A 2nd Helping of Chicken Soup for the Soul Page 12

  What a great example of how it is possible, with just a change in attitude and a little thought, to live the good life.

  Jim Rohn

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  The Annual Letters

  Shortly after my daughter Juli-Ann was born, I started a loving tradition that I know others (with whom I have subsequently shared this special plan) have also started. I tell you the idea here both to open your heart with the warmth of my story and also to encourage you to start this tradition within your own family.

  Every year, on her birthday, I write an Annual Letter to my daughter. I fill it with funny anecdotes that happened to her that year, hardships or joys, issues that are important in my life or hers, world events, my predictions for the future, miscellaneous thoughts, etc. I add to the letter photographs, presents, report cards and many other types of mementos that would certainly have otherwise disappeared as the years passed.

  I keep a folder in my desk drawer in which, all year long, I place things that I want to include in the envelope containing her next Annual Letter. Every week, I make short notes of what I can think of from the week's events that I will want to recall later in the year to write in her Annual Letter. When her birthday approaches, I take out that folder and find it overflowing with ideas, thoughts, poems, cards, treasures, stories, incidents and memories of all sortsmany of

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  which I had already forgottenand which I then eagerly transcribe into that year's Annual Letter.

  Once the letter is written and all the treasures are inserted into the envelope, I seal it. It then becomes that year's Annual Letter. On the envelope I always write "Annual Letter to Juli-Ann from her Daddy on the occasion of her nth Birthdayto be opened when she is 21 years old."

  It is a time capsule of love from every different year of her life, to her as an adult. It is a gift of loving memories from one generation to the next. It is a permanent record of her life, written as she was actually living it.

  Our tradition is that I show her the sealed envelope, with the proclamation written on it that she may read it when she is 21. Then I take her to the bank, open the safe deposit box and tenderly place that year's Annual Letter on top of the growing pile of its predecessors. She sometimes takes them all out to look at them and feel them. She sometimes asks me about their contents and I always refuse to tell her what is inside.

  In recent years, Juli-Ann has given me some of her special childhood treasures, which she is growing too old for but which she does not want to lose. And she asks me to include them in her Annual Letter so that she will always have them.

  That tradition of writing her Annual Letters is now one of my most sacred duties as a dad. And, as Juli-Ann grows older, I can see that it is a growing and special part of her life, too.

  One day, we were sitting with friends musing about what we will be doing in the future. I cannot recall the exact words spoken, but it went something like this: I jokingly told Juli-Ann that on her 61st birthday, she will be playing with her grandchildren.

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  Then, I whimsically invented that on her 31st birthday she will be driving her own kids to hockey practice. Getting into the groove of this funny game and encouraged by Juli-Ann's evident enjoyment of my fantasies, I continued. On your 21st birthday, you will be graduating from university. "No," she interjected. I will be too busy reading!"

  One of my deepest desires is to be alive and present to enjoy that wonderful time in the future when the time capsules are opened and the accumulated mountains of love come tumbling out of the past, back into my adult daughter's life.

  Raymond L. Aaron

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  The Baggy Yellow Shirt

  The baggy yellow shirt had long sleeves, four extra-large pockets trimmed in black thread and snaps up the front. Not terribly attractive, but utilitarian without a doubt. I found it in December 1963 during my freshman year in college when I was home on Christmas break.

  Part of the fun of vacation at home was the chance to go through Mom's hoard of rummage, destined for the less fortunate. She regularly scoured the house for clothes, bedding and housewares to give away, and the collection was always stored in paper bags on the floor of the front hall closet.

  Looking through Mom's collection one day, I came across this oversized yellow shirt, slightly faded from years of wear but still in decent shape.

  "Just the thing to wear over my clothes during art class!" I said to myself.

  "You're not taking that old thing, are you?" Mom said when she saw me packing it. "I wore that when I was pregnant with your brother in 1954!"

  "It's perfect for art class, Mom. Thanks!" I slipped it into my suitcase before she could object.

  The yellow shirt became a part of my college wardrobe. I loved it. All during college, it stayed with me, always comfortable to throw over my clothes during messy projects. The underarm seams had to be reinforced before I graduated, but there was plenty of wear in that old garment.

  After graduation I moved to Denver and wore the

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  shirt the day I moved into my apartment. Then I wore it on Saturday mornings when I cleaned. Those four large pockets on the fronttwo breast pockets and two at hip levelmade a super place to carry dust cloths, wax and polish.

