A Novel in Eleven Parts

If I were to write a novel, in parts, detailing last Friday’s*** adventure , it would probably look something like this:

Part One:
In which Mother and I embark on an iconic road trip across Southeastern Minnesota. Prior to departure, I debate for 4 minutes over which book to choose for my third. First was Persuasion, second was a lighter read on loan from Mother, and third was eventually determined to be This Way for The Gas, Ladies and Gentlemen. It's important to have genre and tone balance amongst one's road trip book choices. And it's important to bring three books. You finish one, you spill a hot beverage on one, and you're still set.

Part Two:
In which I do not read one page, but instead feel the same excited thumping in my chest I felt ten years ago, when I last visited Pepin, Wisconsin***.

***A note on Pepin, Wisconsin: Laura Ingalls Wilder was born there. Hence the heart palpitations.

Part Three:
In which I discover that I am too tall for log cabin doorways, in which my excitement turns quickly into a lump in my throat that must surely be deep emotion at seeing (once again) the birthplace of one's childhood (and present) idol.

Part Four:
In which I force Mother to traipse through a local cemetery looking for Ingalls relations. Here will be a dramatic moment in which I think I spot something. I race towards a marker in the distance...(anticlimax begin) only to realize mid-Julie-Andrews-leap that the tombstone is much too glittering and grand and new to be what I'm looking for.

Part Five:
In which we break for pie. Literally. I had peanut butter, Mother had blueberry. Just guess who chose the tastier slice.

Part Six:
In which we visit the disappointing local Laura Ingalls Wilder museum. After several minutes of pawing through unconnected junk, I finally venture to ask the romance novel reader behind the counter if there's anything that actually belonged to a member of the Ingalls family. Pointing a scraggly finger, she says in a scraggly voice,*** "Two quilts at the bottom of that display case." We look, and there they are. One is rather plain (faded navy and white), but one is beautiful and green and yellow and patchy and looks as though it had been made out of little prairie dresses, all cut into pieces (which, of course, it probably had been). It belonged to either Laura or Rose, and it's strongly suspected that Caroline made it.

***Note: I did marvelous impressions of this lady and her voice all the way home, to much acclaim. Since I can't be with you now to repeat my performance, you will simply have to imagine it. Hint: The Nanny minus the funny plus about a thousand cigarettes plus some grey hairs minus enthusiasm plus bitterness at having to man a dusty old museum day after day. Plus annoyance (her romance novel looked riveting).

Part Seven:
In which Mother and I continue our journey, winding along the St. Croix through hippie towns and unincorporated towns and cult towns and unincorporated hippie cult towns.

Part Eight:
In which we arrive in Red Wing, Minnesota, and attend a production of The Sound of Music in the beautiful (yet stifling hot) Sheldon theater. The thing about seeing The Sound of Music live is that you can’t very well fast forward through the dreaded “Climb Every Mountain" Scene. Gosh, I hate that song. It’s very inspiring, the actress performed it beautifully, and yet, I was practically rolling around in the aisles covering my ears and humming. How I hate that song.

An entertaining part about the play was that at a few different points, Reverend Mother’s skirt (robe?) got caught on the edge of her chair as she stood. Both times I waited breathlessly (okay, okay, eagerly) for the chair to be dragged down with a deafening crash, but her skirt always pulled off just in time.

Overall, it was a good play. Maria was fantastic. The children were cute (although Friedrich wasn’t a creeper! Amelia, I know we’ve discussed this in the past, but the next time you watch The Sound of Music movie version, keep your eye on Friedrich. He’s always standing awkwardly close to Maria, and he’s always trying to edge even closer.).

Part Nine:
In which we exit the theater, sucking in deep, cool, buggy breaths of night air. As we walk along the sidewalk, an open-air Jeep rumbles past. Over the rumblings, just barely, we could hear the driver and the passenger singing “Do Re Mi” with gusto.

Part Ten:
In which we hurtle home through the dark in The Black Beast (as our van is affectionately known). In which I am reminded of how lit up and beautiful St. Paul is at night, and why when I was little I used to force myself to stay awake whenever we drove through on our way home from Christmas Programs or Grandpa's house. How wonderful everything is at night.

Part Eleven:
In which we arrive home, and Mother promptly uploads the day’s photographs to Facebook. In which I groan inwardly as I see her do this. In which I decide to suck it up and be a darling daughter and say nothing. We make fun of Reverend Mother instead.

***Note: I did indeed begin writing this post last Friday. Obviously it’s taken me a few days to conjure up the masterpiece you are now reading. Sorry.

***Note: (Before you search, I should tell you that there aren’t any stars above that refer you to this note. I needed to write one more, though.) I apologize for the tense changes in the above ‘masterpiece.’ Someday I’ll go through and correct them. But not tonight.

***Note: A final note: I don't call my Mother "Mother" in real life. "Ma" when we tour log cabins. "Mommy Dearest" in bookstores. "Mom" in public. But never "Mother."

Important Parts of Last Night

Let me tell you about last night.
Last night was Harry Potter (oh boy, don't tell me you didn't see this one coming).
And it was magnificent.
I mean, there were parts that made me shudder and wonder to myself what the heck were the directors thinking I don't understand why they couldn't stay true to the book here why are they jumping off a cliff good Lord why is Snape clutching a corpse this is bordering on disturbing why didn't they show Percy's big entrance that was one of my favorite parts oh my gosh Ginny please go away you make me sick sometimes.

Or something along those lines.

But I think over all, the movie, just like the book, had the ending that it needed and deserved.
That's really the most important thing, right?


There were other important parts of last night, though.

Like the feeling of complete panic that swept through the theater when the 3D glasses weren't working and everything was blurry. I was literally almost in cardiac arrest when The Man Behind the Curtain finally adjusted the projector correctly and the trailers came into focus.

