I like to refer to school as my love and hate relationship.
"Am in in a relationship?" my grandparents often ask.
"Do you have a boyfriend?" ask my relatives at all the major holidays.
"Of course!" I often reply. "His name is School."
It's true, really. Every relationship consists of giving and taking. School takes my time, and I give it my time. Hard work is essential in any relationship. You can't be lazy and ignore your significant other. I put hard work into my studies. I write and study and read and even have writing calluses!
Well that was a fun analogy. It's quite true, though. School is so very important in my life. I try my best to get good grades and my efforts result in excitement or disappointment. I'm constantly thinking about college. Sometimes it seems that so much of a young person's life, in today's world, is stolen away by school and pressure and stress and that American "let's-do-work-to-make-more-work" mentality.
Suddenly God's voice is drowned out by my racing thoughts. That test tomorrow! Did I study? Did I write that paper? I can't go to church tonight, because I have too much homework. Did I do those chemistry problems? And how can I succeed in the future unless I am perfect? What college will want less than the best? How will I pay for college? The thoughts go on and on....
That's when I need to distance myself from my love and hate relationship. I need some space. "It's not you, it's me." I say to School. "I need time alone to refuel and rest, so that I can have a better relationship with you in the future."
Thursday, December 15, 2011
My Favorite Books (A List and Explanations)
My favorite books are listed here in no specific order. I love them all so much that listing them from greatest to least is impossible.
1. The Hobbit, by John Ronald Reuel Tolkien. (Published 1937.) This is the book that I read every Christmas. Don't ask me why. (Even I don't know.) But I read it each Christmas with coffee and hot chocolate and tea. I love the characters: brave and curious Bilbo Baggins, who is quite content with a quiet pipe-smoking home life but is thrust into the world of adventure; tall, old Gandalf, with his bushy eyebrows and pointy hat, is my favorite wizard character; and with all of the elves, dwarves, and one gigantic dragon... what more can you ask for? This book is witty and the story of Middle Earth before The Lord of the Rings is epic.
2. Wuthering Heights, by Emily Bronte. (Published 1847.) This book bothers me to no end. That said, it is one of my favorites, probably, because it puts me in such a stir. A book must be good to make me feel anxious, angry, curious, and happy all at once. Heathcliff, oh Heathcliff... such a brooding character, and then Catherine... so selfish, but still worthy of sympathy! Just read it. Get past the first few chapters and muddle through the impossible-to-read speeches of the Joseph character and then enjoy the turbulent, heart breaking, but incredible ending.
3. The Book Thief, by Markus Zusak. (Published 2005.) This book is about a young girl named Liesel Meminger as she lives through Germany during the time of Hitler and the Nazis. She lives with foster parents who hide Max, a Jewish fist-fighter. Liesel loves books and does steal a few, but one of the most important books is a black book that she writes in as a diary. This black book is dropped in the street when Liesel's town is bombed. (This is the part of the book that I cried my eyes out in.) The black book is picked up by the narrator of the book: Death. Death is a character, and he talks through the whole book. That is one of the reasons this book is so interesting. You must read this book! It is so beautiful and realistic, even with its quirks, like having a narrator that is Death. It is such a powerful story.
Needless to say, if you know me, that these aren't my only favorite books. Here are a few more.
The Harry Potter Series, by J. K. Rowling.
Dracula, by Bram Stoker.
A Tale of Two Cities, by Charles Dickens.
A Catcher in the Rye, by J. D. Salinger.
Walk Two Moons, by Sharon Creech.
And many more!
1. The Hobbit, by John Ronald Reuel Tolkien. (Published 1937.) This is the book that I read every Christmas. Don't ask me why. (Even I don't know.) But I read it each Christmas with coffee and hot chocolate and tea. I love the characters: brave and curious Bilbo Baggins, who is quite content with a quiet pipe-smoking home life but is thrust into the world of adventure; tall, old Gandalf, with his bushy eyebrows and pointy hat, is my favorite wizard character; and with all of the elves, dwarves, and one gigantic dragon... what more can you ask for? This book is witty and the story of Middle Earth before The Lord of the Rings is epic.
2. Wuthering Heights, by Emily Bronte. (Published 1847.) This book bothers me to no end. That said, it is one of my favorites, probably, because it puts me in such a stir. A book must be good to make me feel anxious, angry, curious, and happy all at once. Heathcliff, oh Heathcliff... such a brooding character, and then Catherine... so selfish, but still worthy of sympathy! Just read it. Get past the first few chapters and muddle through the impossible-to-read speeches of the Joseph character and then enjoy the turbulent, heart breaking, but incredible ending.
3. The Book Thief, by Markus Zusak. (Published 2005.) This book is about a young girl named Liesel Meminger as she lives through Germany during the time of Hitler and the Nazis. She lives with foster parents who hide Max, a Jewish fist-fighter. Liesel loves books and does steal a few, but one of the most important books is a black book that she writes in as a diary. This black book is dropped in the street when Liesel's town is bombed. (This is the part of the book that I cried my eyes out in.) The black book is picked up by the narrator of the book: Death. Death is a character, and he talks through the whole book. That is one of the reasons this book is so interesting. You must read this book! It is so beautiful and realistic, even with its quirks, like having a narrator that is Death. It is such a powerful story.
Needless to say, if you know me, that these aren't my only favorite books. Here are a few more.
The Harry Potter Series, by J. K. Rowling.
Dracula, by Bram Stoker.
A Tale of Two Cities, by Charles Dickens.
A Catcher in the Rye, by J. D. Salinger.
Walk Two Moons, by Sharon Creech.
And many more!
Christmas Advertisement Sentence
"You'll have jealous neighbors!" + "Get in the Christmas spirit by putting up these eye-catching trees." = "You'll be torn between getting in the Christmas spirit and making your neighbors jealous when you put up these eye-catching L.E.D light trees!"
