Treasury of Joy & Inspiration

by Editors of Reader's Digest

  Just before we left for the nursing home, Mom had penciled the words “VISIT GRANDMA” for Page in large letters on a napkin. Yet no one expected him to grasp our purpose, to understand that this might be our last visit.

  As I drove, other memories floated through my mind: memories of 80-year-old Grandma, arms like sticks, pushing her old power mower up the slope of her backyard, dismissing able-bodied volunteers with a shrug. Grandma’s thin, shaking fingers carefully unwrapping Christmas presents to avoid tearing the paper, which she folded neatly by her side. And, of course, talking. Always talking.

  The sound of Grandma’s voice accompanies every memory of her. She spoke not in sentences or even paragraphs, but in entire chapters, convoluted and strung together by breathless “ands,” “buts” and “anyways.” We seldom asked questions for fear of opening the faucet. Instead, we listened, playing polite audience, nodding at appropriate moments even as we calculated how to steer her back to the subject (if we could remember it) or blurt out a quick thought of our own. “Oh, I know I talk too much,” she would sometimes sigh. “Your mother tells me I do.”

  While Grandma could not listen and Page could not talk, they understood each other perfectly. In his silent fortress, Page was unaware of the impenetrable wall of words Grandma built around herself. She kissed him and smiled at him and, more important, accepted him just as he was. She never showed disappointment that he was not “normal,” but rather regarded him with fascination, patience and warmth.

  One day Page broke a flashlight and brought it to her, hoping she could fix it. I remember her perplexed, earnest face as she fumbled with the cheap plastic gadget. She poked and wiggled the thing and finally, looking sorrowful, shook her head and handed it back to Page. He walked away, to return a few minutes later and try again. She fumbled some more, then gave it back; it was still broken. The next morning Grandma drove to the store and bought him a new one.

  We arrived at the nursing home and stepped into her room. The strokes had left Grandma trembling and unresponsive. The hollow, gaping mask that stared up from her pillow was the face of a wizened stranger. Her mouth hung open. Her wide misty eyes blinked and stared but appeared not to see.

  I patted her small, frail hand, and my mind filled with images from a not-so-distant past. This very hand used to produce steaming loaves of the best bread on God’s earth. This patient, loving hand didn’t stop waving from Grandma’s front porch until our car, packed with grandchildren, disappeared around the corner. Now lying limply by her side, her delicate, cool hand felt so soft I was afraid I might accidentally hurt her.

  We stood around the bed, smiling uncomfortably, mumbling everything would be all right. My older cousin was the most at ease. “They treatin’ you all right in this place, ol’ girl?” he asked. I watched her face closely for a sign of recognition. Nothing. Silence didn’t suit Grandma.

  Stripped of her verbal armor, Grandma seemed exposed, vulnerable and—as I realized with sadness—suddenly approachable. For the first time, I was free to talk all I wanted. But I could think of nothing to say.

  “We love you, Grandma,” I said finally, wondering if I was reaching her. My words hung in the air, sounding distant and insincere.

  Page was standing quietly next to the window, his face brilliant red, tears streaming from his eyes. Just then, he pushed through the group and made his way to the bed. He leaned over Grandma’s withered figure and took her cheeks gently in his hands. Head bowed, he stood there for an eternity, cradling her face and soaking her gown with his tears. Those of us with healthy ears were deaf to the volumes being spoken in that wonderful, wordless exchange.

  I felt a rush of warmth deep inside me. It surged upward like an inexorable flood, filling my eyes until the room melted in a wash of colors and liquid shapes. As the picture blurred, my perception snapped into brilliant focus. How wrong I had been about Page. Far better than the rest of us, he knew the true meaning of our visit. He knew it perfectly because he grasped it not with his head but with his heart. Like a child unrestrained by propriety or ego, he had the freedom, courage and honesty to reach out in pain to Grandma. This was love, simple and pure.

