非常真挚感人的好文章，既可以学习英语，更滋润人的心灵

In Sickness and in Health
By Dorothy C. Randle

     When Herman and I took our wedding vows over fifteen years ago, we were committed to our relationship.  We became best friends, sharing everything, holding hands, laughing at our mistakes and failures, as well as our triumphs and successes.  We liked to go on mini-vacations and often would get away for rest and relaxation.  Our honeymoon never ended.
     Yet little did we know how much our love for each other would be tested through those five little words we proclaimed in our vows, "In sickness and in health."
     It was January 1990.  Herman had just come from a routine visit to his doctor - a trip he had taken for over two decades since his kidney transplant in 1967.
     Herman was only seventeen years old when his father unselfishly gave his son the gift of life: one of his kidneys.  At the time, Herman was well known on the Centennial High School campus in Compton, California, where he excelled in sports.  Baseball was his life, but the transplant ended his dreams of professional success.  Even during those trying times, Herman kept his smile.
     But on that day in 1990, Herman - whose broad smile and heartfelt laughter always bred celebration - showed terror, hurt and despair, mirroring the feelings in my heart.  Without warning, the transplanted kidney had stopped functioning.
     Herman began dialysis treatments two months later.  A machine substituted for his kidney by purifying his blood three days a week, three to four hours at a time.  His smooth muscular arms soon knotted with bulges from the constant needle pricks.  His exhausted veins collapsed.
     No more unplanned vacations; the dialysis treatments came first.  Often passionate lovemaking became cuddling each other to sleep.  We found solace in our love and made laughter the key to our survival.
     And we prayed for another kidney.
     Eleven years later, an unexpected phone call from UCLA Medical Center answered those prayers: "We have a donor."
     Together, we rejoiced and offered more prayers, this time in thanksgiving.  But, would it be a match?  We waited to hear . . one hour, two hours, then three.  The phone rang again, this time with disappointing news.
     Oh, well, we consoled ourselves, we've waited this long.  Surely we can keep waiting.
     One week to the day later, we received another call.  It was a perfect match!  We anxiously rushed down to UCLA.  As we drove, we reflected on all the years of dialysis and how we had prayed for this miracle, and then we cried - happy tears and tears of sorrow.  For the other side of our joy was the reality that someone had lost their life to give Herman this opportunity to live.
     It was a nineteen-year-old man who had died of head trauma.  He had only been eight years old when Herman's kidney failed.  For eleven years we prayed for a perfect match.  For that same eleven years this young man had grown up, graduated from elementary, junior high and high school.  He was probably in college.  It never occurred to us that someone so young would give life to a fifty-one-year-old man.  We never thought that the answer to our prayers would be the devastation of someone else's.  How unselfish of his family.  Now, instead of praying for a kidney, we pray for this young man's family.
     Throughout the process, I remained at Herman's side.  I learned every medication and followed the prescribed routine for his recovery.  Everything else in my life faded.  His care was my primary concern.
     While he was in the hospital, one nurse remarked on my commitment to my husband.  "You have no idea how many people separate and divorce because of the strain on the relationship when dealing with dialysis and transplants," she told me.
     Leave my husband during a time of sickness?  Never.  I was committed to our vows.  More importantly, I could never leave the love of my life!
     It's been a year since the surgery, and Herman is doing well.  His body is still recovering, but he is the same happy and joyful person he was when we met.  And now we both truly understand that life is precious.  We travel again, and we still hold hands and take long walks.  We laugh a lot, even when Herman's recovering body is not up to making love.  Our marriage has been sustained by our commitment to love and to cherish each other in sickness and in health.

