Second Chances: An Inspiring Collection of Do-Overs That Have Made People's Lives Brighter

by Erin McHugh

Overview

Second Chances is a hopeful and thoughtful compendium of anecdotes from people who have wanted another chance at something—and have taken it. It’s the big stuff like going back to college after the kids have grown up, as well as the little things like getting a judo belt when you thought you could hardly manage a push-up. The book collects the hopeful examples of people who found a leg up, another spurt of energy, a hidden talent, or even an untapped strength, sometimes with the unexpected help of friends or strangers. Combining the feel-good qualities of One Good Deed and the crowdsourcing methods of Like My Mother Always Said, Erin McHugh’s latest book is an inspirational guide about letting the future win over the past.

Product Details

ISBN-13:	9781419724138
Publisher:	ABRAMS
Publication date:	04/11/2017
Pages:	144
Product dimensions:	5.00(w) x 7.00(h) x 0.75(d)

About the Author

Based in New York City, Erin McHugh is a former publishing executive and the author of more than 25 books, including Like My Mother Always Said, Like My Father Always Said, Like My Teacher Always Said, and One Good Deed.

Read an Excerpt

Second Chances

An inspiring collection of do-overs that have made people's lives brighter.

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By Erin McHugh, David Cashion

Abrams Books

Copyright © 2017 Erin McHugh
All rights reserved.
ISBN: 978-1-4197-2413-8

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CHAPTER 1

The Dawn of a New Day

I believe that I am given a second chance every day.

Every morning, I wake up and think that I can do it better today, do it right, whether it's my job or the people I touch, or don't touch — or maybe it's exercise, or what I eat or drink, a kindness, a new interest, or how I relate to my children, or something I learn about myself.

Each day is a new beginning. Trite? Maybe.

But it works for me.

— ELLEN

Wild Child Redux

Once upon a time in the snowy mountains of the north lived a wild child who loved to ski. One cold and rainy January day, she decided to hit the slopes. She got a little ahead of herself on what would be her only run that day, hit some ice going way too fast, and fell hard, ending up in the trees — lucky to have not actually hit one — with a severely broken leg. She was rushed to the hospital, where she would remain for the next ten days post-emergency surgery.

One metal plate and nineteen screws later, she was out of the hospital and on crutches. This state ofbeing would last about a year, which was followed by another surgery to implant yet another plate. Finally, after two years of healing, all the hardware was removed from her leg and the real recovery began. Her doctors cleared her for physical activity, and because she hadn't been very mobile for two years, she felt as though she had been given another chance, and she was itching to get her legs moving again. So she started slow and learned how to walk again, then how to run again. Once her atrophied muscles bulked up and her range of motion returned, she signed her sorry ass up for the New York City Marathon.

She dedicated all of her free time to training and was determined to run that damn race, and she did, finishing in four hours and sixteen minutes. It was one of the most special days of her life. The weather couldn't have been better and the crowd couldn't have been more cheerful. Friends and family were there to cheer her on along with perfect strangers. And though she crossed the finish line, she hasn't stopped running. Of course, that wild child is me.

— MARTHA

I Dreamed of Africa

I suffer from chronic wanderlust that has taken me all over the world. My hardworking career as a real estate agent in the Hamptons allowed me the freedom to travel as long as my checkbook was topped up. I always had photos of the next destination posted on my desk at work and hoped that, if I used the phone successfully, the deals would get done and it would be wheels up for me!

Time moved so quickly, and all of a sudden I turned forty years old. I was successful and enjoyed my freedom as a single woman who was not tied down to a family. I was perfectly happy moving about my life ... until I wasn't but didn't know it. Selling large second homes to very rich people who had every comfort was no longer a challenge or exciting. It was time for a life change, but I couldn't figure out what change I wanted or needed.

So I booked another trip. I had traveled on many horseback-riding safaris, but Africa was my favorite. The frequent chaos and poverty is balanced by the beauty and richness of the tribal cultures, wild animals, and generous people.

Determined to find my purpose, I researched volunteer projects all over the world. A project in Namibia run by Elephant Human Relations Aid was flexible enough that we also did work at the local school. It was a government-run boarding school (in rural communities in Africa, most schools are boarding schools since students live too far away to walk to school) that was not well funded and had very scant resources. From the minute I met the students, I knew something in my life was about to change.

I am a strong proponent of women in power and as leaders. I felt I needed to help the girls at the A. Gariseb Primary School put their future in front of them and dream big. Just because they were in the middle of the desert with little exposure or a promising future in the bigger world didn't mean they shouldn't try to achieve it — in fact, just the opposite!

At the school, I was a magnet for these girls and their smiling, promising faces. I loved when they all rushed up to me with little Valentine notes on tiny postage stamp-size scraps of paper. They always had a lovely flair: "Plis kip me in your hart fo eva." They always had butterflies, flowers, hearts, and, usually, uncanny drawings of me with them and "frends fo eva." They never asked for anything. Just a simple declaration that we were friends and that I would not forget them.

