An Amazing Note From Mom - To A Disrespectful Son . . .

Parenting a teenager is rarely a smooth ride. 

For Heidi Johnson, a single mom from Alaska, that reality came crashing down one afternoon in 2015 when her 13-year-old son, Aaron, crossed a line she couldn’t ignore. Instead of raising her voice or grounding him, Heidi decided to send her message in a different way.

The Breaking Point
It all began when Aaron started treating their home less like a family space and more like a hotel where he believed the rules didn’t apply to him. He had been making a little money from his YouTube channel and, according to Heidi, had recently become “mouthy, defiant, and disrespectful.”

On this particular day, an argument escalated over chores and privileges. Aaron insisted that because he was earning his own money, he could do whatever he pleased. He ignored her requests to help around the house and acted as though she had no authority over him.

Heidi took a deep breath. Yelling, she knew, would only make things worse. Instead, she went to her desk, pulled out a piece of paper, and began to write.

The Letter That Started It All -

The letter began formally, as if addressing a tenant rather than a child:

“Dear Aaron,

Since you seem to have forgotten that you are only 13, and I’m the parent, and since you have decided you no longer need my guidance, it’s time for a lesson in independence.

If you want to be treated like a grown man who doesn’t have to follow my rules, then you will need to take on the responsibilities of one. Starting today, you will pay rent, utilities, and for your own food.”*

She went on to list his “fees” in detail:

           Rent: $430
           Electricity: $116
           Internet: $21
           Food: $150

And she didn’t stop there.

“If you fail to do your chores, there will be a $30 maid fee for each day I have to clean up after you. You’ll also need to empty the trash, vacuum and sweep, clean the bathroom weekly, cook some of your own meals, and keep your room tidy.”

Finally, she ended with the line that made readers everywhere either cheer—or gasp:

“If you decide you’d rather be my child again instead of a roommate, we can renegotiate terms.”

The Immediate Fallout
Heidi taped the letter to Aaron’s bedroom door and walked away. A few minutes later, she heard the telltale sound of paper being ripped. Aaron crumpled the note, tossed it on the floor, and stormed out of the house.

“He was furious,” Heidi later recalled. “He wanted the independence but none of the responsibility.”

But as the evening went on, the anger began to fade. By bedtime, Aaron had returned home and retreated to his room without a word.

An Apology and a Turning Point
The next day, something surprising happened. Aaron emerged from his room, quieter than usual, and handed some of his belongings—like his laptop and certain gaming privileges—back to his mom. He admitted he had been acting entitled and asked what he could do to make things right.

They sat down together and talked—not just about chores, but about respect, responsibility, and how the real world works. In the end, they drew up a more reasonable “family contract” outlining expectations for both of them.

“He’s still a teenager, so we have our moments,” Heidi said, “but he understood the point. And honestly, we became closer after it.”

The Post That Went Viral
Before Aaron had even read the letter, Heidi had taken a photo of it and posted it to her Facebook page—intending to share it with a few friends for a laugh. She didn’t realize her privacy settings were on “public.”

Within hours, the post began spreading across the internet. Parents everywhere shared it, praising her for taking a stand. Others criticized her, saying she was humiliating her son or being too harsh.

The story appeared on news outlets around the world, from Parents Magazine to The Independent. It was translated into multiple languages and debated on parenting forums.

The Mother’s Defense
When the backlash hit, Heidi spoke up.

“I didn’t post it to shame him,” she explained. “I wanted him to understand that freedom comes with responsibility. If you want to be treated like an adult, you have to act like one.”

She also emphasized that she loved her son deeply and that the letter wasn’t the start of some cold war between them—it was a wake-up call.

And in the end, Aaron himself admitted it worked. “He didn’t love it at the time,” Heidi laughed, “but he got the message.”

Why the Story Resonated
Parenting experts say the letter struck a nerve because it reflects a modern struggle: raising children in a world where independence can come early—especially with online income or social media fame—but emotional maturity often lags behind.

For some parents, the letter was an empowering example of “tough love.” For others, it was a cautionary tale about publicizing private family matters.

Either way, one thing is certain: a piece of paper taped to a bedroom door became a parenting moment seen by millions.

