Found: On a Park Bench

“Sir, are you all right?” It was around noon when Lynda, an avid jogger, found Zack, an eighty-one year old patient with severe Alzheimer’s disease.

“I found an elderly man lying on a park bench,” she advised the 911 responder. “I tried to awaken him, but he may be in a coma. Please hurry.”

By the time the police and ambulance arrived on the scene, it was almost too late.

The doctor at the local hospital suggested to his family that it could be touch and go for Zack, as he had Type 1 Diabetes and his blood sugar level was far too low. Not having had anything to eat or drink since suppertime the evening before, he was seriously hypoglycemic.

Later, when the police spoke to Lynda, she had no idea who the man was, or where he came from. She had been concerned about him, because he was not wearing a coat.

A further investigation by the police revealed that earlier, he had walked approximately a mile from his Nursing Home. A new bus driver had let him board the city bus. Not having a bus pass or any change, she had given Zack a free ride, on compassionate grounds.

“He looked upset,” the young female bus driver explained to the police. “The man told me that he had to attend his daughter’s funeral. How could I possibly deny him a ride across town on the bus?” She realized that she should have alerted the police, when he got off the bus across from a park on the other side of town, several hours later.

“I am sorry,” she said to Zack’s wife. “He stumbled a bit as if he was dizzy, but he did not smell like alcohol.”

“Zack has done this before. He has gone to his daughter’s funeral many times,” his wife explained to her, gently.

What she did not tell the bus driver was that their only daughter had died at birth, fifty-two years prior to that time.

The Spider Web: Fatal Entanglement

“Life is a series of silk-like threads, strung together like a spider web,” said Angelina, an avid writer.   

“Am I the spider or the fly?” asked Nicholas, smiling at her..

“That is deep!” replied Angelina. 

“It depends upon whether I set the trap, or fall into it, right?”

“Or if you are a computer geek.”

Angelina and Nicholas laughed. They were nineteen and developing what appeared to be a good relationship, as they made their way across a deserted piece of property located at the end of a gravel road.

Suddenly, they stumbled upon an old, deserted cabin. The heavy dark-green moss on the walls and roof, caused the cabin to blend into its own natural environment. The cabin, tumbling over and sinking deep into the moist peat moss, had something mysteriously inviting about it. Perhaps it was the pink, wild-rose bushes, brambles and tall oak trees, in the swamp-like stetting. 

It was the perfect place-in-waiting for a literary artist’s dream to come true, a wonderful word picture to paint. Maybe it was destined to be a tender trap. Obviously, no one had entered this cabin, for a very long time.

Across the doorway hung a beautiful, undisturbed spider web, glistening with dewdrops and radiating early morning light. Hundreds of dead and dried insects hung in among the horizontal and vertical threads.

“There she is!” Angelina had spotted the huge spider waiting for her next victim of prey, the one destined to be her breakfast. From the spider’s size, Angelina suspected its appetite was insatiable and that soon, the unsuspecting guest would meet fatal entanglement in her huge web. 

It was time to eat and this spider was hungry. This was obviously not a cobweb and so appeared likely that at times, this spider would recycle some of her own proteinaceous, silk-like threads to sustain her energy.

“Do we dare trespass?” asked Nicholas.

“You might disturb her eggs,” replied Angelina. “Watch out for sticky threads!”

“Are there non-sticky threads too?”

“Of course, the non-sticky threads are the natural pathway of the spider. Did you ever see a spider caught in her own web?”

Several hours later, Angelina walked out of there, alone.

The Internet: Invisible Thread

“There was a time when thread was thread,” said Bernie, a seventy-two year old man. “Thread has gone global. Nobody knows what it means anymore!” Bernie was frustrated with the Internet, as were others enrolled in the course, at the senior’s center. “My mother used to sit by the hour in her rocking chair, with a needle and thread. She made all of our clothes. Beautiful to behold, they were, too.”

