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45 Years and 6,000 Miles Apart It was a difficult time in Japan. It was a time near the end of the American occupation of Japan that followed World War II. My mother, the oldest of three siblings, gave up a rare opportunity to go to college so that she could work two jobs and support her family after her father fell ill and couldn't work. Her mother had already died when she was only twelve years old. She was not only the sole source of income but also a sister and mother to two little girls. Amidst all of this hardship she fell in love with an American soldier. With a mind filled with hope and determination she left war-torn Japan for the bounty of America with the dreams of being better able to provide for her family and in particular, a better life for her two little sisters. Life in America didn't turn out so well for my mother. The man she married turned out to be a severe alcoholic. Her survival and determination to provide for her own children rivals any challenge she could have faced in her homeland. With constant pressure, her dreams moved from hope to long days of labor. Years went by and she never wrote home. More years passed and she became afraid to write. She wouldn't be able to bear the news of anything ill becoming of the two little sisters she left behind. She couldn't bear to tell them that anything less than good had become of her life. I had always wondered about the relatives that I must have in Japan and as my mother never spoke of them, it created an empty space in my life. I assumed it was painful for her to bring up the past so I respectfully thought it was better not to ask. It took a long time, but finally I had the chance to go to Japan for a three-month project. Would I be willing to open the Pandora's box sealed by my mother silence? I told my story to a charming Japanese family that had befriended me. They sensed my need to know about the relatives that were missing from my life. My new friends took on the quest of finding my lost relatives for me as it would be too difficult for me as a foreigner to do it alone. My time in Japan was passing quickly without news, but the hope of meeting at least one of my relatives never faded away. Two days before I was to depart Japan, Yokiyo phoned me and exclaimed, "I've found them!" Of course I was thrilled but had to ask, "Were they happy about it?" My mother had feared that maybe they had buried their emotions for her and didn't need a wound reopened. Yokiyo explained to me how the first aunt she spoke to immediately broke into tears, unable to speak with the joy of knowing her lost sister was still alive. My aunts were on the bus from Tokyo the very next day to meet me. They hugged me and were moved by the few characteristics I bore of my mother. They told me a day hadn't passed that they didn't think of her. They had a strong need for closure and I promised to bring their sister to them. On the plane ride to Tokyo, mom confessed it was exactly forty-five years to the month that she last saw Japan. As the sea of lights came into view her face was pressed against the window. She remembered a sea of lights fading away forty-five years ago, thinking that would be her very last view of her homeland. I silently watched her fight back the tears. In Narita airport, my mother eyed her sisters in the crowd and snuck up on them in a jovial way. The sisters wanted to laugh at her prank but broke into tears at finally being united with their long lost sister. Too emotional to speak, the three of them mostly looked to each other on the train ride to Tokyo. At Aiko's house, over a cup of green tea the women begin to talk. Our week in Tokyo passed quickly. The two women ushered us around like two mother hens, taking us sight seeing and feeding us every delicacy they could think of. It didn't take long until the three sisters acted like sisters again, teasing each other, laughing, and talking late every night. The atmosphere filled up with a priceless joy that fed everyone's heart. You couldn't tell that they had spent the last 45 years apart. I took lots of photographs of the three sisters sitting in the park, singing childhood songs, cooking together. I witnessed how their love for each other erased the 45 years they had lost. Every moment together was precious for them, as we all knew this could be the last time these sisters would be together. What was important was they were sisters again, sisters forever. They had proved that time or distance could not damage their sisterly bond. A New Strength "What's wrong, Mommy?" One by one, three small figures straggled into my bedroom, navigating through the darkness to my side of the bed. The ringing of the phone and my crying had pulled them from their sleep in the few minutes before sunrise. "Mommy's very sad right now," their daddy answered for me. "Mommy's sad because your Grandpa Bastien died early this morning." All three climbed onto the bed and started stroking me, each trying to comfort a pain I thought they were too young to understand. Three sets of innocent eyes stared helplessly up at me, watching unfamiliar waves of grief ebb and flow. They did not know their grandpa the way I had hoped they would. A gap of seven hundred miles saw to that. Their memories of Grandpa Bastien came from visits at Thanksgiving, long-distance phone calls and pictures displayed in photo albums. They did not know the big, strong man I loved so much. And for once, I was glad their little hearts were spared knowing him so they would not feel the depth of losing him. None of them had ever seen or heard me cry so openly. Through tears I reassured them I would be all right but there was no way to explain the grief. There was no way to tell a four-, six- and eight-year-old how their Mommy's life had changed. In an instant I had gone from having a father to having memories. At that moment, thirty-four years of memories and pictures seemed small and insignificant. As the first hint of morning light filtered through the blinds in the bedroom, they began to talk softly amongst themselves. One by one they hugged me and kissed me. One by one they scooted off the bed and left the room. Off to play or watch cartoons, I presumed, and I was glad grief had not touched their innocence. I felt helpless, though, watching them walk away. With one phone call, I had crossed this ominous bridge between my father's life and his death, and I didn't know how to return. I didn't know how I would learn to laugh or play or be the mother they needed me to be in the midst of this grief. After lying in bed for what seemed like an eternity, I dried my eyes and decided I'd try to explain my sadness to them in a way they could understand. While still formulating the words, they walked back into the room, each with knowing eyes. "Here, Mommy," they whispered in unison. "We made this for you." I took the little package from eager hands and carefully peeled away a layer of leftover Christmas wrapping paper. Inside I found a note written by my eight-year-old: "To Mommy: We love you. Love, Shae, Andrew and Annie." "Thank you," I told them. "This is beautiful." "No, Mommy, turn it over," one of them instructed me. I turned over the note and on the other side discovered a paper frame, decorated with crayon lines and hearts, and inside the frame was a photograph of my dad, smiling his contented smile, hands folded across an ample belly. It was one of the last good pictures I had taken before he died, before sickness had taken the sparkle from his eye. My well-planned speech fell away, and I knew no explanation was needed. They understood my tears, and their handmade gift had given me new strength. As I looked at the picture, echoes of childhood memories flooded back, filling the emptiness. Yes, grief had touched my children, but they had their own special way of