Bait and Switch
By Kevin Martone

     Saturday morning everyone arrived at Friends Lake for their weeklong stay.  Assigned to Cabin #5, my Aunt Nancy found a HUGE fish, gutted and frozen, that the campers before them had left in the freezer.  As usual, the women were in the camps getting unpacked and preparing for their vacations while the men and boys had already begun their fun.  Therefore, only my Aunt Nancy, Aunt Dawn and Mom knew about the frozen fish.  They kept it their own little secret, waiting for the right moment to spring it on the rest of the family in some surprising way.
     The men and boys spent the whole week fishing.  These so-called experts returned from their early morning fishing expeditions each day with nothing more than a few small perch or an occasional rock bass.  All their high-tech gadgets and experience couldn't help them land the "big one."
     "The lake's gone dry," they told everyone after yet another unsuccessful early morning outing.  Each day brought more excuses.  The women grew tired of all their excuses and wanted to put an end to them once and for all.  Finally, the girls pulled out their secret weapon - the big frozen fish they'd stashed away.  They grabbed some poles and other fishing equipment and hurried down to the lake.
     "We'll show you guys how to catch a fish!" they said, making a big scene as they untied a rowboat.  Meanwhile, they had wrapped the fish in a beach towel and placed it with their fishing supplies.  They pushed off from the docks and began rowing toward the center of the lake.
     "Hurry up before anybody sees what we are doing!" Dawn said excitedly as Mom rowed them away from the throngs on the beach.  Nobody suspected them of such a devious plan - everyone assumed they were just having some fun.  None of the men thought they had any chance to catch a fish, never mind a big fish.
     So off they went, the three of them in their aluminum rowboat, oars squeaking against the sides.  They could see the men and kids on the beach snickering at their attempt at fishing.  Finally, far enough out so that the casual observer couldn't see their actions from the beach, Nancy unwrapped the partially thawed fish and hooked it on to Dawn's line.  They carefully dropped the fish overboard, making sure they didn't lose it.
     "Will they really believe us?" they asked each other.  "How long should we wait before rowing in to show our big catch?"  They didn't wait long - it was too much to hold in.  After about four minutes, Dawn started yelling and screaming, "Oh!  We caught something!"
     Dawn did a great acting job.  Everyone knew that touching a fish was her biggest nightmare.  The pole bent with exaggeration from the big fish, heavy with half-melted ice - at least that's how it looked from shore.  All of their excitement had caught the attention of the beachgoers once again.  The men watched in amazement as the ladies lifted the fish out of the water.  Nancy grabbed the line above the fish, displaying their trophy for all to see.  Dawn tentatively held a small green fishing net below the fish to ensure they didn't lose their catch.  Mom turned the boat to face their audience on the beach.
     "How did they catch such a big fish?" one of the husbands asked.
     Everyone on the beach, young and old alike, ran up to the diving board to get a closer look.  Mom started rowing back to shore so that they could show off their prize catch.  They had to make sure the fish only faced one way, because it had already been cleaned.  They couldn't let their fans see the exposed bones and flesh.
     For several minutes, Mom slowly rowed the boat toward the docks, building the anticipation.  The people on the beach leaned over the railing of the diving board, trying to see the huge fish for themselves.  The three women were in no hurry to end this delightful joke on their fishermen husbands.  The men on shore were wondering out loud what the women used for bait.
     "Don't lose it," they warned, holding onto only a sliver of pride in their own fishing abilities.  The looks of astonishment on the men's faces, having been one-upped in their own special skill – fishing - were priceless.
     Finally, Nancy, Dawn and Mom couldn't stand it any longer.  They rowed in even closer.  When they were within ten feet or so of the board, somebody finally noticed that the fish wasn't exactly right.
     "That fish has already been gutted," one of the men said in utter astonishment.
     Silence ensued.  The men were speechless, now realizing that they had been suckered into one of the greatest Friends Lake pranks in history.  Nancy, Dawn and Mom were proud then and remain proud nearly two decades later.  They still laugh about the day the women taught the men how to catch the "big one."  However, on that day, it was the fishermen of Friends Lake who really got "caught."

Last Outing
By James Hert

     I looked out of my tent, and the snow was coming down so hard that I couldn't see a thing.  It was blowing sideways and had already drifted up one side of my tent.  It was cold, very cold.  It must have been twenty or thirty degrees below zero.  Why was I out there?
     Snow in Michigan by the first of November is not unheard of, but this was a downright blizzard.  I was sure this would be an all-time record.  Thirty-two degrees and a foot of snow can be a beautiful, pleasant experience.  This was not!
     What is it about me that makes me do these things?  Why do I take these chances?  I love the outdoors, the sounds of the wild, the sunrises and sunsets, everything that you can only experience by getting outdoors and camping.  I have all of the equipment to stay warm and dry in any weather, but this was ridiculous.
     I was wishing that I had not ventured out that weekend, but there I was, and I was going to have to survive!  The wind was making my tent snap and flap so hard and so loud that sleep was totally out of the question.  My goosedown sleeping bag was supposed to be good to minus ten degrees, but I was already shivering quite a bit.
     My last meal had been the night before, and it was going on 11 a.m.  I hadn't eaten any breakfast, and I didn't have anything with me in the tent.  My energy wouldn't last much longer.
     My wife, Amy, was probably worried about me, too.  She had warned me last night that it was going to be cold and windy.  She is so loving that I know she would have joined me if I had asked her to.  But I told her not to bother, that I just wanted to get this one last outing out of my system.  She was probably snuggled up in front of the fireplace with a good book.  I wished I were with her.  I had carried a couple of my magazines along thinking I would read by flashlight, but I was too cold to enjoy reading about bass fishing.
     With that thought, I knew I had to get out of there.  My original plan was to try to wait out the blizzard, but I realized that wouldn't work.  I was cold, and I was hungry.  I would freeze or starve to death before this one was over.  But how should I do it?
     Should I try to take everything with me?  I hated to abandon my equipment, but it would have taken too long to break down the tent, and the sleeping bag is too bulky if it isn't rolled up tight and stuffed in its bag.  My hands were too cold to do that, and it's almost impossible to do with gloves on.  I was sure my things would be all right here for a while.  I would carry what I could and leave the rest behind.
     I took another peek out the flap, and a blast of wind with tiny ice darts smacked me in the face.  This wasn't going to be as easy as I thought.  At thirty below your skin can freeze in a matter of minutes.  Once that happens, well, I wasn't going to think about that . . .
     I was ready to make a run for it.  I wasn't in great shape, and I couldn't run far, but I was afraid that if I walked I would freeze before I got there.  I looked around inside the tent one last time to make sure I wasn't forgetting anything critical.  It took a couple of seconds to get my glove around the tent zipper, but when I did, it jerked straight up to the ceiling, and I bolted out into the frozen landscape.
     The snow was deep, but light.  I kicked my way through the snow.  How far would I have to run?  Could I make it all the way?  I was almost out of breath when I hit the back door of the house and burst through.
     "Hi, honey, how did you sleep?" asked Amy.  "I thought that bit of snow and wind we had last night might have woken you up sooner.  Are you going to bring the tent in from the backyard, or will you want to sleep out again?"

