Apples of Gold
I walked though the early darkness; the trees standing in stark contrast to a cloud laden sky. My nightly trek to check the deer in the north woods took longer than I antisaped.
After the heat of August and September, I enjoy cool days of December. A few fakes of snow drifted through barren branches. I hurried along crunching dead leaves underfoot their scent rising like perfume. Tomorrow was Christmas. I had never lost the excitement or the wonder of the day. The anticipation of Christmas makes my heart beat faster even if I am a grownup child.
The chilled air was refreshing but the tempur has fallen 10 degrees in the last hour. The chill is beginning to penetrate my thick clothing. The stream over the hill is rushing to escape the ice forming at its edges. A race it will soon lose. In April, the water flows fast and furious. Today it is a fast trickle the water just covering the soles of my gumboots.
On the hill to my right, a coyote howls at the unseen moon. His brothers’ counters from my lift. Both concealed by brush. Even though I know coyotes rarely attack humans, the hair raises on the back of my neck. I quicken my steps. Dipping below the horizon the sun assures me of a fair day with its rising. The north wind tells another story, its breath heavy with snow. Maybe tomorrow we will wake to the sight of a pristine white world.
There is nothing as peaceful as a silent snow storm its flakes gently floating down to cover the flawed earth. Each flake like people of a different design.
At the back of the house, the birds huddle around the feeders. Each one wering for ...
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...d destitute individuals. Every investigation always came to a dead end. A conserve estimate surmised that over the years the donor had given somewhere around twenty million.
My wife and I continue the philanthropy James Denver and Sarah Ann Aikman started in 1910. Each year we take out one apple and sell it through a private organization. The money then is given as instructed in the note. At this time, we have given away several apples, yet there are still eight in the sack. And so once again God has proven His word to be true.
‘He that hath pity upon the poor lendeth unto
The Lord; and that which he hath given will He pay him again.’
Oh, and the gold coins? Through we have spent more than a hundred there are still thirty in the bag. Our reward for doing what The Lord has asked.
Merry Christmas
Singer’s belief that everyone should give away all excess wealth to eliminate as much suffering as possible conflicts with the idea of competition and, therefore, reduces the productivity of human civilization. Peter Singer, a professor of moral philosophy, stated in his essay “Famine, Affluence, and Morality” that it is everyone’s duty to participate in philanthropy since it is morally wrong to not help someone who is suffering. Singer thoroughly explained the details of the “duty” of philanthropy: “we ought to give until we reach the level of marginal utility - that is, the level at which, by giving more, I would cause as much suffering to myself or my dependents as I would relieve by my gift.” If this philosophy is followed, and the poor beneficiary experienced the same level of comfort as the wealthy benefactor, then what incentive would the beneficiary have for
The water was calm, like the morning; both were starting to get ready for the day ahead. The silent water signals that although rough times occurred previously, the new day was a new start for the world. As I went closer to the water, I heard the subtle lapping of the water against the small rocks on the shore. Every sign of nature signals a change in life; no matter how slight, a change is significant. We can learn a lot from nature: whatever happens in the natural world, change comes and starts a new occurrence. I gazed over the water to where the sky met the sea. The body of water seemed to be endless under the clear blue sky. The scope of nature shows endless possibilities. Nature impresses us with the brilliant colors of the sky, the leaves, the water. She keeps us all in our places and warns us when we are careless with her. After all the leaves have fallen from the trees, she will offer us the first snows of the year to coat the earth with a tranquil covering. That will only be after we have recognized the lessons of autumn, the gradual change from warm to cold, rain to snow, summer to winter.
In the month of December, New York City is such a crazy place! I walked down the street and was awestruck when I saw the most realized natural vision in the middle of New York City. It was a large hardwood plantation covered in these reflective beacons that hovered over an elliptical gathering spot. Here people were taking pictures and gliding across a frozen bond while wearing covers for their feet with small blades attached at the bottom for a more controllable slide. There seemed to be humans, both big and small, all with smiles, observing and enjoying each other's presence. Every time I tried to confront somebody there was always something else preoccupying their time. This seemed like everybody's favorite recreational distraction. It all took place at a gathering called the Rockefeller Center. Happiness was practically in the air that the humans breathe. They had a tunnel vision for their friends and family and that seems like it was all that was necessary. It was hectic, yet in a very weird way peaceful, but surely not based upon the commotion. No, it was based upon everybody’s worries disappearing with the feeling of flight as they glide across this frozen liquid surface and feel the cold wind blow in their faces. It’s a good thing everyone was bundled up wearing multiple layers one after another.
Hence, the image of the trickster Coyote is the focal point in these two cultures, because of his/her never-ending desire to start the next story for the creation of the world and have everything right. Native American culture has a lot of dialogic perspectives in it; in the form of stories and conversations in which all humans and non-humans communicate (Irwin,2000, p39) and writers often highlight the importance of the oral cultural inheritance both as the notion of their being and as method for their writing. Coyote in traditional oral culture reminds us the semiotic component of sufferings of
I stepped out of the chilly November air and into the warmth of my home. The first snowfall of the year had hit early in the morning, and the soft, powdery snow provided entertainment for hours. As I laid my furry mittens and warm hat on the bench to dry, I was immediately greeted with the rich scent of sweet apple pie, pumpkin pie, mashed potatoes, and the twenty-pound turkey my mother was preparing for our Thanksgiving feast.
