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WHERE INANIMATE OBJECTS HAVE THEIR SAY

Experience the world


through the eyes of

A COVERED BRIDGE
and more

JANUARY 2011
PERSPECTIVES Page 2
About the Magazine From the Editor’s Desk
ISSN: 1920-4205 Resolutions. For or against, the word has
Frequency: Biyearly
Founding Editor: Monique Berry traveled through the mouths of reporters,
Designer: Monique Berry psychologists, lovers, writers, fitness trainers and
Editorial Assistant: Jennifer L. Foster more. Initially, I was against making any goals; I
Contact Info thought my goals were too ho-hum and
 : http://1perspectives.webs.com common—diet more, walk more, write more, bla
 : perspectivesmagazine@gmail.com
bla bla.
 : 1-905-549-3981 |  : 1-905-549-5021
Photo Credits Then, I had an aha moment—get a 2011 weight
Header images ©iStockphoto.com/AptTone, p4 courtesy of Peggy
Fletcher. All other inside photos courtesy of Brian Cobbledick. Front, watchers membership. But here‘s the twist! I will
back, and p8 courtesy of Monique Berry. create my own emotional weight loss program. I
resolve to be an emotional weight watcher. When
In this Issue applied to the body, before I seek to lose even
From the Editor’s Desk ........................................ p2 one physical pound, I need to lose the damaging,
negative weight in my heart and mind. If I lose
Antique storybook ................................................. p4 weight, my mirrored reflection will be appealing.
Alice’s Adventures in Wonderland by Peggy Fletcher But my mind‘s eye will still reflect an individual
with a heavy heart. Even if I lose twenty pounds,
Cat hair................................................................... p4
I'll still carry a heavy mind. As a man thinketh in
Fluff Ball’s Adventure by Jennifer L. Foster his heart, so is he, Proverbs 23:7. The same
Cell phone............................................................... p7
discipline works with writing.

Rituals by Rachel Loveday Applied to writing, I need to remember to plan


Covered bridge ...................................................... p9 encouraging and stress-free talks, and stop
feeding my mind with fear of failure and
Enduring Secrets by Monique Berry rejection. I am going to stop living with my eyes
Raindrop .............................................................. p10 locked in the backward position. I wasted too
much time walking forward and looking at the
Restless Exodus by Carolyn Agee
past simultaneously: I have a successful
Mirror ................................................................... p11 magazine (looking forward) but even established
Reflections by Donna McDonald ones are folding (looking back)! If you are
pursuing writing, drop the emotional burdens.
Saddle ................................................................... p12 You will write well and you‘ll feel great. Now,
A Western Saddle’s Story by Rebecca R. Taylor please excuse me. I have to start making some
resolutions!
Potato .................................................................... p13
A Potato’s Dream by Craig W. Steele Until the next time, keep the ink flowing.
Toilet ..................................................................... p14
Monique Berry
All in a Day’s Work by C. Douglas Johnson
Interesting facts about represented objects ...... p15
Page 3
Page 4
Alice’s Adventures in Wonderland
ANTIQUE STORYBOOK

By Peggy Fletcher

In sad disrepair I was greatly loved


my yellow pages by a single child
crumbling into history who received
I reside the gift of inspired
on wooden shelf imagination
oblivious that still lives
to those incisive eyes inside
that dismiss these ragged pages
early technology as small brown flakes
for digital form tumble like tears
but where released
in deep remembrance from my fragile spine
of my bedtime role to her aging hands.

