stories = = =

E1: Envelopes // H1: Humming bird //  M1: Muhammed + Samir  //  p1: Pooh  //  s1: sounds of Silence  //  T1: Teacher and the thief

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"I grew up living in state housing and never once questioned my parents income, it was never a discussion.

We didn’t eat a lot of take away because it was considered a treat, not a food group.

We ate homemade meals consisting of meat, potatoes and vegetables - (which were not an optional choice). No vegetables, no sweets!!!

We grew up during a time when we mowed lawns, pulled weeds, babysat, washed the car, stacked firewood, hung the washing, helped neighbours with chores to be able to earn pocket money.

We by no means were given everything we wanted.

We went outside a lot to play, kick the footy, play cricket, hop scotch, ride bikes, run with friends, play hide and seek, climb trees, looked for frogs and tadpoles, or went swimming.

We rarely just sat inside.

Bottled water was unheard of.

If we had a coke, it was in a glass bottle and we didn’t break the bottle when finished.

We saved it and cashed it back in at the shops for a bag of lollies.

After school, we came home and did homework and chores, before going outside or having friends over.

We would ride our bikes for hours.

We had to tell our parents where we were going, who we were going with and be home when the street lights came on!

You LEARNED from your parents instead of disrespecting them and treating them as if they knew absolutely nothing.

What they said was LAW and you did not question it and you had better know it!

We watched what we said around our elders because we knew if we were rude or ill-mannered to any grown-up, we would get a real telling off, it wasn’t called abuse, it was called discipline!

We held doors, carried the shopping and gave up our seat for an older person without being asked.

You didn’t hear swear words on the radio in songs or TV.

“Please and Thank you”, were part of our daily vocabulary!

And we were never ever ever ever bored.

Credit Goes To The Respective Owner

A1: Aging

 Aging is not for the faint of heart.

One day, you wake up and realize — youth has quietly slipped away.

But it didn’t leave alone.

It took with it your insecurities, your rush to please, your fear of not being enough.

And in its place?

It left you with something stronger:

A slower pace, but a steadier step.

The wisdom to say goodbye without fear.

The grace to cherish those who choose to stay.

The power to be you, unapologetically.

Aging isn’t about losing — it’s about letting go.

It’s about learning to accept, to release, and to truly see:

That beauty was never just in the mirror…

It lived in every story, scar, and silent strength we carried within.

Aging is a gift. Wear it with dignity.

~ Meryl Streep

 Take for instance a man driven to incessant work by a sense of deep insecurity and loneliness; or another one driven by ambition, or greed for money. In all these cases the person is the slave of a passion, and his activity is in reality a "passivity" because he is driven; he is the sufferer, not the "actor." On the other hand a man sitting quiet and contemplating, with no purpose or aim except that of experiencing himself and his oneness with the world, is considered to be "passive", because he is not "doing" anything. In reality, this attitude of concentrated meditation is the highest activity there is, an activity of the soul, which is possible only under the condition of inner freedom and independence. ~Erich Fromm

Book: The Art of Loving

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As I was combining today, I was unloading into the auger cart and I saw a vehicle go by a couple times slowly and then pull over and stop. I had a minor repair to make and the vehicle stayed... I was a little concerned until I happened to catch 3 little sets of eyes looking out windows.

I went over and they rolled down the window and I asked if they needed anything and the lady explained their grandchildren were visiting from Florida and had never seen "farmer stuff" up close. There were 2 boys and a little girl.. I'd assume they were between the ages of 6 and 9. The two boys were all giddy but the little girl, while sweet and excited was pretty quiet.

I also happen to notice that she kept turning away from me and there was a scar or a birthmark or something on her face... And I felt really bad trying to figure out what it was because I was feeling like I'm staring at her..

The grandmother and her husband thanked me for stopping and saying hi and said they would get going because they knew farmers were busy this time of the year... And I said be careful and have a good trip...

It was then that one of the boys said are you going to be going soon cuz we would like to see what that machine does... the grandmother quickly quieted them and I said would it be okay if I took them for a ride...

She then said No we're sure your way too busy for that and I said no I'm by myself for now I've got time so she asked the two boys if they wanted to go and of course they did but the little girl stayed back.

I asked her again if she wanted to go and she said no thank you and so the boys and I went and got in the combine and we made one round and came back... While in the combine I said why didn't your sister want to come... they said shes shy. I then, because of curiosity, asked them about her face... And they told me it was a birthmark and that she gets picked on about it a lot.

After their ride I walked them back over to their grandparents car and I said to the little girl How come you didn't want to go for a ride? And she said well the boys always say that that kind of stuff is just for boys not for girls...

I laughed and said You know, there are girl farmers AND I even had a young girl in that cab just yesterday. Would you like a ride? She looked at her Grandma and she said go ahead if you want.

I then asked the grandmother if she had a smartphone and knew how to video... She laughed and said I have grandchildren of course I know how to video... So I told her have your phone ready and when you see me turn on the yellow flashing lights video the combine.

