“What is so funny?!”
“Salami,” I managed to get out despite the gales of laughter that I had no control over. “Salami! Salami!” I rolled on the floor. “It’s a salami!”
My mother gazed at me with disbelief. What did salami have to do with anything? The object under the bed did not look like any salami she had ever seen. In fact, it did not look like anything she (or I) had ever seen.
I gasped for breath. “Mom, it’s a salami—you know, one of those big salami sausages!”
She asked what any sane mother would ask in this situation. “What is a salami doing under your bed?”
“I bought it with my allowance.” My laughter was subsiding, and fear was beginning to take its place. I looked at her. She had the strangest expression on her face that I had ever seen: a combination of disgust, confusion, exhaustion, fear—and anger! Her hair was standing on end, perspiration beaded on her flushed face and her eyes looked as if they were going to jump out of her head. I couldn’t help it. I started to laugh again.
And then the miracle of miracles happened. My mom started to laugh, too. First just a nervous release, a titter really, but then it turned into the full-on belly laugh that only my mom’s side of the family is capable of. The two of us laughed until tears rolled down our cheeks and I thought I would pee my pants.
When we finally were able to stop laughing, my mom shoved the broom into my hands.
“Okay, Patty Jean Shaw, clean it up, no matter what it is!”
I had no idea how to clean up something and not look at it or touch it. So, of course, I got my little sister to help me. I could get her to help with anything, as long as I bribed or threatened her. Since she didn’t know what the object was supposed to look like to begin with, she didn’t have much fear attached to helping. Between the two of us, we managed to roll it onto the evening newspaper (my dad never knew what happened to it). I carefully, carefully carried it outside and put it into the trash. Then I had my sister remove the remaining fuzz from the carpet. I had convinced her that I was too large to get into the small corner where it had grown. I ended up owing her my allowance for two weeks.
My mom never got mad at me for buying the salami. I guess she thought I had already paid a price. The salami provided a memory of shared, unrestrained laughter. For years to come, all I had to do was threaten to buy salami to make my mom laugh.
Patty Hansen
©Lynn Johnston Productions, Inc. Distributed by United Feature Syndicate, Inc.
Going, Going, Gone
“They’re going to give us twenty bucks for it?” I asked my sister, Melva, in disbelief. “Are you sure?”
“They said twenty,” my sister repeated. “Thirty if we throw in the old cabinet radio.”
“Sold!” we exclaimed in unison, giving each other a high five. We couldn’t believe what was happening. All we did was post a sign that said “Garage Sale,” and our yard was swarming with shoppers. We sold the baby crib I’d long since outgrown, clothes, jewelry, dishes, antique records—whatever we could find around the house that was old and seemingly useless.
Mom and Dad were away on vacation, and we were determined to surprise them with more money than they could ever make in one weekend. Each time the stock on the front lawn ran low, one of us would excitedly return to the house to find more items to sell. On one trip, we weren’t quick enough, and a few of the customers came in after us.
“How much would you take for that two-piece sofa set?” one woman asked.
My sister and I looked at each other. It certainly wasn’t new, and Mom had been talking about replacing it. Still, it was our living room furniture. If we sold it, what would the family have to sit on?
“We don’t really know if we can sell that. . . . ” we hedged.
“I’ll give you ten bucks for each piece,” she coaxed.
Ten dollars? That would be twenty bucks for the whole set! We had no idea how much it would cost to replace, but we did know another twenty bucks would bring our day’s total to over three hundred dollars! Mom and Dad were going to be so proud of us. They were going to be thrilled. They were going to be . . .
“You did what?” Mom said as she walked into the house and saw the empty spaces where the furniture used to be.
“But we made over three hundred dollars!” we said, handing her the wad of bills.
“Do you have any idea what the things you sold were worth?”
Her tone of voice made it hard to tell whether she was laughing or crying.
“More than three hundred dollars?” we asked meekly.
