Who knew buying a tomato plant could turn into a saga? Certainly not me. But it all turned out so funny! So, a couple of days ago, on my way home from the doctor, I stopped at Kroger to buy some comfort food and cough syrup to soothe my very bad cold. On the way in, I remembered they had some very good looking tomato plants and decided to get one. I looked at them but didn't see any prices so I checked with customer service, who advised me the price was $16.99. Since I wasn't feeling well, I asked if someone could help me get the plant inside the store so I could check out with it. No, they had no way to do that. Okay. So I went out, picked the plant out, and amazingly it wasn't as heavy as I anticipated. I put it in the cart and went in to get the other items I wanted. Arriving at the checkout, I asked the checker to double check the price and he advised me it was $7.99. Oh, that sounded much better! So he rang it all up, I paid, and I left. Then I trundled it onto the patio also.
So today, I went to fill out the survey form Kroger provides - hey, I might win the big price - you never know! As I go through the survey, I did a little whine about the tomato plant incident because at this store, they are always very, very helpful and always offer to help get the groceries out to the car. So it was so surprising not to get any help at all into or out of the store that day with my plant! Mid-whine, I check over the receipt and guess what? The tomato plant is not on my receipt. Not at all. Not for 16.99 or for 7.99. It's just not there. Now maybe if I'd been feeling better, I would have noticed the price discrepancy but I didn't. Not till today. So how can I whine about the tomato plant? I can't!
Anyway, I called Kroger, told them my little story and said now what in the world should I bring you so that I can pay for this tomato plant? There's no tag on it now and I certainly didn't plan to steal this plant! The young man I spoke to was very nice and heard me out, in my barely legible voice, all choked up with this cold. He said not to worry about it at all. I said I didn't want to just take the plant. He said not to worry, they had not helped me very well with the matter when I was in the store so just keep the plant.
Isn't that great! I still feel like I should try to pay for it though..... This store is at Belt Line and Marsh in Addison and they always do provide a really terrific place to shop. I'm in there several times a week and it's always clean and usually very, very helpful.
Friday, April 27, 2012
Friday, April 13, 2012
A Dog Named Cheyenne
I don't know who wrote this first but if you do, let me know and I will give them the credit. It's an touching little story of how a dog brought comfort and peace to an aging man and brought peace to his home. Pets are wonderful creatures, loving us completely, yet never speaking a word. Just their presence is often a blessing. And sometimes, it seems they are even angels.
"Watch out! You nearly
broad sided that car!" My father yelled at
me. "Can't you do anything right?"
Those words hurt worse than blows. I turned my head toward the
elderly man in the seat beside me, daring me to challenge him. A
lump rose in my throat as I averted my eyes. I wasn't prepared for
another battle.
"I saw the car, Dad. Please don't yell at me when I'm driving."
My voice was measured and steady, sounding far calmer than I really
felt.
Dad glared at me, then turned away and settled back. At home I left
Dad in front of the television and went outside to collect my
thoughts.... dark, heavy clouds hung in the air with a promise of
rain. The rumble of distant thunder seemed to echo my inner turmoil.
What could I do about him?
Dad had been a lumberjack in Washington and Oregon .. He had enjoyed
being outdoors and had reveled in pitting his strength against the
forces of nature. He had entered grueling lumberjack competitions,
and had placed often. The shelves in his house were filled with
trophies that attested to his prowess.
The years marched on relentlessly. The first time he couldn't lift a
heavy log, he joked about it; but later that same day I saw him
outside alone, straining to lift it. He became irritable whenever
anyone teased him about his advancing age, or when he couldn't do
something he had done as a younger man.
Four days after his sixty-seventh birthday, he had a heart attack..
An ambulance sped him to the hospital while a paramedic administered
CPR to keep blood and oxygen flowing.
At the hospital, Dad was rushed into an operating room. He was
lucky; he survived. But something inside Dad died. His zest for life
was gone. He obstinately refused to follow doctor's orders.
Suggestions and offers of help were turned aside with sarcasm and
insults. The number of visitors thinned, then finally stopped
altogether. Dad was left alone.
My husband, Dick, and I asked Dad to come live with us on our small
farm. We hoped the fresh air and rustic atmosphere would help him
adjust.
