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Tap into Your Inner Strength

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Your greatest contribution may not be something you do but someone you raise. ~Author Unknown

I can still picture the day seven years ago when Mary Ellen grabbed my hand and said, “Grandma, don’t ever leave me.” She followed me around the house, never letting me out of her sight. When I sat, she sat in my lap. Her parents were preoccupied with an illness my husband and I had yet to acknowledge for what it was, and she had asked to come home with us. She was two years old.
The situation in her home got better after a time, so she went back.
Three years later, my husband and I became her legal guardians. So, we gave up the fun of being grandparents and took on the hard job of parenting a child who was hurting in ways I’ve never known. A child who was angry because her family was torn apart. A child who couldn’t understand why. A child who had to grow up too fast.
She, of course, didn’t remember the earlier time. But she did remember loving her parents. She remembered that they loved her. So, she asked, “Why must I live with you? Why can’t Mommy and Daddy take care of me?” And always, “When can I go home?”
The answers never sounded complete or adequate. “Mommy and Daddy are sick because they put something in their bodies that isn’t good for them. It keeps them from making good decisions that keep you safe.”
“When will they get well?”
“I don’t know. They’re working on it.”
Then tears, always tears. Great sobs for which there was little comfort.
Twice that first year, I saw her acting out a story. Both times, she was running around, obviously taking care of a bad situation. When I asked what she was doing, she told me her parents’ house was on fire. She needed to rescue them and put out the flames. My heart hurt for her. I wanted so badly to tell her that her parents were fine, that they were well on their way to recovery, and she would be going home soon. But I knew none of that was a guarantee and that false hope was worse than no hope.
The three of us were very fortunate to have great support. Her school counselor assured her that she wasn’t the only child in her situation. Her teachers stayed in close touch with us and always insisted she work hard and follow the rules. Her principal wrote notes of encouragement on her classwork.
Our friends at church knew her name. They talked to her and listened to her responses. Once, we saw her religious-education teacher at the grocery store. Two days later, Mary Ellen had a note from Miss Maisie saying how nice it was to see her at the store. Mary Ellen was thrilled!
She became involved in Brownies, art lessons, and sports — finally settling on soccer. Her PE teacher told me she held her own against four boys at recess. There was probably something therapeutic in kicking a ball and running.
But, in some respects, every day seemed like what Mary Ellen called “opposite day.” Papa and I helped with homework, listened to her read, hosted overnights, and attended kids’ birthday parties — all the things we had done before as parents.
Along the way, she was told that I wasn’t her real grandmother. It’s true, sort of. Her father’s my stepson. It’s sometimes hard to put all the branches on a family tree. So, I asked her if she loved me. She said yes. I told her that I loved her, too. And if we chose to be grandmother and granddaughter, we could be. That works for both of us.
After a couple of years, she gave me a great gift. She said, “Grandma, I would rather live with my parents, but I’m happy.” That made me happy, too.
Someday, Mary Ellen will realize that she is one of the fortunate children who has been removed from her home. Her parents made a mistake, but through everything they loved her — loved her enough to get well.
After three and a half years, Mary Ellen went home. There will no doubt be hard times ahead. Parenting isn’t easy for anyone, but her family has the love and support of an extended family and many friends.
After loading her bicycle into her dad’s car, my husband walked inside and said, “Now we can be old.” And grandparents — the kind who can play and give too much candy and send her home.
A friend asked me if I ever regretted agreeing to take custody of her. Not for a minute.
As I write this, I am looking at a handwritten note on a background of geometric shapes colored with pink and orange pencils and taped to the bookshelf above my computer. It was penned by a seven-year-old. It reads: “Hi, I just wanted to say ‘I love you’ and thank you for everything. With love, Mary Ellen.”
Regrets? Not for a minute.
— Vicki Schoen —

No Regrets

Care for the Caregiver

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The ability to be in the present moment is a major component of mental wellness. ~Abraham Maslow

I knocked on the apartment door knowing only that the lady I’d be meeting was a retired high-school English teacher in the early to middle stages of Alzheimer’s. She was only in her sixties.
As her husband opened the door, Peggy stood beside him with bright, alert eyes and a hint of cautiousness. “Who are you?” she blurted out. That was a fair question, and one that I would answer freshly each time we met to take nature walks, work on iPad puzzles, read poetry aloud, dabble in water paints, eat lunch, or dance in her kitchen.
Peggy’s husband hired me to be “a friend” to his wife a few days a week when he had chemotherapy, needed to go grocery shopping, or played an occasional round of golf with his brother. Otherwise, he was doing what he cherished most: caring for the love of his life.
Time plays devilish tricks on the minds of those challenged by Alzheimer’s, so Peggy would ask about every half-hour, “Where’s my husband?” Or, “Where’s my father?” The notion of spouse and parent had begun to merge into one supporting role in her mind.
Each time she asked the question, I answered with the same calm tone, “Oh, Fred? Your husband is getting orange juice and bread from the store. He’ll be back soon. Look at these cool pencils. Do you want to color the rainbow with the blue one or the pink one?” Or I’d open the iPad to a kaleidoscope-drawing app and gently guide her hand until her fingers magically triggered bursts of vibrant shapes. I saved her creations and texted them to Fred, knowing it would make him smile.
The repetition of assurance and the redirection toward an activity put Peggy at ease. Even when she’d say in a panic, “I want to go home. My parents will be worried,” I’d gently reassure her that they knew we were together having fun, and she would be home soon. Past and present were merging for Peggy. The challenge for me was to choose words and a tone that would soothe her “child within,” while always honoring the adult woman who quickly became my friend.
Peggy’s response to her surroundings was akin to the curiosity with which a child experiences the wonders of the world for the first time. During our walks, she’d stop and watch the gentle movement of wind through the boughs of trees and exclaim, “She’s dancing. Isn’t she beautiful?” Her senses seemed heightened, and the inanimate became animate. Or, maybe, Peggy became one with the weeping willows, daffodils and swallowtails. She observed keenly and with such appreciation for the mere presence of natural life forms. These moments were spontaneous meditations that taught me to still my racing thoughts and live in the moment.
After lunch, a group of residents in Peggy and Fred’s apartment building would congregate in front of the fireplace in the lobby for a sing-along. A retired elementary-school teacher would strum a ukulele that she had been playing for decades. What I had not expected was that Peggy spontaneously sang along, often with the correct words and other times carrying the melody with sounds. Her anxiety disappeared completely when we were singing.
As the year passed, Peggy’s medical needs grew greater, and so did Fred’s. He made the difficult decision to transition Peggy to a memory-care community close to where he lived so that she would receive specialized care and he could see her most days.
I continued to visit Peggy, but her skills for puzzles, reading and speaking were declining. What could I do that would make a difference? The answer was, at first, daunting. Play the ukulele. But wasn’t I too old to learn a musical instrument? Well, the only way to know for sure was to try.
First, I needed to buy one. Who knew ukuleles came in so many shapes, colors and sounds? After strumming a simple C chord on half of the inventory, I chose a Martin soprano. Now for the challenging part: hours upon hours of practice, practice and more practice. By the time I had learned to play and sing my first few songs, I was convinced that my husband would never leave me. Or was he secretly putting in earplugs? But the true test came when I brought my ukulele with me to see Peggy.
One of her favorite songs was from the musical, Oklahoma. My strumming was clumsy, but Peggy didn’t mind at all. Together, our voices filled the air. Peggy was everything you could want in a friend. Although she had seen dozens of Broadway musicals throughout her life, she didn’t point out the flaws in my playing. Instead, she did what a true friend would do and just sang right along. Nothing else mattered during those moments we shared.
The COVID pandemic has separated many of us from loved ones in the most heartbreaking ways. After over a year, Fred was finally able to hold hands with his sweetheart once again in her room. He called me and asked if I’d like to talk to Peggy. I quickly switched to speakerphone, picked up my ukulele and began singing her favorite tune: “Oh, What a Beautiful Morning.” It surely was.
— Rosemarie Zannino Law —

In the Present

The Joy of Adoption

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 The manner of giving shows the character of the giver. 
 ~Johann Kaspar Lavater


 It was a beautiful Sunday morning in 1998, and it was a special day at my house. My two teenaged kids were going to treat Dad to breakfast for Father’s Day.


 Then the phone rang. Once again my family was asked to sacrifice their day and put their plans on hold while Dad, the detective, responded to the needs of another.


 I was advised that there was a fifteen-year-old female rape victim at the hospital in a nearby city. I assured my family that I would be home quickly and that this should not take too long. My wife and teenaged daughter just gave me the “Yeah, right” smile that I had seen so many times before and sent me on my way.


 Once at the hospital, I met with the staff and another officer who was present. When I began to interview the victim, I found that she was developmentally delayed and slow mentally. After about an hour with the victim, I finally began to gain her trust and learn what took place on the previous night. While I was explaining to the victim’s guardian, her aunt, what I knew thus far, we were interrupted by the nurse. She explained that, although the victim had told all of us that this was her first sexual encounter, a routine test indicated she was five to seven weeks pregnant. Wow, I thought, another can of worms just opened. I might as well kiss this Father’s Day goodbye.


 After a couple more hours with the victim and no good description of any suspect or explanation as to who got her pregnant, I finally went home late that afternoon.


 Over the next several weeks, I worked leads on the rape, trying to develop a suspect. None surfaced. During one of my calls to the victim, her guardian told me that the victim was not mentally and physically able to care for herself, let alone any new baby. Then she dropped the hammer on me. The aunt bluntly asked, “Would you like to adopt the baby once it is born?”


 The guardian kept telling me that she felt as if I were meant to adopt the baby. She told me to think about it and to tell her later.


 My wife and I had two children already, both of whom were in the middle to late teens, and for the past several years, I had been pestering her for another baby. The answer was always the same. It was not that she did not want another baby; it was just that we were approaching forty and were just getting comfortable in our lives. The kids were now old enough to help themselves, and we had time for ourselves. Any time I broached the subject, I got the same answer. “If you find someone who will give you one, then you can have it.” She knew people did not just give babies away like puppies, so she had nothing to worry about.


 I went home that night and again began to talk about how I would really like to have another baby, and again I got her same answer back. “Find someone to give you one, and you can have it.”


 Then, pow! I hit her with it! “Done deal,” I said. I then told her of the situation and the availability of the child. She was stunned.


 Over the next several days, we analyzed our lives, and she pretty much convinced me that we should not take on any more responsibilities than we already had. Besides, we did not know anything about adoption, the health of the still-unborn baby, and a variety of other things. Besides, we wanted what would be best for the child. We had some married friends who could not have children, so we introduced them to the birth mom and her guardian.


 Months passed, and I thought everything was settled. Then three weeks before the baby was to be born, I heard it was a girl. I had always wanted a girl. I was sad I missed this chance.


 One afternoon, I got another call from the aunt, who was very distraught. After several months of the birth mother making arrangements with the other couple, they backed out of the plan. Now the baby would be given up to the county when born. Auntie pleaded again, “Please, will you take the baby?” She then went on, “Although the plans were made with the other family, me and my niece always wanted your family to take the child. Somehow it feels like you are supposed to raise her.” She pleaded with me to please reconsider.


 Well, it was not me she needed to convince. When I heard this and realized that I now had the chance not only for a baby, but a baby girl to boot, I flew out of the office with a plan.


 I called my wife and told her we were going to dinner at our favorite romantic restaurant. That evening, I told her of the latest phone conversation with the aunt. She interrupted me as she smiled and said, “For the past few months, I’ve prayed about this. Although I felt like it was God’s will that we adopt this child, I wanted proof, so I asked that if it was his plan, then to reassure me by making it amazingly easy and with no worries or hurdles to jump.”


 I sat stunned, loving her more than ever.


 “Call the aunt and birth mother. Tell them we would be more than happy to adopt the baby.”


 With shaking hands, I made the call. Three weeks later, we awoke at 3:00 AM to a phone call saying we were having a baby!


 Being in the room during the birth, at the request of the birth mother, was incredible and something that we had never discussed or expected. We all spent the night with the newest addition to our family, and as I walked out the doors of the hospital the next day with that little warm bundle in my arms, I felt ten feet tall!


 Later that night, as my wife and I lay in bed staring at our little angel, she said, “You, of all people in this world, should never be able to doubt that there is a God and that he truly gives us the desires of our hearts.”


 She kissed our daughter, then me. “This belated Father’s Day present was worth the wait.”


 ~Clifton Bush

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Greatest Father’s Day Gift

Home Sweet Home

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It is difficult to realize how great a part of all that is cheerful and delightful in the recollections of our own life is associated with trees. ~Wilson Flagg

I did not know what to expect when I knocked on the door of the house my parents had built in 1948. The door, now bright green, had a new brass knocker, although the old brass keyhole and doorknob were the original ones I remembered. This was no longer my home. I was just passing through town.
When a young man opened the door, I blurted out, “My mother and father built this house. It was their home for many years and mine when I was young. May I please have some of those pears on the ground and hanging heavy on the branches? My dad planted those trees — ”
“Do you want a sack or a basket?” laughed the young man. “Take all you want. I’m a history major at the college here. My parents own the house. They were renting it, but now they let me live here. I’d like to know about the house.”
So I stepped inside. “Those are the hardwood floors I knew. It was my job to paste wax and polish them, once a week.” I looked and pointed. “That was my bedroom. That was…”
The young man listened. He showed me his choices of fresh paint, excellent colors for the house, this house no longer my home. I myself had chosen blue wallpaper and a floral border for my room when I was young. I loved making choices then.
I stepped back outside, quickly. I clutched a strong bag. I filled it with pears from a tree in the front yard. Then, I walked back to a pear tree that had been special to my mother, the one just outside her kitchen window, which brought first blooms of spring to her, year after year. From that tree, I picked a few more pears.
Later on that rainy autumn day in 2010, I shared the pears with our daughter and grandson as my husband and I passed through their city on our 360-mile trip back to the place where we live now.
“These are pears from trees your great-grandfather planted,” I said to my grandson. He remembers his great-grandfather, that house, those trees.
We ate the pears and decided they were the best we’d ever tasted.
Some of the remaining pears were soft and turning brown by the time I got home. I dug a hole and planted them. Who knows? The pears come from good stock. They may thrive here.
~Shirley P. Gumert
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My Parents’ Pears

Grandmothers

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Our grandchildren accept us for ourselves, without rebuke or effort to change us, as no one in our entire lives has ever done, not our parents, siblings, spouses, friends — and hardly ever our own grown children. ~Ruth Goode

My son and his family live in Australia, which makes being a grandma quite challenging. When the children were little, my husband and I were teachers and didn’t have enough money to visit the kids very often. But every two years during our summer break I would fly to Sydney on the cheapest airfare available. Sometimes that meant thirty hours of flight with numerous stops and long layovers. But I didn’t care. Whatever it took for me to be with my son, my Australian daughter-in-law and beautiful grandchildren was okay with me.
I sent lots of cards and called on holidays when the price was not excessive. It was hard because I so wanted to be a real grandma — able to bake cookies for the kids, tell them stories, answer their questions and be nearby for hugs and kisses.
When the children were six and eight years old, computers were becoming a new form of communication. I knew nothing of them, but the children did. During a visit they got very excited telling me that if I were to buy a computer, we could “talk” every day. It sounded too good to be true.
I went home, bought a computer and started learning how to use it. It wasn’t easy but I would not give up until I mastered it. Finally I learned how to send and receive e-mails. What a blessing! Soon I really was talking with my grandchildren nearly every day.
At first, when they were younger, they wrote about their school activities, friends and their hobbies. Once in a while they even “tattled” (or so they thought) on their mom and dad.
As they became older, Tracy wrote more openly. She would tell me when she had a problem and was upset. She would vent after having a disagreement with one of her parents and look to me for comfort or advice. She would describe her innermost thoughts and feelings.
I wondered if other children shared as much with a grandma who was right there with them, looking into their eyes. I wondered if maybe it was easier for a child to “talk” with someone who could not see her. Maybe there was an advantage to being some distance away. In any case it made me feel needed and trusted and loved.
But just about the time I began feeling pretty smug about being a great granny, I received an e-mail from Tracy telling me that her parents were going out of town and that she was planning to have a party at the house without telling them. I couldn’t believe she was sharing this with me. This was a part of grandparenting no one had told me about. And I wasn’t sure I could hold onto my ranking of greatness.
Did Tracy think I would keep her secret? Was she testing me? Deep down inside did she want me to tell her folks?
This was too much like parenting. I didn’t want this much responsibility. And I certainly did not want to be a snitch. Weren’t grandmas supposed to be the good guys — the ones with homemade goodies, comforting words and loving smiles? Grandmas weren’t supposed to have to rat on their grandkids!
I pondered this dilemma for a couple days, wondering how Tracy would react if I told her mom and dad. Would she be furious with me? Would this be the end of our wonderful e-mail communication? Would my beautiful granddaughter stop loving me?
But if I said nothing there might be serious consequences and I would never forgive myself for being silent. So I called, talked with my daughter-in-law and waited for Tracy’s reaction.
It wasn’t long before Tracy sent me an e-mail telling me all about the new developments. There was no mention of my part in the situation. There was no anger. Instead it was as though Tracy expected me to do just as I had done.
Wow! Somehow I passed the test. And, even though there were thousands of miles between us, I could not have felt closer to my granddaughter.
Tracy is in college now and she e-mails me about her classes, the campus, her teachers and friends. I’m praying she doesn’t get pregnant and ask me not to tell!
~Kay Conner Pliszka
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The Snitch

I'm Speaking Now

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The strength of a mother is in the ears and on the lips. ~Mali Proverb

