Why My Dad Lived by Man of La Mancha Story

It is the late sixteenth century. Failed author-soldier-actor and tax collector Miguel de Cervantes has been thrown into a dungeon by the Spanish Inquisition, along with his manservant. They have been charged with foreclosing on a monastery. The two have brought all their possessions with them into the dungeon. There, they are attacked by their fellow prisoners, who instantly set up a mock trial. If Cervantes is found guilty, he will have to hand over all his possessions. Cervantes agrees to do so, except for a precious manuscript which the prisoners are all too eager to burn. He asks to be allowed to offer a defense, and the defense will be a play, acted out by him and all the prisoners. The "judge", a big, burly but good-humored criminal called "the Governor", agrees.
Cervantes takes out a makeup kit from his trunk, and the manservant helps him get into a costume. In a few short moments, Cervantes has transformed himself into Alonso Quijana, an old gentleman who has read so many books of chivalry and thought so much about injustice that he has lost his mind and now believes that he should go forth as a knight-errant. Quijana renames himself Don Quixote de La Mancha, and sets out to find adventures with his "squire", Sancho Panza. They both sing the title song Man of La Mancha (I, Don Quixote).

Don Quixote warns Sancho that the pair are always in danger of being attacked by Quixote's mortal enemy, an evil magician known as the Enchanter. Suddenly he spots a windmill. Seeing its sails whirling, he mistakes it for a four-armed giant, attacks it, and receives a beating from the encounter. He thinks he knows why he has been defeated - it is because he has not been properly dubbed a knight. Looking off, he imagines he sees a castle (it is really a rundown roadside inn). He orders Sancho to announce their arrival by blowing his bugle, and the two proceed to the inn.

Cervantes talks some prisoners into assuming the roles of the inn's serving wench and part-time prostitute Aldonza and a group of muleteers, who are propositioning her. Fending them off sarcastically, (It's All The Same) she eventually deigns to accept their leader, Pedro, who pays in advance.

Don Quixote enters with Sancho, upset at not having been "announced" by a "dwarf". The Innkeeper (played by The Governor) treats them sympathetically and humors Don Quixote, but when Quixote catches sight of Aldonza, he believes her to be the lady Dulcinea, to whom he has sworn eternal loyalty. He sings Dulcinea. Aldonza, used to being roughly handled, is flabbergasted, then annoyed, at Quixote's strange and kind treatment of her.

Meanwhile, Antonia (Don Quixote's niece) has gone with Quixote's housekeeper to seek advice from the local priest. But the priest wisely realizes that the two women are more concerned with the embarrassment the knight's madness may bring than with his welfare. The three sing I'm Only Thinking of Him.

One of the prisoners, a cynic called "The Duke", is chosen by Cervantes to play Dr. Sanson Carrasco, Antonia's fiancé, a man just as cynical and self-centered as the prisoner who is playing him. Carrasco is upset at the idea of having a madman in his prospective new family, so he and the priest set out to cure Don Quixote and bring him back home.

Back at the inn, Sancho delivers a missive from Don Quixote to Aldonza courting her favor and asking for a token. Instead, Aldonza tosses an old dishrag at Sancho, but to Don Quixote the dishrag is a silken scarf. When Aldonza asks Sancho why he follows Quixote, he sings I Really Like Him. Alone, later, Aldonza sings What Does He Want of Me? In the courtyard, the muleteers once again taunt her with the suggestive song Little Bird, Little Bird.

The priest and Dr. Carrasco arrive, but cannot reason with Don Quixote, who suddenly spots a barber wearing his shaving basin on his head to ward off the sun's heat. (The Barber's Song) Quixote immediately snatches the basin from the barber at sword's point, believing it to be the miraculous Golden Helmet of Mambrino, which will make him invulnerable. Dr. Carrasco and the priest leave, with the priest impressed by Don Quixote's view of life and wondering if curing him is really worth it. (To Each His Dulcinea)
Meanwhile, Quixote asks the Innkeeper to dub him knight. The innkeeper agrees, but first Quixote must stand vigil all night over his armor. Quixote asks to be guided to the "chapel" for his vigil, and the Inkeeper hastily concocts an excuse: the "chapel" is "being repaired". Quixote decides to keep his vigil in the courtyard. As he does so, Aldonza, on her way to her rendezvous with Pedro, finally confronts him, but Quixote gently explains why he behaves the way he does (The Impossible Dream). Pedro enters, furious at being kept waiting, and slaps Aldonza. Enraged, Don Quixote takes him and all the other muleteers on in a huge fight, as the orchestra plays The Combat. Don Quixote has no martial skill, but by luck and determination - and with the help of Aldonza (who now sympathizes with Quixote) and Sancho - he prevails, and the muleteers are all knocked unconscious. But the noise has awakened the Innkeeper, who enters and kindly tells Quixote that he must leave. Quixote apologizes for the trouble, but reminds the Innkeeper of his promise to dub him knight. The Innkeeper does so (Knight of the Woeful Countenance).

