The Baker’s Justice



The holidays were fast approaching and the bakery was full of customers making their orders. Pies, cakes, cookies, and the wonderful breads the shop was well known for were in great demand, and there were so many orders the owner worked long hours into the night. He kept his ovens going around the clock, with extra help coming in. One evening near dusk the shop was really warm. He opened his door to let in some cooler air, and the wonderful scent of the bakery spilled out the door and trailed down the sidewalk. After a while an old man walked in front of the doorway. He stopped there, enjoying the warmth and the scent of the bakery. He breathed deep, appreciating the warmth and the wonderful odors as they flowed over him. He was there only a couple of minutes when the owner noticed him, and walked towards the door.

"Hey, old man, what are you doing there?" he asked in a rather belligerent tone.

"Just warming my cold old bones for a moment, sir," the old man answered for a moment.

"Well, move on. I could have customers here any moment, and I don’t need you here."

The old man turned around and started to leave. He paused for a moment for one last bit of the warmth and the joy the smell of the bakery lit within him. That night he slept in an alleyway not far from the bakery, dreaming of his childhood and the memory of his mother baking bread. Tears came, memories of scenes long past. He could not even purchase one small roll to remind him of his childhood or relieve his hunger because he had nothing, save an old coin from his mother’s home country that he kept as a keepsake of home. The night was cold, damp, and windy, and the old man took what shelter he could under an old packing crate. When the morning came, the old man went about his routine, begging for whatever he could from whoever would give him a second glance. As night fell again, he returned to his box, the only home he had. He was tired and dirty, his coat and shoes worn completely out.

On his way, he paused to rummage through a dumpster behind a restaurant for what scraps he could find, and then moved on down past the bakery. Again the light and warmth and wonderful odor streamed out. Again he paused before the door. And again the owner came forward. "Get out of here, you old fool! I’ll have you arrested if you come back!" he said.

Well, the old man didn’t want to go to jail, even though there he would be warm and fed. So back to his crate he went, tired and hungry. It was one more night just like many other nights, countless nights, had been since he came home from a war in southeast Asia that many wished to entirely forget. He begged from all who passed, rummaged through every likely dumpster, but nothing was to be had. His cold hands hurt, and he yearned for just a simple scrap of the bread he could only imagine. But smelling was free...did he dare to return to that door and enjoy the smell, knowing that he could be arrested? Oh, yes, he dared, not only for the smell but for that brief bit of warmth. He walked down the street, no one even noticing him, and went up to the doorway. The owner didn’t notice him for a while. When he did, he said nothing, just called the police. They soon came and put the old man into a wagon and took him to jail.

The next morning the old man was in the courtroom facing the judge, with the police present, and the baker there as well.

"What crime has this man committed?" asked the judge.

"Vagrancy, your honor," said his clerk.

The baker stood up. "Your honor, he has stolen the smells of my hard work and the warmth of my ovens. He is a homeless beggar, and he has done this every night for the past week, even when I warned him to leave or face arrest. "

The judge looked at the man, and said, "Is this true?"

"Yes, your honor, it’s all the truth," the man said.

"I want justice!" the baker said. "I want him to pay for what he has taken."

"Well, sir," said the judge to the old man, "do you have what he asks? Can you pay him for his work?"

The old man hung his head, and ashamed, said, "No, sir. All I have in the world is this old coin of my mother’s. It is from her homeland, and has no value here. But she gave it to me as a lucky charm when I went to Vietnam, sir."

"Here, let me see that coin," the judge said. The old man fished it out of the pocket of his tattered coat and handed it over.

"It’s quite bent and worn," the judge commented.

"I said it was my lucky piece, sir," the old man replied. "It saved me from a bullet, sir. As I said, it’s got no other value save that."

The judge looked at the coin, and then dropped it on the hard oak of his bench. The sound of the coin on the bench could be heard throughout the room. He did this three times. Then he said, "That will do."

"But what of my justice!" the baker said. "I want paid for my work!"

The judge stood up and looked at the baker. "Oh, you’ve been paid. You claim this man stole your hard work by smelling your bread baking, stole the warmth of the ovens to warm his old bones. Never once did you ask him to pay you. No one told you you had to open your door. But when he was asked, he did what he was told and left. Yes, he left his home, his mother, and his country behind, had a simple little coin save him from an enemy bullet, and you, sir, claim he is common. No, that is not common, that is giving more than a smell of fresh baked bread and the heat of an oven you were disregarding out an open door. You heard the coin drop, once for every day he smelled your bread. That is your justice, that is your pay. And, sir, you will want to thank this common man for what he has done to pay for your bread, and be thankful he did, as others do today. Case dismissed."

