Then, when I was six, my Uncle Jesse was diagnosed with cancer. He was sick for a whole year, and finally died shortly after my seventh birthday. I missed him so much. I cried for days after losing him. I still cling to the present he gave me on my sixth birthday.
Shortly after Uncle Jesse died we all moved to a new house in a new town. My mom told us we moved because of a job opportunity she had there that she didn’t have in our old town. Now that it was up to her to support us, the move was important.
In our new house, I always felt kind of lonely and so did my brother and sister. We were in a new place and had to try to make new friends. It wasn’t all that easy, and we all still missed Uncle Jesse. We kids spent a lot of time alone in our new house because Mom was always working. But we all felt like we could make it if we stuck together as a family.
Then one summer, the beginning of a miracle happened. My mom took us camping, and we took our grandma along with us. My grandma met the man that was staying in the cabin next to ours, and she introduced him to the rest of us. We all ended up becoming friends with this guy, David. He was so funny. He would bring flowers to my mom and also to my grandma at the same time. Maybe he thought we didn’t know what he was up to, but we all knew. We didn’t mind because he was really a great guy.
After we came back from our camping trip, my mom and David kept in contact with phone calls and by writing to each other. Eventually, they started seeing each other even though he lived in another city and it was a long drive for him. David would visit my mom and take us all out. He even remembered my birthday, and sent a birthday present to me! We all really liked him.
Then, two years after they met, David proposed to my mom. They got married three days before my twelfth birthday. Even though they were gone on their honeymoon for my birthday, David and my mom made sure that I still had a birthday party.
After my mom married David, our family moved in with his family, and our two smaller families became one big family. I gained two more brothers and another sister. I guess we are kind of like the Brady Bunch! Our family now consists of my parents, David and Bonnie, six kids plus a son-in-law and a daughter-in-law, and two grand-babies—with another one on the way!
When I look back on it now, I have come a long way from being a sad and lonely little girl passed from relative to relative to being the person I am today—part of a big, happy family. I can’t imagine what my life would have been like if my Aunt Bonnie hadn’t taken me in. She promised me that she would love me and take care of me—no matter what— and she has done exactly that. Without her in my life, I would have been a motherless child, but because of her I have a great family and the best mom in the world.
With my mom as my shining example, I have learned about strength, dedication and love. Even though I wasn’t born to her, she has been my mother in every way. She has been there to hold me when I’ve been sick, to help me with my homework, to support me when I’ve needed her and to work hard to take care of all of us. In return, I love her more than she’ll ever know. I don’t know what I would have done without her. These words are few, but they are from the bottom of my heart. . . .
Thanks, Mom. I love you!
Apryl Anderson, fifteen
THE FAMILY CIRCUS® By Bil Keane
“Look, Mommy! You have a star on the driveway of fame.”
Reprinted by permission of Bil Keane.
4
ON LOVE
True treasure is not found in pirate ships, in chests of silver and gold.
True treasure isn’t ruby rings and jewels from long ago.
You don’t need to use a treasure map and find chests beneath the sea.
True treasure is simply the love and joy found in you and me.
Leigha Dickens, eleven
Bobby Lee
Love and kindness are never wasted. They always make a difference. They bless the one who receives them, and they bless you, the giver.
Barbara De Angelis
I walked home with my little brother every day the same way, past an oil refinery. Mom always told us to walk together and never to talk to strangers. One day, that walk home changed forever. As my brother and I passed the oil refinery, I heard an old man’s voice.
“Hey there, children.”
I turned and saw a very old man standing there with a sweet smile on his face.
“Hi,” I answered, still keeping my distance.
“Would you like a soda pop? I know you walk by here every day. I don’t mean you any harm.”
I was already hot from walking and carrying my heavy backpack, but I knew what my mother would do once my little brother ratted on me for talking to strangers.
“No thanks. I’m not allowed to talk to strangers,” I replied.
“Oh, I understand. And your mama’s right. My name’s Bobby. Now run along,” he said as he disappeared behind the gate of the refinery.
What a strange man, I thought. But I also felt bad, thinking I may have insulted him by calling him a stranger.
I went home and reported to my mom what had happened. My mother told me that I was right not to talk to strangers, so I tried avoiding this stranger for the following few days, but it was impossible. Other streets were not as safe to walk on, and every time we passed the refinery, a familiar voice would say, “Hello there, children.”
Then one day, my family was taking a walk around the neighborhood. We were just about to pass the refinery when I noticed the gate was ajar. I remember silently praying that Bobby would appear and prove once and for all that he was a “good” stranger. And there he was.
He smiled as he approached my mother, “Well, you must be Little Miss Pretty’s mama! And you must be her daddy! It is so nice to meet you.”
The genuine smile and surprise on my parents’ faces were all I needed to see. They spoke for a few minutes and then, walking home, my parents said it would be safe for us to visit Bobby after school.
My brother and I would stop to visit Bobby after school every day after that. He would invite us into his tiny office to talk about my schoolwork, my friends and sports.
