Perspectives Magazine - January 2011

Page

WHERE INANIMATE OBJECTS HAVE THEIR SAY

Experience the world

through the eyes of

A COVERED BRIDGE and more

JJANUARYANUARY 2011 2011

Page 2

P E R S P E C T I V EP E R S P E C T I V E SS

Resolutions. For or against, the word has

traveled through the mouths of reporters,

psychologists, lovers, writers, fitness trainers and

more. Initially, I was against making any goals; I

thought my goals were too ho-hum and

common—diet more, walk more, write more, bla

bla bla.

Then, I had an aha moment—get a 2011 weight

watchers membership. But here‘s the twist! I will

create my own emotional weight loss program. I

resolve to be an emotional weight watcher. When

applied to the body, before I seek to lose even

one physical pound, I need to lose the damaging,

negative weight in my heart and mind. If I lose

weight, my mirrored reflection will be appealing.

But my mind‘s eye will still reflect an individual

with a heavy heart. Even if I lose twenty pounds,

I'll still carry a heavy mind. As a man thinketh in

his heart, so is he, Proverbs 23:7. The same

discipline works with writing.

Applied to writing, I need to remember to plan

encouraging and stress-free talks, and stop

feeding my mind with fear of failure and

rejection. I am going to stop living with my eyes

locked in the backward position. I wasted too

much time walking forward and looking at the

past simultaneously: I have a successful

magazine (looking forward) but even established

ones are folding (looking back)! If you are

pursuing writing, drop the emotional burdens.

You will write well and you‘ll feel great. Now,

please excuse me. I have to start making some

resolutions!

Until the next time, keep the ink flowing.

Monique Berry

In this Issue

From the Editor’s Desk ........................................ p2

Antique storybook ................................................. p4

Alice’s Adventures in Wonderland by Peggy Fletcher

Cat hair ................................................................... p4

Fluff Ball’s Adventure by Jennifer L. Foster

Cell phone ............................................................... p7

Rituals by Rachel Loveday

Covered bridge ...................................................... p9

Enduring Secrets by Monique Berry

Raindrop .............................................................. p10

Restless Exodus by Carolyn Agee

Mirror ................................................................... p11

Reflections by Donna McDonald

Saddle ................................................................... p12

A Western Saddle’s Story by Rebecca R. Taylor

Potato .................................................................... p13

A Potato’s Dream by Craig W. Steele

Toilet ..................................................................... p14

All in a Day’s Work by C. Douglas Johnson

Interesting facts about represented objects ...... p15

About the Magazine

ISSN: 1920-4205

Frequency: Biyearly

Founding Editor: Monique Berry

Designer: Monique Berry

Editorial Assistant: Jennifer L. Foster

Contact Info : http://1perspectives.webs.com : [email protected]

: 1-905-549-3981 | : 1-905-549-5021

Photo Credits Header images ©iStockphoto.com/AptTone, p4 courtesy of Peggy

Fletcher. All other inside photos courtesy of Brian Cobbledick. Front,

back, and p8 courtesy of Monique Berry.

From the Editor’s Desk

Page 3

Page 4

W e were pressed in an unnatural bond—marble,

moth, deflated balloon with string, broken

mirror and I, a clump of cat hair—but we had the

strange and captivating advantage of having

heightened perspective.

If you asked me how the last few months have

passed, I would answer: it‘s been hair-raising.

Life began on my elegant mistress‘s plume tail.

Flossie, a longhaired calico tabby, had almond-shaped

green eyes and uneven striped markings in grey, black

and ginger. Her soft underbelly and feet were white.

But her S-curved tail was the envy of all who

gazed at her. It was especially long for such a small

cat. We flourished. Our luxurious cream, taupe and

orange hairs grew glossy. People often remarked on

her delicate beauty. Then they‘d pat her head, and

stroke her back and bushy tail. Flossie arched her

back and fluffed her tail into a crescent shape; she

mewed with joy. In addition to all that pampering,

Flossie's owner brushed her every day. All that

stroking sent long hairs flying from her tail.

