Greetings Good Morning Quotes

We are loved way more by some of the people who have not contacted us in the last twelve or so months than we are loved by some of those who contact us every twelve or so days … or hours.

And then, just as Wilbur was settling down for his morning nap, he heard again the thin voice that had addressed him the night before. "Salutations!" said the voice. Wilbur jumped to his feet. "Salu-what?" he cried. "Salutations!" repeated the voice. "What are they, and where are you?" screamed Wilbur. "Please, please, tell me where you are. And what are salutations?" "Salutations are greetings," said the voice. "When I say 'salutations,' it's just my fancy way of saying hello or good morning.

THE DAWN OF NEW POSSIBILITIES Therefore glorify the LORD in the dawning light. —ISAIAH 24:15 Every new day with God brings the dawn of new and better possibilities. Today could turn out to be the best day of your life—but how it ends largely depends on how you begin it. You are in charge of taking control of your day from its very beginning—as you command your morning—and as you do, know that whatever begins with God has to end right. No matter how good or bad your life is, every circumstance can change for the best if you learn how to command your morning before your day begins. Father, I stand and declare that today is a new day. Every element of my day shall cooperate with Your purpose and destiny for me. Anything or anyone assigned to undermine, frustrate, hinder, or hurt me, I command to be moved out of my sphere of influence. I greet

Good Morning! Good Afternoon! Good Night! These are not just mere greetings. They are powerful blessings, setting the best vibration for the day. Hence, whether it is morning, afternoon or night, make sure that you say your greeting right!

When I'm sleeping, the committee stays up all night and then greets me at dawn with really bad ideas. It's like, "Good morning! Everything is shit! Time to act impulsively. But first let's start by getting into imaginary fights with people from the past. Next let's catalog everything that's wrong with you and your life. Also, I want to remind you of everything you don't have—and everything you should be scared of losing. Let's begin!

For example, in Paris, if one desires to buy something, you enter the store and say "Good morning, sir" or "madam," depending on what is appropriate, you wait until you are greeted, you make polite chitchat about the weather or some such, and when the salesperson asks what they can do for you, then and only then do you bring up the vulgar business of the transaction you require.

The Trial By Existence Even the bravest that are slain Shall not dissemble their surprise On waking to find valor reign, Even as on earth, in paradise; And where they sought without the sword Wide fields of asphodel fore’er, To find that the utmost reward Of daring should be still to dare. The light of heaven falls whole and white And is not shattered into dyes, The light for ever is morning light; The hills are verdured pasture-wise; The angel hosts with freshness go, And seek with laughter what to brave;— And binding all is the hushed snow Of the far-distant breaking wave. And from a cliff-top is proclaimed The gathering of the souls for birth, The trial by existence named, The obscuration upon earth. And the slant spirits trooping by In streams and cross- and counter-streams Can but give ear to that sweet cry For its suggestion of what dreams! And the more loitering are turned To view once more the sacrifice Of those who for some good discerned Will gladly give up paradise. And a white shimmering concourse rolls Toward the throne to witness there The speeding of devoted souls Which God makes his especial care. And none are taken but who will, Having first heard the life read out That opens earthward, good and ill, Beyond the shadow of a doubt; And very beautifully God limns, And tenderly, life’s little dream, But naught extenuates or dims, Setting the thing that is supreme. Nor is there wanting in the press Some spirit to stand simply forth, Heroic in its nakedness, Against the uttermost of earth. The tale of earth’s unhonored things Sounds nobler there than ’neath the sun; And the mind whirls and the heart sings, And a shout greets the daring one. But always God speaks at the end: ’One thought in agony of strife The bravest would have by for friend, The memory that he chose the life; But the pure fate to which you go Admits no memory of choice, Or the woe were not earthly woe To which you give the assenting voice.’ And so the choice must be again, But the last choice is still the same; And the awe passes wonder then, And a hush falls for all acclaim. And God has taken a flower of gold And broken it, and used therefrom The mystic link to bind and hold Spirit to matter till death come. ‘Tis of the essence of life here, Though we choose greatly, still to lack The lasting memory at all clear, That life has for us on the wrack Nothing but what we somehow chose; Thus are we wholly stripped of pride In the pain that has but one close, Bearing it crushed and mystified.

From now on, we will greet each other with ‘Heil Hitler’.” No more ‘Good morning, or ‘Good day’, and also no more ‘Auf Wiedersehen’ (Good Bye). These are greetings of the past and for the uninspired, and will not be tolerated. If you want to be a German, then your greeting is ‘Heil Hitler’.

Humans are often this way. They go about their lives, constantly working, complaining of boredom one minute and overwork the next. They pause only to observe the niceties of society, greeting each other with 'Good morning' while their minds are somewhere else completely.

It became his habit to creep out of bed even before his mother was awake, to slip into his clothes and to go quietly down to the barn to see Gabilan. In the grey quiet mornings when the land and the brush and the houses and the trees were silver-grey and black like a photograph negative, he stole toward the barn, past the sleeping stones and the sleeping cypress tree. The turkeys, roosting in the tree out of coyotes' reach, clicked drowsily. The fields glowed with a grey frost-like light and in the dew the tracks of rabbits and of field mice stood out sharply. The good dogs came stiffly out of their little houses, hackles up and deep growls in their throats. Then they caught Jody's scent, and their stiff tails rose up and waved a greeting Doubletree Mutt with the big thick tail, and Smasher, the incipient shepherd-then went lazily back to their warm beds. It was a strange time and a mysterious journey, to Jody -an extension of a dream. When he first had the pony he liked to torture himself during the trip by thinking Gabilan would not be in his stall, and worse, would never have been there. And he had other delicious little self-induced pains.

Cicero himself appeared, hand in hand with Tullia, nodding good morning to everyone, greeting each by name (“the first rule in politics, Tiro: never forget a face”).

Hey you rising workers everywhere greetings

Good morning, Amelia" greeted Rick as he walked into the room the next morning. "I'm starved. For some reason, I woke up craving strawberries.

2-Make eye contact. When someone is speaking, keep your eyes on him or her at all times. If someone makes a comment, turn and face that person. 3-During discussions, respect other students’ comments, opinions, and ideas. When possible, make statements like, “I agree with John, and I also feel that…” or “I disagree with Sarah. She made a good point I feel that…” or “I think Victor made an excellent observation, and it made me realize…” 4-If you win or do well at something, do not brag. If you lose, do not show anger. Instead, say something like, “I really enjoyed the competition, and I look forward to playing you again,” or “good game,” or don’t say anything at all. To show anger or sarcasm, such as “I wasn’t playing hard anyway” or “You really aren’t that good,” shows weakness. 5-“When you cough or sneeze or burp, it is appropriate to turn your head away from others and cover your mouth with the full part of your hand. Using a fist is not acceptable. Afterward, you should say, “Excuse me.” 6- “Do not smack your lips, tsk, roll your eyes, or show disrespect with gestures.” 7-“Always say thank you when I give you something. 8-“Surprise others by performing random acts of kindness. Go our of your way to do something surprisingly kind and generous for someone at least once a month.” 9-“You will make every effort to be as organized as possible.” 10-"Quickly learn the name of other teachers in the school and greet them by saying things like, "Good morning Mrs. Graham," or "Good afternoon Ms. Ortiz. 11-"When we go on field trips, we will meet different people. When I introduce you to people, make sure that you remember their names. Then, when we are leaving, make sure to shake their hands and thank them, mentioning their names as you do so." 12-“If you approach a door and someone is following you, hold the door. If the door opens by pulling, pull it open, stand to the side, and allow the other person 13-to pass through it first, then you can walk through. If the door opens by pushing, hold the door open after you push through." "Be positive and enjoy life. Some things just aren't worth getting upset over. Keep everything in perspective and focus on the good in your life.

When James entered the breakfast room that morning, it was to varied reactions. Those who hadn't known that he'd arrived started cheerful greetings that sputtered to an end as they got a good look at his face. Those who did know of his arrival and what subsequently followed it were either tactfully silent, grinning from ear to ear, or foolish enough to remark on it. Jeremy fell into the middle and latter categories when he said with a chuckle, "Well,I know the poor Christmas tree didn't do that to you, though you did try valiantly to chop it down to size." "And succeeded,as I recall," James grouched, though he did think to ask, "Was it salvageable, puppy?" "Minus a few of its feathers is all, but those pretty little candles will dress it up so as not to notice- at least if someone other than me finishes the task.I'm much better at hanging the mistletoe." "And making good use of it," Amy noted with a fond smile for her handsome cousin. Jeremy winked at her. "That goes without saying.

He was such a friendly bird. It was Thor who was perched on the wooden steps leading up to the White Tower on the occasion of the official visit by Vladimir Putin, and who greeted him with his deep bass ‘Good morning.’ He’d say hello to anybody, Thor.

On the fifth night of this solitude, she falls asleep with a candle burning and dreams herself a mermaid with a thick and golden tail, a crown of shimmering conch shells, then awakens with a start. Whether the ship hit something or something hit the ship, another change has come. The ship is dying; she can feel it slipping away. She waits beneath the blanket for icy water to greet her. But instead of the sea, it's a bear that opens the door. A great white bear up on its hind legs steps across the threshold. 'Good morning,' he says, and reaches out a paw.

Aubade to Langston" When the light wakes & finds again the music of brooms in Mexico, when daylight pulls our hands from grief, & hearts cleaned raw with sawdust & saltwater flood their dazzling vessels, when the catfish in the river raise their eyelids towards your face, when sweetgrass bends in waves across battlefields where sweat & sugar marry, when we hear our people wearing tongues fine with plain greeting: How You Doing, Good Morning when I pour coffee & remember my mother’s love of buttered grits, when the trains far away in memory begin to turn their engines toward a deep past of knowing, when all I want to do is burn my masks, when I see a woman walking down the street holding her mind like a leather belt, when I pluck a blues note for my lazy shadow & cast its soul from my page, when I see God’s eyes looking up at black folks flying between moonlight & museum, when I see a good-looking people who are my truest poetry, when I pick up this pencil like a flute & blow myself away from my death, I listen to you again beneath the mercy of a blue morning’s grammar. Originally published in the Southern Humanities Review, Vol. 49.3

From now on, we will greet each other with ‘Heil Hitler’. No more ‘Good morning, or ‘Good day’, and also no more ‘Auf Wiedersehen’ (Good Bye). These are greetings of the past and for the uninspired, and will not be tolerated. If you want to be a German, then your greeting is ‘Heil Hitler’.

