Is this not true?
A Tale Of Brotherly *Love*
The other afternoon the temps were in the lower 80s so I went out onto our screened-in porch to enjoy fresh air and read a book.
I heard kids playing in the ravine behind the house. They were down in the creek bed that’s practically dry this time of year. Kids go exploring down there occasionally and in this case it was two boys, about 6 y.o. and 10 y.o.
I didn’t think a thing about it until I was jolted out of my reading by a loud Dad voice coming from the other side of the ravine.
Dad said: Alexander, where is your brother?
{Small voice, indistinguishable words}
Dad again: Alexander, I asked you, where is your brother? Where is William!!
{Slightly louder small voice, somewhat indistinguishable, but saying words that included “I don’t know”}
Dad continued: Alexander, I don’t care. Go back down into the ravine and find William. NOW!
At this point I heard a small whimper coming from the bottom of the ravine. A whimper so pathetic that I put down my book, stood up and looked down into the ravine where I saw a small boy sitting on a log by himself, crying, but not hurt or in any danger.
He was pretty much playing up the drama of being left behind.
I shouted over to the Dad telling him that I could see the abandoned brother, that he was fine, and then explained where I was so Alexander, the reluctant keeper of his brother, could find William.
At which point the Dad shouted thanks over my way while giving Alexander one last clearly stated command, a guideline for how to treat your brother.
And maybe all of humanity.
Dad said: ALEXANDER WE DON’T LEAVE OUR BROTHER IN A RAVINE, ANY RAVINE, EVER. Now go find him.
Which Alexander did with some alacrity while I watched, amused, from above.
So sayeth Dad, so let it be.
A Poem About Methuselah’s Diet
I continue to sort through old family photos and papers. In one of the boxes I found the following pithy poem. My father had saved it by cutting it out a newspaper.
According to the introduction to the poem it was on the dinner cards of the 1890 Class, College of Physicians and Surgeons in New York. Researching online I discovered there’s no known author for the poem.
DIET
Methuselah ate what he found on his plate,
And never, as people do now
Did he note the amount of the caloric count;
He ate it because it was chow.
•🔸•
He wasn’t disturbed, as at dinner he sat,
Destroying a roast or a pie,
To think it was lacking in granular fat,
Or a couple of vitamins shy.
• 🔸•
He cheerfully chewed every species of food,
Untroubled by worries or fears,
Lest his health might be hurt by some fancy dessert––
And he lived over Nine Hundred Years!
Here is the poem as seen in print.
Questions of the Day
What have you laughed out loud about lately?
What’s the last thing you overheard that made you stop what you were doing and eavesdrop?
What do you think of Methuselah’s pragmatic diet plan?
• • ❤️ • •
THE SPECTACLED BEAN 