Chicken Soup for the Woman's Soul

  After five hours, the elevator finally moved. When the doors opened, the worried store manager, relieved to find us in such good spirits, handed out gift baskets of gourmet cheese. Saying our good-byes, the four of us exchanged addresses and promised to send holiday greetings to each other in the years to come.

  I got to my mother’s for our traditional family Christmas—a bit late, but I got there. As I closed my eyes that night, I saw not visions of sugarplums, but a handsome man in a navy suit.

  Christmas evening I returned to my apartment loaded down with gifts. Waiting for me was a single red rose and an envelope slipped under the door. Inside the envelope was a message: I could really use some help with this cheese basket. John. At the bottom was his phone number...

  John and I were married the following Christmas Eve in a sunset ceremony on a Hawaiian beach. That was many years ago, and we are still exchanging Christmas greetings with Mr. and Mrs. Phillips and enjoying a basket of gourmet cheese and wine for our midnight snack every Christmas Eve. And I still wake up every Christmas Eve morning filled with excitement at the magic of the day.

  K. M. Jenkins

  Paris in the Springtime

  I was in the garden tending my roses one spring day when Dan got down on his knees and asked me to marry him. I told him to ask me again in three months. After all, we had had our ups and downs, and I wasn’t sure either of us was ready for that type of commitment.

  Three months came and went. He didn’t ask again, and we cautiously went on as before, practicing with renewed commitment the fine art of relationship.

  That winter we began planning a spring trip to Paris. I didn’t quite know why, but my heart and soul were crying for Paris, and I’d always had a strong desire to experience that city with Dan. Now that desire was being fulfilled.

  Paris was incredible! Having been fluent in French 20 years earlier, I quickly became Dan’s translator. My French was a disaster, but since Dan hardly spoke a word of it, he thought it was perfect. He never tired of hearing me trying to apologize to waiters for slaughtering their exquisite language, or attempting to order something I’d be able to recognize when it arrived at the table.

  Romance was in the air everywhere we went, and Dan was constantly asking me how to say things in French like “kiss” and “give me your hand” and “I love you.” We boated on the Seine, walked along tree-lined boulevards for hours, drank coffee at sidewalk cafés, and fell deeply in love all over again.

  One evening, after we had just been seated in a small, quaint restaurant, Dan leaned toward me and asked, “How do you say ‘Will you marry me?’ in French?” I told him I wasn’t sure, but I thought it would be, Veux-tu me marier?

  Veux-tu me marier? he repeated.

  “Honey, that’s great!” I said. “Your pronunciation is really getting good!”

  “No,” he said emphatically. Veux-tu me marier? And he pushed a small velvet box across the table.

  I opened the box and saw two beautiful rings—an engagement and a wedding ring—and it dawned on me what was happening. As tears rolled down my face, all the waiters came rushing over to stand around the table, fussing over us and exclaiming how wonderful it was. They were still taking photographs of us when I looked at Dan and finally said, “Oui, chéri!”

  Jennifer Read Hawthorne

  Marriage Advice from 1886

  Let your love be stronger than your hate or anger.

  Learn the wisdom of compromise, for it is better to bend a little than to break.

  Believe the best rather than the worst.

  People have a way of living up or down to your opinion of them.

  Remember that true friendship is the basis for any lasting relationship. The person you choose to marry is deserving of the courtesies and kindnesses you bestow on your friends.

  Please hand this down to your children and your children’s children: The more things change the more they are the same.

  Jane We lls (1886)

  Submitted by Carol Abbs

  A Handful of Emeralds

  Life isn’t a matter of milestones, but of moments.

  Rose Kennedy

  When Jeff and I got married 16 years ago on a blustery Saturday, it never crossed our minds that the day would come when it would seem like a long time ago. Since that time, we’ve lived in eight towns and had three children. We’re on our third bottle of Tabasco sauce and I just tore up the last of the sheets we got as wedding gifts for cleaning rags. Unfortunately, most of the horrible earth-tone furniture we bought for our first apartment survives. My wedding dress hangs in the back of my closet. I can still zip it up (as long as I’m not in it). We’ve gone through four cars (alas—none of them new), and too many ups and downs to count.

  One day stands out in my memory. We were living out East and my folks had come to visit. Because we were broke and exhausted new parents, Mom and Dad kindly footed the bill for a week in a beach house at the Jersey shore. The arrangement was hard on Jeff’s ego, I was in a foul mood myself, and he and I had an enormously stupid quarrel over a game of Monopoly. He stalked out of the house and across the street to the beach. A couple of hours later, as I waited for him on the shore, he emerged from the Atlantic badly sunburned, carrying an air mattress.

  “Where’s your wedding ring?” I demanded.

  He looked down at his left hand, stricken. His finger had constricted from the cold water as he drifted on the raft. The ring slipped off and was out there with the sea anemones. I started to cry.

  “Take your ring off and throw it out in the ocean, too,” he begged me.

  “Why on earth would I throw away gold when we don’t have enough money to buy gas to get home?” I wailed.

  “Because both of our rings would be out in the ocean together.”

