C-13 on the other side. So I went through (without anything threatening in my pack), only to discover that I couldn't get to C-13 from there either. But it was no big deal because my flight wasn't 'til 10:15 anyway, and I learned that security for that gate didn't open 'til 8. So after locating a "toiletenn", I found a quite spot and laid me down to sleep. Or more accurately "laid me down to close my eyes whilst tossing and turning to find a more comfortable position every 10 minutes". But I was tired. I hadn't gotten much sleep on the flight to Frankfurt, seeing as how I've never been really skillful at sleeping in various contorted positions not unlike the shape of a pretzel.
When I finally made my way back to C-13, I found a nice long line of people awaiting their chance to get frisked by security. After running the wand over me and my shoes and socks, he discovered a suspicious substance in my water bottle known as "water". So out I went to dispose of it (never mind that I had gotten it at the airport), and back in line I stood in order to prove that this time I was appropriately nonthreatening. When the same guy ran the wand over me again later, he said, "Hey, you were through here before!" That's right. Maybe that's why he didn't check my feet this time.
I ended up in a row of four seats on a 747. I was between two French ladies, and there was a French guy two seats over on the end. So I heard plenty of French on that flight, but they did know some English. For instance, when the flight attendant presented the lady on my left with a cup of red wine, she responded with, "Oh that's too much. If I drink all that I'll start singing." Which caused the flight attendant to say something about having free entertainment on this flight. This exchange caused me almost as much amusement as witnessing a rushing flight attendant collide with an ultra orthodox Jew earlier.
But my turn was coming. After my meal, one flight attendant asked if I wanted what sounded a lot like "bailey and onions". I said, "What is that in English?" After another unintelligiable line, I offered a clueless, "I'm sorry?"
"Maybe you don't understand English either?" She offered not without a small amount of ridicule. After guessing that it was likely something alcoholic, I decided to decline this generous offer of "bailey and onions".
Finally arriving at our destination of Tel Aviv, the lady on my right opened the overhead compartment where she extracted both her pack and mine. No sooner had I thanked her, then the bag containing my laptop computer fell out the same compartment thus unceremoniously bonking one of the ultra orthodox Jews on the head. After expressing my regrets and condolences, he said he was glad it wasn't heavier, "Thank God." To which I heartily concurred.
Since my friend, Daniel was in a language class when I arrived he had instructed on how to get a taxi to Notre Dame (a hotel) where he would meet me later. It was a van that held 10, and we were on the road for about an hour and a half. It didn't take me long to figure out that "Mr. Benhur" the driver didn't enjoy people that lounged around in the left lane for no apparent reason. And indeed he communicated his displeasure quite freely on one occassion. Was the offending driver American? I don't know, maybe.
We made the first stop at Notre Dame de Sion to drop off some of the others, and since I had told him I wanted Notre Dame, I thought this must be it. Where was I going, he wondered? This isn't where you get off. "It's not? Okay, glad you said something," as I got back in. So we dropped off more people, while I wondered how many Notre Dames there are in this city.
Finally there was only me and another lady. Since her contact was waiting for her and the traffic was bad, could he drop me off 20 meters from Notre Dame, he wondered? It would save him 15 minutes. Fine with me. No problem. So he pointed the building out to me as he dropped off at an intersection. After walking up to the entrance and seeing the sign that said "St. Someone-or-other Hospital", I realized that this is not it. I wandered up and down the streets for awhile. I even went so far as to -- gasp! -- ask for directions! He said he didn't know English, so that didn't work. My bag (without wheels) was beginning to feel as though I had packed it full of lead weights, and I was beginning to perspire in a profuse manner. Finally I came upon a group of Christians that were singing and passing out tracts. After being evangelized to, I asked where the elusive Notre Dame might be. After wondering if I was Catholic and enquiring as to what I was, he gave me directions (that still seemed vaguely vague for a guy carrying a bunch of lead weights in his suitcase).
After talking to a guy there that was from Oregon, I headed back from whence I came in the direction of Notre Dame (hopefully). (It was a lot more than 20 meters from where I was dropped off.) I finally found it after experiencing the required sore shoulders from carrying my bag, and I waited. Fortunately, I was still a half hour early, even after all that rigamarole. I reclined my weary bones on top of a low retaining wall, and after some time was rudely interrupted by an ankle grab. It was Daniel! And we could go to the house where we would find supper, a shower, and last but not least, a bed.
