101 Stories of Changes, Choices and Growing Up for Kids Ages 9-13

by Jack Canfield

  Time healed a lot of the awkwardness, and over the next few years we clearly went down separate paths. Still, when I saw her in the halls of high school, I felt a strange sadness and longing. I thought if I went back and “fixed” everything between us, we could somehow start all over as friends. But that was a fantasy. Our differences were too great, and I could only hope she understood.

  I’ll always remember the years Patty and I were best friends, but Mom was right. Friendships can change, and we have to let them go when it’s time.

  Tamera Collins

  NANCY Reprinted with permission of United Feature Syndicate, Inc.

  You Know You’re Growing Up

  When . . .

  You can’t fit in the baby swing at the park.

  Kirsten Gunderson, eight

  You manage to squeeze yourself into your old hiding space but you can’t get back out.

  Rachael Pavelko, twelve

  You can go on the roller coaster because you pass the height mark.

  Kelsey Gunderson, ten

  You realize the world does NOT revolve around you.

  Lindsay Carlson, fourteen

  You start getting more phone calls than your mom.

  Kim Riddle, eleven

  Instead of getting up at the crack of dawn to watch cartoons on Saturdays, you sleep until noon.

  Lauren Aitchison, eleven

  Food tastes just as good with a lot less ketchup.

  Amanda Long, ten

  You realize it’s YOUR underwear that your mother is hanging on the clothesline for all the neighbors to see.

  Janelle Breese-Biagioni

  You go to the movies and you can see something not made by Disney.

  Alex Blake, nine

  Boys and girls no longer have cooties! (I don’t know if I’m there yet.)

  Amaelia Macoritto, twelve

  The goofy-looking neighbor kid who plays football with your brother comes over and asks if you’re home, not your brother, and he has suddenly transformed into a handsome prince!

  Ashton Howe, thirteen

  You stop giggling at the word “kiss.”

  Katy Coleman, thirteen

  You no longer crawl in bed with your mom and dad during thunderstorms.

  Annie Barkley, thirteen

  You tell your mom that you’re too old to be holding her hand while walking in the mall.

  Emily Skees, thirteen

  You won’t take a bath with your younger sibling anymore.

  Keley Katona, fifteen

  The waitress no longer assumes you want crayons and a kid’s menu.

  Kaleigh Cronin, ten

  You are trying on thousands of clothes just to go to the skating rink (acting like your big sister).

  April Randes, sixteen

  You are asked to say the blessing at a family gathering.

  Craig Lee Watrous Jr., ten

  Your daily vitamins switch from Flintstones to vitamin C.

  Jennifer Luptak, eleven

  11

  ECLECTIC

  WISDOM

  Life is given as a gift,

  So wonderful and new.

  We need to live it day to day,

  Being careful as we do.

  For life can give us many years,

  Or only months or days.

  Each moment must be savored,

  And used in special ways.

  Stop and take a moment,

  To help the poorer man.

  Or teach a child something,

  Lend a helping hand.

  Small things take but minutes,

  And one thing is plain to see:

  Great rewards return to you.

  Give the best of life; it’s free.

  Meghan Beardsley, sixteen

  Redsy

  When we begin to take our failures non-seriously, it means we are ceasing to be afraid of them. It is of immense importance to learn to laugh at ourselves.

  Katherine Mansfield

  Redsy was not only the class clown, he was the class terror because he was fearless. He was always in trouble with Miss Farley, our first-grade teacher. Miss Farley couldn’t punish him enough to change his behavior. He did whatever he wanted to do, no matter what. He was also the smartest kid you ever saw. We were at the beginning of our first year of school, and Redsy could already count all the way up to one hundred.

  But Redsy had a little problem. He couldn’t say the th sound. He couldn’t say the word “three”—it came out as “free.” It drove Miss Farley crazy because she thought that he could do it right if he only tried harder. Every time Redsy would get caught doing something wrong, Miss Farley would keep him after school and make him practice his th’s.

