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 Sentimentality. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Sentimentality. Show all posts
Thursday, December 29, 2011
Wednesday, November 9, 2011
What a Letter Means
I got a letter today. A miraculous letter that stuck its white corner out of my postbox. Even that corner looked like a miracle.
Last night I had to turn someone down, which is always a horrible experience. I usually tread softly around these things, but last night I decided that the only way to bring a sense of finality was to be honest. I wasn't cruel; I simply said that I wasn't looking for a relationship, but thank you for the offer. My friends, who I had consulted about the whole thing (I'm a consulter; I know this about myself), applauded my efforts, saying that honesty is always best, saying that the cruelest thing, really, is to give someone false hope.
I went to bed decently contented, and woke up horrified. This someone, you see, is the sensitive sort. The sort that maybe shouldn't have to contend with honesty all the time. The sort who maybe just wanted my friendship more than anything else. And I, tall and terrible, made brave by Facebook, tromped all over any semblance of hope or promise. I woke up thinking that I should have just gone to dinner with this someone. I should have talked with him, really talked and really listened. I should have seen this as an opportunity to get to know him better, instead of running scared at the prospect of him liking me in a different way than I like him.
So that letter, as I'm sure you can now imagine, meant a lot today. It meant so much, in fact, that I couldn't even bring myself to open it. I had things to do today; studying, running, classes, etc., and I didn't want any trivial thing getting in the way of my letter. I waited 12 hours to open it, until just now, when I was properly in bed and comfortable, with no German grammar tugging at my conscience.
It was beautiful, that letter. Blissful. I cried twice. Not because of anything sad, but because it means everything to get something from home. I know I've mentioned this before, but it's still true. The very hardest part about being here is that there isn't anyone who knows me, really really knows me, within 5,000 miles. And this letter made me cry because it reminded me that 5,001 miles away, there is someone who knows me. And they wrote me a letter.
Last night I had to turn someone down, which is always a horrible experience. I usually tread softly around these things, but last night I decided that the only way to bring a sense of finality was to be honest. I wasn't cruel; I simply said that I wasn't looking for a relationship, but thank you for the offer. My friends, who I had consulted about the whole thing (I'm a consulter; I know this about myself), applauded my efforts, saying that honesty is always best, saying that the cruelest thing, really, is to give someone false hope.
I went to bed decently contented, and woke up horrified. This someone, you see, is the sensitive sort. The sort that maybe shouldn't have to contend with honesty all the time. The sort who maybe just wanted my friendship more than anything else. And I, tall and terrible, made brave by Facebook, tromped all over any semblance of hope or promise. I woke up thinking that I should have just gone to dinner with this someone. I should have talked with him, really talked and really listened. I should have seen this as an opportunity to get to know him better, instead of running scared at the prospect of him liking me in a different way than I like him.
So that letter, as I'm sure you can now imagine, meant a lot today. It meant so much, in fact, that I couldn't even bring myself to open it. I had things to do today; studying, running, classes, etc., and I didn't want any trivial thing getting in the way of my letter. I waited 12 hours to open it, until just now, when I was properly in bed and comfortable, with no German grammar tugging at my conscience.
It was beautiful, that letter. Blissful. I cried twice. Not because of anything sad, but because it means everything to get something from home. I know I've mentioned this before, but it's still true. The very hardest part about being here is that there isn't anyone who knows me, really really knows me, within 5,000 miles. And this letter made me cry because it reminded me that 5,001 miles away, there is someone who knows me. And they wrote me a letter.
Thursday, September 29, 2011
A Package
I got a package from home today. It contained:
1. One winter coat
2. Two winter scarves
3. Three pairs of mittens (seems excessive, I know, but one pair is really warm (for winter hiking, of course), one pair is nostalgic (my UMM mittens), and one pair is slightly dressy)
4. One pair of Ugg boots (this is where I submit to mockery in order to be warm and cozy)
5. One rain jacket (apparently it rains here even in winter. Something to look forward to)
6. One book (Mockingjay, the final Hunger Games book. At last at last I get to finish the series.)
There's nothing quite so wonderful as getting something from home when you're away. I smelled every single item as I lifted it out of the box, because the last person to touch it was my Mom.
Sentimental? Yes. Uncalled for? No way.
1. One winter coat
2. Two winter scarves
3. Three pairs of mittens (seems excessive, I know, but one pair is really warm (for winter hiking, of course), one pair is nostalgic (my UMM mittens), and one pair is slightly dressy)
4. One pair of Ugg boots (this is where I submit to mockery in order to be warm and cozy)
5. One rain jacket (apparently it rains here even in winter. Something to look forward to)
6. One book (Mockingjay, the final Hunger Games book. At last at last I get to finish the series.)
There's nothing quite so wonderful as getting something from home when you're away. I smelled every single item as I lifted it out of the box, because the last person to touch it was my Mom.