Peggy Fletcher is a retired teacher and journalist whose work has appeared in many literary journals and books in
Canada and the United States. Contact her at p_fletcher@live.com.
CAT HAIR

Fluff Ball’s Adventure


By Jennifer L. Foster

W e were pressed in an unnatural bond—marble,


moth, deflated balloon with string, broken
mirror and I, a clump of cat hair—but we had the
strange and captivating advantage of having
heightened perspective.
If you asked me how the last few months have
passed, I would answer: it‘s been hair-raising.
Life began on my elegant mistress‘s plume tail.
Flossie, a longhaired calico tabby, had almond-shaped
green eyes and uneven striped markings in grey, black
and ginger. Her soft underbelly and feet were white.
But her S-curved tail was the envy of all who
gazed at her. It was especially long for such a small
cat. We flourished. Our luxurious cream, taupe and
orange hairs grew glossy. People often remarked on
her delicate beauty. Then they‘d pat her head, and
stroke her back and bushy tail. Flossie arched her
back and fluffed her tail into a crescent shape; she
mewed with joy. In addition to all that pampering,
Flossie's owner brushed her every day. All that
stroking sent long hairs flying from her tail.
Page 5
One day after a vigorous brushing, I went soaring. At daylight, seagulls soared above; they flapped
Just like that, I was tossed into the air where I swirled around and chided us while attacking ragged
in the draft of forced air heating and then floated onto eggshells and bits of chicken fat. During their
the kitchen floor. I—a bunch of Flossie's plume tail gluttonous frenzy, I somehow broke free of the sticky
hairs—narrowly escaped being sucked into the glop. I flew in fits and starts over shrivelled dandelion
household stick vacuum by a hair or two. I ended up heads. I escaped! Incredibly, I landed on the grassy
under the fridge as a fluff ball. slope of a nearby landfill.
I lodged there for a few weeks until the lady of Two days later, a light rain washed my sticky
the house came looking for one of Flossie's toys—a hairs; the April sun dried me out. My old color and
miniature teddy bear that was prostrate beside me. shine returned. I was me again. Flossie's little fluff
She poked at us with a yardstick and pulled us out. ball! But how to return to her and all that was lost?
―Good grief, Flossie!‖ cried her owner. ―Here's Then my rescuer came a calling. Or so I thought.
Teddy!‖
Flossie rushed over, eagerly eyeing Teddy. She
merely sniffed me but gave Teddy a little lick and
playfully batted him across the floor. Regrettably,
O ut of nowhere, the biggest, blackest bird I had
ever seen swooped down and carried me in his
short bill. His iridescent black feathers shone in the
Flossie‘s owner hastily swept me up and tossed me in sunlight as he steadily flapped his wings while we
a green trash bin by the garage. I became enmeshed in rose high in the air above the landfill. Before I knew
the compostable kitchen waste: egg shells, stale it, we were on a journey over the city past the
coffee filters, banana peels, cabbage cores, slimy rooftops of hundreds of homes. Compared to my
squash seeds…you name it, it was there. In the usual bearings on Flossie‘s tail, the sudden aerial
confines of a heavy plastic bin, I could no longer see sensations were out of this world.
my beloved mistress. From this changing vista, I could see a large city
Trapped, we sweated it out in the bin until spread out on two levels. Travelling north toward the
garbage day. When a city worker tipped open the lip of a rocky shelf, we soon spotted freighters
trash lid on a sunny April morning, it seemed like a stretched along a bay, and a great lake to the east.
trip to freedom. Fresh air! But the kitchen waste just I later learned that my capturer was a common
landed in a big truck with more and more recyclables. crow, an American Crow, and that I was a treasure
We met tons of dandelions. Severed heads and roots. find. I landed in a rarefied place called a nest, high in
Flies. Chicken bones. Smelly fish heads. Mucky a red oak tree along the city‘s escarpment. The
brown paper bags. It was a rotting brotherhood! Niagara Escarpment. Wait! There was more
We shook as the enormous city garbage truck quirkiness. I was dropped into a bowl not much
accelerated and braked. Panic overtook us each time bigger than Flossie's water dish. An outer, rougher
we heard the crazy whine of what turned out to be a section was fashioned from dead oak and black
mechanical crusher. Push! Whrrrr. Rotate! Whrrr. walnut branches. Now, two enormous crows were
Squeeze!! coming and going with materials to build the nest‘s
After driving for hours on an urban route, we inner wall and lining. Moss, grasses, velvety pine
came to a rough, unpaved road. Bump! The whole needles. And who should I have for neighbours?
back end of the truck was raised and our packed load Why, of all things, a battered gold-striped marble, a
was dumped into an open pit. We had reached the dried-out moth shell, a deflated mauve balloon with
garbage dump. Amidst the smoky burned smells, string, and a shard of broken mirror. We lodged at the
