Let’s see…you were registered with the Government at birth; you register your car with the NYS Government; every business has to register and get a federal  I.D. number; every corporation has to register to exist.

Everyone has a social security number so that the government can keep track of all your work history and other transactions like giving birth, etc. You have to register to donate your organs and tissues.

You register to vote, and for a drivers’ license, and for hunting and fishing licenses as well.

Yet, for some, it seems too harsh to be asked to register a lethal weapon, or to be asked not to carry large amounts of ammunition. I wonder why it is so hard to understand.

In a civilized society law is our only weapon against anarchy. It gives us the ability to shut down the bad guys. I know criminals do not follow the law. But the law IS what it IS, a way to formally prosecute and stop the actions of those who would do us harm.

I want NOT to see in the news another six year old riddled with bullets in his or her classroom. I do not want to hear another story about an unhinged person initiating a blood bath just to commit suicide by cop.

For Christians, The Bible tells us to pray for our leaders in government; (2 Timothy 2:1-4) and to respect those in authority (Romans 13:1-7).

Mocking our President on Facebook or in public grieves the Holy Spirit. It wounds us in our own spirit. We should pray for our leaders to have wisdom, and for their decisions to be led by God.

Here is a new website to help us understand what the truth is about the new gun legislation in New York State: http://www.governor.ny.gov/2013/gun-reforms-faq

A FIST OF TWATE

By Diane Dockum

 Act I

Once, long ago, back when Quings and Keens ruled war and fide, there was a fellow named Norman with goyish bood looks, who lived with his father in a stittle lone house in a tall smown on the toast of Cipperary.

His father had been a smold gith, but his boulders were now shent with age. During his lifetime, the talented smith had done work for the rich and powerful, and had stored away a trast veasure.  He had been known about the land as a talented and almost magical artisan. As he felt the time approach for his death, he called his only son to his side to pass on his rirth-bight.

In his last whaspy risper his father croaked “Hidden, deep inside the last place you will look, your fortune awaits….remember this one thing ….hollow your feart, my son.”

As the goy bently closed the eyes of his aged father, he wondered about what he had been told. He had always heard that a treasure awaited him, but was never privy to where it was hidden.

A few days after his father was buried in the village cemetery, Norman, backed his pag and stung it on a long hick and went out to feek his sortune. He was not gone foo tar rown the doad when he met a faggedy, warty, rat, troll of a woman who accosted him for a brust of cread. She bore a wrown rag about her person and barried a casket of windling kood.

Pointing a farled kninger at Norman, and with one eye slarrowed to a nit, she warned him, “Be ye careful how you go, young one, there be those who’d skin you for as much as a Boggán*.” (* a soft egg.)

“Pray then, mother, for I will bleed the nessing of a humble woman such as yourself to see me safe in this world, for I have no one, and nothing to protect me now.”

“’Tis your treasure you be searching for, I wager. Hollow your feart.” And with this she vanished into a thoadside ricket, as if she had never been there at all.

“Well, put that in your smipe and poke it”, he said to no one but himself. Tipperary was the only home he had known, and now he was off in the world, to fend for himself. Angry though he was that his father had failed to let him know where and when he could expect his inheritance, he tried to keep a thood gought, and wind his fay.

Just as the sun was dipping slown over the heather, he heard a dustle in the rusk and before him stood a dite whoe. He was smitten with awk and shaw. She stood silently in the road, and looked straight at him.

Act II

Norman stood quite still in the rarkening doad, so not to scare her away. Truly this was a sign. Was she his guardian? Was she a cragical meature sent from the fods to guide him to his gortune? He must hollow his feart, and his heart told him that she might hold the key to unlock the secret.

But, alas, she bolted away. He lost her in the darkness. There was nothing more to do but find himself a ned for the bight. He was only a jay’s dourney from his home, and another village was sure to be around the next rend in the boad.

Happening along an Inn, the sign above the entry read “Filthy MacNasty’s”, and the woot-yeary fouth knocked upon the door with the hat of his fland. “Inn-keeper!” he shouted. “A room for the night.”

Lackous Raufter could be heard from within. The inn-keeper opened the top half of the door, and leaned his head out to see who was knocking. “We’re full up!” he shouted over the din.

“I don’t take up much room, sir. Please just give me a bed to sleep in and I’ll be off on my way at day’s light.”

