| Food Fast 2007 Article |
[Jun. 18th, 2007|12:34 pm] |
I’m only sixteen years old. I’m barely 5'2 and can’t reach the top shelves in my kitchen. I don’t have a job and can’t support myself on lunch money alone. I only recently gained the ability to drive myself around, but, I still avoid going some places due to rotaries and confusing intersections. If there is still so much that I can’t do by myself, how am I supposed to help kids my age in another country?
Usually when I hear about people in need, that’s my thought: “I’m only sixteen.” But, when Lent came around this year, I had a different attitude. It was time for the Food Fast again, and I knew this was one way even a sixteen-year-old could help people in need.
When Food Fast ‘07 was just a week away I started thinking about last year, what we did and what we saw. Had the statistics changed? Had the number of children who die every day from malnutrition decreased? Or worse, had it increased? Just by thinking about this, the will power came over me again. I encouraged all my friends to fast with me (which wasn’t easy- you try telling people that not eating is fun..), I collected donations from family members, and I started to prepare myself for Good Friday.
Ten a.m. on Friday April 6th, my friends and I ate as many chocolate banana pancakes that could fit in our stomachs, and loaded our pockets with water and Gatorade. As we walked into the lower hall of Immaculate Conception Church, sleeping bags and pillows in hand, we were presented with the official “Food Fast 2007" T-Shirts. We all dawned our crimson and cream uniforms and entered the hall.
A few ice breakers later, all the participants- ranging from middle school to high school- marched upstairs to the Church to take part in the Stations of the Cross. A handful of students, including myself read each station as a story in itself. Usually you don’t think of the Stations as something teenagers would voluntarily be a part of, but you also wouldn’t expect them to voluntarily give up food either. After hearing and listening to the steps of Jesus, we all headed back downstairs more aware that what we were doing re-created Jesus’ Good Friday suffering.
After a quick juice break to get our minds off the fact that it was approaching lunch time, all of us High School students walked up the street to Glen Ridge Nursing Home. Aside from shooting curious looks at the crimson cloud of people flowing up the street, I’m pretty sure drivers on Pleasant Street that afternoon really enjoyed the Kelly Clarkson we blasted over the radio on our walk. Upon reaching our destination, we filed into the dining hall and were greeted by the most radiant faces anyone could see. Our mere youthful presence brought delight to the residents at Glen Ridge. After another read through of the Stations, we mingled with our elders and bridged any generation gap that might have existed. With nothing less than enthusiasm they told stories of who they were, what things were like way back when, and who we reminded them of. Even a hug, a touch to the shoulder, or holding a hand brought tears to their eyes- and a smile to our faces.
With the nuisance of hunger becoming more noticeable as dinner time approached, our games in the hall back at IC involved using up any energy we still had. Any activity demanding us to pop balloons with our butts or crab walk over to members of the opposite sex is sure to take our minds off of eating. After we got our adrenaline pumping a little, it was time to settle back down for our guest speaker, Tony Bellizzi. Tony was there to talk to us about his experience helping in third world countries. Much to the delight of the participants, Tony wasn’t boring. He reminded me of that uncle most people have- thick accent (from New York... Yankees stink.), a ton of energy, still seems like he’s young at heart but with enough wisdom and experience to fill an ocean. Tony told us stories from his past and plans for his future. He recounted stories from his trips, and even stumbled upon answering the question lurking in my mind. (What could a 16 year old do to help? ... if nothing else- pray) When Tony talked, he didn’t address us as children who would never rise to his level, which is often an unconscious problem of some adults, instead his words flowed through our ears like a beckoning to become great people. It was only seven o’clock, but Tony was already my favorite part of Food Fast.
When Tony had finished part one of his appearance, it was time for all of us to get dressed and head back up to the church for the Good Friday mass. If I had to pick one word to describe mass it would be...long. Very Long. But, lucky me, I had a front row seat as a Eucharistic Minister. When it came time for the Adoration of the Cross, I participated, and sat back down to watch everyone else. The Food Fast so far had been fun and involving, but this... this was interesting. Everyone- the elderly, the toddlers, the hungry teens, the crippled and the blind- they were all there, showing their devotion and love of Christ. This was the chance everyone had to physically show their thanks and praise for His sacrifice. I continued watching until the entire Church had gone up, at which point I went on with the mass as usual, with my foot half asleep.
Downstairs, the Food Fast went on. We changed into pajamas, did a little “Cotton Eyed Joe”, and gathered around the Juice Bar. Part two of Tony’s appearance came up in the chapel. We got comfortable, and quiet (which was challenging with all the rumbling stomachs) as he led us in a meditation that one can only experience to believe it’s overwhelming power. For that small portion of the night, I forgot my friends and focused on God. In my meditation, I received a gift from Jesus that was the answer to how I could help others.
The hours of Food Fast grew longer, the hunger more apparent, and our eyelids heavier. Once our sleeping bags were dispersed and scattered on the hall floor, it only took until about three a.m. for everyone to finally fall asleep. Morning was filled with bed head, cranky insomniacs, and a walk around the local pond. Before finally eating our long-craved lunch, we watched a final slideshow with a few horrifying statistics. For example, in the United States alone we spend an estimated $20 billion on ice cream every year - that’s enough to feed 83 million hungry children for the year. Hearing facts like that made me feel guilty about eating my plateful of ziti and chicken fingers. I spent 24 hours in the shoes of a hungry child, but unlike me, they didn’t have someone cooking them a bountiful meal the next day. Now that I have a day’s experience of being hungry, I think more before I reach for a snack from my kitchen cabinets. I don’t take my lunch money for granted as much as I used to. And one day, I won’t let even the most confusing intersection stop me from helping others. |
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| Pamela Propitious - A dramatic Monologue |
[May. 5th, 2007|05:05 pm] |
“Till Death?”