Sentimental? Yes. Uncalled for? No way.
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."
Friday, April 29, 2011
In Which I Sleep Through a Royal Wedding
Yes, I watched.
Actually, if I'm going to be completely honest (and you know I'm going to be, or I wouldn't have said anything), I meant to watch William and Kate's wedding. I had my alarm set for 5; I was going to roll out of bed, grab my pillow and comforter, and head down a few floors to the TV Lounge (which contains an adequate-for-royal-wedding-viewing sized TV), where I would wait breathlessly for the ceremony to begin.
Here's what actually happened: I was up until 2:30 a.m. this morning studying for a German test I had this afternoon. Ergo, when my alarm went off at 5 (after only 2 and a half hours of sleep), I told myself "five more minutes, and then I'll go downstairs," rolled over, and fell back asleep. The next time I regained consciousness, it was 6:50. Luckily, I was able to make it out of bed that time and managed to catch the entire balcony scene. Kiss one AND kiss two. (This strikes me as a good sign; Diana and Charles only kissed once, and look where they ended up).
This brings me to my current position: I'm waiting for the taped wedding ceremony video to load on Mac. I'm a little disappointed that I missed seeing it live, but I'm sure my German grade will be better for it.
In other royal-related news, I had a long discussion at work today with a professor who seemed to think that Queen Elizabeth arranged for Diana's murder. The way she put it, Diana was dating someone who was not British, not Christian, and not aristocratic. She was an embarrassment to the royal family, and clearly, she had to go. My reaction? Polite, contained disbelief. Maybe it's true that the Queen did not like Diana. But I absolutely refuse to consider her a possible murderer! Maybe I'm too stubbornly stuck in my romantic ideals concerning monarchy, and maybe I put too much faith in the accuracy of the movie "The Queen," but I can't help it. Queen Elizabeth is above such nonsense. She is a sweet, compassionate woman who would never orchestrate something that could harm her grandsons in such a large way. The driver of Diana's car was drunk, and they were being pursued by the paparazzi. It was a tragic accident that will be remembered forever, but I am quickly becoming sick of all the conspiracy theories surrounding it. Why can't people ever just let the deceased be deceased? Why do they have to keep dragging them back for round 2 and 3 and 4 and etc.?
Well, anyway, I don't want to spoil this beautiful day with my morbid rantings. Here's hoping that Kate and William will have all the blessings wished upon them by both the living and the dead.
P.S. (Dress rave) It was absolutely gorgeous, wasn't it? I loved the lacy long-sleeved look. Very cathedral-appropriate, but not matronly or anything. (Funny story) I was just watching a video clip of Kate arriving at the Abbey, and as soon as she got out of the car, the video host started squealing nonstop about her dress. She literally shrieked quite a few times. I had to switch videos because my ear drums were starting to ache.
Thursday, January 20, 2011
"We're Bonding, Aren't We?"
Last night, my roommate and I, under orders from certain New Years Resolutions, headed to the Regional Fitness Center to run around a bit. We decided to play badminton, which is great because you run around enough to get a work out, but you have enough fun that it doesn't feel like work.
Well, we were batting the birdie back and forth with more humor than skill, when a group of five boys, two of whom were international students, walked up and asked us if they could join. We said sure, assuming that two of them would assemble and oppose the two of us. To our surprise, all five of them clustered together on the other side of the net and proceeded to take us on.
Let me tell you, it was a lot of fun.
The birdie was smashed back and forth, often twirling in midair as rackets swished by, missing by entire feet.
Boys collided with boys on the other side, boys fell, laughing.
Serves were delivered out of order and overhand, often with fluorishes and mighty leaps.
No one, it seemed, could understand what any other person said, but it didn't seem to matter.
We were just seven college students having fun.
To be completely honest, it was the first time that I've really interacted with international students.
Not because I have anything against them, but because I'm always worried that I'll do something or say something they won't understand, or vice versa.
Badminton, even in rude form, I have learned, is easily translated into any language.
In fact, and you're probably going to groan at this next part, our entire time in the RFC reminded me of that moment in Father of the Bride 2, when Steve Martin and Martin Short are in the hospital running back and forth between Steve's wife and Steve's daughter, who are both in labor at the same time. Suddenly, Martin Short, in his funny Franck voice, grabs Steve Martin by the shoulders and says, "George...we're bonding, aren't we?" And Steve Martin smiles a slow smile of recognition and says "Yes, Franck. I think we are."
Hospital, badminton court. Same thing, really.
Well, we were batting the birdie back and forth with more humor than skill, when a group of five boys, two of whom were international students, walked up and asked us if they could join. We said sure, assuming that two of them would assemble and oppose the two of us. To our surprise, all five of them clustered together on the other side of the net and proceeded to take us on.
