Tell your heart-warming story here

[OutOfBreath]

Because I get so sick of all the bad news and bad people in the world, I thought I'd share this little incident with you.

Yesterday my daughter and I were putting some purchases in our car when we saw a man nearby get into his car and start it, preparing to leave. As he did this, a young mother with a child in a chest-pack type carrier and a completely full grocery cart attempted to maneuver her cart behind his car and over to her own. We noticed the man stop his car, get out, and help the young woman to her car where he unloaded her grocery cart for her.



Susan

Actually, I find that kind of sad -- sad that common courtesy is so uncommon now that it draws such notice. When I was younger this kind of behavior was normal. Then, somewhere along the line we all became too busy to remember that our neighbors are people just like us. Of course, the fact that some folks go out of their way to "reward" courtesy with rancor, these days doesn't help. I've actually had women get nasty and make comments about my "sexist" behavior when I've extended the simple common courtesy of holding a door for them -- never mind that I extend the same courtesy to men...

[caniadafallon]

I always get a surprised and somewhat sheepish look when I hold the door open for a man... I think it kind of flummoxes them. My thought is whomever gets to the door first should hold it open for someone right behind.

Though I do like to have my car door opened for me. Unfortunately, it rarely happens. Why is that, I wonder?

[avanutria]

I always get a surprised and somewhat sheepish look when I hold the door open for a man... I think it kind of flummoxes them.

Hahaha...that happens to me too.

[Darwin]

Watching some Olympic track events with my son last night triggered this memory. It's a bit strange, but not entirely unheartwarming (TM).

C.K. Yang ( http://vm.mtsac.edu/relays/HallFame/Yang.htm ) won a silver medal for Taiwan in the 1960 Olympics decathlon competition, which was a big thing for little Taiwan at the time.

Yang attended UCLA, but did a lot of his pre-Olympic training in Pacific Grove, near Monterey, where his trainer, "Coach Wei", ran him up and down the hilly streets.

After his big win, Yang and Wei went back to Taiwan. I don't recall how they traveled, but, as I recall the story, they ended up in the Taipei train station, where they were met by a delegation of government officials.

As they stood talking in the station, a stranger came up and asked, "Are you Coach Wei?" Wei said, "Yes, I am."

The man then said something along the lines of "We are very proud of Yang, and we are grateful to you for training him. I want to apologize."

With that, he handed Coach Wei his (Wei's) wallet. It had been lifted by one of a team of pickpockets that the man controlled. When he saw that it belonged to Coach Wei, he felt bad and returned it.

Almost heartwarming, huh? (Coach Wei was one of my Mandarin instructors in 1963, and told the story in class, teaching us the Mandarin word for "pickpocket", "san1shou3" [literally, "three hands"].)

[Teri-K]

The first client I worked with when I went into immigration law was an asylee from one of the many war-torn West African nations. He is a mountain of a man, well over six feet tall and 300 pounds. Inside this huge frame is a soft-spoken, gentle survivor of unspeakable horrors.

Going through the asylum process in America is a frightening experience and, depending where you live in the U.S., can take years for approval. Once asylum is granted, the long wait begins for a green card. Then, finally, after receiving a green card and another 5 years wait, you can apply for citizenship. A test is given to see if you meet the required standards for ability to read, write and speak English. You must also pass an American civics test.

After many long years, my West African client was about to take the exams at our local immigration office to become an American citizen. In preparation, we met and reviewed the sample test questions the day before his appointment. After an hour, we both felt he was ready. While he answered each and every question correctly, without hesitation, his huge hands still shook and his expression was that of intense worry. I assured him he would be fine.

The next afternoon, my client came rushing into the office. I could hear him asking for me in a very excited voice from my office in the back. He stood in the reception area waving papers madly and beaming. I asked him how he had done and found that he had a perfect score. My next question was now that he was a citizen, what he was going to do. The smile disappeared from his face, big tears welled up in his eyes and he told me he was going to register to vote.

