Story 1 A Snowstorm to Remember By Ardy Barclay ~Rick Mercer It began as a typical January day. The grey skies were heavy with snow and a brisk northerly wind played havoc with the drifts in front of Valleyview School. I was in my first year of teaching and had no idea that this approaching snowstorm would change my life forever. When gentle snow began falling the principal kept a careful eye on the brewing storm. It soon took on qualities of something more vicious. By mid-day he called the school buses back so the three hundred kids could get home safely before it was too late. My students gathered their belongings. They were excited to be going home early. Snow days are not uncommon in the snowbelt region of southwestern Ontario. Its the lake effect from Lake Huron, were told, which delivers more than our fair share of winter storms. The buses arrived but the storm suddenly escalated before the waiting kids could board and it was quickly clear no one was going anywhere any time soon. Snow fell relentlessly, whirling and whipping itself into treacherous whiteout conditions. Gusts of wind blasted the school windows with such a fury we feared they would shatter. Menacing snowdrifts wafted in silently under the doors. By now the bus drivers and a couple of snowplow operators whod been forced off the road were discussing the situation. There were over three hundred children, staff, bus and snowplow drivers barricaded inside the school. As night approached and the storm showed no signs of abating, we realized we were prisoners until Mother Nature decided to release us from her grasp. None of us guessed it would be three days before the storm relented enough for us to finally go home. We faced some basic questions. What would we feed several hundred children for dinner? Where would they sleep? Earl, our school janitor, began working non-stop to keep the old groaning furnace running, but what if it quit? Concerned about the old pipes freezing, he wrapped them with whatever material he could find. With our hydro lines swaying under the increasing weight of ice and snow in heavy winds, what would we do if we lost power? A plan was definitely needed. After every parent was called to reassure them their children were safe, a few silent prayers were said, and then people who lived close enough to brave the elements were called and asked if they could help. Soon, a handful of people had managed to wade through the heavy drifts and blinding snow bringing bags of sandwiches, tinned juices, blankets and a couple of board games. One woman, who lived right on the edge of the school property, bundled herself up and trudged through the blinding snow with a huge kettle and enough ingredients to make tomato soup for at least half of the school. Those who didnt get soup feasted on peanut butter and jam sandwiches delivered by someone else. There wasnt a lot of food, but everything was shared, no one went hungry, and no one complained. When night fell we worked out sleeping arrangements for the kids. Exhausted by the tensions of the day, most of them slept relatively well on the carpeted floors, drifting off to sleep under coats and donated blankets. I watched with a warm heart as three little first grade girls snuggled up under my own large, furry coat. Some of the older girls acted like it was a huge pajama party, snuggling, giggling and telling stories as if nothing unusual was happening. Finally, they too gave in to sleep. It became an adventure; no one seemed homesick or even upset about having to stay at school overnight. The next morning the treks down the long, cold hallway to the washrooms began early. On hall duty, I watched as two little boys in grade one walked down the corridor hand in hand. Jason turned to Jamie and said, I wonder what were having for breakfast? Jamie, in wide-eyed innocence replied, Eggs and bacon, of course. Thats what I always have! Well, it wasnt eggs and bacon, but instead a piece of soft toast broiled in the school oven with half a cup of lukewarm cocoa. The bread had been retrieved from a stranded bread truck and delivered to the school by several young men on snowmobiles who were eager to help out however they could. With their parkas and helmets and all those hungry children to attend to, I didnt notice, but one of them noticed me as he trudged back and forth loaded with donations. My life was about to change. Meanwhile, although the storm continued to bluster, it gradually began to diminish. As it did, some fathers began arriving on snowmobiles to collect their children. One man, well bundled against the elements, arrived on an open tractor pulling a small covered trailer to carry home his kids as well as every other kid that lived along his concession. As the day progressed our numbers slowly dwindled. We kept those who remained busy playing basketball and volleyball in the gym, watching films or reading in the library. On the morning of the third day we awoke to the sun shining in a clear blue sky. With the roads now plowed, the last of our students were soon safely on their way home, and all the staff breathed a sigh of relief. We had survived three days of the worst storm on record for our region in the past century. But what might have been a disaster had instead resulted in a strengthening of bonds — first between the community and our school, but especially between the teachers and students. When the principal finally gave the teachers the go ahead to return home, I headed out to my car and went to start it. Thats when I was approached by one of the snowmobilers who had