Eagles: The Eagle's Nest

The day was perfect for taking photographs. It was clear and bright with only an occasional, snow white cloud floating by. The ocean had the same intense, blue hue as the sky.

A tall, gray-haired man with a mustache walked with a distinct limp towards the ocean. He almost fell, as he stumbled on a rock that lay hidden in the tall grass. Reaching out, he caught the heavy mesh fence on the embankment, just in time.

The man was appropriately dressed for a photography expedition, in a pale gray t-shirt, blue jeans and white runners. Around his neck, he wore a heavy, gold chain with an eagle, its wings outstretched as if in flight. His long, black camera strap reached almost to his waist. He held his digital camera with both hands, as he readied himself to take pictures.

First, he snapped a photograph of the distant horizon. Then gazing upwards searching the sky, the sun’s rays bounced off his face. Eagles soaring high in the sky soon caught his attention. He watched them for a moment and then began taking one photograph after another, as they circled the area.

“They’re heading into those trees,” he realized. “There must be an eagle’s nest nearby.”

A winding, footpath led towards the heavily forested area. The brush in the area was overgrown and the evergreen trees were huge making it a foreboding and dark, but mysteriously inviting area. As he walked past an empty bench into the forest, he spotted a petite, elderly woman, standing alone beneath a large, overhanging branch. She was holding a pair of huge binoculars.

“Do you want to see the eagle’s nest?” she asked him, as he approached. She quickly handed him her binoculars and pointed to a tree.

“Thank you,” he said. He soon spotted the eagle sitting in its nest on a large branch about thirty feet upwards. “I do appreciate that.” He began taking pictures of the eagle's nest. “Here, let me take a photograph for you, too,” he said, as he realized that the woman was not able to focus her camera on the eagle’s nest. “See, there it is,” he said with a smile, as he pointed to the nest in the photograph he had just taken for her. 

Encounter at Daybreak: A New Friend

“Never again,” Becky, a young woman in her early twenties, said. Completely disillusioned, she sat alone, on a wooden, park bench beside the lake, waiting for dawn to break. It had been a long night. There was not a soul in sight. Even the sounds of early morning had not yet begun to resound. 

Becky knew that shortly, the sun would burst through the total darkness and create a blazoning trail of light, right across the lake.

“If only I could walk that trail.” She knew that would not make things right. This time there was nothing that could fix what had been broken. “I need a friend,” she realized. “The only thing I could do was end that relationship, permanently. It's probably the hardest thing that I’ve ever had to do, but I did it.”

Just then, she heard a crackling sound. She turned, but saw no one. 

“I must be imagining things,” she thought. 

Suddenly, she jumped, as something cold and wet, brushed against her leg. Looking down, she spotted a tiny puppy. Its huge, brown eyes caught her attention immediately. The pup was wet, muddy and bedraggled looking, as it tried to snuggle up against her. 

“You poor little pup!” she said, as she picked him up. He was shivering. She held him tight, pulled off her scarf and wrapped him in it. “Where on earth did you come from?”

At that same moment, the sun made its regularly scheduled appearance.

“I don’t know who owns you or where you came from, but from now on, you are Sunny, to me,” she said, carefully checking the pup for any signs of identification. There was nothing.

Telephoning the Humane Society, later that morning, Becky learned that someone not wanting to keep a large litter of pups, had dropped them off right beside the lake. Several other people had found young pups there, too.

“Now you are mine, Sunny,” Becky said, as she cleaned him up. “I’m glad you don’t have anyone. Now, we have each other. I’ll get you checked over and you’ll need some shots, but from now on, we’re together.”

Forgotten: Stroke

“Son, call me if Grandpa has problems,” Ruth told Ned, her five-year old son, as she left for work. Normally, her father was fine with Ned helping him. 

“Young man, I’ve forgotten more than you’ll ever know,” John, his grandfather said, as Ned watched him trying to tie his shoelaces.

“He’s grumpy this morning,” thought Ned. “I know, Grandpa, but if you tie your shoelaces like that, you won’t be able to walk. Let me help you.” He knelt down, untied his grandfather’s shoelaces and re-tied them properly.

“I taught you how to tie yours,” said John, sternly.

Ned knew this was not one of Grandpa’s better days. “Grandpa,” said Ned, when he saw his grandfather take a package of chicken noodle soup mix down from the shelf. “May we have cereal for breakfast?”

