THE "KODAK MOMENT" THAT GOT AWAY.

It always seems to happen. Something funny occurrs but it never gets captured on video. One moment that I would have loved to have captured happened in 1997 with my first house Rabbit. Gideon demonstrated his reasoning skills, as this excerpt from When a Man Loves a Rabbit shows.

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There was one funny incident which I wish I had taped.
The few times that Gideon was out all night, he thumped and put his paws on my bedroom door. The noise of his claws constantly woke me and I had to lock him up again. Every night before bed, I would bribe him to go into his cage.

It was comical to see him charge into the kitchen for his pellets and as soon as he was in his cage, I’d close the door. That rascal invariably grew angry and threw the rabbit equivalent of a tantrum when he discovered he’d been fooled yet again. My little prince tossed his toys around and rattled the cage doors in protest.

Watching him, I had a mental picture of little bunny swear words appearing in a cartoon bubble above his noggin and I could almost read his mind.

“Oh no! Not again! I forgot that he was going to lock me in.”

One night, the lure of alfalfa called to him and Gideon raced toward his cage. Suddenly, he screeched to a halt at the kitchen door.

“Wait a minute! If I go in there, I’ll get locked in again.”

As I called his name, Gideon struggled with the decision. Then he made up his mind. My fur-clad lad turned around and ran straight for the bedroom. Like a child who doesn’t want to go to bed, he hid under the desk.

Of course, there was no place where he could get away from me. So I scooped him up in the recommended way, which allowed him no wiggle room. Then I kissed his head several times and carried him to the cage. He threw his customary tantrum when I went to bed, but it didn’t help him any.

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When a Man Loves a Rabbit is filled with hilarious and poignent vignettes like this one. Please click on my books link at the top left of this page and check out this book.

FOOD FOOLERY.

Have you ever given your loved ones and pets new types of food in order to see their reactions? I did that on many occasions to my rabbits. Some of their reactions were quite hilarious. Just seeing their upright ears and wide-open eyes made me giggle.

Here's an excerpt of my When a Man Loves a Rabbit memoir in which I experimented with different vegetables.

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When I fed Gideon new foods, he sometimes thought I was playing a trick on him. I gave him some weeds from the yard and he sniffed at them and didn’t know what to do. The same thing had happened with the carrot tops that I gave him after his operation.

I’d heard that some rabbits liked celery, so I handed Gideon a stick of it. He seemed puzzled at first. Once he took a bite though, he realized that it was a new kind of food.

Too late, I learned from the folks on PetBunny that rabbits shouldn’t be fed whole sticks all at once. The strings could catch in their teeth and cause them to choke.

Luckily, nothing bad happened to Gideon.

The next time, I cut up the celery into one-inch slices. Gideon didn’t mind. Greens were greens, as far as he was concerned. Fruit, on the other hand, was a different story.

I soon discovered that my little prince didn’t like banana. I had given him a small slice, but he turned his nose up at it. That surprised me because many list members claimed their bunnies loved banana so much that their butts occasionally twitched.

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If you enjoyed this story, I'm sure you'll like the rest of my book on house rabbits. Please click on my books link at the top left of this page to discover more about this memoir as well as my Deliverance from Jericho book.

TRICKING THE TRICKSTER.

Farley Mowatt certainly said it well. The best way to learn about animals is to live with them. Gideon, my first house bunny, proved all the long-held stereotypes wrong during his seven and a half years with me.

Much of my when a Man Loves a Rabbit memoir related the mischief Gideon caused and the things I learned about rabbits. On occasion, I played pranks on him. Here is one example of how I had fun fooling my little fur friend.

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I played a lot of pranks on poor Gideon in those early days―partly to get even with him, but mostly for fun. I’d noticed that strange noises tended to freak him out. There were many occasions where he thumped, then stood with his ears straight up and his eyes wide open. One time, he even emitted a skunk-like odor because something outside had frightened him.

Years earlier, I had purchased a stuffed toy seal with a microchip and tiny speaker in its body. When you squeezed the sides, it made the barking sound of a seal.