Where They Are Now
Heidi and Aaron continued to navigate the teen years together, with more open conversations and clearer boundaries. The viral fame faded, but the lesson didn’t.

As Heidi later said:
“I don’t regret it. Parenting is about teaching our kids how to survive without us one day. If that means putting pen to paper to make the point, so be it.”

Find original post here

Hilarious Letter To Bank!!!

Dear Sir:

I am writing to thank you for bouncing my check with which I endeavored to pay my plumber last month. By my calculations, three nanoseconds must have elapsed between his presenting the check and the arrival in my account of the funds needed to honor it. I refer, of course, to the automatic monthly deposit of my entire salary, an arrangement which, I admit, has only been in place for eight years.

You are to be commended for seizing that brief window of opportunity, and also for debiting my account $50 by way of penalty for the inconvenience caused to your bank. My thankfulness springs from the manner in which this incident has caused me to rethink my errant financial ways.

I noticed that whereas I personally attend to your telephone calls and letters, when I try to contact you, I am confronted by the impersonal, overcharging, prerecorded faceless entity which your bank has become.

From now on, I, like you, choose only to deal with a flesh-and-blood person. My mortgage and loan repayments will, therefore and hereafter, no longer be automatic, but will arrive at your bank, by check, addressed personally and confidentially to an employee at your bank whom you must nominate.

Be aware that it is an offense under the Postal Act for any other person to open such an envelope. Please find attached an Application Contact Status which I require your chosen employee to complete.

I am sorry it runs to eight pages, but in order that I know as much about him or her as your bank knows about me, there is no alternative. Please note that all copies of his or her medical history must be countersigned by a Notary Public, and the mandatory details of his/her financial situation (income, debts, assets and liabilities) must be accompanied by documented proof.

In due course, I will issue your employee with a PIN number which he/she must quote in dealings with me. I regret that it cannot be shorter than 28 digits but, again, I have modeled it on the number of button presses
required to access my account balance on your phone bank service. As they say, imitation is the sincerest form of flattery.

Let me level the playing field even further. Press buttons as follows:

1.   To make an appointment to see me.
2.   To query a missing payment.
3.   To transfer the call to my living room in case I am there.
4.   To transfer the call to my bedroom in case I am sleeping.
5.   To transfer the call to my toilet in case I am attending to nature.
6.   To transfer the call to my mobile phone if I am not at home.
7.   To leave a message on my computer, a password to access my computer is required. Password will be communicated at a later date to the Authorized Contact.

8.  To return to the main menu and to listen to options 1 through 7.
9.  To make a general complaint or inquiry.

The contact will then be put on hold, pending the attention of my automated answering service. While on hold, pending the attention of my automated answering service. While this may, on occasion, involve a lengthy wait, uplifting music will play for the duration of the call.

Regrettably, but again following your example, I must also levy an establishment fee to cover the setting up of this new arrangement.

May I wish you a happy, if ever-so-slightly less prosperous New Year?

Your humble client

If you're interested - here's the origins of this very funny piece!!


The letter quoted above was one man’s method of blowing off steam at having to deal with some of these exasperating aspects of modern banking. 

It was penned by Peter Wear, a columnist for the Courier Mail in Brisbane, Australia, for that publication’s “Perspectives” column. The letter was not actually sent to a bank; it was a humor piece from start to finish, albeit one inspired by the author’s actually having had one of his checks bounce. 

Though the item did appear in an actual newspaper, it was not, however (as claimed in the Internet-circulated version’s prologue), published in the New York Times. Mr. Wear’ssardonic offering about the over-mechanized joys of banking as experienced by the consumer was written in January 1999, and since then, anonymous rewriters have been moved to alter his original to make it better fit with a primarily American audience. Compare his original to the version that later circulated (as reproduced below), which is noticeably different in several aspects:

My dear Bank Manager,

I am writing to thank you for bouncing the cheque with which I endeavoured to pay my plumber last month. By my calculations some three nano-seconds must have elapsed between his presenting the cheque, and the arrival in my account of the funds needed to honour it. I refer, of course, to the automatic monthly deposit of my entire salary, an arrangement which, I admit, has only been in place for eight years. You are to be commended for seizing that brief window of opportunity, and also for debiting my account by way of penalty for the inconvenience I caused to your bank.

