The loomploy population was divided into the able and the unable. 
The able could care for themselves in the darkness of the land. The cold did not freeze them for they were able to work hard and make warm coats. The unable were sad creatures who could not help themselves. They depended upon the able to make coats for them to keep warm. This worked out fine for the able were eager to please God who had commanded:It was said that heaven was a beautifully warm place filled with light. There, everything was perfect. In order to find a very tip top place in heaven one had only to make loads and loads of coats to keep the unables warm! Every able had his own visions of his wonderful place in heaven... just reward for his many coats. Except Tibley. Tibley didn't like to make coats. He just couldn't help himself. Everyone thought secretly that maybe Tibley really was an unable but they didn't say so out loud. Once Tibley told the head loomploy about his problem, but it didn't help much. Tibley had said, "I just don't feel like making coats". The head loomploy had looked at him sternly. "You don't have to feel anything! Sometimes I feel like making coats and sometimes I don't! If I just did things when I felt like it... nothing would get done! No coats would be made and no one would get into heaven!"Tibley sighed. "Oh well", he thought, but he knew that no matter how hard he tried he couldn't make himself do something if he didn't feel like it. So often he would console himself and go sit amongst the unables. Of course the able loomploys thought this just punishment. One of the unables would cuddle near him. Although it could not speak, it would gently touch him now and then. Time went by and Tibley looked forward to being with the unables and his special little friend. Then one day Tibley noticed his little friend was extra quiet and no longer reached to touch him. His little friend was sick. Tibley noticed the little unable's coat had holes in it from long wear and he knew that warmth was the only thing that could bring his little friend back. So Tibley after many years became a true able. He sat down and sewed the most beautiful coat the loomploy world had ever seen. Hurriedly he put it on his little friend but nothing happened. A tear came to his eye and a great ache within him but the little friend did not move. Now everyone knows that when judgment day comes that the ables will go to their just reward because of their many good coats but that the unables will never get to heaven but dwell forever in the cold.The day came that Tibley should go to heaven. He wasn't sure if they would let him in because he had only sewed one coat his whole life. But nothing was said at the door because Kooble Loomploy who had sewed 3,000 coats in his lifetime was arguing with the Lord. "I don't understand", said Kooble Loomploy, "why everyone else gets to enjoy the same amount of sunshine as me, when I sewed so many more coats! Why look at Tibley over there!! His whole 800 years he only sewed 1 coat. What kind of justice is that?" The Lord smiled at Kooble Loomploy with sadness in his eyes. "My Son", he said, "All that I have is yours!" Kooble Loomploy was not consoled by this, but no matter, for he rushed off into the sunshine with everyone else. They danced and played and drank in the warmth and light. They were in heaven!!!Except Tibley. He really didn't belong here... after all... he only sewed one coat. It was for his poor little friend unable. He wondered how he was and longed to be by his side. Heaven was warm and glorious on the outside but it didn't fill the ache and loneliness he felt inside. So with much trepidation one day he approached the Lord. "Lord", he said, in a tiny little voice. "I think that this truly is a beautiful place and truly is heaven for everyone but forgive me because I'm not happy in heaven." Tibley gulped. There he was again not feeling the way he was supposed to and not doing what he was supposed to do. Would the Lord banish him forever from the heaven of warmth and light? The kindest eyes that Tibley had ever seen smiled at him and gently a voice whispered. "And why are you unhappy Tibley?" Tibley gazed back and felt suddenly lost in an ocean of warmth. "Why...Why...I miss my little unable... He needs me. I need him. I want to go back. The Lord again smiled. "Tibley... you can be where you want to be. You have found the truth. Heaven is not a place. It is a state of being, a state of feeling. Never be afraid to love for within you is the true light, the true warmth." And suddenly Tibley did not see the same heaven that everyone else saw. He felt a deep, deep peace and warmth where the ache had been. And beside him instantly the warmth of the touch of his little friend "the unable"... who had been healed.
St. Luke 18:17
Verily I say unto you, Whosoever shall not receive the kingdom of God as a little child shall in no wise enter therein.
Verily I say unto you, Whosoever shall not receive the kingdom of God as a little child shall in no wise enter therein.
St. Luke 17:21
Neither shall they say, Lo here! or, lo there! for, behold, the kingdom of God is within you.
