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EIGHTEEN YEARS LATE
by Michael |
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Junior High. probably the worst time in a young person's life, a
time when your body is changing in ways you never thought
possible and you spend most of your time trying to fit in a mold
that your peers have formed for you. Gone are the days of Elmer's
glue, crayons, and the tiny scissors with the rounded edges. (Yes,
they trust you with the sharp-edged scissors in Jr. High.) From
here on out, you have your own locker, you carry your books to
each class, and you start making your own decisions on which
classes to take. Oh yeah, I almost forgot, they make you take
showers in front of your peers! Naked!!!
AAARRRRGGGGGHHHHHH!!!
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What I remember most about Junior High was the incredible pain
and heartache that students inflicted on one another with their
words and actions. There were students who seemed to have it all
together and made those around them feel as if they didn't measure
up, but I'll let you in on a little secret. Those who make a habit of
ripping on others, have a terrible self-image. In fact, they are
usually a totally different person from the one they present to the
outside world. In order to make themselves feel better, they tear
others down. You can bank on that. Those who are comfortable
with themselves, have no need to rip on others. In fact, they will
take time to build others up, a sure sign of a good self-image.
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I didn't have the best self-image in Junior High, and there were two
things that I fell back on to be accepted during those years:
athletics and humor.
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I have always been a decent athlete, which brought a certain
confidence and comfort level in my life. And I have always been
able to make people laugh. But at times the laughter came at
another's expense, and most times I didn't fully realize what I was
doing to the self-images of those around me, especially to one
young girl in particular!
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Her name was Tracy and she had a crush on me. Instead of nicely
letting her know that I wasn't interested in her, I got caught up in
trying to be funny, with her being the brunt of my jokes. I am
ashamed now to think of how I treated her in seventh grade. I went
out of my way to make things miserable for her. I made up songs
about her, and even wrote short stories in which I had to save the
world from Tracy the evil villain.
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All changed about half way through the year. Mr. Greer, my
physical education teacher, came up to me one day.
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"Hey Mike, you got a second?"
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"Sure Mr. Greer!" I said. (Everybody loved Mr. Greer, and I
looked up to him like a father.)
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"Mike, I heard a rumor that you were going around picking on
Tracy?" He paused and looked me straight in the eye. It seemed
like an eternity before he continued. "You know what I told the
person I heard that from? I told them it couldn't possibly be true.
The Mike Powers I know would never treat another person like
that. Especially a young lady."
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I gulped, but said nothing.
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He gently put his hand on my shoulder and said, "I just thought
you should know that." Then he turned and walked away without
a backward glance. Leaving me to my thoughts.
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From that day on I stopped picking on Tracy.
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I knew that the rumor was true, and that I had let my role model
down by my actions. More importantly it made me realize how
badly I must have hurt this girl and others whom I had made life
difficult for.
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It was probably a couple of months later, before I fully realized the
incredible way in which Mr. Greer handled the problem. He not
only made me realize the seriousness of my actions, but he did it in
a way that helped me to save some of my pride. My respect and
love for him grew even stronger after that.
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I don't think I ever apologized to Tracy for my hurtful words and
actions. She moved away the next year and I never saw her again.
While I was very immature as a seventh grader, I should have
known better. In fact I did know better, but it took the wisdom of
my favorite teacher to bring it out into the light.
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So Tracy, if you're out there, I am truly sorry for the way that I
treated you and I ask for your forgiveness. Something I should have
done 18 years ago.
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Michael T. Powers
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Michael is happily married to his high school sweetheart Kristi,
and has two boys: Caleb (5 years old) and Connor (2 years old). He is an author, speaker, business owner, and founder of "Straight
From the Heart," a free daily E-zine that features inspirational and
uplifting stories, often by published writers. To subscribe, send an
email to:Thunder27@aol.com or visit:
Straight From the Heart http://www.StraightFromTheHeartList.com
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FINDING A VOICE
by Teri |
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I attended a writer's group recently to get feedback on the latest
chapter in my book. There were so many people there that evening
that discussion was limited.
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When I arrived home my thirteen-year-old son shrugged off my
disappointment and asked me to read the chapter to him instead.
So I settled into a chair and read, "Down The Avenue", a chapter
about spending my allowance as a nine-year-old child. As innocent
as it seems, the experience was a metaphor for how choice and risk
were handled by a child affected by alcoholism.
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Each week, the trip "down-the-avenue" culminated at Woolworth's
lunch counter where I dreamed of someday ordering a banana split.
