Page
WHERE INANIMATE OBJECTS HAVE THEIR SAY
Experience the world
through the eyes of
A COVERED BRIDGE and more
JJANUARYANUARY 2011 2011
Page 2
P E R S P E C T I V EP E R S P E C T I V E SS
Resolutions. For or against, the word has
traveled through the mouths of reporters,
psychologists, lovers, writers, fitness trainers and
more. Initially, I was against making any goals; I
thought my goals were too ho-hum and
common—diet more, walk more, write more, bla
bla bla.
Then, I had an aha moment—get a 2011 weight
watchers membership. But here‘s the twist! I will
create my own emotional weight loss program. I
resolve to be an emotional weight watcher. When
applied to the body, before I seek to lose even
one physical pound, I need to lose the damaging,
negative weight in my heart and mind. If I lose
weight, my mirrored reflection will be appealing.
But my mind‘s eye will still reflect an individual
with a heavy heart. Even if I lose twenty pounds,
I'll still carry a heavy mind. As a man thinketh in
his heart, so is he, Proverbs 23:7. The same
discipline works with writing.
Applied to writing, I need to remember to plan
encouraging and stress-free talks, and stop
feeding my mind with fear of failure and
rejection. I am going to stop living with my eyes
locked in the backward position. I wasted too
much time walking forward and looking at the
past simultaneously: I have a successful
magazine (looking forward) but even established
ones are folding (looking back)! If you are
pursuing writing, drop the emotional burdens.
You will write well and you‘ll feel great. Now,
please excuse me. I have to start making some
resolutions!
Until the next time, keep the ink flowing.
Monique Berry
In this Issue
From the Editor’s Desk ........................................ p2
Antique storybook ................................................. p4
Alice’s Adventures in Wonderland by Peggy Fletcher
Cat hair ................................................................... p4
Fluff Ball’s Adventure by Jennifer L. Foster
Cell phone ............................................................... p7
Rituals by Rachel Loveday
Covered bridge ...................................................... p9
Enduring Secrets by Monique Berry
Raindrop .............................................................. p10
Restless Exodus by Carolyn Agee
Mirror ................................................................... p11
Reflections by Donna McDonald
Saddle ................................................................... p12
A Western Saddle’s Story by Rebecca R. Taylor
Potato .................................................................... p13
A Potato’s Dream by Craig W. Steele
Toilet ..................................................................... p14
All in a Day’s Work by C. Douglas Johnson
Interesting facts about represented objects ...... p15
About the Magazine
ISSN: 1920-4205
Frequency: Biyearly
Founding Editor: Monique Berry
Designer: Monique Berry
Editorial Assistant: Jennifer L. Foster
Contact Info : http://1perspectives.webs.com : [email protected]
: 1-905-549-3981 | : 1-905-549-5021
Photo Credits Header images ©iStockphoto.com/AptTone, p4 courtesy of Peggy
Fletcher. All other inside photos courtesy of Brian Cobbledick. Front,
back, and p8 courtesy of Monique Berry.
From the Editor’s Desk
Page 3
Page 4
W e were pressed in an unnatural bond—marble,
moth, deflated balloon with string, broken
mirror and I, a clump of cat hair—but we had the
strange and captivating advantage of having
heightened perspective.
If you asked me how the last few months have
passed, I would answer: it‘s been hair-raising.
Life began on my elegant mistress‘s plume tail.
Flossie, a longhaired calico tabby, had almond-shaped
green eyes and uneven striped markings in grey, black
and ginger. Her soft underbelly and feet were white.
But her S-curved tail was the envy of all who
gazed at her. It was especially long for such a small
cat. We flourished. Our luxurious cream, taupe and
orange hairs grew glossy. People often remarked on
her delicate beauty. Then they‘d pat her head, and
stroke her back and bushy tail. Flossie arched her
back and fluffed her tail into a crescent shape; she
mewed with joy. In addition to all that pampering,
Flossie's owner brushed her every day. All that
stroking sent long hairs flying from her tail.
