CONTENTS
Introduction
Letter in the Wallet by Arnold Fine
In Over His Head by Doug Colligan
Not a Moment to Spare by Kevin Harter
Stowaway! by Armando Socarras Ramírez, as told to Denis Fodor and John Reddy
To Do or Not to Do by Mary Roach
Class Action by Lynn Rosellini
Friends for Life by Ellen Sherman
The Prisoner and the Encyclopedia Editor by Daniel A. Gross
Killer on Call by Max Alexander
Grizzly Attack! by Peter Michelmore
A Five-Year-Old Teaches a Lesson in Grace by Leslie Kendall Dye
Emergency Whistle on Block Island by Floyd Miller
The Baby and the Battalion by Kenneth Miller
An Evening Drive by Joe Posnanski
One Wing and a Prayer by Penny Porter
Summer’s Magical Music by Allan Sherman
When Your Best Fish Story Is about Catching a Goat by Rick Bragg
Horror in the Heartland by Henry Hurt
Thank You for Caring So Much by Peter DeMarco
At the Bottom of the Bay by Anita Bartholomew
Life on the Funny Farm by Laura Cunningham
Stopping a Kidnapper by Alyssa Jung
The Little Boat That Sailed Through Time by Arnold Berwick
Buried in Mud by Nick Heil
“I’ve Come to Clean Your Shoes” by Madge Harrah
Gandalf and the Search for the Lost Boy by Christopher W. Davis
The Curse of Sigurd the Fingerless by Ruth Park
The Day We Planted Hope by Conrad Kiechel
The Over-the-Hill Gang by Mark Seal
My Mamma’s Letters by Octavia Capuzzi Locke
The Stranger Who Taught Magic by Arthur Gordon
Runaway Train by William M. Hendryx
A Miracle of Mermaids by Margo Pfeiff
I Captured Adolf Eichmann by Peter Z. Malkin and Harry Stein
Some Sort of Magic by Annette Foglino
My Fourteenth Summer by W. W. Meade
“Please Don’t Leave Me!” by James Hutchinson
How to Ruin a Joke by Andy Simmons
Nailed Through the Heart by Per Ola and Emily D’Aulaire
Raising Alexander by Chris Turner
On the Line by Mitch Lipka
“Information Please” by Paul Villiard
Credits and Acknowledgments
Your True Stories 5, 22, 32, 75, 78, 115, 130, 166, 180, 224, 260, 277, 280, 293, 308
Photos of Lasting Interest 14, 30, 62, 76, 116, 156, 190, 232, 278, 294
Humor Hall of Fame 16, 29, 44, 64, 98, 134, 144, 178, 210, 231, 258, 284
INTRODUCTION
Reader’s Digest is living history. Since its founding in 1922, Reader’s Digest has become known for many things: curating the best reads of the day, showcasing the work of notable authors, cutting through the clutter to serve up great advice, sharing the most amusing anecdotes from readers, and telling dramatic stories of ordinary people who find themselves in extraordinary situations.
When we set out to create this series showcasing the best of Reader’s Digest, we surveyed readers like you to ask which parts of this legacy interested them the most. The answer was clear. It wasn’t the “important” articles or famous writers. They wanted the timeless stories—the ones that make you feel something deeply, that stick with you, just as they had stuck with readers years or decades before, when they first appeared.
So we combed the archives to find the stories that would thrill your senses, warm your heart, lift your spirits, and leave you amazed or simply grateful for your connection with your fellow humans. In this inaugural volume, you will relive the joy of parents who hear their son—diagnosed with a rare disease that left him silent and motionless—laugh for the first time. You will marvel at the courage of a teenage girl who saved her little brother’s friend after they got swept out to sea. You will chuckle at humorist Rick Bragg’s complete failure to catch a fish. And because variety is what you expect of us, you also will discover many of our most memorable photographs, laugh-out-loud jokes and cartoons, and truest reader stories—including some bonus material never published in the magazine itself.
Enjoy this series in the spirit that it is intended—as an oasis of optimism that will help quench anyone’s thirst for positivity.
—The Editors of Reader’s Digest
Letter in the Wallet
by Arnold Fine, from The Jewish Press
When a Good Samaritan tracks down the owner of a lost wallet, fate takes over.
It was a freezing day, a few years ago, when I stumbled on a wallet in the street. There was no identification inside. Just three dollars and a crumpled letter that looked as if it had been carried around for years.
The only thing legible on the torn envelope was the return address. I opened the letter and saw that it had been written in 1924—almost 60 years ago. I read it carefully, hoping to find some clue to the identity of the wallet’s owner.
It was a “Dear John” letter. The writer, in a delicate script, told the recipient, whose name was Michael, that her mother forbade her to see him again. Nevertheless, she would always love him. It was signed, Hannah.
It was a beautiful letter. But there was no way, beyond the name Michael, to identify the owner. So I called information to see if the operator could help.
“Operator, this is an unusual request. I’m trying to find the owner of a wallet I found. Is there any way you could tell me the phone number for an address that was on a letter in the wallet?”
