Her pack slipped off her shoulder and almost pulled her over. I wanted to help her. But there was nothing I could do. "I'll never make fun of old people again," she said.
With that, I remembered the sweet smile of that woman. "Neither will I."
Kent Nerburn
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Reverse Living
Life is tough.
It takes up a lot of your time, all your weekends, and what do you get at the end of it?
. . . Death, a great reward.
I think the life cycle is all backwards.
You should die first, get it out of the way.
Then you should live twenty years in an old-age home.
You get kicked out when you're too young, you get a gold watch, you go to work.
You work for forty years until you're young enough to enjoy your retirement.
You go to college, you party until you're ready for high school,
you become a little kid, you play, you have no responsibilities,
you become a little boy or girl, you go back into the womb,
you spend your last nine months floating.
And you finish off as a gleam in someone's eye.
Norman Glass
Submitted by Tony D'Angelo
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Blameless
I was a freshman in college when I met the Whites. They were completely different from my own family, yet I felt at home with them instantly. Jane White and I became friends at school, and her family welcomed me, an outsider, like a long-lost cousin.
In my family, when anything bad happened, it was always important to place blame.
"Who did this?" my mother would yell about a mess in the kitchen.
"This is all your fault, Katharine," my father would insist when the cat got out or the dishwasher broke.
From the time we were little, my sister and brothers and I told on each other. We set a place for Blame at the dinner table.
But the Whites didn't worry about who had done what. They picked up the pieces and moved on with their lives. The beauty of this was driven home to me the summer that Jane died.
Mr. and Mrs. White had six children: three sons and three daughters. One son had passed away in childhood, which may be why the surviving five siblings remained so close.
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In July, the White sisters and I decided to take a car trip from their home in Florida to New York. The two oldest, Sarah and Jane, were college students, and the youngest, Amy, had recently turned sixteen. The proud possessor of a brand-new driver's license, Amy was excited about practicing her driving on the trip. With her endearing giggle, she showed off her license to everyone she met.
The big sisters shared the driving of Sarah's new car during the first part of the trip, but when they reached less populated areas, they let Amy take over. Somewhere in South Carolina, we pulled off the highway to eat. After lunch, Amy got behind the wheel. She came to an intersection with a stop sign for her direction only. Whether she was flustered or distracted or just didn't see the sign no one will ever know, but Amy continued into the intersection without stopping. The driver of a large semi-tractor-trailer, unable to brake in time, plowed into our vehicle.
Jane was killed instantly.
I survived the accident with only a few bruises. The most difficult thing that I've ever done was to call the Whites to tell them about the accident and that Jane had died. As painful as it was for me to lose a good friend, I knew that it was far worse for them to lose a child.
When Mr. and Mrs. White arrived at the hospital, they found their two surviving daughters sharing a room. Sarah's head was wrapped in bandages; Amy's leg was in a cast. They hugged us all and cried tears of sadness and of joy at seeing their daughters. They wiped away the girls' tears and teased a few giggles out of Amy as she learned to use her crutches.
To both of their daughters, and especially to Amy, over and over they simply said, ''We're so glad that you're alive.''
I was astonished. No accusations. No blame.
Later, I asked the Whites why they never talked about
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the fact that Amy was driving and had run a stop sign.
Mrs. White said, "Jane's gone, and we miss her terribly. Nothing we say or do will bring her back. But Amy has her whole life ahead of her. How can she lead a full and happy life if she feels we blame her for her sister's death?"
They were right. Amy graduated from college and got married several years ago. She works as a teacher of learning-disabled students. She's also a mother of two little girls of her own, the oldest named Jane.
I learned from the Whites that blame really isn't very important. Sometimes, there's no use for it at all.
Kathy Johnson Gale
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5
LOVE 101
A chemist who can extract from his heart's element, compassion, respect, longing, patience, regret, surprise and forgiveness and compound them into one can create that atom which is called love.
Kahlil Gibran
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Finding My Way
I started college when I was sixteen years old. It was a big, scary place, and I was young. I remember standing in line for registration with the hordes of other people. I felt so insecure and inadequate next to those who were my supposed peers. How would I ever measure up to these people who seemed so confident and sure of what they wanted?