My thankfulness springs from the manner in which this incident has caused me to re-think my errant financial ways. You have set me on the path of fiscal righteousness. No more will our relationship be blighted by these unpleasant incidents, for I am restructuring my affairs in 1999, taking as my model the procedures, attitudes and conduct of your very own bank. I can think of no greater compliment, and I know you will be excited and proud to hear it. To this end, please be advised about the following changes.

First, I have noticed that whereas I personally attend to your telephone calls and letters, when I try to contact you I am confronted by the impersonal, ever-changing, pre-recorded, faceless entity which your bank has become. From now on I, like you, choose only to deal with a flesh and blood person. My mortgage and loan repayments will, therefore and hereafter, no longer be automatic, but will arrive at your bank, by cheque, addressed personally and confidentially to an employee of your branch, whom you must nominate. You will be aware that it is an offence under the Postal Act for any other person to open such an envelope.

Please find attached an Application For Contact Status which I require your chosen employee to complete. I am sorry it runs to eight pages, but in order that I know as much about him or her as your bank knows about me, there is no alternative. Please note that all copies of his/her medical history must be countersigned by a Justice of the Peace, and that the mandatory details of his/her financial situation (income, debts, assets and liabilities) must be accompanied by documented proof. In due course I will issue your employee with a PIN number which he/she must quote in all dealings with me. I regret that it cannot be shorter than 28 digits but, again, I have modelled it on the number of button presses required to access my account balance on your phonebank service.

As they say, imitation is the sincerest form of flattery.

Let me level the playing field even further by introducing you to my new telephone system, which you will notice, is very much like yours. My Authorised Contact at your bank, the only person with whom I will have any dealings, may call me at any time and will be answered by an automated voice. By pressing buttons on the phone, he/she will be guided thorough an extensive set of menus:

1, to make an appointment to see me;
2, to query a missing repayment;
3, to make a general complaint or inquiry, and so on.

The contact will then be put on hold, pending the attention of my automated answering service. While this may on occasion involve a lengthy wait, uplifting music will play for the duration. This month I’ve chosen a refrain from The Best Of Woody Guthrie:

Oh, the banks are made of marble
With a guard at every door
And the vaults are filled with silver
That the miners sweated for!

After twenty minutes of that, our mutual contact will probably know if off by heart.

On a more serious note, we come to the matter of cost. As your bank has often pointed out, the ongoing drive for greater efficiency comes at a cost — a cost which you have always been quick to pass on to me. Let me repay your kindness by passing some costs back.

First, there is the matter of advertising material you send me. This I will read for a fee of $20 per A4 page. Inquiries from your nominated contact will be billed at $5 per minute of my time spent in response.

Any debits to my account, as, for example, in the matter of the penalty for the dishonoured cheque, will be passed back to you. My new phone service runs at 75 cents a minute (even Woody Guthrie doesn’t come for free), so you would be well advised to keep your inquiries brief and to the point.

Regrettably, but again following your example, I must also levy an establishment fee to cover the setting up of this new arrangement.

May I wish you a happy, if ever-so-slightly less prosperous, New Year.

Your humble client.

A Restaurant Manager Who Knows His Public Relations Because He's A Dad!

Read The Open Letter This Restaurant Manager Wrote To A Woman And Her Child Who Was Being Loud

March 14, 2016

A restaurant manager was asked by a table if he could say something to another table about the child being too loud. This is what he wants that family to know...

Left: Tony Posnanski / Right: stock photo 

To the woman and child who sat at table 9,I did not introduce myself to you.

My name is Tony Posnanski. I have been a restaurant manager for fifteen years now. My day consists of making sure my restaurant runs well. That could mean washing dishes, cooking and sometimes even serving tables. I have also dealt with every guest complaint you can imagine.

A few weeks back you came into my restaurant. I was very busy that night. I was running around helping the kitchen cook food. I was asked to talk to a table close to yours. I did and they said your child was being very loud. I heard some yelling while I was talking to that table. I heard a very loud beep from a young girl.

I started to walk to your table. You knew what I was going to ask. You saw the table I just spoke to pointing at you. I got to your table and you looked at me. You wanted the first word. You said… "Do you know what it is like to have a child with Autism?"

