A Second Chicken Soup for the Woman's Soul

by Jack Canfield

  "Don't worry, Grandmother," I reassured her. "We'll find it for you."

  My sisters and I formed a search party.

  "Let's start in the closet where the ornaments were," Donna said. "Maybe the box just fell down."

  That sounded logical, so we climbed on a chair and began to search that tall closet of Grandfather's. We found Father's old yearbooks and photographs of relatives, Christmas cards from years gone by, and party dresses and jewelry boxes, but no star.

  We searched under beds and over shelves, inside and outside, until we had exhausted every possibility. We could see Grandmother was disappointed, although she tried not to show it.

  "We could buy a new star," Kristi offered.

  "I'll make you one from construction paper," Karen chimed in.

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  "No," Grandmother said. "This year, we won't have a star."

  By now, it was dark outside, and time for bed, as Santa would soon be here. We lay in bed, snowflakes falling quietly outside.

  The next morning, my sisters and I woke up early, as was our habit on Christmas dayfirst, to see what Santa had left under the tree, and second, to look for the Christmas star in the sky. After a traditional breakfast of apple pancakes, the family sat down together to open presents. Santa had brought me the Easy-Bake Oven I wanted, and Donna a Chatty-Cathy doll. Karen was thrilled to get the doll buggy she had asked for, and Kristi to get the china tea set. Father was in charge of passing out the presents, so that everyone would have something to open at the same time.

  "The last gift is to Grandmother from Grandfather," he said, in a puzzled voice.

  "From who?" There was surprise in my grandmother's voice.

  "I found that gift in Grandfather's closet when we got the tree down," Mother explained. "It was already wrapped so I put it under the tree. I thought it was one of yours."

  "Hurry and open it," Karen urged excitedly.

  My grandmother shakily opened the box. Her face lit up with joy when she unfolded the tissue paper and pulled out a glorious golden star. There was a note attached. Her voice trembled as she read it aloud:

  Don't be angry with me, dear. I broke your star while putting away the decorations, and I couldn't bear to tell you. Thought it was time for a new one. I hope it brings you as much joy as the first one. Merry Christmas.

  Love,

  Bryant

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  So Grandmother's tree had a star after all, a star that expressed my grandparents' everlasting love for one another. It brought my grandfather home for Christmas in each of our hearts and made it our best Christmas ever.

  Susan Adair

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  My Dad, Charlie and Me

  My father's long and successful career began in the days of vaudeville. The famous ventriloquist, Edgar Bergen and his equally famous wooden sidekick, Charlie McCarthy, delighted theater and later, radio and television audiences for decades. So when I was born, it was only natural that I was known in the press not as Candice Bergen, but as ''Charlie's sister." As a little girl, I sometimes performed with Daddy and Charlie. I recited my well-learned lines with considerable poise and polisha daughter determined to make good.

  Many years later, in the summer of 1978, my father called a press conference at the Brown Derby in Beverly Hills to announce his retirement, half-wondering whether anyone would show up. He was surprised when the press conference, packed, was carried on the evening news.

  His final appearance, he announced, would be a three-week engagement at Caesar's Palace in Las Vegas on a bill with Andy Williams. This was a serious risk for a man who, not six months before, had been hospitalized in coronary intensive care. But as soon as the offer had been made, he was hellbent on accepting it, determined, one last time, to

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  "play the Palace on the top of the bill": Edgar Bergen and Charlie McCarthy just like way back when. Here was an opportunity to go out in style.

  My mother went with him to Las Vegas, and on opening night my brother Kris and I were there to surprise him. We were sitting out front as the lights dimmed and the music started up, hoping he would make it smoothly through the routines, terrified that he might not.

  The three of us barely breathed as the orchestra led into "Charlie My Boy," the familiar theme brought into America's living rooms by radio thirty years before. There were many there that night who rememberedpeople for whom Edgar and Charlie were old fireside friendsand as Bergen walked from the wings with McCarthy at his side, the applause was long and alive with memories.

  My father stood straight and proud on the stage, his right hand on Charlie's back. For this occasion, his final farewell, he had insisted on playing again in white tie and tails. He was, after all, an elegant man, a poised and graceful presence commanding center stage.

  "Well, Charlie"

  "Bergen, you old windbag, I'll kill ya, so help me, I'll mooowwww you down"

  And they slipped into the familiar patter of a partnership that had lasted sixty years.

