Chicken Soup for the Kid’s Soul (3 page)

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ON LOVE

Some people say love is blind, but I think love is beautiful. Everything and everyone can feel love—

Birds, humans and animals—all living creatures.

Love means caring and showing understanding.

Love means being there when someone is in need.

Love is being a friend.

You can love your pets, your doll, your favorite chair,

Your friends and family.

Love can be just about anything you want it to be.

Love is a choice.

Stephanie Lee, age 11

Kelly, the Flying Angel

Kelly and the pony met when Kelly was seven. She had gone with her father to a neighbor’s farm to buy seed. The shaggy, brown and white pony stood alone in a pen. Kelly reached through the wires to touch the warm satin of the pony’s nose. Kelly spoke softly as the pony nuzzled Kelly’s fingers. “What’s your name, pony? You seem so sad and lonely.”

“She ain’t got no name,” the farmer grunted. “She ain’t much good anymore. She’s old and she’s blind in one eye. I ain’t got no use for her since the kids are gone.” He turned back to Kelly’s father, who had loaded the bags of seed onto the truck and pulled crumpled bills from his pocket. “You can have her if you pay me somethin’ for the saddle.”

“How much?” her father inquired, barely glancing at the pony.

“Twenty.” The old man reached a callused hand toward the money. Kelly’s father pulled off another bill. Gnarled fingers snatched the bills and stuffed them quickly into the pocket of well-worn, dirty overalls.

Kelly cradled the bridle in her arms as they drove home, her excitement mounting. She kept peeking into the rear of the truck to reassure herself that the pony was still there.

“Now, this pony will be your job. You have to feed her and take care of her. It’ll teach you some responsibility. I don’t have time to mess with her. Understand?” Her father’s voice was stern.

“I’ll do it, Daddy. Thank you for letting me have her. I promise I’ll take good care of her.”

Once they were home and the pony was safely in the stall, Kelly threw hay into the manger, then ran to the house.

“Mom, you should see our pony! She was so lonely, but she’ll be happy here.” Joy sparkled in Kelly’s eyes. “I’ve named her Trixie ’cause I’m going to teach her to do tricks.” Before her mother could respond, Kelly was back out the door to see that Trixie was comfortable. It was then that Kelly introduced Trixie to her angel.

When Kelly was a small child, she had been awakened by a frightening storm. She called to her mother, who reassured her by telling her, “Don’t be afraid. Jesus sends his angels to protect little children.” From then on, Kelly had never actually seen an angel, but she felt a presence at times when she would otherwise have been afraid or lonely.

Kelly brushed the pony’s coat and trimmed her mane and hoofs. Trixie responded to the attention by nuzzling Kelly’s neck, searching her pockets for treats and following her commands. As Kelly rode from the house to the back pasture, she taught Trixie to raise the latches on the gates with her nose. The gates would swing open, and Kelly would close them without dismounting.

Kelly taught Trixie a routine, trying to duplicate tricks she had seen at a circus. She rode standing up and eventually mastered the ultimate stunt of jumping through a crudely constructed hoop on each circuit of the riding ring. Kelly and Trixie became the best of friends.

When Kelly was ten, her parents divorced. Kelly and her dog, Laddie, moved with her mom to a small farm several miles away. The problems between her parents kept Kelly from seeing her father anymore, and because Trixie still lived at her father’s farm, Kelly was doubly miserable.

On the day they left her father’s farm, Kelly walked slowly to the pasture to say good-bye to Trixie. She had never needed her angel’s help more. “Angel,” she sobbed, “please stay with Trixie so she won’t be lonely. I have Mom and Laddie, but Trixie will be all alone. She needs you.” With her small arms around Trixie’s neck, she reassured the pony, “It’ll be all right, Trixie. My angel will take care of you.”

Her parents’ divorce, a new school, a different home and the loss of Trixie turned Kelly’s life upside down all at once. Her mother encouraged her to make friends.

“Come on, Kelly, and ride with us,” two of her schoolmates urged as they sat on their bicycles in the driveway.

Following the two girls down the road, Kelly felt the wind in her hair and the warmth of the sun on her face. She needed friends, she reminded herself, and pedaled faster to catch up.

During the summer, Kelly and her friends rode their bicycles to the park and around the track at the school. With her strong legs, she could match any of them when they raced.

After racing on the track one sunny day, Kelly pedaled home with her new friends. As she bounced along the bumpy, dusty road, the hard edge of the bike seat dug into her leg. She wished she were sitting in her smooth leather saddle on Trixie, gliding over the fresh green grass of the pasture.

Suddenly, the front wheel of the bicycle swerved into a rut. She turned hard to the left to get it out, but it was too late. Hurtling over the handlebars, she bounced off the edge of the road and into a ditch. The girls hurried to her.

“Her injuries are minor,” the doctor informed her mother after Kelly had limped home, “but you’d better keep her quiet for a couple of days.”

Though sore and scratched, Kelly returned to her bicycle in a few days. One morning, she awoke with a numb feeling in her legs. Slowly, she slid her body to the edge of the bed; but as she attempted to stand, she collapsed on the floor.

