Nicole Fortuna, ten
Grandma’s Cloud Game
I worked hard picking that bouquet of dandelions from the field in back of Grandma’s house. When I presented my gift to Grandma she smiled and hugged me.
“Oh, child,” she’d said, “you warm the cockles of my heart.”
“You have cockles in your heart, Grandma?”
She laughed. The best part of Grandma was her laugh. It wasn’t exactly the sound so much as the way it filled her whole face, and the way her belly made her white apron wiggle.
Grandma placed the dandelions in a glass jar filled with water. They stayed on her kitchen windowsill until every last one of them was as brown as the wood it was sitting on.
Grandma smelled like vanilla and coffee. I remember the first time we made cookies from scratch. I thought one of the cups of stuff she put into the bowl was “scratch.” She explained, “There are two kinds of cookies; store bought and scratch.”
She had a secret recipe and it was magical because it didn’t matter if we put raisins or nuts or even chocolate chips in the batter, the cookies always tasted like heaven. Grandma gave me her secret scratch recipe and I keep it in my wooden treasure box under my bed.
I also have a four-leaf clover in my box. Grandma taped it to a piece of cardboard for me. We spent two hours crawling around on our hands and knees in her backyard looking for that four-leaf clover. We held hands and danced in a circle when I finally found one.
I loved spending the night with Grandma. She taught me how to play Rummy. I always added up the points because she said I was such a good counter.
The smell of coffee was usually what woke me up in the morning. Breakfast always tasted great. Breakfast started with a big kiss on my forehead followed by orange juice. Sometimes we had eggs, but Grandma knew pancakes were my favorite. She always made more pancakes than we could eat. We crumbled the leftovers and scattered them in the backyard for the birds. I think the birds came from miles around to visit her backyard when I spent the night.
Grandma had what she called a “bottomless” candy dish. We could eat candy in the afternoon and after dinner in the evening. The next morning the candy dish was full again. It always held my favorite kind—white buttery mints. Grandma taught me to hold them on my tongue and feel them magically melt. We held contests to see who could keep their mint on their tongue the longest. Most of the time Grandma won that game.
Grandma’s porch swing was my favorite place in the whole world. She sat on one side. I sat beside her and leaned against her, my feet and legs taking up the rest of the swing. I could smell Grandma’s cookies in her cotton apron and coffee on her breath as she hugged her arms around me. We found pictures in the clouds as Grandma gave the swing a nudge once in a while with her foot.
Mostly, we talked. We talked about the neighbor’s good corn crop. We talked about Dad’s job and Mom’s charity work. I told her my most important secrets and she crossed her heart she would never tell.
“Someday,” she told me, “when I’m living with the angels, you look up into those clouds and say hi to your old grandma, okay?”
“Okay, Grandma, I will.” I never worried about that day because I knew it would never come.
That was two months ago. Mom and Dad are in the house now packing Grandma’s belongings. I am sitting on Grandma’s porch swing, giving it an occasional push with my foot. The backyard is quiet. There is no laughter. I don’t know if I will ever laugh again.
Grandma is here. I feel her presence everywhere. Her kitchen still smells like vanilla and cinnamon and coffee. Maybe she’s just playing our game of hide-and-seek and she’s out of sight just beyond that old lilac bush she loved so much. I know better, but I sure wish that was true.
A white, fluffy cloud moves across the sky, directly overhead. I look up, remembering our “pictures in the cloud” game. The wind shuffles the cloud as I watch. I see Grandma! There she is, sure as the world! Her wings are spread wide and her white dress is falling in folds around her feet. She has a happy smile on her face!
“Hi, Grandma,” I call out, “I love you!” I knew she was there! She just doesn’t need this old house and all the stuff in it anymore. I see her gently wave. Smiling, I spread out on the porch swing to watch her as she floats across the sky.
Nadine Rogers
Mr. Oberley’s Star
I was nine years old the last summer that we lived next to Mr. Oberley. By then, he was retired and living alone— if you could call sharing a house with about twenty-five cats living alone. Early in the morning, I often heard shouts from his porch.
“Where did you come from?” His voice shattered the morning quiet. “Go away, Kitty! The hotel is booked!”
I smiled, knowing it was another stray. Mr. Oberley grumbled and complained, but never once did he turn away a needy cat. Their happy mewing often drifted out his open windows. Mom and Dad called it “The Cat Chorus.”
Mom told me Mr. Oberley used to be a veterinarian. Once, just for fun, he wrote a cookbook for cats. But now he spent his days in the garden, among the daffodils, his arthritic back as stiff as a board. He joked that he was too old to be good for anything but conducting The Cat Chorus.
Sometimes my parents would let me stay up late. One night Mr. Oberley and I sat together, watching the night unfold. We breathed in the sweet perfume of lilacs as lightning bugs flickered like stardust strewn across the lawn. A parade of cats trampled over my stomach before scurrying into the purple dusk.
As the first star appeared, Mr. Oberley squinted into the sky.
