ABRAHAM

Michelle Timberlake was uneasy as she drove toward her home in the hills of the Ozark mountains near Fort Smith, Arkansas. It was late, there was no other traffic on the road and the sudden summer thunder storm was more intense than usual. Each flash of lightning seemed closer than the last as the rain threatened to make the road impassable. "I should have driven straight home after work, rather than stopping by to see Mother," Michelle breathed to herself as she braked for a sharp turn in the road.

As Michelle’s car rounded the turn, her sense of foreboding turned into reality. Her headlights caught the large tree lying across the road too late. Even though she avoided a disastrous collision, she could not remain on the pavement, and the car came to rest in the middle of a pile of gravel, drive wheels suspended uselessly above the ditch beyond.

As life slowly ebbed from the stricken automobile, and the headlights faded, the shadows seemed to close in on a very frightened young woman. So intense was her discomfort that one of the shadows seemed to detach itself from the others and actually move toward her. Then she felt the car move, and a cry of terror rose in her throat, as her vehicle returned to the road by what seemed to be super natural power. And then Michelle saw him, a small, woefully bedraggled man, carefully checking the underside of the car for damage, signaling her to restart the car, waiting to assure all was in order - and then retreating into the darkness.

Reason returned to Michelle quickly and her training as an emergency medical technician took over. Before the small man could disappear, she was out of the car, had him wrapped in a warm blanket and installed safely in the back seat. He was too weak to resist.

The rest of the trip was completed in silence. In fact, the stranger said nothing for the following seven days that it took Michelle to nurture him back to passable health.

Finally the stranger spoke, "You have been very kind to me, but I must, be on my way. Thank you for your hospitality. Goodbye. "

"'Wait," cried Michelle, "at least tell me who you are and where you will go.”


"I am sorry," the man replied in a subdued voice, "I cannot tell you. Please, I must go now."

"But sir, you MUST tell me. I cannot rest until I know who you are."

"Nor can I," sighed the stranger. "I cannot tell you, for I cannot remember myself. I only know that I have family and friends somewhere whom I must find. For I feel that I have done some great wrong toward them."

Michelle gently pulled the sad stranger toward her, placed her hands on his shoulders and implored, "Please let me help you. I am an investigative reporter as well as an "EMT" and have many contacts among the press and in the medical community. I am sure we can help you find your family. But until we do, you must have a name. I will call you Abraham."

Weeks passed. Michelle developed a genuine affection for this man, but little information about him. He seemed to have appeared from nowhere. Yet, she would not give up. For Abraham had become, in many ways, the father she had never really known. Her father had left her and her mother when she was but three. Her mother had been so heartbroken that she had been confined to a mental institution since that time.

One day Michelle received a phone call from Dr. Larsen at the institution. Her mother was having one of her rare lucid periods and was calling for her. "Come with me, Abraham," pleaded Michelle. "My mother will be acting almost normally and you will not be uncomfortable. Besides, Dr. Larsen believes he can help you. The more you refuse to see him, the more evident it is to me that you really don't want to know who you are. For the sake of your family and friends, you must face your past."

Abraham reluctantly agreed to go. As they approached the hospital, however, he became more and more apprehensive. The brief flashes of memory that had haunted him for so long came and left; glimpses of his past too fragmented to have any real meaning.

They entered the hospital room softly. Michelle's mother sat by the window, her back turned toward the door. Standing beside her was an old man talking to her in low tones. "Mother, I have come", whispered Michelle as she went to her mother's side and gently embraced her.

"Oh, Michelle," her mother cried, "Why must I stay here? Please take me home to your father."

It's all right, Mother. It's all right. Remember? We moved away from home years ago when Daddy left us." Michelle smiled brightly. "Mother, I want you to meet someone. I call him Abraham. He has been like a father to me these past few months and I have brought him so that Dr. Larsen can help him remember his past."

Michelle's mother turned in her chair and smiled at Abraham. Her eyes clouded with confusion, then cleared in sudden recognition Gregory, Gregory", she cried.

