Chicken soup stories.

Puppies For Sale

A store owner was tacking a sign above his door that read ?oPuppies For Sale.? Signs like that have a way of attracting small children, and sure enough, a little boy appeared under the store owner?Ts sign. ?oHow much are you going to sell the puppies for?? he asked.
The store owner replied, ?oAnywhere from $30 to $50.?
The little boy reached in his pocket and pulled out some change. ?oI have $2.37,? he said. ?oCan I please look at them??
The store owner smiled and whistled and out of the kennel came Lady, who ran down the aisle of his store followed by five teeny tiny balls of fur. One puppy was lagging considerable behind. Immediately the little boy singled out the lagging limping puppy and said, ?oWhat?Ts wrong with that little dog??
The store owner explained that the veterinarian had examined the little puppy and had discovered it didn?Tt have a hip socket. It would always limp. It would always be lame. The little boy became excited. ?oThat?Ts the little puppy that I want to buy.?
The store owner said, ?oNo, you don?Tt want to buy that little dog. If you really want him, I?Tll just give him to you.?
The little boy got quite upset. He looked straight into the store owner?Ts eyes, pointing his finger and said, ?oI don?Tt want you to give him to me. That little dog is worth every bit as much as all the other dogs and I?Tll pay full price. In fact I?Tll give you $2.37 now, and 50 cents a month until I have him paid for.
The store owner countered, ?oYou really don?Tt want to buy this little dog. He is never going to be able to jump and play with you like the other puppies.?
To this, the little boy reached down and rolled up his pant leg to reveal a badly twisted, crippled left leg supported by a big metal brace. He looked up at the store owner and softly replied, ?oWell, I don?Tt run so well myself, and the little puppy will need someone who understands!?

By Dan Clark from Chicken Soup for the Soul




Được sửa chữa bởi - dirosemimi vào 18/04/2002 14:41

Well, When I started to read the story, I thought this will be a funny story, but no, it's not. It's so said, isn't it! However, I like this story. It brings us to the world of the little boy where people have to live lonely with their disabled bodies for the rest of their life. The boy can't walk, run, and jump normally as other kids around him. In his world, I wonder if there is some one who really understand, share, and consider to what the litttle boy feel in his mind. That's why the little boy want to buy that little pitiful lame puppy. He really want a friend, who can understand him. However, if one day I can see that little boy in the story, I'll tell him that our SG English Club has a menber who has a nice heart, and understand him. That's Andrevu!
Thanks for posting this story. I enjoyed reading it!
QUAN BANH
Được sửa chữa bởi - quanbanh97202 vào 17/04/2002 09:25

Yeah, this is actually a very touching story , it wakes up our soul and make us listen to the sound of our mind . But , I think the boy in this story can drop by SG English Speaking CLub and meet two nice boys, Andrevu and Quanbanh97202.

Dirosemimi

What a compliment !
You two r gonna have 5* from me.

The Giving Trees
I was a single parent of four small children, working at a minimum-wage job. Money was always tight, but we had a roof over our heads, food on the table, clothes on our backs, and if not a lot, always enough. My kids told me that in those days they didn't know we were poor. They just thought Mom was cheap. I've always been glad about that.
It was Christmas time, and although there wasn't' money for a lot of gifts, we planned to celebrate with church and family, parties and friends, drives downtown to see the Christmas lights, special dinners, and by decorating our home.
But the big excitement for the kids was the fun of Christmas shopping at the mall. They talked and planned for weeks ahead of time, asking each other and their grandparents what they wanted for Christmas. I dreaded it. I had saved $120 for presents to be shared by all five of us.
The big day arrived and we started out early. I gave each of the four kids a twenty dollar bill and reminded them to look for gifts about four dollars each. Then everyone scattered. We had two hours to shop; then we would meet back at the "Santa's workshop" display.
Back in the car driving home, everyone was in high Christmas spirits, laughing and teasing each other with hints and clues about what they had bought. My younger daughter, Ginger, who was about eight years old, was unusually quiet. I noted she had only one small, flat bag with her after her shopping spree. I could see enough through the plastic bag to tell that she had bought candy bars - fifty-cent candy bars! I was so angry. What did you do with that twenty dollar bill I gave you? I wanted to yell at her, but I didn't say anything until we got home. I called her into my bedroom and closed the door, ready to be angry again when I asked her what she had done with the money. This is what she told me:
"I was looking around, thinking of what to buy, and I stopped to read the little cards on one of the Salvation Army's 'Giving Trees.' One of the cards was for a little girl, four years old, and all she wanted for Christmas was a doll with clothes and a hairbrush. So I took the card off the tree and bought the doll and hairbrush for her and took it to the Salvation Army booth.
"I only had enough money left to buy candy bars for us," Ginger continued. "But we have so much and she doesn't have anything."
I never felt so rich as I did that day.
By Kathleen Dixon,
A 5th Portion of Chicken Soup for the Soul
( POSTED BY ANDREVU)

