(Includes 9 jokes and articles)
Hamlet from
Millanimations
| Subj:
Tear Jerker2 stories (Gz)
(Includes 9 jokes and articles) |
|
Hamlet from Millanimations |
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| Subj:
A Christmas To Remember (S569)
From: rfslick on 12/12/2007 (in Christmas4) Picture
from Art.com...
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Subj: The
Pickle Jar... (S399b)
From: Imogenelumen on 6/24/2004
The pickle jar as far back as
I can remember sat on the
floor beside the dresser
in my parents' bedroom. When
he got ready for bed,
Dad would empty his pockets and
toss his coins into the
jar. As a small boy I was always
fascinated at the sounds the
coins made as they were
dropped into the jar.
They landed with a merry jingle
when the jar was almost empty.
The tones gradually muted
to a dull thud as the jar was
filled. I used to squat on
the floor in front of the jar
and admire the copper and
silver circles that glinted
like a pirate's treasure when
the sun poured through the bedroom
window. When the jar
was filled, Dad would sit at
the kitchen table and roll
the coins before taking them
to the bank. Taking the
coins to the bank was always
a big production. Stacked
neatly in a small cardboard
box, the coins were placed
between Dad and me on the seat
of his old truck. Each
and every time, as we drove
to the bank, Dad would
look at me hopefully. "Those
coins are going to keep you
out of the textile mill, son.
You're going to do better
than me.
This old mill town's not going to hold you back."
Also, each and every time, as
he slid the box of rolled
coins across the counter at
the bank toward the cashier,
he would grin proudly.
"These are for my son's college
fund. He'll never work at the
mill all his life like me."
We would always celebrate each
deposit by stopping for
an ice cream cone. I always
got chocolate. Dad always
got vanilla. When the
clerk at the ice cream parlor
handed Dad his change, he would
show me the few coins
nestled in his palm. "When we
get home, we'll start
filling the jar again." He always
let me drop the first
coins into the empty jar.
As they rattled around with
a brief, happy jingle, we grinned
at each other. "You'll
get to college on pennies, nickels,
dimes and quarters,"
he said. "But you'll get there.
I'll see to that."
The years passed, and I finished
college and took a job
in another town. Once,
while visiting my parents, I
used the phone in their bedroom,
and noticed that the
pickle jar was gone. It
had served its purpose and had
been removed. A lump rose
in my throat as I stared at
the spot beside the dresser
where the jar had always
stood. My dad was a man
of few words, and never lectured
me on the values of determination,
perseverance, and
faith. The pickle jar
had taught me all these virtues
far more eloquently than
the most flowery of words could
have done. When I married,
I told my wife Susan about
the significant part the lowly
pickle jar had played in
my life as a boy. In my
mind, it defined, more than
anything else, how much my dad
had loved me.
No matter how rough things got
at home, Dad continued
to doggedly drop his coins into
the jar. Even the summer
when Dad got laid off
from the mill, and Mama had to
serve dried beans several times
a week, not a single dime
was taken from the jar.
To the contrary, as Dad looked
across the table at me, pouring
catsup over my beans to
make them more palatable, he
became more determined than
ever to make a way out for me.
"When you finish college,
Son," he told me, his eyes glistening,
"You'll never have
to eat beans again...unless
you want to."
The first Christmas after our
daughter Jessica was born,
we spent the holiday with my
parents. After dinner, Mom
and Dad sat next to each other
on the sofa, taking turns
cuddling their first grandchild.
Jessica began to whimper
softly, and Susan took her from
Dad's arms. "She probably
needs to be changed," she said,
carrying the baby into my
parents' bedroom to diaper her.
When Susan came back
into the living room, there
was a strange mist in her eyes.
She handed Jessica back to Dad
before taking my hand and
leading me into the room.
"Look," she said softly, her
eyes directing me to a spot
on the floor beside the dresser.
To my amazement, there,
as if it had never been removed,
stood the old pickle jar,
the bottom already covered with
coins. I walked over to
the pickle jar, dug down into
my pocket, and pulled out a
fistful of coins. With
a gamut of emotions choking me, I
dropped the coins into the jar.