How Many Grapes Does It Take?
By Natasha Friend

     Melissa lived in a trailer park, miles from my campus, in one of a dozen turquoise units wedged between a bowling alley and the turnpike.  Beer cans and abandoned clothing speckled the lawn outside #9 - a scene not unfamiliar to your average college student, if this were the aftermath of a frat party.  But those rusted training wheels?  That Barbie lying face down in the mud?
     "Mol," I said.  "What are we doing here?"
     Molly nosed the car up to the only patch of ground not littered with anything and replied, in that deliberate way that only a best friend can, "We're making a difference.  Remember?"
     Three weeks before, propelled by the fervor of the liberal-arts curriculum, I had charged back to my dorm room with all the righteousness of Robin Hood.  "I'm signing us up for 'Big Brothers Big Sisters,'" I told Molly.  "What's an $85,000 education worth if we don't use it to make a difference?"
     Molly smiled at me, the same smile she always wears because she knows me so well she can read my mind: Who do we think we are - with our J. Crew barn jackets and our name-brand educations?  Who do we think we are, showing up on this family's doorstep and kidnapping their daughter?
     Fearing the awkward moment of face-to-face economic disparity, we knocked on the door.  Much to our relief, the parents didn't answer.  Melissa did, in all her kindergarten splendor.  Tiny and stick-limbed, she peered up at us and wrinkled her nose like a rabbit.  Sniff.  Sniff.  Could these big girls be trusted?
     Behind her stood two older children, each with Melissa's shaggy blonde hair and blue eyes.  They hung back as she gave us a tour of the trailer.
     "Here is the TV.  Here is the beanbag chair.  Here is the picture I drawed in art."
     Melissa's parents, quiet in chairs, watched her flit about.  They smiled with the amused detachment of any parent watching a child take the spotlight.
     "Here is me when I was a little baby.  Here is my twin baby, Mark, that died."
     Molly and I leaned in closer to see the photos clearly: one baby dressed in pink, one in blue.
     "Missy," the mother said softly, beckoning with her finger.  Melissa walked over to her mother and leaned in to hear the secret.  Missy regarded us solemnly. "Mama said he's in heaven with the other angels."
     There was a shuffling silence from the agnostics in the room.  Molly and I tried to fill the air.  We offered unbidden assurances: seatbelts fastened, the four food groups, home by eight.
     Then the older sister piped up, "How come Missy gets extra sisters and we don't?"
     "Yeah," chimed the brother.  "How come she gets a dinner at college?"
     From his chair at the opposite end of the room, the father spoke for the first time.  His voice was deep and strong.  "Tonight is Missy's night."
     Melissa grabbed one of my hands, one of Molly's and started bouncing.  "Katie . . . Dusty, I'll eat for you," she announced.
     Walking to the car, Melissa still held onto our hands.  She managed to turn around and wave, with her foot, to Katie and Dusty who had their noses pressed against the windows.
     "They wanted to come," said Melissa as we tucked her into the back seat of the car.
     "Next time, kiddo.  Tonight's your own special night," we told her.  Melissa spent the drive to campus bouncing in the back seat: Tonight's my special night, my special night, my special night.
     In our cafeteria, Melissa was about the same size as the dining-hall tray she was carrying.  Since she insisted on carrying it herself, she was oblivious to the throng of students towering over her, thundering past her.  She only saw the food.
     "Can I eat . . . anything?" she asked.
     "Sure," we told her. "Pizza, pasta, cereal, soup, salad . . ."
     Melissa turned in circles for a few minutes, open-mouthed, until we guided her over to the salad bar in the middle of the Commons where she rested her tray along the slide and thought for a minute.
     She pointed to items in a metal tin.  "What are them things?"
     "Grapes.  Green grapes."
     Over Melissa's head, I mouthed to Molly: She's never had grapes?
     "They good?" Melissa asked.
     "Delicious," we told her, relieved she didn't go straight for the ice-cream machine.
     I lifted Melissa up so she could reach the grapes with a pair of salad tongs.  She piled enough on her plate to feed a large colony of fruit flies.  "Whoooa, cowgirl," I said.
     That was all she wanted.  Grapes.  From the staggering display of food in our dining hall, all Missy wanted were grapes.  She thought they were "the most prettiest," "the most yummiest" thing she had ever encountered in her life.  She wanted to eat them every day of the week for every meal.
     We finally had to tell Melissa, ever so gently, that too many grapes would equal one very big stomachache, and that now would be a very good time to stop.  The look on her face was priceless.
     "But I ain't never gonna eat grapes again.  I gotta eat enough for everyone."
     "Missy," I affirmed, "there will always be enough grapes."
     All three of us walked back to the salad bar and started filling plastic cups with grapes - one for each member of Melissa's family, one for her for tomorrow, one for Molly and one for me.  We promised there would be grapes the next time we brought her to dinner, and the next, and the next.
     Our drive home was a quiet one.  Melissa sat very still in the back seat, careful not to spill her bounty, smiling down at the cups with reverence.
     We drove out onto the turnpike, past the bowling alley, through the trailer park and up onto the only patch of ground not littered with anything, before Melissa spoke.
     "Guys," she said, "are there grapes in heaven?"
     Molly reached over and squeezed my hand, silently saying this question was all mine.
     "At every meal, baby," I told her.  "At every meal."

The World's Worst Mother
By Polly Anne Wise

     After mothering me for thirty years, my mom stood in the kitchen of my home and announced these words, "I was the world's worst mother, and I am so sorry."  She then proceeded to apologize for all the things that she did wrong in raising me.  I realized that she was filled with guilt about the strict rules of her child-raising years, causing me to miss many school dances.  She was mortified that she and my father were too poor to afford my high school ring.  She was ashamed of herself for punishments that lasted for weeks.  She was sad that she tried to choose my friends.  My mother went on and on about her mistakes and regrets as tears of pain streamed down her face.
     Right at that moment my mom looked so beautiful.  I wondered why my entire family, including me, took her for granted.  How do you tell your mother all that she is to you?  I wanted to tell her that the punishments and strict rules of my childhood have a small spot in my memory in comparison to my recollections of the nights she let me stay up late and bake cookies with her.  I kept silent instead of telling her how much it meant that she scraped together the money for my wedding shoes and matching purse.  I couldn't swallow the lump in my throat so I could explain all of the millions of ways she makes me feel so special.  I should have told my mother, on that day, that of all the people in my life, no one has ever loved me in the unconditional way that she does.
     Four years have gone by since the day I didn't tell my mother that her mistakes were tiny molehills, and her love and understanding were big beautiful mountains in my life.  But I'm telling her now.  Thank you, Mom, and thank you, God, for the world's worst mother.

