Chicken Soup Unsinkable Soul

  Dear Waymon,

  I want you to know that I have been thinking about you often since receiving your letter. You mentioned

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  how difficult it is to be locked behind bars, and my heart goes out to you. But when you said that I couldn't imagine what it is like to be in prison, I felt impelled to tell you that you are mistaken.

  There are different kinds of freedom, Waymon, different kinds of prison. Sometimes, our prisons are self-imposed.

  When, at the age of thirty-one, I awoke one day to find that I was completely paralyzed, I felt trappedoverwhelmed by a sense of being imprisoned in a body that would no longer allow me to run through a meadow or dance or carry my child in my arms.

  For a long time I lay there, struggling to come to terms with my infirmity, trying not to succumb to self-pity. I asked myself whether, in fact, life was worth living under such conditions, whether it might not be better to die.

  I thought about this concept of imprisonment, because it seemed to me that I had lost everything in life that mattered. I was near despair.

  But then, one day it occurred to me that, in fact, there were still some options open to me and that I had the freedom to choose among them. Would I smile when I saw my children again or would I weep? Would I rail against Godor would I ask Him to strengthen my faith?

  In other words, what would I do with the free will He had given meand which was still mine?

  I made a decision to strive, as long as I was alive, to live as fully as I could, to seek to turn my seemingly negative experiences into positive experiences, to look for ways to transcend my physical limitations by expanding my mental and spiritual boundaries. I could choose to be a positive role model for my children, or I could wither and die, emotionally as well as physically.

  There are many kinds of freedom, Waymon. When we lose one kind of freedom, we simply must look for another.

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  You and I are blessed with the freedom to choose among good books, which ones we'll read, which ones we'll set aside.

  You can look at your bars, or you can look through them. You can be a role model for younger inmates, or you can mix with the troublemakers. You can love God and seek to know Him, or you can turn your back on Him.

  To some extent, Waymon, we are in this thing together.

  By the time I finished Waymon's letter, my vision was blurred by tears. Yet for the first time I saw my mother with greater clarity.

  And I understood her.

  Marie Ragghianti

  Reprinted with permission from Parade ©1988.

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  The Ugliest Cat in the World

  Weakness of character is the only defect which cannot be amended.

  Francóis de La Róchefoucald

  The first time I ever saw Smoky, she was on fire! My three children and I had arrived at the dump outside our Arizona desert town to burn the weekly trash. As we approached the smoldering pit, we heard the most mournful cries of a cat entombed in the smoking rubble.

  Suddenly a large cardboard box, which had been wired shut, burst into flames and exploded. With a long, piercing meow, the animal imprisoned within shot into the air like a flaming rocket and dropped into the ash-filled crater.

  ''Oh, Mama, do something!" three-year-old Jaymee cried as she and Becky, age six, leaned over the smoking hole.

  "It can't possibly still be alive," said Scott, fourteen. But the ashes moved, and a tiny kitten, charred almost beyond recognition, miraculously struggled to the surface and crawled toward us in agony.

  "I'll get her!" Scott yelled. As my son stood knee-deep in ashes and wrapped the kitten in my bandanna, I wondered

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  why it didn't cry from the added pain. Later we learned we had heard its last meow only moments before.

  Back at our ranch, we were doctoring the kitten when my husband, Bill, came in, weary from a long day of fence-mending.

  "Daddy! We found a burned-up kitty," Jaymee announced.

  When he saw our patient, that familiar "Oh, no, not again!" look crossed his face. This wasn't the first time we had greeted him with an injured animal. Though Bill always grumbled, he couldn't bear to see any living creature suffer. So he helped by building cages, perches, pens and splints for the skunks, rabbits and birds we brought home. This was different, however. This was a cat. And Bill, very definitely, did not like cats.

  What's more, this was no ordinary cat. Where fur had been, blisters and a sticky black gum remained. Her ears were gone. Her tail was cooked to the bone. Gone were the claws that would have snatched some unsuspecting mouse. Gone were the little paw pads that would have left telltale tracks on the hoods of our dusty cars and trucks. Nothing that resembled a cat was leftexcept for two huge cobalt-blue eyes begging for help.

  What could we do?

  Suddenly I remembered our aloe vera plant and its supposed healing power on burns. So we peeled the leaves, swathed the kitten in slimy aloe strips and gauze bandages, and placed her in Jaymee's Easter basket. All we could see was her tiny face, like a butterfly waiting to emerge from its silk cocoon.

  Her tongue was severely burned, and the inside of her mouth was so blistered that she couldn't lap, so we fed her milk and water with an eyedropper. After a while, she began eating by herself.

