Chicken Soup for the Woman's Soul

by Jack Canfield

  As I left the room, I almost collided with a young woman who looked to be about twenty or so. She wore a long skirt, peasant-style, and her hair was covered. I heard Mrs. Cohen say, “Malka! I’m glad you could get here. Where is David?”

  I had to continue on my rounds, but a part of me could not help wondering if David would get there in time, too. It’s hard for me to just deliver the candlesticks and leave, knowing that some of these patients are very sick, that some will probably die, and that they are someone’s loved one. I suppose, in a way, each of these ladies reminds me of my mother when she was in the hospital, dying. I suppose that’s why I volunteer.

  All during the Sabbath, thoughts of Mrs. Cohen and her grandchildren kept intruding. On Sunday morning, I went back to the hospital to retrieve the candlesticks. As I approached Mrs. Cohen’s room, I saw her granddaughter sitting on the floor outside her door. She looked up as she heard my cart approach.

  “Please,” she asked, “could you leave the candlesticks for just a few more hours?”

  I was surprised by her request, so she started to explain. She told me that Mrs. Cohen had taught her and her brother, David, everything they knew about being religious. Their parents had divorced when they were very young and both parents had worked long hours. She and her brother spent most weekends with their grandmother. “She made the Sabbath for us,” said Malka. “She cooked and cleaned and baked and the whole house looked and smelled and was... special in a way I can’t even express. Going there was like entering a different world. My brother and I found something there that did not exist anywhere else for us. I don’t know how to make you understand what the Sabbath day meant for us—for all of us, Grandmother, David and me—but it was a respite from the rest of our lives. It was wonderful and it brought David and me back to our religion. David lives in Israel now. He couldn’t get a flight out before today. He’s supposed to be in around six, so if you could please leave the candlesticks until then, I’ll gladly put them away after that.”

  I didn’t understand what the candlesticks had to do with David’s arrival. Malka explained. “Don’t you see? For my grandmother, the Sabbath was our day for happiness.

  She wouldn’t want to die on the Sabbath. If we could just make her believe that it’s still the Sabbath, maybe she can hold on until David can get here. Just until he can tell her good-bye.”

  Nothing would have induced me to touch those candlesticks then, and I told Malka I would come back later. I couldn’t say anything, so I just squeezed her hand.

  There are some moments in time, some events, that can bond even total strangers. This was such a moment.

  For the rest of the day, I went about my business but couldn’t stop thinking about the drama unfolding at the hospital. Whatever strength that old lady in the hospital bed had left was being expended in just staying alive.

  And it wasn’t for herself that she was making the effort. She had already made it clear to me by her attitude that she didn’t fear death. She had seemed to know and accept that it was her time, and was, in fact, ready to go.

  For me, Sarah Cohen personified a type of strength I didn’t know existed, and a type of love I didn’t know could be so powerful. She was willing to concentrate her whole being on staying alive through the Sabbath. She didn’t want her loved ones to associate the beauty and joy of the Sabbath with the sadness of her death. And perhaps she also wanted her grandchildren to have the sense of closure that comes from being able to say good-bye to the one person who most profoundly affected their lives.

  When I returned to the hospital Sunday night, I was crying before I even reached the room. I looked inside. The bed was empty and the candlesticks had been turned off.

  Then I heard a voice behind me say softly, “He made it.”

  I looked into Malka’s dry-eyed face. “David arrived this afternoon. He’s saying his prayers now. He was able to tell her good-bye and he also had good news—he and his wife are expecting a baby. If it’s a girl, her name will be Sarah.”

  Somehow, I wasn’t surprised.

  I wrapped the electric cord around the base of the candlesticks. They were still warm.

  Marsha Arons

  More Than a Scholarship

  Great thoughts speak only to the thoughtful mind, But great actions speak to all mankind.