"Gregory?" Michelle asked.

"Yes, yes" her mother replied joyfully. "This is your father, Gregory Timberlake.”

"Gregory? Father?" Abraham was terribly confused. These people could not possibly be his family. And yet, this woman seemed to know who he was.

The man who has been talking to Michelle's mother stepped out of the shadows. "Yes, Gregory", he said, "I also know you. I am the high priest of the Shawnee. It was I who revealed your true destiny years ago. You are Altus II, albino god of the Shawnee. The priest opened Abraham's shirt and pointed to a tiny white scar.

Memory flooded in to Gregory’s mind. His childhood, his education, his wife and daughter and, most painfully of all, his shame before the high priest as his destiny was denied him because of his vanity in having the sacred mark of the tick removed from his body. He embraced his family. And he wept with joy - and with shame.


"Please forgive me," he pleaded. "I know I should not have abandoned you, but so ashamed was I for having dishonored the name of Altus that I could not bear to remain with those I had hurt. I must have been wandering without memory or name for a long time."

"Twenty long years," whispered his wife.

A strong, practiced hand touched Gregory. Dr. Larsen spoke. "Your family and friends have told me your story, Gregory. I have come to help you. It was my father whom you asked to remove the mark of the tick so many years ago. But he could not. He was aware of the legend of Altus, and knew the significance of the mark. So he deceived you."

Dr. Larsen took a bottle of solvent from his pocket, soaked a cotton swab and gently applied it to Gregory's scar. The scar immediately softened and fell away, a piece of cleverly applied latex, which had done its job. And there revealed was the sacred mark of Altus.

Gregory turned and the aging priest stood before him holding the golden robe of Altus. The priest bowed and proclaimed, "Oh, great Altus, albino God of the Shawnee, all of Oklahoma lies before you. Go and fulfill your destiny.

"Wait," said Gregory, "what of your proclamation years ago, that I had forever lost my destiny?"

"It is true, I did say that," replied the old man as he placed the robe on Gregory's shoulders," Yet, those wiser than myself are in control. You have been allowed to wander without name and without purpose for many years, reunited with your family and your destiny only after you reached out and unselfishly began giving again, wanting nothing for yourself. You have learned a valuable lesson, oh great one, that you must always remember and pass on to your subjects. It is not for us to decide when the struggle is over. We must endure, regardless of what comes, and leave the final result in the hands of those who know our hearts best. Now, go, my son. Go in peace and rule with kindness and compassion."

end

EPILOGUE

Because of his compassion and great love for everyone, Altus chose not to regain Oklahoma for his people, but to see them peacefully integrated into a productive society. Thus, the presence of Altus II and his influence on the world is known only to those who have heard his story. And, oh, yes, not every yarn has to end with a chuckle. The last laugh is reserved for another day.

Regards,

Wee Willie of Virginia

CACTUS VALLEY

Elijah and Ruth were so excited that the electricity of their mood seemed to crackle and pop along the fences in the small Northern Arizona hamlet where they lived. Their second child was about to be born and the town priest had just predicted a boy. Boys are always an event, but in Cactus Valley, the first-born son was a religious milestone. For each family in this isolated outpost dedicated their first son to the service of the gods of the Navajos, who had allowed Elijah's great grandfather to establish the settlement many years before.

The parents' excitement was not in vain, for their son came as predicted. And a beautiful child he was - fair skinned, blue eyed, with the perfect features required of a future priest. When he was 18, he would be transformed into a practitioner of Navajo religious ritual, but for now there was time only for joy as little Jacob began his life.

Jacob and his older sister, Mary, were inseparable as they grew up together. Mary tended the small child, told him stories about Indian gods and helped him look forward to the day when he would be 18 and could go into the Kiva for the first time to begin his training and, hopefully, even go to Window Rock some day to serve in the tribal capitol as the Chief Priest.