Within a week after he moved in, I regretted the invitation. It
seemed nothing was satisfactory. He criticized everything I did. I
became frustrated and moody. Soon I was taking my pent-up anger out
on Dick. We began to bicker and argue.
Alarmed, Dick sought out our pastor and explained the situation. The
clergyman set up weekly counseling appointments for us. At the close
of each session he prayed, asking God to soothe Dad's troubled mind.
But the months wore on and God was silent. Something had to be done
and it was up to me to do it.
The next day I sat down with the phone book and methodically called
each of the mental health clinics listed in the Yellow Pages. I
explained my problem to each of the sympathetic voices that answered
in vain.
Just when I was giving up hope, one of the voices suddenly
exclaimed, "I just read something that might help you! Let me go get
the article..."
I listened as she read. The article described a remarkable study
done at a nursing home. All of the patients were under treatment for
chronic depression. Yet their attitudes had improved dramatically
when they were given responsibility for a dog.
I drove to the animal shelter that afternoon. After I filled out a
questionnaire, a uniformed officer led me to the kennels. The odor
of disinfectant stung my nostrils as I moved down the row of pens.
Each contained five to seven dogs. Long-haired dogs, curly-haired
dogs, black dogs, spotted dogs all jumped up, trying to reach me.
I studied each one but rejected one after the other for various
reasons: too big, too small, too much hair. As I neared the last pen
a dog in the shadows of the far corner struggled to his feet, walked
to the front of the run and sat down. It was a pointer, one of the
dog world's aristocrats. But this was a caricature of the breed.
Years had etched his face and muzzle with shades of gray. His hip
bones jutted out in lopsided triangles. But it was his eyes that
caught and held my attention. Calm and clear, they beheld me
unwaveringly.
I pointed to the dog. "Can you tell me about him?" The officer
looked, then shook his head in puzzlement. "He's a funny one.
Appeared out of nowhere and sat in front of the gate. We brought him
in, figuring someone would be right down to claim him. That was two
weeks ago and we've heard nothing. His time is up tomorrow." He
gestured helplessly.
As the words sank in I turned to the man in horror. "You mean you're
going to kill him?"
"Ma'am," he said gently, "that's our policy. We don't have room for
every unclaimed dog."
I looked at the pointer again. The calm brown eyes awaited my
decision. "I'll take him," I said.. I drove home with the dog on the
front seat beside me. When I reached the house I honked the horn
twice. I was helping my prize out of the car when Dad shuffled onto
the front porch. "Ta-da! Look what I got for you, Dad!" I said
excitedly.
Dad looked, then wrinkled his face in disgust. "If I had wanted a
dog I would have gotten one. And I would have picked out a better
specimen than that bag of bones. Keep it! I don't want it" Dad waved
his arm scornfully and turned back toward the house.
Anger rose inside me. It squeezed together my throat muscles and
pounded into my temples. "You'd better get used to him, Dad. He's
staying!"
Dad ignored me. "Did you hear me, Dad?" I screamed. At those words
Dad whirled angrily, his hands clenched at his sides, his eyes
narrowed and blazing with hate. We stood glaring at each other like
duelists, when suddenly the pointer pulled free from my grasp. He
wobbled toward my dad and sat down in front of him. Then slowly,
carefully, he raised his paw...
Dad's lower jaw trembled as he stared at the uplifted paw. Confusion
replaced the anger in his eyes. The pointer waited patiently. Then
Dad was on his knees hugging the animal.
It was the beginning of a warm and intimate friendship. Dad named
the pointer Cheyenne . Together he and Cheyenne explored the
community. They spent long hours walking down dusty lanes. They
spent reflective moments on the banks of streams, angling for tasty
trout. They even started to attend Sunday services together, Dad
sitting in a pew and Cheyenne lying quietly at is feet.
Dad and Cheyenne were inseparable throughout the next three years..
Dad's bitterness faded, and he and Cheyenne made many friends. Then
late one night I was startled to feel Cheyenne's cold nose
burrowing through our bed covers. He had never before come into our
bedroom at night. I woke Dick, put on my robe and ran into my
father's room. Dad lay in his bed, his face serene. But his spirit
had left quietly sometime during the night.
