tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-15704984472257761982024-03-13T21:12:10.285-07:00From Grandpa's Heart Messages of hope, love and happiness ....Dusty Greinhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14010307746753497540noreply@blogger.comBlogger41125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1570498447225776198.post-6148179523490373922023-06-02T01:52:00.044-07:002023-06-03T10:21:23.691-07:00When You Find Your Soul Mate, Again (part one)<p></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjm80-UuG2UP23Uk0J2hFnSAsEqdjPChHWmQzOujUCb1_3Qldw6NJUJpLHwPuwPkSrvciiZZM72C3giZNzUsFkyKNXI0ul2Cp5LW4aiNGYZnMTvKDysgBIVINw5Hud3R6ds8DiPw3SpRvsOStZBCvmBjMMbbyIgdS-aeYB_AiMLwvu3YByS0V-GV_dX/s1204/pooh%20in%20love.jpg" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1200" data-original-width="1204" height="257" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjm80-UuG2UP23Uk0J2hFnSAsEqdjPChHWmQzOujUCb1_3Qldw6NJUJpLHwPuwPkSrvciiZZM72C3giZNzUsFkyKNXI0ul2Cp5LW4aiNGYZnMTvKDysgBIVINw5Hud3R6ds8DiPw3SpRvsOStZBCvmBjMMbbyIgdS-aeYB_AiMLwvu3YByS0V-GV_dX/w258-h257/pooh%20in%20love.jpg" width="258" /></a></div>
<h1 style="text-align: center;"></h1>
<div style="text-align: left;"><p style="text-align: left;">If you have followed my posts here, or over on the Prose writing site, then you will know 2013 was a difficult year for Grandpa. A heart attack, a broken back, and then the ending of a 33 year-long marriage, made for some necessary reflection and change. I rediscovered my passion for writing at that point, and it turned out I actually enjoyed my own company.</p><p style="text-align: left;">Sadly, I quit really caring much about my body, and instead focused on my mind, my heart, and my writing. I decided that being alone was okay, and I planned on finishing whatever was left of my life by myself, with my family as support.</p><p style="text-align: left;">That was true for the next 10 years, and I slowly began to age more, I gained a lot of weight, wrote stories, studied classical poetry, and produced a lot of books for other authors. In 2020, as we all dealt with the Covid-19 pandemic, I found myself at almost 350 pounds, and knew I had to do something. Not because I really cared what anyone saw when they looked at me—my family were the only ones around me anyway—but because my size and weight were in my way. I had no illusions about wearing a swimsuit again, I simply wanted to be able to bend over and tie my shoes, and not run out of breath walking up a flight of stairs.</p><p style="text-align: left;">I elected to have an operation which removed about 70% of my stomach, forcing me to eat smaller portions, more often. Most people lose 100-150 pounds after the operation. I only lost 70 and then I plateaued, mostly due to my sedentary lifestyle, which was easy to blame on my broken back, but was more about not caring enough to do the required work. Losing that weight really did improve my quality of life, and I have stayed in the 280-290 range since then. </p><p style="text-align: left;">In early January of 2023, a torn rotator-cuff required major shoulder surgery. After surgery, I found myself around family members, but mostly recovering alone, doing physical therapy alone, and living and sleeping alone in my room, all the while convincing myself that what I had was enough.</p><h2 style="text-align: left;">The Call</h2><p style="text-align: left;">Back in 2015 I had reconnected, via Facebook, with the first girl I ever kissed while we were teenagers, back in the days before Mt. St. Helens woke up angry, when cable TV was still new, MTV was all the rage, and cell phones were still science-fiction. I wasn't sure she would even talk to me, because back then I had run away from the intense feelings we shared, without ever telling her why.</p><p style="text-align: left;">Luckily, she did message me back, and it seemed like she had actually forgiven me, which warmed my heart. We stayed Facebook friends for years, and it was nice but that was the extent of our relationship, or so I thought. </p><p style="text-align: left;">Then, on January 24th, 2023, I posted a published poem (<a href="https://theprose.com/post/591226/ever-flowing" rel="nofollow" target="_blank"><span style="color: red;">Ever Flowing</span></a>) on my Facebook feed. She saw it and messaged me, asking if she could call me on the phone to discuss it. I gave her my number and she called me. I was prepared to reminisce about our teenage years, and hopefully apologize for running away from her.</p><p style="text-align: left;">That all changed the minute I heard her voice. </p><div style="text-align: left;">Something magical happened at that point. She walked right through all of my walls and defenses, and I found that she fit perfectly inside a hole I never even realized I had been carrying in my soul for most of my life. We talked for over an hour, even though it felt like mere minutes. I wasn't sure how or why, but I knew I wanted to talk to her more.</div><p style="text-align: left;">That was the beginning of what became nightly conversations that lasted hours, as we discovered the truth behind our early years, and learned about each other's lives and families. Unexpectedly, I found myself very quickly falling deeply in love with this wonderful woman I hadn't seen in decades, and we both discovered that through the grace of God, we share an almost mystical spiritual bond.</p><h2 style="text-align: left;">The Poem</h2><p style="text-align: left;">On February 14th, after a little over two weeks, I wrote a poem (<a href="https://theprose.com/post/708764/from-her-back-to-her" rel="nofollow" target="_blank"><i><span style="color: red;">From Her, Back To Her</span></i></a>) about what had happened, what was still happening, and what I hoped could happen going forward. I didn't even realize the significance of the date, or that this was the first Valentine's Day gift I had ever given her.</p><p style="text-align: left;"></p><p style="text-align: left;">The strangest part of the story to this point, was that even though I had intentionally stopped using the word PROMISE with anyone, I made her three actual promises in that poem on that day, after less than a month of being re-connected.</p><p style="text-align: left;">It turns out that while I had once written a poem about that first kiss, which we shared so many years ago, this was the first poem I wrote not just about her, but for her. It was not, however, the last; since then I have created a couple others which are even deeper and more sentimental, but that is a tale for another day.</p><p style="text-align: left;">For now, just know Grandpa has opened his soul and handed his heart to an amazing woman, and she is holding it in her beautiful and skilled hands now. It is important to know she is safeguarding it, since this message, like always, comes straight,</p><p style="text-align: center;"><i>From Grandpa's Heart...</i><br /></p></div>Dusty Greinhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14010307746753497540noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1570498447225776198.post-58189667692443588102022-04-24T02:53:00.001-07:002023-06-02T00:55:58.082-07:00Why Pooh?<p><!--[if gte mso 9]><xml>
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</p><p class="MsoNormal"></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgaUs40EVknn8tXImoljBhWQ65HOXmIA2LqBTjehhcJUS-kjzx8SHVgv5FACMer2OVrRFbzoP1JLo4fLyKm4imheRJkVy6rKWaOk9XsFQjXB5JhoE-tYKKhA_68yKwubQpDuVDdhIWtxLx_DeG-YTNB1TkpM4urxxiZbVa0oSvCeDXbySN1quJW_2cd/s1909/Winston%20J.%20Pooh,%20Esq..jpg" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1909" data-original-width="1224" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgaUs40EVknn8tXImoljBhWQ65HOXmIA2LqBTjehhcJUS-kjzx8SHVgv5FACMer2OVrRFbzoP1JLo4fLyKm4imheRJkVy6rKWaOk9XsFQjXB5JhoE-tYKKhA_68yKwubQpDuVDdhIWtxLx_DeG-YTNB1TkpM4urxxiZbVa0oSvCeDXbySN1quJW_2cd/w182-h320/Winston%20J.%20Pooh,%20Esq..jpg" width="182" /></a></div><br />Most of you know that on many social media sites, Grandpa
uses an avatar that looks a lot like Winnie the Pooh, but since Poohbear is
owned by Disney, Grandpa’s little buddy is actually named Winston J. Pooh, Esq.
He sports different looks in his avatar form, and if he isn’t wearing his short red
shirt, he’ll probably be in a Seahawks jersey, or possibly even a tuxedo. <p></p><p class="MsoNormal">He
is a silly old bear, after all.</p>
<p class="MsoNormal"></p>
<h3 class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;">Grandpa's First Avatar</h3>
<p class="MsoNormal">Back in the olden days of the year 2000, the internet was
still growing, and the world-wide web was becoming a great place to make friends
and play games. </p><p class="MsoNormal">Before the rise of the video game console, a lot of online
multi-player games were word games, and most were played with a chat window for
the players to communicate. Part of the charm of playing online was anonymity. Instead
of using your real name, you registered a player name, and then entered the
room to join a game, or chat in the lobby with others waiting to play.</p>
<p class="MsoNormal">Winnie the Pooh has always been near and dear to my heart,
and THE TAO OF POOH was one of my favorite books. One day some friends and I
were joking about getting in shape—yes, round IS a shape—one of them commented
that my shape was similar to that of the silly, willy, nilly old bear.</p>
<p class="MsoNormal">That was all it took. </p><p class="MsoNormal">My user-name became <b>Mr.Poohbear8-)</b>. (<i>My
first try, Poohbear:-), elicited a few uninvited approaches from some
confused men; trust me, it gave me a great deal of empathy for women online,
and reinforced the need to play anonymously in groups of unknown people</i>).</p>
<p class="MsoNormal">A decade later, Facebook was arguably the strongest social
media site on the web. My use of Pooh as an avatar was done early, and he has
been a constant online persona since then.</p>
<br /><h2 class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;">The Grand Railway Adventure</h2>
<p class="MsoNormal"></p><table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgnYt-l9WR_DeHsCeJMvvnSAwpe3Nr8H1E3x-zs17opJVnTSYQeS_HJrHEVWDPbHhk-ULKsNsTo6oF61rXJTvYVxEQ6nAIz8PbN9bxPcqxF-YIc4yLRfeBGdEWLWwLvj_5PVnnYFlzpu-eBdxanCfxHrnmzW_nWz2uTY78IzFBDHRFBkAAfdiOevko-/s1650/Colorized%20Poster.jpg" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1350" data-original-width="1650" height="178" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgnYt-l9WR_DeHsCeJMvvnSAwpe3Nr8H1E3x-zs17opJVnTSYQeS_HJrHEVWDPbHhk-ULKsNsTo6oF61rXJTvYVxEQ6nAIz8PbN9bxPcqxF-YIc4yLRfeBGdEWLWwLvj_5PVnnYFlzpu-eBdxanCfxHrnmzW_nWz2uTY78IzFBDHRFBkAAfdiOevko-/w231-h178/Colorized%20Poster.jpg" width="231" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i><span style="font-size: x-small;"><b>Pooh's Backpack Sign</b></span></i><br /></td></tr></tbody></table>My brother (<i>my hero</i>) and his wife (<i>a women I am proud to call
my sister</i>) decided they wanted to take a first-class train ride around the US,
in the sleeper car, and they invited me to go along. Thus was born the preparation for
adventure.<p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal">I have twenty actual grandkids as of this writing, and there is no way I could take
them all on this trip. Instead, I decided to take Pooh along and document the trip for
ALL of them, as well as the rest of Team FFF (<i>my Facebook Friends &
Family</i>). </p><p class="MsoNormal">I spent months buying stuffed Poohs looking for the perfect
photographic subject, then locating doll stands and costumes, and finally upgrading
my photography game with a new camera (or two).</p>
<h3 class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;"><br />The Plan</h3>
<p class="MsoNormal"></p><table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; margin-left: 1em; text-align: right;"><tbody><tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEggrov2PQy8Olpi4RTW_cZ195-zVjPCWMnMps-C5Iy2Soj6xkjxICgvroG73mz6q8rbNx69OIsvqsc_dcUFforoAuj96Dyft-qu56jlTLo103PPBmNas-dC0JaRPewqoeCOgIXPi_3g3IQ5h0klKr7YQp51B3ZTqU5-Bo3gOP3zXFYWAd9vugTUDJVc/s1544/Stunt%20Double%20Closeup.jpg" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img alt="Pooh" border="0" data-original-height="1544" data-original-width="1018" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEggrov2PQy8Olpi4RTW_cZ195-zVjPCWMnMps-C5Iy2Soj6xkjxICgvroG73mz6q8rbNx69OIsvqsc_dcUFforoAuj96Dyft-qu56jlTLo103PPBmNas-dC0JaRPewqoeCOgIXPi_3g3IQ5h0klKr7YQp51B3ZTqU5-Bo3gOP3zXFYWAd9vugTUDJVc/w122-h200/Stunt%20Double%20Closeup.jpg" title="Stunt Double" width="122" /></a></td></tr><tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i><b>Stunt Double</b></i><br /></td></tr></tbody></table>My plan is to take as many pictures as I can while we are
gone, putting Pooh in as many places as possible. Landmarks, signs, views,
people … and I am going to see how many people are willing to “Smile with a
Bear.”<p></p>
<p class="MsoNormal"></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;">I have Pooh ready with sunglasses and raincoat on hand, as
well as a smaller stunt-double in an adventurer’s outfit… and I understand
there may be a photo-bombing friend.</p><div style="text-align: left;">
</div><p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: left;">The journey begins tomorrow, and I will post a full
report, including images and videos, when I return.</p><p class="MsoNormal">In the meantime, adventurous dream are my
wish for you all,</p>
<p class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;"><b><i>from Grandpa’s heart… </i></b></p>
Dusty Greinhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14010307746753497540noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1570498447225776198.post-6832978473288126592021-03-06T15:20:00.010-08:002023-06-02T20:50:12.894-07:00Respect and What Lies Beneath<div style="text-align: left;"><h1 style="text-align: left;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgl7Ch-V3IDDbagvLZ7voiOgUxI3YME5xffHo9qcmldU6zSeXvwMZDBOHXjjkXFo9SY03YFQvCEyaHz2hMTpSc0wENoUmze9VwqsuScptbwakfg91RoohLygfBgml2XSsWcrTX4NbQsh3E/s704/rainbow_respect_postcard.jpg" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="704" data-original-width="704" height="257" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgl7Ch-V3IDDbagvLZ7voiOgUxI3YME5xffHo9qcmldU6zSeXvwMZDBOHXjjkXFo9SY03YFQvCEyaHz2hMTpSc0wENoUmze9VwqsuScptbwakfg91RoohLygfBgml2XSsWcrTX4NbQsh3E/w297-h257/rainbow_respect_postcard.jpg" width="297" /></a></h1></div><div style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em; text-align: left;"><p><br /></p></div><p style="text-align: left;">I have often heard it expressed on TV, in movies, and occasionally in real-life, that respect must be earned. Let me set the record straight . . . this is NOT the case. </p><p style="text-align: left;">Respect should be the starting point for all relationships between two people, not a place to get to later, after we have judged the other person.<br /></p><p></p><h2 style="text-align: left;">Clarifying Terms</h2><p>Please do not confuse respect with admiration. I respect my fellow humans, unless and until they show—by actions or communications—they do not deserve that respect. I respect others property, privacy, and their right to exist; but that doesn’t mean I admire them all. I will admit that I admire many more people than others might, but that admiration is for those who rise above the crowd, and stand out in ways that make me want to be more like them.</p><p>When you meet someone for the first time, they are, as fellow human beings, worthy of your respect. The alternative means you are coming from a point of at first disrespecting everyone, most of whom you don’t even know. This view of only respecting those who have “earned” your respect, this basic lack of humility, is either based on a need to feel superior on some level, or is a sign of a person’s inability to trust others. Either way it is a sad way to live one’s life.</p><h2 style="text-align: left;">The Truth</h2><p>Respect doesn’t have to be earned, but it must be maintained. Once respect has been given, it can be—and all too often is—lost. Sometimes it can be rebuilt; but like trust, full restoration may never happen. A sense of being let down or hurt my prevent that trust from ever being completely recovered, and in the same manner a sense of disappointment, anger, or revulsion may prevent lost respect from ever being regained. <br /></p><p>This fact though, does not mean that other humans should start from a point of being disrespected. Feelings of inferiority—moral, spiritual, religious, economic, racial, educational, political, and/or sexual—are usually at the heart of this kind of respect issue. </p><p>Keep in mind that respecting someone does not mean you have to trust them. Distrust runs deeper than disrespect. Anyone who has been hurt badly by someone they trusted, may always harbor a certain amount of distrust of the entire world. That is an even sadder, if a little more understandable, place to live. </p><p>Sadly, the only way to never experience the pain of a broken trust, is to never trust anyone—and that may be the saddest place to be of all. </p><h2 style="text-align: left;">The Cure</h2><p>There is a cure for these issues: Love.</p><p>I don’t mean worship, or lust, or romance . . . I mean pure love—also known as charity or compassion. Love in its purest form simply means caring about someone else as much as, or more than, you do about yourself. This is a basic truth: love is not the opposite of hate, it is the opposite of selfishness.</p><p>Love requires trust; caring about someone gives them the power to hurt you. This power carries with it the seed of another truth: love brings with it the eventuality of loss and pain. The bigger the love, the bigger the pain when we must say goodbye.</p><p>Our love, and the pieces of our hearts we give to others, are the only truly permanent gifts we have to bestow. The best part is that this love, and the accumulated positive energy with which we have given it, are what we get to take with us at the end. I believe that there is no finer measure of a person, than the volume of love and light they shared with the universe throughout their life. <br /></p><p>Humility and respect, combined with admiration and trust, can result in pure love . . . which is kind of the whole point of it all. <br /></p><p>This reminder is delivered with love and the utmost respect, straight ...<br />
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</p><div style="text-align: center;">
<i>From Grandpa's Heart...</i></div>
Dusty Greinhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14010307746753497540noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1570498447225776198.post-43624326132263142122020-01-21T17:22:00.000-08:002020-01-21T17:22:01.410-08:00Love Is Forever<h3>
Story Time with Grandpa</h3>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgkI0mT94rUleQr6LBYbIofRVVocqS2SJylA6E36O4bqPt545i1FiIKszjZe5SL38XGhIKlQJSla8ktHtwdZxCYmqL2r_nKjO0DlMh0HE7kH9EZpI8iTK1SD0oRJ5HgiY1Ifndb91PQjgY/s1600/%2528sg%2529+Love+Is+Forever.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1434" data-original-width="1383" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgkI0mT94rUleQr6LBYbIofRVVocqS2SJylA6E36O4bqPt545i1FiIKszjZe5SL38XGhIKlQJSla8ktHtwdZxCYmqL2r_nKjO0DlMh0HE7kH9EZpI8iTK1SD0oRJ5HgiY1Ifndb91PQjgY/s320/%2528sg%2529+Love+Is+Forever.jpg" width="308" /></a><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;"><span style="font-weight: normal;">This time, I'm gonna do something a little different. Rather than just share my own opinion on life, I want to introduce you to one of the main players in my novel, <a href="https://www.amazon.com/Sleeping-Giant-Dusty-Grein-ebook/dp/B00VUSLEFG" target="_blank">The Sleeping Giant</a>. </span></span></span><br />
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<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;"><span style="font-weight: normal;">Richard “Doc” Mayfield is a small town veterinarian on the verge of retirement. He loves to maintain a "grumpy old man" facade, but doesn't really fool anyone who knows him. Here is a small excerpt that tells more about what a great guy Doc is.</span></span></span><br />
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<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;"><span style="font-weight: normal;">*** </span></span></span>
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<i><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;">[Thursday, 8:00 a.m.]</span></span></i></div>
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<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;">Doc pulled into the parking lot of the Middleton Cemetery and killed the engine. He sat there for a minute gazing across the green lawns, interspersed with headstones and angelic statuary. Climbing out of the truck, he winced as the arthritis in his left knee gave a little holler. He tolerated most of the aches and pains which accompanied aging, but the darn arthritis wasn’t always easy to ignore. He supposed he might have to use some of that Icy-Hot stuff, but Lord, it smelled so bad!</span></span><br />
