Chicken Soup For The Soul

[Rhonda]

Kids from Mars
By Joe Kirkup


Vietnam was two months and sixty nightmares behind me. I had frightened or angered all of my friends and family, so I got in my car and just drove away.
From Connecticut, I had zigzagged south till I found myself on some mid-Florida, two-lane byway with an empty gas tank and an empty wallet. It was time for my first experience with a pawnshop.
In Bartow, at about midstate, I found such a place. I had decided to sacrifice the almost new Akia reel-to-reel tape recorder I’d purchased while overseas. It had cost me $200 at a time when I was only making $215 per month. That amount included an extra $55 per month called “hostile fire pay,” which works out to a little less than eight cents per hour to duck bullets. Not much, but I was grateful for the extra money all the same.
The pawnshop guy was willing to give me $15. He told me I’d be better off to drive to Florida Southern College in Lakeland and try to sell the Akia to some student. I took his advice and moved on.
The Mustang was breathing what gasoline vapor remained in the empty tank as I stopped alongside one of the large brick buildings on the FSC campus. I was expecting the worst. My experience with college kids since returning home had been entirely negative. I hated to put myself at the mercy of a collection of what I expected to be longhaired, sloppily dressed, self-important, spoiled brats.
Two young men approached me as I stood next to the car wondering what to do. They wore shirts with button-down collars, loafers, short hair and smiles. “We really like your car.”
“Uh, thanks.”
“Are you a student?” they asked politely.
To the casual observer, the three of us probably looked much the same: twenty-year-olds standing next to a high-powered convertible on a college campus. In fact, the differences were monumental. They were studying for exams and daydreaming of a bright future. I was wandering aimlessly and trying not to think about how hard it is to pry a weapon from a dead man’s hand.
I explained that I wasn’t a student and about my desire to sell the recorder. They asked to see it.
“Where did you get it?” The question was asked in an informational, not accusatory, tone.
“Vietnam.” I waited for the clouds to form in their eyes.
The attitude of polite sincerity with which they had treated me never wavered. One of the students said he and his brother might want to buy the Akia and asked if I could wait while he located his sibling. I agreed.
The brothers and I agreed on a price of $100. They apologized profusely when they were only able to scrape together $90. Meanwhile, they and their friends had begun to ask me about my experiences in the war. To my surprise, their questions were not hostile. They were obviously founded in a genuine desire to obtain some firsthand impressions to compare with the torrent of government-filtered information provided by the newspapers and TV.
Our conversation went on for hours. I fielded questions from ten or so male students while we ate dinner together. Then they asked me if I would like to shower and spend the night in their dorm. Compared to bathing in a pond and sleeping in the Mustang, it sounded like a great idea.
Twenty minutes of hot water took away all the road dust and some of my anxiety. But more than the food and the shower, it was absolutely wonderful to talk to people who actually seemed to respect me for what I had done. I kept waiting for the other shoe to drop, for the return of a familiar reproach: “Killer. Fool. You should have known better.” It never came.
The brothers’ dorm room was crowded with shiny, inquisitive faces. The questions flew, several at a time, always polite and always well informed. I didn’t realize America still had kids like this. I decided they were kids from Mars.
We talked till after midnight. I did my absolute best to be objective and impartial. They were amazed to learn that we were almost never allowed to shoot first. And that to do so could actually result in a court-martial. They were incredulous when I described going house to house trying to separate the good guys from the bad guys. I told them we did not - as had been reported - kill them all and let God sort them out. In America, in 1968, that was news.
They would have grilled me till the sun came up. I finally apologized and begged for some time to sleep. Everyone shook my hand and courteously retreated.
In the morning, they asked me to stay on. I was tempted. Perhaps here, surrounded by these kids from Mars, I would be able to leave my troubled memories behind. But, in the end, I decided to go. Richer - by a lot more than $90 - I packed up my ghosts and said good-bye.

