by Jodi Orens-Lante

Florida, USA

One hot afternoon in August, 2002, a small van passed in front of my pasture, slowed down, backed up and then sped up my driveway. Alarmed, I ran out to meet two men at my gate. “You have a horse stuck in a tree,” they said. I thought, one of the babies stuck a halter in a tree — but those flimsy little foal figure-eight halters break and slip off if you breath on them, how could one be stuck?

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I headed out the side gate to the tree way up the front pasture. I wasn’t terribly excited. Then I saw the men speed back down my drive and run into my pasture right through my VERY hot electric fence. I bolted to the tree.

My most lovely 3-month-old Cob/Arabian filly had her head wedged into the crook of a grand-daddy oak. She was down, hanging by her head. To get stuck she must’ve “climbed” the roots and sloped tree trunk. She was breathing but I wasn’t sure I was glad she was. I wanted a gun, or a needle full of euthanasia, because I could not stand to watch this filly die slowly like this.

Her head was so wedged it didn’t seem possible to get it out. The two men got behind her and lifted, but her head didn’t move. She even had a front leg in there, stuck just below her head. Then, the leg slipped out. Maybe there was some hope.

They lifted again, I took her head… then I just sort of blacked out, and somehow her head came out. She stumbled backward, unable to stand, weak, exhausted, and I’m sure, numb. I placed her down on the ground and gave her as long as she needed.

The two strangers asked if they could help get her up to the barn. She stood up. I just hung on her, kissing her and thankful she could stand. They asked again if I needed anything else. I told them we would be fine and I would let her take her time getting up to the barn. They made me swear to fix the tree, and left.

Her name is “Under The Son’s Victoria” and victorious she surely is; she has miraculously suffered no ill effects. We often worry about the horses eating the trees. Now we have our tree fenced off because it tried to eat my horse. The things you never even think of.

I don’t know who those two men are and truly wish I did. Because they were alert, and took the time out of their day my filly will be OK. They saw several other cars drive right past. Had they said, “Look at that,” and just gone on, I would have found that filly dead at evening feed when she didn’t come up with her dam. I am so grateful to them for taking action that day.

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by Richard Fishback

Las Vegas, Nevada, USA

It was the mid-1980s and the job situation began to wind down for us in our small town. Though we’d never lived in a city, friends in Las Vegas, Nevada, suggested we stay with them a few days and look the city over. We found a single-level apartment in an adults-only complex, and were settled in the next week enjoying our new home.

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Sometime later the state of Nevada ruled that you could not have an adults-only complex, and younger people with families began moving in. Little by little this gave way to young working Mexican families. They were delightful — always quick with a wave and greeting. When they celebrated a child’s birthday on the lawn with balloons, streamers, cakes, and games, we’d be offered a piece of cake or some other delicacy if they saw us. I don’t speak Spanish, though, so it limited our conversations.

All during this time we’d been looking at homes, wanting to buy our own rather than continue renting. We eventually found a place we liked at a price we could afford. So began all the paperwork, the packing, and asking the question, “Where did we get all this stuff?” We were packed and ready to move about a week before our new home was ready for us, so we decided to fly back to the Midwestern part of the country to visit family.

As usually happens in a move, there were a few items we decided not to take with us. Ours included a small white leather couch, a couple of lamps, a small table, and a blender. We thought of calling a charitable organization to pick them up, but after discussing it we decided to set it all on the front patio and let the neighbors have first choice while we were gone. We figured that if there was anything left when we returned, that would be the time to call a charity.

We had a wonderful visit with our family, but quite a surprise on our arrival back home. Of all the items we’d left in front of the apartment, not one had been disturbed! They were all sitting just as we’d left them.

Within a half hour of our return, a young Mexican lady with her English-speaking friend came to the door to ask how much we wanted for one particular item. Once they understood it was free for the taking, the patio was empty within an hour, with each item going to a different household.

In a city of more than a quarter-million people, you would expect at least some of those items to be carted off during the week we were away. I’ve often wondered if our neighbors posted a 24-hour watch over our things. In a time when you hear people say that you can’t trust anyone, this episode reinforced my faith in the basic goodness of the average person.