We walked into the auditorium for meet-the-teacher night for kindergarten. Both of us were feeling nervous and a little excited. I scanned the auditorium full of parents and their children and saw no one who looked like us. This had become an all too familiar theme living in Utah.
I got in line to sign up for the PTA, thinking that was one way to add some diversity and different perspectives. As I stood in the line, other mothers were greeted by the ladies working the table, asking if they would like to volunteer. When my son and I made it to the table, I was neither greeted nor offered the opportunity to sign up. Frustrated, I got out of line and tried to find a seat before the orientation started.
As Jeremiah and I sat down, we began to get stares. The discomfort began to get to me, so I called my husband and told him how out of place I felt. He validated my feelings, encouraged me to stay a little longer, and said he would be praying.
I hung up the phone and in came this little Latino boy and his father. Jeremiah and the boy were excited to see each other and hugged. I asked Jeremiah if he knew him and he said that the boy went to his daycare. His father came over and introduced himself and they were a breath of fresh air. We learned the boys would have the same teacher, which eased my mama heart.
After some remarks and introductions by the principal we were released to go and see our children’s classrooms and meet the teacher. Jeremiah and his friend were inseparable, so the Dad and I continued making small talk while waiting in line to speak with the teacher. When Jeremiah and I got to the front, the teacher looked at Jeremiah and loudly said, “Oh my goodness! Look at your hair. I love your curls.”
The first day of school, I was standing in line outside the classroom holding Jeremiah’s hand. A father and his little girl came and stood beside us and said hello. The father then put his hands in Jeremiah’s curly hair. I looked at him and Jeremiah looked at him uncomfortably; and he removed his hand. The teacher came out to greet all the kids and when she saw Jeremiah that same loud squeal and comment about his hair followed.
This, unfortunately, became commonplace. Every interaction I had with her resulted in a comment about Jeremiah’s hair, including on a field trip.
The last straw was when we had parent/teacher/student conferences. The teacher went over Jeremiah’s progress and then asked me to check his registration card. I noticed they had his race marked as white, so I showed her the mistake and she replied, “Oh we know he’s not white; you can tell by looking at his hair.” I stared at her blankly, not wanting to make a scene or show any disrespect to my son’s teacher in front of him. So, we left and when I received Jeremiah’s report card, in the comment section was yet another remark about his hair.
One night, after I washed his hair, Jeremiah was looking in the mirror as I brushed his hair back. He said, “Mommy, I look so cool.” And then told me his hair looked like a friend’s. The next morning, when his curls were back, he looked in the mirror and said, “I don’t like my hair; it doesn’t look straight anymore.”
I teared up over that. My young son disliked his beautiful crown of curls. He had loved them when we lived in Texas. There he would get comments, but it was different. They were compliments, not remarks that highlighted his difference. I’d had my own experience with this in Utah, when an older woman commented on my curls and then asked me if they were real. When I told her yes, she put her hands right in my hair to see for herself. I couldn’t shake how violated I felt that day. So I could only imagine how Jeremiah had been feeling.
I scheduled a meeting with Jeremiah’s teacher. I explained that Jeremiah had begun to dislike his curls, and I walked her through all the times she’d talked about them, including on the report card. I asked if she’d made any comments about the other children’s hair on their report cards and she said no. She apologized and stated that it was not her intention to hurt Jeremiah or make him feel uncomfortable. I accepted and told her I believed her, because I did. But I shared that intention does not eliminate the impact. The comments from his teacher about his hair stopped after that meeting.
I ordered some new books and the one that resonated for him was What I Like About Me! by Allia Zobel Nolan. I also made up a silly song just for him: “Jeremiah’s got the best curls in the world!” I sang it to him every day as I did his hair. Our neighbors told him about Lenny Kravitz and showed him pictures.
After a few days, success! Jeremiah said, “Mommy, I like my hair and I don’t want to change it.”
— Shawntae Chase —

Crown of Curls

My Crazy Family

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You can usually tell that a man is good if he has a dog who loves him. ~W. Bruce Cameron, A Dog’s Journey

“If anything ever happened to your mom, I’d be devastated,” my dad confessed. “But if something ever happened to Sadie Mae, I don’t think I could survive.”
“Dad, never tell Mom that!” I shrieked.
Sadie Mae was his German Shorthaired Pointer. I grew up knowing that it was all about the dogs. There was Pixie, Chrissy, Seymour, Brandy, Charlie, and, of course, Sadie Mae.
And somewhere behind the list of dogs were the kids: Sherrie, Connie, and David. Dad could never remember our names, but why should he? He knew all the dogs’ names. We knew where we stood — our pedigrees couldn’t measure up to those of our housemates. Our human plans were often altered to accommodate the “doglings” because they always came first.
According to my father, kennels were no place for “human” dogs. And pet sitters never lasted very long because the dogs made sure they trashed the house to remind all of us who was really in charge.
I remember when my parents drove me to Whitworth University — my freshman year — and dropped me off at my dorm at 5:00 a.m. so Dad could get home to his dogs. I knew then I was not my dad’s favorite “child.” After taking a few psych classes, I understood that my family was a “little” crazy, particularly my dad.
I married and had children, and it wasn’t all about the dogs. In fact, we never had a dog while our two boys were growing up. They had our full and undivided attention. And they bemoaned the fact that all their friends had dogs and cats and other pets (hamsters, rabbits, and goldfish).
When our older son graduated from Donegal High School in Mount Joy, Pennsylvania, in the year 2000, we sent out save-the-date invitations to our entire family. Since we lived on the East Coast and everyone else lived on the West Coast, it took some planning. We rented a venue, had the event catered, and all the family from my husband’s side and my side planned on attending. I could hardly believe it when I heard that my mom and dad were coming and leaving Sadie Mae in a kennel.
Due to a scheduling conflict, we had to have the party the day before graduation. It was going to be a combined family reunion/high school graduation. Everything went as planned: The food was delicious and everyone raved about the leather photo album that I put together of Jeremy’s childhood through high school years.
The next day, we planned a lovely brunch before we headed to the graduation, where Jeremy was to receive a scholarship award. That morning, I received a call from my mom. She said, “Dad won’t be attending the graduation.”
“What?” I questioned. “Is Dad sick or something?”
“No, nothing like that,” Mom explained. “Your dad needs to fly home to be with his dog.”
“But you’ll be staying for graduation, won’t you?”
“No, dear. I’ll be flying home with your father. I hope you understand,” Mom said apologetically.
I hung up the phone and sobbed until I realized there was no reason to cry. It had always been about the dogs, so what was my problem? I had grown up with this.
We said our goodbyes, Mom and Dad got on the plane, and Jeremy graduated with honors. And we had a great time anyway.
There are things in every family that one has to either accept or reject. I chose to accept the fact that my dad would never change, and I had to make a decision to accept his behavior as crazy, but normal for him.
It’s been seventeen years since Jeremy’s graduation. We have another family reunion coming up and, again, it’s all about my father’s dog — Charlie — who doesn’t like children.
So we’ve arranged for my other son and his wife and toddler to stay at a nearby hotel. That way Dad won’t have to kennel his beloved “Charlie Girl.” At eighty-seven, that’s out of the question for him.
It will always be about the dogs.
~Connie K. Pombo
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It’s All About the Dogs

The Power of Gratitude

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Gratitude is an art of painting an adversity into a lovely picture. ~Kak Sri

I am visiting my mother in the hospital while she recovers from pneumonia and other complications from triple bypass surgery. She complains about the food to my brother, my father, my boyfriend, and me. My boyfriend and I have just returned to Houston from a Christmas visit to his parents’ home in Ohio, where I plan to go to law school in the fall.
If she is complaining, I reason, it means she is getting better. My brother motions for me to step outside and join him in the hall. He leads me to a stairwell, far beyond the hearing of my mom and dad. I prepare for the worst.
“You cannot go to law school,” he says. “Dad has cancer.”
My father, who never gets sick, who never missed a day of work in thirty years as a public school principal due to illness, has cancer.
“You can’t tell Mom,” he says.
So we walk back into her room, attempting poker faces. “What’s wrong?” she says, reading mine immediately. I change the subject.
My father is the calm in the storm to my mother’s “Chicken Little.” Recently he was on the news, calming a cafeteria full of students after a school shooting. He attends church and teaches Sunday school. He helps disadvantaged and at-risk students. He is my pillar of strength, the guy I called when I first moved to Houston and felt lost and hopeless in the Big City. He can’t have cancer. Not my dad.
He is planning his retirement with a brand new RV. He is ready to enjoy his golden years traveling the country with my mom once she recovers. But now he has cancer.
Once my mother learns of Dad’s diagnosis, she rouses herself in recovery far faster than she would have without a purpose. She eats healthier, exercises and mends her heart so she can take care of Dad. Neither she nor my father will hear of me staying in Houston or skipping law school.
I stay through Dad’s surgery to remove the tumor from his colon. His prognosis is good. So off to Ohio, and law school, I go.
Law school at age thirty-eight is not easy. Even for me, who made good grades in graduate school. Even in the most conducive environment it is tough. Add a new city, a boyfriend with two children who visit on weekends, two dogs and two cats in a tiny house and it gets tougher. The first year is a wake-up call. My grades slip. I lose my scholarship. But I begin to get the hang of it. I take on an internship, then a job. I switch to night classes. My grades improve.
I monitor Dad’s progress through phone calls and holiday visits. His cancer is in remission.
I have one semester of law school to complete. Suddenly the tiny house — with two dogs, two cats, and two children on weekends — gets even smaller. The children’s mother goes missing and emergency custody ensues. They move in with us. It is an adjustment for them and an adjustment for me. I am no longer “Dad’s Cool Girlfriend” who takes them shopping or to get ice cream. Now I am the lady who tells them to please play more quietly because I need to study.
In the meantime Dad’s cancer is back. Stage IV: a prognosis of six to eighteen months. We are back in Houston for Christmas and to tell my parents of our engagement. Ten days with my parents and no one says a word. I find out on the way to the airport to return to Ohio and law school.
“Why didn’t you tell me sooner?” I ask.
“I didn’t want you to mess up your grades again worrying,” Dad says. He is determined to beat it.
The last semester is tough but I manage it. My parents arrive in Ohio for my graduation in May.
I am in shock. My formerly portly father is gaunt. His pants are cinched at the waist. Fifty pounds lighter, he looks thirty years older. In a moment alone, I ask him how he is.
“Well, Sissy,” he says, “I’m not dead yet!”
They return to Houston and I concentrate on passing the Ohio bar exam. I use flash cards. I take prep classes. The three-day exam is grueling. I wait four months for the results.
Only to find out I have missed passing by one point.
All that time away from Dad while he was healthy and then while he is ill. For what? A law degree with no license. What good is that?
My employer is not impressed and I am let go. I feel like a failure.
I take a job as a freelance writer and photographer for the local independent newspaper while I consider my options.
“Why don’t you take the bar exam in Texas?” my mother says. “You can stay with us and study.”
No dogs, no cats, no kids. No distractions.
A former colleague has a job opening with flexible hours at his company. I will have plenty of time to study.
So I move back to my parents’ home in Houston, with whom I have not lived for nearly twenty years. It is another adjustment. I set up a schedule. Study before work. Bar prep on tapes in the car on my one-hour-each-way commute. Eat dinner with Mom and Dad. Study in the evenings and in bed by 10:00 p.m.
I spend free time with Dad. He will not talk about leaving, but it is only a matter of time. Whenever I ask how he is, I get the same answer: “Well, Sissy, I’m not dead yet!”
This time the exam is not so grueling. I am prepared. It is not easy but I know I have passed. In August I drive back to Ohio to help my fiancé pack the house. He has agreed to move himself and his children to Texas so I can be near my father.
We find a house to rent in my parents’ neighborhood — just across the street. In September Dad gets weaker. By November he rarely leaves the house, although he does manage to vote in the election. But there is pride in his eyes when I return from the licensing ceremony with a copy of the State Bar program for him. By Thanksgiving he cannot walk across the street to join us for dinner.
Two days before Christmas my father leaves this world for the next. Nearly eighteen months from his diagnosis.
That was 2005. Just one point kept me from passing the Bar in Ohio. Just one point almost dashed my dreams of being a lawyer.
What a difference one point can make. One point more and I’d be a lawyer in Ohio, rather than Texas. But that one point gave me eight more months with my dad.
~Amy Corron Power
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What a Difference One Point Can Make

Step Outside Your Comfort Zone front cover

Step Outside Your Comfort Zone

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An effort made for the happiness of others lifts us above ourselves. ~Lydia M. Child

I live in a small, rural town in Connecticut. In our town, a man, probably in his late forties or early fifties, is often seen wandering about town, usually pushing an old shopping cart. Sometimes, he is just walking slowly and carrying a plastic bag. His gait is stiff and labored. His clothes are rumpled and appear old. He picks up trash and bottles and cans that he finds for recycling. At first glance, most people assume he is homeless and most likely an alcoholic or drug addict.
I had my first good look at him one day when he was in the grocery store turning in the tickets he had collected for the five-cent recycled bottles and cans deposit. I noticed how the customers around him at the courtesy counter looked at him in disgust.
The weather that day was really nasty with a cold, driving rain. This man was soaking wet and the water was literally dripping off him. I was walking out of the store, and he turned to leave at the same time. Our eyes met, and I impulsively asked him if he needed a ride somewhere. He smiled genuinely and accepted gladly. He had goodness in his soul; I could feel it.
I’d never done this before. I am a sixty-two-year-old woman, and time has taught me to be cautious. I’ve never picked up a hitchhiker or a stranger. If I see someone in distress, I will call the authorities for assistance. But something compelled me to speak to this man.
When we got to my car, I noticed that he did not smell at all and there was certainly not a hint of alcohol on him. As I drove, he talked a little bit. His sentences were almost childlike. He told me that his name was Jerry. He commented to me that he used to have a car and a job, and he drove everywhere. But then he had a bad accident, so he couldn’t drive anymore because of a brain injury. He had to take a lot of medicine.
Jerry explained that he likes to be outside, so he walks a lot. He likes to pick up trash so the town will look nicer. And anything he can recycle gives him a little bit of extra money until his disability check comes in. He also told me that the grocery store doesn’t want him to go inside anymore because they said it bothers the customers.
Jerry lives with his parents on a rural road just outside the center of town. I drove him to his residence in a modest mobile home. He thanked me and went inside.
Now, whenever I see Jerry, I honk my horn and wave to him. He waves back with a big smile on his face. I’ve asked him a few more times if he needs a ride, but he has always declined, saying he likes to be out in the fresh air.
I wonder how many people incorrectly judge this man? Jerry is just a man who had something terrible happen to him and is just trying to live his life peacefully now as a traumatic brain injury survivor. What happened to Jerry could happen to any of us. I don’t read the Bible regularly, but I know bits of it. I’m reminded of Matthew 7:1 where Jesus said, “Do not judge, or you too will be judged.”
Everyone has a story. Most of the time, we don’t bother to listen to the stories. We go about our day with our minds stuck in our own little worlds. I advise everyone to take the time to observe and really listen to what people have to say. Take a chance and start a simple conversation with a stranger. You will be amazed by who you meet and what you can learn.
~Debi Smith Pouliot
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Jerry

Find Your Happiness

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Every day may not be good, but there’s something good in every day. ~Author Unknown

I’ve spent a lot of my life unhappy. Looking back there were times that it was okay to feel that way, for example when my parents got divorced, when I was mugged at gunpoint during a vacation, when two friends died in a car accident when I was in high school, and when I was brutally assaulted in my early twenties.
But there were the other times, too. In middle school I didn’t think that I was as smart as everyone else; I didn’t have cool enough clothes; my mother dropped me off at school in a beat-up car. Junior high was the same. I wasn’t as tall and thin as all the other girls; my baby teeth hadn’t fallen out yet; and where were my boobs? Fast forward to high school. Still the boys had eyes for others; still everyone was smarter; still everyone dressed better. Yes, my boobs had finally arrived, but somehow that paled in comparison to everything else. In my first job out of college I wasn’t making as much money as my friends; my apartment wasn’t as nice; when I looked around there was always something to feel miserable about.
I come from a long line of people who have suffered from diagnosable depression. When I was single, I assumed that was just who I was — it was the genes I had been dealt.
When I was twenty-four I met my husband. We got married three years later, and three years after that I had my first child.
Once we had kids, my excuse of “it’s-in-the-genes” didn’t work so well for me anymore because that meant my kids were going to be depressed. And although I realize that that still might be the case, I began looking at my unhappiness in a new way.
It was something I had to work on myself.
Over the years many things have helped me fight depression: healthy eating, exercise, fresh air, friends, volunteering, church, therapy and medicine. It all helps.
But I have a little secret, too.
It’s an exercise that I do every night before bed. By the side of my bed I have a small datebook. It covers January to December, but it’s small — every day only has enough space to write one line.
Every night I ask myself this question: “What made me the happiest today?”
Because I don’t have space to write very much it seems easy, and it only takes me a few seconds. But in those seconds I replay my day and decide on its happiest moment. Some days I come up with answers I expect, and other days I find myself surprised.
Some days it’s: “my husband came home early,” “reading before bed with the kids,” “laughing with a friend on the phone,” “getting a parking space when I was late… right in front!” And some days aren’t as easy and it’s: “finally getting to get into bed,” “being able to stay calm during a fight with my daughter,” “not having to cook dinner — again.”
But the spin on my life has changed. I actively seek the positive. Every day.
And sometimes, if I have a sour day, I look back through the book, read, and remember those happy moments in the past.
In fact, I wish I had started my happy book back in middle school. Entries might have been: “I don’t need braces like everyone else,” “I caught Charlie S. looking at me today,” and “I didn’t trip when I went up on stage to receive my Most Improved Player award.”
~Jennifer Quasha
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The Happy Book

