经典英文短篇

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A Day at The Tradition

By Christine Clifford

Several years ago I was diagnosed with cancer. It was the most difficult time I have ever faced. I think it was my sense of humor that allowed me to hold onto my sanity. Like many people who have gone through chemotherapy, I lost all of my hair and I was bald as a cue ball. I always had enjoyed wearing hats, so when my hair deserted me, I ordered several special hats with the hair already attached. It was easy and I never had to worry about how my hair looked.

I have always been a big golf fan. In fact, I have been to twenty-three straight U.S. Opens. At one point during my cancer treatments, my husband John and I decided to get away from the cold Minnesota winter and took a trip to Scottsdale, Arizona. There was a Senior PGA Tour event called The Tradition being played, and that seemed like just the ticket to lift my spirits.

The first day of the tournament brought out a huge gallery. It was a beautiful day, and I was in heaven. I was standing just off the third tee, behind the fairway ropes, watching my three favorite golfers in the world approach the tee box: Jack Nicklaus, Raymond Floyd and Tom Weiskopf.

Just as they arrived at the tee, the unimaginable happened. A huge gust of wind came up from out of nowhere and blew my hat and hair right off my head and into the middle of the fairway! The thousands of spectators lining the fairway

fell into an awkward silence, all eyes on me. Even my golf idols were watching me, as my hair was in their flight path. I was mortified! Embarrassed as I was, I knew I couldn't just stand there. Someone had to do something to get things moving again.

So I took a deep breath, went under the ropes and out into the middle of the fairway. I grabbed my hat and hair, nestled them back on my head as best I could. Then I turned to the golfers and loudly announced, \"Gentlemen, the wind is blowing from left to right.\"

They said the laughter could be heard all the way to the nineteenth hole.

Ask, Ask, Ask

By Jack Canfield and Mark V. Hansen

The greatest saleswoman in the world today doesn't mind if you call her a girl. That's because Markita Andrews has generated more than eighty thousand dollars selling Girl Scout cookies since she was seven years old.

Going door-to-door after school, the painfully shy Markita transformed herself into a cookie-selling dynamo when she discovered, at age 13, the secret of selling.

It starts with desire. Burning, white-hot desire.

For Markita and her mother, who worked as a waitress in New York after her

husband left them when Markita was eight years old, their dream was to travel the globe. \"I'll work hard to make enough money to send you to college,\" her mother said one day. \"You'll go to college and when you graduate, you'll make enough money to take you and me around the world. Okay?\"

So at age 13 when Markita read in her Girl Scout magazine that the Scout who sold the most cookies would win an all-expenses-paid trip for two around the world, she decided to sell all the Girl Scout cookies she could - more Girl Scout cookies than anyone in the world, ever.

But desire alone is not enough. To make her dream come true, Markita knew she needed a plan.

\"Always wear your right outfit, your professional garb,\" her aunt advised. \"When you are doing business, dress like you are doing business. Wear your Girl Scout uniform. When you go up to people in their tenement buildings at 4:30 or 6:30 and especially on Friday night, ask for a big order. Always smile, whether they buy or not, always be nice. And don't ask them to buy your cookies; ask them to invest.\"

Lots of other Scouts may have wanted that trip around the world. Lots of other Scouts may have had a plan. But only Markita went off in her uniform each day after school, ready to ask - and keep asking - folks to invest in her dream. \"Hi, I have a dream. I'm earning a trip around the world for me and my mom by merchandising Girl Scout cookies,\" she'd say at the door. \"Would you like to invest

in one dozen or two dozen boxes of cookies?\"

Markita sold 3,526 boxes of Girl Scout cookies that year and won her trip around the world. Since then, she has sold more than 42,000 boxes of Girl Scout cookies, spoken at sales conventions across the country, starred in a Disney movie about her adventure and has co-authored the best seller, How to Sell More Cookies, Condos, Cadillacs, Computers ... And Everything Else.

Markita is no smarter and no more extroverted than thousands of other people, young and old, with dreams of their own. The difference is Markita had discovered the secret of selling: Ask, Ask, Ask! Many people fail before they even begin because they fail to ask for what they want. The fear of rejection leads many of us to reject ourselves and our dreams long before anyone else ever has the chance - no matter what we're selling.

And everyone is selling something. \"You're selling yourself everyday - in school, to your boss, to new people you meet,\" said Markita at 14. \"My mother is a waitress: she sells the daily special. Mayors and presidents trying to get votes are selling... I see selling everywhere I look. Selling is part of the whole world.\"

It takes courage to ask for what you want. Courage is not the absence of fear. It's doing what it takes despite one's fear. And, as Markita has discovered, the more you ask, the easier (and more fun) it gets.

Once, on live TV, the producer decided to give Markita her toughest selling

challenge. Markita was asked to sell Girl Scout cookies to another guest on the show. \"Would you like to invest in one dozen or two dozen boxes of Girl Scout cookies?\" she asked.

\"Girl Scout cookies? I don't buy any Girl Scout cookies!\" he replied. \"I'm a Federal Penitentiary warden. I put 2,000 rapists, robbers, criminals, muggers and child abusers to bed every night.\"

Unruffled, Markita quickly countered, \"Mister, if you take some of these cookies. maybe you won't be so mean and angry and evil. And, Mister, I think it would be a good idea for you to take some of these cookies back for every one of your 2,000 prisoners, too.\"

Markita asked.

The Warden wrote a check.

Breaking the Silence

By Barry Spilchuk

\"How did you do it, Dad? How have you managed to not take a drink for almost 20 years?\" It took me almost 20 years to have the courage to even ask my father this very personal question. When Dad first quit drinking, the whole family was on pins and needles every time he got into a situation that, in the past, would

have started him drinking again. For a few years we were afraid to bring it up for fear the drinking would begin again.

\"I had this little poem that I would recite to myself at least four to five times a day,\" was Dad's reply to my 18-year-old unasked question. \"The words were an instant relief and constant reminder to me that things were never so tough that I could not handle them,\" Dad said. And then he shared the poem with me. The poem's simple, yet profound words immediately became part of my daily routine as well.

