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The day before my father died, she and I had gone shopping for a prom dress and had found a spectacular one—yards and yards of dotted Swiss in red, white and blue. Wearing it made me feel like Scarlett O'Hara.
But it was the wrong size, and when my father died the next day, I forgot all about the dress. My mother didn't. The day before the prom, I found that dress waiting for me—in the right size.
It was draped majestically over the living room sofa, presented to me artistically and lovingly. I may not have cared about having a new dress, but my mother did. She cared how we children felt about ourselves. She imbued us with a sense of the magic in the world, and she gave us the ability to see beauty even in the face of adversity. In truth, my mother wanted her children to see themselves much like the gardenia— lovely, strong, perfect, with an aura of magic and perhaps a bit of mystery.
My mother died when I was 22, only 10 days after I was married. That was the year the gardenias stopped coming. Marsha Awns Words from the Heart The bitterest tears shed over graves are for words left unsaid and deeds left undone. Harriet Beecher Stowe Most people need to hear those "three little words. I met Connie the day she was admitted to the hospice ward, where I worked as a volunteer. Her husband, Bill, stood nervously nearby as she was transferred from the gurney to the hospital bed.
Although Connie was in the final stages of her fight against cancer, she was alert and cheerful. We got her settled in. I finished marking her name on all the hospital supplies she would be using, then asked if she needed anything. I enjoy the soaps so much and I don't want to get behind on what's happening. She loved soap operas, romance novels and movies with a good love story. As we became acquainted, she confided how frustrating it was to be married 32 years to a man who often called her "a silly woman.
In the beginning, he sat next to the bed while she watched the soaps. Later, when she began sleeping more, he paced up and down the hallway outside her room. Soon, when she no longer watched television and had fewer waking moments, I began spending more of my volunteer time with Bill. He talked about having worked as a carpenter and how he liked to go fishing. He and Connie had no children, but they'd been enjoying retirement by traveling, until Connie got sick.
Bill could not express his feelings about the fact that his wife was dying. One day, over coffee in the cafeteria, I got him on the subject of women and how we need romance in our lives; how we love to get sentimental cards and love letters. She needs to hear what she has meant to you all these years. Please think about it. Bill disappeared inside, and I left to visit another patient.
Later, I saw Bill sitting by the bed. He was holding Connie's hand as she slept. The date was February Two days later I walked down the hospice ward at noon. There stood Bill, leaning up against the wall in the hallway, staring at the floor. I already knew from the head nurse that Connie had died at 11 A.
When Bill saw me, he allowed himself to come into my arms for a long hug. His face was wet with tears and he was trembling.
Finally, he leaned back against the wall and took a deep breath. You shoulda seen her smile! There, on the bedside table, was a large Valentine card from Bill. You know, the sentimental kind that says, "To my wonderful wife I love you. So it was with Mama's soup pot.
I can still see it sitting on the stove in all its chipped white-and-blue-enameled glory, its contents bubbling, steam rising as if from an active volcano. When I entered the back porch, the aroma was not only mouthwatering but reassuring. Whether Mama was standing over the pot stirring with a long wooden spoon or not, I knew I was home.
There was no recipe for her minestrone soup. It was always a work in progress. It had been so since her girlhood in the Piemonte mountains of northern Italy, Page 10 where she learned its secret from her nonna grandma , who had inherited it from generations of nonnas. For our large immigrant family, Mama's soup guaranteed we would never go hungry.
It was a simmering symbol of security. Its recipe was created spontaneously from what was in the kitchen. And we could judge the state of our family economy by its contents. A thick brew with tomatoes, pasta, beans, carrots, celery, onion, corn and meat indicated things were going well with the Buscaglias. A watery soup denoted meager times.
And never was food thrown out. That was a sin against God. Everything ended up in the minestrone pot. Its preparation was sacred to Mama. To her, cooking was a celebration of God's providence. Each potato, each shred of chicken was placed in the pot with grateful thanks. I think of Mama whenever I read Proverbs: "She gets up while it is still dark; she provides food for her family Her children arise, and call her blessed.