Like when the Weasley family was mourning Fred and everything was quiet until I began to hear sniffing sounds coming from all around me. The entire theater was crying. The man next to me was crying. The ladywiththemostobnoxiousvoicei'veeverheard behind me was crying (loudly). And I suddenly felt like laughing. Until Harry began his walk towards the Forbidden Forest. Then I stopped laughing and started sniffing myself. I actually fogged up my own 3D glasses and had to wipe them. Not being a glasses-wearer, that was a new experience for me.

Like taking pictures in the lobby of people dressed up as Patronuses and Veela and Freds with bandaged ears and two twin boys with hair sprayed red.

Like when my friend and I had to visit the facilities before the movie. We waited in line for about 10 minutes before we finally got stalls. I was just trying to calculate what my odds of catching an STD from the toilet seat were when I heard my friend yell to me (from across the lavatory): "Holly! We flush ourselves in!" The entire bathroom erupted in echoing, nerdtastic giggles.

Like after the movie, when I decided not to wait for Bea (the GPS) to 'acquire satellite.' I thought I could manage to get home by myself. A sort of deluded Harriet Tubman, I convinced myself that I could find my way North. Apparently, I couldn't. I ended up goodnessknowswhere at 3 in the morning making illegal uturns in quiet neighborhoods and pleading with Bea to help me. She eventually did. Then the problem became keeping myself awake.

Like when I sang every Beatles song I know (which is, forgive me, an awful lot of Beatles songs) at the top of my lungs in order to keep myself awake. I was so tired that my voice was scratchy and pathetic but I made it home okay nonetheless. The dogs were happy to see me.

Yes, it's over. Yes, I'll never see another Harry Potter movie in a theater (unless I go to see this one again, which, let's face it, is highly likely). Yes, before the movie started, I was dreading it starting a little bit. Everyone was. Harry Potter began when we were all young. People have waited for Hogwarts letters, people have waited for the next book, the next movie.

But the waiting is over. It's all here.

I have a Harry Potter book on my lap right now. The Prisoner of Azkaban, because it's my favorite. And I'm thinking about how different it is every time I read these books. How there's always something new. Not because the books have changed, but because I have. And I will.

And as long as there's still that, I don't think anything has ended at all.

A Character Sketch (With Comments)

Our conversation took place in the "Female Products" aisle of Target.
Where the very best conversations take place.
Kidding.
Anyway, it all struck me as strange at the time. Now it's just ironic.
A few guys had just been caught trying to steal a TV from our store. Apparently they had hit up Walmart recently, so we were anticipating a visit as well. (Note: Target has not asked me to write this, but don't try to steal from us. You'll get caught. And I have a mean roundhouse, thanks to my friend Denise Austin.)
Anyway, he and I were discussing the attempted theft while pulling boxes of tampons forward on the shelves.
And he went on and on about how whenever someone stole from our store, it really rattled him. How it made him jumpy and nervous, and how, most of all, it made him not trust people. He talked a lot about that. Not trusting people.
As I pride myself on my deep faith in humanity, I didn't empathize. I simply pitied him a little bit for living what I saw as a cold existence. This too is ironic.

But still, despite his revelation to me in the Feminine Products aisle, he was someone to be depended on in our store. If the lanes needed backup, he was the first to respond. If someone needed a team lift, if someone couldn't find an item for a guest, if someone didn't know how to do something on their PDA, he was the go-to guy. He was just a high schooler, but he was relied on by people much older.

The third bit about him is that he is the one I wrote about last summer, the one who gave my car a jump that afternoon in the Target parking lot. It was after my very first day of work, I had never talked to him in my life, and yet there he was, asking me if I could use some help.
For the year that's passed since that parking lot act of kindness, I have held it up as the nicest thing a stranger has done for me. I have asked myself if I would do the same for someone I didn't know. I have hung the act over the person's head as a red badge of sorts, admiring him for it and defining him by it.

And then I came back to work for the summer, and found out that he had been fired from Target for stealing. Rumor has it that when a guest would purchase an ipod, he would take two out of the case, and drop the extra into his pocket. Rumor has it that he had been doing it for a while. The person who told me all of this also told me that he (car jumper, ipod thief) is some kind of genius. I gave the teller my wryest raised eyebrows: Yes, because truly smart people steal ipods from their places of employment.

When I first heard this news, I was shocked.
Now I'm purely disgusted.
It makes me sick to think that he got a job at Target. That he got to know the wonderful people who work here, that he gained their trust. That he dared to build himself a reputation as a good kid, as someone who was helpful and dependable. That he jumped people's cars and told people sob stories about his cold view of humanity. That he did all of this and then stole from us. When I told this to the guy who told me the theft story, he rolled his eyes a little: Holly, we didn't lose any money by it. They got it all back. Besides, it wouldn't have come out of our paychecks anyway.
Gee, thanks. That makes me feel better. Because there is absolutely no deeply immoral aspect to the situation that is more troubling than the financial aspects.

I lay on my stomach here in my bed, laptop propped on pillow, and I think back to that day in the Tampon Aisle (who're we kidding, here; that's what it should be called) and I feel (oh so ironically,) like maybe he was right all along. Maybe people can't be trusted. Maybe people don't have bits of bad and bits of good swimming around inside their chests. Maybe it has to be all one or the other.

And then I look into myself and I see both. But the good, the good is always trying to stand over the bad, to put it into the shade forever. And I think that maybe other people's chests are similar. That they hold both, that they hold everything. And that even when the bad gets a trump it doesn't mean that the good isn't following behind with the ace of something.

I think that perhaps jumping a car in an afternoon parking lot shouldn't be overshadowed by a petty theft. That I shouldn't let it be.

Three Months in the 17th Century

For the past few months, I've been walking around campus worrying about things like Holy Office votes, Pope Urban VIII's views on the Thirty Years' War, and Galileo's potential heresy.

I would walk into a meeting with several cardinals at 9:00, and walk out at 9:30 just in time to change for my intramural badminton match.