It's Baseball Season
By Denise Turner

The team members' attention spans stretch barely the length of a cartoon. Their eyes are invisible beneath oversized batting helmets. They wear T-shirts with messages like "Critter Ridders Pest Control: 30 Years of Service in Roaches."
All across the country, it's T-ball season.
I became a T-ball mom when my seven-year-old son signed up to be a Giant (an obvious misnomer for a team where no one can bench press a Nerf ball). I should have been prepared. We limped through flag football last fall.
I still remember that day when the youngest kid on the football field kept interrupting the game squealing, "Coach, are we winning yet?"
It's a significant question.
In T-ball, no one even keeps score. That's good. It makes me think of Megan, a little girl I met before I moved to Idaho. Megan could neither hit nor throw a ball, but she wanted to play T-ball. I saw a few of her games.
Megan's parents and coaches practiced with her, encouraged her and never once considered calling her a klutz. But when the last game of the season rolled around, Megan still hadn't connected with the ball.
When she finally did, she hit an easy pop fly and her team lost. But the people in the bleachers stood up and cheered for Megan. Because, by that time, everyone knew she was a winner.
I moved away before Megan grew up, but I'm sure she grew up successful. Not because she had any more talent than the boy whose dad yelled at him whenever he didn't get a hit. In fact, she probably had much less. But Megan had something else. She had people around her who cared, not about her batting average, but about her.
Not long ago, I sat listening to a speaker who insisted that we are living in the midst of a generation of kids who see themselves as potential failures.
Among the causative factors, she said, parental influence is the greatest. I'm determined to be the right kind of T-ball mom. My husband may do a better job with practice sessions, but I'm pretty good at screaming, "Way to go, slugger!" Even when (and all of this has happened this season) . .
The second baseman is turning cartwheels when he's supposed to be fielding the ball.
A child is lying flat on the ground refusing to budge after he's been thrown out - and the other kids are trampling over him.
A batter is rounding the bases because the right fielder doesn't want to give up the ball.
The coach is yelling, "Take your base, Son," but the kid is standing there pointing toward center field. His mother yells from the stands, "That means he has to go to the bathroom."
In spite of it all, these children are making their first stabs at growing up. They're taking their first steps toward life in the major leagues. They may be chewing bubble gum instead of tobacco and they may not have learned how to scratch themselves yet, but they take their base hits seriously.
I'm glad they haven't yet "arrived." I'd hate to give up being a T-ball mom, because I think I really like the game.
After all, anything that ends with Reese's Pieces and Kool-Aid Kool Bursts can't be all bad.

First Injection
By Barbara Bartlein

From the time I was four years old, I announced to anyone who asked, “When I grow up, I’m going to be a nurse.” My parents tried to nurture this dream. They would surprise me with little nurse’s kits. Contained in a small plastic case latched at the top was all the equipment needed to be a nurse: a thermometer permanently marked to 98.6, a pill bottle filled with candy (which would be gone in two hours), a stethoscope that didn’t work and, best of all, a syringe.
I loved that syringe. I would spend hours filling it up with water and “injecting” my little sister. I would “inject” the family dog and a very reluctant cat. No other single function represented nursing to me as well as giving injections. To me, giving shots was the epitome of what nurses do.
You can imagine my excitement, therefore, when we reached the part of my nurses’ training where we learned injections. I studied the techniques carefully and practiced on peaches. I practiced so much that the fruit at my house had little water blisters all over that looked like scabies. I participated in the “return demonstration” with my fellow nursing students. I always claimed that my partner’s injection was painless so that she would make a similar claim when it was my turn.
The following week, I began my emergency room rotation at Penrose Hospital in Colorado Springs. One day, a handsome, tanned construction worker was admitted with a large laceration on his right arm. About six feet, five inches tall, 250 pounds, he had huge muscles and a grin to match. “I just sliced this a little with some sheet metal, Ma’am,” he reported. He lay on the exam table while the doctor sutured him with a dozen stitches. He listened intently while the doctor gave instructions for wound care.
And then the magical moment occurred. The doctor turned to me and said, “Nurse Bartlein, would you please give this gentleman a tetanus shot?” My big chance! A real injection on a real patient. I practically floated on air as I scrambled to the refrigerator and took out the tetanus vaccine. I carefully drew up the prescribed amount and returned to the patient. I meticulously swabbed the site with an alcohol wipe and then expertly darted that needle deep into the deltoid muscle. I aspirated as taught and slowly injected the vaccine.
With a grin, the construction worker said, “Thank you, Ma’am” and stood up. I winked at him, and he winked at me. He stood there for a minute and promptly crumpled to the floor unconscious. Oh, my God, I killed him! My first injection and I killed the patient. My impulse was to run out the door as far into the mountains as possible. Forget about being a nurse, forget about injections, I’ll live off the land. No one will ever find me.
Everyone else came running and slowly helped the patient to his feet. The doctor could see that I was quite shaken. He reassured me with a smile and said, “Don’t worry, he’s fine. The big ones always faint!”

