S T O R I E S

[Just Another Human]

Here are a few stories that I came across the net and more often than not, they are a li'l touchy and hearty.



Hope we all will have the patience and time to read them and also, let us all use our heart rather than mind to read and understand them.

[Just Another Human]

A Perfect Moment

By Phyllis L. Nutkis



It was the weekend of my parents' sixtieth wedding anniversary party, and there was a lot to do. I had traveled from my home in Chicago, where I live, to my parents' home in northern New Jersey on Friday, and my two brothers, my sister-in-law and I had been working almost nonstop to put all of the final details in place. My brother Jerry had to call the caterer; his wife, Mary, had to buy the paper goods; I had to call the guests who hadn't responded to find out if they were coming; and my brother Rick had to pick up the cake. Along with these tasks, we had my parents' health needs to contend with. My parents were both in their eighties. My mother had suffered a stroke, and now needed help with many routine activities, and my father had been receiving chemotherapy for the leukemia that had recently been diagnosed.



It was stressful, to say the least. In addition to contending with the immediate tasks associated with the party, my brothers and I had stayed up late Saturday night discussing our parents' precarious health, and the challenges we would certainly face in the near future. We talked about it often, on the phone and whenever we got together, but there was never enough time. My parents' health needs changed in often sudden and unpredictable ways, so it was impossible to really plan for the future. We all worried about what the next few years, months, or even days might bring.



The party was scheduled for Sunday afternoon. It was to be an open house at my parents' home; more than fifty people were expected to show up and squeeze into the modest, three-bedroom ranch house. I woke up early on Sunday, already thinking of everything I had to do: set up chairs, move the dining-room table, take my mother to get her hair and her nails done. I was feeling stressed before I even got out of bed.



My parents were still sleeping, and my brothers wouldn't be coming over for another couple of hours, so I decided to go for a run. Maybe that would help relieve my stress. I quickly pulled on my sweat pants and sweatshirt and a windbreaker, and stepped outside, quietly pulling the door closed behind me.



I jogged down the quiet street and up the next block, a long, winding street with many large, beautifully landscaped homes. The last time I was here it was late summer, and the yards were an explosion of color, flowers and bushes of every kind spilling over the lawns and porches, and children's bicycles strewn in the driveways.



But now in the last weekend of March, it was chilly, gray and drizzling slightly. The ground was muddy, the grass sparse. I shivered and I pulled the hood of my windbreaker over my head and ran a little faster as I crossed into the country club on the other side of the highway. My footsteps were the only sound, slapping on the damp pavement as I jogged down the road.



Usually, I enjoyed this route and the routine of running. But today, I was distracted. It was cold and the flowerbeds were still bare, and I had so much on my mind. I was completely engrossed in my thoughts, worrying about my parents' long-term needs and also about the things I still needed to do today to prepare for the party. I barely noticed my surroundings.



I was jogging along, head down, when I slipped. Suddenly, I was sprawled in the wet grass on the side of the road. I knew immediately that I wasn't hurt, but I was out of breath and my shoe was untied. As I tied my shoe, I looked up for the first time and noticed exactly where I was. I had jogged a little more than halfway around the lake that sits in the middle of the country club. When I was here last, in the summer, there were children splashing in the water, ducks quacking, bright flowers lining the road.



But today the lake was completely still. The trees, still leafless in early spring, stood out sharply against the gray sky, their trunks darkened by the mist. The ground along the edge of the lake was barren, with no hint of the riot of color that would burst from the soil in less than a month's time. And there was not another person to be seen, not a single car on the road, not even the cry of a bird or a duck to break the silence.



It was utterly pristine and perfect, and I thought it was the most beautiful thing I had ever seen. I sat there for several more minutes, just watching the stillness, listening to the silence.



Now that I wasn't running, I started to feel cold, so I reluctantly got up and started back towards my parents' house. But now I was acutely aware of what I was seeing, of where I was at that moment. I realized that I couldn't even remember the first half of my run. I had been so focused on the things that would come after, on everything I had to do, that I hadn't noticed whether there were buds on the forsythia bush at the entrance to the country club, or whether the house on the corner that had been half-built in the summer was finished yet, or whether Maynard, the elderly dog belonging to my parents' equally elderly neighbor, was lying in his usual spot on the front porch.



When I got back to the house, my parents were both up. My mother was sitting at the kitchen table in her bathrobe, reading the morning paper. My father was at the stove, making coffee. They looked up and greeted me as I came in.



"Hi, honey," my mother said, as she took my hand and squeezed it; her hands were soft and warm.



"How was your walk? Do you want some coffee?" my father asked, smiling.



It was late; I had been gone longer than I'd planned, and there was so much to do. I really should go take my shower, get dressed and get to work right away, I thought.



But it was warm in the kitchen, and the coffee smelled wonderful, and my parents were both there - it was an utterly perfect moment.



"I'd love some coffee," I said.



In the end, everything I needed to do for the party got done in time. And the party itself was wonderful. Celebrating sixty years of marriage is, of course, an amazing achievement. And for my parents, being able to share that celebration with their family and their oldest and closest friends was especially rewarding.



But for me, the best part of the whole day was that hour I spent sitting in the kitchen with my parents that morning, drinking coffee - just enjoying the moment, unburdened by the past or the future.



I know, of course, that I can't always have that luxury. As my parents grow older, the problems and the worries I have about them aren't likely to go away, and I'm going to have to continue to deal with them. But I think it's going to be a little easier now, because my focus has changed. Even though it's important to plan for the future, I'm going to make sure I'm not looking so far ahead all the time that I overlook the special and perfect moments that still happen, every day. I'm going to make sure I look for those moments, and savor them. ;-k

[Just Another Human]

In Search of a Simpler Time

By Nancy Harless



We were partners in crime. What started as mischief became a yearly ritual we looked forward to every Christmas.



There were more children than money in our large family, but every year our parents managed to make Christmas a celebration to be remembered.



But one of my fondest Christmas memories is the secret shared only with my older sister, Barbara.



Our crime was committed while shopping for our siblings. Our father would give us a crisp $5 bill with stern instructions that it was to be spent only on presents for our sisters, then drop us at the nearest dime store, with instructions to shop and then wait by the door until he returned. Once our shopping was completed, Barbara and I would sneak to the soda counter, climb up on the tall round stools, plunk down our leftover change and count to see if we had enough. We always did. Grinning, we ordered hot fudge sundaes, then sat there, conspirators in crime, skinny legs dangling as we giggled and licked the thick, gooey chocolate from our spoons.



Fast-forward fifty years. Barbara was diagnosed with incurable cancer. We were told there was no cure, but "palliative therapy" would make her more comfortable. Every day for weeks, particles of energy were bombarded through her brain. Fatigue and nausea became daily companions. Next, chemotherapy, with all its unpleasant side effects. However, with the help of new medications, soon we were pleasantly surprised to find that Barbara no longer experienced nausea. Her appetite even returned. That is when we began our quest. We were determined to find the perfect match of our childhood memory. The ice cream must be the hard kind, the harder the better, since the thick, hot fudge will cause it to melt right away. It had to have a cherry on top and it absolutely must be in a glass dish shaped like a tulip. That was the recipe.