AN

TIQ

UE S

TO

RY

BO

OK

Alice’s Adventures in Wonderland

By Peggy Fletcher

In sad disrepair

my yellow pages

crumbling into history

I reside

on wooden shelf

oblivious

to those incisive eyes

that dismiss

early technology

for digital form

but where

in deep remembrance

of my bedtime role

I was greatly loved

by a single child

who received

the gift of inspired

imagination

that still lives

inside

these ragged pages

as small brown flakes

tumble like tears

released

from my fragile spine

to her aging hands.

Peggy Fletcher is a retired teacher and journalist whose work has appeared in many literary journals and books in

Canada and the United States. Contact her at [email protected].

Fluff Ball’s Adventure

By Jennifer L. Foster

CA

T H

AIR

Page 5

One day after a vigorous brushing, I went soaring.

Just like that, I was tossed into the air where I swirled

in the draft of forced air heating and then floated onto

the kitchen floor. I—a bunch of Flossie's plume tail

hairs—narrowly escaped being sucked into the

household stick vacuum by a hair or two. I ended up

under the fridge as a fluff ball.

I lodged there for a few weeks until the lady of

the house came looking for one of Flossie's toys—a

miniature teddy bear that was prostrate beside me.

She poked at us with a yardstick and pulled us out.

―Good grief, Flossie!‖ cried her owner. ―Here's

Teddy!‖

Flossie rushed over, eagerly eyeing Teddy. She

merely sniffed me but gave Teddy a little lick and

playfully batted him across the floor. Regrettably,

Flossie‘s owner hastily swept me up and tossed me in

a green trash bin by the garage. I became enmeshed in

the compostable kitchen waste: egg shells, stale

coffee filters, banana peels, cabbage cores, slimy

squash seeds…you name it, it was there. In the

confines of a heavy plastic bin, I could no longer see

my beloved mistress.

Trapped, we sweated it out in the bin until

garbage day. When a city worker tipped open the

trash lid on a sunny April morning, it seemed like a

trip to freedom. Fresh air! But the kitchen waste just

landed in a big truck with more and more recyclables.

We met tons of dandelions. Severed heads and roots.

Flies. Chicken bones. Smelly fish heads. Mucky

brown paper bags. It was a rotting brotherhood!

We shook as the enormous city garbage truck

accelerated and braked. Panic overtook us each time

we heard the crazy whine of what turned out to be a

mechanical crusher. Push! Whrrrr. Rotate! Whrrr.

Squeeze!!

After driving for hours on an urban route, we

came to a rough, unpaved road. Bump! The whole

back end of the truck was raised and our packed load

was dumped into an open pit. We had reached the

garbage dump. Amidst the smoky burned smells,

other trucks churned us—moving us into mountains

of waste. Eventually, the grinding clamor ceased. The

sun filtered through the dusky haze. A breeze slid

over our battered bodies as the spring evening settled

with a damp coolness. Now that the workers had long

gone, we were left with nothing more than eerie

silence and a blank sky.

At daylight, seagulls soared above; they flapped

around and chided us while attacking ragged

eggshells and bits of chicken fat. During their

gluttonous frenzy, I somehow broke free of the sticky

glop. I flew in fits and starts over shrivelled dandelion

heads. I escaped! Incredibly, I landed on the grassy

slope of a nearby landfill.

Two days later, a light rain washed my sticky

hairs; the April sun dried me out. My old color and

shine returned. I was me again. Flossie's little fluff

ball! But how to return to her and all that was lost?

Then my rescuer came a calling. Or so I thought.

O ut of nowhere, the biggest, blackest bird I had

ever seen swooped down and carried me in his

short bill. His iridescent black feathers shone in the

sunlight as he steadily flapped his wings while we

rose high in the air above the landfill. Before I knew

it, we were on a journey over the city past the

rooftops of hundreds of homes. Compared to my

usual bearings on Flossie‘s tail, the sudden aerial

sensations were out of this world.

