• Absorbanol     : 1405mg
• Calories          : 17
• Carbohydrates: 3g
• Sugars            : 3g
• Fat                 : 0g
• Vitamin c        : 3mg
• Vitamin B-2    : 0.44mg
• Vitamin B-3    : 10.5mg
• Vitamin B-5    : 3.3mg
• Vitamin B-6    : 0.66mg
• Vitamin B-12  : 60mcg
• Sodium           : 10mg

A man and his dog were walking along a road. The man was enjoying the scenery, when it suddenly occurred to him that he was dead.

He remembered dying, and that the dog walking beside him had been dead for years. He wondered where the road was leading them.

After a while, they came to a high, white stone wall along one side of the road. It looked like fine marble. At the top of a long hill, it was broken by a tall arch that glowed in the sunlight.

When he was standing before it he saw a magnificent gate in the arch that looked like mother-of-pearl, and the street that led to the gate looked like pure gold. He and the dog walked toward the gate, and as he got closer, he saw a man at a desk to one side.

By Steve Goodier

When was the last time you were challenged to do something really... well... great?

President Abraham Lincoln helped me understand that there is a bit of greatness within all of us. It is said that he often slipped out of the White House on Wednesday evenings to listen to the sermons of Dr. Phineas Gurley at New York Avenue Presbyterian Church.

He generally preferred to come and go unnoticed, so when Dr. Gurley knew the president was coming, he left his study door open. On one of those occasions, the president quietly entered through a side door of the church, took his seat in the minister's study, located just off the sanctuary, and propped the door open just wide enough to hear the preacher.

During the walk home one Wednesday evening, an aide asked Mr. Lincoln his appraisal of the sermon. The president thoughtfully replied, "The content was excellent... he delivered with eloquence... he had put work into the message…"

"Then you thought it was an excellent sermon?" questioned the aide.

"No," Lincoln answered.

"But you said that the content was excellent, it was delivered with eloquence and it showed much work," the aide pressed.

"That's true," Lincoln said. "But Dr. Gurley forgot the most important ingredient. He forgot to ask us to do something great."

There is nothing wrong with average lives and average accomplishments. Most of the good of the world is built on the
accumulated efforts of everyday people. But, as Lincoln seemed to know, a life should strive for some greatness.

Are you part of a relationship that, if given more effort, could be outstanding? Or do you volunteer for an organization that is truly doing something excellent? Have you joined a cause that is attempting something great? Or have you ever said to yourself concerning a beautiful dream, "I could never do that," while knowing that if you were to attempt it and succeed, you just might accomplish something significant?

If Abraham Lincoln is right, then every life should strive to reach a little further today than it did yesterday, for there is some greatness in each of us.

--Steve Goodier

By Sharon Bryant

She was three-years-old the day I met her. I looked into the saddest eyes I've ever seen on a little girl. Beautiful long blond hair cascaded down her back and feathered her cheeks. I noticed a large scar down one side of her face, but never mentioned it. I looked up at her mother and saw another pair of sad eyes.


I couldn't figure out what could have happened for a child so young to look so sad, or for a mother, who carried the same look.

I got on my knees and got close to eye level with the little girl. "How would you like a bag of cotton candy?" I asked. She didn't look at me for a moment. I said, "I'll give you one if you tell me you like cotton candy." It was then she looked into my eyes. The little blond head slowly nodded yes.

I looked up to her mom and asked, "Is it OK with you?" I saw tears sliding down her cheeks as she nodded her head yes.

I stood up and reached for a bag of cotton candy, then handed it to the little girl. Her mom kept thanking me, and I brushed it off, saying, "I have kids, too." It was then she told me the story.

"You may have read about this little blond girl just a few years ago. You may have seen the photos on television. Her name is Amy Crowder. Children's Hospital in Birmingham , Alabama dedicated their annual pamphlet to her. Amy was the last survivor of the F5 tornado that struck Tuscaloosa, Alabama, that year. The day I met her, she was released from Children's Hospital where she spent over three months. Her brother was killed in that horrible tornado, as well as her daddy. Amy is very conscious of the scar that's on her face."

After her mom told me who she was, I remembered reading about her in the paper and seeing the rescue team that found her barely alive.

Before Amy and her mom left my shop that day, I bent down again to Amy and said, "You are a very beautiful little girl." I handed her a stuffed animal I had on display. It was then I saw a spark in those little eyes and a hint of a smile on her small face. I handed her mom a card and told her I, too, had lost a child, and if she ever needed to talk, just to call or e-mail me.

Amy has never been in my shop since that day. I've often thought of her, her mom, and wondered how they're doing with the two losses they both had that day so many lost their lives in that terrible tornado that struck central Alabama .