Thursday, December 8, 2011
Writing Letters
If I had the chance to correspond with a person, real or imaginary or written, it would be Sherlock Holmes. He is, in my opinion, one of the most interesting characters ever written. I mean, I could write him if there was a homicide in my backyard, my sister Emily was missing, or even if I lost a sock! He'd figure it out, for sure. Give him the facts, a wardrobe of disguises, and a few moments to think. He'll solve the case.
Not to mention, he lives in London. All of my letters would be addressed to Mr. Sherlock Holmes, 221B Baker Street, London, England. I could write to him for help on my chemistry homework, suggestions for defensive fighting techniques, and even where to buy the best pipes and tobacco. (Though I would never need those things, Mr. Sherlock did occasionaly partake of them. Or more than occasionally.)
Although Holmes has an incredibly logical mind, he happens to be a major messy person. "Bohemian" as Dr. Watson, Holmes' friend and case-partner, describes him. In one story, Holmes keeps his papers fixed to the mantel piece with a knife and his tobacco in a Persian slipper on the rug. I think that's one thing I love about him. See, my room is messy, too, but in my mind it all has a place and is perfectly normal. Sherlock is eccentric and random and I am quite sure his letters would be very interesting.
They would either be filled with details or quick and short, depending on whether he was relaxing in some mansion in England, or working on a case. Either way, I'd still love to write the great Sherlock Holmes. Unfortunately, he isn't real. And if he were real, he would be dead.
But I can still "communicate" with him, through his stories. (Written by Sir Arthur Conan Doyle, my second choice for a pen pal.)
Not to mention, he lives in London. All of my letters would be addressed to Mr. Sherlock Holmes, 221B Baker Street, London, England. I could write to him for help on my chemistry homework, suggestions for defensive fighting techniques, and even where to buy the best pipes and tobacco. (Though I would never need those things, Mr. Sherlock did occasionaly partake of them. Or more than occasionally.)
Although Holmes has an incredibly logical mind, he happens to be a major messy person. "Bohemian" as Dr. Watson, Holmes' friend and case-partner, describes him. In one story, Holmes keeps his papers fixed to the mantel piece with a knife and his tobacco in a Persian slipper on the rug. I think that's one thing I love about him. See, my room is messy, too, but in my mind it all has a place and is perfectly normal. Sherlock is eccentric and random and I am quite sure his letters would be very interesting.
They would either be filled with details or quick and short, depending on whether he was relaxing in some mansion in England, or working on a case. Either way, I'd still love to write the great Sherlock Holmes. Unfortunately, he isn't real. And if he were real, he would be dead.
But I can still "communicate" with him, through his stories. (Written by Sir Arthur Conan Doyle, my second choice for a pen pal.)
The Rain
I love listening to the rain on my window. I love the soft tap tap tap of rain drops as they fall to earth. Of course, I don't like the frizz mess my hair is, or the muddy ground, but those are small complaints when compaired with the beauty of earth-refreshing rain.
Often I think of England when I look outside my window onto rain-drenched scenery. The people in England probably don't enjoy it that much, but I would love to be in England when it rains. (I'd love to be in England even when it isn't raining.)
I think of all the rain that inspired great poets to write. Here is a part of a poem by Emily Dickinson:
"The pretty Rain from those sweet Eaves
Her unintending Eyes,
Took her own Heart, including ours,
By innocent Surprise."
The same emotion that fills me with such longing when it rains once inspired their written work.
There is something gloomy about the endless haze and fog that often accompanies rain. Sometimes the rain makes us sad. We feel weary and dreary and anxious to be home, curled up in warm blankets. But I also love the rain for that very reason. I find myself thinking about life more when it rains. I spend time with my family, or reading, or relaxing when rain falls. It is one of my favorite things.
Often I think of England when I look outside my window onto rain-drenched scenery. The people in England probably don't enjoy it that much, but I would love to be in England when it rains. (I'd love to be in England even when it isn't raining.)
I think of all the rain that inspired great poets to write. Here is a part of a poem by Emily Dickinson:
"The pretty Rain from those sweet Eaves
Her unintending Eyes,
Took her own Heart, including ours,
By innocent Surprise."
The same emotion that fills me with such longing when it rains once inspired their written work.
There is something gloomy about the endless haze and fog that often accompanies rain. Sometimes the rain makes us sad. We feel weary and dreary and anxious to be home, curled up in warm blankets. But I also love the rain for that very reason. I find myself thinking about life more when it rains. I spend time with my family, or reading, or relaxing when rain falls. It is one of my favorite things.
Knitting, My New Hobby
My recently aquired hobby, knitting, is absolutely amazing. If you are a person who sky dives for adrenaline rushes, you may not agree, but if you are a knitter, you know that knitting itself is a type of adrenaline rush. I'm serious. The satisfaction of completing each row of stitches, and eventually finishing your project, is very pleasing.
I am knitting a scarf, much like Joseph's cloak of many colors, and it is coming along well, albeit slowly.
If you don't know how to knit, or have tried and found it disagreeable, I can assure you that I understand. There is nothing as frustrating as messing up a scarf, losing a stitch, picking up a stitch... and the list goes on. I am the slowest knitter I know, but I am sticking with it!
Some of my knitting buddies can knit and watch TV at the same time. I cannot. But I love curling up on the couch under a blanket, knitting quietly or with music, drinking tea, and hollering for more yarn. (Please!)
My scarf is coming along, but I am anxious to begin my new project idea: a pair of old-fashioned, home-made mittens.
I am even in a knitting group! We meet once a month and knit, of course, but we also eat tasty snack, socialize, and watch movies. The age range is from four years old to fifty-something, and we all share a common bond: the love of knitting. If I have a problem with my knitting project, there are plenty of experienced knitters around me to help and offer advice.
