Positive Short Stories

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Chicken Soup for the Soul
Power of Positive
101 Inspirational Stories of Changing Your Life through Positive Thinking
Jack Canfield, Mark Victor Hanson, and Amy Newmark
"Becoming the Sunflower"
                                                                 page 126

Keep a green tree in your heart and perhaps a singing bird will come.          
                                  ~Chinese Proverb

I was wandering in the floral section of the supermarket in the middle of a Tuesday afternoon. I felt oddly out of place, like I was cutting school or doing something I shouldn’t be. Normally, I would be at my desk at work at this time on a weekday, but it had been months since I was laid off from my job. Normally, the heady fragrance and profusion of color would have made me happy. But this was not a normal day. I was upset and depressed that a pink slip was the thanks I got for my knowledge, loyalty, and dedication as an architectural computer draftsperson for the county school board for eight out of thirty years of my career. I felt like I had no purpose. No one needed my talents or me any longer.

Every day, I made a list of things I wanted to get done. I wanted to clean the house, organize my mountains of art supplies, and run all those errands I didn’t have time to do when I was working. I’d start those tasks, but before I could finish anything, I would either run around the living room crying loudly or curl up in a ball on the sofa in a gray mental haze and do nothing. I was so miserable that I totally ignored my husband, yelled at my kids, and pushed them all away. Months of wasted time went by in which I could have been doing something… anything.

Applying for jobs was frustrating. There were no openings for what I had been doing. I didn’t know what else I even wanted to do. I felt too tired to be interested in doing anything. I wished for something new to just plop into my lap and say, “Here you go; this is right for you.” But nothing did.

So there I was, in the floral aisle, fingering the velvety petals of an insanely bright yellow sunflower when these words suddenly popped into my mind. “Be a sunflower in the garden where you’re planted.” What did that mean? On the one hand, the sunflower was like that smiling yellow happy face logo you see everywhere… that have-a-nice-day clich√©. I certainly wasn’t in the mood for that. I was too busy wallowing in my unemployment depression. But on the other, it was as though the blossom spoke to me and planted that message in my brain. Maybe I desperately needed it to.

I had been spinning my wheels agonizing about my income, but I think my pride was hurt worse than my pocketbook. I did get meager unemployment checks. And, thank goodness, I had a husband to keep a roof over my head. I was really grateful for that.  Instead of wasting time and mental energy worrying about the bills, I realized I needed to just face the reality of it, cut non-critical expenses, and plan out the rest. When I visited my twenty-eight-year-old son at his home, I had watched him spend money on extravagances like vacations and new cars. It made me feel jealous and angry that he was so wasteful. But on reflection, I realize that we were in different circumstances and at different stages in life. He had a good, high-paying job. I had what he had when I was his age. There was no reason why he shouldn’t be enjoying his life since he could afford it. I had to learn to accept my new circumstances. There would be no more new clothes and dinners out for quite some time.

The thought about blooming where I was planted meant to me that I should make the most of what I had. It made me realize that while I did not have much money, but I did have time. There were so many things I once enjoyed that I had put off or quit doing when I was working an eight-to-five job. I loved to draw and paint, but it had been years since I had time for them. I had always liked writing, but I hadn’t had time for that in years. I had taught myself to play the flute years ago too, but it had been gathering dust. I didn’t know if I even remembered how to play a tune anymore. I had teenage kids and housework that need my attention.

It was time to become a sunflower and flourish where I was planted, in my forced retirement with the luxury of free time. I found a part-time job teaching reading, math, and art in a literacy program for low-income elementary school children at my county library. My new job is wonderfully fulfilling. It doesn’t pay all my bills, but it does bring me joy. My career is not back on track yet, but at least I feel needed again. I work four afternoons a week. Now I have time to be that sunflower.

I am writing again now and have even published a few things. That’s extremely satisfying. I put art lessons together for my students. I am on speaking terms with my husband again. And now, I feel good about helping my own kids with their schoolwork and interests. I even manage to squeak out a few tunes on my flute when the mood strikes me. Until a full-time job comes along, I love my spare time!
                                       ~Lisa Wojcik







Chicken Soup for the Soul
I Can't Believe My Cat Did That
101 Stories About the Crazy Antics of Our Feline Friends
Jack Canfield, Mark Victor Hanson, and Amy Newmark
"My Forever Cat"
                                                                          page 25

Death leaves a heartach no one can heal, love leaves a memory no one can steal.            
                                  ~From a headstone in Ireland

Snowball came to me as a Christmas gift when I was seven years old. She was part of my life until I was twenty-seven. Having a pet through all your growing-up years and into adulthood creates a remarkable bond. Snowball was a beautiful white cat with lemon-yellow eyes and a perfectly shaped pink nose. She was unique not only in her exceptionally good looks, but in her remarkable intelligence and devoted attachment to me.

