A Lesson in Running

From Chicken Soup for the Soul: Runners

By P.R. O’Leary

We may train or peak for a certain race, but running is a lifetime sport.
~Alberto Salazar

It was my first marathon. Philadelphia, November, 6 AM. The wind and the rain chilled
me to the bone and the sun wasn’t yet out to warm up the air. The corral was full. Packed with
runners standing arm to arm, jogging in place to stay warm. The starting horn would go off any
second. You could feel the tension in the air. I was ready. I was twenty-eight and in the best
shape of my life.

At least, I thought I was. Sure, I was fit. Even though I had only been running for a few
months, I ran all the time and had run several races already. But none of them were 26.2 miles.
The farthest I had run before was only fifteen miles. Still, I was young and cocky and I knew I
could do it.

The horn went off and the race started. The crowd surged forward. A mob of running
sneakers. It was exciting. The adrenaline kicked in and the weather became the furthest thing
from my mind. I just concentrated on the cheers of the crowd and holding my own position
amongst the other runners. I had no real finishing goal in mind, but when the crowd dispersed
and I was settled into my pace I soon calculated that I could easily break four hours.

A few miles in I ran past an elderly runner. He must have been seventy years old and I
was surprised he was even in the race. I was even more surprised that he was still ahead of me.
He kept to the side of the road, his old legs moving one in front of the other, slowly but
methodically. I passed him up without giving him a second glance or a word of encouragement.

As the miles wore on people were dropping out left and right but I kept moving. Fifteen
miles came and went and I was on pace to beat four hours. Then, something strange happened.

I started to get tired. Very tired. It happened all at once. One second my stride was
feeling fine, and then the next each step became harder and harder. My goal of four hours soon
got pushed back to 4:10. Then 4:20. Finally, at about the 20-mile mark, I couldn’t run anymore. I
had to walk.

I moved to the side of the road and plodded along. I needed a second wind, but it
wasn’t coming. The rain was back. A cold rain soaking into my clothes and my sneakers. Now,
people were passing me. I had hit the dreaded wall and there was nothing I could do about it
but concentrate on putting one foot in front of the other.
 Then, the elderly man passed me. He looked the same as he had earlier. Running at the
same speed. As he passed, he looked over at me and smiled.

“Only a few more miles to go, lad. Don’t stop now!”

The thought of being beaten by a seventy-year-old man got me moving again. Like I said,
I was young and cocky, and this little setback had only dampened my confidence a little. If I got
moving I would be able to beat 4:30 and pass up that old man again.

So I moved up from a shambling walk to a shambling jog. The elderly gentleman had run
ahead of me but I could still see him in the distance, moving forward at that same pace.

I spent the rest of the race trying to catch him, but no matter how hard I tried I wasn’t
getting any closer. The finish line grew nearer, the crowds on the sidewalks got bigger and
louder and that helped me to run faster and faster. Soon, I was running at a good pace with my
second wind but the elderly man still stayed just out of reach. He didn’t stop at all. He just kept
running and running.

He crossed the finish line ahead of me and I was soon to follow at 4:28:45. I never had
such mixed emotions. I was proud and elated at finishing the marathon, but I was angry with
myself for letting that elderly gentleman beat me. In the finishers’ tent, after grabbing a handful
of bananas and some water, I tried to find him but he was gone.

It was only later on that I realized how much I admired him.

I’ll never forget that man. The senior citizen runner who put the cocky twenty-eight-
year-old in his place. Some day I hope to be like him, running marathons in my seventies and
passing all those first-timers as they struggle to finish. I’ll make sure to give them
encouragement.

“Only a few more miles to go! Don’t stop now, lad!”

I know the real encouragement won’t come from my words, but it will come later when
they look back on that race. When they realize that they have only just started their running
careers. That the real test of a runner is not running for just 26.2 miles.

It is running for a lifetime.

 Unforgettable
From Chicken Soup for the Soul: True Love
By Betty Bogart

Never, never give up.

~Winston Churchill

Divorced and living the life of an empty nester in Dallas, I wasn’t interested in marriage,
and I had given up on finding a good man to date. The best relationship I could recall was with
Gary, my college sweetheart thirty years earlier. He traveled from Massachusetts to school in
Texas because of a football scholarship. Like many love-struck college students, we talked of
marriage.