I think I enjoy knitting most because it is relaxing. I can sit, keep my hands busy, and think. I also enjoy praying, simply talking to God, while I knit. I am sure knitting will be a lifetime hobby. I love it!
I am knitting a scarf, much like Joseph's cloak of many colors, and it is coming along well, albeit slowly.
If you don't know how to knit, or have tried and found it disagreeable, I can assure you that I understand. There is nothing as frustrating as messing up a scarf, losing a stitch, picking up a stitch... and the list goes on. I am the slowest knitter I know, but I am sticking with it!
Some of my knitting buddies can knit and watch TV at the same time. I cannot. But I love curling up on the couch under a blanket, knitting quietly or with music, drinking tea, and hollering for more yarn. (Please!)
My scarf is coming along, but I am anxious to begin my new project idea: a pair of old-fashioned, home-made mittens.
I am even in a knitting group! We meet once a month and knit, of course, but we also eat tasty snack, socialize, and watch movies. The age range is from four years old to fifty-something, and we all share a common bond: the love of knitting. If I have a problem with my knitting project, there are plenty of experienced knitters around me to help and offer advice.
I think I enjoy knitting most because it is relaxing. I can sit, keep my hands busy, and think. I also enjoy praying, simply talking to God, while I knit. I am sure knitting will be a lifetime hobby. I love it!
Thursday, December 1, 2011
The Scavenger Hunt for Words
1. An angry exchange.
"No. NO! There's too many lights at the bottom already. Stop overloading the branches!"
"WHAT?!"
"You heard me... start hanging the lights further up the tree. Wait, no, maybe a bit lower now..."
"WHAT?! But you just said..."
"I know what I said. Now put the lower."
"How's that?"
"A bit too low..."
"WHAT?!"
2. An out-of-place object.
I was walking through the grass outside when my bare foot tapped against an object. I looked down and, to my great surprise, spied a pastel lying in the cool grass. I picked it up and rubbed my fingers across the artist's crayon. The oily pastel colored the tips of my fingers bright blue. What an odd place to find this, I thought, pocketing it. Whatever pictures it would create I could not wait to find out.
3. A well-loved object.
"Abby, don't you think it's time to throw this grubby bear awa...."
"Absolutely not!" I cried, rushing to grab my stuffed animal bear from my daddy's hands. "I call Bee well-loved, not grubby. And you've no place to talk about him that way! He's older than me and demands your respect!"
My dad rolled his eyes and walked away. I hugged Bee tightly and returned to my work.
4. Something well-used.
Sometimes it's not a pleasant word, but, well.... I believe something easily referred to as well-used would be the toilet. I'm trying to think of a lovelier word than toilet, but I cannot. The toilet is a necessity. Thank you, momma, for cleaning our toilet. Thank you, sir, for inventing the toilet. Thank you, last sentence, for being the last sentence in this blog post to contain the word toilet.
5. Something unpleasant.
Personally, I find tangled necklaces (or any type of tangled jewelry) to be very unpleasant. There I am, running about the house, late as usual, when I have the brilliant idea to quickly throw on a necklace before running out the door. I scurry to my room, heading towards my necklace pegs, when... OH NO!... all of my necklaces are tangled around one another. One chain is interwoven with the next. I huff and puff and leave the room, no necklace around my neck.
6. Something fresh, new, or unused.
Something new and unused that I love are freshly sharpened pencils that haven't touched paper. There is so much possibility in a brand new sharpened pencil. So many stories can yet be written with that stick of wood and graphite. (And yes... I'll admit it... I also love the smell of freshly sharpened pencils. They smell like learning and the scent of autumn.)
7. A lost or forgotten object.
"Momma?" I ask.
"Yeah?"
"Have you seen my pocket-sized book edition of Great Expectations?"
"Why no, honey, but I expect it's lost because it's pocket sized. I warned you against that purchase."
(That was an unfortunate afternoon, but luckily, I later found it in my sweat-shirt pocket!)
8. A home-made or hand-made object.
I've recently started making scarves by myself. Alright, I've only started one scarf, but I plan to keep knitting them for the rest of my life. Knitting is relaxing for me. I can think quietly when I knit, listen to music, and also pray while I knit. And scarves, hand-made in bright yarn, are perfect for the upcoming chilly months!
9. An act of kindness.
I consider an act of kindness, or many acts of kindness, to be when my friends carried my books for me. I was on crutches, unable to carry anything, and they helped me. Sometimes it meant that they were late to class, or had to take time out of their schedules, but they were still there for me. I am very grateful for those fabulous friends!
10. Something borrowed.
There is a sweater that I love that I do not own. My sister Emily doesn't know that I love it, but maybe she will when I plead with her to borrow it. I'll parade around the house, proudly flaunting the beautifully knitted, dark purple sweater, silently composing a thank you letter in my head. The sweater will be soft and snuggly, and I'll remeber to let Em borrow my clothes, too.
"No. NO! There's too many lights at the bottom already. Stop overloading the branches!"
"WHAT?!"
"You heard me... start hanging the lights further up the tree. Wait, no, maybe a bit lower now..."
"WHAT?! But you just said..."
"I know what I said. Now put the lower."
"How's that?"
"A bit too low..."
"WHAT?!"
2. An out-of-place object.
I was walking through the grass outside when my bare foot tapped against an object. I looked down and, to my great surprise, spied a pastel lying in the cool grass. I picked it up and rubbed my fingers across the artist's crayon. The oily pastel colored the tips of my fingers bright blue. What an odd place to find this, I thought, pocketing it. Whatever pictures it would create I could not wait to find out.
