Mine's a Wonderful Life

It was early in the morning, three days before Christmas.  I was in bed with my eyes closed, struggling to decide if my latest dream was less or more reality.  I had retired to bed late the previous night, having stayed up to wrap gifts and watch It’s a Wonderful Life all by my lonesome while the rest of the house snored peacefully in the background.  I had wept emotionally over George’s realization that the world was a better place with him alive.  Then I’d turned off the TV and gone to bed. 

Years ago when my children were young, viewing this holiday classic had been an annual tradition.  But ever since my four darlings had entered puberty, they’d unanimously agreed it was more torture than treat to watch a black-and-white rerun of some crazy, old, dead guy……no matter how many tears it cost their mother.  My husband had sided with the majority—a little too eagerly—so I now upheld the holiday ritual alone.   

Still in bed, I opened my eyes and stared up at a ceiling that resembled muddy tapioca.  The grogginess had lifted enough for me to realize I’d been dreaming, but the impact I felt from those realistic visions bothered me.  Sometime in the night I’d assimilated George Baily’s experience into my subconscious, and I’d become a ghost in my own home, invisible to my husband and four children.  I was painfully aware of them but unable to interact with anyone.  Though I stood directly in their path, they were entirely oblivious of me. 

The worst part wasn’t my sudden ghostliness.  Nor was it the fact that I couldn’t communicate with the ones I loved.  What weighed heavy on my heart in the dream—and now while awake—was the fact that my family didn’t appear the least bit troubled by my absence.  No one had stopped for even a second to question where I was, to call out my name or expend the slightest amount of effort searching the house for me.  They simply went on with their daily routines, engrossed in whatever selfish activities each had planned for the day. 

No one missed me.  It was disheartening. 

The fact that my entire family had opted out of movie night the evening prior only made my condition graver.  I may as well have been a real ghost for as little as I was wanted.  In truth, every other soul in the house was capable of taking care of him or herself; my family could go right on functioning without me.

My goal as a parent had always been to teach each child to be self-sufficient and independent; so I had succeeded.  That was good!  But I felt miserable nonetheless. 

Pulling the covers over my head, I curled up into a ball and fell back asleep, depressed and envious of the fact that Bedford Falls had fallen apart without George Baily.

I was jolted awake—startled upright.  A glance at the clock showed I’d overslept by a couple hours.  Five unsmiling faces surrounded my bed, all focused on me.  I realized it was my youngest daughter squawking, “Moth—er!” that had awakened me.  The silence accompanying four tight stares only lasted long enough for me to wipe at the mascara I imagined was smeared beneath my eyes. 

“What are you all…?” I started, only to be drowned out by sibling teens talking at once.

“Mother, I need a ride to Joslin’s house—stupid ‘Big Foot’ won’t take me.”

“Because I can’t, Bratilda.  I told you, I’m scheduled to work…”

“So drop me off first….Mother, tell him!”

“Mom, I’m short on cash, and I need gas money…”

“No, no, no way!  He hasn’t done one chore around here; I’ve been doing everything!”

“Forget them—I really need some money, Mom. We’re Christmas shopping at the mall…”

“Hey, Ma, did you get my red sweater washed?  You said you’d have it ready for my concert tonight…”

“Mom, please tell me you are not going to make me go to his dork concert tonight!  I have that Christmas cookie exchange—you said you’d help me make sugar cookies today…”

Just then, my husband squeezed his head in.  “Hunny?  Have you seen my car keys anywhere?”

If in reality I were to wake up and find myself a ghost, this beautiful family of mine would probably find a way to function.  But my dream had been wrong.  My family needed me, even if I was slightly taken for granted.  The truth felt radiant and clear—Bedford Falls was in chaos.  Good old George Bailey’s wonderful life had nothing on mine. 

This story is from "Making Wishes: Quotes, Thoughts, & a Little Poetry for Every Day of the Year".  

That There Indomitable Spirit

Across from campus there’s a wooden bench that sits beneath a cluster of cherry trees.  From there one can look to the right and see a dignified university decorated with red brick and crème lattice.  On the left, a new playground sits in the middle of a green park, popular among children who giggle and shriek as if silliness were their universal tongue.

I found the bench, my favorite reading spot, occupied that afternoon by an older gentleman in a black ball cap.  The gold insignia above the bill was a badge denoting some military cavalry.  His smile was a more powerful draw for my attention; he seemed to be enjoying the nice spring weather. 

I took a seat on the far end of the bench, a couple spaces down from him.  He appeared lost in thought when I glanced his way, mesmerized by the youthful scene taking place a distance out on the playground.

