Don't Stop... Keep on Going!

By Peggy Purser Freeman
The first time I met Monte, he was complaining about everybody celebrating his 99th birthday. It was hurting his chances for a date.

"No woman wants to go out with a 100-year-old man," he said with that infectious laugh. I often heard his laughter over the next few years in the church lobby where he ushered three services each Sunday morning. Celebrating his birthday didn't do too much damage to Monte's social life because I saw him out with two different ladies that next week. I learned that Monte loved people and enjoyed getting to know them.

I decided to interview Monte for the magazine where I am editor. Some of my interest in Monte stemmed from a nagging thought that I might be getting old. I had recently found myself in a room thinking, "What did I come in here for?" And my day involved looking for... glasses, keys, book, letter, address... well, you know. The interview with Monte was the first of three, the beginning of a friendship I will always value and a change in how I handle aging.

Monte was a chemist and advanced the efforts in World War II by keeping his Fort Worth plant open and running at high production during those years. He delivered meals on wheels up until he turned 100. One day as Monte drove away from church he had a small accident, dropping his car into a ditch. The policeman revoked Monte's driver's license, explaining that at his age he needed to retest. Not being able to drive can be a blow of discouragement for most of us. Driving seems to be a symbol of independence, especially for Monte who loved to go and do. However he didn't sit inside and feel sorry for himself. He didn't argue and drive anyway — breaking the law. He asked someone to drive him to take the test. His neighbor volunteered, thinking it to be a waste of time. Monte passed the written test with a score of 100 and the driving test with flying colors. He received his new driver's license and continued helping the "old" people.

I asked him for his secret to long life. He recommended lots of water, no over-eating, and learning new things.

"The main thing," Monte said, "is I don't stop. If I wake up with a pain, I just put one foot in front of the other and I get going. I keep on doing."

Most of that doing was volunteering in the community, in the church, in the neighborhood. Monte was interested in others and stayed busy.

On my last visit to his house, he was raking the yard and answered my question regarding his health.

"Well, I'm feeling quite well," he said. "Except this one knee is giving me a little pain. I'm not sure what's wrong with it."

"Monte," I said. "It could be that the knee is 100 years old."

"Well, yes," he laughed. "And it's about to be 101.

This is when I evaluated Monte's zest for life and willingness to serve others. As an author and editor, I find myself sitting far too much. After Monte passed away, another friend came my way, one I could serve the way Monte had served others. My knees have been hurting a great deal lately but "I just put one foot in front of the other and I get going. I keep on doing..." and I keep on learning. If I hear of a new technology, I try to learn as much as possible about how to use it.

Helping others... old people with knees that hurt... keeps me young. I try to swim every day possible. I have learned to play an instrument, and with a group of friends, visit nursing homes every week. Helping others has helped me.

I believe in finding a quality that I admire in the people I love and applying that quality to my own life. Then part of that person lives on through me. I believe Monte's motto — keep going and keep learning — has kept me from sitting myself into bad health and slow thinking.

Now if I can only find my keys, I'll be on my way to go help others.

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Kittens in Transit

By Denise Reich

It is impossible to keep a straight face in the presence of one or more kittens.
~Cynthia E. Varnado

I was not even remotely pleased with the way the afternoon was going. My two kittens, Rumi and Bogie, just needed a simple veterinary follow-up, but it was probably going to take hours. Things always seemed to be complicated with them. I'd recently adopted the two black-and-white tuxedo brothers from a local cat rescue, and they were still receiving medical care from the organization. I was grateful for that, but the veterinary practice that the rescue used was on the other side of Manhattan, and it was going to require several bus and train changes to get there.

I was tired, run-down and sick of winter, and the very last thing I wanted to do was go on a long subway ride, particularly at rush hour. However, there was no way around it. I sighed as I loaded Rumi and Bogie into the carrier, tucked a warm blanket around them and gave them a toy to share. They were only four months old, and they were so tiny that they could easily share the space. I bundled up and trudged into the cold January afternoon, kittens in tow.

