“It’s Time to Remember”

The alarm went off and I felt for Francie. She was already up. I could smell the coffee and I knew breakfast was on the way.

As I moved my body out of bed and shuffled off to find the bathroom, there was no way I could know what was ahead. The first thing I noticed was my dress shirt tied around the shower curtain. My trousers were inside out, and on the floor. My socks didn’t match. The shoes were one dress shoe and the other one a tennis shoe. What is going on here? I wondered.

Into the kitchen I went, wearing nothing but a towel and a smile. As I saw my wife cooking breakfast, wearing nothing but her apron, she turned, put the spatula down, and gave me a kiss. I asked her what I had done wrong. She just gave me a silly grin and said, “Do you know what day this is?”

I said, “Yes, it’s Thursday.”

“Keep going,” she said. “What month?”

“October,” I said.

“You’re getting closer,” she said. “What number?”

When I said “four,” I knew what was going on. It was our 36^th wedding anniversary. I had forgotten it!

As she kissed me, she said, “I’m five foot two. My eyes are blue; my hair is blonde and naturally curly, and I weigh 102 pounds. And, lucky boy, today, you get the ride of your life!”

It started in the kitchen and ended with our breakfast burned and the kitchen a mess. But we both knew who loved who on this anniversary day.

Wise woman, she said, “Let’s get a shower. Your work clothes are on the bed. I set the clock up an hour. So no need to be late getting to work. Let’s just remember this day and the fun we have had on our wedding day, remembered, our 36^th!”

Roger Wilson 

Francie

Touchdown

 

While standing at the airport, waiting to board an airplane, I overheard one lady saying to another, “Let’s stay in touch.”

While shooting pool, it was evident that a fine touch was needed to sink the ball and leave me a good shot for my next move on the table.

While riding a horse, a gentle touch on the reins will let your horse know which way to turn. 

When curing a hangover, a “touch of the dog” may make you feel better. 

The touch of a lover’s lips on yours is a treasure for both of you.

In basketball, when making a “lay-up” shot, the ball will touch the backboard.

Landing an airplane on a dark night, on a short runway, in a foreign country will activate every touch sense in your body: fingers, hands, feet, and even your bottom!

If you are lucky, touch the ground and smile as you roll to a safe stop. Touch is truly a pilot’s friend.

Your eyes have a major touch. You look across the room; your eyes touch. If you’re lucky, you get to touch her with the next dance.

Touch is not silent. We touch each other with a phone call. We touch each other with a smile. We touch each other when we smile. We touch each other when we wave. We touch each other when we cry together, laugh together, hug together, or walk hand-in-hand—the perfect touch.

When we are lonely, all alone, and lonely, it is time to remember God is available NOW. He will never put you on hold. His touch is sure, and we need to remember that he loves us.

The touch of a baby’s hand is a powerful thing. The little hand wrapped around one finger gives you a moment you will never out-live.

There are words that touch us: Goodbye. Why? Maybe. When? It helps if we remember that I have been touched before and I’m still here. So when you touch me, with words, feeling fingers, looks or anger…the only thing I want to be touched by is to know we are friends.

Roger Wilson 8-14-14

Dear Ariele,

How enjoyable this month's column was. Wow there is a wise man. And even before I read that your favorite passage was this:

"I learned anger was being forced to conform, not being able to state your case, being told how to behave, never asked how or what you think."

I read it a second time before I continued reading the column I was so taken with it. I was raised in a very angry household, and to this day struggle with anger. I have found a healthy antidote in writing prose and poetry.

Thank you very much,

Diana Mercedes Howell
Bellevue

 

Since Diana commented on them and Roger was in both the September Writing Corner and the Poetry Corner, I'm going to paste those here in his blog.

 

Writing Corner    September 2014 by Ariele M. Huff for NW Prime Time paper version

Everyone Wants to be Heard

Ariele Huff

            In a recent writing class, a student shared a story with special relevance to “active seniors” and how significant writing can be for us. Here’s his story:

“A good time to make changes is after you are sure you have learned everything. The real learning takes place after we know everything.

