Chicken soup for the soul (Hạt giống tâm hồn) - Jack Canfield, Mark Victor Hansen,...

Chắc rằng các bạn cũng đã rất quen thuộc với bộ sách "chicken soup for the soul" của 2 tác giả người Mỹ.Mới đây bộ sách này đã được xuất bản tại VN nhưng hình như mới có 3 cuốn (trong bộ CS condensed),trong khi bộ sách này gồm rất nhiều cuốn.Dưới đây là 4 cuốn Chicken Soup 4the Soul mà tôi mới tìm thấy trên mạng.Những cuốn sách là bản Tiếng Anh nhưng tôi nghĩ cách viết cũng rất dễ đọc,dễ hiểu,các bạn đã có chút kiến thức về tiếng anh chắc sẽ không gặp nhiều khó khăn lắm.
Tuy nhiên sách được chuyển sang định dạng RGO cho máy Symbian (định dạng này cũng khá tốt cho mobile) nên các bạn có thể cài thêm Repligo Reader để xem trên PC (link download PC & Phone reader: Vui lòng đăng nhập hoặc đăng ký để xem link -->bạn tìm đến mục Repligo Maker & down)
Chúc các bạn có giây phút thư giãn với những câu truyện ý nghĩa của Chicken Soup for the Soul!

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1.CHICKEN SOUP FOR THE PET LOVER’S SOUL
by Jack L. Canfield, Carol Kline, Marty Becker, Jack Canfield, Mark Victor Hansen


Animals bring out the goodness, humanity and optimism in people and speak directly to our souls. This joyous, inspiring and entertaining Chicken Soup collection relates the unique bonds between animals and the people whose lives they've changed. Such as the dolphins who helped a paralyzed woman heal when doctors offered little hope; the dog who brought life into a failing marriage; the kitten who helped a mother mourn; and the flying squirrel who taught a man the power of laughter.

Packed with celebrity pet-lore, Chicken Soup for the Soul relates the unconditional love, loyalty, courage and companionship that only animals possess. Just like our furry, feathered and four-legged friends, this enchanting book will bring a smile to any pet lover's face ... and it's housebroken!

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2.CHICKEN SOUP FOR THE SOUL
by Jack L. Canfield, Mark Victor Hansen




Two of America's best-loved inspirational speakers share the very best of their collected stories and favorite tales that have touched the hearts of people everywhere. Canfield and Hansen bring you wit and wisdom, hope and empowerment to buoy you through life's dark moments.

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3.CHICKEN POOP FOR THE SOUL
by David Fisher



When you take the road less traveled, do you get lost? When bad things happen to other people, do you feel good? Do self-help books make you feel selfish and helpless? Congratulations, you're one of us. Here is the story of "Step-Mother Teresa," who turned an orphanage in Calcutta into a sweatshop...and "The True Meaning of Love," romance as seen from a stalker's point of view. Explore the positive side of feeling bad in "The Joys of Depression." Learn the code of the urban teacher who vows "I will never respond to a student's demands, no matter how outrageous, with the phrase 'Over my dead body.'" Read the multimillion-dollar government study that discovered that the primary cause of anxiety in America is government studies. And, finally, learn the true secret of happiness.
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Chicken Soup for College Soul


- định dạng :RGO (bạn có thể vào Vui lòng đăng nhập hoặc đăng ký để xem link để tìm thêm thông tin về định dạng này và soft đọc nó trên mobile)
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Chicken Soup for Woman's Soul

Vui lòng đăng nhập hoặc đăng ký để xem link

- định dạng PRC
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Jack Canfield - Chicken Soup for the Couple's Soul



định dạng RGO

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Jack Canfield - Chicken Soup for the Soul - A Christmas Treasury




định dạng RGO
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Jack Canfield - Chicken Soup For The Pet Lover's Soul



định dạng: RGO

HAVE FUN to ALL!!!!:smile:



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Nguồn TVE
Người viết: hnyuk49
Ngày: 10-10-2006, 06:30 PM

