Sentimentality is not an uncommon feeling for me. I embrace it, as a matter of fact. I stalk it. I sit on its front steps and wait for it to come home so I can beg for more. (Creepiest metaphor I've ever come up with. Sorry.)
The point is, I often do things just because they seem romantic to me. Just because, I suppose, I've read about them in a book somewhere down the line.
So it shouldn't surprise you that on December 11th, 2011, following my last Ultimate training in Austria, I had an emotional walk home. It was a long walk, too; down a lane lined with trees and bordered by fields. There were mountains in the distance. I trudged along, past families out for their Sunday strolls, couples heading for the Christmas Market at Hellbrunn, and equestrians guiding their horses gingerly around the walkers. I was thinking, as I walked, about my frisbee playing, and how it was the very last thing I expected to be doing in Europe, and how it was also the best. I began to make up a poem in my head. Sometimes when I do this I don't write the poem down; I tell myself I'll copy it out later, and then I never do. On December 11th, however, I veered off the path, found a curb to perch on, leaned my back into the late Fall sunshine, and wrote my poem on a scrap of paper I found in my backpack.
Here it is, not fancy or fine, but small, and dripping with the sentimentality I can't help but adore:
I love the feeling of throwing a frisbee,
of knowing as soon as your wrist releases
and the disc leaves the curl of your hand
that no matter which direction it goes,
it will fly straight
and without a wobble.
December 11th, 2011
Hellbrunn, Salzburg, Austria
Showing posts with label Memories. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Memories. Show all posts
Thursday, December 29, 2011
Wednesday, July 27, 2011
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."
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."
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, February 7, 2011
12 Year Old Fiction
Yesterday, upon discovering (to my dismay) that Briggs Library is severely lacking in regular adult fiction, I ventured upstairs to the kids/young adult fiction and picked out five books I remember loving when I was 12 or so:
1. Lily's Crossing, by Patricia Reilly Giff
2. The True Confessions of Charlotte Doyle, by Avi
3. My Louisiana Sky, by Kimberly Willis Holt
4. The Watsons Go to Birmingham-1963, by Christopher Paul Curtis
5. Our Only May Amelia, by Jennifer L. Holm
I practically had to pretend to be an elementary ed. major in order to avoid suspicion from the nosy check-out girl, but it's been very, very worth it so far.
1. Lily's Crossing, by Patricia Reilly Giff
2. The True Confessions of Charlotte Doyle, by Avi
3. My Louisiana Sky, by Kimberly Willis Holt
4. The Watsons Go to Birmingham-1963, by Christopher Paul Curtis
5. Our Only May Amelia, by Jennifer L. Holm
I practically had to pretend to be an elementary ed. major in order to avoid suspicion from the nosy check-out girl, but it's been very, very worth it so far.
Friday, December 24, 2010
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.
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.
Monday, November 22, 2010
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.
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.
Saturday, August 7, 2010
Good Times With Old Friends
A Random Current Event:
I am just coming up from downstairs, where I had thrown my sheets in the washing machine, when I see that Dad is in the kitchen salting the potatoes. They're in a pot on the stove, ready to boil and be chopped and mashed for our dinner.
As I pass through the kitchen, Dad suddenly lifts the container of salt to his mouth and pours about a tablespoon in. Holding the salt between puffed out cheeks, his lips pursed comically, he turns and spots me gaping at him.
"Canker sore," he says.
I laugh. "You know Dad, we have stuff for that somewhere."
"I know," Dad replies as he spits out the salt and reaches for a glass of water. "I'm using it."
A Random Memory:
I was emptying my trash a few minutes ago, and a stray packing peanut left over from my earlier online book-buying adventures made me remember something.
It was last winter, and I was sitting in the TV lounge of Pine Hall with a bunch of my dorm mates. Someone (Bridgett, I think it was) had a package from their aunt. I don't remember what was actually in the package, but I do remember the packing peanuts.
"They dissolve in water," Bridgett's aunt had written. "Try putting them in your mouth!"
It was strange, but we passed the peanuts around and held them on our tongues, giggling as we felt them shrink into molten lumps of Styrofoam.
We didn't get any of them to completely dissolve, however, as a chemical-ly, plastic-y taste was released after awhile, forcing us to spit the soggy peanuts onto the carpet.
Interesting, but I only just realized that both of my above stories contain putting unusual things into one's mouth and promptly spitting them out...
Anyway, here's the title story for you:
Last night was the St. John's class of 2005 reunion party. To clarify, it wasn't a party, exactly; it was more of a scheduled gathering. Pioneer park. 8 p.m. Bring chips or something to share. Bonfire afterwards.
It was such a great time!
I think I had expected things to be a little awkward at first; most of us hadn't seen each other since we all graduated 8th grade. In actuality, there were only about 2 seconds in the beginning where people didn't know what to say, and then we were off like we had never been apart. Five years gone just like that.
We talked about what we were up to, we talked about who wasn't in attendance and why, but mostly we reminisced about the good old days at St. John's. And let me tell you: when you go to a Catholic school with the same kids for 9 years, you have some epic times.
After it got dark we relocated to Drew's house where they had a nice bonfire going. We sat around the fire (occasionally getting up and moving back a few yards; the boys were having fun building the flames up as high as possible) and chatted until about 2 a.m., when everyone went home.
The consensus?
1. We need to get together more often.
2. These are some of the best friends I'll probably ever have.
3. Mr. Sachariason (our English teacher 6th and 7th grade-best teacher ever) should have showed up. I wonder why he didn't?
4. Are we really going to be 20 years old? Holy cow.
5. I'm still eager to get back to school, but I'm going to miss the lazy good times of summer. I'm going to miss hanging out with the people I don't get to see at any other time.