Winners Never Quit
By Lisa Nichols

I had been swimming competitively for about five years and was ready to quit, not because I had satisfied my desire to swim, but because I felt I was horrible at it. I was often the only African American at a swim competition, and our team could not afford anything close to the great uniforms the other teams were wearing. Worst of all though, and my number-one reason for wanting to quit, was that I kept receiving "Honorable Mentions" at each competition, which simply means, "Thank you for coming. You did not even rank first, second or third, but we don't want you to go home with nothing, so here is something to hide later." Any athlete knows that you don't want to have a bookshelf or a photo album full of "Honorable Mentions." They call that the "show-up ribbon"; you get one just because you showed up.
One hot summer day, the very day before a big swim meet, I decided to break the news to my grandma that I was quitting the swim team. On the one hand I thought it was a big deal because I was the only athlete in the family, but on the other hand, because no one ever came to see me compete, I didn't think it would be a major issue. You have to know my grandma - she stood on tiptoe to five-feet-two-inches and weighed a maximum ninety-five pounds, but could run the entire operation of her house without ever leaving her sofa or raising her voice. As I sat next to my grandma, I assumed my usual position of laying my big head on her tiny little lap so that she could rub it.
When I told her of my desire to quit swimming, she abruptly pushed my head off of her lap, sat me straight up facing her and said, "Baby, remember these words: 'A quitter never wins and a winner never quits.' Your grandmother didn't raise no losers or quitters. You go to that swim meet tomorrow, and you swim like you are a grandchild of mine, you hear?"
I was too afraid to say anything but, "Yes, ma'am."
The next day we arrived at the swim meet late, missing my group of swimmers in the fifteen/sixteen age group. My coach insisted I be allowed to swim with the next group, the next age older. I could have just as easily crawled out of the gym. I knew she was including me in the race so our long drive would not be wasted, and she had no expectations whatsoever that I would come in anything but eighth - and only that because there were not nine lanes.
As I mounted the board, I quickly noticed that these girls with their skintight caps, goggles and Speedo suits were here to do one thing - kick my chocolate butt!
All of a sudden my grandma's words rang in my head, Quitters never win and winners never quit, quitters never win and winners never quit.
SPLASH!
Quitters never win and winners never quit, quitters never win and winners never quit.
I was swimming harder than I'd ever swum before. As I drew my right arm back, I noticed I was tied with one person. I assumed we were battling for eighth place and I refused to finish dead last, so I added more kick on the last two hundred yards.
Quitters never win and winners never quit, quitters never win and winners never quit.
I hit the wall and looked to the left and to the right for the swimmers who had beat me, but no one was there. They must have gotten out of the water already.
I raised my head to see my coach screaming hysterically. My eyes followed her pointing finger and I couldn't believe what I saw. The other swimmers had just reached the halfway point of the pool! That day, at age fifteen, I broke the national seventeen/eighteen-year-old 400-freestyle record. I hung up my honorable mentions and replaced them with a huge trophy.
Back at Grandma's, I laid my head on her lap and told her about our great race.

Revenge of the Fifth-Grade Girls (2006-3-12)
By Carolyn Magner Mason

A mother cannot force her daughters to become sisters. She cannot make them be friends or companions or even cohorts in crime. But, if she's very lucky, they find sisterhood for themselves and have one true ally for life. My daughters did not seem likely candidates for sisterly love. They are as different as night and day, and as contrary as any two girls living under the same roof can possibly manage.
My youngest daughter, Laura, is smart, athletic and good at most everything she tries. But for her, friendships are tricky. When, at seven years old, she was thrust into the world of lunch pals and sleepovers, she struggled to survive.
Catherine, on the other hand, sits at the top of the elementary school pecking order. A bright, popular and beautiful fifth-grader, she is usually surrounded by a bevy of adoring girlfriends. When you are in second grade, a word or nod from a fifth-grade girl is the greatest thing that can happen. But Catherine and her friends seldom noticed her sister's valiant attempts to be noticed.
One hectic morning, while getting ready for school, both girls began begging for a new hairstyle. Sighing, I gathered brushes, combs and pins and quickly created new looks. I braided Laura's wispy locks into a snazzy side-braid. I combed Catherine's shiny black hair into a sleek, French twist. They twirled in front of the mirror, pleased with what I'd done.
Laura bounced out the door, swinging her braid proudly. But at school, one girl pointed at her and whispered to the other girls. Then the girl walked up to Laura and asked in a scathing tone, "What's with the stinking braid?"
Laura crumbled. After getting permission from her teacher, she went to the bathroom, where she sat and cried in an empty stall. Then she splashed cold water on her face and bravely returned to the classroom - braid intact.
That afternoon, she broke my heart with her sad tale. How could I have sent her out wearing a stinking braid? How could I have set her back in her meager attempts to fit in with the other girls? I fought back my tears as I drove my girls home. Hearing her sister's sorrow, Catherine sat in stony silence, and as I often do, I wished they had the kind of bond that would allow them to reach out to each other. I barely noticed Catherine spent more time on the phone than usual that evening.
The next afternoon, when I pulled to the front of the carpool line, I discovered a small miracle had occurred. There stood Laura, surrounded by the smartest, cutest, most popular fifth-grade girls. My tiny daughter glowed with utter astonishment as they twirled her around, complimented her and focused a brilliant light of attention upon her. And, to my amazement, every single one wore a side-braid, exactly like the one Laura had worn the day before. Ten stinking braids, I thought, as I tried to swallow the lump lodged in my throat.
"I don't know what happened!" exclaimed Laura, clambering into the van. "I looked up, and all the girls were wearing my braid." She grinned all the way home, arms wrapped around skinny knees, reliving her short life's happiest moment.
I glanced at Catherine in the rearview mirror, and I think she winked at me. I'm not sure.

