Students in an advanced Biology class were taking their exam.
The last question was, 'Name seven advantages of Mother's Milk', worth
70 points or none at all.
One student, in particular, was hard put to think of seven advantages.
He wrote:
(1) It is perfect formula for the child.
2) It provides immunity against several diseases.
3) It is always the right temperature.
4) It is inexpensive.
5) It bonds the child to mother, and vice versa.
6) It is always available as needed.
And then the student was stuck. Finally, in desperation, just before
the bell rang indicating the end of the test, he wrote:
7) It comes in two attractive containers... and the cat can't get it.
He got an A.
Tuesday, February 28, 2012
Monday, February 27, 2012
Why Fire Trucks have Dalmatians
Why did old-time fire trucks have dogs (usually dalmatians) on board? Were the dogs just mascots, or did they serve some purpose?
Originally, dogs ran in front of horse-drawn steam engines, barking loudly to alert pedestrians and vehicles so the fire wagon could pass unhindered. Dalmatians were fit and loyal enough for this work, and they got along well with the horses. With the advent of gasoline-powered fire engines, the dalmatians weren't really needed any longer, but they became a kid-friendly symbol of the honorable profession of fire fighting.
Originally, dogs ran in front of horse-drawn steam engines, barking loudly to alert pedestrians and vehicles so the fire wagon could pass unhindered. Dalmatians were fit and loyal enough for this work, and they got along well with the horses. With the advent of gasoline-powered fire engines, the dalmatians weren't really needed any longer, but they became a kid-friendly symbol of the honorable profession of fire fighting.
Beauties Morphing
This link takes you to the most remarkable series of portraits of women.
http://www.angelfire.com/ak2/
http://www.angelfire.com/ak2/
Saturday, February 25, 2012
Read the Label
As I was conditioning my hair in the shower this morning, I took
time to read my shampoo bottle. I am in shock! The shampoo I use in
the shower that runs down my entire body says "for extra volume and
body"! Seriously, why have I not noticed this before? Now I
understand why I am so "full-figured"!
Tomorrow I am going to start using "Dawn" dish soap. It says right
on the label "dissolves fat that is otherwise difficult to remove."
It pays to read the warning labels my friends!
time to read my shampoo bottle. I am in shock! The shampoo I use in
the shower that runs down my entire body says "for extra volume and
body"! Seriously, why have I not noticed this before? Now I
understand why I am so "full-figured"!
Tomorrow I am going to start using "Dawn" dish soap. It says right
on the label "dissolves fat that is otherwise difficult to remove."
It pays to read the warning labels my friends!
Wednesday, February 22, 2012
Corrupt Senator
| While walking down the street one day a Corrupt Senator was tragically hit by a car and died. His soul arrives in heaven and is met by St. Peter at the entrance. "Welcome to heaven," says St.. Peter. "Before you settle in, it seems there is a problem. We seldom see a high official around these parts, you see, so we're not sure what to do with you." "No problem, just let me in," says the Senator. "Well, I'd like to, but I have orders from the higher ups. What we'll do is have you spend one day in hell and one in heaven. Then you can choose where to spend eternity." "Really?, I've made up my mind. I want to be in heaven," says the Senator. "I'm sorry, but we have our rules." And with that, St. Peter escorts him to the elevator and he goes down, down, down to hell. The doors open and he finds himself in the middle of a green golf course. In the distance is a clubhouse and standing in front of it are all his friends and other politicians who had worked with him. Everyone is very happy and in evening dress. They run to greet him, shake his hand, and reminisce about the good times they had while getting rich at the expense of the people. They played a friendly game of golf and then dine on lobster, caviar and the finest champagne. Also present is the devil, who really is a very friendly guy who is having a good time dancing and telling jokes. They are all having such a good time that before the Senator realizes it, it is time to go. Everyone gives him a hearty farewell and waves while the elevator rises. The elevator goes up, up, up and the door reopens in heaven where St. Peter is waiting for him, "Now it's time to visit heaven... So, 24 hours passed with the Senator joining a group of contented souls moving from cloud to cloud, playing the harp and singing. They have a good time and, before he realizes it, the 24 hours have gone by and St. Peter returns. "Well, then, you've spent a day in hell and another in heaven. Now choose your eternity." The Senator reflects for a minute, then he answers: "Well, I would never have said it before, I mean heaven has been delightful, but I think I would be better off in hell." So St. Peter escorts him to the elevator and he goes down, down, down to hell... Now the doors of the elevator open and he's in the middle of a barren land covered with waste and garbage. He sees all his friends, dressed in rags, picking up the trash and putting it in black bags as more trash falls to the ground. The devil comes over to him and puts his arm around his shoulders. "I don't understand," stammers the Senator. "Yesterday I was here and there was a golf course and clubhouse, and we ate lobster and caviar, drank champagne, and danced and had a great time. Now there's just a wasteland full of garbage and my friends look miserable. What happened?" The devil smiles at him and says, "Yesterday we were campaigning, Today, you voted.." |
Sweet Survival
August 1942. Piotrkow, Poland
The sky was gloomy that morning as we waited anxiously.