[dubhlinn]

Watching some Olympic track events with my son last night triggered this memory. It's a bit strange, but not entirely unheartwarming (TM).

C.K. Yang ( http://vm.mtsac.edu/relays/HallFame/Yang.htm ) won a silver medal for Taiwan in the 1960 Olympics decathlon competition, which was a big thing for little Taiwan at the time.

Yang attended UCLA, but did a lot of his pre-Olympic training in Pacific Grove, near Monterey, where his trainer, "Coach Wei", ran him up and down the hilly streets.

After his big win, Yang and Wei went back to Taiwan. I don't recall how they traveled, but, as I recall the story, they ended up in the Taipei train station, where they were met by a delegation of government officials.

As they stood talking in the station, a stranger came up and asked, "Are you Coach Wei?" Wei said, "Yes, I am."

The man then said something along the lines of "We are very proud of Yang, and we are grateful to you for training him. I want to apologize."

With that, he handed Coach Wei his (Wei's) wallet. It had been lifted by one of a team of pickpockets that the man controlled. When he saw that it belonged to Coach Wei, he felt bad and returned it.

Almost heartwarming, huh? (Coach Wei was one of my Mandarin instructors in 1963, and told the story in class, teaching us the Mandarin word for "pickpocket", "san1shou3" [literally, "three hands"].)

Now that is a great story,
Human nature, at it's most sublime and subtle.

Slan,
D.

[bradhurley]

One winter morning about 15 years ago I had a dream that I've never forgotten.

In the dream, I was sitting by a fireplace, talking with the writer Bruce Chatwin (author of Songlines, In Patagonia, On the Black Hill, the Viceroy of Oudah, etc.). Chatwin was one of my heroes, I loved his books and used to fantasize about living the nomadic life he lived, traveling around the world and writing novels.

Chatwin was telling me tales from his latest adventure, and after awhile I started thinking about how much more fully he was living than I ever had. I realized that for much of my life, I'd been passively letting life happen instead of making it happen. That realization made me feel inadequate and depressed.

So after he was finished talking I said to him, "You know, if life were a book, you would be a writer and I would only be a reader."

He thought about that for a second and then replied with a laugh, "That's nothing to be ashamed of. Most people just watch television!"

At that moment I awoke from my dream, and I was in one of those half-awake/half asleep moments when I wasn't sure whether what had just happened was a dream or whether it had really occurred. I never met Bruce Chatwin (he's dead now), but I always think of that dream when I read his books.

[susnfx]

I wonder what it would be like to have a dream that not only made sense but actually taught me a life lesson! I'm a "reader" too, Brad, but I'm really striving to have a more positive outlook and make better things happen in my life.

And you know what's nice? I came home tonight to find that my daughter's dog (a rambuncious empty-headed beagle) had destroyed the blinds on four windows trying to jump up and see something outside! To say I was upset would be an understatement. I finally calmed down and sat down to read my email and the C&F board. I was reading this thread when I realized I was sitting here with a smile on my face!

Thanks everybody!

Susan

[Azalin]

Nice stuff Brad, and Susan, cheers and thanks to you, you are making a difference*.

PS: I'm not sure that expression works in english but it doesn't matter

[bradhurley]

Actually I remembered another heartwarming story, and this one even involves Irish music.

For about 10 years, from the early 1980s to early 1990s, the whistle and flute maker Chris Abell had a session every Tuesday night in his shop in Concord, Massachusetts (before he moved to North Carolina). It was a private session, usually just four or five of us; we would have beer and pizza, sit around and talk, and play tunes.

One of the regulars at that session was a woman named Susan Zimelis. Susan was well known in the Boston Irish music scene, and was a great hammered dulcimer player, one of the few I've heard who truly understood the music and could fit into a session. We all loved Susan, she had a beautifully serene spirit and her music was full of feeling and passion. There's a framed photograph of her on the wall of The Burren, the great Irish pub in Somerville, Mass.