About a month after this talk with my father, I received a gift in the mail from a friend of mine. It was a book of daily affirmations with one affirmation listed for each day of the year.

It has been my experience that when you get something with days of the year on it, you automatically turn to the page that lists your own birthday.

I hurriedly opened the book to November 10 to see what words of wisdom this book had in store for me. I did a double-take and tears of disbelief and appreciation rolled down my face. There, on my birthday, was the exact same poem that had helped my father for all these years! It is called the Serenity Prayer:

God, grant me

the Serenity to accept the things I cannot change;

the Courage to change the things I can; and

the Wisdom to know the difference.

Missed Opportunities

By Nick Lazaris

I had offered to watch my 3-year-old daughter, Ramanda, so that my wife could go out with a friend. I was getting some work done while Ramanda appeared to be having a good time in the other room. No problem, I figured. But then it got a little too quiet and I yelled out, \"What are you doing, Ramanda?\" No response. I repeated my question and heard her say, \"Oh...nothing.\" Nothing? What does \"nothing\" mean?

I got up from my desk and ran out into the living room, whereupon I saw her take off down the hall. I chased her up the stairs and watched her as her little behind made a hard left into the bedroom. I was gaining on her! She took off for the bathroom. Bad move. I had her cornered. I told her to turn around. She refused. I pulled out my big, mean, authoritative Daddy voice, \"Young lady, I said turn around!\"

Slowly, she turned toward me. In her hand was what was left of my wife's new lipstick. And every square inch of her face was covered with bright red (except her lips of course)!

As she looked up at me with fearful eyes, lips trembling, I heard every voice that had been shouted to me as a child. \"How could you...You should know better than that...How many times have you been told...What a bad thing to do...\" It was just a matter of my picking out which old message I was going to use on her so that she would know what a bad girl she had been. But before I could let loose, I looked down at the sweatshirt my wife had put on her only an hour before. In big letters it said, \"I'M A PERFECT LITTLE ANGEL!\" I looked back up into her tearful eyes and instead of seeing a bad girl who didn't listen, I saw a child of God...a perfect little angel full of worth, value and a wonderful spontaneity that I had come dangerously close to shaming out of her.

\"Sweetheart, you look beautiful! Let's take a picture so Mommy can see how special you look.\" I took the picture and thanked God that I didn't miss the opportunity to reaffirm what a perfect little angel He had given me.

From the Heart of a Joyous Child

By Donna McDermott

Dear Mommy and Daddy,

I write this letter to you in hopes that you will consider your approach to parenting me before I arrive. I am a joyous child. I thrive on love and respect, order and consistency. When I arrive, I will seem very small to you. Even though I don't look like an adult, please understand that I am a human being.

Even though I will not speak words to you, I will know you with my heart. I will feel all your feelings, absorb your thoughts. I will come to know you more than you may know yourself. Do not be misled by my silence. I am open, growing and learning more rapidly than you can imagine.

I will make imprints of all that I see, so please give me beauty to rest my eyes upon. I will record all that I hear, so please give me sweet music and language that tells me how much I am loved. Give me silence to rest my ears. I will absorb all that I feel, so please wrap our life in love.

I am waiting patiently to be with you. I am so happy to have the opportunity to be alive. Maybe when you see me you will remember how precious life is too!

Your joyous child

From the Heart of a Joyous Child

By Donna McDermott

Dear Mommy and Daddy,

I am waiting patiently to be with you. I am so happy to have the opportunity to be alive. Maybe when you see me you will remember how precious life is too!

Your joyous child

Wisdom

Three cowboys had been riding the range since early in the morning. One of them was a member of the Navajo Nation. Being busy with herding stray cattle all day, there had been no time for the three of them to eat. Toward the end of the day, two of the cowboys started talking about how hungry they were and about the huge meals they were going to eat when they reached town. When one of the cowboys asked the Navajo if he was also hungry, he just shrugged his shoulders and said, \"No.\"

Later that evening, after they had arrived in town, all three ordered large steak dinners. As the Navajo proceeded to eat everything in sight with great gusto, one of his friends reminded him that less than an hour earlier he had told them that he was not hungry. \"Not wise to be hungry then,\" he replied. \"No food.\"

Heart Song

By Patty Hansen

Once upon a time there was a great man who married the woman of his dreams. With their love, they created a little girl. She was a bright and cheerful little girl and the great man loved her very much.

When she was very little, he would pick her up, hum a tune and dance with her around the room, and he would tell her, \"I love you, little girl!\"

When the little girl was growing up, the great man would hug her and tell her, \"I love you, little girl. \"The little girl would pout and say, \"I’m not a little girl anymore.\" Then the man would laugh and say, \"But to me, you’ll always be my little girl.\"

The little girl who-was-not-little-anymore left her home and went into the world. As she learned more about herself, she learned more about the man. She saw that he truly was great and strong, for now she recognized his strengths. One of his strengths was his ability to express his love to his family. It didn’t matter

where she went in the world, the man would call her and say, \"I love you, little girl.\"

The day came when the little girl who-was-not-little-anymore received a phone call. The great man was damaged. He had had a stroke. He was aphasic, they explained to the girl. He couldn’t talk anymore and they weren’t sure that he could understand the words spoken to him. He could no longer smile, laugh, walk, hug, dance or tell the little girl who-was-not-little-anymore that he loved her.

And so she went to the side of the great man. When she walked into the room and saw him, he looked small and not strong at all. He looked at her and tried to speak, but he could not.

The little girl did the only thing she could do. She climbed up on the bed next to the great man. Tears ran from both of their eyes and she drew her arms around the useless shoulders of her father.

Her head on his chest, she thought of many things. She remembered the wonderful times together and how she had always felt protected and cherished by the great man. She felt grief for the loss she was to endure, the words of love that had comforted her.

