Subj:     Tear Jerker2 stories
                 (Includes 11 jokes and articles, 12970n,2,cf,wXT2,1)

Hamlet from
Includes the following:  A Christmas To Remember (S569)
.........................Puppies For Sale (S883)
.........................The Pickle Jar... (S399b)
.........................Grocery Shopping Alone (S554)
.........................Cheyenne (S696b)
.........................A Little Boy In New York (S129, S657)
.........................The Rose (S167)
.........................A Moment In A Concentration Camp (S111)
.........................My First Christmas In Heaven
.........................A White Envelope On The Christmas Tree (S98)
.........................The Wallet (S94, S510c)
.........................A Little Girl On The Beach (S93, S482c)

Subj:     A Christmas To Remember (S569d)
          From: rfslick on 12/12/07
..........(in Christmas4)
Picture from Art.com..
 Click 'HERE' to read a wonderful story of a poor
 farm boy who wanted a rifle for Christmas..
Subj:     Puppies For Sale (S883)
          From: joelfallon on 12/4/2013

 A farmer had some puppies he needed to sell.  He painted a
 sign advertising the 4 pups and set about nailing it to a
 post on the edge of his yard.  As he was driving the last
 nail into the post, he felt a tug on his overalls.

 He looked down into the eyes of a little boy.

 "Mister," he said, "I want to buy one of your puppies."

 "Well," said the farmer, as he rubbed the sweat off the
 back of his neck, "These puppies come from fine parents
 and cost a good deal of money."

 The boy dropped his head for moment.  Then reaching deep
 into his pocket, he pulled out a handful of change and
 held it up to the farmer.

 "I've got thirty-nine cents. Is that enough to take a look?"

 "Sure," said the farmer.  And with that he let out a whistle.
 "Here, Dolly!" he called.

 Out from the doghouse and down the ramp ran Dolly followed
 by four little balls of fur.

 The little boy pressed his face against the chain link fence.
 His eyes danced with delight.  As the dogs made their way to
 the fence, the little boy noticed something else stirring
 inside the doghouse.

 Slowly another little ball appeared, this one noticeably
 smaller.  Down the ramp it slid.  Then in a somewhat awkward
 manner, the little pup began hobbling toward the others,
 doing its best to catch up...

 "I want that one," the little boy said, pointing to the runt.
 The farmer knelt down at the boy's side and said, "Son, you
 don't want that puppy.  He will never be able to run and play
 with you like these other dogs would."

 With that, the little boy stepped back from the fence, reached
 down, and began rolling up one leg of his trousers. In doing
 so, he revealed a steel brace running down both sides of his
 leg attaching itself to a specially made shoe.

 Looking back up at the farmer, he said, "You see sir, I don't
 run too well myself, and he will need someone who understands."

 With tears in his eyes, the farmer reached down and picked up
 the little pup.

 Holding it carefully, he handed it to the little boy..

 "How much?" asked the little boy... "No charge," answered the
 farmer, "There's no charge for love."

Subj:     The Pickle Jar... (S399b)
          From: Imogenelumen on 6/24/2004

 The pickle jar as far back as I can remember sat on the
 floor  beside the dresser in my parents' bedroom.  When
 he got ready  for bed, Dad would empty his pockets and
 toss his coins into  the jar.  As a small boy I was always
 fascinated at the sounds the coins made as they were
 dropped into the jar.  They landed with a merry jingle
 when the jar was almost empty.  The tones gradually muted
 to a dull thud as the jar was filled. I used to squat on
 the floor in front of the jar and admire the copper and
 silver circles that glinted like a pirate's treasure when
 the sun poured through the bedroom window.  When the jar
 was filled, Dad would sit at the kitchen table and roll
 the coins before taking them to the bank.  Taking the
 coins to the bank was always a big production.  Stacked
 neatly in a small cardboard box, the coins were placed
 between Dad and me on the seat of his old truck.  Each
 and every time, as we drove to the bank,  Dad would
 look at me hopefully. "Those coins are going to keep you
 out of the textile mill, son. You're going to do better
 than me.

 This old mill town's not going to hold you back."

 Also, each and every time, as he slid the box of rolled
 coins across the counter at the bank toward the cashier,
 he would grin proudly.  "These are for my son's college
 fund. He'll never work at the mill all his life like me."

