Read Chicken Soup for the Woman's Soul Online
Authors: Jack Canfield
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 Nobel 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 God and be in peace.
We love you.
Debra Halperin Poneman
M
ost 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 passively 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 assistance 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 passed since I was a child and we went on nature walks together. The natural environment was one of my mother’s passions. 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 crashing 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 skyscrapers 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 twang 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
L
ove is the emblem of eternity; it confounds all notion of time.
Anna Louise de Staël
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 class 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-a–half 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 shivered 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 apron. 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 grass toward the water. At the stream, she filled her bucket and sat down. The sound of the water was soothing and refreshing 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 passed, 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 compassion 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 gratitude lifted me into the fullness of surrender to God,
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
Many of the stories and poems you have read in this book were submitted by readers like you who had read earlier
Chicken Soup for the Soul
books. We publish at least five or six
Chicken Soup for the Soul
books every year. We invite you to contribute a story to one of these future volumes.