Chicken Soup for the Soul: Celebrating the Spirit of America front cover

Celebrating the Spirit of America

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Unity is strength… when there is teamwork and collaboration, wonderful things can be achieved. ~Matti Stepanek

My colleague Norris Kyles and I had been running on a steady diet of fast food and fear for almost a week, ever since May 18, 2013, when several rounds of monster tornadoes struck central Oklahoma. Moore, Oklahoma took the brunt of the storms, but many of the surrounding communities were severely damaged, too.
Norris and I worked as journalists at KFOR-TV, the NBC affiliate in Oklahoma City. He worked as a photographer; I worked as a reporter and anchor. During the endless days of breaking news, we’d both encountered things no one should ever see.
More than two-dozen people died from the storms, and hundreds more were hurt. Once the storms passed, many people had nothing left. Others tried to salvage what little of their lives they could still find. Hopelessness, anger, and despair were easy. Optimism, positivity, and resilience were not.
Indeed, as Norris and I approached Memorial Day, neither one of us felt very good. People across the country would go on trips, attend barbecues, and usher in the summer that upcoming weekend, but not us. The time for rest and relaxation would come much later. We had people who needed us. We had stories to tell. And we had a job to do.
That Friday found us doing it in the small town of Bethel Acres, Oklahoma.
“What are you thinking?” Norris asked me, as he parked the car on what remained of a road that once led into a tiny subdivision. Storm debris, downed trees, piles of bricks, trash, and ripped up memories had replaced most of the homes. That morning, management at KFOR sent us to Bethel Acres in an effort to widen the TV station’s coverage and make sure we didn’t leave out some of the smaller communities.
Norris turned off the car. “Who do you think we should interview?”
“I don’t know,” I said. “I guess we’ll just pick one.”
Over the last week both of us had filed more “local family tries to rebuild” stories than we could count. Every day, and every story, had started to bleed into the next. So many people needed help. We could have told stories for a month and never told them all.
I scanned the neighborhood for someone who looked interesting and might put a different spin on all the sadness. “We need some…”
And then I saw him.
Alan Burch walked right in front of our car at that moment, dressed in his U.S. Air Force battle dress uniform. He was sweaty and tired, but he had a determined look on his face. More than that, he clutched an American flag to his chest.
“What’s that about?” I said to Norris. “Let’s talk to that guy.”
Norris grabbed his video camera from the back of our news car, and I took the microphone. We stopped Alan, and he told us that he’d found the flag wrapped around what remained of a neighborhood tree. He didn’t know who owned it, but he also didn’t care. Despite enduring massive winds and tremendous pressure, the flag only had a few small holes. He took that as a sign.
“I had the fire department get their ladder out,” Alan told me. “We pulled it out of the tree and folded it, and now I’m just looking for a place to hoist it up.”
But this neighborhood in Bethel Acres didn’t have standing homes, much less standing flagpoles. The mission looked bleak.
Alan didn’t care.
“This flag means a lot to me, being a member of the U.S. Air Force,” Alan said. He went on to tell us he wouldn’t rest until he found a place to hang Old Glory. “It’s a symbol of this community rising up and getting away from this tragedy.”
For the next fifteen minutes or so, Norris and I followed Alan around the neighborhood as he searched for someone or something that would help him complete his effort. A small group of onlookers had joined him, all of them determined to see that flag fly again. Norris and I concentrated on getting as much sound and video as we could; we didn’t have to tell each other that we’d found our story for the day.
When Alan asked David Meeks for help, the journey took another turn.
“We couldn’t not help him. We couldn’t say no. We couldn’t turn our heads,” David told me.
David and some of his fellow volunteers from Bread of Life Humanitarian Effort drove to Oklahoma from Paducah, Kentucky in the hours after the first round of devastating storms. The group had no idea what they’d find, or how they’d help, but that didn’t matter. People needed them, and they wouldn’t leave their fellow Americans behind.
“We don’t let little things stop us from helping out,” David said. “We’re blessed to be able to do it.”
In Bethel Acres, the volunteers put their skills to work, spearheading the effort to clean up what Mother Nature hadn’t taken away. They had tools, generators, food, water, and skills. Most of all, they had hope.
The team from Bread of Life found a broken chain-link fence pole and straightened out the metal with cinder blocks. As the small crowd of grieving and downtrodden people watched, David and his team drilled two holes in the pole and cut two large swaths of chicken wire. They wrapped the wire through the holes and threaded the flag on to it. Then, with Alan’s help, they jammed the pole into the ground and raised the flag in the middle of the storm-swept neighborhood.
By then, almost everyone around the community had paused to watch them raise it. Trash pickup, hammering, sawing, and sorting could wait. Many people cried once the flag flew again — including Norris and me. It was a moment of unity and strength at a critical time for all of us.
“Do y’all know what they just did? They took a fence pole and made a flagpole in like ten minutes,” said onlooker Benjamin Jones as we gathered the final elements of our story. “I’ve never seen anyone do something like that in my life. Watching them join together and raise the flag like that, it made me proud to be with them. It made me proud to be an American.”
I couldn’t have agreed more. At that moment, we were all Oklahomans. We were all Americans. And we were all going to get through tough times together.
— Sara Celi —

Old Glory Flies Again

Chicken Soup for the Soul: Kindness Matters front cover

Kindness Matters

<img src="https://site-files.chickensoup.com/epub-images/chicken_soup_for_the_soul_kindness_matters/ch005_2022-12-20-042949_ljtm.jpg" alt="5:" />The fragrance always stays in the hand that gives the rose. ~Hada BejarSome years ago, when the General Motors plant closed in our city of 75,000 people, there was a feeling of sadness and doom. Combine that with gas prices that skyrocketed to over $4 a gallon and flooding from the river that went through town, damaging homes and businesses, and we had a recipe for depression.Our church youth group decided to breathe some life back into our city by doing something nice with no strings attached. So, we went before our congregation and told them of our ideas, and an offering of $1,700 came in for us to use.One of our ideas was to buy $25 gas cards and bouquets of roses and “randomly” give them out to people all around the city. I put “randomly” in quotes because our group knew it really wasn’t left to chance. Before we distributed them, we all gathered in our youth room to pray that God would lead us to the people He wanted them to go to. After our prayer, about twenty-five teens and youth leaders piled into vehicles and our church van and started driving through the streets to find people who might need some encouragement.Our high-school students had many great interactions as they gave roses to people working in their yards or out walking on the sidewalks on a beautiful day. And our middle-school students gave out the free gas cards to the customers at a gas station.One interaction really stood out. Two middle-school boys watched as a young woman in her mid-twenties pulled up to the gas pump. The students were told not to approach anyone until they got out of their cars to pump their gas.The young woman didn’t get out of her car. Instead, she began looking through her purse, then her glove compartment and then frantically under her seats.Then she put her hands and head on her steering wheel and began to sob. The thirteen-year-old boys weren’t sure what they should do so they asked one of our youth leaders. He told them to politely knock on the window and offer a free gas card to her, which they did.Upon hearing the knock, the young lady wiped away her tears, tried to compose herself and then rolled down the window. They said to her, “Here is a free twenty-five-dollar gas card for you, no strings attached. We just want you to know that God loves you.”The young woman began to cry again. After composing herself a second time, she accepted the gas card and then told them her story.She was a single mom who had been out of a job for a long time. She was having trouble making ends meet but was optimistic about a job interview that she had that day. In fact, she was on her way to it. Her gas gauge was on empty, but she’d thought she had one last ten-dollar bill in her purse. Then she couldn’t find it.When it occurred to her that she wasn’t going to be able to get to her job interview (a job she desperately needed to feed her kids), she broke down and began crying out to God.“God, you know how badly I need this job. I can’t find my last ten-dollar bill, and now I am going to miss my interview. Oh, God, I don’t know what to do. I am so weary and tired, and I just feel like I have lost all hope.”She looked at the boys and said, “You have no idea what you have done for me. Thank you so much!” They watched tears of joy stream down her face as she began pumping her gas.The boys went back to the youth leader and told them what had happened, so he gave them four more gas cards and a bouquet of roses to give to the young mom.She couldn’t believe it when they returned. “You all have done enough for me. I can’t take anything else from you.”They insisted, and she finally accepted the gifts with new tears streaming down her face.We have continued the tradition of handing out roses and/or gas cards once or twice a year for the past twelve years now. And every time God leads us to people who desperately need to know that they are loved.Not only does it make a difference in the lives of those who receive the gifts, but it also makes a difference in the lives of the teens who get to see that God is never random. And they get to take part in something that is bigger than themselves.— Michael T. Powers —

You Have No Idea

True Love

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Where there is great love, there are always miracles. ~Willa Cather

It was two days before my wedding. I had promised myself (and my fiancé!) that I wouldn’t be one of those brides—the bridezillas who freak out if every detail of the wedding isn’t perfect—but I was exhausted from planning, organizing, and coping with too much family and too little sleep.
I decided to try on the pearls my grandmother had given me, but the clasp was stuck. As I tugged, to my horror, the necklace snapped and pearls flew everywhere.
Keeping my cool, I gathered up the errant pearls, consulted a phone book, and began dialing. I received the same reply everywhere: a minimum of two to three weeks to fix. Even when I pleaded that my wedding was in two days, I just received more elaborate excuses: no on-site jeweler, full schedule already, company policy, sorry.
It was the proverbial last straw. I collapsed in tears on the bed, next to my sleeping fiancé. He awoke in confusion, listened to my tale of woe, then suggested, “Borrow my mother’s pearls.” This set me off into another jag of crying, the only discernible words being, “I want to wear the pearls my grandmother gave me!”
He must have realized I’d passed the threshold of rational thought, so he took charge and did the only thing he could think of under the circumstances: he lied. He phoned a jeweler and told the following story.
“I’m getting married in two days. I was fiddling with my fiancée’s grandmother’s pearls and broke them. I need them restrung by tomorrow, or else there might not be a wedding.”
The necklace was fixed by the next day.
~Sheri Radford
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The Pearl Necklace

Chicken Soup for the Soul: Young at Heart front cover

Young at Heart

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Technology is anything that wasn’t around when you were born. ~Alan Kay

Grandparenting these days is all about technology. I’m not talking about e-mail, Facebook, iPads and tweeting. We’re pretty good at that. It’s those strollers and car seats. When our kids were little, life was simple. We had carriages that got pushed around the block, but never entered an automobile. They were as big as a car themselves. And we used lightweight fold-up umbrella strollers when we travelled by car or bus, and then switched to a child carrier when we got where we were going. Sure, babies slumped over like a sack of potatoes from little support in those strollers, and fingers got pinched when they folded up, but they were cheap and replaceable.
Now the SUV strollers come with airline pilot-type instructions, and we need the coordination of a NASA astronaut to open them, install a child and prepare for takeoff.
When I was telling a friend and fellow grandmother that I was babysitting my grandchildren for a week, she confided that she has been afraid she’d never get her grandchild out of his car seat. I’ve felt the same about high chairs, double strollers, single strollers, automatic indoor baby swings, and outdoor baby swings. The grandchild had to show me how to stick my finger inside to release the shoulder clasp on the swing’s seatbelt mechanism. This newest generation will never conceive of doing anything at all without a seat belt and shoulder harness. My two-year-old granddaughter is able to climb in and out of her stroller herself, and when she climbs in she immediately secures the safety belt herself.
When my daughter gave me my child-minding instructions, she told me the four-month-old drinks when he’s thirsty and sleeps when he’s tired; no need to follow a schedule. She was right; he smiled his way through the day while sucking his two middle fingers. The challenge was the single stroller in which I had to place his car seat with him buckled in, while remembering the diaper bag, rain cover, sun cover and assorted paraphernalia. And that was only when his sister was at Montessori, and I was just taking him on an outing to No Frills, cramming the groceries into the bottom of the stroller.
Early morning and late afternoon, the transportation of the day was the double stroller, with options for which way each could face. Of course, each child had to be buckled in and adjusted so that kicking each other was not an option. It wasn’t easy to maneuver the stroller on city streets and get through traffic lights. I felt like a long-haul truck driver, with the arm muscles to match.
After a week of it, I was getting pretty good, and had a new appreciation for those Strollercize mothers who pack the coffee shops. I salivated outside the Starbucks, but the thought of negotiating the stairs and the lineup with my two-person spaceship had me drinking from a sippy cup outside.
— Louise Rachlis —

Technology 101

Here Comes the Bride

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A mother’s treasure is her daughter. ~Catherine Pulsifer

It felt like the wedding bells were already ringing the night my only daughter made her memorable midnight call — the one that let us know her boyfriend had finally proposed. Within a matter of days, the date had been set and the event officially scheduled for a short six months away.
As plans progressed, I made several trips from Dallas to St. Louis, where the affair was to take place. We were all on a treadmill running as fast as we could to find a dress, a veil, an organist, a photographer, a florist — you know the list.
Then came a second midnight call. This time, my daughter blurted out that she and her fiancé had decided to take their honeymoon in Italy.
“Wow, that’s great!” I responded. “What’s more romantic than going with your honey on a honeymoon to Italy?”
The next morning, however, sipping solo on a cup of Earl Grey, I felt a little uneasy. If I was truly joyful about her visions of Venice, why did I lie in bed crying after I hung up the phone? I certainly was not jealous! Was I wishing she would not go? Or was I simply wishing that it were me going on one last trip with my daughter before she moved on to take up space in someone else’s heart?
I glanced at the clock. She would have left for her early class already — and I was acting spontaneously — but I reached for the phone anyway, dialed her number, and left a message on the answering machine.
“Hey, sweetie… it’s Mom. Just calling to see if maybe the two of us could find some time to go on a mommy-moon before you walk down the aisle. Maybe Chicago? Miracle Mile? Do a little shopping? Toast the future? Just one last trip together? Think about it and call me back… I’m ready if you are!”
The mommy-moon was everything I had expected — and more. Even the female relatives of the family — once they heard about it — got into the act. And at the end of a twelve-hour drive, when I arrived in St. Louis to pick up my daughter, there was a massive cardboard box waiting in her apartment. Addressed to the bride-to-be, the postmark let me know it was from all her aunts and cousins in Tennessee. The instructions on the lower left corner were specific: CONTENTS: One Bridal Party. DO NOT OPEN until you reach Chicago!
The following morning, we laughed, lifted, shoved, and grunted until we had squeezed that enormous box (plus our luggage) into the trunk of the car. Then we pulled out of the drive, took a turn toward the freeway, and headed north to the Windy City. By early evening, we were safe in our hotel room, munching down on a traditional thick-crust Chicago pizza, and watching the sun go down across the lake.
“Okay, time for the bridal shower!” said my daughter. And while she cut through the packing tape and started unloading the box full of goodies, I set up a small table and two chairs in front of the window and got out my camera.
The female relatives from Middle Tennessee had truly outdone themselves, and the two of us oohed and aahed (as brides and mothers do) as we lifted the elegantly wrapped gifts out of the packing paper and arranged them on the table.
Near the bottom of the box, we found a handful of manila envelopes, labeled in the order they were to be opened.
Envelope #1 was full of latex balloons. We split the contents and started huffing, puffing, tying, and tossing the balloons around the room.
Envelope #2 contained two silk corsages, one for the bride and one for the MOB. We pinned them on our jean jackets, baby’s breath upward, and welcomed each other to our party.
Envelope #3 was marked GAMES. Inside were three bridal games, two pencils, and three prizes for the winners. (I won a potholder and a small cheese board; my daughter won a packet of recipe cards.)
Envelope #4 revealed a letter to the bride from her Tennessee aunt, who apologized that the whole gang could not join us in Chicago for the bridal shower. She assured us, however, that all their love and best wishes had been tucked in alongside the packages — along with a promise that they would all be in St. Louis to watch her walk down the aisle on her wedding day.
Over the weekend, my daughter and I did pretty much whatever we wanted, whenever we felt like it. We rose early the first day, slept in the next. Stayed on budget in one store, splurged at the next. Ate healthy one meal, pigged out the next.
We shopped the Mile, browsed the back rooms for lingerie sales, and smashed a plate (Opa!) at a Greek café — just for the fun of it. We taxied a little, walked a lot, strolled in silence past shop windows, and once — crossing an intersection — she put her arm around my shoulder and whispered, “I love you, Mom.” We both knew that this mommy-moon was our last bit of private time — just the two of us — before she would take on her new name and new life. No surprise, then, on the last evening, drifting off the street into the back of an Irish pub, that we found ourselves in tears, listening as a local strummed a guitar and sang a familiar ballad from her childhood.
Next morning, when it came time to leave the hotel — just before heading to the elevator — we kicked aside a few of the balloons that were still on the floor and embraced in the middle of the room. I held my daughter close that day, whispering a prayer in her ear, thanking God for these few treasured days before she moved on from our family to a family of her own. I thanked Him, too, for the twenty-nine years she had blessed me as a mother, and for the joy and laughter she had brought to my world.
One month later, my daughter took her long walk from the back of the church to the altar. The honor fell to her teary-eyed father to present her to the groom, escorting her past row after row of friends and relatives (including those from Tennessee) who had traveled to witness the event.
As they reached the front of the chapel, a family friend began singing the tender words from “O Mio Babbino Caro” — and near the end, precisely on cue, dearest Daddy placed the hand of his beautiful bride into the hand of the handsome groom, and very simply and symbolically gave her away.
I sat in the second row smiling and let him have his moment. After all, in my heart, I had already given her away. And the photos of that event remain preserved in the wedding album for all to see — under the label: “The Mommy-Moon.”
~Charlotte A. Lanham
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The Mommy-Moon

