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If I could catch a rainbow
I would do it just for you
And share with you its beauty
On the days you’re feeling blue.

If I could build a mountain
You could call your very own;
A place to find serenity,
A place to be alone.

If I could take your troubles
I would toss them in the sea,
But all these things I’m finding
Are impossible for me.

I cannot build a mountain
Or catch a rainbow fair,
But let me be what I know best,
A friend who’s always there..

He Said To Me!

He said to me. . I don’t know why you wear a bra; you’ve got nothing to put in it.
I said to him . . . You wear pants don’t you?

He said to me . . ……. Shall we try swapping positions tonight?
I said to him: That’s a good idea – you stand by the stove & sink while I sit on the sofa and do nothing but fart.

He said to me… What have you been doing with the grocery money I gave you?
I said to him . …… Turn sideways and look in the mirror!

He said to me. ….. Why don’t women blink during foreplay?
I said to him .. . They don’t have time

He said to me. . How many men does it take to change a roll of toilet paper?
I said to him .. . I don’t know; it has never happened.

He said to me. . Why is it difficult to find men who are sensitive, caring and good-looking?
I said to him . . . They already have boyfriends.

He said…What do you call a woman who knows where her husband is every night?
I said. . . A widow.

He said to me…. Why are married women heavier than single women?
I said to him . . . Single women come home, see what’s in the fridge and go to bed. Married women come home, see what’s in bed and go to the fridge.

WINTER  Poem

It’s winter  in Canada
And  the gentle breezes blow
Seventy  miles an hour
At  thirty-five  below.

Oh, how I love Canada
When the snow’s up to your butt
You take a  breath of winter
And your  nose gets frozen  shut.

Yes, the  weather here is  wonderful
So I guess  I’ll hang around
I could  never leave Canada
Cuz I’m frozen to  the ground!

Have  a great day…

A man wakes up in the hospital, bandaged from head to foot.  The doctor
comes in and says, “Well, I see you’ve regained consciousness.  Now, you
probably won’t remember, but you were in a pile-up on the freeway.  You’re
going to be okay, you’ll walk again and everything, but something happened.
I’m trying to break this gently, but the fact is, your willy was chopped off in
the wreck, and we were unable to find it.”

“We’re getting granite countertops.”

At St. Mary’s Catholic Church they have a weekly husbands marriage seminar. At the session last week, the priest asked Giuseppe, who was approaching his 50th wedding anniversary, to take a few minutes and share some insight into how he had managed to stay married to the same woman all these years.

Giuseppe replied to the assembled husbands, ‘Wella, I’ve a-tried to treat-a her nicea, spenda da money on her, but besta of alla is, I tooka her to Italy for the 25th anniversary!

The priest responded, ‘Giuseppe, you are an amazing inspiration to all the husbands here! Please tell us what you are planning for your wife for your 50th anniversary?

Giuseppe proudly replied, ‘I’m a gonna go get her”.

The Pickle Jar

The pickle jar as far back as I can remember sat on

the floor beside the dresser in my parents’

bedroom. When he got ready for bed, Dad would empty

his pockets and toss his coins into the jar.

As a small boy, I was always fascinated at the sounds

the coins made as they were dropped into the jar.  They

landed with a merry jingle when the jar was almost

empty. Then the tones gradually muted to a dull thud

as the jar was filled.

I used to squat on the floor in front of the jar to admire

the copper and silver circles that glinted like a pirate’s

treasure when the sun poured through the bedroom

window. When the jar was filled, Dad would sit at the

kitchen table and roll the coins before taking them to

the bank.

Taking the coins to the bank was always a big production.

Stacked neatly in a small cardboard box, the coins were

placed between Dad and me on the seat of his old truck.

Each and every time, as we drove to the bank, Dad would

look at me hopefully. ‘Those coins are going to keep you

out of the textile mill, son. You’re going to do better than

me. This old mill town’s not going to hold you back.’

Also, each and every time, as he slid the box of rolled

coins across the counter at the bank toward the cashier,

he would grin proudly. ‘These are for my son’s college

fund. He’ll never work at the mill all his life like me.’

We would always celebrate each deposit by stopping

for an ice cream cone. I always got chocolate. Dad

always got vanilla. When the clerk at the ice cream

parlor handed Dad his change, he would show me the

few coins nestled in his palm. ‘When we get home,

we’ll start filling the jar again.’ He always let me drop

the first coins into the empty jar. As they rattled around

with a brief, happy jingle, we grinned at each other.

‘You’ll get to college on pennies, nickels, dimes and

quarters,’ he said. ‘But you’ll get there; I’ll see to that.’

No matter how rough things got at home, Dad continued

to doggedly drop his coins into the jar. Even the summer

when Dad got laid off from the mill,and Mama had to

serve dried beans several times a week, not a single

dime was taken from the jar.

To the contrary, as Dad looked across the table at me,

pouring catsup over my beans to make them more

palatable, he became more determined than ever to

make a way out for me ‘When you finish college, Son,’

he told me, his eyes glistening, ‘You’ll never have to

eat beans again – unless you want to.’

The years passed, and I finished college and took a

job in another town. Once, while visiting my parents,

I used the phone in their bedroom, and noticed that

the pickle jar was gone. It had served its purpose

and had been removed.

A lump rose in my throat as I stared at the spot beside

the dresser where the jar had always stood. My dad

was a man of few words: he never lectured me on the

values of determination, perseverance, and faith. The

pickle jar had taught me all these virtues far more

eloquently than the most flowery of words could have

done. When I married, I told my wife Susan about the

significant part the lowly pickle jar had played in my

life as a boy. In my mind, it defined, more than

anything else, how much my dad had loved me.

The first Christmas after our daughter Jessica was born,

we spent the holiday with my parents. After dinner, Mom

and Dad sat next to each other on the sofa, taking turns

cuddling their first grandchild. Jessica began to whimper

softly, and Susan took her from Dad’s arms. ‘She probably

needs to be changed,’ she said, carrying the baby into my

parents’ bedroom to diaper her. When Susan came back

into the living room, there was a strange mist in her eyes.

She handed Jessica back to Dad before taking my hand

and leading me into the room. ‘Look,’ she said softly, her

eyes directing me to a spot on the floor beside the dresser.

To my amazement, there, as if it had never been removed,

stood the old pickle jar, the bottom already covered with

coins. I walked over to the pickle jar, dug down into my

pocket, and pulled out a fistful of coins. With a gamut of

emotions choking me, I dropped the coins into the jar. I

looked up and saw that Dad, carrying Jessica, had slipped

quietly into the room. Our eyes locked, and I knew he was

feeling the same emotions I felt. Neither one of us could

speak.

This truly touched my heart. Sometimes we are so busy

adding up our troubles that we forget to count our

blessings.Never underestimate the power of your actions.

With one small gesture you can change a person’s life, for

better or for worse.