New York Cabbies
By Marsha Arons


     New York cabdrivers are legendary.  Countless jokes have been made at their expense about the way they zip through traffic, narrowly missing other cars and fixed objects, coming within inches of any pedestrian foolish enough to think he can make it on a flashing "don't walk" sign.  And anyone who has ever been a passenger knows that wrenching feeling of speeding up to go one short block then stopping short to avoid a car stopped ahead.  Somehow, cabbies never seem able to remember the adage that you can only go as fast as the guy in front of you.  And no New Yorker is ever surprised when a cabbie leans his head out the window of his taxi and offers some important comment on another's driving ability or indeed on his personal attributes or lineage!
     But three months after September 11, when I spent a week in New York City, the cab rides I took were slow, the cabbies quiet, subdued.  I asked a few of them where they were and what they did on September 11.  One driver didn't want to talk about it; then he did.  In fact, he had so much to say that when we reached my destination, he put up the meter and I just sat there listening.
     "Traffic came to a complete stop that day.  No busses or cabs or cars could go anywhere.  Which is just as well because it was a hell and no one knew where to go to be safe.  I was at midtown, stopped in traffic, and I had a fare when the first plane hit.  We heard it first, then saw it.  Both of us thought it was an accident.  Who knew . . . ?
     "But then the second plane hit.  I dropped my fare and got out of my cab.  By then there were so many sirens and emergency vehicles headed south, you couldn't move.  So, like everybody else, I watched from the sidewalk.  Then . . . then they started to come down!  It had been a beautiful sunny day but the air changed in a minute.  Suddenly it was black and gray and you couldn't breathe.  I turned my cab around to head north.  People banged on my window.  I told them to get in and we just drove away from it.  I don't remember where I left them off.
     "Someone flagged me down - stood right in front of my cab.  He flashed an ID.  He was a doctor and he wanted me to take him to NYU Med center.  I did.  There was a line of cabs at the hospital.  The police wouldn't let us leave.  So we all went in and gave blood.  Later, the only vehicles allowed out were ambulances.  I said, 'I'm a good driver.  Let me help.'  They put me on an ambulance with another driver.  We started taking supplies down to NYU Medical Center downtown.
     "Later that day, I got my cab and drove around.  There were people all over, just walking dazed and crying.  I couldn't do anything for them except give them a ride so I did.  Many of them were going from hospital to hospital trying to find a family member who had worked in the WTC.  I took one group - a father, mother and two sisters - to five different hospitals.  At the last place, I left them because there was someone who fit the description of their loved one.  I never found out if it was him. . . ."
     I tried to take notes the whole time the man was talking but I couldn't write fast enough.  So I just listened.  I know I got the whole story.  It wasn't one I could forget.
     Another cabbie told me how he spent his time trying to take people home.  "They were walking, walking anywhere - across bridges, in the middle of the streets.  People were leaning on each other.  I stopped and took an elderly man and the person he was leaning on to the Upper East Side.  They looked like walking dead. . . .  We picked up some others along the way.  One lady said she had to stop to tell her son that she was okay.  Her phone wouldn't work so we stopped at his office around Fiftieth Street.  He was outside, just staring south.  When he saw his mother, he started crying.  The lady decided to stay with him.  So I looked for some more people to take."
     I had heard that in the hours and days that followed, New York came to a standstill.  There was no public transportation available for days.  But every one of the cab drivers I spoke with was busy in those hours - taking people home, carrying medical supplies, and transporting emergency personnel.  Whatever any of these able-bodied people could do with or without their cabs, they did.  They found ways to help.  Of course I didn't have to ask if they ever let the meter run during any of those trips.  They would have been insulted if I had.
     The cabdrivers of New York City are a microcosm of society.  They are black, white, Indian, Muslim, Hispanic - every race, creed and color imaginable.  They go about their day like most people, earning a living, getting the job done.  For the most part, they are ordinary people.  And ordinary people find ways to do extraordinary things when called upon.  A lot of people did a lot to help others that day.  They used what skills they possessed to save lives, give hope, help others.  Those skills included being able to perform emergency surgery and being able to drive a cab.  Each was needed and important in the aftermath of the horror of September 11.
     It's absolutely true what they say about New York cabdrivers - they are legendary.