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by Janet Detter Margul

Plano, Texas, USA

When my daughter Lisa was in kindergarten, for her sixth birthday she asked if she could invite not only her whole class to her party, but the other class at school too. I probably turned pale at the thought of 60 kindergartners at a party because she said quickly, “Wait! Don’t say no yet. I have a plan.”

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I was already thinking about how she’d been making a birthday wish list for weeks — that’s one way to get a lot of presents! But I let her tell me her plan. She wanted to invite a lot of people to a picnic in the park, and ask them if, instead of bringing gifts, they could bring food to give the food pantry.

Just the month before, her scout troop took a field trip to the local food pantry, taking canned goods we’d collected for a service project. Lisa explained that the lady there said it looked like they had a lot of food, but come spring all that food would be gone and many people would be hungry. She thought that if she asked for food for her party, the people wouldn’t be so hungry in May.

Well, I had to say yes to that, but I was worried she’d regret giving up all her birthday presents for food. I kept asking if she was sure she wanted to do this. Finally she explained, “Mom, you know I always get a bunch of junkie presents at birthday parties. I’d rather have food to give instead of those. Besides, the people who give good presents, well, you know they’ll give me food AND good presents anyway.”

So we had the party in the park, with a cotton candy machine, hot dogs, and jugs and jugs of lemonade. A ton of kids came, and some adults. Lisa was just beside herself when someone gave her TWO cans of food. Some gave big bags of food. It was like a one-child food drive. I was overwhelmed at how much food. We filled up two station wagons with it.

There was too much to take home and then take to the food pantry later, so we went straight there from the park. We arrived pretty late in the day, close to closing time. My tiny kindergartner marched into the building and told the volunteer at the desk, “I’ve got some food to give you.”

The volunteer smiled down at her and said, “well, bring it on in, honey.” Lisa said “but it’s a LOT of food,” so the volunteer got a shopping cart to help Lisa bring in her donation. The volunteer was obviously thinking of a “child’s size” donation but, once she saw all the food, she just boggled.

Lisa handed her one of her party invitations “so’s you know how I got so much” and the volunteer started to cry. I, and the other adults, joined her. Lisa looked up at us and announced, “stop crying. I’ll help carry it in.”

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by Charles Kosan

Bretagne, France

In December 1998, I was traveling alone in South Korea. I was roughing it with my small backpack, wearing old shirts, staying in cheap hotels and using public transportation. I started in Seoul and traveled clockwise across the mysteriously beautiful country. Everywhere was quiet and cold.

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On New Year’s Eve, I left Pusan, a large seaport, for a small town two hours away by bus. Traveling worries me when the conditions are not very good. Bad weather, curvy roads, uncomfortable seats, and food smells can all trigger motion sickness. I was looking out the window when a man carrying grilled dried cuttlefish wrapped in paper sat next to me. I couldn’t stop him from enjoying his snack, so I looked intently out the window and wished the trip would not last too long — and that I would not get sick on the way.

He said something in Korean and offered his snack to me; I politely refused. When he realized I was a foreigner, he started to speak in English. He was a dentist, just starting his practice in Pusan. Life was difficult for him because of the Asian economy at the time. His wife and small daughter lived with her parents, in the small town where our bus was headed. During the conversation I looked out the window most of the time, and explained the reason. Whether he understood or not, he said nothing.

As we approached our destination, he invited me to meet his family. I was reluctant. I didn’t know him and it was New Year’s Eve, a time normally reserved for close friends and family. But he insisted, so I accepted with the promise that he would help me find an inexpensive hotel afterward.

His wife picked us up at the bus station and drove us to their apartment, where I met her family and their daughter. They served warm rice and dinner. I enjoyed the kimchee (hot pickled cabbage) but was afraid to try the other foods. Afterward we talked, and his wife gave me a small gift. Then they found me a small hotel close to the bus station, from which I would leave the next day. He also gave me his name card in case I needed to contact him. We parted, and I enjoyed the rest of my travel in the peninsula before returning to where I lived.

Clearly, this man could imagine nothing to gain from helping me. I was dressed in worn and inexpensive clothing and came from another culture with a foreign language. In short, I had nothing to offer back in return. But he took the courage and time to be friendly, to give me a warm welcome in that special time of the year.

