When I was a kid in Minnesota, watermelon was a
delicacy. One of my father's buddies, Bernie, was a
prosperous fruit-and-vegetable wholesaler, who operated a
warehouse in St. Paul.
Every summer, when the first watermelons rolled in,
Bernie would call. Dad and I would go to Bernie's warehouse
and take up our positions. We'd sit on the edge of the dock,
feet dangling, and lean over, minimizing the volume of juice
we were about to spill on ourselves.
Bernie would take his machete, crack our first
watermelon, hand us both a big piece and sit down next to
us. Then we'd bury our faces in watermelon, eating only
the heart - the reddest, juiciest, firmest, most seed-free,
most perfect part - and throw away the rest.
Bernie was my father's idea of a rich man. I always
thought it was because he was such a successful businessman.
Years later, I realized that what my father admired about
Bernie's wealth was less its substance than its application.
Bernie knew how to stop working, get together with friends
and eat only the heart of the watermelon.
What I learned from Bernie is that being rich is a
state of mind. Some of us, no matter how much money we have,
will never be free enough to eat only the heart of the
watermelon. Others are rich without ever being more than
a paycheck ahead.
If you don't take the time to dangle your feet over
the dock and chomp into life's small pleasures, your career
is probably overwhelming your life. For many years, I
forgot that lesson I'd learned as a kid on the loading
dock. I was too busy making all the money I could.
Well, I've relearned it. I hope I have time left to
enjoy the accomplishments of others and to take pleasure
in the day. That's the heart of the watermelon. I have
learned again to throw the rest away.
Finally, I am rich.
By Harvey Mackay
from A 4th Course of Chicken Soup for the Soul
Copyright 1997 by Jack Canfield, Mark Victor Hansen,
Hanoch McCarty & Meladee McCarty
The Station
Tucked away in our subconscious is an idyllic vision.
We are traveling by train - out the windows, we drink in
the passing scenes of children waving at a crossing, cattle
grazing on a distant hillside, row upon row of corn and
wheat, flatlands and valleys, mountains and rolling hillsides
and city skylines.
But uppermost in our minds is the final destination.
On a certain day, we will pull into the station. Bands
will be playing and flags waving. Once we get there, our
dreams will come true and the pieces of our lives will
fit together like a completed jigsaw puzzle. Restlessly
we pace the aisles, damning the minutes - waiting, waiting,
waiting for the station.
"When we reach the station, that will be it!" we cry.
"When I'm 18." "When I buy a new 450sl Mercedes Benz!"
"When I put the last kid through college!" "When I have
paid off the mortgage!" " When I get a promotion!" "When
I reach retirement, I shall live happily ever after!"
Sooner or later, we realize there is no station, no
one place to arrive. The true joy of life is the trip.
The station is only a dream. It constantly outdistances
us.
"Relish the moment" is a good motto, especially when
coupled with Psalm 118:24: "This is the day which the Lord
hath made; we will rejoice and be glad in it." It isn't the
burdens of today that drive men mad. It is the regrets over
yesterday and the fear of tomorrow. Regret and fear are
twin thieves who rob us of today. So stop pacing the
aisles and counting the miles. Instead, climb more mountains,
eat more ice cream, go barefoot more often, swim more rivers,
watch more sunsets, laugh more, cry less. Life must be lived
as we go along. The station will come soon enough.
By Robert J. Hastings
from Condensed Chicken Soup for the Soul
Copyright 1996 by Jack Canfield, Mark Victor
Hansen & Patty Hansen
Barney
A four-year-old girl was at the pediatrician's office for a
check-up. As the doctorlooked into her ears with an otoscope, he
asked, "Do you think I'll find Big Bird in here?"
The little girl stayed silent.
Next the doctor took a tongue depressor and looked down her
throat. He asked, "Do you think I'll find the Cookie Monster
down there?" Again the little girl was silent.
Then the doctor put a stethoscope to her chest. As he listened
to her heart beat, he asked, "Do you think I'll hear Barney in here?"
"Oh, no!" the little girl replied. "Jesus is in my heart.
Barney's on my underpants."