  Practicality won out over hearts and flowers, and I wear my ring to this day. That memory, however, has kept me going through many a time that was far from romantic.

  When our anniversary rolls around, I think of that day on the beach. And I think of what the late Charlie MacArthur told Helen Hayes when he met her at a party. He gave her a handful of peanuts and said, “I wish these were emeralds.”

  After they had been happily married for many years and MacArthur was near the end of his life, he gave her a handful of emeralds and said, “I wish these were peanuts.”

  Me, too.

  Rebecca Christian

  What Women Don’t Understand

  About Guys

  Contrary to what many women believe, it’s easy to develop a long-term, intimate and mutually fulfilling relationship with a guy. Of course, the guy has to be a Labrador retriever. With human guys, it’s extremely difficult. This is because guys don’t really grasp what women mean by the word relationship.

  Let’s say a guy named Roger asks a woman named Elaine out to a movie. She accepts; they have a pretty good time. A few nights later he asks her out to dinner, and again they enjoy themselves. They continue to see each other regularly, and soon neither is seeing anybody else.

  Then one evening when they’re driving home, a thought occurs to Elaine. She says: “Do you realize that we’ve been seeing each other for exactly six months?”

  Silence fills the car. To Elaine, it seems like a very loud silence. She thinks to herself: “Geez, I wonder if it bothers him that I said that. Maybe he feels confined by our relationship. Maybe he thinks I’m trying to push him into some kind of obligation.”

  And Roger is thinking: “Gosh. Six months.”

  And Elaine is thinking: “But hey, I’m not so sure I want this kind of relationship either. Are we heading toward marriage? Toward children? Toward a life time together? Am I ready for that level of commitment? Do I really even know this person?”

  And Roger is thinking: “So that means it was . . . let’s see . . . February when we started going out, which was right after I had the car at the dealer’s, which means... lemme check the odometer... whoa! I am way overdue for an oil change here.”

 
And Elaine is thinking: “He’s upset. I can see it on his face. Maybe I’m reading this completely wrong. Maybe he wants more from our relationship—more intimacy, more commitment. Maybe he senses my reservations. Yes, that’s it. He’s afraid of being rejected.”

  And Roger is thinking: “I’m going to have them look at the transmission again. I don’t care what those morons say—it’s still not shifting right. And they better not try to blame it on cold weather this time. It’s 87 degrees out, and this thing is shifting like a garbage truck, and I paid those incompetent, thieving cretins 600 dollars! ”

  And Elaine is thinking: “He’s angry, and I don’t blame him. I’d be angry too. I feel so guilty, putting him through this, but I can’t help the way I feel. I’m just not sure.”

  And Roger is thinking: “They’ll probably say it’s only a 90-day warranty. That’s what they’re gonna say!”

  And Elaine is thinking: “Maybe I’m too idealistic, waiting for a knight to come riding up on his white horse, when I’m sitting next to a perfectly good person who’s in pain because of my self-centered, schoolgirl fantasy.”

  And Roger is thinking: “Warranty? I’ll give them a warranty!”

  “Roger,” Elaine says aloud.

  “What?” says Roger.

  “I’m such a fool,” Elaine says, sobbing. “I mean, I know there’s no knight and there’s no horse.”

  “There’s no horse?” says Roger.

  “You think I’m a fool, don’t you?” Elaine says.

  “No!” Roger says, glad to know the correct answer.

  “It’s just that...I need some time,” Elaine says.

  There is a 15-second pause while Roger tries to come up with a safe response. “Yes,” he finally says.

  Elaine, deeply moved, touches his hand. “Oh, Roger, do you really feel that way?”

  “What way?” says Roger.

  “That way about time,” Elaine says.

  “Oh,” says Roger. “Yes.”

  Elaine gazes deeply into his eyes, causing him to become very nervous about what she might say next, especially if it involves a horse. At last she says, “Thank you, Roger.”

  “Thank you,” he responds.

  Then he takes her home, and she lies on her bed, a conflicted soul weeping until dawn, whereas when Roger gets back to his place, he opens a bag of chips, turns on the TV and immediately becomes deeply involved in a rerun of a tennis match between two Czech players he never heard of. A tiny voice in his mind tells him that something major was going on back there in the car, but he figures it’s better not to think about it.

  The next day Elaine will call her closest friend, and they will talk for six straight hours. In painstaking detail they will analyze everything she said and everything he said. They will continue to discuss this subject for weeks, never reaching any definite conclusions but never getting bored with it either.

  Meanwhile, Roger, playing racquetball one day with a friend of his and Elaine’s, will pause just before serving and ask, “Norm, did Elaine ever own a horse?”

  We’re not talking about different wavelengths here. We’re talking about different planets in completely different solar systems. Elaine cannot communicate meaningfully with Roger because the sum total of his thinking about relationships is Huh?

  He has a guy brain, basically an analytical, problem-solving organ. It’s not comfortable with nebulous concepts such as love, need and trust. If the guy brain has to form an opinion about another person, it prefers to base it on facts, such as his or her earned-run average.

  Women have trouble accepting this. They are convinced that guys must spend a certain amount of time thinking about the relationship. How could a guy see another human being day after day, night after night, and not be thinking about the relationship? This is what women figure.