 We would always celebrate each deposit by stopping for
 an ice cream cone.  I always got chocolate.  Dad always
 got vanilla.  When the clerk at the ice cream parlor
 handed Dad his change, he would show me the few coins
 nestled in his palm. "When we get home, we'll start
 filling the jar again." He always let me drop the first
 coins into the empty jar.  As they rattled around with
 a brief, happy jingle, we grinned at each other. "You'll
 get to college on pennies, nickels, dimes and quarters,"
 he said. "But you'll get there.  I'll see to that."

 The years passed, and I finished college and took a job
 in another town.  Once, while visiting my parents, I
 used the phone in their bedroom, and noticed that the
 pickle jar was gone.  It had served its purpose and had
 been removed.  A lump rose in my throat as I stared at
 the spot beside the dresser where the jar had always
 stood.  My dad was a man of few words, and never lectured
 me on the values of determination, perseverance, and
 faith.  The pickle jar had taught me all these virtues
 far more eloquently than  the most flowery of words could
 have done.  When I married, I told my wife Susan about
 the significant part the lowly pickle jar had played in
 my life as a boy.  In my mind, it defined, more than
 anything else, how much my dad had loved me.

 No matter how rough things got at home, Dad continued
 to doggedly drop his coins into the jar.  Even the summer
 when  Dad got laid off from the mill, and Mama had to
 serve dried beans several times a week, not a single dime
 was taken from the jar.  To the contrary, as Dad looked
 across the table at me, pouring catsup over my beans to
 make them more palatable, he became more determined than
 ever to make a way out for me.  "When you finish college,
 Son," he told me, his eyes glistening, "You'll never have
 to eat beans again...unless you want to."

 The first Christmas after our daughter Jessica was born,
 we spent the holiday with my parents.  After dinner, Mom
 and Dad sat next to each other on the sofa, taking turns
 cuddling their first grandchild. Jessica began to whimper
 softly, and Susan took her from Dad's arms. "She probably
 needs to be changed," she said, carrying the baby into my
 parents' bedroom to diaper her.  When Susan came back
 into the living room, there was a strange mist in her eyes.
 She handed Jessica back to Dad before taking my hand and
 leading me into the room.

 "Look," she said softly, her eyes directing me to a spot
 on the floor beside the dresser.  To my amazement, there,
 as if it had never been removed, stood the old pickle jar,
 the bottom already covered with coins.  I walked over to
 the pickle jar, dug down into my pocket, and pulled out a
 fistful of coins.  With a gamut of emotions choking me, I
 dropped the coins into the jar.  I looked up and saw that
 Dad, carrying  Jessica, had  slipped quietly into the room.

 Our eyes locked, and I knew he was feeling the same
 emotions I felt.  Neither one of us could speak.  This
 truly touched my heart.

 Sometimes we are so busy adding up our troubles that we
 forget to count our blessings.  Never underestimate the
 power of your actions.  With one small gesture you can
 change a person's life, for better or for worse.  The
 best and most beautiful things cannot be seen or touched
 - they must be felt with the heart.  -- Helen Keller

 Happy moments, praise God.
 Difficult moments, seek God.
 Quiet moments, worship God.
 Painful moments, trust God.
 Every moment, thank God.

Subj:     Grocery Shopping Alone (S554)
          From: icohen on 4/10/00
      and From: darrellvip on 8/30/2007

 I walked into the grocery store not particularly interested
 in buying groceries. I wasn't hungry.

 The pain of losing my husband of 37 years was still too raw.
 And this grocery store held so many sweet memories.  Rudy
 often came with me and almost every time he'd pretend to go
 off and look for something special.  I knew what he was up
 to.  I'd always spot him walking down the aisle with the
 three yellow roses in his hands.

 Rudy knew I loved yellow roses. With a heart filled with grief,
 I only wanted to buy my few items and leave, but even grocery
 shopping was different since Rudy had passed on.

 Shopping for one took time, a little more thought than it had
 for two.  Standing by the meat, I searched for the perfect
 small steak and remembered how Rudy had loved his steak.

 Suddenly a woman came beside me.  She was blond, slim and
 lovely in a soft green pantsuit.  I watched as she picked up
 a large pack of T-bones, dropped them in her basket, hesitated,
 and then put them back.  She turned to go and once again
 reached for the pack of steaks.

 She saw me watching her and she smiled. "My husband loves
 T-bones, but honestly, at these prices, I don't know."

 I swallowed the emotion down my throat and met her pale blue
 eyes.  "My  husband passed away eight days ago,"  I told her.
 Glancing at the package in her hands, I fought to control the
 tremble in my voice.  "Buy him the steaks. And cherish every
 moment you have together."

