Chicken Soup for the Soul

[biggie9385]

---

is it okey to post chicken soup stories here? naa man gud ko daghan na kaayo chicken soup stories nya i like to share it to everyone. nagpa-subscribe thru email ko ani so i think pwede man cguro. ok ra?

[boliklik]

y not?

[forum_angel]

chicken soup stories are very nice.....especially if u wanna reflect or u need stories to boost up ur emotions or simply u wanna enjoy short touching stories....nice ang chicken soup......

chocolate sad nice pud......

[biggie9385]

The Birthday Check
By Kathleen Dixon

In the 1950s, local banks sent personalized checks to
non-customers to try to generate new business. I was eight
years old, proud of my new writing and spelling ability, so
I begged for these checks from my parents.

In our family, special occasions meant gifts from par-
ents, siblings and friends, but from others it meant cards
with money. Cards with crisp ones, fives, tens or twenties
meant "I love you." So using these advertisements - gimmick
checks - I did the same. My homemade cards, heavily colored
and flowery with prose and poetry, with a bogus check
inside, were made out to the honoree in the amount
appropriate to the extent of my love. For my brothers, it
was a dollar. For my parents, it was thousands. For my
Uncle Howard, it was a million dollars.

In July of 1958, we held a Sunday dinner birthday
celebration for my uncle. He opened the card I'd made, read
the message inside and looked at the check enclosed for a
long time. Smiling at me from across the dinner table, he
thanked me for the card and check. Then he took his wallet
out of his back pocket, folded and tucked the check away,
saying, "I'll just keep this with me until I need it."

Thirty-five years later, I sat drinking coffee, early
in the morning, at that same table, across from the same
smile, hearing the same voice, sharing the same memories of
those thirty-five years, with the same Uncle Howard -
probably for the last time. My uncle was dying of cancer.
Radiation and chemotherapy had been administered without
success and ended so his crew cut was growing back. The
nausea that had plagued him during treatments was no longer
a problem. He was eating again and putting on the weight he
had lost. Sitting there talking about the good old days, I
fooled myself into thinking this was a pleasure visit and
there would be others to come. But deep down, I knew that
this visit was for good-bye.

Putting down his coffee mug, he reached for his hip
pocket. Unfolding his wallet, he reached inside and handed
me a pale blue slip of paper, folded in half, saying,
"Remember this?" There was the birthday check for a million
dollars. He had kept it, carrying it with him, shifting it
from old wallet to new wallet for thirty-five years.

"You never tried to cash it," I joked.

"I never needed it," he said. "I'll just keep this
with me a little longer in case I need it yet." He put it
away once more.

I left him that afternoon with final hugs, kisses, and
the final good-byes. Four days later, he was gone.

Shortly after the funeral, I returned home from work
and found a package on the kitchen table mailed to me, the
handwritten return address from my aunt. Inside was another
small package with a short note in Uncle Howard's
handwriting. "Since I don't need this anymore, I thought
you might want it back. With love, Uncle Howard." Enclosed
was the check for a million dollars, mounted inside a
frame. Thanks, Uncle Howard, for a million-dollar love that
lasts longer than a lifetime.

[biggie9385]

The Movers and the Gentleman
By Barbara Chase-Pace

The day began like any other moving job in the city. The
moving crew was on the job at the agreed upon time, 8:30 a.m.

After introducing themselves to the customer and a brief
tour of the residence to assess the plan for loading, the old
gentleman asked them if they would like some coffee. The men,
charging by the hour, declined his offer. He smiled at their
honesty and gestured to them to continue.

The old house had a redolent fragrance of musty rose
petals. The bereaved seventy-nine-year old husband merely
watched and quietly chatted and quipped with the young-strong
men as they went about their work. It was obvious he was lonely
and welcomed the rather captive audience into his home. Even
under the albeit necessary circumstances of having to move to
the nursing care facility, their presence heartened him.

