Suddenly, you are knocking the door
I'm so surprised
LOng time, my door is closed
How brave you are
You enter the new scene of my life
I never releaze it before
Now, you are standing up in my face
Jumat, 30 November 2007
Teaching Young Learner
All kinds of people in this world need education. It is a process mature and undrestanding their environment. Based on H. G Wells, Teaching is human task, civilization is race between education and catasphore. There are many elements in that process. The practical who involve the element are teacher and student. Teacher is man behind curicullum, social culture, and social worker. Student is man face in leson, it purpose to getting know about their environment.
All grade of education is already now, from the beginner till proffesional. The student are diffrences in culture, backround of the study, way of life, and age. The fact, student's catagory based on age. Young and adult. The succeed teacher can teach in difference situation. Teaching well means helping student learn well (Bruce Joyce).
The unique of teaching, we often finding it in teaching young learner. There is missundrestanding about teaching young learners. Teaching children is straight forward. In many society, teaching children is seen as an extention of mothering rather than as an intellectual enterprice. Teachers at primary level are then often given less training, lower status, and lower pay than their collegues in the same educational system who teach teenager or adult.
The problem is not too compicated. It located in the view of children. Children do have a les complicated view of the world than older children (teenager) and adult. But, this fact does not imply that teaching children is simple or straight forward. On the contrary the teacher of children.
All grade of education is already now, from the beginner till proffesional. The student are diffrences in culture, backround of the study, way of life, and age. The fact, student's catagory based on age. Young and adult. The succeed teacher can teach in difference situation. Teaching well means helping student learn well (Bruce Joyce).
The unique of teaching, we often finding it in teaching young learner. There is missundrestanding about teaching young learners. Teaching children is straight forward. In many society, teaching children is seen as an extention of mothering rather than as an intellectual enterprice. Teachers at primary level are then often given less training, lower status, and lower pay than their collegues in the same educational system who teach teenager or adult.
The problem is not too compicated. It located in the view of children. Children do have a les complicated view of the world than older children (teenager) and adult. But, this fact does not imply that teaching children is simple or straight forward. On the contrary the teacher of children.
The manner of approaching reading
The manner of approaching each reading or study of it. We can apply a worthwhile system for the student to give at least a fair trial. Among ather are:
- For the first reading relax. Read the selection casually, as you would some magazine articles, for whatever enjoyment or new ideas you can get it without straining. Do not stop to look up new words unles the sentences in which they are used are meaningless untill you do. But, have a pencil in hand and mark all words you are doubtful about, then go on.
- When finished with the first reading, put the book down; For a few minutes, think over what you have read.
- Then use the dictionary to help you undrestand the word you have marked. Do not make the mistake of finding the first or the shortest definition, and trying to memorize it. Instead, look at the various meanings, and for the words uses as noun, verb, and modifier. THink about them. Pronounce the word. Use it in a few sentences. I dentifying it with similar word you already know. Then see the author has used it.
- After you undrestand all the wors, read and think briefly about the assigned question and remarks following the selection. (The pargraph in each selection are numbered for easy reference)
- Then read the easy, pausing sometimes to ideas, marking sentences or phrase that seem to you especially interesting, miss leading, amusing, or well expressed.
- Then return to the question at the end. You will proably find that you have already provided most of the answer. If not, give them further thought, refering again to the essay need and to " A guide to term" or earlier explanations wherever necessary for though undrestanding.
- Next, try to evaluate the selection. What was the author trying to expalain? Did he succed in explaining? Was his endevour worthwhile?
Begin Your Day with Optimis!!!!!!
Don't miss the imagination of the maker...
This 'really' awesome story begins from here till it ends below.....
Slowly scroll downwards and enjoy it!
HUMAN BEINGS ARE SUCH SMALL CREATURES, AREN'T THEY?
SO DON'T BE TOO WORRIED ABOUT EVERYTHING,
TREASURE EVERY MOMENT, DO WHAT YOU WISH TO DO.....