 

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View attachment Jack Canfield - Chicken Soup for the Soul - A Christmas Treasury.rar
View attachment Jack Canfield - Chicken Soup for the Couple's Soul.rar
View attachment Jack Canfield - Chicken Soup For The Woman's Soul.rar
View attachment Chicken Soup for the College Soul.rar

 

tiếp
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Grandma's Soup Night

By Joan Cinelli

Grandma's Soup Night

It had been a busier than usual week, and trying to cope with a stiff neck had made it worse. By Thursday afternoon I had used up my supply of energy and patience. All I wanted to do was to get home, put on a comfortable robe, fix a bowl of good hot soup and collapse with my feet up.
So when I pulled into the driveway and saw my daughter-in-law Wanda's car, I groaned in despair. I had forgotten it was Bryan's night.
Since his parents' separation, I had tried to have my six-year-old grandson spend a few hours with me at least once a week. I always tried to make it a special time for him. We cooked his favorite meal - chicken and cranberry sauce - or went to his favorite hamburger place. Then either a movie or a walk through the park, and home for some fun together. We'd get down on the floor and have car races. Sometimes we'd make candy, or maybe read some silly or scary book. Bryan delighted in all these activities, and so did I. Usually.
Tonight there was no way I could handle it. I was going to have to postpone our evening together until next week. I hugged them both and then explained how badly I was feeling.
"Bryan, honey, I'm sorry," I said. "Tonight your Grandma Joan isn't up to any fun and games. Just a nice hot bowl of soup, a lazy hour of TV and then early to bed. We'll have our night together some other time."
Bryan's smile faded, and I saw the disappointment in his eyes. "Dear Lord, forgive me," I prayed, "but I'm really not up to it tonight. I need this night to relax and renew myself."
Bryan was looking up at me solemnly. "I like soup, Grandma."
My grandmother's heart knew what he was really saying. In his own way, he was saying, "Please don't send me away. Please let me stay."
I heard Wanda say, "No, Bryan. Grandma Joan's too tired tonight. Maybe next week."
But in Bryan's eyes, I saw the shadow, the uncertainty. Something else was changing. Maybe Grandma Joan wouldn't want to have him come anymore. Not tonight, not next week, not ever.
I hesitated and then tried again. "Just soup and TV, Bryan. No car games on the floor for me tonight, no baking cookies, no books. I probably won't be awake very long."
"I like soup," he repeated.
With a sigh of resignation, I gave in and placed my hand on his shoulder. "Then you are cordially invited to dine at my castle. The meal will be small, but the company will be delightful. Escort the Queen Mother in, please, Sir Bryan."
It was worth it to see his eyes light up and hear him giggle as he made a mock bow and replied, "Okay, your Royal Highness."
While I put the soup on the stove and changed into my robe, Bryan set up trays and turned on the television set.
I must have dozed off after the first few sips of soup. When I woke up, there was an afghan over my legs, the bowls and trays were gone. Bryan was sprawled on the floor, dividing his attention between a coloring book and a television show. I looked at my watch. Nine o'clock. Wanda would be coming to get Bryan soon. Poor boy, what a dull time he must have had.
Bryan looked up with a smile. Then, to my surprise, he ran over and gave me a big hug. "I love you, Grandma," he said, his arms still around my neck. "Haven't we had a nice time together?"
His big smile and happy eyes told me that this time he meant exactly what he was saying. And, to my surprise, I knew he was right. We really had had a nice time together.
That was the key word - together. We had done nothing exciting or special. I had slept in the chair. Bryan had colored and watched TV. But we were together.
That night I realized something important. Bryan's visits don't have to be a marathon of activity. The important thing is that he knows I love him and want him. He knows he has a place in my life, which is reserved particularly for him. A time that is just for us to be together.
Bryan still comes once a week. We still bake chicken or eat out, make cookies or go for a walk in the park. But every now and then we enjoy our favorite together time, our special feast of love - soup night.