From this changing vista, I could see a large city

spread out on two levels. Travelling north toward the

lip of a rocky shelf, we soon spotted freighters

stretched along a bay, and a great lake to the east.

I later learned that my capturer was a common

crow, an American Crow, and that I was a treasure

find. I landed in a rarefied place called a nest, high in

a red oak tree along the city‘s escarpment. The

Niagara Escarpment. Wait! There was more

quirkiness. I was dropped into a bowl not much

bigger than Flossie's water dish. An outer, rougher

section was fashioned from dead oak and black

walnut branches. Now, two enormous crows were

coming and going with materials to build the nest‘s

inner wall and lining. Moss, grasses, velvety pine

needles. And who should I have for neighbours?

Why, of all things, a battered gold-striped marble, a

dried-out moth shell, a deflated mauve balloon with

string, and a shard of broken mirror. We lodged at the

bottom of the crows‘ treetop home and were played

with from time to time.

My capturer nudged me with his beak and tousled

my hairs with his talons; he cocked his head and

admired me with keen, brown eyes. On every hairy

strand, my razor-thin eyes regarded him with sheer

(Continued on page 6)

Page 6

terror. Wedged against the nest wall, I watched crow

peck at broken mirror and roll marble a bit with his

bill. He tossed string in the air but hopped right back

on balloon‘s fragile membrane, keeping them captive.

When he spread his wing over us and made ‗clickety-

click‘ sounds and soft ‗caaw caaw‘ noises, I relaxed

somewhat and reconsidered my plight.

By month's end, the smaller bird spent all her time

in the nest. She laid eggs. Bluish-green with brown

and grey markings. We were hard pressed under the

weight of her clutch of three eggs and her black, silky

breast. The larger crow brought seeds, garden snails

and tiny birds‘ eggs for his partner to eat. Two weeks

passed.

One rainy May evening, big crow arrived with a

limp field mouse. The brown-faced dried moth almost

quivered with wild anticipation. But smaller crow

gobbled up the mouse in one gulp.

Four sunny spring days slipped by. One morning,

new life emerged. Baby crows! Small helpless

creatures with a fine brushing of down to tickle us.

And were they hungry!

The parents kept busy. The father and other

members of their family searched for the young

chicks‘ food. Feeding time was always a ruckus and a

joy; a tender, caring activity for all.

Several times we heard a great squawking—a

great hullaballoo. Caaw! Caaw! Caaw! Never by the

nest. Down on the ground. The male and other family

crows were hollering and squawking thirty to forty

feet away. A predator must have been nearby. But

whatever it was, silence—always silence.

The nestlings were cared for and reared by their

parents and extended family. After many weeks, the

plump fledglings took hesitant steps around the nest

rim. One day, they learned to flap their wings and

timidly flew aloft. A life thrill to watch.

The nest is empty except for my strange kin and a

piece of a chick‘s eggshell. With all this movement in

the nest, marble, dead moth, balloon and string,

broken piece of mirror and I, Fluff Ball, have shifted

up the side. We're drying out in the sun and the mild

June breezes. Funny thing; I've finally looked over the

top of the nest, wondering where I am.

What a shock! Bizarre, really! I recognize the

backyard and the house. It's where Flossie and her

owner live and where I once was whole. Here I am up

in the nest at the top of a massive red oak. Same Fluff

Ball. Different life. And down there they haven't a

clue. Flossie could never hear my faint, whispery

voice over the swish of wind in the oak leaves and

white pine boughs. A conundrum in this escarpment

strip of Carolinian forest.

We've started to talk. Plan. When words fail, we

use a kind of easy talk—minimal gestures, squeaks

and grunts. The others want to get back to their roots,

too...if they can.

W e're working on a sort of parachute. Dead moth

for the wings. Chick‘s eggshell—ideal for

canopy and decoy. Striped marble for ballast.

Deflated balloon and old string become materials.

Mirror fragment for the floor. I'll be a lightweight for

the ride. Maybe I can help stabilize the drop and

cushion a landing. Too little breeze and we're going

nowhere. Too much wind and we're doomed to crash

in the prickly pine branches.