I was told this story a number of years ago by a Vietnam veteran who was in prison.
I worked at the prison at the time and was a staff sponcer for the VVA post (434th).
Many stories like it are told around the world this time of year. Are they true? Maybe, maybe not, but truth is sometimes something we have to look inside ourselves to find.

Tonight I found myself looking out the window of my tow truck at a homeless man on the exit ramp, and wondering what his story was, and who really noticed him there. I wondered what I might owe him. I put the truck into gear, motioned him over, and gave him the remainder of my tips from that night. He thanked me with Merry Christmas and God Bless You, Sir. What do I owe my fellow humans, and how can I just ignore them?

To Be a Dom !

To Be a Dom !
Wrapping my head around this is a mindboggling sort of situation. Though I have some Dom aspects in my life being a straight-out dom is somthing that I have never done. We are working with a submissive male at this time and it’s getting to the point that I am going to have to learn how to become a Dom during scenes with this sub. We’ve had several poly relationships where it’s been a somewhat equal situation. But the BDSM scene "to be a Dom" aspect is new and I’m having a time putting my mind into the proper set for this. Alexandra and I have been talking it out and we both agree that I’m not a Sub. I can submit to the point that I get what I want sexually. I’m not one to have someone tell me, "Now, get into the bed room, strip, and I will be the dom and you will do as I say." It’s more that I use the services of the Top to get me to a sexual high. I’m being a bottom but not a sub.

I’m not submitting; I am being a dominant who is having someone sexually service me. Being a Dom is like being the boss of the company, If I own the company I can be the type of boss I prefer to be. I don't have to walk around in leathers and carry a large whip to be the Dom. I can be the boss over the sub and use them as I see fit. If I choose to have them serve me my wine as I talk with others and they stand there in a collar and thong at my side then that’s what I wanted. If I chose to order the sub to lube me up and get me ready for them to peg me as I want them to do, then I am the Dom, using them for my pleasure. I am coming to grips with this slowly and as our relationship with this sub and others grow, I do think that I will grow into being the Dom. I’m not saying that it will be easy nor will it be as hard as I assumed it would be. I have been in dominant roles throughout my life just not in a sexual manner.

Daily Kos
You know its interesting getting into the minds of people. I read blogs on Kos and wow were do they come up with some of the things they are thinking. Of course they are more than likley to say the same things about my line of thought on subjects like the war, economics or the boarder problem. Its just great to know that we are all connected and can share our vues on what really matters to us on Daily Kos . Just make sure you read alot of proper diarys before posting to see how its to be done correctly. Or they will tear you a new ars. Because you did it your own way..

(no subject)
Feeling a bit better but still not were I should be back to work. Carried two small bags in the house from the front drive and was wiped for 20 or better minutes,so it looks like tuesday.

(no subject)
Never mind Im to pissed right now to Journal right now...GRRRRR

In the US someone dies every 18 minutes from a gun shot

According to the CDCs report In the US someone dies every 18 minutes from a gun shot .

In 2004 (the most recent year for which data is available), there were 29,569 gun deaths in the U.S:

16,750 suicides (56% of all U.S gun deaths),
11,624 homicides (40% of all U.S gun deaths),
649 unintentional shootings, 311 from legal intervention and 235 from undetermined intent (4% of all U.S gun deaths combined).
-Numbers obtained from CDC National Center for Health Statistics mortality report online, 2007

29,569 gun deaths in the U.S devided by 365 days in a year =aprox  82 gun deaths per day
82 gun deaths per day devided by the number of minutes in a day (1440 minutes per day)
=  aprox 1 gun death per every 18 minutes.
82 gun deaths per day Devide that by 50 states  =1.64 gun deaths per state per day.


Writer's Block: Legends of Rock
There are a few concerts that go down in musical history—Altamont, Woodstock, Live Aid, the Hannah Montana Best of Both Worlds tour—as legendary experiences. What live show stands as legend in your own experience?
Woodstock stands out in my mind, I was 8 years old and my parents drove from central Indiana to Woodstock. I don't think they knew
what they were getting into at the time. Dad I believe did but Mom shure did not .

