Chicken Soup for the Woman's Soul Part 16

It was just a few more days until Christmas in San Francisco, and the shopping downtown was starting to get to us. I remember crowds of people waiting impatiently for slow-moving buses and streetcars on those little cement islands in the middle of the street. Most of us were loaded down with packages, and it looked like many of us were beginning to wonder if all those countless friends and relatives actually deserved so many gifts in the first place. This was not the Christmas spirit I'd been raised with.

When I finally found myself virtually shoved up the steps of a jammed streetcar, the idea of standing there packed like a sardine the whole way home was almost more than I could take. What I would have given for a seat! I must have been in some kind of exhausted daze because as people gradually got off, it took me a while to notice that there was room to breathe again.

Then I saw something out of the corner of my eye. A small, dark-skinned boy-he couldn't have been more than five or six-tugged on a woman's sleeve and asked, "Would you like a seat?" He quietly led her to the closest free seat he could find. Then he set out to find another tired person. As soon as each rare, new seat became available, he would quickly move through the crowd in search of another burdened woman who desperately needed to rest her feet.

When I finally felt the tug on my own sleeve, I was absolutely dazzled by the beauty in this little boy's eyes. He took my hand, saying, "Come with me," and I think I'll remember that smile as long as I live. As I happily placed my heavy load of packages on the floor, the little emissary of love immediately turned to help his next subject.

The people on the streetcar, as usual, had been studiously avoiding each other's eyes, but now they began to exchange shy glances and smiles. A businessman offered a section of newspaper to the stranger next to him; three people stooped to return a gift that had tumbled to the floor. And now people were speaking to one another. That little boy had tangibly changed something-we all relaxed into a subtle feeling of warmth and actually enjoyed the trip through the final stops along the route.

I didn't notice when the child got off. I looked up at one point and he was gone. When I reached my stop I practically floated off that streetcar, wis.h.i.+ng the driver a happy holiday, noticing the sparkling Christmas lights on my street in a fresh, new way. Or maybe I was seeing them in an old way, with the same open wonder I felt when I was five or six. I thought, "So that's what they mean by And a little child shall lead them...."

Beverly M. Bartlett

Who Won?

I saw a beautiful example of kindness in 1968 during the Special Olympics track and field meet. One partic.i.p.ant was Kim Peek, a brain-damaged, severely handicapped boy racing in the 50-yard dash.

Kim was racing against two other athletes with cerebral palsy. They were in wheelchairs; Kim was the lone runner. As the gun sounded, Kim moved quickly ahead of the other two. Twenty yards ahead and 10 yards from the finish line, he turned to see how the others were coming. The girl had turned her wheelchair around and was stuck against the wall. The other boy was pus.h.i.+ng his wheelchair backward with his feet. Kim stopped, went back and pushed the little girl across the finish line. The boy in the wheelchair going backward won the race. The girl took second. Kim lost.

Or did he? The crowd that gave Kim a standing ovation didn't think so.

Dan Clark

Bush Sneakers

I was already nervous. There I was, standing in line at a White House state dinner-yes, that White House- about to shake hands with President and Mrs. Bush, trying to hold my smile in place and think of something intelligent to say. Lost in my thoughts, I heard my husband's voice. "Oh, Christine would love to make her a pair." I looked up just in time to see the president staring down at my husband's shoes. The dark, hand-painted tennis shoes were not what most people would expect to find as the accompanying foot gear for a tuxedo. Over the years, while my husband, Wally Amos, was out promoting his "famous" chocolate chip cookies, I'd created unique works of art on his clothes, including my most recent venture into footwear.

The next few seconds remain a blur to this day, but the upshot is that Wally volunteered me to paint a pair of sneakers for the president's wife, Barbara. My first reaction was, "Thanks, honey. Maybe you'd like to handle all the household ch.o.r.es for a week while I create executive sneakers," followed by the a.s.sumption that it was all small talk, and wasn't it nice that the president of the United States had noticed my husband's sneakers. Nevertheless, a week later a special delivery package from the White House arrived with a pair of the first lady's sneakers for me to paint on and a "knock yourself out" note. Oh well, I thought to myself, it is for the first lady.