All we can think about is getting back to the earth.

We're aiming to land at the foot of the yard. By the

wild catnip patch. I dream of reuniting with Flossie.

In my mind, I repeatedly hear myself calling out,

Flossie, it's me! Fluff Ball! Remember? Part of your

plume tail. I'm back!

I wish, with all the combined strength of my hairs,

to ground myself in her presence once more. To

nuzzle with Flossie in the catnip patch where she

loves to linger; roll on the moist bumpy soil on a fine

spring day. Smell the spicy tang of catnip on her

whiskers. Curl up with the tip of her chin on my hair.

Feel her warm breath and soft heartbeats. Catch her

kittenish mews. To be a part of her feline world.

Back here in the nest, we're waiting for a slight

breeze to get us over the top. And then it's anyone's

guess how things will go. Yet, we're a special

parachute contraption. But no sense just dreaming;

better get on with it. We haven't much time. The

rhubarb is poking up in the ground, no doubt. And

before long, the stalks will leaf out and cover the

catnip.

Jennifer resides close to the Niagara Escarpment.

She graduated from Queen‘s University and has

retired from counselling and programs work. Her

poetry for children has appeared in Cats, Cats, Cats

and More Cats (Mini Mocho Press) and a short

story in a previous issue of Perspectives Magazine.

Contact her at [email protected].

Page 7

I am not just a mobile phone—I

am Ellie Brandon‘s life. I am

more than a wireless device that

chats with her family, friends, and

work colleagues. I am her schedule

keeper full of editorial meetings,

and her personal trainer. I record her daily running times,

which are getting shorter each day she gets fit.

Ellie‘s working week always starts the same. When I yell

―Wake Up!‖ at 6 a.m., she silences me and then lays me down

on the bedside table where I sleep. That prepares me for the

next day, but I still get to snooze before she wakes me. I rest

in the armband where her now-broken IPod used to sit.

On her morning run, I get dizzy as she moves her arms

forward and backward to maintain her balance. The Lake

Albert walking track, path, and people are the same—it‘s

starting to bore me. She needs to run somewhere else. Once

when Ellie was training, my face was slammed with a violent

hit. She had run into an unfamiliar jogger wearing a red shirt.

When Ellie arrives at work, I stay in her black leather

handbag for the day. Loneliness creeps over me as I lie in the

dark bottom with her wallet, car keys and eyeglass case. I

don't like waiting until the day is over to see into Ellie‘s

world again. I‘m guessing that the bag is sitting on her desk

because I can hear muffled conversations. Shortly after, I hear

Jenny asking her to lunch, Peter reminding her to attend the

new gym opening, and then the desk phone rings a few times.

During her lunch hour, Ellie places me in a black leather

holster, and then clips me onto her hip while she pays her

bills and looks after the new gym opening. The comfy holster

keeps the sun out of my eye. To be honest, I‘m always afraid

of falling off her hip. I have a few times. Occasionally, I fall

so hard that I split open. Ellie just puts me back together like

nothing happened (but it hurts like hell).

Apart from a few bumps and bruises, I keep pictorial

memories of her festive parties and special loved ones. I send

her emails and I keep her day running smoothly. I am her life.

Rituals

By Rachel Loveday

Rach Loveday is currently studying a double degree; Bachelor of

Creative Arts (majoring in Creative Writing)-Bachelor of Journalism

in Wollongong, Australia. This is her third article in Perspectives

Magazine.

CE

LL P

HO

NE

Page 8

Page 9

CO

VE

RE

D B

RID

GE

T wilight is drawing near. It‘s my favoured hour

because it conceals my weathered appearance.

Okay. I admit to getting twinges of vanity and fear.

I‘m not a young bridge any more. Not long ago, a

female cardinal told me that my brother‘s face was

vandalized. Graffiti all over him. But he gets lots of

visitors. On the other hand, walkers seldom pass over

my boards. So, I guess I can relax. Covered bridges

are generally detected by word-of-mouth or by

chance—I certainly was for one couple. No matter.