To Read When You're Alone
By Mike Staver


     I was 13 years old.  My family had moved to Southern California from North Florida a year before.  I hit adolescence with a vengeance.  I was angry and rebellious, with little regard for anything my parents had to say, particularly if it had to do with me.  Like so many teenagers, I struggled to escape from anything that didn't agree with my picture of the world.  A "brilliant without need of guidance" kid, I rejected any overt offering of love.  In fact, I got angry at the mention of the word love.
     One night, after a particularly difficult day, I stormed into my room, shut the door and got into bed.  As I lay down in the privacy of my bed, my hands slipped under my pillow.  There was an envelope.  I pulled it out and on the envelope it said, "To read when you're alone."
     Since I was alone, no one would know whether I read it or not, so I opened it.  It said "Mike, I know life is hard right now, I know you are frustrated and I know we don't do everything right.  I also know that I love you completely and nothing you do or say will ever change that.  I am here for you if you ever need to talk, and if you don't, that's okay.  Just know that no matter where you go or what you do in your life, I will always love you and be proud that you are my son.  I'm here for you and I love you - that will never change.  Love, Mom.
     That was the first of several "To read when you're alone" letters.  They were never mentioned until I was an adult.
     Today I travel the world helping people.  I was in Sarasota, Florida, teaching a seminar when, at the end of the day, a lady came up to me and shared the difficulty she was having with her son.  We walked out to the beach, and I told her of my mom's undying love and about the "To read when you're alone" letters.  Several weeks later, I got a card that said she had written her first letter and left it for her son.
     That night as I went to bed, I put my hands under my pillow and remembered the relief I felt every time I got a letter.  In the midst of my turbulent teen years, the letters were the calm assurance that I could be loved in spite of me, not because of me.  Just before I fell asleep I thanked God that my mom knew what I, an angry teenager, needed.  Today when the seas of life get stormy, I know that just under my pillow there is that calm assurance that love - consistent, abiding, unconditional love - changes lives.

My Sinking Heart
By Cynthia Briggs


     Goose bumps rose on my arms.  "Hi, Mom, happy fiftieth birthday!"  I heard my son, Brian say as clearly as if he were sitting next to me.  But he wasn't.
     Brian was on the USS Kitty Hawk on maneuvers somewhere between our U.S. shore and the Persian Gulf.
     My party-loving friend, Denise, had invited me out for a quiet fiftieth birthday celebration dinner.  It was unlike Denise to let such a special occasion go by without throwing a big birthday bash so I suspected a surprise party was commencing.  When we arrived at the restaurant, I suspiciously scanned the sea of faces in the reception area.  I didn't recognize a soul.
     As Denise checked on the status of our reservation, I sipped a glass of Chardonnay, when once again I heard Brian in my head.  "Hi, Mom, happy fiftieth birthday."
     My mother's intuition kicked in.  A single powerful throb stormed through my body, followed by an eerie chill.  "I hope he's okay," I said softly.
     A wave of melancholy washed over me, and tears welled in my eyes thinking about my twenty-year-old son, who was now married, and a terrific father to his own little ones.  Was it possible that so much time had passed since he was jumping his bike over jury rigged ramps in the cow pasture, gobbling down apple dumplings faster than I could bake them and bathing our new kitten in his kiddy pool?
     Knowing the intuitive connection between mother and son can be amazingly keen, I wondered if I was psychically drawing Brian to my side to celebrate this hallmark occasion.  My eyes spilled over.  My heart sank.  I was searching my purse for a tissue when Denise returned.
     "What's wrong?" she asked when she saw me dabbing at my eyes.
     "I think I've had enough wine.  I keep hearing Brian wish me a happy birthday," I said setting my empty wineglass aside.
     She gave me an understanding smile.  "Our table is ready," she said, ushering me toward the stairs.
     "Surprise!  Happy Birthday to you!  Happy Birthday to you!  Happy Birthday dear, Cindy!  Happy Birthday to you!  And many more."
     With beaming faces and rousing voices, friends, family, co-workers, shirttail relatives, and perhaps a few people I'd only met casually in the grocery store, belted out the familiar birthday tune.
     Combining my emotional reaction to Brian's telepathic birthday greeting and the surprise birthday party, I nearly collapsed.
     I'd no sooner sat down in the chair of honor when a fireman entered the room dressed from head to toe in firefighting bunker gear, carrying a sheet cake that looked like it'd been set afire.  My heart sank.  I'd seen firefighters at other soirées and they . . . well, let's just say they entered the room dressed to put out a raging fire, but exited the room decked out only in their birthday suit.  Didn't Denise know this was not only in poor taste, but also downright embarrassing?  How could she have let anyone do this to me?
     The firefighter set the cake on the table in front of me so I could blow out the fifty blazing candles.  "It's time to cut the cake," he said.
     It seemed a bit early to be cutting cake, but I was thankful his clothes were still on his body and that he hadn't started any dancing gyrations yet.
     I felt a tug on my heart when I saw the cake was a decadent death-by-chocolate flavor, a favorite Brian and I shared.  An odd hollowness filled my chest.  He's so far away and so much can happen.
     Once again I heard Brian speak, "Mom, be sure to save me a piece of cake."  This time he sounded very far away.  Was he okay?
     I froze in my chair.  Was I losing my mind?  Was hearing voices another menopausal side effect?  My emotional state was fanned by the fear that the fireman might be removing most of his clothing at any moment.
     "I'll have some cake as soon as I get this helmet off," the firefighter said.  Every drop of blood in my veins flowed to my feet.  He was stripping!  With one fell swoop, the man grabbed the bottom of the helmet and swiftly pulled it from his head.
     "Brian!"
     "Hi Mom.  Happy fiftieth birthday!"