And then she heard from within the man, the beat of his heart. The heart where the music and the words had always lived. The heart beat on, steadily unconcerned about the damage to the rest of the body. And while she rested there, the magic happened. She heard what she needed to hear.

His heart beat out the words that his mouth could no longer say ...

I love you

Little girl

And she was comforted.

Thelma

By Shari Smith

Even at the age of 75, Thelma was very vivacious and full of life. When her husband passed away, her children suggested that she move to a \"senior living community.\" A gregarious and life-loving person, Thelma decided to do so.

Shortly after moving in, Thelma became a self-appointed activities director, coordinating all sorts of things for the people in the community to do and quickly

became very popular and made many friends.

When Thelma turned 80, her newfound friends showed their appreciation by throwing a surprise birthday party for her. When Thelma entered the dining room for dinner that night, she was greeted by a standing ovation and one of the coordinators led her to the head table. The night was filled with laughter and entertainment, but throughout the evening, Thelma could not take her eyes off a gentleman sitting at the other end of the table.

When the festivities ended, Thelma quickly rose from her seat and rushed over to the man. \"Pardon me,\" Thelma said. \"Please forgive me if I made you feel uncomfortable by staring at you all night. I just couldn't help myself from looking your way. You see, you look just like my fifth husband.\"

\"Your fifth husband!\" replied the gentleman. \"Forgive me for asking, but how many times have you been married?\"

With that, a smile came across Thelma's face as she responded, \"Four.\"

They were married shortly after.

Leading the Charge!

By Mike Wickett

Many years ago there was a huge oil refinery fire. Flames shot hundreds of

feet into the air. The sky was thick with grimy black smoke. The heat was intense - so intense that firefighters had to park their trucks a block away and wait for the heat to die down before they could begin to fight the fire. However, it was about to rage out of control.

Then, all of a sudden, from several blocks away came a fire truck racing down the street. With its brakes screeching, it hit the curb in front of the fire. The firefighters jumped out and began to battle the blaze. All the firefighters who were parked a block away saw this, and they jumped into their trucks, drove down the block and began to fight the fire, too. As a result of that cooperative effort, they were just barely able to bring the fire under control.

The people who saw this teamwork thought, \"My goodness, the man who drove that lead fire truck - what an act of bravery!\" They decided to give him a special award to recognize him for his bravery in leading the charge.

At the ceremony the mayor said, \"Captain, we want to honor you for a fantastic act of bravery. You prevented the loss of property, perhaps even the loss of life. If there is one special thing you could have - just about anything - what would it be?\"

Without hesitation, the captain replied, \"Your Honor, a new set of brakes would be dandy!\"

Leading the Charge!

By Mike Wickett

Many years ago there was a huge oil refinery fire. Flames shot hundreds of feet into the air. The sky was thick with grimy black smoke. The heat was intense - so intense that firefighters had to park their trucks a block away and wait for the heat to die down before they could begin to fight the fire. However, it was about to rage out of control.

Without hesitation, the captain replied, \"Your Honor, a new set of brakes

would be dandy!\"

Leading the Charge!

By Mike Wickett

At the ceremony the mayor said, \"Captain, we want to honor you for a fantastic act of bravery. You prevented the loss of property, perhaps even the loss

of life. If there is one special thing you could have - just about anything - what would it be?\"

Without hesitation, the captain replied, \"Your Honor, a new set of brakes would be dandy!\"

Leading the Charge!

By Mike Wickett

The people who saw this teamwork thought, \"My goodness, the man who drove that lead fire truck - what an act of bravery!\" They decided to give him a

special award to recognize him for his bravery in leading the charge.

Without hesitation, the captain replied, \"Your Honor, a new set of brakes would be dandy!\"

A Place to Stand

By Dr. Charles Garfield

If you have ever gone through a toll booth, you know that your relationship to the person in the booth is not the most intimate you'll ever have. It is one of life's frequent nonencounters: You hand over some money; you might get change; you drive off.

Late one morning in 1984, headed for lunch in San Francisco, I drove toward a booth. I heard loud music. It sounded like a party. I looked around. No other cars with their windows open. No sound trucks. I looked at the toll booth. Inside it, the man was dancing.

\"What are you doing?\" I asked.

\"I'm having a party,\" he said.

\"What about the rest of the people?\" I looked at the other toll booths.

He said, \"What do those look like to you?\" He pointed down the row of toll booths.

\"They look like...toll booths. What do they look like to you?\"

He said, \"Vertical coffins. At 8:30 every morning, live people get in. Then they die for eight hours. At 4:30, like Lazarus from the dead, they reemerge and go home. For eight hours, brain is on hold, dead on the job. Going through the motions.\"

I was amazed. This guy had developed a philosophy, a mythology about his job. Sixteen people dead on the job, and the seventeenth, in precisely the same situation, figures out a way to live. I could not help asking the next question: \"Why is it different for you? You're having a good time.\"

He looked at me. \"I knew you were going to ask that. I don't understand why anybody would think my job is boring. I have a corner office, glass on all sides. I can see the Golden Gate, San Francisco, and the Berkeley hills. Half the Western world vacations here...and I just stroll in every day and practice dancing.\"

One Drink

By Chris Laddish, age 13

There's a small cross by the side of Highway 128, near the town of Boonville. If this cross could talk, it would tell you this sad story:

Seven years ago my brother, Michael, was at a friend's ranch. They decided to go out for dinner. Joe arrived and volunteered to drive - after just one drink.

Lightheartedly, the four friends traveled the winding road. They didn't know where it would end - nobody did. Suddenly, they swerved into the opposite lane, colliding with an oncoming car.

Back home we were watching E.T. on video in front of a warm fire. Then we went to bed. At 2:00 A.M. a police officer woke my mom with the devastating news. Michael had been killed.

In the morning, I found my mother and sister crying. I stood there bewildered. \"What's wrong?\" I asked, rubbing my sleepy eyes.

Mom took a deep breath. \"Come here...\"

Thus began the grueling journey through grief, where all roads lead to nowhere. It still hurts to remember that day.

