In 1980, I retired from football, having — against all probability — lived my dream. I have tried to thank providence for my exceptional second chance by serving as a board member of the Vietnam Veterans Memorial Fund and being involved with charities for disabled children. I’ve also done a lot of professional motivational speaking, hoping to inspire others to overcome any obstacles that may bar their way.
In my talks, I always tell people about Art Rooney, whose faith in me was contagious. As long as I live, I don’t believe that I will ever experience more inspirational words than the simple sentence written on that long-ago postcard: “We’ll see you when you get back.”
~Rocky Bleier with David Eberhart
The Infinite Worth of a Nickel
Don’t be discouraged. It’s often the last key in the bunch that opens the lock.
~Author Unknown
I looked at the clock as the phone rang. Who was calling so early on a Saturday morning? The caller ID provided no help. “Private.”
It was probably a sales call.
“Hello?”
The woman on the other end said, “I’m looking for. . .”
Listening, impatiently, as the caller mispronounced my name, I readied myself to give a polite, but firm, “We’re not interested.” I was barely paying attention to what was being said when I heard “Chicken Soup” mentioned.
“Did you have a story published in Chicken Soup for the Soul?” she had asked.
My curiosity was piqued. “Yes.”
“Well, there was an article about you in the paper. . .”
“Yes,” I said again, not sure where my anonymous caller was going with this, and still a bit annoyed by the early morning call.
And then she said: “I think I’m your daughter.”
Twenty-three years had gone by since I held my baby close, sang lullabies to her, prayed over her and kissed her sweet face, trying to pour as much love into her as possible in a few short days. Not a week passed I didn’t think of Meagan and long to hold her again. As a twenty-three-year-old myself at the time, I carefully weighed my options when I discovered I was pregnant. I decided adoption would be the best option, not only for me, but for my child as well. It was an excruciating choice.
For nearly twenty-two hours, I had struggled to bring this child into the world and as the pain intensified, so did my doubts about my choice. Finally, I had delivered the most beautiful baby girl. Although I had loved her throughout my pregnancy, it was only when I looked into her brown eyes for the first time that I felt in love with her. My heart sang with praise for the miracle of her. Tears ran down my cheeks as she was placed into my arms. Meagan Rae, my sweet baby girl.
Three days later, I handed her to a nurse and walked out of the hospital, leaving a large part of my heart with her as I drove away. Everything in me wanted to turn and go back, but I knew it wasn’t a time for selfishness. This wasn’t about me; it was all about her.
Having two more daughters never took away my grief over losing my firstborn. My children grew up knowing about their half-sister and prayed she would find us someday. On that early October morning, she did.
“Did you ever think about me on my birthday?” Meagan asked. That was an easy one to answer. Every September, I mourned. I bought birthday cards, wrote in them, sealed the envelopes and put them away, hoping that someday I would be able to share them with her. Candles were lit on a yearly birthday cake as my husband, children and I would sing to her empty chair. It was a ritual.
“Did I ever think of you on your birthday?” I repeated her question. “Any number of my friends can answer that one for you.” Recounting our yearly tradition to her made all of it worthwhile, no matter how painful it had been.
After being on the phone for nearly an hour, we agreed to meet that afternoon. Raised only ten miles away and in search of me for years, Meagan didn’t want to wait another day. Neither did I.
The night before that early morning phone call, I had spent hours searching a birthparent/adoptee reunion website. I kept my updated contact information on the site, making it readily available in case my daughter was searching for me. With tears streaming down my cheeks, I cried, “Meagan, where are you? Why can’t you find me?” I prayed for God to bring her to me. More than anything else in my life, I wanted to see my little girl. Crying myself to sleep, I wondered why God wouldn’t answer my prayer.
At the same time, Meagan’s adoptive mother was up late working on the computer. Suddenly, my name flashed through her mind. She had seen it, upside down, on the adoption papers twenty-three years earlier, but could never remember how to spell it. However, clarity hit at that moment and she typed it into a search engine. A link for a newspaper article appeared on the screen.