BROADEN YOUR VIEW, BROADEN YOUR MIND,
DON'T WORRY TOO MUCH ABOUT THINGS THAT ARE BOTHERING YOU,
DO TREASURE YOUR LOVED ONES, LIVE SAFELY AND PEACEFULLY,
ALWAYS BE HAPPY TO WELCOME THE COMING OF THE NEW DAY....... ENJOY THE SUNSHINE ...
ALWAYS LOOK AT THE BRIGHTER SIDE OF THINGS.....
Selasa, 13 November 2007
Kurang Matangnya Persiapan
Biasanya, ketika seseorang akan menempuh perjalanan jauh ( baik ke luar kota, provinsi, pulau, maupun luar negeri) mempersiapkannya dengan matang. Apalagi jika kita tidak begitu mengenal daerah itu. Kecerobohan itu terjadi pada saya kemarin, jumat 9/11/07.
Malam sebelumnya, saya memutuskan berangkat ke Jogja atas bujukan teman. Tentu saja, dengan persiapan minim. Malam sebelum berangkat ke Jogya, saya packing barang dan menelepon teman yang bisa membantu saya disana. Saat itu, saya hanya memikirkan biaya, pakaian, penginapan, dan akomodasi disana. Ternyata saya melupakan hal prinsipil dari perjalan ke kota asing. Peta dan nomor-nomor telepon penting serta schedule cadangan. Hal prinsipil itu benar-benar mengunci saya. Bayangkan saja, tidak mengenal jalan maupun daerah yang kita lewati. Persiapan yang terlupakan itu mengakibatkan saya mengekor guide (teman yang mengenal wilayah itu). Dampaknya pun cukup serius, jalanan begitu ramai dan padat sehingga tidak sempat memperhatikan jalan.
Perjalanan alih-alih menyenangkan, menegangkan dan konsentrasi penuh. Akibatnya, kita tidak bisa menikmati perjalanan dengan nyaman dan tenang. Kita cenderung kelelahan dan tegang. Perjalanan yang seharusnya menyenagkan menjadi hukuman bagi diri sendiri. Sebaiknya kita mempertimbangkan segala sesuatu denagn matang sebelum kita melakukan perjalanan jauh. Contohnya, mencatat nomor-nomor penting, peta kota yang akan kita datangi, schedule cadangan.
Malam sebelumnya, saya memutuskan berangkat ke Jogja atas bujukan teman. Tentu saja, dengan persiapan minim. Malam sebelum berangkat ke Jogya, saya packing barang dan menelepon teman yang bisa membantu saya disana. Saat itu, saya hanya memikirkan biaya, pakaian, penginapan, dan akomodasi disana. Ternyata saya melupakan hal prinsipil dari perjalan ke kota asing. Peta dan nomor-nomor telepon penting serta schedule cadangan. Hal prinsipil itu benar-benar mengunci saya. Bayangkan saja, tidak mengenal jalan maupun daerah yang kita lewati. Persiapan yang terlupakan itu mengakibatkan saya mengekor guide (teman yang mengenal wilayah itu). Dampaknya pun cukup serius, jalanan begitu ramai dan padat sehingga tidak sempat memperhatikan jalan.
Perjalanan alih-alih menyenangkan, menegangkan dan konsentrasi penuh. Akibatnya, kita tidak bisa menikmati perjalanan dengan nyaman dan tenang. Kita cenderung kelelahan dan tegang. Perjalanan yang seharusnya menyenagkan menjadi hukuman bagi diri sendiri. Sebaiknya kita mempertimbangkan segala sesuatu denagn matang sebelum kita melakukan perjalanan jauh. Contohnya, mencatat nomor-nomor penting, peta kota yang akan kita datangi, schedule cadangan.
Ngirit Tapi Boros
Pengiritan, sepertinya identik dengan pengeluaran sejumlah uang (kebutuhan konsumtive). Tapi, kita juga seharusnya mempertimbangkan faktor yang mengikutinya. Ehmmm, seperti waktu dan tenaga. Ngirit tapi boros. Niat mau mengirit biaya tapi kurang efektive waktu dan tenaga.