By Author Unknown
Submitted by Marilyn Thompsen
from A 3rd Serving of Chicken Soup for the Soul
Copyright 1996 by Jack Canfield and Mark Victor Hansen
The Ultimate Sacrifice
Linda Birtish literally gave herself away. Linda was
an outstanding teacher who felt that if she had the time,
she would like to create great art and poetry. When she was
28, however, she began to get severe headaches. Her doctors
discovered that she had an enormous brain tumor. They told
her that her chances of surviving an operation were about 2
percent. Therefore, rather than operate immediately,
they chose to wait for six months.
She knew she had great artistry in her. So during those
six months she wrote and drew feverishly. All of her poetry,
except one piece, was published in magazines. All of her art,
except one piece, was shown and sold at some of the leading
galleries.
At the end of six months, she had the operation. The
night before the operation, she decided to literally give
herself away. In case of her death, she wrote a "will," in
which she donated all of her body parts to those who needed
them more than she would.
Unfortunately, Linda's operation was fatal. Subsequently,
her eyes went to an eye bank in Bethesda, Maryland, and from
there to a recipient in South Carolina. A young man, age 28,
went from darkness to sight. That young man was so profoundly
grateful that he wrote to the eye bank thanking them for
existing. It was only the second "thank you" that the eye
bank had received after giving out in excess of 30,000 eyes!
Furthermore, he said he wanted to thank the parents of
the donor. They must indeed be magnificent folks to have a
child who would give away her eyes. He was given the name of
the Birtish family and he decided to fly to see them on Staten
Island. He arrived unannounced and rang the doorbell. After
hearing his introduction, Mrs. Birtish reached out and embraced
him. She said, "Young man, if you've got nowhere to go, my
husband and I would love for you to spend your weekend with us."
He stayed, and as he was looking around Linda's room,
he saw that she'd read Plato. He'd read Plato in Braille. She'd
read Hegel. He'd read Hegel in Braille. The next morning Mrs.
Birtish was looking at him and said, "you know, I'm sure I've
seen you somewhere before, but I don't know where." All of a
sudden she remembered. She ran upstairs and pulled out the
last picture Linda had ever drawn. It was a portrait of her
ideal man. The picture was virtually identical to this young
man who had received Linda's eyes. Then her mother read the
last poem Linda had written on her deathbed. It read:
Two hearts passing in the night falling in love
never able to gain each other's sight.
By Jack Canfield and Mark Victor Hansen
from Condensed Chicken Soup for the Soul
Copyright 1996 by Jack Canfield, Mark Victor
Hansen & Patty Hansen
All I Ever Really Needed To Know I Learned In Kindergarten
Most of what I really need to know about how to live and what
to do and how to be, I learned in kindergarten. Wisdom was not at
the top of the graduate mountain, but there in the sandbox at
nursery school.
These are the things I learned: Share everything. Play fair.
Don't hit people. Put things back where you found them. Clean up
your own mess. Don't take things that aren't yours. Say you're
sorry when you hurt somebody. Wash your hands before you eat.
Flush. Warm cookies and cold milk are good for you. Live a balanced
life. Learn some and think some and draw and paint and sing and
dance and play and work every day some.
Take a nap every afternoon. When you go out into the world,
watch for traffic, hold hands and stick together. Be aware of
wonder. Remember the little seed in the plastic cup. The roots
go down and the plant goes up and nobody really knows how or why,
but we are all like that.
Goldfish and hamsters and white mice and even the little seed
in the plastic cup - they all die. So do we.
And then remember the book about Dick and Jane and the first
word you learned, the biggest word of all: Look. Everything you
need to know is in there somewhere. The Golden Rule and love and
basic sanitation. Ecology and politics and sane living.
Think of what a better world it would be if we all - the whole
world - had cookies and milk about 3 o'clock every afternoon and
then lay down with our blankets for a nap. Or if we had a basic
policy in our nations to always put things back where found them
and cleaned up our own messes. And it is still true, no matter
how old you are, when you go out into the world, it is better
to hold hands and stick together.
By Robert Fulghum
from Chicken Soup for the Soul
Copyright 1993 by Jack Canfield and Mark Victor Hansen
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