You were not rude when you asked the question. In fact, you were quite sincere. Your daughter could not have been more than five years old. She was beautiful and looked scared that I was at the table. She looked like she thought she was in trouble.

In fifteen years I do not have a lot of memorable moments as a restaurant manager. I remember some guests who were mad that their burger was not the way they wanted it. I remember a woman who called corporate on me because she said I gave her a regular Coke instead of a Diet Coke. I remember having to cut people off from drinking alcohol and I remember having to tell tables to have their child be quieter.

However, I do remember everything about the day my son was born. How I cried when I heard him cry. How I stood there and told him I would do anything for him and be the best father possible. I remember the day I married my wife. How I cried and promised to be the best husband possible. I remember the day my daughter was born. I did not cry that day. I was just so relieved because I lost a child two years earlier.

I know what I was supposed to say when I went to your table. I was supposed to politely tell you to please not have your daughter yell. I was supposed to offer to move you to another area. I was supposed to offend you by not offending you…

I did not do any of that.

Instead I just told you I hoped your meal was awesome. I high-fived your daughter and then I told you that your meal was on us tonight. It was only sixteen dollars. It meant more to me than that. I do not think the other guests I spoke to were happy about it. At that moment it did not matter to me.

I do not know how you reacted. I had to leave to go cook because the kitchen was not doing very good that night. When the server asked me why I bought the food I just said you did not enjoy your steak. I did not tell anyone what you said to me. I was thankful you did say it to me though.

You asked me a question that I did not answer. The truth is I do not know what it is like to have a child with Autism. I know what it is like to be a father. I know what it is like to be a husband. I know what it is like to not tell his wife how much he loves her enough. I know what it is like to want to spend more time with his children.

You asked me the question right away. You have been through this before in other restaurants. I did not want to be like other managers for one moment. I did not want to tell you what you always heard.

Honestly, I wrote this to you and your beautiful daughter because I wanted to thank you both.  You have given me a great restaurant memory. One that I needed for the last fifteen years.  You also taught me a valuable lesson…

Sometimes doing the right thing does not make everyone happy; just the people who need it the most.

Sincerely,

Tony Posnanski

A little humor About The Syria Situation - From John Cleese :-)

Oh yes, you’ll have to read this imagining a very proper English accent, with John Cleese saying it . . . Then it’s even funnier!!



The English are feeling the pinch in relation to recent events in Syria and have therefore raised their security level from "Miffed" to "Peeved." Soon, though, security levels may be raised yet again to "Irritated" or even "A Bit Cross." The English have not been "A Bit Cross" since the blitz in 1940 when tea supplies nearly ran out.

Terrorists have been re-categorized from "Tiresome" to "A Bloody Nuisance." The last time the British issued a "Bloody Nuisance" warning level was in 1588, when threatened by the Spanish Armada.

The Scots have raised their threat level from "Pissed Off" to "Let's get the Bastards." They don't have any other levels. This is the reason they have been used on the front line of the British army for the last 300 years.

The French government announced yesterday that it has raised its terror alert level from "Run" to "Hide." The only two higher levels in France are "Collaborate" and "Surrender." The rise was precipitated by a recent fire that destroyed France 's white flag factory, effectively paralyzing the country's military capability.

Italy has increased the alert level from "Shout Loudly and Excitedly" to "Elaborate Military Posturing." Two more levels remain: "Ineffective Combat Operations" and "Change Sides."

The Germans have increased their alert state from "Disdainful Arrogance" to "Dress in Uniform and Sing Marching Songs." They also have two higher levels: "Invade a Neighbour" and "Lose."

Belgians, on the other hand, are all on holiday as usual; the only threat they are worried about is NATO pulling out of Brussels ..

The Spanish are all excited to see their new submarines ready to deploy. These beautifully designed subs have glass bottoms so the new Spanish navy can get a really good look at the old Spanish navy.

Australia, meanwhile, has raised its security level from "No worries" to "She'll be right, Mate." Two more escalation levels remain: "Crikey! I think we'll need to cancel the barbie this weekend!" and "The barbie is cancelled." So far no situation has ever warranted use of the last final escalation level.

Regards,
John Cleese ,
British writer, actor and tall person


 And as a final thought - Greece is collapsing, the Iranians are getting aggressive, and Rome is in disarray. Welcome back to 430 BC.