Birthdays suck
Yes that just what I said. Birthdays suck if your dealing with being sick and your broke after spending your last bit of paycheck on meds and doctor apointments. I turned 47 on the fith and what did my body do to wish me a happy birthday it came down with Pneumonia . Well at least I had last weekends trip to Kokomo as a early  birthday gift from my wife and a friend.

Writer's Block: Prohibited
Today marks the passing of the 21st Amendment to the U.S. Constitution, which repealed Prohibition. It might seem crazy to us now, but alcohol was illegal in the U.S. for 13 years. What common vice do you think is most likely to be outlawed in the future?
I predict that tobacco will become illegal ,with all the places that are smoke free now and those citys making laws of where and when you can smoke I see and predict that tobacco will become illegal.

Who am I? That is a deep subject in many ways

Who am I? That is a deep subject in many ways.

The basic answer would be that I am Bear, a 47 year old white male from central Indiana. I work for Triple A / Hoosier Motor Club as a tow truck driver. But for those who want to know more, who I really am? That's going to take awhile, so sit back, get comfortable, and sip on that cup of tea. Oh, you might want the pot so you don't run out... This could be a long read.

It all started back in the spring of 1961 when a woman from the moutains of southeastern Kentuckey and a farm boy from central Indiana had thoughts of rolling in the hay.I shudder at the thoughts of my parents getting it on but I all think we find it hard to believe our parents had sex. We just don't think of our parents as sexual beings, now do we?
But it happened and 9 months later, or in my case, 20 days short of 9 months, there was a boy born.

The interesting thing about that birth was it was not supposed to happen according to the doctors at that time. You see, my mom had a stillbirth less than a year before I came along, and was told that she should not have any more children.Then I came into the picture. I was born 20 days early... a preemie. I only weighed in at 2.7 pounds and was no bigger than my father's hand. I was given a very slim chance of living. But here I am som 45 years later writing this.

On the day I was born another interesting thing happened. My grandfather, a Scottish immigrant coal miner, who had never used a phone in his 67 years, told his wife that he needed to call his son-in-law because he had to tell him of the things he had seen that day on his walk around the mountain. She dialed the phone and handed him the reciever. My mother and father was shocked that he had called, as you might guess. He told my father this wonderful story about being out walking and coming across a little black bear alone in the woods, no mother bear being within sight. He told of sitting down along the side of the trail and talking to this little bear. The bear had spoken to him about a new little bear that would be born that day, and that the man's cub would be the mother. The only one of this man's children who was with child was my mother. Both my father and mother were in shock. I was not due until Christmas Day, and it was the morning of the 5th of December. some 20 days before my due date.

My father brushed it off but deep inside Mom knew that her father was right- she would have her child that day. It was about 6 hours later when her water broke, and off to the hospital she and my father went.
My father never doubted my grandfather ever again. He called him back that night around 8pm and asked him what else that bear had said. My grandfather told him that I was going to be a very spritual person. and that my family's origins would play a lot into my spiritual life. My father, being 1/4 cherokee and 1/3 Delaware, knew just what Grandad meant.
He was charged with teaching me the ways of my people, the native and the Scottish and Irish "ways of the Wise". My grandfather was what was called a Cunning man and my grandmother was an old style Granny lady, both very spiritual beings.As I grew up I was taught these ways as much as my father could.

Later in my youth I was intodused to the first of my spiritual teachers, a Cherokee medicine chief, Carl Walking Bear Marsh. I studied with him for several years until being turned over to Medicine Chief Chuck Silent Bear West to further my training. During my time with Silent Bear I was given the honor of becoming a Light Horse Soldier. The Light Horse Soldiers are the sworn protectors of the tribal chiefs. I was sworn to protect Silent Bear to the point of death. This vow was until my death or his death. I held my charge until his death 6 years ago. My training did not stop with Silent Bear. My grandfather had said I was to learn the ways of both my peoples. I followed through with that training, finding the Wiccan path suitable and along with my dear wife I trained and achieved the third degree in the Storyteller tradition of Wicca, along with studying the ways of the "granny ladies" and "cunning men". I have studied many of the world's religions and found that many share many of the same views. I believe that we all must remain searching and learning so that our bodies, minds and souls go on. I look forward to learning and sharing with all of you here. AHO!


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