A Dandelion-Wish Away: Squash That Little Voice. Squash It Now.

My friend Rachel over at "A Dandelion-Wish Away" wrote a wonderful post about being a perfectionist. As I myself am a perfectionist, I could easily relate. So here's the link, for your reading pleasure. :)

A Dandelion-Wish Away: Squash That Little Voice. Squash It Now.: Perfection. It's something I and many other people like me struggle to reach daily.  It's a picture of something beautiful and complete a...

Lilies

Last Saturday we took a quick trip to the local water lily pond. And, of course, I took my camera with me. So here's a couple of the choice pics from the trip for your enjoyment:

Gracie, Zoey and Clay found a nature-made "slide" to play on.

This is just a reflection. But it looks kinda cool.

Looking at this one makes me incredibly thirsty...

Don't Worry; Be Happy!

Meh. I'm rather disappointed. Since Obama was reelected (or projected to be), I feel obligated to post something about it. But I'm not going to post my personal opinion. Here's stuff from someone much smarter than I am, who says it much better than I ever could:

"For I know the plans I have for you, declares the LORD, plans to prosper you and not to harm you, plans to give you a hope and a future."~Jeremiah 29:11

"Let everyone be subject to the governing authorities, for there is no authority except that which God has established. The authorities that exist have been established by God...For the one in authority is God's servant for your good."~Romans 13:1, 4a

"And we know that in all things God works for the good of those who love him, who have been called according to his purpose. For those God foreknew he also predestined to be conformed to the image of his Son, that he might be the firstborn among many brothers and sisters. And those he predestined, he also called; those he called, he also justified; those he justified, he also glorified."~Romans 8:28-30

So remember that little ol' sparrow that Jesus talked about in Matthew 10:29-31. Don't worry; be happy! For the Lord our God is on His throne. He knows what's best.

And that's a very comforting thing to know.

"Tea and Toast"

This song is a sad song, but it's a beautiful song.

Seriously, it made me cry the first time, and I still get choked up when I hear it.

So sit down, watch it, and pay attention to the lyrics.

(And if you're a sentimental fellow, be sure you have a box of kleenex nearby.)

FWW--Story 1

A Classics Friendship

            I was in the school library that day. Which isn’t unusual—you can find me there Monday through Friday, three to four, in one of the lounge chairs by the big window. I looked up from Les Miserables to see a boy slump into the chair opposite me.

He looked familiar, but maybe it was just the freshly-blacked eye and the blood oozing from his bottom lip. In all of Westwind Middle School, there were no more than a dozen people who hadn’t had the bad luck to get in the way of Jay McConnell, the school thug. I was one of those dozen, mostly because I had the good sense to keep to myself. Maybe I kept to myself too much, but books are much better company than people anyway. Books don’t judge you for your big glasses or hair that won’t stay flat or the stutter you’ve tried to hide since you were three. They just tell you their stories, stories in which the underdog overcomes those people with their noses pointing at the North Star.

But I digress. Aside from his black eye and busted lip, the boy had black hair, sticking out from the sides of his punched-in cap, and eyes that looked like they had been painted with dark blue watercolor. I noticed that his feet didn’t quite reach the library’s soft carpet. Surprisingly, he actually looked like he knew what 2+2 was. The more I looked at him, the more I was sure that I had seen him in my AP Algebra class.

I know it’s rude not to talk, but I kept my mouth firmly shut. I wasn’t about to be mocked for my stutter. Instead, he took the initiative and asked, “Don’t you just hate McConnell?”

I guess it could have been taken as a rhetorical question, but I felt sort of bad for ignoring him. “Yeah,” I agreed. One-word phrases were about all I could manage without my tongue getting tied together.

The boy sighed. “McConnell’s the kind of person Dante would find in the lowest circle of hell, if Dante were to live after us. I’m Kyle, by the way. Kyle Worsham. What’s your name?”

I was so taken aback by his Dante reference that it took me a while to answer. “I’m, um, Leonard Humphrey.”

