Stories
and Inspirational Messages:
The Sandbox
One day, when I was five, I went
to a local park with my mom. While I was playing in the sandbox, I noticed
a boy about my age in a wheelchair. I went over to him and asked if he
could play. Since I was only five, I couldn’t understand why he couldn’t
just get in the sandbox and play with me. He told me he couldn’t. I talked
to him for a while longer, then I took my large bucket, scooped up as much
sand as I could and dumped it into his lap. Then I grabbed some toys and
put them in his lap, too.
My mom rushed over and said, "Lucas,
why did you do that?"
I looked at her and replied, "He
couldn’t play in the sandbox with me, so I brought the sand to him. Now
we can play in the sand together."
By Lucas Parker, age 11 from Chicken
Soup for the Kid’s Soul Copyright 1998 by Jack Canfield, Mark Victor Hansen,
Patty Hansen and Irene Dunlap (TOP)
(Back
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The
Shadowland of Dreams:
Many a young person tells me he
wants to be a writer. I always encourage such people, but I also explain
that there’s a big difference between "being a writer" and writing. In
most cases these individuals are dreaming of wealth and fame, not the long
hours alone at the typewriter. "You’ve got to want to write," I say to
them, "not want to be a writer."
The reality is that writing is a
lonely, private and poor-paying affair. For every writer kissed by fortune,
there are thousands more whose longing is never requited. Even those who
succeed often know long periods of neglect and poverty. I did.
When I left a 20-year career in
the Coast Guard to become a freelance writer, I had no prospects at all.
What I did have was a friend with whom I’d grown up in Henning, Tennessee.
George found me my home - a cleaned-out storage room in the Greenwich Village
apartment building where he worked as superintendent. It didn’t even matter
that it was cold and had no bathroom. Immediately I bought a used manual
typewriter and felt like a genuine writer.
After a year or so, however, I still
hadn’t received a break and began to doubt myself. It was so hard to sell
a story that I barely made enough to eat. But I knew I wanted to write.
I had dreamed about it for years. I wasn’t going to be one of those people
who die wondering, "What if?" I would keep putting my dream to the test
- even though it meant living with uncertainty and fear of failure. This
is the Shadowland of hope, and anyone with a dream must learn to live there.
Then one day I got a call that changed
my life. It wasn’t an agent or editor offering a big contract. It was the
opposite - a kind of siren call tempting me to give up my dream. On the
phone was an old acquaintance from the Coast Guard, now stationed in San
Francisco. He had once lent me a few bucks and liked to egg me about it.
"When am I going to get the $15, Alex?" he teased.
"Next time I make a sale."
"I have a better idea," he said.
"We need a new public- information assistant out here, and we’re paying
$6,000 a year. If you want it, you can have it."
Six thousand a year! That was real
money in 1960. I could get a nice apartment, a used car, pay off debts
and maybe save a little something. What’s more, I could write on the side.
As the dollars were dancing in my
head, something cleared my senses. From deep inside a bull-headed resolution
welled up. I had dreamed of being a writer - full time. And that’s what
I was going to be. "Thanks, but no," I heard myself saying. "I’m going
to stick it out and write."
Afterward, as I paced around my
little room, I started to feel like a fool. Reaching into my cupboard -
an orange crate nailed to the wall - I pulled out all that was there: two
cans of sardines. Plunging my hands in my pockets, I came up with 18 cents.
I took the cans and coins and jammed them into a crumpled paper bag. There
Alex, I said to myself. There’s everything you’ve made of yourself so far.
I’m not sure I ever felt so low.
I wish I could say things started
getting better right away. But they didn’t. Thank goodness I had George
to help me over the rough spots.
Through him I met other struggling
artists, like Joe Delaney, a veteran painter from Knoxville, Tennessee.
Often Joe lacked food money, so he’d visit a neighborhood butcher who would
give him big bones with morsels of meat, and a grocer who would hand him
some wilted vegetables. That’s all Joe needed to make down-home soup.
Another Village neighbor was a handsome
young singer who ran a struggling restaurant. Rumor had it that if a customer
ordered steak, the singer would dash to a supermarket across the street
to buy one. His name was Harry Belafonte.
People like Delaney and Belafonte
became role models for me. I learned that you had to make sacrifices and
live creatively to keep working at your dreams. That’s what living in the
Shadowland is all about.