dealing with it. In their innocence, they taught me that the things I had thought insufficient, the memories and pictures, would be the very things to keep my dad alive. A Change of Heart It was the tail end of the depression, and things were tough. Mum had a hard time raising us kids on her own in our small community of New Westminster, BC. My Dad had drowned in Pitt Lake, five years earlier - I still remember it like it was yesterday. Because Dad had no pension, or benefits, there was not much money so we went on relief, now called social assistance. We relied on the Salvation Army to keep us clothed, and although our clothes were second hand, we thought they were beautiful. Looking back, I realize what Mum went through sending us kids to school. Every morning she would tuck a new piece of cardboard in our shoes, because our soles were worn out. When we got home, Mum would have "French Toast" ready for us. This was bread deep-fried in lard. Constant moving was typical for my family in these times. Rent was twenty-five dollars a month, but Mum couldn't pay it, and we knew we would be evicted right after Christmas on the first of January. These were hard and sad years, but we never complained. Christmas was approaching, and we were entitled to a twenty-five dollar Christmas fund for social services. The Inspector came to our house, and searched it from top to bottom to be sure we didn't have any food hidden away. When he didn't find any, he issued the cheque for Mum. It was four days before Christmas, and Mum said that instead of buying food, she would use the money to pay back rent, assuring us all of a roof over our heads for a little while longer. She told us then there would be nothing for Christmas. Unknown to Mum, I had been selling Christmas trees, shoveling snow, and doing odd jobs to earn enough money to buy a new pair of boots. Boots that weren't patched, boots with no cardboard in the soles. I knew exactly which boots I wanted. They were ten-inch Top Genuine Pierre Paris and they had a price of twenty-three dollars. Well, the big day came on the afternoon of Christmas Eve. I was very excited, as I hurried up the road to catch the bus. It was only half a mile walk, but on the way I noticed a house with Christmas lights and decorations. It was then I realized that at our house, we had no lights, no decorations, nor any money for Christmas goodies. I knew then that we would have no turkey or ham for Christmas, and I felt sad. But I knew for certain that we would have French toast. As I continued walking I began to feel bewildered. I was eleven years old, and I was feeling a strange sense of guilt. Here I was going to buy a new pair of boots while Mum was home in tears. She would be trying to explain to us why there were no presents. As I arrived at the bus stop, the driver opened his big manual hinged door. I stood there for what seemed an eternity, until eventually the driver asked, "Son, are you getting on this bus or not?" I finally blurted out, "No thanks Sir, I've changed my mind." The bus drove off without me, and I stood alone in a daze, but feeling as if a weight had been lifted off my shoulders. My mind was made up and I realized what I had to do. Across the street from the bus stop was a big grocery store called the Piggly Wiggley. Into the store I went, brimming with happiness and excitement. I realized that the twenty-five dollars I had worked so hard for went a long way for groceries. I bought a turkey, ham, oranges and all the Christmas treats. I spent every dime of my hard-earned money. The owner of the grocery store said, "Son, you can't pack all those groceries and carry them home yourself." So I asked two boys with carriers on their bicycles to run them the half-mile down to our house. As I walked behind the delivery boys, I whispered for them to quietly unload the groceries on the porch and pile them against the door. Once they had done this, with great excitement and tears in my eyes, I knocked on the door. I could hardly wait to see my mother's face! When Mum opened the door, some of the groceries fell inside onto the floor, and she just stood there dumbfounded. Holding back the tears, I hollered, "Merry Christmas Mother!! There really is a Santa Claus!" I had a lot of explaining to do as we unpacked all the food and put it away. That day I got enough hugs and kisses from Mum to last two lifetimes. To see my Mother's prayers answered more than made up for the boots I never got. It was a Merry Christmas for us after all! A Childhood Passion Strikes A Cord I waited until my mother had driven away. Then, after opening the front door, peeking down the road and seeing her white Ford Falcon disappear, I lined up my eight-iron shot. Standing smack in the middle of the living room, with a plastic golf ball sitting on the carpet, I took dead aim through the small opening that skirted the chandelier and led through the back door to my target, a square of screen at the back of the porch. At 13, I had been hitting balls inside for well over a year. Eight-iron shots were my favorite - even plastic practice balls zipped off the clubface at an ideal trajectory. I loved the unique contour of that particular club, its braveness as it stood distinguished from the rest of the set. It had none of the angular assertiveness of the seven-iron (which reminded me of a proud slice of pie), or even the bulbous, bloated roundness of the wedges. No, the eight-iron, viewed at address, appeared to be exactly what it was: a jewel-like machine of measurement. Over the past year, a small worn spot had begun to appear on the carpet, and while the blemish didn't please my mom, perhaps some thought that one day I would make millions on tour and buy her a dream house had made her overlook it. My next swing, however, would prove a swipe no one could ignore. The backswing seemed ordinary enough, a decent little turn. And the transition was good too. Other kids had dogs; my swing was my faithful servant. The club dropped into the slot just as it was supposed to, and with a well-timed release I squared the blade forged out of steel. Next to my living room practice tee sat the family piano. Now, a plastic practice golf ball yields a soft, light sensation when struck reminiscent of patting a balloon. On that fateful swing, I felt that little whiff, all right, which was followed by a most unexpected THUD. I had caught the side of the piano solidly with my eight-iron, which had gone on to bury itself deep within the instrument's chamber, leaving only the silver shaft exposed. With my grip horrifically frozen in place, the image must have resembled a tableau in a French farce. I didn't like to think of myself as a delinquent child. I was a good student, a good athlete. I ate my vegetables, didn't smoke and felt compassion for kids less fortunate than myself. But knowing that I had done something wrong, the criminal instinct took over. Off I went on my bicycle to the candy store, then the art supply shop across the street. I saw my mom's car parked in the supermarket lot, and recalled her saying she was going to stop by her friend Phylis's house after shopping. So I figured I had an hour and a half to carry out my plan. Back home there wasn't time to lose. I chewed a wad of gum and stuck it in the vertical "divot" slashed in the piano. Then, with the ecstatic freedom of Van Gogh, I painted the pink gum brown, hoping to match the hue of the instrument. The end of this unfortunate escapade came swiftly. Mom walked in, groceries in hand, spotted the oozing gum dripping cheap watercolor paint on the side of the family treasure and threw a fit. My dad, who on the golf course crooned over every great golf shot I hit like a tenor warbling "Sonny Boy" with a pint of Guinness in his hand, suddenly rejected the idea that golf encompassed spiritual values. My backside made the abrasion on the