When I was in 1st or 2nd grade, I wrote the following composition on a piece of 1st or 2nd grade practice paper (you know, that tissue-thin stuff with the blue and red lines designed so that every laboriously-created letter could have a guiding mark?):
What is once loved.
You will find.
Is always yours.
Take it home.
In your mind.
And nothing ever can take it away.
I still have that piece of paper with the above words printed upon it, and while at times I've felt proud of those strangely poetic words, mostly, I've had the sneaking suspicious that I stole them.
Not on purpose, of course, but at that age, everything is about recitation and imitation. That's the only way to learn, really.
So today of all days I decided to do a Google hunt and see if I could find "my" poem under someone else's name.
Here's what I found, at the bottom of a chapter of Harry Potter fanfic, of all places:
"What is once loved, you will find, is always yours from that day.
Take it home, in your mind, and nothing ever can take it away."
- Elizabeth Coatsworth
And then I did a search for Elizabeth Coatsworth, and found this:
http://www.oldchildrensbooks.com/collectors-corner/authors/elizabeth-coatsworth
She was a children's book author, which of course makes sense; If I had stolen that verse from somewhere, it would have been from a book. Even back then, I was a ridiculous reader.
It also occurs to me, however, that maybe I didn't steal this verse on my own; one of my teachers could have printed it on the board for everyone to copy.
But then again, what if that wasn't it? What if it wasn't even an assigned, or an unconscious theft? What if we were asked to write something, and I, well aware that my composition was unoriginal, scrawled it out anyway? Holly Gruntner: violating copyrights since 1998.
The world may never know.
I guess I'm glad this mystery is finally (mostly) solved, but I'm a little sad at the same time.
I would have liked to have been a child prodigy.
Showing posts with label Crime. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Crime. Show all posts
Saturday, October 8, 2011
Saturday, July 9, 2011
One Down On The Old Bucket List
Just went through the Culver's drive-thru with my darling sister.
On foot.
I've always wanted to do that.
Also, I was barefoot.
Also, it was 10 p.m.
Also, when we walked up to the window, the Culver's girl invited us inside to order. She said it was okay that I was barefoot.
Also, upon leaving Culver's, Am and I sprinted to the van with our custard and squealed out like we were making a getaway.
Also, a large minivan with a bike rack on top is not an ideal getaway car. For future reference.
On foot.
I've always wanted to do that.
Also, I was barefoot.
Also, it was 10 p.m.
Also, when we walked up to the window, the Culver's girl invited us inside to order. She said it was okay that I was barefoot.
Also, upon leaving Culver's, Am and I sprinted to the van with our custard and squealed out like we were making a getaway.
Also, a large minivan with a bike rack on top is not an ideal getaway car. For future reference.
Saturday, June 18, 2011
In Which I Do the Unprecedented
I made the Dean's List. I finally, finally made that darn Dean's List. It took 4 semesters.
But I don't talk about that.
The point is that I have a big, pompous, maroon and gold certificate, and that I'm going to hang it up somewhere like I used to do with spelling awards when I was little.
In other news, last night I got to attend a production of "Little Shop of Horrors." As a member of the Press. I went by myself, even though they had reserved two tickets for me; I wanted it to just be me the first time. To drink it all in and all (and all). Well, I ended up wishing I had brought someone, because I was probably the only person under 65 at the show. This was okay most of the time, except when the old man behind me would stage whisper things. Like "watch out!" and "would you look at how low her top is?" (at least he didn't yell Macbeth, although I bet he was thinking about it. He really didn't like that Seymour was murdering people: "Unethical young folks! Who do they think they are?"
I brought a notebook along to jot things down in, and most of my notes ended up being about the audience. Here are some direct quotes: (please note: I don't understand/remember what some of these mean. I wrote them last night. Should I be worried?)
-"Back in the meat locker!"
-Evidently the Errol Flynn mustache is coming back
-They brought blankets (Okay. This one's about the 65+ers.)
I'm going to be hard pressed to keep this review focused on the play.
But I don't talk about that.
The point is that I have a big, pompous, maroon and gold certificate, and that I'm going to hang it up somewhere like I used to do with spelling awards when I was little.
In other news, last night I got to attend a production of "Little Shop of Horrors." As a member of the Press. I went by myself, even though they had reserved two tickets for me; I wanted it to just be me the first time. To drink it all in and all (and all). Well, I ended up wishing I had brought someone, because I was probably the only person under 65 at the show. This was okay most of the time, except when the old man behind me would stage whisper things. Like "watch out!" and "would you look at how low her top is?" (at least he didn't yell Macbeth, although I bet he was thinking about it. He really didn't like that Seymour was murdering people: "Unethical young folks! Who do they think they are?"
