a true story

Now and again, the question arises why do this?  I don’t do it for profit; we always operate at a loss.  I don’t do it for accolades.  I don’t do it for thanks.  I get my satisfaction seeing people enjoy what I’ve done, and for the occasional, “Whoa!”  I don’t mind giving; what I mind is being taken for granted.

There’s a true story I like to tell from time to time.  Some of you have probably heard it.  I’ll post it here and there will be no need for me to tell it again.

My grandmother and grandfather lived with their brood of children in a large house.  Then came the Great Depression.  They moved from that big house to a tiny farm house that had once belonged to one of the tenants.  They lost virtually everything and grandfather, once a wealthy man studying medicine, was one of many desperately searching for any work he could find to support his family.

Occasionally a knock would come on the door and grandmother would find a bum (That was the term back then.) looking for a days work or a free meal.  Even though there was often little enough to feed the children, grandmother never sent anyone away hungry.

On one occasion a bum knocked at the door, begging a meal and grandmother took him in.  She had recently baked a cake, so she was even able to offer him a piece as dessert.  Starting in on the cake, the bum looked up and said, “Say, this cake is pretty dry.  Got any cream?”

THAT is what I feel like sometimes.  I don’t crave praise or recognition or even simple thanks.  I don’t mind giving — it is a joy.  What I object to is when someone’s question is, “How much more can you give me?”


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