3. A well-loved object.
"Abby, don't you think it's time to throw this grubby bear awa...."
"Absolutely not!" I cried, rushing to grab my stuffed animal bear from my daddy's hands. "I call Bee well-loved, not grubby. And you've no place to talk about him that way! He's older than me and demands your respect!"
My dad rolled his eyes and walked away. I hugged Bee tightly and returned to my work.
4. Something well-used.
Sometimes it's not a pleasant word, but, well.... I believe something easily referred to as well-used would be the toilet. I'm trying to think of a lovelier word than toilet, but I cannot. The toilet is a necessity. Thank you, momma, for cleaning our toilet. Thank you, sir, for inventing the toilet. Thank you, last sentence, for being the last sentence in this blog post to contain the word toilet.
5. Something unpleasant.
Personally, I find tangled necklaces (or any type of tangled jewelry) to be very unpleasant. There I am, running about the house, late as usual, when I have the brilliant idea to quickly throw on a necklace before running out the door. I scurry to my room, heading towards my necklace pegs, when... OH NO!... all of my necklaces are tangled around one another. One chain is interwoven with the next. I huff and puff and leave the room, no necklace around my neck.
6. Something fresh, new, or unused.
Something new and unused that I love are freshly sharpened pencils that haven't touched paper. There is so much possibility in a brand new sharpened pencil. So many stories can yet be written with that stick of wood and graphite. (And yes... I'll admit it... I also love the smell of freshly sharpened pencils. They smell like learning and the scent of autumn.)
7. A lost or forgotten object.
"Momma?" I ask.
"Yeah?"
"Have you seen my pocket-sized book edition of Great Expectations?"
"Why no, honey, but I expect it's lost because it's pocket sized. I warned you against that purchase."
(That was an unfortunate afternoon, but luckily, I later found it in my sweat-shirt pocket!)
8. A home-made or hand-made object.
I've recently started making scarves by myself. Alright, I've only started one scarf, but I plan to keep knitting them for the rest of my life. Knitting is relaxing for me. I can think quietly when I knit, listen to music, and also pray while I knit. And scarves, hand-made in bright yarn, are perfect for the upcoming chilly months!
9. An act of kindness.
I consider an act of kindness, or many acts of kindness, to be when my friends carried my books for me. I was on crutches, unable to carry anything, and they helped me. Sometimes it meant that they were late to class, or had to take time out of their schedules, but they were still there for me. I am very grateful for those fabulous friends!
10. Something borrowed.
There is a sweater that I love that I do not own. My sister Emily doesn't know that I love it, but maybe she will when I plead with her to borrow it. I'll parade around the house, proudly flaunting the beautifully knitted, dark purple sweater, silently composing a thank you letter in my head. The sweater will be soft and snuggly, and I'll remeber to let Em borrow my clothes, too.
Thursday, November 17, 2011
Thanksgiving Dinner
"Let us pray."
"Dear Lord, Thank you for this day we can spend as a family. Thank you for my granddaughters Abigail and Emily, and my daughter Jody and son David, and my wife. Be with those traveling today. We share gratitude for the food we are about to eat. Amen."
"Tuck in everyone!"
"Em, you can go first."
"Thanks Abby. You want a fork and spoon?"
"Sure. Thanks. Aw momma, are these sweet potatoes with marshmallows on the top?"
"Yeah hun, dig in!"
"Where are the rolls?"
"On the table."
"Can you pass me the butter?"
"And the cranberry sauce."
"Of course! What's this meal without cranberry sauce?"
"Calm down... here's your sauce."
"Gracias."
"De nada."
"Tu habla en espanol?"
"Si."
"Stop talking Spanish at the table with Nammy, Abigail, because I don't know what you're saying!"
"Fine."
"These green beans are great. Did you use a new seasoning?"
"I added some almonds."
"I like almonds."
"You like everything."
"Very true."
"Coffee, anybody?"
"Sure! Thanks."
"Here's the cream."
"Great meal, mommy, thank you so much!"
"Yeah honey, your best yet."
"Oh stop... now let's clean up."
"And then dessert?"
"Yeah, then dessert."
"Dear Lord, Thank you for this day we can spend as a family. Thank you for my granddaughters Abigail and Emily, and my daughter Jody and son David, and my wife. Be with those traveling today. We share gratitude for the food we are about to eat. Amen."
"Tuck in everyone!"
"Em, you can go first."
"Thanks Abby. You want a fork and spoon?"
"Sure. Thanks. Aw momma, are these sweet potatoes with marshmallows on the top?"
"Yeah hun, dig in!"
"Where are the rolls?"
"On the table."
"Can you pass me the butter?"
"And the cranberry sauce."
"Of course! What's this meal without cranberry sauce?"
"Calm down... here's your sauce."
"Gracias."
"De nada."
"Tu habla en espanol?"
"Si."
"Stop talking Spanish at the table with Nammy, Abigail, because I don't know what you're saying!"
"Fine."
"These green beans are great. Did you use a new seasoning?"
"I added some almonds."
"I like almonds."
"You like everything."
"Very true."
"Coffee, anybody?"
"Sure! Thanks."
"Here's the cream."
"Great meal, mommy, thank you so much!"
"Yeah honey, your best yet."
"Oh stop... now let's clean up."
"And then dessert?"
"Yeah, then dessert."
Winter is Both Beautiful and Sad
When I think of winter I picture frozen landscapes, white stretching as far as the eye can see. When I think about the clear, chill air, I crave warm cozy sweaters. Beautiful snowflakes fall from the sky, making their slow dance to earth. I picture myself drinking a steaming cup of hot chocolate, sitting in front of a colorful, decorated Christmas tree. In my mind I can see the white Christmas lights that my daddy hangs each year. A wreath, deep green and adorned with a red velvet ribbon, hangs on the front door, ready to welcome me home.