By our calculations, we’ll be allowed to come out of our rooms in just three more years.
Martha Bolton
Your Name in Gold
Anne sat at the breakfast table, eating her cornflakes and reading the print on the cereal box in front of her. “Tastee Cornflakes—Great New Offer!” the box read. “See back of box for details.”
Anne’s older sister, Mary, sat across from her, reading the other side of the cereal box. “Hey, Anne,” she said, “look at this awesome prize—your name in gold.”
As Mary read on, Anne’s interest in the prize grew. “Just send in one dollar with proof-of-purchase seal from this box and spell out your first name on the information blank. We will send you a special pin with your name spelled in gold. (Only one per family, please.)”
Anne grabbed the box and looked on the back, her eyes brightening with excitement. The name Jennifer was spelled out in sparkling gold. “That’s a neat idea,” she said. “A pin with my very own name spelled out in gold. I’m going to send in for it.”
“Sorry, Anne, I saw it first,” said Mary, “so I get first dibs on it. Besides, you don’t have a dollar to send in, and I do.“
“But I want a pin like that so badly,” said Anne. “Please let me have it!”
“Nope,” said her sister.
“You always get your way—just because you’re older than me,” said Anne, her lower lip trembling as her eyes filled with tears. “Just go ahead and send in for it. See if I care!” She threw down her spoon and ran from the kitchen.
Several weeks passed. One day the mailman brought a small package addressed to Mary. Anne was dying to see the pin, but she wouldn’t let Mary know how eager she was. Mary took the package to her room. Anne casually followed her in and sat on the bed.
“Well, I guess they sent you your pin. I sure hope you like it,” Anne said in a mean voice. Mary slowly took the paper off the package. She opened a little white box and carefully lifted off the top layer of white cotton. “Oh, it’s beautiful!” Mary said. “Just like the cereal box said, your name in gold. Four beautiful letters. Would you like to see it, Anne?”
“No, I don’t care about your dumb old pin.”
Mary put the white box on the dresser and went downstairs.
Anne was alone in the bedroom. Soon she couldn’t wait any longer, so she walked over to the dresser. As she looked in the small white box, she gasped. Mixed feelings of love for her sister and shame at herself welled up within her, and the pin became a sparkling gold blur through her tears.
There on the pin were four beautiful letters—her name in gold: A-N-N-E.
A. F. Bauman
Father’s Day
When I was six years old, I never thought I would feel happy inside again. My father had just died. He had been sick for a very long time and never could play with me. The Father’s Day after my father died, we had to make cards for our dads at school. I made mine for an angel. No one seemed to understand how sad I was inside not to have a dad, and not to have anyone to make a card for.
Then the most wonderful thing happened. My mom met Michael. On New Year’s Eve, we all sat down together and said our thanks for the past year and our wishes for the New Year. I told Michael that my wish was that he would be a dad to me. Michael’s eyes filled with tears, and he said yes—but only if he could really be a father to me, not just do all the fun stuff. I said yes. Of course, Mom t
hought this was all pretty wonderful, too.
I want to thank Michael for being my dad, for being there for me and for taking away much of the sadness. I want to thank Michael for getting Mom to say yes to a lizard, for throwing a baseball with me and for being at all of my soccer games. But mostly I want to thank Michael for teaching me that parents can come to us in many different ways, and that a person who did not help to create you can be as much or more of a parent to you as someone who did. Happy Father’s Day, Dad!
Taylor Martini, age 8
©Lynn Johnston Productions, Inc. Distributed by United Feature Syndicate, Inc.
Mom’s Duck
God could not be everywhere, and therefore he made mothers.
Jewish Proverb
My mother always had a soft spot for those less fortunate than she was. Mom would find a stray dog and take it to the pound, only to return with three more. She’d shun luncheon invitations with other housewives, preferring instead to become fast friends with the house painter or her beautician. She’d troll the church congregation every Sunday for anyone unattached who might be in need of a dinner invitation, or worse yet, a place to stay.