The only thing that helps is telling my story, hoping you will remember it if you are tempted to get into a car with someone who has had a drink - even just one

drink.

Joe chose the road to nowhere. He was convicted of manslaughter and served time. However, the real punishment is living with the consequences of his actions. He left us with an ache in our hearts that will never go away, a nightmare that will haunt him - and us - for the rest of our lives. And a small cross by the side of Highway 128.

Almie Rose

By Michelle Lawrence

It was at least two months before Christmas when nine-year-old Almie Rose told her father and me that she wanted a new bicycle. As Christmas drew nearer, her desire for a bicycle seemed to fade, or so we thought. We purchased the latest rage, Baby-Sitter's Club dolls, and a doll house. Then, much to our surprise, on December 23rd, she said that she \"really wanted a bike more than anything else.\"

It was just too late, what with all the details of preparing Christmas dinner and buying last-minute gifts, to take the time to select the \"right bike\" for our little girl. So, here we were - Christmas Eve around 9:00p.m., with Almie Rose and her six-year-old brother, Dylan, nestled snug in their beds. We could now think only of the bicycle, the guilt, and being parents who would disappoint their child.

\"What if I make a little bicycle out of clay and write a note that she could trade

the clay model in for a real bike?\" her dad asked. The theory being that since this is a high-ticket item and she is \"such a big girl,\" it would be much better for her to pick it out. So he spent the next four hours painstakingly working with clay to create a miniature bike.

On Christmas morning, we were excited for Almie Rose to open the little heart-shaped package with the beautiful red and white clay bike and the note. Finally, she opened it and read the note aloud.

\"Does this mean that I trade in this bike that Daddy made me for a real one?\" Beaming, I said, \"Yes.\"

Almie Rose had tears in her eyes when she replied, \"I could never trade in this beautiful bicycle that Daddy made me. I'd rather keep this than get a real bike.\"

At that moment, we would have moved heaven and earth to buy her every bicycle on the planet!

It's Never Too Late

By Marilyn Manning

Several years ago, while attending a communications course, I experienced a most unusual process. The instructor asked us to list anything in our past that we felt ashamed of, guilty about, regretted, or incomplete about. The next week he

invited participants to read their lists aloud. This seemed like a very private process, but there's always some brave soul in the crowd who will volunteer. As people read their lists, mine grew longer. After three weeks, I had 101 items on my list. The instructor then suggested that we find ways to make amends, apologize to people, or take some action to right any wrongdoing. I was seriously wondering how this could ever improve my communications, having visions of alienating just about everyone from my life.

The next week, the man next to me raised his hand and volunteered this story:

\"While making my list, I remembered an incident from high school. I grew up in a small town in Iowa. There was a sheriff in town that none of us kids liked. One night, my two buddies and I decided to play a trick on Sheriff Brown. After drinking a few beers, we found a can of red paint, climbed the tall water tank in the middle of town, and wrote, on the tank, in bright red letters: Sheriff Brown is an s.o.b. The next day, the town arose to see our glorious sign. Within two hours, Sheriff Brown had my two pals and me in his office. My friends confessed and I lied, denying the truth. No one ever found out.

\"Nearly 20 years later, Sheriff Brown's name appears on my list. I didn't even know if he was still alive. Last weekend, I dialed information in my hometown back in Iowa. Sure enough, there was a Roger Brown still listed. I dialed his number. After a few rings, I heard: `Hello?' I said: `Sheriff Brown?’ Pause. `Yup.’ `Well, this is Jimmy Calkins. And I want you to know that I did it.’ Pause. `I knew it!’ he yelled back. We had a good laugh and a lively discussion. His closing words were:

`Jimmy, I always felt badly for you because your buddies got it off their chest, and I knew you were carrying it around all these years. I want to thank you for calling me...for your sake.’\"

Jimmy inspired me to clear up all 101 items on my list. It took me almost two years, but became the springboard and true inspiration for my career as a conflict mediator. No matter how difficult the conflict, crisis or situation, I always remember that it's never too late to clear up the past and begin resolution.

Follow Your Dream

By Jack Canfield

I have a friend named Monty Roberts who owns a horse ranch in San Ysidro. He has let me use his house to put on fund-raising events to raise money for youth at risk programs.

The last time I was there he introduced me by saying, \"I want to tell you why I let Jack use my house. It all goes back to a story about a young man who was the son of an itinerant horse trainer who would go from stable to stable, race track to race track, farm to farm and ranch to ranch, training horses. As a result, the boy's high school career was continually interrupted. When he was a senior, he was asked to write a paper about what he wanted to be and do when he grew up.

\"That night he wrote a seven-page paper describing his goal of someday

owning a horse ranch. He wrote about his dream in great detail and he even drew a diagram of a 200-acre ranch, showing the location of all the buildings, the stables and the track. Then he drew a detailed floor plan for a 4,000-square-foot house that would sit on a 200-acre dream ranch.

\"He put a great deal of his heart into the project and the next day he handed it in to his teacher. Two days later he received his paper back. On the front page was a large red F with a note that read, `See me after class.'

\"The boy with the dream went to see the teacher after class and asked, `Why did I receive an F?'

\"The teacher said, `This is an unrealistic dream for a young boy like you. You have no money. You come from an itinerant family. You have no resources. Owning a horse ranch requires a lot of money. You have to buy the land. You have to pay for the original breeding stock and later you'll have to pay large stud fees. There's no way you could ever do it.’ Then the teacher added, `If you will rewrite this paper with a more realistic goal, I will reconsider your grade.’

\"The boy went home and thought about it long and hard. He asked his father what he should do. His father said, `Look, son, you have to make up your own mind on this. However, I think it is a very important decision for you.’