            Case in point: After four years teaching in High School, I moved to grades sixth to eighth—should be easier working with younger children. But…where did all that anger—disruptive behavior and terrible attitude come from? To teach these grades successfully, I discovered, you need a bagful of skill that you marvel at when the day ends.

            I learned the anger comes from being forced to conform, not being able to state your case, being told how to behave, never being asked how, or what you think.

            A wise Junior High teacher encourages these young people to have an opinion and gives them the freedom to express it. When the kids feel this freedom, everything changes. They feel okay and they feel their teacher is also okay. That teacher is teaching that there is really only one kind of discipline worth talking about or doing—self-discipline.” Roger Wilson

            I particularly love this articulate passage: “I learned the anger comes from being forced to conform, not being able to state your case, being told how to behave, never being asked how, or what you think.”

            While I totally get that this is so significant in dealing with the grandchildren and other kids in my life, I also experienced an epiphany as I felt the meaning in those words.

For a long time, I’ve wondered why so much of what we hear about aging is negative. Statistically, elders actually rate themselves as happier than any other age group. We have backlogs of accomplishments including in relationships, education, and career. So many reasons to feel better, as experts say we do, until or unless we have a serious health condition.

But Wilson’s words help me understand the anger that I see many other seniors feel, that I feel too, when our gray hair or wrinkles or birthdates render us invisible—less valid, less of interest.

So, now that we know so much, it’s time for some learning!

Finding ways to be heard is much easier if we can be clear and strong in what we say. Start by doing some soul searching about how you truly feel, what you want, what you need, what you don’t want.

Then, I recommend rehearsing upcoming situations where you’ve felt unheard: speaking up when a cashier overcharges you, pleasantly reminding your doctor or daughter or waiter that you do know whether you want surgery, to give away your doll collection, or to have butter on your muffin.

Finally, a major consideration in being heard is to attempt to communicate in a way that also allows others to feel valued and heard. At the start of his piece, Wilson quoted Ephesians 4:12, “Be kind and compassionate to one another.”

Roger‘s blog:  http://rogersroughneckwisdom.blogspot.com/

Be heard at Sharing Stories on the Local page of http://northwestprimetime.com/. Send stories to ariele@comcast.net.

 

Poetry Corner September 2014                            [Collected and edited by Ariele M. Huff]

 “Rising”

Out of the Mist,

feet off the ground,

heart full of happiness,

1000 trumpets can‘t sound.

Dance on the wind.

Sing with the stars.

A flower’s best scent can

    be smelled from afar.

A new day is dawning.

A bright sun will shine.

Rise up friend.

Rise.

Roger Wilson

 

“The Director of Fun”

directs Fun in my retirement home,

chatting pleasantly in the dining room

with residents, hungry for Fun.

I’ve never seen the Director of Fun

 when he wasn’t smiling,

 about to recommend something that’s Fun.

Most of the Fun here is the result

 of his efficiently-crafted Fun.

Dorothea Kewley

 

Haikus

cut off kite
the sound of children
fading with it

paddy field
the stream carrying
clouds

Ramesh Anand

 

 

 

 

 

Counting Coup

(On an eleven-year-old boy)

Roger Wilson 10-17-13

An Indian friend introduced me to “counting coup.” We were both on horseback, playing cowboy and Indians. He caught me near a drop off to Garden Creek. The name of the game was to time your push so you land on top of the victim, breaking your fall. The victim absorbs the bumps and lumps of the encounter. This time, the Indian won. Off I went, Indian on top of me, yelling like only an Indian can. To my surprise, he had a genuine Tomahawk in his hand! I had a real experience with fear.

When we had stopped rolling—Indian still on cowboy, he said, “Do you realize, I could kill you?” I agreed that he could. But I wasn’t that sure he wouldn’t. He turned the Tomahawk to the other end in his hand and touched me with it. He had just made “coup.” Later, as we crawled away from the fall, he explained what “counting coup” was.

