The Day We Became Brothers

I was ten years old when my father died. Eight months later my mother, believing I needed more structure and male role models, enrolled me in the Milton Hershey School in Pennsylvania.



A knot in my stomach grew tighter as our car approached the school that February day in 1964. I told myself over and over, Be brave. Be the man you’re supposed to be now that your father is dead. Actually, I had little idea how to be a man, except to act stoically. So I never uttered a word of protest, though every fiber of my body resisted the trip.

When we arrived, my mother and I were given a tour of the spotless ranch-style house, which accommodated the 16 boys in my unit, with an apartment for our houseparents. My mother remained behind while I was shown the bedroom I would share with another boy.

I returned to an empty living room. “Where’s my mom?” I asked.

“Oh, she left,” someone said.

Left? My legs went limp. The school’s counselor, I learned later, had urged my mother to slip away without saying good-bye so as to avoid a scene.

I spent the afternoon sitting in my new bedroom. When the boys returned from school at four o’clock, they came to look at me. “Boy, you’re short,” said one kid.

“Lee, he’s not short. He’s tiny.”

“Let’s call him ‘Ant,’” Lee said.

“No, ‘Bug’ is better.”

“I like those extra eyes he’s got,” said another, pointing to my glasses. “Maybe we should call him ‘Bug Eyes.’”

With that, they went about their after-school chores.

After dinner, we were allowed an hour of free time until study period. I picked up a book and started reading, but my roommate, Jim, interrupted: “There’s some things you should know if you don’t want to be laughed at. Somebody might ask you to go get a bucket of steam or a left-handed wrench. Your toothbrush will sometimes disappear. Oh, and you’d better keep those glasses in sight all the time.”

“Thanks for the warning.”

He shrugged. “You’ll also probably have to fight somebody soon if you don’t want to be treated like dirt.”

I sat quietly for a while, absorbing what Jim had told me. Suddenly he asked, “If was your father who died, right?”
“Yes.”

He looked into his book. “Nobody’s going to want to hear about that.”

That night I did my best not to cry. I failed.

Jim’s predictions turned out to be true. I got into a fight after two boys played catch with my glasses. Angry, I rammed my head into the stomach of one and we began to slug each other.

I never mentioned my father to anyone, and no one mentioned their lost parents to me. The unspoken code that Hershey boys held was not just the denial of feeling, but the denial that our dead parents had existed at all.

One of the favorite games among the boys was tackle. A football was thrown into the air, and whoever caught it tried to run directly through the rest without being brought down. Tackle was less of a game than an excuse to deliberately smash our bodies into each other for the main purpose, I realized later, of dissipating our frustration and anger.

Late that first spring, Mr. and Mrs. Carney became our new houseparents, and loosened the reins on us. Soon, however, chores were not being done well, and some boys spoke to the Carneys rudely.

Mr.Carney's reponse was to hold a meeting in which the boys could air their beefs and the Carneys could express their expectations of us To me, the Carneys were not the "enemy" but surrogate parents who genuinely cared about us. During the meeting I pointed out, "If anything, the Carneys are too nice. Some of you guys are taking advantage of that."

Cold shoulders promptly turned my way. As if to relieve me from the others, the Carneys took me that Friday evening to their weekend house, where I spent most of the time fishing.

When I returned to the unit, Jim notified me, "Everybody thinks you kissed up to the Carneys. You have a lot of guys mad at you."

Great. I had spent months trying to fit in, and in a minute I had ostracized myself. I was not surprised to find my toothbrush in the toilet the next morning.

Two months later I overheard Lee, Bruce and Jim trying to decide how to pass a long August afternoon. "Let's go down to the pond," Jim sugested.

"Isay we go to the hide-out," said Lee, referring to a mysterious place I had not yet seen.
"Why don't we just hike," Bruce offered, "and see where we wind up?"
"I' ll go for that," Jim said.
"Me too, " I added.
"Who invited you, twerep?" Lee said to me.
"Don' t call me that."
"Okay, Four Eyes."

Wanting to avoid another fight, I swallowed my anger. "I 'm heading that-a-way," Bruce said, motioning to the open spaces. "If anybody wants to come, fine. If not - adios." He started off, and Jim and Lee followed. I lingered briefly, then joined the gruoup.

After crossing meadows dotted with wildflowers, we found a thin stream. Jumping over it we soon came to a cornfield that stretched as far as we could see." "Let' s go in," Lee said, and without hesitation we did.

We quickly becam hidden, but pushed deeper into the field. The broad leaves slashed at our faces, and the ears of corn clunked us inthe head. We crossed perhaps 30 rows before we halted and sat on the ground.

"Is this the hide-ot?" I asked.
"Hardly," Lee said, removing cigarettes from his pants.
"I don' t think you should smoke in here," Jim said.
"Me neither," Bruce added.

Lee shrugged. "All right, no sweat. This surprised me, but I soon learned there was something about the cornfield that changed our usual behavior. It was a place that melted inhibitions and tough-guy exteriors.

Bruce was the first to talk. "My father was a salesman," he said, "and one day a truck ran a stoplight and smashed into his car. He died right there. I was in school, and they called me home. I knew something big had happened but I never thought it was that."

"Mine died of a heart attack," Jim said. "But I hardly knew him. I was four. He was a schoolteacher."

After a pause Lee said, "My old man was a carpenter. He made me a boxcar one summer. He took me to a couple of yankees games, and once we went to the circus. Then he got bone cancer. He was a big man, but by the time he died, he was like a string bean. " Lee's eyes had become wet. He looked away into the depths of the cornfield.

The others did too. They were wearing expressions I had never seen before. No one spoke for a long time. All I heard was the rustling of the cornstalks and the cry of a distant crow.

Bruce broke our silence. "You didn' t tell us about you father," he said to me.

I wasn' t sure I wanted to. I had survived Hershey by remaining "strong," and I now felt reluctant to allow myself to weaken. But like them, I was eager t unburden myself of something I simply couldn' t keep bottled up any longer.

"Mine had diabeted for a long time," I said haltingly, "but it was his kidneys that went bad, and that's what killed him. My mother was called away by the hospital one night. I was in bed when I heard the door open and her footsteps coming up the stairs. They sounded....sad, so I knew before she said, 'Your father passede away.' "

We didn't talk much about how we felt when our fathers died; we could tell from our faces. Instead we talked about our fathers' lives. What they were like. Who they were. If we'd had pictures, we would have shared them. But nont of us had a photo, not even in our rooms, it being generally accepted that such a thing was too much of a reminder of a life more bright and normal than the one we now lived.

The talk about our fathers gave way to other, less weighty matters, and soon we were back to a lighter mood. But when we stepped out in the sunlight, we did so with a common understanding - that life handed out its losses, but we did not have to suffer them alone. For the first time we realized that we held in common not only parental loss but also the need to release the sorrow that came with it.

As we made our way home, we stopped to drink at the stream. Jim was next to me, and I watched him remove his baseball hat, splash his face and rub his wet fingers through his hair. Then instead of putting the cap back on his own head, he reached over and placed it on mine. The others gathered around, and together we jumped over the stream. And I knew as we returned to the unit that we walked as brothers.

Sudden Angels

What's the kindest thing a stranger has ever done for you? We asked our readers that question and the stories they told suggest there are people who care all around us.








A Heart Case
When my husband and I were living in South Korea, he was hospitalized with a terrible flu. We did't speak Korean and the doctor didn't speak English. At one point, an orderly took me down a hallway to a desk and left me there. I got the impression it was time to pay, but I didn't know how much. Worse, I didn't have any cash with me.

Later, a young woman sitting by her mother, in the bed next to my husband' s, saw me crying and came over. She spoke some English and immediately took over. She found out how much moner I needed and took me to her father, who offered me $400. When I refused, he drove me home to get the money. They also sat with me the entire night and translated everything the doctors said. In the morning they even brought us breakfast and called our employers to explain the situation.

We later found out the mother had come in to emergency with a heart problem. The family had expected her to die, yet they took the time to help strangers in their country and did everyting they could to make a terrible situation as calm and reassuring as possible.

Ring of Fate
Newly engaged, I was wandering in a park, enjoying the day, when I suddenly realized that my diamond ring was gone. It must have slipped off my finger. For what seemed like hours, I searched the grass, with no luck. I was heartbroken.

