When we were saying our good-byes, Sol confided, “You sure have a great family. I wish my mom could cook that good.” Then he added, “Boy, are you lucky!”
Lucky? I wondered, as he walked down the street waving and smiling.
Today I know how lucky I was. I know that the glow Sol experienced at our table was much more than the physical and spiritual warmth of Mama’s minestrone. It was the unalloyed joy of a family table where the real feast was love.
Mama died a long time ago. Someone turned off the gas under the minestrone pot the day after Mama was buried, and a glorious era passed with the flame. But the godly love and assurance that bubbled amidst its savory ingredients still warms my heart today.
Sol and I continued our friendship through the years. I was the best man at his wedding. Not long ago I visited his house for dinner. He hugged all his children and they hugged me. Then his wife brought out steaming bowls of soup. It was chicken soup, thick with vegetables and chunks of meat.
“Hey, Leo,” Sol asked, “do you know what this is?”
“Soup?” I responded smiling.
“Soup!” he huffed. “This is chicken soup! Cures colds, headaches, indigestion. Good for your liver!” Sol winked.
I felt I was home again.
Leo Buscaglia
“Are you absolutely sure, Dr. Pleshke, that my mother’s advice hasn’t affected the treatment?”
Reprinted with permission from Harley Schwadron.
Just in Time
One night at 11:30, an older African-American woman was standing on the side of an Alabama highway trying to endure a lashing rain storm. Her car had broken down and she desperately needed a ride. Soaking wet, she decided to flag down the next car. A young white man stopped to help her—generally unheard of in the deep South during those conflict-filled 1960s. The man took her to safety, helped her get assistance and put her into a taxi cab. She seemed to be in a big hurry! She wrote down his address, thanked him and rode away.
Seven days went by and a knock came on the man’s door. To his surprise, a giant combination console color TV and stereo record player were delivered to his home. A special note was attached. The note read:
Dear Mr. James:
Thank you so much for assisting me on the highway the other night. The rain drenched not only my clothes but my spirits. Then you came along. Because of you, I was able to make it to my dying husband’s bedside just before he passed away. God bless you for helping me and unselfishly serving others.
Sincerely,
Mrs. Nat King Cole
Dan Clark
Gifts of the Heart
The love we give away is the only love we keep.
—Elbert Hubbard
In this hustle-bustle world we live in, it’s so much easier to charge something on a credit card rather than give a gift of the heart.
And gifts of the heart are especially needed during the holidays.
A few years ago, I began to prepare my children for the fact that Christmas that year was going to be a small one. Their response was, “Yeah sure, Mom, we’ve heard that before!” I had lost my credibility because I had told them the same thing the previous year, while going through a divorce. But then I had gone out and charged every credit card to the max. I even found some creative financing techniques to pay for their stocking stuffers. This year was definitely going to be different, but they weren’t buying it.
A week before Christmas, I asked myself, What do I have that will make this Christmas special? In all the houses we had lived in before the divorce, I had always made time to be the interior decorator. I had learned how to wallpaper, to lay wooden and ceramic tile, to sew curtains out of sheets and even more. But in this rental house there was little time for decorating and a lot less money. Plus, I was angry about this ugly place, with its red and orange carpets and turquoise and green walls. I refused to put money into it. Inside me, an inner voice of hurt pride shouted, We’re not going to be here that long!
Nobody else seemed to mind about the house except my daughter Lisa, who had always tried to make her room her special place.
It was time to express my talents. I called my ex-husband and asked that he buy a specific bedspread for Lisa. Then I bought the sheets to match.
On Christmas Eve, I spent $15 on a gallon of paint. I also bought the prettiest stationery I’d ever seen. My goal was simple: I’d paint and sew and stay busy until Christmas morning, so I wouldn’t have time to feel sorry for myself on such a special family holiday.
That night, I gave each of the children three pieces of stationery with envelopes. At the top of each page were the words, “What I love about my sister Mia,” “What I love about my brother Kris,” “What I love about my sister Lisa” and “What I love about my brother Erik.” The kids were 16, 14, 10 and 8, and it took some convincing on my part to assure them that they could find just one thing they liked about each other. As they wrote in privacy, I went to my bedroom and wrapped their few store-bought gifts.
When I returned to the kitchen, the children had finished their letters to one another. Each name was written on the outside of the envelope. We exchanged hugs and goodnight kisses and they hurried off to bed. Lisa was given special permission to sleep in my bed, with the promise not to peek until Christmas morning.
I got started. In the wee hours of Christmas morn, I finished the curtains, painted the walls and stepped back to admire my masterpiece. Wait—why not put rainbows and clouds on the walls to match the sheets? So out came my makeup brushes and sponges, and at 5 A.M. I was finished. Too exhausted to think about being a poor “broken home,” as statistics said, I went to my room and found Lisa spread-eagled in my bed. I decided I couldn’t sleep with arms and legs all over me, so I gently lifted her up and tiptoed her into her room. As I laid her head on the pillow, she said, “Mommy, is it morning yet?”
