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Revenge of the Fifth-Grade GirlsBy Carolyn Magner Mason

A mother cannot force her daughters to become sisters. She cannot make them

be friends or companions or even cohorts in crime. But, if she's very lucky, they findsisterhood for themselves and have one true ally for life. My daughters did not seem

likely candidates for sisterly love. They are as different as night and day, and ascontrary as any two girls living under the same roof can possibly manage.

My youngest daughter, Laura, is smart, athletic and good at most everything she

tries. But for her, friendships are tricky. When, at seven years old, she was thrust

into the world of lunch pals and sleepovers, she struggled to survive.Catherine, on the other hand, sits at the top of the elementary school pecking

order. A bright, popular and beautiful fifth-grader, she is usually surrounded by abevy of adoring girlfriends. When you are in second grade, a word or nod from a

fifth-grade girl is the greatest thing that can happen. But Catherine and her friendsseldom noticed her sister's valiant attempts to be noticed.

One hectic morning, while getting ready for school, both girls began begging for anew hairstyle. Sighing, I gathered brushes, combs and pins and quickly created new

looks. I braided Laura's wispy locks into a snazzy side-braid. I combed Catherine's

shiny black hair into a sleek, French twist. They twirled in front of the mirror,pleased with what I'd done.

Laura bounced out the door, swinging her braid proudly. But at school, one girl

pointed at her and whispered to the other girls. Then the girl walked up to Lauraand asked in a scathing tone, "What's with the stinking braid?"

Laura crumbled. After getting permission from her teacher, she went to thebathroom, where she sat and cried in an empty stall. Then she splashed cold water

on her face and bravely returned to the classroom - braid intact.That afternoon, she broke my heart with her sad tale. How could I have sent her

out wearing a stinking braid? How could I have set her back in her meager attemptsto fit in with the other girls? I fought back my tears as I drove my girls home.

Hearing her sister's sorrow, Catherine sat in stony silence, and as I often do, I

wished they had the kind of bond that would allow them to reach out to each other.I barely noticed Catherine spent more time on the phone than usual that evening.

The next afternoon, when I pulled to the front of the carpool line, I discovered asmall miracle had occurred. There stood Laura, surrounded by the smartest, cutest,

most popular fifth-grade girls. My tiny daughter glowed with utter astonishment asthey twirled her around, complimented her and focused a brilliant light of attention

upon her. And, to my amazement, every single one wore a side-braid, exactly like

the one Laura had worn the day before. Ten stinking braids, I thought, as I tried toswallow the lump lodged in my throat.

"I don't know what happened!" exclaimed Laura, clambering into the van. "Ilooked up, and all the girls were wearing my braid." She grinned all the way home,

arms wrapped around skinny knees, reliving her short life's happiest moment.I glanced at Catherine in the rearview mirror, and I think she winked at me. I'm

not sure.

Winners Never Quit

By Lisa Nichols



I had been swimming competitively for about five years and was ready to quit,

not because I had satisfied my desire to swim, but because I felt I was horrible at it.I was often the only African American at a swim competition, and our team could not

afford anything close to the great uniforms the other teams were wearing. Worst of all though, and my number-one reason for wanting to quit, was that I kept receiving

"Honorable Mentions" at each competition, which simply means, "Thank you forcoming. You did not even rank first, second or third, but we don't want you to gohome with nothing, so here is something to hide later." Any athlete knows that you

don't want to have a bookshelf or a photo album full of "Honorable Mentions." They

call that the "show-up ribbon"; you get one just because you showed up.One hot summer day, the very day before a big swim meet, I decided to break

the news to my grandma that I was quitting the swim team. On the one hand Ithought it was a big deal because I was the only athlete in the family, but on the

other hand, because no one ever came to see me compete, I didn't think it would bea major issue. You have to know my grandma - she stood on tiptoe to five-feet-two-

inches and weighed a maximum ninety-five pounds, but could run the entireoperation of her house without ever leaving her sofa or raising her voice. As I sat

next to my grandma, I assumed my usual position of laying my big head on her tiny

little lap so that she could rub it.When I told her of my desire to quit swimming, she abruptly pushed my head off

of her lap, sat me straight up facing her and said, "Baby, remember these words: 'A

quitter never wins and a winner never quits.' Your grandmother didn't raise nolosers or quitters. You go to that swim meet tomorrow, and you swim like you are a

grandchild of mine, you hear?"I was too afraid to say anything but, "Yes, ma'am."

The next day we arrived at the swim meet late, missing my group of swimmers inthe fifteen/sixteen age group. My coach insisted I be allowed to swim with the next

group, the next age older. I could have just as easily crawled out of the gym. Iknew she was including me in the race so our long drive would not be wasted, and

she had no expectations whatsoever that I would come in anything but eighth - and

only that because there were not nine lanes.As I mounted the board, I quickly noticed that these girls with their skintight

caps, goggles and Speedo suits were here to do one thing - kick my chocolate butt!All of a sudden my grandma's words rang in my head, Quitters never win and

winners never quit, quitters never win and winners never quit.SPLASH!

Quitters never win and winners never quit, quitters never win and winners never

quit.I was swimming harder than I'd ever swum before. As I drew my right arm back,

I noticed I was tied with one person. I assumed we were battling for eighth placeand I refused to finish dead last, so I added more kick on the last two hundred

yards. Quitters never win and winners never quit, quitters never win and winners never

quit.I hit the wall and looked to the left and to the right for the swimmers who had

beat me, but no one was there. They must have gotten out of the water already.I raised my head to see my coach screaming hysterically. My eyes followed her

pointing finger and I couldn't believe what I saw. The other swimmers had justreached the halfway point of the pool! That day, at age fifteen, I broke the national

seventeen/eighteen-year-old 400-freestyle record. I hung up my honorablementions and replaced them with a huge trophy.

Back at Grandma's, I laid my head on her lap and told her about our great race.



Always a Nurse

By Shelly Burke

Some people credit their decision to become a nurse to a life-changing event.Not me. I just always knew I wanted to become a nurse. From my early years, Iused my (sometimes willing, sometimes unwilling) sisters as patients. My dolls were

constantly bandaged and dotted with marks from ballpoint pen "shots."

I loved nursing school and was filled with pride the first time I put on myuniform. I even liked the cap! Graduating from nursing school ranks as one of the

happiest days of my life, as does the day I opened the letter announcing I hadpassed State Boards. At long last, my dream had come true. I was a nurse!

After graduation I worked in a psychiatric hospital, a nursing home, a telemetryunit and doing private duty with sick children. My satisfaction and confidence in

doing assessments, starting IVs, learning medications, and relating to patients andtheir families confirmed my career choice.

When our first child was born, I quit working outside the home. I loved being

with my new baby. Then several months ago, I realized it had been almost threeyears since I had worked as a "real" nurse. Sure, I continued to read nursing journals and attend a nursing workshop occasionally, but the advances and changes

in technology, medications and procedures were overwhelming. Could I ever find myplace in nursing again?

I began to doubt my career choice. Had it been a mistake to spend so muchtime, not to mention money, on a career I was going to practice for only a few

years? Did what I learned in school so long ago really matter? Could I ever be a"real" nurse again?

A few days later, our three-year-old took a fall down the front steps. With myheart pounding, I assessed him for a potential head injury. His pupils were equal in

size, he was alert and annoyed at my assessment, and his motor abilities appeared

normal as he chased his little sister across the yard.I breathed a sigh of relief, and several other events from the last few days

popped into my mind. I remembered the phone call from my mom, and myexplanation to her what a stroke was and how it might affect her friend.

I thought of the evening before, when I reassured our neighbor, whose husbandhad just returned home from the hospital after having a serious heart attack. I told

her she could call me anytime, and I'd be right over. We hugged, and through her

tears she said, "I'm so glad to have a nurse next door!"And I recalled another day when I counseled my father-in-law on the importance

of taking the whole course of antibiotics he'd been prescribed, and not stopping themedication when he felt better.

As I looked back, I realized I don't have to work in a big hospital or know all thedetails of the latest high-tech procedure to be a nurse. I use my education every

day, and will continue to use it every day of my life. My career choice was the rightone.

I am, and always will be, a nurse.

Three Strikes of Life

By Michael Finley

The Organic Produce Little League team was taking pregame batting practice.



The stars were smacking the ball hard. Everyone else was missing. After a bit, anold man in brown suit pants put his fingers through the chain links of the backstop.

He looked eighty, though his shoes looked only half that."You kids want to hit the ball better?" he asked. The better players laughed.

What did an old man know about hitting? But a handful of the lesser playerstentatively put their hands up. They were willing to try anything.

"Listen up," the old man said. His hands trembled until they fastened around analuminum bat. Then they seemed strong. His eyes were red and his complexionwas mottled, with a stubble of white whisker on his cheek.

"You get three strikes," he said. "Each one's different. Each strike, you change

who you are."The kids squinted.

"The first pitch is your rookie pitch. The pitcher doesn't know you. Anything canhappen. Maybe you close your eyes, you get lucky and beat one back up the middle.

"But usually you don't. You miss, and all the weaknesses of the rookie comedown on you. You're thinking about failing, and getting ready to fail. You're scared

of the pitcher, scared of the ball. You get revved up. You forget what your coachessay and swing crazy, hoping to get lucky. Or you stand like a statue while the

umpire calls a strike.

"Most young hitters give up now. They swing at the next two just to get it over.They don't grow in the at bat. The bat's a white flag, and they're waving it tosurrender.

"To have a good rookie pitch, you have to be good inside. Good rookies go up tothe plate respecting the pitcher and humble about their odds. They respect the ball,

and they shut out everything else."You need courage on the first strike pitch, because you're a stranger in a

strange land. You put yourself in harm's way, close to the ball, close to the plate."Maybe you'll get drilled. It'll hurt. But only a bit. You stand close anyway,

because good things happen when you put yourself in a little danger."You need faith that if you do it in the right spirit, things will work out.

"That's the rookie pitch.

"By the second pitch, you're in your prime. Now you know what the at bat isabout. You've seen the pitch. You know what you have to do to turn on it. The first

strike filled you with adrenaline. Now you're strong. You feel electrified. You feelgood. You grip the bat tight.

"The prime pitch is when good things usually happen. You're ahead of thepitcher, even with the first strike. Because you know what he's got, and you feel

good. If you fail on the prime pitch, it's because maybe you felt too good. People in

their prime get overconfident. They swing too hard. They miss."That's the prime pitch." The old man spat but the spit dripped out at about five

points, and he had to wipe some off his lip."Third pitch. Now you're a veteran. You're at the end of your rope. If you fail

now, there won't be another pitch. It's life or death. You're like an old prizefighter,and you stand almost perfectly still, waiting for your moment. The bat's loose and

tight at the same time."You're not relying on luck, like the first pitch. Or talent, like the second pitch.

Now you're calling on your guts, and everything you've learned."You mess up on the veteran pitch when you're angry at the pitcher for making

you miss the other two pitches. The bad veteran is always making excuses. He'smaking up excuses for missing before he misses.

"But the good veteran welcomes the battle. It's serious, but it gives him joy,too. He knows that baseball means pain, and he welcomes the suffering. He may go

down, but he's grateful he ever got up. If he goes down, it will be swinging."



"Sir, what if you strike out?" asked one kid, shielding the sun from his eyes withhis glove.

"You just hope there's another game, and you're in it." The old man scanned thehorizon to the west. "I gotta go, kids. Good luck out there." And he turned and was

gone.The kids mumbled as they got their equipment together. Did anyone know who

that guy was? Maybe a retired sportswriter, someone suggested. Or an ex-player.Maybe even a Hall of Famer, one wishful thinker said.

"No, it's just my dad," said a slender infielder. "He was in the sixties."

The players nodded sagely and they took the field. In the game, the Organic

Produce team skunked the Subway Sandwich team 14–3. And every one of the kidswho listened got a hit.

Jackie's Little Sister

By Lauren Alyson Schara, 16

It was hard being the youngest of two sisters - I got all the hand-me-downs, Inever got to do anything first and my teachers always said, "Oh, you're Jackie's littlesister." It was so hard not to be like, "No, I am LAUREN!" I never liked being the

youngest.Don't get me wrong. Jackie and I got along - with a few fights here and there.

We're two years apart, and I am one grade behind her. But sometimes it just reallyused to bug me to be called "Jackie's little sister" all the time.

Then a few years ago, Jackie and I were in a very bad car accident. She cameout with a few bumps and bruises, but she was basically okay. I, on the other hand,

had a broken arm and, worse, about 100 stitches in my face. Needless to say, Ididn't feel like the belle of the ball when I looked into the mirror.

About a month after the accident, I returned to school. The stitches were gone,but a very large scar remained. Jackie reassured me that I looked great and I

shouldn't worry about the scar. (If you have a big sister, you know that this meansa lot coming from her.) My friends did their best not to say anything and not to

stare, but the scar was very noticeable.One day, we were riding home from school on the bus. This guy named Jordan,

who rode the bus with us, started teasing me about my scar. He is in the samegrade as Jackie and older than me. She was sitting pretty far from where I was

sitting and didn't hear him. When we got off the bus, I didn't say anything to her

about what he had done. Almost every day, he would do it again, and I would getoff the bus crying. This went on for about a month, until I finally broke down and

told Jackie. She was furious.The day after I told her what had been happening, when Jordan made fun of me

the next time, Jackie stood up, walked to where he was sitting and said something

into his ear. I don't know exactly what she said, but he never said one word to meagain.

So, even though getting all of the hand-me-downs may not be the best, I amvery grateful to have a big sister like Jackie looking out for me. I know that if I were

ever in trouble, she would come running.Ever since that day, when anyone asks, I tell them, "Yep, I'm 'Jackie's little

sister.'" And I am proud of it.