  The routine was flawless. Bergen reasoning, McCarthy saucy and razzing, the steady laughter of the audience, the frequent applause. Nothing could stop them, and the audience kept asking for more.

  My mother sat still as a statue, her concentration locked on the man on the stage. Only her lips moved as she unconsciously mouthed the dialogue she had followed for thirty-five years, as if willing it to come out right. Each of us knew by heart the lines of the routines that had spanned our lives; but that night we heard them fresh, as if for the first time

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  perhaps because we sensed it would be the last.

  The act ended with a sound track from their old radio shows, a montage of Bergen and McCarthy memories: John Barrymore jousting with Charlie; Marilyn Monroe and Charles McCarthy announcing their engagement; W. C. Fields threatening to split Charlie into Venetian blindsflashbacks of famous voices from the past. Up on stage, Edgar and Charlie cocked their heads, swapped knowing glances and chuckled softly as they looked up, listening wistfully to their lives.

  Then my father said simply, "In vaudeville, every act has to have a close, and I think, for me, the close has come and it's time to pack up my little friend and say good-bye. Good-night, God bless, and thank you all for listening." As the orchestra played his favorite, "September Song," he picked up Charlie and walked offstage.

  The three of us smiled and cried, trying to compose ourselves before the house lights came up. The audience rose to its feet, applauding him with deep affection, grateful to share his farewell.

  There were photographers in his dressing room backstage as we entered, and we had to press our way through the throng. He hugged Kris and my mother; then I came forward, wiping my eyes. We held each other tight. The love of a lifetime was squeezed into those moments. Once again I started sobbing, so proud of him, so happy for him, so sad. Knowing somehow that it was a last good-bye. His to an audience, ours to him.

  The reviews of the show were unanimous, effusive in their praise. The next three days' performances went just as smoothly, with standing ovations at the end of each.

  After the fourth night's performance, my father went to sleep in good spirits. My mother rose early, half opened the blinds and called to him. Several moments passed before she realized he was dead. He had gone peacefully while he slept.

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  For my father, there could have been no better ending; it was one he might have written himself. And who can say that he hadn't? There was the supreme sense of timing ingrained over sixty years of performing. Just as in vaudeville, he knew when to close.

  Candice Bergen

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  My Dad

  Whenever anyone meets my dad, I imagine they first notice how handsome he is: the striking blue eyes, jet black hair and cleft in his chin. But next, I'll bet they notice his hands. He's a professional carpenter; he usually has a bruised nail or two, several fresh cuts, various healing wounds and calluses everywhere. The girth of his finger
s is three times the size of an average man's finger. They are the hands of a man who started his working life at the early age of three, milking cows. His attitude toward a work crew can appear gruff; he expects them to work hard and do whatever it takes to finish the job without excuses.

  Twenty-three years ago, my mom died, and this man's man was left all alone to raise a fourteen-year-old girl and an eleven-year-old boy. He suddenly had to be Dad and Mom.

  It seemed easier at first. I was a rather fearless child and preferred playing with boys, doing boy things like climbing trees, building forts, playing football, baseball and with G.I. Joes. I did have a Barbie doll, but she often wore G.I. Joe fatigues and went to war with him. I even played

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  on an all-boys' ice hockey team. I had a lot of fun and learned many things from these activities. But none of them prepared me for stepping into my womanhood, which had to happen sooner or later.

  I especially remember one day when I was about fifteen years old. We were driving down to Georgia to visit my aunt, and for some reason, every single thing my dad and my brother said or did made me crazy! I went from weepy to laughing for no reason, but my overall desire was to be left alone! It was clear they were both perplexed by this Jekyll/Hyde creature in their car.

  We'd been taking our time driving and ended up spending the night at a motor lodge along the highway. Once we were in the room, Dad sent my brother out to the soda machine. When we were alone, he asked me what was wrong. There was nothing to do but admit that I'd begun menstruating for the very first time in my life. Then I burst out crying uncontrollably.

  The miracle was that somehow, even though no booklet included this piece of information, Dad knew to just hold me and allow me to mourn the loss of my childhood.

  He then offered to go to the store for me and buy the items I required.

  We both crossed some kind of bridge that day: me into womanhood and he more deeply into the role of being mother as well as father. I think some men fear their feminine side, as if being nurturing would take away from their manliness somehow. All my dad knew to do was to love me unconditionally; not surprisingly, that worked just fine.