However, a back injury forced Gary to return to Massachusetts for surgery, and he lost
his scholarship in Texas. Without low airfares, continuing our relationship seemed impossible.
His whole future was in question since he wanted to get his teaching degree and coach the
sport he loved. Our world was turned upside down, and in great emotional pain, I ended the
relationship before Gary left. We talked on the phone once after he returned to Massachusetts,
but the 1,750 miles between us was too big a hurdle to conquer -- at least in my shortsighted
vision.

Over the next three decades, I thought of Gary periodically and looked through my
scrapbook that held newspaper clippings of his athletic achievements. I always wondered what
became of him. He was tall, handsome, and had a terrific sense of humor bolstered by his
Boston accent. My mother loved him too, and she was sorry when I ended our relationship. My
dad, on the other hand, feared Gary would take me far away to New England. Consequently,
my father painted a bleak picture of life in the cold Northeast. I later realized Dad’s comments
were self-serving, but at such a young age, I might not have undertaken a big move to
Massachusetts even without his cautionary statements.

Once my own daughter left for college, random circumstances brought Gary to mind
more frequently. Whenever I heard Barry Manilow’s song “Weekend in New England,” thoughts
of Gary drifted my way. When I switched to country stations, Reba McEntire belted out
“Whoever’s in New England.” Recurring questions rambled through my head. Had Gary’s
surgery been successful… so much so that he was drafted and sent to Vietnam to die like so
many men of our generation? Or did he graduate from college and became the coach he talked
of being? If so, I assumed he was married with a large family like the one in which he was
raised.

One weekend in March, I went to dinner with a neighbor, and we met a man from New
Hampshire. Gary came to mind. The next night, I came home and turned on a televised Bee
Gees concert just as they sang “Massachusetts,” which was popular when we dated. On this
night, the Bee Gees song hit me like a ton of bricks, and I raised my hands to the heavens
saying, “Okay… enough. I’ll try to talk to him.”

I knew when Gary left Texas, he felt I didn’t care about him, and I had a long-overdue
need to explain my actions. I also needed to know how things had turned out for him. I wanted
to find him alive and well.

I dialed Directory Assistance, and the operator relayed the only listing she had in the
Boston area for a Gary Bogart. As his phone rang, I wondered what in the world I was going to
say. What if his recorder answered? Should I leave a message? What words were appropriate
after thirty years? What if a wife answered?

I didn’t know why thoughts about calling Gary had been hounding me. All I wanted to
tell him was why I ended our relationship when he was struggling to keep his world together.
My father had colored my thinking to a great degree back then, and I just didn’t see how we
could achieve our dream of being together with all those miles between us. After all, neither of
us had any money.

After a few rings, I heard a routine “Hello” from a man’s voice.

“May I speak to Gary Bogart?” I asked.

As one might guess, he responded, “This is he.”

I muttered, “Is this the Gary Bogart who attended college in Texas?”

He later told me that, at that moment, he knew the voice was mine. I hadn’t realized the
time was after 10:00 P.M. on the East Coast. Thankfully, Gary was home alone sleeping, and he
told me he sat up like he’d been hit by a bolt of lightning when he recognized the voice on the
phone. He had been divorced for eight years.

I finally had the chance to explain the thoughts that led me to end our relationship in
1968. He said my call healed something inside him, because he never understood why I turned
away from someone I proclaimed to love. He always suspected there was another guy in my life
-- possibly an old boyfriend -- and nothing could have been further from the truth. He had never
forgotten how much we meant to one another, and he also wondered where life might have
taken us if we had stayed together.

We talked for forty-five minutes before I said I had to hang up. I had achieved my
purpose in calling, and I was elated to have been able to answer the decades-old questions that
lingered in his mind. For the second time in my life, he asked for my number. After six weeks
and many long phone conversations, we met in Florida. It was surreal, as if three decades had
suddenly disappeared. I worked for an airline, which allowed us to spend lots of time together
that year.
 Dozens of flights and nine months later, Gary and I married on the beach at Sanibel
Island, Florida. The sun was setting as we became husband and wife, and the onlookers
included two dolphins that swam unusually close to shore. One passer-by proclaimed the
dolphins’ presence to be a spiritual blessing. That may have been so, but all we knew for sure
was we were ready to fulfill the dream that fate had suspended for us.

Two nights after we married, we attended a Bee Gees concert where Barry Gibb made a
surprising announcement before they sang “Massachusetts.” My best friend had let them know
about their role in our rekindled romance, and Barry dedicated that song to “Gary and Betty”
before beginning its enchanting melody.

I finally made that once-foreboding move to Lynn, Massachusetts, where we lived for
several years before relocating to Florida. As we celebrate ten years of marriage, we are
grateful we can be together at this point in our lives.

