A 4th Course of Chicken Soup for the Soul

by Jack Canfield

  And I wanted to be everything I could be.

  When you thought I wasn't looking I looked . . .

  And wanted to say thanks for all those things you did

  When you thought I wasn't looking.

  Mary Rita Schilke Korzan

  Page 137

  Lessons in Baseball

  There are always two choices. Two paths to take, one is easy. And its only reward is that it's easy.

  Source Unknown

  As an 11-year-old, I was addicted to baseball. I listened to baseball games on the radio. I watched them on TV. The books I read were about baseball. I took baseball cards to church in hopes of trading with other baseball card junkies. My fantasies? All about baseball.

  I played baseball whenever and wherever I could. I played organized or sandlot. I played catch with my brother, with my father, with friends. If all else failed, I bounced a rubber ball off the porch stairs, imagining all kinds of wonderful things happening to me and my team.

  With this attitude, I entered the 1956 Little League season. I was a shortstop. Not good, not bad. Just addicted.

  Gordon was not addicted. Nor was he good. He moved into our neighborhood that year and signed up to play baseball. The kindest way to describe Gordon's baseball skills is to say that he didn't have any. He couldn't catch. He couldn't hit. He couldn't throw. He couldn't run.

  Page 138

  In fact, Gordon was afraid of the ball.

  I was relieved when the final selections were made and Gordon was assigned to another team. Everyone had to play at least half of each game, and I couldn't see Gordon improving my team's chances in any way. Too bad for the other team.

  After two weeks of practice, Gordon dropped out. My friends on his team laughed when they told me how their coach directed two of the team's better players to walk Gordon into the woods and have a chat with him. "Get lost" was the message they delivered, and "get lost" was the message that was heard.

  Gordon got lost.

  That scenario violated my 11-year-old sense of justice, so I did what any indignant shortstop would do. I tattled. I told my coach the whole story. I shared the episode in full detail, figuring my coach would complain to the league office and have Gordon returned to his original team. Justice and my team's chances of winning would both be served.

  I was wrong. My coach decided that Gordon needed to be on a team that wanted himone that treated him with respect, one that gave everyone a fair chance to contribute according to his own ability.

  Gordon joined our team.

  I wish I could say Gordon got the big hit in the big game with two outs in the final inning. It didn't happen. I don't think Gordon even hit a foul ball the entire season. Baseballs hit in his direction (right field) went over him, by him, through him or off him.

  It wasn't that Gordon didn't get help. The coach gave him extra batting practice and worked with him on his fielding, all without much improvement.

  I'm not sure if Gordon learned anything from my coach that year. I know I did. I learned to bunt without tipping

  Page 139

  off my intention. I learned to tag up on a fly if there were less than two outs. I learned to make a smoother pivot around second base on a double play.

  I learned a lot from my coach that summer, but my most important lessons weren't about baseball. They were about character and integrity. I learned that everyone has worth, whether they can hit .300 or .030. I learned that we all have value, whether we can stop the ball or have to turn and chase it. I learned that doing what is right, fair and honorable is more important than winning or losing.

  It felt good to be on that team that year. I'm grateful that man was my coach. I was proud to be his shortstop and his son.

  Chick Moorman

  Page 140

  Catch of a Lifetime

  The most permanent lessons in morals are those which come, not of booky teaching, but of experience.

  Mark Twain

  He was 11 years old and went fishing every chance he got from the dock at his family's cabin on an island in the middle of a New Hampshire lake.

  On the day before the bass season opened, he and his father were fishing early in the evening, catching sunfish and perch with worms. Then he tied on a small silver lure and practiced casting. The lure struck the water and caused colored ripples in the sunset, then silver ripples as the moon rose over the lake.

  When his pole doubled over, he knew something huge was on the other end. His father watched with admiration as the boy skillfully worked the fish alongside the dock.

  Finally, he very gingerly lifted the exhausted fish from the water. It was the largest one he had ever seen, but it was a bass.

  Page 141

  The boy and his father looked at the handsome fish, gills playing back and forth in the moonlight. The father lit a match and looked at his watch. It was 10 P.M.two hours before the season opened. He looked at the fish, then at the boy.

  "You'll have to put it back, Son," he said.

  "Dad!" cried the boy.

  "There will be other fish," said his father.

  "Not as big as this one," cried the boy.

  He looked around the lake. No other fishermen or boats were anywhere around in the moonlight. He looked again at his father.