The operator gave me her supervisor, who said there was a phone listed at the address but that she could not give me that number. However, she would call and explain the situation. Then, if the party wanted to talk, she would connect me. I waited a minute, and she came back on the line. “I have a woman who will speak with you.”
I asked the woman if she knew a Hannah.
“Oh, of course! We bought this house from Hannah’s family.”
“Would you know where they could be located now?” I asked.
“Hannah had to place her mother in a nursing home years ago. Maybe the home could help you track down the daughter.”
The woman gave me the name of the nursing home. I called and found out that Hannah’s mother had died. The woman I spoke with gave me an address where she thought Hannah could be reached.
“Yes, Michael Goldstein was his name. If you find him, tell him I still think of him often. I never did marry.”
I phoned. The woman who answered explained that Hannah herself was now living in a nursing home. She gave me the number. I called and was told, “Yes, Hannah is with us.”
I asked if I could stop by to see her. It was almost 10:00 p.m. The director said that Hannah might be asleep. “But if you want to take a chance, maybe she’s in the dayroom watching television.”
The director and a guard greeted me at the door of the nursing home. We went up to the third floor and saw the nurse, who told us that Hannah was indeed watching TV.
We entered the dayroom. Hannah was a sweet, silver-haired old-timer with a warm smile and friendly eyes. I told her about the wallet and showed her the letter. The second she saw it, she took a deep breath. “Young man,” she said, “this letter was the last contact I had with Michael.” She looked away, then said pensively, “I loved him very much. But I was only 16, and my mother felt I was too young. He was so handsome. You know, like Sean Connery, the actor.”
We both laughed. The director then left us alone. “Yes, Michael Goldstein was his name. If you find him, tell him I still think of him often. I never did marry,” she said, smiling through te
ars that welled up in her eyes. “I guess no one ever matched up to Michael.…”
I thanked Hannah, said good-bye, and took the elevator to the first floor. As I stood at the door, the guard asked, “Was she able to help you?”
I told him she had given me a lead. “At least I have a last name. But I probably won’t pursue it further for a while.” I explained that I had spent almost the whole day trying to find the wallet’s owner.
While we talked, I pulled out the brown-leather case with its red-lanyard lacing and showed it to the guard. He looked at it and said, “Hey, I’d know that anywhere. That’s Mr. Goldstein’s. He’s always losing it. I found it in the hall at least three times.”
“Who’s Mr. Goldstein?” I asked.
“He’s one of the old-timers on the eighth floor. That’s Mike Goldstein’s wallet, for sure. He goes out for a walk quite often.”
I thanked the guard and ran back to the director’s office to tell him what the guard had said. He accompanied me to the eighth floor. I prayed that Mr. Goldstein would be up.
“I think he’s still in the dayroom,” the nurse said. “He likes to read at night.… A darling man.”
We went to the only room that had lights on, and there was a man reading a book. The director asked him if he had lost his wallet.
Michael Goldstein looked up, felt his back pocket, and then said, “Goodness, it is missing.”
“This kind gentleman found a wallet. Could it be yours?”
The second he saw it, he smiled with relief. “Yes,” he said, “that’s it. Must have dropped it this afternoon. I want to give you a reward.”
“Oh, no thank you,” I said. “But I have to tell you something. I read the letter in the hope of finding out who owned the wallet.”
The smile on his face disappeared. “You read that letter?”
“Not only did I read it, I think I know where Hannah is.”
He grew pale. “Hannah? You know where she is? How is she? Is she still as pretty as she was?”
I hesitated.
“Please tell me!” Michael urged.
“She’s fine, and just as pretty as when you knew her.”
“Could you tell me where she is? I want to call her tomorrow.” He grabbed my hand and said, “You know something? When that letter came, my life ended. I never married. I guess I’ve always loved her.”
“Michael,” I said. “Come with me.”
The three of us took the elevator to the third floor. We walked toward the dayroom where Hannah was sitting, still watching TV. The director went over to her.
“Hannah,” he said softly. “Do you know this man?” Michael and I stood waiting in the doorway.
She adjusted her glasses, looked for a moment, but didn’t say a word.
“Hannah, it’s Michael. Michael Goldstein. Do you remember?”
“Michael? Michael? It’s you!”
He walked slowly to her side. She stood, and they embraced. The two of them sat on a couch, held hands and started to talk. The director and I walked out, both of us crying.
“See how the good Lord works,” I said philosophically. “If it’s meant to be, it will be.”
Three weeks later, I got a call from the director, who asked, “Can you break away on Sunday to attend a wedding?”
He didn’t wait for an answer. “Yup, Michael and Hannah are going to tie the knot!”
It was a lovely wedding, with all the people at the nursing home joining in the celebration. Hannah wore a beige dress and looked beautiful. Michael wore a dark-blue suit and stood tall. The home gave them their own room, and if you ever wanted to see a 76-year-old bride and a 78-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.
Originally published in the September 1985 issue of Reader’s Digest magazine.
