NAP- Neighborhood Alliance of Pawtucket

Inspiration

Narragansett Inspired

What's REALLY Important to You?

A Narragansett American and his friend were in downtown New York City, walking near Times Square in Manhattan. It was during the noon lunch hour and the streets were filled with people. Cars were honking their horns, taxicabs were squealing around corners, sirens were wailing, and the sounds of the city were almost deafening. Suddenly, the Narragansett said, "I hear a cricket."

His friend said, "What? You must be crazy. You couldn't possibly hear a cricket in all of this noise!"

"No, I'm sure of it," the Narragansett said, "I definitely heard a cricket."

"That's crazy," said the friend.

The Narragansett listened carefully for a moment, and then he walked across the street to a big cement planter where some shrubs were growing. He looked into the bushes, beneath the branches, and sure enough, he located a small cricket. His friend was quite utterly amazed.

"That's incredible," said his friend. "You must have super-human ears!"

"No," said the Narragansett. "My ears are no different from yours. It all depends on what you're listening for."

"But that can't be!" said the friend. "I could never hear a cricket in this noise."

"Yes, it's true," came the reply. "It depends on what is really important to you. Here, let me show you." He reached into his pocket, pulled out a few coins, and 'quietly' dropped them on the sidewalk. And then, with the noise of the crowded street still blaring in their ears, they noticed every head within twenty feet turn and look to see if the money that tinkled on the pavement was theirs.

"See what I mean?" asked the Narragansett. "It all depends on what's important to you."

A VIP lady from Dundee

When an elderly lady died in the geriatric ward of a small hospital near Dundee, Scotland, it was felt that she had nothing left of any value, but when the nurses were going through her meager possessions, they found this poem. Its quality and content so impressed the staff that copies were made and distributed to every nurse in the hospital.
One nurse took her copy to Ireland. The lady's sole bequest to posterity has since appeared in the Christmas edition of the News Magazine of the North Ireland Association for Mental Health.

A slide presentation has also been made based on her simple, but eloquent, poem. And this little old Scottish lady, with nothing left to give to the world, is now the author of this "anonymous" poem...winging
across the Internet. Goes to show that we all leave "some footprints in time."

Thee Me Poem

What do you see, nurses,
what do you see?
What are you thinking
when you're looking at me?

A crabby old woman,
not very wise,
Uncertain of habit,
with faraway eyes?

Who dribbles her food
and makes no reply
When you say in a loud voice,
"I do wish you'd try!"

Who seems not to notice
the things that you do,
And forever is losing a
stocking or shoe...

Who, resisting or not,
lets you do as you will,
With bathing and
feeding, the long day to fill...

Is that what you're thinking?
Is that what you see?
Then open your eyes, nurse:
you're not looking at me.

I'll tell you who I am
as I sit here so still,
As I do at your bidding,
as I eat at your will.

I'm a small child of ten...
with a father and mother,
Brothers and sisters,
who love one another.

A young girl of sixteen,
with wings on her feet,
Dreaming that soon now
a lover she'll meet.

A bride soon at twenty...
my heart gives a leap,
Remembering the vows
that I promised to keep.

At twenty-five now,
I have young of my own,
Who need me to guide,
and a secure happy home.

A woman of thirty,
my young now grown fast,
Bound to each other with
ties that should last.

At forty, my young sons
have grown and are gone,
But my husband's beside me
to see I don't mourn.

At fifty once more,
babies play round my knee,
Again we know children,
my loved one and me.

Dark days are upon me,
my husband is dead;
I look at the future,
I shudder with dread.

For my young are all rearing
young of their own,
And I think of the years
and the love that I've known.

I'm now an old woman...
and nature is cruel;
'Tis jest to make old age
look like a fool.

The body, it crumbles,
grace and vigor depart,
There is now a stone
where I once had a heart.

But inside this old carcass
a young girl still dwells,
And now and again
my battered heart swells.

I remember the joys,
I remember the pain,
And I'm loving and living
life over again.

I think of the years...
all too few, gone too fast,
And accept the stark fact
that nothing can last.

So open your eyes,
nurses, open and see,
Not a crabby old woman;
look closer...see ME!!

Remember this poem the next time you meet an elderly person. Look at the young soul within. We will one day be there, too!

When I am an old man- Maximizing What We Have

When I am an old man

... I'll wear mixed plaids.

... I'll put my teeth in only when I need them.

... I'll proudly and loudly produce massive amounts of phlegm at will.

... I'll drive as slow as I want ... I was here first, wasn't I?

... I'll buy my grandchildren gifts my kids don't want them to have.

... I'll let waiters and waitresses really know how "everything" is tonight.