As far as my veil-hidden eye can see, that’s a long time.
Until death beds, departure, expiration dates
Until Heaven with just him.
“Unconditionally?”
Even when he’s sick. Even when he’s poor.
If he gets sick... I’ll probably get sick too.
If he’s poor... I’m poor too.
“Faithfulness?”
Good. So he can’t have any woman on the side.
But.. Neither can I. No woman on the side?
Wait, men. No more men. Just one.
“Love?”
I love my dress. And I love my hair.
This Penguin beside me..
Yeah, guess I love him too.
“.. To be your lawfully wedded husband?”
Yes. Yes I do.
Oh, wow, he looks quite happy...
...I wonder why? |
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| Deep Scarlet - A Short Short Story |
[May. 5th, 2007|05:02 pm] |
The panes of her cedar-framed windows suddenly filled with a crimson strobe light, recognizable as only one thing. Her head slowly turned in acknowledgment of the lights as she got up, expecting the knock that came at the door.
“Hi..Janet,” the guest said, “um, I uh, I have some horrible news, Janet.” His voice was low, but high and he twiddled his thumbs and reluctantly looked the middle-aged woman in the eyes.
“I know, Tom, I um... already heard.” As she responded to the clearly uncomfortable guest standing in her doorway, another man, tall and burly but respectively clad in a Class A uniform, stepped into view behind the woman.
“Chief?,” the guest said, surprised as he straightened himself, “I thought I, well uh, I didn’t know you were going to uh-”
“I got here about twenty minutes ago, Murphy. It was my responsibility to deliver the message. I’ll see you at the station tomorrow, Murph.” The burly man insisted, and stared the guest down until he had apologetically left the house. The guest walked back to the truck parked outside, got in, and silently roared down the street. He turned the flashing lights off and the window panes were succumbed with the darkness of the street.
“They all think it was an accident,.” The burly man said as he slid his rough hand around her neck, “Murph doesn’t suspect anything.”
“Who would?” She responded before leading him upstairs. |
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| Make way for the Stretcher |
[Mar. 8th, 2007|06:37 pm] |
I’ve opened my eyes and
behind my mother, standing tall and strong
is the cross
The fireman asks me to roll over, and
he wraps me in a swaddling blanket
On the count of three, they lift and
down the steps I go
On a bed with wheels, they begin to push
As they walk, their boots scruff the carpets down the aisle
it sets a nice rhythm for their voices, discussing my condition
The ceiling is freshly painted
And the lights seem dimmed
The choir loft seems higher and sprinkled with
delicate engravings
The stations go by quicker
as they’ve wheeled me out the door
The air outside is frigid
and windy
but I’ve got my swaddling blanket
and my bumblebee heros walk beside me |
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| I'll save you if you Save me (a villanelle) |
[Mar. 8th, 2007|06:36 pm] |
In our world, there is no guarantee
So how do you make up your mind?
You’re supposed to be saving me
It’s nothing new for us to disagree
When we seem to be falling behind
But, In our world, there is no guarantee
Our lives should be filled with joy and glee
But our peers are not that kind
You’re supposed to be saving me
If there was anything we could foresee
It should have been the demise of mankind
But, in our world there is no guarantee
We can only handle this to a certain degree
When our lives seem so confined
You’re supposed to be saving me
Who will be my nominee
Since you seem so screened and blind
In our world, there is no guarantee
You’re supposed to be saving me |
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| Thirteen Ways of Looking at my Hand |
[Mar. 8th, 2007|06:33 pm] |
modeled after the poem by Wallace Stevens
I.
Among a sweaty, huddled team
The very palest thing
Was my Hand
II.
I was of three minds
Like a clock
On which there are three Hands
III.
My Hands speak to my friends
And theirs speak back to me
IV.
A boy and a girl
Are One
A boy and a girl with their Hands
Are One
V.
I do not know which to prefer
The silent independence
Or finding a perfect partner.
Building the puzzle
Or looking at the masterpiece
VI.
Tightfitting mittens mask
Who they really are.
A penciled finger
Moves back and forth
My heart
Traced in the snow
For you to see
VII.
O, little girl of the lonely world,
Why do you imagine
that the grass is greener
When your Hands
Hang right beside you?
VIII.
I know letters
And words, and lines
But I know, too,
That my Hands go
Wherever I go
IX.
When my Hands waved goodbye
It traced the outline
Of the first “Hello”
X.
At the sight of Hands
Held tightly together
Even the lonliest
Would cry out in happiness
XI.
They ride over souls
In their peachy flesh
Once, a fear pierced them,
In that they mistook
That shadow of themselves
For a starfish
XII.
The heart is moving
The Hand must be waving
XIII.
It was Goodbye all Hello
It was raining
And it was going to rain
The Hand stood
Waving goodbye |
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| Show dejavu |
[Jan. 11th, 2007|07:25 pm] |
Have you ever been sitting in a room
and you see someone else
wearing your shoes?
Sometimes,
it’s very rare.
Your shoes, are like your hands
They characterize who you are.
They define you as a person.
Sitting there, daydreaming and sailing
away, off the topic
It might be interesting to stare at people’s faces
But no, they show nothing in them
And faces hold no secrets.
A look to the floor reveals a circle
of interesting feet.
Bright pink Chuck Taylors:
This girl knows what she wants
And she doesn’t care about opinions.
Her right foot is jumpy
She has someplace better to be.
Golden Timberland Work Boots:
They’re scuffed up, and dirty.
He knows the meaning of work
They’re off his feet, and laying dead on the floor
It was a long day and they need a rest.
Black and White Vans:
This kid likes adventure.