Tears and Laughter
By Kimberly Thompson


     Through misted eyes I gazed at my little son as if for the first time - and perhaps for the last time.  He lay sedated, fighting for his life, with two holes in his heart and pneumonia.  Doctors questioned whether my two-month-old baby with Down's syndrome would live.
     I wanted to remember what it felt like to be his mother.  I wanted to savor my inability to distinguish where my flesh ended and his began.  As I softly pressed my cheek against his, our connection calmed my fears.  I wanted to remember the wisp of curls that twirled behind his ears, and the feeling of life fulfilled when his almond-shaped eyes drifted to look into mine.  Mostly, I wanted to remember the inexplicable warmth that filled my heart when I held him.
     I had dreamed of days when we might build sand castles at the beach together; when Eric would swing so high in the park that he'd feel like he was flying; when he would play catch with his daddy and cuddle with me.  I begged the doctors to keep him alive.  I pleaded with the nurses to feed him more.  And I prayed to a God that I didn't know well to let me keep my baby.
     After one special conversation with my husband, Bob, I came to realize that Eric's soul would choose whether to stay with us or let his body go.  We stood on either side of his cold metal hospital crib and told him we would stay with him, love him and nurture him if he chose to stay with us.  My mind trusted whatever his soul chose, but my heart ached with the hope that he would choose to stay.
     Meanwhile, desperate to remember what it was like to hold my baby when it might last only these two precious months - to remember every moment - I decided to write it all down so I could never forget anything.  From that moment of resolve, words flooded my thoughts.  I formulated chapters in my mind between conversations; phrases appeared as I slipped off to sleep; and whole pages might appear to me upon waking, while driving or at Eric's bedside.
     During his second week on life support, I strode into the hospital, past the reception desk to the bank of elevators, all the while transmuting emotions into words, mixing hopes and prayers.  I stood before the elevator doors and stared up at numbers blinking all too slowly - 5 . . . 4 . . . 3 . . . 2 . . . - until the soft bell rang and the doors parted to reveal smiling grandparents, nurses and orderlies from the pediatric ward.  They passed within a few feet of me, but we were worlds apart.  I entered and leaned against the cold wall, returning to my sanctuary of words as the elevator rose, and then I walked slowly down the long hallway to the children's ward.
     Before Bob arrived, I whispered to my baby about plans for our book; it would be our secret.  Then I remembered that I don't keep secrets, especially when opening up is essential, so I told my husband and some close friends as we gathered near Eric.  I began writing that very evening at my kitchen table, occasionally turning to gaze upon the empty cradle in the living room, a reminder of my baby still in the hospital.  It felt like a part of me had been pulled away.
     Eric triumphed through those six weeks of life support, but over the next two years, he had numerous bouts of pneumonia, respiratory viruses and digestive problems.  He was dependent on a breathing tank for his oxygen.  We always knew where our little guy crawled to by following the fifty-foot oxygen tube that trailed from the breathing tank at the end of the hall, wound around the kitchen table and into the living room, and ended attached to Eric's face, allowing the prongs to let purified air flow into his nasal passages.
     When he was seventeen months old, the doctors told us it was time for Eric to have his heart repaired.  They said, "He's as healthy as he can be under such conditions.  If you wait much longer, it will be too late."  But they couldn't guarantee that his fragile heart and weak lungs would make it through the grueling surgery.
     Forty-eight hours later, I stood by his crib and gazed past the tubes and wires to his angelic face, looked down and watched as he opened his eyes and focused on me.  His smile illuminated the room.  I let out a cry of relief.  I knew Eric was here to stay.
     Through it all, the writing has carried us through the recurring life-support crises as Eric's legs dangled again and again over death's pier.  I recorded every experience, every emergency and breakthrough, every painful moment and every miracle as love carried us deeper into ourselves, peeling away our resistance, teaching us to rely on faith.
     Our son needed cardiologists, pediatric nurses, therapists and specialists to repair his heart; we needed Eric to repair ours.  Our lives were opened up to a degree I never knew existed.  In the midst of these past years, I found myself sitting at the large table in the corner room of the Unity Center, where we held our Up with Down's meetings.  I sat across from a brand-new mom and dad.  She held her one-month-old, blond-haired, baby with Down's syndrome protectively against her chest, while her husband wrung his hands in his lap.  "We haven't told our parents yet," she said.  My eyes fixed on the young father's face as she spoke.  His tears never stopped.
     Then it came to me that my book should not be a secret from anyone, because we have known great pain and found miraculous healing.  It comes from Eric's heart and mine.  After more than four years, his valiant little heart beats stronger with each passing day we are given.
     Today, we can't keep our son out of the playground.  It's either monkey bars or basketball, soccer or T-ball.  We've since built many a sand castle together, discovered new parks and playgrounds, have taken turns reading and rereading his books - yes, he is reading now!  We have pretended to be manatees in our swimming pool and have eaten too much popcorn at the circus.  We have a special boy who lives a joyful life.
     Eric has his heart checked once a year, but his laughter washes away my fears.  When I look into his bright eyes and feel the warmth of his bear hugs, I know his loving heart is going to be just fine.  And so is mine.