One autumn day I had a phone call from another session regular, Sandy Davis, a whistle, flute, concertina (and now saxophone) player. "Susan's in the hospital," he said. "She has leukemia." It was a shock; we had been playing music with her the week before and she'd seemed healthy and happy.

Susan pulled through, and a few months later we gathered in her apartment to play music with her again. She was bone-thin and weak from her chemotherapy treatments, but she played beautifully and with joy.

The following summer Susan developed leukemia again. It became apparent that she would need a bone marrow transplant. Just a day or two before the operation was scheduled to take place, she took a sudden turn for the worse and plunged into a high fever that sent her into a coma. Her family gathered round her. They discovered that while Susan couldn't talk, she was able to communicate a little by blinking her eyelids. Sandy Davis visited her in the hospital and asked her if she'd like to hear some music. She blinked "yes." As soon as Sandy started to play, her eyes opened. She was still in a coma and it wasn't clear that she could see anything, but her eyes opened wide and then shut when he stopped playing. The moment Sandy returned home, he got the word out to Susan's music friends--and she had a lot of them--that they should go to the hospital and spend some time playing music for her. Sandy coordinated the visits. From that point on, there was a steady stream of musicians into Susan's room and she was never without music. The hospital staff had never seen anything like it.

I drove down from Vermont to join Sandy at Susan's bedside one night, and we played all the tunes we used to play together. On our two flutes we played one of Susan's favorite melodies, an old fife tune called "The World Turned Upside Down," and she cried while we played. We did too. Sandy composed a tune for her called "Zim's Jig," and I composed an air and reel called "Raindrops on Walden," in honor of an unforgettable midnight swim in Walden Pond that we'd all had on a warm and muggy Tuesday night, when it started to rain while we were in the water.

In early December, Susan emerged from her coma. She spent a day surrounded by friends who played music, told her jokes, and told her that they loved her. She was happy and laughing. The next day she slipped back into a coma, and a week or so later she died.

It was a powerful experience for all of us, and for me it drove home the value and meaning of music in our lives. Sometimes when I play tunes I ask myself why I'm spending so much time on music, what good does it do in the world. But then I think of Susan's last days, her hunger for music, the need of her fellow musicians to play for her, the deep wordless communication among people who'd long drunk from the same well, and I know it's something worth doing.

[BillChin]

Actually I remembered another heartwarming story, and this one even involves Irish music.
....
In early December, Susan emerged from her coma. She spent a day surrounded by friends who played music, told her jokes, and told her that they loved her. She was happy and laughing. The next day she slipped back into a coma, and a week or so later she died.

It was a powerful experience for all of us, and for me it drove home the value and meaning of music in our lives. Sometimes when I play tunes I ask myself why I'm spending so much time on music, what good does it do in the world. But then I think of Susan's last days, her hunger for music, the need of her fellow musicians to play for her, the deep wordless communication among people who'd long drunk from the same well, and I know it's something worth doing.

This story brings a tear to my eye and a memory of earlier this year, playing whistles for my grandmother in the hospital. Even with her mind almost entirely gone from advanced dementia, she could still hear the music. I posted the story and the song I wrote during those days, under the topic "Whistling at Four North."

http://chiffboard.mati.ca/viewtopic.php ... four+north

[carrie]

Beautiful and moving stories.

A few days ago my daughter and I were out walking our dog, and talking in that relaxed way dog-walking makes possible (that is, between the "Daisy, stop that!"s and the "Wait, let me clean up"s). Really though, it was such a joy to hear her talk about discovering the kinds of bonds music-making creates. She was telling me how close she felt to her other band members because of the music they make together, how they really feel like they've been through something together after playing music, both just practicing and also performing. Her first taste, I think, of what she will come to know as "the deep wordless communication among people who'd long drunk from the same well." It is a gift.

Carol