“Good morning, Courtni. You may pick your seat.”
I glanced about the room and took an empty seat near a girl named Wendy Barber. As the year slowly progressed, Wendy and I became good friends. I felt no closeness to Mrs. Barrow, though. I saw her as “just another teacher.”
Mrs. Barrow had us write a paper on what we wanted to be when we grew up. Some kids asked why. She explained that when her former students graduated, she liked them to come back and share their fifth-grade dreams together, as a memento of their childhood. I decided right then and there that I liked Mrs. Barrow.
Then, my grandmother, who lived with us, was diagnosed with pancreatic cancer. About a month later, Grandma slipped into a coma and died. Losing her was unbearable for me. I missed some school because I was so sad.
At the funeral, I was sitting there feeling sorry for myself when I looked up and saw Mrs. Barrow standing there. She sat down next to me and held my hand. She comforted me by reminding me that now Grandma had no more pain or suffering. It had never occurred to me that it was better for my grandma this way. All I thought about was how sad it was for me.
After the funeral, we went to my aunt’s house to see the flowers that had been sent. My mom handed me a pretty ivy plant in a pink pot. The attached card read:
Courtni,
I’m sorry about your grandmother. Never forget, I love you. You are like one of my children.
With love,
Mrs. Barrow
I wanted to cry. I took the plant home, watered it and put it in my grandma’s old room. I am in eighth grade now and I still have that plant. I never thought a teacher could care that much about her students: now I know.
I say this with all my heart: Anyone who is lucky enough to have a teacher like Mrs. Barrow in their life, even for a short while, is privileged beyond words. She may not know it, but she means more to me than she’ll ever know. I can only hope this gives her inspiration and repays to her a tiny portion of what she has done for me.
To Mrs. Barrow—I love you very much. You’re much more than a teacher—you are like a mother to me.
Courtni Calhoun, thirteen
The Act of Love
I hate pulling weeds! I thought. It’s hot. It’s sticky. And it’s Saturday!
Still, I made sure to pull every stinking weed out of that flower garden. My dad was Mr. Perfecto Lawnman. He could detect a single weed a mile away. And if he spotted so much as one little clover, I’d be back pulling weeds for the rest of the day.
“Dad, I’m done,” I shouted from the garden, feeling sure that I had done a good job.
Dad stormed out of the house. “Don’t be yelling outside, Kathy,” he grumbled. “Use those two feet of yours and come get me.”
Suddenly, a sick feeling came over me. It was the kind of feeling I had when my dad was going to find that one stinking little clover.
“Geez,” Dad said, waving an irritated finger, “you missed a spot.”
I sighed, went to the spot and pulled the weeds. Afterward, I looked back at Dad, still standing there with a scowl on his face.
“Okay,” he said, turning away, “I guess you’re done.”
As Dad walked back to the house, I wondered if I’d ever done anything good enough or right enough for him. Sometimes, I wondered if he even liked me.
Like the night I had taken out the trash without being told. That was a big deal for me. But Dad didn’t see it that way. He was mad because I didn’t put the trash can lid on tightly enough to keep our dog out.
Well, I’m sorry, I thought, but I can’t help it if Sugar’s a trash picker.
The other day, when I was in a rush to get to school, Dad stopped me at the door. In his hand was a topless tube of toothpaste, the same one that I’d used just moments before.
“Where’s the cap to the toothpaste?” he asked, his eyebrows bunching in the middle. “And how many times do I have to tell you? Squeeze from the bottom!” At least I brushed my teeth, I thought.
Just then, a sloppy, wet tongue washed over my face, breaking me from my thoughts.
“Sugar!” I said, hugging her tightly. “Where did you come from?”
Sugar looked at me, her big sloppy tongue hanging to the side. I smiled.
“At least you like me.” Then standing up, I brushed the dirt from my knees and headed for the house.
Two weeks later, on the morning of another weed picking weekend, I was sick. I was sweaty and feverish and I ached all over.
“Let’s go,” Dad said, lifting me from the bed. “You need to see a doctor.”
“Please, no,” I said, in a shallow, sickly voice, “I’d rather pull weeds.”
He took me anyway, and the doctor said I had pneumonia. The only nice thing about it was that I didn’t have to pull weeds. I didn’t have to take out the trash. And since I had to stay in bed, I didn’t have to brush my teeth. If having pneumonia was ever good, it was good then. And as I rested, Sugar stayed with me, lying down beside my bed. She liked me.
That night a noise woke me from my sleep. I opened my eyes just a sliver, and I saw a tall, slender form. Enough moonlight shined through my window so that I could see it was my dad. But why was he there? I didn’t say, “Hi, Dad,” or anything like that, I don’t know why. He came up to me and put his hand against my forehead. When he took his hand away, I saw him lay something on my nightstand. He looked at me again, then left.
When he was gone, I reached over to the nightstand and picked up a necklace. It wasn’t like any I’d ever seen before. Dangling from a golden chain was a puppy in a basket, and the puppy looked just like Sugar. With shaking hands, I held that necklace to my heart and cried. My dad, who never gave hugs and never said, “I love you . . .” had just said it all.