. . . So then I ended up in Jerusalem, Israel. The end. Oh, wait. I guess we did that already.
Oh, wait. I guess I forgot to tell about the beginning part. Let's see . . . I was born at a very early age and lived in . . . Okay, maybe not quite that beginning. How about several days ago I embarked upon a journey that would take me east across the Atlantic to the land flowing with milk and honey. That's more like it (although, I have yet to see very much in the way of milk and honey "flowing", as it were).
The first part of the trip went quite smoothly -- at least, the part of getting to the airport. And checking in. And going through security. I mean, there was hardly anyone else going through. But alas, I would be destined to have my bag searched, and in the bag they would find a very threatening substance . . . BEANS (oh, and salsa and horseradish sauce)! And then security officer would kindly allow me to return to my checked in luggage and pack it there. Which they did, by the way. Nevertheless, this would necessitate using the less than desirable option of eating the rest of my food "plain". Which turned to be no big deal anyway.
Our flights were early, and fortunately we ended up in Frankfurt 30 minutes early. This allowed me even more time to wander around in aimless confusion. The Frankfurt airport is not the least confusing place I've ever been. So as I wandered forth in search of Gate C-13 and listened to the bits and pieces of German being "sproched", I pondered upon the comments of a Holland bus driver who enjoyed making fun of the Deutsch language. Apparently he thought there were so many "sp" and "ch" sounds that caused enough, well, spit to fly, that he would often find himself in need of a shower after only a few of these conversations.
So I meditated upon this as I searched for my gate. After all, it was 7:30 in the morning -- 1:30 my time, not exactly the time of day that lends itself to deep and profound thought. It appeared that I needed to go through security to get to C-13, but they didn't look like they were open. However, there appeared to be another checkpoint that was open and I could see signs for C-13 on the other side. So I went through (without anything threatening in my pack), only to discover that I couldn't get to C-13 from there either. But it was no big deal because my flight wasn't 'til 10:15 anyway, and I learned that security for that gate didn't open 'til 8. So after locating a "toiletenn", I found a quite spot and laid me down to sleep. Or more accurately "laid me down to close my eyes whilst tossing and turning to find a more comfortable position every 10 minutes". But I was tired. I hadn't gotten much sleep on the flight to Frankfurt, seeing as how I've never been really skillful at sleeping in various contorted positions not unlike the shape of a pretzel.
When I finally made my way back to C-13, I found a nice long line of people awaiting their chance to get frisked by security. After running the wand over me and my shoes and socks, he discovered a suspicious substance in my water bottle known as "water". So out I went to dispose of it (never mind that I had gotten it at the airport), and back in line I stood in order to prove that this time I was appropriately nonthreatening. When the same guy ran the wand over me again later, he said, "Hey, you were through here before!" That's right. Maybe that's why he didn't check my feet this time.
I ended up in a row of four seats on a 747. I was between two French ladies, and there was a French guy two seats over on the end. So I heard plenty of French on that flight, but they did know some English. For instance, when the flight attendant presented the lady on my left with a cup of red wine, she responded with, "Oh that's too much. If I drink all that I'll start singing." Which caused the flight attendant to say something about having free entertainment on this flight. This exchange caused me almost as much amusement as witnessing a rushing flight attendant collide with an ultra orthodox Jew earlier.
But my turn was coming. After my meal, one flight attendant asked if I wanted what sounded a lot like "bailey and onions". I said, "What is that in English?" After another unintelligiable line, I offered a clueless, "I'm sorry?"
"Maybe you don't understand English either?" She offered not without a small amount of ridicule. After guessing that it was likely something alcoholic, I decided to decline this generous offer of "bailey and onions".
Finally arriving at our destination of Tel Aviv, the lady on my right opened the overhead compartment where she extracted both her pack and mine. No sooner had I thanked her, then the bag containing my laptop computer fell out the same compartment thus unceremoniously bonking one of the ultra orthodox Jews on the head. After expressing my regrets and condolences, he said he was glad it wasn't heavier, "Thank God." To which I heartily concurred.
Since my friend, Daniel was in a language class when I arrived he had instructed on how to get a taxi to Notre Dame (a hotel) where he would meet me later. It was a van that held 10, and we were on the road for about an hour and a half. It didn't take me long to figure out that "Mr. Benhur" the driver didn't enjoy people that lounged around in the left lane for no apparent reason. And indeed he communicated his displeasure quite freely on one occassion. Was the offending driver American? I don't know, maybe.