The Power to Shine
By Deborah Rosado Shaw


     Anyone who saw me standing at the podium during the awards ceremony that June day would have called me a success.  At thirty-five, I was the founder and sole owner of a multimillion-dollar business.  I traveled the country speaking to businesspeople.  I had three beautiful sons and was prosperous enough not to need to work another day in my life.  But I had spent so much of my early life feeling lost and powerless that I wasn't able to savor my own good fortune.
     As a girl, growing up poor in the South Bronx, I wasn't sure what success looked like, but I was pretty sure it didn't look like me.  There was no chubby, freckled, bespectacled Puerto Rican girl in any movie I'd ever seen or book I'd ever read - nor had I ever heard of a Latina CEO or scholar.  And there weren't too many successes on view outside my window either.  The women I saw were worn-out domestics and shop clerks, carrying groceries to their walk-ups, trying to scrape together enough energy to make it through another day.  Without realizing what I was doing, I began putting together a model for myself from bits and pieces of those around me - that one's straight back, and this one's spirit - a kind of rag doll I kept by my side.
     As I grew up and moved out into the world, I worked hard to overcome the impoverishment of my childhood years.  But early versions of myself were stacked inside me like Russian dolls: the four-year-old who was beaten up the first day of school because she was mistaken for white; the frightened teenager at a South Bronx high school where police stood in riot gear; the college freshman at Wellesley whose roommate requested to be moved because she didn't want to room with a kid from the ghetto.  I couldn't get rid of them entirely, nor did I want to.  They were part of me, reminders of where I was from, although I made sure to keep them hidden.  Then completely by chance, at seventeen, I found a niche for myself in New York after dropping out of Wellesley.  I landed a job as a customer-service clerk at a company that made umbrellas and tote bags.  Business fascinated me - all the gyrations of people and product, the ups and downs, the whole cycle of making something out of nothing.  Eventually, I decided I wanted to move into sales, but the company turned down my request.  Not to be deterred, I called in sick one day so that I could call on the Museum of Natural History, a potential customer.  I left there with a huge order and a new customer.  After I brought the order to the office, I met with the company president and asked, "Are you guys gonna let me sell now or what?"
     They did.  A few years later, when I was twenty-one, I was promoted to account executive and put in charge of my own category of business.  Two years after that, I went to work for a rival firm in California to expand their umbrella business.  I was making a lot of money for someone my age, and with a goal in mind, I consciously lived well below my means.  After working for that company for a few years, I had enough money to step out on my own.  Suddenly, I was an entrepreneur without a salary.  Flying by the seat of my pants, I was losing money, but I didn't let my early mistakes discourage me.  I continued to move forward, doing what I felt I had to do, even when I wasn't sure whether I was right.
     By this time, I was married with two young children, and my world was split down the middle.  I kept the professional strictly separate from the personal, and never spoke about my background in business circles.  It was lonely being a woman CEO, but I was used to that.  I was vaguely aware that I was hiding, but I didn't feel ready to take the risk of revealing myself.
     My company, Umbrellas Plus, continued to grow and expand, landing several major retail accounts.  Eventually, I relocated to New Jersey to be closer to the industry action.  One day as I was flipping through a magazine, I came across an announcement for the Women of Enterprise Awards sponsored by Avon and the SBA.  The award was given to women business owners who had overcome significant odds to build a successful enterprise.  It sounded right up my alley.  As I filled out the essay questions, it occurred to me that this kind of award might bring me smack up against my carefully constructed identity, but I completed the application anyhow.  Who said I was going to win?  A month later I opened a notice from Avon, read the first word - Congratulations! - and whooped out loud.  This Puerto Rican, a one-time public-housing resident, was going to be honored in front of fifteen hundred luminaries during a reception at the Waldorf-Astoria!  I'd been awarded a stay in New York, with theater, dinner, media appearances, a cash gift and a makeover.  I was on cloud nine.
     The day of the awards luncheon, I felt like Cinderella as I walked into the legendary Waldorf-Astoria, surrounded by well-wishers.  But once I was seated in the hotel's grand ballroom, looking around at the crystal chandeliers, the linen tablecloths and the impeccably dressed crowd, I grew increasingly anxious.  When it was my turn to speak, my ears roared and my legs shook as I made my way to the podium.  Looking out over the glittering crowd, the old voices I had battled all my life came thundering back at me: Who do you think you are?  What's a ghetto girl like you doing here?  By this point in my life, I "had it all" - the well-tailored suits, the fine jewelry, the business, the family, the house.  What was still missing?  I stared out beyond the crowd to an illuminated patch of floor at the back of the ballroom. . . .
     And then an amazing thing happened.  A vision of an old woman with a bucket and rag flashed before me: a widow who spoke no English, whose only option had been to leave her children and homeland to work as a domestic in the United States.  That woman was my great-grandmother, Juanita.  You see, my great-grandmother had left Puerto Rico and found a job at a large, fancy hotel in New York - this hotel, the Waldorf-Astoria.  She had worked on her knees, in this very building where her great-granddaughter was now standing in a place of honor.  As I looked out over the audience, I felt such a connection to Mama Juan ita, her spirit of fortitude and resolve, and all the other women who came before me, women who worked hard without knowing how it would affect future generations.  If they could push through their fears and achieve so much, then so could I.  I would let my real life shine, not only for my great-grandmother, but also so that other women could see it for themselves.  With my sons, parents and business associates looking on, I spoke.  For the first time publicly, I shared, with pride, my true story, not a sanitized version.  As I gave that speech, I came to terms with where I came from and where I was going.  In embracing my own history, I was connecting to a story larger than myself.
     To this day, whenever I feel discouraged, I stand at the kitchen sink and wash dishes.  When I make that circular motion with a brush or cloth, I feel the power of so many women before me, whether they washed dishes at a river or cleaned the floors of a hotel.  I think about my children and their children, and their children's children.  I think of my great-grandmother Juanita and how she scrubbed floors on her knees, so that one day, I might shine.