School had just gotten out, and the bus was packed with kids. The ones sitting closest to me were being loud and somewhat disrespectful. I rubbed my head and winced as their laughter and shrieks burrowed right into my brain; the beginnings of migraine were hovering just behind my eyes. Neither Rumi nor Bogie seemed to mind; they simply peered out of their carrier with their large amber eyes and took it all in.

One of the girls looked in my direction and noticed the kittens. Her friends followed suit, and suddenly, their rudeness dissolved into a chorus of "Oh, cute!" "Look at the cats!" "There are two of them!" "Awwww!" "How old are they?"

They crouched down to get a better look at the kittens. Rumi and Bogie had somehow disarmed their teenage bravado and replaced it with the wonder of children. I was stunned as I fielded question after question from the eager girls.

On the first subway train, I stood close to the conductor's booth and held Rumi and Bogie's case protectively against the wall. The noise and motion frightened them, and they began to yowl. When we changed trains at Lexington Avenue, the kittens kept up their loud, indignant serenade all the way through the corridor, down the escalator, and along the platform. I wearily leaned against the station wall and held their carrier in front of me.

As we waited for the number 6 train, Rumi and Bogie settled down. They converged at the front of the case again and stared solemnly out at the platform. And for a reason I couldn't explain, once again, people noticed them. I started to become aware that several of the haggard commuters around me were turning their heads and smiling. A man in a business suit approached, leaned down and beamed at the kittens. A woman came up and talked directly to them. Another man eagerly told me about his own cats. Two teenagers stopped to look at Rumi and Bogie and comment on them.

What on earth was happening? I was in a subway station in New York City. There's one protocol there: you mind your own business. It was incredibly hard to faze or impress an NYC commuter. Street performers did back flips — literally — and danced down the aisles in the subway cars, and some people didn't even look up from their newspapers. You could board the train with a tree, a harp, a set of skis or a puppet that held a conversation with you, and nobody would blink. You could be dressed in a clown, chicken or zombie costume and you'd be met with indifference. The golden rule for mass transit never changed: you minded your business, you didn't make eye contact with anyone, and you certainly didn't chat anyone up. As cold as the custom sounded, it was necessary for survival in a crowded, busy metropolis. I followed it myself.

Rumi and Bogie didn't know subway etiquette, and apparently, they had uncanny ability to make others forget it, too. They were simply two small black-and-white kittens with amber eyes, and all they were doing was sitting in their carrier and looking out at the world. But they were somehow compelling my fellow passengers to temporarily venture outside their protective bubbles for a second or two. In the course of five minutes, I probably conversed with more strangers in transit than I had in the past five years.

The moment we stepped onto the 6 Train, Rumi and Bogie's hold on their audience seemed to break. We were swept back into the anonymous underground stream of commuters, where we were close to hundreds of others and interacted with none. As I rested the kittens' carrier on my lap, I couldn't help noticing that my migraine had dissipated. I wasn't feeling quite as tired anymore, either. The positive energy that had been directed toward the kittens seemed to have benefited me.

The trip to the vet's office took a solid hour, two trains and a bus. In the course of that journey, Rumi and Bogie managed to bring a moment of joy to a gloomy subterranean world. For that alone, the journey was worth it.

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A Miracle

By Margie Pasero

Pleasure is very seldom found where it is sought. Our brightest blazes are commonly kindled by unexpected sparks.
~Samuel Johnson

A miracle has occurred in my life. One of many that have occurred in my sixty years. Some I am aware of and others wove their way into my existence so quietly that I hardly noticed, until looking back years later. This one started eleven years ago and as I look back I realize our ability to hear the intuitive whispers and step out into the unknown was a major factor.

My husband and I were semi-retiring. He owned a pest control business and I taught African drumming. Our children were grown with lives of their own. We were living in a tiny home in Seattle, our family's home for the past twenty-five years. We had remodeled our house while raising our kids and had decided that it would be a perfect size for two semi-retired adults. The house was minutes from all the amenities: malls, theater, Mariners baseball, and restaurants.

