When her son wants to marry a poor girl, a snobby mother becomes furious and invites her parents to the wedding on the grounds that they don’t appear classy enough.
She was shocked to learn that Clara Wellington’s son intended to wed a poor girl from Montana when he returned from college. She questioned, “But who are her parents?” “How do they operate?”
Brad, her son, questioned, “What does that matter?” “The only thing that matters to me is that I love Frannie.” Clara sealed her mouth shut. Naturally, birth and social standing were important factors. For Clara, at any rate, they were everything!
Clara’s worst fears were realized when she and her husband, Brad Senior, met Frannie Heckle and her parents. Clara assumed that the Heckles were not what she wanted as her son’s in-laws, but rather what her father-in-law would have called “salt-of-the-earth” folks!
Mrs. Heckle liked painfully vivid flowery house dresses and white plastic shoes, whereas Mr. Heckle was a tall, burly man who wore a light blue suit that pouped at the knees and elbows.
Clara trembled. They would need to take action over their attire! She refused to let them ruin the wedding by coming off as the hicks that they so obviously were! When she told her husband as much, she was taken aback by his response.
Brad Senior had remarked, “Leave them alone, Clara,” using a tone of voice he didn’t usually use around her. “Brad genuinely cares for this girl, and these are good people.” It makes no difference what they wear!
Clara was infuriated by her husband’s inability to recognize the significance of projecting the proper image and making the appropriate impression. Her son would become a prosperous man and a member of the city’s elite eventually.
Don’t downplay your origins or try to be someone you’re not.
Clara was determined that this wedding would be a huge success and that no one would make fun of her only son’s wedding. She knew that people would be talking about it for years to come.
Mrs. Heckle and Frannie were asked to lunch by Clara, who took great pains to explain to them the significance of their attire.
“Mrs. Heckle, I believe you ought to reconsider your image. You ought to visit Bloomingdales; there are several reasonably priced off-the-rack items there that would suit both your husband and you well.
The Gift of Fido
The silence in my small house had grown louder with each passing year. Old and alone, the days stretched out, often indistinguishable from one another. I thought about getting a dog, a creature that would fill the emptiness, a warm presence against the encroaching quiet.
One chilly afternoon, shuffling through the familiar streets, I saw him. A small, scruffy shape huddled near a bin, dirty and clearly hungry. He looked up as I approached, his eyes wide but without fear. I knelt down slowly, offering a tentative hand. He didn’t flinch. I stroked his matted fur, spoke softly to him. When I stood up to leave, he simply followed, a silent, trusting shadow.
Now, he is my dog. My Fido. I am his human, his owner, though it feels more like we own each other. The silence is gone, replaced by the soft pad of his paws, the occasional sigh, the happy thump of his tail against the floor.
I talk to him constantly, sharing my thoughts, my worries, the mundane details of my day. He answers in his own way – a tilt of the head, a soft whine, or his favorite response, a vigorous wash of my hand with his rough tongue.
“Fido,” I’d told him just the other day, the worry etching lines deeper into my face, “tomorrow we won’t have anything to eat. The retirement money is gone, finished. We’ll have to wait until pension day!” He just licked my hand, as if to say, “We’ll figure it out, together.”
And then that blessed day arrives. I join the queue, a line of fellow retirees, each clutching their worn pension book, shattered by time and use. My own is tight in my hands, a thin lifeline. Fido, tied patiently nearby, shakes himself happily, a little dance of anticipation. He knows this day. He knows that today the bowls will be fuller, the meal a little richer, a little better than the thin gruel of the days before.
Winter arrives, wrapping the house in its cold embrace. Without a fire, the air bites. But Fido is there. Curled tightly against my legs on the worn armchair, or tucked beside me in bed, his small body is a furnace, a constant, reliable source of warmth that chases away the chill. He is more than just a dog; he is my living, breathing blanket against the cold world.
The first hesitant rays of spring find us sitting outside, bathed in the gentle warmth of the returning sun. We sit in comfortable silence, simply existing, together, grateful for the light, for the warmth, for each other. And from deep within my heart, a simple prayer is born, a quiet whisper of profound gratitude: “Thank you, Lord, for creating the dog.” For creating Fido, who found me when I was alone, and filled my life with warmth, conversation, and unwavering companionship.
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