口语-心灵鸡汤.doc

Jackie's Little Sister
By Lauren Alyson Schara, 16

It was hard being the youngest of two sisters - I got all the hand-me-downs, I never got to do anything first and my teachers always said, "Oh, you're Jackie's little sister." It was so hard not to be like, "No, I am LAUREN!" I never liked being the youngest.
Don't get me wrong. Jackie and I got along - with a few fights here and there. We're two years apart, and I am one grade behind her. But sometimes it just really used to bug me to be called "Jackie's little sister" all the time.
Then a few years ago, Jackie and I were in a very bad car accident. She came out with a few bumps and bruises, but she was basically okay. I, on the other hand, had a broken arm and, worse, about 100 stitches in my face. Needless to say, I didn't feel like the belle of the ball when I looked into the mirror.
About a month after the accident, I returned to school. The stitches were gone, but a very large scar remained. Jackie reassured me that I looked great and I shouldn't worry about the scar. (If you have a big sister, you know that this means a lot coming from her.) My friends did their best not to say anything and not to stare, but the scar was very noticeable.
One day, we were riding home from school on the bus. This guy named Jordan, who rode the bus with us, started teasing me about my scar. He is in the same grade as Jackie and older than me. She was sitting pretty far from where I was sitting and didn't hear him. When we got off the bus, I didn't say anything to her about what he had done. Almost every day, he would do it again, and I would get off the bus crying. This went on for about a month, until I finally broke down and told Jackie. She was furious.
The day after I told her what had been happening, when Jordan made fun of me the next time, Jackie stood up, walked to where he was sitting and said something into his ear. I don't know exactly what she said, but he never said one word to me again.
So, even though getting all of the hand-me-downs may not be the best, I am very grateful to have a big sister like Jackie looking out for me. I know that if I were ever in trouble, she would come running.
Ever since that day, when anyone asks, I tell them, "Yep, I'm 'Jackie's little sister.'" And I am proud of it.

Where's Your Notebook?
By John W. Stewart Jr.

     I was thirteen years old when Dad called my two younger brothers and me into the game room of our house.  I was excited!  I thought we were going to play pool or pinball or maybe even watch movies together, just us guys!  "Bring a notebook and something to write with," my dad bellowed before we reached the game room.  My brothers and I stopped dead in our tracks and stared at each other in horror!  His request was unusual, and our excitement turned to dread as we became well aware that games or movies were not the reason we were pulled away from watching Fat Albert.  This felt more official and tedious, like schoolwork, chores or worse, a family meeting.
     As we each retrieved a notebook and pencil we continued to ponder the reason for this summons.  We ruled out a family meeting because Mom was still out shopping.  We entered the game room to find three metal folding chairs facing a huge blackboard.  Dad instructed us to sit in the chairs and NOT on the cushioned sofa just inches from us.
     "I want your full attention.  That is why I have you sitting in these chairs," he stated, businesslike.
     Immediately we began to pout and whine.
     "Where's Mom, aren't we gonna wait for Mom?" my youngest brother asked.
     "Is this gonna take long?" my other brother sighed.
     I silently squirmed in the uncomfortable metal chair.
     "Your mother won't be back for hours, and if you must know, she has nothing to do with this," he said calmly.  "And how long this takes depends entirely upon each of you.  The more you participate, the more you'll learn, and the faster we can move on and be done.  Understood?"
     "Yes, sir," we responded unenthusiastically.
     "Now," my father began, "we are going to have a weekly meeting with just us guys.  We will have these meetings every Saturday morning, but if you have school or sports activities on Saturday morning, we'll reschedule for Sundays after church.  I'm going to teach you what I have learned about life.  It is my responsibility, before God, to prepare you to be strong, proud, African American men who will be assets to the community and to the world at large.  It is a responsibility I take very seriously."
     I just had to jump in, "You're going to teach us everything about life?"
     "Everything I can."
     "But that will take forever."
     "Maybe."  He turned to begin writing on the blackboard.  "Maybe."
     For the next five years, rain or shine, in sickness or in health, Dad taught us about life once a week.  He instructed us on a wide variety of subjects - personal hygiene, puberty, etiquette, the importance of education, racism, dating, respect for women, respect for those in authority, respect for our elders, Christian salvation, a good work ethic, what it means to be an adult, what to look for in a wife, landscaping, minor home repairs, auto repairs, budgeting, investing, civic duties and the list goes on.  We begrudgingly filled notebook after notebook after notebook.
     As I approached my eighteenth birthday, the weekly lessons became monthly lessons and then every other month, until they slowly drifted away.  My brothers and I were older, we had girlfriends, school activities, sports activities and job responsibilities that became extremely difficult to schedule around.  I'm not sure when it happened, but the importance of our weekly lessons and notebooks began to pale in comparison to our busy teenage lives.  Soon the classes and the notebooks were mere memories.
     It's been years now since we had those classes with Dad in the game room.  We are grown with careers and wives of our own.  At every challenge in life, my brothers and I have frantically looked in attics, basements and storage sheds for our notebooks.  We can't find them anywhere.
     At least once a month one of us has a situation where we need to call home and ask Dad for his advice or guidance.  We hesitantly pick up the phone to call him, knowing good and well he's going to laugh and say, "Where's your notebook?"