Of course, once I realized that this was real, I completely got into it. I painted pictures of Millie the dog, the grandkids, books (for Mrs. Bush's support of literacy), rainbows, suns, palm trees-on the tongues, the sides, the laces. Those shoes were truly works of art by the time they winged their way back to Was.h.i.+ngton, and I was proud of them.

Suddenly, I found myself checking the mail on a regular basis to see what the response was. A few weeks later, I got a very warm, handwritten note from the first lady, thanking me profusely and telling me how wonderful the shoes were.

But it didn't end there. Months later, my husband was back at the White House for a library luncheon at which Mrs. Bush was to speak. Just before the luncheon, when she found out that Wally was to be in attendance, Mrs. Bush had an aide get the magic tennies. She put them on, had pictures taken with Wally-of course he had his on- and then kept them on for the luncheon. There stood Mrs. Bush, with her dignified first lady attire, and her newly painted tennis shoes. I was thrilled again.

My outgoing husband is always seizing an opportunity. This time, he gets my thanks for making a lasting memory for me. I hope those bright and cheery sneakers are still in the Bush closet somewhere-that is, if Millie hasn't used them for chew toys by now.

Christine Harris-Amos with Cliff Marsh

Feather Light

And all the loveliest things there be come simply, so it seems to me.

Edna St.Vincent Millay In fifth grade I sat at a desk third row from the left, second seat in front, with my hands folded and my feet on the floor. Pastor Beikman served up the commandments every morning and we learned to chew them, swallow them and fear them. This was the essence of my early education: study, memorize, recite. Parochial school grounded me in uniforms and conventions, in a world of curriculum where men were cherished and women were invisible. Men discovered new lands, explained the laws of the universe and wrote the Bible. But it was a woman who quickened my soul and invited me to look deeply at life, to love sincerely and to see G.o.d in everything.

One morning the pastor announced he was changing duties and leaving the school staff. He introduced us to our replacement teacher, Miss Newhart, and a ripple of excitement filled the room. A tall woman with a beehive hairdo, platform shoes and a skirt that almost showed her knees, Miss Newhart was powerful and light all at once. Her hands, big and freckled like a robin's breast, spoke with gestures large enough to fill the air around us. From a sack the size of a suitcase, she handed a feather to each student and told us they were gifts from their original owners-birds who'd cast off their excess plumage and left behind the things they no longer needed to carry. That morning our world changed, and soon, so too would we.

In history cla.s.s that day, Miss Newhart told the story of Christopher Columbus. Having been at sea too long, the sailors on his s.h.i.+p became restive and demanded a port. There was talk of mutiny, and Columbus was said to have feared for his life. Then one morning, a feather floated down from the sky above, a sign that land was near. Miss Newhart said the sailors spied more gulls, screeching and whirling in the air, then quite dramatically she flung out her arms and the plump, freckled skin of her triceps quivered just a bit. She turned quick circles so that her skirt flung out flapping at her thighs and her feet went round fast. I thought she, too, might lift up and fly. She helped me see what those sailors must have seen: there is hope even in the smallest of things.

The next morning, Miss Newhart's sack was bulging at the seams. Inside it there was a poster of The Last Supper, a paintbrush, a compa.s.s and a long cylindrical tube. From the tube she pulled out a black and white drawing and tacked it on the particle board. It was a circle with a man inside, his arms stretched wide against the circ.u.mference, feet splayed at the bottom; dimensions, figures, designs and numbers were scrawled across the sheet. "Da Vinci," she said in a whisper, "was more than a painter. He studied subjects until he knew them well: man, nature, science, math..."

"Did he know anything about feathers?" I asked. The woman with the beehive hairdo loved that question.

A pioneer in the science of aerodynamics, Leonardo da Vinci studied feathers. When viewed from the top, a feather appears convex, arched delicately up and out, allowing the air to flow over it without resistance. When feathers are put together, as a wing, they create an airfoil, something that provides just the right resistance against the air as it moves through the feathers. Miss Newhart, who was more than a teacher, and da Vinci, who was more than a painter, showed me how to see the extraordinary in a small thing.

Later that day, Miss Newhart took us beyond the confines of the school walls to a nearby field, wide and high with weeds. There we lay among the blonde gra.s.ses and covered our bodies with sticks, leaves and stalks. These became our nests, windows to the sky. Hidden there we learned to be quiet, to rest and watch, to let the bugs crawl over and beyond us, to listen for the birds and study their movements.

