So I took a deep breath and went to the next hiking-club meeting. I started on some new stories for my creative-writing class: tragic tales about girls whose hearts were torn out of their chests and squashed like bugs ordepending on my moodwho wreaked gory revenge on people who'd betrayed them (but still, they were stories all the same). And, eventually, I gathered up my courage and told David and Liz how they had temporarily destroyed me. It was ugly. But I did it.
Okay, so I don't rush out to sign up for skydiving classes, and I can't bring myself to even read about death-defying climbs up Mount Everest. But the fact is, unexpected things happen to you no matter how safe (or boring) you try to be. Dealing with them on your own and persevering is what collegeand lifeis about. Now I realize that learning to bounce back from a bad experience was more valuable than any A I've ever earned.
Lauren Fox
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What Is Sex?
One day in an emergency waiting room, a little girl turned to her mother and asked, ''What is sex?" People turned their full attention to Mom. I mean, this was better than whatever was on the waiting-room televisionbetter than Jerry Springer. I mean this was real life. Exciting. What was Mom going to say? How do you answer a six-year-old girl? What is sex? This is one hot topic. You know, kids seem to know so much more than I did at their age; they are exposed to so much more these days on television and at the movies. How was Mom going to answer?
I'm the kind of guy who just goes ahead and answers the question right away, like I not only know the answer, but understand the question. So I'm curious how Mom is going to tell this little girl about how babies are made. Or how Mom is going to dodge this difficult question. I mean, is Mom going to talk to a little child about safe sex? I'm pretty sure Mom is not going to talk about ways to have sex; although you just really never know what might happen in the emergency room.
But she surprises me; she doesn't think in the way I think or respond the way I usually respond. Instead, she
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pauses. I hardly ever pause. She then thoughtfully asks her daughter, "What do you mean, dear?" The little girl responds, "Well, Mom, I was looking at this paper, and it says sexM/F. Am I an M or an F?" Mom's face breaks into a huge smile. The waiting room patrons resume their usual chatter.
And I laugh. I would have answered the wrong question. I had heard the question, but I really did not listen to what the little girl was saying.
Adam Saperston
Submitted by Kathleen Kelly
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Swans Mate for Life
The end of my sophomore year was approaching. Mom called me at the dorm one muggy evening during the last week of May. My summer break would be spent with Grandma and Grandpa, helping out around their farm. The arrangement made good sense to all the family. I wasn't fully convinced of that myself but figured it was just one summer. Next year would be my little brother's turn.
I packed my car after my last exam and said my goodbyes until the fall. My friends would keep until then. Most of them were going home for the summer anyway.
The farm was about a three-hour drive from school. My grandparents were both in their seventies, and I knew they really needed the help around the farm. Getting in the hay would be something Grandpa couldn't do by himself. He also needed help with repairs to the barns and a host of other chores.
I arrived late that afternoon. Grandma had fixed more food than the three of us could possibly eat. She doted over me entirely too much. I figured all the attention would taper off once she got used to having me around, but it didn't. Grandpa wanted to bring me up to date on literally everything. By the time I settled in for bed that
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night, I'd decided things would be okay. After all, it was just for one summer.
The next morning, Grandpa fixed breakfast for the two of us. He told me Grandma had tired herself out yesterday and was going to rest in bed a little longer. I made a mental note to myself to not ask her to do things for me while I was there. I was there to help, not be a burden.
Grandpa surprised me that morning. Once we were out of the house, he seemed more in his own element. The farm was his domain. Despite his age, there was confidence in the way he moved about the place. He didn't seem like the same person who had fallen asleep last night on the couch before the six o'clock news was finished. As we walked the pastures getting a close-up look at the livestock, Grandpa seemed to know each cow. And there were nearly two hundred of them!
We didn't do much real work that first day, but I gained a sense of appreciation for what Grandpa had done all those years before I was even born. He wasn't an educated man, but he had raised and provided for four children on this farm. I was impressed by that.
Weeks passed. By June we had already baled one cutting of hay and gotten it safely into the barn. I gradually settled into a routine of daily work with Grandpa. He had a mental schedule of things that needed doing, and we worked on part of it each day. In the evenings I usually read or talked with Grandma. She never grew tired of hearing about college or anything I was involved in. She told me stories about her childhood, family and the early years after she and Grandpa had married.
