Chicken Soup for the Woman's Soul Part 24

"Come here, you," he said-commanded.

I stared at these two people who had once been my parents. They seemed to share some secret that, strange as it seemed, obviously had nothing to do with me. I felt a sudden urge to wedge myself in between them. I saw him put her evening coat over her shoulders. He bent down and whispered something into her hair and she tilted back her head. A secret dawned in her eyes. Like the shutter of a camera, my mind captured that instant. It remained with me long after the door had closed behind them.

The next day I sat in my father's chair waiting for him to come home. I wore my mother's Chanel, the cinch belt pulled well past the last notch. I had found that when I sucked in my stomach and raised my ribcage, I gave a perfect impression of having b.r.e.a.s.t.s. I waited, my bare legs stretched in front of me like a model's. I noticed the lipstick smear from when the tube had dropped from my hand, bounced off the bathroom counter and slalomed down the skirt. I hid it in a fold of fabric. Then I heard the key in the lock. Quickly I lifted my chest.

He stopped when he saw me, about to say h.e.l.lo as usual, but registering something different. I could practically see his workday drop from his mind like a dusty backpack as he took in the dress, the made-up face, the pose. His eyes softened, and then his face adopted a smile of pure Desi Arnaz charm. "Well!" he said. "Is this my lucky day? Let's have a look at you." I got off the chair and rustled toward him, stepping carefully. His amused eyes dropped to the red streak across the skirt, and his expression changed. He looked at me sharply. I stopped, for the first time realizing what I'd done: my mother's favorite dress, impossibly expensive, a Christmas gift from Dad. We stared at each other, his eyes seemed to knife right through me...

Suddenly he crouched down and looked into my face. I saw the crinkles around his eyes, little white untanned rays, and the lank, brown hair with the blond layer on top. I saw my own skinny little body engulfed in this ocean of watered silk. Then I heard him whisper to me, "You're growing up so fast, you know that? Someday I'm gonna turn around and you'll be the toast of the town. Your old Dad won't be able to fight his way through the boys. Will he?"

All at once he picked me up and held me in a gigantic bear hug. My mother's shoes flew from my dangling feet, landing noiselessly somewhere on the carpet. He squeezed the breath out of me, five o'clock shadow dug into my neck, drawing a m.u.f.fled scream of laughter before he gently put me back down. He crouched again. "Don't grow up too fast, you," he ordered. He tapped my flat, unremarkable nose.

And for the first time he didn't call it "the freckle farm."

Doni Tamblyn

Tribute to Dad

My father died three weeks after his 80th birthday. No one read about it in the headlines since he'd never invented anything to speak of or lit up the big screen or ama.s.sed a huge fortune. His most outstanding achievement was that he was a nice guy. But that seldom makes the headlines. "Harold Halperin, Nice Guy, Dies at Age 80."

For most of his adult life he owned a corner drugstore with his brother-in-law. It was the old-fas.h.i.+oned kind of store with friendly service, a soda fountain and a gumball machine where the gum still cost a penny and you could even get a "winner" to trade in for a candy bar. Although his customers could have bought their prescriptions cheaper at the chain across the street, they came to my dad's because his "h.e.l.lo, Mr. Jones!" did more to heal than any of the drugs.

When he retired at the age of 70, my dad started a second career working for the Hershey Company, stocking candy racks at the local 7-Eleven's and White Hen Pantries. Although he was supposed to throw away the outdated candy bars, one of his greatest pleasures in life was to share them with the neighborhood kids or bring them to the local soup kitchen for the homeless to enjoy. Everyone called him the Candyman.

His entire illness, from the time he was diagnosed with pancreatic cancer to the time he died, was less than four months. Those four months were a gift to him and to us- not long enough for him to suffer a great deal, but long enough for all of us to say our good-byes and to feel complete. It was also a time for me to notice not only who he was but also the way my father gave us his love. I had never taken the time to notice before.

I delivered his eulogy: Yesterday morning, on the Sabbath, my beautiful father died. When thinking about the words to say at his funeral, I thought, "What tribute can you pay a man whose whole life was a tribute? A tribute to goodness, kindness, caring and generosity. There's really no need for words because my dad's life spoke loud and clear enough."

We all know who Harold Halperin was. He was everyone's favorite friend. He was everyone's favorite neighbor. He was everyone's favorite uncle. He was everyone's favorite employer. He was everyone's favorite employee.He didn't have an enemy in the world. I don't think there was anyone who knew him that did-n't love him. He was a gentleman and a gentle man.

