Chicken Soup for the Kid's Soul: 101 Stories of Courage, Hope and Laughter Read online

  Hundreds of people gathered at the base of the tower. They looked like ants to James, who saw them from high atop his perch. Noisy news helicopters began to circle, sending images of the two boys clinging to the tower against a bright blue sky to millions of television sets nationwide. Fire trucks and other emergency vehicles rushed to the scene. One brave firefighter from the technical rescue squad climbed up the structure to where the two brothers hung on for their lives. He quickly tied them securely to a metal beam.

  Part of the equipment needed to rescue James and John was a highly specialized truck called a Condor. Luckily, one was located at a nearby construction site. The rescuers patiently awaited its arrival, and at last, it was spotted moving along the road leading toward the tower. Once positioned, a platform was raised from the truck up to the boys sitting on the top rail of the tower. Secured with a safety line, the brothers and their rescuers were then carefully lowered to the ground as the crowd below cheered and applauded.

  People were telling James that he was a hero, but James didn’t have any time for their praise. He wanted to be at his brother’s side while they transported John to the hospital, to be treated for exposure to the cold.

  Not all guardian angels have feathered wings and golden halos. Most would not be recognized. Yet, on a windy, cold day, hundreds of people caught their first— and maybe only—glimpse of one, a seventeen-year-old guardian angel named James.

  Robert J. Fern

  [EDITORS’ NOTE: In honor of the courage that James demonstrated during the rescue of his brother John, the Boy Scouts of America awarded him the Heroism Award with Crossed Palms. James, who is an Eagle Scout, became only the 113th person out of 100 million scouts since 1910 to receive this special award.]

  Uncle Charlie

  Where there is great love, there are always miracles.

  Willa Cather

  I remember being scared the first time I saw Uncle Charlie. I had just stepped off the school bus, and coming into the house from the brightness of day, I couldn’t see. When my eyes adjusted, I was surprised to see a bed in the dining room. A strange, unshaven man, propped up by pillows, sat in the darkened room. For a second, I wondered whether I was in the wrong house.

  “Patty, is that you?” my grandmother called from the other room. I bolted into the kitchen.

  “Nana, who’s that man?”

  “Remember me telling you about Charlie, about how sick he got in the war and how they put him in the veterans’ hospital? Well, that man in there is your Uncle Charlie.”

  The silent man in the dining room didn’t look anything like the smiling photograph on the mantel.

  “Last night, Patty, I had a dream,” my grandmother said. “In the dream, God spoke. He said, ‘Go get your son. Bring him home, and he’ll get well.’ That’s what I did. This morning after you went to school, I took the city bus to the hospital. I walked right into that place, into Charlie’s room, took him by the hand, and said, ‘I’m taking you home.’” Nana chuckled. “Good heavens, how we must have looked, charging down that big ol’ hospital lawn, him in that gown, open and flapping in the back. Nobody stopped us. But nobody said a word, even when we got on the bus.” She paused. “It was like we was invisible.”

  “Nana, Charlie didn’t look like he saw me. Maybe I’m invisible too.”

  “Charlie saw you. It’s just that he’s got what the doctors call catatonic. Guess that’s their fancy way of saying cat’s got his tongue.” She stopped rocking. “Don’t you worry now. Charlie will be talking. He just needs to know we love him, that he’s home.”

  Frightened by the dark beyond the open kitchen door, I ran out the back door, leaped off the porch and raced across the field, slapping my hips, pretending I was both horse and rider.

  For months, I avoided the dining room. Finally I became accustomed to Charlie’s silence. After that, I played in Charlie’s room. His blanket-covered knees were the “towers” of my castles.

  “Charlie, you awake?” I whispered. “Today at school, I saw a picture of an enchanted prince in my teacher’s book. He’s got long hair, just like you.”

  Dust sparkled in the shaft of light streaming in under the drawn shade. I grabbed at the sparkles, making the dust whirl.

  “Look, Charlie, I’ve caught us a handful of sun. It’s got millions and billions of tiny stars in it.” I held out my fist. “I’ve caught some for you.”