Reprinted by permission of Joan Cinelli (c) 1984 from Chicken Soup for the Mother's Soul 2 by Jack Canfield, Mark Victor Hansen, Marci Shimoff and Carol Kline. In order to protect the rights of the copyright holder, no portion of this publication may be reproduced without prior written consent. All rights reserved.

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It's Not the End of the World

By Emilio

It's Not the End of the World

I'll never forget one cold night in Michigan while I was on tour with Alan Jackson. A security man handed me a note passed along from a lady in the audience:

I am here tonight to hear one song, "It's Not the End of the World." My son bought two tickets for this show, and he loved this song. He also bought these tickets a long way ahead of time before we knew he was sick with advanced cancer. He passed away last month after a very short illness. This song made him happy until the end, and that made me very, very happy. Tonight, I sit here alone with an extra ticket - so please make us happy and play our song.

Before I received this note I was so pumped up and excited for the show. But the note just floored me. I gave the note to my manager and asked him to arrange for the lady to come backstage to my preshow meet-and-greet area. Soon, I spotted her walking up the hall toward me. She was so happy, her face was lit up with a thousand-watt smile. It was wonderful! I sang the song to her before I went on. The lady was so happy, and I thought perhaps I understood what she was feeling. In her heart, she knew her son was living a better life and that made me feel good in my heart.
Because of the emotion of that song, none of us will ever be the same again. I believe that song completely changed three lives that night. To the boy who had left and was looking down at us, it helped him find his way to the next life. To the mother, it allowed her to feel a certain acceptance and gladness for his leaving and eased the pain of her loss. And it taught me that it's okay to be excited and high about being an entertainer privileged to bring happiness and gladness into people's lives. It also taught me never to forget to keep my feet on the ground. . . . and to always remember the things that come from the heart.

 

Fifteen Minutes of Fame

By Marty Becker, D.V.M.

Fifteen Minutes of Fame

I dashed out an exit at O'Hare International Airport in Chicago and ran towards a waiting cab. I was greeted by a cab driver with a three-day-old beard, an old baseball cap and arms the size of tree trunks.
As he tossed my bags into the trunk, he spotted my luggage tags and said, "What kind of doctor are you?"
"A veterinarian," I said. Instantly, his grizzled face broke into a smile. This happens to veterinarians all the time, as people love to talk about their pets.
The doors slammed, he put the car into gear and hit me with this opening salvo, "My wife claims I love my toy poodle Missy more than I love her. Just once, she wants me to be as excited to see her as I am Missy. But Doc, it ain't gonna happen. Ya see, when I get home from a long day in the cab, dead tired, I open the door and there are the two of them looking at me, Ma and Missy. Ma has a scowl on her face and is ready to tear into me. Missy, on the other hand, is shaking all over, she's that happy - her face is grinning so wide, she could eat a banana sideways. Now who do you think I'm going to run to?"
I nodded my head in agreement because I understood his point only too well. He loved his wife, but he simply wanted permission to savor his fifteen minutes of fame.
Everybody gets fifteen minutes of fame once in his lifetime. We pet owners get our fifteen minutes every time we come home – or even return from the next room.
A few days after I saw the cab driver in Chicago, I returned home. I was tired from my travels and looking forward to seeing my family.
Pulling into the driveway, I peered through the windshield, straining to catch a glimpse of my loved ones. My two children, Mikkel and Lex, are very close to good ol' dad, but I didn't see their faces pressed against the window looking for me. Nor did my beloved wife, Teresa, come running in super slow motion across the yard, arms open wide ready to embrace me.
But I didn't despair. I knew I was still wanted, a Hollywood heartthrob, hometown hero to my two dogs: Scooter, a wirehaired fox terrier, and, Sirloin, a black Labrador retriever!
As soon as I exited the pickup, Sirloin and Scooter charged to meet me. Their love-filled eyes danced with excitement, and their tail turbochargers whipped them into a delighted frenzy of fur.
Was this affection-connection routine, or ho-hum for me? Was I cool, calm and collected?
Heck no. I turned into a blithering idiot as I got out of my truck and rushed to meet the hairy-princess, Scooter, and Sirloin, the fur-king.
There I stood, all these false layers stripped away, masks removed and performances cancelled. It was my true self. Extra pounds, bad-hair day, angry people, travel strains, no matter. Scooter and Sirloin came to the emotional rescue and allowed me to drink in the sheer love and joy of the moment. I was drunk with contentment.
I was glad this took place in the privacy of my own home. What happened next might have spoiled my polished professional image. I immediately smiled, and raised my voice an octave or two, exclaiming, "Sirloin, yuz is daaaaddy's boy, aren't ya?" And, "Scooter have you been a good girl today? Yeah, you have, you've been a goooood girl!!"
They responded by turning inside out with delight, pressing themselves against my legs and talking to me. I felt as if I could tap directly into their wellspring of positive, healing energy. Gee, it was great to be home!
I bounded up the steps to find the rest of the family, heart open, stress gone and spirits restored by my fifteen minutes of fame.