Coup was taking an enemy—and getting into a situation where the victor could do bodily harm, or even have a chance to kill his enemy. Instead, the winner touches the body with the harmless end of the weapon and that “counts coup.” The loser is left unharmed or alive when the winner could have killed him—or done bodily harm.

From that day forward, I belonged to my friend. Anything I had or cherished was his, if he wanted to claim it. Nothing held back. He saved me and now I belonged to him. After all…he had given me life. Never again, can a person declare war on that person because he owns him. What was mine, was now his. What an awesome idea!

Historically, this sometimes allowed a brave to ride recklessly into battle to expose himself to being killed. But his enemy could not, because he had taken “coup” at another time. All tribes rendered stock coup. Both taking and giving.

After we had recovered our horses, my friend took out his jack knife and told me to give him my hand. He selected one up-turned finger, cut it lengthwise, turned his own hand up, cut his finger. Now, both our fingers were bleeding. He took my finger in his hand, put his bleeding finger over mine, rubbed both fingers together. We were then brothers—blood brothers.

He told me his sacred name. The name his grandfather had given him. Then, we were the only three people who knew that secret name. He gave me my sacred name. It was……sorry, I can’t tell you!

In the Teepee

Roger Wilson 10-17-13

What did all of this do for me? My friend’s home, the teepee was now also my home. His family was now my family. When I came to visit, I no longer had to stand outside. They made a special place for me inside. No one else, only family, entered. What a warm, cozy place—where no anger was allowed, only gentle speech. A peace shared by one and all. How rich I had suddenly become.

Inside the teepee was a wonder to behold. A place for everything and everything in its place. An animal stomach had been tanned. Tip it and water ran into a special gourd, cut just so, with a handle—a beautiful creation just to see.

A young lady was nursing a fat little guy. A Black Lab stood nearby. Her job was to make sure a diaper was never needed. She kept that baby clean! The fire was set in the center. A pile of cow chips were burned. The smoke could be controlled, by buckskin strips, to change when the wind changed.

The male members knelt on one knee and ate—just to be ready if attacked. Each man’s war bow, his hunting bow, and his Tomahawk were left in a special place. A quiver held his arrows. A six-foot lance was present. If needed, he could take what he required as he left the teepee. A horse was always ground hitched just outside the door. Horses were changed at a special time.

The women were talented. Everyone had beautiful moccasins to wear—some for work, some for dancing, and some for war or traveling. All clothing was handmade. Leather was beautifully tanned. A large pot was always simmering—held over the fire by buckskin strips. A handmade dipper was available. Everyone owned a wooden bowl with two handholds.

Their favorite saying was, “Dig deep. The puppy is in the bottom.”

Your daily physical needs were met in an interesting way. Urine was a treasure!  It was used for tanning of fresh hides. The hides were soaked. I never knew what else went into this recipe. At the proper time, these hides were taken out, stretched, and all hair was removed to make them pliable. The other “need” was met by a log placed for all to use. Ferns were there for the toilet paper. The dogs cleaned up the mess.

No trip to the store was necessary. I still marvel how well this group of people handled life and living. In my own mind, my people are the savages. When the West was won, we were the big time losers.

 

 

Colors

Fred was never called Fred.

Because his hair was red,

we called him Red instead.

His name was White, even if

he was black as the Ace of Spades.

It is strange things people say.

A smile is for curing your time of feeling blue.

I have never found out how to hold “blue.”

Songs talk about colors.

Jesus loves all the children—

red or yellow, black or white,

they are precious in His sight.

Seasons have their colors.

Christmas: Red and Green.

St. Patrick’s:  Wear Green or get pinched.

Weddings: White gowns, White shirts.

Birthdays: many bright colors.

Foods have their special colors—

red watermelon, orange cantaloupe,

yellow or green onions,

chocolate pudding.

Sometimes we get a colored mark—

a black mark is not good.