We made the first stop at Notre Dame de Sion to drop off some of the others, and since I had told him I wanted Notre Dame, I thought this must be it. Where was I going, he wondered? This isn't where you get off. "It's not? Okay, glad you said something," as I got back in. So we dropped off more people, while I wondered how many Notre Dames there are in this city.
Finally there was only me and another lady. Since her contact was waiting for her and the traffic was bad, could he drop me off 20 meters from Notre Dame, he wondered? It would save him 15 minutes. Fine with me. No problem. So he pointed the building out to me as he dropped off at an intersection. After walking up to the entrance and seeing the sign that said "St. Someone-or-other Hospital", I realized that this is not it. I wandered up and down the streets for awhile. I even went so far as to -- gasp! -- ask for directions! He said he didn't know English, so that didn't work. My bag (without wheels) was beginning to feel as though I had packed it full of lead weights, and I was beginning to perspire in a profuse manner. Finally I came upon a group of Christians that were singing and passing out tracts. After being evangelized to, I asked where the elusive Notre Dame might be. After wondering if I was Catholic and enquiring as to what I was, he gave me directions (that still seemed vaguely vague for a guy carrying a bunch of lead weights in his suitcase).
After talking to a guy there that was from Oregon, I headed back from whence I came in the direction of Notre Dame (hopefully). (It was a lot more than 20 meters from where I was dropped off.) I finally found it after experiencing the required sore shoulders from carrying my bag, and I waited. Fortunately, I was still a half hour early, even after all that rigamarole. I reclined my weary bones on top of a low retaining wall, and after some time was rudely interrupted by an ankle grab. It was Daniel! And we could go to the house where we would find supper, a shower, and last but not least, a bed.
. . . So then I ended up in Jerusalem, Israel. The end. Oh, wait. I guess we did that already.
Tuesday, April 28, 2009
Do Not Read This if You Are Allergic to Frogs and/or Boiling Water
Historical Drift -- a departure from original beliefs, purposes, and practices resulting in the loss of spiritual vitality. --Dr. Arnold Cook
On Moral and Spiritual Laxity
by Al B. Boyld
Ever heard of the frog-in-the-kettle analogy? Who hasn't? Everyone and their kitchen sink uses this one. But in case you haven't, it involves placing a frog in a pot of room temperature water and slowly heating the water to the point of boiling. Will he jump out posthaste? Will he holler, "Mayday, mayday, I'm being eaten by Smivvenbivvens!"? No, he won't. He'll just sit there looking simple, contented with his surroundings, oblivious to the fact that some devious human being is slowly boiling him to death ('til he croaks. Hahaha.). So he ends up boiled, though contented, but also quite dead. However, if one simply throws him in a pot of boiling water immediately, he'll break records for jumping out.
Well, it doesn't take a rocket scientist (fortunately for me) to figure out that we live in a culture that is constantly changing, not only technologically, but also morally. Our society has concluded that the almighty (fickle) individual is the great determiner of right and wrong . . . for himself. Hence, God's unchanging values have become replaced by man's changing values. If it feels good, do it.
The world system has never been a great friend of God's anyway, so in its rebellion against God it naturally has become more humanistic in its philosophy. That's understandable, though disturbing. But even more disturbing, is that many so-called followers of God have also let some of this philosophy creep into their lives. So much so, that is increasingly hard to tell the difference between the World and the Church. According to a survey performed by George Barna in 150 lifestyle areas (including divorce and abortion) he found that the church was no different than the society around them.
It is true that the fleshly nature of Christians pushes them towards fitting in with popular culture. After all, it's not that comfortable being different from everyone else, is it? But I think a more subtle threat to our separated status from the World is the desire to be relevant to the culture we live in. Becoming like them to win them. I mean, what Christian can argue against being relevant? Didn't the Apostle Paul "become all things to all men that he might save some?" Well, yes . . . but not at the expense of Truth. Truth is very relevant to a culture that is accustomed to deceit and hypocrisy. Do you think they're impressed with someone who's just like them, just trying to put on a front in the name of relevance? I think not. They're looking for something different and real. Something worth living for. Or dying for.
This is where the Gospel comes in. And we're not talking about a Billy Graham crusade in which we "come forward" and pray a prayer accepting Christ as Savior, then proceed to live life as if nothing ever happened. Not at all. We're talking about the Kingdom of God, discipleship, self-denial, the Cross, the power of the Holy Spirit, and inner regeneration based on our belief in Christ's death and resurrection. A radical change of focus. Like the words of Jesus.