\"Finally, after sitting with it for a week, the boy turned in the same paper, making no changes at all. He stated, `You can keep the F and I'll keep my dream.'\"

Monty then turned to the assembled group and said, \"I tell you this story because you are sitting in my 4,000-square-foot house in the middle of my 200-acre horse ranch. I still have that school paper framed over the fireplace.\" He added, \"The best part of the story is that two summers ago that same

schoolteacher brought 30 kids to camp out on my ranch for a week.\" When the teacher was leaving, he said, `Look, Monty, I can tell you this now. When I was your teacher, I was something of a dream stealer. During those years I stole a lot of kids’ dreams. Fortunately you had enough gumption not to give up on yours.’\"

Don't let anyone steal your dreams. Follow your heart, no matter what.

Not a One

By Dale Galloway

Little Chad was a shy, quiet young man. One day he came home and told his mother that he'd like to make a valentine for everyone in his class. Her heart sank. She thought, \"I wish he wouldn't do that!\" because she had watched the children when they walked home from school. Her Chad was always behind them. They laughed and hung on to each other and talked to each other. But Chad was never included. Nevertheless, she decided she would go along with her son. So she purchased the paper and glue and crayons. For three weeks, night after night, Chad painstakingly made 35 valentines.

Valentine's Day dawned, and Chad was beside himself with excitement. He

carefully stacked them up, put them in a bag, and bolted out the door. His mother decided to bake him his favorite cookies and serve them nice and warm with a cool glass of milk when he came home from school. She just knew he would be disappointed and maybe that would ease the pain a little. It hurt her to think that he wouldn't get many valentines - maybe none at all.

That afternoon she had the cookies and milk on the table. When she heard the children outside, she looked out the window. Sure enough, there they came, laughing and having the best time. And, as always, there was Chad in the rear. He walked a little faster than usual. She fully expected him to burst into tears as soon as he got inside. His arms were empty, she noticed, and when the door opened she choked back the tears.

\"Mommy has some cookies and milk for you,\" she said.

But he hardly heard her words. He just marched right on by, his face aglow, and all he could say was: \"Not a one. Not a one.\"

Her heart sank.

And then he added, \"I didn't forget a one, not a single one!\"

We Never Told Him He Couldn't Do It

By Kathy Lamancusa

My son Joey was born with club feet. The doctors assured us that with treatment he would be able to walk normally - but would never run very well. The first three years of his life were spent in surgery, casts and braces. By the time he was eight, you wouldn't know he had a problem when you saw him walk.

The children in our neighborhood ran around as most children do during play, and Joey would jump right in and run and play, too. We never told him that he probably wouldn't be able to run as well as the other children. So he didn't know.

In seventh grade he decided to go out for the cross-country team. Every day he trained with the team. He worked harder and ran more than any of the others - perhaps he sensed that the abilities that seemed to come naturally to so many others did not come naturally to him. Although the entire team runs, only the top seven runners have the potential to score points for the school. We didn't tell him he probably would never make the team, so he didn't know.

He continued to run four to five miles a day, every day - even the day he had a 103-degree fever. I was worried, so I went to look for him after school. I found him running all alone. I asked him how he felt. \"Okay,\" he said. He had two more miles to go. The sweat ran down his face and his eyes were glassy from his fever. Yet he looked straight ahead and kept running. We never told him he couldn't run four miles with a 103-degree fever. So he didn't know.

Two weeks later, the names of the team runners were called. Joey was number six on the list. Joey had made the team. He was in seventh grade - the other six

team members were all eighth-graders. We never told him he shouldn't expect to make the team. We never told him he couldn't do it. We never told him he couldn't do it...so he didn't know. He just did it.

The Perfect Dog

by Jan Peck

During summer vacations, I would volunteer at the vet’s, so I’d seen a lot of dogs. Minnie was by far the funniest-looking dog I’d ever seen. Thin curly hair barely covered her sausage-shaped body. Her bugged-out eyes always seemed surprised. And her tail looked like a rat’s tail.

She was brought to the vet to be put to sleep because her owners didn’t want her anymore. I thought Minnie had a sweet personality, though. \"No one should judge her by her looks,\" I thought. So the vet spayed her and gave her the necessary shots. Finally, I advertised Minnie in the local paper: \"Funny-looking dog, well behaved, needs loving family.\"

When a young man called, I warned him that Minnie was strange looking. The boy on the phone told me that his grandfather’s sixteen-year-old dog had just died. They wanted Minnie no matter what. I gave Minnie a good bath and fluffed up what was left of her scraggly hair. Then we waited for them to arrive.

At last, an old car drove up in front of the vet’s. Two kids raced to the door.

They scooped Minnie into their arms and rushed her out to their grandfather, who was waiting in the car. I hurried behind them to see his reaction to Minnie.

Inside the car, the grandfather cradled Minnie in his arms and stroked her soft hair. She licked his face. Her rattail wagged around so quickly that it looked like it might fly off her body. It was love at first lick.

\"She’s perfect!\" the old man exclaimed.

I was thankful that Minnie had found the good home that she deserved.

That’s when I saw that the grandfather’s eyes were a milky white color - he was blind.

The Woodwork Angel

By Varda One

My teeth screamed. I couldn't neglect them any longer. I finally ignored my fear of dentists and decided to get them fixed. But how? I was a college sophomore and barely supported myself with part-time jobs.

Maybe I could fix the worst one. I flipped open the Yellow Pages and called the first dentist within walking distance. The receptionist told me to come right over. As I hurried across the campus, I forgot the pain in worrying about how I would pay the bill.

In a few minutes I was in a chair being examined by a dentist who said, \"Hmm!\" as he surveyed the wreckage of my mouth. \"Your teeth are in bad shape.\"

\"I already know that,\" I snapped, in a smart-aleck way to hide my fear.

\"But don't worry, I'm going to fix them.\"

\"No, you're not. I can't afford to pay you.\" I started climbing out of the chair.