The young men were kind to the old gentleman, tolerating
his rather one-sided conversation. Occasionally, they had to
ask him to 'move to one side' while they removed furniture and
memories all at one time right before him.

In a way he was as glad to be leaving the house which
really had no relevant significance for him anymore since his
partner of sixty-two-years had died two years ago. He found
peace each day in prayer. The responsibilities for his care
would be a welcomed solace.

The hours sped by and the house became but a shell of past
occupancy. Upon near completion of the job one of the movers
went through the house to check each room to make sure nothing
had been left behind. In the upstairs bedroom under a small
alcove there was a chest almost imperceptible because it was the
same wood hue as the paneling on the wall behind it. When he
started to remove it, the entire contents fell through the
bottom of the chest. Papers were strewn all over the floor,
along with photos. He began to collect everything into some
semblance of order when a yellowed newspaper clipping caught his
eye: TWIN BOYS DIE IN BOATING ACCIDENT. After quickly scanning
the article, he learned that they were indeed the old
gentleman's sons, lost to him and his wife forever over three
decades ago.

When the movers had completed the move, the man thanked
them for their diligence and careful concern for his precious
belongings. He told them that their kindness to him was more
appreciated than they could ever realize.

Six months later, almost to the day of the move, the
gentleman died. In his will, he left his entire fortune of one
and a half million dollars to the "Two movers who were so kind
and reminded me of my own sons."

[biggie9385]

First-Day Employee
By Mary Jane West-Delgado

My father had a small business, employing approximately
fifteen people at any given time. We pasteurized and
homogenized milk from farmers each morning, and put it into
bottles for home use and for restaurants. We also put the milk
into small containers for the school kids everyday. We also
made a wonderful little thing called homemade ice cream.

We sold all of these milk products, and many more, in the
front of a dairy building, which had been fashioned into a small
store with a large soda fountain. During the summer months,
there were rows and rows of eager tourists lined up at the ice
cream counter, waiting for their daily indulgence of my father's
most exquisite recipes of some twenty-seven flavors of homemade
wonder.

Being such an extremely busy little store meant that the
employees had to work fast and furious for hours at a time, with
little rest. The swarm of tourists never stopped and our "rush
hour" lasted many hours on hot days.

I had worked for my father since I was young, as did all
seven kids in our family. So I had seen many new employees come
and go due to the fast and frenetic pace.

One day, in 1967, we had a new employee, Debbie, who wanted
to work in the store for the summer. She had never done this
type of work before, but planned to give it her all.

On her first day, Debbie made just about every mistake in
the book. She added the sales wrong on the cash register, she
charged the wrong prices for items, she gave the wrong bag of
food to the wrong customer, and she dropped and broke a half
gallon of milk. The torture of watching her struggle was too
much for me. I went into my father's office and said, "Please
go out there and put her out of her misery." I expected him to
walk right into the store and fire her on the spot.

Since my father's office was situated within view of the
sales counter, he had no doubt seen what I was talking about.
He sat, thoughtful, for a moment. Then he got up from his desk
and walked over to Debbie, who was standing behind the counter.

"Debbie," he said, as he put his hand gently on her
shoulder. "I have been watching you all day, and I saw how you
treated Mrs. Forbush."

Debbie's face began to flush and tears began to well in her
eyes as she struggled to remember Mrs. Forbush from the many
women she had given the wrong change to or spilled milk on.

My father continued, "I've never seen Mrs. Forbush be so
polite to any one of my employees before. You really knew how
to handle her. I am sure that she is going to want you to wait
on her every time she comes in. Keep up the good work."

In return for being a wise and compassionate employer, my
father got a loyal, and hardworking employee for sixteen
years...and a friend for life.

[ant0n!]

chicken soup is the best..naa pakay lain bai?chicken soup for teenage soul..