On past vacations to wilderness and rural areas of the United States, I had often wondered what it would be like to live in a remote area, so different from our own lifestyle. I didn't think I could live so far removed from civilization, but felt it must be very peaceful.

In 1999 my father-in-law passed away, leaving us his rambler in Wilkeson, an hour away from us. Wilkeson is an old coal mining and logging town with a population of 450. To me, Wilkeson was an adorable piece of history, but I couldn't imagine who would want to live in such a small country town.

My husband and I spent every weekend clearing out his dad's home and found it to be a treasure trove of family history and antiques. We spent many enjoyable weekends working and cleaning. The house was on a half-acre of land that bordered a twelve-acre lot. Locals told us, "You will fall in love with Wilkeson and move here someday." I was horrified at the thought of moving from my beloved suburban home with all the necessities for an industrious, productive, creative life.

Months passed. Each Sunday night when we returned to our Seattle house I felt boxed in and stressed as we re-entered the world of freeway traffic and congestion. We longed for the next weekend so we could head back to the hills, forests, and friendly, gentle people of Wilkeson. Finally we decided to keep the Wilkeson rambler for a weekend retreat.

At this point, events started to move quickly. I felt swept up in a current I could not control. I felt unsure about our decision, mainly because the house would be an added expense and it didn't feel like my home. Looking out the window of Dad's house one day, I asked God to let me know if we were making the right choice — within three minutes a rainbow appeared across the pasture beyond our window!

We learned that the town of Wilkeson was trying to purchase the twelve acres adjacent to Dad's house, with the intention of building a large housing development. We accompanied the neighbors to County Council meetings to fight this and felt if this occurred the peaceful country atmosphere we were starting to crave would be ruined.

One morning, after a council meeting, my husband and I woke up, looked at each other, and said in unison, "Let's buy the twelve acres and build our dream house." Where did that come from? Now I know it was just another step in the unfolding miracle. The twelve acres has a protected salmon creek (I need to be by water), a wooded hillside with old-growth cedar (my husband needs to be by forests), an old barn (my husband has always loved old barns), herds of elk and deer, eagles, coyotes, quail, and beautiful pastureland. Along with this decision came the realization that we wanted to be in the country full-time! Without too much intellectualizing, we sold our house in Seattle in one week, cleared out twenty-five years of clutter, and moved into the Wilkeson rambler to live there while building our new home right next door.

We decided to take our two-week vacation that year and spend it clearing blackberries on our new property. We planned on arriving September 12th of 2001. On September 11th, our world as we knew it came to an end with the terrorist attacks on our country. I am so thankful we had our beautiful pasture and hillside to work on in the following days. It was a truly healing experience. One hot afternoon we were sitting on the hillside, drinking water and resting for a moment when the bells in town tolled for the victims of 9/11. My heart swelled with a mixture of sadness, joy and peacefulness — life's smorgasbord of emotions.

After that our lives became a blur... finding plans for a dream house — we wanted a covered porch, windows so big you could see the stars, a loft, a Jacuzzi tub, and French doors from our bedroom out onto the porch... getting plans drawn up and approved, finding the excavator, builder, subcontractors — shopping for appliances, carpet, lighting, plumbing fixtures, paint, cabinets... and coordinating all of it. My husband and I provided some of the sweat equity and for two years built our dream house. It literally went off without a hitch — we had none of the disasters you hear about when people build their own home. The process unfolded so smoothly that I knew it was meant to be. At each stage, all the pieces fell effortlessly into place. We were able to build this beautiful home for the same amount of money we got for our little 1,100-square-foot house in Seattle!

I need to mention that I was sitting on the front porch, in the midst of construction, one summer day, marveling at how I had come to be at this point in my life and thanking God for this turn of events. I had my eyes closed and when I opened them a deer was standing so close I could practically touch her.