  “Patty, I got something for you,” Nana called from outside.

  Before leaving Charlie, I put my favorite doll with its red nail-polish lips and half-bald head next to him, and tucked them both in.

  “She’s a princess. I’m leaving her to keep you company.”

  “I found this little bird under the old oak,” Nana said. “Its eyes are still closed. It must have just pecked out of its shell. There’s a dropper in the medicine cabinet in the bathroom. Use that dropper to feed him ground-up sunflower seeds and water.”

  She handed me the bird. “Empty out a shoe box and be sure to put something soft in it for a lining. What are you going to name him?”

  “Little Bird. I’m calling him Little Bird, just like in the song.”

  I went inside and dumped the shoe box with my rock collection on the rug.

  “Hey, Charlie, look what I’ve got!” I put Little Bird in the empty box. “Watch him for a minute. I’ve got to get the dropper.” I put the box in Charlie’s lap.

  When I returned with the dropper, the box was lying on the floor, empty. Charlie had dropped him!

  “Charlie,” I whispered, trying not to cry, “where is Little Bird?”

  Cracking open his cupped hands, Charlie smiled as he stared down at the tiny, hunger-stretched beak that peeked up between his thumbs and forefingers.

  That evening, when I was mashing potatoes, I said, “You know what, Nana? Charlie’s taking care of Little Bird.”

  “I know it. I saw him. And you know something else? He’s making humming noises, like he’s singing.”

  Nana was getting Charlie’s tray ready when Charlie walked into the kitchen and sat down at the table. He was dressed in overalls and a plaid shirt. It was the first time I’d seen him in anything other than pajamas. Nana opened her eyes in exaggerated surprise. She looked so silly I started to laugh.

  Then Charlie made the first sound, other than snoring and coughing, that I’d ever heard him make. He laughed! Slapping his knees, he laughed until tears ran down his cheeks. Then he reached into the big pocket of his overalls and took out Little Bird.

  “Look,” he said. “Isn’t this the sweetest, most helpless little thing you ever saw?”

  Nana almost fell off her chair. Then she started to cry. I wasn’t surprised, because I knew that even though he’d been placed under a spell, the spell couldn’t last. They never do.

  Patty Hathaway-Breed

  The Game of Love

  Love is something eternal.

  Vincent van Gogh

  Dad brought him home from a fishing trip in the mountains, full of cockleburs and so thin you could count every rib.

  “Good gracious,” Mom said. “He’s filthy!”

  “No, he isn’t! He’s Rusty,” said John, my eight-year-old brother. “Can we keep him? Please . . . please . . . please.”

  “He’s going to be a big dog,” Dad warned, lifting a mudencrusted paw. “Probably why he was abandoned.”

  “What kind of dog?” I asked. It was impossible to get close to this smelly creature.

  “Mostly German shepherd,” Dad said. “He’s in bad shape, John. He may not make it.”

  John was gently picking out cockleburs.

  “I’ll take care of Rusty. Honest, I will.”

  Mom gave in, as she usually did with John. My little brother had a mild form of hemophilia. Four years earlier, he’d almost bled to death from a routine tonsillectomy. We’d all been careful with him since then.

  “All right, John,” Dad said. “We’ll keep Rusty. But he’s your responsibility.”

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nbsp; “Deal!”

  And that’s how Rusty came to live with us. He was John’s dog from that very first moment, though he tolerated the rest of us.

  John kept his word. He fed, watered, medicated and groomed the scruffy-looking animal every day. I think he liked taking care of something rather than being taken care of.

  Over the summer, Rusty grew into a big, handsome dog. He and John were constant companions. Wherever John went, Rusty was by his side. When school began, Rusty would walk John the six blocks to elementary school, then come home. Every school day at three o’clock, rain or shine, Rusty would wait for John at the playground.

  “There goes Rusty,” the neighbors would say. “Must be close to three. You can set your watch by that dog.”