We spent the entire time she was in treatment in search of the absolutely perfect concoction. We didn't tell anyone else what we were doing; once again it was our secret.



Treatment day was always Monday; by evening she could barely keep her eyes open. The week became a blur of growing fatigue, confusion and weakness, but by the weekend, Barbara would begin to rally and by Sunday she was ready.



"You think we will find it this time?" she'd ask. We'd laugh then climb into the car.



We ate a lot of ice cream that year, but it always seemed something was slightly off-kilter. Soft ice cream wasn't the same as the hard-packed we remembered, chocolate syrup didn't give the same sensual delight as the thick goo of our childhood, the cherry on top was missing, or even worse, it was served in a paper container. The exact replica seemed impossible to find. Week after week we searched for the perfect combination. We were on a mission - in search of a childhood memory and a simpler time.



"We didn't find it, did we?" Barbara sighed one morning. I knew exactly what she meant.



"No, but we're not giving up!" I replied. "Are you up for a road trip?"



The next day we took a longer trip than any we had previously attempted.



By the time we arrived at the ice cream parlor bedecked in 1950s décor, she was drained. She needed help just to get out of the car.



As the waitress held out menus, Barbara spoke softly. "We won't need those. We already know what we want - hot fudge sundaes. Do you use hard ice cream?"



"Of course," the waitress replied.



Barbara beamed at me. "I think that we might have found it."



Soon the waitress returned carrying two tall tulip-shaped glasses filled with cold, hard, vanilla ice cream smothered in rich, thick hot fudge sauce, topped with a squirt of whipped cream and a cherry. "Is this what you wanted?" she asked as she plunked them down on the counter.



I turned toward my sister. Our eyes locked. The silent, secret question hung in the air between us. Was it? Slowly we picked up our spoons, plunged them into the sweet, cold confection and took them to our mouths. As I licked the thick, rich chocolate goo from my lips, I looked toward Barbara and saw she was doing the same. We began to first smile, and then giggle.



Mission accomplished. There we were - not two overweight, middle-aged women enjoying an afternoon dessert with more calories than either needed. We were two giggling little girls, perched on high stools, skinny legs dangling, sharing the precious bond of sisterhood, carried back to a time when life was simple and "palliative treatment," were just words that had no meaning. [/b]

[Just Another Human]

Through My Mother's Eyes

By Martha Larche Lusk



My daughter, do you have any idea of the fears that haunt me? One is that I'll no longer be needed. Another is that I'll become a burden. I break out in a cold sweat when I think about having a stroke or an accident when I'm alone. This worry is alleviated somewhat by wearing my Lifeline Help Button that connects me with a hospital emergency room, but what if I couldn't press that button?



I live in terror that I might have some kind of lingering illness. And this fear flows into another fear - such an illness could wipe out my savings, destroying my very last shred of independence.



Do you realize how much of my precious freedom I've lost? Consider, if you will, having to depend on someone to take you to church, the market, everywhere. Once I was master of my own transportation. I could go anywhere I wanted, anytime. In our society, the automobile is an arm of independence. For me, old age amputated that arm.



I know my elimination reports bore you at times, but at my age when my body lets me know it is cooperating, I like to share the news. Another accomplishment in another seemingly insignificant day.



Octogenarians are proud of any accomplishments. And one in which I take great pride is that I've conquered city living, and in my own apartment to boot. When you moved me here years ago, it wasn't easy to leave the small town that had been my home for almost my entire life. But I adapted. Yet sometimes the longing to be back in my hometown brings tears to my eyes.



But then sundry things cause me to weep these days. Some of the tears you don't see, like when I remember the two husbands I outlived. Or the tears I shed when staring at my one-sided flatness where a few years ago there was a breast. When I contemplate the chance I might someday face the cancer monster again, extra tears well up.



More often than not my emotions erupt with the hormonal spontaneity of a teenage girl. But at least emotions prove I still care, I still hurt, I still love. Emotions prove I'm alive even though my life has taken some bizarre turns. One example is that I've lost my adult status. Yet no matter how many motherly duties you may perform for me, I'll never be a complete child of yours in the same way you were mine.



Although I'm deeply grateful that I have you to help me, I cringe each time you're forced to take over another of my tasks, such as balancing my bank account. I'm angry that I can no longer do it myself. I could tear that bank statement to shreds when I remember all my excellent office skills during those many years I worked. Perhaps if you'll now try working an algebraic problem (since algebra was never your favorite subject), you'll understand how I feel.



It's not only the bank account. You've taken over Medicare and insurance forms also. And now you must dispense my medicines, too. Over and over, day by day, I'm rendered more helpless. For every chore relinquished, old age claims another little chunk of me, making me fear the day I will be completely dependent.



Therefore, so long as I have a wee scrap of independence left, may I offer some loving advice to you, my daughter?



Don't fret when I eat a food not included in my medical diet. I know as well as you that it's wrong, but some pleasures are worth the sacrifice. To sneak a forbidden bite of a favorite food is just about the only adventure left in my life.



Try not to criticize me for what you see as clutter. While you choose to put things away, I find it convenient to leave them out, saving me steps and energy.



Show patience with my physical slowness. A quick step for you can be a slow painful one for me. Pain is my Siamese twin.



Let me talk, if I choose, about the past. Compared to the limited future, it's often more comforting to remember what has gone before instead. And if in the process of reminiscing, I repeat myself, try to overlook it.



Everybody forgets sometimes, even you. Grant me the same human frailty.



Forgetfulness doesn't always mean senility.



Let me complain about the weather. Realize that for me there's no perfect climate control. My personal thermostat responds to allergies, thinning blood, and aching joints.



Please don't push your way on me too much. Your way may not always be best for me. I'm not even sure efficiency is all that important anyway. A jumbled grocery list isn't the end of the world.



When people address you concerning my requests, bypassing me entirely, stand up for me. I still have a brain, as well as the ability to speak for myself.



I don't like to whine, but please spend as much time with me as you can. I love you, and I enjoy being with you. Contrary to what you might think, I'm aware of the toll all this responsibility has taken on you. It shows in your face. To take on the parental task of caring for an elderly child is to look in a mirror and see your own mortality. I can't help being a constant reminder of your future. And I know all the devilish challenges you'll face.



Now for my most important piece of advice, which is experience-borne. Strive to grow old with courage. I pray that in the future you may know more of the joys of old age than I and less of the trials. And may you always have someone like you, someone who cares.

[~akidna~]

really touching stories Jah....

read all three of them:D

[Just Another Human]

really touching stories Jah....
read all three of them:D

Wow - akidna - thanks a million.



U know what ? - I was a li'l skeptical on the response I may get for stories like these. But I am happy now. will keep posting. these are really good ones.



It's just that we need to be a li'l patient to read. Hope we will get more readers.