Let me tell you, it was a lot of fun.
The birdie was smashed back and forth, often twirling in midair as rackets swished by, missing by entire feet.
Boys collided with boys on the other side, boys fell, laughing.
Serves were delivered out of order and overhand, often with fluorishes and mighty leaps.
No one, it seemed, could understand what any other person said, but it didn't seem to matter.
We were just seven college students having fun.
To be completely honest, it was the first time that I've really interacted with international students.
Not because I have anything against them, but because I'm always worried that I'll do something or say something they won't understand, or vice versa.
Badminton, even in rude form, I have learned, is easily translated into any language.
In fact, and you're probably going to groan at this next part, our entire time in the RFC reminded me of that moment in Father of the Bride 2, when Steve Martin and Martin Short are in the hospital running back and forth between Steve's wife and Steve's daughter, who are both in labor at the same time. Suddenly, Martin Short, in his funny Franck voice, grabs Steve Martin by the shoulders and says, "George...we're bonding, aren't we?" And Steve Martin smiles a slow smile of recognition and says "Yes, Franck. I think we are."
Hospital, badminton court. Same thing, really.
Saturday, January 15, 2011
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.
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.
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.
Thursday, October 7, 2010
The Poem Stuck in my Head
Whilst studying for a German test this fine evening, I had a poem stuck in my head.
Do you ever have that?
It's very similar to having a song stuck in your head, only even more annoying because you can't hum or whistle the refrain.
You can only say it.
Ironically enough, I first heard about this particular poem in a movie.
Also ironically, the movie was Must Love Dogs, which I didn't really like because I felt the plot was all over the place, and because I was actually getting annoyed with Diane Lane, lovely actor as she is.
Christopher Plummer was the one who recited the poem in the movie, though, so that makes everything all right. Captain Von Trapp can do no wrong in my book.
Anyway, here's the poem. Enjoy:
"Brown Penny," by William Butler Yeats
I whispered, 'I am too young,'
And then, 'I am old enough';
Wherefore I threw a penny
To find out if I might love.
'Go and love, go and love, young man,
If the lady be young and fair.'
Ah, penny, brown penny, brown penny,
I am looped in the loops of her hair.
O love is the crooked thing,
There is nobody wise enough
To find out all that is in it,
For he would be thinking of love
Till the stars had run away
And the shadows eaten the moon.
Ah, penny, brown penny, brown penny,
One cannot begin it too soon.
Do you ever have that?
It's very similar to having a song stuck in your head, only even more annoying because you can't hum or whistle the refrain.
You can only say it.
Ironically enough, I first heard about this particular poem in a movie.
Also ironically, the movie was Must Love Dogs, which I didn't really like because I felt the plot was all over the place, and because I was actually getting annoyed with Diane Lane, lovely actor as she is.
Christopher Plummer was the one who recited the poem in the movie, though, so that makes everything all right. Captain Von Trapp can do no wrong in my book.
Anyway, here's the poem. Enjoy:
"Brown Penny," by William Butler Yeats
I whispered, 'I am too young,'
And then, 'I am old enough';
Wherefore I threw a penny
To find out if I might love.
'Go and love, go and love, young man,
If the lady be young and fair.'
Ah, penny, brown penny, brown penny,
I am looped in the loops of her hair.
O love is the crooked thing,
There is nobody wise enough
To find out all that is in it,
For he would be thinking of love
Till the stars had run away
And the shadows eaten the moon.
Ah, penny, brown penny, brown penny,
One cannot begin it too soon.
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.
Tuesday, July 27, 2010
The Axe Has Fallen
I was doing a pull in school supplies today at work, and one of my coworkers (a guy named Matt) was saying something about not wanting to work, about it not being worth it. I asked him what he meant, and he said that he was being let go, and that he would only be working for a few more weeks.
And then he mentioned that Spencer, another Target coworker of mine, had already been let go. This completely shocked me. Spencer? Spencer John? He was in a bit of my Target story! He was nice! We had orientation together! He took one of my shifts for me when I couldn't work it! I mean, I didn't know him well at all, but I certainly feel the loss! He just...disappeared! I had no idea that he was even permanently gone!
Matt continued by saying (yeah, this guy's a talker) that Spencer had probably been let go because he was slow. Slow on the zone, maybe. Slow to respond to things. Funny, because I always thought that he was rather willing to help out. Very willing, in fact.
Now, don't get me wrong. I am not criticizing the management at Target in any way, or questioning their judgment. I'm merely sharing my observations, and my general shock at the loss of team members I had worked with and gotten to know.
