PHlarzulrich116
Honorary Poster
ayos,salamat
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Mastererick2
Journeyman
Pahingi naman kahit isa plssssss pa pm
Percival_1128
Honorary Poster
e is a story - I cannot tell it - I have no words. The story is almost
forgotten but sometimes I remember.
The story concerns three men in a house in a street.
How silent the house was - how loudly all the clocks in the neighbourhood
ticked. The woman upstairs craved love. That must have been the story.
She hungered for love with her whole being. She wanted to create in love.
When the white silent man came into her presence she sprang forward.
Her lips were parted. There was a smile on her lips.
The white one said nothing. In his eyes there was no rebuke, no question.
His eyes were as impersonal as stars.
Down stairs the wicked one whined and ran back and forth like a little lost
hungry dog. The grey one tried to follow him about but presently grew
tired and lay down on the floor to sleep. He never awoke again.
The dandified fellow lay on the floor too. He laughed and played with his
tiny black moustache.
I have no words to tell what happened in my story. I cannot tell the story.
The white silent one may have been Death.
The waiting eager woman may have been Life.
Both the old grey bearded man and the wicked one puzzle me. I think and
think but cannot understand them. Most of the time however I do not
think of them at all. I keep thinking about the dandified man who laughed
all through my story.
If I could understand him I could understand everything. I could run
through the world telling a wonderful story. I would no longer be dumb.
Why was I not given words? Why am I dumb?
I have a wonderful story to tell, but know no way to tell it.
I could say the
words I would sing the story. I would whisper it into the ears of women,
of mothers. I would run through the streets saying it over and over. My
tongue would be torn loose--it would rattle against my teeth.
The three men are in a room in the house. One is young and dandified.
He continually laughs.
There is a second man who has a long white beard. He is consumed with
doubt but occasionally his doubt leaves him and he sleeps.
A third man there is who has wicked eyes and who moves nervously
about the room rubbing his hands together. The three men are waiting -
waiting.
Upstairs in the house there is a woman standing with her back to a wall,
in half darkness by a window.
That is the foundation of my story and everything I will ever know is
distilled in it.
I remember that a fourth man came to the house, a white silent man.
Everything was as silent as the sea at night. His feet on the stone floor of
the room where the three men were made no sound.
The man with the wicked eyes became like a boiling liquid - he ran back
and forth like a caged animal. The old grey man was infected by his
nervousness - he kept pulling at his beard.
The fourth man, the white one, went upstairs to the woman.
e is a story - I cannot tell it - I have no words. The story is almost
forgotten but sometimes I remember.
The story concerns three men in a house in a street. If I could say the
words I would sing the story. I would whisper it into the ears of women,
of mothers. I would run through the streets saying it over and over. My
tongue would be torn loose--it would rattle against my teeth.
The three men are in a room in the house. One is young and dandified.
He continually laughs.
There is a second man who has a long white beard. He is consumed with
doubt but occasionally his doubt leaves him and he sleeps.
A third man there is who has wicked eyes and who moves nervously
about the room rubbing his hands together. The three men are waiting -
waiting.
Upstairs in the house there is a woman standing with her back to a wall,
in half darkness by a window.
That is the foundation of my story and everything I will ever know is
distilled in it.
I remember that a fourth man came to the house, a white silent man.
Everything was as silent as the sea at night. His feet on the stone floor of
the room where the three men were made no sound.
The man with the wicked eyes became like a boiling liquid - he ran back
and forth like a caged animal. The old grey man was infected by his
nervousness - he kept pulling at his beard.
The fourth man, the white one, went upstairs to the woman.,
How silent the house was - how loudly all the clocks in the neighbourhood
ticked. The woman upstairs craved love. That must have been the story.
She hungered for love with her whole being. She wanted to create in love.
When the white silent man came into her presence she sprang forward.
Her lips were parted. There was a smile on her lips.
The white one said nothing. In his eyes there was no rebuke, no question.
His eyes were as impersonal as stars.
Down stairs the wicked one whined and ran back and forth like a little lost
hungry dog. The grey one tried to follow him about but presently grew
tired and lay down on the floor to sleep. He never awoke again.
The dandified fellow lay on the floor too. He laughed and played with his
tiny black moustache.
I have no words to tell what happened in my story. I cannot tell the story.