Certain it was gone for good, I sat on a beanch looking forlorn. Before long, a young man approached and asked me what was wrong. I found myself telling him the whole story and soon he was helping me search. After at least another hour, I was ready to give it up for lost, but the stranger urged me to keep trying, saying he was sure we would find it.

Sure enough, just as he was turning to look in another area, he reached down and picked up a ring. In the whole of that huge park, he had found it! I was thrilled.

I wanted to reward him, but he refused to accept anything, saying that just seeing me smile again was enough for him. I think of him often and I thank him in my heart for helping me that day, more than 24 years ago.

Sharing the Load
I had just started driving tractor trailers for a living and had to pick up three coils of steel. It was the first time I had driven up north and the first time I ever picked up a load of steel. I was responsible for setting up the trailer and making sure it met the load requirements.

Onec there, I started setting up when another trucker, whose load was already chained and tarped, spotted what I was doing and came over. On learning that this was my first time, he showed me where each roll should go and how it should be set on the trailer. With his help, I made it back safely and without any overload charges.

Although I am no longer driving a tractor trailer, I remember what that man did, and I try to pay back his kindness to other people.

Pitching In
During the summer of 1995, my husband was attacked and nearly killed by a bull on our farm. At the time, we hadn't yet started our haying, and the dauting prospect of doing it by myself was in the back of my mind as I stayed with my husband those first few days in hospital.

About a week after the attack, I came home one day to find our land overrun by some 75 people, including neighbors (many of whom I barely knew as I had just moved there), friends and family members. Supplying all of the necessary farm equipment themselves, they worked together and brougth in all of our hay in just three days.

I will never forget the overwhelming gratitude I felt. The kindness they showed us still brings tears to my eyes.

Spirit of Giving
It was December 22, 1994. I had driven to Vancouver to deliver Chistmas presents and spent a hectic but enjoyable day visiting and exchanging gifts. Now the time had come to make the trip back home. The night was clear, with a hint of snow in the air.

At around 10 p.m., I had just stopped at a red light when a white billowy cloud erupted from the front of my car. I sat transfixed until I saw people motioning for me to get out, as they thought the car might be on fire. Two men at the curbside hurried over. They quickly realized that it wasn't smoke but the angry hiss of a ruptured radiator hose. There was nothing to do but push the vehicle out of the way of other traffic.

As I stood there debating my options, I oticed another man quietly observing. He said he knew something abount cars and offered to take a look. Of course, I gratefully accepted. When he came closer, I saw him shaking slightly in his ragged, threadbare clotes and wondered if it was from the bottle stuffed into his coat poket. I had doubts about his abilities, but he quickly spotted the problem and began what turned into a lengthy repair job.

While he was struggling to put some parts back together again, another young man appeared on the scene. He told me he was an apprentice mechanic, had seen the cloud coming from my car and woudered if he might be of any service. Now I had two unlikely angels working on my behalf.

This young man ran back to his nearby home several times to get what he needed to heop a perfect stranger out of her predicament. And the pair of them did it with laughter, creativity, resolve and cold, stiff fingers.

I thought I had experienced the spirit of Christmas earlier in the day with my friends, but now I was living it in a much deeper, more authentic way. In a world that is often harsh and frightening, the kindness these two souls extended towards me on that cold, dark night, shines in my heart still.


Diagnosis from a Stranger
I was a young mother, having just transferred from another town. The move and the changes involved had taken a toll on my five-year-old son, who had begun acting up in his kindergarten class. It seemed his teacher was phoning or sending notes home nearly every week. She and the school principal strongly suggested that I seek some sort of counseling for my son, but they didn't suggest anyone I could contact. I was on my own.

In desperation, I picked a child psychologist from the phone book at random and simply left my name and phone number. That evening, the doctor called. He told me he usually dealt with extreme problems of abuse or neglect, but given the sound of my voice in thd message I'd left, he thought he' d try to help.

He spoke with me for over an hour. We discussed my son and the behavior of an essentially happy little boy who was having trouble adjusting to son many changes. His reactions, the doctor reassured me, were normal, and the disruptiveness would surely pass with the support of his family and teacher. The docter even offered to phone my son's teacher.

I was overwhelmed by his generosity. A complete stranger, he gave a floundering parent his time without payment. I hope he will read this and know that the five-year-old is now ten and doing great!

Cycle of Trust
A number of year ago, when I was in my mid-20s, I was cycling back to Montreal from Ottawa when my front wheel slipped onto the gravel shoulder. Before I knew it, I was off my bike and on the ground. Stunnhed, I sat for a moment to take inventory.

My bike had a bent front wheel and a flat tire, and my leg and elbow were gashed. I was on a remote road, and though cars were driving by, none took any notice of my predicament.

But then a man in a pickup truck stopped. He put my bike in the back of his truck and me in the front. I must admit that as we drove off, all the warnings I had ever heard about getting into vehicles with strangers passed through my mind. Luckily, it turned out that he was a good guy. He drove off, all the warnings I had ever heard about getting into vehicles with strangers passed through my mind. Luckily, it turned out that he was a good guy. He drove me back to the nearest town and got me fixed up at the local clinic. He even waited to make sure I was okay, and once I was bandaged up, he bought me a sandwich.

Then, with my bike put back together, he drove me to the highway, where we parted company.

That act of kindness changed the way I view people. There really are good Samaritans out there.

Anchors of Love

Four fellow teachers and I were talking about our childhoods, and it became evident to me that mine had been much happier than some. One colleague, from an abused home, in terror of her father, had memories much different from my own of a welcoming place where love was guaranteed.

What these woman had in common, oddly, was the memory of a home somewhere on their street that kids gravitated to after school or when upset. It provided an anchor of love for children who had something less than the ideal family. And if ever there was someone who had a powerful and saving impact on lives, it was the woman at such a home. She was someone’s mom, she was always there, and she treated you like one of her own. If you stayed overnight, there was no inconvenience - she simply made more pancakes the next morning.

One of my friends, Darielle, remembered falling into a lake as a child and being terrified of going home to tell her parents. So she went to the neighbor’s to dry off. After warming her up with hot chocolate and calming her fears of being punished at home for going out to the lake-which was forbidden-the neighbor phoned Darielle’s mom and told her not to worry, that the girl was safe and that it had been simply an accident. Here was a peacemaker in the best tradition.

Darielle said she was at her “anchor home” so often the school bus actually picked her up there each morning.

Lynn recalled that when the lady who ran her anchor home died, people came from far and wide, back to the place that had played such an important part in their childhood.

Maybe my own home was an anchor home. My friends would come over, and my mom would have them join us if we happened to be going to the lake or a park, barbecuing in the backyard, or painting on the porch. My sister’s dates would come and hang around, sometimes even when my sister was out, just to talk to my mom. Many maintain friendships with her 30 years after breaking up with my sister. My mom is like a second mother to probably a dozen kids, now adult.

Why? A retired judge, who had dealt with hundreds of kids in juvenile court, once told me that while adoption policy often looks at marital status or income, what matters most is love. Kids have an uncanny sense of whether they are loved or not, and they go where they are loved. When we speak of the tragedy of child poverty, this is not necessarily financial poverty. As the judge pointed out to me, many kids from wealthy homes suffer parental neglect.

You can set up a block-watch program and put a poster in your window that says you’ll be there for kids in crisis. But troubled kids don’t care about signs. They feel you out when they meet you, and if your home exudes love, they will want to come back.

While raising my four kids, I tried to establish a welcoming home for them and was flattered that many of their friends came to our house after school and stayed till supper nearly every day.

One day my daughter snuck off to a coffee shop with a group of girls. I drove there and whisked her back to the van, angrily. Her friends came too, as if I had summoned them as well - which I had not.

A cousin of mine, who also apparently provided an anchor home, found it odd that his kids' friends kept coming back even though he treated them like his own children.

One time, when one of them acted up, he lifted the kid up and said, "Never do that again." Next day, the boy was back, smiling.

Kids don' t really want to get away with things. At an anchou home, they sense not only love but a sense of direction. It' s no fun to break rules if there are no rules, and the greatest shame is if no one cares you' re breaking them anyway.

I became aware my home was an anchor home when one of my son's friends kept coming for lunch every day. We always shared lunch with whoever turned up, or let them heat or serve whatever was in their lunch bag. One day this boy said tearfully, "I wish I lived here."

Kids experience a lot of heartbreaks and I never felt I was a better parent than anyone else. I think no parent is as good as the real parent for that child. But I also feel that circumstances - monetary, marital, career - often take parents away from kids when the kids most need them. Anchor homes are part of an informal network that helps fill that gap.