Dear New Orleans, What a big, beautiful mess you are. A giant flashing yellow light—proceed with caution, but proceed. Not overly ambitious, you have a strong identity, and don’t look outside yourself for intrigue, evolution, or monikers of progress. Proud of who you are, you know your flavor, it’s your very own, and if people want to come taste it, you welcome them without solicitation. Your hours trickle by, Tuesdays and Saturdays more similar than anywhere else. Your seasons slide into one another. You’re the Big Easy…home of the shortest hangover on the planet, where a libation greets you on a Monday morning with the same smile as it did on Saturday night. Home of the front porch, not the back. This engineering feat provides so much of your sense of community and fellowship as you relax facing the street and your neighbors across it. Rather than retreating into the seclusion of the backyard, you engage with the goings-on of the world around you, on your front porch. Private properties hospitably trespass on each other and lend across borders where a 9:00 A.M. alarm clock is church bells, sirens, and a slow-moving eight-buck-an-hour carpenter nailing a windowpane two doors down. You don’t sweat details or misdemeanors, and since everybody’s getting away with something anyway, the rest just wanna be on the winning side. And if you can swing the swindle, good for you, because you love to gamble and rules are made to be broken, so don’t preach about them, abide. Peddlin worship and litigation, where else do the dead rest eye to eye with the livin? You’re a right-brain city. Don’t show up wearing your morals on your sleeve ’less you wanna get your arm burned. The humidity suppresses most reason so if you’re crossing a one-way street, it’s best to look both ways. Mother Nature rules, the natural law capital “Q” Queen reigns supreme, a science to the animals, an overbearing and inconsiderate bitch to us bipeds. But you forgive her, and quickly, cus you know any disdain with her wrath will reap more: bad luck, voodoo, karma. So you roll with it, meander rather, slowly forward, takin it all in stride, never sweating the details. Your art is in your overgrowth. Mother Nature wears the crown around here, her royalty rules, and unlike in England, she has both influence and power. You don’t use vacuum cleaners, no, you use brooms and rakes to manicure. Where it falls is where it lays, the swerve around the pothole, the duck beneath the branch, the poverty and the murder rate, all of it, just how it is and how it turned out. Like a gumbo, your medley’s in the mix. —June 7, 2013, New Orleans, La.

I cleared my throat before I spoke, realizing that I hadn’t uttered a word for almost twelve hours, back when I told the taxi driver where to drop me off. That’s actually quite good, for me—usually, I don’t speak from the point at which I state my destination to the bus driver on Friday night, right through until I greet his colleague on Monday morning.

Ben turned around and offered me his fist. I punched it softly, even though I hated that greeting. “Q!” he shouted over the music. “How good does this feel?” And I knew exactly what Ben meant: he meant listening to the Mountain Goats with your friends in a car that runs on a Wednesday morning in May on the way to Margo and whatever Margotastic prize came with finding her. “It beats calculus,

He grinned through the window as I made my way to his car. His blue eyes glistened in the early light, making them look as pale as ice. Cole Benson and I had been friends since we were babies. Mum had pictures of Cole holding my hand as I’d learned to walk. He was two years older than me, but he certainly didn’t act like it. My mum, Sarah, and his mum, Jenna, had met in high school and had been friends ever since. “Good morning, sunshine,” he greeted with a wide grin. Unlike

Paul watched him amble into his class-room at the end of the passage, where a burst of applause greeted his arrival. Dumb with terror, he went into his own class-room. Ten boys sat before him, their hands folded, their eyes bright with expectation. ‘Good morning, sir,’ said the one nearest him. ‘Good morning,’ said Paul. ‘Good morning, sir,’ said the next. ‘Good morning,’ said Paul. ‘Good morning, sir,’ said the next. ‘Oh, shut up,’ said Paul. At this the boy took out a handkerchief and began to cry quietly.

I had tracked down a little cafe in the next village, with a television set that was going to show the World Cup Final on the Saturday. I arrived there mid-morning when it was still deserted, had a couple of beers, ordered a sensational conejo au Franco, and then sat, drinking coffee, and watching the room fill up. With Germans. I was expecting plenty of locals and a sprinkling of tourists, even in an obscure little outpost like this, but not half the population of Dortmund. In fact, I came to the slow realisation as they poured in and sat around me . . . that I was the only Englishman there. They were very friendly, but there were many of them, and all my exits were cut off. What strategy could I employ? It was too late to pretend that I was German. I’d greeted the early arrivals with ‘Guten Tag! Ich liebe Deutschland’, but within a few seconds found myself conversing in English, in which they were all fluent. Perhaps, I hoped, they would think that I was an English-speaker but not actually English. A Rhodesian, possibly, or a Canadian, there just out of curiosity, to try to pick up the rules of this so-called ‘Beautiful Game’. But I knew that I lacked the self-control to fake an attitude of benevolent detachment while watching what was arguably the most important event since the Crucifixion, so I plumped for the role of the ultra-sporting, frightfully decent Upper-Class Twit, and consequently found myself shouting ‘Oh, well played, Germany!’ when Helmut Haller opened the scoring in the twelfth minute, and managing to restrain myself, when Geoff Hurst equalised, to ‘Good show! Bit lucky though!’ My fixed grin and easy manner did not betray the writhing contortions of my hands and legs beneath the table, however, and when Martin Peters put us ahead twelve minutes from the end, I clapped a little too violently; I tried to compensate with ‘Come on Germany! Give us a game!’ but that seemed to strike the wrong note. The most testing moment, though, came in the last minute of normal time when Uwe Seeler fouled Jackie Charlton, and the pig-dog dolt of a Swiss referee, finally revealing his Nazi credentials, had the gall to penalise England, and then ignored Schnellinger’s blatant handball, allowing a Prussian swine named Weber to draw the game. I sat there applauding warmly, as a horde of fat, arrogant, sausage-eating Krauts capered around me, spilling beer and celebrating their racial superiority.

If Jesus were in charge of an average congregation I figure there would be about four people left there on Sunday mornings, and chances are those four would be fooling themselves. Jesus would greet newcomers by saying, "Are you absolutely sure you want to follow this way of life? It will take everything you have. It has to come before everything else that matters to you. Plenty of people have launched out on it without counting the cost, and as you can see they are not here anymore. 'Ihe other thing is, if you succeed-if you really do follow me-it will probably get you killed. Why don't you go home and think it over? I would hate for you to get in over your head:' lie is the complete opposite of the good parish minister.

In April, he perched on a witch hazel branch, shivering, one eye closed, waiting for the sun to warm his wings. The night had been particularly cold, the winter long, the fishing scarce. He'd been alone all the time. When the sun appeared, the warmth felt good on his wings. he lifted from his perch, wheeled, then cackled over the river, studying the surface for the slightest flash: a trout, a small shad, a frog. He lit on a willow snag downriver and sunned himself, raised his tail, shat, and called again. The days were growing longer now, the alewives ascending the streams. The year before, he'd built his nest near the estuary in a seam of clay, and soon - if she returned - the time would come for a new nest along the bank. The kingfisher fished all morning. He returned to the willow snag at noon; slept, then woke shortly after, startled by the call. Was it she? They hadn't seen each other since the summer before. He dropped from the branch, called, winged downriver, his image doubled in the water. He heard the call again, closer now. If she returned, he'd dive into the river, greet her with a fish, fly around her, feed her beak to beak. If she returned, he'd begin to exxcavate a new nest, claw clay out of the earth, arrange the perfect pile of fish bones to lay their eggs upon. He pumped his wings harder now. He heard the cackle closer, louder more insistent. he recognized her voice. She was hurling her way upriver. Any moment now: she'd fly into his vision.

My yesterday is what I made it. I see it in memory, perfect or imperfect. My today is what I will to make it. I will to make it perfect. I have the power to build the day or to rend the day.   The day will be of my making, either perfect or imperfect, good or bad as I choose to live it in spirit or in flesh, on the mountain top or earthbound.   If I rend the day I build ten other days, mayhap ten times ten, to undo the rending. If I build the day I will have lived the day to the glory of the One in the fulfillment of that part of His purpose which is mine to fulfill. So that I may meet the day with knowledge to build the day I will look into my soul while it is yet dawn, before the morning breaketh.   These are the words with which I greet the day. These are the words of the morning. This is the spirit of the dawn.

Villagers all, this frosty tide, Let your doors swing open wide, Though wind may flow and snow betide Yet draw us in by your fire to bide: Joy shall be yours in the morning. Here we stand in the cold and the sleet, Blowing fingers and stamping feet, Come from far away, you to greet— You by the fire and we in the street— Bidding you joy in the morning. For ere one half of the night was gone, Sudden a star has led us on, Raining bliss and benison— Bliss tomorrow and more anon, Joy for every morning. Good man Joseph toiled through the snow— Saw the star o’er the stable low; Mary she might not further go— Welcome thatch and litter below! Joy was hers in the morning. And then they heard the angels tell, “Who were the first to cry Nowell? Animals all as it befell, In the stable where they did dwell! Joy shall be theirs in the morning.” Kenneth Grahame The Wind in the Willows

Neither I nor the poets I love found the keys to the kingdom of prayer and we cannot force god to stumble over us where we sit. But I know that it's a good idea to sit anyway. So every morning I sit, I kneel, waiting, making friends with the habit of listening, hoping that I'm being listened to. There, I greet God in my own disorder. I say hello to my chaos, my unmade decisions, my unmade bed, my desire and my trouble. I say hello to distraction and privilege, I greet the day and I greet my beloved and bewildering Jesus. I recognize and greet my burdens, my luck, my controlled and uncontrollable story. I greet my untold stories, my unfolding story, my unloved body, my own love, my own body. I greet the things I think will happen and I say hello to everything I do not know about the day. I greet my own small world and I hope that I can meet the bigger world someday. I greet my story and hope that I can forget my story during the day, and hope that I can hear some stories, and greet some surprising stories during the long day ahead. I greet God, and I greet the God who is more God than the God I greet. Hello to you all, I say, as the sun rises above the chimneys of North Belfast. Hello.