~Betty Bogart
 Is Anybody Dead?
From Chicken Soup for the Soul: Thanks Mom
By Corrina Lawson

You may not realize it when it happens, but a kick in the teeth may be the
best thing in the world for you.
~Walt Disney

My mother will tell you that she’s had a blessed life.

From one perspective, this is true. She has three healthy children and eight
grandchildren who adore her, she has been very successful in her job, she has a nice home and
friends who love her.

In another sense, this is an illusion. She was raised in a broken home. At age twenty-
nine, she became a widow with three young children. She lost her second husband to a brain
tumor. She broke her back when I was in college and it still gives her pain. She has diabetes,
partially brought on by the stress of caring for her second husband during his illness.

But my mother doesn’t focus on the negative. It’s not that she doesn’t feel the pain. She
does feel the pain, very deeply. But it has never prevented her from living her life. Her greatest
gift was teaching me to never give up, to keep moving forward, to know that while life is full of
tragedy, it is also full of joy.

Only three years after my father died, my mother planned a trip for the four of us to
Disney World. She was a widow with three kids, ages twelve, eleven and eight. She was only
thirty-two herself. She made all the arrangements and got us ready to go without showing a
single worry. We had a blast.

Even a broken rental car was something she could handle. We’d spent the day at Disney
World and were very late leaving. By the time we reached our car, the parking lot was emptying
out and we were exhausted and cranky.

And the car would not start.

So there we were, years before cell phone service; my mom was in a big, empty parking
lot with three exhausted children and a car that would not work. And it was getting darker fast.

Not a problem.

She’d paid attention to the announcement on the trams about car trouble and how to
request help from Disney staff. The staff acted quickly, reported the problem for us to the
rental car company, and said to wait until they brought a replacement.
 So we waited. And we waited. It was hours.

I remember being a little worried that it was very dark outside. It was also quiet, as the
place was shut down for the night, and that seemed ominous. There was nowhere to sit but the
car.

If my mother was scared, she never showed it. I don’t remember exactly what she did to
keep us occupied during that wait. I think she told stories. Or we played some guessing games.
Or said what we liked most about the vacation so far.

I do remember that she kept saying, “No big deal… patience… this will get fixed.” And
when the car showed up, finally, we cheered.

The rest of the vacation, the broken car became a running joke, something we laughed
about. She approaches every obstacle in her life this way. If it’s a small thing that will eventually
get fixed with patience, no big deal. If it’s more menacing and looks insurmountable, she’ll say,
“Is anybody sick? Is anybody dead?” And, if not, well, then there are options, even if we can’t
see them yet.

I remember the day I announced that I would be a writer. I was a little kid and she
probably heard her kids say this kind of stuff all the time. But she instantly said, “I think you’d
be great.” And she meant it. Sure, there were obstacles. We had little money. My parents were
from families where no one had ever gotten a college degree. And I wanted to go into
journalism, which paid badly then and pays less now.

But she never saw the problems as problems. I never heard one negative word from her
about it. What I heard was, “You’re a great writer, you’re talented, you keep working, and you’ll
be great.”

All she emphasized was that if I wanted to do something, I had to work hard; I had to
never give up. I had to know that I would make mistakes, that practice was important and
nothing would come easily. But the most important part is to keep going, to keep learning.
Even if the odds are against you, even if tragedies happen.

I have four kids now, and one of them has “special needs.” We’ve had some serious
issues over the years paying for medical expenses. But I think of what my mother handled and
still deals with, and I ask myself: “Is anybody seriously ill? Is anybody dead?” And if not, I move
forward.

People ask me sometimes how I deal with the things in my life.

And I say, “I learned from my mom.”

~Corrina Lawson
 The Best Gift of All
From Chicken Soup for the Soul: Thanks Dad
By Mary Jo Marcellus Wyse

Kids spell love T-I-M-E.

~John Crudele

“Look! There’s Dave Righetti!” My dad pointed at the taller of the two men leaving
Cleveland Municipal Stadium. It was dusk and shadows had started to creep up the pavement,
leaving us in cool summer shade.

“Really?” I stared at the Yankees pitcher. We’d been waiting for a half hour for the
players to shower, change and head out so that I could nab some autographs.

“Go!” my dad said, but I was already scooting towards Rags, my ball and pen in hand.
When I returned to my dad, triumphantly holding the signed baseball in the air, my dad leaned
down and said, “Did you know that was Steve Sax with him?”