John put the soup mix back. “The cereal bowls have disappeared again,” said John. He was searching for them in the spoon drawer.

“I found them,” replied Ned, smiling, as he took them out of the cupboard. “Bring two spoons.”

John dug in the freezer to find milk for their cereal.  

“It’s already on the table, Grandpa. Bring some berries.”

Ned knew there was something wrong.

“I’m tired,” John said. He sat down, awkwardly. His hands shook, as he began to slump forward.  

“I’ll feed you,” Ned offered. His grandfather shoved him away. Everything on the table flew across the room.

“Leave me alone,” John said, as he slipped off the chair and fell to the floor. 

“911, I need someone to help my Grandpa!” Ned had not forgotten how to call  911 for help.

“Mommy, I can’t wake Grandpa up,” Ned told his mother on the phone, several moments later. “He fell on the floor. I already called 911.”

“Good work, son,” a paramedic told him when they arrived. “We got here just in time. Your Grandpa will be fine.” 

“I’ve forgotten more than you’ll ever know,” John told Ned again, as he left in the ambulance.

“I know, Grandpa,” said Ned tearfully, as his mother hugged him tightly.

A Country Mile: Under the Bridge

It was a humid August day with not a cloud in the sky.

“It is hot!” said Monica, a teenage girl from the city. “Monty, can we go swimming? I brought my bathing suit.”   

“Sure!” said Monty, a tall, country boy, one of her friends from high school. “Bring your straw hat though!” Monty was excited about spending time with Monica. He knew that going for a swim would be perfect on a hot day. “For that, I would walk a country mile!” 

“What’s a country mile, Monty?” she asked, several minutes later, as they walked hand-in-hand down the dusty gravel road and up a long hill. “A mile is a mile. That’s five thousand, two hundred and eighty feet, right?”

“Right.”

“How far is it?” Monica asked, after they had walked up a second hill.

“It’s a ways yet,” replied Monty. “It’s nice to spend time together.”

“We must have walked at least a mile, Monty,” said Monica, a while later. She was not used to walking on gravel and stones. “Can we rest?”

“Sure! Let’s go sit under the bridge and soak our feet,” he replied, smiling at her. The place where they would go for a swim was still another mile further. Monty helped Monica climb down the sharp rocks. They splashed cool, fresh water on their faces. Then, Monty took off his shirt and spread it out on a large rock.

“That was sweet, of you!” she said, with surprise. “Thank you.”

“It is cooler here,” he said. “Feel better?”

“Much.”

Now, Monty was getting nervous. His hands felt cold and clammy, as he reached into his back pocket for something and clutched it tight. “Monica,” he said. “There is something I have wanted to ask you for a long time.” He took her hand gently and placed a black diamond ring, on her finger. “Would you go steady with me?” 

“This country mile was longer than I expected,” Monica told him later, as she admired her ring. “But, I am glad we decided to go swimming.” 

Heart Breaker: Broken Wing

From the moment Zoey was born, he was a heart breaker. He was a beautiful baby who everyone fell in love with immediately. But, Zoey would not acknowledge that love. Perhaps he just could not respond to it and thus, he distanced himself from everyone, right from the moment of birth.

“There are those among us who cannot accept love from others. We don’t always know why,” their doctor said. “They cannot give love to others, either.”

Zoey’s parents waited, only to find he did not babble like normal babies; nor did he use single words, or later on, two word phrases. Zoey’s parents and siblings were heartbroken not understanding what they did wrong before he was born.

“It may be autism,” one pediatrician suggested. “Sometimes, there is just too much pain,” he said. “The child internalizes that pain and cannot get past it. It hurts too much.”

Zoey had gone through a difficult birth. Were there other genetic or environmental factors involved? No one knew for sure. Alcohol, drugs and nicotine were not part of their normal family lifestyle.  

Even at five years of age Zoey, still distanced himself.

“Have you tried pet therapy?” a teacher asked.

“What kind of pet?” they wondered. No one seemed to have any answers.

Early one morning, Zoe walked out into the front yard. A baby robin had fallen out of its nest. As Zoey picked it up, it squirmed in pain. Its wing was broken. 

Zoey’s mother stood there amazed, as he brought it close to his face. Big tears welled up in his eyes. This was the most emotion he had ever shown for anything.