When I was in elementary school, most days Snowball would follow me as I walked a mile to school. As I walked along the sidewalk, she would sneak through the shrubbery in all the front yards along the way. I could watch her from my classroom
window, playing in the school courtyard all day. She would follow me home at the end of the day in the same manner.


Our bond was so strong that whenever I was upset or sick, she would always seek me out and sit by my side, never budging, until I felt better. When I would visit a friend, she would follow me and sit on their windowsill and wait for me. Later, in high school when I started driving to school, she would wait on the porch for me. She recognized my car and would run to greet me at the curb.

Snowball was a neighborhood sensation because of the way she loved to ride in the front basket of my bike and go trick-or-treating with my group of friends on Halloween. Sometimes, she would sit all day, obliviously basking in the sun in the middle of our street, forcing the neighbors to give up waiting and tapping their horns only to patiently laugh and drive around her.

She was remarkably courageous and fierce, too. Snowball loved to chase straying large German Shepherds and Sheepdogs out of our yard like a rodeo rider. We laughed as she rode on their backs, claws dug in, as they galloped, yelping for mercy all the way down the street.

Snowball eventually became a devoted mother of two litters. I was the only human she trusted to handle her babies right after their birth.

When I grew up and moved across the country I took her with me. Even at the advanced age of nineteen years, she was so youthful and full of energy that she chased after lizards on my apartment patio by running horizontally up the walls.

I cannot relate the details of her untimely illness and death because, even to this day, so many years later, it breaks my heart to think about that chapter of our lives. She lived to the age of twenty, but doubtlessly, she would have lived many more years if not for certain circumstances.

I was so devastated by the loss of my feline soul mate that it took me eleven years before I could accept another cat into my life. And during those years, I had this strong feeling that somehow, somewhere, she was still close by. It was a pervasive feeling that she was still with me, that her spirit was omnipresent and watching me.

I still have her ashes in a tea tin that I keep in a box in my closet. I couldn’t bury her, for I did not know where I would be living years later and did not want to leave her behind and far away from me.
Two years after Snowball’s death, my first child, Nicholas, was born. By the time he was two years old he was already gifted spiritually. I did believe he had amazing clairvoyant talent. For example, I would be sitting, writing out a grocery list, and thinking that I needed strawberries. And at that moment, my eighteen-month-old son would come toddling over and say, “Mommy, don’t forget strawberries!”

One day, he was playing on the floor inside my closet. When he came out, I asked, “Nicky, what are you doing in there, sweetie?”

My son said, “Mommy, I’m playing with a pretty white cat!”

It took me completely by surprise. I had never mentioned Snowball’s existence to Nick. I asked him, “What is a cat doing in my closet, Nicky?”

He replied, “She said that she’s watching over you, Mommy.”
                      
                                        ~Lisa Wojcik






Chicken Soup for the Soul
Messages from Heaven
101 Miraculous Stories of Signs from Beyond,
Amazing Connections, and Love that Doesn't Die

Jack Canfield, Mark Victor Hanson, and Amy Newmark
"One Last Visit Before the Light"
                                                                page 201
Life is eternal and love is immortal;
And death is only a horizon,
And a horizon is nothing save the limit of our sight.
~Rossiter W. Raymond