other trucks churned us—moving us into mountains bottom of the crows‘ treetop home and were played
of waste. Eventually, the grinding clamor ceased. The with from time to time.
sun filtered through the dusky haze. A breeze slid My capturer nudged me with his beak and tousled
over our battered bodies as the spring evening settled my hairs with his talons; he cocked his head and
with a damp coolness. Now that the workers had long admired me with keen, brown eyes. On every hairy
gone, we were left with nothing more than eerie strand, my razor-thin eyes regarded him with sheer
silence and a blank sky. (Continued on page 6)
Page 6
terror. Wedged against the nest wall, I watched crow Ball. Different life. And down there they haven't a
peck at broken mirror and roll marble a bit with his clue. Flossie could never hear my faint, whispery
bill. He tossed string in the air but hopped right back voice over the swish of wind in the oak leaves and
on balloon‘s fragile membrane, keeping them captive. white pine boughs. A conundrum in this escarpment
When he spread his wing over us and made ‗clickety- strip of Carolinian forest.
click‘ sounds and soft ‗caaw caaw‘ noises, I relaxed We've started to talk. Plan. When words fail, we
somewhat and reconsidered my plight. use a kind of easy talk—minimal gestures, squeaks
By month's end, the smaller bird spent all her time and grunts. The others want to get back to their roots,
in the nest. She laid eggs. Bluish-green with brown too...if they can.
and grey markings. We were hard pressed under the
weight of her clutch of three eggs and her black, silky
breast. The larger crow brought seeds, garden snails
and tiny birds‘ eggs for his partner to eat. Two weeks
W e're working on a sort of parachute. Dead moth
for the wings. Chick‘s eggshell—ideal for
canopy and decoy. Striped marble for ballast.
passed. Deflated balloon and old string become materials.
One rainy May evening, big crow arrived with a Mirror fragment for the floor. I'll be a lightweight for
limp field mouse. The brown-faced dried moth almost the ride. Maybe I can help stabilize the drop and
quivered with wild anticipation. But smaller crow cushion a landing. Too little breeze and we're going
gobbled up the mouse in one gulp. nowhere. Too much wind and we're doomed to crash
Four sunny spring days slipped by. One morning, in the prickly pine branches.
new life emerged. Baby crows! Small helpless All we can think about is getting back to the earth.
creatures with a fine brushing of down to tickle us. We're aiming to land at the foot of the yard. By the
And were they hungry! wild catnip patch. I dream of reuniting with Flossie.
The parents kept busy. The father and other In my mind, I repeatedly hear myself calling out,
members of their family searched for the young Flossie, it's me! Fluff Ball! Remember? Part of your
chicks‘ food. Feeding time was always a ruckus and a plume tail. I'm back!
joy; a tender, caring activity for all. I wish, with all the combined strength of my hairs,
Several times we heard a great squawking—a to ground myself in her presence once more. To
great hullaballoo. Caaw! Caaw! Caaw! Never by the nuzzle with Flossie in the catnip patch where she
nest. Down on the ground. The male and other family loves to linger; roll on the moist bumpy soil on a fine
crows were hollering and squawking thirty to forty spring day. Smell the spicy tang of catnip on her
feet away. A predator must have been nearby. But whiskers. Curl up with the tip of her chin on my hair.
whatever it was, silence—always silence. Feel her warm breath and soft heartbeats. Catch her
The nestlings were cared for and reared by their kittenish mews. To be a part of her feline world.
parents and extended family. After many weeks, the Back here in the nest, we're waiting for a slight
plump fledglings took hesitant steps around the nest breeze to get us over the top. And then it's anyone's
rim. One day, they learned to flap their wings and guess how things will go. Yet, we're a special
timidly flew aloft. A life thrill to watch. parachute contraption. But no sense just dreaming;
The nest is empty except for my strange kin and a better get on with it. We haven't much time. The
piece of a chick‘s eggshell. With all this movement in rhubarb is poking up in the ground, no doubt. And
the nest, marble, dead moth, balloon and string, before long, the stalks will leaf out and cover the
broken piece of mirror and I, Fluff Ball, have shifted catnip.
up the side. We're drying out in the sun and the mild
June breezes. Funny thing; I've finally looked over the Jennifer resides close to the Niagara Escarpment.
She graduated from Queen‘s University and has
top of the nest, wondering where I am.
retired from counselling and programs work. Her
What a shock! Bizarre, really! I recognize the poetry for children has appeared in Cats, Cats, Cats
backyard and the house. It's where Flossie and her and More Cats (Mini Mocho Press) and a short
owner live and where I once was whole. Here I am up story in a previous issue of Perspectives Magazine.
in the nest at the top of a massive red oak. Same Fluff Contact her at jenniferlfosterlit@sympatico.ca.
Page 7
Rituals When Ellie arrives at work, I stay in her black leather