“Times have changed. So has the internet, Bernie,” said Mandy, his personal trainer. “Once you master the art of communication via internet threads, you will love working on your computer. You can have conversations with different people, all at the same time.”

“I carry on a conversation, with one person at a time,” Bernie argued. “Isn’t that enough?”

“You carry on one conversation with the butcher, another with your grocer, several with your buddies in the coffee shop and others with your wife and children, all within the same framework of time.”

“Not all at the same time!” replied Bernie, in a huff. “I talk to one person at a time, except when I lead our farmer’s group.”

“Internet threads are not all at exactly the same time either, but they are in the same framework of time.”

“I can have different conversations going on with invisible internet threads?”

“Yes, you can,” replied Mandy. “It’s like sending letters and waiting for replies on the Internet, with different threads of conversations running at the same time.”

“These cannot be real threads.”

“They are real, but they are electronic threads.”

“Can I start a private thread, if I want to talk to my banker?” asked Bernie, who still seemed skeptical.

“Yes, you can initiate a private thread at any time, on any topic.”

“My mother used to use invisible thread. The farmer’s group will know my banking business, if they read threads that are not private. Anyhow, I have to go home, change my threads and go do my banking.”

Anger: Time Out

“So, I have to sit here and count to ten first. Then, I can explode?” 

Tiffany, a tall, blonde teenager waited for her counselor to respond. Her high school principal had sent her to the office for anger management counseling.

“You probably won’t explode, if you count to ten first,” replied Moxie, quietly. “If you do, the degree of the explosion will be less than it would be otherwise.”

“One, two, three…” counted Tiffany in a high-pitched voice. “I am too angry to count to ten.”

“Time-out! Want to talk about it?”

“I want to scream, or throw something!” replied Tiffany, who was obviously upset. “It could make matters worse.”

“That would depend upon what you throw, or who you throw it at, right? Have you always had bouts of anger?”

“When I was angry as a child, I would lie on the floor and scream at the top of my lungs. I would not stop until I got my way,” said Tiffany. Gradually, she settled down. “My parents and teachers got fed up with my temper tantrums.”

“No one ever taught you anger management techniques, as a child?”

“They tried, but I was pretty precocious.”

Moxie paused, as Tiffany fidgeted and looked away.

“Jesus got angry at the money lenders in the Temple and overturned their tables, as an expression of His righteous anger,” Moxie suggested. “If He could get angry, then we can too, right?”

“Did that solve the problem?”

“Be angry, and do not sin,” Moxie suggested. “That is what the Bible teaches, as the key to successful anger management.”

“So it is all right for me to be angry, but I should not do anything that might be sin on my part?”

Tiffany looked directly at Moxie and waited for her to respond.

“There is a good response to anger, one that fights against injustice, and a not-good response that can lead to sin through destruction, or even death. We choose which kind of response we have to anger.”  

“My boyfriend is going out with another girl.”

Etiquette: The Princesses

In the early years after the Second World War, the role models for little girls were the young princesses, Princess Elizabeth and Princess Margaret. 

It was time for afternoon tea, as two little girls sat a children’s table, sipping iced-tea from miniature teacups.

“Mommy says we have to learn the etiquette of princesses.”

Eight-year old Lucy held her teacup with her small pinkie out-stretched for balance, showing her little sister how to drink tea graciously. Dressed in pretty cotton dresses, white socks and patent leather shoes, and with matching bows in their hair, they looked like princesses.

“Sit up straight at the table. Hold your tea cup like this.” Graciousness seemed to come naturally for Lucy, but it was not that easy for her six-year old sister, Miranda, who was clumsy by nature.

“Grandma gave me this set of dishes for my sixth birthday,” Miranda boasted. It was a four-piece set of porcelain, miniature doll dishes, with tiny red and white flowers. “I love it.” 

“I know,” said Lucy. Inwardly, Lucy was jealous because Miranda received more attention from her grandmother. “You said thank you?”

“Of course.” Miranda was always appreciative of the gifts her grandmother gave her.  