I was driving home from work and I felt troubled. I was thinking that we should have gone to Phoenix on Memorial Day, but I had just started a new job so we hadn’t gone. My mother-in-law had been diagnosed with breast cancer shortly after our wedding and given six months to live. But with good doctors and care in Phoenix, she was still alive three years later. Natalie, at sixty-three, was a tiny four-foot-something, gentle, loving woman. Her favorite poem to quote ended with, “Love in your heart wasn’t put there to stay. Love isn’t love ’till you give it away.” She loved her three grandchildren with every fiber of her being. She was thrilled when I had Nicholas; she just couldn’t get enough of him.
My in-laws made a habit of summering in San Diego to escape the Arizona heat and to be near us, except this summer. Natalie instead asked us to bring Nicky to Phoenix over Memorial Day weekend. She didn’t tell us how sick she was, not wanting us to worry. But if we had known, we would have gone.
            It was 4:45 p.m. I had stopped briefly at home and was about to go to the sitter’s house to get Nicky when the phone rang. It was my sister-in-law. “Lisa, I’m glad I caught you,” Helaine said in a voice choked with grief. “Mom just passed away at 4:30. Marcia and I were with her at the hospital. Can you guys come?”
             “Sure,” I reassured her. “I’ll call the airline and get the baby. We’ll be there as soon as we can.”
              Minutes later, I arrived at the babysitter’s house. Dee-dee, a Navy wife, ran a home day care to keep busy while her husband was away at sea. It was a perfect place for Nicky. Dee-dee was sensitive and caring, treating her day care kids as her own. But today, Dee-dee was pale and visibly shaken when she answered the door.
               “What’s wrong, Dee?” I asked as I stepped inside. I felt an immediate tingling of panic for my son.
                “It’s Nicky. He did something strange a few minutes ago,” Dee-dee replied nervously. “He was sitting out back in the sandbox, playing with his favorite truck. All of a sudden, he dropped it and looked up -- at nothing, just up at the air, the sky, for a minute. And he said, ‘Bye-bye, Grandma. Bye-bye, Grandma. Bye-bye,’ three times, just like that. Then, I got the eeriest feeling,” she said, rubbing her upper arms with her hands.  "I felt like I was being watched by something. I ran out there and picked him up and brought him inside. "
                  I felt a flush of heat rush over my body and face. Dee-dee continued, “I knew you were probably on your way because I looked at the clock there in the kitchen and it was 4:30. But why he was saying ‘Grandma’, I don’t know.”
                  “Oh, Lord,” I said, rushing over and grabbing Nicky off the floor. “My mother-inlaw just passed away in Phoenix. I just got the call before I drove here.”
                   Dee-dee put her hand on the wall to steady herself. She was a devout Baptist and regular churchgoer. “Praise Jesus, Amen!” Dee-dee shouted. “Praise the Lord, Jesus! It was her spirit!”
                    It was obvious early on that my son was gifted. I know most parents think their kids are gifted, but Nicky always hit his milestones before he normally should. By eighteen months old, he was fully conversational. You could ask him questions and get complete, coherent answers.
                    I sat the tiny boy on the sofa in the living room. Kneeling beside him, I asked Nicky why he said goodbye to his grandmother. He matter-of-factly explained that she had come to see him because she was going away. He said that she told him she loved him very much and wanted to see him. I asked him where Grandma was. He pointed, indicating the backyard. “She was outside, over there, floating in the air.”  Then I asked if Grandma did anything. Nick said, “Grandma talked, but not out loud. She talked in that little voice inside my head. She said, ‘I love you,’ and she wanted to kiss me, but she couldn’t.”
“Why?” I asked.
             “Because, she had blood on her mouth,” he said. “And then she went up to the clouds.”
              Dee-dee blanched. I tried to keep a calm exterior, not showing the alarm I felt. I didn’t want Nick to cry; I wanted answers.
              “And what did Grandma look like?” I queried further.
               Nick explained in his “big man” voice, “She was wearing a dress with little flowers all over it and she had wires on her arms.”
               Dee-dee and I were dumbfounded. Natalie so much wanted to see him before she passed over that she came to him before going to the Light. I believe that distance and time are immaterial for the spirit once it leaves the body. She wanted to see her grandson and let him know of her love.
               My husband and I got to Phoenix later that night. We were at my father-in-law’s home with my husband’s sisters. I recounted the story about Nicky and Natalie. A stunned silence fell over the family. Helaine said that at the time of death, her mom was wearing a hospital gown with tiny blue flowers on it and she had intravenous tubes in her arms. A therapist took her respirator out, tearing her lip slightly in the process. “She had a little trickle of blood on the corner of her mouth,” Helaine said, stunned. “But how…”
                My father-in-law realized how Nick knew. Nine years earlier, Bob had a massive cardiac arrest and near-death experience. He spent years reading about and researching these experiences, and taught us all about the spirit’s ability to travel and the Light of God that one crosses into at the time of death. Bob made us firmly believe, “Death is the gate of life. It’s not an end. The soul goes on.” And Natalie showed us that.
                                          ~Lisa Wojcik
Want to read 100 more true stories like this one?
Buy the book at: 
http://www.amazon.com/s/ref=nb_sb_noss_1?url=search-alias%3Daps&field-keywords=Messages+from+Heaven
 Published by Chicken Soup for the Soul Publishing LLC
            February 2012                        ISBN: 978-1-935096-91-7
******

