Maybe There Is No Peace In This

My Mother And My Father Were Illiterate Immigrants From Russia. When I Was A Child They Were Constantly Amazed That I Could Go To A Building And Take A Book On Any Subject. They Couldn't Believe This Access To Knowledge We Have Here In America. They Couldn't Believe That It Was Free.

A Stroke Is A Very Difficult Thing. You Get Depressed. . . . What I Found Was This: The Cure For Depression Is To Think Of Others, To Do For Others. You Can Always Find Something To Be Grateful For.

Unfortunately, Once I Did Learn To Smoke, I Couldn't Stop. I Escalated To Two Packs A Day Very Quickly, And Stayed That Way For About Ten Years. When I Decided To Stop, I Adopted The Method That My Father Had Used When He Quit. He Would Carry A Cigarette In His Shirt Pocket, And Every Time He Felt Like Smoking, He Would Pull Out The Cigarette And Confront It: "who Stronger? You? Me?" Always The Answer Was The Same: "i Stronger." Back The Cigarette Would Go, Until The Next Craving. It Worked For Him, And It Worked For Me.

What Would My Parents Think About America If They Arrived Here Today? Would They Even Want To Come? I Wonder.

No Matter How Bad Things Are, They Can Always Be Worse. So What If My Stroke Left Me With A Speech Impediment? Moses Had One, And He Did All Right.