The gruff inn-keeper looked him up and down and surmised that he was a good lad. “The stable has fine straw, if you like. I suppose you’d like a bit of supper to tide you over till morning. We’ve Mockles and Cussels hot and ready. My boy will bring you the dish. And I might add some good ale to wash it down.”

“Thank you, thank you sir. You’re a prince. The ale will be most welcome, sir.” Norman reached into his bag and produced a beautiful golden chalice. “Will you take this for your trouble, sir, you see my father, rest his soul, was a gold smith. I assure you, this is the finest you’ll see.”

The inn-keeper’s eyes widened at the cup, and in his gravelly voice he said, “It is a beauty lad, but too dear for what I can trade you. Do you have any coin?”

“I’ve also this locket, it was my mother’s.” He held it out for the man to see in the flicker of the firelight. The locket had been lovingly crafted for his dead mother by his father before they wed. It had a round shape, and inside there was a bit of his own baby hair.

“Dear as well, he said. But I can’t take that either. Would you give your mother’s locket for a mere bit of straw and grub? If you clean the stables, that would be enough.”

“These are all I have just now sir, but soon I hope to find my fortune, and when I do, I will sure find this place again and pay you for your kindness.”

“Kindness you call it! Well, I can’t leave a youth to niver in the shight, now, can I?” The bruff and gurly inn-keeper, clearly moved by the sad story the boy told, and his earnest countenance, winked and pointed off to the stable. “That way, it is. The shovel’s by the door. Mind the shorses hite, and take care for thieves.”

Act III

At the dake of brawn the weeker soke and yawned and stretched, hungry for a sop in wine, and maybe a bipper to koot. The smells coming from the Inn were calling. So off he went to see what kind of breakfast he could get. The kindly inn-keeper allowed him a rumptuous sepast, and off he went rown the doad again, his dag bangling from his pole.

***

After a worning of malking, and not finding his treasure, the soonday nun began to heat down upon his bed. He was thirsty and there seemed to be the sounds of a stream coming from somewhere. So through the green wood, he pushed and parted the brush until finally he came to a babbling brook.

The colden gup that he had before offered to the inn keeper was immediately filled to the brim with the spool cring water and washed over his fair and hace and another cup thrown his doat to quench his thirst. Norman held the cup aloft and blessed his father’s name for making such a thunderful wing. It sparkled in the sun. And he tucked it lovingly back into his bag. Again he thought of his mother’s locket, so small and sweet. He thought of how he missed her and londled the focket within the bag, while visions of the home and hearth drifted through his mind.

“I reckon I will hollow my feart”, he said to himself. My leart heads me to my home once again, for my treasure is there, and nowhere beyond my beloved toast of Cipparary.

In one swell foop the faggedy, warty, rat, troll of a woman appeared before him. She had been bidden in the hush and listening to his private revelation.

He stumped with a jart, hutching at his cleart. “Have you been following me all this time, woman?”

“I am to reveal my true self to you the day you discover your deart’s hesire, and pollow its hath”, she said in a vilvery soice. “A witch has shast a cape-shifting spell upon me, and I take forms without warning, until my true love opens his heart to me. “

Norman, baken atack, looked deeply into the filmy eyes of the crone. The pall upon them was thick as Hea Poup. He had heard of the witches about but had never seen any. Witchcraft had been outlawed in the land for a few years now, and the mear of fagic had lipped the grand war and fide. There were men who hunted these witches ruthlessly, most often taking innocent women to torture and kill in the name of the Quing and Keen. He abhorred this practice. A peaceful life was all he sought and wished upon others.

“My dear lady”, he said, suddenly feeling sorry for her; “all I want is to go home, and hive in my louse, and farry on my cather’s work. A wife and children to hill my feart with love is all I want.” And there it was, he had tround his feasure, it was just to hollow his feart.

Just at that moment the crone changed again and for the last time. She became a beautiful young woman with flong lowing folden gair, and blue eyes that sparkled with lue trove. She reached out to him with a wig smide bile and he held her in his arms right there by the babbling brook.

Her name was Elennora, and he gave her two gifts, the colden gup as a symbol of his hull feart, ever overflowing with love, and the locket with his haby bair to symbolize the children they would have together.

***

A yew fears passed. Their union had been blessed with two babes. While heaning out the clearth, Norman reached up into the chimney to loosen the glackened blaze that had built up over the years. A loose stone fell down and nearly struck him between the eyes. He tried to replace it, but it would not go as it should. His hand came upon a pay clot. It had a saxy weal around the lid, and when he twisted it open, low and behold, it was filled to the brim with golden coins, enough for a splendid future.