[Just Another Human]

Moving in with Mom

By Carol Sjostrom Miller



Five weeks before my daughter was due, I went into pre-term labor and was sentenced to bed rest. I could get up only for weekly doctor's appointments, twice-weekly non-stress tests and bathroom privileges.



While giving me my instructions, my doctor said that I shouldn't be alone; I needed someone to get me to the hospital at the first twinge of a contraction. My husband, Jack, had been saving his vacation days for after the baby was born, and we both hated the thought of using them up. We also found out that it would be impractical for me to return home since our bedroom is on the second floor - and going up and down stairs was on my list of forbidden activities.



As Jack and I were exhausting our possibilities, my mother (who hadn't left my hospital room) piped up: "Why don't you stay with me?" she asked in her here's-what-we're-going-to-do voice. Jack thought that was the perfect solution; my mother could be with me all day, she lives a block from the hospital, and she has a first-floor guest room. I was more doubtful. Like most daughters, I have had my share of conflicts with my mother, and I didn't know if I could handle weeks of constant togetherness. Eventually, though, I realized it was the best option and moved back "home."



I spent my days sulking - acting more like a surly teenager than a gracious houseguest. When Jack came after work, and my mother visited friends or ran the errands she couldn't do during the day, I cried. I wanted to go home. I wanted to be away from my mother. Most of all, I just wanted everything to be normal again. I snapped at my mother incessantly.



"Do you have to tell everyone about my medical problems?" I yelled when I overheard her phone conversations. "Can't I have any privacy around here?" I whined when she checked to make sure I hadn't fallen during my two-minute showers. My mother, who had never hesitated to tell me to "knock it off" when necessary, apologized.



Thanksgiving came a few days later. I wasn't feeling very thankful, but I was craving my mother's mashed potato casserole. The night before Thanksgiving, my mother went to the grocery store and bought everything I wanted.



The next day, I lay on the couch and watched my mother prepare a gourmet meal for three - even straining the gravy because the slightest lump would make me gag. I could see how difficult the day was for her; my father had died six months earlier, and this was our first "family" holiday without him. When dinner was ready, my mother sat and looked down at her plate for a long time. "Aren't you going to eat?" Jack finally asked her.



"In a minute," my mother said, tears glistening in her eyes. "I was just thinking about how thankful I am to have a grandchild coming. I never would have gotten through the past few months without this baby to look forward to. And I know you're going to love being parents as much as Daddy and I always did."



I realized then just how lucky I was. While my husband was working all day, then pulling all-nighters assembling the crib, setting up the swing and changing table, and getting everything ready for the baby, I had my mother to take care of me.



For the next ten days, I let my mother fuss over me - and I let myself enjoy her company. She told me stories about her pregnancy and my childhood. We read baby books and magazines together. We laughed at trashy talk shows and cried over sappy movies. We ate all my favorite foods. I got to know my mother as more than just my mother.



I can't say everything was perfect, though. I had to take an "anti-contraction" pill every six hours, including one at 2:00 a.m., and my mother had a tendency to wake me at 2:15 - after I had already turned off my alarm clock, taken the pill and drifted back to sleep. She was convinced that if I raised my arms, I would strangle the baby (despite repeated assurances from my doctor that this would not happen), so she panicked whenever I reached for something. And she said things like, "Maybe after you have the baby, you'll shave your legs again."



I didn't mind. In fact, I thought it was kind of funny. And I was grateful. I knew my husband and I would have managed on our own if we had to. But having my mother around just made things easier.



When my mother took me to the hospital for my third non-stress test, the nurse said, "Come on in, Grandmom. Don't you want to hear the baby's heartbeat?" As the sound of my baby's heart filled the room, I heard another sound - the sound of my mother's sobs.



"Is the baby's heart okay?" she asked. "Is everything all right?" When the nurse said everything sounded great, I could see my mother beaming through her tears, and I was so glad she was there. My father had died of a heart attack, and I realized what a gift it was for my mother to hear her first grandchild's strong, healthy heartbeat. She squeezed my hand as we listened. Then she turned to the nurse and said, "And you're sure Carol is okay?"



"Yes, Carol is just fine," the nurse smiled. "You're taking good care of her."



"Well, she's my baby," my mother said and kissed my cheek.



At that moment I saw that, while I was putting my life on hold to do what was best for my baby, my mother was putting her life on hold to do what was best for her baby, too. And as I held my mother's hand, I knew that I would follow her example. Whenever my daughter needs me - no matter how old she is or how cranky she is - I'll be there, just like my mother taught me. ;-k

[CtrlAltDel]

why dont u put em in the earthlinks thread like enigma does...?

[~akidna~]

really touching stories Jah....
read all three of them:D

Wow - akidna - thanks a million.

U know what ? - I was a li'l skeptical on the response I may get for stories like these. But I am happy now. will keep posting. these are really good ones.

It's just that we need to be a li'l patient to read. Hope we will get more readers.

your welcome Jah

dont give up hope so easy...people will respond

[Ar!e$]

Nice stories.. ..keep postin more..

[Just Another Human]

Final Goodbye, A

by: Mark Victor Hansen, A 2nd Helping of Chicken Soup for the Soul



"I am going home to Denmark, Son, and I just wanted to tell you I love you."



In my dad's last telephone call to me, he repeated that line seven times in a half hour. I wasn't listening at the right level. I heard the words, but not the message, and certainly not their profound intent. I believed my dad would live to be over 100 years old, as my great uncle lived to be 107 years old. I had not felt his remorse over Mom's death, understood his intense loneliness as an "empty nester," or realized most of his pals had long since light-beamed off the planet. He relentlessly requested my brothers and I create grandchildren so that he could be a devoted grandfather. I was too busy "entrepreneuring" to really listen.



"Dad's dead," sighed my brother Brian on July 4, l982.



My little brother is a witty lawyer and has a humorous, quick mind. I thought he was setting me up for a joke, and I awaited the punchline - there wasn't one. "Dad died in the bed he was born in - in Rozkeldj," continued Brian. "The funeral directors are putting him in a coffin, and shipping Dad and his belongings to us tomorrow. We need to prepare for the funeral."



I was speechless. This isn't the way it's supposed to happen. If I knew these were to be Dad's final days, I would have asked to go with him to Denmark. I believe in the hospice movement, which says: "No one should die alone." A loved one should hold your hand and comfort you as you transition from one plane of reality to another. I would have offered consolation during his final hour, if I'd been really listening, thinking and in tune with the Infinite. Dad announced his departure as best he could, and I had missed it. I felt grief, pain and remorse, Why had I not been there for him? He'd always been there for me.



In the mornings when I was nine years old, he would come home from working 18 hours at his bakery and wake me up at 5:00 A.M. by scratching my back with his strong powerful hands and whispering, "Time to get up, Son." By the time I was dressed and ready to roll, he had my newspapers folded, banded and stuffed in my bicycle basket. Recalling his generosity of spirit brings tears to my eyes.



When I was racing bicycles, he drove me 50 miles each way to Kenosha, Wisconsin, every Tuesday night so I could race and he could watch me. He was there to hold me if I lost and shared the euphoria when I won.



