Chicken Soup for the Woman's Soul Part 4

A Goodnight Kiss

Every afternoon when I came on duty as the evening nurse, I would walk the halls of the nursing home, pausing at each door to chat and observe. Often, Kate and Chris would be sitting with their big sc.r.a.pbooks in their laps and reminiscing over the photographs. Proudly, Kate showed me pictures of bygone years: Chris tall, blond and handsome; Kate pretty, dark-haired and laughing. Two young lovers smiling through the pa.s.sing seasons. How lovely they looked, sitting together, the light from the window shining on their white heads, their time-wrinkled faces smiling at the memory of the years, caught and held forever in the sc.r.a.pbooks.

How little the young know of loving, I'd think. How foolish to think they have a monopoly on such a precious commodity. The old know what loving truly means; the young can only guess.

As the staff members ate their evening meal, sometimes Kate and Chris, holding hands, would walk slowly by the dining room doors. Then the conversation would turn to a discussion of the couple's love and devotion, and what would happen when one of them died. We all knew Chris was the strong one, and Kate was dependent upon him.

How would Kate function if Chris were to die first? we often wondered.

Bedtime followed a ritual. When I brought the evening medication, Kate would be sitting in her chair, in nightgown and slippers, awaiting my arrival. Under Chris's and my watchful eyes, Kate would take her pill. Then very carefully Chris would help her from chair to bed and tuck the covers around her frail body.

Observing this act of love, I would think for the thousandth time, Good heavens, why don't nursing homes have double beds for married couples? All their lives they have slept together, but in a nursing home, they're expected to sleep in single beds. Overnight they're deprived of a comfort of a lifetime.

How very foolish such policies are, I would think as I watched Chris reach up and turn off the light above Kate's bed. Then tenderly he would bend, and they would kiss gently. Chris would pat her cheek, and both would smile. He would pull up the side rail on her bed, and only then would he turn and accept his own medication. As I walked into the hall, I could hear Chris say, "Good-night, Kate," and her returning voice, "Good-night, Chris," while the s.p.a.ce of an entire room separated their two beds.

I had been off duty two days. When I returned, the first news I heard after walking through the nursing home doors was, "Chris died yesterday morning."

"How?"

"A ma.s.sive heart attack. It happened quickly."

"How's Kate?"

"Bad."

I went into Kate's room. She sat in her chair, motionless, hands in her lap, staring. Taking her hands in mine, I said, "Kate, it's Phyllis."

Her eyes never shifted; she only stared. I placed my hand under her chin and slowly turned her head so she had to look at me.

"Kate, I just found out about Chris. I'm so sorry."

At the word "Chris," her eyes came back to life. She stared at me, puzzled, as though wondering how I had suddenly appeared. "Kate, it's me, Phyllis. I'm so sorry about Chris."

Recognition and remembrance flooded her face. Tears welled up and slid down her wrinkled cheeks. "Chris is gone," she whispered.

"I know," I said. "I know."

We pampered Kate for a while, letting her eat in her room, surrounding her with special attention. Then gradually the staff worked her back into the old schedule. Often, as I pa.s.sed her room, I would observe Kate sitting in her chair, sc.r.a.pbook on her lap, gazing sadly at pictures of Chris.

Bedtime was the worst part of her day. Although she had been granted her request to move from her bed to Chris's bed, and although the staff chatted and laughed with her as they tucked her in for the night, still Kate remained silent and sadly withdrawn. Pa.s.sing her room an hour after she had been tucked in, I'd find her wide awake, staring at the ceiling.

The weeks pa.s.sed, and the bedtime wasn't any better. Kate seemed so restless, so insecure. Why? I wondered. Why this time of day more than the other hours?

Then one night as I walked into her room, only to find the same wide-awake Kate, I said impulsively, "Kate, could it be you miss your good-night kiss?" Bending down, I kissed her wrinkled cheek.

It was as though I had opened the floodgates. Tears coursed down her face; her hands gripped mine. "Chris always kissed me good-night," she cried.

"I know," I whispered.

"I miss him so, all those years he kissed me good-night." She paused while I wiped the tears. "I just can't seem to go to sleep without his kiss."

She looked up at me, her eyes br.i.m.m.i.n.g with grat.i.tude. "Oh, thank you for giving me a kiss."

A small smile turned up the corners of Kate's mouth. "You know," she said confidentially, "Chris used to sing me a song."

"He did?"

"Yes," her white head nodded, "and I lie here at night and think about it."

"How did it go?"

Kate smiled, held my hand and cleared her throat. Then her voice, small with age but still melodious, lifted softly in song: So kiss me, my sweet, and so let us part.

And when I grow too old to dream, that kiss will live in my heart.

Phyllis Volkens

Submitted by Jane Hanna

EDITORS' NOTE: Phyllis Volkens, the author of this story, died two days after we located her in an effort to obtain permission to use her story (see Introduction). Her husband, Stanley, told us how much it meant to Phyllis to be included in Chicken Soup for the Woman's Soul. We are honored to include "A Goodnight Kiss" in Phyllis's memory.