Chicken Soup for the Soul: I Cant Stop Laughing front cover

I Can't Stop Laughing

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If cats could talk, they wouldn’t. ~Nan Porter

I’m the neighborhood cat lady. I’m also on the board of the local humane society, so neighbors trust my competence as a cat person. I always say yes when asked to cat-sit, even when I’m busy. One, I want to be neighborly, and two, I try to do a little humane education, mainly that cats are safer indoors. My own three rescues live indoors.
According to my vet, the number one killer of cats is not rabies or FIV but the automobile. And the songbird population is way better off when cats stay indoors, as are the neighborhood flowerbeds.
So, when Sue, a neighbor two doors down from me, asked me to cat-sit, I was torn. Yes, there was that urge to be neighborly, but I was very busy with an out-of-town conference. I got home at night just in time to make supper and feed my own cats. I like to spend some time with the kitties I’m sitting, but the three days Sue needed me for were the three days I’d be tied up at the conference.
“Oh, that’s alright,” Sue said breezily when I walked down the street to explain this to her. “They’ll amuse themselves. Just let them out into the garden in the morning when you leave and bring them in when you get home. The yard has a cat fence. No critters can get in or out, so it’s perfectly safe. Just be sure to count. The little rascals love to play games. Come on in and meet the crew.”
Well, of course, I melted. There was a gorgeous blue-eyed momma Seal Point Siamese named Cocoa and her five adorable, identical minimes. How could I say no?
So, the cat-sitting began. I later referred to the kittens as the Terrible Tribe of Siam. They were as cute as bugs’ ears, but talk about boisterous! In the late afternoon, when I got home from my conference and walked down the street to put them back in the house, they had other plans. They were like a horde of Tasmanian devils — into shrubs and out, up the little trees that Sue had planted in the yard, and hurling themselves off lawn statues. Good grief.
Every night, I snagged them one at a time, deposited each one in the house, and went out for the others. Then, I counted. Five kittens. One laid-back momma cat. All six present and accounted for. So, close the cat flap, feed the kitties, and come back in the morning to do it again.
Then came the last day. I was in a rush. Traffic had been horrible. I had some phone messages to attend to at home. I confess that I was seriously distracted. As if they sensed this, the Terrible Tribe was even more terrible.
Cocoa had also caught this misbehaving fever, tearing around the house like an unguided missile, racing in and out of the cat flap. I counted carefully, closed the cat flap, scooped litter pans, fed everyone, and hastily made my escape onto the front porch… where a beautiful, blue-eyed Seal Point Siamese cat awaited me. I shrieked. Cocoa! How had this happened?
I’d somehow let her out. Perhaps when I went out the front door to deposit the used litter in the trash can? Or had she darted out into the backyard when I wasn’t looking and escaped over the cat-proof fence? Panicked, I scooped her up, muttering a prayer of thanks, and tossed her back inside.
At home, I fed my cats and settled down on the couch to make phone calls. I was still stewing over almost losing Cocoa when a call came in from Sue. She was at home and could hardly talk for laughing.
“Thanks for giving me an extra cat,” she chortled.
“An extra cat?” I replied, confused.
“Yeah, that’s Miss Lily. She lives across the street. She often comes and hangs out on the porch. I’m pretty careful not to let her in, but I see she fooled you. This will make a good story. When I left for my trip, I had six Siamese. When I came back, I had seven. I knew I could count on you!”
Oh, yes, I’m a good counter, I thought, ending the call feeling like the world’s biggest doofus. Count on me indeed.
— Linda J. Wright —

Count on Me

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A happy marriage is the union of two good forgivers. ~Ruth Bell Graham

I knew I wasn’t marrying a do-it-yourself kind of guy, but that was okay. When we got married I couldn’t do some things too. I couldn’t iron a man’s shirt or cook a great steak. I assumed that when I married my husband both he and I would learn how to do things that we had never done before, and the best part was that we would learn together. We would grow as a couple. We would grow with each other, for each other.
Part of the deal was that he was in charge of the tools — tools like a screwdriver, not a Cuisinart. And because I was so thoughtful, I went to The Home Depot and bought him an electric screwdriver so his wrist wouldn’t get tired when he worked around our new house. Like, for example, when he needed to hang the new curtains and curtain rod I had just bought for the dining room.
When I brought the screwdriver home and tried it out I realized how lucky he was. Learning how to cook had nothing on plugging in the electric screwdriver, squeezing the trigger, and feeling the power.
I mentioned to him that evening that everything was ready. His part of the deal was on deck. How about next weekend, I suggested?
“Uh, okay,” he said.
That weekend came and went. And the next one. And the one after that. There were no curtains hung. There was no initiative. There was no appreciation for the new screwdriver. So although I began with gentle reminders, I realized that gentleness was over-rated.
The next Saturday I found my husband halfway up the stepladder, staring at the wall, armed with the screwdriver in his right hand and a screw in his left.
“How’s it going,” I asked cheerfully.
“Well, honey,” he replied, taking a deep breath. “I’m not so sure.”
I peered around his body to find a three-inch hole where the screw was supposed to go. I could see the pink insulation peeking out from inside the wall. He saw me looking at the insulation.
“I’m not really sure what happened,” he explained.
He wasn’t really sure what had happened? He had put a hole the size of a tennis ball into our dining room wall.
To my credit I remained silent. I turned around and walked into another room to think. Otherwise I might have ended up in prison for killing my spouse.
It was all wrong! How could it have gone so wrong? How could he not be able to hang a curtain rod? What did this mean for us? For our marriage? For our future? Could we not work together? After a few minutes alone I had talked myself out of divorce court. I realized that hiring a handyman really wouldn’t be so bad. It wouldn’t be that expensive… And that, yes, our marriage quite possibly might make it.
I came back into the dining room and told my hangdog husband that it was all right. I knew that he had done his best, and that I could find someone to fix the hole. He appeared quite relieved.
Two days later, while I watched a handyman fix up the hole and hang the curtain in a jiffy, I realized that some people are just better at some things than others. How could I expect my husband to do something he wasn’t very skilled, nor practiced, at doing?
And then, I actually felt a little bad. In the time we were married I still hadn’t managed to cook him a steak the way he likes it, nor had I ever agreed to iron his shirts.
~Jennifer Quasha
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Do-It-Myself

The Dating Game

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Love makes your soul crawl out from its hiding place. ~Zora Neale Hurston

I stood in a darkened Irish pub in Buenos Aires feeling infinitely out of place. As a non-drinker, non-socializer, bars didn’t offer much. But a former reality star had invited me, which made me feel as though the popular girl in school knew my name.
We were both on a trip to Antarctica to run a marathon—an unusual life adventure. We would be leaving the next day for a flight to the bottom of Argentina where we would hop on a boat to travel to the South Pole. So a number of marathoners congregated that night to load up on liquid calories, which they would no doubt burn off during the race.
As I was speaking to this television starlet, in walked a tall, attractive man. He had large chest muscles and a dark blue tattoo showing underneath his tight white T-shirt. He wore a black belt with a large Harley Davidson buckle and had that dirty/styled hair that is so popular these days.
The reality star squealed, grabbed my hand and led me directly over to him. “Meet Paul,” she said with an abundance of enthusiasm and pushed me directly in front of him.
I blushed and said hi while twisting my hair and avoiding eye contact. Paul stood several inches taller than I, which was saying a lot because I was six feet tall in bare feet. He had a big grin, piercing blue eyes, and when he spoke, my heart melted. He was from Sydney, Australia and his accent made me feel a little more outgoing because I didn’t want him to stop talking. So I peppered him with questions.
I learned he was a world traveler with an insatiable appetite for adventure (like me), loved Oz (me too), and lived in France (I wished I could say that). Paul asked a few questions and cocked his head to the side whenever I spoke and laughed at all the appropriate times, clearly paying attention to my words. A few times he even brushed my hair out of my face and tucked it behind my ears. His touch was electrifying.
He walked me back to my hotel room that night and, like a perfect gentleman, said goodbye at the door.
We spent the next day together, walking hand in hand along the streets of Buenos Aires, taking in a tango show, sipping hot chocolate at an open-air café and dancing together at the hotel bar while a stranger played piano.
I’d never met anyone like him: sweet with a kind smile, yet dark, brooding and mysterious all at once. I found myself attracted to him as he seemed like an everyman—articulate, self-aware, athletic and boy-next door meets the Marlboro Man.
In just twenty-four hours, I fell in love with this Australian wonder, and he felt the same, whispering those three little words in my ear.
We were forced to say goodbye before we left for Antarctica, as two small Russian boats would be traveling down the globe to the marathon and he, sadly, was not on the same ship as I. It would be three long days before I saw Paul again.
As we sailed down to the marathon site, we e-mailed each other love letters to pass the time and he wrote such caring words:
“I love your smile. I love the way you laugh. I love your enigmatic persona. I loved that you could have the courage to see possibilities, even though sometimes you expect the worst. If this isn’t all just me, then for every step you take, I will take one with you. Yes we live for now in separate countries, but we have both lived abroad. There is nothing in this world that isn’t possible if you have the courage and determination to pursue it.”
But after a couple of days, he e-mailed a bombshell. He said he loved children; he had three—along with an ex-wife.
My eyes grew wide reading it. I asked him why, in all of our conversations, he failed to mention this colossal fact. He shot me back a three-word response: “You didn’t ask.”
I felt confused and wondered if this were just merely a vacation fling.
I saw Paul again at the marathon right before the race started. He stepped off his boat and speedily walked straight to me. He was freshly shaved and smelled of soap, looking like someone who put time into his appearance, not someone about to run a marathon. Just seeing him made my heart beat faster and nerves dance in my stomach, even with the information about his ready-made family.
We started the race and Paul took off running at a pace far faster than I could maintain. Obviously his muscles weren’t just for show. So I figured I wouldn’t see him again until the finish line.
Throughout the marathon, I climbed a glacier, fell into a mud pit, battled attacking birds and sideways rain, and carried all my own water for hours. Eventually, I slowed my pace to a painful walk, unable to run anymore. The treacherous, unstable terrain and bitterly cold conditions left my muscles aching and crying uncle. At mile twenty-three, clouds formed low over the racecourse and I let out a cry of defeat, too tired to form tears. But astonishingly, through the fog, Paul’s figure materialized, carrying a jacket and smiling ear to ear.
He had finished the marathon, then turned and trudged in the opposite direction back onto the course to locate me and bring me warmth. He totaled 29.2 miles on one of the hardest marathon courses in the world, with three of those miles completely for unselfish reasons.
It was the nicest thing any man had done for me. Forget flowers and fancy jewelry—Paul hiked through freezing cold mud for me.
After I crossed the finish line, I reasoned with myself. “So he has kids? So what? You’ll never meet another man like him.” I literally traveled to the bottom of the world to meet the man of my dreams.
Paul and I met again back in Buenos Aires and strolled the streets holding hands. I loved the feel of his muscular arms. I loved the way he smelled of cologne mixed with leather from his Harley Davidson jacket.
After meandering aimlessly through the city, we seated ourselves at another outdoor café and I rested my head on his shoulder. Paul then began to bare his soul, telling me tales of his difficult divorce, the resiliency of his children, and how he survived brain cancer.
He was wearing dark sunglasses and I could see my stoic reflection in them, as I felt unsure of what to make of such dark life circumstances. So I just carefully lifted his sunglasses off his face, looked straight into his eyes and said, “I hope I can help you create better memories.” Paul slipped his hand into mine underneath the table and whispered, “You already have.”
~Jennifer Purdie
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My Marathon Man

Age Is Just a Number

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My body is my journal, and my tattoos are my story. ~Johnny Depp

“Mom, this is something you’ve wanted to do for as long as I can remember. Come on, it’s the perfect time,” my daughter avidly demanded as she grabbed my arm, determined to pull me out of the chaise lounge.
Jacqui was right. I’d been dreaming of getting a tattoo for years, so why was the thought suddenly so terrifying when the opportunity presented itself? Excuses gushed from my mouth: “What if it doesn’t come out right?” “It might be overly conspicuous!” “I won’t be able to go swimming for the rest of our vacation.” “Maybe sixty-three is too old for a tattoo.”
Admittedly, my excuses were lame. In truth, doing anything on a whim terrified me. Unlike my spontaneous daughter, I needed days to consider every detail before committing to new things.
But, according to Jacqui, there was no time to contemplate. She had not only made extensive inquiries, but she had confirmed my appointment with a well-recommended tattoo artist for 2:00 that afternoon. Not wanting to disappoint my enthusiastic daughter, I let her drag me up to our hotel room where I quickly changed out of my swimming suit into something more appropriate for our hour-long stroll along the streets of Reno toward my first tattoo parlor.
The rest of our group passed on the offer to tag along. Apparently, relaxing by the pool was more appealing than the thought of witnessing my demise.
I’d known for the past few years what my tattoo would be, but I hadn’t checked out available designs. Since (for a variety of reasons) we’d always associated a dove with my husband’s untimely death, it was definitely going to be a dove. I also knew it would be placed on the outside of my left ankle. Now, I was trusting my daughter to help me decide on the perfect size and image.
My apprehension dwindled with each step along the concrete sidewalk, and eager anticipation began to take over. By the time we entered the front door of the tiny shop, I was steadfast. At first glance, I was taken aback by the multi-tattooed artists and customers, but the intimidation didn’t last long. To the contrary, I was captivated by the adventurous atmosphere, even though the majority of the clients and staff were younger than several of my grandchildren.
I thoroughly enjoyed every moment of the experience: choosing the perfect design, the slight stinging sensation of the needle moving across my skin, and the beautiful end result.
My step was a little lighter on our walk back to the hotel where I proudly showed off my new ink. You would have thought I’d won the Nobel Prize!
Perhaps “proud” is not a strong enough word; I remember my granddaughter remarking that I didn’t wear long pants for over a year after getting my tattoo. Was I really that obvious?
I did, however, learn that tattoos are addicting. It wasn’t long before I had the word “Believe” added to the inside of the same ankle, creating an eloquent bracelet. I’ve never regretted my decision to follow in the footsteps of some of my children and adult grandchildren. I only wish I’d found that confidence years earlier.
— Connie Kaseweter Pullen —

It’s Never Too Late

The Miracle of Love

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Second chances do come your way. Like trains, they arrive and depart regularly. Recognizing the ones that matter is the trick. ~Jill A. Davis

As we waited for our school’s staff meeting to begin, I realized the English teacher was eavesdropping as I visited with the other automotive teachers. Then she interrupted us. “That’s cool. I think you should do it.”
The guys laughed. I was embarrassed, but tried to be polite. “Thanks. But it’s impossible.”
She smiled. “I’ll pray about it.”
The woman had no idea what she was talking about, but she was going to pray?
When I got home from work, I went down in the basement. My old 1956 Triumph sat in a corner covered with dust. I shook my head.
The next day, the English teacher stopped me in the hall. “I tell my students to go after their dreams. Maybe you should, too.”
I grimaced.
The next night, I rolled my bike into my workshop, sat down, and stared. Restoring antique motorcycles was my passion, but I’d never restored one that was so old, rusty, and abused. But that wasn’t the real problem. Since my wife Suzy had died, I just didn’t care anymore. I preferred my recliner.
That night, I found myself staring at the old bike and talking to Suzy in heaven. “Remember how badly I wanted this thing? I didn’t fully appreciate what you sacrificed to give me my dream.”
A few days later, I ran into the English teacher again.
“How’s the motorcycle coming?”
I shook my head and walked away.
That night, I started cleaning the old bike while muttering under my breath. “English teachers understand books, not motorcycles!”
As I began taking apart the old bike, I thought about Suzy. That old Triumph was all we could afford. It needed tons of work. I spent extra hours at my job and used our spare money to buy new engine components to modify the chassis for racing. Suzy helped us economize by using our temperamental old washing machine and hanging up the wet clothes in our damp, smelly basement. Then, one night the motorcycle shop where I worked had a break-in, and my bike was gone. Suzy and I held each other and cried.
Years later, my friend Jim had called. “I bought an old Triumph, and it’s been sitting in my garage for years. I’m never going to find time to rebuild it. Want to take a look?”
“Mmmm. Okay. But Suzy just commented that I’ll have to live to be over a hundred to finish the projects I already have!”
Nevertheless, I went over to Jim’s to look at the bike. Goose bumps popped out on my arms, and a chill ran up my spine. The bike was rusted and had missing parts, but I knew even before I checked the serial number that it was my old race bike. Someone had treated it badly, but I recognized my custom work. I gave Jim his money.
Then came Suzy’s cancer diagnosis; I wheeled the bike into a corner and ignored it.
Now I was torn. I stubbornly stayed in my rut. Teaching automotive classes was my fourth career, and I liked it, but the rest of my life was spent in my recliner or with my grown children. When I saw the English teacher, I walked the other way. It would bring back too many memories. I was afraid to pour my heart into repairing that old bike.
Some evenings, I’d sit and stare at the old Triumph. This was the bike that made me a winner — that created my reputation as a mechanic and a racer. But the crazy teacher was wrong. Following one’s dreams isn’t always a good idea. I didn’t need any more hurt.
One night, to my surprise, I found myself talking to God. “This is impossible. This bike needs too many rare parts.” I went upstairs and studied eBay and Craigslist. Hours of searching didn’t turn up anything.
But I kept searching, and a few weeks later I found an engine seal kit in England. At least the English teacher hadn’t been sticking her nose in my business lately. I would have been embarrassed to admit that her big mouth pushed me into action.
A month later, after many computer searches, I found piston rings in California. The project was moving forward — at a snail’s pace, but moving.
During Christmas break a year later, the teaching staff asked me to join them for lunch. I didn’t realize the lunch was for a widow — an award-winning teacher — whose job was eliminated when her husband was dying of cancer. I found myself talking to her throughout the lunch and for an hour afterward. We had a lot in common. A few months later, the widow put a book on grief in my mailbox. When I read it, I started listening to the music Suzy and I shared — CDs I hadn’t touched since her death. I wrote the widow a note thanking her for the book and closed it with the words: “You and I are kindred spirits.” As soon as I mailed the note, I wished I could take it back. It was way too forward.
The beginning of May, the widow wrote me a letter telling me about the pain of having an auction to sell her husband’s antique tractors — tractors he’d spent years restoring. “I just had a feeling you’d understand.”
I did understand. My hands shook as I dialed her number and invited her to dinner. It had been fifty years since I went on a first date, and I was so nervous I only managed to eat a little of the breading off my fish.
My life was changing in ways I never could have imagined. First, I found myself talking to God, and then I made the commitment to rebuild my old bike. Next, I found myself falling in love, and now I was attending church every Sunday. What was going on?
Over the next year, the old Triumph came together slowly. Then, the finishing touch. Early in September, I found the tires I needed at a motorcycle swap meet in Iowa. The end of that month, I married the widow in a large church wedding with two of our children and fourteen of our grandchildren as attendants.
I’ll never stop missing my precious Suzy, but I was blessed with a second chance at happiness.
And who is the widow? I’m sure you’ve guessed. I married the English teacher who prayed I’d rebuild my old bike.
And my 1956 Triumph? It’s won trophies and blue ribbons at antique motorcycle shows all over the United States.
~Fred Prudhomme
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My Second Chance