He’ll go anywhere he wants
And try anything new.
They’re tied in a double knot, he’s ready to go.
What’s at the bottom of these shoes?
They must know where they’re going...
Our shoes are what gets us to our destination.
Where have these shoes been?
Why do the chucks have a poem written on the side?
What have those Vans done to earn a hole at the toe?
Why are those work boots doing so much work?
They may have tongues
And deep dark soles
But we may never know their secrets.
And we may never meet someone
who is wearing our shoes. |
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| Ode to Sidewalks |
[Jan. 11th, 2007|07:24 pm] |
I love
Sidewalks
because you can
Never
Walk on the same
Sidewalk
twice.
A new person
has stepped on this
concrete easel
every day,
every hour,
every minute,
every second.
They left their
Footprint
here forever.
You can’t erase it
And you can’t
see it,
but it’s there.
In the
Candy Corn
leaves
That crunched
and crinkled-
There’s a footprint.
On the blackened
zit of gum,
trampled,
squished,
and unloved-
There’s a footprint.
Inside every
crack
and broken back-
There’s a footprint.
Every shoe leaves behind
a memory-
a little bit of them
to change the future
of this
Sidewalk
forever.
Whether it be a
Silent loafer,
a Snapping heal,
a Shredding sneaker,
or a Smacking flip-flop-
They have formed the
History
of this
Sidewalk.
Oh, the stories
you can tell,
and the
soles you’ve seen.
Where have you
led them?
And where do you
lead me? |
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| Dining with Emeril |
[Jan. 11th, 2007|07:23 pm] |
There is no one description for a meal with my family. I have more than one family, the people are always slightly different, conversation varies, and the food is never the same.
My blood family eats dinner at home, surrounding our seven-foot, home-made kitchen table. My Dad likes to think of himself as the next Emeril, so our food always smells exotic, looks like a garden, and tastes like a Five Star Restaurant; At least that’s what my parents say. I do more picking and poking than I do tasting. Now that my older brother is away at college, we keep his seat by the window warm by inviting grandparents, aunts, uncles, and my Dad’s friends over for a visit. Some of our favorite conversations consist of: My father’s night in the Fire Station, my mother’s day in a public middle school, and myself just ranting about how good my home room bagel was. I’ve been told that sharing a meal & conversation like we do is unusual, and that’s why my brother’s friends flock to our house a lot (or maybe it’s just the free food). But it wasn’t until other people appreciated it that I started to do the same.
My other family meals are less formal, no where near as healthy, and way more sarcastic. My friends are my second family and I’m with them as much as I can be- mostly on weekends. We don’t necessarily sit around a table; Sometimes we’re wandering around Boston eating cheesecake, occasionally waiting for the train getting drenched in powdered donuts, and every once in a while we’ll walk into a Four Star Restaurant in jeans and order just appetizers. My parents probably wouldn’t be happy if they knew what we were eating- or if they knew the reasons we always had beverages coming out of our noses, but these “meals” are what I live for. My friends are no Emeril, but they are my reason for watching the clock every other minute in school. |
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| The geeks shall inherit the earth |
[Jan. 11th, 2007|07:20 pm] |
Two people including myself stood in the front corridor of Arlington Catholic. I, a lowly sophomore who still couldn't drive, was waiting for my Mom to pick me up. Sitting across from me on the worn-wooden bench was a Senior. I had seen him around school. If you ask some of my peers about him, they'd probably reply that he was a geek, a nerd, a skeez, and your typical Screech. Looking back now, I bet I have even said that about him too. He was about average height, bony, lanky, and fresh-snow pale. He wore Harry Potter glasses, always had his cow-lick slicked with gel, and was always nose deep in a new novel. I had never talked to him, and that wasn't high on my to-do list.
As we both waited there, not a word between us, two guys from my grade walked down the stairs. They had apparently confused being in school with being in a rap video. The two of them walked into the corridor thinking they were the bees knees, the candle’s flame, the dog’s tail and pina’s colada.
Alex walked up to the Senior across from me, nodded to his entourage like "watch this", as the Senior just stared out the window at a dancing shopping bag.
"Petey, wanna see a picture of a naked girl? C'mon you know you want to. I have some pictures right here wanna see 'em?"
I glanced over to see Peter's reaction to Alex's comment. He sat nonchalantly eyeing the Stop & Shop bag which had now been joined by some freshly deceased leaves.
"C'mon Petey. What kinda pictures do you like, huh? What turns you on? Not these girls? OH, SO YOU'RE GAY?"
I stopped breathing for a second- and I wasn’t even the one he had said it to. Peter looked unfazed as he wisely ignored Alex. He hadn’t so much as flinched at the comment. His cheeks were an after-gym-class red and I wouldn’t be surprised if it was because of embarrassment.
Alex turned to his friend and said, "Aww, Petey doesn't wanna be friends with me, I'm so hurt I might cry!" The two of them shook with laughter, and continued walking down the staircase.
I know what a bully is (I’ve seen enough of the Disney Channel) but by the end of my Sophomore year, I didn’t think my school had any. Sure there were people that didn’t like you, and people you didn’t exactly want to hug, but I hadn’t yet experienced any bullying. That was until, I had a front row seat to oppression- and I just watched.
"Ugh, he's such a jerk." I casually said in Peter's direction.
"Yeah, Him and every other person here.", he still hadn’t moved from his church-like posture and fixation on the door.
