by Amanda Krug

It is the last day of the school year and I stand empty- handed with no gift to give you. It isn't that I haven't tried to think of something thoughtful and kind ... quite the contrary. For months, I have combed catalogs, browsed specialty shops and department stores, inquired of novelty shops, and even searched the Internet only to realize that no bauble or trinket or card could measure up to the feelings of a mother's grateful heart and a teacher's loving dedication.

How I wish a colorful bundle of fresh wildflowers could reflect the beauty of your way with children - the constant patience and nurturing, the gentle encouragement. A keepsake basket laden with soothing soaps and bath oils would eventually serve only as a common gift were its sturdy, woven walls not filled to overflowing with examples of the individual ways you have touched the lives of your students.

Jewelry would surely be nice, but what can I afford that would not soon tarnish or grow quickly out of style? You deserve the gems of royalty for your perseverance and creativity, your devotion and talent.

During the past year, I have given you many small gifts, mostly intangible ones. At the moment the first school bell rang last August, I placed in you my trust, believing you would teach my child and reserve respect for me as a parent. I added to that my constant and fervent prayers that you would be objective and fair with the ability to set limitations while offering my child a chance to learn self- control and to soar a bit in the process. I sincerely petitioned that your classroom would be a safe haven for my child to grow and learn, lending itself to the crazy, yet somehow perfect, mixture of self-discipline and controlled instruction. I prayed for your health and your happiness, and your ability to be supplied with the tools necessary to complete your task as teacher and educator and mentor. I offered you my time as often as I could, and my support for your endeavors. Occasionally, I even offered you a challenge when I spoke my mind, sometimes standing firm, sometimes backing down with a renewed assurance or a "wait and see" attitude!

I wish with all my heart I could put a delicate ribbon on a gaily wrapped package and give you a "something" to express my appreciation and affection, but I have nothing to give you that would surpass the most precious gift I have ever had to offer and which you already so graciously accepted months ago - the one you have held close to your heart, laughed with and probably cried with, applauded and scolded, lifted and encouraged, molded and shaped - my child!

And today, as my child returns to my side for the summer, the gift I humbly give to you is found deep within my heart ... I give to you my thanks.

Amanda Krug

Amanda is from Indiana and says: "All three of my school age children were blessed with incredible teachers this year. This story was given as a special gift to each of them. Thank you Mrs. Young, Mrs. Baird, and Miss Kimes! And thank you to all who teach our children throughout the world."

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by Lea

Looking for a spiritual oasis for my tattered corporate soul, I decided to move to the country in search of a simpler place and time. My final location is somewhere between the 49th parallel and Santa's Village, on an old dirt road in an Ontario township named Tichborne.

My wife returned to college in search of her vision to become an accountant. I built an office in my garage to start on my dream of writing. Soon, friendly locals started dropping by to welcome the new "folks from the city."

The locals here are generally poor of pocket, but rich of heart beyond all measure. They would listen in quiet amazement to stories about the American cities I had visited.

During one visit I asked my guest if there were any local heroes in the area. He confirmed there were several, but by far, the most notable hero was a man named Carl Barr. He told me Carl had fought in the war and received some sort of meritorious service award. The caller shared that Carl was eighty years of age, living a scant three miles from me - folks considered him the area patriarch.

I didn't have to look for Carl. He found me. On a warm spring day while strolling from the house to my garage, his tired Ford pick-up rolled into my drive, and stopped. Walking to the truck, I was greeted by a hearty, "Hello. I'm Carl Barr."

His hand extended through the window to shake. While he crushed my hand, I noticed a black and white border collie lying dutifully by his side, the dog's head resting on his lap. Behind the dog was a cane. Carl wore a frayed train engineers cap, which covered his brush-cut and rested just above bushy, gray eyebrows. His red flannel work shirt was tucked unevenly into green work-pants.

"Nice to meet you, Carl, I'm Lea MacDonald. I'm on my way to the garage to do some writing. Perhaps you'd like to join me and have a Coke or something.