I looked up and saw that
Dad, carrying Jessica,
had slipped quietly into the room.
Our eyes locked, and I knew he
was feeling the same
emotions I felt. Neither
one of us could speak. This
truly touched my heart.
Sometimes we are so busy adding
up our troubles that we
forget to count our blessings.
Never underestimate the
power of your actions.
With one small gesture you can
change a person's life, for
better or for worse. The
best and most beautiful things
cannot be seen or touched
- they must be felt with the
heart. -- Helen Keller
Happy moments, praise God.
Difficult moments, seek God.
Quiet moments, worship God.
Painful moments, trust God.
Every moment, thank God.
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Subj: Grocery
Shopping Alone (S554)
From: icohen on 4/10/00
and
From: darrellvip on 8/30/2007
I walked into the grocery store
not particularly interested
in buying groceries. I wasn't
hungry.
The pain of losing my husband
of 37 years was still too raw.
And this grocery store held
so many sweet memories. Rudy
often came with me and almost
every time he'd pretend to go
off and look for something special.
I knew what he was up
to. I'd always spot him
walking down the aisle with the
three yellow roses in his hands.
Rudy knew I loved yellow roses.
With a heart filled with grief,
I only wanted to buy my few
items and leave, but even grocery
shopping was different since
Rudy had passed on.
Shopping for one took time, a
little more thought than it had
for two. Standing by the
meat, I searched for the perfect
small steak and remembered how
Rudy had loved his steak.
Suddenly a woman came beside
me. She was blond, slim and
lovely in a soft green pantsuit.
I watched as she picked up
a large pack of T-bones, dropped
them in her basket, hesitated,
and then put them back.
She turned to go and once again
reached for the pack of steaks.
She saw me watching her and she
smiled. "My husband loves
T-bones, but honestly, at these
prices, I don't know."
I swallowed the emotion down
my throat and met her pale blue
eyes. "My husband
passed away eight days ago," I told her.
Glancing at the package in her
hands, I fought to control the
tremble in my voice. "Buy
him the steaks. And cherish every
moment you have together."
She shook her head and I saw
the emotion in her eyes as she
placed the package in her basket
and wheeled away. I turned
and pushed my cart across the
length of the store to the
dairy products. There I stood,
trying to decide which size
milk I should buy. A quart,
I finally decided and moved on
to the ice cream section near
the front of the store. If
nothing else, I could always
fix myself an ice cream cone.
I placed the ice cream in my
cart and looked down the aisle
toward the front. I saw
first the green suit, then recognized
the pretty lady coming towards
me. In her arms she carried
a package. On her face
was the brightest smile I had ever
seen. I would swear a
soft halo encircled her blond hair as
she kept walking toward me,
her eyes holding mine. As she
came closer, I saw what she
held and tears began misting in
my yes.
"These are for you," she said
and placed three beautiful long
stemmed yellow roses in my arms.
"When you go through the
line, they will know these are
paid for." She leaned over
and placed a gentle kiss on
my cheek, then smiled again.
I wanted to tell her what she'd
done, what the roses meant,
but still unable to speak, I
watched as she walked away as
tears clouded my vision. I looked
down at the beautiful
roses nestled in the green tissue
wrapping and found it almost
unreal. How did she know?
Suddenly the answer seemed so
clear. I wasn't alone. "Oh, Rudy,
you haven't forgotten me, have
you?" I whispered, with tears
in my eyes. He was still
with me, and she was his angel.
\\\//
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Subj: A Little Boy
In New York (S129, S367)
From: RFSlick on 7/14/99
and From:
Imogenelumen on 2/2/2004
An Eye Witness Account from New
York City, on a cold day in
December. A little boy
about 10 years old was standing
before a shoe store on the roadway,
barefooted, peering
through the window, and shivering
with cold.