The little girl and I got in the cab and I turned the machine around and went back into the field at the end of it and came back facing her grandparents vehicle. I then said to her...here.. you can turn the steering wheel... she first looked at me like I was on crack cocaine... But I finally convinced her and I told her not everybody gets to do this but people that are part of the special face Club definitely get to...but its a secret reason why you get to drive so you cant tell anyone. We even pinky swore on it...

The smile she had made this old tired grumpy mans heart soft and there must have been some Bean dust in the cab because my allergies started acting up just a little bit... So I let her "steer" and turned on the yellow lights on the way back so her Grandma could video tape her "driving by".

We got out of the combine and she still had a huge smile on her face and ran over to her grandma and was a little Chatterbox did you see me did you see me I got to drive I got to drive... Her brothers were obviously a little miffed... And ask her why she got to drive... I was afraid she was going to tell them why... But with all the sass of a little brunette girl with her hair in a pony she looked at them both matter-of-factly and said Because girls CAN farm.

My allergies started acting up a little bit again as she came back running over to me and gave me a huge hug and told me thank you... The grandfather came over and patted me on the shoulder shook my hand said I don't know what you said to her...but that's the biggest smile we've seen on her this vacation so far... the boys shook my hand and thanked me and got back into the vehicle and drove away... Leaving me to my thoughts

And all I could think of was if one of the combines hadnt broke down yesterday, I wouldn't have been in that field this morning, and I wouldnt have been by myself and we would have been really pushed wherever we were at to keep up with everything...and it proved to me once again everything happens for a reason...

All three of their faces were on my mind the rest of the day but mostly hers... not because of her birthmark, because of her genuine smile in the confidence that she showed when she got to get out of that combine and "brag" a little to the boys.

My gramps told me long ago to always be patient with children and people you come in contact with. I remember the countless times that he would let me "drive" the tractor... and the exhilaration and happiness that I felt during that time... And I swore that I was going to make other people feel that way when I got older... and I've definitely failed at that numerous times.. but I'm trying..

But, Im kind of thinking maybe that's what I did today or maybe that little girl made me feel like that little boy with his Gramps all those years ago.

30 minutes out of 24 hours... I need to do that more often....

Today was a good day... and one I shall not soon forget.

Credit: Jeff Ditzenberger

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E1: Envelopes

  Kurt Vonnegut tells his wife he's going out to buy an envelope:

“Oh, she says, well, you're not a poor man. You know, why don't you go online and buy a hundred envelopes and put them in the closet? And so I pretend not to hear her. And go out to get an envelope because I'm going to have a hell of a good time in the process of buying one envelope.

I meet a lot of people. And see some great looking babies. And a fire engine goes by. And I give them the thumbs up. And I'll ask a woman what kind of dog that is. And, and I don't know. The moral of the story is - we're here on Earth to fart around.

And, of course, the computers will do us out of that. And what the computer people don't realize, or they don't care, is we're dancing animals. You know, we love to move around. And it's like we're not supposed to dance at all anymore."

Let's all get up and move around a bit right now... or at least dance.

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H1: Humming bird

1: According to an old Native American legend, one day there was a big fire in the forest. All the animals fled in terror in all directions, because it was a very violent fire. Suddenly, the jaguar saw a hummingbird pass over his head, but in the opposite direction. The hummingbird flew towards the fire!

Whatever happened, he wouldn't stop. Moments later, the jaguar saw him pass again, this time in the same direction as the jaguar was walking. He could observe this coming and going, until he decided to ask the bird about it, because it seemed very bizarre behavior.

"What are you doing, hummingbird?" he asked.

"I am going to the lake," he answered, "I drink water with my beak and throw it on the fire to extinguish it." The jaguar laughed. 'Are you crazy? Do you really think that you can put out that big fire on your own with your very small beak?'

'No,' said the hummingbird, 'I know I can't. But the forest is my home. It feeds me, it shelters me and my family. I am very grateful for that. And I help the forest grow by pollinating its flowers. I am part of her and the forest is part of me. I know I can't put out the fire, but I must do my part.'

At that moment, the forest spirits, who listened to the hummingbird, were moved by the bird and its devotion to the forest, miraculously they sent a torrential downpour, which put an end to the great fire.

The Native American grandmothers would occasionally tell this story to their grandchildren, then conclude with, "Do you want to attract miracles into your life? Do your part."

“You have no responsibility to save the world or find the solutions to all problems—but to attend to your particular personal corner of the universe. As each person does that, the world saves itself.’"

- author unknown

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m1:Muhammad + Samir

This photo was taken in Damascus in 1899. The dwarf is Samir. He is a Christian and cannot walk. The one who carries him on his back is Muhammad. He is a Muslim and he is blind.