delivered bread from the stranded bread truck. He opened my passenger door, introduced himself as Bob, and asked me if I was planning to go somewhere. Home of course, I responded with a laugh. Well, he said, after three days of sitting in a raging blizzard, your car is not likely going to start. Then he continued, saying that as he had been going in and out of our school bringing supplies, he had noticed me. He also admitted that by speaking with some of my co-workers he had learned I was unattached. I had to admit that because I had been so busy with my young charges I hadnt paid much attention. Besides I laughed, most of the time your faces were totally covered with toques and helmets. Undeterred by my initial indifference he asked me if I would go on a date with him sometime. Whether I was too exhausted to say no to his boldness, or whether there was a certain twinkle in his deep blue eyes, I really dont know. I accepted his offer, but it was June before we managed to go on that first date. When we finally did, we got along so well and shared so many common interests it seemed as if wed known each other forever. Romance blossomed quickly. Soon we were engaged, and in November, less than five months later, we were married. Throughout the years we have weathered many storms together, but that first storm was the one we both remember. Who could have guessed that the storm of a lifetime would have brought me the love of my life... Story 2 Alone By Carol Elaine Harrison Be yourself; everyone else is already taken. ~Oscar Wilde How was school today? I asked my youngest daughter as she walked in the door. The sad look on her face and in her eyes gave me the answer before she spoke these words: Why doesnt anyone want to be my friend? After two years in our small town we had begun to know a few people. Yet even though Amee had already spent those years with the same group of students no one from her class chose to get to know her and become her friend. Amee walked to and from school alone. She played alone at recess and ate alone at lunch since no one in her class wanted her around. No one picked her to be on their team in gym class or for class projects. There were no after-school homework groups or fun times, no birthday party invitations, no sleepovers with the girls, no one to whisper secrets and dreams to. Her classmates simply excluded her. She just wanted to be accepted, to belong to a group, to have some friends. In her loneliness she begged me to talk to the teacher. Mom, help them understand why I need help. Tell them I just want to be friends. I try my best. Thinking Amee had a great idea I talked to the teacher but her reply made us sad. No, we dont need to tell the students anything about her disabilities. You know how mean children can be. This will only single her out. Then, some of the girls began yelling at her to quit staring at them. They didnt realize the staring indicated that Amee was having an absence spell seizure and not simply staring to be rude. Some of her classmates tried to push her aside so they could spend time with her teacher assistant. Occasionally some of the girls said mean things that hurt her feelings and once they even pushed her. Each day my daughter came home sad. She became so frustrated she did not want to go to school anymore. She begged me to talk to the teacher again. I did but the teacher refused to change her mind. No matter how sad and hurt Amee felt, she continued to treat her classmates kindly, even the ones who tormented her, hoping they would become her friends. Finally school finished for the summer. The holiday meant visits to her older sisters, which she looked forward to. Summer holidays meant time with grandma and grandpa whom she loved very much. This summer meant being a junior attendant at her oldest sisters wedding. This summer meant time away from those who chose to exclude her, tease her and hurt her. As summer drew to a close and the start of school drew closer Amee began to beg, Mom, please talk to the new teacher. Maybe shell let you talk to the kids. Theyll all be the same. I dont know why they dont like me. Tell them why I sometimes stare. Tell them why I need help. If you help them understand maybe theyll be my friends this year. It hurt to see her so fearful about the new school year. This years teacher agreed to let me talk to both grade six classrooms during health class. I planned my presentation. I checked with Amee to see what she thought. She smiled, hoping this year would bring friendships and fun. She remained convinced that a talk to the class would change everything. On the day of the presentation, Amees lopsided ponytail bounced as she rushed to school with a smile on her face. Later that morning I gave my talk to the students. Put the hand you use all the time on your desk. Once every student had one hand on the desk I continued. Now put that hand in your lap or behind your back. You cant use it for the rest of the class no matter what you have to do. They had fun trying to print and then write their names. I assigned the second task and stood back to watch the students problem-solve their way through tying shoelaces. Some students began working in pairs to have two hands available for the job. Some attempted it on their own and frustration soon showed on their faces and in their actions. Finally one boy put up his hand and said, I cant do this with one hand. I need help. The rest of his classmates nodded in agreement. I began to simply explain brain injury, cerebral palsy and epilepsy to the class. I personalized all the