And that is all the New York family heard for months and months. They wondered if the packages had gone astray or been stolen. Had something terrible happened to their family in the confusion of post-war Europe? What irony it would be to have survived the war itself and be killed or injured in its aftermath. The family worried. At every dinner, at every gathering, the talk circled around the packages and the family in Europe.
One uncle, sitting at the table at Thanksgiving dinner, recriminated, "You should have included money for
Page 233
postage! Perhaps they can't afford to write us!" He was met with angry stares. "Well, I don't care what you think, I am going to send them some money for postage."
"Better you should send enough money for them to come over here!" someone retorted.
"Big shot!" he replied. "It's easy for you to spend the money I don't have, isn't it? Listen, there are quotas for immigration. It's not that easy to get on the list for America, money or not."
"Maybe we didn't send the right things they needed," someone else contributed. The discussion continued, back and forth. The content was unimportant. They were just expressing, again and again, their worry and concern and their feeling of helplessness. How could they really help?
The silence from their distant family was depressing, especially in the light of the newsreels they saw at the theater (television being very uncommon then) showing emaciated Europeans walking dispiritedly through rubble-strewn streets, dodging bomb craters or being deloused in long lines by GI medics. Headlines fueled their worries as newspapers wrote about the Marshall Plan and the need for much help in rebuilding war-ravaged countries. Stories circulated about people starving to death. News of an historically severe winter in Europe and shortages of food and fuel upset the, family even more.
Although far from wealthy, the family sent more packages, almost every week, off into the void, unsure as to whether or not they were received by their loved ones. More silence ensued. It was maddening.
Finally, another letter arrived from Uncle Lazlo. It had been bent, wrinkled and torn at the edges, but it was still readable.
"My Dearest Cousin," the letter began formally, as Uncle Lazlo was in the habit of writing. "We are in receipt of three packages you sent us.
Page 234
"We are forever in your debt for these good things. You cannot know how timely was their arrival. Food is so scarce here and Anna was sick all the time with fevers. This food has meant everything to us. I must confess that we sold some of the things you sent us on the black market in order to get money for our rent." The letter went on to discuss almost every item in the cartons and the uses to which they had been put. Then came a mystery.
"We also cannot ever thank you enough for the medicine you sent. It is so difficult to get any medicine at all and often it is of poor potency and doesn't work at all. Cousin Gesher has been in continuous pain for several years and your medicine has miraculously cured him! He was walking only with the help of a cane. His knees were so swollen. These medicines make him almost normal again. My back pain is completely gone as are Lizabeta's headaches.
"America is great and its science is great. You must send more of that medicine as it is nearly used up.
"Again, thank you. We love you all and pray for when we might see you once more."
The family read and reread Uncle Lazlo's letter. What medicine did we send? They racked their brains to recall but, shamefacedly, had to admit to each other that they had omitted sending any medicines at all! What was Uncle Lazlo talking about? Was some medicine accidentally included? If so, what was it? After all, they needed to send some more right away. The mystery couldn't be solved. A letter was drafted to Uncle Lazlo asking him to provide the name of the medicine he so urgently required. The envelope was brought to the post office. The clerk was asked for advice on how to send the letter by the fastest route possible. There was, at the time, nothing faster than regular air mail, express services being as yet only a dream. He did suggest including an international
Page 235
postal reply coupon which would pay for return postage and that was done.
The family waited again, relieved that their packages had been of help but puzzled by the "mystery of the unknown medicines." Two months passed and then another letter arrived.
"My Dearest Cousins," began Uncle Lazlo, "we are grateful to have heard from you again. Since the first three packages, another two have arrived, and then your letter. Again, you sent that wonderful medicine. It did not come with instructions for use but we are guessing on the dosage. And translating from English to Hungarian is very difficult for us since only young Sandor has studied it in school. Lucky for us he could translate the name of the medicine. It is 'Life Savers.' Please send more as soon as you can. Love, Lazlo."
The filler, in several cartons, had been rolls of that wellknown American candy, Life Savers. A literal translation transformed America's favorite candy into a source of great hope.
Hanoch McCarty
Page 236
The Baby Flight
I had never held a deformed infant in my arms before.
In fact, I had never even seen a deformed infant before. Now I found myself delivering three tiny orphans to their adoptive parents on Christmas Eve.