Reprinted by permission of Joe Kirkup (c) 1992

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[Rhonda]

Stubbly Dooright
By Marty Becker, D.V.M., with Teresa Becker


For years, my wife Teresa taught physical education at the elementary school level. Traveling on a regular schedule to the six schools in her district, she had a chance to get to know most of the kids in the area and see them at their best - and their worst.
Childhood is tough enough, but gym class strips away all the veneers, exposing the unvarnished truth beneath. There's nothing like PE class to display your strengths or frailties, your bravado or timidity, your blue-ribbon-winning athletic skills or complete lack of coordination. Worst of all, with people choosing sides, there's no doubt where you stand in life's pecking order. Some of us have been, and all have suffered for, the person picked last.
At one of the schools, whose gray façade and asphalt playgrounds reflected the mood of the depressed downtown area in which it stood, Teresa noticed a third-grade child who was one of those always picked last. The girl, let's call her Meagan, was short and grossly overweight, with a closed and hopeless look on her face. Meagan always sat alone in class, played alone at recess and ate alone out of a recycled-paper sack at lunch. The teachers and staff were kind to Meagan, but the students were not.
The stories made your shoulders drop. Teresa heard that when the playground supervisors turned their backs, kids would run up and touch Meagan on a dare, then run off to "infect" others with her "cooties." Mockingly calling her "Meagan the Munchkin," they did far worse than isolate her; they filled her school days and walks home with physical and emotional torment. Teachers who had met with Meagan's single mother, a hard-working woman who was trying her best to "make two ends that had never met each other meet," were told that weekends were special for Meagan - not because she had sleepovers and was invited to movies or parties, but because being away from the other kids, in the privacy of her room, meant the misery would stop, at least until Monday and the long walk to school.
Meagan's situation disturbed my wife deeply. After talking with the principal and other teachers, Teresa came up with an idea. She knew from talking to Meagan that the child had never had a pet. Teresa was sure a pet would be the perfect way to inject some high-powered love and acceptance into Meagan's life. Teresa told Meagan that she needed to talk with her mom about something important and asked her if she'd have her pick her up from school one day soon. Anxious that something was wrong, Meagan's dutiful and caring mother came the very next day.
Teresa recounted Meagan's school problems to her and, finally, broached the subject of a pet for Meagan. To my wife's surprise and delight, Meagan's mom said she thought it would be a great idea. She agreed to come down to the veterinary hospital where I practiced so she could look at the various strays and castoffs we'd accumulated, selecting from among them the perfect pet for Meagan.
The very next Saturday afternoon - after we had closed, but before we'd left for the day - Meagan and her mom walked in the back door as we had arranged. When the door buzzer sounded, the dogs engaged in a predictable and vigorous clinic-chorus of barking.
Getting down on one knee, I introduced myself to Meagan and welcomed her and her mother to my office. I noticed that Meagan, like any creature that has been abused, had a lot of hurt in her eyes - so much, in fact, that I had to look away momentarily to compose myself.
I escorted them to the back runs, where the homeless pets were kept. I fully expected Meagan to fall for one of the mixed-breed terrier puppies who had been dropped off in a box at our door earlier that week. The puppies had spiky hair, huge, liquid brown eyes and pink tongues that ran in and out like pink conveyor belts on overtime.
But, while Meagan really liked the puppies, she didn't love them. As we moved down the row to examine some more "used models," out sauntered the clinic mascot, a tiger-striped American shorthair cat that had lost one leg to a hay mower while he was out mousing in an alfalfa field at first cutting. With a stub for a right hind leg, he had been given the name Stubbly Dooright.
Stubbly had a peculiar habit of rubbing up against you, purring, and then biting you hard enough to get your attention but not enough to break the skin. It was love at first bite when Stubbly clamped onto Meagan's pinky finger, and she playfully lifted the cat almost off the ground. You could plainly hear Stubbly purring in his vertical position.
Meagan left the clinic that Saturday afternoon, glowing with happiness. Now she had a living, breathing friend who wanted to play with her, who loved to cuddle up next to her on the sofa and sleep next to her on the bed. Her mother later told us that when Meagan came home from school, Stubbly would rush to the door, Lassie-like, and follow her from room to room through the house. Like a feline boomerang, Stubbly would leave to do "cat things," but would always find his way back to her side.
Energized by Stubbly's unconditional love, limitless affection and loyalty, Meagan began to blossom. Though she still might never be Homecoming Queen, she did find fellow pet lovers who befriended her, and things began to improve for her - physically, emotionally and socially.
Ten years later, Teresa and I received an invitation to the high-school graduation ceremony from Meagan, whom we were thrilled to read was one of the co-valedictorians of her class.
On graduation day, we joined the throngs of family and friends seated in the auditorium watching the seniors get their diplomas. When Meagan strode to the podium, head high and beaming, I hardly recognized her. Now an attractive young woman of average height and athletic build, Meagan gave a speech on the importance of acceptance and friendship that kept the crowd riveted. She was going to be a communications major in college and clearly was gifted in this regard.
At the conclusion of the speech, she talked about the special friend s he'd met in the third grade who had helped her climb the steep and treacherous slope of her childhood. The friend who had comforted her when there wasn't enough to eat in the house because her mother had been laid off from work, and who had stayed by her while she sobbed her heart out after a boy had asked her to a dance on a dare with no intention of taking her. The special friend who had been there to mop up her tears or to make her laugh when she needed it most.
With the gymnasium full of people in the palm of her hand, Meagan said she'd now like to introduce this special friend, and she asked her friend to come to the stage to be recognized. Meagan looked to the right; no one was coming down the aisle. Meagan looked to the left; still no one approached the stage.
It was one of those moments when you ache for the speaker, and people started swiveling in their seats, craning their necks, buzzing with conversation. After what seemed like an eternity, but was actually less than a minute, Meagan suddenly said, "The reason my friend didn't come to the stage is because he's already here. Plus, he's only got three legs, and it's hard for him to walk sometimes."
What? There wasn't anybody new at the stage, and what kind of person has three legs?
With high drama, Meagan lifted her hands high—displaying a photograph of Stubbly Dooright. As she described her beloved cat, the crowd rose to their feet with cheers, laughter and long, thunderous applause.
Stubbly Dooright may not have been there in person, but he was definitely there in spirit - the same spirit that had made all the difference in the life of a very lonely child.