Cop by Destiny
By Ruben Navarrette, Sr.


     I loved my job.  I loved every minute of it for thirty-six years - because I was never supposed to have it.  In a few weeks, I will be retiring from a law-enforcement career that spanned five decades.  Since 1966, I've been a deputy constable, police officer, patrol sergeant, district attorney investigator and finally a labor standard investigator for the California Labor Commissioner.  I have worn five badges.
     My last job has taken me back to the same agricultural fields that I worked in as a six-year-old boy in 1947.  Back then, I carried water to my parents and brothers as they worked.  My father gave me that job.  But he didn't give me hope that I could have the job I really wanted.  I was about eight years old when I told my father I wanted to be a policeman.  I had seen a storybook at school called Dick and Jane where a police officer in a blue uniform helps get a cat down from a tree.  I thought to myself, That's what I want to do - help people.  My father smiled, shook his head and told me it could never be.  It was the end of the 1940s, and he never imagined there could be Mexican policemen.  Besides, he thought I was too small.
     "Estás muy pee-wee," he said.
     My father, who was born in Chihuahua, Mexico, thought only about providing for his family.  He had no idea about what his children could do in life nor did he have the desire to look that far into the future.  Maybe if he had, he could have warned me about what lay ahead.  I experienced my first obstacles in grammar school.  I could not learn as fast as other kids.  I had learned to be resourceful, alert and quick-witted, but those skills didn't benefit me in the academic world.  It didn't help that I didn't speak very good English - or even very good Spanish for that matter.  I used to mix both the Spanish and English words whenever I felt comfortable.  I'm also left-handed.  The teachers in the second and third grade would grab my left hand, spank it with a ruler and try to force me to write with my right hand.  I never finished my lesson, and I would always get a black star, never a gold one or even a silver one like other kids got.
     And, of course, growing up in the 1940s and 1950s, I had to deal with racism.  In the seventh grade, I volunteered to be in a school play about the South.  I asked the teacher in charge if I could be one of the gentlemen, a part that appealed to me because I could wear a top hat and white gloves and carry a cane.  The teacher told me that I was too dark to play a gentleman and suggested that I be one of the slaves.  Soon, my face was all painted up, and I was standing next to three other dark-skinned slaves.  I was only about twelve years old then, but I caught on quickly.  I asked the teacher for permission to go to the restroom, and out the door I walked.  I never went back.
     No matter what obstacles I faced, I never let go of my dream of helping people.  Today, I find myself doing a job that combines all the others I've had, a job where I can put my life experiences into practice.  I'm working in the same agricultural fields as when I was a boy, but in a very different way.  I'm enforcing labor laws.  I make sure that the workers - most of them Mexican immigrants - are protected from abuse and low wages, and I make sure that they are protected by worker's compensation insurance.  It's my job to see that workers are not taken advantage of.  As I walk the fields and approach these hard-working people, all dirty and sweaty, I sometimes think I see my father's image and feel his spirit around me.
     When I approach the workers, I try to put them at ease.  They're scared, and some think I am with the INS.  I greet them with a smile and tell them, in Spanish, that I'm there to help them.  That's when my father helps me.  I tell them that, a long time ago, my father ("mi apá") came from Chihuahua and worked these same fields.  The only difference, I tell them, is that he had nobody looking out for him.  Around me, I see sad faces that, all of a sudden, have a little bit of trust in them.  I spot the face of an older man, un viejito, standing with the younger ones, and he cracks a smile.  I put my arm around his shoulder.  I tell him things are going to get better, and I hand him my business card, which has a small emblem of a badge.  His face lights up.  A few seconds later, a dozen or so other workers come closer to me.  They're smiling and laughing and thanking me for the visit.  Soon, they all have business cards.
     Then I talk to their supervisor, the field labor contractor.  I make sure he knows what the law says and what his responsibilities are.  I also make sure he knows that there is a dark-skinned angel looking out for these field workers.  As I walk to my pickup, I look back and see the old man waving good-bye to me.
    Right about then, I am that eight-year-old boy who wanted to wear a uniform and help get a cat down from a tree.  I can feel my father's spirit again.  But this time, instead of telling me I'm too small for the job, I hear him telling me: "Son, I'm very proud of you.  And I respect you for following your dream."

