A PLACE FOR YOU

If you have ever gone through a toll booth, you know that your relationship to the person in the booth is not the most intimate you'll ever have. It is one of life's frequent non-encounters: You hand over some money; you might get change; you drive off. I have been through every one of the 17 toll booths on the Oakland-San Francisco Bay Bridge on thousands of occasions, and never had an exchange worth remembering with anybody.

Late one morning in 1984, headed for lunch in San Francisco, I drove toward one of the booths. I heard loud music. It sounded like a party, or a Michael Jackson concert. I looked around. No other cars with their windows open. No sound trucks. I looked at the toll booth. Inside it, the man was dancing.

"What are you doing?" I asked.

"I'm having a party," he said.

"What about the rest of these people?" I looked over at other booths; nothing moving there.

"They're not invited."

I had a dozen other questions for him, but somebody in a big hurry to get somewhere started punching his horn behind me and I drove off. But I made a note to myself: Find this guy again. There's something in his eye that says there's magic in his toll booth.

Months later I did find him again, still with the loud music, still having a party.

Again I asked, "What are you doing?"

He said, "I remember you from the last time. I'm still dancing. I'm having the same party."

I said, "Look. What about the rest of the people."

He said. "Stop. What do those look like to you?" He pointed down the row of toll booths.

"They look like toll booths."

"Noooo imagination!"

I said, "Okay, I give up. What do they look like to you?"

He said, "Vertical coffins."

"What are you talking about?"

"I can prove it. At 8:30 every morning, live people get in. Then they die for eight hours. At 4:30, like Lazarus from the dead, they reemerge and go home. For eight hours, brain is on hold, dead on the job. Going through the motions."

I was amazed. This guy had developed a philosophy, a mythology about his job. I could not help asking the next question: "Why is it different for you? You're having a good time."

He looked at me. "I knew you were going to ask that," he said. "I'm going to be a dancer someday." He pointed to the administration building. "My bosses are in there, and they're paying for my training."

Sixteen people dead on the job, and the seventeenth, in precisely the same situation, figures out a way to live. That man was having a party where you and I would probably not last three days. The boredom! He and I did have lunch later, and he said, "I don't understand why anybody would think my job is boring. I have a corner office, glass on all sides. I can see the Golden Gate, San Francisco, the Berkeley hills; half the Western world vacations here and I just stroll in every day and practice dancing.

Abraham Lincoln said, "Most people are about as happy as they make up their minds to be." I would tend to agree.

Written by Dr. Charles Garfield

THE BLANKET

Her name is Sarah and it is a proper and fitting name for someone of her nature; quite the paradox she is, having passed herself off to be a girl in pink. Pink climbs like a boy, shouts like a boy, and wrestles with Dad like a boy. Pink is her trademark and she wears it well with her golden, flowing hair and giant apple cheeks.

I sensed when I held her securely in my arms at birth, she would not be there long. Even though as a toddler, she stuck to me like super glue. In spite of her independence, ferociously racing about, she would rush right back and come charging into my arms like a baby bull, returning only to get a "mommy fix." I knew it was all temporary. Like all good books, it would end too soon.

For a while back there, I thought I would lose her. "Neurosurgery" is such a scary word. In spite of my lack of faith, she sprang back with new life and a strong desire to live BIG.

I, on the other hand, spent much of my vigor and vim at the hospital. It seems I left with less life in me. "Sometimes life is tough," were the words my Dad spoke to console me. He was right.

I recall the day my sister gave the blanket to Sarah. It was pink and soft like her. The material was of a fine gingham cotton. "This will last forever" I thought. Little did I know lifetime warranties did not hold with Sarah.

Sarah ate, played, slept and breathed with "Blankey." Sarah cried, laughed, and screamed with Blankey. Blankey started the day with Sarah as she rose from her bed and would finish the evening with her as she finally collapsed into sweet dreams at night.

God forbid, if Blankey would need a "bath." As we continuously checked the progression of the wash cycle, I endured the drying time to the never-ending moans of "I want my Blankey now." Often times, Blankey was not quite dry. But it could not be helped. My sanity was more important then.

Almost 18 years have come and gone, and Blankey still lives. Its ruffles have worn off as well as its bright pink luster. Some things have changed.

"Ruff and tumble" Sarah has grown into a young woman and she will soon graduate from high school. Then she is off to college in the fall to begin her new life.

Just as appearances have faded, Blankey?s usefulness has waned also. Blankey has served its purpose; being there through good times and bad, to comfort and soothe, to strengthen and serve. Sarah is now a confident, beautiful woman and although she loves her Blankey, she no longer needs it.

Yes, sometimes life is tough. New things grow old and so do we. But, if done right, we will create a new light to pave the way. My light I like to call Sarah. Good job Blankey! Good job Me!

Written by Nina Troth

NO REGRETS

At the 1924 Olympic Games in Paris, the sport of canoe racing was added to the list of international competitions. The favorite team in the four-man canoe race was the United States team. One member of that team was a young man by the name of Bill Havens.

As the time for the Olympics neared, it became clear that Bill's wife would give birth to their first child about the time that the U.S. team would be competing in the Paris games. In 1924 there were no jet airliners from Paris to the United States, only slow ocean going ships. And so Bill found himself in a dilemma. Should he go to Paris and risk not being at his wife's side when their baby was born? Or should he withdraw from the team and remain with his family?

Bill's wife insisted that he go to Paris. After all, competing in the Olympics was the culmination of a life long dream. But Bill felt conflicted and, after much soul searching, decided to withdraw from the competition and remain home, where he could support his wife when the child arrived. He considered being at her side his highest priority, even higher than going to Paris to fulfill his dream.

As it turned out, the United States four-man canoe team won the gold medal in Paris. And Bill's wife was late in giving birth to their child. She was so late, in fact, that Bill could have competed in the event and returned home in time to be with her when she gave birth.

People said, "What a shame." But Bill said he had no regrets. For the rest of his life, he believed he had made the better decision.

Bill Havens knew what was most important to him. Not everybody figures that out. And he acted on what he believed was best. Not everybody has the strength of character to say no to something he or she truly wants in order to say yes to something that truly matters. But for Bill, it was the only way to peace; the only way to no regrets.

There is an interesting sequel to the story of Bill Havens...

The child eventually born to Bill and his wife was a boy, whom they named Frank. Twenty eight years later, in 1952, Bill received a cablegram from Frank. It was sent from Helsinki, Finland, where the 1952 Olympics were being held. The cablegram read: "Dad, I won. I'm bringing home the gold medal you lost while waiting for me to be born."

Frank Havens had just won the gold medal for the United States in the canoe racing event, a medal his father had dreamed of winning but never did. Like I said, no regrets.

Thomas Kinkade eloquently said, "When we learn to say a deep, passionate yes to the things that really matter, then peace begins to settle onto our lives like golden sunlight sifting to a forest floor."

Written by Steve Goodier