I realize that all of this is probably even to my benefit. Fewer people on the payroll, better pay for me, I guess. But boy I hate to look at it that way. I would personally rather have the people.
Anyway, what struck me the most was the fact that I could be next. Now, I consider myself to be a good, contributing member of the Target team. I try to respond and help out as quickly as I can, I don't purposefully dawdle on breaks, I give great guest service (mainly because I simply love chatting with people), and I make good time on the zones (although sometimes I get a little O.C.D. and spend more time arranging things than is probably necessary).
It's easy to play myself up, and I don't want to sound too self-righteous, but I'll just say that the reason I put so much effort in at work is because I constantly remind myself that I'm getting paid. It's my job. I enjoy it, I take pride in doing well, but I'm also getting $8.00 an hour, and I need to make that $8.00 worth it. Not only to me, but to the person who is shelling it out in my paycheck every fortnight.
Gosh, I hope I don't get let go. Honestly, though, it wouldn't even make much sense for them to fire me. I only have a few weeks of work left before I go off to school, and after that I'll only be an asset; I won't be on the payroll except for Christmas and the other main, busy holidays. I'll give them the extra manpower they need without taking too much pay away from everyone else. That's the way I see it, at least.
Okay that was part one of The Axe Has Fallen.
Here's part two:
My good friend Ben (one of my best friends at Morris) will not be coming back to UMM next year. I'm mentioning this not because I know he'll probably read it (Hi Ben), but because this news is really bringing me down, and if I want my blog to reflect the impactful things in my life (which I do), then I can't leave things like this out.
So here we go.
The Top 9 Things I'm Going To Miss Most About Having Ben at UMM:
1. The whistling. You can hear Ben coming from a long way off because he's constantly whistling (or singing or humming).
2. His laugh. Again, you can hear it for quite a ways. Makes him easy to find.
3. Having mysterious messages/drawings appear on my whiteboard.
4. We were going to take/suffer through German I together!
5. He's always up for going on a walk somewhere, whether it be to Pamida, the Student Center, or the Humanities Building (where he waited with me for like 30 minutes just so I could get advised).
6. Somehow Ben always knows everything about everyone. He's not particularly nosy; people just feel comfortable telling him things. He's like a well of secrets (which comes in handy a lot, take my word for it).
7. Watching Survivor! I hate to admit it, but he definitely remembers more about past seasons than I do, although we both agree that Rupert is the best Survivor of all time.
8. Just generally having such a good friend around, one who's always willing to listen, who gives great advice, and who will tell it to you straight up when you need him to.
9. I only have one eyeball, and it's for you! (sorry-inside joke)
Okay this is making me sad. It's not like he's dying or anything.
Now is the time when I have to embrace my new mantra: everything happens for a reason, and a lot of the time it happens for the best. There's a reason for this, which will hopefully become clear very soon. In the meantime, I'll be saving all of my best trips, falls, spills, etc. until we hang out again.
And then he mentioned that Spencer, another Target coworker of mine, had already been let go. This completely shocked me. Spencer? Spencer John? He was in a bit of my Target story! He was nice! We had orientation together! He took one of my shifts for me when I couldn't work it! I mean, I didn't know him well at all, but I certainly feel the loss! He just...disappeared! I had no idea that he was even permanently gone!
Matt continued by saying (yeah, this guy's a talker) that Spencer had probably been let go because he was slow. Slow on the zone, maybe. Slow to respond to things. Funny, because I always thought that he was rather willing to help out. Very willing, in fact.
Now, don't get me wrong. I am not criticizing the management at Target in any way, or questioning their judgment. I'm merely sharing my observations, and my general shock at the loss of team members I had worked with and gotten to know.
I realize that all of this is probably even to my benefit. Fewer people on the payroll, better pay for me, I guess. But boy I hate to look at it that way. I would personally rather have the people.
Anyway, what struck me the most was the fact that I could be next. Now, I consider myself to be a good, contributing member of the Target team. I try to respond and help out as quickly as I can, I don't purposefully dawdle on breaks, I give great guest service (mainly because I simply love chatting with people), and I make good time on the zones (although sometimes I get a little O.C.D. and spend more time arranging things than is probably necessary).
It's easy to play myself up, and I don't want to sound too self-righteous, but I'll just say that the reason I put so much effort in at work is because I constantly remind myself that I'm getting paid. It's my job. I enjoy it, I take pride in doing well, but I'm also getting $8.00 an hour, and I need to make that $8.00 worth it. Not only to me, but to the person who is shelling it out in my paycheck every fortnight.
Gosh, I hope I don't get let go. Honestly, though, it wouldn't even make much sense for them to fire me. I only have a few weeks of work left before I go off to school, and after that I'll only be an asset; I won't be on the payroll except for Christmas and the other main, busy holidays. I'll give them the extra manpower they need without taking too much pay away from everyone else. That's the way I see it, at least.
