Sometimes People Die

Because The Cold has suddenly morphed into something much more sinister, and because said sinister sickness has a severe sucking effect on my ability to craft cleverly creative posts (although it apparently has no impact on my annoying alliteration), I'm just going to give you a conversation that I heard a few weeks ago in American Literature:

C: (slow, 9:15 a.m. voice) "So last night, I had just gotten done reading Grass (Carl Sandburg), and I found out my Grandma died."
T: (stupidly, because how do you react to such news?) "Really? Oh I'm sorry!"
C: "It's okay...sometimes people die."

Sometimes people die.

Sometimes people die of trifling colds that have them prostrate with fever one day and shaking with coughs the next. Sometimes people die of endlessly blogging instead of studying for American Lit tests they have tomorrow. Or German tests they have tomorrow as well. Sometimes people die of excitement for Spring Break, or of delight found in a certain Plathy book, or even of hyperbole. Sometimes people die from holding grudges too long (I think they explode), or from indecision regarding what to give up for Lent. Sometimes people die of curiosity about death (or do they really die from the irony of it all?). Sometimes people die when vengeful blog readers get fed up with absurdly awesome alliteration.

It happens.

The Consequences of Folly

While writing the majority of a 10 page research paper at about 5 a.m. this morning (after having pulled at all-nighter), I was suddenly reminded of a certain chapter in Betsy Was a Junior, entitled "The Consequences of Folly:"

"We bought the paper covers and the glue and things ages ago."
"But then we forgot all about them."
"And now he wants them turned in tomorrow and he says they will count for one fourth of our year's marks! It's awful!" said Betsy, summarizing. "It's a perfectly awful situation!"
The rest of the Crowd had gone riding in Carney's auto, but Betsy, Tacy and Tib had not been able to go. They had come face to face at last with the matter of herbariums.
"'A herbarium,'" said Betsy, "'is a collection of dried and pressed specimens of plants, usually mounted or otherwise prepared for permanent preservation and systematically arranged in paper covers placed in boxes or cases.'"
"You know the definition all right," said Tib. "But you can't turn in a definition tomorrow."
"How many flowers did he say we had to have?"
"Fifty."
"We might as well tell him we haven't made them and all flunk the course," said practical Tib. "At least we can all take it again together in the fall."
"But we'll be seniors then!" cried Betsy. "I don't want to be in Gaston's biology again with all the juniors! Why don't we try to make the herbariums tonight? There have to be at least fifty kinds of flowers up on the Big Hill! We can label all night long."
Tacy's eyes began to shine. "Let's try. It would be fun."
"All right," said Tib. "I'm willing if you are. You can come, I think, but we can't let Papa and Mamma know we're awake all night."


After a long night of picking, drying, pasting, and labeling, along with discovering that there was a reason the herbariums had been assigned way back at the beginning of the year, Betsy, Tacy and Tib come to the very realization I came to at around 3 a.m. this morning:

"I think," said Tib, as they walked down Hill Street, "that this was an idiotic thing to do."
Betsy and Tacy grunted.
"Why, I realized last night that I would have enjoyed making a herbarium. I like to do that sort of thing. I could have made a good one."
"So could I," admitted Tacy.
"Well, I couldn't," said Betsy. "But I should have been interested at least. I'm crazy enough about flowers."

That'll Do, Pig. That'll Do.

Maddie, King and I were walking across the Mall today. We were talking about our favorite childhood movies, and from there we got on the topic of the movie Babe.
We then realized that there was a catch phrase of sorts in that movie that the old farmer says to Babe after Babe successfully herds the sheep.
We walked to dinner trying to figure it out.
We talked about it at dinner.
When we got back to the dorm, Maddie and I decided to go downstairs to talk to Tim.
On our way to Tim's room, we walked past Brochman's room. Brochman came out to chat, his fingers holding his place in Arabian Nights.
I asked him about the book, saying that I had never read it and had always wanted to.

Brochman: Arabian nights is basically a story within a story within a story. It starts with a princess who's going to have her head cut off. She starts to tell her captor a story to prolong her life. In her story, there's a genie who pops out of a lamp and begins to tell a story, and in the genie's story someone else is telling a story, and it just keeps going on.*

Maddie: Have you ever seen the movie Babe?

Brochman: Well that was random. Yeah I think I have. Why?

Holly: Because we've been trying to figure out what the old farmer says to Babe after he herds the sheep. It's like 'atta pig' or 'good pig' or something like that. It's a catch phrase of sorts.

Brochman: I have no idea.

-random boy walks in-

Brochman: Do you know what the old farmer guy says to Babe after he herds the sheep?

Boy 1: No idea.

-another random boy walks in-

Boy 1: You know in the movie Babe, when Babe herds the sheep? What does the old farmer say to him?

Boy 2: Gosh, I don't know. I haven't seen that movie in a really long time.

Boy 1: I'll look it up.

-Boy 1 goes in room and shuts door-

-Boy 2 goes in room and shuts door-

-Maddie, Holly, and Brochman continue chatting-

-Boy 1 opens door of room, and steps into hallway-

Boy 1: That'll do, pig. That'll do.

-Boy 1 goes back into room and shuts door-

-Boy 2 comes out of room-

Boy 2: That'll do, pig. That'll do.

-Boy 2 goes back into room and closes door-


Pretty sure we accidently semi experienced the chain reaction of Arabian Nights in real life.

College is epic.

*Note: I paraphrased Brochman's summary of Arabian Nights (as did he, probably, when he summarized it). May not be completely accurate.

The L's are silent, Mr. E.

For dinner tonight, my dad and I decided to make quesadillas. Well, he decided. By the time I made my grand entrance into the kitchen, he was already stirring a thin white liquid around in a bowl, looking puzzled.
The following conversation followed:
"Hi Dad. Need some help? I can chop the olives."
"Olives! Shoot! I forgot!"
"Hey Hol?"
"What?"
"Isn't this supposed to be thicker?"
"Um, yes."
"Okay, well, I'll add some more chicken. That should help."
"Maybe you could add flour. That's a thickener!"
"Yeah! Flour! Go get it!"
"Okay. Does that look like enough?"
"More. This stuff is really runny."
"There you go."
"I'll just start on the cheese."
"Dad?"
"What?"
"Is it supposed to look that disgusting?"
"I don't think so."
"Mom's home!"
"Quick! Hide the flour!"

Believer it or not, the quesadillas actually turned out fairly well. A little watery, though.