The white silent one may have been Death.
The waiting eager woman may have been Life.
Both the old grey bearded man and the wicked one puzzle me. I think and
think but cannot understand them. Most of the time however I do not
think of them at all. I keep thinking about the dandified man who laughed
all through my story.
If I could understand him I could understand everything. I could run
through the world telling a wonderful story. I would no longer be dumb.
Why was I not given words? Why am I dumb?
I have a wonderful story to tell, but know no way to tell it.
How silent the house was - how loudly all the clocks in the neighbourhood
ticked. The woman upstairs craved love. That must have been the story.
She hungered for love with her whole being. She wanted to create in love.
When the white silent man came into her presence she sprang forward.
Her lips were parted. There was a smile on her lips.
The white one said nothing. In his eyes there was no rebuke, no question.
His eyes were as impersonal as stars.
Down stairs the wicked one whined and ran back and forth like a little lost
hungry dog. The grey one tried to follow him about but presently grew
tired and lay down on the floor to sleep. He never awoke again.
The dandified fellow lay on the floor too. He laughed and played with his
tiny black moustache.
I have no words to tell what happened in my story. I cannot tell the story.
The white silent one may have been Death.
The waiting eager woman may have been Life.
Both the old grey bearded man and the wicked one puzzle me. I think and
think but cannot understand them. Most of the time however I do not
think of them at all. I keep thinking about the dandified man who laughed
all through my story.
If I could understand him I could understand everything. I could run
through the world telling a wonderful story. I would no longer be dumb.
Why was I not given words? Why am I dumb?
I have a wonderful story to tell, but know no way to tell it.
e is a story - I cannot tell it - I have no words. The story is almost
forgotten but sometimes I remember.
The story concerns three men in a house in a street.
How silent the house was - how loudly all the clocks in the neighbourhood
ticked. The woman upstairs craved love. That must have been the story.
She hungered for love with her whole being. She wanted to create in love.
When the white silent man came into her presence she sprang forward.
Her lips were parted. There was a smile on her lips.
The white one said nothing. In his eyes there was no rebuke, no question.
His eyes were as impersonal as stars.
Down stairs the wicked one whined and ran back and forth like a little lost
hungry dog. The grey one tried to follow him about but presently grew
tired and lay down on the floor to sleep. He never awoke again.
The dandified fellow lay on the floor too. He laughed and played with his
tiny black moustache.
I have no words to tell what happened in my story. I cannot tell the story.
The white silent one may have been Death.
The waiting eager woman may have been Life.
Both the old grey bearded man and the wicked one puzzle me. I think and
think but cannot understand them. Most of the time however I do not
think of them at all. I keep thinking about the dandified man who laughed
all through my story.
If I could understand him I could understand everything. I could run
through the world telling a wonderful story. I would no longer be dumb.
Why was I not given words? Why am I dumb?
I have a wonderful story to tell, but know no way to tell it.
I could say the
words I would sing the story. I would whisper it into the ears of women,
of mothers. I would run through the streets saying it over and over. My
tongue would be torn loose--it would rattle against my teeth.
The three men are in a room in the house. One is young and dandified.
He continually laughs.
There is a second man who has a long white beard. He is consumed with
doubt but occasionally his doubt leaves him and he sleeps.
A third man there is who has wicked eyes and who moves nervously
about the room rubbing his hands together. The three men are waiting -
waiting.
Upstairs in the house there is a woman standing with her back to a wall,
in half darkness by a window.
That is the foundation of my story and everything I will ever know is
distilled in it.
I remember that a fourth man came to the house, a white silent man.
Everything was as silent as the sea at night. His feet on the stone floor of
the room where the three men were made no sound.
The man with the wicked eyes became like a boiling liquid - he ran back
and forth like a caged animal. The old grey man was infected by his
nervousness - he kept pulling at his beard.
The fourth man, the white one, went upstairs to the woman.
e is a story - I cannot tell it - I have no words. The story is almost
forgotten but sometimes I remember.
The story concerns three men in a house in a street. If I could say the
words I would sing the story. I would whisper it into the ears of women,
of mothers. I would run through the streets saying it over and over. My
tongue would be torn loose--it would rattle against my teeth.
The three men are in a room in the house. One is young and dandified.
