A Second Chicken Soup for the Woman's Soul

by Jack Canfield

  Welcome to A Second Chicken Soup for the Woman's Soul: 101 More Stories to Open the Hearts and Rekindle the Spirits of Women.

  Since the first Chicken Soup for the Woman's Soul came out, we have been overwhelmed by the response from readers around the world. The book has been at the top of every major bestseller's list in the United States, and it continues to be read by millions.

  But what has moved us most is the feedback about how the stories have touched the lives of women around the world. Our goal in writing that book was to open the hearts and touch the souls of women everywhere. Apparently, that happened.

  In fact, many readers told us that these stories are like potato chipsonce you start, you can't read just one. The letters and comments we have received have been so moving and inspiring that we wanted to share a few with you.

  From the Bahamas: ''It was just absolutely one of the best books I have read for a long time. When I was about halfway into the book, I deliberately slowed down because I did not want the beautiful stories to end.''

  From New Zealand: ". . . after reading this book, I can honestly say that I say more thank-yous, and as I climb into a warm bed at night, I count my blessings."

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  From Michigan: "The stories made me crynot out of sadness but out of joy. I said to myself, 'Who are these women and how come I don't know them? They are so much like me, sometimes struggling but with an amazing sense of self.'I found myself then saying, 'I do know them. I am them.' "

  From California: "I suffer from depression. I've never wanted to take anti-depressants due to their side effects. Your books work as my medication. As long as I am able to read at least a story or two a day, I feel okay. Being a single mom, life is hard enough, but your books give me what I need to make it a little easier."

  We are often asked why the Chicken Soup for the Soul books have become such a phenomenon. From our experience, people seem to be soul-starved. With all the bad news that we hear all day long, people are relieved to hear these true stories of hope, courage, love and inspiration. They nourish the soul.

  Mother Teresa has said:

  The greatest disease in the West today is not TB or leprosy; it is being unwanted, unloved and uncared for. We can cure physical diseases with medicine, but the only cure for loneliness, despair and hopelessness is love. There are many in the world who are dying for a piece of bread, but there are many more dying for a little love. The poverty in the West is a different kind of povertyit is not only a poverty of loneliness but also of spirituality. There's a hunger for love. . . .

  The stories in A Second Chicken Soup for the Woman's Soul are about ordinary people doing extraordinary things. We are happy to celebrate the good in people and we hope that this '"soup" helps satisfy, even in some small way, the hunger for love in the world.

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  SHARE WITH US

  We would love to hear your reactions to the stories in this book. Please let us know what your favorite stories were and how they affected you.

  We also invite you to send us stories you would like to see published in future editions of Chicken Soup for the Woman's Soul. You can send us either stories you have written or stories written by others that you have liked.

  Send your submissions to:

  Chicken Soup for the Woman's Soul

  P.O. Box 1959, Dept. WS2

  Fairfield, IA 52556

  e-mail:

  You can also visit the Chicken Soup for the Soul site on America Online at keyword: chickensoup.

  We hope you enjoy reading this book as much as we enjoyed compiling, editing and writing it.

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  1

  ON LOVE

  Nobody has ever measured, not even poets, how much the heart can hold.

  Zelda Fitzgerald

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  The Wallet

  As I walked home one freezing day, I stumbled on a wallet someone had lost in the street. I picked it up and looked inside to find some identification so I could call the owner. But the wallet contained only three dollars and a crumpled letter that looked as if it had been in there for years.

  The envelope was worn and the only thing that was legible on it was the return address. I started to open the letter, hoping to find some clue. Then I saw the dateline1924. The letter had been written almost sixty years earlier.

  It was written in a beautiful feminine handwriting, on powder-blue stationery with a little flower in the left-hand corner. It was a "Dear John" letter that told the recipient, whose name appeared to be Michael, that the writer could not see him any more because her mother forbade it. Even so, she wrote that she would always love him. It was signed Hannah.

  It was a beautiful letter, but there was no way, except for the name Michael, to identify the owner. Maybe if I called information, the operator could find a phone listing for the address on the envelope.

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  "Operator," I began, "this is an unusual request. I'm trying to find the owner of a wallet that I found. Is there any way you can tell me if there is a phone number for an address that was on an envelope in the wallet?"

  She suggested I speak with her supervisor, who hesitated for a moment, then said, 'Well, there is a phone listing at that address, but I can't give you the number." She said as a courtesy, she would call that number, explain my story and ask whoever answered if the person wanted her to connect me. I waited a few minutes and then the supervisor was back on the line. "I have a party who will speak with you."