piano seem like the surface of a mountain lake at dawn. The scar in the piano never healed, but mine did, and I grew up to be a golfer. I even played to scratch for many years while teaching school in Memphis. My passion for golf, though, goes beyond the mere enjoyment of the game. It penetrates to the root of the word passion itself, with its base in the idea of suffering. From the recognition of the pain of others, we develop compassion. Every time I play golf, I see my own frustration mirrored in the exasperation of my partners, and I remember what I learned when I was a kid swinging in the living room - that the world is not a stage by a golf course A Cup of Coffee I heated up a cup of coffee today in the microwave. I wasn't sure if I should laugh or cry as I stood there holding the steaming cup for the second time this morning. My son woke up crying, and it took nearly an hour of singing, consoling and rocking to get him back to sleep. In the meantime, my coffee got cold. So, I heated it up in the microwave. I grew up vowing never to be like my mother. She is a wonderful, strong woman, and anyone would be proud to be like her. But I wasn't going to be. No one in town seemed to know her name. To the teachers and students at the various schools her children attended, she was simply known as ____'s mom (fill in the blank with any one of her five children's names). At the grocery stores and around the auto parts stores and hardware places, they affectionately called her "Mrs. Dale" after my father's first name; and the folks at the bank, utility companies and other such important places addressed her with Dad's last name, as Mrs. Keffer. Mom answered to all of these with a smile and kind words. I, on the other hand, was never as gracious about it. Often, I would tell the bagger at the grocery store, "Her name is Joyce, by the way," as he handed her the bag and told her to have a nice day using one of the aforementioned names. Mom would always smile and say, "You have a good day, too," as she shot me the mind-your-manners-I-taught-you-better-than-that look. When we would then get to the car, I would bicker at her for not standing up for herself. "You are your own person," I would retort. "You're not just an extension of Dad." "I could be called a lot worse," she would always reply. "Besides, everyone knows your dad." Everyone in this small town did know my dad. He was a friendly, hard-working man who liked to flirt with the checkout girls and give car advice to anyone who needed it. He could charm his way out of a speeding ticket and talk his way into a better deal with ease. He would not think twice about fixing a broken part on one of the neighbor kid's bikes. Or leaving in the middle of a cold winter night to change a frightened teen's flat tire. But everyone knew my mom, too. While Dad was a great man in the community, Mom was equally special. She had her own way of talking herself into a good deal, and she loved to give friendly advice to people she met. When she would wake up on cold, snowy mornings to a house full of college kids who had been stranded in town, she would weave her way through the sleeping bodies and fix enough pancakes for all. If anyone was in need, my mom was right in the thick of the fight to help. She would collect items for a family who lost all in a house fire, canned goods for the church pantry, and clothes for a teen mother's baby when no one else would help. As a teen, I never understood my mom. How could someone with so much to offer the world be content to stay home and be known as an adjunct to her husband or as someone's mother? Why wasn't she proud of who she was? Once upon a time, she wanted to be a nurse and join the Peace Corps. How could anyone give up her dreams for washing out dirty diapers and packing my father's bologna sandwiches? All I knew was that this was not going to happen to me. I had big dreams of making a difference in the world - but with a bang, not a whimper. People would know me. I planned on working my way up through the ranks of the YMCA with a busy writing career on the side. My husband, if there was one, would be right behind me and, as for children, they would be cute and at their nanny's side. I would not be like my mother - I would be me. And people would know me as someone important. Now here I was heating up my cup of coffee in the microwave for the second time. Just as I had watched her do a million times after setting it down to pack a lunch, feed the cats, tie a shoe, retrieve a towel from the dryer, find a paper that needed returning to school, answer the phone and a million other possible interruptions. I dreamed of downing a good cafe latte for breakfast before another busy day at the office, and here I was drinking instant mocha from a "Happy Birthday" mug with colored balloons all over it. I understand now. I understood eight months ago as I held my son for the first time. I understood when his tiny little hand wrapped around my finger and his big blue eyes looked into mine as he drifted off to sleep. I understood when the love I have for my husband tripled as I first saw the little body cuddled in his big, strong arms and saw the tears streak down his face. I understood it all instantly. I look forward to the day that I will be known as Andrew's mom to the people in town and the children at school. Every day, as my husband returns home from work and his face lights up as his son holds out his hands, I am proud to be Mrs. Frank Huff. Just like my mom is proud to be called Mrs. Dale Keffer. Just like my mom. Those are four words that I thought I would never say proudly. By the way, if you see her, her name is Joyce. And now I need to heat up my coffee again. A Friend's Secret There's a moment in the Disney classic Cinderella when the ragamuffin heroine lays claim to her wayward glass slipper and Prince Charming adoringly sweeps her into his arms and waltzes her away. It's a scene that draws longing sighs from every woman who watches it. Why? Romance! That's what it's all about. I've often wondered how that intangible sense of true love and romantic devotion makes the leap from celluloid to reality. I know it can happen. I've been around couples married for decades who still glow while sitting side by side, hands lovingly intertwined. Yet, as the child of divorced parents, and a divorcée myself, I also know that the course of true love never runs smooth. In fact, "Rocky Road" might better entitle the majority of marriages I've encountered. However recently, a friend of mine told me a little secret - a tale of love that brought tears to my eyes and, I must admit, a little envy to my heart. Her story wasn't about the latest piece of jewelry that her husband gave her, or flowers he sent as my friend's husband passed away two years ago, just short of their fiftieth wedding anniversary. Now, at the age of seventy, she is alone, but thanks to her loving spouse, not always lonely. For tucked away in drawers and cabinets throughout my friend's home are love notes scripted by her husband. Terms of endearment that he planted as romantic surprises during the course of their marriage. Over the years, she saved his sweet inscriptions, often leaving them in their original hiding places, his loving sentiments tenderly playing anew with each rediscovery. Now that he is gone, my friend's life is a daily challenge of loving memories and sad yearning for this romantic man with whom she shared almost half a century of life. Yet in her indomitable way, she is continuing on with determination and enthusiasm. She is healthy and strong and lives each day with an interest in the world around her. She is surrounded by family and friends who support her and a community where she is acknowledged and respected. Most of all, however, my friend endures with the inner sense that she is loved, truly and totally. Any time