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<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;"> Reaching into the back of the truck, Doc retrieved a small plastic bucket, containing gloves, a whiskbroom, and other small yardwork tools. He also grabbed the small bouquet of lilies he’d picked up on the way here; lilies had always been Aggie’s favorite.</span></span><br />
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<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;"> He approached the familiar headstone with reverence, as he had almost every week for the last thirty-five years. Setting the bucket down, he leaned over and removed the stems of what had once been fresh flowers before replacing them with the bundle of lilies. He was careful not to drop the old stems, but instead folded them and placed them in his jacket pocket—he would deposit them in the can by the entrance on his way out.</span></span><br />
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<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;"> He grabbed the whiskbroom from the bucket, and lovingly brushed the surface of the headstone, then slowly traced the words with his fingertip.</span></span></div>
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<b><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;">Agnes Lucille Trindle</span></span></b></div>
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<b><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;">15 Jan. 1943 – 18 Jun 1961</span></span></b></div>
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<b><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;">Fly With Angels, Beloved</span></span></b></div>
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<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;"> Often, especially when he was younger, seeing her name engraved on this stone had brought him to tears. Her name should have been Agnes Mayfield . . . and it shouldn’t have been here at all. Although he had come to terms with his grief many years ago, he still missed her every day; he always would.</span></span><br />
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<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;"> </span></span>“Aggie my love, I’m sorry I didn’t make it out to visit you last week. Between delivering a foal on Wednesday night, and surgery on a dog on Thursday morning, it was just too hectic. I know you understand sweetheart.”</span></span><br />
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<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;"> </span></span>He pulled the only weed he could see growing at the base of the stone, and using the spade, he edged the entire plot where she was buried. Her grave was the most well kept one in the cemetery, due to his weekly upkeep, and it saddened him to think how so many folks had no one to do this for them.</span></span><br />
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<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;"> </span></span>His mind returned once again, as it did every time he visited her, to that night many years ago, when his future father-in-law had come to the door, tears streaming down his face. The news of the accident had shattered Doc’s world forever. The worst part was, he had no one to blame except maybe God, and somehow his anger never seemed to impress God much. He even found his faith hadn’t been completely destroyed . . . and once the anger had been replaced by acceptance, he had even started attending church again, if only intermittently.</span></span><br />
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<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;"> </span></span>Doc had discovered a sad truth on that long ago day—losing your soul mate permanently divided your life, into a before and an after. Once, he had been a carefree young man looking forward to becoming an animal doctor, with his wife standing by his side; now he was a lonely old man who found solace in treating the animals of his friends and neighbors, and in his surrogate family at the clinic.</span></span><br />
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<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;"> </span></span>“I think I’m going to give young Peter a raise. I’m pretty sure he intends to ask Amanda Donner for her hand in marriage. A young man with matrimony on his mind needs all the financial support he can earn; besides, he really is the hardest working young man I’ve ever hired.</span></span><br />
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<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;"> </span></span>“I gave Grace some roses for her birthday yesterday, and you’d think I’d given her a gold mine. It warmed my old heart to see how much some silly flowers meant to her, and it made me realize yours were getting old, after a missed week. I hope you like these new ones.”</span></span><br />
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<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;"> </span></span>He stood, and as the muffled popping of his left knee disturbed the stillness, he glanced at her gravestone again, then reached down and picked up his bucket of tools.</span></span><br />
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<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;"> </span></span>“As always, my sweet, sweet dear, I’ll see you again, when God calls my number. Until then, I love you.”</span></span><br />
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<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;"> </span></span>With that he turned and slowly walked back towards the parking lot, and the quiet ride home in the truck.</span></span><br />
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<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;"><span style="font-weight: normal;">***</span></span></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;"><span style="font-weight: normal;">If you haven't yet read my novel, I would be honored for you to take a stroll with me and the residents of a little town, in the shadow of a waking volcano. There you'll meet many more characters and see how their lives intersect and unfold, as they travel unknowing toward the largest natural disaster in US history. </span></span></span><br />
<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;"><span style="font-weight: normal;"><br /></span></span></span>
<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;"><span style="font-weight: normal;">Thanks for joining me and for letting me tell you a bit of a tale,</span></span></span><br />
<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;"><span style="font-weight: normal;"><br /></span></span></span>
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<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-family: "trebuchet ms" , sans-serif;"><span style="font-weight: normal;"><i>From Grandpa's Heart...</i></span></span></span></div>
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Dusty Greinhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14010307746753497540noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1570498447225776198.post-20388530797993447782020-01-19T16:38:00.000-08:002020-01-19T17:42:36.029-08:00Society's Invisble Members<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi-VkNcI3vyTZ8P9yJ17ECHj5PeDxsvGAOzALlU88TX9HhaQFIZ6-vuDUOlV_i9XrePbq5zhoeJdFr1FAD82f9gCdGW0sphi9w-0iobkR74gQvzExC18TuDhrypbMiK6uiSRBZcD-1v9Aw/s1600/Society%2527s+Inbvisible.png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="300" data-original-width="900" height="132" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi-VkNcI3vyTZ8P9yJ17ECHj5PeDxsvGAOzALlU88TX9HhaQFIZ6-vuDUOlV_i9XrePbq5zhoeJdFr1FAD82f9gCdGW0sphi9w-0iobkR74gQvzExC18TuDhrypbMiK6uiSRBZcD-1v9Aw/s400/Society%2527s+Inbvisible.png" width="400" /></a></div>
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</h3>
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Time to Be Serious</h3>
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Many times, as I write these posts, I find myself in a humorous or playful frame of mind, but sometimes the subject matter requires a bit more decorum, and a pause to reflect on the truth that can sometimes sail under the radar as we go about our day-to-day lives. The issue of the homeless among us is a topic that fits this category.</div>
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I once wrote a poem, titled “Do You See Me?” and when I published it, there were some disagreements with my take on the issue of helping those who have fallen into the cracks in our society. Here is a link to that poem:</div>
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<b><a class="linkified" href="https://theprose.com/post/184992/do-you-see-me" target="_new">https://theprose.com/post/184992/do-you-see-me</a></b></div>
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Some of the criticism I received was about the portrayal of hatred on the part of the passers-by. To clarify, I don’t think that most people feel hatred for those who live on the streets or panhandle on freeway on-ramps; more often I think it is just that we can’t identify with them. This poem however, was written from the “invisible” person’s point of view, and in it he is saying he would rather you hated him, than pity him—it hurts less.</div>
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The other comment that I seemed to hear the most was that helping these people out with money is in effect, helping enable their lifestyle. </div>
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A Strong Disagreement</h3>
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Now, it is true that some people have to hit bottom before they can see they have nowhere to go except up, but I firmly believe—having been homeless myself at one point in my life—that MOST people who live on the streets (or in the woods, or in a tent, or behind the grocery store) aren’t there by choice, but have found their way to these places through fear, resignation, and ignorance; and most of them simply have no idea about how to get out.</div>
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Monetary help for those who live at the lowest levels of our society is not the need that we should be most concerned with; rather, we should offer them the basic emotional human needs of empathy and compassion. A smile and a kind word just might be the tipping point that tells them someone still sees the person behind the problems, and they are still worth saving. That simple message, that they aren’t invisible at all, might be all they need to help them reignite the spark of hope, and maybe even rebuild the desire to look for a way back.</div>
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The one class of people who are the most accepting, and who live with the least amount of judgment, fear, or condescension, are those who have the most issues with fitting into society themselves. Sadly this often includes those who have turned to drugs to escape the problems. When you have nothing, it is easy to lose hope, and with that loss, the willpower to fight. When you don’t have the basic foundation of knowledge, or even a way to eat later in the day, it can be almost impossible to do anything but drift along, and find a way to escape. Those easy escapes almost always involve making the wrong choices, and they end up making a bad situation even worse—widening the gulf that must be crossed to rejoin the rest of us in the “real” world.</div>
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Try Not to Pass Judgement </h3>
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If you have never faced the circumstances that put these fellow humans there, you can’t understand how it could happen—and it is all too easy to dismiss them all as habitual drug users who put themselves there. Addiction <i>does</i> play a role in the problem, you would have to be blind not to see that, but for every person you see who is begging on the street because of addiction, there are three you don’t see who are simply trying to find a way to feel like they still matter, and have no clue how to connect to the help they need. When you haven’t brushed your teeth for three weeks, it is embarrassing to talk to others, let alone ask them for help, or a job, or even something to eat.</div>
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A simple smile and saying hello, may make more difference than you realize. Choosing not to enable what you see as a continued voluntary lifestyle may be a great goal, but for most people this is not a voluntary choice, but one of circumstance. Refusing to “see” them—even if it is just in their minds that you don’t—sends the message that you have judged them and found them unfit for human contact. Even though this may not be true, it is how many of them feel, when you avert your eyes and hurry past.</div>
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A Basic Truth </h3>
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Everyone has a story, and most of them are sad and probably could have been avoided at one point or another, but could-have-beens aren’t helpful . . . they are merely reminders of all that they have lost. </div>
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I don’t think you can help anyone who isn’t ready to be helped, but if you are worried about the way even a small donation might be spent, keep in mind that a bagel and a cup of coffee can’t be traded for drugs, and can fill another void that all of us experience—hunger happens every day, even to the lost—without making a huge dent in your lifestyle. </div>
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If even that is more than you can do, then remember this: Smiling is free, and saying “Good Morning” just may be more important than the $1.40 in change you have in your pocket.</div>
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Try to remember that we are all human, and deserve at least the chance to feel that way. As always this message comes to you...</div>
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<i>From Grandpa's Heart...</i></div>
Dusty Greinhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14010307746753497540noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1570498447225776198.post-19840354557570750512020-01-13T19:11:00.002-08:002020-01-13T19:11:39.293-08:00The Ultimate Magic Power<div class="">
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEilv79f8flTOZiSFrsPqdsEEaQqnppOhzkVYIwdPXd_qvbzriJbaQGwZMNu1lKVt-T77sXf6yXThmkdvXhIAamEgsZSDCFVk7fN5zu-iHWPnouryQDjK6nsvjB6X5Fqdgk-herZCjSXna8/s1600/The+Ultimate+Magic+Power.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="534" data-original-width="1600" height="132" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEilv79f8flTOZiSFrsPqdsEEaQqnppOhzkVYIwdPXd_qvbzriJbaQGwZMNu1lKVt-T77sXf6yXThmkdvXhIAamEgsZSDCFVk7fN5zu-iHWPnouryQDjK6nsvjB6X5Fqdgk-herZCjSXna8/s400/The+Ultimate+Magic+Power.jpg" width="400" /></a></div>
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I am a writer, and like all writers, I use very real true-life magic to cure many of the issues I face. If you don’t believe it, take my hand and follow me as I explain not only why I believe in this ultimate magic, but how it can help you—and anyone who reads the words you write—at some point in their lives.</div>
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<b>The Problem</b></h2>
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Since the dawn of time, mankind has had to deal with a somewhat unique problem. We possess not only a powerful analytical mind, but a very highly developed sense of emotional sophistication as well. These attributes often end up at war inside us, with the stronger of the two deciding our actions.</div>
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The times when our emotional side is in charge can lead to some of the best, and worst, decisions of our lives. The problem is that most of us try very hard to make sure our analytical side leads the way, and quite often that means we must bottle up and shut down our emotional selves. We also sometimes need to suppress the strength of our emotions, in order to survive the heights and depths they can take us to.</div>
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When we lock our emotions away, we tend to hide them from ourselves as much as the rest of the world. This repression of emotions can lead to many different mental, and even physical conditions, so it becomes beneficial to find a way to release them.</div>
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<b>A Solution</b></h2>
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Fortunately, we humans also have a unique ability, that no other animal has. We can communicate abstract concepts to others, in ways that leave indelible imprints on the world around us.</div>
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When we express ourselves in a way that conveys not just thoughts but emotions as well, we call this art. The source of our inspiration to create art—whether it is through speaking, creative writing, sculpture, painting, music, or whatever other outlets we choose—is, if we look deeply, the wellspring of feelings inside us.</div>
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It has been my observation that the most powerful of these bottled up emotions can be released through artistic expression, and for many of us, that means the written word.</div>
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Some writers love to use one of the languages we share, in short clips and bursts of audible and/or visual imagery to express themselves. These communication artists may write in rhymes, metered forms, or free verse, but their poems and/or songs make connections and touch others; this writing often helps them not only heal themselves, but their audiences as well.</div>
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Others may find that writing poetry and/or songs just isn’t enough to satisfy their need to create images, characters, and worlds. Their written creations, in whatever length they work in—flash fiction, micro tales, short stories, novels—can transport others into worlds of their imagination. There, others get to share and experience a wide variety of emotional and mental images, sensations, and expressions. This is yet another way for a creative person to release the feelings in their hearts and souls, and help others do the same.</div>
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<b>The Result</b></h2>
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One of the best results of this process is that writers can craft unique pieces of permanent communication, allowing them to transmit and share their thoughts, feelings, and ideas across generations. They can touch people who need to know they aren’t alone, who need to escape into a world of imagination, or who need to release their own pent-up emotions in one way or another.</div>
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This makes writing both the ultimate catharsis and the ultimate form of telepathy; writers may, in their own way, become healers and magically transform the lives of others, by sending their concepts, emotions, and stories out to other people beyond the limits of time and space.</div>
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We have all experienced a work of art at some point—written, drawn, sculpted, or sung—that has touched our hearts, moved our souls and/or healed our troubled minds. This art may have been created today, or hundreds of years ago, and it may have been crafted by anyone, anywhere. </div>
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Someday, you yourself may share your thoughts and feelings with someone, somewhere, and help improve their lives.</div>
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You just can’t get much more magic than that. </div>
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As always, this bit of writer's wisdom comes to you directly...</div>
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<i>From Grandpa's Heart...</i></div>
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Dusty Greinhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14010307746753497540noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1570498447225776198.post-57969802739066527612020-01-09T01:22:00.001-08:002023-06-02T00:50:22.472-07:00A Basic Truth<div class="post-text">
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Who is in control of your life? </h2>
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At it’s heart, this question contains an element of what I subjectively refer to as ‘basic truth’ regarding life. You may not agree, but because of my belief in this truth I am a happy person, and it is one I have tried to ensure that all of my children, grandchildren, and indeed, every young person I have mentored in any fashion, have not only grasped, but committed to heart.</div>
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Before we can honestly answer this question of control, we have to agree on exactly what it means—as a concept, “control” is difficult to pin down. Keep in mind that there is a percentage of people who, through physical, mental or emotional disability or immaturity, need others to be in charge of some, or even all, of their daily lives. This message does not apply equally to these folks, whether children or adult.</div>