Weatherworn or not, I love being available as a

serene hideaway for animals and people as the need

arises.

Woodland creatures, who scurry on rugs of green

earth, are my daily companions. For years, I had

frequent conversations with a bubbling brook while

it polished its stones but it has since dried out. I

savour the dawning voices of birds and crickets, and

the occasional clip clop of horses‘ hooves. Yes, from

the moment the first streams of light filter through

the trees to when the lengthening sunset shadows

cover me, I am content.

The best part of being a covered bridge is that

I‘m privy to secrets! Enclosed inside my walls are

umpteen secrets—including those of animals. You

see, the promise of privacy breeds honesty.

Fifty years ago

I remember well, even though it was many

decades ago, a secret shared by one couple. It

surpassed all other memories dear to me. Every

Friday night they used to rendezvous here in the

spring. The couple would arrive on horseback en

route to the librarian‘s log cabin where budding

writers and historians met. Since I was a young

bridge at the time, my woody aroma inspired months

of passion and romance.

On the night of his departure, she arrived thirty

minutes earlier. The red-headed woman rested on me

for support and then told me everything. I guess she

felt I could be trusted. For the first time, the young

woman spoke her secret aloud. Her voice trembled as

she uttered her fears of being left alone—again. The

toughest part about learning her painful circumstance

was being not able to console her. But I knew her

lover would make it right. Incidentally, if you‘re

curious to know what her secret was, you‘ll be

waiting a long time. I‘m not free to disclose that

information—it was spoken in confidence.

Her gentleman caller arrived with a single rose.

Their bodies locked in unashamed affection. No one

spoke for the longest time. When he saw that she was

having trouble coping with the situation he raised her

chin, wiped her tear-streaked face, and comforted her

with promissory whispers. ―Oh, my love. No matter

what happens, I will always, always treasure our

special place.‖ How I longed to close my wooden

arms and hug my romantic visitors! ―Our love will

return one day. After all, he or she will find the

directions in your journal someday. And our secret!‖

With a final look, he backed away. As he faded

into the distance, their eyes kissed each other

‗farewell.‘

Present Day

Well, like I mentioned before I reminisced, it‘s

twilight. Every time a rider from a nearby hamlet or

village comes by and whispers secrets, my heart

races. I ask myself, Could it be the rose child? It

would be so comforting to know their love endured

into the generations.

Clip clop!

Monique Berry is the founder of Perspectives and Christian Perspectives. Her work has appeared in Searching for Answers anthology, Personal Journaling, The Sitter’s Companion, and others. In her spare time, she facilitates a critique workshop, enjoys photography, offers editing services, and is involved in several creative projects. Contact her at [email protected] or visit her website at http://www.moniqueberry.ca.

Enduring Secrets

By Monique Berry

Page 10

RA

IND

RO

P

Carolyn Agee is an internationally published poet. She found inspiration for this poem in the humid climate of her home in the Pacific Northwest. Her recent and forthcoming credits include: Petrichor Machine, Christian Perspectives, and A Flame in the Dark. You can reach her at [email protected].

Restless in the womb of waiting, the cumulus tent.

Trembling for exodus.

The film weakens, breaks.

Freedom.

I slip silently through the air, wind lashing my face,

my shape shifting to the whims

dictated by cruel fate.

The gray sky lightens, mauve in the east.

My breathing slows as I take a new formation,

beneath a fresh sunrise,

dropping to earth, toward the scent of ripe, cut hay,

past dew suspended in rough, withered branches.

Tumbling, rushing, running

toward the endless sea

gleaming in the light of dawn.

Restless Exodus

By Carolyn Agee

Page 11

MIR

RO

R

I am whatever you think you are—love, hate,

good, evil, beauty or ugliness. I am the window

to your illusions. All perception is my domain, and

vanity is my specialty. The wicked queen in the

Grimm‘s fairy tale Snow White asked, ―Mirror,

mirror, who is the fairest in the land?‖ I am

magical, reflecting her thoughts. You may say I am

guilty to a fault of your self-examination. I would

not deny it.

