SHARING MY BIG GULP WITH ROVER

 

4213

I drove a big brown UPS delivery truck for twenty years, and was never happier than when I pulled into the local hub for the last time on October 23, 1997. As I coasted into that same old space where I always parked # 59299, along with the great captain of our souls, I might well have uttered,

“It is finished.”

Oddly enough, now two decades into my retirement, I am still delivering packages for “the greatest ship in the shipping business” but only… in my dreams. For at least once a month, in that ethereal nether world we call sleep, I find myself with a few packages whose addresses I don’t recognize; and running desperately late.

Years earlier, as a matter of fact closer to the beginning, than the ending of my tenure, my route included both businesses and residences in one quadrant of a small city, And several times a month my deliveries included street numbers on 5th Street, SE. I can tell you that 5th Street, SE was very much like any other street in "Winter Haven," (the location of the famous "Cypress Gardens,") with one exception.

… a pesky, non-descript dog which chased my truck every time I rolled past the house, (or more succinctly, the yard) in which he resided.

And I can tell you, I wearied of my frequent confrontation with the little mongrel. To my credit, however, I did not run the beast into the ground, as a truck driver once did my own dog. Nevertheless, I formulated a plan of attack.

There just happened to be a 7-11 located near the infamous site of my all-too frequent encounters with “Rover.” And on a particular day when I was scheduled to deliver a couple of packages “on the street where he lived” I pulled into the parking lot of that convenience store, hopped down the steps of my vehicle, walked into the door, stepped up to the beverage machine, pulled a “Big Gulp” cup from the holder, placed it under the ice dispenser, and finally, filled it to the brim with syrupy, brown Coca-Cola.

Returning to my truck, I hopped back up the steps from whence I came, sat down, buckled my seat belt, started the engine, and aimed my truck towards my next destination. I suppose if I’d given my mission a code name, it might well have been

… Destination Dog

As I approached my little friend’s grassy hangout, I saw him rush into the road, and suddenly he was “neck and neck” with the front tire of my truck. However, unlike dozens of those previous animate/inanimate races which had transpired in the past, this time, rather than applying the gas, I applied the brake, turned off the ignition, grabbed the Big Gulp, rushed down the steps, chased down old Rover, and

… poured that nice, brown, syrupy mess all over the poor pooch!

And never so much as looking back, I retraced my path to the truck, hopped up the steps, mounted the driver’s seat, strapped the seat belt around me, turned on the ignition, and drove away; leaving the hapless critter “to his own devices.”

Needless to say, dear readers, old Rover never chased # 59299 again.

(And I think I know why)!

Post-Script - Speaking of dreaming UPS dreams...

Last night after I finished writing the previous article, I walked into my dark bedroom, reached into a laundry basket which contains several dozen pair of socks of various types and colors, blindly grabbed a pair, and slipped them on. Only to wake up a few minutes ago and discover I was wearing the one remaining pair of UPS monogrammed socks which remain from that era so long ago.

 by Bill McDonald, PhD

ASHES

 4212

I walked into my wife's bedroom this evening to tell her "Good Night," and based on something I said, or perhaps my demeanor, she responded with,

"Cheer up. You could be ashes by now."

With this, I replied,

"Oh, I will be."

Earlier, she and I had been talking about our advancing age. Each of us are turning 75 this year. I had made reference to my parents who each passed away at the age of 85, and said,

"Well, we have all of 10 years left!"

And to be fair, each of us are even closer to the average "check out" age; men at 78 or 79, and women at 82 or 83.

And given the foregoing statistics, "Mrs. Fairfax's" words in the novel, "Jane Eyre" immediately came to mind.

"What to do? What to do?"

I can tell you, I had no ready mental response for the question. Ponce de Leon's quest for The Fountain of Youth was fruitless. Plastic surgeons can only address the symptoms of age with a nip here, and a tuck there. There are no time machines.

Speaking of slowing down the passage of time, there is an actual dynamic in which time slows down, or at least the perception of time seems to slow down. 

I expect we have all "been there" at one time or another. This dynamic occurs when a person finds themselves in a potentially catastrophic situation, and in the space of seconds, a decision must be made in which to escape the potentially harmful results of the dilemma. I had often wondered about this scenario 'til I found the explanation in something I read. It seems that our brains are processing so much information in such a small amount of time that time SEEMS to slow down.