Reprinted by permission of Marty Becker, (c) 2004

[Rhonda]

Bank On It
By Rhonda Rhea


I don't want to admit how debit-card-dependent I am. It's getting embarrassing. One day I couldn't find my card. I looked everywhere all afternoon. Even by the next morning there was still no trace of the card. I searched high and low, near and far - even under the sofa cushions. I found thirty-seven cents, three marbles, a T shirt (how had we ignored that lump?), seven M & M's, a screwdriver, my favorite sunglasses, and the TV remote (hey, we'd been looking for that thing) - but no card.
I rifled through my purse for the gazillionth time. I found a ball of fuzz resembling a dead rodent, the rest of those M & M's, enough breath mints to freshen a platoon, and at least four different shades of nail polish, all hidden among a ream of receipts I would never need - but still no card.
I checked our bank account online to make sure no one had used the rogue card. Nope, no extra charges (though how in the world could all those be mine?) Still, I was just this side of panic.
Why is it I wait until panic starts to set in before I remember where I really need to turn? I'll have my quiet time with the Lord and then I can resume the hunt with more peace, less panic, I told myself.
I opened my Bible where I had marked my place the day before - and out fell my card! I had absent-mindedly stuck it between the pages as a bookmark, a weird move spiritually and financially.
What a lesson my Father taught me in the pages of His Word that morning, about where I should run. And believe it or not, the real treasure was not even card-related. Psalm 119:14-16 read, "I rejoice in following your statutes as one rejoices in great riches. I meditate on your precepts and consider your ways. I delight in your decrees; I will not neglect your word."
Debit cards may come and go, but our wealth is only in Him. So let's give credit where credit is due.
Or debit. Whichever.

Reprinted by permission of Rhonda Rhea (c) 2005 `````````

[Rhonda]