Kyle-who-reads-classics stuck out his thin hand. “Nice to meet you, Leonard. Say, aren’t we in Algebra together?”

“Um, yes, we are. I’ve seen you there a few times,” I said, gripping his hand with my own larger one.

“All right, I guess I’ll see you there tomorrow, then. I need to grab some books for one of my English papers. Nice talking to you, Leonard.” His feet found the floor and he released my hand. Waving, he disappeared behind a long row of bookshelves.

Letting my hand drop back to the forgotten book on my lap, I returned the wave and called, “See you then.” My stutter was more obvious the louder I talked, but I didn’t really care just then. He hadn’t seemed to care, either. For once, I was looking forward to algebra.

The next day, I was five minutes late to Algebra because my history teacher, Mr. Guthrie, is an asthmatic and has to take a breather before starting each new topic, and seeing as how the lesson was on the Seven Wonders of the Ancient World that day, he went a bit over time. But Ms. Chang is unusually lenient for an algebra teacher, so it didn’t ruin my perfect attendance record. All she did was smile that big smile of hers and nod to my desk by the solitary bonsai tree in the back.

            After I slipped discreetly into my chair, I scanned the room, eager to find Kyle. I soon caught a glimpse of the punched-in hat he had been wearing the day, and then I just had to look down. Surprisingly, he was only one row ahead of me and maybe five seats to my left. Funny how you don’t really notice people when you’re busy trying to figure out why Javert won’t give up his chase of Valjean already.

Kyle turned, and our eyes met. He waved. I shot him a quick smile before pulling out my textbook as Ms. Chang continued her lecture.

Algebra was especially dull that day. Ms. Chang made a valiant attempt at making it interesting, but properties and parabolas are just some of those school subjects invented to either torture schoolchildren or put them to sleep. Luckily, all bad things must eventually pass, and the bell that signaled our release rang at 2:55.

As I was putting my things back into my backpack, Kyle came over and said he’d be waiting in the library. Nodding, I hurriedly finished and got up to follow him. He was already leaving the room.

No sooner was he out the door than I heard the crack of fist hitting skull—something like a hammer on a watermelon. Kyle’s messenger bag was thrown several feet down the hallway, raining books and pencils as it went. McConnell, I thought, and sprinted through the doorway, smashing my leg on the jamb.

Kyle sprawled face down on the cold tile floor. No blood yet. Laughing, McConnell disappeared through the door to the boy’s restroom. He stopped laughing, though, when he tripped over the door’s threshold, and, after recovering his balance, quickly scanned the hallway for anyone who might have seen him. I guess we didn’t count, because he looked satisfied as he turned back into the bathroom.

When I turned back to Kyle, he had begun to collect his things. Still no blood, but several of the pages of his books were dotted with saltwater. The way he moved was almost mechanical, as if this was part of his daily routine. Not finding it necessary to ask if he was okay, I dropped to my knees and helped him.

He looked at me through his now-two black eyes and held up a book. Its faded, plastic-covered binding said “Crime and Punishment” in bold cursive. The pages were bent from lying open on the floor. “This one is the library’s,” Kyle murmured. “I just checked it out this morning. I’d better return it now though.”

The few remaining books were carefully put back into his bag, and we set off for the library. After dropping Crime and Punishment in the returns box, Kyle and I went over to our chairs by the window and fell into them, exhausted. Silence prevailed until Kyle said, “You’re so lucky.”

“What?” I replied.

“You never get beat up.”

“Not anymore.” Those blue eyes of his showed that he expected more. So I stuttered on. “Only since sixth grade, when I started growing bigger. Before that my arms were always purple and my eyes were constantly black. Being alone instead of a group hasn’t changed McConnell much, except now he won’t go after the kids that are bigger than he is. The kids like me. Minding my own business helps, too.”

He didn’t say much to that, just sighed. After a few more minutes, he said he needed to get home. I told him I’d go with him. He shouldn’t have to go alone after getting his face smashed.

