Chicken Soup for the Country Soul

by Jack Canfield

  The Christmas I was thirteen my gift was a new dress which Momma had made from feed sacks. The print was of small yellow daisies spread across a cream-colored background. It had a gathered skirt, round collar and puff sleeves with little bands. The sashes on each side tied into a bow at the back. It wasn’t an elegant pattern, but I sure didn’t think it looked like it had once been a feed sack. And so, that first morning after Christmas vacation, I climbed onto the school bus feeling very stylish in my new dress. Determined that it wouldn’t get wrinkled, I found an empty seat and spread the skirt out carefully. Then I sat back, certain that I was the envy of every girl.

  As was customary with a country school bus, it stopped at neighboring farms along the way to pick up the schoolchildren. At one of these farms a boy got on board. I’ll never forget what happened next. I looked up and saw that he was wearing a shirt made from the same print as my dress: small yellow daisies on a cream-colored background. Then I thought I would surely die, because a girl stood up at the front of the bus and said, very loudly, “Jeanne is saving you a seat at the back. You’ll fit right in.” I knew this girl. She was always doing something to attract attention to herself. I don’t know if she ever realized how much she hurt our feelings. When I think back on it, she was probably as poor as a church mouse, just like the rest of us.

  The boy never said anything. But our eyes met as he moved toward my seat. We were both thinking the same thing: Everybody knows we ’re wearing feed sacks. He sat down next to me. When I looked over, I saw tears running down his face. They were running down my face, too. But we never spoke. Poor kids don’t have to talk about being poor.

  How could this be my best Christmas ever? I’ll tell you how. This was the day that I decided that I would never let what other people say hurt my feelings. You might consider it a Christmas present that I gave myse lf that year. I had all day to think about what happened, and the truth was quite simple. My mother had made that Christmas dress, and she worked long, hard hours. She wasn’t just a farm wife and mother to ten children; she was a working woman, too. If she wasn’t at her mill job, she was in the kitchen or the garden. If she wasn’t sewing or cooking, she was shelling peas, or breaking beans, or milking cows and getting the milk cooled down for the children to drink. My mother had made the dress. So, when I got home from school, I thanked her for it. I told her how pretty everyone thought it was, but I never, ever told her the truth about how much I had hurt. And from that day forward the feed sack dress became my favorite. Wherever I went, I wore it proudly. I would give anything in the world if that little dress were in my possession today.

  Momma and Daddy have passed away. I guess that when the holiday season rolls around, we all find ourselves thinking of the loved ones we’ve lost. My mother was seventy-five years old when she died. Daddy was seventy-seven. If they were still alive, Momma would be ninety-four, and Daddy would be ninety-one. This is amazing to me. This is how time can get away, without your realizing it. In my mind, I still see them vibrant as ever, sitting under the peach trees, peeling peaches, canning vegetables and putting them away for winter. In my memory they will always be hardworking country people, doing the best they could with every day God sent them.

  I’ve received many expensive Christmas gifts in the years since I’ve left Pell City, Alabama. Often, when I’m in my dressing room at the Grand Ole Opry, getting ready for a show, I think of that day on the school bus and the feed sack dress with its little puff sleeves. It doesn’t matter how many elegant designer dresses or how many fabulous stage outfits I might wear; when I take them off, I can still put myself right back in that seat on that old school bus. And I realize that, but for the grace of God, I could still be there. And then I think of that boy, standing there in the shirt his own mother had sewn for him, most likely as a Christmas gift. I wonder what ever happened to him. Maybe he’s a doctor now. Or a lawyer, or a farmer, like his daddy would’ve been. Over the years I’ve tried to remember his name, but it’s lost to me. Wherever he is, whatever profession he chose, I hope that he’s been happy, and that life has treated him well. And I hope that when he got off the school bus that day, he got off carrying what I did: the gift of dignity.

  Jeanne Pruett

  Excerpted from A Country Music Christmas by Cathie Pelletier. Copyright ©1996 by Cathie Pelletier. Reprinted by permission of Crown Publishers, Inc.

  “They want to feature us on

  ‘Lifestyles of the Rural and Repossessed.’ ”

  Reprinted by permission of Jonny Hawkins. ©1997 Jonny Hawkins.

  Zell and Fuzz

  This is a true story. It happened up in my hometown of Young Harris. Young Harris is a very small town. We didn’t even have a fire department.

  One day, a house caught fire. The whole town gathered around to watch it. We were helpless to put it out. About that time, we saw a pickup truck come over the ridge. It was a local character named Fuzz Chastain. He had his wife with him, all their kids, a cousin or two, and some aunts and uncles.

  Fuzz drove right down to where we were all standing, but he didn’t stop. He drove that pickup right into the middle of the fire. He jumped out and so did everybody else. They started beating the fire with anything they could find—even their clothes.

  It took ’em thirty minutes, but danged if they didn’t put out that fire. The mayor of Young Harris was there. He said, “This is the most courageous thing I have ever seen in Young Harris. Let’s pass the hat for Fuzz Chastain.”