`If any one doth will to come after me, let him disown himself, and take up his cross daily, and follow me;
for whoever may will to save his life, shall lose it, and whoever may lose his life for my sake, he shall save it;
for what is a man profited, having gained the whole world, and having lost or having forfeited himself? (Lk. 9:23-25 Young's Literal Translation)
One would think that such a high level of required commitment would be detrimental to a cause of this nature. But this does not seem to be the case. Instead, the early church grew like weeds in spite of the high level of commitment required, especially given the persecution they faced. Sociologist Dean Kelley wrote a book titled Why Conservative Churches Are Growing, and in it he concludes: "We may suppose that the higher the demand a movement makes on its followers, the fewer there will be who respond to it, but the greater the individual and aggregate impact of those who do respond."
While Kelly makes a good point about the importance of commitment, it is possible to be commited to the right thing but for the wrong reason. For instance, we may be unconformed to the World, and that's great, but not without being transformed by God (Rom. 12:2). In this case, it's not about God but about ourselves. To make us look "Christian". That, my friends, is called legalism (not to mention idolatry). It is my (sometimes uneducated) opinion that legalism has less to do with rules, but more to do with motivations. Self is at the center. It's quite easy to fall into, but spiritual renewal (or revival) helps us out of this rut, and, of course, spiritual renewal is dependant upon God. You can't live for God without God.
On Moral and Spiritual Laxity
by Al B. Boyld
Ever heard of the frog-in-the-kettle analogy? Who hasn't? Everyone and their kitchen sink uses this one. But in case you haven't, it involves placing a frog in a pot of room temperature water and slowly heating the water to the point of boiling. Will he jump out posthaste? Will he holler, "Mayday, mayday, I'm being eaten by Smivvenbivvens!"? No, he won't. He'll just sit there looking simple, contented with his surroundings, oblivious to the fact that some devious human being is slowly boiling him to death ('til he croaks. Hahaha.). So he ends up boiled, though contented, but also quite dead. However, if one simply throws him in a pot of boiling water immediately, he'll break records for jumping out.
Well, it doesn't take a rocket scientist (fortunately for me) to figure out that we live in a culture that is constantly changing, not only technologically, but also morally. Our society has concluded that the almighty (fickle) individual is the great determiner of right and wrong . . . for himself. Hence, God's unchanging values have become replaced by man's changing values. If it feels good, do it.
The world system has never been a great friend of God's anyway, so in its rebellion against God it naturally has become more humanistic in its philosophy. That's understandable, though disturbing. But even more disturbing, is that many so-called followers of God have also let some of this philosophy creep into their lives. So much so, that is increasingly hard to tell the difference between the World and the Church. According to a survey performed by George Barna in 150 lifestyle areas (including divorce and abortion) he found that the church was no different than the society around them.
It is true that the fleshly nature of Christians pushes them towards fitting in with popular culture. After all, it's not that comfortable being different from everyone else, is it? But I think a more subtle threat to our separated status from the World is the desire to be relevant to the culture we live in. Becoming like them to win them. I mean, what Christian can argue against being relevant? Didn't the Apostle Paul "become all things to all men that he might save some?" Well, yes . . . but not at the expense of Truth. Truth is very relevant to a culture that is accustomed to deceit and hypocrisy. Do you think they're impressed with someone who's just like them, just trying to put on a front in the name of relevance? I think not. They're looking for something different and real. Something worth living for. Or dying for.
This is where the Gospel comes in. And we're not talking about a Billy Graham crusade in which we "come forward" and pray a prayer accepting Christ as Savior, then proceed to live life as if nothing ever happened. Not at all. We're talking about the Kingdom of God, discipleship, self-denial, the Cross, the power of the Holy Spirit, and inner regeneration based on our belief in Christ's death and resurrection. A radical change of focus. Like the words of Jesus.
`If any one doth will to come after me, let him disown himself, and take up his cross daily, and follow me;
for whoever may will to save his life, shall lose it, and whoever may lose his life for my sake, he shall save it;
for what is a man profited, having gained the whole world, and having lost or having forfeited himself? (Lk. 9:23-25 Young's Literal Translation)
One would think that such a high level of required commitment would be detrimental to a cause of this nature. But this does not seem to be the case. Instead, the early church grew like weeds in spite of the high level of commitment required, especially given the persecution they faced. Sociologist Dean Kelley wrote a book titled Why Conservative Churches Are Growing, and in it he concludes: "We may suppose that the higher the demand a movement makes on its followers, the fewer there will be who respond to it, but the greater the individual and aggregate impact of those who do respond."