A few years ago one of my son's friends from about age 12 was accused of a serious crime. I hadn't seen him in years but phoned his lawyer to offer my services as a character referrence. I did this because for several years he'd been one of the kids who was always around: For him, I guess, I was an anchor home. I went to court, he was found guilty and was sent to jail, but his sentence was not the maximum. I'd like to think that my testimony to his earlier good character helped.

My kids have grown up now and moved away. At lunch and after school, a wad of kids no longer comes home and I miss them. I was once a part of their world and heard, however subtly, their revelations: "My parents have gone away for the weekend"; "My parents can't afford a sitter, so we're home alone"; "My dad and mom are arguing, and I was wondering if I could come in"; "My parents kicked me out."

It always strikes me as odd when someone asks, "Do you work?" Being a homemaker is not about the unpaid labor of cooking or cleaning, although these, of course, are work. It's about the much more subtle contribution that love makes to homes. No, it' s not work in the sense of drudgery because love is pleasure. But it is crucial to at least one other person, and often to several. A listening ear, an encouraging pat, cookies, lemonade, laughter and love. Is that worth anything? To kids, nearly every thing.

Lifting the Veil

It was late afternoon when the chairman of our Bangkok-based company gave me last-minute assignment: I would leave the next day to accompany an important Chinese businessman to tourist sites in Chiang Mai.

Silently fuming, I stared at my cluttered desk. The stacks of paper testified to a huge backlog of work, even though I had been putting in seven-day weeks.

Early the next morning I met a polite and elegant man wearing fine clothes. After a one-hour flight, we spent the day visitting attractions along with hundreds of other tourists, most of them overloaded with cameras and souvenirs.

That evening my Chinese companion and I climbed into a minibus to go to dinner and a show, one which I had attended many times before. While he chatted with other tourists, I exchanged polite conversation in the darkness with a man seated in front of me, a Belgian who spoke fluent English. I wondered why he held his head motionless at an odd angle, as though he were in meditation. The truth struch me when I saw the palecolored cane beside him. He was blind.

The man told me he had lost his sight in an accident when he was a teenager. But this did not prevent him from traveling alone. Now in his late 60s, he had mastered the skill of sightless tourism, using his remaining four senses to create pictures in his mind.

Turning to face me, he slowly extended a hand which explored the contours of my face. Behind me someone switched on a light, and I could see his luxuriant silvery hair and strong, craggy face. His eyes lay misted and deep in their sockets. "Could I please sit beside you at the dinner?" he askes. "And I' d love it if you' d describe a little of what you see."

"I' d be happy to," I replied.

My guest walked ahead toward the restaurant with new-found friends. The blind man and I followed, caught up in a long string of tourists. My hand cupped his elbow to steer him, but he stepped forward unfalteringly, his shoulders squared, his head high, as though he were quiding me.

We found a table close to th stage. As we waited for our drinks, the blind man said, "The music seems out of tune to our Western ears, but it has charm. Please describe the musicians."

I hadn't noticed the five men performing at the side of the stage as a prelude to the show. "They' re seated cross-legged, dressed in loose white cotton shirts and baggy black trousers with brigth-red sashes. Three are young, one middle-aged and one elderly. One beats a small drum, another plucks a wooden stringed instrument, and the other three have smaller, cello-like pieces they play with a bow."

He smiled. "And these small instruments are made of....?"

I looked again. "Wood...but the the spherical sound box is fashioned out of a whole coconut shell," I said, suppressing my surprise.

As the lights dimmed, the blind man asked, "What do our fellow tourists look like?"

"All nationalities, colors, shapes and sizes," I whispered. "Very few are neatly or tastefully dressed."

As I lowered my voice further and spoke close to his ear, the blind man leaned his head eagerly toward me. I had never before been listened to with such rapt intensity.

"Very close to us is an elderly Japanese woman, whose profile is partially lit from the stage," Isaid. "Just beyond her a blond Scandinavian boy about five, with a cute turned-up nose, is leaning forward, creating a second illuminated profile just below hers. They' re motionless, waiting for the performance to start. It's the perfect living portrait of childhood and old age, of Europe and Asia."

"Yes, yes, I see them," the blind man said quietly, smiling.

A curtain at the back of the stage opened. Six girls in their early teens appeared, and I described their saronglike silk skirts, white blouses with shoulder sashes, and gold-colored headdresses like small crowns, with flexible points the moved in rhythm with the dance. "On their fingertips are golden fingernails perhaps four inches long," I told the blind man. "The nails accentuate each elegant movenment of their hands. It's a delightful effect."

He smiled and nodded. "How wonderful - I would love to touch one of those fingernails."

When the first performance ended, I excused myself and went to talk to the theater manager. Upon returning, I told my companion, "You've been invited backstage."

A few minutes later he was standing next to one of the dancers, her little crowned head harldly reaching his chest. She timidly extended both hands toward him, the metal fingernails glinting in the overhead light. His hands, four times as large, reached out slowly and clasped them as though they were cradling two tiny exotic birds. As he felt the smooth, curving sharpness of the metal tips, the girl stood quite still, gazing up into his face with an expression of awe. A lump formed in my throat.

As the evening progressed, the more I observed and was rewarded with excited nods of the head, the more I discovered: colors, patterns and designs of local costumes; the texture of skin under soft lights; the movement of long, black Asian hair as elegant heads angled to the music; the intense expressions of the musicians as they played; even the flashing white smile of our waitress in the half-darkness.

Back at the hotel lobby, with my Chinese guest still in the company of others, the blind man extended a large hand, which gripped mine warmly. It remained there for a moment, then traveled to my elbow and shoulder. Heads turned in surprise as the cane fell with a clatter to the marble floor. He made no attempt to retrieve it, but instead pulled me toward him and hugged me tightly. "Hou beautifully you saw everytihing for me," he whispered. "I can never thank you enough."

Later the realization struck me: I should have thanked him. I was the one who had been blind. He had helped me lift the veil that grows so quickly over our eyes in this hectic would, and to see all those things I' d failed to marvel at before.

About a week after our trip, the chairman summoned me to his office and told me he had received a call from the Chinese executive, who expressed great satisfaction with the trip. "Well done," the chairman said, smiling. "I knew you could do the magic."

I was not able to tell him that the magic had been done to me.

A Miracle of Mermaids

Rhonda Gill froze as she heard her four-year-old daughter, Desiree, sobbing quietly in the family room that morning in October 1993. Rhonda tiptoed through the doorway. The tiny dark-haired child was hugging a photograph of her father, who had died nine months earlier. Rhonda, 24 , watched as Desiree gently ran her fingers around her father’s face. “Daddy,” she said softly, “why won’t you come back?”

The petite college student felt a surge of despair. It had been hard enough coping with her husband Ken’s death, but her daughter’s grief was more than she could bear. If only I could tear the pain out of her, Rhonda thought.

Ken Gill and Rhonda Hill of Yuba City, Calif., had met when Rhonda was 18, and had married after a whirlwind courtship. Their daughter, Desiree, was born on January 9, 1989.

Although a muscular six feet, three inches tall, Ken was a gentle man whom everyone loved. His big passion was his daughter. “She’s a real daddy’s girl,” Rhonda would often say as Ken’s eyes twinkled with pride. Father and daughter went everywhere together: hiking, dune-buggy riding and fishing for bass and salmon on the river.

Instead of gradually adjusting to her father’s death, Desiree had refused to accept it. “Daddy will be home soon,” she would tell her mother.

Immediately after Ken’s death, Rhonda moved from her apartment in Yuba City to her mother ‘s home in nearby Live Oak. Seven weeks after the funeral, Desiree was still inconsolable. “I just don’t know what to do, “Rhonda told her mother, Trish Moore, a 47-year-old medical assistant.

One evening the three of them sat outside, gazing at the stars. “See that one, Desiree?” Her grandmother pointed at a bright speck near the horizon. “That’s your daddy shining down from heaven.” Several nights later Rhonda woke to find Desiree on the doorstep in her pajamas, weeping as she sought her daddy’s star. Twice they took her to a child therapist, but nothing seemed to help.

As a last resort, Trish took Desiree to Ken’s grave, hoping that it would help her come to terms with his death. The child laid her head against his gravestone and said, “Maybe if I listen hard enough I can hear Daddy talk to me.”

November 8, 1993 would have been Ken’s 29th birthday “How will I send him a card?” Desiree asked her grandmother.