CELL PHONE
handbag for the day. Loneliness creeps over me as I lie in the
By Rachel Loveday
dark bottom with her wallet, car keys and eyeglass case. I

I am not just a mobile phone—I


am Ellie Brandon‘s life. I am
more than a wireless device that
don't like waiting until the day is over to see into Ellie‘s
world again. I‘m guessing that the bag is sitting on her desk
because I can hear muffled conversations. Shortly after, I hear
chats with her family, friends, and Jenny asking her to lunch, Peter reminding her to attend the
work colleagues. I am her schedule new gym opening, and then the desk phone rings a few times.
keeper full of editorial meetings, During her lunch hour, Ellie places me in a black leather
and her personal trainer. I record her daily running times, holster, and then clips me onto her hip while she pays her
which are getting shorter each day she gets fit. bills and looks after the new gym opening. The comfy holster
Ellie‘s working week always starts the same. When I yell keeps the sun out of my eye. To be honest, I‘m always afraid
―Wake Up!‖ at 6 a.m., she silences me and then lays me down of falling off her hip. I have a few times. Occasionally, I fall
on the bedside table where I sleep. That prepares me for the so hard that I split open. Ellie just puts me back together like
next day, but I still get to snooze before she wakes me. I rest nothing happened (but it hurts like hell).
in the armband where her now-broken IPod used to sit. Apart from a few bumps and bruises, I keep pictorial
On her morning run, I get dizzy as she moves her arms memories of her festive parties and special loved ones. I send
forward and backward to maintain her balance. The Lake her emails and I keep her day running smoothly. I am her life.
Albert walking track, path, and people are the same—it‘s
starting to bore me. She needs to run somewhere else. Once
Rach Loveday is currently studying a double degree; Bachelor of
when Ellie was training, my face was slammed with a violent Creative Arts (majoring in Creative Writing)-Bachelor of Journalism
hit. She had run into an unfamiliar jogger wearing a red shirt. in Wollongong, Australia. This is her third article in Perspectives
Magazine.
Page 8
Page 9
Enduring Secrets bridge at the time, my woody aroma inspired months

COVERED BRIDGE
By Monique Berry of passion and romance.
On the night of his departure, she arrived thirty

