The Yellow Shirt ( A Mother Daughter Story)

The yellow shirt had long sleeves, four extra-large pockets trimmed in black thread
and snaps up the front. It was faded from years of wear, but still in decent shape. I found it in 1963 when I was home from college on Christmas break, rummaging through bags of clothes Mom intended to give away.

"You're not taking that old thing, are you?" Mom said when she saw me packing the yellow shirt. "I wore that when I was pregnant with your brother in 1954!"


"It's just the thing to wear over my clothes during art class, Mom. Thanks!" I slipped it into my suitcase before she could object. The yellow shirt became a part of my college wardrobe. I loved it.
After graduation, I wore the shirt the day I moved into my new apartment and on Saturday mornings when I cleaned.

The next year, I married. When I became pregnant, I wore the yellow shirt during big-belly days. I missed Mom and the rest of my family, since we were in Colorado and they were in Illinois But that shirt helped. I smiled, remembering that Mother had
worn it when she was pregnant, 15 years earlier.


That Christmas, mindful of the warm feelings the shirt had given me, I patched one elbow, wrapped it in holiday paper and sent it to Mom. When Mom wrote to thank me for her "real" gifts, she said the yellow shirt was lovely. She never mentioned it
again.

The next year, my husband, daughter and I stopped at Mom and Dad's to pick up some
furniture. Days later, when we uncrated the kitchen table, I noticed something yellow taped to it's bottom. The shirt!

And so the pattern was set.

On our next visit home, I secretly placed the shirt under Mom and Dad's mattress. I don't know how long it took for her to find it, but almost two years passed before I discovered it under the base of our living-room floor lamp. The yellow shirt was just what I needed now while refinishing furniture. The walnut stains added character.

In 1975 my husband and I divorced. With my three children, I prepared to move back to Illinois . As I packed, a deep depression overtook me. I wondered if I could make it on my own. I wondered if I would find a job. I paged through the Bible,
looking for comfort. In Ephesians, I read, "So use every piece of God's armor to resist the enemy whenever he attacks, and when it is all over, you will be standing up."

I tried to picture myself wearing God's armor, but all I saw was the stained yellow shirt. Slowly, it dawned on me. Wasn't my mother's love a piece of
God's armor? My courage was renewed.

Unpacking in our new home, I knew I had to get the shirt back to Mother. The next time I visited her, I tucked it in her bottom dresser drawer.

Meanwhile, I found a good job at a radio station. A year later I discovered the yellow shirt hidden in a rag bag in my cleaning closet.
Something new had been added. Embroidered in bright green across the breast pocket were the words "I BELONG TO PAT."

Not to be outdone, I got out my own embroidery materials and added an apostrophe and seven more letters. Now the shirt proudly proclaimed, "I BELONG TO PAT'S MOTHER." But I didn't stop there. I zig-zagged all the frayed seams, then had a friend
mail the shirt in a fancy box to Mom from Arlington, VA. We enclosed an official looking letter from "The Institute for the Destitute," announcing that she was the recipient of an award for good deeds. I would have given anything to see Mom's face when she opened the box. But, of course, she never mentioned it.

Two years later, in 1978, I remarried. The day of our wedding, Harold and I put our car in a friend's garage to avoid practical jokers. After the wedding, while my husband drove us to our honeymoon suite, I reached for a pillow in the car to rest my head. It felt lumpy. I unzipped the case and found, wrapped in wedding paper, the yellow shirt. Inside a pocket was a note: "Read John 14:27-29. I love you both,
Mother."

That night I paged through the Bible in a hotel room and found the verses: "I am leaving you with a gift: peace of mind and heart. And the peace I give isn't fragile like the peace the world gives. So don't be troubled or afraid. Remember what I told you: I am going away, but I will come back to you again. If you really love me, you will be very happy for me, for now I can go to the Father, who is greater than I am. I have told you these things before they happen so that when they do, you will
believe in me."

The shirt was Mother's final gift. She had known for three months that
she had terminal Lou Gehrig's disease. Mother died the following year at age 57.