It's an interesting dynamic. But it's only a perception. 

Scripture tells us that, "It is appointed unto man once to die..." (Hebrews 9:27)

And yet, even with this certain knowledge... having seen friends and loved ones precede us in death, even as believers, we hang onto the only life we know, and attempt to escape thoughts related to our demise, and of the life to come.

I think it is because this life seems so tangible and knowable, and the life to come seems so intangible and unknowable. And yet, it is the life to come which is so real, and permanent, and it is the life we know that is, ultimately, so intangible, and momentary.

God give us the wherewithal to grasp the truth of this knowledge, and to get a proper perspective of this life, and the life which is to come; to enjoy the years which He has afforded us on this earth, and to use those years to impact those whom God sets in our pathway; with the sure and certain realization that, as believers, this is NOT all there is, and that the presence of our Savior, and the glories of heaven await us in the not so distant future.

by Bill McDonald, PhD 

THE SERVED AND THEY WHO SERVE

 4211

I recently viewed an excellent, ‘star-studded’ movie, “The Butler.” It was loosely based on the life of a long-time White House butler by the name of Eugene Allen; a black man who served in that position for 34 years.

 

In the movie the somewhat composite character, “Cecil Gaines,” serves throughout the course of eight presidential administrations; beginning with Truman and ending with Reagan. 

 

And we, as it were, stand in the shadows and watch as Cecil hands out cookies to visiting children, dusts the bookshelves in the Oval Office, shines the shoes of various members of the First Family, and serves at state dinners. 

 

Perhaps it goes without saying, but Eugene, (aka Cecil) began his White House career during the height of the Civil Rights Movement, and as the scenes and dialogue of the movie play out, there are a myriad of allusions to the racial tension and innuendo of that time period. In one poignant scene our butler makes President Reagan aware of a 40 percent pay differential which then existed between the wages of the white and black staff. And, (at least as the movie portrays it) their conversation represents the catalyst by which African-American employees of the White House began to receive more equitable pay.

 

Ultimately, Cecil makes this same president aware of his plans to retire which leads Nancy R., (aka Jane Fonda) to, in short order, locate his whereabouts, and ask a leading question.

 

“Cecil, you will be at the state dinner for Chancellor Kohl of Germany, will you not?”

 

To which her humble servant responds,

 

“Well, yes, Mrs. Reagan. I serve at all the state dinners.”

 

The conversation continues.

 

“No, Cecil. I’m not talking about serving. I’m talking about being served. President Reagan and I would like you and your wife to be our guests that night.”

The butler could hardly believe his ears.

 

“Me? My wife? Mrs. Reagan, I don’t know what to say!”

 

Nancy smiled.

 

“Just say, ‘yes’ and make plans to join us, Cecil. God knows, you deserve it. And buy your wife a fancy dress. I guarantee this will be ‘the highlight of your twilight,’ my dear man.”

 

As the movie nears its conclusion, Cecil, (portrayed by Forest Whitaker) and “Gloria,” his wife, (portrayed by Oprah Winfrey) find themselves seated opposite the Reagan’s, and the Kohl’s at a long table decorated with the finest dinnerware; and attended by black waiters in tuxedo’s. 

 

I hasten to add that while the movie, “The Butler” was guilty of numerous errors, and fabrications, the inclusion of the real life, Eugene Allen and his wife, Helene at Chancellor Kohl’s state dinner was not one of them. For you see, this particular scene is based upon fact.

 

As we linger off camera, we behold the extravagance of the entire affair. A multiplicity of guests of rank and honor. A comparatively smaller number of the most proficient of White House butlers. 

 

The servers and they who are served.

 

One of Cecil’s understudies, (and his close friend) bends to whisper in his ear,

 

“More champagne, Mr. Gaines?”

 

To which the chief butler responds,

 

“Shut up, with that ‘Mr. Gaines’ stuff.”

 

And as our humble hero ponders the laviousness and solemnity of the occasion, and considers those with whom he has (momentarily) been blessed to “rub shoulders,” he reflects,

 

“It was different sitting
at the table instead of serving it.
…Real different.
I could see the two faces
the butlers wore to survive.
And I knew I'd lived my life
with those same two faces.

Gloria looked so happy,
but I didn't feel the same way.
I guess I wished we were there
for real …instead of for show.”

