Ray tuned that guitar as if he were putting his life back into harmony. I have never heard a guitar tuned like that before or since. He looked at me over his shoulder and nodded a thank-you before bringing his song to life on the guitar. I watched Ray's fingers dance across the strings as if they were himself, running free. And for those moments, he was.
A Change of Heart By George Mapson
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!
Speaking By Cynthia Laughlin
I was no different from any other mother.
When my little boy, Skyler, was born, I longed for the day he would talk to me. My husband and I dreamed about the first sweet "Mama" or "Dada." Every cry or coo was a small glimpse into my son's mind.
My baby's noises were even more precious to me because Skyler had been born with several health problems. At first, the problems had delayed his development, but once they were safely behind us, I looked forward to my son's first words. They didn't come.
At age three, Skyler was diagnosed autistic, a developmental disability destined to affect his social and emotional well-being his entire life. Skyler couldn't talk - wouldn't talk. I would probably never hear any words from him at all. In a store, I would hear a child calling "Mommy," and I would wonder if that were what my little boy might sound like. I wondered how it would feel to hear my child call out for me.
But I could have learned to live with his silence if it weren't for another hallmark characteristic of autism: Skyler formed no attachments. He didn't want to be held, much preferring to lie in his bed or sit in his car seat. He wouldn't look at me; sometimes, he even looked through me.
Once, when I took him to the doctor, we talked to a specialist who was my size, age and who had the same hair color. When it was time to go, Skyler went to her instead of me - he couldn't tell us apart. When Skyler was three, he spent three days at Camp Courageous for disabled children in Iowa, and when he returned he didn't even recognize me.
The pain was almost unbearable. My own son didn't even know I was his mother.
I hid the pain, and we did the best we could for Skyler. We enrolled him in our local area educational agency preschool, where the teachers and speech pathologist worked hard to help Skyler connect with the world around him. They used pictures and computer voice-machines that spoke for him, and sign language. These devices gave me little glimpses of who Skyler was, even if he didn't understand who I was. "He will talk," the speech pathologist insisted, but inside, I had given up hope.
The one dream I couldn't let go was to have Skyler understand that I was his mom. Even if I never heard him say, "Mom," I wanted to see the recognition in his eyes.
The summer of Skyler's fourth year was when it started. A smoldering ember of understanding in him sparked, and fanned by our efforts, steadily flamed. His first words were hardly recognizable, often out of context, never spontaneous. Then, slowly, he could point to an item and say a word. Then two words together as a request. Then spontaneous words. Each day, he added more and more recognizable words, using them to identify pictures and ask questions. We could see his understanding increase, till his eyes would seek out mine, wanting to comprehend.
"You Mom?" he said one day.
"Yes, Skyler, I'm Mom."
He asked his teachers and caregivers: "You Mom?"
"No, Skyler, not Mom."
"You my Mom?" he said back to me.
"Yes, Skyler, I'm your Mom."
And finally, a rush of understanding in his eyes: "You my Mom."
"Yes, Skyler, I'm your Mom."
If those had been Skyler's only words ever, they would have been enough for me: My son knew I was his mother.
But Skyler wasn't done.
One evening I leaned against the headboard on Skyler's bed, my arms wrapped around him. He was cozily tucked between my legs, our bodies warm and snug as I read to him from one of his favorite books - a typical affectionate scene between mother and son, but because of Skyler's autism, one that I could never take for granted.
I stopped reading. Skyler had interrupted me, leaning back his head so he could look me in the eye.
"Yes, Skyler?"
And then the voice of an angel, the voice of my son: "I love you, Mom."
Flying A Kite By Vicki L. Kitchner
Her skin was the color of rich, hot chocolate and her brown eyes twinkled with intelligence and humor. Her name was Michelle and she spent her days in a purple wheelchair because she had been born with Cerebral Palsy. She rolled into my classroom - and my heart - when she was just three years old. Her courage was an inspiration to me and her spirit touched my heart.
Michelle and her mother once gave me a figurine of a beautiful black child sitting in a wheelchair. I displayed the cherished gift on a shelf in my den at home. It always reminded me of the little girl I loved so much.
When Michelle was seven, she was to undergo open-heart surgery for the third time. The night before surgery, I sat in the chair beside her bed and held her hand.
"I'm tired, Bicki," she said weakly.
"Why don't you close your eyes and try to get some sleep?"
"No, not sleepy. Tired."
