棉的成语-底比斯

This was My Mother
She was 82 and living in Keonluk, when unaccountably she insisted upon attending a convention of old settlers of this Mississippi Valley. All the way there, and it was some distance, she was young again with excitement and eagerness. At the hotel she asked immediately for Dr. Barrett of St .Louis. He had left for home that morning and would not be back, she was told. She turned away, the fire all gone from her, and asked to go home. Once there she sat silent and thinking for many days, then told us that when she was 18 she had loved a young medical student with all of her heart. There was a misunderstanding and he left the country; she had immediately married, to show him she did not care. She had never seen him since and then she had read in a newspaper that he was going to attend the old settlers' convention. "Only three hours before we reached that hotel he had be here. " she mourned.
She had kept that pathetic burden in her heart 64 years without us suspecting it. Before the year was out, her memory began to fail. She would write letters to schoolmates who had been dead 40 years and wound why they never answered. Four years later she died.
Competition in My Own World
Once my mother told me a story that in Africa. When an antelope wakes up every morning, the first thing it thinks about is, "I must be able to run faster than the fastest lion, or I will be killed." At the same time, a lion wakes from his dream. The first thing the lion thinks about is, "I must be able to catch the slowest antelope, or I will starve to death." So almost the same time, the antelope and the lion get up and start running to the rising sun.
This is life: full of chance and challenges. Whether you are antelope or lion, you must go ahead when the sun rises. For students, it is just the same. If we do not study hard, sooner or later, we will fall behind the other students. At first, I did not know what the word "exam" meant. Later, I know an exam was a competition. In competitions, there are always winners and losers. As I grow up, I got to know competition well. In one's life, there must be competitions, so people can improve.
Each time I saw children playing games, and heard their laughter, I wished I were that age again. However, I remembered my parents' words:"You must work very hard in order to have a good future." So I picked up my pen and began to study hard again.
I was still not sure what competition really meant. One day, I was taking part in an English-speaking competition. When I went to the stage, I saw other students looking at me kindly. I suddenly knew what competition was. It is not as cruel as my teacher and parents told me. In fact, competition is the opposite: it is kindly and necessary.
I learned a lot from realizing this fact. Now I understand more about the world. Competition is important for us all.

Mother
"M" is for the million things she give me,
"O " means only that
she is growing oldfficial records as someone more distinguished and indispensable to mankind than "just another mother".
Motherhood… what a glorious career! Especially when there's a title on the door.
Does this make grandmothers "Senior Research Associates in the field of Child Development and Human Relations" and great grandmothers "Executive Senior Research Associates"? I think so!
I also think it make Aunts "Associate Research Assistants".
For the love of mother
When William ,a 10-year old boy and somewhat scruffy-looking enrolled himself to learn the piano, the music teacher reluctant to accept him. She preferred her students to start their music lessons at a younger age when their fingers are nimble.
“William, whey do you want to learn the piano?” the teacher asked. “I want to play for my mother.” She notice the tears in his eyes as he answered her. She had no heart to turn him down and accepted William as her student. But at each music lesson, William appeared to be in a hurry and played badly. “My mother is waiting outside for me,” he would tell the teacher. She was tempted to advise William not to waste his time as he never hit the right note. But there ws something about William, which she was fascinated with…the tender look of his eyes each time he mentioned “mother”.
Suddenly, William stopped coming for his lessons. At the end of the semester year, the music teacher decided to organize a piano recital for her students and she sent flyers to them to participate. She was surprised to find William’s application that he would like to contribute a musical piece. The music teacher was taken aback. She again had no heart to turn him down. She would put him as the last player in case he stumbled with his notes, she would come forward to remedy the situation.
The day came and William appeared with his hair uncombed and his shirt creased. He sat quietly with his eyes closed. When it was his turn to play, William bowed before the audience and said he was thankful for the music teacher’s patience with him as he may not have been the best of her pupils.
“Tonight I am dedicating my music to my mother. ” he said. As he sat down and put his fingers on the keyboard, the most beautiful sound of music was heard. Everyone later asked why William did not bring his mother as she would surely be proud to hear him play.
William replied, “My mother was stone deaf and she could never hear me play during her life time. Yet she sacrificed her time and money to let me learn the piano. This morning mother passed away. I am sure she is now happy as she can hear my piano recital. I chose a piece from Beethoven’s concerto. As you all know, Beethoven was submerged with deafness at the triumph of his career. The piece symbolized his struggle for freedom from tyranny and released him from darkness and so was mother. ” Everyone was electrified to hear what William said and tears welled over t
heir eyes.
The music teacher proudly exclaimed, “William, not only your mother but we all are proud of you . We are deeply touched by your devotion and your love for mother,” as she embraced him.
Love Note
It’s been over eleven years now. It’s wintry afternoon, the snow swirling around the cedar trees outside, forcing little icicles to form at the tips of the deep green foliage clinging to the branches.
My older son, Stephen, was at school, and Reed, my husband, at work. My three little ones were clustered around the kitchen counter, the tabletop piled high with crayons and markers. Tom was perfecting a paper airplane, creating his own insignia with stars and strips, while Sam worked on a self-portrait, his chubby hands drawing first a head, then legs and arms sticking out where the body should have been. The children mostly concentrated on their work, Tom occasionally tutoring his younger brother on exactly how to make a plane that would fly the entire length of the room.
But Laura, our only daughter, sat quietly, engrossed in her project. Every once in a while she would ask how to spell the name of someone in our family, then painstakingly from the letters one by one. Next, she would add flowers with small green stems, complete with grass lining the bottom of the page. She finished off each with a sun in the upper right hand corner, surrounded by an inch or two of blue sky, Holding them at eye level, she let out a long sight of satisfaction.
“what are you making, honey?” I asked.
She glanced at her brothers before looking back at me.:
“It’s a surprise,” she said, covering up her work with her hands.
Next, she taped the top two edges of each sheet of paper together, trying her best to create a cylinder. When she had finished, she disappeared up the stairs with her treasure
It was n’t until later that evening I noticed a “mailbox” taped onto the doors to each of our bedrooms, there was one for Steve. There was one for Tom . She had n’t forgotten Sam or baby Paul.
For the next few weeks, we received mail on a regular basis. There were little notes confessing her love for each of us. There were short letters full of tiny compliments that only a seven-year-old would notice. I was in charge of retrieving baby Paul’s letters, page after page of colored scenes including flowers with happy faces.
“He can’t read yet,” she whispered, “But he can look at the pictures”
Each time I received one of my little girl’s gifts, it brightened my heart.
I was touched at how carefully she observed our moods. When Stephen lost a baseball game, there was a letter telling him she thought he was the best ballplayer in the whole world. After I had a particularly hard day, there was a message thanking me for my efforts, complete with a smile face tucked near the bottom corner of the page.
This same little girl is grown no
w, driving off every day to the community college. But some things about her have never changed. One afternoon only a week or so ago, I found a love note next to my bedside.
“Thanks for always being there for me, Mom,” it read, “I ‘m glad that we’re the best of friends.”
I couldn’t help but remember the precious child whose smile has brought me countless hours of joy throughout the years. There are angles among us, I know I live with one.

A Gift of Love
“Can I see my boy?” the happy new mother asked. When the bundle was nestled in her arm and she moved the fold of cloth to look upon his tiny face, she gasped. The doctor turned quickly and looked out the tall hospital window. The baby had been born without ears. Time proved that the baby’s hearing was perfect. It was his appearance that was marred.
When he rushed home from school one day and flung himself into his mother’s arms, she sighted, knowing that his life was to be a succession of heartbreaks.
He blurted out the tragedy. “A boy, a big boy ....Called me a freak.” He grew up, handsome for his misfortune. A favorite with his fellow students, he might have been class president, but for that. He developed a gift, a talent for literature and music. “But you might mingle with other young people,” his mother reproved him, but felt a kindness in her heart.
The boy’s father had a session with the family physician. Could nothing be done? “I believe I could graft on a pair of outer ears, if they could be procured.” the doctor decided. So the search began for a person who would make such a sacrifice for a young man. Two years went by. Then, “You are going to the hospital, son. Mother and I have someone who will donate the ears you need, but it’s a secret, ” said the father.
The operation was a brilliant success, and a new person emerged. His talents blossomed into genius, and school and college became a series of triumphs. Later he married and enter the diplomatic service. “But I must know! ” He urged his father, “Who gave me so much for me? I could never do enough for him.”
“I don’t believe you could,” said the father, “but the agreement was that you are not to know… not yet.” The years kept their profound secret, but the day did come... One of the darkest days those ever pass through a son. He stood with his father over his mother’s caskets. Slowly, tenderly, the father stretched forth a hand and raised the thick, reddish brown hair to reveal that the mother had no outer ears.
“Mother said she was glad she never let her hair be cut,” he whispered gently,” and nobody ever thought less beautiful, did they”
Real beauty lies not in the physical appearance, but in the heart. Real love lies not in what is done and known, but in what done but unknown.
Unselfishly
She is so very beautiful her love is from within. How can I praise this
special woman where do my I begin? She always knows just what to say and what I need to hear, and when I need that special someone she is always near.
She always knows just what to do when I am feeling lost. Her kindness and compassion comes without a hidden cost. Unselfishly she shares her love and asks none in return. Love that’s unconditional from her is what I have learned.
She stands so tall and elegant a goddess in my eyes. The older I get it seems the more I realize how very wise and understanding she has always been. And now I understand that she has been my dearest friend.
She always gives and never asks to receive in return. And many times I thought the way I acted just might ruin tile bond we have created or the closeness that has grown, but she is aways there for me I never am alone.
There are some times we have disagreed and I felt we would part, but always she was waiting for me with a loving heart, forgiving all my attitudes and loving me for me, looking way beyond the things that other people see.
Even when I make mistakes I know that she will say, gone are yesterday’s mistakes this is a brand new day. No matter if I still rebel or advice I spurn, she says experience is not the only way to learn.
When I am up and all is great she shares my happiness, but when my world comes crashing down she also shares in this. She always has a word to say about what I should do, but right or wrong she never says the dreaded, “I told you.”
I understand the force behind her love on MOTHER’s Day. Advice that she has given me has helped me find my way. I try with all my heart to love unselfishly like my mother. But on this day she needs to know how much I really love her.
A Mother’s Perspective
I blink back tears as I gazed out the car window at a smirking orange moon. To me, at least, it seemed to be smirking, but maybe that was just my state of mind. Our car sped east into the darkness, and with each revolution of the wheels, it took me further away from my daughter, my eldest child. Several hours earlier, my husband and I had left her in a dormitory at Middle Tennessee State University, a twelve-hours drive from our home in Manassas, Virginia.
I had been so proud of myself as I’d said goodbye to Leah. Earlier, she ‘d pleaded with me not to cry---not until after we’ d left her, anyway, and I hadn’t. But I’d come close. As we rode down in the dormitory elevator together, Leach had been silent, keeping her eyes carefully averted from my face. I, however, couldn’t stop gazing at her, trying, I guess, to imprint these last moments with her on my brain. I wouldn’t be seeing her again until Christmas. My eyes lingered on a tiny scar on her forehead, an upside-down “V”.
A memory flashed in my mind of a fifteen-month-old Leach pulling a clock radio off a bedside table right in front of me. It seemed to happen in slow motion. I saw the radio falling towa
rd her and tried to catch it , but I could not move fast enough. The next thing I knew, Leach was screaming. her forehead dripping blood. At the emergency room, I wept in my husband’s arms, listening to my toddler shrieking “Mommy....Mommy...Mommy” in the cubicle next door as the cut was stitched up. Her panicked cries broke my heart, and I wished I could trade places with her. Suffer the pain for her so she would not have to.
There have been many, many other times since that day that I have had the same wish-her first day in a new school when she tried so bravely to hide her anxiety, the time she did not have a date for the homecoming dance but all her friend did, and the bleak January day in her junior year when a classmate was killed in a car accident. All those times, I wanted to take away her pain, but I knew I could not do it. Just as she could not take away my pain as our car sped down the interstate while the miles between us lengthened and the orange moon smirked down on me in my aching sadness. But I knew my pain was only temporary. As days passed, I would adjust to a different life without my daughter in the house.
With that adjustment in mind, I decided to redecorate Leah’s room, keep her bed and dresser but converting a section into a sewing area for me. A few weeks after we left her at college, I began to pack up the few item she’d left behind. I felt quite strong as I sifted through yearbooks, photo albums, and various odds and ends she’d collected throughout the years. But suddenly, I came across an item that shattered my emotional calm. I picked up a green square of burlap imprinted with two small handprints in white. My eyes blurred as I read the typewritten message above the handprints, and I could no longer hold back my tears.
Sometimes you get discouraged
Because I am so small
And always leave my fingerprints
On furniture and walls
But every day I am growing
And soon I’ll be so tall
That all those little handprints
Will be hard to recall
So here’s a final handprint
To remember, Mother dear
Exactly how my fingers looked
In Sunday school this year.
1980
I cried unashamedly---and it felt good.
Raindrops and Rubber Boots
It is often the simple things in life that the most significant impact on us. Simple things that change our view of life and also change the way we make decisions. Leave lasting memories in our minds.
It was one afternoon in mid-September. My three-month-old son was napping in his crib and I was spending the afternoon getting settled into our new home in Wisconsin. It was a rainy day. Not cold, but a steady drizzle had been falling and into the afternoon.
As I wandered through our living room, picking up toys and blankets, I happened to glance out my second story balcony window. Puddles had formed on the ground and the rain had slowed.
Down below, where t
he grass met the pavement and a large puddle had formed, stood a boy of about four. He wore a T-shirt and a pair of short and up to his knees he sported a pair of red, rubber boots. Filled with a mixture of fascination and glee, he stomped through the puddle, mud and water flying. Over and over he walked, stomped, splashed through that puddle, happily enjoying what Mother Nature had left for me.
Not more than four feet away stood his mother, watching as her son explored his world. She watched as water droplets, airborne because of his stomping, landed on the boy’s head, clothes and body. Mud flecks flew all around him and still she stood and watched with a pleasant smile on her face. To an unnoticing passerby it was just two people going about their day. But from my new found sensitivity to the joys and experiences of motherhood, it was a touching moment that altered the way I will forever view nay role as a mother.
A simple moment in my life made me stop and realize just how important the simple things really are. As the little boy in the rubber boot grows up, he probably will not remember each afternoon that his mother took him outside and let him stomp in the puddles or each bug that she let him stop to touch. He may not remember each little thing that his mother does for him everyday--each time she lets him explore his world. But he will remember that his mother loved him and he will know that she helped him to learn and grow in a pleasant and fun environment.
Maybe we can all learn from the innocence of childhood that views a rainstorm not as something to run through or to avoid, but something meant to fascinate, to explore and to enjoy. Maybe we should all stop to play in the rain more often. Maybe I will learn more and my views will change as my experience of motherhood grows and evolves. But one thing I know for sure. As soon as my son can walk, I am buying him a pair of rubber boots.
A Touch Story
She was six years old when I first met her on the near where I live. She was building a sand castle and or something and looked up, her eyes as blue as the sea.
“Hello” she said. I answered with a nod, not really in the mood to bother with a small child.
“I am building,” she said. “I see that. What is it?” I asked, not caring. “Oh, I do not know, I just like the feel of the sand.” that sounds good, I thought. A sandpiper glided by. “That is a joy” The child said. “It is what?” “It is a joy. My mama says sandpipers come to bring us joy.” The bird glided down the beach. “Good--by joy,” I muttered to myself, “Hello pain” and turned to walk on. I was depressed; my life seemed completely out of balance. “What is you name?” She would not give up, “Robert” I answered. “I am Robert Peterson.” “Mine is Wendy...I am six.” “Hi ,Wendy.” She giggled. “You are funny.” “You are funny,” she said. In spite of my gloom I laughed too and walked on. Her
musical giggle followed me. “Come again, Mr. P” she called. “We will have another happy day.”
The days and weeks that followed belonged to others: PTA meetings, and an ailing mother. The sun was shining one morning as I look my hands out of the dishwater. “I need a sandpiper,” I said to myself. The breeze was chilly, but I strode along, trying to recapture the serenity I needed.
I had forgotten the child and was started when she appeared. “Hello, Mr. P,” she said, “Do you want to play?” “What did you have in mind?”
I asked, with a twinge of annoyance. “I do not know, you say.”“How about charades?” I asked sarcastically. The tinkling laughter burst forth again. “I do not know what that is.” “Then let us just walk.” Looking at her, I noticed the delicate fairness of her face. “Where do you live?” I asked. “Over there.” She pointed toward a row of cottages, “Where do you go to school?” “I do not go to school. Mommy says we are on vacation.” She chattered little girl talk as we strolled up the beach, but my minds were on other things. When I left for home, Wendy said it had been a happy day. Feeling surprisingly better, I smiled at her and agreed.
Three week later, I rushed to my beach in a state of near panic. I was in no mood to even greet Wendy. “Look, if you do not mind,” I said crossly when Wendy caught up with me, “I‘d rather be along today.” She seemed unusually pale and out of breath. “Why?” she asked. I turned to her and shouted, “Because my mother died!” and thought, “My god, why was I saying this to a little child?” “Oh, “she said quietly,” then this is a bad day.” “Yes,” I said, “and yesterday, and the day before and oh just go away!” “Did it hurt?” She inquired. “Did what hurt?” I was exasperates with her, with myself. I strode off.
A month or so after that. When I next went to the beach, she was not there. Feeling guilty, ashamed and admitting to myself I missed her, went up to the cottage after my walk and knocked on the door. A drawn looking woman opened the door.
“Hello,” I said, “I am Robert Peterson. I missed your little girl today and wondered where she was?” “Oh yes, Mr. Peterson, please come in. Wendy spoke of you so much. I am afraid I allowed her to bother you. If she was a nuisance, please accept my apologies.” “Not at all---she is a delightful child,” I said. “Wendy died last week, Mr. Peterson. She had leukemia. Maybe she did not tell you.”Struck dumb, I groped for a chair. I had to catch my breath. “She loved this beach; So when she asked to come, we could not say no. She seemed so much better here and had a lot of what she called happy days. But the last few weeks, she declined rapidly...” Her voice faltered, “She left something for you... If only I can find it. Could you wait a moment while I look?” I nodded stupidly, my mind racing for something, to
say to this lovely young woman. She handed me a smeared envelope. With MR. P printed in bold childish letters. Inside was a drawing in bright crayon of a yellow beach, a blue sea, and a brown bird. Underneath was carefully printed. A SANDPIPER TO BRING YOU JOY.
Tears welled up in my eyes. I took Wendy’s mother in my arms. “I am so sorry, I am so sorry. I am so sorry.” I muttered over and over, and we wept together.
The precious little picture is framed now and hangs in my study. Six words one for each year of her life---that speak to me of harmony, courage, and undemanding love. A gift from a child with sea-blue eyes and hair and the color of sand---who taught me the gift of love focus about what is truly important. This week, be sure to give your loved ones an extra hug; and by all means, take a moment, even if it is only ten seconds to stop and smell the roses.