That's My Cat
By Mary Knight


February 1991. Operation Desert Storm is raging; our country is at war. Here at home, my house is strangely silent - the result of both the absence of my eleven-year-old son, Zach, who is spending the weekend with his father, and the void left by the death of my mother, who will never again interrupt me with an ill-timed phone call. As if war, separation and death are not enough, Valentine's Day lurks around the corner, with no lover or beloved in sight.
This is the clincher. At age thirty-seven, I have yet to experience a Valentine's Day that comes through on its Hallmark promise. For whatever reason, when February 14 rolls around, boyfriends take a hike or I receive valentines from admirers I wish had stayed secret. This year, my sense of abandonment is profound.
Out of this mire of despair, I have an idea: Forget the man. I will get a cat.
A long-haired, pink-nosed, calico female cat is what I have in mind. But, suddenly, the image of a black male cat pops into my head. Just as suddenly, I reject the thought. No black cats and no males, I decide. Black cats are too mysterious, too sleek and aloof. And male cats, too independent and too likely to spray. Bottom line: A black, male cat doesn't seem cuddly enough.
And so, on this fateful day in February, I call the local humane society and ask if they have any calico female cats. "You're in luck!" the voice at the other end of the line says. "We have a calico female kitten just waiting to be adopted."
"Great!" I say. "That's just what I'm looking for."
After hanging up, I immediately launch into a nest-making frenzy—vacuuming, dusting, cleaning and organizing. It never occurs to me that a little kitten wouldn't know the difference or even care. Mothers nest, so that's what I do.
With the home fires now burning brightly, I launch my blue Mazda in the direction of the animal shelter, all the while thinking about my mother. My mother always occupied a lot of my time, but her recent death has made her an even more frequent companion, unlimited now by the constraints of time and space.
My mother hated cats for as long as I could remember - until, that is, one walked into her life. It was Christmas in northern Michigan, and my brother Michael, my son Zach, and I had convened at my mother's house to celebrate the holidays.
There was a scratch at the door. My mother opened it. In walked a cat, a huge presence of a cat with long, black-and-brown-mottled fur coated with a dusting of snow. He entered the house like he had been there before. He had an enormous head with round yellow eyes and a broad, flat face. Looking up at my mother, he meowed, as if to say, "Merry Christmas" or "So nice to see you again." His face reminded us of a mug shot on a most-wanted poster, so we named him Muggs.
He was the only cat my mother ever loved, and he only stayed the week. When my brother and I were getting ready to return to our own homes, apparently, so was Muggs. My mother was convinced that he embodied the spirit of my brother Ricky, who had died at the age of five. Who were we to argue? Somehow, it made sense. Muggs returned the following year, same time, same place, only to leave at the end of Christmas week, this time never to return.
Driving up to the humane society, I decide to name my new cat Muggs, in memory of my mother and in deference to her hope that death isn't the end. Right now, I want to believe that, too.
I park my car in the shelter's circular driveway and crunch through the snow to the door. A spry older man in a light-blue shirt greets me at the reception counter. "Hi there! What can I do for you?"
"I've come for the calico kitten," I announce.
"I'm sorry, miss. The calico was just adopted about an hour ago."
I feel as if I have been sucker-punched. That cat was supposed to be mine. Why didn't I run over the minute I got off the phone?
"Hey!" the attendant said, brightening. "Her brother is still here."
"No," I say. "I don't want a male cat." My despondency is as thick as quicksand and just as slippery. "Okay," I say finally. "Do you have any other cats I could look at?"
"Do we have other cats?" he replies with a wry grin.
He guides me down a long narrow hallway to a room with cage after cage of cats: sleek cats, fluffy cats, dainty cats and chunky cats. Tigers, torties, white ones and gray ones. And they all just sit there, or lie there plastered against the back of their cages, staring coolly at me with complete indifference. Cats are so good at that, I suddenly remember. What was I thinking?
And then I hear something: a strange, low vibration and the tinkling of a bell. As I proceed down the row of cages, the vibration and bell get louder, until I finally identify their source. There, in the last cage at the end of the line, is a tiny black kitten, batting a plastic jingle ball around its cage and purring at the top of its little kitty lungs. Ah, I think, this must be the calico's brother. Imagine that, a black male cat.
His antics amuse me, and I find myself stirred by his show of life. But then, as if propelled by some counter-magnetic force, I turn abruptly away from his cage, searching in earnest for what I really want.
Except that, now, compared to the vibrant little one, the other cats seem even more lifeless, like four-legged zombies or feather dusters on sticks. The purring and jingling black kitten emanates a presence that tugs and beckons, reeling me in. Come see! Come see me! And so I do.
"Oh my, little one. What are we going to do?" I ask out loud, quietly, as he rubs against the bars of his cage, leaning toward my touch. As if on cue, the attendant appears and says, "Want to hold him?"
"Okay," I breathe, knowing all the while that I am losing my grip on something and sinking fast. Not into quicksand this time, but into something softer, darker, more comforting, like the sleek black velvet of this little one's body in my arms.
As the kitten crawls up my jacket and against my neck, purring loudly into my ear, I read the sign at the side of his cage:
Black male cat.
Purrs like a motorboat.
Name: Muggins.

I am not making this up.
"So, what do you think?" grins the attendant, holding the cage door open.
"I think," I say through my tears, "this is my cat."

Reprinted by permission of Mary Knight (c) 2004

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[Rhonda]

Color me loveable
By Barrie Dolnick
Most of us have a favorite color. Maybe you're drawn to sky blue because
it makes your eyes stand out or you find forest green particularly
comforting. Whatever the case, your preferred hue can reveal a lot about
what makes you tick. And the same holds true for the people you
date-you'd probably have a different impression of a date if he or she
said, "My favorite color is yellow," versus "My favorite color is
black." That's because color speaks a powerful, silent language. And I
can help you understand it. I'm a success coach and best-selling author
of Simple Spells for Love and other books, and I've studied color
theory. So, look up your favorite color below - and your date's
best-loved shade - and get some colorful insights that will benefit
your romantic life.