For the past month specifically, I've been consumed with an attempt to depose the Pope. I met with different factions to try to convince them, I sent emails, I strategized with professors, and I wrote and delivered speeches. I was even imprisoned in the Castel Sant'Angelo (which, ironically, I got to see when I visited Italy a few years ago) for a week when the Pope began to suspect my efforts.

It's funny to think that it is all over now, and that my side has lost. I'm a little disappointed, yes, but honestly, when you worked as hard as you possibly could, when you did absolutely everything you could think of to forward your cause, then it's not so bad to lose; at least you can look back without regret. I suppose I sound like the disgruntled loser who is trying to mask his loss with nobleness. And maybe I am. But I don't think I could have done things differently. I trusted the people I needed to trust, I said the things I needed to say, and I had a lot of fun doing it.


Here's the speech I gave today, right before the failed deposition:

I do not have any illusions about our purpose here today, nor do I wish to overly prolong certain unavoidable business. In a few minutes, the ballots will be passed out, and the voting will begin.
Some of you will undoubtedly remember that the entire premise of a Pope is that he is elected by God. You will vote yea. Some of you will undoubtedly look upon me as a champion for the secular, as one who seeks to diminish the Holy Office and all that it stands for in favor of bloodthirsty Philip and his Spanish minions. You will vote yea. Some of you will cling to your gilded ceilings, choosing to ignore the threat that looms outside the gates. You will also vote yea.
Some of you, however, will recognize that God’s will is almost impossible for mere humans to decipher. You know that while God is incapable of making mistakes, sometimes his intentions are skewed through the leaded pane of humanity. God did not vote for Urban VII those many weeks ago, gentlemen. You did. Nor can you be sure that your actions reflected the will of our Heavenly Father. No one has that certainty. All we can do here on Earth is to act, with much prayer and reflection, in a way we feel is Godly and true. Some of you now feel that our Lord is pointing us down a new path; towards a new Pope, and a revived Church. You will vote nay.
Some of you believe me when I say that I have no desire to disband the Holy Office. You see that I am honest when I assert that a Pope made so by force is a Pope in name only. It is the duty of the Holy Office, and no other body, to appoint a Pope, and I consider it the very highest insult when some of you claim that I believe otherwise.
I regret that the Holy Office and the Spanish armies have been brought together in such a tumultuous manner, but I see it only as a natural result of Urban VII’s unreasonable actions; he not only imprisoned a peaceful diplomat and an innocent cardinal, but he refused to post the charges in detail for all to observe. Despite my belief in the rationality of their concern, however, the presence of the Spanish army does not change my reverence for the Holy Office and all of its functions. Those of you who see this will vote nay.
Last week, I had the privilege of reading a speech delivered by an esteemed Cardinal. In it, he outlined the qualities of leadership, somehow managing to apply the majority of them to Urban VIII. Despite the Cardinal’s thoroughness, however, he missed one leadership quality, one that quite eclipses all others.
That quality is selflessness; a leader should put the needs of his people above his own egocentric inclinations. In this respect, I find that Urban VII has failed most grievously.
Good Catholics are being butchered, my friends. You know this all too well both from Cardinal O’Neill’s stirring speech of last week and from reports that agitate the streets of Rome and become more and more urgent as the days pass. Is it not the Pope’s primary duty to protect his flock that they may flourish and receive God’s grace? And what has the Pope done to ensure their protection? What has he done to answer the pleas for help that fly at him from all parts of Europe? You all know that he has done nothing but sit on his throne and stare at his precious ceiling.
And yet, when a rumor floated across the Vatican that the Pope’s title may be in danger, that his dear power may be diminished, he leaped into action. He rashly imprisoned two men with only vague charges for justification, and he brought the wrath of the Spanish army down on the Holy Office. Clearly, Urban VII’s sense of absolute control is the issue he has his eyes constantly upon. His people must wait in the periphery. Some of you who are disgusted by this obvious selfishness will vote nay.
In a few minutes, when the ballots are distributed, I wish you to remember this: now is no time for passivity, for moderation, for pause. There is more hanging in the balance than the Pope’s dignity; we are voting upon the life of a Catholic boy stranded in Protestant Europe. We are voting upon the salvation of a soldier fighting for our cause, and committing unavoidable crimes in its name. We are voting in the hope that we may gain a leader who is willing to make decisions for the good of God’s Church, rather than for the elevation of his own selfish ambitions. We are voting to ensure that the Catholic Church remains a beacon of light for all the world.
May God move in your hearts and guide your pens towards His will.

Me and John Adams

What have I ever done for my country?
John Adams spent years and years in France and the Netherlands trying to secure treaties and loans for the newly created United States. Before that, he helped establish said United States. Before that, he stepped forward, despite the outrage of his Patriot peers, to defend the British soldiers who had begun the Boston Massacre. After that, he was President. After that, he prevented the United States from entering another war with England and France. His refusal to maintain a standing army lost him a second term in office. After that, his son was President.
I said the Pledge of Allegiance every day of K-8, and every week of high school. Now I don't say it at all.
On the Fourth of July, my family usually goes up to Lake Superior. We usually have a bonfire, and there is usually strawberry shortcake, and there are usually fireworks.
Then I write a blog post.
Every so often I think to myself that I'm happy to be American.
Every so often I look up at a flag and feel romantic and special and I smile and walk home, self-satisfied.
John Adams said: "Our obligations to our country never cease but with our lives."
John Adams also said: "I must study politics and war that my sons may have liberty to study mathematics and philosophy. My sons ought to study mathematics and philosophy in order to give their children a right to study painting and poetry."
What have I ever fought for?
What have I ever given my country?
I sit in a classroom and pretend to be a Spanish priest. I talk to factions, I make deals, I deliver speeches.
I enjoy it, but what does it all matter in the long run?
The things I focus on, the things I read, the things I study, they're not real.
They're not real anymore.
They may make me smarter, but they're nothing but pieces of paper now.
John Adams built a country out of similar pieces of paper, but he built it out of actions too. He didn't sit back and let other men do the difficult work. He did it himself. He created something unprecedented.
And he was vain, and he did have a bad temper, and he was stubborn.
But he loved his wife, he loved the law, and he served his country in the best way he knew how, which was the best possible way he could have done it.
Maybe it's silly to compare myself to John Adams. It's probably silly for anyone to.
He was just a short man with a wig and a wonderful wife.
But he lived for his country.
I merely live in my country.