悼楊銓(楊杏佛)
魯迅
豈有豪情似舊時， 花開花落兩由之①。
何期淚灑江南雨②， 又為斯民哭健兒③。
The Boy Who Sang His Blue Away
Blue’s father called out to him before he left home to find work in the town. “Son remember what I told you. Take care of yourself. I will be home as fast as I can.”
Every morning after his father left, Blue would take a look at the blue coat his mother stitched for him when he was a baby. It used to keep him warm but he had outgrown the coat. It was the most precious gift from his mother. Though life was hard for father and son, Blue was always happy. “Sing your blues away, son,” His father told him. His father preferred the word “blues” instead of “troubles” “It sounds nicer, father,” Blue replied “You have grown into a big clever boy!” as father and hugged each other.
“Son, these were the words your mother whispered to me before she took her last breath, ‘Husband, do you remember how we loved to walk and made our wishes, under the blue sky, as we went along? So I stitched a blue coat for our baby. Can you help me to put it on him?’ Your mother then held you in her arms and continued softly, ‘our baby looks so pretty in the blue coat. Tell him I love him and I will watch over him wherever he goes. You are a good and brave husband. Teach our son to be like you.’ ‘Wife, I surely will! Shall we call our son blue?’ She was too weak to talk further and nodded her head lightly and gave a sweet smile. She died still holding you in her arms. ”
People usually sing when they are happy with plenty to eat but that was not the case for Blue. To start with, it was cold and there were holes in his shoes. He had only a small bowl of rice porridge, his father had left him. Blue knew his father often went hungry but there was always a small bowl for him on the table. Blue kept him busy, as he had to gather wood in the forest. He remembered his father’s advice, “Sing your blue
s away and make believe that everything will be alright.” So Blue sang and gathered his woods happily. As birds flew by, they too would chirp along merrily when they heard Blue singing.
One day, he did not notice that a stranger was watching him. It was only when the man called out that Blue lifted up his head . “Boy, why are you singing? Are you not cold ?” “I was but I have been so busy I am warm.” replied Blue. “You clothes are rags, you are thin and hungry. Surely you can not be happy. Why do you sing? It is silly” “Not at all, I had sung my blues away. I also convinced myself that I am the happiest boy in the country. I am really happy!”
“Oh can you help me? I have a little boy who cries all day. I give him everything he ask for. Yet he is unhappy. Please come and sing him your song and teach him your secret. You are a brave little boy!” The stranger pleaded.
Blue nodded, “I will come after have taken home the wood. When father comes home, there will be some wood to keep us warm. I go on singing until my heart opens up and sings too. I really have no secret.”
The stranger took Blue to a big cottage in the forest. In a beautiful room lay a sick boy on a silken couch. His eyes were red as he had been crying. He looked angrily at his father and stared at Blue. “Who are you? You look cold. Why do you smile?”
The father took his son’s hand and told him how he saw Blue in the woods singing and looking happy in spite of being hungry and cold.
Blue came toward the boy and asked, “Would you like me to sing you a song? If you like it then I will continue.” As Blue sang, the boy smiled as he could feel that Blue sang with his heart. “What a beautiful song!” cried the boy, “Can you stay with me and teach me to sing so that I will not be sad?” “ Of course, I will, My name is Blue and what is yours name?” “I am called Ping which means peace. But I am always crying and never give my father peace.” So Blue sang and taught Ping the true meaning of peace and how to be happy. Not only Blue and Ping became the best of friends but their fathers too.
Singing your blues away also means singing your troubles always. In simple terms “Never let trouble troubles you.”
Extra Good Luck
I keep a two--dollar bill in my wallet that was given to me by my mother when I was six years old.
I am not superstition but the bill goes with me wherever I go. My mother gave it to me so that luck would follow me everywhere.
She looked at me and said, “I want you to carry this two dollars bill for extra good luck.”
“Thanks mom,” I replied, “I will keep it close to me always.”
Every morning I would get dressed and my two--dollars bill went into my pocket. My mother passed away when I was 17 years old and I remembered taking out my two--dollar bill. I held it in my hand for the longest time and knew that she would be watching ov
er me the rest of life.
Each time I felt I had a crisis on my hands; I could reach for my two dollars bill and set it on the table. I would stare at it for several hours and could always come up with a solution.
When I applied for my first job. I was thirty years old and very shy. The thought of being interviewed for a job was scary but I had to work. On my first interview, as I sat in the waiting room, I noticed there were five women ahead of me. All of the women were younger and very well dressed. One of them was impeccable in her blue striped suit with matching purse and shoes. I knew I was up against women better qualified by looking at the length of their resumes.
Ms. Martin, the office manager, summoned me into her office.
“What make you feel you are qualified for this job?” she asked.
“ I really need this job and there is nothing I can not do.” I responded.
She asked me a series of questions and the interview was over. As I exited her office, I turned around and said, “Ms. Martin, I knew that I am not qualified like your other applicants, but please give me a chance. I learn quickly and can be a very productive member of your team. ”
I thanked her and went home exhausted. Oh well, I thought, tomorrow would be another day.
That evening as I was getting ready for bed, I received a phone call from Ms. Martin.
“Gina,” she said, “you were not the most qualified applicant, but you have so much confidence in yourself that we decided to give you a chance to prove yourself.”
I seemed out loud, was jumping all over the room in disbelief. I could hear Ms. Martin laughing in the background and suddenly I realized that Ms. Martin was still on the line.
“Thank you, Ms. Martin. You will not regret this decision.” I said and hung up the phone.
I got my wallet and took out my two--dollar bill.
“Thanks mom, I am going to make it.” I said out loud so my mother could hear me.
At that instant, I remember the time she pulled all of us into the living room and said, “You are all brilliant in my mind, but if you fail once do not give up. Do not fear failure. It is a way of getting us to try harder. You will succeed, I promise.”
I still think of mom everyday and still keep my two--dollar bill in my wallet. At a family reunion years later, I found out that my bothers and sisters all had a two--dollar bill in their wallet.
We all laughed and talked about how special this gift from mom had been to each and ever had reinforced the confidence Mom had instilled one of us. It led in us.
A Fib and Matinee
I was six years old and my sister, Sally Kay, was a submissive three. For some reason, I thought we need to earn some money. I decided we should “hire out” as maids. We visited the neighbors, offering to clean house for them for a quarter.
Reasonable as our offer was, there were no takers. But one neighbor te
lephoned Mother to let her know what Mary Alice and Sally Kay were doing. Mother had just hung up the phone when we came bursting through the back door, into the kitchen of our apartment.
“Girls,” Mother asked, “Why were you two going around the neighborhood telling people you would clean their houses?”
Mother was not angry with us. In fact, we learned afterwards, she was amused that we had come up with such an idea. But, for some reason, we both denied having done any such thing. Shocked and terribly hurt that her dear little girls could be such “bold--faced liar,” Mother then told us that Mrs. Jones had just called to tell her we had been to her house and said we would clean it for a quarter.
Faced with the Truth, we admitted what we had done. Mother said that we had “fibbed”. We had not told the Truth. She was sure that we knew better. She tried to explain why a fib hurt but she did not feel that we really understood.
Years later, she told us that the “lesson” she came up with for trying to teach us to be truthful would probably have been frowned upon by us child psychologists. The idea came to her in a flash....... And our tenderhearted mother told us it was the most difficult lesson she ever taught us. It was a lesson we never forgot.
After admonishing us, Mother cheerfully began preparing for lunch. As we munched on sandwiches, she asked, “Would you two like to go to the movies this afternoon?”
“Wow! Would we ever!” We wondered what movie would be playing. Mother said The Matinee. Oh, fantastic! We would be going to The Matinee! Were not we lucky? We got bathed and all dressed up. It was like getting ready for a birthday party. We hurried outside the apartment, not wanting to miss the bus that would take us downtown. On the landing, mother stunned us by saying, “Girls, we are not going to the movies today.”
We did not hear her right. “What?” we objected. “What do you mean? Are not we going to The Matinee? Mommy, you SAID we were going to go to The Matinee!”
Mother stooped and gathered us in her arms. I could not understand why there were tears in her eyes. We still had time to get the bus. But hugging us, she gently explained that this was what a fib felt like.
“It is important that what we SAY is TRUE,” Mother said, “I fibbed to you just now and it felt awful to me. I do not ever want to fib again and I am sure you do not want to fib again either. People must be able to believe each other. Do you understand?”
We assured her that we understood. We would never forget.
And since we had learned the lesson, why not go on to The Matinee? There was still time.
“Not today.” Mother told us. We would go another time.
That is how, over fifty years ago, my sister and I learned to be truthful. We have never forgotten how much a fib can hurt.
Melody of Life
Almost everything I ever needed to know, my Mo
ther taught me from songs. Remember this song?

I beg your pardon;
I never promised you a rose garden.
Along with the sunshine
You gotta’ have a little rain something.

My Mom used to love this song when I was just a tiny young girl. Her analogy? Life is not always fair.
I cannot count the time she ‘s told me , “I never told you life was fair. ” When I would rail at the obvious inequities in my life.
I look at that verse and realize, too, that without rain we might never experience the healing growth that is inevitably gleaned. What a tragedy that would be! Even the cacti must have rain or moisture---they have simply learned to store it, to carry it through long dry spells.
How about this song? Remember it?

Queue sera sera.
Whatever will be, will be.
The future ‘s not ours to see.
Queue sera sera...

How often she has reminded me that none of us can predict the future with much certainty! Her point? Everything happens for a reason and all things usually turn out for the best, though we may not understand at the time. She is, of course, right as usual.
These are not easy lessons to learn when you are a child. Then again, they are difficult to believe even as an adult.
But, when you hear words like these from your parents, or in a song, you not only learn the words but you also learn to sway with the rhythm.
That is what life what life is all about---learning to sway with the rhythm while finding your own, perhaps offbeat, accompaniment within, to nicely complement the melody of life.
That is why I feel almost everything I ever needed to know, I learned from listening to my mother ‘s sweet voice singing her favorite song to me. I especially cherish the ones that told of her abundant love for me, her only daughter.
I now sing to my own daughter and only hope she feels the love and learns the valuable my songs have to offer.

