The next winter, word got around that Old Man Donovan had died. Leigh Ann and I were heartbroken and decided to go to the funeral. We were scared because we didn’t know if the family would welcome us.
When we got to the funeral, the family kindly greeted us and said they were so glad we had come. We all wept mournfully, but our wonderful memories of Old Man Donovan comforted us.
During those summers with Mr. Donovan, my sister and I learned not to judge a heart until you know it. One may just find a hidden treasure.
Debbie King
As told by Ashley King, eleven
The Snow Angel
Love the moment, and the energy of that moment will spread beyond all boundaries.
Corita Kent
Ever since I was little, my favorite season was winter. I loved to play in the snow and enjoy the hot chocolate.
Unfortunately, winter never gave me the special gift of snow on my birthday. The snow disappeared before my birthday and started after it.
I would ask my grandmother why it didn’t snow on my birthday. She would laugh and tell me I asked too many questions. But one day, she promised that she would make it snow when I was enjoying life to the fullest. I thanked her and asked for snow on my next birthday.
That year, before my birthday, my grandmother died. I was at an emotional loss, but angry because she had promised me to make it snow. The day of my sixth birthday, I woke up and ran to my window, hoping to see just one snowflake.
Unfortunately, there was no snow. I cried and cried all day because my grandmother had let me down.
Before my birthday every year, I would pray for snow but it never came. I felt mad at my grandmother; she had broken a promise.
By my sixteenth birthday, I had lost all hope of getting my snow, even though I still wished for it. During my party, I had the best time ever! I enjoyed the company of my friends and family, and I was truly happy.
I was outside with a friend when she asked me if I was having a good time. I told her I was having the best time ever! I was enjoying life to the fullest. Then I saw the white snow falling all around. I became like a little child on Christmas morning as I ran around screaming and laughing. I was so excited that my friends looked at me as if I were crazy, and I think I was. They asked me if I had ever seen snow before, and I laughed and said that I had, but that this was special snow. They all laughed at me, but I didn’t care.
When I got home, my grandpa told me he had a gift for me. I was confused because he had already given me my gift. He gave me a small white box that had snowflake wrapping on it. The box looked old, and it was turning a little yellow. I asked him what it was and he told me to stop asking so many questions and just open it. I did, and nestled in white paper was a crystal snowflake with a card that said, “Happy Birthday.”
I asked my grandfather how this could be. He told me that it was my grandmother’s final wish to give me this on my “sweet sixteenth.” I cried and hugged him, although he didn’t understand. I said a silent prayer to my smiling grandmother angel who I was certain was, and always had been, watching over me.
Christine Fishlinger, sixteen
DENNIS THE MENACE
“Make a wish.”
“HOW ’BOUT THAT . . . IT’S SNOWIN’!”
DENNIS THE MENACE. ©Used by permission of Hank Ketcham and © by North America Syndicate.
You’ll Be Good for Him
I heard the rhythmic clatter of metal crutches coming down the hallway. I looked up to see ten-year-old Brian smiling at me in the doorway, his blond hair tousled. Every day, Brian arrived at school cheerful and ready to work.
Brian had a great sense of humor and loved his own jokes. He was my first “handicapped” student. Everyone who worked with Brian told me, “You’ll be good for him.”
Brian worked with the adaptive physical education teacher and swam three mornings a week. He kept a busy school-day schedule. Everything he did required more effort than it did for the other students.
One day, Brian agreed to talk to the class about his handicap. The students liked Brian and wondered what he did after school. He told them that he watched a lot of TV, or played with his dog. Brian felt proud to be a Cub Scout and enjoyed being a member.
The students then asked him why he used different paper and a special magnifying lens and lamp when he read. Brian explained that he had a tracking problem, and that he could see better out of one eye than the other. “I’m going to have another eye operation,” he said casually. “I’m used to it. I’ve already had six operations.” He laughed nervously, adjusting his thick-lens glasses. Brian had already had two hip surgeries, two ankle surgeries and two eye surgeries.
Brian explained how he’d been trained to fall when he lost his balance, so that he wouldn’t hurt himself. I felt badly when he fell, but he didn’t fuss. I admired his fortitude.
He said he often felt left out, then somebody asked if people ever made fun of him. He replied that he’d been called every name you could think of, but that he usually tried to ignore it.
I asked Brian if he ever became discouraged.
“Well, to tell you the truth,” he said, “I do. Sometimes I get really mad if I can’t do something. Sometimes I even cry.”
At this point I ended the discussion. I felt the important questions had been answered. The students applauded.
“Can you walk at all without your crutches?” one of the boys shouted.
“Yeah,” he said shyly.
“Would you like to walk for us?” I asked him gently.
“Yeah! Come on, Brian. You can do it!” several students shouted.
“Well—I guess,” he answered reluctantly.
