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Landi
Member
07-29-2002
| Thursday, February 05, 2004 - 10:22 am
dearest tvch friends, I get these stories, sometimes from Chicken Soup. They just make you feel warm and fuzzy inside. I thought I'd share with you, my friends. Also, if you have a story you'd like to share, i'm sure we'd all like to hear it! - landi A Valentine for Laura By Don Caskey Ann, a friend of mine, disliked Valentine's Day as a girl. She was plain – not ugly, but not beautiful. Valentine's Day is not kind to plain girls. It wasn't so bad in elementary school, when the obligatory thirty valentines arrived: one from each classmate. She overlooked the fact that her cards were not oversized like those of the popular girls, and did not contain the love notes like those of the pretty girls. But later, in middle school, the valentine exchange was no longer mandatory. Just when the yearning for romance budded, when the desire for admiration and flirtation became imperative, and a valentine was needed most, no card arrived. Not for Ann. Not for plain girls anywhere. Only for the pretty and the popular. At such a time, stories of ugly ducklings that will one day turn into beautiful swans do not assuage the hurt and rejection. As fate would have it (and often does), in subsequent years Ann did become pretty and turned many a boy's head. As she received more attention and flirtations, she came to feel – and therefore to be – very beautiful. But even years later, grown and with a family of her own, she did not forget those long-ago days of rejection and dejection. Today, Ann's family includes two boys in middle school. For a dollar, their Student Council will deliver a Valentine's Day carnation. Ann gives a dollar to each of her boys to buy flowers for their girlfriends. Then she adds another dollar apiece with the instruction: "Pick another girl, one who is nice but plain – someone who probably won't get a flower. Send her a flower anonymously. That way she will know that someone cares, and she will feel special." Ann has done this for several years, spreading Valentine's Day a little beyond her own world. One year, Laura, who was plain to behold but beautiful to know, received one of these gifts. Ann's son reported that Laura was so happy and surprised, she cried. All day long, she carried the flower on her books and chattered with the other girls about who her admirer could be. As Ann heard the account, she too had to dry her eyes - for she remembered.
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Djgirl
Member
07-17-2002
| Thursday, February 05, 2004 - 10:33 am
Gee thanks Landi!!! I'm not allowed to buy those books because the tears just flow everytime I read any of the stories!!! That's a beautiful story though, andI loved it... even if the tears are falling as I write this. *sniff *sniff
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Bandit
Member
07-29-2001
| Thursday, February 05, 2004 - 11:45 am
How sweet! Thanks, Landi!
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Faerygdds
Member
08-29-2000
| Thursday, February 05, 2004 - 1:42 pm
Note to self -- Stay the heck OUT of this thread during working hours. Receptionists with big tears and red noses are NOT what the company wants! Really beautiful story though!
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Landi
Member
07-29-2002
| Friday, February 06, 2004 - 10:16 am
Petals of Thanks By Kristin Spengler Zerbe One of the most difficult realities about the teaching profession is that we seldom know if we have made a difference. When I become frustrated with my job, my students or myself, I often think back to one particular day of my teaching career. My first year of teaching was almost over. I taught junior English at Milford High School on a one-year temporary contract, and I worried that I would not be able to find a job the following year. However, I had a bright and conscientious group of students that year, and I was grateful for that. I made it clear to them that they were special to me and that I would never forget them, my very first students. However, as the end of the school year drew to a close, my students continually asked if the regular teacher would be returning. I answered professionally that, of course, she would be back next year as planned. I tried to respond with little emotion, regardless of their reaction. Deep down, though, I was more bothered by leaving than I admitted. Inevitably, the day came to give my last final exam. The exam was to begin at the start of school and last the whole morning. I passed the office before the bell rang and saw a couple of the students from my class, and I thought how difficult saying good-bye would be. Theirs was a group with whom I could joke, have fun, share ideas and be serious, all within one class period. Teaching them was a pleasure, and we all had learned a lot that year. But, as successful students do, they were moving on to twelfth grade, and I doubted they would remember much about me after a few more years of their academic careers and busy lives. Just about this time I was on hall duty outside my classroom, and I noticed the crowds thinning out and classroom doors shutting. I looked in my room to find only two students in attendance. When I commented that it was awfully strange that their classmates were so late, they agreed and then quickly asked to get a drink from the water fountain. Naturally, I allowed them to go since I needed to wait for the majority of my class to arrive. I looked at my watch and was upset when I noticed the time. A teacher across the hall asked, "Aren't your students there yet?" When I relayed the situation, he shrugged his shoulders and went back into his own classroom. The hallway was awfully quiet, and I was eager to give that final exam. I walked down the hall several times - to no avail - to see if anyone was coming. My stomach was turning when I thought about what could have happened. Was there an assembly I had forgotten about? Were they watching a fight somewhere that none of the teachers could hear? Did I have the right exam time? Before I could run back in my classroom to check my schedule, I heard footsteps coming down the hall. I was annoyed that after such a great year with these kids, I would - on their last day with me - have to give them a lecture about responsibility. I sighed and then observed how peaceful the steps were coming toward me. There was no commonly heard loud conversation or resounding laughter. As they rounded the corner and came into sight, the kids were in single file, "shushing" each other with their hands behind their backs. They looked at me with purpose, and then, as they turned to enter my classroom, the first student handed me a single rose. And then the next student did the same. And then the next, and the next, until each student walked into my classroom for the last time. Attached to each long-stemmed rose was a personal message and the signature of that student. Messages said things like: "Thank you for teaching me so much this year," "I'll miss you," and "You're the greatest." The roses were all different colors: red, yellow, pink, and white hues. I was having trouble holding so many individual flowers, but the last student silently offered me a large basket and a card signed, "With love from your fifth-period class," and then she went into the room. I stood alone outside my classroom and tried to wipe the tears from my face. I had to express to them how touched I was by this wonderful gesture, but I did not want to cry in front of my students. It took me several minutes to compose myself. Nevertheless, I took a deep breath, walked in my room and put the basket of roses on my desk without looking at any of them. I knew they were waiting for my reaction, but I also knew that if I had tried to say anything, I would not be able to hide my emotions. At last, out of the silence came a meek voice, "Are you mad at us, Miss Spengler?" With that, I looked up at my class and surrendered to the tears streaming down my flushed cheeks. My students bounded from their desks and surrounded me with huge and praise as I tried to voice my thanks through sobs. When I catch myself thinking that teaching is a thankless profession, I recall those students and their roses. Though they gave their gratitude in silence, that "thank you" was the loudest and best I have ever received.