North Face

We finished the movie "North Face" today in German class.

It was about a group of climbers attempting to be the first people to scale the north face of the Eiger (a mountain in the Bernese Alps).

I guess I thought, after all the struggle, after all the frostbite and avalanches, that there would be at least a small happy ending.

But, without giving too much away, I have to tell you that there isn't.

That's what happens when you make movies based off of real life; things don't always end well.

Sometimes people die.

I walked back from class feeling sad, and I am still feeling sad. And I don't think it's because people died, exactly. It's because they tried so hard not to die, but they did anyway. The ogre that the mountain is named after managed to eat them up while they were still attached to their ropes, while they still clutched rocks.

I sat in my German class today, staring at a movie projected on a shiny whiteboard and wondered why in the world anyone would ever try to climb a mountain. People die on mountains. And not just throughout history. Not just back in the day. People die on mountains now, despite technology and despite global warming. Why would anyone risk that? Why would anyone risk their life to stand on the top of a gigantic mound of rock for a few seconds (because of course any longer and you suffocate for lack of oxygen)? I think I need someone to explain this to me sometime. I also think that maybe deep down I know the reason, but I just don't understand it. I sit on my bed and read books about mountains and I feel no desire to climb one. And I don't think that limits me. I don't feel any desire to fight against the elements. My battles are mainly mental, which is all right too.

Sometimes people die on mountains, and sometimes people die peacefully in their beds. But I wouldn't say that mountaineers have necessarily had any greater of a journey than those who die in bed. Maybe higher journeys, though.

"When you're at the bottom - Toni once told me - at the foot of the wall, and you look up, you ask yourself: How can anyone climb that? Why would anyone even want to? But hours later when you're at the top looking down, you've forgotten everything. Except the one person you promised you would come back to." -North Face (2008)

Some Advice From Mr. Lincoln

My favorite quote of all time (and this is difficult, because I adore quotes) is from Abraham Lincoln: "When you look for the worst in mankind, expecting to find it, you surely will."

It's also from Pollyanna, but I don't tell people that.

I was thinking about this quote today as I was puttering around my room attempting to clear away used Kleenex and blobs of NyQuil. I was thinking that it's very easy to notice something about another person, a negative quality, or a habit you don't like, and then to become completely consumed by it. Suddenly, whenever you're around that person, all you can think about is that one thing (selfishness, bragging, mouth breathing, etc.). Everything they do somehow lines up into your established perception of them. It's almost astounding how wrapped up in prejudice you can become. Soon you can hardly bear to be in their presence. They have absolutely nothing more to offer you besides that bad thing.

I've lost a few friends to this horrific spiral, and it wasn't until afterward that I realized what had happened. Sure, that one quality about them annoyed me. Sure, it made me not want to be friends with them so much. But was it really them, or was it just me? If I had simply forced myself to step back and look at the big picture, would I have seen something different?

Mr. Lincoln would probably say yes. Actually, I think he would first fix me with one of those x-ray, I-saved-the-United-States-now-what-the-heck-are-you-doing-with-YOUR-life stares that make you feel wretchedly petty, and then he would quirk one bushy eyebrow. And that would mean yes.

Tonight is My Last Night at Home

Tonight is my last night at home.
Last year I remember I was ecstatic to get back to school. But last year, you know, I was a freshman. Freshmen have adventures. They only study on Sunday nights. They spend all of Winter Break pressing young noses against windowpanes and waiting waiting to go back to school.
Sophomores are ghastly; they walk around with hollow eyes, gaping mouths can't believe their sudden workload. Sophomores crash over Winter Break. They may work a job at Target that they love, but otherwise they pretty much watch movies and read. They avoid thinking about school, and certainly don't miss it. School for sophomores means studying, which isn't really something to be missed (not really, that is).

So tonight (which is my last night at home) I pack reluctantly.
I look at the couch, thinking "that was my last time crashing on you"
I look at the dogs, thinking "that was my last time chasing you around the yard pelting you with snowballs which you stupidly tried to eat" (please understand: this is actually more of a funny activity than a cruel one. Try it sometime.)
I look at my bed, thinking: "this is the last time I'll lay on you, smothered with blankets, reading until 4 a.m."
I even said goodbye to Target today, wandering its aisles like a not-so-subtle shoplifter.

I know I'll be happy to get back to Morris once I get there.
But for now, I'm enjoying one last night at home.
Because tonight (as you may know) is my last night at home.

End of 2010

It's been a list-worthy year, I think.

New Things I've Done in 2010:
1. Won money for my writing (Firstlinefiction and the College Writing essay contest at UMM)
2. Worked new jobs: Target, Writing Room, Info. Desk, S.S. Office
3. Met a ton of new friends
4. Lost a few old friends
5. Narrowed my career search down to three criteria: people, writing, travel
6. Stopped being a teenager

Best Books I Read in 2010:
1. Going Bovine (Libba Bray)-After finding out he has a rare disease and doesn't have long to live, Cameron Smith sets off on a quest to save his own life with the help of a pink-haired angel, a video game-playing dwarf, and a lawn gnome who may just be a Norse god. Sounds kind of crazy, I know, but this book has so much heart and humor that I couldn't put it down.

2. This Side of Paradise (F. Scott Fitzgerald)-I know you've already heard me rant quite a bit about this one, so I'll only say that Amory Blaine is probably one of my favorite fictional characters.

3. The Shack (William P. Young)-This book somehow captured perfectly the way I've always wanted to think of God.

4. Never Let Me Go (Kazuo Ishiguro)-Again, I've already written a review of this book, but it's probably the best of the best books I've read in 2010. It's immensely powerful, and at the same time heart-wrenching in the most subtle, quiet way.