The Scar
A little boy invited his mother to attend his elementary school‘s first teacher--parent conference. To the little boy‘s dismay, she said she would go. This would be the first time that his classmate and teacher met his mother and he was embarrassed by her appearance. Although she was a beautiful woman, there was a severe scar that covered nearly the entire right side of her face. The boy never wanted to talk about why or how she got the scar.
At the conference, the people were impressed by the kindness and natural beautiful of his mother despite the scar, but the little boy was still embarrassed and hid himself from everyone. He did, however, get within earshot of a conversation between his mother and his teacher, and hard them speaking.
“How did you get the scar on you face?” the teacher asked.
The mother replied: “When my son was a baby, he was in a room that caught on fire. Everyone was too afraid to go
in because the fire was out of control, so I went in. As I was running toward his crib, I saw a beam coming down and I placed myself over him trying to protect him. I was knocked unconscious but fortunately, a fireman came in and saved both of us. ” she touched the burned side of her face, “This scar will be permanent, but to this day, I have never regretted doing what I did.”
At this point, the little boy came out running towards his mother with tears in his eyes. He hugged her and felt an overwhelming sense of the sacrifice that his mother had made for him. He held her hand tightly for the rest of the day.
Dancing With Mom
When I married my wife Martha. It was the most beautiful day of my life.
We were young and healthy, tanned and handsome. Every picture taken by that day showed us smiling, hugging and kissing. We were the perfect hosts, never cranky or tired. We were as happy and carefree as the porcelain couple on our towering wedding cake.
Halfway through the reception, in between the pictures and the cake and the garter and the bouquet, my mother tapped me gently on the shoulder. I hugged her in a flurry of other well-wishers and barely heard her whisper, “Will you dance with me, sweetheart?”
“Sure, Mom.” I said, smiling and with the best of intentions, even as some out of town guests pulled me off in their direction. An hour later my mother tried again. And again I readily agreed, smiling and reading for her with an outstretched hand but letting some old college buddies place a fresh beer there instead, just before dragging me off for some last-minute wedding night advice!
Finally, my mother gave up.
There were kisses and hugs and rice and tin cans and then my wife and I were off on our honeymoon. A nagging concern grew in the back of my mind as we wined and dined our way down to Miami for a week-long cruise and then back again when it was over.
When we finally returned to our new home, a phone message told us our pictures were waiting at the photographer‘s. We unpacked slowly and then moseyed on down to pick them up. Hours later, after we had examined every one with fond memories, I held one out to reflect upon in private.
It was a picture of two happy guests, sweaty and rowdy in their dancing. But it was not the grinning couple I was focusing on. There, in the background was my mother.
I had spotted her blue dress right away and her simple pearls. The brand new hairdo I knew she ‘d gotten special for that day, even though she was on a fixed income. I saw her scuffed shoes and a run in her stocking and tired hands clutching at a well-used handkerchief.
In the picture, my mother was crying. And I didn’t think they were tears of joy. The nagging concern that had niggled at me the entire honeymoon finally solidified-I had never danced with my mother.
I kissed my wife on the cheek and drove to my mother ‘s tiny apartment a few miles awa
y. I knocked on the door and saw that her new perm was still fresh and tight, but her tidy blue dress had been replaced with her usual faded house dress.
A feeble smile greeted me, weak arms wrapped around me and, naturally, mother wanted to know all about our honeymoon. Instead, all I cold do was apologize.
“I am sorry, I never danced with you, Mom,” I said honestly, sitting next to her on the threadbare couch, “it was a very special day and that was the only thing missing from making it perfect.”
Mother looked at me in the eye and said something that I‘ll never forgot: “Nonsense, dear. You have danced enough with this old broad in her lifetime. Remember all those Saturday nights you spent here when you were a little boy? I “d put the Lawrence Welk Show on and you ‘d danced on top of my fuzzy slippers and laughed the whole time. Why, I do not know any other mother who has memories like that. I am a lucky woman.”
“And while you were being the perfect host and making all of your guests feel so special, I sat back and watched you and felt nothing but pride. That ‘s what a wedding is, honey. Something old and something new; something borrowed and something blue.”
“Well this OLD woman, who was wearing BLUE, watched you danced with your beautiful NEW bride, and I knew I had to give you up, because I had you so many years to myself, but I could only BORROW you until you found the woman of your dream-and now you have each other and I can rest easy in the knowledge that you are happy.”
Both of our tears covered her couch that day.
That was the day mother taught me what it meant to be a son, as well as a husband.
And after my lesson, I asked mother for that wedding dancing.
Unlike me, she did not refuse...
Prayer for My Mother
Dear God,
Now that I am no longer young and I have friends whose mothers have passes away. I have heard these sons and daughter say they never fully appreciated their mothers until it was too late to tell them.
I am blessed with the dear mother who is still alive. I appreciate her more each day. My mother does not change, but I do. As I grow older and wiser. I realize what an extraordinary person she is. How sad that I am unable to speak these words in her presence, but they flow easily from my pen.
How does a daughter begin to thank her mother for life itself? For the love, patience and just plain hard work that go into raising a child? For running after a toddler, understanding a moody teenager and tolerating a college student who knows everything? For waiting for the day when a daughter realizes how wise her mother really is? How does a grown woman thank a mother for continuing to be a mother? For being ready with advice (when asked) or remaining silent when it is most appreciated? For not saying, “I told you so,” when she could have uttered these words dozens of times? For being essentially herself-loving thought
ful, patient and forgiving?
I didn’t know how, dear God, except to ask you to bless her as richly as she deserves and to help me live up to the example she has set. I pray that I will look as good in the eyes of my children as my mother looks in mine.
Bobby’s Gift
Bobby was getting cold sitting out in his backyard in the snow. Bobby didn’t wear boots; he didn’t like them and anyway he didn’t own any. The thin sneakers he wore had a few holes in them and they did a poor job of keeping out the cold.
Bobby had been in his backyard for about an hour already. And, try as he might, he could not come up with an idea for his mother’s Christmas gift. He shook his head as he thought, “This is useless, even if I do come up with an idea. I don’t have any money to spend.”
Ever since his father had passed away three years ago, the family of five had struggled. It wasn’t because his mother didn’t care, or try, there just never seemed to be enough. She worked nights at the hospital, but the small wage that she was earning could only be stretched so far.
What the family lacked in money and material things, they more than made up for in love and family unity. Bobby had two older and one younger sister, who ran the household in their mother’s absence.
All three of his sister had already made beautiful gifts for their mother. Somehow, it just wasn’t fair. Here it was Christmas Eve already, and he had nothing.
Wiping a tear from his eye, Bobby kicked the snow and started to walk down to the street where the shops and stores were. It wasn’t easy being six without a father, especially when he needed a man to talk to.
Bobby walked from shop to shop, looking into each decorated window. Everything seemed so beautiful and so out of reach. It was starting to get dark and Bobby reluctantly turned to walk home when suddenly his eyes caught the glimmer of the setting sun’s rays reflecting off of something along the curb. He reached down and discovered a shiny dime.
Never before has anyone felt so wealthy as Bobby felt at that moment. As he held his new found treasure, warmth spread throughout his entire body and he walked into the first store he saw. His excitement quickly turned cold when salesperson after salesperson told him that he could not buy anything with only a dime.
He was a flower shop and went inside to wait in line. When the shop owner asked if he could help him, Bobby presented the dime and asked if he could buy one flower for his mother’s Christmas gift. The shop owner looked at Bobby and his ten cent offering. Then he put his hand on Bobby’s shoulder and said to him, “you just wait here and I’ll see what I can do for you.”
As Bobby waited, he looked at the beautiful flowers and even though he was a boy, he could see why mother and girls liked flowers.
The sound of the door closing as the last customer left jolted Bobby back to reality. All alone in
im the wonders of books. Give him quite time to ponder the eternal mystery of birds in the sky, bees in the sun, and flowers on the green hill. Teach him it is far more honorable to fail than to cheat. Teach him to have faith in his own ideas, even if everyone else tells him they are wrong. Teach him to sell his brawn and brains to the highest bidder, but never to put a price on his heart and soul. Teach him to close his ears to a howling mob…and to stand and fight if he thinks he's right, Teach him gently, World, but don't coddle him, because only the test of fire makes the fine steel. This is a big order, World, but see what you can do. He's such a nice little fellow.
The Essence of Mother-Love
Time is running out for my friend. While we are sitting at lunch she casually mentions she and her husband are thinks of starting a family. "We're taking a survey," she says, half-joking. "Do you think I should have a baby?"
"It will change your life. " I say, carefully keeping my tone neutral."I know," she says, "no more sleeping in on weekends, no more spontaneous holidays…"
But that's not what I meant at all. I look at my friend, trying to decide what to tell her. I want her to know what she will never learn in childbirth classes. I want to tell her that the physical wounds of child bearing will heal, but becoming a mother will leave her with an emotional wound so raw that she will be vulnerable forever.
I consider warning her that she will never again read a newspaper without thinking, "What if that had been MY child?" That every plane crash every house fire will haunt her. That when she sees pictures of starving children she will wonder if anything could be worse than watching your child die. I look at her carefully manicured nails and stylish suit and think that no matter how sophisticated she is, becoming a mother will reduce her to the primitive level of a bear protecting her cub.
I feel I should warn her that no matter how many years she has invested in her career, she will be professionally derailed by motherhood. She might arrange for child care, but one day she will be going into an important business meeting, and she will think her baby's sweet smell. She will have to use every ounce of discipline to keep from running home, just to make sure her child is all right.
I want my friend to know that every decision will no longer be routine. That a five-year-old boy's desire to go to the men's room rather than the women's at a restaurant will become a major dilemma. The issues of independence and gender identity will be weighed against the prospect that a child molester may be lurking in the lavatory. However decisive she may be at the office, she will second-guess herself constantly as a mother.
Looking at my attractive friend, I want to assure her that eventually she will shed the added weight of pregnancy, but she will never feel the same about herself. That her own life, now so important, will b
e of less value to her once she has a child. She would give it up in a moment to save her offspring. but will also begin to hope for more years-not to accomplish her own dreams-but to watch her children accomplish theirs.
I want to describe to my friend the exhilaration of seeing your child learn to hit a ball. I want to capture for her the belly laugh of a baby who is touching the soft fur of a dog for the first time. I want her to taste the joy that is so real it hurts.
My friend's look makes me realize that tears have formed in my eyes. "You'll never regret it." I say finally. Then, squeezing my friend's hand, I offer a prayer for her and me and all of the mere mortal women who stumble their way into this holiest of callings.
A Boy with a Mission
In 1945, a 12-year-old boy saw something in a shop window that set his heart racing. But the price-five dollars-was far beyond Reuben Earle's means. Five dollars would buy almost a week's groceries for his family.
Reuben couldn't ask his father for the money, Everything Mark Earle made through fishing in Bay Roberts, Newfoundland, Canada. Reuben's mother, Dora, stretched like elastic to feed and clothe their five children.
Nevertheless, he opened the shop's weathered door and went inside. Standing proudly and straight in his flour-sack shirt washed-out trousers, he told the shopkeeper what he wanted, adding:"But I don't have the money right now. Can you please hold it for me for some time?"
"I'll try," the shopkeeper smiled," Folks around here don't usually have that kind of money to spend on things. It should keep for a while."
Reuben respectfully touched his worn cap and walked out into the sunlight with the bay rippling in a freshening wind. There was a purpose in his loping stride. He would raise the five dollars and not tell anybody.
Hearing the sound of hammering from a side street, Reuben had an idea.
He ran towards the sound and stopped at a construction site. People built their own homes in Bay Roberts, using nails purchased in hessian sacks from a local factory. Sometimes the sacks were discarded in the flurry of building, and Reuben knew he could sell them back to the factory for five cents apiece.
That day he found two sacks, which he took to the rambling wooden factory and sold to the man in charge of packing nails.
The boy's hand tightly clutched the five-cent pieces as he ran the two kilometers home.
Near his house stood the ancient barn that housed the family's goats and chickens. Reuben found a rusty soda tin and dropped his coins inside. Then he climbed into the loft of the barn and hid the tin beneath a pile of sweet smelling hay.
It was dinnertime when Reuben got home. His father sat at the big kitchen table, working on fishing net. Dora was at the kitchen stove, ready to serve dinner as Ruben took his place at the table
He looked at his mother and smiled. Sunlight from the window gilded her shoulder-length blonde hair. Slim and
beautiful, she was the center of the home, the glue that held it together.
Her chores were never-ending. Sewing clothes for her family on the old Singer treadle machine, cooking meals and baking bread, planting and tending a vegetable garden, milking the goats and scrubbing soiled clothes on a washboard. But she was happy. Her family and their well-being were her highest priority
Every day after chores and school, Reuben scoured the town, collecting the hessian nail bags. On the day the two-room school closed for the summer, no student was more delighted than Reuben. Now he would have more time for his mission.
All summer long, despite chores at home weeding and watering the garden, cutting wood and fetching water-Reuben kept to his secret task.
Then all too soon the garden was harvest, the vegetables canned and stored, and the school reopened. Soon the leaves fell and the winds blew cold and gusty from the bay. Reuben wandered the streets, diligently searching for his hessian treasures.
Often he was cold, tired and hungry, but the thought of the object in the shop window sustained him. Sometimes his mother would ask:"Reuben, where you? We were waiting for you to have dinner."
"Playing, Mom. Sorry."
Dora would look at his face and shake her head. Boys.
Finally spring burst into glorious green and Reuben's spirits erupted. The time had come! He ran into the barn, climbed to the hayloft and uncovered the tin can. He poured the coins and began to count.
Then he counted again. He needed 20 cents more. Could there be any sacks left anywhere in town? He had to find four and sell them before the day ended.
Reuben ran down Water Street.
The shadows were lengthening when Reuben arrived at the factory. The sack buyer was about to lock up.
"Mister! Please don't close up yet."
The man turned and saw Reuben, dirty and sweat stained.
"Come back tomorrow, boy"
"Please, Mister. I have to sell the sacks now—please." The man heard a tremor in Reuben's voice and could tell he was close to tears.
"Why do you need this money so badly?"
"It's a secret."
The man took the sacks, reached into his pocket and put four coins in Reuben's hand. Reuben murmured a thank you and ran home.
Then, clutching the tin can, he headed for the shop.
"I have the money." he solemnly told the owner.
The man went to the window and retrieved Reuben's treasure.
He wiped the dust off and gently wrapped it in brown paper. Then he placed the parcel in Reuben's hands.
Racing home, Reuben burst through the front door. His mother was scrubbing the kitchen stove. "Here, Mom! Here!" Reuben exclaimed as he ran to her side. He placed a small box in her work roughened hand.
She unwrapped it carefully, to save the paper. A blue-velvet jewel box appeared. Dora lifted the lid, tears beginning to blur her vision.
In gold lettering on
a small, almond brooch was the word Mother.
It was Mother's Day, 1946.
Dora had never received such a gift; she had no finery except her wedding ting. Speechless, she smiled radiantly and gathered her son into her arms.
Love Live Forever
My mouth felt dry as I followed my mother into the doctor's private office and sank into a padded chair next to hers. This doctor didn't carry a stethoscope. He had a room full of gadgets and gizmos to analyze the learning abilities of failing students. That day he had analyzed me.
He shuffled papers and jabbed his wire frame glasses with a forefinger. "I'm sorry to tell you this. Mrs. Dow, but Peter has dyslexia. A fairly severe case."
I swallowed and tried to breathe. The doctor went on. "He'll never read above the fourth-grade level. Since he won't be able to complete high school requirements, I suggest you enroll him in a trade school where he can learn to work with his hands."
I didn't want to go to trade school. I wanted to be a preacher, like my dad. My eyes filled with tears, but I forced them back. A twelve-year-old was too big to cry.
Mom stood up, so I jumped to my feet, too. "Thank you, Doctor," she said. "Come along, Peter."
We drove home without saying much. I felt numb. Dyslexia? I'd never heard the word until last week. Sure, I was always the slowest kid in my class. During recess I had a special hiding place behind a shrub. There I would cry because I couldn't do my lessons no matter how hard I tried.
Of course, I never told my mom about that part of school. I was too ashamed. I didn't want to worry her, either. She had enough on her mind with teaching school full-time and taking care of Dad, my two brothers, my sister and me.
Mom and I arrived home before the rest of the family. I was glad. I wanted sometime alone. With my chin almost touching my chest, I pulled off my coat and hung it in the closet. When I turned around my mother was standing right in front of me. She didn't say anything. She just stood there looking into my eyes with tears running down her cheeks. Seeing her cry was too much for me. Before I knew what was happening, I was in her arms bawling like a big boy. A few minutes later, she led me into the living room to the couch.
"Sit down, honey. I want to talk to you."
I rubbed my eyes with my sleeve and waited, plucking at the crease in my trousers.
"You heard what the doctor said about your not finishing school. I don't believe him."
I stopped sniffling and looked at her. Her mild blue eyes smiled into mine. Behind them lay an iron will. "We'll have to work very hard, you and I, but I think we can do it. Now that I know what the problem is, we can try to overcome it. I'm going to hire a tutor who knows about dyslexia. I 'll work with you myself evening and weekends." Her eyebrows drew down as she peered at me. "Are you willing to work, Peter? Do you want to try?"
A ray of hope shone through the hazy future. "Yes, Mom. I want to re
al had."
The next six years were an endurance run for both of us. I studied with a tutor twice a week until I could haltingly read my lessons. Each night, my mom and I sat at my little desk and rehearsed that day's schoolwork for at least two hours, sometimes until midnight. We drilled for test until my head pounded and the print blurred before my eyes. At least twice a week, I want to quit. I had the strength of a kitten, but my mom's courage never wavered.
She'd rise early to pray over my school day. A thousand times I heard her say, "Lord, open Peter's mind today. Help him remember the things we studied."
Her vision reached beyond the three R's. Twice I won at statewide speech competitions. I participated in school programs and earned a license to work as an announcer on a local radio station.
Then my mother developed chronic migraines during my senior year. She blamed the headaches on stress. Some days the intense pain kept her in bed. Still she'd come to my room in the evening, wearing her robe, an ice pack in her hand, to study with me.
We laughed and cried when I passed my senior finals. Two days before graduation I talked to my mother and father about Bible College. I wanted to go, but I was afraid.
Mom said, "Apply at the Bible Institute in our town. You can live at home, and I'll help you."
I put my arms around her and hugged her close, a baseball-sized lump in my throat.
A week after graduation, my mom felt a stabbing pain in her head. She became disoriented for just a moment, but seemed to be all right. It was another migraine, she thought, so she went to bed. That night Dad tried to wake her. She was unconscious.
A few hours later, a white-coated doctor told us Mom had an aneurysm that had burst. A massive hemorrhage left us no hope. She died two days later.
My grief almost drowned me. For weeks I walked the floor all night, sometimes weeping, sometimes staring at nothing. Did I have a future without my mother? She was my eyes, my understanding, and my life. Should I still enroll in Bible school? The thought of going on alone filled me with terror. But, deep inside, I knew I had to move on to the next step, for her.
When I brought home the first semester's books and course outlines, I sat in the chair at my little desk. With trembling fingers, I opened my history book and began to read the first chapter. Suddenly, I looked over at the chair she used to sit in. It was empty, but my heart was full.
Mom's prayers still followed me. I could feel her presence. I could sense her faith.
In my graduation testimony I said, "Many people had a part in making Bible College a success for me. The person who helped me most is watched from Heaven tonight. To her I say 'Thank you, Mom, for having faith in God and faith in me. You will always be with me.'"
A Daughter Thanks Her Mother
Dear Mom,
I haven't written many letters to you before, as we've almost always
I know in times of sadness or pain the children feel their mother's arms around them just as I sense that I feel your arms around me, too. In years to come I hope your gift to me will be passed to my own children's children. And I know it's your voice telling me in these changing times the best thing we can give our children is love, because love is eternal and love doesn't die. So long for now, thank you from all of us.
Happy Mother's Day, Mom.
tttttttttttttttttLove,
tttttttttttttttttCarol
Letters from Heaven
Charlotte and Katie's parents died within months of each other... but every birthday the sisters receive cards from their mother with almost unbearably touching words of guidance.
There's just a small pile of no more than half a dozen and a couple of labels from Christmas and birthday presents. But Charlotte Matalon produces each of the items from her Special Box, which she keeps beside her bed, as if they are priceless jewels.
She looks at the card dated October 1996. "My darling Charlotte," she reads, barely needing to look since she knows it by heart. "I am writing this card because I have recently found out that sadly I will not be with you on your 10th birthday…"
Six weeks after writing this tragic message, Debra Matalon, Charlotte's mother died from breast cancer. She was just 35, but she has provided a unique legacy.
Before she died, Debra wrote a birthday card to each of her two daughter, Charlotte, now 11, and 10-year-old Katie. For them to open every birthday. It is this gesture which has helped the girl come to terms with their terrible grief.
So far they have each received two message from their mother. There are also a couple more cards in their sad little boxes. These are from their father Alan, sent while he, too, was in hospital, his body consumed by non-Hodgkin's lymphoma. Too weak to write, he just managed to gather the strength to sign a faltering "Daddy"
The girls, who now live with their grandparents, carefully store the cards back in their boxes and put them away, they each have My Mummy and Me and My Daddy and Me photo albums, which they scan while trying to grasp any fresh insight into their parents, or recall the lives they had as a family.
The cards Debra has left them contain a mixture of practical advice for growing girls and simple statements of a mother's love for her children. Reading those words, the sisters feel, was to discover, that their mother seems to be still with them.
Both often think of what their mother has said in her card, "I want you to know that you have always been very special and I have and always will love you dearly…"
After writing to Charlotte about growing up and the change from being a girl to a young woman, Debra adds, "Please have fun on your 11th birthday and remember Mummy and Daddy are always with you."
Both girls have written letters to their parents in reply. Charlotte telling them about how she went bowling and about a tr
ip to London Zoo. Katie has written how she will never forget her Daddy, "I know he's still with me."
Writing about womanhood, Debra said, "I remember how embarrassed I was at the time, just remember that every single 10 to 14-year-old has gone through these changes, so don't be afraid and don't be embarrassed."
Charlotte puts the card down. "There are time when I'd like to be able to ask Mummy things, "She says, "just things about life and what to do in a difficult situation at school or whatever."
But she knows there are more cards to come. She doesn't know when or how many, but Debra has given a far greater legacy than her will could ever provide. "A present doesn't say what you think," Charlotte says, "but a card does."
And then she reads the words that echo more powerfully than any. "You are a wonderful girl and remember what Mummy and Daddy have taught you. Look after one another. Lots of love, as always, Mummy."
The Dress
"Do you like my dress?" she asked of a passing stranger. "My mommy made it just for me." She said with a tear in her eye.
"Well, I think it's very pretty, so tell me little one, why are you crying?"
With a quiver in her voice the little girl answered. "After Mommy made ma this dress, she had to go away."
"Well, now," said the lady, "with a little girl like you waiting for her, I'm sure she'll be right back."
"No, Ma'am, you don't understand," said the child through her tears, "my daddy said that she's up in heaven now with Grandfather."
Finally the woman realized what the child meant, and why she was crying. Kneeling down she gently cradled the child in her arms and together they cried for the mommy that was gone.
Then suddenly the little girl did something that the woman thought was a bit strange. She stopped crying, stepped back from the woman and began to sing. She sang so softly that it was almost a whisper. It was the sweetest sound the woman had ever heard, almost like the song of a very small bird.
After the child stopped singing she explained to the lady, "My mommy used to sing that song to me before she went away, and she made me promise to sing it whenever I started crying and it would make me stop."
"See," she exclaimed, "it did, and now my eyes are dry!"
As the woman turned to go, the little girl grabbed her sleeve, "Ma'am, can you stay just a minute? I want to show you something."
"Of course," she answered, "what do you want me to see?"
Pointing to a spot on her dress, she said, "Right here is where my mommy kissed my dress, and here," pointing to another spot, "and here is another kiss, and here, and here. Mommy said that she put all those kisses on my dress so that I would have her kisses for every booboo that made me cry."
Then the lady realized that she wasn't just looking at a dress, no, she was looking at a mother…who knew that she was going away and would not be there to kiss away the hurt that she knew her daughter would get.
So she took all the love she had for
her beautiful little girl and put them into this dress that her child now so proudly wore.
She no longer saw a little girl in a simple dress. She saw a child wrapped… in her mother's love.
My Busy Day
"Mommy, look!" cried my daughter, Darla, pointing to a chicken hawk soaring through the air.
"Uh huh," I murmured, driving, lost in thought about the tight schedule of my day.
Disappointment filled her face. "What's the matter, Sweetheart? I asked, entirely dense."
"Nothing," my seven-year-old daughter said. The moment was gone. Near home, we slowed to search for the albino deer that comes out from behind the thick mass of trees in the early evening. She was nowhere to be seen.
"Tonight, she has too many things to do," I said.
Dinner, baths and phone calls filled the hours until bedtime.
"Come on, Darla, time for bed!"She raced past me up the stairs. Tired, I kissed her on the cheek, said prayers and tucked her in.
"Mom, I forgot to give you something!" she said. My patience was gone.
"Give it to me in the morning!" I said. but she shook her head.
"You won't have time in the morning!" she retorted.
"I'll take time," I answered defensively. Sometimes no matter how hard I tried, time flowed through my fingers like sand in an hourglass, never enough. Not enough for her, for my husband, and definitely not enough for me.
She wasn't ready to give up yet. She wrinkled her freckled little nose in anger and swiped away her chestnut brown hair.
"No, you won't! It will be just like today when I told you to look at the hawk. You didn't even listen to what I said."
I was too weary to argue; she hit too close to the truth. "Good night!" I shut her door with a resounding thud.
Later though, her gray-blue gaze filled my vision as I thought about how little time we really had until she was grown and gone.
My husband asked, "Why so glum?" I told him.
"Maybe she's not asleep yet. Why don't you check?" he said with all the authority of a parent in the right. I followed his advice, wishing it was my own idea.
I cracked open her door, and the light from the window spilled over her sleeping form. In her hand I could see the remains of a crumpled paper. Slowly I opened her palm to see what the item of our disagreement had been.
Tears filled my eyes. She had torn into small pieces a big red heart with a poem she had written titled, "Why I love My Mother!"
I carefully removed the tattered pieces. Once the puzzle was put back into place, I read what she had written:
Why I Love My Mother
Although you're busy, and you work so hard,
You always take time to play with me,
I love you Mommy
Because I am the biggest part of your busy day!
The words were an arrow straight to the heart. At seven years old, she had the Wisdom of Solomon.
Ten minutes later I carried a tray to her room, with two cups of hot chocolate with marshmallows and two peanut butter and jelly sandwiches. When I softly touched her smooth cheek, I
could feel my heart burst with love.
Her thick dark lashes lay like fans against her lids as they fluttered, awakened from a dreamless sleep, and she looked at the tray.
"What's that for?" she asked, confused by this late-night intrusion.
"This is for you, because you are the most important part of my busy day!" She smiled and sleepily drank half her cup of chocolate. Then she drifted back to sleep, not really understanding how strongly I meant what I said.
When Allie Left Home
My daughter Allie is leaving for college in a week. Her room is cluttered with shopping bags filled with blankets, towels, jeans and sweaters.
She won't talk about going.
I say, "I'm going to miss you," and she gives me one of her looks and leaves the room. Another time I say, in a voice so friendly it surprises even me, "Do you think you think you'll take your posters and pictures with you, or will you get new ones at college?"
She answers, her voice filled with annoyance, "How should I know?"
My daughter is off with friends most of the time. Yesterday was the last day she'd have until Christmas with her friend Katharine, whom she's known since kindergarten. Soon, it will be her last day with Sarah, Claire, Heather…and then it will be her last day with me.
My friend Karen told me, "The August before I left for college, I screamed at my mother the whole month. Be prepared."
I stand in the kitchen, watching Allie make a glass of iced tea. Her face, once so open and trusting, is closes to me. I struggle to think of something to say to her, something meaningful and warm. I want her to know I'm excited about the college she has chosen, that I know the I know the adventure of her life is just starting and that I am proud of her. But the look on her face is so mad that I think she might slug me if I open my mouth.
One night-after a long period of silence between us-I asked what I might have done or said to make her angry with me. She signed and said, "Mom, you haven't done anything. "It's fine-just distant."
Somehow in the past we had always found some way to connect. When Allie was a toddler, I would go to the day-care center after work. I'd find a quite spot and she would nurse-our eyes looked together, reconnecting with each other.
In middle school, when other mothers were already lamenting the estrangement they felt with their adolescent daughters, I hit upon a solution: rescue raids. I would show up occasionally at school, sign her out of class and take her somewhere-out to lunch, to the movies, once for a long walk on the beach. It may sound irresponsible, but it kept us close when other mothers and daughters were floundering. We talked about everything on those outings-outings we kept secret from family and friends.
When she started high school, I'd get up with her in the morning to make her a sandwich for lunch, and we'd silently drink a cup of tea together before the 6:40 bus came.
A couple of times during her se
nior year I went into her room at night, the light off, but before she went to sleep. I'd sit on the edge of her bed, and she'd tell me about problems: a teacher who lowered her grade because she was too shy to talk in class, a boy
who teased her, a friend who had started smoking. Her voice, coming out of the darkness, was young and questioning.
A few days later I'd hear her on the phone, repeating some of the things I had said things she had adopted for her own.
But now we are having two kinds of partings. I want the romanticized version, where we go to lunch and lean across the table and say how much we will miss each other. I want smiles through tears, bittersweet moments of reminiscence and the chance to offer some last bits of wisdom.
But as she prepares to depart, Allie's feelings have gone underground. When I reach to touch her arm, she pulls away. She turns down every invitation I extend. She lies on her bed, reading Emily Dickinson until I say I have always loved Emily Dickinson, and then she closes the book.
Some say the tighter your bond with your child, the greater her need to break away, to establish her own identity in the world. The more it will hurt, they say. A friend of mine who went through a difficult time with her daughter but now has become close to her again, tells me, "You daughter will be back to you."
"I don't know," I say. I sometimes feel so angry that I want to go over and shake Allie. I want to say, "Talk to me-or you're grounded!" I feel myself wanting to say that most horrible of all mother phrases, "Think of everything I've done for you."
Late one night, as I'm getting ready for bed, she comes to the bathroom door and watches me brush my teeth. For a moment, I think I must be brushing my teeth in a way she doesn't approve of. But then she says, "I want to read you something." It's a pamphlet from her college. "These are tips for parents."
I watch her face as she reads the advice aloud. "Don't ask your child if she is homesick, it says. She might feel bad the first few weeks, but don't let it worry you. This is a natural time of transition. Write her letters and call her a lot. Send a package of goodies…"
He voice breaks, and she comes over to me and buries her head in my shoulder. I stroke her hair lightly and I was afraid she'll bolt if I say a word. We stand there together for long moments, swaying, reconnecting.
I know it will be hard again. It's likely there will be a fight about something. But I am grateful to be standing in here at midnight, both of us tired and sad, toothpaste smeared on my chin, holding tight to-while also letting go of-my daughter who is trying to say goodbye.