Always a Nurse
By Shelly Burke

Some people credit their decision to become a nurse to a life-changing event. Not me. I just always knew I wanted to become a nurse. From my early years, I used my (sometimes willing, sometimes unwilling) sisters as patients. My dolls were constantly bandaged and dotted with marks from ballpoint pen "shots."
I loved nursing school and was filled with pride the first time I put on my uniform. I even liked the cap! Graduating from nursing school ranks as one of the happiest days of my life, as does the day I opened the letter announcing I had passed State Boards. At long last, my dream had come true. I was a nurse!
After graduation I worked in a psychiatric hospital, a nursing home, a telemetry unit and doing private duty with sick children. My satisfaction and confidence in doing assessments, starting IVs, learning medications, and relating to patients and their families confirmed my career choice.
When our first child was born, I quit working outside the home. I loved being with my new baby. Then several months ago, I realized it had been almost three years since I had worked as a "real" nurse. Sure, I continued to read nursing journals and attend a nursing workshop occasionally, but the advances and changes in technology, medications and procedures were overwhelming. Could I ever find my place in nursing again?
I began to doubt my career choice. Had it been a mistake to spend so much time, not to mention money, on a career I was going to practice for only a few years? Did what I learned in school so long ago really matter? Could I ever be a "real" nurse again?
A few days later, our three-year-old took a fall down the front steps. With my heart pounding, I assessed him for a potential head injury. His pupils were equal in size, he was alert and annoyed at my assessment, and his motor abilities appeared normal as he chased his little sister across the yard.
I breathed a sigh of relief, and several other events from the last few days popped into my mind. I remembered the phone call from my mom, and my explanation to her what a stroke was and how it might affect her friend.
I thought of the evening before, when I reassured our neighbor, whose husband had just returned home from the hospital after having a serious heart attack. I told her she could call me anytime, and I'd be right over. We hugged, and through her tears she said, "I'm so glad to have a nurse next door!"
And I recalled another day when I counseled my father-in-law on the importance of taking the whole course of antibiotics he'd been prescribed, and not stopping the medication when he felt better.
As I looked back, I realized I don't have to work in a big hospital or know all the details of the latest high-tech procedure to be a nurse. I use my education every day, and will continue to use it every day of my life. My career choice was the right one.
I am, and always will be, a nurse.

                           Three Strikes of Life
                                                         By Michael Finley
The Organic Produce Little League team was taking pregame batting practice. The stars were smacking the ball hard. Everyone else was missing. After a bit, an old man in brown suit pants put his fingers through the chain links of the backstop. He looked eighty, though his shoes looked only half that.
"You kids want to hit the ball better?" he asked. The better players laughed. What did an old man know about hitting? But a handful of the lesser players tentatively put their hands up. They were willing to try anything.
"Listen up," the old man said. His hands trembled until they fastened around an aluminum bat. Then they seemed strong. His eyes were red and his complexion was mottled, with a stubble of white whisker on his cheek.
"You get three strikes," he said. "Each one's different. Each strike, you change who you are."
The kids squinted.
"The first pitch is your rookie pitch. The pitcher doesn't know you. Anything can happen. Maybe you close your eyes, you get lucky and beat one back up the middle.
"But usually you don't. You miss, and all the weaknesses of the rookie come down on you. You're thinking about failing, and getting ready to fail. You're scared of the pitcher, scared of the ball. You get revved up. You forget what your coaches say and swing crazy, hoping to get lucky. Or you stand like a statue while the umpire calls a strike.
"Most young hitters give up now. They swing at the next two just to get it over. They don't grow in the at bat. The bat's a white flag, and they're waving it to surrender.
"To have a good rookie pitch, you have to be good inside. Good rookies go up to the plate respecting the pitcher and humble about their odds. They respect the ball, and they shut out everything else.
"You need courage on the first strike pitch, because you're a stranger in a strange land. You put yourself in harm's way, close to the ball, close to the plate.
"Maybe you'll get drilled. It'll hurt. But only a bit. You stand close anyway, because good things happen when you put yourself in a little danger.
"You need faith that if you do it in the right spirit, things will work out.
"That's the rookie pitch.
"By the second pitch, you're in your prime. Now you know what the at bat is about. You've seen the pitch. You know what you have to do to turn on it. The first strike filled you with adrenaline. Now you're strong. You feel electrified. You feel good. You grip the bat tight.
"The prime pitch is when good things usually happen. You're ahead of the pitcher, even with the first strike. Because you know what he's got, and you feel good. If you fail on the prime pitch, it's because maybe you felt too good. People in their prime get overconfident. They swing too hard. They miss.
"That's the prime pitch." The old man spat but the spit dripped out at about five points, and he had to wipe some off his lip.
"Third pitch. Now you're a veteran. You're at the end of your rope. If you fail now, there won't be another pitch. It's life or death. You're like an old prizefighter, and you stand almost perfectly still, waiting for your moment. The bat's loose and tight at the same time.
"You're not relying on luck, like the first pitch. Or talent, like the second pitch. Now you're calling on your guts, and everything you've learned.
"You mess up on the veteran pitch when you're angry at the pitcher for making you miss the other two pitches. The bad veteran is always making excuses. He's making up excuses for missing before he misses.
"But the good veteran welcomes the battle. It's serious, but it gives him joy, too. He knows that baseball means pain, and he welcomes the suffering. He may go down, but he's grateful he ever got up. If he goes down, it will be swinging."
"Sir, what if you strike out?" asked one kid, shielding the sun from his eyes with his glove.
"You just hope there's another game, and you're in it." The old man scanned the horizon to the west. "I gotta go, kids. Good luck out there." And he turned and was gone.
The kids mumbled as they got their equipment together. Did anyone know who that guy was? Maybe a retired sportswriter, someone suggested. Or an ex-player. Maybe even a Hall of Famer, one wishful thinker said.
"No, it's just my dad," said a slender infielder. "He was in the sixties."
The players nodded sagely and they took the field. In the game, the Organic Produce team skunked the Subway Sandwich team 14–3. And every one of the kids who listened got a hit.