I brought a notebook along to jot things down in, and most of my notes ended up being about the audience. Here are some direct quotes: (please note: I don't understand/remember what some of these mean. I wrote them last night. Should I be worried?)
-"Back in the meat locker!"
-Evidently the Errol Flynn mustache is coming back
-They brought blankets (Okay. This one's about the 65+ers.)
I'm going to be hard pressed to keep this review focused on the play.
Wednesday, June 8, 2011
Jens and Jutta
I just received quite a gem of a voicemail.
Since this is a public blog, and since my name is on said public blog (great idea, Hol), I can't go into much detail.
In short, the voicemail questions the quality of my education, accuses me of stealing, and has a tone of overall doubt that I am a person worth leaving a voicemail for.
I'm keeping this one forever.
I have it saved.
Because you know what?
I've never had a problem with being young. I've never hated my age because "adults don't take me seriously." Adults do take me seriously. At least, all the adults I've been lucky enough to know so far do. I rarely feel like I'm being talked down to, I rarely feel like what I have to say holds no weight. Maybe this is just a side effect of being a college student; college is like the real world, except you're treated better, I guess.
In the real world, however, as this voicemail so kindly informs me, if you're under 25, you don't really count. You're ill-equipped.
Sure I'm ill-equipped. But what if you equip me before you jump down my throat for my lack of competence? What if you tell me how before blaming me for not knowing how? What if you answer my questions without sneering at me for having them in the first place?
It's like in my German class when we would look at a series of pictures with captions and put them into order. It doesn't make sense for Jens to get a D on his test before he even takes the test. It doesn't make sense for Jutta to be grounded before she even breaks the vase.
Evidently, Jens and Jutta only exist in Beginning German.
Since this is a public blog, and since my name is on said public blog (great idea, Hol), I can't go into much detail.
In short, the voicemail questions the quality of my education, accuses me of stealing, and has a tone of overall doubt that I am a person worth leaving a voicemail for.
I'm keeping this one forever.
I have it saved.
Because you know what?
I've never had a problem with being young. I've never hated my age because "adults don't take me seriously." Adults do take me seriously. At least, all the adults I've been lucky enough to know so far do. I rarely feel like I'm being talked down to, I rarely feel like what I have to say holds no weight. Maybe this is just a side effect of being a college student; college is like the real world, except you're treated better, I guess.
In the real world, however, as this voicemail so kindly informs me, if you're under 25, you don't really count. You're ill-equipped.
Sure I'm ill-equipped. But what if you equip me before you jump down my throat for my lack of competence? What if you tell me how before blaming me for not knowing how? What if you answer my questions without sneering at me for having them in the first place?
It's like in my German class when we would look at a series of pictures with captions and put them into order. It doesn't make sense for Jens to get a D on his test before he even takes the test. It doesn't make sense for Jutta to be grounded before she even breaks the vase.
Evidently, Jens and Jutta only exist in Beginning German.
Monday, May 23, 2011
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.
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.
Monday, July 12, 2010
Our House
I've lived in this house for about 18 years now, which is the majority of my life. I've had my height marked numerous times on the wall behind the door in the laundry room. I've jammed golf balls in the mysterious pipe on the front lawn. I've sprayed a bottle of Coke all over the kitchen. I've had sleepovers on the floor of the living room. In short, I've lived in this house for about 18 years now (yes, the repetition was intentional- dramatic effect, you guys!).
Lived in it, but not really wondered about the history of it. Now, my house is certainly no historical marker. It was probably built sometime in the late '70's, early 80's. A boring period, I've always thought, and surely not a period to cause one to suspect one's house of being part of the underground railroad or haunted by a revolutionary war ghost or anything like that. My house is normal. Dated in some parts, but not antique-y. Not interesting.
That is, until about two days ago, when I overheard Mom chatting with some friends at a party we hosted. She was telling them that the people who owned the house before us sold it because they were in jail. Jail! Holy cow! Criminals slept in my bedroom?!
Well, I got the whole story from her later, and it's really not anything like that. Although my parents did buy the house through dealings with the son, because the parents were indeed in jail, they were not serial killers. They weren't even heroin addicts. They were protesters.
Apparently the couple was very, very pro-life, and was even part of a pro-life group called Lambs of Christ or something like that. They would go to abortion clinics quite frequently and protest, and I guess a few of their protests got out of hand because they were arrested and eventually sent to jail.
Funny, isn't it? My parents never even met them; like I said, they only ever met the son, although the parents had been the ones to decide to sell the house.