Jacob's activities were reasonably normal for a small boy, lacking nothing but some of the evils of the wicked city to the south that could be reached only by foot or horseback. He was frequently warned that to venture into Flagstaff and partake of its sins would forever banish him to the outside world and destroy his destiny as a Navajo priest. Still, he was happy and grew taller, stronger and more perfect every year. Jacob's parents were the envy of the town, for never had one of their own shown so much promise as this youngster. Mary was also happy for she was known around the hamlet as the sister of the most promising of all the future priests of the Navajo.

When Jacob was 14, the village priest came to him. "Jacob, it is time that you were exposed to the outside world, for in only 4 years you must begin your training. And even though you must keep yourself from the ways of the world, you must understand them so that those who come after you may be counseled in wisdom. I must go into Flagstaff for supplies, and you will come along. But remember, you must do as I say, and refrain from partaking of those things you witness."

The sights and sounds that greeted Jacob in Flagstaff were overwhelming- cars, sidewalks, motels, super markets. And fantastic odors wafted into the evening breeze. “What is that overpowering aroma, Oh, great one?", asked Jacob of the priest.

"That is the most sinful of all the foods in Flagstaff," warned the priest. "It is called PIZZA. Only a small amount will ruin you, for it will cause your perfect skin to develop grievous eruptions called ZITS. No one can ever become a Navajo priest with flawed skin."

"And what is POP?", asked Jacob as he pointed to a nearby sign.

"Pop is an infidel drink that you must NEVER taste. For it will turn your face in to a mass of ZITS - perhaps even more rapidly then PIZZA”, replied the priest. "Do not eat or drink anything offered to you by these people. I have dried venison, cactus apples and goat's milk in you are hungry."

Alas, Jacob was doomed to sin. The odors and his own curiosity overcame him and he slipped quietly away from his mentor while the old man was negotiating for a supply of barbed wire. He followed his nose straight to Shakey's, where he proceeded to trade his silver bracelet for PIZZA and POP. Then he returned to the side of the priest, explaining his extended absence as a search for his bracelet which had slipped from his arm into an irrigation ditch, never to be recovered.

"Mom", called Jacob from his room the next morning. "I must go into the hills today for a week of purification. It is time I began preparing in earnest for my training as a priest." Jacob almost choked over the lie he had told, but the ugly zit that glared at him from the mirror was of infinitely greater concern. He had to hide it from the village, or suffer disgrace and lose his heritage as a Navajo priest. So he left quietly, unseen in the dawn stillness, and made his way to a hidden cave overlooking a dormant volcano. For a week he prayed and meditated until the zit disappeared and his face once again glowed with perfect health.

"Mom, I am going into the hills for another week of purification", became a frequent proclamation over the next four years. For Jacob had become inextricably mired in the sin of POP and PIZZA. His "purification weeks" amounted to a one day clandestine raid on the sin pots of Flagstaff and six days in the wilderness "drying out" and waiting for his tortured skin to return to its normal pristine state.

Finally the big day approached. In one week, Jacob would be initiated into the brotherhood of Navajo priests. The people were beside themselves with anticipation. For Jacob was special, and great things were predicted for him. And Cactus Valley, would forever bask it the glow of his success. Everyone was happy - except Jacob. For he knew that once he stepped in to the sacred kiva he was doomed to a life completely devoid of PIZZA and POP. But what to do? In seven days he was to be transformed in to a Navajo priest. He would stand at the altar and dye his hair black, apply permanent tanning solution to his fair skin and have the mark of the Kachina tattooed on his forehead. "I do not think I can bear the thought of a life without pizza and pop", lamented Jacob to himself. "I must find a way to escape. But how? I will be watched constantly until after the ceremony. And can you just imagine Big Al serving Pizza and Pop to a Navajo priest?"

For six long days Jacob suffered the pain of the approaching ceremony, and looked for a way out. He looked and looked and looked and- -----.

"Ruth, Ruth." The dismay in Elijah's voice was so intense that his wife literally ran to his side in Jacob's bedroom. "Oh, Ruth, what are we to do?" he cried. "The big day is here and our son is not. There is nothing but this note....”

