Monday, January 31, 2005

The Girl

Nothing about her was extraordinary.Nothing about her made her stand out in a crowd.She grew up in a family of six and being the eldest, she learned responsibility at an early age.

As she grew stronger and brighter, she instilled a sort of light and cheer to whom ever she met. She was not beautiful, but she made others feel better about themselves. She meets a rebelious boy who thinks he is all man befriending him, she teaches him. She teaches him how to read and a little boost,the ' man' needed to go to college.

They become fast friends and she fell fast in love with her rugged handsome student.The ' man' then finds himself in love with a girl. A girl who was so beautiful. Her hair was a hallow of light around her. Her eyes the bluest blue of the ocean.' Like an angel' he tells his tutor' like a beautiful angel.'

The girl swallows a lump at her throat.She was not beautiful. She did not posses the heart of the one he loved, but she did not care.As long as he was happy, she would be happy, or so she tried to. She helped write the most beautiful letters to his angel. All the time visioning it was she herself recieving those very letters.

And so the girl helped him choose the right clothes, say the right words, and buy the right gifts for his angel. His angel brought him much joy and much pain to the girl who cried behind her smiles. But that never stopped her from giving more than she will ever receive.

Then one day, all of h--- broke loose. The angel he loved left him for another man. A richer more successful man. The boy was stunned! He was so hurt, he did not speak for days. The girl went to him. He cried on her shoulder and she cried with him. He was hurt and she was too.Time went by and so wounds heal.

The boy realizes something about his friend/tutor. Something he never realized before. How her laughter sounded heavenly and how her smiles brightened up the darkest days, or how simply beautiful she looked to him! Beautiful. This plain, simple girl was beautiful to himAnd he began to fall. Fall so in love with this beautiful girl.

On one day, he picked up all his courage to see her. He walked to her house, nervous, and fidgeting, Running his thoughts over and over his head. He was going to tell her how beautiful she was to him. He was going to tell her how wonderfully in love he was with her. He knocked. No one was home.

The next day, he found out that the beautiful girl he fell in love with had a brain tumor that put her into a coma. The doctors were grim and the family decided to let her go. One final time he got to see her, he held her hand. He stroked her hair and he cried for this beautiful girl. He cried, but it was too late.The beautiful girl was buried and the heavens broke.Out a beautiful spring shower, a cry for their loss.

She was the most beautiful girl in the world and she had taught the rebel boy-man to love and what it is to be loved. She was the most beautiful girl in the world.

Look around. Isn't there a lot of plain faces? Take a good look. A real good look, or you might just miss out that beautiful person. Forever.

Labels: stories

-----------------------------------------------------------
tEdDi @ |9:25 pm|
Saturday, January 22, 2005

Time

It had been some time since Jack had seen the old man. College, girls,career, and life itself got in the way. In fact, Jack moved clearacross the country in pursuit of his dreams.There, in the rush of his busy life, Jack had little time to think about the past and often, no time to spend with his wife and son.He was working on his future, and nothing could stop him.

Over the phone, his mother told him, "Mr. Belser died last night. The funeral is Wednesday."Memories flashed through his mind like an old news reel as he sat quietly remembering his childhood days."Jack, did you hear me?""Oh sorry, Mom. Yes, I heard you. It's been so long since... I thoughtof him. I'm sorry, but I honestly thought he died years ago," Jack said.

"Well, he didn't forget you. Every time I saw him he'd ask how you were doing. He'd reminisce about the many days you spent over 'hisside of the fence' as he put it," Mom told him."I loved that old house he lived in," Jack said."You know, Jack, after your father died, Mr. Belser stepped in to make sure you had a man's influence in your life," she said.

"He's the one who taught me carpentry," he said. "I wouldn't be in this business if it weren't for him. He spent a lot of time teaching me things he thought were important... Mom, I'll be there for the funeral," Jack said.As busy as he was, he kept his word. Jack caught the next flight to his hometown.

Mr. Belser's funeral was small and uneventful. He had nochildren of his own, and most of his relatives had passed away.The night before he had to return home, Jack and his Mom stopped by to see the old house next door one more time.

Standing in the doorway, Jack paused for a moment. It was like crossing over into another dimension! A leap through space and time.The house was exactly as he remembered. Every step held memories.Every picture, every piece of furniture... Jack stopped suddenly."What's wrong, Jack?" his Mom asked."The box is gone," he said."What box?" Mom asked."There was a small gold box that he kept locked on top of his desk. I must have asked him a thousand times what was inside. All he'd ever tell me was 'the thing I value most, " Jack said. It was gone.

Everything about the house was exactly how Jack remembered it, except for the box. He figured someone from the Belser family had taken it."Now I'll never know what was so valuable to him," Jack said."I better get some sleep. I have an early flight home, Mom."It had been about two weeks since Mr. Belser died. Returning home from work one day Jack discovered a note in his mail box. "Signature required on a package. No one at home. Please stop by the main post office within the next three days," the note read.

