It's storytime. Have a seat, and I'll tell you about "A Flower to Catch a Thief."

During my small part in America's big commitment to the Vietnam War, I had some chances to immerse myself in Vietnamese culture, and that included an introduction to Vietnamese literature, especially folktales and fairy tales. One of my favorite old tales is "A Flower to Catch a Thief," which I read again today in Dorothy Lewis Robertson's 1968 book "Fairy Tales from Viet Nam."

Children's folktales in Vietnam are full of animals who talk, and this story is another example of that. In fact, "A Flower to Catch a Thief" begins: "Long ago, when men and animals spoke the same language…."

Many Vietnamese tales also feature idols, who appear in different forms. And almost all Vietnamese children's tales advocate honor, honesty and integrity. This story incorporates all the above ingredients and traditional values.

"A Flower to Catch a Thief" is about a young servant who loses his master's water buffalo. In his desperate situation, he collapses. A crow happens by, thinks the young man is dead, and swoops down to peck out his eyes. Oh, those crows.

The servant snaps out of it, grabs the crow and is ready to wring the bird's neck, when the frightened crow is freed in exchange for a magic jade. Carved in the shape of a lotus blossom, the jade grants the man's every wish. Soon he is rich and buys a fine home and land at a nearby village.

His happiness is complete after he wishes for a wife and marries the beautiful daughter of another rich farmer from another village. His new bride asks the former servant how he acquired his wealth so quickly. Foolishly, the man shows her the jade and its power.

One day, when the man hauls some rice to market, his wife steals the jade and runs back to her family. The young man is both mad and sad. However, a gold turtle saves the day. This brilliant tortoise turns out to be the idol Kim Qui, who appeared before Emperor An Duong Vuong centuries before, telling him how to defeat the Chinese.

Now he tells the young man how to retrieve his magic jade. He gives him two flowers –one red, one white. As instructed, the man goes to the home of his wife's family, ties the white flower to the garden gate, and waits with the red flower in a bamboo grove.

The white flower's fragrance fills the air and draws the young man's wife and family from their home. They all smell the white blossom, and their noses grow as long as elephant trunks. The only cure is to smell the red blossom, for which they give up the magic jade. Yep, the turtle's plan worked like a charm.

Of course, this story is more interesting in its complete form. And, of course, the wife "meekly followed her husband back to his home and from that time on they lived happily ever after."

In all Vietnamese folk stories, good behavior is stressed, and bad behavior is punished. The Vietnamese values of honesty and integrity – so important in the proud Vietnamese culture – are shown true.

Personally, I think the ultimate lesson of this story could be this: Don't trust anyone. Growing up in a small town in Illinois, I was a trusting soul, putting almost full faith in other friendly souls almost all the time. During my first year in combat in Vietnam, however, I learned to trust nothing – except my fellow Marines.

Later in life, I reached a middle ground in my trust. You have to if you share your life with another person.

I also learned it's a good thing to bring a couple of flowers home to your wife rather regularly. Don't worry; her nose won't grow and look like an elephant's trunk. Trust me.

Looks like it's twilight time for Twinkies.

Hostess – maker of the little, golden, cream-filled, sponge cakes – made a second attempt at negotiations with union workers on Tuesday, but even court-advised mediation failed to bring together the two parties. It's likely now the company will liquidate, as it was reported before Tuesday's talks.

No more Hostess? No more Hostess Twinkies? How can I be expected to sit along the creek and dunk worms for catfish without a couple of Twinkies for me to munch on while I wait for the fish to bite? And how will I be able to serve my dinner guests my favorite dessert – those sweet, yellow torpedoes already stuffed with white cream and then topped with fresh strawberries and a dollop of Cool Whip? Be still, my taste buds, whilst I mull over this culinary predicament.

As I mull the situation, I'm thinking about a host of other Hostess treats, too, such as Hostess CupCakes and Hostess Sno Balls and Hostess Fruit Pies. Good, decent people in this world depend upon those tasty treats in order to maintain their unhealthful sugar intake and healthful levels of happiness.

We can only hope that some other bakery, some other company, will acquire the rights to produce our beloved Twinkies and those other yummy belly bombs that Hostess has provided for us for so many years. 

Holy moly. Perhaps the mulling is over already. I just now searched the Internet and found Hostess knockoffs on the Little Debbie website. Right there on the first webpage were the spitting images of Twinkies, but Little Debbie calls them Cloud Cakes. And right next to them were Little Debbie Chocolate Cupcakes, lookin' exactly like Hostess CupCakes.

Since it's Black Friday today, now is the perfect time to head out and look for that new television and also find a store that sells Cloud Cakes. I might be watching "20/20" tonight with Little Debbie. Will she pass the test? Stay tuned.

I think I'll pick up some chocolate milk, too.  

Break out the wine glasses, people.

Today is Nov. 15, the third Thursday in November, and we all know what happens on the third Thursday each November, right? Of course! Le Beaujolais Nouveau arrivé! The New Beaujolais arrives!