Since that day, we now have a tornado shelter built into the ground. I live less than 20 miles from where Amy's brother and father died. I know these storms. I know loss. I know that there is a reason for everything, and that Amy and her mom's lives were spared was for a reason. But I'm also glad I had the opportunity to meet that little blue-eyed girl who had the saddest eyes I have ever seen.

--Sharon Bryant choklite@bellsouth.net

By Vickey Stamps

The old man cradled his violin over his heart, the rosined strings to the bow freshly applied. Now he stepped down as gently as he could upon his arthritic legs, grateful there were only a few steps to the sidewalk. The home was older than he was, and he thought perhaps that was enough to say about it.

It was the deep dusk, just after sunset and before the dark of true night. He had finished up a brief performance with a local bluegrass music band, replacing an ill member. It didn't matter a great deal to him what music rose from his touch, be it bluegrass or a symphony. It mattered only in the notes that came forward, flowing up into the air around him and covering him with the sounds.

Emma, his beloved late wife, used to sit quietly in their home as he played one tune after another, standing before the hearth, whether a fire burned within or not.

It didn't seem like it had already been five years since the Lord had lifted her up from her sick bed, and carried her away. She had only had a lung infection. Now he only saw her in his mind. He smiled to himself, thinking he would play for her at their favorite place to visit. The park was just a few blocks away.

A willow tree, with its leaf-filled limbs hanging down, clothed in green finery, nearly touched the ground. Other trees kept it company in the old park, but seemed not to make quite the statement the willow did.

By the sidewalk, fronting the street, sat the old bench with its wrought iron arms and backing. Its aged and once splintered wooden seat worn thin and smooth by those who stopped to rest and ponder while sitting upon its surface. He and his wife Emma, had their share of conversations while there. It was almost always about their grown up family and the world in general. He could almost see her gentle smile and the twinkle of her eyes as they shared a bit of humor between themselves.

Now he fitted the violin beneath his chin, closing his eyes and waiting for the inspiration to come. It would not be long. He knew that to be a true thing. Unbeknown to him, a young couple watched him in the shadows, from beneath the leaves of the willow tree. They had come to snuggle there and talk of their caring for one another. Their love was a thing only recently discovered. Her head rested on his shoulder. His arms were around her in a gentle expression of a new and young love. They sat there in silence, waiting for the performance to begin.

Soon, tender, gentle, softly sad notes rose up, following one after another, the bow bending itself to make the music. Had the willow tree been able, at that time, to truly weep, it would surely have done so.

Even insects inside the trees bark peeked out to see what was going on. A ground squirrel raised its head above its burrow, fully intending to chastise the human for disrupting its rest, but instead, sank its head down upon the grass and let the notes soothe it as well.

The young woman's tears began to pour forth, for surely the old man was playing a love song for them. Her tears wet her sweetheart's shirt, upon which she had leaned her head. He gathered her closer in care and reassurance as the love song continued. It made him think of the world and what he could do to become a better part of it. Perhaps tomorrow he would participate in more good will to his fellowman. He would think of the old man's music and, perhaps, be more caring.

The fiddlers chest had begun to ache and he thought perhaps he would stop now, instead of playing another song and maybe rest for awhile on the old bench. Funny how much more than in all his previous visits, had his Emma's presence been felt. She seemed to sit quietly in the center of the bench, just where she had sat in real life. It was if she wished him to come there and take her hand. He thought perhaps he would do that and he did.

The young couple quietly left without being detected from their cover under the old tree. The insects hid again behind the bark and the ground squirrel returned to tell his family about the concert he had attended.

Meanwhile, Emma leaned her gray head against her husband's shoulder and reached for his hand. The patrolman would find the old man there later, and wonder why he had passed away alone and perhaps unloved. He would not know the Creator had sent Emma to bring him home.

The old fiddle would find a new home as would the bow. It would surely bring with it a sense of love, for that was all it had known in its Fiddle life. And life was good…
========

By Sharon Bryan

In my lifetime, I have heard people remark that a fire can be the deadliest thing on earth. Others have said a fire can be beautiful with its colors of orange and red against a dark sky or a sunny sky.

One day, many years ago, I found out what a fire can do. I did not think it was beautiful, but I learned how deadly it can be.

My cousin was staying with us. She was four years older than I and seven and-a-half years older than my brother. I was nine that year. Grandma was downstairs in the kitchen, getting supper ready. My parents and grandpa hadn't gotten home from work yet. I was in my room, painting a picture. My brother was playing with some of his trucks in his room.