Early the next day Jack retrieved the package. The small box was old and looked like it had been mailed a hundred years ago. The handwriting was difficult to read, but the return address caught his attention."Mr. Harold Belser" it read.

Jack took the box out to his car and ripped open the package. There inside was the gold box and an envelope. Jack's hands shook as he read the note inside."Upon my death, please forward this box and its contents to JackBennett. It's the thing I valued most in my life." A small key was taped to the letter. His heart racing, as tears filling his eyes, Jack carefully unlocked the box.

There inside he found a beautiful gold pocket watch.Running his fingers slowly over the finely etched casing, he unlatched the cover.Inside he found these words engraved: "Jack, Thanks for your time!-Harold Belser."

"The thing he valued most... was... my time."Jack held the watch for a few minutes, then called his office and cleared his appointments for the next two days."Why?" Janet, his assistant asked.

"I need some time to spend with my son," he said."Oh, by the way, Janet...thanks for your time!"

________________________________"Life is not measured by the number of breaths we take but by the moments that take our breath away," If there are people you care about, forward this letter to them. If you do so, you will certainly brighten someone's day.

Labels: stories

-----------------------------------------------------------
tEdDi @ |3:33 pm|
Friday, January 21, 2005

The Old Phone

When I was quite young, my father had one of the first telephones in our neighborhood. I remember the polished, old case fastened to the wall. The shiny receiver hung on the side of the box. I was too little to reach the telephone, but used to listen with fascination when my mother talked to it. Then I discovered that somewhere inside the wonderful device lived an amazing person. Her name was "Information Please" and there was nothing she did not know.

"Information Please" could supply anyone's number and the correct time. My personal experience with the genie-in-a-bottle came one day while my mother was visiting a neighbor. Amusing myself at the tool bench in the basement, I whacked my finger with a hammer, the pain was terrible, but there seemed no point in crying because there was no one home to give sympathy. I walked around the house sucking my throbbing finger, finally arriving at the stairway. The telephone! Quickly, I ran for the footstool in the parlor and dragged it to the landing. Climbing up, I unhooked the receiver in the parlor and held it to my ear. "Information please," I said into the mouthpiece just above my head. A click or two and a small clear voice spoke into my ear. "Information." "I hurt my finger..." I wailed into the phone, the tears came readily enough now that I had an audience. "Isn't your mother home?" came the question. "Nobody's home but me," I blubbered. "Are you bleeding?" the voice asked. "No," I replied. "I hit my finger with the hammer and it hurts." "Can you open the icebox?" she asked. I said I could. "Then chip off a little bit of ice and hold it to your finger," said the voice.

After that, I called "Information Please" for everything. I asked her for help with my geography, and she told me where Philadelphia was. She helped me with my math. She told me my pet chipmunk that I had caught in the park just the day before, would eat fruit and nuts. Then, there was the time Petey, our pet canary, died. I called "Information Please" and told her the sad story. She listened, and then said things grown-ups say to soothe a child But I was not consoled. I asked her, "Why is it that birds should sing so beautifully and bring joy to all families, only to end up as a heap of feathers on the bottom of a cage?" She must have sensed my deep concern, for she said quietly, "Paul always remember that there are other worlds to sing in." Somehow I felt better.

Another day I was on the telephone, "Information Please." "Information," said in the now familiar voice. "How do I spell fix?" I asked.

All this took place in a small town in the Pacific Northwest. When I was nine years old, we moved across the country to Boston. I missed my friend very much. "Information Please" belonged in that old wooden box back home and I somehow never thought of trying the shiny new phone that sat on the table in the hall. As I grew into my teens, the memories of those childhood conversations never really left me. Often, in moments of doubt and perplexity I would recall the serene sense of security I had then. I appreciated now how patient, understanding, and kind she was to have spent her time on a little boy.

A few years later, on my way west to college, my plane put down in Seattle. I had about a half-hour or so between planes. I spent 15 minutes or so on the phone with my sister, who lived there now. Then without thinking what I was doing, I dialed my hometown operator and said, "Information Please." Miraculously, I heard the small, clear voice I knew so well. "Information." I hadn't planned this, but I heard myself saying, "Could you please tell me how to spell fix?" There was a long pause. Then came the soft spoken answer, "I guess your finger must have healed by now." I laughed, "So it's really you," I said. "I wonder if you have any idea how much you meant to me during that time?" I wonder," she said, "if you know how much your call meant to me. I never had any children and I used to look forward to your calls." I told her how often I had thought of her over the years and I asked if I could call her again when I came back to visit my sister "Please do," she said. "Just ask for Sally."

