Chicken Soup for the Soul

by Amy Newmark

  Nope, not me. That would not be my story. I have never been afraid of much, except those scary moms. I ignored them all. Then and now.

  By traveling abroad together, we were growing from life’s magically unpredictable, teachable moments. No building blocks and circle time for my toddler. This big world is a living, breathing experiential classroom, where life’s richest education happens. Together, we learned that we can live bold lives without fear.

  Today, Molly has three rambunctious, adventuresome kids of her own, and they’ve traveled the world, too. Happily, gloriously exuberant, and fearless.

  One day, I hope to take them all to Fiji and introduce them to the legend of Dakuwaqa. I’ll tell them how the mystical shark god protected their mother and me, and gave us strength and courage.

  And that magic happens.

  — Stephanie Blank —

  Aftermath

  One of the greatest discoveries a man makes, one of his great surprises, is to find he can do what he was afraid he couldn’t do.

  ~Henry Ford

  The numbers seemed to melt together. I felt the tears coming, again. It was lunch period, but here I was, standing at the blackboard trying to solve a multiplication problem. Mrs. Harris had said, “You are going to finish that problem if it takes all lunch period.” And then I thought I heard her mumble, “You are just dumb.”

  That was third grade and the beginning of my dislike of math. I did everything possible to avoid it. Even when I worked as a bank teller after graduating from junior college, the computer did the work for me.

  But then, I had a chance to get a four-year degree. There was only one problem. I had to take a math class in order to get in.

  When I read the course description, I saw that the class involved many mathematical procedures such as percentages, powers and permutations. I shuddered. If I wanted a chance at this dream, I had to face up to my fear, or I could work behind the teller desk forever.

  The ultimate question was: How badly did I want to go to the university? Was it enough to face not just multiplication, but powers and permutations and all the other concepts I had no experience with?

  When I decided to brave the class, I learned that it was already full. And it was the only class that would fulfill the math requirement. I would need to talk to the instructor, Mr. Thorpe. I called his office after rehearsing what I would say.

  Holding the receiver to my ear with a trembling hand, and ignoring the stares of customers at the teller windows, I said, “Mr. Thorpe, if you could see me, you would know how much I want to be in your class. I am on my knees.”

  He agreed to make an exception. My supervisor gave me one morning off a week to attend the class.

  I got an F on the first test. The second was a D-. After a week, I decided perhaps it wasn’t meant to be. The ultimate humiliation would be to finish the course but fail the “test” I had set for myself. I couldn’t endure it. I would be confirming what my third-grade teacher had mumbled about me — I was dumb.

  I called Mr. Thorpe the next morning, thanking him for giving me the chance to succeed, but admitting that I just had to face it. Math would never be my strength, and it would not be the way into the university. I would find some other way another time.

  There was silence on the other end of the phone. Then I heard him take a slow, even breath and say, “Leah, I don’t know if you have noticed, but the class is smaller. There were 257 students enrolled in this course, and now there are sixty-four. You can’t quit now… You are a survivor.”

  He waited for my response, and I tried to sound unemotional and detached as I said, “I’ve decided I cannot continue… especially after seeing my grades. I want to thank you for admitting me.”

  There was another long silence. I waited for him to accept my decision and end the conversation. Instead, he continued. “I wasn’t going to tell you this, but there is a woman from the university who calls me weekly. She says, ‘I have the admittance papers here ready for Leah. How is she doing? Do you think I’ll be needing these?’ ”

  I closed my eyes. I really didn’t want to hear this.

  He continued, “And I tell her, there is not a doubt in my mind. She has hung on. She is a survivor.”

  The tears flowed down my face.

  “I wish you hadn’t told me that,” I managed to say.

  “Do you still want to leave the class?” he responded, ignoring my last remark.

  I was quiet, sniffling, feeling backed into a corner.

  “No,” I said softly.

  “Fine. I’ll see you in class on Tuesday.”

  I was stunned. Didn’t I just call to drop out of class?

  After that, I never thought about those test grades again. I studied every weekend with a friend over coffee and doughnuts.

  When it was time to see our grades, I said a prayer before I looked. C+. I had passed.

  Months later, I found myself walking up the steps to start at the university They seemed to be welcoming me… leading me to the beginning of a new life. An overpowering sense of gratitude brought me to my knees again, and I found myself leaning down to kiss the steps. I didn’t even feel my knees on the cement.

  All around me, I felt eyes on me. I didn’t care. I had grabbed my second chance by the tail.

  Then, I got up and rushed off so I wouldn’t be late for my first class.

  Take that, Mrs. Harris!

  — Leah Cano —

  The Lake Weekend

  Don’t be afraid to expand yourself, to step out of your comfort zone. That’s where the joy and the adventure lie.

  ~Herbie Hancock

  It was a beautiful morning, quiet with the fog still suspended over the lake. Every now and again, we’d hear the slap of a fish jumping out of the water. This was probably the tenth year our two families had come to the lake for Labor Day. It was everyone’s favorite weekend.

  Kristen and I were the early risers. We loved waking before anyone else. Now we sat on the deck with steaming mugs of coffee. Best friends since college, we cherished this uninterrupted time to catch up and talk.