That "Other Woman" in My Life
After 22 years of marriage. I've discovered the secret to keeping love and intimacy alive in my relationship with my wife. Peggy I started dating another woman
It was Peggy's idea, actually, "You know you love her," s
he said one day, taking me by surprise, "Life is too short. You need to spend time with the people you love. You probably won't believe me, but I think that if the two of you spend more time together, it will make us closer."
the "other woman" my wife was encouraging me to date is my mother, a 72-year-old widow who has lived alone since my father died 20 years ago, Right after his death, I moved 25000miles away to California and started my own family and career. When I moved back near my hometown six years ago, I promised myself that I would spend more time with Mom. But with the demands of my job and three kids, I never got around to seeing her much beyond family get-together and holidays.
She was surprise and suspicious, then, when I called and suggested the two of us go out to dinner and a movie. "What's wrong?" she asked. My mother thinks anything out of the ordinary signals bad news.
"I thought it would be nice to spend sometime with you," I said, "just the two of us."
"I'd like that a lot" she replied.
As I drove to her house, I actually had a case of predate jitters! What would we talk about? What if she didn't like the restaurant I chose?
When I pulled into her driveway, she was waiting by the door with her coat on. Her hair was curled, and she was smiling, "I told my lady friends I was going out with my son, and they were all impressed." she said as she got into my car, "they can't wait to hear about our evening."
We didn't go anywhere fancy, just a neighborhood place where we could talk. My mother clutched my arm, half out of affection and half to help her negotiate the restaurant steps.
We had a nice talk over dinner. Nothing earth shattering, just catching up with each other's lives. We talked for so long that we missed the movie.
"I'll go out with you again," my mother said as I dropped her off, "but only if you let me buy dinner next time." I agreed.
"How was your date?" my wife asked when I got home that evening.
"Nice…nicer than I thought it would be." I said. She smiled her told you so smile.
Mom and I go out for dinner a couple of times a month. Sometimes we take in a movie, but mostly we talk. I tell her about my trials at work and brag about the kids and Peggy.
Mom fills me in on family gossip and tells me about her past. Now I know what it was like for her to work in a factory during World War II, I know how she met my father there and how they nurtured a trolley car courtship through those difficult times. I can't get enough of these stories. They are important to me, a part of my history.
We also talk about the future, Because of health problem, my mother worries about the days ahead. "I have so much living to do," she told me once. "I need to be there while my grandchildren grow up. I don't want to miss any of it."
Like many baby boomers, I tend to fill my calendar to the brim as I struggle to fit family, career and friendships into my life. I often complain about how quickly time flies
. Spending time with my Mom has taught me the important of slowing down.
Peggy was right. Dating another woman has helped my marriage.
My Irreplaceable Treasure
Recently I gave a dinner party for some close friends. To add a touch of elegance to the evening, I brought out the good stuff-my whiter Royal Crown Derby china with the fine blue-and-gold border. When we were seated, one of the guests notices the beat-up gravy boat I'd placed among the newer, better dinnerware. "Is it an heirloom?" she asked tactfully.
I admit the piece does look rather conspicuous. For one thing, it matches nothing else. It's also old and chipped. But that little gravy boat is much more than an heirloom to me. It is the one thing in this world I will never part with.
The story begins more than 50 years ago, when I was seven years old and we lived in a big house along the Ohio River in New Richmond, Ohio. All that separated the house from the river was the street and our wide front lawn. In anticipation of high water, the ground floor had been built seven feet above grade.
Late in December the heavy rains came, and the river climbed to the tops of its banks. When the water began to rise in a serious way, my parents made plans in case the river should invade our house. My mother decided she would pack our books and her fine china in a small den off the master bedroom.
The china was not nearly as good as it was old. Each piece had a gold rim and a band of roses. But the service had been her mother's and was precious to her. As she packed the china with great care, she said to me, "You must treasure the things that people you love have cherished. It keeps you in touch with them."
I didn't understand, since I'd never owned anything I cared all that much about. Still, planning for disaster held considerable fascination for me.
The plan was to move upstairs if the river reached the seventh of the steps that led to the front porch. We would keep a rowboat downstairs so we could get from room to room. The one thing we would not do was leave the house. My father, the town's only doctor, had to be where sick people could find him.
I checked on the river's rise several times a day and lived in a state of hopeful alarm that the water would climb all the way up to the house. It did not disappoint. The muddy water rose higher until, at last, the critical seventh step was reached.
We worked for days carrying things upstairs, until, late one afternoon, the water edged over the threshold and rushed into the house. I watched, amazed at how rapidly it rose.
After the water got about a foot deep inside the house, it was hard to sleep at night. The sound of the river moving about downstairs was frightening. Debris had broken windows., so every once in a while some floating battering ram-a log or perhaps a table-would bang into the walls and make a sound like a distant drum.
Every day I sat on the landing and watched the river rise. Mother cooked simple meals in a spa
re bedroom she had turned into a makeshift kitchen. She was worried, I could tell, about what would happen to us. Father came and went in a small fishing boat. He was concerned about his patients and possible outbreaks of dysentery, pneumonia or typhoid.
Before long, the Red Cross began to pitch tents in high ground north of town. "We are staying right here," my father said.
As the water continued to rise, I kept busy rowing through the house and looking at the furniture that had been too big to move upstairs. I liked to row around the great cozy couch, now almost submerged, and pretend it was an island in a lake.
One night very late I was awakened by a tearing noise, like timbers creaking. Then there was the rumbling sound of heavy things falling. I jumped out of bed and ran into the hallway. My parents were standing in the doorway to the den, where we had stored the books and my mother's beloved china.
The floor of the den had fallen through, and all the treasures we had tried to save were now on the first floor, under the stealthily rising river. My father lit our camp light, and we went to the landing to look. We would see nothing except the books bobbing like little rafts on the water.
Mother had been courageous; it seemed to me, through the ordeal of the flood. She was steady and calm, and kept things going in good order. But that night she sat on the top of the stairs with her head on her crossed arms and cried. I had never seen her like that, and there was a sound in her weeping that made me afraid. I wanted to help her, but I couldn't think of what I could possibly do. I just knew I had to figure out something.
The next morning, after breakfast, I did a geography lesson and then Mother said I could go downstairs and play in the boat. I rowed once around the down-stairs, avoiding the mess of timbers in the hall where the terrible accident had occurred. The books had begun to sink. I stared down into the dark water and could see nothing. It was right then that I got the idea.
I made a hook from a wire coat hanger and carefully fastened it to a weighted line. Then I let it sink and began to drag it slowly back and forth. I spent the next hour or so moving the boat and dragging my line- hoping to find pieces of my mother's lost treasure. But time after time the line came up empty.
As the water rose day after day, I continued trying to recover some remnant of my mother's broken china. Soon, however, the water inside had risen to the stairway landing. On the day water covered the gutters outside; my father decided we would have to seek shelter in the tents on the hill. A powerboat was to pick us up that afternoon. We would leave by the porch roof.
I spent the morning hurriedly securing things in my room. Then I got into my rowboat for the last time. I dragged my line through the water. Nothing. After some time I heard my parents calling, so I headed back toward the stairway. Just as I m
ade the last turn, I snagged something.
Holding my breath, I slowly raised my catch to the surface. As the dark water drained from it, I could make out the bright roses and gold leaf design. It seemed dazzling to me. I had found the gravy boat from my mother's china service. My line had caught on a small chip in the lip.
My father called down to me again. "This is serious business," he said. "Let's go." So I stowed the treasure in my jacket and rowed as fast as I could to the stair landing.
The powerboat picked us up and headed to higher ground. It began to rain, and for the first time I was really afraid. The water might rise forever, might cover the whole valley, the trees, even the hills.
By the time we were settled in a Red Cross tent, we were worn out. Father had gone off to care for sick people, and Mother sat on my cot with her arm around my shoulder,
She smiled at me, if you can call it that. Then I reached under my pillow took out the gravy boat.
She looked at it, then at me. Then she took it in her hands and held it for a long time. She was very quiet, just sitting, gazing at the gravy boat. She seemed both close to me and also very far away, as though she was remembering. I don't know what she was thinking, but she pulled me into her arms and held me tight.
We lived in the tent for weeks, cold and often hungry. As the flood crested, an oil slick caught fire and burned our house down to the waterline. We never went back. Instead, we moved to a house near Cincinnati, far from the river.
By Easter we were settled in, and we celebrated that special Sunday with a feast. While Dad carved the lamb, Mother went into the kitchen and returned with the gravy boat. She held my gift for a moment as though it was something unspeakably precious. Then, smiling at me, she placed it gently on the table. I said to myself right then that nothing would ever happen to that gravy boat as long as I lived.
And nothing ever has. Now I use the gravy boat just as she had, taking it carefully from the shelf and filling it just as she did with dark, rick turkey gravy for family dinners and other special occasions. When guests ask about the curious old dish, I sometimes tell the story of how I fished it from the river in our house.
But beyond the events of the flood, the gravy boat is a treasure that connects me to the people and the places of my past. Mother tried to explain, and now I understand. It is not the object so much as the connection that I cherish. That little porcelain boat, chipped and worn with age, keeps me in touch-just as she said it would-with her life, her joy and her love.