 

A Typical Day
By Brian Totzke

A Typical Day

As a high-school teacher, I have understandably become concerned not just about the future of our profession but the public perception of it as well. I decided recently, therefore, to take advantage of the so-called "spare" time that I have in my work day to take a leisurely stroll around the building and see for myself just what goes on outside my own classroom.
The first door I passed was that of a math teacher who was providing individual attention to a student who was quite obviously having some difficulty. The student's face said it all: frustration, confusion, quiet desperation. The teacher remained upbeat, offering support and encouragement.
"Let's try again, but we'll look at it from a slightly different point of view," she said and proceeded to erase the chalkboard in search of a better solution.
Further down the hall, I came across the doorway of one of our history teachers. As I paused to eavesdrop, I witnessed a large semicircle of enthusiastic students engaged in a lively debate regarding current Canadian events and issues. The teacher chose to take somewhat of a back-seat role, entering the fray only occasionally to pose a rhetorical question or to gently steer the conversation back toward the task at hand. They switched to role-playing and smaller groups of students chose to express the viewpoints of various provinces. The debate grew louder and more intense. The teacher smiled and stepped in to referee.
Passing the gym balcony, I looked down to see a physical education teacher working with a group of boys on a basketball passing drill.
"Pass and cut away!" he shouted. "Set a screen. Hit the open man."
Suddenly, there was a break in the action.
"Hold on, guys," he said. "Do you guys really understand why we're doing this drill?"
A mixture of blank stares and shrugged shoulders provided the answer, so he proceeded to take a deep breath and explain not only the purpose of the drill, but exactly how it fit into the grand scheme of offense and team play. A few nods of understanding and the group returned to its task with renewed vigor.
The next stop on my journey was the open door of a science lab where, again, a flurry of activity was taking place. I watched intently as a group of four students explained and demonstrated the nature and design of a scientific invention they had created. As they took turns regaling their small but attentive audience about the unique features of their project, a teacher was nearby, busy videotaping their entire presentation.
As I was leaving, I heard her say, "Okay, let's move the television over here and see how you did."
Finally, on the way back to my room, I couldn't help but investigate the low roar coming from down the hall. Music blaring, feet stomping, instructions straining to be heard above the din. Dancers of every shape and size were moving in seemingly random directions, although their various destinations were obviously quite well-rehearsed. Good things were happening here: hard work, sweat, intense concentration. And then, a mistake. One of the dancers offered an explanation, which led to a discussion among several of them. The dance teacher intervened and facilitated a resolution. A half-hearted plea by one of the students for a quick break fell on deaf ears.
"We'll have our break when we get this part right," she called out. A brief pep talk imploring them to push themselves just a little further seemed to create some new energy, and once again the place was hopping. "Now, from the top . . ."
My excursion complete, I returned to my corner of the school and reflected on what I had observed. Nothing surprising really. It was essentially what I had expected to find: goal-setting, problem-solving, teamwork, critical analysis, debate, discussion. In short, learning.
The only thing that you may have found surprising, but I didn't, was that when I began my journey, the regular school day had already ended an hour before.