  Emily P. Bissell

  You may have heard of Osceola McCarty. She’s the 88 year-old woman in Mississippi who had worked for over 75 years as a washer woman. One day after she retired, she went to the bank and discovered, to her great surprise, that her meager monthly savings had grown to over $150,000. Then to everyone’s great surprise, she turned around and donated $150,000—almost all of those savings— to the University of Southern Mississippi (USM) for a scholarship fund for African-American students with financial needs. She made national headlines.

  What you have not heard is how Osceola’s gift has affected my life. I am 19 years old and the first recipient of an Osceola McCarty Scholarship.

  I was a dedicated student, and I had my heart set on going to USM. But I missed being eligible for a regular scholarship by one point on my entrance exams, and a scholarship was the only way I could attend.

  One Sunday, I came across the story in the paper about Osceola McCarty and her generous gift. I showed my mother the article, and we both agreed it was a great thing to have done.

  The next day I went to the financial aid office, and they told me there was still no money available for me, but if anything came up they’d call. A few days later, as I was running out the door to catch a ride with my mother to work, the phone rang. I stopped to pick it up, and while I heard my mother honking the horn for me to hurry up, they told me I had been chosen to receive the first Osceola McCarty Scholarship. I was ecstatic! I ran out as fast as I could to tell my mother. She had to call the office again herself to make sure it was true.

  I first met Osceola at a press conference—meeting her was like finding family. Osceola never married or had children, so my family has since become her family. My grandma and she talk on the phone regularly and do errands together, and she joins us for family functions.

  Once we got around to talking about ice cream. We found out Osceola hadn’t had much experience with ice cream, so we all packed into the car and went to the Dairy Queen, where we ordered Osceola her first banana split! She has ice cream a lot now.

  Osceola worked hard her whole life—from early in the morning to sunset—washing clothes by hand. I used to drive right by her house every day on my way to school. Of course, at the time I didn’t know it was her house, but I did notice how well kept the lawn was and how everything was clean and neat. Recently I asked her why I never saw her once in all that time, and she answered, “I guess I was out in back, washing clothes.”

  Now that Osceola’s retired, she sits most of the day and reads the Bible. That is, when she’s not out getting awards! Every time I go visit, she has a new award. She’s even gone to the White House. She is so happy and proud, though not at all conceited. We had to talk her into getting a VCR so she could tape the programs and see herself on TV—she just sits and smiles.

  Osceola gave me much more than a scholarship. She taught me about the gift of giving. Now I know there are good people in the world who do good things. She worked her whole life and gave to others, and in turn she has inspired me to give back when I can. Eventually I plan to add to her scholarship fund.

  I want to give Osceola the family she’s always wanted, so I’ve adopted her as another grandma. She even calls me her granddaughter. And when I graduate from USM, she’ll be sitting in the audience between my mother and my grandmother—right where she belongs.

  Stephanie Bullock

  It Couldn’t Hurt

  Random Acts of Kindness—huh! It couldn’t hurt.

  I told my husband I love him. It couldn’t hurt.

  I packed a note in my son’s lunch box telling him how special he is. It couldn’t hurt.

  I opened the doo
r for a lady in a wheelchair at Walgreens. It couldn’t hurt.

  I left a box of cookies for the mailman. It couldn’t hurt.

  I let someone go in front of me in the grocery line. It didn’t hurt.

  I called my brother to tell him I miss him. He misses me too!

  I sent the Mayor a note saying what a good job he is doing. It couldn’t hurt.

  I took flowers to the nursing home. It couldn’t hurt.

  I cooked some chicken soup for a friend who is sick. It couldn’t hurt.

  I played Candy Land with my daughter. It was fun.

  I thanked the person who bagged my groceries. He beamed.

  I gave my assistant the day off with pay. It only hurt a little.

  I played ball with my dog. It felt good.

  I invited a woman who doesn’t drive to lunch and to a movie. I enjoyed myself.

  I got a massage for me. It felt marvelous.

  Random Acts of Kindness—hmmm, maybe I’ll live this way all year. It couldn’t hurt.