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For the rest of us, the basic truth that I have found is this:<b> </b></div>
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<b>You cannot truly control anything in life, except how you react and respond to what happens to you, and the choices you make.</b><span style="font-weight: normal;"><i><br /><br />Please, read that again—it is that important.</i></span></div>
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Society imposes certain limitations and expectations on us and our behavior, but we must choose to respect those. The law says I can’t speed in my car, but the truth is, I choose to obey that law. If I choose to disregard this societal imposition, it may well cost me my money, my freedom, or even my life; choices have repercussions... most of which I also have no control over. If I drive in traffic, I cannot control how the drivers around me handle their vehicles, but I can choose to get angry and curse them, or turn on some jazz music and relax. That choice is up to me.</div>
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You can be victimized by outside forces, people and events, but that doesn’t mean that anyone or anything can dictate how you respond. There are those who are physically, mentally or emotionally abused and imprisoned by others <b><i>[if this is you, please reach out and find help] </i></b>but for everyone else, those people you love and/or hate only have as much power over you as you let them have.</div>
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No one can make you have a bad or good day, feel angry or excited, make you smile or hurt your feelings... <i>unless you let them</i>. </div>
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We all know of people who let life’s miseries bring them down, and others who rise above the turmoil… for the most part this is a matter of them exercising control of their reactions, and then choosing how to move forward. </div>
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As humans, there is very little about the physical world around us which we can actually control. You can’t do much about the wind, the tide, or the seasons. Weather, like most of the environment, is something we can work to modify and learn to deal with… but controlling it is fantasy at best. You can shape your surroundings; you can build a place to exist in which you have some measure of impact on the forces around you; you can choose which people to associate with, and thereby gain a bit of control of the energy (both positive and negative) around you.</div>
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The Key</h2>
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The key element is choice—and we must remember that choosing NOT to choose, is also a choice we sometimes make.</div>
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In the end, as much as I would like to be able to blame someone else for the bad parts of my life, and take credit for the good parts, all I can honestly say is that I have, with time and effort, gained a fair amount of control over my reactions and responses, and I am actively working on making the best choices I can to ensure that the majority of circumstances in my life are ones that I want to happen.</div>
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I choose to be a happy person, and I am in control of that choice. I also choose to share this message... </div>
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<i>from Grandpa's heart...</i> </div>
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<i>© 2020 - dustygrein</i></div>
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<i> </i></div>
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Dusty Greinhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14010307746753497540noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1570498447225776198.post-22683661900731540932020-01-06T15:59:00.000-08:002020-01-06T15:59:10.761-08:00Thanos Denied!<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgd91XuQo_oyQF23TYudVIDveyNUa0CT9JntQaoI-29I90ZFLO1RfQYPOKJdBAO3k3IwnEKQSUcn3F-aJ-n842kBLWZDbxhzjVXBG4DiqPV8IF9aD3hlcK51YCBU1LfHh5kbN5MUbmfSTA/s1600/Thanos+Denied.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="446" data-original-width="1296" height="136" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgd91XuQo_oyQF23TYudVIDveyNUa0CT9JntQaoI-29I90ZFLO1RfQYPOKJdBAO3k3IwnEKQSUcn3F-aJ-n842kBLWZDbxhzjVXBG4DiqPV8IF9aD3hlcK51YCBU1LfHh5kbN5MUbmfSTA/s400/Thanos+Denied.jpg" width="400" /> </a></div>
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<i>A Challenge </i> </h2>
If you weren't aware, Grandpa frequently writes on one of his favorite social sharing sites, Prose (<a href="https://theprose.com/">https://theprose.com/</a>). The writers, poets, and administrators on this site post challenges, and many of them are fun and create a special spark that ignites either a poem, a piece of flash fiction, or both.<br />
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Here is my response to one of these challenges. The challenge was to write about a close encounter with death, and I had the perfect experience to draw on.<br />
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Through the window in the back, I watched traffic fall behind us as the ambulance flew down the freeway. The young paramedic next to me was telling a joke, but I was having trouble paying attention . . . morphine is a powerful attention disrupter.<br /><br />
My day had started normally, although I did notice during my morning constitutional that my neck felt a little stiff. <br /><br />
[<i>No big deal, maybe I just slept wrong.</i>]<br /><br />
Breakfast didn’t sit real well, and soon after I began to feel a heaviness in my chest and weakness in my arm that wouldn’t go away. By afternoon, I realized it wasn’t just an upset stomach, and the pressure in my neck had intensified, so I had my oldest son drive me to the local hospital.<br /><br />
The doctors and nurses in the local ER are great people. Well, most of them are. There is one old nurse who seems to think that if you aren’t a victim of a car accident, you are just a whiner. Luckily, she wasn’t in charge of my care. The young doctor who was, hardly looked old enough to be out of high school. He ordered an EKG test, and although he didn’t see anything unusual, he decided to have the lab run a workup on my blood.<br /><br />
It took about a half-hour to get the results back, and when they did my room become a flurry of activity. Doctors and nurses rushed in, popped nitroglycerin under my tongue, gave me four baby aspirin, and hooked me back up to the EKG machine. The young doc came in looking gravely serious and said, “I need you to relax as much as you can. You are having a heart attack.”<br /><br />
[<i>A heart attack? I can’t be having a heart attack . . . I’m only 49!</i>]<br /><br />
He ordered a huge dose of morphine for my IV; once they pushed the plunger down, the whole thing seemed a little out of focus, and almost comical. It certainly didn’t seem bad enough to be worried about, but they started talking about life flights to the big hospital in the city, about a half-hour away. When they found out it would take almost an hour to get a helicopter there, they called for an ambulance, and I found myself riding on a gurney, with a comedian by my side.<br /><br />
Between bad jokes, he seemed to know what he was doing; he was on the radio with the hospital off and on the whole way. I could feel pressure in my chest, but it didn’t really hurt. I remember when I was a kid I got the mumps, and my throat swelled up. It felt a little like that, but the morphine kept sending my thoughts off on tangents.<br /><br />
[<i>Maybe that’s the whole point.</i>]<br /><br />
We pulled up to the hospital, and suddenly I found myself in what seemed to be an episode of a reality show, with white gowned figures rushing me into a prep-area. They stripped my clothes off me, grabbed a razor, and draped a huge paper sheet with a large square cutout across my naked body, exposing my nether regions to the cold bright world. The razor was applied to the spot where my leg joined my abdomen.<br /><br />
I remember joking with the no-nonsense nurse wielding the clippers. I told her she should at least buy me dinner, since we were now such intimate friends. She winked, looked down at her handiwork and said “It’ll have to be a little snack.”<br /><br />
[<i>Great. Comedians all the way around. At least she’s cute.</i>]<br /><br />
They wheeled me into the Cath-Lab, and after transferring me to a steel table, the cardiologist came in and sat down. I could see part of the bank of monitors above me; they would have made the crew of Star Trek jealous. The doc made a small incision in my freshly shaved skin, inserted a tube, then guided a catheter up through my artery and into my heart. I remember watching the screens, like it was happening to someone else, and thinking it was the most awesome thing I had ever witnessed.<br /><br />
He inserted a small stent—a wire mesh tube that most closely resembles the little Chinese finger trap toys we had as kids, but much, much smaller. He then used miniature balloon to blow up the tube, opening up the blocked part of my coronary artery.<br /><br />
[<i>Ahhhh!</i>]<br /><br />
The relief was instant. The weight disappeared and breathing was much easier than it had been only seconds before. I asked if he could do it again, and he just smiled and had the nurse give me more morphine. After that, it all went a little blurry.<br /><br />
I woke up in a room the next morning, with the birds singing outside, and a large bandage covering the incision on my groin. When the doc who saved my life came in, I asked him how serious it had been. He told me that I probably would have survived another day or so, but I should keep in mind the rest of my life was now mine to enjoy, and that I had to start taking daily medications, and start taking better care of myself.<br /><br />
Death had knocked loudly, but—thanks to modern science, a great doctor, and a couple comedians—he hadn’t made it through the door.<br /><br />
It’s been seven years since that day. Truth be told, I’m actually a much happier person now. I enjoy the little blessings more, and don’t take anything for granted. Life is short, and it is as sweet as we want to make it, while it lasts.<br /><br />
[<i>I’ll have the rest of mine with a smile, thanks.</i>]<br /><br />
© 2019 - dustygrein</span></div>
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<i>A New Lease </i> </h2>
This experience was the primary reason for creating my blog, and it fundamentally changed my outlook on a lot of things. This second chance has not been wasted, and I am striving, every day I have left,to make the world a little bit better than it was the day before.<br />
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Sometimes that knocking on the door can be dismissed, and you can discover opportunity is already in the room with you. Something to consider...<br />
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<i>From Grandpa's Heart...</i></div>
<br />Dusty Greinhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14010307746753497540noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1570498447225776198.post-22934976031463954252019-04-15T21:36:00.001-07:002019-04-15T22:54:30.595-07:00Grandpa Is Still Here!<h3>
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgjJ7KrhiKWe0ZubkN8-mdpLXU-1zI6C2h9YQXy91Qu3ZiUxjrZ7L9W7QIfiROPNfbZGeKoSpP4hPzB7O7287e19tYw5HviZlZS-vuZt8BlPm5ov0VRI-Z15vE6QpHJrD3UuiNbTWh2vjY/s1600/mini+profile+color.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="375" data-original-width="300" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgjJ7KrhiKWe0ZubkN8-mdpLXU-1zI6C2h9YQXy91Qu3ZiUxjrZ7L9W7QIfiROPNfbZGeKoSpP4hPzB7O7287e19tYw5HviZlZS-vuZt8BlPm5ov0VRI-Z15vE6QpHJrD3UuiNbTWh2vjY/s320/mini+profile+color.jpg" width="256" /></a>The Busiest Old Guy In Town</h3>
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It has been a while since I have been here. When I started this blog, almost seven years ago, I wrote a lot of posts, and a lot of you started following me. I wanted to say some important things to my family and friends after my heart attack, and was in a rush to get them all written down, just in case. Then life started rolling along again, and the busier I got, the less frequent my posts became.<br />
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In 2015 I joined a group of writers, and through that association I met Mandy Melanson. She is now my business partner, a member of my adopted family, and I feel blessed to count her among my best friends. The company we started is growing and keeps us very busy. As a result I have ignored updating this platform, but that is something I intend to correct.<br />
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The truth is, I still write a lot, but most of my writing these days is in the form of short flash fiction, poetry, and documents and posts for our company, RhetAskew Publishing. I have found a couple platforms and associations on the internet to store my smaller work. The biggest group of these archived entries is at THEPROSE.COM. I have also published a new book of poetry though RhetAskew and it is available online.<br />
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A New Series</h3>
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I am going to start posting my favorite fiction stories and poems here, as well as my messages of hope, love, and happiness. These new posts will still be From Grandpa's Heart . . . but they will be labeled as Grandpa's Poems and Tales, and I am going to start posting them 2 or 3 at a time, once a week.<br />
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I will still be interspersing the more traditional posts, and I sincerely hope you enjoy all of my ramblings, both the emotional and deep, as well as the fictional stories, scenes, and genre poems.<br />
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Reach Out and Let Me Know</h3>
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I spend most of my time online, on one social media platform or another, and while I am often deep in the never-ending production work of publishing books, I am almost always available in Messenger chat, or by email. Here is a list of links where you can find me, and most of my works:<br />
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Facebook / Messenger<br /> <a href="https://www.facebook.com/dustygee123" target="_blank">https://www.facebook.com/dustygee123</a><br />
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TheProse<br /> <a href="https://theprose.com/dustygrein" target="_blank">https://theprose.com/dustygrein</a><br />
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The Big List of My Collected Works<br /> <a href="https://docs.google.com/spreadsheets/d/17gvcyQc1O3dBSwkJxPChaN7WyX4PAgr-VSwjqTEyEuU/view#gid=1330601102" target="_blank">https://docs.google.com/spreadsheets/d/{#}</a> <br />
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RhetAskew Publishing<br /><a href="https://rhetaskewpublishing.com/" target="_blank">https://rhetaskewpublishing.com/</a><br />
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Email Me<br />
<a href="mailto:dusty.grein@hotmail.com" target="_blank">dusty.grein@hotmail.com</a><br /><a href="mailto:editors@rhetoricaskew.com" target="_blank">editors@rhetoricaskew.com </a>Dusty Greinhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14010307746753497540noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1570498447225776198.post-65949100592909515342018-05-01T09:16:00.000-07:002019-04-15T21:40:05.693-07:00Look What I Did!<h2 class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-weight: bold;">Spotlight on Yourself</span></h2>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjnvbGUXOUSYMLsz9y69bn5kvGv6cexpo3c5xxkjw1z0SHujt-RTrnEpqPvu2aVO4vS6GZdoOnWWIgL4oeF3X2uhn540DkdEymkrvCHatSKIDgcTHftnp4v3Ju71vRCctdgArl5T_rIGWE/s1600/traditional-storage-boxes.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="127" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjnvbGUXOUSYMLsz9y69bn5kvGv6cexpo3c5xxkjw1z0SHujt-RTrnEpqPvu2aVO4vS6GZdoOnWWIgL4oeF3X2uhn540DkdEymkrvCHatSKIDgcTHftnp4v3Ju71vRCctdgArl5T_rIGWE/s1600/traditional-storage-boxes.jpg" width="200" /></a>Each of us has had, at some point in our lives, a few
moments of total self-pride. I’m not referring to being egotistical, nor
the pride that someone else feels for us and our accomplishments. I’m talking
about honest, genuine pride that comes from knowing we did a job to the utmost
of our ability, made the right choice in a tough situation, or acted in a way
that makes us feel as if we were the best, even if just for a minute.</div>
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For some people, especially during
our youth, it might be bringing home that glowing report card with the A grade
boldly displayed. For others it might have been winning a trophy, or a ribbon,
or even just scoring a run or making a 3 pointer. Sometimes the world notices and
applauds our victories, and other times only we know how great we did, but
either way, nothing is quite like that feeling of accomplishment and
self-respect.</div>
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<span style="font-weight: bold;">A Tale of Yesterday </span></h2>
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I’d like to share a little story
about a little boy with an IQ much bigger than his small frame. This young man
learned to read at the age of 4, and read his first novel at the age of 6. His
family moved around a lot during his childhood, and from the beginning books were
an escape, a diversion, and a friend who he could keep with him when he moved
away.</div>
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His birthday was late in the year,
so he had to wait until he was almost 6 to start Kindergarten, and the
following year, they moved him into 2nd<sup></sup> grade, since he could read
at a 4th grade level. He had always been small for his
age, and jumping a grade meant that he was that much littler than most of his
classmates, so he was known very quickly at each new school as the “little
brainy new kid.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="tab-stops: 74.45pt;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="tab-stops: 74.45pt;">
Okay, now that you have met the
boy that I was, way back when, I’d like to tell you what happened to me one
day, in the long-ago year of 1971. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="tab-stops: 74.45pt;">
<br /></div>
<h2 class="MsoNormal" style="tab-stops: 74.45pt;">
<b><span style="font-weight: bold;">The Campground</span></b></h2>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="tab-stops: 74.45pt;">
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="tab-stops: 74.45pt;">
I was seven years old that summer, and
had finished 3rd grade, in a single school the entire year for the
very first time. Sadly after the school year ended, we moved again, and for a
few weeks we lived in tents at a campground on the beach in Oregon, while my
dad was working on a fishing boat. My little sister was four, and our baby brother was only two, so my mom had her hands full, and I pretty much had my days to myself.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="tab-stops: 74.45pt;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="tab-stops: 74.45pt;">
I was working on reading my second
full-length novel, “Lad: A Dog” and had my hardback open as I wandered through
the campground one day. I had spent a while reading in the shade of a tree, but it was
approaching lunchtime, and since we didn’t have a lot of food, I wasn’t going to
miss out. The biggest problem I had, was that even back then, I became completely engrossed in
what I was reading, and the “mind movie” was going full speed as I made my way
to our tent.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="tab-stops: 74.45pt;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="tab-stops: 74.45pt;">
<h2>
<b>Challenged</b></h2>
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="tab-stops: 74.45pt;">
One of our fellow campers had set
up a small fruit stand next to his trailer, and was sitting in a lawn chair
watching me as I meandered through the campground, book open and head a million
miles away.<br />
<br />
“Hey kid!,” he yelled. “Come over here.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="tab-stops: 74.45pt;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="tab-stops: 74.45pt;">
Having been pulled out of the
story, I bent the corner of<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>the page I
was on to mark my spot, and made my way over to him. Now keep in mind that
while I had finished 3rd grade, I still looked as if I were in
kindergarten at best. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="tab-stops: 74.45pt;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="tab-stops: 74.45pt;">