Okay that was part one of The Axe Has Fallen.
Here's part two:
My good friend Ben (one of my best friends at Morris) will not be coming back to UMM next year. I'm mentioning this not because I know he'll probably read it (Hi Ben), but because this news is really bringing me down, and if I want my blog to reflect the impactful things in my life (which I do), then I can't leave things like this out.
So here we go.
The Top 9 Things I'm Going To Miss Most About Having Ben at UMM:
1. The whistling. You can hear Ben coming from a long way off because he's constantly whistling (or singing or humming).
2. His laugh. Again, you can hear it for quite a ways. Makes him easy to find.
3. Having mysterious messages/drawings appear on my whiteboard.
4. We were going to take/suffer through German I together!
5. He's always up for going on a walk somewhere, whether it be to Pamida, the Student Center, or the Humanities Building (where he waited with me for like 30 minutes just so I could get advised).
6. Somehow Ben always knows everything about everyone. He's not particularly nosy; people just feel comfortable telling him things. He's like a well of secrets (which comes in handy a lot, take my word for it).
7. Watching Survivor! I hate to admit it, but he definitely remembers more about past seasons than I do, although we both agree that Rupert is the best Survivor of all time.
8. Just generally having such a good friend around, one who's always willing to listen, who gives great advice, and who will tell it to you straight up when you need him to.
9. I only have one eyeball, and it's for you! (sorry-inside joke)
Okay this is making me sad. It's not like he's dying or anything.
Now is the time when I have to embrace my new mantra: everything happens for a reason, and a lot of the time it happens for the best. There's a reason for this, which will hopefully become clear very soon. In the meantime, I'll be saving all of my best trips, falls, spills, etc. until we hang out again.
Monday, June 21, 2010
Story Time
I thought I'd post a story for a change of pace. Here's one a wrote a few days ago. I sat down and typed it up in about an hour and a half; it's based off a sudden idea I had. It's a little Nicholas Sparks-esque, but it was fun to write, because I think it's about something that everyone secretly dreams will happen to them.
There's no title, unfortunately. Let me know if you think of a good one.
Jack felt something shift on the bed next to him. Heart thumping, he groped in the darkness for his lamp.
“Don’t!” a soft voice came, “you’ll spoil it!”
Jack paused. “Spoil what?” He asked finally, wondering how his death by the axe man beside him could possibly be ruined by a bit of light.
“This,” the now definitely female voice answered, “Your wish.”
“My…what?” Jack lowered his outstretched arm slowly.
“Your birthday wish of course. You wished to hold your true love in your arms for a night. So here I am.”
Jack was baffled now. His wish had been earnest, although certainly not expected to come true. True loves did not suddenly appear in one’s arms because of wishes made over flaming candles. Furthermore, in his dream he had meant the holding to take place in the future, preferably when he was not in a dorm room and wearing his pajama pants with the hole in the knee. He didn’t say any of this to the girl, of course. He didn’t want to be rude to such a nice-sounding apparition.
“But how did you get here?” It seemed sensible to start with this question. Go back from the beginning, and work forward. That was how Jack liked to do things.
The girl laughed a little, and turned her head on the pillow so that she was facing him. It suddenly struck Jack that there was a girl in his bed. Next to him. His amazement only increased with her reply: “Oh, someone sent me. I’m not sure who, actually. I was sleeping in my bed, same as you, and suddenly I heard a voice giving me instructions and I appeared here. I’m as surprised as you are, you know.”
“What instructions?”
“They were very cryptic. We’re not to see each other in the light, We’re not to tell our names, or reveal anything that will help us to find each other. And we’re not to do anything besides hold each other.”
“And then what happened?”
“Things went black in my room. Blacker than they were already. It was if I had closed my eyes. Then everything went fuzzy for a second, and I found myself here.”
There was another short silence as Jack thought about what the girl was saying. It was magic, or God. Must be. He supposed that he should believe it was the latter who had sent her to him, but somehow this seemed too fairy-tale-like to be of His doing.
He finally spoke again: “Then you’re my…” Jack trailed off.
“True love, yes. And you’re mine,” the girl said sweetly and simply. “I’m pleased to meet you,” she laughed.
Jack laughed too, and reached out to shake her hand in the darkness. Her fingers were small and strong, and her palm pressed firmly against his own.
“What happens if we break one of the rules?” He wondered.
“I disappear,” the girl said solemnly, “and we never meet again.”
“We’ll be careful,” Jack promised. He could hardly get the words out. He was still holding her hand.
The girl squeezed his thumb gently. “What now?” She asked him.
“Well,” Jack hardly dared to say it. “About my wish.” He ended with a period, not knowing how to articulate what he wanted more than anything.
