Seed Jar, The

Being the youngest of four girls, I usually saw to
Grandma Lou’s needs at family gatherings. Lucinda Mae
Hamish – Grandma Lou for short – was a tall twig of a
woman, with a long gray braid and sharp features. She
was the undisputed Master Gardener in our family, for
she had come of age in the Depression, where she
learned to use every old thing twice. And when it was
worn out, she’d use it again – in her garden.

When Grandma Lou visited, she brought packets of her
own seeds, folded in scraps of envelopes and labeled
with instructions. Her handwriting was precise and
tomatoes and carrots and marigolds for my sisters -
foolproof sorts of seeds, for my sisters were impatient
and neglectful gardeners. But for me, she saved the
more fragile varieties.

At the time of my next oldest sister’s wedding, Grandma
Lou was eighty-four and living alone, still weeding her
large beds herself. And as she had for my older sisters’
weddings, Grandma Lou gave Jenny a Mason jar layered with
seeds from her garden.

Round and round the colorful spiral of seeds, curled in
the fat-mouthed jar. Heavy beans in rich, deep earth
tones held the bottom steady. Next came corn kernels
polished in cheesecloth until they gleamed like gold. Flat
seeds of cucumber, squash and watermelon filled the upper
reaches, interspersed with the feathery dots of marigolds.
At the very top, separated with cheesecloth, were the
finer herb seeds of mint and basil. The jar was crowned
with a gleaming brass lid and cheerful ribbon. There was
a lifetime supply of seeds pressed into the jar; a whole
garden’s worth of food for the new couple.

Two years later, Grandma Lou suffered a stroke, which forced
her into an assisted-living apartment. And though she was
unable to attend my own wedding that year, I was delighted
to see a Mason jar among the brightly wrapped gifts at my
reception.

But unlike its predecessors, my jar held no graceful pattern
of seeds. Instead, it was a haphazard blend, as if all the
seeds had been dumped into a pillowcase and then poured into
the jar. Even the lid seemed like an after-thought, for it
was rusty and well used. But considering Grandma Lou’s state
of health, I feel blessed that she remembered the gentle
tradition at all.

My groom, Mark, found work in the city, and we moved into a
small apartment. A garden was all but impossible, so I
consoled myself by placing the seed jar in our living room.
There it stood as a promise to return to the garden.

Grandma Lou died the year our twins were born. By the time
our sons were toddlers, I had moved the seed jar to the top
of the refrigerator, where their curious little hands couldn’t
tip over my treasure.

Eventually, we moved to a house, but there still wasn’t
enough sun in our yard to plant a proper garden. Struggling
yet courageous fescue grass vied for what little space there
was between the dandelions and it was all I could do to keep
it mowed and occasionally watered.

The boys grew up overnight, much like the weeds I continuously
pulled. Soon they were out on their own, and Mark was looking
at retirement. We spent our quiet evenings planning for a
little place in the country, where Mark could fish and I could
have a proper garden.

A year later, Mark was hit by a drunk driver, paralyzing him
from the neck down. Our savings went to physical therapy, and
Mark gained some weak mobility in his arms and hands. But the
simple day-to-day necessities still required a nurse.

Between the hospital visits and the financial worries, I was
exhausted. Soon Mark would be released to my care, and at half
his size, I knew I wouldn’t even be able to lift him into our
bed. I didn’t know what I would do. We couldn’t afford a day
nurse, let alone full-time help, and assisted-care apartments
were way out of our range.

Left to myself, I was so tired I wouldn’t even bother to eat.
But Jenny, my sister who lived nearby, visited me daily,
forcing me to take a few bites of this or that. One night, she
arrived with a pan of lasagna, and she chatted cheerfully as
we set our places. When she asked about Mark, I broke down in
tears, explaining how he’d be home soon and how tight our money
was running. She offered her own modest savings-even offered to
move in and help take care of him-but I knew Mark’s pride
wouldn’t allow it.

I stared down at my plate, my appetite all but gone. In the
quiet that fell between us, despair settle down to dinner like
an old friend. Finally, I pulled myself together and asked her
to help me with the dishes. Jenny nodded and rose to put the
leftover lasagna away. As the refrigerator door flopped to a
close, the seed jar on top rattled against the wall. Jenny
turned at the sound. “What’s this?” she asked, and reached for
the jar.

Looking up from the sink, I said, “Oh, that’s just Grandma Lou’s
seed jar. We each got one for a wedding present, remember?”
Jenny looked at me, then studied the jar.