  When my senior prom rolled around, I found myself in the happy position of dating a boy from a neighboring town; we invited each other to our proms, which were on consecutive nights.

  Daddy wanted to make certain I had the perfect dress, and I did. It was a sleeveless, long white eyelet gown with

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  a scoop neck. It made me feel like a princess. And Dad's approval was obvious; I think he was proud of me for stepping out of my tomboy image and acting the young ladyeven if only for a couple of nights.

  But what nights they were! Tradition at our school's prom was to stay out all night with your friends. With our parents' permission, my date and I "prommed" until 6:30 in the morning. I returned to my home to sleep for a few hours before driving to his parents' house.

  I'll never forget my amazement that Saturday morning when I awoke and came downstairs to find my beautiful prom gown proudly displayed in protective plastic, like new, ready for another night's festivities.

  It seems that sometime during my sleep, my dad had come into my room and found my prom gown. He had hand-washed it in a delicate laundry soap, then hand-pressed it.

  My dad may not have been a man of many words when he was raising us, but he didn't really have to be. When I think of those beat-up working man's callused hands gently washing my delicate prom gown, my heart warms and relives that moment of unconditional love all over again.

  It felt like the best of what we're supposed to learn from our mothersand our dads.

  Barbara E. C. Goodrich

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  A Happy-Ever-After

  ''Is this Jenna?" the voice on the phone asked.

  Jenna clutched the receiver with a trembling hand. That voice was exactly as she had dreamed it would sound. Just exactly like his father's.

  Jenna had known for thirty years that this day would come. Adopted children seem to want to know all about their natural families. Feelings of dread, but a sort of elation, filled Jenna while she carried on a conversation with the young man on the phone.

  In 1967, Jenna was in love with David. But David's family was from the poorer section of town. Jenna's father was controlling and abusive, and he would not allow her to date David. With the help of friends, they sneaked around to see each other.

  When Jenna discovered that she was pregnant, her father became enraged. He forced the teen to go away to live with an aunt until the baby was born. Heartbroken, David joined the army and went to fight in Vietnam. He wrote some letters to Jenna, but her father threw them away. David even tried writing letters to one of Jenna's friends, hoping to get some word to the girl he dearly

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  loved. Jenna never received any of the letters, and she didn't know how to contact David.

  Jenna came home after the baby was born. She dreamed constantly of the tiny infant she had held for only a second. She wondered what his adoptive parents were like, where they lived, and what the baby was growing to look like. She also dreamed of the day she would be old enough to leave home and get away from her controlling father. After graduation, Jenna went to college, then got a good job in a large city. She never returned to her hometown, still angry that her father had not allowed her to keep her child and marry David.

  Memories of a lost love and a son she had to give away caused Jenna to never marry. She kept busy with her job as a school teacher. Organizations for battered women and unwed mothers became her passion. Jenna worked very hard to help others all her adult life.

  But in the back of her mind, she always knew that this day would come. Her son would find her and want to know why she hadn't loved him enough to keep him.

  "Can we meet sometime soon?" the young man asked. His name was Bradley. Jenna agreed to allow him to fly to her city and meet her. He was thirty years old and married. He had two children.

  After she hung up, Jenna wished she had asked if Bradley had been able to find David. She let the thought die and began to prepare for the visit from her son in two weeks.

  The days dragged. Jenna's emotions flew. She went from excitement at seeing her son at last, to dread that he wouldn't like her or wouldn't understand.

  Finally, the day arrived. Jenna drove to the airport two hours early because she was too nervous to stay home alone. She paced and bit her nails.

  Bradley's flight was announced. Jenna got as close to

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  the gate as she was allowed, craning her neck to watch for the family she was about to claim. A lifetime of nightmares and regrets filled her mind.

  Suddenly, there he was, right in front of her. A hug so tight that he picked her up was the first touch from her son in thirty years. They hugged and cried for several minutes. Then a little boy tugged at Bradley's shirt.

  "Daddy, I'm thirsty." Jenna hugged her grandson, then his older sister. She hugged her daughter-in-law, and then hugged Bradley some more. The little boy began to shout and run toward another man. "Grandpa!" he yelled.

  Jenna stopped and stared. It can't be. But how? Is it really him?