Neither shall they say, Lo here! or, lo there! for, behold, the kingdom of God is within you.
 | | | |||
 | |||||
| |||||
|
 | |||||
| |||||
|
 | ||||
| ||||
|
 | ||||
| ||||
|
| ||||
| ||||
|
Patrick never did homework. "Too boring," he said. He played baseball and basketball and Nintendo instead. His teachers told him, "Patrick! Do your homework or you won't learn a thing." And it's true, sometimes he did feel like a ding-a-ling.
But what could he do? He hated homework.
Then on St. Patrick's Day his cat was playing with a little doll and he grabbed it away. To his surprise it wasn't a doll at all, but a man of the tiniest size. He had a little wool shirt with old fashioned britches and a high tall hat much like a witch's. He yelled, "Save me! Don't give me back to that cat. I'll grant you a wish, I promise you that."
Patrick couldn't believe how lucky he was! Here was the answer to all of his problems. So he said, "Only if you do all my homework 'til the end of the semester, that's 35 days. If you do a good enough job, I could even get A's."
The little man's face wrinkled like a dishcloth thrown in the hamper. He kicked his legs and doubled his fists and he grimaced and scowled and pursed his lips, "Oh, am I cursed! But I'll do it."
And true to his word, that little elf began to do Patrick's homework. Except there was one glitch. The elf didn't always know what to do and he needed help. "Help me! Help me!" he'd say. And Patrick would have to help -- in whatever way.
"I don't know this word," the elf squeeked while reading Patrick's homework. "Get me a dictionary. No, what's even better. Look up the word and sound it out by each letter."
When it came to math, Patrick was out of luck. "What are times tables?" the elf shrieked. "We elves never need that. And addition and subtraction and division and fractions? Here, sit down beside me, you simply must guide me."
Elves know nothing of human history, to them it's a mystery. So the little elf, already a shouter, just got louder "Go to the library, I need books. More and more books. And you can help me read them too." 
As a matter of fact every day in every way that little elf was a nag! Patrick was working harder than ever and was it a drag! He was staying up nights, had never felt so weary, was going to school with his eyes puffed and bleary.
Finally the last day of school arrived and the elf was free to go. As for homework, there was no more, so he quietly and slyly slipped out the back door.
Patrick got his A's; his classmates were amazed; his teachers smiled and were full of praise. And his parents? They wondered what had happened to Patrick. He was now the model kid. Cleaned his room, did his chores, was cheerful, never rude, like he had developed a whole new attitude.
You see, in the end Patrick still thought he'd made that tiny man do all his homework. But I'll share a secret, just between you and me. It wasn't the elf; Patrick had done it himself!
 It was a day like the day before and the day after. The wind wrapped itself around the sod cabin in gusting moans as the pioneer family within carried out their tasks pretending not to hear. They heard the wind, however. It had been their constant companion on the open plains since their journey from Philadelphia two years before in the spring of 1865. Following the covered wagon train of ten, the wind had lifted the drab landscape into billows of dust falling on everyone and everything until there seemed but one color and one sound.  |
Now Rachel sat on the bed hand-stitching a quilt while her mother hunched over a sewing machine across the room rocking her feet backwards and forwards on a foot treadle that turned the shaft that moved the needle. The thumping counter pointed the wind outside. Laughter and giggling erupted from Rachel's younger brother and sister playing jacks on the floor and it brought a smile to their sister's face, but when she glanced back at their mother she stopped smiling.
Rachel felt that her parents worked too hard. They rarely had fun or relaxation like they had enjoyed in Philadelphia. Now her father was always in the fields. Her mother prepared meals on a wood-stoked stove, did the laundry on a washboard, baked flatbread and sewed clothes to trade for goods in town. Rachel remembered her mother singing and telling stories at one time but that was before she had begun complaining about the wind and the dirt and the mud. Eventually she had stopped complaining, but she had stopped singing, too.
The door swung open and it was Rachel's father. Entering in a puff of dust, he coughed and wiped his forehead. "Mighty hot day out there."
"Well, I've got ale for you and flatbread too," replied his wife. She rose from the sewing machine and began setting the table as her husband eased himself into a chair.
"I know. I could smell it from outside. Smelled so good I came in early. What else have you all been up to while I was clearing rows with Molly and Bell?"
"Rachel's done with her quilt."
"Oh?" Rachel's father turned to look as his older daughter proudly showed off her masterpiece. It was a cheerful blooming of color with stitches outlining the squares.
"That's a mighty fine piece of work." He nodded. "How 'bout us going into town this Saturday. You can show off your quilt, your mother can take her flatbread, and I've got a bushel of onions ready."
The young children whooped excitedly and Michael, the boy, began dancing around the room, lifting his knees and clapping. There was reason for jubilation. The 20-mile trip to town in the buckboard was a once-a-month affair to which everyone in the family looked forward.