Penggabungan manajemen biaya, waktu, dan tenaga. Pengalaman penggabungan ketiga manajemen yang kurang terasah. Ini terjadi pada jumat, 9/11/07 kemarin. Niat berangkat ke Jogya ngirit biaya transportasi malah keplanggrang (kehilangan banyak waktu-bhs jawa). Berdua, berangkat dengan teman dari kudus, jumat jam 6 pagi memilih opearan bis kesemarang. Sesampainya di terminal Terboyo Semarang, jam 8. Kemudian, kita memilih langsung naik bis ekonomi Jogya tanpa AC tanpa berfikir panjang. Sebelumnya, kakak saya menyarankan untuk meilih patas. Karena pertimbangan pengiritan, saya mengabaikan saran dengan pertimbangan pengiritan 50%.
Perjalanan awalnya menyenangkan, menikmati pemandangan sambil ngobrol. Ditengah perjalanan tepatnya di Magelang, ada kecelakaan beruntun. Terpaksa bus kita diajak tur pedesaan. Otomatis, perjalanan kita memakan waktu lebih lama. Permasalahannya, kita kehilangan waktu dua kali lipatnya dan kelelahan akibat dehidrasi. Perjalanan Kudus-Jogya biasanya cuma 5 jam, memakan waktu sampai 7 jam.
Perjalanan yang melelahkan tapi merupakan pengalaman berharga. Kita seharusnya mempertimbangkan faktor selain finasial saja dalam menempuh perjalanan jauh. Lebih baik mengeluarkan biaya finansial yang agak besar untuk pengiritan waktu dan tenaga.
Ngirit tapi boros. Perjalanan yang memakan waktu lebih lama membuat kita dehidrasi dan kelelahan. Tidak hanya itu saja, kita kehilangan waktu dua kali lipat diperjalanan yang seharusnya bisa kita manfaatkan. Sebaiknya kita mempertimbangkan faktor lain selain finansial dalam menempuh perjalan jauh. Kita bisa mengirit tanpa pemborosan. Bukan ngirit tapi boros
Penggabungan manajemen biaya, waktu, dan tenaga. Pengalaman penggabungan ketiga manajemen yang kurang terasah. Ini terjadi pada jumat, 9/11/07 kemarin. Niat berangkat ke Jogya ngirit biaya transportasi malah keplanggrang (kehilangan banyak waktu-bhs jawa). Berdua, berangkat dengan teman dari kudus, jumat jam 6 pagi memilih opearan bis kesemarang. Sesampainya di terminal Terboyo Semarang, jam 8. Kemudian, kita memilih langsung naik bis ekonomi Jogya tanpa AC tanpa berfikir panjang. Sebelumnya, kakak saya menyarankan untuk meilih patas. Karena pertimbangan pengiritan, saya mengabaikan saran dengan pertimbangan pengiritan 50%.
Perjalanan awalnya menyenangkan, menikmati pemandangan sambil ngobrol. Ditengah perjalanan tepatnya di Magelang, ada kecelakaan beruntun. Terpaksa bus kita diajak tur pedesaan. Otomatis, perjalanan kita memakan waktu lebih lama. Permasalahannya, kita kehilangan waktu dua kali lipatnya dan kelelahan akibat dehidrasi. Perjalanan Kudus-Jogya biasanya cuma 5 jam, memakan waktu sampai 7 jam.
Perjalanan yang melelahkan tapi merupakan pengalaman berharga. Kita seharusnya mempertimbangkan faktor selain finasial saja dalam menempuh perjalanan jauh. Lebih baik mengeluarkan biaya finansial yang agak besar untuk pengiritan waktu dan tenaga.