“What do ya got there?” he asked.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="tab-stops: 74.45pt;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="tab-stops: 74.45pt;">
“A book,” I replied, with just a
hint of sarcasm.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="tab-stops: 74.45pt;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="tab-stops: 74.45pt;">
“A picture book, huh?” he said with a smug grin, which of course made me
indignant. Reading was an important part of my life, and not to be belittled.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="tab-stops: 74.45pt;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="tab-stops: 74.45pt;">
“No, it’s a NOVEL,” I said. “The
only picture is on the cover.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="tab-stops: 74.45pt;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="tab-stops: 74.45pt;">
“BALONEY! Let me see that…” he
replied. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="tab-stops: 74.45pt;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="tab-stops: 74.45pt;">
He held his hand out, and I
tentatively handed him my book. He flipped through the pages of the book, and
satisfied, handed it back.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="tab-stops: 74.45pt;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="tab-stops: 74.45pt;">
“You aint a-readin that book,” he
said.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="tab-stops: 74.45pt;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="tab-stops: 74.45pt;">
Okay, now I was getting a little
mad. “Yes I am! I can prove it!”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="tab-stops: 74.45pt;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="tab-stops: 74.45pt;">
“Okay, I’ll make a deal with you,”
he said. “If you can read me one whole page out loud, without having to ask what a word
is, I’ll give you that whole box of apples by your feet.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="tab-stops: 74.45pt;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="tab-stops: 74.45pt;">
<h2>
Triumph</h2>
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="tab-stops: 74.45pt;">
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="tab-stops: 74.45pt;">
I still remember that trip from
his stand to our campsite. It took me a while, because I had to stop every
three or four steps to put the huge box of apples down, since it weighed as
much, if not more, than I did. He had offered to carry it for me, but I declined. I had earned those apples, and I was going to bring them home to my mom.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="tab-stops: 74.45pt;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="tab-stops: 74.45pt;">
Even more than the long trek (step-step-step,
set it down, shake my arms, pick it up, repeat) I remember how proud I was of
myself. I knew that I had met the challenge and had the proof in my arms. Those
apples tasted better than any others I had ever eaten, and that moment of
greatness was engraved in my memory forever.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="tab-stops: 74.45pt;">
<br /></div>
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<h2>
<b>Stand Tall</b></h2>
<h2>
<b>
</b></h2>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="tab-stops: 74.45pt;">
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="tab-stops: 74.45pt;">
You won’t always succeed at the
things you try in life, and not everyone gets to win every time. Setbacks and
defeats are a part of the whole journey, but so is success and winning. Try to
be aware of even your little victories, and celebrate them.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="tab-stops: 74.45pt;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="tab-stops: 74.45pt;">
You, along with everyone you meet,
have the ability to shine and be a star, in some fashion. Never hide it when
you know you are shining brightly, and on the days when your light is a bit
dim, just keep in mind that tomorrow is a fresh chance to do your best, and the sweetest apples are the ones you earn for
yourself.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="tab-stops: 74.45pt;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="tab-stops: 74.45pt;">
Something to consider,</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="tab-stops: 74.45pt;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-align: center;">
<i>From Grandpa’s Heart</i></div>
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<![endif]-->Dusty Greinhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14010307746753497540noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1570498447225776198.post-47030650550774435122016-09-09T19:32:00.002-07:002018-04-09T11:14:25.556-07:00Why A Bad Review Can Be A Blessing<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh8lhM64d-x07JcyhGyvj2ft1IugKLqNarrpEo3slSQUsyQv2zkbJ0WxU2zLdxMwwyCN8KcXoy-kauL8AgMDOGcD-dZEAAVcKuefF9reQBHnoWw3xy2p2eZ9Qfm6rL3-1ixTdJNMt7-6mU/s1600/thesleepinggiantlarge-+best.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh8lhM64d-x07JcyhGyvj2ft1IugKLqNarrpEo3slSQUsyQv2zkbJ0WxU2zLdxMwwyCN8KcXoy-kauL8AgMDOGcD-dZEAAVcKuefF9reQBHnoWw3xy2p2eZ9Qfm6rL3-1ixTdJNMt7-6mU/s200/thesleepinggiantlarge-+best.jpg" width="133" /></a></div>
<h3>
They All Love Me!</h3>
<br />
<br />
When I first published my book, <a href="http://www.amazon.com/Sleeping-Giant-Novel-Dusty-Grein-ebook/dp/B00VUSLEFG" target="_blank"><u>The Sleeping Giant</u></a>, I anticipated the glowing reviews that I was sure would happen.<br />
<br />
After all, I loved my story, how could anyone not feel the same?<br />
<br />
Ah, the naivete of the beginning novelist.<br />
<br />
<h3>
The Reality</h3>
<br />
Let me preface this by saying that in all fairness, my book has been very well received. It has been purchased and/or read by thousands of customers, and most of them have been extremely satisfied with the story, the characters and the style with which I wrote it. After more than forty reviews, it has a solid and respectable 4.3 star average, and of these, about two-thirds have been of the five star variety.<br />
<br />
<br />
Those aren’t the ones I want to talk about here though. I learned far more about myself, and my writing, from the bad reviews, and I’d like to express my gratitude for the negative ones — even the lone 1-star thrashing of my endeavor.<br />
<br />
When I got my first 3-star review, I felt like I had actually made it. I had arrived! The reviewer said <i>“This is a good read, However the focus of the story, a soon to erupt volcano, ends up with only a few pages at the end. Needs a part 2.”</i> It made me smile - my first critical review was that I needed to write another book!<br />
<br />
My next 3-star said simply <i>“needed more character development,”</i> and was countered soon after by a pair of 5-stars that said <i>“It's interesting, the characters are well created” </i>and <i>“The characters were developed and the plot moved at a rapid pace.”</i> Different strokes and all that. The truth is you just can’t please everyone, so you have to just grin and shake your head.<br />
<br />
Then it happened.<br />
<br />
<br />
<h3>
The Bad News</h3>
<br />
Someone gave me a 1-star BAD review! They not only gave it a single star, but in the review subject line, they said <b><i>“SAVE YOUR MONEY...PASS ON THIS BOOK!”</i></b> I was shocked!<br />
<br />
I felt like I had been sucker-punched and immediately became defensive. I had to walk away from the computer. It hurt that someone felt compelled to not only attack my little story, but to tell others not to bother reading it! After I calmed down, I sat down and read the review in earnest - and I’m glad I did. Here is what this reviewer wrote:<br />
<br />
<i>“Poorly written attempt at a first novel. First couple of chapters are an absolute non-stop info dump, which totally stalls the story. The author hasn't yet learned how to work this info into the story in a way that it doesn't bring everything to an absolute standstill. It turned me off as a reader. Author started his novel too far before from the beginning of the actual action and takes way too long to get there to hold the reader's interest when encountering the huge info dump they must stumble through. Author hasn't yet learned how to eliminate the words "that" and "just" from his writer's vocabulary, as they should be. A non-educated casual reader might read over the many occurrences of those two empty words—which add nothing to the meaning of the sentences—without noticing them, but they pulled me back to reality every time I encountered them and made the book unreadable for me. My guess is this book has never seen a paid professional edit, as it would have caught all these errors before publication and probably made the story much more readable.”</i><br />
<br />
Wow. The first thing I noticed was that I had obviously made this reader feel something--and feel it strongly enough to write a very lengthy and scathing review. Then I started working on figuring out why it had happened, by removing the opinions and just dealing with the substantive issues. In doing so, I made a few discoveries.<br />
<br />
<h3>
Lessons </h3>
<br />
I found that part of this was just about my writing style. The infamous “info-dump” accusation was to be expected. In truth, I had written this book quickly, and I did spend a bit too much time in chapter one, setting the stage for my characters. The fact that the story started “too far before from the beginning of the actual action and takes way too long to get there” was one that I had expected to find from some people. I wrote a story that was mainly about the people, not just about the action they went through.<br />
<br />
I also discovered that I DID have a tendency to over-use the word THAT. I used this insight to go back into my manuscript, and I did a complete revision, removing over forty instances of the “filler” word. I then released edition 2.0, and in my opinion the story is better for the edit.<br />
<br />
Finally, I learned the hard way that being able to edit someone else’s work, is not the same as being able to edit your own. The book is now at edition 4.0 <i>(this last edition change was made necessary due to a print size change)</i> and thanks in large part to its one bad review, it is a much finer book than it was when I first released it.<br />
<br />
They continue to be good - and bad.<br />
<br />
Since that time, I have received many more 5-star reviews, and a couple of critical ones - 2 and 3 stars - including one which stated <i>“virtually the entire work is character development.”</i><br />
<br />
In this case, I gladly accept and endorse the statement. Even in my blurb, I invite folks to accompany my characters during the week leading up to the eruption. For over 60% of my reviewers, this approach to story telling was what they enjoyed.<br />
<br />
<h3>
Keep This In Mind </h3>
<br />
In the end, no matter how popular you are with your readers, there will be those who dislike your story, your characters or the way you write. You can’t let these obstacles stand in your way. Instead, learn what you can from them, and then move on.<br />
<br />
My one hope, is that if you have read a book that you enjoyed, be sure to leave a review for the author. If it has issues, you shouldn’t hesitate to let them know it as well — although you don’t have to scream for others not to waste their money. :)<br />
<br />
This thought is direct to you,<br />
<br />
<div style="text-align: center;">
<i>From Grandpa's Heart...</i></div>
Dusty Greinhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14010307746753497540noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1570498447225776198.post-21056257265991331182015-05-02T07:54:00.000-07:002015-05-02T07:54:27.225-07:00The M&M's Test<h3>
The Perfect Analogy</h3>
<br />
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj5KnGe3iYwg3bHJIyDlqVrzdtCrcXsUtmhM_VkZvU_TPEkfh9VcVtXGvIy9wAdtQehHg1sughF98HlhlMVhDhZ_aXOM3OJNWWmE4xVH194GNuu38T4_JqVQJA-9aqUz_5sW4d4uC4F1FE/s1600/M&M's.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj5KnGe3iYwg3bHJIyDlqVrzdtCrcXsUtmhM_VkZvU_TPEkfh9VcVtXGvIy9wAdtQehHg1sughF98HlhlMVhDhZ_aXOM3OJNWWmE4xVH194GNuu38T4_JqVQJA-9aqUz_5sW4d4uC4F1FE/s1600/M&M's.jpg" height="200" width="200" /></a>I will never quite grasp the concept behind any kind of bigotry, but racial bigotry is, to me, the most puzzling concept of all. The fact that some people choose to focus on our differences and refuse to see that our similarities are much more numerous, saddens me beyond belief.<br />
<br />
In the great big candy-bowl of life, the M&M's come in many different colors, but if you seriously believe that the green ones taste better than the red ones, you are either fooling yourself or you have been taught to believe that, and haven't really tried them. I dare any of you to grab a pack of M&M's, close your eyes, eat one at random, and tell me what color it was. The concept is not only silly, but it defies explanation as to why it is even a question at all.<br />
<br />
<h3>
My Generation</h3>
<br />
I call us the "Sesame Street Gang" and we grew up with the cast of characters in that neighborhood as pretty much our only choice in daytime TV that wasn't a soap opera or talk show. For me, and thousands of kids like me, we never thought about the differences in color between Mr. Hooper, Gordon and Maria - any more than we thought about the differences in color between Ernie, Bert and Big Bird.<br />
<br />
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjOaI9nMjjUdVEw0ZDs05bqXA4NWsFaXM-FU_NcRVd7oui6ypw7lm78S1MdlN4W7H8tqihRV1CNHOBUlgWsZz9uv9iY7PrGC5wFLk_gtoI8afFWteCi1yZeBpF2Dzw6Nkt-AnoQHyaXp98/s1600/Original+Cast.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjOaI9nMjjUdVEw0ZDs05bqXA4NWsFaXM-FU_NcRVd7oui6ypw7lm78S1MdlN4W7H8tqihRV1CNHOBUlgWsZz9uv9iY7PrGC5wFLk_gtoI8afFWteCi1yZeBpF2Dzw6Nkt-AnoQHyaXp98/s1600/Original+Cast.jpg" height="161" width="200" /></a>We watched children of all backgrounds and heritages, singing and dancing and laughing together as we all learned to read, write, share and care for each other. I sometimes wonder if maybe this wasn't the most perfect television show ever produced.<br />
<br />
When I first encountered racism at about the age of 8, I was confused and disgusted by the very thought, let alone the shocking attitudes and twisted logic that existed behind this strange way of looking at the world. I can remember having a serious crush on a young lady of strong oriental heritage, and was best friends with the black girl next door - who was "colored" back then. That word often made the two of us laugh, because there were so many different colors in the crayon box, and we imagined what it would be like to have magenta skin, or maybe teal. We actually talked about our differences, felt each other's arms, then laughed, got up, and went to swing.<br />
<br />
<h3>
The Future</h3>
<br />
Yes, bigotry, hatred and profiling still exist in this country, but for most of the people I know, this is a much more tolerant and loving place than it used to be. Maybe I am naive, but with all of the focus on our differences being dissolved as we progress, I find hope. Not only have mixed-race couples become very common and accepted, but we are actually making progress toward accepting same-sex couples in the same way.<br />
<br />
In the end, we are all M&M's, and while some of us are nuttier than others, the differences in our shells is one of cosmetic appearance only, and needs to be celebrated as a very small part of what makes us unique individuals in the bag.<br />
<br />
I hope that my grandson, and all the other children who are prefect swirl-cone mixes of different racial and/or ethnic backgrounds, will continue the advancement that was started on that special street where, once you swept the clouds away, you were on your way to where the air was sweet. This bit of honest feeling comes, as always,<br />
<br />
<div style="text-align: center;">
<i>From Grandpa's Heart...</i> </div>
Dusty Greinhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14010307746753497540noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1570498447225776198.post-73089322364716900552013-12-09T22:21:00.001-08:002015-04-15T12:54:14.364-07:00Why I Believe in Santa Claus<br />
<br />
<h2>
Do I believe in Santa? ... <br />Why yes I do!</h2>
<br />
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg3JowNWDrx3Ica9W6cg1pcYn3QfmtE3F8FLEIOmVNp1o14ZWqc6LVr_5bHVRN6PuglLh5dkjA2TvvO0z3DoGcJ7Y4v4gbCcqSfNFZmYbdPTYfkXAtma_3Gy_AlBcR0K_Z3FVVnzJltPTM/s1600/santa.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg3JowNWDrx3Ica9W6cg1pcYn3QfmtE3F8FLEIOmVNp1o14ZWqc6LVr_5bHVRN6PuglLh5dkjA2TvvO0z3DoGcJ7Y4v4gbCcqSfNFZmYbdPTYfkXAtma_3Gy_AlBcR0K_Z3FVVnzJltPTM/s1600/santa.jpg" height="200" width="192" /></a>I
have some friends and some family who seem to be, in my opinion, a bit
confused about what Christmas really means, and they somehow seem to
think that we have lost the 'true' meaning of Christmas. I need to clear
things up, at least as far as MY beliefs and feelings go, about this
most wonderful of holidays.<br />
<br />
Recently, I was sent a link to a site that warned about the origins of
the 'pagan mythology' that makes up a lot of our Christmas traditions. While
much of this 'origins' stuff is true, I say that these beginnings in
history no longer matter ... they are not, nor have they ever been what
Christmas means to me, or to anyone that I have ever shared this
holiday with. Some of my friends follow a different religion than I do and they don't celebrate this holiday,
but for me, although Jesus name is used in the word Christmas, and it
embodies his love and the giving of his blessings (including the greatest gift
of all), it's not just a Christian holiday either. <br />
<br />
<h2>
Why do we celebrate on December 25th?</h2>
Christmas
isn't just about the day that Jesus was born, which it turns out wasn't
even in December... It's about love, and sharing, and giving, and most
of all, it's about magic. I don't mean the scary 'magic' of horror
stories, nor the supernatural 'magic' of fantasy tales, but the true
magic born of loving others more than you do yourself (the most
important lesson that Jesus had for us all)... and Christmas Magic is
for the children, including the ones who still live somewhere inside
each of us.<br />
<br />
We
all know that children grow up very fast, and they learn way to soon
just how hard and cold the great big world can be. The world can rapidly
become one of disappointments and sorrow... of missed opportunities,
and angry words... of the daily struggle to fit in, and the tests we
must study for. Christmas is the one time of year that little ones can
still believe in a world of magic and wonder... a belief that will far
too quickly fade as the 'real' world takes over their lives.<br />
<br />
<br />
<h2>
Why Santa?</h2>
Yeah, in my family we still do the whole Santa Claus thing. The kids
still look forward to that magical visit, and surprise presents under
the tree, and cookies and milk are always left out for Santa (with the occasional carrot for Rudolph, too). They hang their stockings up, hoping they've been good enough to
get fruit and candy, instead of a lump of coal, but they know in their
hearts that they have been ... most of the time.<br />
<br />
Around the age of 10 or
11, each of my kids was inducted, by a very sacred and solemn ceremony
into the Secret Society of Santa Helpers, <two winks and shake your
invisible bell> and that year, they got to stay up later than
everyone else, and help make sure that Santa's 'visit' came off without a
hitch. <br />
<br />
Sadly,
some people see this as being dishonest. Here I must beg to differ. It
is not about keeping any kind of truth from the kids, but instead it's
about keeping alive that little spark inside them, that will grow into
faith ... and to stop the joy and wonder about the endless
possibilities that life might hold from turning into cynicism and
skepticism and drudgery ... for the world is far too full of all the
things that try to make that happen as they grow up. <br />
<br />
My
brother and sister and I always celebrated Christmas. We hung our
stockings, and we left cookies out for the fat guy ... and we were
always amazed and delighted Christmas morning after he came. It didn't
turn any of us against Jesus, or make us pagans or atheists, nor did the
disappointment when we "grew up" make us bitter or resentful about
being sold a fake story. It was simply fun and magic and special, and
it helped us to become the people we are, with faith and love and joy
inside, even if we sometimes get buried under all the 'reality' that is
out there.<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<h2>
I Believe!</h2>
I
refuse to stop believing in Santa, because I believe in love and hope... and I believe that God has given us opportunities to
instill a sense of joy and wonder, and yes, magic, into future
generations. For me, Christmas, with all of it's commercialism
aside, is still an excellent chance to give these gifts to my kids, and
their kids, and hopefully their kids, on down the line.<br />
<br />
I for
one, will not make my grandkids or ANY kids have to face the burden
that our cold reality can be, any sooner than they have to. Childhood
is fleeting, and Christmas Magic doesn't last in it's purest form ..