An umbrella with colorful balloons hanging from each rib was
suspended above the counter. "Pop a balloon and pay 1 cent to 63
cents!" Imagine paying one cent for a banana split! But I never had
more than fifty cents. (And I shuddered at the thought of
Woolworth's calling my parents for more money.) So I kept my
wish to myself. I never thought to risk asking anyone for more
money. Risks were dangerous in a world where alcohol made even
benign choices subject to rage.
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Frankie sat at my feet, listening intently, as I read the final
sentences of the chapter: "I watched as others selected a balloon to
pop and fantasized about the opportunity to proudly take my
chance. It never happened. Pink, blue, orange and yellow balloons
called out to me, daring me, taunting me and eventually, defeating
me. In time, the waitress strolled up to my spot at the counter and
smiled, indicating that she was ready to jot down my order. I
mumbled, "I'll take a Coke please," and turned the stool away from
the umbrella. I didn't hear the sound of balloons popping behind
me."
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Frankie was silent. He thought for a moment and said, "So you
never got the banana split?" A long discussion ensued and
eventually he seemed to understand that it was my own belief that
limited me. I never took the chance of voicing my wish. It was a
pattern that took years to break.
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The next morning, Frankie casually announced that he was going
out for a little while. When I asked where, he smiled and said, "I
can't say. But when I get back, I'll need you to go upstairs for a few
minutes." Any further questions of mine were answered with a
coy, "You'll see."
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My mother's instinct told me he wasn't up to anything dangerous,
so I agreed. Frankie left and I busied myself packing for an
upcoming camping trip.
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In a short time, I heard the back door open and Frankie's voice
yelling, "Can you go upstairs now?" As I walked up the steps I
went through a mental checklist. "Hmm, it's not my birthday, it's
not Mother's Day -- what could he be up to?" I brushed my hair
and tried to ignore the sound of chairs scraping, kitchen cabinets
slamming and muffled conversation. Soon my nine-year-old
daughter Sarah, a last minute recruit into the conspiracy, announced
through giggles that I could come downstairs. "Eyes closed - except
for stairs," she said.
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Once downstairs, Sarah held my hand and helped me stumble my
way through camping equipment and eventually into the kitchen.
"Open your eyes!" Frankie and Sarah shouted in chorus.
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I couldn't believe what I saw. The kitchen table was covered in a
pile of balloons. Frankie walked up to me and handed me fifty
cents and a fork. His eyes were lit with anticipation. "Pop one!" he
urged.
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Tears welled up in my eyes as I began to realize what he was
doing. I stared at the balloons in disbelief and then jabbed one with
a fork. Frankie and Sarah laughed as I let out a loud whoop when it
popped. A piece of paper fell out of the balloon. I opened it and
recognized Frankie's awkward scrawl.
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"What does it say?" Frankie prompted. "Fifty cents," I whispered,
too choked up to speak loudly. Frankie got business-like and
asked, "Well, do you have fifty cents?" I handed him the two
quarters he'd given me moments earlier.
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"Okay then!" Frankie walked over to the refrigerator, pulled out a
homemade banana split on a Tupperware plate and handed it to
me. Mounds of vanilla ice cream were covered in chocolate sauce,
Cool Whip and peanuts. Underneath it all was a banana, split in
two. My eyes stung with tears as I held the banana split Frankie
lovingly made to right an ancient wrong. I hugged Frankie hard and
kissed the top of his head, still sweaty from all the effort.
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"Now you finally got to pop a balloon for a Banana Split, Mom."
Frankie beamed. I hugged him again, and then hugged Sarah, who
stood back and marveled at her brother. We took turns popping the
rest of the balloons and laughed when I finally got the one-cent
balloon. It was a long time coming, but well worth the wait. Each
spoonful of ice cream reminded me that the first step in making any
wish come true is giving it a voice.
| | | |
Teri Goggin
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Teri says: "I live in Havertown, Pennsylvnia, with my two
children. My book chronicles the daily experience of living with
alcoholism. Using journal entries and letters written by my father,
mother, former husband and myself, the book gives the perspective
of the alcoholic and those who live with them. Although the
narrative and journal entries acknowledge the cycle of anger and
hurt, they also reveal the many gifts underneath the pain."
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GOOD MORNING, CAROLINA
by Christine |
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The early Sunday morning haze and humidity greeted me as I
opened the door at the Holiday Inn. Feeling a bit alone and
misplaced I decided to shake the" blues" and head into the nearby
town of Salisbury, North Carolina.
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At 8:45 am traffic was very light, hardly a car around. I parked my
Blazer in front of The Salisbury Post knowing that if I hurried a bit
I could sit in Magnolia Park, drink my coffee and listen to the 9
a.m. church bells chime.