  Even though no one had seen them, nor could anyone ever know what time he caught the fish, the boy could tell by the clarity of his father's voice that the decision was not negotiable. He slowly worked the hook out of the lip of the huge bass and lowered it into the black water.

  The creature swished its powerful body and disappeared. The boy suspected that he would never again see such a great fish.

  That was 34 years ago. Today, the boy is a successful architect in New York City. His father's cabin is still there on the island in the middle of the lake. He takes his own son and daughters fishing from the same dock.

  And he was right. He has never again caught such a magnificent fish as the one he landed that night long ago. But he does see that same fishagain and againevery time he comes up against a question of ethics.

  For, as his father taught him, ethics are simple matters of right and wrong. It is only the practice of ethics that is difficult. Do we do right when no one is looking? Do we refuse to cut corners to get the design in on time? Or refuse to trade stocks based on information that we know we aren't supposed to have?

  Page 142

  We would if we were taught to put the fish back when we were young. For we would have learned the truth.

  The decision to do right lives fresh and fragrant in our memory. It is a story we will proudly tell our friends and grandchildren.

  Not about how we had a chance to beat the system and took it, but about how we did the right thing and were forever strengthened.

  James P. Lenfestey

  Submitted by Diana Von Holdt

  Page 143

  Letters to Eileen

  A child needs your love most when she deserves it the least.

  Anonymous

  I have three children. Paul, the oldest and only boy, is named for his dad. Theresa, the baby of the family, has her daddy's brown eyes and curly hair.

  Eileen is the middle child. She is named for me and my mother whose name was Eileen Ann. When I was born, my mother turned it around and named me Ann Eileen. So when my first girl was born, I did the same thing, naming her Eileen Ann.

  Eileen showed a streak of independence from the early age of five months. She refused to let anyone feed her, determined to do things her way.

  All three kids were great fun to be around. They worked hard, had senses of humor and did well in what they attempted. Like all homes, however, there were times when we initiated a discussion of some behavior that their dad and I wanted improved. With Paul and Theresa, the reactions ranged from quiet agreement to vocal disagreements,

  Page 144

  but always with a mutual clearing of the air.

  With Eileen there were never any discussions. She immediatel
y objected to our right to have an opinion, stomped up the stairs to her room, slammed the door, turned the music up loud and announced she did not want to discuss it! Several times in the early days I tried reasoning with her, but this only irritated her further.

  One day out of a need for Eileen to hear our side, I wrote her a letter. In the letter I explained her dad's and my position and what we wanted changed. I waited until she left for school the next day to put the letter on her bed. She never mentioned the letter, and I never found any evidence of it. But her behavior changed!

  As the years passed, there were more letters left while she was at school, at work or on a dateprobably two or three letters a year for a period of 14 years. She never acknowledged the letters or discussed what was in them, but her behavior would change. Occasionally she stated as she went upstairs, ''And don't write me one of those letters!" Of course, I wrote a letter.

  Eileen's dad died in 1990. Three years later, she got engaged, and I was determined not to be the overbearing mother of the bride. Everything went well until about a month before the wedding. We had a disagreement. She indignantly told me she was 24 years old and a special education teacher about to be married. She also told me not to write her a letter! I wrote her a letter.

  Three days before the wedding, Eileen was packing things to move to her new home. She told me there was a box in her closet that was not to be thrown away. "It contains all the letters you ever wrote me. Sometimes I reread them and someday I will read them to my daughter. Thank you, Mom."

  Thank you, Eileen.

  Ann E. Weeks

  Page 145

  Page 146

  Someday

  Someday when the kids are grown, things are going to be a lot different. The garage won't be full of bikes, electric train tracks on plywood, sawhorses surrounded by chunks of two-by-fours, nails, a hammer and saw, unfinished "experimental projects," and the rabbit cage. I'll be able to park both cars neatly in just the right places, and never again stumble over skateboards, a pile of papers (saved for the school fund drive), or the bag of rabbit foodnow split and spilled.

  Someday when the kids are grown, the kitchen will be incredibly neat. The sink will be free of sticky dishes, the garbage disposal won't get choked on rubber bands or paper cups, the refrigerator won't be clogged with nine bottles of milk, and we won't lose the tops to jelly jars, catsup bottles, the peanut butter, the margarine or the mustard. The water jar won't be put back empty, the ice trays won't be left out overnight, the blender won't stand for six hours coated with the remains of a midnight malt, and the honey will stay inside the container.

