A few days later, I ran into Mrs. York at the dentist's office. I hadn't seen her in years. I told her about the seed pearl and how it had goaded me back to school. "But it's turning out to be too hard," I said.
"I know," she agreed. "My husband didn't start college till his thirties, either."
I listened, amazed, as she described struggles like my own. I'd always assumed Mr. York had been teaching for years; in fact, I learned that my graduating class had been one of his first. I saw that chance meeting with his wife as a sign that I should stick out the next three years.
After graduating, I took a job teaching English at a local high school. Because of the years I'd spent away
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from school I tried to bring the real world into the classroom. Newspapers were as much a part of my curriculum as the classics; factory visits and talks by local employers were as important as Shakespeare.
Toward year's end, the principal stunned me by saying he was nominating me for a national award for excellence in first-year teaching. In the application, I was to tell how one of my own teachers had inspired me. And so I told the story of the seed pearl. I realized it had functioned exactly as a seed in an oyster is supposed toas an irritant, never letting the oyster alone until it's built something beautiful.
In September 1990, I was one of 100 teachers to receive the first-year award, and the teachers who inspired usincluding Mr. Yorkwere each given a teacher tribute award. When the two of us met for a newspaper interview, I learned how appropriate the timing was: Mr. York was retiring the following year.
I learned something else that day. My ex-teacher revealed that he, too, had thought he wouldn't succeed. After getting poor grades in high school, he drifted, unable to believe in the future because he didn't believe in himself. What turned him around? "A renewed spirituality and seeing other people's faith in me," he said.
Suddenly, understanding dawned. "That's what we had in common, wasn't it?" I said. "The kids you gave the seed pearls toyou saw 20 young people who lacked confidence."
"No," Mr. York said. "I saw 20 people with seeds of something great."
Marcia Evans
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As a Man Soweth
When I was in junior high, the eighth-grade bully punched me in the stomach. Not only did it hurt and make me angry, but the embarrassment and humiliation were almost intolerable. I wanted desperately to even the score! I planned to meet him by the bike racks the next day and let him have it.
For some reason, I told my plan to Nana, my grandmotherbig mistake. She gave me one of her hour-long lectures (that woman could really talk). The lecture was a total drag, but among other things, I vaguely remember her telling me that I didn't need to worry about him. She said, "Good deeds beget good results, and evil deeds beget bad results." I told her, in a nice way, of course, that I thought she was full of it. I told her that I did good things all the time, and all I got in return was "baloney!"' (I didn't use that word.) She stuck to her guns, though. She said, "Every good deed will come back to you someday, and every bad thing you do will also come back to you."
It took me 30 years to understand the wisdom of her words. Nana was living in a board-and-care home in Laguna Hills, California. Each Tuesday, I came by and took her out to dinner. I would always find her neatly dressed and sitting in a chair right by the front door. I vividly remember our very last dinner together before
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she went into the convalescent hospital. We drove to a nearby simple little family-owned restaurant. I ordered pot roast for Nana and a hamburger for myself. The food arrived and as I dug in, I noticed that Nana wasn't eating. She was just staring at the food on her plate. Moving my plate aside, I took Nana's plate, placed it in front of me, and cut her meat into small pieces. I then placed the plate back in front of her. As she very weakly, and with great difficulty, forked the meat into her mouth, I was struck with a memory that brought instant tears to my eyes. Forty years previously, as a little boy sitting at the table, Nana had always taken the meat on my plate and cut it into small pieces so I could eat it.
It had taken 40 years, but the good deed had been repaid. Nana was right. We reap exactly what we sow. "Every good deed you do will someday come back to you."
What about the eighth-grade bully?
He ran into the ninth-grade bully.
Mike Buettell
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6
LIVE YOUR DREAM
The future belongs to those who believe in the beauty of their dreams.
Eleanor Roosevelt
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A Small Boy
A small boy
Looked at a star
And began to weep.
And
The star said
Boy
Why are you weeping?