Potato Salad and Picnics
By Nancy B. Gibbs


     Life is like potato salad; when it's shared it becomes a picnic.
     When my three children were young, my husband Roy and I were very busy.  He was working on his masters degree while working three jobs and I had three jobs of my own.  There was very little time that wasn't crammed with stress, busy-ness and term papers.
     "Can we go on a picnic, Mama?" my six-year old daughter, Becky begged.  "Please."
     I had said no so many times in recent months, I decided the usual Saturday morning chores could wait.  To her surprise, I agreed.  I prepared a few sandwiches and filled a cooler with ice and drinks and called Roy at work.  "Meet us at the college pond for a picnic at twelve o'clock sharp," I said excitedly.  My eleven-year-old twin sons loaded the cooler and the picnic basket in the trunk and off we went to spend some quality time together as a family.  I glanced at the kitchen counter just before heading to the car and spied a package of stale hamburger buns.  I thought about the family of ducks living at the pond.  We stopped and picked up a bucket of fried chicken at a fast-food restaurant on the way.
     Becky and I spread the tablecloth on the cement picnic table while Brad and Chad tossed a football back and forth.  In no time flat the ducks joined us.  Becky squealed with delight as the ducks begged for breadcrumbs.  About the time I got the lunch spread out on the table, Roy arrived on the scene.  We joined hands and bowed our heads.  As the wind blew and the ducks quacked, he thanked God not only for the food but for our family.
     That was one of the happiest meals we ever shared together.  The gentle breeze God sent our way caressed my face, as the sunshine warmed my heart.  The meal was graced with giggles and laughter.  We felt a closeness that had been hidden by work and school-related responsibilities for so many months.  Once the food was consumed, Roy and the boys skipped rocks on the lake.  Becky continued to feed the ducks and I sat quietly on the picnic table, thanking God for blessing me with such a wonderful family.
     Too soon, Roy had to go back to work.  The kids continued to play together while I watched.  I put the many things which I needed to do on the backburner of my life and simply enjoyed sharing the day with my children.  Seeing the joy on each of their faces made me smile.
     When we got into the car to return home, Becky crawled in the front seat with me.  "Here Mama!" she exclaimed.  She was holding a tiny yellow wildflower.  Happy tears came to my eyes as I reached out and took it from her.  When we arrived home, I put the tiny flower in a toothpick holder and placed the remaining food into the refrigerator.
     That night as I tucked our children under their covers, I kissed their cheeks and realized what a wonderful life I had.
     "Thank you for the picnic," one of the boys whispered.
     "My pleasure," I whispered back.
     As I walked out of the room it dawned on me that even the busiest lifestyle could become a picnic when it's shared it with the ones you love.
     Even though the kids have now grown up and moved away from home, I can still remember how I felt that day while sitting on the picnic table.
     Maybe today would be a good time to cook potato salad, call all of my grown kids, feed some hungry ducks and throw a few rocks into the lake.  Since life is like potato salad, let's make it a picnic.

Ruby's Roses
By Donna Gundle-Krieg


     The neighborhood kids nicknamed the cranky old couple Crazy Jack and Ruby Rednose.  Rumor was that they sat inside and drank whiskey all day.  It was true that Jack and Ruby Jones preferred to keep to themselves.  About the only words we ever heard from them were "Keep out of our rosebushes!"
     The rosebushes were seventy beautiful floribunda shrubs that served as a fence between our house and theirs.  The rose fence took quite a bit of abuse, since our house was the neighborhood hangout.  I was eleven at the time and the oldest of six active girls.  We should have played our softball games elsewhere to avoid hurting the roses, but we secretly enjoyed irritating Crazy Jack and Ruby Rednose.
     Jack and Ruby had a son whom we nicknamed Crazy Jack Junior.  He was due to come home from Vietnam.  We heard he had been discharged because of a nervous breakdown.  The neighborhood had thrown a big party for Jimmy Brown when he came home from the war, but no one offered to have a party for Crazy Jack Junior.
     The day Crazy Jack Junior was scheduled to come home, we had a neighborhood softball game in our yard.  Johnny McGrath was trying to catch a fly ball.  He stumbled over one of Ruby Rednose's thorny rosebushes and fell on top of several more.  Boy, did he yell, but the roses were the ones that really suffered.  From my vantage point at second base, it looked like about ten of them were damaged pretty badly.  Johnny's timing was terrible, because as he lay there swearing at the roses, the Joneses' pickup rolled into the driveway.  The truck screeched to a halt and Crazy Jack Junior sprang out.  He ran full speed toward Johnny.
     "You little punk!" he screamed.  "Look what you've done to our family's roses!  You've always been trouble.  I'm going to fetch my gun and shoot you!"
     The next few minutes were a blur.  The neighborhood kids ran for their lives.  Ruby and Jack tried to restrain their son.  He continued to yell threats and profanities.  Ruby wasn't my favorite person, but I felt sorry for her when I saw her tearfully pleading with Crazy Jack Junior.  Finally, they coaxed him inside.
     Meanwhile, my sisters and I tore into our house.  Breathlessly, we told Mom what had happened.  She put down her sewing and scolded, "Girls, I have told you not to play softball near those bushes.  Come outside right now and help me fix them."
     "Mom, we thought you didn't like the Joneses," we protested.  "They're mean to us.  Besides, Crazy Jack Junior might shoot us."
     Mom just glared at us.  We followed her outside to help mend the rose fence.
     While Mom examined the damaged roses, my sisters and I hung back, plotting how to get out of the thorny job.  As we whispered back and forth, the Joneses' garage door opened and Ruby slowly walked out.  She looked sad.  And it wasn't her nose that was red, it was her eyes.
     Ruby walked over to my mother.  The two women stood looking at each other through the new gap in the rose fence.  We girls held our breath, waiting to see who would shout first and what terrible things would be said.  How much trouble would we be in when it was all over?
     Suddenly my mother stepped forward and hugged Ruby.  "I'm glad your son came back home," she said gently.  "It must have been a horrible experience in Vietnam.  We're sorry about the flowers.  The girls will replace them if we can't fix them.  In return for all the bother, they'll help you weed the roses this summer."
     My sisters and I looked at each other in horror, but Ruby smiled at my mother through her tears.  "I know we're particular about these roses," she said, "but they're very special to us.  When my mother came from England, she brought one tiny part of her favorite rosebush.  That was her reminder of home."
     She paused a minute, then said sadly, "My mother had a magic touch with flowers.  Over the years that one plant multiplied into all these bushes.  Since she died, I've tried to keep them up, but I just don't have her magic touch."
     Her voice was all choked up.  "Mom died while Jack Junior was in Vietnam.  He just found out about her death today.  When he saw her rosebushes damaged, it was the last straw."
     Ruby mopped at her tears.  "Once we got him inside and calmed down, he admitted he's out of control.  Jack just drove him to Clinton Valley to be admitted to a treatment program."
     By now I felt really bad for the Jones family - what a sorrowful homecoming!  I could tell my mother and sisters felt the same.
     "We all enjoy the roses as much as you do.  We'll be happy to help you care for them," my mother said.  "You know, some people say I have a magic touch with flowers, too."
     Soon both women were down on their knees talking and examining the damaged bushes together.  A few weeks later, the plants all returned with vigor.
     My mother and Ruby worked together on the roses all summer long and many summers to follow.  So did my sisters and I.  A friendship formed between the families that would include countless birthdays, graduations and weddings - including Jack Junior's.
     Years later, when her son left home and her husband died, Ruby became part of our family, spending many happy hours at our house.
     She wasn't Ruby Rednose anymore; she was Aunt Ruby.  And the rose fence wasn't a fence any longer.  My mother had turned it into a bridge.