“You mean you never opened it?” she asked.

“Never had a patch of soil good enough for a garden, I guess.”

Jenny tucked the jar in one arm and grabbed my sudsy hand in
her other. “Come on!” she said excitedly.

Half dragging me, she went back to the dinner table. It took
three tries, but she finally got the lid loose and overturned
the jar upon the table. Seeds went bouncing everywhere! “What
are you doing?!” I cried, scrambling to catch them. A pile
of faded brown and tan seeds slid out around an old yellow
envelope. Jenny plucked it from the pile and handed it to me.

“Open it,” she said, with a smile. Inside I found five stock
certificates, each for one hundred shares. Reading the company
names, our eyes widened in recognition. “Do you have any idea
what these are worth by now?” she asked.

I gathered a handful of seeds to my lips and said a silent
prayer of thanks to Grandma Lou. She had been tending a garden
for me all these years and had pressed a lifetime supply of
love into that old Mason Jar.

By: Dee Berry

From The Fifth Chicken Soup for the Soul
Copyright 1998 by Jack Canfield and Mark Victor Hansen

Antique, The

My six-year-old granddaughter stares at me as if she is seeing me for the first time. “Grandma, you are an antique,” she says. “You are old. Antiques are old. You are my antique.”

I am not satisfied to let the matter rest there. I take out Webster’s Dictionary and read the definition to Jenny. I explain, “An antique is not only just old; it’s an object existing since or belonging to earlier times . . . a work of art . . . a piece of furniture. Antiques are treasured,” I tell Jenny as I put away the dictionary. “They have to be handled carefully because they sometimes are very valuable.”

According to various customs laws, in order to be qualified as an antique, the object has to be at least one hundred years old.

“I’m only sixty-seven,” I remind Jenny.

We look around the house for other antiques besides me. There is a bureau that was handed down from one aunt to another and finally to our family. “It’s very old,” I tell Jenny. “I try to keep it polished, and I show it off whenever I can. You do that with antiques.” When Jenny gets older and understands such things, I might also tell her that whenever I look at the bureau or touch it, I am reminded of the aunt so dear to me who gave me the bureau as a gift. I see her face again, though she is no longer with us. I even hear her voice and recall her smile. I remember myself as a little girl leaning against this antique, listening to one of her stories. The bureau does that for me.

There is a picture on the wall purchased at a garage sale. It is dated 1867. “Now that’s an antique,” I boast. “Over one hundred years old.” Of course it is marked up and scratched and not in very good condition. “Sometimes age does that,” I tell Jenny. “But the marks are good marks. They show living, being around. That’s something to display with pride. In fact, sometimes, the more an object shows age, the more valuable it can become.” It is important that I believe this for my own self-esteem.

Our tour of antiques continues. There is a vase on the floor. It has been in my household for a long time. I’m not certain where it came from, but I didn’t buy it new. And then there is the four-poster bed, sent to me forty years ago from an uncle who slept in it for fifty years.

The one thing about antiques, I explain to Jenny, is that they usually have a story. They’ve been in one home and then another, handed down from one family to another, traveling all over the place. They’ve lasted through years and years. They could have been tossed away, or ignored, or destroyed or lost. But instead, they survived.

For a moment Jenny looks thoughtful. “I don’t have any antiques but you,” she says. Then her face brightens. “Could I take you to school for show-and-tell?”

“Only if I fit into your backpack,” I answer.

And then her antique lifted her up and embraced her in a hug that would last through the years.

Reprinted by permission of Harriet May Savitz (c) 2002 from Chicken Soup for the Grandparent’s Soul by Jack Canfield, Mark Victor Hansen, Meladee McCarty and Hanoch McCarty. In order to protect the rights of the copyright holder, no portion of this publication may be reproduced without prior written consent. All rights reserved.

Miracle of a Brother’s Song, The

Like any good mother, when Karen found out that another baby was on the way,
she did what she could to help her 3-year-old son, Michael, prepare for a
new sibling. They found out that the new baby was going to be a girl, and
day after day, night after night, Michael sang to his sister in Mommy’s
tummy. He was building a bond of love with his little sister before he even
met her.

The pregnancy progressed normally for Karen, an active member of the Panther
Creek United Methodist Church in Morristown, Tennessee. In time, the labor
pains came. Soon it was every five minutes, every three…every minute. But
serious complications arose during delivery and Karen found herself in hours
of labor. Would a C-section be required?