  Sand y Ezrine

  A Goodnight Kiss

  Every afternoon when I came on duty as the evening nurse, I would walk the halls of the nursing home, pausing at each door to chat and observe. Often, Kate and Chris would be sitting with their big scrapbooks in their laps and reminiscing over the photographs. Proudly, Kate showed me pictures of bygone years: Chris tall, blond and handsome; Kate pretty, dark-haired and laughing. Two young lovers smiling through the passing seasons. How lovely they looked, sitting together, the light from the window shining on their white heads, their time-wrinkled faces smiling at the memory of the years, caught and held forever in the scrapbooks.

  How little the young know of loving, I’d think. How foolish to think they have a monopoly on such a precious commodity. The old know what loving truly means; the young can only guess.

  As the staff members ate their evening meal, sometimes Kate and Chris, holding hands, would walk slowly by the dining room doors. Then the conversation would turn to a discussion of the couple’s love and devotion, and what would happen when one of them died. We all knew Chris was the strong one, and Kate was dependent upon him.

  How would Kate function if Chris were to die first? we often wondered.

  Bedtime followed a ritual. When I brought the evening medication, Kate would be sitting in her chair, in nightgown and slippers, awaiting my arrival. Under Chris’s and my watchful eyes, Kate would take her pill. Then very carefully Chris would help her from chair to bed and tuck the covers around her frail body.

  Observing this act of love, I would think for the thousandth time, Good heavens, why don’t nursing homes have double beds for married couples? All their lives they have slept together, but in a nursing home, they’re expected to sleep in single beds. Overnight they’re deprived of a comfort of a lifetime.

  How very foolish such policies are, I would think as I watched Chris reach up and turn off the light above Kate’s bed. Then tenderly he would bend, and they would kiss gently. Chris would pat her cheek, and both would smile. He would pull up the side rail on her bed, and only then would he turn and accept his own medication. As I walked into the hall, I could hear Chris say, “Good-night, Kate,” and her returning voice, “Good-night, Chris,” while the space of an entire room separated their two beds.

  I had been off duty two days. When I returned, the first news I heard after walking through the nursing home doors was, “Chris died yesterday morning.”

  “How?”

  “A massive heart attack. It happened quickly.”

  “How’s Kate?”

  “Bad.”

  I went into Kate’s room. She sat in her chair, motionless, hands in her lap, staring. Taking her hands in mine, I said, “Kate, it’s Phyllis.”

  Her eyes never shifted; she only stared. I placed my hand under her chin and slowly turned her head so she had to look at me.

  “Kate, I just found out about Chris. I’m so sorry.”

  At the word “Chris,” her eyes came back to life. She stared at me, puzzled, as though wondering how I had suddenly appeared. “Kate, it’s me, Phyllis. I’m so sorry about Chris.”

  Recognition and remembrance flooded her face. Tears welled up and slid down her wrinkled cheeks. “Chris is gone,” she whispered.

  “I know,” I said. “I know.”

  We pampered Kate for a while, letting her eat in her room, surrounding her with special attention. Then gradually the staff worked her back into the old schedule. Often, as I passed her room, I would observe Kate sitting in her chair, scrapbook on her lap, gazing sadly at pictures of Chris.

  Bedtime was the worst part of her day. Although she had been granted her request to move from her bed to Chris’s bed, and although the staff chatted and laughed with her as they tucked her in for the night, still Kate remained silent and sadly withdrawn. Passing her room an hour after she had been tucked in, I’d find her wide awake, staring at the ceiling.

  The weeks passed, and the bedtime wasn’t any better. Kate seemed so restless, so insecure. Why? I wondered. Why this time of day more than the other hours?

  Then one night as I walked into her room, only to find the same wide-awake Kate, I said impulsively, “Kate, could it be you miss your good-night kiss?” Bending down, I kissed her wrinkled cheek.

  It was as though I had opened the floodgates. Tears coursed down her face; her hands gripped mine. “Chris always kissed me good-night,” she cried.

  “I know,” I whispered.

  “I miss him so, all those years he kissed me good-night.” She paused while I wiped the tears. “I just can’t seem to go to sleep without his kiss.”