information by sharing Amees story. Cerebral palsy affected her right side especially her hand and arm. The hand and arm would not work the way their hands worked but her leg functioned well enough to allow her to run races with Special Olympics. I explained the small absence spell seizures that mimicked staring and how medication did not always work as well as it should. Brain damage due to the stroke she suffered at birth caused both these conditions, as well as learning disabilities, which meant she needed more time and lots of repetition and help to learn simple lessons. I ended with an object lesson especially for the girls in the class. I asked them to put their hair in a ponytail with only one hand and then change their earrings. The girls looked at me and then at the very crooked ponytail Amee had accomplished on her own. One girl shouted, So thats why her ponytail is always messy. Another girl said, Thats not fair. Shes had lots of practice. Weve never tried that. I smiled as I watched awareness show in the faces of her classmates. Maybe this new understanding would make a difference in attitudes and actions. Maybe Amees idea would work. Changes began to take place. Some of her classmates asked her to be in their group for class projects. Some included her at recess and noon hours. They quit yelling about her staring and began to acknowledge her need for a teacher assistant. They excitedly cheered for her when she ran her races with Special Olympics and helped celebrate her abilities. Total change takes time. Amee still walked home alone after school. No birthday invitations or sleepover invitations arrived. But knowledge provided more understanding. Meanness and exclusion decreased during the school day. Amee started to feel like she belonged and enjoyed going to school. She remained convinced that friendships would follow. Story 3 My Bad Reputation By Dette Corona A lie may take care of the present, but it has no future. ~Author Unknown Every day after school my parents made me sit and write... I will not tell a lie! I will not tell a lie! I repeated the sentence over and over until my hand felt as if it might fall off. It was the middle of third grade and I am not sure what had gotten into me. I lied for no reason at all and about the dumbest things. I lied that I had eaten all my dinner, when in fact I buried it in the bottom of the trashcan. I lied that I had made my bed, when clearly by entering my room it was obvious I had not. I lied that I had brushed my teeth; with a quick check it was obvious the toothbrush wasnt even wet. My lies were not hurting anyone, but for some reason I felt the need to say things that were not so. My parents tried everything to understand why I felt the need to make up stuff. I was grounded; I was watched closely so that I did what I was supposed to do, I was talked to and lectured while they tried to get to the bottom of where my poor behavior was coming from. Was I looking for attention? As the middle child, maybe I wanted attention I wasnt getting. I soon realized the new attention I was getting was horrible. I was labeled a liar and my parents did not trust me. I promised to stop telling lies. A few days later my sisters and I were invited to spend the weekend with my aunt. We all loved the times we were invited to Aunt Kims house. She did not have children of her own so she spoiled us with her time. Not much of a cook, she gave us the perfect food for a third grader — hot dogs and macaroni and cheese. She took us roller-skating at a park with a long path and she was an amazing artist so arts and crafts were a big part of our afternoons. She had cool pencils, erasers and other supplies that any young girl would love to get her hands on. The day finally arrived for the fun to begin. As my parents dropped us off and visited a few minutes they made it a point to tell my aunt to keep an eye on me and to not let me fall back into my world of silly lies. I was embarrassed and angry but when they pulled out of the driveway I forgot all about their lecture. Then it happened... sometime that day someone took one of Aunt Kims good art erasers and rubbed it across the entire top of the TV. The eraser ruined the shiny finish on the TVs casing. When Aunt Kim discovered the destruction all three of us were called into the TV room and asked to confess. Nobody did! Boy was she mad. I had never seen that side of her. She told us how disappointed she was and that someone would have to take responsibility. Again, nobody said a word. The next thing I knew she was on the phone with my parents and they were on their way to pick me up. It had to be me! I was the liar. No amount of protesting could convince any of them that I had not committed the crime. I was taken home and sent to my room for the rest of the day. I begged and pleaded my case, but no one listened. Why would they? I had been telling lies for the past few weeks so of course it had to be me. I stayed in my room the rest of that day thinking of all the things my sisters were getting to do without me. I was labeled a liar and now I sat alone with nothing to do. My parents finally let me out for dinner. And then there was a knock at the front door! Aunt Kim was standing there. I could not believe it. I was sure she and my sisters were already watching a movie from her big collection. Why had she come? It turns out my younger sister finally felt guilty! She confessed that she was the one who rubbed the eraser on the TV. Aunt Kim had come to get me. I was invited back! Funny, I dont even remember being mad at my