At the age of twenty, Milwaukee native Chris Gardner, just out of the Navy, arrived in Mythic, triumphant, and unstintingly honest, The Pursuit of Happyness. The Pursuit of Happyness book. Read reviews from the world's largest community for readers. The astounding yet true rags-to-riches saga of a homeles. . The astounding yet true rags-to-riches saga of a homeless father who raised and cared for his son on the mean streets of San Francisco and went on to become.
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The Pursuit of Happyness [Chris Gardner, Quincy Troupe] on balsodoctforri.ga * FREE* shipping on qualifying offers. The astounding yet true rags-to-riches saga of. "Pursuit of Happyness" tracks Chris Gardner's story from rags to riches, emphasizing his determination to create a home for his son. BOOK REVIEW ON PURSUIT OF HAPPYNESS BY CHRIS GARDNER!.
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Now customize the name of a clipboard to store your clips. Visibility Others can see my Clipboard. Cancel Save. Not perfume or anything floral or spicy -- it's just a clean, warm, good smell that wraps around me like a Superman cape, making me feel strong, special, and loved -- even if I don't have words for those concepts yet.
Though I don't know who she is, I sense a familiarity about her, not only because she has come before and made candy in this same fashion, but also because of how she looks at me -- like she's talking to me from her eyes, saying, You remember me, don't you?
At this point in childhood, and for most of the first five years of my life, the map of my world was broken strictly into two territories -- the familiar and the unknown.
The happy, safe zone of the familiar was very small, often a shifting dot on the map, while the unknown was vast, terrifying, and constant. What I did know by the age of three or four was that Ophelia was my older sister and best friend, and also that we were treated with kindness by Mr.
Robinson, the adults whose house we lived in. What I didn't know was that the Robinsons' house was a foster home, or what that meant.
Our situation -- where our real parents were and why we didn't live with them, or why we sometimes did live with uncles and aunts and cousins -- was as mysterious as the situations of the other foster children living at the Robinsons'. What mattered most was that I had a sister who looked out for me, and I had Rufus and Pookie and the other boys to follow outside for fun and mischief.
All that was familiar, the backyard and the rest of the block, was safe turf where we could run and play games like tag, kick-the-can, and hide-and-seek, even after dark. That is, except, for the house two doors down from the Robinsons. Every time we passed it I had to almost look the other way, just knowing the old white woman who lived there might suddenly appear and put an evil curse on me -- because, according to Ophelia and everyone else in the neighborhood, the old woman was a witch.
When Ophelia and I passed by the house together once and I confessed that I was scared of the witch, my sister said, "I ain't scared," and to prove it she walked right into the front yard and grabbed a handful of cherries off the woman's cherry tree. Ophelia ate those cherries with a smile. But within the week I was in the Robinsons' house when here came Ophelia, racing up the steps and stumbling inside, panting and holding her seven-year-old chest, describing how the witch had caught her stealing cherries and grabbed her arm, cackling, "I'm gonna get you!
Even so, she made me promise to avoid the strange woman's house.