she thinks otherwise, all she has to do is open a kitchen drawer, or look in her bedroom nightstand, to find a reminder. Although somehow I have a feeling that even without looking...she already knows. A Friendly Face It was the beginning of November. I was larger - "larger than life!" - my husband, Jeff told me. I had a belly the size of three basketballs. I was expecting our first child and I was scared to death. It was just my husband and me; no family no close friends to share in our excitement, our terror. We were stationed in Japan and had lived there for two years when I became pregnant. When I noticed the first pangs of labor, my husband and I raced through the crowded streets of Japan. Okay, raced isn't quite the right word. It was more like "turtled" through the streets of Japan. Our hospital was at Yokota Air Force Base, which was only thirty miles away, but usually took us two hours to get to. I was too scared to notice the woman he nearly hit, the dog he almost ran over and the shopping cart he swerved around, and too tired to care. I did notice that he managed to hit every red light and a few train crossings. Finally we got through the gates of the base and to the hospital. My contractions had subsided so the hospital told us to return home and rest. It was a false alarm. As we left, I noticed a rather tall woman, very much with child, being admitted to the delivery ward. We smiled in passing and I headed out the doors. I cried a lot on the way home. I was so scared and dreaded another drive to the hospital. But what really upset me was that I was going to have a baby, and I had no one else to share it with. I was lucky to have my husband there. His squadron had deployed on a four-month cruise two weeks earlier. The commander allowed Jeff to stay behind until our child was born, then he had to meet up with the ship. That upset me too, that my husband would miss the first four months of his first child's life; that I would be a single mom and have to deal with not only my own recovery, but also learn how to care for an infant. "If only I had my mom! Or your mom! Or some close friends!" I sobbed to my husband. He felt terrible, but there was little he could do. That night, the pains started again and grew in frequency. I kicked my husband awake and told him it was time to go. This time it was three in the morning. There was little traffic and we made it to the hospital in record time. Sixteen hours and a difficult delivery later, I gave birth to a boy we named Eric. We were shocked, because the Japanese doctor who gave me an ultrasound a few months before said he was sure it was a girl. At least, we thought he said girl. While everything we bought was feminine, frilly and pink, we were thrilled that our Emma was really an Eric. I was wheeled into my room, which I had to share with another new mother, and Eric was whisked away to the nursery. There was a curtain separating me from the other mother but I could hear voices and the quiet gurgles of a newborn. I lay staring at Jeff. "Can you believe we have a little boy?" he asked all smiles. I smiled and nodded. Then the tears came to my eyes. "What's the matter?" Jeff sat down beside me. "I'm supposed to be happy. Our parents should be here to meet their first grandchild. Our brothers and sisters and best friends should be here." I felt my chin quiver. "They'll see him soon," Jeff said. He bent over and kissed my forehead. "Should I call home?" he asked. "Sure," I let out a big yawn. I couldn't move. My body ached. I felt like a Mack truck had hit me. And worse, the nurse would be in soon to get me up and to the bathroom. "They'll be surprised to know we had a boy." Jeff picked up the phone. "What's your parents' number?" I gave him the number and he called home to tell everyone we had a baby boy. After he hung up I heard a voice from behind the curtain. "Excuse me," said someone quietly. My husband drew back the curtain and we looked at the tall woman I had seen earlier at the hospital. "I heard you calling home and recognized the area code," she started. "Are you from Massachusetts?" "My wife is," said Jeff pointing at me. "Where in Mass?" asked the woman. "Oh, it's a real small town between Boston and Cape Cod," I said. "You probably don't know it." "What's the name?" "Norwell," I said. The woman's eyes lit up and her jaw dropped. "I'm from Norwell, too!" I looked at her, my eyebrows scrunched tight. I didn't recognize her. "What's your name?" She told me and I immediately gave her mine. We stared at each other in disbelief. "You're Kelly from South Street?" I asked. I sat up in my bed and straightened my hair. "Yep. Can you believe this?" She was holding a small bundle and rocking her arms back and forth. "This is amazing," I said. Jeff and Kelly's husband shook hands. I had known Kelly since elementary school. We went through high school together until she moved away some time around our senior year. We didn't hang out together but had the same homeroom and many classes together. Now, ten years later we were having babies together on the other side of the world. She had grown quite tall since I knew her and her hair was different. But when she told me her name I immediately recognized her. Our babies were due on the same day, but both decided to come late. Kelly had given birth to a beautiful baby girl named Samantha. The remainder of our time in the hospital was spent going through yearbooks, which our husbands dug up for us. We gave interviews to the base newspapers. No one could believe that two high school friends would be reunited in the delivery ward of a military hospital, half way around the world. My prayers were answered, too. At the moment Kelly spoke up, I was completely exhausted and filled with such sadness, longing for a familiar face from home. While my husband was shipped off two weeks later, Kelly and I kept in contact. Every Christmas I receive a card from her and Samantha, letting me know how they are doing. A Fair Trade "Keep away from children." That's what my matchbook cover says. Gladly. I'm seventy-four years old and heavily into the osteoporosis-and-angioplasty scene. But how can I keep away from children? We have a ten-year-old adopted granddaughter. Nobody likes to be one of life's clichés. But we are. Startling statistics these days tell how many grandparents adopt grandchildren. My husband and I are two of them. Our car has no bumper sticker that says, "I'm spending my children's inheritance." We are. But not on travel. So this grandmother's life revolves around Girl Scouts and choir, dance and piano lessons. She's a much-ignored advocate for good manners. A much-resisted fashion consultant. Well, you get the picture. If ever there was a Don't Ask, Don't Tell situation, this is it. You get questions, or looks. At the clinic, at the school office, wherever. "You're her...mother?" Well, yes, legally speaking. You keep explaining, like someone in a Zen riddle. "I'm her mother. I'm also her grandmother." The kid gets questions, too, from other kids. "Why do you live with your grandparents?" "What's wrong with your parents?" My advice to her: "Tell them it's none of their business." But she came up with a better one: "My parents couldn't take care of me." That's true. Every adoptive grandparent and grandchild has some kind of soap-opera scenario. And it's nobody's business. Culture shock bombards adoptive grandparents. There are two kinds. Math and sex. Math first. Let's say you did bring up five children. Your oldest is now fifty-three. Your youngest is now thirty-four. That means you've been out of the loop for a while. So you find that elementary-school math is a big culture shock. You never mastered the so-called New Math thirty years ago. Now you find yourself clueless when confronted by a fifth-grade math book. Go ask your granddad. Never mind. He's clueless, too. Sex