“How about if we tie a letter to a balloon,” Trish said, “and send it up to heaven?” Desiree’s eyes immediately lit up.

On their way to the cemetery, the back seat of the car full of flowers for their planned gravesite visit, the three stopped at a store. “Help Mom pick out a balloon,” Trish instructed. At a rack where dozens of helium-filled silver balloons bobbed, Desiree made an instant decision: “That one!” Happy Birthday was emblazoned above a drawing of the Little Mermaid from the Disney film. Desiree and her father had often watched the video together.

The child’s eyes shone as they arranged flowers on Ken’s grave. It was a beautiful day, with a slight breeze rippling the eucalyptus trees. Then Desiree dictated a letter to her dad. “Tell him ‘Happy Birthday. I love you and miss you,’” she rattled off. “I hope you get this and can write me on my birthday in January.’”

Trish wrote the message and their address on a small piece of paper, which was then wrapped in plastic and tied to the end of the string on the balloon. Finally Desiree released the balloon.

For almost an hour they watched the shining spot of silver grow ever smaller. "Okay," Trish said at last. "Time to go home." Rhonda and Trish were beginning to walk slowly from the grave when they heard Desiree shout excitedly, "Did you see that? I saw Daddy reach down and take it!" The balloon, visible just moment earlier, had disappeared. "Now Dad's going to write me back," Desiree declared as she walked past them toward the car.

On a cold, rainy November morning on Prince Edward Island in eastern Canada,
32-year-old Wade MacKinnon pulled on his waterproof duck-hunting gear. MacKinnon, a forest ranger, lived with his wife and three children in Mermaid, a rural community a few miles east of Charlottetown.

But instead of driving to the estuary where he usually hunted, he suddenly decided to go to Mermaid Lake, two miles away. Leaving his pickup, he hiked past dripping spruce and pine and soon entered a cranberry bog surrounding the 23-acre lake. In the bushes on the shoreline, something fluttered and caught his eye. Curious, he approached to find a silver balloon snagged in the branches of a thigh-high bayberry bush. Printed on one side was a picture of a mermaid. When he untangled the string, he found a soggy piece of paper at the end of it, wrapped in plastic.

At home, MacKinnon carefully removed the wet note, allowing it to dry. When his wife, Donna, came home later, he said, "Look at this," and showed her the balloon and note. Intrigued, she read: "November 8, 1993. Happy Birthday, Daddy..." If finished with a mailing address in Live Oak, Calif.

"If' s only November 12," Wade exclaimed. "This balloon traveled 3000 miles in four days!"

"And look," said Donna, turning the balloon over. "This is a Little Mermaid balloon, and it landed at Mermaid Lake."

"We have to write to Desiree," Wade said. "Maybe we were chosen to help this little girl." But he could see that his wife didn't feel the same way. With tears in her eyes, Donna stepped away from the balloon. "Such a young girl having to deal with death-it's awful," she said.

Wade let the matter rest. He placed the note in a drawer and tied the balloon, still buoyant, to the railing of the balcony overlooking their living room. But the sight of the balloon made Donna uncomfortable. A few days later, she stuffed it in a closet.

As the weeks went by, however, Donna found herself thinking more and more about the balloon. It had fiown over the Rocky Mountains and the Great Lakes. Just a few more miles and it would have landed in the ocean. Instead it had stopped there, in Mermaid.

The next morning, Donna said to Wade: "you're right. We have this balloon for a reason. We have to try to help Desiree."


In a Charlottetown bookstore Donna MacKinnon bought an adaptation of The Little Mermaid. A few days later, just after Christmas, Wade brought home a birthday card that read "For a Dear Daughter, Loving Birthday Wishes."

Donna sat down one morning to write a letter to Desiree. When she finished, she tucked it into the birthday card, wrapped it up with the book and mailed the package on January 3,1994.

Every day since they'd released the balloon, Desiree had asked Rhonda, "Do you think Daddy has my balloon yet?"

Late on the afternoon of January 19, the MacKinnons' package arrived. Trish looked at the unfamiliar return address and assumed it was a birthday gift for her granddaughter from someone in Ken's family. Rhonda and Desiree had moved back to Yuba City, so Trish decided to deliver it to Rhonda the next day.

As Trish watched television that evening, a thought nagged at her. Why would someone send a parcel for Desiree to this address? Tearing the package open, she found the card. "For a Dear Daughter..." Her heart raced. Dear God! she thought, and reached for the telephone. It was after midnight but she had to call Rhonda.

When Trish, eyes red from weeping, pulled into Rhonda's driveway the next morning at 6:45, her daughter and granddaughter were already up. Rhonda and Trish sat Desiree between them on the couch. Trish said, "Desiree, this is for you," and handed her the parcel. "It's from your daddy."

"I know," said Desiree matter-of-factly. "Here, Grandma, read it to me."

"Happy birthday from your daddy," Trish began. "I guess you must be wondering who we are. Well, it all started in November when my husband, Wade, went duck hunting. Guess what he found? A mermaid balloon that you sent your daddy..." Trish paused. A single tear began to trickle down Desiree's cheek. "There are no stores in heaven, so your daddy wanted someone to do his shopping for him. I think he picked us because we live in a town called Mermaid."

Trish continued reading: "I know your daddy would want you to be happy and not sad. I know he loves you very much and will always be watching over you. Lots of love, the MacKinnons."

When Trish finished reading, she looked at Desiree. "I knew Daddy would find a way not to forget me," the child said.

Wiping the tears from her eyes, Trish put her arm around Desiree and began to read The Little Mermaid that the MacKinnons had sent. The story was different from the one Ken had so often read to the child. In that version, the Little Mermaid lives happily ever after with the handsome prince. But in the new one, she dies because a wicked witch has taken her tail. Three angels carry her away.

As Trish finished reading, she worried that the ending would upset her granddaughter. But Desiree put her hands on her cheeks with delight. "She goes to heaven!" she cried. "That's why Daddy sent me this book. Because the mermaid goes to heaven just like him!"

In mid-February the MacKinnons received a letter from Rhonda: "On January 19 my little girl's dream came true when your parcel arrived."

During the next few weeks, the MacKinnons and the Gills often telephoned each other. Then, in March, Rhonda, Trish and Desiree fiew to Prince Edward Island to meet the MacKinnons. As the two families walked through the forest on snowshoes to see the spot beside the lake where Wade had found the balloon, Rhonda and Desiree fell silent. It seemed as though Ken was there with them.

Today whenever Desiree wants to talk about her dad, she still calls the MacKinnons. A few minutes on the telephone soothes her as nothing else can.

"People tell me, 'What a coincidence that your mermaid balloon landed so far away at a place called Mermaid Lake,'" says Rhonda. "But we know Ken picked the MacKinnons as a way to send his love to Desiree. She understands now that her father is with her always."

Shared Sentence

The pungent smell of farmland tells me I’m close. I get out my directions. It is the first time for this place. Getting lost would be easy -done it before, other places, other times, same mission.

The joy I fabricated for the trip leaves like water going down the drain.

“Why do I keep coming?” I ask myself.

I cross the bridge over the river and head up a hill. Turn left after the municipal hall, left again at the rock garden. I see the sign: “Correctional Service of Canada – All persons and vehicles are subject to search.”

The institution is in front of me, a grey multibuilding enclosure with orange-trimmed guard towers and chain-link fences- an enclave of pain. Tears sting my eyes at the sight of the place. I am never prepared enough.

I stop my tears. No need for melodrama. Other women come here for visits; they don’t have red-rimmed, puffy eyes. They come with kids, like this is an acceptable Sunday outing. Not me. Grief slopes my shoulders towards my chest.

I pull into the parking lot and turn off the engine. I close my eyes to absorb the quiet. Maybe if I wait, the rain on this dark and dreary day will stop. Maybe if I wait… Stop! Why do I do this to myself?

Visiting hours are from one to three.

I make a dash through the rain for the main gate. I do a tiptoe, dancing run to dodge the puddles. I almost smile. Then I remember not to smile. Smiling would mean that I give in, and I do not; that I have accepted this, and I have not.

Over the door at reception is a large black-rimmed clock, the potentate of prison regime. Requests of “Can’t we have a few more minutes?” are shrugged away with a point to its almighty presence.

“Who are you here to see?” the corrections officer asks. I give him the name and produce identification. I know the drill. He pushes a clipboard and pen towards me. I write my name, time of arrival and relationship to the inmate.