Quixote then announces he must try to help the muleteers. Aldonza, whom Quixote still calls Dulcinea, is shocked, but after the knight explains that the laws of chivalry demand that he succor a fallen enemy, Aldonza agrees to help them. For her efforts, she is beaten, raped, and carried off by the muleteers, who leave the inn. (The Abduction) Quixote, in his small room, is blissfully ruminating over his recent victory and the new title that the innkeeper has given him - and completely unaware of what has just happened to Aldonza. (The Impossible Dream - first reprise)

At this point, the Don Quixote play is brutally interrupted when the Inquisition enters the dungeon and drags off an unwilling prisoner to be tried. The Duke taunts Cervantes for his look of fear, and accuses him of not facing reality. This prompts a passionate defense of idealism by Cervantes.

The Don Quixote play resumes (Man of La Mancha - first reprise). Quixote and Sancho have left the inn and encounter a band of Gypsies ("Moorish Dance") who take advantage of Quixote's naivete and proceed to steal everything they own, including Quixote's horse Rocinante and Sancho's donkey Dapple. The two are forced to return to the inn, where the Innkeeper tries to keep them out, but finally cannot resist letting them back in out of pity.^[5] Aldonza shows up with several bruises. Quixote swears to avenge her, but she angrily tells him off, begging him to leave her alone (Aldonza). Suddenly, another knight enters. He announces himself as Don Quixote's mortal enemy, the Enchanter, this time appearing as the "Knight of the Mirrors". He insults Aldonza, and is promptly challenged to combat by Don Quixote. The Knight of the Mirrors and his attendants bear huge shields with mirrors on them, and as they swing them at Quixote (Knight of the Mirrors) the glare from the sunlight blinds him. The attacking Knight taunts him, forcing him to see himself as the world sees him - a fool and a madman. Don Quixote collapses, weeping. The Knight of the Mirrors removes his own helmet - he is really Dr. Carrasco, returned with his latest plan to cure Quixote.

Cervantes announces that the story is finished at least as far as he has written it, but the prisoners are dissatisfied with the ending. They prepare to burn his manuscript, when he asks for the chance to present one last scene.

The Governor agrees, and we are now in Don Quixote's bedroom, where he has fallen into a coma. Antonia, Sancho, the Housekeeper, the priest, and Carrasco are all there. Sancho tries to cheer up Quixote (A Little Gossip). Don Quixote eventually awakens, and when questioned, reveals that he is now sane, remembering his knightly career as only a vague dream. He realizes that he is now dying, and asks the priest to help him make out his will. As Quixote begins to dictate, Aldonza forces her way in. She has come to visit Quixote because she has found that she can no longer bear to be anyone but Dulcinea. When he does not recognize her, she sings Dulcinea (reprise) to him and tries to help him remember the words of "The Impossible Dream". Suddenly, he remembers everything and rises from his bed, calling for his armor and sword so that he may set out again. (Man of La Mancha -second reprise) But it is too late - in mid-song, he suddenly groans and falls dead. The priest sings The Psalm for the dead. However, Aldonza now believes in him so much that, to her, Don Quixote will always live. When Sancho calls her by name, she asks him to call her Dulcinea.

The Inquisition enters to take Cervantes to his trial, and the prisoners, finding him not guilty, return his manuscript. It is, of course, his (as yet) unfinished novel, Don Quixote de la Mancha. As Cervantes and his servant mount the drawbridge-like staircase to go to their impending trial yet gleaming with courage, the prisoners (except for the Duke) sing The Impossible Dream in chorus.

This information borrowed from wikepedia

What Love Isn't

Time has a way of wearing us down like wind and water erode sharp-edged stone into smooth. Withstanding the test of time, my parents managed to maintain, and soften their relationship by smoothing down the sharp edges.

It took them a lifetime together to accomplish this.  I admire them tremendously.

