Read Chicken Soup for the Woman's Soul Online
Authors: Jack Canfield
Chicken Soup for the Woman's Soul (15 page)
At first, my mother accepted their decision, but later she became increasingly concerned. Grandpa was not faring well separated from his wife. He wanted only to be with her—his “sweetheart “ of 68 years. He talked about it constantly. And he was always sad. The twinkle in his beautiful blue eyes was fading.
On the morning my phone rang, I had not seen Grandpa since his admission. As my mother, fighting back her tears, told me what had happened, a genuine sadness came over me. The grandfather I loved so dearly, that I had idolized as a child and grown to know and respect as an adult, was spending his final years disheartened and lonely. He, my tie with infinity, was losing his spirit. He was being denied choices and control over his life. I became incensed at what I felt was truly an injustice.
After talking to my mother, I decided to take matters into my own hands. I called the director of nursing at the facility and inquired about the situation. She reiterated the information my mother had given me. I calmly explained that I felt that Grandpa should be moved into a room with my grandmother, as promised. She continued to insist that he might overdo it and hurt himself in caring for Grandma. I insisted that it was important that the promise be kept, and said that they would both benefit emotionally from the shared room. After all, they had shared a room for 68 years. I saw no reason why, at the end of their long and loving lives, they should be denied each other’s companionship. They loved each other dearly and being together had been the “deal.”
After much discussion and disagreement, I could not contain myself any longer. My emotions went wild. I asked, “What’s the point? If my grandfather, who is 98 years old, had high cholesterol and absolutely loved to eat cheese—guess what? I’d let him. As a matter of fact, I’d go out and buy all his favorite cheeses for him! And if he couldn’t feed himself, I would. Being in a room with my grandmother is important to him. Important to his emotional well-being. Important to his spirit. Important for the twinkle in his eyes.”
There was a long pause on the other end of the phone. I was then told by the director of nursing that she understood what I was saying and would take care of it.
It was about 9:00 A.M. when I finished speaking with the director of nursing, and I told her that she had until 2:00 P.M. that afternoon to move my grandparents into a room together. I also informed her that if the transfer was not done by that time, then I would personally remove them both from the facility and place them elsewhere—where they could share a room.
I then called my mother and said, “Drop everything and get your purse. We’re going to see Grandma and Grandpa.” I drove to my mom’s, stopping on the way to buy a color TV for Grandpa. Mom met me at the door with a smile on her face, and together we drove to the nursing home, feeling wonderfully in control of the situation.
When we arrived, Grandma was sleeping soundly and Grandpa was sitting next to her, stroking her hair. He had a smile on his face and that old familiar twinkle in his wonderful blue eyes. He fussed with her covers, straightening the linens on her bed. And he began to tell me once again about his “sweetheart” and how much he loved her. He chattered on about the fair and the red bow in her beautiful brown hair. He showed me the picture in his wallet. He was finally home.
Jean Bole
Christmas Eve has always been my favorite day of the year. December 24, 1969, I was on my own, living in my first apartment. With several hours to fill before joining my family at Mother’s, I decided to do a little last-minute shopping.
On the third floor of our city’s oldest and finest department store, I bought a large basket of gourmet cheeses, smoked oysters, a bottle of wine and wineglasses to take to my family. On my way down, the elevator stopped at the second floor, where everyone but an older couple and me got off—and where a tall, handsome man in a navy suit got on. We started down again; then suddenly, there was a loud thud. The elevator jerked, then stalled. We were stuck—on Christmas Eve!
Luckily the elevator was equipped with a phone, and the older man called someone in maintenance, who assured us we would soon be moving again. Thirty minutes passed while we made small talk, then placed another call. We learned that the elevator needed a new part and we were in for a long wait.
At that point, one by one, we—the older couple, Mr. and Mrs. Phillips; John, the handsome man in navy; and I—sat down on the floor and began sharing Christmas memories. An hour passed, then two; we found ourselves so involved in the conversation that we forgot we were trapped. As we took turns revealing bits and pieces of our pasts, we shared my basket of cheese and wine. I didn’t realize it at the time, but what we were doing was creating another special Christmas memory.
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
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
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
L
ife 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!
”