To this day, I regret not defending Peter, not criticizing Alex, and I regret just standing there. After that incident, I learned that there are bullies outside of television. I also learned, thanks to Peter, that a silent bystander does just as much damage as the bully. |
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| M&Ms 4/06 FINISHED VERSION |
[Apr. 19th, 2006|03:24 pm] |
Carolyn Hardy
Creative Writing Mod 2
April 19, 2006
M&Ms
“..and you were there for me. Please remember our time together, the time was yours and mine and we were wild and free. Please remember, please remember me..” The words trickled from her tiny, innocent lips. On the bland white wall, the clock clacked in sync with the swishing feet of her saddle shoes, grazing the tile floor. Cory just sat, admiring the angelic ankle biter sitting across from him. He saw that she had a gold necklace around her neck, with the name “Angela” hanging from it. Cory figured that must be her name. As she murmured Leann Rimes, she was separating the M&Ms in her hand by color. Why was she here? She must’ve been five years old, much too young to experience what he was. Cory was seventeen, and even then, he was too young to be there.
“Will you push me?” Lucy gleamed at him, her hands holding loosely on the raw, rusty chains of the swing.
“Of course, hold on tight.” Cory told her merrily. He took three tough steps backward in the sand, and tossed the swing forward. Her caramel hair flew in the perfumed summer air. She kicked her flip flops onto the pavement and started humming.
He snapped back.
“Want some? I ate all the green ones a’cause those are my favorites but you can have some of the others.” Angela was sitting in the chair next to him now, with her tiny arm outstretched in front of him.
“No thanx.” Cory told her, trying to smile.
“Why are you here? I’m here a’cause my big brother is sick. He’s got lots of cancer in him and they needa get it out, else he’ll be in trouble. His name is James. He’s been here three times already. You look sad.” It looked like her grandmother had brought her, that’s who she was sitting with before. She had caramel hair, the same as Lucy’s, pulled back into a ponytail with a few pieces hanging in her face. She looked sad, but strong, and she was sitting on both of her feet, even though she was wearing a yellow sunflower dress. Cory hadn’t been in the mood to talk, but there was something about this little girl that just encouraged him to speak.
“I’m here for my girlfriend. I had to bring her in last night cuz she got hurt.” he knew it was worse than that, but he didn’t want to scare her with the chilly truth.
“Stop dragging your feet in the sand! You’re slowing yourself down!” He giggled. His eyes were just watching her from behind.
“I can’t help it you goof! I like feeling the sand in my toes!” shouted Lucy. She glanced up at the dark denim sky. “Make a wish,” she shut her eyes, and her lashes sat flushed against her cheeks, “Star Light, Star Bright, first Star I see tonight, I Wish I may I Wish I might, have the Wish I Wish tonight.” she opened her eyes and looked back at Cory. Her eyes glittered with the reflections of the stars.
Something brought him back again. It was the Angela’s tender fingers on his much bigger hand. He looked down at her and her wide and wondrous eyes looked up at him. “It’ll be ok, you can cry if you want though. I cry about James sometimes. Is your girlfriend hurt bad?” she asked it so sweetly, not knowing the answer was so much more bitter.
“Yeah, kinda. We went to the park last night, and she had an accident.” Cory was dulling it down. He was dulling it down the same way you sand the edges on a piece of wood so you don’t get splinters. The real story was a huge splinter sticking in his heart.
“How high do you think I can go and then jump off!?” she shouted excitedly. Now, He was sitting in the swing next to her, and she was pumping herself. The air was thick and warm, like it had just rained, and the sand was cold and clammy.
“Lucy, you hate jumping off the swings” he reinformed her, as if she had forgotten.
“Just watch me! I’m gonna do it!” She pumped harder and harder as Cory sat there shaking his head and laughing. “Ready? Okay, one, two, threeeeeeee!!” she leaped up and forward off the swing set and went sailing through the air like a kite at the beach. She twisted mid-air and her back collided with the run over sand. Life suspended from her body as she lay there immobilized.
“LUCY!!” Cory sprang from his swing and dashed over to her, tripping in the mountainous sand, “Lucy Get Up!!” No response. He knelt down beside her and felt her pulse. His hands were shaking, cold as he fumbled to get his cell phone out of his pocket. He dialed 911 hysterically and continued to shout her name in tears as he waited for the ambulance.
“I’m sorry. I’d be sad if one a my friends got hurt. Specially at the park. It’ll be ok though, these doctors are good- they’re gonna let James come home today.” The little girl was still holding Cory’s hand, trying to comfort him.
A brush of wind flashed past the two of them as the double doors yawned open. He made eye contact with the doctor, but couldn’t understand what he was thinking, not even by his expression. The little girl stood up in the chair, only rising to Cory’s sitting down height, balanced herself on his shoulder and kissed him on his stubbly cheek. She knelt down and whispered delicately in his ear, “Don’t worry. It’s ok to be scared.” She grabbed his hand, and slipped him some M&Ms, hopped down from the chair, and skipped away down the hallway.
Cory slipped the handful of M&Ms into his mouth and stood to go greet the Doctor. His knees were so weak he could barely stand. The Doctor walked over to Cory in his baby blue scrubs with his vacant expression.
“Cory McMattis?” The Doctor asked him.
“Yes sir, that’s me. How is she? Is she ok? What happened? Can I go in and see-”
“Listen. I can’t reveal too much information at this point in time since she’s not your immediate family. We’re still working on her right now, and that’s all I can tell you.” The Doctor turned around and passed back through the swinging doors.
“Bastard. Who cares if I’m not immediate family? I’m her boyfriend for God’s sake” He dared not say his thoughts out loud, for risk of getting kicked out of the hospital all together. He stood there staring in the direction in which the Doctor had gone for a good minute or so. When he finally turned around he saw the little girl’s grandmother still sitting there reading a People magazine with the little girl no where in sight. Cory walked over to the ash haired woman. She gave him a short but friendly smile as she glanced up from her reading when Cory sat beside her.