The second baseman? I gasped, spinning around, but the Yankees had already
disappeared. “Darn.” My dad laughed and clapped a hand on my shoulder. Maybe next time.

At twelve years old, this was the first of many annual weekends my dad and I took to
Cleveland to watch the Yankees play -- and try to get autographs. It became our father-
daughter thing. Sometime in March, my dad and I would examine the Major League baseball
schedule and see when our Yanks were going to be in Cleveland, only four hours from home. In
the meantime, we’d check box scores in the paper together and stay up to watch games on TV.

And once the warm weather came around, we’d take the long drive to Cleveland, talking
about baseball, school, and my softball season. My dad, baseball guru that he was, was also my
coach.

“Line up the knuckles on your left hand with those on the right. Choke up about an inch
on the bat. There.” Dad adjusted my hands as we stood together in the empty ballfield, the
summer sun blazing on our backs. He’d just returned from a weekend coaches’ camp and had
acquired some new tips for improving my batting average. Somehow, those tips were magic.

Dad jogged to the mound and lobbed me a pitch. I swung, the crack of the bat a sweet,
satisfying sound. The ball flew over the dirt and landed -- plunk -- in the grass of right-center.
Dad nodded, smiling.

“Again,” I said, checking my grip on the bat, making sure the knuckles were still exactly
right. “Throw me another.”
 Later that summer, I hit my first home run and my dad caught me as I leapt into his arms
after crossing home plate.

“That hit felt good,” I said, hugging him hard.

“It sure looked good.” Dad grinned as widely as I did and I think he probably was just as
happy.

Over the next six years, my dad watched me hit dozens more home runs and take All-
Star and MVP status in various tournaments on various teams. He attended every game either
as coach or spectator and helped me fine-tune my stance as well as my confidence over the
years.
We continued our trips to Cleveland as well as other places. “Do you want to fly out to
Kansas to see K-State?” he asked one spring Saturday when I was fifteen.

In the kitchen, my mom raised her eyebrows, glancing at my dad.

“I’ll take her,” he continued. “I wouldn’t mind going back to see my Alma Mater. We can
check flights this afternoon.”

“Sure!” I agreed. Why not? I’d never been that far west and I’d wanted to see where my
parents attended college. And who knew -- maybe I’d like the school enough to apply.

And so we went. My dad and I. We sat side-by-side in the airplane, chatting mostly
about my life as a sophomore in high school: teachers I liked, the economics class that made me
want to cry, friends, sports, and the future. We were comrades in the rental car, on the
campus, getting lost and finding our way again. When I needed an emergency trip to the eye
doctor because a fleck of metal had gotten caught in my eye, my dad inquired about where to
go and took us there. He took care of me.

After that weekend, I knew I couldn’t go to college that far from home.

My dad isn’t known for wrapping Christmas or birthday presents, let alone picking them
out. That’s my mom’s job and she does it quite well. But the gifts my dad gave me growing up --
college visits, baseball games, a better batting stance, advice, laughter, confidence -- created
memories that are more valuable than any bracelet or pair of socks.

Now when my dad comes to visit my family, he spends hours rolling around on the floor
with my son, making him laugh, pushing him on the swing in the park, or reading to him on the
couch. On his most recent visit to Boston -- over six hours from his home where I grew up -- my
dad said, “I’d love to coach Aidan in Little League. I wish we lived closer.” To our home, he
brought books and new footie pajamas that my mom had picked out, but from him -- well, he
brought himself. And that was good enough.
 For almost thirty-three years, my dad has given me more than any father could. He gave
me what a child ultimately finds most precious from her parents. It’s the stuff memories are
made of, of which photographs are taken and cataloged over the years. What I wouldn’t trade
for anything is exactly what my dad gave me and what is sometimes, for some people, the
hardest thing to give. But he gave it freely, happily, and as often as possible.

My dad gave me -- and continues to give me -- his time. And for that, I am most
thankful.

~Mary Jo Marcellus Wyse

 Perpetual Promise
From Chicken Soup for the Soul: The Golf Book
By John Strege

I may not be there yet, but I'm closer than I was yesterday.
~Author Unknown

Mort Lachman, in the tradition of those for whom humor is a livelihood, often relies on
self-deprecation, notably when discussing his golf game. Once Bob Hope’s head writer and the
executive producer of the legendary television sitcom All in the Family, Lachman also lays claim
to being the world’s worst golfer.