As I absorbed the lesson, I gradually
began to sell my articles. I was writing about what many people were talking
about then: civil rights, black Americans and Africa. Soon, like birds
flying south, my thoughts were drawn back to my childhood. In the silence
of my room, I heard the voices of Grandma, Cousin Georgia, Aunt Plus, Aunt
Liz and Aunt Till as they told stories about our family and slavery.
These were stories that black Americans
had tended to avoid before, and so I mostly kept them to myself. But one
day at lunch with editors of Reader’s Digest, I told these stories of my
grandmother and aunts and cousins. I said that I had a dream to trace my
family’s history to the first African brought to these shores in chains.
I left that lunch with a contract that would help support my research and
writing for nine years.
It was a long, slow climb out of
the shadows. Yet in 1970, 17 years after I left the Coast Guard, Roots
was published. Instantly I had the kind of fame and success that few writers
ever experience. The shadows had turned into dazzling limelight.
For the first time I had money and
open doors everywhere. The phone rang all the time with new friends and
new deals. I packed up and moved to Los Angeles, where I could help in
the making of the Roots TV mini-series. It was a confusing, exhilarating
time, and in a sense, I was blinded by the light of my success.
Then one day, while unpacking, I
came across a box filled with things I had owned years before in the Village.
Inside was a brown paper bag.
I opened it, and there were two
corroded sardine cans, a nickel, a dime and three pennies. Suddenly the
past came flooding in like a riptide. I could picture myself once again
huddled over the typewriter in that cold, bleak, one-room apartment. And
I said to myself, The things in this bag are part of my roots, too. I can’t
ever forget that.
I sent them out to be framed in
Lucite. I keep that clear plastic case where I can see it every day. I
can see it now above my office desk in Knoxville, along with the Pulitzer
Prize, a portrait of nine Emmys awarded to the TV production of Roots,
and the Spingarn medal - the NAACP’s highest honor. I’d be hard pressed
to say which means the most to me. But only one reminds me of the courage
and persistence it takes to stay the course in the Shadowland.
It’s a lesson anyone with a dream
should learn.
By Alex Haley from Chicken Soup
for the Soul at Work Copyright 1996 by Jack Canfield, Mark Victor Hansen,
Maida Rogerson, Martin Rutte & Tim Clauss (TOP)
(Back
to Stories Index)
Front
Line:
Submitted by Dave Singer
To be first at battle, first at
war,
Not knowing what the enemy has
in store.
No greater risk could any soldier
take,
To risk their lives for the nations
sake.
With all heart, all body, all mind,
and strength,
To fight the war and go any great
length.
Not because of duty or force at
all,
But the right to stand free, proud
and tall.
For the love of a nation in which
freedom stands,
For the right of religion in all
its lands.
For the freedom of speech from East
to West,
For a nation that has survived
many a test.
Although, often not recognized for
their fight,
Often losing limbs, hearing, and
even sight.
To all of these soldiers from Grant
to Lee,
Thank you for helping keep this
nation free. (TOP)
(Back
to Stories Index)
We
Can't See God?!:
Submitted by Dave Singer
One day a 6 year old girl was sitting
in the classroom. The teacher was going to explain evolution to the
children. The teacher asked a little boy:
Teacher: Tommy do you see the tree
outside?
Tommy: Yes.
Teacher: Tommy, do you see the
grass outside?
Tommy: Yes.
Teacher: Go outside and look up
and see if you can see the sky.
Tommy: OK. (He returned a few minutes
later) Yes, I saw the sky.
Teacher: Did you see God?
Tommy: No.
Teacher: That's my point. We can't
see God because he isn't there, he doesn't exist.
A little girl spoke up and wanted
to ask the boy some questions. Teacher agreed and she asked the boy:
Little Girl: Tommy, do you see the
tree outside?
Tommy: Yes.
Little girl: Tommy do you see the
grass outside?
Tommy: Yessssss (getting tired
of the questions by this time)
Little girl: Did you see the sky?
Tommy: Yessssss
Little Girl: Tommy, do you see
the teacher?
Tommy: Yes
Little Girl: Do you see her brain?
Tommy: No
Little Girl: Does that mean she
doesn't have one?
FOR WE WALK BY FAITH, NOT BY SIGHT
2nd CORINTHIANS 4:7 (TOP)
(Back
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Just Me:
From the time I was little,
I knew I was great ‘cause people
would tell me, "You’ll make it - just wait."
