Certain words always come to mind when I think of my mom. Honest and kind. A hardworking farmer’s wife. She is definitely a lady who isn’t afraid to get her hands dirty. However, there is one word I’m sure I never used to describe my mom: cool. Lord knows I wished for it—especially during my teen years.

My best friend had a cool mom. Patty’s mom wore stonewashed jeans and sang along to Madonna. I wasn’t sure my mom had even heard of Madonna.

Truth be told, Mom and I didn’t have much in common. I loved checking out the latest styles at the mall. Shopping gave her a headache. I enjoyed traveling and exploring new places. She was a homebody. In high school, I was captain of the pom-pom squad. She played the accordion.

However, there was one thing I always appreciated about my mom: she was a fabulous listener. Every day I came home from school and told her about my day. I could tell her anything—the good, the bad and the boring. She always listened, even when I told her things she didn’t want to hear. Like the night I went on my first date.

​It was a double date, actually. Two popular boys had promised to take my friend and me to dinner and a movie. They pulled into the driveway and honked the horn. Of course my mom wasn’t okay with that. She crossed her arms and gave me a look.

“If he wants to date you, he can come in and get you.”

As it turned out, I should’ve left him in the driveway. The boy was a loser. The date didn’t go well. Later that night I returned home and marched up the steps to Mom and Dad’s bedroom.

“How was your night?” Mom stifled a yawn. Dad snored.

“Terrible,” I said. “They didn’t take us to dinner. We didn’t see a movie. Someone got alcohol and they spent the entire night driving around back roads, drinking beer.”

“What?” Dad mumbled, half asleep. Mom elbowed him.

“I swear I didn’t drink,” I said, plopping onto the bed. “I didn’t want to drink. I just wanted to come home.”

Thinking back, I’m surprised I even told her. After all, she had every right to be upset. Instead, she just listened. She didn’t overreact. Dad never learned to master this skill. Mom did it well, time and time again. So I kept telling her stuff.

After high school I moved out on my own. I called my mom often, mostly for cooking advice. Dad liked to tease me when he answered the phone.

“Is Mom there? Is Mom there?” he huffed, acting offended. “Doesn’t anyone ever want to talk to me?”

“Okay fine,” I said. “I’ll talk to you. How long does it take to hard-boil an egg?”

After a few seconds of silence, Dad cleared his throat. “Here’s Mom.”

Life went on. I went to college, got a job and met my future husband. Curt and I got married one beautiful day in May.

At the end of the ceremony, we faced the congregation and grinned as our pastor belted out an official introduction with his best preacher voice. “Ladies and gentlemen, I present to you Mr. and Mrs. Curtis Zeck.”

There was something very symbolic about that moment. We had walked into that place on our own, but we would leave together. I squeezed Curt’s arm as we took our first step back up the aisle.

AND THE REST OF THE STORY ... 
As I read back through this story, I must say how thankful I am for my mom (and my dad). Last January, my parents were in a serious car accident. Dad broke his left arm in two places and needed stitches in his right hand. Mom broke her collarbone, a bone in the base of her neck, fourteen ribs and also cracked her sternum. She spent 8 days in the hospital ... 9 days in a nursing home / rehab facility ...  she and Dad stayed at my brother's house for 27 days until they were both able to go HOME. Today, they are both on the mend and I am thoroughly grateful to have both of them!   

I don't know about you, but this sheltering-in-place thing is making it hard for me to keep track of what day it is. Is it Monday? Is it Saturday? Who knows? I still have two college girls, a high-schooler and a husband here every day. To make matters worse, last week we got something that really threw me: SNOW. Seriously. It looked like December. So with all this confusion, I thought I'd share a Christmas story today. This was previously published in "Chicken Soup for the Soul: It's Christmas!" When you finish it, keep on scrolling for "the rest of the story." 

A Special Gift
by Sheri Zeck

​​I hurried down the steps, my bare feet on the heels of my brother’s as we raced to the tree. “Santa came!” I squealed, spotting several neatly-wrapped presents tucked under the branches. We plopped to our knees and began inspecting every package. 

“This one’s for you.” Steve propelled a red and green present across the carpet toward me. “And this one’s for me.” He smiled, placing it on top of his growing stack of gifts. 

I studied Steve’s pile, and marveled at how he always managed to make Santa’s list. He wasn’t a horrible brother. Sometimes he was my best friend. But other times, his naughty outweighed his nice. Especially when it came to his little sister. He particularly liked destroying my toys. Like the year Santa gave me a Mrs. Beasley doll. 

I remembered Mrs. Beasley’s big blue eyes greeting me as I slid her out of the box. I’d never owned a doll that could talk before, and I was eager to hear her speak. I positioned her onto my lap, straightened the blue, polka-dotted apron around her waist and pulled the string. 

“I do think you’re the nicest little friend I ever had.” 