I didn’t always feel that way. As a child I was disappointed that my parents didn’t fit the romantic models I’d seen in the movies.
They were a good looking couple but they didn’t quite measure up to Clark Gable and Claudette Colbert. They were ordinary, hard working folks with four kids to raise. Dad wore work overalls. Mom wore house dresses. They could dress up right nice once in a while. But they weren't they type to adorn themselves in exotic attire, dancing through life like Fred Astaire and Ginger Rogers. Mom had lots of nice high heels so even in her house dresses she did have a certain savoir faire about her. Although Dad once said he would like to wear a cravat, he never had reason to wear the ties we kids got him for father’s day. Once we figured it out, we switched over to cookies instead. Dad liked oatmeal.

He didn’t buy her flowers, perfumes, chocolates, or jewels. She didn’t meet him at the door with a martini wearing a flowing lounger or negligee, at least not that we kids were aware. He often quietly dragged himself in after working a double shift. She often set aside the dinner that had grown cold, and went to bed with a book.

Overt signs of affection were not displayed, which led me to become one of those kids who, after learning the facts of life, said, “not my parents”. Not because I didn’t think it was possible, but just because I had never seen any touching. With the extenuating circumstances of a lost birth certificate, I even thought I was adopted for a while. My parents did a lot of things together, but I didn’t believe they did “that”. What fools we little kids be!

They painted the house together; they worked hard trying to run a business together. They drove on trips together. They argued vociferously. Somehow, the made peace when we weren't looking. Romance, in the traditional hearts and flowers sense, was not a part of their lives from what I could see.

Not Anthony and Cleopatra, they were more like Ma and Pa Kettle, herding us kids through life, struggling to make ends meet. They carried on through success and defeat, whichever was the result of the day. And a stoic resolve to get through the next one with more hope for improvement.

I often believed they didn’t know what love was. That was when I was all–fired, absolutely, positively sure, that I really knew what love was.

But, since that time, they married through sixty eight years of richer and poorer, sickness and health, love, hell and high water, deep snow, and earthquakes.

What did they know about love? A lot.

What do I know about love? Zip.

I have been married and divorced five times, six. if you count the one I married twice. I know that I haven’t the foggiest notion of what love is. Though, I think I can say with a fair amount of certainty that I know what love is not. I think my parents know a whole lot more of love than I ever imagined.

Using their lives and marriage as an example, I’ve learned that it is not romance. Anyone can play out that scenario. But, it cannot withstand the test of time. It gets boring after a while… all that worry and tension to create a romantic atmosphere. It’s empty without love to sustain it. Surely romance is part of the beginning of love, like flowers need springtime to grow. But, I’ve learned from my parents that love is related to how you handle the more pragmatic things in life.

Like, getting up in the morning and letting the other one sleep in, and preparing your own breakfast, if necessary, or making sure your mate takes his or her medicine, and reminding whoever is driving the car, there’s a stop sign at the corner hiding under the branches of the big shade tree. Helping each other put things away, whether it’s in the kitchen or the tool shed. Tolerating the mess and just going to sleep when tired, to deal with it the next day. Watching TV, or maybe just snoozing nearby in the easy chair, while the other watches a favorite program. Letting the cat sleep between you, so you both can enjoy its purring, even if it interferes with snuggling. Taking turns talking long-distance to the kids or grand kids on the phone, and not breathing too loud if you’re the one on the extension phone. Praying, and reading scripture together in those golden years. Helping each other remember things:

“Where’d I leave my keys… my socks? …my purse? …the car? What day is it? What time is the doctor’s appointment? What was the name of that family who ran the shoe store in town when we were dating?

There’s also the nagging, the nit-picking, the snoring, the sharp words, misunderstandings, hurt feelings, stubbornness and disagreements, and the the wisdom to agree to disagree. But mostly, I think there’s the hanging-in-there through it all, forgiving and forgetting, and letting go. But, most of all I think my parents knew that love is that which softens the hardness of life and withstands the test of time.

Their favorite love song, which always gave them starry eyes and always gives their kids tears in their eyes.

The Anniversary Song
by Al Jolson

Oh, how we danced
On the night we were wed;
We vowed our true love
Though a word wasn't said.
The world was in bloom,
There were stars in the skies
Except for the few
That were there in your eyes.

Dear, as I held you
So close in my arms,
Angels were singing
A hymn to your charms,
Two hearts gently beating
Were murmuring low,
"My darling, I love you so."

The night seemed to fade
Into blossoming dawn;
The sun shone anew
But the dance lingered on.
Could we but relive that
Sweet moment sublime,
We'd find that our love
Is unaltered by time.