AN
TIQ
UE S
TO
RY
BO
OK
Alice’s Adventures in Wonderland
By Peggy Fletcher
In sad disrepair
my yellow pages
crumbling into history
I reside
on wooden shelf
oblivious
to those incisive eyes
that dismiss
early technology
for digital form
but where
in deep remembrance
of my bedtime role
I was greatly loved
by a single child
who received
the gift of inspired
imagination
that still lives
inside
these ragged pages
as small brown flakes
tumble like tears
released
from my fragile spine
to her aging hands.
Peggy Fletcher is a retired teacher and journalist whose work has appeared in many literary journals and books in
Canada and the United States. Contact her at [email protected].
Fluff Ball’s Adventure
By Jennifer L. Foster
CA
T H
AIR
Page 5
One day after a vigorous brushing, I went soaring.
Just like that, I was tossed into the air where I swirled
in the draft of forced air heating and then floated onto
the kitchen floor. I—a bunch of Flossie's plume tail
hairs—narrowly escaped being sucked into the
household stick vacuum by a hair or two. I ended up
under the fridge as a fluff ball.
I lodged there for a few weeks until the lady of
the house came looking for one of Flossie's toys—a
miniature teddy bear that was prostrate beside me.
She poked at us with a yardstick and pulled us out.
―Good grief, Flossie!‖ cried her owner. ―Here's
Teddy!‖
Flossie rushed over, eagerly eyeing Teddy. She
merely sniffed me but gave Teddy a little lick and
playfully batted him across the floor. Regrettably,
Flossie‘s owner hastily swept me up and tossed me in
a green trash bin by the garage. I became enmeshed in
the compostable kitchen waste: egg shells, stale
coffee filters, banana peels, cabbage cores, slimy
squash seeds…you name it, it was there. In the
confines of a heavy plastic bin, I could no longer see
my beloved mistress.
Trapped, we sweated it out in the bin until
garbage day. When a city worker tipped open the
trash lid on a sunny April morning, it seemed like a
trip to freedom. Fresh air! But the kitchen waste just
landed in a big truck with more and more recyclables.
We met tons of dandelions. Severed heads and roots.
Flies. Chicken bones. Smelly fish heads. Mucky
brown paper bags. It was a rotting brotherhood!
We shook as the enormous city garbage truck
accelerated and braked. Panic overtook us each time
we heard the crazy whine of what turned out to be a
mechanical crusher. Push! Whrrrr. Rotate! Whrrr.
Squeeze!!
After driving for hours on an urban route, we
came to a rough, unpaved road. Bump! The whole
back end of the truck was raised and our packed load
was dumped into an open pit. We had reached the
garbage dump. Amidst the smoky burned smells,
other trucks churned us—moving us into mountains
of waste. Eventually, the grinding clamor ceased. The
sun filtered through the dusky haze. A breeze slid
over our battered bodies as the spring evening settled
with a damp coolness. Now that the workers had long
gone, we were left with nothing more than eerie
silence and a blank sky.
At daylight, seagulls soared above; they flapped
around and chided us while attacking ragged
eggshells and bits of chicken fat. During their
gluttonous frenzy, I somehow broke free of the sticky
glop. I flew in fits and starts over shrivelled dandelion
heads. I escaped! Incredibly, I landed on the grassy
slope of a nearby landfill.
Two days later, a light rain washed my sticky
hairs; the April sun dried me out. My old color and
shine returned. I was me again. Flossie's little fluff
ball! But how to return to her and all that was lost?
Then my rescuer came a calling. Or so I thought.
O ut of nowhere, the biggest, blackest bird I had
ever seen swooped down and carried me in his
short bill. His iridescent black feathers shone in the
sunlight as he steadily flapped his wings while we
rose high in the air above the landfill. Before I knew
it, we were on a journey over the city past the
rooftops of hundreds of homes. Compared to my
usual bearings on Flossie‘s tail, the sudden aerial
sensations were out of this world.