The town of Wausa, Nebraska was not unlike other little towns that had sprung up to welcome the pioneers. It was a mix of old and new buildings with wood plank sidewalks and a wide main street of dirt to accommodate trains of oxen. In one of the newer buildings was the general store. Guarding the door was a wooden Indian and next to it hung a bird cage. The family stopped for a moment to look at the yellow bird inside.
When they stepped into the store it was a universe all its own. There was the scent of wood and soap and spice. The walls were lined with racks of crates and mason jars, and along the aisles were bushel barrels of potatoes and apples. In the back neatly propped against the wall were bolts of fabric. While her brother and sister explored the store and her parents spoke with the grocer about their bread and onions, Rachel wandered back outside to look at the bird.
So bright a yellow it was a miniature piece of the sun in that dusty place. It hopped from perch to perch rarely standing still and as it hopped it kept its eyes on Rachel. Suddenly a shadow passed over the girl and startled, she looked up to see a Sioux Indian brave. Her heart beat faster. Indians sometimes came to town to barter although it was discouraged by the shopkeepers. Such a history of warfare existed between Indians and white settlers that no one felt safe. But this Indian was as fascinated by the bird as Rachel. He stared intently and then said something she couldn't understand. Seeing her puzzled face he repeated in English, "It listens to the wind."
Before Rachel could think about what he had said, the Indian turned and walked away. Her parents appeared a moment later, having seen him through the window.
"Are you all right?" asked her father.
Rachel nodded. "He was just looking at the canary."
At that moment the little bird lifted its head, swelled its chest, and sang out a joyous trill. Rachel saw her mother's face light up with delight.
Rachel traded her quilt for the canary and never regretted it because the little bird entertained them endlessly. Sir Gallant, they called him because he did battle with the wind. The louder the wind the more loudly he sang, competition so fierce that sometimes everyone burst out laughing. Sir Gallant lifted their spirits turning dust days back into sunshine days.
Rachel thought about what the Indian had said. She'd heard the wind but unlike the canary she'd never listened to it. Now when she tried she could hear music in the moaning. Of course the music was faint and hidden in the background and she needed her imagination, but it was there if she truly listened. She began humming the sounds she heard. "That's a pretty tune" her mother commented one day, "what song is that?" Rachel didn't reply, unsure how to explain, and her mother didn't press the question. Soon she, too, began humming.
Occasionally bachelor cowpokes stopped by the cabin to buy flatbread or to have their clothes mended. They were always welcomed, not for the money in their pocket but for their company. With no neighbors for twenty miles, it was lonely on the plains. The family and guests traded news, shared a meal, and were serenaded by Sir Gallant who was often the center of conversation.
One afternoon the younger daughter Mary noticed the canary sitting motionless on his perch. "Is Sir Gallant sick?" she asked in alarm.
"No. It's just a dark day outside," her mother reassured her. "It'll be raining soon and he probably doesn't feel like singing."
The younger children accepted this explanation but not Rachel. She knew that while Sir Gallant stopped singing from time to time, he had always hopped about his cage. She went to the door and looked outside. It was deathly quiet, no wind or sounds of birds or prairie dogs. She saw the outline of her father with the two oxen in the north field and at the same time she saw black thunderclouds stacked high into the sky. There was a heaviness to the air and a prickly feeling.
The Indian's words echoed in her mind. "It listens to the wind."
Rachel thought about Sir Gallant's odd behavior and the angry thunderclouds and how strange it felt. Straining to hear, she caught a faint rumbling and it was the sound of thunder.
Suddenly Rachel knew. She absolutely knew they were in danger. "Mom," she shouted. "It's a tornado!"
Immediately Mary and Michael began screaming as their mother gathered them up and, along with Sir Gallant, rushed outside. The safest place was the root cellar at the side of the house. Throwing open the cellar doors, the mother yelled to Rachel to warn her father.
Rachel took off running across the field shouting and waving her arms, but not until she was halfway across did she get his attention.
"What's wrong?" he yelled.
It was another moment before she reached him. "Tornado."
His eyes searched the horizon. "I don't see anything, but I can bring in Molly and Bell anyway. I'll come back to the house."
"No! There's no time. Listen!" Rachel was close to hysterical and because she never lied or played tricks, he did as she asked. Finally able to hear the rumbling he jumped to action. Releasing the yoke from the harnesses on the oxen he turned them free and then grabbed Rachel's arm and they began to run. By the time they reached the sod cabin, the tornado was visible, rain drenched their bodies and a thunderous roaring pounded the air.