  We named the kitten Smoky.

  Three weeks later, the aloe plant was bare. Now we

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  coated Smoky with a salve that turned her body a curious shade of green. Her tail dropped off. Not a hair remainedbut the children and I adored her.

  Bill didn't. And Smoky despised him. The reason? He was a pipe smoker armed with matches and butane lighters that flashed and burned. Every time he lit up, Smoky panicked, knocking over his coffee cup and lamps before fleeing into the open air duct in the spare bedroom.

  "Can't I have any peace around here?" he'd groan.

  In time, Smoky became more tolerant of the pipe and its owner. She'd lie on the sofa and glare at Bill as he puffed away. One day he looked at me and chuckled, "Damn cat makes me feel guilty."

  By the end of her first year, Smoky resembled a well-used welding glove. Scott was famous among his friends for owning the ugliest pet in the countryprobably, the world.

  Slowly, oddly, Bill became the one Smoky cared for the most. And before long, I noticed a change in him. He rarely smoked in the house now, and one winter night, to my astonishment, I found him sitting in his chair with the leathery little cat curled up on his lap. Before I could comment, he mumbled a curt, "She's probably coldno fur, you know."

  But Smoky, I reminded myself, liked the touch of cold. Didn't she sleep in front of air ducts and on the cold Mexican-tile floor?

  Perhaps Bill was starting to like this strange-looking animal just a bit.

  Not everyone shared our feelings for Smoky, especially those who had never seen her. Rumors reached a group of self-appointed animal protectors, and one day one of them arrived at our door.

  "I've had numerous calls and letters from so many people," the woman said. "They are concerned about a

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  poor little burned-up cat you have in your house. They say," her voice dropped an octave, "she's suffering. Perhaps it should be put out of its misery?"

  I was furious. Bill was even more so. "Burned she was," he said, "but suffering? Look for yourself!"

  "Here, kitty," I called. No Smoky. "She's probably hiding," I said, but our guest didn't answer. When I turned and looked at her, the woman's skin was gray, her mouth hung open and two fingers pointed.

  Magnified tenfold in all her naked splendor, Smoky glowered at our visitor from her hiding place behind our 150-gallon aquarium. Instead of the "poor little burned-up suffering creature" the woman expected to see, tyrannosaurus Smoky leered at her through the green aquatic haze. Her open jaws exposed saber-like fangs that glinted menacingly in the neon light. Moments later the woman hurried out the doorsmiling now, a little embarrassed and greatly relieved.
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  During Smoky's second year, a miraculous thing happened. She began growing fur. Tiny white hairs, softer and finer than the down on a chick, gradually grew over three inches long, transforming our ugly little cat into a wispy puff of smoke.

  Bill continued to enjoy her company, though the two made an incongruous pairthe big weather-worn rancher driving around with an unlit pipe clenched between his teeth, accompanied by the tiny white ball of fluff. When he got out of the truck to check the cattle, he left the air conditioner on maximum-cold for her comfort. Her blue eyes watered, the pink nose ran, but she sat there, unblinking, in ecstasy. Other times, he picked her up, and holding her close against his denim jacket, took her along.

  Smoky was three years old on the day she went with Bill to look for a missing calf. Searching for hours, he left the truck door open whenever he got out to look. The

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  pastures were parched and crisp with dried grasses and tumbleweed. A storm loomed on the horizon, and still no calf. Discouraged, without thinking, Bill reached into his pocket for his lighter and spun the wheel. A spark shot to the ground and, in seconds, the field was on fire.

  Frantic, Bill didn't think about the cat. Only after the fire was under control and the calf found did he return home and remember.

  "Smoky? he cried. "She must have jumped out of the truck! Did she come home?"

  No. And we knew she'd never find her way home from two miles away. To make matters worse, it had started to rainso hard we couldn't go out to look for her.

  Bill was distraught, blaming himself. We spent the next day searching, wishing she could meow for help, and knowing she'd be helpless against predators. It was no use.

  Two weeks later, Smoky still wasn't home. We were afraid she was dead by now, for the rainy season had begun, and the hawks, wolves and coyotes had families to feed.

  Then came the biggest rainstorm our region had experienced in fifty years. By morning, flood waters stretched for miles, marooning wildlife and cattle on scattered islands of higher ground. Frightened rabbits, raccoons, squirrels and desert rats waited for the water to subside, while Bill and Scott waded knee-deep, carrying bawling calves back to their mamas and safety.

  The girls and I were watching intently when suddenly Jaymee shouted, "Daddy! There's a poor little rabbit over there. Can you get it?"

