Roanoke Times
Copyright (c) 1995, Landmark Communications, Inc.
DATE: SUNDAY, June 18, 1995 TAG: 9506200002
SECTION: CURRENT PAGE: NRV-2 EDITION: NEW RIVER VALLEY
SOURCE: STEVE KARK
DATELINE: LENGTH: Medium
If life really is like a box of chocolates, you know you're gonna get pieces of chocolate and you know each one might be different from the last.
Besides, the "box of chocolates" line in the movie is different from the line that appears in Winston Groom's 1986 novel.
In the book, Forrest introduces himself by pointing out that "bein' a idiot is no box of chocolates." But both versions make clear that Forrest is no idiot. In a world that grows increasingly more complex and artificial, Forrest has learned to appreciate life's simple and honest pleasures. He savors every bite of every piece of chocolate, and that's why we can't help but admire him.
Forrest's way of looking at life makes a lot of sense. You never know where or when life's tasty little morsels will be offered to you, so you have to pay attention. You have to keep yourself open to the possibility that they might appear anywhere at anytime.
For instance, though it's been more than 30 years, I still remember Miss Ross, my seventh-grade history teacher back in Milwaukee, Wis. I remember one day in particular when it seems that our class was responding to her inquiries with a notable lack of enthusiasm. I'll never forget how in her frustration she curled her fingers and placed them over her eyes like she was peering through a pair of binoculars.
"You can't go through life like you're looking out the end of a tunnel," she said, "you need to open your eyes to the things around you." At this point she opened and spread her fingers and lifted them from her eyes.
Although I couldn't have been more than 12 or 13 years old at the time, I thought that a remarkable lesson. I'm sure I learned a lot from Miss Ross, but, for the life of me, I can't remember anything but that moment. My memories of her will always be associated with the way she looked at us when she handed us that tasty morsel. That moment was a piece of chocolate, and I will savor it always.
More recently, one of the first stories I wrote for this paper dealt with the elderly residents of a Giles county nursing home.
I remember having reservations about it beforehand. The prospect of visiting a nursing home, even though I would be paid for doing so, had me squirmin' like a worm in hot ashes.
Looking back on that visit today, I find that my memories of the nursing home and the people I met there have been blurred by time. All is lost except for my memory of one old woman who sat quietly smiling at me from her seat over by the windows. I remember her as though we met only yesterday.
Though she couldn't have been less than 80 years old, her eyes sparkled like a schoolgirl's. She appeared to be undaunted by her surroundings, and this seemed a remarkable thing to me.
When I went over to talk with her, she began our conversation by paying me a compliment, asking what a handsome young man like me was doing talking to a bunch of old ladies on such a bright, sunny day. As you might expect, I liked her immediately. Soon we were talking like old friends.
Before long I felt comfortable enough to ask, in a rather round-about way, how she managed to stay so charming and sharp.
I'll never forget her response. She smiled and raised her index finger to tap it against her forehead. "It's all in here," she said. Then she pointed out the window at Pearis Mountain, which dominated the view. "And that's with me in here," she added, placing her hand over her heart. Another piece of chocolate.
I hadn't thought much about the mountain before then, but will always see it differently as a result of that day's visit. I've come to understand how a mountain or, for that matter, any place you care about can become a part of you - even an obscure little place like Rye Hollow.
I've also learned that there's only a limited number of chocolates in each box. You have to savor each and every one.
by CNB