HEY YALL GREAT BIG OLE GRIZZLY BEAR HUGGGZZZZZZZZZZZZ.......SQUISHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHOPE YALL ARE DOING WELL AS POSSIBLE , WE ARE HANGIN IN HERE,TODAY WAS MY NEUROLOGIST APPT FOR MYSELF,TOLD ME AM DOING GOOD , KEEP ON THE SAME MED , INCLUDING ONCE A MONTH STEROID IV N DAILY COPAXONE SHOTS,ALSO ANOTHER MRI BEFORE I SEE HIM IN 3 MONTHS.........WAS PLEASED TO HEAR THIS. OK ENOUGH RATTLING ON YALL TC GREAT BIG OLE GRIZZLY BEAR HUGGZZ SQUISHHHHHHH LOVE YALLThe Old Man and the Dogby Catherine Moore "Watch out! You nearly broad sided that car!" My father yelled at me. "Can'tyou do anything right?" Those words hurt worse than blows. I turned my headtoward the elderly man in the seat beside me, daring me to challenge him. Alump rose in my throat as I averted my eyes. I wasn't prepared for anotherbattle. "I saw the car, Dad. Please don't yell at me when I'm driving." My voice wasmeasured and steady, sounding far calmer than I really felt.Dad glared at me, then turned away and settled back. At home I left Dad infront of the television and went outside to collect my thoughts. Dark, heavyclouds hung in the air with a promise of rain. The rumble of distant thunderseemed to echo my inner turmoil. What could I do about him?Dad had been a lumberjack in Washington and Oregon. He had enjoyed beingoutdoors and had reveled in pitting his strength against the forces ofnature. He had entered grueling lumberjack competitions, and had placedoften. The shelves in his house were filled with trophies that attested tohis prowess. The years marched on relentlessly. The first time he couldn't lift a heavylog, he joked about it; but later that same day I saw him outside alone,straining to lift it. He became irritable whenever anyone teased him abouthis advancing age, or when he couldn't do something he had done as a youngerman. Four days after his sixty-seventh birthday, he had a heart attack. Anambulance sped him to the hospital while a paramedic administered CPR tokeep blood and oxygen flowing. At the hospital, Dad was rushed into anoperating room. He was lucky; he survived. But something inside Dad died. His zest for life was gone. He obstinatelyrefused to follow doctor's orders. Suggestions and offers of help wereturned aside with sarcasm and insults. The number of visitors thinned, thenfinally stopped altogether. Dad was left alone. My husband, Dick, and I asked Dad to come live with us on our small farm. Wehoped the fresh air and rustic atmosphere would help him adjust. Within aweek after he moved in, I regretted the invitation. It seemed nothing wassatisfactory. He criticized everything I did. I became frustrated and moody.Soon I was taking my pent-up anger out on Dick. We began to bicker andargue. Alarmed, Dick sought out our pastor and explained the situation. Theclergyman set up weekly counseling appointments for us. At the close of eachsession he prayed, asking God to soothe Dad's troubled mind. But the monthswore on and God was silent. Something had to be done and it was up to me todo it. The next day I sat down with the phone book and methodically called each ofthe mental health clinics listed in the Yellow Pages. I explained my problemto each of the sympathetic voices that answered. In vain. Just when I wasgiving up hope, one of the voices suddenly exclaimed, "I just read somethingthat might help you! Let me go get the article." I listened as she read. Thearticle described a remarkable study done at a nursing home. All of thepatients were under treatment for chronic depression. Yet their attitudeshad improved dramatically when they were given responsibility for a dog. I drove to the animal shelter that afternoon. After I filled out aquestionnaire, a uniformed officer led me to the kennels. The odor ofdisinfectant stung my nostrils as I moved down the row of pens. Eachcontained five to seven dogs. Long-haired dogs, curly-haired dogs, blackdogs, spotted dogs all jumped up, trying to reach me. I studied each one butrejected one after the other for various reasons,too big, too small, toomuch hair. As I neared the last pen a dog in the shadows of the far cornerstruggled to his feet, walked to the front of the run and sat down. It was apointer, one of the dog world's aristocrats. But this was a caricature ofthe breed. Years had etched his face and muzzle with shades of gray. Hishipbones jutted out in lopsided triangles. But it was his eyes that caughtand held my attention. Calm and clear, they beheld me unwaveringly. I pointed to the dog. "Can you tell me about him?" The officer looked, thenshook his head in puzzlement."He's a funny one. Appeared out of nowhere and sat in front of the gate. Webrought him in, figuring someone would be right down to claim him That wastwo weeks ago and we've heard nothing. His time is up tomorrow." He gesturedhelplessly. As the words sank in I turned to the man in horror. "You mean you're goingto kill him?""Ma'am," he said gently, "that's our policy. We don't have room for everyunclaimed dog." I looked at the pointer again. The calm brown eyes awaited my decision."I'll take him," I said.I drove home with the dog on the front seat beside me. When I reached thehouse I honked the horn twice. I was helping my prize out of the car whenDad shuffled onto the front porch. "Ta-da! Look what I got for you, Dad!" I said excitedly.Dad looked, then wrinkled his face in disgust. "If I had wanted a dog Iwould have gotten one. And I would have picked