Red
What it represents: Ah, the color of passion, anger and high blood
pressure. Red is a primal color. It represents primal urges, like lust
("I must have you now!") and fury (you know the phrase, "seeing red,"
right?). Yes, red is a commanding color: Think of how stop signs get you
to halt in your tracks and how you stand back when a red fire engine
goes whizzing by.
Understanding people who love it: They act - sometimes without
thinking - on immediate desires. In fact, they're usually the poster
child for immediate gratification. It's up to you if you go for it... or
proceed with caution. Orange
What it represents: OK, orange is not exactly the easiest color to wear
and it's not the most common favorite color, but guess what? Orange is
as sexy as it gets. Orange is a mellowed red-and it takes primal,
lusty urges and mellows them with a softer vibe. Orange is the color of
early attractions, emotional responses, and inner magnetism. Oh, and one
other thing: Orange is also close to gold, the color of success and
wealth.
Understanding people who love it: Someone who likes orange is alive with
feelings, the ability to nurture, and can intuit a path to success. If
your favorite color is orange, you don't have an "off" switch when it
comes to passion. This is all good stuff, but there's nothing casual
about the connections this kind of person usually forges.

Yellow
What it represents: Yellow is the color of the sun, vitality, power and
ego... but it's not a great indicator of romance. Watch out for
self-centered, me-first energy when someone prefers yellow to the rest
of the rainbow.
Understanding people who love it: If yellow is your favorite color,
temper your use of the word "I" when you're interested in someone else.
You can come across as too ego-centric. Now, if you're dating someone
whose favorite hue is yellow, make sure to jump in and share stories
about yourself, since this person may not give you much room.

Green
What it represents: Here is the heart of the matter. Green is the color
of love. (It's no coincidence that we make our money in the same
color...) Green is the color of life and abundance - leaves, grass,
plants - it's all about growing, expanding, and living. So why don't
we give ferns instead of roses on Valentine's Day? Because green is
about expansive, humanistic love and acceptance, not bodice-ripping
romance. What's more, green is a nice person color, a do-gooder,
be-gooder kind of color. This person has a warm heart. Hot passion is
probably in there somewhere, buried under the integrity and honor.
Understanding people who love it: If you love green, you put the greater
good before your own good-but try a little selfish behavior once in a
while.
Blue
What it represents: Blue is a color of clarity, communications and
charm. And regardless of the shade, this hue says: "I like to be
understood." On the downside, under stress, a "blue" person can send
mixed messages, have trouble making up their mind, or just space out.
Understanding people who love it: If blue is your favorite color, you
never run out of anything to say-expression is your strong suit. And
if you're dating someone "blue"? The same holds true; you should always
know where you stand.
Purple
What it represents: Purple evokes the energy of illusion, imagination
and fantasy. Or should we say purrrrple? Purple tends to inspire
foreplay, romance, flirtation and teasing-it builds anticipation with
playfulness. The downside of purple is unrealistic expectation. Is it
easier to live in your fantasy world than the real world? Some
purple-lovers prefer it.
Understanding people who love it: If you love purple you can be an
imaginative romantic or prefer imaginary romance-depending on how you
feel.
White
What it represents: White is light-the combination of all colors.
White symbolizes purity (the virginal bridal dress, the christening
gown) and spirituality. There's a simplicity to it, too.
Understanding people who love it: People who love white are probably
clean and orderly. While white isn't the sexiest color, it is certainly
healthy.

Black
What it represents: Like white, black is a combination of all colors,
but instead of purity, it represents the unknown, the unseen-mystery.
Black basically holds back information... but there's no denying that it
has strong associations in our culture with "the dark side" and evil.
Understanding people who love it: If your favorite color is black, you
are more hush-hush than ha-ha. The silence of this color lets others
fill in the blanks. Black says "I'm not telling you anything." People
who love black can be tough nuts to crack, but quite possibly worth the
effort.