While Kelly makes a good point about the importance of commitment, it is possible to be commited to the right thing but for the wrong reason. For instance, we may be unconformed to the World, and that's great, but not without being transformed by God (Rom. 12:2). In this case, it's not about God but about ourselves. To make us look "Christian". That, my friends, is called legalism (not to mention idolatry). It is my (sometimes uneducated) opinion that legalism has less to do with rules, but more to do with motivations. Self is at the center. It's quite easy to fall into, but spiritual renewal (or revival) helps us out of this rut, and, of course, spiritual renewal is dependant upon God. You can't live for God without God.
Monday, April 13, 2009
The Words of Wengediah
CHAPTER 1
1. These are the writings of Wengediah, the nonprophet, in the land of Americites. 2. And it came to pass in the eighth year of the reign of Bushius that there was a famine in the land. 3. Yea, for there had been many in that country that had borrowed much money in exchange for expensive dwelling places. (And these were called "mortgages".) 4. For they had not hearkened unto the words of Larry Burkettiah who warneth the peoples in his day saying, 5. "Behold, there shalt come upon us an economic earthquake. I charge thee, 'Strive thou to live a debt-free existence, and thou shalt not be a servant to thy lender but a servant of the Lord. 6. But if thou findest it incumbent upon thyself to borrow, thou shalt not borrow beyond what thou canst easily repay. And thou shalt not borrow for depreciating items. 7. But it shall profit thee to live well within thy means and save some of thy income. 8. Then when financial tribulation cometh upon thee as a thief in the night (as it surely will), thou wilt be better able to withstand the day of trouble; for thou hast built up some savings to tide thee over.'"
9. Yet many of the people of the land did ignore his wise counsel and instead went forth and spent money hand over fist. And many even maxed out their credit cards and did not save for emergencies, nor did they save for what they purchaseth. 10. For they said amongst themselves, "Why troublest we ourselves over the finances of tomorrow? 11. For when tomorrow cometh, then shall we deal with our troubles (if they come). 12. Meanwhile, why do we put off the pleasuring ourselves with that which we might indulge in now? Let us eat, drink, and be merry and take our ease, for we have much credit to our names." 13. Yet there were those in the land that didst bemoan the materialism that ran rampant in that time.
14. And it came to pass, that trouble broke forth in the economy of the land, for many began to renege on their mortgages. 15. And these men would not repay that which was owed unto them, and lo, many institutions who had lent them money lost their upper garments, so to speak. 16. And after some time had elapsed, those who had lost their shirts caused many others to go under. For neither could they pay their lenders whatsoever they owed them either. 17. And, behold, the stock market did take a sharp dive over this phenomenon, and there was much fear and trembling on Wall Street. 18. And it came to pass that whilst these traders did weep over their lost earnings, that the Dow Jones did continue to sink lower and lower, even as the sinking of a ship. 19. And some investors bailed out of the sinking market whilst others began bailing out the market itself. 20. And in desperation, the elders and rulers of the country began to cast large sums of money at the big men in divers and sundry industries who yet labored to retain their upper garments. 21. Yet even after these bailings, was there weeping and wailing and gnashing of teeth. For the famine of finances was severe upon them in their eyes.
22. And this same famine did affect those who were builders of houses. For there were many of the sons of men who determined not to hire a builder to build them dwelling places at that time. 23. For they didst say among themselves, "Behold, our stock portfolio hath put itself in the tank, so wherefore spendest we money that we have not? Let us tarry and see what wilt come to pass in the financial markets."
24. And many of these builders did labor wherever they could, and they did hire themselves out to whomever wouldst take them for hire. And some did lower their required price for their labor. 25. And there were some desperate builders who chose to go even into remodeling. 26. And even Wengediah didst labor in the remodeling industry; however, much of the work that he did at that time was upon his own house, which did not pay very many shekels instantly, as it were. 27. For he remembered the parable that teacheth that paying oneself for the work that one doest for oneself is much like the old Indian who, when he findest his blanket too short, doth cut off a length from the bottom, and he goeth forth and doth sew this piece onto the top to lengthen it. 28. And so many days went by while Wengediah subsisted apart from many profits. 29. And at that time he did say within himself, "I am but an unprofitable servant." For he avoided too much labor by not working too much.
