*Gleanings*

Short story with a good lesson.

A few years after I was born, my Dad met a stranger who was new to our small town. From the beginning, Dad was fascinated with this enchanting newcomer and soon invited him to live with our family. The stranger was quickly accepted and was around from then on. As I grew up, I never questioned his place in my family. In my young mind, he had a special niche. My parents were complementary instructors: Mom taught me good from evil, and Dad taught me to obey.

But the stranger...he was our storyteller. He would keep us spellbound for hours on end with Adventures, mysteries and comedies. If I wanted to know anything about politics, history or science, he always knew the answers about the past, understood the present and even seemed able to predict the future! He took my family to the first major league ball game. He made me laugh, and he made me cry. The stranger never stopped Talking, but Dad didn't seem to mind.
Sometimes, Mom would get up quietly while the rest of us were shushing each other to listen to what he had to say, and she would go to the kitchen for peace and quiet. (I wonder now if she ever prayed for the stranger to leave.) Dad ruled our household with certain moral convictions, but the stranger never felt obligated to honor them. Profanity, for example, was not allowed in our home... Not from us, our friends or any visitors. Our longtime visitor, however, got away with four-letter words that burned my ears and made my dad squirm and my mother blush.

My Dad didn't permit the liberal use of alcohol. &n bsp;But the stranger encouraged us to try it on a regular Basis. He made cigarettes look cool, cigars manly and pipes distinguished. He talked freely (much too freely!) about sex. His comments were sometimes blatant, sometimes suggestive, and generally embarrassing. I now know that my early concepts about relationships were influenced strongly by the stranger. Time after time, he opposed the values of my parents, yet he was seldom rebuked... And NEVER asked to leave. More than fifty years have passed since the stranger moved in with our family. He has blended right in and is not nearly as fascinating as he was at first. Still, if you could walk into my parents' den today, you would still find him sitting over in his corner, waiting for someone to listen to him talk and watch him draw his pictures.

His name?.... .. .

We just call him 'TV.'

(Note: This should be required reading for every household in America !)

He has a wife now...We call her 'Computer.'

THE FACT IS... NOTHING IS REALLY GOOD OR BAD IN AND OF ITSELF. . . . ITS HOW WE USE THEM. . . . IF ITS USED AN IDOL . . . THEN INDEED
. . . . IT SHOULD BE ABOLISHED !

The Last Job of a Carpenter

An elderly carpenter was planning to retire and he told his employer-contractor of his plans to leave the building business and live a more leisurely life with his wife enjoying his extended family.

The contractor was sorry to see one of his top and most loyal workers go and asked him if he would build just one more house as a personal favor.

The carpenter agreed, but in time it was easy to see that his heart was not in his work. He resorted to shoddy workmanship and used inferior materials. It was an unfortunate way to end his career.

When the carpenter finished his work and the builder came to inspect the house, the contractor handed the front-door key to the carpenter. "This is your house," he said, "my gift to you. "What a shock! What a shame! If he had only known he was building his own house, he would have done it all so differently. Now he had to live in the home he had built none too well.

So it is with us. We build our lives in a distracted way, reacting rather than acting, willing to put up less than the best. At important points we do not give the job our best effort. Then with a shock we look at the situation we have created and find that we are now living in the house we have built. If we had realized that we would have done it differently.

Think of yourself as the carpenter. Think about your house. Each day you hammer a nail, place a board, or erect a wall. Build wisely. It is the only life you will ever build. Even if you live it for only one day more, that day deserves to be lived graciously and with dignity.

Epicurus

The greater the diffuculty the more glory in surmounting it. Skillful pilots gain their reputation from storms and tempests.

Thomas Huxley

The great end of life is not knowledge, but action. What men need is as much knowledge as they can organize for action; give them more and it may become injurious. Some men are heavy and stupid from ingested learning.

Classical Gas Mason Williams

As far as music some are worth 'gleaning' as they are Valuable Classics
Here is Mason Williams Classical Gas:

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=mguzKze1sYo

The Story of Rindercella!