at the modern ten-year old level is an even bigger culture shock. The words! The jokes! The casual, offhand reports of startling playground shenanigans. Everything has speeded up. Now ten-year-olds act like teenagers. The giggling gender awareness. The raucous music. The constant sass. If this is fifth grade, what lies in wait in middle school? And there are little ironies in the fire. Take sewing. I can't sew. But now I have to sew Scout badges on vests, initials on dancewear, tails on costumes, buttons on many things. A real seamstress could do this in minutes. It takes me hours. It doesn't help that I have arthritic hands. So here I am with a ten-year-old who's bigger than I am and wears bigger shoes that are getting even bigger. And more expensive. Here's the part of the soap opera I'll tell: We were her foster grandparents for several years before we adopted her. Adoption took some doing. And yes, our advanced age was questioned by social workers, lawyers, the works. But in the end, after some hassle, the kid was ours. She's pretty. She dances and sings. She makes friends. She gets good grades. Well, if you don't count spelling. They have something now called "creative spelling," and you'd better believe it's creative. So we're statistics - grandparents who have adopted a grandchild. And when you're in your mid-seventies, and your child is ten, you may rightly wonder about another kind of statistic: What are the chances you'll be around for her high-school graduation, her college diploma, her wedding day, her first child? Luckily, the kid's beloved aunt and other relatives are standing by, ready to take over when the time comes. Sometimes statistics end up cutting it pretty close. But the kid's with her own family. You wouldn't take that for anything. A Forever Kind of Love One of our favorite patients had been in and out of our small, rural hospital several times, and all of us on med-surg had grown quite attached to her and her husband. In spite of terminal cancer and resulting pain, she never failed to give us a smile or a hug. Whenever her husband came to visit, she glowed. He was a nice man, very polite and as friendly as his wife. I had grown quite attached to them and was always glad to care for her. I admired their expression of love. Daily, he brought her fresh flowers and a smile, then sat by her bed as they held hands and talked quietly. When the pain was too much and she cried or became confused, he hugged her gently in his arms and whispered until she rested. He spent every available moment at her bedside, giving her small sips of water and stroking her brow. Every night, before he left for home, he closed the door so they could spend time alone together. When he was gone, we'd find her sleeping peacefully with a smile on her lips. On this night, however, things were different. As soon as I entered report, the day nurses informed us she had steadily taken a turn for the worse and wouldn't make it through the night. Although I was sad, I knew that this was for the best. At least my friend wouldn't be in pain any longer. I left report and checked on her first. When I entered the room, she aroused and smiled weakly, but her breathing was labored and I could tell it wouldn't be long. Her husband sat beside her, smiling, too, and said, "My Love is finally going to get her reward." Tears came to my eyes, so I asked if they needed anything and left quickly. I offered care and comfort throughout the evening, and at about midnight she passed away with her husband still holding her hand. I consoled him and with tears running down his cheeks he said, "May I please be alone with her for awhile?" I hugged him and closed the door behind me. I stood outside the room, blotting my tears and missing my friend and her smile. And I could feel the pain of her husband in my own heart. Suddenly from the room came the most beautiful male voice I have ever heard singing. It was almost haunting the way it floated through the halls. All of the other nurses stepped out into the hallways to listen as he sang "Beautiful Brown Eyes" at the top of his lungs. When the tune faded, the door opened and he called to me. He looked me in the eyes then hugged me saying, "I sang that song to her every night from the first day we met. Normally I close the door and keep my voice down so as not to disturb the other patients. But I had to make sure she heard me tonight as she was on her way to heaven. She had to know that she will always be my forever love. Please apologize to anyone I bothered. I just don't know how I will make it without her, but I will continue to sing to her every night. Do you think she will hear me?" I nodded my head "yes," unable to stop my tears. He hugged me again, kissed my cheek, and thanked me for being their nurse and friend. He thanked the other nurses, then turned and walked down the hall, his back hunched, whistling the song softly as he went. As I watched him leave I prayed that I, too, would someday know that kind of forever love. A Friday Night in May "Mr. Walker is coming to my jazz recital," announced Laura, my seven-year-old daughter, as I applied mascara to her blonde eyelashes. Trying not to jab her eyeball, I asked, "What makes you think so?" Mr. Walker, her first-grade teacher, could do no wrong. He'd turned her into a reader, a thinker and an organized student. He was the one who encouraged my tomboy daughter to try dance. He'd told her she shouldn't settle for stereotypes. We settled on jazz – a dance experience that wasn't quite pink ballet slippers but more like rousing funk. She was leery, but decided to give it a try. Now, on the night of her big recital, it appeared she had her heart set on Mr. Walker attending. It's not that I doubted his dedication, it's just that I wouldn't attend a dance recital unless I'd given birth to one of the dancers. I'm not saying they are excruciating, I'm merely suggesting Mr. Walker probably had something more important to do on a Friday night. I felt compelled to prepare my daughter for the real world. I couldn't let her go around thinking her happiness depended on the remote possibility he would attend. "Did he say he'd come?" I inquired gently. "No, but I asked him to," she said, flinching as I removed pink sponge curlers. I launched into a rambling lecture about how not everyone has the time or inclination to witness her stage debut. "Mom," she sighed. "You don't understand. He wants to come. He's my teacher," she concluded, as if that was his sole reason for existence. I figured she'd get over it. After all, you can't prepare your child for all of life's disappointments. And she did have grandparents in from Baltimore, cousins in from Nashville, and an aunt and an uncle attending. It will have to be enough, I thought, miserable because of the complete assurance she had shining from her blue eyes. I got her safely backstage, lipstick applied, hair stiffly sprayed and cowgirl hat securely fastened. Cowgirls, istsy-bitsy-spiders and Arabian dancers crowded around, saying hello, touching each other's cemented curls. "I can't believe it's Laura," said her dance instructor, staring at the sight of Umbro shorts replaced with a fringed cowgirl skirt. "Save a seat for Mr. Walker," she whispered, as I brushed some final blush onto her cheeks. I thought about telling her not to get her hopes up, to try to appreciate the accumulated frequent-flyer miles represented by members of her own family. But I didn't. Maybe, I thought, she'll forget about it. The curtains were about to go up. Our extended family was gathered, when I happened to glance to the back of the theater. There, perusing a program, was Mr. Walker. I hurried to the back and half-dragged him down the aisle to the saved seat in the middle of our family. "You came," I whispered as the curtains rose. Smiling, he gave me the thumbs-up signal. When the little