Three inches of fresh snow fell last night, creating a blanket of freshness that reflects the last rays of moonlight. As we drive into our property we see fresh deer tracks and my heart starts pumping, I have been away from Wisconsin for a few months and this morning is the first time I entered these woods since September. A few hundred yards into the woods we jump three deer walking the road. They bound off into the darkness in flashes of brown silhouetted by snow. We park...
I was the first person to ski off of the chairlift that day; arriving at the summit of the Blackcomb Mountain, nestled in the heart of Whistler, Canada. It was the type of day when the clouds seemed to blanket the sky, leaving no clue that the sun, with its powerful light, even existed anymore. It was not snowing, but judging by the moist, musty, stale scent in the air, I realized it would be only a short time before the white flakes overtook the mountain. As I prepared myself to make the first run, I took a moment to appreciate my surroundings. Somehow things seemed much different up here. The wind, nonexistent at the bottom, began to gust. Its cold bite found my nose and froze my toes. Its quick and sudden swirling movement kicked loose snow into my face, forcing me to zip my jacket over my chin. It is strange how the gray clouds, which seemed so far above me at the bottom, really did not appear that high anymore. As I gazed out over the landscape, the city below seemed unrecognizable. The enormous buildings which I had driven past earlier looked like dollhouses a child migh...
captive by a sheath of frost, as were the glacial branches that scraped at my windows, begging to get in. It is indeed the coldest year I can remember, with winds like barbs that caught and pulled at my skin. People ceaselessly searched for warmth, but my family found that this year, the warmth was searching for us.
As the sky begins to brighten to a gray, and the stars that were so brilliant just seconds ago begin to grow dim, my imagination starts to picture things moving that are really nothing but shadows in the trees. It is as if the shadows are racing around trying to find their owners before the sun peeks its gleaming face up over the horizon. A deer jumps from its bed, scaring the horses and pumping a quart of adrenaline through my system, as my pistol jumps to my hand. Once I realize it is just a deer, I put my pistol back in its holster.
The sounds of the winter snowstorm were echoing throughout the town, from the snowplows in the distance, to the scraping of snow shovels that sounded like fingernails scratching a chalkboard. Neighbors were shoveling snow that had accumulated on their sidewalks and driveways.
Walking, there is no end in sight: stranded on a narrow country road for all eternity. It is almost dark now. The clouds having moved in secretively. When did that happen? I am so far away from all that is familiar. The trees are groaning against the wind’s fury: when did the wind start blowing? Have I been walking for so long that time hysterically slipped away! The leaves are rustling about swirling through the air like discarded post-it notes smashing, slapping against the trees and blacktop, “splat-snap”. Where did the sun go? It gave the impression only an instant ago, or had it been longer; that it was going to be a still and peaceful sunny day; has panic from hunger and walking so long finally crept in? Waking up this morning, had I been warned of the impending day, the highs and lows that I would soon face, and the unexpected twist of fate that awaited me, I would have stayed in bed.
In situations where $200 donations could save lives, “there will always be another child whose life you could save for $200.” (Singer). In Singer’s piece, the focus lies on the global community and what the $200 does for the child in Africa rather than the one across the street and this is where the responsibility is needed to be taken up. By focusing on smaller actions within the smaller communities, an individual who handles responsibilities in charity, should have the “main consideration should be to help those who will help themselves…to rise the aids by which they may rise; to assist” (Carnegie). This affect in the community becomes concentrated as a mass of successful individuals who have learned to pay it forward and than branch out to share experience.
The sunless sky covered the woods over the treetops which created a canopy over my head. The crimson and auburn foliage was a magnificent sight, as this was the season known as Fall. There was a gentle breeze, creating the single sound of rustling leaves. The leaves appeared as though they were dying to fall out of the tree and join their companions on the forest floor. Together with pine needles and other flora the leaves formed a thick springy carpet for me to walk upon.
The sunset was not spectacular that day. The vivid ruby and tangerine streaks that so often caressed the blue brow of the sky were sleeping, hidden behind the heavy mists. There are some days when the sunlight seems to dance, to weave and frolic with tongues of fire between the blades of grass. Not on that day. That evening, the yellow light was sickly. It diffused softly through the gray curtains with a shrouded light that just failed to illuminate. High up in the treetops, the leaves swayed, but on the ground, the grass was silent, limp and unmoving. The sun set and the earth waited.
As I walked I let my eyes close and my feet feel the groove in the gravel. My mind, still asleep, dreamt of breathing. The lining of my father's old coat escaped inside the pockets and caught my fingers, which were numb from the cold. I would have worn gloves but the sun would be unbearable later in the day. The clouds would rise over the mountains and disappear and the birds would slowly become silent as the heat settled in. But for now it was just cold. I tried to warm my neck by breathing down the collar. It smelled like diesel and sweat.