It wasn’t long before I started getting a few friends to walk home with me just to meet Bobby. Before long, a group of about fourteen kids went daily to visit Bobby and receive our sodas and gum. Thinking back, I now realize that Bobby bought all those treats just for us . . . and there were a lot of us to treat!
We visited Bobby every day after school for about three years! My mother finally decided it was time to do something nice for Bobby. So, with some thought and a lot of effort, she arranged for a plaque-giving ceremony to be held at the refinery on Father’s Day. All of the children who visited Bobby, and even some of their parents, were invited. And you know what? Most of them came.
On the plaque, my mother had engraved “To the Neighborhood Grandfather,” and all of our names were engraved below that. I remember that Bobby cried when he received it. I don’t think he’d ever been surrounded with so much adoration in his long life.
The following holiday, my mother gave Bobby an enlarged photograph of the “Neighborhood Grandfather ceremony” with all of us kids standing around him.
One cold afternoon in February, we stopped by as usual, only to be told that Bobby had died. I remember crying for days after hearing the news. He really had been like another grandfather to me.
My mother went with two other mothers to the funeral service. There, right on the coffin, were three items: the American flag folded into a triangle shape (as is customary for war veterans), the plaque we gave him and the photograph of that memorable Father’s Day ceremony with all of us kids standing around him. Bobby had no children. I guess we were his children.
To this day I think about him—an old man with no responsibilities to family, taking in a group of “strange” little kids who ended up meaning so much to him. I know now there was a reason why I met Bobby and why a group of us went to see him every day. He was able to die knowing that somebody loved him.
; Daphne M. Orenshein
DENNIS THE MENACE
“I’d trade everything in there for a pony an’ two bales o’ hay.”
DENNIS THE MENACE. ©Used by permission of Hank Ketcham and © by North America Syndicate.
Love Lives On
Whatever happens inside of you that makes you fall in love with horses happened to me. I devoured every horse book I could get my hands on, checking them out of our library again and again. Man O’ War, the true story about the greatest thoroughbred racehorse of all time, was my favorite. I must have read that book ten times. I pictured myself owning the huge red horse, loving him with all my heart, but knowing I could never ride him because he was a champion racehorse, not a pet.
I asked my parents if I could take riding lessons and they agreed. I learned to ride well, made many friends at the stable, and my love of horses and the sport of riding grew.
After a year of lessons, I decided that what I wanted more than anything on Earth was a horse of my own. I asked my parents, and they agreed—if I earned half of the money to buy the horse. I worked all summer and saved one hundred dollars, a fortune in those days. At last, my dad said, “Find your horse, girl!”
Two hundred dollars wasn’t much to buy a horse, and the one I had my eye on was going for five hundred dollars. “A deal is a deal,” said my dad, so I could only watch as the beautiful black mare was sold to someone else. Disappointed, but still determined, I was introduced to a woman who told me that she had a horse she would sell me for two hundred dollars, but she doubted that I would want him, explaining that she had rescued him from an abusive owner and that he hadn’t been ridden in years.
As we walked to the back of the stables, I was so excited that my heart was pounding. The woman explained that she thought I was a good horsewoman and that when she heard that I was looking for a horse—on a limited budget, no less—she had thought that perhaps it was time for this horse to come back to the world.
We walked up to the stall and she opened the door, cautioning me “not to expect too much.” I was trembling with excitement as the sunlight spilled into the stall. There he was, an old giant of a thoroughbred, with gray sprinkled through his shiny, flame-colored coat. He turned and looked cautiously at us, and as I stepped into the stall he flattened his ears and bared his teeth. The woman explained that he had been beaten and had a mistrust of strangers, but that he wasn’t mean, just afraid.
“What’s his name?” I asked.
“We call him Rusty,” she said.
“Rusty,” I called gently, and his ears came up at the sound of his name. The woman handed me a carrot, and I held it out to him. He stepped forward slowly, but before he took the treat, he turned his head slightly and looked into my eyes. We held the gaze for just a moment, and then he took it from my hand.
When he was done munching his carrot, we led him out into the sunlight. What I saw was the most beautiful horse I had ever laid my eyes on. What most others saw was a twenty-year-old, swaybacked horse, sporting a potbelly.
“I’ll take him!” I cried, startling him so that he jerked his head back and snorted all over me. I laughed and reached up to pet the long, white blaze that ran down the front of his nose, and he lowered his head and begged for more.
That summer we were inseparable, and I spent all my free time riding him. He grew strong and energetic for his age. I often saw the woman who had sold him to me, and she would tell me how good he looked.
That fall, we moved Rusty to a small stable near our home, so I could ride him as often as possible during the school year. I began getting involved in the world of competitive horse showing. Rusty thrived on all the attention and competition, and even though he usually was twice the age of the other horses, the judges loved him, and we took home many blue ribbons during the next two years.