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Spitfire
Member
07-18-2002
| Wednesday, February 18, 2004 - 11:31 am
I have a story that made me smile today. I'll give a little background first....A local volunteer fire fighter recently died after a battle with Cancer. He was a volunteer for 40 years and was never married and had no children. His family presented Toronto Sick Kids Hospital Burn Unit with a cheque for $438,640.87 which were the proceeds of his two life insurance polices. A endowment fund will be set up so it will continue to grow. They estimate that it should grow to $1 million in 15 years. Along with that large donation he also left sizable donations to six other local charities. I met this man along with all the volunteer's when they came out to help us "control burn" our house. They were all wonderful men and this only makes me proud to have met him.
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Pamy
Member
01-02-2002
| Sunday, March 14, 2004 - 3:13 pm
A woman decides to have a facelift for her birthday. She spends $5000 and feels pretty good about the results. On her way home, she stops at a news stand to buy a newspaper. Before leaving she says to the clerk, "I hope you don't mind my asking, but how old do you think I am?" "About 32," is the reply. "Nope! I'm exactly 47, " the woman says happily. A little while later she goes into McDonald's and asks the counter girl the very same question. The girl replies, "I guess about 29." The woman replies, "Nope, I'm 47." Now she's feeling really good about herself. She stops in a drug store on her way down the street. She goes up to the counter to get some mints and asks the clerk this burning question. The clerk responds, "Oh, I'd say 30." Again she proudly responds, "I am 47, but thank you." While waiting for the bus to go home, she asks an old man waiting next to her the same question. He replies, "Lady, I'm 78 and my eye sight is going. Although, when I was young, there was a sure way to tell how old a woman was. It sounds very forward, but it requires you to let me put my hands under your bra. Then I can tell you EXACTLY how old you are." They wait in silence on the empty street until curiosity gets the best of her. She finally blurts out, "What the heck, go ahead." He slips both of his hands under her blouse and under her bra and begins to feel around very slowly and carefully. He bounces and weights each breast.. He gently pinches each nipple. He pushes her breasts together and rubs them against each other. After a couple of minutes of this, she says,"Okay, okay,...how old am I?" He completes one last squeeze of her breasts, removes his hands, and says, "Madam, you are 47." Stunned and amazed, the woman says, "That was incredible, how could you tell?" The old man replies, "Promise you won't get mad?" "I promise I won't." she says. He replies, "I was behind you in line at McDonald's."
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Purplecow
Member
12-08-2003
| Monday, March 22, 2004 - 10:12 am
Two Traveling Angels Two traveling angels stopped to spend the night in the home of a wealthy family. The family was rude and refused to let the angels stay in the mansion's guest room. Instead the angels were given a space in the cold basement. As they made their bed on the hard floor, the older angel saw a hole in the wall and repaired it. When the younger angel asked why, the older angel replied..."Things aren't always what they seem". The next night the pair came to rest at the house of a very poor, but very hospitable farmer and his wife. After sharing what little food they had, the couple let the angels sleep in their bed where they could have a good night's rest. When the sun came up the next morning the angels found the farmer and his wife in tears. Their only cow, whose milk had been their sole income, lay dead in the field. The younger angel was infuriated and asked the older angel, "How could you have let this happen!? The first man had everything, yet you helped him," she accused. "The second family had little but was willing to share everything, and you let their cow die." "Things aren't always what they seem," the older angel replied. "When we stayed in the basement of the mansion, I noticed there was gold stored in that hole in the wall. Since the owner was so obsessed with greed and was unwilling to share his good fortune, I sealed the wall so he wouldn't find it. Then last night as we slept in the farmer's bed, the angel of death came for his wife. I gave her the cow instead. Things aren't always what they seem."
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