  I asked the woman on the other end of the line if she knew anyone by the name of Hannah. She gasped. 'Oh! We bought this house from a family who had a daughter named Hannah. But that was thirty years ago!"

  'Would you know where that family could be located now?" I asked.

  "I remember that Hannah had to place her mother in a nursing home some years ago," the woman said. "Maybe if you got in touch with them, they might be able to track down the daughter."

  She gave me the name of the nursing home, and I called the number. The woman on the phone told me the old lady had passed away some years ago, but the nursing home did have a phone number for where the daughter might be living.

  I thanked the person at the nursing home and phoned the number she gave me. The woman who answered explained that Hannah herself was now living in a nursing home.

  This whole thing is stupid, I thought to myself. Why am I making such a big deal over finding the owner of a wallet that has only three dollars and a letter that is almost sixty years old?

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  Nevertheless, I called the nursing home in which Hannah was supposed to be living, and the man who answered the phone told me, "Yes, Hannah is staying with us."

  Even though it was already 10 P.M., I asked if I could come by to see her. 'Well," he said hesitatingly, 'if you want to take a chance, she might be in the day room watching television."

  I thanked him and drove over to the nursing home. The night nurse and a guard greeted me at the door. We went up to the third floor of the large building. In the day room, the nurse introduced me to Hannah. She was a sweet, silver-haired old-timer with a warm smile and a twinkle in her eye.

  I told her about finding the wallet and showed her the letter. The second she saw the powder-blue envelope with that little flower on the left, she took a deep breath and said, "Young man, this letter was the last contact I ever had with Michael."

  She looked away for a moment, deep in thought, and then said softly, "I loved him very much. But I was only sixteen at the time and my mother felt I was too young. Oh, he was so handsome. He looked like Sean Connery, the actor.

  "Yes,' she continued, "Michael Goldstein was a wonderful person. If you should find him, tell him I think of him often. And," she hesitated for a moment, almost biting her lip, "tell him I still love him. You know," she said, smiling as tears welled up in her eyes, "I never did marry. I guess no one ever matched up to Michael . . ."

  I thanked Hannah and said good
-bye. I took the elevator to the first floor and as I stood by the door, the guard there asked, "Was the old lady able to help you?"

  I told him she had given me a lead. "At least I have a last name. But I think I'll let it go for a while. I spent almost the

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  whole day trying to find the owner of this wallet."

  I had taken out the wallet, which was a simple brown leather case with red lacing on the side. When the guard saw it, he said, "Hey, wait a minute! That's Mr. Goldstein's wallet. I'd know it anywhere with that bright red lacing. He's always losing that wallet. I must have found it in the halls at least three times."

  "Who's Mr. Goldstein?" I asked, as my hand began to shake.

  "He's one of the old-timers on the eighth floor. That's Mike Goldstein's wallet for sure. He must have lost it on one of his walks."

  I thanked the guard and quickly ran back to the nurse's office. I told her what the guard had said. We went back to the elevator and got on. I prayed that Mr. Goldstein would be up.

  On the eighth floor, the floor nurse said, "I think he's still in the day room. He likes to read at night. He's a darling old man."

  We went to the only room that had any lights on, and there was a man reading a book. The nurse went over to him and asked if he had lost his wallet. Mr. Goldstein looked up with surprise, put his hand in his back pocket and said, "Oh, it is missing!"

  "This kind gentleman found a wallet and we wondered if it could be yours."

  I handed Mr. Goldstein the wallet, and the second he saw it, he smiled with relief and said, "Yes, that's it! It must have dropped out of my pocket this afternoon. I want to give you a reward."

  'No, thank you,' I said. "But I have to tell you something. I read the letter in the hope of finding out who owned the wallet."

  The smile on his face suddenly disappeared. "You read that letter?"

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  Not only did I read it, I think I know where Hannah is."

  He suddenly grew pale. "Hannah? You know where she is? How is she? Is she still as pretty as she was? Please, please tell me," he begged.

  "She's fine . . . just as pretty as when you knew her," I said softly.

  The old man smiled with anticipation and asked, "Could you tell me where she is? I want to call her tomorrow." He grabbed my hand and said, "You know something, mister? I was so in love with that girl that when that letter came, my life literally ended. I never married. I guess I've always loved her."