\"What are you doing?\"

\"I told you, I have no money.\"

\"You're a student at the university, aren't you?\"

What difference did that make? \"Yes...\"

\"You're going to graduate in a few years, aren't you?\"

\"I hope so.\"

\"And then you expect to get a job, don't you?\"

\"That's my plan.\"

\"Well, then you'll pay me. Meantime, you concentrate on your classes and

leave the dentistry to me.\"

I stared at him. He really meant it. He calmly picked up his tools and fixed the aching cavity.

From that day on, I saw him every week until my teeth were in good shape. And he kept them that way with regular checkups. After graduation, I got a job and settled his bill in a few months.

In the 40 years following, I've learned to call this man a \"woodwork angel.\" These are strangers who appear out of nowhere - out of the woodwork - when I need help. They've lent and given me money, materials or equipment; they've taught me skills and helped me organize groups; sometimes they've rescued me from danger or making a big mistake. So, dentist dear, wherever you are, bless you and thank you again!

An Act of Kindness

President Abraham Lincoln often visited hospitals to talk with wounded soldiers during the Civil War. Once, doctors pointed out a young soldier who was near death and Lincoln went over to his bedside.

\"Is there anything I can do for you?\" asked the President.

The soldier obviously didn't recognize Lincoln, and with some effort he was

able to whisper, \"Would you please write a letter to my mother?\"

A pen and paper were provided and the President carefully began writing down what the young man was able to say:

\"My dearest mother, I was badly hurt while doing my duty. I'm afraid I'm not going to recover. Don't grieve too much for me, please. Kiss Mary and John for me. May God bless you and father.\"

The soldier was too weak to continue, so Lincoln signed the letter for him and added, \"Written for your son by Abraham Lincoln.\"

The young man asked to see the note and was astonished when he discovered who had written it. \"Are you really the President?\" he asked.

\"Yes I am,\" Lincoln replied quietly. Then he asked if there was anything else he could do.

\"Would you please hold my hand?\" the soldier asked. \"It will help to see me through to the end.\"

In the hushed room, the tall gaunt President took the boy's hand in his and spoke warm words of encouragement until death came.

Father's Day

By Sherry Lynn Blake Jensen Miller

When I was five, my biological father committed suicide. It left me feeling as though I'd done something wrong; that if I had been better somehow, maybe he'd have stayed around. My mother remarried shortly thereafter, and this man was my dad until I was nineteen. I called him Dad and used his name all through school. But, when he and my mother divorced, he just walked away. Once again, I wondered what was wrong with me that I couldn't keep a father.

Mother remarried again, and Bob was a wonderful, kind man. I was twenty now and no longer living at home, but I felt a great love and attachment for him. A few years later my mother was diagnosed with cancer and was not given long to live. Shortly before she died, Bob came over to my house alone one day. We talked about a lot of things, and then he told me that he wanted me to know that he'd always be there for me, even after Mother was gone. Then he asked if he could adopt me.

I could hardly believe my ears. Tears streamed down my face. He wanted me - me! This man had no obligation to me, but he was reaching out from his heart, and I accepted. During the adoption proceedings, the judge commented on all the undesirable duties of his profession and then with a tear in his eye, thanked us for brightening his day as he pronounced us father and daughter. I was twenty-five, but I was his little girl.

Three short years later, Bob, too, was diagnosed with cancer and was gone

within the year. At first I was hurt and angry at God for taking this father away too. But eventually the love and acceptance that I felt from Dad came through again, and I became, once more, grateful for the years we had.

On Father's Day I always reflect on what I've learned about fatherhood. I've learned that it is not dependent on biology or even on raising a child. Fatherhood is a matter of the heart. Bob's gift from the heart will warm my soul for eternity.

How to Talk to Anyone, Anytime, Anywhere

By Larry King

I never wanted to be anything but a broadcaster, a talker. And for 40 years, I've been doing just that. To me, the ability to talk well is one of the great pleasures in life and can bring with it some of life's greatest rewards

I'm not saying it's always easy. The vast majority of people would rather jump out of an airplane without a parachute than sit next to someone they've never met at a dinner party.

But the more you work at it, the easier it will be. To get you started, here are my six basic ingredients for learning how to talk to anyone, anytime, anywhere.

1. You Don’t Have to Be Quotable.

If you could have witnessed my first morning in broadcasting, you would have

bet the ranch that I was the last guy who’d survive, much less succeed, as a professional talker.

It happened at WAER, a small radio station in Miami Beach, on the morning of May 1, 1957.1 had been hanging around there hoping to crash into my dream world of radio. The

station's general manager liked my voice but didn't have any openings.

I lived near the station and went by every day,watching the disc jockeys, the newscasters, the sports announcers. After three weeks the morning deejay quit. The manager told me I

had the job starting Monday morning.

I didn't sleep that whole weekend. I kept rehearsing things to say. By Monday I was a basket case.

The manager called me into his office to wish me luck. And then I was on the air.

Picture me at 9 a.m. sitting in the studio with my new theme song, Les Elgart's “Swingin' Down the Lane,\" cued up. I start the song. Then I fade the music down so T can talk. Only nothing comes out. My mouth feels like cotton.

So I bring the music up and fade it again. Still no words coming out of my

mouth. It happens a third time. The only thing my listeners are hearing is a record going up and down in volume.

Finally, the exasperated manage kicks open the door to the control room and shouts,

'This is a communications business! \"Then he turns ant leaves, slamming the door behind

him.

In that instant, I leaned toward thc microphone and said: “Good morning This is my first day on the radio. I've been practicing all weekend. But my mouth is dry. I'm nervous. The general manager just kicked open the door and said, ‘This is a communication' business.’” I wasn't exactly quotable that morning, but I was able to get some thing out by telling my listeners about the predicament I was in, and that gave me the confidence to continue. The rest of the show--as well as my career--went fine.

2. Attitude Counts.

After that fiasco in Miami, I made a commitment to keep talking even when it might not be comfortable--in other words, to work at it. The right attitude--the will to talk--is

crucial to becoming a better talker.

I think one reason I've had a certain amount of success in broadcasting is that the audience can see I love what I'm doing. You can't fake that. And if you try, you will fail.

