Chicken Soup for the African American Woman's Soul by Jack Canfield Read Free Book Online

Thursday, but the real party was set for Saturday. On Thursday, we had a little party at our house with just her children and their families. It was her fiftieth year, and she was having homemade tacos. She didn’t care; my mother never asked for much.
    On Saturday, she was still unaware of our plans. I bought her a formal dress to wear to the party. It was a black velvet, two-piece after-five. It had sequins and a split that was a little high, but she could pull it off. After all, the theme of the party was “fifty and fine.” The day of the party my sister drove her around pretending to be lost trying to find this new restaurant where we were all supposed to meet. Then they arrived. She started to giggle as she walked down the hall to the surprise party that awaited her; she had started to get suspicious.
    â€œSurprise!!” We all shouted as she looked around the room, amazed to see all of her family and friends smiling back at her. She was speechless with tears as her first born son, now married with four children of his own, led her to the center seat at the head table. My Aunt Kat took the microphone as the emcee, and the roast began.
    After the dinner and the dance tribute performed by three of her four granddaughters, a tape recording was played of her youngest granddaughter and namesake, Alaina, who was in Atlanta and couldn’t make it, singing “L Is for the Way You Look at Me.” Once we had laughed and cried and laughed again, they brought out her ring. It was beautiful and elegant, nothing like anything she would have bought for herself—not that she wasn’t an elegant woman; she practiced being a well-rounded lady. She just seemed to always have other priorities when it came to indulging herself. The ring fit her pinky just like everyone else’s, and then she began to beam—not just her smile on her tear-stained face, but from the inside. I had never seen her so bright.
    Once it was all over and we got home, I asked her, “Are you happy now that you have your ring? That’s all you’ve been thinking about this year.”
    She said yes, with a smirk and a chuckle. Then she looked at me with glassy eyes and told me what really made her beam with pride was seeing her four adult children, happy, healthy and prospering. She said looking into our faces made her life make sense. “The four of you are the diamonds in my ring!”
    That got me thinking; maybe it wasn’t the ring after all.
    Maybe it was that, at fifty years old, she could look back and smile about a life well lived.
    Monica Montgomery

Just Like Mom
    I nside every older lady is a younger lady— wondering what the hell happened.
    Cora Harvey Armstrong
    All my life people have told me I “look just like” my mother. When I was young I paid it no attention at all because I simply did not believe it. As a teenager when I heard the words “You look just like your mother,” I would respond with “No, I don’t. She’s an adult and I’m not.” After all, what teenage girl wants to be told she looks like her mother? Then, I would run to look in the mirror to make sure I had not changed since the last time I had looked. Relieved that it was still me in the mirror, I’d exclaim, “Whew, that was scary.”
    When it happened at twenty-five I would respond with, “No, I don’t. She is old, and I’m young” and again I would reach for the mirror to make sure things were as they should be. Relieved yet again, I’d mutter under my breath, “I don’t know what those people see; they must be blind. I definitely do not look anything like my mother.”
    By thirty-five, maturity had set in, and I would not respond at all when I heard those intrusive words, “You look just like your mother,” but my thoughts were, Oh no, you see her hair is thinning and turning gray, her midsection is spreading, and her walk is slowing. That