  "Michael," I said, "come with me."

  We took the elevator down to the third floor. The hallways were darkened and only one or two little night lights lit our way to the day room, where Hannah was sitting alone, watching the television.

  The nurse walked over to her.

  "Hannah," she said softly, pointing to Michael, who was waiting with me in the doorway. "Do you know this man?"

  She adjusted her glasses, looked for a moment, but didn't say a word.

  Michael said softly, almost in a whisper, "Hannah, it's Michael. Do you remember me?"

  She gasped. "Michael! I don't believe it! Michael! It's you! My Michael!"

  He walked slowly toward her, and they embraced. The nurse and I left with tears streaming down our faces.

  "See," I said. "See how the good Lord works! If it's meant to be, it will be."

  About three weeks later, I got a call at my office from the nursing home. "Can you break away on Sunday to attend a wedding? Michael and Hannah are going to tie the knot!"

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  It was a beautiful wedding, with all the people at the nursing home dressed up to join in the celebration. Hannah wore a light beige dress and looked beautiful. Michael wore a dark blue suit and stood tall. They made me their best man.

  The hospital gave them their own room, and if you ever wanted to see a seventy-six-year-old bride and a seventy-nine-year-old groom acting like two teenagers, you had to see this couple.

  A perfect ending for a love affair that had lasted nearly sixty years.

  Arnold Fine

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  A Gift for Robby

  Little Robby, our neighbor's nephew, carefully spooned some of his water ration into a saucer and started for the door. How I hated this water rationing. We were forced to bathe without soap in the deep little pond we shared with Jessie, our cow. She was all we had now. Wells were dry, crops transformed to dust and blew away with our dreams, during the worst drought our small farming community had ever seen.

  I held the screen open for Robby and watched, smiling, as he slowly sat on the steps. Dozens of bees circled his tousled brown curls in an angel's halo. He imitated their buzzing, which brought them to the saucer to sip the precious liquid.

  His aunt's words echoed in my ears:

  I don't know what I was thinking when I took him in. Doctors say he wasn't hurt in the crash that killed my sister, but he can't talk. Oh, he makes noises all right, but they aren't human. He's in a world all his own, that boy, not like my children at all.''

  Why couldn't she see the wonderful gifts this four-year-old boy possessed? My heart ached for Robby. He

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  had become the dearest part of our world, eagerly tending the garden with me and riding the tractor or pitching hay with my husband, Tom. He was blessed with a loving nature and a deep admiration for all living things, and I knew he could talk to animals.

  We rejoiced in discoveries he joyfully shared with us. His inquisitive and often impish brown eyes mirrored an understanding of everything verbal. I longed to adopt him. His aunt had hinted often enough. We even called ourselves Mom and Dad to Robby, and before the drought had discussed adoption. But times were so bleak now that I couldn't approach the subject with Tom. The job he was forced to take in town to buy feed for Jessie and bare necessities for us had exacted its toll on his spirit.

  Robby's aunt eagerly agreed to our request that he live with us for the summer. All his days were spent in our company anyway. I brushed away a tear, remembering how tiny and helpless he looked when she hastily put his hand in mine and gave me a rumpled brown paper bag. It contained two faded T-shirts we had bought him last year at the county fair and a hand-me-down pair of shorts. This and the clothes he wore were his only belongings, with the exception of one prized possession.

  On a silken cord around his neck dangled a hand-carved whistle. Tom had made it for him in case he was ever lost or in danger. After all, he could not call out for help. He knew perfectly well that the whistle was not a toy. It was for emergencies only, and to blow on it would bring us both running. I had told him the story of the boy who cried wolf, and I knew he understood me.

  I sighed as I dried and put away the last supper dish. Tom came into the kitchen and picked up the dishpan. Every ounce of recycled water was saved for a tiny vegetable garden Robby had planted beside the porch. He was

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  so proud of it, we tried desperately to save it. But without rain soon, it too would be lost. Tom put the pan on the counter and turned to me.

  ''You know, honey," he started, "I've been thinking a lot about Robby lately."

  My heart began to pound in anticipation, but before he could continue, a shrill blast from the yard made us jump. My God! It's Robby's whistle! By the time we reached the door, the whistle was blowing at a feverish pace. Visions of a rattlesnake filled my head as we raced into the yard. When we reached him, Robby was pointing frantically skyward, and we couldn't pry the whistle from his grip.