Mohamed relies on Samir to tell him where to go, and Samir uses his friend's back to navigate the city streets. They were both orphans and lived in the same room.
Samir was a hakawati, he had the gift of narration and told stories of a thousand and one nights to the customers of a cafe in Damascus, Mohamed sold bolbolas in front of the same cafe and liked to listen to his friend's stories.
One day, when he retired to his room, Muhammad found his companion dead. He wept and mourned his friend for seven days straight. When asked how they got along so well, being of different religions, he said only this:
"Here we were the same", pointing with his hand to his heart.
The heart of the matter is that it's a matter of heart.

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p1: Pooh

"Piglet?" said Pooh.

"Yes?" said Piglet.
"I'm scared," said Pooh.
For a moment, there was silence.
"Would you like to talk about it?" asked Piglet, when Pooh didn't appear to be saying anything further.
"I'm just so scared," blurted out Pooh.
"So anxious. Because I don't feel like things are getting any better. If anything, I feel like they might be getting worse. People are angry, because they're so scared, and they're turning on one another, and there seems to be no clear plan out of here, and I worry about my friends and the people I love, and I wish SO much that I could give them all a hug, and oh, Piglet! I am so scared, and I cannot tell you how much I wish it wasn't so."
Piglet was thoughtful, as he looked out at the blue of the skies, peeping between the branches of the trees in the Hundred Acre Wood, and listened to his friend.
"I'm here," he said, simply. "I hear you, Pooh. And I'm here."
For a moment, Pooh was perplexed.
"But... aren't you going to tell me not to be so silly? That I should stop getting myself into a state and pull myself together? That it's hard for everyone right now?"
"No," said Piglet, quite decisively. "No, I am very much not going to do any of those things."
“But - " said Pooh.
"I can't change the world right now," continued Piglet. "And I am not going to patronise you with platitudes about how everything will be okay, because I don't know that.
"What I can do, though, Pooh, is that I can make sure that you know that I am here. And that I will always be here, to listen; and to support you; and for you to know that you are heard.
"I can't make those Anxious Feelings go away, not really.
"But I can promise you that, all the time I have breath left in my body...you won't ever need to feel those Anxious Feelings alone."
And it was a strange thing, because even as Piglet said that, Pooh could feel some of those Anxious Feelings start to loosen their grip on him and could feel one or two of them start to slither away into the forest, cowed by his friend, who sat there stolidly next to him.
Pooh thought he had never been more grateful to have Piglet in his life

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S1: sounds of silence

Heartwarming story - especially for Simon and Garfunkel lovers like me . . . . . “Hello darkness, my old friend…” Everybody knows the iconic Simon & Garfunkel song, but do you know the amazing story behind the first line of The Sounds of Silence?

It began 62 years ago, when Arthur “Art” Garfunkel, a Jewish kid from Queens, enrolled in Columbia University. During freshman orientation, Art met a student from Buffalo named Sandy Greenberg, and they immediately bonded over their shared passion for literature and music. Art and Sandy became roommates and best friends. With the idealism of youth, they promised to be there for each other no matter what.

Soon after starting college, Sandy was struck by tragedy. His vision became blurry and although doctors diagnosed it as temporary conjunctivitis, the problem grew worse. Finally after seeing a specialist, Sandy received the devastating news that severe glaucoma was destroying his optic nerves. The young man with such a bright future would soon be completely blind.

Sandy was devastated and fell into a deep depression. He gave up his dream of becoming a lawyer and moved back to Buffalo, where he worried about being a burden to his financially struggling family. Consumed with shame and fear, Sandy cut off contact with his old friends, refusing to answer letters or return phone calls.

Then suddenly, to Sandy’s shock, his buddy Art showed up at the front door. He was not going to allow his best friend to give up on life, so he bought a ticket and flew up to Buffalo unannounced. Art convinced Sandy to give college another go and promised that he would be right by his side to make sure he didn’t fall - literally or figuratively.

Art kept his promise, faithfully escorting Sandy around campus and effectively serving as his eyes. It was important to Art that even though Sandy had been plunged into a world of darkness, he should never feel alone. Art actually started calling himself “Darkness” to demonstrate his empathy with his friend. He’d say things like, “Darkness is going to read to you now.” Art organized his life around helping Sandy.

One day, Art was guiding Sandy through the crowded Grand Central Station when he suddenly said he had to go and left his friend alone and petrified. Sandy stumbled, bumped into people, and fell, cutting a gash in his shin. After a couple of hellish hours, Sandy finally got on the right subway train. After exiting the station at 116th Street, Sandy bumped into someone who quickly apologized - and Sandy immediately recognized Art’s voice! Turned out his trusty friend had followed him the whole way home, making sure he was safe and giving him the priceless gift of independence. Sandy later said, “That moment was the spark that caused me to live a completely different life, without fear, without doubt. For that I am tremendously grateful to my friend.”

Sandy graduated from Columbia and then earned graduate degrees at Harvard and Oxford. He married his high school sweetheart and became an extremely successful entrepreneur and philanthropist.