One day, Gideon hopped into my bedroom, suspecting nothing. As soon as I squeezed the seal that was hidden behind my back, he froze. In fact, he looked like he was going to lunge at me or attack whatever had made the noise.

I later learned that bunnies instinctively freeze to make it harder for predators to notice them. The poor guy remained as still as a statue for a couple of minutes before he hopped around in search of the source of the strange sound. I finally took pity on him and let him sniff the toy. He never fell for that joke again―proving that he could learn which sounds were normal and therefore to be ignored.

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When a Man Loves a Rabbit (Learning and Living
with Bunnies) contains many more charming vignettes of rabbit mischief. Please click on my books link at the top left of this page and check it out.

WHY I NEVER GIVE CHANGE TO STREET PEOPLE.

It might sound mean-spirited to some readers but I never give my spare coins to panhandlers. I learned my lesson thirty-five years ago about the harm it does to these folks. Here is a story that tells the reason for my apparent stinginess.

In August of 1977 I was transferred by my CNIB supervisor to work at a smoke stand in the Beaver House liquor store. The Corona Hotel stand had been closed because of poor sales and people also stole merchandise from that shop. They seemed heedless of the fact that they were literally robbing the blind blind. This stand had everything behind the counter and I fetched whatever the customers wanted. The room was quite small, about the size of the average broom closet.

Once again, I struggled with my conscience. The pop and mixers we sold were used in people's drinks. Was I indirectly contributing to alcoholism and drunkenness? I prayed and pondered earnestly on this for a few days. Eventually, I came to the conclusion that people were ultimately responsible for their own actions.

I regret not thinking through a related moral matter that autumn. Shabbily-dressed men frequently came to the store counter and asked me for dollar bills for their change. I dutifully helped them until the manager of the liquor store came to the window. "Are you giving these bums paper money for their change?" When I replied that I had, he continued, "I Don't want you to do that anymore."

"Why not?"

"Because these men are alcoholics. When you give them bills, they just buy booze with them and it worsens their problems."

"I was only trying to be helpful."

"Well, don't do that anymore. You're just keeping these men addicted. "We don't sell alcohol to anyone with lots of change because we know that they just panhandled it. These people need food and a place to live, not booze."

I apologized and agreed not to make change for those street people anymore. This mature gentleman's criticism hurt but I also realized that he cared for these derelicts of society. Had he been greedy, he could have accepted their money without caring what they did with his product. I thought I was helping when I was actually hindering people. I accepted the liquor store manager's admonition since it came with a noble explanation.

I wrote about other moral dilemmas I faced in How I Was Razed: A Journey from Cultism to Christianity. I hope to have this memoir in print and e-book form by the end of the year. As for my two previous memoirs, please click on my books link at the top left side of this page to learn more about them.

SHORTWAVE MEMORIES.

Ask any teenager about shortwave radio and they'll likely have no clue about it. Even among thirty-somethings, the topic of shortwave radio is barely understood by many of them. From my discussions with people, only seniors recall this wondrous part of the radio spectrum.

My first exposure to short wave radio occurred when my parents sent me to Jericho Hill School for the Deaf and Blind. Each classroom had a Pye AM and shortwave radio that the teachers sometimes let us listen to. By age ten, I became curious enough to fiddle with the receiver during recess. The strange noises of utility stations and the exotic sounds of broadcasters thrilled me. Stations from Japan, the Soviet Union, and other distant countries kept me spellbound with the wonder of hearing their distant signals.

When my mom bought me a shortwave radio in 1971, I discovered that Ecuador had a Christian radio station called HCJB. Radio Netherlands was another powerful broadcaster that I heard regularly. Each evening, stations from Europe filled the shortwave bands with music and features about their respective countries. Listening to them actually helped me in my Social Studies classes.

During the eighties, I bought several general coverage receivers. These helped me tune in weak stations from exotic Asian and African countries. One morning, while on a camping trip with my cousin, we ate breakfast while listening to a station from Papua New Guinea.

Adding to the excitement was the thrill of receiving clandestine signals from rebel stations such as Radio Venceremos. Pirate stations, illegal broadcasters not involved in insurrection, also excited me. Their programming was often harmless, though some espoused leftist beliefs. With such exciting signals, I couldn't help but spend hour upon hour tuning the dial.