All the men, women and children of Piotrkow's Jewish ghetto
had been herded into a square.
Word had gotten around that we were being moved. My father had only
recently died from typhus, which had run rampant through the crowded
ghetto. My greatest fear was that our family would be separated.
'Whatever you do,' Isidore, my eldest brother, whispered to me, 'don't
tell them your age. Say you're
sixteen.
'I was tall for a boy of 11, so I could pull it off. That way I might
be deemed valuable as a worker.
An SS man approached me, boots clicking against the cobblestones. He
looked me up and down, and then asked my age.
'Sixteen,' I said. He directed me to the left, where my three brothers
and other healthy young men already stood.
My mother was motioned to the right with the other women, children,
sick and elderly people.
I whispered to Isidore, 'Why?'
He didn't answer.
I ran to Mama's side and said I wanted to stay with her.
'No, 'she said sternly.
'Get away. Don't be a nuisance. Go with your brothers.'
She had never spoken so harshly before. But I understood: She was
protecting me. She loved me so much that, just this once,
she pretended not to. It was the last I ever saw of
her.
My brothers and I were transported in a cattle car to Germany.
We arrived at the Buchenwald concentration camp one night later and
were led into a crowded barrack. The next day, we were issued uniforms
and identification numbers.
'Don't call me Herman anymore.' I said to my brothers. 'Call me 94983.'
I was put to work in the camp's crematorium, loading the dead into a
hand-cranked elevator.
I,
too, felt dead. Hardened, I had become a number.
Soon, my brothers and I were sent to Schlieben, one of Buchenwald 's
sub-camps near Berlin ...
One morning I thought I heard my mother's voice.
'Son,' she said softly but clearly, I am going to send you an angel.'
Then I woke up. Just a dream. A beautiful dream.
But in this place there could be no angels. There was only work. And hunger. And
fear.
A couple of days later, I was walking around the camp, around the
barracks, near the barbed-wire fence where the guards could not easily
see. I was alone.
On the other side of the fence, I spotted someone: a little girl with
light, almost luminous curls. She was half-hidden behind a birch tree.
I glanced around to make sure no one saw me. I called to her softly in
German. 'Do you have something to eat?'
She didn't understand.
I inched closer to the fence and repeated the question in Polish. She
stepped forward. I was thin and gaunt, with rags wrapped around my
feet, but the girl looked unafraid. In her eyes, I saw life.
She pulled an apple from her woolen jacket and threw it over the fence.
I grabbed the fruit and, as I started to run away, I heard her say
faintly, 'I'll see you tomorrow.'
I returned to the same spot by the fence at the same time every day.
She was always there with something for me to eat - a hunk of bread
or, better yet, an apple.
We didn't dare speak or linger. To be caught would mean death for us both.
I didn't know anything about her, just a kind farm girl, except that
she understood Polish. What was her name? Why was she risking her life
for me?
Hope was in such short supply, and this girl on the other side of the
fence gave me some, as nourishing in its way as the bread and apples.
Nearly seven months later, my brothers and I were crammed into a coal
car and shipped to Theresienstadt camp in Czechoslovakia .
'Don't return,' I told the girl that day. 'We're leaving.'
I turned toward the barracks and didn't look back, didn't even say
good-bye to the little girl whose name I'd ever learned, the girl with
the apples.
We were in Theresienstadt for three months. The war was winding down
and Allied forces were closing in, yet my fate seemed sealed.
On May 10, 1945, I was scheduled to die in the gas chamber at 10:00 AM.
In the quiet of dawn, I tried to prepare myself. So many
times death seemed ready to claim me, but somehow I'd survived. Now,
it was over.
I thought of my parents. At least, I thought, we will be reunited.
But at 8 a.m. there was a commotion. I heard shouts, and saw people
running every which way through camp. I caught up with my brothers.
Russian troops had liberated the camp! The gates swung open. Everyone
was running, so I did too. Amazingly, all of my brothers had survived;
I'm not sure how. But I knew that the girl with the apples had been
the key to my survival.
In a place where evil seemed triumphant, one person's goodness had
saved my life, had given me hope in a place where there was none.
My mother had promised to send me an angel, and the angel had come.
Eventually I made my way to England where I was sponsored by a Jewish
charity, put up in a hostel with other boys who had survived the
Holocaust and trained in electronics. Then I came to America, where my
brother Sam had already moved. I served in the U. S. Army during the
Korean War, and returned to New York City after two years.
By August 1957 I'd opened my own electronics repair shop. I was
starting to settle in.
One day, my friend Sid who I knew from England called me.