“You spilled it!” said Lucy, angrily. “At least it’s only in the saucer. You have to learn how to do it right! Take your spoon out of the teacup. Do not put your finger through the handle! Can’t you ever do anything right?”

“I am sorry,” replied Miranda. “You always do everything right!”

“Don’t stir your tea in a circle. Just fold it back and forth with your teaspoon. Then, put it on the right side of the teacup, not on the table. As you drink your tea, place the cup back in the saucer, not on the table or on your lap.”

“How will I remember?” asked Miranda. “I’m going to play baseball. That’s more fun!”    

“There’ll only be one queen. How will I ever make you into a princess?”

Emergency: Insect Allergy

Angelina, a nineteen-year old girl, had been wandering through a deserted piece of property at the end of a gravel road, with her new boyfriend, Nicholas. Out of curiosity, he had entered an old, deserted, moss-covered cabin with its doorway blocked by a huge, shimmering, spider web.

“Oh, no!” he had exclaimed.

Angelina waited, but Nicholas did not come back out.

Moments later, a huge swarm of angry bees stormed through the doorway and forced Angelina to run.  

“Nicholas?” she hollered from a distance, but he did not answer.

“I didn’t get stung, but Nicholas probably did. He may have insect allergies. Maybe he is allergic to bee venom and unconscious by now. I have to get help for him, fast.”

In the distance, she spotted an elderly man with a long, white beard, dressed in a worn-out gray hat and jacket, dark pants and black gum-rubber boots. He carried an old, leather knapsack over his shoulder, and walked towards her slowly, using a walking stick to keep his balance in the spongy peat moss.

“Please hurry! This is an emergency.”

“Hello, I’m Devon. I decided to check out the cabin when I saw your car,” the man replied. “You are on private property!” 

Angelina apologized and quickly explained the situation.

“Put this over your head,” Devon said, taking a mosquito net out of his knapsack. “Pull your socks up over your pant legs and tuck your shirt cuffs into these gloves.

Angelina did exactly as Devon suggested.

“We’ll make a smoke torch and go in after him,” said Devon, calling 911 on his cell phone. “Hopefully, we reach him in time. I have matches, but we need dry wood to start a fire and damp grass to make smoke. Bees don’t like smoke!”

They made their way carefully to the old log cabin.

“Maybe the spider bit him.” 

“Spider bites are painful,” said Devon. “I carry adrenalin for insect bites when I am wandering in the bush, just in case.”

“Are we too late?” wondered Angelina.

Fallout: From a Child's Perspective

“I can’t sleep, Mommy,” said seven-year old Nancy. “I am worried about fallout. Is it going to hurt us?”   

“What did you hear about fallout?” asked her mother, concerned because her daughter had not been sleeping well after the earthquake, tsunami and nuclear accident in Japan. She did not want to play outside and was refusing to eat or drink almost everything. “Where did you hear about it?”

“Children shouldn't have to worry about fallout, from a nuclear accident in Japan,” she thought to herself.       

“My teacher told us about it. We are all scared because of fallout.”

“Did she tell you that nuclear reactors do not explode like bombs?” her mother asked, gently. She vaguely recalled the building of fallout shelters in the 1950’s and 1960’s. 

“On the news, they said that there is radiation in the food and water. That is bad for us and could make us sick, right?”

“That’s in Japan, honey, not here,” replied her mother. “Did you see how they dropped water on the nuclear reactors to control how much radiation is released from them?”

“Yes, but it did not work.”

“Nancy, in Japan, there are moms and dads with children, who they love dearly. They are doing everything they can to protect them. They check the radiation levels of the food and water, so that their children are safe.”

“We do that here too? Can I eat and drink whatever I want?”

“That's right, dear,” replied her mother, who was relieved to have found the source of her daughter’s anxiety. “Now, off to sleep you go!”

“We don’t have to build a fallout shelter here?”

“No dear.”

“I am so glad. The only thing I have to worry about is that I don’t fall out of bed.”

“Moms and dads look after that too.”