“Your granddaughter is very sweet.” Cory said with a polite smile.
“Excuse me?” The old woman answered.
“Your granddaughter, who was here before? She’s a very sweet little girl.” He replied a little hesitantly.
“I’m sorry, but, I don’t have any grandchildren. And I don’t know what little girl you’re speaking of. I’m sorry.”
“Oh, um, no, I apologize. I must have been mistaken.” Cory was stunned now. He must’ve just assumed wrong by thinking she was her grandmother. He figured now that he had some time to kill since the Doctors weren’t giving him any information. He dragged his feet on the tile over to the service desk.
“Excuse me, Miss?” he asked in his most polite voice.
“Yes, Can I help you?” The nurse answered, looking a little bothered.
“Can I please have the room number for a little boy named James?” He crossed his fingers and hoped there would be only one patient with that name in the children’s wing.
“James?” she asked.
“Yes, James.”
She flipped a bunch of papers, un clipped paper clips and searched with her eyes over and over again. “The only James in here, right? Are you related to him, Sir?”
“Yes, Ma’am, I’m his cousin.” He lied. And he didn’t care that he lied.
“Room 257, he should be there.”
“Thank You very much.” Cory grabbed his jacket off the chair and started down the hall in search of room 257. It wasn’t that hard of a search. It was only three doors down from the service desk. The door was open, so he gave a light knock as he placed his foot in the doorway.
A tall blonde woman appeared in front of him. She looked like she should have been in her mid thirties but was aging faster.
“Hi, is this James’ room? Is his sister here?”
“Yes, this is his room. I’m his mother. I’m sorry, did you just ask for his sister?”
“Yes, the little girl in the sunflower dress, and the gold necklace that says ‘Angela’?”
“I’m sorry, James’ sister Angela passed away two years ago.”
“I’m going crazy.” Cory thought as he walked away from the woman without saying a word. “I swear to God I saw that little girl.” he kept saying to himself.
After sitting in the hard hospital chair for another hour, the same Doctor came out of the same swinging doors again. Cory just sat there, studying the patterns of tiles and the creases on his shoes.
“You can see her now.” The Doctor said in a stern, unwilling voice.
Cory’s head snapped up and he dashed through the doors as fast as he could. He saw Lucy laying in a bed, her eyes shut, and the room looking like the inside of a spaceship. There were wires and tubes and buttons and beeping noises surrounding her everywhere. Cory collapsed at the side of her bed as the Doctor appeared behind him.
“She’s in a coma. We’re not sure if she’ll make it. I wanted to give you a chance to talk to her. Talking helps with these cases.” the Doctor told him.
Cory looked up at his girlfriend in blurry vision through his tear filled eyes. He wiped his face, and went to grab her hand, hanging off the bed. As he felt her warm skin, he also felt something clutched inside of her fingers. He pried them open, and saw a handful of M&Ms. |
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| The Old Me 9/05 |
[Mar. 18th, 2006|02:37 pm] |
It’s hard to forget
But I love to remember
What things used to be like
Back when I was the old me.
My grandmother’s baking partner.
Feeling like a teenager with
My gelly shoes and
Clip on earrings.
Half my time spent on my SIT ‘N’ SPIN
The other half, with my Barbies.
Me, with maple syrup and jam hands
And red, sticky lips.
“Daddy’s Little Girl”, singing
The Barney Song everywhere.
Skinned knees and grass stained jeans
With sand in my shoes.
Squished together on the red couch,
Not a single foot on the floor.
Skipping around with
Olive-tipped fingers and cold bologna.
The accident-prone girl next door, but
Always having soap in my mouth.
Trying to make snow angels in the yard
But being too plump and round.
With a Jack-O-Lantern face,
Greeting the mailman half way down the street.
Back when the highlight of my day, was
Whatever we were having for dessert.
Me, being chased around
By Pepé Le Pew.
Constantly craving sunburns,
And a little bit of “Lip Lip”.
The old me, so innocent and angelic,
Knowing little to nothing, and
Being perfectly content with
Just that... being a child. |
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| Every Little Thing 10/05 |
[Mar. 18th, 2006|02:36 pm] |
Every Little Thing
It’s the Greater Things That People Want More
But Those little moments of happiness, we often ignore
We have those Smaller things, We couldn’t live without
They’re what keeps us going day in and day out.
The only time we’ve got goes much too fast
What we should be doing, and are, is much a contrast.
It’s that same old story that everyone knows
Time would not care if it would be to impose.
Waking up to the Flip of a flap Jack
And feeling the tingling of your back crack
These Make your day just a little bit better
Like licking the envelope on a newly written letter.
Capture these memories, still in your mind
For when life moves, there is no rewind.
A “Job Well Done!” With a stinging high-five
These moments, again, make us feel so alive.
Jumping up on the trampoline so high
And coming home to the smell of Apple Pie
Seeing the changing leaves of fall
Enjoy it now, since you’re in for the long-haul.
The Sand heating up your feet at the beach
While sitting, savoring, a sweet summer peach.
The warm hug of having a new crush
A new heart to squeeze like a Teddy Bear’s plush.
The Bitter sensation of hitting your funny bone
Knowing, with him, you’re never alone.
Looking at the stars, gleaming in the night
Swinging till the ground is far out of sight.
Staying out all night, getting lost in the car
Forgetting that adult-hood isn’t that far.
Life is just one big jumble
Of prides and fumbles.
The Journey is half of the fun
And all of your little moments
Just add up to the big ones. |
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| The Good Girl 2/06 |
[Mar. 18th, 2006|02:34 pm] |
The Good Girl
The clicking of her heals could be heard down the hall. We had learned to distinguish how our teachers walked. This particular one, we could tell, was dangerous. It told us that we had better be quiet otherwise, the next time we hear those heals would be walking down to the principal’s office. She walked in the door and her shrill voice spoke loud and fast.