My fragile condition is that I do not bend; I

only break. You too may break if your ego looks

for eternal beauty and youth. Folklore has it that I

provide protection by reflecting the intent of an

intruder back to himself. No wonder I have places

of distinction in all dwellings. My powers bring

light to the shadows. Put me in a cage with a bird—

it will not mate, preferring its own vanity.

Do not underestimate my power! Dorian

Gray, in Oscar Wilde‘s Picture of Dorian Gray,

saw himself aging in the portrait, which was the

mirror to his soul. In the end, he destroyed his

image and died because he could no longer deny his

true self.

Most of us prefer to see ourselves in a better

light, but mirror knows. The reality I project needs

an admired reflection. Otherwise, I am a blank,

shiny surface of no account. My value and insight

requires perception. My being depends on you;

otherwise, I am not noticed. But not to worry—

vanity is everywhere.

Although Donna McDonald has had a long nursing

career, she’s never given up on her love of writing.

Donna has taken many writing courses at Mohawk

College, and attended one year of journalism at

Ryerson University. She has self-published her first

book this year and is currently working on a poetry

book. Donna is retired, married, and has an adult son. Contact her at

[email protected].

Reflections

By Donna McDonald

Page 12

H owdy! How are ya‘ll doing today? Me? I‘m just

back from an exhilarating day out on the range. I

was riding with my best friend Zeus, a white gelding

covered with black spots. It belongs to our master, Brett

Harrison. Brett‘s putting Zeus back in his stall right now,

and then it will be time for him to wipe all the dust off

my brown leather exterior. Tomorrow I get my weekly

rubdown with saddle soap. I love the way it feels. It is so

refreshing; it soaks into my pores and removes the last of

my grime and sweat. If I stay in good shape, Zeus and

Brett stay safe. There is nothing better than the smell of

fresh country air and a breeze brushing you with its

breath.

Today, we are moving Hereford cattle into another

pasture for better grazing. I love spending time outside.

It is so peaceful. The only sounds are the mooing and

pounding of the cattle‘s hooves, Zeus‘s occasional

whinny, and Brett‘s whistling.

You might think, So what? You’re only a saddle.

Yes, I am a saddle but I am also important. I help the

Triple H Ranch run smoothly. Without me, Brett and

Zeus wouldn‘t be able to do their job securely. Our

relationship is built on teamwork. Brett, Zeus, and I

make a great team because we are all skilled in our work.

Knowing that I have a purpose makes me feel great.

When Brett takes his place within me and his boots

touch my stirrups, I know that we are ready to take on

the day. My heart thumps with excitement because I

know that we are going to do important work out on the

range. I love riding on Zeus‘s back and feeling his

smooth, quick movements under me.

I am thankful for having kind friends like Brett and

Zeus, and for having a meaningful job. My biggest fear

would be losing what matters most to me: my friends

and my job. They are what make me who I am and give

me purpose.

Some days are long and we work in all kinds of

weather. It doesn‘t bother me though, because I know

that I am helping to make a difference. Without me,

Brett would not be able to go out and look at his stock, to

check over his land and see all that he has accomplished.

We work hard, and in return, we get our rewards. Being

valued is my reward. Brett makes sure that I am cleaned

A Western Saddle’s Story

By Rebecca R. Taylor

SAD

DL

E

Page 13

PO

TA

TO

A Potato’s Dream

By Craig W. Steele

Craig W. Steele is a writer and university biologist who lives in the urban countryside of northwestern Pennsylvania, USA. His poetry has appeared or is forthcoming in The Aurorean, Crow Toes Quarterly, 3LIGHTS, Modern Haiku, Time of Singing and elsewhere. You can contact him at [email protected].

everyday and hung on my peg in the tack room until we

are ready to ride again.

I still remember the day that Brett got me, five years

ago. It was cold, even in Mr. Branson‘s tack shop in

town where I sat on my makeshift rack–a sawhorse.