Kids of ALL ages enjoy this one:

Once apon a time, in a coreign fountry, there lived a very geautiful birl;
her name was Rindercella.
Now, Rindercella lived with her mugly other and her two sad bisters.
And in that same coreign fountry, there lived a very prandsom hince.
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One day, the prandsom hince decided to have a bancy fall.
He invited people from riles amound, especially the pich reople.
But Rindercella could not go because all she had to wear were some old rirty dags.
So she just cat fsdown and scried.
She was a kitten there a scrien, when all of a sudden her gairy fodmother appeared.
And she waived her wagic mand...and all of a sudden there appeared before her, a cig boach and hix white sorces to take her to the bancy fall.
But now she said to Rindercella, "Rindercella, you must be home before nidmight, or I'll purn you into a tumpkin!"
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So Rindercella went to the bancy fall, where she met the very prandsom hince, who she had been watchin through a widden hindow.
She and the prandsom hince nanced all dight till nidmight...and they lell in fove.
Suddenly, the mid clock struck night; Rindercella staced down the rairs, and just as she beached the rottom, she slopped her dripper!
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The next day, the prandsom hince went all over the coreign fountry looking for the geautiful birl who had slopped her dripper.
He came to Rindercella's house.
He tried it on Rendercella's mugly other...and it fidn't dit.
He tried it on her two sigly usters...and it fidn't dit.
He tried it on Rindercella...and it fid dit, it was exactly the sight rize!
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The next day, Rindercella and the prandsom hince were married and they lived everly hafter happward.
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Now, the moral of the story is this: If you ever loll in fove with a prandsom hince, be sure and slop your dripper!

An Important Job

This is a story about four people named: Everybody, Somebody, Anybody and Nobody.
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There was an important job to be done and Everybody was sure that Somebody would do it.
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Anybody could have done it, but Nobody did it.
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Somebody got angry about that, because it was Everybody's job.
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Everybody thought Anybody could do it, but Nobody realised that Everybody wouldn't do it.
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It ended up that Everybody blamed Somebody when Nobody did what Anybody could have.
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I have always liked this short story, I guess the moral of the Story is BE A NOBODY!

Elbert Hubbard Quotes

Folks who never do any more than they get paid for, never get paid for any more than they do.

An ounce of loyalty is worth a pound of cleverness.
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Don't take life too seriously. You'll never get out of it alive.
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Editor: a person employed by a newspaper, whose business it is to separate the wheat from the chaff, and to see that the chaff is printed.
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Enthusiasm is the great hill-climber.
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Genius may have its limitations, but stupidity is not thus handicapped.
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Get happiness out of your work or you may never know what happiness is.
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How many a man has thrown up his hands at a time when a little more effort, a little more patience would have achieved success?
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If men could only know each other, they would neither idolize nor hate.
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Many a man's reputation would not know his character if they met on the street.
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Never explain--your friends do not need it and your enemies will not believe you anyway.
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No man needs a vacation so much as the man who has just had one.
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One machine can do the work of fifty ordinary men. No machine can do the work of one extraordinary man.
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The greatest mistake you can make in life is to be continually fearing you will make one.
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The recipe for perpetual ignorance is: be satisfied with your opinions and content with your knowledge.
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To avoid criticism do nothing, say nothing, be nothing.

There is something that is much more scarce, something finer far, something rarer than ability. It is the ability to recognize ability.

Fra Elbert Hubbard

A Great, Old Article

1899

A Message to Garcia
By Elbert Hubbard
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In all this Cuban business there is one man stands out on the horizon of my memory like Mars at perihelion. When war broke out between Spain & the United States, it was very necessary to communicate quickly with the leader of the Insurgents. Garcia was somewhere in the mountain vastness of Cuba- no one knew where. No mail nor telegraph message could reach him. The President must secure his cooperation, and quickly.

What to do!
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Some one said to the President, "There’s a fellow by the name of Rowan will find Garcia for you, if anybody can."

Rowan was sent for and given a letter to be delivered to Garcia. How "the fellow by the name of Rowan" took the letter, sealed it up in an oil-skin pouch, strapped it over his heart, in four days landed by night off the coast of Cuba from an open boat, disappeared into the jungle, & in three weeks came out on the other side of the Island, having traversed a hostile country on foot, and delivered his letter to Garcia, are things I have no special desire now to tell in detail.
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The point I wish to make is this: McKinley gave Rowan a letter to be delivered to Garcia; Rowan took the letter and did not ask, "Where is he at?" By the Eternal! there is a man whose form should be cast in deathless bronze and the statue placed in every college of the land. It is not book-learning young men need, nor instruction about this and that, but a stiffening of the vertebrae which will cause them to be loyal to a trust, to act promptly, concentrate their energies: do the thing- "Carry a message to Garcia!"

General Garcia is dead now, but there are other Garcias.
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No man, who has endeavored to carry out an enterprise where many hands were needed, but has been well nigh appalled at times by the imbecility of the average man- the inability or unwillingness to concentrate on a thing and do it. Slip-shod assistance, foolish inattention, dowdy indifference, & half-hearted work seem the rule; and no man succeeds, unless by hook or crook, or threat, he forces or bribes other men to assist him; or mayhap, God in His goodness performs a miracle, & sends him an Angel of Light for an assistant. You, reader, put this matter to a test: You are sitting now in your office- six clerks are within call.