'Folks, I cannot become a Navajo priest. For a greater love has entered my life. I am sorry'.

"This is impossible", wailed the priest when he heard the dreadful news. "This is the biggest day in the history of Cactus Valley, and in the life of your son. He must be found. The gods will plague us with above normal rainfall for seven years and we will be tortured with the presence of eastern azaleas, spontaneous lawn grass and sinful tomatoes unless Jacob is found and brought unblemished to the altar. Search your house, Elijah, for your son must be there. We have kept watch and no one has left in two days except your daughter, Mary, as she went to worship this morning."

They found him at Shakey's, sitting in the corner booth. The Sunday dress he had stolen from his sister as a disguise was stained with pizza sauce and the table was littered with empty pop bottles. His face was a mass of zits, and his beautiful blue eyes were clouded by the effect of countless trips to the pickup counter.

"Why? Jacob", demanded the priest. "Why? Your future was before you. You have lost it all for the sins of Flagstaff. You have defied the gods and disgraced your family by donning the forbidden attire of the female, and have desecrated the body that was destined to become Chief Priest of the entire Navajo nation. Those zits make it impossible for you to return, even if we could forgive the dress."

Jacob burped quietly, wiped the cheese from his chin and spoke, "I am sorry, but this way of life has captured me for all time. I have secretly been committing the sweetest of all sins for four years, and I love it. Big Al has offered me a home and a job. I thought about my future for a long-time and finally decided that I must take this step. Escape seemed impossible for me until last night. Then I remembered the advice of the great philosopher, Wee Willie of Virginia. 'eat, drink and be Mary, or tomorrow you dye'."


end

THE ORPHAN

Wade sat glumly on a big rock and stared out to sea. "Oh, how I wish I could go with the others tomorrow", he thought to himself." I guess I'll never get to go. He continued to stare in to the gloom of the evening as the waves crashing on the rocks below echoed his dark mood.

Wade lived in Pacific Grove, California and shared the big house that loomed behind him in the gathering darkness with 10 other boys - all orphans like himself. The source of his discomfort was the Monarch butterfly expedition that the famous zoologist, Alphonso Stanley sponsored each year. Mr. Stanley invited only the very rich and Wade and the others had never even seen the Stanley estate, much less go on a butterfly hunt there.

"Bedtime, Wade, you must come in now," called Mrs. Stevenson, "you have a big day ahead of you tomorrow." Wade reluctantly left his perch and followed his foster mother into the house. Sleep did not come easily. Wade tossed on his hard bunk for hours, kept company by nine snoring boys and his collection of flying insects, which were his childhood obsession. When sleep did come, it was filled with dreams of magnificent Monarch Butterflies. But each time Wade would reach out to capture one of the beauties, Mr. Stanley's leering face would appear and the butterfly would fade from view.

The sun rose over Monterey Bay with a blaze of glory. Light touched the rippling water and split into brilliant rainbows that scattered among the sea lions at play on the rocks along the shore. It would be a glorious day on the peninsula. But for Wade and the other orphans, it was to be but another day of drudgery on the tidal flats below the lighthouse as they gathered kelp to be dried and sold to local farmers as fertilizer and mulch. Already the boys were at their chores and thoughts of a butterfly expedition were lost in the muck and slime of the kelp beds.

"Wade, Jimmie, Alphie. You boys come quickly - and bring the others." Mrs. Stevenson's voice held unusual excitement, as she summoned her small charges toward the house. They responded, but with a certain resignation that comes from a lifetime of being shifted from one temporary home to another.

"Wow," muttered Jimmy as the neared the house, "look at that set of wheels. Who do the Stevenson’s know with that kind of money?"

“That car belongs to the landlord, Skinflint Stanley", Wade responded. "He must have come to evict us." And to himself Wade sadly wished Mr. Stanley had picked another day to come, rather than being here now as a reminder of the butterfly hunt which was beyond his grasp.