My Mother's Cat
By Renie Burghardt


     When my nineteen-year-old mother died two weeks after giving birth to me, I inherited her cat, Paprika.  He was a gentle giant, with deep orange stripes and yellow eyes that gazed at me tolerantly as I dragged him around wherever I went.  Paprika was ten years old when I came into this world.  He had been held and loved by my mother for all ten years of his life, while I had never known her.  So I considered him my link to her.  Each time I hugged him tightly to my chest, I was warmed by the knowledge that she had done so, too.
     "Did you love her a lot?" I would often ask Paprika, as we snuggled on my bed.
     "Meow!" he would answer, rubbing my chin with his pink nose.
     "Do you miss her?"
     "Meow!"  His large yellow eyes gazed at me with a sad expression.
     "I miss her, too, even though I didn't know her.  But Grandma says she is in heaven, and she is watching over us from there.  Since we are both her orphans, I know it makes her happy that we have each other," I would always say, for it was a most comforting thought to me.
     "Meow!" Paprika would respond, climbing on my chest and purring.
     I held him close, tears welling in my eyes.  "And it makes me so very happy that we have each other."  Paprika's orange paw reached up and touched my face gently.  I was convinced he understood me, and I knew I understood him.
     At that time, we lived in the country of my birth, Hungary, and I was being raised by my maternal grandparents because World War II had taken my young father away, too.  As I grew, the war intensified.  Soon, we were forced to become wanderers in search of safer surroundings.
     In the spring of 1944, when I was eight, Paprika and I snuggled in the back of a wooden wagon as we traveled around our country.  During the numerous air raids of those terrible times, when we had to scramble to find safety in a cellar, closet or ditch, he was always in my arms - I absolutely refused to go without him.  How could I, when one of the first stories I was ever told as a child was that of my dying mother begging her parents to take care of her cat as well as her baby?
     After Christmas in 1944, when we were almost killed in a bombing of the city we were in, Grandfather decided that we would be safer in a rural area.  Soon, we settled in a small house neighboring a cemetery.  Here, Grandfather, with the help of some neighbors, built a bunker away from the house.  In the early spring of 1945, we spent one entire night in the bunker.  Paprika was with me, of course.  Once again, I refused to go without him.
     Warplanes buzzed, tanks rumbled, and bombs whistled and exploded over our heads all night while I held on to Paprika, and my grandmother held on to the both of us, praying the entire time.  Paprika never panicked in that bunker.  He just stayed in my arms, comforting me with his presence.
     Finally, everything grew still, and Grandfather decided it was safe to go back to the house.  Cautiously, we crept out into the light of early dawn and headed toward the house.  The brush crackled under our feet as we walked.  I shivered, holding Paprika tightly.  Suddenly, there was a rustle in the bushes just ahead.  Two men jumped out and pointed machine guns directly at us.
     "Stoi!" one of the men shouted.  We knew the word meant, "Stop!"
     "Russians!" Grandfather whispered.  "Stand very still and keep quiet."
     But Paprika had leapt out of my arms when the soldier shouted, so, instead of listening to Grandfather, I darted between the soldiers and scooped him up again.
     The tall, dark-haired young soldier approached me.  I cringed, holding Paprika against my chest.  The soldier reached out and petted him gently.  "I have a little girl about your age back in Russia, and she has a cat just like this one," he said, smiling at us.  I looked up into a pair of kind brown eyes, and my fear vanished.  My grandparents sighed with relief.  We found out that morning that the Soviet occupation of our country was in progress.