Later, he accompanied me to all my local talks in Chicago when I spoke to Century 21, Mary Kay, Equitable and various churches. He always smiled, listened and proudly told whomever he was sitting with, "That's my boy!"



After the fact, my heart was in pain because Dad was there for me and I wasn't there for him. My humble advice is to always, always share your love with your loved ones, and ask to be invited to that sacred transitional period where physical life transforms into spiritual life. Experiencing the process of death with one you love will take you into a bigger, more expansive dimension of beingness.

[Just Another Human]

Your Room's Not Ready Yet

by: Bill McSmith, , Source Unknown



Today I was able to release Myrtle K. from the hospital to go back to the nursing home. For about 8-9 years now she has had declining health and mental status. Sweet as ever, but just not always home. This was an absolute gift from God.

When she came in to the hospital 7 days ago, this 91 year old lady had pneumonia and worsening confusion. The next day she had a TIA (mini stroke), and I told the family that it would be a miracle if she survived. She didn't arouse for 48 hours. Then just like turning the lights back on, she began to come around and the antibiotics began to work better. Her health began to improve. Each day she got better and better. Her lungs cleared, and she became the most alert I have ever seen her by this morning when I finally let her go back to the nursing home.

Back when I first met Myrtle and she was perfectly clear, she would see me scurry about in the office and the hospital, and tell me, "I don't know how you stay up, I'm praying for you."

In the elderly, it is frequently pneumonia that finally takes their lives, because the worn bodies just don't have what it takes to fight off infection any more. Well, I don't think Myrtle could fight it off, but God could!

Several years ago, as I sat at the nursing station one evening, some good friends were there visiting an elderly relative and they related an incident that had just happened involving their young daughter, "JJ". It seems she had been in a position to be left in the room with this grandmother and the lady was just plain tired. She said, "I just want to die. I want to go home to be with Jesus, why can't I just die?" JJ looked up at her and said, "Granny... God's painting your room, and it's just not ready yet."

How often I think of JJ's words when I see the miracles God performs in the hospital. Simple, uncomplicated, and "Right On." Thanks JJ, you have given me insight. And Myrtle ... I wonder what color your room's going to be?

[Just Another Human]

Say the Unsaid Things

by: Jara Crawford, , Source Unknown



"I didn't take your cigarettes!" I half yelled rudely.

"Okay, whatever..." said the deep, grouchy voice I knew too well.

"OK well I'm going." I said dryly.

"Aaa-lright."

And with the click of the telephone I turned away and headed off to be with some friends.

Moments before I had learned that my mother, sister, brother, and step-father were leaving to go on vacation without me. In a terrible fit of jealousy, I let my displeasure be known. I went on and on about how messed up it was I was not invited and how my family did not love me. Just on and on. This rode well into the next day.

July 16,1999 is my step-father's 50th birthday. It was going to be his first birthday party ever. My mother had told me two or three times, so I was well aware. I had planned to be there at my dad's first birthday party, (even though every since I had hit adolescence, we never seen eye to eye and fought constantly) but in the "situation" I thought he had put me in and in my moment of pure selfishness and resentfulness, I decided to say I'd show and just not go.

All the better, my friend called and asked me to go with her to her family reunion ... a perfect excuse!

So at about 10 that night I called home collect. It was busy so I left a collect message for later delivery.

"Mom I left your shorts at Aunt Sheila's. If you want them before you leave on vacation tomorrow, better go get em'."

No I love you.

No be careful.

No tell dad happy birthday.

All the way to Ohio with my friend, I bad mouthed him and my mom for marrying him. I felt so angry and left out. I blamed it all on him. It was always Denny's fault. I just knew he had been the one to suggest not taking me. We never got along it seemed.

Eventually we arrived at our destination and tucked in for the night. I never thought twice about my family. Never one thought of all the fun they were probably having at Denny's birthday party. Not once about the excitement they all had for leaving on vacation tomorrow. Just myself.

The next morning after I had got ready, my friend and her family hit the road to meet the rest of them at an all day reunion. We had stopped at K-mart. One of Kelly's relatives pulled up to her car.

"Jara, you need to call home something bad happened." she had said.

"What," I asked, "who?"

"Your step-dad had a heart attack or something." she replied.

"Is he OK?" I said quietly, as I began to shake.

"I do not know, you'll have to call." and she drove away.

I got out of the car, headed towards a nearby telephone booth. I dialled collect. My mom's voice came over the line.

"Jara..." mom said meekly.

"Mom what happened, are you OK?" I asked.

"Denny's dead ... come home, please Jara, come home."

"OK mom, I'll be there," I said quietly, "I love you."

My legs were rubber, I couldn't talk, tears were flooding my eyes and running down my face.

That night at his birthday party, after the guests had left, Denny had suffered a massive heart attack. It was caused from emphysema and heart disease, that even he never knew about. He died in my mother's arms.

You see, I never made peace with Denny I never took the time to show how really important to me he was. I never took the time to tell him he was my Daddy.

He had been there when my biological dad hadn't. He was the one who clothed, fed, and sheltered me as long as I can remember. He was the one that rubbed my belly for hours when I was home sick from school. He was the one who helped me move into my first apartment. He was the one that tried till his death bed to give me values and responsibility. He was the one man in my life I knew that would love me unconditionally. I never told him how much all that meant to me. I never told him that he was my daddy.

After all this, I've learned it so important not to let things go unsaid, no matter how minor or major. Even though I know Denny knew I loved him, I would feel so much better knowing for sure he knew because I hurt him in so many ways. And you see, he never complained.

[Just Another Human]

Wonderful Little Girl

by: Author Unknown, Source Unknown



There came a frantic knock at the doctor's office door,A knock, more urgent than he had ever heard before,

"Come in, Come in," the impatient doctor said,

"Come in, Come in, before you wake the dead."



In walked a frightened little girl, a child no more than nine,

It was plain for all to see, she had troubles on her mind,

"Oh doctor, I beg you, please come with me,

My mother is surely dying, she's as sick as she can be."



"I don't make house calls, bring your mother here,"

"But she's too sick, so you must come or she will die I fear,"



The doctor, touched by her devotion, decided he would go,

She said he would be blessed, more than he could know.

She led him to her house where her mother lay in bed,



Her mother was so very sick she couldn't raise her head,

But her eyes cried out for help and help her the doctor did,

She would have died that very night had it not been for her kid.



The doctor got her fever down and she lived through the night,

And morning brought the doctor signs, that she would be all right,

The doctor said he had to leave but would return again by two,

And later he came back to check, just like he said he'd do.



The mother praised the doctor for all the things he'd done,

He told her she would have died, were it not for her little one,

"How proud you must be of your wonderful little girl,

It was her pleading that made me come, she is really quite a pear!



"But doctor, my daughter died over three years ago,

Is the picture on the wall of the little girl you know?"

The doctors legs went limp for the picture on the wall,

Was the same little girl for whom he'd made this call.