  I saw that Page’s condition, for all the grief it brings, is in one sense a remarkable and precious gift. For among the many things my brother was born without is the capacity for insincerity. He cannot show what he does not feel, nor can he suppress urgent emotion. Inside him is a clear channel straight to the center of his soul. As I stood next to him, consumed by his expression of unselfish love, I stopped wondering why Page could not be more like me. At that moment, I wanted to be more like him.

  We kissed Grandma, one by one, and slowly filed out of the room. I was the last to leave. “Bye, Grandma,” I said. As I turned to look at her one last time, I noticed her lips come together, as if she was trying to speak. Somehow, if for an instant, she mustered the strength to say good-bye. That’s when I knew Page had reached her.

  That afternoon by Grandma’s deathbed, when none of us knew what to say, my speechless brother had said it all.

  A Good Rest

  When my husband was away at basic training, my four-year-old daughter and I stayed with my sister. Since my daughter already called me Mommy, she started calling her aunt Mom—the way her six-year-old cousin did. One day, someone called. I picked up the extension and overheard the person ask my daughter if her daddy was home.

  She said, “No, he’s in the Army.”

  “Is your mom home?” he asked.

  “Yes, but she’s asleep with Uncle Danny.”Tonya Aleisawi

  The Ugliest Cat in the World

  BY PENNY PORTER

  March 1993

  The first time I ever saw Smoky, she was on fire. My three children and I had arrived at the dump outside our Arizona desert town to throw out the weekly trash. As we approached the pit, which was smoldering, we heard the most mournful cries of a cat entombed in the smoking rubble.

  Suddenly a large cardboard box, which had been wired shut, burst into flames and exploded. With a long, piercing meow, the animal imprisoned within shot into the air like a flaming rocket and dropped into the ash-filled crater.

  “Mommy, do something!” three-year-old Jaymee cried as she and Becky, six, leaned over the smoking hole.

  “It can’t possibly be alive,” Scott, 16, said. But the ashes moved, and a tiny kitten, charred almost beyond recognition, miraculously struggled to the surface and crawled toward us in agony. “I’ll get her!” Scott yelled. As he wrapped the kitten in my bandanna, I wondered why it didn’t cry from the added pain. Later we learned we had heard its last meow only moments before.

  Back at our ranch, we were doctoring the kitten when my husband, Bill, came in, weary from a long day of fence-mending. When he saw our patient, that familiar “Oh no, not again!” look crossed his face. This wasn’t the first time we had greeted him with an injured animal. Though Bill always grumbled, he couldn’t bear to see any living creature suffer. So he helped by building perches, pens and splints for the skunks, rabbits and birds we brought home. This was different, however. This was a cat. And Bill, very definitely, did not like cats.

  What’s more, this was no ordinary cat. Where fur had been, blisters and a sticky black gum remained. Her ears were gone. Her tail was cooked to the bone. Gone were the claws that would have snatched some unsuspecting mouse. Gone were the little paw pads that would have left telltale tracks on our car. Nothing that resembled a cat was left—except for two huge cobalt-blue eyes begging for help. What could we do?

  Suddenly I remembered our aloe vera plant, and its supposed healing power on burns. So we peeled the leaves, swathed the kitten in slimy aloe strips and gauze bandages, and placed her in Jaymee’s Easter basket. All we could see was her tiny face, like a butterfly waiting to emerge from a cocoon.

  Her tongue was severely burned, and the inside of h
er mouth was so blistered that she couldn’t lap, so we fed her fluids with an eyedropper. After a while, she began eating by herself. We named her Smoky.

  Three weeks later, we coated Smoky with a salve that turned her body a curious shade of green. Her tail dropped off. Not a hair remained. And the children and I adored her.

  Bill didn’t. And Smoky despised him. The reason: Bill was a pipe smoker armed with matches and butane lighters. When he lit up, Smoky panicked, knocking over cups and lamps before fleeing into the open air duct in the spare bedroom.

  In time, Smoky became more tolerant. She’d lie on the sofa and glare at Bill as he puffed away. One day he looked at me and chuckled, “Damn cat makes me feel guilty.”

