How Often Do You Come To JWD During A Day, Week or Month??? Hours or Mins?

by minimus 559 Replies latest jw friends

  • compound complex
    compound complex

    Dear Diary,

    The sadness in the air was especially palpable on that day; it was raining a melancholy and indifferent sort of drizzle. A lusty, wind-driven downpour would have been preferable under these depressing circumstances. The old darling's gloom hung about us like a suit of bad clothes. The stillness was shattered, however, when she, totally out of the blue and with no warning, burst into tears and sobbed with abandon. Mom ran into the living room to see what had happened, and I stood there like a statue. What does a teenage guy know about comforting the bereaved? I knew some Scripture but hadn't a clue how to wring any practical comfort from the Good Book.

  • compound complex
    compound complex

    Dear Diary,

    Mom knelt down by Aunt Rose and spoke soothingly to her, and, after a few moments, the old lady appeared to calm down. My mother must have felt satisfied that Aunt Rose was all right, so she headed back to the kitchen to brew my great aunt a cup of restoring tea. While Mom's frail relative was recovering, and I was standing in stunned silence at this most awkward of moments, Stan sauntered into the living room and went directly for Aunt Rose. I had the presence of mind to halt this invasion of her privacy and made for my little brother's arm. Before I could grab hold and jerk him away, he abruptly turned his head toward me and gave me a look that could've killed at twenty paces. I dropped back, utterly speechless. He turned again, seemingly unphased, toward the elderly woman, whose attention he had readily captured. Her face was the usual blank, only more so, if you get my drift.

    Back into the living room came my mother, smiling gently in our general direction and carrying a tray crowned with her silver tea service and laden with the home-baked goodies she was locally famous for. As she set the tray down on the coffee (tea?) table, Stan tugged at the ottoman adjacent to the threadbare, old wingback that Aunt Rose had made her permanent home. Once it was in place before her, the little fellow perched upon it and reached out for the old lady's wizened left hand with his right. Young and fresh clasping the ancient and scarcely living.

    Do you remember the old saying, "Out of the mouth of babes"? Stan subsequently gave it a new meaning, a meaning that changed our lives.

  • compound complex
    compound complex

    Dear Diary,

    After a few moments looking out the picture window, Stan gazed up at Aunt Rose, and, with a look of slight bemusement, she returned a gaze of her own. Mom and I were standing at a "respectful" distance to the side and saw the little guy's lips begin to move. Given our position relative to the seated, odd couple, who were occupying each other's attention, we couldn't read Stan's lips.The reason I mention this is because he was talking to his great aunt so softly that neither my mother nor I had a clue what deal was being clinched.

    With her hand still firmly in his own, Stan rose and shot a look out the window. It had stopped raining, much to my surprise. I have no idea why I should or should not be surprised at such a non-event. Perhaps it was because the clouds were breaking up and the sun was warming up the last shreds of so forlorn a day.

    My moment of reverie was broken when I realized that the pair was at the front door, yet hand-in-hand. With his left hand Stan grabbed hold of the old brass knob, twisted it and pulled a slightly confused but willing captive through the portal.

    Aunt Rose was not the only person in this diminutive lad's thrall.

  • stillajwexelder
    stillajwexelder

    Still too often

  • compound complex
    compound complex

    Dear Diary,

    I never got to talk about Don and Betty. I was really knocked off my rocker when Stan showed up (actually, two days before me). I'll tell you later how the reunion went. But a little history about longtime friends first.

    That delightful pair were friends of my parents since college days, back before the war. They had books and coffee and cigarettes in common. Arguments over what current author was making the greatest impact on impressionable American youth could go on way past midnight. Sometimes at their home, sometimes ours. I clearly remember falling asleep on the huge brown davenport in their spacious L-shaped living room. It was in the ell that Betty had floor-to-ceiling bookshelves. She generously lent dozens of books to my mother and - get this - to my baby brother! He would tuck himself cozily away in a little nook between the old upright piano (a Chickering) and the potted Kentia, reading this and reading that and reading the other. Don't forget, I was the one asleep on the big D ... like I should brag about that!

    That only scratches the surface of their friendship. When my parents "got religion," they spent less and less time with all their old friends. Nothing as bad as a rift or such: NEVER DISCUSS POLITICS OR RELIGION! Well, politics - maybe. They simply drifted apart - church activities for us (I say "us" with reservations) and cultural and political events for B & D.

    I was doing my thing - cars and idly watching the waves at our coastal retreat. And Stan was doing his thing - daydreaming, reading and painting scenes of the coast and gentle Pacific. All this, I'd say, in equal proportion time-wise and under the watchful eyes and tutelage of Betty. Those two were an inseparable pair, who flourished and basked in mutual admiration. Mom and Dad trusted their friends implicitly and never let the insanity of religious fervor divide them. I don't think Don and Betty went to church; it simply was not discussed.