“You’re in the Fourth grade now. Next year, you will be moving over to the Junior High. I teach either graders over there. I am not going to baby you. I am going to treat you the same as I treat them. It’s time you all grew up and took some responsibility.”
Mrs. Newman’s speech on the First Day of school seemed a tad harsh to us, her only class under eighth grade. But her strict tone was softened, and we were able to breathe out again when she gave us “Magic School Bus” name tags for our desks and sour blow-pops. Maybe the “sour” should’ve been a tip off.
I had struggled with my new math course all year. I knew multiplication and simple division but it was the long division that was wearing down my erasers. I was always pretty much the “Perfect” good little girl. I had long, blonde hair, lots of friends, and I had always gotten good grades. That’s why, when I started struggling with my math, my parents, who hadn’t done long division in over 10 years, taught themselves just so they could help me.
All my hard work was finally paying off. My grades had increased dramatically and I had just gotten a 100% on a test. I even got a sparkly sticker on my test. But the next day in class, Mrs. Newman, in her sweet and sour voice, yelled “Take out your signed Tests!” Uh oh. I had forgotten to get mine signed. I THOUGHT she might let it slide since the grade was a 100.
“Not test? Forget? Too bad. Not my problem. That’s a detention. Next Monday 2:30- 3:45. I told you I was going to treat you like eighth graders.”
She started writing out that dreaded pink slip of paper. I just sat there, trying to hold back my tears. The entire class sat, jaws to the ground. To them I was no longer “Good Girl Carolyn”. That was, until I got to the cold, small, unpainted detention room. I was Fresh Meat. I hadn’t done anything “worthy” to be there. To all those “usuals” my hair was still in a ponytail, my shoes were still shiny and my reputation, still “The Good Girl”. |
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| Mothballs 2/06 |
[Mar. 18th, 2006|02:32 pm] |
Mothballs
I was completely and utterly embarrassed of myself. I was fifteen and had never been kissed. I was also disappointed. I had started a sort of relationship with a friend of my brother, but still, no lip action. I never thought it would come. In my eyes, I was doomed to stayed unkissed forever.
We were all supposed to be studying, but my brother’s friend and I had gotten a game of tag going in the house. Pretty soon we were all six years old again, running around, hopped up on sugar. Someone even had the bright idea to turn on the hose from the sink.
I went upstairs to change my cold, heavy jeans which were now soaked. He followed me up the steps and said he had lost his lip balm out of his pocket. I offered to help him look. He claimed it might be in the little linen closet, so we both cramped and squished in there to look. The light flickered and I was standing on a piece of vacuum cleaner hose. Suddenly, I knew what was going on. We looked at each other, and it happened so fast, I’m surprised I even knew what to do. He pulled me closer, and put his hands on my still wet hips. My shaking hands were almost magnetically drawn around his neck. And then, he kissed me. His rough stubble was a perfect combination with his smooth lips. His engaging smell was strong, as were his hands. It was totally unexpected, the closet was only meant for one person, and it smelt like mothballs. That’s what made it so perfect. |
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| Home Alone 2/06 |
[Mar. 18th, 2006|02:32 pm] |
HOME ALONE
“You better tell me the who, what, when, where, and why or you’re not going anywhere.”
My brother and I had already told my Mom this info about five times, but I figured it would be wise to humor her.
“The who is me, Mark, obviously Chris, Nicolette, Pat and Bri. The what is a Home Alone dinner. The when is in about five minutes if you let us go. The where is at Mark’s house. They why is because we’re a bunch of teenagers with nothing to do on a Saturday night who feel like doing something completely and totally random. Can we go?”
“What the hell is a ‘Home Alone’ dinner?” I had explained this to her already too. Our group of friends was going over someone’s house to have, what we called, a Home Alone dinner. We referred to it as this because we were a bunch of ‘90's kids brought up on Macaulay Culkin. In Home Alone 1, Macaulay Culkin sets the table all fancy with candles, and shiny silverware, but then he just eats microwavable macaroni and cheese. Well, that’s what we were planning to do.
My mother finally let my older brother and I leave the house, dressed all fancy and tidy. We got to Mark’s house and all three boys were wearing ties and jackets, and the three girls were all in dressed and heels. The dining room lights were dimmed to a shimmery caramel tone, and the jumping flames of three candles were reflected in the crystal wine glasses. Each china place setting had multiple forks and spoons, and cloth napkins. But, Mark hadn’t even started to boil the water yet. The three girls stepped in and started cooking. The boys just loitered around the kitchen holding the plate of odeirves- which consisted of a few buttery RITZ crackers, deli style ham and bologna, mini Milky Way and Snickers bars, and assorted SweeTarts.
A few minutes went by, and we all took our places at the Five-Star dining room table. Our menu ended up consisting of: Spongebob Squarepants and Blues Clues Macaroni& Cheese, burnt grilled cheese sandwiches, and dinosaur shaped chicken nuggets. We sipped grape juice out of our crystal wine glasses with pinkies up. We sat there like adults acting mature, eating like third graders, and laughing like our normal sixteen-year old selves. We truly were the perfect picture for Pablo Picasso’s famous words, “Youth Has No Age.”
We bathed the dishes, extinguished the flames, and changed into our pajamas. We ran, slid, and raced into the living room blasted some music, and reenacted the “Shout” scene from Animal House. We were professional and overly experienced when it came to jumping around like a couple of mental patients who had forgotten to take their Ridilin and got high off pixie sticks. We had planned on having a scary movie marathon, but we remembered that it was impossible. Our friends could never watch a whole movie. We always ended up just gabbing and giggling. You could say we had movie-ADD.