“No sweetie, keep your eyes closed until Santa comes.”
I awoke that morning with a bright whisper in my ear. “Wow, Mommy, it’s beautiful!”
Later, we all got up and sat around the tree and opened the few wrapped presents. Afterward the children were given their three envelopes. We read the words with teary eyes and red noses. Then we got to “the baby of the family’s” notes. Erik, at 8, wasn’t expecting to hear anything nice. His brother had written: “What I love about my brother Erik is that he’s not afraid of anything.” Mia had written, “What I love about my brother Erik is he can talk to anybody!” Lisa had written, “What I love about my brother Erik is he can climb trees higher than anyone!”
I felt a gentle tug at my sleeve, then a small hand cupped around my ear and Eric whispered, “Gee, Mom, I didn’t even know they liked me!”
In the worst of times, creativity and resourcefulness had given us the best of times. I’m now back on my feet financially, and we’ve had many “big” Christmases with lots of presents under the tree . . . but when asked which Christmas is our favorite, we all remember that one.
Sheryl Nicholson
They won’t know it till they’re grown,
but their BEST gifts are the memories
they’re making.
Reprinted with special permission of King Features Syndicate.
The Other Woman
After 21 years of marriage, I’ve discovered a new way of keeping the spark of love and intimacy alive in my relationship with my wife:
I’ve recently started dating another woman.
It was my wife’s idea, actually. “You know you love her,” she said one day, taking me by surprise. “Life is too short. You need to spend time with the people you love.”
“But I love you,” I protested.
“I know. But you also love her. You probably won’t believe me, but I think that if the two of you spend more time together, it will bring the two of us closer.”
As usual, Peggy was right.
The other woman that my wife was encouraging me to date was my mother.
My mom is a 71-year-old
widow who has lived alone since my father died 19 years ago. Right after his death, I moved 2,500 miles away to California, where I started my own family and career. When I moved back near my hometown five years ago, I promised myself I would spend more time with her. But somehow with the demands of my job and three kids, I never got around to seeing her much beyond family get-togethers and holidays.
She was surprised and suspicious when I called and suggested the two of us go out to dinner and a movie. “What’s wrong? Are you moving my grandchildren away?” she asked. My mother is the type of woman who thinks anything out of the ordinary—a late-night phone call or a surprise dinner invitation from her eldest son— signals bad news.
“I thought it would be nice to spend some time with you,” I said. “Just the two of us.”
She considered that statement for a moment.
“I’d like that,” she said. “I’d like that a lot.”
I found myself nervous as I drove to her house Friday after work. I had the pre-date jitters—and all I was doing was going out with my mother, for Pete’s sake!
What would we talk about? What if she didn’t like the restaurant I chose? Or the movie?
What if she didn’t like either?
When I pulled into her driveway, I realized how excited she, too, was about our date. She was waiting by the door with her coat on. Her hair was curled. She was smiling. “I told my lady friends that I was going out with my son, and they were all impressed,” she said as she got into my car. “They can’t wait until tomorrow to hear about our evening.”
We didn’t go anywhere fancy, just a neighborhood place where we could talk. When we got there my mother clutched my arm—half out of affection and half to help her negotiate the steps into the dining room.
Once we were seated, I had to read the menu for both of us. Her eyes only see large shapes and shadows. Halfway through listing the entrées, I glanced up. Mom was sitting across the table, just looking at me. A wistful smile traced her lips.
“I used to be the menu reader when you were little,” she said.
I understood instantly what she was saying. From caregiver to cared-for, from cared-for to caregiver; our relationship had come full circle.
“Then it’s time for you to relax and let me return the favor,” I said.
We had a nice talk over dinner. Nothing earth-shattering, just catching up with each other’s lives. We talked so much that we missed the movie. “I’ll go out with you again, but only if you let me buy dinner next time,” my mother said as I dropped her off. I agreed.
“How was your date?” my wife wanted to know when I got home that night.
“Nice... nicer than I thought it would be,” I said.
She smiled her told-you-so smile.
Since that night I’ve been dating Mom regularly. We don’t go out every week, but we try to see each other at least a couple of times a month. We always have dinner, and sometimes we take in a movie, too. Mostly, though, we just talk. I tell her about my daily trials at work. I brag about the kids and my wife. She fills me in on the family gossip I can never seem to keep up on.
She also tells me about her past. Now I know what it was like for my Mom to work in a factory during World War II. I know about how she met my father there, and how they nurtured a trolley-car courtship through those difficult times. As I’ve listened to these stories, I’ve come to realize how important they are to me. They are my history. I can’t get enough of them.
But we don’t just talk about the past. We also talk about the future. Because of health problems, my mother worries about the days ahead. “I have so much living to do,” she told me one night. “I need to be there while my grandchildren grow up. I don’t want to miss any of it.”
Like a lot of my baby-boomer friends, I tend to rush around, filling my At-A-Glance calendar to the brim as I struggle to fit a career, family and relationships into my life. I often complain about how quickly time flies. Spending time with my mom has taught me the importance of slowing down. I finally understand the meaning of a term I’ve heard a million times: quality time.
