A woman on the other side of me said, “You’re not a humble man, either.”
To which the man replied, “You have to love others to love yourself and I love almost everybody.”
On Sunday I was sitting a little way up a mountain trying to decide what I would write for our mother’s tribute. She’d passed away on Friday at the age of 95 and we’ll all miss her terribly.
Although I didn’t include this conversation in the tribute, I did think about this grocery store conversation and how it applied to my mother, who had lived a fruitful and good life.
I thought about my mother because of the fact that she’d shown so much love towards so many people. Especially to her children. I know for sure she’d had a strong love for God and her faith, but she must also have loved herself. A love that benefited us all.
Nor for itself hath any care,
But for another gives its ease,
And builds a Heaven in Hell’s despair.”
William Blake, The Clod & The Pebble
Here are the links:
https://www.facebook.com/invasiveplantscapebreton?ref=hl A Facebook site for on-going discussion
http://invasiveplantscapebreton.blogspot.ca/ Some general information
https://www.pinterest.com/marianwhit/invasive-plants-of-cape-breton/ Links to information on the plants and eradication methodologies.
These deposits make me more money than my official, government-insured GIC’s. Which are deposited in a bank and not in a see-through garbage bag in an old rusty drum.
Why, last week, I verily took my big bag of deposits to the local dump bank and made twenty plus dollars. Meanwhile, according to the official bank statements I receive in the mail from time to time that inform me how much interest I’ve made on my GICs, no word of a lie, if I’ve made five dollars interest I’m damn lucky.
So, you see what I mean. Plus, there are bonus perks, because I have usually enjoyed every last drop from the investments that I deposit in the see-through garbage bag which is in my big rusty drum account.
However, this is only a lead-up to my wee fable.
While I was removing the big board and rock which secure the see-through garbage bag in the rusty old drum bank vault where I keep my stash, I happened to look down. On the piece of splintering plywood I saw an ugly bug creature. Are any of God’s creature’s really ugly? Yes. To my little eyes this bug was ugly. It had a pair of pincers on its ass-end and I think the insect is called an ‘earwig’.
Except, to my surprise, the squashed bug kept moving. And it became obvious I hadn’t been very observant. The bug was still moving in the same direction it had been moving before I poofed it into another dimension. It was moving in the direction of the ant. Which was also moving and using all its muscle power to drag the now dead, squashed ugly bug to its stash. The ant had been the aggressor.
Now, I am mildly dyslexic. Left is right and right is left.
What the heck had I done? I’d blamed the innocent instead of the guilty. The non-perpetrator instead of the perpetrator. I think there is a lesson here.
Anyway, I went into this plaza. I won’t name it. It’s in a very tall building. I was tired and sat on a bench to rest. A well dressed guard approached me. Asked me to leave. I guess I looked like riffraff. I do, from time to time.
A few weeks ago, we visited the same plaza. Sue wanted to visit a bookstore. This time a very large guard approached us. He told us we had to leave. Because Buster was with us. He must have looked like riffraff. He does, from time to time.
I have to admit, that secretly, I was kind of proud that I had been kicked out of this plaza twice. And I was proud of Buster for taking the fall.
Because, when I look at the way our world is going, and I look at these nice buildings stuffed with fairly well dressed people, then I’m rather proud that I can say I have been kicked out of this plaza twice. Or maybe I should say, in a genteel way, that I have been escorted to the door.
And when we left the building, feeling like three refugees, I, strangely enough, began to think about the talking political heads who must spend hours at home soaking their tongues in lubricant so they can untie the knots they tied their flappers into. I swear some of their tongues must look like an earwig’s hind end.
And I think that many of the so called riffraff that get kicked out of nice plazas, malls, restaurants, etc. probably have real stories. Stories they could tell, if people would listen. Stories that don’t knot up your tongue. And I’m also pretty damn sure they’re not all aspiring to join the magical middle class.
That’s my two cents worth and a pox on the security guards’ houses. Not the guards, just their houses, because I’m dyslexic, so I can’t be sure whether I’m talking from the right wing or the left.