that of childhood ... very long, so I try to keep it alive as long as
possible. And as a charter member of the S.S.O.S.H., I will believe in
Santa forever.<br />
<br />
To
me, although I do celebrate the birth of my personal Savior on this day
... it doesn't matter what religion you are, nor who or what you
perceive God to be ... Christmas is still the time for giving freely to
each other, for sharing love and laughter with your family and friends,
and if your little, to have a hard time falling asleep on Christmas Eve,
listening for those sleigh bells.<br />
<br />
May you all be blessed with love
and joy and happiness - and a very Merry Christmas<i>,</i><br />
<br />
<div style="text-align: center;">
<i>... From Grandpa's Heart</i> </div>
<!-- Blogger automated replacement: "https://images-blogger-opensocial.googleusercontent.com/gadgets/proxy?url=http%3A%2F%2F4.bp.blogspot.com%2F-MTWngsjTEns%2FVS7AetsUk_I%2FAAAAAAAAAvU%2FJSsGk4BmF7A%2Fs1600%2Fsanta.jpg&container=blogger&gadget=a&rewriteMime=image%2F*" with "https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg3JowNWDrx3Ica9W6cg1pcYn3QfmtE3F8FLEIOmVNp1o14ZWqc6LVr_5bHVRN6PuglLh5dkjA2TvvO0z3DoGcJ7Y4v4gbCcqSfNFZmYbdPTYfkXAtma_3Gy_AlBcR0K_Z3FVVnzJltPTM/s1600/santa.jpg" -->Dusty Greinhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14010307746753497540noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1570498447225776198.post-42949106470675939252013-11-04T14:10:00.000-08:002013-11-04T18:54:27.554-08:00Happy Birthday ... To Me!<h2>
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjq5boBKZn_K9J9rQbapDrzNhndHfwLuwoFHPxNiwJSG4Lm32iHnsSuSKh_Pmn86IElNgQaHO4vfVQNq4kxU6vdoskPTuYymV5cHSx3Aj46AaynueZHwOPFhYQUDU0_ZavdzHBm6MjFeXw/s1600/1963+-+my+year.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="175" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjq5boBKZn_K9J9rQbapDrzNhndHfwLuwoFHPxNiwJSG4Lm32iHnsSuSKh_Pmn86IElNgQaHO4vfVQNq4kxU6vdoskPTuYymV5cHSx3Aj46AaynueZHwOPFhYQUDU0_ZavdzHBm6MjFeXw/s200/1963+-+my+year.jpg" width="200" /></a>The Big Five-Oh ... WHAT?</h2>
<br />
Last week I had a birthday. It wasn't a big deal, and was actually kind of quiet, since Grandma was sick with a stomach bug. But as I went to bed that night, it dawned on me ... I just turned 50!<br />
<br />
Never again will I be 40-something ... and even though I don't feel any older, I'm not very far from being eligible for the senior discount at the mall, and I'm twice the age that some pro football players retire at!<br />
<br />
Sigh ...<br />
<br />
So how did I cope with this dawning realization that OLD actually happens, and contrary to popular wisdom is NOT just a state of mind? ... Well, I did what I tend to do when my brain starts working overtime .. I wrote a poem ... lol.<br />
<br />
<blockquote class="tr_bq">
<i><span style="color: red;"><span style="font-size: large;"><b> <span style="color: blue;">The Young Me Inside</span></b></span><span style="color: blue;"><br /><br />A very young grandfather, (that's me),<br />Said one day, "This just can't be!<br /> I stood and I gazed<br /> In my mirror, amazed, <br />As a 50 year-old stared back at me!"<br /><br />"An entire half-century old ...<br />I don't look it, or so I've been told.<br /> Although, I have found<br /> When the snow flies around, <br />There's a spot on my head that gets cold!"<br /><br />Now my heart once did hiccup, that's true,<br />And the gray in my beard is a clue -<br /> I'm no longer a youth ...<br /> And I must tell the truth ... <br />There are some things I can no longer do.<br /><br />I could run when I was a boy,<br />And trees, I could climb them like toys ...<br /> These now I can't do,<br /> See, it's sad, but it's true, <br />These days, a healthy bowel-movement's a joy!<br /><br />Now, my grandkids all make me so proud,<br />But they play their darn music too loud!<br /> I must officially complain,<br /> With all these new aches and pains, <br />Getting old should just not be allowed! </span></span></i><span style="color: blue;"> </span><i><span style="color: red;"><span style="color: blue;"><br /><br />I mean aging is great ... for a wine,<br />But for me, it should be a crime!<br /> I mean, maybe it's pride,<br /> But stuck deep inside <br />I'm just a boy turning 10 the 5th time!<br /><br /> <b><span style="font-size: xx-small;">(c) 2013 Dusty Grein</span></b></span></span></i></blockquote>
<br />
<h2>
The Best Benefit</h2>
<br />
The very best part of getting older is being able to become more empathetic to the troubles and turmoils that others face in their lives, and having gained a small amount of wisdom, to be able to pass it on to those who are following in your footsteps.With every sunrise, each of us get one day older, but that just means we get one day longer to love each other.<br />
<br />
I hope that I remember to cherish each day, and year, as the gifts from God that they are ... And with His blessings, I'll check back in again soon, and share more thoughts, love and wisdom, straight ..<br />
<br />
<div style="text-align: center;">
<i>From Grandpa's Heart ...</i></div>
Dusty Greinhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14010307746753497540noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1570498447225776198.post-32362525392005188372013-06-21T10:26:00.001-07:002013-06-26T11:48:01.279-07:00A Very Special Woman<h2>
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhXEL4d2BIOkp2-Wtu0wBp7a0SnyRhn95XDnLJyxwaj0YtR8y5dnO2eOPV8KQ-cPZwuCBVpskbIGpPtPw4tkvF6qpFCEAKF6xh5cQmB4yGJ6nOAKDd18B4wZSykMt6ZgWDJ8GCYiiH5Sgg/s1600/16355_1084703218265_1520893_n.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhXEL4d2BIOkp2-Wtu0wBp7a0SnyRhn95XDnLJyxwaj0YtR8y5dnO2eOPV8KQ-cPZwuCBVpskbIGpPtPw4tkvF6qpFCEAKF6xh5cQmB4yGJ6nOAKDd18B4wZSykMt6ZgWDJ8GCYiiH5Sgg/s320/16355_1084703218265_1520893_n.jpg" title="" width="210" /></a>
Her Story
</h2>
I'd like to tell you all a true-life story about one of the most incredible women I've ever known.<br />
<br />
She was born on a summer day during World War II, in a little town in western Washington state. She would grow up the second child, and oldest daughter, of four kids, and learned to care for her younger brother and sister as a teenager. Her working-class parents weren't wealthy, but not having the world given to her on a silver platter taught her to work hard and to appreciate the things you work for. She graduated from Federal Way High School in 1961, and in 1962 she got a job at the Seattle World's Fair.<br />
<br />
She also worked at a drive-in theater that summer, and it was there that she met and fell in love with a young dreamer, and the two of them were married that fall.<br />
<br />
Between 1963 and 1969 they had three children, two boys and a girl. During those years, she faithfully followed her husband up and down the west coast of the US, as he searched for a way to provide for their family. They had some good times and some bad times, as all married couples do. Sadly, they divorced after almost 11 years of marriage, and in 1973 she found herself a single mother of three young children, hundreds of miles from her closest relatives. She had no career, and although she had taken odd jobs during her marriage, most of her time and energy had been spent being a full-time mother and wife, and she needed to find a way to hold her family together.<br />
<br />
<h2>
Inner Strength</h2>
This amazing woman struggled with doubt, fear, pain and loneliness, but she made sure that her children never felt that they were anything but a blessing in her life. She brought her small family back to Washington state to be closer to her parents, and while somehow making their meager allotment of food stamps stretch each week, she went back to school. By taking classes at a local community college, she acquired skills that would enable her to provide her family with a good life. They were never rich, and Hamburger-Helper was on the menu a lot more than steak, but they never went hungry - and they had something that a lot of people never know: a warm home, full of love and laughter. There was always room for at least one pet, punishments were done more by looks of disappointment than anything else, and their family enjoyed far more happy times than sad ones.<br />
<br />
From the moment she became a mother, even during all of the challenges that life threw at her, she gave her children some priceless gifts. A passion for books and reading was basic to her nature, and story time was always important. This fascination and desire for words and ideas became a deep-rooted part of her children's very souls and laid the groundwork for giving them a love of learning... and she was their first and very best teacher. Her pride in their accomplishments, coupled with high expectations for their progress, gave them a strong sense of self-worth, and her examples of hard work, commitment and perseverance forged deep within them an inner strength that would allow them to become the best people they could be. Her love for her family was always so strong and constant, that they never for a minute doubted her, or their places in her heart ... and this gave them the security and faith to be able to give love to others.<br />
<br />
Over the years as her children grew she opened her heart, and often her home, to many of their friends as well. These extra kids all ended up calling her Mom, and she helped to shape their lives and personalities as well. She was always ready to come to the rescue if any of them needed her, and all of them still respect and love her.<br />
<br />
<h2>
Who Is She?</h2>
Her name is Audine Grein, but I have always known her as Mom.<br />
<br />
I am so blessed to be her son. Compared to many of my friends, I have always had a very unique relationship with my Mom. We never really fought or argued, and I cannot remember a time in my life that I had anything but respect and love for her. I'm sure that I tried her patience over the years, especially when I was a brilliant teenager who knew everything, but she was always my rock, my hero, my inspiration and my friend. She gave me just enough space to be myself, and just enough guidance to keep me from disaster. Though I may not have told her often enough, I have always been so proud of her, and everything that she achieved.<br />
<br />
In 1985, my wife and I had our first child, and since Mom was just 42, she informed us she was way too young to be a Grandma. Since her mother was still using that title anyway, (<i>I love you, Gramma</i>), Mom became Nanny ... and for almost thirty years now, she has been Nanny to grandkids and great-grandkids alike.<br />
<br />
As of this writing, she has three children (plus spouses), 11
grandchildren (plus spouses), and 8 great-grandchildren. I created this
image as a gift to her for Christmas, 2010 ... and there have been 6
additions to this family tree since then... as well as a few sort-of-adopted members.<br />
<br />
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjeHUhc-HWMTOV8dOJark2x8Njq1J5wf6tMyX8m_eIkEF7NfNpqPIAEHTX6d2Jw1ig0NKI8Sh8uNdWXhrHGj9xPT8ev8NSMgfL1MUh9lyD_PZCIpWbniwwK6X7HiOnr9AEeCzvGZ2_D8Qg/s1600/Nannys+Tree+2010+-+18x24.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjeHUhc-HWMTOV8dOJark2x8Njq1J5wf6tMyX8m_eIkEF7NfNpqPIAEHTX6d2Jw1ig0NKI8Sh8uNdWXhrHGj9xPT8ev8NSMgfL1MUh9lyD_PZCIpWbniwwK6X7HiOnr9AEeCzvGZ2_D8Qg/s400/Nannys+Tree+2010+-+18x24.jpg" width="300" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Nanny's branches of the family tree, <br />
as it existed in December of 2010.</td><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><br /></td><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><br /></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
<br />
<h2>
The Lessons</h2>
I owe this amazing woman so much more than I can ever hope to repay ... and she has never expected anything more than love in return.<br />
<br />
She taught me to read before I was 5 ... and yes, it's her fault that my bathroom doubles as a library. When you potty train a young child by putting a book in their hands, you may just create a lifelong habit. She is also responsible for my vocabulary. She has a knowledge of the English language that I have yet to find an equal to, and I guarantee, there is no prouder memory in my mind than the first time I actually won a game of Scrabble against my mother, the word-master..<br />
<br />
She taught me to drive, to budget, to cook and that mothers really do have ESP when it comes to knowing the truth, so you might as well just be honest with them. She taught me to love myself and others, and more importantly, she taught me that as long as you believe in yourself, it doesn't matter what the world says or thinks about you - that the only limits you have, are the ones you set for yourself.<br />
<br />
As we prepare to celebrate her 70th birthday this year, I am reminded just how blessed our family is, to have her in our lives, our hearts and our souls, not to mention most of our DNA.<br />
<br />
Regardless of whether she is Mom, Nanny or Great-Grandma, she has always been a pillar of strength, a light in the darkness, a warm hug when the
world is cold, the absolute best place to turn when you need to know
the answer to just about any question ... and hers is still the face and voice
that deep inside I long for when I get an
Owwie on my knee, or in my heart..<br />
<br />
I love you Mom ... that's always and forever ...<br />
<br />
<div style="text-align: center;">
<i>From Grandpa's Heart ....</i></div>
Dusty Greinhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14010307746753497540noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1570498447225776198.post-37136277158656866322012-12-22T09:37:00.000-08:002012-12-22T09:37:53.419-08:00The Tea Party<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjz7Cw5zQawydHBIi9-ENTqAcGl47R2YzffuO7XSHPQJXiGtdmG63cSWMBVTZMZ1sXXuTbSGTnfuSlxbdvKlK3Y29jhBes-sH0143kO_KsRo3DtMY-7HeemqY1fFXUbLe97DwdZ3__qGtg/s1600/Tea+Party.png" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="143" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjz7Cw5zQawydHBIi9-ENTqAcGl47R2YzffuO7XSHPQJXiGtdmG63cSWMBVTZMZ1sXXuTbSGTnfuSlxbdvKlK3Y29jhBes-sH0143kO_KsRo3DtMY-7HeemqY1fFXUbLe97DwdZ3__qGtg/s200/Tea+Party.png" width="200" /></a></div>
<h2>
The Power of a Daddy's Love</h2>
<br />
I heard an amusing story the other day, and thought that if told right, it would give you a glimpse into just how much children mean to their daddies. Biology may be able to make a man a father, but it is love that turns him into a daddy.<br />
<br />
So please enjoy this little story about Mark, and the little girl he loves.<br />
<br />
<blockquote class="tr_bq">
<i><span style="color: blue;">Mark and Amy were a typical young married couple, and when Katrina was born, their family became complete. Mark adored his Kitkat girl, and she was perfect in his eyes.</span></i><br />
<i><span style="color: blue;"><br /></span></i>
<i><span style="color: blue;">One Saturday morning, Amy had to do some shopping, and since Katrina was not quite four, she could be a handful. Mark jumped on the chance to play house-dad, and with Kitkat in his arms, they shooed Amy out the door ...</span></i><br />
<i><span style="color: blue;"><br /></span></i>
<i><span style="color: blue;">When Amy returned home that afternoon, she found Katrina sound asleep inside a makeshift tent in the middle of the frontroom, that had been created with the bedspread from their bed, strung up between the couch, the recliner and a kitchen chair.</span></i><br />
<i><span style="color: blue;"><br /></span></i>
<i><span style="color: blue;">Mark was sitting at the kitchen table, with a queasy look on his face, and tears standing in his eyes ..</span></i><br />
<i><span style="color: blue;"><br /></span></i>
<i><span style="color: blue;">"Honey, what's wrong?" The worry in Amy's eyes and the concern in her voice just seemed to make Mark hang his head in shame.<br /><br />"Well, Kitkat and I had a lot of fun today," he said. "We watched cartoons, had a PB&J picnic in the back yard, and then we had a tea party."</span></i><br />
<i><span style="color: blue;"><br /></span></i>
<i><span style="color: blue;">"Sounds like it was fun," said Amy, with a growing curiosity. What had made Mark look so ill?</span></i><br />
<i><span style="color: blue;"><br /></span></i>
<i><span style="color: blue;">"It was. When we sat down at the coffee table, and she brought out her little tea set .. she called me Prince Daddy, and told me I was her Kite in Shyding Armor. </span></i></blockquote>
<blockquote class="tr_bq">
<i><span style="color: blue;">She then proceeded to fill our cups with water from her teapot. I sipped my 'tea' and told her a story about my magic adventures in Wonderland. When the tea was gone she jumped up and raced off, and returned with another teapot full.</span></i> </blockquote>
<blockquote class="tr_bq">
<i><span style="color: blue;">It was only after the third cup that I realized I hadn't heard any water running, and it dawned on me that she's so little, there was only one place she could reach water anyway ..."</span></i><br />
<i><span style="color: blue;"><br /></span></i>
<i><span style="color: blue;">Amy could feel the laughter bubbling up inside her, but stopped herself from actually blurting it out. Mark looked as if he were in intense pain.<br /><br />"God help me," Mark said, "but she served SIX rounds ..."</span></i></blockquote>
<br />
This story is one I made up, but the emotions are so very real. On the day I went from husband to daddy, my whole world changed, and so did my concept of love. My kids have always been a source of inspiration, pride and motivation in my life, and this message is for them.<br />
<br />
Guys ... I'll drink your tea with you anytime, regardless of where it came from ...<br />
<br />
<div style="text-align: center;">
<i>From Grandpa's Heart ...</i></div>
Dusty Greinhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14010307746753497540noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1570498447225776198.post-53162917839162496372012-12-10T14:11:00.000-08:002012-12-10T14:15:12.957-08:00Swept Away!<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh3LD_LWFFbwJYcv8HWdeR3MuC4hwUfxIRb20VXyk95uuf54vF8zPibKfZ_AtJGc5blt71yXefa4exI-ZpkM2dfw2PAZGXU1FmR2PmxLEpoRhL3Ox7yG9rYEc29GLJt-6vSWNRXf0qplLw/s1600/Swept+Away.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh3LD_LWFFbwJYcv8HWdeR3MuC4hwUfxIRb20VXyk95uuf54vF8zPibKfZ_AtJGc5blt71yXefa4exI-ZpkM2dfw2PAZGXU1FmR2PmxLEpoRhL3Ox7yG9rYEc29GLJt-6vSWNRXf0qplLw/s200/Swept+Away.jpg" width="142" /></a></div>
<h2>
Let's Take A Trip</h2>
One of the goals I had when I started this legacy of messages, was to also share some stories from my past. I know that my grandpa never told me much about his childhood, and I wish he had.<br />
<br />
So follow me into the way-back machine. Buckle your seat-belt (oh wait, there aren't any), and hang on, as I share with you a true-life adventure of yesterday, and a tale of the boy I used to be ... <br />
<br />
<br />
<h2>
The Great Outdoors </h2>
When I was young, long before the days of the internet, cell phones or video games, we were forced to find ways to entertain ourselves. Color TV was only for those who could afford it, and there were only 3 network channels on our little black and white set. Besides, that little video window on the world only truly held appeal on Saturday mornings (cartoons), right after school (Sesame Street), or at midnight on Friday (monster movies).<br />
<br />
This means that when it wasn't raining, and I didn't have a good book to take me away, I spent a lot of time playing outside. We moved around quite a bit when I was young, but having a father with 8 brothers and sisters meant that whenever we lived close enough to one of them, there were always a lot of cousins to hang out with.<br />
<br />
<h2>
The Expedition</h2>