     In the trying weeks and months that followed, Paprika's love made things easier for me to bear, for he rarely left my side.  He was my comfort, my best friend.
     By the fall of 1945, Grandfather, who had spoken up about the atrocities taking place in our country, had gone into hiding to avoid being imprisoned as a dissident by the new communist government.  Grandmother and I prepared for a solemn Christmas that turned into my worst nightmare when I awoke on Christmas morning to find Paprika curled up next to me as usual - but he was lifeless and cold.  I picked up his limp body, and, holding it close to me, sobbed uncontrollably.  He was nineteen years old, and I was nine.
     "I will always love you, Paprika.  I will never give my heart to another cat," I vowed through my tears.  "Never, ever!"
     "Paprika's spirit is in heaven now, with your mama, sweetheart," my grandmother said, trying to comfort me.  But my heart was broken on that terrible Christmas Day in 1945.
     Grandfather stayed hidden until the fall of 1947, when we were finally able to escape our communist country by hiding among some ethnic Germans who were being deported to Austria.  In Austria, we landed in a refugee camp where we lived for four years.  These were difficult times for me, and I longed for Paprika often.  I saw other people's cats and knew it would be so comforting to feel a warm, furry creature purring in my arms.  But my loyalty to Paprika - mixed up in my mind with loyalty to my mother - never wavered.  I had made a vow, and I would keep it.
     A ray of hope pierced this darkness when, eventually, we were accepted for immigration to the United States.  In September 1951, we boarded an old U.S. Navy ship.  We were on our way to America.
     That year, we spent our first Christmas in the United States.&n bsp; The horrors of war and the four years of hardship in a refugee camp were behind us now, and a life filled with fresh possibilities lay ahead.  On that Christmas morning, I awoke to a tantalizing aroma wafting through the house.  Grandmother was cooking her first American turkey.  Grandfather, meanwhile, pointed to one of the presents under the Christmas tree.  This gift seemed alive, for the box was hopping around to the tune of "Jingle Bells," which was playing on the radio.  I rushed over, pulled off the orange bow and took the lid off the box.
     "Meow!" cried the present, jumping straight into my lap and purring.  It was a tiny orange tabby kitten, and, when I looked into its yellow eyes, the vow I had made in 1945 crumbled like dust and fell away.  I was a new person in a new country.  Holding the cat close, I let the sweetness of love fill my heart once again.
     That Christmas day, I do believe my mother smiled down at us from heaven approvingly, while Paprika's spirit purred joyfully at her side.

Too Late
By Esther Copeland


     My ninety-year-old mom, Bert, is in the late stages of Alzheimer's and has been in a nursing home for twelve years.
     I am her only family and love being with her as much as I can.  We find meaningful, loving times together.  I sing to her.  We hug.  We speak primarily through touch.  Once a fun, witty woman, now she rarely has lucid moments where we can communicate.  I am simply that 'nice lady.'  She cannot move herself at all.  Her hands are atrophied and the only movement of her body is when the nurses turn her in bed every two hours.
     One day an aide went to check on my mother, who had been sleeping.  She was shocked to find Mom on the floor, with no apparent injury, still asleep and snoring.  The aide called to the nurse, "Bert has fallen out of bed!"  The nurse immediately headed to her room saying, "Bert doesn't move.  She doesn't roll.  This can't be."
     Even when in the room, looking at my mother on the floor, she was amazed and repeated, "This can't be!  Bert doesn't move or roll."
     The aide wondered out loud, "Maybe we should pull up the bed rails."
     From my mother, came, "Don't you think it's a little late for that now?"
     Mom grinned.  The staff burst into laughter.