  Bill waded to the spot where the animal lay, but when he reached out to help the tiny creature, it seemed to shrink back in fear. "I don't believe it," Bill cried. "It's Smoky!" His voice broke. "Little Smoky?

  My eyes ached with tears when that pathetic little cat

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  crawled into the outstretched hands of the man she had grown to love. He pressed her shivering body to his chest, talked to her softly, and gently wiped the mud from her face. All the while her blue eyes fastened on his with unspoken understanding. He was forgiven.

  Smoky came home again. The patience she showed as we shampooed her astounded us. We fed her scrambled eggs and ice cream, and to our joy she seemed to get well.

  But Smoky had never really been strong. One morning when she was barely four years old, we found her limp in Bill's chair. Her heart had simply stopped.

  As I wrapped her tiny body in one of Bill's red neckerchiefs and placed her in a child's shoe box, I thought about the many things our precious Smoky had taught usthings about trust, affection and struggling against the odds when everything says you can't win. She reminded us that it's not what's outside that countsit's what's inside, deep in our hearts.

  Penny Porter

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  Small Soldiers

  I intended to move my troops to a better location, not into the line of fire. As a twenty-seven-year-old single mother of four children, I tended to think of myself as a fearless leader of my brood. And, in fact, our life often reflected the austere setting of boot camp. The five of us were crammed into close quartersa two-bedroom apartment in New Jerseysand we lived a life of self-deprived discipline. I couldn't afford any of the niceties and luxuries other parents did, and aside from my mother, none of the rest of our family was involved in the kids' lives at all.

  That left me as commander in chief. Many nights, I lay awake on my bed, planning strategies to get more things for my children. Though my children never complained about what they lacked and seemed to bask in my love, I was continually on the alert for ways to improve their simple lives. When I found a five-bedroom apartment in a three-story housethe second and third stories belonging completely to usI leapt at the opportunity. At last, we could spread out. The home even had a big backyard.

  The landlord promised to have everything fixed up for us in a month. I agreed on the repairs, paid her in cash for

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  the first month's rent and the same in security, and hurried home to inform my troops we were moving out. They were excited, and we all camped on my bed that night, planning what we'd do to the new home.

  The next morning, I gave notice to my current landlord and started packing. We loaded our boxes with the precision of a well-oiled machine. It warmed my heart to see the troops in action.

  And then I realized my strategic error. I had no keys to the new house in hand, and when day after day of unreturned phone calls and fruitless searches produced no access to the house, I began to panic. I did some espionage work and called the utility company. They told me someone else had just requested new service for the same address. I'd been duped.

  With a heavy heart, I looked at my children's expectant faces and tried to find the words to tell them the bad news. They took it staunchly, though I fought back tears of disappointment.

  Already feeling defeated, I faced even worse obstacles. Our lease was now up on our current apartment. I couldn't afford rent on a new place because I'd paid so much for the house. My mother wanted to help, but children were not allowed in her small apartment. Desperate, I asked a fellow veteran fighter to help: a single mother of five who was struggling as much as I. She tried her best to be hospitable, but nine kids in four rooms. . . . Well, you get the picture.

  After three weeks, we were all mutinous. We had to get out. I had no options left, no new orders to follow. We were on the run. I stored our furniture, stuffed our winter clothes in the back of our yellow Escort, and informed my small soldiers that we had nowhere to camp for the present time except in our car.

  My sons, six and ten, met my gaze and listened intently. "Why can't we stay at Grandma's?" my oldest

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  asked. That question was followed by several suggestions of others we should be able to stay with. In each case, I had to tell them the harsh truth. "People have their own lives, Honey. We have to handle this on our own. We can do this." But if my bravado appeased them, it didn't fool me. I needed strength. Where could I get help?

  Knowing it was time to turn in for the night, I gathered up my troops, and we marched to the car. The children were calm and compliant, but my thoughts were engaged in fierce warfare. Should I do this to them? What else could I do?

  Unexpectedly, it was my own troops who gave me the strength I needed. As we lived in our car for the next four weeks, showering at my mother's in the mornings and eating at fast-food joints, the kids seemed to enjoy the odd routine. They never missed a day of school, never complained and never questioned my judgment. They were so certain of their commander's wisdom that even I began to feel courageous. We could manage this! We parked in a different spot each night, well-lighted areas near apartment buildings. When the nights grew cold, the kids cuddled in the back seat that folded down into a bed, sharing body heat and blankets. I sat in the front, keeping watch between dozes and starting the motor every so often to run the heat.