I didn't have any specific direction. I didn't have a clue as to what I wanted to do or be. College was just the next logical step. I felt very much out of place. To me, these people around me embodied my picture of the consummate college student. They stood there laughing with their friends, a cup of coffee in one hand, the schedule of classes in the other, discussing their options for the upcoming semester. Me, I had a list of classes on a piece of paper that I had painstakingly worked out with my big brother the night before. If I didn't get those particular classes, I was sunk. The idea of having a backup plan never even occurred to me. What would I do? I would just die. I knew that crying wasn't an optionI was in college for heaven's sake! Maybe throwing up would be a more socially acceptable reaction. I was alone, nervous and feeling like a cartoon in a museum of priceless paintings.
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When the first week of classes started, I had the daunting task of trying to figure out where my classes were in this city they called a school. I was already exhausted by the overwhelming task of trying to park my car. Feeling awkward, out of place and in a world of logistical nightmares, studying and getting an education were the last things on my mind. But I put one foot in front of the other and prayed I would find some solace somewhere. And I did.
He walked into my life and into the huge auditorium that looked more like a movie theater than a classroom. But instead of taking a seat in the large lecture hall, he continued toward the front of the room to teach the class. He was smart and funny. I started to find any excuse to visit his office. This strange new world started to hold new meaning for me, and I began to explore it with more bravado. That was the good news. The bad news was that I had a crush on a man who was twice my age, married and had a family. But I felt helpless among all these new feelings and experiences I was having. Was this what becoming an adult meant? It all seemed too confusing.
I excelled in his class. One day he asked me if I wanted to help him grade papers, file and do some office worka teacher's aide of sorts. There was no need to ask me twice. As the weeks passed, we shared lots of time together. I learned how to drink coffee over long philosophical conversations. We became friends.
Much to my surprise, out of the blue, he asked me if I would consider doing some baby-sitting for him. I was getting an invitation to become part of his private world. I was given directions to his house and told to come by that Thursday.
I arrived at his house promptly at six. He greeted me at the door. "Thank you so much for doing this. It's very important to me." He explained that his wife was taking
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care of her ailing mother and had taken their eight-month-old baby with her. Lily, their six-year-old, needed special care, and he was hoping to find someone who would click with her.
"Lily has cystic fibrosis and spends too much of her little life in bed." My heart just broke as I saw the love he had in his eyes for his little girl.
He took me into her room and, in the middle of a princess bed, sat this fair-haired little angel. She had some sort of breathing apparatus next to her bed that looked strangely out of place. What happened next was something I wasn't prepared for.
"This is the girl I told you about, Sweetie," he signed to his daughter. It turned out that Lily was deaf as well. I panicked. How would I communicate with her? What if there was an emergency?
"Her oral skills are good enough that you will be able to understand her, and you'll probably pick up some sign language. I'll only be gone a couple of hours." He left me with emergency numbers and pertinent information, and then he was gone.
I sat down on the bed with Lily, and her little fingers started flying. I shrugged my shoulders to let her know that I was lost. She smiled sweetly and then started to use her voice. She explained how it was easier to breathe when she let her fingers do her talking. That night I had my first lesson in sign language.
Over the next couple of months, I spent a lot of time with Lily. As I got to know Lily's dad as a father and as a husband, the crush changed. Now I was falling in love with his daughter. She taught me so much: not only how to sign, but also how to appreciate each moment in my life and how worrying over needless things was just stupid. We laughed together when she taught me the sign for stupid, where you take the closed fist of your right hand and
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knock on the side of your foreheadas if you're knocking to try to get in. She laughed as I made believe that I was hurting myself by knocking on my head too hard. And she would sign, "You hurt yourself just as much when you really do worry." She was wise beyond her years. Besides giving me her love, Lily also gave me direction. I went on to get a bachelor's degree in special education with an emphasis in deaf education.
I remained friends with Lily and her whole family throughout my college years and beyond. The crush I had on my college professor served me very well. I learned a great deal about life at the hands of a young child.
Some years later, I was asked to sign the Lord's Prayer at Lily's funeral. Everyone there told stories about how this one small life made such a big difference to so many. And, as Lily taught me when she showed me the sign for I love you, "Make sure when you use this sign that you really mean it."
Zan Gaudioso
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The Mirror
Her name was Jillene Jones. Jillene Jones! The alliteration just added to her mystique. To me, she was a character in the great American novel; the star of a blockbuster movie; the president of my world. She was truly the woman for me. I just knew it. Now if I could only find out something about her.