He continually laughs.
There is a second man who has a long white beard. He is consumed with
doubt but occasionally his doubt leaves him and he sleeps.
A third man there is who has wicked eyes and who moves nervously
about the room rubbing his hands together. The three men are waiting -
waiting.
Upstairs in the house there is a woman standing with her back to a wall,
in half darkness by a window.
That is the foundation of my story and everything I will ever know is
distilled in it.
I remember that a fourth man came to the house, a white silent man.
Everything was as silent as the sea at night. His feet on the stone floor of
the room where the three men were made no sound.
The man with the wicked eyes became like a boiling liquid - he ran back
and forth like a caged animal. The old grey man was infected by his
nervousness - he kept pulling at his beard.
The fourth man, the white one, went upstairs to the woman.,
How silent the house was - how loudly all the clocks in the neighbourhood
ticked. The woman upstairs craved love. That must have been the story.
She hungered for love with her whole being. She wanted to create in love.
When the white silent man came into her presence she sprang forward.
Her lips were parted. There was a smile on her lips.
The white one said nothing. In his eyes there was no rebuke, no question.
His eyes were as impersonal as stars.
Down stairs the wicked one whined and ran back and forth like a little lost
hungry dog. The grey one tried to follow him about but presently grew
tired and lay down on the floor to sleep. He never awoke again.
The dandified fellow lay on the floor too. He laughed and played with his
tiny black moustache.
I have no words to tell what happened in my story. I cannot tell the story.
The white silent one may have been Death.
The waiting eager woman may have been Life.
Both the old grey bearded man and the wicked one puzzle me. I think and
think but cannot understand them. Most of the time however I do not
think of them at all. I keep thinking about the dandified man who laughed
all through my story.
If I could understand him I could understand everything. I could run
through the world telling a wonderful story. I would no longer be dumb.
Why was I not given words? Why am I dumb?
I have a wonderful story to tell, but know no way to tell it.
How silent the house was - how loudly all the clocks in the neighbourhood
ticked. The woman upstairs craved love. That must have been the story.
She hungered for love with her whole being. She wanted to create in love.
When the white silent man came into her presence she sprang forward.
Her lips were parted. There was a smile on her lips.
The white one said nothing. In his eyes there was no rebuke, no question.
His eyes were as impersonal as stars.
Down stairs the wicked one whined and ran back and forth like a little lost
hungry dog. The grey one tried to follow him about but presently grew
tired and lay down on the floor to sleep. He never awoke again.
The dandified fellow lay on the floor too. He laughed and played with his
tiny black moustache.
I have no words to tell what happened in my story. I cannot tell the story.
The white silent one may have been Death.
The waiting eager woman may have been Life.
Both the old grey bearded man and the wicked one puzzle me. I think and
think but cannot understand them. Most of the time however I do not
think of them at all. I keep thinking about the dandified man who laughed
all through my story.
If I could understand him I could understand everything. I could run
through the world telling a wonderful story. I would no longer be dumb.
forgotten but sometimes I remember.
The story concerns three men in a house in a street.
How silent the house was - how loudly all the clocks in the neighbourhood
ticked. The woman upstairs craved love. That must have been the story.
She hungered for love with her whole being. She wanted to create in love.
When the white silent man came into her presence she sprang forward.
Her lips were parted. There was a smile on her lips.
The white one said nothing. In his eyes there was no rebuke, no question.
His eyes were as impersonal as stars.
Down stairs the wicked one whined and ran back and forth like a little lost
hungry dog. The grey one tried to follow him about but presently grew
tired and lay down on the floor to sleep. He never awoke again.
The dandified fellow lay on the floor too. He laughed and played with his
tiny black moustache.
I have no words to tell what happened in my story. I cannot tell the story.
The white silent one may have been Death.
The waiting eager woman may have been Life.
Both the old grey bearded man and the wicked one puzzle me. I think and
think but cannot understand them. Most of the time however I do not
think of them at all. I keep thinking about the dandified man who laughed
all through my story.
If I could understand him I could understand everything. I could run
through the world telling a wonderful story. I would no longer be dumb.
Why was I not given words? Why am I dumb?
I have a wonderful story to tell, but know no way to tell it.