Yet his pursuit of a remedy is neither trivial nor funny. Books are his passion, and the
office of his home in Hollywood is cluttered with them, a preponderance dedicated to golf
instruction.

When I was ushered into Lachman’s office one summer morning, I interrupted him as he
was reading from one of them, certain that he had discovered a cure for the topped tee shot. It
should be noted here that Lachman’s age at the time was ninety.

He said he began each day by picking up a golf club and standing in front of a mirror.

“To stretch?” I presumed.

“No,” he said, “to check my swing.”

It was his daily mission to improve golf skills that probably peaked during the Nixon
administration. He continued to play a daily nine holes, unbridled optimism accompanying him
always to the first tee.

The notion that someone at ninety-something (or eighty- or seventy- or sixty-) is going
to find a cure that will improve the curb appeal of their scorecard is absurd. It also is beside the
point. Golf at its core might be a vile game, but it is not without its charms, among them the
shelf life of hope. It has no expiration date.

And so, against odds that we tend not even to consider, we embrace the possibility that
today will be the day that golf ceases to qualify as an unsolved mystery. Even the man whose
last name evoked such optimism was not immune. Bob Hope once said he intended to shoot his
age even if he had to live to be a hundred to do so.

I once had the privilege of playing with Tony Penna, the old pro and legendary club
maker, who was in his eighties at the time. His passion for the game had long outlasted his
skills. Nonetheless, Penna was unperturbed. He’d take a Penna-model persimmon driver and hit
a slinging hook in an attempt to squeeze a few extra yards from the tee. He’d then use the
same club from the fairway as well.

Even Arnold Palmer, long after age had deprived him of the ability to compete, was
hopelessly hopeful. The 12th hole at his Latrobe Country Club in Latrobe, Pennsylvania, features
a creek that crosses the fairway about 240 yards from the tee. Palmer once vowed he would
quit playing when he no longer could carry the creek with his driver.

Years after he last carried the creek, he is still at it, stubbornly pulling driver with a
degree of certainty that the creek is navigable. Inevitably, he hits his ball into the creek, takes a
drop, and perhaps more often than not still salvages par.

Not long ago Palmer completed a round there and repaired to the 19th hole. A
television was tuned to The Golf Channel, which at the moment was airing an instructional
segment. He intently watched for a few minutes, then turned to a friend.

“That’s what I need to work on,” Palmer said, blissfully clinging to golf’s perpetual
promise. That tomorrow will be better than today.

~John Strege
 Bank Owned
From Chicken Soup for the Soul: Tough Times, Tough People
By Amber Garza

Where thou art -- that is home.

~Emily Dickinson

I’ve lost my home. The home I bought, cherished, loved.

It now stands vacant. The bare picture windows stare out like hollow eyes. A bank
owned sign sticks crudely in the overgrown, yellow lawn. The flowers I planted and watered
religiously wilt, hanging low as if weeping.

Indentations in the carpet reveal the outline of furniture, of a life, of a family. Putty and
paint cover the holes in the walls where pictures once hung.

Even though the house is empty, images flood my mind of a time when it was filled with
life.

On the driveway, we showed our son how to ride a bike. In this house, both kids started
school, learned to read and write. We taught our son to tie his shoes, and for several horrific
months went through potty-training our daughter.

Since it was our first home, we set right out to decorate, make it our own. My arm still
aches from painting my son’s bedroom walls a bright blue that needed three coats before it
stopped appearing streaky. I remember the plans to paint my daughter’s room pastel pink that
never came to fruition.

Many injuries and bruises accumulated over the years. There’s the time my daughter
tried to climb on top of her dresser and it fell over on her. Luckily, she wasn’t badly hurt. Or the
time my son fell off his bike and scraped his knee.

I remember the excitement about having a master bedroom with our own bathroom
and walk-in closet. Many fond memories are associated with the room I shared with my
husband. The room we talked in, embraced in, laughed in, loved in.

I’ll never forget the time we found a lizard slithering through our hallway. I screamed
and jumped up on a chair. My husband caught it and it became the family pet. I wonder now
where Ben Casey went after we let him loose in the backyard. I’m sure he misses the
excitement and noise back there since now there is only silence.

My heart hurts as we drive away from the house, leaving it in the dust like nothing more
than a distant memory.
 Behind me my kids’ chatter fills the back seat. My husband at my side threads his fingers
through mine. It’s then that I realize I haven’t truly lost my home. My home is not a structure
with four walls and a roof. It’s not something that can be bought or sold. My home is not the
place I live. It’s the people I live with. The people right here in this car.