"Well, OK, if it wouldn't be too much trouble."

"Not at all, follow me."

Unlaced, size 13 work boots shuffled through the gravel on their way to my garage. He seemed to be stiff. Walking slightly bent over, Carl made good use of his cane.

Inside the office Carl made himself comfortable on the large couch. His hands rested comfortably over the handle of the cane.

"So, what do you write about, Lea?"

"Well, I guess I write about anything and everything. Currently, I'm looking for heroes from this area. Actually, I had mentioned that to one of the folks who visited me last week and your name came up."

"It did?" His eyebrows raised with surprise. He lifted the peak on his cap scratching his head. "I don't recall doing anything heroic. I just came home from the war and went back to farming."

"The gentleman I talked with said you received and award of some sort, Carl."

"Well, yes, I did get an award. But I can't remember having done anything special for it, other than getting home." Staring at the floor, he looked to be in deep thought.

I swung in my chair to face the keyboard. Speaking over my shoulder I said, "Perhaps you could tell me what it takes to be a hero."

"Well, I guess I could, but it would be easier to show you. Can you follow me to the farm?"

"Sure. I'd be glad to."

As I followed Carl I thought maybe he'd been modest and was going to show me his award, adding an explanation of how he'd earned it. We turned following his driveway up a hill to an old farmhouse overlooking a deep-blue bay from Bob's Lake.

We made our way inside. Walking through a rustic living room, then an antique filled dinning room, I followed him slowly up an old staircase. The walls were adorned with old photographs set in oval mahogany frames.

He pointed out some pictures with his cane explaining the photographs were of the family who had built the farm during the early eighteen-hundreds.

The farm had been passed through the family until he bought it in 1947 with help from the DVA.

I followed him into a room at the top of the stairs. He pointed his cane at a Boston Rocker. "Sit down, son. I have something I'd like you to read." He opened an old chest removing a book - The Dammed Lakes, 2nd Edition, An Environmental History of Crow and Bobs Lakes. The book opened to Chapter 8, where Carl had placed a bookmark. Carl sat down asking me to read page 195, down to the picture.

I read: A soldier from the lakes confided to a friend his feelings about this far away war which became quite personal and was anything but noble. Because he was a skilled marksman, he was assigned sniper duty - to watch the opposing line of trenches and shoot any visible enemy. In the dim light of predawn a German soldier with the same duty made a fatal mistake. After a long night, he straightened up to stretch. In one motion, the Canadian's rifle sights centered on the enemy's chest and he was blown on his back.

Years later the Canadian lamented to a friend: "I know I personally picked out a man and killed him. I can excuse myself - I was doing the duty assigned to me, but I have never been able to get that moment from my mind. I think about it a lot."

I quietly closed the book. Swallowing hard, I looked to Carl, his lips quivering as he spoke.

"Son, war should always be avoided, but when called upon to do his duty, a man must do what he knows is right." Through misty eyes he looked out the window to some distant place in time. He continued, his voice shaking, "War does not make a hero, son. A real hero has the courage to face every day with the full memory of what he's done in war, unclouded by drink or any other relief. The man you just read about is a true hero. Not because he caused another man to fall, but because he had the courage to never forget him."

He slid a handkerchief from his pocket wiping his eyes. "Can you find your way out son?"

"Yes, sir, I can."

"If you ever get a chance, son, tell folks what a real hero is."

I will Mr. Barr, I promise.

Lea MacDonald

Mr. Lea MacDonald had dedicated this story to Carl Barr, "the bravest man I have ever known." This story will be part of a new book Lea is writing entitled, "A Simpler Place and Time."

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POPCORN MONSTER

At about midnight when Marcia came home from work, she noticed a trail of popcorn leading from the kitchen up the stairs to her 7-year-old daughter's room. The next morning Marcia asked why there was a trail of popcorn. Her 4-year- old giggled and responded, "so if a monster comes into our house at night, he would eat the popcorn and be in Laura's room and eat her instead of me!"