I could say the
words I would sing the story. I would whisper it into the ears of women,
of mothers. I would run through the streets saying it over and over. My
tongue would be torn loose--it would rattle against my teeth.
The three men are in a room in the house. One is young and dandified.
He continually laughs.
There is a second man who has a long white beard. He is consumed with
doubt but occasionally his doubt leaves him and he sleeps.
A third man there is who has wicked eyes and who moves nervously
about the room rubbing his hands together. The three men are waiting -
waiting.
Upstairs in the house there is a woman standing with her back to a wall,
in half darkness by a window.
That is the foundation of my story and everything I will ever know is
distilled in it.
I remember that a fourth man came to the house, a white silent man.
Everything was as silent as the sea at night. His feet on the stone floor of
the room where the three men were made no sound.
The man with the wicked eyes became like a boiling liquid - he ran back
and forth like a caged animal. The old grey man was infected by his
nervousness - he kept pulling at his beard.
The fourth man, the white one, went upstairs to the woman.
e is a story - I cannot tell it - I have no words. The story is almost
forgotten but sometimes I remember.
The story concerns three men in a house in a street. If I could say the
words I would sing the story. I would whisper it into the ears of women,
of mothers. I would run through the streets saying it over and over. My
tongue would be torn loose--it would rattle against my teeth.
The three men are in a room in the house. One is young and dandified.
He continually laughs.
There is a second man who has a long white beard. He is consumed with
doubt but occasionally his doubt leaves him and he sleeps.
A third man there is who has wicked eyes and who moves nervously
about the room rubbing his hands together. The three men are waiting -
waiting.
Upstairs in the house there is a woman standing with her back to a wall,
in half darkness by a window.
That is the foundation of my story and everything I will ever know is
distilled in it.
I remember that a fourth man came to the house, a white silent man.
Everything was as silent as the sea at night. His feet on the stone floor of
the room where the three men were made no sound.
The man with the wicked eyes became like a boiling liquid - he ran back
and forth like a caged animal. The old grey man was infected by his
nervousness - he kept pulling at his beard.
The fourth man, the white one, went upstairs to the woman.,
How silent the house was - how loudly all the clocks in the neighbourhood
ticked. The woman upstairs craved love. That must have been the story.
She hungered for love with her whole being. She wanted to create in love.
When the white silent man came into her presence she sprang forward.
Her lips were parted. There was a smile on her lips.
The white one said nothing. In his eyes there was no rebuke, no question.
His eyes were as impersonal as stars.
Down stairs the wicked one whined and ran back and forth like a little lost
hungry dog. The grey one tried to follow him about but presently grew
tired and lay down on the floor to sleep. He never awoke again.
The dandified fellow lay on the floor too. He laughed and played with his
tiny black moustache.
I have no words to tell what happened in my story. I cannot tell the story.
The white silent one may have been Death.
The waiting eager woman may have been Life.
Both the old grey bearded man and the wicked one puzzle me. I think and
think but cannot understand them. Most of the time however I do not
think of them at all. I keep thinking about the dandified man who laughed
all through my story.
If I could understand him I could understand everything. I could run
through the world telling a wonderful story. I would no longer be dumb.
Why was I not given words? Why am I dumb?
I have a wonderful story to tell, but know no way to tell it.
How silent the house was - how loudly all the clocks in the neighbourhood
ticked. The woman upstairs craved love. That must have been the story.
She hungered for love with her whole being. She wanted to create in love.
When the white silent man came into her presence she sprang forward.
Her lips were parted. There was a smile on her lips.
The white one said nothing. In his eyes there was no rebuke, no question.
His eyes were as impersonal as stars.
Down stairs the wicked one whined and ran back and forth like a little lost
hungry dog. The grey one tried to follow him about but presently grew
tired and lay down on the floor to sleep. He never awoke again.
The dandified fellow lay on the floor too. He laughed and played with his
tiny black moustache.
I have no words to tell what happened in my story. I cannot tell the story.
The white silent one may have been Death.
The waiting eager woman may have been Life.
Both the old grey bearded man and the wicked one puzzle me. I think and
think but cannot understand them. Most of the time however I do not
think of them at all. I keep thinking about the dandified man who laughed
all through my story.
If I could understand him I could understand everything. I could run
through the world telling a wonderful story. I would no longer be dumb.
Why was I not given words? Why am I dumb?