Chicken Soup for the Soul: What I Learned from My Dog front cover

What I Learned from My Dog

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When we open our hearts, angels appear in the form of guiding voices, helping us find our way in the darkness of life. ~Paulo Coelho, Brida
It had been nearly two years since Nellie, my first Westie, had passed away after a long illness. The following Christmas, my husband Paul gave me a handmade gift certificate good for one puppy of my choice. Having been so heartbroken over losing Nellie, and feeling I would be disloyal to her memory, I wouldn’t allow myself to consider getting a replacement dog. My gift certificate remained tucked away in my desk.
Deb, a friend from the West Highland White Terrier Society of Connecticut, and I had made plans to attend a book signing. When Deb got into my car, her smile was bright, and her hands were aflutter with excitement.
“Have you seen the email about the puppy that Kathleen’s fostering?”
“No.”
“There’s a Westie puppy up for adoption.”
Puppies were exhausting and needed constant attention. Then there were the endless puddles to mop up, not to mention the books, slippers, or glasses that would be destroyed because either my husband or I would forget to move them out of reach. I thought the Westie in our Society’s rescue program should be adopted by someone ready to handle a new puppy.
I shook my head. “Not interested, but thanks for thinking of me.”
Before I put the car in gear, Deb said, “Would you mind stopping at a psychic fair? We’ve got plenty of time, and it’s on our way.”
“What’s a psychic fair?”
“It’s a gathering of psychics who do tarot-card readings, crystal healing, and offer spiritual advice.”
The voice in my head said, There’s a sucker born every minute.
I shrugged.
“Why not?”
The fair was held in a nondescript function hall. Two meeting rooms were lined with tables and chairs for the psychics and vendors selling crystals, handcrafted jewelry, essential oils, and books.
“Walk around and check it out,” Deb said. “There are two psychics I want to see. Let’s meet back here in half an hour.”
As I wandered around, the heaviness of frankincense and patchouli incense made me long for fresh air. Shadows from candles flickered across the faces of psychics and their eager customers. I eavesdropped on tarot and palm readings, noting the common themes of finances, romance, and health concerns.
I shook my head and thought, What a bunch of hogwash!
In the second room, a sign advertising “Angelic Messages” caught my attention. Despite my skepticism, I asked the psychic what an angelic message was and how it worked. This woman, whose soft face was framed in gentle wisps of light brown hair, smiled as she answered my question. “Angelic messages are channeled through me to a person who may be receptive to hearing advice or thoughts from his or her angel.”
Despite my better judgment, I asked, “How much?”
“Fifteen dollars.”
Fifteen dollars seemed a small price to pay for a story I could tell at parties for years to come.
I handed her the money and sat down. I said nothing, knowing the only obvious thing about me was that I was a woman wearing a wedding ring.
What will she start with? Finances, health concerns, or marital problems?
Instead, she closed her eyes and asked me to do the same. The skeptic in my head continued to taunt me. This had better be good.
A few minutes later, she told me to open my eyes. When she asked, “Is your mother on the other side?” I leaned in.
“Yes.”
“There’s a little white dog standing by your mother’s side.”
My heart stopped. She had my full attention now.
“She wants you to know that she’s fine, and that it’s okay for you to get another dog.”
This woman knew nothing about me, my mother, or the Westie whose death had left me heartbroken.
I couldn’t stop the flood of tears that rolled down my cheeks. She handed me a tissue and asked if I understood the message. All I could say was, “Yes.”
I was still crying when I met Deb at the exit.
“What happened?”
As I shared the message I’d been given, her face brightened.
“It’s a sign. You have to adopt that puppy!”
“What puppy?”
“The one Kathleen’s fostering.”
After the author’s talk, I called Kathleen. A half-hour later, I was on her doorstep, ready to meet my destiny.
Tucker, a three-pound, furless, white puppy, wore a tiny, blue-striped turtleneck sweater and looked more like a mouse than a puppy. His ears and tail were much too large for his little body. I wondered whether he would grow into them or if they would be the thing people noticed first, like someone whose nose or teeth are too big for their face.
I was instantly smitten by him as he hopped forward and backward in the most peculiar way.
“How did he end up in our rescue program?”
“A couple bought him over the Internet,” Kathleen said.
I shuddered. Apparently, they weren’t aware of the horrific condtions of puppy mills.
“After retrieving him from the airport, their vet diagnosed him with ringworm and shaved off all his fur. He told them their new pup would have to be quarantined from their other animals for forty days. They couldn’t keep him because of the husband’s medical condition, so the wife called our rescue program and surrendered the pup rather than pay to board him for forty nights.”
She continued, “Tucker was malnourished, but he’s got a good appetite now, and his fur will grow back.”
“I want him!” The words flew out of my mouth. Then, I back-pedaled a bit.
“Of course, Paul needs to see him before we make a final decision. It’s just a formality since I have a gift certificate entitling me to one puppy of my choice.”
“When will he be home?”
“Wednesday night. I’ll have the paperwork ready. If he’s in agreement, we’ll proceed.”
Before leaving her house, I snapped Tucker’s picture. Later that night, while looking at his image, I realized that something inside me had shifted and been replaced with an excitement I’d felt the few times in my life when I’d been brave enough to open my heart.
Three nights later, after I picked up Paul from the airport, we stopped at our favorite pizza place. While waiting for our dinner, I handed Tucker’s picture to Paul and said, “I’m ready to cash in my gift certificate.”
His eyebrows furrowed.
“What is this?”
“This is our new puppy.”
He groaned.
After dinner, we drove to Kathleen’s house so he could meet Tucker. He wasn’t as smitten with our sweater-clad puppy as I had been. Instead, he shook his head and said, “If you’re sure…”
“Very sure.”
Two days later, Kathleen delivered Tucker to us in a gift bag. That was sixteen years ago. Since then, he has matured into his body and developed an uncanny resemblance to Nellie. When Tucker nuzzles his head against my leg, the way she used to do, it makes me wonder if she’s sending me her love through him.
— Amy Soscia —

Message from an Angel

Inspiration for Teachers

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There are only two types of speakers in the world. 1. The nervous and 2. liars. ~Mark Twain

Mrs. Rhodes spoke as she walked to the front of the class. “Today, you need to select one of the topics from the board for an oral report.”
I groaned internally. An oral report! She might as well line me up in front of a firing squad, I thought.
I took a deep breath and scanned the list of names and inventions on the smaller chalkboard located on the wall to our right. One name in the center of the board captured my attention. Who’s that person? I wondered. I didn’t know, but that was going to be my choice.
Seated in the middle of the classroom, I fixated on that name. As Mrs. Rhodes called on students to announce their selections, the only thought I had was, Please don’t pick that one. Please don’t take mine.
Finally, it was my turn. I breathed a sigh of relief. “Johannes Brahms,” I said as I tried to act nonchalant. Once I vocalized his name, panic washed over me. How am I going to do this? I have to get up in front of these people and say something about some person I know nothing about.
Later in the day, I sat in my living room and flipped through my parents’ album collection. “Oh, thank goodness!” I exclaimed as I found an album of symphonic compositions that included one of his pieces.
I pulled the vinyl disk from the dust jacket, placed it on the record player, dropped the needle in place, and cranked up the stereo. Classical music flowed throughout the house. “This is perfect,” I said as I headed to my bedroom to grab my tape player and find an empty cassette. Collecting those items, I headed back to the living room to set up my makeshift recording studio. After a few playbacks, I had the music transferred from record to tape. With that task completed, I set out in search of the other items I needed for my report — a dowel rod, a suit jacket, and a music stand. With reports due the following week, I used every spare second to prepare.
When the big day came, my nerves were jittery as I slipped into my seat and waited for my turn to present. Eventually, Mrs. Rhodes called my name. “Jill, you’re next.”
Sweat beaded on my palms as I forced myself to walk to the front of the classroom. I set up my music stand and pulled the cassette player from my bag and placed it on the table. I felt faint as I donned my dad’s suit jacket, grabbed the wooden dowel, and clicked the Play button. When I glanced at my teacher, she smiled.
Before speaking, I blinked a few times, trying to calm my labored breathing. “Johannes Brahms,” I announced, then turned my back on the classroom, banged the dowel rod on the music stand three times, and raised my arms. As the music swelled and my legs wobbled, I flung my arms to and fro like a crazed conductor guiding the symphonic sounds of the invisible orchestra that billowed from the cassette speakers. All the while, sweat rolled down my neck and collected underneath the suit jacket.
After the music ceased, I turned around and proceeded to tell the class about Mr. Brahms. For a finale, a classmate played a short tune on the dulcimer. Finally, my time was up, and I returned to my seat, sweat-soaked and emotionally spent.
The next day, my teacher handed me a piece of paper. At the top in red was my grade for my report on Brahms. For a few seconds, I stared at my score, and then I glanced at Mrs. Rhodes. Her eyes locked onto mine, and she smiled. I wanted to hug her. Me, the shy kid who had little self-confidence and was uncomfortable with the world, had just received a 100 for a project that forced me out of my comfort zone. I had never seen myself as a student capable of earning 100% for any type of project, yet there it was in bright red at the top of my paper.
Not only did that grade boost my confidence, but Mrs. Rhodes helped me see my potential. From the nonverbal communication of a smile and eye-to-eye contact, she looked beyond my shyness — and saw me.
Although three decades have passed since that class, I have never forgotten Mrs. Rhodes or that assignment. As a teacher myself, with every class and every student, I try to emulate my former teacher’s communication technique of looking students in the eyes and letting them know that I see them — truly see them and their potential. It’s one way I can pay tribute to the teacher who influenced my life the most through one project, one grade, a couple of smiles, and eye-to-eye contact indicating that she looked beyond the shy mask I wore — and saw me.
~Jill Printzenhoff
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She Looked at Me

Chicken Soup for the Soul: Self-Care Isn't Selfish front cover

Self-Care Isn't Selfish

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Freedom is the oxygen of the soul. ~Moshe Dayan

I can still hear those defiant words blaring from the radio in my mother’s Volkswagen sedan. Sitting alongside my mother as we scurried about the streets of our little town, running our usual errands, she sang along without missing a beat. She raised her left arm — the other firmly on the wheel — as if to accentuate the melody, and sang with the passion of someone who could relate to the woman described in the song, with the passion of someone with newfound freedom and independence.
From the frequent screaming and fighting, the abusive language, and the love/hate drama that had unfolded between my parents before my eyes, I knew that “Independence Day,” written by Gretchen Peters, was more than just a popular song that summer. For my mother, it was the music of courage and self-confidence. For me, at the formative age of fourteen, it was the music that turned my world upside down.
The song’s lyrics told of a woman’s response to domestic abuse, seen from the point of view of her eight-year-old daughter. On Independence Day, while her daughter attends the local parade, the woman starts a fire in the house, and she and her abusive, alcoholic husband both perish in it.
The song has double meaning in that the woman was finally gaining her freedom from her abusive husband — thus, it was her Independence Day — and the events occurred on the Fourth of July. Its message suggests that what the woman did was neither right nor wrong. Instead, it was the only way she could ultimately gain her freedom and, at the same time, protect her daughter from the violent home where her little girl had seen bruises on her mother’s face far too many times.
“Let freedom ring, let the white dove sing… Let the weak be strong, let the right be wrong.”
Those were some of the lyrics that my mother sang with the deepest passion.
My mother left my father that summer and never went back. A teenager at the time, I was initially angry about it all. The last thing I wanted to do was spend time with the woman who didn’t seem to understand me and with the woman whose decision forced me to live in another house, to ride another school bus, to memorize another phone number, and, worst of all, to endure the financial limitations of a single-parent home.
As we continued about our errands that afternoon, I glanced over to the driver’s seat at the middle-aged woman my selfish teenage self had begun to resent. With her long red hair, petite figure, sculptured face, and deep brown eyes, my mother truly was a picture of beauty. Although she seemed a bit overbearing and protective at times, she was my strength and I admired her. But she was increasingly down on herself. Inside the radiant beauty that most people saw was an increasingly broken, weary, and sad woman.
She tried to be strong for my younger sister and me, but I’d often see her cry and witnessed how the pain of ending that relationship drove her to a state of depression. I tried to be sympathetic, but there was little that I could say or do to help mend her heart.
Just the night before she had cried herself to sleep and, as we lay beside her, whispered, “I love you girls, more than you will ever know.”
As I watched her sing that afternoon, I began to understand why that song was so meaningful for her. And I came to realize how much her freedom, her independence, and her ability to do what made her happy, really meant. I began to gain an appreciation for the sacrifices that my mother made, not only for her own well-being, but for my sister’s and mine as well. Though we struggled financially, her courage and strength allowed us to live in a home free of fighting and verbal abuse. Her decision allowed us to stop living in fear.
When the song ended and she parked the car, she smiled as big as she could, and said, “I’ll be celebrating my Independence Day on July 31st, not July 4th. Bring the fireworks.”
It’s been ten years since the day I watched my mother harmoniously sing along to “Independence Day” while en route to the grocery store. I’m no longer the teenager in the front seat, dependent on a ride to my destination. I no longer use my Sony Walkman to block out her high-pitched singing. But there’s one thing that hasn’t changed since that hot summer day in the passenger seat: the significant impact the song’s message has on me.
When I hear the words “Independence Day,” I don’t always think about the fourth day in July, the red, white, and blue, or America the free. Instead, I salute those brave women who, like my mother, had the strength and the courage to make difficult and painful changes in their lives, changes that now face me as well.
Perhaps it’s true that history repeats itself. Not long ago, when I left my alcoholic husband, I knew the same kind of pain my mother experienced nearly a decade earlier. Perhaps I should have paid more attention to the lessons of my mother, the lessons of my upbringing, and the frequent anguish of my childhood. But perhaps I was destined to follow in her footsteps, to make her mistakes, to feel her pain, and to develop her courage, strength, and independence.
I know she never wanted me to, but now I know. Now I understand. And as soon as I was able to roll the stone away, I had my Independence Day.
Coincidentally, I left my husband on July 31, 2010 — exactly eight years to the day my mother left my father. “Hard to believe,” she said when she reminded me of our shared date. “Only now do you understand why it was so important for me to leave… for me, for you, and for your little sister.”
Not long after our phone conversation, I came across that song, which I hadn’t heard in years, on one of my late-night drives. Like Mom always had, I turned up the radio and sang along with passion. And for once that day — probably even that week — it didn’t feel so bad to be alone.
Let freedom ring.
— Ellarry Prentice —

Independence Day

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No duty is more urgent than that of returning thanks. ~James Allen