[Rhonda]

The Doorman
By Jean P. Brody

World War II had blessedly and finally ended in Europe. Paris. Every one of the soldiers was scarred from the horrors they had seen and of which they had been a part. My husband, Gene, was one of those men. Perhaps this was why he was particularly drawn to the French, who are people of tremendous personal warmth.
Paris. The hotel's most impressive feature was its doorman, Monsieur Jean Fratoni. He would greet each visitor with "Bienvenue à Paris" Paris"), spoken in his rich baritone.
He treated every young serviceman as a special friend, almost like a son. They had liberated his country, and he loved them for it.
Europe had to go. When they left Paris and Hotel Napoleon, many shared tearful good-byes with Monsieur Fratoni.
Europe. Finally, with my emotional support, he was ready to see the towns he'd helped to set free; to travel the roads he'd walked while German soldiers on the hills on either side of the road had fired on them, picking the American soldiers off like flies; to visit cemeteries where so many of his buddies lay buried. When we finally arrived in Paris, we went to register Gene for the upcoming marathon at an American-owned hotel. But then Gene had an idea: "Let's find Hotel Napoleon and stay there."
We got in the car, and after asking directions, we found it. In 1945, it had been a simple hotel, definitely of the no-frills variety. Paris.
Listening to my heart, I said, "Oh, but it's so beautiful, and to think, you stayed in this very place all those years ago. Suddenly Gene drew in a breath and whispered, "Ohhhhh."
"Bienvenue à Paris," he said in a tremulous but rich baritone. Finally, he stepped out of our car and stood facing the doorman.
Swallowing hard, he said simply, "You were here during World War II, weren't you?"
Gene continued, "So was I. My name is Brody."
"Je me rappelle, cher ami. The hotel was very expensive, but they found us a tiny room with a bath that we felt we could afford. When we were taken to our room, it was not the "least room in the inn" but, rather, an elegant suite with antique furniture and priceless rugs.
To Monsieur Fratoni, Gene was still the young soldier who had liberated his beloved France. "Seulement le mieux pour vous"

Reprinted by permission of Jean P. Brody (c) 1998



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[Rhonda]

Too Late
By Esther Copeland


My ninety-year-old mom, Bert, is in the late stages of Alzheimer's and has been in a nursing home for twelve years.
I am her only family and love being with her as much as I can. We find meaningful, loving times together. I sing to her. We hug. We speak primarily through touch. Once a fun, witty woman, now she rarely has lucid moments where we can communicate. I am simply that 'nice lady.' She cannot move herself at all. Her hands are atrophied and the only movement of her body is when the nurses turn her in bed every two hours.
One day an aide went to check on my mother, who had been sleeping. She was shocked to find Mom on the floor, with no apparent injury, still asleep and snoring. The aide called to the nurse, "Bert has fallen out of bed!" The nurse immediately headed to her room saying, "Bert doesn't move. She doesn't roll. This can't be."
Even when in the room, looking at my mother on the floor, she was amazed and repeated, "This can't be! Bert doesn't move or roll."
The aide wondered out loud, "Maybe we should pull up the bed rails."
From my mother, came, "Don't you think it's a little late for that now?"
Mom grinned. The staff burst into laughter.

Reprinted by permission of Esther Copeland (c) 2003

[Rhonda]