  They raised seventeen dollars. The mayor presented the money to Fuzz. “Fuzz,” he said, “the people of Young Harris appreciate this heroic act of yours.” Fuzz’s hair was singed, his clothes were burned and torn.

  “But, Fuzz, there is one thing I’d like to know,” the mayor went on. “What are you going to do with the money?”

  Fuzz thought for a minute and then said, “Well, Mr. Mayor, I guess the first thing I ought to do is get the brakes fixed on that pickup.”

  Zell Miller

  As told to Lewis Grizzard

  Tyler

  Someone once told me that they believed special needs children are angels God sends to us to help with our spiritual and emotional growth. Of course, I didn’t always believe this was true.

  After my son Tyler was born with Down’s syndrome, I felt such a sense of anger and loss. I was devastated. I remember thinking, How could I have some thing imperfect? I was just so hurt. I had heard of Down’s syndrome and thought it was the end of the world. I was angry at God for allowing this to happen to my child and to me. Then I felt guilty for being angry at God. There was also this incredible loss, almost a grieving for the loss of dreams a parent has for his child.

  You’re proud of all your kids, but with Tyler it’s special because any small thing he does is a giant step. He learns so slowly, so anything he does is like “Wow, look at what Tyler’s doing!”

  During this difficult time, several people came into my life who really helped me to put acceptance and joy back into living. I’m not even sure they realized how important the things they said were to me. One particular comment from a friend really stands out in my mind. He said, “Joe, I promise you that this child will bring you as much or more joy than your other children do now. Every milestone, every small accomplishment he makes will be a cause for celebration.”

  Tyler underwent surgery in 1991 to remove his tonsils and nearly died of asphyxiation. He was in intensive care for seven days with all these bandages on him and tubes sticking out of every portal. We almost lost him.

  All the things I took for granted with my other kids— like walking, talking, eating independently, catching a ball and just being able to play—became sources of pride and cause for hope with Tyler. He may not ever be able to be president of the United States, play professional football, or even speak clearly or be able to live independently, but Tyler can give the most precious gifts of smiles and hugs and unconditional love. I guess God really does send us angels from time to time.

&nb
sp; Joe Diffie

  God Bless the U.S.A.

  It was time for me to come forward and sing, with the newly revised video of “God Bless the U.S.A.” flickering on the enormous screen behind me. Medals commemorating our space heroes and the men we’ve lost in battle had been pinned on my white jacket, which has U.S.A. emblazoned down each sleeve. I glanced out into the vast expanse of upturned faces.

  Out there among the sea of military notables was a remarkable lady. Major Rhonda Leah Cornum, an army flight surgeon, had been released with the other POWs early in March. She had walked down the plane’s ramp with both arms in slings, evidence of the grinding crash that she had been lucky to survive. Major Cornum had served with the 229th Battalion out of Fort Rucker. In Saudi Arabia, they were attached to the 101st Aviation Brigade, and she was always eager to volunteer for any duty whenever it came up. The airmen she worked with respected her courage and ability, considering her one of their own. Among themselves, they called her “Doc Cornum,” and there were times when they were plenty worried about her safety.

  Then one night an F-16 was shot down by antiaircraft guns over Iraqi territory. The pilot was reporting his position as his plane headed in. Suddenly an explosion told the listening pilots that he was down.

  “There’s a chance that he got out,” they hoped. A search and rescue crew was needed in case the pilot was alive. As usual, the major was quick to volunteer. So she climbed aboard the Black Hawk, a lift helicopter that transports personnel and equipment, and headed with the SAR team for the downed aviator.

  As the Black Hawk reached deep behind enemy lines, volleys of shots flew up from the dark sand drifts below.

  “We’re taking heavy fire!” the chopper’s pilot called out.

  There was a short silence, then a deafening boom!

  The helicopter had careened headfirst into the rockstrewn desert sand. Its fuselage crumbled, cracking almost completely in half.

  “We’ve got a Hawk down!” shouted one of the pilots who was monitoring the ongoing battle.

  Information was sketchy as the word filtered back to the 220th and the 101st. Her comrades were concerned about the whole crew, but mostly they worried about the major.

  “Doc’s down! Doc Cornum’s down in Iraq!”

  “Man! She’s got no business being behind enemy lines!”

  “She shouldn’t be out there. But she’s the type that’d do anything . . . so gung ho.” It was spoken almost like a rebuke from a friend who felt especially protective.

  “Doc volunteers for everything!” her buddies agreed, afraid that this was one dangerous mission too many for their friend.

  Then a report came back: “Looks like nobody made it.”

  “Oh God! SAR better get out there!”

  When rescue planes did get to the crash site, they found an appalling sight. The bodies of five crew members were strewn near the remnants of their crushed Black Hawk. But there was no sign of the other three.

  The SAR team started searching through the wreckage.

  “Their flight gear’s here!” yelled one of them. “It’s intact! And there’s no blood! They’ve got to be alive!”

  After rummaging through the debris, he said, “And someone’s gone through the first-aid kit! They must have been taken by the Iraqis, but we can’t be sure.”