In my "back home" life, I was also on the board of our local library, and at that time, we were about to build a new addition. While sitting in a decrepit old cement school building on a three-legged chair propped up by a pail as its fourth leg, I kept thinking that these children were in need of a simple library with books that would expand their knowledge. "Learn to read, read and grow, grow and learn" became my mantra and theirs, too. So I set about sending books to Africa with a small amount of donated books from my library friends. It filled a room at the school we had painted in bright colors. On the wall, we painted, "Learn to read, read and grow, grow and learn."

These girls would run up to me in the schoolyard with their tattered books and blurt out passages at top volume for all the world to hear — proudly showing they had mastered not only reading but amazing self-confidence and poise.

We continued our aid to the school, and after ten years, we had renovated the dormitories, replumbed the showers and lavatories, and built a computer room, a playground, and more.

But my proudest moment happened when I was walking down a street and heard two girls calling my name. Most of the girls in the first group had either ended their primary school careers and returned to their farms or headed to high school —"Big School," they called it. These two girls were tall and skinny and in their "Big School" uniforms, standing proud and ready to take on the world. They reminded me who they were and what it meant for them to learn and read at that library with those books. It worked: They were dreaming big — and I knew they would succeed. My second chance was their first in having someone believe in them. It made me believe in myself as well.

— DOREEN

The Fifty Year Reunion

1961-1965: Catholic high school

The nuns arranged classrooms alphabetically, so I, Nancy B., sat in front of Charlie B. for four years. We became fast friends, all because of the alphabet.

Charlie was outgoing and very, very funny. I was shy, quiet, and had to be well-behaved because my mother worked at the school; the nuns brought every move I made to "the good woman" in the business office.

Charlie and I began to exchange letters after high school — which led to dating when Charlie came home from college during the summers. He has said since that the first piece of jewelry he ever bought "for a lady" was for me. It was a gold necklace with one pearl. He mailed it ... but I never received it.

I went to nursing school, and during my senior year there, I became engaged to the boy I had dated in high school. Charlie came back home and heard that I was getting married and was sad, but then he left to join the navy. I married in 1969 and had three children. Charlie relocated to California, met his wife, and had three children of his own.

Neither marriage worked out as well as we had hoped. Over the years, Charlie and I corresponded — prompted by parents passing away and, later, when I chaired a high school fundraising event. I'd always promised to attend the high school reunions ... but never did. I think we both sometimes wondered what life might have been like if we'd married each other.

Charlie left me a message on our class's fiftieth reunion Facebook page: He was planning on attending and wondered if I'd like to get together for lunch with him and a third classmate. He still didn't know that I was divorced. Prior to that visit, Charlie called and we talked for two and a half hours. When we met for lunch, it was like nothing had changed in fifty years. Every day since, he has texted me in the morning and called each evening — and we have made several trips cross-country to visit. We are still best friends — with a little something else — and the romance continues.

Oh, and last Christmas? I received a gold necklace with one pearl. Finally.

— NANCY

Coming Home

This is a story for all those who think you can't go home again.

After college, I decided to do what millions of eager twenty-somethings have done seemingly forever: I moved to New York. I loved it, and for a long time, it loved me back. I became a publicist, and I reveled in it. Every booking, feature, interview I got felt like a small victory. But, after years of riding the subway, sky-high rents, and exhausting dating rituals, I began to feel like the stresses of city life outweighed those victories — outweighed even those few magical moments, like when you're leaving a glittering party with your best friend, looking fabulous and buzzed on champagne. I moved farther away, to Windsor Terrace in Brooklyn, looking for suburban quiet and cheaper rents while I figured things out. I found myself making the trek to the great new restaurants and parties less and less. And I didn't miss them. By now, I had realized that I really wanted to work for myself, and work in a more creative capacity (even the exciting world of PR can become a little rote). I had made a lot of connections at my job, and I decided to start my own business. I got several clients right away, but it became clear that the jobs that I wanted were never the ones that paid the most. I didn't want to end up in another rut (or in debt!), so something else in the equation had to change.

I didn't really plan to move back home to Baltimore; if you had asked me five years before, I probably would have said it would never happen, that New York was the endgame for me. But now I had my life a little more in gear, and I found I could take my business anywhere. I found that I missed my family, especially my brother. Then my grandfather got sick, and when he passed away and I saw what it did to my father, it convinced me further that I wanted to be nearer to those I loved.

But that was just part of it. I began to really see Baltimore. I live a block from Patterson Park, an Audubon sanctuary, and I hear the birdsong every morning from my sunny home office on the second floor of my row house. I'm also a block away from my favorite pizza place in the city, and a five-minute after-dinner walk away from the Canton waterfront promenade. Baltimore's food, art, and start-up scene is exploding, which is perfect for my own fledgling business. Formerly very industrial, Baltimore is now home to major companies and has a thriving tech, design, and literary community. I suddenly realized that moving to my birth city was more than a convenient solution. I saw that I could really contribute, make an impact, and have a chance to help make it a better place for all residents. So I'm home in Baltimore, making a life of my own design, and every day feels filled with possibility.

