I set the heavy volume of Jules Verne on the table and pick up the discarded packaging. Outside, a car drives by on the gravel road. Freckles hears the car and she stands, ears pricked forward. Hondo sleeps. Then Freckles barks, a quick and high-pitched sound—unlike the deep, chesty warning that has guarded our home for 14 years. It is not the noise of the car that finally awakens Hondo; the high-pitched bark penetrates his increasing deafness and he lifts his head to look about. He sees Freckles on duty, poised and ready. With a deep sigh of resignation, he lowers his head onto his paws and closes his eyes.
I want to go outside and take Hondo’s gentle head in my hands, look into his brown eyes and speak softly, letting him feel with his heart those things he can no longer hear me say. I want him to cling to my world a little longer.
Instead, I pick up the book and reread the inscription. “To Matt, with love from Grandpa Loren.” Suddenly the gift makes sense. Fourteen years separate Hondo and Freckles. Sixty-five years and a thousand miles separate my father from his grandson. Only a few more years of gift-giving stretch before him. He, too, counts the setting of each sun, watches the waning of his moon. Times does not allow him the luxury of sending only appropriate gifts. If in 10 years Matt opens this book, ready to dive 20,000 leagues beneath the sea, it will be his grandfather’s words wishing him bon voyage.
Putting the heavy volume down softly on the table, I open the door and walk out onto the deck. Hondo’s fur shines in the sunlight. He feels the vibrations of my steps and his tail begins to move slowly, back and forth.
Page Lambert
1,716 Letters
On November 15, 1942, I eagerly said “I do” to my dashing groom, who was proudly wearing his crisp, formal United States Army uniform. Only a short eight months later, he was called to serve in World War II, bound for an unknown destination in the Pacific for an unknown period of time.
When my young husband left, we made a promise to write each other every day we were apart. We decided we’d number each of the letters we sent so we would know if any went astray. Writing to each other daily, we found there were many times that there was little to say other than “I love you.” But in every single letter those words were included.
The war found my husband, an Army dentist, right on the front lines. Still, whether he was in the heat of battle in the Aleutians, Okinawa, or the Philippines, he always found some time to write every day. On occasion, he even found time for more than just writing. When he had spare moments, he would make me gifts of jewelry out of any indigenous materials he could find.
During one of the lulls in battle in the Philippines, he found time to carve a beautiful mahogany letter opener with my name, Louise , carefully engraved on one side of the handle, and Philippines 1944 engraved on the other side. He told me the letter opener was to help me open my daily letters from him. More than 50 years later, that letter opener still sits on my desk and is used daily to open the mail, although none of the letters I receive today are as important as the ones I received from him during the war.
There were days and weeks when I would get no mail. Of course, that would leave me fearful about my husband’s well-being—many of the men in his troop had already been killed. Inevitably though, the mail service would catch up and a slew of letters would arrive at one time. I would busy myself sorting them by number so I could read them in chronological order and savor each one. Unfortunately, every letter was screened by Army censors, and I would have to try to imagine what was written under the blacked-out lines.
In one of the letters, when my husband was in Hawaii, he asked me to send my measurements so he could have some lounging pajamas made for me by the famous Chinese tailors living on the island. So I responded by sending him my 35-24-36 measurements. (Oh, those were the good old days.) My husband received the letter but the measurements had been blacked out by the Army censors, who had thought I was trying to communicate to him by secret code. Somehow, the pajamas fit anyway.
By November 1945, the war was over and my husband was finally sent home. We had not seen each other since he had left more than two years and four months earlier. We had spoken to each other by phone only once during that entire time. But since we had faithfully kept our promise to write daily, we each had written 858 letters to each other—a total of 1,716 letters that had carried us both through the war.
When my husband returned from the war, we were fortunate to obtain a minuscule apartment in a tremendously tight real estate market in San Francisco. In these box-like quarters there was barely room for the two of us, so to our regret, we had to dispose of all our letters. In the years since the war ended, we’ve been fortunate to have never been apart for more than one or two days at a time, so we’ve had little opportunity to write each other letters again.
But through all the years, my husband has continued to show me and our children and grandchildren the devotion and love he showed me in those early days. We’ve just celebrated 53 years of being happily married, and while the letters from those first few years of our marriage no longer remain, the love within them will be forever engraved in our hearts.
Louise Shimoff
PEANUTS. Reprinted by permission of United Feature Syndicate, Inc.
Martha’s Secret Ingredient
It bothered Ben every time he went through the kitchen. It was that little metal container on the shelf above Martha’s cookstove. He probably would not have noticed it so much or been bothered by it if Martha had not repeatedly told him never to touch it. The reason, she said, was that it contained a “secret herb” from her mother, and since she had no way of ever refilling the container, she was concerned that if Ben or anyone else ever picked it up and looked inside, they might accidentally drop it and spill its valuable contents.
The container wasn’t really much to look at. It was so old that much of its original red and gold floral colors had faded. You could tell right where it had been gripped again and again as the container was lifted and its tight lid pulled off.