Sol was a thin, dark-haired boy, and an unusual pal for me because his father was a doctor and they lived in the best part of town. The family had a cook in a white uniform who worked in a kitchen of gleaming chrome and shining utensils. The food was good, but I found it bland, lacking the heartiness of my home fare served from flame-blackened pots. Moreover, the atmosphere matched the food. Everything was so formal. Sol's mother and father were polite, but conversation around the table was stilted and subdued.
And no one hugged! The closest I saw Sol get to his father was a handshake. In our family, warm hugs were a constant—men, women, boys and girls—and if you didn't kiss your mother, she demanded: "Whatsa matter, you sick?
I had known Sol would like to eat dinner at our house, but that was the last thing I wanted. My family was so different. No other kids had such pots on their stoves, nor did they have a mama whose first action upon seeing you enter the house was to sit you down with a spoon and bowl.
Only crazy people don't want my minestrone. I had to say yes. I knew nothing would make Mama happier. But I was in a state of anxiety. Eating with my family would turn Sol off completely, I believed. The day Sol came over I was a nervous wreck. Mama and the other nine family members welcomed him with embraces and slaps on the back.
Soon we were sitting at the heavy, deeply stained and ornately carved table that was Papa's pride and joy. It was covered with an ostentatious, bright oilcloth.
And sure enough, after Papa asked the blessing, we were instantly faced with bowls of soup. After feeling Sol's muscles, Mama convinced him that the soup would also make him strong, like the Italian-American hero Charles Atlas. I cringed, convinced that this would be the last time I would ever see my friend Sol. He would certainly never return to a home with such eccentric people, odd accents and strange food.
But to my amazement, Sol politely finished his bowl and then asked for two more. When we were saying our good-byes, Sol confided, "You sure have a great family. I wish my mom could cook that good.
I wondered, as he walked down the street waving and smiling. Today I know how lucky I was. I know that the glow Sol experienced at our table was much more than the physical and spiritual warmth of Mama's minestrone. It Page 11 was the unalloyed joy of a family table where the real feast was love. Mama died a long time ago. Someone turned off the gas under the minestrone pot the day after Mama was buried, and a glorious era passed with the flame. But the godly love and assurance that bubbled amidst its savory ingredients still warms my heart today.
Sol and I continued our friendship through the years. I was the best man at his wedding. Not long ago I visited his house for dinner. He hugged all his children and they hugged me. Then his wife brought out steaming bowls of soup.
It was chicken soup, thick with vegetables and chunks of meat. Cures colds, headaches, indigestion. Good for your liver! I felt I was home again. Reprinted with permission from Hurley Schwadron. Just in Time One night at , an older African-American woman was standing on the side of an Alabama highway trying to endure a lashing rain storm. Her car had broken down and she desperately needed a ride.
Soaking wet, she decided to flag down the next car. A young white man stopped to help her—generally unheard of in the deep South during those conflict-filled s. The man took her to safety, helped her get assistance and put her into a taxi cab.
She seemed to be in a big hurry! She wrote down his address, thanked him and rode away. Seven days went by and a knock came on the man's door. To his surprise, a giant combination console color TV and stereo record player were delivered to his home. A special note was attached. The note read: Dear Mr. James: Thank you so much for assisting me on the highway the other night. The rain drenched not only my clothes but my spirits. Then you came along. Because of you, I was able to make it to my dying husband's bedside just before he passed away.
God bless you for helping me and unselfishly sewing others. Sincerely, Mrs. And gifts of the heart are especially needed during the holidays. A few years ago, I began to prepare my children for the fact that Christmas that year was going to be a small one.
Their response was, "Yeah sure, Mom, we've heard that before! But then I had gone out and charged every credit card to the max.
I even found some creative financing techniques to pay for their stocking stuffers. This year was definitely going to be different, but they weren't buying it. A week before Christmas, I asked myself, What do 1 have that will make this Christmas special? In all the houses we had lived in before the divorce, I had always made time to be the interior decorator.
I had learned how to wallpaper, to lay wooden and ceramic tile, to sew curtains out of sheets and even more. But in this rental house there was little time for decorating and a lot less money.
Plus, I was angry about this ugly place, with its red and orange carpets and turquoise and green walls.