Summon any one and make this request: "Please look in the encyclopedia and make a brief memorandum for me concerning the life of Correggio".
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Will the clerk quietly say, "Yes, sir," and go do the task?

On your life, he will not. He will look at you out of a fishy eye and ask one or more of the following questions:

Who was he?
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Which encyclopedia?

Where is the encyclopedia?
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Was I hired for that?

Don’t you mean Bismarck?
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What’s the matter with Charlie doing it?

Is he dead?
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Is there any hurry?

Shan’t I bring you the book and let you look it up yourself?
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What do you want to know for?

And I will lay you ten to one that after you have answered the questions, and explained how to find the information, and why you want it, the clerk will go off and get one of the other clerks to help him try to find Garcia- and then come back and tell you there is no such man. Of course I may lose my bet, but according to the Law of Average, I will not.
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Now if you are wise you will not bother to explain to your "assistant" that Correggio is indexed under the C’s, not in the K’s, but you will smile sweetly and say, "Never mind," and go look it up yourself.

And this incapacity for independent action, this moral stupidity, this infirmity of the will, this unwillingness to cheerfully catch hold and lift, are the things that put pure Socialism so far into the future. If men will not act for themselves, what will they do when the benefit of their effort is for all? A first-mate with knotted club seems necessary; and the dread of getting "the bounce" Saturday night, holds many a worker to his place.
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Advertise for a stenographer, and nine out of ten who apply, can neither spell nor punctuate- and do not think it necessary to.

Can such a one write a letter to Garcia?
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"You see that bookkeeper," said the foreman to me in a large factory.

"Yes, what about him?"
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"Well he’s a fine accountant, but if I’d send him up town on an errand, he might accomplish the errand all right, and on the other hand, might stop at four saloons on the way, and when he got to Main Street, would forget what he had been sent for."

Can such a man be entrusted to carry a message to Garcia?
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We have recently been hearing much maudlin sympathy expressed for the "downtrodden denizen of the sweat-shop" and the "homeless wanderer searching for honest employment," & with it all often go many hard words for the men in power.

Nothing is said about the employer who grows old before his time in a vain attempt to get frowsy ne’er-do-wells to do intelligent work; and his long patient striving with "help" that does nothing but loaf when his back is turned. In every store and factory there is a constant weeding-out process going on. The employer is constantly sending away "help" that have shown their incapacity to further the interests of the business, and others are being taken on. No matter how good times are, this sorting continues, only if times are hard and work is scarce, the sorting is done finer- but out and forever out, the incompetent and unworthy go.
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It is the survival of the fittest. Self-interest prompts every employer to keep the best- those who can carry a message to Garcia.

I know one man of really brilliant parts who has not the ability to manage a business of his own, and yet who is absolutely worthless to any one else, because he carries with him constantly the insane suspicion that his employer is oppressing, or intending to oppress him. He cannot give orders; and he will not receive them. Should a message be given him to take to Garcia, his answer would probably be, "Take it yourself."
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Tonight this man walks the streets looking for work, the wind whistling through his threadbare coat. No one who knows him dare employ him, for he is a regular fire-brand of discontent. He is impervious to reason, and the only thing that can impress him is the toe of a thick-soled No. 9 boot.

Of course I know that one so morally deformed is no less to be pitied than a physical cripple; but in our pitying, let us drop a tear, too, for the men who are striving to carry on a great enterprise, whose working hours are not limited by the whistle, and whose hair is fast turning white through the struggle to hold in line dowdy indifference, slip-shod imbecility, and the heartless ingratitude, which, but for their enterprise, would be both hungry & homeless.
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Have I put the matter too strongly? Possibly I have; but when all the world has gone a-slumming I wish to speak a word of sympathy for the man who succeeds- the man who, against great odds has directed the efforts of others, and having succeeded, finds there’s nothing in it: nothing but bare board and clothes.

I have carried a dinner pail & worked for day’s wages, and I have also been an employer of labor, and I know there is something to be said on both sides. There is no excellence, per se, in poverty; rags are no recommendation; & all employers are not rapacious and high-handed, any more than all poor men are virtuous.
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My heart goes out to the man who does his work when the "boss" is away, as well as when he is at home. And the man who, when given a letter for Garcia, quietly take the missive, without asking any idiotic questions, and with no lurking intention of chucking it into the nearest sewer, or of doing aught else but deliver it, never gets "laid off," nor has to go on a strike for higher wages. Civilization is one long anxious search for just such individuals. Anything such a man asks shall be granted; his kind is so rare that no employer can afford to let him go. He is wanted in every city, town and village- in every office, shop, store and factory. The world cries out for such: he is needed, & needed badly- the man who can carry a message to Garcia.