While at Oxford, Sandy got a call from Art. This time Art was the one who needed help. He’d formed a folk-rock duo with his high school pal Paul Simon, and they desperately needed $400 to record their first album. Sandy and his wife Sue had literally $404 in their bank account, but without hesitation, Sandy gave his old friend what he needed.

Art and Paul's first album was not a success, but one of the songs, The Sounds of Silence, became a #1 hit a year later. The opening line echoed the way Sandy always greeted Art. Simon & Garfunkel went on to become one of the most beloved musical acts in history.

The two Columbia graduates, each of whom has added so much to the world in his own way, are still best friends. Art Garfunkel said that when he became friends with Sandy, “my real life emerged. I became a better guy in my own eyes, and began to see who I was - somebody who gives to a friend.” Sandy describes himself as “the luckiest man in the world.”

Adapted from Sandy Greenberg’s memoir: “Hello Darkness, My Old Friend: How Daring Dreams and Unyielding Friendship Turned One Man’s Blindness into an Extraordinary Vision for Life."

 Photo credit goes to the respective 

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T1: teacher and the thief

An old man meets a young man who asks:

“Do you remember me?”

And the old man says no. Then the young man tells him he was his student, And the teacher asks:

“What do you do, what do you do in life?”

The young man answers:

“Well, I became a teacher.”

“Ah, how good, like me?” Asks the old man.

“Well, yes. In fact, I became a teacher because you inspired me to be like you.”

The old man, curious, asks the young man at what time he decided to become a teacher. And the young man tells him the following story:

“One day, a friend of mine, also a student, came in with a nice new watch, and I decided I wanted it.

I stole it, I took it out of his pocket.

Shortly after, my friend noticed his watch was missing and immediately complained to our teacher, who was you.

Then you addressed the class saying, ‘This student's watch was stolen during classes today. Whoever stole it, please return it.’

I didn't give it back because I didn't want to.

You closed the door and told us all to stand up and form a circle.

You were going to search our pockets one by one until the watch was found.

However, you told us to close our eyes, because you would only look for his watch if we all had our eyes closed.

We did as instruct.

You went from pocket to pocket, and when you went through my pocket, you found the watch and took it. You kept searching everyone's pockets, and when you were done you said ‘open your eyes. We have the watch.’

You didn't tell on me and you never mentioned the episode. You never said who stole the watch either. That day you saved my dignity forever. It was the most shameful day of my life.

But this is also the day I decided not to become a thief, a bad person, etc. You never said anything, nor did you even scold me or take me aside to give me a moral lesson.

I received your message clearly.

Thanks to you, I understood what a real educator needs to do.

Do you remember this episode, professor?

The old professor answered, ‘Yes, I remember the situation with the stolen watch, which I was looking for in everyone’s pocket. I didn't remember you, because I also closed my eyes while looking.’

This is the essence of teaching:

If to correct you must humiliate; you don't know how to teach.”

stories >>> 

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https://www.facebook.com/EnglishLiterature11

“Hoje, um menino de 7 anos me disse que eu não servia para nada.”

Assim começou meu último dia como professora primária em uma escola pública.

Sem ironia. Sem raiva. Apenas uma voz indiferente, como se estivesse comentando sobre o tempo.

— Você não sabe fazer TikToks. Minha mãe diz que pessoas velhas como você já deveriam se aposentar.

Eu sorri. Aprendi a não levar para o lado pessoal.

Mas mesmo assim... algo dentro de mim quebrou um pouco mais.

Meu nome é professora Helena.

Ensinei o 1º ano em uma cidadezinha nos arredores de Belo Horizonte por 36 anos.

Hoje, arrumei minha sala pela última vez.

Quando comecei, no fim dos anos 80, ensinar era um chamado. Um laço sagrado.

As pessoas confiavam em nós. Até nos admiravam.

Não ganhávamos muito, mas havia respeito. E isso valia mais do que qualquer salário.

Os pais levavam bolo de fubá nas reuniões.

As crianças faziam cartões de aniversário cheios de erros de português e corações tortos.

E quando alguém lia sua primeira frase em voz alta...

Era uma alegria que nenhum dinheiro podia pagar.

Mas alguma coisa mudou.

Devagar. Silenciosamente. Ano após ano.

Até que um dia, olhei para minha sala e não reconheci mais o trabalho que tanto amei.

Não é só por causa de tablets e lousas digitais – embora também seja.

É o cansaço.

A falta de respeito.

A solidão.

Antes, eu passava as tardes recortando maçãs de papel para enfeitar as paredes.

Agora, passo preenchendo relatórios em um aplicativo de comportamento, caso algum pai resolva me processar.

Já gritaram comigo na frente de toda a turma.

Não alunos — pais.

Um deles me disse:

— A senhora não sabe lidar com criança. Vi um vídeo no celular do meu filho.

Ele tinha me filmado enquanto eu tentava acalmar outro aluno em crise.