A 100 A+ is a good mark [in any color J].

Eyes have special colors—

bright blue, sparkling green, warm brown.

People say a coward has a yellow streak.

A zebra would be entirely white if he didn’t have his black stripes.

A Harvest Moon is a collage of beautiful colors.

An older woman has a head full of beautiful white hair—

just teased with a little blue—a crown of Glory.

I never appreciated color until my television

went from black and white to full color.

Laughter puts real color in my life.

Love is a rainbow of color.

We have enjoyed its raging red and

its quiet real peace of a golden trust shared,

A sky full of memories shared

 like a 4^th of July bursting above.

The thrill of seeing the jockey who is wearing your colors

 flash across the Winner’s line for a Win.

The joy of a teacher who adds color to my life

 as she smiles and

talks to me writer to writer—

thank you, Ariele Huff

Roger Wilson 7/13/14

 

Roger:

You are welcome.

I love the way you use the exercises to create something new and creative each time.

Ariele

 

 

I Think I Hear Something Smelling

 

A favorite time for me to get my nose working was any time I could visit the cowboy’s bunkhouse. It sat just off the barn—a 12-foot by 15-foot building. The north and south sides had four bunks on each side—two on top, two on the bottom. Each bunk had a bedroll that could be rolled up and tied behind your saddle.  On the bunk, they were unrolled but enough roll was left for a pillow.

The west end held a wood burning stove—the top a shiny black iron. Every cowboy would spit a well formed glob of saliva and watch it as it cascaded across the hot iron. This was known as a spit oyster. Why? It was just done.

The center aisle was log poles placed off the floor. Saddles were put here—saddle blanket on the saddle seat and bridles hung from the saddle horn. Some even hung their spurs from the saddle horn.

Above the saddles, there was a wooden shelf where the go-to-town Stetson sat. The rest of a cowboy’s possessions were placed in his war bag. That sat beside his bunk. Every real cowboy had two sets of boots: one for go-to-town, the other, his everyday work boots. The town boots sat proudly next to his Stetson.

The smells emitting from this gear were breathtaking. All this well cared for leather mixed with saddle soap was…just breathtaking. Right outside the door, on the east end, was a table with a washbasin—soap on a lid, towel on a nail, a bucket with a short rope tied to it that would be tossed into the water tank and pulled over the fence to be poured into a basin. A mirror hung on the back of the door. A razor strap anchored to the door was there for sharpening straight edge razors. I never knew a cowboy who enjoyed facial hair.

For bodily releases, a three-holer sat ten or twelve feet from the wash station. Winter found sheep skins placed carefully around two of the holes. The middle one was the one you used while standing.  In summer, this area was rich with odor. Winters—no smell whatsoever.

The cowboys had their own face tonics to use after shaving. Before going to town, they poured it into a hand and patted it all over their faces. It usually took two pourings. One cowboy had a tonic in a bottle that he gargled and then swallowed. It smelled just like whiskey to me.

All I can say is when that group was ready to go to town, ready to paint the town red, they really looked great: ready to drink, dance, or fight—any one of the three was all right. They all smelled just right.

7/25/14  Roger Wilson

The Moonie Mark 21—Roger’s Plane

The sound of an engine coming to life as I sit in an airplane—getting ready for a take-off. The sweet sound of that engine as I taxi for my turn to take-off.

The final push of the lever to full on: Look out World! Here I come.

Goodbye worries and bad thoughts as my wheels leave the runway.

I’m where I most like to be—off the ground, motor just a hum.

 

 

 

 

Hate to put this plane back on the ground.

Time to become me once again. There is no more gas.

Time to land. Time to wait until next time.

Roger Wilson 7/31/14 in writing class

Candy

By Roger Wilson 7/14/14

Thinking about colors has helped me slide down memory lane to a time when I was just a youngster, not yet six years old. Our local grocery store had a special area for candies of all types.