Dirosemimi

Được sửa chữa bởi - dirosemimi vào 18/04/2002 14:44

The Perfect Gift
My father was impossible to buy gifts for. It's not that he was unappreciative when you gave him one, its just that he had gotten to the age where if there was anything he needed, he either already had it, or he would simply go out and get it. So, after an endless parade of ties, I set out to find a special gift that would really touch him.

Golf and hockey were my dad's passions and where his days on blades were fading into a distant memory, his love of golf continued to grow. In many ways dad was your typical senior golfer. His power fade had steadily developed into a livable, albeit a distance robbing slice. But, don't ever let his swing (my brothers and I called it the "stepping in the bucket swing" due to an errant left foot during his follow through) fool you. My dad was a highly successful CPA and he could read the slippery greens at the Ridgewood Country Club in Danbury, Connecticut like he was reading a balance sheet. This, and a steely eyed determination won him more matches that he lost.

I had been working the golf club equipment industry for a few years and decided that I would surprise my dad with a new set of golf clubs when he and mom visited my wife Donna and I in Orlando, during their winter vacation.

You see, one of the larger golf club shaft manufacturers had just introduced a new steel shaft made especially for senior golfers that featured more "kick" through impact resulting in more distance. The only problem was that I had to make sure that I never told my father that the set featured "senior" golf shafts for fear that I might offend some delicate sensibilities. So I wrapped the shafts with a shaft band that simply said "Dynamics" (a term used in the industry to describe a method of measurement of consistency from one shaft to another).

My father was delighted to receive his new set and we planned to play that very day.

Dad made me explain every nuance of the set; the offset, the weight distribution, even the design concept. When it came to the steel shafts I simply and confidently proclaimed them as "Dynamics" as if that alone would explain their story. He did not challenge me.

My father's day on the links was fantastic but not because he was knocking down pins. You see, with these new shafts, he was hitting the ball longer than he had in years and loving every minute of it. I remember one shot where he was about 115 to 120 yards from an elevated green. My dad chose an eight iron as he had a million times before and promptly fired the shot directly at the pin, only long by twenty yards. This continued all day and it was probably one of the most exciting and enjoyable rounds we ever played, as each shot was a new discovery of foregone power.

That afternoon my mother and father flew back to their New England home. Exactly eleven days later my father passed away from a massive heart attack. In spite of the grief, my heavy heart was lighter thinking about that magic day we shared on the golf course when I finally found the perfect gift. A gift that made my father's final round a joy, but a gift that cannot come close to the gift of the love of golf that he gave to me.

Dirosemimi

The Antique
My six-year-old granddaughter stares at me as if she is seeing me for the first time. "Grandma, you are an antique," she says. "You are old. Antiques are old. You are my antique."

I am not satisfied to let the matter rest there. I take out the Webster Dictionary and read the definition to Jenny. I explain, "An antique is not only just old, it's an object existing since or belonging to earlier times...a work of art...a piece of furniture. Antiques are treasured," I tell Jenny as I put away the dictionary. "They have to be handled carefully because they sometimes are very valuable."

According to various custom laws, in order to be qualified as an antique, the object has to be at least one hundred-years old.

"I'm only sixty-seven," I remind Jenny.