Ninguém perguntou como eu estava.

Ninguém quis saber que eu estava funcionando à base de chiclete, café e pura força de vontade.

As crianças também mudaram.

E a culpa não é delas.

Vivem num mundo acelerado, barulhento, desconectado.

Chegam à escola sem dormir, viciadas em telas e emocionalmente despreparadas.

Alguns vêm com raiva. Outros, com medo.

Muitos não sabem segurar um lápis, esperar a vez ou dizer “por favor”.

E esperam que a gente dê conta de tudo.

Seis horas por dia. Sem assistentes. Com 28 alunos. E um orçamento que não dá nem pra bolo de aniversário.

Lembro de quando minha sala era um abrigo.

Tínhamos um cantinho da leitura com almofadas coloridas.

Cantávamos toda manhã.

Aprendíamos a ser gentis antes de aprender a somar.

E agora?

Agora me pedem para focar em “metas de aprendizagem”, “métricas”, “resultados mensuráveis”.

Meu valor se mede pela forma como uma criança de 6 anos preenche bolinhas em uma prova padronizada de março.

Uma vez, um supervisor me disse:

— Você é muito “afetiva”. Nosso município quer resultados.

Como se conectar com crianças fosse um defeito.

Mas eu continuei.

Porque sempre existiram momentos. Pequenos. Sagrados.

Uma criança que cochichou pra mim:

— Você parece minha vó. Queria morar com você.

Outra que deixou um bilhete na minha mesa:

— Aqui me sinto seguro.

Ou aquele menino tímido que finalmente me olhou nos olhos e disse:

— Li sozinho.

Agarrei esses momentos como se fossem boias salva-vidas.

Porque eles me lembravam que, mesmo quando o mundo gritava o contrário, eu ainda estava fazendo algo que importava.

Mas este último ano... me quebrou.

A violência aumentou.

Um aluno jogou uma cadeira pela sala. Outro me ameaçou:

— Vou levar uma coisa de casa amanhã.

E tudo porque pedi para ele sentar.

O telefone da escola virou linha direta de emergência.

A coordenadora pediu demissão em outubro.

Em novembro, não havia mais professores substitutos.

A exaustão virou uma névoa densa e constante.

E eu?

Comecei a me sentir invisível. Substituível.

Como uma máquina velha em um mundo digital que já não acredita no toque humano.

Arrumei minha sala hoje.

Arranquei desenhos desbotados das paredes – alguns de décadas atrás.

Encontrei uma caixa de cartinhas de uma turma de 1995.

Uma delas dizia:

— Obrigado por gostar de mim mesmo quando fui bagunceiro.

Chorei ao ler.

Porque, naquela época, ser professora significava alguma coisa.

Hoje, parece uma profissão pela qual a gente precisa pedir desculpa.

Não houve festa. Nem discurso.

Só um aperto de mão do novo diretor, que me chamou de “senhora” e checou o celular no meio da despedida.

Esqueci minha caixa de adesivos. Minha cadeira de balanço. Minha paciência.

Mas levei comigo a lembrança de cada criança que um dia me olhou com encanto, com confiança ou com alívio.

Isso é meu. Ninguém pode me tirar.

Não sei o que vem agora.

Talvez eu seja voluntária na biblioteca da cidade.

Talvez eu aprenda a fazer pão caseiro.

Ou talvez eu apenas me sente na varanda com um chá quente, lembrando de um tempo que era mais gentil.

Porque sinto falta.

Sinto falta de quando ser professora era ser aliada, não alvo.

Quando escola e família caminhavam juntas.

Quando educar era cultivar, não apenas medir desempenho.

Se você já foi professor ou professora, você entende.

A gente não fez isso pelas férias.

Fizemos pelo menino que aprendeu a amarrar os cadarços.

Pela menina que finalmente sorriu depois de semanas em silêncio.

Pelos que precisavam de nós de um jeito que nenhuma prova consegue mensurar.

Fizemos por amor. Por esperança. Por acreditar que ainda dava para mudar o mundo.

Então, se um dia você encontrar uma professora – de ontem ou de hoje – agradeça.

Não com uma xícara. Nem com uma maçã.

Com sua voz. Seus olhos. Seu respeito.

Porque num mundo que corre depressa demais, elas ficaram.

Num sistema que desmoronou, elas resistiram.

E numa sociedade que as esqueceu, elas se lembraram de cada criança.

Que as professoras do passado saibam que não estão esquecidas.

Que as de hoje saibam que não estão sozinhas.

Se essa história incrível te tocou já sabe curta e compartilhe e diga de qual cidade você está lendo?

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On the evening of October 3, 1970, Janis Joplin returned alone to Room 105 of the Landmark Motor Hotel in Hollywood. She had just picked up a pack of cigarettes from the front desk and chatted briefly with a clerk, who would later describe her as “friendly, but restless.” The hotel was quiet. The echo of her boots in the hallway was one of the last sounds she made outside that room.

