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you've already spotted a couple of your friends.
I just wanted to say "I love you, son
Victor B. Miller
What You Are Is As Important As What You Do
Who you are speaks so loudly I can't hear what you're saying.
Ralph Waldo Emerson
It was a sunny Saturday afternoon in Oklahoma City. My friend and
proud father Bobby Lewis was taking his two little boys to play
miniature golf. He walked up to the fellow at the ticket counter and said,
"How much is it to get in?"
The young man replied, "$3.00 for you and $3.00 for any kid who is
older than six. We let them in free if they are six or younger. How old
are they?"
Bobby replied, "The lawyer's three and the doctor is seven, so I guess I
owe you $6.00."
The man at the ticket counter said, "Hey, Mister, did you just win the
lottery or something? You could have saved yourself three bucks. You
could have told me that the older one was six; I wouldn't have known
the difference." Bobby replied, "Yes, that may be true, but the kids
would have known the difference."
As Ralph Waldo Emerson said, "Who you are speaks so loudly I can't
hear what you're saying." In challenging times when ethics are more
important than ever before, make sure you set a good example for
everyone you work and live with.
Patricia Fripp
A Mom's Life
Take your plate into the kitchen, please.
Take it downstairs when you go.
Don't leave it there, take it upstairs.
Is that yours?
Don't hit your brother.
I'm talking to you.
Just a minute, please, can't you see I'm talking?
I said, Don't interrupt.
Did you brush your teeth?
What are you doing out of bed?
Go back to bed.
You can't watch in the afternoon.
What do you mean, there's nothing to do?
Go outside.
Read a book.
Turn it down.
Get off the phone.
Tell your friend you'll call her back. Right now!
Hello. No, she's not home.
She'll call you when she gets home.
Take a jacket. Take a sweater.
Take one anyway.
Someone left his shoes in front of the TV.
Get the toys out of the hall. Get the boys out of the
bathtub. Get the toys off the stairs.
Do you realize that could kill someone?
Hurry up.
Hurry up. Everyone's waiting.
I'll count to ten and then we're going without you.
Did you go to the bathroom?
If you don't go, you're not going.
I mean it.
Why didn't you go before you left?
Can you hold it?
What's going on back there?
Stop it.
I said, Stop it!
I don't want to hear about it.
Stop it or I'm taking you home right now.
That's it. We're going home.
Give me a kiss.
I need a hug.
Make your bed.
Clean up your room.
Set the table.
I need you to set the table!
Don't tell me it's not your turn.
Please move your chair in to the table.
Sit up.
Just try a little. You don't have to eat the whole thing.
Stop playing and eat.
Would you watch what you're doing?
Move your glass. It's too close to the edge.
Watch it!
More, what?
More, please. That's better.
Just eat one bite of salad.
You don't always get what you want. That's life.
Don't argue with me. I'm not discussing this anymore.
Go to your room.
No, ten minutes are not up.
One more minute.
How many times have I told you, don't do that.
Where did the cookies go?
Eat the old fruit before you eat the new fruit.
I'm not giving you mushrooms. I've taken all the mushrooms out. See?
Is your homework done?
Stop yelling. If you want to ask me something, come here
STOP YELLING. IF YOU WANT TO ASK ME SOMETHING,
COME HERE.
I'll think about it.
Not now.
Ask your father.
We'll see.
Don't sit so close to the television, it's bad for your eyes.
Calm down.
Calm down and start over.
Is that the truth?
Fasten your seat belt.
Did everyone fasten their seat belts?
I'm sorry, that's the rule. I'm sorry, that's the rule. I'm sorry, that's the
rule.
Delia Ephron
The Perfect American Family
It is 10:30 on a perfect Saturday morning and we are, for the moment,
the perfect American family. My wife has taken our six-year-old to his
first piano lesson. Our 14-year-old has not yet roused from his slumber.
The four-year-old watches tiny, anthropomorphic beings hurl one
another from cliffs in the other room. I sit at the kitchen table reading
the newspaper.
Aaron Malachi, the four-year-old, apparently bored by the cartoon
carnage and the considerable personal power obtained by holding the
television's remote control, enters my space.
"I'm hungry," he says.
"Want some more cereal?"
"No."
"Want some yogurt?"
"No."
"Want some eggs?"
"No. Can I have some ice cream?"
"No."
For all I know, ice cream may be far more nourishing than processed
cereal or antibiotic-laden eggs but, according to my cultural values, it is
wrong to have ice cream at 10:45 on a Saturday morning.
Silence. About four seconds. "Daddy, we have very much of life left,
don't we?"
"Yes, we have lots of life left, Aaron."
"Me and you and Mommy?"
"That's right."
"And Isaac?"
"Yes."
"And Ben?"
"Yes. You and me and Mommy and Isaac and Ben."
"We have very much of life left. Until all the people die."
"What do you mean?"
"Until all the people die and the dinosaurs come back."
Aaron sits down on the table, cross-legged like a Buddha, in the center
of my newspaper.
"What do you mean, Aaron, 'until all the people die'?"
"You said everybody dies. When everybody dies, then the dinosaurs
will come back. The cavemen lived in caves, dinosaur caves. Then the
dinosaurs came back and squished 'em."
I realize that already for Aaron life is a limited economy, a resource
with a beginning and an end. He envisions himself and us somewhere
along that trajectory, a trajectory that ends in uncertainty and loss.
I am faced with an ethical decision. What should I do now? Should I
attempt to give him God, salvation, eternity? Should I toss him some
spiel like, "Your body is just a shell and after you die, we will all be
together in spirit forever"?
Or should I leave him with his uncertainty and his anxiety because I
think it's real? Should I try to make him an anxious existentialist or
should I try to make him feel better?
I don't know. I stare at the newspaper. The Celtics are consistently
losing on Friday nights. Larry Bird is angry at somebody, but I can's see
who, because Aaron's foot is in the way. I don't know but my neurotic,
addictive, middle-class sensibility is telling me that this is a very
important moment, a moment when Aaron's ways of constructing his
world are being formed. Or maybe my neurotic, addictive, middle-class
sensibility is just making me think that. If life and death are an illusion,
then why should I trifle with how someone else understands them?
On the table Aaron plays with an "army guy," raising his arms and
balancing him on his shaky legs. It was Kevin McHale that Larry Bird
was angry at. No, not Kevin McHale, it was Jerry Sichting. But Jerry
Sichting is no longer with the Celtics. Whatever happened to Jerry
Sichting? Everything dies, everything comes to an end. Jerry Sichting is
playing for Sacramento or Orlando or he has disappeared.
I should not trifle with how Aaron understands life and death because I
want him to have a solid sense of structure, a sense of the permanence
of things. It's obvious what a good job the nuns and priests did with me.
It was agony or bliss. Heaven and hell were not connected by long
distance service. You were on God's team or you were in the soup, and
the soup was hot. I don't want Aaron to get burned, but I want him to
have a strong frame. The neurotic but unavoidable anxiety can come
later.
Is that possible? It is possible to have a sense that God, spirit, karma,
Y*H*W*H, something is transcendent, without traumatizing the
presentness of a person, without beating it into them? Can we have our
cake and eat it too, ontologically speaking? Or is their fragile
sensibility, their "there-ness," sundered by such an act?
Sensing a slight increase in agitation on the table, I know that Aaron is
becoming bored with his guy. With an attitude of drama benefiting the
moment, I clear my throat and begin with a professional tone.
"Aaron, death is something that some people believe ..."
"Dad," Aaron interrupts, "could we play a video game? It's not a very
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