  One Friday afternoon, Miss Farley announced that we were all going to count up to one hundred the following Monday. Sure enough, when Monday rolled around, Redsy was the first one to be called on by Miss Farley to come to the front of the class and count.

  As he passed her in the aisle, Miss Farley grabbed his sleeve and their eyes met. She was a mean old woman who strictly insisted on having things done her way. I remember not ever wanting to look her in the eye. We were all terrified of her, except for Redsy. He wasn’t afraid of anything.

  Redsy started counting fast and furiously the instant he reached the front. “One, two, FREE, four, five . . . ” The class snickered and Miss Farley started to get red in the face. Redsy got a little flustered too, because he realized what he had just done. He had told us in the schoolyard, before class, that he was going to do it right. On he went: “Ten, eleven, twelve, FIRTEEN . . . ” The rest of us began to giggle and stifled laughter broke out here and there. Miss Farley stood up and glared at the class. We all stopped and became quiet as Redsy flew on into the twenties.

  Then the magic moment arrived. Redsy got to twenty-nine and when he did, the class held its collective breath in unison. Redsy met Miss Farley’s stare with utter disregard and cried out, “TWENTY N-I-I-I-I-I-I-I-NE . . . FIRDY!” Then Redsy flew on in a continuous, nonstop torrent, “Firdy-one, firdy-two, firdy-free . . . ” with a huge smile on his face. The entire class exploded in laughter. We were seeing Redsy at his best—he knew just exactly what he was doing! Our laughter was much more important to Redsy than was Miss Farley’s wrath. Miss Farley lunged at Redsy to get him to stop, but he dodged her as easily as a rabbit and continued, “Firdy-four, firdy-five . . .” to a rising din of uncontrolled laughter.

  The laughter continued through the forties. When he reached the fifties, the laughter began to subside, and Redsy slowed his pace as he continued to dodge Miss Farley’s now-feeble attempts to grab him as he ran back and forth in front of the class. She finally gave up and sat down at her desk, and Redsy picked up the pace. As he flew past “Ninety-free . . . ” no one uttered a sound because we all were afraid of what would happen when he got to the end.

  “Ninety N-I-I-I-I-NE . . . one hundred!” he bellowed. Then silence.

  Miss Farley remained at her desk with her head lowered, her face in her hands. She was shaking uncontrollably and we became alarmed. After a long moment, she lifted her head and laughter burst out of her like the breaking of a dam. Then the entire class joined in, including Redsy.

  Miss Farley finally agreed, for the first time in her long teaching career, that she had been had by the best.

  Barry Fireman

  DENNIS THE MENACE

  “Miss Sitton, who made the loudest chalk squeak . . . me or Dewey?”

  DENNIS THE MENACE® Used by permission of Hank Ketcham and © by North America Syndicate.

  Tippy

  I was late for the school bus and rushing to get ready. My dog, Tippy, ran past me. What’s your big hurry? I wondered, annoyed. It wasn’t like he was late for the school bus like I was. When he got to the front door, he laid down in front of it—his way of asking to be petted. I ignored his shameless begging for affection, hurdled over him and sprinted for the waiting yellow bus.

  That afternoon, I jumped out of the
bus and dashed up the driveway. That’s odd, I thought. Tippy was usually outside, barking an entire paragraph of “hellos” as soon as he saw me come home. When I burst through the door, the house was quiet and still. I dumped my coat and backpack on the floor. Mom silently appeared. She asked me to sit down at the kitchen table.

  “Honey, I have some sad news that I need to tell you. This morning, while you were at school, Tippy was hit by a car and killed. He died instantly, so he didn’t suffer. I know how much he meant to you. I’m so sorry,” said Mom.