“Mother,” I write. Shame and guilt battle courage and love. I lift my chin and say, “I’m here to see my son.” My unmentionable child, inquired about only by our closest friends. Dropped from the roster of polite conversation.

“Empty the contents of your pockets, please,” the guard says, handing me a locker key for my belongings. With a few dollars for the hallowed coffee, I walk through the scanner-the dignity zapper, I call it.

I exit the reception building and wait as a four-meter-high gate scrapes and slides open. I walk through, and with the same noisy gracelessness, the gate closes behind me. It is a reverberating sound, one I hear in my sleep when sadness forces me awake.

The visiting area is about half the size of a school gym, with tables dotted about. It is empty except for a guard who sits waiting for the room to fill. I sit. Here I am again, I think, and I promise myself I won’t cry this time.

Another visitor arrives, a man, 30-ish. Who is he here to see- a brother, a friend? Does it grieve him to be here? He smokes. Soon the room will be full of people who smoke, couples necking in corners, children cuddling their daddies, people with their heads together in a whisper.

I prefer to visit alone, without my husband. He is practiced at staying out of dangerous emotional waters. When he comes, the visit goes smoothly. They talk and laugh easily. I tend to retreat into the shadows of their conversation, feeling hollow and dissatisfied when we leave.

When I visit alone, I purposefully wade into rough waters. I do it to find a place of connection with him. I do it at my peril, knowing I could be rebuffed, left to drown in sorrow and self-pity.

I see him coming down the hall. He sees me, smiles and raises his hand in a half wave. He has gained weight. His tattooed arms are covered with prison garb. Mercifully I don’t have to look at the BORN TO BE WILD he scratched into his skin at age 14. He opens his arms to receive me with a hug. I press my cheek into his shoulder and hold him. Now I remember why I am here.

I lean back to get a good look at his face. Well-pro-portioned features, fine but strong. The eyes are what I am interested in. Blue, and the whites amazingly white. I hold his eyes with mine. He allows me this look, haiting expectanly, as if hoping I will see something that will unlock his private prison doors. Nothing is revealed.

We find a table near the window. He sits sideways, only partly on the chair, feet posied, as if ready for a quick getaway.

“How was your drive down?” he asks, and then looks around, distracted, as I tell him. “I’ll get us some coffee,” he says. A good exit line. Too bad I don’t drink coffee. It would be something to commune around-bridge these awkward first moments. I give him coins. Now he has a purpose.

Getting coffee is a mission he can understand; facing me and the unknown of the next two hours is not. On returning, he looks more confident, as though the warm foamed-plastic cup absorbs his unease.

“How is the family?” he asks, almost prayerfully. I think I see him gird himself against the answer, like awaiting the stab of a vaccination needle, a painful necessity.
The “news of family” serum.

“Everyone is okay,” I say blandly. I tell him all the news, reciting his sister’s activities, avoiding mention of her successes. I watch him for signs of agitation. He’s calm. Eyes averted to ward off the impact. I downplay any fun, talk about Dad’s car accident, include details of mistakes, make us seem less privileged. Make it not hurt.

He’s looking away now. I stop mid-sentence, mired in mother muck, trying to fix the unfixable. He leaves aburptly to go the bathroom.

Inoculation’s done. Resentment strengthened, separateness and differences more acute than ever. I want to say sorry when he returns. Sorry for speaking, sorry for being out there while you're in here, but I say nothing.

"So," I begin again, tentatively, "How, are you, ah, hou y'doing, sweetie?" It's such an inane question - and such an important one. Perhaps he will actually tell me. I wait, and he looks squarely at me, with a "How many times has he been in jail? Three, four? Last time he was out, he had a girlfriend, a dog, a job, but a penchant for fighting and a refusal to follow rules. This time he got two years.

"I'm all right, Mom," he says, breaking his stare. "I' ve been working out a lot." He describes his exercise routine. He is proud of his physique, the body armor he's built to protect his soft places.

A small child, six pounds one ounce when I brought him home. Always the smallest in the class, but he shot up to a respectable five feet nine inches sometime when I wasn't looking. Hard living made him lean and gaunt, but the routime and regularity of prison food give him a fullness of face that becomes him.

"See my new tattoo," he says suddenly, pulling down the neck of his shirt. A heart shape - with a crack down the middle - on his right chest. A new image to seep into my dreams.

The room is noisy and smoky now, full of men in stale uniforms, and their visitors. Other imnates pass by our table, getting coffee, or looking for a light or a smoke.

We go out to the courtyard for some air. It is fresh and cold, no longer raining. I reach for his hand, and he accepts mine absently in his man's hand, which is big and unfamiliar to me, with its rough skin and raw knuckles. Where is the smooth, small hand I held as we played finger games?

"Round and round the garden, like a little mouse," was our favorite; "one step, two step, into his little house," and my fingers would scurry up his arm to the little mouse house in his ticklish armpit.

How is it possible that that that little hand became so scarred and nicotine stained? I liik up at him to reconcile the hand with the person walking beside me. He doesn't notice. He is taking vigorous, unholy drags on his cigarette, using it, it seems, as a weapon against himself.

"I sure miss you," I tell him. Careful. He can sniff a line a mile away. Do I? I don' t miss the worry, the fearful uncertainty of never knowing, or the accusatory phone call when disaster has struck and it somehow becomes my fault. No. I don' t miss that. When he is in here, fear and worry settle into a dull, numbing ache. Yes, I grievously miss him, but whom I miss isn' t clear to me anymore.

We walk about 30 steps, turn, walk, and turn, like in a prison movie. He abruptly lets go of my hand.

"Yeah, well, you are probably just as happy with me in here, not out there causing you trouble."

"No, " I protest. "Every minute you're in here is agony for me."

"Oh, sure. If you want agony, try being in here, " he says, anger edging his voice. "You think it's bad just having to come and see the bad apple once in a while."
"I want to come."

"Why? So you can go home and feel like you've done your duty? Be the martyred mother?"

"I don't deserve this. I come because I want to see you and because you need to keep the family connection. You're not alone, you know."

"I sure as hell feel alone. You guys are out there having fun, going on trips, while I' m stuck in this hole."

"Well, it wasn't me who broke the law," I shoot back.

He walks away and returns to the building. We settle uncomfortably into our chairs and are both quiet. Then comes the familiar recitation: the litany of wrongs he has suffered, of now I and others have failed him, of how the system is failing him now, of how life is not his fault.

I sit looking at the floor. Answering will escalate this into an argument, so I wait and listen as my actions and words of the past, full of hope and good intentions, come back to me distorted, made over to fit the story he wants to have of himself as a victim. The story that helps him give his reponsibility away. To me. To anyone.

Why isn't it different yet? Tears run down my face. We always thought he would come around when he was older. He' s older now: 25. He's telling his compelling but false version I created to give my reponsibility away. We' ve both jiggered the truth.

"Visits will close in 15 minutes."

The announcement startles us both. The crowd had already thinned. We remain seated - unfinished. Will this ever be finished?

"How's your girlfriend?" I ask. The words hit him like a slap in the face.

"She left me," he says, his mouth trembling. "She met someone else. She doesn't want to wait forme." He rages against her for a few moments, disguising his hurt as anger, then stops. Anger is futile when the only connection you have to your real self has to leave in five minutes. Tears overtake him. "Having her waiting for me made it bearable. Now... If only I could talk to her. But she won't accept my calls."

Another loss. Now I understand his new tattoo.
We are alone in the room now. The guard is watching us and points to the clock when I look over. Three. We stand and hug good-bye. At this moment everything falls into a big pot between him and me - the questions without answers and the answers that are too difficult toface. At this moment there is no history, there is nothing to forgive. He is fully returned to me. I hold him tight.

"Thanks for coming, Mom."
I will com again another time, for another moment. How could I not:

About a year after being released from Mission Intitution, the author' s son closed the door firmly on his old life. Through courage, determination and humility, he has fully returned to society. He later graduated from university, has already lined up a job and became a first-time father.

A Role I Relish

My granddad had a moustache, tweed suit and a gold watch-chain. He lived in a large house where there was a tumultuous noise every hour as cuckoo and other clocks sang, rang or boomed the time. I wasn’t allowed to speak to him unless he spoke to me. My granddad was far too grand to talk to children.

Each time our family left his house, he would place a hand on my head and say, “Good boy.” I see him mow as he saw himself then: austere, omnicompetent, assured of eternal life.