I asked around. I was Jim Rockford, Sherlock Holmes and Magnum P.I. all rolled into one. First clue: She was into heavy metal. Cool! Well, not so cool. Actually, I couldn't stand heavy metal. My hearing's a little sensitive, especially when the noise level exceeds that of a cannon blast. So whatwho needs to hear? A lot of unwanted noise in this world anyway. I started listening to heavy metal.
Second clue: She liked to work out. I joined her gym. The machines in there looked like they were designed for some sort of bizarre psychological testing. Since there didn't appear to be any instruction manuals, I decided to stick to something simple like the treadmill. What fun! What a high! Actually, I felt like a hamster in a wheel. No matter. I was moving closer to my goal.
I decided to make some discreet inquiries among her
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friends. The fates were truly on my side because not only did the woman of my dreams, Jillene Jones, know who I was, but she didn't find me totally repulsive. The die was cast. The plot was set. She would be mine. Even though the die was cast and the plot was set, etc., it took me another week to get up the courage to ask her out.
More research. Third Clue: She loved Aramis. What an amazing coincidence! I loved Aramis, toountil I smelled it. Yikes. But surely if Jillene Jones loved Aramis, it must be an acquired taste. I bought the econo-size bottle of Aramis and began wearing it every day, everywhere I went. Every time I smelled my unique odor, I thought of Jillene Jones. And strangely enough, I began to notice a change in the way others perceived me. I always found a seat on the bus. If I had to stand in line, people would step aside and let me move to the front. Animals and small children fled in fear as I walked down the street. No matter, because I was on a quest.
A little more research and I would be ready. Clues four, five and six: she loved the color peach, bowling and sushi. I bought a peach-colored bowling shirt, found a bowling alley that served sushi and learned to throw strikes. Finally, I got up my courage and made the call. Luck was in my favor; the most popular head-banging band around was playing at our local college venue. I finagled great seats after draining my meager bank account. I put on my best Barry White baritone (which sounded more like Steve Urkel on a bad day) and asked Jillene Jones out on a date. She said yes.
The stars were aligned. All was right with the world. I saw my destiny and it had a name: Jillene Jones. The day of what would surely be the best night of my life began at the gym. Forty-five minutes on the hamster mill. I saw her out of the corner of my eye. Did she notice my Motley Crue T-shirt? I could only hope. The night finally arrived.
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I put on my peach bowling shirt, drenched myself in Aramis, spiked my hair and threw in a fake nose ring for good measure.
Her eyes lit up when she saw that peach bowling shirt. "You know I was watching you today," she said. "You looked pretty cute on that treadmill. I didn't know you were a metal-head? She saw the shirt!!! My plan was working!!! I walked her to my car and popped in a little Ozzy. She didn't seem to notice that the volume blew out all four of my speakers. She just grooved to the buzzing.
We went to the concert and I screamed at her for three hours until my ears felt like they were bleeding. Then mercifully the band finally stopped and we were able to leave. Sushi. She ordered some really slimy, expensive stuff that slid down my throat like dead goldfish. I had to pretend to use the restroom and sneak out to my car to gather all the spare change from the floorboards to pay the bill.
I drove her home and walked her to the door. She gave me a kiss that should be reserved for sailors going to sea. I had won her over. She was mine!!! Then she said the six words that I had never imagined, in my wildest fantasies, hearing: "Would you like to come in?"
Before my rational mind could answer, something came out from some part of my being that I heretofore did not know existed. "No," I said. I looked around, wondering where that had come from. She looked at me in disbelief and said good night.
I drove myself home in silence. Well, I really had no choice since my speakers were blown. I walked inside and went into the bathroom. I looked at myself in the mirror. There I was with spiky hair, a fake nose ring and wearing a peach bowling shirt. I reeked of dead fish and cheap cologne. My ears were ringing so loud I kept picking up the phone. Who was I? Jillene Jones. I remembered some
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National Geographic special I had once seen on TV where the narrator described how lions hunt. ''They become their prey.'' But starting a relationship shouldn't be a hunt. That didn't seem right.
I took off the peach bowling shirt and the nose ring. I rinsed out my hair and put on some mellow jazz. I went back into the bathroom and looked again in the mirror. There I was. Me. And somewhere out there was a woman for ME.