 Black licorice or Red licorice—one cent a stick. It was such fun as the sticks were so pliable. You could hold it up straight, then coil it into a neat bundle that just fit in your pant pocket. The Jaw Breakers were of three types: small about the size of a marble—two for a penny, a size a little larger—one cent, and then the large ones that sold for two cents! These Jaw Breakers were such fun. We marveled as we ate the first layer to see what color came next. What fun! And they melted so slowly.

The fudge was laid out beautifully. Each piece sat there—dark chocolate or cream tan chocolate. They made my mouth water, but they cost a nickel for one piece. Maybe a piece for your birthday.

The candy bars were so pretty. The Babe Ruth, bright red cover, so tasty! Caramel and nuts pushed into the sweet chocolate. We felt so rich when we had a nickel we could spend for one. The Mars Bars, soft brown chocolate. The Mounds Bars—two to a package, filled with coconut. We always smelled the wrapper before we ate them.

I always had to take a box of Chocolate Covered Cherries in my hand. My mouth watered as I looked at a picture on the box—that chocolate broken open with the white cream just flowing off the bright red cherry. I never had the quarter to buy them. However, when Christmas arrived, there was a box with my name on it.

Gum was another treat—the two-inch square carefully wrapped with bright colored wax paper. A solid piece of pink gum sitting on a card that had a picture of an Indian Chief—two cents happily spent.

Any day we could round up a nickel was a feast day. Decisions had to be made. We made them happily. Life was good!  What fun! Wish I could be a kid again.

 

[Done in response to a writing exercise about colors.]

I Have a Tree

By Roger Wilson 7/19/14

Outside my front window,

I have a tree.

Roger's Tree

Inside my mind, I have a lover,

a friend.

I have a tree.
 

Every morning when I greet

the day—one quick look and

my tree is there to say—

DON’T waste the day.

I have a tree.


Every season, my tree sings a different song.

Winter with all her bones dry and ugly and bare,

she beats my roof and window.

She tells me she’s still here.

I have a tree.

After winter has come and gone—

a new song is sung all day long.

Look how smooth my bark has become—

look how strong my trunk has grown.

I have a tree.

Spring brings green on all my bare bones.

I feel so handsome—soaking up the sun.

Look out world, my show has just begun.

Millions of bright pink and white blossoms appear.

It’s my way of saying I love you, dear.

I have a tree.

 After the hummingbird has done her bit,

I just shed all this glory and rest a bit.

I have a tree.

It is now summer and I dance and shine—in morning sun.

I get to wave to you all day long.

Gentle winds and golden light make our lives a simple delight.

I have a tree.

How wonderful life can be!

I have a secret lover—and Her love sustains me.

I have a tree.

 

From Ariele: Wow, Roger, this is terrific! If readers want to see other things Roger has done, check out Sharing Stories at http://northwestprimetime.com LOCAL page. Use the search function for Roger Wilson or Sharing Stories. In September’s print version of Northwest Prime Time, I’ve turned my Poetry Corner and Writing Corner into Roger Wilson land. Be sure to pick one of those up at the library or senior centers. 

Ariele Huff

Visiting Friends

Written for friends May 2007

Roger Wilson

When they arrive, they come in like a Fighter Squadron—wings flashing, darting, dodging and in for a pinpoint landing. They have a strut and a hop; their glistening feathers shine as they have their free breakfast. A table spread on the front lawn. They leave many unanswered questions after they fly off.

For example: Who taught them that onions and green peppers are bad for their digestive systems? They can separate out what is good for them. How do they know? While they are eating breakfast, the Great White Knights (sea gulls) arrive. There is sizeable pushing, squaring, and duding over a choice piece. When the table is cleared, they regroup and are gone for the day.

My bushy tailed friend will let me know he has arrived by running up and down the tree outside my window until I see him. When I open the front door, he is watching—brown eyes sparkle to see which way I’ll throw his treat. What a lovely friend, so sleek, bushy tail that never stops, able to climb up or head down quick as a wink.