In Memory of My Father, James D Deane May 16, 1915 - November 9, 2005

From my journal of November 8 and 9, 2005


Dad had bad fever this am. Fever broke and he was a awake and alert for a short while. Toughest on my sister who is trying to do round clock nursing care for both Mom and Dad. Sad to see her so desperate.


My brother and I staying at hotel. We're working with mortuary and cremation service to get things arranged.


Mom is getting closer to realization. I laid on her bed with her tonight, wrapped my arms around her, and asked what songs she might want for Dad. She cried a little. But held back a LOT.


This afternoon, it appears, Dad is getting ready to leave his body. He doesn't move very much at all now, breathing is rough, but steady with some stops. His eyes are not much focused. He can be easily roused, but will look toward you when he is. He cannot seem to talk any more. The only thing he said today was "oil" which we took to mean that he wanted a priest to come and anoint him with oil. This is a practice of the my Dad's church. My Dad was raised Episcopal. So this evening a priest came and did the anointing ceremony for them both.


In the meantime, at one point my mom was seated in the lazyboy chair beside his bed and kept talking to him, telling him she loved him, what a good husband he has been and so on. She knows he cannot respond. She is blind and cannot see when he winks his eye to her to let her know he hears her. So we have to tell her when he blinked to some comment she has made. She also has been singing old love songs to him from long ago that we never heard of. He tries to move his mouth to them, but he is too weak. This all still seems hardest on my sister.


When my brother and I are by ourselves we talk. We both seem to be more calm (numb?) about it all. Or maybe not as deeply engaged emotionally? Today we went to a mortuary together and talked "business" and are beginning to put together a memorial plan. It's been exhausting and frustrating, having gone to several to find out they are majorly ready to take a lot of money for very little sentiment.


My Dad did not have a plan in place, nor anything written down suggesting what he might want. Though over the years he has said he wanted cremation, and ashes scattered near his childhood home Kinzua, Pennsylvania.


It is very difficult to concentrate on all this when I am in the midst of it. Even though I feel balanced and oddly calm, I still seem to have a hard time focusing on facts and understanding them clearly. I am probably pissing people off by constantly asking for clarification. They just assume that I am supposed to know what they are meaning, and I want clear hard statements, so I really understand what is being communicated to me. It's kind of like listening through a metal tube with water running nearby. Not only am I not sure I hear things right, but it's very distracting to keep my focus on what is being said.


At one point this evening, my sister was taking care of my mother, who cannot get to the bathroom by herself or take care of personal needs. I sat with my Dad, face to face, and held his hand. I spoke to him and asked if he still had some unfinished business. It seemed he wanted to answer, but of course could not. I know that up until last week he was still worried about bills that he could not pay. So I told him that he really doesn't need to worry about money any more, that he could relax that it doesn't matter now, and he is free from any debts, and that if there is anything outstanding, I know my brother has said he would take care of it.


He blinked in response. I asked him if he remembered that I had a near death experience in the past. He blinked yes. I asked if he wanted me to tell him about this again. He blinked and I reminded him how beautiful it is, and how anything that was ever a worry is so clearly understood in new terms, and how we are finally free, and filled with love, and light, and beauty beyond all understanding.


He got tears in his eyes by that time and was squeezing my hand, I was quiet for a while, and just stroked his forehead. He kept tight of hold of my hand because every time I tried to pull my hand away, he just held it tighter. I was really surprised at the strength. If this was a dying man, he was super strong. He was really holding on and didn't want me to pull my hand away.


When I was telling him about the tunnel and the light and the peace that passes all understanding, he looked away from me across the room. I wondered if someone had come in the room. I turned to see who was there, but no one was there. Dad gave my hand another tight squeeze as he looked at me and back to what he was looking at. I wonder what he saw. We just sat quietly then and watched as my sister helped my mom back to her bed. She stayed with them as the rest of us left to go get some sleep.


Just a few hours later, my sister called to say that Dad died quietly in his sleep. She had fallen asleep in the chair next to him. Mom was in the bed on the other side, asleep.


My sister wanted to know if we wanted to come over to see Dad one last time as the Mortuary would be arriving to take him away. We had so little sleep but I couldn't just lay there. We knew Mom would need us all there, so we got up and went over. We quietly kissed my Dad. Then my sister awoke Mom.


