Breaking news won’t stop, keeps blaring,
Stuffs the days with despair leaves me callous
Frazzled, weary drives me seek joyful respite
Far from where I suffer brother’s pains.
Too far I fear not hear Samaritan’s call
Not from caring, alas from hearing unrelenting.
Tweet Me A Story
O’ Twitter train, take me, leave me where I’ve not been,
For there are those I want to know in places else I could not go.
A couple of tweets back, Twitter whisked me to New Jersey where I came to know Annie. Annie speaks of peace and feathers. I’ve never met Annie, not directly, and maybe I never will. But I know she has a sister in Ohio, a sister she loves very much. Annie wishes she could see her more often. Annie has not told me this, but I know it is so.
Annie sends encouragement to our men and women who serve in harm’s way. She recognizes the great sacrifices they make. I know they appreciate having her support. I like that Annie assures them this way. I bet Annie has an American Flag somewhere in her little house.
Mostly, Annie talks about feathers and pens and writes in innuendo. Her allure is her mystique. I would welcome Annie as my neighbor — as long as she did not lose her mystique.
I have seen photos of Doris in Canada, each one sporting her infectious smile. I think Doris rarely knows a bad day or ever speaks an unkind word. If you are in a rough spot, you would be well to catch the Twitter train to Canada and seek out Doris. She has overcome her rough spots, found value in the lessons, and is anxious to make you better for what she has learned. This is one of the best things about Doris in Canada.
There is April in Florida, the northern part I think. She re-located recently from South Florida for fear of hurricanes’ wrath. She loves cats and lovingly disparages her experiences with them. You can tell they are among her dearest friends.
April shows a lot of courage in dealing with woes about her health. She has made humor her friend. April knows a lot of things, has strong opinions, expresses them openly. I think I could talk to April about anything. I like this about April in Florida.
Tom in Albuquerque paints water colors of the American southwest. I follow Tom’s work because his paintings remind me of my boyhood in West Texas. I have lived in the scenes Tom paints. It’s cozy in them. Maybe sometime Tom and I will sit down together for a whiskey and cigar in the desert of the American Southwest. I know we will both be at home there.
There is En in Nashville, a mother and a wife. At least I think she has been a wife. I can tell she has poetry inside her. I hear it crying to get out. I figure Nashville will lure it out of her someday. She will write the lyrics that say what is in her heart. I figure that is why she is in Music City. I’ll be listening for her songs. Perhaps she will tweet them to me some day.
Karima in Copenhagen is a writer and web artist. She speaks out about a lot of things: animal abuse, human rights atrocities in Africa, hunger and war, the kinds of things that bother most of us. She is very outspoken but I wish she was a little less angry. I worry about her.
I want Karima to teach me about Denmark, its people, customs and culture. But I think her anger sidetracks her because so far I haven’t learned much about Denmark. I haven’t given up on Karima. Mostly I hope she hasn’t given up on herself.
A thousand tweets or so ago, I met Jody in Los Angeles. She was my first Twitter friend. We share a love of baseball. She loves the Yankees, knows all about them, even though she never lived in New York.
When Jody left LA for her new job in San Francisco, she left in a hurry — left behind Twitter and her baseball friend. I miss Jody.
But I have a feeling I will find her again somewhere along the Twitter tracks — Maybe in another thousand tweets or so.
O’ Twitter train roll on, roll on.
Tweet me stories I’ve not heard before.
It’s All In How You Read It
| “Rrrrrrrrrr. Say rrrrrrrrrrrr; that’s how you pronounce “R.” That’s how it began. That’s how I remember Dad teaching me to read. The phonetics were simple, but for all it has become, the lessons fuel a lifetime of wisdom.
