When to help...

"Knowing when it's right NOT TO RESCUE has been one of my greatest lessons. Since my natural tendency is to jump in to the fray and solve problems for my loved ones, it took me many years to learn what a disservice this can be.”

— Chelle Thompson, Editor of Inspiration Line

Revenge of the Fifth-Grade Girls

Text from Chicken Soup for the Soul

Revenge of the Fifth-Grade Girls
By Carolyn Magner Mason

A mother cannot force her daughters to become sisters. She cannot make them be friends or companions or even cohorts in crime. But, if she's very lucky, they find sisterhood for themselves and have one true ally for life. My daughters did not seem likely candidates for sisterly love. They are as different as night and day, and as contrary as any two girls living under the same roof can possibly manage.
My youngest daughter, Laura, is smart, athletic and good at most everything she tries. But for her, friendships are tricky. When, at seven years old, she was thrust into the world of lunch pals and sleepovers, she struggled to survive.
Catherine, on the other hand, sits at the top of the elementary school pecking order. A bright, popular and beautiful fifth-grader, she is usually surrounded by a bevy of adoring girlfriends. When you are in second grade, a word or nod from a fifth-grade girl is the greatest thing that can happen. But Catherine and her friends seldom noticed her sister's valiant attempts to be noticed.
One hectic morning, while getting ready for school, both girls began begging for a new hairstyle. Sighing, I gathered brushes, combs and pins and quickly created new looks. I braided Laura's wispy locks into a snazzy side-braid. I combed Catherine's shiny black hair into a sleek, French twist. They twirled in front of the mirror, pleased with what I'd done.
Laura bounced out the door, swinging her braid proudly. But at school, one girl pointed at her and whispered to the other girls. Then the girl walked up to Laura and asked in a scathing tone, "What's with the stinking braid?"
Laura crumbled. After getting permission from her teacher, she went to the bathroom, where she sat and cried in an empty stall. Then she splashed cold water on her face and bravely returned to the classroom - braid intact.
That afternoon, she broke my heart with her sad tale. How could I have sent her out wearing a stinking braid? How could I have set her back in her meager attempts to fit in with the other girls? I fought back my tears as I drove my girls home. Hearing her sister's sorrow, Catherine sat in stony silence, and as I often do, I wished they had the kind of bond that would allow them to reach out to each other. I barely noticed Catherine spent more time on the phone than usual that evening.
The next afternoon, when I pulled to the front of the carpool line, I discovered a small miracle had occurred. There stood Laura, surrounded by the smartest, cutest, most popular fifth-grade girls. My tiny daughter glowed with utter astonishment as they twirled her around, complimented her and focused a brilliant light of attention upon her. And, to my amazement, every single one wore a side-braid, exactly like the one Laura had worn the day before. Ten stinking braids, I thought, as I tried to swallow the lump lodged in my throat.
"I don't know what happened!" exclaimed Laura, clambering into the van. "I looked up, and all the girls were wearing my braid." She grinned all the way home, arms wrapped around skinny knees, reliving her short life's happiest moment.
I glanced at Catherine in the rearview mirror, and I think she winked at me. I'm not sure.

On Anger

If a small thing has the power to make you angry, does that not indicate something about your size?

Sydney J. Harris (1917-1986)
Journalist

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The grudge you hold on to is like a hot coal that you intend to throw at someone, but you're the one who gets burned.

Siddhartha Gautama (c. 563-c. 483 B.C.)
Founder of Buddhism

Happiness

Each morning the day lies like a fresh shirt on our bed... The happiness of the next twenty-four hours depends on our ability, on waking, to pick it up.

Walter Benjamin (1892-1940)
Critic and philosopher

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Wandering is one of the most sensible things in the world to do. I highly recommend the pursuit of happiness from east to west, bending and stopping, pausing, enjoying, not going anywhere in particular except down a beach or around a pond, always knowing that there is something wonderful just ahead.

Ann H. Zwinger
Naturalist

i have learned...

forgot where i got this poem. a touching piece.

I've learned that no matter what happens,
or how bad it seems today,
life does go on, and it will be better tomorrow.
I've learned that you can tell a lot about a person by the way he/she handles these three things:
a rainy day, lost luggage, and tangled Christmas tree lights.
I've learned that regardless of your relationship with your parents,
you'll miss them when they're gone from your life.