A lady approached the boy and
said, "My little fellow, why
are you looking so earnestly
in that window?" "I was asking
God to give me a pair of shoes,"
was the boys reply. The
lady took him by the hand and
went into the store and asked
the clerk to get half a dozen
pairs of socks for the boy.
She then asked if he could give
her a basin of water and a
towel. He quickly brought
them to her. She took the little
fellow to the back part of the
store and, removing her
gloves, knelt down, washed his
little feet, and dried them
with a towel. By this
time the clerk had returned with the
socks. Placing a pair
upon the boy's feet, she purchased
him a pair of shoes. She
tied up the remaining pairs of
socks and gave them to him.
She patted him on the head and
said, "No doubt, my little fellow,
you feel more comfortable
now?"
As she turned to go, the astonished
lad caught her by the
hand, and looking up in her
face, with tears in his eyes,
answered the question with these
words: "Are you God's Wife?"
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Subj: The
Rose (S167)
From: Tom_Adams on 4/12/99
Red roses were her favorites,
her name was also Rose.
And every year her husband sent
them, tied with pretty bows.
The year he died, the roses
were delivered to her door.
The card said, "Be my Valentine",
like all the years before.
Each year he sent her roses,
and the note would always say,
"I love you even more this year,
than last year on this day.
My love for you will always
grow, with every passing year."
She knew this was the last time
that the roses would appear.
She thought, he ordered roses
in advance before this day.
Her loving husband did not know,
that he would pass away.
He always liked to do things
early, way before the time.
Then, if he got too busy, everything
would work out fine.
She trimmed the stems, and placed
them in a very special vase.
Then, sat the vase beside the
portrait of his smiling face.
She would sit for hours, in
her husband's favorite chair.
While staring at his picture,
and the roses sitting there.
A year went by, and it was hard
to live without her mate.
With loneliness and solitude,
that had become her fate.
Then, the very hour, as on Valentines
before,
The doorbell rang, and there
were roses, sitting by her door.
She brought the roses in, and
then just looked at them in shock.
Then, went to get the telephone,
to call the florist shop.
The owner answered, and she
asked him, if he would explain,
Why would someone do this to
her, causing her such pain?
"I know your husband passed
away, more than a year ago,"
The owner said, "I knew you'd
call, and you would want to know.
The flowers you received today,
were paid for in advance.
Your husband always planned
ahead, he left nothing to chance.
There is a standing order, that
I have on file down here,
And he has paid, well in advance,
you'll get them every year.
There also is another thing,
that I think you should know,
He wrote a special little card...he
did this years ago.
Then, should ever I find out
that he's no longer here,
That's the card...that should
be sent, to you the following year."
She thanked him and hung up
the phone, her tears now flowing hard.
Her fingers shaking, as she
slowly reached to get the card.
Inside the card, she saw that
he had written her a note.
Then, as she stared in total
silence, this is what he wrote...
"Hello my love, I know it's
been a year since I've been gone,
I hope it hasn't been too hard
for you to overcome.
I know it must be lonely, and
the pain is very real.
For if it was the other way,
I know how I would feel.
The love we shared made everything
so beautiful in life.
I loved you more than words
can say, you were the perfect wife.
You were my friend and lover,
you fulfilled my every need.
I know it's only been a year,
but please try not to grieve.
I want you to be happy, even
when you shed your tears.
That is why the roses will be
sent to you for years.
When you get these roses, think
of all the happiness,
That we had together, and how
both of us were blessed.
I have always loved you and
I know I always will.
But, my love, you must go on,
you have some living still.
Please...try to find happiness,
while living out your days.
I know it is not easy, but I
hope you find some ways.
The roses will come every year,
and they will only stop,
When your door's not answered,
when the florist stops to knock.
He will come five times that
day, in case you have gone out.
But after his last visit, he
will know without a doubt,
To take the roses to the place,
where I've instructed him,
And place the roses where we
are, together once again.
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Subj: A Moment
In A Concentration Camp (S111)
From: smiles on 99-03-13
On a cold day in 1942, inside
a Nazi concentration camp, a
lone, young boy looks beyond
the barbed wire and sees a
young girl pass by. She
too, is moved by his presence.