“Life is so much larger than we can imagine,” he said. He chuckled softly, rustling my hair. “Usually we think it’s our problems that are so vast. Look, Cindy, sweetheart, look over there.” He pointed to the largest and brightest star.
“One of these days, I’m going to climb that star and make it my swing,” he said. “I’ll ride it across the whole wide galaxy and see everything there is to see.”
My first worry was, “But what if you fall?”
“I won’t fall,” he told me. “And just think, from the vantage point of my star I’ll be able to watch you grow up. I’ll even be able to hear the cats sing.”
I thought long and hard about that. The following day, I told Mr. Oberley, in a most somber voice, that I did not want him to go off chasing stars.
“I’ll miss you too much,” I said. “And what about The Cat Chorus? The cats only sing when you’re here.”
It was true. Last year, when Mr. Oberley visited his sister, the cats had refused to sing at all. I bribed them with their favorite shrimp-flavored treats, but they didn’t give one lousy meow . . . not until Mr. Oberley came back.
“I don’t know,” he said, tiredly. “Having a star to ride sounds pretty good when you have a body as old as mine.”
Later that summer, Mr. Oberley became ill. His niece, Sarah, came to take care of him. The long, hot days passed slowly as I waited for him to get well again.
One day Mom and I brought him some chicken soup. I was shocked to see how thin he had become. He was almost too weak to lift his spoon. The worried cats serenaded him tirelessly, day and night.
The daffodils and lilac blossoms had wilted, but the roses were in full bloom the day Sarah knocked on our door.
“How is Mr. Oberley?” I asked right away.
His niece took a long, slow breath. “He told me to give you a message,” she said finally. “He said you would know what it means.”
“He found his star, didn’t he?” I said, watching her eyes fill with tears. “Mr. Oberley went to ride on that great big old star.”
Sarah nodded yes.
“And the cats?” I asked. “Who will take care of them?”
“I will,” said Sarah. She planned to move into Mr. Oberley’s house with her husband and young daughter, who was my age.
“Now you’ll have a friend,” she said.
“But Mr. Oberley is my friend,” I insisted.
“Forever
and always,” said Sarah, wiping her eyes.
After Mr. Oberley’s death, his cats refused to sing— except at night, after the first star lit the sky. And when that great big old star appeared, they sang until their hearts nearly burst. I knew then that it had to be true: Mr. Oberley was up on his star, just as he’d wanted.
Cynthia Ross Cravit
Life Is Short
For you and me, today is all we have; tomorrow is a mirage that may never become a reality.
Louis L’Amour
“Hey, man, I’m hungry,” I said. “I’m going to go get something to eat.”
My friend Gabe smiled and warmly responded, “Alright, but you’re crazy. I can’t stop. The weather’s too good! Look for me here at the bottom of this lift when you’re done. I’m gonna go take some more runs.”
I released my bindings and began to walk in the direction of the smell of hot pizza. I shouted over my shoulder, “I’ll catch up to you later.”
I didn’t think twice about those few little words at the time. My friend, Gabe Moura, and I had been snowboarding all morning. I was too hungry to take another run, so I decided to eat something at the lodge.
I remember the weather that day. It was one of those flawlessly sunny, crisp winter Sundays where it was just brisk enough to get your blood rushing but warm enough to wear a T-shirt. I had been riding in a T-shirt all day and despite the occasional patch of ice, the snow was great.
Earlier that morning, we had been tearing up the mountain. Huge aerials, blazing speed and unfading smiles were common for us. After a quick slice of pizza in the lodge, I would soon be back on the mountain with my friend. But taking a break from this snow-capped playground was just not something Gabe would do. He continued back to the crowded lift line with a sparkle in his eyes. I remember thinking, That guy is never going to stop riding, not on a day like this at least.
I finished my lunch and headed back out. The lifts were open and I didn’t see Gabe anywhere, so I went on up. I figured he was having fun up there somewhere, and I was determined not to miss out just to wait around down at the bottom for him.
On the lift, I remember seeing a big crowd at a fork in the runs. I assumed it was just another minor collision and that somebody was just complaining about their back again. I rode for a few more hours with an intoxicating combination of adrenaline and excitement flowing through my veins. I recall seeing a crowd at the fork several more times and wondering what Gabe was up to.
The day flew by, and soon it was time to go back to the hotel. As I waited for my mom at the lodge, I saw the other kids Gabe and I had been riding with that day. Mona, one of Gabe’s friends, was standing by the parking lot and she looked beat. I naturally figured it was from the insane day of riding we had all had.
As she was standing there with her shoulders drooped, I walked over to her. As I got closer, I saw that she had tears in her eyes. She told me that Gabe had been in an accident and was being flown by air-evac to Tucson. He was in a coma.
“WHAT!?!” My mind screamed, but my voice quivered. She explained that he had collided with a skier at full speed and the back of his head had landed on a patch of ice. The skier had gotten up, said a few words, then disappeared, leaving Gabe on the ground.
The car ride home to Tucson was undoubtedly one of the longest I recall. My mind played cruel games on me while my nerves wreaked havoc on my body. I remember crying uncontrollably and vomiting. That night I called the hospital but there had been no change. Gabe was still unconscious and the doctors had no prognosis.
