Chicken Soup for the Woman's Soul Part 12

Women have trouble accepting this. They are convinced that guys must spend a certain amount of time thinking about the relationship. How could a guy see another human being day after day, night after night, and not be thinking about the relationship? This is what women figure.

They are wrong. A guy in a relationship is like an ant standing on top of a truck tire. The ant is aware that something large is there, but he cannot even dimly comprehend what it is. And if the truck starts moving and the tire starts to roll, the ant will sense that something important is happening, but right up until he rolls around to the bottom and is squashed, the only thought in his tiny brain will be Huh?

Thus the No. 1 tip for women to remember is never a.s.sume the guy understands that you and he have a relationship. You have to plant the idea in his brain by constantly making subtle references to it, such as: "Roger, would you mind pa.s.sing me the sugar, inasmuch as we have a relationship?"

"Wake up, Roger! There's a prowler in the den and we have a relationship! You and I do, I mean."

"Good news, Roger! The doctor says we're going to have our fourth child-another indication that we have a relationship!"

"Roger, inasmuch as this plane is crashing and we have only a minute to live, I want you to know that we've had a wonderful 53 years of marriage together, which clearly const.i.tutes a relationship."

Never let up, women. Pound away relentlessly at this concept, and eventually it will start to penetrate the guy's brain. Someday he might even start thinking about it on his own. He'll be talking with some other guys about women, and out of the blue he'll say, "Elaine and I, we have, ummm...we have, ahhh...we...we have this thing."

And he will sincerely mean it.

Dave Barry Cathy. Distributed by Universal Press Syndicate. Reprinted with permission. All rights reserved.

Lost and Found

Winona was 19 when she first met Edward, a tall, handsome young man, in the summer of 1928. He had come to Detroit to visit his sister, who was engaged to Winona's brother. Edward stayed with some friends, and although he was there for only a few days, there was enough time to get to know the lively, dark-haired young woman who intrigued him from their first meeting. They promised to write, and Edward returned to Pittsburgh.

For many months, they wrote long, newsy letters sharing details of their lives and their dreams. Then as quickly as he came into her life, Edward left. His letters stopped, and Winona gradually accepted that he simply wasn't interested anymore. Edward couldn't understand why Winona had stopped writing, and he, too, resigned himself to the fact that the woman he had fallen in love with did not return his love.

Several years later, Winona married Robert, a dashing man 10 years her senior. They had three sons. She got news of Ed's life through her sister-in-law. Several years after Winona married, Edward got married, and he, too, had three children.

On one of her visits to her brother and sister-in-law's in Buffalo, her brother announced, "We're driving to Pittsburgh to Ed's daughter's wedding. Do you want to come?" Winona didn't hesitate, and off they went.

She was nervous in the car just thinking about what she would say to this man she hadn't seen in 30 years. Would he remember their letters? Would he have time to talk with her? Would he even want to?

Soon after they got to the wedding reception, Ed spotted Winona from the other side of the room. He walked slowly over to her. Winona's heart was racing as they shook hands and said h.e.l.lo. When they sat at one of the long tables to talk, Winona's heart was beating so hard she was afraid that Ed could hear it. Edward had tears in his eyes as they exchanged polite conversation about the wedding and their respective families. They never mentioned the letters, and after a few minutes, Ed returned to his duties as father of the bride.

Winona returned to Detroit, where she continued teaching piano lessons, working at an advertising agency, and, as always, making the best of whatever life offered. She tucked away the memory of her brief visit with Ed along with her other memories of him.

When Ed's wife died 10 years later, Winona sent him a sympathy card. Two years after that, Winona's husband died and Ed wrote to her. Once again, they were corresponding.

Ed wrote often, and his letters became the highlight of Winona's day. On her way to work, she stopped by the post office to pick up his letters, and then she read them at the stoplights. By the end of her half-hour drive, the letters were read and Winona had a happy start to her day. Gradually, Edward expressed his love for his "darling Winona," and they arranged for him to come to Detroit for his vacation.