A Batboy Looks Back
By Mark Stodghill

I was searching for baseball ghosts when I took my family on our first trip to the Mall of America in Bloomington, Minnesota. We weren't there to shop. I simply wanted to find the site of where home plate had been at Metropolitan Stadium, the former home of the Minnesota Twins major-league baseball team.
I spent the best days of my boyhood - along with a couple of the worst days - at Met Stadium as a batboy with the Twins. It was a great place to grow up. It's where I learned about sex, race and ethnic relations, and celebrity, and that baseball players were a lot more human than they appeared on their bubble-gum cards.
I'm old enough to have seen construction begin on the Met in 1955. I watched the ballpark emerge from the surrounding corn and melon fields just off Cedar Avenue, the road that ran past my boyhood home. I never saw brighter lights or prettier emerald green grass than the first time I walked out on the runway and looked around the Met diamond. And what a diamond it was.
But the shrine of my youth was torn down when the Twins moved to the Hubert H. Humphrey Metrodome after the 1981 season. That hurt.
Now the nation's largest shopping mall, 4.2 million square feet, sits where the Met once stood. I don't know which is a greater example of gluttonous excess - the overflowing cornucopia at the Mall of America or the greed of major-league baseball players who take stretch limos to their contract negotiations and expect multimillion-dollar contracts for mediocre performances.
Give me back the days when baseball players wore baggy flannel uniforms and appreciated the lives they led and the people who cheered them.
I know we aren't supposed to live in the past, but when it comes to that 164-acre site in Bloomington, I'd prefer to. It took about fifteen minutes to find, but there was home plate embedded in the mall floor at Knott's Camp Snoopy. It was black, bordered in gold and read: "Metropolitan Stadium. Home Plate. 1956–1981."
We were the only ones looking at it. The other people were too busy racing to the hundreds of stores they had to choose from. I would have settled for seeing a Met Stadium hot dog vendor.
"It's kind of sad. It's kind of like a tombstone to me," my wife said while looking at home plate.
There was a time that I wished I was resting comfortably in a casket beneath that home plate tombstone.
It was a balmy summer day in 1964 and forty thousand fans were in the stands watching the Twins play the perennial American League champion New York Yankees.
My main job that day was to make sure that the home plate umpire was supplied with baseballs. The batter - I've forgotten if it was Mickey Mantle, Roger Maris, Harmon Killebrew, Tony Oliva, or one of the team's mere mortals - fouled off a half-dozen pitches. Home plate umpire Nestor Chylak called time and signaled me to bring him a new batch of baseballs.
Not wanting to delay the game, I sprinted toward home plate. But my spikes got caught in the turf. I tripped and slid in the general direction of the plate. The baseballs flew in all directions. Umpire Chylak got into his crouch, pumped his arms and hollered "Safe!"
About sixty major-league players and coaches, four umpires and forty thousand fans were roaring. At me. If I could have crawled under the plate and hid, I would have. I can honestly tell my kids that unless they break a law they'll never face a more embarrassing moment as a teenager.
After the game I remember Killebrew - my favorite Twin - and a half-dozen other players smiling, patting me on the back and asking if I was all right. Twins trainer Doc Lentz asked if I needed a whirlpool treatment. Even I was able to laugh at that.
I went on to become the Twins' assistant equipment manager in 1967 before entering the military. I returned to the team in the same capacity for the 1972 and '73 seasons. By that time I was the same age as some of the players. The best stories from that era - while colorful - probably don't belong in a wholesome publication.
When it comes to the spicier stuff I witnessed and heard, I'll live by the old clubhouse adage: "What you see here, what you hear here, what you say here, when you leave here, let it stay here."
Those memories will never fade. But I wish Met Stadium was still standing and that those players from my past were still able to play the game we all respected and cherished.