My cousin walked into my bedroom and asked if I wanted to play a game. "What kind of game?" I asked her

"Fire," she said. I didn't understand. She pulled out a matchbook of matches. I knew right then and there I didn't want to play her game, whatever it was.

On my windows, like so many homes in those days back in the 50s, hung plastic curtains. They had a ripple look to them with red roses and green leaves. They sort of matched the wallpaper on my walls. My cousin struck a match. I jumped off my bed and ran to the door. She was standing about a foot from the window. She blew it out and laughed at me. I looked at her, thinking she was stark nuts. She lit another match.

By this time, my brother had entered the doorway to my room. He watched her light a match, then looked at me. She laughed again, then in the blink of an eye, my curtain was on fire. I saw in an instant the flames catch the wallpaper on fire. I ran out of my room and flew down the stairs screaming for my grandma.

I remember her meeting me at the end of the long staircase and me yelling, "My bedroom's on fire!" Grandma raced up the stairs. By then, my cousin was in the hallway, staring as my whole room was ablaze in red and gold colors. The heat was intense. Grandma raced back downstairs and told the operator to get the fire department to our address right away. In minutes, I could hear the sirens screaming as they came down our street.

Grandma made all of us go outside. I watched as the red and gold colors snaked from the roof of the house. It was getting dusk out, so I saw the blazing colors against a darkening sky.

After the fire department got the fire out, we had lost a large section of our roof. I lost all my clothes, all my dolls and toys that day. From that day on, I have never liked matches. I don't like wallpaper either. Although, I know paint would have caught fire just as fast.

When the commotion was over with, and we were asked WHO had the matches, my cousin pointed at me. My grandparents knew I did not play with matches. Neither did my brother. They knew who did it. My brother and I told the truth about the pack of matches she had gotten hold of. I remember my cousin getting the licking of her life for the incident.

Yes, a fire can be "beautiful" against a darkened sky, but it can also destroy everything you have. As I watch the news and see what is happening in California, it brought back so many memories of that day long ago in Detroit.

--Sharon Bryant choklite@bellsouth.net

By Bob Perks

Don't tell me you can't go home… I just came back from there.

My phone rang early last Saturday morning. "Hey, did you see in the paper that 466 is having a house sale?" my brother asked.



"No, are they really?"

"Yes. I think we're going down later just to walk through it."

466 is the house number of the home we lived in when I was growing up. I lived in a community where folks always stayed close to where they were born. Families rarely moved away back then. That is, until the kids graduated high school. Then, it appears, that most of my classmates left the area.

So, many of the old homesteads were left with parents, growing old, and children, returning during holidays and funerals.

"Well, if you go, let me know what it looks like," I said.

Then it played in my mind. It must have been that I hadn't had my coffee when he called. "How could I pass up a chance to see it again?" I said to my wife. "Let's go!"

I was actually nervous. On my way there, my mind replayed a thousand memories. Then, when we pulled up, I began to shake. I am a man, whose emotions lie barely below the surface. I am a writer and a speaker, and still I can't capture in words the real feelings of the moment when I set foot just inside the door… I was home.

Introducing myself to the present owner, I put my hand out and said, "Hello. I am Bob Perks. I used to live here."

He kept his arms crossed in front and didn't respond. Maybe this was a bad idea. I continued, nervously telling my story. He finally warmed up when he realized I valued the hose as much as he did. He had lived there 21 years.

I called my brother to tell him where I was. Then the man actually closed the front door and took us upstairs. My room, my parents room, the attic where I played.

It was there a real life-changing moment occurred. I happened to mention that I had plastered the walls in the small attic room with Beatles pictures.

"Did you have a photo album where you kept them, too?" he asked.

"Yes!"

"I found it. It's downstairs. We were going to sell it on eBay."

I hurried down to see if it really was mine.

"Who's Bobby?" he asked. I responded like a little kid, waiting for Santa to hand out gifts.

"That's me!"

There it was, one of those old photo albums with the black construction paper, bound by a laced shoe string.

"What's it worth to you?"

He was selling his stuff. But this was my stuff.

"Priceless!" my wife responded.

"Here, take it," he said.

Nothing could match this moment better than seeing my brother arrive. He immediately walked in and stood in the second room, right near the kitchen door. I knew what he was doing. He turned and said to the man, "My mother died right here. I held her hand when she died."

I was there with him and Dad that day, that moment… But declaring his place there that day was important to him today. He adored her.

Later, I stood in the kitchen with him, and in another moment I will treasure the rest of my life, I turned to him and said, "I would never in a million years think that you and I would be standing here again. Me now 59, and you 69."

Dear God, thank you…Thank you for big memories in the small moments. And thank you for keeping my brother and me around so we could "go home again."

"I wish you enough!"
Bob Perks