— MARISA

The Old Hotel

In the mid-1970s, I found myself working for a lifelong friend making — of all things — candy sculptures, and as an offshoot, candy-house kits. Go ahead and laugh, but by the time this business started, she had already been featured in People magazine for building a seven-foot candy George Washington; a life-size castle in Macy's Santaland in Herald Square; and every Christmas, we worker bees would go and toil in Bloomingdale's windows, constructing house after gooey house. It was nutty — and a blast. Then things got serious.

The family of my candy-business friend owned a large and rambling old hotel, and they bought a beautiful Tudor manor house nearby, putting their daughter in charge of its rebirth as a second hotel. I was invited along for the sometimes bumpy but always interesting ride. Back then, it was an imposing old place, open only in the summer. Its guests were often there to enjoy the famed local music and dance festivals — or often they were the famous people actually appearing at those venues. I had previously worked as a cook at a small inn, so I was assigned to be the chef de cuisine. We served only breakfast, afternoon tea, and totally over-thetop multicourse picnics to take to the concerts. Still, I would get calls down in the kitchen from the guests. "We know you don't serve dinner, but it's our twenty-fifth anniversary, and we would love it ifyou could just make us a Chateaubriand." We were in the LUXURY service industry now, trying to make something of this hotel, so the customer was always right, and the answer was ALWAYS yes. "Of course," I'd say cheerily, and I'd hop in my VW Beatle to run to the market and gather what was needed to whip up a three-course extravaganza.

The whole venture had a seat-of-the-pants feeling, but my friend had vision, know-how, and a lot of stick-to-it-iveness. We were young, and it was fun. She kept at it, but I eventually left, went back to my hometown, got married, and had children, and though she and I remained very close, I moved on to different jobs in a different life.

Years went by — in fact, decades went by! — and occasionally, I'd get a call from Ann, my old friend and boss, to come back and work at the hotel. I'd tell her thanks, but I loved myjob — then the calls began to come closer together. So one day more than thirty years later, Ann was on the phone once again. This time, my job was about to end, the kids were grown, and I needed a change. Still, it sounded so crazy to me. "Ann," I said, "what would this job even be?" She paused a minute, and then said, "Oh, Mimi. Sometimes I don't even know if the lampshades are ripped!"

For some reason, I understood that — she was just overwhelmed. And so I packed up and returned to join Ann once again. I became part of the management team of a hotel that is now world-renowned, has more stars and awards than you could count, boasts one of the top wine cellars in the country, is open year-round, of course, and has become one of the go-to hotel destinations in the country.

Obviously, the experience has been decidedly different this time around, but Ann has crafted a jewel, and to join her and be given another chance to make it perfect has been a very unexpected joy. From candy houses to five-star hotels — who would have guessed?

— MIMI

Growing Young

Because my now-grown children had been spending so much time at the dojo learning the martial art judo, I decided to jump in, too, and it turned out I earned an orange belt at the age of fifty. To top it off, it was presented to me by a former Olympian! I felt accomplished as well as youthful and strong. Plus, I got to spend more time with my kids.

— DENISE

Never Too Late

Someone once said, "It is never too late for anything."

Fortunately, those words came back to me when, at the age of thirty-one, upon the death of my husband, I found myself totally responsible for raising four children alone. Of course, we all were devastated, and I had to figure out how best to carry on. Having only secretarial training, I knew I needed the college education I had rejected years earlier. Although I probably could have gotten a job as a secretary, that would have meant being away from the children twelve months a year with only vacation time together. I thought that if I were able to become a teacher, I could be with them entire summers and school vacations.

Being married to a civil engineer made me realize how important further education is, and made me consider following up on the idea of becoming a teacher. At the time, it seemed an impossible challenge. Since there weren't too many choices available, I decided to try the impossible. But I had so many doubts: Would I be admitted as a college student at all? Could I handle the course work? Could I schedule classes while my children were in school? So I started with just one evening class — and I passed. Then two more classes the next semester — again I passed. And finally, after finding a good babysitter, I became a full-time student.

My children were cooperative with housework, we gave up many social events, and together we lived a jam-packed but happy life. To my surprise, with many hitches and glitches, I received a bachelor's degree that enabled me to teach English at a high school for thirteen years and then at a community college for another sixteen years. With help from my children and extended family, I was given a great opportunity and a second chance in life.

— DIANE

(Continues...)

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Excerpted from Second Chances by Erin McHugh, David Cashion. Copyright © 2017 Erin McHugh. Excerpted by permission of Abrams Books.
All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.
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