In an effort to give expression
to her feelings, she
throws a red apple over the
fence -- a sign of life, hope,
and love. The young boy
bends over and picks up the apple.
A ray of light has pierced his
darkness. The following day,
thinking he is crazy for even
entertaining the notion of
seeing this young girl again,
he looks out beyond the fence,
hoping. On the other side
of the barbed wire, the young
girl yearns to see again this
tragic figure who moved her
so. She comes prepared
with apple in hand.
Despite another day of wintry
blizzards and chilling air,
two hearts are warmed once again
as the apple passes over
the barbed wire. The scene
is repeated for several days.
The two young spirits on opposite
sides of the fence look
forward to seeing each other,
if only for a moment and if
only to exchange a few words.
The interaction is always
accompanied by an exchange of
inexplicably heartening
feelings.
At the last of these momentary
meetings, the young boy
greets his sweet friend with
a frown and says, "Tomorrow,
don't bring me an apple, I will
not be here. They are
sending me to another camp."
The young boy walks away,
too heartbroken to look back.
From that day forward, the calming
image of the sweet
girl would appear to him in
moments of anguish. Her eyes,
her words, her thoughtfulness,
her red apple, all were a
recurring vision that would
break his night time sweats.
His family died in the war.
The life he had known had all
but vanished, but this one memory
remained alive and gave
him hope.
In 1957 in the United States,
two adults, both immigrants,
are set up on a blind date.
"And where were you during
the war?" inquires the woman.
"I was in a concentration
camp in Germany," the man replies.
"I remember I used to throw apples
over the fence to a boy
who was in a concentration camp,"
she recalls.
With a feeling of shock, the
man speaks. "And did that
boy say to you one day, "Don't
bring an apple anymore
because I am being sent to another
camp?'"
"Why, yes," she responds, "but
how could you possibly know
that?"
He looks into her eyes and says, "I was that young boy."
There is a brief silence, and
then he continues, "I was
separated from you then, and
I don't ever want to be with-
out you again. Will you
marry me?"
They embrace one another as she says, "Yes."
On Valentine's Day, 1996, on
national telecast of the Oprah
Winfrey show, this same man
affirmed his enduring love to
his wife of forty years.
"You fed me in the concentration
camp," he said, "you fed
me throughout all these years;
now, I remain hungry if only
for your love."
Lesson: The darkest moments
of one's life may carry the
seeds of the brightest tomorrow.
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Subj: My First
Christmas In Heaven
From: Tom_Adams on 99-01-28
I see the countless Christmas trees around the world below
With
tiny lights, like Heaven's stars, reflecting on the snow.
The sight is so spectacular, please wipe away the tear
For I am spending Christmas with Jesus Christ this year.
I hear the many Christmas songs that people hold so dear
But the sounds of music can't
compare with the Christmas choir up there.
I have no words to tell you, the joy thier voices bring,
For it is beyond description, to hear the angels sing.
I know
how much you miss me, I see the pain inside your heart.
But I am not so far away, we really aren't apart.
So be happy for me, dear ones, you know I hold you dear.
And be happy
I'm spending Christmas with Jesus Christ this year.
I sent you each a heavenly gift, from my heavenly home above.
I sent you each a memory of my undying love.
After all, love is a gift more precious than pure gold,
It was always most important in the stories Jesus told.
Please love and keep each other, as my father said to do,
For
I can't count the blessing or love he has for each of you.
So have a Merry Christmas and wipe away that tear,
Remember I am spending Christmas with Jesus Christ this year.
Note: Written by thirteen
year old Ben, for his mother,
before a four year battle with
a brain tumor that took his
life. He died December
14, 1997.
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Subj: A White
Envelope On The Christmas Tree (S98)
From: Tom_Adams on 98-12-10
It's just a small, white envelope
stuck among the branches
of our Christmas tree.