We sold our father's house easily and now live on the twelve acres, in our dream home. This unbelievable series of events happened because we allowed ourselves to step out of our comfort zones when the inner voices nudged us on.

As I sit at my desk, I look out at the hillside and the neighbors' horses, listening to the quail's song. I'm awaiting my daily visit from the elk and deer. I am so happy that we listened to our hearts and let this miracle happen. We are living our bliss!

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Seize the Day!

By Carol McAdoo Rehme

I went into the woods because I wanted to live deliberately. I wanted to live deep and suck out all the marrow of life... to put to rout all that was not life; and not, when I came to die, discover that I had not lived.
~Henry David Thoreau

"We are food for worms, lads," declared Professor Keating, the unorthodox English teacher played by Robin Williams in the 1989 film Dead Poets Society. "Each and every one of us is one day going to stop breathing, turn cold, and die."

Those words, addressed to his pink-cheeked students, iced the blood in my veins when I watched the movie a few years back. Perhaps it was all in the timing. Only months earlier, I had survived the Big 5-0 and already the New Year was waving a greeting in the near distance. It seemed like the years were passing by while I simply clung to a kite tail. I felt staid, dissatisfied, unfulfilled. In short, I felt my own mortality.

This, perhaps, is why I scooted to the edge of my seat, transfixed and determined not to miss one profound word from the professor's mouth.

"Carpe diem, lads. Seize the day!" he preached to the literature class at the exclusive Welton Academy. "Make your lives extraordinary!"

Later in the movie, the teacher urged the boys to stand on his desk, as a reminder to look at the world in a different way because the universe was broader than their view of it. Everyone, I thought to myself, should have such a bohemian insurrectionary in their lives.

As I inhaled scene after moving scene, the rallying classroom cry, "Carpe diem!" sang in my ears like a mantra. I recognized the words from my four years of high school Latin class, only back then Mrs. Maag had taught the more literal translation of "carpe diem" – "pluck the day."

I liked that image better, I decided. Pluck the day.

Seize the moment.

Or, as Robert Herrick so poetically penned centuries ago, "Gather ye rosebuds while ye may."

Entranced, I sat as the last movie credits rolled down the screen, impulsively reevaluating my life and rethinking my annual goals.

To date, I had lived mostly from the detailed, itemized lists I created annually when the old year faded and the new one offered a fresh start. So dedicated was I to this system that I used to make separate goal lists for each of my four children, another for my husband, and even one for the dog. Why, I was known to make master lists that organized my battalion of lists! Now, however, I knew I needed to make a drastic change.

What would happen, I wondered, if I set aside my lists this next year and took Professor Keating's advice to "suck out all the marrow of life." Could I survive without daily, weekly, and monthly guides to order my hours? Could I still be productive? Reliable? Successful?

And, just that quickly, I resolved to give it a try.

I decided to embrace the unknown. I opted to live life with deliberation. I chose to make my life extraordinary.

But what, exactly, did that look like?

For me, it meant transcending the mundane in order to accept change. I discovered elasticity in me that I never knew existed. I learned to embrace serendipitous opportunities and to discover delight in the moment. Above all, this new outlook left me open to possibility.

Yes, I still dealt with the day-to-day reality of... oh... you know... the kinds of minutiae written on the lists that once consumed me. But those demands no longer determine my days. Instead, I'm open to chatty phone calls, a spontaneous lunch with a friend, and an evening walk with my husband. I'm freer to entertain, eager to extend an invitation to houseguests, and willing to organize a family reunion. I'm no longer reluctant to travel, to commit to a community project, to volunteer as an election judge.

Now, I focus less on my housework and more on enjoying my home. Instead of worrying about weight, I find pleasure in fresh food and homegrown vegetables. Rather than list all I need to do, I keep a gratitude journal of the new blessings I discover in each waking hour.

So, this New Year, as in the past few, I will make only a single resolution. A resolution I find satisfaction in writing and joy in keeping: Carpe diem!