  She looked up at me, her eyes brimming with gratitude. “Oh, thank you for giving me a kiss.”

  A small smile turned up the corners of Kate’s mouth. “You know,” she said confidentially, “Chris used to sing me a song.”

  “He did?”

  “Yes,” her white head nodded, ”and I lie here at night and think about it.”

  “How did it go?”

  Kate smiled, held my hand and cleared her throat. Then her voice, small with age but still melodious, lifted softly in song:

  So kiss me, my sweet, and so let us part.

  And when I grow too old to dream,

  that kiss will live in my heart.

  Phyllis Volkens

  Submitted by Jane Hanna

  EDITORS’ NOTE: Phyllis Volkens, the author of this story, died two days after we located her in an effort to obtain permission to use her story (see Introduction). Her husband, Stanley, told us how much it meant to Phyllis to be included in Chicken Soup for the Woman’s Soul. We are honored to include “A Goodnight Kiss” in Phyllis’s memory.

  ”When I Grow Too Old to Dream,”lyrics by Oscar Hammerstein II, music by Sigmund Romberg.

  All rights reserved Robbins Music Corp.

  Gifts

  In my hands I hold a hardback copy of Jules Verne’s Classic Science Fiction, torn airmail packaging scattered at my feet. The inscription: “To Matt, with love from Grandpa Loren, San Francisco.” Why is my 75-year-old father sending my 9-year-old son a 511-page book? The inappropriateness of the gift irritates me—a gift hurriedly bought with too little care given. But perhaps it is unfair of me to expect my father to know what a boy of nine would like. Then I remember last spring, when we visited San Francisco. Dad sprinted after a cable car, grabbing Matt’s hand and leaping aboard. Later he plucked a nickel off the street.

  “Matt, look! When you put a coin on the track—the cable car almost cuts it in half!” I can still picture them standing there, heads bent in mutual admiration.

  Less irritated, I stare out the window at Hondo, sleeping on the deck. He has been with us since he was eight weeks old. Gray hairs cover the muzzle of his glossy black head, and the lids beneath his brown eyes droop slightly. His huge Lab feet splay when he walks, more gray hairs grow from between his pads. I think of my father’s beard and how I have watched the streaks of gray widen until gra
y is all there is.

  Freckles rests next to Hondo, her border collie fur ruffling in the breeze. Much of her puppy freckling has faded. I think back to last summer.

  Fourteen years represent a full life for a dog. Hondo’s moon had begun to wane, growing weaker with the setting of each sun. The time for a second dog had come, but it was with guilt that we brought Freckles home to the ranch. When she scrambled out of the truck, puppy legs trembling, Hondo was a perfect gentleman. He sniffed and she cowered. She whined and he licked. Tails wagged, and a friendship was born.

  Down at the barn, Freckles watched Hondo, a gracious teacher, sit patiently while we saddled the horses. She sat down as well. The cats rubbed up against Hondo’s legs and Freckles learned not to chase cats. We rode out to check heifers, and Hondo trotted faithfully behind. Freckles learned that it was not all right to harass a cow or deer. Freckles grew lanky, and a new sprightliness came to Hondo’s step. Years fell away. We began throwing sticks for him again, and he fetched until his panting jaws could no longer hold the stick. Freckles never learned to love the game, but she cheered him on anyway. He was given a brief reprieve, a second wind.

  Then a hot summer day and too many miles traveled on dusty cow trails took their toll. Hondo collapsed in the corral. Soft coaxing and gentle stroking brought him around. Matt and Freckles looked on, watching him stagger to his feet and shake the dirt from his coat. Hondo drank deeply from the bucket by the house before climbing to the deck and taking up his post near the door. The next time we saddled the horses and rode out into the pasture, we locked him in the horse trailer. He peered through the wooden slats, his feelings hurt beyond comprehension.

  “It’s all right, old boy,” I said, “we’ll be back.” But he had become deaf and did not hear me. After that we continued to take him with us on our rides. His moon will wane, no matter how protective we are.