Magic Pillow
Valentine's Day had arrived and like other day of the year, I was very busy.
My romantic husband, Roy, planned a date like we had never had before. A reservation at an expensive restaurant was made. A beautifully wrapped had been sitting on my dresser for a few days prior to the he
art-filled holiday.
After a hard day at work, I hurried home, ran into the house and jumped into the shower. When my sweetheart arrived, I was dressed in my finest outfit and ready to go. He hugged me, just as the sitter arrived. We were both excited.
Unfortunately, the little member in our household wasn't so happy.
"Daddy, you were going to take me to buy Mamma a present," Becky, my eight-year-old daughter said, as she sadly walked over to the couch and sat down beside the babysitter.
Roy looked at his watch and realized that if we were to make our reservations, we had to leave right away. He didn't even have a few minutes to take her to the corner drugstore, to buy a heart-shaped box of chocolate candy.
"I'm sorry, I was late getting home, honey," he said.
"That's OK," Becky replied. "I understand."
The entire evening was bittersweet. I couldn't help being concerned about the disappointment in Becky's eyes. I remembered how the joyful Valentine's Day glow had left her face, just before the door closed behind us. She wanted me to know how much she loved me. She didn't realize it, but I already knew it very well.
Today, I can't remember what was wrapped in that beautiful box, which I swooned over for several days, but I'll never forget the special gift, which I received when we arrived home.
Becky was asleep on the couch, clutching a box, which was sitting on her lap. When I kissed her cheek, she awoke. "I've got something for you, Mamma," She said, as a giant smile covered her tiny face.
The little box was wrapped in newspaper. As I tore the paper off and opened the box, I found the sweetest Valentine gift that I have ever received.
After Roy and I left for our date, Becky got busy. She raided my fabric and cross-stitch box. She stitched the words "I Love You" on a piece of red fabric, cut the fabric in the shape of a heart, stitched the two pieces together, adorned it with lace and stuffed it with cotton. It was a heart-shaped pillow filled with love, which I'll cherish forever.
My wonderful Valentine gift has a special place in my bedroom today, some thirteen years later. As she was growing up into a young woman, many times I held that pillow has surely held a great deal of joy for me over the years. It has helped me through several sleepless nights since she left home for collage. I not only cherish the gift but the memory as well.
I know that I am a very luck mother, indeed, to have such a wonderful little girl, who wanted so desperately to share her heart with me. As long as I live, there will never be another Valentine's Day, which will be any more special to me.
All Mom's Letters
To this day I remember my mum's letters. It all started in December 1941. Every night she sat at the big table in the kitchen and wrote to my bother Johnny, who had been drafted that summer. We had not heard from him since the Japanese attacked Pearl Harbor.
I didn't understand why my mum kept writing Johnny when he never wrot
e back.
"Wait and see, we will get a letter from him one day," she claimed. Mum said that there was a direct link from the brain to the written word that was just as strong as the light God has granted us. She trusted that light would find Johnny.
I don't know if she said that to calm herself, dad or all of us down, But I do know that it helped us stick together, and one day a letter really did arrive. Johnny was alive on an island in the Pacific.
I had always been amused by the fact that mom signed her letters, "Cecilia Capuzzi", and I teased her about that. "Why don't you just write 'Mom'?" I said.
I hadn't been aware that she always thought of herself as Cecilia Capuzzi. Not as Mom. I began seeing her in a new light, this small delicate woman, who even in high-heeled shoes was barely one and a half meters tall.
She never wore make-up or jewelry except for a wedding ring of gold. Her hair was fine, sleek and black and always put up in a knot in the neck. She wouldn't hear of getting a haircut or a perm. Her small silver-rimmed pince-nez only left her nose when she went to bed.
Whenever mom had finished a letter, she gave it to dad for him to post it. Then she put the water on to boil, and we sat down at the table and talked about the good old days when our Italian-American family had been a family often: mom, dad and eight children-five boys and three girls, It is hard to understand that they had all moved away from home to work, enroll in the army, or get married, all except me.
Around next spring mom had got two more sons to write to. Every evening she wrote three different letters which she gave to me and dad afterwards so we could add our greetings.
Little by little the rumors about mom's letters spread. One day a small woman knocked at our door. Her voice trembled as she asked, "Is it true you write letters?"
"I write to my sons."
"And you can read too?" whispered the woman.
"Sure."
The woman opened her bag and pulled out a pile of airmail letters. "Read, please read them aloud to me."
The letters were from the woman's son who was a soldier in Europe, a red-haired boy who mom remembered having seen sitting with his brothers in the stairs in front of our house. Mom read the letters one by one and translated them from English to Italian. The woman's eyes welled up with tears. "Now I have to write to him," she said. But how was she going to do it?
"Make some coffee, Octavia," mom yelled to me in the living room while she took the woman with her into the kitchen and seated her at the table. She took the fountain pen, ink and air mail notepaper and began to write. When she had finished, she read the letter aloud to the woman.
"How did you know that was exactly what I want to say?"
"I often sit and look at my boys' letters just like you, without a clue about what to write."
A few days later the woman returned with a friend, then another one and yet another one…they all had sons who fought in the
war, and they all needed letters. Mom had become the correspondent in our part of town. Sometimes she would write letters all day long.
Mom always insisted that people signed their own letters, and the small woman with the grey hair asked mom to teach her how to do it. "I so much want to be able to write my own name so that my son can see it." Then mom held the woman's hand in hers and moved her hand over the paper again and until she was able to do it without her help.
After that day, when mom had written a letter for the woman, she signed it herself and her face brightened up in a smile.
One day she came to us, and mom instantly knew what had happened. All hope had disappeared from her eyes. They stood hand in hand for a long time without saying a word. Then mom said, "We better go to church, there are certain thing in life so great that we cannot comprehend them." When mom came back home, she couldn't get the red-haired boy out of her mind.
After the war was over, mom put away the pen and paper. "Finito," she said. But she was wrong. The woman who had come to her for help in writing to their sons now came to her with letters from their relatives in Italy. They also came to ask her for her help in getting American citizenship.
On one occasion mom admitted that she had always had a secret dream of writing a novel. "Why didn't you?" I asked.
"All people in this world are here with one particular purpose," she said. "Apparently, mine is to write letters." She tried to explain why it absorbed her so.
"A letter unites people like nothing else. It can make them cry, it can make them laugh. There is no caress more lovely and warm than a love letter, because it makes the world seem very small, and both sender and receiver become like kings in their own kingdoms. My dear, a letter is life itself!"
Today all mom's letters are lost. But those who got them still talk about her and cherish the memory of her letters in their hearts.
Love is Like a Broken Arm
"But what if I break my arm again?" my five-year-old daughter asked, her lower lip trembling. I knelt onto her bike and looked her right in the eyes. I knew how much she wanted to learn to ride. How often she felt left out when her friends pedaled by our house. Yet ever since she'd fallen off her bike and broken her arm, she'd been afraid.
"Oh honey," I said. "I don't think you'll break another arm."
"But I could, couldn't I?"
"Yes," I admitted, and found myself struggling for the right thing to say. At times like this, I wished I had a partner to turn to. Someone who might help find the right words to make my little girl's problem disappear. But after a disastrous marriage and a painful divorce, I'd welcomed the hardships of being a single parent and had been adamant in telling anyone who tried to fix me up that I was terminally single.
"I don't think I want to ride," she said and got off her bike.
We walked away and sat down beside a
tree.
"Don't you want to ride with your friends?" I asked.
"Yes," she admitted.
"And I thought you were hoping to start riding your bike to school next year," I added.
"I was," she said, her voice almost a quiver.
"You know, honey," I said. "Most everything you do come with risks. You could get a broken arm in a car wreck and then be afraid to ever ride in a car again. You could break you’re your arm jumping rope. You could break your arm at gymnastics. Do you want to stop going to gymnastics?"
"No," she said. And with a determined spirit, she stood up and agreed to try again. I held on to the back of her bike until she found the courage to say, "Let, go!"
I spent the rest of the afternoon at the park watching a very brave little girl overcome a fear and congratulating myself for being a self-sufficient single parent.
As we walked home, pushing the bike as we made our way alone the sidewalk, she asked me about a conversation she'd overhead me having with my mother the night before.
"Why were you and grandma arguing last night?"
My mother was one of the many people who constantly tried to fix me up. How many times had I told her "no" to meeting the Mr. Perfect she picked out for me. She just knew Steve was the man for me.
"It's nothing," I told her.
She shrugged:"Grandma said she just wanted you to find someone to love."
"What grandma wants is for some guy to break my again," I snapped, angry that my mother had said anything about this to my daughter.
"But Mom…"
"You're too young to understand," I told her.
She was quiet for the next few minutes. Then she looked up and in a small voice gave me something to think about.
"So I guess love isn't like a broken arm."
Unable to answer, we walked the rest of the way in silence. When I got home, I called my mother and scolded her for talking about this to my daughter. Then I did what I'd seen my brave little gift do that very afternoon. I let go and agreed to meet Steve.
Steve was the man for me. We married less than a year later. It turned out my mother and daughter were right.
Piano Music
There are advantages and disadvantages to coming from a large family, Make that large family with a single parent, and they double. The disadvantages are never so apparent as when someone wants to go off to college. Parents have cashed in life insurance policies to cover the cost of one year.
My mother knew that she could not send me to college and pay for it. She worked in a retail store and made just enough to pay the bills and take care of the other children at home. If I wanted to go to college, It was up to me to find out how to get there.
I found that I qualified for some grants because of the size of our family, my mom's income and my SAT scores. There was enough to cover school and books, but not enough for room and board. I accepted a job as part of a work-study program. While not glamorous, it was what I could do. I washed dish in the school cafeteria.
To hel
p myself study, I made flash cards that fit perfectly on the large metal dishwasher. After I loaded the racks, I stood there and flipped cards, learning the makeup of atoms while water and steam broke them down all around me. I learned how to make Y equal to Z while placing dishes in stacks. My wrinkled fingers flipped many cards, and many times my tired brain drifted off and a glass would crash to the floor. My grades went up and down. It was the hardest work I had ever done.
Just when I thought the bottom was going to drop out of my college, an angel appeared. Well, one of those is on earth, without wings.
"I heard that you need some help," he said.
"What do you mean?" I asked, trying to figure out which area of my life he meant.
"Financially, to stay in school."
"Well, I make it OK. I just have trouble working all these hours and finding time to study."
"Well, I think I have a way to help you out."
He went on to explain that his grandparents needed help on the weekends. All that was required of me was cooking meals and helping them get in and out of bed in the morning and evening. The job paid four hundred dollars a month, twice the money I was making washing dishes. Now I would have time to study. I went to meet his grandparents and accepted the job.
My first discovery was his grandmother's great love of music. She spent hours playing her old, off-key piano. One day, she told me I didn’t have enough fun in my life and took it upon herself to teach me the art.
Grandma was impressed with my ability and encouraged me to continue. Weekends in their house became more than just books and cooking; they were filled with the wonderful sounds of the out-of-tune piano and two very out-of-tune singers.
When Christmas break came, Grandma got a chest cold and I was afraid to leave her. I hadn't been home since Labor Day, and my family was so anxious to see me. I agreed to come home, but for two weeks instead of four, so I could return to Grandma and Grandpa. I said my good-bye, and arranged for their temporary care and returned home.
As I was loading my car up to go to back to school, the phone rang.
"Danny, don't rush back," He said.
"Why? What's wrong?" I asked, panic rising.
"Grandma died last night, and we have decided to put Grandpa in a retirement home, I'm sorry."
I hung up the phone feeling like my world had ended. I had lost my friend, and that was far worse than knowing I would have to return to dishwashing.
I went bank at the end of four weeks, asking to begin the work-study program again. The financial aid advisor looked at me as if I had lost my mind. I explained my position, and then he smiled and slid me an envelope.
"This is for you," he said.
It was from Grandma. She had known how sick she was. In the envelope was enough money to pay for the rest of school year and a request that I take piano lesson in her memory.
I don't think "The Old Grey Mare" was ever played with more feeling than it was my sec
ond year in college. Now, year later, when I walk by a piano, I smile and think of Grandma. She is tearing up the ivories in Heaven, I am sure.