The Internet has largely shut down the major international broadcasters. Governments of wealthy countries assumed that everybody has access to broadband servers so transmitting millions of watts seemed wasteful. Though streaming audio is crystal clear, it lacks the wonder and atmosphere of hearing a signal from half way around the world without satellite or broadband assistance.

Though countries such as New Zealand and Australia still broadcast on shortwave, the bands are often filled with Christian radio stations from America. These often play programs of dubious moral quality. They even air conspiracy programs and infomercials. I avoid those broadcasters and search instead for news or current affairs shows.

I mentioned my love of shortwave radio in my two published memoirs as well as my upcoming How I Was Razed book. God willing, I hope to have it in print before the year ends. Meanwhile, please click on the Bruce Atchison's books link for more information about my books.

FUNERAL OF A FALSE PROPHET.

Devotion is laudable but not to a liar and blasphemer. As I related in How I Was Razed: A Journey from Cultism to Christianity, Brother Herald's death hit me hard. Here's an excerpt from my upcoming memoir that shows just how I felt when I heard the news of his passing.

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As I lay on the couch after supper the next evening, listening to a New Testament cassette, the phone rang. I fought a stab of abdominal pain as I staggered to the phone in the kitchen.

"I have some bad news to tell you," Sister Eileen said without preamble. "Brother Herald passed away today."

I felt like somebody trapped in a plummeting elevator. "What are we going to do now that he's gone?"

"I don't know." She sounded as bewildered as I felt. "We'll carry on somehow."

"I feel kind of lost, you know?"

"I do too. I've known Brother Herald all my life and now he's gone."

"Who'll teach us now?"

"We still have all his teachings which Mother transcribed. God might also give one of us a prophetic ministry."

"I hope so."

Following a prolonged silence, I remembered to ask, "When's the funeral?"

"I'll let you know. I don't know at the moment."

During the service in the chapel of the funeral home three days later, Sister Roberta sang a hymn as she stood in front of the assembled mourners. During one verse, her voice shook with emotion.

I likewise struggled to keep my own tears back while she sang. The fact that our special teacher would no longer pass on revelations to us struck home.

Following the service, we gathered at the cemetery. As per Brother Herald's instructions, the funeral home covered his coffin with a regulation-sized Union Jack. Once we assembled, the chaplain said a final prayer. Then the attendants lowered our leader's remains into the hole as we filed out of the cemetery.

At Brother Herald's home, a considerable crowd of mourners gathered for a mid-afternoon backyard lunch. All of the church members attended, as did our deceased minister's two sons. Even Emmo and Bessie, who hadn't come to Thee Church for several years, made an appearance. I engaged some of the folks in small talk, but my mind remained occupied with the loss of our remarkable teacher.

During subsequent mid week meetings, Sister Roberta allowed no one to sit in Brother Herald's chair. "In case his spirit comes to the meetings, we must keep it ready for him," she warned us. Throughout my remaining years at Thee Church, this peculiar custom continued.

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God willing, I should have How I Was Razed in print in print and e-book form by the end of this year. As for my previous paperbacks, please click on the Bruce Atchison's books link for information about them

DEATH OF A FALSE TEACHER.

Previously, I wrote about the false teacher that misled me when I attended his church. I believed he was sent from God and had direct communication with him and his "holy spirits." In fact, he convinced me that the spirits of departed Christians would sometimes use his body to preach their messages to us.

When he had skin cancer and passed away on this date in 1981, I felt deeply devastated. From my upcoming How I Was Razed memoir, here is an excerpt that shows how devoted I was to this phony prophet.

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Following one Sunday service near the end of August, Sister Roberta informed her daughter, "Brother Herald is very ill and isn't expected to live for much longer. Would you like to come with me and visit him in hospital?"

When Sister Eileen agreed, I asked, "Could I come along with you?"

"He doesn't want a lot of people crowding around him," Sister Roberta warned. "You better not come along. You'll only upset him."