Beaujolais – described most simply – is a fruity red wine from the Beaujolais province in the Burgundy region of France, north of Lyon. Beaujolais variations are produced, but generally it is a red wine considered by many to be not only fruity but excitingly fresh, fun and flavorful. Beaujolais Nouveau – produced from the Gamay grape, as is most all of Beaujolais wine – is not allowed to age, but is bottled right after fermentation and should be consumed within the first few months after that. 

Real connoisseurs of wine – to be more precise, I'm talking about wine snobs here – might scoff at the notion of getting excited about a red wine that has been fermenting for only six weeks. Frankly, my dear snobs, I don't care what you think. Cork it. I don't wanna hear it.

My first taste of Beaujolais came about neither in France nor the United States. I first tried it in Vietnam. That first glass was poured from the tap of a small cask of Beaujolais fresh from France. It was 1969 in Saigon, at a little French restaurant not far from the residence of Ellsworth Bunker, our ambassador to South Vietnam. That was some good wine; at least it tasted good to me, but I was young, and what did I know about wine? Nothing. Not that I've learned so much since then. I know one important thing. If a wine tastes good to me, it's a good wine.

I consumed that Beaujolais with my very first bowl of bouillabaisse, the famous French fish stew or soup. I savored both the wine and the meal. During my time in Saigon, where the Marine Corps had assigned me to the U.S. Embassy, I enjoyed the grub at three French restaurants. So, imagine my surprise when the Corps transferred me to our embassy in Paris. Chow time! I'd be able to enjoy real French food all the time and taste the first and freshest Beaujolais come each November.

Paris is the people-watching capital of the world. Along with many Parisians and foreign tourists, I often enjoyed the sidewalk views while I ate lunch or sipped wine or coffee at a table outside one of the many terrace cafés when I lived in the City of Light. Most of those little establishments were what we called tabac cafés, or just tabacs, because they offered tobacco products, drinks, eats and more. Tabacs can be found along many streets and on many street corners in Paris. I know; I'm rambling. Memories of Paris can do that to you. I was trying to get to the fact that all of the tabacs – all of those sidewalk cafés that always served delicious coffees and heavenly croque monsieurs – in November became the purveyors of Beaujolais Nouveau. A small cask of Beaujolais sat on the bar or on the counter behind the bar in each tabac.

Each Nov. 15, at barely a minute after the midnight hour, many such casks and thousands of bottles of the new Beaujolais are transported all over France, where the French greet the red goodness with great fanfare. Much of the wine also heads for points beyond France.

I was told that the Beaujolais that made it to the United States and other lands was not the good or real Beaujolais. The French kept the good stuff to themselves, I was told back in the good old days. Some of my French friends would say, Griggs, use your head, silly boy; France could not possibly produce enough Beaujolais to supply the whole world. Ça va pas la tête, non? And they taught me that one must drink the Beaujolais when it is fresh and fruity, before it becomes old and crappy.

I guess none of that matters today. Here in Lebanon, Ill., there is neither a French tabac café nor a wine shop with a case of Beaujolais Nouveau flown in overnight from Lyon, France.

So, anyone care for a nice Oregon Pinot Noir? Go get the corkscrew, while I get a bottle from the rack. I know it's only noon, but it's Nov. 15. We'll spike it with a little sweet cherry juice and pretend it's Beaujolais. Cheers, mon amis.

On this day after Veterans Day, it's still Veterans Day – in a way.

Some businesses and government offices are closed this fine Monday in honor of America's military veterans. For example, don't count on mail landing in your mailbox today. I'm talking about snail mail, delivered compliments of the U.S. Postal Service. It's closed today.

I wonder how much honoring will take place today. Of course, I think we all know that Veterans Day is being observed by many this Nov. 12 Monday – even though Nov. 11 was Veterans Day – because it gives those many folks a three-day holiday weekend.

Veterans Day is always on Nov. 11, as decreed by Congress in 1954. It began in 1919 as Armistice Day to promote world peace and honor veterans of World War I, which officially ended in 1918 on the 11th hour of the 11th day of the 11th month. President Dwight D. Eisenhower signed off on the 1954 congressional act that amended the holiday to include all veterans of all wars and which changed the name to Veterans Day.

A lot of people confuse Memorial Day with Veterans Day. They don't realize that Memorial Day is the time to honor those who gave their lives in service to their country. Memorial Day, which is at the end of every May, is when we bow our heads and give thanks to the fallen for their supreme sacrifice. Veterans Day is the time to honor the living men and women who have served their country in the military in time of war and peace.

This past weekend was especially good for Marines – active duty, retired and those who served just one stint in the Corps. (Once a Marine, always a Marine, as that old saying goes.) While Sunday was Veterans Day, Saturday was the birthday of the Marine Corps. The Corps was established on Nov. 10, 1775, at Tun Tavern in Philadelphia. Those first Marines were the Continental Marines. They became the United States Marines after the War of Independence.