But one morning, as I arrived at the stables to go riding, something was different. Instead of standing, ears pricked forward and bellowing a hello, Rusty was still laying down in his stall when I walked up. He rose when he saw me, nickering softly, and I figured maybe it was just his age getting to him. After all, he was twenty-two years old. We rode quietly that day, stopping for lunch to share the same sandwich and chips. How he loved potato chips! But he was not hungry, and when I told my dad about it, he decided to call the vet.
The vet came to see him, and what he said was a shock to us. He believed that Rusty had cancer, and he referred us to a specialist for further tests. My parents and I had talked about the situation, and we decided that due to his advanced age, if the specialist told us that he was suffering, that we would elect to have him humanely put to sleep. I understood this on one level; on my heart level I was crushed.
That morning we loaded Rusty into the trailer and I waved good-bye to him, pretty sure it was for the last time. My parents had thought it would be best if I didn’t go with Rusty to the vet. I had spent the entire night before with him, crying and laughing, remembering all the things we’d done together and the lessons we’d learned. I’d thanked him for being there for me during a tough time in my life when I didn’t think anybody cared, but I knew he did. Unconditional love, that’s what he had given me.
Later that day, I was lying on my bed at home, all cried out, when my dad came in. He told me, “There is a guy out front who wants to see you.” I was fifteen years old, and I figured it was just one of my school friends coming by to talk. I asked my dad to explain that I couldn’t come out now, but he said, “Honey, you’ll want to see this boy.”
I rose up from my bed and looked out the window. There, backed up into our driveway, was the horse trailer, and inside was Rusty! I tore outside and jumped up next to him, hugging his neck and crying with happiness. He stood quietly and took in my love, and when I stepped back, he turned his head and looked into my eyes, as he had done years before, and winked.
Rusty stayed with me for another happy year before the cancer took him. By then, we were a little more prepared.
All these years later, I still miss him. But, even though he isn’t here physically, I realize that love lives on, and that Rusty will live in my heart forever.
Laurie Hartman
Dusty, the Wonder Dog
When I was a kid, my godparents, Uncle Nell and Aunt Frances, brought me a four-month-old puppy. She was half German shepherd, half collie. As her pink tongue tickled my face with wet licks, it was love at first hug.
My family named the puppy Dusty. Although I wanted to lay sole claim to her affections, in a family of seven kids, no one lays permanent claim to the family pet.
Dusty was our dog, not my dog. We soon realized that she had the patience of Buddha. My baby sister often transformed Dusty’s warm fur into a nap-time pillow— falling asleep on the rug. Like a protective mother, Dusty waited—without moving—until my sister woke.
Dusty doubled as a school crossing guard, too. Monday through Friday she’d walk us kids two blocks to St. Patrick’s Parochial, looking both ways to check for traffic before allowing us to cross the street. We’d wave goodbye as we entered the door, knowing Dusty would be waiting at the school door to claim us at the close of the school day.
Of all the contributions Dusty made to our family, one incident stands out far and above all others.
Late one night, Dusty rushed to my parents’ bedroom. She barked and barked. When she got no response, Dusty raced upstairs to my bedroom and my brothers’ bedroom and barked again and again. When she failed to fully wake us, she flew back down the steps and returned to my parents’ room. Finally, she got Mom’s attention.
“What are you doing, Dusty?” Mom snapped, still halfway in dreamland. Dusty persisted. Finally my mother gave in. “Okay, what is it?”
Dusty whined and rushed out of Mom’s room. Thinking the dog needed to be let out to relieve herself, my mother followed Dusty to the front door.
When Mom opened the door to let her out, Dusty tore across the street, not stopping to do her business as my mother had assumed. Then she disc
overed what Dusty already knew. The house across the street—where my best friend, Marianne, and her family lived—was on fire. All of Dusty’s middle-of-the-night craziness had served a purpose: she’d been trying to call for help.
My mother alerted the fire department immediately. Soon, the firemen in their trucks roared up the street, squelching the blaze and saving my best friend’s family from harm and their house from total ruin.
My mother refused to take credit. “It was Dusty,” she told the firefighters. “She saved them. Not me.”
I put my arms around my dog’s neck and kissed her square on the tip of her wet nose. “Thank you for saving Marianne,” I whispered into Dusty’s tan and black ear. “You’re the bravest dog I’ve ever known.”
Dusty wagged her tail and licked my face. That old familiar rush of puppy love overtook me. I smiled and promised to let her sleep in my bed for the rest of her life.
Mary Saracino
The Teacher Who Cared
A teacher affects eternity; no one can tell where his influence stops.
Henry Adams
Mrs. Barrow, room 501, room 501, I repeated to myself as I scanned the hallways looking for the room number. It was my first day of fifth grade and I was really scared.
I came to the end of the hall and found an open door. Stepping into the room, I suddenly felt out of place. I tried to act normal, but Mrs. Barrow saw right through me.
101 Stories of Changes, Choices and Growing Up for Kids Ages 9-13 Page 10