Overall it was an interesting story, and it's definitely nice to know a bit more about the people who walked the halls and cooked in the kitchen before us. And while I don't know them or even if they were nutso hippies or just two people with a cause they believed in, I'm glad they stood up for something. It's just unfortunate that they took it too far.
Our house is a very, very fine house
With two cats in the yard
Life used to be so hard
Now everything is easy
'Cause of you
Lived in it, but not really wondered about the history of it. Now, my house is certainly no historical marker. It was probably built sometime in the late '70's, early 80's. A boring period, I've always thought, and surely not a period to cause one to suspect one's house of being part of the underground railroad or haunted by a revolutionary war ghost or anything like that. My house is normal. Dated in some parts, but not antique-y. Not interesting.
That is, until about two days ago, when I overheard Mom chatting with some friends at a party we hosted. She was telling them that the people who owned the house before us sold it because they were in jail. Jail! Holy cow! Criminals slept in my bedroom?!
Well, I got the whole story from her later, and it's really not anything like that. Although my parents did buy the house through dealings with the son, because the parents were indeed in jail, they were not serial killers. They weren't even heroin addicts. They were protesters.
Apparently the couple was very, very pro-life, and was even part of a pro-life group called Lambs of Christ or something like that. They would go to abortion clinics quite frequently and protest, and I guess a few of their protests got out of hand because they were arrested and eventually sent to jail.
Funny, isn't it? My parents never even met them; like I said, they only ever met the son, although the parents had been the ones to decide to sell the house.
Overall it was an interesting story, and it's definitely nice to know a bit more about the people who walked the halls and cooked in the kitchen before us. And while I don't know them or even if they were nutso hippies or just two people with a cause they believed in, I'm glad they stood up for something. It's just unfortunate that they took it too far.
Our house is a very, very fine house
With two cats in the yard
Life used to be so hard
Now everything is easy
'Cause of you
Friday, July 9, 2010
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.
Tuesday, July 6, 2010
Red Means Stop
Hello, my friends.
A few bits of my day that may interest you:
1. I ran my first (and hopefully only) red light. I didn't mean to, honestly! I'm ashamed to admit that I was making up a poem in my head and just blazed right through without noticing the intersection. Luckily, very luckily, I got through unscathed with only a blaring honk to ring in my head for the rest of the day. I felt so bad. I absolutely hate being honked at, but I definitely deserved it this time.
2. Went to the library to check out Eat, Pray, Love. All four copies were checked out (due, I'm sure, to the fact that the movie comes out soon), so I had to put myself on the list. I'm number 19. So it will be awhile, I think.
3. In lieu of E.P.L., I got two items: The Oxford Dictionary of Modern Quotations, and the movie High Noon.
4. Wrote a story last night. A three pager. It took me exactly an hour and seventeen minutes to write, and a sporadic day to edit. I'm planning on entering it in the Firstlinefiction contest at the end of the month, so I have plenty of time to make it wonderful.
5. My nose is blistering from the sunburn. It looks gross and is a cruel reminder that I was stupid and didn't use sunscreen.
6. I thoroughly cleaned my bathroom today. Partly because Dad said I had to, and partly because I was in the mood to kneel in the tub with a Magic Eraser and some great music and just go. This mood occurs only about once a year, of course.
A few bits of my day that may interest you:
1. I ran my first (and hopefully only) red light. I didn't mean to, honestly! I'm ashamed to admit that I was making up a poem in my head and just blazed right through without noticing the intersection. Luckily, very luckily, I got through unscathed with only a blaring honk to ring in my head for the rest of the day. I felt so bad. I absolutely hate being honked at, but I definitely deserved it this time.
2. Went to the library to check out Eat, Pray, Love. All four copies were checked out (due, I'm sure, to the fact that the movie comes out soon), so I had to put myself on the list. I'm number 19. So it will be awhile, I think.
3. In lieu of E.P.L., I got two items: The Oxford Dictionary of Modern Quotations, and the movie High Noon.
4. Wrote a story last night. A three pager. It took me exactly an hour and seventeen minutes to write, and a sporadic day to edit. I'm planning on entering it in the Firstlinefiction contest at the end of the month, so I have plenty of time to make it wonderful.
5. My nose is blistering from the sunburn. It looks gross and is a cruel reminder that I was stupid and didn't use sunscreen.
6. I thoroughly cleaned my bathroom today. Partly because Dad said I had to, and partly because I was in the mood to kneel in the tub with a Magic Eraser and some great music and just go. This mood occurs only about once a year, of course.
Friday, January 22, 2010
I Dream of Murder
I had a really strange dream last night, and I thought that I should write it down, because I’m almost certain that it has some kind of deeper meaning (though I suppose all dreams do).