Here, I was just merchandise, a piece of fine leather for

Mr. Branson to earn his trade. Then Brett walked in,

looking for a new saddle. He smiled and spoke to several

people in the shop. Brett‘s family has been ranchers in

Alberta for three generations so far, and he knows

everyone in town. Although he had loved my

predecessor, a saddle that had belonged to his father,

Brett had to accept that it was beyond repair. He hung

his old saddle on the wall in his tack room and took me

home to show Zeus and the other ranch hands. The

morning after he bought me, I was swung proudly over

Zeus‘s strong back and the three of us went out to work.

I live in the barn, which is attached to the tack room.

The heat from the hay and animals keeps me warm.

After a day‘s work, Brett wipes me down. I look almost

as new as the day he laid eyes on me.

To Brett and Zeus, I‘m an essential working partner

who eases the way and makes our job we have to do

more comfortable. When they chase cattle, Brett rides

high in my saddle, his long legs in my stirrups. I keep

him secure while he swings his lariat, to lasso a cow that

needs to go back to the barn. There are many more years

in me. When I retire, I expect to have earned a special

spot beside Brett‘s previous saddle. Well, I‘d better go; I

hear Brett‘s footsteps in the barn. He‘s heading this way

to look after me before I settle in for the night. Well,

morning comes early here at the Triple H Ranch.

G‘Night y‘all!

Rebecca lives along the St. Francis River in St. Felix-de-Kingsey, Quebec. She enrolled in an online course at St. Lawrence College to prepare her to be a full-time writer someday.

Her recent publications have been included in Bread n’ Molasses, Grainews, and previous issues of Perspectives and C h r i s t i a n P e r s p e c t i v e s . C o n t a c t h e r a t [email protected].

I dream of becoming an onion,

ever since I saw one being peeled

this morning.

I‘d gladly pluck out every budding eye

in trade for those curvaceous folds

that strip away provocatively,

each one exposing yet another sheer,

silken petal underneath.

But I understand why humans

will never redesign a food

grown to conquer famine that would

dehydrate their eyes

with every cut.

Page 14

TO

ILE

T

All in a Day’s Work

By C. Douglas Johnson

If I were a psychiatrist

and paid big money

to have people come unload

that would be one thing,

but I’m not.

I have to take crap

to keep a job

and a roof over my lid.

And my social life

has completely gone

down the drain.

At least when I lived

in the appliance store,

I modeled and interacted

with people almost everyday.

Those were the days…

Now, my family and I

live in the same house

but we never get to see each other.

Heaven forbid!

There’s always the threat

if we ever act up,

we’ll be thrown out.

That’s right, porcelain junkyard.

So, most of the time

I just sit in my room–alone!

And when I do get a visitor,

it’s not much better.

Some just sit and read,

silently, with no thoughts of me.

Do their business, and leave.

Rude, simply rude, I tell you!

Others, particularly the little tots in training,

come in and just stuff me

until I choke.

Then, their mom or dad

will come in,

fussing and cussing,

and stick something down my throat

to make me spit up.

Oh, and some are downright disgusting.

If they didn’t have me

bolted to the floor,

I’d run right out that door.

The smell–whew!

The odor is unbearable.

And they don’t have any manners;

they leave without even a spray.

Oh yeah, lest not I forget

about the ones who wee-wee

all over the place–

my neck, my back, my sides.

And those who forget

to exercise my arm before they leave.

No home training, I tell you.

No home training.

And rarely are we praised

for a job well done.

Every now and then, we’ll get hugs.

It’s usually from the ones

who drink too much,

calling on the porcelain gods to save them.

They fall on the floor and hug us for a while.

Get up, wipe their mouth, and leave with a smile.

Oh, but there’s another visitor

who comes to show me love.

Her name is Plumber.

She’s so beautiful,

and she understands me so well.

I don’t think my guardian

likes her that much,

but she sure makes my day!

I guess my life is better

than that of my cousins.

They’re in that dreadful public place,

where all kinds of strangers come

and spit in their face.