5. Utopia (Thomas More)-I've wanted to read Utopia ever since I saw Ever After as a little girl. The way they rave about it and quote from it in the film convinced me that Utopia must be some sort of magical, enlightening story. And it is, although I'll admit that I think I need to read it a few more times before I can fully grasp it.

6. Atonement (Ian McEwan)-I've tried to get into this a few times, but when I finally gave myself a chance to sit down and just consume it, I suddenly wondered what had taken me so long. Incredibly fascinating story that is magnificent in its tragedy.

Finally, mainly for fun, and because the spread is of an unbelievable large size...

Food Currently Being Assembled for our New Year's Party:
1. Lasagna
2. Garlic bread
3. Salad
4. Deviled eggs
5. Meat/cheese plate with crackers
6. Pickles wrapped in corned beef spread with cream cheese
7. Champagne/sparkling grape juice for the kids
8. Chocolate wafer cake (you slather whipped cream in between the cookies to sandwich them together, and then spread more all over the entire cake. Let it sit in the fridge for a few hours and the cookies absorb the cream and soften. It's only the most delicious thing ever.)
9. Spinach dip with crackers
10. Shrimp with cocktail sauce

Overall, I think it's been a lovely year, and while I'm sad to see it go, I'm also ready to see what 2011 will bring.
I also have a not-so-secret crush on Dick Clark.
Happy New Year everyone.

No Assembly Required

It's funny to think that almost exactly a year ago, I was lying on the couch at Grandma's, staring at a fake Christmas tree, and blogging about the Minivan Miracle in Marathon, Wisconsin (for the full story, see last year's post).

This Christmas, I'm quite displaced. For one thing, I'm in my own bed. At home. In Minnesota.
Two German Shepherd dogs lie on the kitchen floor. The younger one (who wasn't even alive last Christmas) is sleeping comically on her back with her paws up in the air. The older one sleeps more sedately, and she pricks her ears as I wander past to look at the tree.
Our tree is very real (evidenced by the constant dropping of pine needles, which drives Dad nuts), very tall, and surrounded by presents of various sizes (displaying various levels of wrapping expertise). As I stare at it, bare feet cold against the wood floor, I can't help but think that by this time tomorrow, Christmas will be ending. The magic of the season, which has been present ever since Thanksgiving, will be packed away with the bulbs and nut dishes and empty, sad stockings. The tree will remain for a week or so, but then it too will be cast aside, thrown up and over the deck rail to slowly rot in the snow. In the spring, what's left of the tree will fuel a bonfire down by the lake. By this time tomorrow, all of the presents will be unwrapped. They will be glorious, undoubtedly, but they will lose a little of their glimmer as soon as they are opened.

I've watched quite a few Christmas movies over this past week, and it seems that in every single one, the 'moral' is that Christmas is about more than presents. Christmas is a feeling, a state of mind, and even an action. Christmas, it seems, is good old generosity and kindness all wrapped up in red and green and gold. The 'moral' part of Christmas is truly the part that doesn't dim over time. Generosity doesn't run out of batteries. Kindness can't be cracked or broken. The very best part of Christmas is the lasting part.

So may your caskets remain unblown, may your stockings bulge with promise, and may you enjoy this blessed holiday surrounded by those you love most.

Merry Christmas, everyone.

Finals Finale

I'm done.
After about a week solid of sleeping 4 hours a night, after writing 3 papers and taking 2 exams, finals are finally, finally over.
I have to say, I don't remember finals being this bad last year.
I also have to say I'm proud of myself. Around this time on Sunday, I wasn't sure I could do it.
But I did. Somehow. And actually, I'm feeling good about what I've accomplished. My honors paper (as I told you) was pretty bad, but my Understanding Writing reflection paper was probably the best thing I've written for that class yet, and my Icelandic Sagas paper (which I finished about 3 hours ago) was decent as well.

As for the exams, well, I don't know. For German we had to write a 200 word essay in 2 hours (in German, obviously). The upside was that we could use our books. Having learned from the practice essay we wrote a few weeks ago, I made things easy for myself and wrote simple sentences. You know, "I gave my mother a book." That type of thing.

American Lit. was harder than I expected, truthfully. I studied the authors' names and work titles until I knew absolutely all of them, but maybe I should have made sure I knew what was in their works also. Oh well. The essay part was awesome! For the prompt I chose, I had to pick a character and explain (using Puritan, Enlightenment, and Romantic/Transcendentalist principles) why that character was unAmerican (hmm that word looks strange, but spell check is accepting it, so whatever). I wrote about Bartleby from Bartleby the Scrivener. I hope the essay turned out as well as I thought it did, because near the end of it I was so desperate to be done that I think I may have rambled a bit. Hopefully the ramblings were coherent.

Anyway, I'm all packed and ready to go home, just waiting for Mom to come get me.

I have to say, it still hasn't hit me that I'm actually finished with this semester, and that I'll have a whole month off to read and work and sit around. I kind of feel like I've been the energizer bunny all semester, just going and going and going, and now I've suddenly hit a brick wall, and I'm still lying stunned on the sidewalk, unable to comprehend what happened.

I'm sure I'll recover soon enough. In the mean time, "Be well, do good work, and keep in touch."

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."

Carrying the Cross

I attended a Catholic school all the way from preschool to 8th grade. Did you know that?
Well I did. I won't go into detail about the experience, although I will say that while I felt all through my public high school years like things would have been easier for me in the friend department if I had just started public like everyone else, I still value my time at private school. I made tons of friends there that I still have, I got to go to school where my mom worked (that's right, I was a teacher's kid all the way up. Even had Mom for homeroom in 6th grade), but best of all, I got to be a server at various Masses (services) in the adjoining church.

