The Final Word

This morning I met a widow in our development, recently bereft of her husband and son, and I chatted with her awhile.  She is notorious for resorting  to racy language when irritated, so I was careful to be civil.  She expressed a longing to see her husband again, and confessed, as so many of us do, a hope in the afterlife.  That one sentence established her friendship with me, and she is now a benefactor of my prayers.

I saw her children look after her, for she had a new, four-wheel walker (as do I, whose wife goes out of her way for me).  Blessed be those who take care of the aged, for that is a difficult time span to connoiter.  I returned to my domicile where I keep myself occupied with things like writing my blog.

Life keeps me busy with household chores, too, for I want to live up to my ambition to be of service to my wife for our remaining years.  There’s no impetus like what we call The Word.


What does your soul, your animus, if you will, do when faced with an opportunity before you are ready?  Consternation? Frustration?  Be at peace.  So many of Nature’s phenomena are cyclical, that is they’ll occur again, and you’ll even be culturally richer the next time.  Notice I didn’t say monetarily, but let that go its own way.

I didn’t embark on a teaching career seeking to be rich.  But I got an overflow of experience.  That is nicer to think about in old age than lost riches.  You can’t always keep the material you gain, but the immaterial or spiritual is yours forever.

What?  How can you count the immaterial?  How can you store it?  I still meet people I knew back when, and I still enjoy their company.  I never flaunted a Rolls Royce or wore a Patek-Phillipe, studded with diamonds, on my wrist.  But who cares?

El Otro

I had the car washed.  Finally.  Two men started on the interior after it went through a gamut of suds, brushes and drop tails.  One of them, after doing a good percentage of the work, ran off to help at another car and wasn’t there for the tip.

“Donde esta el otro?”  I asked in my high school Spanish.

Realizing what I wanted to do, the first fellow ran over to the other car, and sent him hurrying back.  He got his share, and it all ended happily.

These men rely on tips for part of their income, if not all of it.  I can’t afford to be a philanthropist, but I do try to be as generous as I can.  It used to annoy my wife, but she’s used to it by now.


She had her coffee cup on the couch, and not noticing, I sat down beside her.  Coffee with milk all over the new couch.  Fortunately, she has a good memory, and she remembered we had taken out an inexpensive insurance on the couch.  The man came and scrubbed out the stain.  How lucky can we be?

Mishaps in this world are not uncommon, but it is as though a benevolent God watches over those who sing his praises on Sundays.  At least that’s what it seems like to the singers.  It may have something to do with their state of mind, but I am sure I’ve had mishaps that turned out to be plusses.

If only we saw them all that way.  Put your mind into that mode right away, lest you miss out on a good part of life.

Mental Health

Most people I know are mentally healthy, but that doesn’t mean they don’t have mental tics.  Few minds are completely sane; it’s just the way we were created and raised.  I had a friend, who although he led a normal single life, as a teacher, kept his funeral clothes spread out on a bed in his two-bedroom apartment.  I don’t know if this contributed to it, but he died fairly young.

There are quite a few people who have such tics, but I don’t dare mention them lest they be recognized by readers of this blog.  If you look at a sturdy oak, most of the leaves have some blemish, whether the work of an insect or just a growth abnormality.  It is the work of Nature.  We humans are not exempt.  It’s all part of the divine plan.  Now there’s someone reading this who has a problem with “the divine plan.”

I accept what God did with me (though I wasn’t always happy with it), and marvel at the variety in His creation.  There is no human craftsman whose work is perfect, though like God, we come so close to it.  Here’s to you, a near perfect work of art.