Back When

By Audrey Curran



It was an American tradition - a real, honest-to-goodness game of sandlot

baseball - and it was being revived. Gone were the uniforms and the uniformedchildren, identical in age and size. Gone were the tension-ridden parents overseeing

the nerve-racking games. Gone were the agitated umpires, managers, assistantmanagers and assistant-assistant managers. Gone were the scheduled "time-outs"

while harried officials consulted section B of article 2 of part 1 of the ever-so-officialrule book.

It was wonderful! We held an old-time, Saturday afternoon softball game. We

had invited twenty friends and neighbors to come; twenty-five showed up, hesitantly

eager to play. Just minutes after the game began a carload of strangers slowed towatch, and then asked if they could join the fun. The players were men and women,

boys and girls, ranging in age from eight to sixty-eight."You're out!"

"No, I'm not!""I said you're out!"

"You don't know what you're talking about!"It was good old-fashioned democracy in action.

"I don't see too well without my glasses," explained the guy who had been my

neighbor for ten years and whose conversation had consisted of tight-lippedgreetings. "You take first," he said to my son, "and I'll go way out in the field so Iwon't mess up an important play." It was teamwork because the individual wanted

to do what was best for the team, not because some coach was shoving "teamwork"down his throat. When one oldster got tired, he sent a youngster in to relieve him,

while he sat on a haystack and sipped some refreshment. Nobody kept score.Everybody kept score. Nobody cared what inning it was, and the game ended when

there was no one left who wasn't too tired to play. Best of all, everybody had agrand time and went away wanting to do it again.

I have silently watched progress replace country roads with freeways and cornergrocery stores with sterile supermarkets. But something in me hesitated to accept

progress when organized Little League games started replacing spontaneous

neighborhood softball games.It is not just nostalgia. It is a memory revived and brought to life for a gathering

of friends and family. But I feel just a little sad that a scene so interwoven with mychildhood and the childhoods of so many Americans has become a novelty in this

country. What happened to that empty lot that used to be on everybody's block?

Dumbo

By Laura Vickery Hart

I was the nurse caring for the couple’s newborn first child after his cesareanbirth. Since the mother was asleep under general anesthesia, the pediatrician and Itook our tiny charge directly to the newborn nursery where we introduced the

minutes-old baby to his daddy. While cuddling his son for the first time, he

immediately noticed the baby’s ears conspicuously standing out from his head. Heexpressed his concern that some kids might taunt his child, calling him names like

“Dumbo” after the fictional elephant with unusually large ears. The pediatricianexamined the baby and reassured the new dad that his son was healthy - the ears

presented only a minor cosmetic problem, which could be easily corrected during



early childhood.The father was finally optimistic about his child, but was still worried about his

wife’s reaction to those large protruding ears.“She doesn’t take things as easily as I do,” he worried.

By this time, the new mother was settled in the recovery room and ready to meether new baby. I went along with the dad to lend some support in case this

inexperienced mother became upset about her baby’s large ears. The infant wasswaddled in a receiving blanket with the head covered for the short trip through thechilly air-conditioned corridor. I placed the tiny bundle in his mother’s arms and

eased the blanket back so that she could gaze upon her child for the first time.

She took one look at her baby’s face and looked to her husband and gasped, “Oh,Honey! Look! He has your ears!”

I Learned the Truth at Thirteen

By Carol Ayer

Big things were happening in my life the summer after I turned thirteen. I had just graduated from junior high, and I’d finally had a chance to dance with John, the

boy I’d had a crush on all year. In the fall, I would begin high school. It was all veryexciting, but a little scary, too. At least I knew I could always return to the safety of

my family if things got rough.Then, in the middle of summer, my parents shook my entire world and turned it

upside down when they told me they were getting a divorce. When my mother said, “We think it’s for the best,” the words rang hollow in my ears. For the best? How

could that be? I was shocked. I couldn’t believe that our family was going to breakup. Of course, at some level, I always knew my parents weren’t very happy. They

were rarely affectionate with one another, and they often fought. But I still didn’t

want anything to change. I wanted my family to stay the same - it was all I hadever known.

My life changed quite radically after the divorce. My mother and I moved into asmall apartment across town, while my father and brother, Bill, stayed in our house.I now became a visitor whenever I went to see my dad and Bill on the weekends. I

was at an age when I might be expected to start dating, but it was my mother whobegan going out for dinner and to parties with men she’d met at work or through

friends. Then she did the unthinkable - she became engaged! I was immediatelysuspicious of my soon-to-be stepfather, Dan. I resisted all his attempts to get to

know me. I was, in fact, pretty rude to him. Things were definitely bleak.Even though divorce was not such an uncommon occurrence in the suburb where

I lived, all of my friends’ parents were still together. My friends couldn’t relate to mysituation and wondered why I was now quiet all the time. I still got together with

them to go out to football games or dances, but I found I wasn’t enjoying life theway I used to. I was clearly depressed, especially after Dan and my mother married

and I realized that there was no way that things could change back to the way theywere.

My salvation came from the last person on earth that I would have expected -Dan, my new stepfather. Even though I wasn’t very nice to him, he never gave up

on me. Gradually, I began to trust him. I realized that we actually had some thingsin common, especially when it came to movies and TV shows. We spent a lot of time

together hanging out watching TV. That gave us a chance to talk and get to knoweach other. Then Dan invited me to go running, and I connected with it.



Better still, Dan showed an interest in me that I had never experienced from myown father. Dan was always around when I needed advice on school, friends or

boys. I also learned a lot by watching Dan and my mom together. They were oftenplayful and affectionate with each other, so I saw firsthand what a good marriage

looks like. Once I began to warm up to Dan, the three of us began spending a lot of time together. We often went out to eat, took short trips, and Dan and I even

entered races and ran together. Eventually, I discovered that I finally had the happyfamily that I had always wanted.

I now realize my parents were right about getting the divorce. Their breakup was

the best thing to happen for all of us. My father also found happiness - he remarried

and had another child, my half-sister, Michelle.At thirteen, I learned an important truth - change is not always the worst thing

that can happen. Sometimes, it is just what we need the most.

Not Just Another Birthday

By Janie Emaus

There are weekends and then there are weekends. Those minutes within hourswithin days which are completely perfect. Such was how I spent the last few days of

my forty-ninth year, as I approached a half a century young.I was given the best surprise of my life - a weekend at the Calistoga Hot Springs

with my best friend, my sister, Arlie P.From the moment Arlie picked me up at the airport with a happy birthday balloon

and a smile as large as the universe, I knew I was in for something special.We ate lunch in one of those elegant restaurants that one reads about in books

and watches on the silver screen. The type of restaurant with high ceilings, spaciousgrounds and gracious waiters. The type we all deserve to eat at more often.

Unfortunately, life seems to thread us between one obligation and another. And not

until we're about to unravel do we treat ourselves to what we deserved all along.After a fabulous meal we checked into our room at the spa. Minutes later we

were sprawled out on lawn chairs, basking in the warmth of the afternoon.We came alive with sun-drunk conversation. Our laughter filled the air, bounced

off the water, hung over us like a halo.

As the heat seeped into my skin, the tensions eased from my body. I knew I hadarrived at a time and place in my life with more things to be thankful for than could

be packed into my tiny, unorganized suitcase.A few hours later, we strolled down Main Street, two giddy women. We got

stares from the young men. Of course, not quite the same type our daughters wouldget. Nonetheless, we were noticed.

We disappeared into the dress shops and gift shops. And we talked.We talked about growing older and the passage of time. Twenty years ago our

conversations revolved around diapers and sleepless nights. Ten years ago aroundGirl Scout cookies and Little League. Today our talk centers on college education

and retirement plans. Yet while the topics may be different, we are still talking. Oursisterly bond has endured the inevitable changes of growing older. Of moving out of

our twin beds and into separate worlds.Later that night, saturated with Mexican food and beer, we crawled into bed and

tried to stay awake during a TV drama. After all, we weren't that old yet. Withinminutes, my sister and I were deep inside our own dreams.

Saturday morning started off with coffee, bagels and more talk. Pumped full of caffeine, we took a long bike ride during which we tried to talk as we huffed and



puffed our way over the hills and back down along the highway.Finally it was time for our treatments.

We were given lockers and keys and told to undress. Wrapped in towels, Arlieand I drank flavored water, ate sweet oranges and whispered. At that moment, I

was so wonderfully thankful for this sister sitting beside me. For all of our silly fightsover clothes and makeup. For all of the much-cherished conversations yet to come.

Nervously, I followed the attendant down the hall into the mud room. Sheinstructed me to place my hands on the sides of the tub, balance over the mud andthen settle in. It felt warm against my buttocks and back. Soon, the girls were

packing us in as if we were going to be shipped across the country.

And as long as my sister went with me, I was willing to go anywhere.Next, we sat in hot tubs, scrubbing our finger and toe nails, sipping water. I

knew my sister was getting hungry when she started eating the cucumbers floatingin the drinking water. This was followed by the steam spa in which my sister kept

sticking her head out the hole for fresh air.Once we'd had enough heat, I was led down a long hallway into a small room,

much like an examination room at the doctor's. Here, I spent fifteen minutes of totalrelaxation with cucumbers on my eyelids. Soothing music drifted into the air. My

thoughts flowed randomly. I nearly fell asleep.

The treatment ended with a full-body massage. I can only say that a person hasto experience this for herself. I know I can't wait for another one.

After two and a half hours of pampering, we strolled out (even stroll is too fast a

word for our movements) and collapsed onto the outside chairs. The cool air playedagainst our softened skins. Flowery scents drifted past on the wings of our

contented sighs.Eventually, we gained enough strength to walk back to our motel to get ready for

my birthday dinner. Despite our food arriving late and mosquitoes joining us fordessert, it was a perfect evening.

Over Sunday morning breakfast (yes, another meal!) we looked forward to nextyear's treatment, the main reason for coming to Calistoga, but certainly not the most

important one. Hot oils, mud baths, steam saunas, lotions and wraps can rejuvenate

wrinkled, tired skin. For a bit. A day. A week. A strong bond between sisters lastsforever, keeping one's soul rejuvenated for eternity.

A Batboy Looks Back

By Mark Stodghill

I was searching for baseball ghosts when I took my family on our first trip to the

Mall of America in Bloomington, Minnesota. We weren't there to shop. I simplywanted to find the site of where home plate had been at Metropolitan Stadium, the

former home of the Minnesota Twins major-league baseball team.I spent the best days of my boyhood - along with a couple of the worst days - at

Met Stadium as a batboy with the Twins. It was a great place to grow up. It'swhere I learned about sex, race and ethnic relations, and celebrity, and that baseball

players were a lot more human than they appeared on their bubble-gum cards.I'm old enough to have seen construction begin on the Met in 1955. I watched

the ballpark emerge from the surrounding corn and melon fields just off CedarAvenue, the road that ran past my boyhood home. I never saw brighter lights or

prettier emerald green grass than the first time I walked out on the runway andlooked around the Met diamond. And what a diamond it was.



But the shrine of my youth was torn down when the Twins moved to the HubertH. Humphrey Metrodome after the 1981 season. That hurt.

Now the nation's largest shopping mall, 4.2 million square feet, sits where theMet once stood. I don't know which is a greater example of gluttonous excess - the

overflowing cornucopia at the Mall of America or the greed of major-league baseballplayers who take stretch limos to their contract negotiations and expect multimillion-

dollar contracts for mediocre performances.Give me back the days when baseball players wore baggy flannel uniforms and

appreciated the lives they led and the people who cheered them.

I know we aren't supposed to live in the past, but when it comes to that 164-acre

site in Bloomington, I'd prefer to. It took about fifteen minutes to find, but therewas home plate embedded in the mall floor at Knott's Camp Snoopy. It was black,

bordered in gold and read: "Metropolitan Stadium. Home Plate. 1956–1981."We were the only ones looking at it. The other people were too busy racing to

the hundreds of stores they had to choose from. I would have settled for seeing aMet Stadium hot dog vendor.

"It's kind of sad. It's kind of like a tombstone to me," my wife said while lookingat home plate.

There was a time that I wished I was resting comfortably in a casket beneath

that home plate tombstone.It was a balmy summer day in 1964 and forty thousand fans were in the stands

watching the Twins play the perennial American League champion New York

Yankees.My main job that day was to make sure that the home plate umpire was supplied

with baseballs. The batter - I've forgotten if it was Mickey Mantle, Roger Maris,Harmon Killebrew, Tony Oliva, or one of the team's mere mortals - fouled off a half-

dozen pitches. Home plate umpire Nestor Chylak called time and signaled me tobring him a new batch of baseballs.

Not wanting to delay the game, I sprinted toward home plate. But my spikes gotcaught in the turf. I tripped and slid in the general direction of the plate. The

baseballs flew in all directions. Umpire Chylak got into his crouch, pumped his arms

and hollered "Safe!"About sixty major-league players and coaches, four umpires and forty thousand

fans were roaring. At me. If I could have crawled under the plate and hid, I wouldhave. I can honestly tell my kids that unless they break a law they'll never face a

more embarrassing moment as a teenager.After the game I remember Killebrew - my favorite Twin - and a half-dozen other

players smiling, patting me on the back and asking if I was all right. Twins trainer

Doc Lentz asked if I needed a whirlpool treatment. Even I was able to laugh at that.I went on to become the Twins' assistant equipment manager in 1967 before

entering the military. I returned to the team in the same capacity for the 1972 and'73 seasons. By that time I was the same age as some of the players. The best

stories from that era - while colorful - probably don't belong in a wholesomepublication.

When it comes to the spicier stuff I witnessed and heard, I'll live by the oldclubhouse adage: "What you see here, what you hear here, what you say here, when

you leave here, let it stay here."Those memories will never fade. But I wish Met Stadium was still standing and

that those players from my past were still able to play the game we all respected andcherished.



It's been years now since we had those classes with Dad in the game room. Weare grown with careers and wives of our own. At every challenge in life, my brothers

and I have frantically looked in attics, basements and storage sheds for ournotebooks. We can't find them anywhere.