The doctor stood motionless, for quite a little while,

And then his solemn face, was broken by his smile,

He was thinking of that frantic knock heard at his office door,

And of the beautiful little angel that had walked across his floor

[Just Another Human]

Summer's Day, The

by: E, , Source Unknown



Lilly felt the breeze before she noticed anything else. Warm and sweet it tickled her nose. She opened her eyes as the smells she knew so well hit her nose. The scent of blackberries being warmed in the sun, the tart scent from the crab apple tree she was laying beneath, the sharp scent of freshly cut grass wafted up from the houses in the town below. And her favorite smell of all the vividly colored wildflowers that grew on that beautiful hill, by the stream, at the edge of the woods. The flowers reached up towards the sun as if trying to touch it as they bathed in its warmth.

Lilly lay in the tall grass and stared up at the big blue sky. The clouds went slowly by, one by one. Each cloud was different in shape but all were fluffy and a pure white. If I could touch the sky, I bet it would feel cool and soft she thought with a smile. She lay at the top of her hill and listened to the murmur of the stream. The wind blew gently bringing more summer scents. Surrounded by the sounds, smells and sights of summer, Lilly was completely at peace.

Lilly's eyes flew open and the memories of the days gone past that were keeping her mind off the cold trickled away like leaves being blown away by a breeze. Nothing she had felt had been real. All she really felt was numb. Numb and the piercing pain of cold. The memories kept her soul warm and her mind off the cold but she couldn't fight back reality any longer. For what felt like the hundredth time, Lilly tried to start her car again and failed. She pushed with all her might on the car door and silently cursed black ice and speeders. She glanced out the snow covered windshield, foolishly hoping it had somehow melted while she had been in her reverie. Lilly gave a disdainful sigh which was followed by a cloud of dragons breath. If only I wasn't so tired. She thought. Lilly tried not to think about the cold or her buried car but she only ended up shivering. Someone is bound to find me soon. I can't be that far into the ditch! She assured herself. Her thoughts drifted back to the warm summers day on the hill of her childhood and she smiled. Smelling the sweet scent of the colorful flowers and listening to the stream, Lilly's eyes slowly closed for the last time.

[Just Another Human]

Just Wanted to Talk by: Christina M. Abt



Dear Mom,

It's now two months since your passing.

I survived your funeral, made it through my first motherless Mother's Day and am slowly re-entering everyday life. But I need to tell you Mom, it's not easy.

I never thought we were terribly close. We actually spent more time butting our Irish heads together than not. Affection was not part of our history either. The turn of your cheek as I kissed you was the sum total of our physical interaction. But one thing we always could do was talk. Usually from opposite ends of the spectrum, mind you, but nonetheless we talked.

I called you every day. Our routines rarely varied. I'd ask about your lunch. You'd review CNN news. We'd talk about your grandchildren. Occasionally, you'd mention neighborhood happenings. Then I'd wish you good night and say good-bye. For the last 15 years, that was our routine.

Occasionally, the pattern changed. I would guiltily miss a day. You would take the initiative and call me. If I wasn't home, you refused to leave a message. You would just hang up muttering "damn machine." Eventually, you accepted modern technology and spoke. Your standard message, "You know who I am. You know my number. Bye!" It was always a toss-up which was more frustrating -- your hang-ups or your messages.

In the fall of 1995, you fell ill. Time and a careless lifestyle were seeking their revenge. Hospitalization was necessary. Doctors predicted the worst.

"Not my mom," I thought.

Little did they know about the strong-willed Irish woman lying in their sterile bed. You survived and returned home. The daily patterns of our phone calls continued. You were indestructible. Or so it seemed to me.

Three years later, almost to the day, you again lost a skirmish against the vices battling for your body. Again you traveled to the hospital. Again the doctors predicted doom and gloom. "Not my mom," I insisted. You people still don't know who are dealing with. Again you won the battle and came home. Only this time to my domain.

Your advancing diseases would no longer allow you an independent lifetstyle. Health officials warned me against bringing you into my home. They felt you were too touch a patient to handle.

"Not my mom!" I decided living together would make up for time we missed while I was growing up and you were working. On a rainy Thanksgiving Eve, I bundled you up and brought you to my home.

In March, five days before St. Patrick's Day, you died. You basically stopped eating and slowly wasted away. Nothing I could say or do made a difference. We argued regularly about diet and nutrition. I even stooped to the "you know you are killing yourself" sermon.

You calmly responded that you didn't have a death wish. You just weren't hungry. At the time I didn't understand. Today it is very clear to me that there is an intrinsic difference between a death wish and a desire to live.

Now you are gone. I wish every day for the chance to call you. To talk about nothing, to argue about everything.

I think were I not your daughter, I would have judged you a truly remarkable woman. Unfortunately, the characteristics that made you strong as a woman and successful as a career person are the same traits that put us in opposition as mother and daughter.

The perspective of your death allows me now to see that so clearly. It is also totally irrelevant.

I just miss you and wanted to talk.

Love, Christy

[Just Another Human]

Tear to the Eye, A

by: Author Unknown, Source Unknown





Barbara was driving her six-year-old son, Benjamin, to his piano lesson.

They were late, and Barbara was beginning to think she should have cancelled it. There was always so much to do, and Barbara, a night-duty nurse at the local hospital, had recently worked extra shifts.

She was tired. The sleet storm and icy roads added to her tension. Maybe she should turn the car around.

"Mom!" Ben cried. "Look!" Just ahead, a car had lost control on a patch of ice. As Barbara tapped the brakes, the other car spun wildly rolled over, then crashed sideways into a telephone pole.

Barbara pulled over, skidded to a stop and threw open her door. Thank goodness she was a nurse - she might be able to help these unfortunate passengers.

Then she paused. What about Ben? She couldn't take him with her. Little boys shouldn't see scenes like the one she anticipated. But was it safe to leave him alone? What if their car were hit from behind?

For a brief moment Barbara considered going on her way. Someone else was sure to come along. No! "Ben, honey, promise me you'll stay in the car!"

"I will, Mommy," he said as she ran, slipping and sliding toward the crash site. It was worse than she'd feared. Two girls of high school age are in the car. One, the blonde on the passenger side, was dead, killed on impact.

The driver, however was still breathing. She was unconscious and pinned in the wreckage. Barbara quickly applied pressure to the wound in the teenager's head while her practiced eye catalogued the other injuries. A broken leg, maybe two, along with probable internal bleeding. But if help came soon, the girl would live.

A trucker had pulled up and was calling for help on his cellular phone. Soon Barbara heard the ambulance sirens. A few moments later she surrendered her lonely post to rescue workers.

"Good job," one said as he examined the driver's wounds. "You probably saved her life, ma'am." Perhaps.

But as Barbara walked back to her car a feeling of sadness overwhelmed her, especially for the family of the girl who had died. Their lives would never be the same. Oh God, why do such things have to happen?

Slowly Barbara opened her car door. What should she tell Benjamin? He was staring at the crash site, his blue eyes huge. "Mom," he whispered, "did you see it?"