"When I Grow Too Old to Dream,"lyrics by Oscar Hammerstein II, music by Sigmund Romberg.

All rights reserved Robbins Music Corp.

Gifts

In my hands I hold a hardback copy of Jules Verne's Cla.s.sic Science Fiction, torn airmail packaging scattered at my feet. The inscription: "To Matt, with love from Grandpa Loren, San Francisco." Why is my 75-year-old father sending my 9-year-old son a 511-page book? The inappropriateness of the gift irritates me-a gift hurriedly bought with too little care given. But perhaps it is unfair of me to expect my father to know what a boy of nine would like. Then I remember last spring, when we visited San Francisco. Dad sprinted after a cable car, grabbing Matt's hand and leaping aboard. Later he plucked a nickel off the street.

"Matt, look! When you put a coin on the track-the cable car almost cuts it in half!" I can still picture them standing there, heads bent in mutual admiration.

Less irritated, I stare out the window at Hondo, sleeping on the deck. He has been with us since he was eight weeks old. Gray hairs cover the muzzle of his glossy black head, and the lids beneath his brown eyes droop slightly. His huge Lab feet splay when he walks, more gray hairs grow from between his pads. I think of my father's beard and how I have watched the streaks of gray widen until gray is all there is.

Freckles rests next to Hondo, her border collie fur ruffling in the breeze. Much of her puppy freckling has faded. I think back to last summer.

Fourteen years represent a full life for a dog. Hondo's moon had begun to wane, growing weaker with the setting of each sun. The time for a second dog had come, but it was with guilt that we brought Freckles home to the ranch. When she scrambled out of the truck, puppy legs trembling, Hondo was a perfect gentleman. He sniffed and she cowered. She whined and he licked. Tails wagged, and a friendship was born.

Down at the barn, Freckles watched Hondo, a gracious teacher, sit patiently while we saddled the horses. She sat down as well. The cats rubbed up against Hondo's legs and Freckles learned not to chase cats. We rode out to check heifers, and Hondo trotted faithfully behind. Freckles learned that it was not all right to hara.s.s a cow or deer. Freckles grew lanky, and a new sprightliness came to Hondo's step. Years fell away. We began throwing sticks for him again, and he fetched until his panting jaws could no longer hold the stick. Freckles never learned to love the game, but she cheered him on anyway. He was given a brief reprieve, a second wind.

Then a hot summer day and too many miles traveled on dusty cow trails took their toll. Hondo collapsed in the corral. Soft coaxing and gentle stroking brought him around. Matt and Freckles looked on, watching him stagger to his feet and shake the dirt from his coat. Hondo drank deeply from the bucket by the house before climbing to the deck and taking up his post near the door. The next time we saddled the horses and rode out into the pasture, we locked him in the horse trailer. He peered through the wooden slats, his feelings hurt beyond comprehension.

"It's all right, old boy," I said, "we'll be back." But he had become deaf and did not hear me. After that we continued to take him with us on our rides. His moon will wane, no matter how protective we are.

I set the heavy volume of Jules Verne on the table and pick up the discarded packaging. Outside, a car drives by on the gravel road. Freckles hears the car and she stands, ears p.r.i.c.ked forward. Hondo sleeps. Then Freckles barks, a quick and high-pitched sound-unlike the deep, chesty warning that has guarded our home for 14 years. It is not the noise of the car that finally awakens Hondo; the high-pitched bark penetrates his increasing deafness and he lifts his head to look about. He sees Freckles on duty, poised and ready. With a deep sigh of resignation, he lowers his head onto his paws and closes his eyes.

I want to go outside and take Hondo's gentle head in my hands, look into his brown eyes and speak softly, letting him feel with his heart those things he can no longer hear me say. I want him to cling to my world a little longer.

Instead, I pick up the book and reread the inscription. "To Matt, with love from Grandpa Loren." Suddenly the gift makes sense. Fourteen years separate Hondo and Freckles. Sixty-five years and a thousand miles separate my father from his grandson. Only a few more years of gift-giving stretch before him. He, too, counts the setting of each sun, watches the waning of his moon. Times does not allow him the luxury of sending only appropriate gifts. If in 10 years Matt opens this book, ready to dive 20,000 leagues beneath the sea, it will be his grandfather's words wishing him bon voyage.

Putting the heavy volume down softly on the table, I open the door and walk out onto the deck. Hondo's fur shines in the sunlight. He feels the vibrations of my steps and his tail begins to move slowly, back and forth.

Page Lambert

1,716 Letters

On November 15, 1942, I eagerly said "I do" to my dashing groom, who was proudly wearing his crisp, formal United States Army uniform. Only a short eight months later, he was called to serve in World War II, bound for an unknown destination in the Pacific for an unknown period of time.

When my young husband left, we made a promise to write each other every day we were apart. We decided we'd number each of the letters we sent so we would know if any went astray. Writing to each other daily, we found there were many times that there was little to say other than "I love you." But in every single letter those words were included.

The war found my husband, an Army dentist, right on the front lines. Still, whether he was in the heat of battle in the Aleutians, Okinawa, or the Philippines, he always found some time to write every day. On occasion, he even found time for more than just writing. When he had spare moments, he would make me gifts of jewelry out of any indigenous materials he could find.