Puzzled by this development, the doctor examined her carefully.

“Her injuries have healed, but there is some psychological trauma,” he said. “I’ve scheduled therapy, and stretching exercises should help.” Kelly went home in a wheelchair.

As she sat on the porch, she hugged Laddie close and stared wistfully across the field. “Please, God, please bring Trixie and my angel back to me. I need them so.”

One day a letter came from Kelly’s father:

Dear Kelly,

  
Your aunt told me about your accident. I’m sorry to hear about it. I have made arrangements to have your pony delivered to you next week. She has been opening all the gates and letting my stock out of the pasture. I think she is looking for you. Maybe having her will help you feel better.

Love,
Dad

In a few days a truck arrived, and Trixie was led down the ramp. Nuzzling Kelly’s neck and snorting at Laddie, the pony checked out her new home. Kelly petted Trixie’s head and neck as far as she could reach from her wheelchair, and kissed her on the nose. “Trixie, Trixie, I knew you would come. Thank you, thank you.”

Kelly awoke the next morning with renewed determination. She wheeled herself to the barnyard with a treat for Trixie. Grasping Trixie’s mane, she pulled herself up from the wheelchair and stood beside the pony. Stretching to reach Trixie’s back, she brushed her until the pony’s coat shone.

Kelly’s legs grew stronger each day. Then, eager to ride, she climbed up the wooden fence and struggled to pull herself onto the pony’s back. Trixie’s coat was warm and silky against Kelly’s bare legs.

“Look! I’m riding. . . . I’m riding!” Kelly yelled as Trixie’s slow trot bounced her up and down like a rag doll. “Go, Trixie!” Kelly dug her heels into the pony’s sides, and they raced through the gate to the open pasture. Kelly squealed with delight, and Laddie ran after them, barking wildly.

When school started, an enthusiastic Kelly sprang onto the bus with a cheerful greeting. No more wheelchair for her! At home, a poster of a circus hung in Kelly’s room. It showed a smiling angel. In Kelly’s bold, colorful printing it read, “Kelly, the Flying Angel—Shows Nightly and Weekends.”

Louise R. Hamm

The Tower

A
fter the verb “to love,” “to help” is the most beautiful verb in the world.

Bertha Von Suttner

A
m I my brother’s keeper? Absolutely!

James McNeil, age 17

Ten-year-old John McNeil ran barefoot out the door on a windy, cold day in February and headed straight for the 125-foot electrical tower behind the McNeil home. John didn’t realize the dangers of the structure, which carries power from Hoover Dam to the southern Arizona communities. He didn’t know that it carried 230,000 sizzling volts through its silver wires. He wasn’t even aware that he had forgotten his shoes. John suffers from autism, a condition that separates him from reality, forcing him to live within his own thoughts. That day his thoughts were set on climbing to the top of that tower, touching the sky and feeling what it’s like to fly.

He had scaled the gigantic jungle gym before, but he had never gotten beyond the twenty-foot handrails. His seventeen-year-old brother, James, was always watching, and close by. James always made sure that no harm came to his little brother. But today was different. Today, John ran out the door unnoticed before James realized that he was missing. John had already cleared the handrails and was making his way to the sky by the time James spotted his brother. John, like most autistic children, had absolutely no fear or concept of danger. James, on the other hand, realized that he had to face his greatest fear of all—the fear of heights.

James understood the danger of the electrical tower but chose to follow his younger brother up each gray rail, trying not to look down, all the way to the top. James finally reached his brother and held him tightly with his right hand. With his left hand, he gripped a metal bar to help stabilize them both.

James was shaking. He was cold and scared, but he never released his grip on John. John struggled, wanting to fly, but James held tight. James’s hands were numb, and he was afraid that if he let go, they would both fall to their death.

The minutes stretched into hours as they balanced on a three-inch rail. James sang hymns to soothe his own racing heart and to distract his brother from the rescue action taking place below.

Hundreds of people gathered at the base of the tower. They looked like ants to James, who saw them from high atop his perch. Noisy news helicopters began to circle, sending images of the two boys clinging to the tower against a bright blue sky to millions of television sets nationwide. Fire trucks and other emergency vehicles rushed to the scene. One brave firefighter from the technical rescue squad climbed up the structure to where the two brothers hung on for their lives. He quickly tied them securely to a metal beam.

Part of the equipment needed to rescue James and John was a highly specialized truck called a Condor. Luckily, one was located at a nearby construction site. The rescuers patiently awaited its arrival, and at last, it was spotted moving along the road leading toward the tower. Once positioned, a platform was raised from the truck up to the boys sitting on the top rail of the tower. Secured with a safety line, the brothers and their rescuers were then carefully lowered to the ground as the crowd below cheered and applauded.

People were telling James that he was a hero, but James didn’t have any time for their praise. He wanted to be at his brother’s side while they transported John to the hospital, to be treated for exposure to the cold.