Winona was excited and nervous about the visit. After all, except for their brief meeting at the wedding, they hadn't spent any time together in over 40 years. They had only been writing for six months, and Edward was coming for two weeks.

It was a lovely, warm June day when Winona drove to the airport to pick up Edward. This time when he saw Winona, he rushed to her and wrapped her in a long, loving hug. They chatted happily and comfortably as they retrieved luggage and found their way to the car. It was an easy beginning.

When they were in the car on their way to Edward's hotel, he pulled a small velvet box out of his pocket and slipped an engagement ring on Winona's finger. She was speechless. He had hinted at marriage in his letters, but this was too sudden and too soon. Or was it? Hadn't she waited all these years to know this love?

For two weeks, Ed wooed his Winona. He even wrote her letters from his hotel. Winona's concerns gradually dissolved in the stream of Ed's love and the whole-hearted support of her family and friends. On September 18, 1971, dressed in a long pink gown, Winona was escorted down the aisle on the arm of her oldest son. She and Ed were married and in Winona's words, "We lived happily ever after."

And those letters that had suddenly stopped so many years before? It turns out that Edward's mother had destroyed Winona's letters because she didn't want to lose her youngest son. Forty-three years later, Winona found him.

Elinor Daily Hall

Grandpa's Valentine

I was the only family member living close by, so I received the initial call from the nursing home. Grandpa was failing rapidly. I should come. There was nothing to do but hold his hand. "I love you, Grandpa. Thank you for always being there for me." And silently, I released him.

Memories... memories...six days a week, the farmer in the old blue shirt and bib overalls caring for those Hereford cattle he loved so much...on hot summer days lifting bales of hay from the wagon, plowing the soil, planting the corn and beans and harvesting them in the fall . . . always working from dawn to dusk. Survival demanded the work, work, work.

But on Sundays, after the morning ch.o.r.es were done, he put on his gray suit and hat. Grandma wore her wine-colored dress and the ivory beads, and they went to church. There was little other social life. Grandpa and Grandma were quiet, peaceful, unemotional people who every day did what they had to do. He was my grandpa-he had been for 35 years. It was hard to picture him in any other role.

The nurse apologized for having to ask me so soon to please remove Grandpa's things from the room. It would not take long. There wasn't much. Then I found it in the top drawer of his nightstand. It looked like a very old handmade valentine. What must have been red paper at one time was a streaked faded pink. A piece of white paper had been glued to the center of the heart. On it, penned in Grandma's handwriting, were these words: TO LEE FROM HARRIET.

With All My Love,

February 14, 1895

Are you alive? Real? Or are you the most beautiful dream that I have had in years? Are you an angel-or a figment of my imagination?Someone I fabricated to fill the void? To soothe the pain? Where did you find the time to listen?How could you understand?

You made me laugh when my heart was crying. You took me dancing when I couldn't take a step. You helped me set new goals when I was dying. You showed me dew drops and I had diamonds. You brought me wildflowers and I had orchids. You sang to me and angelic choirs burst forth in song. You held my hand and my whole being loved you. You gave me a ring and I belonged to you. I belonged to you and I have experienced all.

Tears streamed down my cheeks as I read the words. I pictured the old couple I had always known. It's difficult to imagine your grandparents in any role other than that. What I read was so very beautiful and sacred. Grandpa had kept it all those years. Now it is framed on my dresser, a treasured part of family history.

Elaine Reese

A Soldier's Last Letter

A week before the Battle of Bull Run (also known as Mana.s.sas), Sullivan Ballou, a major in the 2nd Rhode Island Volunteers, wrote home to his wife in Smithfield: July 14, 1861

Washington, D. C.

My very dear Sarah, The indications are very strong that we shall move in a few days, perhaps tomorrow. Lest I should not be able to write you again, I feel impelled to write a few lines that may fall under your eye when I shall be no more.