 Life is too short...

ABC - THE PRACTICE - Email Exchange

Jim Neugent, a Coach In Mena ARK Writes To ABC Network -

My name is Jim Neugent. I wrote to ABC (on-line) concerning a program called 'THE PRACTICE.' In last nights episode, one of the lawyer's mothers decided she is gay and wanted her son to go to court and help her get a marriage license so she could marry her 'partner.' I sent the following letter to ABC yesterday and really did not expect a reply, but I did get one.


My original message was:
ABC is obsessed with the subject of homosexuality. I will no longer watch any of your attempts to convince the world that homosexuality is OK. ' THE PRACTICE' can be a fairly good show, but last night's program was so typical of your agenda. You picked the 'dufus' of the office to be the one who was against the idea of his mother being gay, and made him look like a whiner because he had convictions. This type of mentality calls people like me a 'gay basher.'

Read the first chapter of Romans (that's in the Bible); and see what the apostle Paul had to say about it..... He, God and Jesus were all 'gay bashers'. What if she'd fallen in love with her cocker spaniel? Is that an alternative life style? (By the way, the Bible speaks against that, too.)
--Jim Neugent


Here is ABC's reply from the ABC on-line webmaster:

How about getting your nose out of the Bible (which is ONLY a book of stories compiled by MANY different writers hundreds of years ago) and read the declaration of independence (what our nation is built on), where it says 'All Men are Created equal,' and try treating them that way for a change!

Or better yet, try thinking for yourself and stop using an archaic book of stories as your lame crutch for your existence. You are in the minority in this country, and your boycott will not affect us at ABC or our freedom of statement.


Jim Neugent's second response to ABC:

Thanks for your reply. From your harsh reply, evidently I hit a nerve. I will share it with all whom I come in contact. Hopefully, the Arkansas Democrat Newspaper will include it in one of their columns and I will be praying for you.
-Jim Neugent- -


Note: Wouldn't Satan just love it if people stopped using the Bible for a crutch?
Please resend this to everyone in your mailbox.
Jim Neugent

I wonder if the person from ABC considered how many people would eventually read this e-mail!.
Please,if you are a Christian,pass this on to others so they may be aware.
WE NEED TO SAVE WHAT WE HAVE LEFT OF THIS COUNTRY!

You're Up Sister!

You're up, Sister! 

I Thought you could use a hug.

It's on you, Sis 

Be the kind of woman that when your feet hit the ground 

each morning the devil says, 

"OH CRAP, SHE'S UP"!!!! 

Dear God: 

This is my friend, whom I love and this is my prayer for her: 

Help her live her life to the fullest. 

Please promote her and cause her to excel 

above her expectations. 

Help her to shine in the darkest places 

where it is impossible to love. 

Protect her at all times, 

lift her up when she needs you the most, 

and 

let her know when she walks with you, 

She will always be safe. 

Love you Girl!

Do not ask the Lord to guide your footsteps. 

if you are not willing to move your feet.

HAPPY MOTHER'S DAY


WANTED:  A REAL MOTHER


Mary King sat before the dressing table in her bedroom holding in her hands a string of beads  - pearls they were - but they showed signs of much wear, and as Mary looked at them her eyes blazed with anger.

Tomorrow was her graduation day from high school. All day she had been at the class picnic and had had such a glorious time. They had danced and played, they had rowed on the lake and sent their high school songs in the moonlight. She had been happy as a girl could be, and to have it spoiled in this way was cruel.

Why should her mother give her a string of old beads for a graduation present? Other girls had wrist watches, pretty dresses, checks, and all sorts of beautiful things. When they asked her what her mother's gift had been, how could she say, "A string of old beads?" Mother would expect her to wear them at their graduation, how could she?

She had found them on her table when she came into her room, with them was a note saying:

Dear Mary,

I waited for you to come home so that I could give you my gift, but it is so late and I am too tired to wait any longer, so I will leave it for you. I could not buy you a real gift, so I have given you the dearest thing I have. Every bead has a story which some day I will tell you-perhaps on the day you graduate from college, but not now. I hope you will love them as I do. I shall see them tomorrow on your pretty new dress. Good night, girlie. I hope you had a good time.