But when I think of winter, I also think of the "winter blues". The long months without flowers, without living, beautiful grass and leaves and new birth, can burden my mind. I find that all my sadnesses can be heightened during the winter months. I think of those who cannot spend Christmas with lost loved ones. I picture those who do not have a home, and the parents who cannot provide even a single new toy for their children, or even give them food.
Winter is a mixed season. When I step out into the snow, I feel a great peace of mind. My thoughts are silenced. Yet in the busy stores people bustle and shout, anxious for sales and presents to give away.
Winter is both beautiful and sad, but I always look forward to it.
But when I think of winter, I also think of the "winter blues". The long months without flowers, without living, beautiful grass and leaves and new birth, can burden my mind. I find that all my sadnesses can be heightened during the winter months. I think of those who cannot spend Christmas with lost loved ones. I picture those who do not have a home, and the parents who cannot provide even a single new toy for their children, or even give them food.
Winter is a mixed season. When I step out into the snow, I feel a great peace of mind. My thoughts are silenced. Yet in the busy stores people bustle and shout, anxious for sales and presents to give away.
Winter is both beautiful and sad, but I always look forward to it.
Gym Class
Note: This is written from the view point of someone who loathes gym class. I do not always loathe gym class.
Here are a few phrases that I dread hearing every Thursday, 6th period:
"HEADS UP!"
"Sorry about kicking that ball at your face, Abigail."
"Start running those laps, girls."
(These are only a few.)
Gym class is lovely, isn't it? I mean, what could be more fabulous than running around for fifty minutes kicking balls at each other?
Take shin guards, for example. Shin guards. Why would I want to put myself in a position to need to be guarded from pain? And dodgeball... DODGE. BALL. Just the word dodge makes me nervous. To dodge something means one must be in a position to be hit. Why would I want that? Why should I be forced into that?
I often compare games in gym class to warfare. You suit up in shorts and sneakers and armor yourselves with shin guards and mouth guards. You walk out onto the battlefield, weapon in hand. (And by weapon I mean hockey stick, or golf club, or tennis racket.) Your heart thumps loudly.
B-bmp. B-bmp.
You stare down your enemy. (The opposing team.) You take a deep breath. Then your general (coach) blows the whistle and hollers, "FIRE!"
The battle begins.
Here are a few phrases that I dread hearing every Thursday, 6th period:
"HEADS UP!"
"Sorry about kicking that ball at your face, Abigail."
"Start running those laps, girls."
(These are only a few.)
Gym class is lovely, isn't it? I mean, what could be more fabulous than running around for fifty minutes kicking balls at each other?
Take shin guards, for example. Shin guards. Why would I want to put myself in a position to need to be guarded from pain? And dodgeball... DODGE. BALL. Just the word dodge makes me nervous. To dodge something means one must be in a position to be hit. Why would I want that? Why should I be forced into that?
I often compare games in gym class to warfare. You suit up in shorts and sneakers and armor yourselves with shin guards and mouth guards. You walk out onto the battlefield, weapon in hand. (And by weapon I mean hockey stick, or golf club, or tennis racket.) Your heart thumps loudly.
B-bmp. B-bmp.
You stare down your enemy. (The opposing team.) You take a deep breath. Then your general (coach) blows the whistle and hollers, "FIRE!"
The battle begins.
Wednesday, November 16, 2011
The Harry Potter Premiere of the Deathly Hallows, Part II
I can honestly say that one of my favorite nights was spent watching the premiere of Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows, Part II, with my friends Rebekah, Lindsay, Cameron, and my sister Emily. The finale of the epic Harry Potter series premiered on July 15th, 2011. Actually, we saw it at 12:00 a.m. midnight, so we were watching it really late at night or really early in the morning, depending on how you look at it!
We got to the Leitersburg theater early, and waited inside until the movie started. We played cards on the floor for an hour, watching the people dressed up as Hogwarts students and characters from the movies walk around us. We were dressed up, too. I wore my Slytherin house scarf, Emily wore her Gryffindor scarf and black school robes, and Lindsay wore her Gryffindor beanie hat. We all carried the wands of our favorite characters. In the bathroom, I chatted with other girls beside me as we washed our hands at the sink. We discussed who would live through the final battle in the movie, what we expected to see, and where we bought our Harry Potter fan shirts.
I loved that, because we were all fans at the movie theater staying up until 3:00 a.m. to see the last movie, we all had something in common that connected us, even if we didn't know each other.
As we sat in the movie theater seats, the lights dimmed and a voice came over the loud speaker announcing, "Five minutes until showtime, folks!" Everyone cheered, including me. When the opening scene of the movie started, my heart skipped a few beats.
We cheered when Ron finally announces his love for Hermione. We cheered when Harry gave his life for his friends and came back to life afterwards, because of his sacrifice. I cried when Snape died, and when Lupin and Tonks die, and when Freddy dies, too. We cheered when the evil Lord Voldemort finally took his last breath. As the screen went dark, I sat and finally understood how much Harry Potter was a part of my childhood, and how much I would miss it, too.
The last movie came out, the last book was finished by J. K. Rowling, but I'll always remember the story, and the summer night I saw the final movie premiere with my friends.
It was truly magical.
We got to the Leitersburg theater early, and waited inside until the movie started. We played cards on the floor for an hour, watching the people dressed up as Hogwarts students and characters from the movies walk around us. We were dressed up, too. I wore my Slytherin house scarf, Emily wore her Gryffindor scarf and black school robes, and Lindsay wore her Gryffindor beanie hat. We all carried the wands of our favorite characters. In the bathroom, I chatted with other girls beside me as we washed our hands at the sink. We discussed who would live through the final battle in the movie, what we expected to see, and where we bought our Harry Potter fan shirts.