Finally, after a long struggle, Michael’s little sister was born. But she
was in very serious condition. With a siren howling in the
night, the ambulance rushed the infant to the neonatal intensive care unit
at St. Mary’s Hospital, Knoxville, Tennessee.

The days inched by. The little girl got worse. The pediatrician had to tell
the parents, “There is very little hope. Be prepared for the
worst.” Karen and her husband contacted a local cemetery about a burial
plot. They had fixed up a special room in their house for their new baby but
now they found themselves having to plan for a funeral.

Michael, however, kept begging his parents to let him see his
sister. “I want to sing to her,” he kept saying. Week two in intensive care
looked as if a funeral would come before the week was over. Michael kept
nagging about singing to his sister, but kids are never allowed in Intensive
Care. Karen made up her mind, though. She would take Michael whether they
liked it or not! If he didn’t see his sister right then, he may never see
her alive.

She dressed him in an oversized scrub suit and marched him into
ICU. He looked like a walking laundry basket. But the head nurse
recognized him as a child and bellowed, “Get that kid out of there now! No
children are allowed.” The mother rose up strong in Karen, and the usually
mild-mannered lady glared steel-eyed right into the head nurse’s face, her
lips a firm line. “He is not leaving until he sings to his sister!” Karen
towed Michael to his sister’s bedside. He gazed at the tiny infant losing
the battle to live.

After a moment, he began to sing. In the pure-hearted voice of a
3-year-old, Michael sang: “You are my sunshine, my only sunshine, you make
me happy when skies are gray —” Instantly the baby girl seemed to respond.
The pulse rate began to calm down and become steady. “Keep on singing,
Michael,” encouraged Karen with tears in her eyes. “You never know, dear,
how much I love you, Please don’t take my sunshine away.

As Michael sang to his sister, the baby’s ragged, strained breathing became
as smooth as a kitten’s purr. “Keep on singing,
sweetheart!!!” “The other night, dear, as I lay sleeping, I dreamed I held
you in my arms…” Michael’s little sister began to relax as rest, healing
rest, seemed to sweep over her. “Keep on singing, Michael.” Tears had now
conquered the face of the bossy head nurse. Karen glowed. “You are my
sunshine, my only Sunshine. Please don’t, take my sunshine away…”

The next, day…the very next day…the little girl was well enough
to go home! Woman’s Day Magazine called it “The Miracle of a
Brother’s Song.” The medical staff just called it a miracle. Karen called
it a miracle of God’s love!

NEVER GIVE UP ON THE PEOPLE YOU LOVE. LOVE IS SO INCREDIBLY POWERFUL.

~~Author Unknown~~

Grandma’s Shoes

When I was very little
My grandmas (there were two)
Always wore the same black kind
Of ugly grandma shoes.

You know the kind I mean, right?
The clunky lace-up kind
That looked so very awful?
Well, it weighed upon my mind

For I knew, when I grew old
I’d have to wear those shoes.
I’d think of that, from time to time
It seemed like such bad news.

Not being a rebel, I
wore saddle shoes to school,
Next came ballerinas
then sandals, pretty cool.

Then came spikes with pointed toes
Then platforms, very tall.
As each new fashion came along
I wore them, one and all.

But always, in the distance,
Looming in my future there
Was that awful pair of shoes,
The kind that Grandmas wear.

Eventually I got married
And then became a Mom
My kids grew and grew, and then
Grand kids came along.

And when I was a Grandma
It still was quite a scare
Thinking that those clunky shoes
Were what I’d have to wear.

But fashions kept evolving
And one day I realized
That the shape of things to come
Was such a great surprise

Cause now when I go shopping
What I see fills me with glee
And in my jeans and Reeboks
I’m comfy as can be.

And I look at these teenage girls
And there, upon their feet
Are clunky, black, old Grandma shoes.
Now that’s what I call neat.

Author Unknown

Grandma’s Rainbow

My Mother use to always say,
When someone special passed away;
They’d send a rainbow to let you know,
They’d arrived in Heaven and low and behold;

On the day she left us to be with Him,
My youngest daughter came running in;
And said, “Oh! Mom, please come and see,
What Grandma’s sent to you and me.

I ran outside and looked up in the sky,
We saw the rainbow and with a tear in my eye;
I looked again and there were two,
I said, “One for me and one for you.”

I ran for my camera a photo to take,
It wouldn’t last long, make no mistake;
I clicked away so I could show,
Everyone Grandma’s double rainbow.

We talk about this every now and then,
And think about what’s at the rainbow’s end;
We’ll see her again, I know this is true,
God has said to us, “Now, don’t be blue.”