From this changing vista, I could see a large city
spread out on two levels. Travelling north toward the
lip of a rocky shelf, we soon spotted freighters
stretched along a bay, and a great lake to the east.
I later learned that my capturer was a common
crow, an American Crow, and that I was a treasure
find. I landed in a rarefied place called a nest, high in
a red oak tree along the city‘s escarpment. The
Niagara Escarpment. Wait! There was more
quirkiness. I was dropped into a bowl not much
bigger than Flossie's water dish. An outer, rougher
section was fashioned from dead oak and black
walnut branches. Now, two enormous crows were
coming and going with materials to build the nest‘s
inner wall and lining. Moss, grasses, velvety pine
needles. And who should I have for neighbours?
Why, of all things, a battered gold-striped marble, a
dried-out moth shell, a deflated mauve balloon with
string, and a shard of broken mirror. We lodged at the
bottom of the crows‘ treetop home and were played
with from time to time.
My capturer nudged me with his beak and tousled
my hairs with his talons; he cocked his head and
admired me with keen, brown eyes. On every hairy
strand, my razor-thin eyes regarded him with sheer
(Continued on page 6)
Page 6
terror. Wedged against the nest wall, I watched crow
peck at broken mirror and roll marble a bit with his
bill. He tossed string in the air but hopped right back
on balloon‘s fragile membrane, keeping them captive.
When he spread his wing over us and made ‗clickety-
click‘ sounds and soft ‗caaw caaw‘ noises, I relaxed
somewhat and reconsidered my plight.
By month's end, the smaller bird spent all her time
in the nest. She laid eggs. Bluish-green with brown
and grey markings. We were hard pressed under the
weight of her clutch of three eggs and her black, silky
breast. The larger crow brought seeds, garden snails
and tiny birds‘ eggs for his partner to eat. Two weeks
passed.
One rainy May evening, big crow arrived with a
limp field mouse. The brown-faced dried moth almost
quivered with wild anticipation. But smaller crow
gobbled up the mouse in one gulp.
Four sunny spring days slipped by. One morning,
new life emerged. Baby crows! Small helpless
creatures with a fine brushing of down to tickle us.
And were they hungry!
The parents kept busy. The father and other
members of their family searched for the young
chicks‘ food. Feeding time was always a ruckus and a
joy; a tender, caring activity for all.
Several times we heard a great squawking—a
great hullaballoo. Caaw! Caaw! Caaw! Never by the
nest. Down on the ground. The male and other family
crows were hollering and squawking thirty to forty
feet away. A predator must have been nearby. But
whatever it was, silence—always silence.
The nestlings were cared for and reared by their
parents and extended family. After many weeks, the
plump fledglings took hesitant steps around the nest
rim. One day, they learned to flap their wings and
timidly flew aloft. A life thrill to watch.
The nest is empty except for my strange kin and a
piece of a chick‘s eggshell. With all this movement in
the nest, marble, dead moth, balloon and string,
broken piece of mirror and I, Fluff Ball, have shifted
up the side. We're drying out in the sun and the mild
June breezes. Funny thing; I've finally looked over the
top of the nest, wondering where I am.
What a shock! Bizarre, really! I recognize the
backyard and the house. It's where Flossie and her
owner live and where I once was whole. Here I am up
in the nest at the top of a massive red oak. Same Fluff
Ball. Different life. And down there they haven't a
clue. Flossie could never hear my faint, whispery
voice over the swish of wind in the oak leaves and
white pine boughs. A conundrum in this escarpment
strip of Carolinian forest.
We've started to talk. Plan. When words fail, we
use a kind of easy talk—minimal gestures, squeaks
and grunts. The others want to get back to their roots,
too...if they can.
W e're working on a sort of parachute. Dead moth
for the wings. Chick‘s eggshell—ideal for
canopy and decoy. Striped marble for ballast.
Deflated balloon and old string become materials.
Mirror fragment for the floor. I'll be a lightweight for
the ride. Maybe I can help stabilize the drop and
cushion a landing. Too little breeze and we're going
nowhere. Too much wind and we're doomed to crash
in the prickly pine branches.