[ 本帖最后由 灰色的点 于 2006-9-24 18:43 编辑 ]

Raising My Sights
By Terri McPherson


My six-year-old granddaughter, Caitlynd, and I stopped at a Tim Horton's donut shop for a blueberry muffin. As we were going out the door, a young teenage boy was coming in.
This young man had no hair on the sides of his head and a tuft of blue spiked hair on top of it. One of his nostrils was pierced, and attached to the hoop that ran through the hole was a chain that draped across his face and attached to a ring he was wearing in his ear. He held a skateboard under one arm and a basketball under the other.
Caitlynd, who was walking ahead of me, stopped in her tracks when she saw the teen. I thought he'd scared the dickens out of her, and she'd frozen on the spot.
I was wrong.
My Grandangel backed up against the door and opened it as wide as it would go. Now I was face to face with the young man. I stepped aside and let him pass. His response was a gracious, "Thank you very much."
On our way to the car, I commended Caitlynd for her manners in holding open the door for the young man. She didn't seem to be troubled by his appearance, but I wanted to make sure. If a grandmotherly talk about freedom of self-expression and allowing people their differences was in order, I wanted to be ready.
As it turned out, the person who needed the talk was me.
The only thing Caitlynd noticed about the teen was the fact that his arms were full. "He woulda had a hard time to open the door."
I saw the partially shaved head, the tuft of spiked hair, the piercings and the chain. She saw a person carrying something under each arm and heading toward a closed door.
In the future, I hope to get down on her level and raise my sights.

Raising My Sights
By Terri McPherson


My six-year-old granddaughter, Caitlynd, and I stopped at a Tim Horton's donut shop for a blueberry muffin. As we were going out the door, a young teenage boy was coming in.
This young man had no hair on the sides of his head and a tuft of blue spiked hair on top of it. One of his nostrils was pierced, and attached to the hoop that ran through the hole was a chain that draped across his face and attached to a ring he was wearing in his ear. He held a skateboard under one arm and a basketball under the other.
Caitlynd, who was walking ahead of me, stopped in her tracks when she saw the teen. I thought he'd scared the dickens out of her, and she'd frozen on the spot.
I was wrong.
My Grandangel backed up against the door and opened it as wide as it would go. Now I was face to face with the young man. I stepped aside and let him pass. His response was a gracious, "Thank you very much."
On our way to the car, I commended Caitlynd for her manners in holding open the door for the young man. She didn't seem to be troubled by his appearance, but I wanted to make sure. If a grandmotherly talk about freedom of self-expression and allowing people their differences was in order, I wanted to be ready.
As it turned out, the person who needed the talk was me.
The only thing Caitlynd noticed about the teen was the fact that his arms were full. "He woulda had a hard time to open the door."
I saw the partially shaved head, the tuft of spiked hair, the piercings and the chain. She saw a person carrying something under each arm and heading toward a closed door.
In the future, I hope to get down on her level and raise my sights.