The fact was that Mom opened her heart and our home to anything that breathed. She was the Dolly Madison of the downtrodden, and by the time I was thirteen, we had eight pets, five foster children and several other unofficial kids and/or adults living with our family. My sister, brother and I came to call ourselves “The Three Originals.”
I admit, my sister and I felt slightly displaced by all this.
We referred to these recipients of Mom’s generosity as her “basket cases.” And although in later years I came to admire and even emulate the compassion Mom taught us to have for others, there was one time when all of us agreed that Mom had carried her kindness too far. This was the day she allowed a duck to follow her home.
As she tells the story, she was out walking the dogs in the woods near our house one afternoon when a large white duck with a huge red wart-like growth on his bill “happened” upon them. Mom claims only to have shown concern for a poor, lost duck out of water. All we knew was that by the time the hiking party reached home, the duck was in love with Mom, and our household would never be the same.
The duck, whom we named Harry, had such a thing for Mom that it was embarrassing. Whenever he saw her, he’d fly over, sit on her lap and make low quacking noises or nibble at her hair. Like a faithful dog waiting for its master, he’d sit outside on the deck all day, loyally watching for her arrivals and departures.
Not that he didn’t try to get inside the house. An open door to Harry meant an open invitation. Any chance he could, he’d rush in and waddle around in an agitated state, annoying cats, dogs and humans until he’d located Mom.
His peskiness aside, all that attention Harry showered on Mom would have been okay with the rest of us except for one unfortunate fact: While Harry adored my mother, he hated the rest of us.
Being a family of mostly strays ourselves, we tried to get along with him. It was pointless. Harry considered us threats and would hiss, poke and chase us at every opportunity.
Our yard became unsafe for visitors. Whenever anyone approached the house, Harry would swoop over and try to scare them off. We started referring to Harry as our “watchduck.” He particularly hated flapping trousers, and would hang on to pant legs with the determination of a pit bull. He could nip, too, and many of us had red welts on our arms to prove it.
One afternoon, my father became particularly upset with Harry after he kept interfering with Dad’s attempts to mow the lawn. In desperation, Dad turned an empty garbage pail on top of Harry and promptly forgot about him until the next morning, when Mom noticed him missing. “Albert, how could you?” she cried after he’d confessed. She rushed outside and pulled the garbage pail off Harry, who staggered onto the lawn, still with us, but barely.
“Honey, we’ve got to do something about that duck,” Dad said. “He’s a nuisance.”
“But he’s happy here,” Mom answered. “He’s found a home.” Not long after, Harry committed his final act of treason.
My future brother-in-law, Maurice, was living with us for the summer while putting himself through college. He had a job selling vacuum cleaners door-to-door. One afternoon, Maurice returned home early and realized that he was locked out of the house.
After unsuccessfully trying all the doors, he noticed an open window on the second floor, directly above our driveway. Being a smart guy, he decided to park his car underneath the window, then stand on the roof of his car and pull himself up through the window.
Maurice was hanging by his arms from the window ledge when he heard a loud flapping noise behind him. He turned and saw Harry flying toward him with the speed of a fighter-bomber. Maurice screamed and let go. He bounced off his car roof and onto the driveway.
The next morning, my dad drove Harry to a large pond several miles from our house and dropped him off. He told Mom that this pond had a lot of ducks and that Harry would be happy there. Mom reluctantly agreed, but not before cruising past the pond to check it out. She reported back that Harry seemed happy, even though he was by himself on the far side of the pond.
For about a month, our house returned to normal. Then one day, Mom decided to go visit Harry and see how he was doing.
When we drove up to the pond, we saw lots of ducks, but no Harry. Mom quickly jumped out of the car. “Where could he be?”
On the far side of the pond, up on a muddy section of the hill, one of my sisters noticed Harry, dirty and bedraggled. “There he is!” she pointed. Mom gasped and stretched out her arms. “Harry!” she called out.