Not only Martha’s fingers had gripped it there, but her mother’s and her grandmother’s had, too. Martha didn’t know for sure, but she felt that perhaps even her great-grandmother had used this same container and its “secret herb.”
All Ben knew for sure was that shortly after he’d married Martha, her mother had brought the container to Martha and told her to make the same loving use of its contents as she had.
And she did, faithfully. Ben never saw Martha cook a dish without taking the container off the shelf and sprinkling just a little of the “secret herb” over the ingredients. Even when she baked cakes, pies and cookies, he saw her add a light sprinkling just before she put the pans in the oven.
Whatever was in that container, it sure worked, for Ben felt Martha was the best cook in the world. He wasn’t alone in that opinion—anyone who ever ate at their house grandly praised Martha’s cooking.
But why wouldn’t she let Ben touch that little container? Was she really afraid he’d spill its contents? And what did that “secret herb” look like? It was so fine that whenever Martha sprinkled it over the food she was preparing, Ben couldn’t quite make out its texture. She obviously had to use very little of it because there was no way of refilling the container.
Somehow Martha had stretched those contents over 30 years of marriage to date. It never failed to effect mouth-watering results.
Ben became increasingly tempted to look into that container just once, but never brought himself to do so.
Then one day Martha became ill. Ben took her to the hospital, where they kept her overnight. When he returned home, he found it extremely lonely in the house. Martha had never been gone overnight before. And when it neared supper time, he wondered what to do—Martha had so loved to cook, he’d never bothered to learn much about preparing food.
As he wandered into the kitchen to see what might be in the refrigerator, the container on the shelf immediately came into view. His eyes were drawn to it like a magnet— he quickly lo
oked away, but his curiosity drew him back.
Curiosity nagged.
What was in that container? Why wasn’t he to touch it? What did that “secret herb” look like? How much of it was left?
Ben looked away again and lifted the cover of a large cake pan on the kitchen counter. Ahh... there was more than half of one of Martha’s great cakes left over. He cut off a large piece, sat down at the kitchen table, and hadn’t taken more than one bite when his eyes went back to that container again. What would it hurt if he looked inside? Why was Martha so secretive about that container, anyway?
Ben took another bite and debated with himself— should he or shouldn’t he? For five more big bites he thought about it, staring at the container. Finally he could no longer resist.
He walked slowly across the room and ever so carefully took the container off the shelf—fearing that, horror of horrors, he’d spill the contents while sneaking a peek.
He set the container on the counter and carefully pried off the lid. He was almost scared to look inside! When the inside of the container came into full view, Ben’s eyes opened wide—why, the container was empty... except for a little folded slip of paper at the bottom.
Ben reached down for the paper, his big rugged hand struggling to get inside. He carefully picked it up by a corner, removed it and slowly unfolded it under the kitchen light.
A brief note was scrawled inside, and Ben immediately recognized the handwriting as that of Martha’s mother. Very simply it said: “Martha—To everything you make, add a dash of love.”
Ben swallowed hard, replaced the note and the container, and quietly went back to finishing his cake. Now he completely understood why it tasted so good.
Submitted by Dot Abraham
Reminisce magazine
2
ON ATTITUDE
AND
SELF-ESTEEM
You don’t get to choose how you’re going to die or when. You can only decide how you’re going to live.
Joan Baez
Be a Queen
EDITORS’ NOTE: Over the years, we have been inspired by messages about love and the power of choice that great women of the world have given us. One of the most inspiring messages has come through the words, actions, and examples of one of the world’s most loved and respected women, Oprah Winfrey. Continually she reminds us that within every woman lies a queen, waiting to claim her glory. Referring to a theme used by Marianne Williamson in her book A Woman’s Worth, Oprah said the following in a commencement address to the graduates of all-female Spelman College in 1993:
Be a queen. Dare to be different. Be a pioneer.Be a leader. Be the kind of woman who in the face of adversity will continue to embrace life and walk fearlessly toward the challenge. Take it on! Be a truth seeker and rule your domain, whatever it is—your home, your office, your family—with a loving heart.
Be a queen. Be tender. Continue to give birth to new ideas and rejoice in your womanhood . .. My prayer is that we will stop wasting time being mundane and mediocre ...We are daughters of God—here to teach the world how to love . . .
It doesn’t matter what you’ve been through, where you come from, who your parents are— nor your social or economic status. None of that matters. What matters is how you choose to love, how you choose to express that love through your work, through your family, through what you have to give to the world . . .
Be a queen. Own your power and your glory!
Oprah Winfrey
Home Is Where The Heart Is
Nothing had ever hit me quite so hard as driving behind the ambulance that was taking my dear friend, Alice, away to live in a nursing home. As lightening snagged the dark, rainy April morning sky, I caught a glimpse of the note Alice had scribbled back in her hospital room: “Don’t let them put me in that place!”
But Alice had exceeded her allotted hospital stay and there was nothing I could do to stop her being moved. She was unable to breathe on her own and was connected to a ventilator, requiring complex care twenty-four hours a day. My hands were as tied as the restraints that kept Alice from pulling out her tubes when she got confused at night.