Tommy Lasorda, the former manager of the Los Angeles Dodgers, once came on my radio show the night after his team suffered a crushing loss in the National League playoffs. From his enthusiasm you never would have guessed he was the losing manager.

When I asked him how he could be so exuberant, he said, \"The best day of my life is when I manage a winning game. The second-best day of my life is when I manage a losing game.\" That enthusiasm and his willingness to share it have made him a successful manager and a very successful talker too.

3. Remember to Take Turns.

Careful listening makes you a better talker. Good follow-up questions are the mark of a good conversationalist. In fact, I have an important rule that I remind myself every morning:

nothing I say this day will teach me anything; So if I'm going to learn, I have to do it by listening.

4. Broaden Your Horizons.

The best conversationalists are able to talk about issues and experiences beyond their

own daily lives. You can expand your world through travel, but you can also do it without leaving your own back yard.

When I was a boy, my widowed mother got an elderly woman to care for us while Mom tried to scrape up money for food, clothing and to keep our little apartment. The helper's

father had fought in the Civil War, and as a child she had actually seen Abraham Lincoln. I was able to talk to her, so in a way my childhood was a window on another era in history.

The point is this: people with backgrounds different from your own can help broaden your conversational repertoire and your thinking.

5. Keep It Light.

One of my cardinal rules of conversation is never stay too serious too long. Similarly, a key quality I look for in a potential guest is a sense of humor, preferably self-deprecating. Frank Sinatra is one guest who's never been afraid to make fun of himself.

During an interview with me, Sinatra recalled comedian Don Rickles coming over to his table at a Las Vegas restaurant to ask a favor. Rickles was dining with a friend.

“Would you mind saying hi to her, Frank?\"

\"Of course not,\" the singer replied. \"Bring her over\"

Then Rickles said that his friend would be even more impressed if Sinatra could come over to their table. So a short time later, Sinatra good-naturedly walked across the restaurant, slapped Rickles on the back and said how delighted he was to see him.

Whereupon Rickles said, \"Beat it, Frank. This is personal.\"

What's key to the story--and most appealing to the audience--is that Sinatra so obviously enjoys retelling this joke at his own expense.

6. Be the Genuine You.

Anybody I've ever talked to for more than a few minutes knows at least two things about me: I'm from Brooklyn. New York, and I'm Jewish. That's because I'm deeply proud of both.

You should be as open and honest with your conversational partners as you'd want them to be with you, willing to reveal what your background is and what your

likes and dislikes

are. That's part of the give-and-take of conversation, part of getting to know people.

Talk-show hosts Regis Philbin and Kathie Lee Gifford come into our homes easily and naturally, and they're not afraid to reveal their tastes or tell stories on themselves. Without making themselves the focus of their talk, they are themselves. If they--or a guest--tell a sad or joyful story, they are not afraid to show their feelings.

Mel Tillis, the successful country-and-western singer, is absolutely charming as an interview guest, even though he stutters. It doesn't show up when he's singing, but it does when he's talking. Instead of letting it bother him, Mel is upfront about the problem, jokes about it, and is so completely at ease with himself that he puts you at ease too.

As for myself, I learned something critical after surviving that case of \"mike fright\" on my first day of broadcasting: be honest, and you won't go wrong.

WHETHER YOU'RE TALKING to one person or a million, the rules are the same. It's all about making a connection. Show empathy, enthusiasm and a willingness to listen, and you can't help becoming' a master of talk.

The Many Faces of Love

Love.. what is love? A lot of people shared their views to what Love really is, or at least what Love is in their eyes. Perhaps love is just an illusion. A strong illusion, especially for those who are searching for a purpose of life. Is love an answer? Love can be wonderful, special, complicated, a distress, a gift, a curse, a tragedy, and most of all, an experience.

Love is a mysterious and a complicated force. What do a person mean when they say they love someone? Love is many different things. Each of us have our own understanding of Love is, and most of the time we base our definitions from feelings and experiences. The book defines love in many ways. \"It is a strong affection for another arising out of kinship or personal ties.\" It can be an affection and tenderness felt by lovers. Love is the object of attachment, devotion, or admiration.

Just when we thought we finally grasp what love is, somebody asks:

\"Does anyone really know what 'LOVE' mean? I believe I have a true love, but 'True love' is always hurt, isn't it?\"

I scratches my head with this thought and began to wonder. What is the answer to this? \"This I have to know!\" I said to myself. I looked in the mirror and asked \"Is it a true love when you know you want to live with this special person for the rest of your life? Have we reached 'true love' when we are ready to give everything away towards our subject? Or maybe when can go as far as to sacrifice ourselves for our love? What about love as an obsession? Is that possible?

\"But isn't love suppose to be an obsession? If it is not, then you'd have to rationalize. If you rationalize then it's not love, because there is always a better rationalization.\"

\"I think the \"in love\" phase is obsessive but according to Williamson (and backed up by my paltry experience), love does not involve the ego, is selfless and the opposite of obsession.\"

According to Marriane Williamson, the author of \"A Return to Love,\" there is a \"holy love\" and a \"special love.\" \"The latter type is the obsessiveone; finding that one 'special' person absorbs _ALL_ your attention.\"

So who is right and who is wrong about love? There is no wrong answer. Love is many wonderful things. Love may not work out all the time but it leaves you a special sort of feeling, like nothing you have ever imagined. Is love a purpose of life? I think are life will be dull without it. But is it necessary? Important? It is a part of life, and forever it will be a part of us.

\"Love is not thinking about your happiness but making others happy.\" -anonymous

\"Our hearts are created to Love.\" -E. Atienza

\"Love is like a roller coaster, it has ups and downs.\"

\"Love doesn't make the world go around, Love makes the ride worth while.\" -unknown

\"Money will buy you sex but not Love.\" -Simon Vainrub

\"The more you cry for the person you really love, the more you can understand real love.\" -Tsuchida Tomomi

Life

Life isn't about keeping score.

It's not about how many friends you have or how accepted you are.