If George Brown can do it, then so can I. George is Captain of the all-volunteer Honor Guard for the Gloucester County Veterans Memorial Cemetery in southern New Jersey. George is ninety years old.
After retirement, I was anxious to do volunteer work. As a military veteran myself, I was drawn to serve with the twenty-member Honor Guard, which pays tribute to our deceased veterans as they go to their final resting place. Seven years ago, I joined the group. After receiving a uniform, George said, “I’ll call you when the next funeral is scheduled.” I learned the procedure by doing.
Everyone knows how fulfilling volunteer work can be. But serving at the cemetery has been especially rewarding for me. It is a sad time for the families of the deceased, but they are genuinely grateful for the honor and dignity of our ceremony. We see the comfort on their faces when they arrive at the cemetery and find us already in formation. As the American flag-draped casket or an urn with a folded flag is carried from the hearse, we remain in formation.
We then present arms. The casket or urn is placed at the gravesite. The flag is removed from the casket or unfolded for those with an urn. Then we fire three volleys from our rifles. We present arms while “Taps” is played. The soulful notes from the bugle often echo across the vast fields of gravesites. We then stand at parade rest as two members of the military branch of the deceased perform the flag folding and presentation to the surviving spouse or family member. Once again, we present arms, and then march off the field.
We leave the field feeling certain that we have brought a well-deserved honor to the deceased and, hopefully, a sense of healing to his or her loved ones.
Whenever I’m called for a funeral, I accept whatever role I am given that day. I’ve been the bugler, a member of the flag brigade, and most often one of the firing squad (the peaceful kind). The Honor Guard ceremony is truly a team effort. Each role is equally important to our veterans’ families.
Our veteran’s cemetery was carved out of a farm field. The first interment was in 2004. To date, more than 1,800 military veterans are buried in a grave or inurned in a columbarium wall on the cemetery’s grounds.
Throughout the year, the cemetery is a peaceful, solemn place for families to visit their departed loved one. However, special ceremonies take place a few times a year. The Honor Guard is present for each one.
Memorial Day ceremonies bring out local dignitaries, television crews, newspaper reporters, and relatives and friends of deceased veterans. The Honor Guard marches out with a flag brigade and a firing squad to commemorate our fallen military veterans’ service to our country.
Christmastime finds the cemetery graced with winter wreaths of fresh evergreens and large red velvet bows. The organization People for People Foundation of Gloucester County spends many months preparing for the Wreaths for Remembrance ceremony when holiday wreaths are placed on each grave marker.
The organization coordinates a huge undertaking to collect donations for the wreaths and a call-out for volunteers. For me, it is a family affair. My daughter and son-in-law are members of that organization.
Many hundreds of volunteers answer the call each year for the laying of wreaths. Before formal ceremonies begin, volunteers visit every one of the 1,800 graves. As they place a wreath, they say, “Thank you for your service” to each deceased veteran.
The Honor Guard stands in formation during the formal ceremony. Then we fire three volleys and play “Taps.”
On that day, the usually quiet cemetery becomes a field filled with love, honor and holiday spirit. It is both a day for those who kneel in front of the grave markers to reflect upon their loss, as well as a reminder to all of the patriotism of those who served in the military.
Each year, I am honored once again to be part of the ceremony.
Our Honor Guard shares the U.S. Postal Service’s adage, “Neither rain nor snow nor heat nor gloom…” We are out there whenever duty calls — be it a hot July afternoon or a bitter, wind-blown January morning. And yes, George, at age ninety, is always there, so I have no excuse for not showing up. Not that I’d need one.
— Christian Harch —

An Honor to Be an Honor Guard

Reboot Your Life

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When we lose one blessing, another is often most unexpectedly given in its place. ~C.S. Lewis

October 19 started out like any other morning. A single mom, I rushed about the house getting my son and myself ready for work and daycare. I remember putting on my favorite pair of jeans even though I should have worn something a bit dressier for work. As we headed out the door that morning I tripped over some dinosaur toys strewn across the entryway. I told my son that when we got home that night we were going to have to really clean up the house so we didn’t break a leg on all those toys. I dropped him off at daycare and headed to work.
I hadn’t been at work ten minutes when the call came. My house was on fire. My boss rushed me to my home. As we turned onto my street, all I could see were fire trucks and police cars. We parked half a block away and I ran up the street. I reached my driveway to see the thick black smoke rolling out of my house. A fireman was chopping holes in my roof with an axe.
I remember officers talking with me, neighbors offering hugs, friends arriving, the fire chief explaining to me what would happen next, and the smell of the smoke.
Hours passed as I stood in the driveway and watched the firefighters work. They chopped holes in my home and threw burnt items out the windows.
As I watched I started to laugh. I didn’t laugh because house fires are particularly funny. I laughed because I had told my son we had to clean the house tonight and now that seemed like an impossible task. I laughed because I was wearing my favorite jeans and we all know how hard it is to find a great pair of jeans. But most of all I laughed because I had to two options in that moment.
I could give in to the pain and cry, or I could choose to find the joy and laughter in the darkest of situations. I made the choice in that moment, in my driveway, surrounded by smoke, to laugh. I made the decision to find the positive and focus on that.
The fire allowed my son and me to rebuild our lives. Our lives were spared that day. We had the chance to start over fresh, to create the best life possible for us. The possessions that I thought meant so much were gone. But the things that really mattered in our lives stayed intact. Joy, gratitude, laughter — those things can’t be burnt!
In the weeks after the fire, we were blessed by the generosity of friends and strangers alike. Our new apartment was bare, but our hearts were full and we were happy.
I learned that you really need very little to survive. Instead of eating at a kitchen table, we had lots of picnics on the living room floor. All the toys my son had before were barely missed.
Instead, we spent more time playing outside together, reading, and listening to music. All those knickknacks that I thought I had to have were replaced, but only with things I truly loved or that my son and I created together.
In our new life, we banned excess. When you each have only a few outfits, it makes laundry day much easier. Since I didn’t have to spend so much time picking up the house, I actually had time to do some of the things I loved again. I sat and read a great book. I created art pieces to hang in our new place. I started getting a full night’s sleep every night.
The fire simplified my life. The power that “stuff” had over me before was gone. My heart was more open and my mind was calmer.
Instead of just creating a new home I was able to create a new life. A life that I designed from scratch. This new life was filled with laughter, creativity, fun, gratitude, and very little stuff.
The fire lit a spark in me that had been out for a very long time. My passion for life was reignited and I was ready to live again. With my son beside me, and wearing my favorite jeans, I was able to laugh in the face of tragedy.
~Jessie Wagoner
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Life Reignited

Time to Thrive

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Learn to say “no” to the good so you can say “yes” to the best. ~John C. Maxwell

The phone rang. It was the president of the library board of trustees. Three months previously I’d resigned from that board; it wasn’t a good fit for me. I did remain on a non-board committee, as I believed in the mission, but the process had frustrated me and eaten up more time than I anticipated when I joined.
“Good morning. How are you?” His cheeriness put me on guard. Something was up. “Janet is stepping down as chair of the public relations committee and I hoped you would be willing to take over. It requires, you know, writing letters and refining talking points for speaking to groups and since you’ve done a lot of public speaking and you write…”
“No. No, I’m sorry I can’t do it.”
Wow! I’d said that?
After a few pleasantries and best wishes for him to find a new committee chair, we said goodbye.
I poured a cup of coffee and sat at the kitchen table to watch the blue jays bully the other birds for space at the feeders.
I felt light, free, amazed at myself. I’d just said “No” with no explanation. I gave him no opening for discussion. No exaggerated excuses about other responsibilities, problems, too many commitments, not being up to the challenge. Not even, “I’ll think about it,” while gathering the courage to call back and say no. Just “No.” And surprisingly, I didn’t feel guilty about it. I could have done the job. My calendar had lots of space. I had the credentials and experience in both writing and public speaking.
But I was done with all that. After more than twenty years on the local animal shelter board, twenty-eight years as a 4-H leader, an officer in the Cancer Society and garden club and other organizations, I needed my life back. Now retired, I dreamed of uninterrupted time to tackle writing a novel, to try pastel painting, and to experience other new things. It was time to stop saying “as soon as….”
One by one I had resigned from each responsibility as my term finished, or when someone else could step up in my place. The next years would be mine. I wanted to write, to learn to paint, to take classes instead of teaching them, to try yoga, to spend some days doing nothing.
I wrote it on the refrigerator memo board. “Choose wisely. ‘As soon as’ is here.”
I don’t plan on being a hermit. And I will take on short-term volunteer tasks, such as manning a yard sale booth for three hours, or giving one lecture on canine behavior, or spending one morning weeding the county courthouse flowerbeds. Saying no to the big obligations and recurring commitments will let me look forward to the things I choose to do, instead of resenting the time it takes to dress, drive, and attend yet another meeting of an organization.
I realize that sometimes I did choose to do the things that were on my calendar, to rise through the ranks, to take responsibilities that ate up more time than I believed they would. The trouble is, many times when you assume the mantle people expect you will continue to wear it year after year.
From now on I will be chary of chairmanships. Bored with boards. I don’t want to be in charge of, president of, chair of, leader of… anything. Been there, done that, successfully, if I do say so myself. I will now be a happy occasional soldier instead of a general.
I will be gleeful when I awake to nothing more pressing than brushing the dog or hanging laundry out in the sun, and reminding myself that “as soon as” is right now.
When the phone rings, as it will, asking if I can edit one letter or arrange one luncheon for a visiting author, I will probably say, “Yes, I’ll do it. Just this once.”
~Ann Vitale
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Just Say No — and Sometimes Yes

Chicken Soup for the Soul: Let Your Dreams and Premonitions Guide You - front cover

Let Your Dreams and Premonitions Guide You

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He who has gone, so we but cherish his memory, abides with us, more potent, nay, more present than the living man. ~Antoine de Saint-Exupéry

My dress — white, beaded and beautiful — is hanging on the door. My maid of honor, my best friend since third grade, is sleeping in my bed, resting before the duties she’ll perform tomorrow. I lie there restlessly. I am eagerly anticipating my life with my husband and anxious about it at the same time.
I close my eyes, and I am in my grandfather’s living room. The smell of the wood stove tickles my nose, and I breathe deeply. I can almost taste the creamy macaroni-and-cheese dish my grandmother will undoubtedly have baking in the oven. I hear the tinkle of the bell that hangs from my grandparents’ Siamese cat’s collar.
I smile. There is my grandfather, sitting regally in his overstuffed chair, wearing a train conductor’s hat, red suspenders, and a loving smile. His head bobs up and down slowly, as it has for my entire childhood, and he appears deep in thought as he listens to my groom-to-be. I can’t hear what they are saying, but I know it must be about me when Grandpa turns his head to meet my eyes. He inclines his head a bit, as if to say, “So this is the one?” I nod, eager for his approval.
He looks back at my love, takes his hand with the firmness of a much younger version of himself, and shakes it, before covering their clasped hands with his other hand in a gesture of love and respect.
With the wood stove crackling at my back, I sit watching them chat like old friends, laughing as men do, gesturing occasionally as they tell their stories. I feel safe, loved and sleepy.
I open my eyes and I’m back in my bedroom. My maid of honor is snoring softly. My wedding dress catches my eye, and the faint smell of wood smoke lingers in the air. It’s my wedding day, and my grandfather — whom I loved, respected, and lost three years prior — had visited my dreams, met my groom, and approved.
I smile and shake my best friend’s shoulder. “Wake up, wake up! I’m getting married!”
— Tia Ruggiero —

Grandpa’s Approval

Chicken Soup for the Soul: Me and My Dog front cover

Me and My Dog

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If you can look at a dog and not feel vicarious excitement and affection, you must be a cat. ~Author Unknown

“So you’re going for a run?” This from my husband the skinny engineer and non-runner.
“Yes. I thought I’d take the dogs.”
“All three of them? Is that wise?”
“I don’t know if it’s wise or not, but that’s the plan.” This from me, the elementary school teacher who’s trying not to slip into the disappearing waist, puffy thighs, flabby abs, end-of-youthful-figure zone, and who only started running recently.
I grab the leashes. The kind made of slim cords that extend with a flick of a button from a thin plastic handle. The dogs start slobbering. Jumping. Vibrating. Whining. They won’t sit still while I put on their collars.
“Can you help me?” I ask my husband. He’s watching me with an amused grin on his face.
I should explain here about the dogs: two Labs, Nate and Duke; one Border Collie, Jessie. They aren’t exactly sterling choices for a peaceful afternoon jog. Two have never been to obedience school. One flunked out. And I rarely even take them on walks.
But we are all collared and leashed and ready to go. I’ve even done my pre-jog stretches. “I’m going to get a good workout today,” I tell my husband. “I can feel it. Lots of cardio-building, thigh-busting exercise.”
He smiles again.
“Okay, open the gate.” I hold onto the leashes with a death grip, two handles in one hand, and one in the other. The three dogs hop and yip and foam at the mouth.
“Are you sure?” my husband asks.
“Yes, I’m ready.”
He slides back the latch and begins to open the gate.
Larry, Curly, and Moe nose through and take off like rockets, dragging me behind them.
The wind rushes past my ears, and I hear the faint sound of laughter behind me.
Okay. This is not the plan. “Whoa!” I yank back hard. All three dogs jerk to a stop. Jessie, the meekest of the three, sits down and looks slightly guilty. “Walk!” I say, forgetting that this is supposed to be a quiet afternoon jog.
“Have fun,” my husband hollers after me.
“We will!” I wave and smile. And the dogs jerk me onward.
We half-walk, half-trot down our long driveway. Then we turn left, onto a winding blacktop road, and settle into a brisk jog, the boys in front setting the pace.
My normal route is down this road, which runs past hayfields and then into an area with pristine woodland on either side, and back again. A nice two-mile jog full of the clean-air smells of the country. Unless you come across roadkill. That roadkill being a mashed-up skunk.
Now there’s something about dead animals that I realize is terribly interesting to dogs. Especially mine. Before I can say, “Don’t even think about it!” all three dogs are wallowing in the remains of the dead skunk.
I scream. I jerk. I stomp. I scream some more. The dogs run circles around me, tangling me in the thin nylon cords of their leashes, always going back to the skunk.
A pickup truck headed our direction stops beside me as I’m untangling myself. “Need any help?” the elderly driver asks.
I shake my head. “No thanks. I think I’ve got it under control.” The dogs wag their tails when they hear the man’s voice. They whine and try to jump on his truck, like the man is their long-lost owner, and I’m just a ranting stranger. “Cut it out!” I yell. The man drives away.
I reel in their leashes as short as possible, and we finally leave the dead skunk behind, but not the smell. It lingers in the fall air and makes me gag as the dogs jog in front of me.
We’re almost to the end of the road, where the woods are thickest and where I plan to turn around and head back, when I hear a noise in the bushes beside me. A loud, crashing noise.
The dogs hear it, too.
They stop. Ears prick high. No more panting. They all three stand like statues, staring in the direction of the noise.
And then it’s there. A deer. A large deer. A large running deer.
My dogs take off. Straight for the woods. I pull back on their leashes and scream, “No!” I dig my heels into the soft leafy soil.
They keep going. “Stop!” I holler. Whatever made me think I could take three large, powerful, slightly overweight dogs on a collective jog? I must have been crazy.
I’m skimming across the ground now, leaning back, digging ruts with my feet, and they’re still pulling me. Through weeds and briars.
I sit down for leverage. They keep running. Now I’m bouncing along on my bottom. I feel dirt sliding up under my shorts. My backside starts to burn. I bump across the ground, screaming. But I don’t dare let go of the leashes.
“It’s gone,” I yell. “The deer is gone!” But the dogs don’t believe me.
Finally, my feet hit a fallen limb, and we stop. The dogs are shaking all over. So am I. My heart is pounding, I’m drenched in sweat, and I think I have enough dirt in my shorts to plant a small garden.
I stand, rearrange the leashes, and take a quick look around. Then, as discreetly as possible, I yank down my shorts and dump out the dirt. I find a few biting fire ants mixed in with the dirt. And I think I have stickers in my butt.
I pull up my shorts. “So much for a nice peaceful jog,” I say to the dogs. “Thanks a lot. I hope you’re happy.” They wag their tails at me like they are extremely happy.
I limp home with the dogs. They strain against their shortened leashes, and my arms feel like they’re being yanked from their sockets. When we get to the dead skunk, though, I’m ready. We walk far around.
At home, I turn the dogs loose in the backyard. I will bathe them in tomato juice later.
I drag myself inside.
“How was your jog?” my husband asks, looking over his newspaper. “Dogs do okay?”
“My jog?”
He nods.
“I wouldn’t be lying if I said it was interesting.”
“Yeah? Get your heart rate up?”
“Yep. Did that.”
“Feel like you got a good workout?”
“Oh yeah.” I rub my hand across my backside and feel the prick of splinters. “Except…”
My husband sniffs in my direction. “What’s that smell?”
“Meet me in the bathroom with a pair of tweezers. I’ll explain everything then.”
— Sharon Van Zandt —

How Not to Jog

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The real purpose of running isn’t to win a race. It’s to test the limits of the human heart. ~Bill Bowerman, track-and-field coach and co-founder of Nike, Inc.