Esmerelda's Song
By Dan Millman


     In my long athletic career as a gymnast, I had trained with the best.  At Stanford University I coached the top Olympians and a nationally ranked team.  But my favorite students were beginners - especially adult novices, filled with doubt about their abilities, but game enough to try.
     Students of all ages and abilities would show up for my gymnastics classes - little boys with oversized shorts and mismatched socks; little girls with red pigtails and matching freckles; adolescents and adults who looked warily around at the apparatus, their fear mingled with excitement.  Over the years I taught them - in a rooftop room at the Berkeley YMCA, in a fancy gym club in Atlanta and in a tiny studio in San Francisco - at Stanford, Berkeley and finally, Oberlin College.
     There, I remember an amazing, heavyset young man named Darwin, blind from birth, who announced that he had his heart set on learning a front flip on the trampoline.  Darwin's lack of balance or visual cues led me to doubt the likelihood of his learning even the basics of trampoline, much less a somersault.  But I welcomed him to class and said we'd take it one step - or rather, one bounce - at a time.  After many months of preparation and many failed attempts, on the last day of class Darwin Neuman accomplished a front somersault, to the cheers and tears of everyone in the class.  I remember the mixture of surprise and delight on Darwin's face; I remember the moment as if it were yesterday.
     I also remember other students, of course - one is a now-famous Broadway star.  And over the years, many students have made me a believer by showing, again and again, the power of persistence.
     But most of all, I remember Esme.
     Her real name was Esmerelda Esperanza Garcia, but she asked me to call her Esme that first day of my ten-week course in basic gymnastics at Oberlin.  Esme had no particular disabilities - she could see and hear and to all appearances was in good physical health - although she was a bit thin and frail for the rigors of bars and beam.  As it turned out, I had never before met a teaching challenge like Esme.  Something had brought her to me and to one of the more challenging physical education classes at Oberlin.  She brought with her a set of psychological baggage that included her self-image as a klutz, and she seemed determined to demonstrate that each day.  Esme didn't just fall behind everyone else - she was like a golfer who played entirely in the rough, never touching a fairway.
     To fully appreciate what Esme faced, understand this: each term, as new students wandered into the gymnastics area and looked around, I would call them together and demonstrate a full exercise routine on the floor and on all the apparatus.  These included a variety of swings, arm changes, handstands, cartwheels, and rolls and dance elements requiring flexibility, strength, coordination, balance, stamina and reflex speed.  Then, as I watched the looks of incredulity, doubt or total disbelief on their faces, I would then predict that they would indeed be able to do every one of those routines by the term's end.
     One of the greatest joys I experienced as a teacher was to help my students to do far more than they believed they could accomplish.  So my courses became something more than mere skill learning; in transcending their limiting beliefs in this area of life, my students were more likely to excel in other areas as well.  I believe that most students returned the second day on trust alone - on blind faith that "this guy might be able to deliver what he promises."  So, beginning on the proverbial wing and a prayer, on hope and dreams and the challenge I'd set before them, they began.
     In Esme's case, she had complete faith—negative faith.  She was certain she could not even come close to what I had predicted, but at least she would learn something.  Apparently intent on convincing me of her ineptitude, she told me stories of glasses of milk knocked over on the dinner table; of slips and falls, and of being the last-to-be-picked for every team in every sport at every school she attended.  She was giving it another try because she had heard that I was a "miracle worker," and said she needed a miracle at that point in her life.
     I'd like to say that a miracle happened - that Esme became the star of the class and went on to the Olympics, or some such thing, but that would be sheer fantasy.  Esme trailed behind the class all the way to the end, and received a "B" for persistence, effort and yes, some discernable improvement.
     But then she did something no student had ever done - Esme asked if she could take the same course over again.  Normally, I would decline, because the class had a long waiting list, and new students should have an opportunity to participate.  This time I made an exception.
     By the third week of class, even with her head start, Esme was again behind half the class.  But this meant she was even with, or ahead of the other half! - a new experience for her, and one that did not escape her notice.  She was like a runner who glances back to see people behind her for the first time.  This struck her with the force of revelation, and something wonderful happened - Esme was stuck in a handstand.  Not permanently, but for a few wonderful seconds, her handstand was so straight, and so well balanced, she just hung up there, to my surprise and to her amazement.  She came down beaming, and the entire class applauded.
     A light went on inside Esmerelda Garcia on that day, in that moment.
     After that, she started pleading with me to spend a little extra time to help her after class - with her cartwheel, her balance beam dismount, her hip circle on the uneven bars.  She asked questions, tried, fell, asked more questions, tried again, her face focused with an intensity I'd only seen in world-c lass gymnasts and young children.  Now it was do-or-die for Esmerelda Esperanza Garcia.
     By the term's end, Esme got through every single routine, with only one minor fall and a few bobbles.  The class members, who had come to know and help one another in their common endeavor, had come to know Esmerelda as well, and to respect her dedication.  As she completed her last routine, they gave her a standing ovation.  She laughed.  Then she broke down in tears.
     Who would have guessed that a two-unit physical education class could change someone's life?
     My only bittersweet regret in teaching was that I hadn't learned more about each of my students - their lives outside the gymnasium.  They showed up, were gymnasts for an hour and a half, two days a week, for ten weeks; then they left the gymnasium and went on with other classes, other lives.
     As it happens, Oberlin College has one of the finest conservatories of music in the United States.  And one of the many things I had not known about Esme was that she was a conservatory student, and that her specialty was voice.
     In mid-April, after the last snowfall, as the first touch of spring warmed the air - about four months after Esme's triumphant completion of my class - I was walking through Tappan Square, the park directly across from the conservatory.  I noticed an announcement sign - "Senior Recital: Vocalist . . ." - an announcement I would have passed by with barely a glance, until I saw the name of the vocalist: "Esmerelda Garcia."
     That night I sat in a small audience of students, faculty and friends of Esme.  I sat mesmerized by her voice, her skill, her charisma and her radiant singing.  Again, her performance was rewarded with well-earned applause, which I joined enthusiastically.
     I believe someone told her that I had attended, because when I returned home that evening, I found a note by my door.  It read:
     "Dear Dan, I was at an impasse in my singing and my life, and about to give up.  Then I met you and learned what I could do."  It was signed:
     "With love and gratitude, Esme."
     I gazed out into an evening made more beautiful by Esme's song.  Memories of her voice mingled with images of her in the gymnasium, blending like the spring breeze through the blossoming apple trees.  It felt good to be a teacher, good to be alive.