THE END-

The hand that rocks the cradle rules the world.
---variation by William Ross Wallace, quoted by Pres. Lincoln

The heart of a fool is in his mouth,
but the mouth of a wise man is in his heart.
---Poor Richards Almanac (Ben Franklin)

Sow a Thought, and you Reap and Act;
Sow an Act, and you Reap a Habit;
Sow a Habit, and you Reap a Character;
Sow a Character, and you Reap a Destiny.

quote by: Samuel Smiles

(A quote, that I am not sure where it came from. I think maybe Paul Harvey though)

Some Sow Wild Oats All Week and Sunday Go To Church and Pray For Crop Failure.

Compare with Hosea 8:7
For they have sown the wind, and they shall reap the whirlwind:...

If I Were The Devil

Written by Mr. Paul Harvey, be very worried what "The Rest Of The Story" will bring.

By Paul Harvey:

I would gain control of the most powerful nation in the world;

I would delude their minds into thinking that they had come from man's effort, instead of God's blessings;

I would promote an attitude of loving things and using people, instead of the other way around;

I would dupe entire states into relying on gambling for their state revenue;

I would convince people that character is not an issue when it comes to leadership;

I would make it legal to take the life of unborn babies;

I would make it socially acceptable to take one's own life, and invent machines to make it convenient;

I would cheapen human life as much as possible so that life of animals are valued more than human beings;

I would take God out of the schools, where even the mention of His name was grounds for a lawsuit;

I would come up with drugs that sedate the mind and target the young, and I would get sports heroes to advertise them;

I would get control of the media, so that every night I could pollute the minds of every family member for my agenda;

I would attack then family, the backbone of any nation. I would make divorce acceptable and easy, even fashionable. If the family crumbles, sodoes the nation;

I would compel people to express their most depraved fantasies on canvas and movies screens, and I would call it art;

I would convince the world that people are born homosexuals, and that their lifestyles should be accepted and marveled;

I would convince the people that right and wrong are determined by a few who call themselves authorities and refer to their agendas as politically correct;

I would persuade people that the church is irrelevant and out of date, the Bible is for the naive:

I would dull the minds of Christians, and make them believe that prayer is not important, and that faithfulness and obedience are optional;

I GUESS I WOULD LEAVE THINGS PRETTY MUCH THE WAY THEY ARE!

I'd Really Like For Them To Know...

If America ever had to write a "book of Ecclesiastes", I would hope this could be included.

Paul Harvey Writes:

We tried so hard to make things better for our kids that we made them worse.
For my grandchildren, I'd like better.

I'd really like for them to know about hand me down clothes and homemade ice cream and leftover meat loaf sandwiches. I really would.

I hope you learn humility by being humiliated, and that you learn honesty by being cheated.
I hope you learn to make your own bed and mow the lawn and wash the car.
And I really hope nobody gives you a brand new car when you are sixteen.

It will be good if at least one time you can see puppies born and your old dog put to sleep.
I hope you get a black eye fighting for something you believe in.
I hope you have to share a bedroom with your younger brother/sister. And it's all right if you have to draw a line down the middle of the room, but when he wants to crawl under the covers with you because he's scared, I hope you let him.

When you want to see a movie and your little brother/sister wants to tag along, I hope you'll let him/her.
I hope you have to walk uphill to school with your friends and that you live in a town where you can do it safely.
On rainy days when you have to catch a ride, I hope you don't ask your driver to drop you two blocks away so you won't be seen riding with someone as uncool as your Mom.

If you want a slingshot, I hope your Dad teaches you how to make one instead of buying one.
I hope you learn to dig in the dirt and read books.
When you learn to use computers, I hope you also learn to add and subtract in your head.

I hope you get teased by your friends when you have your first crush on a boy\girl, and when you talk back to your mother that you learn what ivory soap tastes like.

May you skin your knee climbing a mountain, burn your hand on a stove and stick your tongue on a frozen flagpole.

I don't care if you try a beer once, but I hope you don't like it. And if a friend offers you dope or a joint, I hope you realize he is not your friend.

I sure hope you make time to sit on a porch with your Grandma/Grandpa and go fishing with your Uncle.

May you feel sorrow at a funeral and joy during the holidays.

I hope your mother punishes you when you throw a baseball through your neighbor's window and that she hugs you and kisses you at Hannukah/Christmas time when you give her a plaster mold of your hand..

These things I wish for you -- tough times and disappointment, hard work and happiness. To me, it's the only way to appreciate life.

Written with a pen. Sealed with a kiss.

Mud-slingin'

The Person who throws mud, is losing ground.

Our Team!