Me and My Mewse
By Cindy Podurgal Chambers


     According to my dictionary, a "muse" is any of the nine Greek goddesses who preside over the arts.  This means that, as a writer, I not only get to work in my pajamas, I can also claim my own goddess who will answer my prayers in times of literary distress.
     Luckily, there's no need, since I have Necco, a peach-colored tortoiseshell cat to serve as my own personal "mewse."
     The cat discovered us at the local animal shelter.  We were looking for a quiet, neat pet to complement our boisterous dog, Emma.  We found Necco instead.
     As soon as we entered the shelter, she called to us in a noisy chirp that made it clear she required immediate attention.  The yellow tag on her cage - the symbol showing that this was her last day - backed up her urgent request.  When the cage door swung open, she stepped into my arms and settled back with a look that clearly said, "What took you so long?"
     Six months old and barely three pounds, Necco wasted no time establishing herself as the one in charge of our lives.  The leather chair was her scratching post.  The Christmas tree was her playground.  And the mantel, neatly decorated with a collection of brass candlesticks of all shapes and sizes, was where she discovered the Feline Law of Gravity: Cats go up; candlesticks come down.  The first dainty swipe of a paw resulted in a satisfying crash.  So did the second, third and fourth.  By the fifth crash, Necco's face bore the cat equivalent of a grin.  She had discovered her purpose in life.
     It happened that Necco's skills reached their peak just as my life reached a low point.  My twenty-year marriage had shuddered to a stop, leaving me with a ten-year-old daughter, Katie, and a large home to support on an advertising copywriter's salary.  Although I worked full-time, the pay was modest and I often found myself with more bills than paycheck.  I soon realized I would have to work as a freelance writer just to meet expenses.
     That meant getting up at 4:00 a.m., writing for two hours, and then getting ready for work.  Eight hours later, I would return home, fix dinner, help Katie with homework, clean the house and get ready for another day's work.  I fell into bed exhausted at 11:00 p.m. only to crawl out of bed when the alarm sounded at 4:00 a.m. the next day.
     The routine lasted exactly two weeks.  Despite gallons of coffee, I couldn't seem to produce anything.  I was cranky, frustrated, lonely and ready to admit defeat.  Writing was hard.  Paying bills was even harder.  The only answer was to sell the house and get an inexpensive apartment.  Unfortunately, that would mean more losses for Katie and me.  Especially since no apartment in town allowed pets.
     I hated the thought of finding another home for us all, and I especially hated the thought of telling Katie about the changes in store.  Depressed, I slept right through the 4:00 a.m. alarm the next day.  And the next and the next.  Finally, I quit setting it.
     That's when Necco did a curious thing.  Knowing that a sudden crash would make a human jump, she decided that the perfect time to make that crash was at 4:00 a.m.  Her bedroom bombing raid was timed with military precision.  First she set off a small round of artillery in the form of two pencils and my eyeglasses.  I rolled over and covered my head with the blanket.  Then she moved on to an arsenal of notebooks and the alarm clock.  Each crash forced me deeper under the covers.  Finally, she brought out the big guns.  A half-filled glass of water splashed to the ground.  A hardbound book crashed beside me.  How could I sleep with the world literally crashing down around my ears?  My mewse said it was time to get to work.
     Wearily, I made my way to the computer.  Necco hopped up on the desk, seeming to feel her job wasn't done yet.  Sitting on a pile of unfinished story ideas, she watched with apparent satisfaction as I began to type.  Whenever the words seemed slow in coming, she helped me along.  Gliding across my keyboard with the grace of a goddess, she produced sentences like: "awesdtrfgyhubjikpl[;' dtrfgbhujni guhnj!"  My translation?  "I woke you up for a reason.  Now, write!"  I wrote.  And wrote some more.
     From then on, every day Necco got me up at 4:00 a.m. sharp, when the ideas were freshest and the world slept around us.  With her watching over me as I wrote, I didn't feel so alone.  My goals didn't seem so impossible.  Slowly, over months of early mornings, stories were born, and polished, and sold.
     Today the old house still surrounds us.  Katie and I are both doing fine.  And although both pets are treated like the cherished family members they are, whenever another story is sold, I give thanks to my muse - a little cat with a mischievous grin, who kept me company in my "darkest hours."