I learned an important lesson: that friendship, kindness, and humanity abound in this world and bridge cultural, linguistic and other seemingly insurmountable differences. I also learned that someone who has nothing to gain can still have something to give.

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Walt Johnson

Easton, MD

After Katrina, I was lucky to be able to help with the Louisiana Episcopal Diocese’s project to rehab flooded houses, and also to build Habitat-like houses for folks in Mid-City.

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Driving down from Maryland, I saw the miles of devastation along the way. A bunch of us camped out on the third floor of a diocesan building on St. Charles Ave. with cots and mattresses on the floor.

One night, a co-worker and I visited a restaurant on Magazine Street. As we walked into the restaurant, a panhandler asked for a handout. “Not now,” I told him. I intended to order a meal for him inside.

A waitress, busy taking orders, serving customers, and bussing tables, greeted us with a smile. “Be right with ya!” she said, and handed us menus.

I scanned the menu for something I could order for the panhandler at the door.

Before she came back to get our order, we saw her take a large grocery bag of food out and hand it to the panhandler. “We’re all family here,” she said when I mentioned it.

A couple nights later, another friend and I went to Mandina’s, an old family restaurant on Canal Street—a favorite I remembered from the 60s and 70s. The line of customers wound out the door and down the sidewalk, and we chatted with a couple ahead of us in the line.

We enjoyed a delicious meal. When we asked our waitress for the bill, she told us the other couple had paid our bill. They had asked her to tell us, “Just tell them ‘thank you’ for coming back to help us.”

New Orleans is filled with wonderful, caring people—white, Black, Hispanic, young newcomers and old timers. They’re the reason people love New Orleans, no matter where they live.

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by The Caroler

California, USA

In 1990, as was our family tradition, my husband and I invited children from the local high school aCappella choir, including our son, to sing Christmas Carols to people we felt could use some special Christmas cheer. My husband dressed up as Santa Claus and drove a rented flat bed truck.

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The group tied our spinet piano in the flat bed truck and Santa called “All aboard!” Bundled up, we filled the truck with excited carolers. A woman from our church played the piano as we drove and sang. It was cold and windy for southern California.

We first caroled for an 11-year-old boy who was dying of AIDs. He was so weak he couldn’t come outside, but “Santa” backed the truck up to the house windows and his parents held him while we sang to him. Then Santa jumped out and visited George. (George died 3 days later.)

Our next stop was an older couple whose son had committed suicide a few months before. With our hearts full of love we sang to this bereaved couple, giving them homemade Christmas cookies afterwards.

We caroled for several other families. Then Santa asked the group if we minded making just one more stop. We were all tired, cold and wishing to return to “Santa’s” house, but begrudgingly agreed to carol again.

Santa drove our cold, tired group of carolers to the home of a vital, loving and very outgoing woman who shared her love with many others. We got out of the truck, tromped across her lawn and began singing, but got no response.

I told my husband it was silly to sing to a dark house with no one answering the door. We didn’t even have cookies to share with her. He said he “felt” very strongly that we needed to carol there. He asked us to be patient while he went around to the back of the house.

The kids were really cold standing around, not singing and getting grumpier by the minute. About 10 minutes later, “Santa” opened the front door with his arm around a sweet little old lady, and we began caroling again. When we had finished several songs, with tears running down her cheeks, the woman clung to Santa as she thanked us and Santa took her back inside.

After cookies, hot chocolate and a Christmas movie, everyone went home.

Then my husband shared the story of our last caroling stop. “Mary” had recently received divorce papers and was in complete shock. After trying to cope with this devastating news, Mary was in the process of ending her life at the very moment when Santa interrupted her. If not for Santa acting on his gut feeling, this woman would no longer have been in this world.

Christmas is indeed a time for loving, sharing, caring and giving. One never knows what the next minute will hold.

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by Lisa Swindler

South Carolina, USA

In 1998, a week before Thanksgiving, I took our 10-month-old baby daughter to the doctor for a check-up. The nurse commented how well she looked. Fifteen minutes later we were headed to the hospital emergency room. Ruth’s oxygen level was below 90 and she was having difficulty breathing. It was her fourth hospitalization that year.