“She’s safe with me and all is well,
For in my house good people dwell;”
She sends God’s angels to look over us,
She’s o.k., for we have His word to trust.

We feel at peace and she is too,
This special thing we always knew;
Deep inside I feel this is so,
‘Cause Grandma told us with her double rainbow.

Written By Shirley Jean Pickens

Sister’s Life, A

A tribute

I sit still amidst the clamor
And demands of the city life -
Beyond the skyscrapers,
Beneath the traffic jam…
I see the unknown past.

Little have i known of her
But much have i known her deed.
Always been a figure,
A second matriarch,
Well respected and beloved.

She built her castles
In the sands of time and fate,
She hoped for love and glory -
A healer’s hand be known
And modified.

Alas, her dreams were tossed
And left on the shores of life,
Avowed she left
And conquered the portals
Of the stranger’s land.

From then and now,
Memoirs were written,
And for her, a pedestal stood
In the halls of respect
Of all her kin and friends.

And to her a tribute’s done
Not just for what she did
For her and her kin…
But most of all, for who she is
And whoever she shall be.

Joy

Party, The

My family was “poor” while I was growing up. This fact in itself didn’t bother me much because it was the only life I knew. It wasn’t until some of the kids on the school bus began teasing us about the state of our home and the outbuildings that I became self-conscious of our home. I enjoyed visiting with friends at school but wouldn’t invite hem to my house for fear of further ridicule.

We lived in an old rambling farmhouse that the owners let us have rent-free in exchange for “keeping an eye on things.” They didn’t want the house, barns or farm mach- inery vandalized. While this home had probably been considered grand at some point in it’s past, it had become very worn-down. There were certain boards on the porch that we avoided stepping on for fear of falling through. There was no indoor plumbing at first, but eventually my dad and uncle managed to put cold running water in the kitchen, replacing the old hand pump that was perched in the corner.

The neighbors to the west of us had a dairy farm. It so hap- pened that they also had two daughters the same ages and >grades as my sister and me. We spent a lot of time walking across the back fields to visit each other during the grade school years.

Time has a way of moving on while we’re not looking. Junior high school came and went and we all entered high school. There were more students and more classes, and we saw less and less of the neighbor girls. However, we shared a few classes and a few mutual friends and were able to keep up-to- date on current boyfriends and all the other earth-shattering events in each others lives.

Through mutual friends is how I happened to hear about the party. My neighbor and friend was having a skating party at their pond. I kept waiting and hoping for an invitation. I finally realized that I hadn’t seen my friend as much for the past few days. I couldn’t help but wonder if she was avoiding me.

The weekend of the party was rapidly approaching and I’d yet to receive an invitation. The party was to be held on a Saturday. The day before, at school, I couldn’t contain myself any longer. I deliberately sought out the neighbor and asked as nonchalant a way as possible how the party plans were progressing. I had hoped that once I mentioned it, I would receive my much anticipated invitation.

She looked me right in the eye and told me the party was postponed. She said her dad had checked the ice that morning and didn’t feel it was frozen solid enough for safe skating. I went onto my next class and began wondering if I would be invited once the next date was set.

The next day dawned cold, crisp and clear. I had to venture outside in the afternoon to get more coal for the stove. While out at the coal pile, I heard the unmistakable sounds of fun and frolic coming from the direction of the neighbor’s farm. Just to make sure my ears hadn’t deceived me, I sat down on the back step and listened for several minutes. Those were definitely sounds of good-natured yelling and laughing I’d heard.

I sat and cried. I kept wondering why my friend had lied to me. Why didn’t she want to associate with me anymore? What had I done to make her dislike me? I was finally driven back inside by the cold. I cried and pondered this situation for the rest of the day.

When we returned to school on Monday I didn’t let on that I knew she’d lied to me. However, at one point we made eye contact with each other and she was the first to look away. I wondered then if she’d seen the hurt in my eyes. Maybe it’s my imagination or maybe it was just coincidence, but from that day forward we had very little contact with each other.

I became more aware of and embarrassed by my old, ramshackle home and my second hand and home made clothes. I felt as though I weren’t “good enough” in my classmates eyes for them to associate with me. I was in the National Honor Society; I was always one of the first to be picked in gym class to be on a team; I was on the school newspaper staff; I always helped with decorating or whatever needed done. I talked to a lot of the other students while working on projects together and I seemed to be pretty well liked by everyone. But I was never invited to any social functions outside of school.