We jarheads, by the way, figure it was rather appropriate that the Marine Corps began in a tavern.

To Marines past and present, the birthday of the Corps has always been a big deal. Understand that I mean a really big deal. It's time for the Marine Corps Ball, sharing of the Marine Corps birthday cake, saluting Marines who marched before us, and toasting all Marines of today. That's all Marines. Remember, once a Marine, always a Marine.
OooRAH!

I observed my first four Marine Corps birthdays while serving overseas. Three of those were in Vietnam. But it was on my fifteen Marine Corps birthday when I spilled blood for God, Country and Corps. I was in the Marine Corps Ball ceremony in the service club at Richards-Gebaur Air Force Base outside Kansas City. We ceremonial leathernecks were decked out in our dress blues, equipped with NCO and officer swords. At one point during the pomp and pageantry, we snapped our swords from order sword to carry sword. That means our swords were pointed down, each with tip near the ground, and then we had to smartly whip them up with points up, handles in our right hands, which were snug to the sides of our right hips. Being the best klutz I could be, I wildly snapped up my sword tip and sliced open my right ear lobe. And being the best Marine I could be, I carried on throughout the ceremony as if nothing unusual had happened. I did not, however, receive a Purple Heart for my ceremonial wound.

If any Marines woke up yesterday feeling a little groggy after too many birthday toasts Saturday night, they perhaps could have mixed up something like a Bloody Mary with which they could have toasted America's military veterans on Veterans Day. I don't encourage such follow-up therapy, but it might be right in order to both honor our veterans and irrigate one's cerebrum. Just an idea.

Which brings us back to Veterans Day and honoring our military veterans. That also means we should be careful not to dishonor our veterans, so I want to set something straight on behalf of the most-dishonored bunch out there – veterans of the Vietnam War. Are you ready for this, America? Here it is: We didn't lose that damn war. More than 68,000 Americans died in the Vietnam War, and don't you even think that our fellow soldiers, sailors, airmen and Marines died for "the only war that America ever lost." The bad guys were reeling after Tet 1968, and the war clearly was won by 1970. It
simply didn't stay won after we left.

To my fellow Marines and my fellow veterans, to all of you outstanding men and women who wear or have worn the uniform, I thank for you service. I hope you had a great weekend. I hope and pray you have many more.

Many of the leaves of this pin oak are turning red this week; however, some of the tree's leaves are still green, while a lot are brown. The tree stands tall with another pin oak on the front of our property. Two others were planted with them more than a half-century ago, but a tornado destroyed those two several years ago. I remember helping my dad plant the four oaks when I was kid; it was no easy task. We dug up the trees in the Silver Creek bottomlands owned by my grandfather and a couple of his duck-hunting buddies. The oaks were already taller than I was then, so we had to dig deep and far enough out from their trunks so as not to kill the roots. A local farmer and his son helped us that day, and they brought along their flatbed farm truck in order to haul the trees out of the bottomlands. Often, when I look out at the tall oaks now, I think about my dad and Mr. Spealman and his son, Lawrence, and the heavy-duty work it took to successfully transplant those beautiful pin oaks. It took a tornado to rip away two of them – each one at least 65 feet tall and basically full grown by then – but I hope the other two, both of which are significantly taller than an average full-grown pin oak, live many more years.

Halloween came and went,
Like a witch's broom so fast.
It was not the holiday it was meant,
As were the spooky days of past.

The trick-or-treaters did not show.
Not one did tap upon our door.
Despite the pumpkin all aglow,
Halloween was such a bore.

Is our wacky world now so unsafe,
That kids are not allowed to roam,
Lest one become a vanished waif,
Never to return to home?

Where have all the goblins gone?
They used to roam from house to house,
As did the witches, ghosts and ghouls.
Have they joined that devil-dealer Faust?

Return those Halloweens of yesteryear,
When scary kids had scary fun,
When lads and lassies enjoyed fake fear,   
But it seems the spooky fun is done.

Leaves of a black maple show off some of their crimson colors in a stand of trees along my jogging route. I didn't have my camera with me when I jogged past them at the peak of their autumn glory. When I did have a camera for this image a couple of days later, the leaves already were becoming dry and declining in color. Since then, all the maple's leaves have tumbled down, and the tree is bare. The leaves had changed from green to red, because in late summer the tree shuts off veins in the leaf stalks. The leaves turned red as they used stored sugars in each leaf. The same process occurs in leaves that change from green to brown. Leaves that change from green to yellows and oranges
are simply turning to their real colors. Until autumn, they're green from the chlorophyll in the process of photosynthesis. Less and less chlorophyll is produced as the days become shorter, and then the leaves begin to show their true colors. The autumn's hues here in southwest Illinois have been more colorful than expected this year after a summer of severe drought, which normally would contribute to less-vibrant fall foliage. While the black maple has dropped all of its leaves, other trees – especially most oaks here – are still undergoing their autumnal change of life.