At least once a month one of us has a situation where we need to call home andask Dad for his advice or guidance. We hesitantly pick up the phone to call him,

knowing good and well he's going to laugh and say, "Where's your notebook?"

Now We're Talkin'

By Denise Casaubon

It was late at night when they brought him up from the emergency departmentto the pediatric ICU. He'd been playing outside when he was run over by a car and

dragged down the street - by one of his parents, in a tragic accident. I felt intenselysad for parents I did not know.

He was bruised and bandaged and his four-year-old body seemed nearly lost onthe adult-size gurney. And he was alone. The horror and guilt of the accident had

distanced the parents; they'd gone home. I wanted to pick him up, hug him andassure him everything would all be okay. But instead I held his dirty, uninjured left

hand in mine and said a prayer.For the next two weeks he endured bandage changes and wound debridements

on every limb of his body, except the left arm. That one was reserved for all thepokes and pricks necessary for the many treatments he could not comprehend.

And he was still alone. The social worker explained his distraught parents wereseparated, barely coping. They just couldn't come. No wonder he hadn't spoken a

word since admission. Doctors found no "medical" explanation for his silence, yet noone could get him to talk.

Adding to our worries, his fifth birthday was the next day. Would his parents

show up? Thankfully, a young resident overheard our concerns. He said he wouldbuy the little guy a present, and we'd all celebrate together tomorrow night.

But why, for heaven's sake, would he buy him a high-powered water gun? Weshould have left the gift buying to a female. Nice try, but this toy wasn't somethingpractical the child could play with in the ICU. Or was it?

I filled the squirt gun with water and handed it to my little friend. "Any time yousay a word, any word, you can squirt me."

He smiled, but rolled over and went to sleep - on his fifth birthday - alone.At 5:00 a.m. I started the morning routines. Baths, blood draws, linen and

bandage changes.When I went into his room, he woke easily.

Then, "Hi!" he shouted, and blasted me in the face with water. At first, I didn'tknow whether to be glad or mad.

I sputtered, "What's your name?""Jason!" A spray of water soaked my hair.

"How old are you?""I'm five now!" He drenched my shirt. "What else do you want to know?"

I grabbed a towel and mopped my face. Now we're talkin'.



The Importance of Conscience

By Elisha M. Webster

I was faced with a decision. While delivering laundry into the appropriatebedrooms, I stumbled upon my thirteen-year-old sister's diary, a modern-day

Pandora's box, suffused with temptation. What was I to do? I had always been

jealous of my little sister. Her charming smile, endearing personality and manytalents threatened my place as leading lady. I competed with her tacitly and grew to

resent her natural abilities. I felt it necessary to shatter her shadow withachievements of my own. As a result, we seldom spoke. I sought opportunities to

criticize her and relished surpassing her achievements. Her diary lay at my feet, andI didn't think of the result of opening it. I considered not her privacy, the morality of

my actions, nor her consequential pain. I merely savored the possibility of diggingup enough dirt to soil my competitor's spotless record. I reasoned my iniquity as

sisterly duty. It was my responsibility to keep a check on her activities. It would bewrong of me not to.

I tentatively plucked the book from the floor and opened it, fanning through thepages, searching for my name, convinced that I would discover scheming and

slander. As I read, the blood ran from my face. It was worse than I suspected. Ifelt faint and slouched to the floor. There was neither conspiracy nor defamation.

There was a succinct description of herself, her goals and her dreams followed by ashort portrayal of the person who has inspired her most. I started to cry.

I was her hero. She admired me for my personality, my achievements and,ironically, my integrity. She wanted to be like me. She had been watching me for

years, quietly marveling over my choices and actions. I ceased reading, struck withthe crime I had committed. I had expended so much energy into pushing her away

that I had missed out on her.I had wasted years resenting someone capable of magic - and now I had violated

her trust. It was I who had lost something beautiful, and it was I who would never

allow myself to do such a thing again.Reading the earnest words my sister had written seemed to melt an icy barrier

around my heart, and I longed to know her again. I was finally able to put aside thepetty insecurity that kept me from her. On that fateful afternoon, as I put aside thelaundry and rose to my feet, I decided to go to her - this time to experience instead

of to judge, to embrace instead of to fight. After all, she was my sister.

Over the Wall

By Linda Coleman-Willis

I would not have been there except they had lowered the height requirement inthe late 1970s to recruit more minorities and women - and I was both a "minority"

and a "woman." Their goal was to recruit Asian and Latino men, but it also opened

the door for a "little" woman like me to get through. This was my chance - me,Linda Coleman - to become a deputy sheriff.

The day was young and overcast when I arrived at the police academy. But as

far as I was concerned, the sun was shining. I'd made it.It had been a long, grueling year getting to this point. I had taken a written test,

a psychological exam and an oral interview, and I had passed all three. Then thebackground investigation began. They investigated everyone, from my grandmother

in Texas, to my next-door neighbors, to the babysitter of my two small children.They knew everything about me from the day I was born.



As part of my qualification process I spent a day at a sheriff station with thecaptain. I was scrutinized, chastised and downright ostracized. It was no secret

how he felt; he never missed an opportunity to tell me. "Women don't belong on thedepartment, all gays should be taken out and shot, where do 'you people' get off

thinking you can do whatever you want nowadays?" If I heard one more story aboutthe "good ole days" when women were women and men were men and "you people"

knew your place, I think I would have puked.But all that was behind me now. I was at the academy, and I was going to be a

deputy sheriff. My excitement didn't last long.

My first encounter was with a twenty-year career officer, a sergeant nicknamed

"Goliath." He was six-feet-four-inches tall, and 300 pounds of solid muscle, to myfive-feet-three-inches and 118 pounds of woman. "Sgt. Goliath" let me know in no

uncertain terms he was not happy I was there. Like others in the department, hebelieved this was a "men only" profession. And it would suit many of them just fine

if it were "white men only."The sergeant never called me by name. It was always "little lady" or "little girl."

When he looked at me, he would stare as if he were looking right through me. Itwas apparent he was not going to make it easy. In fact, his job was to make it as

difficult as possible for me to pass the physical agility test, and he did a darn good

job.I had to run the mile, climb through one window and out another, walk a balance

beam five feet off the ground, pull a 150-pound mannequin thirty yards and push a

police car twenty feet, all in record time. And as the sergeant said before I began,"Look here, Little Lady, if you can't do all of these activities including pushing that

police car over here until it touches my kneecaps, I'm gonna have the pleasure of sending you home."

I completed each task, but every bone, muscle and fiber of my body ached. Icould hardly catch my breath. Some of the recruits passed out and had to be carried

off the course. My vision was blurred, my heart beat a mile a minute, and my earshummed, but I didn't pass out. In fact, I walked off the course on my own and felt

pride welling up inside. I had completed that obstacle course, and I was going to be

a deputy sheriff.But the smirk on the sergeant's face told me I was wrong. That's when I

discovered yet another challenge waiting for me. This time even I didn't know if Iwould be able to make it. My head ached, my legs were as heavy as lead, and my

arms felt as if someone had yanked them from their sockets.The ultimate challenge? Climbing a six-foot, solid concrete wall. If somehow you

were able to get through the physical agility test, this would separate the boys from

the men - or girls from the women, as it were. Recruit after recruit, both men andwomen, tackled the six-foot wall only to fall to the ground in defeat. Most of them

were taller and bigger than me. I could feel my heart sink and my confidence fade.I saw my career with the sheriff's department slipping away.

Two more recruits, and then it would be my turn. I closed my eyes and tried toenvision myself going over the wall. Suddenly, I remembered a song my

grandmother used to sing in church, an old Negro spiritual. "I shall, I shall, I shall not be moved." My nerves calmed. I heard my father's voice, "You have to be twice

as good and do twice as much just to compete." And I thought, I have been twiceas good and I have done twice as much and I have given it my all and now this. . . .

And then I swear I heard the words of my high school track coach. "A lady'sstrength is in her legs, not in her arms." I had watched the women try to tackle the

wall by jumping up like the men and grabbing hold of the wall with their arms in anattempt to pull themselves atop the wall, straddle it and drop to the other side. It

hadn't worked for them, and I knew it wouldn't work for me.



I shall not be moved. Be twice as good and do twice as much. A lady's strengthis in her legs. It was my turn. The six-foot, solid concrete wall loomed bigger than

life - the only thing standing between me and my dream. I closed my eyes andimagined it was a track field.

I took off running as fast as I could, and when my feet hit the concrete I lookedup to the heavens. And I ran up that wall! I shall not be moved. Twice as good. A

lady's strength. I straddled the top and dropped to the other side.The whole camp was cheering - everyone, that is, except the sergeant. He never

said a word. He turned his back and walked away. Several men made it over that

day, but I was the only woman.

Since then, I have gone over a lot of walls, but I learned some valuable lessonsat the academy that have helped me. What the Goliaths think is not nearly as

important as what I think about myself. The Goliaths despise change and progress,but there are some things even they can't control.

The Greatest Gift

By Christine Many

I’m five years old, and my mother is on her hands and knees, washing the

kitchen floor. I’m telling her about a new girl in school, and she suddenly looks up atme and says, "Who are your two best friends?"

I’m not sure what to say. I’ve been friends with Jill since I was three or so, and Ireally like Jaime, a friend in kindergarten.

"Jill and Jaime."My mother stops scrubbing the floor and starts to take off her yellow rubber

gloves. "Well, what about Karen and Cindy?"My sisters? "I don’t know who their best friends are," I say.

"No," she says. "I’m saying, why aren’t they your best friends?"

She seems upset, like I hurt her feelings. "But they’re my sisters.""Yes, but they can still be your best friends. Friends may come and go, but your

sisters will always be there for you."At the time, the idea of my two sisters being my closest friends seemed strange

to me. We fought all the time over toys, food, attention, what to watch on television

- you name it, we bickered about it at some point. How could my sisters be my bestfriends? They weren’t the same age as I. We all had our own friends in school.

But my mother never let the three of us forget it: Sisters are lifelong friends. Herwish - like most parents’ - was to give us something that she never had. Growing up

an only child, she longed for siblings. When she gave birth to three daughters -separated by only four years - the fufillment of her dream had only just begun. She

had given us each a gift - our sisters - and she wanted to make sure we did not takethat gift for granted. She would frequently tell us how lucky we were. But there

were other, more subtle ways that she encouraged us to grow closer. She nevershowed favoritism to one daughter over the other, as not to cause jealousy or

bitterness between sisters. She constantly took us places together - skating,shopping, swimming - so we developed common interests. And when we were

teenagers, Mom always punished us equally, giving us yet another bondingexperience.

We didn’t always get along beautifully and fought just like any other siblings. Butsomewhere in between Mom’s lectures, the family vacations and the shared

memories, we realized that our mother was right. Today I share things with mysisters that I do with no one else. My sister Cindy and I ran the New York City



After Sunday school was over, everyone went off to church. When my dad cameto meet us my mom announced that we were going home instead. At home, she

explained that to make Bobby feel better, we were going to pretend to be the EasterBunny and make a basket of our goodies for him and leave it at church. We all

donated some of our candies to the basket, and headed back up to church. There,mom unzipped his coat, hung the basket over the hanger, and zipped up the coat

and attached a note.

Monkey Bar Courage

By Karen C. Driscoll

You stand daredevil high on metal monkey bars, oblivious to danger. "Don't," Iwarn, "It's not safe." And you grudgingly oblige me and hang down closer to the

earth. I stand guard anyway, but glance away for a moment, distracted by twilight.I turnback toward you, only to helplessly watch you fall to the ground.

You get up gasping, your nose and mouth already bleeding. Horrified, I hold youtightly and try to absorb the hurt. You cry loudly from your pain, and I cry for all the

ways I cannot protect you.

But in a few moments, you collect yourself. With a long, quivering sniffle and abrave, shaky breath, you brush away the remaining bark mulch that I have missedand give me a slightly teary-eyed, crooked smile.

"Mommy, I really want to get back on. And this time, I want to do a back flip."You say this even though your lip is still bleeding.

And in this minute my surprise co-mingles with awe, respect and pride, and I seemore than my tear-stained three-year-old daughter standing before me. I see the

raw material of courage. I see the makings of perseverance and determination. Isee a girl with something that I didn't put inside her, a girl who has something that

nobody can take away. I see you, my daughter, a child who falls down but gets upand keeps dancing. And I see once again that I am the student, and you are the

inspiration.

As I hoist your small body up to the bar my thought is a prayer, for you and forme, Don't ever let go of this.

Christ's Healing PowerBy Marie Clowdis-Coon

It was an unusually balmy, spring-like day for the last week of March 1968. Our

family had recently moved into our "new" 100-year-old home in Oakville. Winterhad held us captive in the house long enough. Tanya, age seventeen months, Jay,

age three and a half, and I had spent all day in the yard. They had played while I

raked and removed the debris that had collected during the fall and winter months.The arrival of the school bus and our other two children, eight-year-old Cindy and

six-and-a-half-year-old Robin, alerted me to the fact that I'd become so absorbed inthe yard work that I'd neglected to start dinner on time. Oh well, hot dogs were

quick and one of the kids' favorite meals.

While waiting for the hot dogs to come to a boil, I went into the living room totalk to my husband, Gorden. He had just come home from work at the Farmer's

Elevator. In a matter of minutes, our quiet conversation about the day's events wasbroken by screams from our four children in the kitchen.

Tanya, hungry from playing outside in the fresh air, had grown impatient anddecided to help herself to the hot dogs, which by then had come to a rapid boil. The



pan of scalding water had emptied itself on her face, neck and chest.Cindy was already pulling off the white sweater Tanya wore when Gorden came

through the doorway. He yanked off her corduroy shirt so quickly that buttons flewacross the room. Next came the little white tee shirt, also wet and steaming.

