Oprah Winfrey
Page 58
The True Spirit of Christmas
If you can't change your fate, change your attitude.
Amy Tan
One more hour, I thought. Just one more hour and I'm free. It was Christmas Eve and I was stuck in beauty college. It wasn't fair. I had better things to do than wait on fussy old women with blue hair. I had worked hard and fast to get four shampoo-sets and one manicure finished before lunch. If I had no more appointments scheduled, I could leave at two o'clock. Just one more . . .
''Number seventy-one. Carolyn, number seventy-one."
The receptionist's voice over the intercom made my heart fall to my stomach.
"You have a phone call."
A phone call. I exhaled a sigh of relief and headed up front to take the call.
As I reached for the phone, I gave the appointment pad a cursory glance to confirm my freedom. I couldn't believe it. I had a 4:30 perm. No one in her right mind would have her hair done on Christmas Eve. No one
Page 59
would be so inconsiderate.
I glared at the receptionist behind the counter. "How could you do this?"
She took a step backward and whispered, "Mrs. Weiman scheduled you." Mrs. Weiman was the senior instructor, the biddy of the ball. When she spoke, no one argued.
"Fine," I hissed and turned to the phone. It was Grant. His grandmother had invited me to Christmas Eve dinner, and could I be ready by three o'clock? I fingered the diamond snowflake necklace he had given me the night before. Swallowing the lump in my throat, I explained the situation. After an interminable silence, he said we'd make it another time and hung up. Tears stung my eyes as I slammed the phone down and barricaded myself behind my station.
The afternoon hung bleak and gray, echoing my mood. Most of the other students had gone home. I had no other patrons until the 4:30 perm, and I spent the time at my station, stewing.
At about 4:15, Mrs. Weiman stuck her pinched face around my mirror and advised me in her soft, no-nonsense tone, "Change your attitude before she gets here," then quietly stepped away.
My mood would change all right, from angry to murderous. I grabbed a tissue and whisked away the fresh tears.
My number was called at 4:45. My tardy, inconsiderate patron had arrived. I strode brusquely up front to greet a very shriveled, frail old woman gently supported by her husband. With a tender voice, Mrs. Weiman introduced me to Mrs. Sussman and began escorting her to my station. Mr. Sussman followed us, mumbling his apologies for bringing her in so late.
I was still feeling put upon, but I tried not to show it. Mrs. Weiman cradled Mrs. Sussman closely as she lowered her into my chair. When she began raising the
Page 60
hydraulic chair, I feigned a smile and took over, stepping on the foot pump. Mrs. Sussman was so small, I had to raise the chair to its full height.
I placed a towel and plastic drape around her shoulders, then jumped back, aghast. Lice and mites were crawling over her scalp and shoulders. As I stood there trying not to retch, Mrs. Weiman reappeared, pulling on plastic gloves.
Mrs. Sussman's gray top knot was so matted, we couldn't pull the hairpins out. It disgusted me to think anyone could be so unkempt. Mrs. Weiman explained that we'd have to cut her hair to get the mat out, and Mrs. Sussman just looked at us with tears streaming down her cheeks. Her husband held her hands tenderly in his as he knelt beside the chair.
"Her hair was her pride all of her life," he explained. "She put it up like that on the morning I took her to the nursing home."
Evidently her hair hadn't been combed or cleaned since that morning nearly a year before. His eyes misted over, and he shuffled to the waiting room.
Mrs. Weiman cut the matted top knot gently away, revealing a withered scalp peeling with yellow decay. She worked patiently and lovingly, and I feebly tried to help where I could. A perm would eat through her scalp like acid. It was out of the question. We bathed her scalp gently, trying to dislodge the lice without tearing her hair out. I dabbed antiseptic ointment on her festering sores and twisted her sparse hair into pincurls. The curls were held in place by gel, for we didn't dare scrape her scalp with clips. Then we gently fanned her curls dry near the warmth of the radiator.
Mrs. Sussman slipped a palsied hand into her tiny bag and drew out a tube of lipstick and a pair of white lace gloves. Mrs. Weiman dabbed the lipstick softly on her lips,
Page 61
then carefully threaded the shaking hands into the dainty gloves. My thoughts were drawn to my grandmother, who had recently passed awayhow she always put on lipstick before walking to the mailbox on the curb. I thought of stories she told of her youth, when no proper lady would be seen in public without her gloves. Tears formed in my eyes as I silently thanked God for having taken her with dignity.
Mrs. Weiman left me to sterilize my station and returned with Mr. Sussman. When he saw his wife, their mutual tears flowed unchecked. "Oh, my dear," he whispered, "you've never looked lovelier."