  Kristen was telling me the details of her latest competition. She was deep into working out and fitness, and it showed. She looked fabulous and had competed in fitness competitions — the kind with the tiny, glittering swimsuits and muscle-enhancing poses.

  “I don’t talk about them a lot. People think it’s weird. But here’s the thing,” she said. “I do it for me. Not for anyone else. And what else in my life is all about me? It challenges me and takes me out of my comfort zone.”

  All of a sudden, after all the months and years of competitions, I understood.

  “The other thing,” she continued, “is that it gives me a new confidence, especially at work with all the men.” Kristen is a lawyer and works in a male-dominated office. She’s brilliant and insightful, but often has to work extra hard to prove herself. “I don’t mean confidence in a great body; I mean confidence on the inside. It’s like an internal, personal strength has grown from this. I can do this thing I never thought I could. That’s what it’s about. Sure, the buff arms are a perk, but the confidence is more of what it’s about.”

  “It’s like my writing,” I said. “I never thought about it, but they’re essentially the same thing. I mean, we’re both baring ourselves, letting ourselves be vulnerable and be judged.” Now I understood her figure competitions. I told her about a novel I’d begun writing and a story I had submitted for publication.

  Like Kristen and her fitness, I didn’t talk much about my writing. It’s my thing, the challenge I have taken on for me and me alone. It doesn’t bring in much money, I’m not on any bestseller list, and it doesn’t provide for my family. And yet, it does have an effect on them, because taking on this personal challenge has made me a better, stronger person. And that makes me a better wife, mom, friend. I’ve increased my confidence, something I was always lacking. Yes, I have goals and dreams of where I’d like to see it go, just like Kristen does wit
h her fitness. But we are both okay for now if things just stay the same, as long as we keep pushing ourselves and doing these things that are just for us.

  Growing up, I didn’t really push myself. I did okay at things, but I didn’t try new things, put myself out there, or push my limits. As an adult, I have grown into a stronger, tougher, more confident woman, and I think it’s because I’ve undertaken this challenge of writing fiction. Now, I encourage my kids to try new things, go out for leadership positions, and speak up for themselves. The younger me wouldn’t have been a good role model, but the new me, who has put herself out there, is a good example.

  Throughout the weekend, our families laughed until we cried, ate until we were stuffed, played until we were worn out and sun-kissed, and let the lake soak into our souls. We knew Monday would come quickly, and we’d have to pack up and go home. Kristen would be back in her office in her high heels, with make-up and a fabulous outfit replacing sunscreen and a bathing suit. I’d be back in front of my computer, writing the unglamorous stuff that brings in enough money to enjoy lake weekends.

  On Sunday night, as we cleared the last of our dinner and listened to the kids laughing as they roasted marshmallows, Kristen asked her husband, “Did you know Claire wrote a short story, and she’s working on a novel?”

  “What? How would I know that?” he said.

  “Her story’s incredible. Y’all should read it. I’m sure it will get published. Claire’s a great writer,” my husband, Alex, said casually. But when I looked over at him, his face shone with pride. That pride is for me, I thought. I had challenged myself and found something beautiful and shiny.

  I remembered the first time we had come to this lake ten years earlier. We were all much younger. The kids were underfoot, and we drank much more wine. But this trip was better. I could tell Kristen felt the same, too. Sure, we tried to leave our stress and baggage at home, but that wasn’t always easy. Sometimes, it came with us, especially the social baggage that often follows women around. This time, we were more relaxed and carefree… more confident.

  Did the writing do this to me? Did the fact that I had the nerve to send in a story make me a different person? I think by challenging myself to step outside my comfort zone, it helped me become this stronger person who might have been inside all along. Who would have thought I’d like the middle-aged me more than the younger me?

  The weekend drew to a close. We dried our towels, packed our bags, and headed home. The air had a taste of fall in it; it was time to re-enter reality. Good news arrived that week, though — my story was accepted. It was just an online magazine, but still, my story was accepted! I called Kristen to tell her, and the buzz of excitement and pride in her voice was almost tangible through the phone. Even better, I felt it inside me, too.

  By the way, this wasn’t my first submission — I’d had a few rejections along the way, too. But those didn’t hurt as much as I’d thought they would because I was growing with each one, getting stronger and owning myself. The positive growth from stepping outside my comfort zone was worth every bit of anxiety, and I’ve noticed there’s much less of that anyway. Now it’s my turn to go support Kristen in her next competition. We’ve got this!

  — Claire Chargo —

  Find Your Inner Strength

  The Miracle of the Potatoes

  I have sometimes been wildly, despairingly, acutely miserable, but through it all I still know quite certainly that just to be alive is a grand thing.

  ~Agatha Christie

  World War II was raging throughout Europe and was getting more intense in our area of France, which bordered Germany’s Western Front. Those of us who lived in outlying areas were being rousted from our homes and loaded onto trucks to be transplanted to abandoned houses elsewhere in France. It was a harrowing time for all, as fighting raged around us, and we feared for our lives.