“So, what’ve you been up to today, son?”

I squinted at the man, a bit startled by his raspy voice, uncertain if his question was meant for me.  There was really no one else within earshot.

“Um…”  It was the most intelligent answer I could manage in my befuddled state.

The old man twisted his neck to look at my face.  His wrinkled smile stretched even farther as he waited patiently for me to provide a better answer to his question.  I fumbled around with a physiology textbook and placed it in my lap.

“Well, I uh…”  I thought back to the beginning of my day and rehearsed it for him.  “I woke up late this morning and had to hurry to my seminary class—drove two miles on an empty tank of gas.  Luckily my old Ford manages pretty far on fumes.  Then, after class, I purchased breakfast from a vending machine before hustling to take a grueling calculus test.”

“You a math major?” the man asked.

I shook my head.  “No, sir, not really.  Pre-med.  But I’m good at math.  My other classes are organic chemistry and human physiology.”  I lifted up the textbook in my lap as proof.

The old man nodded.  “You a lucky young fella.  A religious boy?”

I gestured affirmatively.  “I wouldn’t drag myself out of bed at five o’clock every morning to attend seminary if I wasn’t, I suppose.”

“I s’pose not,” the man agreed.  “Did you fight for your seat in that class?”

“Fight?” I repeated, confused. 

“You pay for it?”

“Oh….no, no, no.  Seminary’s free of charge.  Anyone can attend if they care to rise before the sun and sanity.”

The old man chuckled, but I got the feeling it wasn’t because he found me funny.  Then he went on to make an announcement, pointing a finger at my nose as if it were important. 

“That there religion—that’s Andy Shindler’s right arm.”

I waited for an explanation, but none came.

“Oh,” I finally breathed and opened up my textbook.  There was a section on facial muscles I needed to read.  Another odd question hit my ear before I could find the right chapter.

“Someone force you to go to school?  They makin’ you learn what’s in that book?”

“Um, no.  No, sir, I’ve always wanted to be a doctor.  I chose to take this class.”  Again, a rigid finger was pointed at me.

“Hmm.  That there choice—that’s James Kennedy’s legs, both of ‘em.”

I tried not to look at the man as if he were talking crazy, but….

“Oh,” I nodded.

“And that there book—”  His stern finger nearly reached to touch the colorful skull painted on the front cover.  “—that’s Donald Maccaby’s left eye.  Lost his left ear too.”

“From a book accident?”  I couldn’t help but ask.  I imagined a shelf in the library falling over, the edge hitting an unsuspecting man named Donald Maccaby in the face.  Ouch. 

The crazy old man chuckled again.  He didn’t answer me but kept right on talking.

“I call all this here Willy Whitman’s.”  His pointing finger gestured to our surroundings, mostly to the campus at the right of us.  I wondered then if the guy was lost.

“Sir, that’s not Whitman College.  It’s the University of Washington.”

The old man looked at me, smiling, staring patiently as if I were actually the lost one.  But I attended classes in those buildings every weekday; I was quite certain of the name of my own university.

I’d about decided to bury my head in my book and ignore the gawking madman when his features fell.  The smile that had appeared pinned from ear to ear collapsed, and his twinkling blue eyes glazed over, dull and sober.  His next words were not that of a madman at all, rather those of a wise, seasoned soldier.

“Andy Shindler, James Kennedy, Donald Maccaby, William Whitman—they were all privates who years ago served overseas under my command.  Those men made great sacrifices in war.  Lost limbs and other body parts.  In William’s case, his life.  Their sacrifices—their losses—paid for the rights you and I and all these here people take for granted.  The right to religion and school and books and writin’ and speakin’ and makin’ choices that freedom allows us to make.  That’s why every time I see a token of such freedoms, I think of my old friends.  They are those freedoms, son.  They spilled blood for ‘em, so you may as well call ‘em by their rightful names—Andy, James, Donald, William, Logan, Jacob, Ryan, Michael, and thousands more valiant soldiers.  Don’t you ever forget it.”

My head bowed, humbled.  I finally understood. 

“I won’t forget,” I promised.

“Good boy.”

The man’s smile returned as bright as ever.  I closed the pages lying open on my lap.

“Sir, may I ask your name?”

He seemed pleased by the request and immediately shared it with me. 

“Henry Starr, First Air Cavalry.”

I pointed to the throng of children twirling, jumping, and running on a green expanse of American soil without a care or fear in the world.

“That there indomitable spirit—that’s Henry Starr.”

This story is from "Making Wishes: Quotes, Thoughts, & a Little Poetry for Every Day of the Year".