During one of the lulls in battle in the Philippines, he found time to carve a beautiful mahogany letter opener with my name, Louise , carefully engraved on one side of the handle, and Philippines 1944 engraved on the other side. He told me the letter opener was to help me open my daily letters from him. More than 50 years later, that letter opener still sits on my desk and is used daily to open the mail, although none of the letters I receive today are as important as the ones I received from him during the war.

There were days and weeks when I would get no mail. Of course, that would leave me fearful about my husband's well-being-many of the men in his troop had already been killed. Inevitably though, the mail service would catch up and a slew of letters would arrive at one time. I would busy myself sorting them by number so I could read them in chronological order and savor each one. Unfortunately, every letter was screened by Army censors, and I would have to try to imagine what was written under the blacked-out lines.

In one of the letters, when my husband was in Hawaii, he asked me to send my measurements so he could have some lounging pajamas made for me by the famous Chinese tailors living on the island. So I responded by sending him my 35-24-36 measurements. (Oh, those were the good old days.) My husband received the letter but the measurements had been blacked out by the Army censors, who had thought I was trying to communicate to him by secret code. Somehow, the pajamas fit anyway.

By November 1945, the war was over and my husband was finally sent home. We had not seen each other since he had left more than two years and four months earlier. We had spoken to each other by phone only once during that entire time. But since we had faithfully kept our promise to write daily, we each had written 858 letters to each other-a total of 1,716 letters that had carried us both through the war.

When my husband returned from the war, we were fortunate to obtain a minuscule apartment in a tremendously tight real estate market in San Francisco. In these box-like quarters there was barely room for the two of us, so to our regret, we had to dispose of all our letters. In the years since the war ended, we've been fortunate to have never been apart for more than one or two days at a time, so we've had little opportunity to write each other letters again.

But through all the years, my husband has continued to show me and our children and grandchildren the devotion and love he showed me in those early days. We've just celebrated 53 years of being happily married, and while the letters from those first few years of our marriage no longer remain, the love within them will be forever engraved in our hearts.

Louise Shimoff PEANUTS. Reprinted by permission of United Feature Syndicate, Inc.

Martha's Secret Ingredient

It bothered Ben every time he went through the kitchen. It was that little metal container on the shelf above Martha's cookstove. He probably would not have noticed it so much or been bothered by it if Martha had not repeatedly told him never to touch it. The reason, she said, was that it contained a "secret herb" from her mother, and since she had no way of ever refilling the container, she was concerned that if Ben or anyone else ever picked it up and looked inside, they might accidentally drop it and spill its valuable contents.

The container wasn't really much to look at. It was so old that much of its original red and gold floral colors had faded. You could tell right where it had been gripped again and again as the container was lifted and its tight lid pulled off.

Not only Martha's fingers had gripped it there, but her mother's and her grandmother's had, too. Martha didn't know for sure, but she felt that perhaps even her great-grandmother had used this same container and its "secret herb."

All Ben knew for sure was that shortly after he'd married Martha, her mother had brought the container to Martha and told her to make the same loving use of its contents as she had.

And she did, faithfully. Ben never saw Martha cook a dish without taking the container off the shelf and sprinkling just a little of the "secret herb" over the ingredients. Even when she baked cakes, pies and cookies, he saw her add a light sprinkling just before she put the pans in the oven.

Whatever was in that container, it sure worked, for Ben felt Martha was the best cook in the world. He wasn't alone in that opinion-anyone who ever ate at their house grandly praised Martha's cooking.

But why wouldn't she let Ben touch that little container? Was she really afraid he'd spill its contents? And what did that "secret herb" look like? It was so fine that whenever Martha sprinkled it over the food she was preparing, Ben couldn't quite make out its texture. She obviously had to use very little of it because there was no way of refilling the container.

Somehow Martha had stretched those contents over 30 years of marriage to date. It never failed to effect mouth-watering results.

Ben became increasingly tempted to look into that container just once, but never brought himself to do so.

Then one day Martha became ill. Ben took her to the hospital, where they kept her overnight. When he returned home, he found it extremely lonely in the house. Martha had never been gone overnight before. And when it neared supper time, he wondered what to do-Martha had so loved to cook, he'd never bothered to learn much about preparing food.

As he wandered into the kitchen to see what might be in the refrigerator, the container on the shelf immediately came into view. His eyes were drawn to it like a magnet- he quickly looked away, but his curiosity drew him back.

Curiosity nagged.

What was in that container? Why wasn't he to touch it? What did that "secret herb" look like? How much of it was left?

Ben looked away again and lifted the cover of a large cake pan on the kitchen counter. Ahh... there was more than half of one of Martha's great cakes left over. He cut off a large piece, sat down at the kitchen table, and hadn't taken more than one bite when his eyes went back to that container again. What would it hurt if he looked inside? Why was Martha so secretive about that container, anyway?

Ben took another bite and debated with himself- should he or shouldn't he? For five more big bites he thought about it, staring at the container. Finally he could no longer resist.