Somehow, Zoey instinctively knew what to do. Where he learned to splint a baby robin’s wing, no one knew, but that is exactly what he did using a branch and a shoelace. He picked handfuls of twigs and grass to build a nest. He spent hours looking for fish worms for it. He built a birdbath and played with the baby robin, splashing it gently with water, day after day. 

Then came the day when the baby robin was ready to fly.

“Bye, little birdie,” said Zoey.

“Is he an autistic savant?” his pediatrician asked, later.

“I only know he is a heart breaker,” replied his mother.

The Sparrow: The Tornado

“His eye is on the sparrow.” (1) The words and music of this song written by Civilla D. Martin and Charles H. Gabriel in 1905, echoed through Rachel’s mind, as she headed to town for her first guitar lesson. While waiting for the bus, she enjoyed the birds serenading one another. “And I know he watches me.” (2)

Rachel felt a twinge of delight watching one bird flitting in and out of tree branches. “You are beautiful! God, how can you watch over every sparrow?” Suddenly, the bird flew away. In fact, all of the birds disappeared and it became strangely silent.

“They heard my bus coming.” 

Seconds later, she spotted a narrow, funnel-shaped cloud, with dust and debris at its base, heading towards her.  

Rachel froze. “My God, that’s a tornado!” The tornado moved erratically. As it came closer, its dark funnel dropped to the ground like a hungry vacuum relentlessly devouring everything in sight. Its distant roar increased in intensity. “God, show me what to do!”

“Run!” her inner voice said. “Get under the bridge.” There were no other options.

“Can I outrun this tornado?” Rachel dropped everything and ran for her life. Sand and gravel pelted her, as she slid down the steep embankment. She grabbed one of the huge beams and hung on, as tree branches and other debris flew by. It seemed like forever, but the loud roar ended almost as quickly as it began.

“His eye is on the sparrow,” went through Rachel’s mind, as she spotted a bird perched on a beam.

“We are safe," she assured the sparrow. “My guitar?”

She headed home, not knowing what to expect. Half a mile from home, she found her battered guitar case beside the road. Inside, her guitar was unscathed. Fortunately, Rachel’s home was still standing. 

Rachel moved on in life to become a gospel singer.

“And I know He watches me,” she sang, at almost every concert.

1. http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/His_Eye_Is_on_the_Sparrow

2. Ibid.

The Fire: The Forest Fire

Heavy, acrid smoke lingered in the air, as Grant, a soft-spoken man, his wife, Marcy and their children ate breakfast. Suddenly, the phone rang.

"God help us all,” prayed Grant, almost dropping the phone on the kitchen counter. “We have to leave, right now,” he said. “Children, grab your jackets and runners, quickly!”

He beckoned his wife towards the door. Her face became pale, as she realized they had just received an immediate evacuation notice from the local fire department.

“The chief says we’re in imminent danger, so there’s no time to waste. The highway will be closed, shortly.”  

“Don’t panic, Grant," said Marcy. "We've got everything we need in order to spend a few days at the evacuation center. We knew it could happen today. This forest fire has been running rampant.” 

“I hoped it would never happen to us.”

Gazing at the raging inferno growing on the distant horizon, they knew it was only a matter of hours before their home, as well as everything they owned, would probably go up in smoke. The wind was picking up too, carrying black smoke that made breathing difficult.

“Grab your wallet and my purse,” ordered Marcy. “Yesterday, I packed enough food, clothing and bedding for all of us in the car.”

“My fire fighting gear and fire extinguisher are in the trunk, too.”

He took one last look at their four-bedroom home located in the massive stand of fir trees, as his wife, children and their pup, jumped into the car.

“We built this home with our own hands, God. Please let it be standing, when we come back. Keep the highway open, too.”

“Seat belts, everyone!”

Loud sirens resounded as they drove down the steep, mountain slope into town. Dozens of people were already at the evacuation center.

“I love you,” he said to his wife and frightened children. “Stay safe.”

“It’s going to be a long day,” thought Grant, joining the growing group of firefighters, gathered at the fire hall. 

“I have fought many forest fires, but never one to save my own home.”

The Game: The Stalker

The middle-aged, heavy-set man with dark hair, seldom spoke more than a word. He always watched Serena when he smoked outside in his yard. He smoked across the street facing her front door, while waiting for his bus. He came up behind her in the grocery store, checked her open purse and disappeared, when she saw him.

