Chicken Soup for the Bride's Soul

  So, the great and terrible Sunday came. Grandma arranged her good china on the carefully ironed linen tablecloth. She prepared meat, potatoes and green beans but, strangely, no gravy. I could tell by the thin line of Grandpa’s mouth that he was holding his tongue about the lack of gravy.

  By way of instruction to me, Grandma added an orange gelatin salad on iceberg lettuce, ice tea and a pickle tray. She made a big deal of having me help her in the kitchen, hoping my fiancé would be duped into believing I had cooked the meal.

  Wayne was seated next to Grandma. Now, no one in the family actually remembers ever seeing Grandma eat. Normally, she perched on her chair, offering seconds way too early and commanding Grandpa to pass the white bread. With my future hanging in the balance, she was especially keen to her duty.

  Within minutes after the meal began, Grandma sprang into the kitchen and returned with a bottle of steak sauce, which she placed strategically in front of Wayne. A few minutes later she went to the kitchen again, this time returning with a bottle of Worcestershire sauce. Before long, arrayed before the plate of the man I really wanted to impress, Grandma had arranged the ketchup, soy sauce, mustard . . . and just about anything else she could dig out of the cupboard. Judging from the crust around the caps, the bottles looked to be about twenty years old.

  My fiancé threw me a puzzled glance.

  “Grandma, what’s with all the bottles?” I ventured, breaking with required etiquette.

  “Well, didn’t you say he liked sauces?” she whispered fiercely.

  Much to his credit, Wayne didn’t laugh out loud but only thanked Grandma for her attentions. He even put a little steak sauce on his meat to satisfy her. By the time Grandpa was served his traditional dessert of white balloon bread smothered in clear corn syrup, my friend and lover didn’t even blink.

  Our wedding was a few months later, and Grandma enjoyed herself while feeling helpful serving coffee from her own crowd-sized coffee maker.

  Grandma is gone now; but I hope she knows I married well. We’re not rich, but we’re happy. It’s a good partnership— he makes the sauces and I make the gravy.

  Carol Mell

  Budding Hope

  There is no medicine like hope, no incentive so great, and no tonic so powerful as expectation of something better tomorrow.

  Orison Marden

  “Will you hurry up?”

  I don’t actually say it, but I’m sure thinking it. Sitting here on the front steps of my parents’ house, I’m waiting for my new husband, Jim, who’s still inside packing a few last things. We’ve been married for a week and a day.

  This morning, we’re going to swing by the hospital to visit Dad, say our farewells, climb into our car and head to Colorado from New York. This is such a wonderfully exciting time for us. Everything is brand-new, and we’ve decided to begin our married lives in a new state where I’ve never been before.

  But for the moment, I have to wait. My mind wanders.

  I glance over at the rose bush my father gave my mother on their twenty-fifth wedding anniversary. It was a grandiose gesture then, but what a sad-looking bush it is now. It’s scrawny with a few buds scattered across its branches. I have no idea what color it’s designed to produce because it’s never bloomed. It just keeps hanging on year after year, budding out but not going any further until the leaves fall off each autumn. It’s such a stubborn plant, sticking it out, determined to live.

  Stubborn.

  Suddenly this rose bush reminds me of an argument Dad and I had about a month ago. We had both been so stubborn over something that seems, now, so petty.

  A few weeks before the wedding, I brought my wedding gown home along with a beautiful veil I had found. The veil coordinated perfectly with the gown. Okay, I admit, buying it was a bit extravagant because the veil actually cost more than the dress.

  Later that night, about 1:00 A.M., I woke up because I heard a noise downstairs. I walked down to the kitchen to find Dad sitting at the table holding my veil. Before I could even ask why he was awake, he began criticizing the cost of the veil.

  “I can’t believe you’d spend that much!” He slammed his fist on the table.

  Startled by his unexpected outburst, I reacted with my own angry protest. “It’s made for the dress. Don’t you want me to look great on my wedding day?”

  Then came my ultimate hit-below-the-belt comment. “But what do you care? You might not even be there!”