Mother

Why was mother so queer? All her life it had been hard for Mary to have her mother so different. Her mother worked for Mr. Morse and so she could never bring her friends to their rooms, lest she should annoy the Morses. Other girls' mothers had pretty faces, and her mother's face was all red and cross-looking. Other girls' mothers had pretty hair, but her mother had straight hair and little of it. She had tried to get her to wear false hair, but instead of doing it, her mother had gone to her room and cried because Mary had suggested it. Other girls' mothers let them wear pretty clothes but hers were always plain, though they were always very neat. Most of the girls had fancy new graduation dresses, but hers was only a little dimity that her mother had made-and now these dreadful beads were more than she could stand and she threw them on the bed in anger. She wished she had a "real mother" of whom she could be proud.

As she started to take down her long wavy hair, she saw a letter in Mr. Morse's handwriting on her desk. Perhaps it was a check for her graduation present, so she hastily tore it open. But no check dropped out. Instead there was a long letter, and she sat down to read.

"My dear Mary," it began. "A few days ago, I chanced to be on the beach when you were there with your friend, and I heard you say to her, "I wish my mother were as beautiful as yours. Mother can't even go down the street with me for she drags her foot so that everybody turns and looks at us, and it makes me feel so conspicuous. You must be very proud of your mother." So I have decided that for your graduation, I shall give you a story instead of the check that I had intended to give you. The  check can wait."

"A story," said Mary to herself. "That is worse than the old beads. What a house of queer people this is! Anyway, I am curious to see what sort of story he could write."

So she read on.

"Seventeen years ago there came to town in the eastern part of Pennsylvania a young man and his bride. Just a slip of a girl she was, but her face was full of sunshine, and everyone soon loved her. She had beautiful, wavy hair and bright, blue eyes and a cheery smile. After they had been there for a while, their story came to be known, for his father was a great mill owner in a nearby town. When the young man had married the high school girl instead of the wealthy one whom the father had chosen for him, there had been a lot of trouble and the young man had been told to leave home with his bride and expect no more help from the father.

"Now the young man had never worked, so it was very hard for him, but she also worked and, little by little, they bought the things needed in the tiny home on the hill, and they were very happy. Then, one day a scaffold fell and they brought the young husband to the little wife all bruised and bleeding. And that very night a tiny baby girl came to the home to live. The neighbors helped all they could, but in a few days the father of the baby was gone, and the little girl-wife was left alone to care for the baby.

When the mill-owner heard of the death of the son and the birth of the little girl, he sent to the mother and said, "We will take the little girl, and bring her up as our own if you will give her to us and have no more to do with her." But the brave little woman sent back her answer,  "As long as I have a mind with which to think and two hands with which to work, I can and will support my little girl."

"But it was a hard pull. She worked in an office; she worked on a farm. Then a position was offered her as a teacher in a home for children. Here she could have her own room and keep the baby with her. When she was not teaching, it would be cared for with the others. Gladly, the mother took the position and for more than a year she was very, very happy.

"One night when the baby was nearly three years old, she sat reading in the parlor of the home when someone called, "Fire, Fire! Fire in the left wing!" Oh! That was where her baby was, on the very top floor. Like a bird she flew across the hall where the smoke was already pouring out. Up the first flight, choking, she went. Up the second. Then she had to fall to the floor to creep along. She could see the fire. It was on the fourth floor where Mary was. Could she ever reach it? Would the fire block her way?

"Ten minutes after the call of fire had been given, the workers saw someone staggering through the lower hall. In her arms she carried a bundle wrapped tightly in a quilt. And dangling from her hands was a long string of beads. Her face was burned. Their was no hair on her head. She was writhing in agony, but she reached the door, handed the burden to the worker, saying quietly, "I am badly burned, but I have saved my two treasures. Keep them safe for me!" Then she fell in a heap on the floor.

"For months and months she tossed on a bed of pain. No one thought she could possibly live. But she did, for she was living for her baby. When at last she came from the hospital, her beautiful face scarred and red; only in spots had her hair grown back; her hands were stiff and painful; and one leg dragged as she walked. But she was alive, and that was all she asked.

"While she had been ill, I had gone to see the mill-owner to ask for help for the brave little woman who had shown us all what a heroine she was. But his answer had been, "If she will give the child to me, I will bring it up in luxury, but I will not have her here."