In the afternoon, Miss Newhart stood at the door as we were leaving, touched each of us on the shoulder and said "Good-bye" or "G.o.d bless." I remember how warm and light her hands were. She often asked me to stay awhile, to straighten the chairs, put away ruffled papers, and dust chalk from the board. During one of those grace-filled afternoons, I shared a troubled thought I had been keeping secret. I told Miss Newhart that I might love birds more than I loved G.o.d, a sin according to the commandments. My teacher rummaged through her cluttered desk, found her Bible, flipped it open to the Psalms and read, "He will cover you with His feathers, and under His wings you will find refuge; His faithfulness will be your s.h.i.+eld and rampart." She wrote down the little verse and handed it to me. I have it still. I didn't know what rampart meant-it didn't really matter-but something deep inside of me awakened: I was given full permission to love things deeply, for G.o.d was in all things and had given them to me. On the way home that afternoon I imagined I could fly. I ran full speed, arms outstretched and legs behind me, skimming the sidewalks as though I were a bird.

Around my neck I wear a gold charm-a bird, given to me when I was younger. That bird's wings have become my symbol. They remind me of those sidewalks I flew over all those years before, and of the roads I've traveled since. And I have become more of a feather myself as the years have flown by: I am less resistant to what life offers up, and the pressures flow over me much more easily. As a teacher, I've guided children through the sometimes rough waters of fractions, spelling lessons and self-doubt. I have led them to safe sh.o.r.es when they were lost. I've learned to rest in quiet places now and then, and to leave behind the things I no longer need to carry, like grudges, sorrows and regrets. I have an inner strength, a gentle state of being, and I believe with all my heart no rampart will thwart me.

Melody Arnett

365 Days

According to my friends and a.s.sociates, I'm secure, educated, modestly intelligent, organized and creative. But for most of my adult life, for 14 days out of each year, I felt exactly the opposite of those attributes. What brought this on, you ask? Not PMS, but worse-my parents' annual visit. Being separated from them by 1,600 miles for 351 days a year, I got on with my life quite well, being wife, mother, volunteer and businesswoman. But my parents' annual visits were excruciating for me.

The story is an old one-the first-born child who could never live up to her father's expectations. In the eyes of others I was pleasantly successful in my endeavors, but not to Dad. And I spent most of my life resenting him for that, and deep in my psyche, resenting myself.

Not only did I suffer during my parents' visits, but so did everyone around me. Certainly my sweet husband of 32 years, Dave, suffered along with me. For weeks before the visit, I'd scour the house, nag my husband to do little fix-up jobs, buy new drapes, pillows, sheets-and generally turn our household budget on its ear. I'd plan gourmet meals, bake till the freezer was full and hound my children about rooms, etiquette and raising their voices. During the visit, an ever-present aura of tension surrounded me like a gossamer veil. (Maybe it was more like a wet, wool blanket!) After the visit, nights of discussions with my hubby ensued. I would try to decipher what was, and wasn't, said by my father. And I would cry myself to sleep, inconsolable, the child of rejection and exhaustion. Thirty-two years of marriage can have its ups and downs, but the one real test of Dave's love was helping me survive those visits!

When I reached my 40s, immortality (or the lack of it) began to rear its nagging little head. I'd been into the study of spirituality for several years, sort of a peripheral investigation of ideas. I was a closet psychic, not about to acknowledge it publicly. However, every year for 14 days, my spirituality deserted me, and I was left as naked, defenseless and vulnerable as a five-year-old child.

Then one year Dad was diagnosed with Parkinson's disease. In a short time he turned from the vital, intelligent, athletic G.o.d of my childhood into a stumbling, gaunt, confused old man. With the clock ticking faster than ever for both of us, I came to the realization that before Dad left this life, I had to mend our broken relations.h.i.+p and let go of my feelings about never living up to his expectations. But how? I'd tried everything I could think of. The only thing left was to forgive him.

So I did. Just saying aloud, "I forgive you," changed my whole inner experience from self-doubt to peacefulness. I let go of "should have," "could have" and "I wish." In the process I forgave me, too.

I never told my dad that I had forgiven him, but it must have been apparent to him on some level because our entire relations.h.i.+p changed.