Not that he was perfect-no human being is.But in my life, even in the most trying times for him-and there were a few where I really stretched the guy-I never felt for even a moment that he wasn't there for me with all his heart and all his love.

We're all going to miss him. I'm going to miss him because he was the only one who told me on a regular basis that I was so beautiful that I should have been a movie star-and really believed it.

The kids will miss him because there was never a more loving grandpa. I wish you could have seen the way he played with his grandchildren. The love in his eyes,the way he adored them-and how they loved him!It was always, "Papa, look at me," "Papa, come here," "Papa, watch,""Papa,play with me!"And there he was, down on the floor with them, not caring how difficult it was to get back up again.

And my mom-what can I say about their love? For 47 years those two were completely devoted to each other. My husband and Mom were talking yesterday and Mom said, "If only you and Debbie could have a marriage like Harold and I had. In 47 years, we never went to bed angry."To which my husband replied,"Ceil, I think we blew it already."

One of my most vivid memories of childhood was when my dad would come home from work at 6:30 for dinner. My brother and I would hear him ring the bell-our private joke was that he'd ring it over and over until we got there. We'd be upstairs doing our homework or watching TV and we'd yell to each other, "Daddy's home, Daddy's home!" Then we'd race downstairs and open the door and he'd always say, "What took you so long?" It was the highlight of our day when Dad came home.

A second vivid memory was the dinner ritual he had. When we'd be sitting at the table,Daddy would reach over and put his hand on Mom's arm and say, "Do you two know that you have the most wonderful mother in the world?"He'd say that every night.

And my mom and dad lived his final weeks as they lived the rest of their lives together-my mother loving him and taking care of her darling, precious husband's every need, 24 hours a day. Doing everything that was humanly possible so that he could die with dignity in his own bed without suffering.

And my dad, with days, even hours, left in his life, was still wanting to make sure everything was taken care of for his wife and family. A few days ago Dad was so weak he could hardly talk, and I was telling him how much I loved him and what a great dad he'd been and how lucky Larry and I were to have him for our father. I was going on and on, pouring my heart out to him, and finally I just said, "I love you so much, Daddy." At which point he whispered something back to me. At first I couldn't hear him, so I put my ear close to him and said, "What did you say?" He mustered all his strength and repeated, "Be sure to get the brakes on the Oldsmobile fixed. I don't want your mother driving without good brakes."

There's a lot of press these days about how there are no heroes or great men for our children to look up to. My dad might not have won a n.o.bel prize, but if you want an example of a great man, you don't have to look further than Harold Halperin.

Mom and I will never forget how sweet and peaceful you looked on the morning you died, with the sun pouring in the eastern window, illuminating your silver hair as if a thousand angels were dancing around you.

And we'll never forget that even though the neighbor's dog barked and barked every night for all the months you were sick, he didn't make a peep the night you died, but sat as still as stone hour after hour, staring up at your bedroom window as if he were the official guard at heaven's gate.

So we love you, Daddy. You were as beautiful in death as you were in life. We'll miss you but will never forget who you were, and we'll always talk about you and tell our children and our grandchildren about their grandpa who, although he tried to fix major appliances with string and Scotch tape, was in our eyes one of the greatest men who ever lived.

Now go and be with G.o.d and be in peace.

We love you.

Debra Halperin Poneman

Memories of a Childhood Past

Most of all the other beautiful things in life come by twos and threes, by dozens and hundreds. Plenty of roses, stars, sunsets, rainbows, brothers and sisters, aunts and cousins, but only one mother in the whole world.

Kate Douglas Wiggin She sits pa.s.sively in front of the television. It does not seem to matter what program is on, as long as she does not have to get up to change the channel. Walking, like everything else, has become difficult for her. She needs a.s.sistance to get dressed, to eat and to bathe. It is not because her body has become old and crippled-she is only 48-but her mind has. She has Alzheimer's disease. She is my mother.

Sometimes it seems as if no time has pa.s.sed since I was a child and we went on nature walks together. The natural environment was one of my mother's pa.s.sions. She would take me to the beach to explore the tide pools. We would jump from one rock to the next, carefully trying to avoid the waves cras.h.i.+ng only a few feet away. She would point out the purple-spiked sea urchins and brightly colored sea stars. I can still feel the fine mist of sea water on my face and smell the salty air. She also liked to take me on hikes in the redwoods after the rain. We would search for banana slugs, whose bright yellow color glowed like little night lights in the darkness of the woods. We could smell the dampness of the leaves as we walked among those giant skysc.r.a.pers and lost ourselves in the majesty of that enchanted place.