Ngirit tapi boros. Perjalanan yang memakan waktu lebih lama membuat kita dehidrasi dan kelelahan. Tidak hanya itu saja, kita kehilangan waktu dua kali lipat diperjalanan yang seharusnya bisa kita manfaatkan. Sebaiknya kita mempertimbangkan faktor lain selain finansial dalam menempuh perjalan jauh. Kita bisa mengirit tanpa pemborosan. Bukan ngirit tapi boros
Kamis, 08 November 2007
Magic Man by M. Stanley Bubien
My newborn son dozed warmly upon my lap on his first night at home. It was totally different than I expected. No crying, no fussing---just a tiny baby resting quietly, adding to the peace that was Christmas.
He gurgled softly and smacked his lips. I lifted him and cradled him against my chest, wondering at how small and vulnerable he was. It reminded me that I, too, had once been completely helpless. For most of life, actually, it seemed that way---and sometimes still.
My own father, however, had always been totally capable. He was a sort of magic man, always having the right thing to say, the perfect thing to do in any given circumstance---like magic.
This thought, coupled with the steady rhythm of my son's breathing, sent me back to one Christmas in particular. I have no recollection to how old I was, but I do recall how much I weighed: forty pounds. My jaw had nearly dropped when my mother announced the size of our turkey.
"Twenty-eight pounds," she said, pulling it from the oven and setting it upon the stove. "Enough to feed an army."
I bent my head to examine my own stature, thinking that surely this beast of more than half my weight had to be an anomaly of nature. "How...?" I began to ask, but my mother was already off, dashing about the kitchen in search of one utensil, then another. The mystery would have to wait because I was forced into dodging both left and right to avoid being trampled under foot.
Upon obtaining her quarry, she laid out a cutting-board and stood over the turkey holding a fork and spoon, but these were so oversized, I would swear someone designed them for the giant from "Jack and the Beanstalk." She examined the steaming bird from above, and nodding, she reached inward to extract it.
From my vantage, first fork, then spoon disappeared below the rim of the pot. With a lick of the lips, my mother began lifting. But, instead of turkey coming free, the pot rose wholesale from the stove. Worse still, in her straining, my mother leaned back, bringing bird with her, so that when she lowered it again, the pot rested only partway upon the range-top. When she relaxed her grip, it teetered forward and began to slide from its resting place.
I scrunched my arms to my sides. My mother, however, reacted like lightning. She stabbed fork and spoon back into the pan with a shriek and halted our dinner's free-fall.
"Are you all right?" my father's voice questioned from behind me.
"Your turkey!" my mother replied, pointing the fork threateningly at my father's chest. "It's stuck! And I almost dropped it on the floor trying to get it out."
"Hmm," my father mumbled. "Would you like me to help?"
"No," she blurted, "I wouldn't! So why don't you go back into the living room and finish your drink."
Instead of leaving the kitchen as my mother demanded, he placed his half-full glass onto the counter. "I'm sorry," he said calmly. "I didn't know you were having trouble." He extended his hand, "Please. I'm here to help."
Wiping her brow with her apron, she sighed, "all right," and presented him with fork and spoon.
My father took position before the stove. He shuffled his feet to gain proper footing and raised fork and spoon to shoulder height, preparing his attack. In one motion, the utensils disappeared below the pot's rim. And again, just as my mother had, my father lifted the whole thing from the stove. He puffed under the exertion, but fortunately he possessed both the strength and foresight to return it to a secure resting place before letting go.
My father shook his head at the turkey and said to my mother, "You're right."
With those words, I knew we were defeated. I imagined Christmas dinner without a main course: we'd be left with just potatoes, stuffing and cranberry sauce---and I hated cranberry sauce!
But just then, when we needed it most, my father worked his magic.
"Why don't we do this together?" he asked my mother.
After scooting the cutting-board as close as possible to the stove, he directed my mother to grasp the pot with both hands as he pushed his tools back into the abyss. But, before yanking at the bird a second time, he paused. He took one long breath and held it. The kitchen fell silent in anticipation. But, within the silence, my father breathed words which drifted into the air and reached my ears.