out a better specimen thanthat bag of bones. Keep it! I don't want it" Dad waved his arm scornfullyand turned back toward the house. Anger rose inside me. It squeezed together my throat muscles and poundedinto my temples."You'd better get used to him, Dad. He's staying!" Dad ignored me. "Did youhear me, Dad?" I screamed. At those words Dad whirled angrily, his handsclenched at his sides, his eyes narrowed and blazing with hate. We stood glaring at each other like duelists, when suddenly the pointerpulled free from my grasp. He wobbled toward my dad and sat down in front ofhim. Then slowly, carefully, he raised his paw.Dad's lower jaw trembled as he stared at the uplifted paw. Confusionreplaced the anger in his eyes. The pointer waited patiently. Then Dad wason his knees hugging the animal. It was the beginning of a warm and intimate friendship. Dad named thepointer Cheyenne. Together he and Cheyenne explored the community. Theyspent long hours walking down dusty lanes. They spent reflective moments onthe banks of streams, angling for tasty trout. They even started to attend Sunday services together, Dad sitting in a pew andCheyenne lying quietly at his feet.Dad and Cheyenne were inseparable throughout the next three years. Dad'sbitterness faded, and he and Cheyenne made many friends. Then late one nightI was startled to feel Cheyenne's cold nose burrowing through our bedcovers. He had never before come into our bedroom at night. I woke Dick, puton my robe and ran into my father's room. Dad lay in his bed, his faceserene. But his spirit had left quietly sometime during the night. Two days later my shock and grief deepened when I discovered Cheyenne lyingdead beside Dad's bed. I wrapped his still form in the rag rug he had slepton. As Dick and I buried him near a favorite fishing hole, I silentlythanked the dog for the help he had given me in restoring Dad's peace ofmind. The morning of Dad's funeral dawned overcast and dreary. This day looks likethe way I feel, I thought, as I walked down the aisle to the pews reservedfor family. I was surprised to see the many friends Dad and Cheyenne hadmade filling the church. The pastor began his eulogy. It was a tribute toboth Dad and the dog who had changed his life. And then the pastor turned toHebrews 13:2. "Be not forgetful to entertain strangers." "I've often thanked God for sending that angel," he said.For me, the past dropped into place, completing a puzzle that I had not seenbefore: the sympathetic voice that had just read the right article... Cheyenne's unexpected appearance at the animal shelter. . .his calmacceptance and complete devotion to my father. . and the proximity of theirdeaths. And suddenly I understood. I knew that God had answered my prayersafter all. Life is too short for drama & petty things, so laugh hard,love truly and forgive quickly. Live While You Are Alive.Tell the people you love that you love them, at every opportunity. Forgivenow those who made you cry. You might not get a second time. -- "Though miles may lie between us, we're never far apart, for friendship doesn't count the miles, it's measured by the heart."
Replies
what a beautiful ,moving article...and yes, you never know but when you will be in the presense of an angel........weezie....
Hey!
You mentioned your daughter\'s health and I am waiting to hear more. I CARE.
And I\'m glad you are doing well. My neuro visit was uninteresting. Stay the course
A Truckers Story
If this doesn\'t light your fire...your wood is wet!
I try not to be biased, but I had my doubts about hiring Stevie. His placement counselor assured me that he would be a good, reliable busboy. But I had never had a mentally handicapped employee and wasn\'t sure I wanted one. I wasn\'t sure how my customers would react to Stevie.
He was short, a little dumpy with the smooth facial features and thick-tongued speech of Downs Syndrome. I wasn\'t worried about most of my trucker customers because truckers don\'t generally care who busses tables as long as the meatloaf platter is good and the pies are homemade.
The four-wheeler drivers were the ones who concerned me; the mouthy college kids traveling to school; the yuppie snobs who secretly polish their silverware with their napkins for fear of catching some dreaded \"truck stop germ\" the pairs of white-shirted business men on expense accounts who think every truck stop waitress wants to be flirted with. I knew those people would be uncomfortable around Stevie so I closely watched him for the first few weeks.
I shouldn\'t have worried. After the first week, Stevie had my staff wrapped around his stubby little finger, and within a month my truck regulars had adopted him as their official truck stop mascot.
After that, I really didn\'t care what the rest of the customers thought of him. He was like a 21-year-old in blue jeans and Nikes, eager to laugh and eager to please, but fierce in his attention to his duties. Every salt and pepper shaker was exactly in its place, not a bread crumb or coffee spill was visible when Stevie got done with the table. Our only problem was persuading him to wait to clean a table until after the customers were finished. He would hover in the background, shifting his weight from one foot to the other, scanning the dining room until a table was empty Then he would scurry to the empty table and carefully bus dishes and glasses onto his cart and meticulously wipe the table up with a practiced flourish of his rag. !