sister. I learned a valuable lesson about lying. No matter how big or small your lies, once you are labeled a liar earning trust takes a lot of work and time. I promised myself right then and there to never lie again. By Mitali Ruths Story 4 A single rose can be my garden... a single friend, my world. ~Leo Buscaglia When we moved to Canada, I left behind a lifetime of friends and the eternal Texas summer. My definition of winter was the weeks between Thanksgiving and New Years. After we packed up the plastic evergreen garlands and twinkling lights on January 2nd I just assumed it was summer again. Then I moved to Montreal, where winter lasts between four and five months of the year. During the first real winter of my life, staring out my living room window at the snow at the end of March, I felt like I was on the surface of the moon, far away from everyone I loved. I was a new mom in a new city. I didnt know many people, and I didnt have any friends except for my husband, who was at work, and my baby, whod just learned to crawl. One day, tired of being shut in, I decided to visit a yarn shop. I thought a hobby would give me something to enjoy and offer a way to meet new people. Knitting seemed like a good choice in a place where winter lasted so much of the year. I Googled directions, got ready, bundled up my daughter, and headed outside. It took me a while to find the place the first time. I eventually found the right street, but then passed by the yarn shop on the corner. Just as I might have passed by it a second time, I noticed an appliqué quilt in a corner window that said Ariadne Knits. Inside, a woman sat knitting on a canvas sofa. As it turns out, her name was Molly Ann, not Ariadne. After I came in that first time, stomped the snow off my boots, and took them off by the door, Molly Ann immediately invited me to sit down on her sofa while she made me a cup of warm tea. It felt like Id stumbled into her living room instead of a shop. The radio was playing The Beatles. The space was bright and cheery. My daughter had fallen asleep during our walk from the metro to the store. I was so grateful to sit quietly and drink some tea. Molly Ann was easy to talk to, like a good therapist or minister or girlfriend. We just started chatting. I asked about the shops name. She told me that Ariadne is a woman from Greek mythology who gave a hero named Theseus a ball of yarn before he entered the labyrinth of a monster called the Minotaur. That way, Theseus could unwind the yarn as he went in and follow the strand back out after he slew the Minotaur. The whole afternoon passed by. Molly Ann held my daughter for a few minutes, led me through a maze of shelves stacked with skeins, and helped me pick out yarn for a little baby cardigan. Do you really think I can knit a sweater? I asked doubtfully as I followed her back to the cozy sitting area. The task sounded impossibly difficult. Sure you can, she told me. She offered to help me if I ran into any trouble. I came back the next day, apologizing as she untangled the yarn. No worries, Molly Ann said, quickly fixing my mistake. She told me, in her honest straightforward style, that my daughter and I could come back at any time and stay as long as we liked. I started going to the shop regularly once or twice a week. The snow melted. Spring came, then summer. My daughter learned how to walk and began saying her first words. Molly Ann always looked happy to see us come through the shop door. She kept a basket of toys next to the sofa and put the sharp needles out of reach. Gradually, Molly Ann and I became friends. We got together outside the shop. We shared stories. We got to know each other. She watched over my daughter when my husband and I looked like we needed a night out. When I got pregnant a second time, Molly Ann let my toddler spend a few afternoons at the shop while I went to my doctors appointments. Just after I delivered my second baby, Molly Ann decided, after a lot of soul searching and thoughtful deliberation, to close Ariadne. The yarn shop was taking up too much of her time, and she just realized that shed be happier doing something different with her life. She wanted knitting to be a pleasure, not a job. She held a sale and a closing party. As we left the store that final night, I felt a wave of nostalgia. Yet even though the appliqué quilt was taken down from the window, I have Molly Ann as a friend for all seasons. Weve helped each other untangle the strands in our lives and escape from our personal labyrinths. Sometimes, Ive discovered, even after youve faced the monster inside, it takes another person to help you see your way back to the sunlight. At overwhelming and vulnerable moments as a young mother in a strange new city, when I felt lonely and homesick and trapped, Molly Ann kept me from unraveling. She became my girlfriend and she knew just what to do. She made me a warm cup of tea and sat down to listen. By Ross Greenwood Story 5 There are only two ways to live your life. One is as though nothing is a miracle. The other is as though everything is a miracle. ~Albert Einstein It was just another typical Canadian winter day; the falling snow blocked out the sun creating a dark, drab morning. The wind challenged the car to keep its course and, in the end, joined the other forces of winter — slippery roads, poor visibility and slush to take our little Neon off course. Hows my driving? Do you feel safe? Should I turn back? No, my wife Jennifer replied, I really want to see this show in Toronto. I have faith in your driving. We were coming down