Mrs. Beasley and I did become good friends. We spent hours playing together. Through good times and bad, she always greeted me with a warm smile and pleasant conversation. 

Until that tragic day when she stopped talking. 

I’m not sure I’ll ever know my brother’s motive for such a heinous crime. Maybe it was curiosity, attempting to see what makes a doll speak. Maybe it was payback to an annoying little sister that snooped through his room. Or maybe he was just having a bad day. Whatever the reason, poor Mrs. Beasley endured an awful fate the day Steve ripped out her voice box.  She never spoke another word again. 

Looking back, I’ll admit I wasn’t the perfect sister. Steve probably got tired of me following him around and badgering him to play. I suppose he didn’t appreciate me snooping through his room, or tattling to Mom when he beheaded my Barbies. But through all our fights I had a sneaking suspicion. He would never admit it, but I suspected that somewhere, deep down in his heart, Steve had a soft spot for his little sister. 

However, my brother wasn’t into mushy stuff. Even when he did something nice, he’d shrug it off in his “no big deal” kind of way. Like the time he came home from school with a bag full of Christmas candy. 
I took one look at that candy and wished I could go to school. Why did I have to stay home with Mom? I wanted a Christmas party! 

“Go ahead. Take it,” he said, tossing me the bag. 

I studied his innocent expression. Is he serious? Why would he give it to me?  Maybe he dropped it on the bus floor. I finally decided to trust him. 

“Thanks!” I dug my hand deep into the bag. 

“Whatever,” he said, making a face. 

It’s been thirty-five years since my brother and I raced down the stairs on Christmas morning. Eventually, we grew up and forgot our petty sibling rivalries. Now our yearly tradition is to gather at Mom’s, now referred to as “Grandma’s house,” every Christmas Eve. We no longer dig through the presents under Mom’s tree. Only the kids get presents at Grandma’s. Except one year when a surprise waited for me.  

“Hey Mom, there’s a present with your name on it.” My oldest daughter held up a shiny red box. 
A present for me? “Who’s it from?” I glanced around the room. No one else seemed particularly interested. 

“Doesn’t say.” She handed me the gift. My girls circled around me. 

I ripped back the paper and immediately spotted the words “Collectible Doll” printed across the box.

“How about that,” I said, pulling the doll out of the box. Her warm, familiar smile greeted me, and I propped her onto my lap. “I’ve got a brand-new Mrs. Beasley doll.” She was perfect. Apron neatly pressed. Miniature glasses centered squarely on her nose. Blonde hair curled in place. 

A puzzled look settled across my daughters’ faces as if to say, what’s so special about a blue, polka-dotted doll? But I knew why she was special. Mrs. Beasley confirmed the suspicions I’d had all along. After all these years, my big brother still had a soft spot for his little sis. 

​Across the room, Steve glanced up from his pie … and shrugged.

The first draft of this story was a whole lot longer. Let's just say, Steve gave me plenty of material. The following are two short scenes I decided to cut ...

Unfortunately, it wasn’t just Mrs. Beasley that suffered at the hands of my brother. Stretch Armstrong also fell victim to Steve’s antics.

With his burly build, Stretch Armstrong looked like a Ken doll on steroids. His limbs could be pulled or twisted four times their regular size. Steve tied his arms and legs into knots, but that didn’t even bother Stretch Armstrong. He always returned to his normal size without one stretch mark.

But when my inquisitive brother wanted to see what made Stretch so flexible, he hacked into his tough, rubbery hide with a pocket knife. Thick jelly-like slime oozed from Stretch’s pitiful body – and he was never the same again.  

Steve didn’t always ruin my toys. Sometimes he just hurt me with them. Like the time we got a joy buzzer. A joy buzzer was a windup toy that fit onto your finger like a ring. With one firm handshake the toy delivered an abrupt zap to the unsuspecting handshake victim.

One day Steve thought it would be fun to shock me on the top of my head. As he whacked me with the buzzer, I felt a quick “zap,” then the uncomfortable sting of hair pulling. When the coiled spring inside the disc released, the buzzer wrapped a generous clump of hair inside the disc.

Mom spent several minutes attempting to free my hair from the metal buzzer’s grip. Finally, she stomped across the kitchen linoleum, glared again in Steve’s direction and grabbed the scissors from the junk drawer.

At least the next day wasn’t picture day.  

You know what? I've noticed something about social media since this whole Covid-Crap began. People are stepping out of their comfort zones to encourage each other. Surely it's not just happening in my social circles. 

I've seen people playing the piano, singing songs, reading books (for kids and adults), sharing jokes and playing games. All in the hopes of brightening someone else's day. 

So here's what I'm going to do. Over the next several weeks, I'm going to share some of my "most liked" stories. If you're a long-time blog reader, you may have read some of these before. And that's okay, because I still hope to add a little something new at the end of each story. Like maybe I'll tell you "the rest of the story" and share something I didn't include in the original story. Or I might share something about my experience with writing that story. Or, I might open the conversation up and ask to hear YOUR stories!