Daniel chose that moment to join us; I saw him over Simon’s shoulder, walking up to our little group. Something must have shown in my face because Simon turned around just as Daniel walked up. “Hey, good morning.” Daniel inclined his head toward Simon in greeting, but his expression was careful. He met my eyes and raised his eyebrows a fraction. The message was clear: were we public with our relationship? Canoodling at a wedding was one thing, but day-to-day was something else. This was my town, and these were my people. He’d follow my lead in this. Well, the hell with that. I stepped up to his side and rose onto my toes, skating a hand around his ribs to steady myself. With me on my toes he only had to bend a little to kiss me, and thankfully he took the hint, brushing his lips over mine. “Morning,” I said around a smile. We were public. We were public as hell. Simon coughed. “Morning, Daniel. Everything okay with the Kilts?” Emily elbowed him, and he gave her a what the hell did I do? look. “He’s not here on business,” Emily said, and I pressed my lips together hard to keep from laughing. Simon blinked at Daniel and me, then closed his mouth with a snap. “Right. Of course.” He shook his head. “I knew that.

Hiya, cutie! How was your first day of school?" She pops the oven shut with her hip. He shakes his head and pulls up a bar stool next to Rayna, who's sitting at the counter painting her nails the color of a red snapper. "This won't work. I don't know what I'm doing," he says. "Sweet pea, what happened? Can't be that bad." He nods. "It is. I knocked Emma unconscious." Rachel spits the wine back in her glass. "Oh, sweetie, uh...that sort of thing's been frowned upon for years now." "Good. You owed her one," Rayna snickers. "She shoved him at the beach," she explains to Rachel. "Oh?" Rachel says. "That how she got your attention?" "She didn't shove me; she tripped into me," he says. "And I didn't knock her out on purpose. She ran from me, so I chased her and-" Rachel holds up her hand. "Okay. Stop right there. Are the cops coming by? You know that makes me nervous." "No," Galen says, rolling his eyes. If the cops haven't found Rachel by now, they're not going to. Besides, after all this time, the cops wouldn't still be looking. And the other people who want to find her think she's dead. "Okay, good. Now, back up there, sweet pea. Why did she run from you?" "A misunderstanding." Rachel clasps her hands together. "I know, sweet pea. I do. But in order for me to help you, I need to know the specifics. Us girls are tricky creatures." He runs a hand through his hair. "Tell me about it. First she's being nice and cooperative, and then she's yelling in my face." Rayna gasps. "She yelled at you?" She slams the polish bottle on the counter and points at Rachel. "I want you to be my mother, too. I want to be enrolled in school." "No way. You step one foot outside this house, and I'll arrest you myself," Galen says. "And don't even think about getting in the water with that human paint on your fingers." "Don't worry. I'm not getting in the water at all." Galen opens his mouth to contradict that, to tell her to go home tomorrow and stay there, but then he sees her exasperated expression. He grins. "He found you." Rayna crosses her arms and nods. "Why can't he just leave me alone? And why do you think it's so funny? You're my brother! You're supposed to protect me!" He laughs. "From Toraf? Why would I do that?" She shakes her head. "I was trying to catch some fish for Rachel, and I sensed him in the water. Close. I got out as fast as I could, but probably he knows that's what I did. How does he always find me?" "Oops," Rachel says. They both turn to her. She smiles apologetically at Rayna. "I didn't realize you two were at odds. He showed up on the back porch looking for you this morning and...I invited him to dinner. Sorry." As Galen says, "Rachel, what if someone sees him?" Rayna is saying, "No. No, no, no, he is not coming to dinner." Rachel clears her throat and nods behind them. "Rayna, that's very hurtful. After all we've been through," Toraf says. Rayna bristles on the stool, growling at the sound of his voice. She sends an icy glare to Rachel, who pretends not to notice as she squeezes a lemon slice over the fillets. Galen hops down and greets his friend with a strong punch to the arm. "Hey there, tadpole. I see you found a pair of my swimming trunks. Good to see your tracking skills are still intact after the accident and all." Toraf stares at Rayna's back. "Accident, yes. Next time, I'll keep my eyes open when I kiss her. That way, I won't accidentally bust my nose on a rock again. Foolish me, right?" Galen grins.

2/ KICK YOUR OWN ASS, GENTLY. I’ve been trying to set a few modest goals, both daily and weekly. In the course of a day, it’s good to get some stupid things accomplished, and off your “list.” I guess because it leaves you feeling that you and the “rest of the world” still have something to do with each other! Like today, for example, I can think back on sending a fax to my brother on his birthday, leaving a phone message for Brutus at his “hotel” on his birthday, phoning my Dad on his birthday (yep, all on the same day), then driving to Morin Heights to the ATM machine, to St. Sauveur for grocery shopping, and planning all that so I’d still have enough daylight left to go snowshoeing in the woods. And then I could drink. Not a high-pressure day, and hardly earth-shaking activities, but I laid them out for myself and did them (even though tempted to “not bother” with each of them at one point or another). I gave myself a gentle kick in the ass when necessary, or cursed myself out for a lazy fool, and because of all that, I consider today a satisfactory day. Everything that needed to be done got done. And by “needs” I certainly include taking my little baby soul out for a ride. And drinking. And there are little side benefits from such activities, like when the cashier in the grocery store wished me a genuinely-pleasant “Bonjour,” and I forced myself to look at her and return the greeting. The world still seems unreal to me, but I try not to purposely avoid contact with pleasant strangers. It wouldn’t be polite! Another “little goal” for me right now is spending an hour or two at the desk every morning, writing a letter or a fax to someone like you, or Brutus, or Danny, who I want to reach out to, or conversely, to someone I’ve been out of touch with for a long while, maybe for a year-and-a-half or two years. These are friends that I’ve decided I still value, and that I want as part of my “new life,” whatever it may be. It doesn’t really matter what, but just so you can say that you changed something in the course of your day: a neglected friend is no longer neglected; an errand that ought to be dealt with has been dealt with.

Rose barely poured herself a cup of hot, mouth-watering chocolate, when she saw Grey and Archer walking across the lawn. Archer was impeccable as always, but Grey was a mess. His clothes were the same he’d worn the night before, and obviously slept in. His shirt, open at the throat, revealed a glimpse of tanned flesh that made her heart twitch and her gingers itch to touch him. His hair was mussed, and stubble covered his cheeks and jaw, except where prohibited by his scar. In short, he looked absolutely beautiful-a fallen angel. The only thing that made him remotely human was that scar, and she could easily tell herself he got that from battling the archangel Gabriel before being thrown out of heaven. She squinted as she realize Grey held something against his chest-something that moved. Was that a puppy? She jumped to her feet, and skipped down the few steps that took her down to the lawn. Lifting the skirts of her yellow morning gown, she hurried to meet them. “Good morning!” she cried. “What have you there?” Archer smiled in greeting, but Rose barely noticed. Her gaze was riveted on the man looking at her with an expression so hopeful it neigh on broke her heart. “I brought you something,” he said, his voice low and strangely rough. “A gift.” And then he held out his arms and offered her the sweetest face she’d ever seen. “Oh!” What an idiot she must seem, her eyes welling with tears over a dog, but she didn’t care. She let the tears come and slip down her cheeks as she took the warm, silky animal into her own arms, burying her face against its fur. “Grey, thank you!” “He’s too young to be away from his mother yet, but he’s yours if you want hm.” “Of course I want him! He’s beautiful.” He ran a hand through the thick tangle of his hair. “I didn’t know that you’d never had a dog before.” Rose cast a glance at Archer, who shrugged. “Telling my secrets are you, Lord Archer?” What else had he revealed? Grey’s brother shot her a sincere glance. “Only that one, Lady Rose. I did not think you would mind.” “And I don’t.” Turning her attention back to the squirming puppy in her arms, Rose was rewarded with a lick to the chin. “He’ll need to go back to the stables in a few minutes,” Grey told her. “But you can see him whenever you like.” With her free hand, Rose reached out and took one of Grey’s. His fingers were so big and strong next to hers. She squeezed and then let go, letting him know with a touch just how much his gift meant to her. “I love him. Thank you so very much.” “What are you going to name him?” he asked. Rose tore her gaze away from the pleasure in his, lest she do something stupid like kiss him in front of his brother. Instead, she cast a small, secretive smile at Archer. “Heathcliff,” she replied. “His name is Heathcliff.

Gray froze as Miss Turner emerged from the hold. For weeks, she’d plagued him-by day, he suffered glimpses of her beauty; by night, he was haunted by memories of her touch. And just when he thought he’d finally wrangled his desire into submission, today she’d ruined everything. She’d gone and changed her dress. Gone was that serge shroud, that forbidding thundercloud of a garment that had loomed in his peripheral vision for weeks. Today, she wore a cap-sleeved frock of sprigged muslin. She stepped onto the deck, smiling face tilted to the wind. A flower opening to greet the sun. She bobbed on her toes, as though resisting the urge to make a girlish twirl. The pale, sheer fabric of her dress billowed and swelled in the breeze, pulling the undulating contour of calf, thigh, hip into relief. Gray thought she just might be the loveliest creature he’d ever seen. Therefore, he knew he ought to look away. He did, for a moment. He made an honest attempt to scan the horizon for clouds. He checked the hour on his pocket watch, wound the small knob one, two, three, four times. He wiped a bit of salt spray from its glass face. He thought of England. And France, and Cuba, and Spain. He remembered his brother, his sister, and his singularly ugly Aunt Rosamond, on whom he hadn’t clapped eyes in decades. And all this Herculean effort resulting in nothing but a fine sheen of sweat on his brow and precisely thirty seconds’ delay in the inevitable. He looked at her again. Desire swept through his body with starling intensity. And beneath that hot surge of lust, a deeper emotion swelled. It wasn’t something Gray wished to examine. He preferred to let it sink back into the murky depths of his being. An unnamed creature of the deep, let for a more intrepid adventurer to catalog. Instead, he examined Miss Turner’s new frock. The fabric was of fine quality, the sprig pattern evenly stamped, without variations in shape or hue. The dressmaker had taken great pains to match the pattern at the seams. The sleeves of the frock fit perfectly square with her shoulders, in a moment of calm, the skirt’s single flounce lapped the laces of her boots. Unlike that gray serge abomination, this dress was expensive, and it had been fashioned for her alone. But it no longer fit. As she turned, Gray noted how the neckline gaped slightly, and the column of her skirt that ought to have skimmed the swell of her hip instead caught on nothing but air. He frowned. And in that instant, she turned to face him. Their gazes caught and held. Her own smile faded to a quizzical expression. And because Gray didn’t know how to answer the unspoken question in her eyes, and because he hated the fact that he’d banished the giddy delight from her face, he gave her a curt nod and a churlish, “Good morning.” And then he walked away.