the hill at Cookstown, southbound on the four-lane 400 highway, notorious in winter. Suddenly there was a noticeable increase in the force of snow whipping against the windshield. Inside, the car began to fog up, so I ran my finger down the side of the windshield to see if defrost was needed. It was just a couple of seconds but thats all it took. When I turned my attention back to the road, I felt the car stagger slightly to the left and then to the right. As if watching from a distance, as if shock had removed all emotions, calmly I said to Jennifer, Were going to hit that bus. We were in the far left lane; the bus was in the middle. Our little Neon slid into the side of the bus about midpoint. Suddenly Jennifer was cheek-to-cheek with the side of the bus. She screamed in horror. Bouncing off the bus, our car then ricocheted onto the barrier in the middle of the highway. I hung on to the steering wheel and waited for whatever was to be our fate. From the barrier we rebounded back to the side of the bus. Jennifer shrieked. Then back to the guardrail again. On our third return, the bus had moved far enough ahead that we just caught the rear bumper, which caused the car to spin 180 degrees so we were now facing oncoming traffic. All I could see through the snow were the headlights of a transport truck bearing down on us. There was nothing I could do but wait to be demolished. Jennifer whispered to herself, I guess this is how it feels just before you die. I wonder if it hurts. In that instant, before I could panic, I heard a voice inside my head. Relax, let go and everything will be alright. So I took my hand off the steering wheel, took a deep breath and just sat there. By the grace of God, we somehow ended up on the side of the road facing in the right direction in our now beat up Neon. Since the car was not completely off the road, I restarted it and moved us safely onto the shoulder. It then stalled again, never to restart. We were not hurt at all. A tow truck driving by stopped and after hooking us up, brought us back to town. I dont know how the transport truck missed running us down, and I dont know where that voice inside came from, but to both Jennifer and me it was a miracle. It was some force from somewhere that looked down at that moment and, after telling me to relax and let go, somehow rearranged the traffic on that cold, snowy day so we could live to tell this story. Those two minutes of our lives changed us forever. Now when stress or danger confront, I simply let go, relax and know that everything will be all right. Story 6 The Epic of Ipecac By Lisa Mackinder Love is being stupid together. ~Paul Valery It started out as a fine date, with the two of us spending an enjoyable afternoon together. When we arrived back at my parents house, I offered to make dinner. Prior to proposing such an endeavor, I should have inventoried my skills — or rather, lack thereof — in the cooking department. Reflecting upon past catastrophes might have saved us some trouble. My culinary failures were many — like the barbeque sauce incident, when my thirteen-year-old self added a whole cup rather than a quarter cup of sugar. My mom quickly discovered my sugary mistake, added more of the other ingredients to compensate, and created a lifetime supply of frozen barbeque sauce. Because of this, I had declared a lifelong abstinence from all cooking-related activities. It seemed logical. My experiences in cookery always ended with the same outcome — disaster. So nobody wanted me at the helm of a meal anyway. But years later, in the throws of love, my culinary revulsion fell by the wayside. Make good meals — win a mans heart. There I stood, in that mystifying place called the kitchen, preparing chicken sandwiches for my dinner date. To my surprise, the poultry cooked much quicker than anticipated. I slapped the chicken onto buns, added lettuce, mayo, and tomatoes, and voila — good to go. But after eating a few bites, we realized the chicken tasted strange. And chewy. My boyfriend thought the meat looked raw. Did you cook it all the way? he asked, eyeing the chicken suspiciously. Of course I had. Hadnt I? The meat did look kind of shiny. I showed Mom the sandwiches. Her eyes bugged out. You didnt eat that, did you? she exclaimed. Moms words came out part question, part disbelief, and all horror. She quickly dialed the local pharmacist, who emphasized the importance of immediately expelling all of the raw chicken to prevent contracting salmonella. He insisted on a gut-wrenching remedy — syrup of ipecac. After Mom returned with the prescribed antidote, my lucky date and I each took a dose. For those unfamiliar with the power of ipecac, internal combustion happens instantaneously. Like a match igniting gasoline, it greets the targets unfortunate abdomen without delay. Dashing to the bathroom — our only bathroom — I encountered a closed door. I managed one frantic knock before barging in on my ten-year-old sister engrossed in reading the daily newspaper. Noticing my desperate face and hand firmly clamped over my mouth, her initial outrage swiftly dissolved into panic. My sister scrambled, flinging the newspaper and fleeing seconds before the inevitable happened. And the inevitable happened — again, and again, and again. During a brief intermission, I searched for my unfortunate dinner guest. I spotted him outside, behind a wild cherry tree encircled with purple violets, also suffering the consequences of ipecac. Believe it or not, I actually tried my hand at cooking again. Even more surprising, my victim willingly sampled