cowgirls came strutting on stage, he clapped and cheered, declaring them talented and wonderful. "How did Mr. Walker like the dance?" was her first question as I retrieved her from the backstage crowd. "How did you know he'd come?" I asked, still amazed. "I just knew," she replied, a smile lighting her face like a candle in a dark room. I know Laura will have a lot of dedicated teachers in he lifetime. She will have creative English teachers, brilliant college professors and inspired dance instructors. But I'm not sure she'll ever have another like Mr. Walker. A teacher who obviously had something important to do on a Friday night in May. A Friend on the Line Even before I finished dialing, I somehow knew I'd made a mistake. The phone rang once, twice - then someone picked it up. "You got the wrong number!" a husky male voice snapped before the line went dead. Mystified, I dialed again. "I said you got the wrong number!" came the voice. Once more the phone clicked in my ear. How could he possibly know I had a wrong number? At that time, I worked for the New York City Police Department. A cop is trained to be curious - and concerned. So I dialed a third time. "Hey, c'mon," the man said. "Is this you again?" "Yeah, it's me," I answered. "I was wondering how you knew I had the wrong number before I even said anything." "You figure it out!" The phone slammed down. I sat there awhile, the receiver hanging loosely in my fingers. I called the man back. "Did you figure it out yet?" he asked. "The only thing I can think of is...nobody ever calls you." "You got it!" The phone went dead for the fourth time. Chuckling, I dialed the man back. "What do you want now?" he asked. "I thought I'd call...just to say hello." "Hello? Why?" "Well, if nobody ever calls you, I thought maybe I should." "Okay. Hello. Who is this?" At last I had gotten through. Now he was curious. I told him who I was and asked who he was. "My name's Adolf Meth. I'm 88 years old, and I haven't had this many wrong numbers in one day in 20 years!" We both laughed. We talked for 10 minutes. Adolf had no family, no friends. Everyone he had been close to had died. Then we discovered we had something in common: he'd worked for the New York City Police Department for nearly 40 years. Telling me about his days there as an elevator operator, he seemed interesting, even friendly. I asked if I could call him again. "Why would you wanta do that?" he asked, surprised. "Well, maybe we could be phone friends. You know, like pen pals." He hesitated. "I wouldn't mind...having a friend again." His voice sounded a little tentative. I called Adolf the following afternoon and several days after that. Easy to talk with, he related his memories of World Wars I and II, the Hindenburg disaster and other historic events. He was fascinating. I gave him my home and office numbers so he could call me. He did - almost every day. I was not just being kind to a lonely old man. Talking with Adolf was important to me, because I, too, had a big gap in my life. Raised in orphanages and foster homes, I never had a father. Gradually, Adolf took on a kind of fatherly importance to me. I talked about my job and college courses, which I attended at night. Adolf warmed to the role of counselor. While discussing a disagreement I'd had with a supervisor, I told my new friend, "I think I ought to have it out with him." "What's the rush?" Adolf cautioned. "Let things cool down. When you get as old as I am, you find out that time takes care of a lot. If things get worse, then you can talk to him." There was a long silence. "You know," he said softly, "I'm talking to you just the way I'd talk to a boy of my own. I always wanted a family - and children. You're too young to know how that feels." No, I wasn't. I'd always wanted a family - and a father. But I didn't say anything, afraid I wouldn't be able to hold back the hurt I'd felt for so long. One evening Adolf mentioned his 89th birthday was coming up. After buying a piece of fiberboard, I designed a 2' x 5' greeting card with a cake and 89 candles on it. I asked all the cops in my office and even the police commissioner to sign it. I gathered nearly a hundred signatures. Adolf would get a kick out of this, I knew. We'd been talking on the phone for four months now, and I thought this would be a good time to meet face to face. So I decided to deliver the card by hand. I didn't tell Adolf I was coming; I just drove to his address one morning and parked the car up the street from his apartment house. A postman was sorting mail in the hallway when I entered the building. He nodded as I checked the mailboxes for Adolf's name. There it was. Apartment 1H, some 20 feet from where I stood. My heart pounded with excitement. Would we have the same chemistry in person that we had on the phone? I felt the first stab of doubt. Maybe he would reject me the way my father rejected me when he went out of my life. I tapped on Adolf's door. When there was no answer, I knocked harder. The postman looked up from his sorting. "No one's there," he said. "Yeah," I said, feeling a little foolish. "If he answers his door the way he answers his phone, this may take all day." "You a relative or something?" "No. Just a friend." "I'm really sorry," he said quietly, "but Mr. Meth died day before yesterday." Died? Adolf? For a moment, I couldn't answer. I stood there in shock and disbelief. Then, pulling myself together, I thanked the postman and stepped into the late-morning sun. I walked toward the car, misty-eyed. Then, rounding a corner, I saw a church, and a line from the Old Testament leaped to mind: A friend loveth at all times. And especially in death, I realized. This brought a moment of recognition. Often it takes some sudden and sad turn of events to awaken us to the beauty of a special presence in our lives. Now, for the first time, I sensed how very close Adolf and I had become. It had been easy, and I knew this would make it even easier the next time, with my next close friend. Slowly, I felt a warmth surging through me. I heard Adolf's growly voice shouting, "Wrong number!" Then I heard him asking why I wanted to call again. "Because you mattered, Adolf," I said aloud to no one. "Because I was your friend." I placed the unopened birthday card on the back seat of my car and got behind the wheel. Before starting the engine, I looked over my shoulder. "Adolf," I whispered, "I didn't get the wrong number at all. I got you." A Garden for Four In San Francisco, where the houses rub shoulders and squat only steps from the street, we don't have gardens. We have backyards. And if you find a place to live with a backyard that has not been cemented over or gone to the dogs, you consider yourself lucky, indeed. Four years ago, I found a new apartment. It had a backyard with a small concrete center patio, as so many of them do. A leaning fence corralled three sides of the yard. Between the patio and the fence, deep beds held a mishmash of bottlebrush and pine. The trees stood in weed patches and everything was tangled in climbing clematis that was busy strangling sweet-smelling jasmine. This apartment happened to sit less than a block from my parents' big, but yardless, condo. They had just retired and were busy with bridge tournaments, guitar lessons and international travel. Dad was still a Hercules of a man, silly, creative and kind. Mom was The Planner. When they enthusiastically offered their gardening services, I was thrilled. I had no idea what would happen next. It started innocently enough. For Christmas, they gave me one of those plastic green scooter seats - "to save your back," Mom said. For my birthday in February, Dad and my brother spent two entire weekends removing the top three inches of "bad dirt" and replacing it with Dad's "good dirt," a secret concoction of who-knows-what mixed with beer dregs. Mom and Dad