Read Online Chicken Soup for the Ocean Lover's Soul by Jack Canfield - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Jack Canfield
Ads: Link
unfathomable always.
Henry David Thoreau
There were six of us in the car: me, my friend Shelley, her parents Mel and Cathy, and her aunt Pam and uncle Jay. We had made the two-day drive from Michigan to see Shelley’s ill grandfather, who lived in a small town south of Portsmouth, New Hampshire. I agreed to go to keep Shelley company, and because I had never left the Midwest. Once we got there, however, a pall was cast by the condition of Shelley’s grandpa. It was much more serious than we had known. It seemed that everyone who saw him returned fighting back tears. So rather than sightseeing, we spent most of our time in the parlor sitting on the couch, talking little to each other or anyone else.
At one point, we tried to take a walk. But in a town that consisted of three buildings—a post office, a general store and a hardware store—we quickly discovered there was nowhere to go. Two days passed. I had never seen the ocean before, and Shelley’s mother suggested we go to the beach for some fresh air. She and her sister Pam and their spouses decided to accompany us. The girls had spent summers in the area until their parents divorced, and they went to live with their mother in Michigan. This was their first visit back to New Hampshire in a decade.
My first sight of the ocean took my breath away: It looked cold and expansive, with a gray sky that stretched for miles above the churning blue water. I took my shoes off, despite warnings about the jagged rocks, and raced to the water’s edge where the tide lapped my toes. The others joined me there, and we stood gazing for what seemed like forever. I could tell that the minds of Cathy and Pam weren’t far removed from the sickroom where their father lay, and it was not surprising when Pam said, “Remember how Dad brought us here to sketch?” Their father’s hobby had been painting until a third stroke had disabled him. Cathy nodded, then returned to gazing in silence. For a while, no one said anything. Then I picked up a stone and threw it into the water.
Shelley’s uncle Jay smiled. “That stone took 4,000 years to wash ashore,” he said. “Now you’ve put it back where it started.”
“It wasn’t a very good throw,” I answered. “It’ll probably only take it 2,000 years this time.”
Mel smiled, too. He picked up a jagged rock and gave it his best shot. “Six thousand years, easy,” he said.
Shelley heaved a heavy stone underhand.
“Two hundred years, tops.” We were all smiling now. Pam gave a toss. “Aw,” she said, “that’ll be back by the end of the summer!”
Hours later we left the shore smoother than we had found it, having set scores of rocks back thousands of years in their quest for the shore. I wondered why their goal was to leave the ocean at all. If it were up to me, I thought, I never would. Shelley’s grandpa died that week. After the funeral, we went through his things in the attic and garage. Paintings were tucked everywhere. All of them were of the ocean. There were dreamy watercolor seascapes of sky and water, oils of ships in a harbor, and pastel renderings of his girls combing the beach. He had tried to paint the ocean even after his strokes, his efforts touching and sad. I was an outsider to the family’s loss, yet I was infinitely glad for having been there, having learned that the love of the ocean is the love of life, a love that never leaves us as long as we live. We are like the rocks, I thought, blithely riding the tides, only to be beached until some kind hand throws us back to sea.
Nicole-René Rivette
Guided Tour
One humid day in May while walking through the New Orleans Aquarium where I worked, I heard a voice say in a heavy accent, “Excuse me, sir, can you direct me to the penguins?” I turned and found a young man in his mid-twenties accompanied by a woman in her mid-forties and an elderly woman who stood quietly behind him. The young man had a warm demeanor and stated that he had just moved to
Henry David Thoreau
There were six of us in the car: me, my friend Shelley, her parents Mel and Cathy, and her aunt Pam and uncle Jay. We had made the two-day drive from Michigan to see Shelley’s ill grandfather, who lived in a small town south of Portsmouth, New Hampshire. I agreed to go to keep Shelley company, and because I had never left the Midwest. Once we got there, however, a pall was cast by the condition of Shelley’s grandpa. It was much more serious than we had known. It seemed that everyone who saw him returned fighting back tears. So rather than sightseeing, we spent most of our time in the parlor sitting on the couch, talking little to each other or anyone else.
At one point, we tried to take a walk. But in a town that consisted of three buildings—a post office, a general store and a hardware store—we quickly discovered there was nowhere to go. Two days passed. I had never seen the ocean before, and Shelley’s mother suggested we go to the beach for some fresh air. She and her sister Pam and their spouses decided to accompany us. The girls had spent summers in the area until their parents divorced, and they went to live with their mother in Michigan. This was their first visit back to New Hampshire in a decade.
My first sight of the ocean took my breath away: It looked cold and expansive, with a gray sky that stretched for miles above the churning blue water. I took my shoes off, despite warnings about the jagged rocks, and raced to the water’s edge where the tide lapped my toes. The others joined me there, and we stood gazing for what seemed like forever. I could tell that the minds of Cathy and Pam weren’t far removed from the sickroom where their father lay, and it was not surprising when Pam said, “Remember how Dad brought us here to sketch?” Their father’s hobby had been painting until a third stroke had disabled him. Cathy nodded, then returned to gazing in silence. For a while, no one said anything. Then I picked up a stone and threw it into the water.
Shelley’s uncle Jay smiled. “That stone took 4,000 years to wash ashore,” he said. “Now you’ve put it back where it started.”
“It wasn’t a very good throw,” I answered. “It’ll probably only take it 2,000 years this time.”
Mel smiled, too. He picked up a jagged rock and gave it his best shot. “Six thousand years, easy,” he said.
Shelley heaved a heavy stone underhand.
“Two hundred years, tops.” We were all smiling now. Pam gave a toss. “Aw,” she said, “that’ll be back by the end of the summer!”
Hours later we left the shore smoother than we had found it, having set scores of rocks back thousands of years in their quest for the shore. I wondered why their goal was to leave the ocean at all. If it were up to me, I thought, I never would. Shelley’s grandpa died that week. After the funeral, we went through his things in the attic and garage. Paintings were tucked everywhere. All of them were of the ocean. There were dreamy watercolor seascapes of sky and water, oils of ships in a harbor, and pastel renderings of his girls combing the beach. He had tried to paint the ocean even after his strokes, his efforts touching and sad. I was an outsider to the family’s loss, yet I was infinitely glad for having been there, having learned that the love of the ocean is the love of life, a love that never leaves us as long as we live. We are like the rocks, I thought, blithely riding the tides, only to be beached until some kind hand throws us back to sea.
Nicole-René Rivette
Guided Tour
One humid day in May while walking through the New Orleans Aquarium where I worked, I heard a voice say in a heavy accent, “Excuse me, sir, can you direct me to the penguins?” I turned and found a young man in his mid-twenties accompanied by a woman in her mid-forties and an elderly woman who stood quietly behind him. The young man had a warm demeanor and stated that he had just moved to
Similar Books