Just like always, the clock seemed to be on steroids, and our curfew came much too quick. We left with another SlideShow in our minds of an incredible night. That Monday, in school, just like ever Monday, people asked what I did on my weekend. When I told them about our Home Alone dinner they just looked at me all strange. I think it’s because they have never been lucky enough to partake in their very own Home Alone dinner and they don’t know how crazy-fun it can be. People like that, who raise one eyebrow at my stories, need to stop growing up. |
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| The Big Red Truck 2/06 |
[Mar. 18th, 2006|02:31 pm] |
The Big Red Truck
I weigh a very hard to believe one hundred and seven pounds. I wear a size extra-small shirt and a size zero in jeans. I would easily get demolished in a game of football. Yet, here I find myself the only thing controlling a monstrous Forty-two thousand seven hundred and forty pound truck. Something like that would seem hard, but in reality it was as smooth and easy as cutting a whip cream pie.
I’ve sat in this seat before. I was much smaller, couldn’t reach the pedal and was blinded by the steering wheel. Now, I fit. I’m not the missing puzzle piece, not even close, I’m just one of those tricky ones. I’m not supposed to go here, but for a second, you would think I am.
I stretch my leg up, take that big step and get comfortable. My Dad is sure to tell me “Only use ONE foot. The Left one is the brake and the right one is the gas. Only LIGHTLY tap on the gas.” He goes to get in at the other door. We’re facing towards the sun and it’s shining on me like a spotlight from the sky. My Dad tells me to press the “D” button. What’s that for? D for Danger? Seems appropriate to me. Next, I am instructed to pull the yellow diamond knob out. It has marks of dirt on it and I can tell it has been pulled out many times before. I do what I was told, and the truck lets out a sigh. My guess is that it wasn’t a sigh of happiness, it was a sigh of “Oh Jeez, here’s some fifteen year old who doesn’t even have her permit. Crap. This should be fun.” The truck seemed to not be in too good of a mood. He was right, though. I don’t have my permit and still won’t for about six months. I’ve never been behind the wheel of a car Let alone a fire truck. My heart started beating faster and faster underneath my poofy winter jacket. The rhythm seemed to be saying “Oh No, I don’t know what I’m doing! Oh No, I don’t know what I’m doing!” It’ll be OK though, there is only a single gangly telephone pole in the parking lot, and the weeping willows are way over there.
That odor overwhelms me. I almost can’t breathe. I’m used to this smell, but usually just standing next to the truck- not driving it. It was a concoction of fuel, gas, rubber, smoke and flat out dirtiness. I try to picture the smell. I see a gross gas station in the middle of the desert as some fat man comes and sets a tire on fire. “Whoops...stop letting your mind wander off, Carolyn. Eyes on the road. Eyes on the road before you kill yourself, run into a tree and get your Dad fired. Just keep your eyes in front of you.” What is wrong with this stupid truck? I didn’t tell it to go to the right. Honestly, it has a mind of it’s own and isn’t listening to me. It knows I’ve never done this before. It’s playing with me like this on purpose. Stupid. “TURN, TURN, TURN!” my Dad was telling me. I grip the wheel and pull and pull it to the left but nothing happens. “Turn it more, Carolyn, Turn it more.” my Dad was telling me. Ok, now I was going straight again. That wasn’t that hard...I think. “You’re gonna want to brake now. Brake. BRAKE!” my Dad piped. He had told me I only needed to tap on it lightly! Or was that the gas? Whoops. I don’t want to slam on it, but the pedal is so tight. It’s not stopping. “Ok, now try to stay off the white lines. Pretend those really are parked cars.” my Dad tells me. My mind walks away again, “Haha it’s like when I was little! Like when everything was molten lava except for the couch cushions! Haha, oh those were the good ‘ol days. No! Stop it, eyes on the road.” It was time to turn again, and I did it on my own. I yanked the wheel and then let it go. The gummy rubber wheel slid through the palms of my hands. Aww crap, I hit a parked car. Boy, it’s a good thing I don’t do this for a living. Not only would people die on the road being hit by me, but there is no way I would make it to fires in time to save people. “Ok now step on the gas lightly” What? Oh, I wasn’t paying attention again. I slid up in my seat a little and tapped the gas. The truck cleared it’s throat and grunted at me. “Ok now pull over here and step on the brake” my father said as he clicked open the door and jumped out. “No, keep your foot on the brake or else it’ll move!”My bad. He told me to press the “N” button now. And what was the N for? “Never again Carolyn will drive”? That would make sense. I pushed the yellow diamond back in. Now, one of those marks of being pulled in and out was mine. Once again the manner less truck burped at me. It was like a quilt of buttons, lights and do-dads in there. Apparently most of them aren’t important. Either that or I just wasn’t trusted enough to touch them. My little fingers pulled on the shiny cold handle, and opened the door. It wasn’t squeaky like my brother’s car. Then again, it also didn’t have a foot of trash on the ground like my brother’s. I leaped down the three feet to the asphalt. “Ya know, this can move fifteen-hundred gallons of water per minute? A garden hose can only move twelve.” my father informed me. “Yikes” I thought, “I can barely carry a cup of water somewhere without spilling it.” I started to walk away, back to my mother’s car. Hers was about a fourth the size of the fire truck. “Was it fun?” my mom asked. “I am so ready for my permit.” I said. She sighed, just like the fire truck, “oh jeez.”
Final Grade = A |
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| A Favor From God 2/06 |
[Mar. 18th, 2006|02:31 pm] |
A Favor From God
“Happy Easter!” I had said it about three times. Anything was incapable of being understood over the sound of laser guns and electric bombs going off in the background behind us. I gave up on trying to recognize the holiday to my grandparents, and slid in my tights over to my shoes.