It soon became apparent that stalking was his game, a game without players. It was fun for him, but it terrified Serena.

“Get out of here!” a man’s low voice commanded one morning, as Serena stood beside her car. She turned to see who was speaking. She saw the man bending down in front of his house. He was trying to stay out of her line of vision, but he was too late. She had spotted him holding his cell phone.

“Get out of here!” that same voice commanded moments later, when she turned on the television in her living room. Suddenly, she realized the voice transmission had come through his cell phone frequency.

Soon, she found other victims including teenage girls.

“Who is this?” a young girl’s voice cried out. “When is this going to end?”

Listening to her words transmitted on incoming airwaves above the sounds of a television program, Serena sensed her fear and desperation.

“How many others is he traumatizing?”  

Over the next few days while listening closely, Serena heard numerous abusive messages above the voices on the television in her living room and bedroom. The living room radio on her cd player conveyed similar messages, as did her bedroom radio. The taped messages came through loud and clear.

Driving past his house one morning, a derogatory message came through her car radio. The second time, it was at almost the same spot.

On her way home a few days later, Serena saw a high communication tower. Looking at the location of the tower in relation to her home, it lined up perfectly with a huge iron cross on the top of a nearby church.  

When consulted about what was happening, the cable company suggested the possibility of radio-television-telephone frequency interference, advising her that adapters operating on different frequencies might help.

Serena had her doubts as this man was obviously a stalker.

The Toy: A Double Tragedy Averted

It was only a toy, or at least that is what Todd’s parents thought when they first bought it for their one year old, at the toy store. It appeared to be a fun toy for everyone including Todd's parents and the small family dog.

Todd played with it for several hours throughout the early evening.

A near tragedy unfolded the next morning, when Todd awakened earlier than normal. He stood up, reached over the side of his crib and picked up the toy that was on his dresser top. He loved its bright colors and the way the parts moved. Soon, the toy was in his mouth. Bit by bit, Todd succeeded in separating the various parts of the toy. He sat in his crib playing with them, quietly. A few of the parts fell on the floor.

Their dog was the first to sense that something was wrong with Todd. In fact, he was the only one that heard him choking.

“Woof, woof!”

Persistent barking and scratching at their bedroom door awakened Todd’s parents. They knew something was wrong and quickly ran into his bedroom.

Todd’s color was already dusky, as he lay unconscious in his crib, surrounded by the various parts of his new toy.

“Call 911!” his mother ordered. Seeing the toy was in pieces, she knew that Todd had probably swallowed one of its parts. It appeared likely that it lodged in his airway and was blocking his breathing. She knew he would suffocate, unless she was able to remove it.

Todd’s mother picked him up and quickly began to do the Heimlich maneuver for children. Fortunately, she managed to dislodge the part of the toy immediately. With Todd’s airway cleared, his mother and father started CPR on him. Moments later, he began to cough, cry and breathe normally. Relieved and tearful, his mother held him close.

A little while later, much to their dismay, the parents wound up doing the Heimlich maneuver on their dog, too. He had swallowed a part of the new toy, too.  

Supermoon: Supermoon Questions

Dean, a grade six student struggling with his homework, stood near the window gazing at the moon. “Is there such a thing as a supermoon?” he asked his sister, Denise, a high-school student. "Isn’t every moon a super moon?”

“Do you know what the earth-moon-sun system is?” she asked.

Dean shook his head.

“On March nineteenth, 2011, there was a supermoon. It was too cloudy to see it, but I wrote an essay on it.”

“You did?”

“The name supermoon was coined by astrologer Richard Nolle, in 1979.” 

Denise had his full attention now.

“A supermoon is…a new or full moon which occurs with the moon at or near (within 90% of) its closest approach to earth in a given orbit (perigee). In short, earth, moon and sun are all in a line, with moon in its nearest approach to earth." 

“With a ruler, I could put the earth, moon and sun in a straight line, right? Could I calculate how close the moon came to the earth with calipers?” asked Dean. “What is ‘perigee’?”

“A perigee-syzygy of the earth-moon-sun system or supermoon is a full or new moon that coincides with a close approach by the moon to the earth.” 

“Perigee-syzygy, those would be great words for a spelling bee, wouldn't they?” asked Dean, laughing as she struggled to pronounce the words.