Three More Messages from Heaven-type Stories:

The Keys



“Did I ever tell you that about a week after Dad died, Mom went down the driveway to get the morning paper and somehow locked herself out of the house?” my cousin Beth said to me.  It was a cold and rainy March day in the suburbs of Cleveland -- and there weren't any of the neighbors around that possibly still had a spare key.  Anita was nearly panicking when she put her hand into the pocket of her hoodie and felt a set of keys in there...my Uncle Adam's keys. 



My Uncle Adam was 90 and had a complex mixture of health problems that cause him a rapid decline.  Adam was fit and energetic at 89 when I last visited him at his sprawling house Ohio, and then one problem started and became compounded by another.  So, my Aunt Anita had put his keys into a little leather box on his dresser when he started the whole hospital and nursing-home-go-round a year before he died.  By the end of the year Adam expressed that he was resigned and ready to accept hospice care.  Three days later, it was over. 



When I visited again and talked with her after the memorial, Anita said, “I’m fine here by myself, really.  I have plenty to keep me busy.”  She kept up a brave exterior that she could cope with being alone in the big house.  Beth came by every weekend to help her with sorting things out, but she insisted on doing her own shopping, cooking, and daily routine tasks.



It was just a momentary lapse, just one of those things that could happen to anyone.  But Anita was 88 years old, and was not within walking distance of help that day.  Owing to the weather, it was a small error that could have spelled disaster.



So, how did those keys get into my aunt’s pocket?  I think Adam somehow put them there.  Beth and I truly feel that Adam was watching over her those first few weeks after he passed away, just to make sure she was handling things okay.

© 2011 L.W.

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I So Want to See Her Again

Every few months I see a Grandma Dora clone walking around.  I have to stop and stare.  My grandmother meant the world to me.  Back in my teenage years when I started to realize the mortality of my elders, I remember thinking that I did not know how I could ever go on living without my grandma.  That was forty years ago.  Okay, there was a real wake-up call for me one evening. 

I don't believe in "Heaven" per se, it's just that you wish so badly that you could be with them again that you imagine your loved one in Heaven just hovering above, looking down at you.  You want some tidbit of contact so bad it’s an insatiable hunger.  For years after Grandma Dora died, it was an obsession.  I wished that I could just pick up the phone one day and it would be her voice on the other end.  In fact, one day that did sort of happen.  An unknown elderly woman who sounded just like Grandma Dora called my number by accident. 

She asked for someone else and then realizing her mistake, she said, “Oops, sorry dear, I have the wrong number.” 

I said, “But wait!  Grandma……?” Click, buzz.

Like I said, from time to time, I have spied an elderly woman from behind, heavy-set with my grandma’s same snow-white wavy hair and same style of cotton house-dress.  I would follow her doggedly until I could get around in front of her, only to meet with resounding disappointment when her face was not the right one.

Oh yes, the wake up call. A few months ago, we were sitting in a homey barbeque restaurant in Deland.  From across the room, I spotted that clone again, a woman that looked just like Grandma Dora.  But this time, it was good from the front view too.  She looked so very much like her that I pointed it out to my husband, Rob, and my two teenage boys.  I sat there through the whole meal staring intently at her and smiling this big cheesy loving smile, like I was high on something.  I probably should have gone over to her and explained because she kept nervously glancing back at me every so often.  Most likely, she was thinking that I was some kind of nut case. 

Well, the point is, my grandmother is gone from this earth in the form that I knew her.  She still lives on though in my mind and heart – and I’m doing fine with only her memory.
© 2011 L.W.
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 My Son Is My Dad



I truly believe my son is my late father.  Reincarnation became a reality for me when my third son was born.  Reincarnation, belief in an individual dying, then being reborn into another body, is not new or faddish.  It’s been a part of some religions for 3,000 years.  Hindus, believe that an enduring soul survives after death, spending some time in another realm before entering a new body.  Hinduism also includes the concept of Karma.  This is the idea that one's conduct in previous lives determines the physical form and station in life into which one is reborn.  I wholeheartedly believe in the possibility of souls hovering in limbo, not in our world, but maybe in another dimension which may exist all around us here and now, before they find a new body.