My family is my home.
 Finding Sacred Moments in Silence
From Chicken Soup for the Soul: Power Moms
By Kimmie Rose Zapf

If a child is to keep alive his inborn sense of wonder, he needs the companionship
of at least one adult who can share it, rediscovering with him the joy, excitement and
mystery of the world we live in.
~Rachel Carson

Being a mother of five children and working from home has brought me many
challenges; while at the same time some amazing gifts that have a timeless value. Sometimes
when doing an interview, I am wiping a dirty face at the same time. Those are the times I am
reminded how blessed I am to be able to get a goofy smile or a hug that most working mothers
wouldn’t be able to get. These are the extra perks that make it all worthwhile.

We have a camper in order to bring the kids with us when I have a lecture and mix
vacation and business. While on a recent business trip with three of my five children, Matthew,
fourteen, Hannah, six, and Asha, five, I was preparing for a workshop that my husband and I
were doing together. My son Matthew asked me to go on a hike with him. I told him I had a lot
to do and didn’t think I would have time at that moment. I told him I just needed to have
silence for a while.

“Come on Mom, this trip will add to your message. It’s a true spiritual journey,”
Matthew coaxed.

“Okay, I can’t pass up the opportunity to take a spiritual journey,” I answered.

I put on my hiking shorts and set out on a walk with him. We came to the mouth of a
river where rapids were flowing over a small waterfall.

“Are we going to climb down that waterfall?” I asked, hoping he would want to turn
back.

He smiled at me and said, “Come on, Mom. It’s about the silence you find at the end.”

I stood there looking at the rushing water thinking, “Either I am crazy or lazy. How am I
going to do this?”

Matthew’s smile made me see that this was important to him, so we hung on to the side
of some rock and climbed down the small waterfall. My body became drenched with water, and
I wondered if we were going to get back in time for me to get my writing done for the lecture.
 Finally, we arrived at the bottom of the waterfall, and then followed the river to a
crossing.

“Come on, Mom. You can do this. It’s peaceful once you get there,” Matthew urged.

At that point, I stepped on a large tree trunk that had fallen over the deep part of the
river. It felt like we were in a movie, and I was nervous and excited at the same time. Once we
crossed the water, we walked along the bank and into the shallow part of the stream. It was
beautiful. The petrified wood embedded in the landscape was amazing. Its timeless wonder
spoke to me, reminding me that nature does not worry about getting things done. It allows
being in the moment.

“Mom, we are here. Look ahead.” Matthew brought me out of my reverie. I looked
ahead and saw a beautiful opening through the trees. He held out his hand and helped me
climb upon a rock to get a better look. It was beautiful. Miles away, I could see a placid lake
glistening in the sunlight. Matthew looked at me and said, “Here, Mom. Here is your silence.”

I looked at him and replied, “Thank you for this.” At that moment, I realized that the
silence we often seek is not something that says, “Please leave me alone so I can concentrate
and work.” It is the moments we take with our children to observe real silence and reconnect
with why we are here.

We returned to the camper, and I finished my work. I was amazed at how easily it
flowed through my fingertips into my laptop.

Being a “power mom” can be crazy. Some say that it’s easier to work away from home.
But I believe that the most precious opportunities I have as a mother and career woman are
these sacred moments that remind me of what really matters.
 Eye See You
From Chicken Soup for the Soul: Teacher Tales
By Malinda Dunlap Fillingim

Vision is the art of seeing what is invisible to others.

~Jonathan Swift

I walked into a wild third-grade classroom. Music was playing loudly, children were
under tables applying make-up, kids were throwing a football indoors, and students were
dancing wherever they could find space. I was a mid-year replacement. The previous teacher
said he could no longer manage these children and resigned without notice during the holiday
break.

As soon as I walked in the room, I realized why he left.

I sat down quietly in my chair and began reading their names softly. After each name, I
prayed, asking God to help me understand that child.

I then nailed a mirror to the wall next to the chalkboard and began writing my name and
a reading assignment on the board.

I then asked each child to come to me, tell me their name and what they wanted to
learn. It was a difficult task, because only two children there wanted to learn anything!

Rules were set, boundaries established, parents contacted. But the mirror saved the day
-- no, the year!

Unbeknownst to the children, the mirror allowed me to see their every move while I
was writing on the board. They soon became puzzled as to how I knew who was misbehaving
while I was writing on the board. When one student finally asked me, I told him I had a special
teacher’s eye in the back of my head that my hair covered.