Her lips trembled in a smile.
He reached into his coat pocket and presented Mrs. Weiman and me each with a small nativity set: Joseph, Mary and the baby Jesus. They were small enough to fit in the palm of my hand. I was filled with love for this man and his sweet wife. For perhaps the first time in my life, I knew the true spirit of Christmas.
We walked the Sussmans up front. There would be no fee this night. We wished them a Merry Christmas and saw them outside. It was snowing lightly, the first snowfall of the season. The flakes looked like powdered diamonds. I thought briefly of Grant and the dinner I had missed and knew that on this Christmas Eve, his grandmother would understand.
Carolyn S. Steele
Page 62
Veronica's Babies
If someone listens, or stretches out a hand, or whispers a kind word of encouragement, or attempts to understand a lonely person, extraordinary things begin to happen.
Loretta Girzatlis
When I was in third grade, Mrs. Margaret McNeil was my teacher. She was young, vibrant and very pretty. She taught me and all the other impressionable boys and girls in her class the basics. Even those kids who were perceptually impaired or had serious disabilities miraculously learned, too. Everyone mastered third-grade reading and writing thanks to Mrs. McNeiland Veronica.
Veronica was a huge, variegated spider plant suspended in the window of our classroom in a large, glistening-white, hanging basket. Every year, it produced babieslittle plantlets on slender stems that cascaded over the rim of the pot. When you learned to read and write to Mrs. McNeil's "satisfaction," you were awarded one of Veronica's babies. None of the students could wait to get one.
Page 63
On the big day, first you watered Veronica, and then Mrs. McNeil handed you the special scissors. You got to snip off a baby and name it. With Mrs. McNeil guiding you, you next planted it in moist soil in a styrofoam cup and wrote its new name on the outside with a green marker.
I'll never forget that March day when I had learned to read and write well enough. I went through Mrs. McNeil's ritual and carried home a small plant. I named it Rose, after my mother. I was so proud because I was one of the first boys to get one.
By the time June rolled around, every boy and girl in the class had received one of Veronica's babies. Even Billy Acker, who was mildly retarded and struggled the hardest of all of us, did well enough to get one.
Over the summer, we all had to promise to write Mrs. McNeil a letter and let her know how Veronica's baby was doing. She advised us to use a dictionary to help with difficult spellings.
I remember writing that my mom and dad helped me transplant the baby into a white hanging basket, and that its roots had grown really long.
During the summer, I kept my baby outside on our patio, and when fall arrived, I took it indoors to hang in front of my sliding glass door, where it got plenty of good light.
Years passed and Veronica's baby thrived. It produced babies,
just as Veronica had donemany babies. I snipped them off and potted them up in hanging baskets, five to a basket. My dad would take them to work and sell them to his coworkers. With the extra money, I'd buy more hanging baskets and soil, and eventually I started a small business.
Thanks to Veronica's baby, I became interested in houseplants. Of course, my dad, who nurtured my interest in all kinds of plants, gets some of the credit, too. And
Page 64
while Mrs. McNeil first taught me to read and write well, it was Dad, again, who cultivated these skills in me.
When he called one weekend recently to tell me Mrs. McNeil had passed away, I knew I had to attend the wake. I journeyed home and sat with my wife, Carole, in a crowded funeral parlor. Mrs. McNeil lay there as if she were peacefully asleep. Her hair was silver, and there were many wrinkles on her powdered face, but other than that, she looked just as I remembered her. Hanging to her left by the window was Veronica, with many babies cascading over the rim of her basket. Veronica, unlike Mrs. McNeil, hadn't changed one bit.
Many people chatted about their remembrances of Mrs. McNeil, of third grade, of learning how to read and write better in order to get one of Veronica's babies, of her dedication.
When a vaguely familiar face rose to speak, the place grew suddenly silent.
''Hello, my name is Billy Acker," the man stammered. "Everyone told my mom and dad that I'd never be able to read and write because I was retarded. Ha! Mrs. McNeil taught me good how to read and write. She taught me real good."
He paused, and a large tear rolled down his cheek and stained the lapel of his gray suit. "You know, I still have one of Veronica's babies."
He wiped his eyes with the back of his hand and continued. "Every time I write or read an order in the shop, I can't help but think of Mrs. McNeil and how hard she worked with me after school. She taught me real good."
Many others spoke about Mrs. McNeil after Billy, but none matched him for his sincerity and simplicity.
Before we left, Carole and I talked to Mrs. McNeil's daughters and admired all the beautiful flower arrangements that lined the room. A good half of them were from
Page 65
Acker's Florist. A huge, heart-shaped spray of white carnations with a bold red banner caught our attention at the back of the room. Written in big black letters, it said: If you can read this, thank a teacher. Underneath it, in shaky, almost illegible penmanship, were the words: Thank you Mrs. McNeil. Love, your student, Billy Acker.