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Ruth had stopped breathing twice in six months, and was on steroids after being diagnosed as a severe asthmatic. This time they discovered that her stomach acid was going into her lungs; this along with asthma made breathing difficult for her.

Five days later, two days before Thanksgiving, we were able to take her home. Her 3-year-old brother Kyle was excited to have his baby sister home; he’s always been eager to help “baby Ruth”.

My husband Sam and I took turns giving our daughter her breathing treatments every two hours around the clock. Thanksgiving came and went despite our sheer exhaustion. Two days after Thanksgiving the smoke detector in our home went off at 5:30 am. The kitchen was in flames, the house filled with smoke.

The fire department saved our home, but since the entire house had smoke damage our daughter could not live there. With our very sick 10-month-old and rambunctious 3-year-old Kyle, we moved into a motel nearby. We weren’t feeling very thankful.

Our real struggles had just begun. I carried the insurance for our family, so I had to work. Sam stayed in the motel with our children by day, cleaned our home by night and fought with the insurance company. They were denying the medical necessity for our daughter to be in a smoke-free environment.

For over two weeks we had to pay everything out of pocket, including meals eaten out. I tried to keep my spirits up around my family, but at work it was very difficult to smile.

Christmas was a week away. We didn’t have the first gift for the children, we had no tree. We hoped our son wouldn’t realize Christmas was coming, but no luck. Kyle played with “baby Ruth”, telling her about Santa Claus and the toys he would bring her. Between living expenses and medications, Sam and I were at the bottom of the barrel in funds. Christmas looked bleak.

Six days before Christmas, one of my friends at work asked me to come to the break room. She hugged me and handed me an envelope. In it was $700! My co-workers — my friends — knew that my family needed help. They knew I would never ask for it.

At one of the lowest times in my life I was suddenly the happiest. I cried, and went around to thank everyone in the office; I put pride aside and opened up to those who cared. We were able to buy gifts for Christmas, get a Christmas tree, and pay our motel bill. By Christmas day, we were back in our home — with a renewed faith in mankind.

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Diane Catanzaro

Texas, USA

My husband has, shall we say, a less than supportive father. Out on his own at 16, he lived first with his brother, then with his sister before entering the Navy at 17. Robert wanted to be a medic because of his interest in medicine. His father said “No! Do something that will guarantee a job later: fix airplanes”.

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As an aircraft mechanic and sheet-metal worker, Robert was stationed on the U.S.S. Midway in the Pacific. When he left the Navy there were many mechanic jobs. Then the airlines deregulated, and he was suddenly subject to frequent layoffs. Even though Robert was considered skilled within the blue-collar set, layoffs came about every four years.

Robert had just gotten work after a layoff when we met in 1991. His language and manners were very rough and I’m much less rough. Yet we felt a strong connection and married in 1994.

In 1995, two months after learning I was pregnant, Robert was laid off yet again at 36 years old. This time he was eligible for a training program, so if he wanted to schooling, someone else would pay for it.

The catch was that it was only for two years and it had to be something he could be certified in after that two years. In our area, there’s a college with an excellent two-year registered nurse program.

Honestly, I thought he would be eaten alive going into a predominantly female profession — especially coming from an environment where belching contests at lunch were festive affairs.

Yet Robert graduated with honors and has been a registered nurse for ten years this spring. He still projects the “rough around the edges” attitude. His coworkers often ask me how I can stand to be married to him, and they tell him I must be some sort of saint.

When our little girl was born, as I napped in the hospital Robert watched football with her, explaining all the details, “so she’d get a head start on understanding”.

However, that year my father died, five days before his next birthday. Robert bought me a present on Dad’s birthday, to help me cope “just a little”. And he often gets letters of thanks from patients and their families.

In 2006 Robert worked for a small private hospital three miles from our home. He worked on an in-patient floor with one patient in residence over Christmas, so just two nurses worked Christmas day. Robert called them about 10 a.m. to see if they had dinner plans. When he found out they had nothing special planned, he told them he’d bring them food, not to order in.

