Real life short stories

My father quit on us when I was five.

Mom remarried a few years later.

She then passed away in a car accident when I was nine.

Both biological parents were gone before I turned ten.

I was stuck living with my Mom’s new husband whom I had only known for a short time. He wasn’t my “real” dad. Randle isn’t even my real last name

Steve Randle then showed me the meaning of real. He dedicated his life to raising us (I have a younger sister and brother).

When Steve met my Mom, he was a successful attorney. As a single parent dealing with deep sorrow, he gave up so many of his own interests to be there for me.

He has taught me more about life than anyone else – the most important being belief in myself, commitment to family, and faith in God.

I have never made a major personal or professional decision without seeking his advice first.

Graduated from college with his support.

Chose my career path with his guidance.

I’m a better dad because of his example.

Anyone can be a father. It takes love, support and encouragement to be a real dad.

My last name is Randle. It means more to me than any amount of money, possessions, or corporate titles.

There are several I admire but Dad is my only hero.

Happy Father’s Day this week, DAD! Beyond grateful to be your son.

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Dear John:

Loved your article about the differences between the Brits and the Americans. I'm an Australian, and there is a story that we have....which I actually experienced in real life once. The story goes that an Aussie and a Kiwi are sitting in a bar, and they are at each other's throats, arguing until a Brit walks into the bar. At that moment, whatever the Aussie & the Kiwi were arguing about is entirely forgotten, as they both gang up on the Brit, and together start arguing with the Brit. Then, a Yank enters the bar...the Aussie, the Kiwi & the Brit immediately drop whatever it was they were arguing about, and all three turn on the Yank.

Great story, and it actually happened to me! Thanks for the newsletter.

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“My mother had to get something from a faraway shop. So, we took a rickshaw.

On the way, we stopped at an ATM. When my mother went in to get the cash, I asked the rikshaw puller if I can pull his rikshaw once.

He denied straightaway.

I kept insisting.

At last, he agreed. He sat at the back and I started pulling. I wasn't able to move the rikshaw more than a few meters and the rickshaw puller started laughing hysterically, seeing me struggle.

I accepted defeat and we exchanged our positions. When my mother returned, he sailed the rickshaw down the road as if it was nothing.

While he wasn't doing what we call a white-collar job but his job was no less important, getting people from A to B.

Sometimes I feel we do not respect manual laborers as much as they deserve. Their work seems too easy but trust me it is not.

His face had all those grooves which one gets while working hard with the sun beating on you all day.

Every honest line of work deserves our utmost respect.”

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