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A New Road

By Marian Tascio Friedrichs

There are clubs you can't belong to, neighborhoods you can't live in, schools you can't get into, but the roads are always open.
~Nike Corporation

Fifty-one days after my natural-childbirth-turned-induction-turned-Caesarean section, I started running again. I didn't get far — maybe a quarter of a mile — before I had to slow myself and the second-hand EZ Strider containing my sleeping son to a walk. And while a quarter of a mile is nothing to brag about for most runners, something in that moment made me feel like I was coming back: becoming myself again after seven weeks of feeling my old self — teacher, writer, runner — slip away, leaving behind nothing but a Baby-Feeding Machine.

I loved my son, of course, but during those seven weeks I felt heavy. With extra fat, yes, but also with sleep deprivation, with the nightmarish transformation of my beautiful non-medicated birth into a thirty-hour induction culminating in surgery and a painful recovery, and with the certainty that I would never be able to leave my house or cook my own meals again due to the seven-and-a-half pounds of humanity that had taken over my life. That's a lot to carry around, and with all of it weighing me down, it seemed unlikely that I would be running any time soon.

And yet, two days after my midwife gave me the all-clear to start exercising again, I placed Isaiah in the jogging stroller and went for a walk. We walked the next day, too, and the day after that. On that third walk, when Isaiah had nodded off on a quiet sunlit street, I started to run. I wasn't wearing the right shoes or the right clothes; the off-kilter stroller tugged me to the right with every step, and my lungs had no idea what had just hit them, but man, did I feel good. Lighter. Freer. A little more at home inside my own life than I had felt for a while.

It reminded me of Kansas. And Kraków. A year before Isaiah was born, my husband Matt and I had celebrated our wedding in Matt's birthplace of Lawrence, Kansas. I had been the one to suggest moving the wedding from my family's native New York to the less pricey, more laid-back Midwest, but I'll admit it was strange getting married away from home. I didn't know where to get my hair done or what the wedding traditions were; I had to depend on Matt and his family for all of that. The whole experience, though wonderful, gave me a fish-out-of-water feeling that I had never imagined as part of my wedding.

But while I couldn't give any of my guests driving directions, and I couldn't do more than imagine what a wedding reception in a barn would be like, most days I could run. I ran with Matt's brother Paul and sister Lisa near their parents' farmhouse, past wheat fields and old cemeteries. And I discovered something: running in a place makes it yours.

Away from home, when I put on those clothes christened with my sweat and pull on those grungy socks and shoes that countless miles have molded to my feet, it's like putting on my pajamas in a hotel room and plunking my slippered feet up on the furniture, like blasting the stereo and slipping into the bubble bath in a guesthouse. I'm telling everyone, "Yeah, I belong here. I'm comfy and I'm going to get comfier." When I hit my stride on a foreign footpath, I'm saying to that place, "Let's get to know each other, but let's not do it at arm's length. Let's take our hair down and forget the formalities. I'm going to act like I'm at home with you, and you'll treat me like an old friend. How about it?"

Fresh from our honeymoon, Matt and I boarded a plane to Kraków for my brother's wedding with maybe three Polish phrases under our belts. When we got there, we stayed at a hostel where we easily raised the average age by ten years. We couldn't have left our room without maps and phrasebooks any more than without our clothes. But I could still run.

My feet slapped cobblestones and made the side streets of Kraków mine. I wove around the grounds of Wawel Castle and made the castle mine. I circled the city center while shopkeepers opened their doors and waiters set up tables on the sidewalks, and I made that square mine. And yes, I got lost. But that was okay, too. Fumbling goes with the territory sometimes, and when I calmly turned to retrace my steps, I was telling Kraków, "No big deal. I belong here, and I'm going to keep acting like it. Thanks for the cool detour."

A few months later, back in New York, my brother-in-law Paul and I went for an eight-mile run along the Bronx River — my turf — on World Run Day. Soon thereafter I learned I was pregnant; then came the nausea, exhaustion, and weight gain that made running at first uncomfortable and eventually impossible. Almost a year later, while Paul completed his training for the New York City Marathon, I gripped the handle of that EZ Strider and spurted into my quarter-mile comeback. "Yes, I belong here," I was telling motherhood. "Good to know you."