  We were living a frugal farm life, but our home was comfortable, and we always had enough to eat. We worked long, hard hours on the farm, but our tight-knit family managed to get by reasonably well. We considered ourselves lucky and were quite content despite the circumstances.

  Then a series of disasters struck. My grandparents both passed away in quick succession, while my father got called up for the draft into the French Army. Meanwhile, my mother began feeling poorly and was soon diagnosed with terminal cancer. Then the soldiers appeared at our door, evacuating the town. Being uprooted from our home just added to the chaos and suffering. We weren’t allowed to take anything with us, so we grabbed what cash and trinkets we could lay our hands on and hurriedly got into the transport trucks.

  After what seemed like a lifetime, we were deposited in front of a tumbledown shack where we were told to take up lodging. It was an old, abandoned house that we would have to stay in for the rest of the war.

  We began gathering sticks to build a fire in the hearth. The only food we had was the dry rations left for us by the transport soldiers. All the wonderful provisions that we’d stockpiled at the farm had been left behind.

  My sickly mother gave me some meager funds and asked me to canvass the neighborhood to see if anyone would sell us some eggs, butter, or anything else to eat. I trudged from dawn until dusk, only to come back discouraged and empty-handed. Everyone realized that the situation was dire, and no amount of pleading or crying could convince them otherwise. “You can’t eat money,” they said, as one after another refused to sell me even one solitary egg, often slamming their doors in my face.

  I was being forced to grow up fast, and I didn’t like it very much. Looking at the innocent faces of my four younger siblings, I knew I had to do something. But what? As I contemplated my next move, I began exploring the surrounding property and the outbuildings. I was hoping to find anything of value.

  Soon, I had scoured everything but found nothing of interest. Except for some junk, the place had been totally cleared out. The final area to check was the creepy dugout basement, which I purposely left for last. With a fretful sigh, I screwed up my courage and went down there.

  It was musty and dark in the basement, but I moved around quickly and hoped I wouldn’t be there long. If the grounds were stripped of goods and nothing of value was in the house, what could possibly be down there? No sooner had that thought crossed my mind than I saw a huge, shadowy object in the corner. It seemed to be a tarp covering something very big. It was an ominous thing to discover while exploring the dim basement by myself, but my desperation gave me the nerve to proceed. As I moved closer, I saw that a thin ray of sunshine had passed through the dirty basement window and was illuminating the area.

  Gathering my last shred of courage, I edged toward the large, dark object. Holding my breath, I lifted the corner of the tarp. I couldn’t believe what I was seeing. It was a massive stash of potatoes, enough to last us for quite a long time. Better still, on closer inspection, they all seemed to be in perfect condition.

  The next day found me in the streets again, bartering potatoes for all kinds of other foodstuffs. Soon, I became a young businesswoman by day as I learned to trade fairly and expertly. The rest of the time, I was a homemaker, nurturing my siblings and my ailing mother.

  My mother didn’t survive the war, but thankfully my father did, as well as my siblings. We returned home to rebuild our lives and the house that had been razed to the ground.

  In the midst of both personal and worldwide devastation, I learned to be a strong and capable young woman. The experience set the tone for the rest of my life, empowering me to push aside fear and take on whatever the world would bring.

  I’ve never forgotten how, in our most desperate moment, we were saved by the Miracle of the Potatoes.

  — Denise Del Bianco —

  Walking Back to Me

  Walking is man’s best medicine.

  ~Hippocrates

  I pulled my chemo-battered, exhausted body off the couch and headed out the door. Put one foot in front of the other. That is all you have to do, I told myself. I had de
termined that if I made myself walk every hour for five minutes, regardless of how terrible I felt, it would help me feel better. It would at least make me feel that I had some control over my life again.

  My husband and I had been told by my therapist, Tiffany, that my coping strategies needed to change to effectively manage my fatigue. Walking was a key part of my hoped-for transformation. Cancer had taken so much from me, and it was time to start working my way back. With that goal in mind, I set out into my yard and began walking around the property. Each step defeated me. Chemotherapy-induced aching bones made every step painful. That first five-minute walk felt like a daylong forced march. When I was done, I limped back in and crumpled exhaustedly on the couch. My husband just flashed a “way to go” smile in my direction. I slept for the next hour until it was time to do it again. It was a very long first day.

  Limiting myself to the yard was protective. If the walk became too much, I could always stop and go inside. Some days, during those five minutes every hour, I plodded along in tears, forcing myself to put one foot in front of the other. But I had to do this for myself and my family. That first week was exhausting. My body fought against the change and ached more than before. I also slept more between walking sessions. Little by little, though, I began to feel stronger.

  At our second meeting, Tiffany helped us set long-term goals. One of my goals was a day at a theme park, walking instead of using a wheelchair. After our session, I carried on with her assigned tasks and my self-imposed step challenge. I determined to add two extra minutes to my hourly walks every week. As time went by, these became easier. Some days, the bone pain still overtook me, and I’d cry through the effort, but I could feel that I was not as tired as my body traveled the track etched in my yard. The grass wore away, and the ground smoothed under my steady footfalls. With each week, my walks grew lengthier, but I always trod the same path.