"See what, Honey?" she asked.

"The angel, Mom! He came down from the sky while you were running to the car. And he opened the door, and he took that girl out."

Barbara's eyes filled with tears. "Which door, Ben?"

"The passenger side. He took the girl's hand, and they floated up to Heaven together"

"What about the driver?"

Ben shrugged. "I didn't see anyone else."

Later, Barbara was able to meet the families of the victims. They expressed their gratitude for the help she had provided. Barbara was able to give them something more - Ben's vision.

There was no way he could have known what happened to either of the passengers. Nor could the passenger door have been opened; Barbara had seen its tangle of immovable steel herself. Yet Ben's account brought consolation to a grieving family. Their daughter was safe in Heaven. And they would see her again.

[3 T'z]

hey good work JAH... touchin storiez...!!

keep postin em...

[Just Another Human]

Popsicles

by: Carrie Hankins, Source Unknown





At age thirteen you would think that you would be the one to inspire a six year old, but actually it was the other way around.

Summer had arrived and Vacation Bible School would be starting soon. This year I was to old to be in a class so I decided to volunteer in a class. I worked with a few grown ups I did not know and my cousin. I also asked a few of my friends to help too. The week came to an end. I had received a little pin that had a heart and inside it was a cross. It was a small thank-you from one of the grown-ups. And then the next weekend we went to one of the workers houses for a swim party.

One of the workers, Carolyn had two sons and a little girl. The little girl's name was Grace. She was a beautiful dark complexion little girl with long beautiful hair. My friends and I were playing around in the pool along with all the workers children.

Grace did not like the boys she would take the hose and spray them while they were swimming. And my friends would play with the boys coaxing them to get her. Well, Grace took a liking to me and did not like the boys and my friends. We just began talking. She had a popsicle in her hand and asked me if I liked popsicles. Popsicles are for teenagers too. She said my mommy and daddy like them you can have them too.

I just held back my laugh because her parents were not teenagers.

The day came to an end. I knew I would not see Grace that much after that except during church here and there. Her little voice saying "Popsicles are for teenagers too".

A few weeks before school started my cousin called and told me Grace was killed in a car accident. Her mom was driving she was in the passenger side and in the back seat were her two brothers. A man failed to stop at a stop sign and slammed into the car. And the part that made me upset was that this man was driving without a license because he had prior drunk driving problems. So his license was revoked.

I was told her brothers were in shock as well as her mother. She died before she made it to the hospital.

As I approached the little girls coffin I looked at her in her little white dress her face caked with makeup to reconstruct her little face. All I could do is picture her by that pool telling me about her mommy and daddy and the popsicles.

As I think back she would be 12 now. And every time I eat my popsicles I think back and remember her that day at the pool.

Soon after her death my cousin made a little memorial on the back of the car with her name and a little angel. She is still her mom and dads little angel.

Remember popsicles are for teenagers.

[Just Another Human]

Peaceful Passage

by: Jim Graf, Source Unknown



My mom was taken to a nursing home because she was just getting too much for my dad to handle at home. She was undergoing the last stages of emphysema and struggled for every breath. I had gone from Maryland to Northern Illinois five times in as many weeks, helping Dad care for Mom. I was there on the day they carried her out of her home for what she knew would be the very last time.

I prayed constantly that God would take her peacefully, not struggling for the next breath. I hoped that it would just not come so she didn't have to fight for life in panic. Now I don't pray like most people. I just sit on the edge of the bed and "talk to God!" That's right, just like he was sitting right there with me and we were talking like old friends.

Oh, I wouldn't often say my words out loud, just think them very slowly and carefully. For example, "You know, God, I sure would appreciate it if Mom could pass from this life peacefully, and not in a panic about where her next breath is going to come from."

Well I was back in Maryland again when the inevitable phone call came.

Dad told me that she passed while he was holding her. That she'd been continually struggling for her next breath. But then Dad then said to her, "It's okay, Mare, you can go now. I'll be okay." And at that point, Mom's breathing came easier, very shallow, but easier.

This was so unlike her ability to let go when it came to breathing. Moments later she passed away.

So God answered my prayers in spades! Not only was she not struggling for that next breath, but she was also being held by the person she loved most in this whole wide world - my dad.

[Just Another Human]

Peggy's Paper Dolls

by: Casey-Jo Timson, Source Unknown



Brian scanned the walls of the same corridor that had become so familiar to him over the past few years. As he entered through door number thirty-two, a tremendous wave of emotion swept over him, and he had to fight not to drown in it. His sister's face lit up with a vibrant smile and that special twinkle in her eyes, as it always did whenever she saw him.

Peggy was seven years old. She charmed everyone that knew her with her undying enthusiasm. She would talk non-stop to a listening ear, and she seldom cried. Peggy was dying of cancer.

Brian was at the hospital constantly, knowing that his little sister had only a short time to live. His average life as a sixteen-year old had taken a traumatic turn for the worst upon the diagnosis. He loved his sister more than anything, and found himself becoming enraged that she, such a sweet and innocent girl, should be inflicted with such a horrible disease.

Brimming with creativity, Peggy amazed Brian. She had a collection of paper dolls that she had made. All sixty-two were tacked behind her bed. Brian would ask her about the dolls, but she would always just smile, and say happily that they were her friends. He would be saddened by the fact that Peggy could not have the normal life of a seven-year-old, and make her own friends. It would only dishearten him more to watch her play with the other sick children.

Each day that passed was like a ticking time bomb for Brian. Peggy grew physically weaker by the day, but her spirit remained strong. Each one of her smiles pierced his heart. She would ask him why he looked so sad, for he found it difficult to smile, though he pretended that everything was all right. When he wasn't at the hospital, he would spend most of his time at home, alone in his room. There were times when he would bang his head uncontrollably against the wall until it hurt. He would cry, shamelessly, and throw mad fits for no reason. His life was falling apart, almost as if it was him that was dying.

It was two weeks after Peggy's eighth birthday that she passed away. Though expected, it broke Brian's heart. No amount of anticipation could have prepared him for the silence that was Peggy's passing.

As Brian forced himself to walk through door number thirty-two in the cancer ward one last time, he almost expected to see Peggy sitting on her bed. He prayed that he would see her face light up, just like it always had. It was only the emptiness and coldness of the bed that greeted him, though. He wanted to scream and smash the table lamp on the floor. He wanted to do anything to escape from the silence. Silence was a foreign entity with Peggy around, but she was gone, and its presence was so thick that it suffocated him

Then he saw the tiny paper dolls smiling back at him from the wall. Brian found a shoe box to put them in, unable to throw them away. One by one he removed them from the wall, seeing for the first time the inscriptions on the back of each: Terrah, Ivy, Nicole, Amy, Justin, Chris...and on and on. There was one name that stuck in his mind: Jesse. Jesse had been Peggy's first and best friend at the hospital. Jesse had died about one year ago. Then Brian began to recognize more names, and he realized why they seemed so familiar.