All we can think about is getting back to the earth.
We're aiming to land at the foot of the yard. By the
wild catnip patch. I dream of reuniting with Flossie.
In my mind, I repeatedly hear myself calling out,
Flossie, it's me! Fluff Ball! Remember? Part of your
plume tail. I'm back!
I wish, with all the combined strength of my hairs,
to ground myself in her presence once more. To
nuzzle with Flossie in the catnip patch where she
loves to linger; roll on the moist bumpy soil on a fine
spring day. Smell the spicy tang of catnip on her
whiskers. Curl up with the tip of her chin on my hair.
Feel her warm breath and soft heartbeats. Catch her
kittenish mews. To be a part of her feline world.
Back here in the nest, we're waiting for a slight
breeze to get us over the top. And then it's anyone's
guess how things will go. Yet, we're a special
parachute contraption. But no sense just dreaming;
better get on with it. We haven't much time. The
rhubarb is poking up in the ground, no doubt. And
before long, the stalks will leaf out and cover the
catnip.
Jennifer resides close to the Niagara Escarpment.
She graduated from Queen‘s University and has
retired from counselling and programs work. Her
poetry for children has appeared in Cats, Cats, Cats
and More Cats (Mini Mocho Press) and a short
story in a previous issue of Perspectives Magazine.
Contact her at [email protected].
Page 7
I am not just a mobile phone—I
am Ellie Brandon‘s life. I am
more than a wireless device that
chats with her family, friends, and
work colleagues. I am her schedule
keeper full of editorial meetings,
and her personal trainer. I record her daily running times,
which are getting shorter each day she gets fit.
Ellie‘s working week always starts the same. When I yell
―Wake Up!‖ at 6 a.m., she silences me and then lays me down
on the bedside table where I sleep. That prepares me for the
next day, but I still get to snooze before she wakes me. I rest
in the armband where her now-broken IPod used to sit.
On her morning run, I get dizzy as she moves her arms
forward and backward to maintain her balance. The Lake
Albert walking track, path, and people are the same—it‘s
starting to bore me. She needs to run somewhere else. Once
when Ellie was training, my face was slammed with a violent
hit. She had run into an unfamiliar jogger wearing a red shirt.
When Ellie arrives at work, I stay in her black leather
handbag for the day. Loneliness creeps over me as I lie in the
dark bottom with her wallet, car keys and eyeglass case. I
don't like waiting until the day is over to see into Ellie‘s
world again. I‘m guessing that the bag is sitting on her desk
because I can hear muffled conversations. Shortly after, I hear
Jenny asking her to lunch, Peter reminding her to attend the
new gym opening, and then the desk phone rings a few times.
During her lunch hour, Ellie places me in a black leather
holster, and then clips me onto her hip while she pays her
bills and looks after the new gym opening. The comfy holster
keeps the sun out of my eye. To be honest, I‘m always afraid
of falling off her hip. I have a few times. Occasionally, I fall
so hard that I split open. Ellie just puts me back together like
nothing happened (but it hurts like hell).
Apart from a few bumps and bruises, I keep pictorial
memories of her festive parties and special loved ones. I send
her emails and I keep her day running smoothly. I am her life.
Rituals
By Rachel Loveday
Rach Loveday is currently studying a double degree; Bachelor of
Creative Arts (majoring in Creative Writing)-Bachelor of Journalism
in Wollongong, Australia. This is her third article in Perspectives
Magazine.
CE
LL P
HO
NE
Page 8
Page 9
CO
VE
RE
D B
RID
GE
T wilight is drawing near. It‘s my favoured hour
because it conceals my weathered appearance.
Okay. I admit to getting twinges of vanity and fear.
I‘m not a young bridge any more. Not long ago, a
female cardinal told me that my brother‘s face was
vandalized. Graffiti all over him. But he gets lots of
visitors. On the other hand, walkers seldom pass over
my boards. So, I guess I can relax. Covered bridges
are generally detected by word-of-mouth or by
chance—I certainly was for one couple. No matter.