I loved that, because we were all fans at the movie theater staying up until 3:00 a.m. to see the last movie, we all had something in common that connected us, even if we didn't know each other.
As we sat in the movie theater seats, the lights dimmed and a voice came over the loud speaker announcing, "Five minutes until showtime, folks!" Everyone cheered, including me. When the opening scene of the movie started, my heart skipped a few beats.
We cheered when Ron finally announces his love for Hermione. We cheered when Harry gave his life for his friends and came back to life afterwards, because of his sacrifice. I cried when Snape died, and when Lupin and Tonks die, and when Freddy dies, too. We cheered when the evil Lord Voldemort finally took his last breath. As the screen went dark, I sat and finally understood how much Harry Potter was a part of my childhood, and how much I would miss it, too.
The last movie came out, the last book was finished by J. K. Rowling, but I'll always remember the story, and the summer night I saw the final movie premiere with my friends.
It was truly magical.
Writing About Not Knowing What To Write About
Sometimes I pick up my pencil with enthusiasm, eager to write. Words flow from my mind and my pen effortlessly traps my thoughts and feelings on paper. Other times, however... my mind goes blank. No ideas or stories bob to the surface of the water for my fishing-pole-pen to catch. My family knows when I am experiencing writer's block. Nervously, they watch as I pace and roam the hallways of my house.
"You okay, honey?" my momma asks.
"Of course not!" I snap, "I can't think of anything to write about. HOW CAN I FUNCTION WHEN MY IMAGINARY BOOK CHARACTERS IN MY BRAIN REFUSE TO TALK TO ME?!"
My momma pats me on the back and points to the tea jar. "Relax Abby, they'll start talking soon."
When I cannot figure out what to write, I have some tea. I pace, read, or paint my fingernails with nailpolish. Or I simply gaze avidly at nothing.Or, like now, I write aobut not having anything to write about. My pen scratches out complaints, it groans beneath my unproductive hand, until.... POP!
I have an idea!
I shall go and write about that now instead.
"You okay, honey?" my momma asks.
"Of course not!" I snap, "I can't think of anything to write about. HOW CAN I FUNCTION WHEN MY IMAGINARY BOOK CHARACTERS IN MY BRAIN REFUSE TO TALK TO ME?!"
My momma pats me on the back and points to the tea jar. "Relax Abby, they'll start talking soon."
When I cannot figure out what to write, I have some tea. I pace, read, or paint my fingernails with nailpolish. Or I simply gaze avidly at nothing.Or, like now, I write aobut not having anything to write about. My pen scratches out complaints, it groans beneath my unproductive hand, until.... POP!
I have an idea!
I shall go and write about that now instead.
The Ride Home from the Celtic Thunder Concert
I sat beside Lindsay in the back seat of a mini-van, smiling and giddy. Lindsay's mom and three other friends filled up the rest of the seats.
I was giddy because I had just seen one of my favorite bands, Celtic Thunder, at the Hershey Theater. Beside me, Lindsay was humming an Irish tune. I joined in.
"Oh Danny boy, the pipes, the pipes are calling.
From glen to glen, and down the mountain side..." we sang together.
"Wasn't Damian's voice amazing as he sang Home?" I asked after we finished singing.
Lindsay replied, "It certainly was, although that Keith Harkin sings much better..."
"What?!" I yelped, "No way!"
"Oh yes he does..." Lindsay began, and then we started laughing.
"They're both fabulous Celtic singers. Let's not get into a fight about which band member is better," I said.
"Okay," Lindsay agreed, but then whispered, "but Keith is far superior..."
I glared at her and then grinned. My mind soon began to wander back to the concert. It had been amazing. It was my first concert I had ever seen. I had cheered along with the rest of the audience as the velvet curtains swung aside to reveal the Celtic Thunder members: Damian, Keith, Ryan, Paul, George, and Neil.
I was pulled back to the present as Lindsay said dreamily, "Abigail, we were breathing the same air that they were..."
I laughed and watched the passing lights of the cars outside the window. It had been a fabulous night that I would always remember.
I was giddy because I had just seen one of my favorite bands, Celtic Thunder, at the Hershey Theater. Beside me, Lindsay was humming an Irish tune. I joined in.
"Oh Danny boy, the pipes, the pipes are calling.
From glen to glen, and down the mountain side..." we sang together.
"Wasn't Damian's voice amazing as he sang Home?" I asked after we finished singing.
Lindsay replied, "It certainly was, although that Keith Harkin sings much better..."
"What?!" I yelped, "No way!"
"Oh yes he does..." Lindsay began, and then we started laughing.
"They're both fabulous Celtic singers. Let's not get into a fight about which band member is better," I said.
"Okay," Lindsay agreed, but then whispered, "but Keith is far superior..."
I glared at her and then grinned. My mind soon began to wander back to the concert. It had been amazing. It was my first concert I had ever seen. I had cheered along with the rest of the audience as the velvet curtains swung aside to reveal the Celtic Thunder members: Damian, Keith, Ryan, Paul, George, and Neil.
I was pulled back to the present as Lindsay said dreamily, "Abigail, we were breathing the same air that they were..."
I laughed and watched the passing lights of the cars outside the window. It had been a fabulous night that I would always remember.
Thursday, October 20, 2011
My Purchase
I recently bought The Seashell Anthology of Great Poetry, arranged by Christopher Burns, for my Kindle. Included in the collection are poems by Shakespeare, Robert Frost, Carl Sagan, Emily Dickinson, and on and on and on. As my eyes scanned the extensive collection of works that spanned several different centuries, my heart fluttered in excitement. Here, before me, sitting in my hands, was a passport to so many different emotions and experiences and thoughts.