  Telling time wasn’t the only amazing thing about Rusty. Somehow, he sensed that John shouldn’t roughhouse like the other boys. He was very protective. When the neighborhood bully taunted my undersized brother, Rusty’s hackles rose, and a deep, menacing growl came from his throat. The heckling ceased after one encounter. And when John and his best friend Bobby wrestled, Rusty monitored their play with a watchful eye. If John were on top, fine. If Bobby got John down, Rusty would lope over, grab Bobby’s collar and pull him off. Bobby and John thought this game great fun. They staged fights quite often, much to Mother’s dismay.

  “You’re going to get hurt, John!” she would scold. “And you aren’t being fair to Rusty.”

  John didn’t like being restricted. He hated being careful— being different. “It’s just a game, Mom. Shoot, even Rusty knows that. Don’t you, boy?” Rusty would cock his head and give John a happy smile.

  In the spring, John got an afternoon paper route. He’d come home from school, fold his papers and take off on his bike to deliver them. He always took the same streets, in the same order. Of course, Rusty delivered papers, too.

  One day, for no particular reason, John changed his route. Instead of turning left on a street as he usually did, he turned right. Thump! . . . Crash! . . . A screech of brakes . . . Rusty sailed through the air.

  Someone called us about the accident. I had to pry John from Rusty’s lifeless body so that Dad could bring Rusty home.

  “It’s my fault,” John said over and over. “Rusty thought the car was gonna hit me. He thought it was another game.”

  “The only game Rusty was playing was the game of love,” Dad said. “You both played it well.”

  John sniffled. “Huh?”

  “You were there for Rusty when he needed you. He was there for you when he thought you needed him. That’s the game of love.”

  “I want him back,” John wailed. “My Rusty’s gone!”

  “No, he isn’t,” Dad said, hugging John and me. “Rusty will stay in your memories forever.”

  And he has.

  Lou Kassem

  ©CALVIN AND HOBBES. Distributed by Universal Press Syndicate. Reprinted with permission. All rights reserved.

  “Where’s My Kiss, Then?”

  There once was a little girl named Cindy. Cindy’s father worked six days a week, and often came home tired from the office. Her mother worked equally hard, doing the cleaning, the cooking and the many tasks needed to run a family. Theirs was a good family, living a good life. Only one thing was missing, but Cindy didn’t even realize it.

  One day, when she was nine, she went on her first sleepover. She stayed with her friend Debbie. At bedtime, Debbie’s mother tucked the girls into bed. She kissed them both good night.

  “Love you,” said Debbie’s mother.

  “Love you, too,” murmured Debbie.

  Cindy was so amazed that she couldn’t sleep. No one had ever kissed her good night. No one had ever kissed her at all. No one had ever told her that they loved her. All night long, she lay there, thinking over and over, This is the way it should be.

  When she went home, her parents seemed pleased to see her.

  “Did you have fun at Debbie’s house?” asked her mother.

  “The house felt awfully quiet without you,” said her father.

  Cindy didn’t answer. She ran up to her room. She hated them both. Why had they never kissed her? Why had they never hugged her or told her they loved her? Didn’t they love her?

  She wished she could run away. She wished she could live with Debbie’s mother. Maybe there had been a mistake and these weren’t her real parents. Maybe Debbie’s mother was her real mother.

  That night before bed, she went to her parents.

  “Well, good night then,” she said. Her father looked up from his paper.

  “Good night,” he said.

  Her mother put down her sewing and smiled. “Good night, Cindy.”

  No one made a move. Cindy couldn’t stand it any longer.

  “Why don’t you ever kiss me?” she asked.

  Her mother looked flustered. “Well,” she stammered, “because, I guess . . . because no one ever kissed me when I was little. That’s just the way it was.”

  Cindy cried herself to sleep. For many days she was angry. Finally she decided to run away. She would go to Debbie’s house and live with them. She would never go back to the parents who didn’t love her.

  She packed her backpack and left without a word. But once she got to Debbie’s house, she couldn’t go in. She decided that no one would believe her. No one would let her live with Debbie’s parents. She gave up her plan and walked away.