What a pecking order: I have a wild black cat who lives under the shed in the backyard. He rules the entire group. When he shows up, they are gone. He can take his pick of whatever is being served. I love this cat. He is as wild as the wind. If I step out, he is gone. A flat out burst of fur in action, headed for his hole under the shed. We haven’t seen a mouse since he arrived. Three years now. I’m sure happy he is a Tom, as one like this one is enough.

When we had geese in the back yard, the wild ducks would fly in for a free meal. One duck tried landing on the back fence. His feet were not designed to sit on a fence, but he tried real hard. I laughed so hard I cried.

I once bought a goat. Brought her home, put her in the backyard, and two a.m., my dog Shane wanted to check her out. The goat jumped seven feet straight up and landed on the wood pile. She took off through the neighbors’ yards—me in hot pursuit, in and out of neighbors’ yards too. It was a wonder I didn’t get shot. Finally, I roped her and brought her home. Put Shane in the house and went to bed.

 

The next morning, I couldn’t find her. While mowing the backyard, I heard her bleat. We had a tree climbing goat! She spent more time in the trees in the backyard than on the ground. Her time was short lived here. She caught me bending over, working on the lawn mower and butted my rear end with enough force to send me over the lawn mower. A lady from Snohomish picked her up that day.

Goodbye, Goat!

Attention all beloved readers!

I love your comments. To leave one, find the word “comments” in red below each blog post--under the dotted line. It may say “no comments” or “1 comment” or “2 comments.” You get the idea. Click on that, and then scroll back down to the comment box. Let me know you’ve stopped by to hear stories. Share your own wisdoms if you want!  I’d also be delighted if you added me to your circles, or became a follower or a member of my blog.  Roger Wilson

A more recent photo of Linda Gail.

Linda Gail grows up!

                      From teen to lovely young woman, her dad is proud of her at every age!

                                                                                  

                        ♥

Roger's daughter, Linda Gail, as a toddler, at ten, and pre-teen.

Happy Birthday
Love, Linda Gail

From Roger's daughter, Linda Gail
Remember When--or The Time that--
      We went fishing in that boat and almost had to go fishing for the car.
      When nobody could figure out how you caught three fish at once every time you reeled in.
      The time we were lake fishing and all I had was a bamboo pole. I caught that huge rainbow "trout" full of eggs.
       Ice fishing--and I caught the "big" one that got away.
       When you went fishing (all day) at Yellowstone and Mom fell in a hole full of bear...ahem!
       The time we caught all those gunny sacks full of sun perch--must have been two hundred.
       When you, John, and Guess Who went fishing for some Colorado trout and John fell in.
       Or, maybe the night a little pointed headed, black eyed girl named Linda Gail came into your life--loving you with all her heart and loves you still with all her ♥!  


      

Meet My Feet 

Have you ever reached down, pulled your leg up, and just taken hold of your foot?
Then, with loving strokes, rubbed your foot and said something like, "Thank you for being part of me"?
It feels so great when you rub--stroke your foot. Enjoy how it seems to smile when you say, "Hello, foot."
So you drop that one and pick up the other. You can't help yourself--it just makes your world seem bright and warm.
I think of my feet--every time I step onto an ocean going tugboat, when I stomp aboard with a war bag on my shoulder. As I stand for a second, happiness is mine. I am going...going where money has no worth, where the air is pure.
How welcome is a job that needs to be done--and this job is all mine. My eyes see it, but my feet take me to it, and my hands do their part. When my feet take me away, no feeling like being there, knowing that when a job needs to be done--I have a pair of feet that get me there and wait until I am done.
Thank you, feet. I promise to remember: We are really Just One.
I find it marvelous, when I think of all the things my feet have done: The job they do when I drive a truck with a manual transmission--push the clutch in--press the gas throttle. Every move is in perfect order, a smooth easy ride. When I step up to get on anything, they are there, no complaining...raised just the proper amount to the next step, they are there, and when it's time to step down, my feet are there to return my body to earth once more.
What a marvelous invention! Feet are a wonderful pair, working--always honoring each other. I think of the many places I have been, of the numerous things my feet have done. My feet are the reason those things get done. It's a shock to my mind when I think, without my feet, what a terrible mess my life would have been .