Was it because people judged me by my home and clothes? Or was it because I’d begun to feel inferior and tried to keep a distance between myself and my classmates so as not to be hurt again? To this day I don’t know for sure.

But whenever I see a small child out in public whose clothes and appearance aren’t exactly “up to par,” I get tears in my eyes. The tears are because I KNOW the hurt, humiliation and frustration this child may suffer just because her haircut isn’t of the latest style or her clothes aren’t name brand.

It’s possible, however, that her classmates are the ones who are missing out on creating some happy memories. Just maybe, her mom makes the best homemade cookies in town. Just maybe, her sense of humor would make her the life of the party if given a chance. Just maybe, she would be the one true friend who would stand beside you in a time of need, when others have abandoned ship. Just maybe, she had a relative who died with honor defending our country in war.

Whenever you see a child who looks a little “inferior” to her peers, stop and think, “just maybe…..”

T. Davis Copyright 1999

Meet Me by the Sea

(In dedication to my Aunts, Uncles, and their spouses.)

By Kristi Powers

I stand on a sandy beach. The very place my Grandpa and his best friend stood fifty years ago, as they stopped over during a plane trip to Florida. I never knew my grandpa, but I have seen the photograph many times. The photograph that captured them smiling and having the time of their lives, as they enjoyed the pristine land and pure air of Palm Pavilion.

Both have since passed away, and the land has changed much in half a century.

My Aunts, Uncles, and my grandpa’s best friend’s son, have come to gather in the same place. They lift their drinks high in the air as the deep orange glow of the sun, setting over the gulf of Mexico, splashes upon their faces. They toast to what was, and to what will never be again. After they sip from their glasses, they turn to me and my siblings and ask, “In fifty years, will you kids come back here and have a toast for us?”

I smile and say “Of course, but only if you come also.” I am aware of the futility of such a response, yet my mind cannot grasp life without these colorful characters of my youth. The ones who have had a part in shaping and forming so much of who I am.

Aunt Janet– I have the fondest memories of playing in her basement. My cousins and siblings and I would spend hours perfecting our “dance routine.” We would then call all our relatives down to perform before them. It was her stability, her balanced life, and her creativity that helped me to understand what quality time really costs–only my willingness.

Uncle Denny– Denny, who followed his father’s love for flying. I cannot see a single-engine plane in the sky without remembering all the times he surprised my siblings and I by flying low over our house. Most times it was our only notice that he was back in the states and coming for a visit!

Aunt Jo, or “Silly” Aunt Jo, as my Caleb calls her– Jo, who’s love for kids, games, and kindness, that comes from devotion to her creator, have truly enriched our lives.

My beloved Uncle Gary– Uncle does not quite cover all the hats he wore in the lives of thirteen nieces and nephews. He was Grandpa, friend and mentor. Where would I be today if I had not had my Uncle Gary to read me books, take long walks, or let me put his long locks in pony tails?

And lastly, my own dear Mother– Mom, who’s lasting legacy will be her gifts of laughter, unconditional love, and faith in Christ.

I ponder all of this as I leave them and take a walk by the sea. The sound of their laughter drifts away as the lull of the waves call to me. The dolphins dance as I think of the changes the land has gone through in fifty years. The waves have done their duty, creating more sand and beach on which to walk. Each grain’s beauty is full of memories of time long past. I, like the land, have been forever changed. I take the good from those who have come before me, and I have learned.

Fifty more years have now passed.

Come with me cousins, brother and sisters. Let us raise our toast high in the air and remember those who made us the way we are.

Come, meet me by the sea.

Kristi Powers

Tomorrow You Marry

By Kristi Powers

With love to you, Erika—- “Every time you say good-bye you are frozen in my mind as the child that you never will be, will be again.”

Dearest Erika,

Tomorrow you marry. Tomorrow I will stand in the balcony of your childhood church and try to video tape your special day with cloudy eyes. For you see Erika, the day you marry marks a new, bright beginning. It will be an end to the child you used to be and the beginning of the woman you have become.

I remember the first time I was the camp counselor at Sky Lodge and everyone kept telling me about this awesome group of 6th graders and how they were a special group. That week was one of the best of my life as that special group captured my heart like none other. It has been the greatest privilege to watch you all go from gangly awkward Jr. Highers to the beautiful men and women inside and out that you are today. My heart overwhelms with pride and joy as I secretly catch glimpses of you all now as adults. When you don’t know I am watching, I am, and remembering…

Remembering staying up all night at the church and dancing on the stage with an awesome light show and music provided by Mark Courtney. The special musicals and talented actor and actresses he made out of each of you. Something that only bonded you to each other all the more.

