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. . . continued from st entry |
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the guest room, having Sunday brunch with the family. That son would have been there when his
 Orcbride · Sat Mar 17, 2007 @ 09:19pm · 0 Comments |
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I want to laugh. . . .but I shouldn't |
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xd . . . redface . . . cry
Orcbride · Sat Mar 03, 2007 @ 10:39pm · 1 Comments |
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Orcbride · Mon Jan 15, 2007 @ 08:00pm · 0 Comments |
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Losing is disappointing, losing by a billion is worse. . . |
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My team was in a huddle and we were getting killed. My coach looked at my friend and told her to stop looking sad. She said, "Were down by like . . ." Then she looked at the score. We were down by forty. "A billion!"
Orcbride · Tue Jan 02, 2007 @ 06:28am · 0 Comments |
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Money problems:
"I'm tired of Love:
I'm still more tired of Rhyme.
But Money gives me pleasure all the time."
~ Hilaire Belloc
"That money talks,
I won't deny.
I heard it once.
It said, "Goodbye.""
~Richard Armour
Friendship:
"I was angry with my friend;
I told my wrath,
my wrath did end,
I was angry with my foe;
I told it not,
my wrath did grow."
~from "A Poison Tree" William Blake
A woman's ego:
"What shall a woman
Do with her ego
Faced with the choice
That it go or he go?"
~Alma Denny
Live your last day:
"Drink and dance and laugh and lie,
Love, the reeling midnight through,
For tomorrow we shall die!
(But alas, we never do)"
~Dorothy Parker
Child vs. Parent:
"Children aren't happy
with nothin to ignore,
And that's what parents
were created for."
~Ogden Nash
Orcbride · Mon Jan 01, 2007 @ 07:58am · 0 Comments |
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What is America coming to? |
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Orcbride · Fri Dec 22, 2006 @ 07:50pm · 0 Comments |
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A Poem by Charles Hanson Towne |
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Quote: When he went blundering back to God, His songs half written, his work half done, Who knows what paths his bruised feet trod, What hills of peace or pain he won? I hope God smiled and took his hand, And said, "Poor traunt, passionate fool! Life's book is hard to understand: Why couldst thou not remain at school?"
~Charles Hanson Towne
Orcbride · Wed Dec 13, 2006 @ 04:35am · 0 Comments |
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Times I Did Not Stand Up for My Mother
Take the shovel, the minister said. He said it with his eyes. I was to toss dirt onto my mother's coffin, which was half-lowered into the grave. My mother, the minister explained, had witnessed this custom at Jewish funerals and had requested it for her own. She felt it helped mourners accept that the body was gone and they should remember the spirit. I could hear my father chiding her, saying, "Posey, I swear, you make it up as you go along."
I took the shovel like a child being handed a rifle. I looked to my sister, Roberta, who wore a black veil over her face and was visibly trembling. I looked to my wife, who was staring at her feet, tears streaming down her cheeks, her right hand rhythmically smoothing our daughter's hair. Only Maria looked at me. And her eyes seemed to say, "Don't do it, Dad. Give it back."
In baseball, a player can tell when he's holding his own bat and when he's holding someone else's. Which is how I felt with that shovel in my hands. It was someone else's. It did not belong to me. It belonged to a son who didn't lie to his mother. It belong to a son whose last words to her were not in anger. It belonged to a son who hadn't raced off to satisfy the latest whim of his distant old man, who, in keeping record intact, was absent from this family gathering, having decided, "It's better if I'm not there, I don't want to upset anybody."
That son would have stayed that weekend, sleeping with his wife in
Orcbride · Sat Nov 18, 2006 @ 10:03pm · 0 Comments |
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