"So when she was ready to go back to work, I told her that another offer had come from the grandfather of the child to adopt it and I said to her, "Don't you feel that you had better give him the baby?"

"For answer she patted the curly head and said, "If I can fight death for my baby, I can conquer in the fight to live. I shall keep her. You may tell him that the child will not live in luxury but that she shall not know want, and she shall have both the education and the culture which befits her fathers child.

"But the mother's heart was sore when she looked in the glass and saw what a pitiful change had come to her pretty face. "I am glad it came while Mary was little," she said. "Had it come later, she would have minded my ugly face. Now she knows no better and she will grow used to it.

"So she was glad when I offered to have her come to live with us in the distant city where none had known of her or of that awful fight she was planning to make. We had taken a large house and there were many things the mother could do with her stiff hands which gradually, because of the long hours she spent on them, were beginning to limber up a bit. I gave her rooms for herself and the child, and there she lived, keeping away from all so that none might see her shrunken, changed body. She lived only for the child, hoarding carefully the little money she could save lest there be not enough to send her to college when high school would be over.

"Often have I heard her praying for strength to fight through the battle. Often have I begged her to let me tell the child the story of the days that had gone, but her answer was always the same, "No. Let her live the happy, carefree life. Someday I will tell her, but not now. It would kill me to have her pity me. She must love me for myself and not for what I did. My only happiness is to live and work for her".

"So the heroine had spent 15 years, and to my way of thinking, she is a mother of whom you may be proud.

"She must never know I have told you. But not for the world would I have you add to her burden by thinking she was not all that you wanted your mother to be.

Sincerely, A.E. Morse"

When Mary had finished the letter, she sat as one stunned. Her mind was on fire. Mechanically she picked up the pearls that she had thrown on the bed. Her mother had carried them with her through that awful fire! They were one of her two treasures, and she had almost said she would not wear them. Oh, what a selfish girl she had been! She had thought only of herself.

Once she had asked her mother why the scar was upon her face and she had answered, "Just an accident, child, when I was a young woman." Then she had talked of something else. The lame foot, the misshapen hands, the red face, the queer little knot of hair were all the price paid for her child's life. Every minute since she was born, she had been a burden to her mother.

Now she remembered that it had been years since mother had had a new dress, but she had thought it because she was queer. There had been many days when mother had seemed cross! What could she do to make her happy, now that she knew?

Slowly she prepared for bed. She must be in the dark to think. When she knelt in prayer, she asked God to forgive her-but she remembered that she could not ask her mother to do so. She remembered the words of her mother to Mr. Morse, "It would kill me to have her feel sorry for me. She must love me for myself and not for what I did."

She tossed and tumbled as the time slipped by. Suddenly she heard a foot dragging across the hall, and a big lump came into her throat. How often she had rebelled at that foot. Then her mother came quietly into the room. "Mother," said Mary, "Why are you here? Aren't you asleep yet?"

"No, dear," she said, and the girl thought she had never heard a more beautiful voice. I heard you tossing in bed and I thought perhaps you were ill so I came to see. What is the trouble, dear?"

"Oh, tomorrow is my graduation day and I think I am sorry to leave school, "said the girl. "I love these dear little beads which I have under the pillow, Mother. Have you had them long? I never saw them before".

"Many, many years, girlie. Your father gave them to me and how hard he worked to earn them. I love every little bead on the string. But I shall love to see you wear them for his sake. I saved them for you once in the long ago because I wanted you to have something that he had earned for us. And now you just go to sleep, for you must look bright and pretty tomorrow. Oh! I shall be so proud of you when you receive your diploma!"

Then a white arm drew the mother down close to the bed and a sweet girlish voice said: "Be all ready when the carriage comes for me tomorrow, Mother dear, for you are going with me, even though it is  early. No other girl has had a mother who worked so hard as you have to keep her in school. You are the best mother in the whole world and I am so proud of you."

"Well, if you are as proud of me as I am of you, we are the happiest little family in the whole world," said the mother, kissing her on both cheeks.

And two people were happy because real love was there.


Click Here to see "Simple Truths:  Heart of a Mother - The Beauty of a Mother's Love" By Paula J. Fox.  A beautiful video of quotes about mothers.