No name, no identification, no
inscription. It has peeked
through the branches of our
tree for the past 10 years or
so. It all began because
my husband Mike hated Christmas-oh,
not the true meaning
of Christmas, but the commercial
aspects of it - - over-
spending, the frantic running
around at the last minute to
get a tie for Uncle Harry and
the dusting powder for
Grandma - - the gifts given
in desperation because you
couldn't think of anything else.
Knowing he felt this
way, I decided one year to bypass
the usual shirts,
sweaters, ties and so forth.
I reached for something
special just for Mike.
The inspiration came in an unusual
way.
Our son Kevin, who was 12 that
year, was wrestling at the
junior level at the school he
attended; and shortly before
Christmas, there was a non-league
match against a team
sponsored by an inner-city church,
mostly black. These
youngsters, dressed in sneakers
so ragged that shoestrings
seemed to be the only thing
holding them together, presented
a sharp contrast to our boys
in their spiffy blue and gold
uniforms and sparkling new wrestling
shoes.
As the match began, I was alarmed
to see that the other team
was wrestling without headgear,
a kind of light helmet
designed to protect a wrestler's
ears. It was a luxury the
ragtag team obviously could
not afford. Well, we ended up
walloping them. We took
every weight class. As each of
their boys got up from the mat,
he swaggered around in his
tatters with false bravado,
a kind of street pride that
couldn't acknowledge defeat.
Mike, seated beside me, shook
his head sadly, "I wish just
one of them could have won,"
he said. "They have a lot of
potential, but losing like this
could take the heart right
out of them." Mike loved
kids - - all kids and he knew
them, having coached little
league football, baseball and
lacrosse. That's when
the idea for his present came.
That afternoon, I went to a local
sporting goods store and
bought an assortment of wrestling
headgear and shoes and
sent them anonymously to the
inner-city church.
On Christmas Eve, I placed the
envelope on the tree, the
note inside telling Mike what
I had done and that this was
his gift from me. His
smile was the brightest thing about
Christmas that year and in succeeding
years. For each
Christmas, I followed the tradition
- - one year sending a
group of mentally handicapped
youngsters to a hockey game,
another year a check to a pair
of elderly brothers whose
home had burned to the ground
the week before Christmas,
and on and on. The envelope
became the highlight of our
Christmas. It was always
the last thing opened on Christmas
morning and our children, ignoring
their new toys, would
stand with wide-eyed anticipation
as their dad lifted the
envelope from the tree to reveal
its contents.
As the children grew, the toys
gave way to more practical
presents, but the envelope never
lost its allure.
The story doesn't end there.
You see, we lost Mike last
year due to dreaded cancer.
When Christmas rolled around,
I was still so wrapped in grief
that I barely got the tree
up. But Christmas Eve
found me placing an envelope on the
tree, and in the morning, it
was joined by three more. Each
of our children, unbeknownst
to the others, had placed an
envelope on the tree for their
dad. The tradition has
grown and someday will expand
even further with our grand-
children standing around the
tree with wide-eyed anticipation
watching as their fathers take
down the envelope ... Mike's
spirit, like the Christmas spirit,
will always be with us.
May we all remember the Christmas spirit this year and always.
\\\//
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Subj: The
Wallet (S94, S510c)
From: RFSlick on 98-11-08
and
From: Joke-Of-The-Day-Mail.com on 10/30/2006
As I walked home one freezing
day, I stumbled on a wallet
someone had lost in the street.
I picked it up and looked
inside to find some identification
so I could call the owner.
The wallet contained only three
dollars and a crumpled letter
that looked as if it had been
in there for years.
The envelope was worn and the
only thing that was legible on
it was the return address.
I started to open the letter,
hoping to find some clue.
Then I saw the dateline--1924.
The letter had been written
almost sixty years ago.
It was written in a beautiful
feminine handwriting on powder
blue stationery with a little
flower in the left-hand corner.
It was a "Dear John" letter
that told the recipient, whose
name appeared to be Michael,
that the writer could not see
him any more because her mother
forbade it. Even so, she
wrote that she would always
love him. It was signed, Hannah.