I have a wonderful story to tell, but know no way to tell it.
e is a story - I cannot tell it - I have no words. The story is almost
forgotten but sometimes I remember.
The story concerns three men in a house in a street.
How silent the house was - how loudly all the clocks in the neighbourhood
ticked. The woman upstairs craved love. That must have been the story.
She hungered for love with her whole being. She wanted to create in love.
When the white silent man came into her presence she sprang forward.
Her lips were parted. There was a smile on her lips.
The white one said nothing. In his eyes there was no rebuke, no question.
His eyes were as impersonal as stars.
Down stairs the wicked one whined and ran back and forth like a little lost
hungry dog. The grey one tried to follow him about but presently grew
tired and lay down on the floor to sleep. He never awoke again.
The dandified fellow lay on the floor too. He laughed and played with his
tiny black moustache.
I have no words to tell what happened in my story. I cannot tell the story.
The white silent one may have been Death.
The waiting eager woman may have been Life.
Both the old grey bearded man and the wicked one puzzle me. I think and
think but cannot understand them. Most of the time however I do not
think of them at all. I keep thinking about the dandified man who laughed
all through my story.
If I could understand him I could understand everything. I could run
through the world telling a wonderful story. I would no longer be dumb.
Why was I not given words? Why am I dumb?
I have a wonderful story to tell, but know no way to tell it.
I could say the
words I would sing the story. I would whisper it into the ears of women,
of mothers. I would run through the streets saying it over and over. My
tongue would be torn loose--it would rattle against my teeth.
The three men are in a room in the house. One is young and dandified.
He continually laughs.
There is a second man who has a long white beard. He is consumed with
doubt but occasionally his doubt leaves him and he sleeps.
A third man there is who has wicked eyes and who moves nervously
about the room rubbing his hands together. The three men are waiting -
waiting.
Upstairs in the house there is a woman standing with her back to a wall,
in half darkness by a window.
That is the foundation of my story and everything I will ever know is
distilled in it.
I remember that a fourth man came to the house, a white silent man.
Everything was as silent as the sea at night. His feet on the stone floor of
the room where the three men were made no sound.
The man with the wicked eyes became like a boiling liquid - he ran back
and forth like a caged animal. The old grey man was infected by his
nervousness - he kept pulling at his beard.
The fourth man, the white one, went upstairs to the woman.
e is a story - I cannot tell it - I have no words. The story is almost
forgotten but sometimes I remember.
The story concerns three men in a house in a street. If I could say the
words I would sing the story. I would whisper it into the ears of women,
of mothers. I would run through the streets saying it over and over. My
tongue would be torn loose--it would rattle against my teeth.
The three men are in a room in the house. One is young and dandified.
He continually laughs.
There is a second man who has a long white beard. He is consumed with
doubt but occasionally his doubt leaves him and he sleeps.
A third man there is who has wicked eyes and who moves nervously
about the room rubbing his hands together. The three men are waiting -
waiting.
Upstairs in the house there is a woman standing with her back to a wall,
in half darkness by a window.
That is the foundation of my story and everything I will ever know is
distilled in it.
I remember that a fourth man came to the house, a white silent man.
Everything was as silent as the sea at night. His feet on the stone floor of
the room where the three men were made no sound.
The man with the wicked eyes became like a boiling liquid - he ran back
and forth like a caged animal. The old grey man was infected by his
nervousness - he kept pulling at his beard.
The fourth man, the white one, went upstairs to the woman.,
How silent the house was - how loudly all the clocks in the neighbourhood
ticked. The woman upstairs craved love. That must have been the story.
She hungered for love with her whole being. She wanted to create in love.
When the white silent man came into her presence she sprang forward.
Her lips were parted. There was a smile on her lips.
The white one said nothing. In his eyes there was no rebuke, no question.
His eyes were as impersonal as stars.
Down stairs the wicked one whined and ran back and forth like a little lost
hungry dog. The grey one tried to follow him about but presently grew
tired and lay down on the floor to sleep. He never awoke again.
The dandified fellow lay on the floor too. He laughed and played with his
tiny black moustache.
I have no words to tell what happened in my story. I cannot tell the story.
The white silent one may have been Death.
The waiting eager woman may have been Life.