George M. Flynn
Page 66
Seeing with the Heart
Nothing in life is so hard that you can't make it easier by the way you take it.
Ellen Glasgow
I was blind! It was only for six weeks, but it seemed an eternity.
During that time, I was in a Columbus hospital, very scared, very alone, and extremely homesick for my husband and five kids. I am sure the darkness exaggerated these feelings even more. I spent hours, even days, wondering if I would ever be able to see my children again. I had spent so much time feeling sorry for myself that when the nurse announced I was getting a roommate, I was far from excited. Ironically, I didn't want anyone to "see" me this way. Like it or not, within a short time, my roommate moved into the bed on the other side of the room. Her name was Joni.
Despite my best efforts to dwell in self-pity, I almost immediately started liking Joni. She had such a positive attitude, was always so cheerful, and never complained about her own illness. She often sensed my fear and
Page 67
depression and somehow convinced me that I was lucky not to be able to see myself in the mirror during this time. My hair was a mess from lying in bed for a week, and I had gained several pounds from the cortisone IV's. Joni could always get me to laugh at her crazy jokes.
When Joe, my husband, came to visit, he sometimes brought all five kids with him. Can you imagine dressing five kids under six years old? It often took hours to find ten shoes and socks that matched. I had coded the kids' clothes in those days, and all you had to do was match a Pooh Bear top with a Pooh Bear bottom, and your child was in style! Well, Joe didn't know this, so the kids came to visit in quite a mixture of costumes. After they were gone, Joni spent hours telling me what each one had worn. Then she read to me all the little "I love you's," and "Please get well soon, Mommy's" from the cards they had brought. When friends sent fresh flowers, she described them to me. She opened my mail and told me how lucky I was to have so many friends. She helped me at mealtime to find my mouth with the food. Again, she convinced me that just for the moment perhaps, I was lucky that I couldn't see the hospital food!
One evening, Joe came alone. Joni must have sensed our need to be alone; she was so quiet I wasn't sure she was in the room. During his visit, Joe and I talked about the possibility that I might never see again. He assured me that nothing could change his love for me, and that somehow, no matter what, we would always have each other. Together we would continue to raise our family. For hours, he just held me in his arms, let me cry, and tried to make my dark world a tiny bit brighter.
After he left, I heard Joni stirring in her bed. When I asked her if she was awake, she said, "Don't you know how lucky you are to have so many people loving you? Your husband and kids are so beautiful! You are so lucky!"
Page 68
At that moment, I realized for the first time that during our weeks together in the hospital, Joni hadn't had a husband or child visiting her. Her mother and minister came occasionally, but they only stayed a very short time.
I had been so wrapped up in myself, I hadn't even allowed her to confide in me. From her doctor's visits, I knew she was very sick, but I didn't even know with what. Once, I heard her doctor call her illness by a long Latin name, but I had never asked what it meant. I hadn't even taken the time to inquire. I realized how selfish I had become, and I hated myself for it. I turned over and started to cry. I asked God to forgive me. I promised the first thing the next morning, I would ask Joni about her illness, and I'd let her know how grateful I was to her for all she had done for me. I'd tell her that I did indeed love her.
I never got the chance. When I awoke the next morning, the curtain was pulled between our beds. I could hear people whispering nearby. I strained to hear what they were saying. Then I heard a minister repeating, ''May she rest in eternal peace." Before I could tell her I loved her, Joni had died.
I learned later that Joni had come to the hospital for that very reason. She knew when she was admitted that she would never return home. Yet she had never complained and had spent the final days of her life giving hope to me.
Joni must have sensed her life was ending that last night when she told me how lucky I was. After I had cried myself to sleep, she had written me a note. The day nurse read it to me that morning, and when my vision later came back, I read it time and again:
My friend,
Thank you for making my last days so special! I found great happiness in our friendship. I know that
Page 69
you care for me, too, "sight unseen." Sometimes to get our full attention, God must knock us down, or at least make us blind. With my final breath, I pray that you will soon be seeing again, but not especially in the way you think. If you can only learn to see with your heart, then your life will be complete.
Remember me with love,
Joni
That night, I awoke from a deep sleep. As I lay in bed, I realized I could vaguely see the brightness of the tiny light along the baseboard. My vision was coming back! Only a little bit, but I could see!
Yet even more important, for the first time in my life, I could also see with my heart. Even though I never knew what Joni looked like, I am sure she was one of the most beautiful people in the world.