Weatherworn or not, I love being available as a
serene hideaway for animals and people as the need
arises.
Woodland creatures, who scurry on rugs of green
earth, are my daily companions. For years, I had
frequent conversations with a bubbling brook while
it polished its stones but it has since dried out. I
savour the dawning voices of birds and crickets, and
the occasional clip clop of horses‘ hooves. Yes, from
the moment the first streams of light filter through
the trees to when the lengthening sunset shadows
cover me, I am content.
The best part of being a covered bridge is that
I‘m privy to secrets! Enclosed inside my walls are
umpteen secrets—including those of animals. You
see, the promise of privacy breeds honesty.
Fifty years ago
I remember well, even though it was many
decades ago, a secret shared by one couple. It
surpassed all other memories dear to me. Every
Friday night they used to rendezvous here in the
spring. The couple would arrive on horseback en
route to the librarian‘s log cabin where budding
writers and historians met. Since I was a young
bridge at the time, my woody aroma inspired months
of passion and romance.
On the night of his departure, she arrived thirty
minutes earlier. The red-headed woman rested on me
for support and then told me everything. I guess she
felt I could be trusted. For the first time, the young
woman spoke her secret aloud. Her voice trembled as
she uttered her fears of being left alone—again. The
toughest part about learning her painful circumstance
was being not able to console her. But I knew her
lover would make it right. Incidentally, if you‘re
curious to know what her secret was, you‘ll be
waiting a long time. I‘m not free to disclose that
information—it was spoken in confidence.
Her gentleman caller arrived with a single rose.
Their bodies locked in unashamed affection. No one
spoke for the longest time. When he saw that she was
having trouble coping with the situation he raised her
chin, wiped her tear-streaked face, and comforted her
with promissory whispers. ―Oh, my love. No matter
what happens, I will always, always treasure our
special place.‖ How I longed to close my wooden
arms and hug my romantic visitors! ―Our love will
return one day. After all, he or she will find the
directions in your journal someday. And our secret!‖
With a final look, he backed away. As he faded
into the distance, their eyes kissed each other
‗farewell.‘
Present Day
Well, like I mentioned before I reminisced, it‘s
twilight. Every time a rider from a nearby hamlet or
village comes by and whispers secrets, my heart
races. I ask myself, Could it be the rose child? It
would be so comforting to know their love endured
into the generations.
Clip clop!
Monique Berry is the founder of Perspectives and Christian Perspectives. Her work has appeared in Searching for Answers anthology, Personal Journaling, The Sitter’s Companion, and others. In her spare time, she facilitates a critique workshop, enjoys photography, offers editing services, and is involved in several creative projects. Contact her at [email protected] or visit her website at http://www.moniqueberry.ca.
Enduring Secrets
By Monique Berry
Page 10
RA
IND
RO
P
Carolyn Agee is an internationally published poet. She found inspiration for this poem in the humid climate of her home in the Pacific Northwest. Her recent and forthcoming credits include: Petrichor Machine, Christian Perspectives, and A Flame in the Dark. You can reach her at [email protected].
Restless in the womb of waiting, the cumulus tent.
Trembling for exodus.
The film weakens, breaks.
Freedom.
I slip silently through the air, wind lashing my face,
my shape shifting to the whims
dictated by cruel fate.
The gray sky lightens, mauve in the east.
My breathing slows as I take a new formation,
beneath a fresh sunrise,
dropping to earth, toward the scent of ripe, cut hay,
past dew suspended in rough, withered branches.
Tumbling, rushing, running
toward the endless sea
gleaming in the light of dawn.
Restless Exodus
By Carolyn Agee
Page 11
MIR
RO
R
I am whatever you think you are—love, hate,
good, evil, beauty or ugliness. I am the window
to your illusions. All perception is my domain, and
vanity is my specialty. The wicked queen in the
Grimm‘s fairy tale Snow White asked, ―Mirror,
mirror, who is the fairest in the land?‖ I am
magical, reflecting her thoughts. You may say I am
guilty to a fault of your self-examination. I would
not deny it.