Earlier that year, “The Nickel Story” had been published in Chicken Soup for the Grieving Soul. It was a touching story about love, loss, and a very special nickel. I wrote about my friends, Frank and Susan, who lived close by and worshipped at the same church as my family. After being published, someone on the staff at Chicken Soup for the Soul suggested I send out a press release about being included in the anthology. After mailing it to several area newspapers, I was actually surprised when one contacted me for an interview, complete with a photograph.
“You have to come home,” Meagan’s mom had nearly shouted into the phone the night before. “I found her! I found your birthmother!”
Meagan had stayed up all night with her mom, waiting for morning to come so she could finally call me. They read the article, talked about the two sisters she never knew, and discussed her fears. She had no way of knowing I’d been praying for this reunion, nor that her sisters were praying for it as well.
The moment arrived. My heart pounded as I watched Meagan’s parents emerge from the van, followed by her brother and his wife, and finally, my daughter — my baby girl. I wasn’t prepared for her to be a couple of inches taller than me, filling my arms quite differently than the last time I’d held her. The two families were immersed in hugs and tears — sisters, brother, adoptive parents, birthmother, my husband, Meagan’s sister-in-law — all rejoicing in this reunion. We shared pictures and stories. And more hugs. And more joyful tears.
Earlier that morning, Meagan dialed my number.
“Hello.”
She heard a stranger’s voice, yet somewhere deep inside, there was a familiarity. Who says a nickel can’t buy you anything?
~Hana Haatainen Caye
The Nickel Story
Love is a symbol of eternity. It wipes out all sense of time, destroying all memory of a beginning and all fear of an end.
~Author Unknown
“Hey, Red, you owe me a nickel!”
Susan had bumped Frank while he was playing pinball in the bar where she waitressed. A red light flashed TILT and the game was over. Reaching into her apron pocket, Susan pulled out a nickel and flicked it to him, then went back to her work.
“I’m going to marry her someday,” Frank told the bartender confidently.
“Sure you are!” he laughed. “She’s been here a long time, and I’ve never known her to even go out on a date. Good luck!” Frank rubbed the nickel between his fingers, knowing it was his lucky charm.
Susan had made a life for herself as a young widow and a single mother. The last thing she was thinking of was complicating her life with a new man.
But Frank’s lucky charm worked — Susan knocked his socks off and stole Frank’s heart on their first date. Soon he had not only won her heart, but her daughter’s heart as well.
There were many hard times after their wedding. Frank was a military man who was shipped overseas, leaving Susan in the single-mother role once again. Another daughter kept her busy, and both daughters adored their daddy. The years passed by quickly.
Frank loved to tell the nickel story to anyone who would listen. His eyes sparkled as he spoke of his love for Susan. This was a man who truly loved his wife.
Their fiftieth wedding anniversary was a
special day. Frank contacted me to do a floral arrangement for the church and a corsage for his bride. They renewed their vows on that Sunday morning following the worship service. Our band surprised them as they walked down the aisle by singing “their” song, “The Sunny Side of the Street.” Their walk became a dance as Frank twirled Susan down the aisle. What a celebration! It was a joy to be in their presence.
Soon after this wonderful day, Frank got sick. He offered everyone a smile and continued to glow with his love of Susan. Frank was never one to complain. Having a strong faith, Frank knew he would be with the Lord soon. After a few long months of suffering, he died.
All the seats at the funeral home were taken as we gathered to honor the memory of this dear friend. We were all inspired by him in our own ways. The minister spoke of Frank with such love and respect. We laughed, and our hearts were warmed as he shared memories of this special man. And then he told the nickel story. He said that Frank had called him a week or so before he died and asked to see him. While they visited, Frank took out his lucky charm. He had held onto that nickel for all of these years.
“Frank told me to keep this for him,” the minister said as he reached into his pocket and walked over to Susan. “He wanted me to give it to you today and to tell you to hold onto it. He’ll be waiting for you at the pinball machine.”
