Heart Of A Champion 

Though it’s been years since his racing career ended, Niatross is still a powerful horse. Taller than most men, he weighs half a ton, with a broad chest and chiseled muscles that ripple under a rich bronze coat. 

A racing legend, the champion Standardbred racehorse won 37 of 39 races in 1979-80 and over a million dollars. No horse could pass him once he got the lead. 

In 1996, when he was 19 years old, Niatross made a 20-city tour across North America. For 16 years, Niatross had done little more than romp in his paddock and munch hay and oats. Now he’d have a rock star’s schedule, with press conferences and photographers in every city, a strange stall to sleep in and thousands of fans wanting to pet and fuss over him. As his tour manager, I traveled with him. 

Niatross greeted fans from Maine to Illinois, in big cities and county fairs, in scorching heat and chilly winds. Niatross endured it all with grace and almost eerie intelligence. He was always able to sense what was expected of  him and do it. 

One night in Buffalo, New York, Niatross pawed and stomped his feet as he waited for his cue to pace down the racetrack for a photo session. The big horse, in his impatience, reared up on his hind legs, pulling his handler, a 6’6" man, off his feet, before lunging on to the track. But the outburst was over quickly and soon he stood to be photographed, once again the obliging star. 

After his track appearance, Chris, his handler, unharnessed Niatross and brushed his lustrous coat. As the two rounded the corner from the barn to the grandstand where a crowd of fans waited, Niatross rolled his eyes and stopped in his tracks, as if to say, "Oh, no. I have to do this again?" But with a gentle tug on the lead rope, Niatross
moved ahead to take his place of honor. 

For two hours, he was petted, stroked, prodded and swooned over. I was silently thanking Niatross for another night of patience with us when out of the corner of my eye, I saw a moving, buzzing blur zipping across the pavement toward Niatross. As it drew closer, I could see that the blur was a child in an electric wheelchair. The child had his chair going full throttle and before I could caution him not to scare Niatross, he came to an abrupt halt under the horse’s nose, mere inches from his powerful front legs. 

Clearly startled, but maintaining his poise, Niatross widened his eyes and craned his neck to peer down at the tiny blonde boy, who was around five years old and looked like a doll in the heavy, motorized chair. I said hello to the child, who perhaps because of his handicap, was unable to speak. The fingers of his right hand were clutched around a button that propelled his chair; the fingers on the left hand were frozen around a Niatross poster. He looked at me intently, his eyes burning a hole through my face. 

"Would you like Niatross to sign your poster?" I asked. With great solemnity, he nodded his head yes. I pulled the poster from his fingers, tapped Niatross’ foot to get him to lift it, placed the poster beneath it and traced his hoof. 

"There," I said, slipping the poster back between his fingers, "Niatross signed his name for you." The child said nothing, but continued his fixed gaze at me. 

"Do you want to give Niatross a pat?" I asked. Again, he solemnly moved his head up and down. Yes. 

A mild panic came over me. How could we do this? The boy couldn’t extend a hand or unclench his fingers, his arms were frozen at his side. How could he reach up to pat a horse? I turned to Chris, not knowing what to do, but knowing we couldn’t disappoint this child. 

"Chris?" I said, hoping he’d have an idea. Without hesitation, Chris placed his hand a few inches beneath Niatross’soft muzzle. Niatross lowered his velvety nose into Chris’ hand. Slowly, cautiously, Chris moved his hand, with Niatross following, lower and lower, past the boy’s head, past his tiny shoulders. Chris pulled his hand away and
Niatross, closing his eyes, rested his head in the boy’s lap. 

The boy’s intent expression melted into a faint, tranquil smile. The tension gone from his frail body, he laid his head alongside Niatross’ powerful head, the same head that jerked a man off his feet just hours before. The two were secure in the only kind of embrace a horse and a wheelchair-bound child could have. Boy and horse looked like
old friends, exchanging a wordless greeting understood only by them. 

Slowly, steadily, Niatross lifted up his head to look down at his new friend. With a flick of his finger, the child spun the wheelchair around. Still smiling and sitting a little taller now, he disappeared as quickly as he’d appeared, into the chilly night.

Lucy

The honeymoon was definitely over. Although Larry and I had been married less than a year, we were headed for disaster. My expectations of marriage were high — probably too high. My parents’ relationship had been happy, loving, full of laughter and mutual respect. Larry didn’t come to the marriage with the same kind of dreams and he felt pressured by my needs. Our home was not a happy one, with tensions, resentment and hurt feelings seething just below the surface. We just couldn’t communicate. 