And
The boy said
You are so far away
I will never be able
To touch you
And
The star answered
Boy
If I were not already
In your heart
You would not be able
To see me.
John Maglioa
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A Little Girl's Dream
The promise was a long time keeping. But then, so was the dream.
In the early 1950s in a small Southern California town, a little girl hefted yet another load of books onto the tiny library's counter.
The girl was a reader. Her parents had books all over their home, but not always the ones she wanted. So she'd make her weekly trek to the yellow library with the brown trim, the little one-room building where the children's library actually was just a nook. Frequently, she ventured out of that nook in search of heftier fare.
As the white-haired librarian hand-stamped the due dates in the 10-year-old's choices, the little girl looked longingly at ''The New Book" prominently displayed on the counter. She marveled again at the wonder of writing a book and having it honored like that, right there for the world to see.
That particular day, she confessed her goal.
"When I grow up," she said, "I'm going to be a writer. I'm going to write books."
The librarian looked up from her stamping and smiled, not with the condescension so many children receive, but with encouragement.
"When you do write that book," she replied, "bring it into our library and we'll put it on display, right here on the counter."
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The little girl promised she would.
As she grew, so did her dream. She got her first job in ninth grade, writing brief personality profiles, which earned her $1.50 each from the local newspaper. The money palled in comparison with the magic of seeing her words on paper.
A book was a long way off.
She edited her high-school paper, married and started a family, but the itch to write burned deep. She got a part-time job covering school news at a weekly newspaper. It kept her brain busy as she balanced babies.
But no book.
She went to work full-time for a major daily. Even tried her hand at magazines.
Still no book.
Finally, she believed she had something to say and started a book. She sent it off to two publishers and was rejected. She put it away, sadly. Several years later, the old dream increased in persistence. She got an agent and wrote another book. She pulled the other out of hiding, and soon both were sold.
But the world of book publishing moves slower than that of daily newspapers, and she waited two long years. The day the box arrived on her doorstep with its free author's copies, she ripped it open. Then she cried. She'd waited so long to hold her dream in her hands.
Then she remembered that librarian's invitation, and her promise.
Of course, that particular librarian had died long ago, and the little library had been razed to make way for a larger incarnation.
The woman called and got the name of the head librarian. She wrote a
letter, telling her how much her predecessor's words had meant to the girl. She'd be in
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town for her 30th high school reunion, she wrote, and could she please bring her two books by and give them to the library? It would mean so much to that ten-year-old girl, and seemed a way of honoring all the librarians who had ever encouraged a child.
The librarian called and said, "Come." So she did, clutching a copy of each book.
She found the big new library right across the street from her old high school; just opposite the room where she'd struggled through algebra, mourning the necessity of a subject that writers would surely never use, and nearly on top of the spot where her old house once stood, the neighborhood demolished for a civic center and this looming library.
Inside, the librarian welcomed her warmly. She introduced a reporter from the local newspapera descendant of the paper she'd begged a chance to write for long ago.
Then she presented her books to the librarian, who placed them on the counter with a sign of explanation. Tears rolled down the woman's cheeks.
Then she hugged the librarian and left, pausing for a picture outside, which proved that dreams can come true and promises can be kept. Even if it takes 38 years.
The ten-year-old girl and the writer she'd become posed by the library sign, right next to the reader-board, which said:
WELCOME BACK,
JANN MITCHELL
Jann Mitchell
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A Salesman's First Sale
Keep away from People who try to belittle your ambitions. Small people always do that, but the really great make you feet that you, too, can become great.
Mark Twain
I hurried home one Saturday afternoon in the fall of 1993 to try to get some much-needed yard work done. While raking leaves, my five-year-old son, Nick, came over and pulled on my pants leg. "Dad, I need you to make me a sign," he said.
"Not now, Nick, I'm real busy," was my reply.
"But I need a sign," he persisted.
"What for, Nick?" I asked.
"I'm going to sell some of my rocks," was his answer.