  They are wrong. A guy in a relationship is like an ant standing on top of a truck tire. The ant is aware that something large is there, but he cannot even dimly comprehend what it is. And if the truck starts moving and the tire starts to roll, the ant will sense that something important is happening, but right up until he rolls around to the bottom and is squashed, the only thought in his tiny brain will be Huh?

  Thus the No. 1 tip for women to remember is never assume the guy understands that you and he have a relationship. You have to plant the idea in his brain by constantly making subtle references to it, such as:

  “Roger, would you mind passing me the sugar, inasmuch as we have a relationship?”

  “Wake up, Roger! There’s a prowler in the den and we have a relationship! You and I do, I mean.”

  “Good news, Roger! The doctor says we’re going to have our fourth child—another indication that we have a relationship!”

  “Roger, inasmuch as this plane is crashing and we have only a minute to live, I want you to know that we’ve had a wonderful 53 years of marriage together, which clearly constitutes a relationship.”

  Never let up, women. Pound away relentlessly at this concept, and eventually it will start to penetrate the guy’s brain. Someday he might even start thinking about it on his own. He’ll be talking with some other guys about women, and out of the blue he’ll say, “Elaine and I, we have, ummm...we have, ahhh...we...we have this thing.”

  And he will sincerely mean it.

  Dave Barry

  © Cathy. Distributed by Universal Press Syndicate. Reprinted with permission. All rights reserved.

  Lost and Found

  Winona was 19 when she first met Edward, a tall, handsome young man, in the summer of 1928. He had come to Detroit to visit his sister, who was engaged to Winona’s brother. Edward stayed with some friends, and although he was there for only a few days, there was enough time to get to know the lively, dark-haired young woman who intrigued him from their first meeting. They promised to write, and Edward returned to Pittsburgh.

  For many months, they wrote long, newsy letters sharing details of their lives and their dreams. Then as quickly as he came into her life, Edward left. His letters stopped, and Winona gradually accepted that he simply wasn’t interested anymore. Edward couldn’t understand why Winona had stopped writing, and he, too, resigned himself to the fact that the woman he had fallen in love with did not return his love.

  Several years later, Winona married Robert, a dashing man 10 years her senior. They had three sons. She got news of Ed’s life through her sister-in-law. Several years after Winona married, Edward got married, and he, too, had three children.

  On one of her visits to her brother and sister-in-law’s in Buffalo, her brother announced, “We’re driving to Pittsburgh to Ed’s daughter’s wedding. Do you want to come?” Winona didn’t hesitate, and off they went.

  She was nervous in the car just thinking about what she would say to this man she hadn’t seen in 30 years. Would he remember their letters? Would he have time to talk with her? Would he even want to?

  Soon after they got to the wedding reception, Ed spotted Winona from the other side of the room. He walked slowly over to her. Winona’s heart was racing as they shook hands and said hello. When they sat at one of the long tables to talk, Winona’s heart was beating so hard she was afraid that Ed could hear it. Edward had tears in his eyes as they exchanged polite conversation about the wedding and their respective families. They never mentioned the letters, and after a few minutes, Ed returned to his duties as father of the bride.

  Winona returned to Detroit, where she continued teaching piano lessons, working at an advertising agency, and, as always, making the best of whatever life offered. She tucked away the memory of her brief visit with Ed along with her other memories of him.

  When Ed’s wife died 10 years later, Winona sent him a sympathy card. Two years after that, Winona’s husband died and Ed wrote to her. Once again, they were corresponding.

  Ed wrote often, and his letters became the highlight of Winona’s day. On her way to work, she stopped by the post office to pick up his letters, and then she read them at the stoplights
. By the end of her half-hour drive, the letters were read and Winona had a happy start to her day. Gradually, Edward expressed his love for his “darling Winona,” and they arranged for him to come to Detroit for his vacation.

  Winona was excited and nervous about the visit. After all, except for their brief meeting at the wedding, they hadn’t spent any time together in over 40 years. They had only been writing for six months, and Edward was coming for two weeks.

  It was a lovely, warm June day when Winona drove to the airport to pick up Edward. This time when he saw Winona, he rushed to her and wrapped her in a long, loving hug. They chatted happily and comfortably as they retrieved luggage and found their way to the car. It was an easy beginning.

  When they were in the car on their way to Edward’s hotel, he pulled a small velvet box out of his pocket and slipped an engagement ring on Winona’s finger. She was speechless. He had hinted at marriage in his letters, but this was too sudden and too soon. Or was it? Hadn’t she waited all these years to know this love?

  For two weeks, Ed wooed his Winona. He even wrote her letters from his hotel. Winona’s concerns gradually dissolved in the stream of Ed’s love and the whole-hearted support of her family and friends. On September 18, 1971, dressed in a long pink gown, Winona was escorted down the aisle on the arm of her oldest son. She and Ed were married and in Winona’s words, “We lived happily ever after.”

  And those letters that had suddenly stopped so many years before? It turns out that Edward’s mother had destroyed Winona’s letters because she didn’t want to lose her youngest son. Forty-three years later, Winona found him.