    You might think that Stan and I were from two different planets. You're correct, we are. But we have a link that goes beyond genetics and shared environment ...

  • compound complex
    compound complex

    Dear Diary,

    About being from different planets:

    Remember "Cat Women of the Moon," with Victor Jory and Sonny Tufts, 1953? Of course you do! The quintessential horror/SF flick of our childhood! Well, I mentioned Baby Bro and I being from two different planets.

    The moon is technically a satellite - I believe that's correct - and not a planet. Correct me if I'm wrong. I think the ancients called it a planet. Anyway, Stan has always been a little loony - way out there. If he had been up there with those crazy felines he would have had them all tamed and following him about. No murder and mayhem meted out by mischievous moon mavens. We used to call him St. Francis, or was it Dr. Dolittle? Animals love him. Like on that planet Altair-IV ("Forbidden Planet"): Morbius' daughter Altaira is a bewitching innocent whose gentle but entrancing presence holds sway over the unearthly animal kingdom. Stan to a tee (tea? I don't think so).

    You know how I am with animals - remember that stary-eyed cat? Stan would have been Felix's master - a kind and gentle master - but still his master. Like he mesmerizes the creatures. Not just the small ones but also the great.

    I think I'm from Calisto. I have to check my birth certificate.

  • compound complex
    compound complex

    Dear Diary,

    After an uneventful stay for Aunt Rose that ended quite eventfully, we got back into our normal routine. That particular day I mentioned earlier (when she broke down) was quite a turning point for all of us, but especially for her.

    She and Stan were outside for some time walking about the garden, looking at the saturated but glistening shrubs that were catching the last rays of a Sol rather belated in arriving. Better late than never. Geese were flying high above the treetops, honking jubilantly at their crepuscular escape through the darkening skies. I seriously believe they were shouting down a riotous salute to Stan, who was waving frantically at them with his free hand. Aunt Rose was looking upward and shielding her eyes against the fading sunlight with her right hand.

    Mom and I, forgetting totally about time and all practical concerns, were still at the big window when that odd couple traipsed through the front door. I’ll never forget what I saw next. The old lady was somehow transformed; she was actually smiling and had a somewhat girlish gaiety about her. She was chatting away about what a beautiful day it was and, gosh, we’re hungry! Let’s eat! She took off her shoes – they were wet and muddy – and tossed them in the corner with all the other detritus of country living. After pushing back several wisps of unruly gray from her brow, she marched resolutely into the kitchen, grabbed and put on an apron and started fussing about like she owned the place.

    My mother and I could only look at each other blankly. Stan was in the corner of the living room reading.

  • compound complex
    compound complex

    Dear Diary,

    Did I tell you that Aunt Rose was a writer? Despite years of dawn-to-dusk manual labor, she used her evenings to feed the mind. In bed she would read by lantern light until she finally dropped off, book still in hand and spectacles perched squarely on the bridge of her nose. On her nightstand were a battered dictionary, two or three notepads and several pencils of various length. She was a self-taught woman at a time when "education" and "women" were words infrequently paired together. Mama would check in dutifully every night and take off Rose's glasses and extinguish the lantern. She would look at Rose and wonder what would should become of so singular a young lady.

    No one thought her first book would sell. In the course of its 383 pages she described how she, her ten siblings and old-world parents turned a rundown ranch in the San Joaquin Valley into a profitable enterprise. It included a detailed family history as well as Rose's personal philosophy on a number of matters near to her heart, most notably: the modern woman's place in the community.

    Perhaps it was the provincial outlook of her family and older members of her community: "There goes Rose the book worm!" the old hens would cluck as they huddled together on the bench in front of the general store. Rose would throw them a cursory smile and breeze on by as she headed to the stationers three doors down. Then to the book sellers. The old women were not malicious but merely amused at the thought of a working woman getting higher than herself. Rose was not embittered (it simply was not her nature), just annoyed at the narrow view so tenaciously held to by the older generation. It was a rare afternoon that Rose spent in Town.

    Rose got the last laugh ...

  • compound complex
    compound complex

    Dear Diary,

    We have a friend who is learning, among other things, I'm sure, to fly. She speaks for many of us:

    I realize its because I finally feel I belong to something, and thats not so bad at all!

    A sense of belonging creates positive energy. Knowing that my contribution is meaningful to others and that I would be conspicuous by my absence keeps me from feeling useless.

    I likewise feel that I can fly when I know that I belong ...

  • compound complex
    compound complex

    Dear Diary,

    We should cherish our freedom. Not everyone is at liberty to speak his mind. I await a phone call from a friend who must leave the warmth and comfort of his home to talk to me from another location.

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