• YOUR TRUE STORIES •
A MEANINGLESS DIAGNOSIS
Most would not smile in my position. I sat across from the psychiatrist, holding my wife’s hand as our two-year-old son played inattentively in the background. “The severity of your son’s autism will likely prevent him from ever being independent. It is very possible that he will never speak or have friends. The comorbidity of mental retardation will compound these challenges.” The psychiatrist paused and examined our expressions. My wife clenched my hand a little tighter, but she too smiled because we knew firsthand that the diagnosis was meaningless: at age three, a psychologist told my parents the same thing about me.
—Brian Mayer Antelope, California
I HATED MY PARENTS
I hated my parents. I hated them with all the bile that could be generated by a seven-year-old. I convinced my little brother to hate them too. To exact revenge, we would run away. We ate breakfast, made peanut butter sandwiches, and took cookies, summer sausage, and thermoses of juice. We went first to the creek and watched the minnows swim for our lunch crumbs. Then we went to the dairy farm, helped the farmer pen his calves, stall and milk his cows, feed his cows.… We sat in the shade under the dilapidated buckboard, examined our empty thermos, and decided that we were cruel. We went home expecting police cars and tears. Our parents were still in bed.
—Fran Samuelson Liberty Hill, Texas
In Over His Head
by Doug Colligan
Willie Stewart had no business kayaking the Colorado River. But he went for it anyway.
Willie Stewart loves to tell the story of his first day kayaking through the Grand Canyon. He carried his brand-new purple-and-blue plastic boat to the water, strapped on his helmet and life vest, slipped into the cockpit and shoved off. In a matter of minutes, he was getting bounced around in the roughest white water he had ever seen. But there was nothing the river threw at him he couldn’t handle. A quick flick of a paddle blade here, an executed turn there, and he glided through the churning waters with ease.
Pleased with himself, he turned to his buddies—experienced river rats all—and said, “Great run.”
They looked at him, totally baffled. “What are you talking about?” someone said. “We haven’t gotten to the rapids yet.”
“That was the biggest stuff I had ever seen,” Stewart laughs. “I remember thinking: I’m dead.”
He’s the first to admit that his situation was crazy; there he was in a 40-pound boat, with only a few months of training—and one arm. Strapped to his left shoulder was a prosthetic limb that he’d had for just about a week. The plan was to paddle for 20 days over 227 miles of some of the roughest white water in the United States. What took place was one of the most remarkable adventures the Grand Canyon has ever seen.
It started with a casual phone call in the spring of 2005. A good friend, Mike Crenshaw, finally got a permit from the National Park Service to lead a private party of 16 boaters down the Colorado River that coming August. He had a slot open for Willie. Was he interested?
“It was the chance of a lifetime,” Stewart says. He had been waiting years for this trip to happen. “How could I refuse?”
But before they shoved off, he had a couple of things to take care of. He had to get a white-water kayak, learn how to use it and get an arm.
* * *
For most of his life, the rugged 45-year-old has lived with only his right arm intact. He lost the left in a horrible accident when he was 18. Fresh out of high school, Stewart was working a summer construction job in Washington, D.C. The trailing end of a rope he was carrying got entangled in an industrial fan. Before he could react, the fan reeled in the rope taut and severed his arm just above the elbow.
He became a bitter young man, angry at the unfairness of what had happened, getting into brawls. When asked if one story told about him is true—that he got into a bar fight the day he got out of the hospital—Stewart looks off to the side. “A lot of fights, but it’s nothing to be proud of.”
In time, he learned to channel his rage into sports. He joined a rugby team, established a reputatio
n as a fearless player and eventually was elected captain. He became a medal-winning Paralympic skier, a marathon runner and a triathlete, even an Ironman competitor (he’s done seven of them). Stewart discovered that his intensity and tremendous stamina made him a natural for endurance competition. His days of rage long gone, he found peace and purpose in his life. As he explains, “Sports makes me whole.”
* * *
The trip was still about four months off and Stewart figured he had time to master the needed skills for white-water kayaking. As for the arm, he had a friend who could hook him up. Michael Davidson runs the prosthetics lab at Loma Linda University Medical Center, where Stewart coordinates a sports program for the disabled called PossAbilities. Davidson’s team built Stewart a prototype prosthesis, basically a length of plastic pipe laminated with carbon fiber. After watching Stewart practice with it, they crafted a second, shorter carbon-fiber-and-resin limb with an extratight shoulder strap to hold it on in the punishing rapids of the Colorado.
Stewart spent hours practicing in the university pool and in a creek down the road from his house. Over and over, he flipped himself upside down so he could work on his Eskimo roll—a self-rescue technique in which he uses his paddle and a little hip action to flip himself upright. Finally, figuring he was as ready as he’d ever be, Stewart headed for the Grand Canyon.
Even with all his training, he was barely prepared for the adventure. At the first significant rapids, a middling run of white water called Badger Creek, Stewart was thrown out of his boat. He recalls how demoralized he felt as he swam to shore. Farther downriver at a place called House Rock, he was knocked over four times. He made it through mostly because he’d mastered one good move: the Eskimo roll.
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