"Dear Lord," my father prayed, "by your grace." With those words, he winked at my mother and lifted.
Like my father, I held my own breath; afraid to watch, yet transfixed.
The pot rose slightly, but my mother forced it back down and my father strained harder. Suddenly, with a sharp report, the turkey cracked free. As it ascended into view, I saw that my father impaled one end with the fork while cradling the spoon beneath the other.
"Whoa!" I gasped as our main course flew from pot to cutting-board. Once safely upon its final perch, my father slid it away from the counter's edge.
"Now you get to carve it," my mother told him.
My father grinned, and as he began inserting the blades into the electric knife, he noticed me watching, hand over mouth, awestruck. For a moment, I believed he was going to bow like so many performers I had seen on TV. But instead, his grin widened to a beaming smile and, with a wink, he reached across the distance between us and patted me on the head.
My own son stirred, and I was moved away from the memory. He smacked his lips in the same way that had sent me into my reverie. I gazed at this beautiful baby, body so close that he warmed me like a furnace, and wondered if I would be able to perform feats of magic for him as well.
"Dear Lord," I uttered over my infant son, "by your grace, by your grace."
Copyright ©1997 M. Stanley Bubien. All Rights Reserved.
Please contact the editor for free text versions of this very short story formatted for e-mail, usenet news, or ftp.
He gurgled softly and smacked his lips. I lifted him and cradled him against my chest, wondering at how small and vulnerable he was. It reminded me that I, too, had once been completely helpless. For most of life, actually, it seemed that way---and sometimes still.
My own father, however, had always been totally capable. He was a sort of magic man, always having the right thing to say, the perfect thing to do in any given circumstance---like magic.
This thought, coupled with the steady rhythm of my son's breathing, sent me back to one Christmas in particular. I have no recollection to how old I was, but I do recall how much I weighed: forty pounds. My jaw had nearly dropped when my mother announced the size of our turkey.
"Twenty-eight pounds," she said, pulling it from the oven and setting it upon the stove. "Enough to feed an army."
I bent my head to examine my own stature, thinking that surely this beast of more than half my weight had to be an anomaly of nature. "How...?" I began to ask, but my mother was already off, dashing about the kitchen in search of one utensil, then another. The mystery would have to wait because I was forced into dodging both left and right to avoid being trampled under foot.
Upon obtaining her quarry, she laid out a cutting-board and stood over the turkey holding a fork and spoon, but these were so oversized, I would swear someone designed them for the giant from "Jack and the Beanstalk." She examined the steaming bird from above, and nodding, she reached inward to extract it.
From my vantage, first fork, then spoon disappeared below the rim of the pot. With a lick of the lips, my mother began lifting. But, instead of turkey coming free, the pot rose wholesale from the stove. Worse still, in her straining, my mother leaned back, bringing bird with her, so that when she lowered it again, the pot rested only partway upon the range-top. When she relaxed her grip, it teetered forward and began to slide from its resting place.
I scrunched my arms to my sides. My mother, however, reacted like lightning. She stabbed fork and spoon back into the pan with a shriek and halted our dinner's free-fall.
"Are you all right?" my father's voice questioned from behind me.
"Your turkey!" my mother replied, pointing the fork threateningly at my father's chest. "It's stuck! And I almost dropped it on the floor trying to get it out."
"Hmm," my father mumbled. "Would you like me to help?"
"No," she blurted, "I wouldn't! So why don't you go back into the living room and finish your drink."
Instead of leaving the kitchen as my mother demanded, he placed his half-full glass onto the counter. "I'm sorry," he said calmly. "I didn't know you were having trouble." He extended his hand, "Please. I'm here to help."
Wiping her brow with her apron, she sighed, "all right," and presented him with fork and spoon.
My father took position before the stove. He shuffled his feet to gain proper footing and raised fork and spoon to shoulder height, preparing his attack. In one motion, the utensils disappeared below the pot's rim. And again, just as my mother had, my father lifted the whole thing from the stove. He puffed under the exertion, but fortunately he possessed both the strength and foresight to return it to a secure resting place before letting go.