 She shook her head and I saw the emotion in her eyes as she
 placed the package in her basket and wheeled away.  I turned
 and pushed my cart across the length of the store to the
 dairy products. There I stood, trying to decide which size
 milk I should buy.  A quart, I finally decided and moved on
 to the ice cream section near the front of the store.  If
 nothing else, I could always fix myself an ice cream cone.

 I placed the ice cream in my cart and looked down the aisle
 toward the front.  I saw first the green suit, then recognized
 the pretty lady coming towards me. In her arms she carried
 a package.  On her face was the brightest smile I had ever
 seen.  I would swear a soft halo encircled her blond hair as
 she kept walking toward me, her eyes holding mine.  As she
 came closer, I saw what she held and tears began misting in
 my yes.

 "These are for you," she said and placed three beautiful long
 stemmed yellow roses in my arms.  "When you go through the
 line, they will know these are paid for."  She leaned over
 and placed a gentle kiss on my cheek, then  smiled again.

 I wanted to tell her what she'd done, what the roses meant,
 but still unable to speak, I watched as she walked away as
 tears clouded my vision. I looked down at the beautiful
 roses nestled in the green tissue wrapping and found it almost
 unreal. How did she know?

 Suddenly the answer seemed so clear. I wasn't alone. "Oh, Rudy,
 you haven't forgotten me, have you?" I whispered, with tears
 in my eyes.  He was still with me, and she was his angel.

Subj:     Cheyenne (S696b)
          By Catherine Moore
          From: rfslick on 3/11/2010
 Photo from Dog-Breed-Dictionary.com
 Source: http://allanimalsmatter.com/2009/

 Click on the above source, or 'HERE' for my copy, to read
 this heart-warming, but long story of a dog's love in an
 old man's life.

Subj:    A Little Boy In New York (S129, S657)
         From: RFSlick on 7/14/99
     and From: Imogenelumen on 2/2/2004

 An Eye Witness Account from New York City, on a cold day in
 December.  A little boy about 10 years old was standing
 before a shoe store on the roadway, barefooted, peering
 through the window, and shivering with cold.

 A lady approached the boy and said, "My little fellow, why
 are you looking so earnestly in that window?"  "I was asking
 God to give me a pair of shoes," was the boys reply.  The
 lady took him by the hand and went into the store and asked
 the clerk to get half a dozen pairs of socks for the boy.

 She then asked if he could give her a basin of  water and a
 towel.  He quickly brought them to her.  She took the little
 fellow to the back part of the store and, removing her
 gloves, knelt down, washed his little feet, and dried them
 with a towel.  By this time the clerk had returned with the
 socks.  Placing a pair upon the boy's feet, she purchased
 him a pair of shoes.  She tied up the remaining pairs of
 socks and gave them to him.  She patted him on the head and
 said, "No doubt, my little fellow, you feel more comfortable

 As she turned to go, the astonished lad caught her by the
 hand, and looking up in her face, with tears in his eyes,
 answered the question with these words: "Are you God's Wife?"

Subj:     The Rose (S167)
          From: Tom_Adams on 4/12/99

 Red roses were her favorites, her name was also Rose.
 And every year her husband sent them, tied with pretty bows.
 The year he died, the roses were delivered to her door.
 The card said, "Be my Valentine", like all the years before.
 Each year he sent her roses, and the note would always say,
 "I love you even more this year, than last year on this day.
 My love for you will always grow, with every passing year."
 She knew this was the last time that the roses would appear.
 She thought, he ordered roses in advance before this day.
 Her loving husband did not know, that he would pass away.
 He always liked to do things early, way before the time.
 Then, if he got too busy, everything would work out fine.
 She trimmed the stems, and placed them in a very special vase.
 Then, sat the vase beside the portrait of his smiling face.
 She would sit for hours, in her husband's favorite chair.
 While staring at his picture, and the roses sitting there.
 A year went by, and it was hard to live without her mate.
 With loneliness and solitude, that had become her fate.
 Then, the very hour, as on Valentines before,