I refused to put money into it. Inside me, an inner voice of hurt pride shouted, We're not going to be here that long! Nobody else seemed to mind about the house except my daughter Lisa, who had always tried to make her room her special place.
It was time to express my talents. I called my ex-husband and asked that he buy Page 12 a specific bedspread for Lisa. Then I bought the sheets to match. I also bought the prettiest stationery I'd ever seen. That night, I gave each of the children three pieces of stationery with envelopes. As they wrote in privacy, I went to my bedroom and wrapped their few store-bought gifts.
When I returned to the kitchen, the children had finished their letters to one another. Each name was written on the outside of the envelope. We exchanged hugs and goodnight kisses and they hurried off to bed.
Lisa was given special permission to sleep in my bed, with the promise not to peek until Christmas morning. I got started. In the wee hours of Christmas morn, I finished the curtains, painted the walls and stepped back to admire my masterpiece.
Wait—why not put rainbows and clouds on the walls to match the sheets? So out came my makeup brushes and sponges, and at 5 a. I was finished. Too exhausted to think about being a poor "broken home," as statistics said, I went to my room and found Lisa spread-eagled in my bed. I decided I couldn't sleep with arms and legs all over me, so I gently lifted her up and tiptoed her into her room.
As I laid her head on the pillow, she said, "Mommy, is it morning yet? Afterward the children were given their three envelopes. We read the words with teary eyes and red noses. Then we got to "the baby of the family's" notes. Erik, at 8, wasn't expecting to hear anything nice. His brother had written: "What I love about my brother Erik is that he's not afraid of anything.
I'm now back on my feet financially, and we've had many "big" Christmases with lots of presents under the tree The Other Woman After 21 years of marriage, I've discovered a new way of keeping the spark of love and intimacy alive in my relationship with my wife: I've recently started dating another woman.
It was my wife's idea, actually. You need to spend time with the people you love. But you also love her. You probably won't believe me, but I think that if the two of you spend more time together, it will bring the two of us closer. The other woman that my wife was encouraging me to date was my mother. My mom is a year-old widow who has lived alone since my father died 19 years ago.
Right after his death, I moved 2, miles away to California, where I started my own family and career. When I moved back near my hometown five years ago, I promised myself I would spend more time with her. But somehow with the demands of my job and three kids, I never got around to seeing her much beyond Page 13 family get-togethers and holidays.
She was surprised and suspicious when I called and suggested the two of us go out to dinner and a movie. Are you moving my grandchildren away? My mother is the type of woman who thinks anything out of the ordinary—a late- night phone call or a surprise dinner invitation from her eldest son-signals bad news. I had the pre-date jitters —and all I was doing was going out with my mother, for Pete's sake!
What would we talk about? What if she didn't like the restaurant I chose? Or the movie? What if she didn't like either? When I pulled into her driveway, I realized how excited she, too, was about our date. She was waiting by the door with her coat on. Her hair was curled. She was smiling. When we got there my mother clutched my arm—half out of affection and half to help her negotiate the steps into the dining room.
Once we were seated, I had to read the menu for both of us. Her eyes only see large shapes and shadows. Halfway through listing the entrees, I glanced up.
Mom was sitting across the table, just looking at me. A wistful smile traced her lips. I understood instantly what she was saying. From care-giver to cared-for, from cared-for to caregiver; our relationship had come full circle. We had a nice talk over dinner.
Nothing earth-shattering, just catching up with each other's lives. We talked so much that we missed the movie. I agreed. She smiled her told-you-so smile. Since that night I've been dating Mom regularly. We don't go out every week, but we try to see each other at least a couple of times a month. We always have dinner, and sometimes we take in a movie, too.
Mostly, though, we just talk. I tell her about my daily trials at work. I brag about the kids and my wife. She fills me in on the family gossip I can never seem to keep up on.
She also tells me about her past. As I've listened to these stories, I've come to realize how important they are to me. They are my history. I can't get enough of them. But we don't just talk about the past. We also talk about the future. Because of health problems, my mother worries about the days ahead. I don't want to miss any of it. I often complain about how quickly time flies.
