Chicken Soup for the Kid’s Soul (12 page)

©Lynn Johnston Productions, Inc. Distributed by United Feature Syndicate, Inc.

Mom’s Duck

G
od could not be everywhere, and therefore he made mothers.

Jewish Proverb

My mother always had a soft spot for those less fortunate than she was. Mom would find a stray dog and take it to the pound, only to return with three more. She’d shun luncheon invitations with other housewives, preferring instead to become fast friends with the house painter or her beautician. She’d troll the church congregation every Sunday for anyone unattached who might be in need of a dinner invitation, or worse yet, a place to stay.

The fact was that Mom opened her heart and our home to anything that breathed. She was the Dolly Madison of the downtrodden, and by the time I was thirteen, we had eight pets, five foster children and several other unofficial kids and/or adults living with our family. My sister, brother and I came to call ourselves “The Three Originals.”

I admit, my sister and I felt slightly displaced by all this.

We referred to these recipients of Mom’s generosity as her “basket cases.” And although in later years I came to admire and even emulate the compassion Mom taught us to have for others, there was one time when all of us agreed that Mom had carried her kindness too far. This was the day she allowed a duck to follow her home.

As she tells the story, she was out walking the dogs in the woods near our house one afternoon when a large white duck with a huge red wart-like growth on his bill “happened” upon them. Mom claims only to have shown concern for a poor, lost duck out of water. All we knew was that by the time the hiking party reached home, the duck was in love with Mom, and our household would never be the same.

The duck, whom we named Harry, had such a thing for Mom that it was embarrassing. Whenever he saw her, he’d fly over, sit on her lap and make low quacking noises or nibble at her hair. Like a faithful dog waiting for its master, he’d sit outside on the deck all day, loyally watching for her arrivals and departures.

Not that he didn’t try to get inside the house. An open door to Harry meant an open invitation. Any chance he could, he’d rush in and waddle around in an agitated state, annoying cats, dogs and humans until he’d located Mom.

His peskiness aside, all that attention Harry showered on Mom would have been okay with the rest of us except for one unfortunate fact: While Harry adored my mother, he hated the rest of us.

Being a family of mostly strays ourselves, we tried to get along with him. It was pointless. Harry considered us threats and would hiss, poke and chase us at every opportunity.

Our yard became unsafe for visitors. Whenever anyone approached the house, Harry would swoop over and try to scare them off. We started referring to Harry as our “watchduck.” He particularly hated flapping trousers, and would hang on to pant legs with the determination of a pit bull. He could nip, too, and many of us had red welts on our arms to prove it.

One afternoon, my father became particularly upset with Harry after he kept interfering with Dad’s attempts to mow the lawn. In desperation, Dad turned an empty garbage pail on top of Harry and promptly forgot about him until the next morning, when Mom noticed him missing. “Albert, how could you?” she cried after he’d confessed. She rushed outside and pulled the garbage pail off Harry, who staggered onto the lawn, still with us, but barely.

“Honey, we’ve got to do something about that duck,” Dad said. “He’s a nuisance.”

“But he’s happy here,” Mom answered. “He’s found a home.” Not long after, Harry committed his final act of treason.

My future brother-in-law, Maurice, was living with us for the summer while putting himself through college. He had a job selling vacuum cleaners door-to-door. One afternoon, Maurice returned home early and realized that he was locked out of the house.

After unsuccessfully trying all the doors, he noticed an open window on the second floor, directly above our driveway. Being a smart guy, he decided to park his car underneath the window, then stand on the roof of his car and pull himself up through the window.

Maurice was hanging by his arms from the window ledge when he heard a loud flapping noise behind him. He turned and saw Harry flying toward him with the speed of a fighter-bomber. Maurice screamed and let go. He bounced off his car roof and onto the driveway.

The next morning, my dad drove Harry to a large pond several miles from our house and dropped him off. He told Mom that this pond had a lot of ducks and that Harry would be happy there. Mom reluctantly agreed, but not before cruising past the pond to check it out. She reported back that Harry seemed happy, even though he was by himself on the far side of the pond.