~Hana Haatainen Caye
A Cherished Book
Motivation is when your dreams put on work clothes.
~Author Unknown
A few days before Christmas in 2000, a friend and fellow teacher stood before me waving a gift bag. “I’ve listened to you talk about developing stories and finding the right words and I admire your ceaseless persistence even in the face of rejection. I hope this gift helps in some way.” She patted my back and handed me the bag.
“Thank you,” I said, wondering how a small, red and white striped bag could contain enough magic to empower my writing career. White tissue paper rustled as I plunged a hand inside and wrapped my fingers around a book. “You can never go wrong with a book,” I said, smiling at her while pulling it from the bag. “Chicken Soup for the Writer’s Soul,” I read aloud. It even sounded inspirational. In awe, I ran my hand over the names of the authors listed on the cover as if I could feel their hearts beating. “I know almost every author listed,” I said, hugging the book to my chest. “I can’t wait to get home and read this.”
The school day flew by and, when the last student walked out the door, I tucked the new book inside my briefcase along with the papers I needed to grade.
At home, I put chicken and potatoes in the oven to bake. Then I walked and fed the dogs, graded papers, and ate dinner with my husband. At last, I turned on the dishwasher and settled down with my new Chicken Soup for the Soul book. The encouraging stories by famous authors made me laugh and cry. I felt surrounded by kindred spirits who gave me hope. Halfway through the book I forced myself to shut off the bedside lamp. Snippets of stories flooded my mind before I drifted off to sleep.
The next night I finished the book and dreamed of being a successful writer.
I kept the book near my computer and often reread stories when I needed a lift. The day finally arrived when I could write full-time. But like all new circumstances, it brought with it a different problem — time management. Phone calls, TV shows, and radio programs interrupted my writing time. I cleaned, I baked, I gardened, I canned, I sewed, but I wrote less than when I worked full-time.
One evening, after an exhausting day of mowing the lawn, I picked up Chicken Soup for the Writer’s Soul, and found “The Flop Artist Writer” by Patricia Lorenz. I didn’t know Patricia Lorenz, but after reading her story I knew she understood the pitfalls of poor time management and definitely had something to teach me. I made notes from her story and modified her schedule to fit my own needs.
I started writing and submitting stories to various publications and I began selling stories. My story, “Chocolate Bunnies,” was published in Chicken Soup for the Chocolate Lover’s Soul, in 2007. When the book arrived, I noticed that Patricia Lorenz was the editor. But, by now, enough time had passed that I didn’t make the connection that she was the author of “The Flop Artist Writer.”
In 2011, I went to a Missouri writing conference and attended a workshop presented by Patricia Lorenz. I mentioned to her that she had edited my “Chocolate Bunnies” story. We spent a good bit of the two-day conference getting acquainted. I knew she was a talented writer and found her to be an excellent instructor and humorous speaker. Before we left the conference, we agreed to keep in touch. She even offered to critique some of my work — an invaluable gift to any writer.
Two weeks after the writing conference, I sat before my computer, composing a short story. The last paragraph was giving me trouble, so I stopped and fixed a cup of tea. I reached for my copy of Chicken Soup for the Writer’s Soul, and read the subtitle on the cover: Stories to Open the Heart and Rekindle the Spirit of Writers. I needed some “rekindling” right then. I turned to the contents and ran my finger down the list of story titles. I nearly choked on my tea when I discovered Patricia Lorenz was the author of “The Flop Artist Writer.”
Because of Chicken Soup for the Writer’s Soul, Patricia Lorenz mentored me from afar years before I had the pleasure of meeting her in person. No other book has given me that kind of personal connection. It holds a place of honor by my computer and its dog-eared pages are a testament to how much I value and cherish Chicken Soup for the Writer’s Soul.
~Linda Kaullen Perkins
The Flop Artist Writer
It is not enough to be busy; so are the ants. The question is: What are we busy about?