  Whoa. That one hurt. Especially because we both knew it was true.

  Seriously ill, Dad was scheduled to have open-heart surgery on the Thursday after my wedding. He was pretty weak by this time (although you couldn’t tell by his yelling) and was supposed to be resting in preparation.

  Dad would enter the hospital for two weeks of testing prior to the surgery—and my wedding fell right in the middle. We all hoped the surgeon would “let Dad out” to attend and give me away.

  But the fear hung there: Dad might not be strong enough. And, as the yelling showed, it was a sensitive issue.

  I had grown up feeling very close to Dad. Yet here we were, hollering at each other, neither of us willing to give in. I would wear this veil no matter what. After all, it was my wedding.

  We stood in silence, fuming, glaring at each other because there was no more to say. I stomped upstairs to my bedroom and broke down.

  But this time it wasn’t about the veil. I was scared and so was Dad. Scared he really wouldn’t be at the wedding. Scared he could die. Scared to admit how much we loved each other, knowing I would be moving 2,000 miles away to start a life he couldn’t be part of every day.

  I slipped back to the kitchen and gave him a hug, a wordless “I’m sorry” for both of us.

  On the evening of my wedding, they released Dad from the hospital (with lots of “dos” and “don’ts”) for four hours. While we sat in the brides’ room for a few last moments together, he took my hands lovingly in his.

  “Hello, Beautiful.”

  He was too weak to walk with me down the aisle, so my brother did the honor. But Dad waited up front by the minister and gently put my hand into the hand of my new husband.

  Now, a week after our wedding, Dad has had his surgery and is in critical condition. But we’ll head over to see him in just a few minutes . . . if Jim hurries up. After all, it’s almost 10:45 A.M. and we have to get on the road to Colorado and our future.

  I catch a whiff of something sweet. Like a rose. It is a rose.

  That scrawny bush is blooming! I stare at it, hardly believing what I’m seeing. Right before my eyes, one of the buds bursts into a full white blossom—like a film in fast motion. Beautiful.

  “Jim!” I call out. “You’ve got to come and see this.”

  “Just a second, I have to get the phone,” he answers from inside the house.

  I watch the rose, amazed, until he comes out. I feel him sit down next to me. I pull my gaze from the rose to his face because he isn’t saying anything. A long pause.

  “I’m so sorry, Elaine, but your dad passed away a few minutes ago.”

  Dad died that morning at 10:44 A.M.—the exact minute the rose bush bloomed. I’m sure it was his special goodbye to me.

  Yet, in my mind, that rose is not about goodbyes. It’s about hope. The hope a wedding brings. The hope loving parents leave with their children by giving their very best. And the hope that comes from knowing this new man will take me “from this day forward” to help me blend new memories with old ones.

  Elaine G. Dumler

  Grandpa’s Gift

  If we really want to love, we must learn how to forgive.

  Mother Teresa

  My grandfather was a dirt-under-the-fingernails blue-collar worker all of his life. He provided for his family and never complained but, in his heart, he fancied himself a writer.

  Grandpa would sit for long winter evenings in his rocking chair in the kitchen—writing, laughing, erasing and rearranging until he was satisfied. He didn’t want to be jus
t any writer; specifically, he dreamed of being a joke writer for Bob Hope.

  While growing up in his house, I thought that was the funniest joke of all—Grandpa, a writer for Bob Hope. But, whenever he brought out his boxes of jokes, I laughed with Grandma . . . assuming they were funny merely because Grandpa thought they were funny.

  Every so often he rented a typewriter and, using the hunt-and-peck finger system, sat at the kitchen table diligently transferring his hand-written creations onto index cards. More than anything in the world, I wanted to be big enough to learn to type so I could type Grandpa’s jokes for him.

  Several years later, I elatedly interrupted Grandpa— who was still writing jokes—to show him the glistening engagement ring I‘d received the night before. Slowly and somberly, he removed his glasses, folded his paper and carefully put away his pencil. There was no laughter in his voice and his only words were: “I hope you know what you’re doing.”