Marcia Richards of Ravenna, Ohio.

She writes: "I am an R.N. and I love my job!" Marcia says. The next story is from her, too

BATTER UP

While making a cake, Marcia accidentally lifted the mixer before it shut off and cake batter went flying everywhere. While she was cleaning up the mess, her toddler walked in and asked, "What are you doing?" Marcia explained that she was cleaning the kitchen. As the toddler walked out of the room she stated, "You're not doing a very good job. It's messier than before you started."

RULES ARE FOR TEENAGERS

Evan, 5, was told to stay out of the refrigerator or he would get a spanking. He was told, "No more second chances." Well, it didn't take long 'til he opened the door to the refrigerator again. His mother Monique gave him the promised spanking, and he started to cry. Monique asked him why he was crying, because it wasn't a very hard spanking. Between tears he said, "Well, we're going to forget sometimes ... why couldn't you just wait 'til we're teenagers to make this rule?"

Monique Achtman of Calgary, Canada.

Thanks to Grace Witwer for this story of Funny Things Kids Say. Want more stories like this? Send a blank message to: funnykids-subscribe@onelist.com

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by Curt

What I can say about Uncle Freddie that would give you a picture of the man I knew? He was born Fred Inouye, but to my sister and I, he was "Uncle Freddie." I remember him as my jovial uncle, who always wore short sleeve shirts, took the time to talk to everybody and smoked big cigars. My mom would also add that her brother was the most stubborn man in the world and when he said to do something, you had to do it. But then, she would have to admit that there was a reason why Uncle Freddie had to be tough. He had his hands full running a farm and looking after his siblings. You see, my mom's dad passed away very young. And being the oldest of nine children, Uncle Freddie had to become the "man of the house."

And when my mom and her family came back to the Santa Clara Valley after being interned at Heart Mountain, it was Uncle Freddie and his wife, Alice, who found a house for everyone to live in. It wasn't easy coming back to live in the Valley. They even had to circulate a petition to see if the neighbors were comfortable with Japanese Americans living in the house.

After years of hard work, doing all sorts of jobs, and raising four children of their own, my Uncle Freddie and Auntie Alice finally allowed themselves the luxury of a long vacation. They were in their mid-70s and wanted to fulfill their dream of touring Japan.

This was the first time Uncle Freddie and Auntie Alice had ever been out of the country. Yes, it was their dream come true and I heard that it was a wonderful trip. My Auntie Alice and Uncle Freddie got to see everything they wanted, including the famous graves of the 47 Ronin.

One of their last stops in Japan was the prefecture of Shimane-ken, where my mom's ancestors come from. One of Uncle Freddie's brothers, Jessie, had lived in Shimane- ken since the 1930s, and so they had a reunion.

One morning, Uncle Freddie was enjoying breakfast with Jessie and Auntie Alice. My uncle marveled at what a magical trip this had been. And I was told that during this wonderful breakfast, Uncle Freddie exclaimed: "This has been great. I'm so happy." Then suddenly, he slumped over.

At first, Auntie Alice thought that Uncle Freddie was fooling around. After all, he was a jovial man who liked a good laugh. But what kind of joke was he playing? Falling asleep at breakfast! Then, after calling his name several times, my aunt realized that he wasn't conscious.

Jessie reached over and touched Uncle Freddie on the shoulder. There was no response. Uncle Freddie had died instantly from a massive heart attack leaving behind the people he loved, sitting silently at breakfast in the country of his ancestors.

Curt Fukuda

About this writer:

Curt Fukuda lives in Mountain View, CA with his wife, Monica Smith. He works as a writer/photographer and often collaborates with artist Lissa Jones. Their art has been shown internationally and can be viewed on the Eagle Creek site. Curt also collaborated on a book of Day of the Dead Folk Tales with Salvador Gonzalez (also available from Eagle Creek). His web site is at http://www.smithfu.com.

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