A Turning Point
By Adeline Perkins

A Turning Point

Seventy years ago I was quite a small little girl, the baby of the family, with an older brother and sister. My father was very ill at the time, and my mother took in sewing of any kind so we could live. She would sew far into the night with nothing but dim gas mantles and an old treadle sewing machine. She never complained even when the fire would be low and the food very scarce. She would sew until the early hours of morning.
Things were very bad that particular winter. Then a letter came from where her sewing machine was purchased, stating that they would have to pick up her machine the next day unless payments were brought up to date. I remember when she read the letter I became frightened; I could picture us starving to death and all sorts of things that could come to a child's mind. My mother did not appear to be worried, however, and seemed to be quite calm about the matter. I, on the other hand, cried myself to sleep, wondering what would become of our family. Mother said God would not fail her, that he never had. I couldn't see how God was going to help us keep this old sewing machine.
The day the men were to come for our only means of support, there was a knock at the kitchen door. I was frightened as a child would be, for I was sure it was those dreaded men. Instead, a nicely dressed man stood at our door with a darling baby in his arms.
He asked my mother if she was Mrs. Hill. When she said she was, he said, "I'm in trouble this morning and you have been recommended by the druggist and grocer down the street as an honest and wonderful woman. My wife was rushed to the hospital this morning, and since we have no relatives here, and I must open my dentist office, I have nowhere to leave my baby. Could you possibly take care of her for a few days?" He continued, "I will pay you in advance." With this he took out ten dollars and gave it to my mother.
Mother said, "Yes, yes, I will be glad to do so," and took the baby from his arms. When the man left, Mother turned to me with tears streaming down a face that looked as though a light was shining on it. She said, "I knew God would never let them take away my machine."

A Piece of Chalk
By Holly Smeltzer

A Piece of Chalk

In our home it was natural to fear our father. Even our mother was afraid of him. As children, my sister and I thought every family was like that. Every family had an unpredictable dad who was impossible to please and a praying mama who was there to protect the children. We thought God planned it that way.
We were good children. Mama was always telling us we were, even if Daddy couldn't see it. Part of this was because we dared not do anything. We were quiet, timid children who rarely spoke, especially never when Daddy was home. People thought God had blessed Mama with the sweetest girls. She was always so proud.
Then came the day we found something new and fun to do. It wouldn't upset anyone; we'd never take the risk of doing that. We discovered we could draw pictures with chalk on our wooden front door, and it would rub right off. We could have lots of fun, so we set to work drawing and making lots of pretty pictures all over it. We had a great time. It surprised us to see how talented we were. We decided to finish our masterpiece, knowing Mama would just love it. She would want all her friends to come and see it, and maybe they would want us to do their doors, too.
The praise we expected did not come. Instead of seeing the obvious beauty in our work, all Mama could see was the time and effort she would need to clean it off. She was mad. We did not understand why, but we knew all about anger, and we were in big trouble!
Off we ran to find a place to hide. In our wooded yard it was not hard for two small children to find safety. Together, we huddled behind a tree and did not move. Soon we heard the frightened voices of Mom and our neighbors calling out to us. Still we did not budge. They were afraid we had run away or drowned in the pond out back. We were afraid of being found.
The sun set, and it began to get dark. Those around us became more anxious, and we became more frightened. Time was slipping by, and the longer we hid there, the harder it was to come out. Mom was, by now, convinced something awful had happened to us, and she resorted to calling the police. We could hear all the voices drawn together in a group. Then the search was on again, this time with strong male voices overpowering the others. If we were frightened before, now we were terrified!
As we clung together in the dark, we became aware of yet another voice, one we instantly recognized with horror: our daddy. But there was something strangely different about it. In it we heard something we had never heard before: fear, agony and despair. We couldn't put a name to it then, but that's what it was. Then came his prayers, tears and prayers intermingled together.
Was that our daddy on his knees pleading with God? Our daddy with tears running down his face, promising God that he would give his life to him if he would safely return his girls?
Nothing in our lives had prepared us for this kind of shock. Neither of us remembers making a decision to come out. We were drawn to him like a magnet, our fears dissolving into the forest. We don't know yet if we actually took steps or if God somehow moved us out and into Daddy's arms. What we do remember are those strong, loving arms holding us and crying, hugging us like we were precious.
Things were different after that. We had a new daddy. It was like the old one was buried that day in the forest. God had taken him and replaced him with another, one who loved us and was ever thankful for us.
Mama always told us that God was a God of miracles. I guess she was right. He changed our whole family with a piece of chalk.