T wilight is drawing near. It‘s my favoured hour


because it conceals my weathered appearance.
Okay. I admit to getting twinges of vanity and fear.
minutes earlier. The red-headed woman rested on me
for support and then told me everything. I guess she
felt I could be trusted. For the first time, the young
I‘m not a young bridge any more. Not long ago, a woman spoke her secret aloud. Her voice trembled as
female cardinal told me that my brother‘s face was she uttered her fears of being left alone—again. The
vandalized. Graffiti all over him. But he gets lots of toughest part about learning her painful circumstance
visitors. On the other hand, walkers seldom pass over was being not able to console her. But I knew her
my boards. So, I guess I can relax. Covered bridges lover would make it right. Incidentally, if you‘re
are generally detected by word-of-mouth or by curious to know what her secret was, you‘ll be
chance—I certainly was for one couple. No matter. waiting a long time. I‘m not free to disclose that
Weatherworn or not, I love being available as a information—it was spoken in confidence.
serene hideaway for animals and people as the need
Her gentleman caller arrived with a single rose.
arises.
Their bodies locked in unashamed affection. No one
Woodland creatures, who scurry on rugs of green
spoke for the longest time. When he saw that she was
earth, are my daily companions. For years, I had
having trouble coping with the situation he raised her
frequent conversations with a bubbling brook while
chin, wiped her tear-streaked face, and comforted her
it polished its stones but it has since dried out. I
with promissory whispers. ―Oh, my love. No matter
savour the dawning voices of birds and crickets, and
what happens, I will always, always treasure our
the occasional clip clop of horses‘ hooves. Yes, from
special place.‖ How I longed to close my wooden
the moment the first streams of light filter through
arms and hug my romantic visitors! ―Our love will
the trees to when the lengthening sunset shadows
return one day. After all, he or she will find the
cover me, I am content.
directions in your journal someday. And our secret!‖
The best part of being a covered bridge is that
With a final look, he backed away. As he faded
I‘m privy to secrets! Enclosed inside my walls are
into the distance, their eyes kissed each other
umpteen secrets—including those of animals. You
‗farewell.‘
see, the promise of privacy breeds honesty.
Present Day
Fifty years ago
Well, like I mentioned before I reminisced, it‘s
I remember well, even though it was many
twilight. Every time a rider from a nearby hamlet or
decades ago, a secret shared by one couple. It
village comes by and whispers secrets, my heart
surpassed all other memories dear to me. Every
races. I ask myself, Could it be the rose child? It
Friday night they used to rendezvous here in the
would be so comforting to know their love endured
spring. The couple would arrive on horseback en
into the generations.
route to the librarian‘s log cabin where budding
writers and historians met. Since I was a young Clip clop!

Monique Berry is the founder of Perspectives and Christian Perspectives. Her work has appeared in Searching for
Answers anthology, Personal Journaling, The Sitter’s Companion, and others. In her spare time, she facilitates a critique
workshop, enjoys photography, offers editing services, and is involved in several creative projects. Contact her at
perspectivesmagazine@gmail.com or visit her website at http://www.moniqueberry.ca.
Page 10
RAINDROP

Restless Exodus
By Carolyn Agee

Restless in the womb of waiting, the cumulus tent.


Trembling for exodus.
The film weakens, breaks.
Freedom.
I slip silently through the air, wind lashing my face,
my shape shifting to the whims
dictated by cruel fate.
The gray sky lightens, mauve in the east.
My breathing slows as I take a new formation,
beneath a fresh sunrise,
dropping to earth, toward the scent of ripe, cut hay,
past dew suspended in rough, withered branches.
Tumbling, rushing, running
toward the endless sea
gleaming in the light of dawn.

Carolyn Agee is an internationally published poet. She found inspiration for this poem in the humid climate of her
home in the Pacific Northwest. Her recent and forthcoming credits include: Petrichor Machine, Christian
Perspectives, and A Flame in the Dark. You can reach her at carolynagee@ymail.com.
Page 11