I taught English in Korea. College students rioted and succeeded in closing the college where I taught. Fed up, I desired to go home. A friend informed me of the ''baby flights," a program whereby one can travel from Korea to the U.S. dirt cheap. But there was a hitch. The traveler must transport three orphans. The alternative was to pay the full fare.
I found myself boarding a plane with three infants, aged 3 months, 7 months and 18 months. They came with runny noses, wet diapers and colds. As the plane took off, the poor kids howled. The plane vibrated violently and all the babies quieted. Seconds later, the plane stopped shaking and in unison the babies howled. The passengers burst into laughter.
One thing disturbed me. One of the infants was a deformed dwarf. Her massive head with disproportionately minute arms and fingers shocked me. I wondered if
Page 237
her new parents realized what they had coming. But the one on my lap was wet and the milk formula was low. I rapidly learned how to clean a wet bottom, put on a new diaper and stick a pacifier in an open mouth.
Two American soldiers asked if they could each hold a baby.
"No problem," I said and they both walked off with a baby.
I sat there holding the baby with the very large head. She blinked her long gorgeous eyelashes and smiled. Funny how things like that can change you. From that point on she radiated beauty, and never left my arms.
Before landing in Tokyo, the soldiers handed back the babies. I clung onto my baby and one at a time changed the diapers of the two babies the soldiers had just handed me. As I pulled off their clothes, single dollar bills fell to the floor. I glanced at the departing soldiers. One of them blurted, "Little buggers are gonna need all the cash they can get. Merry Christmas!"
By now I had developed a strong bond with my baby. I even named her Tina. The more I thought about giving her to someone else the more I worried about her prospective parents.
While waiting in the terminal I noticed a young attractive Asian woman pacing back and forth near me. She stared at the babies and me and then walked off. Finally she spun around and confronted me, "Are they orphans?"
"Yes," I replied.
"I was one of them 24 years ago. May I hold one?"
The lovely woman took the noisiest one of the lot. She carried the child on the plane for the next leg of our journey, and she cared for the infant for the rest of the flight. Occasionally she'd show up and lend a hand feeding or changing the others when she could. After two more stops and a total of 27 hours, the plane landed. New
Page 238
parents rushed in and sped off with two of the babies. I still held Tina and it seemed like nobody was coming on board for her. Worried that no one w
anted her I trudged off the plane. Then I saw them and stopped, unable to move. Little hands of a dwarf couple reached up to me.
As I passed Tina down to them, she said "Oma" to me. That means mom in Korean. At that point, I sat and cried.
I watched the delighted tiny family walk off to a new life and thought, "How perfect."
But the next year I paid the full fare. The baby flight was too expensive.
Paul Karrer
Page 239
How to Tell When You're Rich
What we steadily, consciously, habitually think we are, that we tend to become.
Ann Landers
When I was a kid in Minnesota, watermelon was a delicacy. One of my father's buddies, Bernie, was a prosperous fruit-and-vegetable wholesaler, who operated a warehouse in St. Paul.
Every summer, when the first watermelons rolled in, Bernie would call. Dad and I would go to Bernie's warehouse and take up our positions. We'd sit on the edge of the dock, feet dangling, and lean over, minimizing the volume of juice we were about to spill on ourselves.
Bernie would take his machete, crack our first watermelon, hand us both a big piece and sit down next to us. Then we'd bury our faces in watermelon, eating only the heartthe reddest, juiciest, firmest, most seed-free, most perfect partand throw away the rest.
Bernie was my father's idea of a rich man. I always thought it was because he was such a successful businessman. Years later, I realized that what my father
Page 240
admired about Bernie's wealth was less its substance than its application. Bernie knew how to stop working, get together with friends and eat only the heart of the watermelon.
What I learned from Bernie is that being rich is a state of mind. Some of us, no matter how much money we have, will never be free enough to eat only the heart of the watermelon. Others are rich without ever being more than a paycheck ahead.
If you don't take the time to dangle your feet over the dock and chomp into life's small pleasures, your career is probably overwhelming your life.
For many years, I forgot that lesson I'd learned as a kid on the loading dock. I was too busy making all the money I could.
Well, I've relearned it. I hope I have time left to enjoy the accomplishments of others and to take pleasure in the day. That's the heart of the watermelon. I have learned again to throw the rest away.
Finally, I am rich.