But they never did tell me how
great I would be
if I ever played someone who was
greater than me.
When I’m in the back yard, I’m
king with the ball.
To swish all those baskets is no
sweat at all.
But all of a sudden there’s a man
in my face
who doesn’t seem to realize that
I’m king of this place.
So the pressure gets to me; I rush
with the ball.
My passes to teammates could go
through the wall.
My jumpers not falling, my dribbles
not sure.
My hand is not steady, my eye is
not pure.
The fault is my teammates - they
don’t understand.
The fault is my coaches - what
a terrible plan.
The fault is the call by that blind
referee.
But the fault is not mine; I’m
the greatest, you see.
Then finally it hit me when I started
to see
that the face in the mirror looked
exactly like me.
It wasn’t my teammates who were
dropping the ball,
and it wasn’t my coach shooting
bricks at the wall.
The face in the mirror that was
always so great
had some room for improvement instead
of just hate.
So I stopped blaming others and
I started to grow.
My play got much better and it
started to show.
And all of my teammates didn’t
seem quite so bad.
I learned to depend on the good
friends I had.
Now I like myself better since
I started to see
that I was lousy being great -
I’m much better being me.
By Tom Krause from Chicken Soup
for the Teenage Soul Copyright 1997 by Jack Canfield, Mark Victor Hansen
and Kimberly Kirberger (TOP)
(Back
to Stories Index)
Look
Out, Baby, I’m Your Love Man:
Les Brown and his twin brother were
adopted by Mamie Brown, a kitchen worker and maid, shortly after their
birth in a poverty-stricken Miami neighborhood.
Because of his hyperactivity and
nonstop jabber, Les was placed in special education classes for the learning
disabled in grade school and throughout high school. Upon graduation, he
became a city sanitation worker in Miami Beach. But he had a dream of being
a disc jockey.
At night he would take a transistor
radio to bed where he listened to the local jive-talking deejays. He created
an imaginary radio station in his tiny room with its torn vinyl flooring.
A hairbrush served as his microphone as he practiced his patter, introducing
records to his ghost listeners.
His mother and brother could hear
him through the thin walls and would shout at him to quit flapping his
jaws and go to sleep. But Les didn’t listen to them. He was wrapped up
in his own world, living a dream.
One day Les boldly went to the local
radio station during his lunch break from mowing grass for the city. He
got into the station manager’s office and told him he wanted to be a disc
jockey.
The manager eyed this disheveled
young man in overalls and a straw hat and inquired, "Do you have any background
in broadcasting?"
Les replied, "No sir, I don’t."
"Well, son, I’m afraid we don’t
have a job for you then."
Les thanked him politely and left.
The station manager assumed that he had seen the last of this young man.
But he underestimated the depth of Les Brown’s commitment to his goal.
You see, Les had a higher purpose than simply wanting to be a disc jockey.
He wanted to buy a nicer house for his adoptive mother, whom he loved deeply.
The disc jockey job was merely a step toward his goal.
Mamie Brown had taught Les to pursue
his dreams, so he felt sure that he would get a job at that radio station
in spite of what the station manager had said.
And so Les returned to the station
every day for a week, asking if there were any job openings. Finally the
station manager gave in and took him on as an errand boy - at no pay. At
first, he fetched coffee or picked up lunches and dinner for the deejays
who could not leave the studio. Eventually his enthusiasm for their work
won him the confidence of the disc jockeys who would send him in their
Cadillacs to pick up visiting celebrities such as the Temptations and Diana
Ross and the Supremes. Little did any of them know that young Les did not
have a driver’s license.
Les did whatever was asked of him
at the station - and more. While hanging out with the deejays, he taught
himself their hand movements on the control panel. He stayed in the control
rooms and soaked up whatever he could until they asked him to leave. Then,
back in his bedroom at night, he practiced and prepared himself for the
opportunity that he knew would present itself.
One Saturday afternoon while Les
was at the station, a deejay named Rock was drinking while on the air.
Les was the only other person in the building, and he realized that Rock
was drinking himself toward trouble. Les stayed close. He walked back and
forth in front of the window in Rock’s booth. As he prowled, he said to
himself. "Drink, Rock, drink!"
Les was hungry, and he was ready.