As I was blasting through yet another of my six-mile runs down the rugged dirt-and-gravel roads of rural Hocking County in southeastern Ohio, the thought occurred to me, Ordinary people can accomplish extraordinary things! It came as no surprise to me that I should think this, as over the years of reading and studying, I had become a student of what I like to call “Positive, Possibility, Power Thinking.” I wasn’t necessarily an extraordinary runner, but I truly loved to run, especially long distances.
The brilliant rays of summer sunshine lit up the vapor that hangs low over open country fields in the early morning. I felt vibrantly alive, running strong, and then the thought hit me: I’ll run 52 marathons in 52 weeks to raise money and awareness for leukemia! The statement looped over and over in my mind as I finished the rest of my run, and I absolutely knew I could do it!
It had only been a few months since I had joined the Leukemia &amp; Lymphoma Society’s national marathon training group called Team In Training. Not only was I trained to run a marathon, but I also had to raise money to help find a cure for leukemia, plus choose a marathon to run with the group. I chose the Honolulu Marathon. And to help every runner understand the brutality of this disease known as leukemia, we were each matched with a local leukemia patient. I was matched with a five-year-old boy named Glen. When I first met him, he looked like any other youngster. But as the months flew by, his health declined quickly. Despite undergoing a bone-marrow transplant from his older sister, which was then his best hope of recovery, the procedure was not successful. A little more than a year after I first met this healthy-looking little boy, his mom informed me that Glen had passed away. She told me that his entire family was around him, and she spoke the words to him, “Go to Jesus, baby.”
Already stoked by the fires of my “Positive, Possibility, Power Thinking” life philosophy, little Glen’s passing was like pouring gasoline upon a bonfire. The flames of my passion and commitment to run 52 marathons in 52 weeks burned brighter and hotter. I had worked for 16 years as a disc jockey at WHOK-95.5FM in Lancaster, Ohio, and I was a super healthy, wild and crazy bachelor. My lifestyle was ideal for me to head off into the unknown to pursue something that many people described as crazy.
Weeks and then months passed as I started to up my weekly running miles and intensity. I began to do at least one 20-mile run every weekend so that my body would become accustomed to going that kind of distance. On every run, the fire to accomplish this gargantuan running feat burned brighter and hotter within me.
This was the mid-1990s, and the Internet was in its infancy. In order to set up my sponsorship, find officially organized marathons to run, and arrange lodging and travel plans, it was all phone calls, faxes, press releases, and a lot of chutzpah. Many nights, I would fall asleep after a long day of running, working, and tirelessly promoting what I called my “Super Run for the Cure.”
Finally, it was time to run, and I loaded Bo, my Golden Retriever, into my car. I locked the door to my home in Hide-A-Way Hills, Ohio, and headed to Cleveland to start my run at the 1996 Cleveland Marathon. It was the perfect start to my year of running since Cleveland was my hometown, and my parents still lived there. Cleveland would be where Bo would live over the next year with my parents.
I finished the Cleveland Marathon in a little more than four hours, feeling great. But then the thought hit me on the drive back to my parents’ house, Whoa! I have to do this 51 more times!
As the weeks, months and miles flew by during my Super Run, I ran across almost all of North America, including the continental U.S., Alaska, Canada, and Hawaii. I drove 65,000 miles in my trusty SUV, and flew 60,000 miles to complete my year of marathoning for a cure. I ran a trail marathon around the Kilauea volcano on the Big Island of Hawaii; a marathon on a track in Dayton, Ohio (104½ laps); on the streets of Montreal; through the rain of Olympia, Washington; and finished up with number 51 being the Holy Grail of Running — the Boston Marathon. I concluded with number 52, the Big Sur Marathon in Carmel, California. I raised thousands of dollars for leukemia research along the way. I also spent thousands of my own dollars to make it all happen. And on yet another 14-hour drive by myself through the heart of America on my way to run yet another 26.2-mile race, I would say to myself with all the intensity I could muster, “I can do this!”
Although to date they have yet to find a cure for leukemia, the rate of remission for most leukemia patients is better than ever, and I know that I played a small part in this. With a burning passion and the ability to do so, I truly learned that ordinary people can accomplish extraordinary things. From May 5, 1996 to April 27, 1997, I unleashed my inner champion to successfully run 52 marathons in 52 weeks to help find a cure for leukemia. And I thought about that five-year-old boy the whole way.
— Karl W. Gruber —

52 Marathons in 52 Weeks

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We have two ears and one mouth so that we can listen twice as much as we speak. ~Epictetus

Sleep was a long time coming one night in May 2010. After tossing and turning for hours, I finally gave up. I flipped on my nightstand lamp and grabbed my Bible, asking God to speak to me personally through whatever passage I randomly opened it to. I often did this, and more times than not, I stumbled upon something that really hit home — a pertinent and helpful message for whatever situation I was facing.
The first thing that captured my eye when I opened my Bible was a pink commentary box at the bottom of the page. The commentator said that King David had not been where he was supposed to be when he was tempted by Bathsheba, and if he had been where he should have been — on the battlefield with his men — instead of lagging behind at his palace, he would have been spared a whole lot of trouble.
After reading this, something in my spirit stirred. A voice in my head told me that I needed to go the next morning to a place where I volunteered approximately once a month.
I didn’t want to. I had been busy over the weekend, and my house was a total wreck. I worked as a nurse three days a week, and the following day was one of my days off. I had planned on spending it in my pajamas, catching up on laundry and de-cluttering my house… and my mind.
The prompting wouldn’t let up, though. Don’t be like David. Be at the right place at the right time was what I was hearing. But this made no sense. Couldn’t I just go in the afternoon after getting caught up on some sleep?
I’m ashamed to say that I bargained with God, wanting proof that it was His voice I was sensing. I wanted to make sure I hadn’t fabricated all this in my mind. Unless You somehow confirm that this is really You, I’m going to sleep late. And if I volunteer, it will be in the afternoon, I thought.
The next thing I knew, I was awakened by my phone. It was only 7:00 a.m., so I was nervous as I answered the call from a family friend. It turned out she just wanted my mother’s new phone number. Really? Who calls someone at 7:00 a.m. unless it’s a life-threatening emergency? That seemed like my wake-up call from God, so I got up!
I stumbled to the coffee pot. “What are you doing up so early?” my husband asked as he headed out the door for work. I recounted the entire story. He nodded his head, but he looked at me as if I were crazy. And I was starting to wonder if that was a fair assumption.
You’ll understand why in time. This time, the voice might as well have been shouting in my ear; that’s how real it was. I was washing my hands at the kitchen sink when this assurance swept over me, resonating through every cell of my body. Knowing for sure that this was bigger than my imagination, I was now fully surrendered and at peace as I finished getting ready.
Along my forty-minute drive to my destination, I came across some ominous black clouds. Since it was May in North Carolina, the first thing that popped into my mind was a tornado. Maybe that was the reason for all this… Maybe a tornado was about to touch down on my house, and God wanted me out of there. My heart flip-flopped. The rest of my drive was spent praying for protection — for my house and, most importantly, my family who lived nearby.
No more than thirty minutes had passed since I began my volunteer work when I received a phone call from my husband. He raced to tell me something that left me speechless. “Our house has been broken into. ADT just called and said the alarm is going off. The police are on their way.”
My heart felt like it stopped and then started up again at ten times its usual pace. Being a former cardiac nurse, I feared I was experiencing ventricular fibrillation — a fatal heart rhythm. Whoa, God, You weren’t kidding when You told me I would soon understand why!
As crazy as it sounds, the first emotion I felt was awe-filled joy — definitely not the typical reaction one would have after hearing her house had just been broken into. I was completely amazed that God was looking out for little old me.
Of course, my husband and I were concerned about our house. But more than anything, we were completely “wowed” and thankful. And my husband no longer thought I was crazy for following that voice.
Who knows what would have happened if I had been at home, especially had I been asleep in our back bedroom when the break-in occurred?
This experience is one I will never forget. What I gained from it far outweighed the cost of our insurance deductible and the hassle of replacing our front door and the television that was stolen. When I’m going through hard times, all I have to do is ponder this miraculous encounter. I am instantly comforted and filled with peace.
After this life-changing ordeal, I vowed to never, ever dismiss that voice… no matter how strange the message.
— Mandy York —

Worth Listening

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We come, not to mourn our dead soldiers, but to praise them. ~Francis A. Walker

My small town of Haddam, Connecticut has been commemorating Memorial Day with a parade and ceremony since the 1800s when the occasion was known as Decoration Day. Our event has always been organized by a team of veterans who, as they aged, passed the task on to the next generation of warriors. However, after the Vietnam War ended, the number of those serving in the military dramatically shrank, leaving us with fewer veterans to continue the tradition. With a diminished volunteer pool, one stalwart veteran took sole charge for a twenty-year period.
Eventually, by the mid-1990s, the observance had become stale and uninspired, primarily due to our speakers having difficulty appreciating the significance of the day. Attendance was suffering as well.
We always close our Memorial Day ceremony by somberly reading the names of our town’s war dead over a soft drumroll. As the years passed and memories faded, the names of the fallen were becoming a blur and in some cases meaningless. Our older veterans were worried that if the townspeople continued to lose sight of military sacrifice that our Memorial Day observance would evolve into something unrecognizable.
Something needed to be done.
To reverse the growing concern, specially selected volunteers were sought to join the parade committee to help ease the organizational burden. It was an honor for me to be asked to assist, so I volunteered to give the next Memorial Day address.
The focus of my planned speech would be to change the reading of the names of our war dead from something routine into something of significance — something that would make it clear that these were genuine heroes who once walked among us. My talk simply consisted of each fallen soldier’s branch of service, his rank, age, a personal trait and the circumstances of his death.
To gather the necessary information I solicited family members, distant relatives and old friends. Everyone I contacted shared so many fond stories of their loved ones that I began to feel as if I knew each soldier personally. As a result, it was a simple, gratifying task to put all those memories into a speech.
As an added bonus, relatives were so thrilled with the idea of a public remembrance that they felt compelled to give me old photos, newspaper clippings, letters, and in some cases, medals and other wartime memorabilia. The collected items were mounted in glass displays and unveiled at the close of the Memorial Day ceremony.
My speech was so well received, and the displays had such a historical and emotional impact, that our town officials asked that they be prominently placed in the town hall for all to see. Within a few weeks, citizens began asking where they could donate military uniforms, equipment, captured weapons, enemy flags and personal souvenirs from various wartime eras. Hundreds of items that had been gathering dust and taking up space in attics were offered because people did not have the heart to throw them away. It was obvious that our townspeople were still patriotic; they just needed to be reminded.
During the next few years, the collection grew so fast that parade committee members had boxes of wartime and home front memorabilia under their beds and stuffed in their closets. Our town officials were well aware of the artifacts we had amassed, so in 2001 we were granted use of a vacant firehouse and converted it into the Haddam Veterans’ Museum. In less than two years, the building was filled to capacity. We also added an outdoor Veterans’ Memorial Walk with large gray pavers engraved with the names of Haddam’s war dead and small red pavers to honor specific veterans in a more personal way.
The museum became an immediate focal point, especially on Memorial Day, when hundreds of parade attendees spend hours reviewing the displays. During the rest of the year we get requests from local schools and civic groups for museum tours.
Prior to the reorganization of our parade committee, we practically had to beg people to give the Memorial Day address. Now we have a waiting list. The size of our parade committee has quadrupled and there is never a shortage of dedicated volunteers, both civilians and veterans.
On the Saturday before Memorial Day we place more than 500 new American flags on veterans’ graves in ten cemeteries across town. In the past, this was an all-day undertaking. Now, the task is completed in less than three hours because our flagger ranks have tripled.
My speech may have been the catalyst that created our veterans’ museum and got our Memorial Day observance back on track, but it was the selfless volunteers who banded together that really made it happen. Americans, once reminded, are happy to dive in and show their patriotism.
— Arthur Wiknik, Jr. —

Memorial Day Volunteers

Chicken Soup for the Soul: Being Grandma front cover

Being Grandma

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I’m not retired, I’m a professional grandma. ~Author Unknown
It was a typical fall day in Dallas, warm and sunny. We were sitting in the grandchild’s carpool line, something we’d done many times before.
This carpool line is an incredible sight to behold. Only Chick-fil-A’s plan to get people and cars through a line in a short amount of time can compare.
The large parking lot is sectioned off into painted lanes numbered 1, 2, 3, and 4. The first driver to arrive gives the child’s number to the policeman with the clipboard and proceeds to the beginning of line 1. Parents and grandparents, nannies and older siblings follow suit, and pretty soon dozens of cars are lined up in each numbered row. It looks like the place where you return rental cars at the airport. Everyone is locked into their spot, so no movement is possible in a lane until the car ahead exits.
On this day, the cars were lined up in the numbered lanes as usual. Motors were turned off, and everyone settled into waiting for the closing school bell. The sun was shining brightly through the car windows, making for a quiet, warm and comfy wait.
We were car number 10 in row number 1.
And we both fell asleep!
Yes, the grandparents in car number 10 were sound asleep. It was an ugly sleep, mouths hanging open, a little drooling and snoring.
After about twenty-five minutes, there was a knock on the driver’s side window. The headmaster of the school tapped lightly and said, “Time to go.”
Honeybuns jerked awake, started the motor and looked up. The teachers on carpool duty were whispering and pointing at us. All nine cars in front of us were gone. All the cars behind us were stuck. It was impossible for them to move until we did.
We pulled forward, rounding the corner, and there stood our confused granddaughter, age nine, on tippytoes, straining to see if she could figure out where we were.
We pulled up to the curb, and she jumped in, asking us what happened. When we explained she said this was totally embarrassing. We were probably on Instagram already.
When we got to her house and told the story, her siblings weren’t embarrassed. They laughed uncontrollably.
Comic relief! It’s our job, right?
— Sharon Braner —

Afternoon Carpool Line

Dreams and the Unexplainable

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Once you have had a wonderful dog, a life without one is a life diminished. ~Dean Koontz
The end was nearing for Daddy. The brilliant mind, fastidious habits, acerbic wit — they’d all disappeared a few years earlier. He’d been a leader of men. Now he had trouble guiding his fork to his mouth.
Gone were the days of erect posture and immaculate grooming, well-cut suits and blinding white dress shirts. It was easier now to keep him in pajamas. He was still terribly handsome for a man of his years, but shaving that cleft chin was a chore.
He’d cursed us recently for installing a zoo in the back yard. It was “unsanitary.” It was “unthinkable.”
It was the great-grandchildren’s inflatable toys bobbing in the pool.
I had always relied on Daddy. No matter how big the problem to be solved, my first thought was, “Daddy can.” I didn’t know how to let him go.
The time came when a gray hearse took him from us.
When I saw him next, he looked plastic, made up. We, as a family, do not fear death as some do; we never skirt the subject in conversation. So it was no great surprise to anyone but the undertaker when I shooed him away and reapplied Daddy’s make-up myself. My father would never go out in public not looking his best. He didn’t “feel” right, his skin not responding as it would have in life, but I’d expected that.
Mother had chosen his navy suit for burial because it made his eyes so very blue. It didn’t matter that nobody would see those clear blue eyes again.
Arriving home from the service, my heart in shreds, I found my closest companion of thirteen years whimpering in her dog bed. The knots and lumps under her skin had reached critical mass, and she shivered with pain. Now? It couldn’t be. How could I give up my best friend today, of all days?
My skin went clammy, and I felt faint. I lay on the floor and wrapped myself around her, murmuring soft words with a coppery taste in my mouth.
Eventually, my husband pried my arms from her and lifted her, bed and all. “I’ll take her back to the vet and see if he can do anything for her. But if not . . .”
I told her goodbye.
Bereavement settled its weight on me. Moving through quicksand, I laid aside my black suit, now dappled with gray fur, and huddled between cold, white sheets to wait. God, how can I bear this? I could not judge the passage of time. I began to hear something, some mournful sound, low and guttural. The volume grew. I was alarmed by it, but the heaviness of despair held me fast, and I could not rise to investigate. It morphed into a wail, and I began to shake, as I realized the noise was coming from me.
By the time he returned, arms empty, I had quieted. “He put her on an IV drip and will keep her overnight, but he doesn’t know of anything else to do. We’ll see how she is in the morning. Then we’ll decide.”
You will decide. I cannot.
When sleep finally overtook me, it was the heavy, drugged feeling of one who doesn’t care about ever waking. Daddy came to me in a dream.
He wore the navy suit he was buried in, but he’d taken off the jacket and neatly rolled up his sleeves the way he had every evening after work when I was a girl. He was holding my dog. A balm of warmth permeated me, carried by his subtle spicy scent and the light that came from everywhere.
“Don’t worry, child. I’ve brought her back to you.” His baritone voice was warming and silky, like his favorite single malt.
I had so many questions, but he was gone, and I would never see him again. The warmth of his light receded.
I squirmed back into the cocoon of my bedding. Many hours passed. I was unaware of the sun forcing its way around the edges of the drapes, trying to break in.
Then a familiar sound dragged me out of the numbness — the clicking of thick toenails on hardwood. I pushed my hair out of my face and pulled myself upright as my husband lifted her onto the bed beside me, stubby tail wagging her entire rear end, wet nose nuzzling my neck. I held her tight and stared a silent question at my husband.
“The vet said he came in early this morning to check on her and found her trying to claw her way out of the kennel. She seems fine. Tumors have shrunk. He can’t explain it.”
Gratitude ran down my cheeks. “Daddy can.”
~Kemala Tribe
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Daddy Can