“Come on, Dean, get serious.”

Suspecting this was beyond his understanding, she cut out three circles, labeled them earth, moon and sun, and placed them in a straight line.

“Great! When the earth, moon and sun are in a straight line and the moon is closer to the earth than usual, it’s a supermoon? I don’t have to do this assignment, do I? I could just use the three circles, right?”

“Dean, do your assignment!”

“Did the supermoon cause the tsunami and earthquake in Japan?”

“You ask too many questions. What do you think?”

The Inquiry: A Criminal Offense

To her, it seemed like a Kafka  kind of inquiry, as the woman’s inaccessible persecutors never revealed their faces much less their whereabouts, throughout the months during which the inquiry transpired.

“What is my crime? Why am I being subjected to continual harassment and torment?”

The accusations continually hurled at her were too vague to pinpoint their origin or source.

“The sins of Eve,” she heard a man's voice state in a distinct voice, transmitted over a communication system that invaded the privacy of her home.

“Ridiculous! Eve’s sins were her own. So were Adam’s.” That was the closest she ever came to identifying her crime. “I claim victory in Jesus’ name.”

Voluntary, solitary confinement in her own home failed to bring about resolution, as did her repeated attempts to respond to the man’s persistent voice.

“I don’t deserve this abuse.”

Soon, other voices spoke in a derogatory manner, too. They always seemed to be the same accusatory voices using a wide range of demeaning, vulgar words. Some were male, others female, but even teenager’s and children’s voices were transmitted.

“I refuse to wear those labels. My accusers should wear them. I never hear those voices when I am not at home. Is this transmission through shortwave radios, or another frequency? Am I the target? Regardless, this is interference.”

With that, she began doing research into different kinds of radio transmissions, soon learning that this had happened repeatedly over the years on different shortwave radios. It was resolved by changing broadband frequencies.

“Radio transmissions which could control or alter human thought patterns,” she read.

It was obvious the crime was on their part.

“Has the nature of man changed? Are these the sins of a new Adam? Isn’t intrusion into one’s home via their communication system, a criminal offense?”

High Tide: Nightfall

Two people stood on the bridge, watching a lone heron perch precariously on one leg while fishing in the shallow water. Their long, dark shadows gradually merged into one. As time passed, the distorted shadow in the water of the little Campbell River, grew longer and finally disappeared. 

A lone woodpecker relentlessly pounding a hole in a tree stump, gave up his task, as night descended. The seagulls standing watch on the crumbling, cement pillars of the old, wooden pedestrian bridge that led to the Semiahmoo Indian Reserve, drifted off to sleep. The nature trail along the river’s edge demarcated by trees, shrubs and long tufts of grass, became deserted. Yellow daisies and white buttercups in full blossom, disappeared in the darkness.

Silence reigned.

It had been a clear evening, but often, a heavy, foreboding mist hid most of the east parkland and the beach. At other times, the bright, warm sun radiated rays of joy and delight that virtually danced on the water.

High tide, when accompanied by angry winds, brought rushing waves of salt water that pounded the beach. The waves, depending upon their size and strength, carried pieces of dark, wet driftwood inland, invariably leaving them stranded in crooked lines, among the stones. Other pieces of driftwood lay partly submerged in the symmetrical waves of silt-like sand from the river. Pieces of driftwood, partially burned during campfires, emerged as huge, chunks of black charcoal.

    

Low tide usually ushered forth a half-mile of sandy ocean beach occupied by treasure seekers. Wet, dark-green seaweed lay in shallow pools of warm water along with brightly colored, smooth stones and vacated clam shells that caught the treasure seeker’s eye. The occasional crab meandered through the sand heading towards the water.

Was this particular nightfall with its foreboding, disappearing shadow, indicative of their future in White Rock? How many more high tides and low tides were there destined to be for them, or would there just be a relentless changing of the tides after the two merged into one shadow, never to return.

The Telephone: Fear of the Telephone:

“Don’t answer the telephone!” Rachelle commanded her psychology student, who was also her boarder.

Amanda nodded. “Aren’t you going to answer your telephone? It might be important!”

Rachelle just let the call go to her answering machine.

Over time, Rachelle appeared increasingly fearful of telephone calls. No one knew why she cringed every time the telephone rang. 

“Let it ring. The answering machine will pick it up.”