And yet, it’s all in a day’s work.

It may not be glamorous,

but it beats the alternative.

Don’t get me wrong;

there are good days, too.

They just don’t come around that often.

I know my guardian hates them,

but I love Bath Days!

It feels so great

to get a good scrubbing…

Yeah, right there…That’s it!

It’s nice to know you’re needed

and you serve a useful purpose.

Yeah, some people

may take us for granted,

but, I’ve learned life’s not fair.

Sometimes, you have to take some crap,

and it is a thankless job.

Hey, it’s all in a day’s work!

Dr. C. Douglas Johnson lives in metro Atlanta, GA, with his lovely

wife and two kids. He teaches and researches at Georgia Gwinnett

College, and is pursuing research and writing about calling and faith

at work. Contact him at [email protected].

Page 15

Alice in Wonderland, p4 Tenniel's illustration of the

Jabberwock was originally intended as the book‘s

frontispiece, but it turned out to be so horrible that Carroll

thought it might be better to replace it with another one.

Therefore, he conducted a private poll of about thirty

mothers by sending them a letter. To see the letter and other

related trivia, visit http://www.alice-in-wonderland.net/

alice9.html

Cat hair, p4 1) If a cat is frightened, the hair stands up

fairly evenly all over the body; when the cat is threatened or

is ready to attack, the hair stands up only in a narrow band

along the spine and tail. 2) Siamese kittens are born white

because of the heat inside the mother's uterus before birth.

This heat keeps the kittens' hair from darkening on the

points.

Cell phone, p7 1) A cell-phone is actually a complicated

radio. Areas are divided into small cells, with a cell phone

tower at the center of each cell. 2) For the convenience of

vote delivery, the Estonians are using their mobile phones. It

also serves as a very convenient means to show their

personal identification. 3) If you have a Nokia mobile set

and you are going out of battery and also you are expecting

a very important call. Simply by dialing the code *3370#,

the battery of your Nokia set will upgrade up to 50% by

using a built-in reserve battery.

Covered bridge, p9 1) Many bridges are painted red on

the outside. Historians believe the red coating makes the

bridge seem more like a barn to a horse, and as horses

tended to be skittish about crossing high over flowing water,

the illusion helped farmers and travelers navigate the

obstacle with little incident. 2) The same covered bridge

can be known by multiple names, but each has its own

"fingerprint"; a World Guide Number. These unique

identification numbers are very telling about each bridge

and are used on a national scale, even being adopted by the

National Society for the Preservation of Covered Bridges.

Mirror, p11 1) The timeframe of the 7-year misfortune for

breaking one, came from the Romans who believed that a

man‘s body is rejuvenated every 7 years. They believed that

a person became a new man after this period. Because the

pieces of a broken mirror reflect the corrupted soul, every

single piece of the broken item should be grounded into

dust. That way, no reflection remains. 2) Chimps are the

only animals that can recognize themselves in a mirror.

Potato, p13 1) At one time, the Scots refused to eat

potatoes because potatoes weren't mentioned in the Bible! 2)

Louis XVI of France wore potato flowers in his buttonhole

to stimulate interest in the plant. 3) In 1995, potato plants

were taken into space with the space shuttle Columbia. This

marked the first time any food was ever grown in space.

Raindrop, p10 1) A raindrop with a diameter below 2mm

is spherical before bursting into smaller raindrops, due to

water tension and air resistance. 2) Only spherical raindrops

produce rainbows. 3) It takes approximately 1 million cloud

droplets to provide enough water for just one raindrop.

Toilet, p14 1) The Roman army didn‘t have toilet paper.

So they used a water-soaked sponge on the end of a stick. 2)

Thomas Crapper who perfected the siphon flush system we

use today, was born in the village of Thorne—an anagram

of ‗throne.‘ 3) Most toilets flush in the key of E-flat.

Saddle, 12 1) The Western saddle was designed for

cowboys who spent long days riding the range, driving

and working cattle. Leather Western saddles are much

heavier than English saddles.

Interesting facts about represented objects

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