My father shook his head at the turkey and said to my mother, "You're right."
With those words, I knew we were defeated. I imagined Christmas dinner without a main course: we'd be left with just potatoes, stuffing and cranberry sauce---and I hated cranberry sauce!
But just then, when we needed it most, my father worked his magic.
"Why don't we do this together?" he asked my mother.
After scooting the cutting-board as close as possible to the stove, he directed my mother to grasp the pot with both hands as he pushed his tools back into the abyss. But, before yanking at the bird a second time, he paused. He took one long breath and held it. The kitchen fell silent in anticipation. But, within the silence, my father breathed words which drifted into the air and reached my ears.
"Dear Lord," my father prayed, "by your grace." With those words, he winked at my mother and lifted.
Like my father, I held my own breath; afraid to watch, yet transfixed.
The pot rose slightly, but my mother forced it back down and my father strained harder. Suddenly, with a sharp report, the turkey cracked free. As it ascended into view, I saw that my father impaled one end with the fork while cradling the spoon beneath the other.
"Whoa!" I gasped as our main course flew from pot to cutting-board. Once safely upon its final perch, my father slid it away from the counter's edge.
"Now you get to carve it," my mother told him.
My father grinned, and as he began inserting the blades into the electric knife, he noticed me watching, hand over mouth, awestruck. For a moment, I believed he was going to bow like so many performers I had seen on TV. But instead, his grin widened to a beaming smile and, with a wink, he reached across the distance between us and patted me on the head.
My own son stirred, and I was moved away from the memory. He smacked his lips in the same way that had sent me into my reverie. I gazed at this beautiful baby, body so close that he warmed me like a furnace, and wondered if I would be able to perform feats of magic for him as well.
"Dear Lord," I uttered over my infant son, "by your grace, by your grace."
Copyright ©1997 M. Stanley Bubien. All Rights Reserved.
Please contact the editor for free text versions of this very short story formatted for e-mail, usenet news, or ftp.
The Princess and the Pea by Hans Christian Andersen
Once upon a time there was a prince who wanted to marry a princess; but she would have to be a real princess. He travelled all over the world to find one, but nowhere could he get what he wanted. There were princesses enough, but it was difficult to find out whether they were real ones. There was always something about them that was not as it should be. So he came home again and was sad, for he would have liked very much to have a real princess.
One evening a terrible storm came on; there was thunder and lightning, and the rain poured down in torrents. Suddenly a knocking was heard at the city gate, and the old king went to open it.
It was a princess standing out there in front of the gate. But, good gracious! what a sight the rain and the wind had made her look. The water ran down from her hair and clothes; it ran down into the toes of her shoes and out again at the heels. And yet she said that she was a real princess.
Well, we'll soon find that out, thought the old queen. But she said nothing, went into the bed-room, took all the bedding off the bedstead, and laid a pea on the bottom; then she took twenty mattresses and laid them on the pea, and then twenty eider-down beds on top of the mattresses.
On this the princess had to lie all night. In the morning she was asked how she had slept.
"Oh, very badly!" said she. "I have scarcely closed my eyes all night. Heaven only knows what was in the bed, but I was lying on something hard, so that I am black and blue all over my body. It's horrible!"
Now they knew that she was a real princess because she had felt the pea right through the twenty mattresses and the twenty eider-down beds.
Nobody but a real princess could be as sensitive as that.
So the prince took her for his wife, for now he knew that he had a real princess; and the pea was put in the museum, where it may still be seen, if no one has stolen it.
There, that is a true story.
One evening a terrible storm came on; there was thunder and lightning, and the rain poured down in torrents. Suddenly a knocking was heard at the city gate, and the old king went to open it.
It was a princess standing out there in front of the gate. But, good gracious! what a sight the rain and the wind had made her look. The water ran down from her hair and clothes; it ran down into the toes of her shoes and out again at the heels. And yet she said that she was a real princess.