 The doorbell rang, and there were roses, sitting by her door.
 She brought the roses in, and then just looked at them in shock.
 Then, went to get the telephone, to call the florist shop.
 The owner answered, and she asked him, if he would explain,
 Why would someone do this to her, causing her such pain?
 "I know your husband passed away, more than a year ago,"
 The owner said, "I knew you'd call, and you would want to know.
 The flowers you received today, were paid for in advance.
 Your husband always planned ahead, he left nothing to chance.
 There is a standing order, that I have on file down here,
 And he has paid, well in advance, you'll get them every year.
 There also is another thing, that I think you should know,
 He wrote a special little card...he did this years ago.
 Then, should ever I find out that he's no longer here,
 That's the card...that should be sent, to you the following year."
 She thanked him and hung up the phone, her tears now flowing hard.
 Her fingers shaking, as she slowly reached to get the card.
 Inside the card, she saw that he had written her a note.
 Then, as she stared in total silence, this is what he wrote...
 "Hello my love, I know it's been a year since I've been gone,
 I hope it hasn't been too hard for you to overcome.
 I know it must be lonely, and the pain is very real.
 For if it was the other way, I know how I would feel.
 The love we shared made everything so beautiful in life.
 I loved you more than words can say, you were the perfect wife.
 You were my friend and lover, you fulfilled my every need.
 I know it's only been a year, but please try not to grieve.
 I want you to be happy, even when you shed your tears.
 That is why the roses will be sent to you for years.
 When you get these roses, think of all the happiness,
 That we had together, and how both of us were blessed.
 I have always loved you and I know I always will.
 But, my love, you must go on, you have some living still.
 Please...try to find happiness, while living out your days.
 I know it is not easy, but I hope you find some ways.
 The roses will come every year, and they will only stop,
 When your door's not answered, when the florist stops to knock.
 He will come five times that day, in case you have gone out.
 But after his last visit, he will know without a doubt,
 To take the roses to the place, where I've instructed him,
 And place the roses where we are, together once again.

Subj:     A Moment In A Concentration Camp (S111)
          From: smiles on 99-03-13

 On a cold day in 1942, inside a Nazi concentration camp, a
 lone, young boy looks beyond the barbed wire and sees a
 young girl pass by.  She too, is moved by his presence.
 In an effort to give expression to her feelings, she
 throws a red apple over the fence -- a sign of life, hope,
 and love.  The young boy bends over and picks up the apple.
 A ray of light has pierced his darkness.  The following day,
 thinking he is crazy for even entertaining the notion of
 seeing this young girl again, he looks out beyond the fence,
 hoping.  On the other side of the barbed wire, the young
 girl yearns to see again this tragic figure who moved her
 so.  She comes prepared with apple in hand.

 Despite another day of wintry blizzards and chilling air,
 two hearts are warmed once again as the apple passes over
 the barbed wire.  The scene is repeated for several days.

 The two young spirits on opposite sides of the fence look
 forward to seeing each other, if only for a moment and if
 only to exchange a few words.  The interaction is always
 accompanied by an exchange of inexplicably heartening

 At the last of these momentary meetings, the young boy
 greets his sweet friend with a frown and says, "Tomorrow,
 don't bring me an apple, I will not be here.  They are
 sending me to another camp."  The young boy walks away,
 too heartbroken to look back.

 From that day forward, the calming image of the sweet
 girl would appear to him in moments of anguish.  Her eyes,
 her words, her thoughtfulness, her red apple, all were a
 recurring vision that would break his night time sweats.
 His family died in the war.  The life he had known had all
 but vanished, but this one memory remained alive and gave
 him hope.

 In 1957 in the United States, two adults, both immigrants,
 are set up on a blind date.  "And where were you during
 the war?" inquires the woman.  "I was in a concentration
 camp in Germany," the man replies.

 "I remember I used to throw apples over the fence to a boy
 who was in a concentration camp," she recalls.

 With a feeling of shock, the man speaks.  "And did that
 boy say to you one day, "Don't bring an apple anymore
 because I am being sent to another camp?'"

 "Why, yes," she responds, "but how could you possibly know

 He looks into her eyes and says, "I was that young boy."

 There is a brief silence, and then he continues, "I was
 separated from you then, and I don't ever want to be with-
 out you again.  Will you marry me?"

 They embrace one another as she says, "Yes."

 On Valentine's Day, 1996, on national telecast of the Oprah
 Winfrey show, this same man affirmed his enduring love to
 his wife of forty years.

 "You fed me in the concentration camp," he said, "you fed
 me throughout all these years; now, I remain hungry if only
 for your love."

 Lesson:  The darkest moments of one's life may carry the
 seeds of the brightest tomorrow.