Even colloquial Egyptian changed: ‘Good morning’ (‘Naharak Saeed’) and ‘Good evening’ (‘masaa al-kheir’) were replaced by ‘peace be upon you’, Islam's greeting (‘al-salamu aleikom’).

He broke into a slight smile. “Morning.” “Morning,” I said, noticing neither of us added ‘good’ to the greeting.

They were clustered by an open tent from which breakfast was being served. Kassandra exchanged greetings, accepted a cup of milk laced with honey, and tried hard not to look around for Royce. Just as she was wondering where he could have gone off to, he appeared in the company of the twin javelin throwers. Seeing her, he stopped, and for a moment simply looked. Whatever he saw must have pleased him, for his smile was slow, devastating and utterly male. But his address, when he spoke to her, was entirely proper. “Good morning, Your Highness. I trust you slept well.” Two could play this game, she decided. He looked just smug enough for her to want to take him down a notch or two. “Alas, I did not. There was something rather annoying and persistent in my tent…an insect of some sort, I think.” Royce had just taken a swallow of lemonade. He coughed and cleared his throat. “An insect? Really? Are you sure it wasn’t something larger?” He leaned a little closer so that only she could hear him. “Considerably larger, Princess, and very…attentive, shall we say?” Fighting a fierce blush, she pretended great interest in the sweet breads and fruits set out on wooden platters. “I really can’t recall,” she murmured, and endured Royce’s chuckle with as good grace as she could muster.

Despite Nee’s good intentions, there was no opportunity for any real converse with Elenet after that concert. Like Nee, Elenet had unexpectedly risen in rank and thus in social worth. If she’d been confined to the wall cushions before, she was in the center of social events now. But the next morning Nee summoned me early, saying she had arranged a special treat. I dressed quickly and went to her rooms to find Elenet there, kneeling gracefully at the table. “We three shall have breakfast,” Nee said triumphantly. “Everyone else can wait.” I sank down at my place, not cross-legged but formal kneeling, just as Elenet did. When the greetings were over, Nee said, “It’s good to have you back, Elenet. Will you be able to stay for a while?” “It’s possible.” Elenet had a low, soft, mild-toned voice. “I shall know for certain very soon.” Nee glanced at me, and I said hastily, “If you are able to stay, I hope you will honor us with your presence at the masquerade ball I am hosting to celebrate Nee’s adoption.” “Thank you.” Elenet gave me a lovely smile. “If I am able, I would be honored to attend.” “Then stay for the wedding,” Nee said, waving a bit of bread in the air. “It’s only scarce days beyond--midsummer eve. In fact, if Vidanric will just make up his mind on a day--and I don’t know why he’s lagging--you’ll have to be here for the coronation, anyway. Easier to stay than to travel back and forth.” Elenet lifted her hands, laughing softly. “Easy, easy, Nee. I have responsibilities at home that constrain me to make no promises. I shall see what I can contrive, though.” “Good.” Nee poured out more chocolate for us all. “So, what think you of Court after your two years’ hiatus? How do we all look?” “Older,” Elenet answered. “Some--many--have aged for the better. Tastes have changed, for which I am grateful. Galdran never would have invited those singers we had last night, for example.” “Not unless someone convinced him that they were all the rage at the Empress’s Court and only provincials would not have them to tour.

Next was the foursome I had been bracing myself to face all along: Tamara, Savona, the newly met Lady Elenet, and the Marquis of Shevraeth. Very conscious of Olervec’s pale eyes following me, I forced myself to greet the Marquis first: “Good morning,” I said, as if we’d been talking just the day before. “How much I wish to thank you for putting me in the way of finding the proper books for my project.” Again that laughter was evident in his glance as he sketched a bow. “If you have any further questions,” he said, “it would be my pleasure to accommodate you.” “I’d be honored.” I curtsied, my hands making the fan gesture of Unalloyed Gratitude. The shadow of humor in the corners of his mouth deepened. Then I turned to the others. Savona grinned at me, one hand moving slightly in the fencer’s salute of a good hit. I fought the urge to blush as Tamara murmured, “You’ll be in the race tomorrow?” “Of course,” I said, lifting my hands. “I have to prove whether my wins last time were luck, skill--or the kindness of well-wishers.” Tamara smiled a little. “And once you’ve proved which it is?” “Why then I either celebrate, commiserate--or fulminate!” They all laughed at that, even the quiet Elenet, though her laughter was so soft I scarcely heard it. I turned to Shevraeth and said, “Will you be there?” “I hope to be,” he said. “Riding your gray?” “Is that a challenge?” he replied with a hint of a smile. I opened my mouth, then a stray memory brought back our private wager before we reached Athanarel and nothing could prevent the heat that burned up my neck into my face; so I quickly bent over, making a business of ordering one of the flounces on my gown. After I had straightened up I’d have an excuse for a red face, or at least enough of one to pass the notice of the three who (presumably) knew nothing of that unpaid wager. “I think,” I said, retying a ribbon and patting it into place, then unbending with what I hoped was an expression of nonchalance, “I’d better find out if my luck is due to skill or kindness before I make any pledges.” “Very well,” he said. “A friendly race will suffice.” When the conversation came to a natural close, I retreated to Nee’s side and finished the rest of the picnic with her and Bran.

I’m sorry, Mr. Chavez,” the club’s young assistant reception manager, Talya, said. “This is a private club. If you’re not a member, your name has to be on the guest list.” Luis Chavez sighed. He wasn’t here by choice. “I was told to come here at this time,” Luis replied. “By whom?” Talya asked. Luis watched her eyes weigh his appearance. He was in black pants, heavy black shoes, and wore a gray jacket zipped up to his Adam’s apple even though it was almost summer. He was clean shaven with short black hair. That he wasn’t representative of the club’s regular clientele wasn’t even a question. “Mr. Alazraqui.” “I’m sorry. We don’t have a member by that name or anyone on our guest list.” Luis nodded. His job was done. He could go home in good conscience. “My mistake,” Luis said, nodding to the young woman. He turned and was almost out the door when a white Mercedes SUV rolled up to the valet stand just outside in the sublevel parking garage. Its driver was a large Hispanic man practically bursting through the seams of an off-white suit and mustard-yellow shirt. Even though he was only an inch or two taller than Luis’s diminutive five foot three, his expansive girth caused him to dwarf Luis. Talya stepped past Luis to open the door for him. “Good morning, Mr. Mata!” Mata nodded a greeting at her and stepped through the door. As soon as the big man was through, Talya jogged ahead to ring for an elevator. Though the club’s entrance was in a parking garage, the club itself was an elevator ride up to the ninth floor. “Have a good breakfast, sir.” Luis had just located the valet ticket in his pocket when he heard the older man’s voice. “Padre?” Luis winced. “Oh, is Mr. Chavez a guest of yours?” Talya asked. “He’s the priest. To deliver the benediction.” Luis caught the surprised look on Talya’s face, then felt Mata’s heavy hand on his shoulder. “Come on, Padre. Let’s get you upstairs.” As soon as they were inside the elevator, Mata nodded to the tiny strip of white peering over the top of Luis’s jacket. “Why didn’t you flash the collar?” Mata asked. “Waited too late,” Luis admitted. “Would’ve felt like a jerk.” “Ah,” Mata said, laughing. “Guess enough people out there think priests are assholes, huh?” Luis didn’t reply.

Family Handshakes Preparation and Instructions: To begin the game, greet the child with a big smile, “Good morning,” and a handshake. The Game: As you hold the child’s hand, tell the child, “We are going to play a handshake game. After I shake your hand, I am going to add another movement to the handshake.” You may give the handshake and then raise your thumb (have the child raise his or her thumb also) and touch thumbs together. Repeat the two-part handshake. Then add another movement to your handshake, perhaps sliding the hands apart. Repeat the handshake: Shake hands, touch thumbs, and slide apart. By now the child will have an idea of the game. Ask the child to add the next movement to the handshake. It may be a high five. Repeat the handshake: Shake hands, touch thumbs, slide apart, and do a high five. Involve the whole family in creating a handshake. Each family member can add a movement. The handshake could then become a special family ritual for saying hello or good-bye. Variations: Instead of doing handshakes, play the game pinky hugs. The game begins with the adult interlocking his or her pinky finger with the pinky finger of the child and announcing, “This is a pinky hug.” Add different “hugs” to the pinky hug as you did in the handshake game. You can use elbow hugs, thumb hugs, and knee hugs. After you add each element, remember to repeat the entire series, always beginning with the pinky hug. My Hand Is Stuck Preparation and Instructions: This game begins by placing your hand on the child and saying, “My hand is stuck.

All dogs wanted to be good dogs, no matter how unpromising they seemed. You just had to help them find a way. And they were sunshine creatures. When their master opened his eyes in the morning it was their signal that the day had begun, and a day was to be greeted with joy and intense interest. They were a good example for an old man.

packed in steamer trunks.” “Good. How many trunks?” She glanced at the nearby tables, which were empty. “A typical steamer trunk filled with hundred-dollar bills will hold about fifteen million dollars, and weigh about four hundred pounds.” “Okay . . . one in each hand, two people, that’s sixty million.” She ignored my math and said, “But there are also fifty-dollar bills, and twenties, so there are more than four trunks.” “How many?” “My grandfather said ten.” “Each weighing four hundred pounds?” “Yes. A twenty-dollar bill weighs the same as a hundred-dollar bill.” “Right. That’s four thousand pounds of steamer trunks.” “Give or take.” If I’d known this in Key West I would have gone to the gym. “How about the gold and jewels?” “The gold may be too heavy to take. But there are four valises of jewelry which we’ll take.” “Always room for jewelry. And how about the property deeds that you mentioned?” “That’s another steamer trunk.” I pointed out, “This could be a bit of a logistical problem. You know, getting the trunks out of the cave, onto a truck, then to the boat.” “Carlos has a plan.” “Well, thank God. Would you like another cup of coffee?” She stared at me. “We wouldn’t be doing this if we didn’t think we could do it.” “Right.” A pretty waitress cleared our plates and smiled at me. It was almost 8 A.M. and people from various tour groups were making their way toward the lobby. We stood and I left two CUCs on the table, and Sara said, “That’s three days’ pay.” “She worked hard.” “And she had a nice butt.” “Really?” The Yale group was already boarding and Sara and I got on the bus together, said good morning to José, Tad, Alison, Professor Nalebuff, and our travel mates as we made our way toward the rear and found a seat together. The efficient Tad did a head count and announced, “We’re all here.” Antonio hopped aboard and called out, “Buenos días!” Everyone returned the greeting so we could get moving. “We will have a beautiful day!” said Antonio. Sí, camarada. CHAPTER 20 The bus wound its way out of Havana and again I had the impression of a once vibrant city that was suffocating under the weight of a rotting corpse. Hemingway’s house, Finca Vigía, was a handsome Spanish Colonial located about fifteen kilometers from Havana,