  I knew Grandpa didn’t dislike the man I was betrothed to; they got along quite well. What he could not accept was me marrying someone of a different religion.

  After that day, Grandpa didn’t write any more jokes. In fact, our once loving home was suddenly filled with angry words and tears, and now I couldn’t wait to move out of the home I had grown up in.

  Instead of anticipation, I despaired over thoughts of my wedding day. Of Grandpa not only refusing to walk me down the aisle, but refusing to step foot in my fiancé’s church. The stubborn man made it quite clear that although he couldn’t stop me, he didn’t have to condone it, either. I was determined to marry even without my beloved grandfather at my side.

  Preparations for our modest wedding were made out of Grandpa’s sight and hearing. Grandma worked on my dress during the day while Grandpa was at work. We prepared invitations at my in-laws’ home. At night, I stitched my dress behind the closed door of my bedroom to spare us all uncomfortable silences. Even though we didn’t have a lot of money, I refused to let Grandma ask Grandpa to share in the expenses. I could be just as stubborn as he was and I was determined to let him know it.

  The day before the ceremony, I set my pride aside and pleaded with Grandpa to be part of my wedding. He refused to attend. I had never known him to be so unbending. I always knew how he felt about this particular religion, but I never dreamed my final days at home would be so horrible.

  That night, tears of frustration and pain soaked my pillow. My last night in this room, in this bed and in this house should have been filled with joy. Instead we were strangers on separate planets—a universe apart. How could he do this? How could I be married without Grandpa beside me?

  My wedding morning dawned cloudy and dismal, a mirror image of my gloomy heart. I lay quietly looking around the room of my childhood, remembering the many times when Grandpa sat on my bed reading nighttime stories, soothing me after horrible nightmares and kneeling beside me for prayer.

  I dreaded facing him at the breakfast table. Disheartened, I rolled over, sliding my hand up and under the pillow. Suddenly I felt something strange. An envelope? With a pounding heart, I carefully opened it and removed a letter written in Grandpa’s familiar feathery script.

  “My Dearest Child . . .”

  Grandpa apologized, pouring out his heart in the most moving, heartfelt way he knew. He was sorry for spoiling my joy the past months, ashamed of his dreadful, selfish behavior. He explained his feelings and beliefs and said that, although they were his, he realized he had no right to impose them on me. He went on to ask forgiveness and—at long last—promised to welcome my new husband into his home and his heart. Just as he had welcomed me all those many years before.

  As I continued to read, I saw a change in the handwriting and noticed blurred ink where a teardrop had fallen onto the paper in a splatter. Suddenly tears filled my own eyes. But I wept for joy, not sorrow, when I read his humble plea, begging the “honor” of walking me down the aisle.

  Grandpa never did sell any jokes to Mr. Hope, but the greatest thing he ever wrote was that single cherished letter to a beloved, grateful granddaughter.

  Nicolle Woodward

  Oh, What a Catch!

  Children are an anchor that hold a mother to life.

  Sophocles

  Our home bustled with last-minute details that crisp, sunny September morning. This was a family affair. Our oldest daughter Christina was the gorgeous bride, middle daughter Jennifer a bridesmaid and ten-year-old Melissa a junior bridesmaid. Bride and bridesmaids shared a mirror, the flash of a camera adding its sparkle to capture the moment in history.

  We loved our son-to-be, and we eagerly anticipated the ceremony that would make his entry into the family “official.” With the father of the bride preparing for his role and me taking it all in, the day was off to a wonderful start.

  The wedding went more beautifully than we could’ve ever imagined. The love in Christina and Wes’s eyes provided warmth and romance to the setting that flowers alone could not. And the unexpected presentation of a candy Ring Pop by the best man, when the ring was asked for, added a touch of lightheartedness to the occasion.

  Throughout the planning of this unforgettable day, our middle daughter, Jennifer, was sure she was also dating the man of her dreams, Bo. He wore his tuxedo proudly as one of the groomsmen.

