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General Forum: Society | | Chicken Soup for the Soul - Excerpts. | |
| Courtesy: Bookbrowse.com
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Chicken Soup for The Parent's Soul by Jack Canfield.
The Pickle Jar
His heritage to his children wasn't words or possessions, but an unspoken treasure, the treasure of his example as a man and a father.
—Will Rogers
As far back as I can remember, the large pickle jar sat on the floor beside the dresser in my parents' bedroom. When Dad got ready for bed, he 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. Then 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 had chocolate. Dad always had 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 he 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. 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 quietly 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 of us could speak.
—A. W. Cobb
Posted by: Ms. Prasanthi Uppalapati At: 20, Jun 2005 1:19:02 PM IST
Courtesy: Bookbrowse.com
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Chicken Soup for the Unsinkable Soul by Jack Canfield.
Benny's Balloon
Benny was seventy when he died rather suddenly of cancer in Wilmette, Illinois. Because his ten-year-old granddaughter Rachel never got the chance to say good-bye, she cried for days. But after receiving a big red balloon at a birthday party, she came home with an idea - a letter to Grampa Benny, air-mailed to heaven in her balloon.
Rachel's mother didn't have the heart to say no, and she watched with tears in her eyes as the fragile balloon bumped its way over the trees that lined the yard and disappeared.
Two months later, Rachel received this letter postmarked from a town six hundred miles away in Pennsylvania:
Dear Rachel,
Your letter to Grampa Benny reached him. He really appreciated it. Please understand that material things can't be kept in heaven, so they had to send the balloon back to Earth - they just keep thoughts, memories, love and things like that in heaven.
Rachel, whenever you think about Grampa Benny, he knows, and is very close by with overwhelming love for you.
Sincerely,
Bob Anderson (also a Grampa)
(c) 1999 Michael Cody.
Posted by: Ms. Prasanthi Uppalapati At: 20, Jun 2005 1:05:46 PM IST
Courtesy: Bookbrowse.com
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A Second Chicken Soup for the Woman's Soul by Jack Canfield
Courtesy: Bookbrowse.com
An Act of Kindness for a Broken Heart
I am only one. But still, I am one. I cannot do everything,
but still I can do something. And because I cannot do everything,
I will not refuse to do the something that I can do.
Edward Everett Hale
My husband, Hanoch, and I wrote a book Acts of Kindness: How to Create a Kindness Revolution, which has generated much interest across America. This story was shared with us by an anonymous caller during a radio talk show in Chicago.
"Hi, Mommy, what are you doing?" asked Susie.
"I'm making a casserole for Mrs. Smith next door," said her mother.
"Why?" asked Susie, who was only six years old.
"Because Mrs. Smith is very sad; she lost her daughter and she has a broken heart. We need to take care of her for a little while."
"Why, Mommy?"
"You see, Susie, when someone is very, very sad, they have trouble doing the little things like making dinner or other chores. Because we're part of a community and Mrs. Smith is our neighbor, we need to do some things to help her. Mrs. Smith won't ever be able to talk with her daughter or hug her or do all those wonderful things that mommies and daughters do together. You are a very smart girl, Susie; maybe you'll think of some way to help take care of Mrs. Smith."
Susie thought seriously about this challenge and how she could do her part in caring for Mrs. Smith. A few minutes later, Susie knocked on her door. After a few moments Mrs. Smith answered the knock with a "Hi, Susie."
Susie noticed that Mrs. Smith didn't have that familiar musical quality about her voice when she greeted someone.
Mrs. Smith also looked as though she might have been crying because her eyes were watery and swollen."What can I do for you, Susie?" asked Mrs. Smith.
"My mommy says that you lost your daughter and you're very, very sad with a broken heart." Susie held her hand out shyly. In it was a Band-Aid. "This is for your broken heart." Mrs. Smith gasped, choking back her tears. She knelt down and hugged Susie. Through her tears she said, "Thank you, darling girl, this will help a lot."
Mrs. Smith accepted Susie's act of kindness and took it one step further. She purchased a small key ring with a plexiglass picture frame -- the ones designed to carry keys and proudly display a family portrait at the same time. Mrs. Smith placed Susie's Band-Aid in the frame to remind herself to heal a little every time she sees it. She wisely knows that healing takes time and support. It has become her symbol for healing, while not forgetting the joy and love she experienced with her daughter.
Meladee McCarty
Posted by: Ms. Prasanthi Uppalapati At: 20, Jun 2005 1:03:49 PM IST
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