He would have run down the street for more booze if Rock had asked. When
the phone rang, Les pounced on it. It was the station manager, as he knew
it would be.
"Les, this is Mr. Klein."
"Yes," said Les. "I know."
"Les, I don’t think Rock can finish
his program."
"Yes sir, I know."
"Would you call one of the other
deejays to come in and take over?"
"Yes, sir. I sure will."
But when Les hung up the telephone,
he said to himself, "Now, he must think I’m crazy."
Les did dial the telephone, but
it wasn’t to call in another deejay. He called his mother first, and then
his girlfriend. "You all go out on the front porch and turn up the radio
because I’m about to come on the air!" he said.
He waited about 15 minutes before
he called the general manager. "Mr. Klein, I can’t find nobody," Les said.
Mr. Klein then asked, "Young man,
do you know how to work the controls in the studio?"
"Yes sir," replied Les.
Les darted into the booth, gently
moved Rock aside and sat down at the turntable. He was ready. And he was
hungry. He flipped on the microphone switch and said, "Look out! This is
me LB, triple P - Les Brown, Your Platter Playing Poppa. There were none
before me and there will be none after me. Therefore, that makes me the
one and only. Young and single and love to mingle. Certified, bona fide,
indubitably qualified to bring you satisfaction, a whole lot of action.
Look out, baby, I’m your lo-o-ove man"
Because of his preparation, Les
was ready. He vowed the audience and his general manager. From that fateful
beginning, Les went on to a successful career in broadcasting, politics,
public speaking and television.
By Jack Canfield from Chicken Soup
for the Soul Copyright 1993 by Jack Canfield and Mark Victor Hansen
(TOP) (Back
to Stories Index)
A
Friend in Need:
My six-year-old son, Willie, was
thrilled when the tooth fairy left him a dollar.
In the morning, as Willie got ready
for school, he tucked the bill in his pocket. Afraid he might lose it,
I suggested he leave the money at home.
"Mom, I have to take it with me,"
Willie insisted. "Some of my friends don't have enough money to buy chocolate
milk."
Those kids sure have a terrific
friend. And Willie has one proud mom.
By Mary Joy Long Excerpted from
Woman's World from A Cup of Chicken Soup for the Soul Copyright 1996 by Jack Canfield,
Mark Victor Hansen & Barry Spilchuk (TOP)
(Back
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Weird
but quick TEST!:
Submitted by John Baker Jr.
A quick test. Don't cheat! Because
if you did, the test would be no fun. I promise, there are no tricks
to the test.
Read this sentence:
FINISHED FILES ARE THE RESULT OF
YEARS OF SCIENTIFIC STUDY COMBINED WITH THE EXPERIENCE OF YEARS.
Now count the F's in that sentence.
Count them ONLY ONCE: do not go back and count them again. See below...
*********************************************
Answer below:
There are six F's in the sentence.
A person of average intelligence
finds three of them. If you spotted four, you're above average. If you
got five, you can turn your nose at most anybody. If you caught six, you
are a genius.
There is no catch. Many people forget
the "OF"'s. The human brain tends to see them as V's and not F's. Pretty
weird, huh? (TOP)
(Back
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Traveling
Perspective:
A traveler nearing a great city
asked a man seated by the wayside, "What are the people like in the city?"
"How were the people where you came
from?"
"A terrible lot," the traveler responded.
"Mean, untrustworthy, detestable in all respects."
"Ah," said the sage, "you will find
them the same in the city ahead."
Scarcely was the first traveler
gone when another one stopped and also inquired about the people in the
city before him. Again the old man asked about the people in the place
the traveler had left.
"They were fine people; honest,
industrious, and generous to a fault. I was sorry to leave," declared the
second traveler.
Responded the wise one: "So you
will find them in the city ahead." (TOP)
(Back
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Timely
Departure:
To look at him you would think he was
a pauper. When you got to know him he was really a prince. Everyday he
would walk, actually shuffle, his way down to the stockbroker's office
to visit his friends and watch his investments. Every afternoon at about
two o'clock, Billy would walk through the door and bring a smile to our
faces. His cap was always on crooked, and he always wore his worn and torn
overcoat regardless of the temperature, with a scarf in the winter and
a buttoned-up shirt in the summer, and always a smile (crooked teeth and
all).
He was our unofficial leader, our spokesperson.