  “NO! It’s not true!” I was in shock. I couldn’t believe her. “Tippy, come here! Come on, boy!” I called and called for him. I waited. He didn’t come. Feeling lost, I wandered into the living room. He wasn’t on the couch, so I had no pillow for my head while I watched cartoons. Mom called me for dinner and I rambled to my place. He wasn’t hiding under the table, so I had to eat all of my dinner. I went to sleep that night, but I didn’t cry. I still couldn’t believe that he was gone.

  When I got off the bus the next day, the silence grew deafening. Finally, my sobs bubbled up and erupted like lava from a volcano. I felt like I was also going to die from having my insides shaken apart, and I couldn’t stop crying or end the thoughts that kept going through my head. I should have trained him better. If I had been home, I could have called him away from the road. I didn’t even pet him when I left. How could I have known that was my last chance? I cried until I felt hollow inside.

  My parents bought a new dog named Tinker Belle. I didn’t care. I was busy giving hate looks to people speeding in their cars. They shouldn’t drive so fast that they couldn’t stop when they see a dog in the road. My parents still got the silent treatment from me. Why hadn’t they made sure that Tippy was tied up? I was mad at Tippy for getting killed, and I was mad at the entire “dog kingdom” for not knowing enough to stay out of the road.

  I didn’t share my dinner with our new dog. She was too small to be my pillow for television, and her bark was squeaky. When she begged for attention, I pushed her away. I spent a lot of time alone, feeling sorry for myself and wondering, Why did this have to happen to me? What am I going to do now? Why did Tippy have to die?

  Time passed, and against my will, I started to understand some things. It felt like waking up a little at a time. I realized what little control any of us have over what happens to a dog. Sure, we can train them and tie them up and do everything right, but bad things can still happen. And, in spite of us, good things can happen too. That’s life. The best way to deal with the hard times is to figure out what I need to do for myself to get through them when they come, and to remember that hard times pass.

  I also discovered that my capacity to love didn’t die with Tippy. I became awfully lonely when I was trying to harden my heart. I began to realize that there were good things about Tinker Belle that were different from the good things about Tippy. I couldn’t rest my head on her little body, or pretend to ride Tinker Belle the way I had done with Tippy, but I could fit Tinker Belle into my backpack and carry her around.

  I learned that I need to pet my dog whenever I can— and to really enjoy my time with her! Now I pet my dog slowly when I have the chance and quickly when I’m in a hurry, but I never leave the house without petting her.

  I now deeply understand the “Circle of Life.” Everyone is born, everyone dies, and that’s the way it is. If dogs never died, there would be no room for others like Tinker Belle . . . and her five cute puppies!

  Best of all, I realize that Tippy left behind all of my good memories of him. And they come to me every time I call!

  Christine Armstrong

  What’s a Miracle, Granddad?

  Decisions determine destiny.

  Frederick Speakman

  “What’s a miracle, Granddad?” asked five-year-old Sam.

  He looked up at me with his innocent, wide eyes.

  I did know of a miracle. It happened to a friend of mine named Bart.

  One day, Bart decided he wanted to have a dog. Bart’s parents agreed to let him get a dog from the animal shelter, but they wanted to help pick it out. Bart agreed.

  The next morning, Bart and his parents drove to the local animal shelter. There were two dogs that Bart liked. It was very difficult, but Bart finally picked one. He named him Scruffy. Scruffy looked exactly like his namesake; he was a small, terrier type with hair going in all directions. His color was sort of brown and sort of red, and there was even gray in there too. He was a very energetic dog, never still for a second. He just wanted to play and run around.

  Bart’s parents did not like Scruffy at all. Scruffy was too energetic for them. He was not a good-looking dog. The other dog, called Lady, was a very pretty dog. Lady had quiet manners and was a handsome beagle.

  Bart agreed that Lady was a much prettier dog, and gentler. Since his parents insisted, he agreed to adopt Lady and not Scruffy.

  Bart held Lady all the way home. She slept in Bart’s room that night and the next night, too. Bart liked having her near him. He started to love that sweet dog.

