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Fri, 12 Oct 2007 08:15:50 -0700

THE FINEST STATEMENT PRINTED TODAY

A mother asked President Bush,
Why did my son have to die in Iraq ?"

Another mother asked President Kennedy,
"Why did my son have to die in Viet Nam ?"

Another mother asked President Truman,
Why did my son have to die in Korea ?

Another mother asked President F.D. Roosevelt,
"Why did my son have to die at Iwo Jima ?"

Another mother asked President W. Wilson,
"Why did my son have to die on the battlefield of France ?"

Yet another mother asked President Lincoln,
Why did my son have to die at Gettysburg ?"

And yet another mother asked President G. Washington,
"Why did my son have to die near Valley Forge ?"

Then long, long ago, a mother asked...
Heavenly Father, why did my Son have to die
on a cross outside of Jerusalem ?"

The answers to all these are similar --

"So that others may have life and dwell in peace,
happiness and freedom."

http://tixx.stumbleupon.com/review/12698040/

Mon, 17 Sep 2007 09:10:07 -0700

Tixx�
Bailey
April 1997 - September 10, 2007
My heart breaks each time I think of you
I miss your love, devotion and comfort

You will never be forgotten in my life

There will always be this empty spot
in my heart where you once lived;
nothing will be able to replace it.

Love Mom

http://tixx.stumbleupon.com/review/12567338/

Wed, 12 Sep 2007 11:27:13 -0700

"They're standing on the corner and they can't speak English.
I can't even talk the way these people talk:
Why you ain't,
Where you is,
What he drive,
Where he stay,
Where he work,
Who you be...
And I blamed the kid until I heard the mother talk.
And then I heard the father talk.

Everybody knows it's important to speak English
except these knuckleheads. You can't be a doctor
with that kind of crap coming out of your mouth.
In fact you will never get any kind of job making a
decent living. People marched and were hit in the
face with rocks to get an education, and now
we've got these knuckleheads walking around.
The lower economic people are not holding up
their end in this deal.

These people are not parenting. They are buying
things for kids. $500 sneakers for what ? ?

And they won't spend $200 for Hooked on Phonics.

I am talking about these people who cry when their son is
standing there in an orange suit.

Where were you when he was 2 ? ?

Where were you when he was 12 ? ?

Where were you when he was 18 and how come you didn't know that he had a pistol ? ?

And where is the father ? ? Or who is his father ?

People putting their clothes on backward:
Isn't that a sign of something gone wrong?

People with their hats on backward, pants down around the crack, isn't that a sign of something ? ?

Or are you waiting for Jesus to pull his pants up ?

Isn't it a sign of something when she has her dress all the way up and got all type of needles [piercing] going through her body?

What part of A frica did this come from??

We are not Africans. Those people are not Africans;
they don't know a thing about Africa .

With names like Shaniqua, Taliqua and Mohammed and all of that crap,
and all of them are in jail.

Brown or black versus the Board of Education is no longer the white person's problem.

We have got to take the neighborhood back.
People used to be ashamed. Today a woman has eight children with eight different 'husbands' -- or men or whatever you call them now.

We have millionaire football players who cannot read.
We have million-dollar basketball players who can't write two paragraphs.
We, as black folks, have to do a better job.
Someone working at Wal-Mart with seven kids, you are hurting us.

We have to start holding each other to a higher standard
We cannot blame the white people any longer."
Dr. William Henry "Bill" Cosby, Jr., Ed.D.

Well said Dr. Cosby

http://tixx.stumbleupon.com/review/11645820/

Tue, 07 Aug 2007 07:00:28 -0700

THE STORY OF 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 appraising 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 pea's 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.

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Wed, 13 Jun 2007 07:40:07 -0700

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Wed, 13 Jun 2007 07:38:35 -0700

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Wed, 13 Jun 2007 07:38:09 -0700