Not Just Another Birthday
By Janie Emaus

There are weekends and then there are weekends. Those minutes within hours within days which are completely perfect. Such was how I spent the last few days of my forty-ninth year, as I approached a half a century young.
I was given the best surprise of my life - a weekend at the Calistoga Hot Springs with my best friend, my sister, Arlie P.
From the moment Arlie picked me up at the airport with a happy birthday balloon and a smile as large as the universe, I knew I was in for something special.
We ate lunch in one of those elegant restaurants that one reads about in books and watches on the silver screen. The type of restaurant with high ceilings, spacious grounds and gracious waiters. The type we all deserve to eat at more often. Unfortunately, life seems to thread us between one obligation and another. And not until we're about to unravel do we treat ourselves to what we deserved all along.
After a fabulous meal we checked into our room at the spa. Minutes later we were sprawled out on lawn chairs, basking in the warmth of the afternoon.
We came alive with sun-drunk conversation. Our laughter filled the air, bounced off the water, hung over us like a halo.
As the heat seeped into my skin, the tensions eased from my body. I knew I had arrived at a time and place in my life with more things to be thankful for than could be packed into my tiny, unorganized suitcase.
A few hours later, we strolled down Main Street, two giddy women. We got stares from the young men. Of course, not quite the same type our daughters would get. Nonetheless, we were noticed.
We disappeared into the dress shops and gift shops. And we talked.
We talked about growing older and the passage of time. Twenty years ago our conversations revolved around diapers and sleepless nights. Ten years ago around Girl Scout cookies and Little League. Today our talk centers on college education and retirement plans. Yet while the topics may be different, we are still talking. Our sisterly bond has endured the inevitable changes of growing older. Of moving out of our twin beds and into separate worlds.
Later that night, saturated with Mexican food and beer, we crawled into bed and tried to stay awake during a TV drama. After all, we weren't that old yet. Within minutes, my sister and I were deep inside our own dreams.
Saturday morning started off with coffee, bagels and more talk. Pumped full of caffeine, we took a long bike ride during which we tried to talk as we huffed and puffed our way over the hills and back down along the highway.
Finally it was time for our treatments.
We were given lockers and keys and told to undress. Wrapped in towels, Arlie and I drank flavored water, ate sweet oranges and whispered. At that moment, I was so wonderfully thankful for this sister sitting beside me. For all of our silly fights over clothes and makeup. For all of the much-cherished conversations yet to come.
Nervously, I followed the attendant down the hall into the mud room. She instructed me to place my hands on the sides of the tub, balance over the mud and then settle in. It felt warm against my buttocks and back. Soon, the girls were packing us in as if we were going to be shipped across the country.
And as long as my sister went with me, I was willing to go anywhere.
Next, we sat in hot tubs, scrubbing our finger and toe nails, sipping water. I knew my sister was getting hungry when she started eating the cucumbers floating in the drinking water. This was followed by the steam spa in which my sister kept sticking her head out the hole for fresh air.
Once we'd had enough heat, I was led down a long hallway into a small room, much like an examination room at the doctor's. Here, I spent fifteen minutes of total relaxation with cucumbers on my eyelids. Soothing music drifted into the air. My thoughts flowed randomly. I nearly fell asleep.
The treatment ended with a full-body massage. I can only say that a person has to experience this for herself. I know I can't wait for another one.
After two and a half hours of pampering, we strolled out (even stroll is too