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Happy Birthday
Lets all wish a very Happy Birthday to Margaretha. We hope you have a very blessed day.
Two new Members!
Lets all welcome our two newest members to the group: mrsweezie and orchidlover. Be sure to give them a warm welcome.
Catholic stories in the movies
It seems that back in the 40s and 50s there were movies made with good Catholic themes. I just saw one of them. Go to hulu and find "Come to the Stable" with Loretta Young, you'll be pleasantly surprised, it's so good.
A Wonderful Story
The Sandpiper
by Robert Peterson
She was six years old when I first met her on
the beach near where I live. I drive to this beach, a
distance of three or four miles,whenever the world
begins to close in on me. She was building a sand
castle or something and looked up, her eyes as blue as
the sea.
"Hello," she said.
I answered with a nod, not really in the mood
to bother with a small child..
"I'm building," she said.
"I see that. What is it?" I asked, not really
caring.
"Oh, I don't know, I just like the feel of sand."
That sounds good, I thought, and slipped off my shoes.
A sandpiper glided by.
"That's a joy," the child said.
"It's a what?"
"It's a joy. My mama says sandpipers come to bring us joy."
The bird went gliding down the beach.
Good-bye joy, I muttered to myself, hello pain, and turned
to walk on. I was depressed, my life seemed
completely out of balance.
"What's your name?" She wouldn't give up.
"Robert," I answered. "I'm Robert Peterson."
"Mine's Wendy... I'm six."
"Hi, Wendy."
She giggled. "You're funny," she said.
In spite of my gloom, I laughed too and
walked on.. Her musical giggle followed me
.
"Come again, Mr. P," she called.
"We'll have another happy day."
The next few days consisted of a group of
unruly Boy Scouts, PTA meetings, and an ailing mother.
The sun was shining one morning as I took my hands out of
the dishwater. I need a sandpiper, I said to myself, gathering up my coat.
The ever-changing balm of the seashore
awaited me. The breeze was chilly but I strode along, trying
to recapture the serenityI needed.
"Hello, Mr.. P," she said. "Do you want to play?"
"What did you have in mind?" I asked, with a twinge of annoyance.
"I don't know. You say."
"How about charades?" I asked sarcastically.
The tinkling laughter burst forth again. "I don't know what that
is."
"Then let's just walk."
Looking at her, I noticed the delicate
fairness of her face.. "Where do you live?" I
asked. "Over there." She pointed toward a row of summer cottages.
Strange, I thought, in winter.
"Where do you go to school?"
"I don't go to school. Mommy says we're on vacation"
She chattered little girl talk as we strolled
up the beach, but my mind was on other things. When I
left for home, Wendy said it had been a happy day. Feeling
surprisingly better, I smiled at her and agreed.
Three weeks later, I rushed to my beach in a
state of near panic. I was in no mood to even greet
Wendy.. I thought I saw her motheron the porch and
felt like demanding she keep her child at home.
"Look, if you don't mind," I
said crossly when Wendy caught up with me, "I'd
rather be alone today." She seemed unusually pale and out of breath.
"Why?" she asked.
I turned to her and shouted, "Because my
mother died!" and thought, My God, why was I saying
this to a little child?
"Oh," she said quietly, "then this is a bad day."
"Yes," I said, "and yesterday
and the day before and -- oh, go away!"
"Did it hurt?" she inquired.
"Did what hurt?" I was exasperated with her, with myself.
"When she died?"
"Of course it hurt!" I snapped,
misunderstanding, wrapped up in myself. I strode off.
A month or so after that, when I next went to
the beach, she wasn't there. Feeling guilty,
ashamed, and admitting to myself I missed her, I went up to
the cottage after my walk and knocked at the door. A
drawn looking young woman with honey-colored hair
opened the door.
"Hello," I said, "I'm
Robert Peterson. I missed your little girl today and
wondered where she was."
"Oh yes, Mr. Peterson, please come
in. Wendy spoke of you so much. I'm afraid I
allowed her to bother you. If she was a
nuisance, please, accept my apologies."
"Not at all --! she's a delightful
child." I said, suddenly realizing that I meantwhat I had just said.
"Wendy died last week, Mr.
Peterson.. She had leukemia Maybe she didn't tell you."
Struck dumb, I groped for a chair. Ihad to catch my breath.