I am rather different as a granddad. One evening Leah, aged three, and I were sitting side by side in the window bay, looking out. She pointed to a star in the sky.

“Are stars very far away?” I asked.
“Very far, “she said.

Then it started to get complicated. “Look, Grandad, “ she said. “The moon is bigger than it was yesterday. Why does the moon get bigger and smaller?”

I took three oranges and tried to explain how the moon and earth move round the sun. At the same time I thought: If she asks this sort of thing at three, what will she ask when she gets to six? At that age she might be posing questions that would have defeated Socrates.

The next morning my wife and I collected Leah from her playgroup. On the way home we passed a policeman. “Of course,” said Leah, “in the playgroup we have a play policeman’s helmet. That’s a real policeman. He had a normal helmet.”

All this was explained to us in a kindly way, in case we hadn’t grasped it. I began to think that, while demonstrating the earth’s rotation with an orange, I should have mentioned Galileo.

When my son and daughter-in-law told me that I was to become a grandfather, my feelings were mixed. I shared their joy, but was saddened that, at last, I would have to acknowledge I was at the Third Age, the early evening of my life. The evening can be the best part be the day, but how many of us rally believe it?

There is such a thing as being young at heart, young in spirit. Life is to be lived at each age. The there is no sadness, only joy.

I have entered into my role as granddad with zest. I bounce Leah’s six-month-old sister Grace on my knee, sing her songs and talk to her. I wheel my other grand-child, 20-month-old Daisy, round the supermarket in her buggy and pink hat. I talk to her as we go, recite nursery rhymes, name the goods on display. “Biscuits, soup, French stick, butter, “I say as an elderly lady stoops to admire Daisry.

Yesterday I saw a car sticker which read: “Happiness is being a grandparent. “It may well be. You can have fun with the children (and hand them back at the end of the day). You can be anarchic (go on the slide with them) and slightly subversive (buy them biscuits).

You learn an important lesson from grandchildren. Children live for the day. They have no time for yesterday. For an adult, to be childish is folly, but to see the wonder of the world through the eyes of a child is wisdom.

Grandparents, in their turn, are important to children. To have someone around whom the child’s mother or father calls “Dad” gives the child a sense of history, of belonging, a feeling that the world has been here for a long time and will keep going, no matter what.

Physically, being a granddad is tiring. When I stay with my daughter, Daisy wakes up with my name on her lips. She puts on my white socks. I read to her, push her tricycle, chase her round the table, play hide-and-seek. It is not yet 7 am. After breakfast, if it’s sunny, we go to the beach and, believe me, there’s no slacking until lunchtime.

Leah’s philosophy of life, like Daisy’s, is taken from Hamlet: “the play’s the thing”. But when I’ve had my turn on the swing and the slide, not to mention the roundabout, I am treated more gently. “You’re a little bit jaded, Grandad, actually. Have a rest.”

Time steals aways our youth, our friends, our days. When we die, all that lives on of us is the love we have given to others. All we remember, I guess, are those magic moments in our lives when
time stood still. Being a grandad has given me many such moments.

But just now I think I’ll sit down and read the encyclopaedia, so that I can answer Leah’s questions when she’s older. Then I’ll get fit. You have to be fit to go down a slide head first, to go with Daisy to the beach, to hold Grace up to the sky.

The Dolplhin That Came to Stay

A July sun shines as our boat, the Girl Deborah, sails near the rocky mouth of Dingle Harbor, on Ireland's wild, western coast. Some 30 pairs of eyes are fixed on the water. Suddenly, a young woman points and cries: "Look!" Just a stone's skip away, an enormous dolphin soars high in the air, tracing a giant are againt the sky. The creature plunges nose-first into the water, then rockets back out again, jumping joyfully in graceful ellipses once, twice, three times.

"That's an extra fiver!" jokes our boat's captain, delighted at having introduced us to Fungie, Ireland's friendly dolphin.

For centuries Dingle Harbor - home to an isolated fishing village called Dingle - has provided seafarers safe have from the pounding swells of the Atlantic Ocean. In 1983 fishermen noticed that it had attracted a new visitor. They began to see a dolphin swimming alongside their trawlers as they sailed out to open sea. Although tradition held that a dolphin was a sign of good luck, the mammals occasionally became tangled in their giant nets - and the fishermen sometimes killed them, for a dead carcass was far easier to remove from the expensive nets than a desperately fighting mammal. This dolphin not only avoided the nets - he ventured into the harbor. He' ll soon move on, the men assumed.

But he appeared every morning and evening like clockwork. As each trawler left the pier in the day's first light, the dolphin would swim playfully alongside. At the mouth of the harbor he turned back. Some days he followed as many as 30 boats.

As dusk approached and the men sailed back into the harbor, he would race to meet them. He would swim next to their trawlers until they neared the pier, then swim back to accompany the next boat.

The fishermen dubbed him Fungie after a fisherman who was trying to grow a beard - but only managing a scruffy, fungus-like covering. The dolphin's skin is silky-smooth, but he was from then on known as "Fungie."

One aftrnoon in 1984 John O'Connor, a local electrician, was snorkeling with his daughter when suddenly she glimpsed a dolphin swimming underneath her on its back, looking up at her. The 12-year-old's eyes widened in amazement as the dolphin accompanied her and her father into the shore.

From then on the swimmers and divers off Dingle's coast got used to Fungie's presence - and Fungie grew increasingly interested in them. John O' Connor and Ronnie Fitzgibbon, both expert divers, began to swim regularly with Fungie. Gradually the dolphin's trust in his human playmates grew, and by 1986 he was playful and affectionate. "He'd grab one of our flippers in his mouth or bump and nudeg us to get a scratch," John says. "He'd actually annoy you he was so persistent."

But Fungie quickly proved he was more than just a mischievous playmate. One day a diver was climbing into an inflatable boat when he dropped his mask and snorkel overboard. Donning another diver's mask, he dived in to find his own. After ten minutes Ronnie splashed in to help. As he looked for the mask, he felt Fungie nudging his shoulder every so often. Assuming the dolphin wanted to play, Ronnie ignored him.

Finally, Ronnie glanced out of the corner of this eye and spotted something in the dolphin's mouth. Turning, he saw Fungie was holding the lost equipment, patiently waiting for his friend to notice.

Fungie quickly became Dingle's most popular resident. Locals walked along a grassy cliff by the harbor to get a glimpse of the creature, or took their families on Sunday motorboat spins to visit him. Fishermen removed nets from areas where the dolphin swam, even at the risk of missing a catch, for fear Fungie might get fatally tan-gled in them.

Far away, television crews in Dublin and London got word of the phenomenon. When they came to Dingle, Fungie was happy to perform. While on TV crew's underwater cameras rolled, the show's presener - clad in acuba-diving gear for the firt time - sat nervously on the harbor bottom. Fungie stared into his face mask, maneuvered himself lower and lower, then gently rested his head on the man's lap.

As word of the friendly dolphin trickled out more and more visitors streamed in, and for years the creature has healed, inspired, and befriended townspeople and visitors alike.

Among them was Hilary Taylor, a woman from England, who traveled to Dingle feeling numb and empty following the death of her son. Eight months earlier, the 24-year-old expert diver had died underwater while trying to bring up the anchor of a friend's boat.

One morning before sunrise, Hilary walked along a stretch of beach Fungie frequented. In the blustery weather Hilary's grief poured forth. When there were no more tears to shed, she looked across the water and cried out, "I love you!"

Suddenly, Fungie appeared, swimming towards her. He stopped and his head bobbed out of the waves, just ten feet away. The dolphin took a noisy breath - spurting air and water from his blowhole - and disappeared. He heard me! Hilary thought, feeling a spark of joy for the first time since her son's death.

For a week, Hilary swam with Fungie every day. He seemed to take to her, allowing her to run her hand along the slippery length of his enormous frame. The soothing water, The attentiveness of the giant, gentle creature, the happiness she saw in his friendly, smiling face - all helped Hilary begin to feel again.

"Fungie was part of my healing," she says now. "I was allowing the love he was giving me to come in, and fill a part of the gaping hole in my heart that my son's death had left."

Kevin Flannery, the Dingle-based control officer for Ireland's Department of marine, has obwerved Fungie closely nearly every day since 1983. He suspects Fungie was once in captivity, perhaps released from a dolphinarium in Great Britain. "He's obviously used to humans," Kevin says. "Just about every month 18 to 20 dolphins come into the harbor, play with Fungie, feed with him, mate with him. Then they leave and he stays. That tells me he's different."