Jackie's Little Sister
By Lauren Alyson Schara, 16

It was hard being the youngest of two sisters - I got all the hand-me-downs, I never got to do anything first and my teachers always said, "Oh, you're Jackie's little sister." It was so hard not to be like, "No, I am LAUREN!" I never liked being the youngest.
Don't get me wrong. Jackie and I got along - with a few fights here and there. We're two years apart, and I am one grade behind her. But sometimes it just really used to bug me to be called "Jackie's little sister" all the time.
Then a few years ago, Jackie and I were in a very bad car accident. She came out with a few bumps and bruises, but she was basically okay. I, on the other hand, had a broken arm and, worse, about 100 stitches in my face. Needless to say, I didn't feel like the belle of the ball when I looked into the mirror.
About a month after the accident, I returned to school. The stitches were gone, but a very large scar remained. Jackie reassured me that I looked great and I shouldn't worry about the scar. (If you have a big sister, you know that this means a lot coming from her.) My friends did their best not to say anything and not to stare, but the scar was very noticeable.
One day, we were riding home from school on the bus. This guy named Jordan, who rode the bus with us, started teasing me about my scar. He is in the same grade as Jackie and older than me. She was sitting pretty far from where I was sitting and didn't hear him. When we got off the bus, I didn't say anything to her about what he had done. Almost every day, he would do it again, and I would get off the bus crying. This went on for about a month, until I finally broke down and told Jackie. She was furious.
The day after I told her what had been happening, when Jordan made fun of me the next time, Jackie stood up, walked to where he was sitting and said something into his ear. I don't know exactly what she said, but he never said one word to me again.
So, even though getting all of the hand-me-downs may not be the best, I am very grateful to have a big sister like Jackie looking out for me. I know that if I were ever in trouble, she would come running.
Ever since that day, when anyone asks, I tell them, "Yep, I'm 'Jackie's little sister.'" And I am proud of it.

Where's Your Notebook?
By John W. Stewart Jr.

     I was thirteen years old when Dad called my two younger brothers and me into the game room of our house.  I was excited!  I thought we were going to play pool or pinball or maybe even watch movies together, just us guys!  "Bring a notebook and something to write with," my dad bellowed before we reached the game room.  My brothers and I stopped dead in our tracks and stared at each other in horror!  His request was unusual, and our excitement turned to dread as we became well aware that games or movies were not the reason we were pulled away from watching Fat Albert.  This felt more official and tedious, like schoolwork, chores or worse, a family meeting.
     As we each retrieved a notebook and pencil we continued to ponder the reason for this summons.  We ruled out a family meeting because Mom was still out shopping.  We entered the game room to find three metal folding chairs facing a huge blackboard.  Dad instructed us to sit in the chairs and NOT on the cushioned sofa just inches from us.
     "I want your full attention.  That is why I have you sitting in these chairs," he stated, businesslike.
     Immediately we began to pout and whine.
     "Where's Mom, aren't we gonna wait for Mom?" my youngest brother asked.
     "Is this gonna take long?" my other brother sighed.
     I silently squirmed in the uncomfortable metal chair.
     "Your mother won't be back for hours, and if you must know, she has nothing to do with this," he said calmly.  "And how long this takes depends entirely upon each of you.  The more you participate, the more you'll learn, and the faster we can move on and be done.  Understood?"
     "Yes, sir," we responded unenthusiastically.
     "Now," my father began, "we are going to have a weekly meeting with just us guys.  We will have these meetings every Saturday morning, but if you have school or sports activities on Saturday morning, we'll reschedule for Sundays after church.  I'm going to teach you what I have learned about life.  It is my responsibility, before God, to prepare you to be strong, proud, African American men who will be assets to the community and to the world at large.  It is a responsibility I take very seriously."
     I just had to jump in, "You're going to teach us everything about life?"
     "Everything I can."
     "But that will take forever."
     "Maybe."  He turned to begin writing on the blackboard.  "Maybe."
     For the next five years, rain or shine, in sickness or in health, Dad taught us about life once a week.  He instructed us on a wide variety of subjects - personal hygiene, puberty, etiquette, the importance of education, racism, dating, respect for women, respect for those in authority, respect for our elders, Christian salvation, a good work ethic, what it means to be an adult, what to look for in a wife, landscaping, minor home repairs, auto repairs, budgeting, investing, civic duties and the list goes on.  We begrudgingly filled notebook after notebook after notebook.
     As I approached my eighteenth birthday, the weekly lessons became monthly lessons and then every other month, until they slowly drifted away.  My brothers and I were older, we had girlfriends, school activities, sports activities and job responsibilities that became extremely difficult to schedule around.  I'm not sure when it happened, but the importance of our weekly lessons and notebooks began to pale in comparison to our busy teenage lives.  Soon the classes and the notebooks were mere memories.
     It's been years now since we had those classes with Dad in the game room.  We are grown with careers and wives of our own.  At every challenge in life, my brothers and I have frantically looked in attics, basements and storage sheds for our notebooks.  We can't find them anywhere.
     At least once a month one of us has a situation where we need to call home and ask Dad for his advice or guidance.  We hesitantly pick up the phone to call him, knowing good and well he's going to laugh and say, "Where's your notebook?"