Two days later my shock and grief deepened when I discovered
Cheyenne lying dead beside Dad's bed. I wrapped his still form in
the rag rug he had slept on. As Dick and I buried him near a
favorite fishing hole, I silently thanked the dog for the help he
had given me in restoring Dad's peace of mind.
The morning of Dad's funeral dawned overcast and dreary. This day
looks like the way I feel, I thought, as I walked down the aisle to
the pews reserved for family. I was surprised to see the many
friends Dad and Cheyenne had made filling the church. The pastor
began his eulogy. It was a tribute to both Dad and the dog who had
changed his life.
And then the pastor turned to Hebrews 13:2. "Do not neglect to show
hospitality to strangers, for by this some have entertained angels
without knowing it."
"I've often thanked God for sending that angel," he said.
For me, the past dropped into place, completing a puzzle that I had
not seen before: the sympathetic voice that had just read the right
article... Cheyenne's unexpected appearance at the animal
shelter... his calm acceptance and complete devotion to my
father.... and the proximity of their deaths. And suddenly I
understood. I knew that God had answered my prayers after all.
Life is too short for drama or petty things, so laugh hard, love
truly and forgive quickly. Live while you are alive. Forgive now
those who made you cry. You might not get a second chance.
And if you don't send this to anyone -- no one will know. But do
share this with someone. Lost time can never be found.
God answers our prayers in His time... not ours...
me. "Can't you do anything right?"
Those words hurt worse than blows. I turned my head toward the
elderly man in the seat beside me, daring me to challenge him. A
lump rose in my throat as I averted my eyes. I wasn't prepared for
another battle.
"I saw the car, Dad. Please don't yell at me when I'm driving."
My voice was measured and steady, sounding far calmer than I really
felt.
Dad glared at me, then turned away and settled back. At home I left
Dad in front of the television and went outside to collect my
thoughts.... dark, heavy clouds hung in the air with a promise of
rain. The rumble of distant thunder seemed to echo my inner turmoil.
What could I do about him?
Dad had been a lumberjack in Washington and Oregon .. He had enjoyed
being outdoors and had reveled in pitting his strength against the
forces of nature. He had entered grueling lumberjack competitions,
and had placed often. The shelves in his house were filled with
trophies that attested to his prowess.
The years marched on relentlessly. The first time he couldn't lift a
heavy log, he joked about it; but later that same day I saw him
outside alone, straining to lift it. He became irritable whenever
anyone teased him about his advancing age, or when he couldn't do
something he had done as a younger man.
Four days after his sixty-seventh birthday, he had a heart attack..
An ambulance sped him to the hospital while a paramedic administered
CPR to keep blood and oxygen flowing.
At the hospital, Dad was rushed into an operating room. He was
lucky; he survived. But something inside Dad died. His zest for life
was gone. He obstinately refused to follow doctor's orders.
Suggestions and offers of help were turned aside with sarcasm and
insults. The number of visitors thinned, then finally stopped
altogether. Dad was left alone.
My husband, Dick, and I asked Dad to come live with us on our small
farm. We hoped the fresh air and rustic atmosphere would help him
adjust.
Within a week after he moved in, I regretted the invitation. It
seemed nothing was satisfactory. He criticized everything I did. I
became frustrated and moody. Soon I was taking my pent-up anger out
on Dick. We began to bicker and argue.
Alarmed, Dick sought out our pastor and explained the situation. The
clergyman set up weekly counseling appointments for us. At the close
of each session he prayed, asking God to soothe Dad's troubled mind.
But the months wore on and God was silent. Something had to be done
and it was up to me to do it.
The next day I sat down with the phone book and methodically called
each of the mental health clinics listed in the Yellow Pages. I
explained my problem to each of the sympathetic voices that answered
in vain.
Just when I was giving up hope, one of the voices suddenly
exclaimed, "I just read something that might help you! Let me go get
the article..."
I listened as she read. The article described a remarkable study
done at a nursing home. All of the patients were under treatment for
chronic depression. Yet their attitudes had improved dramatically
when they were given responsibility for a dog.
I drove to the animal shelter that afternoon. After I filled out a
questionnaire, a uniformed officer led me to the kennels. The odor
of disinfectant stung my nostrils as I moved down the row of pens.
Each contained five to seven dogs. Long-haired dogs, curly-haired
dogs, black dogs, spotted dogs all jumped up, trying to reach me.