Some would say not to wake her and just sneak the body quietly away, but we just didn't feel that would be right for Mom. Of course, she was inconsolable and very distraught. But, I think her reaction would have been worse if she just awoke to an empty bed beside her. As it was, it was hard to witness. She kept reaching over through the bed rails trying to touch Dad. At one point she even tried to climb over them. So that she wouldn't hurt herself, we took down the bed rails and pulled them closer together so she could touch him and say her last good byes. We all kept attending to Mom, but at one point I had a need to lie down beside my Dad. Mom kept reaching over and wanting his hand to hold but it was finally getting cold, so I just reached across and put my hand in hers to hold.


Some of the nursing staff came in to kiss Dad goodbye and hold and hug Mom. It warmed my heart that people who had taken care of them, and sometimes seemed cold, really did care for the. Finally the hospice nurse came in and hugged us all. She had to make the "assessment" and file the official "paper". Then the mortuary came with one attendant only, which confused me. I don't know why I thought it would be more "official" than that. So, my brother and the Hospice nurse helped to put my father onto the gurney and then his body was taken away. I could not make a move. All I could do was watch. I wondered at my brother's ability to take our father in his arms and pull him across the bed onto the gurney. I looked at his face when he was positioning Dad's legs. There was nothing there except sheer love. A moment after that, his eyes landed on mine and there was a silent acknowledgment of vulnerability. No more Daddy.


My son, was able to come down, and spent that evening sleeping in Dad's bed next to his Grandma, keeping her company, and talking to her. Did he sing to her, too? I think I remember her saying he did.






Goodnight sweetheart, 'til we meet tomorrow
Goodnight sweetheart, sleep will banish sorrow
Tears and parting may make us forlorn
But with the dawn a new day is born

So I'll say goodnight sweetheart, though I'm not beside you
Goodnight sweetheart, still my love will guide you
Dreams involve you and in each one I'll hold you
Goodnight sweetheart, goodnight

The day is over and it's cares and woes
In peaceful sweet repose, will fade and die
A dreamy dreamland beckons you and me
How happy life would be if we could dream forever

So I'll say goodnight sweetheart
Even though I'm not, I'm not always right beside you
I'll still say goodnight, goodnight sweetheart
I want you to know that my love, my love will always guide you

And dreams involve you, in each one I'll hold you
Goodnight sweetheart, goodnight...

One more picture of Great Granddaughter

Miss Rylee Lynne

More Rylee Lynne

Great Granddaughter Rylee Lynne with Daddy

I'M A GREAT GRANDMOTHER!

Rylee Lynne was born to Justin, my grandson, and his wife Heather yesterday early morning 1:46 AM

Rylee weighed 7 pounds 13 ounces. She is my fourth great grandchild, and first girl.

Pictures to follow

The Earth is Our Mother

Photo Friday - Guy Fawkes Day

 Dear Reader,

Please be kind to one so ignorant.

I had heard of Guy Fawkes day as a child, but only know it was associated with the bonefires some folks here would light on Halloween night. Apparently a very old tradition, which was quickly dying out. I had been told they were fires symbolic of burning witches. In my child's mind I thought that was a good thing. Bad enough that witches were allowed to roam around on Halloween. Good thing they had the fires to get rid of them. I was very young at the time.

Since Guy Fawkes day was suggested for photo Friday, I decided to learn more about this British holiday. Is it a holiday? Doesn't holiday connotate holy day? It seems Guy Fawkes was considered to be somewhat un-holy, almost devilish. So, perhaps the word is celebration. I can't figure out how this man who was supposed to be the enemy came to have such a permanent and feted place in history. I must be reading it all wrong, and quite oblivious of what it all about.

But, then, I can imagine how others may view some of the festivities held here in America. The real history of Thanksgiving, for example, is very different from what I was taught as a child. The pilgrims did not get together with the natives to have a grand harvest meal in gratitude to God for bringing them together. Columbus day is a ruse, but children still get that day off from school, and banks are closed in observance. A lot of Native-Americans protest that Columbus day should not be recognized at all, as it commemorates the beginning of the loss (rape) of their people and land.

Bonfires are very much celebrated by young people here in the U.S. in a whole different way. It's called Burning Man. It is a week long festival culminating in the burning of the man. It ends the day before Labor Day, another American Holiday which I don't understand.

It is called Burning Man because a 40 foot tall effigy of a man is set on fire with as much pyrotechnics as possible every year. This is a very pagan type of festival and last year had about 40,000 attendees. Those who celebrate go off into the most barren part of the desert, the only land where they can do this without causing havoc to the rest of society.

