Struggle and Victory
By Lila Jones Cathey
In a small farmhouse fifteen miles from the nearest town, my mother gave birth to her fourth child — a fragile boy, with a fair complexion and a fretful cry.

Troy was an unusually restless baby, with a delicate digestive system. Feedings were a struggle, as my parents desperately tried one formula after another in an attempt to nourish the frail child. At four months, Troy weighed less than he had at birth.

The rural community had no sophisticated hospital, no pediatric specialist, no support groups. Only a tiny bed in a three-room house and a country doctor with limited knowledge of infant disease. My parents realized something was tragically wrong with their son, but didn't know what.

Every effort was made to make Troy comfortable; every remedy, regardless of how bizarre, was tried. Each day the baby grew weaker. The local doctor suggested that a specialist in a nearby city might give my parents answers to their puzzling questions.

Arrangements were hastily made. The fifty-mile drive became a journey of hope — the only hope — for the almost lifeless baby in my mother's arms.

Upon arriving, Troy was whisked away for a series of tests. Hours seemed endless as my parents waited in silence, lost in their thoughts and fears.

On the third day, the doctor called them into his office. His message was bleak. Their seven-month-old son was a victim of Down's syndrome. He was also suffering from an enlarged heart, thyroid disorder and serious digestive problems. He wasn't likely to live; if he did, he would be severely mentally retarded.

My parents stood rigid, listening to the doctor as he spoke of the baby's uncertain future — and of the alternatives. They moved closer together, groping for each other's hands. In their minds, there was no alternative to consider.

"I am not a perfect man," my father said. "How can I demand a perfect child?"

"We will help him do the best he can with the abilities he has," my mother added, "the same as we have helped his brothers and sister."

Medication was prescribed to relieve much of Troy's suffering. Soon parents and child were huddled together in the front seat of the car, driving home.

Troy responded well to the medication and his weight gradually increased. The crises of the first months faded.

There were no small accomplishments in Troy's development. Each achievement was recognized and celebrated by the entire family with the fanfare of the Academy Awards. As he grew, he was encouraged to explore. Colorful objects were placed within his reach. His ears were constantly entertained with simple words that were easy to pronounce. Special handles were installed on the window sills to help him stand on his unsteady legs, so that he could watch the older children at play outside. Troy rewarded the family for their care and encouragement with angelic smiles.

Shortly before his second birthday, Troy became ill with erysipelas, a dreadfully painful disease that causes the skin to become blotchy, swollen and red. He whimpered while my parents took turns bathing his feverish body. My mother sang lullabies and stroked his flushed face for hours in an effort to soothe him. He hovered near death for weeks, then months.

Gradually Troy's swollen hands returned to normal and the hours of restless wakefulness gave way to peaceful sleep. Six months of illness came to an end. The baby had bravely fought and won another crucial battle.

During this time my mother became pregnant with me. I was born in the same farmhouse as Troy, with my grandmother, a neighbor and the country doctor in attendance.

From babyhood, Troy was my constant companion. As I learned to walk, he, too, took his first faltering steps. Repeating sounds I made became a game with Troy, which thrilled my parents as they strained their ears to hear an actual word.

Occasionally we were given a treat, usually a large red apple. We would squeal with delight as my mother held the colorful fruit just beyond our grasp, patiently repeating the word "apple."

Once during this familiar ritual, Troy's eyes fixed intensely on the luscious fruit, and he pronounced his first word: "apple." Mother quickly summoned my father from the field. The older children hurried in from their chores. Troy was on stage and he knew it. Again and again he said the word, clapping his hands together, as the family cheered him on.

After that his vocabulary increased slowly and steadily. Although he was never able to speak clearly or distinctly, and his sentences were often slow and incomplete, his halting words eloquently conveyed thoughts and ideas that were uniquely his own.

For the next few years, Troy's and my life was happy and rather normal. We spent our days making mud pies, riding stick horses and cutting paper dolls out of old catalogs. We shared responsibility for simple chores around the house, and we were punished equally for our frequent mischief.

Our formal schooling started when I was five. The school board had decided Troy should attend public school. Together we walked three miles to our first day of school, stopping along the way to inspect a variety of bugs crossing our path.

The children in the community had grown up realizing Troy was different, and from most of the students he received gentle affection. I was a fierce protector of my brother and he accepted my being his keeper without complaining.