Earlier that day, she had called her road manager several times. She had phoned the front desk more than once, asked for a ride that never came, and waited in the lobby longer than anyone seemed to notice. Her Porsche, the one painted with wild psychedelic swirls, sat parked outside, untouched since she drove in the night before. Janis wandered the hotel’s hallways, her eyes searching every face that passed. She looked expectant. She looked alone.

She had made plans to record vocals for the track "Buried Alive in the Blues" the following day. The session had been scheduled at Sunset Sound, and she had spoken enthusiastically about it during a phone call with her producer, Paul Rothchild. Her spirits had appeared lifted, even cheerful. But as the hours passed and no one arrived, the excitement faded. Her final interactions, brief, polite, and empty, left a trail of unanswered questions.

Janis was used to crowds, adoration, and applause. She filled concert halls and burned through performances like a flame on gasoline. But when the shows ended, silence would take over. Friends came and went. Lovers drifted. Her voice, raw and magnificent on stage, had always concealed a fragility few people understood. That night, with no one showing up, the silence returned.

She was known to be vulnerable to emotional swings. Rejection, even in small doses, pierced deeply. She had been trying to reach an old friend that night, one who didn’t call back. There were also tentative plans with her on-again, off-again lover, Seth Morgan, but he stayed in San Francisco. The missed connections weren’t just practical disappointments; they mirrored a lifetime of craving connection and finding absence instead.

At one point in the evening, she left her room again to buy change for the cigarette machine. She passed a few hotel staff members, cracked a joke, and smiled. Then she walked back down the corridor with her shoulders slightly hunched, her head bowed in thought. The door to Room 105 closed behind her for the last time.

By the next morning, her band and crew became concerned when she missed the studio call. Road manager John Cooke arrived at the hotel and asked staff to open the door. Inside, he found her lying on the floor, clutching change in one hand. The half-smoked cigarette still sat in an ashtray, and a bottle of Southern Comfort was on the nightstand.

The coroner’s report would later confirm a heroin overdose. Her friends would struggle to understand how someone so vibrant, so full of plans, had vanished overnight. But those who knew her intimately had seen this possibility forming for months. It was never about one decision, one dose, or one bad night. It was years of invisible wounds, piled beneath fame and music and the desperate need to belong.

Janis Joplin died at 27, surrounded by silence she never wanted. That final night, spent dialing phones and walking halls alone, was a heartbreaking echo of the loneliness she carried, even when the world was watching.

She left behind a room filled with music unsung, words unspoken, and a world that never truly saw her offstage.

Something I read earlier.

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My aunt taught five-year-old children in kindergarten for 30 years. She was a master at knowing how to work with children.

During an overnight visit, they took my daughter for a walk. My daughter was 2 at the time and knew a rarely used shortcut to a nearby park. In order to reach the park using this shortcut, one had to walk across a short narrow bridge with no railing. The drop was only 4 feet, about as wide as the bridge, but in those days regulations weren’t nailed down as tightly as they are today.

Lauren is three-years-old in this photo. It was that phase in her life when she wasn’t too keen on having her photo taken.

When they reached the bridge, my aunt was positively brilliant. Instead of taking my daughter’s hand whereupon she could draw her little arms about her body and refuse to be treated like a baby, my aunt said this, “Oh, dear. I’m afraid I might fall. Would you hold my hand while we cross the bridge?”

Of course, my sympathetic child immediately reached up and took hold of her “nervous” aunt’s hand and they crossed the bridge together.

Without saying a word, my daughter grabbed hold of her great-aunt’s hand on the return trip as well.

My aunt applied wisdom born of experience in handling this situation.

I wrote this 5 years ago.