Sometimes, after identifying the caller, Rachelle would pick up the telephone and speak to the party on the telephone.

“Don’t answer the telephone when we are not here!”

“What if the call is for me?” Amanda wondered. 

"Telemarketers can be overbearing, frightening and frustrating, because they are so aggressive with their telemarketing. So are creditors,” said Amanda.

Rachelle remained silent.

“Is this real fear, or something imaginary?” she wondered. As a friend and student counselor, Amanda decided to look for a way to resolve this dilemma. No one should be afraid to answer a telephone and yet Rachelle seemed to be.

“Is there such a thing as a telephone phobia?” she asked herself, as she went online to research the topic.  

“Telephone phobia (telephonophobia, telephobia) is reluctance or fear of making or taking phone calls, literally, “fear of telephone.”

“What is she afraid of? Maybe she has been receiving heavy breather calls from a stalker?”

Amanda found numerous possible answers, including fear of embarrassment, related to inappropriate responses like stuttering and stammering.

“Shyness or the fear of having nothing to say should not be her problem. Is this avoidance behavior, or fear of receiving bad, or upsetting news from callers? Is it work related?”

She decided to confront Rachelle, openly.

“There’s the possibility of social phobias, social anxiety or a bipolar disorder related to fear of answering the telephone, but there are organizations like Social Anxiety Anonymous, that help people who have fear of the telephone, Rachelle.”

“Aren’t you going overboard on this?” responded Rachelle, with a smile. “I might as well tell you, as you are going to find out, sooner or later. My husband has another woman and I have a new boyfriend.”    

The Riot: An Election

“Oh no, this looks like a dissident, political student movement. It could turn into a riot!”

Roman, a tall, dark-haired, political science major, stood in the arched entrance way of the huge, concrete building, in the political science arena of the university campus. He listened to the students arguing about the recent election announcement.

Tension grew rapidly, as the growing group of students became even more vociferous.  

“We don’t want an election!"

“Is there some way we can stop this election?”

“God help us all!” 

Roman realized this was becoming increasingly aggressive in nature.  

“This election announcement should not have happened!”

“The politicians in this country might need another election, but do we, the people?”

“Will an election change anything?”

The crowd of stunned young men and women was not about to be pacified. Many appeared upset and pale, as if in a state of shock. Almost everyone seemed to be in panic mode.

Roman knew an election might mean major, long-term, financial implications for university students and their families. One wrong word could trigger a student riot.

“With all of the current, tragic events taking place in the world, what are our politicians thinking by calling an election?”

“A coalition government is not an option!”

Roman knew there had been recent controversy about numerous government issues. There appeared to be no resolution, as the new budget proposal had met with immediate rejection.  

“Would it not be better overall time and energy management, to help other countries?”

“We have to set a good example for others!”

A political science student, a young girl who he barely knew, suddenly stood on the podium in the center of the arena. She picked up the microphone and began to speak above the noise of the crowd.   

“Fellow students,” she stated emphatically. “Settle down! This is a democracy. We settle our political difference s in a peaceful manner, unlike some other countries. Currently, government upheaval is running rampant, all around the world. There have been many recent natural disasters, too. Is this discord, unrest and political chaos, an indirect result of the super moon, too?”   

She had their attention.

He Was So Vain: Corky, the Cocky Cockroach

“He was so vain, but he no longer is, as he has finally met his match.”

“Just how vain was he?”

Let us recount the tale of the fall of the narcissistic, arrogant and egotistical cockroach named Corky, the cocky cockroach. Perhaps those words are still too hollow to portray his vanity accurately. Corky’s pomp and circumstance as king of cockroach castle, quickly went to his head. The others cockroaches watched in horror, as Corky placed himself high on the community pedestal and virtually snubbed everyone who he perceived as being of lesser worth. 

If Corky could have boasted of anything, it would have been his ability to brag about his own achievements and abilities, which virtually amounted to nothing. They had no merit, substance or worth in the eyes of others.

A one-cockroach parade, where Corky could toot his own horn or beat his own drum, would never have been sufficient to satisfy his vainglory. He needed and wanted more. The self-important, cocky cockroach was excessively proud of his appearance, but in a crowd of cockroaches, he was not any different in appearance. He was simply a cockroach and a cockroach looks like a cockroach.