MIRROR
Reflections
By Donna McDonald

I am whatever you think you are—love, hate,


good, evil, beauty or ugliness. I am the window
to your illusions. All perception is my domain, and
vanity is my specialty. The wicked queen in the
Grimm‘s fairy tale Snow White asked, ―Mirror,
mirror, who is the fairest in the land?‖ I am
magical, reflecting her thoughts. You may say I am
guilty to a fault of your self-examination. I would
not deny it.
My fragile condition is that I do not bend; I
only break. You too may break if your ego looks
for eternal beauty and youth. Folklore has it that I
provide protection by reflecting the intent of an
intruder back to himself. No wonder I have places
of distinction in all dwellings. My powers bring
light to the shadows. Put me in a cage with a bird—
it will not mate, preferring its own vanity.
Do not underestimate my power! Dorian
Gray, in Oscar Wilde‘s Picture of Dorian Gray,
saw himself aging in the portrait, which was the
mirror to his soul. In the end, he destroyed his
image and died because he could no longer deny his
true self.
Most of us prefer to see ourselves in a better
light, but mirror knows. The reality I project needs
an admired reflection. Otherwise, I am a blank,
shiny surface of no account. My value and insight
requires perception. My being depends on you;
otherwise, I am not noticed. But not to worry—
vanity is everywhere.

Although Donna McDonald has had a long nursing


career, she’s never given up on her love of writing.
Donna has taken many writing courses at Mohawk
College, and attended one year of journalism at
Ryerson University. She has self-published her first
book this year and is currently working on a poetry
book. Donna is retired, married, and has an adult son. Contact her at
mcdonna@sympatico.ca.
Page 12
SADDLE

A Western Saddle’s Story Triple H Ranch run smoothly. Without me, Brett and
By Rebecca R. Taylor Zeus wouldn‘t be able to do their job securely. Our
relationship is built on teamwork. Brett, Zeus, and I

H owdy! How are ya‘ll doing today? Me? I‘m just


back from an exhilarating day out on the range. I
was riding with my best friend Zeus, a white gelding
make a great team because we are all skilled in our work.
Knowing that I have a purpose makes me feel great.
When Brett takes his place within me and his boots
covered with black spots. It belongs to our master, Brett touch my stirrups, I know that we are ready to take on
Harrison. Brett‘s putting Zeus back in his stall right now, the day. My heart thumps with excitement because I
and then it will be time for him to wipe all the dust off know that we are going to do important work out on the
my brown leather exterior. Tomorrow I get my weekly range. I love riding on Zeus‘s back and feeling his
rubdown with saddle soap. I love the way it feels. It is so smooth, quick movements under me.
refreshing; it soaks into my pores and removes the last of I am thankful for having kind friends like Brett and
my grime and sweat. If I stay in good shape, Zeus and Zeus, and for having a meaningful job. My biggest fear
Brett stay safe. There is nothing better than the smell of would be losing what matters most to me: my friends
fresh country air and a breeze brushing you with its and my job. They are what make me who I am and give
breath. me purpose.
Today, we are moving Hereford cattle into another Some days are long and we work in all kinds of
pasture for better grazing. I love spending time outside. weather. It doesn‘t bother me though, because I know
It is so peaceful. The only sounds are the mooing and that I am helping to make a difference. Without me,
pounding of the cattle‘s hooves, Zeus‘s occasional Brett would not be able to go out and look at his stock, to
whinny, and Brett‘s whistling. check over his land and see all that he has accomplished.
You might think, So what? You’re only a saddle. We work hard, and in return, we get our rewards. Being
Yes, I am a saddle but I am also important. I help the valued is my reward. Brett makes sure that I am cleaned
Page 13
everyday and hung on my peg in the tack room until we To Brett and Zeus, I‘m an essential working partner
are ready to ride again. who eases the way and makes our job we have to do
I still remember the day that Brett got me, five years more comfortable. When they chase cattle, Brett rides
ago. It was cold, even in Mr. Branson‘s tack shop in high in my saddle, his long legs in my stirrups. I keep
town where I sat on my makeshift rack–a sawhorse. him secure while he swings his lariat, to lasso a cow that
Here, I was just merchandise, a piece of fine leather for needs to go back to the barn. There are many more years
Mr. Branson to earn his trade. Then Brett walked in, in me. When I retire, I expect to have earned a special
looking for a new saddle. He smiled and spoke to several spot beside Brett‘s previous saddle. Well, I‘d better go; I
people in the shop. Brett‘s family has been ranchers in hear Brett‘s footsteps in the barn. He‘s heading this way
Alberta for three generations so far, and he knows to look after me before I settle in for the night. Well,
everyone in town. Although he had loved my morning comes early here at the Triple H Ranch.
predecessor, a saddle that had belonged to his father, G‘Night y‘all!
Brett had to accept that it was beyond repair. He hung
his old saddle on the wall in his tack room and took me
home to show Zeus and the other ranch hands. The Rebecca lives along the St. Francis River in St.
Felix-de-Kingsey, Quebec. She enrolled in an
morning after he bought me, I was swung proudly over
online course at St. Lawrence College to
Zeus‘s strong back and the three of us went out to work. prepare her to be a full-time writer someday.
I live in the barn, which is attached to the tack room. Her recent publications have been included in Bread n’
The heat from the hay and animals keeps me warm. Molasses, Grainews, and previous issues of Perspectives and
Christian Perspectives. Contact her at
After a day‘s work, Brett wipes me down. I look almost
rebecca_taylor2@hotmail.com.
as new as the day he laid eyes on me.