I am just coming up from downstairs, where I had thrown my sheets in the washing machine, when I see that Dad is in the kitchen salting the potatoes. They're in a pot on the stove, ready to boil and be chopped and mashed for our dinner.
As I pass through the kitchen, Dad suddenly lifts the container of salt to his mouth and pours about a tablespoon in. Holding the salt between puffed out cheeks, his lips pursed comically, he turns and spots me gaping at him.
"Canker sore," he says.
I laugh. "You know Dad, we have stuff for that somewhere."
"I know," Dad replies as he spits out the salt and reaches for a glass of water. "I'm using it."
A Random Memory:
I was emptying my trash a few minutes ago, and a stray packing peanut left over from my earlier online book-buying adventures made me remember something.
It was last winter, and I was sitting in the TV lounge of Pine Hall with a bunch of my dorm mates. Someone (Bridgett, I think it was) had a package from their aunt. I don't remember what was actually in the package, but I do remember the packing peanuts.
"They dissolve in water," Bridgett's aunt had written. "Try putting them in your mouth!"
It was strange, but we passed the peanuts around and held them on our tongues, giggling as we felt them shrink into molten lumps of Styrofoam.
We didn't get any of them to completely dissolve, however, as a chemical-ly, plastic-y taste was released after awhile, forcing us to spit the soggy peanuts onto the carpet.
Interesting, but I only just realized that both of my above stories contain putting unusual things into one's mouth and promptly spitting them out...
Anyway, here's the title story for you:
Last night was the St. John's class of 2005 reunion party. To clarify, it wasn't a party, exactly; it was more of a scheduled gathering. Pioneer park. 8 p.m. Bring chips or something to share. Bonfire afterwards.
It was such a great time!
I think I had expected things to be a little awkward at first; most of us hadn't seen each other since we all graduated 8th grade. In actuality, there were only about 2 seconds in the beginning where people didn't know what to say, and then we were off like we had never been apart. Five years gone just like that.
We talked about what we were up to, we talked about who wasn't in attendance and why, but mostly we reminisced about the good old days at St. John's. And let me tell you: when you go to a Catholic school with the same kids for 9 years, you have some epic times.
After it got dark we relocated to Drew's house where they had a nice bonfire going. We sat around the fire (occasionally getting up and moving back a few yards; the boys were having fun building the flames up as high as possible) and chatted until about 2 a.m., when everyone went home.
The consensus?
1. We need to get together more often.
2. These are some of the best friends I'll probably ever have.
3. Mr. Sachariason (our English teacher 6th and 7th grade-best teacher ever) should have showed up. I wonder why he didn't?
4. Are we really going to be 20 years old? Holy cow.
5. I'm still eager to get back to school, but I'm going to miss the lazy good times of summer. I'm going to miss hanging out with the people I don't get to see at any other time.
Saturday, July 24, 2010
In a Nutshell
Only two days left in July's firstlinefiction contest. I've had my entry written for about three weeks, and turned in for about one week, but I'm still second guessing myself a little bit. I don't know why this is exactly; I'm hoping it's because I've been thinking about it for so long that I'm simply getting paranoid. No matter, though. There is not much of a chance that I'll find time to change anything in the next two days: I'm absolutely busy between dentist trauma on Monday and work on Tuesday.
Today I was randomly remembering an incident that happened at a long ago Christmas party, and I thought I'd share it with you.
Like I said, I was at a Christmas party, and I was eating nuts out of a dish sitting on the festively-decorated table. Only, I wasn't eating all the nuts. There was quite a variety in the dish; macadamias and almonds and some unidentifiable ones as well, and, being eight years old or so, I was skillfully avoiding all of the gross nuts and picking out the cashews. I wasn't doing this ridiculously, I didn't think; there were still plenty of cashews left for the other finicky children (and adults). I was surprised, then, when all of the sudden my grandpa came over and scolded me harshly for only taking cashews. I remember I started crying because I was embarassed and because grandpa had never yelled at me like that before.
Later he pulled me aside and said that he was sorry, but that Carolyn (married to my aunt's brother) had been glaring at me and was clearly upset at my nut dish pickings. I forgave grandpa, of course; he was really just trying to warn me to stop before Carolyn (who I didn't know very well) felt compelled to come over and tell me off.
And you know what? To this day, I don't like Carolyn very much at all. I haven't seen her in a few years, but I've always thought that someone stingy enough to get upset about a little kid sorting through a nut dish isn't someone I want to associate with.
It's funny how impressionable you are as a kid, and how some grudges, no matter how trivial, never really leave you.
Today I was randomly remembering an incident that happened at a long ago Christmas party, and I thought I'd share it with you.
Like I said, I was at a Christmas party, and I was eating nuts out of a dish sitting on the festively-decorated table. Only, I wasn't eating all the nuts. There was quite a variety in the dish; macadamias and almonds and some unidentifiable ones as well, and, being eight years old or so, I was skillfully avoiding all of the gross nuts and picking out the cashews. I wasn't doing this ridiculously, I didn't think; there were still plenty of cashews left for the other finicky children (and adults). I was surprised, then, when all of the sudden my grandpa came over and scolded me harshly for only taking cashews. I remember I started crying because I was embarassed and because grandpa had never yelled at me like that before.
Later he pulled me aside and said that he was sorry, but that Carolyn (married to my aunt's brother) had been glaring at me and was clearly upset at my nut dish pickings. I forgave grandpa, of course; he was really just trying to warn me to stop before Carolyn (who I didn't know very well) felt compelled to come over and tell me off.
And you know what? To this day, I don't like Carolyn very much at all. I haven't seen her in a few years, but I've always thought that someone stingy enough to get upset about a little kid sorting through a nut dish isn't someone I want to associate with.
It's funny how impressionable you are as a kid, and how some grudges, no matter how trivial, never really leave you.
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