  On the third day, tragedy struck. For no apparent reason, and with no warning, Lady quietly died in her sleep. It was a tragic moment for the family.

  Bart cried and cried. His mother did, too. His father cried a little, also. Bart felt heartbroken. Lady had become the love of his life.

  The next morning, after they had laid Lady to rest, Bart said, “Mom, Dad, I really liked the other dog, Scruffy. I know he liked me, too. Can’t we go back and get him?”

  His parents told him to forget Scruffy because three days had gone by, and it would be too late.

  “Too late? Too late for what?” he asked.

  They explained that the animal shelter only keeps stray dogs for three days, and if they are not adopted the shelter has to do something about it.

  “Like what?” asked Bart, not wanting to hear the answer.

  “They have to put them to sleep,” said his mother gently. His father put his arm around Bart and added, “There are just too many dogs and cats in the city, Bart. The shelter only has so much money, and so few volunteers to take care of them. The animals do not suffer at all. A veterinarian just puts them to sleep. It is done very quietly and painlessly.”

  “I guess they have no other choice,” Bart said. “But let’s go back anyway. Maybe we can save Scruffy.”

  Bart’s parents argued against going back. They said it was too late. There was no way that Scruffy could still be in the shelter. They warned Bart not to expect anything but disappointment.

  But Bart’s parents drove him back to the shelter. Bart’s dad parked the car and sighed. He had seen the veterinarian’s car parked in the official’s spot. He did not want to tell Bart that this was the veterinarian who put the animals to sleep.

  The three of them entered the shelter. They went directly to the wire cage that had held Scruffy three days before. It was empty!

  “Scruffy is gone,” said Bart. “Mom, Dad, he’s gone.”

  “We tried to tell you. Try to understand,” said his mother.

  “Can I help you folks?” said a voice.

  Bart whirled around and saw a young woman in a white coat.

  “Were you looking for a dog to adopt?” she said.

  “Yes,” said Bart. “I want the dog that was here, in this cage. The dog is gone. I want that dog.”

  “The veterinarian was late getting here today because of car trouble. What you want is in that room over there.” She pointed to a door.

  Bart bolted past her and raced through the door. It was marked “PRIVATE—KEEP OUT.” In the middle of the room, on a cold steel table was Scruffy. He was strapped down. His legs were kicking. His big brown eyes were wide with fear and his tongue was hanging from the side of his mouth. Standing over him was the vet, an ugly hypodermic needle in his hand.

  Bart jumped into the room. He screamed at the veterinarian, “Stop! Stop, please,” said Bart. “I want that dog. Don’t kill him!”

&
nbsp; Bart got his dog, and Scruffy still lives with Bart today.

  Do you know what a miracle is now, Sam?

  Lew Talmadge

  Never Put Rocks in Your Mouth

  When I was in the sixth grade, my teacher asked our class the question, “What does ‘doing the right thing’ mean to you?” She asked us to think about that question over the weekend, and to talk to our parents or anyone else we thought might have a good answer. By Monday, we were to turn in an essay on what “doing the right thing” meant, and be prepared to live up to our answers.

  The entire weekend, I wracked my brain trying to come up with something that would impress my teacher and be easy to live by. I talked to my parents, called my grandmother and asked my next-door neighbor. I even asked the mailman! Everyone had good answers, but I didn’t feel like I could live up to them.

  By Sunday afternoon, I hadn’t written my essay. To make matters worse, my parents said we were going to my Aunt Cindy’s house. That usually meant that I would have to entertain my cousin Andrea while my parents visited after dinner. Andrea was four and a major pest.

  Just as I predicted, my parents told me to play with Andrea while they visited. I turned on the television and found a Disney movie for Andrea, and then I sat down and started to write my essay. I still didn’t know what I was going to write about, but it was due the next morning and this was my last chance.

  Soon I felt a pair of eyes on me. It was Andrea.

  “What are you doing?” she asked.

  “I have to write an essay about what doing the right thing means to me.”