Outside the classroom, somewhere between the ages of 5 and 10, most of my learning came on the living room sofa in front of the TV. I had my pencils, paper and crayons there on the coffee table close by. Dad’s dictionary was there, too. It was torn and tattered; you could tell it had been used a lot. Dad had a keen sense about learning. He saw the curiosity I had for books that Mom says was there when I was only a toddler. I guess in those days, science wasn’t telling Dad his 4 or 5-year old might just be lacking the mental maturity to read. I think he was motivated by the impatience I showed at not being able to know what was in those books. So he began teaching me. He pronounced the letters as I listened. He was articulate and his enunciation was polished. He seemed proud of that. He wrote down common combinations of letters, like “ie” and “ous” and patiently pronounced them. He was firm. He made me say them over and over back to him until I had the pronunciations just right. Dad was that way….very exacting. Dad rarely read to me. He insisted that I practice on my own. So I practiced and then practiced some more. He must have known that if he didn’t do my reading for me, I would practice even more so I could do it. He knew I would. Dad seemed to know I was making progress. He saw he had me on the right track. Once I got started, I read a lot. I read everything I could get my hands on. I read so much that when I had to get glasses at age seven, everyone said it was because I read too much. I had worn out my eyes at far too early an age. If Dad was home, he watched TV as I read and studied. When I came across a word I didn’t know, I asked Dad. He had an extensive vocabulary. |
He was a stickler for proper pronunciation. It would have been very easy for him to tell me what the words meant whenever I asked. He didn’t make it easy.
Instead, he pointed to the dictionary on the coffee table. “Look it up. You will always remember it if you go to the trouble of looking it up yourself,” he said. Judging from his vocabulary, that dictionary had been his friend for a long time. Sometimes I read in the car on a long road trip. If I came across a word I didn’t know, he would have me check his dictionary when we got home. He often stood nearby and waited to see that I did it, too. Like all of us, I have had “defining” experiences in my life. I have made hundreds of new discoveries and still make more each day. I have met new friends who shared special moments in their lives with me. I have learned from each of them. I did not happen on all of my discoveries first hand. I did not shake hands with every new person I met; I rarely knew any of them face to face. My greatest lessons were not written on a blackboard in a school classroom. Mostly I simply learned them from Dad, from the lessons he gave in teaching me to read. Dad is gone now. But as long as I read I will always carry with me the special gift he gave. There is little chance I will part with it. Dad’s real lesson in teaching me to read was to know that I could learn for myself. From both his teaching me to read and in the reading itself, I have discovered encouragement and inspiration; I have learned the value of thinking on my own. I have come to know the wisdom of persisting in the search for answers when they are not easily found. Sometimes I think Dad understood what I might miss by his not being at home much. I think he had it figured out. Maybe he knew that by teaching me to read, I would be OK. That’s what I think. |
Mostly Writing, Other Stuff Too
| I’m Jeff. I’m a regular guy. I don’t mean I take a lot of Metamucil.
I mean I’m like a lot of people, like most of them maybe. I struggle to make a buck, struggle for respect, struggle to keep the car running, the roof from leaking, and the tax man from taking more than his share — and mine too. I’ve learned a lot through struggles and experiences, life’s oysters. I’ve opened them all, discovered pearls in a few of them. I have wisdom. When you’re older, you get to call your experiences that. And I get more each day; older and wiser. I am as old as I am wise. That means I won’t benefit from all the wisdom too long. My views are ordinary, but views nevertheless. I’m not reluctant to express my views. I feel strongly about most of them. Mainly, my views are not main stream, at least not most of the time. That’s another thing I think. That’s a lot of thinking. I don’t depend on Good Morning America to tell me what to do to live a long and healthy life. I’m quite capable of finding out myself. I rely on myself that way. I don’t need Matt Lauer telling me how to deal with my depression, reminding me to get my prostate checked, and telling me to talk to my children more so they won’t do drugs. |
Who is Matt Lauer anyway? How do I know he’s a decent father? How’s his prostrate? He looks like a pretty depressed fellow. He depresses me!
Some people tell me I’m a sensitive guy. I think that means they think I take things too seriously. Maybe that’s the way they see it. I think I feel things other people don’t. That’s another thing I think. I think if you’re sensitive, that means you’re in touch with people’s feelings. I think that’s a good thing. I write about my likes and dislikes, about success, my pursuit of it. And to be sure I don’t run out of material, I write about my failures, too. There are things in the world that aren’t right. I mention them sometimes. Maybe I can change them. Maybe I can make a beginning. Shine a light. I ‘m not sure what I’ll write about next, but I have new experiences every day. I watch and I listen. I keep my eyes open. Wide open. My hearing is good. Very good. I try to hear the things people don’t say; I think that’s the important stuff. I’ll write about those things, too. Mainly, I’m just going to write, because I like it. Writing thrills me. I’m not easily thrilled. |