The Concession Stand
By Ernie Witham

The Concession Stand

The sign on the door read, "No Admittance to the Concession Stand Unless You Are Scheduled to Help." I smiled. That was me - volunteer parent - contributing to the good of Little League baseball worldwide. I knocked. The door opened narrowly.
"Yeah?"
"I am a concession-stand volunteer," I said proudly.
"Where's your wife?"
"She couldn't make it," I said. "I'm filling in for her."
The door opened just wide enough for me to slip through. It took a moment for my eyes to adjust. As they did, three women in aprons - Rose, Juanita and Theresa - came into focus.
"Hi," I said cheerily. I grabbed a French fry from the infrared warming machine and popped it into my mouth. "So this is the concession stand," I said. "It looks bigger from outside." I swung my arms in a grandiose gesture, knocking over a rack and sending bags of potato chips skidding across the linoleum floor.
"You've never done this before, have you?" Rose asked.
"Well . . . no . . . But hey. How hard can it be?"
"Can you make change?" Juanita asked.
"Change? Sure."
"You're on window duty," Rose said.
"Window duty, huh?" I grabbed another French fry. "Don't need me to cook?"
"No," they said in unison.
They scurried about the small building, preparing for a big evening. Rose skillfully pushed hot dogs onto a rotating rotisserie. Juanita filled cups with soda. Theresa started the popcorn machine and poured purple and green syrup into the slushy maker. There was a knock on the window. I slid it open.
"Hot dog, Coke, fries, and Reese's Pieces."
I looked into a smiling retainer, surrounded by round rosy cheeks and the beginning of a second chin.
I shut the window. "How do I know how much to charge?"
"Candy's a buck. Popcorn's fifty cents. Hot dogs and drinks are seventy-five. Fries are fifty cents. Slushies are a quarter." Rose took a breath.
"Chips are seventy-five and coffee is fifty. Refills on coffee are free," said Juanita. Frantically I looked for a pen.
"And we do not allow any credit," said Rose.
"So how much?"
"Three bucks," they sang out.
"Of course," I said.
Faces came and French fries left. I got into a rhythm - repeating the orders loudly and waiting for the magical amount to sound out from behind me. I had several minor mishaps, including two hot dogs that now rolled about beneath my feet and an order of fries that I was sharing with a group of ambitious ants.
The fat kid with the retainer returned for a third time.
"More Reese's Pieces." He slid a couple of sticky dollar bills through the window.
"I'm out of Reese's Pieces."
"No way. What else ya got?"
I scanned the candy rack for inspiration. "Got some imitation-strawberry-flavored taffy."
"Cool. Gimme two."
I beamed with salesmanship. But the others did not seem pleased. I shrugged, skillfully sliding two sodas to a small girl and a hot dog to her friend. Then I served a party of three, but I slid one Coke a little too hard, right off the counter onto the ground. I rebounded, though, with two trouble-free slushies.
A woman appeared.
I bent down and displayed my smiling face. She grabbed me by my shirt collar and pulled me halfway through the small window.
"You ever buy a retainer?"
"Ahhh . . . no . . ."
"I've bought two of them in the last six months. They ain't cheap."
"I'm sure they're not. . . ."
"You know what kills retainers?"
"Ahhh . . . no . . ."
"Taffy kills retainers."
Suddenly I saw the resemblance. Before I could comment another mother appeared.
"This the guy?" she asked a small girl with one very large cheek. I remembered her. Only had a quarter. I gave her a deal on jawbreakers.
"You a dentist?" the second mother asked.
"No, I . . ."
"Fronting for a dentist?"
"Of course not. I just. . . ."
Behind me I heard a knock on the door.
"We once caught a dentist giving out all-day suckers at the mall. We ran him out of town."
The first mother let go of my throat.
"I was only doing my duty as a concession-stand volunteer. . . ." I felt a familiar hand on my shoulder.
"What are you doing here?" I asked my wife. "I thought you were sick."
"They . . ." She lowered her voice. "They called me at home."
"But . . ."
"It's okay, honey. I'm feeling much better. Besides, it turns out they need an umpire for the seven o'clock game."
I bent over and took one more look at the angry women at the window. I hugged my wife. Then I quickly made my way to the back door, released the bolt and grabbed the doorknob.
"You ever umpired before?" Rose asked.
I smiled. "Well, no . . . But hey. How hard can it be?"