The teachers were generous with their time and attention. Troy was issued learning material along with the rest of the class, but he usually spent his time coloring in a special book. His citizenship was excellent. He was quiet and obedient in the classroom, and cheerful and cooperative on the playground. Each year he was promoted with a straight-A report card. He loved being praised for his outstanding achievements.

Soon sports and boys became big things in my life. I reveled in my new social world — a world in which my brother sadly could not belong.

My parents saw a need for change. My graduation from high school was the beginning of the transition. A week of careful planning went into a ceremony that would take place in our living room, "graduating" my brother from high school.

Mother drove fifty miles to buy a class ring at a pawn shop. Troy was delighted, sporting the ring proudly on his finger as he tried on my graduation cap and gown.

We were in a dilemma, wondering how to explain why we were having his ceremony at home, when everyone else had theirs at school. My mother was inspired to pray for rain. Sure enough the following morning rain drenched the dirt roads, making them impassable.

With a sigh of relief, Dad announced, "The graduation must go on."

Mother dressed Troy in my cap and gown. The family assembled in the living room.

I played "Amazing Grace," the only song I knew how to play on the piano. Troy marched in and stood proudly in front of my father, who was dressed in his Sunday best.

Daddy made a speech about Troy's great accomplishments and then handed him his diploma — a white sheet of paper with his name on it, rolled up and tied with a ribbon. Troy shook Daddy's hand, then quickly moved the tassel from one side of the cap to the other.

We all stood, giving thunderous applause. Mother's eyes brimmed with tears as she drew Troy into her arms. How proud he was!

No longer a student, Troy would soon be given more responsibility at home. For the rest of his life, he would relish his new role as an adult and perform any work he was asked to do with meticulous care.

Looking back on that faraway living-room graduation, I remember being filled with awe and joy at the amazing journey we had shared with Troy which had brought us to that moment: from his physically afflicted infancy when he twice almost died, to a babyhood full of challenges most families never dream of, to an education that taught many of his teachers and fellow students their greatest lessons in courage and humanity.

Through it all, Troy's capacity to love was boundless; the tenderness and kindness he demonstrated to everyone he encountered was unsurpassed; and the wide-eyed innocence with which he met the world never wavered.

The Wallet
By Arnold Fine
As I walked home one freezing day, I stumbled on a wallet someone had lost in the street. I picked it up and looked inside to find some identification so I could call the owner. But the wallet contained only three dollars and a crumpled letter that looked as if it had been in there for years.

The envelope was worn and the only thing that was legible on it was the return address. I started to open the letter, hoping to find some clue. Then I saw the dateline - 1924. The letter had been written almost sixty years earlier.

It was written in a beautiful feminine handwriting, on powder-blue stationery with a little flower in the left-hand corner. It was a "Dear John" letter that told the recipient, whose name appeared to be Michael, that the writer could not see him any more because her mother forbade it. Even so, she wrote that she would always love him. It was signed Hannah.

It was a beautiful letter, but there was no way, except for the name Michael, to identify the owner. Maybe if I called information, the operator could find a phone listing for the address on the envelope.

"Operator," I began, "this is an unusual request. I'm trying to find the owner of a wallet that I found. Is there any way you can tell me if there is a phone number for an address that was on an envelope in the wallet?"

She suggested I speak with her supervisor, who hesitated for a moment, then said, "Well, there is a phone listing at that address, but I can't give you the number." She said as a courtesy, she would call that number, explain my story and ask whoever answered if the person wanted her to connect me. I waited a few minutes and then the supervisor was back on the line. "I have a party who will speak with you."

I asked the woman on the other end of the line if she knew anyone by the name of Hannah. She gasped. "Oh! We bought this house from a family who had a daughter named Hannah. But that was thirty years ago!"

"Would you know where that family could be located now?" I asked.

"I remember that Hannah had to place her mother in a nursing home some years ago," the woman said. "Maybe if you got in touch with them, they might be able to track down the daughter."

She gave me the name of the nursing home, and I called the number. The woman on the phone told me the old lady had passed away some years ago, but the nursing home did have a phone number for where the daughter might be living.

I thanked the person at the nursing home and phoned the number she gave me. The woman who answered explained that Hannah herself was now living in a nursing home.

This whole thing is stupid, I thought to myself. Why am I making such a big deal over finding the owner of a wallet that has only three dollars and a letter that is almost sixty years old?

Nevertheless, I called the nursing home in which Hannah was supposed to be living, and the man who answered the phone told me, "Yes, Hannah is staying with us."