"Please let me come," I begged. "I don't think Brother Herald will be upset. I've been coming to this church for years so I have a right to visit him, don't I?"

"Well, all right but don't you dare do anything to upset him."

The three of us arrived at the hospital on Wednesday afternoon.

"Which room is he in?" Sister Eileen asked. "I forgot to ask the desk nurse."

As I was about to reply, I heard Brother Herald's distinctive cough. "He's over there," I pointed toward a doorway in a hall adjacent to the elevators.

When I caught sight of our teacher, his appearance startled me. An intern had shaved his head, exposing purple splotches all over his scalp.

"They had to cut off my hair to treat the cancer," Brother Herald explained as I stared.

I fidgeted and shuffled my feet as I stood by his bed. "I sure miss you at church," I mumbled after an awkward silence.

"I'm glad you came to visit," he croaked. "I miss being with you too. I've been through a lot of pain."

The two women took over, chatting with him until we left.

I sat lost in thought an hour later as Sister Eileen drove her mother and me home. Brother Herald often said, "I guess I won't be around much longer." All of a sudden, his impending death loomed.

"The hospital just phoned," Sister Roberta notified her daughter as we walked down the front porch steps after the next Sunday service. "He's very weak and they say he's not likely to last the night."

I halted and stared at Sister Roberta, the worried tone in her voice sending a chill of fear through me. "Can I see him too?" I blurted.

Sister Roberta glared. "No, you may not. You won't want to see him. He's very week and can hardly talk."

I stifled an angry retort as my mind filled with memories of previous slights. That woman always seemed to stand between Brother Herald and me whenever I wanted to see him.

As I lay on the couch after supper the next evening, listening to a New Testament cassette, the phone rang. I fought a stab of abdominal pain as I staggered to the phone in the kitchen.

"I have some bad news to tell you," Sister Eileen said without preamble. "Brother Herald passed away today."

I felt like somebody trapped in a plummeting elevator. "What are we going to do now that he's gone?"

"I don't know." She sounded as bewildered as I felt. "We'll carry on somehow."

"I feel kind of lost, you know?"

"I do too. I've known Brother Herald all my life and now he's gone."

"Who'll teach us now?"

"We still have all his teachings which Mother transcribed. God might also give one of us a prophetic ministry."

"I hope so."

Following a prolonged silence, I remembered to ask, "When's the funeral?"

"I'll let you know. I don't know at the moment."

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In my How I Was Razed memoir, I relate many more vignettes of my house church experience as well as how I eventually learned the truth. God willing, it will be in print by the end of the year.

HOW TO SPOT A FALSE PROPHET.

With all the preachers claiming to have prophetic powers or some sort of special anointing, how can we tell who is real and who is faking it? Deuteronomy 18:21 and 22 states, " And if you say in your hearts, 'How are we to be certain that the word does not come from the Lord?' When a prophet makes a statement in the name of the Lord, if what he says does not take place and his words do not come true, then his word is not the word of the Lord: the words of the prophet were said in the pride of his heart, and you are to have no fear of him."

Oh, how I wish I had known this in the seventies. I would never fallen for a false prophet and teacher in a house church if I knew this test of a prophet. I wrote of my naivety in my upcoming memoir, How I Was Razed: A Journey from Cultism to Christianity. This excerpt shows how easily I was fooled by a man I call Brother Herald and his assistant, Sister Roberta.

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Once I returned to Edmonton after summer vacation ended, I resumed attending Thee Church. "That's a cool painting," I said to Sister Roberta as I strolled into the sanctuary. On the wall above the baptismal tank, someone had painted a crude landscape consisting of a river in the foreground and steep green hills rising behind it.

"Brother Herald had a vision," Sister Roberta crowed. "He saw the place in the Nahanni valley where the City of Refuge will be. The plaster swirls on the walls matched what he saw exactly so we painted in the colours."

I stared at the wall, amazed that the brush strokes of the plaster lined up perfectly with his vision. It must be from God for it to work out so well, I marveled. I'm glad I'm part of such a spiritually-advanced congregation.

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God willing, I'll have How I Was Razed published later this year. Please check my previous books at the Bruce Atchison's books link.