Hearing the commotion, a neighbor from across the street came through ourfront door as we were wrapping Tanya in a clean sheet. I sat rocking our crying

baby back and forth on my lap, trying to soothe away the pain. While assuring methat everything would be all right, the friend removed the curlers that I'd placed inmy hair early that morning. Her husband, a county policeman, arrived home as we

were going out the door; he whisked us into his car. Within minutes, we were at the

hospital.The emergency room doctor and nurses seemed cool and brusque. Perhaps the

sight of Gorden in his dusty work clothes and me in my soiled jeans, flannel shirt andrumpled hair gave them the wrong impression. The expression of "negligent

parents" written on their faces and in their tone of voice made my alreadyunbearable guilt even heavier.

When I heard the doctor instruct the nurses to admit our crying baby, my heartsank. I had prayed they would treat her and then we'd all be on our way home. The

doctor's caustic parting words rang in my ears: ". . . if she lives." There had been no

doubt in my mind that it was a serious injury, but the idea that it might be life-threatening never occurred to me until that moment.

They moved Tanya into a room, and then the charge nurse informed me that I

would not be permitted to stay with her. The thought that I was expected to simplywalk away from my baby's side, believing she might die during the night, was almost

more than I could handle.While Gorden returned home to comfort the other children, I stood in Tanya's

room, crying and praying that God wouldn't let our precious baby die. As I did so,some men appeared at the doorway.

Since we had not yet been attending the Oakville Brethren Church regularly, it'snot surprising that I barely recognized the men in the doorway as being from the

church. They were trying to convince the nurse to let them enter Tanya's room.

This nurse, who resembled a Marine Corps drill sergeant, asked if one of these menwas my minister. Eagerly, I answered, "Yes!"

Begrudgingly, she admitted them, adding curtly that they had "only a fewminutes!"

I saw three men enter the dimly lit room and stand across from me besideTanya's bed. I can't remember what was said, only that they - and I silently with

them - prayed that God would heal this child. Then, all too quickly, they were gone.

My pleas to stay with Tanya were to no avail. A uniformed security guardescorted me to the lobby. The twenty-minute drive through the dark countryside

seemed to take an eternity as I traveled home, continuing to plead with God towatch over Tanya and to forgive me for allowing such a terrible thing to happen to

her.At eight o'clock the next morning, I could hardly believe my eyes as I entered

Tanya's room. The third-degree burns on her face were gone! Not one trace of theblazing red skin, so prominent just hours earlier, remained. Only clear, soft, white

skin. Her neck and shoulder were the only areas that bore the scars of that boilingwater. She was not only alive, but healed.

It wasn't until after Tanya's release from the hospital that we learned the identityof the men who had prayed over Tanya that first night. It was Deacon Richard Smith

and Deacon Jerry Covington."But who was the third man?" I asked.

"What third man?" they replied.



and I was out of shape. I trudged on, determined to find that tree.Suddenly the ground leveled out. I was amazed to see what was before me.

Soft green moss covered a small, flat clearing. Dogwood trees, smothered in pastelblooms, surrounded it. Off to the side stood a tall oak tree -Grandpa's acorn tree!

Scattered among the tufts of moss were vibrant colors of wild wood violets. Greenrock ferns and pearly snowdrops were scattered about as well. I could hardly catch

my breath.I don't know how long I stood there - several minutes, I suppose. Finally I came

to my senses and sat down on the moss. In all my childhood wanderings on the

mountain, I had never seen this magically beautiful place. Was this what Grandpa

meant when he pointed out our special spot on the mountainside all those yearsago? Did he know this was here?

A squirrel darted in front of me. He had a nut in his mouth. I watched as hescampered up the oak tree. No, I didn't see a wild cow or chickens. But in my

heart, I knew they were there somewhere.I decided to go tell Mama what I had found. She would want to see it too.

Before I left I took one more look. It was the most beautiful place I could have everimagined.

It didn't take me as long to get back to the house. I burst into the kitchen

babbling about the clearing on the side of the mountain. Mama calmed me downenough so she could understand what I was talking about. Daddy heard theconversation and tried to convince me there was no such place up there. He knew

the mountain and had never seen anything like that.On my insistence, he and Mama decided to go see the amazing place I was

raving about. Once again I climbed the mountain straight up from the house.Before I knew it, we were at the top.

"We must have missed it," I told my dad.He just nodded and we retraced our steps. We searched for over an hour for that

little place on the mountain. We never found it. I was devastated.On the way back home, Mama put her arms around my shoulders.

"Sissy," she said, "you know what you saw, don't you?"

"Yeah, I know what I saw, and I know it's there somewhere. We just missed it.""No sweetie, it's not there anymore. You saw God's garden. Only special people

can see that. Your grandpa loved you so much, and he knew you were grievinginside. Hold that memory in your heart."

I'm 52 years old now. Every time I go back to Mama's house and sit on theporch, I remember the secret garden Grandpa told me about.&nbs p; But I no longer

go out and look for it. No, I know just where it is.

Reprinted by permission of Bertha M. Sutliff © 1999 from Chicken Soup for the

Sister's Soul by Jack Canfield, Mark Victor Hansen, Patty and Nancy Mitchell, HeatherMcNamara and Katy McNamara. In order to protect the rights of the copyright

holder, no portion of this publication may be reproduced without prior writtenconsent. All rights reserved.

Relax, Breathe and Flow

By Nichole Marcillac

It's been said that we don't remember days; we remember moments. Andthere's a moment I won't ever forget. It happened at the peak of a mountain. It

happened on a bike. I'd been training for months to prepare for the DownievilleClassic - a seventeen-mile, downhill mountain bike race. Before the race, I had high



hopes, but my training and state of mind had felt off-kilter for the last few weeksbefore the event. I was losing my focus, losing my edge, losing hope of a podium

finish, crashing in sections of the trail I'd once mastered; every workout seemedlaborious, uninspired, drudgery. I was burned out.

Still, I was committed to doing the best I could. Then, as I was packing for thetrip, I glanced at my cluttered bookshelf for a book to read before the race. I

grabbed one I'd been meaning to read - Body Mind Mastery. It was written by afriend of mine named Dan Millman. I tossed the book into my bag between thebiking shorts and downhill pants, hoping it might give a little insight into my slump.

The race was scheduled for Sunday, and like any dedicated athlete, I scheduled a

practice run on the course for Friday to reacquaint myself with the terrain. I'd riddenthe course late in the spring, but I had been told that heavy traffic during the busy

summer months had left the course rough and rocky.Gearing up for the practice run, I felt jittery. I expected a lot of myself and knew

that this run would likely mirror my performance on Sunday. With that thought inmind, I lined up on the top and set off. My legs and lungs burned with the elevation,

and every pedal stroke took effort. As I dropped into the most challenging part, thetechnical section, I suddenly felt like a pogo stick. Taking the wrong line down

sections and bouncing all over the place, I even had to put my foot down a couple of

times to save myself from crashing. I felt like a novice - as though I had no skill -and the more irritated I got, the worse my riding became. I crashed twice, and usedmore swear words than I had in the last year. I had lost my rhythm, my breathing

and my focus. When I was done with the run, which took well over an hour, I wasdisappointed with my body and my mind.

I returned to camp, bathed in the river, then sat down in a gloomy state. Withonly a few hours of daylight left to read, I pulled out my book and began. In the first

twenty-five pages, I found the exact reminders I needed. It's amazing how that canhappen. It was as if Dan had written this book for me, then and there, for this

downhill bike race.Phrases appeared like long-lost friends: "Flow like water over rocks . . . pull when

pushed and push when pulled . . . use the forces you encounter . . . relaxation,

breathing, and awareness are the keys . . ." After reading each section I stopped,closed my eyes, envisioned a relaxed blend of bike and rider, body and soul, flowing

like water over dust and rocks. I repeated lines from the book to myself, whileapplying them to my present actions - focusing and flowing.

The next morning I awoke with a newfound sense of clarity. During a long waitfor my turn, I chatted with other riders to take my focus off the butterfly convention

in my belly as the time passed until I was poised at the start line. Then, "Three . . .

two . . . one . . . GO!"I lunged off the start line with laughter in my heart. I floated over the course

relaxed as a wet noodle, light as a feather, mindless as an infant, my mind open yetfocused, letting my bike do all the work. I saw each line clearly and took it. Before I

realized it, I was in the technical section, and I imagined myself to be water flowing;now I was a supple willow, bending in the wind.

Then, at one uphill section, I dismounted; as I began to run uphill, the heel of myshoe came off. For an instant I snapped back into a state of shallow-breathing panic

- I was about to lose it, in every sense of the word.Then I heard Dan's voice in my mind, and I remembered to take a deep breath

and relax. I slipped the shoe right back on, remounted my bike and started pedalingagain. I flew over the rest of the course and crossed the finish line in 59:27 - under

the one-hour mark.In that moment I understood the meaning of "body-mind mastery." I felt a

joyous, peaceful sense of body-mind connection - call it flow, balance or the zone.



To me it felt like pure joy. Even if I had come in with the worst time of the day, itwouldn't have mattered. I had won a personal victory.

It turned out I came in third - only one minute behind the leader. As I stood onthe podium I felt like a champion. My award was a bike-stem, the piece that

connects the handlebars to the frame. It could have been a rubber duck or agumball machine - the prize wasn't the point.

Every time I look at it, I think of that race, and it brings my focus back: relax,breathe and flow. And I remember how it felt crossing the finish line. On that day Ididn't just get in touch with my body. I touched my soul, I touched the sky.

Nothing but the Truth

By Winfield Firman

Suzy was always an imaginative, verbal, excited child. When she was very littleshe never saw just one dog but, throwing her arms out wide, she'd say, "There were

a zillion dogs out there." I feared that she would soon lose the ability to distinguishwhat was real from what was fantasy. So we talked about lies and the truth and

God's commandments about telling the truth. As the time approached for her to

enter school, I thought that I should take some firmer steps to teach Suzy abouttruth. I determined the next time she came in with a huge fib I'd find a way to reallyteach her.

That very afternoon, she was playing in the backyard and came running inexcitedly yelling, "Mother, there's a bear in the backyard. A big brown bear!"

"Suzy, what have I told you about telling the truth? Now go up to your room andyou talk to God about this."

Suzy disappeared to her room and was very quiet for a while. I went in to seehow she was feeling, and with a beatific smile, she said, "I talked to God and he said

he thought it was a bear at first, too."

Climb OnBy Judy Henning

At a workshop recently I was asked to make a list of all the gifts I had received

that made a difference in my life. What a task! To sort through my past for themany wonderful gifts of encouragement, of understanding, of real physical or

financial assistance, of listening, and of good advice, is to acknowledge the many

people who have given me a hand along the way. A gift I received from mydaughter Lacy last summer stands out as especially heartfelt.

It was a soft June morning when she called me and said cheerily, "Hi, Mom, youwant to go rock climbing?" I longed to go rock climbing. I was just a few months

past abdominal surgery for cancer and still regaining my physical strength andemotional equilibrium. I was not sure I could climb a small hill, let alone a big rock.

Because I trust her so deeply and because she made it seem fine to go along, Idecided to do it.

We ordered picnic lunches and drove to the base of our climbing site. We loadedup with gear - big, impressive - looking blue and purple climbing ropes, harnesses,

an assortment of carabiners, special climbers' shoes, helmets, the lunches, waterand insect repellent. We hiked up a road and cut into the woods along an overgrown

trail. It was hot, and I was working hard - harder than I dreamed I could. I stoppedoften to catch my breath, but it felt great to be out in the early morning sun,

tramping through woods that echoed with birdcalls. I was glad to be alive.



Rose Ledge is a beautiful site deep in the woods and perfect for beginningclimbs. The ledge looked awfully high to me, but Lacy and Connie set up the climb

with great energy and efficiency. Lacy anchored our ropes to trees above the ledgeand dropped them straight down where they landed at my feet. She set up the

safety system known as belaying and tested it out. I watched and ate a cookie.To ready ourselves for climbing we stretched a bit, then did "bouldering" on

smaller rocks. This meant clambering around on rocks while Lacy "spotted" me,standing close to break my fall if needed. Bouldering was hard for me and scary,too, even though I was only a few feet off the ground. I did love the feel of the

solidness of rock as I wedged a toe here and found a hand-hold there.

I stepped into the big black harness, tightened the waist, and donned a helmet. Iwas then fastened to Lacy by a rope that could be loosened or tightened as I

climbed. Lacy, the belayer, was tied in and anchored at the bottom tree and,because of this system, I could not fall. At least that is the theory, I thought, as I

struggled to get my breath."Ready to climb, Mom?" Lacy chirped. I wanted to shout out a resounding

"Ready!" but what came out was more like the pathetic meow of the cat when hewants his breakfast. "Yeow," I said in a hoarse whisper.

Then came the series of questions and responses between climber and belayer,

me and Lacy, to make sure we were communicating and the safety system wasworking. When it is all secure, the climber says, "Climbing," and the belayer says,"Climb on!"

The first few steps weren't that hard, and I was well off the ground and mightypleased with myself when I stopped the first time. I was safely wedged into the

chimney we had chosen as a first effort. As I climbed higher, the footholds becametoeholds, the hand-holds finger-holds, and I was suddenly scared. I stopped.

"I'm scared. I can't go any higher," I called down."That's fine, Mom, just rest right there. Remember I've got you," she called

back. I took some deep breaths and snuck a look. Oh goodness, I was far from thebottom and nowhere near the top. I wanted to complete that climb so badly I could

taste it. "Now what?" I yelled out.

"You're doing great, Mom, just great," Lacy said. I blinked back tears andswallowed hard. Lacy gave me specific instructions and with my heart hammering

away, I did just what she said, and before I knew it, I was up further than I everimagined I could go. Elated by this realization, I scrambled up the last of the climb

using feet, knees, elbows, hands, back and sheer determination. I let out a loud"Eeeee haaaa!" when I got to the top. Lacy was laughing and yelling, "You made it,

Mom, you did it!"