It was during this rocky time that I had the idea to get a dog. Larry and I talked about it and he said a dog would be fine, as long as it wasn’t a "yappy little thing." He had grown up with German Shepherds and liked them. I called the local pound and asked if they had a German Shepherd who needed a home. It just so happened that they had a white German Shepherd mix, so I went right over to see the dog. 

At the pound, I made my way to the white dog’s cage. She was part Shepherd all right, but the other part must have been Mexican Jumping Bean. She moved like she had springs on the bottoms of her four paws, continuously jumping five feet in the air and barking enthusiastically — just the way a kid waves his arms and yells, "Pick me!
Pick me! Me! Me! Me!" when captains are choosing their teams. I took her out of the run and she tore around the room, stopping only to jump up on me and try to lick my face as she streaked by. I was impressed by her vibrant personality. 

I brought Larry to see her a few hours later and he liked her well enough for us to walk out with her. She strained on her leash, obviously eager to leave the pound behind. 

We named her Lucy and she and I became best friends. I loved getting up in the early morning and walking her when the streets were quiet. A long walk in the park every afternoon became another wonderful part of our daily routine. She liked to be wherever I was, watching me or snoozing in the sun as I went about my housework and gardening. I took her in the car when I went into town to do errands and she sat in the back seat, her nose stuck out of the window to sniff the wind. I found her company entertaining and comforting. Larry seemed to like her too.

As the weeks went by, I felt happier and more centered. I have to admit that I talked to Lucy when we were alone together during the day. I even made up silly songs and sang them to her when we were out driving. She seemed to like the sound of my voice and she wagged her tail and always looked right at me when I told her things. I relished my position at the center of her universe. 

One evening, I was showing Larry a silly game that Lucy and I played — I would stand in front of Lucy and poke her with my right hand a few times, then when she was expecting a poke from the right, I’d poke her from the left. Then a poke from the top, and then from the bottom. She seemed to love trying to figure out where my hand would come from next. We were playing this game when Larry came up behind me and started playing too. I leaned back into the warm bulk of Larry’s chest and his arms closed around me. We stood like that for a moment, before I turned around and held him tight. We hadn’t done that for a long time. 

Things began to fall into place after that. All that canine companionship had enabled me to stop demanding love and attention from Larry — and as I felt happier, I was able to be more loving and certainly more fun to be around. Our wounds began to heal and our marriage started to blossom. 

We’ve been married for over ten years now. When people ask me the secret of our happy partnership, I always tell them, "It’s simple. If you want dog-like devotion…get a dog!"

The Cat Lady

I have lived in my neighborhood for twenty years. It seems to me that I’ve spent at least ten of those years looking for a lost pet, either mine or one I’d seen listed in the newspaper’s lost pet column. 

Recently, I was at it again, going door-to-door looking for one of my own lost kitties, a little black cat named Nicholas who’d slipped out the door before I could stop him. I made my rounds, visiting with all the neighbors, describing Nicholas. Familiar with this routine, everyone promised to keep an eye out and call me if they spotted him. 

Two blocks from my house I noticed a gentleman raking leaves in the yard of a home that had recently been sold. I introduced myself and presented my new neighbor with the plight of the missing Nicholas, asking if he had seen him.

"No," he replied, "I’ve not seen a little black kitty around here." He thought for a moment, looked at me and said, "But I know who you should ask. Several of my neighbors have told me that there’s a woman in the neighborhood that’s crazy about cats. They say she knows every cat around here, probably has dozens herself. They call her ‘The Cat Lady.’ Be sure and check with her." 

"Oh, thank you," I said eagerly. "Do you know where she lives?" 

He pointed a finger down the street, "It’s that one." 

I followed his finger and started to laugh. 

He was pointing at my house!

The "Calling Card"

My brother, Dave, was always close to our grandmother. Both of them shared a love of Mother Nature and of food that they had grown themselves. Whenever his schedule permitted, he would drop in for a short visit and a cup  of coffee. One day, when he found no one home, he left a chunk of dirt on her porch. This started what was later to be known as his "calling card." Grandmother would come home occasionally and instantly know that Dave had been by when she spotted the chunk of dirt on her porch. 