A Potato’s Dream

POTATO
By Craig W. Steele

I dream of becoming an onion,


ever since I saw one being peeled
this morning.
I‘d gladly pluck out every budding eye
in trade for those curvaceous folds
that strip away provocatively,
each one exposing yet another sheer,
silken petal underneath.
But I understand why humans
will never redesign a food
grown to conquer famine that would
dehydrate their eyes
with every cut.

Craig W. Steele is a writer and university biologist who lives in the urban countryside of northwestern
Pennsylvania, USA. His poetry has appeared or is forthcoming in The Aurorean, Crow Toes Quarterly, 3LIGHTS,
Modern Haiku, Time of Singing and elsewhere. You can contact him at csteele@wildblue.net.
Page 14
Oh yeah, lest not I forget
All in a Day’s Work
TOILET

about the ones who wee-wee


By C. Douglas Johnson all over the place–
my neck, my back, my sides.
If I were a psychiatrist And those who forget
and paid big money to exercise my arm before they leave.
to have people come unload No home training, I tell you.
that would be one thing, No home training.
but I’m not.
I have to take crap And rarely are we praised
to keep a job for a job well done.
and a roof over my lid. Every now and then, we’ll get hugs.
It’s usually from the ones
And my social life who drink too much,
has completely gone calling on the porcelain gods to save them.
down the drain. They fall on the floor and hug us for a while.
At least when I lived Get up, wipe their mouth, and leave with a smile.
in the appliance store,
I modeled and interacted Oh, but there’s another visitor
with people almost everyday. who comes to show me love.
Those were the days… Her name is Plumber.
She’s so beautiful,
Now, my family and I and she understands me so well.
live in the same house I don’t think my guardian
but we never get to see each other. likes her that much,
Heaven forbid! but she sure makes my day!
There’s always the threat
if we ever act up, I guess my life is better
we’ll be thrown out. than that of my cousins.
That’s right, porcelain junkyard. They’re in that dreadful public place,
where all kinds of strangers come
So, most of the time and spit in their face.
I just sit in my room–alone! And yet, it’s all in a day’s work.
And when I do get a visitor, It may not be glamorous,
it’s not much better. but it beats the alternative.
Some just sit and read,
silently, with no thoughts of me. Don’t get me wrong;
Do their business, and leave. there are good days, too.
Rude, simply rude, I tell you! They just don’t come around that often.
I know my guardian hates them,
Others, particularly the little tots in training, but I love Bath Days!
come in and just stuff me It feels so great
until I choke. to get a good scrubbing…
Then, their mom or dad Yeah, right there…That’s it!
will come in,
fussing and cussing, It’s nice to know you’re needed
and stick something down my throat and you serve a useful purpose.
to make me spit up. Yeah, some people
may take us for granted,
Oh, and some are downright disgusting. but, I’ve learned life’s not fair.
If they didn’t have me Sometimes, you have to take some crap,
bolted to the floor, and it is a thankless job.
I’d run right out that door. Hey, it’s all in a day’s work!
The smell–whew! Dr. C. Douglas Johnson lives in metro Atlanta, GA, with his lovely
The odor is unbearable. wife and two kids. He teaches and researches at Georgia Gwinnett
And they don’t have any manners; College, and is pursuing research and writing about calling and faith
they leave without even a spray. at work. Contact him at cdouglasjohnson@yahoo.com.
Page 15
Interesting facts about represented objects