“About your wish.” Her period was more definite than his, and she scootched closer to him, so that all he had to do was shift his arms and she’d be inside them, right up against his chest.
He did, of course, and wrapped them around her back. She snuggled her face in his shirt and sighed quietly.
They lay that way for hours, not talking, or even moving. Jack was so happy and contented that he felt if he closed his eyes he would drift into a peaceful sleep. So he didn’t close his eyes, for once not wanting to lose a real moment to the beauty of his dreams. Not that he had ever encountered a moment this beautiful.
He couldn’t see her, not even the curve of her cheek or the glint of her hair. But he could feel her nose pressing against his heart, her hand still in his, her feet tangled in his own. He could feel her strength and her wisdom and her clarity. He could feel the preciousness of what he held, and when he thought of when he would have to let her go and slowly continue to live the rest of his life, he almost couldn’t bear the cruelty of it all. He would plod the path alone for a long time, he knew.
This wish felt like a halfway point; it was a moment given to him so that he could face a million moments unlike it with courage. He was sure that this wish wouldn’t have been granted had he been destined to meet the girl in his arms tomorrow, or even next year.
He traced her face, smiling as he felt her grin under his hand. “Trying to figure out what I look like?” She teased.
“No,” Jack returned mockingly, “I expect I’ll find out soon enough.”
“It can’t be soon enough,” the girl said, suddenly sober, “I’ve been thinking of all the months and maybe years I’ll have to live without you.”
Jack pulled her closer. “At least we have this. Most people don’t, you know. They just have to live in mystery and hope that someone perfect for them is out there. We know for sure.”
“Do we?” the girl asked doubtfully. “What if this is a dream? What if we wake up and everything is the same?”
“Everything will be the same,” Jack replied. “We’re the ones who will have changed.”
Then they were quiet again, each thinking their own private thoughts, each holding on tighter to the other as they saw the morning creeping up under the window shades. Just as the light began to reach out onto the floor near the bed, the girl disappeared.
The room seemed to tilt sideways for a second, and then his arms were empty. Instinctively, Jack rolled over onto the spot where she had lain. The warmth from her body still lingered. So she had been real. Dreams do not leave body heat behind.
He was still for a minute, relishing the night. Then he got out of bed and began putting on his clothes in the dark. Taking a deep breath, he strode over to the window and opened the shades, feeling himself flood with day and the promise of a girl who was looking out her own window into the same brightness.
-End-
There's no title, unfortunately. Let me know if you think of a good one.
Jack felt something shift on the bed next to him. Heart thumping, he groped in the darkness for his lamp.
“Don’t!” a soft voice came, “you’ll spoil it!”
Jack paused. “Spoil what?” He asked finally, wondering how his death by the axe man beside him could possibly be ruined by a bit of light.
“This,” the now definitely female voice answered, “Your wish.”
“My…what?” Jack lowered his outstretched arm slowly.
“Your birthday wish of course. You wished to hold your true love in your arms for a night. So here I am.”
Jack was baffled now. His wish had been earnest, although certainly not expected to come true. True loves did not suddenly appear in one’s arms because of wishes made over flaming candles. Furthermore, in his dream he had meant the holding to take place in the future, preferably when he was not in a dorm room and wearing his pajama pants with the hole in the knee. He didn’t say any of this to the girl, of course. He didn’t want to be rude to such a nice-sounding apparition.
“But how did you get here?” It seemed sensible to start with this question. Go back from the beginning, and work forward. That was how Jack liked to do things.
The girl laughed a little, and turned her head on the pillow so that she was facing him. It suddenly struck Jack that there was a girl in his bed. Next to him. His amazement only increased with her reply: “Oh, someone sent me. I’m not sure who, actually. I was sleeping in my bed, same as you, and suddenly I heard a voice giving me instructions and I appeared here. I’m as surprised as you are, you know.”
“What instructions?”
“They were very cryptic. We’re not to see each other in the light, We’re not to tell our names, or reveal anything that will help us to find each other. And we’re not to do anything besides hold each other.”
“And then what happened?”
“Things went black in my room. Blacker than they were already. It was if I had closed my eyes. Then everything went fuzzy for a second, and I found myself here.”
There was another short silence as Jack thought about what the girl was saying. It was magic, or God. Must be. He supposed that he should believe it was the latter who had sent her to him, but somehow this seemed too fairy-tale-like to be of His doing.
He finally spoke again: “Then you’re my…” Jack trailed off.
“True love, yes. And you’re mine,” the girl said sweetly and simply. “I’m pleased to meet you,” she laughed.
Jack laughed too, and reached out to shake her hand in the darkness. Her fingers were small and strong, and her palm pressed firmly against his own.