got a set of keys to my place, "just in case" they felt like puttering in the garden while I was at work. As spring warmed to summer, I began to feel as if leprechauns had moved in; each evening, I'd come home from work to find all sorts of garden mischief. A fragrant, fifty-pound bag of chicken manure materialized in the work shed. His and her watering cans stood at either side of the yard, to save steps and arguments about who last left what can where. And our gardening tool collection grew so fast that I suspected the shovels had married and started a family of little spades, hoes and picks. Had I slept through moonlight work sessions? Window boxes changed their dresses nearly as often as I did. And each time the fog rolled in, rows of bumblebee wind whirligigs clattered in beds of purple petunias and pink impatiens. I would wake up early on Sunday mornings, pull back the drapes and spit coffee at the sight of my parents' dungareed fannies pointing skyward, beginning another full day of planting and pulling. Mom developed a mania for combinations of orange and purple. She planted salvia, marigolds, poppies, golden aster and lavender. The bolts of color blanketing the yard made my eyes hurt. I took to reading my paper wearing sunglasses. Dad, meanwhile, proclaimed himself paramedic to all sick and injured plantings - mainly because he stepped on them himself in his size-thirteen work boots. His gardening prescription? "Give it another week." But my parents' gardening mania was short lived. Less than a year later, and just six weeks before I was to be married, Dad was in a hospice, dying of brain cancer. A ferocious biological weed had sent its tendrils deep into his memory, robbing him of speech and sight. Yet he insisted that whatever happened to him, we mustn't postpone the wedding. I promised him solemnly that we would honor his wish, and we did. I had learned a lot watching my parents enjoy themselves, shaping that city garden in their precious last summer. Working, planning, bickering, experimenting and learning side by side, they built memories for all of us. I realized how much Mom treasured those months when she gave my husband and me a splendid patio set with a gigantic umbrella. "So you can enjoy your garden like your dad and I did," she said with a smile. Recently, my husband - out of the blue - decided to plant a gigantic candy-colored bougainvillea. Nurseryman and neighbors galore warned him that bougainvillea roots are extremely sensitive and that they often get shocky, keeling over dead the minute they are put in the ground. Sure enough, two weekends later, it looked like a tumbleweed, no more than a collection of brittle twigs. "Should we ripe it out?" he asked me. I remembered Dad's favorite gardening cure. "Give it another week," I said. Dad and I were right. I think that cheerful bougainvillea will be cresting our fence by this summer. A Full and Complete Stop A little while ago, I was on a flight back home from a business trip. After the aircraft landed and was taxiing toward the gate, the head steward got on the PA system and began the oft-repeated speech about destinations, gate locations and the service people waiting to help you. Then, as the plane approached the gate, some passengers looked restless, and it appeared as if they were about to stand up. Seeing this, the steward announced, "We have invested a lot of money to ensure that your flight has been safe and comfortable. We are also looking for ways to save money, and this aircraft is participating in a new experiment. To reduce costs, we are asking for volunteers to help clean the cabin upon our arrival. Those wishing to volunteer for cabin clean-up, please stand up before we come to a full and complete stop." Not a single passenger left his or her seat until we were at the gate, and the seat belt sign was turned off. A Grandpa's Love I stared from the deck of my hotel room, intrigued. An older gentleman was assisting a young girl as she struggled to walk down the beach. He must be her grandfather, I thought. Somehow, I was drawn to the drama of the twosome, and winced as she fell. The graying man helped her to her feet, and she continued painstakingly plodding through the sand. That evening, as I ate in the hotel restaurant, and watched as the same young girl proceeded to get up from the table and reach for her walker. She grasped it firmly with both hands, and leaning heavily, she made her way out of the restaurant, smiling as she went. As I sipped my coffee in the lobby the next morning, I noticed a sign tacked to the announcement board. "Special Olympics Relays." Ah, I thought, that must be what the walking lessons are all about. Over the next three days, I watched as the grandfather patiently worked with his student. "You can do it, Sweetheart. Let's get up and try again." And at this encouragement, she would struggle again to her feet. On the morning of the Olympics, as I visited with friends in the lobby, a beautiful bouquet of roses was delivered to the front desk. The girl soon appeared for her delivery, her face brightening at the sight. She smiled as she read the card. As she walked away, the card slipped from her fingers and she continued down the hallway. I stepped quickly to retrieve it, glancing at the handwritten words as I hurried after her, "To my sweet Elizabeth – you have been the greatest encouragement to my heart these last few days. I love and am proud of you. Win or lose, you will always be my little miracle from God. Love, Grandpa." She had disappeared around the corner, so I put the card in my pocket to give to her later. Now attached to the little girl and her grandpa, I felt compelled to watch her Olympic event – a quarter-mile. She definitely was a fighter. I cheered as she crossed the finish line – second place. She smiled as she stood on the awards platform, and a tear slipped down her cheek as the medal was placed around her neck. She told the crowd, "I especially want to thank my grandpa for believing in me when I had no one else." I found her later and returned her card. I said, "Congratulations!" As we talked, she revealed that she and her parents were hit by a drunk driver three years prior. She was the only survivor. Her grandfather shook my hand and said, "By the grace of God alone, this little girl is alive and able to accomplish what she did today." Elizabeth smiled and hugged her grandpa. "Everyone gave up hope that I would ever walk again. My grandpa was the only one who didn't." A High School Love Not Forgotten When they saw him walking across our high school campus, most students couldn't help but notice Bruce. Tall and lanky, he was a thinner replica of James Dean, his hair flipped back above his forehead, and his eyebrows always cocked upward when he was in deep conversation. He was tender, thoughtful and profound. He would never hurt anyone. I was scared of him. I was just breaking up with my not-so-smart boyfriend, the one you stayed with and went back to 30 times out of bad habit, when Bruce headed me off at a campus pass one morning to walk with me. He helped me carry my books and made me laugh a dozen times with giddiness. I liked him. I really liked him. He scared me because he was brilliant. But in the end, I realized I was more scared of myself than of him. We started to walk together more at school. I would peer up at him from my stuffed locker, my heart beating rapidly, wondering if he would ever kiss me. We'd been seeing each other for several weeks and he still hadn't tried to kiss me. Instead, he'd hold my hand, put his arm around me and send me off with one of my books to class. When I opened it, a handwritten note in his highly stylized writing would be there, speaking of love and passion in a deeper sense than I could understand at 17. He would send me books, cards, notes, and would sit with me at my house for hours listening