If Billy said it was so, then it was so! We were a handful of guys getting
together everyday to watch the stock ticker and wait for Billy's daily
words of wisdom. With his cockney accent and his reassuring wink, he seemed
to make everything seem okay no matter how the market was doing or how
gloomy things seemed in the real world. Then, one day, everything wasn't
all right. Our Billy, our 80-year-old pal, our leader, had cancer!
It didn't seem to matter anymore that
his investments would go unwatched. What was important was that we watched
Billy. He was going fast. The only family he had was an older sister in
England so we became his family. A few of us took turns sitting with him
in the hospital. Garry, who was Billy's friend and financial advisor, took
the lead watch. Garry was there almost all the time. We didn't want Billy
to be alone.
One evening, we knew the end was near.
I offered to spend the night and sit with Garry and Billy, but Garry said
to go home and that I could relieve him in the morning.
About 5:00 a.m. my wife and I were awakened
by a loud knock on our front door. I got up to see who it was, and no one
was there. At 9:00 a.m. Garry called to say that Billy had passed away
during the night. "What time did he say good-bye?" I asked.
"5:00 a.m.," was his shocking reply.
The only explanation we had for the knock on our door at 5:00 a.m. was
that Billy had "winked" good-bye for one last time!
By Barry Spilchuk from A Cup of Chicken
Soup for the Soul Copyright 1996 by Jack Canfield, Mark Victor Hansen &
Barry Spilchuk (TOP)
(Back
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Fragrance
Proverb:
The Chinese have a proverb that says,
"A bit of fragrance clings to the hand that gives flowers."
This also goes for verbal or written
bouquets. Say something nice to someone, and a bit of niceness will cling
to you.
They say you can't get something for
nothing. You can't give something for nothing, either. People who find
good things to say about others will find others saying good things about
them. (TOP)
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The
Question
Isn't it amazing how few
of us ask ourselves the important question?
Several years ago I was
invited to hear an important speaker address the student body of a small
college in South Carolina. The auditorium was filled with students excited
about the opportunity to hear a person of her stature speak. After the
governor gave the introduction, the speaker moved to the microphone, looked
at the audience from left to right, and began:
"I was born to a mother
who was deaf and could not speak. I do not know who my father is or was.
The first job I ever had was in a cotton field."
The audience was spellbound.
"Nothing has to remain the way it is if that's not the way a person wants
it to be," she continued. "It isn't luck, and it isn't circumstances, and
it isn't being born a certain way that causes a person's future to become
what it becomes." And she softly repeated, "Nothing has to remain the way
it is if that's not the way a person wants it to be.
"All a person has to do,"
she added in a firm voice, "to change a situation that brings unhappiness
or dissatisfaction is answer the question: "’How do I want this situation
to become?’ Then the person must commit totally to personal actions that
carry them there."
Then a beautiful smile
shone forth as she said, "My name is Azie Taylor Morton. I stand before
you today as treasurer of the United States of America."
By Bob Moore from Chicken
Soup for the Soul at Work Copyright 1996 by Jack Canfield, Mark Victor
Hansen, Maida Rogerson, Martin Rutte & Tim Clauss
(TOP) (Back
to Stories Index)
Nobody
Knows the Difference:
School volunteers don't
get paid money, but sometimes we receive special gifts. One morning, just
before Christmas vacation, I was selling tickets to our grade school's
last evening performance of The Nutcracker. The evening before had been
a sell out. People had lined the walls of the auditorium. Some had even
peeked in from outside to watch the show.
One of my customers that
day was a parent. "I think it's awful that I have to pay to see my own
child perform," she announced, yanking a wallet from her purse.
"The school asks for a
voluntary donation to help pay for scenery and costumes," I explained,
"but no one has to pay. You're welcome to all the tickets you need."
"Oh, I'll pay," she grumbled.
"Two adults and a child." She plunked down a ten-dollar bill. I gave her
the change and her tickets. She stepped aside, fumbling with her purse.
That's when the boy waiting behind her emptied a pocketful of change onto
the table.
"How many tickets?" I
asked.
"I don't need tickets,"
he said. "I'm paying." He pushed the coins across the table.
"But you'll need tickets
to see the show tonight."
He shook his head. "I've
already seen the show."
All the school children
saw The Nutcracker with their classes. The donation was for evening performances
only. I pushed the pile of nickels, dimes and quarters back. "You don't
have to pay to see the show with your class," I told him. "That's free."