I was tempted to send the yellow shirt with her to her grave. But I'm glad I didn't, because it is a vivid reminder of the love-filled game she and I played for 16 years. Besides, my older daughter is in college now, majoring in art. And every art
student needs a baggy yellow shirt with big pockets.

The Lizard Story

The Lizard Story

If you have raised kids (or been one), and gone through the pet
syndrome,
including toilet flush burials for dead goldfish, the story below
will have
you laughing out LOUD!

Here's what happened:

Just after dinner one night, my son came up to tell me there
was "something
wrong" with one of the two lizards he holds prisoner in his room.

"He's just lying there looking sick," he told me. "I'm serious, Dad.
Can
you help?"

I put my best lizard-healer expression on my face and followed him
into his
bedroom. One of the little lizards was indeed lying on his back,
looking
stressed. I immediately knew what to do.

"Honey," I called, "come look at the lizard!"

"Oh, my gosh!" my wife exclaimed. "She's having babies."

"What?" my son demanded. "But their names are Bert and Ernie, Mom!"

I was equally outraged. "Hey, how can that be? I thought we said we
didn't
want them to reproduce," I said accusingly to my wife.

"Well, what do you want me to do, post a sign in their cage?" she
inquired
(I think she actually said this sarcastically! ).

"No, but you were supposed to get two boys!" I reminded her, (in my
most
loving, calm, sweet voice, while gritting my teeth).

"Yeah, Bert and Ernie!" my son agreed

"Well, it's just a little hard to tell on some guys, you know," she
informed me (Again with the sarcasm!)

By now the rest of the family had gathered to see what was going on. I
shrugged, deciding to make the best of it.

"Kids, this is going to be a wondrous experience," I announced. "We're
about to witness the miracle of birth."

"Oh, gross!" they shrieked.

"Well, isn't THAT just great? What are we going to do with a litter
of tiny
little lizard babies?" my wife wanted to know.

We peered at the patient. After much struggling, what looked like a
tiny
foot would appear briefly, vanishing a scant second later.

"We don't appear to be making much progress," I noted.

"It's breech," my wife whispered, horrified.

"Do something, Dad!" my son urged.

"Okay, okay." Squeamishly, I reached in and grabbed the foot when it
next
appeared, giving it a gentle tug. It disappeared. I tried several
more
times with the same results.

"Should I call 911?" my eldest daughter wanted to know "Maybe they
could
talk us through the trauma." (You see a pattern here with the females
in my
house?)

"Let's get Ernie to the vet," I said grimly. We drove to the vet with
my
son holding the cage in his lap.

"Breathe, Ernie, breathe," he urged.

"I don't think lizards do Lamaze," his mother noted to him. (Women
can be
so cruel to their own young. I mean what she does to me is one thing,
but this
boy is of her womb, for God's sake.).

The vet took Ernie back to the examining room and peered at the little
animal through a magnifying glass.

"What do you think, Doc, a C-section?" I suggested scientifically.

"Oh, very interesting, " he murmured. "Mr. And Mrs. Cameron, may I
speak to
you privately for a moment?"

I gulped, nodding for my son to step outside.

"Is Ernie going to be okay?" my wife asked.

"Oh, perfectly," the vet assured us. "This lizard is not in labor. In
fact,
that isn't EVER going to happen . . . Ernie is a boy. You see, Ernie
is a
young male. And occasionally, as they come into maturity, like most
male
species, they um . . . Um . . Masturbate. Just the way he did, lying
on his
back." He blushed, glancing at my wife.

We were silent, absorbing this. "So, Ernie's just . . . Just ....

Excited," my wife offered. "Exactly," the vet replied, relieved that
we
understood.

More silence. Then my vicious, cruel wife started to giggle. And
giggle.
And then even laugh loudly.

"What's so funny?" I demanded, knowing, but not believing that the
woman I
married would commit the upcoming affront to my flawless manliness.

Tears were now running down her face. "It's just . . . That . . I'm
picturing you pulling on its its . . teeny little . ." She gasped for
more
air to bellow in laughter once more.

"That's enough," I warned. We thanked the vet and hurriedly bundled
the
lizard and our son back into the car. He was glad everything was
going to
be okay.

"I know Ernie's really thankful for what you did, Dad," he told me.