Although Grandmother had a poor upbringing in Italy, she managed to do well in the United States. She was always healthy and independent and enjoyed a fulfilling life. Recently, she had a stroke and died. Everyone was saddened by her death. Dave was disconsolate. His life-long friend was now gone. 

At her funeral, Dave and I were among the grandsons who were pallbearers. At the cemetery, we were instructed by the funeral director to place our white gloves and the carnation we wore during the ceremony on our grandmother's casket. One by one, each grandson paid his final respects. Dave went before me and as he walked  over to her casket, I saw him quickly lean over to pick up something. I couldn't see what it was, so I didn't pay too much attention to it. As I went to place my gloves and carnation next to Dave's, tears suddenly filled my eyes as I focused on the chunk of dirt that lay on top of my grandmother's casket. He had left his "calling card" for the final time.

The Most Beautiful Flower

The park bench was deserted as I sat down to read 
Beneath the long, straggly branches of an old willow tree. 
Disillusioned by life with good reason to frown, 
For the world was intent on dragging me down. 
And if that weren’t enough to ruin my day, 
A young boy out of breath approached me, all tired from play. 
He stood right before me with his head tilted down 
And said with great excitement, "Look what I found!" 
In his hand was a flower, and what a pitiful sight, 
With it’s petals all worn - not enough rain or too little light. 
Wanting him to take his dead flower and go off to play, 
I faked a small smile and then shifted away. 
But instead of retreating he sat next to my side 
And placed the flower to his nose and declared with overacted surprise, 
"It sure smells pretty and it’s beautiful, too. 
That’s why I picked it; here, it’s for you." 
The weed before me was dying or dead. 
Not vibrant of colors, orange, yellow, or red. 
But I knew I must take it, or he might never leave. 
So I reached for the flower and replied, "Just what I need." 
But instead of him placing the flower in my hand, 
He held it in midair without reason or plan. 
It was then that I noticed for the very first time 
That weed-toting boy could not see: he was blind. 
I heard my voice quiver, tears shone like the sun 
As I thanked him for picking the very best one. 
"You’re welcome," he smiled, and then ran off to play, 
Unaware of the impact he’d had on my day. 
I sat there and wondered how he managed to see
A self-pitying woman beneath an old willow tree. 
How did he know of my self-indulged plight? 
Perhaps from his heart, he’d been blessed with true sight. 
Through the eyes of a blind child, at last I could see 
The problem was not with the world, the problem was me. 
And for all of those times I myself had been blind, 
I vowed to see the beauty in life, and appreciate every second that’s mine. 
And then I held that wilted flower up to my nose 
And breathed in the fragrance of a beautiful rose 
And smiled as I watched that young boy, another weed in his hand 
About to change the life of an unsuspecting old man. 

Discouraged?

As I was driving home from work one day, I stopped to watch a local Little League baseball game that was being played in a park near my home. As I sat down behind the bench on the first-baseline, I asked one of the boys what the score was. 

"We're behind 14 to nothing," he answered with a smile. 

"Really," I said. "I have to say you don't look very discouraged." 

"Discouraged?" the boy asked with a puzzled look on his face. "Why should we be discouraged? We haven't been up to bat yet."

Judy 

Judy started chemotherapy just prior to attending one of my workshops for the first time. Although it was necessary for friends to drive her to and from her treatments and stay with her afterward, she felt that she was imposing on them. Because of these feelings, as well as the rigors of the chemotherapy, she desperately needed love and
support. Many workshop participants felt rejected while growing up and were eager to shower love on a recipient they knew wouldn't refuse it. It was a powerful healing process. The group bonded quickly, and I decided to keep the group dynamic going by meeting monthly. 

At the next workshop, Judy lightheartedly shared her experiences about losing her hair, which she said was now falling out by the handful. "Maybe I should get a Mohawk hairdo and dye it purple. I might as well have fun with this," she said. Her courageous attitude was an inspiration to us all. She shrugged this off, saying, "People are resilient in different areas. I just happen to have a lot of resiliency in this area." 

She never did get a Mohawk, but she did start wearing caps-some had sequins; a favorite one had a propeller. One day, she called me just as I was leaving for the December workshop. "I had chemo yesterday, and I'm just too nauseous to make it," she said. At the workshop, we made a special tape for her with messages from group
members. When I told her about it, she cried. 