"Boys, Mr. Stanley has exciting news for you," Mrs. Stevenson exclaimed. "Mr. Stanley, they are all here now. Please tell them."

The great zoologist wasted no time in get ting to the point. "Gentlemen, he began, "I have an unusual request. I want you all to come to my butterfly hunt today. Mrs. Stevenson has clean clothing laid out and I will provide the equipment." Mr. Stanley's voice broke slightly. His eyes softened and he momentarily drifted away to some tender scene only his mind's eye could see. "One of you will not return tonight." He paused to collect his emotions and continued. "12 years ago, I was in the Pacific hunting for rare butterflies. My only daughter and her husband were in an automobile crash in Europe and both died in a hospital. It was months before I knew. And it was almost a year before I learned that my daughter had given birth to a son just before she died. I have spent 11 long years tracing that little boy from orphanage to orphanage all over Europe and the USA. Now I know that he is standing right here before me. Only I am not certain which of you is my grandson." Mr. Stanley paused one more time and then flashed a confident smile. "I'm sure that by the end of the day I will know my grandson's identity. The grandson of Alphonso Stanley will show his true heritage by the way he tackles the butterfly hunt. After all, the Stanley’s have been expert zoologists for generations. Come on, boys, let's go find some butterflies - and my grandson."

Wade stepped out of the big car and, net in hand, stood at the edge of the great pine and cypress forest on the Stanley estate He felt a mysterious kinship with this place - and with the man who had so unexpectedly become the focus of his young life." I must do well", he repeated over and over, "Somehow I feel that I belong here. I must prove myself by collecting more and larger Monarchs than anyone." And off in to the woods he strode, confident that his would be the biggest prize of all at the end of the day.

Muffled shouts of triumph reverberated through the woods as first Jimmy, then Alphie, then Tom reported catches. Wade began to feel desperation and depression intrude upon his once elated spirit. It was nearly dark and he had not the first moth in his net, much less a Monarch. He stood sadly at the edge of the woods and watched the other boys gather excitedly around Mr. Stanley, showing him their winged prisoners. The group seemed miles away, even though only a steep, grassy slope separated them. Mr. Stanley looked up and waved Wade down.

"I simply can't face them and admit failure", Wade cried to himself. "I must get away. Surely there is another orphanage someplace where I can go and forget all this." A sob racked Wade's chest and he turned back into the woods.

Sunlight lingered over the forest, as in a solemn farewell to a heartbroken boy, and then died in a last burst of brilliantly reflect light. The unmistakable patterns of a giant Monarch butterfly froze Wade in his tracks. There, resting calmly on a low branch, was the butterfly of Wade's dreams. His heart jumped within him. The flush of anticipated success raced across his face like an August brush fire. The net came carefully to the ready as Wade stepped toward the prize, and then started its descent. The butterfly rose in confusion, the net closed on its target. And then Wade's foot came down clumsily on the edge of the steep slope before him. The butterfly, and Wade's future, fled together into the darkness.

The frightened, defeated boy rolled and tumbled down the hill and came to rest - a heap of bruised bones and broken dreams - at the feet of his host. Gently Mr. Stanley lifted the boy to his feet, wiped the tear-streaked face and brushed the grass and leaves from his faded jeans. Tenderly he held the sobbing child close. "Come, son, let's go home," he whispered. "I suspected all along that you were my grandson. Now there is no question."

Wade looked up a t the great man in confusion and disbelief. "No, it can't be," he protested. "You are the greatest zoologist in California. Surely your grandson would have caught the finest butterfly of the day. I have caught nothing. Not even a common moth."

Mr. Stanley only smiled. "Oh, yes, Wade, you are my grandson all right. When I saw you tumbling down the hill, empty net flying wildly through the air, I knew for sure." His eyes sparkled. "Remember, Wade, you are not only the son of my daughter, but of my son-in-law as well. His name was William Stone. And everyone knows that a rolling Stone gathers no moths."

end

THE INHERITANCE

King Leo IV ruled the tiny principality of Calupia with great compassion and generosity. Everyone in the kingdom had great pride in the country's only export, the world's finest fox hounds. So well known and popular were these magnificent creatures that there was not a royal kennel in the entire hemisphere that did not own many Calupian hounds. As a result, Calupia had great wealth, in which all citizens shared equally.