Brian removed his crutches and balanced himself. He proceeded to walk awkwardly across the room. “I look like a drunk,” he muttered. It wasn’t smooth, but Brian walked on his own. Everyone clapped and shouted.
“That’s great, Brian!” I placed my hand on his shoulder.
Brian laughed nervously while I had to hold back tears. His honesty and courage touched me. I then realized that maybe I wasn’t as good for Brian as he was good for me— for all of us.
Eugene Gagliano
Scott
It was time for the ice cream social fund-raiser that my small youth group had awaited for many months. The group consisted of five boys; one of them was Scott.
Scott always had a positive attitude. He looked on the bright side of things and never criticized anyone. But Scott was different from the rest of us. He was disabled. Oftentimes, he was unable to participate in activities. No one ever made fun of him to his face, but at times, people would snicker or stare in his presence. But Scott never worried; he just kept his head up high and ignored them.
Finally, the night of the ice cream social came. We rushed to the church basement and waited with scoopers in hand for the guests to arrive. One by one, people filed in, all hoping to get a nice, creamy glob of ice cream. But what they ended up getting was a hard, frozen mass. We waited for awhile for the ice cream to thaw, and eventually it did.
Once the ice cream thawed, we had another problem. It had melted into three pools of vanilla, chocolate and strawberry. But we persisted in serving it. We all had our chance to serve, except for Scott. So, being as kind as possible, we gave Scott a chance to scoop and serve.
As soon as Scott gripped the scooper, our ice cream troubles turned into the World’s Greatest Ice Cream Massacre. Milky ice cream was flung in every direction. Scott wouldn’t stop. He kept scooping and scooping and scooping. Then, suddenly, in the thick of the chaos, Scott stopped. We looked at Scott. Scott looked at us. And that’s when I realized why he had stopped.
Scott was looking at a small, cute girl who entered the basement. Scott stated, “That’s m-m-my friend.” Our jaws fell open. The most beautiful girl we had seen all night was Scott’s friend.
We pushed Scott out of the way, hoping that we could get to serve her. But Scott just looked at us and said, “I-II want to scoo
p the ice cream for her.” We backed off.
The girl slowly approached him. Scott stood poised, ready to scoop again. The girl said, “Hi, Scott.”
“H-h-hi,” stuttered Scott.
She began to make conversation with him by saying, “Look. I got my new braces today.” She looked up and gave a wide, bright smile to show off her gleaming braces.
“Th-th-they’re neat,” responded Scott. The two carried on a short conversation then the girl sat down.
That night I realized that somebody had overlooked Scott’s problems and had seen him as a friendly, normal human being.
I realized something else, too. It was time for all of us to see Scott the same way.
David Ferino, twelve
Adam’s Apples
After all, there is but one race—humanity.
George Moore
One afternoon, my son came home from school with a puzzled look on his face. After asking him what was on his mind he said, “Are all people the same even if their skin color is different?”
I thought for a moment, then I said, “I’ll explain, if you can just wait until we make a quick stop at the grocery store. I have something interesting to show you.”
At the grocery store, I told him that we needed to buy apples. We went to the produce section where we bought some red apples, green apples and yellow apples.
At home, while we were putting all the groceries away, I told Adam, “It’s time to answer your question.” I put one of each type of apple on the countertop: first a red apple, followed by a green apple and then a yellow apple. Then I looked at Adam, who was sitting on the other side of the counter.
“Adam, people are just like apples. They come in all different colors, shapes and sizes. See, some of the apples have been bumped around and are bruised. On the outside, they may not even look as delicious as the others.” As I was talking, Adam was examining each one carefully.
Then, I took each of the apples and peeled them, placing them back on the countertop, but in a different place.
“Okay, Adam, tell me which one is the red apple, the green apple and the yellow apple.”
He said, “I can’t tell. They all look the same now.”
“Take a bite of each one. See if that helps you figure out which one is which.”
He took big bites, and then a huge smile came across his face. “People are just like apples! They are all different, but once you take off the outside, they’re pretty much the same on the inside.”
“Right,” I agreed. “Just like how everyone has their own personality but are still basically the same.”
He totally got it. I didn’t need to say or do anything else.
Now, when I bite into an apple, it tastes a little sweeter than before. What perfect food for thought.
Kim Aaron
Who Said There’s No Crying
in Softball?
Character building begins in our infancy and continues until death.
Eleanor Roosevelt
Our team was playing softball against a team that we were tied with for third place. I was toughing out the position of catcher, and we were winning. However, my knees started to not feel so tough. In the bottom of the second inning they had started to hurt.
I’ve had bad tendonitis in my knees, and I just couldn’t take any more abuse to them that day. So I limped over to the manager, who is also my dad, and told him that my knees were hurting. I asked if he could have the back-up catcher, Jill, catch for the rest of the game. He called Jill into the dugout and told her to put on the catcher’s gear.