He lived almost a mile from my house, but I didn’t mind. The autumn air tasted like crunchy apples, the cool breeze was invigorating, and besides, there was a used book store a few blocks away that I wanted to visit. As we plodded silently along the sidewalk, I entertained myself by calculating how many cars were ignoring the residential area’s speed limit. Statistics is so much better than algebra.

“Hey, Worsham! Or should I say Worthless?” a voice jeered.

Kyle ignored the voice, keeping his eyes on the pavement in front of him.

Jay McConnell was zigzagging down the street on a new bike several yards behind us. I didn’t doubt that he stole it. Trying to ignore him, I followed Kyle’s example and began dodging the cracks in the concrete.

“Oh, who’s this?” Jay called again. “It’s Stutterboy. Hey, Stutterboy, why don’t you go shoot yourself?”

It’d been first grade when I last heard that name, before I started growing. Hearing it again shoved an image of a small boy cringing by a brick wall, surrounded by older boys, into my mind. “You’re an imbecile, McConnell,” I said.

“Thank—” he started to say, but caught himself.  “Wait. Isn’t that where ambassadors stay?”

“Shut up, McConnell.”

He grinned. “Maybe I could understand you if you didn’t stutter so bad.”

A burning reply in my throat, I spun around just in time to see a car race around the bend in the road. Unfortunately—or fortunately—McConnell wasn’t so observant. Through the windshield, I saw a look of panic on the face of the driver as his car turned McConnell’s bike into a twisted piece of wreckage. McConnell flew several feet and smashed his head on the asphalt. Some loose change fell out of his pockets mid-flight.

The driver, an idiotic seventeen-year-old, quickly shifted his car into reverse and sped away. The bike had somehow caught on his grill, and was scraping the ground as he drove off. McConnell lay on the street, his hair and clothes starting to stick together from the blood. He probably had a concussion, maybe a broken rib or two.

Kyle just stared in shock for several seconds. Then, shifting his empty gaze from McConnell’s blood to my face, he said, “We have to do something.”

I cocked my head. “But, that’s McConnell. Why should we?”

He didn’t answer, just switched his eyes back to the boy in the road. After a few more seconds of silence, he snapped out of his daze. Running to the door of the nearest house, he knocked rapidly. No answer there, so he hurried to the next one. “Leonard, you get that side,” he called, but didn’t look to see if I was.

“Kyle, no. How many times were you bleeding and he was the cause of it? He doesn’t deserve your help. Or mine.”

He stopped, confused. Then that determined look came back into his eyes. “Did Jean Valjean deserve the Bishop’s help?”

That set my brain back a few steps. “Valjean stole bread. He didn’t beat people up.”

“He was a convict. He stole the Bishop’s most valuable possession.”

“It’s not the same,” I said.

“Yes, it is,” he said.

“You know what? You’re hopeless.” My wallet was heavy in my pocket. I turned away and went back to dodging the cracks in the cement, heading for the book store. I wasn’t the Bishop of Digne. 

------

(alternate ending)

“It’s not the same,” I said.

“Yes, it is,” he said.

“No, it’s not, because McConnell’s not going to change,” I said. “He’s still going to beat you up every time he meets you in the hall.”

Sirens ended the argument. Within a minute the ambulance stopped a few feet from us and two paramedics jumped out. By this time, people were standing in front of their houses, gawking. I stepped back and followed suit. The paramedics quickly but gently moved McConnell onto a stretcher and pushed him into the back of the ambulance.

As they were climbing in after him, Kyle asked, “Is he going to be all right?”

One, the older of the two, gestured to where McConnell had landed on the asphalt and said, “That’s a lot of blood. But I’ve seen worse, and people with worse have pulled through.” With that, he pulled the doors shut, and the ambulance sped off.

Kyle turned to me. Seeing his black eye, a bitter taste came into my mouth. It may heal soon, but it’d be black again when McConnell got out of the hospital. He was smiling.

“Come on,” he said. “I want to show you my book collection.”

“You’re hopeless.”

On the way to his house, I didn’t step on a single crack.

*Author's note: So, I need your help! Please comment below which ending was your favorite. I've received rather mixed reviews about it.

Thanks!