The last Saturday in June, Grandpa suggested we go fishing, since we were caught up on everything. The pond was in a low pasture near the woods. Years before, Grandpa had stocked it with fish. We drove the pickup to
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the pond that day, looking over the livestock as we went. We hadn't expected what we saw when we got to the pond that morning: One of the swans was dead. Grandpa had given the pair of swans to Grandma on their fiftieth anniversary.
"Why don't we see about buying another one," I suggested, hoping the situation could somehow be righted. Grandpa thought for a few moments before answering. He finally said, "No . . . it's not that easy, Bruce. You see, swans mate for life." He raised his finger to point, holding the fishing pole in his other hand. ''There's nothing we can do for the one that's left. He has to work it out for himself.''
We caught enough fish that morning for lunch. On the way back to the house, Grandpa asked me not to tell Grandma about the swan. She didn't get down to the pond much anymore, and there was no sense in her knowing about it right away.
A few days later, we drove by the pond while doing our morning check on the cows. We found the other swan lying near the same spot we had found the first one. It, too, was dead.
The month of July started with me and Grandpa putting up a new stretch of fence. Then July 12 came. That was the day Grandma passed away. I'd overslept that morning. Grandpa had not knocked on my door, either. It was nearly eight o'clock by the time I could hurriedly dress myself and get down to the kitchen. I saw Dr. Morgan sitting at the kitchen table. He was a neighbor my grandparents' age, long since retired. He'd come to the house several times before on social calls. I immediately knew something was wrong. This morning, his tattered old black bag was by his feet, and my grandfather was obviously shaken.
Grandma had died suddenly that morning of a stroke. By the afternoon, my parents were there. The old house
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was soon crowded with relatives and Grandpa's friends.
The funeral was held the next day. Grandpa had insisted on having it as soon as possible. On the second day after the funeral, Grandpa announced at the breakfast table, "This is a working farm. We have a lot of things to do. The rest of you should get back to your own lives." Most of the family had already left, but this was Grandpa's way of telling the rest it was time for them to go home. My parents were the last to leave after lunch.
Grandpa was not a man who could outwardly express his grief around others, and we all worried about him. There had been talk of his giving up the farm. My parents thought he was too old to live out there alone. He wouldn't hear of it, though. I was proud of the way the old man had stood his ground.
The rest of the summer flowed by. We stayed busy working. I thought there was something different about Grandpa but
couldn't quite put my finger on it. I started to wonder if he would be better off living with someone after all, but I knew he could not leave the farm.
September was nearing, and part of me did not want to leave. I thought of skipping the fall semester and staying around a few more months. When I mentioned it, Grandpa quickly told me that my place was back at college.
The day finally came for me to pack my car and leave. I shook his hand and chanced a hug. As I drove down the driveway, I saw him in the rearview mirror. He waved to me and then walked to the pasture gate to start the morning livestock check. That's how I like to remember him.
Mom called me at school on a blustery October day to tell me Grandpa had died. A neighbor had stopped by that morning for coffee and found him in the kitchen. He died of a stroke, same as Grandma. At that moment, I
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understood what he'd clumsily tried to explain to me about the swan on that morning we fished together by the pond.
Hal Torrance
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6
ACTS OF KINDNESS
Join the great company of those who make the barren places of life fruitful with kindness.
Helen Keller
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The Boy Under the Tree
In the summer recess between freshman and sophomore years in college, I was invited to be an instructor at a high-school leadership camp hosted by a college in Michigan. I was already highly involved in most campus activities, and I jumped at the opportunity.
About an hour into the first day of camp, amid the frenzy of icebreakers and forced interactions, I first noticed the boy under the tree. He was small and skinny, and his obvious discomfort and shyness made him appear frail and fragile. Only fifty feet away, two hundred eager campers were bumping bodies, playing, joking and meeting each other, but the boy under the tree seemed to want to be anywhere other than where he was. The desperate loneliness he radiated almost stopped me from approaching him, but I remembered the instructions from the senior staff to stay alert for campers who might feel left out.
As I walked toward him, I said, "Hi, my name is Kevin, and I'm one of the counselors. It's nice to meet you. How are you?" In a shaky, sheepish voice he reluctantly answered, "Okay, I guess." I calmly asked him if he wanted to join the activities and meet some new people. He quietly replied, "No, this is not really my thing.''