 

Two faces

 

Speaking of ‘two faces…’ 

 

In a previous story I alluded to having administered a DNA test to my mother, only one week before she left us; the results of which I learned a couple of months later. As mama contributed her spittle to a little tube, she said something she had never confided in me before.

"People used to ask me if I was part black."

Apparently, she was preparing me for the results which she didn't live long enough to see.

 

As I scrolled through the results of the test, my eyes fixed on one minute bit of information.

 

While the large majority, 98.2 percent, of my mother’s ancestors, hailed from Great Britain and Western Europe, 1.8 percent originated …in Sub-Saharan Africa, and more specifically, Western Africa; from whence multiplied millions of hapless and helpless men and women, boys and girls began their unwilling journey to the Americas, and the forced labor, oppression and humiliation which awaited them there. (Interestingly enough, the State of Mississippi still observed 'The One Drop Rule' into the 70’s; in which anyone who had the slightest trace of African-American heritage was classified as such. And even more interesting, at least in terms of an implication of how I might have been classified, is that while I was involved in my military training, I lived and served for a short time in Mississippi during that era).

Two faces

 

Eugene Allen, the real life character upon which “The Butler” was based, found himself, during his lifetime, among them who served. It was only after he was, unexpectedly, provided the opportunity to “sit with royalty” that he was afforded the privilege of being served; (which, subsequently, cast his servers in a light to which he had never before been privy).

 

Two faces

 

I, on the other hand, have lived out my entire lifetime as a member of a racial group who, perhaps, think of themselves as they who “sit at the table.” Granted, as an adolescent I witnessed the cessation of “separate, but equal,” public schools, segregated transportation, and white and black water fountains, restrooms and restaurants.

 

My siblings and I grew up as members of what might have, at that time, be characterized as the upper middle class. At least we had a maid, a beloved old, (or so it seemed to me at the time) black woman named, Etta Ponder.

 

I have, admittedly, “sat at the table.”

 

The served, and they who serve.

 

My friends, I can tell you that the realization that one of my distant grandfathers or grandmothers was African-American, and endured the rigors and humiliation of a voyage across the Atlantic Ocean, and delivered into the bonds of slavery has cast a new light on the privileged position I have thus far enjoyed.

 

And as a result, I have experienced something rather akin to the unique circumstance of which our humble server was afforded; as he sat among ranks of the served.

 

However, I think the diametrical opposite played itself out here.

 

For you see, I, if only in my imagination, and for the briefest of moments, found myself among the ranks of them who serve.

by Bill McDonald, PhD

PROPHECY IN WEST VIRGINIA

4210

Recently, I replicated a pilgrimage which my wife and I make to West Virginia and Kentucky on a bi-annual basis, as two of my daughters live in this region. However, since it had been quite some time since my son, Steve, had seen his sisters, and with Jean's concurrence, I invited him to accompany me.

 

While in West Virginia, I always stay in one of the only two hotels in Oak Hill, the Comfort Inn. Though the price definitely isn't right, (and I understand it is about to double) it is nice enough, and they provide a courtesy breakfast, thus I have found little or no reason to pursue another venue.

 

Speaking of breakfast, one morning while we were at the Comfort Inn, and enjoying our meal, a young family walked in. Father and mother looked to be about 35 years of age, and they were accompanied by a little boy. Having served themselves from the buffet, they sat down at the next table , and began to eat. However, their son seemed more interested in socializing with yours truly.

 

Stepping up to me, he smiled, lifted his right hand and presented three fingers, while verbalizing the same.

 

"I'm three!"

 

Returning "Billy's" smile I responded with,

 

"I'm sixty-eight!"

 

And then, so reminiscent of a passage from Luke Chapter Two, in which Simeon encounters Joseph and Mary and the child, Jesus in the Temple, (and for no apparent reason, except Providence), I said,

 

"You will live a very long life."

 

(and)

 

"You will do wonderful things!"

 

I cannot tell you where my words came from. And I can only wonder what the toddler's parents may have thought about my prophetic utterance.

 

Of this, however, I am sure. Before He breathed the worlds into place, or ever the sun and moon were flung into space, our Lord knew each of us by name, and dreamed some pretty magnificent dreams for each and every one of us.

 

Yes, I am sure of it.