If he thought a customer was watching, his brow would pucker with added concentration. He took pride in doing his job exactly right, and you had to love how hard he tried to please each and every person he met.
Over time, we learned that he lived with his mother, a widow who was disabled after repeated surgeries for cancer. They lived on their Social Security benefits in public housing two miles from the truck stop. Their social worker, who stopped to check on him every so often, admitted they had fallen between the cracks. Money was tight, and what I paid him was probably the difference between them being able to live together and Stevie being sent to a group home. That\'s why the restaurant was a gloomy place that morning last August, the first morning in three years that Stevie missed work.
He was at the Mayo Clinic in Rochester getting a new valve or something put in his heart. His social worker said that people with Downs Syndrome often have heart problems at an early age so this wasn\'t unexpected, and there was a good chance he would come through the surgery in good shape and be back at work in a few months.
A ripple of excitement ran through the staff later that morning when word came that he was out of surgery, in recovery, and doing fine.
Frannie, the head waitress, let out a war hoop and did a little dance in the aisle when she heard the good news.
Belle Ringer, one of our regular trucker customers, stared at the sight of this 50-year-old grandmother of four doing a victory shimmy beside his table.
Frannie blushed, smoothed her apron and shot Belle Ringer a withering look.
He grinned. \"OK, Frannie, what was that all about?\" he asked.
\"We just got word that Stevie is out of surgery and going to be okay.\"
\"I was wondering where he was. I had a new joke to tell him.. What was the surgery about?\"
Frannie quickly told Belle Ringer and the other two drivers sitting at his booth about Stevie\'s surgery, then sighed: \"Yeah, I\'m glad he is going to be OK,\" she said. \"But I don\'t know how he and his Mom are going to handle all the bills. From what I hear, they\'re barely getting by as it is.\" Belle Ringer nodded thoughtfully, and Frannie hurried off to wait on the rest of her tables. Since I hadn\'t had time to round up a busboy to replace Stevie and really didn\'t want to replace him, the girls were busing their own tables that day until we decided what to do.
After the morning rush, Frannie walked into my office. She had a couple of paper napkins in her hand and a funny look on her face.
\"What\'s up?\" I asked.
\"I didn\'t get that table where Belle Ringer and his friends were sitting cleared off after they left, and Pony Pete and Tony Tipper were sitting there when I got back to clean it off,\" she said. \"This was folded and tucked under a coffee cup.\"
She handed the napkin to me, and three $20 bills fell onto my desk when I opened it. On the outside, in big, bold letters, was printed \"Something for Stevie\".
\"Pony Pete asked me what that was all about,\" she said, \"so I told him about Stevie and his Mom and everything, and Pete looked at Tony and Tony looked at Pete, and they ended up giving me this.\" She handed me another paper napkin that had \"Something For Stevie\" scrawled on its outside. Two $50 bills were tucked within its folds. Frannie looked at me with wet, shiny eyes, shook her head and said simply: \"truckers..\"
That was three months ago. Today is Thanksgiving, the first day Stevie is supposed to be back to work.
His placement worker said he\'s been counting the days until the doctor said he could work, and it didn\'t matter at all that it was a holiday. He called 10 times in the past week, making sure we knew he was coming, fearful that we had forgotten him or that his job was in jeopardy. I arranged to have his mother bring him to work. I then met them in the parking lot and invited them both to celebrate his day back.
Stevie was thinner and paler, but couldn\'t stop grinning as he pushed through the doors and headed for the back room where his apron and busing cart were waiting.
\"Hold up there, Stevie, not so fast,\" I said.. I took him and his mother by their arms. \"Work can wait for a minute. To celebrate you coming back, breakfast for you and your mother is on me!\" I led them toward a large corner booth at the rear of the room.
I could feel and hear the rest of the staff following behind as we marched through the dining room. Glancing over my shoulder, I saw booth after booth of grinning truckers empty and join the procession. We stopped in front of the big table. Its surface was covered with coffee cups, saucers and dinner plates, all sitting slightly crooked on dozens of folded paper napkins. \"First thing you have to do, Stevie, is clean up this mess,\" I said. I tried to sound stern.
Stevie looked at me, and then at his mother, then pulled out one of the napkins. It had \"Something for Stevie\" printed on the outside As he picked it up, two $10 bills fell onto the table.
Stevie stared at the money, then at all the napkins peeking from beneath the tableware, each with his name printed or scrawled on it. I turned to his mother. \"There\'s more than $10,000 in cash and checks on that table, all from truckers and trucking companies that heard about your problems. \"Happy Thanksgiving,\"
Well, it got real noisy about that time, with everybody hollering and shouting, and there were a few tears, as well.
But you know what\'s funny? While everybody else was busy shaking hands and hugging each other, Stevie, with a big, big smile on his face, was busy clearing all the cups and dishes from the table.
Best worker I ever hired.
Plant a seed and watch it grow.
At this point, you can bury this inspirational message or forward it fulfilling the need!
If you shed a tear, hug yourself, because you are a compassionate person.
Well... Don\'t just sit there! Send this story on!
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