Not about if you have plans this weekend or if you're alone.

It isn't about who you're dating, who you used to date, how many people you've dated, or if you haven't beem with anyone at all.

It isn't about who you have kissed.

It's not about sex.

It isn't about who your family is or how much money they have Or what kind of car you drive.

Or where you are sent to school.

It's not about how beautiful or ugly you are.

Or what clothes you wear, what shoes you have on, or what kind of music you listen to.

It's not about if your hair is blonde, red, black, or brown or if your skin is too light or too dark.

Not about what grades you get, how smart you are, how smart everybody else thinks you are, or how smart standardized tests say you are.

It's not about representing your whole being on a piece of paper and seeing who will \"accept the written you.\"

LIFE JUST ISN'T

But, life is about who you love and who you hurt.

It's about who you make happy or unhappy purposefully.

It's about keeping or betraying trust.

It's about friendship, used as a sanctity or a weapon.

It's about what you say and what you mean, maybe hurtful, maybe heartening.

about starting rumors and contributing to petty gossip.

It's about what judgments you pass and why. And who your judgement arespread to.

It's about who you've ignored with full control and intention.

It's about jealousy, fear, ignorance, and revenge.

It's about carrying inner hate and love, letting it grow, and spreading it.

But most of all, it's about using your life to touch or poison other people's hearts in such a way that could have never occurred alone.

Only you choose the way those hearts are affected, and those choices are what life's all about.

Water Pot

A water bearer in India had two large pots, each hung on each end of a pole which he carried across his neck. One of the pots had a crack in it, and while the other pot was perfect and always delivered a full portion of water at the end of the long walk from the stream to the master's house, the cracked pot arrived only half full.

For two years this went on daily, with the water bearer delivering one and one-half pots full of water to his masters house. Of course, the perfect pot was proud of its accomplishments, perfect to the end for which it was made. But the poor cracked pot was ashamed of its own imperfection, and miserable that it was able to accomplish only half of what it had been made to do. After two years of what it had perceived to be bitter failure, it spoke one day to the water bearer by the stream.

\"I am ashamed of myself, and I want to apologize to you.\"

\"Why?\" asked the bearer. \"What are you ashamed of?\"

\"I have been able for these last two years to deliver only half my load, because this crack in my side causes water to leak out all the way back to your master's house. Because of my flaws, you have to do all this work, and you do not get full value for your efforts,\" the pot explained.

The water bearer felt sorry for the cracked pot, and in his compassion, he said, \"As we return to the masters house, I want you to notice the beautiful flowers along the path.\" Indeed, as they went up the hill, the cracked pot took notice of the sun warming the beautiful wild flowers on the side of the path, and this cheered it some. But, at the end of the trail, it still felt bad because it had still leaked half of its load, and so again the pot apologized to the bearer for its failure. The bearer said to the pot: \"Did you notice that there were flowers only on your side of the path, but not on the other pot's side? That is because I have always known about your

flaw, and I took advantage of it. I planted flower seeds on your side of the path, and every day while we walk back from the stream, you have watered them. For two years I have been able to pick those beautiful flowers to decorate my master's table. Without you being just the way you are, he would not have this beauty to grace his house.\"

Each of us has our own unique flaws. We are all cracked pots. But if we will allow it, the Lord will use our flaws to grace His Father's table. In God's great economy, nothing goes to waste. Don't be ashamed of your flaws.

Acknowledge them, and you too can be the cause of beauty. Know that in our weakness we find our strength.

So much to learn

It was the last day of final examination in a large Eastern university. On the steps of one building, a group of engineering seniors huddled, discussing the exam due to begin in a few minutes. On their faces was confidence. This was their last exam-then on to commencement and jobs.

Some talked of jobs they already had; others of jobs they would get. With all this assurance of four years of college, they felt ready and able to conquer the world.

The approaching exam, they knew, would be a snap. The professor had said

they could bring any books or notes they wanted. Requesting only that they did not talk to each other during the test.

Jubilantly they field into the classroom. The professor passed out the papers. And smiles broadened as the students noted there were only five essay-type questions.

Three hours passed. Then the professor began to collect the papers. The students no longer looked confident. On their faces was a frightened expression. No one spoke as, papers in hand, the professor faced the class.

He surveyed the worried faces before him, then asked: \"how many completed all five questions?\"

Not a hand was raised.

\"How many answered four?\"

Still no hands.

\"Three? Two?\"

The students shifted restlessly in their seats.

\"One, then? Certainly somebody finished one.\"

But the class remained silent. The professor put down the papers. \"that is exactly what I expected,\" he said.

I just want to impress upon you that, even though you have completed four years of engineering. There are still many things about the subject you don't know. These questions you could not answer are relatively common in everyday practice.\" Then, smiling, he added: \"you will all pass this course, but remember- even though you are now college graduates, your education has just begun.\"

The years have obscured the name of this professor, but not the lesson he taught.

Valeda von Strinberg

Straws In The Whirlwind

Those who step toward the grave are sure to tread over dust underfoot. Facing the wind-swept fields,perplexed plowmwn taste the hardship of each step; a question mark formed by tears like straws in the whirlwind rotates in the emptiness of heaven and earth.

There should not be just roughness in life . Blowing dust covers the way, inability to dash out from the scorched desert. Our people and her children ought not to be kept in the dark . Why must we stand in mire or plant our wishes in barren soil ?

Child's magic markers

Spring is over , yet you are still standing here. The wind faraway flaps in the torrential flow of time . Ah , .... The distant resonance. If only you had a child's magic marker , maybe all the remorse could be obliterated.

Do you still remember that bridge ? The flowing water underneath twists and turns, drips and drips. Ah, .... Too loose is the net, so haggard as you , still walting.

Two color markers, not used for weaving your fairy tales. One of them red as blood, the other white as snow. If you are pure-hearted, you can find love in eternity,then ,you can draw out prefect traces of your life,

And your days of tears will be left in darkness forever thereafter.

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