Subj:     My First Christmas In Heaven
          From: Tom_Adams on 99-01-28

        I see the countless Christmas trees around the world below
      With tiny lights, like Heaven's stars, reflecting on the snow.
          The sight is so spectacular, please wipe away the tear
         For I am spending Christmas with Jesus Christ this year.

         I hear the many Christmas songs that people hold so dear
 But the sounds of music can't compare with the Christmas choir up there.
         I have no words to tell you, the joy thier voices bring,
          For it is beyond description, to hear the angels sing.

      I know how much you miss me, I see the pain inside your heart.
             But I am not so far away, we really aren't apart.
         So be happy for me, dear ones, you know I hold you dear.
     And be happy I'm spending Christmas with Jesus Christ this year.

       I sent you each a heavenly gift, from my heavenly home above.
               I sent you each a memory of my undying love.
          After all, love is a gift more precious than pure gold,
          It was always most important in the stories Jesus told.

         Please love and keep each other, as my father said to do,
      For I can't count the blessing or love he has for each of you.
            So have a Merry Christmas and wipe away that tear,
       Remember I am spending Christmas with Jesus Christ this year.

 Note:  Written by thirteen year old Ben, for his mother,
 before a four year battle with a brain tumor that took his
 life.  He died December 14, 1997.

Subj:     A White Envelope On The Christmas Tree (S98)
          From: Tom_Adams on 98-12-10

 It's just a small, white envelope stuck among the branches
 of our Christmas tree.  No name, no identification, no
 inscription.  It has peeked through the branches of our
 tree for the past 10 years or so.  It all began because
 my husband Mike hated Christmas-oh, not the true meaning
 of Christmas, but the commercial aspects of it - - over-
 spending, the frantic running around at the last minute to
 get a tie for Uncle Harry and the dusting powder for
 Grandma - - the gifts given in desperation because you
 couldn't think of anything else.  Knowing he felt this
 way, I decided one year to bypass the usual shirts,
 sweaters, ties and so forth.  I reached for something
 special just for Mike.  The inspiration came in an unusual

 Our son Kevin, who was 12 that year, was wrestling at the
 junior level at the school he attended; and shortly before
 Christmas, there was a non-league match against a team
 sponsored by an inner-city church, mostly black.  These
 youngsters, dressed in sneakers so ragged that shoestrings
 seemed to be the only thing holding them together, presented
 a sharp contrast to our boys in their spiffy blue and gold
 uniforms and sparkling new wrestling shoes.

 As the match began, I was alarmed to see that the other team
 was wrestling without headgear, a kind of light helmet
 designed to protect a wrestler's ears.  It was a luxury the
 ragtag team obviously could not afford.  Well, we ended up
 walloping them.  We took every weight class.  As each of
 their boys got up from the mat, he swaggered around in his
 tatters with false bravado, a kind of street pride that
 couldn't acknowledge defeat.

 Mike, seated beside me, shook his head sadly, "I wish just
 one of them could have won," he said.  "They have a lot of
 potential, but losing like this could take the heart right
 out of them."  Mike loved kids - - all kids and he knew
 them, having coached little league football, baseball and
 lacrosse.  That's when the idea for his present came.

 That afternoon, I went to a local sporting goods store and
 bought an assortment of wrestling headgear and shoes and
 sent them anonymously to the inner-city church.

 On Christmas Eve, I placed the envelope on the tree, the
 note inside telling Mike what I had done and that this was
 his gift from me.  His smile was the brightest thing about
 Christmas that year and in succeeding years.  For each
 Christmas, I followed the tradition - - one year sending a
 group of mentally handicapped youngsters to a hockey game,
 another year a check to a pair of elderly brothers whose
 home had burned to the ground the week before Christmas,
 and on and on.  The envelope became the highlight of our
 Christmas.  It was always the last thing opened on Christmas
 morning and our children, ignoring their new toys, would
 stand with wide-eyed anticipation as their dad lifted the
 envelope from the tree to reveal its contents.

 As the children grew, the toys gave way to more practical
 presents, but the envelope never lost its allure.

 The story doesn't end there.  You see, we lost Mike last
 year due to dreaded cancer.  When Christmas rolled around,
 I was still so wrapped in grief that I barely got the tree
 up.  But Christmas Eve found me placing an envelope on the
 tree, and in the morning, it was joined by three more. Each
 of our children, unbeknownst to the others, had placed an
 envelope on the tree for their dad.  The tradition has
 grown and someday will expand even further with our grand-
 children standing around the tree with wide-eyed anticipation
 watching as their fathers take down the envelope ...  Mike's
 spirit, like the Christmas spirit, will always be with us.