Peggy's paper dolls were all the children that had died since she had arrived. When Brian finally pulled the sixty-second doll off the wall with a quivering hand, he realized that there was one that had not been there before. It was purple, Peggy's favourite colour, with a wide crayon smile. As Brian turned the doll over and read the back, he was snapped out of his state of denial, realizing for the first time that his sister was not coming back. Tears flooded his eyes as the name, scrawled in crayon, "Peggy", screamed at him.

She had known.

In his head he could hear the sweet voice that he had known for so long, but for the first time, he understood her. All the time he had been inconspicuous, pretending that everything would turn out all right, for her benefit. (Or maybe it was for his own sake?). All along, she knew that she was going to die, yet not once did she say that it wasn't fair.

As the memories of Peggy reeled through Brian's head, he realized that he could not remember a time when she had been truly unhappy. Peggy, only a child, had accepted her disease and death as a part of her life. She faced most people's worst fear with courage, and the determination to make each day that she lived worthwhile. The dolls were a means of remembrance and symbols of life. Instead of mourning the ones that she had loved, she remembered all the joy that they had brought her. Viewing life through Peggy's eyes, Brian saw that she didn't want to be known as the girl that died of cancer, but as the girl that shone like the sun. From his perspective, each day had escorted his sister one step closer to death. Through Peggy's eyes, each day of her life gave her one more day to shine.

Wrapped up in his own sense of loss, Brian had let her illness eat away at his own mentality. Instead of being a big brother, he had given up, and now it was too late. He could have shared her life with her, if he'd only realized.

Brian looked down at the small paper doll in his hand through salty tears, and he realized that it was not too late. He could still follow in her footsteps, and learn how to seek out the best in any situation. Suddenly he felt the odd sensation of a smile. Though choked with sobs and heartache, it paved the path for more smiles in his life, that he may never have had the courage to find had it not been for Peggy's attitude. He had never realized that he knew so little about his sister, but most importantly, that he would learn so much from her, the bravest girl on earth.

From that day on, Brian learned not to dwell upon life's downsides, but to search for the positives that were sometimes hidden in the shadows of his fears.

So often do people live for the future and for what "will be", that they forget and take for granted "what is". Peggy understood that the present was a gift. Every day, she would open her gift to discover all of the splendor and happiness that it had to offer. To realize the value of the present is only half of the battle. It is having the courage and the determination to live within it that wins it.

Peggy was gone, but her memory, her heart, and all that was expressed through one child's paper dolls remained.

[Just Another Human]

Eternally Grateful

by: Colleen Duval, Source Unknown





As a young girl I remember a very special doctor name Dr. William R. Vincent. I had been to several doctors as a child, but I have a special place in my heart for Dr. Vincent. He was a Pediatric Cardiologist at UCLA back in 1971 who saved my life. I was eight years old at the time with a severe heart problem and I needed heart surgery. My Mom did not have the money to have it done, and without the surgery there was a real good chance I would not live to be thirteen years old. After contacting several organizations Dr. Vincent was able to get financial help for me through United Way, a Crippled Children's Organization.

Dr. Vincent was a handsome man; he was also very gentle and caring. I remember being in the hospital for an Angiogram test, and during the procedure I was crying hysterically, so the medical staff called in Dr. Vincent to calm me down, and he was able to comfort me when no one else could. Then the time came for me to have heart surgery; there was a fifty- percent chance that I would not make it through the surgery because it was experimental. At the time I was only the second or third person to have this procedure done, they reconstructed the main artery by using an artery from my leg. I was absolutely terrified, and again Dr. Vincent reassured me he would see to it that everything would be all right.

I had a lot of confidence and trust in Dr. Vincent; he was the most caring man I had ever known. He came to see me after the surgery, which was extremely painful but very successful, and brought me a stuffed animal. I was so surprised to get this gift from Dr. Vincent; I gave him a hug. I guess Dr. Vincent must of known I was feeling very lonely and scared because that brightened my day. You see, I had no family or friends visit me while I was in the hospital except for my Mom, and I am not sure why. I do know one thing; I had a wonderful doctor who took the time to help a scared little girl who felt all alone. This was twenty eight years ago, so wherever you are Dr. Vincent, I want to thank you for not only saving my life, but you helped me live a normal productive life, and for showing me that you truly cared, for that I will be eternally grateful to you.

[Just Another Human]

Cheering Me On

by: Kelly, Heartwarmers4u



I close my eyes as tight as they can go.

The lights go off, and my imagination switches on. Pictures flash through my mind like an old film from the fifties.

I remember driving home by myself for the first time. Now, I look into the future and imagine that I am walking across the stage to receive my college diploma. The years pass, and I hear my fianc é say "I do." I look further and listen to the gentle gurgles coming from my baby's nursery. A smile discreetly appears as memories past and thoughts of the future travel through my soul.

I journey to memories of my high school graduation, and a tear suddenly trickles down my cheek. I look into the bleachers packed with families and friends. I see my parents wrapped in pride, and I look to their side for Katie and Kevin's approval. But Katie, my older sister, is not there.

My eyes abruptly open as I am snapped back into reality. I remember being called out of Spanish class in tenth grade and taken to the hospital to see Katie, who had cancer, for the final time. It was an excruciating task, but I found the good in Katie's tragic death.

Katie's room is exactly the way she left it on a Friday night in September, 1993, when she was carried to the ambulance on a stretcher. Her James Dean poster hangs on one wall; her elementary school track ribbons and collection of porcelain masks hangs on the others. Her bed is neatly made and lined with stuffed animals -- typical of a girl who would visit her sloppier friends and, without prompting, start vacuuming their rooms.

Katie died just a few weeks into her freshman year at the University of Miami. At eighteen she was 5'5'' tall and had straight shoulder length blond hair, big blue eyes, and pale clear skin. Her senior year in high school, Katie was the varsity cheerleader captain and valedictorian.

More importantly, though, she was my best friend. After all, when she was six years old, she had declared herself old enough to take care of her little sister and brand new baby brother, because she thought our mother was not sharing us enough with her. This caring attitude continued throughout her life. Katie would always braid my hair, go shopping with me, and let me go out with her and her friends when I was lonely and bored. Katie would always tutor Kevin, who has a learning disability, when he needed help with his homework. She would continually drill him on his studies until he got it right. Afterwards, she would take him to go get ice cream as a reward. Clearly, Katie was not just our older sister. She was also our teacher, friend, and second mother.

Katie always surrounded herself with friends. She was constantly opening her ears, heart, and arms to someone in need. The phone was constantly ringing and her room was always crowded with people in it. Now, my house is silent.

I realize that getting caught in a pool of depression only leads to drowning. I live by looking for the positive in the worst situations. I now have a relationship with my parents and brother that means everything to me. I know what is important in life, and it is not always partying and getting A's. But most of all, I know that I can handle anything. Life is not easy, but I overcame one of its toughest obstacles.

I believe, the hardest part of death is the experiences it steals. Katie will not be clapping for me when I finally get my college diploma or giving me advice on my wedding day. My children will only hear stories of the girlhood of their aunt, both stories of reality and an imagined future.