What is a server, you might ask? A server is someone (usually a child age 12-15, although for important services and at important churches (i.e. the cathedral), they use adults) who assists the priest throughout the Mass. Servers (usually 2 or 3 at a time) bring the book for readings, help set up the altar for the blessing, and most impactfully, carry the candles and cross down the aisle at the beginning of Mass, and carry them back after the Mass is done.

Now, being me, I had a number of clumsy experiences while serving. There was the Candlemas Mass when I spilled hot wax all over the hand of a small boy who's candle I was trying to light with mine (his parents glared at me as he screamed). There was the time when I went to kneel when there was no kneeling going on.

The incident I remember the most, however, seems to top all the rest in my mind. It's also incredibly ironic (which only just occurred to me as I began writing this post).

You see, as I mentioned before, the servers are in charge of carrying the candles and the cross in at the beginning of Mass with the rest of the procession, and carrying them out again at the end. The candles are light; each one is about as thick as a can of tomato paste, and mounted on small posts only three feet high. The cross, however, is another story. The crucifix itself is as wide as a checkerboard, with Jesus in the middle of course, and it's mounted on a solid wooden post that is (or so I was told) a piece of railing leftover from when the new school was built. The whole cross together, then, is about 7 feet tall (much taller than a 6th grader), and extremely heavy.

It had always been a tradition among the servers, at least as long as I could remember, to fight over who got to carry the candles and who had to carry the cross. Usually the first two servers to arrive would call dibs on the candles, or in the case of 2 girls and 1 boy serving, the boy would be on cross duty. On this particular occasion, however, no one was late, and we were all female.

I think all three of us were thinking about the cross beginning the second we donned the scratchy cream-colored servers' robes, but being friends, we put off discussing it.

Suddenly, though, it was almost ten o'clock, we were at the back of the church, the candles were being lit, and the priest was looking at us expectantly. "So?" He said impatiently, "who's carrying the cross this time?" His eyes wandered over the three of us, and settled on me. Oh no, I said silently to myself, but it was too late. I was the tallest by far, solidly built, and (I suppose), fairly strong-looking. I was to bear the cross.

As soon as I lifted it, I knew there was going to be trouble. It wasn't unbearably heavy, but it was heavy enough to make my hands shake as I clutched it. Not only that, but the crucifix made it top-heavy and unbalanced; a slight tilt to the side and the weight would shift, making the whole thing just about crash to the floor. The cross was also (as I said) much taller than me. I had to constantly look up at the top of the thing, and even then it was hard to judge how close I was to bonking it on something.

The procession down the aisle was excruciating. Despite reassuring looks from the kindly old ushers, I was sweating bullets and praying that I wouldn't drop the holy cross onto anyone's newly-christened infant. I didn't, though, and breathed a sigh of relief when we reached the steps up to the altar. There was a pause while the priest bowed, and then the lucky candle-bearing servers started up the steps after him. I started to follow, but neglected to lift the cross high enough to clear the first stair. The resounding clash made my ears turn red. Even worse, I wasn't even supposed to take the cross up to the altar. The priest's wild hand-signaling reminded me that I was supposed to go around to the back, and prop the cross against the wall there.

Forgive me a slight rant, but first of all, who in their right mind expects a 12-year-old to successfully manage a huge, heavy cross without some incident? Second of all, who in their right mind expects said cross to lean peacefully against a wall (with nothing holding it in place) for the better part of an hour? Just saying.

Anyway, once I had managed to successfully balance the cross against the wall at the back of the altar, I went through to my seat beside the priest. My ears were still bright red, but I figured, most optimistically, that the clank against the stair could have gone unnoticed by a lot of people. They had been, after all, in the middle of singing the opening hymn. Yes, that was it. No one had even heard it.

The next noise, however, cut through the now quiet congregation like a gunshot. The cross, leaning against the wall, was starting to slide. Everyone could hear the slow, screeching scrape it made as it slid lower and lower. Then, as I held my breath, there was a pause, and in the same instant, with the loudest crash I have ever heard, the cross hit the floor. Wood on marble, it continued to bang as it settled.

After what seemed like an age, there was only silence again. That was when I noticed that the priest was looking at me. Kate and Claire (the other servers) were looking at me. My mom and dad and sister were looking at me from a few pews back. Yep, the whole congregation was looking at me.

My ears,still red from the first clank, now felt like they were on fire. I briefly considered crawling under the altar to hide, but as everyone was staring at me, I decided hiding wouldn't be the most effective plan. Instead, I just sat there. And fiddled nonchalantly (or so I hoped) with the ends of the rope tied around my waist.

Eventually, the priest regained his senses and continued on with his prayers. The Mass went on as usual with no more incident. Heck, I even managed to get the cross safely back down the aisle at the end (after picking it up off the floor).

Mom and Dad were surprisingly silent on the car ride home. I guess they knew how embarrassed I was and didn't want to make things worse. I certainly appreciated it.

I was back at that church a few years ago for the first time since I attended school there (nowadays my family goes to a Catholic church closer to our house). Mass began with the same old procession down the main aisle, and when I turned in my pew to watch, I saw that the cross I had carried, the tall, solid, unbalanced one, had been replaced with a new cross. The new one was small and light; the server held it easily out in front of her. She did not clank it on the stairs (she knew to go around), and this new cross did not tip over in the middle of the service.

While I'm happy that no more generations of preteens have to bear that old heavy cross, I sometimes wonder if it would be any easier for me to carry now. I wonder if I have something that I didn't have back then. And not just strength or coordination, but something deeper. I wonder if I now have the peace of mind and sense of self needed to carry that cross. I wonder if I have the faith. Some days I think I do. But other days, my ears still turn bright red as I hear that ungodly (forgive me) crash behind me.

How Not to Be an Adult

It's been a while, I know. In my defense, my 17 credits, 3 jobs, multiple extracurricular activities, and tendency to volunteer for additional fun-sounding things have suddenly caught up with me. I don't have a single day for about three weeks straight where I have nothing going on. It's ridiculous, but it's fun too; I'm meeting lots of new people, and really learning a lot about campus. It's quite nice to know the nuts and bolts of things going on around here.