After three months of being unable to attend the group workshop, Judy let us know that she would once again  grace us with her presence. When she walked in the room, we engulfed her with our hugs. Left unspoken was our  concern for her emotional state; it's one thing to joke about your hair falling out, and another to actually experience  it. We wondered how she had stood up under the strain. Judy answered our question when she sat down and  removed her scarf. I choked back my tears and then burst into laughter as I read the words on her bald head: "And you think you're having a bad hair day!" 

Two for the Price of One

"Where's Jamie?" screamed my cousin Lee Ann. "Oh my God, where is Jamie?" I thought, as we were standing in the pool at my parents' house. The question about my five-year-old son's momentary disappearance sent shock waves through my body. 

The entire pool has a safety ledge around the inside of it and gently slopes to a deep end of only four feet. It was  very common for us to let the younger children splash their afternoons away in Grandma's pool while we stood beside them and got totally soaked with their enthusiasm and the water. 

On that scary afternoon when Lee Ann yelled, it seems that Jamie had been walking near the safety ledge and slid down into the deeper part. We had taken our eyes off him for only a split second, and then he was gone! I quickly  spotted him and reached down to pull him up. 

As I yanked him up, he came out kicking and screaming, crying and fearful, and yelling that he wanted to get out. My guilt wanted to take him out and grant him his wish, but my fatherly instincts told me to stay in the pool with him. Both of us were shaking as I talked to him and reassured him that water can be scary and we must respect it. I held him close as we gently walked around the pool. After a couple of minutes he said he wasn't afraid anymore and he started to splash around again. 

I was feeling guilty and sorry for myself for being such a bad father. "Good fathers don't let their sons almost drown," I was telling myself. Just at the height of my personal pity party, Lee Ann walked by and said, "You are a terrific dad and I really admire the way you handled that. He will never be afraid of the water again!" 

Lee Ann saved two lives that day. She saved my son's life when she yelled "Where's Jamie!" and she saved my life, as a father! She took me from pity to pride with her nurturing comment. It's amazing what can happen when you look at yourself through someone else's eyes.

You Very Good; You Very Fast

At the time, I was living in the Bay Area, and my mother had come to visit for a few days. On the last day of her stay, I was preparing to go out for a run. Working in a very negative environment, I found morning runs very beneficial. As I was going out the door, my mother said, "I don't think running is so hot - that famous runner died." 

I started to recount what I had read about Jim Fixx, and how running had probably been the contributing factor to his living far longer than most of the other members of his family, but I knew there was absolutely no point. 

As I started running on my favorite trail, I found I couldn't shake her statement. I was so discouraged I could barely run. I began thinking, "Why do I bother to run at all? Serious runners probably think I look ridiculous! I might have a heart attack on the trail - my dad had a fatal heart attack at 50 years old, and he was seemingly in better shape than I am." 

My mother's statement hovered over me like a giant blanket. My jog slowed to a walk, and I felt extremely defeated. Here I was in my late 40s, still hoping for an encouraging word from my mother, and equally mad at myself for still seeking an approval that would never come. 

Just as I was going to turn around at the two-mile mark and head for home - feeling more discouraged than I could recall in years - I saw an elderly Chinese gentleman walking toward me on the opposite side of the trail. I had seen him walking on other mornings. I had always said, "Good morning," and he had always smiled and nodded his head. This particular morning, he came over to my side of the trail and stood in my path, forcing me to stop. I was a little miffed. I had let my mother's comment (coupled with a lifetime of similar comments) ruin my day, and now this  man was blocking my way. 

I was wearing a T-shirt a friend had sent me from Hawaii for Chinese New Year's - it had three Chinese characters on the front, and a scene of Honolulu's Chinatown on the back. Seeing my shirt in the distance had prompted him to stop me. With limited English he pointed to the letters and excitedly said, "You speak?" 

I told him I didn't speak Chinese, but that the shirt was a gift from a friend in Hawaii. I sensed he didn't understand all of what I was saying, and then, very enthusiastically he said, "Every time see you...you very good...you very  fast." 

Well, I am neither very good nor very fast, but that day I left with an unexplained bounce in my step. I didn't turn from the trail where my previous dark mood had intended, but continued for six more miles, and you know, for that  morning I was very good. I was very fast in my spirit and in my heart. 

Because of that little boost I continued to run, and I recently finished my fourth Honolulu Marathon. The New York Marathon is my goal for this year. I know I am never going to win a race, but now, when I get any negative  feedback, I think of a kind gentleman who really believed, "You very good...you very fast."