Chicken Soup for the Woman's Soul (4 page)

But at that time in my life, all this was an embarrassment.

I had known Sol would like to eat dinner at our house, but that was the last thing I wanted. My family was so different. No other kids had such pots on their stoves, nor did they have a mama whose first action upon seeing you enter the house was to sit you down with a spoon and bowl.

“People in America don’t do things like that,” I tried to convince Mama.

“Well, I’m not people,” was her proud retort. “I’m Rosina. Only crazy people don’t want my minestrone.”

Finally Sol pointedly asked if he could come to our house. I had to say yes. I knew nothing would make Mama happier. But I was in a state of anxiety. Eating with my family would turn Sol off completely, I believed.

“Mama, why can’t we have some American food like hamburgers or fried chicken?”

She fixed me with a stony glare and I knew better than to ask again.

The day Sol came over I was a nervous wreck. Mama and the other nine family members welcomed him with embraces and slaps on the back.

Soon we were sitting at the heavy, deeply stained and ornately carved table that was Papa’s pride and joy. It was covered with an ostentatious, bright oilcloth.

And sure enough, after Papa asked the blessing, we were instantly faced with bowls of soup.

“Eh, Sol,” Mama asked, “you know what this is?”

“Soup?” Sol responded.

“No soup,” Mama said emphatically. “It’s
minestrone!”
She then launched into a long, animated explanation of the power of minestrone: how it cured headaches, colds, heartaches, indigestion, gout and liver ailments.

After feeling Sol’s muscles, Mama convinced him that the soup would also make him strong, like the Italian-American hero Charles Atlas. I cringed, convinced that this would be the last time I would ever see my friend Sol. He would certainly never return to a home with such eccentric people, odd accents and strange food.

But to my amazement, Sol politely finished his bowl and then asked for two more. “I like it a lot,” he said, slurping.

When we were saying our good-byes, Sol confided, “You sure have a great family. I wish my mom could cook that good.” Then he added, “Boy, are you lucky!”

Lucky?
I wondered, as he walked down the street waving and smiling.

Today I know how lucky I was. I know that the glow Sol experienced at our table was much more than the physical and spiritual warmth of Mama’s minestrone. It was the unalloyed joy of a family table where the real feast was love.

Mama died a long time ago. Someone turned off the gas under the minestrone pot the day after Mama was buried, and a glorious era passed with the flame. But the godly love and assurance that bubbled amidst its savory ingredients still warms my heart today.

Sol and I continued our friendship through the years. I was the best man at his wedding. Not long ago I visited his house for dinner. He hugged all his children and they hugged me. Then his wife brought out steaming bowls of soup. It was chicken soup, thick with vegetables and chunks of meat.

“Hey, Leo,” Sol asked, “do you know what this is?”

“Soup?” I responded smiling.

“Soup!” he huffed. “This is
chicken soup!
Cures colds, headaches, indigestion. Good for your liver!” Sol winked.

I felt I was home again.

Leo Buscaglia

“Are you absolutely sure, Dr. Pleshke, that my mother’s advice hasn’t affected the treatment?”

Reprinted with permission from Harley Schwadron.

Just in Time

One night at 11:30, an older African-American woman was standing on the side of an Alabama highway trying to endure a lashing rain storm. Her car had broken down and she desperately needed a ride. Soaking wet, she decided to flag down the next car. A young white man stopped to help her—generally unheard of in the deep South during those conflict-filled 1960s. The man took her to safety, helped her get assistance and put her into a taxi cab. She seemed to be in a big hurry! She wrote down his address, thanked him and rode away.

Seven days went by and a knock came on the man’s door. To his surprise, a giant combination console color TV and stereo record player were delivered to his home. A special note was attached. The note read:

Dear Mr. James:

Thank you so much for assisting me on the highway the other night. The rain drenched not only my clothes but my spirits. Then you came along. Because of you, I was able to make it to
my dying husband’s bedside just before he passed away. God bless you for helping me and unselfishly serving others.

Sincerely,
Mrs. Nat King Cole

Dan Clark

Gifts of the Heart

T
he love we give away is the only love we keep.

—Elbert Hubbard

In this hustle-bustle world we live in, it’s so much easier to charge something on a credit card rather than give a gift of the heart.

And gifts of the heart are especially needed during the holidays.

A few years ago, I began to prepare my children for the fact that Christmas that year was going to be a small one. Their response was, “Yeah sure, Mom, we’ve heard that before!” I had lost my credibility because I had told them the same thing the previous year, while going through a divorce. But then I had gone out and charged every credit card to the max. I even found some creative financing techniques to pay for their stocking stuffers. This year was definitely going to be different, but they weren’t buying it.