Calupians lived in state provided mansions surrounding the royal kennels, which were set in the foothills of high inland mountains like jewels in a crown of evergreen and flowering hardwoods. The small costal plain was reserved for the growing of food for the population, and for the hounds, by a small group of Kansas farmers under contract to the king. They also provided all other custodial, maintenance and housekeeping services in the kingdom. The skills of the citizens were reserved for the delicate task of tending the kennels.

"Katina meal, Katina meal." The cry came over the public address system once a month, but never at the same time. The feeding crews would rush to their stations and see that this special food was given to the hounds quickly - for it was highly perishable. Katina meal was said to be produced in a secret location in the highlands, and it was delivered in the night without warning to protect its origin. For Katina was the source of the unique characteristics of the Calupian hound.

For many, many years, King Leo and his people produced fine fox hounds, and the source of Katina meal remained hidden from all but the king and its unknown producer. Spies from other royal kennels scoured the Calupian highlands, but the secret remained secure.

"My time has come, summons the people to the palace," whispered a dying king. "I am old and tired and must make my will known before I pass into the great kennel beyond." The call went out. Loyal subjects gathered and waited in subdued, sad anticipation for the final words of their beloved monarch.

The aged king spoke. "My heart is heavy, for I must leave you now. But first I must speak my will. The future of Calupia lies in our magnificent fox hounds. It is for your good that I now decree that the kingdom belongs to them for all time, to be administered by my faithful servant, Charles."

A small man in the garb of a common kitchen serf stepped forward.

"Yes," whispered the King. "Charles has been secretly manufacturing Katina in the Royal kitchens for many years. He is the genius behind the success of our beloved hounds. He will now become your king."

Clouds gathered and thunder rumbled across the hills outside the palace as if in mourning for the benevolent king, who opened his eyes and spoke for the last time. "Long live King Charles, son of our Kansas contractor, Percy Katz."

The heavens opened, the storm came. And, thus, began the reign of Katz and dogs

end

Jeremy

“A boy," he cried, "at last a boy." Tears coursed down Joe's cheeks as he stood in the delivery room in a small western hospital. He tenderly took Clara's hand in his own, pressed it to his cheek and whispered softly, "Thank you, my darling. For fifteen long years I have waited for this moment. Although I love my seven daughters fervently, I have longed for a son - an heir to my name."

"Clara smiled up at her husband. The pain and discomfort associated with bringing a new soul into the world faded rapidly into distant recesses of her mind. "He will be a beautiful boy, Joe, and I am sure that he will be a world class pole-vaulter just like you."

And Jeremy WAS a beautiful boy. He was bright, he laughed easily, and his seven sisters waited on him constantly. In fact, each sister could hardly wait until it was her turn to watch Jeremy while Dad and Mom were away.

One sultry summer night, just after Jeremy's first birthday, his parents returned home from an evening out to find Sarah, the oldest sister, standing on the front step with a look of great distress on her face. "Oh, Daddy, she began, "my beautiful baby brother has ... " She suddenly dissolved into tears. Joe and Clara rushed frantically into the house and burst into the nursery where they found a very unhappy Jeremy squirming in his bed. His once flawless baby skin was a mass of ugly, red bumps from his dimpled knees to his plump belly.

"It's all right, Sarah," her mother whispered gently. "This is simply a bad case of diaper rash and will pass quickly."

The rash did pass, and Jeremy continued to grow and develop. He was fast becoming the ideal son Joe had wished for, for so many years. Jeremy's metamorphosis from a tiny child into the premier teenaged pole-vaulter in the state was marred only on rare occasion. It seemed that nearly every time an important track meet was scheduled, his stomach would break out in an ugly rash, and he would be forced to compete in great discomfort. Doctor Jackson thought the young athlete's strange malady must be a manifestation of stress. As time went on, the competition became stiffer and Jeremy's affliction became increasingly worse. No longer was he subjected to a simple rash. Big competitions always produced several very painful cysts on his stomach, making the act of arching over the high crossbar almost impossible.