  At garter-throwing time, the line of male would-be catchers swarmed to the challenge. Pure grit and determination got Bo to the front of the crowd to snatch the garter. Soon afterward, it was time for the bouquet to be thrown. Poor Jennifer, sardined into the crowd of single hopefuls, didn’t stand a chance. Yet—somehow—she managed to catch it. Everyone thought it was a little fishy. But Bo and Jennifer beamed as the photographer snapped pictures of them holding their “trophies.”

  A few weeks later, we were invited to a fish fry at Bo’s family’s lake house. At dinner, Bo startled everyone.

  “There was more than one fish caught for this occasion,” he grinned, “but I made the best catch.” Then he turned and asked Jennifer to marry him. With the first wedding still a warm memory, we began planning the second.

  The following autumn found us again pinning hair, zipping dresses and flashing cameras. It was the September wedding of Jennifer’s dreams. It was also an anniversary month—Christina’s first and our twenty-fourth. What a celebration!

  At the reception, we teased again and again, “Our hearts are full . . . but our pockets are empty. Just don’t let Melissa near the bouquet!”

  But fate—and Melissa—had other ideas. Don’t ask me how, don’t ask me why, but our youngest daughter managed to catch her sister’s bouquet.

  Thank goodness we don’t have to worry about our eleven-year-old getting married anytime soon. Nevertheless, we’re saving her a date in September . . . for someday.

  Kaylen Pierce

  “And there’s Charlene, my youngest. She was all-state diving three years in a row.”

  Reprinted by permission of Kathy Shaskan.

  8

  KEEPSAKES

  The heart

  hath its own memory,

  Like the mind,

  And in it are enshrined

  The precious

  keepsakes . . .

  Henry Wadsworth Longfellow

  Reprinted by permission of Mark Parisi.

  The Ring of Love

  To live in hearts we leave behind is not to die.

  Thomas Campbell

  Thirty-three years have passed and I’ve experienced much heartache since that day. But many wonderful moments have been mine as well—like the afternoon I walked down the aisle, arm-in-arm with my big brother, to wed my high school sweetheart. This was the day when all I had learned about love would come full circle.

  My dad wasn’t able to give his youngest daughter away, since cancer had claimed his life just three years earlier, so Tom, six years my senior, honored me that day.

  It was essential, of course, that I have “something old, something new, something borrowed and something blue” on
my wedding day. I wore the traditional new white dress and a garter of blue. A thin gold band my brother had given me six years before fit my left ring finger. It was “something borrowed” and “something old.” It was my mother’s wedding band.

  Coming from a farm in Minnesota to the fast life of California with their three children, Mom and Dad often struggled. But she never complained. And soon a fourth child was born to the household.

  Being the baby was a great position to occupy, especially since I came so much later than the other three. I didn’t have to share. On top of it all, I was a tomboy, so my mother had her work cut out for her.

  Like so many kids, I was caught up in my own plans and thoughts, and took it for granted that Mom would always be there for me. She sang goofy songs, made homemade cakes, sewed doll clothes and cuddled often. She was the warmth at the end of a cold day. It was impossible for me to ever lie to her, and I would find myself telling Mom everything in my heart. She was an amazing listener and my role model.

  My father, although he drank daily, loved my mother immensely. Every Friday night, I watched him come home from work with groceries and a bouquet of yellow mums. Her face would light up as if it was the first time.

  Mom had never applied for a driver’s license, so she rarely left the house. Dad would make his daily trip to the local market, returning with just enough for supper that night. Sometimes he would get sidetracked, find himself sitting on a stool at the local bar near the market. Mom knew, and I guess I did too. But in those days we never spoke about it. She was committed to her husband and her family—no matter what.

  From the time I was thirteen years old, my mom struggled with her health. One day, she finally told me that she had been diagnosed with congestive heart failure. Always in and out of hospitals, she fought the disease the best she could. She worsened over the next three years, shriveling to half her size. But her warm smile was as big as ever.