Book Nook - Meant for More (Excerpt)

 Please enjoy this excerpt from the book "Meant for More" by Karen Olson.

The excitement of Christmas hung in the air. I was about to leave for school. I had just turned twelve in September and was in the seventh grade. Monday mornings, my father would take Gaga, who stayed with us on the weekends, to the station so she could catch the 7:14 a.m. train to New York City, and then she would go straight to Macy’s, where she worked in the book department. After dropping Gaga off at the train, he continued on to work.

I left at 7:35 a.m. to catch the school bus not far from home. We could almost see the bus stop from our house, a few hundred yards away and up a hill. At 8:00 a.m., Maggie, an African American woman who cleaned our house on Mondays, would arrive. She took the bus from one town over in Stamford, got off at a stop in Darien, and then walked to our home. Those twenty-five minutes between when I left and when Maggie came—would change my life forever.

I constantly worried about my mother. The fear that I had was that something would separate us, or that if I weren’t with her, she’d worry about me. This wasn’t really logical, but it was a lingering fear.

That morning, my mother made me buttered toast with jelly for breakfast. I ate at the kitchen table near the big bay window overlooking our backyard, while she sat with me. She didn’t eat. Seemingly distant, she just slowly sipped her coffee. Overhead was a jovial Santa Claus that my father painted on the window. St. Nick, lying a finger aside his nose, with a sack full of toys, was about to climb down the chimney. My father, a talented artist, did the entire painting freehand. Who wouldn’t be happy? It was that time of year!

I finished breakfast. “Come on, Carrie!” my mother said, using her nickname for me, “It’s time to go to school. Don’t forget your lunch box; here are your books.” Then, as always, she walked me to the door—a Dutch door with windowpanes on the top half, still in her frayed quilted pink satin bathrobe, with my baby sister balanced on her right hip. I smiled as I gave her a hug goodbye.

Usually, when I was halfway down the walk and would wave to her, she’d wave back. The next time I turned to look-- and I always did-- she would have left the door. This time, when I waved halfway down the walk she waved back as I expected, but when I walked to the bottom of the pathway and turned back she was still at the door, waving. I crossed the street into the neighbor’s yard, and she was still waving. I waved back. I walked through the neighbor’s yard almost to the end and looked back. My mother was still waving. I waved back. I walked through the small, wooded area, heading over the stone wall onto the next block, then up the hill to the bus. Again, I looked, and although I couldn’t see that well through the trees, I could see our door, and I thought my mother was still waving. In case she saw me, I waved back.

The bus ride to school was relatively short, only taking ten minutes with a couple of stops. After several classes that morning, we sat at our desks to eat lunch in our homerooms because of overcrowding. My homeroom teacher, Mr. Luce, was a precise, picky guy who, sometimes, injected a wave of sarcasm into his teaching. Most of the kids didn’t like him that much. I know I didn’t, because I was somewhat afraid of him.

I sat in the third seat of the first row. I brought my lunch because I didn’t care for the hot lunches in the cafeteria. However, I liked the desserts, mainly their ice cream sandwiches, which I regularly had after finishing my sandwich. I had eaten nearly half of the ice cream sandwich when one of the secretaries from the principal’s office entered the classroom. She approached Mr. Luce, who was at the front of the room, and whispered to him with her hand slightly covering her mouth. Mr. Luce looked at me, then glanced at her and nodded. She peered at me with a worried expression and left. Without changing his precise, matter-of-fact demeanor, Mr. Luce instructed, “Karen, when you finish your lunch, go to the principal’s office—they need to speak with you.”

Curious about why the principal needed to see me, I got up. I knew I wasn’t in trouble at school, so I wasn’t concerned about that; however, I worried something was wrong. Motioning for me to sit back down, Mr. Luce authoritatively instructed, “Finish your ice cream sandwich.” I respectfully sat back in my seat and gulped down the ice cream, curious to find out why the principal wanted to see me.

When I entered the principal’s office, I felt the secretary was visibly flustered about me or my situation. I never actually saw the principal.

“Karen, we got a call from your grandmother, and she wants you to come back home,” Mrs. Hall said. “I’ll drive you.”

My eyes narrowed. Gaga was surely in New York City at work.

But without questioning Mrs. Hall, I climbed into the front seat of her car, sensing the ride to my house was rather uncomfortable for her. Perhaps concerned that I’d begin asking too many questions, she attempted to fill the time with light, but awkward conversation.

“Do you have any brothers or sisters?”

“Yes, a sister, Carol.”

“Oh, your names are very similar, Karen and Carol. Do your parents get confused when calling you by name?” she asked.

I just shook my head no. My mind was preoccupied with trying to determine why I was being taken home.

When she pulled up to our house, visibly flustered yet trying to act in control, Gaga was already walking down the steps toward the car to meet me. I knew something was wrong. As calmly as possible, Gaga told me, “Mommy had a nervous breakdown, but she’ll be okay. She’s in the hospital, and I’ll stay here with you until she’s better,” she added reassuringly.

I’d heard the term “nervous breakdown” before, so it didn’t come as a surprise. My mother had been upset for months, making it understandable that she had a nervous breakdown. Other people in Darien had “nervous breakdowns,” so it seemed normal, something that happened to people—maybe to those who lived in the suburbs. Even so, somehow I thought things would be okay, and this was probably a phase. My mother would come out of it, and things would be better in the long run.

Sadly, I couldn’t have been more wrong.

About the Author:

In 1981, marketing executive Karen Olson hurried to a business meeting in New York City. An elderly, homeless woman outside Grand Central Station caught her eye. Impulsively, Karen darted across the street and bought the woman a sandwich and an orange juice. She listened to the woman’s story and learned her name: Millie.

This small act of kindness changed the trajectory of Karen’s life. With her leadership, determination, and ability to bring people together, Karen launched a grassroots, local outreach to the homeless, primarily families, that today has turned into a national movement known as Family Promise, with 200 affiliates across the country serving nearly a quarter of a million people each year. For her work, Karen received the prestigious Annual Points of Light Award from President George H.W. Bush.

In her new book, Meant for More: Following Your Heart and Finding Your Purpose (Diamond Press, September 10, 2024), Karen shares her journey, the stories of volunteers and lives changed, and why we must choose to make a difference.