 May we all remember the Christmas spirit this year and always.

Subj:     The Wallet (S94, S510c)
          From: RFSlick on 98-11-08
      and From: Joke-Of-The-Day-Mail.com on 10/30/2006

 As I walked home one freezing day, I stumbled on a wallet
 someone had lost in the street.  I picked it up and looked
 inside to find some identification so I could call the owner.
 The wallet contained only three dollars and a crumpled letter
 that looked as if it had been in there for years.

 The envelope was worn and the only thing that was legible on
 it was the return address.  I started to open the letter,
 hoping to find some clue.  Then I saw the dateline--1924.
 The letter had been written almost sixty years ago.

 It was written in a beautiful feminine handwriting on powder
 blue stationery with a little flower in the left-hand corner.
 It was a "Dear John" letter that told the recipient, whose
 name appeared to be Michael, that the writer could not see
 him any more because her mother forbade it.  Even so, she
 wrote that she would always love him.  It was signed, Hannah.

 It was a beautiful letter, but there was no way except for
 the name Michael, that the owner could be identified.  Maybe
 if I called information, the operator could find a phone
 listing for the address on the envelope.

 "Operator," I began, "this is an unusual request. I'm trying
 to find the owner of a wallet that I found.  Is there anyway
 you can tell me if there is a phone number for an address
 that was on an envelope in the wallet?"

 She suggested I speak with her supervisor, who hesitated for
 a moment then said, "Well, there is a phone listing at that
 address, but I can't give you the number."  She said, as a
 courtesy, she would call that number, explain my story and
 would ask them if they wanted her to connect me.  I waited a
 few minutes and then she was back on the line.  "I have a
 party who will speak with you."

 I asked the woman on the other end of the line if she knew
 anyone by the name of Hannah.  She gasped, "Oh! We bought
 this house from a family who had a daughter named Hannah.
 But that was 30 years ago!"

 "Would you know where that family could be located now?" I

 "I remember that Hannah had to place her mother in a nursing
 home some years ago," the woman said. "Maybe if you got in
 touch with them they might be able to track down the daughter."

 She gave me the name of the nursing home and I called the
 number.  They told me the old lady had passed away some years
 ago but they did have a phone number for where they thought
 the daughter might be living.

 I thanked them and phoned.  The woman who answered explained
 that Hannah herself was now living in a nursing home.

 This whole thing was stupid, I thought to myself.  Why was I
 making such a big deal over finding the owner of a wallet
 that had only three dollars and a letter that was almost 60
 years old?

 Nevertheless, I called the nursing home in which Hannah was
 supposed to be living and the man who answered the phone
 told me, "Yes, Hannah is staying with us. "

 Even though it was already 10 p.m., I asked if I could come
 by to see her.  "Well," he said hesitatingly, "if you want
 to take a chance, she might be in the day room watching

 I thanked him and drove over to the nursing home.  The
 night nurse and a guard greeted me at the door.  We went up
 to the third floor of the large building.  In the day room,
 the nurse introduced me to Hannah.

 She was a sweet, silver-haired old timer with a warm smile
 and a twinkle in her eye.

 I told her about finding the wallet and showed her the
 letter.  The second she saw the powder blue envelope with
 that little flower on the left, she took a deep breath and
 said, "Young man, this letter was the last contact I ever
 had with Michael."

 She looked away for a moment deep in thought and then said
 Softly, "I loved him very much.  I was only 16 at the time
 and my mother felt I was too young.  Oh, he was so handsome.
 He looked like Sean Connery, the actor."

 "Yes," she continued. "Michael Goldstein was a wonderful
 person.  If you should find him, tell him I think of him
 often.  And," she hesitated for a moment, almost biting her
 lip, "tell him I still love him. You know," she said smiling
 as tears began to well up in her eyes, "I never did marry.
 I guess no one ever matched up to Michael..."

 I thanked Hannah and said goodbye.  I took the elevator to
 the first floor and as I stood by the door, the guard there
 asked, "Was the old lady able to help you?"

 I told him she had given me a lead. "At least I have a last
 name.  But I think I'll let it go for a while.  I spent
 almost the whole day trying to find the owner of this wallet."