One of the other coaches overheard this conversation and came running over. I could tell that he was mad at my dad’s decision because he was steaming like a whistling teapot.
He yelled at my dad, “Are you crazy? Jill can’t catch— she has a huge cut on her finger!”
My dad explained to the coach about my knees.
“So what!” The coach rudely yelled at my dad.
Then he furiously walked over to me. His face was red, and I could feel my heart pounding in my chest.
“You’d better get that gear back on and get back out there right now. If you don’t, I swear this will be the worst softball season of your life! Every game! Every game you complain about your stupid knees! If your knees keep hurting so much, I don’t understand why you even play! You certainly aren’t even good enough!” he screamed at me.
I couldn’t believe what he said to me. Amazingly, I was able to choke through my tears, “I’m sorry! My knees hurt so bad! If I catch any more I’ll collapse!”
“So what! Do you think I care?” he yelled.
By that time I was sobbing hard. The coach stormed off grumbling something over and over, leaving me in tears.
Later that night, I was lying in my bed thinking. Then a very important question came to my mind.
Why should I continue my softball season if I don’t even have any respect? I asked myself.
Then, from somewhere deep inside my heart, I found the answer.
It doesn’t matter what the coach thinks about me, it only matters what I think about myself. I love softball and I have a right to play, even though I may not be the best catcher in the world. That doesn’t make me a loser. But I would be a loser if I believed what he said instead of believing in myself. I would lose my self-respect. No one, even the coach, can make me quit. All I have to do to be a winner is to keep showing up, sore knees and all. And I will.
Amy Severns, twelve
Calvin and Hobbes
by Bill Watterson
CALVIN AND HOBBES. ©Watterson. Reprinted with permission of UNIVERSAL PRESS SYNDICATE. All rights reserved.
The Yellow Piece of Paper
When you’re a young teen, it can seem like your parents have no feelings whatsoever. They don’t understand when you just HAVE to get that new CD, even though you don’t like the music that much. And that you HAVE to buy the new swimsuit, even though it costs sixty dollars for just two inches of material. Or, that you MUST impress the object of your affection by showing up at the movies, even though you’ll dump him after two weeks of boredom. And then you have a huge zit and you need a dermatologist RIGHT AWAY, even though no one else can even see the zit.
These were my sentiments exactly. I never cared about my parents’ feelings. I thought they weren’t like me and had no idea what emotions were. I didn’t believe that they could ever feel the same things I could. How could they? In my mind, they were old and cranky and that was that.
Then all that changed.
Snooping through my mom’s purse was sort of a pastime of mine. It was usually for money, which—with my mom’s permission to retrieve—allowed me to go to the movies or wherever the hot spot of the evening was. It was like an art form to dig through my mom’s purse. Messy was one word for it, but I can think of others! I never found anything too interesting, so I tried to keep my digs quick and to the point, which was getting my money.
One Friday night, while I was looking for ten dollars, I pulled out my mom’s black wallet. A piece of yellow paper fell out.
Curiosity killed the cat. . . . Right?
Naturally, I hesitated.
Satisfaction brought him back.
I opened the piece of paper. It looked like a diary entry of some sort. Maybe it wasn’t my mom’s? That was highly doubtful, considering it was her sloppy cursive. I read it. It hit me; it was about my brother and his friend who died of leukemia. I didn’t remember ever meeting the boy, who died when I was barely three.
I was overcome with shock as I read the contents of the letter. I quickly folded up the piece of paper and put it back where I had found it.
The next day, my curiosity overcame me again. Making sure my mom was out of the room, I got out the piece of yellow paper and read it again. It said:
June 3, 1987
I saw grief on my son’s face today. He is eight years old. His friend died from leukemia. I’ve seen hurt, anger and bewilderment on my son’s face,
but never before have I seen grief on the face of one so young. I wonder what he is thinking. I told him that his friend had become an angel. Even though I had tried to avoid the word “died,” he immediately realized what I meant. I’ll never forget his look. Somehow I didn’t expect such an adult expression of anguish. My angel story could not remove the pain of the passing of his friend. We knew for several months the bone marrow transplants had failed and that my son’s friend was on limited time. And yet when the call came, I felt shocked. I had just seen him a couple of weeks before and he looked so good. How could God let life rob us of him so soon?
I keep thinking of his mother’s pain. Her son died in her arms on the way to the hospital. Where did he go? How will she survive the loss? The pain must be so great. I see her grasping, trying to find her son. As a mother, it pains me to think of her great agony. There can be no experience worse than the loss of one’s child.
For all of us, things will now be different. Next year, in the third grade, there won’t be a seat waiting for my son’s friend to come back. Our parish won’t be praying anymore for that miracle. And his mother will be forever grasping, trying to find her son.
I cried a little, thinking about what my brother had to go through at such a young age. At least he had my mom, dad, sister and a little baby—me—to love him and help him through it.