"She loved this beach, so when she asked
to come, we couldn't say no. She seemed so much better
here and had a lot of what she called happy days. But
the last few weeks, she declined rapidly..." Her voice
faltered, "She left something for you, if only I can
find it. Could you wait a moment while I look?"
I nodded stupidly, my mind racing for
something to say to this lovely young woman. She
handed me a smeared envelope with "MR. P" printed
in bold childish letters. Inside was a drawing
in bright crayon hues -- a yellow beach, a blue sea,
and a brown bird. Underneath was carefully
printed:
A SANDPIPER TO BRING YOU JOY.
Tears welled up in my eyes, and a heart that
had almost forgotten to love opened wide. I took
Wendy's mother in my arms. "I'm so sorry,
I'm so sorry, I'm so sorry," I uttered
over and over, and we wept together. The precious
little picture is framed now and hangs in my study.
Six words -- one for each year of her life -- that
speak to me of harmony, courage, and undemanding love.
A gift from a child with sea blue eyes and
hair the color of sand -- who taught me the gift of
love.
NOTE: This is a true story sent out by Robert
Peterson. It happened over 20 years ago and the
incident changed his life forever. It serves as a
reminder to all of us that we need to take time to
enjoy living and life and each other. The price of
hating other human beings is loving oneself less.
Life is so complicated, the hustle and bustle
of everyday traumas can make us lose focus about what
is truly important or what is only a momentary setback or
crisis.
This week, be sure to give your loved ones an
extra hug, and by all means, take a moment.... even if
it is only ten seconds, to stop and smell the roses.
by Robert Peterson
She was six years old when I first met her on
the beach near where I live. I drive to this beach, a
distance of three or four miles,whenever the world
begins to close in on me. She was building a sand
castle or something and looked up, her eyes as blue as
the sea.
"Hello," she said.
I answered with a nod, not really in the mood
to bother with a small child..
"I'm building," she said.
"I see that. What is it?" I asked, not really
caring.
"Oh, I don't know, I just like the feel of sand."
That sounds good, I thought, and slipped off my shoes.
A sandpiper glided by.
"That's a joy," the child said.
"It's a what?"
"It's a joy. My mama says sandpipers come to bring us joy."
The bird went gliding down the beach.
Good-bye joy, I muttered to myself, hello pain, and turned
to walk on. I was depressed, my life seemed
completely out of balance.
"What's your name?" She wouldn't give up.
"Robert," I answered. "I'm Robert Peterson."
"Mine's Wendy... I'm six."
"Hi, Wendy."
She giggled. "You're funny," she said.
In spite of my gloom, I laughed too and
walked on.. Her musical giggle followed me
.
"Come again, Mr. P," she called.
"We'll have another happy day."
The next few days consisted of a group of
unruly Boy Scouts, PTA meetings, and an ailing mother.
The sun was shining one morning as I took my hands out of
the dishwater. I need a sandpiper, I said to myself, gathering up my coat.
The ever-changing balm of the seashore
awaited me. The breeze was chilly but I strode along, trying
to recapture the serenityI needed.
"Hello, Mr.. P," she said. "Do you want to play?"
"What did you have in mind?" I asked, with a twinge of annoyance.
"I don't know. You say."
"How about charades?" I asked sarcastically.
The tinkling laughter burst forth again. "I don't know what that
is."
"Then let's just walk."
Looking at her, I noticed the delicate
fairness of her face.. "Where do you live?" I
asked. "Over there." She pointed toward a row of summer cottages.
Strange, I thought, in winter.
"Where do you go to school?"
"I don't go to school. Mommy says we're on vacation"
She chattered little girl talk as we strolled
up the beach, but my mind was on other things. When I
left for home, Wendy said it had been a happy day. Feeling
surprisingly better, I smiled at her and agreed.
Three weeks later, I rushed to my beach in a
state of near panic. I was in no mood to even greet
Wendy.. I thought I saw her motheron the porch and
felt like demanding she keep her child at home.
"Look, if you don't mind," I
said crossly when Wendy caught up with me, "I'd
rather be alone today." She seemed unusually pale and out of breath.
"Why?" she asked.
I turned to her and shouted, "Because my
mother died!" and thought, My God, why was I saying
this to a little child?
"Oh," she said quietly, "then this is a bad day."
"Yes," I said, "and yesterday
and the day before and -- oh, go away!"