1. These are the writings of Wengediah, the nonprophet, in the land of Americites. 2. And it came to pass in the eighth year of the reign of Bushius that there was a famine in the land. 3. Yea, for there had been many in that country that had borrowed much money in exchange for expensive dwelling places. (And these were called "mortgages".) 4. For they had not hearkened unto the words of Larry Burkettiah who warneth the peoples in his day saying, 5. "Behold, there shalt come upon us an economic earthquake. I charge thee, 'Strive thou to live a debt-free existence, and thou shalt not be a servant to thy lender but a servant of the Lord. 6. But if thou findest it incumbent upon thyself to borrow, thou shalt not borrow beyond what thou canst easily repay. And thou shalt not borrow for depreciating items. 7. But it shall profit thee to live well within thy means and save some of thy income. 8. Then when financial tribulation cometh upon thee as a thief in the night (as it surely will), thou wilt be better able to withstand the day of trouble; for thou hast built up some savings to tide thee over.'"
9. Yet many of the people of the land did ignore his wise counsel and instead went forth and spent money hand over fist. And many even maxed out their credit cards and did not save for emergencies, nor did they save for what they purchaseth. 10. For they said amongst themselves, "Why troublest we ourselves over the finances of tomorrow? 11. For when tomorrow cometh, then shall we deal with our troubles (if they come). 12. Meanwhile, why do we put off the pleasuring ourselves with that which we might indulge in now? Let us eat, drink, and be merry and take our ease, for we have much credit to our names." 13. Yet there were those in the land that didst bemoan the materialism that ran rampant in that time.
14. And it came to pass, that trouble broke forth in the economy of the land, for many began to renege on their mortgages. 15. And these men would not repay that which was owed unto them, and lo, many institutions who had lent them money lost their upper garments, so to speak. 16. And after some time had elapsed, those who had lost their shirts caused many others to go under. For neither could they pay their lenders whatsoever they owed them either. 17. And, behold, the stock market did take a sharp dive over this phenomenon, and there was much fear and trembling on Wall Street. 18. And it came to pass that whilst these traders did weep over their lost earnings, that the Dow Jones did continue to sink lower and lower, even as the sinking of a ship. 19. And some investors bailed out of the sinking market whilst others began bailing out the market itself. 20. And in desperation, the elders and rulers of the country began to cast large sums of money at the big men in divers and sundry industries who yet labored to retain their upper garments. 21. Yet even after these bailings, was there weeping and wailing and gnashing of teeth. For the famine of finances was severe upon them in their eyes.
22. And this same famine did affect those who were builders of houses. For there were many of the sons of men who determined not to hire a builder to build them dwelling places at that time. 23. For they didst say among themselves, "Behold, our stock portfolio hath put itself in the tank, so wherefore spendest we money that we have not? Let us tarry and see what wilt come to pass in the financial markets."
24. And many of these builders did labor wherever they could, and they did hire themselves out to whomever wouldst take them for hire. And some did lower their required price for their labor. 25. And there were some desperate builders who chose to go even into remodeling. 26. And even Wengediah didst labor in the remodeling industry; however, much of the work that he did at that time was upon his own house, which did not pay very many shekels instantly, as it were. 27. For he remembered the parable that teacheth that paying oneself for the work that one doest for oneself is much like the old Indian who, when he findest his blanket too short, doth cut off a length from the bottom, and he goeth forth and doth sew this piece onto the top to lengthen it. 28. And so many days went by while Wengediah subsisted apart from many profits. 29. And at that time he did say within himself, "I am but an unprofitable servant." For he avoided too much labor by not working too much.
Tuesday, March 31, 2009
I Like Pants
I put on pants every day
to go to school or to play
I like pants
Sometimes I wear pants of blue
or brown to go with my shoe
I like pants
Sometimes I feel sorry for ants
because they can't wear pants
I like pants
Pants cover my legs so that I can go
without them I would be cold I know
I like pants
I like them so
~Charles Thompson
to go to school or to play
I like pants
Sometimes I wear pants of blue
or brown to go with my shoe
I like pants
Sometimes I feel sorry for ants
because they can't wear pants
I like pants
Pants cover my legs so that I can go
without them I would be cold I know
I like pants
I like them so
~Charles Thompson
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