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CHICKEN SOUP FOR THE SOUL: HOME DELIVERY
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Iva Mae's Birthday

Iva Mae Maples was the poorest girl in our first grade

class, and the thing she looked forward to above all else was

her birthday. It was to be on the third Friday of September, and

she had invited us to her birthday party. In all her young life,

she'd never had a birthday party before. "Not once!" she said.

The year was 1936, deep into the Great Depression, and none

of our families had much money. Our panties and dresses were

sewn from the cloth of printed muslin flour sacks. Yet all of

us, except Iva Mae, were fortunate enough to have sturdy shoes

and socks and warm coats, though many were hand-me-downs or

bought second-hand.

She wore sneakers with holes in them, no socks, and she

used one of her mother's cardigan sweaters as a coat. The

sleeves were much too long. Even scrunched up as far as they

would go, they still covered her hands. Which was just as well,

since she didn't have any mittens either.

We all adored Iva Mae. She wore zinnias tucked into her

pigtails. She was funny and adventurous and did outrageous

things like bringing a squirrel to school and sneaking it into

the teacher's desk drawer. Or belching loudly and then looking

with total disgust at the unfortunate classmate seated next to

her, saying, "Well! I sure hope y'all feel better now."

Another thing about Iva Mae. She brought wonderful lunches

to school. Her mother raised all sorts of fruits and vegetables

in their backyard. They would probably have starved otherwise.

What they didn't eat fresh from the garden, Mrs. Maples

canned in quart jars. One of the best lunches Iva Mae brought to

school was a thermos of home-made vegetable soup and a piece

of buttered cornbread. The soup smelled so good we could hardly

stand it. Occasionally she would give one of us a taste. It was

glorious!

Finally, THE Friday arrived. We were almost as excited as

Iva Mae. Birthday day! Party day! Ice cream and cake day!

Since we were to walk directly over to Iva Mae's house

after school, we arrived that morning carrying our wrapped

presents. Our teacher placed them on a shelf in the cloak room.

All day we noticed Iva Mae glancing at the gifts every few

minutes, eyes shining in anticipation.

When school let out at three, we gathered our gifts and

trooped over to Iva Mae's. There were about 12 of us, laughing

and chattering all the way. All except Iva Mae, that is. She

seemed strangely quiet, and the closer we came to her house, the

quieter she became.

We soon found out why. When 12 noisy little girls spilled

through the door into Mrs. Maples' tiny two-room house,

giggling and bearing gifts, the poor woman went into shock.

Bewildered, she looked at Iva Mae as if to say, "What is going

on here, young lady?"

We'd never known Iva Mae to be meek or shy, but now she

squirmed uncomfortably and in a hushed little voice said, "I

just decided to have me a birthday party and I didn't think

you'd mind. I plumb forgot to tell you and..."

We all fell silent. MRS. MAPLES DIDN'T KNOW ABOUT THE

PARTY!

Would she yell? Would she scream? Would she throw us all

out and then give Iva Mae a spanking? Did this mean there would

be no ice cream and cake? And wasn't it just like Iva Mae to

pull a stunt like this?

"Oh," Mrs. Maples said, clutching her throat. "Oh. Oh my!

Oh my, my, my!"

We watched as she struggled with her thoughts and feelings.

What would she do next? She looked into the pleading eyes of her

daughter. She gave a deep sigh. She rolled her eyes. She shook

her head. Then she began to laugh, and gave Iva Mae a big hug.

"You're right," she finally said. "It's party time!"

We looked around. Their sparsely furnished home left plenty

of wall space for shelves, which Mrs. Maples had built of old

scrap lumber and bricks. And every shelf was laden with home-

canned produce from her garden.

It was a beautiful sight of plenty. Clear glass jars

brimming with jewel-toned fruits and vegetables, including

dozens of jars of her famous vegetable soup.

She knew we expected refreshments, so she made do with what

she had. She took four quarts of soup from the shelf to warm up.

"Now, girls," she said, "please go out to the garden and

pick 14 pears and a big bunch of zinnias to decorate the table."

We dashed out to the garden. Once outside, I said, "Gee,

Iva Mae, how come your mother wasted garden space on something

you can't eat?" I pointed to the zinnias that grew along the

entire length of the garden. They were all different colors,

bright and pastel. Big flowers, too; some ruffled and some

plain. I had never seen so much beauty in one spot. And even

though it was late September, they still looked beautiful.

"Oh, those," Iva Mae said. "Mother says those are food for

our souls."

Back inside, we snacked on soup and crackers and soon

forgot about ice cream and cake. Mrs. Maples arranged the pears

on a round platter, and wedged a big candle in the center of the

plate. Then she lit the candle and we all sang "Happy Birthday."

We ate the pears while Iva Mae opened her gifts. There were

paper doll books, a coloring book, some bath salts, hair

ribbons, a bottle of hand lotion, two pairs of socks, a handmade

head scarf, some Old Maid cards, a puzzle, a yo-yo, and a

kaleidoscope. She glowed with joy to have so many new things.

Mrs. Maples glowed, too. Her little girl was happy!

And because she overheard us admiring her zinnias, she gave

us each a handful of freshly gathered seed before we left.

"Plant these next spring," she said, "and remember me when you

see them bloom."

How could I not remember? Even now, 65 years later, I still

think of her every time I see zinnias blooming in my garden.

I remember her good humor, her sweetness, her creativity,

her courage in "making do" during a hard period in their lives.

I remember her showing me that you don't need ice cream and cake

to have a great party, and that no gardener is ever too poor to

have something to share with others.

Perhaps, most of all, I remember how I no longer felt that

Iva Mae was the poorest girl in our first grade class.

by Nita Waxelman

Soup for the Gardener's Soul by Jack Canfield, Mark Victor

Hansen, Marion Owen, Cindy Buck, Cynthia Brian, Pat Stone and

Carol Strugulewski.

With Spring around the corner, look for Chicken Soup for the

Gardener's Soul in your bookstore today.

In order to protect the rights of the copyright holder, no

portion of this publication may be reproduced without prior

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