A Reel Steal
When I was ten, my
grandpa came fishing
with us. The minimum
size fish you could keep
from the stream near
us was eight inches.
Throughout the day,
my dad noticed Gramps
catching and keeping
six-inch trout. Dad told
him to quit keeping the
illegal fish. On the way
home, I noticed that
Gramps—who was wear-
ing a big Indiana Jones–
type hat—had slime
running down his ears.
Dad told Grandpa to take
off his hat. He did, and we
realized it was full of six-
inch trout in a plastic liner.
—Bill Hansen
toledo, oregongo in the years before cell phones and Wi-Fi, we
had limited opportunities to communicate with
loved ones.
One night while sitting by myself, I investigated
the “Any Soldier” mailbox, a dilapidated cardboard
box with letters and packages from Americans. I
chose one shoebox-size package. Inside was a bag
of stale chocolate-chip cookies. Underneath, I found
about 20 cards from children who had drawn stick
figure people and asked about riding camels, eating
spiders, and how often I could swim in the ocean.
At the bottom was a letter from their teacher in Ohio
explaining how her kids had put the box together
and how they supported our efforts in the war.
I was truly touched by this gesture and decided
to write a letter of gratitude. I thanked the teacher
for what her children had done—its impact on my
patriotism, my morale, and, most significantly,
my uplifted faith. For security reasons, I was able
to sign only my name.
Around 2013, I received a Facebook friend request
from a woman with whom I shared no contacts. I
replied that unless we were friends, I could not ac-
cept her request. She responded with one question:
“Are you 2LT Bartholomew?” I replied that I had
been at one time. Her reply stuck with me.
“Dear sir,” she wrote. “We have never met, but
in 1991 I was a second-grade teacher at a school
in Ohio and our classroom sent a care package
addressed to ‘Any Service Member.’ The thank-you
letter you composed was framed and has been
posted on the wall of the school for more than
20 years. I wanted to again thank you for your
service to our country. God bless you.”
We never spoke again, but this gracious teacher
reinforced my belief in doing what my mother al-
ways taught me: Write thank-you notes—you never
know how many people your kindness can touch.
—Damian Bartholomew Evans, Georgia
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