Both the old grey bearded man and the wicked one puzzle me. I think and
think but cannot understand them. Most of the time however I do not
think of them at all. I keep thinking about the dandified man who laughed
all through my story.
If I could understand him I could understand everything. I could run
through the world telling a wonderful story. I would no longer be dumb.
Why was I not given words? Why am I dumb?
I have a wonderful story to tell, but know no way to tell it.
How silent the house was - how loudly all the clocks in the neighbourhood
ticked. The woman upstairs craved love. That must have been the story.
She hungered for love with her whole being. She wanted to create in love.
When the white silent man came into her presence she sprang forward.
Her lips were parted. There was a smile on her lips.
The white one said nothing. In his eyes there was no rebuke, no question.
His eyes were as impersonal as stars.
Down stairs the wicked one whined and ran back and forth like a little lost
hungry dog. The grey one tried to follow him about but presently grew
tired and lay down on the floor to sleep. He never awoke again.
The dandified fellow lay on the floor too. He laughed and played with his
tiny black moustache.
I have no words to tell what happened in my story. I cannot tell the story.
The white silent one may have been Death.
The waiting eager woman may have been Life.
Both the old grey bearded man and the wicked one puzzle me. I think and
think but cannot understand them. Most of the time however I do not
think of them at all. I keep thinking about the dandified man who laughed
all through my story.
If I could understand him I could understand everything. I could run
through the world telling a wonderful story. I would no longer be dumb.
blackeater19
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#38
Never underestimate the power of a thank-you note. As these readers show, the sentiment can last a lifetime.
YEVHENIA HAIDAMAKA FOR READER'S DIGEST
As I mindlessly open my daughter’s lunch box to empty it, a small scrap of paper floats to the floor. Still with my mind elsewhere, I bend over to pick it up. The word Mom catches my attention. Mom, thanks for making me a yummy lunch. Though in ten years of packing lunches I’ve never left a note in my kids’ lunch boxes, my eight-year-old deliberately planned this one, held on to the thought during recess, wrote it as soon as she got back to class, and remembered to put it in her lunch box. If I’ve ever complained about making lunches before, I never will again. I’m grateful that I get to make lunches—and for a lesson on appreciating the tiniest of things.—Nina Palmer, Ladera Ranch, California
About 15 years ago, we purchased a dining set from an older couple after seeing their ad. When we went to pick it up, it was apparent to me that the lady was having a hard time seeing it go, although it hadn’t been used for many years. On Thanksgiving, I set the table, took a picture, and sent it to her, saying we were thankful to be enjoying the beautiful set. She sent a note back that read, It looks like it was meant to be. It really has helped me, seeing it happy. Thank you from my heart.—Diane Ensch, Mansfield, Texas
As a volunteer, I recorded several audiobooks for the blind. I received a braille card that said thanks for my work. Fortunately, the sender also enclosed a reading chart for the braille words. It took me 90 minutes to figure out what the card said. It reminded me of how blessed I am and how much I can keep giving.—Yen Chou, Taipei, Taiwan
My coworker sent me this heartwarming e-mail after I was laid off: Thank you for giving me a chance way back when. This position got me off state assistance, ρáíd for my car, and has blessed me and my son in so many ways. You have been an amazing mentor and friend, Mike. The best! I’ve learned so much and not just about pest control. To speak up for myself. To be less emotional when things go wrong. To have patience with myself and others. Thank you for being so incredibly patient with me and my thousands of questions and mistakes! It has helped my confidence in so many ways. Thank you! Thank you! It was humbling for me to know that I had that kind of impact on someone’s life by just being myself, doing my job.—Michael Shearing, Port Angeles, Washington
YEVHENIA HAIDAMAKA FOR READER'S DIGEST
After I had worked as a mail carrier for 30 years, it was time to retire. I put a note in each of my 436 customers’ mailboxes, thanking them for allowing me to serve them over the years. I never expected that on my last day so many would hang balloons on the boxes and put out so many beautiful thank-yous. I hope I delivered all the mail properly that day, as there were tears of gratitude filling my eyes.—Kay Scott, Bucyrus, Ohio
(This is the secret to writing a truly heartfelt thank-you note.)
