Chicken Soup for the Woman's Soul by Jack Canfield
Each of us had moved to Iowa from our respective coasts to be close to our children and grandchildren. We had both left unhappy romances behind and were, in a sense, starting over.
The more I learned about this man, the more intrigued I became. He had built his own house with serious environmental consideration. He was an artist and professor of art history. He had been a Conscientious Objector during the war, and in case after case, his values matched mine perfectly.
After a few phone conversations, our two families convened in the town square for a band concert. My daughter insisted that I bake cookies. Apparently they came out pretty good that night.
One day Bill phoned and apologized for not walking me to the door the evening before. I assured him I was a liberated female who didn’t need such pampering, and he said, “No, I mean that if I had walked you to the door, I could have given you a good-night kiss.”
They say timing is everything. I had been caring for a woman with Alzheimer’s disease, and was about to move on. So I was temporarily sharing cramped quarters with my son and his family, planning to find a room to rent somewhere. I stayed with Bill for just a few days when he said, “It would be fun to plan our garden together.” That meant our lives were weaving together, and I couldn’t have been happier to hear it.
Soon in his sweet, sensitive way, Bill suggested we marry to protect my good name in our closely knit community. I told him I was not concerned with appearances. Then, after a few weeks of what can only be described as domestic bliss, I found myself sitting on his lap one day. He looked at me, smiled, and quietly said, “It would be fun to plan our marriage together.” I didn’t know my heart could glow like that. How could I possibly say no?
We planned an exquisite June wedding at full moonrise. So many people expressed a desire to witness our union that we put an ad in the local paper in the form of our four grandchildren inviting all to the marriage of their grandparents. When we exchanged vows, I declared that, “Everything in my life has prepared me for this magical moment.” I truly believe that nothing was wasted.
Bill and I came together at a time when both of us had “paid our dues.” We’d experienced a lot of pain and a lot of beauty in our lives, and we’d each finally arrived at something like inner peace, self-sufficiency and even self-appreciation.
When I think of our relationship, I think of a passage I once read:
I must conquer my loneliness alone.
I must be happy with myself, or I have nothing to offer.
Two halves have little choice but to join;
and yes, they do make a whole.
But two wholes when they coincide . . .
That is beauty. That is love.
Lillian Darr
Bessie
Few people know how to be old.
La Rochefoucauld
EDITORS’ NOTE: The following is an excerpt from Having Our Say: The Delaney Sisters’ First 100 Years, a memoir of Bessie and Sadie Delaney, two remarkable African-American women who had careers as a dentist and a school teacher before American women had the right to vote. Bessie passed away on September 25, 1995 at the age of 104, and we are honored to include this contribution in her memory.
I’ll tell you a story: The house we own is a two-family house, and sometimes the neighbors can hear us through the wall. One time, they had a guest who was up in arms. Just up in arms! She heard these sounds, like laughter, coming from our side, late at night, and she was convinced there were ha’ants. Yes, sir, she thought we were ghosts.
Our neighbor came over the next day and quizzed us down. And I said, “Ain’t no ha’ants, it’s just the two of us being silly.” It hadn’t occurred to them that these two old sisters, at our age, would be a-carrying on like that. I guess they think of old folks as people who sit around like old sourpusses. But not us. No, sir! When people ask me how we’ve lived past 100, I say, “Honey, we never married. We never had husbands to worry us to death!”
I love to laugh. There’s a song I just remembered from the 1890s that we colored children used to sing. Sadie and I thought it was hilarious. I hadn’t thought of it in, well, about a hundred years! It goes like this:
The preacher he went a-hunting
On one Sunday morn
According to his religion
He carried along his gun
He shot one dozen partridges
On his way to the fair
And he got down the road a little further
And spied a big, grizzly bear
Well, the bear stood up in the middle of the road
The preacher dropped to his knees
He was so excited
That he climbed up in a tree!