~Henry David Thoreau
I’d written over forty thousand radio commercials during my career as a copywriter. But when station management moved my workspace to the noisiest room in the building, I decided forty thousand were enough for one lifetime.
Armed with nothing more than a twenty-five-year-old Bachelor of Arts degree in English, I had to face the fact that at age forty-seven the only skill, talent or training I had was that of a writer. In addition to radio and television commercials, I’d written promotional material, newsletters, speeches, brochures, videos, policy manuals and catalogs for numerous advertisers over the years. But I was tired of all that advertising writing. Convincing people to buy things they probably didn’t need, and perhaps couldn’t afford, did not seem to be the most noble thing I could do with the writing skills God gave me.
So in September, 1992, I left the job that had been paying me a respectable salary to live on my savings while I got serious about the kind of writing I really wanted to do — inspirational articles, books and columns. I decided to become a full-time freelance writer, working in my home.
It was wonderful! I enjoyed leisurely cups of tea in the morning while I watched the Today show. I soon realized that I didn’t even have to get dressed. I could slop around in my sweatshirt and baggy red pajama bottoms all day if I wanted to.
“What’s this?” I said aloud to myself as I flipped TV channels. “A talk show? I love talk shows!” The topics were shocking. Women in their thirties and forties who married teenage boys; men having sex change operations; women murderers; children being indoctrinated into the Ku Klux Klan; women who married prisoners on death row; people who physically abused their elderly parents; fourteen- and fifteen-year-olds who demanded to be allowed to smoke, drink, do drugs and have sex in their own homes. The shows depressed me, but I kept watching, intrigued by real people who would tell all on national TV.
After the talk shows I’d have another cup of tea. Then I’d begin some serious putzing. Water the plants. Paint another sweatshirt for my Christmas gift collection. Talk to my unemployed nurse friend on the phone for an hour. Put a load of clothes in the washer. Feed the birds. Make spaghetti sauce. Run errands.
“Whoa, lunch time already?” Time for another TV talk show. More phone calls. Well, you get the picture. Very often I didn’t
get to my writing room until 3:00 p.m., and more often than not I didn’t get there at all. But I was having a ball. After Christmas I took up cross-country skiing. Mother Nature cooperated with more snow than we’d had in years.
That winter I also welcomed hosts of out-of-town friends and relatives and spent days doing “white glove inspection” cleaning before my houseguests arrived.
After weeks of not setting foot inside my writing room or even turning on my computer, I started to feel like a slug. But I kept busy running errands, cleaning house, watching more TV talk shows and, yes, I even started taking mid-afternoon naps.
One day at the drugstore I picked up three candy bars, favorites of my thirteen-year-old son Andrew, my only child still at home. My other three were all full-time college students, living away from home, so mothering Andrew had become my sole occupation from 4:00 p.m. until 8:00 a.m. the next morning. When I got home I sat down at the kitchen counter, flipped on the TV and decided it would be fun to send Andrew on a treasure hunt for his candy. I cut a sheet of paper into eight pieces. On the first I wrote, “There’s a tasty prize for you at the end of the Mama Lorenz treasure hunt. The first clue is at the place that rhymes with bears.”
Taped to one of the upper stairs was the next clue. “Clue number three is not on this floor. But it is near the door. Look up!” Andrew ran upstairs and down looking for and finding his clues, laughing all the way. He was having as much fun on his treasure hunt as I had writing and hiding the clues.
Clue number eight said, “You’re tired, right? Go to bed. Hug your pillow. Dream sweet dreams and enjoy your prize. I love you. Mom.” He found the candy inside his pillow.
After a big hug and giant “Thanks, Mom!” Andrew stood next to the kitchen counter where I was sitting watching Oprah on the kitchen TV. My son put his arm around my shoulders, held out the eight slips of paper with the treasure hunt clues, and paused for a moment before he said, “So, Mom, is this what you do now instead of earning money?”
Chicken Soup for the Soul: Reader's Choice 20th Anniversary Edition Page 24