My fragile condition is that I do not bend; I
only break. You too may break if your ego looks
for eternal beauty and youth. Folklore has it that I
provide protection by reflecting the intent of an
intruder back to himself. No wonder I have places
of distinction in all dwellings. My powers bring
light to the shadows. Put me in a cage with a bird—
it will not mate, preferring its own vanity.
Do not underestimate my power! Dorian
Gray, in Oscar Wilde‘s Picture of Dorian Gray,
saw himself aging in the portrait, which was the
mirror to his soul. In the end, he destroyed his
image and died because he could no longer deny his
true self.
Most of us prefer to see ourselves in a better
light, but mirror knows. The reality I project needs
an admired reflection. Otherwise, I am a blank,
shiny surface of no account. My value and insight
requires perception. My being depends on you;
otherwise, I am not noticed. But not to worry—
vanity is everywhere.
Although Donna McDonald has had a long nursing
career, she’s never given up on her love of writing.
Donna has taken many writing courses at Mohawk
College, and attended one year of journalism at
Ryerson University. She has self-published her first
book this year and is currently working on a poetry
book. Donna is retired, married, and has an adult son. Contact her at
Reflections
By Donna McDonald
Page 12
H owdy! How are ya‘ll doing today? Me? I‘m just
back from an exhilarating day out on the range. I
was riding with my best friend Zeus, a white gelding
covered with black spots. It belongs to our master, Brett
Harrison. Brett‘s putting Zeus back in his stall right now,
and then it will be time for him to wipe all the dust off
my brown leather exterior. Tomorrow I get my weekly
rubdown with saddle soap. I love the way it feels. It is so
refreshing; it soaks into my pores and removes the last of
my grime and sweat. If I stay in good shape, Zeus and
Brett stay safe. There is nothing better than the smell of
fresh country air and a breeze brushing you with its
breath.
Today, we are moving Hereford cattle into another
pasture for better grazing. I love spending time outside.
It is so peaceful. The only sounds are the mooing and
pounding of the cattle‘s hooves, Zeus‘s occasional
whinny, and Brett‘s whistling.
You might think, So what? You’re only a saddle.
Yes, I am a saddle but I am also important. I help the
Triple H Ranch run smoothly. Without me, Brett and
Zeus wouldn‘t be able to do their job securely. Our
relationship is built on teamwork. Brett, Zeus, and I
make a great team because we are all skilled in our work.
Knowing that I have a purpose makes me feel great.
When Brett takes his place within me and his boots
touch my stirrups, I know that we are ready to take on
the day. My heart thumps with excitement because I
know that we are going to do important work out on the
range. I love riding on Zeus‘s back and feeling his
smooth, quick movements under me.
I am thankful for having kind friends like Brett and
Zeus, and for having a meaningful job. My biggest fear
would be losing what matters most to me: my friends
and my job. They are what make me who I am and give
me purpose.
Some days are long and we work in all kinds of
weather. It doesn‘t bother me though, because I know
that I am helping to make a difference. Without me,
Brett would not be able to go out and look at his stock, to
check over his land and see all that he has accomplished.
We work hard, and in return, we get our rewards. Being
valued is my reward. Brett makes sure that I am cleaned
A Western Saddle’s Story
By Rebecca R. Taylor
SAD
DL
E
Page 13
PO
TA
TO
A Potato’s Dream
By Craig W. Steele
Craig W. Steele is a writer and university biologist who lives in the urban countryside of northwestern Pennsylvania, USA. His poetry has appeared or is forthcoming in The Aurorean, Crow Toes Quarterly, 3LIGHTS, Modern Haiku, Time of Singing and elsewhere. You can contact him at [email protected].
everyday and hung on my peg in the tack room until we
are ready to ride again.
I still remember the day that Brett got me, five years
ago. It was cold, even in Mr. Branson‘s tack shop in
town where I sat on my makeshift rack–a sawhorse.