It was a beautiful letter, but
there was no way except for
the name Michael, that the owner
could be identified. Maybe
if I called information, the
operator could find a phone
listing for the address on the
envelope.
"Operator," I began, "this is
an unusual request. I'm trying
to find the owner of a wallet
that I found. Is there anyway
you can tell me if there is
a phone number for an address
that was on an envelope in the
wallet?"
She suggested I speak with her
supervisor, who hesitated for
a moment then said, "Well, there
is a phone listing at that
address, but I can't give you
the number." She said, as a
courtesy, she would call that
number, explain my story and
would ask them if they wanted
her to connect me. I waited a
few minutes and then she was
back on the line. "I have a
party who will speak with you."
I asked the woman on the other
end of the line if she knew
anyone by the name of Hannah.
She gasped, "Oh! We bought
this house from a family who
had a daughter named Hannah.
But that was 30 years ago!"
"Would you know where that family
could be located now?" I
asked.
"I remember that Hannah had to
place her mother in a nursing
home some years ago," the woman
said. "Maybe if you got in
touch with them they might be
able to track down the daughter."
She gave me the name of the nursing
home and I called the
number. They told me the
old lady had passed away some years
ago but they did have a phone
number for where they thought
the daughter might be living.
I thanked them and phoned.
The woman who answered explained
that Hannah herself was now
living in a nursing home.
This whole thing was stupid,
I thought to myself. Why was I
making such a big deal over
finding the owner of a wallet
that had only three dollars
and a letter that was almost 60
years old?
Nevertheless, I called the nursing
home in which Hannah was
supposed to be living and the
man who answered the phone
told me, "Yes, Hannah is staying
with us. "
Even though it was already 10
p.m., I asked if I could come
by to see her. "Well,"
he said hesitatingly, "if you want
to take a chance, she might
be in the day room watching
television."
I thanked him and drove over
to the nursing home. The
night nurse and a guard greeted
me at the door. We went up
to the third floor of the large
building. In the day room,
the nurse introduced me to Hannah.
She was a sweet, silver-haired
old timer with a warm smile
and a twinkle in her eye.
I told her about finding the
wallet and showed her the
letter. The second she
saw the powder blue envelope with
that little flower on the left,
she took a deep breath and
said, "Young man, this letter
was the last contact I ever
had with Michael."
She looked away for a moment
deep in thought and then said
Softly, "I loved him very much.
I was only 16 at the time
and my mother felt I was too
young. Oh, he was so handsome.
He looked like Sean Connery,
the actor."
"Yes," she continued. "Michael
Goldstein was a wonderful
person. If you should
find him, tell him I think of him
often. And," she hesitated
for a moment, almost biting her
lip, "tell him I still love
him. You know," she said smiling
as tears began to well up in
her eyes, "I never did marry.
I guess no one ever matched
up to Michael..."
I thanked Hannah and said goodbye.
I took the elevator to
the first floor and as I stood
by the door, the guard there
asked, "Was the old lady able
to help you?"
I told him she had given me a
lead. "At least I have a last
name. But I think I'll
let it go for a while. I spent
almost the whole day trying
to find the owner of this wallet."
I had taken out the wallet, which
was a simple brown leather
case with red lacing on the
side. When the guard saw it, he
said, "Hey, wait a minute!
That's Mr. Goldstein's wallet.
I'd know it anywhere with that
right red lacing. He's always
losing that wallet. I
must have found it in the halls at
least three times."
"Who's Mr. Goldstein?" I asked as my hand began to shake.
"He's one of the old timers on
the 8th floor. That's Mike
Goldstein's wallet for sure.
He must have lost it on one
of his walks."
I thanked the guard and quickly
ran back to the nurse's
office. I told her what
the guard had said. We went back
to the elevator and got on.
I prayed that Mr. Goldstein
would be up.
On the eighth floor, the floor
nurse said, "I think he's
still in the day room.
He likes to read at night. He's a
darling old man."