Harry wearily lifted his head. When he saw Mom, he let out a squawk and started hobbling toward her.
“Oh, you poor thing!” Mom cried.
Harry and my mother raced into each other’s arms like long-lost lovers. They kissed; they hugged; they made small talk.
After their reunion, Mom checked Harry over. “What’s happened to you?” she asked. “You’re so thin!”
My sister, who had been standing quietly with the rest of us, nodded wisely. “Even ducks don’t like him,” she observed. “They kicked him out of the pond.”
“Then he’s coming back with us,” Mom declared. “Everyone deserves a loving home.”
No one said much in the car, not even Harry. I think he was feeling apologetic.
We tried to make the best of it, and for the next few days, Harry was on his best behavior. By the end of the week, though, he was back to his old habits. Even Mom could see that we had to do something.
Within days, one of my brothers came home with exciting news. He’d just seen a pond with ducks in it that looked exactly like Harry—big, white and with ugly red growths across their bills.
We couldn’t believe it. All this time we’d thought Harry was an original. Would he be happy among his own kind?
Trying not to expect too much, we loaded Harry into the car (he sat on Mom’s lap) and drove him to the new pond. Mom gently carried him over to the area where the other ducks were nibbling on weeds and paddling around. She launched him into the water. Right away, Harry began clucking and chatting and making friends.
We left him there. On the way home, we couldn’t stop talking about how easily the other ducks had accepted Harry. Was it because he looked like them? Probably. But that still didn’t explain Harry’s affection for Mom.
We guessed that Harry had once lived with these ducks but had somehow become separated from them. Then Mom had discovered him wandering in the woods, lost and alone. No wonder he fell in love with her. She had rescued him.
On our next visit, Harry had a new girlfriend. This one had feathers and a red, warty face. Harry hardly gave Mom a second glance. I don’t think she minded, though. There were plenty more souls in the world to rescue. Besides, as Mom had said, Harry deserved a loving home. To everyone’s relief, he’d finally found one.
Page McBrier
4
/> ON ATTITUDE
AND
PERSPECTIVE
Attitudes are self-created. You are free to choose to be victimized by circumstance or people, or you can choose to look at life with an open mind and be victorious. No one else can choose your attitude for you. Your perspective and choice of attitude gives you the power to be in control. That is the essence of true freedom.
Irene Dunlap
The Bobsledder’s Jacket
For as long as he could remember, Jack had dreamed of being in the Olympics. For years he’d worked hard to become a good bobsledder, training and practicing, always getting better. Now he and his partners were in Sapporo, Japan, for the Winter Olympics—as the American bobsled team!
They were on their way to the opening parade. Athletes from all over the world were gathering to march into the Olympic stadium. Jack and his partners were laughing and joking, and their hearts were beating with joy. Everything was perfect—well, almost everything. The sleeve of Jack’s Olympic jacket had been torn. He loved the red, white and blue jacket, with “USA” on the front and the Olympic rings on the back, but earlier that day he’d torn it climbing a fence.
“Too bad about your jacket,” his friend Bill told him.
“Oh well,” Jack said. “I don’t think anyone will notice.”
“They’ll notice it,” said Bill. “Japanese people notice things like that. They’ll probably laugh at us.”
Jack didn’t answer. Bill’s father had been killed by Japanese soldiers in the island battles of World War II. Jack knew Bill felt uneasy about being in Japan.
Suddenly a little Japanese girl came up to Jack and pointed right at the tear in his sleeve. Jack smiled at her, not knowing what to do. So he said, “Uh . . . Ohayo . . . Good morning!” The little girl said ohayo back to him—and a lot more. She kept speaking words that he couldn’t understand and was pointing to his torn sleeve. Jack looked at his friends and shrugged. “I don’t know what she wants,” he said.
Chicken Soup for the Kid's Soul: 101 Stories of Courage, Hope and Laughter Page 10