A Batboy Looks Back
By Mark Stodghill

I was searching for baseball ghosts when I took my family on our first trip to the Mall of America in Bloomington, Minnesota. We weren't there to shop. I simply wanted to find the site of where home plate had been at Metropolitan Stadium, the former home of the Minnesota Twins major-league baseball team.
I spent the best days of my boyhood - along with a couple of the worst days - at Met Stadium as a batboy with the Twins. It was a great place to grow up. It's where I learned about sex, race and ethnic relations, and celebrity, and that baseball players were a lot more human than they appeared on their bubble-gum cards.
I'm old enough to have seen construction begin on the Met in 1955. I watched the ballpark emerge from the surrounding corn and melon fields just off Cedar Avenue, the road that ran past my boyhood home. I never saw brighter lights or prettier emerald green grass than the first time I walked out on the runway and looked around the Met diamond. And what a diamond it was.
But the shrine of my youth was torn down when the Twins moved to the Hubert H. Humphrey Metrodome after the 1981 season. That hurt.
Now the nation's largest shopping mall, 4.2 million square feet, sits where the Met once stood. I don't know which is a greater example of gluttonous excess - the overflowing cornucopia at the Mall of America or the greed of major-league baseball players who take stretch limos to their contract negotiations and expect multimillion-dollar contracts for mediocre performances.
Give me back the days when baseball players wore baggy flannel uniforms and appreciated the lives they led and the people who cheered them.
I know we aren't supposed to live in the past, but when it comes to that 164-acre site in Bloomington, I'd prefer to. It took about fifteen minutes to find, but there was home plate embedded in the mall floor at Knott's Camp Snoopy. It was black, bordered in gold and read: "Metropolitan Stadium. Home Plate. 1956–1981."
We were the only ones looking at it. The other people were too busy racing to the hundreds of stores they had to choose from. I would have settled for seeing a Met Stadium hot dog vendor.
"It's kind of sad. It's kind of like a tombstone to me," my wife said while looking at home plate.
There was a time that I wished I was resting comfortably in a casket beneath that home plate tombstone.
It was a balmy summer day in 1964 and forty thousand fans were in the stands watching the Twins play the perennial American League champion New York Yankees.
My main job that day was to make sure that the home plate umpire was supplied with baseballs. The batter - I've forgotten if it was Mickey Mantle, Roger Maris, Harmon Killebrew, Tony Oliva, or one of the team's mere mortals - fouled off a half-dozen pitches. Home plate umpire Nestor Chylak called time and signaled me to bring him a new batch of baseballs.
Not wanting to delay the game, I sprinted toward home plate. But my spikes got caught in the turf. I tripped and slid in the general direction of the plate. The baseballs flew in all directions. Umpire Chylak got into his crouch, pumped his arms and hollered "Safe!"
About sixty major-league players and coaches, four umpires and forty thousand fans were roaring. At me. If I could have crawled under the plate and hid, I would have. I can honestly tell my kids that unless they break a law they'll never face a more embarrassing moment as a teenager.
After the game I remember Killebrew - my favorite Twin - and a half-dozen other players smiling, patting me on the back and asking if I was all right. Twins trainer Doc Lentz asked if I needed a whirlpool treatment. Even I was able to laugh at that.
I went on to become the Twins' assistant equipment manager in 1967 before entering the military. I returned to the team in the same capacity for the 1972 and '73 seasons. By that time I was the same age as some of the players. The best stories from that era - while colorful - probably don't belong in a wholesome publication.
When it comes to the spicier stuff I witnessed and heard, I'll live by the old clubhouse adage: "What you see here, what you hear here, what you say here, when you leave here, let it stay here."
Those memories will never fade. But I wish Met Stadium was still standing and that those players from my past were still able to play the game we all respected and cherished.