Credit- Kathy Pennell

::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::: storie 7 10a Every morning at 6:15 AM, Mr. Thompson shuffled into our little diner, right on time. He always wore the same faded blue jacket, ordered black coffee and a toast he barely touched. He sat at the same corner table, staring out the window like he was waiting for someone long gone. One icy morning, I noticed his hands trembling as he poured creamer into his coffee. When I refilled his cup, he muttered, “Thanks, kid,” without looking up. Most days, that was our entire conversation. But something about his slumped posture stuck with me. A week later, I brought him a free slice of apple pie (our manager’s secret “senior discount”). He frowned, pushing it back. “I can pay.” I smiled. “It’s leftover from yesterday. Don’t tell the boss, okay?” He chuckled softly, the first hint of warmth I’d seen. We traded tiny bits of life, my nursing school stress, his stories of fixing radios in the ‘70s. He never mentioned family. One day, he confessed, “My Edna loved pie. We’d come here every Friday... before the nursing home bills ate my savings.” His voice cracked. My heart broke a little. On his birthday, I asked the cook to whip up a pancake stack. When I sang off-key with a paper hat, he teared up. “Nobody’s done this since Edna...” Then, the mailman at the next table chimed in, “Happy Birthday, neighbor!” Soon, the whole diner was clapping. A trucker even drew a crooked card on a napkin. The next morning, Mr. Thompson left a note under his empty mug, “Thank you for remembering. Edna would’ve liked you.” Taped to it was a $50 bill for the “leftover” pie. Now, our regulars take turns chatting with him. Last week, he laughed so hard at the mailman’s jokes, coffee shot out his nose. This isn’t a fairy tale. Just a lonely man who needed to feel seen and a bunch of strangers reminded that small acts can shake loose the coldest solitude. Credit: Candy Jones @Astonishing ..................................... stories 7 10B “Since I was a child, I was taught not to cry, not to fail, not to rest… but it was through pain that I learned how to dance.” 🎤🕺 While other kids were playing outside, I was in a recording studio. My childhood was traded for the stage. My father? Strict — painfully so. We rehearsed until we dropped. There was no room for mistakes. If I didn’t shine, I didn’t matter. From an early age, I learned that applause was my only shelter. 🎶💔 By 10, I was a global sensation — and already feeling the weight of loneliness. The pressure. The constant criticism — my skin, my voice, my looks. The world saw a superstar. But inside, I was just a child trying to figure out how to be “normal.” I used to lock myself in my room for hours, terrified of disappointing everyone. But the moment I stepped on stage — I transformed. ✨🌙 Yes, I had surgeries. Yes, I reinvented myself. Yes, I was my own harshest critic. But I never stopped creating. Music was my medicine. With Thriller, I broke records. With Heal the World, I tried to fix what I couldn’t fix within myself. Behind the spotlight, there were tears. The hardest part? I lost my childhood before I even knew it was gone… And no one ever noticed. 🎼🌍 “Not everyone who smiles is okay. Sometimes, the brightest soul is the one who’s hurting the most — the one trying hardest to bring joy to others. So next time you see someone shine, take a moment to wonder what they’ve endured to glow like that.” 💫💭 — Michael Jackson

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## *One month before her 95th birthday, Patricia Routledge wrote something that still gently echoes:*

**“I’ll be turning 95 this coming Monday. In my younger years, I was often filled with worry — worry that I wasn’t quite good enough, that no one would cast me again, that I wouldn’t live up to my mother’s hopes. But these days begin in peace, and end in gratitude.”**

My life didn’t quite take shape until my forties. I had worked steadily — on provincial stages, in radio plays, in West End productions — but I often felt adrift, as though I was searching for a home within myself that I hadn’t quite found.

At 50, I accepted a television role that many would later associate me with — Hyacinth Bucket, of Keeping Up Appearances. I thought it would be a small part in a little series. I never imagined that it would take me into people’s living rooms and hearts around the world. And truthfully, that role taught me to accept my own quirks. It healed something in me.

At 60, I began learning Italian — not for work, but so I could sing opera in its native language. I also learned how to live alone without feeling lonely. I read poetry aloud each evening, not to perfect my diction, but to quiet my soul.

At 70, I returned to the Shakespearean stage — something I once believed I had aged out of. But this time, I had nothing to prove. I stood on those boards with stillness, and audiences felt that. I was no longer performing. I was simply being.

At 80, I took up watercolor painting. I painted flowers from my garden, old hats from my youth, and faces I remembered from the London Underground. Each painting was a quiet memory made visible.

Now, at 95, I write letters by hand. I’m learning to bake rye bread. I still breathe deeply every morning. I still adore laughter — though I no longer try to make anyone laugh. I love the quiet more than ever.

**I’m writing this to tell you something simple:**

**Growing older is not the closing act. It can be the most exquisite chapter — if you let yourself bloom again.**

Let these years ahead be your *treasure years*.

You don’t need to be famous. You don’t need to be flawless.

You only need to show up — fully — for the life that is still yours.

*With love and gentleness,*

— Patricia Routledge

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from children ( off springs ) of democrats who were assassinated

What a beautiful statement by the children of Melissa and Mark Hortman who were assassinated by a domestic terrorist:

“We are devastated and heartbroken at the loss of our parents, Melissa and Mark. They were the bright lights at the center of our lives, and we can’t believe they are gone. Their love for us was boundless. We miss them so much.

We want everyone to know that we are both safe and with loved ones. We are grateful for the outpouring of love and support we have received, and we appreciate your respect for our family’s privacy as we grieve.

Our family would like to thank law enforcement for their swift action that saved others and for the coordination across communities that led to the arrest of the man who murdered our parents. We especially would like to thank the officers who were first on the scene to our parents’ home and their heroic attempts to rescue our mom and dad.

Our parents touched so many lives, and they leave behind an incredible legacy of dedication to their community that will live on in us, their friends, their colleagues and co-workers, and every single person who knew and loved them.

If you would like to honor the memory of Mark and Melissa, please consider the following:

Plant a tree.

Visit a local park and make use of their amenities, especially a bike trail.

Pet a dog. A golden retriever is ideal, but any will do.