​Anyway, I have lots of new readers, so this will be new for many of you. I hope you enjoy!  

First up is my story called, "Head Over Heels." It was published in Chicken Soup for the Soul: The Dating Game and describes one of my most memorable dates with Curt. Of all things, we went skiing. There was just one little problem ... I had no idea how to ski. 

I watched the revolving chair lift scoop up skiers for the long ride up the hill. A shiver ran through me, more out of fear than from the cold. How did I get myself into this? I’d never skied before. I just wanted my boyfriend to think I was bold and courageous – the kind of fun-loving girl who was always up for an adventure. Who was I kidding?

Curt and I stood in the loading area, waiting for the chairlift to circle behind us. It smacked the back of my legs and plopped me onto the chair. The cable above us creaked as it carried us over the glittering snow. As we neared the top, Curt prepared me for my approaching dismount. He lifted the safety bar.

“Okay, ready?” He leaned forward and straightened his skis. I scooted up. Then he stood to his feet and promptly glided down a small mound of snow. Oops! I missed it! A safety bar whacked my leg and the chairlift stopped. Curt glanced back at me still perched on the edge of my seat.

“You were supposed to get off.” He grinned, obviously more amused than the long line of skiers dangling behind me.     

Even with the cool temperatures, I felt heat rise in my cheeks. “Sorry, I wasn’t ready.” I scrambled off the chair and inched my way toward Curt. I struggled to maneuver the long, awkward skis. So much for impressing him, I thought. I looked like a toddler learning to walk.  

A steep hill stretched out before us. “Wow,” I said, catching my breath. “It’s a long way down. Shouldn’t I start with a bunny hill?”

Curt’s face turned sympathetic. “This is the bunny hill.”

I knew this adventure thing was a bad idea.

We started with the ever-popular snowplow technique. Curt demonstrated how to angle my skis inward as we edged our way down the hill. I spent more time lying in the snow than skiing.

First I fell backwards, the skis dragging me down the hill on my bottom. Then I fell sideways. Apparently I had leaned too far forward. Finally, just when I thought I was getting the hang of it, my skis crossed and I crashed again.

Curt raced to my side. “You okay?”

I wiped the snow off my face. “Oh sure, I’m good.” I wondered if it was possible to look cute while tumbling face first into a pile of snow.

Curt smiled – a bright, charming smile – and reached his gloved hand toward me. “You’re doing fine,” he said, helping me up. “It just takes practice and patience.” I gazed into his kind eyes. He certainly has patience, I thought. If I were him, I’d be back in the lodge sipping hot chocolate by now.

However, Curt stayed by my side. And he was right. Before long, I had mastered snowplowing and was ready to move on. On my next trip down, I turned my skis parallel ever-so-slightly.

“That’s it, you’re getting it.” Curt skied alongside, cheering me on. “Lean forward a little and bend your knees.”

“I’m doing it! I’m skiing!” I shifted my weight, enjoying the cool breeze and exhilarating joy of sweet success.  

But within an instant that thrilling rush of adrenaline switched to pure panic. Too fast, too fast! I thought, hurtling out of control. I dragged my poles through the snow, trying to slow down and regain control. Finally, I crashed into a jumbled mess of legs, skis and poles. As the snow settled, I laid flat on the ground in utter frustration.

That’s it, I thought. Enough is enough. My legs were twisted in opposite directions. My body ached. But my wounded pride hurt the most. Why would Curt want to ski with me anyway? He could handle any trail here; instead, he was stuck on the bunny hill with me.

Curt plopped down in the snow next to me. He handed me my wayward pole that had gone skidding halfway down the hill.

“I think you may have dropped this,” he said, expressionless. Suddenly, two young children zipped past us, smiling. I looked at Curt and shook my head.

A slight grin tugged at Curt’s pink cheeks. Suddenly he erupted in laughter – silly, yet delightful and contagious laughter. Curt’s joy pulled me in – no matter how hard I tried to resist it. Even in my most awkward moments, he could make me laugh.

Though I had aching legs and painful bruises, that date turned out to be one of my best. Not because I learned to ski; but because I realized that Curt was the kind of man I wanted in my life. The kind of man I could marry.

A couple years later, I did marry him. Even today, I still appreciate those same qualities Curt had during our dating days. He is patient and kind, he makes me smile, and when life gets me down, he encourages me to get back up and try again.

After twenty years of marriage, I still can’t ski well. Curt knows I’m not the most bold or courageous girl, but that’s okay. He makes sure my life is full of adventure, or at least full of laughter.

How about you? Have you had any embarrassing situations or memorable moments while on a date? I'd love to hear about it. Leave me a comment here--or on my Facebook page. Let's keep the conversation going!