I once owned a goldfish. His name was Cochise.
Cochise was the result of an unfortunate series of events that ended with 30-50 small goldfish in my bathtub one evening. My only explanation is that I was a college minister prior to coming to Africa.
Being the tenderhearted, animal-lover I am, I sought to rescue said goldfish from the ultimate peril of my drain by scooping them out and putting them in a glass cookie jar. This jar turned fish refugee camp housed most of the fish in a suitable, yet cramped, environment. In other words, the jar was so full they could hardly move.
And as cheap Walmart goldfish tend to do, they began to slowly die off. Every morning, I would wake up and find one or two belly-up in the cookie jar. Every morning, I would have a burial by toilet bowl. Read More Off Topic: The Fishbowl Effect
Thanksgiving is a peculiar holiday. As with most special days, it seems to be far less about the event we are supposed to remember than the odd traditions that have grown up around it. The pilgrims survived the harsh conditions of settling in the new land and were able to celebrate a bountiful harvest. History (or is it tradition?) tells us they saw a need to give thanks to God for their survival, and did so with a celebration and feast.
Images of a long wooden table out in the middle of the forest full of pumpkin pies, roast turkey, and a can of Ocean Spray cranberry sauce sets the scene. People in tall black hats and funny shoes dance through our heads. We imagine Pilgrims and Indians all holding hands around a campfire singing Kumbayah. Read More Dwelling on the things that are not