'I've got a date. She's got a Polish friend. Let's double date.'
A blind date? Nah, that wasn't for me.
But Sid kept pestering me, and a few days later we headed up to the Bronx to pick up his date and her friend Roma.
I had
to admit, for a blind date this wasn't so bad. Roma was a nurse at a
Bronx hospital. She was kind and smart. Beautiful, too, with swirling
brown curls and green, almond-shaped eyes that sparkled with life.
The four of us drove out to Coney Island . Roma was easy to talk to,
easy to be with.
Turned out she was wary of blind dates too!
We were both just doing our friends a favor. We took a stroll on the
boardwalk, enjoying the salty Atlantic breeze, and then had dinner by
the shore. I couldn't remember having a better time.
We piled back into Sid's car, Roma and I sharing the backseat.
As European Jews who had survived the war, we were aware that much had
been left unsaid between us. She broached the subject, 'Where were
you,' she asked softly, 'during the war?'
'The camps,' I said. The terrible memories still vivid, the
irreparable loss..I had tried to forget. But you can never forget.
She nodded. 'My family was hiding on a farm in Germany, not far from
Berlin ,' she told me. 'My father knew a priest, and he got us Aryan
papers.'
I imagined how she must have suffered too, fear, a constant companion.
And yet here we were both survivors, in a new world.
'There was a camp next to the farm.' Roma continued. 'I saw a boy
there and I would throw him apples every day.'
What an amazing coincidence that she had helped some other boy. 'What did he look like? I asked.
'He was tall, skinny, and hungry. I must have seen him every day for
six months.'
My heart was racing. I couldn't believe it.
This couldn't be.
'Did he tell you one day not to come back because he was leaving Schlieben?'
Roma looked at me in amazement. 'Yes!'
'That was me!'
I was ready to burst with joy and awe, flooded with emotions. I
couldn't believe it! My angel.
'I'm not letting you go.' I said to Roma. And in the back of the car on
that blind date, I proposed to her. I didn't want to wait.
'You're crazy!' she said. But she invited me to meet her parents for
Shabbat dinner the following week.
There was so much I looked forward to learning about Roma, but the
most important things I always knew: her steadfastness, her goodness.
For many months, in the worst of circumstances, she had come to the
fence and given me hope. Now that I'd found her again, I could never
let her go.
That day, she said yes. And I kept my word. After nearly 50 years of
marriage, two children and three grandchildren, I have never let her
go.
Herman Rosenblat of Miami Beach , Florida
This story is being made into a movie called The Fence.
The sky was gloomy that morning as we waited anxiously.
All the men, women and children of Piotrkow's Jewish ghetto
had been herded into a square.
Word had gotten around that we were being moved. My father had only
recently died from typhus, which had run rampant through the crowded
ghetto. My greatest fear was that our family would be separated.
'Whatever you do,' Isidore, my eldest brother, whispered to me, 'don't
tell them your age. Say you're
sixteen.
'I was tall for a boy of 11, so I could pull it off. That way I might
be deemed valuable as a worker.
An SS man approached me, boots clicking against the cobblestones. He
looked me up and down, and then asked my age.
'Sixteen,' I said. He directed me to the left, where my three brothers
and other healthy young men already stood.
My mother was motioned to the right with the other women, children,
sick and elderly people.
I whispered to Isidore, 'Why?'
He didn't answer.
I ran to Mama's side and said I wanted to stay with her.
'No, 'she said sternly.
'Get away. Don't be a nuisance. Go with your brothers.'
She had never spoken so harshly before. But I understood: She was
protecting me. She loved me so much that, just this once,
she pretended not to. It was the last I ever saw of
her.
My brothers and I were transported in a cattle car to Germany.
We arrived at the Buchenwald concentration camp one night later and
were led into a crowded barrack. The next day, we were issued uniforms
and identification numbers.
'Don't call me Herman anymore.' I said to my brothers. 'Call me 94983.'
I was put to work in the camp's crematorium, loading the dead into a
hand-cranked elevator.
I,
too, felt dead. Hardened, I had become a number.
Soon, my brothers and I were sent to Schlieben, one of Buchenwald 's
sub-camps near Berlin ...
One morning I thought I heard my mother's voice.
'Son,' she said softly but clearly, I am going to send you an angel.'
Then I woke up. Just a dream. A beautiful dream.
But in this place there could be no angels. There was only work. And hunger. And
fear.
A couple of days later, I was walking around the camp, around the
barracks, near the barbed-wire fence where the guards could not easily
see. I was alone.
On the other side of the fence, I spotted someone: a little girl with
light, almost luminous curls. She was half-hidden behind a birch tree.
I glanced around to make sure no one saw me. I called to her softly in
German. 'Do you have something to eat?'
She didn't understand.