Deeply affected by the political activism of the 1960s, my mother believed in fighting for what was right and protesting what was not. She was not a radical; she was just concerned about the world and the people in it. I can remember going on a peace march with her when I was about 10. It was a silent nighttime walk through downtown. Each one of us held a candle that illuminated the night and symbolized our hope to bring light to the world through our silent message.

Education was another thing that was important to my mother. She was a teacher who had put herself through graduate school when I was in elementary school. I still do not know how she did it. Even in the midst of her studies, I cannot remember a time when I felt that she was not there for me. Because she was an educator herself, she did a lot of research before choosing a kindergarten for me. While most parents simply settle on the school closest to their home, my mother took me to observe several schools before she found one that she was satisfied with.

Now I often look at my own daughter and see my mother. I see my mother's average brown hair beautifully woven with golden blonde strands and auburn highlights. I see her chin that juts out slightly from her narrow face and the extra crease in the fold of one of her eyelids- they are the same features my mother must have seen when she looked at me and saw herself.

Lately I have noticed that I surround myself with things that remind me of her. Every time I drink a cup of Sleepy time tea, the soothing smell reminds me of all the sleepless nights my mother spent holding me when I was ill. When I get dressed in the morning, the herbal-scented lotion and sweet, fruity hairspray I use are the same as those my mother used to buy. When I listen to the political tw.a.n.g of a Joan Baez song or the rhythmic pulse as Jimmy Cliff sings a reggae chant, I can hear my mother's voice. There is rarely a day that goes by without my hearing, smelling, tasting or seeing something that brings back memories. These things are comforting and allow me to escape to my childhood, when my mother was still the way I remember her.

This disease has quickly stolen the woman I once knew. She had always taken such an active role in life, and now she sits so still. I read a poem once, "To My Alzheimer's Mother," that puts this idea to words beautifully: Sweet Mother with your bright blue eyes Seeing you empty-how my heart cries My mother may not remember all that she did to impact my life, but I have not forgotten. The hardest thing for me is learning to love the mother I have now while still enjoying the memories of who she used to be. I pray for her almost every night, but my prayers have changed. I used to pray, "Lord, let them find a cure." Now I simply ask, "Lord, just let her be happy in her own world, as she made me happy in mine." Sometimes, almost hoping that she will somehow hear me, I whisper, "I love you, Mom. I miss you."

Sasha Williams

Threads That Bind

Love is the emblem of eternity; it confounds all notion of time.

Anna Louise de Stael The quilt was obviously very old. Many of the silk fabrics had almost disintegrated with time, but still it was beautiful. It was a variation of a Log Cabin, a small square in one corner with logs on only two of the sides. Yes, the fabrics were worn and fading, but it had evidently been well cared for over the years.

The quilt teacher held the quilt up for all to see. "This is a type of Log Cabin quilt quite popular in the mid-1800s. This particular one must have been made by someone who had access to many fabrics because of the variety used in the quilt. After I bought it, I noticed it had originally been larger. Someone had cut it in half." Everyone in the cla.s.s moaned. Who could have possibly ever cut into such an exquisite quilt?

A wagon train headed west;itwas1852...

Katherine reflected on the events of the past three years as she pulled the quilt up around herself and her sister, Lucy. Today had been a happy day; Katherine and Lucy had celebrated their common birthday. Katherine had just turned 13 and Lucy three. Katherine had been exactly 10 years old when her sister was born. How happy she had been to finally have a little sister! All her friends had very large families, and Katherine had wanted a brother or sister for a long time. Finally her wish had come true: She had a sister, a sister born on her own birthday. The family members were all so happy. It seemed as if nothing could ever go wrong.

Tragedy struck, however, when Lucy was a year-and-ahalf old. Their mother died. Soon after that, Father decided that the little family should move west. Everything was sold, given away or packed into a wagon, and they headed out. In spite of her joy over the birthday celebration earlier in the day, Katherine s.h.i.+vered and pulled the precious quilt closer around them. The quilt was all she had to remind her of mother and home.

Lucy broke into Katherine's reverie: "Tell me a story," she begged. "Tell me a story from the quilt."

Katherine smiled. Every night was the same. Lucy loved the stories from the quilt, and Katherine loved telling them. It helped her remember happier days.

"Which one?" she asked.