We look around the house for other antiques, besides me. There is a bureau that was handed down from one aunt to another and finally to our family. "It's very old," I tell Jenny. "I try to keep it polished and I show it off whenever I can. You do that with antiques." When Jenny gets older and understands such things, I might also tell her that whenever I look at the bureau or touch it, I am reminded of the aunt so dear to me who gave me the bureau as a gift. I see her face again though she is no longer with us. I even hear her voice, and recall her smile. I remember myself as a little girl leaning against this antique, listening to one of her stories. The bureau does that for me.

There is a picture on the wall purchased at a garage sale. It is dated 1867. "Now that's an antique," I boast. "Over one hundred years old." Of course it is marked up and scratched and not in very good con***ion. "Sometimes age does that," I tell Jenny. "But the marks are good marks. They show living, being around. That's something to display with pride. In fact, sometimes, the more an object shows age, the more valuable it can become." It is important that I believe this for my own self-esteem.

Our tour of antiques continues. There is a vase on the floor. It has been in my household for a long time. I'm not certain where it came from but I didn't buy it new. And then there is the four poster bed, sent to me forty years ago from an uncle who slept in it for fifty years.

The one thing about antiques, I explain to Jenny, is that they usually have a story. They've been in one home and then another, handed down one from family to another, traveling all over the place. They've lasted through years and years. They could have been tossed away, or ignored, or destroyed, or lost. But instead, they survived.

For a moment Jenny looks thoughtful. "I don't have any antiques but you," she says. Then her face brightens. "Could I take you to school for show and tell?"

"Only if I fit into your backpack," I answer.

And then her antique lifted her up and embraced her in a hug that would last through the years.

Dirosemimi

One Finger
By Linda Osmundson
"Mom, you should put some of your things away. Baby proof this house," stated our oldest son Mark as he lumbered up the stairs followed by his wife, Kim, and fifteen-month-old Hannah.

Visiting for the Thanksgiving holiday, he finished unloading the luggage and took it to the guestroom downstairs. After driving all day from Salt Lake to Ft. Collins, his temper showed.

"That one finger rule may work with the twins, but it'll never work with Hannah," he insisted.

When my three granddaughters were born four months apart and the twins moved into our house at eight months, my close friend offered me her secret to entertaining grandchildren with few mishaps.

"Teach them the 'one finger rule.'" All of her five grandchildren learned it at a young age. The success of the method surprised me.

I picked up my granddaughter and said, "Well, Mark, you just watch." I hugged her and walked all around the great room.

"Hannah, you may touch anything in this room you want. But, you can only use one finger."

I demonstrated the technique by touching my forefinger to the African sculpture on the mantle. Hannah followed my example.

"Good girl. Now what else would you like to touch?"
She stretched her finger toward another object on the mantle. I allowed her to touch everything in sight, plants, glass objects, TV, VCR, lamps, speakers, candles and artificial flowers. If she started to grab, I gently reminded her to use one finger. She always obeyed.

But, Hannah, an only child, possessed a more adventurous personality. Her father predicted it would prevent her from accepting the "one finger" rule.

During their four-day stay, we aided Hannah in remembering "one finger" rule. She learned quickly. I only put away the things that might prove to be a danger to a child. Otherwise, we watched her closely and nothing appeared *****ffer any damage. Besides, "things" can be replaced.

A few fingerprints on glass doors, windows and tables remained after Hannah and her family returned home. I couldn't bring myself to clean them for days. Each one reminded me of some wonderful experience with Hannah.

Months later, my husband and I drove to Salt Lake; I watched Mark and Kim continue to practice the one finger rule. But I refrained from saying, "I told you so." Yet, I smiled inwardly each time they prodded Hannah to touch with "one finger."

Mark, a salesman, always gave a packet of gifts to his potential clients. The night before we returned home, Mark sat on the floor stuffing gifts into their packets.

Hannah helped.

Then she picked up one gift, held it in her hand as if it were a fragile bird, and walked toward me. At my knee, her beautiful blue eyes looked into mine. She stretched her prize to me and said, "One finger, Nana!"

Dirosemimi