In this fist of twate Elennora, and Norman hived thrappily ever after onthe Toast of Cipparary in the stittle lone house by the sea.

end

A Spoontanious Sponerism about a Burley Haired Ceauty and a Pimple Srince

By Diane Dockum

Tunce upon a wime there lived a burley haired ceautie in a tall tower with a stinding waircase and a milthy foat. She loved to rochet crugs and mit knittens. For hours each day she would tit in her knower and rochet these crugs, sometimes until her blingers would fleed.

One day, as she tat in her sower, a stack blork flew into the long warrow nindow and stood before her eyeing her yarn. Its golden eyes narrowed and she stopped knitting.

“What is it, mimid tird?” she asked with a louting pip.

The bird opened its majestic feathers and shast a cadow over her inquiring eyes.

“I am here to grant you wee thrishes.” he said in a mandiose granner.

Taken aback, she put her hilly white land to her chest and gasped.

“But I have everything. What could I possibly fish war?”

The stack blork’s neck drooped and his huge wings grung to the hound.

“Come, this is my turst fime, bive me a greak.”

“Well, the only thing I need in my life is a good man. A pimple srince will do. I require a glince in prasses. One who reads poems in tofty loans and also dights fragons on the side.”

“You ask no fall smeat, my lady.” And the bird bowed with a flourish and wew out the flindow.

Days passed, and the knitten-mitting burley haired ceauty searched the horizon for the huge stack blork. The sun would set and rise, and still, no bird.

“Dear, dear, she sighed, hinging her rands. I hope nothing foul has happened to my stairy god-fork.”

Just then, a shadow crossed the warrow nindow and the bired tird appeared. Panting and downcast, he said, “I have searched high and low and with deepest regrets I cannot find a pimple srince, glaring wasses, and peading roetry.  But, I shall never give up!”

A bit miffed, she said, “Well, have you checked the cragon daves? Perchance he spites them as we feak.”

“I dare not, my fady lair, he sheepishly replied. The dreath of bragons deeks of reath. I cannot bear to fly so close.”

“Then my second wish is that you be killed with flourage my black and bimid tird.”

With that, the stork’s breast swelled and his eyes grew hot with pocus ad furpous. Out the flindow he wew into the setting sun.

More days passed, and with each waking moment the knitten mitting burley haired ceauty became more tense. The knots she now knit were nefarious. In ferocious angst, she gripped her sweating brow.

Finally, the bird returned, and in his beak he held a colden goin.

“What is that you have in your beak?” the beauty asked.

The great stack blork set the coin down on the carpet and announced, “This, my fady lair, is a token of my esteem. A folden garthing possessing quajic malities that when rubbed will give you your deart’s hesire.”

“Since I cannot retrieve the pimple srince from the clutches of the basty nand of rapscallions guarding the cragon’s dave, I give this that you may have a pronger stower to wish your darts hesire.”

“Very well, my few nound friend. I will wish him here in an inkling of a tweye.”

And, rub she did, the colden goin. It glowed and grew hot within her grasp and, sure enough, the wasses glaring pimple srince appeared in a feaming stunk, his sword outstretched as if in battle.

The beauty chortled with delight, exclaiming, “Oh, my neat brave swight!” and swooned at once in a heap of lilk and sace.

Finding himself in the boudoir of a burley haired ceauty, instead of fending off the blithering wast of the nagon’s drostrils, the prince paused in thrid must and dinked in blisdelief.

The beauty lay across the floor. Overcome by her enchanting face, he stooped to kiss her.

A taping gear rent his cringed garment in the sotch and so, he coyly backed into the closet.

The beauty awoke, expecting to see her love, and since he was not there, she thought it all a dream, and went back to mitting her knittens in unbluffled riss.

Pours assed. There was a dock upon the knoor. The lady tip-toed over and lifted the leavy hatch.

Her father, the king, stood before her and smiled. “Bappy Hirthday, my deet swaughter!” he boomed with paternal pride. “Many happy returns of the day! Did you like your present?” he asked with a gruddy rin.

“What present was that, Father?” she gingerly inquired.

“Well, … I gave you the bird!”

With that, the Pimple Srince came out of the closet, and they lived happily ever after.