Banana, Anyone?
By Robert Darden


     Captain's log, Whaler's Bay, Antarctica, summer 1986, water temperature - twenty-eight degrees: Today, we met our first iceberg, saw our first humpback whale . . . and Mr. George Blair performed his barefoot water-skiing along the beach.
     With that notable feat, "Banana" George Alfred Blair became the first person to water-ski - barefoot or otherwise - on or off all seven continents.
     And that's only one of his spectacular accomplishments.  This octogenarian is a member of the Water Ski Hall of Fame, world-champion water-skier in a number of age divisions and skill categories, eleven-time American barefoot water-ski champion, wake-boarder, noted philanthropist and banana fanatic.
     George's homes in the United States and elsewhere are positively glowing with yellow.  His speedboat, telephones, two Cadillacs, wet suit and skis are yellow.  Each Christmas at Cypress Gardens, he wears a yellow Santa suit and hands out gifts.  His name?  Banana Claus.
     George Blair overcame his family's poverty caused by the Great Depression and survived two potentially paralyzing accidents to water-ski his way into near-legendary status in this country and abroad.  During his ★★★广告屏蔽★★★ year of college, his friends decided to go to Fort Lauderdale for Easter.  Since he didn't have any money, George hopped a freight train for Florida.
     "So here I was on this freight car with nothing but a can of beans.  Unfortunately, there were two other hobos in the same freight car, and when they saw my can of beans, they wanted it.  When I refused, they picked me up by my arms and my legs and threw me off the train.  I landed on my spine."
     George's back never fully recovered.  His only hope was what was still considered a risky experimental procedure in 1954 - a spinal fusion operation.  The thirty-nine-year- old was in the hospital for more than three weeks.  At home, he stayed in bed for three months.  Then the doctors told him to go down to Florida and sit around in the warm waters, relax and let it mend.
     Which is what he did.  "I'd sit in the water every day and watch the ski school on the inland waterway," George says.  "Finally, the fellow who ran the school talked me into water-skiing.  I tried to beg off, saying, 'I'm too old.  I've just had a terrible back operation.'
     "Anyway, he did get me out, and I was successful immediately because he was a good teacher with good equipment.  Before long, my wife, four daughters and I were all skiing together behind a boat at one time."  Today, George can ski barefoot for fifteen minutes at a stretch.  He says his feet are so tough, he'll never need a podiatrist.
     In a remarkably short time, George has become one of the featured attractions at Cypress Gardens.  He opens most shows by being ripped off the beach by a speedboat, rising to his bare feet, then circling the grandstands with the tow rope held in his teeth.  George attributes his seemingly inexhaustible energy to exercise and a sensible diet.  One small, yet significant component to George's diet is the banana.
     "Because bananas are yellow and are God's most nearly perfect food, I have an affinity for bananas," he says.  He gives away about two tons of bananas each year.  In September 1990, Chiquita called Banana George and asked what they could do for him.  George responded, "You can start by furnishing my bananas . . . about two tons a year."  When they asked where he wanted them sent, he answered, "I'll let you know."  And he has.  Wherever George goes, whether to perform or to compete, he calls up Chiquita and they send him bananas.  Lots of bananas.
     George says that it is getting close to time to prepare for another show at Cypress Gardens, but he has a few parting words of wisdom: "My advice to sixty-year-olds who want to be doing this is that there is hope for all of us, even me.  Every day I try to do a little better.  And you ought to, too.  Start easy, but go for it.  And set goals.
     "I still have all kinds of goals.  Most recently I've learned to wake board.  I can't wait to test myself with the next goal, with the next accomplishment.  I've got all kinds of things I want to be doing.  There are not enough seconds in each minute or enough minutes in each hour, for me to do what I want to do.  That's my problem."
     That, and how to get rid of two tons of free bananas each year.

Grandma and the Chicken Pox
By Susan Amerikaner


     My twin boys were only seven years old when their paternal grandmother announced she was getting remarried.  We were all thrilled for her, since she had seemed so lonely since Grandpa passed away a few years before.  We broke the news to our boys, who were sitting in the back of the car.  "Grandma is getting married again," we said.
     Jon had a look of thoughtfulness on his face for a while.  He finally asked, "Is she going to have more children?"
     Before we had a chance to respond, his twin brother Mike shot back this answer: "No!  She can't.  She already had them.  It's like chicken pox.  Once you get them, you can't get them again."



chicken pox
n. [医]水痘

I like it. In my moblephone,these has a chinese one,so I can read them together!

very good！

read a piece in everyday

[ 本帖最后由 fashion 于 2006-9-25 10:34 编辑 ]

I like it too

(^#@$  my god~~~~~~so many ~ ~