Her hostess shuddered. ‘Ugh. A young woman has a duty to make the best of herself.’ As they went into the building, she said, ‘You’ll have to wear a uniform if you’re accepted. It’s rather dull, all the young women dressing alike. Still, the white pinafores and caps brighten the blue dresses up, and look quite smart and professional, considering.’ Phoebe wondered what white pinafores would look like when they were worn to help nurse men with bad wounds. They didn’t sound very practical. The secretary stood up to greet them. ‘Good morning, Lady Potherington. How nice to see you again! Miss Rufford is expecting you. I’ll show you in.’ ‘I do wish you’d at least call me Lady P,’ Beaty grumbled. ‘You know how I hate that name.’ ‘It wouldn’t be right. This way.’ Phoebe hid a smile. Rosemary Rufford was almost as beautiful as Beaty, and just as elegantly dressed. But she spoke far more crisply and her gaze was shrewd. After introducing them, Beaty left Phoebe to speak for herself. After only ten minutes of searching questions, Miss Rufford leant back and smiled at her. ‘You’re clearly a very suitable candidate, and we’ll be

Try not to force your idea on someone, but rather think about it with him. If you feel you have won the discussion, that also is the wrong attitude. Try not to win in the argument; just listen to it; but it is also wrong to behave as if you had lost. Usually when we say something, we are apt to try to sell our teaching or force our idea. But between Zen students there is no special purpose in speaking or in listening. Sometimes we listen, sometimes we talk; that is all. It is like a greeting: “Good morning!” Through this kind of communication we can develop our way.

Kickstart your Wednesday Morning via greeting your family with Good Morning Wednesday Images and Wishes. This is a great time to desire your pals a Happy Wednesday inside the mid of the week

Let kindness go from us to others with every gift, and good desires with every Christmas greeting. Deliver us from evil by the blessing which Christ brings, and teach us to be merry with a clear heart. May the Christmas morning make us happy to be Thy children, and the Christmas evening bring us to our beds with grateful thoughts, forgiving and forgiven, for Jesus’ sake. Amen. —ROBERT LOUIS STEVENSON

Kryptonite. I love their smell, their taste, the sounds they make when they come inside of me. But between a full-time job, law school, hours of reading cases, and study groups, I barely have time to sleep, much less date. Which is why I gave them up. “Which floor?” His upper crust Brit accent curls around my spine, making mush out of me. “Uh, nine.” I reach across to press the ‘9’ button, and a whiff of his scent reaches me—expensive cologne, clean soap, and a base note I suspect is just him. My legs, already wobbly from the mad dash from the Metro, turn to Jell-O. Damn! No wonder women stuff panties in his pockets. The man is pure sex on a stick. If anybody could tempt me to break my no-screwing-men vow, yeah, it would be Gabriel Storm. The door closes and someone coughs, alerting me to the other people in the elevator. Hoping no one noticed my temporary lapse of sanity, I look behind me. Only blank expressions greet me. Thank God. It won’t do for a rumor to spread around the office that I’ve been caught drooling over the COO of the company we are negotiating against. No one would take me seriously after that. I do the polite thing and wish good morning all around, get back a couple of nods before the car reaches the second floor, site of my law firm’s cafeteria. As soon as the door opens, the smell of cinnamon drifts into the car. Stuffed French toast day. Knowing what’s coming, I step to the side to avoid the stampede. Not that I blame them. With a limited supply of the delicious treat, it’s every employee for himself. When the doors slide shut, Gabriel Storm and I are the sole occupants in the car. For seven floors,

Jonah lowered himself onto his backside and scooted against the wall. He kept his hand on the thick fur and petted the wolf that he’d seen on an almost daily basis for as long as he could remember. For the first time since that afternoon’s debacle with Zev, Jonah felt calm. He’d had trouble falling asleep, still anxious about Zev’s reaction to their encounter and Jonah’s assertion that Zev was attracted to him. Even when he’d finally drifted into slumber, Jonah had tossed around restlessly, terrified that he’d driven away his best friend for good. But in that moment, sitting on the floor with his arms around the brown wolf, he felt better. There was something about the animal that tempered Jonah’s worry and relaxed him from the inside out. Jonah sighed. His eyelids felt heavy and his body was worn out from the stressful day. So much so, that with the wolf’s warm body pressed against his, Jonah succumbed to sleep without giving any thought as to why his cock had lengthened and hardened as soon as he’d embraced the creature. HE’D never rested so soundly, felt so complete and at peace. Jonah snuggled up against the soft, warm pillow and sighed happily. An answering rumble caused him to reassess the pillow theory. As sleep started clearing from his mind, Jonah became aware of the strong heartbeat close to his ear and the sound of someone else breathing. Zev. He sensed Zev. But the last time he’d seen his best friend they’d fought, so that didn’t make sense. Jonah opened one eye and was greeted with an amber gaze. Except these amber eyes weren’t attached to the body of the young man who’d played front and center in Jonah’s every fantasy. They were attached to the brown wolf Jonah had known even longer. His arm was already wrapped around the large canine, so Jonah just moved his hand back and forth over the soft coat, petting his animal friend. “Morning, Pup. Anyone ever tell you that you make a great teddy bear?” Jonah laughed when the wolf growled. He actually looked affronted. Who knew that expression was possible for a dog? “Oh, Pup, did I offend you? Sorry, boy.” Jonah squeezed the large animal into a tight hug. It felt so comforting, he didn’t want to let go.

I’m sorry, but you didn’t make me promise not to worry.” With a big sigh, Jenna said, “Okay, but after this, you have to promise that, too.” “Deal,” Sara said, smirking. After seeing how much and how violently Jenna had been sick not all that many hours ago, Easy was sympathetic to Sara’s worrying.“I’ll clean up this stuff and give you all some privacy,” he said, reaching for the tray. “Thanks for getting dinner for us, Easy,” Jenna said. She looked at him with such gratitude and affection that it both set off a warm pressure in his chest and made him self-conscious—because he was acutely aware that Sara was observing them. She had to know that something was going on. Given how little he thought of himself sometimes, it wasn’t a big leap to imagine others would think the same. Just because Sara had seemed appreciative that he’d helped Jenna didn’t mean she’d approve of anything more. “You know, you set off a milk-shake-making party,” Becca said. Sara laughed. “Yeah. Shane made us shakes, then we took them over to the gym, and Nick was all jealous he didn’t have one.” Grinning, Becca rolled her eyes. “Which was hilarious because he didn’t even know they owned a blender.” Easy stood. “Well, I guess I’m glad I could provide such a valuable service.” He winked and looked at Jenna. “Need anything else while I’m downstairs?” Smiling, she shook her head. “Don’t think so, but thanks.” Easy made his way out of the room and back down to the Rixeys’, where he found all the guys in front of the big flat-screen TV—Nick and Marz kicking back in the recliners, Beckett and Shane sprawled on one couch, and Jeremy and Charlie on the other, with Eileen between them. It was dark in the room except for the flickering light of the screen. A round of greetings rose to meet him. “Sexual Chocolate!” Marz yelled over the others. Easy couldn’t help but smile as his gaze settled on the television, where the classic Eddie Murphy movie Coming to America was playing. One of Easy’s all-time favorites. He placed the tray on the counter, then turned and held his hands out. “Good morning, my neighbors!” he said, mimicking one of the prince’s lines. Right on cue, Marz said in a thick New York accent, “Hey, fuck you!” Easy could quote this movie all day. “Yes, yes! Fuck you, too!” The guys all chuckled, and Easy leaned his butt against the arm of the couch next to Jeremy and got sucked into the movie. Jeremy and Charlie made room for him, and it felt damn good to be with the guys. Not working, not stressed, not under fire. Just kicking back and shooting the shit.

Theologically Christmas Day is the greatest occasion for rejoicing offered to sinful mankind; but this aspect of it is so august and so great that the human mind refuses to contemplate it steadily, perhaps because of its own littleness, for which of course it is in no way to blame. It prefers to concentrate its attention on ceremonial observances, expressive generally of good will and festivity, such, for instance, as giving presents and eating plum-puddings. It may be said at once here that from that conventional point of view the spirit of Christmas Day at sea appears distinctly weak. The opportunities, the materials too, are lacking. Of course, the ship’s company get a plum-pudding of some sort, and when the captain appears on deck for the first time the officer of the morning watch greets him with a “Merry Christmas, sir,” in a tone only moderately effusive. Anything more would be, owing to the difference in station, not correct. Normally he may expect a return for this in the shape of a “The same to you” of a nicely graduated heartiness. He does not get it always, however.

At the office in the morning, Marianne drew an arrow-pierced heart, inscribed “A + M” and accompanied by a greeting to her sleeping boyfriend: Yes, now your little wife is sitting at the office, plinking at the typewriter and thinking only of you. I love you more than anything on Earth, Venus, Jupiter, Mars, Saturn and all the worlds that don’t exist. Take a good stretch and go into the bathroom, in the pocket of your new suit there’s a little breakfast: buy fresh rolls, 1/3 of a litre of milk and something inspir- ing to put on the bread. Then wash your shirts until they’re snow white and hang them to dry in the sunshine. Then you can do whatever you like, as long as you don’t forget me for a single moment all day. I’ll call you at 12:30 (or 1).

Strange thing about love: it shatters all walls and encompasses all senses and steals the very breath from your lungs. It kisses you good night and greets you in the morning and spins your thoughts with one face. It cries when you cry and laughs when you do and stitches two souls together. I love him. This boy. I forget what it’s like to not love him, and I suppose that’s the point.