I could barely keep up with the words that were spilling over the pages. I love poetry because a good poem will mirror what you already feel inside yourself. I can relate to a poem about the ocean because I love the ocean. When couplets speak of the power of the ocean's waves, it is ever more powerful to me because I have seen those waves. The poems in the anthology cover so many topics.
Here is a sample of some of the titles, just for fun:
Jabberwocky, by Lewis Carroll
The Highwayman, by Alfred Noyes
Do Not Go Gentle into that Good Night, by Dylan Thomas
Paradoxes and Oxymorons, by John Ashbery
(Hint: These are some of my most favorite poems.)
I'll read a poem from The Seashell Anthology of Great Poetry while I wait for my tea to brew. I'll read some poems when I should be working on chemistry problems. I'll read poetry while I jog on our treadmill. (And if I trip and fall on the rotating treadmill belt, I'll fall for poetry!)
This has been my favorite poem purchase so far. I think I'll go grab a poem right now.....
I could barely keep up with the words that were spilling over the pages. I love poetry because a good poem will mirror what you already feel inside yourself. I can relate to a poem about the ocean because I love the ocean. When couplets speak of the power of the ocean's waves, it is ever more powerful to me because I have seen those waves. The poems in the anthology cover so many topics.
Here is a sample of some of the titles, just for fun:
Jabberwocky, by Lewis Carroll
The Highwayman, by Alfred Noyes
Do Not Go Gentle into that Good Night, by Dylan Thomas
Paradoxes and Oxymorons, by John Ashbery
(Hint: These are some of my most favorite poems.)
I'll read a poem from The Seashell Anthology of Great Poetry while I wait for my tea to brew. I'll read some poems when I should be working on chemistry problems. I'll read poetry while I jog on our treadmill. (And if I trip and fall on the rotating treadmill belt, I'll fall for poetry!)
This has been my favorite poem purchase so far. I think I'll go grab a poem right now.....
Thursday, October 13, 2011
Painting
She studied the canvas, her head tilted and eyes intent. She saw the possibilities- the picture- before any paint had even touched the canvas. Her hands reached for brushes she knew by touch alone. The tubes of paint were like old friends in her hand. Each tube could create anything she wanted. The paint could be coaxed into worlds and images and pictures at her will.
She held the brush over the canvas. With a swipe of paint she began.
The painting developed under her care. She hummed as she worked, happy that progress was being made. But when she struck a problem, nothing could be heard but the clatter of brushes against the wooden table. She stared at the canvas. She moved around it, looked at it from different angles. With a trembling hand she painstakingly added intricate details. A scrap of cloth removed unwanted paint.
The painter smiled. She lifted the canvas from the easel and held it in her hands. So much work had gone into the painting. She was tired, mentally, but inexpressible joy filled her. To be able to capture her emotions, her dreams, and her thoughts on canvas was breathtaking. She sighed and set the painting down again.
Her eyes shifted to the next empty, white canvas. An idea, a painting, was already forming in her mind.
She held the brush over the canvas. With a swipe of paint she began.
The painting developed under her care. She hummed as she worked, happy that progress was being made. But when she struck a problem, nothing could be heard but the clatter of brushes against the wooden table. She stared at the canvas. She moved around it, looked at it from different angles. With a trembling hand she painstakingly added intricate details. A scrap of cloth removed unwanted paint.
The painter smiled. She lifted the canvas from the easel and held it in her hands. So much work had gone into the painting. She was tired, mentally, but inexpressible joy filled her. To be able to capture her emotions, her dreams, and her thoughts on canvas was breathtaking. She sighed and set the painting down again.
Her eyes shifted to the next empty, white canvas. An idea, a painting, was already forming in her mind.
The Impositions of Living With Crutches
The definition of the word irony in Webster's dictionary is a literary device used for conveying meaning by saying the direct opposite of what is really meant. Well, crutches may not be a literary device, but they sure are a fine example of irony.
For example, crutches support you when you cannot support yourself. But when you use crutches to walk, you cannot carry things! What is the point of crossing the room when you cannot carry whatever it is you want to cross the room for because you need your hands to use the crutches?
Crutches are annoying. They are clunky and clanky and all together unfit for dancing or leaping or any fun activity that you wish to do. (Unless that fun activity involves sitting twenty-four hours a day.) (And is clanky even a word?)
You cannot cuddle a kitten while using crutches. You cannot go up and down stairwells with crutches. And do not even get me started on the fact that carrying a steaming cup of fabulously brewed tea to a comfy chair where a book is waiting for you is simply impossible with crutches!
Should I hire a wheel-chair butler? Should I permanently attach my butt to a skateboard? I mean, what other option are there? I guess I am resigned to crutches.
Perhaps crutches and I will become close friends. I sure hope so, as I will need them for the next few months.
For example, crutches support you when you cannot support yourself. But when you use crutches to walk, you cannot carry things! What is the point of crossing the room when you cannot carry whatever it is you want to cross the room for because you need your hands to use the crutches?
Crutches are annoying. They are clunky and clanky and all together unfit for dancing or leaping or any fun activity that you wish to do. (Unless that fun activity involves sitting twenty-four hours a day.) (And is clanky even a word?)
You cannot cuddle a kitten while using crutches. You cannot go up and down stairwells with crutches. And do not even get me started on the fact that carrying a steaming cup of fabulously brewed tea to a comfy chair where a book is waiting for you is simply impossible with crutches!
Should I hire a wheel-chair butler? Should I permanently attach my butt to a skateboard? I mean, what other option are there? I guess I am resigned to crutches.
Perhaps crutches and I will become close friends. I sure hope so, as I will need them for the next few months.
Tuesday, October 11, 2011
Em, Em-Em, Emmy, Emily
My sister Emily, or Em, Em-Em, Emmy, is my best fried. (Okay, I meant to type best friend, not best fried, but I left it there because it made me chuckle.)