The summer before Dad died, he came alone to stay with us for two weeks in August. On my part, there was no maniacal cleaning or sheet buying or tension. Because I had forgiven him, I could now talk with him as a friend and a companion-not as a resentful, disappointed, wounded daughter. We talked about his life, marriage and war experiences, and about his love of trees and animals. For the first time in our lives, he told me he admired my intuitiveness and intelligence, and how he loved the feel of our home and the beautiful gardens we grew. Together we explored some alternative healing techniques and he shared some startling psychic events that had occurred in his life. Most stunning of all, he told me for the first time that he loved me.

My father never came to my home again. After he died, my mother had a video shot with pictures of Dad's lifetime, complete with music. I see the video case now, as I look up from my writing, tucked into the bookshelf. I've never watched it. My life with my father was two weeks in August. My memories are of Dad, sitting in the wicker chair on the porch, amidst streams of suns.h.i.+ne and overflowing flowerpots, joking, talking, sharing-and loving me.

Complete and unconditional forgiveness brought me soul-soothing peace and opened the door to a life I never dreamed possible.

Now, in addition to being wife, mother, gram my and psychic counselor, I'm a whole person 365 days a year.

Rosemarie Giessinger

Spots of a Different Color

"Honey, someone left a coat in your mother's closet," I called to my husband. The faux-leopard jacket was tucked in the back of the closet against the wall, out of place among the dark coats and sweaters. I wondered who would hide clothes in my mother-in-law's closet. We were there to get a winter coat for her because she was coming home from the hospital, a week after being rushed to the emergency room.

"Coat? What coat?" My husband looked up from sorting the mail. I took out the jacket, holding it up in the light for him to see. "Oh, that jacket. Mom bought it years ago, when I was a kid...you know, when they were fas.h.i.+onable. She and Pop even argued about getting it."

I thought of the woman I'd known for 30 years. She bought her housedresses and polyester pantsuits at Kmart or Sears, kept her gray hair tightly confined in a hair net and chose the smallest piece of meat on the dinner platter when it was pa.s.sed around the table. I knew she wasn't the kind of flamboyant type who would own a faux-leopard print jacket.

"I can't imagine Mom wearing this," I said to him.

"I don't think she ever wore it outside the house," my husband answered.

Removing the jacket from its padded hanger, I carried it to her bed and laid it on the white chenille bedspread. It seemed to sprawl like an exotic animal. My hands brushed the thick, plush fur, and the spots changed l.u.s.ter as my fingers sank into the pile.

My husband stood at the door. "I used to see Mom run her fingers over the fur, just like you are," he said.

As I slid my arms into the sleeves, the jacket released a perfume of gardenias and dreams. It swung loose from my shoulders, its high collar brus.h.i.+ng my cheeks, the faux fur soft as velvet. It belonged to a glamorous, bygone era, the days of Lana Turner and Joan Crawford, but not in the closet of the practical 83-year-old woman I knew.

"Why didn't you tell me Mom had a leopard jacket?" I whispered, but my husband had left the room to water the plants.

If I'd been asked to make a list of items my mother-inlaw would never want in her life, that jacket would have been near the top. Yet finding it changed our relations.h.i.+p. It made me realize how little I knew about this woman's hopes and dreams. We took it to the hospital for her to wear home. She blushed when she saw it, and turned even rosier at the gentle teasing of the staff.

In our last three years together, I bought her gifts of perfume, lotion and makeup instead of sensible underwear and slippers. We had a lunch date once a week, where she wore her jacket, and she began to curl her hair so it would be fluffy and glamorous for our date. We spent time looking at her photo alb.u.m, and I finally began to see the young woman there, with the Cupid's bow mouth.

Faux fur has come back into fas.h.i.+on. It appears in shop windows and on the street. Every time I catch a glimpse of it, I'm reminded of my mother-in-law's jacket, and that all of us have a secret self that needs to be encouraged and shared with those we love.

Grazina Smith

7.

LIVE YOUR.

DREAM.

Alice laughed. "There's no use trying," she said. "One can't believe impossible things." "I daresay you haven't had much practice,"said the Queen. "When I was your age, I always did it for half an hour a day. Why, sometimes, I've believed as many as six impossible things before breakfast."

Lewis Carroll

Through the Looking Gla.s.s

The Wind Beneath