First of all, it was really complicated and kept shifting, so I’ll just record the main parts in order to avoid too much confusion.
It began with my whole family rollerblading in the streets of a city (I think it was St. Paul). I think that Dad and Amy were there, but I mainly remember Mom and Grandma E. (though Grandma wasn’t skating).
The funny thing was that we were rollerblading in the middle of winter; the streets were covered in slush and big snow banks separated the sidewalk from the road.
Anyway, Grandma E. and I decided to go back to the house, so I skated back beside her while she walked. When we arrived, I saw that the house was huge and Victorian-looking. At that point, I knew for some reason that my Grandma G. was about to be murdered inside.
I had this idea in my dream that she had died because she had gone to some sort of meeting (not a cult, but a domestic meeting like a sewing circle or something), and they had poisoned her so that when she got home she had a heart attack. I’m not sure why I was certain of this in the dream, because in real life I know that she died of cancer. Also, this dream involved some sort of time travel, because I was the age I am now, and I was going back in time to stop the murder that I knew had happened.
Meanwhile, I left Grandma E. outside the house on the sidewalk because I didn’t want her to get hurt. I entered the house. Inside were two women, a twelve-year-old girl (who was clearly in league with the women), and my Grandma G. The women and the girl had cruel, sinister looks about them, and I knew in the dream that they were really going to hurt my Grandma G.
Grandma G. was sitting on a chair chatting (I don’t think she had any idea what was going on) with one woman and the girl, and I sat down across from the third woman, who glared at me suspiciously. I remember that I sneakily took a large, serrated knife from the table and slipped it in my pocket in case I needed a weapon.
The woman sitting at the table must have seen me take the knife, because immediately she and the other woman jumped up and brandished knives at Grandma G. and I. We were backed into a corner, and they started slashing at us. I stood in front of Grandma G. and slashed back. The interesting thing was that no one got seriously wounded; we all simply made shallow scars on each other’s arms and faces with the knives.
While the fight was happening, the girl kept trying to offer Grandma G. something to drink, and I kept pushing her back because I knew that the drink was poisoned.
Finally we managed to get out of there unscathed, and met Grandma E. on the front walk.
In the road in front of the house the three appeared again, but this time the girl was trying to get Grandma G. to eat chewable Tylenol (which was also poisoned). I kept her away, and we all escaped down the road.
First of all, it was really complicated and kept shifting, so I’ll just record the main parts in order to avoid too much confusion.
It began with my whole family rollerblading in the streets of a city (I think it was St. Paul). I think that Dad and Amy were there, but I mainly remember Mom and Grandma E. (though Grandma wasn’t skating).
The funny thing was that we were rollerblading in the middle of winter; the streets were covered in slush and big snow banks separated the sidewalk from the road.
Anyway, Grandma E. and I decided to go back to the house, so I skated back beside her while she walked. When we arrived, I saw that the house was huge and Victorian-looking. At that point, I knew for some reason that my Grandma G. was about to be murdered inside.
I had this idea in my dream that she had died because she had gone to some sort of meeting (not a cult, but a domestic meeting like a sewing circle or something), and they had poisoned her so that when she got home she had a heart attack. I’m not sure why I was certain of this in the dream, because in real life I know that she died of cancer. Also, this dream involved some sort of time travel, because I was the age I am now, and I was going back in time to stop the murder that I knew had happened.
Meanwhile, I left Grandma E. outside the house on the sidewalk because I didn’t want her to get hurt. I entered the house. Inside were two women, a twelve-year-old girl (who was clearly in league with the women), and my Grandma G. The women and the girl had cruel, sinister looks about them, and I knew in the dream that they were really going to hurt my Grandma G.
Grandma G. was sitting on a chair chatting (I don’t think she had any idea what was going on) with one woman and the girl, and I sat down across from the third woman, who glared at me suspiciously. I remember that I sneakily took a large, serrated knife from the table and slipped it in my pocket in case I needed a weapon.
The woman sitting at the table must have seen me take the knife, because immediately she and the other woman jumped up and brandished knives at Grandma G. and I. We were backed into a corner, and they started slashing at us. I stood in front of Grandma G. and slashed back. The interesting thing was that no one got seriously wounded; we all simply made shallow scars on each other’s arms and faces with the knives.
While the fight was happening, the girl kept trying to offer Grandma G. something to drink, and I kept pushing her back because I knew that the drink was poisoned.
Finally we managed to get out of there unscathed, and met Grandma E. on the front walk.
In the road in front of the house the three appeared again, but this time the girl was trying to get Grandma G. to eat chewable Tylenol (which was also poisoned). I kept her away, and we all escaped down the road.
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