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Tucking my keys and some cash into my jeans pocket I reached for
my coffee, letters, and my old faithful Cannon camera.
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"All set, I think."
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Impatiently waiting for the light to change and the WALK sign to
glow I took a deep breath and wondered what 'magic' I would
discover today. This was my second visit here within the last few
months and I knew I would take home more this trip than the last.
I felt at peace with myself here and when I am feeling that way I
always find 'magic'. I believe that magic is always around if we
take time to look for it. I knew today would be no exception. I
could feel it in the air! I expected it would happen I just didn't
know where or when.
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After drinking most of my coffee and listening to the beautiful
ringing of the bells I headed for my first stopäthe post office. I
felt the need to reassure my family that I was indeed in North
Carolina and I would return to Ohio, not today, possibly not
tomorrow but one-day soon. I dropped the post card in the slot
and headed up the street.
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I took my sweet time and the opportunity to snap some photos of
the closed stores and the nearly deserted streets. No autos were
around and I could almost step back in time a hundred years! I
closed my eyes and imagined the town as it had been then. I hoped
that I could capture just one photo that would reflect the solitude I
was able to find for myself here.
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I found I had wandered a couple blocks from where I had parked
and decided I should cross the street and head back toward the
center of town. I snapped two more pictures, one of the graffiti
painted under the E. Innes Street Bridge and the other of the
fountain across the street.
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After crossing the street I realized the sidewalk was under repair. A
sign requested that we use the sidewalk on the opposite side of the
street. I had just crossed over! Feeling a bit radical I decided to
ignore the sign and walk along the curb anyway. After all, there
was just a small portion under construction and no traffic.
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Stepping back up on the sidewalk I watched as a woman
approached from the opposite direction. We made eye contact and
I believe that we both smiled at one another at the same time as
well as exchanging, "Good Morning."
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"May I ask you something?" she asked as we were shoulder to
shoulder about to pass one another.
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"Yes, of course" I replied.
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She was about 5'1" maybe a bit taller. The reason I am so sure of
her stature is that I stand an even five feet tall and rarely do I get to
look at someone eye to eye! I couldn't help noticing what pretty
steel blue eyes she had. The unusual color reminded me of how my
mother's had looked.
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"Do you have twenty dollars I can have until I get on my feet?"
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"No, I don't." I quickly relied.
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"How about ten?" she immediately asked, looking into my eyes the
entire time.
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Feeling the need to explain I said, "No, I need the money to get
back to OhioäI'm not from around here."
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"Okay, thank-you anyway" she smiled and walked away.
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I turned and watched her as she continued down the street. She
certainly wasn't what I would expect a beggar to look like. Her
clothes were good, her hair was clean and combed, she had a purse
draped over her shoulder. But, I did notice she carried a white
plastic grocery bag. But, what should 'they' look like? She had
looked almost angelic.
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All sorts of questions were running through my mind. "What if she
was 'scamming' me? What if she was in need and I turned her
away? What if she was hungry? What if! What if! What if! What if
she were an angel?"
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I reached into my pocket and counted my tucked in billsätwo
tens, three ones, no change. Numerous thoughts kept going through
my mind. I kept remembering her eyes! So very haunting! I have
many blessings and I knew the 'right' thing to do was share.
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I turned to call her back but she had traveled a good distance down
the block. I decided to go and get my Blazer and catch up with her.
After walking a few feet I looked down and there stuck to the
sidewalk was a tattered silver star.
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"Okay, now I'm freaked," I said out loud to myself. Anyone who
knows anything about ME will tell you two thingsä "I believe"
and "stars" are like magic to me.
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"Yep, I'm freaked all right!" I thought again.
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Now I was more determined than before that finding her was what
I should do. Stooping down I pulled the star from the cement and
placed it on the body of my camera.
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I reached my truck and couldn't help notice the engraved message
on the building "The Truth Shall Make You Free."
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"No comment," I thought to myself.
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As I drove down the street I caught a glimpse of her as she turned
down Long Street and headed to a small bus stop. I turned into the
deserted parking lot and I watched as she was digging to the bottom
of her plastic grocery bag. I turned off the ignition and walked
towards her with the money in my hand.
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"Hi, I smiledäwe meet again."
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She returned my smile.
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"How about if I share half of what I have here and you tell me
your story?"
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Glancing down at the money she thought for a moment and
sweetly replied, "I can't tell you my story, not now."
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I could see that the white plastic bag was full of clothes stuffed in
like a make shift suitcase. In her right hand she held a cheap white
plastic spoon. She continued to rummage through her bag, glancing
a time or two at the money I still had in my hand. I could tell she
desperately wanted the money but the cost of revealing herself was
too high.