Nick has always been fascinated with rocks and stones. He's collected them from all over, and people bring them to him. There is a basket full of rocks in the garage that he periodically cleans, sorts and restacks. They are his treasures. "I don't have time to mess with it right now, Nick. I have to get these leaves raked," I said. "Go have your mom help you."
A short while later, Nick returned with a sheet of paper. On it, in his five-year-old handwriting, were the words "On Sale Today, $1.00." His mom had
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helped him make his sign, and he was now in business. He took his sign, a small basket and four of his best rocks and walked to the end of our driveway. There he arranged the rocks in a line, set the basket behind them and sat down. I watched from the distance, amused at his determination.
After half an hour or so, not a single person had passed by. I walked down the drive to see how he was doing. "How's it going, Nick?" I asked.
"Good," he replied.
"What's the basket for?" I asked.
"To put the money in," was his matter-of-fact answer.
"How much are you asking for your rocks?"
"A dollar each," Nick said.
"Nick, nobody will pay you a dollar for a rock."
"Yes, they will!"
"Nick, there isn't enough traffic on our street for people to see your rocks. Why don't you pack these up and go play?"
"Yes, there is, Dad," he countered. "People walk and ride their bikes on our street for exercise, and some people drive their cars to look at the houses. There's enough people."
Having failed to convince Nick of the futility of his efforts, I went back to my yard work. He patiently remained at his post. A short while later, a mini-van came driving down the street. I watched as Nick perked up, holding his sign up and pointing it at the van. As it slowly passed, I saw a young couple craning their necks to read his sign. They continued on around the cul-de-sac and as they approached Nick again, the lady rolled down her window. I couldn't hear the conversation, but she turned to the man driving and I could see him reaching for his billfold! He handed her a dollar and she got out of the van and walked over to
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Nick. After examining the rocks, she picked up one, gave Nick the dollar and then drove off.
I sat in the yard, amazed, as Nick ran up to me. Waving the dollar, he shouted, "I told you I could sell one rock for a dollarif you believe in yourself, you can do anything!" I went and got my camera and took a picture of Nick and his sign. The little guy had held tough to his belief and delighted in showing what he could do. It was a great lesson in how not to raise children, but we all learned from it and talk about it to this day.
Later that day, my wife, Toni, Nick and I went out to dinner. On the way, Nick asked us if he could have an allowance. His mom explained that an allowance must be earned and we would have to determine what his responsibilities would be. "That's okay," said Nick, "how much will I get?"
"At five years old, how about a dollar a week?" said Toni.
From the backseat came, "A dollar a weekI can make that selling one rock!"
Rob, Toni and Nick Harris
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Let's Walk Through the Garden Again
It is one of the most beautiful compensations of this life that no man can sincerely try to help another without helping himself.
Ralph Waldo Emerson
I am a public speaker who teaches fellow Canadians creative ways to buy real estate. One of my very first graduates, a policeman named Roy, used my ideas in a most touching way.
The story begins years before Roy attended my course. On his regular rounds, he was in the habit of dropping in on an elderly gentleman who lived in a breathtaking 5,000-square-foot mansion overlooking a ravine. The older man had lived there most of his life and cherished the view, the many mature trees and the creek.
When Roy would check in on him, once or twice a week, the old man would offer him tea and they would sit and chat or stroll for a few minutes through the garden. One such visit was sad. The older man tearfully admitted that his health was failing and he had to sell his beautiful home and move into a nursing home.
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By this time, Roy had taken my course and came up with the crazy idea that he might be able to use the creativity of my course to figure out how to buy this mansion.
The man wanted $300,000 for his home, which had no mortgage. Roy had only $3,000 in savings. Roy was paying $500 in rent at the time and he had a reasonable policeman's salary. It seemed insurmountable to come up with a plan to create a deal between the man and the hopeful policeman . . . insurmountable until you take into account the power of love.
Roy remembered the words of my courseto find out what the vendor truly wants and give it to him. After delving as deeply as he could, Roy finally found the key. What the man was going to miss the most was walking through his garden.