I inched closer to the fence and repeated the question in Polish. She
stepped forward. I was thin and gaunt, with rags wrapped around my
feet, but the girl looked unafraid. In her eyes, I saw life.
She pulled an apple from her woolen jacket and threw it over the fence.
I grabbed the fruit and, as I started to run away, I heard her say
faintly, 'I'll see you tomorrow.'
I returned to the same spot by the fence at the same time every day.
She was always there with something for me to eat - a hunk of bread
or, better yet, an apple.
We didn't dare speak or linger. To be caught would mean death for us both.
I didn't know anything about her, just a kind farm girl, except that
she understood Polish. What was her name? Why was she risking her life
for me?
Hope was in such short supply, and this girl on the other side of the
fence gave me some, as nourishing in its way as the bread and apples.
Nearly seven months later, my brothers and I were crammed into a coal
car and shipped to Theresienstadt camp in Czechoslovakia .
'Don't return,' I told the girl that day. 'We're leaving.'
I turned toward the barracks and didn't look back, didn't even say
good-bye to the little girl whose name I'd ever learned, the girl with
the apples.
We were in Theresienstadt for three months. The war was winding down
and Allied forces were closing in, yet my fate seemed sealed.
On May 10, 1945, I was scheduled to die in the gas chamber at 10:00 AM.
In the quiet of dawn, I tried to prepare myself. So many
times death seemed ready to claim me, but somehow I'd survived. Now,
it was over.
I thought of my parents. At least, I thought, we will be reunited.
But at 8 a.m. there was a commotion. I heard shouts, and saw people
running every which way through camp. I caught up with my brothers.
Russian troops had liberated the camp! The gates swung open. Everyone
was running, so I did too. Amazingly, all of my brothers had survived;
I'm not sure how. But I knew that the girl with the apples had been
the key to my survival.
In a place where evil seemed triumphant, one person's goodness had
saved my life, had given me hope in a place where there was none.
My mother had promised to send me an angel, and the angel had come.
Eventually I made my way to England where I was sponsored by a Jewish
charity, put up in a hostel with other boys who had survived the
Holocaust and trained in electronics. Then I came to America, where my
brother Sam had already moved. I served in the U. S. Army during the
Korean War, and returned to New York City after two years.
By August 1957 I'd opened my own electronics repair shop. I was
starting to settle in.
One day, my friend Sid who I knew from England called me.
'I've got a date. She's got a Polish friend. Let's double date.'
A blind date? Nah, that wasn't for me.
But Sid kept pestering me, and a few days later we headed up to the Bronx to pick up his date and her friend Roma.
I had
to admit, for a blind date this wasn't so bad. Roma was a nurse at a
Bronx hospital. She was kind and smart. Beautiful, too, with swirling
brown curls and green, almond-shaped eyes that sparkled with life.
The four of us drove out to Coney Island . Roma was easy to talk to,
easy to be with.
Turned out she was wary of blind dates too!
We were both just doing our friends a favor. We took a stroll on the
boardwalk, enjoying the salty Atlantic breeze, and then had dinner by
the shore. I couldn't remember having a better time.
We piled back into Sid's car, Roma and I sharing the backseat.
As European Jews who had survived the war, we were aware that much had
been left unsaid between us. She broached the subject, 'Where were
you,' she asked softly, 'during the war?'
'The camps,' I said. The terrible memories still vivid, the
irreparable loss..I had tried to forget. But you can never forget.
She nodded. 'My family was hiding on a farm in Germany, not far from
Berlin ,' she told me. 'My father knew a priest, and he got us Aryan
papers.'
I imagined how she must have suffered too, fear, a constant companion.
And yet here we were both survivors, in a new world.
'There was a camp next to the farm.' Roma continued. 'I saw a boy
there and I would throw him apples every day.'
What an amazing coincidence that she had helped some other boy. 'What did he look like? I asked.
'He was tall, skinny, and hungry. I must have seen him every day for
six months.'
My heart was racing. I couldn't believe it.
This couldn't be.
'Did he tell you one day not to come back because he was leaving Schlieben?'
Roma looked at me in amazement. 'Yes!'
'That was me!'
I was ready to burst with joy and awe, flooded with emotions. I
couldn't believe it! My angel.
'I'm not letting you go.' I said to Roma. And in the back of the car on
that blind date, I proposed to her. I didn't want to wait.
'You're crazy!' she said. But she invited me to meet her parents for
Shabbat dinner the following week.
There was so much I looked forward to learning about Roma, but the
most important things I always knew: her steadfastness, her goodness.
For many months, in the worst of circumstances, she had come to the
fence and given me hope. Now that I'd found her again, I could never
let her go.
That day, she said yes. And I kept my word. After nearly 50 years of
marriage, two children and three grandchildren, I have never let her
go.
Herman Rosenblat of Miami Beach , Florida
This story is being made into a movie called The Fence.
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