Here, I was just merchandise, a piece of fine leather for
Mr. Branson to earn his trade. Then Brett walked in,
looking for a new saddle. He smiled and spoke to several
people in the shop. Brett‘s family has been ranchers in
Alberta for three generations so far, and he knows
everyone in town. Although he had loved my
predecessor, a saddle that had belonged to his father,
Brett had to accept that it was beyond repair. He hung
his old saddle on the wall in his tack room and took me
home to show Zeus and the other ranch hands. The
morning after he bought me, I was swung proudly over
Zeus‘s strong back and the three of us went out to work.
I live in the barn, which is attached to the tack room.
The heat from the hay and animals keeps me warm.
After a day‘s work, Brett wipes me down. I look almost
as new as the day he laid eyes on me.
To Brett and Zeus, I‘m an essential working partner
who eases the way and makes our job we have to do
more comfortable. When they chase cattle, Brett rides
high in my saddle, his long legs in my stirrups. I keep
him secure while he swings his lariat, to lasso a cow that
needs to go back to the barn. There are many more years
in me. When I retire, I expect to have earned a special
spot beside Brett‘s previous saddle. Well, I‘d better go; I
hear Brett‘s footsteps in the barn. He‘s heading this way
to look after me before I settle in for the night. Well,
morning comes early here at the Triple H Ranch.
G‘Night y‘all!
Rebecca lives along the St. Francis River in St. Felix-de-Kingsey, Quebec. She enrolled in an online course at St. Lawrence College to prepare her to be a full-time writer someday.
Her recent publications have been included in Bread n’ Molasses, Grainews, and previous issues of Perspectives and C h r i s t i a n P e r s p e c t i v e s . C o n t a c t h e r a t [email protected].
I dream of becoming an onion,
ever since I saw one being peeled
this morning.
I‘d gladly pluck out every budding eye
in trade for those curvaceous folds
that strip away provocatively,
each one exposing yet another sheer,
silken petal underneath.
But I understand why humans
will never redesign a food
grown to conquer famine that would
dehydrate their eyes
with every cut.
Page 14
TO
ILE
T
All in a Day’s Work
By C. Douglas Johnson
If I were a psychiatrist
and paid big money
to have people come unload
that would be one thing,
but I’m not.
I have to take crap
to keep a job
and a roof over my lid.
And my social life
has completely gone
down the drain.
At least when I lived
in the appliance store,
I modeled and interacted
with people almost everyday.
Those were the days…
Now, my family and I
live in the same house
but we never get to see each other.
Heaven forbid!
There’s always the threat
if we ever act up,
we’ll be thrown out.
That’s right, porcelain junkyard.
So, most of the time
I just sit in my room–alone!
And when I do get a visitor,
it’s not much better.
Some just sit and read,
silently, with no thoughts of me.
Do their business, and leave.
Rude, simply rude, I tell you!
Others, particularly the little tots in training,
come in and just stuff me
until I choke.
Then, their mom or dad
will come in,
fussing and cussing,
and stick something down my throat
to make me spit up.
Oh, and some are downright disgusting.
If they didn’t have me
bolted to the floor,
I’d run right out that door.
The smell–whew!
The odor is unbearable.
And they don’t have any manners;
they leave without even a spray.
Oh yeah, lest not I forget
about the ones who wee-wee
all over the place–
my neck, my back, my sides.
And those who forget
to exercise my arm before they leave.
No home training, I tell you.
No home training.
And rarely are we praised
for a job well done.
Every now and then, we’ll get hugs.
It’s usually from the ones
who drink too much,
calling on the porcelain gods to save them.
They fall on the floor and hug us for a while.
Get up, wipe their mouth, and leave with a smile.
Oh, but there’s another visitor
who comes to show me love.
Her name is Plumber.
She’s so beautiful,
and she understands me so well.
I don’t think my guardian
likes her that much,
but she sure makes my day!
I guess my life is better
than that of my cousins.
They’re in that dreadful public place,
where all kinds of strangers come
and spit in their face.