  The next year, I married. When I became pregnant, I found the yellow shirt tucked in a drawer and wore it during those big-belly days. Though I missed sharing my first pregnancy with Mom and Dad and the rest of my family, since we were in Colorado and they were in Illinois, that shirt helped remind me of their warmth and protection. I smiled and hugged the shirt when I remembered that Mother had worn it when she was pregnant.

  By 1969, after my daughter's birth, the shirt was at least 15 years old. That Christmas, I patched one elbow, washed and pressed the shirt, wrapped it in holiday paper and sent it to Mom. Smiling, I tucked a note in one of the pockets saying: "I hope this fits. I'm sure it will look great on you!" When Mom wrote to thank me for her "real" gifts, she said the yellow shirt was lovely. She never mentioned it again.

  The next year, my husband, daughter and I moved from Denver to St. Louis and we stopped at Mom and Dad's house in Rock Falls, Illinois, to pick up some furniture. Days later, when we uncrated the kitchen table, I noticed something yellow taped to its bottom. The shirt! And so the pattern was set.

  On our next visit home, I secretly placed the shirt between the mattress and box springs of Mom and Dad's bed. I don't know how long it took her to find it, but almost two years passed before I got it back.

  By then our family had grown.

  This time Mom got even with me. She put it under the base of our living-room lamp, knowing that as a mother of three little ones, housecleaning and moving lamps would not be everyday events.

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  When I finally got the shirt, I wore it often while refinishing ''early marriage" furniture that I found at rummage sales. The walnut stains on the shirt simply added more character to all its history.

  Unfortunately, our lives were full of stains, too.

  My marriage had been failing almost from the beginning. After a number of attempts at marriage counseling, my husband and I divorced in 1975. The three children and I prepared to move back to Illinois to be closer to the emotional support of family and friends.

  As I packed, a deep depression overtook me. I wondered if I could make it on my own with three small children to raise. I wondered if I would find a job. Although I hadn't read the Bible much since my Catholic school days, I paged through the Good Book, looking for comfort. In Ephesians, I read, "So use every piece of God's armor to resist the enemy whenever he attacks, and when it is all over, you will be standing up."

  I tried to picture myself wearing God's armor, but all I saw was me wearing the stained yellow shirt. Of course! Wasn't my mother's love a piece of God's armor? I smiled and remembered the fun and warm feelings the yellow shirt had brought into my life over the years. My courage was renewed and somehow the future d
idn't seem so alarming.

  Unpacking in our new home and feeling much better, I knew I had to get the shirt back to Mother. The next time I visited her, I carefully tucked it in her bottom dresser drawer, knowing that sweater weather was months away.

  Meanwhile my life moved splendidly. I found a good job at a radio station and the children thrived in their new environment.

  A year later during a window-washing spurt, I found the crumpled yellow shirt hidden in a rag bag in

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  my cleaning closet. Something new had been added. Emblazoned across the top of the breast pocket were the bright green newly embroidered words, "I BELONG TO PAT." Not to be outdone, I got out my own embroidery materials and added an apostrophe and seven more letters. Now the shirt proudly proclaimed, "I BELONG TO PAT'S MOTHER."

  Once again, I zigzagged all the frayed seams. Then I enlisted the aid of a dear friend, Harold, to help me get it back to Mom. He arranged to have a friend mail the shirt to Mom from Arlington, Virginia. We enclosed a letter announcing that she was the recipient of an award for her good deeds. The award letter, on official-looking stationery printed at the high school where Harold was assistant principal, came from "The Institute for the Destitute."

  This was my finest hour. I would have given anything to see Mom's face when she opened the "award" box and saw the shirt inside. But, of course, she never mentioned it.

  On Easter Sunday the following year, Mother managed a coup de grace. She walked into our home with regal poise, wearing that old shirt over her Easter outfit, as if it were an integral part of her wardrobe.

  I'm sure my mouth hung open, but I said nothing. During the Easter meal, a giant laugh choked my throat. But I was determined not to break the unbroken spell the shirt had woven into our lives. I was sure that Mom would take off the shirt and try to hide it in my home, but when she and Dad left, she walked out the door wearing, "I BELONG TO PAT'S MOTHER" like a coat of arms.