The next day, my friends and I bought some get-well cards and headed for the hospital. Once there, we were herded into a large conference room with probably two hundred or so people. A chaplain took the podium and informed us that Gabe was brain-dead. They were taking him off life-support, and he would be officially dead within ten minutes.
My comical get-well card seemed so trivial now. My friend, who just yesterday had shared life with me on a beautiful mountaintop, was gone forever.
The ensuing weeks were filled with a funeral, candlelight vigils and mostly struggling to comprehend why. Why did someone so completely innocent, so full of life, die? How could this happen?
It’s been about eight months since Gabe died, and I still don’t know the answers to these questions. I know I never will. I do, however, know—more intimately now— that all those clichéd sports commercials are so true. Life is short. There is no method or reason to life if you just wander through day to day. You must find your passion and live it, but be safe. There is no reason to take chances with your life. If Gabe had been wearing a helmet he would probably be alive today. Life is fragile enough as it is. It comes and goes as fleetingly as a falling star.
I strive to make my life exceptional and extraordinary, but it is difficult. You can eat well and exercise daily for an hour at the gym, but unless you truly experience life, it is all for nothing. It is so much easier to become apathetic or lazy. I see people letting their lives revolve around the TV. I see people overcome by greed and the almighty dollar, working horrendous hours at jobs they despise.
But I know I must be different. I must strive to make a difference. Gabe is my inspiration. He made a difference, in life and now in death. While he was here, Gabe brightened people’s days and made the world a richer, more loving place for his family and friends. His passion for life was something he spread to everyone, but an extraordinary person like Gabe couldn’t stop there.
Just a few months prior to his accident, he told a family member, “If anything ever happens to me, I would want all of my organs to be donated.”
The heart that so many girls fought for is now beating strongly inside of a sixty-two-year-old man, who is engaged to be married soon. Gabe’s liver went to a thirty-three-year-old husband and father. One kidney went to a woman and the other to a man. Two people that could not see before, do, thanks to Gabe’s eyes. Between thirty-five and fifty people received tissue from Gabe’s body.
Gabe not only still lives in the memories of his family and friends, he lives on in the hearts and lives of fifty other people, who are now alive and healthy because of him. Gabe set an example for all of us. You never know how much time you are going to have to live your life, so pursue your passions and make the right choice now. Make your life matter.
Scott Klinger, sixteen
[EDITORS’ NOTE: To find more information about helping save lives through organ donation, go to www.livingbank.org. or www.gabemoura.com.]
In Every Thought
Some people come into our lives and quickly go. Some stay for a while and leave footprints on our hearts. And we are never, ever the same.
Unknown
I don’t remember exactly when he came into my life. He was just always there. My grandfather was the most incredible person in the world.
Some days Papa, as I called him, and I would go down to a little creek that flowed into the river and go fishing. He taught me how to cast, reel, and the scariest of all, bait a hook. I remember what it was like to catch my first fish, which Papa called a blue gill. For the first time in my life, I felt I had accomplished something useful. I was proud of myself.
Other days we’d sit on the front porch in the rocking chairs he had made and talk.
But the thing I most loved was when we’d go out to the barn and he’d make things out of wood. He made me my first rocking horse when I was four. It wasn’t anything fancy, but like me, Papa believed if it came from the heart, then that alone made it beautiful.
Above all, anything that could bother a seven-year-old was something that I could always talk to him about. Papa would set me on his knee and listen to me cry. He made the world go away with one hug.
Whenever I needed punishment, he always talked to me about what I had done. He’d ask me why I made that mistake, while every other authority figure I knew went straight to physical punishment. He was the one person who had my respect, and who actually treated me with respect in return.
&nb
sp; Something else I admired was that he didn’t treat me like a girl who only related to pink ribbons and Barbies. He treated me like a person.
When I turned eight, a horrifying fact changed my life forever. That fact was death.
In September, they discovered that my Papa had cancer. It never sank in, even at his funeral the next February, that I’d never see him alive again.
The agonizing six months of his sickness were long and cruel, especially to my grandmother, who could not talk without crying. I didn’t know what death was.
Everything was a big, rushing blur. It was too much for an eight-year-old, so I blocked it out. Whatever death was, it wasn’t real to me.
Slowly, I learned I couldn’t block it out. There were no more rodeos, no more fishing, no more horses and no one left to talk to. When I walked into my grandmother’s house, there was no longer the smell of smoke mixed with coffee and sawdust, which was what Papa always smelled like. Everyone around me was sad, and I was learning what it was like to be sad.
It finally hit me that he was gone. Things started getting rough with guys and friends. I knew if Papa had been alive, he could’ve helped. Instead I faced the world alone, and believe me, there are many pressures from sixth grade to high school. The world had become very cruel to me, or so it seemed, and I missed Papa. Night after night, I would go to bed crying.
In seventh grade, I hung out with the wrong crowd. One morning, in the bathroom, a girl offered me a cigarette. All of a sudden, something clicked in my mind. Cigarettes are what had killed my Papa.