"Oh, you have NO idea," my wife agreed, collapsing with laughter.

Two lizards: $140.
One cage: $50.
Trip to the vet: $30.

Memory of your husband pulling on a lizard's winkie: Priceless

Moral of the story: Pay attention in biology class. Lizards lay eggs.

Martha Stewart's Tips for Rednecks

Martha Stewart's Tips for Rednecks
GENERAL:

1. Never take a beer to a job interview.

2. Always identify people in your yard before shooting at them.

3. It's considered tacky to take a cooler to church.

4. If you have to vacuum the bed, it is time to change the sheets.

5. Even if you're certain that you are included in the will, it is
still rude to drive the U-Haul to the funeral home.

DINING OUT:

1. When decanting wine from the box, make sure that you tilt the
paper cup and pour slowly so as not to "bruise" the fruit of the vine.

2. If drinking directly from the bottle, always hold it with your
hands.

ENTERTAINING IN YOUR HOME:

1. A centerpiece for the table should never be anything prepared by
a taxidermist.

2. Do not allow the dog to eat at the table, no matter how good his
manners are.

PERSONAL HYGIENE:

1. While ears need to be cleaned regularly, this is a job that
should be done in private using one's OWN truck keys.

2. Even if you live alone, deodorant is not a waste of good money.

3. Use of proper toiletries can only delay bathing for a few days.

4. Dirt and grease under the fingernails is a social no-no, as they
tend to detract from a woman's jewelry and alter the taste of finger foods.


DATING (Outside the Family):

1. Always offer to bait your date's hook, especially on the first
date.

2. Be assertive. Let her know you're interested: "I've been wanting
to go out with you since I read that stuff on the bathroom wall two years
ago."

3. Establish with her parents what time she is expected back. Some
will say 10:00 PM . Others might say "Monday," If the latter is the answer,
it is the man's responsibility to get her to school on time.


THEATER ETIQUETTE:

1. Crying babies should be taken to the lobby and picked up
immediately after the movie has ended.

2. Refrain from talking to characters on the screen. Tests have
proven they can't hear you.

WEDDINGS:

1. Livestock, usually, is a poor choice for a wedding gift.

2. Kissing the bride for more than 5 seconds may get you shot.

3. For the groom, at least, rent a tux. A leisure suit with a
cummerbund and a clean bowling shirt can create a tacky appearance.

4. Though uncomfortable, say "yes" to socks and shoes for this
special occasion.

DRIVING ETIQUETTE:

1. Dim your headlights for approaching vehicles, even if the gun is
loaded and the deer is in sight.

2. When approaching a four-way stop, the vehicle with the largest
tires does not always have the right of way.

3. Never tow another car using panty hose and duct tape.

4. When sending your wife down the road with a gas can, it is
impolite to ask her to bring back beer too.

5. Do not lay rubber while traveling in a funeral procession.

The Red Dot

For centuries, Hindu women have worn a dot on their foreheads. Most of us have naively thought this was connected with marriage or religion, but the Indian Embassy in Washington, DC has recently revealed the true story.
When a Hindu woman gets married, she brings a dowry into the union. On her wedding night, the husband scratches off the dot to see whether he has won a convenience store, a gas station, a donut shop or a motel in the United States. If nothing is there, he must take a job in India answering telephones giving technical advice.

The Story of the Red Marbles

Red Marbles


I was at the corner grocery store buying some early
potatoes. I noticed a small boy, delicate of bone and
feature, ragged but clean, hungrily
apprising a basket of freshly picked green peas.
I paid for my potatoes but was also drawn to the
display of fresh green peas. I am a pushover for
creamed peas and new potatoes.
Pondering the peas, I couldn't help overhearing the
conversation between Mr. Miller (the store owner) and
the ragged boy next to me.

