Chicken Soup for the Soul 20th Anniversary Edition (34 page)

Jumping at several small opportunities

may get us there more quickly than waiting for one big one to come along.

~Hugh Allen

S
ome years ago I took on an assignment in a southern county to work with people on public welfare. What I wanted to do was show that everybody has the capacity to be self-sufficient and all we have to do is to activate them. I asked the county to pick a group of people who were on public welfare, people from different racial groups and different family constellations. I would then see them as a group for three hours every Friday. I also asked for a little petty cash to work with as I needed it.

The first thing I said after I shook hands with everybody was, “I would like to know what your dreams are.” Everyone looked at me as if I were kind of wacky.

“Dreams? We don’t have dreams.”

I said, “Well, when you were a kid what happened? Wasn’t there something you wanted to do?”

One woman said to me, “I don’t know what you can do with dreams. The rats are eating up my kids.”

“Oh,” I said. “That’s terrible. No, of course, you are very much involved with the rats and your kids. How can that be helped?”

“Well, I could use a new screen door because there are holes in my screen door.”

I asked, “Is there anybody around here who knows how to fix a screen door?”

There was a man in the group, and he said, “A long time ago I used to do things like that but now I have a terribly bad back, but I’ll try.”

I told him I had some money if he would go to the store and buy some screening and go and fix the lady’s screen door. “Do you think you can do that?”

“Yes, I’ll try.”

The next week, when the group was seated, I said to the woman, “Well, is your screen door fixed?”

“Oh, yes,” she said.

“Then we can start dreaming, can’t we?” She sort of smiled at me. I said to the man who did the work, “How do you feel?”

He said, “Well, you know, it’s a very funny thing. I’m beginning to feel a lot better.”

That helped the group to begin to dream. These seemingly small successes allowed the group to see that dreams were not insane. These small steps began to get people to see and feel that something really could happen.

I began to ask other people about their dreams. One woman shared that she always wanted to be a secretary. I said, “Well, what stands in your way?” (That’s always my next question.)

She said, “I have six kids, and I don’t have anyone to take care of them while I’m away.”

“Let’s find out,” I said. “Is there anybody in this group who would take care of six kids for a day or two a week while this woman gets some training here at the community college?”

One woman said, “I got kids, too, but I could do that.”

“Let’s do it,” I said. So a plan was created and the woman went to school.

The woman who took in the children became a licensed foster care person. In 12 weeks I had all these people off public welfare. I’ve not only done that once, I’ve done it many times.

~Virginia Satir

Don’t live down to expectations. Go out there and do something remarkable.

~Wendy Wasserstein

I
have a friend named Monty Roberts who owns a horse ranch in San Ysidro. He has let me use his house to put on fundraising events to raise money for youth at risk programs.

The last time I was there he introduced me by saying, “I want to tell you why I let Jack use my house. It all goes back to a story about a young man who was the son of an itinerant horse trainer who would go from stable to stable, race track to race track, farm to farm and ranch to ranch, training horses. As a result, the boy’s high school career was continually interrupted. When he was a senior, he was asked to write a paper about what he wanted to be and do when he grew up.

“That night he wrote a seven-page paper describing his goal of someday owning a horse ranch. He wrote about his dream in great detail and he even drew a diagram of a 200-acre ranch, showing the location of all the buildings, the stables and the track. Then he drew a detailed floor plan for a 4,000-square-foot house that would sit on the 200-acre dream ranch.

“He put a great deal of his heart into the project and the next day he handed it in to his teacher. Two days later he received his paper back. On the front page was a large red F with a note that read, ‘See me after class.’

“The boy with the dream went to see the teacher after class and asked, ‘Why did I receive an F?’

“The teacher said, ‘This is an unrealistic dream for a young boy like you. You have no money. You come from an itinerant family. You have no resources. Owning a horse ranch requires a lot of money. You have to buy the land. You have to pay for the original breeding stock and later you’ll have to pay large stud fees. There’s no way you could ever do it.’ Then the teacher added, ‘If you will rewrite this paper with a more realistic goal, I will reconsider your grade.’

“The boy went home and thought about it long and hard. He asked his father what he should do. His father said, ‘Look, son, you have to make up your own mind on this. However, I think it is a very important decision for you.’

“Finally, after sitting with it for a week, the boy turned in the same paper, making no changes at all. He stated, ‘You can keep the F and I’ll keep my dream.’”

Monty then turned to the assembled group and said, “I tell you this story because you are sitting in my 4,000-square-foot house in the middle of my 200-acre horse ranch. I still have that school paper framed over the fireplace.” He added, “The best part of the story is that two summers ago that same schoolteacher brought thirty kids to camp out on my ranch for a week. When the teacher was leaving, he said, ‘Look, Monty, I can tell you this now. When I was your teacher, I was something of a dream stealer. During those years I stole a lot of kids’ dreams. Fortunately you had enough gumption not to give up on yours.’”

Don’t let anyone steal your dreams. Follow your heart, no matter what.

~Jack Canfield

Opportunity is a parade. Even as one chance passes, the next is a fife and drum echoing in the distance.

~Robert Brault

W
hen I was a senior in college, I came home for Christmas vacation and anticipated a fun-filled fortnight with my two brothers. We were so excited to be together, we volunteered to watch the store so that my mother and father could take their first day off in years. The day before my parents went to Boston, my father took me quietly aside to the little den behind the store. The room was so small that it held only a piano and a hide-a-bed couch. In fact, when you pulled the bed out, it filled the room and you could sit on the foot of it and play the piano. Father reached behind the old upright and pulled out a cigar box. He opened it and showed me a little pile of newspaper articles. I had read so many Nancy Drew detective stories that I was excited and wide-eyed over the hidden box of clippings.

“What are they?” I asked.

Father replied seriously, “These are articles I’ve written and some letters to the editor that have been published.” As I began to read, I saw at the bottom of each neatly clipped article the name Walter Chapman. “Why didn’t you tell me you’d done this?” I asked.

“Because I didn’t want your mother to know. She has always told me that since I didn’t have much education, I shouldn’t try to write. I wanted to run for some political office also, but she told me I shouldn’t try. I guess she was afraid she’d be embarrassed if I lost. I just wanted to try for the fun of it. I figured I could write without her knowing it, and so I did. When each item would be printed, I’d cut it out and hide it in this box. I knew someday I’d show the box to someone, and it’s you.”

He watched me as I read over a few of the articles and when I looked up, his big blue eyes were moist. “I guess I tried for something too big this last time,” he added. “Did you write something else?”

“Yes, I sent some suggestions in to our denominational magazine on how the national nominating committee could be selected more fairly. It’s been three months since I sent it in. I guess I tried for something too big.”

This was such a new side to my fun-loving father that I didn’t quite know what to say, so I tried, “Maybe it’ll still come.”

“Maybe, but don’t hold your breath.” Father gave me a little smile and a wink and then closed the cigar box and tucked it into the space behind the piano.

The next morning our parents left on the bus to the Haverhill Depot where they took a train to Boston. Jim, Ron and I ran the store and I thought about the box. I’d never known my father liked to write. I didn’t tell my brothers; it was a secret between Father and me. The Mystery of the Hidden Box.

Early that evening I looked out the store window and saw my mother get off the bus — alone. She crossed the Square and walked briskly through the store.

“Where’s Dad?” we asked together.

“Your father’s dead,” she said without a tear.

In disbelief we followed her to the kitchen where she told us they had been walking through the Park Street Subway Station in the midst of crowds of people when Father had fallen to the floor. A nurse bent over him, looked up at Mother and said simply, “He’s dead.”