Three months later I was back in Seattle. A different voice answered, "Information." I asked for Sally. "Are you a friend?" she said. "Yes, a very old friend," I answered. "I'm sorry to have to tell you this," she said. "Sally had been working part-time the last few years because she was sick. She died five weeks ago." Before I could hang up she said, "Wait a minute, did you say your name was Paul?" "Yes." I answered. "Well, Sally left a message for you. She wrote it down in case you called. Let me read it to you." The note said, "Tell him there are other worlds to sing in. He'll know what I mean." I thanked her and hung up. I knew what Sally meant. Never underestimate the impression you may make on others.

Labels: stories

-----------------------------------------------------------
tEdDi @ |10:40 pm|
Wednesday, January 12, 2005

The Story

Lady : Why do u like me? Why do u love me?
Man : I can't tell the reason... But I really like u...
Lady : U can't even tell me the reason... How can u
say u like me? How can u say u love me?
Man : I really don't know the reason, but I can
prove that I love u.
Lady : Proof ? No! I want u to tell me the reason.
My friend's boyfriend can tell her why he loves her,
but not u!
Man : OK...OK !!! Erm...because u are beautiful,
because your voice is sweet, because u are caring,
because u are loving, because u are thoughtful,
because of your smile, because of your every
movements...
Unfortunately, a few days later, the Lady met with
an accident and became coma.
The Guy then
placed a letter by her side, and here is the content

> > Dearest,Because of your sweet voice that I
love u...Now can u talk? No!
Therefore I cannot love u.
Because of your care and concern then I like u...
Now that u cannot show them,
therefore I cannot love u.
Because of your smile, because of your
every movements that I love u...
Now can u smile?
Now can u move?
No, therefore I cannot love u...
If love needs a reason, like now,
there is no reason for me to love u anymore.
Do loves need a reason?
NO!
Therefore, I still love u...
And love doesn't need a reason...
"When loving someone... never regret what u do... Only regret what u didn't do"
If God brings u to it...He will bring u through it...

Labels: stories

-----------------------------------------------------------
tEdDi @ |10:06 pm|

Too Busy For Fren

One day a teacher asked her students to list the
names of the
other students in the room on two sheets of paper,
leaving a space
between each name.

Then she told them to think of the nicest thing they
could say about each of their classmates and write
it down.

It took the remainder of the class period to finish
their assignment, and as the students left the
room, each one handed in the papers.

That Saturday, the teacher wrote down the name of
each student
on a separate sheet of paper, and listed what
everyone else had
said about that individual.

On Monday she gave each student his or her list.

Before long, the entire class was smiling.

"Really?" she heard whispered. "I never knew that I
meant anything to anyone!" and, "I didn't know
others liked me so much." were most of the
comments.

No one ever mentioned those papers in class again.
She never knew if they discussed them after class
with their parents, but it didn't matter. The exercise
had accomplished its purpose.

The students were happy with themselves and one
another. That group of students moved on. Several
years later, one of the students was killed in
Vietnam and his teacher attended the funeral of
that special student.

She had never seen a serviceman in a military
coffin before. He looked so handsome, so mature.
The church was packed with his friends.

One by one those who loved him took a last walk
by the coffin.

The teacher was the last one to bless the coffin.


As she stood there, one of the soldiers who acted
as pallbearer came up to her.


"Were you Mark's math teacher?" he asked. She
nodded: "yes."
Then he said: "Mark talked about you a lot."


After the funeral, most of Mark's former classmates
went together to a luncheon. Mark's mother and
father were there, obviously waiting to speak with
his teacher.


"We want to show you something," his father said,
taking a wallet out of his pocket. "They found this
on Mark when he was killed. We thought you might
recognize it."


Opening the billfold, he carefully removed two worn
pieces of notebook paper that had obviously been
taped, folded and refolded many times.

The teacher knew without looking that the papers
were the ones on which she had listed all the good
things each of Mark's classmates had said about
him.

"Thank you so much for doing that," Mark's mother
said. "As you can see, Mark treasured it."


All of Mark's former classmates started to gather
around. Charlie smiled rather sheepishly and
said, "I still have my list. It's in the top drawer of
my desk at home."

Chuck's wife said, "Chuck asked me to put his in
our wedding album."

"I have mine too," Marilyn said. "It's in my diary."

Then Vicki, another classmate, reached into her
purse and showed her frazzled list to the group. "I
carry this with me at all times, " Vicki said and
without batting an eyelash, she continued: "I think
we all saved our lists."

That's when the teacher finally sat down and cried.
She cried for Mark and for all his friends who would
never see him again.


The density of people in society is so thick that we
forget that life will end one day. And we don't know
when that one day will be.

So please, tell the people you love and care for,
that they are
special and important.


Tell them, before it is too late...

Labels: stories

-----------------------------------------------------------
tEdDi @ |10:06 pm|