For about a month, our house returned to normal. Then one day, Mom decided to go visit Harry and see how he was doing.

When we drove up to the pond, we saw lots of ducks, but no Harry. Mom quickly jumped out of the car. “Where could he be?”

On the far side of the pond, up on a muddy section of the hill, one of my sisters noticed Harry, dirty and bedraggled. “There he is!” she pointed. Mom gasped and stretched out her arms. “Harry!” she called out.

Harry wearily lifted his head. When he saw Mom, he let out a squawk and started hobbling toward her.

“Oh, you poor thing!” Mom cried.

Harry and my mother raced into each other’s arms like long-lost lovers. They kissed; they hugged; they made small talk.

After their reunion, Mom checked Harry over. “What’s happened to you?” she asked. “You’re so thin!”

My sister, who had been standing quietly with the rest of us, nodded wisely. “Even ducks don’t like him,” she observed. “They kicked him out of the pond.”

“Then he’s coming back with us,” Mom declared. “Everyone deserves a loving home.”

No one said much in the car, not even Harry. I think he was feeling apologetic.

We tried to make the best of it, and for the next few days, Harry was on his best behavior. By the end of the week, though, he was back to his old habits. Even Mom could see that we had to do something.

Within days, one of my brothers came home with exciting news. He’d just seen a pond with ducks in it that looked exactly like Harry—big, white and with ugly red growths across their bills.

We couldn’t believe it. All this time we’d thought Harry was an original. Would he be happy among his own kind?

Trying not to expect too much, we loaded Harry into the car (he sat on Mom’s lap) and drove him to the new pond. Mom gently carried him over to the area where the other ducks were nibbling on weeds and paddling around. She launched him into the water. Right away, Harry began clucking and chatting and making friends.

We left him there. On the way home, we couldn’t stop talking about how easily the other ducks had accepted Harry. Was it because he looked like them? Probably. But that still didn’t explain Harry’s affection for Mom.

We guessed that Harry had once lived with these ducks but had somehow become separated from them. Then Mom had discovered him wandering in the woods, lost and alone. No wonder he fell in love with her. She had rescued him.

On our next visit, Harry had a new girlfriend. This one had feathers and a red, warty face. Harry hardly gave Mom a second glance. I don’t think she minded, though. There were plenty more souls in the world to rescue. Besides, as Mom had said, Harry deserved a loving home. To everyone’s relief, he’d finally found one.

Page McBrier

4
ON ATTITUDE
AND
PERSPECTIVE

A
ttitudes are self-created. You are free to choose to be victimized by circumstance or people, or you can choose to look at life with an open mind and be victorious. No one else can choose your attitude for you. Your perspective and choice of attitude gives you the power to be in control.
That is the essence of true freedom.

Irene Dunlap

The Bobsledder’s Jacket

For as long as he could remember, Jack had dreamed of being in the Olympics. For years he’d worked hard to become a good bobsledder, training and practicing, always getting better. Now he and his partners were in Sapporo, Japan, for the Winter Olympics—as the American bobsled team!

They were on their way to the opening parade. Athletes from all over the world were gathering to march into the Olympic stadium. Jack and his partners were laughing and joking, and their hearts were beating with joy. Everything was perfect—well, almost everything. The sleeve of Jack’s Olympic jacket had been torn. He loved the red, white and blue jacket, with “USA” on the front and the Olympic rings on the back, but earlier that day he’d torn it climbing a fence.

“Too bad about your jacket,” his friend Bill told him.

“Oh well,” Jack said. “I don’t think anyone will notice.”

“They’ll notice it,” said Bill. “Japanese people notice things like that. They’ll probably laugh at us.”

Jack didn’t answer. Bill’s father had been killed by Japanese soldiers in the island battles of World War II. Jack knew Bill felt uneasy about being in Japan.