I was euphoric and giddy with achievement - but wait: I realized with a nasty joltthat I now had to get down again.

There were two ways to go down. I could climb down: hard and slow but safe.Or I could rappel down: glide down while gently bouncing off the wall of the rock.

That required a leap of faith because I had to lean back into the harness and letmyself go. I had to trust the system we created totally.

It is a heart-stopping thrill to fall backwards into space, let me tell you. After afew mini-falls, I was back on the ground and said loudly and with great confidence,

"Off belay!" And Lacy, my beautiful daughter, responded as quietly as a prayer,"Belay off."

Eating lunch, I was famished, exhausted and exhilarated all at once. Through therest of the warm summer afternoon, I rested and watched Lacy and the others

climb. We walked back to the truck in companionable silence as theaccomplishments of the day sank in. That day Lacy took such good care of me. She

provided for me: lunch, safety, cheer and an opportunity to have what I have always



loved best, an adventure. She taught me everything I needed to know aboutclimbing that rock, she provided my physical and emotional safety and she cheered

me on. Something deep inside my chest shifted as I experienced a powerful turningof the cosmic coin. Lacy was giving me what I had always worked to give her.

It was months later when I felt another piece of this experience settle into place.At the same workshop, I was asked to discover what the gifts said about me. If the

gifts were a kind of mirror, what did they reflect?This gift reflected a mother who provided safety while encouraging my daughter

to climb higher. Since Lacy always has, I must have done my part. Now when

either of us faces a difficult challenge we say to the other, "Climbing," and know the

response will be, "Climb on."

The Greatest of These

By Nanette Thorsen-Snipes

My day began on a decidedly sour note when I saw my six-year-old wrestlingwith a limb of my azalea bush. By the time I got outside, he'd broken it. "Can I

take this to school today?" he asked.

With a wave of my hand, I sent him off. I turned my back so he wouldn't see thetears gathering in my eyes. I loved that azalea bush. I touched the broken limb asif to say silently, "I'm sorry."

I wished I could have said that to my husband earlier, but I'd been angry. Thewashing machine had leaked on my brand-new linoleum. If he'd just taken the time

to fix it the night before when I asked him instead of playing checkers withJonathan. What are his priorities anyway? I wondered. I was still mopping up the

mess when Jonathan walked into the kitchen. "What's for breakfast, Mom?"I opened the empty refrigerator. "Not cereal," I said, watching the sides of his

mouth drop. "How about toast and jelly?" I smeared the toast with jelly and set it infront of him. Why was I so angry? I tossed my husband's dishes into the sudsy

water.

It was days like this that made me want to quit. I just wanted to drive up to themountains, hide in a cave, and never come out.

Somehow I managed to lug the wet clothes to the laundromat. I spent most of the day washing and drying clothes and thinking how love had disappeared from my

life. Staring at the graffiti on the walls, I felt as wrung-out as the clothes left in thewashers.

As I finished hanging up the last of my husband's shirts, I looked at the clock.

2:30. I was late. Jonathan's class let out at 2:15. I dumped the clothes in the backseat and hurriedly drove to the school.

I was out of breath by the time I knocked on the teacher's door and peeredthrough the glass. With one finger, she motioned for me to wait. She said

something to Jonathan and handed him and two other children crayons and a sheetof paper.

What now? I thought, as she rustled through the door and took me aside. "Iwant to talk to you about Jonathan," she said.

I prepared myself for the worst. Nothing would have surprised me."Did you know Jonathan brought flowers to school today?" she asked.

I nodded, thinking about my favorite bush and trying to hide the hurt in myeyes. I glanced at my son busily coloring a picture. His wavy hair was too long and

flopped just beneath his brow. He brushed it away with the back of his hand. Hiseyes burst with blue as he admired his handiwork.

"Let me tell you about yesterday," the teacher insisted. "See that little girl?"



parents, grandparents, aunts and uncles are there. Hundreds of them fill the seats.This is the first public performance of my young granddaughter, Gabriella.

Gabriella is two years old. She is appearing in the recital as a pink bunny in aroutine called "Animal Crackers in My Soup." She executes her part admirably, even

though the bunny ears have slid down her face during a particularly athleticsequence and hang around her neck by a piece of white elastic. After a few attempts

to reinstall the ears, she leaves them where they are like an ear necklace andcatches up with the rest of the chorus line of members of the animal kingdom.

Two hours pass, and the show is drawing to a close. Thirty children and young

persons are lined up on stage, the two- and three-year-olds in the front and the

sixteen-year-olds in back, with the other ages filling in the spaces in-between for thefinale and the presentation of trophies.

The pink bunny with the ears clenched in her left hand steps out of line, crossesfront stage and stands quietly at the kneecaps of the trophy presenter. Her right

hand reaches up toward the trophy and runs out of length about two inches from thebase. The presenter seems totally unaware of the silent pink bunny standing directly

under her gaze. As she reads the name on the trophy, a young lady breaks from thegroup and claims the trophy over the head of the pink bunny still standing with hand

outstretched, waiting now to claim the next one.

Herein begins the most amazing display of group dynamics I have everwitnessed. The silent determination of that two-year-old unifies hundreds of peoplein a space of about ten minutes. Mental messages converge into one growing breath

of encouragement to the pink bunny as each trophy passes over her outstretchedhand to another. With infinite patience and assurance, she waits. Ten names, ten

trophies, and still she waits with hand held high. Somewhere around trophy numbertwenty, a brief struggle between a pink bunny is read from her body language by an

intensely sympathetic audience. The bunny's eyes drop to the ears she is holding inher other hand and for one brief moment, her face falls. I feel the silent thoughts of

those around me join my own . . . "No, no, it has nothing to do with your ears fallingoff. You are not a failure; your trophy is coming. Take heart!" The message is

received, and the expression on the bunny's face changes to annoyance. Both hands

go to her lips, her lower lip is stuck out in a pout, and the tiny face tilts upwards toits most extreme angle, but still no trophy.

A two-year-old monkey from the same dance sequence joins the bunny at frontstage right for a whispered conversation. The eyes of the bunny and the monkey

travel from the box of trophies to the presenter . . . more whispering. The audienceis adding the words in their minds to the scene on stage. "You could tackle her

around the legs, and I could grab two trophies, jump off the front of the stage and

run out the back door." Now, the audience is howling with laughter, some stompingon the floor as if to force the laughter out faster, some holding stomachs to keep the

laughter from bursting out the seams of the body and wiping tears streaming downcheeks. After considering the plan, the pink bunny shakes her head "No" and the

plan is discarded. The monkey steps back in line and the audience settles backtentatively in their seats. The presenter, for whatever reason, continues to ignore

the pink bunny.Twenty-three trophies and still no trophy for Gabriella. The bunny shows signs of

losing heart; her eyes are downcast, the lower lip trembles. Again there are wavesof silent encouragement from beyond the stage, and even a few murmured . . .

"Don't give up" . . . and "It's coming." The bunny makes a decision. She is still atthe kneecaps of the presenter. Her face is once more raised in expectancy and

slowly the right hand reaches up as the bunny resumes the stance of the first fifteento twenty minutes. A collective sound arises from the audience, which can only be

described as one giant moan.



After supper, Erica says, "Let's bake cookies.""Okay," I say, "let's bake cookies."

After baking cookies, once again I am staring at a mountain of dishes fromsupper and cookie baking, but with the smell of warm cookies consuming the house,

I pour us a glass of cold milk and fill a plate with warm cookies and take them to thetable. We gather around the table eating cookies, drinking milk, talking and making

memories.No sooner have I tackled those dishes than my little sweetie comes tugging at my

shirt, saying, "Could we take a walk?"

"Okay," I say, "let's take a walk." The second time around the block I'm thinking

about the mountain of laundry that I need to get started on and the dustencompassing our home; but I feel the warmth of her hand in mine and the

sweetness of our conversation as she enjoys my undivided attention, and I decide atleast once more around the block sounds like a good idea.

When we get home, my husband asks, "Where have you been?""We've been making memories," I say.

A load in the wash and, my little girl all bathed and in her gown, the tirednessbegins to creep in as she says, "Let's fix each other's hair."

I'm so tired! my mind is saying, but I hear my mouth saying, "Okay, let's brush

each other's hair." With that task complete, she jumps up excitedly, "Let's painteach other's nails! Please!" So she paints my toenails, and I paint her fingernails,and we read a book while waiting for our nails to dry. I have to turn the pages, of

course, because her fingernails are still drying.We put away the book and say our prayers. My husband peeks his head in the

door, "What are my girls doing?" he asks."Making memories," I answer.

"Mommy," she says, "will you lay with me until I fall asleep?""Yes," I say, but inside I'm thinking, I hope she falls asleep quickly so I can get

up; I have so much to do.About that time, two precious little arms encircle my neck as she whispers,

"Mommy, nobody but God loves you as much as I do." I feel the tears roll down my

cheeks as I thank God for the day we spent making memories.

The Last Attack

By Wayne Allen Levine

As a child I was stricken with severe allergies and asthma, which kept me from

having, holding, tasting, touching and smelling a variety of foods, most plants, trees,grass and flowers. And keeping a pet - especially a dog or a cat - was completely

out of the question. All my childhood doctors had agreed: I needed to avoideverything I was allergic to, remain sedentary and visit the doctor every Saturday

morning for my weekly allergy shot."Do not exert yourself," he told me. "It will probably trigger a dangerous asthma

attack."Often disregarding his advice, I played hard, ran everywhere, rode my bike like a

demon, swam every summer and trained in gymnastics year-round. I became thetop gymnast in my grammar school and also set the 50-, 60- and 100-yard dash

records. At eleven, I told my parents that I would no longer be taking the allergyshots each week - a subjective decision based not on information I read in any book,

nor on the advice of any experts. Rather, my body told me I didn't need themanymore.

My parents, though doubtful, agreed to a trial period. "We'll see how you do



without them," they said.But I wasn't through. I begged, pleaded and finally convinced them to get a dog

- a furry little Pekinese we all grew to love - and I began to immerse myself in all thethings that used to make me sick (or had been told would make me sick). I cut the

grass for neighbors who didn't know I wasn't supposed to be near lawns. I smelledflowers and climbed trees. I even began to eat strawberries, which doctors said

"could possibly be fatal."I don't remember my first asthma attack, but I vividly remember my last. I was

eleven years old; it was a humid, hot summer day in Chicago, and I was running

hard through the African jungle - in reality, the alleys behind our house. There were

many beasts and potential predators I needed to outrun. Sometimes while running,especially on a sticky day, my lungs would swell and squeeze off my air supply. That

day was no different. Reluctantly, I decided to leave the jungle and return home torest.

The house was empty, a true blessing that allowed for undisturbed, quiet focus.In the stillness, I came to a new awareness and found my cure.

As I lay on my parents' bed gazing up at a ceiling fan, I stared at the shiny silverbolt that held the sharp blades together. I focused on what seemed like the still

point in the center of the fan's great vortex and held my attention there, while

listening calmly to the chorus in my chest. I heard the rapid, rhythmic cracklingsounds of blocked lungs, accompanied by high pitched whistles, which marked thetrail of the few puffs of air struggling to make their way through narrow

passageways. I remained calm, content to listen to my body.Then came the sudden, dazzling realization that altered my life forever: a simple

thought that penetrated to my core: I have all that I need. I understood, for thefirst time, that the little bit of air getting through was all that was necessary to

sustain me. It was enough. When I realized I have nothing to fear, I will alwayshave enough air, my lungs opened fully.

Japanese GoodbyeBy Julia Booker

I looked up at the signs, trying to decipher which train I needed to take to Narita

Airport. After ten months backpacking through Africa and Asia, using every form of transport from donkey to rickshaw, I was on the final leg of my journey, the flight

that would take me home to Canada.I was feeling the weight of my huge pack. Knowing that I would soon be

shedding the burden on my back, I finally allowed myself to purchase gifts for myfamily. The Japanese language was a complete mystery to me, and I stared up at

the board, searching for any symbol that appeared familiar. Anything at all.

Everywhere salary men were rushing to catch their crowded trains.Everybody, everything was moving fast. No Zen here.

And then, out of the mass, a woman stopped and asked, in English, which wayI wanted to go. She took me to the station master. She spoke to him in Japanese,

found out the platform number, the price of a ticket and the time of departure. I

had half an hour.I thanked her and bid her farewell, but she said she had ten minutes and

insisted I join her for a quick tea.She told me she had been born in Japan, but had spent a year backpacking in

New York and knew what it was like to be a woman traveling solo. We excitedlytraded stories but soon our brief chat was over. Her train was leaving. She



hurriedly paid for both our drinks."Save your money," she said and wished me luck. And then, she was gone.

I stood up to go, pulling the load once more onto my back. Suddenly, shereappeared, out of breath, with a square box wrapped in white and red paper.

"You aren't vegetarian are you?" she asked."Uh, no..." and she pushed the box into my hands. It was warm.

"For the train. Goodbye." And she was gone, again.I had seen these specially prepared boxed meals for sale in the stations. They

looked delicious but they were beyond my budget.

As I waited on the platform, my pack didn't feel as heavy. Even though I had

been given one more gift to carry, I felt lighter - blessed with the taste of warm food,the dreams of my homecoming and the generosity of a Japanese woman I would

know only this once. And I never even caught her name.

Pop Pop's Promise

By Leigh B. Singh

When I was a little girl my grandfather, Pop Pop, used to tell me that every part

of life held the promise of something good. He said if I believed in that promise,sooner or later I would find a good thing even in life's roughest situations. When Iwas young, it was easy to believe what my grandfather told me, especially when the

two of us spent time together on his farm in Virginia's Shenandoah Valley. Thegentle greeting of a milking cow, the fragrance of freshly turned earth in the garden

and the unspoiled sweetness of a newborn kitten taught me the truth in mygrandfather's words.