Living the Dream
By Carlos R. Bermúdez


     As we grow up, we often fantasize about the future and what it holds for us.  Some of us want to become professional athletes; others want to be astronauts, policemen or firemen.  But often our dreams don't quite come true.  So what's the next best thing?
     The next generation.
     We grew up in Fajardo, Puerto Rico, playing baseball and basketball from dawn to dusk.  Baseball was my thing, but I also played quite a bit of basketball.  Early on, I knew I didn't have the tools to become a great basketball player, but that didn't deter me from going out there and spending endless afternoons playing hoops with my friend Alberto Arroyo and the rest of the neighborhood kids.  Alberto was a much better player, fundamentally sound, and a pretty decent shooter.  The only drawback was that he often stopped the game to teach us the fundamentals and most of us didn't care; all we wanted was to play.
     This knack for teaching the key points of the game would eventually be instrumental in his children's future.
     As we grew older, Alberto - who has a couple of years on me - got married first.  He married my cousin Glorián Bermúdez, and a year later, on July 30, 1979, she gave birth to twins.  The twins were baptized, Carlos Alberto and Alberto Carlos - after the two of us, of course.  Immediately after their birth, Alberto and I began to make plans for the twins.  I suggested baseball, but Alberto's passion for basketball was overwhelming, so basketball was the sport of choice.  Before they could walk, Carlitos and Albertito would learn how to balance themselves on a basketball.  They were both fascinated by the leather sphere.  By the time they turned two - that is, two months old - the twins became a permanent fixture at our pick-up games.  They would sit there and watch us play, argue, then play some more and argue some more.  Unfortunately, by the time they turned a year old, it was time for me to leave my little town in pursuit of bigger and better things.
     At the time, I was having dreams of my own of one day going to Hollywood and becoming a television writer.  Alberto thought that was a good idea because by the time the twins reached college age, I would be a famous writer and they could come live with me while attending UCLA and leading the Bruins to the final four.  We went on and on daydreaming about how the twins were going to carry the team through March Madness.
     Once I finished college, I headed for Los Angeles to pursue a writing career.  I would go back to Puerto Rico every couple of years and check on the twins' progress, which was right on schedule, but it wasn't until the twins were ten years old that I saw them play organized basketball for the first time.  They were both very good, but there was something very special about Carlitos; his ball handling was exceptional, his move to the hoop unstoppable, and his jump shot was poetry in motion - swisssh.  He had a confidence on the court that made him a very special basketball player for a boy his age.  After the game, I turned to Alberto.
     "I'm sure UCLA wouldn't mind having him," I said.
     We took a second to think about it, then simultaneously, we shook our heads, laughing.
     Years later, I saw them play again.  The twins were now seventeen and playing for Santurce in Puerto Rico's superior league.  With Albertito at his side, Carlitos led the team to five championships in six years.  The dream of going to UCLA didn't materialize, but Carlitos went on to play college ball at Florida International where he made a name for himself.  In his senior year, there was a possibility that Carlitos would be drafted by an NBA team.  After he went to camp in Arizona, scouts were so impressed with his performance that he got invited to camp in Chicago, but a week before camp, he fractured an ankle and couldn't play, ending his chances of getting drafted.
     The resilient young man got over his injury and went after his dream.  He worked hard and was invited to pre-season camp by the Toronto Raptors.  A month later he made the team, and Carlos A. Arroyo Bermúdez became the fifth Puerto Rican ever to play in the National Basketball Association.  There he was, a boy who carried my name, measuring his skills against the best in the game from Michael Jordan to Kobe Bryant.
     On December 1, 2001, Alberto, Glorián, Albertito and I met in Miami.  It had been a long, long time since I had seen them all.  My hair was now graying and receding, and I had lost a step or two, but the dream was more alive now than ever.  Fulfilling my own dream of becoming a television writer/producer and creating my own sitcom was peanuts compared to what Carlitos was about to do.
     As we entered the American Airlines Arena, home of the Miami Heat, we looked at each other in awe of what we were about to witness.  We didn't say much.  No words could describe what we were all feeling.  My skin was bristling with goose bumps.  As we walked through the tunnel and out to the other side, a basketball court appeared, the parquet floor shining under the lights.  It reminded me of one of those early evening pick-up games twenty years ago when we played under a lamppost and could barely see the basket.  If we had had this much light, I would've never missed a shot, I thought.  So much light, so much life, so much excitement - and then the announcer stepped up to the microphone and announced the Toronto Raptors.  The team ran out of the tunnel and there he was, number 21, Carlos Arroyo, jogging behind All Star power forward, Vince Carter.  Alberto, Glorián, Albertito and I all exchanged silent glances.  Carlitos was living the dream.