Delayed Gratification
By Patricia K. Cameransi


Any woman who has dealt with infertility knows the painful longing that accompanies the condition. When my husband and I decided it was time to think about having a baby, I never dreamed it would be a ten-year venture with infertility doctors, consultants and lawyers. Although I was brought up in a very loving family, I was an only child, and I always wanted several children of my own when I married.
Unfortunately, my mother had taken the fertility hormone DES (diethylstilbestrol) when she was pregnant with me, which was later linked to numerous medical problems in women, ranging form ovarian cancer to infertility. But because my mother was no longer alive, much of the medical information vital to my condition was unavailable. After my husband Ben and I had tried for nine months to conceive, I knew deep down that having a baby of our own would be a long ordeal.
The first year consisted of fertility drugs coupled with artificial insemination. We felt certain this would work and were discouraged when it failed. In vitro fertilization (IVF) was then suggested, which is a process where the woman is injected with fertility drugs to enable her body to produce an increased number of eggs. The eggs are retrieved and fertilized outside the body, then placed back in her womb. Our first try was successful, and we were ecstatic. I was very careful, feeling so lucky to finally be pregnant, but I unfortunately miscarried twins at eleven weeks.
The disappointment was unimaginable, but that same year I went through two more IVFs; one was an unsuccessful fertilization and the other time I miscarried. After so many months of hoping and praying, living by my cycle, doctor visits, blood tests, and discouraging phone calls, I knew that my mind and body needed a break.
For the next two years, both my husband and I changed jobs and settled into a life of two working professionals. If we couldn't be parents quite yet, we would be successful in our careers. After a move to Baltimore, we decided to look into treatments again, as well as the possibility of adoption. So, back to the same grind of injections, tests, doctor's appointments - but all with the same disheartening results: no baby.
In the meantime, we had some very dear friends, Kathy and Shawn, who had just had their second baby, a boy. They already had a three-year-old daughter, and Ben and I were their children's godparents. When we visited their home near Seattle to attend the new baby's christening, Kathy made it clear that she and Shawn felt satisfied with their family and didn't intend to have any more children. They offered to carry a baby for us if we got to the point where we might consider using a gestational carrier. Deeply grateful for their offer of love, we told them that we hadn't given up completely on trying ourselves, but that we would think about it.
We investigated adoption but learned that the average cost in the state of Maryland was between $18,000 and $25,000. We were shocked and again discouraged as that was out of the financial picture for us. After six more laborious and unsuccessful IVF attempts, with spirits depleted, I finally picked up the phone and made the most difficult call of my life. It was a cold, clear, January morning when I poured my heart out to my dear friend Kathy, and asked if she would still be willing to carry a baby for me. What a feeling to know there was someone in the world with enough love and sympathy in her heart to offer such a gift! I would be eternally and profoundly grateful.
With renewed hope, we began the process of having my frozen embryos sent overnight to a Seattle fertility clinic. Kathy would have to make a two-hour drive every day for two weeks for the procedure, which she did -
graciously, generously sacrificing time with her family so that her friend might have a family. It was May 1997, and at the same time Kathy was trying to get pregnant with my embryos, I was also giving it "one last try" at home. I figured with both of us working at it, certainly something magical would happen.
No luck. Kathy and I were both unsuccessful, and for the four months following that sad time, Ben and I were dazed, numb, almost mournful. We had used all our options - we had now been trying for nine years and we were at the end of the road.
Our insurance was also running out. I had been covered for the very expensive IVF treatments, but the coverage would end in December that year. Because Kathy was so willing and encouraging, we opted to let her try one more time before the end of the year. So in October, our doctor was more than willing, once again, to perform the necessary procedure to retrieve, fertilize, freeze and ship my eggs to Seattle. Ben and I agreed this would be our last (the eleventh!) try at IVF. If it didn't work this time, we would somehow accept the grave reality that God didn't intend for us to have a family of our own; we would be grateful for what we had and devote our life to each other and our extended family.
But at the last minute there was a hitch with the insurance company: A regulation stated that in the case where a gestational carrier is being used, two embryos (of the normal ten to twelve retrieved) must be implanted in the real mother (a "good faith" act, of sorts) while the other embryos are given to the carrier. Although we had hoped all the frozen embryos could be sent to Seattle for Kathy's use, we, of course, complied with the policy.
While we awaited news of Kathy's IVF results, I was scheduled, as is routine in the IVF process, for a pregnancy test. The appointment fell on the day after Thanksgiving. Normally in an IVF, four to six embryos were implanted in me; this time, because it was just an insurance requirement, there were only two, and I knew my chances of becoming pregnant were slim to none. So as I set out at 5:30 a.m. that morning on the two-hour drive for my pregnancy test, I wondered why I was even bothering.
After arriving home many hours later, I answered the phone to a nurse's voice telling me – incredibly - that I was pregnant, that my blood hormone levels were fantastic, and that I should consider this a probable "keeper" - a true gift! Weeks later, when Ben and I heard the rapid little beat of our baby's heart through the doctor's stethoscope, we could hardly control our tears. We knew this baby was a gift from God - the results of ten years of persistence, prayers and great love.
My dear friend Kathy could curtail her noble efforts. Ben and I would have our baby's sweet smell and giggles on the carousel after all. The price we had paid through our prolonged trial and our tears would be small payment, indeed, for the beautiful, warm bundle of a very healthy Benjamin George Cameransi III, born August 2, 1998.

Reprinted by permission of Patricia K. Cameransi (c) 1998

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[Rhonda]