Alice in Wonderland, p4 Tenniel's illustration of the


Jabberwock was originally intended as the book‘s
frontispiece, but it turned out to be so horrible that Carroll
thought it might be better to replace it with another one.
Therefore, he conducted a private poll of about thirty
mothers by sending them a letter. To see the letter and other
related trivia, visit http://www.alice-in-wonderland.net/
alice9.html

Cat hair, p4 1) If a cat is frightened, the hair stands up


fairly evenly all over the body; when the cat is threatened or
is ready to attack, the hair stands up only in a narrow band
along the spine and tail. 2) Siamese kittens are born white
because of the heat inside the mother's uterus before birth.
This heat keeps the kittens' hair from darkening on the
points. Mirror, p11 1) The timeframe of the 7-year misfortune for
breaking one, came from the Romans who believed that a
Cell phone, p7 1) A cell-phone is actually a complicated man‘s body is rejuvenated every 7 years. They believed that
radio. Areas are divided into small cells, with a cell phone a person became a new man after this period. Because the
tower at the center of each cell. 2) For the convenience of pieces of a broken mirror reflect the corrupted soul, every
vote delivery, the Estonians are using their mobile phones. It single piece of the broken item should be grounded into
also serves as a very convenient means to show their dust. That way, no reflection remains. 2) Chimps are the
personal identification. 3) If you have a Nokia mobile set only animals that can recognize themselves in a mirror.
and you are going out of battery and also you are expecting
a very important call. Simply by dialing the code *3370#,
the battery of your Nokia set will upgrade up to 50% by
Saddle, 12 1) The Western saddle was designed for
using a built-in reserve battery.
cowboys who spent long days riding the range, driving
Covered bridge, p9 1) Many bridges are painted red on and working cattle. Leather Western saddles are much
the outside. Historians believe the red coating makes the heavier than English saddles.
bridge seem more like a barn to a horse, and as horses
tended to be skittish about crossing high over flowing water,
the illusion helped farmers and travelers navigate the Potato, p13 1) At one time, the Scots refused to eat
obstacle with little incident. 2) The same covered bridge potatoes because potatoes weren't mentioned in the Bible! 2)
can be known by multiple names, but each has its own Louis XVI of France wore potato flowers in his buttonhole
"fingerprint"; a World Guide Number. These unique to stimulate interest in the plant. 3) In 1995, potato plants
identification numbers are very telling about each bridge were taken into space with the space shuttle Columbia. This
and are used on a national scale, even being adopted by the marked the first time any food was ever grown in space.
National Society for the Preservation of Covered Bridges.

Raindrop, p10 1) A raindrop with a diameter below 2mm Toilet, p14 1) The Roman army didn‘t have toilet paper.
is spherical before bursting into smaller raindrops, due to So they used a water-soaked sponge on the end of a stick. 2)
water tension and air resistance. 2) Only spherical raindrops Thomas Crapper who perfected the siphon flush system we
produce rainbows. 3) It takes approximately 1 million cloud use today, was born in the village of Thorne—an anagram
droplets to provide enough water for just one raindrop. of ‗throne.‘ 3) Most toilets flush in the key of E-flat.
Page 16

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