<img src="https://site-files.chickensoup.com/epub-images/chicken_soup_for_the_soul_kindness_matters/ch029_2022-12-20-042952_wbpa.jpg" alt="Story 29:" />Life is slippery. Here, take my hand. ~H. Jackson Brown, Jr.I thought I had this nailed. After all, Mary wasn’t my first baby, and I’d done this dozens of times before. So, as I dressed my two kids to go grocery shopping, I was a young mother full of confidence.Matthew was two. Mary was three weeks. It was my first shopping trip since she’d come home from the hospital. But I’d nursed both my babies, changed their diapers, dressed them up, and piled them into the car.Matthew had become traumatically brain-injured in a fall when he was one. I’d read that nutrients in mother’s milk helped to build synapses in babies’ brains and could help restore lost function in young children with brain injuries. So, I was tandem nursing both Matthew and Mary. It turned out to be a lovely arrangement for the three of us. Cuddling with a child on each side of me, my babies would nurse together. Matthew would often take breaks to hold his sister’s hand or stroke her hair. And, even at her young age, she’d begun to respond to his caresses with genuine affection. So, I’d found that a quick nursing break before a task yielded contented children. Or so I thought.When we pulled up to the store, I grabbed the nearest shopping cart and brought it to the car. I lined the shopping cart seat with my cart buddy — nicely padded with its own safety strap to secure Matthew into the seat — and then slipped on my carrier wrap and cuddled Mary up against my chest. And we were off.As I walked through the produce section, I was feeling on top of the world. It had been a difficult birth, and Mary had spent a week in the NICU before I’d been allowed to bring her home. I, too, had spent several days in the hospital fighting an infection that she and I had gotten during the delivery. But now, at last, we were together, and this shopping trip felt like a victory lap in a long marathon run.I grabbed some fruits and checked out the fresh spinach that I used to make the pea cakes that Matthew loved for snacks.When I turned into the frozen section, both Matthew and Mary started to fuss. Rubbing his hands on his arms, Matthew began to whine, “Cold, Mommy! Cold, cold, Mommy!” Next, he allowed his teeth to chatter just so I wouldn’t doubt the extent of his discomfort. Mary began to kick in her carrier, so I hurried through the aisle and just grabbed one or two things before I moved on.Yet, as I walked, I was astonished at how big the grocery store began to feel — how foreign and overwhelming. Weeks of sleepless nights and postpartum brain fog suddenly made this simple task much more difficult and time-consuming.Each aisle began to loom large as the kids fussed more and more.Mary was wiggling and softly whimpering in her carrier, and Matthew, always the loving big brother, was becoming more and more agitated that I wasn’t attending to his sister. “Bebe cry, Mommy! Bebe cry!”No amount of distraction or soothing would ease my son’s angst, and as he became more distraught, his sister’s own distress increased. Back and forth, they set each other off, increasing the unhappiness and the volume as we inched our way through the maze of the store.The more they cried, the less I could think. The less I could think, the longer I was taking. The longer I was taking, the more they cried.Finally, I had no choice but to give up and go to the checkout stand. My victory lap had become a dismal farce and my screaming children a noisy spectacle.As I stood at the checkout piling groceries onto the conveyor with one hand, patting my daughter with the other, and cooing to my distraught son, I felt my letdown response react to my children’s cacophony of wails. Despite my nursing pads and an arm wedged against my chest, in an instant the front of my shirt was covered in a growing wet spot. The smell of my milk so close and yet so far away incensed Mary, who wailed even more. His sister’s distress agitated Matthew, who wanted to open my shirt to help his sister find relief. As my children screamed and clawed, my hands fumbled, trying to unload the cart and move along with the line.And, as my shirt got wet, so did my eyes. No matter how fast I blinked, I could not hold back the tears. I felt defeated, discouraged and totally inadequate to the task before me. I saw young moms grocery shop every day. Why couldn’t I finish this seemingly simple task? My mind raced. My kids screamed. My milk and tears flowed. I was making a scene, and I knew it. I couldn’t have been more demoralized.“Honey?” The matronly woman behind me reached out and touched my arm.Great! I thought to myself. Now I’m going to get yelled at, too. I couldn’t turn to her. She’d see my shirt. She’d see my tears. It was all too embarrassing.“Honey?” she tried again. I had no choice. I looked up at her.“It’s hard,” she said. “No one really ever tells you that. But you’re doing a good job, Mama. You’ll do fine.”Despite myself, I burst into tears.She softly laughed and handed me a tissue. “Hormones are funny things. It will get better.”Then she nodded, and I nodded back. I paid for my groceries and walked out the door. But I walked out buoyed, confident and determined.They were just a few words, and yet they were the world.— Susan Traugh —

Just a Few Words

Read, Laugh, Repeat

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Mistakes are the usual bridge between inexperience and wisdom. ~Phyllis Theroux

My principal came by my room that morning while I was still hanging a few last-minute posters on my walls, and the minute she walked in to wish me luck, I felt extremely unprepared. As she walked out of my classroom, I looked at the clock and realized that in fifteen minutes the first class of my teaching career was about to walk in my door. Freaking out just a little bit, I looked down at what I was wearing and immediately hated it. My outfit consisted of a plain white top with black pants and heels. As a person who loves fashion, I felt plain, but I figured I should be conservative on the first day, since I wanted my high school students to take me seriously.
It hit me that I would only be about six or seven years older than them and I freaked out even more. I reminded myself that I had been preparing for weeks; not only that, I had been preparing for years. I graduated from TCU with not only my bachelor’s degree in Secondary Social Studies Education but I also graduated with my master’s degree in Secondary Education. It was time and I was ready. So why were my hands shaking and my forehead drenched in sweat?
The day went by in a blur. With my freshman classes, I think they were just as nervous as I was. It was their first day in high school and sensing their apprehension eased my own. My sophomores, on the other hand, were all excited to see each other after the summer break and seemed very curious about who this new teacher was. Since the students all seemed to like my activities well enough that first day, it made the rest of our time together enjoyable.
My entire first year went by in a blur. By spring break, I was ready for summer. My first year of teaching was exhausting and consisted of a number of triumphs and some failures. I experienced happy moments with my students and instances where I wanted to cry. However, I never cried in front of them. I was determined to stand strong in front of these high school kids.
One time I wanted to cry from embarrassment because of a video I had shown in class. It had been one of those mornings, and I needed something for my first and fifth period World Geography students to keep them at the same pace as my other classes. We were studying Western Europe and I had traveled to Paris a few summers before, so I went into our school library’s video closet and checked out a Globe Trekker episode on Paris. As I watched the video, I composed questions for the students to answer. The students watched the portion of the video that I had planned, and answered the questions I had prepared, but I had miscalculated and we still had fifteen minutes left in class. I figured I would just let them keep watching the video.
It was a Globe Trekker episode for goodness sake—how bad could it be? Well… it turned out to be a little inappropriate when the guide in the video visited the Moulin Rouge. I began to feel uneasy but I reminded myself that Globe Trekker episodes air on network television and teachers across the country use the videos in their Geography classes. Nevertheless, I moved a little closer to the computer… just in case. Sure enough, for a good three seconds there was a shot of a topless Moulin Rouge dancer. I swear it was the longest three seconds of my life.
It was one of those moments when your brain goes faster than your body. I knew I needed to turn off the video and turn it off fast, but my hands fumbled as some of the students, mostly boys, laughed and told me to leave it on. It was a good thing the room was dark or they would have seen my face turn as red as the skirt on the Moulin Rouge dancer!
I thought for sure this was going to be the end of my teaching career. There I was, a new teacher, and my students saw a topless girl dancing on a big screen! Yes, a big screen. My first year took place pre-Smart Board when I hooked my personal laptop up to a projector to play videos.
For the rest of the day, I had students walking into my classroom saying things like “I heard we get to watch a cool video today, Ms. Townsend,” and “I can’t wait to see this video I have been hearing about all day!” I could not stop thinking about what had happened, replaying the class period over and over in my mind. Of course, I did not show that video the rest of the day despite the complaints that first period was able to see it and the rest of my classes were not. I thought I would never recover from the embarrassment.
Looking back on that day, I laugh about it. I learned my lesson. I no longer show a video in my classroom that I have not watched all the way through. I told few people at the time because I was so embarrassed and afraid for my job! The teachers I did share this with thought it was hilarious and recounted their own classroom mistakes and the lessons they learned. Now I can file this away as a valuable lesson to share with new teachers.
— Adrienne Townsend —

Ooh La La

Chicken Soup for the Soul: The Spirit of Christmas front cover

The Spirit of Christmas

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Thanksgiving is one of my favorite days of the year because it reminds us to give thanks and to count our blessings. Suddenly, so many things become so little when we realize how blessed and lucky we are. ~Joyce Giraud

“Can we please host Thanksgiving dinner?” my eleven-year-old daughter asked. I wanted to respond, “Not if I can help it.” I hated cooking, cleaning and anything related to hosting a dinner for twenty people. Going over to my sister’s house sounded much more appealing.
But I knew that wasn’t the answer she was looking for. Instead, I responded like any mom would who is hoping to avoid a debate. “Maybe.”
“YES!” My daughter screamed as she balled up her fist, moving it in a downward motion like she had just won the lottery.
“Why are you excited and saying ‘yes’?” I asked.
“Because ‘maybe’ always ends up being ‘yes,’ ” she said.
She had me there. Usually, her lawyer-level debate skills ended up turning my “maybes” into a “yes.”
“It isn’t a ‘yes’ yet. Now, go get ready for school.”
Over the next week, I made a long list of all the reasons why going to Auntie’s house for Thanksgiving would be far superior to hosting at our house. And then I won a turkey from a contest at the YMCA. If I didn’t know any better, I would have thought that my daughter had somehow rigged the contest.
“Guess who won a turkey?” I told her.
“YES!” Again, my daughter screamed as she pumped her fist.
“There you go saying ‘yes’ again. You didn’t even guess who,” I said.
“I can tell that you won, and that means we are going to host Thanksgiving,” she replied.
“Why do you want to host so badly anyway?” I asked.
“I want to decorate the house, bake, and have everyone here,” she said.
Sure, that’s easy for her to say. She doesn’t have to go to the grocery store, clean the entire house, and spend days cooking and baking. Or does she? If she wants this so badly, it only makes sense that she complete all the tasks involved in hosting.
“Okay, but you are going to have to grocery shop, clean, and help me every step of the way,” I said.
“YES!” Again, my daughter screamed as she pumped her fist.
Clearly, she had no idea what she was in for.
Nevertheless, when we went to the crowded grocery store before Thanksgiving, she was unfazed. She maintained her sunny disposition when we cleaned the house.
And then, when I didn’t think it was possible to be any happier, she looked elated when we cooked and baked.
When the big day came, and we were all seated around the table, I thought about all the preparations. My daughter had never complained and maintained a smile even when she did the less appealing things like taking out the garbage or cleaning the dirty dishes. Her enthusiasm was infectious, and I might even go so far as to say it was fun to host. The best part was spending time with her and realizing that something I thought was tedious could be fun.
“Mom, can we host Christmas?” she asked at the dinner table.
Even though I enjoyed hosting, I thought we were getting a little ahead of ourselves by discussing this before Thanksgiving was over.
“Maybe.”
“YES!” Again, my daughter screamed as she pumped her fist as if she had just won the lottery.
Looks like we will be hosting Christmas, too.
— Cheryl Maguire —

To Host or Not to Host?

My Kind (of) America

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There shall be eternal summer in the grateful heart. ~Celia Thaxter

Out of all the seasons in the year, there’s no denying that summertime holds a special kind of magic. It’s the time when fireflies and fireworks light up dark, starry nights. A time when long, sunshine-soaked days are filled with trips to swimming pools and lakes, slip and slides, and snow cones.
But my favorite part of summer is baseball.
Baseball, to me, not only epitomizes summer, but also the heart-warming pride and patriotism of serving on active duty in this great country. And once you serve in the military, celebrations of patriotism and everything that comes with it will never be the same in your heart.
I had served on active duty for eight years and separated, while my husband had remained in the service. We had just been re-assigned to Maryland with the Air Force, and after waiting for months, summer finally came. We found ourselves at a baseball game in the Washington Nationals stadium.
I was not prepared for the overwhelming flood of emotion and pride that would come that day in the ballpark. You see, it was Military Appreciation Day.
The day started with a ceremony honoring World War II veterans. Some were on walkers, some in wheelchairs, but the pride radiating from these brave soldiers was unmistakable as their smiles and tears lit up the stadium on the big broadcasting screen.
Members from each branch of the armed services proudly marched out onto the field, each service flag held and presented with perfect precision.
Goosebumps shot down my arms as the Air Force Color Guard presented the nation’s colors, and the National Anthem was sung.
During the fourth inning, the scoreboard lit up with an announcement for fans to stand and wave their caps in salute to veterans. That was quite a sight — everyone in the stadium on their feet and waving.
But it was the seventh-inning stretch that had me fighting back tears.
A long-time baseball tradition, the seventh-inning stretch is the time when the audience sways and sings “Take Me Out to the Ballgame.” Often, “God Bless America” is played in addition to it, or sometimes replaces it entirely.
However, on this day, just before the stretch, the announcer asked all members who were serving on active duty and veterans in the audience to please stand.
I hadn’t expected to be recognized, and was a little embarrassed actually to call attention to ourselves and stand. But we stood.
Scattered around the stadium, people got to their feet and stood, while the crowd roared around us. They didn’t have to acknowledge us, and no one asked them to clap; they could have just as easily continued with their conversations and food. But they didn’t.
Several people close to us clasped our shoulders or took our hands and said, “Thank you.” Even people who weren’t close enough to touch made eye contact with us and mouthed those two simple words.
As a service member, we don’t often stop to think about what those simple, yet very heartfelt thank-yous mean. We aren’t a group that tends to call attention to ourselves, and being recognized for acts of bravery, sacrifice, and heroism can actually be difficult to accept. “It’s just what we do,” we say. Or, “Anyone in my shoes would do the same.”
But that day, the flood of a thousand thank-yous, both said and unsaid, wrapped around us in a blanket of gratitude. It was in the eyes of a little girl with a Popsicle-stained face. A teenager who stopped texting long enough to look up. A set of parents wearing the unmistakable look of hope, pride, and fear because they, too, had a loved one serving somewhere in the world.
There were looks that said:
Thank you for serving, to protect me and my family.
Thank you for volunteering, wherever the military takes you, to protect us. Because you answered the call of service, millions of Americans can sleep safely in their beds, while someone keeps an ever vigilant watch. Thank you for standing up and saying yes, while so many others cannot, or even will not.
Thank you for your sacrifice, and for the sacrifices your family makes, to preserve and protect our great nation.
Thank you, thank you, thank you.
One of the first things we learned in the military is that it is an honor to serve. It’s why we adhere to customs and courtesies, protocols and tradition as deeply as we do. We honor those who have come before us; we honor each other; we honor our heroes and our fallen. We honor our country.
When the days grow long and warm, my mind often floats back to the overwhelming feeling of gratitude and honor we felt that day, as thousands of people we didn’t know cheered for us: their service members and veterans.
The knowledge that I’ve served in the armed forces is always there, even if it’s not always front and center. But the legacy of having served holds a special place for me during the summer.
That day, and that particular seventh-inning stretch, forever linked summertime and the honor of being trusted to serve deep in my heart.
~Kristi Adams
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Seventh-Inning Stretch

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I could never stay long enough on the shore; the tang of the untainted, fresh, and free sea air was like a cool, quieting thought. ~Helen Keller

This time, I don’t give the drain rack a second glance. Someone else can stack the glasses and Slide the cutting board back into its narrow cubby. The plate with eggs baked on by the microwave Can sit and soak. I’m out the back door. The shed smells of mildew from The left-in-the-rain lifejackets; Remembered and stowed in September. And who took apart these paddles? Just because it’s November doesn’t mean I’m in for the season. It’s worth it, these pesky preparations, To skim along the still waters And push away the lake fog with the blunt, blue nose Of my little kayak. Let the bills wait. Leave the cellphone on the kitchen counter. There will be time enough to grade papers tomorrow. Here is my peace. Just me and the sky and this boat. And sometimes the dog.























— Ilana Long —

Three O’Clock on Phantom Lake

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Having a simplified, uncluttered home is a form of self-care. ~Emma Scheib

I used to make the same New Year’s resolution every year — to simplify my life and make time for me — but I was always too busy to stick with it for very long. Change is not easy for me. I liked helping people and hated to say “no” when I was asked for help. I was so overcommitted that it felt like I was dragging an anchor around all the time. I didn’t have time to write, quilt, or just sit and read a book.
I often jumped in the car, backed out of the driveway and forgot where I was going. I once forgot my son! I had dropped him off for his swimming lesson and then gone on to do errands. When I got home, I thought, Where’s Darren? Then I remembered where I had left him. I screeched into the parking lot, and he was sitting on the curb crying. I felt terrible, and I was cured… for a while.
I soon went back to overcommitting but became an avid list maker. That kept me a little better organized. If I did something that was not on the list, I would write it down just so I could cross it off! It made me feel more productive when I could see all the things I had accomplished at the end of the day.
I thought the lists would help me accomplish things more effectively so I would have time for myself each day. Instead, I felt tired all the time, and it was hard to fall asleep as I mentally went over my to-do list for the next day. I was stressed and miserable.
I was always doing five things at once but never felt like I was doing a good job at anything. Once, while hosting a meeting for my Girl Scouts’ parents, I heard a little snicker or two every time I turned around to write something on the board. Later when I got home and changed my clothes, I found that when I rushed to get my pants out of the dryer, an extra pair of underwear had clung to the inside and hung over right in the back. I was mortified!
As I ran from task to task, I could never outrun the feeling that something was missing; that was real happiness, which seemed just out of reach. I felt like I was missing a key piece of the instructions on how to put my life together.
My real awakening came about in a strange way a few years ago. We were having the inside of our house painted and so we had to move all the knickknacks, curtains and accessories out of the painters’ way as they moved from room to room. We put most of these items in the garage. We lived a simpler life — without stacks of magazines, photos and “treasures” — while our house was transformed with new, restful colors.
Somehow, we got along quite well without all the items we had collected over the years. We decided to think hard about what we would put back. Layers of lace curtains were replaced with simple, sheer curtains in the living room. Across the back of the house, we left the windows with just the lovely, wooden blinds that had been overshadowed by curtains before. My husband painted the old, crazed chandeliers black and they looked brand-new!
And so it went from room to room. We eliminated many decorations that friends and family had thoughtfully given us, because they made the rooms feel small and cluttered. Even though I hadn’t wanted to hurt anyone’s feelings, it was liberating to put back only the things we really wanted. The house felt so much more open, peaceful and beautiful.
When I started to hang our calendar back up, I noticed how full each day was. Every square was filled in. I decided to continue my decluttering with the calendar.
It was near the end of July, so I started “clearing” August and September. I kept doctors’ appointments, family events and commitments to church. But I removed extra tasks I had taken on that left me very little time to relax, read or spend time with family.
At first, people were surprised when I told them in the most loving way I could that I wouldn’t be able to help them. Over time, I got used to saying it and they got used to hearing it. Now, I think carefully before I take on anything new.
I am more relaxed, and I have found ways to help in advisory capacities instead. I also review projects via e-mail rather than committing to weekly or monthly meetings. The funny thing is that stepping back has allowed other people to step forward and realize their potential.
I still make lists to keep myself organized, but I am down to one page. I feel like I have blessed others by donating our unused items to charity. But, most of all, I schedule time for me each day — to do what I want. The uncluttered beauty of our home and schedule gives me great peace and joy.
— Judee Stapp —

The Cleanup

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