She’d been trying to put distance between them, afraid that the strange attraction she felt for him would somehow be noticed and he’d think her incapable of doing her job. And all this time, he was in love with her! This would never do. Polly took a deep breath as she entered the kitchen. What if Mitch was there? What was she supposed to say? Mitch, I got your note, and, against my better judgment, I am finding myself very attracted to you, but I cannot imagine how a romance between us would work? Preposterous. That’s what it was. How could she even consider falling in love with a man who would keep her tied down to a family that… “Good morning, Polly!” Five cheerful voices greeted her as she entered the kitchen. They were all seated at the kitchen table, working on their…lessons? Isabella held up a slate. “I wite name!” Someone had clearly written Isabella on her slate, and underneath, Isabella had scribbled. “I’ve already done my spelling,” Louisa said. “And the other children are still working on theirs, but we should be ready for the rest of our lessons soon.” Then she held up a book. “Pastor, er, Uncle Frank said it was all right to borrow something from his study. I thought this looked interesting.” Robinson Crusoe. Not something Polly would have picked for the girl, but if she wanted to read it… “That sounds just fine.” Polly looked around the spotless kitchen. “Where’s Maddie?” Maddie came in the back door, drying her hands on her apron. “Just out finishing up a few things. I don’t know what you did to these children, but they’ve been well behaved all morning. Said they wanted you to get your rest and helped me with the washing up, then got right to their lessons.” Polly stared at them. “Really?” “Oh, yes,” Clara said, her smile filling her face. “We like you best of all of our nannies, and since the other ones left

who" is your home? Your home is so much more than just an impersonal roof over your head. In fact, the personality of your home "lives with you" and influences you as much as the actual people and pets that share your space. That means it's important to figure out just "who" it is you are living with. So If your home were a persona that woke up next to you every day, stood in the kitchen each morning when you poured your first cup of coffee and waited at the front door when you arrived, who would it be? For me, my home is like a best friend who waits for me at the front door with cookies and flowers, and who greets me in the kitchen with a cheery "Good morning." Nice, eh? (Happy Starts at Home: Getting the Life You Want by Changing the Space You've Got, Rebecca West)

One day, meandering through the bookcases, I had picked up his diaries and begun to read the account of his famous meeting with Hitler prior to Munich, at the house in Berchtesgaden high up in the Bavarian mountains. Chamberlain described how, after greeting him, Hitler took him up to the top of the chalet. There was a room, bare except for three plain wooden chairs, one for each of them and the interpreter. He recounts how Hitler alternated between reason – complaining of the Versailles Treaty and its injustice – and angry ranting, almost screaming about the Czechs, the Poles, the Jews, the enemies of Germany. Chamberlain came away convinced that he had met a madman, someone who had real capacity to do evil. This is what intrigued me. We are taught that Chamberlain was a dupe; a fool, taken in by Hitler’s charm. He wasn’t. He was entirely alive to his badness. I tried to imagine being him, thinking like him. He knows this man is wicked; but he cannot know how far it might extend. Provoked, think of the damage he will do. So, instead of provoking him, contain him. Germany will come to its senses, time will move on and, with luck, so will Herr Hitler. Seen in this way, Munich was not the product of a leader gulled, but of a leader looking for a tactic to postpone, to push back in time, in hope of circumstances changing. Above all, it was the product of a leader with a paramount and overwhelming desire to avoid the blood, mourning and misery of war. Probably after Munich, the relief was too great, and hubristically, he allowed it to be a moment that seemed strategic not tactical. But easy to do. As Chamberlain wound his way back from the airport after signing the Munich Agreement – the fateful paper brandished and (little did he realise) his place in history with it – crowds lined the street to welcome him as a hero. That night in Downing Street, in the era long before the security gates arrived and people could still go up and down as they pleased, the crowds thronged outside the window of Number 10, shouting his name, cheering him, until he was forced in the early hours of the morning to go out and speak to them in order that they disperse. Chamberlain was a good man, driven by good motives. So what was the error? The mistake was in not recognising the fundamental question. And here is the difficulty of leadership: first you have to be able to identify that fundamental question. That sounds daft – surely it is obvious; but analyse the situation for a moment and it isn’t. You might think the question was: can Hitler be contained? That’s what Chamberlain thought. And, on balance, he thought he could. And rationally, Chamberlain should have been right. Hitler had annexed Austria and Czechoslovakia. He was supreme in Germany. Why not be satisfied? How crazy to step over the line and make war inevitable.

One day, meandering through the bookcases, I had picked up his diaries and begun to read the account of his famous meeting with Hitler prior to Munich, at the house in Berchtesgaden high up in the Bavarian mountains. Chamberlain described how, after greeting him, Hitler took him up to the top of the chalet. There was a room, bare except for three plain wooden chairs, one for each of them and the interpreter. He recounts how Hitler alternated between reason – complaining of the Versailles Treaty and its injustice – and angry ranting, almost screaming about the Czechs, the Poles, the Jews, the enemies of Germany. Chamberlain came away convinced that he had met a madman, someone who had real capacity to do evil. This is what intrigued me. We are taught that Chamberlain was a dupe; a fool, taken in by Hitler’s charm. He wasn’t. He was entirely alive to his badness. I tried to imagine being him, thinking like him. He knows this man is wicked; but he cannot know how far it might extend. Provoked, think of the damage he will do. So, instead of provoking him, contain him. Germany will come to its senses, time will move on and, with luck, so will Herr Hitler. Seen in this way, Munich was not the product of a leader gulled, but of a leader looking for a tactic to postpone, to push back in time, in hope of circumstances changing. Above all, it was the product of a leader with a paramount and overwhelming desire to avoid the blood, mourning and misery of war. Probably after Munich, the relief was too great, and hubristically, he allowed it to be a moment that seemed strategic not tactical. But easy to do. As Chamberlain wound his way back from the airport after signing the Munich Agreement – the fateful paper brandished and (little did he realise) his place in history with it – crowds lined the street to welcome him as a hero. That night in Downing Street, in the era long before the security gates arrived and people could still go up and down as they pleased, the crowds thronged outside the window of Number 10, shouting his name, cheering him, until he was forced in the early hours of the morning to go out and speak to them in order that they disperse. Chamberlain was a good man, driven by good motives. So what was the error? The mistake was in not recognising the fundamental question. And here is the difficulty of leadership: first you have to be able to identify that fundamental question. That sounds daft – surely it is obvious; but analyse the situation for a moment and it isn’t. You might think the question was: can Hitler be contained? That’s what Chamberlain thought. And, on balance, he thought he could. And rationally, Chamberlain should have been right. Hitler had annexed Austria and Czechoslovakia. He was supreme in Germany. Why not be satisfied? How crazy to step over the line and make war inevitable. But that wasn’t the fundamental question. The fundamental question was: does fascism represent a force that is so strong and rooted that it has to be uprooted and destroyed? Put like that, the confrontation was indeed inevitable. The only consequential question was when and how. In other words, Chamberlain took a narrow and segmented view – Hitler was a leader, Germany a country, 1938 a moment in time: could he be contained? Actually, Hitler was the product

When they arrived in the corridor they saw that there were only a dozen people progressing to N.E.W.T. level. Crabbe and Goyle had evidently failed to achieve the required O.W.L. grade, but four Slytherins had made it through, including Malfoy. Four Ravenclaws were there, and one Hufflepuff, Ernie Macmillan, whom Harry liked despite his rather pompous manner. ‘Harry,’ Ernie said portentously, holding out his hand as Harry approached, ‘didn’t get a chance to speak in Defence Against the Dark Arts this morning. Good lesson, I thought, but Shield Charms are old hat, of course, for us old DA lags … and how are you, Ron – Hermione?’ Before they could say more than ‘fine’, the dungeon door opened and Slughorn’s belly preceded him out of the door. As they filed into the room, his great walrus moustache curved above his beaming mouth and he greeted Harry and Zabini with particular enthusiasm. The dungeon was, most unusually, already full of vapours and odd smells. Harry, Ron and Hermione sniffed interestedly as they passed large, bubbling cauldrons. The four Slytherins took a table together, as did the four Ravenclaws. This left Harry, Ron and Hermione to

town car. At a signal from Bernie, he opened the back door and pulled a bound and gagged woman from the car. Croft said to Gert, “I believe you’re acquainted with Mrs. Plummer.” * * * Laurel had gone into the kitchen, expecting to find her father-in-law rummaging for the makings of breakfast. Instead, Bernie Croft had been rifling through her recipe box. Fanning one of the cards at her, he’d greeted her pleasantly. “Good morning, Mrs. Plummer. This lemon chess pie sounds delicious.” And then from behind her, a heavy hand had been clamped over her mouth

We must begin each day by rising with joy, ready to serve the Lord, ready to begin the day in the blessings and the grace of God. The first thing we should do is to think not of our work, or of our troubles, or of our plans, but rather of the Lord, Who has given us the new day: “Good morning, dear God. How beautiful You have made this world, and how beautiful You have made this day. I thank You for all Your blessings.” When we greet the Lord in this way, we express our gratitude for His love for us.

Similarly, the Mexican Bueno greeting opens a window into our politeness. It originates from our daily salutations—buenos dias, buenas tarde, and buenas noche (good morning, afternoon, and evening, respectively), and thus the phone greeting Bueno is just a shortened version of the others. And remember that Mexicans are some of the happiest people on earth—and nothing radiates positive vibes like saying Bueno.

And his name was called, shrilly in his ears. His mind walked in to face the accusers: Vanity, which charged him with being ill dressed and dirty and vulgar; and Lust, slipping him the money for his whoring; Dishonesty, to make him pretend to talent and thought he did not have; Laziness and Gluttony arm in arm. Tom felt comforted by these because they screened the great Gray One in the back seat, waiting—the gray and dreadful crime. He dredged up lesser things, used small sins almost like virtues to save himself. There were Covetousness of Will’s money, Treason toward his mother’s God, Theft of time and hope, sick Rejection of love. Samuel spoke softly but his voice filled the room. “Be good, be pure, be great, be Tom Hamilton.” Tom ignored his father. He said, “I’m busy greeting my friends,” and he nodded to Discourtesy and Ugliness and Unfilial Conduct and Unkempt Fingernails. Then he started with Vanity again. The Gray One shouldered up in front. It was too late to stall with baby sins. This Gray One was Murder. Tom’s hand felt the chill of the glass and saw the pearly liquid with the dissolving crystals still turning over and lucent bubbles rising, and he repeated aloud in the empty, empty room, “This will do the job. Just wait till morning. You’ll feel fine then.” That’s how it had sounded, exactly how, and the walls and chairs and the lamp had all heard it and they could prove it. There was no place in the whole world for Tom Hamilton to live. But it wasn’t for lack of trying. He shuffled possibilities like cards. London? No! Egypt—pyramids in Egypt and the Sphinx. No! Paris? No! Now wait—they do all your sins lots better there. No! Well, stand aside and maybe we’ll come back to you. Bethlehem? Dear God, no! It would be lonely there for a stranger. And here interpolated—it’s so hard to remember how you die or when. An eyebrow raised or a whisper—they may be it; or a night mottled with splashed light until powder-driven lead finds your secret and lets out the fluid in you. Now this is true, Tom Hamilton was dead and he had only to do a few decent things to make it final.

