Smiling Eyes: Memories of Youth

By Thomas Raher

I'd like to acknowledge the inspiration for this short book, my mother. When I learned she had terminal cancer, I was truly saddened. Our relationship over my lifetime was distant at times for varied reasons, but as my family grew, I came to realize and understand more clearly the difficulties she suffered. This common ground rekindled and nurtured our bond. It blossomed with her doting on her grandsons, sharing traditions, and being a loving grandmother. Now she was dying. My desire was to recount joyful childhood experiences as a small, yet inadequate gesture of appreciation. I wrote one each month, contained within a letter

• Language: English
• Publisher: Lulu Publishing Services
• Release date: Jul 13, 2019
• ISBN: 9781684706778

Book preview

RAHER

Copyright © 2019 Thomas Raher.

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced, stored, or transmitted by any means—whether auditory, graphic, mechanical, or electronic—without written permission of the author, except in the case of brief excerpts used in critical articles and reviews. Unauthorized reproduction of any part of this work is illegal and is punishable by law.

This book is a work of non-fiction. Unless otherwise noted, the author and the publisher make no explicit guarantees as to the accuracy of the information contained in this book and in some cases, names of people and places have been altered to protect their privacy.

ISBN: 978-1-6847-0678-5 (sc)

ISBN: 978-1-6847-0677-8 (e)

Because of the dynamic nature of the Internet, any web addresses or links contained in this book may have changed since publication and may no longer be valid. The views expressed in this work are solely those of the author and do not necessarily reflect the views of the publisher, and the publisher hereby disclaims any responsibility for them.

Any people depicted in stock imagery provided by Getty Images are models, and such images are being used for illustrative purposes only.

Certain stock imagery © Getty Images.

Lulu Publishing Services rev. date:   07/01/2019

Dedication

T o my mother, Margaret Jacobs Raher, also to my grandchildren who inspire me when I need it most.

798317Image1Dedicate.jpg

Introduction

T  hese short stories are actual experiences from my youth. They were learning experiences. I learned from play, competition, duty, and listening. Frankly I look at these simple times as my foundation blocks.

798317Image2Intro.jpg

Preface

I  ’d like to acknowledge the inspiration for this short book, my mother. When I learned she had terminal cancer, I was truly saddened. Our relationship over my lifetime was distant at times for varied reasons, but as my family grew, I came to realize and understand more clearly the difficulties she suffered. This common ground rekindled and nurtured our bond. It blossomed with doting on her grandsons, sharing traditions, and being a loving grandmother. Now she was dying. My desire was to recount joyful childhood experiences as a small, yet inadequate gesture of appreciation. I wrote one each month, contained within a letter – I wanted her to know my childhood was special, thanks to her love.

Lunch

N  ow that basketball season is over, for me as a coach, my daily pattern has changed somewhat. I usually arrive home from work about 2:15 p.m. After a long arduous day, my first inclination after washing my hands is to scour the refrigerator for a snack. Peanut butter on toast is still a favorite and then the saliva glands kick into high gear. No food goes undetected and as long as I don’t have to heat it up, it’s in jeopardy of being eaten.

Once that nervous reaction is quelled, and I calm down from this uncontrolled feeding frenzy, I begin to relax. With the stress of the day lifted, I change into my favorite green sweat pants, grab the latest issue of Sports Illustrated and head directly to the couch. Before I can settle I adjust the blinds, letting the afternoon light in, to ensure pleasant reading. In the late afternoon the house is always cool and being chilled I draw the afghan up under my chin for warmth. Well, you guessed it, in a matter of seconds I’ve dozed into dreamland.

Cruising along on the other side of reality, where boundaries fade and blur with the will of the unconscious, I hear distant voices. As my dream self struggles to identify and recognize these intruders, I’m slowly drawn back to consciousness, as the sounds get closer. Without opening my eyes but using my ears to perceive through the grogginess, what I suspected in the murkiness between dreamland and conscious reality was the excited bantering