Peggy was right. Dating another woman has helped my marriage. It has made me a better husband and father, and hopefully, a better son.
Thanks, Mom. I love you.
David Farrell
Ramona’s Touch
It was only a few weeks after my surgery, and I went to Dr. Belt’s office for a checkup. It was just after my first chemotherapy treatment.
My scar was still very tender. My arm was numb underneath. This whole set of unique and weird sensations was like having a new roommate to share the two-bedroom apartment formerly known as my breasts—now lovingly known as “the breast and the chest.”
As usual, I was taken to an examination room to have my blood drawn, again—a terrifying process for me, since I’m so frightened of needles.
I lay down on the examining table. I’d worn a big plaid flannel shirt and a camisole underneath. It was a carefully thought out costume that I hoped others would regard as a casual wardrobe choice. The plaid camouflaged my new chest, the camisole protected it and the buttons on the shirt made for easy medical access.
Ramona entered the room. Her warm sparkling smile was familiar, and stood out in contrast to my fears. I’d first seen her in the office a few weeks earlier. She wasn’t my nurse on that day, but I remember her because she was laughing. She laughed in deep, round and rich tones. I remember wondering what could be so funny behind that medical door. What could she possibly find to laugh about at a time like this? So I decided she wasn’t serious enough about the whole thing and that I would try to find a nurse who was. But I was wrong.
This day was different. Ramona had taken my blood before. She knew about my fear of needles, and she kindly hid the paraphernalia under a magazine with a bright blue picture of a kitchen being remodeled. As we opened the blouse and dropped the camisole, the catheter on my breast was exposed and the fresh scar on my chest could be seen.
She said, “How is your scar healing?”
I said, “I think pretty well. I wash around it gently each day.” The memory of the shower water hitting my numb chest flashed across my face.
She gently reached over and ran her hand across the scar, examining the smoothness of the healing skin and looking for any irregularities. I began to cry gently and quietly. She brought her warm eyes to mine and said, “You haven’t touched it yet, have you?” And I said, “No.”
So this wonderful, warm woman laid the palm of her golden brown hand on my pale chest and she gently held it there. For a long time. I continued to cry quietly. In soft tones she said, “This is part of your body. This is you. It’s okay to touch it.” But I couldn’t. So she touched it for me. The scar. The healing wound. And beneath it, she touched my heart.
Then Ramona said, “I’ll hold your hand while you touch it.” So she placed her hand next to mine, and we both were quiet. That was the gift that Ramona gave me.
That night as I lay down to sleep, I gently placed my hand on my chest and I left it there until I dozed off. I knew I wasn’t alone. We were all in bed together, metaphorically speaking, my breast, my chest, Ramona’s gift and me.
Betty Aboussie Ellis
“Are You God?”
One cold evening during the holiday season, a little boy about six or seven was standing out in front of a store window. The little child had no shoes and his clothes were mere rags. A young woman passing by saw the little boy and could read the longing in his pale blue eyes. She took the child by the hand and led him into the store. There she bought him some new shoes and a complete suit of warm clothing.
They came back outside into the street and the woman said to the child, “Now you can go home and have a very happy holiday.”
The little boy looked up at her and asked, “Are you God, Ma’am?”
She smiled down at him and replied, “No son, I’m just one of His children.”
The little boy then said, “I knew you had to be
some relation.”
Dan Clark
The Electric Candlesticks
Once a month on a Friday morning, I take a turn at the local hospital delivering Sabbath candlesticks to the Jewish female patients registered there. Lighting candles is the traditional way that Jewish women welcome the Sabbath, but hospital regulations don’t allow patients to light real candles. So we offer the next best thing—electric candlesticks that plug in and are turned on at the start of the Jewish Sabbath on Friday at sundown. The Sabbath is over Saturday night. Sunday morning, I retrieve the candlesticks and store them away until the following Friday, when another volunteer comes to distribute them to that week’s group of patients. Sometimes I see the same patients from the previous week.
One Friday morning, as I was making my rounds, I encountered a woman who was very old—perhaps 90. She had short snow-white hair that looked soft and fluffy, like cotton. Her skin was yellow and wrinkled, as if her bones had suddenly shrunk and left the skin around them with nothing to support it and nowhere to go; now it just hung in soft folds on her arms and face. She looked small there in the bed with the blanket pulled up under her arms. Her hands, resting on top of the cover, were gnarled and worn, the hands of experience. But her eyes were clear and blue, and her voice was surprisingly strong as she greeted me. From the list that the hospital had given me, I knew her name was Sarah Cohen.
She told me that she had been expecting me, that she never missed lighting candles at home and that I should just plug them in by the side of the bed where she could reach them. It was obvious that she was familiar with the routine.
I did as she asked and wished her a good Sabbath. As I turned to leave, she said, “I hope my grandchildren get here in time to say good-bye to me.”
I think my face must have registered my shock at her matter-of-fact statement that she knew she was dying, but I touched her hand and said that I hoped so, too.