My dreams are disjointed. I try finding the beach and Luka, but I can’t. Instead, I end up back at the hospital. Not Pete’s, but Shady Wood, staring at rows upon rows of comatose bodies. I’m not sure if the machines are keeping them alive or keeping them from living. I want to unhook them. I want to set them free from this dark, oppressive place. But when I try, nothing is solid. It’s all vapor. When I wake up, I write everything down, then spend the rest of Sunday visiting Pete, yearning—no aching—for Luka. That night, my dreams are the same. Me, trying to get to Luka but ending up at Shady Wood instead. Me, trying to free those people. Me, failing at both. I’m happy and relieved when I wake up. It’s Monday morning, which means school. While my parents will go to many lengths to keep me from Luka, robbing me of my right to an education is not one of them. I pray that Luka’s parents are the same. Mom drives. As soon as she pulls up to the front entrance, I fling open the door and hurry toward the school, brushing off the looks and the whispers. As soon as I step inside the building, Luka is there. He grabs my face between his hands and kisses me. Full on the mouth. The shock of his lips on mine turns my kneecaps to putty. Luka is kissing me. He’s kissing me, right there in the locker bay in front of everyone. And I’m so stunned by it all, so caught off guard, that my body has morphed into a ragdoll. A really hot, tingly ragdoll. When he pulls away, my head spins. My lips throb in the best possible way. Several students gape. He takes my hand and pulls me out of the locker bay, right outside the bathrooms, a space that is relatively empty. “You have no idea how good it is to see you.” I blink like an idiot, unable to get past his greeting. He pushes his hand through his hair. “I couldn’t get to you in my dreams. I could hear you calling out for help. But I couldn’t get to you.” I point toward the locker bay, dumbstruck. “You-you just kissed me.” A grin pulls at his lips—the very lips that were on mine seconds earlier. And then he does it again. He cups the side of my face and kisses me. His fingers move up into my hair. His other hand moves to my waist, pulling me closer. I grab onto his shirt front to keep myself upright. Luka is good at this. Much, much too good. But the kiss ends as abruptly as it began. He groans and leans against the wall. My head spins. I’ve never been kissed by a boy before. I don’t really know how these things work, but I have to imagine groaning is not a good reaction. I must be bad at it.

With mindful breathing, you can recognize the presence of a painful feeling, just like an older sibling greets a younger sibling. You can say, “Hello, my suffering. I know you are there.” In this way, the energy of mindfulness keeps us from being overwhelmed by painful feelings. We can even smile to our suffering and say, “Good morning, my pain, my sorrow, my fear. I see you. I am here. Don’t worry.

It's been a week,' I said by way of greeting. 'Take me home.' Rhys took a long sip of whatever was in his cup. It didn't look like tea. 'Good morning, Feyre.' 'Take me home.' He studied my teal and gold clothes, a variation of my daily attire. If I had to admit, I didn't mind them. 'That colour suits you.' 'Do you want me to say please? Is that it?' 'I want you to talk to me like a person. Start with 'good morning' and let's see where it gets us.' 'Good morning. A faint smile. Bastard. 'Are you ready to face the consequences of your departure?' I straightened. I hadn't thought about the wedding. All week, yes, but today... today I'd only thought of Tamlin, of wanting to see him, hold him, ask him about everything Rhys had claimed. ... 'It's none of your business.' 'Right. You'll probably ignore it, anyway. Sweep it under the rug, like everything else.' 'No one asked for your opinion, Rhysand.' 'Rhysand?' He chuckled, low and soft. 'I give you a week of luxury and you call me Rhysand?' 'I didn't ask to be here, or be given that week.' 'And yet look at you. Your face has some colour- and those marks under your eyes are almost gone. Your mental shield is stellar, by the way.' 'Please take me home.

It is dehumanizing, demeaning and humiliating when you fail or refuse to acknowledge or respond to a Good Morning greeting. #Mannerism

The first morning, emerging from your bivouac-thing, there is a great sense of joy and freedom. You feel quite alone in the world and no one knows who you are or why you are there. You could be in a campsite surrounded by happy families or out in the wild woods with silent, dumb creatures that creep and crawl. It makes no difference, the point is that you are alone because you wanted it this way. You don’t talk to a soul the whole time. You just get up, brew a coffee on a camping stove and then zip up the tent and go. If doesn’t really matter where you go either. You know that you have about twelve hours ahead of you just to yourself. So you start walking, along the coast, up a hill, by a river, down a valley, anywhere on and on, stopping every now and then for a banana and a drink (massive water bottle) and a sit. It feels good. You find yourself skipping no, gambolling, like a newborn lamb. In your head, details about daily life swiftly give way to songs, hymns you used to know, praise, yes praise, for God’s mind-blowing creation. Your thoughts then turn to God because there aren’t any people about and you find yourself chatting amicably with Him. Sometimes there are tears, sobbing even, but this comes with emptying. It’s really all about emptying and then, renewal. This is what we miss if we don’t empty stuff. By nightfall, the little tent and sleeping bag beckon; you greet them both joyfully and shut down. Usually it’s freezing and sleep comes in patches, but the night time wakefulness is all part of it. You use it to set things straight, mentally. Another day ahead, more wanderings, then hunger sets in and you head for home, refreshed.

Good morning, Daddykins,” she greeted him

It was time to tell them the story of Jesus Christ. It was time to save their souls. Powerful sermons meant to convert nonbelievers have a certain structure. You’re supposed to talk about your own weaknesses, about how Christianity saved you, about how you once were blind but now you could see. Everett told them a story about his stepmother’s suicide. This was supposed to trigger a powerful emotional response. But after telling this story, he was greeted by laughter. He was hurt and confused. “What’s so funny? Why are you laughing?” he asked. “You people kill yourselves?” the Piraha replied. “We don’t do that. What is this?” It was not that they were mean-spirited or had a cruel sense of humor; it was the very notion of suicide that struck them as unbelievably bizarre and outrageous. And then it dawned on Everett! He had come here to save the Piraha, but they weren’t the ones who needed saving. He writes: I realized they don’t have a word for worry, they don’t have any concept of depression, they don’t have any schizophrenia or a lot of the mental health problems, and they treat people very well. If someone does have any sort of handicap, and the only ones I’m aware of are physical, they take very good care of them. When people get old, they feed them. Still, Everett was determined that his training should not go to waste. He was a true believer; he thought he was doing good by telling them how Jesus would want them to live. So while living with the Piraha, every once in a while, he would pepper them with inspiring anecdotes about Jesus, explaining Christian theology and morality, hoping that the Piraha would change their ways. One morning, he was sitting around drinking coffee when one of the Piraha said: “Dan, I want to talk with you. We like you, we know you live with us because the land is beautiful, and we have plenty of fish, and you don’t have that in the United States...but you know we have had people come and tell us about Jesus before. Somebody else told us about Jesus, and then the other guy came and told us about Jesus, and now you’re telling us about Jesus, and we really like you but, see, we’re not Americans, and we don’t want to know about Jesus. We like to drink, and we like to have a good time, and we like, you know...to have sex with many people, both women and men. So don’t tell us anymore about Jesus or God. We are tired of it.” And then they ate him. Just kidding.

Still. “Fuck.” “Good morning, Mr. Brooks,” she greeted as soon as I rounded the corner, the last syllable of my name trailing straight into a giggle. God, that’s painful. Her eyes were bright, lips pouty, and her forearms squeezed into her breasts. Her black hair teased and sprayed, several curls rolled over her shoulders and hung nearly all the way down to her pointy nails. And she eye fucked me relentlessly, pounding me harder with every step I took.

Dad called the principal before we went to school and he told me the principal was okay with what had happened. However upon entering his office, I felt terribly guilty. The poor man was in a neck collar and it was all my fault. The room smelt of sanitizer. He greeted me with a smile, “Good morning Richard.” I was so glad my dad had come with me! Straight away I burst into a full-blown apology, the words tumbling out of my mouth. He waved his hands to stop my verbal outpouring of regret and sympathy. “It’s okay, Richard, I should have replaced my chair years ago, it has always been a bit wonky. I’m fine, don’t worry. Your Dad told me the whole story and I am proud to have such a caring student at this school.” Now this scenario definitely did not play through my head last night! Then he stood and walked around his desk and put his hand on my shoulder. “Can I give you a piece of advice, Richard?” he asked. I nodded. “Sort out your girl problems, two girls and one guy…it never works out.” Breathing a sigh of relief, I shook my head in agreement, “Thank you Sir, I’ll do that.” At the same time I was thinking…how am I going to do that? He walked us out to the hallway and I hugged Dad goodbye. Walking along this hallway yesterday, I felt full of doom and gloom, but today was different. Until I saw the vice principal standing at the end. I stopped, lowered my eyes and tried to apologize. In a quiet and very firm voice, she said, “I’m watching you.” Then she turned and walked back into her office. Two down, one to go and this person was the most important one…Maddi. I walked into class slightly late and heard a few quiet giggles and whispers. Obviously the kids had been gossiping. Looking around I couldn’t see her, she was away! I let out a huge sigh. All morning I had been looking forward to working it out with her. I waved hi to Gretel, she pulled a face and looked away and that was not a good sign. That look told me that Maddi had believed Linda and that she was really mad and upset. Linda was even later than me. She walked into the classroom with a huge smile on her face and apologized for being late, then she headed towards the vacant seat next to me. I jumped up, grabbed the chair and moved it next to Ted. There was NO WAY she was going to sit next to me! Everyone laughed and she looked embarrassed, but I didn’t care. I had had enough!