Kathy Kemmer Pyron
Cry When You Are Sad
Never apologize for showing feelings. Remember that when you do, you apologize for the truth.
Benjamin Disraeli
On a sunny Monday in April, I had two loving grandmothers near me, but when Tuesday came, only one was left. One of my grandmothers who was dear to me, had died. I had a feeling that this awful day was going to come soon, but now that it was here, all I wanted to do was cry. But I wasn’t brave enough to shed a tear, for I was always taught that boys should never cry.
Later, as the time came for the funeral activities, I had the hardest time keeping my sadness inside.
My relatives soon arrived from all over the country. I really had to hold back my tears now that my relatives were here, because I did not want to look like a crybaby in front of them. I figured out that my parents, my sister and myself were the only ones that had lived in the same town as my grandma. That explained why her death was hitting me the hardest, while my cousins seemed as though they were here just to get away from home. They really hadn’t known her like I had.
Soon, all of my relatives gathered at the funeral home, waiting for the viewing to begin. What I thought was going to be the easiest part of my grieving turned into the hardest.
The moment I walked into the room where my grandma was laying in a coffin, my heart dropped. This was going to be the last time that I would ever see her. At first I was afraid to proceed with the rest of my family up to her coffin, but then I realized that I would have to sooner or later. I grabbed hold of my mother’s hand and kept my mind on remembering not to cry.
When I came up to the kneeler, in front of where she was laying, my mother made me do something that almost brought me to tears. She told me to touch Grandma’s hand, for that was going to be the last time that I would get a chance to touch her. I reached over to her hand very slowly, afraid of what she might feel like. When my hand touched hers, I was relieved for a moment. She felt the same way she always had, except a little cooler than usual.
When I looked up at my mom, she began crying uncontrollably. I knew this was the time that I really had to be strong. I reached my arms around her and slowly walked with her back to our seats.
Dur
ing the next few hours, I met many different people. All of them were telling me that they were sorry about my grandma passing away. I just smiled and reminded myself not to cry, because I had so often been told, “Boys should be strong and not cry.” I kept reminding myself that soon this night would be over, but the next day would be the actual funeral . . . the last good-bye.
My mother woke me early the next morning, making sure that I looked my best. I promised myself when I was getting dressed that I would hold back my tears no matter what. I had to be strong and help my grieving parents.
When we arrived at the church, we all waited as they took my grandma’s coffin out of the big black hearse. We had to follow it in so everyone knew that we were family. Once inside, we took our seats. My family sat in the very front because we were the closest to my grandma. I was surprised to see that even before the service began, my parents were crying. I was trying to hold back my tears, but as the priest began talking about my grandma, it seemed as though not crying was going to be an impossible task.
About halfway through the mass, he began telling the people about how much my grandma was loved by her family and friends. He then mentioned how every night I stayed with her while my parents were working. That reminded me of all of the good times we had together throughout my life. In the summer, we would glide on her swing. In the winter, we would always ride sleds down the big hill behind her house. There were so many good times that went through my mind that I almost forgot where I was. I began to realize that those good times were gone forever. At this exact thought, I began to cry uncontrollably. I didn’t care anymore about what other people thought of me. It was something that I just had to do. I could not hold back my sadness anymore.
When my father noticed me sobbing, he leaned me up next to him and we cried together. My father, my mother, my sister and I sat next to each other, crying as if the world was going to end. At this point I promised to myself that if I ever had a son, I would tell him: “Real boys show emotions. Cry when you are sad, and smile when you are happy.” This was the last time I would say good-bye to my grandmother, but I was a better person for letting my tears show everyone just how much I loved her.
Jonathan Piccirillo, fifteen
Only Love Lasts Forever
Yesterday, after telling my brother, Rhys, and me to stop playing like wild animals in the house for what she said was the thousandth time, Mom went to take a bath. That’s when it happened. We were playing around, bopping each other with pillows, when one slipped from my brother’s grasp and smashed the glass dome on the coffee table, shattering it into a zillion pieces!
With her supersonic hearing, my mom heard the tremendous crash and then the sound of glass hitting the tile. Wasting no time, she came flying into the room to find out what had happened. I was sure my brother and I were dead meat and she was going to start yelling at us, but instead she just knelt by the pieces and began to cry.
This made Rhys and me feel pretty awful. We went over and put our arms around her, and she explained to us why she was so upset. Under the shattered glass dome was a white porcelain rose. Dad had given it to her on their first wedding anniversary. He had said that if he ever forgot to bring flowers for an anniversary in the future, Mom was to look at that one. It was like their love—it would last a lifetime.
Now it lay chipped on the floor, one petal gone. We began crying, too, and offered to glue it for her. She said that wouldn’t really fix it. Now that it had been broken, the value of the “limited edition” had lessened. We got our piggy banks out to pay for it, but Mom replied that to her the rose represented Dad’s love and could never truly be restored.