Not all guardian angels have feathered wings and golden halos. Most would not be recognized. Yet, on a windy, cold day, hundreds of people caught their first— and maybe only—glimpse of one, a seventeen-year-old guardian angel named James.

Robert J. Fern

[EDITORS’ NOTE:
In honor of the courage that James demonstrated during the rescue of his brother John, the Boy Scouts of America awarded him the Heroism Award with Crossed Palms. James, who is an Eagle Scout, became only the 113th person out of 100 million scouts since 1910 to receive this special award
.]

Uncle Charlie

W
here there is great love, there are always miracles.

Willa Cather

I remember being scared the first time I saw Uncle Charlie. I had just stepped off the school bus, and coming into the house from the brightness of day, I couldn’t see. When my eyes adjusted, I was surprised to see a bed in the dining room. A strange, unshaven man, propped up by pillows, sat in the darkened room. For a second, I wondered whether I was in the wrong house.

“Patty, is that you?” my grandmother called from the other room. I bolted into the kitchen.

“Nana, who’s that man?”

“Remember me telling you about Charlie, about how sick he got in the war and how they put him in the veterans’ hospital? Well, that man in there is your Uncle Charlie.”

The silent man in the dining room didn’t look anything like the smiling photograph on the mantel.

“Last night, Patty, I had a dream,” my grandmother said. “In the dream, God spoke. He said, ‘Go get your son. Bring him home, and he’ll get well.’ That’s what I did. This morning after you went to school, I took the city bus to the hospital. I walked right into that place, into Charlie’s room, took him by the hand, and said, ‘I’m taking you home.’” Nana chuckled. “Good heavens, how we must have looked, charging down that big ol’ hospital lawn, him in that gown, open and flapping in the back. Nobody stopped us. But nobody said a word, even when we got on the bus.” She paused. “It was like we was invisible.”

“Nana, Charlie didn’t look like he saw me. Maybe I’m invisible too.”

“Charlie saw you. It’s just that he’s got what the doctors call catatonic. Guess that’s their fancy way of saying cat’s got his tongue.” She stopped rocking. “Don’t you worry now. Charlie will be talking. He just needs to know we love him, that he’s home.”

Frightened by the dark beyond the open kitchen door, I ran out the back door, leaped off the porch and raced across the field, slapping my hips, pretending I was both horse and rider.

For months, I avoided the dining room. Finally I became accustomed to Charlie’s silence. After that, I played in Charlie’s room. His blanket-covered knees were the “towers” of my castles.

“Charlie, you awake?” I whispered. “Today at school, I saw a picture of an enchanted prince in my teacher’s book. He’s got long hair, just like you.”

Dust sparkled in the shaft of light streaming in under the drawn shade. I grabbed at the sparkles, making the dust whirl.

“Look, Charlie, I’ve caught us a handful of sun. It’s got millions and billions of tiny stars in it.” I held out my fist. “I’ve caught some for you.”

“Patty, I got something for you,” Nana called from outside.

Before leaving Charlie, I put my favorite doll with its red nail-polish lips and half-bald head next to him, and tucked them both in.

“She’s a princess. I’m leaving her to keep you company.”

“I found this little bird under the old oak,” Nana said. “Its eyes are still closed. It must have just pecked out of its shell. There’s a dropper in the medicine cabinet in the bathroom. Use that dropper to feed him ground-up sunflower seeds and water.”

She handed me the bird. “Empty out a shoe box and be sure to put something soft in it for a lining. What are you going to name him?”

“Little Bird. I’m calling him Little Bird, just like in the song.”

I went inside and dumped the shoe box with my rock collection on the rug.

“Hey, Charlie, look what I’ve got!” I put Little Bird in the empty box. “Watch him for a minute. I’ve got to get the dropper.” I put the box in Charlie’s lap.

When I returned with the dropper, the box was lying on the floor, empty. Charlie had dropped him!

“Charlie,” I whispered, trying not to cry, “where is Little Bird?”

Cracking open his cupped hands, Charlie smiled as he stared down at the tiny, hunger-stretched beak that peeked up between his thumbs and forefingers.

That evening, when I was mashing potatoes, I said, “You know what, Nana? Charlie’s taking care of Little Bird.”

“I know it. I saw him. And you know something else? He’s making humming noises, like he’s singing.”

Nana was getting Charlie’s tray ready when Charlie walked into the kitchen and sat down at the table. He was dressed in overalls and a plaid shirt. It was the first time I’d seen him in anything other than pajamas. Nana opened her eyes in exaggerated surprise. She looked so silly I started to laugh.

Then Charlie made the first sound, other than snoring and coughing, that I’d ever heard him make. He laughed! Slapping his knees, he laughed until tears ran down his cheeks. Then he reached into the big pocket of his overalls and took out Little Bird.

“Look,” he said. “Isn’t this the sweetest, most helpless little thing you ever saw?”

Nana almost fell off her chair. Then she started to cry. I wasn’t surprised, because I knew that even though he’d been placed under a spell, the spell couldn’t last. They never do.

Patty Hathaway-Breed