The parson stayed in that tree
I think it was all night
Then he cast his eyes to the Lord in the sky
And these words said to him
Oh Lord, didn’t you deliver Daniel
From the lion’s den?
Also brother Jonah
From the belly of the whale,
And when the three Hebrew children
In the fiery furnace sent?
Oh Lord, please me do spare!
But Lord, if you can’t help me,
Please don’t help that bear!
Honey, we thought that punch line at the end was just about the funniest thing in the world. Oppressed people have a good sense of humor. Think of the Jews. They know how to laugh, and to laugh at themselves! Well, we colored folks are the same way. We colored folks are suvivors.
There are certain stereotypes that are offensive. Some of them don’t worry me, though. For instance, I have always thought that Mammy character in Gone with the Wind was mighty funny. And I just loved “Amos ‘n’ Andy” on the radio. So you see, I have enough confidence in myself that those things did not bother me. I could laugh.
Sadie and I get a kick out of things that happened a long, long time ago. We talk about folks who turned to dust so long ago that we’re the only people left on this Earth with any memory of them. We always find ways to celebrate our memories of our family and friends. Why, we still have a birthday party for Papa, even though he’s been gone since 1928. We cook his favorite birthday meal, just the way he liked it: chicken and gravy, rice and sweet potatoes, ham, macaroni and cheese, cabbage, cauliflower, broccoli, turnips, and carrots. For dessert we’ll have a birthday cake—a pound cake—and ambrosia, made with oranges and fresh coconut.
Generally, we stay away from liquor. Except once in a while, we make Jell-O with wine. What you do is replace some of the water in the recipe with wine. It’ll relax you, but you won’t get drunk. The truth is, I have never been drunk in my life.
One thing Sadie and I do is stay away from doctors as much as possible. And we avoid hospitals because, honey, they’ll kill you there. They overtreat you. And when they see how old you are, and that you still have a mind, they treat you like a curiosity: like “Exhibit A” and “Exhibit B.” Like, “Hey, nurse, come on over here and looky-here at this old woman, she’s in such good shape . . .” Most of the time they don’t even treat you like a person, just an object.
One time, some doctor asked Sadie to do a senility test. Of course, she passed. A year later, he asked her to do it again, and she said, “Don’t waste your time, doctor.” And she answered all the questions from the year before, before he could ask them. And then she said to me, “Come on, Bess, let’s get on out of here.”
People assume Sadie and I don’t have any sense at our age. But we still have all our marbles, yes, sir! I do get tired, physically. But who am I to complain about being tired? God don’t ever get tired of putting his sun out every morning, does He? Who am I to complain about being weary?
Funny thing is, some days I feel like a young girl and other days I’m feeling the grave, just a-feeling the grave. That’s why it’s important that we get all this stuff written down now, because you never know when you’ll meet the Lord in the sky.
Bessie Delaney
You don’t stop laughing because you grow old; you grow old because you stop laughing.
Michael Pritchard
Every summer when I was a kid, my family took a two-week vacation at a resort in northern Minnesota. We looked so forward to this annual event that I clearly remember not being able to sleep the night before, and I actually felt my stomach tickle as we drove down the lane of the resort.
The resort was on a lake named Potato. Honest to God, that is still the name of this lake; and no, you don’t fish for potatoes. I do, however, remember some rather clever names given to boats: “Sweet Potato,” “The Potato Chip” and “Spuds.” My dad had visited this lake when he was a kid, and tells us how he was taken in by the sheer beauty of the place and the friendliness of the people. So when he and Mom were married, somehow he convinced her that this was to be their “honeymoon haven.” Needless to say, she fell in love, and so our annual vacation saga began.
I don’t know when I first met Delores. She was kind of like a relative. You know how it is, you grow up with them, and they are always just sort of around. Delores and her family had a cabin at the edge of the resort and were always actively involved in everyone’s vacation. I laugh to myself when I say “actively involved” because Delores was known as the resort’s “Activity Director,” always drumming up something to do.