"Hello Barry, how are you today?"
"H'lo, Mr. Miller. Fine, thank ya. Jus' admirin'
them peas. They sure look good."
"They are good, Barry. How's your Ma?"
"Fine. Gittin' stronger alla' time."
"Good. Anything I can help you with?"
"No, Sir. Jus' admirin' them peas."
"Would you like to take some home?" asked Mr.
Miller. "No, Sir. Got nuthin' to pay for 'em with."
"Well, what have you to trade me for some of those
peas?" "All I got's my prize marble here." "Is that
right? Let me see it" said Miller. "Here 'tis. She's
a dandy."
"I can see that. Hmmmmm, only thing is this one is
blue and I sort of go for red. Do you have a red
one like this at home?" the store
owner asked. "Not zackley but almost."
"Tell you what. Take this sack of peas home with you
and next trip this way let me look at that red
marble", Mr. Miller told the boy.
"Sure will. Thanks Mr. Miller."

Mrs. Miller, who had been standing nearby, came over
to help me. With a smile she said, "There are two
other boys like him in our
community, all three are in very poor circumstances.
Jim just loves to bargain with them for peas, apples,
tomatoes, or whatever. When they come back with their
red marbles, and they always do, he decides he doesn't
like red after all and he sends them home with a bag
of produce for a green marble or an orange one, when
they come on their next trip
to the store."

I left the store smiling to myself, impressed with
this man. A short time later I moved to Colorado ,
but I never forgot the story of this
man, the boys, and their bartering for marbles.

Several years went by, each more rapid than the
previous one. Just recently I had occasion to visit
some old friends in that Idaho
community and while I was there learned that Mr.
Miller had died. They were having his visitation that
evening and knowing my friends wanted to go, I agreed
to accompany them. Upon arrival at the mortuary we
fell into line to meet the relatives of the deceased
and to offer whatever words of comfort we could. Ahead
of us in line were three young men. One was in an army
uniform and the other two wore nice haircuts, dark
suits and white shirts ...
all very professional looking. They approached Mrs.
Miller, standing composed and smiling by her husband's
casket. Each of the young men
hugged her, kissed her on the cheek, spoke briefly
with her and moved on to the casket.

Her misty light blue eyes followed them as, one by
one, each young man stopped briefly and placed his own
warm hand over the cold pale hand in the casket. Each
left the mortuary awkwardly, wiping his eyes.

Our turn came to meet Mrs. Miller. I told her who I
was and reminded her of the story from those many
years ago and what she had told me about her husband's
bartering for marbles. With her eyes glistening, she
took my hand and led me to the casket. "Those three
young men who just left were the boys I told you
about. They just told me how they appreciated the things Jim
"traded" them. Now, at last, when Jim could not change his mind about
color or size they came to pay their debt."
"We've never had a great deal of the wealth of this world," she confided, "but
right now, Jim would consider himself the richest man in Idaho."

With loving gentleness she lifted the lifeless fingers
of her deceased husband. Resting underneath were
three exquisitely shined red marbles.


The Moral : We will not be remembered by our words,
but by our kind deeds. Life is not measured by the
breaths we take, but by the moments that take our
breath.

Irish Viagra

Irish Viagra

An Irish woman of advanced
age visited her physician to
ask his help in reviving her husband's libido .

"What about trying Viagra?"
asks the doctor .

"Not a chance," she said .
"He won't even take an aspirin."

"Not a problem," replied the
doctor. "Give him an "Irish Viagra."
It's when you drop the Viagra tablet
into his coffee.
He won't even taste it. Give it
a try and call me in a week to
let me know how things went."

It wasn't a week later that she
called the doctor, who directly
inquired as to progress.
The poor dear exclaimed, "Oh,
faith, bejaysus and begorrah! T'was horrid! Just terrible,
doctor!"

"Really? What happened?"
asked the doctor

"Well, I did as you advised and
slipped it in his coffee and the
effect was almost immediate .
He jumped straight up, with
a twinkle in his eye, and with
his pants a-bulging fiercely!
With one swoop of his arm,
he sent the cups and tablecloth
flying, ripped me clothes to
tatters and took me then and
there, took me passionately on
the tabletop! It was a
nightmare, I tell you, an
absolute nightmare!"

"Why so terrible?" asked the
doctor, "Do you mean the sex
your husband provided wasn't good?"

" Twas the best sex I've had in
25 years! But sure as I'm sittin' here,
I'll never be able to show
me face in Starbucks again!"