Mystery of the White Gardenia
Every year on my birthday, from the time I turned 12, a white gardenia was delivered to my house in Bethesda, Md. No card or note came with it. Calls to the florist were always in vain-it was a cash purchase. After a while I stopped trying to discover the sender's identity and just delighted in the beauty and heady perfume of that one magical, perfect white flower nestled in soft pink tissue paper.
But I never stopped imagining who the anonymous giver might be. Some of my happiest moments were spent daydreaming about someone wonderful and exciting but too shy or eccentrics to make know his or her identity.
My mother contributed to these imaginings. She'd ask me if there was someone for whom I had done a special kindness who might be showing appreciation. Perhaps the neighbor I'd help when she was unloading a car full of groceries. Or maybe it was the old man across the street whose mail I retrieved during the winter so he wouldn't have to venture down his icy steps. As a teenager, though, I had more fun speculating that it might be a boy I had a crush on or one who had noticed me even though I didn't know him.
When I was 17. a boy broke my heart. The night he called for the last time, I cried myself to sleep. When I awoke in the morning, there was a message scribbled on my mirror in red lipstick:"Heartily know, when half-gods go, the gods arrive. "I thought about that quotation from Emerson for a long time, and until my heart healed, I left it where my mother had written it. When I finally went to get the glass cleaned, my mother knew everything was all right again.""
I don't remember ever slamming my door in anger at her and shouting, "You just don't understand!" because she did understand.
One month before my high-school graduation, my father died of a heart attack. My feelings ranged from grief to abandonment, fear and overwhelming anger that my dad was missing some of the most important events in my life. I became completely uninterested in my upcoming graduation, the senior-class play and the prom. But my mother, in the midst of her own grief, would not hear of my skipping any of those things.
The day before my father died, my mother and I had gone shopping for a prom dress. We'd found a spectacular one, with yards and yards of dotted Swiss in red, white and blue, it made me feel like Scarlett O'Hara, but it was the wrong size. When my father died, I forgot about the dress.
My mother didn't. The day before the prom, I found that dress-in the right size-draped majestically over the living-room sofa. It wasn't just delivered, still in the box. It was presented to me-beautifully, artistically, lovingly. I didn't care if I had a new dress or not. But my mother did.
She wanted her children to feel lovable and lovable, creative and imaginative, imbued with
a sense that there was magic in the world and beauty even in the face of adversity. In truth, my mother wanted her children to see themselves much like the gardenia-lovely, strong and perfect-with an aura of magic and perhaps a bit of mystery.
My mother died ten days after I married. I was 22 years old. That was the year the gardenias stopped coming.
Precious Legacy
I was only seventeen when Grandma Elsie died. She was my last living grandparent and I was her only grandchild. Until the lawyer read her will, I never fully appreciated the depth of the old lady's love. It was a moment I will never forget-a day that made me the richest kid in town.
Mom, Dad, Aunt Sophie, Uncle Bill and I sat around a small conference table in her attorney's office. She wanted her daughters and their husbands to share what little monetary wealth she left-the proceeds of her small insurance policy, an antique cameo, a few bracelets, some costume jewelry and her wedding band. She also bequeathed them the deed to her house, her bank account, a few shares of stock in the local Gas and Electric Company, as well the American flag she was presented with at Grandpa Edwin's military funeral.
As we rose to leave, the attorney said, "There are three more things." He reached into his briefcase and brought out a small jewelry box, a letter and a stack of envelopes neatly wrapped in tissue paper and tied with a fading pink ribbon. "Jeffrey, your Grandmother left you her engagement diamond ring, hoping you'll make good use of it soon." Everyone smiled.
"These are also for you, Jeffrey," he said. "It may be the most precious legacy of all-a letter and this stack of love notes."
Grandma's letter began:
Dear Jeffrey,
I am leaving you one of my most precious treasures-my memories. These memories are the letters your grandfather Edwin wrote when he was away from me. Please read them. They are both priceless and valuable- a guidebook that will teach you how to love a woman, how to understand people, and how to respect and maintain your integrity.
When you read them you will share the longing and passion a good man feels for a good woman, and you will also discover the empowering enchantment they will give you. You will also understand the fears and tears of war. And you will realize the differences between right and wrong. You will learn to trust people you love and keep your distance from those you mistrust. You will learn about mature friendships and how true love can become the core of your life.
I have been fortunate, Jeffrey. I loved a wonderful man. And he loved me. While his love is now a memory, it is also a real dream that never ends. Loves is like a beautiful photograph you store in an album. You can enjoy its beauty each time you stare at its wonderment. It stops time. And, it makes you young again-forever! Grandpa Edwin was a soldier, a professional Army officer who chased Poncho Villa back to Mexico with John J. Pershing. He also served under General
's Pershing in the trenches in France during World war I. To understand your grandfather's soul, read his loving letters to me. You'll learn hoe romantic and beautiful a real man can be. To truly understand Grandpa's character, read the personal note Jack Pershing wrote me when he heard that Edwin was killed in action.
Jeffrey, I said this packet of notes was priceless and valuable. I've just shows you how priceless his love notes are. Please learn from them. Then find the right girl to love and love her ardently. This love will enrich both your lives and make you both happier.
Saving the envelopes as for being valuable. An appraiser at Sotheby's said the old stamps are worth far more than the rest of my estate. And, the personal handwritten note from General Pershing is even more valuable than the stamps. Have a loving, bountiful life.
God bless you
I love you.

Grandma Elsie
A Surprise to Mother
On Christmas Day, all the joys of close family relationships were seen felt throughout our parent's home. The smells of roasted turkey, south-em-haked ham and homemade bread hung in the air. Tables and chairs were set up everywhere to accommodate toddlers, teenagers, parents and grandparents. Every room was lavishly decorated. No family member had ever missed Christmas Day with our mother and father.
Only this year, things were different. Our father had passed away November 26, and this was our first Christmas without him. Mother was doing her best to be the gracious hostess, but I could tell this was especially hard for her. I felt a catch in my throat, and again I wondered if I should give her my planned Christmas gift, or if it had become inappropriate in my father's absence.
A few months earlier I had been putting the finishing touches on portraits I had painted of each of my parents. I'd planned to give them as Christmas gifts. This would be a surprise for everyone, as I had not studied art or tried serious painting. There was an undeniable urge within that pushed me relentlessly to do this. The portraits did look like them, but I was still unsure of my painting techniques.
While painting one day, I was surprised by a doorbell ring. Quickly putting all my painting materials out of sight, I opened the door. To my astonishment, my father ambled in alone never before having visited me without my mother. Grinning, he said, "I've missed our early morning talks. You know the ones we had before you decided to leave me for another man!" I hadn't been married long. Also, I was the only girl and the baby of the family.
Immediately I wanted to show him the paintings, but I was reluctant to ruin his Christmas surprise. Yet something urged me to share this moment with him. After swearing him to secrecy, I insisted he keep his eyes closed until I had the portraits set on easels. "Okay, Daddy. Now you can look!"
He appeared dazed but said nothing. Getting up, he walked closer to inspec
t them. Then he withdrew to eye them at a distance. I tried to control my stomach flip-flops. Finally, with a tear escaping down one cheek, he mumbled, "I don't believe it. The eyes are so real that they follow you everywhere and look how beautiful your mother is. Will you let me have them framed?"
Thrilled with his response, I happily volunteered to drop them off the next day at the frame shop.
Several weeks passed. Then one night in November the phone rang, and a cold chill numbed my body. I picked up the receiver to hear my husband, a doctor, say, "I'm the emergency room. You father has had a stroke. It's bad, but he is still alive."
Daddy lingered in a coma for several days. I was to see him in the hospital the day before he died. I slipped my hand in his and asked, "Do you know who I am, Daddy? He surprise everyone when he whispered, "You're my darling daughter."
He died the next day, and it seemed all joy was drained from the lives of my mother and me.
I finally remembered to call about the portrait framing and thanked God my father had gotten a chance to see the pictures before he died. I was surprised when the shopkeeper told me my father had visited the shop, paid for the framing and had them gift-wrapped. In all our grief, I had no longer planned to give the portraits to my mother.
Even though we lost the patriarch of our family, everyone was assembled on Christmas Day- making an effort to be cheerful. As looked into my mother's sad eyes and unsmiling face, I decided to give her daddy's and my gift.
As she stripped the paper from the box, I saw her heart wasn't in it. There was a small card inside attached to the pictures.
After looking at the portraits and reading the card, her entire demeanor changed. She bounced out of her chair, handed the card to me and commissioned my brothers to hang the paintings facing each other over the fireplace. She stepped back and looked for a long while. With sparkling, tear-filled eyes and a wide smile, she quickly turned and said, "I knew Daddy would be with us on Christmas Day!"
I glanced at the gift card scrawled in my father's handwriting. "Mother-Our daughter remained me why I am so blessed. I'll be looking at you always! -Daddy."
I Made a 41
Perhaps the only test score that I remember is the 41. I was in high school. The class was taught by one of the two teachers that impacted me most, Mr. Bales. The other teacher was Mrs. Drew from the seventh grade. It's amazing how I can remember from over 30 years ago my two most impacting teachers.
The eighth grade, it was a time when I like most didn't know what I was to be in life. The drama of that time of youth was simply that get through school and make the long walk home.
There are some things that will still be like the eighth grade when you get to be eighty.
The test was the final for the class. I remember anxiously waiting as Mr. Bales passed out test after test. It was a rather diff
icult test. I didn't know how well I had done but I knew there were things on it that I didn't know,
The air whooshed around the pages as it made a gentle sound plopping down. It was a rhythm as each student received their test-plop, plop, plop.
I heard groan after groan that accompanied the plops. I could tell by the groans that the grades weren't looking good.
Mr. Bales dropped the stapled pages on my desk.
There in big red numbers, circled to draw attention, was my grade.
41!
Groan!!!
I moved my paper where it wasn't in plain view, a 41 is not something that you wanted your classmates to see.
After the final plop, Mr. Bales stood behind the worn desk that had stood guard over countless students before me. He addressed the none too jubilant class.
"The grades were not very good, none of you passed, so I will have to consider grading on a scale," Mr. Bales announced.
"The highest grade in the class was 41, so all of you flunked," were the final words that I remember.
A 41. That's me.
Suddenly my dismal looking final didn't look quite so bad. There were at least 30 students in the class. I had highest grade. I left a whole lot better.
I walked home that day with the low but high grade safely tucked away in my book satchel. My mother knew that I had a big test that day and asked me as soon as I got home, "How did you do on your test?
"I made a 41." I said.
My mother's expression changed. A frown now stood where a smile was a few seconds earlier. I knew that I had to explain and explain fast.
"But mother, I had the highest grade in the class!" I proudly stated.
I knew that statement would change things. I had the highest grade in the class that made a difference.
My mother said, "You flunked."
"But I had the highest grade in the class!" I replied.
"I don't care what everyone else had, you flunked. It doesn't matter if everyone else flunked too, what matters is what you do," my mother firmly answered.
For years, I thought that was a harsh judgment. My mother was always that way. It didn't matter what the other kids did, it only matter what I did and that I did it excellently.
We often don't understand the wisdom of good parents until we ourselves stand in the parenting shoes. My mother's philosophy has carried me throughout life. Don't worry about what the crowd does. The crowd often goes the wrong way. If you follow the crowd, you will go to the same destination as the crowd. The path of the crowd is wide and it is crowded. The path to pass the test of life is narrow and there are very few people on it.
The Ice Breaker
It was perfect setting- a beautiful log house on forty acres of land. We had a solid marriage; we even had the loyal family dog. All that was missing was kids. We had tried for many years to have children, but it just never happened. So my husband AI and I applied to be foster pa
rents. We decided we should start with an older child for a number of good reasons. Since we both worked, child care might be a problem. Corby, our Springer spaniel-and our only "child" thus far might be a bit too energetic for a young child to handle. And frankly, we novices were a little nervous about taking on an infant. We sat back to wait the few months they thought it might take to get a school-age child-which was why we were floored when the agency called us within weeks, just before Christmas, and asked if we would take Kaleb, a two –and –a –half –year old boy for a few months. It was an emergency, and he needed a home right away.
This wasn't what we had discussed so rationally a few weeks before. There were so many difficulties-it was such short notice, we had made holiday plans and most of all, the boy was a toddler! We went back and forth, and in the end, we just couldn't say no.
"It's only for a couple of months, "my husband assured me. It would all work out, we told each other, but privately I was full of doubts.
The day was set for Kaleb to arrive. The car pulled up to our house and I saw Kaleb through the car window. The reality of the situation hit me and I felt my stomach tighten. What were we doing? This child we didn't know anything about was coming to live with us. Were we really ready to take this on? Glancing at my husband, I knew the same thought were going through his mind.
We went outside to greet our little guest. But before we could even reach the child, I heard a noise from behind me. Turning, I saw Corby tearing down the steps and heading straight for the little boy. In our hurry, we must not have closed the door completely. I gasped. Corby, in all her excitement, would frighten Kaleb-probably even knock him down. Oh no, I thought, what a way to start our first meeting! Kaleb will be so terrified he won't even want to go into the house with us. This whole thing's just not going to work out!
Corby reached Kaleb before either of us could grab her. She bounded up to the boy and immediately began licking his face in a frenzy of joy. In response, this darling little boy threw his arms around the dog's neck and turned toward us. His face alight with ecstasy, he cried, "Can this be my dog?"
My eyes met my husband's and we stood there, smiling at each other. In that moment, our nervousness disappeared, and we knew everything would be just fine.
Kaleb came to stay those few months. Eight and a half years later, he is still with us. Yes, we adopted Kaleb. He became our son and Corby… well, she couldn't have been happier. She turned out to be Kaleb's dog, after all.
The Potato Puppy
My four-year-old son, had been asking a puppy for over a month, but his daddy kept saying, "No dogs! A dog will dig up the garden and chase the ducks and kill our rabbits. No dog, and that's a final!"
Each night Shane prayed for a puppy, and each morning he disappointed when th
ere was no puppy waiting outside.
I was peeling potatoes for dinner, and he was sitting on the floor at my feet asking for the thousandth time, "Why won't Daddy let me have a puppy?"
"Because they are a lot of trouble, don't cry. Maybe Daddy will change his mind someday," I encouraged him.
"No, he won't and I'll never have a puppy in a million years," Shane wailed.
I looked into his dirty, tear-streaked face. How could we deny him one wish? So I said the words that were first spoken by Eve, "I know a way to make Daddy change his mind."
"Really?" Shane wiped away his tears and sniffed.
I handed him a potato.
"Take this and carry it with you until it turns into a puppy," I whispered, "Never let it out of your sight for one minute. Keep it with you all the time, and on the third day, tie a string around it and drag it around the yard and see what happens!"
Shane grabbed the potato with both hands. "Mama, how do you make a potato into a puppy?" He turned it over and over in his little hands.
"Sh! It's a secret!" I whispered and sent him on his way.
"Lord, you know what a woman must do to keep peace in her home!" I prayed.
Shane faithfully carried his potato around for two days; he slept with it, bathed with it and talked to it.
On the third day I said to my husband, "We really should get a pet for Shane."
"What makes you think he needs a pet?" My husband leaned the doorway.
"Well, he's been carry a potato around with him for days. He calls it Wally and says it is his pet. He sleeps with it on his pillow, and right now he has a string tired to it and he's dragging it around the yard," I said.
"A potato?" my husband asked and looked out the window and watched Shane taking his potato for a walk.
"It will break his heart when the potato gets mushy and rots," I said and started getting out food for lunch. "Besides, every time I try to peel potato for dinner, Shane cries because he says I'm killing Wally's family."
"A potato?" my husband asked. "My son has a pet potato?"
"Well," I said shrugging, "you said he couldn't have a puppy. He was so disappointed in his mind so he decided he had to have a pet…"
That's crazy!" my husband said.
"Maybe you're right, but explain to me why he is dragging that potato around the yard on a string," I said.
My husband watched our son for a few more minutes.
"I'll bring home a puppy tonight. I'll stop by the animal shelter after work. I guess a puppy can't be that much trouble," he sighted. "It's better than a potato."
That night Shane's daddy brought home a wiggling puppy and a pregnant white cat that he took pity on while he was at the shelter.
Everyone was happy. My husband thought he'd saved his son from a nervous breakdown. Shane had a puppy, a cat and five kittens and believed his mother had magic powers that could change a potato into a puppy. And I w
as happy because I got my potato back and cooked it for dinner.
Everything was perfect until one evening when I was cooking dinner Shane tugged on my dress and asked, "Mama, do you think I could have a pony for my birthday?"
I looked into his sweet little face and said, "Well, first we have to take a watermelon…"
Waiting for the Breeze
"No air conditioning? How can you sleep?" a friend asks, horrified. I've just revealed that my family has decided to shut the conditioner off and trim our electric bill.
"Nobody opens a window, day or night," warns another friend, whose windows have been painted shut for a decade. "This is 90s. It's not safe."
On this first night of our cost-cutting adventure, it's only 85 degrees. We're not going to suffer, but the three kids grumble anyway. They've grown up in 72-degree comfort, insulated from the world outside.
"How do you open these windows?" my husband asks. Jiggling the metal tabs, he finally releases one. A potpourri of bug bodies decorates the sills. As we spring the windows one by one, the night noise howl outside-and in.
"It's too hot to sleep," my 13-year-old daughter moans.
"I'm about to die from this heat" her brother hollers down the hall.
"Just try it tonight," I tell them.
In truth I'm too tired to argue for long. I'm exhausted after attending Grandma's estate auction. I toted home her oval tin bathtub and the chair I once stood on like a big shot behind the counter of her store.
My face is sweaty, but I lie quietly listening to the cricket choirs outside that remind me of childhood. The neighbor's dog howls probably a trespassing squirrel. It's been years since I've taken the time to really listen to the night.
I think about Grandma, who lived to 91 and still supervised Mom's gardening until just a few weeks before she died. And then, I'm back there at her house in the summer heat of my childhood. I move my pillow to the foot of Grandma's bed and angle my face toward the open window. I flip the pillow, hunting for the cooler side.
Grandma sees me thrashing. "If you'll just watch for the breeze," she says, "you'll cool off and fall asleep."
She cranks up the Venetian blinds. I stare at the filmy white curtain, willing it to flutter. Lying still, waiting, I suddenly notice the life outside the window. The bug chorus shouts "A jooga! A jooga!" Neighbors, porch-sitting late, speak in hazy words that soothe me.
"Keep watching for the breeze," Grandma says softly, and I "uhhuh" in reply. June bug ping the screen. Three blocks away the Friso train rumbles across Roosevelt Avenue. I catch the scent of fresh grass chippings. Then I hear something I can't decode-perhaps a tree branch raking the asphalt shingles on the store roof next door.
Sleepy-eyed now, I focus on the curtain. It flutters…
"Mom, did you hear that?" my seven-year-old blurts, "I think it was an owl family."
"Pro
bably," I tell him, "Just keep listening…"
Without the droning air conditioner, the house is oddly peaceful, and the unfiltered night noises seem close enough to touch.
I hope I'm awake tonight when the first breeze sneaks in.
Daffodil Principle
Several times my daughter had telephoned to say, "Mother, you must come see the daffodils before they are over." I wanted to go, but it was a two-hour drive from Laguna to Lake Arrowhead. "I will come next Tuesday," I promised a little reluctantly on her third call.
Next Tuesday dawned cold and rainy. Still, I had promised and so drove there. When I finally walked into Carolyn's house and hugged and greeted my grandchildren I said "Forget the daffodils, Carolyn! The road is invisible in the clouds and fog, and there is nothing in the world except you and these children that I want to see bad enough to drive another inch!"
My daughter smiled calmly:"We drive in this all the time, Mother." "Well, you won't get me back on the road until it clears-and then I'm heading for home!" I assured her, "I was hoping you'd take me over to the garage to pick up my car."
"How far will we have to drive?" "Just a few blocks," Carolyn said, "I'll drive. I'm used to this."
After several minutes I had to ask, "Where are we going? This isn't the way to the garage!" "We're going to my garage the long way," Carolyn smiled, "by way of the daffodils." "Carolyn," I said sternly, "pleases turns around." "It is all right, Mother. I promise you will never forgive yourself if you miss this experience." After about twenty minutes we turned into a small gravel road and I saw a small church.
On the far side of the church I saw a hand-lettered sign "daffodil Garden". We got out of the car and each took a child's hand, and I followed Carolyn down the path. Then we turned a corner of the path, and I looked up and gasped.
Before me lay the most glorious sight, it looked as though someone had taken a great vat of gold and poured it down over the mountain peak and slopes. The flowers were planted in majestic, swirling patterns, great ribbons and swaths of deep orange, white, lemon yellow, salmon pink, saffron and butter yellow. Each different-colored variety was planted as a group so that it swirled and flowed like its own river with its own unique hue. Five acres of flowers!
"But who has done this?" I asked Carolyn. "It's just one woman," Carolyn answered, "She lives on the property. That's her home." Carolyn pointed to a well-kept A-frame house that looked small and modest in the midst of all that glory. We walked up to the house. On the patio we saw a poster:
"Answers to the Questions I Know You are asking" was the headline. The first answer was a simple one:"50000 bulbs," it read. The second answer was."One bulb at a time, two hands, two feet, and very little brain. "The third answer was, "Began 1958." There it was The Daffodil Principle. For me that moment was
a life-changing experience. I thought of this woman whom I had never met, who more than forty years before had began-one bulb at a time- to bring her vision of beauty and joy to an obscure mountain top. Still, just planting one bulb at a time, year after year, had changed the world. This unknown woman had forever changed the world in which she lived.
Alice's Holiday
Alice sits on the bedroom floor among the half-packed suitcases, with her lists. This is her job, one of many. Always has been. Everyone else's last minute packing- "Alice, don't forget my electric shaver."-"Mom, I need more bikinis."
When did this become my job, Alice wonders. And when did I stop becoming someone and become, instead, something?
Alice abandons the packing and makes a new list-Things That Alice Has Become:
wife (Considerate. Tolerant. Understanding.)
Sex goddess (Sometimes.)
Domestic goddess (Move over, Nigella.)
Mom (A good one. The best. Always there. A rock during times of extreme stress.)
Grandma (Alice dismisses this one quickly. She won't event think about the grandma title that they' attempting to hang on her.)
Resist. Resist. Too young. Not ready.
Fifty is the new forty. Alice read that yesterday in her paper. Which means that on her birthday, in three day's time, she is only thirty. She likes that. Likes the time and the freedom it gives her.
What Alice isn't happy with is the holiday. The holiday Mark has presented her with.
"Surprise. For your birthday. All of us. Zoe is bringing a friend. Tom's bringing his girlfriend and the little boy." (They will ask me to babysit, Alice thinks.)
"Oh, and Mom's coming as well. It will be company for you."
Alice said nothing. She couldn't.
Mark's mom had rung to say that she had it all planned. Local architecture. A cathedral. "You know I'm not one for sitting in the sun."
But I am, Alice though. I am.
Mark is home now and raring to go. "Aren't you packed yet, Alice?" he says, stripping off and heading for the shower.
"I am," she says. Her case is ready in the corner. She watches his naked body disappear. A good body. A good man, but selfish.
Alice stuffs clothes in case. She thinks about unfolding the sunbed in her own back garden and sleeping in the hot sun. She thinks about the books she has packed and will not read and she slams the last suitcase shut in anger.
On the way to the airport they pick up Mark's mom.
At check-in there are no delays. Mark looks smug, as though he has planned this to order as well. But… there is a problem.
A missing passport.
"Alice!" "Mom!" "How could you?" Mouths are open. The mother-in-law shakes her head. An airline representative, well used to such a crisis, steps in to try and make it better. There is another flight on Wednesday. Perhaps Alice can come back then? Perhaps she can follow on and join them later? Alice closes he
r eyes. Thinks of the peace in her back garden, of the little sunny spot, and of chilled champagne. She wonders which book she will read first. She smiles. Even the cat is in the cattery.
She waves them off. Mark is still frowning.
"What a silly thing to do," Mark said to her, "How could you forget your passport? You have never done this before. Do you even know where it is?"
Well, yes, she knows exactly where it is. It's in the front pocket of her suitcase that is still sitting in the corner of the bedroom.
She waves until they disappear. Mark is the last to go. "See you soon." he mouths. Perhaps, Alice thinks, perhaps.
Two weeks lie ahead of her like an open road, like freedom. Now it feels like a holiday. And she sings along to the songs on the radio as she heads home. She even gets to choose the radio station.
Now that's a first, she thinks, Happy birthday, Alice. Happy holidays.