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I could sense that he was in a new world, that this whole experience was foreign to him. But I somehow knew it wouldn't be right to push him, either. He didn't need a pep talk; he needed a friend. After several silent moments, my first interaction with the boy under the tree was over.
At lunch the next day, I found myself leading camp songs at the top of my lungs for two hundred of my new friends. The campers eagerly participated. My gaze wandered over the mass of noise and movement and was caught by the image of the boy from under the tree, sitting alone, staring out the window. I nearly forgot the words to the song I was supposed to be leading. At my first opportunity, I tried again, with the same questions as before: "How are you doing? Are you okay?" To which he again replied, "Yeah, I'm all right. I just don't really get into this stuff." As I left the cafeteria, I realized this was going to take more time and effort than I had thoughtif it was even possible to get through to him at all.
That evening at our nightly staff meeting, I made my concerns about him known. I explained to my fellow staff members my impression of him and asked them to pay special attention and spend time with him when they could.
The days I spend at camp each year fly by faster than any others I have known. Thus, before I knew it, mid-week had dissolved into the final night of camp, and I was chaperoning the "last dance." The students were doing all they could to savor every last moment with their new "best friends"friends they would probably never see again.
As I watched the campers share their parting moments, I suddenly saw what would be one of the most vivid memories of my life. The boy from under the tree, who had stared blankly out the kitchen window, was now a shiftless dancing wonder. He owned the dance floor as he
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and two girls proceeded to cut a rug. I watched as he shared meaningful, intimate time with people at whom he couldn't even look just days earlier. I couldn't believe it was the same person.
In October of my sophomore year, a late-night phone call pulled me away from my chemistry book. A soft-spoken, unfamiliar voice asked politely, "Is Kevin there?"
"You're talking to him. Who's this?"
"This is Tom Johnson's mom. Do you remember Tommy from leadership camp?"
The boy under the tree. How could I not remember?
"Yes, I do," I said. "He's a very nice young man. How is he?"
An abnormally long pause followed, then Mrs. Johnson said, "My Tommy was walking home from school this week when he was hit by a car and killed." Shocked, I offered my condolences.
"I just wanted to call you," she said, "because Tommy mentioned you so many times. I wanted you to know that he went back to school this fall with confidence. He made new friends. His grades went up. And he even went out on a few dates. I just wanted to thank you for making a difference for Tom. The last few months were the best few months of his life."
In that instant, I realized how easy it is to give a bit of yourself every day. You may never know how much each gesture may mean to someone else. I tell this story as often as I can, and when I do, I urge others to look out for their own "boy under the tree."
David Coleman and Kevin Randall
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For the Kids
A little boy smiled as he played within an octopus of tubes and electrodes that measured his every breath and all his vital signs. He looked up and said, "My IV is out," sending a student scurrying down the hall to the nurse's station. A little girl in a room down the hall lay quiet in her bed. Her tiny bald head peered through the hospital rails at the visiting students. "I have cancer," she whispered. "I can spell it for you."
In addition to their illnesses, the children in this hospital had one more thing in common: the need for medical supplies and services that their insurance companies would not cover. That afternoon, a routine tour of the hospital for thirteen college students became a year-long project as we realized these kids needed more than our visits.
We called ourselves the "Dream Team." Working with Children's Miracle Network, we spent the next year planning a thirty-two-hour dance marathon that would raise the money. In the face of the courage and energy shown by these kids, no one could see thirty-two hours of nonstop dancing as too much of a task. We had no problem collecting over three hundred student
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volunteers to plan the event. "Thon" fever had exploded on the campus and in the community. Our goal was five thousand dollars, and we were sure we would meet it.
Each sorority, fraternity, residence hall and student organization "adopted" the family of a sick child. The families were embraced by the campus on almost monthly visits to football games, chapter meetings and dinners in the cafeteria. The students followed their child's health, wrote cards and made frequent trips to the hospital. The children were given love and the hope that they might be able to go to college themselves one day. Students stood at intersections in minus-forty-degree wind chill, collecting spare change. Faculty and staff donated a dollar every Friday for "Dress Down for the Kids Day," and other donations poured in as the event drew closer.
A week before the dance marathon began, an urgent plea came from one of the families. Their twin boys had leukemia, and one needed a bone-marrow transplant. A donor had to be found, but the process for finding a match was painful and costly. Students by the hundreds stood in line and paid twenty-five dollars each to have their blood sampled. No donors were found.