The tornado lasted only minutes although it felt like hours. When the family emerged from their shelter they were relieved to find their sod cabin intact. Fortunately the oxen, too, had escaped although the scarred earth proved the north field had been in the center of the tornado's path. The loss of crops would make things more difficult, but they felt blessed to be alive. They also felt divine intervention had come in the form of a little yellow bird.
The woman stood in the door of the attic and sighed. Gray and dusty in the half light, the room was filled with old furniture, boxes and a thousand forgotten memories. She had inherited its contents from her grandmother and now faced the chore of deciding the fate of each piece. Attracted to an old sewing machine, so old that it had a foot treadle, she opened the top drawer. Amidst the buttons and needles and scissors was a tiny bundle of lace neatly tied with ribbon. Curious she picked it up and unwrapped it. To her surprise she found she was unfolding the burial cloth of a canary, its body long ago dried up but carefully preserved. Holding it in her right hand she stared, perplexed, and quite unconsciously put her left hand over her heart.
Epilog
This story was inspired by an article I read in a magazine years ago. Inheriting her grandmother's sewing machine (who had been a pioneer in one of the plains states), the author of that article found the wrapped body of a canary in one of its drawers. Intrigued she had done research, discovering just how much the pioneers had loved these little birds. The article included the photograph of a prairie cabin with three cages of canaries hanging from its eaves.
| ||||||||
 | ||
|
Sti'Tumma had always wanted to have beautiful beaded "shooflies" attached to her saddle, on the breastplate and under the horse's tummy on the cinch. She had already made a couple for her favorite bridle! The shooflies were made from a small amount of horsehair being folded in half, wrapped with buckskin, and beadwork put over the buckskin. The shoofly would then be clipped onto the favorite spot selected by each rider. So when the horses had their tails cleaned, the hair was saved for Sti'Tumma who then went to work to make herself some beautiful and colorful shooflies. Sometimes Gilly, Sti'Tumma's sister, would do the beadwork on a dozen shooflies at a time for the trail guides. The shooflies would move with the horse and keep some of the flies from settling on the horse!
 It was a beautiful Saturday morning and time to get ready to meet the scheduled trail riders at the lake for the 20-mile ride through the beautiful countryside. Her nephew and youngest brother saddled her horse while she went to select the shooflies to attach to her saddle today. Across the breastplate she clipped six, on the cinch she clipped two, and on the rear of the saddle she clipped two. She stood back to take a good look, and said to herself, "Today both Zoomer and I will look good!"
At the lake she stayed on horseback due to the pain she was feeling in her back and neck; getting off and on would only make it worse. Today she wanted to be able to complete the ride to show off all her hard work on the beautiful and colorful shooflies. By wearing her new ribbon shirt, she looked elegant upon that gorgeous horse with all the beadwork showing on the shooflies. She met the riders, gathered the riding fees, which were placed in the beaded bag tied tight to her saddle, and even had some pictures taken of her and Zoomer!
Today Sti'Tumma would begin the trail ride by trailing the riders. She took her time, although Zoomer wanted to be in the lead of the pack. What a lovely day, open views for nice photos, and she noticed that the riders were taking some lovely shots. Zoomer was becoming impatient, so Sti'Tumma let him walk a bit faster to get to the head of the riders. She was almost to the beginning of the riders when a pair of riders, an elder cowboy and his wife, moved up to talk to her. The lady asked, "We were wondering if you are a medicine lady, you have all the scalps with beadwork on them displayed on your saddle. And we wanted to know how you got anyone to actually touch the scalps to put the beadwork on them."
Sti'Tumma started chuckling, and then broke out in laughter! Her younger brother, the lead trail guide for today, stopped the group to check on his sister. Sti'Tumma decided this was a good spot to take a break and talk about the shooflies she was so proud of. By the time the riders started off again on the ride, the whole Country Trail Ride crew were amazed at how many of these city cowboys and cowgirls didn't understand the Native Americans at all, they still believed there was scalping and raiding going on within the reservation! Scalps, what a joke, now every trail guide would want to be decorated with the "scalps" displayed on their horse to show their "honor within the Tribe"!
Since that ride, and all the jokes and laughter about the medicine lady and her scalps, Gilly has been able to have a dozen "imitation scalps" beaded and ready for sale at each trail ride during the lunch break at the wonderful and remodeled old campsite.
| |
| ||
ليست هناك تعليقات:
إرسال تعليق