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"Resolutions"

By Glorianne Swenson

Rest is not idleness, and to lie sometimes on the grass under trees on a summer's day, listening to the murmur of the water, or watching the clouds float across the sky, is by no means a waste of time.
~J. Lubbock

This year I will burn a candle and bask in the fragrance of spiced apple.
I will take a nap between fresh sheets and not set the alarm.
I will laugh aloud even though there is no one else to hear me.

This year I will send a card and tell someone, "I love you."
I will climb hills and fly kites in the March winds.
I will cry at the movies and wish on a star.
I will pray for loved ones, for my country, and the dignity of man.

This year I will run through the tall grass like a giraffe, with my head held high.
I will read Shakespeare, Dr. Seuss, and Erma Bombeck all in the same day.
I will cradle a soft kitten in my arms and let my soul vibrate with its purr.
I will drink amaretto-flavored coffee and eat too much chocolate.

This year I will write love songs, and dance like a child.
I will chase butterflies, rainbows and sunbeams.
I will walk in warm, white sand, and let the breeze blow through my hair.
I will walk in the woods and pick wild violets and strawberries.

This year I will ride carousels and eat cotton candy.
I will send flowers to a friend and read to the blind.
I will write poetry and listen to music.
I will take a bubble bath and shop for lingerie.

This year I will rise early enough to see the moon set and the sun rise.
I will drive in the country and remember myself as a child.
I will wear pink ballet slippers, perfumed talc, and 14k gold.
I will play in fall leaves and taste the first winter snow on my tongue.

This year I will touch more. I will feel the unmatched softness of a baby's skin.
I will hold a weathered hand of a friend in the sunset of her life.
I will hug the grieving and feel their pain with them.
And if next year never comes, I've been blessed — and touched the hand of God.

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Hope and Kindness

By Susan Graham Winslow

The world is hugged by the faithful arms of volunteers.
~Everett Mámor

The room was awash in crumpled gift wrap as my brother, sisters and I tore through our presents before the sun was even over the horizon. I was ten, the oldest of five children, and we were busy playing with our gifts when my father poked his head through a doorway into the room and announced, "You kids forgot something! There's one more present!" He opened the door wider, and a bundle of sable-and-white fur bounced into the room, pouncing on piles of wrapping paper and greeting each of us with puppy barks and kisses. The room erupted with squeals and shouts as we met the newest addition to our family, a Collie puppy.

In all the excitement, the puppy's registration papers, along with his regal, registered name, were lost in the mounds of wrapping paper and thrown away. We settled on Andrew, a fitting Scottish name for a Collie puppy, and he stole our hearts from the first minute we met him. I loved the outdoors, and because Andrew did, too, he chose me as his special buddy. My best friend also had a puppy, and we took our dogs on walks through the woods and on all our after-school adventures. Andrew staked out the end of my bed as his own, and I loved to snuggle my feet against his warm body at night. He grew into a strapping, handsome Collie with a dignified presence that belied a sweet, mischievous nature.

My father owned an advertising agency, and when a client, the Deerskin Trading Post, needed a dog for the cover of their national catalog that year, Andrew was chosen. I was allowed to attend the photo shoot as the dog handler and I was very proud of Andrew as he sat patiently through hours of location photography. When the catalog was printed, we kept a framed copy of the cover in our living room. Despite his local fame, Andrew was a modest homebody, spending his days following my mom around the house, bounding down the driveway to meet me when he heard the school bus rolling up our street every afternoon.

Two days before our second Christmas with Andrew, he disappeared. We called the police, the animal control officer, and all our neighbors hoping that someone had seen him. We rallied our friends to search the woods and streets around town. As the hours, then days, went by, I was inconsolable, fearing that Andrew was lost or injured. I couldn't sleep or eat, and our Christmas that year was a somber one. My father wrote a press release about the disappearance of the dog that had graced the catalog cover, hoping to help get the word out, and we placed "missing" posters at veterinary offices around the area.

