The main course arrivedbreast of chicken with lumpy gravy. Next came the vegetablesmashed potato breasts with cherry tomato nipples. The delicious green salad was served in side-by-side bowls edged in white lace with a tag that read: "Your First Wonder Bra!"
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The pièce de résistance was the dessert. On a tray jiggled perfectly contoured, peach-colored Jell-O breasts, with two red maraschino cherries placed appropriately. Between gasps of laughter, I spied a tiny white grape, buried deep inside the left one: my tumor.
"Bring me a knife. Surgery is about to commence," I announced.
With my left hand behind my back, I used a bread knife to fish for the grape. Then, with a dramatic flick, I sent the grape flying across the table.
"The operation is a success. Sew her up, girls!"
If there was ever any doubt about my macabre sense of humor over my ordeal that ended it.
The group then presented me with cotton bloomersto be my surgery attirepenned with loving messages and poems. My favorite read:
A little nip, a little tuck.
Pull one down, lift one up,
The left one's wrong, the right one's right,
(P.S. I prefer my rear be out of sight!)
As each woman hugged me, I knew I was not facing my ordeal alone.
I know there are those who will not understand the irreverence shown by my potluck friends that night; some might even be offended by the seemingly flippant way I approached what is a critical health issue to women. But my life as a single woman has taught me that you can't control what life dishes out. You can only choose how you deal with it, and who stands up with you.
It's my party and I can laugh if I want to!
The women of the Pot-Bellied Potluck taught me that.
Today, I am fully recovered and have moved to New Mexico, leaving behind those strong women. The five
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years of evenings in which we ate and laughed and ate and became our own little family have left me with a taste for their friendship that I'll never outgrow. I have learned that divorce is not the gateway to loneliness and depression, but the open door to a life of love, healing friendships, fullness and funas long as there's a recipe and a joke to be shared.
Adele Frances
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Mirror, Mirror on the Wall
When I look into the mirror I see a survivor.
I don't think about anything but living.
Well, that's not true because the farther I get from cancer, the more hopes and dreams I let creep in. When I looked into the mirror during my illness, I wasn't that bald person staring back at me. I didn't recognize myself.
My body had let me down, but I didn't want my soul to escape.
People responded to the way I looked.
I hated the pity I saw in their eyes as much as the fear.
The body is back to its original state, but the soul has taken on the wonderful layers of a survivor.
Now I celebrate
Bad-hair days
Bushy eyebrows
Stubbled legs with razor burn.
I celebrate
Blended flavors of peanut butter and chocolate
Sweet lemonade through a straw
Greasy hamburgers with bacon.
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I celebrate
Whining children
Shouting and arguing
Pulsating music and barking dogs.
I celebrate
Making plans
Dreaming
The hoping that goes with having a future.
I celebrate life.
Karen Klosterman
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8
A MATTER OF PERSPECTIVE
A kick in the rear is a step forward.
Anonymous
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Big Willy
If you always keep your face to the sunshine, you'll never see the shadows!
Helen Keller
He stood six feet, nine inches tall and weighed in at 310 pounds. Rumor had it that he'd killed a man with his bare handsjust squeezed the life out of him. It was the kind of reputation that gained respect in the rough city where we grew up. At fifteen, Willy was already a legend.
Willy and I had played together since we both wore diapers, although we were the unlikeliest of pairs. He was a massive black giant and I was a pudgy little redhead. We both worked at the factory in townI in the office, Willy on the dock. Even the hardened men who worked alongside Willy feared him.
He saw me home safely from work and I kept his secret that each night, instead of cruising the city streets, beating people up, he went home and lovingly lifted his elderly grandmother out of the chair she was confined to and placed her in bed. He would read to her until she fell asleep, and in the morning, he would comb her thin, gray
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hair, dress her in the beautiful nightgowns he bought with the money he made at the can company, and place her back in the chair.