"Did it hurt?" she inquired.
"Did what hurt?" I was exasperated with her, with myself.
"When she died?"
"Of course it hurt!" I snapped,
misunderstanding, wrapped up in myself. I strode off.
A month or so after that, when I next went to
the beach, she wasn't there. Feeling guilty,
ashamed, and admitting to myself I missed her, I went up to
the cottage after my walk and knocked at the door. A
drawn looking young woman with honey-colored hair
opened the door.
"Hello," I said, "I'm
Robert Peterson. I missed your little girl today and
wondered where she was."
"Oh yes, Mr. Peterson, please come
in. Wendy spoke of you so much. I'm afraid I
allowed her to bother you. If she was a
nuisance, please, accept my apologies."
"Not at all --! she's a delightful
child." I said, suddenly realizing that I meantwhat I had just said.
"Wendy died last week, Mr.
Peterson.. She had leukemia Maybe she didn't tell you."
Struck dumb, I groped for a chair. Ihad to catch my breath.
"She loved this beach, so when she asked
to come, we couldn't say no. She seemed so much better
here and had a lot of what she called happy days. But
the last few weeks, she declined rapidly..." Her voice
faltered, "She left something for you, if only I can
find it. Could you wait a moment while I look?"
I nodded stupidly, my mind racing for
something to say to this lovely young woman. She
handed me a smeared envelope with "MR. P" printed
in bold childish letters. Inside was a drawing
in bright crayon hues -- a yellow beach, a blue sea,
and a brown bird. Underneath was carefully
printed:
A SANDPIPER TO BRING YOU JOY.
Tears welled up in my eyes, and a heart that
had almost forgotten to love opened wide. I took
Wendy's mother in my arms. "I'm so sorry,
I'm so sorry, I'm so sorry," I uttered
over and over, and we wept together. The precious
little picture is framed now and hangs in my study.
Six words -- one for each year of her life -- that
speak to me of harmony, courage, and undemanding love.
A gift from a child with sea blue eyes and
hair the color of sand -- who taught me the gift of
love.
NOTE: This is a true story sent out by Robert
Peterson. It happened over 20 years ago and the
incident changed his life forever. It serves as a
reminder to all of us that we need to take time to
enjoy living and life and each other. The price of
hating other human beings is loving oneself less.
Life is so complicated, the hustle and bustle
of everyday traumas can make us lose focus about what
is truly important or what is only a momentary setback or
crisis.
This week, be sure to give your loved ones an
extra hug, and by all means, take a moment.... even if
it is only ten seconds, to stop and smell the roses.
Dressing to look like Saints
In my school we didn't acknowledge halloween, we celebrated All Saints' Day. We secretly picked a holy card and then dressed like the Saint we picked. I remember dressing like Saint Rita one year and I thought I was cool with lipstick on my forehead. It was made to look like blood from the thorn she carried. Any one else do this in their school?
Proper Attire for School
St. Patrick's grade school in the fifties did not have uniforms. However, we did have a dress code. Boys were required to wear neckties. Most of the guys wore the regular four in hand style. Clip-on bow ties, called "snorkies" were also popular, easy on and off and very portable.
Jeans or dungarees were not acceptable. This rule was relaxed on snowy days.
Girls had to wear dresses or skirts. The age of pants for females to any great extent had not yet caught on.
Our high school required uniforms for the girls, dark blue jumpers with which a white blouse with a Peter Pan collar was worn. You could tell if a gal ran out of clean blouses with the peter pan collar. They would sometimes wear one of their Father's white shirts.
Boys had to wear ties and a sweater or jacket. Still no jeans or dungarees.
Interestingly, now even some public schools in our area are requiring uniforms in order to combat the "droopy drawer" thug look.
Jeans or dungarees were not acceptable. This rule was relaxed on snowy days.
Girls had to wear dresses or skirts. The age of pants for females to any great extent had not yet caught on.
Our high school required uniforms for the girls, dark blue jumpers with which a white blouse with a Peter Pan collar was worn. You could tell if a gal ran out of clean blouses with the peter pan collar. They would sometimes wear one of their Father's white shirts.
Boys had to wear ties and a sweater or jacket. Still no jeans or dungarees.
Interestingly, now even some public schools in our area are requiring uniforms in order to combat the "droopy drawer" thug look.