At first they did not believe me. But they did begin to exhibit better behavior, especially
while I wrote on the board, thinking I had magical vision.

I never told them differently. Why mess up a good thing?

~Malinda Dunlap Fillingim

 You Don’t Know Jack
From Chicken Soup for the Soul: What I Learned from the Cat
By Dana Martin

Does the father figure in your cat’s life ever clean the litter box? My husband claims that men
lack the scooping gene.
~Barbara L. Diamond

We love cats. Well, I love cats, and my husband is a sort of transient in the world of
animal lovers, finding himself standing on the outside and looking in with a tepid interest in
how the other half lives.

An overzealous pet owner he is not, but he can mildly tolerate dogs that live outdoors.
He claims allergies. When he met me, however, he had to resign himself to living among the
enemy.

To date, we have had five adult cats and approximately thirty-three kittens scattered
throughout eighteen years of marriage.

The system that works around our house is that I feed the cats, I clean up after the cats,
I shop for the cats, and I care for the cats. My spouse still complains.

“Cats are a lot of work. Why do we need all these cats?” he asked me years ago.

“We only have two.”

“They don’t do anything but eat, sleep, and use the litter box. What good are cats?”

“The kids love them.”

“But the kids will leave someday, and we’ll be stuck with all these cats. What then?”

“I’ll take care of them. Don’t worry, dear.”

I knew the addition of one more cat would be reckless, but one chilly evening fate had
other plans.

The kids and I stopped to get some burgers for dinner at Jack in the Box. Intending to
run in and out, we almost missed a woman kneeling on the ground with French fries in her
hand.

“Will you take this kitten home?” she asked. “My husband will just kill me if I bring
home one more stray!”
 “Ohhhhhhh,” I sympathized with an apologetic chuckle, the same version of her story
(different husband) quick on my lips. “I don’t think…” But then I looked down at the helpless
creature, and I could feel my heart begin to soften. He was the picture of innocence.

However, because stray cats usually have unfavorable personalities, a certain people-
less, independent air about them, I could feel myself gain the confidence to walk through the
restaurant’s glass doors and not look back.

Teetering on the precipice of refusal, I accidentally caught a glimpse of my toddler

cradling the kitten inside her pudgy embrace. He lay there like a limp doll and allowed my
daughter to fondle him with the unstable, brutish pawing of four-year-old hands. He didn’t
move. He purred.

This wasn’t a typical alley cat.

This couldn’t be! Why me? Why now? I could NOT take another cat!

“Of course I’ll take him,” I heard some foreign voice say from inside my body. It sounded
like my voice, but surely I wouldn’t have conceded so quickly, not with such a potentially
volatile, six-foot-four-inch consequence looming at home.

Yet there we were -- plus one -- driving away with our burgers and fries.

I worried through dinner what I would say to my husband. We left the vagrant kitten
sleeping in the car until I could introduce him in a way that would soften the inevitable
firestorm that would shoot from my husband’s mouth like sparks from an exploding brick of
firecrackers. Would this be the final straw? Would the man finally just leave me to my feline
friends in exchange for a life free from allergies and the pungent odor of litter box deposits?

I would know soon enough. At the first opportunity, I bathed the cat, named him, and
counted the minutes for the hammer to fall.

“No!”

It was a singular word, but it carried the meaning of so many conversations before it.
My husband took one look at the kitten, his freshly washed fur shining beneath the glaring
fluorescent kitchen lights, and his eyes narrowed.

“No,” he repeated. “We aren’t keeping another cat. You shouldn’t have brought him
home. Look at him! Where’d you get him? We are not keeping him. We don’t need another
stray!”

“But you don’t know Jack,” I cooed, my hand extending to touch Jack’s clean fur. “He
seems thankful to us for rescuing him.”
 “Jack?” His brows arched in an I-can’t-believe-you-named-him way.

“Yes!” I smiled. “We found him at Jack in the Box, and he was so hungry and dirty, you
should have seen him! I couldn’t just leave him there.” That’s it, pull on his heartstrings. “He
had nowhere to go.”

My husband’s eyes darted from the kitten to me, over to the kids’ expectant faces, and
back to Jack. I could tell he wanted to assert his authority as Head of the Household, King of the
Castle, and simply demand that we turn Jack loose, but to his credit, he couldn’t.

I saw hesitation flicker across his face as he contemplated what he would say next. The
kids and I waited for the verdict.

It never came.