  A year later, in June 1978, Harold and I were married. The day of our wedding, we hid our car in a friend's garage to avoid the usual practical jokers. After the wedding, while my husband drove us to our

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  honeymoon suite in Wisconsin, I reached for a pillow in the car so I could rest my head. The pillow felt lumpy. I unzipped the case and discovered a gift, wrapped in wedding paper.

  I thought it might be a surprise gift from Harold. But he looked as stunned as I. Inside the box was the freshly pressed yellow shirt.

  Mother knew I'd need the shirt as a reminder that a sense of humor, spiced with love, is one of the most important ingredients in a happy marriage. In a pocket was a note: "Read John 14:2729. I love you both, Mother."

  That night I paged through a Bible I found in the hotel room and found the verses: "I am leaving you with a gift: peace of mind and heart. And the peace I give isn't fragile like the peace the world gives. So don't be troubled or afraid. Remember what I told you: I am going away, but I will come back to you again. If you really love me, you will be very happy for me, for now I can go to the Father, who is greater than I am. I have told you these things before they happen so that when they do, you will believe in me."

  The shirt was Mother's final gift.

  She had known for three months before my wedding that she had a terminal disease, amyotrophic lateral sclerosis (Lou Gehrig's disease). Mother died 13 months later, at age 57. I must admit that I was tempted to send the yellow shirt with her to her grave. But I'm glad I didn't, because it is a vivid reminder of the love-filled game she and I played for 16 years.

  Besides, my older daughter is in college now, majoring in art . . . and every art student needs a baggy yellow shirt with big pockets for art class!

  Patricia Lorenz

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  The Gift

  "Grandpa, please come," I said, knowing he wouldn't. In the pale light that filtered through the dusty kitchen window, he sat stiffly in his padded vinyl chair, his thick arms resting on the Formica table, staring past me at the wall. He was a gruff, crusty, old-country Italian, with a long memory for past hurts both real and imagined. When he was feeling testy, he responded with a grunt. He gave me one now that meant no.

  "Come on, Gramps," pleaded my six-year-old sister, Carrie. "I want you to come." Twenty-one years younger than I, she had been a startlingly late addition to our family. "I'm going to make your favorite cookies just for you. Mommy said she would show me."

  "It's for Thanksgiving, for God's sake," I said. "You haven't joined us for dinner for four years now. Don't you think it's about time we let the past be?"

  He glanced at me, his blue eyes flashing the same fierce intensity that had intimidated the entire family all these years. Except me. Somehow, I knew him. Perhaps I shared more of his loneliness than I cared to admit, and the same inability to let emotions show. Whatever the reason, I knew what was inside him. The sins of the fathers will be visited on their sons, it was written, and so they were. How much suffering

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  occurs because of the unfortunate "gift" each male receives before he is old enough to decide if he wants it, this misguided idea of manhood. We end up hard on the outside, helpless on the inside, and the few feet that separated me from my grandfather might just as well have been measured in light years.

  Carrie chattered on, still trying to convince him. She had no idea how hopeless it was.

  I got up and walked to the window overlooking his backyard. In the winter light, the disheveled garden was a delicate gray, overgrown with tangled weeds and vines gone wild. Grandpa used to work miracles therea substitute, perhaps, for his inability to orchestrate his own nature. But after Grandma died, he let the garden go, retreating even further into himself.

  Turning away from the window, I studied him in the deepening gloom. From his prominent chin to his thick, rough hands, everything about him reflected the relentless discipline his life had been: work since age 13, the humiliation of unemployment during the Depression, decades of hard manual labor in the Trenton Stone Quarry. Not an easy life.

  I kissed him on the cheek. "We have to go now, Grandpa. I'll pick you up if you decide to come."

  He sat stone-still, staring straight ahead, sucking on his old pipe.

  A few days later, Carrie asked me for Grandpa's address.

  "What for?" I asked.

  She was neatly folding a sheet of paper to fit into a blue envelope. "I want to send him a gift. I made it myself."

  I told her the address, pausing after each line so she could get it all down. She wrote slowly, concentrating on making each letter and number neat and round. When she finished, she put her pencil down and said

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  firmly, "I want to mail it myself. Will you take me to the mailbox?"

  "We'll do it later, okay?"

  "I need to do it now. Please?"

  So we did.

  On Thanksgiving I awoke late to the delicious smell of pasta sauce. Mom was preparing her special dinner of ravioli, turkey, broccoli, sweet potatoes, and cranberry sauce, a wonderful amalgam of Italian and American traditions. "We need only four places, Carrie," she was saying as I entered the kitchen.