"No," the boy insisted.
"I saw it last night. My brother and I arrived late. We couldn't find anyone
to buy tickets from, so we just walked in."
Lots of people in that
crowd had probably "just walked in." The few volunteers present couldn't
check everyone for a ticket. Who would argue anyway? As I'd told the parent
ahead of this boy, the donation was voluntary.
He pushed his money back
to me. "I'm paying now for last night," he said.
I knew this boy and his
brother must have squeezed into the back of that crowd. And being late
to boot, they couldn't possibly have seen the whole show. I hated to take
his money. A pile of coins in a kid's hand is usually carefully saved allowance
money. I wondered what he'd like to buy with it instead.
"If the ticket table was
closed when you got there, you couldn't pay," I reasoned.
"That's what my brother
said."
"Nobody knows the difference,"
I assured him. "Don't worry about it."
Thinking the matter was
settled, I started to push the coins back. He put his hand on mine.
"I know the difference."
For one silent moment
our hands bridged the money. Then I spoke. "Two tickets cost two dollars."
The pile of coins added
up to the correct amount. "Thank you," I said.
The boy smiled, turned
away, and was gone.
"Excuse me."
I looked up, surprised
to see the woman who had bought her own tickets moments earlier. She was
still there, purse open, change and tickets in hand.
"Why don't you keep this
change," she said quietly. "The scenery is beautiful and those costumes
couldn't have been cheap." She handed me a few dollar bills, closed her
purse and left.
Little did he know that
he had given us both our first gift of the Christmas season.
By Deborah J. Rasmussen
from Chicken Soup for the Kid's Soul Copyright 1998 by Jack Canfield, Mark
Victor Hansen, Patty Hansen and Irene Dunlap (TOP)
(Back
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The
Day I Figured Out That No One Is Perfect
Once there was a girl
in my class that I thought was beautiful and smart. I believed that she
was perfect. When it came time for my birthday, I invited her to my party,
and she came.
A few months later, it
was her birthday. I got a special necklace for her. Thinking about how
happy she would be to receive my gift made me so excited.
I asked her when her birthday
party was going to be. She replied, "Why do you want to know? You’re not
invited. You’re just a dork with glasses!"
I felt really bad when
she said that. I just stood there looking at her. Everyone standing by
her came to stand next to me. Then we all left.
That day, I figured out
that even if someone looks perfect, there is a very good possibility that
they aren’t. When it comes to perfection, it’s how someone treats you that
is more important than how they look.
by Ellie Logan, age 9
from Chicken Soup for the Kid’s Soul Copyright 1998 by Jack Canfield, Mark
Victor Hansen, Patty Hansen and Irene Dunlap (TOP)
(Back
to Stories Index)
Changes...
Markets change, tastes
change, so the companies and the individuals who choose to compete in those
markets must change.
But change is not always
sudden and dramatic, and the changes that can do the most harm are those
that we don't see coming. Consider the story of the frog that was dropped
into a pan of hot water. The frog immediately reacted to the heat by jumping
out of the pan.
Another frog was put into
a pan of cold water on a stove. The burner beneath the pan was turned on
low, then the heat was gradually increased so the temperature of the water
rose only a degree at a time. Change was occurring, but because it was
gradual the frog accepted it and stayed in the pan and was boiled.
In a way, we're all in
the same pan. We react immediately to dramatic changes, but we run the
risk of getting cooked if we fail to notice the little, slow changes occurring
around us. - Unknown (TOP)
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Goodwill
Annie leaned against her
locker and sighed. What a day! What a disaster! This school year wasn't
starting out the way she had planned it at all.
Of course, Annie hadn't
planned on that new girl, Kristen. And she definitely hadn't planned on
the new girl wearing the exact skirt Annie was supposed to be wearing.
It wasn't just any skirt.
Annie had baby-sat three active brothers all summer to buy that skirt and
its designer accent top. When she saw them in her Teen magazine, Annie
knew they were meant for her. She had gone right to the phone and called
the 800 number for the "outlet nearest" her.
With price and picture
in hand, she had set off to convince her mother.
"It's great, hon," her
mother agreed. "I just can't see spending as much on one outfit as I do
for all your clothes." Annie wasn't surprised, but she was disappointed.
"Well, if it's that important,
we could put it on layaway," her mom said. "You'd have to pay for it, though."