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"Your story doesn't matter...but, can't you just tell me your
name?"
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She looked at me bewildered or possibly afraid.
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"Maybe just your first name" I said quickly.
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She once again looked at the crumpled bills in my hand. She pulled
out a jar of peanut butter. "I don't want to, all I want is some
peanut butter."
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With her short spoon she began the task of scraping the near
empty remains of the off brand peanut butter jar. I could hear the
spoon scratching the sides of the jar.
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I quickly pressed the bills into her hand. I was surprised how cold
her hand was on this very hot summer day. I turned without a
word feeling very disappointed in myself. I was ashamed that in
return for a good deed I was still expecting to get something in
return, a story.
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Taking one step towards me I heard her faint voice say, "Honey,
bless you."
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I smiled and turned to go on with the rest of my day. After all,
what was left to say? I had shared my twenty-three dollars. I had
ten and she had thirteen. It seemed rightäit felt good.
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A few minutes later I was sitting in the Waffle House ordering a
sandwich. I would eat half now and save half for later. While
waiting on the order to be prepared I thought over the events of the
morning. How I wished I could have written her storyä then I
realizedäI do have a story!
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I knew I would find magic and I did!
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Sitting on the counter's edge was a silver pan over-flowing with
butter. As the waitress served up my breakfast sandwich I noticed
a huge portion of grits on the side of my plate.
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"Gee, look here, grits. Well, I am in the 'South' I thought.
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"Grits and a pan of butterähow they are like MY life."
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A bowl of grits, like life, can be plain but if you add lots of butter
the taste changes!
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I will never know the name of the stranger. I guess I will remember
her as "Angel" or maybe I will just call her Carolina.
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Christine McClimans
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"I SAW HIM"
by Pamela Blaine |
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I saw Him in the sunshine | |
I saw His sparkles in the dew | |
I saw His mighty ocean waves | |
I saw His rainbow too
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I heard Him in the thunder | |
I heard Him in the rain | |
I heard Him in a whisper | |
I heard Him call my name
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I felt Him in the gentle breeze | |
I felt His Spirit touch my soul | |
I felt Him in the tear that fell | |
I felt Him make me whole
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I saw Him in my baby's face | |
I saw His skies of blue | |
I saw Him when your eyes met mine | |
I saw His love in you
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Pamela R. Blaine
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Pamela and her husband live in West Virginia. They have four
children and three grandchildren. Pam plays the piano and is an
avid reader. She loves to write songs and stories. One of her goals is
to be able to write for her children and grandchildren and also to be
able to encourage and help other people. You can see some of these
on her webpages:
http://members.aol.com/mblaine/pamy/PamyPlace.html
PamyPlace
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"KING OF BEASTS"
A LION OF A DIFFERENT KIND
by Vance Agee |
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Our two terriers had something trapped. They were snarling and
snapping and had their teeth barred. It was quite a din! But most
unusual of all was a shrill, high-pitched whirring sound that pierced
the air near our house. We hurried around the side to investigate the
commotion -- but at first could see nothing amiss.
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The larger terrier was lunging fiercely back and forth at the end of a
short overturned log. She darted back quickly, as if dodging some
invisible attacker. We still could not see anything, until we looked
closer at the jagged end of the log. There hidden amid wooden
spears and splinters was the source of both the high pitched
whirring sound and the apparent reason for all the canine snarling
and snapping. It was a tiny brownish animal no more than two
inches long (or perhaps 21/2 including its tail), with a pointed head
and nose. It was a shrew.
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The world's tiniest mammal was holding at bay a dog the relative
size of a Tyrannosaurus Rex, a dog one thousand times the shrew's
size and mass! And now this tiny but formidable foe was fully
ready to deal with an even larger opponent -- the human being. I
did not know what to do. But all the loud whirring, and the snarling
and snapping, and the barking continued unabated.
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Everyone around me yelled: "Just kill it!"
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Now humans these days rarely kill things bare-handed. Thus, I
picked up a long, chrome-plated weeding tool and tentatively
probed the jagged end of the small log. To my shock, the shrew
attacked the sharp, notched tip of the tool and bit down with so
much force that I actually could feel its tug against my pull!
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And everyone yelled: "Just kill it!"
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Many years ago I had read an article in the Readers' Digest about
the world's "most ferocious animal", no, not the well-accepted and
renowned "king of beasts", nor even the royal Bengal Tiger, but an
animal smaller than even a garden mole, and an animal that would
challenge literally anything, regardless of the opponent's size ‚
thus, the "most ferocious animal".
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And everyone yelled: "Just kill it".