 I had taken out the wallet, which was a simple brown leather
 case with red lacing on the side.  When the guard saw it, he
 said, "Hey, wait a minute!  That's Mr. Goldstein's wallet.
 I'd know it anywhere with that right red lacing.  He's always
 losing that wallet.  I must have found it in the halls at
 least three times."

 "Who's Mr. Goldstein?" I asked as my hand began to shake.

 "He's one of the old timers on the 8th floor.  That's Mike
 Goldstein's wallet for sure.  He must have lost it on one
 of his walks."

 I thanked the guard and quickly ran back to the nurse's
 office.  I told her what the guard had said.  We went back
 to the elevator and got on.  I prayed that Mr. Goldstein
 would be up.

 On the eighth floor, the floor nurse said, "I think he's
 still in the day room.  He likes to read at night. He's a
 darling old man."

 We went to the only room that had any lights on and there
 was a man reading a book.  The nurse went over to him and
 asked if he had lost his wallet.  Mr. Goldstein looked up
 with surprise, put his hand in his back pocket and said,
 "Oh, it is missing!"

 "This kind gentleman found a wallet and we wondered if it
 could be yours?"

 I handed Mr. Goldstein the wallet and the second he saw
 it, he smiled with relief and said, "Yes, that's it!  It
 must have dropped out of my pocket this afternoon.  I
 want to give you a reward."

 "No, thank you," I said.  "But I have to tell you some-
 thing.  I read the letter in the hope of finding out who
 owned the wallet."

 The smile on his face suddenly disappeared. "You read
 that letter?"

 "Not only did I read it, I think I know where Hannah is."

 He suddenly grew pale. "Hannah?  You know where she is?
 How is she?  Is she still as pretty as she was?  Please,
 please tell me," he begged.

 "She's fine...just as pretty as when you knew her." I
 said softly.

 The old man smiled with anticipation and asked, "Could
 you tell me where she is?  I want to call her tomorrow."
 He grabbed my hand and said, "You know something, mister,
 I was so in love with that girl that when that letter
 came, my life literally ended. I never married.  I guess
 I've always loved her. "

 "Mr. Goldstein," I said, "Come with me."

 We took the elevator down to the third floor.  The
 hallways were darkened and only one or two little night-
 lights lit our way to the day room where Hannah was
 sitting alone watching the television.  The nurse
 walked over to her.

 "Hannah," she said softly, pointing to Michael, who was
 waiting with me in the doorway. "Do you know this man?"

 She adjusted her glasses, looked for a moment, but didn't
 say a word.  Michael said softly, almost in a whisper,
 "Hannah, it's Michael.  Do you remember me?"

 She gasped, "Michael! I don't believe it! Michael!  It's
 you!  My Michael!"  He walked slowly towards her and they
 embraced.  The nurse and I left with tears streaming down
 our faces.

 "See," I said. "See how the Good Lord works!  If it's
 meant to be, it will be."

 About three weeks later I got a call at my office from
 the nursing home.  "Can you break away on Sunday to
 attend a wedding?  Michael and Hannah are going to tie
 the knot!"

 It was a beautiful wedding with all the people at the
 nursing home dressed up to join in the celebration.
 Hannah wore a light beige dress and looked beautiful.
 Michael wore a dark blue suit and stood tall.  They
 made me their best man.

 The hospital gave them their own room and if you ever
 wanted to see a 76-year-old bride and a 79-year-old
 groom acting like two teenagers, you had to see this

 A perfect ending for a love affair that had lasted
 nearly 60 years.

Subj:     A Little Girl On The Beach (S93, S482c)
          From: auntieg on 98-11-04
      and From: darrell94590 on 4/19/2006

 A sweet story...get out the Kleenex!

 She was six years old when I first met her on the beach near
 where I live.  I drive to this beach, a distance of three or
 four miles, whenever the world begins to close in on me.  She
 was building a sandcastle or something and looked up, her eyes
 as blue as the sea.

 "Hello," she said.  I answered with a nod, not really in the
 mood to bother with a small child.  "I'm building," she said.

 "I see that.  What is it?" I asked, not caring."

 "Oh, I don't know, I just like the feel of sand."  That sounds
 good, I thought, and slipped off my shoes. A sandpiper glided by.

 "That's a joy," the child said.

 "It's a what?"

 "It's a joy.  My mama says sandpipers come to bring us joy."
 The bird went gliding down the beach.

 "Good-bye joy," I muttered to myself, "Hello pain," and turned
 to walk on.

 I was depressed; my life seemed completely out of balance.