I've learned that making a "living" is
not the same thing as making a "life."
I've learned that life sometimes
gives you a second chance.
I've learned that you shouldn't go through life
with a catcher's mitt on both hands.
You need to be able to throw something back.
I've learned that whenever I decide something
with an open heart,
I usually make the right decision.
I've learned that even when I have pains,
I don't have to be one.

I've learned that every day you should reach out
and touch someone.
People love a warm hug,
or just a friendly pat on the back.
I've learned that I still have a lot to learn.
I've learned that people will forget what you said, people will forget what you did,
but people will never forget how you made them feel.

naming worms

article below was already posted at my original blog page, snowangel. i just thought of posting it here again. article was a originally taken from chicken soup for the soul.

really cute article, read on

x;)



Naming Worms
By Allison McWood

I think my dad wanted a son. Instead, he got three daughters. Seeing as how the son he anticipated was never forthcoming, Dad decided to improvise and I, being his youngest, won the privilege of being nurtured outdoors.

Being turned into a tomboy didn't bother me in the least. I loved putting on my plaid, flannel shirt and doing things outside with Dad, especially fishing. Whether we oared across a lake in a rowboat or hiked down a cliff with nothing more than a hook and some string, I could think of no better way for a dad and his little girl to spend the day.

I would marvel at how patient and focused Dad was when he fished. He would concentrate on his line for hours at a time. If he was any more calm, he would have slipped into a coma. This used to drive me bananas. Being seven years old, I craved more excitement. I imagined a huge fish, bigger than me, gulping down my bait and flapping ferociously in the water until I heroically hauled it into the rowboat. This never happened. Instead, I would spend my time watching Dad as he stared intently at his line. He never blinked, sometimes for the whole day. How could he be so patient?

One day Dad's patience was put to the test when my fascination shifted from the fish to the bait. While waiting for a nibble on my line, I peeked into the can of worms we had in the rowboat with us. I dug my little fingers into the moist soil and pulled a resisting worm from his burrow. I let him squirm (I decided it was a "he") across my hand. It tickled. I took another worm from the can. Then another. Then another. Soon, three or four worm heads popped out of the soil to see what all the commotion was about. I was in love.

I felt as though I had made a can-full of new friends that would keep me company during these long, uneventful fishing trips. Each worm was given a name according to his personality. When you are seven years old, worms have personalities. There was something endearing about my mucous-covered companions with no faces. I promised each of them that not one would be put on a hook and fed to the fish.

Then disaster struck. Dad pulled Hamilton out of the can. I gasped in horror as he attempted to manipulate his poor, writhing body onto a hook. There was a terrified look where Hamilton's face would have been, if he had a face.

"Daddy, No! Don't put Hamilton on the hook! He's my favorite!"

Dad raised an eyebrow. "You named the worm?" he asked in disbelief.

Exhaling and shaking his head, Dad pulled out another worm. It was Wigglesworth. He was the skittish one who was particularly worried about being used as bait. I had made a special promise to him and could not possibly allow the poor little guy to be hooked, for I was a woman of my word.

"That's Wigglesworth! Don't hurt him!"

Dad's frustration grew as he pulled more worms from the can. First Winthrop, the shy worm. Then Slimey, the friendly worm. And Marvin the show-off. Finally, Dad pulled out Maxwell, Sammy, O'Reilly, Buster and Doug. Dad groaned as I pleaded for him to not hurt my friends.

"Don't tell me you named all of the worms in this can."

With a sheepish nod, our fishing trip was suddenly over.

The next day, Dad drove into town and picked up a bucket of crawfish. When he brought them back to the cottage, I opened the lid and peeked in. I heard a despairing yelp emerge from his throat - I turned around to see him running frantically toward me, with his arms flailing and a look of terror on his face.

"No! You have to quit making friends with the bait!"

another blog???

my my my.
another blog site????
am i just feeling lucky or what?!
i can hardly keep 1 blogsite so whats the use of having another 1???
well deary, this is NOT another blogsite.
as i was browsing thru my stuff, i noticed that i keep a lot of articles.
so instead of posting it on my my blogsite, ill just post it here on my notebook.

happy reading!


x:)