A week before Christmas, I asked myself,
What do I have that will make this Christmas special?
In all the houses we had lived in before the divorce, I had always made time to be the interior decorator. I had learned how to wallpaper, to lay wooden and ceramic tile, to sew curtains out of sheets and even more. But in this rental house there was little time for decorating and a lot less money. Plus, I was angry about this ugly place, with its red and orange carpets and turquoise and green walls. I refused to put money into it. Inside me, an inner voice of hurt pride shouted,
We’re not going to be here that long!

Nobody else seemed to mind about the house except my daughter Lisa, who had always tried to make her room her special place.

It was time to express my talents. I called my ex-husband and asked that he buy a specific bedspread for Lisa. Then I bought the sheets to match.

On Christmas Eve, I spent $15 on a gallon of paint. I also bought the prettiest stationery I’d ever seen. My goal was simple: I’d paint and sew and stay busy until Christmas morning, so I wouldn’t have time to feel sorry for myself on such a special family holiday.

That night, I gave each of the children three pieces of stationery with envelopes. At the top of each page were the words, “What I love about my sister Mia,” “What I love about my brother Kris,” “What I love about my sister Lisa” and “What I love about my brother Erik.” The kids were 16, 14, 10 and 8, and it took some convincing on my part to assure them that they could find just one thing they liked about each other. As they wrote in privacy, I went to my bedroom and wrapped their few store-bought gifts.

When I returned to the kitchen, the children had finished their letters to one another. Each name was written on the outside of the envelope. We exchanged hugs and goodnight kisses and they hurried off to bed. Lisa was given special permission to sleep in my bed, with the promise not to peek until Christmas morning.

I got started. In the wee hours of Christmas morn, I finished the curtains, painted the walls and stepped back to admire my masterpiece. Wait—why not put rainbows and clouds on the walls to match the sheets? So out came my makeup brushes and sponges, and at 5 A.M. I was finished. Too exhausted to think about being a poor “broken home,” as statistics said, I went to my room and found Lisa spread-eagled in my bed. I decided I couldn’t sleep with arms and legs all over me, so I gently lifted her up and tiptoed her into her room. As I laid her head on the pillow, she said, “Mommy, is it morning yet?”

“No sweetie, keep your eyes closed until Santa comes.”

I awoke that morning with a bright whisper in my ear. “Wow, Mommy, it’s beautiful!”

Later, we all got up and sat around the tree and opened the few wrapped presents. Afterward the children were given their three envelopes. We read the words with teary eyes and red noses. Then we got to “the baby of the family’s” notes. Erik, at 8, wasn’t expecting to hear anything nice. His brother had written: “What I love about my brother Erik is that he’s not afraid of anything.” Mia had written, “What I love about my brother Erik is he can talk to anybody!” Lisa had written, “What I love about my brother Erik is he can climb trees higher than anyone!”

I felt a gentle tug at my sleeve, then a small hand cupped around my ear and Eric whispered, “Gee, Mom, I didn’t even know they liked me!”

In the worst of times, creativity and resourcefulness had given us the best of times. I’m now back on my feet financially, and we’ve had many “big” Christmases with lots of presents under the tree . . . but when asked which Christmas is our favorite, we all remember that one.

Sheryl Nicholson

They won’t know it till they’re grown,
but their BEST gifts are the memories
they’re making.

Reprinted with special permission of King Features Syndicate.

The Other Woman

After 21 years of marriage, I’ve discovered a new way of keeping the spark of love and intimacy alive in my relationship with my wife:

I’ve recently started dating another woman.

It was my wife’s idea, actually. “You know you love her,” she said one day, taking me by surprise. “Life is too short. You need to spend time with the people you love.”

“But I love
you,
” I protested.

“I know. But you also love her. You probably won’t believe me, but I think that if the two of you spend more time together, it will bring the two of us closer.”

As usual, Peggy was right.

The other woman that my wife was encouraging me to date was my mother.

My mom is a 71-year-old widow who has lived alone since my father died 19 years ago. Right after his death, I moved 2,500 miles away to California, where I started my own family and career. When I moved back near my hometown five years ago, I promised myself I would spend more time with her. But somehow with the demands of my job and three kids, I never got around to seeing her much beyond family get-togethers and holidays.

She was surprised and suspicious when I called and suggested the two of us go out to dinner and a movie. “What’s wrong? Are you moving my grandchildren away?” she asked. My mother is the type of woman who thinks anything out of the ordinary—a late-night phone call or a surprise dinner invitation from her eldest son— signals bad news.

“I thought it would be nice to spend some time with you,” I said. “Just the two of us.”

She considered that statement for a moment.

“I’d like that,” she said. “I’d like that a lot.”

I found myself nervous as I drove to her house Friday after work. I had the pre-date jitters—and all I was doing was going out with my mother, for Pete’s sake!

What would we talk about? What if she didn’t like the restaurant I chose? Or the movie?