[boliklik]

nice....

post more

[biggie9385]

Mikey's Goal
By Kim Kane

Last night was the last game for my eight-year-old son's soccer team. It was the final quarter. The score was two to one, my son's team in the lead. Parents encircled the field, offering encouragement. With less than ten seconds remaining, the ball rolled in front of my son's teammate, one Mikey O'Donnel. With shouts of "Kick it!" echoing across the field, Mikey reared back and gave it everything he had. All round me the crowd erupted. O'Donnel had scored!

Then there was silence. Mikey had scored all right, but in the wrong goal, ending the game in a tie. For a moment there was total hush. You see, Mikey has Down's syndrome and for him there is no such thing as a wrong goal. All goals were celebrated by a joyous hug from Mikey. He had even been known to hug the opposing players when they scored.

The silence was finally broken when Mikey, his face filled with joy, grabbed my son, hugged him and yelled, "I scored! I scored. Everybody won! Everybody won!" For a moment I held my breath, not sure how my son would react. I need not have worried. I watched, through tears, as my son threw up his hand in the classic high-five salute and started chanting, "Way to go Mikey! Way to go Mikey!" Within moments both teams surrounded Mikey, joining in the chant and congratulating him on his goal. Later that night, when my daughter asked who had won, I smiled as I replied, "It was a tie. Everybody won."

[biggie9385]

The Harbinger
By Bill Walker

It wasn't noon yet, but the temperature was already approaching ninety-five degrees on the morning I started my flight training at Fort Wolters. It was warm for May, even for Texas, and since the base was intended to be a training ground for Vietnam, the heat just made the experience all the more authentic. We knew that the lucky few who made it through the grueling nine-month warrant officer flight- training course would soon be off to a destination even hotter than Texas.

As nearly two hundred of us stood at attention, we were flushed with excitement. On this day, we would finally begin the "hands on" portion of flight school. We had been through nine tough weeks of basic training in Louisiana and four weeks of continuous harassment from our tactical officers while we began the ground school portion of our classes. The purpose of the harassment, we knew, was to shake out anyone from the program who couldn't handle the pressure of intimidation and confusion. The ability to remain focused during combat is critical to survival.

That morning, however, no amount of harassment could have taken away from the excitement of climbing into the cockpit of the TH-55 training helicopter to actually begin learning to fly. Although it was common knowledge that only a portion of those who began flight school would actually end up with wings, each of us was convinced that we would soon fly "above the best." Lunch, and our tactical officers, were all that stood between us and our first flight. We knew from experience that the tac officers could be brutal, so we wondered, uneasily, what they would throw at us during this portion of our training.

As we stood rigidly facing the tac officer, waiting for instructions, a tiny robin hopped out in front of our formation. It seemed confused and a little frightened. Suddenly, its mother flew a low swoop across the lawn, as if encouraging her youngster to take to the air. Despite our efforts to remain focused on the men in command in front of us, everyone's eyes followed the birds. Even our officers turned to watch, mesmerized by the scene.

Over and over, the tiny bird ran as fast as its little legs could move, taking off after its mom. But despite its best efforts, gravity kept it tethered to the earth. Again and again, the little ball of feathers raced across the grass, flapping its wings, only to hop up on a stone at the end of its long run.

Completely ignoring the crowd of staring bystanders, the mother robin swooped down after her baby's attempts to fly, cajoling and chiding it. "Like this," she seemed to be saying. "Try again." All two hundred of us watched breathlessly, silently praying for the little bird to succeed. Each time it flapped and hopped its way across the lawn in front of us, we'd groan at its failure.

Finally, after we had stood at attention for what seemed like hours just watching, those tiny wings took hold of the air, and the baby bird became airborne for a few feet. You could almost see the little bird swell with pride. Then, on one last run across the front of our formation, the gray piece of fluff rose into the air. Two hundred would-be warrant officers burst into wild cheers. We watched, ecstatic, as the little bird followed its mother to the horizon. Our tac officers turned back to us, smiling. What could they add? It had been the ultimate flight lesson.