Suddenly a little Japanese girl came up to Jack and pointed right at the tear in his sleeve. Jack smiled at her, not knowing what to do. So he said, “Uh . . .
Ohayo
. . . Good morning!” The little girl said
ohayo
back to him—and a lot more. She kept speaking words that he couldn’t understand and was pointing to his torn sleeve. Jack looked at his friends and shrugged. “I don’t know what she wants,” he said.

The little girl began to tug at his jacket. Her eyes were very bright and her straight black hair fell over the back of her winter coat.

“What are you doing?” Jack asked, but he knew she couldn’t understand him. Suddenly she started taking off her own coat. Then she looked up at him.

“She wants you to take off your jacket!” Bill said.

“Oh—I get it,” said Jack. “She wants to try it on. Sure, kid—here you go.” He slipped off the jacket and handed it to the girl. She took it and bowed. He bowed too. But when he raised his head again, she was running off with his jacket! “Hey!” he cried.

“The little thief!” Bill shouted. “She’s stealing it!” Jack ran a few steps after her, but in an instant she’d disappeared along the crowded street.

“I’m telling you, Jack—you can’t trust these people!” Bill said in a loud voice, his eyes blazing.

“Be quiet, Bill! Some of them may speak English!” one of the other bobsledders said. Bill said nothing, but his face was still red with anger. “So now what do I do?” Jack asked. “I need my jacket for the parade.”

“Don’t hold your breath, Jack,” another bobsledder said. “You’ll just have to go as you are.”

Twenty minutes later, they were standing with the other American athletes, waiting to start. Bill stood next to Jack. He could sense that Jack was worried. “It’s okay, buddy,” he said. “You’re with us—everyone can see that. I just wish I could get my hands on that kid.”

Suddenly Jack felt a tugging, this time on his shirt sleeve. He looked down. It was the Japanese girl. “You!” Jack burst out, and he put his hands on her shoulders so she couldn’t run off. But she only smiled at him. In her hands was his jacket. She held it up to him. Jack took it— and then he understood. The long rip in the sleeve was gone. It had been sewn so perfectly that he couldn’t even see the thread. He had to hold it up close to see the stitches. Bill was looking at the little girl with his mouth open. She smiled at him, and at Jack, and bowed again.

“Bill!” Jack said. “She didn’t steal it! She took it to be
fixed!
”

“She must have run to her mother or someone—and they fixed it just like that!” said another bobsledder. “Holy cow, Jack—they didn’t want you to be embarrassed in the parade!”

The music began and the parade started. Along the streets of Sapporo, thousands of athletes marched together, proudly wearing the colors of their countries. Moving with the same rhythm and the same joy, each was determined to be the best that he or she could be.

There was an extra marcher in the parade on that proud day. A Japanese girl who spoke no English rode for a while on the shoulders of an American bobsledder named Jack—and then on the shoulders of another named Bill.

Tim Myers

Things Are Not Always Black or White

T
eachers are those who use themselves as bridges,
Over which they invite their students to cross;
Then having facilitated their crossing, joyfully collapse,
Encouraging them to create bridges of their own.

Nikos Kazantzakis

When I was in elementary school, I got into a major argument with a boy in my class. I have forgotten what the argument was about, but I have never forgotten the lesson I learned that day.

I was convinced that
I
was right and
he
was wrong— and he was just as convinced that
I
was wrong and
he
was right. The teacher decided to teach us a very important lesson. She brought us up to the front of the class and placed him on one side of her desk and me on the other. In the middle of her desk was a large, round object. I could clearly see that it was black. She asked the boy what color the object was. “White,” he answered.

I couldn’t believe he said the object was white, when it was obviously black! Another argument started between my classmate and me, this time about the color of the object.

The teacher told me to go stand where the boy was standing and told him to come stand where I had been. We changed places, and now she asked me what the color of the object was. I had to answer, “White.” It was an object with two differently colored sides, and from his viewpoint it was white. Only from my side was it black.

My teacher taught me a very important lesson that day: You must stand in the other person’s shoes and look at the situation through their eyes in order to truly understand their perspective.

Judie Paxton