The Snows Of Disbelief The Fiction Of Our Times
Have you ever taken a photograph or viewed a photograph taken of ordinary people or scenes and seen orbs of light or translucent people in the background of the picture once it was developed? How do we know that when a stranger appears at the perfect time to show us the way when we're lost or to help us in times of danger, that we are not actually seeing an angel or ghost or deceased loved one or agent of God making an appearance to help us in our time of need?
The 15th hole is officially my nemesis. The tee shot requires golfers to hit into a drastically up-sloping fairway that doglegs quickly to the right. If you survive that test, the reward is a completely blind shot into an elevated green that I can never seem to find. I managed to be a flop shot away after two, not a bad effort considering my track record on this one. But if it isn't one thing, it's another. After failing to find Hansard's bombing tee ball, he played a provisional that wound up short. It was looking like my one-stroke lead was about to grow heading into the final stretch - until his original tee ball appeared some 30 feet off the green. He used the opportunity to roll in another birdie, while I managed just another bogey. So dissipated my lead.
Being the early-bird that I am, I was up at 7:30 a.m. I took a peek out of the black-out drapes to see it had stopped snowing. However, there was about a foot of snow on the ground and the roads weren't plowed yet. I had no idea what awaited us. I grabbed a book for reading and Heather's cell phone to make calls--I wanted to let the girls sleep a couple more hours. I would definitely need my morning time today--my "alone" time, as I affectionately refer to it. There was still half a trip to make.
It was a rhetorical question and yet it begged for hope. I was trance-like, amazed that I would be so favored as to have this man pour out his story to me. My whole vision of TellingTouch, its mission, came crawling up my back. "These are the real stories of life--these are the Tellings--this is why you have created TellingTouch. These stories need to be heard." I was listening with my soul now. I stared at Ron. I wanted to cry. I wanted to thank him for his taking time to tell me his story. I wanted to make it all better, but I couldn't. I could only embrace this tremendous compassion and let it settle in my soul.
traffic pile My family and I have been affected by these dangerous thunderstorms and heavy rainfall. We are well over our needed annual rainfall in Asheville, NC, and every drop of rain seems to make matters worse. I got up early this past Sunday, September 20, and got ready to leave for work. When sổ tay da opened my back door, the yard was flooded in about 3 inches of rain. I live very close to the Swannanoa River and it had flooded over into the roads and into our yard.
My sister was driving on a country road with her cruise control set. As she rounded a bend, her tires caught a puddle. The tires hydroplaned and the car sped up, causing her to lose control and fly off the road. When she landed, she miraculously only had a few bruises, but she had to make a hysterical phone call to our dad to let him know her car was totaled.
There are countless other imitation books, countless books about Jane, more Austen movies to discuss, and I could go on nearly forever about all of it, but I am far too busy listening to my CD of Piano Classics from the World of Jane Austen and preparing a special white soup from my Jane Austen Cookbook to take the time to type more.
We got ourselves a room. The front desk lady was so nice and understanding. She gave us a special rate and let us know that she'd been watching the storm on-line and that it wasn't clear until 60 miles out of Las Vegas. We'd definitely done the right thing in returning. Check out wasn't until noon and there was a restaurant where we could get a good, hot breakfast in the morning. We retired quickly, completely spent.