Willy had lost both his parents to drugs, and it was just the two of them now. He took care of her, and she gave him a reason to stay clean. Of course, there wasn't an ounce of truth to the rumors, but Willy never said otherwise. He just let everyone believe what they believed, and although everyone wrote him off as just another street hood, no one hassled him either.
One day, in Western Civilization class, our teacher read aloud an excerpt from Machiavelli's The Prince: ''Since love and fear cannot exist together, if we must choose between them, it is far safer to be feared than loved." I looked at Willy and winked. "That's you," I mouthed. He just smiled.
The next day, I lingered a few minutes longer than usual at school and Willy went on without me. Just around the corner from the can company, fire trucks lined the street and a thick blanket of smoke covered the sky. A small child lay wrapped in a familiar red- and black-checkered flannel shirt, held by a tearful woman. She was talking to a fireman and a reporter from the evening news.
"This big guy heard the baby crying, and came right in and got us," she said through joyful tears. "He wrapped his shirt around the baby, and when the sirens came, he ran off down the street."
"Did you get his name?" the reporter asked.
"Yes, sort of," the woman replied. "He said it was Machiavelli."
That evening, the paper ran the story offering a reward to anyone with information about the identity of the Good Samaritan. No one came forward.
Nancy Bouchard
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Just Playing
When I'm building in the block room,
Please don't say I'm "just playing."
For, you see, I'm learning as I play.
About balance and shapes.
When I'm getting all dressed up,
Setting the table, caring for the babies.
Don't get the idea I'm "just playing."
For, you see, I'm learning as I play.
I may be a mother or a father someday.
When you see me up to my elbows in paint,
Or standing at an easel, or molding and shaping clay,
Please don't let me hear you say "he's just playing."
For you see,
I'm learning as I play.
I'm expressing myself and being creative.
I may be an artist or an inventor someday.
When you see me sitting in a chair
"Reading" to an imaginary audience,
Please don't laugh and think I'm "just playing."
For, you see, I'm learning as I play.
I may be a teacher someday.
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When you see me combing the bushes for bugs,
Or packing my pockets with choice things I find,
Don't pass it off as "just playing."
For, you see, I'm learning as I play.
I may be a scientist someday.
When you see me engrossed in a puzzle,
Or some "plaything" at my school
Please don't feel the time is wast
ed in "play"
For, you see, I'm learning as I play.
I'm learning to solve problems and concentrate.
I may be in business someday.
When you see me cooking or tasting foods,
Please don't think that because I enjoy it, it is just "play."
I'm learning to follow directions and see differences.
I may be a chef someday.
When you see me learning to skip, hop, run and move my body,
Please don't say I'm "just playing."
For, you see, I'm learning as I play.
I'm learning how my body works.
I may be a doctor, nurse or athlete someday.
When you ask me what I've done at school today,
And I say, "I've played."
Please don't misunderstand me.
For, you see, I'm learning as I play.
I'm learning to enjoy and be successful in work.
I'm preparing for tomorrow.
Today, I'm a child and my work is play.
Anita Wadley
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The Cracked Pot
A water bearer in India served his master by toting water from the stream to his master's home. He carried the water in two pots that hung on either end of a pole balanced across his shoulders.
One of the pots had a crack in it; the other pot was perfect. The perfect pot always delivered a full portion of water from the stream, while the cracked pot always arrived at the master's house only half full.
For a full two years this went on, every day the water bearer delivering one full and one half-full measures of water to the master's home. Naturally the full pot was proud of its service, perfect to the end for which it had been made. But the cracked pot was unhappy; ashamed of its imperfection, miserable that it was able to accomplish only half of what it had been made to do.
After an eternity of what it perceived to be a bitter failure, the cracked pot spoke to the water bearer one day. "I'm so ashamed of myself," it said. "I want to apologize to you."
"But why?" asked the water bearer.
"For the past two years," spoke the pot, "this crack in my side has let water leak out all the way to the master's
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house, and I have been unable to deliver but half my load. You do the work carrying me from the stream to our master's house each day, but because of my defect, you don't get full value from your effort," sighed the anguished pot.