The Search for "Shorts"
By Marta J. Sweek
Submitted by Jessie L. Stewart   


     It was the height of the Korean conflict, and nine-year-old Kim Jun Hawn, walking down a road near Taegu with his parents, had become accustomed to a country at war.  As the steady drone of a fighter plane drew closer and closer, the mad dash for cover he made was automatic.  And when, after the roar of the plane's guns had ceased and he could not find his parents again, his assumption was only natural: They were dead.
     My father, Alan H. Stewart, was the supply sergeant in the 151st Combat Engineers in Korea from June 1951 until April 1952.  When he came upon the little Korean boy, he felt an immediate attachment to the tiny, lonely figure.  It was a bitterly cold winter, and my dad, feeling sorry for the boy, allowed him to live in his tent with him on the front lines, where Kim slept and ate for the duration of my father's tour of duty.
     The soldiers nicknamed the little boy "Shorts," and his broad smile and tiny, bustling figure soon became a beloved sight in the unit.  Every day, dressed in the military fatigues the soldiers gave him, he hurried about, doing errands and carrying water.  He even did the men's laundry, squatting on the rocks of a nearby river. Occasionally, the soldiers gathered chestnuts from trees in the area and roasted them.  Shorts helped to pass around the special treat with a huge, happy grin.
     All the soldiers loved him, but my father was the one who was generally acknowledged to be his special protector and guardian.  Dad even wrote home for schoolbooks so he could teach Shorts some English, and, eventually, Shorts was able to deliver mail to the right soldiers.
     As my father's time of service drew to a close, he grew increasingly concerned for Shorts.  Of course, Dad had known all along that he would not be able to take care of the little orphan forever - it was impossible to take Kim with him - and he worried how he and Shorts would handle the separation.
     His worst fears were confirmed.  Dad never was able to forget the day he left Korea, looking back at Shorts as a military jeep drove him away.  Shorts cried and ran after him till he was out of sight.  Dad felt as if someone had wrenched his own child away from him.  Shorts was an orphan, again.
     When he returned home, my father found out that the Korean government had gathered up all the children like Shorts and taken them to an orphanage in Seoul.  It was what Dad had expected.
     As a child, I loved to have Dad tell me the story about the little Korean boy called Shorts, but as I grew older, I realized that it hurt my father to talk about it; he would always leave the room with tears in his eyes.  So I stopped asking Dad to talk about Shorts, but neither of us forgot about him.
     Many years later, in November 1983, I watched a segment on the television show 20/20 on the reuniting of Korean families who had been separated during the war.
     What a shame, I thought, that I can't reunite my father with the little Korean boy he'd loved, too.
     But it had been more than thirty years.  Shorts could be anywhere.  Friends and family felt the same way: Don't even bother, they advised.  It's impossible.
     But I couldn't shake the feeling that it was the right thing to do.  Undaunted, I sat down and wrote letters to the Korean embassy, the U.S. embassy in Seoul and the National Red Cross Tracing Service in Seoul.  In each letter, I outlined all the information I had on Kim - which was precious little - and included a small photograph of the boy sitting on my father's knee.  I knew it was a shot in the dark.
     In the months that followed, I received the expected response: a few false leads, and then silence.
     A year later, my father's phone rang in the middle of the night.  Groggily, he picked it up, but for a moment couldn't understand the operator's garbled speech.  Suddenly, Dad sat up; she was speaking Korean.  There was a pause, and then a man's voice: "Sergeant Stewart, this is Shorts."
     My father was speechless for a moment.  Then the two men began to talk.  Kim spoke in broken English, explaining the miracle of how he had happened to open the Seoul newspaper that he subscribed to and stumbled across the tiny picture of my father and himself embedded deep in the classifieds.  The conversation was punctuated with long silences as both men, overcome with emotion, tried to find the words to describe their feelings.  Before they said good-bye, Kim promised to send a letter soon.
     When the letter arrived, there was no doubt in anyone's mind that we had found Shorts.  He recalled events and people in the letter that only he and my father would know about.  Kim's unknown life after the war unfolded for us.  He had gone to Seoul as an orphan, only to discover that his parents had survived the airplane's gunfire on the road after all.  They were reunited, and Kim was now a "successful man in my society and a schoolteacher at a middle school in Seoul."  He sent pictures of his family - he had a wife and two daughters - and he wrote how much he would like the families to meet.
     Two years later - thirty-three years after Dad drove away from Shorts - he was reunited with his "first son."  As my father and mother came off the plane in Korea, a small, smiling man named Kim was there to meet them.  They laughed and cried as they marveled at the changes the years had brought, and how circumstances had brought them back together.
     One evening during their stay in Korea, as my parents were unwinding at their hotel, they heard a knock on the door.  Opening it, they were greeted by a beaming Kim holding out a bag of fragrant roasted chestnuts.  "I know Sergeant Stewart likes these," he said.
     Taking the bag from Shorts and shaking his head, my father said, "You remembered that?"
     "I remember everything," Shorts answered.
&n bsp;    "So do I," my father said softly.  "So do I."
     There would be no more tears about the lost Korean boy.  Despite a war that had been painful in so many ways, Shorts and my father had created memories that - at last - made them both smile.

That's My Cat

      February 1991.  Operation Desert Storm is raging; our country is at war.  Here at home, my house is strangely silent - the result of both the absence of my eleven-year-old son, Zach, who is spending the weekend with his father, and the void left by the death of my mother, who will never again interrupt me with an ill-timed phone call.  As if war, separation and death are not enough, Valentine's Day lurks around the corner, with no lover or beloved in sight.
     This is the clincher.  At age thirty-seven, I have yet to experience a Valentine's Day that comes through on its Hallmark promise.  For whatever reason, when February 14 rolls around, boyfriends take a hike or I receive valentines from admirers I wish had stayed secret.  This year, my sense of abandonment is profound.
     Out of this mire of despair, I have an idea: Forget the man.  I will get a cat.
     A long-haired, pink-nosed, calico female cat is what I have in mind.  But, suddenly, the image of a black male cat pops into my head.  Just as suddenly, I reject the thought.  No black cats and no males, I decide.  Black cats are too mysterious, too sleek and aloof.  And male cats, too independent and too likely to spray.  Bottom line: A black, male cat doesn't seem cuddly enough.
     And so, on this fateful day in February, I call the local humane society and ask if they have any calico female cats.  "You're in luck!" the voice at the other end of the line says.  "We have a calico female kitten just waiting to be adopted."
     "Great!" I say.  "That's just what I'm looking.