We went to the only room that
had any lights on and there
was a man reading a book.
The nurse went over to him and
asked if he had lost his wallet.
Mr. Goldstein looked up
with surprise, put his hand
in his back pocket and said,
"Oh, it is missing!"
"This kind gentleman found a
wallet and we wondered if it
could be yours?"
I handed Mr. Goldstein the wallet
and the second he saw
it, he smiled with relief and
said, "Yes, that's it! It
must have dropped out of my
pocket this afternoon. I
want to give you a reward."
"No, thank you," I said.
"But I have to tell you some-
thing. I read the letter
in the hope of finding out who
owned the wallet."
The smile on his face suddenly
disappeared. "You read
that letter?"
"Not only did I read it, I think I know where Hannah is."
He suddenly grew pale. "Hannah?
You know where she is?
How is she? Is she still
as pretty as she was? Please,
please tell me," he begged.
"She's fine...just as pretty
as when you knew her." I
said softly.
The old man smiled with anticipation
and asked, "Could
you tell me where she is?
I want to call her tomorrow."
He grabbed my hand and said,
"You know something, mister,
I was so in love with that girl
that when that letter
came, my life literally ended.
I never married. I guess
I've always loved her. "
"Mr. Goldstein," I said, "Come with me."
We took the elevator down to
the third floor. The
hallways were darkened and only
one or two little night-
lights lit our way to the day
room where Hannah was
sitting alone watching the television.
The nurse
walked over to her.
"Hannah," she said softly, pointing
to Michael, who was
waiting with me in the doorway.
"Do you know this man?"
She adjusted her glasses, looked
for a moment, but didn't
say a word. Michael said
softly, almost in a whisper,
"Hannah, it's Michael.
Do you remember me?"
She gasped, "Michael! I don't
believe it! Michael! It's
you! My Michael!"
He walked slowly towards her and they
embraced. The nurse and
I left with tears streaming down
our faces.
"See," I said. "See how the Good
Lord works! If it's
meant to be, it will be."
About three weeks later I got
a call at my office from
the nursing home. "Can
you break away on Sunday to
attend a wedding? Michael
and Hannah are going to tie
the knot!"
It was a beautiful wedding with
all the people at the
nursing home dressed up to join
in the celebration.
Hannah wore a light beige dress
and looked beautiful.
Michael wore a dark blue suit
and stood tall. They
made me their best man.
The hospital gave them their
own room and if you ever
wanted to see a 76-year-old
bride and a 79-year-old
groom acting like two teenagers,
you had to see this
couple.
A perfect ending for a love affair
that had lasted
nearly 60 years.
\\\//
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Subj: A Little
Girl On The Beach (S93, S482c)
From: auntieg on 98-11-04
and
From: darrell94590 on 4/19/2006
A sweet story...get out the Kleenex!
She was six years old when I
first met her on the beach near
where I live. I drive
to this beach, a distance of three or
four miles, whenever the world
begins to close in on me. She
was building a sandcastle or
something and looked up, her eyes
as blue as the sea.
"Hello," she said. I answered
with a nod, not really in the
mood to bother with a small
child. "I'm building," she said.
"I see that. What is it?" I asked, not caring."
"Oh, I don't know, I just like
the feel of sand." That sounds
good, I thought, and slipped
off my shoes. A sandpiper glided by.
"That's a joy," the child said.
"It's a what?"
"It's a joy. My mama says
sandpipers come to bring us joy."
The bird went gliding down the
beach.
"Good-bye joy," I muttered to
myself, "Hello pain," and turned
to walk on.
I was depressed; my life seemed completely out of balance.
"What's your name?" She
wouldn't give up.
"Ruth," I answered. "I'm
Ruth Peterson."
"Mine's Wendy... I'm six."
"Hi, Wendy."
She giggled. "You're funny," she said.
In spite of my gloom I laughed
too and walked on. Her musical
giggle followed me. "Come
again, Mrs. P," she called. "We'll
have another happy day."