Not Just Another Birthday
By Janie Emaus

There are weekends and then there are weekends. Those minutes within hours within days which are completely perfect. Such was how I spent the last few days of my forty-ninth year, as I approached a half a century young.
I was given the best surprise of my life - a weekend at the Calistoga Hot Springs with my best friend, my sister, Arlie P.
From the moment Arlie picked me up at the airport with a happy birthday balloon and a smile as large as the universe, I knew I was in for something special.
We ate lunch in one of those elegant restaurants that one reads about in books and watches on the silver screen. The type of restaurant with high ceilings, spacious grounds and gracious waiters. The type we all deserve to eat at more often. Unfortunately, life seems to thread us between one obligation and another. And not until we're about to unravel do we treat ourselves to what we deserved all along.
After a fabulous meal we checked into our room at the spa. Minutes later we were sprawled out on lawn chairs, basking in the warmth of the afternoon.
We came alive with sun-drunk conversation. Our laughter filled the air, bounced off the water, hung over us like a halo.
As the heat seeped into my skin, the tensions eased from my body. I knew I had arrived at a time and place in my life with more things to be thankful for than could be packed into my tiny, unorganized suitcase.
A few hours later, we strolled down Main Street, two giddy women. We got stares from the young men. Of course, not quite the same type our daughters would get. Nonetheless, we were noticed.
We disappeared into the dress shops and gift shops. And we talked.
We talked about growing older and the passage of time. Twenty years ago our conversations revolved around diapers and sleepless nights. Ten years ago around Girl Scout cookies and Little League. Today our talk centers on college education and retirement plans. Yet while the topics may be different, we are still talking. Our sisterly bond has endured the inevitable changes of growing older. Of moving out of our twin beds and into separate worlds.
Later that night, saturated with Mexican food and beer, we crawled into bed and tried to stay awake during a TV drama. After all, we weren't that old yet. Within minutes, my sister and I were deep inside our own dreams.
Saturday morning started off with coffee, bagels and more talk. Pumped full of caffeine, we took a long bike ride during which we tried to talk as we huffed and puffed our way over the hills and back down along the highway.
Finally it was time for our treatments.
We were given lockers and keys and told to undress. Wrapped in towels, Arlie and I drank flavored water, ate sweet oranges and whispered. At that moment, I was so wonderfully thankful for this sister sitting beside me. For all of our silly fights over clothes and makeup. For all of the much-cherished conversations yet to come.
Nervously, I followed the attendant down the hall into the mud room. She instructed me to place my hands on the sides of the tub, balance over the mud and then settle in. It felt warm against my buttocks and back. Soon, the girls were packing us in as if we were going to be shipped across the country.
And as long as my sister went with me, I was willing to go anywhere.
Next, we sat in hot tubs, scrubbing our finger and toe nails, sipping water. I knew my sister was getting hungry when she started eating the cucumbers floating in the drinking water. This was followed by the steam spa in which my sister kept sticking her head out the hole for fresh air.
Once we'd had enough heat, I was led down a long hallway into a small room, much like an examination room at the doctor's. Here, I spent fifteen minutes of total relaxation with cucumbers on my eyelids. Soothing music drifted into the air. My thoughts flowed randomly. I nearly fell asleep.
The treatment ended with a full-body massage. I can only say that a person has to experience this for herself. I know I can't wait for another one.
After two and a half hours of pampering, we strolled out (even stroll is too fast a word for our movements) and collapsed onto the outside chairs. The cool air played against our softened skins. Flowery scents drifted past on the wings of our contented sighs.
Eventually, we gained enough strength to walk back to our motel to get ready for my birthday dinner. Despite our food arriving late and mosquitoes joining us for dessert, it was a perfect evening.
Over Sunday morning breakfast (yes, another meal!) we looked forward to next year's treatment, the main reason for coming to Calistoga, but certainly not the most important one. Hot oils, mud baths, steam saunas, lotions and wraps can rejuvenate wrinkled, tired skin. For a bit. A day. A week. A strong bond between sisters lasts forever, keeping one's soul rejuvenated for eternity.

Back When
By Audrey Curran


It was an American tradition - a real, honest-to-goodness game of sandlot baseball - and it was being revived. Gone were the uniforms and the uniformed children, identical in age and size. Gone were the tension-ridden parents overseeing the nerve-racking games. Gone were the agitated umpires, managers, assistant managers and assistant-assistant managers. Gone were the scheduled "time-outs" while harried officials consulted section B of article 2 of part 1 of the ever-so-official rule book.
It was wonderful! We held an old-time, Saturday afternoon softball game. We had invited twenty friends and neighbors to come; twenty-five showed up, hesitantly eager to play. Just minutes after the game began a carload of strangers slowed to watch, and then asked if they could join the fun. The players were men and women, boys and girls, ranging in age from eight to sixty-eight.
"You're out!"
"No, I'm not!"
"I said you're out!"
"You don't know what you're talking about!"
It was good old-fashioned democracy in action.
"I don't see too well without my glasses," explained the guy who had been my neighbor for ten years and whose conversation had consisted of tight-lipped greetings. "You take first," he said to my son, "and I'll go way out in the field so I won't mess up an important play." It was teamwork because the individual wanted to do what was best for the team, not because some coach was shoving "teamwork" down his throat. When one oldster got tired, he sent a youngster in to relieve him, while he sat on a haystack and sipped some refreshment. Nobody kept score. Everybody kept score. Nobody cared what inning it was, and the game ended when there was no one left who wasn't too tired to play. Best of all, everybody had a grand time and went away wanting to do it again.
I have silently watched progress replace country roads with freeways and corner grocery stores with sterile supermarkets. But something in me hesitated to accept progress when organized Little League games started replacing spontaneous neighborhood softball games.
It is not just nostalgia. It is a memory revived and brought to life for a gathering of friends and family. But I feel just a little sad that a scene so interwoven with my childhood and the childhoods of so many Americans has become a novelty in this country. What happened to that empty lot that used to be on everybody's block?