Someone Waiting
I am sitting at the airport watching people in the last minutes before their loved ones arrive or depart. They are pacing, nervous, looking at one another, touching and not touching. The emotion is intense.
A woman, speaking Spanish, is running in circles trying to gather family members together for a goodbye. Her voice is high-pitched. When the final moment comes before boarding, she wraps her arms round her son, giving him a powerful embrace that should protect him until she returns.
At Gate 13, the arrivals are just coming in.
"I see her. There she is." Just as poignant, the arrivals fold into the mix of people waiting for them. There are tears and smiles, pure delight ringing in the laughter of seeing someone who has been gone.
I sit, glancing at my book, waiting for my turn to leave, alone because the ones I love have a different schedule from mine, and the one I am going to see, a daughter, is at the other end of my journey.
I think of other departures and arrivals. I recall seeing my daughter, the daughter I am now going to visit, coming down that corridor with her backpack slung on one shoulder, her overstuffed hold all cradled in her arms, her headphones making her oblivious to the stream of people flowing along with her. She was in her first year at university, coming home for the first time. I wrapped myself round her as if she'd been lost to me.
Today my flight is two hours late. The book I am reading is not as interesting as the people leaving and coming, coming and leaving. A little boy of about five is meeting his grandfather for the first time. He looks up and up at the face of a man who is not that tall, except to a child. Joy shines down and up, and I am wondering how one would capture this moment in words or film.
When my flight is finally called, I gather my books and hand luggage. Since there is no one to see me off, I do not look back to see where I have come from. Instead, I think of my husband at work wondering if
either, but I know that my heart is in my eyes as each receives my kiss.
Walking to the edge of the floor, I suddenly realize I do have one regret today. I regret that my husband is not here to hold my hand.



About the Author:
Robert Tressell wrote the first working-class novel in English whose main theme is well born out by the title The Ragged Trousered Philanthropists. The philanthropists in this case are actually the working people themselves, whom the author ironically calls philanthropists because they are "generous" enough to allow the exploiting class to sponge on them and do nothing to stop it. They are the producers of material wealth, but in a capitalist society they can't enjoy the fruits of their own labour. This was a sad truth which Tressell thought was then but little realized by the working people. He therefore chose a striking title for his novel to help drive this truth home. (Normally a philanthropist is a person with a lot of money to spare: he can't be one wearing ragged trousers.)
Like William Easton of the story, Tressell was a housepainter by profession. Like him, too, he was haunted throughout his life by the fear of being "out". House-painting jobs are best done when there is a fairly long spell of fine weather, and this in England is a rare thing except for a few months in the year. For this reason the building companies, always shrewd in their calculations, would never agree to take on regular workers. "A few weeks with one firm, a few days with another, then out of a job, then on again," – that was the case of Easton as of all his fellow workers. Although they were all highly skilled craftsmen, they were unemployed half the year round and could never earn enough to keep the wolf from the door. Ruth saw this tragic fact – she knew they wouldn't have enough in any case – but her husband didn't. The latter thought that they would be all right if it wasn't for the debts, not knowing that they ran into debt precisely because he was so often out of work.
In writing the story of the Easton, Tressell must have had a double purpose in view: to write his own life, and to tell men like Easton that something was fundamentally wrong with their society.


My Most Unforgettable Character
She challenged us to succeed-and then show us the way.
In June 1976, I graduated from North-western University Medical School in Chicago. When my name was called, I walked quickly across the stage and reached for my diploma. But before the medical-school dean handed the certificate, he asked my parents, Anna and Carlo Michelotti, to stand Surprised, they rose from their seats in the audience. They looked at each other and seemed puzzled.
The dean told the crowd that my parents, an immigrant Italian couple from a farm outside Chicago, had managed to send their six children to top colleges and graduate schools. (Three of us would become doctors, two were already
lawyers and one was a physicist) "It's remarkable!" the dean said. Everyone cheered loudly.
Mama's face was radiant with pride. I knew that everything we had achieved or would achieve was because of my parents. When we were young children, my mother, especially, was our mentor. No until I became an adult did I realize how special she was.
Delight in Devotion.
My mother was born in a small town in northern Italy. She was three when her parents immigrated to this country in 1926. They lived on Chicago's South Side, where my grandfather worked making ice cream.
Mama thrived in the hectic urban environment. At 16, she graduated first in her high-school class, went on to secretarial school, and finally worked as an executive secretary for a railroad company.
She was beautiful too. When a local photographer used her pictures in his monthly window display, she was flattered. Her favorite portrait showed her sitting by Lake Michigan, her hair windblown, he gaze reaching toward the horizon. My mother always used to say that when you died, God gave you back your "best self". She'd show us that picture and say, "This is what I'm going to look like in heaven."
My parents were married in 1944. Dad was a quiet and intelligent man who was 17when he left Italy. Soon after, a hit-and- run accident left him with a permanent limp. Dad worked hard selling candy to Chicago office workers on their break. He had little formal schooling. His English was self-taught. Yet he eventually built a small, successful wholesale candy business. Dad was generous, handsome and deeply religious. Mama was devoted to him.
After she married, my mother quit her job and gave herself to her family. In 1950, with three children, Dad moved the family to a farm 40 miles from Chicago. He worked the land and commuted to the city to run his business. Mama said good-bye to her parents and friends and traded her busy city neighborhood for a more isolated life. But she never complained. By 1958, our modest white farmhouse was filled with six children, and Mama was delighted.
Think Big.
My mother never studied books on parenting. Yet she knew to raise children. She heightened our self-esteem and helped us reach our potential.
One fall day, I sat at the kitchen table while Mama peeled potatoes. She spied Dad out the window on his tractor and smiled. "You father has accomplished so much." she said proudly. "He really is somebody."
My mother wanted each of us to be somebody too. "Your challenge is to be everything you can. Mine is to help." she always said.
She read to us every day and used homemade flash cards to teach us phonics. She bolstered our confidence, praising even our most ordinary accomplishments. When I was ten, I painted a stack of wooden crates white and nailed them together to make a wobbly bookcase. "It's wonderful!" "Mama exclaimed." Just what we need." She used it for many years.
In the dinin
g room are two paint-by-number pictures that my sister Gloria and brother Leo did as kids. Several years ago, Leo commented that the picture weren't very good and offered to take them down. But Mama wouldn't hear of it. "They are there to remind you how much you could accomplish even as children." she said.
From the very beginning, she urged us to think big. One day, after visiting our grandparents on the South Side, she made Dad detour past the Prudential Building construction site. Mama explained that when finished, the 41-story building would be Chicago's tallest. "Maybe someday one of you can design a building like this." she said.
Her confidence in us was infections. When my sister Carla was 12, she announced she was going to be a lawyer.
"You can do that," Mama said, "You can do anything you put your mind to."
Tour Guide
To Mama, education was a key part of her blueprint for success. Four of us went to a nearby, one-room schoolhouse. My mother made up for its shortcomings by getting us educational toys, talking to us about history, politics and current events, and helping with home-work. The best part of getting a good report card was her unstinting praise.
When I was in third grade, she urged our teacher to organize a field trip to Chicago museum. My mother helped the teacher rent bus and plans the trip. She even served as tour guide, pointing out landmarks and recounting local history.
When it came time to think about college, there was never a question that we'd all go. Inspired by our parents' sacrifice, we studied hard to earn scholarships, and applied for grants and financial aid. We also took jobs to earn money for school. Working in a grocery store, I learned the value of a dollar. "Work is a blessing." Mama always reminded us.
She never asked for anything for herself. "You don't have to buy me a birthday present," she said one time, "Instead write me a letter about yourself. Tell me about your life. Is anything worrying you? Are you happy?"
You Honor Us All
My mother made family values and pride tangible. One time when I was a high-school junior, our school put on a production of The Music Man. My role was totally insignificant. I played bass in the orchestra. "You don't have to come and see me." I told Mama, "I'm not doing anything important."
"Nonsense," she said, "Of course we're coming, and we're coming because you're in the program." The whole family showed up.
The next year when I was elected president of my high school's National Honor Society, my mother pulled Michael and Maria, my young brother and sister, out of grade school and brought them to the ceremony. Other students' parents came to the event. But I was the only one with a brother and sister there.
"Everything you do reflects on the family," Mama explained, "If you succeed, you honor us all."
In the same way, she crowded us all around the kitchen table for breakfast an
d supper. She made sure we shared chores. She nurtured our religious faith, which kept our family close. Every Sunday, we filled a pew at church. At night, we knelt together in the living room and prayed.
My mother suggested games everyone could play and often joined in. I remember laughing as she marched us around the dining-room table one evening, While John Philip Sousa boomed from the record player. "Keep in step now," she called out to her parading children, "If you're gonna march or do anything else, you always went to do it the best you can."
Time for Everyone
Success wasn't just making money, Mama always said. Success was doing something positive for others.
In 1977, when Leo received his Ph.D. in physics from the University of California at Irvine, my mother wrote him a long, warm letter. She praised his years of hard work and typically, reminded him to use his education to help others. "To think, you have the knowledge to work for the betterment of mankind!" she stressed. "There is much good for you to accomplish."
Mama took time for everyone. One cold day, she saw the neighbors' three young children playing in our yard. They were shivering in thin, worn sweaters. Mama called the youngsters to our door, where they stared greedily at a pot of steaming homemade soup she was making for supper. She hustled them in, fed them and rummaged through our closets for extra coats.
From that day, until the family moved a year later, Mama often brought stew, soup and pasta to their home. She telephoned the children in the morning to make sure they got up for school. Often, she walked them down the lane and waited with them for the bus. At Christmas, she even bought the children gifts.
My mother was the driving influence in my decision to become a physician. "Do good" she always said-and be there for others. I recall a long, difficult night when I was a resident at Northwestern Memorial Hospital. I hadn't slept much for days. Finally, one morning at around four o'clock, I dropped into a restless slumber. An hour later, I awoke with a jolt. I had dreamed my father died. Confused and exhausted, I called home in tears. "Everything is all right," My mother assured me, "Don't worry."
At six o'clock, the hospital security buzzed my room. I had visitors. Stumbling into the elevator, I wondered who had come to see me at that hour. There stood my parents. They had gotten up and driven into the city in the predawn darkness. "I just wanted to make sure you were okay." Mama said, sleepy-eyed and anxious.
View From Above.
While my mother's spirit remained indomitable, her health turned poor. Early last year, she had major surgery. Complications developed. Eight days later, on January 31, 1990, Mama died suddenly. She was 66.
More than 200 people came to her funeral service. In his eulogy, Leo said: "Mama poured her life out for us, reserving nothing for herself, thinking of us always, of
herself never."
Sitting in church, I could picture my mother in heaven, looking young and beautiful just as she did in her favorite photograph. But instead of gazing out over Lake Michigan, she would be looking down at us, her six children. And she would be bursting with pride.
But we're the proud ones-proud of her and all she accomplished. More than any of us, Mama was really somebody.