In the fall of 1969, I was five, and still looked about 3. I was always small for my age, but that didn't mean I was going to be left out. During one of our visits, two of my older cousins decided that they were going for a hike through the woods and fields near my aunt's house, in a little town called South Prairie, in Washington state. Mickey was 8, and was my buddy that autumn, and his older brother Bobby was about 13 .... which meant that he was one of those mysterious BIG kids known as teenagers.<br />
<br />
As we went exploring through the trees, we came upon a roaring river. (Okay, it was actually just the South Prairie Creek). It had been raining for days previously and this normally quiet little stream was swollen and the churning water was racing, carrying twigs and debris along as it bullied its way to the Puyallup River, some 10 miles further downstream. In my little-guy's eyes, it could have been the Missisippi.<br />
<br />
<h2>
We Have To Cross</h2>
Bobby and his other teenage friend who had joined us, both headed right into the turbulence, and waded, with a little effort, through the water which came about halfway up their thighs. They kept on going, leaving Mickey and I to get across somehow. Mickey looked at the fast moving water, and then at how little I was, and told me he had an idea. He would just give me a shoulder ride, and we would wade across together, the water was no deeper than his waist after all, and I was light.<br />
<br />
I remember being nervous, but since I couldn't swim, there was no way I was going to be able to get across the river, which was about 10 feet wide, but looked to me like it was a mile or more across. So in one of those moments of childish faith and adventure, I climbed up on his shoulders, and we set off ...<br />
<br />
<h2>
Splash!</h2>
We actually made it about 6 steps across, and had almost reached the halfway point, when Mickey's foot slipped on a smooth rock, and we both went sprawling into the rushing, frothy water.To this day, I can feel the icy water enveloping me, tossing me this way and that, and tumbling me over and over. I remember trying to get my face out of the water, and gasping a huge lungful of dirty tasting air each time I was able to break the surface.<br />
<br />
The swirling river carried me downstream for almost a half mile, scrambling for something to hold on to, before I finally saw a low hanging tree branch, brushing the surface of the water. I grabbed it with one hand, then wrapped my arms around it in a death hold ... and I waited. I prayed for someone, anyone, to come find me, but I wasn't really terrified. With the total faith of the very young, I knew that I would eventually get home, but it was a long, cold vigil, as the river flowed past me and through my clothes.<br />
<br />
<h2>
Rescue </h2>
After minutes that seemed like days, I heard Mickey's voice, full of terror and worry, screaming my name. I was shivering so hard that I could only croak "Over Here!" in a voice that sounded way too quiet in my own ears. He emerged from the trees, dripping wet, with eyes as big as dinner plates, and ran to the branch where I clung, With a little work, he was able to climb out on the branch and haul me out of the water.<br />
<br />
As we lay together in the grass, shivering and letting the adrenaline fade, I still remember him looking at me and saying "You're a lot heavier than you look ..." This of course made is both start laughing, and we got up and slogged our way out of the woods, about 2 miles from the house. We trudged along the road, and cut through a neighbor's field, wondering if they had started a search party for us.<br />
<br />
<h2>
Home At Last</h2>
When we finally got to the house, fearing a scolding or worse, we found Bobby and his buddy on the porch, eating lunch. "Oh, there you guys are." ... No one even knew we were missing! After a change of clothes and some laughter about our adventure, Mickey and I got our lunch, and decided that next time we would just climb trees instead.<br />
<br />
As a parent and grandparent, I'm glad that they never told our parents. I'm sure my mom and dad would have been frantic, had they known the truth. I had an angel on my shoulder that day, and amazingly I never developed a fear of the water, nor even had bad dreams afterward (though I remember that day very clearly). So remember, sometimes even when someone has you on their shoulders, they might slip and fall ... and even if you end up in fast moving water over your head, just look for that branch and hang on ...<br />
<br />
<div style="text-align: center;">
<i>From Grandpa's Heart ... </i></div>
<br />Dusty Greinhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14010307746753497540noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1570498447225776198.post-87860220076143734882012-12-04T00:46:00.000-08:002012-12-04T01:05:19.666-08:00The Seasons Of Our Lives<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgYh7l_Zxi3hu6dREO26Kl-fA8BBhQ9Ssw0BvLyb8-ETvQ59FhvUBqKBKeT-4B139oNsfs3y1_saEXTFv4OwvIVjGV2m7OyvRJlJ5jm27qhoZXcuY5x_kviJINYBqfwr4V-cmB2YnK2eHY/s1600/TheFourSeasons.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="146" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgYh7l_Zxi3hu6dREO26Kl-fA8BBhQ9Ssw0BvLyb8-ETvQ59FhvUBqKBKeT-4B139oNsfs3y1_saEXTFv4OwvIVjGV2m7OyvRJlJ5jm27qhoZXcuY5x_kviJINYBqfwr4V-cmB2YnK2eHY/s400/TheFourSeasons.jpg" style="cursor: move;" title=" " width="400" /></a></div>
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</h2>
<h2 style="text-align: justify;">
A Very Special Message</h2>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
</div>
A dear frien<span style="font-size: small;">d of mine</span>, who I am proud to consider a brother in my heart, lost his mother last year to illness. During her life she wrote some amazing and wonderful bits of prose, but none more moving than the following essay. I am reprinting it here with permission of her family, and I hope you are all as deeply touched by it's truth and ephemeral beauty as I am.<b><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="color: blue;"><br /></span></span></b><br />
<div style="text-align: center;">
<blockquote class="tr_bq">
<h2>
<b><span style="color: blue;">The Seasons of Our Lives</span></b><b><span style="font-size: x-small;"><span style="color: blue;"><br />by Launa Janousek.</span></span></b></h2>
</blockquote>
</div>
<div style="text-align: justify;">
<blockquote class="tr_bq">
<div class="MsoPlainText">
<span style="color: blue;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span></div>
<div class="MsoPlainText">
<span style="color: blue;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-size: x-small;"> </span><i><b><u>Spring</u></b></i> i</span>s a time
of rebirth and renewal. In the spring, seeds can be planted in the rich earth
that has been melted from its icy winter hardness into a receptive and fertile
field. In the spring, we feel the surge of new life, the urge perhaps, to begin
new projects and relationships, or to see the old ones in new light. After the
long, dark, cold winter, we feel the hope and promise of warmer days, as the
earth readies itself for the celebration of summer and the coming to fruition
of all that has been carefully and lovingly sown.</span></div>
</blockquote>
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<div class="MsoPlainText">
<span style="color: blue;"></span><span style="color: blue;"><span style="color: blue;"><span style="font-size: small;"><span style="font-size: x-small;"> </span></span></span><u><i><b>Summer</b></i></u> is a time
of ripening, of coming to fruition. All the energies of the universe now favor
abundance. The days are long and warm, the nights rich with all the fragrances
of the earth. The seed that was planted in the spring comes to term in the
summer; the heat of the sun alternates with the softness of the rain to bring
the earth to its apex of fulfillment. Summer is also the time of relaxation and
appreciation; it is the traditional vacation season, when we put aside our
duties and cares to make room for rest and rejuvenation. At the end of the
summer, we taste the satisfaction of the fruits of our labors, as what we have
put our energy and faith into can now be realized.<br /><br /> <u><i><b>Autumn</b></i></u> is the
season of harvest. As such, it is tinged with a bittersweet quality, for it
involves both maturity and decline. Traditionally, harvest time is a<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>time of gathering of both crops and people,
all come together in joy and goodwill to help one another pick the fruits of
the earth and share in the bounty. But even as we rejoice in the gifts and
beauty of fall, we are aware that the glorious colors of the changing leaves have
already begun to fade. The dusk is coming sooner, the air growing colder. So
autumn contains both joy and urgency as we harvest and we store, making the
necessary preparations that will give us sustenance during the long winter
nights ahead.</span></div>
</blockquote>
<blockquote class="tr_bq">
<div class="MsoPlainText">
<span style="color: blue;"> <u><i><b>Winter</b></i></u> is the
season of reflection and challenge. In the rhythm of natural cycles, it
corresponds to that part of us that must conserve our resources, draw inwards,
and allow ideas and situations to hibernate and awaken in their own time.
Winter is a time of opposing forces that teach us beauty through harshness. The
cold both chills and invigorates us. The snow and ice can be fierce in their
fury or breathtaking in their pristine purity. The long hours of darkness make
us yearn for the day, while appreciating the stillness of the night, the warmth
of the evening fire. Through winter we learn the art of patience and the joy of
discovering new inner strengths, as we wait for new growth to emerge.<br /> As human beings,
we need to stop and look at the trees through the seasons of our lives. Trees
are magical and spiritual symbols. The tree of life and the tree of knowledge
are bridges between heaven and earth with the branches reaching high to the
heavens and the roots traveling deep within the earth. Without trees, life on
earth would be barren and uninhabitable. Trees filter our air; the roots secure
the topsoil we grow our food in; we use trees to build our homes; trees to
shade us from the hot sun and provide windbreaks; we burn trees for fuel to
cook with and keep us warm, and many foods, medicines and countless other
useful items that we take for granted come from trees. Do you remember, or have
you ever noticed how you or other children are naturally drawn to play in or
around trees?<br /> Trees have
guardian spirits, and we can learn many things from sitting quietly near a tree
and communicating with its energy. Find a tree that you enjoy, stand back so
that it is in full view and take your eyes to the top of the tree, admiring the
space where heaven meets earth. Then look at the details of the tree, the
beauty of its branches, the strength of its roots. Trees can teach us about
strength, dignity, peace and giving.<br /> There is a
season for us all, for the time to go. Death comes not in terror but in
gentleness, and always on time. Death is a part of the natural process and
everything has its allotted time on earth.<br /> If you have
faced the loss of someone dear to you, imagine this was or is that
person's time to go. It is the right time, the perfect time. The best way to
send your loved one on is to release them in peace and total trust to the
expertise of the angels. Accept the timing of the universe in death as well as
in life.</span></div>
</blockquote>
<br />
<h2>
A Legacy Of Love </h2>
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgT-8LUjdqQ0pXMoxrxPgyVfBYE08sMxuQipb7AwApWZM_0TidprFyaUkUuwGD__VTs48sTWqtfaWXRwRUYwGU4FkabIu6LHvJRZ46y5z1EahehYrM9mAHg8Tb5zuhivIIfqdLkKGD5Sk0/s1600/Launa+Janousek.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgT-8LUjdqQ0pXMoxrxPgyVfBYE08sMxuQipb7AwApWZM_0TidprFyaUkUuwGD__VTs48sTWqtfaWXRwRUYwGU4FkabIu6LHvJRZ46y5z1EahehYrM9mAHg8Tb5zuhivIIfqdLkKGD5Sk0/s200/Launa+Janousek.jpg" style="cursor: move;" title="" width="150" /></a>Launa was a very amazing woman. Though I never got to meet her, she left a big impression on many people's lives, and her spirit lives on, not only in her written words, but in her family. She passed along her sense of wonder and beauty, and helped to create one of the nicest, and most deeply caring men I have ever known ... Her son Jeff.<br />
<br />
Jeff and his better-half, Sharmell, have been a vital and important part of my life, and the lives of my children and grandchildren for more years than I can count. They were both present when my youngest daughter was born, and have been uncle and aunt to my kids their whole lives. They have been beside us through the good times and the bad, and I feel blessed to count them as family ... I love you guys, and will owe you more than I could ever repay, as long as I live.<br />
<br />
As I write this, in the autumn of my own life, I am looking at the tree outside my window with a new appreciation. As I watch the raindrops fall from its moss covered branches, I feel as if a little bit of Launa is with me, and that the trees are crying for her passing as well. Thank you, sweet lady, for sharing your beautiful view of this trip we all make through the seasons of life.<br />
<br />
<div style="text-align: center;">
<i><dedicated to Launa Janousek and her family></i></div>
<br />
<div style="text-align: center;">
This message for us all was reprinted here by permission and with love,</div>
<br />
<div style="text-align: center;">
<i>From Grandpa's Heart ...</i></div>
</div>
Dusty Greinhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14010307746753497540noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1570498447225776198.post-33538801030863449862012-11-11T13:53:00.000-08:002012-11-12T13:23:13.316-08:00Our Rainbow<br />
<h2>
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhr4jzoA18jZzFRvu2oLmI2VLvh6-fVAgqd0STqHlyzzJBcLxMBGeFaQeFEDtYQnQNZlzEZ-Wie9k_-WcOBINpEh9wX23k8lLI2hSGT0A3j3zqWxOfK04hH9T3UjTW0NGr_aSi-XmfNjf4/s1600/Our+Rainbow+Baby+2.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhr4jzoA18jZzFRvu2oLmI2VLvh6-fVAgqd0STqHlyzzJBcLxMBGeFaQeFEDtYQnQNZlzEZ-Wie9k_-WcOBINpEh9wX23k8lLI2hSGT0A3j3zqWxOfK04hH9T3UjTW0NGr_aSi-XmfNjf4/s400/Our+Rainbow+Baby+2.jpg" title=" " width="320" /></a>Meet Mr. Drayce</h2>
<br />
As many of you know, in June of 2011, my grandson Eddy Maurice Smith III was called home to be with God after an amazing 13 weeks of joy, love and wonder. <br />
<br />
On November 1st, 2012, his little brother, Drayce Henry Smith, arrived and he is our rainbow baby. Though he had to spend a few days in the hospital, Drayce is now at home with his Mommy and Daddy, and is enjoying the attention of his two big sisters, Breonna and Lexi, his older brother Zacchaius, and his guardian-angel big brother, Eddy.<br />
<br />
<h2>
</h2>
<h2>
What Is A Rainbow?</h2>
<br />
According to Wikipedia, a rainbow "is an optical and meteorological phenomenon that is caused by reflection of light in water droplets in the Earth's atmosphere, resulting in a spectrum of light appearing in the sky" ... but I think it's time for them to add a new definition.<br />
<br />
To those of us who have survived the devastating loss of an infant, the birth of another baby heralds the true meaning of the rainbow - a sign after the storm that beauty and love still exist, even in the presence of grief. A rainbow is a bridge that links the darkness that has passed, the glorious beauty that is the present, and the wonder and joy that await us in a future full of brightness.<br />
<br />
As a symbol of a divine promise, the rainbow is also a reminder that the terrible deluges that we may encounter along our journey are not the end of our lives. These beautiful works of God mark the change from tempest to calm, and from fear to hope. I firmly believe that the angels may cry for us during the rain, but they sing with joy and love when the rainbows appear.<br />
<br />
<h2>
A Familiar Smile</h2>
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhgcC2nAO09AJt5yRWhY_-_Pj24sr97kxyQdSRmi-bRAWimqRBYTv1N4yWC96x5wAxZ4C7k0QJkByDd71El9g9DgEkYslCsWdW_P-PJncdAWFTkfmShj-KnXJqnb7SXJVLTdLvRAEdY8hQ/s1600/Drayce+smiles.jpg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhgcC2nAO09AJt5yRWhY_-_Pj24sr97kxyQdSRmi-bRAWimqRBYTv1N4yWC96x5wAxZ4C7k0QJkByDd71El9g9DgEkYslCsWdW_P-PJncdAWFTkfmShj-KnXJqnb7SXJVLTdLvRAEdY8hQ/s200/Drayce+smiles.jpg" title=" " width="150" /></a>On the day that Drayce got to go home, his little face lit up with so much joy and happiness, that I feel certain Eddy was there with him, and was spreading his love, happiness and protection on this adored new addition to our family. I'm not sure just what special thoughts they were sharing, but I can see so much of Eddy's infectious grin in this picture of Drayce's first big smile, that I know it had to have been a very happy one.<br />
<br />
As he grows, Mr. Drayce will always have the special distinction of knowing that not only is he loved as much as any child ever has been, but he also has a little extra protection from a very special big brother, and that like a rainbow, he is beautiful. <br />
<br />
I will leave you for today with this simple statement: <br />
<blockquote class="tr_bq">
<i>May your lives be filled with as much laughter and joy as you can find, and when the storms hit (and they will), may you find solace and comfort in the inevitable rainbows which follow. </i></blockquote>
<br />
This hope-filled wish comes, as always,<br />
<br />
<div style="text-align: center;">
<i>From Grandpa's Heart ...</i></div>
<br />Dusty Greinhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14010307746753497540noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1570498447225776198.post-1147896675679892712012-10-24T14:19:00.000-07:002015-10-30T11:13:28.851-07:00Happy Halloween!<script src="http://mediaplayer.yahoo.com/js" type="text/javascript"></script>
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<h2>
<span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;">My Favorite Holiday</span></h2>
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhaFwOs56BZSMtsUyU1siTywMvSWj6o3yTAlbjDJcgvpePBtmYINuSlqmKOlqmV4DM6V45Y1sbQPBVX-TQc0rdgiPbddIeqUlQRMsSJDUREoU1TtnQyE92cLjnw35Puri4LxbIBap1XGrY/s1600/halloween-haunted-house.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="200" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhaFwOs56BZSMtsUyU1siTywMvSWj6o3yTAlbjDJcgvpePBtmYINuSlqmKOlqmV4DM6V45Y1sbQPBVX-TQc0rdgiPbddIeqUlQRMsSJDUREoU1TtnQyE92cLjnw35Puri4LxbIBap1XGrY/s200/halloween-haunted-house.jpg" title=" " width="200" /></a><span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;">Lots of folks might think that Christmas, New Years or Easter are the best holidays, but not me. See, my birthday falls 3 days before Halloween, and so our annual American institution of dressing up in costumes and sharing sweets with the children has always been my favorite. </span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;">All Hallow's Eve may have started out as a pagan ritual, but it has become something completely different and unique now, and while it isn't an official holiday, I think it should be. </span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;">For most of us, our love of Halloween doesn't have anything to do with religious beliefs, but has everything to do with getting to play dress up, indulging in safe fears, and of course, gratifying our childhood dreams of amassing large quantities of candy.</span><br />
<br />
<h2>
<span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;">Ready, Set, Boo!</span></h2>