The Starter Jar
By Debra Ayers Brown
Aunts, uncles and cousins balanced plates on laps and tried to catch up on news since the last time. Today was no exception, making it hard to leave.
Georgia pines. "Wait!" my thirty-eight-year-old cousin, Doug, yelled.
"You forgot your sourdough bread," he said in his slow Southern drawl. I stared at the jar tucked into a large Baggie filled with ice and wondered how I would get the strange substance home without creating a mess. "Here's the recipe to make it," Doug added. "Put it in the refrigerator when you get home, but don't forget it. They love it." As we drove home, I remembered how Mom had said that Doug made it a point to get to know his neighbors, mostly retirees. I stopped cold. The ache behind my eyes spread down to my throat. I held it close to my chest for what seemed like an eternity.
Once I found it, I sat on the floor and stared at his handwriting. Wow. He went to a lot of trouble, I thought.
How he had stirred it two or three times, daily. And he had done this again and again for others?
Even on the Fourth of July, people from all walks of life came to mourn his tragic death. Atlanta, where his department was assigned to security. But now as I sat on the floor, emotionally spent, I couldn't dwell on the grief. He had been right. You can't let a hectic life keep you from enjoying life - and your friends. Suddenly, it was important that I make Doug's bread. Essential food for the body and good to the taste just like friendship, I could almost hear Doug saying.
I picked up the phone and called my neighbor.
"I know that I've been neglecting my friends," I confessed, "so how about coming over for some sourdough bread?

Reprinted by permission Debra Ayers Brown (c) 2001

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[Rhonda]

Banana, Anyone?
By Robert Darden


Captain's log, Whaler's Bay, Antarctica, summer 1986, water temperature - twenty-eight degrees: Today, we met our first iceberg, saw our first humpback whale . . . and Mr. George Blair performed his barefoot water-skiing along the beach.
With that notable feat, "Banana" George Alfred Blair became the first person to water-ski - barefoot or otherwise - on or off all seven continents.
And that's only one of his spectacular accomplishments. This octogenarian is a member of the Water Ski Hall of Fame, world-champion water-skier in a number of age divisions and skill categories, eleven-time American barefoot water-ski champion, wake-boarder, noted philanthropist and banana fanatic.
George's homes in the United States and elsewhere are positively glowing with yellow. His speedboat, telephones, two Cadillacs, wet suit and skis are yellow. Each Christmas at Cypress Gardens, he wears a yellow Santa suit and hands out gifts. His name? Banana Claus.
George Blair overcame his family's poverty caused by the Great Depression and survived two potentially paralyzing accidents to water-ski his way into near-legendary status in this country and abroad. During his sophomore year of college, his friends decided to go to Fort Lauderdale for Easter. Since he didn't have any money, George hopped a freight train for Florida.
"So here I was on this freight car with nothing but a can of beans. Unfortunately, there were two other hobos in the same freight car, and when they saw my can of beans, they wanted it. When I refused, they picked me up by my arms and my legs and threw me off the train. I landed on my spine."
George's back never fully recovered. His only hope was what was still considered a risky experimental procedure in 1954 - a spinal fusion operation. The thirty-nine-year- old was in the hospital for more than three weeks. At home, he stayed in bed for three months. Then the doctors told him to go down to Florida and sit around in the warm waters, relax and let it mend.
Which is what he did. "I'd sit in the water every day and watch the ski school on the inland waterway," George says. "Finally, the fellow who ran the school talked me into water-skiing. I tried to beg off, saying, 'I'm too old. I've just had a terrible back operation.'
"Anyway, he did get me out, and I was successful immediately because he was a good teacher with good equipment. Before long, my wife, four daughters and I were all skiing together behind a boat at one time." Today, George can ski barefoot for fifteen minutes at a stretch. He says his feet are so tough, he'll never need a podiatrist.
In a remarkably short time, George has become one of the featured attractions at Cypress Gardens. He opens most shows by being ripped off the beach by a speedboat, rising to his bare feet, then circling the grandstands with the tow rope held in his teeth. George attributes his seemingly inexhaustible energy to exercise and a sensible diet. One small, yet significant component to George's diet is the banana.
"Because bananas are yellow and are God's most nearly perfect food, I have an affinity for bananas," he says. He gives away about two tons of bananas each year. In September 1990, Chiquita called Banana George and asked what they could do for him. George responded, "You can start by furnishing my bananas . . . about two tons a year." When they asked where he wanted them sent, he answered, "I'll let you know." And he has. Wherever George goes, whether to perform or to compete, he calls up Chiquita and they send him bananas. Lots of bananas.
George says that it is getting close to time to prepare for another show at Cypress Gardens, but he has a few parting words of wisdom: "My advice to sixty-year-olds who want to be doing this is that there is hope for all of us, even me. Every day I try to do a little better. And you ought to, too. Start easy, but go for it. And set goals.
"I still have all kinds of goals. Most recently I've learned to wake board. I can't wait to test myself with the next goal, with the next accomplishment. I've got all kinds of things I want to be doing. There are not enough seconds in each minute or enough minutes in each hour, for me to do what I want to do. That's my problem."
That, and how to get rid of two tons of free bananas each year.

Reprinted by permission of Robert Darden (c) 2000