You should know that I had a great plan for this post. While I was doing the reading for my honors class, I actually wrote some notes to be eventually pieced together into a cohesive entry. Now, though, of course, I have an entirely different frame of mind and don't feel like I can write about Plato's musings tonight.

Instead, I'll tell you about a disturbing incident that occurred at a faculty Division Meeting today. I was taking minutes, a job that I don't think I'm particularly good at, as I tend to get so interested in the conversation that I forget to type, and generally basking (as always) in the presence of so many scholars. I know, I know; professors are just people. But they are kind of fascinating, aren't they? They look so normal, and yet they have devoted their lives to research, and the pursuit of knowledge. It's sort of intimidating, actually.

Anyway, we had gone through all the things on the agenda, and were wrapping things up (following Robert's rules, of course), when a certain professor launched an attack on the division head (i.e. my boss, who is absolutely wonderful). He was going on about how she had formed a committee and not consulted certain people about who would be on the committee. This prof. was completely implying that my boss had deliberately chosen certain people to be on the committee so that her views would be represented, rather than choosing people who would do the best job. More professors chimed in, agreeing with the first prof.

My boss (I'm avoiding names here, as you have probably noticed) explained patiently that she had consulted the department heads, and they had given her a list of people, and that she was merely asking those listed people to join. She said that the committee was by no means finalized, and that she was trying to get representation from all the departments in order to have multiple perspectives.

A lot more was said that I truthfully did not understand (not knowing the back story as the rest of the profs. no doubt did), but I just felt so bad for my boss. I could tell she was genuinely shocked and appalled that people would be angry about her actions, and had ranted over them behind her back (as they had clearly done).

I may not know the full history, and I may not have spent a whole lot of time with my boss, but I have a good feel for people, and right now I feel like she did not intend nor attempt half the things she was being accused of.

I walked out of that meeting feeling rather sad; it's a shame that learned people such as that group of profs. would act like that, and treat a fellow colleague like that. It even makes me angry that they chose to launch their accusations in a public forum, instead of first raising their concerns to my boss privately.

It's funny how when you're a kid you think that adults are perfect, and that they never behave immaturely or irrationally. It's funny how as you get older you realize that they have as many faults as you do, and that it is true that some 15-year-olds are more mature than some 50-year-olds.

Goodbye to Teenage Holly

Hello everyone.
I am writing from my last few hours of being a teenager.
Now I know that you're as old as you feel, and that I'm not going to wake up tomorrow feeling any different than I feel right now.
But still.
20 years old.
Holy cow.
That's old.

I'm ending something tomorrow that I began when I was 13 years old. When I was just a little 7th grader.
It seems funny that my teenage years have spanned that distance. In fact, at this point, I don't even know what constitutes being a teenager. Is it the awkwardness? The bad hair and clothes? The 'changes?' The moodiness?

I'm inclined to think that being a teenager means that you're sort of discovering yourself. You're seeking out your niche in the world, and then you're filling it as best you can. You're changing your mind a lot, and you're figuring out what you like and don't like. You're making friends and losing friends and deciding that you can live without certain friends. You're dating. Or not. You're deciding who you want to date. You're deciding who you want to be for the rest of your life.

Well, I've decided. I've found the person that I want to be, and I've found the niche she fits into. My next task, I suppose, is to actually step into her shoes. She's not so very different from myself, actually. She's just a bit nicer, a bit more thoughful, confident, outgoing, responsible, productive, and hard-working. She's the best version of myself. Now I just have to learn how to be her 24 hours a day. It's certainly going to be a challenge.

So happy birthday to me (if you'll allow that).
Here's to the adult I'll eventually grow into.
May she have as many awkward, funny, wonderfully blog-worthy moments as teenage Holly has been blessed with.

Catch you on the flip side.

Four Parts: Quote, Deep Thought, Deep Quote, and Random List

We begin with a quote:
"Most days of the year are unremarkable. They begin and they end with no lasting memory made in between. Most days have no impact on the course of a life."

We proceed with a deep thought stemming from the above quote:
Today was Monday, July 26, 2010. My cousin Kara's 10th birthday.
A lot of things happened to me today, most of which were probably unremarkable.
A mosquito bit me as I rode in the backseat of my mom's minivan. I slapped at at and it disappeared.
I went to the dentist.
I went to the Dairy Queen with my mother, sister, and my cousins Kara and Rachel to celebrate Kara's birthday.
Back at home, I ate dinner with my family, and then settled down to watch 500 Days of Summer.

Mundane stuff, I thought at the time. I still think now. But you know, every second of today I was alive and doing something. Every second was a second I'll never ever have again. That mosquito slap could have blown my chance at true love. That trip to the dentist could have saved me from being hit by a car and killed. If I had watched a different movie, I probably would be posting about something very different right now.

We continue with an original deep quote stemming from the above deep thought:
Life is a culmination of all the seconds we have; how we spend them, how we don't spend them, and how we plan on spending them differently tomorrow.

We end with a list that has nothing to do with the above quotes or thoughts:
My 10 Favorite Songs of All Time:
1. We're Going to Be Friends (The White Stripes)
2. I'm Gonna Be (The Proclaimers)
3. Vagabond (Wolfmother)
4. Classical Gas (Mason Williams)
5. All My Days (Alexi Murdoch)
6. Change Your Mind (The Killers)
7. Brother Love's Traveling Salvation Show (Neil Diamond)
8. In My Life (The Beatles)
9. Breakfast At Tiffany's (Deep Blue Something)
10.If I Ever Leave This World Alive (Flogging Molly)

High Noon

I'm especially fond of my picture/quote of the week this week. In case you're reading this later on, I put the picture above. Here's the quote:
"If it were possible to talk to the unborn, one could never explain to them how it feels to be alive, for life is washed in the speechless real."
-Jacques Barzun

I found that quote in the quote book I got from the library earlier this week. The last few words struck me the most: the speechless real. It's something I think about every so often. What does it even mean to be alive? How can we define it, and what can we even base the definition off of besides what we know? In fact, what is anything but what we perceive it to be?