 

I don't expect to ever see that precious little tot again, and he will almost assuredly live into the next century, (while I will not). Nonetheless, I think God has some pretty marvelous plans for him, and somehow I'm convinced he will accomplish some pretty wonderful things.

by Bill McDonald, PhD

PERSONAL PARALYSIS

 4209

I have previously reflected on the following experience, but not having ready access to that story among far too many files, and far too little time, I feel inclined to reflect on it again.

A few years ago I decided to trim my neighbor’s tree. Generally, I would not have been quite so altruistic, but the limbs of the tree hung over my driveway, and as spring approached each year a healthy supply of oak pollen showered my car, and the pavement upon which it was parked.

And since there was a basketball post just beneath the offending tree, it seemed good to me to prop my straight ladder against it, and having done so, I set about the task at hand.

Did I mention round posts and straight ladders are altogether incompatible? (Well, they are).

Suddenly, the ladder accomplished a task for which it was never intended. It became mobile. And I became its unintended pilot. Given the choice to ride the thing to the ground, or jump, I chose the latter.

And as I “winged my way to worlds unknown” I chose to land upright, (or something approximating it) and twisted my body just enough in my failed flight to the concrete to land on my right foot.

I knew. I just knew

My ankle was broken

After lying there a moment, and using my car for leverage, I stood upon my left foot, hop-scotched to my front door, opened it, and made my wife aware of my injury.

Fast forward several weeks, and I found myself in a prep room at Tampa General Hospital preparing to have my ankle reconstructed; since it was not only broken, but it was badly shattered.

Just prior to being wheeled into the operating room a nurse administered an injection to my right thigh, and explained that shortly thereafter my leg would develop a state of paralysis, and that when I awoke I would experience this condition for several hours prior to the restoration of feeling.

As she predicted, when I came to I was provided an entre into a state of being to which I had never before been privy.

For a full 65 years I had enjoyed complete use of all four limbs. Suddenly, I was short one. Initially, my paralytic experience was nothing more, nothing less than interesting. The natural scheme of things in which we move, and live and have our being had been interrupted. Perhaps if I expended a little more thought, a little more will power I could lift my leg an inch off the bed. (Well,… no). Perhaps if I focused all my energies on my little toe, I could wiggle that tiny digit. (Nice try).

Nothing. Nada. Zero. Zilch

By this time I had gone from being an interested observer to a concerned participant.

I imagined the worst. I mean, I could just see myself being discharged in this condition, and having to use a cane the last third of my life; while all the while dragging a useless limb behind me.

Alarmed, I spoke,

“Nurse, uh, you’re probably aware that my leg is paralyzed. Uhmm, does this sorta thing ever go wrong? Is there any chance I’m stuck with this dead leg for the duration?”

“Nurse Simms” assured me that the paralysis would abate, and that I’d regain complete sensation and mobility in the limb within a few hours.”

And true to her word, that is exactly how things fell together.

My nephew, his name was “Wade,” was born with a malady referred to as “Spina Bifida.” While he had some use of his arms and hands, his legs and feet were paralyzed from birth, and he was dependent on a wheelchair throughout his all too brief life. And though Wade endured countless surgeries, and a significant amount of pain and humiliation, he never seemed to complain, and it was if the angels had loaned him a permanent smile.

During the two decades Providence allowed Wade to grace this planet, I sympathized for and with him. However, it was only after his death, and my subsequent injury, surgery and (temporary) paralysis that I could truly empathize; since it was only after my own experience that I had any real hope of understanding what ‘til then was beyond my understanding.

I think this is a major reason Jesus came to the earth. In the eons which preceded God assuming human form, and adding the three letter suffix, “man” to His title, He had never been subject to flesh, frailty, fatigue or the limits of time and space. Suddenly, having purposely limited Himself, He was given personal access to the human condition; in a manner not heretofore possible.

Having experienced momentary paralysis I can empathize with the disabled in a way that I could have never hoped to do before the event.

Having taken on flesh and having lived among us, I am confident that our Lord Jesus Christ was afforded the wherewithal to empathize with mankind in a manner in which He had never before been able.

My favorite passage of scripture speaks to this concept, and my personal experience which I have just recounted causes it to be that much more precious to me.

“We have not a High Priest who cannot be touched with the feelings of our infirmities, but He was in all points tempted as we are; yet without sin.