  As Smoky’s health improved, we marveled at her patience with the girls, who dressed her in doll clothes and bonnets so the “no ears” wouldn’t show. Then they held her up to the mirror so she could see “how pretty” she was.

  By the end of her first year, Smoky resembled a well-used welding glove. Scott was famous among his friends for owning the ugliest pet in the county—probably, the world.

  Smoky longed to play outside where the sounds of birds, chickens and chipmunks tempted her. When it was time to feed our outdoor pets, including our Mexican wolf, the occasional skunks and assorted lizards, she sat inside, spellbound, with her nose pressed against the window. It was the barn cats, however, that caused her tiny body to tremble with eagerness. But since she had no claws for protection, we couldn’t let her go outside unwatched.

  Occasionally we took Smoky on the porch when other animals weren’t around. If she was lucky an unsuspecting beetle or June bug would make the mistake of strolling across the concrete. Smoky would stalk, bat and toss the bug until it flipped onto its back, where, one hopes, it died of fright before she ate it.

  Slowly, oddly, Bill became the one she cared for the most. And before long, I noticed a change in him. He rarely smoked in the house now, and one winter night, to my astonishment, I found him sitting in his chair with the leathery little cat curled up on his lap. Before I could comment, he mumbled a curt “She’s probably cold—no fur you know.” But Smoky, I reminded myself, liked being cold. Didn’t she sleep in front of air ducts and on the cold brick floor? Perhaps Bill was starting to like this strange-looking animal just a bit.

  Not everyone shared our feelings for Smoky, especially those who had never seen her. Rumors reached a group of self-appointed animal protectors, and one day one of them arrived at our door.

  “I’ve had numerous calls and letters,” the woman said. “All these dear souls are concerned about a poor little burned-up cat you have in your house. They say,” her voice dropped an octave, “she’s suffering.” Perhaps it should be put out of its misery?

  I was furious. Bill was even more so. “Burned she was,” he said, “but suffering? Look for yourself.”

  “Here kitty,” I called. No Smoky. “She’s probably hiding,” I said, but our guest didn’t answer. When I turned and looked at her, the woman’s skin was gray, her mouth hung open and two fingers pointed.

  Magnified tenfold in all her naked splendor, Smoky glowered at the visitor from her hiding place behind our 150-gallon aquarium. The effect was awesome. Instead of the “poor little burned-up suffering creature” the woman had expected to see, a veritable tyrannosaurus Smoky leered at her through the green aquatic maze. Her open jaws exposed saberlike fangs that glinted menacingly in the neon light. Moments later the woman was gone—smiling now, a little embarrassed and greatly relieved.

  During Smoky’s second year, a miraculous thing happened. She began growing fur. Tiny white hairs, softer and finer than the down on a chick, gradually grew over three inches long, transforming our ugly little cat into a wispy puff of smoke.

  Bill continued to enjoy her company, though the two made an incongruous pair—the big weather-worn rancher driving around with an unlit pipe clenched between his teeth, accompanied by the tiny white ball of fluff. When he got out of the truck to check the cattle, he left the air conditioner on for her comfort. Or he picked her up and held her against his denim jacket.

  Smoky was three years old on the day she went with Bill to look for a missing calf. Searching for hours, he would leave the truck door open when he got out to look. The pastures were parched and crisp with dried grasses and tumbleweed. A storm loomed on the horizon, and still no calf. Discouraged, without thinking, Bill reached into his pocket for his lighter and spun the wheel. A spark shot to the ground and, in seconds, the weeds were on fire.

  Frantic, Bill didn’t think about the cat. Only after the fire was under control and the calf found did he return home and remember. “Smoky!” he cried. “She must have jumped out of the truck! Did she come home?”

  No. And we knew she’d never find her way home from two miles away. To make matters worse, it had started to rain—so hard we couldn’t go out to look for her.

  Bill was distraught, blaming himself. We spent the next day searching, knowing she’d be helpless against predators. It was no use.

  Two weeks later Smoky still wasn’t home. We assumed she was dead by now, for the rainy season had begun, and the hawks, wolves and coyotes had families to feed.