I feel sometimes like nothing is real, and like we are mere puppets being bobbed from place to place by some great puppetmaster. I'm not talking about God, or even of my perception of God. Just someone or something. Like everything is out of our control and reality is only what the great someone makes it, and opportunities and challenges are placed in front of us while that great being laughs at our failings.

In this random imagining of mine, we're like Sims. We live our small lives and only brush other people when we're meant to. We do as we're told, except of course we think we're acting of our own accord. We eat when we're hungry, play the piano or read the newspaper when we're bored. Our children learn certain things like charisma and mechanical skills when they're only toddlers, although it doesn't stop them from growing up to be criminals if that's what the gamer wants them to be.

Gosh, this is sad to think about. I'm in kind of a sad mood, I guess. I just watched the movie High Noon with my dad. It's my very favorite Western; in fact, it's probably one of my favorite movies of all time in general. This was only my second time seeing it, but that's all it took. Anyway, it's not exactly the kind of movie you can watch often; it is sort of depressing when you really get to thinking about it.

A certain scene in High Noon struck me tonight, one that I don't remember noticing the first time through. It's the scene where Will Kane is trying to convince the judge to stay and fight with him, and the judge is packing his things, intending on leaving town. While they talk, the judge takes down the American flag he has tacked on the wall, folds it, and places it in his saddlebags.

Very symbolic, isn't it? With the removal of the flag, every semblance of the America we know, of the American way, of truth and justice, is gone from the town as well. Americans would never hide like cowards, watching from the windows of their comfortable homes while an innocent man stood alone against four malicious criminals. Well, they did in High Noon. They did in the Kitty Genovese case (http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Kitty_Genovese).

It makes me wonder (seems to be a theme tonight). Are all humans fundamentally cowards? When it comes down to it, are we really truly only willing to help others so long as we can walk away unscathed? I don't want to think so. I can't. There are good, brave people in this world. Lots of them. I hope to count myself among their ranks someday. And if we can't put our faith in them, in the belief that we can do as they do when called upon, then I don't think there is much to live for at all. Some people have faith in God, in nature, in themselves. I have faith in all of those things, but I think above all else I have faith in people. Maybe that's a fault of mine, but I'll stand by it nonetheless. We're amazing creatures, aren't we? Capable of so much, and constantly using our capabilities in as many ways as we can think of. It's intriguing and somewhat frightening, and it gives me hope.

Talking About My Generation

I am currently feeling very proud of my generation, and for something that we as a group cannot necessarily take credit for. You know how the 60's had hippies and peace and the Beatles? And the 20's had jazz and F. Scott?

Well you know what the 90's had/has? Harry Potter. That's right everyone; you can keep your disco and your painted chapels and your Rin Tin Tin. We'll keep our magical world.

I suppose that J.K. is the one who really deserves the credit, although the movies never would have been made (and perhaps so many books wouldn't have been written), had the entire concept not been received so enthusiastically by us 90's children. People of other ages liked the books as well, but we were the ones who celebrated being the same age as Harry himself as we read, who trick-or-treated in robes and taped glasses, and who saw Harry first and foremost as a friend we knew as well as the kids across the street.

The final movies will be out within the next year or so. It makes me sad to think about the saga ending. Although I tend to think of the movies and the books as separate entities, it feels to me that with the release of Deathly Hallows Part 2, the magic will fly up and disappear in a thousand sparks. Harry will exist after that only on our book cases and in our DVD players. He will no longer grow and expand; he will simply remain as he is.

Someday, though, when our children reach that awkward, mystical age of eleven, we will sit by their bedsides, ignore their protests of, "oh but I'm too old to be read to!" and begin to tell them of the boy in the cupboard under the stairs. We won't stop until Harry matters to them as well.

Never Let Me Go II

Quickly I want to tell you that I just finished Never Let Me Go.
I didn't cry at the end as I expected to. Instead, I felt (feel) quiet, like instead of filling me up with something, the book has left me empty. Grasping for understanding, I guess. But that is, I think, what the novel is about. Something out of your reach, something you were never meant to have, and how empty your life suddenly seems now that you've missed it. Or maybe it's the realization that you don't miss it even now that you're aware of its existence, because you weren't taught how to miss it. It's about missing the choice, or even the ability, to miss what you don't have.
Not a sad ending, really. It's simply bleak. And very, very beautiful. Here, I'll quote a bit for you:

"I half-closed my eyes and imagined this was the spot where everything I'd ever lost since my childhood had washed up, and I was now standing here in front of it, and if I waited long enough, a tiny figure would appear on the horizon across the field, and gradually get larger until I'd see it was Tommy, and he'd wave, maybe even call. The fantasy never got beyond that-I didn't let it-and though the tears rolled down my face, I wasn't sobbing or out of control. I just waited a bit, then turned back to the car, to drive off to wherever it was I was supposed to be."



Thank you to Mr. Ishiguro. It was a privilege to read, truly.

Good Morning, Hank and John! It's Thursday, May 27th!

I've been reading my Mom's Oprah Magazine for years. When I first began, I would skim through it until I got to the O List; the section where Oprah selects a dozen or so items she "thinks are just great." I liked looking at the brightly colored shoes, pattered bags, and funky gadgets she chose.

Somewhere along the way, however, I stopped merely flipping through and started reading. I found myself enjoying all of the articles, whether they gave marriage advice or explained how to make the most out of a career. Even though I was a teenager reading a magazine written for grown women, I got something out of every page I read.

Now that I'm nineteen, I realize that O Magazine has made me consider the kind of person I want to be when I grow up, and how I can reflect that adult even now, though I'm still making my way through school. And while not all of the articles are relevant to me (I'm not quite worried about wrinkles or menopause), they seem to reflect the path ahead of me, and to reveal it as lined with strong women who have just as many struggles and triumphs as I have.