  Everything felt bleak and hopeless and awful. She would never have a family like Debbie’s. She was stuck forever with the worst, most loveless parents in the world.

  Instead of going home, she went to a park and sat on a park bench. She sat there for a long time, thinking, until it grew dark. All of a sudden, she saw the way. This plan would work. She would make it work.

  When she walked into her house, her father was on the phone. He hung up immediately. Her mother was sitting with an anxious expression on her face. The moment Cindy walked in, her mother called out, “Where have you been? We’ve been worried to death!”

  Cindy didn’t answer. Instead she walked up to her mother, gave her a kiss right on the cheek and said, “I love you, Mom.” Her mother was so startled that she couldn’t speak. Cindy marched up to her dad. She gave him a hug. “Good night, Dad,” she said. “I love you.” And then she went to bed, leaving her speechless parents in the kitchen.

  The next morning when she came down to breakfast, she gave her mother a kiss. She gave her father a kiss. At the bus stop, she stood on tiptoe and kissed her mother.

  “Bye, Mom,” she said. “I love you.”

  And that’s what Cindy did, every day of every week of every month. Sometimes her parents drew back from her, stiff and awkward. Sometimes they laughed about it. But they never returned the kiss. But Cindy didn’t stop. She had made her plan. She kept right at it. Then, one evening, she forgot to kiss her mother before bed. A short time later, the door of her room opened. Her mother came in.

  “Where’s my kiss, then?” she asked, pretending to be cross.

  Cindy sat up. “Oh, I forgot,” she said. She kissed her mother.

  “I love you, Mom.” She lay down again. “Good night,” she said and closed her eyes. But her mother didn’t leave. Finally she spoke.

  “I love you, too,” her mother said. Then her mother bent down and kissed Cindy, right on the cheek. “And don’t ever forget my kiss again,” she said, pretending to be stern.

  Cindy laughed. “I won’t,” she said. And she didn’t.

  Many years later, Cindy had a child of her own, and she kissed that baby until, as she put it, “Her little cheeks were red.”

  And every time she went home, the first thing her mother would say to her was, “Where’s my kiss, then?” And when it was time to leave, she’d say, “I love you. You know that, don’t you?”

  “Yes, Mom,” Cindy would say. “I’ve always known that.”

  M. A. Urquhart

  Adapted from an Ann Landers column

  The Visitr />
  There isn’t much that I can do,

  But I can share an hour with you,

  And I can share a joke with you. . . .

  As on our way we go.

  Maude V. Preston

  Every Saturday, Grandpa and I walk to the nursing home a few blocks away from our house. We go to visit many of the old and sick people who live there because they can’t take care of themselves anymore.

  “Whoever visits the sick gives them life,” Grandpa always says.

  First we visit Mrs. Sokol. I call her “The Cook.” She likes to talk about the time when she was a well-known cook back in Russia. People would come from miles around, just to taste her famous chicken soup.

  Next we visit Mr. Meyer. I call him “The Joke Man.” We sit around his coffee table, and he tells us jokes. Some are very funny. Some aren’t. And some I don’t get. He laughs at his own jokes, shaking up and down and turning red in the face. Grandpa and I can’t help but laugh along with him, even when the jokes aren’t very funny.

  Next door is Mr. Lipman. I call him “The Singer” because he loves to sing for us. Whenever he does, his beautiful voice fills the air, clear and strong and so full of energy that we always sing along with him.

  We visit Mrs. Kagan, “The Grandmother,” who shows us pictures of her grandchildren. They’re all over the room, in frames, in albums and even taped to the walls.

  Mrs. Schrieber’s room is filled with memories, memories that come alive as she tells us stories of her own experiences during the old days. I call her “The Memory Lady.”

  Then there’s Mr. Krull, “The Quiet Man.” He doesn’t have very much to say; he just listens when Grandpa or I talk to him. He nods and smiles, and tells us to come again next week. That’s what everyone says to Grandpa and me, even the woman in charge, behind the desk.