<span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;"><span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;">For me, this day marks the true beginning of the holiday season, so it's time to pull out an oldie-but-a-goodie. </span>Over 30 years ago, when I was still a young man, I was feeling rather poetic as Halloween approached. Suffering from insomnia one night, I turned my hand for the first time to creating my own version of a literary classic. I was curious about combining Halloween and Christmas, and an idea was born.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;">Sadly, the original poem is long gone, unless someone else still has a copy. I handed out a number of hard copies to friends and family, so there may be one out there somewhere. Luckily, I have a mind like a steel trap, and it's only a little bit rusty. I still remember almost all of the poem, and in honor of Clement Moore and his masterpiece from 1823, I present the following updated story in verse, based on <i><u>A Visit From St. Nick</u></i> ... </span><span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;"> </span><br />
<div style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-size: x-small;"><i><span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;"><br /></span></i></span></div>
<br />
<blockquote class="tr_bq">
<h2>
<span style="color: blue;"><span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;">The Ballad of Dracu Claus </span></span></h2>
</blockquote>
<blockquote class="tr_bq">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhO2I1WtC8pTN3Ld_H2faygrYNw0wZ6I0PWWimqcJiSTUbzjn-iA3-n1HB682G5DoKMU-62PFPsWzrAxbJLKo4euq9DSLtTwCdg7lla-ZU_lt8A52w0-VhzDmXno7CjDBs_vT-aBxngE5E/s1600/11-12-2009065453PM.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhO2I1WtC8pTN3Ld_H2faygrYNw0wZ6I0PWWimqcJiSTUbzjn-iA3-n1HB682G5DoKMU-62PFPsWzrAxbJLKo4euq9DSLtTwCdg7lla-ZU_lt8A52w0-VhzDmXno7CjDBs_vT-aBxngE5E/s320/11-12-2009065453PM.jpg" title=" " width="197" /></a><span style="color: blue;"><i><span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;">'Twas the night before Christmas</span></i></span><br />
<span style="color: blue;"><i><span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;"> And all through the castle,</span></i></span><br />
<span style="color: blue;"><i><span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;">Not a creature was stirring</span></i></span><br />
<span style="color: blue;"><i><span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;"> Or making a hassle.</span></i></span><br />
<span style="color: blue;"><i><span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;"><br /></span><span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;">The skeletons were hung</span></i></span>
<br />
<span style="color: blue;"><i><span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;"> In their caskets just right,</span></i></span><br />
<span style="color: blue;"><i><span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;">And even old Igor</span></i></span><br />
<span style="color: blue;"><i><span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;"> Was chained for the night.</span></i></span><br />
<span style="color: blue;"><i><span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;"><br /></span><span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;">The dungeon was quiet,</span></i></span>
<br />
<span style="color: blue;"><i><span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;"> The pendulum still;</span></i></span><br />
<span style="color: blue;"><i><span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;">The werewolf was sleeping,</span></i></span><br />
<span style="color: blue;"><i><span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;"> Having eaten his fill.</span></i></span><br />
<span style="color: blue;"><i><span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;"><br /></span><span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;">Wrapped in soft cobwebs</span></i></span>
<br />
<span style="color: blue;"><i><span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;"> And my slippers of lead,</span></i></span><br />
<span style="color: blue;"><i><span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;">I lay down with my shroud on,</span></i></span><br />
<span style="color: blue;"><i><span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;"> To sleep as the dead.</span></i></span><br />
<span style="color: blue;"><i><span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;"><br /></span><span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;">Then, from the graveyard,</span></i></span>
<br />
<span style="color: blue;"><i><span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;"> Across the deep moat,</span></i></span><br />
<span style="color: blue;"><i><span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;">I heard evil laughter</span></i></span><br />
<span style="color: blue;"><i><span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;"> From some sinister throat.</span></i></span><br />
<span style="color: blue;"><i><span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;"><br /></span><span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;">I rolled from my slab,</span></i></span>
<br />
<span style="color: blue;"><i><span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;"> But my knees felt like jelly;</span></i></span><br />
<span style="color: blue;"><i><span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;">The vile sound curdled</span></i></span><br />
<span style="color: blue;"><i><span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;"> The food in my belly.</span></i></span><br />
<span style="color: blue;"><i><span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;"><br /></span><span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;">I rushed to the window</span></i></span>
<br />
<span style="color: blue;"><i><span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;"> To find the fell cause,</span></i></span><br />
<span style="color: blue;"><i><span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;">But the sight that awaited me</span></i></span><br />
<span style="color: blue;"><i><span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;"> Struck me with awe.</span></i></span><br />
<span style="color: blue;"><i><span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;"><br /></span><span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;">The moon through the mist,</span></i></span>
<br />
<span style="color: blue;"><i><span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;"> Cast a sick greenish glow,</span></i></span><br />
<span style="color: blue;"><i><span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;">And I sighed for a moment,</span></i></span><br />
<span style="color: blue;"><i><span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;"> At the beauty below.</span></i></span><br />
<span style="color: blue;"><i><span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;"><br /></span><span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;">I spied moving toward me</span></i></span>
<br />
<span style="color: blue;"><i><span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;"> An old rusty sled,</span></i></span><br />
<span style="color: blue;"><i><span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;">Pulled by eight dragons,</span></i></span><br />
<span style="color: blue;"><i><span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;"> Five green and three red.</span></i></span><br />
<span style="color: blue;"><i><span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;"><br /></span><span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;">The driver's long fingers</span></i></span>
<br />
<span style="color: blue;"><i><span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;"> Appeared bony and brittle,</span></i></span><br />
<span style="color: blue;"><i><span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;">He cracked his long whip</span></i></span><br />
<span style="color: blue;"><i><span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;"> And I peed, just a little.</span></i></span><br />
<span style="color: blue;"><i><span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;"><br /></span><span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;">His skin was so pale,</span></i></span>
<br />
<span style="color: blue;"><i><span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;"> He was all dressed in black,</span></i></span><br />
<span style="color: blue;"><i><span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;">I knew in an instant</span></i></span><br />
<span style="color: blue;"><i><span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;"> It must be Count Drac.</span></i></span><br />
<span style="color: blue;"><i><span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;"><br /></span><span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;">He gave a sharp whistle,</span></i></span>
<br />
<span style="color: blue;"><i><span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;"> That master of pain,</span></i></span><br />
<span style="color: blue;"><i><span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;">Then the beasts became airborne,</span></i></span><br />
<span style="color: blue;"><i><span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;"> And he cursed them by name ...</span></i></span><br />
<span style="color: blue;"><i><span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;"><br /></span><span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;">"Now Smasher, and Crasher,</span></i></span>
<br />
<span style="color: blue;"><i><span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;"> And Charcoal and Grill,</span></i></span><br />
<span style="color: blue;"><i><span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;">On Muncher and Cruncher,</span></i></span><br />
<span style="color: blue;"><i><span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;"> And Raunchy ... and Bill!"</span></i></span><br />
<span style="color: blue;"><i><span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;"><br /></span><span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;">"Away to the rooftop!</span></i></span>
<br />
<span style="color: blue;"><i><span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;"> You know what to do,</span></i></span><br />
<span style="color: blue;"><i><span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;">And don't overshoot it,</span></i></span><br />
<span style="color: blue;"><i><span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;"> Or I'll have dragon stew!"</span></i></span><br />
<span style="color: blue;"><i><span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;"><br /></span><span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;">Then the monsters they landed,</span></i></span>
<br />
<span style="color: blue;"><i><span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;"> Their great wings all a-flutter,</span></i></span><br />
<span style="color: blue;"><i><span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;">Punched holes in my roof,</span></i></span><br />
<span style="color: blue;"><i><span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;"> And tore off the gutter.</span></i></span><br />
<span style="color: blue;"><i><span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;"><br /></span><span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;">He flew down the chimney,</span></i></span>
<br />
<span style="color: blue;"><i><span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;"> And he stood in the coals,</span></i></span><br />
<span style="color: blue;"><i><span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;">As ribbons of foot stench</span></i></span><br />
<span style="color: blue;"><i><span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;"> Issued forth from his soles.</span></i></span><br />
<span style="color: blue;"><i><span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;"><br /></span><span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;">Half-eaten in his hand,</span></i></span>
<br />
<span style="color: blue;"><i><span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;"> Was the thigh of an elf,</span></i></span><br />
<span style="color: blue;"><i><span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;">And I screamed when I saw him</span></i></span><br />
<span style="color: blue;"><i><span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;"> In spite of myself.</span></i></span><br />
<span style="color: blue;"><i><span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;"><br /></span><span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;">His fangs were so sharp,</span></i></span>
<br />
<span style="color: blue;"><i><span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;"> And the bloodstains so red;</span></i></span><br />
<span style="color: blue;"><i><span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;">He hissed once when he saw me,</span></i></span><br />
<span style="color: blue;"><i><span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;"> Then dismissed me, instead.</span></i></span><br />
<span style="color: blue;"><i><span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;"><br /></span><span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;">He pulled out a sack</span></i></span>
<br />
<span style="color: blue;"><i><span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;"> And as quick as a sneeze,</span></i></span><br />
<span style="color: blue;"><i><span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;">He stole all the stockings,</span></i></span><br />
<span style="color: blue;"><i><span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;"> Without saying please.</span></i></span><br />
<span style="color: blue;"><i><span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;"><br /></span><span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;">He took all the presents</span></i></span>
<br />
<span style="color: blue;"><i><span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;"> From our moldy old tree,</span></i></span><br />
<span style="color: blue;"><i><span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;">And the tinsel and garland,</span></i></span><br />
<span style="color: blue;"><i><span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;"> Of hair and string cheese.</span></i></span><br />
<span style="color: blue;"><i><span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;"><br /></span><span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;">He went into the kitchen</span></i></span>
<br />
<span style="color: blue;"><i><span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;"> Carelessly killing a drudge;</span></i></span><br />
<span style="color: blue;"><i><span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;">There he emptied the fridge</span></i></span><br />
<span style="color: blue;"><i><span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;"> (He even took all the fudge!)</span></i></span><br />
<span style="color: blue;"><i><span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;"><br /></span><span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;">He returned to the fireplace,</span></i></span>
<br />
<span style="color: blue;"><i><span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;"> And with a flourish of his cape,</span></i></span><br />
<span style="color: blue;"><i><span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;">Brought his wrist to his nose</span></i></span><br />
<span style="color: blue;"><i><span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;"> And made good his escape.</span></i></span><br />
<span style="color: blue;"><i><span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;"><br /></span><span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;">And I heard him exclaim,</span></i></span>
<br />
<span style="color: blue;"><i><span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;"> As he flew to his feast -</span></i></span><br />
<span style="color: blue;"><i><span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;">"Merry Christmas to all,</span></i></span><br />
<span style="color: blue;"><i><span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;"> And to all, Rest In Peace!"</span></i></span><br />
<span style="color: blue;"><i><br /></i></span>
<span style="color: blue;"><i><span style="font-size: xx-small;">(c) 2012 Dusty Grein</span></i></span></blockquote>
<br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;"><span style="font-size: small;">I hope you all have a wonderful and safe Halloween this year, and don't be afraid to bring me back some candy ... I don't get to go trick-or-treating any more, but I've still got a sweet tooth. </span>If you get too scared, you can always just stop by for some laughter and love,</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<br />
<div style="text-align: center;">
<i><span style="font-family: Verdana,sans-serif;">From Grandpa's Heart ...</span></i></div>
Dusty Greinhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14010307746753497540noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1570498447225776198.post-86040644602729167372012-10-21T20:18:00.000-07:002012-10-21T20:18:41.336-07:00The Power Of Make-Believe<h2>
<i>Let's Say I Was ...</i></h2>
<br />
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjWJAwpa8bVQRPSwQ95bbgHBVeOJtSo2vN-owfbSDI5qZAHNJSGwcSuHhrixiJHCcagA13SR2eAUT39rZC9lweGnjP5RVF97yTmlJSblIhxqpLWJlhLqAs7c5xBuC4X8uZvLiyKN8yNt9Y/s1600/Imagining.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="256" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjWJAwpa8bVQRPSwQ95bbgHBVeOJtSo2vN-owfbSDI5qZAHNJSGwcSuHhrixiJHCcagA13SR2eAUT39rZC9lweGnjP5RVF97yTmlJSblIhxqpLWJlhLqAs7c5xBuC4X8uZvLiyKN8yNt9Y/s320/Imagining.jpg" title=" " width="320" /></a>Remember when you were little? With very little effort, you could pretend you were anyone, and you could do anything. From playing 'house' to adventuring through the jungle, all it took was an idea, and a sense of wonder. Even if you were all alone, you could pretend to be an entire group of different people, and they could interact within your imagination. <br />
<br />
When we first become aware of the world around us, it is a place of wonder, mystery and endless possibilities. If we are fortunate enough to grow in a home filled with love and support, we soon develop a curiosity about all the things that we don't know yet, and a desire to experience our dreams. As we grow, we discover that we have within us the power to create any world we want to play in, and within our world, we can be anything or anyone we wish.<br />
<br />
I can still remember being on board the U.S.S. Enterprise, and having to crawl along in the jeffries tube on my way to the engine room, as the Klingon Bird-Of-Prey was attacking. Okay, so I was just a child who watched Star Trek too much, playing under the kitchen chairs, but in my mind, I was a proud member of Star Fleet ... unless I decided to be a Romulan spy. The point is, it was MY world, and I had fun playing in it.<br />
<br />
<h2>
<i>The Keys That Unlock Our Imagination</i></h2>
<br />
There's a simple reason that little kids love to play with toys. They give them a way to make their make-believe world real enough to touch. With a baby doll, a child who is pretending to be a parent has something tangible to hold, to touch and to love. With a truck in hand, a little one can not only pretend they are driving around, they can make tracks in the dirt that prove their world is really just a hidden part of ours.<br />
<br />
Telling stories offers us another way to share our imagination with
the world. Those of us lucky enough to have been read to at a very young
age, know full well that a good story comes alive in our minds, and
with children may just come alive the next day as well, while they play.