to music. He especially liked me to listen to the song, "You Brought Some Joy Inside My Tears," by Stevie Wonder. At work one day I received a card from him that said, "I miss you when I'm sad. I miss you when I'm lonely. But most of all, I miss you when I'm happy." I remember walking down the street of our small village, cars honking, the warm lights from stores beckoning strollers to come in from the cold, and all I could think about was, "Bruce misses me most when he's happy. What a strange thing." I felt deeply uncomfortable to have such a romantic spirit by my side, a boy - really a man at 17 - who thought his words out wisely, listened to every side of an argument, read poetry deep into the night and weighed his decisions carefully. I sensed a deep sadness in him but couldn't understand it. Looking back, I now think the sadness stemmed from being a person who really didn't fit into the high school plan. Our relationship was so different from the one I'd had with my prior boyfriend. Our lives had been mostly movies and popcorn and gossip. We broke up routinely and dated other people. At times, it seemed like the whole campus was focused on the drama of our breakups, which were always intense and grand entertainment for our friends to discuss. A good soap opera. I talked to Bruce about these things and with each story, he'd respond by putting his arm around me and telling me he'd wait while I sorted things out. And then he would read to me. He gave me the book "The Little Prince," with the words underlined, "It's only in thy mind's eye that one can see rightly." In response - the only way I knew how - I wrote passionate letters of love and poetry to him with an intensity I never knew before. But still I kept my walls up, keeping him at bay because I was always afraid that he'd discover I was fake, not nearly as intelligent or as deep a thinker as I found him to be. I wanted the old habits of popcorn, movies and gossip back. It was so much easier. I remember well the day when Bruce and I stood outside in the cold and I told him I was going back to my old boyfriend. "He needs me more," I said in my girlish voice. "Old habits die hard." Bruce looked at me with sadness, more for me than for himself. He knew, and I knew then, I was making a mistake. Years went by. Bruce went off to college first, then I did. Every time I came home for Christmas, I looked him up and went over for a visit with him and his family. I always loved his family - the warm greetings they gave me when they ushered me into their house, always happy to see me. I knew just by the way his family behaved that Bruce had forgiven me for my mistake. One Christmas, Bruce said to me: "You were always a good writer. You were so good." "Yes," his mother nodded in agreement. "You wrote beautifully. I hope you'll never give up your writing." "But how do you know about my writing?" I asked his mom. "Oh, Bruce shared all the letters you wrote him with me," she said. "He and I could never get over how beautifully you wrote." Then I saw his father's head nod, too. I sank back in my chair and blushed deeply. What exactly had I written in those letters? I never knew Bruce had admired my writing as much as I had his intelligence. Over the years, we lost touch. The last I heard from his father, Bruce had gone off to San Francisco and was thinking about becoming a chef. I went through dozens of bad relationships until I finally married a wonderful man - also very smart. I was more mature by then and could handle my husband's intelligence - especially when he'd remind me I had my own. There's not one other boyfriend I ever think about with any interest, except for Bruce. Most of all, I hope he is happy. He deserves it. In many ways, I think he helped shape me, helped me learn how to accept the side of myself I refused to see amid movies, popcorn and gossip. He taught me how to see my spirit and my writer inside A Hug from a Teenage Boy As northern Canadians we share many memories of cold winters. At Christmas time, I often reflect upon one particular evening of a prairie winter in the early sixties. Though the frost was cruel, the reminiscence is warm. We were students at college in Prince Albert, Saskatchewan, most of us living away from home for the first time. Hanging a few strips of tinsel in our rooms didn't relieve the feeling of homesickness that had overtaken our dorm. What could we do to bring on the Christmas spirit, stave off our longing for home and maybe brighten someone else's life? One of my friends suggested going caroling. That was it! Every student at our small college was rousted out for the occasion. No auditions. No voice lessons. No excuses. Warmth of spirit was the only requirement. And our enthusiasm served as an electric soul-warmer for those who seemed lacking in spirit. We divided into groups so our music would resound over most of our college town. The group I joined had nothing resembling four-part harmony, but we could collectively make a joyful noise. Bounding boisterously and carrying a tune in our hearts, we made our first call. "Deck the Halls," we tra-la-la-ed. Soon we discovered that caroling brings a variety of responses. When you carol for people you know, you can be sure of open doors and open hearts; when you carol for strangers, you can't be sure of what kind of reception you will get. Some folks remained in the safety and coziness of their homes, watching and listening passively through living room windows. Others cautiously propped the door open enough to hear us, but not enough to let in the cold - or their unknown guests. Some flung wide their doors and sang along; others watched in silent reverie. One of the stops on our journey was a three-story apartment building. With no intercoms or security cameras to deter us in those days, we walked right in. Starting our performance in the basement, we sang mostly to closed doors. After a couple of songs we headed for the main floor. Two doors swung open. One doorway framed a young couple, obviously expecting a child. In another doorway, two preschoolers clung to their parent's legs. Surprise? Wonder? Curiosity? Their faces seemed to ask, Who are these strange, bundled-up people? And why are they doing this? We sang "Away in a Manger" for the young ones. We continued with "Oh, Little Town of Bethlehem" for our seemingly appreciative gathering. Mounting the stairs to the third floor, we burst into "It Came upon the Midnight Clear," a song that suited the night. One door on the top floor creaked open. A stately gentleman, grey-haired and thin, held onto his doorknob. He became our audience of one. As we murmured about what to sing next, the elderly fellow asked, "Would you come into our apartment and sing for my wife? She's bedridden. I know she'd love to hear you. My wife used to be an opera singer," he added proudly, "and she's always loved music." All eight of us stepped timidly into the couple's tiny, crowded bachelor suite. Books, records, china, antique furniture and mementoes whispered stories to us. I reminded myself not to stare for fear of invading their privacy. This was their home, their sanctuary and a hallowed place where the old-timer watched over his fragile partner. Her silver bed-mussed head made only a small dint in her pillow. Without a word, he adjusted his wife's headrest so she could see and hear us better. Then he gave a nod. Our voices rose and warbled through "Hark the Herald Angels Sing." Had our voices been given extra grace and beauty for this occasion? Perhaps they had - we sang rather well for such a motley, impromptu crew. A smile flickered on the lady's gaunt, wrinkled, yet beautiful, face. Her eyes sparkled softly. Tears rolled down her cheeks. Her husband requested "Joy to the World" and "Silent Night," two of her favourites. 相关链接：阅读专题指导
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