... I'll wear Vicks Vap-o-Rub, BenGay, and that Icy Blue stuff instead of cologne.

... I'll let my gut stick out. Way, way out ... who gives a rip anymore?

... I'll darn sure let people know what I think about
"the trash they're showing on the TV these days."

... I'll let my grandchildren get away with things I used to punish my children for doing.

... I'll blow my nose as hard and as loud as I want!

... I'll make darn sure I get my "Senior" discount!

... I'll refuse to stand in long grocery store lines to pay for a
quart of milk and a box of bran. If they catch me, I'll just act senile.

... I'll keep my turn signal on as long as I want, dab-nabit!

... I'll pass gas whenever and wherever I dang well please.

... I'll darn sure let people know what I think about
"the garbage the government makes us go through just to get what we have coming to us."

... I'll develop an addiction to Milk of Magnesia.

... I'll write long letters to the editor about whatever I don't like.

... I'll chug Metamucil like I used to chug beer.

... I'll obsessively make elaborate contraptions
to keep the dang squirrels off my bird feeders.

... I'll have more hair growing out of my nose and ears than on the top of my skull.

... I'll flirt with women who wouldn't have gone out with me even when I was their age.

... I'll brush my eyebrow hair up over my bald spot.

... I'll go to them all-you-can-eat buffet lunch places and bring a doggy bag with me.

... I'll wear my pants hiked up around my armpits
or I'll let them ride comfortably down under my belly.

... I'll blow my social security money by buyin' junk from the back of books.


~By Tim Nyberg










WHEN I AM AN OLD MAN,
I'll Wear Mixed Plaids
This book has fun with aging without making fun of the aged. Growing old isn't just about subscribing to the large print edition of Reader's Digest. It's driving your car as slow as you want to, wearing your teeth only when you need them, and having a legitimate license to begin sentences with, Back in my day... This parody of When I'm an Old Woman, I Shall Wear Purple shares the griping cynicism, and complete disregard for societal advancements embodied by men who feel they've lived long enough to earn not only their AARP discount, but also the right to do anything any way they darn well please. This collection of hilarious reflections on aging is the perfect gift for all the old men in your life — whether they are on Willard Scott's birthday list or are just turning 40!!
By Tony Dierckins (Author), Tim Nyberg

From the Inside Out
USING ALL WE HAVE

On November 18, 1995, world renowned violinist, Itzhak Perlman, came on stage to give a concert at Avery Fisher Hall at Lincoln Center in New York City.

If you have ever been to a Perlman concert, you know that getting on stage is no small achievement for him. He was stricken with polio as a child, and so he has braces on both legs and walks with the aid of two crutches.

To see him walk across the stage one step at a time, painfully and slowly, is an unforgettable sight.

When he reaches his chair, he sits down, slowly, puts his crutches on the floor, undoes the clasps on his legs, tucks one foot back and extends the other foot forward.

He bends down and picks up the violin, puts it under his chin, nods to the conductor and proceeds to play.

By now, the audience is used to this ritual. They sit quietly while he makes his way across the stage to his chair. They remain reverently silent while he undoes the clasps on his legs. They wait until he is ready to play.

But this time, something went wrong. Just as he finished the first few bars, one of the strings on his violin broke. You could hear it snap — it went off like gunfire across the room. There was no mistaking what that sound meant. There was no mistaking what he had to do.

People who were there that night thought to themselves: “We figured that he would have to get up, put on the clasps again, pick up the crutches and limp his way off stage — to find another violin or else find another string for this one.”

But he didn’t. Instead, he waited a moment, closed his eyes and signaled the conductor to begin again. The orchestra began, and he played from where he had left off. And he played with such passion and such power and such purity as they had never heard before. Of course, anyone knows that it is impossible to play a symphonic work with just three strings.

I know that, and you know that, but that night Itzhak Perlman refused to know that. You could see him modulating, changing, recomposing the piece in his head. At one point, it sounded like he was de-tuning the strings to get new sounds from them — sounds they had never made before.

When he finished, there was an awesome silence in the room. And then people rose and cheered. There was an extraordinary outburst of applause from every corner of the auditorium. Everyone was on their feet, screaming and cheering, doing everything they could to show how much they appreciated what he had done.

He smiled, wiped the sweat from his brow, raised his bow to quiet us, and then said, not boastfully, but in a quiet, pensive, reverent tone ...

“You know, sometimes it is the artist’s task to find out how much music you can still make with what you have left.”

What a powerful line that is. And who knows? Perhaps that is the way of life — not just for artists but for all of us.

Perhaps our task in this shaky, fast-changing, bewildering world in which we live is to make music, at first with all that we have, and then, when that is no longer possible, to make music with what we have left.

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