<br />
<br />
When children first start to socialize with others, they can unlock a magical world where they actually share an imaginary universe. With the exception of love, there is no force stronger than that of two children who have created a world of pure make-believe. Their dreams, hopes, and even fears, become real, and these special worlds of wonder will forever be a part of them, even after they forget to remember them.<br />
<br />
<h2>
<i>Growing Up</i></h2>
Sadly, somewhere between the ages of 8 and 12, we learn to stifle our imaginations. Society is partly to blame for this ... we find a 7 year old playing dress up to be cute, but if a 14 year old does it, we assume they are trying to grow up too fast. And if an adult does it, it better be Halloween, or we call the men with the white coats.<br />
<br />
In truth, we do have to put aside some of our fantasies to become healthy and responsible adults. Learning to separate our make-believe worlds from reality is part of growing up, and the inability to do this can become a form of mental illness. Unfortunately, we all still have a need to play, and some people completely lose their ability to pretend. True artists, from painters to authors, retain this ability, and use it to their advantage. Others satisfy this basic human need in a number of ways, from books to video games, and from sports to drugs. In the end, they are all just ways to escape into the world of our imaginations once again, and rediscover our lost sense of wonder.<br />
<br />
The world will always be a special and magical place to children. The ability to play make-believe is a gift that we are all born with,
and one that every child should have the opportunity to experience for
as long as possible. So the next time you have the chance to have tea with a child, or become the moat monster at the local playground, jump in with your whole heart. Maybe you'll discover that your imagination still works, and that child still lives inside you.<br />
<br />
Consider this a special invitation to learn how to play again, delivered to you all ...<br />
<br />
<div style="text-align: center;">
<i>From Grandpa's Heart ...</i> </div>
Dusty Greinhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14010307746753497540noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1570498447225776198.post-59770024179659400462012-10-15T18:31:00.000-07:002012-10-15T19:05:14.201-07:00The White Wolf<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh_JUzBTbtYmWCbOcCV2LSD1YmozH0LMTjrZo-6qFt6vrIPP-TikEES46tNUh3RjRA-ayrNXHGHJHulnDcz9Fm7JWCkQgD6xo40Qr30SEjnusPplHZEg7DYyqBCvZdLDNxlRBly7iLHews/s1600/57898_132633476785161_1141603_n.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh_JUzBTbtYmWCbOcCV2LSD1YmozH0LMTjrZo-6qFt6vrIPP-TikEES46tNUh3RjRA-ayrNXHGHJHulnDcz9Fm7JWCkQgD6xo40Qr30SEjnusPplHZEg7DYyqBCvZdLDNxlRBly7iLHews/s320/57898_132633476785161_1141603_n.jpg" title=" " width="238" /></a></div>
<h2 style="text-align: left;">
<span class="userContent">Unexpected Inspiration</span></h2>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<span class="userContent">Sometimes, the inspiration for my posts comes from unexpected places. Today, a young lady I know who normally just posts single sentences as her status, shared a story. While it isn't the first time I've heard this story, it struck me that it needs to be shared.</span></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<span class="userContent">This is an old legend, but is still worth telling again, for any who haven't heard it. The origins of the tale are now lost in the mists of time, but the message is till as fresh as the day it was first heard. </span></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<span class="userContent">Here is my version ... </span></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<br /></div>
<blockquote class="tr_bq">
<div style="text-align: left;">
<span style="color: blue;"><span class="userContent">An aging Cherokee warrior gathered his grandchildren together. His life had taught him many things, and today he would share with them one of the most important lessons he knew. The youngsters sat in a semi-circle around him, and he patiently waited until they were quiet.</span></span></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<span style="color: blue;"><br /></span></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<span style="color: blue;"><span class="userContent">"A fight is going on inside me right now," he began. "It is a
terrible fight, and it is between two wolves. A Black wolf, and a White wolf.<br /> <br />"The Black wolf is evil. He
is hate, anger, regret, greed, arrogance, doubt, guilt, envy, lies and
grief.<br /> <br /> "The White wolf, though, is good. He is love, peace, hope,
generosity, humility, faith, trust, compassion, truth and nostalgia.<br /> <br />"This same battle is going on inside each of you. Indeed, it is happening inside every person you will ever meet." </span></span></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<span style="color: blue;"><br /></span></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<span style="color: blue;"><span class="userContent">The children sat in silence and considered their grandfather's words. A few minutes later, one young boy looked up, eyes filled with curiosity, and asked "Grandfather ... Which of these wolves will win?" </span></span></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<span style="color: blue;"><span class="userContent"><br /> The old Cherokee grinned, with a gleam in his eye, for he had been waiting for this question. "The winner," he replied, "will be the wolf that you choose to feed."</span></span></div>
</blockquote>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<br /></div>
<h2>
<span class="userContent">A Never-Ending Struggle</span></h2>
<div style="text-align: left;">
</div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<span class="userContent">We all have this dual-nature, and it's true that this battle occurs in all of us. Keep in mind that you can always decide which wolf you will feed, and only you control the outcome of this battle.</span></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<span class="userContent"><br /></span>
<span class="userContent">The Black wolf is always hungry and will eat any scraps he can, but I have found that the White wolf grows stronger with every bite you feed him.</span></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<span class="userContent">My wish for you all, is that your White wolf may thrive, and comes </span></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<span class="userContent"><br /></span><span class="userContent"><i>From Grandpa's Heart ...</i></span></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<span class="userContent"></span></div>
Dusty Greinhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14010307746753497540noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1570498447225776198.post-58738946324750613162012-10-10T17:41:00.000-07:002012-10-10T17:49:08.286-07:00Dampa Wuv's Yew<h2>
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiwnmiB8YK3gRb8BRmvn7gaMmss8QIwyfYVwHVUGc10Tx8DfqKGpO4ta2fVTq0g7TXT4Mm2BNQtSY4FttjzPOp4xvUQlgTvOdD8zW7RoThMa3Gg09bNmsJmvlJStQbz02gv1PqtG3htp30/s1600/Lexi+02.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiwnmiB8YK3gRb8BRmvn7gaMmss8QIwyfYVwHVUGc10Tx8DfqKGpO4ta2fVTq0g7TXT4Mm2BNQtSY4FttjzPOp4xvUQlgTvOdD8zW7RoThMa3Gg09bNmsJmvlJStQbz02gv1PqtG3htp30/s320/Lexi+02.jpg" style="cursor: move;" title=" " width="315" /></a><i>Speech Impediments</i></h2>
<br />
When my wife was little she had trouble, like a lot of kids, making some sounds. For her, the elusive letter R was the worst, and up until 4th or 5th grade, she was a '<i>Wascally Wabbit</i>' kid. She was given speech classes and finally learned to make that special sound though, and it never had any impact on her reading or spelling abilities (although to this day, Grandma can't roll her R's and so some Spanish words are beyond her.)<br />
<br />
Our second oldest granddaughter, Lexi, has always had some difficulty getting her mouth to make certain sounds. She has one of the oldest souls among my branches of our family tree, and her inability to make herself understood by some people has often made her quite frustrated.<br />
<br />
<h2>
<i>Grandpa The Translator</i></h2>
<br />
As she grew throughout her preschool years, it seemed that for some reason, I understood Lexi-ese better than most, and was often called to translate for others. Somehow I knew that '<i>Mawn, peets</i>' would only be satisfied with a glass of cold milk, and a '<i>boo-day poddy</i>' was a cause for celebration. The times that even I would scratch my head in consternation when trying to decipher her words were thankfully few, because when even <i>Dampa</i> couldn't get it, it sometimes brought her to tears.<br />
<br />
<br />
This year, she is in first grade, and since she still has some trouble being understood by teachers (bad) and other kids (even worse), they had her tested for speech classes. Thankfully, she qualified for free therapy, since my daughter works hard, but is far from rich. She will receive up to two years of speech lessons, from someone trained to help her recreate the sounds that make up our language.<br />
<br />
<h2>
<i>Test Scores</i></h2>
<br />
One of the worst things about having speech troubles is the standardized testing that her school does in first grade. Because the reading scores are based on sounds, she was scoring extremely low. Now, thanks to a caring teacher and her speech classes, she will stop being judged on her ability to form difficult sounds with her mouth. She is an awesome little reader already, and it's not right to punish her for a minor lacking in this purely physical motor skill.<br />
<br />
Children in school can be cruel sometimes, and even when it's not intentional, teasing hurts. So do assumptions made by people about a child's intelligence, motivation and skill, based on their ability to fluently and clearly communicate their ideas, thoughts and desires. Having a child (or grandchild) with a speech impediment is not the result of their being lazy, stupid or mentally challenged in any way. Often, even well-meaning friends and relatives can make careless, hurtful remarks that can lead to even worse frustration and pain for a child who already is having trouble being understood.<br />
<br />
<h2>
<i>Practice, Practice, Practice</i></h2>
<br />
Like any other skill, making sounds can be learned, with lots of encouragement, love and practice. This summer, Lexi and I practiced making silly sounds together, and she did make some improvements. I think it is awesome that now she is getting help from a professional therapist.<br />
<br />
Soon, she'll be enunciating like a pro, and will leave behind the days of frustration at not being able to make herself understood. We all know that it won't put and end to life's challenges, but it will make it easier for her to express her ideas and desires, and share her fears and joy with others.<br />
<br />
I just hope that as she makes this journey to better speech skills, she keeps in mind that to her <i>Dampa</i>, she'll always be a '<i>boo-da-foo wi-dew pin-dess</i>', and along with all of my grandchildren, will always have an enduring and selfless love that comes straight<br />
<br />
<br />
<div style="text-align: center;">
<i>From Grandpa's Heart ...</i></div>
Dusty Greinhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14010307746753497540noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1570498447225776198.post-40760720485637170922012-10-08T17:50:00.000-07:002019-12-31T20:26:51.228-08:00Our Christmas Angel<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgHjjLe62dXTis6q9YD2mjFk6lZS4NRafxiAXqLGKm6dqiwx-hKrStf4Dg6zHKcAcsBnwUk_JLm64YQ_gb9ivr5n9AwIKDEKVMCS5QH_QjjFTvmvJPdBE2UEfRWpH4pJDZmIER42XxjOpU/s1600/Christmas+Angel.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgHjjLe62dXTis6q9YD2mjFk6lZS4NRafxiAXqLGKm6dqiwx-hKrStf4Dg6zHKcAcsBnwUk_JLm64YQ_gb9ivr5n9AwIKDEKVMCS5QH_QjjFTvmvJPdBE2UEfRWpH4pJDZmIER42XxjOpU/s320/Christmas+Angel.jpg" title=" " width="256" /></a></div>
<h2>
<i>The Teacher </i></h2>
<br />
I'd like to share a true story with you. It is one of my fondest memories, and is the story of how a retired school teacher had a wonderful impact on my family, and taught my children one of the greatest lessons in life.<br />
<br />
In December of the year 2000, I landed a contract programming mainframe computers for an investment company in Tacoma, Washington. My wife was 7 months pregnant with our 5th child, and my other four children ranged in age from 15 to 7. Suddenly, I was earning almost 100,000 a year, and we moved into a huge 5 bedroom home 2 days before Christmas.<br />
<br />
We had a great Christmas that year, and after our baby was born I was convinced that we had finally made it. I could finally provide my children with the lifestyle that they deserved. We ate out almost every night, and splurged on lots of silly things.<br />
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<h2>
<i>The Fall</i></h2>
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In August of 2001, I signed a three year extension to this lucrative contract, and was so excited. Having this future planned out that would see us all financially secure made me a little blind to reality. We spent money as if it grew on trees, and I hadn't even thought about saving for the proverbial rainy-day.<br />
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Then, on September 11, when those towers fell in New York City, they brought my world down with them. The investment company that I was working for felt the economic waves that were created that morning, and terminated all of their programming contracts. I discovered the hard way just what the 'right of rescission' meant, and suddenly all of my plans and dreams were gone, in the blink of an eye.<br />
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As September gave way to October that year, my wife and I found ourselves living in a travel trailer at a State Park campground, with 3 dogs and 5 kids, the youngest just starting to walk. My income had gone from upper middle class, to the poverty level overnight. I was reduced to surviving on a weekly Unemployment check while I looked for work. Needless to say I was feeling very bitter and depressed.<br />
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<h2>
<i>The Gift </i></h2>
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We were still in that trailer, moving from campground to campground throughout the fall. Thanksgiving came and went, and Christmas was approaching. By scrimping wherever we could, my wife and I had managed to set aside about $100.00 for the holiday, and gifts for the kids. It was sure to be a thin Christmas, but we would still make it as happy as possible for our family.<br />
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My youngest son made a friend that November, as only a 7 year old can, and the two boys spent many days together. This other young fellow was at the campground visiting his grandmother, who had retired from a lifetime of teaching elementary school and was traveling in her RV. She took the boys on many a nature walk, and even helped them to make homemade Christmas presents for their families, using pine cones and bark with string and construction paper and some old used candles.<br />
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About a week before Christmas, my son was gloomy. His friend's grandma was going to be moving on, and they would probably never see each other again. His new-found friend stopped by our campsite on the morning that they left, and his grandmother stopped by as well, for a cup of campfire coffee. We thanked her for the time she spent with the boys, and the help she gave them with their gifts.<br />
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<h2>
<i>Speechless</i></h2>
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As she was leaving, she turned to my wife and said, "Oh, I almost forgot. This is for your family." She handed my wife an envelope, and then with a smile and a wave, she was gone. My wife and I looked at one another in curiosity, and she opened the envelope. Inside was a card, and as my wife read it, her eyes filled with tears. I asked her what it said, and she just handed it to me, unable to speak.<br />
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The card was just a simple Christmas card, like any other you might find at the store. It had a typical graphic, and was only printed with the words Merry Christmas. However when I opened it up, I was rocked to my core.<br />
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Inside was a hand written message that said<br />
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<blockquote class="tr_bq">
<span style="color: blue;">"<span class="grand"><i>I am only one, but still I am one. I cannot do
everything, but still I can do something; and because I cannot do
everything, I will not refuse to do something that I can do. May your family be blessed this Christmas.</i>"</span></span></blockquote>
<span class="grand"><br /></span>
<span class="grand">Attached to the card on the inside by a paper-clip, were ten crisp twenty dollar bills.</span><br />
<span class="grand"><br /></span>
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<h2>
<span class="grand"><i>The Lesson</i> </span></h2>
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<span class="grand">To this day, this wonderful woman's spirit of love and compassion moves me to tears, and I wish I could have thanked her in person. She'll never know that in one single moment she not only tripled our Christmas budget, but she also showed us the true meaning of Christmas. Her gift was more than just generous, it touched all of our lives in a huge way.</span><br />
<span class="grand"><br /></span>
<span class="grand">The following year was a better one, and one of the ways that we attempted to pay it forward a little bit, was to take Christmas dinner to a few people who were in that campground for the holiday. Giving away those food bags felt as good inside as getting any present I ever remember.</span><br />
<span class="grand"><br /></span>
<span class="grand">Sometimes the special angels in your life appear from nowhere, and they touch you before moving on.I wish that I had known our Christmas angel better, for the day she gave us her gift, I became her student, and I hope that someday I too, can change a family's life like she did ours that day.</span><br />
<span class="grand"><br /></span>
<span class="grand">This desire lives deep inside me, and was shared</span><br />
<span class="grand"><br /></span>
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<div style="text-align: center;">
<span class="grand"><i>From Grandpa's Heart ...</i></span></div>
Dusty Greinhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14010307746753497540noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1570498447225776198.post-1331926574490003732012-10-03T10:27:00.000-07:002012-10-03T13:16:58.005-07:00Glass Houses<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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<h2>
You Be The Judge</h2>
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Most of us are aware of the expression "Judge not, lest ye be judged." While this is an admirable goal, I think it's not very realistic.<br />
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We all make judgements every day, about everyone and everything in our lives. It's part of what makes us human, and allows us to make the decisions in life that are important, but it can also be very detrimental to our relationships and success.<br />
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In order to decide on any course of action we must have an internal dialog and we must make a judgement call, based on our experiences and our goals. These judgements will decide our words, our actions, and inevitably, the course of our lives.<br />
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<h2>
The Better Part of Valor</h2>
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Here is where discretion plays such a vital role in the amount of happiness we have, and the amount we share with the world. We all have an 'inner voice' that makes snap judgements and tends to influence our decisions and actions. We gain maturity when we realize that not everyone needs to hear that voice, and true wisdom comes once we stop letting that inner voice make our decisions for us. We all respond to a tap below the kneecap with a reflexive jerk, but we can control the impulses that we feel to respond immediately to our initial judgements of people and their opinions.<br />
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In a way, I think that our egos sometimes really get in the way of making good decisions. Usually this is because that 'inner voice' is in control, and if we question it, or hold it in, we feel like we are not being true to ourselves. Sometimes, though, all it takes is a moment of introspection and evaluation to prevent us from suffering the dreaded foot-in-mouth disease that accompanies rash words and snap judgements.<br />
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<h2>
None Of Us Are Perfect</h2>
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As far as I can tell, there's only ever been one perfect human, and he died on a cross a couple thousand years ago. We all have our problems, our flaws and our issues. As a society, we have a need for judges, to decide on matters of public interest and to settle disputes under our legal system, but on a personal level, I think we have a bigger need for understanding and compassion, than we do for judgement and retribution.<br />
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When you meet someone, or hear an opinion on a subject you care about, stop and really think before you comment or create a lasting impression in your mind. Everyone you meet is both good and bad, beautiful and ugly, and capable of both cruelty and love. We are all human, so try and respect our differences. On that final day that you must be judged for your life, the fewer rocks you have thrown, the better. I know there's far too much glass in my house, and I bet you have more than enough in yours too.<br />
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Just a little bit of advice,<br />
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<div style="text-align: center;">
<i>From Grandpa's Heart ...</i></div>
Dusty Greinhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/14010307746753497540noreply@blogger.com0