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One quick, sharp jab of the Weeder "humanely" dispatched the
cause of our afternoon's nuisance. The tiny shrew had held the line
against the dogs, but lost its battle against superior size and hard
steel.
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Over the years, however, I realized that the shrew won the greater
battle. Days, weeks, months, years later, most of the events that
have stayed in the foreground of my memory involve people. But
like the Mariner's albatross, although in total disproportion to its
apparent importance, I have never forgotten that brave little animal,
the one without fear of size or technology or very poor odds. I
think that our accepted human measure of things needs to rely
much more than on just size or outward appearance. The spirit of a
person or any living thing extends far beyond its apparent and
immediate physical confines. Do not meet out respect for only
simple or obvious reasons. In my memory, I can still feel that
shrew tugging at the Weeder. Gram for gram, he was many times
more courageous and ferocious than the accepted, so-called "king of
beasts".
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He was a "lion of a different kind".
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Vance Agee, 1993; revised, 2000; first printed in "The Fountain
Pen."
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Vance Agee is the Assistant Principal at Lewiston-Porter High
School, Youngstown, NY. He is a member of the Board of
Directors of the Lewiston Council of the Arts and is a member and
a past president of the Lewiston-Queenston Rotary Club. He is a
Rotary Paul Harris Fellow.
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THE DEDICATION OF A TEACHER
by Evon Hugue |
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Mr. Hadley was my 6th grade teacher. He was tall and lean,
starting to turn gray around the ears and nape of the neck. He was a
kind man and had been teaching all of his adult life from the time he
graduated from College. He taught History and knew it well I think
it was a passion with him.
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I was a tall thin girl weighing barely a hundred pounds. I was also
taller than any of the other girls and boys in the sixth grade. I ended
up taking a lot of ribbing especially from the boys, because of my
appearance. Two favorite nicknames they used were Chicken Legs
and Skinnie Minnie. I was an extremely shy young lady and the
teasing invariably caused me to cry.
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I did have a light complexion and bright brown eyes but I never
considered myself pretty. I was put down by my own mother so
the feelings of shyness and inadequacy multiplied. My family was
dysfunctional and my mother was abusive.
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One day everyone in the 6th grade class was told by Mr. Hadley
that we would be required to stand up in front of the class and read
the reports that we had completed. Mr. Hadley also told us that if
we didn't stand up and read our report we failed that part of the
semester.
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When my turn came I told Mr. H. to put an F on my report
because I refused to stand up in front of all those students and
open myself up to their ridicule. Mr. Hadley came over to me and
again asked me to read my report. I gave it back to him. He walked
to the front of the class and said, "Yvonne has a very good report
here and I think everyone needs to hear her read it. If I hear anyone
making strange noises or making fun of her in any way, I will flunk
you right here and now. Then you will be in my class next year
too. Is that understood?"
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Mr. Hadley walked back to me handed me the paper and asked me
to go to the front of the class. I walked to the front of the class on
legs that were shaking and I felt a tightness in my chest, as though I
was short on oxygen. I got to the front of the class looked at
everyone. They were all quiet, including those boys who were
generally mean to me. I stood there trying to gain composure.
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Mr. Hadley walked over to me put his arm around me and said,
"You can do it. I have confidence in you!"
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His words helped to calm me. I read the report and instead of the
kids laughing at me and making fun of me they all stood up and
clapped their hands and told me it was an excellent report. I looked
at Mr. Hadley and he smiled and winked his eye.
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From that day on the kids never made fun of me again and some
actually made friends with me. I continued to be quite shy all
through school but from that day on I knew if I had to stand up in
front of class again I could do it.
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Through the years whenever I had to stand in front and deliver a
report, I would remember Mr. Hadley and his words, "You can do
it. I have confidence in you!" Many times throughout the following
years those simple nine words helped me. Even today, there are
times when I feel I can not do something, and those words pop into
my head.
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Mr. Hadley's confidence in me helped me to find my own
confidence. By 1995 I had written a book of poetry (1995) and
later in 1998 I wrote my first song, this for my brother-in-law and
sis/mom for their fortieth wedding anniversary. I am in the process
of writing more songs and books, and I am thankful that Mr.
Hadley gave me the confidence to be able to do anything that I
want.
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Today if someone is thoughtless I just let their words run off me
like water and I continue on with my life.
| | | |
Evon Hugue
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Yvonne is a divorced Mom of five, who has raised her children on
her own for sixteen years. She lives in Michigan and now works at
a factory that employs high functioning people with mental
disabilities. Yvonne's children range in age from from five to
twenty. Yvonne says she has been helped by God many times over
the years and she knows that it surely had to be God who brought
Mr. Hadley into her life.
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