Early on, Damien began exhibiting striking similarity in personality and interests.  He showed great artistic talent from the time he could hold a crayon.  My father was a well-known and respected architect and abstract artist.  As many young children do these days, my son had an incredible passion for dinosaurs.  I have always called him “little scientist” for his strong interest in anything science-related.   Dad majored in Chemistry in high school, with the intent on making that his career before changing to architecture.   Damien and Dad had always displayed rather aggressive personalities, both very competitive and needing to win.



The most telling characteristic my son has that fuels my conviction is his obsessive interest in anything about World War 2.  It’s certainly not uncommon for boys to like toy soldiers, play war games, or read battle stories.  But, I wondered why my eight year-old was so engrossed with models, books, and television shows about Hitler’s defeat and the Pacific theater battles.  Dad was a bombardier over the Pacific, a US Army Air Corps lieutenant, during the War.  That was the most memorable time of his life.  He never tired of telling his war recollections to anyone would listen, being tremendously proud of his years of service.



Damien knows of my belief that he is my father’s reincarnate.  He does not take it seriously, so I tease him lightheartedly whenever he does or says something that is typically like Dad.  Damien usually responds with an annoyed, “M-o-m!” which would be typical for Dad -- to be annoyed by ribbing. 



The catch is that Damien never heard any of these stories.  Dad passed away before Damien was born.  They never spoke to each other and never met.  Curiously, an article I read on reincarnation, stated that research on discovered cases found that previous lives were commonly recent with the average time between the death of one body and birth of the next being around fifteen months.  My Dad died November 23, 1997 and Damien was born February 24, 1999, exactly fifteen months.



Dad died at age 80.  During his illness, we were not on good terms, in fact, the worst.  He was a drinker with a temper.  We always had a contentious relationship as I was growing up, even into my early adult years.  I felt that he disliked who I was.  There were always conditions to be met for everything he did for me.  My mother died a year earlier than him, and that event caused much conflict between Dad, my sisters, and me.  The family had pretty much detonated.  Since I was local, I had to care for Dad, even though he took my sisters' side in our arguments.



Toward the end, we talked and he finally realized that I was the truthful one.  He forgave me, but by then, it was too late to right the wrongs and undo some legal entanglements that my sister had led him into against me.  He was absolutely distraught over not being able to make it up to me and fix things.  At 5 a.m. the next morning, Dad died.  My father had been terrified of dying and giving up control of his surroundings and family.  He did not want to go and leave me like this, and he did not go serenely.  It was awful when I found him.  The nurse had trouble closing his eyes and smoothing away the look of horror that was frozen on his face.



Recently, while on a road trip, I stopped by the Spiritualist town of Cassadaga in Central Florida.  Most of the town’s residents are professional psychics, tarot readers, or Spiritualists.  Damien and I went to see a past-life tarot reader.  I decided to test my theory of our reincarnation situation, wanting either confirmation or denial to settle the matter.



Sandlewood incense permeated the small shop.  Kayla was a friendly average woman, not the stereotypical gypsy fortuneteller one would imagine.  I briefly explained why we wanted this type of reading, trying not to give away leading information.  I wanted to be sure she was genuine.  Kayla showed us into a cramped, darkened room behind a curtain.  Drawing the curtain closed and seating herself on the opposite side of the tiny table with a flickering candle on it, she explained how a reading is done.  She informed us, “Often the same souls can keep revolving around in different roles in the same family grouping, so what you are asking about is not uncommon.”



Immediately, she told Damien, “You are a good artist and you are studying science, marine biology.”  We both sucked in a breath.  Damien just won a scholarship competition to art camp and is attending marine science middle school.  She dealt the cards and paused, meditating for a moment.  Flipping a few cards around she spoke, “Damien is your brother.  He might have been your father’s son in another generation of both of their lives.  Damien learned things from him then.”