Sam Jones, a noted preacher, once said, "If a man should come to haul logs with a team made up of a mule, a billy goat, a bumblebee, and a skunk, I would think him crazy; but the average preacher oftimes has just such a team in his congregation. A stubborn kicker, a butt-er, a sting-er and a stinker.

The Giraffe's Amazing Neck

The amazing giraffe’s neck: proof of a great designer!

By Andrew Miiller

Stop for a moment and think about your heart beating in your chest. Every time it beats, two to three ounces of blood are pumped into your arteries.
Now, imagine what would happen if your heart started pumping 6 to 9 ounces at each beat. Your blood pressure would triple. The increased pressure on your arterial walls would first cause you to feel dizzy and nauseated. Soon your vision would blur, and you would develop a splitting headache. A spike in blood pressure this high would likely rupture the capillaries surrounding your brain, causing immediate death. Whoa!

Thankfully, our hearts are not strong enough to maintain a blood pressure that high.
Giraffes, on the other hand, have a blood pressure two to three times yours. Their blood pressure has to be this high in order to move enough blood from their hearts up their 8-foot necks and into their heads. That’s why a giraffe’s heart measures 2 feet long, weighs 24 pounds, and pumps 16 gallons of blood every minute.

A problem arises, however, when the giraffe lowers its 96-inch neck to take a drink. As the giraffe’s heart works with gravity instead of against it, a tsunami of blood rushes down the giraffe’s neck straight into its head, causing the capillaries surrounding its brain to literally explode under pressure—or at least, that’s what would happen, were it not for five blood pressure regulation systems installed in the head and neck of giraffes, all working in perfect harmony to keep the giraffe alive.
Trying to describe how these systems came to exist via natural selection poses a major headache for evolutionists.

Before we can explore the awesome internal workings of the giraffe’s neck, however, we need some background on the theory of giraffe evolution.

Charles Darwin proposed the hypothesis for giraffe evolution most commonly believed, which goes something like this:

Millions of year ago, the world was populated by giraffes with short necks like those of a cow or a deer. Among this population of short-necked giraffes, there were some with necks a few inches longer. Since these giraffes could reach the leaves of the trees they browsed upon more easily, they became healthier than the other giraffes and thus produced more offspring.

Random mutations then continued to favor giraffes with ever-longer necks. Natural selection occurred again and again, favoring the longer-necked giraffes.

This cycle supposedly repeated itself over and over until, after millions of years, giraffes evolved with the extended necks we see today! (It is interesting that male giraffes always have a neck about 2 feet longer than female giraffes, but they still do not seem to be any more adept at finding food. If two inches made a difference in the natural selection process, would not female giraffes have died out eons ago?)

The design of the giraffe’s neck could not have evolved. When you really put pressure on the evolutionists’ theory—that it happened from millions of chance mutations—that theory, well, explodes.

Drinking Without Dying
Back, now, to our drinking giraffe. A giraffe’s head does not explode from a blood pressure spike when it lowers its neck thanks to an elaborate hydraulics system that regulates the amount of blood moving through the neck at any given time.

As soon as a giraffe begins to lower its neck, nerve endings in neck arteries detect the increase in blood pressure. These nerve endings then send an electrical signal to the brain to activate two blood-flow reduction systems. The first system causes the artery walls to contract, and the second system causes a series of arterial valves to close. Both of these reactions reduce the amount of blood flowing through the neck to the point where the blood pressure in the giraffe’s head is low enough not to cause any harm at all.

Remember, the theory of evolution is supposed to be completely undirected, with no end goal—no design—in mind. Natural selection favors the random mutations that are the most beneficial. So, the neck-lengthening process, the artery contraction process, and the arterial valve regulation process all had to evolve independently and simultaneously for the giraffe to survive. If all three systems did not develop simultaneously, the longer-necked giraffe would have had its head blown off the first time it went to take a drink. And just like that—2 million years of evolution go down the drain.

Rise Up, Pass Out
These are not the only systems that had to evolve simultaneously. Even if the giraffe was able to evolve both of the above regulatory systems simultaneously with the lengthening of its neck, it would pass out as soon as it raised its head from drinking. Why? Because now, the blood pressure in its head would be too low.

But wait, there’s another carefully engineered system that keeps it conscious—and alive.
Our giraffes has a sponge-like network of capillaries surrounding its brain. This “sponge” holds blood in the head as it rises up. These capillaries are aided by two additional systems. First, valves in the veins heading down the giraffe’s neck constrict blood flow, preventing blood from leaving the head too fast. Second, the heart does a double-pump whenever the giraffe raises its neck in order to get enough blood back to the head. No problem!

Except for evolution, that is.

Five Separate Systems
All together, there are five separate system that all would have had to develop together as the giraffe’s neck lengthened in order for the evolutionary theory to work.

