May/June 1994

By Mathew Thompson, age 11, Dallas, Oregon IT WAS MOTHER’S DAY, 1993. My friend Adam had come over to spend the night on Saturday. We watched old movies until about eleven p.m. and then camped out on the living room floor. Sunday morning Adam and I got up early and made pancakes. After breakfast we went outside to play cops and robbers and ride bikes. Dad came home from work for lunch at noon and we ate with him. After Dad left, Adam and I decided to go out and play ball. We live on top of a hill, and the only field nearby is behind a big metal water tower. The city uses a little building beside that for a pump station, so everyone up here will have good water pressure. We pitched the ball back and forth to each other and took turns batting. Beginning to tire of this, Adam went in the house to get my Super Soaker Fifty squirt guns and I stayed outside, bouncing the ball off the water tower to practice my pitching. Pitch–THUNK–catch it. Pitch–THUNK–catch it. Then, bouncing the ball, I threw it extra hard against the water tower. What a mistake! The ball bounced back off the water tower, almost hitting me, then flew through the window of the water pump station. CRASH!!! Did I mention that the window was not open? Well, it was now! My stomach immediately pole-vaulted into my throat! Just then Adam came around the corner. Seeing my pale stare he said, “Close your mouth or you will catch bugs. Hey, what’s wrong?” My stomach in a knot, I blurted out, “I accidentally broke the window.” I pointed to the water shed. The ball had made a perfect round hole through the glass, with rays shattered around it. “Uh-oh,” Adam said. “Just walk away and nobody will ever notice. You’re gonna get in trouble if you tell!” I pushed Adam aside and walked to the front yard where Mom was working. I could feel my body beginning to sweat and I felt sick. Swallowing hard, I told Mom about the window. Mom said, “Let’s go take a look.” I felt like a doomed man walking back toward that building. Mom looked at the window. Nothing magic had happened–that window still had a big hole in it. “Well,” asked Mom, “have you learned anything from this?” We talked about angles and glass strength and throwing things against the water tower. (My mom can make a math lesson out of almost anything!) I could feel my eyes beginning to burn, and two big tears snuck out and dripped down my cheeks. I’m telling you, I felt just awful! I leaned my head against Mom’s shoulder and she put her arms around me. “Son,” she said, “everyone has accidents, but it is how you deal with those accidents that makes the difference between honesty and dishonesty. I know that telling me about this wasn’t easy, especially when your friend said he thought you shouldn’t, so that makes me very proud of you.” She gave me a big hug and Adam reached out and touched my arm. “The only time you’d be in trouble with me over something like this is if you didn’t tell me, or if you lied to me about it. And besides that, if you lie or try to hide these things, you get black, ugly-feeling places inside because you still know what really happened. You cannot cover up the truth of your actions from yourself.” I sniffed and tried to clear my throat. “I will pay for the window,” I said, even though a picture of the tent I had been saving for floated through my mind. . . . On Monday morning, before school, I went down to the city shops and told the water people about my accident. I told them I wanted to pay for my mistake. I said to fix the window and send me the bill. They did. It cost me forty-eight dollars and sixty-two cents. It certainly wasn’t a very fun way to spend my money! So my pockets are empty, but my conscience is clear. The funny thing is that my mom says telling her was the best Mother’s Day present I could have ever given her.

Illustration by Lilly Bee Pierce, 13 By Naomi Wendland, 12, Lusaka, Zambia Illustrated by Lilly Bee Pierce, 13, Fallbrook, California It was a cool, dusky morning in a village by a river bank. A mother and her daughter sat and watched the sky above the horizon change colors–from blue to purple to pink to orange-red. It was a good start to a new day. It was only when the sun peaked over the horizon that the other people of the village emerged. Sashi knew then that her mother would have to start the fire. Sashi and her mother, Betra, had sat and watched the sun every morning since Sashi could remember, but once the families started to awaken, the chores would have to be started. Her mother would usually start up a hot fire for the porridge to be cooked. Once she had done that, the task of feeding the family would be under way. It was Sashi’s job to make sure there was enough wood for the fire and that her two younger sisters and younger brother were ready and awake for the new day ahead of them. Sashi and her mother had a special relationship between them–unlike any other relationship between a mother and daughter in the village. They could always share feelings and jobs. But there was something that they never did together–pot making. Her mother was a well-known potter. She specialized in her pots. Betra’s pots were sold in the city, and the money from the pots was used to support the family, for the father of Sashi had gone away and not returned. There was a strange feeling and look about Betra’s pots that lured people to them. Sashi thought it was partially because Betra spent so much time on them, but mostly because Betra would talk to the pots and the pot would talk to her. While Betra would be making the pot, she would have to be alone. Not even the little child, Chachala, could talk to her. Betra would make sure that she didn’t spend too much time on the pot instead of being outside with her family. Out of all the pots Betra made, there was one that Sashi had seen all her life. It was the only one that Betra ever kept. It was a big pot with many small designs on it. This pot was not as pretty as the pots that were sold in the city, but it was said that it was Betra’s first pot that she had made with her mother. It wasn’t the beauty of the pot, it was that it was a part of her mother. It sat to the right of the doorway of the small hut and had never been moved. Betra had told the children since they were babies that they were never to touch it. Soon the porridge had been eaten. Two of the three older children ran off screaming with laughter to go play with the other children of the village. Chachala, the youngest, who hadn’t learned to walk yet, started to play in the dirt. Her dark skin had been lightened by the tan dirt from the earth. Betra and Sashi both knew it was time for bathing her, but Betra needed to make her pots, so it was obvious that Sashi would be stuck with it. Betra staggered away behind some bushes with the heavy bag of clay on her head to do her pot. Sashi and Chachala were left alone. Sashi went to fetch the big tin tub from inside the hut. She dragged it out beside the ashes left from the fire. She looked around for the bucket that was used to haul water, but it was nowhere in sight. She checked inside the hut. Then she remembered that Mrs. Tembo from the western side of the village had borrowed it to water her garden. She looked around her. The only other things to carry water were a small dried gourd and the old pot. It was logical, the pot was bigger so it could carry more water. If she used the pot, it would take a much shorter time. She went over to the pot and held it in her hands. Then she remembered what her mother had said. She was just going to put it down when she remembered that she wanted to play with Lyan. Illustration by Lilly Bee Pierce, 13 At first on her way to the river bank, she held the pot tightly in her hands. As she walked further, she found it easier to put it on her head. She held a tight grip with her hands, one hand on each side of the pot. As she walked further, she found it easier to put it on her head. She held a tight grip on it with both hands. However, both hands soon reduced to one; then she slowly let go and balanced it on her head. It wobbled a bit, but it was a light pot for its size. Finally, she reached the cool water. The water was soothing to her hard dry hand, and when she sipped the water, she could feel it go down her throat. Sashi dipped the pot in the water and the water filled to the brim. She found the pot surprisingly heavy and had great difficulty lifting it out of the river. Once she had placed it on her head, it felt as if a ton of bricks swayed down on her. Her steps were slow strides. The water splashed over the sides and got Sashi wet. Slowly the pot started to slip off her head. She felt it when it was too late. As her hand went up to catch it, it slipped, plummeting to the ground, smashing into hundreds of pieces. She cupped her mouth as she stared at the scattered pot pieces. Sashi fell on her knees and started to cry. She held a few broken pieces in her hands and