The Wonders of Tupperware
By Carol Bryant

The Wonders of Tupperware

Many years ago, in the far distant past of 1966, Tupperware parties were all the rage with stay-at-home moms. Practically all of us "kept house" then, and these parties gave us a pleasant and acceptable way to go out for the evening, usually leaving the dads to handle the kids' bath and bed routine.
We loved actually talking with people older than five, although our conversations mostly centered around those very topics we knew best - kids and housekeeping. While learning the proper way to "burp" a container, we also discussed burping babies. Usually, after about three hours of listening to the demonstrator, playing silly games and filling out our order forms, we would all go home thinking of the wonderful new plastic additions to our already bulging kitchen storage cabinets. We might not see each other again for a month or so until someone else decided to host the next "party."
One day, after a Thursday night Tupperware party at the home of my friend Kay who lived two doors down from me, I was in the backyard hanging out wash (something else we used to do in the olden days, but that's another story). Kay yelled over the back fence that she had some pastries left over and maybe we should gather up some neighbors and finish them off with coffee later that afternoon. This was an unusual idea in our neighborhood. None of us had lived there very long, we all had little ones who took up a lot of our time and we just didn't socialize much except for demonstration parties. I told Kay it sounded good to me, so we called everyone who had been there the night before and made plans to meet at my house at 2:00.
Normally, by 2:00 in the afternoon, most of us had the kids in for a nap, but this time we decided to forgo the naps for just this once and let them play while we ate the pastries and talked. It was raining out, so the little ones had to play in the dining room of my tiny house, out of sight but within hearing distance, while we moms sat talking in the living room. Before we knew it, two hours had gone by and everyone hurried off to start dinner before the men got home from work. But something interesting had happened in those two hours, something that we all knew we wanted to continue.
We continued to meet for three more years, every Friday afternoon at 2:00, bringing the kids along to scatter toys and grind pretzels into the dining room rug of whoever was hosting that week. We didn't mind the mess - we were learning that sometimes all mothers lose their cool with their kids, sometimes every loving husband was an unfeeling oaf. We weren't alone in the world, and we weren't monsters who sometimes lost control in our frustration with trying to be the best wife and mother. Amazingly, we discovered other women were having the same struggles. And quite often, just talking about it with friends who really knew allowed us to handle things better the next time we felt like throwing in the towel or strangling somebody.
Week by week, my sanity was saved and my marriage was strengthened because I found a safe place to vent my frustrations and learn new ways of coping. We moms learned from each other while we developed wonderful friendships among ourselves, and our children learned valuable social skills (such as picking up your own pretzel crumbs) from their tag-along playgroup. And all because of a Tupperware party!
That Tupperware - who knew it could preserve so many things?

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