I was truly inspired by this woman. You know how every once in a while, you meet someone that touches your soul, as if you were blessed to have known them. Delores was that person for me. She was a petite lady in her early 60s, with tanned skin and a smile that lit up her whole face. Her favorite phrase was, “Are we having fun yet?”
Delores always wore bright colorful outfits with hats and pins or necklaces that her grandchildren had made. She was very sentimental, and it seemed that she always had a tear in her eye over something: a hug from a child, an inspiring song or watching a beautiful sunset. Delores radiated a faith about her. You always felt good about yourself and others when she was around. She found something positive in everyone, and sometimes that’s hard to do. I remember her saying, “God made us and is in all of us...you just have to search a little harder in some people.” Anyone that knew her knew where her priorities were: God, family, friends and loving life. She was actively involved in her church and community, she was a Registered Nurse, and she and her husband, Rich, raised six beautiful children.
Every year over the Fourth of July, Delores planned a big celebration with a boat parade, talent show, raising of the flag, candy hunt for the little kids, volleyball, potluck, fireworks and a campfire sing-along. Oh sure, there were always mumbles and grumbles from people who just wanted to “vacation,” but by the end of the day, everyone had participated and, from the smiles and laughter, I would say truly enjoyed themselves.
In the fall of 1991, Delores was diagnosed with cancer. Of course, everyone was devastated by the news. Yet, somehow, I felt that everything was going to be okay. Each year at the lake, we kept thinking that this would be her last “Fourth of July,” yet she kept coming back with her colorful red, white and blue hats, planning the celebration once again, and of course asking, “Are we having fun yet?”
By the fall of 1994, Delores was confined to a wheelchair and had to be fed intravenously. We all knew that death was close. One of her daughters told us that Delores had invited her priest over one day and told him, “You know, Father, I have never been scared of dying because I know where I’m going, but I just wasn’t ready to go until my family was ready...and I think they are ready now.” Then she went on to let him know that she really should plan her wake. Her priest had replied, “Sure, Delores, whatever you’d like to do.” As the priest started to talk about the formalities of the wake and funeral, Delores interrupted him and said, “No, Father, you don’t understand, I want to be there at my wake!”
Two weeks before she passed away, Delores had her “Irish wake,” complete with family and friends, Irish toddies, singing, dancing and laughter. Delores sat in the center of the room in her wheelchair, dressed in green with a green Irish hat, and a pin that said, “Kiss me, I’m Irish.” What a celebration of life!
A couple of months after Delores’ death, her family was sitting around the kitchen table feeling pretty blue and really missing her. Mark, one of Delores’ sons, said, “You know, I haven’t felt like going to church much anymore. How does anyone really know that there’s a God and a heaven?”
Just then, there was a loud BANG! Everyone jumped, and Mark ran over and picked up a plaque that had fallen off the wall. The plaque had been there as long as anyone could remember. It said: “Delores’ Kitchen.”
Everyone sat there, stunned. Then someone started to giggle, and we all burst out laughing. We could all see Delores, wearing one of her silly old hats, smiling down on us and saying, “Are we having fun yet?”
Kim Miller
9
HIGHER
WISDOM
Miracles are natural; when they do not occur, something has gone wrong.
Helen Schucman
Asking for Miracles
A number of years ago, author and poet Maya Angelou learned that her only child,Guy,was scheduled for emergency surgery. He had broken his neck in an accident several years earlier, and now complications were arising. So Maya asked for a miracle. Here’s how she tells the story.
I went directly to San Francisco to be with Guy. As soon as surgery got under way early the next morning, I drove out to Mission Dolores and I prayed. I had gone there before in a time of trouble—when I was pregnant with Guy and needed help to be allowed to enroll late in a summer school program so that I could finish my high-school education. I had prayed before the statue of Mary then and my prayers were answered. Now I was praying for the life of my son.