When the meal was ready, the first thing he did — before our meal — was fix a couple of plates for them, pile our daughter and her Santa hat in the truck and take his co-workers Christmas dinner.

And ladies, regardless of appearances — it was his idea.

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by Byron Thorson

Louisiana, USA

My mother was the heart and soul of our small family around Christmas time. Everything centered around her. You would have had to know her to fully understand why. Small of physical stature, big of heart and strong willed. That was my mom.

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She organized all the decorations for our house every year, including our silver artificial tree and some very special pink ornaments. The tree was old though carefully kept every year and the ornaments were even older, possibly older than I was.

She loved that tree and even more loved the ornaments. When fully assembled, with the lights we had shining on it, the effect was awe-inspiring. I have looked for years for more of those ornaments over half the country. The style is common but I don’t think that particular shade of pink is made anymore.

December 13th, 1977 came crashing down around my ears. I was working 60 miles away when Dad called and said mom was in the hospital. Though I lived a mile from work I would drop everything in a heartbeat to go back to help my folks if anything ever happened. I went totally numb with the next three words I heard: “We lost her.”

After her funeral we couldn’t bear having all the Christmas stuff, mom’s Christmas, around. We couldn’t think too clearly so we didn’t think about donating it all to a church or other charity.

We took it to a flea market just before Christmas. We managed to get rid of most of it except for the tree and those beautiful pink ornaments.

It was nearly closing time for the flea market when an old man and his grandson came wandering by. He wasn’t even looking our direction when Dad hollered, “You want a tree with some ornaments?” The old man replied, “Can’t afford it this year”

Dad said, “Here. Take this. It’s yours. Merry Christmas.”

I was stunned at what Dad had just done, but when I saw the gigantic smile on the old man’s face I felt better.

There was no Christmas at our house that year. Dinner consisted of baloney and cheese sandwiches and cola. But maybe, just maybe, that tree stood fully assembled one more time with those beautiful pink ornaments hanging from it. And the smile was on the grandson’s face.

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by Terry Hoffman

Hoquiam, WA

Christmas has never held very many good memories for me.

As a child, my family life was a nightmare. My mother was full of hate for the world and made life miserable for all of us. My father was the kindest person, but could not stand up to my mother.

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My maternal grandparents lived in Great Britain and I never met them. My father’s parents lived right next door. Unfortunately, my grandmother died when I was just a baby, and my grandfather, when I was eight. In other words, I grew up without any sense of family. I used to “adopt” the mothers of my friends, trying to define what that elusive word, “family”, meant. After I left home, my father used to have to sneak visits with me after my mother “disowned” me so many times.

On one of those rare Christmases when I was welcome, my mother bought me clothes as a gift. Unfortunately, they were the wrong size. She said that she would exchange them. Shortly thereafter, I did something to upset her once again, and she spitefully returned my gifts. There went that Christmas.

Unfortunately, my father died when I was in my late twenties. I wisely severed all connections with my mother, which was the only way of dealing with her hatred. She had poisoned my sister and me against each other over the years, so communication between us was very sporadic and not all that amicable. I spent most of my Christmases alone, since I felt like an intruder when invited to spend the holidays with my friends and their families.

Shortly after I left home, I had made a very good friend; she turned out to be my life-long best friend. Sometimes we lived close to each other and other times quite a distance apart, but we always maintained our close friendship.

One Christmas, I realized I could not endure another holiday alone. I called my friend on Christmas Eve day and asked her if she would allow me to spend the holiday with her and her children. She agreed, and I set out on a two-hour drive to her home. When I arrived, she immediately put me to work, helping her prepare for the next day. After the kids were in bed, she sat me down and started throwing all sorts of gifts at me to wrap. It went on for hours. Exhausted, we finally went to bed about midnight.

The next morning, it was so wonderful to feel part of a real family. It was exciting to watch the kids opening their gifts. It was all of the Christmases that I had never had. Imagine my surprise when I discovered that there were even gifts under the tree for me! In the chaos of wrapping the previous night, she had sneaked in several items. She had played Christmas Angel and tricked me into wrapping my own gifts for the only real family Christmas that I ever had!

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