“Mummy, make sure we get some left over mashed potatoes!”
The plopping of leftovers into ziploc containers was muffling to sisterly gosip of my mother and aunt. I felt a breeze whip by my legs and as I turned around I heard the pitter-patter of bear feet, and saw my two youngest cousins dash out of sight.
“Carolyn Marie, shoes-NOW! Last time I’m telling you! We’re leaving, Let’s go!” said my mother through her teeth as she continued to gab. My Dad told me to say goodbye to my grandparents, and without letting him see my eyes roll, I started to walk away.
“Give them a hug and a kiss this time.” I hadn’t done that since I was about nine. I was twelve now-too cool to kiss my grandparents. But, my father’s look was burning into me. I knew those eyes. They were the “Do it or die” eyes.
“Bye, Mum, Bye, Big Jim Happy Easter! I love you guys!” My Dad was right. They did seem thrilled. I loved to see them smile the same way they loved to see me smile. I still didn’t see how something so small could mean so much. “Oh well” I said to myself. I didn’t give it any further thought.
That was the last time I saw my grandfather before he died two days later. Naturally, I was sad. I lay in the fetal position before bed but I couldn’t cry. It was so frustrating to feel those dry tears as I remembered every memory I could. All those times he gave me extra cookies after dinner, when he used to let me put as much sugar as I wanted in my tea, I even remembered all those times he would tell me “No playing ball in the house.” The little things made me laugh like his plaid shirts, or his white socks with black shoes.
It was one of those nights, during the week of the funeral when I remembered Easter. It may have seemed that my father told me to kiss my grandparents, I seem to look at it a different way. God didn’t want me to regret not kissing them. He knew what was going to happen. God did me a favor. |
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| STALE MARSHMALLOWS 2/06 |
[Mar. 18th, 2006|02:30 pm] |
“Yes, his parents will both be there. Yeah, he’s had his license for more than six months. Yes, we’ll drive carefully.” Lies. All lies. I can’t believe my parents bought all that junk. His parents weren’t going to be anywhere near his lake house. He had only gotten his license four months ago. And, were we really expected to drive the speed limit on a country road where there were no other cars? All of our parents actually let us go up to Pat’s lake house. What were they, crazy? It was a Saturday night and we were ranging in ages from fifteen-seventeen and yet they trusted us.
We piled on sweatshirts, jackets, hats and gloves. But, as soon as all nine of us crammed and condensed into two cars, we all de-layered. Partially, because we were just rebelling against our parents, but mostly because we were playing one hell of a game of Padiddle. We did have limits, though. Seen as how there were brothers and sisters in the car, we figured it best to not go past our underwear.
We got on the highway, cranked down the squeaky windows, and turned the music up. It was obnoxiously loud, but we were singing even louder. It was the soundtrack to our life; how were we supposed to keep quiet? We got to K-MART, and continued on our journey of being stereotypical, annoying teenagers. We raced up and down the aisles in carriages and managed to knock over the Blue Light Special display of Chicken of the Sea. Before being kicked out, we grabbed some marshmallows, graham crackers, chocolate bars, PEZ, and Pepsi. We paid in the lint covered quarters and dimes at the bottoms of our pockets, and left the store laughing at the aggravated store employees. We had officially ruined at least a few people’s lives. Mission Accomplished.
Our flip flops smacked the pavement as we raced back to the cars. It was about thirty degrees outside, and we got quite a few strange looks from passers by. We got even more strange looks when we started chucking stale marshmallows out the windows. It was only when we clunked and crept up to the lake house that we realized we had forgotten about ten-thousand other things. We couldn’t see a hand in front of our face and had to make our way in and out of the woods by way of the light from our cell phones. The leaves and sticks cracked and snapped beneath our shoes and bit our ankles. It came as a shocking and unpleasant surprise when we found out how close the lake water was to the beach. Our teeth applauded as we waited to get inside the house. Nope. We had forgotten the key. We dug a hole in the cold, sticky sand and collected sticks and twigs. After about our sixth match, the campfire was lit. The wind combed through our hair, and the smoke brought us to tears. We were completely mesmerized by the skipping, twirling embers caused by a fan of dry pine needles. A few of us mirrored the embers as we came running all arm and legs back to the fire after a dip in the arctic lake waters. We redefined the word “gross” when we caramelized hot dogs with marshmallow sugar. The play list of the night was the sounds of nine hyaenas at a circus with an occasional sound of a disgruntled neighbor who was just jealous of our youth. We made an interesting and scientific discovery- carbonated soda cans will in fact explode when exposed to flame. We seemed to forget that we were right next to a lake, and we left putting the flames out to the boys and their many cans of Pepsi.
Hugs were given, unexpected kisses were received and we piled back into the tiny sedan. Now, it was a race against our curfews. We kept our eyes on the clock as we gossiped and giggled about the most random of nights we had just shared. Tomorrow there would only be sad, empty remnants in the form of soda cans and stale marshmallows of a night that would never be forgotten. We were the definition of youth, a picture of insanity, and a soundtrack of fun. We all arrived home, dashing from the car, and running to our parents only to find that the clock in the car was an hour fast.
“Did you have fun? What’d you guys do?” My parents asked my older brother and me, smelling the campfire on our clothes.
We both grinned, and shared a momentary secret glance. “Nothing. Same old junk.”
Final Grade = A+ |
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| Hi there. |
[Mar. 18th, 2006|02:27 pm] |
Helloooo. Welcome to my new lj. It's not a diary though.
I'm just gonna put in everything I write so you can read it and enjoy.
That's pretty much all.
Hope you enjoy everything; Feel free to comment.
:)
♥ Carolyn |
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