As Mom slowly began to pick up the mess, we tried everything we could think of to cheer her up, but even our best funny faces didn’t work. Mom just looked away. Rhys and I were even really nice to each other, which always makes her eyes twinkle, but she didn’t seem to notice. The tears kept coming down her cheeks as she cleaned up the mess.
DENNIS THE MENACE
After everything was picked up and Mom was on her way back to the bath, I stopped her in the hall and said I had something important to tell her. She tried to go around me, replying “Not now,” but I wouldn’t let her by. I told her, “I want to say something very important; it’s a rule of God.”
I put both hands on her shoulders and told her, “All things can be broken, Mom; everything breaks sometime. The only thing that isn’t like that is love. It’s the only thing that can never be broken.”
Mom hugged me very tightly then and finally smiled. She said that I was pretty wise and understood some things that even much older people didn’t!
After dinner that night, we had a family meeting. We discussed mistakes and the importance of learning from them. Mom glued the petal back onto the rose. The tiny petal now had a thin, almost invisible line of glue. Then Mom softly said, “Even though other people have ‘limited edition’ roses, mine is truly unique. Its tiny flaw reminds me of something more important: the realization that only love lasts forever.”
Denise and Rett Ackart
DENNIS THE MENACE
“I suppose it’s too late to say ‘OOPS!’”
DENNIS THE MENACE. ©Used by permission of Hank Hetcham and © by North America Syndicate.
5
ON DEATH
AND DYING
She’ll stay with you
As long as the wind blows
She’ll always be in your heart
She didn’t leave you all alone
She has eternal life
Her spirit is always within you
And if the sun shines in the sky
And rain should fill the air
And a rainbow lights up your day
Know that she is there.
Karli McKinnon, ten
April Morning
The date was April 19, 1995. I was getting ready for school like I usually did, and my mother, Diana, was getting ready for work. She worked at the federal building in Oklahoma City.
As I left for school, I told my mom good-bye. I told her that I loved her and that I would see her after school. Little did I know that I wouldn’t be seeing her after school, and that my life would soon be changed.
Around 1:30, a call came over the intercom, asking for me to come to the office to be checked out from school. I thought, Cool, it must be my mom. She would always surprise me like that and take me somewhere.
When I got to the office, instead of my mom, it was my grandpa and my aunt. They were both crying and had confused and worried looks on their faces. I didn’t have time to ask what was wrong. They grabbed me and we drove in a hurry to my house.
When I went in, my whole family was sitting around, crying and watching the news. I didn’t see my mom there. My eyes glanced at the TV and I saw the building where my mom worked. Most of the building had been blown up. People were coming out bleeding. I knew from that moment on, there was a chance my mom wouldn’t be coming home. So I fell to my knees and began to pray. The only thing that was going through my mind was, How could God let me down like this?
We all stayed at my house and waited to see if maybe they would find her alive. Hours went by and nothing happened. During that time I saw my mom’s friends coming out on stretchers. They were lifeless. I began to feel hatred toward whoever did this and cried even more. I felt useless. I couldn’t do anything. But my family was there and they helped me.
Days went by with no answer. I was in shock. All I wanted was my mom to come home and tell me that everything would be okay, but that wish never came true.
One Wednesday morning, two and a half weeks after the bombing, the crying of my aunt and grandma woke me up. I got out of bed to see if they were okay. They told me that my mom had been found.
I was so happy I couldn’t believe it. God had answered my prayers! I asked when she was coming home. They said she wouldn’t be coming home. I was a little confused. Then they told me that she didn’t survive the bomb. Mom worked on the seventh
floor of the building. She was found on the second floor. I began to cry, and I thought, How could God let this happen?
My mother was the number one thing in my life, and now she is the number one thing in my heart. She did come home on the day of the bombing, not to our home but to her home in the sky. Now I feel that my mom is just waiting for the day when I come home. In the meantime, I will try to make her proud of me and always remember how special she was. Those thoughts and beliefs are what help me get through every day of my life.
Justin Day, fifteen
Ryan’s Story
The most daring, courageous and patient person I have ever known was my cousin. Ever since I can remember, my cousin, Ryan, and I seemed to have a special bond. I have two special memories of Ryan when we were very young.
The first one happened on a hot summer day, at Disneyland in California. I can still hear the laughter and voices from people around us. I remember looking up when Ryan pointed toward the sky. My Mickey Mouse balloon and his were tangled up together.
The second memory I have is when Ryan and I were playing with little cars in our grandparents’ family room. He had a green car and I had a brown one. I smashed my car into his and broke it. I didn’t mean to, and I felt bad. Looking back, I now realize how important and special memories are.
Then my Uncle Rick, Ryan’s dad, moved his family to Pocatello, Idaho. I didn’t get to play with Ryan anymore, but we kept in touch by phone.
It had been some years since I had heard from them, until one particular evening. Ryan was seven and I was six at the time. After my Uncle Rick and my mom had talked, my mom hung up the phone. That’s when she told me that Ryan was sick.
101 Stories of Changes, Choices and Growing Up for Kids Ages 9-13 Page 11