Elsewher in the world, cases have been recorded of lone dolphins venturing into shallow waters and befriending people. But Fungie has lived in this particular harbor for 13 consecutive years. "To my knowledge this is one of the longes documented periods that a single, 'friendly' dolphin has stayed around, " say a cetacean researcher. Most disappeared or died within years.

That might have been Fungie's fate in 1989. When it was announced that Dingle's harbor had to be dynamited to make it deeper for the larger fishing vessels, locals were concerned about the risks to Fungie. John, Ronnie and other members of the diving club consulted experts, who advised that just the shock waves from the dynamite blasts could damage the dolphin's sonar, leaving him unable to survive. We' ve got to protect Fungie, John thought. The divers learned that while shock waves travel for miles, they travel in a straight line. That gave them the information they needed to hatch a plan.

On an August morning, John, Ronnie and some of the other divers drove their motorboat out of the harbor, luring Fungie with them. At the harbor's narrow mouth, they took a right turn around a rocky headland and idled the boat. Fungie leaped about playfully, unaware that he was here so the rocky cliff would protect him from dangerous shock waves.

"We've got Fungie here," John radioed back to shore. Then the divers jumped in and kept the dolphin occupied while the blasters set off the dynamite. John and his men only left the water when a voice crackled through the radio: "Okay, we're finished for today." The team effort went on for three weeks. Even the national electricity company pitched in, paying for the fuel and meals.

Today, the dolphin brings joy not just to Dingle natives but to people from all over the world. At the height of summer, hundreds of visitors a day board special viewing boats to see him. British poet Heathcote Williams was so moved after swimming with Fungie after he was commissioned to write the libretto for a new opera entitled Arion and the Dolphin. He was so in spired that he dedicated the work to Fungie and wrote a children's book of the same title.

But Fungie's greatest gift is presented to the dozens of handicapped and sick children that smim with him every summer. Last year, it was the turn of five-year-old Hughie Hamilton, who has cerebral palsy.

Hughie couldn't stand on his own and is able to walk only with the help of a walker. During daily therapy sessions at his home in London, Hughie would lie on a therapy table as his mother manipulated his arms and legs. Often, the tow-headed boy cried in frustration. One day, to relax her son, the mother said, "Pretend you're in the ocean, swimming with a dolphin."

Intrigued, Hughie calmed down quickly, listening to his mother describe him frolicking in the sea with a friendly dolphin. Soon, Hughie was "swimming" with the solphin daily. Finally his mother wondered, What if I took him to swim with a real one? After some research, she learned about Fungie.

As the sun rose over Dingle Harbor, Hughie's parents watched as he floated face down, holding his breath just as he had practiced so many times in the bathtub. Suddenly, the boy's heaf froze. The dolphin had swum up beneath him. For several long seconds Hughie floated atop the water, staring down into the eyes of Fungie. Finally, Hughie raised his head, coughing and sputtering - and smiling broadly.

"Magic," Hughie said, his eyes shining. "It was magic."
Back home two weeks later, Hughie seemed much better able to concentrate and relax. "Since he swam with Fungie, I see in him a new optimism," his mother says. "There is this kind of ease."

No one knows why Fungie seems to be able to heal hurt and assuage grief. Many people believe that dolphins' sophisticated sonar system allows them to sense and repond to people's emotional states. After spending days watching Fungie interact with people, I believe the explanation is much simpler: Fungie embodies all that is worthwhile in our lives; he is joy, freedom, love - capped by a contagious grin

Nor does anyone know why he chose this cliffshrouded harbor as his home. Every bar-stool expert in Dingle has a theory. One thing is certain: This wild mammal is a gift who has inspired the artistic to create, the bereaved to hope, and the sad to smile.

"Marry Me!"

It's a mometnt couples will remember for the rest of their live: the marriage proposal. It commonly happens over a quiet dinner in a restaurant, in the glow of a setting sun on a waterside pier or in the privacy of a living room.

Throughout history, however, this tradition has not always been so simple or elegant. In South America a Uacari Indian wishing to marry had to show his prowess with a bow and arrow to prove he could support a family with fish and game. And in remote Alpine villages, some men still follow the old tradition of bringing their prospective bride an edelweiss that they've risked their lives scaling heights to pick.

In the practical 1990s, one might think the enterprising marriage proposal has gone the way of other lost traditions. Not necessarily. As the following stories attest, when the biggest question of all is at stake - "Will you marry me?" - the way in which it's asked can still astound and charm.

In March 1996 Caryn Markus, 24 came home one day and heard this message on her answering machine: "This is Susan calling from United reservations. I' m sorry to inform you that your flight had been postponed due to scheduling difficulties. We have booked you on a flight leaving Chicago 45 minutes later. Sorry for any inconvenience."

Aargh, Caryn thought. She was flying to Atlanta to visit her boyfriend, Rick Segall, 25 whom she' d met in 1989 at Northwestern University in Illinois. After graduation, Caryn had found a job in Chicago, while Rick eventually became a reporter with NBC in Atlanta. Over three years of long-distance romance, they'd racked up more than 40,000 frequent-flier miles.

That night Caryn called Rick. "The weirdest thing happened today," she said. "They canceled my flight and booked me on a later flight without even asking me."

"That's okay," Rick said. "Why don't you keep the later flight?"

Still peeved, Caryn called United the next day to switch to an earlier flight. The ticket agent put her on hold for a long time, then said that no other flights were available.

The day of her flight, Caryn boarded the plane and stretched out on her seat and the two unoccupied seats beside her. Shortly after takeoff, the plane's loudspeaker announced: "Caryn Markus, this is the captain speaking."

What's going on? Caryn wondered.

"We know you are expecting your boyfriend, Rick, to pick you up at the airport," the captain continued. "However, we regret to inform you that he will not be meeting you in Atlanta. That's because Rick decided to catch this flight to ask you a very important question."

Caryn then saw Rick coming toward her with a dozen roses and an ear-to-ear grin. Kneeling clumsily in th aisle, he extended his right hand. "Caryn," he asked, "will you marry me?"

Caryn couldn't stop giggling. "I can't believe this!" she said. The two sat together, talking quietly and laughing, while nearby passsengers craned their necks to see what was going on.

"How did you manage this?" Caryn asked.

"You didn't make it easy, "Rick said. Caryn's original flight had been too full to save a seat next to her, so he changed her reservations and got a co-worker to pretend to be a ticket agent and leave the flight cancellation message. When Caryn tried to alter the new reservations, the United agent noticed special instructions on her computer screen. Putting Caryn on hold, she called Rick, who prevailed on the agent to keep the secret.

The day of the fligth, Rick flew to Chicago and was sneaked onto Caryn's plane, where he sat in a back row behind a newspaper until he heard the captain's voice.

Somewhere above Indiana or Kentucky, Caryn said, "Yes." Then the captain's voice echoed through the plane again: "Ladies and gentlemen, can someone let us know how this thing turned out so we can land this airplane?" The passengers erupted in laughter and applause.

Caryn and Rick were married in 1997.

When Kathy Knickerbocker, 30, returned to her parents' home in California one day in September 1989, her mother told her to go upstairs "right away." On her bed Kathy found a black cocktail dress and a tape recorder.

Kathy pushed the play button and heard the theme music from the TV show "Mission: Impossible." Then a voice began: "Good evening, Kathy. Your mission, should you choose to accept it, is to follow the clues that will lead you to the strange and interesting man known as McFly."

Kathy laughed. He's at it again, she thought. She called her boyfriend, Erik Escher, McFly after a character in the movie Back to the Future, who, like Erik, had a colorful, original wardrobe. Erik, a creative graphics designer, was also endlessly imaginative in planning dates. But three weeks earlier, Kathy had decided to date other people as well, because Erik, 33, would not commit to marriage. It had been atough time.

At 7.30 p.m. there was a knock on the door. A chauffeur in a tuxedo daid, "Good evening. My name is James and I have your first clue."

He escorted Kathy to a red stretch limo. On the back seat were a dozen long-stemmed red roses, a bottle of champagne, an egg carton and an envelope addressed: "Kathy Jo, get a clue."

Indide were instructions. Kathy and the chauffeur proceeded to the restaurant where Erik and Kathy had first met. There, a man approached, wearing a T-shirt emblazoned with the words: "Kathy Jo, get a clue." He asked, "Who do you love?"

Following instructions, Kathy responded, "McFly is my guy!"