“What happens if we break one of the rules?” He wondered.
“I disappear,” the girl said solemnly, “and we never meet again.”
“We’ll be careful,” Jack promised. He could hardly get the words out. He was still holding her hand.
The girl squeezed his thumb gently. “What now?” She asked him.
“Well,” Jack hardly dared to say it. “About my wish.” He ended with a period, not knowing how to articulate what he wanted more than anything.
“About your wish.” Her period was more definite than his, and she scootched closer to him, so that all he had to do was shift his arms and she’d be inside them, right up against his chest.
He did, of course, and wrapped them around her back. She snuggled her face in his shirt and sighed quietly.
They lay that way for hours, not talking, or even moving. Jack was so happy and contented that he felt if he closed his eyes he would drift into a peaceful sleep. So he didn’t close his eyes, for once not wanting to lose a real moment to the beauty of his dreams. Not that he had ever encountered a moment this beautiful.
He couldn’t see her, not even the curve of her cheek or the glint of her hair. But he could feel her nose pressing against his heart, her hand still in his, her feet tangled in his own. He could feel her strength and her wisdom and her clarity. He could feel the preciousness of what he held, and when he thought of when he would have to let her go and slowly continue to live the rest of his life, he almost couldn’t bear the cruelty of it all. He would plod the path alone for a long time, he knew.
This wish felt like a halfway point; it was a moment given to him so that he could face a million moments unlike it with courage. He was sure that this wish wouldn’t have been granted had he been destined to meet the girl in his arms tomorrow, or even next year.
He traced her face, smiling as he felt her grin under his hand. “Trying to figure out what I look like?” She teased.
“No,” Jack returned mockingly, “I expect I’ll find out soon enough.”
“It can’t be soon enough,” the girl said, suddenly sober, “I’ve been thinking of all the months and maybe years I’ll have to live without you.”
Jack pulled her closer. “At least we have this. Most people don’t, you know. They just have to live in mystery and hope that someone perfect for them is out there. We know for sure.”
“Do we?” the girl asked doubtfully. “What if this is a dream? What if we wake up and everything is the same?”
“Everything will be the same,” Jack replied. “We’re the ones who will have changed.”
Then they were quiet again, each thinking their own private thoughts, each holding on tighter to the other as they saw the morning creeping up under the window shades. Just as the light began to reach out onto the floor near the bed, the girl disappeared.
The room seemed to tilt sideways for a second, and then his arms were empty. Instinctively, Jack rolled over onto the spot where she had lain. The warmth from her body still lingered. So she had been real. Dreams do not leave body heat behind.
He was still for a minute, relishing the night. Then he got out of bed and began putting on his clothes in the dark. Taking a deep breath, he strode over to the window and opened the shades, feeling himself flood with day and the promise of a girl who was looking out her own window into the same brightness.
-End-
Wednesday, March 17, 2010
Things That Make Me Smile Part 1
Earlier today, I watched Susan Boyle's "I Dreamed A Dream" performance for Britain's Got Talent.
I have to tell you, I was grinning hugely through the entire video. To see this dowdy, middle-aged woman come out and just blow everyone away with her gorgeous voice was simply amazing.
Things like that get me. I don't know, I suppose you could laugh at my sentimentality, but it's just the way I am. I love stories like that; stories that mean something, even if they don't happen to you or to anyone you know. It gives me faith in humanity.
Wow this is getting to be quite the cheese ball post. I'm not sure how to redeem myself at this point.
I don't suppose it would help to mention my current Peter, Paul and Mary phase? No? Okay then.
Well in that case, I think I'll just call it a night.
P.S. If you're really reading my blog carefully, you may have noticed that I edited this post from the original. Though I do love sarcasm, and employ it freely in real life, I thought it was too heavy for the blog world, or at least for this particular post. Cheers!
I have to tell you, I was grinning hugely through the entire video. To see this dowdy, middle-aged woman come out and just blow everyone away with her gorgeous voice was simply amazing.
Things like that get me. I don't know, I suppose you could laugh at my sentimentality, but it's just the way I am. I love stories like that; stories that mean something, even if they don't happen to you or to anyone you know. It gives me faith in humanity.
Wow this is getting to be quite the cheese ball post. I'm not sure how to redeem myself at this point.
I don't suppose it would help to mention my current Peter, Paul and Mary phase? No? Okay then.
Well in that case, I think I'll just call it a night.
P.S. If you're really reading my blog carefully, you may have noticed that I edited this post from the original. Though I do love sarcasm, and employ it freely in real life, I thought it was too heavy for the blog world, or at least for this particular post. Cheers!