I studied each one but rejected one after the other for various
reasons: too big, too small, too much hair. As I neared the last pen
a dog in the shadows of the far corner struggled to his feet, walked
to the front of the run and sat down. It was a pointer, one of the
dog world's aristocrats. But this was a caricature of the breed.
Years had etched his face and muzzle with shades of gray. His hip
bones jutted out in lopsided triangles. But it was his eyes that
caught and held my attention. Calm and clear, they beheld me
unwaveringly.
I pointed to the dog. "Can you tell me about him?" The officer
looked, then shook his head in puzzlement. "He's a funny one.
Appeared out of nowhere and sat in front of the gate. We brought him
in, figuring someone would be right down to claim him. That was two
weeks ago and we've heard nothing. His time is up tomorrow." He
gestured helplessly.
As the words sank in I turned to the man in horror. "You mean you're
going to kill him?"
"Ma'am," he said gently, "that's our policy. We don't have room for
every unclaimed dog."
I looked at the pointer again. The calm brown eyes awaited my
decision. "I'll take him," I said.. I drove home with the dog on the
front seat beside me. When I reached the house I honked the horn
twice. I was helping my prize out of the car when Dad shuffled onto
the front porch. "Ta-da! Look what I got for you, Dad!" I said
excitedly.
Dad looked, then wrinkled his face in disgust. "If I had wanted a
dog I would have gotten one. And I would have picked out a better
specimen than that bag of bones. Keep it! I don't want it" Dad waved
his arm scornfully and turned back toward the house.
Anger rose inside me. It squeezed together my throat muscles and
pounded into my temples. "You'd better get used to him, Dad. He's
staying!"
Dad ignored me. "Did you hear me, Dad?" I screamed. At those words
Dad whirled angrily, his hands clenched at his sides, his eyes
narrowed and blazing with hate. We stood glaring at each other like
duelists, when suddenly the pointer pulled free from my grasp. He
wobbled toward my dad and sat down in front of him. Then slowly,
carefully, he raised his paw...
Dad's lower jaw trembled as he stared at the uplifted paw. Confusion
replaced the anger in his eyes. The pointer waited patiently. Then
Dad was on his knees hugging the animal.
It was the beginning of a warm and intimate friendship. Dad named
the pointer Cheyenne . Together he and Cheyenne explored the
community. They spent long hours walking down dusty lanes. They
spent reflective moments on the banks of streams, angling for tasty
trout. They even started to attend Sunday services together, Dad
sitting in a pew and Cheyenne lying quietly at is feet.
Dad and Cheyenne were inseparable throughout the next three years..
Dad's bitterness faded, and he and Cheyenne made many friends. Then
late one night I was startled to feel Cheyenne's cold nose
burrowing through our bed covers. He had never before come into our
bedroom at night. I woke Dick, put on my robe and ran into my
father's room. Dad lay in his bed, his face serene. But his spirit
had left quietly sometime during the night.
Two days later my shock and grief deepened when I discovered
Cheyenne lying dead beside Dad's bed. I wrapped his still form in
the rag rug he had slept on. As Dick and I buried him near a
favorite fishing hole, I silently thanked the dog for the help he
had given me in restoring Dad's peace of mind.
The morning of Dad's funeral dawned overcast and dreary. This day
looks like the way I feel, I thought, as I walked down the aisle to
the pews reserved for family. I was surprised to see the many
friends Dad and Cheyenne had made filling the church. The pastor
began his eulogy. It was a tribute to both Dad and the dog who had
changed his life.
And then the pastor turned to Hebrews 13:2. "Do not neglect to show
hospitality to strangers, for by this some have entertained angels
without knowing it."
"I've often thanked God for sending that angel," he said.
For me, the past dropped into place, completing a puzzle that I had
not seen before: the sympathetic voice that had just read the right
article... Cheyenne's unexpected appearance at the animal
shelter... his calm acceptance and complete devotion to my
father.... and the proximity of their deaths. And suddenly I
understood. I knew that God had answered my prayers after all.
Life is too short for drama or petty things, so laugh hard, love
truly and forgive quickly. Live while you are alive. Forgive now
those who made you cry. You might not get a second chance.
And if you don't send this to anyone -- no one will know. But do
share this with someone. Lost time can never be found.
God answers our prayers in His time... not ours...
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