Still, as a child born with cerebral palsy, I thought I'd found something my PopPop had gotten wrong. He had said "everything in life holds the promise of

something good."His words made sense when it came to newborn kittens and fresh gifts from the

garden, but not when it came to cerebral palsy. I couldn't find a single good thing in

my disability. It meant physical pain, frightening operations, difficult therapy andthe frustrating realization that no matter how hard I tried, there were things that I

just could not do. I used to watch other children walk smoothly across a room, butwhen I tried to do the same, my muscles refused to cooperate. My body behaved

like a complicated toy that never worked the way I wanted it to. I underwent myfirst operation before I was two. By the time I was sixteen, I had endured a dozen

surgical procedures on my feet, ankles, thighs, calves and even my eyes. Cerebral

palsy did not fade away with surgery, therapy or braces, and it didn't fade away withprayers hung on every star in the heavens.

Walking was an overwhelming task. It demanded determination, concentrationand luck. If I had all of these, I could usually move across a room without crashing

into anything. For me, that was graceful. Far too often, my poise faltered inmidstride and I'd tumble to the ground like some weary, wind-tossed butterfly.

With time and practice, I learned to manage - somewhat. Still, my greateststruggle was that cerebral palsy had a terrible hold on my heart. I tried to act happy

and secure, but beneath my smile I felt guilty and afraid. Even saying the words"cerebral palsy" made me redden with shame. I believed my worth was measured

not by the way I lived, but by the way I walked. I was afraid that other peoplewould see my disabled body and decide there wasn't enough to love in the person

they saw. That fear surrounded me like a huge stone wall, and I couldn't open up toother people. I could not believe in the person I was created to be - I could only

hide behind that wall of fear.



so we did not linger.She whipped out her credit card to pay for the meal, then helped me collect my

purse and sweater from the booth before we strolled back to our car in the parkinglot.

It was a mother-daughter kind of day. She the mother, I the daughter.

Performance Under the StarsBy Rayleen Downes

They slouched in folding chairs in a semicircle, eyeing me suspiciously. Theirages ranged from fourteen to sixteen, and they were there because they loved

drama. I was a new teacher, and I had absolutely no experience in directing drama.My background was in teaching, writing and literature.

No problem, I thought.That was how I found myself in chaos late that fall, staging the musical Godspell.

I spent countless nights at rehearsals coaxing my Jesus to sing louder and my Maryto tone down her body language.

My three-year-old, Breana, was the least of my worries. She was a sweet child,

undemanding and easy to please. Usually I left her at home with my husband. Butwhen he couldn't watch her, I'd throw her in the car and take her to rehearsals. Shewandered about the stage, bottle in hand.

When I was wrapped up with responsibilities, I would pass Breana off tostudents. Her word for bottle was "baboo," and it was common to hear the pitiful cry

of "Baboo!" from some corner of the drama room. The student nearest to her wouldthen hunt it down.

As rehearsals for the play progressed, the integration of the acting with thechoreography and the music became extremely time-consuming and intense.

Breana seemed to accept my hectic schedule with characteristic charm. Once theplay was over, I reasoned, I would give her back the time I was taking from her.

On the way home from one particularly good rehearsal, I asked lightheartedly,

"Do you love Mommy?" She turned to me and said simply, "No." Wounded, I droveon in silence.

Opening night. We played to a sold-out crowd. My Jesus sang like a dove. Thecrucifixion scene had the audience in tears. At the last song, people were on their

feet, wildly cheering for more.The next night an even bigger crowd appeared, and we had to bring in more

bleachers. Those who couldn't find a seat crowded shoulder to shoulder in the back.

Breana came both nights. The first night, she sat on her dad's lap - dutiful butfidgeting. As everyone complimented me on a job well done, she fell asleep.

The second night, she was bored. I sat her in a corner where she played quietly.Then she came over and pulled on my arm.

"Go outside," she whispered.I looked in vain for her dad.

"Go outside," she whispered again.I glanced down. Breana was looking especially pretty in a red dress with

petticoats. Loose hair from her pigtails trailed softly down her neck in tendrils. Irelented. My cast could be without me for a few minutes.

There was a slight chill in the air. I let her pull me wherever she wished. Weended up outside the cafeteria, where there was a small amphitheater.

Breana pushed at my waist. "Sit, Mommy!" I did. She looked at me withsparkling eyes. "Watch me!"

Marching up on the stage, she put her arms straight out to her sides and began



to twirl. Her red dress lifted up, revealing white tights that were bagging a little. Ileaned forward and chuckled. She threw her head back and laughed gleefully as she

spun.Around and around she twirled like a plane out of control. I could hear the noise

from the auditorium, but it began to subside as I focused on my daughter.I remembered my countless hours at rehearsals. I remembered handing Breana

off to others because I didn't have the time.A rousing cheer came from the theater, but that was only background noise now.

I was at the best performance - sitting under the stars, watching my three-year-old

revel in her delight. She spun. She skipped. She finally bowed. And straight-

backed on a wooden bench, I sat alone and clapped and clapped.

A Mother's Love

By Pat Laye

When I think of Clara Harden's family, happiness is what comes to mind. Thesounds of laughter always greeted my visits.

Their lifestyle was so very different from mine. Clara's mother believed nurturing

the mind was more important than trivial chores. Housekeeping wasn't a highpriority. With five children ranging in age from Clara, the oldest at twelve, to a two-year-old baby, this lack of order sometimes bothered me but never for long. Their

home was always in some state of chaos with at least one person's life in crisis, realor imagined. But I loved being part of this boisterous bunch, with their carefree,

upbeat attitude toward life. Clara's mother was never too busy for us. She'd stopironing to help with a cheerleading project, or switch off the vacuum cleaner and call

us all to trek into the woods to gather specimens for a child's science project.You never knew what you might do when you visited there. Their lives were filled

with fun and love - lots of love.So the day the Harden children stepped off the school bus with red, swollen eyes,

I knew something was desperately wrong. I rushed to Clara, pulled her aside,

begging to hear what had happened but not prepared for her answer. The nightbefore, Clara's mother had told them she had a terminal brain tumor, with only

months to live. I remember that morning so well. Clara and I went behind theschool building where we sobbed, holding each other, not knowing how to stop the

unbelievable pain. We stayed there, sharing our grief until the bell rang for firstperiod.

Several days passed before I visited the Harden home again. Dreading the

sorrow and gloom, and filled with enormous guilt that my life was the same, I stalleduntil my mother convinced me that I couldn't neglect my friend and her family in

their time of sadness.So I visited. When I entered the Harden house, to my surprise and delight, I

heard lively music and voices raised in animated discussion with lots of giggles andgroans. Mrs. Harden sat on the sofa playing a game of Monopoly with her children

gathered round. Everybody greeted me with smiles as I struggled to hide mybewilderment. This wasn't what I had expected.

Finally Clara freed herself from the game, and we went off to her room where sheexplained. Her mother had told them that the greatest gift they could give her

would be to carry on as if nothing was amiss. She wanted her last memories to behappy, so they had agreed to try their hardest.

One day Clara's mother invited me for a special occasion. I rushed over to findher wearing a large gold turban. She explained that she'd decided to wear this

instead of a wig now that her hair was falling out. She placed beads, glue, colored



markers, scissors and cloth on the table, and instructed us to decorate it, while shesat like a regal maharaja. We turned the plain turban into a thing of gaudy beauty,

each adding his or her own touch. Even as we squabbled over where the nextbauble should be placed, I was conscious of how pale and fragile Mrs. Harden

appeared. Afterwards, we had our picture taken with Clara's mother, each pointingproudly to her contribution to the turban. A fun memory to cherish, even though the

unspoken fear of her leaving us wasn't far beneath the surface.Finally the sad day arrived when Clara's mother died. In the weeks that followed,

the Hardens' sorrow and pain were impossible to describe.

Then one day I arrived at school to see an animated Clara laughing, gesturing

excitedly to her classmates. I heard her mother's name mentioned frequently. Theold Clara was back. When I reached her side, she explained her happiness. That

morning dressing her little sister for school, she'd found a funny note her mother hadhidden in the child's socks. It was like having her mother back again.

That afternoon the Harden family tore their house apart hunting messages. Eachnew message was shared, but some went undetected. At Christmastime, when they

retrieved the decorations from the attic, they found a wonderful Christmas message.In the years that followed, messages continued sporadically. One even arrived

on Clara's graduation day and another on her wedding day. Her mother had

entrusted the letters to friends who delivered them on each special day. Even theday Clara's first child was born, a card and poignant message arrived. Each childreceived these short funny notes, or letters filled with love until the last reached

adulthood.Mr. Harden remarried, and on his wedding day a friend presented him with a

letter from his wife to be read to his children, in which she wished him happiness andinstructed her children to envelop their new stepmother in love, because she had

great faith that their father would never choose a woman who wouldn't be kind andloving to her precious children.

I've often thought of the pain Clara's mother must have experienced as she wrotethese letters to her children. I also imagined the mischievous joy she felt when she

hid these little notes. But through it all I've marveled at the wonderful memories she

left those children, despite the pain she quietly suffered and the anguish she musthave felt leaving her adored family. Those unselfish acts exemplify the greatest

mother's love I've ever known.

Brief Encounter

By Joseph J. Gurneak

Several Saturdays ago I was cleaning my car at a do-it-yourself car wash. As I

vacuumed, I noticed a few wisps of yellow dog fur.I stopped my cleaning. I picked up the fur, placed it in an envelope and put the

envelope in the glove compartment. The fur belonged to Buddy. As I went aboutthe rest of the day, I couldn't help but think of the brief encounter with Buddy and

his "family" just a couple of days before.It was a Wednesday afternoon. I had just gotten off work. As I passed a truck

stop, I noticed a man with a large backpack. There beside him was a dog on a leashsitting in the grass strip that separates the entrance and exit to the interstate. It

was about 4:30 in the afternoon and quite hot.I stopped a few feet away and walked up to the man. "You and the dog okay?" I

asked.I guess he was a little startled. "I'm not breakin' no law sittin' here, am I?" he

asked.



"Look here," said Jim. "This is the way you do it. You got to get a running start.Then you grab the rope and swing out and up as high as you can, and then you let

go and fall to the water. Here, I'll show you."Jim made it look easy, and when his head surfaced in the bubbling water, he

hollered up, "Now it's your turn!"I was certain I was going to die, but at thirteen dying is better than looking bad.

When I came up sputtering, Jim smiled approvingly, and we swam a few strokes tothe beach, lay on the hot sand for a while, and then swam back across the pool to doit again.

Jim and all of his friends always wore the proper North Carolina swimming attire,

because skinny-dipping was a time-honored tradition among boys throughout themountain states. Sometimes I felt like I was a wild boy, or a beaver sliding through

the water. Jim said he felt like an otter, since he loved to turn and twist in the deeppools and could swim underwater a long way.

Jim's family was Baptist. On Sunday, Jim's mom made us dress up in straight- jacket white shirts and stranglehold ties, marched us down the street and filed us

into church."You must be baptized, by water and by the Spirit!" the preacher thundered.

That water baptism sounded mighty good. I sat there dreaming of the river and

waiting for the wonderful moment when the sermon would be over, and Jim and Icould go running down the path to the river.

On the tails of the closing prayer, Jim and I flew out into the sunny day and home

for a quick sandwich. Then we plunged down the trail into the woods alive with thehum of cicadas hanging thick in the branches of the burr oaks and hickories.

When we got within a hundred yards of the rope swing, Jim said, "I'll race you!""You got it!" I replied.

We dropped our clothes right there and tore down the trail to see who could getto the rope swing first. I was a fast runner, but Jim was faster. He pulled ahead of

me and dove for the rope. With a shriek of victory, Jim swung out over the waterand up, to the very top of the arc. In perfect form, Jim let go of the rope and looked

down to see where he was going to land.

But there - not twenty yards away on the beach - stood the preacher and twodozen of the faithful, performing a baptism. I could see they were looking straight

up at Jim with their mouths wide open.As fervently as Jim prayed to fly, he quickly descended from the heavens. Jim

abandoned his plans for a graceful swan dive and instinctively assumed thecannonball position - known for its magnificent splash.

The whole congregation got baptized that day, but Jim never saw it. He broke

his record for underwater swimming and was around the bend and out of sight whilethe congregation stood stunned and speechless on the shore.

"Don't worry, Jim," I consoled him later. "I'm sure everybody thought you werean angel, and besides, it turned out fine. You got the river dunking you wanted, and

those folks will never forget that baptism."Thinking about it now, I don't think there's much difference, anyway, between

wild boys and angels, or between heaven and a rope swing on the river.

Hello . . . Good-Bye, DaddyBy Victoria Robinson

The plane's engines groaned in defiance as it tried to escape the gravity that was

holding it to the earth. Once free, it settled into a gentle hum that was almost acomfort to hear. I hated flying because it scared me so. It was a fear of not being

in control of my life. Someone else had the helm, and I was just a bystander.



I placed the silver dollar under his hands. It's okay, Daddy, I had enough lovefor both of us.

"I guess this is hello and good-bye, Daddy. I just wish I could have felt yourarms around me and heard you call me Princess just one time."

I knew I was falling apart at that moment, as someone touched my shoulder andasked, "Are you Victoria? You're Harold's daughter, right?"

I fought back the tears and answered, "Yes."The man hugged me and said, "I have known you all your life, although I never

met you. Your father spoke of you often with such pride. He carried a picture of you

around in his pocket and referred to you as his little Princess."

Unspoken Love

By Emily King

When it comes to flowery speech or emotional expression, my husband, Dave, is

a man of few words. That was one of the first things I learned about him when wemarried thirty-one years ago.