Sunday, March 7, 2010
I Love You More Than Rainbows
Was a line uttered at the Academy Awards this evening. The utterer had just won an Oscar, and was breathless at the microphone. First, he thanked a lot of people involved with the film, and then with a large sweep of the arm not clasping the heavy award, he looked out over the crowd and thanked his wife: "I love you more than rainbows."
He was escorted offstage after that by two ladies in evening gowns. I can't remember what his name was, or what category he won for, but I do remember the slightly cheesy, hasty sentence he threw out towards the audience for his wife.
He was escorted offstage after that by two ladies in evening gowns. I can't remember what his name was, or what category he won for, but I do remember the slightly cheesy, hasty sentence he threw out towards the audience for his wife.
Thursday, December 31, 2009
A Good Year
I think that's the title of a movie, actually. No problem; I like double meanings (or double references, if you prefer).
In all seriousness, however, it has been a good year. A year of changes, for sure. I've done so many things in 2009 that I had zero experience with in previous years.
For example:
1. I had my first two real boyfriends. Both were wonderful, both ended up being just friends, and both taught me a lot.
2. I graduated high school.
3. I went off to college.
4. I began to seriously consider my writing.
5. I went to state for speech.
6. I went to New York City (my first time out East).
There are many more things that should be on this list, but I think I'll keep things moving forward.
I'm not going to write my New Year's resolutions here. I think the whole point of such resolutions is that you keep them secret, and that you are responsible for keeping yourself dedicated to fulfilling them. I will say, however, that my resolutions this year focus on growing up, mainly, and making myself into the adult I want to be.
Honestly, I intended this entry to be a bit more epic, especially considering the occasion. I'm sorry to have let you down, but I think for now I'll focus on enjoying what's left of 2009.
Happy New Year, dear bloggers. I hope it's as bright as the last one was.
In all seriousness, however, it has been a good year. A year of changes, for sure. I've done so many things in 2009 that I had zero experience with in previous years.
For example:
1. I had my first two real boyfriends. Both were wonderful, both ended up being just friends, and both taught me a lot.
2. I graduated high school.
3. I went off to college.
4. I began to seriously consider my writing.
5. I went to state for speech.
6. I went to New York City (my first time out East).
There are many more things that should be on this list, but I think I'll keep things moving forward.
I'm not going to write my New Year's resolutions here. I think the whole point of such resolutions is that you keep them secret, and that you are responsible for keeping yourself dedicated to fulfilling them. I will say, however, that my resolutions this year focus on growing up, mainly, and making myself into the adult I want to be.
Honestly, I intended this entry to be a bit more epic, especially considering the occasion. I'm sorry to have let you down, but I think for now I'll focus on enjoying what's left of 2009.
Happy New Year, dear bloggers. I hope it's as bright as the last one was.
Tuesday, December 15, 2009
Please Please Please Let Me Get What I Want
Title explanation: I just really like that song and thought that it would make a neat title. It's by the Smiths, if you wondered.
Here's what's going on right now:
1. I'm sitting on my (loft) bed listening to the (500) Days of Summer soundtrack.
2. In theory, I'm writing essays for my lit. final.
3. In actuality, I'm on Facebook, playing with Play Doh, texting, and writing this blog entry.
Here's what I'm thinking about right now:
1. How much I love everyone in Pine Hall and how much I'll miss them over break. A few people finished their finals today and went home. I was perilously close to crying; I honestly hate to see them go, especially since I don't get to head home until Thursday evening. Being left behind is never fun.
2. Usually I'm so excited for Christmas, but this year I've hardly given it a thought. Probably because I've been so stressed out about finals and the end of the semester. Also because we don't have any decorations up! It's ridiculous! I should make a few snowflakes or something for our window.
3. I really should go back to my lit. essays. I want to get both done tonight.
So goodnight dear blog readers. I hope you all have amazing adventure dreams (the very best kind) tonight, and that in them you get to fly at least for a little bit.
Here's what's going on right now:
1. I'm sitting on my (loft) bed listening to the (500) Days of Summer soundtrack.
2. In theory, I'm writing essays for my lit. final.
3. In actuality, I'm on Facebook, playing with Play Doh, texting, and writing this blog entry.
Here's what I'm thinking about right now:
1. How much I love everyone in Pine Hall and how much I'll miss them over break. A few people finished their finals today and went home. I was perilously close to crying; I honestly hate to see them go, especially since I don't get to head home until Thursday evening. Being left behind is never fun.
2. Usually I'm so excited for Christmas, but this year I've hardly given it a thought. Probably because I've been so stressed out about finals and the end of the semester. Also because we don't have any decorations up! It's ridiculous! I should make a few snowflakes or something for our window.
3. I really should go back to my lit. essays. I want to get both done tonight.
So goodnight dear blog readers. I hope you all have amazing adventure dreams (the very best kind) tonight, and that in them you get to fly at least for a little bit.
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