"I'm terribly sorry, folks," Doctor Jackson lamented. "I have tried every known cure for Jeremy's illness. I've referred you to every specialist I can think of and yet your son continues to suffer. I'm afraid that I must advise you to terminate Jeremy's career in competitive athletics. If you value your son's health, you must convince him to give up his hopes for an Olympic gold medal."

Jeremy took the news from his parents with the grace of a mother grisly bear suddenly separated from her cubs. "No one can keep me away from the Olympic Games next summer," he shouted. "Doctor Jackson can take his advice and smoke it. You wait and see. I will find a way to prove him wrong."

Jeremy abandoned traditional medical wisdom in search of a cure for his debilitating illness. For six solid months he searched among non-traditional health practitioners for an answer to his problem. All he got was bad advice and a thinner wallet. Finally Jeremy found himself on a hilltop in the heart of California's Big Sur country. Seated before him was a frail man dressed in robes. "I must tell you, sir, that I have little faith in your philosophies. But you are my last hope and the games are but three months away. Are you sure your scheme will work" Jeremy finished speaking and glared at the man before him.

"Yes, my son, you will see. There is no other way. You must eat my high calorie formula until you have added a 2-inch layer of fat to your waistline. Your performance will not be hurt since you will be rid of the pain that has haunted you for so long. And remember, Jeremy, that you must also wear this special belt buckle wherever you go, for it's secret compartment contains the key to my cure. When you win your medal, return to the mountain, and I will reveal the buckle's contents to you."

Jeremy left the mountain suspicious and disappointed. He didn't trust the old man, but he had no other choice. From that day on, he faithfully ate the high calorie formula and wore the belt buckle.

And so it was that America's finest pole-vaulter entered Olympic Stadium to the derisive catcalls of his fellow athletes and the crowd. Jeremy looked nothing like a world-class athlete, for his once granite hard stomach now hung over a weird looking belt buckle in a generous fold of fat. The confidence Jeremy exhibited as he strode purposefully toward the vaulting area was only skin deep. His mind was screaming at him, "that old goat has made a fool of you. You can't even clear a ten-foot bar, much less win today."

Jeremy's despair turned to a glimmer of hope when he easily cleared the bar at the starting height of 16 feet. Hope turned to enthusiasm, and then to the sweet anticipation of victory as his vaults continued to outdistance the bar as it gradually inched skyward.

Finally the competition was gone. Jeremy stood alone at the top of the runway. The gold medal was his, and the bar was set at world record height. Strength and supreme confidence surged through his body. The moment was his --- and not the slightest hint of a blemish marred his rotund midsection. The rush at the bar began. Jeremy flew down the runway. The pole lodged itself solidly in the socket as the vaulter catapulted himself forward, bending the pole nearly double. Time seemed to slow to a walk as the pole straightened, propelling Jeremy toward the bar and over, grazing his target with a leg. He tumbled to the mat and lay there, breathlessly watching the bar quiver on its stands, and then come to rest. The stadium erupted into bedlam. The record was his.

"My son, all things are possible to those who believe." Jeremy was once again standing in front of the frail man on a California mountain." And now, the man continued, "give me the belt buckle and I will reveal its secret."

Jeremy gently removed the belt from his now famous paunch and laid it at the philosopher's feet. Carefully the secret catch was released and hidden hinges rotated silently. The secret of the buckle lay exposed in the afternoon sunlight. At first Jeremy didn't recognize the small, black object before him. Then a look of bewilderment crossed his face as he beheld a common drugstore chronograph.

“Yes, Jeremy" chuckled the old man. “A time piece and my high calorie formula. For the ancients have truly written…….. A watched pot never boils."

end