  After identifying the bodies of those who were killed in action, military officials listed Major Cornum as one of the three who had vanished, an MIA. Americans who had been shocked with the capture of our first female POW, Army Specialist Melissa Rathbun-Nealy, felt the uneasiness of knowing that Saddam’s forces were, in all probability, holding another of our military women.

  With the abrupt end to the war, it was a relief to see our POWs set free, and we were overjoyed to learn that Major Cornum and the other two crew members from the Black Hawk were among them. The returning POWs were in better condition than we had feared. When a reporter asked the army doctor, “How did you hold up during your ordeal?” she answered, “I held up fine until we were coming home on the plane. I had heard about the video for the troops, and I was worried that when they played ‘God Bless the U.S.A.,’ I wouldn’t be able to keep it together.”

  That night in our “Welcome Home, America” audience, Major Rhonda Cornum’s head tilted forward as the words of the song floated out into the hall and ABC’s cameras caught her lightly brushing aside the tears.

  “And I won’t forget the men who died who gave that right to me.”

  Over 140 allied personnel were killed in the Persian Gulf. In comparison to other wars, the number is small. But, on a personal level, just one casualty is a very great sacrifice.

  “And I’d gladly stand up next to you and defend her still today. . . .”

  The cymbals clashed, and with the words “stand up,” it seemed as though everyone in the whole audience rose to their feet. I looked out on a sea of faces and, by the reflected glow of the stage lights, saw thousands of forms tightly holding hands, their arms raised high above their heads.

  “’Cause there ain’t no doubt I love this land—”

  My clenched fist hit my chest, then struck the air above my head.

  “God bless the U.S.A.”

  Then I called out to the standing, cheering crowd, “Do you feel the pride?”

  Shrill whistles and shouts of “Yeah!” answered my question.

  Then, walking across the stage, I continued, “Our servicemen and women are here tonight—and are out there at home along with the rest of the nation, watching this tribute to our champions of freedom. And I want them to see some of the faces in tonight’s audience.

  “Sing it with me, one more time!” Then glancing back at the band I asked, “Guys, would you help me?”

  “And I’m proud to be an American, where at least I know I’m free.”

  As this final chorus rang out again, taking over the evening, everyone rose to their feet again, searching for the words, their arms still reaching upward. The moment glowed with their exhilaration to be cheering an American triumph. I jumped down from the stage and began walking through the aisle, out into the midst of the singing military men and women, while they swayed to the drum’s strong cadence.

  “Come on, y’all!” I urged.

  One after another, voices joined in, singing with soft timidity at first, then increasing in volume until they sounded out with conviction and pride.

  “And I won’t forget the men who die d who gave that right to me.”

  Because of sacrifices in the past and the people in the emerging democracies who are demanding their individual freedom, this world is changing fast. The will to be free persists. America has founded a legacy that will be victorious, bringing all of us together.

  Here, in Los Angeles, flags were waving and the responding voices grew louder, unlocking emotions usually held tightly inside.

  Like a scene viewed through a wide-angle lens, the song took over, its volume increasing in a steady crescendo. Then I was completing the final words. As they pounded down in a majestically deliberate beat, the patriotic strength of America reverberated through the night, celebrating a landmark victory in defense of freedom.

  “And I’d gladly stand up next to you and defend her still today,

  ’Cause there ain’t no doubt I love this land—

  God bless the U.S.A.”

  Lee Greenwood

  God Bless the U.S.A. by Lee Greenwood and Gwen McLin, used by permission of the publisher, Pelican Publishing Company, Inc. and MCA Music Publishing.

  “God Bless the U.S.A.” Words and Music by Lee Greenwood. Copyright ©1984 by Music Corporation of America, Inc. and Songs of PolyGram International, Inc. All Rights Controlled and Administered by Music Corporation of America, Inc. International Copyright Secured. Used By Permission. All Rights Reserved.

  Living in a Moment

  Out on the road we have the wonderful opportunity, especially in the autograph lines, to sit and talk to everybody and get feedback on songs like
my song, “Living in a Moment You Would Die For.”

  As an artist, it tells me we are doing our job when we’re touching people’s hearts. That’s the whole purpose of music. It’s what it’s all about when we can make just a little difference in people’s lives.

  I had this seven-year-old boy and his father come up to me. The boy stuck his hand out and said, “Mr. Ty, I really love your song, ‘Living in a Moment You Would Die For.’”

  And I said, “Well, that’s great, son.”

  And as he turned to walk away, his father looked over and said, “No, he’s really got a story to tell you. He lost his mom. She died during childbirth.” And the boy turned and said, “To me, she was that person—she died for me. I am living in the moment that she died for.”

  Ty Herndon

  Ballerina on a Pink Horse

  When I was a teenager, my sister Josie had an accident.

  At that time, she owned a beautiful music box topped with delicate figures of fine porcelain—a ballerina on a pink horse. The ballerina, pirouetting gracefully on one leg, balanced with one pointed toe secured firmly to the back of her steed. When the music played, both figures revolved with poise and elegance. The music box ballerina danced in the morning; she danced in the evening; she even danced in Josie’s dreams. And whenever the ballerina danced, Josie’s heart took wing.