Alice had been my neighbor when I was growing up. She’d lived alone, and how she’d welcomed me into her generous heart and wonderful big red brick home. Gracious hospitality was practically a reflex for Alice. She was an art teacher and always had a jumble of creative projects going at any given moment. I loved her old-timey furnishings and the cozy clutter of her “stuff”—her “make something out of nothing” works in progress: trinkets, stacks of books, and little gifts she kept on hand for friends who happened by.
The nursing home buzzed with activity and the latest technology and even had a homey parlor, kitchen, and dining room. But it wasn’t home. It was Alice’s worst fear come to life. The morning she was admitted, she shook her head in despair at residents lined up in the halls in wheelchairs, like cars stopped at a red light that never turned green. Overnight, her life was reduced to a bed and a body with vacant eyes that announced, “Nobody’s home anymore.”
The nursing home staff, however, orchestrated an amazingly successful respiratory rehabilitation program for Alice. As the months passed, we clung to a snippet of resurrected hope that someday she might return to the home she loved so. But Alice experienced several setbacks and ran out of money for medical expenses before that could happen. Everything she’d worked so hard for had to be liquidated to pay for her care. One devastating day, the Realtor’s “SOLD” sign appeared in Alice’s yard. In no time, an endless parade of estate sale shoppers were sorting through her “stuff” and carrying her dearly familiar treasures away.
It was like watching a funeral procession. This is supposed to happen after you’re dead, I agonized, not to someone you love who is still alive and dreaming of going home. I mourned not only for Alice’s loss but for mine as well. Never again would I feel the warmth of being a guest in her home.
For weeks I couldn’t bring myself to visit Alice. Grief stalked me at the oddest moments and was my constant companion in my job of styling homes for magazine photography. Then late one evening after a photo shoot at a charming Victorian cottage hear the nursing home, I dropped by to visit her. She was napping, and in the gathering blackness, her raised side rails resembled a prison cell. All of her worldly possessions were piled in bed with her—her purse, a box of tissues, partially completed sketches, stationery and pens. My eyes fell upon a big roll of address labels. They featured the address of the nursing home—not Alice’s home we both loved so. I choked back tears at the finality of the situation. Plain and simple, this was to be Alice’s permanent address until heaven. “Dear Lord,” I prayed. “Help us both... somehow.”
I tapped Alice’s shoulder to rouse her and switched on the lamp above her tiny bed. Her tightly permed gray curls framed gentle wrinkles. “It’s me—Roberta,” I whispered, trying to sound cheerful.
A smile flashed across Alice’s face, lighting up the darkness. It was strangely full of promise. “Let my siderail down, honey,” she asked. She drew her legs in closer to make room for me, then patted the nubby pink bedspread, smoothing a spot for me to sit on the edge of the bed. I squeezed in next to her open Bible and devotional book. They were stretched out at the foot of her bed like a welcome mat. “Saved you something from my dinner tray,” she said as she retrieved two vanilla wafers, tucked inside a brown paper towel, from her nightstand drawer.
“Alice, these are my favorite,” I gasped. “You remembered.”
“Well, look behind the curtain. I won you a little something at our party.” Nestled inside a gaily wrapped box that once held medical examination gloves was a pretty pot of potpourri. Alice stirred it with her finger to release its spicy scent. “Cinnamon,” she explained. “It will make your kitchen smell real good.”
That afternoon, I’d sipped gourmet coffee and nibbled fancy cookies at a table dressed in antique linens and lace, finely etched crystal, and delicate china. It was picture-perfect,
and in a few months it would grace the pages of a glossy decorating magazine. But it didn’t come close to Alice’s loving gestures, her simple sharing of everything she had. All at once, the longing in my spirit was filled with a peaceful, new understanding that when your home is in your heart, it travels with you wherever you go.
Alice and I enjoyed one of our best visits ever, reminiscing about the old neighborhood and thanking the Lord for Alice’s new one. She was excited about leading a little crafts group, and I welcomed her advice about wall papering my bedroom. When it was time for me to leave her snug room, Alice hobbled beside me down the long hallway to the front door. “They take such good care of me here,” she reassured me. “Why I don’t even have to find someone to mow the grass.” As I headed to my car, Alice paused in the doorway, wearing the new housecoat I’d brought her. She waved and blew me a kiss. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw her chuckling with her new family.
I smiled to myself. Alice’s heart was home. And thanks to answered prayer and some true hospitality, at long last, so was mine.
Roberta L. Messner
Reprinted by permission of Bil Keane.
A Tale of Two Cities
A traveler nearing a great city asked a woman seated by the wayside, “What are the people like in the city?”
“How were the people where you came from?”
“A terrible lot,” the traveler responded. “Mean, untrust worthy, detestable in all respects.”
“Ah,” said the woman, “you will find them the same in the city ahead.”
Scarcely was the first traveler gone when another one stopped and also inquired about the people in the city before him. Again the old woman asked about the people in the place the traveler had left.
“They were fine people; honest, industrious, and generous to a fault. I was sorry to leave,” declared the second traveler.