I close my eyes as tight as they can go.

A diploma is placed in my hand. "I do" echoes from a distance. Katie says she loves me and hugs me tight on a September afternoon in 1993. Just before I cross my high school auditorium stage, I look out at the spectators in the bleachers, and I see mother and father and Kevin.

Katie is sitting right beside them, cheering me on.

[Just Another Human]

Appointment with Love

by: Sulamith Ish-Kishor, A 3rd Serving of Chicken Soup for the Soul



Six minutes to six, said the great round clock over the information booth in Grand Central Station. The tall young Army lieutenant who had just come from the direction of the tracks lifted his sunburned face, and his eyes narrowed to note the exact time. His heart was pounding with a beat that shocked him because he could not control it. In six minutes, he would see the woman who had filled such a special place in his life for the past 13 months, the woman he had never seen, yet whose written words had been with him and sustained him unfailingly.

He placed himself as close as he could to the information booth, just beyond the ring of people besieging the clerks...

Lieutenant Blandford remembered one night in particular, the worst of the fighting, when his plane had been caught in the midst of a pack of Zeros. He had seen the grinning face of one of the enemy pilots.

In one of his letters, he had confessed to her that he often felt fear, and only a few days before this battle, he had received her answer: "Of course you fear ... all brave men do. Didn't King David know fear? That's why he wrote the 23rd Psalm. Next time you doubt yourself, I want you to hear my voice reciting to you: 'Yea, though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death, I shall fear no evil, for Thou art with me.'" And he had remembered; he had heard her imagined voice, and it had renewed his strength and skill.

Now he was going to hear her real voice. Four minutes to six. His face grew sharp.

Under the immense, starred roof, people were walking fast, like threads of color being woven into a gray web. A girl passed close to him, and Lieutenant Blandford started. She was wearing a red flower in her suit lapel, but it was a crimson sweet pea, not the little red rose they had agreed upon. Besides, this girl was too young, about 18, whereas Hollis Meynell had frankly told him she was 30. "Well, what of it?" he had answered. "I'm 32." He was 29.

His mind went back to that book - the book the Lord Himself must have put into his hands out of the hundreds of Army library books sent to the Florida training camp. Of Human Bondage, it was; and throughout the book were notes in a woman's writing. He had always hated that writing-in-habit, but these remarks were different. He had never believed that a woman could see into a man's heart so tenderly, so understandingly. Her name was on the bookplate: Hollis Meynell. He had got hold of a New York City telephone book and found her address. He had written, she had answered. Next day he had been shipped out, but they had gone on writing.

For 13 months, she had faithfully replied, and more than replied. When his letters did not arrive she wrote anyway, and now he believed he loved her, and she loved him.

But she had refused all his pleas to send him her photograph. That seemed rather bad, of course. But she had explained: "If your feeling for me has any reality, any honest basis, what I look like won't matter. Suppose I'm beautiful. I'd always be haunted by the feeling that you had been taking a chance on just that, and that kind of love would disgust me. Suppose I'm plain (and you must admit that this is more likely). Then I'd always fear that you were going on writing to me only because you were lonely and had no one else. No, don't ask for my picture. When you come to New York, you shall see me and then you shall make your decision. Remember, both of us are free to stop or to go on after that - whichever we choose..."

One minute to six - he pulled hard on a cigarette.

Then Lieutenant Blandford's heart leaped higher than his plane had ever done.

A young woman was coming toward him. Her figure was long and slim; her blond hair lay back in curls from her delicate ears. Her eyes were blue as flowers, her lips and chin had a gentle firmness. In her pale green suit, she was like springtime come alive.

He started toward her, entirely forgetting to notice that she was wearing no rose, and as he moved, a small, provocative smile curved her lips.

"Going my way, soldier?" she murmured.

Uncontrollably, he made one step closer to her. Then he saw Hollis Meynell.

She was standing almost directly behind the girl, a woman well past 40, her graying hair tucked under a worn hat. She was more than plump; her thick-ankled feet were thrust into low- heeled shoes. But she wore a red rose in the rumpled lapel of her brown coat.

The girl in the green suit was walking quickly away.

Blandford felt as though he were being split in two, so keen was his desire to follow the girl, yet so deep was his longing for the woman whose spirit had truly companioned and upheld his own; and there she stood. Her pale, plump face was gentle and sensible; he could see that now. Her gray eyes had a warm, kindly twinkle.

Lieutenant Blandford did not hesitate. His fingers gripped the small worn, blue leather copy of Of Human Bondage, which was to identify him to her. This would not be love, but it would be something precious, something perhaps even rarer than love - a friendship for which he had been and must ever be grateful.

He squared his broad shoulders, saluted and held the book out toward the woman, although even while he spoke he felt shocked by the bitterness of his disappointment.

"I'm Lieutenant John Blandford, and you - you are miss Meynell. I'm so glad you could meet me. May...may I take you to dinner?"

The woman's face broadened in a tolerant smile. "I don't know what this is all about, son," she answered. "That young lady in the green suit - the one who just went by - begged me to wear this rose on my coat. And she said that if you asked me to go out with you, I should tell you that she's waiting for you in that big restaurant across the street. She said it was some kind of a test. I've got two boys with Uncle Sam myself, so I didn't mind to oblige you."

[Just Another Human]

Big Oak Tree

by: T. Lynn, Source Unknown





Tommy was eleven and Sabrina soon would be.
Every morning they would meet beside the big oak tree.
In the summer, they would play together in the sun
And sit beneath the big oak tree when the day was done.

One time when they were talking of growing up some day
They agreed they'd meet back there and maybe even stay.
By the big oak tree they could build a little home
And they would be together and neither one would roam.

When Tommy was thirteen and Sabrina soon would be,
They stood together one last time beside the big oak tree.
Tommy had to leave for his family soon would move.
He took his pocketknife and in the big oak made a groove.

The groove was Tommy's simple way of giving her his word.
As he spoke so softly, this is what Sabrina heard:
"On your eighteenth birthday, I'll return to our oak tree.
Then we will be together forever--you and me."

City life was hectic and the years did quickly fly.
Tommy never once forgot Sabrina's last good-bye.
He had marked the calendar each year on her birthday.
Soon he'd see the big oak tree and, maybe, even stay.

He would hold Sabrina's hand; together they'd agree
To stay beside each other--close to the big oak tree.
Tommy headed for the tree one Sunday afternoon.
It was her eighteenth birthday and he would see her soon.

When Tommy reached the tree, he found a written note.
It was from Sabrina's mom, and here is what she wrote:
"Sabrina cannot meet you; she won't be here today.
In this envelope is what Sabrina has to say."

He opened up the letter and his hands began to shake.
As he read Sabrina's words, his heart began to break.
"Tommy, dear, I know that you are standing by our tree.
When you see a big oak tree, always think of me.

"I won't be here to meet you; the Angels came my way.
Nothing else would keep me from meeting you today.
Look up in the sky, and you'll know that I can see
You standing there and waiting--beside our big oak tree."