 "What's your name?"  She wouldn't give up.
 "Ruth," I answered.  "I'm Ruth Peterson."

 "Mine's Wendy... I'm six."

 "Hi, Wendy."

 She giggled. "You're funny," she said.

 In spite of my gloom I laughed too and walked on.  Her musical
 giggle followed me.  "Come again, Mrs. P," she called. "We'll
 have another happy day."  The days and weeks that followed
 belong to others: a group of unruly Boy Scouts, PTA meetings,
 and ailing mother.  The sun was shining one morning as I took
 my hands out of the dishwater.  "I need a sandpiper," I said
 to myself, gathering up my coat.  The ever-changing balm of
 the seashore awaited me.  The breeze was chilly, but I strode
 along, trying to recapture the serenity I needed.  I had for-
 gotten the child and was startled when she appeared.

 "Hello, Mrs. P," she said. "Do you want to play?"

 "What did you have in mind?"  I asked, with a twinge of annoyance.

 "I don't know, you say."

 "How about charades?" I asked sarcastically.

 The tinkling laughter burst forth again. "I don't know what
 that is." "Then let's just walk."  Looking at her, I noticed
 the delicate fairness of her face. "Where do you live?" I
 asked.  "Over there."  She pointed toward a row of summer
 cottages.  Strange, I thought, in winter. "Where do you go
 to school?"  "I don't go to school.  Mommy says we're on
 vacation."  She chattered little girl talk as we strolled
 up the beach, but my mind was on other things.  When I left
 for home, Wendy said it had been a happy day.  Feeling
 surprisingly better, I smiled at her and agreed.

 Three weeks later, I rushed to my beach in a  state of near
 panic.  I was in nomood to even greet Wendy.  I thought I
 saw her mother on the porch and felt like demanding she
 keep her child at home.  "Look, if you don't mind,"  I said
 crossly when Wendy caught up with me, "I'd rather be alone

 She seems unusually pale and out of breath. "Why?" she asked.
 I turned to her and shouted, "Because my mother died!" and
 thought, my God, why was I saying this to a little child?
 "Oh," she said quietly, "then this is a bad day."
 "Yes" I said, "and yesterday and the day before and-oh, go

 "Did it hurt? " she inquired.

 "Did what hurt?" I was exasperated with her, with myself.

 "When she died?"

 "Of course it hurt!!" I snapped, misunderstanding, wrapped
 up in myself.  I strode off.

 A month or so after that, when I next went to the beach, she
 wasn't  there.  Feeling guilty, ashamed and admitting to
 myself I missed her, I went up to the cottage after my walk
 and knocked at the door.  A drawn looking young woman with
 honey-colored hair opened the door.

 "Hello," I said. "I'm Ruth Peterson.  I missed your little
 girl today  and wondered where she was."

 "Oh yes, Mrs. Peterson, please come in" "Wendy talked of you
 so much. I'm afraid I allowed her to bother you.  If she was
 a nuisance, please, accept my apologies."

 "Not at all-she's a delightful child," I said, suddenly
 realizing that I meant it.  "Where is she?"

 "Wendy died last week, Mrs. Peterson.  She had leukemia.
 Maybe she didn't tell you."

 Struck dumb, I groped for a chair.  My breath caught. "She
 loved this beach; so when she asked to come, we couldn't
 say no.  She seemed so much better here and had a lot of
 what she called happy days.  But the last few weeks, she
 declined rapidly..." her voice faltered.

 "She left something for you... if only I can find it.
 Could you wait a moment while I look?"  I nodded stupidly,
 my mind racing for something, anything, to say to this
 lovely young woman.  She handed me a smeared envelope,
 with MRS. P printed in bold, childish letters.  Inside
 was a drawing in bright crayon hues-a  yellow beach, a
 blue sea, and a brown bird.  Underneath was carefully


 Tears welled up in my eyes, and a heart that had almost
 forgotten to love opened wide.  I took Wendy's mother in
 my arms.  "I'm so sorry, I'm  sorry, I'm so sorry," I
 muttered over and over, and we wept together.

 The precious little picture is framed now and hangs in
 my study.  Six words - one for each year of her life -
 that speak to me of harmony, courage, undemanding love.
 A gift from a child with sea blue eyes and hair the
 color of sand---who taught me the gift of love.

 NOTE:  Snopes.com indicates that the story didn't happen.
 You can read the details at

                           -(o o)-
..............................From Smiley_Central