It was true.  I did have a brother, but not even for a day.  My mother gave birth to a stillborn boy when I was eight years old.  Our whole family was deeply affected by the loss.  I wonder if Damien was that boy then or in a previous lifetime.  But, I do not think Kayla got it quite right.  Why would Damien be so engrossed with World War 2 if he had not experienced it as my father?  If he was my stillborn brother, how would he learn things, unless his soul hung around with Dad for years?



I am convinced that Damien is my Dad, not from wishful thinking that he is still with me, but because of the abject fear and regret for unresolved issues my father had at the time of his death.  We made amends before Dad died, but he felt greatly agonized to leave me without setting things fully right.



In the karmic scheme of things, I think my father came back as my son, not just to be with me, but to learn from mistakes he made as my father.  By reversing parent-child roles, he can now see our relationship from the other perspective.  I will model for him what I needed my dad to be.  Lessons I learned from being his daughter were to not put conditions on love toward my child and to make him feel loved for who he is. 

© 2011 L.W.
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Getting to WoodstockSo Close, Yet So Far
Some called it the Dawning of the Age of Aquarius, some called it the second Summer of Love. I called it the Summer of Discovery. It was a time I discovered many things and embarked on the long journey of understanding who and where I was.

Holiday Ranch was a summer camp for girls. Nestled in the small, rural town of South Kortright in upstate New York’s Catskill Mountains, the camp specialized in horseback riding. It was run by a kind, elderly couple known to us campers as Aunt Kelly and Uncle Joe. I was 15 in 1969.  Three other girls about my age and I were hired on for the summer as counselors-in-training.  Our jobs were to be camp counselors' assistants or gofers. As CITs, we had to take the little kids on hikes in the woods, teach boating safety and rowing, bus tables, and serve food in the dining hall. Those were my first responsibilities in life outside of school and household chores.

We spent our days riding horses, going on barefoot hikes in the creek up the mountain, catching snakes, and melting crayons to cover Coke bottles in drippy, psychedelic, colored wax. The CITs also liked hanging out together inside the concrete culvert pipe under the road. There, in our private meeting spot, we practiced smoking cigarettes without coughing, and drank our first cans of Pabst Blue Ribbon, given to us by the hunky maintenance man that lived on the property. The four of us would frequently spend all night laying out under the stars, ostensibly to watch the meteor showers, but really to spy on the hunky handyman, his wife, and their friends. We watched them, shushing each other‘s titillated giggles, from the shadows as they cavorted and swam naked in the camp pool when they thought no one was watching. It was a summer of discovering grown up things.

One day, we heard on the radio all about this fantastic Woodstock concert happening in White Lake, a town only a short distance away. When I heard the list of bands scheduled to play there, I thought my entire record collection would come to life on stage. And that started all the plotting and planning.

Our little group sat in the culvert and discussed how we would simply have to take Aunt Kelly and Uncle Joe's Ford Falcon and drive there. We quickly figured out it would be tricky to get the key from the house – if we even knew where they kept it.  It soon dawned on us that none of us had driver’s licenses or even knew how to drive. Being from Long Island and Connecticut, no one in our group had any clue exactly where White Lake was – only that it was tantalizingly close by. We figured it was about ten miles away, but in what direction? We heard newscasters on the radio declare, "The New York State Thruway's closed, man!" So, in our fifteen-year-old brains, that meant all the roads in the area were jammed.  And maybe they were.  After that, we thought, "Ah-ha! We'll just saddle up four horses and ride there!" We could ride across the fields and up mountain trails, avoiding roads to get there. But then the sinking feeling of reality hit. We had no idea which way to go. And even if we did, Kelly and Joe would surely call the police about the stolen horses and the missing campers, or worse yet... They would call our parents!

It was killing us that we considered ourselves part of the hippy culture, but we were trapped in a summer camp like goofy kids. It was frustrating that we were so close, yet so far, from where we wanted to be both physically and mentally.  And so we resigned ourselves to our cracking transistor radio.  We made do with snippets of music and concert news from the center of the universe, from the Dawning of the Age of Aquarius.

We smoked and drank ourselves dizzy in the culvert.  We flirted with the handsome, young, but married handyman.  And we ran barefoot through the soft forest and fields for the rest of that summer. Every time I hear a piece of music from that momentous concert, it still brings back indelible memories and tangible feelings of those warm, easy last days of carefree innocence on the brink of hipness.
© 2010 L.W.
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True Tale of Good Karma Consciousness

TBA


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Soulmate



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