  Someday when the kids are grown, my lovely wife will actually have time to get dressed leisurely. A long, hot bath

  Page 147

  (without three panic interruptions), time to do her nails (even toenails if she pleases!) without answering a dozen questions and reviewing spelling words, having had her hair done that afternoon without trying to squeeze it in between racing a sick dog to the vet and a trip to the orthodontist with a kid in a bad mood because she lost her headgear.

  Someday when the kids are grown, the instrument called a "telephone" will actually be available. It won't look like it's growing from a teenager's ear. It will simply hang there . . . silently and amazingly available! It will be free of lipstick, human saliva, mayonnaise, corn chip crumbs, and toothpicks stuck in those little holes.

  Someday when the kids are grown, I'll be able to see through the car windows. Fingerprints, tongue licks, sneaker footprints and dog tracks (nobody knows how) will be conspicuous by their absence. The back seat won't be a disaster area, we won't sit on jacks or crayons anymore, the tank will not always be somewhere between empty and fumes, and (glory to God!) I won't have to clean up dog messes another time.

  Someday when the kids are grown, we will return to normal conversations. You know, just plain American talk. "Gross" won't punctuate every sentence seven times. "Yuk!" will not be heard. ''Hurry up, I gotta go!" will not accompany the banging of fists on the bathroom door. "It's my turn" won't call for a referee. And a magazine article will be read in full without interruption, then discussed at length without Mom and Dad having to hide in the attic to finish the conversation.

  Someday when the kids are grown, we won't run out of toilet tissue. My wife won't lose her keys. We won't forget to shut the refrigerator door. I won't have to dream up new ways of diverting attention from the gumball machine . . . or have to answer "Daddy, is it a sin that you're driving 47

  Page 148

  in a 30-mile-per-hour zone?" . . . or promise to kiss the rabbit good night . . . or wait up forever until they get home from dates . . . or have to take a number to get a word in at the supper table . . . or endure the pious pounding of one Keith Green just below the level of acute pain.

  Yes, someday when the kids are grown, things are going to be a lot different. One by one they'll leave our nest, and the place will begin to resemble order and maybe even a touch of elegance. The clink of china and silver will be heard on occasion. The crackling of the fireplace will echo through the hallway. The phone will be strangely silent. The house will be quiet . . . and calm . . . and always clean . . . and empty . . . and we'll spend our time not looking forward to Someday but looking back to Yesterday. And thinking, "Maybe we can babysit the grandkids and get some life back in this place for a change!"

  Charles R. Swindoll

  Page 149

  4

  ON TEACHING AND LEARNING

  Education is not the filling of a pail, but the lighting of a fire.

  William Butler Yeats

  Page 150

  Page 151

  Nouns and Adverbs

  Hope is the parent of faith!

  Cyrus Augustus Bartol

  Several years ago, a public school teacher was hired and assigned to visit children who were patients in a large city hospital. Her job was to tutor them with their schoolwork so they wouldn't be too far behind when well enough to return to school.

  One day, this teacher received a routine call requesting that she visit a particular child. She took the boy's name, hospital and room number and was told by the teacher on the other end of the line, "We're studying nouns and adverbs in class now. I'd be grateful if you could help him with his homework so he doesn't fall behind the others."

  It wasn't until the visiting teacher got outside the boy's room that she realized it was located in the hospital's burn unit. No one had prepared her for what she was about to discover on the other side of the door. Before she was allowed to enter, she had to put on a sterile hospital

  Page 152

  gown and cap because of the possibility of infection. She was told not to touch the boy or his bed. She could stand near but must speak through the mask she had to wear.

  When she had finally completed all the preliminary washings and was dressed in the prescribed coverings, she took a deep breath and walked into the room. The young boy, horribly burned, was obviously in great pain. The teacher felt awkward and didn't know what to say, but she had gone too far to turn around and walk out. Finally she was able to stammer out, "I'm the special visiting hospital teacher, and your teacher sent me to help you with your nouns and adverbs." Afterward, she thought it was not one of her more successful tutoring sessions.

  The next morning when she returned, one of the nurses on the burn unit asked her, "What did you do to that boy?"

  Before she could finish a profusion of apologies, the nurse interrupted her by saying, "You don't understand. We've been worried about him, but ever since you were here yesterday his whole attitude has changed. He's fighting back, responding to treatment . . . it's as though he's decided to live."