Lucy moved her hand over the quilt until she came to a soft blue patch with flowers on it. "This one, Katy," she said, looking up at her sister. Somehow Lucy found the soft blue patch quite often. It was her favorite story.

"Well," Katherine began, "this one is from a party dress that belonged to a girl with beautiful red hair. Her name was Nell, and everyone said that she was the prettiest girl in town..."

Before long, Lucy was asleep, but Katherine kept looking at the quilt. Each piece is special, she thought, and she began to tell herself some of the stories held within the patches of the quilt. Memories of home, friends, family and happier times came flowing over her. Mother had been a dressmaker, so nearly every piece was different. Many were fancy silks and brocades from party dresses of the girls in town. Some were from dresses that had belonged to Katherine. One came from baby Lucy's christening gown. One was from a special dress Katherine wore when she was eight. Here a bit of a wedding dress, there a piece from Grandma's ap.r.o.n. This comforting quilt was now the only possession that gave joy and continuity to Katherine's life, and she fell asleep, grateful for its presence in her life and consoled by the comfort it afforded her.

The days moved slowly on, and the little company rolled across the open plains. It was not easy, but they all tried to be as cheerful as possible and to dream of the new and better life ahead. Each night there were the stories from the quilt.

They had been traveling for about three weeks when Lucy fell ill with a fever. Katherine did everything she could to help Lucy feel better. In the day she would sit with Lucy in the wagon as it lumbered along. She would stroke Lucy's hair, smooth her pillow and sing. At night she would tell the quilt stories and hold Lucy as she fell asleep to the sound of the chirping crickets. Katherine's heart was wrenched with fear for her precious little sister. She would draw the quilt tightly around them both, and the tears would flow as she sought solace in the quilt's comforting warmth.

One day late in the afternoon, when they had camped for the day, Katherine left Lucy resting and went to get cool water from a small nearby stream. As she picked up the bucket, a feeling of calm came over her, and she felt that Lucy would be all right very soon.

Katherine walked slowly through the soft gra.s.s toward the water. At the stream, she filled her bucket and sat down. The sound of the water was soothing and refres.h.i.+ng as it bubbled over the rocks. Katherine lay back, looked up at the blue sky, and remembered a few comforting words: "This is the day the Lord hath made. Rejoice and be glad in it." Maybe everything willbe allright, she thought.

Some time pa.s.sed, and Katherine told herself she had better get back. She rose, picked up the heavy bucket and began her way back to the wagon. As she crested the little knoll and looked toward the wagon, she froze. Three men were digging not far from her wagon. "A grave! Lucy!" she screamed. "Lucy! Lucy! Lucy!" Katherine dropped the heavy bucket and began to run. Tears were streaming down her cheeks, and she felt as if her heart would pound right out of her chest as she finally reached the wagon and climbed in.

She began to shake uncontrollably. The quilt was neatly folded in the place that had been Lucy's bed. Katherine stumbled backward, almost falling out of the wagon. In a daze, she made her way to where her father was sitting near the men. He was holding the now-still body in his arms. His red, swollen eyes looked up at Katherine, and he said simply, "She's at peace now."

Katherine could only nod her head. She turned, numb with grief, and one of the ladies put an arm around her to lead her back to the wagon. "I'm so sorry, Katherine," the older woman said. "We will need something to wrap her in. It doesn't need to be too big."

Katherine nodded as she climbed into the wagon. Somehow she found her scissors. She carefully picked up the quilt, and with a heavy heart, she began to cut it in half.

Ann Seely

Submitted by Laura J. Teamer

Praise to the Women on My Journey

To the women on my journey Who showed me the ways to go and ways not to go, Whose strength and compa.s.sion held up a torch of light and beckoned me to follow, Whose weakness and ignorance darkened the path and encouraged me to turn another way.

To the women on my journey Who showed me how to live and how not to live, Whose grace, success and grat.i.tude lifted me into the fullness of surrender to G.o.d, Whose bitterness, envy and wasted gifts warned me away from the emptiness of self-will.

To the women on my journey Who showed me what I am and what I am not, Whose love, encouragement and confidence held me tenderly and nudged me gently, Whose judgment, disappointment and lack of faith called me to deeper levels of commitment and resolve.

To the women on my journey who taught me love by means of both darkness and light, To these women I say bless you and thank you from the depths of my heart, for I have been healed and set free through your joy and through your sacrifice.

Rev. Melissa M. Bowers

More Chicken Soup?

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