Click Here to see last years Mother' Day Post.

DEAR IRS . . .

One brave soul actually sent this letter to the IRS, and after some research . . . I believe it to to be true.

Dear IRS,

I am sorry to inform you that I will  not be able to pay taxes owed April 15, but all is not lost.

I have paid these taxes: accounts receivable tax, building permit tax, CDL tax,  cigarette tax, corporate income tax, dog licence tax, federal income tax, unemployment tax,  gasoline tax, hunting licence tax, fishing licence tax, waterfowl stamp tax, inheritance tax,  inventory tax, liquor tax, luxury tax, medicare  tax, city, school and county property tax (up 33 percent last 4 years), real estate tax, social  security tax, road usage tax, toll road tax, state  and city sales tax, recreational vehicle tax,  state franchise tax, state unemployment tax,  telephone federal excise tax, telephone federal  state and local surcharge tax, telephone minimum  usage surcharge tax, telephone state and local  tax, utility tax, vehicle licence registration tax, capitol gains tax, lease severance tax, oil  and gas assessment tax, property tax, Texas, Colorado, Wyoming, Oklahoma and New Mexico sales  tax, and many more that I can't recall but I have  run out of space and money.

When you do not receive my check April 15, just know that it is an honest mistake. Please  treat me the same way you treated Congressmen Charles Rangle, Chris Dodd, Barney Frank and  ex-Congressman Tom Dashelle and, of course, your boss Timothy Geithner. No penalties and no interest.


P.S.  I will make at least a partial payment as soon as I get my stimulus check.

Ed Barnett, Wichita Falls
(A REAL  LETTER)

Unfortunately, I did not put dates when I saved these email forwards on my word files . . . and often they had already been circulating around awhile anyway.  But the best date I can find for this email forward is in March of 2009.

A Letter to God - Take Care of My Dog

Our 14 year old dog, Abbey, died last month. The day after she died, my 4 year old daughter Meredith was crying and talking about how much she missed Abbey. She asked if we could write a letter to God so that when Abbey got to heaven, God would recognize her. She dictated and I wrote:

Dear God,

Will you please take special care of our dog, Abbey? She died yesterday and is in heaven. We miss her very much. We are happy that you let us have her as our dog even though she got sick. I hope that you will play with her.

She liked to play with balls and swim before she got sick.

I am sending some pictures of her so that when you see her in heaven you will know she is our special dog. But I really do miss her.

Love, Meredith Claire

P.S. Mommy wrote the words after I told them to her.

We put that in an envelope with two pictures of Abbey, and addressed it to God in Heaven. We put our return address on it. Then Meredith stuck some stamps on the front (because, as she said, it may take lots of stamps to get a letter all the way to heaven) and that afternoon I let her drop it into the letter box at the post office.

For a few days, she would ask if God had gotten the letter yet. I told her that I thought He had.

---------------

A Few days later there was a package wrapped in gold paper on our front porch. Curious, I went to look at it. It had a gold star card on the front and said  "To Meredith" in an unfamiliar hand. Meredith took it in and opened it.

Inside was a book by Mr. Rogers, "When a Pet Dies". Taped to the inside front cover was the letter we had written to God, in its opened envelope (which was marked Return to Sender:  Insufficient address). On the opposite page, one of the pictures of Abbey was taped under the words "For Meredith".  We turned to the back cover, and there was the other picture of Abbey, and this handwritten note on pink paper:

Dear Meredith,

I know that you will be happy to know that Abbey arrived safely and soundly in Heaven! Having the pictures you sent to me was such a big help. I recognized Abbey right away. You know, Meredith, she isn't sick anymore. Her spirit is here with me--just like she stays in your heart--young and running and playing. Abbey loved being your dog, you know.

Since we don't need our bodies in heaven, I don't have any pockets!-- so I can't keep your beautiful letter. I am sending it to you with the pictures so that you will have this book to keep and remember Abbey.

One of my angels is taking care of this for me. I hope the little book helps. Thank you for the beautiful letter. Thank your mother for sending it.  What a wonderful mother you have! I picked her especially for you.

I send my blessings every day and remember that I love you very much.

By the way, I am in heaven but wherever there is love, I am there also.

Love, God and the special angel who wrote this after God told her the words.