I have no misgivings about or lack of confidence in the cause in which I am engaged, and my courage does not halt or falter. I know how strongly American civilization now leans on the triumph of the government, and how great a debt we owe to those who went before us through the blood and suffering of the Revolution. And I am willing- perfectly willing-to lay down all my joys in this life to help maintain this government and to pay that debt.

Sarah,my love for you is deathless. It seems to bind me with mighty cables that nothing but Omnipotence could break. And yet my love of country comes over me like a strong wind and bears me irresistibly, with all these chains, to the battlefield.

The memory of all the blissful moments I have enjoyed with you come crowding over me, and I feel most deeply grateful to G.o.d and you that I have enjoyed them so long.And how hard it is for me to give them up and burn to ashes the hopes of future years when, G.o.d willing, we might still have lived and loved together and seen our sons grow up to honorable manhood around us....

If I do not return, my dear Sarah, never forget how much I love you, nor that when my last breath escapes me on the battle field, it will whisper your name. Forgive my many faults and the many pains I have caused you. How thoughtless, how foolish I have sometimes been.

But, oh Sarah! If the dead can come back to this earth and flit unseen around those they love, I shall always be with you in the brightest days and in the darkest nights. Always. Always.

And when the soft breeze fans your cheek, it shall be my breath; and as the cool air fans your throbbing temple, it shall be my spirit pa.s.sing by. Sarah, do not mourn me dead: Think I am gone and wait for me, for we shall meet again.

Maj. Sullivan Ballou

Submitted by Nancy Wong

EDITORS' NOTE: Sullivan Ballou was killed a week later at the first Battle of Bull Run.

A Love Like That

n.o.body has ever measured, not even poets, how much the heart can hold.

Zelda Fitzgerald I was 23, and all the way to the hospital I'd been composing what I would say to Mama before they took her to cut into her heart, whose center I supposed myself to be; hadn't she told me all my life I was the most important thing in the world to her?

Threading my way through the hospital corridors, I practiced my opening line, which had to strike just the right note. Who but I could give her the strength and confidence she would need? Whose face but mine would she want to be the last one she saw before they cut her open and she died probably? Whose kiss but mine...?

I turned a corner and there was my mother lying on a stretcher in the hall, waiting for them to come for her. My father was standing over her. Something about the two of them made me stop and then, as I watched, made me keep my distance, as if there were a wall between us, and around them.

It was clear to me at that moment that for them, nothing existed outside them, nothing; there was only the man, the woman. She didn't see me, nor from the looks of it care much whether she did. They weren't talking. He was holding her hand. She was smiling into his eyes; and they were, I swear, speaking a language that at 23 I hadn't begun to understand, much less speak myself. But I could see them do it, literally see them, and I moved closer to see more, stunned, fascinated, very jealous that I had fallen in love with someone, married him, divorced him and never once come close to what I was looking at in that hall.

Next time, I said, I will know better. I will love like that.

Linda Ellerbee

All the Days of My Life

My mother and father were about to celebrate their 50th anniversary. Mother called, all excited. "He got me a dozen white roses!" Sounding like a teenager who'd just been asked to the prom, she talked about how happy she was, how good she felt and how lucky she was.

This anniversary brought out a side of my parents that I never knew. For instance, their wedding rings are each inscribed with a line of poetry: I send you a cream-white rosebud. My father told me this in the kitchen one day. My mother said, "Oh, John," as if to stop him. My father said, "Oh, Claire."

That's the way my parents have always been about their relationship: private. There was never any mushy stuff going on that we kids could see. What we did see was buddies, a team.

"Do you remember the poem?" I asked my dad that day in the kitchen, as I examined his wedding ring under the light. He looked at me, took a breath and started reciting "A White Rose" by the Irish-American poet John Boyle O'Reilly. He didn't stumble once; it was as if he had been reciting it in his head every day for the last half-century.

"The red rose whispers of pa.s.sion, / And the white rose breathes of love," he began.

My mother said, "Oh, John!"

"O, the red rose is a falcon, / And the white rose is a dove."

"Oh, John!" My mother said. Then she left the room.