My parents speculated that Andrew had been stolen, as there had been a rash of thefts of pedigreed dogs in our area prior to Andrew's disappearance. All I knew was that my best friend was gone, and I was heartbroken. It was a particularly cold winter, and with every blizzard that rampaged through New England, with subzero wind chills and a fresh blanket of snow, our hopes diminished to the point where we had just about given up on finding Andrew. My schoolwork suffered and at night I cried myself to sleep, missing the warmth and security of his warm body at the end of my bed. I couldn't imagine how Andrew could have strayed away from our loving home, and I couldn't imagine how anyone could steal a family pet from five children. Andrew was so handsome and friendly though, he would have been an easy target. I wondered if Andrew missed us as much as we missed him and every night I prayed for his return.

On a late March day, three months after Andrew disappeared, a woman made a quick stop at a department store in downtown Salem, Massachusetts, eight miles from my home. Salem is a waterfront city whose harbor is open to brutal Northeast winds in the winter, and it was a particularly blustery, cold day. She was hurrying to a luncheon and her mind was on her afternoon plans when she stepped out of the store and almost stumbled over a dog lying on the sidewalk. Hot tears welled up in her eyes as she looked down at a filthy, emaciated creature trying to pull himself to a standing position, wobbling and stumbling on legs that were too weak to hold him up. His sable and white fur was tangled and matted in fist-sized knots, and when she reached out a gloved hand to touch him, she could feel his bones in sharp relief beneath his skin.

Despite being late for the luncheon and dressed in a fine outfit, she bent down and gently picked up the dog. Placing him carefully in the back seat of her car, she rushed him to a local veterinarian before heading off to meet her friends. During the luncheon, she recounted the story of finding the pathetic dog, expressing dismay that so many people had walked past a starving Collie without bringing it to the attention of the store manager or local police. One of the women at the table remembered reading a newspaper story about the missing Collie that had appeared on the cover of the Deerskin Trading Post catalog. The two women called the company to tell them that their cover dog might have been found.

The owner of Deerskin Trading Post called my father, and by that night we were on our way to Salem, hope rising with every mile. Before we arrived at the vet's office, my father cautioned us about what we were going to see, telling us that the vet had made it clear that the dog was in very bad shape. He told us not to get our hopes up because the chance of this dog turning out to be Andrew was low. But even though he was telling us not to get excited, I could hear the hope in his voice, too.

Sitting in the waiting room at the veterinarian's office, the minutes stretched on, dragging like hours. I could barely contain my nerves and energy, knowing that behind the office door, joy or desolation was waiting. When the door opened, a thin, mangy-looking dog stepped gingerly into the room. His noble head looked impossibly big for his ragged body, and he sniffed the air cautiously. This wasn't the same bundle of joy that bounded into our living room that wonderful Christmas morning, but a frightened, confused shadow of a dog. What fur he had was dull and thin, and there were huge bare patches where the veterinarian had shaved off mats and treated his ulcerated, flea-bitten skin. He faltered as he stepped into the room, but his tail struck a happy beat as our eyes met and I said, "Andrew?" He looked right at me and in that instant, I knew it was him.

Andrew came home and made a full recovery. The story of his return made the front page of our local newspaper, and once again Andrew became a minor celebrity. We never found out how he wound up in Salem, but Andrew lived for many years after his return. He followed me everywhere and again took up residence at the foot of my bed, waking me every morning with a doggy smile and wagging tail, ready for adventure. The only change in Andrew was a new, fearful reaction to the sound of a certain truck engine that stayed with him for the rest of his life.

The compassionate woman who found Andrew refused any reward from my parents. I am grateful for her selfless act of kindness and I wonder how many other people passed by the sight of the starving dog on the sidewalk. She set a strong example for the children in my family about the importance of doing the right thing, and how important and far-reaching the effects of that can be.

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