With a defeated shrug, our hero quietly resigned himself to the idea of another cat and
padded down the hall to bed. His tacit surrender was all Jack needed to become an integral part
of the family.

Unfortunately, we did not get to keep Jack forever. After nine years, one day he just
disappeared. He slipped from our lives as unexpectedly as he’d entered. We never saw him
again, but he left his mark on our hearts.

After sharing a real home with us, Jack seemed undamaged by the life of a typical alley
cat; he forgot what it was like to forage for food or dodge traffic. He slept on the bed at night.
He took uninterrupted naps. He made fast friends with the other cats in the house.

Jack proved his amiability, even as a stray. We loved him.

We didn’t get Jack from a pet store or from an ad for free kittens. Jack spent the first
few weeks of his life on a highway avoiding cars and sponging fries off good Samaritans. All he
needed was a chance to show his worth.

The lesson here is that things may not always be as they first appear. Jack was a stray…
but in name only. If you are still skeptical about stray cats, if you think they won’t make good
pets, or if you buy into the opinion that strays are unable to become lovable animals -- then,
quite frankly -- you don’t know Jack.
 Coal
From Chicken Soup for the Soul: What I Learned from the Dog
By Sgt. Ed Geib, MBPD K-9

The meeting of two personalities is like the contact of two chemical substances: if there is any
reaction, both are transformed.
~Carl Jung

In the spring of 2000, I met my new partner. I was one of the old guys, with eighteen
years on the job in a local police department, and he was another rookie to train. On his first
day I drove thirty-five miles to pick him up for work. My first thought when I met him was that
he was such a skinny little guy, kind of skittish and shy. But I’d seen worse. My new partner was
a two-year-old black Lab named Coal, and he was going to be trained for drug detection. The
canine trainer, who was a retired police chief and a salty no-nonsense fellow, introduced me to
Coal and said, “Here he is, now go give him a bath.” A little different from the usual
introduction to a new partner.

As we trained, Coal amazed me with his ability to do his job. I quickly learned that we
were a team and that if we weren’t performing up to standards, the problem was usually me.
With the proper diet and exercise, Coal filled out and became a very handsome and fit animal,
drawing the attention of everyone around him. He also became a friend to the community,
visiting schools, church groups, and civic organizations to help build relationships with the
citizens we serve. Those relationships served us well when the mayor decided he that he was
going to disband the K-9 program. The townsfolk overwhelmed the municipal offices with calls
and visits to ask for reconsideration. Fortunately, Coal’s friends in the community did change
the minds of those in charge and we spent eight years and seven months as a working team.

During our time together I realized that I had become one of those grumpy old cops
who make people roll their eyes. Coal, however, became my icebreaker. He was a conversation
starter, and he helped me to interact with the people I met rather than just command them.
Don’t get me wrong. There are still plenty of humans among us who could take behavior
lessons from our pets, and they, on occasion, still need to be commanded and corrected. In
retrospect I would say that my partner didn’t weaken me, but he softened me. This “animal”
made me a better human.

Our bond grew steadily as we spent all of our time together, and before I knew it Coal
had become a huge part of me. I learned very quickly that my thoughts and emotions traveled
from my head and my heart, down my arm, through the lead, and into my partner. He knew if I
perceived that the person in front of me was going to be a problem or a threat, and he was
immediately on guard without command. He would also sense when the person who I was
interacting with was okay, and he would relax. On the rare occasion that he wasn’t by my side, I
would find myself talking to him, or reaching for him and getting a handful of air.
 Coal retired two months ago and now he stays home while I’m at work. He is slowly
getting used to it, but he has aged quickly since his retirement. Coal is not the only one having
difficulty with the adjustment. Now I don’t know what to do with the last bite of my lunch, and
on several occasions I found myself parking by the woods where he used to run while he was on
duty. I open the back door to let him out just to find that my partner is missing and there is
nothing in the back of the car but a cold, empty seat.

About a month after Coal retired, we learned that he had cancer. That news was
devastating for my wife and me, although Coal has no idea that he is sick. He still plays, cuddles
up on the couch with me, and gets excited when he sees the old camouflage bag that we carry
back and forth to the boat. With aggressive treatment he seems to be doing alright, and there is
a strong chance that he will live a long and happy life.

I have learned from Coal each and every day, and I feel extremely lucky to have been
blessed with an incredible teacher. He was once a skinny, skittish black Lab, and he grew into an
icon of the community and the best buddy I have ever had. If we could just take an example
from man’s best friend and be honest and true to those around us, we would have better
relationships that last a lifetime.