The days and weeks that followed
belong to others: a group of
unruly Boy Scouts, PTA meetings,
and ailing mother. The
sun was shining one morning as I took
my hands out of the dishwater.
"I need a sandpiper," I said
to myself, gathering up my coat.
The ever-changing balm of
the seashore awaited me.
The breeze was chilly, but I strode
along, trying to recapture the
serenity I needed. I had for-
gotten the child and was startled
when she appeared.
"Hello, Mrs. P," she said. "Do you want to play?"
"What did you have in mind?" I asked, with a twinge of annoyance.
"I don't know, you say."
"How about charades?" I asked sarcastically.
The tinkling laughter burst forth
again. "I don't know what
that is." "Then let's just walk."
Looking at her, I noticed
the delicate fairness of her
face. "Where do you live?" I
asked. "Over there."
She pointed toward a row of summer
cottages. Strange, I thought,
in winter. "Where do you go
to school?" "I don't go
to school. Mommy says we're on
vacation." She chattered
little girl talk as we strolled
up the beach, but my mind was
on other things. When I left
for home, Wendy said it had
been a happy day. Feeling
surprisingly better, I smiled
at her and agreed.
Three weeks later, I rushed to
my beach in a state of near
panic. I was in nomood
to even greet Wendy. I thought I
saw her mother on the porch
and felt like demanding she
keep her child at home.
"Look, if you don't mind," I said
crossly when Wendy caught up
with me, "I'd rather be alone
today."
She seems unusually pale and
out of breath. "Why?" she asked.
I turned to her and shouted,
"Because my mother died!" and
thought, my God, why was I saying
this to a little child?
"Oh," she said quietly, "then
this is a bad day."
"Yes" I said, "and yesterday
and the day before and-oh, go
away!"
"Did it hurt? " she inquired.
"Did what hurt?" I was exasperated with her, with myself.
"When she died?"
"Of course it hurt!!" I snapped,
misunderstanding, wrapped
up in myself. I strode
off.
A month or so after that, when
I next went to the beach, she
wasn't there. Feeling
guilty, ashamed and admitting to
myself I missed her, I went
up to the cottage after my walk
and knocked at the door.
A drawn looking young woman with
honey-colored hair opened the
door.
"Hello," I said. "I'm Ruth Peterson.
I missed your little
girl today and wondered
where she was."
"Oh yes, Mrs. Peterson, please
come in" "Wendy talked of you
so much. I'm afraid I allowed
her to bother you. If she was
a nuisance, please, accept my
apologies."
"Not at all-she's a delightful
child," I said, suddenly
realizing that I meant it.
"Where is she?"
"Wendy died last week, Mrs. Peterson.
She had leukemia.
Maybe she didn't tell you."
Struck dumb, I groped for a chair.
My breath caught. "She
loved this beach; so when she
asked to come, we couldn't
say no. She seemed so
much better here and had a lot of
what she called happy days.
But the last few weeks, she
declined rapidly..." her voice
faltered.
"She left something for you...
if only I can find it.
Could you wait a moment while
I look?" I nodded stupidly,
my mind racing for something,
anything, to say to this
lovely young woman. She
handed me a smeared envelope,
with MRS. P printed in bold,
childish letters. Inside
was a drawing in bright crayon
hues-a yellow beach, a
blue sea, and a brown bird.
Underneath was carefully
printed:
A SANDPIPER TO BRING YOU JOY
Tears welled up in my eyes, and
a heart that had almost
forgotten to love opened wide.
I took Wendy's mother in
my arms. "I'm so sorry,
I'm sorry, I'm so sorry," I
muttered over and over, and
we wept together.
The precious little picture is
framed now and hangs in
my study. Six words -
one for each year of her life -
that speak to me of harmony,
courage, undemanding love.
A gift from a child with sea
blue eyes and hair the
color of sand---who taught me
the gift of love.
NOTE: Snopes.com indicates
that the story didn't happen.
You can read the details at
http://www.snopes.com/glurge/sandpiper.asp
\\\//
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