Spending time with my mom has taught me the importance of slowing down. I finally understand the meaning of a term I've heard a million times: quality time. Peggy was right. Dating another woman has helped my marriage. It has made me a better husband and father, and hopefully, a better son. Thanks, Mom. Belt's office for a checkup. It was just after my first chemotherapy treatment. My scar was still very tender.
My arm was numb underneath. This whole set of unique and weird sensations was like having a new roommate to share the two-bedroom apartment formerly known as my breasts—now lovingly known as "the breast and the chest. I lay down on the examining table.
I'd worn a big plaid flannel shirt and a camisole underneath. It was a carefully thought out costume that I hoped others would regard as a casual wardrobe choice. The plaid camouflaged my new chest, the camisole protected it and the buttons on the shirt made for easy medical access.
Ramona entered the room. Her warm sparkling smile was familiar, and stood out in contrast to my fears. I'd first seen her in the office a few weeks earlier.
She wasn't my nurse on that day, but I remember her because she was laughing. She laughed in deep, round and rich tones. I remember wondering what could be so funny behind that medical door.
What could she possibly find to laugh about at a time like this? So I decided she wasn't serious enough about the whole thing and that I would try to find a nurse who was.
But I was wrong. This day was different. Ramona had taken my blood before. She knew about my fear of needles, and she kindly hid the paraphernalia under a magazine with a bright blue picture of a kitchen being remodeled. As we opened the blouse and dropped the camisole, the catheter on my breast was exposed and the fresh scar on my chest could be seen.
She said, "How is your scar healing? I wash around it gently each day. She gently reached over and ran her hand across the scar, examining the smoothness of the healing skin and looking for any irregularities. I began to cry gently and quietly.
For a long time. I continued to cry quietly. In soft tones she said, "This is part of your body. This is you. It's okay to touch it. So she touched it for me. The scar. The healing wound. And beneath it, she touched my heart.
Then Ramona said, "I'll hold your hand while you touch it. That was the gift that Ramona gave me. That night as I lay down to sleep, I gently placed my hand on my chest and I left it there until I dozed off. I knew I wasn't alone. We were all in bed together, metaphorically speaking, my breast, my chest, Ramona's gift and me. The little child had no shoes and his clothes were mere rags. A young woman passing by saw the little boy and could read the longing in his pale blue eyes. She took the child by the hand and led him into the store.
There she bought him some new shoes and a complete suit of warm clothing. They came back outside into the street and the woman said to the child, "Now you can go home and have a very happy holiday. Lighting candles is the traditional way that Jewish women welcome the Sabbath, but hospital regulations don't allow patients to light real candles. So we offer the next best thing—electric candlesticks that plug in and are turned on at the start of the Jewish Sabbath on Friday at sundown.
The Sabbath is over Saturday night. Sunday morning, I retrieve the candlesticks and store them away until the following Friday, when another volunteer comes to distribute them to that week's group of patients. Sometimes I see the same patients from the previous week. One Friday morning, as I was making my rounds, I encountered a woman who was very old—perhaps She had short snow-white hair that looked soft and fluffy, like cotton.
Her skin was yellow and wrinkled, as if her bones had suddenly shrunk and left the skin around them with nothing to support it and nowhere to go; now it just hung in soft folds on her arms and face. She looked small there in the bed with the blanket pulled up under her arms. Her hands, resting on top of the cover, were gnarled and worn, the hands of experience. But her eyes were clear and blue, and her voice was surprisingly strong as she greeted me. From the list that the hospital had given me, I knew her name was Sarah Cohen.
She told me that she had been expecting me, that she never missed lighting candles at home and that I should just plug them in by the side of the bed where she could reach them. It was obvious that she was familiar with the routine. I did as she asked and wished her a good Sabbath. As I turned to leave, she said, "I hope my grandchildren get here in time to say good-bye to me.
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? 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. 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. 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.
Malka explained. 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. 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. Page 16 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.
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. The main characters of this non fiction, self help story are ,. The book has been awarded with , and many others. Please note that the tricks or techniques listed in this pdf are either fictional or claimed to work by its creator.
We do not guarantee that these techniques will work for you or not. Some of the techniques listed in Chicken Soup for the Soul may require a sound knowledge of Hypnosis, users are advised to either leave those sections or must have a basic understanding of the subject before practicing them.
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