Rescue at Sea
Years ago, in a small fishing village in Holland, a young boy taught the world about the rewards of unselfish service. Because the entire village revolved around the fishing industry, a volunteer rescue team was need in case of emergency. One night the winds raged, the clouds burst and a gale force storm capsized a fishing boat at sea. Stranded and in trouble, the crew sent out the S. O. S... The captain of the rescue rowboat team sound the alarm and the villagers assembled in the town square overlooking the bay. While the team launched their rowboat and fought their way through the wild waves, the villagers waited restlessly on the beach, holding lanterns to light the way back.
As hour later, the rescue boat reappeared through the fog and the cheering villagers ran to greet them. Falling exhausted on the sand, the volunteers reported that the rescue boat could not hold any more passengers and they had to leave one man behind. Even one more passenger would have surely capsized the rescue boat and all would have been lost.
Frantically, the captain called for another volunteer team to go after the lone survivor. Sixteen-year-old Hans stepped forward. His mother grabbed his arm, pleading:"Please don't go. Your father died in a shipwreck 10 years ago and your older brother Paul has been lost at sea for three weeks. Hans, you are all I have left.
Hans replied:"Mother, I have to go. What if everyone said: 'I can't go, let someone else do it?' Mother, this time I have to do my duty. When the call for service comes, we all need to take our responsibility and to our part." Hans kissed his mother, joined the team and disappeared into the night.
Another hour passed, which seemed to Hans' mother like an eternity. Finally, the rescue boat darted through the fog with Hans standing up in the bow. Cupping his hands, the captain called:"Did you find the lost man?" Barely able contain himself, Hans excitedly yelled back:"Yes, we found him. Tell my mother it's my older brother Paul!"



The Beginning
"Where have I come from, where did you pick me up?" the baby asked its mother.
She answered half crying, half laughing, and clasping the baby to her breast-
"You were hidden in my heart as its desire, my darling.
"You were in the dolls of my childhood's games; and when with clay made the image of my god every morning, I made and unmade you then. You were enshrined with our household deity, in his worship I worshipped you. In all my hopes and my loves, in my life, in
the life of my mother you have lived. In the lap of the deathless Spirit who rules our home you have been nursed for ages.""
"When in girlhood my heart was opening its petals, you hovered as a fragrance about it. Your tender softness bloomed in my youthful limbs, like a glow in the sky before the sunrise. Heaven's first darling, twin-born with the morning light, you have floated down the stream of the world's life and at last you have stranded on my heart."
"As I gaze on your face, mystery overwhelms me; you who belong to all have become mine. For fear of losing you I hold you tight to my breast. What magic has snared the world's treasure in these slender arms of mine?"

The Day I Met My Mother
Mine was, at time, a lonely childhood. Born in Chungking, China, of missionary parents, I lost my mother at birth. I was two month old when my father sent me to Mother's favorite sister in Morgantown, West Virginia. There I grew up in the house where mother had spent her girlhood.
When Aunt Ruth was at home, I was surrounded by love. But she was out sole bread-winner and worked in an office six days a week. Left with a procession of hired girl, I felt the loneliness of the big, old home.
In the evening, before Aunt Ruth came home, I often sat on the floor beneath a picture of my mother-a sweet-faced young woman of 20, with dark eyes and black curly hair. Sometimes I talked to the picture, but I could never bear to look at it when I'd been naughty. There was one question always in my mind: What was my mother like? If only I could have known her!
Twenty years passed, I had grown up, married and had a baby, and named Lucy for her grandmother-the mother I'd longed to know.
One spring morning, 18-month-old Lucy and I board a train for Morgantown to visit Aunt Ruth. A woman offered me half her seat in the crowded car. I thanked her and busied myself with Lucy. While the woman turned her attention to landscape speeding by.
After setting my baby in my arms for a nap, I started to talk with the woman. She said she was going to Morgantown to see her daughter and brand-new grandson. "Surely you know my annt, Ruth Wood!" I said. "She's had a real estate office in Morgantown for years."
"No," she answered, "I've been away long time, and that name is not familiar to me."
For several minutes, the woman looked out the window. Then, without turning her head, she began to speak.
"There was a Miss Lucy Wood, a teacher, in Morgantown years ago. She probably left there before you were born. You said the name Wood, and suddenly, I can't stop thinking about her. I haven't thought of her for years, but once I loved her very much. She was my teacher. My parents owned a bakery on Watts Street. They were on the verge of divorce. They fought and quarreled all the time. I had to work very hard at home and in the bakery, too."
"I loved school, though I didn't make good grades. Miss Wood's room w
as a happy place; it seemed like heaven to me. One day, after my folks had a big fight at breakfast, I came to school late, holding back the tears. Miss Wood kept me after school. I thought she would scold me, but, instead, she let me tell her troubles, she made me feel how much my brother and sisters, and my parents, needed me and from that day on, my life was worth living."
"A few months later, I heard a little girl say: 'Miss Wood's going to marry a missionary and go live in China!' I went home crying. My parents stopped in the middle of a fight to ask me what was wrong, but they couldn't know how great a light was going out in my life. I couldn't sleep that night."
"The next day, Miss Wood again kept me after school to see what was wrong. When I told her, she looked surprises and tender. 'Please don't go way off to China!' I begged."
"'Violaat's that? Debbie wondered. Peeking out the window, her eyes went wide in horror. Dear Lord! She gasped; I've got to save him.
"Help!" she cried, racing outside.
"I can't breathe!" James groaned.
I've got to do something-now! Debbie panicked. But what? And how? The 43-year-old hairdresser rarely lifted anything heavier than a blow-dryer.
God, give me strength! She prayed as she gathered all the power in her 145-pound frame and lifted. As she strained she heard a sharp snap!
My back! She thought to herself and felt hot pain shooting though her. But slowly, she felt the car rise… an inch… three inch… six inch…
"I'm out!" she heard James shout a second later. But when she turned to her son, she collapsed, unable to move, her back on fire.
Just then, neighbors rushed up. Someone had called 911, and within minutes both James and Debbie were in an ambulance. Taking her hand, James said softly," Thanks for saving me, Mom"
He'd soon get a chance to pay her back. Though incredibly, James suffered only bruises; Debbie had broken a vertebra in her back and spent several days in the hospital.
Later, while she recovered at home, James became her arms and legs, seeing to her every need.
"It was incredible what she did," James says now, still amazed that his mother found the strength to lift the almost two-ton Oldsmobile.
Debbie too is amazed at the strength she managed to muster. But she thinks the explanation might be love. "I couldn't just stand there thinking my son was terribly hurt and do nothing," she explains.

Pieces of Time and Pivotal Moments
Life is comprised of pieces of time sprinkled with pivotal moments. Sometimes these moments have immediate. Other times, they are slow to manifest and reveal their importance. But if you listen closely to the soft whispers of life, they will guide you on an unexpected journey filled with beauty, understanding and fulfillment. One such moment occurred for me about eight years ago.
On this particular day, I was helping my mom redo her bedroom. We rearranged the furniture-cleaning and polishing it, and changed the curtains and bedding. Then out came the new floral arrangement, pot-pourri and matching candles. Proudly, we stepped back to admire out work. That's when Mom decided we need a little atmosphere and she lit the candles.
Evidently, there was a residue of cleaning solution on her hands, because the moment she flicked the lighter, flames burst into the air. Large blisters instantly formed on her hands and she began to shake.
As the tears rolled down her face, she looked up at me and whispered:" The children."
These were her first words, not a cry, not a scream, not a curse—"the children." I panicked. I thought she was in shock. I hurried her into the bathroom to tend to her wounds, but the blisters were so large that she couldn't move her fingers. I realized I would have to take he
r to the doctor; I was also concerned about her state of mind. Her response seemed so strange. "Mom, what do you mean, the children?" I asked.
She looked up at me with the sweetest, most sympathetic tear-filled eyes I had ever seen. "The poor children who get burnt," Then she continued to explain, "I saw it on Oprah. If this is painful for me, how much pain would a child be in? I feel so sorry for them… what they must go through."
That was her answer. My mom had second and third degree burns, her hands were swollen, blistered and shaking, but her tears were for the children. Children she saw on Oprah. My thoughts were less pure. At that moment, I didn't care about anyone but her.
Four years ago this October, I lost my mom to cancer. True to her nature, she never complained during her illness. Not once. Even in her suffering, she taught me valuable lessons. One of these lessons came when we were in her hospital room waiting for test results. The doctor finally arrived, flew into the room, delivered his devastating news and then abruptly left.
I was shocked, hurt and angry all at the same time. I turned to my mother and said, "I hate him." She looked at me with her beautiful blue eyes and said:" that's not nice. He was just doing his job. Can you imagine how hard it must be for him to have to tell his patients bad news like that?"
Oh, Mom, you certainly were something.
In the years since I lost my mom, things have changed in many ways. There are sorrows and bittersweet longings, but her gentle lessons continue to touch my life and guide me.
Mom would be proud to know that my husband John and I recently published out first children's book. Although we originally set out to write an entertaining story about a boy with school troubles, I soon discovered that John was the victim of a school bully. He had buried the hurt and humiliation deep inside, but as we stepped further into the writing process, the impact of his experience was evident.
My mother's lessons taught me to listen closely to the soft whispers of life. This perspective helped me to realize that a message emerged from our collaboration, beyond the pages of our book. This knowledge changed the direction of our lives.
Our children's book became the basis for an anti-bullying program. The program, filled with stories, songs and practical advice, teaches children about the consequences of bullying and helps to provide a safe and healthy learning environment.
Today, as John and I speak at school and community events, I pray that our pieces of time sprinkled with pivotal moments serve to help the children. Because now, I understand.

Families That Care, Care About Families
We didn't have much, but we sure had plenty.
ttttttttttttttt----Sherry ThomastMy tenth Christmas was one I was not looking forward to, money was scarce. Dad was a preacher, and preachers for our church don't make much. Mom said we we
re old enough now to be brave and not count on gifts. Just being together would be enough.
We weren't the only family in our small community who have a meager Christmas, But the knowledge that others were going through the same thing didn't help much. One night, as my sister and I huddled together in one shared bed, we had a small pity party for each other.
"How can I even wear that same old dress one more time? I complained."
"I know," said my sister, "I think I might as well give up asking for a horse, too, I've asked for one forever but it just never happens."
"Yeah, and even if we got one where would we keep it?" I said, destroying her last hope.
I couldn't stop thinking about my sister's long-held dream to own a horse and decided I was willing to give up every gift for ten Christmas if only her dream could come true.
The next day, Mom added salt to my wounds by telling us that she had been saving up and shopping around so that we could give the Walters family a Christmas basket.
"If anyone need some cheer, it's the Walters," Mom remained us.
"But the Walters, Mom I wouldn't be caught dead at their front door."
Mom give me a dirty look.
But I knew she would have to agree that the Walters were the strangest people we knew. Looking at a lot like a family of hobos, they could have at least washed their hair once in a while. After all, water is free. I always felt embarrassed for them.
Mom was determined. And it was our duty to load up our little sled and pull the basket full of flour and sugar, a small turkey, potatoes, and bottled peaches over to the Walters, leave it on the doorstep and run.
On the way we noticed that Mom had tucked a small gift for the children in among the food. I was distraught.
How could Mom be so generous with someone else's kids when our own family didn't have enough?
We delivered the package, knocked hard on the door and ran fast to hide behind a nearby bush. Safely hidden, I looked back the way we had come and realized my sister was standing in plain view. I was so mad. I didn't want them to know our family had anything to do with this.
After the Walters gathered up their basket of goodies and had closed the door, I said in a loud whisper:" What are you doing? I know they saw you!"
"I wanted to see their faces when they saw the gift," my sister said innocently. "That's the best part."
"Whatever," I said, relenting to the unchangeable. "Did they look happy?"
"Well, yeah, happy, but mostly they look like, well, like they were thinking, Maybe we do belong."
Christmas morning arrived just a couple of days later. To my surprise, I unwrapped a fabulous-looking dress. I smiled at my parents as if to say, "I can't believe you actually got this for me." Then I glanced at my sister's face, which was full of anticipation. There was only one small package under the tree. She unwrapped it and found a
currycomb. A currycomb? Had my parents totally lost it? My sister's face was blank and I was thinking, Is this some kind of a mean jok?
We hadn't realized that Dad had slipped outside. Just as I was to speak, he rode up in front of the big picture window atop my sister's new horse!
My sister was so excited that she jumped up and down, then stopped and put her head in her hands, shook her head back and forth in disbelief and screamed, "Oh, my gosh… Oh, my gosh!" With tears rolling down her cheeks, she ran out to meet her new friend.
"Mom, how did you do all this?" I asked. "We were ready for a no-present Christmas."
"Oh, everybody pitched in. Not necessarily trading but just helping each other. Mrs. Olsen at the dress shop let me bring your gift home now, even though I'll be paying for a while. Dad did some marriage counseling for the Millets's son. I hung up Mrs. Marshall's tree lights since her arthritis is getting her down. We were thrilled that Mr. Jones had a horse that needed some TLC( Tender loving care), and he was thrilled we had someone to love it. And then for a moment we thought all was lost because we couldn't figure out where to house the horse. Then the Larsens, down the way, offered some of their pasture to keep the horse penned and well fed. "
"I thought since you were giving away food to the Walters that we would never have enough. They really don't have anything to give in return."
"They will some day. But there is enough and more to share. Everything's God's anyway. Doesn't matter who can or can't give. If we just listen to our hearts, the right gifts will end up with the right families."
Mom always knew truth.
I glanced out the window at my sister now sitting on her horse, and thought about how she had described the expression on the Walters's faces when they discovered the Christmas basket. That "belonging" feeling was more precious than any of the gift. And I thought, Families that care, care about families. All families.
That was the Christmas that I learned about the magic of giving.











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