One of the next things I discovered is that Dave has little use for rosebushes. He

had no second thoughts about yanking out mature plants to widen the drivewaywhen we purchased our home. To him, roses represent hours of pruning and

spraying, mulching and fertilizing. As far as he's concerned, a lawn mower andhedge trimmers are all you need for the perfect garden.

On the other hand, I treasure my roses. I consider every minute of their carewell worth the beautiful, fragrant results.

One winter, I spent several evenings drooling over rose catalogs and planning asmall garden. In the spring, I ordered several English varieties of self-rooted plants.

I removed an area of sod, worked and reworked the ground, and planted the foot-long starts. During the heat of summer, I watered them daily. In my mind, I saw

the fruits of my labor: masses of color and fragrance perfuming the air just outsidemy kitchen window.

But as it sometimes does, life spun us around and redirected our attention. Inthe fall, I began to have pain in my lower abdomen. At first I passed it off as

nothing serious. But instead of getting better, the pain intensified. I went to see mydoctor. He ordered tests; when the results came back, he asked to see me in his

office right away. He also requested that Dave come with me.Our worst fears became reality: colon cancer. I'd need surgery immediately.

After a short recovery period, I'd undergo a six-month course of chemotherapy.We cried . . . and prayed . . . and cried some more. We had one week to inform

our family and friends. Then, trusting God and my doctors, I entered the hospital.One month later, as I lay on the sofa still recuperating from surgery, Dave and I

watched the TV weather forecast. It promised bitter cold temperatures and possible

snow."Oh," I moaned to myself, "I never did get the roses mulched."

Dave just sat and watched the end of the forecast. Then, always the practical,on-top-of-things handyman, he said, "I'd better go winterize the outside faucets."

He bundled up and headed toward the garage.

Fifteen minutes later, I hobbled to the kitchen for a glass of water. What I sawfrom the window brought tears to my eyes. There was Dave, bending over the

roses, carefully heaping mulch around every plant.I smiled and watched as my quiet husband "said" I love you. You know,

sometimes words aren't needed at all.



Not Just Another Rat

By Ava Pennington

It was still dark outside, and my breath floated like a frosty cloud in the cold air.I was feeling sorry for myself again. There was a reason they called it a rat race.

Day in and day out, the same old thing. Up and out of the house beforedaylight. An hour and a half commute to the office. Eight to nine hours at work, andthen the same commute home, still dark outside. The short winter days made me

wonder: Did the sun ever come out during the day? I wasn't sure anymore - if it did,

I certainly missed it.I made my way to the train station on that bleak Monday morning. My week

stretched out before me like a deep black hole. The week might be new, but I wasfeeling old and worn-out. The brief weekend respite hadn't provided much relief,

what with the laundry that had piled up, not to mention the supermarket and the drycleaners and the myriad other errands that ate into what was supposed to be our

family time together. We barely had a chance to play a quick game of Scrabblebefore it was time to set the alarm clock and start the week once more.

The train was late again. Any attempt at relaxing thoughts was quickly replaced

by memories of the piles of paper sitting on my desk. So much to do, and the dayswere never long enough. I tuned out the crowd around me and began to mentallysort through the priorities that would beckon as soon as I arrived at the office. E-

mails and faxes, reports and meetings. The day would be full, more so because itwas the beginning of the week. I cringed as I remembered how often I had put

things off "'til next week." Well, "next week" was here. Note to self: thinking aboutthings "tomorrow" may have worked for Scarlett O'Hara, but it only created grief for

me.The shifting crowd brought me back to the moment. The train was pulling in, and

the army of commuters was of one mind: Grab an empty seat at any cost. Men andwomen were equal-opportunity pushers, propelling each other to the edge of the

platform. Even as I allowed myself to be swept along, I also resolved to seize the

first available seat I could find. With a firm grip on my briefcase I pushed along withthe best of them, and landed my prize. Sitting would allow me to get a jump on

some paperwork, perhaps a memo or two. Any head start would help. Was this what my life had deteriorated to? The highlight of my day was that I

got a seat on the train? Surely my aims were loftier than that. We were working sohard, my husband and I. Our goal was to pay off the mortgage, and set aside

savings to prepare for retirement. We were almost there. Just another year or two

of my imitation of superwoman, and then I could relax. Just another year or two . . .

That's when I saw her. The young woman looked vaguely familiar. Had I seenher at the train station before, or did I simply recognize the look on her face? The

look that reflected resignation at having missed out on a seat again. The look thatsaid, ever so clearly, "I don't have the energy to do this anymore." I knew just how

she felt, but I also knew that I had work to do. Memos to answer, reports to write. Ihad a seat, and she didn't. Nobody said life was going to be fair.

But there was more than just her face. Even under her bulky winter coat, I couldsee that she was expecting a baby. Her pregnancy was rather far along, and it was

all that she could do to hold on to the metal bar as the train lurched into motion. Ifelt a pang of guilt, and then argued with myself. Surely there were enough men on

the train who could see her condition. Chivalry wasn't dead yet, was it? But no onemoved. It seemed as if everyone on the train was studiously avoiding the view of

this young woman as they buried their heads in their newspapers, or pretended to be



home. But you haven't been here. I've felt like a single parent for years."The words look cold in print, but she said them with restraint and tenderness. It

was just plain, unvarnished truth. My little girl had drawn the picture, and now hermom was speaking the words. My life had been out of control, my family was on

automatic pilot, and I had a long road ahead of me if I wanted to win them back.& nbsp; But I had to win them back. Now that the fog had lifted, it suddenly

became the most important thing in my life.

Mom for a Day

By Anne Jordan

As a mother of three beautiful children, I have many special memories to share.

But one of my most special moments as a mom was actually with someone else'schild. It is a moment that I will always cherish.

Michael came to our self-esteem-building camp last summer, referred to us by aboys' home where he was currently residing. Michael was 12 years old, and his life

had been a difficult one. His father had brought him to the U.S. from a war-torncountry after his mother's death, so that he could have "a better life."

Unfortunately, he was left to the care of his aunt, who emotionally and physically

abused him. He had become one tough little boy, with very little trust and a belief that he was not lovable.

He hung out with a few other boys who were likewise negative, angry and tough.

The "gang" was a challenge to the counselors, but we hung in with them andcontinued to accept and love them for who they were. We recognized all their

exterior behavior as a reflection of how deeply they had been hurt.Around the fifth night of our seven-day experience, we treated the kids to an

overnight camp-out under the stars. When Michael heard of this event, he said itwas "stupid" and he wasn't going. We avoided getting into a power struggle with

him and went on with the evening.As the moon shone brightly and the evening waned, the kids began arranging

their sleeping bags for the evening on a huge deck near the lake.

I noticed Michael walking around by himself with his head down. He saw me andquickly walked toward me. I thought I would avert his whining and said, "Come on,

Michael, let's get your sleeping bag and find a good spot for you with your friends.""I don't have a sleeping bag," he muttered in a low voice.

"Oh well, that's no problem," I exclaimed. "We'll just open up several bags andget you some blankets for covers."

Figuring I had solved his dilemma, I began to walk off. Michael tugged at my

shirt and pulled me away from the crowd of kids."Anne," he said, "I need to tell you something." I saw that tough big boy's face

melting with embarrassment and shame at what he had to tell me. In a barelyaudible whisper, he said, "You see, I have this problem. I . . . I . . . I'm a bed wetter

and I wet the sheets every night." I was so glad he whispered into my ear andcouldn't see the look of astonishment on my face. I hadn't even considered this as a

reason for his negative attitude. I thanked him for letting me in on his "problem"and told him I understood why he was upset about the evening. We decided

together that he could sleep in his cabin alone and just slip out quietly from thegroup.

I left with him and on the long walk back to the cabin, I asked him if he wasafraid to sleep alone. He assured me that it was not a problem and that he had

faced much scarier things before in his life. As we put his last set of fresh sheets onhis bed, we talked about how difficult his first 12 years had been, and he told me

how much he wanted the future to be different. I told him how he had all the power



he needed to make his life the best it could be. He looked so vulnerable and sweetand real for the first time that week.

He hopped under the covers and I asked if I could tuck him in. "What does 'tuckin' mean?" he asked with curiosity. With tears in my eyes, I covered him up, tucked

them under his chin and kissed him on the forehead."Goodnight, Michael, I think you are awesome!" I mumbled.

"G'night and uh, uh, thanks for being kinda like a mom to me, okay?" he saidearnestly.

"My pleasure, sweetheart," I said with a hug. As I turned to go, three sets of

dirty sheets under my arms and tears rolling down my cheeks, I thanked God for the

love that can happen between a mom and her son, even if only for a day.

Arm in ArmBy Pam Robbins

When I have not thought about my mother in a little while, and someone or

something brings her to my mind, I see her first as she looked when I was ten. Sheis walking down our street, wearing a checked coat, grasping a grocery bag or two.

I stand in the living room window and watch, and when she is close enough for me

to see her face, I bolt from the house and run to meet her. She smiles in greeting,and my heart swells. I may take a bag from her, or she may refuse my help. Ineither case, I tuck my hand in the crook of her elbow, and we walk the rest of the

way together.The image holds me fast because it represents the essence of our relationship:

two together, overcoming all odds and obstacles life could present for a womanabandoned by her husband and raising her only child alone.

There are in my memory a handful of images that shine as bright.Our house sits on a curve, so whenever I began the half-mile trek from the

corner, I could already see the light in the window. Beyond that light, I knew, shewould be working in the kitchen, or in later years, waiting in her big armchair for the

sound of my step on the front porch.

Always there was that exchange of smiles, that instant of delight shared with thiswoman who has been my parent, my dear friend, my companion in life.

I remember her sturdy frame bent over a shovel or a rake in the yard. Her lotwas not to tend fragile blossoms or burgeoning vegetables. She was the one who

mowed and pruned and raked and hauled big bags of brightly colored leaves to thecurbside. I watched her one summer take down six eight-foot-tall pine trees with a

meat saw because it was small enough for her to handle.

In the early days, I held the leaf bags open for her to fill. Then we worked sideby side. Much later, the task became mine, then was passed to a hired man. But

she always liked to "survey her estate," as she said wryly, clipping a branch here,picking up a stray paper there, allowing me to slip a palm under her forearm for

balance. Then she could do even that no longer.And so the years passed for us: Christmases with trees that became smaller each

year, then disappeared, leaving two angels in red velvet the task of heralding theseason; birthdays with cakes that also dwindled in size, countered by cards whose

sentiments grew more expansive and more bittersweet.We once imagined that I would have a life quite apart from hers, a life filled with

triumphs she could share. There were a few. If there were as many heartbreaks, itdid not matter much; they were shared by her as well. We had thought that she

would visit me in another house, another town, another world. We did not plan thatI should grow middle-aged down the hall from her. But that is how it turned out,

and I have no regrets. She gave me laughter and wisdom and boundless love.



She grew old, and often in the early morning, well before dawn, I would wakeand peek in on her to be sure she was breathing, completing the circle of concern

begun by her when I was born.Sometimes we would sit together in the late evening, reading or watching a

movie, and I would look up to see her engrossed in the story, or dozing quietly, andI would think, This is enough.

Now she has had to leave our home, and it has become for me only a house. Igo where she is and sit beside her there. I look at her frail hand clasping mine asshe sleeps, and I can say, finally, "This is not enough. Not for her."

"Two hearts that beat as one," she used to joke about us. "Cut one, the other

will bleed." Yes, but in the end, one must go on without the other.I like to think there is an afterlife, though I lack certainty and the comfort that

would bring. Still, I think, so much love, so much energy must go somewhere. I likethe stories people tell of passing through tunnels into white light and meeting loved

ones on "the other side."Life being what it is, I cannot even be sure my mother will go first. Perhaps, I

will precede her, felled by the burden of anticipated loss.Whatever happens, I hope the stories are true: that we will meet again. If we

do, I know we will smile in greeting, just as we did a lifetime ago when I was small

and she was young and hope was invincible. Our hearts will swell then, and we willwalk the rest of the way together.

One Determined AngelBy Dorothy Rose

She looked so fragile and helpless. I was told she didn't even speak English.

Olga and her family had come from Puerto Rico to receive the expert medical carethat was unavailable in her own country.

I was working in the intensive care unit of our local children's hospital, as one of Olga's nurses. I couldn't help but think how frightened this little girl must feel with

all those scary tubes, machines and monitors around her. When she opened her

eyes, she was incredibly beautiful. Smiling back at me with big brown eyes, shespoke a universal language.

When her mother arrived early the next morning, she said to me, "My husbandmust return to Puerto Rico. He needs to go back to work. I'll stay here, near Olga,

with her sister and brother, so she can get the medical help she needs to stayalive." As we talked, I discovered that Olga's mother was the only one in her

household who spoke English.

The family had been staying at the Ronald McDonald House but would soon needto move into more permanent housing. Since they didn't have anyone else to help

them set up housekeeping, I volunteered.As I attempted to help get an apartment for Olga's family, I was told, "It's

impossible. The child's mother isn't working, and the father doesn't even live in thiscountry."

After I told this story to some of my nurse-friends, one of them contacted ourlocal newspaper. One columnist promised he would write their story, but added,

"This will be my last column of this sort. These stories just don't sell papersanymore."

That's when Becky, our determined angel, arrived. She was a vibrant, talkativeand charming volunteer. We talked, and immediately she had some excellent ideas.

As we concluded our conversation, she said, "Oh, by the way, I have cancer, but I'munder treatment."

Despite her condition, Becky took charge. She not only found housing for Olga



We followed the monkey troop, keeping a respectful distance from them as theyforaged through the forest and occasionally stopped to feast on ripe figs hanging on

the trees. Bringing up the rear of the troop was a very young monkey, not morethan ten inches tall, whose mother was already teaching him how to climb branches

and follow the others. Every so often the mother reached around the trunk of a widetree to a branch on the far side. This was the hardest thing for the little monkey to

do. He would stop, whimper, and go back and forth examining every other optionbefore he'd finally make a leap around the trunk. Our group clapped excitedly eachtime he succeeded.