Each system would require millions of mutations in the giraffe’s genome. Three changes in the genome in one generation are generally fatal, so you can see how long this would actually take. When you consider that only a miniscule fraction of mutations are beneficial and that only a miniscule fraction of those beneficial mutations have anything to do with the blueprints for a sponge in your head, you see just how improbable the evolution of even one of these regulatory systems is. And when you consider that all five regulatory systems had to have evolved simultaneously, you see the odds against evolution are longer than a giraffe’s neck—exponentially longer.

The truth is, there is no logical explanation for the ability of a giraffe to stay alive—unless it was created by an intelligent creator. The giraffe’s neck is a great proof of our Creator God!

Illustrations by Sarah Stewart

Making Pots

On the first day, the professor began, “I’m going to grade this class a little differently than usual.” It was a pottery class. The students, already a bit more attentive because it was the first day of classes, became even more alert.
“This half of the room,” he gestured to his right, “will I grade purely on quantity of work done. I don’t care how beautiful or great the pots are. The more pots you make, the higher your grade.”

He turned to the other half of the room: ”You, I will grade purely on quality of work.
“I don’t care how many pots you make; you will only turn in one, and it must be of the highest quality to receive the highest grade.”

The students all got busy. The quality side of the room began working on one pot, most not doing more than that, just to ensure that that one pot was more beautiful than anything they had ever created. Meanwhile, the quantity side just made pot after pot, generating an imposing body of work.

At semester’s end, the professor made his final evaluation. As he expected, the quality side of the room didn’t produce many pots. But he was also somewhat surprised: The quality of their one pot turned in wasn’t as high as he anticipated. They had time to focus on every detail of “the perfect pot.”

His suspicions were further confirmed when he evaluated the other half of the room. Yes, they had fulfilled their assignment. The quantity each student had produced was considerable. But in viewing the myriad of pots, something stood out more than the plethora of pottery—the quality of them. Especially the ones made later in the semester. Although the students were not concerned about symmetry or design, their pots were more perfect and of higher quality than the one pot graded for each student in the other half of the class. Why?
Because they kept making pots!

The old adage “practice makes perfect” rang true! Those in life who long for that one perfect pot, the perfect game, the perfect performance, fall short in understanding of a vital key to success—constantly practicing what it is you want to be successful at, persevering throughout every effort. You will have good days and bad. You will have practices where you are “in the zone” and everything clicks. But then you will have those days where everything seems off kilter. Don’t give up. Go ahead and make some bad pots! Get them out of your system. To complete an “off day” of practice will be more beneficial than just giving up for the day. It’s about conquering the human tendency to quit, and rising above it just to finish another pot.

The lesson is: To get better at something, do it a lot. It won’t be great every time, but in the end, when it’s time for the final grade, you will see that the practice and experience paid off—all the bad pots forgotten.

Wolfgang Amadeus Mozart was one of the greatest composers who ever lived. His work has survived the test of time—most of it. Every piece of his, however, was not a masterpiece. But after writing over 800 works, he had so many amazing musical accomplishments! And all his “pots” were made in a short life of only 35 years.

A bestselling author, when asked to give tips to aspiring writers, said, “Read a lot. Write a lot.”

We all need practical experience. Not the avoidable experience so often chosen by most youth, known as the “hard way.” But practical experience comes from doing something a lot, practicing it a lot, understanding the process better each time, maturing in the skill and never quitting when a bad “pot” comes out of the kiln. It is the kind of experience that cannot be learned from anyone else; only by the one making the pots.

Whatever you want to become accomplished at, practice it a lot. It’s the only way truly to improve. Don’t get bogged down by momentary setbacks or even failures. Discipline yourself to continue, to persevere, to surge forward toward even greater quality.
So make lots of pots.

The results may astound you!

THE SABBATH SHIP

---------by David M. Cameron

The Plan of God is like a ship
---That sails the seven seas.
It makes a weekly cycle
---As it sails upon the breeze:

On Sunday, it's in one Port,
---And, on Monday, in the next.
It sails for six days, then the
---Seventh it comes home to rest.

It boards a few more passengers
---Each time it comes to dock,
Then brings then safely home
---According to the Captian's clock.

You can call, but you can't meet the ship
---Just anytime you please;
Its schedule is appointed by
---Immutable decrees.

The cycle was revealed, and not
---Observed within the heavens.
For, nowhere in the stars will you
---Find days grouped into sevens.

You may dispute and "hermeneut;"
---It doesn't change a thing.
No amount of human reasoning
---Will alter His routine.

"I am Lord of the Sabbath,"
---His disciple did Him quote.
So, if you're not there when Jesus is,
---You may just miss the boat.

