The Mountain Path
F. David Rolf
I walked along, a lonely path
With no one else around.
Enjoying as I listened close
To each small sight and sound.
The wind was gently rustling
Through all the giant trees.
A sort of peaceful sound it made
As if for me, to please.
The quiet welcomed many birds
All with all their happy songs.
While little creatures scurried by.
This is where they belong.
I came upon a bubbling stream.
The water, crystal clear.
A gorgeous deer stopped by to drink.
She showed she had no fear.
Then I heard a crunching sound
With each step that I took.
This lovely scene that I was in
Could be written in a book.
Now, just to be so far removed
From the world in which I dwell
This is something I should share,
All of my friends, to tell.
The wonderment of all I found
While on this mountaintop
Could be ours, if we would take
A moment, and simply stop.
Re-al-ity is sort of mean.
It brings to bear our needs.
But why not slow down, just a bit
Enjoy life more, indeed.
The serenity I felt up there
Is a feeling I’ve not known.
A quiet life, with much less stress
To me has now been shown.
So now to cling to this peaceful life
I have made myself a plan
To return up to that mountain path
Just as often as I can.
As Seen on TV
Sue Donovan
In spite of the thrill of being a Lions fan this past season, football is one nasty game. Repeated hits from 300-pound tackles wreak havoc on the joints, cutting short a career and lingering into premature old age. Medical evidence shows the deterioration of brain function in players suffering multiple concussions. And it could be argued that our national addiction to football—from Friday night lights to the interminable march to the Super Bowl—contributes to a culture of violence in America.
As a born and bred peacenik, there is absolutely no reason I should be a football fan, but I am. I love those mobile, running quarterbacks; the leaping, one-handed receptions; and the game-winning Hail Marys, stunt plays, and punt returns through a maze of tacklers for a touchdown. Not the least of which, I enjoy those sleekly muscled bodies in those cute, tight pants!
Also consider the sport’s possible contribution to society. Football’s complex web of instantly applied rules lends a beautiful order to the game that may have beneficial applications to everyday life. Just imagine how peacefully predictable and stress-free life would be like if a referee blew the whistle on all the aggravations and injustices that cloud our daily interactions with others:
1) You are at a wedding or class reunion and an old acquaintance talks your ear off. The whistle blows—HOLDING.
2) Three lanes down to one on the freeway and the car ahead of you straddles two. The ref waves him over—INTERFERENCE.
3) The Johnsons are late again for your dinner party. The hors d’oeuvres are gone and the roast has turned to rubber. Yellow flag thrown—DELAY OF GAME.
4) The plane is packed and you are wedged between a more-is-better perfume user and a less-is-best bather. The ref jumps in—PERSONAL FOUL.
5) Your grocery cart is full of ice cream, frozen peas, and yogurt. The two cashiers open at Bashas’ have 12 customers each in line. Here comes the whistle—TOO MANY MEN ON THE FIELD.
6) There is a rule about not walking your dog next to the fences on the green space, right? The ref pulls a flag—OFFSIDES.
7) You’re taking your evening stroll on the walking path, and your hubby can’t keep his eyes off the shapely, swaying hips ahead of you. A whistle and a flag—BACKFIELD IN MOTION.
Unfortunately, a magical referee who will intervene and reverse the injustices of life is a fantasy. No yellow flags will ever be thrown to smooth out the rocky playing fields of our days. So, I guess I’ll just continue to lay on the horn, hold my nose, throw the dog poop in my neighbor’s yard, and bump the basket in front of me. Of course, those actions might all be considered UNNECCESSARY ROUGHNESS.
The Irrepressible Iris
Lee Murray
“Poor Iris,” they called her. She came from a broken home, mother who was abusive, addicted to drugs, and barely kept a roof over her daughter’s head. The young girl was able to finish high school, but college was not even a possibility.
With no formal education, Iris began work at a 24-hour diner as a counter waitress, a job that she intended to be only temporary but turned into a years’ long occupation.
The diner had its regulars, much like the corner bar, and Iris was everyone’s favorite waitress. She had a unique ability to listen intently to her customers, which they appreciated, much like a friendly bartender, only here at the diner, she served coffee and tea instead of scotch and rum.
Iris worked the late shift, coming in at 10 at night until 8 a.m. By the early morning hours, people started arriving after an evening of revelry at the bar, often with broken hearts and broken dreams that they would then unburden to Iris, always willing to share a compassionate ear. She really did enjoy talking with her customers.
“Why aren’t you married, Iris?” customers would ask her. “You’re such a good woman and would make a fine wife for someone,” they’d say.
“Not in the cards for me, I guess,” she’d reply with a smile, though deep down she hoped that someday she, too, would find someone with whom she could share her life.
The years went by, and her hope of finding a life partner seemed more remote with each passing day. She kept busy, though. When she wasn’t at the diner, she volunteered at a local homeless shelter, offering a gentle countenance for people down on their luck. Other days she went down to the lake and fed the ducks, which she found very relaxing. Sometimes she’d volunteer at an animal shelter, helping abandoned dogs and cats desperately in need of a caring human.
Over the years, she managed to save the majority of her tips, some of which were quite generous. Iris lived in a one-room flat and took the bus to work, dreaming of the day when she’d own a car of her own. She kept a big, five-gallon container in her closet into which she deposited a portion of her counter gratuities, and the day came that she was ready to cash it in. She spent a good part of one afternoon counting all the dollars and coins and was astounded to see it came to almost $5,000.
With that accumulated windfall, Iris went to a local car dealer and was able to find a reliable used car for her savings, excited beyond belief to own her very first automobile. She couldn’t wait to show it to her loyal customers.
Beaming from ear to ear, she got behind the wheel and headed to the diner for her evening shift. All good until, on the way over, she ran into a deep pothole that flattened her right front tire. She managed to get the car over to the curb where she sat in tears.
Wondering what to do next, there was a knock on the driver’s side window. It was a police officer who saw what had happened and offered to drop her off at the diner and help her get her car fixed.
Iris was so grateful for the patrolman’s kindness, she invited him into the diner for coffee, and the two hit it off. His name was Mickey, a friendly man who had become a widow only a year earlier.
Mickey’s patrol shift ended at midnight, and from that day on, he became a regular of Iris’ at the diner, where he would go after work. The two began seeing each other, and before long, he showed up at the diner with a diamond ring and a proposal.
Iris, in tears, said, “Absolutely yes!”
Her regular customers cheered and applauded, and the diner owner offered to host their wedding vows and reception.
On the big day, the diner was packed with people whom Iris had befriended over the years with her kind words and gentle wisdom.
Poor Iris? Not her. She had found riches in more ways than she ever dreamed possible.