But in the years before the council, in a typical American parish, that ancient liturgy was too often approached haphazardly, celebrated carelessly, treated as an obligation to be rushed through as quickly as possible. After the council, of course, the introduction of a new streamlined liturgy gave immeasurably more scope to the casual approach. In Why Catholics Can’t Sing, Thomas Day comments: We can be reasonably sure that the Last Supper did not begin with the words, “Good evening, apostles.” Intuition tells us that John the Baptist did not cry out in the wilderness, “Repent, sin no more, and havernice day.” Common sense tells us that there is something immensely wrong and contradictory about starting off a ritual with “Good Morning.” We might even say that the laity in the pews “short circuits” when greeted this way at Mass. The church building, the music, and the celebrant in flowing robes all seem to say, “This is a ritual,” an event out of the ordinary. Then, the “Good Morning” intrudes itself and indicates that this is really a business meeting and not a liturgy, after all. Today, after more than a full generation of liturgical experimentation, the integrity of the liturgy can be compromised by two opposite dangers: caring too little about the established rubrics or caring too much.

The Beginning Sergeant Smelly was a normal man. He lived in a normal village, full of normal people and had a normal address. He lived at 1 Normall Street in the village of Normall Normall. The village was so normal they named it twice. His first name was eighty-three percent normal—Norman. Most people knew him as Normal Norman from Normall Normall; a rotund and jolly man who lived an exceedingly normal life. Well, normal, if appearing in court on exploding fart charges was normal. Normal, if producing fire from your butt was normal. All of his body parts were normal. Apart from one: his butt. His butt was abnormal. It used to be a normal butt, but everything changed in the blink of a fart. Sergeant Smelly's face glistened with sweat and his heartbeats quickened as the judge read out the charge. "Sergeant Smelly, you are here today because you could not control your soldiers, not to mention your bottom. You are hereby charged with the crime of producing exploding fire-farts. How do you plead?" asked Army Judge Mental. The stout sergeant considered the question and his thoughts transported him back to the day it all went smelly. One fateful morning, Sergeant Smelly lay in bed suffering from a horrible cold. Empty boxes lay scattered across the floor, and the bin overflowed with used tissues. He groaned as he pulled the last tissue from the box. A passer-by in the street below jumped as he heard the foghorn sound. He inspected the contents of the tissue (Sergeant Smelly, not the passer-by) and wished he had not. It was time for action. The suffering soldier dragged himself out of bed and got dressed. He wore a waterproof jacket on top of his uniform, as his army blazer was not snot-proof. Not that any of his other clothes were snot-proof. He trudged downstairs and made himself a hot lemon with honey, then switched on his laptop. After an extensive internet search, he found the best remedy to fix the cold was to feed it, so he plodded into town and searched for a place to eat. The first eatery he found had a ridiculous name, but the café was almost full. He watched the customers from the window as they tucked into their food. The plain wooden tables and basic white tablecloths oozed simplicity, but the gorgeous grub eclipsed the plain interior. Silence filled the air as customers tucked into delectable dishes and drifted off to food heaven.  But an odorous pong emanated from the café, and it was not the food. Sergeant Smelly did not smell the malodorous stench due to his blocked nose and cold. The cold was so bad it came alive. Colin the Cold smelled the awful pong and begged his owner to reconsider. He tried in vain to turn his attention to the sandwich shop, but Sergeant Smelly did not hear him. Colin the Cold saw disaster around the corner. Major Disaster walked around the corner and greeted him in a bright and cheery fashion. "Morning, Smelly," said Major Disaster in a bright and cheery fashion. Colin the Cold was correct and sensed nothing good would come of Sergeant Smelly eating at Café McPoo. It had Disaster Area written all over it, but the police apprehended the graffiti artist, and he was hard at work wiping the words ‘Disaster Area’ from the front of the café. Colin the Cold frowned and prepared himself for the worst. And so it began.

My bedroom looked very different the morning of my eighteenth birthday. It looked lonely. I opened my eyes just as the sun started creeping through the window, and I stared at the white chest of drawers that had greeted me every morning since I could remember. Maybe it’s stupid to think that a piece of furniture had feelings, but then again, I’m the same girl who kept my tattered old baby doll dressed in a sweater and knitted cap so she wouldn’t get cold sitting on the top shelf of my closet. And this morning that chest of drawers was looking sad. All the photographs and trophies and silly knickknacks that had blanketed the top and told my life story better than any words ever could were gone, packed in brown cardboard boxes and neatly stacked in the cellar. Even my pretty pink walls were bare. Mama picked that color after I was born, and I’ve never wanted to change it. Ruthis Morgan used to try to convince me that my walls should be painted some other color. ‘Pink’s just not your color, Catherine Grace. You know as well as I do that there’s not a speck of pink on the football field.’ There was nothing she could say that was going to change my mind of the color on my walls. If I had I would have lost another piece of my mama. And I wasn’t letting go of any piece of her, pink or not. Daddy insisted on replacing my tired, worn curtains a while back, but I threw such a fit that he spent a good seven weeks looking for the very same fabric, little bitsy pink flowers on a white -and-pink-checkered background. He finally found a few yards in some textile mill down in South Carolina. I told him there were a few things in life that should never be allowed to change, and my curtains were one of them. So many other things were never going to stay the same, and this morning was one of them. I’d been praying for this day for as long as I could remember, and now that it was here, all I wanted to do was crawl under my covers and pretend it was any other day. . . . I know that this would be the last morning I would wake up in this bed as a Sunday-school-going, dishwashing, tomato-watering member of this family. I knew this would be the last morning I would wake up in the same bed where I had calculated God only knows how many algebra problems, the same bed I had hid under playing hide-and-seek with Martha Ann, and the same bed I had lain on and cried myself to sleep too many nights after Mama died. I wasn’t sure how I was going to make it through the day considering I was having such a hard time just saying good-bye to my bed.

We pulled up behind a huge red barn where we were met by two young women. They greeted us with friendly smiles. I noticed the taller of the two had her blond hair braided perfectly over her shoulders. Dale waved as he walked past them into the barn. “Morning, ladies.” “Morning, Dale,” they said in unison. “I’m Nate.” I put my hand out as I approached, but they started laughing. The shorter, dark-haired girl looked away shyly. “We know,” the girl with braids said. “You’re the doctor.” “Yes, I’m a doctor.” “I’m a doctor, too,” my father interrupted wryly, but the girls didn’t seem to care. They followed us into the barn where we found Dale in one of the stalls looking over a mare. “Get in here, Nate, and put on one of those gloves.” He pointed to a long plastic glove hanging out of his case. My father leaned over the stall door and watched the show. “Go on, Nate. Get the glove on, son.” I moved into the stall, took the glove in hand, and proceeded to pull it all the way up to my shoulder. The girls watched and tried to suppress their laughter. “What’s going on?” “Come on, Nate. You can’t be that clueless,” my dad said. Dale turned to him. “See how smart that fancy college made your boy?” I looked to the girls for a clue. The short one laughed into her hands before the one in braids said, “You’re gonna have to stick your hand up the horse’s ass and pull out the poo.” She burst into laughter and then they scurried away. “What? No. No. I can’t. Do you know how much these hands are worth?” “Come on, Nate, give me a break. Nothing is going to happen to your hand, just be gentle with her. You don’t want to get kicked in the balls. I can’t imagine it feels very good to have a bony arm like yours up her ass.” My father was really enjoying himself. “Why do I have to do this?” “Because we’ve both paid our dues.” “Dear god.” I moved toward the rear of the mare and looked up to Dale. “Pet her real nice, right there on her behind. Let her know you come in peace.” “Jesus Christ.” “And a horse’s ass.” “Stop it, Dad!” Dale came over with a large milk jug full of clear gel. “Hand out, son. Got to lube her up first.” “You’ve got to be kidding me. You two are enjoying this.” “Immensely,” my father said. Uncle Dale continued petting the mare’s head and trying to calm her. “Nate, I’ve done this a million times. Dolly here is constipated. She needs us to help her out. Now work your way in there and see if you can’t find the blockage.” I hesitated, staring at Dolly’s hindquarters as she whipped her tail around. “She seems pissed,” I said. “She’s just really uncomfortable. You’ll see once you grow a set and get this procedure under way.” “I don’t know if I should be doing this. This horse isn’t familiar with me.” “What do you want to do, take her out on a date? You’re a doctor, kid. Buck up.” With no expression on my face, I looked back toward the stall door and my father’s smug grin. “No more talking, Dad.” I pushed my hand into poor Dolly’s backside and immediately discovered the culprit. The odor alone could have killed a small animal. Gagging, I pulled handful after handful of . . . well . . . poo, out of the horse’s enormous anal cavity. About ten minutes into the procedure, Dolly seemed to relax and feel better. “She likes you, Nate,” my uncle said. I’d had too many encounters with shit since I’d been on the ranch to find humor in anything my father or uncle said. “That’s it. She’s good,” I mumbled as I pulled the disgusting glove off my hand. I walked out into the main part of the barn to a sink where I attempted to wash the skin off my hands.

T. walked for almost two days, down a country road, past vast verdant fields with rolling hills, littered everywhere with yellow dandelions and stray cats that watched her walk by. She stopped at a small farmhouse and the man inside greeted her and welcomed her inside; he made a remark about how she smelled, but then, continued with his friendly countenance. He offered her bread and milk, and then a cot for the night. T. spent the night at the little farm house, the old farmer sleeping across from her in the one room house. He snored softly and T. reflected that this gentle old man had a heart made of gold and smiled as she thought of his kindness. The next morning the old farmer offered her bread and milk for her journey, and then gave her a small necklace sprinkled with fragrances, and told her that she would need it, as most people in this world were not good.

All dogs wanted to be good dogs, no matter how unpromising they seemed. You just had to help them find a way.And they were sunshine creatures. When their master opened his eyes in the morning it was their signal that the day had begun, and a day was to be greeted with joy and intense interest.

President Theodore Roosevelt was a man of action, but he was also a good listener, and he appreciated that quality in other people. Once at a gala ball, he grew tired of meeting people who returned his remarks with stiff, mindless pleasantries. So he began to greet people with a smile, saying, “I murdered my grandmother this morning.” Most people, so nervous about meeting him, didn’t even hear what he said. But one diplomat did. Upon hearing the president’s remark, he leaned over and whispered to him, “I’m sure she had it coming to her!” The only way to find out what you’re missing is to start listening.