  Then came the biggest rainstorm our region had had in 50 years. By morning, flood waters stretched for miles, marooning wildlife and cattle on scattered islands of higher ground. Frightened rabbits, raccoons, squirrels and desert rats waited for the water to subside, while Bill and Scott waded knee-deep, carrying bawling calves back to their mamas and safety.

  The girls and I were watching intently when suddenly Jaymee shouted, “Daddy! There’s a poor little rabbit over there. Can you get it?”

  Bill waded to the spot where the animal lay, but when he reached out to help the tiny creature, it seemed to shrink back in fear. “I don’t believe it,” Bill cried. “It’s Smoky!” His voice broke. “Little Smoky!”

  My eyes ached with tears when that pathetic little cat crawled into the outstretched hands of the man she had grown to love. He pressed her shivering body to his chest, talked to her softly and gently wiped the mud from her face. All the while her blue eyes fastened on his with unspoken understanding. He was forgiven.

  Smoky came home again. The patience she showed us as we shampooed her astounded us. We fed her scrambled eggs and ice cream, and to our joy she seemed to get well.

  But Smoky had never really been strong. One morning when she was barely four years old, we found her limp in Bill’s chair. Her heart had simply stopped.

  As I wrapped her body in one of Bill’s red neckerchiefs and placed her in a child’s shoe box, I thought of the many things Smoky had taught us about trust, affection and struggling against the odds when everything says you can’t win. She reminded us that it’s not what’s outside that counts—it’s what’s inside, deep in our hearts.

  That’s why Smoky will always be in my heart. And why, to me, she’ll always be the most beautiful cat in the world.

  Glass Half Full

  I have long been teased about my large nose, and I sought some reassurance from a friend.

  “Is it really that big?” I asked.

  “No, your nose isn’t big,” he replied. “It’s just that your face is too far back.” Tony Murray

  My Fourteenth Summer

  By W. W. Meade

  July 1998

  One evening I sat in Miami’s Pro Player Stadium watching a baseball game between the Florida Marlins and the New York Mets. During the seventh-inning stretch. I noticed a teenage boy and his father one row in front of me. The father was a Mets fan, by the looks of his cap; his son’s bore the Marlins’ logo.

  The father began ribbing his son about the Marlins, who were losing. The son’s responses grew increasingly sharp. Finally, with the Marlins hopelessly behind, the boy turned to his father in a full-bore adolescent
snarl. “I hate you!” he said. “You know that!” He spat the words as though they tasted as bad in his mouth as they sounded. Then he got up and took the steps two at a time toward the grandstand.

  His father shook his head

  In a moment he stood and squeezed out of his row of seats, looking both angry and bereft. Our eyes met. “Kids!” he said, as though that explained everything.

  I sympathized—after all, I was a father now. But I knew how father and son felt. There was a time when I, too, had turned on the man who loved me most.

  My father was a country doctor who raised Hereford cattle on our farm in southern Indiana. A white four-board fence around the property had to be scraped and painted every three years. That was to be my job the summer after my freshman year in high school. If that wasn’t bad enough news, one June day my dad decided I should extend the fence.

  We were sitting at the edge of the south pasture, my father thoughtfully whittling a piece of wood, as he often did. He took off his Stetson and wiped his forehead. Then he pointed to a stand of hemlocks 300 yards away. “From here to there—that’s where we want our fence,” he said. “Figure about 110 holes, three feet deep. Keep the digger’s blades sharp and you can probably dig eight or ten a day.”

  In a tight voice I said I didn’t see how I could finish that with all the other stuff I had to do. Besides, I’d planned a little softball and fishing. “Why don’t we borrow a power auger?” I suggested.

  “Power augers don’t learn anything from work. And we want our fence to teach us a thing or two,” he replied, slapping me on the back.

  I flinched to show my resentment. What made me especially mad was the way he said “our” fence. The project was his, I told him. I was just the labor. Dad shook his head with an exasperated expression, then went back to his piece of wood.