Harvey Mackay
Page 241
Chuck
Earth is crammed with heaven.
Elizabeth Barrett Browning
I hate shopping for groceries. I treat it like running a marathon through the aisles, and I pride myself on using the same seasoned check-out personnel to ensure a hasty retreat from the insanity during the holiday seasons. Don't get me wrong, I am a Christmas-aholic! I just hate grocery shopping!
Imagine my dismay when I picked one of the "wrong lines" that was 10 deep with overstuffed carts. My temper rose when all of the other lines seemed to be inching toward the cashier and ours was at a standstill. Echoes of "What's the problem?" and ''Why are we putting up with this?" erupted from our conga line.
Upon closer inspection, I discovered that the culprit behind the delay was Chuck, the sacker. He talked to each and every item as he gently placed it into the sack, "Oh, Mr. Cake Mix, you are going to become a Christmas dessert for someone special. Hello, Mr. Cereal, you are
Page 242
going to make the boys and girls grow up nice and healthy," etc. After all of the items were sacked and ready to go he would look at the customer and say, "I know your family loves you because you take such good care of them. Merry Christmas!" Did I shut up and wait my turn!
Chuck helped me take everything to my car and I tipped him $2. He looked at the two dollar bills; he looked at me. Then his face lit up, and he jumped in the air and yelled at the top of his lungs, "Look at me, look at me! Someone thinks I'm worth two whole dollars!" as he danced his way back into the store.
The next time I went to the store, one of the employees said she had witnessed that particular day's events. She said, "Thanks for giving Chuck a tip. We know he has value, but it is far more important for Chuck to know he has value."
I replied, "No, I have to thank him for reminding me of the true Christmas spirit and for teaching me this priceless lesson."
Petey Parker
Page 243
Calling on a Girl Named Becky
"May I help you?" the man behind the counter at the ceramic shop asked. I barely heard him. My gaze was transfixed by the pretty teenager perched on the stool beside him. Her curly brown hair, round rosy cheeks and shimmering green eyes were so distantly familiar. Once upon a time, eyes like those had captured a schoolboy's heart.
In the summer of 1973, Becky came to work as a waitress at my family's quaint stone inn in the mountains of North Carolina. She burst through the swinging kitchen doors one June morning just as I was sitting down to breakfast. It was love at first sight.
Becky was 16. I was 11. She was pretty, vivacious and outgoing. I was shy, a little on the pudgy side, and, heretofore, more inclined toward bullfrogs and tree climbing than creatures of the fairer sex.
But there was something about Becky. The certain way she tossed back her head whenever an unwelcome curl drifted down over her eye. Her habit of chewing on the nail of her pinkie finger when she was lost in thought. The way she gracefully tucked her pencil behind her ear after taking an order. Becky was no garden-variety girl.
Page 244
"What's that?" Becky would ask innocently, pointing to some imaginary speck just south of my Adam's apple. I always fell for it, and she relished bringing her finger up to pop me on the chin when I looked down. "Gotcha 'gain," she'd say grinning.
The summer of '73 Becky gave me a boy's greatest keepsakeattention. She was never too busy to share a secret, a joke or a playful flick of a wet dish towel. In return, I cleaned off her tables, fetched her soft drinks, sneaked her extra desserts and worshiped the ground she walked on.
"I think he's cute," Becky whispered one afternoon just loud enough for me to overhear. "Especially when he blushes."
"Becky, I love you," I boldly ventured one morning into the bathroom mirror. "I'll love you till the end of time."
Unfortunately, our time was sliding by like a well-waxed shuffleboard disk and there was nothing I could do to slow it.
"Robbie, can I talk to you for a minute?" Becky asked one stormy August afternoon. My heart was racing. What could she want? Would she finally confirm her love for me?
"I'm going back to school soon," she announced. "I won't be around much anymore." I swallowed hard. "You've been a great friend," she said quietly. "I'll miss you very much."
I struggled to stay composed. I had worked so hard for her to see me as a grown-up and I didn't want to fall apart now. But when she grew blurry and my chin began to quiver, I knew there was no turning back.
"I love you," I said abruptly and then cried my eyes out.
For a few minutes she watched mea bit startled by my sudden sobbing confession. Then she gently took my hand.
"Robbie," she spoke softly. "I think you're very special and I love you so much as my friend. But I'm not the one for you, and I think, deep down, you know that."
Page 245