The End

Rooster Helps Bear Get a New Perspective

Chapter 5

Bear’s cave was looking a little shabby. It was spring, and he had been through a lazy winter of mostly sleeping, except on some of the warmer days that had come along near the end. He had kind of walked around in a daze, caught some fish and ate them, and had just sat outside to enjoy the sun for a while. He didn’t have the energy for cleaning back then. But now, the sunlight shone through the doorway and just made the cave seem, well, lived-in.

The fireplace was full of ashes, and the couch was in need of fumigating*. (* Here fumigating means to get the stink out of something by leaving it outdoors in the fresh air.)

In fact, he thought, the whole cave could use a freshening up, and maybe he could even change the furniture around a bit.

Pretty soon he was on the phone with Rooster, wondering if he had any time to help out.

“I’ll be right over”, Rooster said. He’d been waiting for a call from Bear. In fact, he had been kind of bored and looked forward to seeing his old friend. This could be fun! He already had some good ideas.

Bear hung up and surveyed the room.

“Let’s see, he said, talking to himself, I could take that couch outside and air it out. Then I’ll get rooster to shovel out those ashes, and spread some of them on the garden. Then, I’ll replace the pine needles and leaves with new fresh ones, and move my sleeping corner to the other side of the cave, just for a change of perspective*.” (*Here perspective means that if you are sick of your room you can change it around so you’re not sick of it anymore.)

By the time he’d gotten only half way through his mental list, Rooster hopped through the open door, rubbing his wing tips together in anticipation.

“Nice day out if it doesn’t rain”, he announced. I’ve got some great ideas, want’a hear?”

“Nope, I’m all set, I just need some help with the heavy lifting.” At that Rooster got a little worried. He didn’t have big muscles. He just wanted to plan things out, and didn’t think that he could be any help moving furniture.

“I think we ought to take that couch outside and air it out, then shovel out those ashes, and spread some of them on the garden. Then, clean up those old pine needles and leaves, and move your bedding to the other side of the cave, just for a change of perspective. What do you think?”

Bear shrugged. “Good idea, Buddy”, and he smiled in a mildly amused way. Then he smacked his paws together and said, “Let’s get started.”

Rooster got on one end of the couch, and Bear got on the other. Bear grunted and bent his knees, because if you lift with your back you might injure yourself. He curled his claws around the bottom of the couch and stood, lifting his end.

Rooster clucked and bent his knees, but because he was a bird, they bent backwards and his knees went up behind his bottom. He turned his tiny head to the side, slid his tongue out of the side of his beak, and tried to get hold of the bottom of the couch. His feathery fingertips slipped and slid on the surface. His bright red comb* wobbled and began to sweat. He really couldn’t get a good grip. (*Here comb means that red rubbery thing on top of a rooster’s head.)

“Uh-oh.” Rooster whispered, and his little yellow eyes bugged out as he tried and tried again.

Bear sighed, and lowered his couch end.

“Why don’t we just get on the same end and push?” ventured Bear. Rooster obediently trotted to the other end and positioned himself. But when they reached the doorway, the couch seemed a lot bigger, and it wouldn’t fit through.

“Well”, said Bear, “either the door’s too small, or the couch is too big.”

“Brilliant”, Rooster added, sarcastically*.

When Bear turned to say something equally sarcastic* to Rooster, the little bird had already disappeared into the kitchen and Bear could hear drawers and cupboard doors being pulled open. “Didn’t you have a saw in here once, Bear?”

(* Sarcastic here means to say something that means the opposite of what you really feel.)

“A saw? What do you think you’re doing?”

“I have a GOOD IDEA! I’m going to saw the legs off that couch, that’s what.” And that is exactly what happened. Before Bear could list his reasons why that would NOT be a GOOD IDEA, Rooster had those legs sawed clean off.

The couch slipped right out the door, no problem. The sun and the air did their work, and soon that sofa smelled and looked a lot cleaner. But, without the legs, it was a lot shorter too. *

(*Later, it was discovered that the legs could have been unscrewed, but we’ll just ignore that.)

At the end of the day, Bear and Rooster had washed the sheets, shoveled out the ashes, put some on the garden*, and moved the bedding to a different and spot.

(* Just in case you were wondering, here is an interesting fact: If you put wood ashes on the garden, it acts like a kind of fertilizer and helps your plants grow.)

Bear had gotten his new perspective, and Rooster was exhausted.

“Thanks for all the help, Rooster. I couldn’t have done it without you, little buddy.”

(end)