I thought of the tiny, imperfect heart that had to work so hard, the grand mal seizures, terrible headaches and tight, spastic muscles that made her every move difficult and painful. I was heart-broken at the wisdom of the little soul who understood the difference between sleepy and tired at such a young age.
"Will I go to Heaven soon?"
I placed my hand on her forehead, "I don't know, that's up to God."
She glanced at the stars through the window of her room. "How will I get all the way up there? An airplane?"
"No, God will send a special angel to show you the way. You won't have to take your wheelchair or your leg braces or any of your medicine because you won't need any of that in Heaven. You'll be able to run and play just like your brother."
Her eyes filled with hope. "Do you think I could fly a kite?"
I swallowed a tear and smiled, "I'm sure if you ask God for a kite, he would find one for you."
"Oh, I hope so Bicki!"
It was very early in the morning while I was doing my prayer time when the figurine of Michelle, for no apparent reason, fell from my bookshelf to the floor. The impact of the fall separated the figure of the girl from the wheelchair. I was devastated and vowed to have it repaired. Later that same day, Michelle's mother called to tell me that her daughter's heart had simply stopped beating and she had peacefully slipped away in the early hours before dawn.
I have since thrown the ceramic wheelchair away and the little girl sits on the edge of the shelf with her legs dangling over the side. She's smiling toward the sky. I always think of Michelle on warm, windy days. I imagine her running through the clouds with a kite dancing above her!
Grandfather's Clock by Kathy Fasiq
In the dining room of my grandfather's house stood a massive grandfather clock. Meals in that dining room were a time for four generations to become one. The table was always spread with food from wonderful family recipes all containing love as the main ingredient. And always that grandfather clock stood like a trusted old family friend, watching over the laughter and story swapping and gentle kidding that were a part of our lives.
As a child, the old clock fascinated me. I watched and listened to it during meals. I marveled at how at different times of the day, that clock would chime three times, six times or more, with a wonderful resonant sound that echoed throughout the house. I found the clock comforting. Familiar. Year after year, the clock chimed, a part of my memories, a part of my heart.
Even more wonderful to me was my grandfather's ritual. He meticulously wound that clock with a special key each day. That key was magic to me. It kept our family's magnificent clock ticking and chiming, a part of every holiday and every tradition, as solid as the wood from which it was made. I remember watching as my grand-father took the key from his pocket and opened the hidden door in the massive old clock. He inserted the key and wound-not too much, never overwind, he'd tell me solemnly. Nor too little. He never let that clock wind down and stop. When we grandkids got a little older, he showed us how to open the door to the grandfather clock and let us each take a turn winding the key. I remember the first time I did, I trembled with anticipation. To be part of this family ritual was sacred.
After my beloved grandfather died, it was several days after the funeral before I remembered the clock!
"Mama! The clock! We've let it wind down."
The tears flowed freely when I entered the dining room. The clock stood forlornly quiet. As quiet as the funeral parlor had been. Hushed. The clock even seemed smaller. Not quite as magnificent without my grandfather's special touch. I couldn't bear to look at it.
Sometime later, years later, my grandmother gave me the clock and the key. The old house was quiet. No bowls clanging, no laughter over the dinner table, no ticking or chiming of the clock-all was still. The hands on the clock were frozen, a reminder of time slipping away, stopped at the precise moment when my grandfather had ceased winding it. I took the key in my shaking hand and opened the clock door. All of a sudden, I was a child again, watching my grandfather with his silver-white hair and twinkling blue eyes. He was there, winking at me, at the secret of the clock's magic, at the key that held so much power. I stood, lost in the moment for a long time. Then slowly, reverently, I inserted the key and wound the clock. It sprang to life. Tick-tock, tick-tock, life and chimes were breathed into the dining room, into the house and into my heart. In the movement of the hands of the clock, my grandfather lived again.
The First Day of Middle School By Patty Hansen
My stomach tied in knots, and I could feel the sweat soaking through my T-shirt. My hands were clammy as I spun the face of my combination lock. I tried and tried to remember the numbers, and every time I thought I had it, the lock wouldn't open. Around and around went the numbers, left, right,,,,,,,,,left...which way was it supposed to go? I couldn't make it work. I gave up and started to run down the hallway. As I ran, the hall seemed to get longer and longer...the door I trying to reach was farther away than when I had started. I began to sweat even worse, then I could feel the tears forming. I was late, llllllllll for my first class on my first day of middle school. As I ran, people were watching me and they were laughing...laughing...laughing...then the bell rang! In my dream, it was the school bell. But as I sat up in bed, I realized that it was my alarm clock jarring me awake.