it. With watering eyes, my boyfriend graciously smiled through the first few bites of peppercorn steak — until the quarter-inch-thick peppercorn breading finally overcame his senses. After that, he kindly choked down spaghetti sauce with the consistency of mortar. I still remember the wooden spoon standing upright in the sauce. Somewhere along the line, I started to enjoy cooking. Perhaps the challenge piqued my interest. Then miracle of miracles, my finished products improved, and eventually, people started complimenting my meals rather than feigning no appetite. But regardless of marked improvement, for a long time, whenever chicken made its triumphant appearance on the dinner table, the question always arose. Is it cooked all the way through? he would ask, warily peering at the center. His willingness to even try a bite of the bird demonstrated considerable kindness. Not to mention courage. That brave soul, who became my husband, no longer questions the safety of my chicken. But memories of that dinner date, and subsequent dinner dates when he bravely sampled my life-threatening meals, led me to a conclusion: In my experience, the way to a mans heart is not through his stomach. The way to a mans stomach is through his heart By Valerie D. Benko Story7 The man who does not value himself cannot value anything or anyone. ~Ayn Rand I was always the shy one. When a group activity was going on I didnt insert myself into the middle of the action, I sat and watched, waiting to be asked to join in. Sometimes I was asked and sometimes I wasnt. I had a nice group of friends in school so it wasnt like I was a loner. There was always a nice group of people at my lunch table. School was never an issue. In my neighborhood, the kids that I became friends with were a grade ahead of me. This wasnt a problem until I was in eighth grade, still attending middle school, and they started ninth grade at the high school. Suddenly, the bus rides were lonely. I sat by myself in the middle of the bus gazing out the window as we passed my friends houses. Because they were in high school they caught a much earlier bus. I had to ride with the younger kids who were dropped off at the elementary school next to my middle school. For some reason I became the target of three fourth-grade girls. They got a kick out of piling into the seat behind me and pulling my hair. One would taunt me with mean names. I ignored them or told them to quit, but the bullying continued. As the season changed to winter and the school bus windows fogged up, Id walk to my seat only to see one of them had drawn all over the window and made ugly pictures of me. I smeared the drawings and ignored them. I noticed one of the girls, the one who always called me names, held slightly back from the group. It was as if she was being peer-pressured to be one of the bullies. Since my tactic of ignoring them wasnt working, I started making eye contact with her and smiling even if she was saying cruel things. That was my only retaliation. I wanted her to know that I knew she didnt want to be doing this. It started to work. Some days she never made a comment to me. Other times she would shut right up as soon as I looked at her. I think my smiles confused her, as they were not the reaction she was expecting. The other two continued with the hair pulling and the drawings and making fake fart sounds and then trying to say I was stinking up the bus, when no one was actually farting and nothing smelled. I got through the bus rides by reminding myself that the next year they would not be on my bus and by the time they were I would be driving myself to school. They were only a temporary problem, mean girls who didnt deserve my attention. Still, one can only take so much. One day, as they sat behind me calling me names, I started doing the math in my head. When I was a senior in high school they would be freshmen. Everyone knew about Pick on Freshmen Day. It was a rite of passage I would be spared because when I was a freshman my good friends who were older than me would protect me. I spun in my seat and glared at the two girls behind me. Do you think youre funny? I demanded to know in the sternest tone I could muster. Were funny, youre not! shot the one that Im pretty sure was the leader. Well lets see who is laughing when Im a senior and you are a freshman and Pick on Freshmen Day comes. I spun back around in my seat and secretly smiled. All was quiet behind me and the truth of what I said sunk in. Suddenly the leader burst into tears and made her way to the front of the bus. She cried to the bus driver that I was going to beat her up and she was afraid of me. The only advice the bus driver offered was to stop picking on me. Victory! The bullying stopped, for me anyway. The girls started sitting in the very back of the bus, except for the one I pegged as the weakest link. She moved up front. One day as I was getting off the bus she stopped me to apologize, saying she never meant to hurt my feelings. It turned out that once they stopped bullying me, her so-called-friends started bullying her. I told her I understood and that is why I was always kind to her even when she was being mean. It wasnt that I didnt want to fight back; its that sometimes you have to do the right thing even when no one is looking. She got the message. And I never did participate in Pick on Freshmen Day. No one likes to be bullied. Thank you Chicken soup for the soul.... Which story is your favorite & why?
Posted on: Mon, 20 Jan 2014 00:05:00 +0000
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