Kindly, the water bearer told the distressed pot, "As we return to the master's house today, please notice the lovely flowers along the way."
As the trio returned up the hill, the old cracked pot noticed the winsome wild flowersthe sun glistening off their bright faces, the breeze bending their heads. But still, at the end of the trail, the faulty pot felt bad because it had again leaked out half its load, and again it apologized to the bearer for its failure.
But the bearer said to the pot, "Did you not notice that the flowers were only on your side of the path? Because I have always known about your 'flaw' I planted flower seeds on your side of the path, and every day while we wind our way walk back from the stream, you have watered them. And every day I am able to pick these beautiful flowers to adorn our master's table. Were you not just the way you are, the master would not have had this beauty to grace his house."
Willy McNamara
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A Flight of Geese
Oliver Wendell Holmes once attended a meeting in which he was the shortest man present. "Doctor Holmes," quipped a friend, "I should think you'd feel rather small among us big fellows." "I do," retorted Holmes, "I feel like a dime among a lot of pennies."
Source Unknown
Yesterday I watched a huge flight of geese winging their way south through one of those panoramic sunsets that color the entire sky for a few moments. I saw them as I leaned against the lion statue in front of the Chicago Art Institute, where I was watching the Christmas shoppers hurry along Michigan Avenue. When I lowered my gaze, I noticed that a bag lady, standing a few feet away, had also been watching the geese. Our eyes met and we smiledsilently acknowledging the fact that we had shared a marvelous sight, a symbol of the mystery of the struggle to survive. I overheard the lady talking to herself as she shuffled away. Her words, "God spoils me," were startling.
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Was the lady, this street derelict, being facetious? No. I believe the sight of the geese had shattered, however briefly, the harsh reality of her own struggle. I realized later that moments such as this one sustained her; it was the way she survived the indignity of the street. Her smile was real.
The sight of the geese was her Christmas present. It was proof God existed. It was all she needed.
I envy her.
Fred Lloyd Cochran
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Sledding
One day in early December, we woke up to discover a perfect, freshly fallen snow. "Please Mom, can we go sledding after breakfast?" my eleven-year-old daughter Erica begged. Who could resist? So we bundled up and headed over to the dike on the Lincoln Park golf course, the only hill in our otherwise flat prairie town.
When we arrived, the hill was teeming with people. We found an open spot next to a tall, lanky man and his three-year-old son. The boy was already lying belly-down in the sled, waiting to be launched. "Come on, Daddy! Come on!" he called.
The man looked over at me. "Okay if we go first?" he asked.
"By all means," I said. "Looks like your son is ready to go."
With that, he gave the boy a huge push, and off he flew! But it wasn't only the child who soaredthe father ran after him at full speed.
"He must be afraid that his son is going to run into somebody," I said to Erica. "We'd better be careful, too."
With that, we launched our own sled and whizzed down the hill at breakneck speed, the powdery snow flying in our
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faces. We had to bail out to avoid hitting a huge elm tree near the river, and ended up on our backs, laughing.
"Great ride!" I said.
"But what a long walk back up!" Erica noted.
Indeed it was. As we trudged our way back to the top, I noticed that the lanky man was pulling his son, who was still in the sled, back up to the summit.
"What service!" Erica said. "Would you do the same for me?"
I was already out of breath. "No way, Kiddo! Keep walking!"
By the time we reached the top, the little boy was ready to play again.
"Go, go, go, Daddy!" he called. Again, the father put all his energy into giving the boy a huge send-off, chased him down the hill, and then pulled both boy and sled back up.
This pattern went on for more than an hour. Even with Erica doing her own walking, I was exhausted. By then, the crowd on the hill had thinned as people went home for lunch. Finally, it got down to the man and his son, Erica and me and a handful of others.
He can't still be thinking the boy is going to crash into someone, I thought. And surely, even though the child is small, he could pull his own sled up the hill once in a while. But the man never tired, and his attitude was bright and cheery.
Finally, I could stand it no longer. I looked over at him and called, "You have tremendous energy!"