It is now against the law to have bonfires in most states, burning of leaves or farm field debris, without a license to do so. Permission and knowledge of the burn date is coordinated with the local weather outlook. Sometimes these well planned burn dates go tragically wrong. Weather changes, wind and fires get out of control. Acres and acres of dry brittle brush and trees burn. Wildfires we call them. Forest fires when the true forests are involved.

So, the closest thing I can do to present photos symbolic of Guy Fawkes day is to share a pictures taken at Burning Man Celebration. I hope my extrapolation has not been too extreme.

To Dream the Impossible Dream

It will soon be four years since my father, James Deforest Deane, died at the age of 90. These are the words of his favorite song. These are the words he lived by.

To dream the impossible dream
To fight the unbeatable foe
To bear with unbearable sorrow
To run where the brave dare not go

To right the unrightable wrong
To love pure and chaste from afar
To try when your arms are too weary
To reach the unreachable star

This is my quest
To follow that star
No matter how hopeless
No matter how far

To fight for the right
Without question or pause
To be willing to march into Hell
For a heavenly cause

And I know if I'll only be true
To this glorious quest
That my heart will lie peaceful and calm
When I'm laid to my rest

And the world will be better for this
That one man, scorned and covered with scars
Still strove with his last ounce of courage
To reach the unreachable star

Sandra Bracelet Black Onyx with Gold Thread

National Something-or-Other Day/Month

I just learned that November is National Blog Posting Month. The only requirement is that you post every day.

It doesn't look like I will be doing that, since I will need to produce at least 1666 words a day in order to complete 50,000 words in one month through National Writing Novel Month.

According to a family member, yesterday was Paint Your Own Portrait Day. I can't find the link for it, and no, I didn't paint my own portrait, though I have done several stylized ones photoshop.

Tiffany Crochet Jewelry in perodot long beads choker

THE BEGINNING NOVELIST

I created an LOL cat to represent my profile picture on facebook from which I am taking a one month hiatus as I have joined the National Write a Novel Month. I hope to participate, and complete 50,000 words.
Wish me luck!

Family Literacy Month

A few moments ago, I thought about a friend of mine from Junior High School. Wilfred hated his name. But, he sure loved to read. He hated school. But he sure loved to read. He got in trouble a lot at school because he didn't pay attention. Nine times out of ten, he was taking a sneak peak at a comic book or some other reading material in his desk. School was boring for him. Some of his reading was beyond my comprehension. I really admired him. I loved to read too. But, I could not keep up with him. Being so brilliant, it was hard for him to fit in.

I remember one time in class, the teacher gave us an assignment: "If you could have your dearest wish come true, what would it be?" We were supposed to write a fifteen minute composition about it in class and hand it in. Maybe she needed a few minutes of quiet. Maybe we did. Within a few seconds, Wilfred got up, walked to the teacher's desk and put his paper on her desk. He was done. I couldn't believe it. Many pencils in class hung in mid air along with some chins.

The teacher, staring darts at Wilfred, picked up the paper and sarcastically read it out loud. "I wish I could spend the rest of my life just reading!"

A few snickers ensued. Wilfred just sat. Teacher began her tirade. "Wilfred! MY WISH is that you would just spend your time doing your school work and behaving yourself!"

Wilfred got up from his desk and prepared to leave the room. He'd had enough. Teacher had had enough, too. SIT DOWN!

Wilfred proceed up the aisle directly toward her. She proceeded directly down the aisle toward him. She wasn't afraid of this gangly overgrown surly teenager. She actually pushed him backwards. Or tried to, I should say. That was when Wilfred pushed her back. Had the desk of a student not been right there behind her, she would have fallen.

Now, I didn't condone this kind of behavior, and still don't. But, I was shocked. How could he dare to do such a thing? Wilfred showed his total lack of respect for authority, and I lost my respect for Wilfred that day.

Many years later, I learned that Wilfred had committed a crime and gone to prison. Well, what would one expect from a trouble maker? Ironically, Wilfred spent a great deal of time in solitary confinement. He was not stupid. I'm sure he knew how to keep out of solitary confinement, or maybe it was part of making his wish come true. No one to bother him, and spend all his time reading books.

Wilfred was lucky that he had the gift of being able to read. It's too bad he never became a teacher, himself. Can you imagine passing that gift on to others?

Here are a few places where I love to get books at very reasonable prices:

Half

Better World Books

Amazon Bargain Books

Paper Back Swap

This last one, by the way, the books are free. All you have to do is pay for postage, usually less than four dollars.

I'm not sure if any of these ship outside the US. If you have a favorite place where you obtain your books, make a comment to let others know.