Let us come boldly to the throne of grace that we may receive mercy for our failures, and grace to help in the time of need.” (Hebrews 4:15-16)

 by Bill McDonald, PhD

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

THE LITTLE JANITOR GOT PROMOTED

 

4208

I transferred to Southeastern Bible College in 1968; having finished my freshman year at a local community college, and commuting from my family home fifteen miles away.

During my tenure at SEBC, (the students referred to the school as "Essie Bessie"), I found it necessary to take on a part-time job. And given the convenience of both attending and working at the college, I applied for a janitorial job there. I was hired "post haste."

I worked for a good man named Dwight Redus, the college maintenance director. As one might expect, he "showed me the ropes" before "leaving me to my own devices."

My primary duties involved sweeping and mopping the men's and women's dormitories a couple times a week, and cleaning the bathrooms in these two buildings on a daily basis. (The campus and its student population were much smaller then with just 500 students. Almost sixty years later, Southeastern University boasts numerous dormitories and perhaps 7,500 students).

Among all my memories involving that job position, two stand out among all the rest.

The men's bathroom

Four toilets. Side by side. NO DIVIDERS!

I felt badly for the residential students. Every time I cleaned the toilets, I could not help but think, "How gross!"

The women's dormitory

Each and every time I walked through the front (or back) door of the women's dorm, I was required to yell,

"Man in the hall!!!"

During the course of several months that I faithfully fulfilled my janitorial duties, the most provocative thing I ever witnessed was a young lady running from the hallway to her room in her slip.

Ultimately, I procured an off campus job position with the... United States Air Force. (I came back a decade later and finally finished my undergraduate degree).

A few years after the 20th century gave way to the 21st century, a church friend of mine happened to be the current Dean of the College of Education at Southeastern University. By this time, I had completed my Master's and Doctoral degrees in Counseling, and had served as a pastoral counselor for a decade and a half, and Dr. Bennett thought I would be a good fit for an adjunct professor position in his department.

In spite of my previous preparation, I debated my suitability. And perhaps my hesitation was a healthy approach to my friend's offer. (As it fell together, I need not have been all that concerned).

Fast forward two and a half decades, and just short of forty years since I began my sophomore year at old "Essie Bessie," I had been, unexpectedly, rehired and promoted by this center of academic excellence. (Yes, I was).

I attended Southeastern Bible College. I graduated from Southeastern College. I taught at Southeastern University.

Not only was I privileged to serve in two different capacities at my illustrious alma mater, but I expect I hold "the world record" for the length of elapsed time between those two job positions. I began as a young student of 19 on a campus which looked like a WWII Army post, and returned as a faculty member approaching 60 to one of the most beautiful university campuses in the nation.

I can truthfully say that the opportunity to impact hundreds of deserving young people during the course of seven semesters was among the richest experiences of my life!

The little janitor got promoted.

by Bill McDonald, PhD

COMFORTING A STRANGER IN AN EMPTY PARKING LOT

 4207

A few years ago, my little female Shih Tzu Queenie was scheduled for her annual checkup, and I made an appointment with my local vet to examine her. And on a given day I put her in the car, and we drove the five miles which lay between my house and the clinic.

And as I pulled into the empty clinic parking lot, and parked in front of the building, I compared the sign in the window and the time on my watch, and realized neither the vet, nor his staff had arrived for the day. At least, I thought, we will be the first in line.

However, the passage of sixty seconds challenged my persuasion since now a late model sedan pulled in beside my car. Glancing to my right, I noticed a young lady of perhaps thirty, and a somewhat scrawny, non-descript brown hound in the seat beside her.

And in the course of a few moments, I noticed a tear roll down her left cheek, and then it seemed she stifled a sob. Well, if you even remotely know me, I am incapable of watching another human being (or animal, for that matter) suffer, and not do something about it.

Pt. 2

Leaving Queenie in the passenger seat, I opened my car door, walked around the automobile, and now stood next to the young lady’s half open window.

Brushing away her tears, the surprised stranger looked up and me, and, no doubt, wondered if I had an ulterior motive.

I spoke first.

“I don’t mean to bother you, Miss, but I noticed you were upset, and wondered if I could help in some way.”

To which the young lady replied,

“Oh, hi. My little Webster is very sick. He developed Parvo and I brought him here, and Dr. Myers gave him antibiotics. However, whatever he prescribed for him didn’t touch the Parvo. He has only gotten sicker, and he has lost a lot of weight. The doctor told me that there is nothing more he can do for him. He is going to euthanize Webster today.”