So she did. Every Friday,
Annie took all her baby-sitting money and paid down the balance.
She had made her final
payment just last week and hurried home to try on the skirt and top. The
moment of truth had arrived and she was afraid to look! She stood in front
of the mirror with her eyes squeezed shut. She counted to three and forced
herself to open them.
It was perfect. From the
side, from the back and even from the front, it was perfect. She walked,
she sat and she turned. She practiced humbly taking compliments so her
friends wouldn't think she was stuck up.
The next day, Annie and
her mother gave her bedroom the end of summer "good going over." They washed
and ironed the bedspread and curtains, and vacuumed behind and under everything.
Then they sorted through
the closets and drawers for clothes to give away. Annie dreaded all the
tugging on and pulling off, the laundering and the folding into boxes.
They dropped the boxes off at Goodwill, then headed to her grandmother's
for the weekend.
When they got home Sunday
night, Annie ran straight to her bedroom. Everything had to be just right
for her grand entrance at school the next day.
She flung open her closet
and pulled out her top and her...and her...skirt? It wasn't there. It must
be here! But it wasn't.
"Dad! Mom!" Annie's search
became frantic. Her parents rushed in. Hangers and clothes were flying
everywhere.
"My skirt! It isn't here!"
Annie stood with her top in one hand and an empty hanger in the other.
"Now, Annie," her dad
said, trying to calm her, "it didn't just get up and walk away. We'll find
it." But they didn't. For two hours they searched through closets, drawers,
the laundry room, under the bed and even in the bed. It just wasn't there.
Annie sank into bed that
night, trying to figure out the puzzle.
When she woke up the next
morning, she felt tired and dull. She picked out something - anything -
to wear. Nothing measured up to her summer daydreams.
It was at her school locker
that the puzzle became, well, more puzzling.
"You're Annie, right?"
a voice said from behind her.
Annie turned. Shock waves
hit her. That's my skirt. That's my skirt! That's my skirt?
"I'm Kristen. The principal
gave me the locker next to yours. She thought since we lived on the same
block and I'm new here, you could show me around." Her voice trailed off,
unsure. Annie just stared. How...? Where...? Is that my...?
Kristen seemed uneasy.
"You don't have to. I told her we didn't really know each other. We've
only passed each other on the sidewalk."
That was true. Annie and
Kristen had passed each other, Annie to and from her baby-sitting job and
Kristen in her fast-food uniform that smelled of onions and grease at the
end of the day. Annie pulled her thoughts back to Kristen's words.
"Sure. I'll be happy to
show you around," Annie said, not happy at all. The entire day, friends
gushed over Kristen and the skirt while Annie stood by with a stiff smile.
And now Annie was waiting
to walk Kristen home, hoping to sort this out. They chatted all the way
to Annie's house before she worked up the nerve to ask the big question.
"Where did you get your skirt, Kristen?"
"Isn't it beautiful? My
mom and I saw it in a magazine while we were waiting for my grandma at
the doctor's office."
"Oh, your mom bought it
for you."
"Well, no." Kristen lowered
her voice. "We've had kind of a hard time lately. Dad lost his job, and
my grandma was sick. We moved here to take care of her while my dad looked
for work."
All that went right over
Annie's head. "You must have saved most of your paycheck then."
Kristen blushed. "I saved
all my money and gave it to my mom to buy school clothes for my brother
and sister." Annie couldn't stand it. "Where did you get your skirt?"
Kristen stammered, "My
mother found it at Goodwill in a box that was dropped off just as she got
there. Mom opened it, and there was the skirt from the magazine, brand
new, with the tags still on it!" Kristen looked up.
Goodwill? Brand new? The
puzzle pieces finally fell into place. Kristen smiled, and her face glowed.
"My mother knew it was meant for me. She knew it was a blessing."
"Kristen, I..." Annie
stopped. This wasn't going to be easy. "Kristen," Annie tried again, "can
I tell you something?"
"Sure. Anything."
"Kristen." Annie took
a deep breath. She hesitated for a moment. Then she smiled and said, "Do
you have a minute to come up to my room? I think I have a top that would
go great with your skirt."
By Cynthia M. Hamond from
Chicken Soup for the Kid’s Soul Copyright 1998 by Jack Canfield, Mark Victor
Hansen, Patty Hansen and Irene Dunlap (TOP)
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