Gift of Jehovah
By Melody Delgado Lorbeer


     I miscarried for the second time on the evening of my forty-fourth birthday.  Not exactly encouraging for a middle-aged mother of one - but unbeknownst to me, God was working.
     Seven years earlier, after eleven years of marriage, my husband and I became the parents of a healthy, beautiful girl.  Sarah was a blessing in our lives.  However, within a few years, we longed for another child.  I was very open to the prospect of adoption, but my husband, having worked in the field of social services for many years, was not so keen on the idea.  I had my first miscarriage two years after Sarah was born, then put the idea of another child on hold.  Of course, the longing for another child to love as a part of our family just grew stronger over the years.
     We decided to go ahead and adopt.  I had worked as a teacher for many years and knew in my heart that loving "the child of another" as my own would come naturally for me, especially a child from my own Latino culture.  Well-meaning friends and doctors thought differently.  I heard words of wisdom from many arenas: "You're not too old to get pregnant," "Try to have your own child one more time," and "How could you love someone else's child?"  I took stock of my age and doubted whether a woman in her forties would be able to carry a child.  Fortunately, I verbalized these thoughts to my seven-year-old.
     "Remember Sarah?  She was a really old lady when God gave her a baby," my own wise-beyond-her-years Sarah said to me.  "If God can bless her, God can bless you.  AND YOU'RE NOT TOO OLD!!" she scolded.
     She was referring to the story of her namesake in the book of Genesis.  Sarah was barren and did not have a child until the ripe old age of ninety!  I decided to try to become pregnant one more time.  I miscarried again.  A tragedy?  No.  Merely a message that made it clear I needed to accept my own humanity and let God be God.
     We reignited the adoption process, but this time with fervor.  Over the next several months, our portfolio was shown to several birth mothers, but no child was forthcoming.  I grew concerned over the issue of my age.  Would any young woman in her right mind choose me as the person to raise her child?
     A few months later, we received an urgent phone call from the director of the adoption agency.  There was an incredible shortage of birth mothers with babies available for adoption.  Would we mind locating a birth mother on our own?  We were dumbfounded, flabbergasted and shocked.  But we still desperately wanted a child.
     We met with a local attorney a few weeks later to pursue finding a birth mother on our own.  In fact, he had met with a possible birth mother right before speaking with us.  We even saw her as she headed out and we headed in.  She looked adorable.  But . . . she wasn't Latina.  We left encouraged by the possibility that we could have a baby in a few short months, only it would not be Latino.  That would be fine, but it was not our first choice and not what we were hoping for.
     We received another call the very next day from the director of the adoption agency.  A young single woman from El Salvador had come out of nowhere, given birth to a healthy baby boy and had just signed adoption papers.  Were we interested in letting her see our portfolio?
     We told only a few family members and friends about the possibility of a sudden addition to our family.  There were twenty other families on the waiting list.  Most were probably much younger than we were.  We didn't expect much to come from the recent news.  However, five days later we received a call stating that I was the only Latina mother available, and the birth mother wanted a Latino family to raise her child.  We were ecstatic.
     We named our son Jonathan after the biblical hero and friend of King David, but had no clue as to the name's meaning.  During the adoption ceremony, the director of the agency stated that the name Jonathan means "Gift of Jehovah."  Tears welled up in my eyes at the realization of the great gift that God had indeed given me.  The gift was not on my timetable, but it was given at the perfect time nonetheless.
     At the age of forty-five, half the age Sarah was when she gave birth to Isaac, God had remembered me.

Laser, the Therapist
By Nancy Kucik


     The moment he reached his little paw through the cage bars at the humane society, I was a goner.  I wasn't looking for another cat - I already had two - but was just stopping by to give the animals some attention.  When the shelter volunteer, apparently knowing a sucker when she saw one, asked if I would like to hold him, there was no longer any doubt.  He came home with me that day.
     He was a gorgeous cat, a five-month-old blue-point Siamese with eyes like blue laser beams: thus, his name.  Right from the beginning, it was obvious that Laser was an exceptional cat.  He loved everyone - the other cats, visitors to the house, even the dog who later joined the household.
     I first heard about animal-assisted therapy several months after we adopted Laser.  While most of what I heard was about dogs, it occurred to me that Laser would be perfect for this type of work.  I signed up for the training class, and, after completing the preliminary requirements, Laser and I passed the test to become registered Delta Society Pet Partners.
     While he had always been a little lovebug at home, Laser found his true calling when we began to go on visits.  Whether it was with sick kids at the children's hospital, seniors with Alzheimer's disease, or teens in a psychiatric unit, Laser always knew just what to do.  He curled up on laps or beside bed-bound patients and happily snuggled close.  He never tried to get up until I moved him to the next person.  People often commented that they'd never seen a cat so calm and friendly.  Even people who didn't like cats liked him!
     One young man, who had been badly burned in a fire, smiled for the first time since his accident when Laser nestled under his lap blanket.  A little boy, tired and lethargic from terminal leukemia, rallied to smile, hug Laser and kiss his head, and then talked endlessly about Laser after the visits.  Several geriatric patients with dementia, who were agitated and uncommunicative prior to Laser's appearance, calmed down and became talkative with each other and the staff after a visit from my therapeutic feline partner.  It has been our hospice visits, though, that I consider the most challenging and rewarding of all our Pet Partner experiences.
     One day, I got a phone call telling me about a hospice patient at a nearby nursing home who had requested a visit by a cat.  At the time, only one cat – Laser - actively participated in the local program.  Even so, my first inclination was to make some excuse not to do it.  I have always had issues with death and dying, and a hard time talking about it to anyone, but I quickly realized how selfish I was being - the poor woman was dying, and all she asked was that I bring my cat to visit.  I said yes.
     A few days later, we made our first visit.  Mrs. P. was ninety-one years old, and although her body was weak, her mind was still very sharp.  It was a little awkward at first (what do you say to a perfect stranger who knows she's dying?), but Laser was a great conversation catalyst.  He crawled into bed with her and curled up right next to her hip - exactly where her hand could rest on his back.  She told me stories about the cat she and her husband had years ago.
     "See you next week," she said as we got up to leave.
     We visited every Sunday during the three months that followed, and a real friendship developed between us.  Mrs. P. would excitedly exclaim, "Laser!" every time we appeared at her door and "See you next week!" every time we left.  She had been gradually getting weaker, but, one week when we arrived to see her, I was distressed to see that her condition had deteriorated significantly.  Still, she smiled and said, "Laser!" when we walked into the room.
     She complained of being cold, even though the room was warm, and when Laser cuddled up close to her, she said, "Oh, he's so warm - it feels so good."  We had a nice visit, even though Mrs. P. wasn't feeling very well.  Her hand never left Laser's back.  As we left, she said her usual, "See you next week," and I hoped that was true.
     The next Saturday, a phone call informed me that Mrs. P. was going downhill rapidly, and that she probably wouldn't live more than another few days.  I asked if we should still come for our visit, and the nurse told me that she thought that would be wonderful.
     When we arrived, it was obvious that Mrs. P. was dying.  She was fading in and out of consciousness, but when she noticed that Laser and I were beside her bed, she smiled and whispered, "Laser."
     She was having a very hard time breathing, so I told her not to try to talk; we would just sit quietly and keep her company.  Laser took his spot on the bed next to her hip, and Mrs. P. rested her hand on his soft back.  Neither of them moved from that position for the entire length of our visit.  This time, when we got up to leave, Mrs. P. whispered, "Thank you."  She knew that there would be no "next week" for us.
     A couple of days later, I got the phone call telling me that Mrs. P. had died.  I was sad - our weekly visits had been so wonderful - but I was glad that she was no longer in pain.  I remembered how I had considered declining to make the hospice visits and was so grateful that I had not.
     In our seventh year as a Pet Partner team, Laser and I still make visits to several facilities.  Laser, the little cat that nobody wanted, is as beautiful on the inside as he is on the outside, and he continues to brighten the lives of everyone he meets.