Well, we'll soon find that out, thought the old queen. But she said nothing, went into the bed-room, took all the bedding off the bedstead, and laid a pea on the bottom; then she took twenty mattresses and laid them on the pea, and then twenty eider-down beds on top of the mattresses.
On this the princess had to lie all night. In the morning she was asked how she had slept.
"Oh, very badly!" said she. "I have scarcely closed my eyes all night. Heaven only knows what was in the bed, but I was lying on something hard, so that I am black and blue all over my body. It's horrible!"
Now they knew that she was a real princess because she had felt the pea right through the twenty mattresses and the twenty eider-down beds.
Nobody but a real princess could be as sensitive as that.
So the prince took her for his wife, for now he knew that he had a real princess; and the pea was put in the museum, where it may still be seen, if no one has stolen it.
There, that is a true story.
High and Lifted Up
It was a windy day.
The mailman barely made it to the front door. When the door opened, Mrs. Pennington said, "hello", but, before she had a real chance to say "thank you", the mail blew out of the mailman's hands, into the house and the front door slammed in his face. Mrs. Pennington ran to pick up the mail.
"Oh my," she said.
Tommy was watching the shutters open and then shut, open and then shut.
"Mom," he said, "may I go outside?"
"Be careful," she said. "It's so windy today."
Tommy crawled down from the window-seat and ran to the door. He opened it with a bang. The wind blew fiercely and snatched the newly recovered mail from Mrs. Pennington's hands and blew it even further into the house.
"Oh my," she said again. Tommy ran outside and the door slammed shut.
Outside, yellow, gold, and red leaves were leaping from swaying trees, landing on the roof, jumping off the roof, and then chasing one another down the street in tiny whirlwinds of merriment.
Tommy watched in fascination.
"If I was a leaf, I would fly clear across the world," Tommy thought and then ran out into the yard among the swirl of colors.
Mrs. Pennington came to the front porch.
"Tommy, I have your jacket. Please put it on."
However, there was no Tommy in the front yard.
"Tommy?"
Tommy was a leaf. He was blowing down the street with the rest of his play-mates.
A maple leaf came close-by, touched him and moved ahead. Tommy met him shortly, brushed against him, and moved further ahead. They swirled around and around, hit cars and poles, flew up into the air and then down again.
"This is fun," Tommy thought.
The maple leaf blew in front of him. It was bright red with well-defined veins. The sun-light shone through it giving it a brilliance never before seen by a little boy's eyes.
"Where do you think we are going?" Tommy asked the leaf.
"Does it matter?" the leaf replied. "Have fun. Life is short."
"I beg to differ," an older leaf said suddenly coming beside them. "The journey may be short, but the end is the beginning."
Tommy pondered this the best a leaf could ponder.
"Where do we end up?"
"If the wind blows you in that direction," the old leaf said, "you will end up in the city dump."
<>
"I don't want that," Tommy said.
"If you are blown in that direction, you will fly high into the air and see things that no leaf has seen before."
"Follow me to the city dump," the maple leaf said. "Most of my friends are there."
The wind blew Tommy and the maple leaf along. Tommy thought of his choices. He wanted to continue to play.
"Okay," Tommy said, "I will go with you to the dump."
The winds shifted and Tommy and the leaf were blown in the direction of the city dump.
The old leaf didn't follow. He was blown further down the block and suddenly lifted up high into the air.
"Hey," he called out, "the sights up here. They are spectacular. Come and see."
Tommy and the maple leaf ignored him.
"I see something. I see the dump." The old leaf cried out. "I see smoke. Come up here. I see fire."
"I see nothing," the maple leaf said.
Tommy saw the fence that surrounded the city dump. He was happy to be with his friend. They would have fun in the dump.
Suddenly, a car pulled up. It was Tommy's mom. Mrs. Pennington wasn't about to let her little boy run into the city dump.
"Not so fast," she said getting out of the car. "You are not allowed to play in there. Don't you see the smoke?"