Tell your loved ones a cheesy dad joke and laugh about it.

Bake something — bread for Mark or a cake for Melissa, and share it with someone.

Try a new hobby and enjoy learning something.

Stand up for what you believe in, especially if that thing is justice and peace.

Hope and resilience are the enemy of fear. Our parents lived their lives with immense dedication to their fellow humans. This tragedy must become a moment for us to come together. Hold your loved ones a little closer. Love your neighbors. Treat each other with kindness and respect. The best way to honor our parents’ memory is to do something, whether big or small, to make our community just a little better for someone else.”

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"Dad's Lie"

(This is a beautiful poem by an unknown Vietnamese poet. I tried my best to translate to English. Clearly, the original author did a far better job, and I hope his work circulates and lives on. I love this poem because I, too, have my own personal “fish head” story.

Happy Father’s Day to the fathers who, like my Grandfather during dangerous wartimes, slept every night on a hammock by himself at the entrance of the house with a pistol strapped by his side, so his wife and children could sleep peacefully in the back.
Or, like my Dad, who still found the time to read me a bedtime story and lullaby me to sleep after teaching nonstop from 6:00am to 9:00pm.)
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"Dad's Lie"

Đến bây giờ gần quá nửa cuộc đời
(Up to now, almost half a lifetime has passed)

Mới nhận ra Cha cũng từng nói dối
(I just realized Dad used to lie)

Bữa cơm ngày xưa đơn sơ mỗi tối
(Every night, every humble family meal)

Con cá gầy Cha chỉ chọn đầu thôi.
(The skinny fish, Dad only chose the head)

Mấy đứa con lại thắc mắc liên hồi
(Us kids were curious and asked)

Sao Cha ăn đầu, nhiều xương dễ hóc
(Dad, why do you eat the bony fish head?)

Cha bảo, già rồi ...ăn đầu ...bổ óc
(Dad said “Fish head is good for my old brain”)

Ăn đầu nhiều sẽ cứng cáp xương hơn!
(“The bony head will make my bones stronger!”)

Cha còn bảo Ông Bà nội các con
(Then dad said “Your grandparents)

Ngày xưa cho Cha ăn toàn thịt cá
(Used to let me eat all the fish meat”)

Nghe lời Cha nhưng mà con thấy lạ
(As we listened, we were curious)

Cha bảo ăn nhiều sao cứ gầy nhom?
(Dad said he ate well, but why he was so frail?)

Rồi con lớn lên Cha thì già thêm
(Then I grew up and Dad grew older)

Con hiểu ... nhường con ... nên cha nói dối
(I understood…dad lied for us)

Rồi quên nhanh, bởi tuổi thơ nông nổi
(Then we forgot quickly, as childhood passed by)

Chẳng vui buồn nào, nhớ được lâu đâu!
(The grief, the joy, the memories faded!)

Chúng con trưởng thành Cha bỏ đi đâu
(We’re grown up now, where did you go?)

Ngày giỗ Cha con nhìn vào di ảnh
(Your Memorial Day, I look at your photo)

Cha vẫn gầy nhưng nụ cười lấp lánh
(You’re still frail, but your smile so bright)

Đôi mắt hiền vẫn tỏa ánh yêu thương.
(Your kind eyes still exude love.)

Mâm cỗ vợ con làm để dâng hương
(The memorial platter my wife cooked)

Có con cá to đùng chiên béo ngậy
(Has a fat fry fish for you)

Nhớ đầu cá Cha thường ăn ngày ấy
(I remember the fish head Dad used to eat)

Mắt nhạt nhòa con thổn thức... Cha ơi.
(With teary eyes I sobbed…Oh Dad.”

Qua làn khói hương nghi ngút chơi vơi!
(Through the incense smoke I contemplate)

Con thấy hiện lên dáng Cha xiêu vẹo
(I see your figure appearing so frail)

Mỗi buổi tối ra bờ sông lạnh lẽo
(Each night I come to the cold river bank)

Kiếm vài con cá ít thịt, nhiều xương.
(To find a fish with less meat, more bones.)

Bữa cơm ngày giỗ, nhớ Cha lạ thường
(Every memorial meal, I miss Dad strangely)

Con chọn cái đầu như Cha ngày trước
(I choose the fish head just like you used to do)

Thằng Út bảo, đầu sao Ba ăn được?
(My son asks, why do you eat the fish head?”

Con bảo rằng cho bổ óc, Út ơi!
(I said “it’s good for my brain, dear son!”

Con cố ngăn giọt nước mắt tuôn rơi
(I try to hold back my tears from flowing)

Không muốn vợ, con thấy mình rơi lệ
(So my wife and son don’t see me cry)

Sao bát cơm này bỗng dưng mặn thế!
(Why is this rice bowl so suddenly salty!)

Ước cha vẫn ngồi, nói dối như xưa.
(Wish you were sitting here, lying like you did before.)

I will share more of my grandfather’s and father’s stories below

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