Remembering long weeks and tired bodies at Sky Lodge Camp, our most special place. “Sergeant” Roger with his gruff manner who was a pussycat underneath and Creative Twyla who inspired us all. Remember the long talks, the glowing campfire, the special laughs with Brett and the magical happenings there when we saw time after time what Christ could do with our hearts when we went away for a week and devoted it to him.

Or the times at Camp Mack which always had a different flavor. Remember me getting you all up at 3 in the morning to go toilet paper the camp? It was your first time there and I wanted it to always be a time you would cherish. The joy to be able to be away for a week with Rod and Nancy and soak up Rod’s gentle touches and Nancy’s wisdom like wet sponges. The wild and crazy camp counselors, Brett, Terry and I.

Clearest in my memory is the baby shower you and Jadi and Trisha gave me when I was pregnant with Caleb. It was one of the happiest days of my life. Instead of being the Sunday school teacher, mentor and counselor to all of you, you ministered to me as you gave me a piece of your hearts back. NEVER has there been a shower more beautifully, creatively, and lovingly given. You knew exactly who to invite to make my day the happiest. And when Terry and Brett walked in on an all girls shower, I laughed with tears and joy.

Remember the day we had graduation Sunday and the first to start crying was Tanya, our toughest and strongest one of the group. I knew from then on it would be a day of strong emotion and overwhelming thoughts. Your wings sprouted that day and I could only stand back, watch, and then let you go.

And now you have all flown the coup and are no longer my little girls and boys. You are men and women with dreams and hopes and wings to fly. And part of your dream will be fulfilled tomorrow when you walk down the aisle and see John standing there waiting… waiting for you Erika. And in the presence of your friends and family you will seal your commitment as we seal our commitment to help you keep your promises.

And we will all be there Erika, as onlookers in the most special day of your life. Whether in actual presence or in spirit, we will be with you. Tomorrow in Alaska, Rod and Nancy will pause and think of you, pray for you, and remember. In Michigan, Lori and Phil will smile fondly. Those who have walked along the paths of life with us have left their footprints on our hearts, and we are forever changed. And we will be there Erika, for we always want to share in your joys, calm you in your fears, and hug you in your sorrows. I think of these things and so much more on this, the day before your wedding.

And one more piece of advice for you in this lifetime as your old Sunday school teacher—don’t ever forget who you belong to Erika. For Jesus, Erika, is your life. And when times are hard and life is not kind, remember all of this Erika. Remember these things and smile.

For tomorrow you marry…

With love, That silly Sunday School teacher, camp counselor and friend,

Kristi Powers

Breaking up Grandma

The terrible twos stretched into the threes for me. An only child whose mother was ill and hospitalized a good share of the time, I was watched by various relatives. But I missed my mama dreadfully, and acted accordingly. Apparently the only one who could cope with me was my grandmother in Wisconsin. Grandma was a big strong Norwegian lady who raised eight children and milked nine cows the day after each child was born. Once when she came to take care of me in our small home on the east side of St. Paul, I proceeded to make her life miserable. When she tried to take me for a walk, I’d scoot ahead of her at surprising speed, leaving her to chase me on her fifty-eight-year-old legs. When she devised an effective harness, I plunked down on the grass in our front yard and yelled. When she called me to eat lunch, I’d squeeze under my parents’ iron bed, pulling down the chenille bedspread, or hid behind the brown overstuffed chair in the comer.

It all came to an end the day Grandma decided to soothe me once more in our old black wooden rocking chair. She had patience and lots of love, so she held me in her arms and sang songs from her childhood by the sea.

I was not impressed. I couldn’t get away, and I still didn’t like it. I pulled tendrils of gray hair out of her neat bun, poked an inquisitive finger up her nose and jabbed her cheeks. Her blue eyes remained amazingly calm. Finally, I slipped my fingers into her mouth. Instantly the singing stopped, and she wiggled her jaw in a funny way.

My hand came out holding her false teeth! Shocked, I stared at the ugly things, dropped them and started screaming.

I cried for an hour. In between sobs I would hug her and ask if she hurt. I kept hiccuping, “I’m sorry, I’m sorry.” She rocked me contentedly.

My terrible threes ended that day. You know, people have to be treated nice. They break into little pieces if you don’t.

Marjorie Maki
Stories for a Kindred Heart

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