Tommy watched the maple leaf blow against the wall and struggle to get over. He ran over to get it but was unable to reach it.
Mrs. Pennington walked over and took the leaf. She put it in her pocket.
"There," she said, "it will be safe until we get home."
Tommy smiled, ran to the car and got in. He rolled down the back window and looked up into the sky. He wondered where the old leaf had gone. Perhaps one day he would see what the old leaf had seen - perhaps.
The mailman barely made it to the front door. When the door opened, Mrs. Pennington said, "hello", but, before she had a real chance to say "thank you", the mail blew out of the mailman's hands, into the house and the front door slammed in his face. Mrs. Pennington ran to pick up the mail.
"Oh my," she said.
Tommy was watching the shutters open and then shut, open and then shut.
"Mom," he said, "may I go outside?"
"Be careful," she said. "It's so windy today."
Tommy crawled down from the window-seat and ran to the door. He opened it with a bang. The wind blew fiercely and snatched the newly recovered mail from Mrs. Pennington's hands and blew it even further into the house.
"Oh my," she said again. Tommy ran outside and the door slammed shut.
Outside, yellow, gold, and red leaves were leaping from swaying trees, landing on the roof, jumping off the roof, and then chasing one another down the street in tiny whirlwinds of merriment.
Tommy watched in fascination.
"If I was a leaf, I would fly clear across the world," Tommy thought and then ran out into the yard among the swirl of colors.
Mrs. Pennington came to the front porch.
"Tommy, I have your jacket. Please put it on."
However, there was no Tommy in the front yard.
"Tommy?"
Tommy was a leaf. He was blowing down the street with the rest of his play-mates.
A maple leaf came close-by, touched him and moved ahead. Tommy met him shortly, brushed against him, and moved further ahead. They swirled around and around, hit cars and poles, flew up into the air and then down again.
"This is fun," Tommy thought.
The maple leaf blew in front of him. It was bright red with well-defined veins. The sun-light shone through it giving it a brilliance never before seen by a little boy's eyes.
"Where do you think we are going?" Tommy asked the leaf.
"Does it matter?" the leaf replied. "Have fun. Life is short."
"I beg to differ," an older leaf said suddenly coming beside them. "The journey may be short, but the end is the beginning."
Tommy pondered this the best a leaf could ponder.
"Where do we end up?"
"If the wind blows you in that direction," the old leaf said, "you will end up in the city dump."
<>
"I don't want that," Tommy said.
"If you are blown in that direction, you will fly high into the air and see things that no leaf has seen before."
"Follow me to the city dump," the maple leaf said. "Most of my friends are there."
The wind blew Tommy and the maple leaf along. Tommy thought of his choices. He wanted to continue to play.
"Okay," Tommy said, "I will go with you to the dump."
The winds shifted and Tommy and the leaf were blown in the direction of the city dump.
The old leaf didn't follow. He was blown further down the block and suddenly lifted up high into the air.
"Hey," he called out, "the sights up here. They are spectacular. Come and see."
Tommy and the maple leaf ignored him.
"I see something. I see the dump." The old leaf cried out. "I see smoke. Come up here. I see fire."
"I see nothing," the maple leaf said.
Tommy saw the fence that surrounded the city dump. He was happy to be with his friend. They would have fun in the dump.
Suddenly, a car pulled up. It was Tommy's mom. Mrs. Pennington wasn't about to let her little boy run into the city dump.
"Not so fast," she said getting out of the car. "You are not allowed to play in there. Don't you see the smoke?"
Tommy watched the maple leaf blow against the wall and struggle to get over. He ran over to get it but was unable to reach it.
Mrs. Pennington walked over and took the leaf. She put it in her pocket.
"There," she said, "it will be safe until we get home."
Tommy smiled, ran to the car and got in. He rolled down the back window and looked up into the sky. He wondered where the old leaf had gone. Perhaps one day he would see what the old leaf had seen - perhaps.
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