I glanced into the back seat of her car. I noticed a non-descript, middle-sized brown dog curled up in a doggie bed. He was obviously very sick.

I could not help myself. As my own eyes welled up with tears, I took the liberty of placing my hand on the young lady’s shoulder. I did not remove it immediately, but offered my condolences.

“I am SO very sorry. God bless you and your dear Webster, and comfort you during this difficult time.”

“Margaret” turned her tear-stained face towards me now, and uttered a few more words.

“Thank you. Thank you so much.”

And with this, I nodded, stepped away from her car door, and got back into the driver’s seat of my own car.

by Bill McDonald, PhD

HOW YOU MADE THEM FEEL

 4206

I arrived at the address and honked the horn. After waiting a few minutes I honked again.

 

Since this was going to be my last ride of my shift I thought about just driving away, but instead I put the car in park and walked up to the door and knocked. 'Just a minute', answered a frail, elderly voice. I could hear something being dragged across the floor.

 

After a long pause, the door opened. A small woman in her 90's stood before me. She was wearing a print dress and a pillbox hat with a veil pinned on it, like somebody out of a 1940's movie.

 

By her side was a small nylon suitcase. The apartment looked as if no one had lived in it for years. All the furniture was covered with sheets.

 

There were no clocks on the walls, no knickknacks or utensils on the counters. In the corner was a cardboard box filled with photos and glassware.

 

'Would you carry my bag out to the car?' she said. I took the suitcase to the cab, then returned to assist the woman.

 

She took my arm and we walked slowly toward the curb.

 

She kept thanking me for my kindness. 'It's nothing', I told her.. 'I just try to treat my passengers the way I would want my mother to be treated.'

 

'Oh, you're such a good boy,’ she said. When we got in the cab, she gave me an address and then asked, 'Could you drive through downtown?'

 

'It's not the shortest way,' I answered quickly..

 

'Oh, I don't mind,' she said. 'I'm in no hurry. I'm on my way to… hospice.’

 

I looked in the rear-view mirror. Her eyes were glistening. 'I don't have any family left,' she continued in a soft voice.. ‘The doctor says I don't have very long.' I quietly reached over and shut off the meter.

 

'What route would you like me to take?' I asked.

 

For the next two hours, we drove through the city. She showed me the building where she had once worked as an elevator operator.

 

We drove through the neighborhood where she and her husband had lived when they were newlyweds. She had me pull up in front of a furniture warehouse that had once been a ballroom where she had gone dancing as a girl.

 

Sometimes she'd ask me to slow in front of a particular building or corner and would sit staring into the darkness, saying nothing.

 

As the first hint of sun was creasing the horizon, she suddenly said, 'I'm tired. Let's go now'.

We drove in silence to the address she had given me. It was a low building, like a small convalescent home, with a driveway that passed under a portico.

 

Two orderlies came out to the cab as soon as we pulled up. They were solicitous and intent, watching her every move.

 

They must have been expecting her.

 

I opened the trunk and took the small suitcase to the door. The woman was already seated in a wheelchair.

 

'How much do I owe you?' She asked, reaching into her purse.

 

'Nothing,' I said.

 

'You have to make a living,' she answered.

 

'There are other passengers,' I responded.

 

Almost without thinking, I bent and gave her a hug. She held onto me tightly.

 

'You gave an old woman a little moment of joy,' she said. 'Thank you.'

 

I squeezed her hand, and then walked into the dim morning light.. Behind me, a door shut. It was the sound of the closing of a life.

 

I didn't pick up any more passengers that shift. I drove aimlessly lost in thought. For the rest of that day, I could hardly talk. What if that woman had gotten an angry driver, or one who was impatient to end his shift? What if I had refused to take the run, or had honked once, then driven away?

 

On a quick review, I don't think that I have done anything more important in my life.

 

We're conditioned to think that our lives revolve around great moments.

 

But great moments often catch us unaware-beautifully wrapped in what others may consider a small one.

 

PEOPLE MAY NOT REMEMBER EXACTLY WHAT YOU DID, OR WHAT YOU SAID ~BUT~ THEY WILL ALWAYS REMEMBER HOW YOU MADE THEM FEEL.

Unknown Author