THE BOOK-BORROWER'S CURSE

---by David M. Cameron

If, on some dusty, desert land,

Some day you're trudgin, through the sand,

And find some feller liein' there

Beggin' "water," gaspin' air,

And, when he's nigh to partin' earth,

You wet his lips to quench his thirst;

And, as he's stakin' his last claim,

You search his pack to find his name;

If that's when you find this book, then STOP!

And give him not another drop;

Then steal his boots, and shoot his horse,

And set fire to his hat, of course;

Take his shirt, but leave his pants,

And fill'em full of stingin' ants;

Then tie his rotten hands and feet,

And leave him there for buzzard meat.

It seems a less than fitting curse,

But I couldn't think of nothin' worse

For them that borrows books, and then

Fergits to bring'em back again.

Any Way You Can

What you spend years building may be destroyed overnight--build anyway
The good you do today may not be remembered tomorrow--do Good anyway
Honesty & frankness may make you vulnerable to attack--be honest anyway
People who need help can be confused and distressed and they attack you when you try to help them Help them anyway.
People are unreasonable, illogical and self centered--try to love them anyway

If you are successful, you may win false friends and true enemies--succeed anyway

(Author Unknown)

The Declaration of Independence (an excerpt)

We hold these truths to be self-evident, that all men are created equal , that they are endowed by their Creator with certain unalienable rights, that among these are Life, Liberty and the pursuit of Happiness. That to secure these rights, Governments are instituted among Men, deriving their just powers from the consent of the governed, that whenever any Form of Government becomes destructive of these ends, it is the Right of the People to alter or to abolish it, and to institute new Government, laying its foundation on such principles and organizing its powers in such form, as to them shall seem most likely to effect their Safety and Happiness. Prudence, indeed, will dictate that Governments long established should not be changed for light and transient causes; and accordingly all experience hath shown, that mankind are more disposed to suffer , while evils are sufferable, than to right themselves by abolishing the forms to which they are accustomed. But when a long train of abuses and usurpations, pursuing invariably the same object evinces a design to reduce them under absolute despotism, it is their right, it is their duty, to throw off such Government, and to provide new guards for their future security.

---Thomas Jefferson

Carving a Name

----------------by Horatio Alger Jr.

I wrote my name upon the sand,
And trusted it would stand for aye;
But, soon, alas! the refluent sea
Had washed my feeble lines away.

I carved my name upon the wood,
And, after years, returned again;
I missed the shadow of the tree
That stretched of old upon the plain.

To solid marble next, my name
I gave as a perpetual trust;
An earthquake rent it to the base,
And now it lies, o'erlaid with dust.

All these have failed. In wiser mood
I turn and ask myself, "What then?"
If I would have my name endure,
I'll write it on the hearts of men.

In characters of living light,
Of kindly deeds and actions wrought.
And these, beyond the touch of time,
Shall live immortal as my thought.

The Touch of the Master's Hand

'Twas battered and scarred and the auctioneer
Thought it scarcely worth his while
To waste much time on the old violin,
But he held it up with a smile.

"What am I bid, good folk?" he cried.
"Who'll start the bidding for me?
A dollar, a dollar ... now two ... only two
... Two dollars, and who'll make it three?

"Three dollars once, three dollars twice,
Going for three" ... but no!
From the room far back a gray-haired man
Came forward and picked up the bow.

Then wiping the dust from the old violin
And tightening up the strings,
He played a melody pure and sweet,
As sweet as an angel sings.

The music ceased, and the auctioneer,
With a voice that was quiet and low,
Said, "What am I bid for the old violin?
" As he held it up with the bow.

"A thousand dollars ... and who'll make it two?
Two...two thousand, and who'll make it three?
Three thousand once and three thousand twice ...
Three thousand and gone!" said he.

The people cheered, but some exclaimed
"We do not quite understand ...
What changed it's worth?" and the answer came:
" 'Twas the touch of the master's hand.

" And many a man with soul out of tune
And battered and scarred by sin
Is auctioned cheap by the thoughtless crowd
Just like the old violin.

But the Master comes, and the foolish crowd
Never can quite understand
The worth of a soul, and the change that is wrought
By the touch of the master's hand.

O Master! I am the tuneless one
Lay, lay Thy hand on me, Transform me
now, put a song in my heart
Of melody, Lord, to Thee!

~ Myra Brooks Welch ~

Talkin’ Harvest Time Blues

Well, it starts with a catalogue that comes in the mail
In the middle of the winter, when you’ve had it with those pale
Thick-skinned, store-bought, sorry, hard-as-rock
Excuses for tomatoes with the flavor of a sock

And there on the cover sits THE juicy, red, ripe
Homegrown tomato you’ve had dancing in your head
Never mind you said last August that you’d had it up to here
With the hoeing and the weeding—that’s what you say every year!