The man handed her another envelope. Its clue led her to a fast-food restaurant that the couple had often visited. The chauffeur took her to the drive-through window, where the cashier asked: "Who do you love?"

At this and every stop to come, Kathy would answer, "McFly is my guy." Each time, she would receive an egg and another clue.

One clue was in a jar of honey at Albertson's market. Kathy chuckled. Erik hated being called Honey, so it had been a big deal when he let Kathy call him by this pet name.

The final clue sent her to a ritzy eatery. There she saw a tuxedo-clad Erik at a table, a huge wire basket containing eggs in front of him.

"Would you mind putting all your eggs in one basket?" Erik asked. When they had agreed that Kathy would see other people, she had explained that she didn't want to put all her eggs in one basket as long as Erik wasn't ready for a commitment.

Erick asked her to open an egg. It had been hollowed, and inside was the word "Kathy." The next eggs read "will." The next: "you." By the end, through her tears, she saw a message reading "Kathy, will you please marry me?"

Her voice choking, she reponded, "Yes, Erik, I would love to marry you!" I know for sure I'd never be bored, she thought to herself.

They were married in July 1990.

After four Years of college, a loving romance was in full bloom between Karen Schifferle and Peter Stachowiak. Peter began pursuing an M.B.A., and Karen got a job teaching prekindergarten at an elementary school.

In October 1992 Karen planned a class Halloween party. She decided to dress as Cinderella, and Peter offered to put on a skit for the children.

The day of the party, 23 excited kids in costumes cut out Halloween decorations and sang songs. Soon there was a knock at the door.

There stood Peter, wearing a powder-blue tunic with navy-blue velvet trim and puffy sleeves, royal-blue tights and a plumed hat.

"Hey, boys and girls," said Karen, "Prince Charming is here!"

Pirates, witches and Ninja Turtles grew quiet as Peter showed them a purple slipper, sparkling with jewels and ribbons. "Whoever can wear this," he announced, "must be the real Cinderella."

The four-year-olds gawked as Peter tried the shoe on three different girls. Each time there was a chorus of disappointed as the slipper proved too big. Then they began chanting, "Try it on Miss Schifferle!"

Peter took the shoe to Karen, who sat on a child-size chair, wearing an old pink satin dress from her highschool prom. He slipped the shoe on Karen's foot: a perfect fit.

"Oh, my gosh," Karen exclaimed theatrically, "I must be Cinderella!"

As she started to stand up, Peter stayed down on one knee. Reaching inside his vest, he pulled out a gold band with a sparkling diamond. "Will you be my princess forever?"

Karen sat motionless. Finally it hit her, and she began to cry. "Yes, yes," she said, as the children stared, mesmerized. "Of course I' ll marry you!"

Married in July 1994, Karen and Peter have lived happily ever since.

A Terrible Beauty

It was early in 1995 when we were practicing for our big concert "Rhythm of the Earth." We'd gathered about 300 musicians, traditional, modern, blind, rich and poor and were trying to put them together into a real show. In the middle of this chaos, a big woman stepped in sweating. She grabbed my arm and said, "We heard about your concert and you must hear my daughter sing. She can sing in five languages, really, listen to her."

The young daughter presented herself meekly. Her face was discolored, her cheeks swollen. Her speaking voice was discolored, her cheeks swollen. Her speaking voice was almost unintelligible. I thought she might break - and then she sang. Her eyes rolled back and the powerful beauty that lifted from her throat made me think she had to be from some place else.

As she floated through songs in Thai, Chinese, Japanese, even Lao, the entire group gathered to witness. Finally the little one put Mariah Carey to shame with her rendition of the ballad, Without You. This Badfinger classic was not longer a song, it was a rage against the gods, it was the voice of anyone who had known loss, pain and the beauty they hold within. When she finished, there was silence. And then the applause broke out.

My mother was in tears. She called the little lady's voice "terrible beauty" as the poet Yeats had described the legacy of the martyrs of Easter Uprising.

"I' m Fon, " she smiled, "I want to sing with you. I want to have friends. I want to laugh and learn with you."

Soon Fon was singing with us all the time and had made new friends in the young blind men who sang and played, too. They didn't care what Fon looked like. They only knew that she was brilliant, funny, kind and the best singer they'd ever heard. They all tried to get into her group when we had songwriting camps. Fon didn't just sing, she wrote songs from her head and heart, fascinating lyrics, strange melodies that seemed to dance between beauty and suffering. But not everyone thought highly of Fon.

"At school I don't have a single friend," she confided. "Everyone looks at me like I'm monster. I have a blood disease called thalassemia. It makes me swell up and turns my skin green and grey. I get sick a lot and have to go for blood changes every six months or so. Once I thought I had a friend next to me in calss. I helped her study and we even talked about music. But one day, all of her friend came and asked if she knew me. She laughed at me and said, 'No Way!'

Since then I just study and go home. I get all A's in my classes, but I can't get a single friend. My mother is my only friend. She does any job - laborer, garbage picker, to get money to buy my medicine. Often we can't afford the hospital. So, we buy folk cures to get me by.

"It isn't easy to get by," she continued. "Lately, we've been going out to cafes where I sing for tips. The other night, they had me sing for two hours. As we left, they gave me 20 baht. 'Imagine that,' I told my mum, 'that's what my singing is worth - 20 baht. 'But it' s okay because singing makes me happy."

Fon's singing made a lot of people happy. As my mother was leaving Thailand to go back to the US, Fon asked to go with us to send her off. In the middle of Bangkok International Airport, my mother stood holding Fon. She pulled off her ring, one she had kept since childhood, and put it on Fon's middle finger. I protested, "Mum, I've been asking for that ring for 20 years."

My mother turned to me and ordered, "Take care of this little lady, son. Give her her moments.

We shared a lot of moments. Fon came on tour with us and taught a lot of people about "terrible beauty," her voice mixing pain and joy. We took Fon to china to represent Thailand in the Asia Wataboshi Musis Festival.

In Shanghai, I held Fon in my arms one day. Thalassemia ravaged her body. She told me I was the first man ever to hold her. She had never met her father.

On stage in Shanghai, Fon sang with her blind buddy, Huak, a sky kaen player from Khon Kaen. She even acted as a translator to try to find him a Chinese girlfriend. We didn't get Huak a wife. But we did get to host the Asia Wataboshi Music Festival two years later, in 1997.

As hosts of the festival, many called on us to bring in movie stars and famous singers to close the show. But I was sick of famous singers to close the show. But I was sick of famous singers with fake boobs, fake noses, even fake hearts. I remembered my mother's words, "give her her moments" and decided that Fon would close the show - alone. Few people agreed with me but it came to be.

On a rainy Saturday night, October 18, 1997, about 2,000 people in the Thailand Cultural Center witnessed terrible beauty. The entire hall was electric with excitements as the lights went out and a bare spot caught a little lady walking out on the stage, through smoke, looking more than beautiful - she was radiant. No music, no effects, just a naked voice that filled the hall and every heart in it like a candle in the darkness. We all stood with mouths open, listening to the words of the Wataboshi theme song, witnessing "her moment."

"Oh, little Wataboshi, soon the wind will blow and it will scatter your seeds as white as snow......the seeds of love will grow all around the world."

Fon was joined by all 200 artists and musicians. We all knew there was a language, a strength in the terrible beauty of that October day.

Thailand's Festival was hailed as the best ever and letters soon poured in from around the country and Asia celebrating that little lady Fon all alone.

By now, the little lady had become a young woman who answered with her usual mixture of smile and sadness. "That was my moment. Thank you. I don't think I have many left. It's been very painful lately and I' m not getting better."

On a rainy Saturday night, on October 18, 1998, about a score of people couldn't fill the hall at Anongkaram Temple. The smoke of incense bathed the room and the little lady in the picture next to her coffin looked hopeful, lonely. No music, no talking. I could hear her voice as I read the letter she lelt.

"The pain is too much now. But I hurt most for my mother. She has given everything she can for me to live. She got nothing in return. I can't put the feelings that a mother and daughter share on paper. She's all I have and it hurts to see her cry. Soon it will be over. The doctor says there is nothing they can do now. My mother had done everything."

Outside the temple, it began to pour. The rain falling sounded like applause and I wondered if maybe this wasn't Fon's real moment. Or maybe it was our moment - the life we had the chance to share, the voice we had the honor to hear. "You have to hear her sing," her mother had implored. I still do.