Everyone knew Corky’s futile attempts at reigning king of cockroach castle, would ultimately lead to his downfall simply because they were unprofitable for others. Being haughty, did not get him anywhere, other than out the door.

“Corky was the first out the door?”

“That indeed he was, and one footstep brought about his demise.’

Such was the ultimate resolution of that cockroach castle problem, but then there arose another problem.

Corky’s predecessor, another self-appointed, new, but equally precocious king of cockroach  castle began to do and say exactly the same thing. He was a carbon copy of Corky, the cocky cockroach, in every way and thus, ultimately destined to meet the same fate.

“There can really only be one king,” the other, more humble cockroaches all agreed. “That cockroach king is the least among us all. We will exalt him and only him.”

  

That is exactly what they did.

She Was So Vain: The Saga of Penelope Peacock

The saga of Penelope Peacock is not for her self-glorification, but for posterity’s sake, as it takes place in a woman’s world of woes, in every era.

“She was so vain.”

“Just how vain was she?”

“On a scale of one to ten, with ten as the highest possible score, Penelope rated at least an eleven in her own eyes.”

Penelope was born like the rest of us, simply a person. She came into the world the same way we all do. Destined with the fate of the vainglorious, Penelope’s pride was ultimately her downfall.

One part of Penelope’s vanity had to do with her prettiness, an outer beauty unsurpassed by the beauty of others, at least in her eyes. Of course, peacocks are beautiful, particularly the males, but sadly, her inner beauty was sorely lacking.

Those of lesser beauty took pride in imagining they were friends with pretty Penelope. She never rewarded anyone for adoration; instead, she abused everyone because of their homeliness for which she felt the need to humble them. Penelope was the only one who could possibly occupy the throne at Peacock Palace, at least in her eyes. To remain on her precarious throne, she demeaned everyone.

One day, Penelope’s haughtiness, reflected in her mirror, led to her downfall.

The saga goes like this.

Penelope always saw her own beauty as beyond perfection; everyone else had imperfect beauty. One day, while preening her feathers in front of a mirror, she boasted of her perfect prettiness to a young girl. Suddenly, the light of the mirror exposed the truth about her inner unhappiness, jealousy and contempt, which was anything but beautiful.

“Perfection is in heaven,” said the girl, who radiated inner beauty.

“In heaven?” screamed Penelope. “So I am not perfectly pretty?”

“Not on earth,” cried the little girl. “We are only truly beautiful in the eyes of God. He sees us beyond our imperfection while we are here.”

That sealed Penelope Peacock’s fate. She was no longer able to see herself as perfectly pretty. Alas, she died, sad and alone. Her vanity did her in.

Lost: Lost Patient

“Staff, may I have your attention, please!” The Director had called a meeting to make an urgent announcement to the Nursing Home staff. It appeared no one had been able to find Zack, an eighty-one year old patient with severe Alzheimer’s disease. He was not in his room at six am when morning medications were distributed.

Several hours later, he was still missing.

Everyone appeared stunned. This did not happen in a high-class nursing home!

“Zack is lost?” someone whispered.

“He may have wandered away during the night.”

“He was confined to the locked ward because he used to drink heavily.”

“His eyesight is not good so he may have gone outside.”

“How can anyone get lost around here?”

“How did he get past the locked doors?”

“Where would he have gone?”

“Maybe he went to the liquor store?”

“How did he get out without being spotted on our security cameras?”

The Director of the Nursing Home had alerted the police, as well as the hospital emergency department immediately. She also telephoned his family and scheduled an appointment with them.

“Staff, please do not panic,” she advised them. “Everything here must continue as normal. Alzheimer’s patients frequently get lost, because they try to go home to wherever they lived in the past. Those are the most vivid memories that they have. The police will be here shortly, with a tracking dog, so if someone can bring me something that might carry his scent, like a well-worn pair of his shoes, that might help. Check his room and make a list of what is missing in terms of his clothing or valuables. See if he took his coat, hat and boots. Look for his denture and glasses, as well.”

She continued.  

“Security is checking all of the buildings and grounds. He cannot have gone too far on his own, unless he managed to get out to the bus stop, or someone picked him up. Check his medication record, and see when he had his last medications and treatments.”

The Director paused, momentarily.

“Staff, there is a high degree of urgency here, as Zack also has Type 1 Diabetes and needs his insulin.”