I was gram’s favorite, and she was mine. She passed away in September 2016, at 100½—she always said you earned the “half” when you got to be her age. To my surprise, I received a card in the mail that my sweet grandma had tucked away for my aunt to send after she passed. It read, Melis, thank you for all the nice things you did for me. Remember, this is the year you’ll meet your man. Be cool and play it safe. Don’t screw it up. Be careful. I’ll be watching you. All my love, Gram.—Melissa Wegman, Cincinnati, Ohio
I was a busy mom running errands, and while stopped at a red light, I was rear-ended. The driver and his wife were so worried about their insurance covering the repairs that they made me promise to let them know when my car was fixed. I dropped them a note to thank them for their concern and let them know that all was well. I received the sweetest note back, reading, You run into the nicest people.—Norma Adams, Clarinda, Iowa
Ever since I was very y
Never underestimate the power of a thank-you note. As these readers show, the sentiment can last a lifetime.
YEVHENIA HAIDAMAKA FOR READER'S DIGEST
As I mindlessly open my daughter’s lunch box to empty it, a small scrap of paper floats to the floor. Still with my mind elsewhere, I bend over to pick it up. The word Mom catches my attention. Mom, thanks for making me a yummy lunch. Though in ten years of packing lunches I’ve never left a note in my kids’ lunch boxes, my eight-year-old deliberately planned this one, held on to the thought during recess, wrote it as soon as she got back to class, and remembered to put it in her lunch box. If I’ve ever complained about making lunches before, I never will again. I’m grateful that I get to make lunches—and for a lesson on appreciating the tiniest of things.—Nina Palmer, Ladera Ranch, California
About 15 years ago, we purchased a dining set from an older couple after seeing their ad. When we went to pick it up, it was apparent to me that the lady was having a hard time seeing it go, although it hadn’t been used for many years. On Thanksgiving, I set the table, took a picture, and sent it to her, saying we were thankful to be enjoying the beautiful set. She sent a note back that read, It looks like it was meant to be. It really has helped me, seeing it happy. Thank you from my heart.—Diane Ensch, Mansfield, Texas
As a volunteer, I recorded several audiobooks for the blind. I received a braille card that said thanks for my work. Fortunately, the sender also enclosed a reading chart for the braille words. It took me 90 minutes to figure out what the card said. It reminded me of how blessed I am and how much I can keep giving.—Yen Chou, Taipei, Taiwan
My coworker sent me this heartwarming e-mail after I was laid off: Thank you for giving me a chance way back when. This position got me off state assistance, ρáíd for my car, and has blessed me and my son in so many ways. You have been an amazing mentor and friend, Mike. The best! I’ve learned so much and not just about pest control. To speak up for myself. To be less emotional when things go wrong. To have patience with myself and others. Thank you for being so incredibly patient with me and my thousands of questions and mistakes! It has helped my confidence in so many ways. Thank you! Thank you! It was humbling for me to know that I had that kind of impact on someone’s life by just being myself, doing my job.—Michael Shearing, Port Angeles, Washington
YEVHENIA HAIDAMAKA FOR READER'S DIGEST
After I had worked as a mail carrier for 30 years, it was time to retire. I put a note in each of my 436 customers’ mailboxes, thanking them for allowing me to serve them over the years. I never expected that on my last day so many would hang balloons on the boxes and put out so many beautiful thank-yous. I hope I delivered all the mail properly that day, as there were tears of gratitude filling my eyes.—Kay Scott, Bucyrus, Ohio
(This is the secret to writing a truly heartfelt thank-you note.)
I was gram’s favorite, and she was mine. She passed away in September 2016, at 100½—she always said you earned the “half” when you got to be her age. To my surprise, I received a card in the mail that my sweet grandma had tucked away for my aunt to send after she passed. It read, Melis, thank you for all the nice things you did for me. Remember, this is the year you’ll meet your man. Be cool and play it safe. Don’t screw it up. Be careful. I’ll be watching you. All my love, Gram.—Melissa Wegman, Cincinnati, Ohio
I was a busy mom running errands, and while stopped at a red light, I was rear-ended. The driver and his wife were so worried about their insurance covering the repairs that they made me promise to let them know when my car was fixed. I dropped them a note to thank them for their concern and let them know that all was well. I received the sweetest note back, reading, You run into the nicest people.—Norma Adams, Clarinda, Iowa
Ever since I was very y