So, you fix a cup of cocoa, sink into your favorite chair
Put your feet up and you thumb through the pictures and compare
Big Boys, Better Boys, Early Girls, Romas
The new disease and drought-resistant hybrid from Sonoma !

Then it’s on to peas and carrots, lima beans and beets and kale
And you’ve never tried kohlrabi—say, the lettuce is on sale!
What’s a garden without sweet corn—better plant some marigolds
And you just read in “Prevention” ‘bout how garlic’s good for colds!

So, you phone an order in that nearly melts your Visa card
Then stare out at the foot of snow that blankets your backyard
And visualize your garden, oh, so peaceful and serene
Until at last you close your eyes and slip into a dream about:

CHORUS

Harvest time (bushels of red, ripe tomatoes!)
Harvest time (sweet corn that melts in your mouth!)

Well, the days turn to weeks and the next thing you know
There’s a robin at the feeder and the last patch of snow
Disappears ‘bout the time that a UPS truck
Backs up to your house and you stand there, awestruck

As 47 “Perishable—Plant Right Away”-
Marked boxes are unloaded on your porch as you say,
“Are you sure?” “Yes, ma’am, need your signature here—
Looks like someone’s gonna have ‘em quite a garden this year!”

Well, you watch him drive away, then you sink to your knees
‘Cause you feel a little woozy: Forty-seven boxes—Please!
God, I know I’ve got a problem and we’ve had this talk before
But help me this one last time—I won’t order anymore!

Just then, as if in answer to your prayer, your sister’s van
Pulls up into the driveway with Aunt Martha, Uncle Stan,
Two nephews and a cousin, who just stopped to say hello
But soon are sporting calluses as up and down each row

You, their warden, push ‘em; it’s a scene from “Cool Hand Luke”:
“Over there—those clods need breaking! Leave more space around that cuke!
See those bags of steer manure? Bring a dozen over—fast!
Yes, I know you have lumbago, but you’ll thank me when at last (it’s)

CHORUS

Harvest time (show you what a real strawberry tastes like!)
Harvest time (might even let you help me dig potatoes!)

Well, that night it starts to sprinkle and you can’t help feeling smug
‘Cause your garden’s in the ground and getting watered while you’re snug
Underneath the covers, or at least until midnight
When the temperature starts dropping and in no time you’re smack right

In the middle of your garden, in your jammies, on your knees
With a headlamp and a hammer and some tarps and jeez Louise
It’s cold but you keep working ‘till the last plant’s safe from harm
And there’s holes in your new jammies and bursitis in your arm

“Cause by gosh, you’re a gardener right down to your muddy clogs
And even when the rabbits take your lettuce and stray dogs
Pee on your zucchini and a fungus coats your kale
“Cause it’s rained for two weeks’ solid—do you falter? Do you fail?

Yep. You throw your hoe down, stamp your feet and call it quits—
Declare to all the neighborhood that gardening is the pits
And you’ll never plant another and this one can bloody rot
Then suddenly the sun breaks through the clouds and, like as not

You see a couple weeds you must have missed the last go-round
And shake your head and meekly pick your hoe up off the ground
And hoe and keep on hoeing ‘till your romas dangle red,
Ripe and juicy on the vine, sweet corn towers overhead,

Beans hang from their trellis, big orange pumpkins sprawl about
And you get that satisfying feeling once more when you shout:

CHORUS

Harvest time (Break out the canning jars!)
Harvest time (Man the pressure cooker!)
Harvest time (You have to take zucchini—we’re related!)
Harvest time (Now THIS is a tomato!)

Stephanie Davis
Recluse Music (BMI)
(970) 870-3112
All Rights Reserved

http://www.stephaniedavis.net/

Swords Into Plowshares

This is my favorite statue.

Swords Into Plowshares
The United Nations garden contains several sculptures and statues that have been donated by different countries. This one is called "Let Us Beat Swords into Plowshares" and was a gift from the then Soviet Union presented in 1959. Made by Evgeniy Vuchetich, the bronze statue represents the figure of a man holding a hammer in one hand and, in the other, a sword which he is making into a plowshare, symbolizing man's desire to put an end to war and convert the means of destruction into creative tools for the benefit of all mankind.

The Virtue in this Statue is in the bringing to a tangible state the words from the scriptures in Isaiah and Joel. The sad irony though, is that placement of this statue being at the UN which could never bring this event to fruition, and yet their will be a "United Nation" that will. That "Nation" being The Kingdom of GOD with Jesus Christ as the Ruler, The King of Kings and Lord of Lords.

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