Even though it was already 10 P.M., I asked if I could come by to see her. "Well," he said hesitatingly, "if you want to take a chance, she might be in the day room watching television."

I thanked him and drove over to the nursing home. The night nurse and a guard greeted me at the door. We went up to the third floor of the large building. In the day room, the nurse introduced me to Hannah. She was a sweet, silver-haired old-timer with a warm smile and a twinkle in her eye.

I told her about finding the wallet and showed her the letter. The second she saw the powder-blue envelope with that little flower on the left, she took a deep breath and said, "Young man, this letter was the last contact I ever had with Michael."

She looked away for a moment, deep in thought, and then said softly, "I loved him very much. But I was only sixteen at the time and my mother felt I was too young. Oh, he was so handsome. He looked like Sean Connery, the actor.

"Yes," she continued, "Michael Goldstein was a wonderful person. If you should find him, tell him I think of him often. And," she hesitated for a moment, almost biting her lip, "tell him I still love him. You know," she said, smiling as tears welled up in her eyes, "I never did marry. I guess no one ever matched up to Michael..."

I thanked Hannah and said good-bye. I took the elevator to the first floor and as I stood by the door, the guard there asked, "Was the old lady able to help you?"

I told him she had given me a lead. "At least I have a last name. But I think I'll let it go for a while. I spent almost the whole day trying to find the owner of this wallet."

I had taken out the wallet, which was a simple brown leather case with red lacing on the side. When the guard saw it, he said, "Hey, wait a minute! That's Mr. Goldstein's wallet. I'd know it anywhere with that bright red lacing. He's always losing that wallet. I must have found it in the halls at least three times."

"Who's Mr. Goldstein?" I asked, as my hand began to shake.

"He's one of the old-timers on the eighth floor. That's Mike Goldstein's wallet for sure. He must have lost it on one of his walks."

I thanked the guard and quickly ran back to the nurse's office. I told her what the guard had said. We went back to the elevator and got on. I prayed that Mr. Goldstein would be up.

On the eighth floor, the floor nurse said, "I think he's still in the day room. He likes to read at night. He's a darling old man."

We went to the only room that had any lights on, and there was a man reading a book. The nurse went over to him and asked if he had lost his wallet. Mr. Goldstein looked up with surprise, put his hand in his back pocket and said, "Oh, it is missing!"

"This kind gentleman found a wallet and we wondered if it could be yours."

I handed Mr. Goldstein the wallet, and the second he saw it, he smiled with relief and said, "Yes, that's it! It must have dropped out of my pocket this afternoon. I want to give you a reward."

"No, thank you," I said. "But I have to tell you something. I read the letter in the hope of finding out who owned the wallet."

The smile on his face suddenly disappeared. "You read that letter?"

"Not only did I read it, I think I know where Hannah is."

He suddenly grew pale. "Hannah? You know where she is? How is she? Is she still as pretty as she was? Please, please tell me," he begged.

"She's fine...just as pretty as when you knew her," I said softly.

The old man smiled with anticipation and asked, "Could you tell me where she is? I want to call her tomorrow." He grabbed my hand and said, "You know something, mister? I was so in love with that girl that when that letter came, my life literally ended. I never married. I guess I've always loved her."

"Michael," I said, "come with me."

We took the elevator down to the third floor. The hallways were darkened and only one or two little night lights lit our way to the day room, where Hannah was sitting alone, watching the television.

The nurse walked over to her.

"Hannah," she said softly, pointing to Michael, who was waiting with me in the doorway. "Do you know this man?"

She adjusted her glasses, looked for a moment, but didn't say a word.

Michael said softly, almost in a whisper, "Hannah, it's Michael. Do you remember me?"

She gasped. "Michael! I don't believe it! Michael! It's you! My Michael!"

He walked slowly toward her, and they embraced. The nurse and I left with tears streaming down our faces.

"See," I said. "See how the good Lord works! If it's meant to be, it will be."

About three weeks later, I got a call at my office from the nursing home. "Can you break away on Sunday to attend a wedding? Michael and Hannah are going to tie the knot!"

It was a beautiful wedding, with all the people at the nursing home dressed up to join in the celebration. Hannah wore a light beige dress and looked beautiful. Michael wore a dark blue suit and stood tall. They made me their best man.

The hospital gave them their own room, and if you ever wanted to see a seventy-six-year-old bride and a seventy-nine-year-old groom acting like two teenagers, you had to see this couple.

A perfect ending for a love affair that had lasted nearly sixty years.