After a while, the young monkey grew tired and began falling behind. The farther

behind he got, the louder he whimpered and wailed to get his mother's attention.His mother stopped and waited for him, but she never went back. Finally, the infant

came to a large tree that was just too wide for him to get around. His crying grewlouder and louder until at last his mother retraced her steps and allowed him to use

her back as a bridge. Once safely around, she continued at the rear of the troopwith the tired little fellow now clinging tightly onto her back, still crying.

His crying got louder and more annoying until it drew the attention of the alphamale leading the troop - the terrifying Ah-nuld. Baring his teeth and hissing angrily,

the big male made his way over to the mother and child with fire in his eyes. The

mother assumed a protective posture and let out a loud snarl. We all held ourbreaths, not sure what Ah-nuld would do, but expecting the worst.

When Ah-nuld reached the mother and child, his face suddenly softened. He

looked directly at the baby monkey as if seeing him for the first time. Then Ah-nuldreached for the terrified infant, cupped the baby's tiny face gently in his hands and

planted a kiss right on his forehead. The baby stopped crying immediately. Ah-nuldstayed there, gently cradling the baby's head and lovingly grooming his fur with his

teeth.Our group let out a collective sigh of relief. We were so struck by the tenderness

of the moment that we barely noticed Jim, our own Ah-nuld, quietly sobbing. No onesaid anything, perhaps out of politeness, but I suspect inwardly everyone was glad to

see Jim soften up a little.

Buzzing with excitement, we made our way back to the lodge. After dinner, I satwith Jim and several others on the veranda, swaying in hammocks and listening to

the sounds of the rainforest, as beautiful and varied as a symphony.The peace was broken when Andy walked out on the porch and Jim reached out,

grabbing the boy's arm roughly. Andy tensed. My heart sank as I expected yetanother power struggle between the two. All eyes were anxiously on the father and

son.

Then Jim drew Andy to him, gave him a hug and said, "I'm so glad we're doingthis trip together. I've always wanted you to have an experience like this. Andy, I

know you don't always feel it, but I love you." Andy looked at his Dad in shock as if it were the first time he had heard him say "I love you."

Later, we found out it was.

Fathers Are Good at Telling Tall TalesBy Jim Hornbeck

I thought I would share with you a father's greatest fear: answering a five-year-

old child's question of "Where do babies come from?"Even though I've reached an age at which I could be a grandpa (a young and

virile one, I might add), it doesn't seem that it's been more than twenty years since Igave the "birds and bees" speech.

Because I did such a magnificent job of bungling my first attempt, my wife didn't



entrust me with that chore a second time.Although time has a way of mercifully erasing embarrassing moments from

memory, I can recall, with depressing clarity, the circumstances of my father-sontalk.

One night while Nancy and I were watching "All in the Family," she said calmly,"Jim, I think you should find time to tell Shawn about the facts of life. Soon."

"Aw, Honey," I whined, "the little guy is too young for that sort of thing.""I don't know about that." She smiled and raised an eyebrow. "Yesterday,

Shawn wanted to know if he could trade his G.I. Joe for a Raquel Welch."

"They don't make Raquel Welch dolls, do they?" I asked.

"No," she said, "but he didn't want a doll, he wanted Raquel Welch. THE RaquelWelch!"

I cleared my throat several times, fidgeted quite a bit and finally said, "Wellll . . .well, Honey, I guess you're right, but he's so young."

"Kids mature faster nowadays," she said comfortingly. "The curse of televisionand movie previews, I suppose."

"I better do it now and get it over with," I said.If I remember correctly, our little talk ended with ". . . and so you see, an Indian

shoots an arrow into the sky. If it lands in an oyster bed, the mommy will have a

boy. If it lands in a strawberry patch, she'll have a girl.""Then does the mommy have to eat the oyster?" asked Shawn."Ummm . . . ahhh . . . yeah, sure. And that's probably why there are more girls

than boys," I said.Suddenly, the bedroom door swung open. "Jim, JIM HORNBECK! How could you

tell a story like THAT?" shouted Nancy. "Why, that's the most ridiculous thing I'veever heard."

"Mommy," said Shawn, "don't be mad. I knew it was just one of Daddy'sstories."

"You did?" I said, overcome with relief."Sure," said Shawn, "Mikey already told me where babies come from."

"He did?" we chorused.

"What really happens," he continued, "is a man and a woman go to Hollywoodand get married. After they do a bunch of kissing and hugging, they have a party

and get lots of presents.""Oh, good grief," sighed Nancy.

"And two of the presents are catalogs.""What?" we chorused again.

"Then they choose a boy baby from Sears," said Shawn, "or a girl baby from JC

Penney. That's what Mikey said.""Who told him that?" I asked.

"His dad," said Shawn.Nancy frowned. "Oyster beds and catalogs. Now, where would you men ever

learn stories like that!"I smiled sheepishly and said, "From our fathers, of course."

A Hug and a KissBy Mack Emmert, As told to Tom Lagana

Mary, a recent widow and devoted "fifty-something" grandmother, worked as a

nursing-attendant. Her triumph over a heart attack and by-pass surgery wasremarkable, undoubtedly because of the deep love she held for her grandchildren.

But this time, Mary's hospital stay was different. Afflicted with a noncontagiousform of pneumonia, she was stunned to learn of her diagnosis - full-blown AIDS.

As part of a hospital volunteer visitation team, I call on each assigned AIDS



patient at least once a day. In my role as patient-advocate, I let each person knowthat someone else cares about them - aside from their family and the medical staff.

Once we become better acquainted, I greet most patients with a gentle hug and akiss on the cheek. I can usually sense whether or not a patient is comfortable with

this gesture.After my third visit with Mary, I asked politely, "Would you like a hug and a kiss

on the cheek?"Mary smiled, holding out two waiting arms, and whispered a barely audible, "Yes,

I'd love one."

As I drew back, I noticed a tear working its way down one cheek. "What's

wrong?" I asked."That's the first time anyone has touched me, since I was diagnosed with AIDS.

The medical staff touch me, but . . ." Mary turned onto her side, placing both handsover her face. "My sons won't even allow me to see my grandchildren," she said

between sobs. "When my family visits, they sit clear across the room, as far awayfrom me as possible."

I simply sat by her bedside and listened in silence - handing her tissues andtrying to understand.

A few days later, when I stopped to see Mary again, one of her sons and his wife

were visiting. "Good evening, Mary. I see that you have guests, so I'll stop backlater," I said, giving her a gentle hug and a kiss on the cheek.

Mary grabbed my right wrist as I turned to leave. "Wait a minute, Mack. I want

you to meet my son, John, and daughter-in-law, Sarah." During the introductions,her anxious family sat clear across the room from Mary's bed.

Later, when I looked in on her, her visitors were still maintaining their safedistance. I respected Mary's time with her family and didn't intrude.

The following evening, John and Sarah were back again, and the scenariorepeated itself like a familiar rerun on television. I went in, gave Mary a gentle hug

and a kiss, promising to come back later.When I returned, something had miraculously changed. John and Sarah were

seated in chairs - one on each side of Mary's bed - and they were holding hands.

Obviously choked with emotion, John said, "I guess if some stranger can hug andkiss my mother, we have nothing to be afraid of."

Fortunately, Mary became well enough to return home and continue her lovingrelationship with her family, including her cherished grandchildren - in spite of her

illness.

Naming Worms

By Allison McWood

I think my dad wanted a son. Instead, he got three daughters. Seeing as howthe son he anticipated was never forthcoming, Dad decided to improvise and I, being

his youngest, won the privilege of being nurtured outdoors.Being turned into a tomboy didn't bother me in the least. I loved putting on my

plaid, flannel shirt and doing things outside with Dad, especially fishing. Whether weoared across a lake in a rowboat or hiked down a cliff with nothing more than a hook

and some string, I could think of no better way for a dad and his little girl to spendthe day.

I would marvel at how patient and focused Dad was when he fished. He wouldconcentrate on his line for hours at a time. If he was any more calm, he would have

slipped into a coma. This used to drive me bananas. Being seven years old, Icraved more excitement. I imagined a huge fish, bigger than me, gulping down my

bait and flapping ferociously in the water until I heroically hauled it into the



summer of 1979, I started intensively training for the Olympic trials to be held inJune of 1980. I felt the exhilaration that comes with single-minded focus and steady

progress towards a cherished goal.But then in November, what appeared to be an insurmountable obstacle

occurred. I was in a car accident and injured my lower back. The doctors weren'tsure exactly what was wrong, but I had to stop training because I couldn't move

without experiencing excruciating pain. It seemed all too obvious that I would haveto give up my dream of going to the Olympics if I couldn't keep training. Everyonefelt so sorry for me. Everyone but me.

It was strange, but I never believed this setback would stop me. I trusted that

the doctors and physical therapists would get it handled soon, and I would get backto training. I held on to the affirmation: I'm getting better every day and I will place

in the top three at the Olympic trials. It went through my head constantly.But my progress was slow, and the doctors couldn't agree on a course of

treatment. Time was passing, and I was still in pain, unable to move. With only afew months remaining, I had to do something or I knew I would never make it. So I

started training the only way I could - in my head.A pentathlon consists of five track and field events: the 100-meter hurdle, the

shot put, the high jump, the long jump and the 200-meter sprint. I obtained films of

the world-record holders in all five of my events. Sitting in a kitchen chair, Iwatched the films projected on my kitchen wall over and over. Sometimes, Iwatched them in slow motion or frame by frame. When I got bored, I watched them

backwards, just for fun. I watched for hundreds of hours, studying and absorbing.Other times, I lay on the couch and visualized the experience of competing in minute

detail. I know some people thought I was crazy, but I wasn't ready to give up yet. Itrained as hard as I could - without ever moving a muscle.

Finally, the doctors diagnosed my problem as a bulging disc. Now I knew why Iwas in agony when I moved, but I still couldn't train. Later, when I could walk a

little, I went to the track and had them set up all five of my events. Even though Icouldn't practice, I would stand on the track and envision in my mind the complete

physical training routine I would have gone through that day if I had been able. For

months, I repeatedly imagined myself competing and qualifying at the trials.But was visualizing enough? Was it truly possible that I could place in the top

three at the Olympic trials? I believed it with all my heart.By the time the trials actually rolled around, I had healed just enough to

compete. Being very careful to keep my muscles and tendons warm, I movedthrough my five events as if in a dream. Afterwards, as I walked across the field, I

heard a voice on the loudspeaker announcing my name.

It took my breath away, even though I had imagined it a thousand times in mymind. I felt a wave of pure joy wash over me as the announcer said, "Second place,

1980 Olympic Pentathlon: Marilyn King."

A Tree House for EveryoneBy Maureen Heffernan

I often say I have the best job on earth. But the truth is, for a passionategardener, working at the Cleveland Botanical Garden isn't really a job at all! And

when we decided to build a half-acre garden for children, well, it got even moreinteresting.

We thought it was important to involve children in the design process. That waywe could learn what children themselves wanted to see and do in a garden. So we



invited the public to come help us design the garden. On February 4, 1996, morethan one hundred parents, grandparents and children showed up.

We rolled out big sections of white butcher paper on the floor and passed out lotsof crayons. Then I asked the children to draw their fantasy garden. I also told them

to place themselves somewhere in the picture.Soon, close to seventy-five children were down on the floor, drawing intently. A

dazzling, colorful mural began to emerge, filled with apple trees, streams, grapearbors, huge pumpkin patches, boulders, scarecrows, corn and a crazy quilt of flowers. They drew black bears, deer, raccoons, rabbits, watermelons, rainbows,

ponds, forts, sunflowers, acorns, frogs, tomatoes and more.

An eight-year-old boy named Alan came late to the workshop. He had cerebralpalsy and was strapped into a wheelchair. "Alan saw the special invitation asking

children to the workshop," his mother said. "He insisted on coming." She wheeledhim over to a table, and we gave him some paper and crayons. He went right to

work - he knew exactly what he wanted to draw.When all the children were done, I asked them to show everyone their drawings

and describe them. When it was Alan's turn, his mother helped him hold up hisdrawing and point to it. He had drawn a very tall tree with a tree house teetering

right at the top. Sitting in this high tree house was a boy in a wheelchair.

My heart went to my throat. It was both heartbreaking and inspiring to see howmuch a wheelchair-bound boy wanted to feel what it would be like to be way up in atreetop, looking down just like the other boys and girls. I turned to Deborah

Hershey Guren, one of the Botanical Garden's biggest supporters. She looked asmoved as I was. "A tree house for everyone. Wouldn't that be wonderful?" she

murmured."Yes, but I don't know how you'd ever get a wheelchair up there," I replied.

Deborah said nothing, but kept her eyes on Alan and his drawing.More than three-and-a-half years later, after many long hours of planning,

building and planting, we were ready to host the grand opening of the new HersheyChildren's Garden. With several hundred people there and all the opening festivities

going on, no one noticed a young boy in a wheelchair waiting patiently for the

garden to open. As soon as the invited dignitaries cut the ribbon, dozens of childrenran inside. Most of them headed straight toward a large water fountain that had

been designed especially for kids to play in and get wet.Meanwhile, Alan directed his motorized chair right up the long ramp that led into

the new tree house. As he rolled higher and higher, his smile kept growing brighter.It just so happened that Deborah had headed over to the tree house, as well.

She was looking down on all the children enjoying the garden below, when up rolled

Alan, beaming with excitement and pride. He looked out over the tree house railingand said loudly to everyone in earshot, "This was my idea!"

When Deborah recognized Alan as the same young boy who had touchedeveryone so deeply with his desire three years earlier, she had to wipe away tears of

joy. Her gift had made one child's dream come true. Alan had ached for somethingmost of us take for granted. And she had helped to make it happen. Didn't it sound

so simple, yet so profound?A tree house for everyone.

Chicken Daily Soup

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