And yet, it’s all in a day’s work.
It may not be glamorous,
but it beats the alternative.
Don’t get me wrong;
there are good days, too.
They just don’t come around that often.
I know my guardian hates them,
but I love Bath Days!
It feels so great
to get a good scrubbing…
Yeah, right there…That’s it!
It’s nice to know you’re needed
and you serve a useful purpose.
Yeah, some people
may take us for granted,
but, I’ve learned life’s not fair.
Sometimes, you have to take some crap,
and it is a thankless job.
Hey, it’s all in a day’s work!
Dr. C. Douglas Johnson lives in metro Atlanta, GA, with his lovely
wife and two kids. He teaches and researches at Georgia Gwinnett
College, and is pursuing research and writing about calling and faith
at work. Contact him at [email protected].
Page 15
Alice in Wonderland, p4 Tenniel's illustration of the
Jabberwock was originally intended as the book‘s
frontispiece, but it turned out to be so horrible that Carroll
thought it might be better to replace it with another one.
Therefore, he conducted a private poll of about thirty
mothers by sending them a letter. To see the letter and other
related trivia, visit http://www.alice-in-wonderland.net/
alice9.html
Cat hair, p4 1) If a cat is frightened, the hair stands up
fairly evenly all over the body; when the cat is threatened or
is ready to attack, the hair stands up only in a narrow band
along the spine and tail. 2) Siamese kittens are born white
because of the heat inside the mother's uterus before birth.
This heat keeps the kittens' hair from darkening on the
points.
Cell phone, p7 1) A cell-phone is actually a complicated
radio. Areas are divided into small cells, with a cell phone
tower at the center of each cell. 2) For the convenience of
vote delivery, the Estonians are using their mobile phones. It
also serves as a very convenient means to show their
personal identification. 3) If you have a Nokia mobile set
and you are going out of battery and also you are expecting
a very important call. Simply by dialing the code *3370#,
the battery of your Nokia set will upgrade up to 50% by
using a built-in reserve battery.
Covered bridge, p9 1) Many bridges are painted red on
the outside. Historians believe the red coating makes the
bridge seem more like a barn to a horse, and as horses
tended to be skittish about crossing high over flowing water,
the illusion helped farmers and travelers navigate the
obstacle with little incident. 2) The same covered bridge
can be known by multiple names, but each has its own
"fingerprint"; a World Guide Number. These unique
identification numbers are very telling about each bridge
and are used on a national scale, even being adopted by the
National Society for the Preservation of Covered Bridges.
Mirror, p11 1) The timeframe of the 7-year misfortune for
breaking one, came from the Romans who believed that a
man‘s body is rejuvenated every 7 years. They believed that
a person became a new man after this period. Because the
pieces of a broken mirror reflect the corrupted soul, every
single piece of the broken item should be grounded into
dust. That way, no reflection remains. 2) Chimps are the
only animals that can recognize themselves in a mirror.
Potato, p13 1) At one time, the Scots refused to eat
potatoes because potatoes weren't mentioned in the Bible! 2)
Louis XVI of France wore potato flowers in his buttonhole
to stimulate interest in the plant. 3) In 1995, potato plants
were taken into space with the space shuttle Columbia. This
marked the first time any food was ever grown in space.
Raindrop, p10 1) A raindrop with a diameter below 2mm
is spherical before bursting into smaller raindrops, due to
water tension and air resistance. 2) Only spherical raindrops
produce rainbows. 3) It takes approximately 1 million cloud
droplets to provide enough water for just one raindrop.
Toilet, p14 1) The Roman army didn‘t have toilet paper.
So they used a water-soaked sponge on the end of a stick. 2)
Thomas Crapper who perfected the siphon flush system we
use today, was born in the village of Thorne—an anagram
of ‗throne.‘ 3) Most toilets flush in the key of E-flat.
Saddle, 12 1) The Western saddle was designed for
cowboys who spent long days riding the range, driving
and working cattle. Leather Western saddles are much
heavier than English saddles.
Interesting facts about represented objects
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