 Thank you feet. As I look back, "Thank you for the races run, for the dances danced, for the doors that were opened, for the people I have met."
For every victory, my feet have been there, quietly holding me in place.
Yes, I have a smile for you--My feet!
Well done! Thank you, feet! My feet!

by Roger Wilson
2/27/14

Hair Today, Hair Tomorrow

Maybe!

 

When you think about hair,

it is difficult to find anyone who knows anything about hair.

When you are a youngster, it just grows.

Girls get to keep their hair.

Boys usually get it cut on a regular basis.

How can one family member have blonde hair,

while sister has brilliant red?

Same parents, same genes, two very different colors.

Talking about color:

How does your hair know when to turn white?

Or when to fall off your head?

Some front to back, some just in the back.

Why does hair wait until you are a senior to start showing up on your ears

 or in your ears?  O

Eyebrows behave for years,

then they really go on a growth sprint.

Barbers know little or nothing about hair.

They just cut and turn you loose after removing it

from your ears, nose, and eyebrows.

How does a person get hair to take hold a second time

when they give you an implant?

Does the implant also turn white and fall out?

Questions I can't answer.

Hair grows in strange places on your body:

under your arms, on your arms, legs, some people's chests.

Your face is a favorite place for hair to grow.

Shave--mustache--beard.

The Bible even talks about hair.

It says "God" even knows how many hairs you own.

It must keep God busy,

counting when it starts falling out!

Roger Wilson

3/8/14

 

 

Roger: Are you noticing that some people are leaving comments for you? Some daughters and some others too!  You just have to click on the place where it says 1 comment or sometimes more than one. The box for comments is below the post. Ariele

 

NNNNNN

                                              A Slap Is One Hand Clapping
                                                       by Roger Wilson 2/28/2014
Have you ever thought about your hands?  How it takes real magic to make them work?
Raise one finger or two. Shake all of them. Clench them tightly to make a fist. Use them for a loving caress on a loved one's face, a slap in anger or a wave hello, or a wave goodbye.
See how they are always ready to do their job: wash your face, peel your vegetables,  hold whatever you want held—never complaining, always there, a safety net when you might fall, one backing up the other.
What a neat thought: a hand to hold on to or a hand to hold whatever, a rope, a chain, a phone, or your money.
Think about it. It's time to say thank you hands for taking care of me.
Thank you…thank you—you work for free! NNNNNN

                  Love Talk to Me!

Love what are you? Is it a hug, a kiss, or a sweet smile, a pair of eyes smiling hello? Tell me love what are you?

I am that moment when your "short fuse" is ready to explode. I step in, calm your jets and let you turn anger away with a soft answer.

I am that moment when someone hurts you badly. I make it possible for you to forgive—and better yet to forget.

I am kind. I do not envy. I set you free. If you do not return it wasn't me. For true love trusts you even when you are far away. True love always returns.

Love never cuts another person short

Love lets you listen

Love never interrupts

Love releases you and makes you free

Jesus said "I am putting you ahead of me!"

Love is not filthy. Love is beautiful

Love is a short memory, does not hold a grudge—for love lives

Bears all things

Believes all things
Hopes all things
Endures all things
Love lasts

Love never fails
And, God is love
And God loves you!

 5/19/14
by Roger Wilson

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To viewers of the blog: Apologies for deformatting. These pieces come from scans of work. When they are in the posting stage, they don't have the irritating uneven margins or line breaks. Sigh!
Also, I haven't figured out how to get rid of the over-sized photo of Roger at the start of the blog. I do love this photo of him, but would like to size it down. At this point, the time expended is getting ridiculous--so the photo stays until I get a brainstorm or someone else tells me how to fix it!  Sorry!
Ariele Huff web-mistress to Roger's Roughneck Wisdom ;-)