When I got back to the hospital six hours later, Guy’s doctor was waiting for me. “Success,” he said. It was the word I most wanted to hear. I immediately called my sister to tell her the good news. Guy woke up shortly after that. It was late afternoon by then, and everything seemed fine. I stayed around the hospital talking with him and then went back to my hotel.
At midnight the doctor called me. “Ms. Angelou,” he said, “we’re losing Guy. We’ve got him back in surgery and we’re losing him. You stay there and we’ll call you.”
Of course, I could not stay in the hotel. I went directly to the hospital, but I didn’t go to the surgical floor. Instead, I went to the floor where his room was, and I walked the hall. I walked along past all those half-opened doors, and at times while I was walking I would suddenly feel I was standing on wet sand that was sifting out from under my feet. Then I’d say: “GRAB YOUR LIFE. HOLD ON TO IT. HOLD ON.” Loud. For three hours I walked and talked. Then I felt solid.
The doctors came up from surgery. “Ms. Angelou,” they said, “we’re sorry. He’s alive, but he’s paralyzed from his neck down.” I whispered, “I see. I see.” I went down to the intensive care unit and paced in and out waiting for my son to wake up. By 7 A.M. he was awake, and I went in and stood looking down at him. Tubes were coming from everywhere. “Mother,” he said, “the thing I most feared has happened. I’m paralyzed.”
“It would seem so,” I answered.
“I’m your only child,” he continued, “and I know you love me, but I refuse to live as a talking head. If there’s no chance for recovery, I want to ask you to do something that no one should ever have to ask a mother.” The tears were just rolling down his face. “If there’s no chance for me to recover, please pull the plug and let me go.”
“In that case,” I said, “TOTAL RECOVERY, I SEE TOTAL RECOVERY. I SEE YOU WALKING, STANDING, PLAYING BASKETBALL AND SWIMMING. NOW QUIT IT RIGHT NOW. I MEAN IT.” That’s what I said. Guy started laughing. He said, “Mother, please control yourself. There are some very sick people in here.”
The doctors came to talk with me. They said, “Ms. Angelou, Guy has had a blood clot sitting on his spinal cord for
I said, “I’m not asking you, I’m telling you. My son will walk out of this hospital and I thank God for it—now!”
One of the doctors started to say, “We all have to...”
And I said, “You can’t tell me. I’m going somewhere so far, so beyond you, you’re not even in it!” And every hour after that I’d say, “TOTAL RECOVERY. I THANK YOU FOR IT. I’M CLAIMING IT FOR THIS BOY. THANK YOU. TOTAL RECOVERY.”
The next two days were busy. I called Dolly McPherson, my chosen sister, and she got the whole prayer group at my church together. We had a Jewish sister-friend, and she called people from her synagogue. A Catholic friend called the people she knew in her parish. “Go get everybody, go,” I said. “Do what you can do.”
The second night, I was lying on a couch in the ICU waiting room when a nurse came in. She said, “Ms. Angelou, Guy’s moved his toes.” Together we walked to Guy’s room. She reached over and pulled the blanket off his feet and Guy moved his toes. I said, “THANK YOU, GOD. DIDN’T I ASK YOU FOR IT AND DIDN’T YOU GIVE IT TO ME. THANK YOU FOR IT. THANK YOU, GOD.”
The next morning when I went in to see Guy, he said, “Mama, thank you for your faith. I’ll walk out of the hospital.” And that is exactly what he did a few months later. I know that prayer changes things. I know. I don’t question. I know.
Maya Angelou
As told to Sherry Ruth Anderson
and Patricia Hopkins
The Wise Woman’s Stone
A wise woman who was traveling in the mountains found a precious stone in a stream. The next day she met another traveler who was hungry, and the wise woman opened her bag to share her food. The hungry traveler saw the precious stone in the wise woman’s bag, admired it, and asked the wise woman to give it to him. The wise woman did so without hesitation.
The traveler left, rejoicing in his good fortune. He knew the jewel was worth enough to give him security for the rest of his life.