Emily is one of the greatest gifts I have ever received. She understands me in a way that few people do. We can have a whole conversation with our eyes and I'll know exactly what she's "talking" about.
My adventurous sibling loves horse-back riding. She enjoys both the adrenaline-surged gallop and slow, graceful trot. When I see a picture of a horse, I think of Em's love for them.
Mi hermana es muy bonita. (Translation from Spanish to English: My sister is very beautiful.) She looks so different from me. I have dark hair, she has blonde hair. My eyes are light brown (I like saying hazel.) and Em's are an ocean blue. (Cool fact: Emily's eyes will turn green when she is immersed in either pool or ocean water... but not shower water.)
The minute a NASCAR race comes on TV, Emily is on her feet, cheering, charged up to see Dale Jr. win. Emily is brave: she fights Lyme disease, and funny: she can memorize lines from any movie after one watch and repeat them, voice altered to match the actor's.
She is crazy, cool, stubborn, lovely, weird, sometimes annoying, brilliant, and most especially my sister. I wouldn't trade her for all of the books in the world. (Even if those books, ALL OF THOSE BOOKS, were to be thrown into a fire and erased from every single computer/software database in the world.)
I love Emmy.
Emily is one of the greatest gifts I have ever received. She understands me in a way that few people do. We can have a whole conversation with our eyes and I'll know exactly what she's "talking" about.
My adventurous sibling loves horse-back riding. She enjoys both the adrenaline-surged gallop and slow, graceful trot. When I see a picture of a horse, I think of Em's love for them.
Mi hermana es muy bonita. (Translation from Spanish to English: My sister is very beautiful.) She looks so different from me. I have dark hair, she has blonde hair. My eyes are light brown (I like saying hazel.) and Em's are an ocean blue. (Cool fact: Emily's eyes will turn green when she is immersed in either pool or ocean water... but not shower water.)
The minute a NASCAR race comes on TV, Emily is on her feet, cheering, charged up to see Dale Jr. win. Emily is brave: she fights Lyme disease, and funny: she can memorize lines from any movie after one watch and repeat them, voice altered to match the actor's.
She is crazy, cool, stubborn, lovely, weird, sometimes annoying, brilliant, and most especially my sister. I wouldn't trade her for all of the books in the world. (Even if those books, ALL OF THOSE BOOKS, were to be thrown into a fire and erased from every single computer/software database in the world.)
I love Emmy.
Wednesday, October 5, 2011
So I Eavesdropped on a Conversation at our Lunch Table
"Look how many napkins I took from home," Bekah announced.
"Awesome," Abigail replied.
"Bekah, I need to talk to you."
"Hold on Katie. I'm helping Maddy."
"What?" Katie asked.
"Yeah, I'm more important," Maddy said sarcastically.
"We're all important."
"Well then."
"Bekah, help me with this problem."
"It's lunch."
"It is. Now help. I just don't understand."
"It's x + 9, and the other one is x - 4," Bekah explained.
"Yeah, but is it x - 9 or -9 - x."
Kayla said, "Bekah, you just sounded really nerdy."
"Hey!"
"Well now I feel like an idiot. Still can't figure it out," Maddy sighed.
"You're not an idiot."
"BEKAH!"
"Katie...WHAT?! I told you three times that I was helping Maddy."
"Sorry."
"Hey Katie, I liked your class devotions," Abigail stated.
"Thanks. It was short, sweet, and..."
"...to the point," she finished.
"Blow on the apple and then rub it on your shirt. It makes it shiny, see?" Kamry said to Raven.
"Yeah, Kamry, I do!"
"Anyone have a napkin?" Kayla asked.
"I do!" Bekah hollered.
"Awesome," Abigail replied.
"Bekah, I need to talk to you."
"Hold on Katie. I'm helping Maddy."
"What?" Katie asked.
"Yeah, I'm more important," Maddy said sarcastically.
"We're all important."
"Well then."
"Bekah, help me with this problem."
"It's lunch."
"It is. Now help. I just don't understand."
"It's x + 9, and the other one is x - 4," Bekah explained.
"Yeah, but is it x - 9 or -9 - x."
Kayla said, "Bekah, you just sounded really nerdy."
"Hey!"
"Well now I feel like an idiot. Still can't figure it out," Maddy sighed.
"You're not an idiot."
"BEKAH!"
"Katie...WHAT?! I told you three times that I was helping Maddy."
"Sorry."
"Hey Katie, I liked your class devotions," Abigail stated.
"Thanks. It was short, sweet, and..."
"...to the point," she finished.
"Blow on the apple and then rub it on your shirt. It makes it shiny, see?" Kamry said to Raven.
"Yeah, Kamry, I do!"
"Anyone have a napkin?" Kayla asked.
"I do!" Bekah hollered.
My Favorite Time of Year
My favorite time of year has just begun! I love fall, or autumn as some would say, which officially began on September 23rd.
I love the colors. Bold, vibrant oranges. Deep reds. Golden yellow. Here and there green leaves cling to the trees, left over from summertime. The weather changes. I switch out my summer wardrobe for chunky knit sweaters, warm fuzzy socks, and long pants.
I love stepping outside in the morning to breath in the cool air before school. It refreshes me, alluding to the crisp snow that winter will soon bring. I adjust my scarf and hat that protect me from the cold.
My dad starts stockpiling wood in our basement, ready to use in the woodstove when we need it. Momma offers to make homemade hot chocolate with milk when I get home from school.
In the fall, excitement is in the air. Thanksgiving and Christmas are on the way, offering time to meet relatives and to relax and take well-needed breaks from school. I thank God for autumn. I think the changing of the leaves, the warmth of the glow from carved Jack-o-Lanterns, and yummy pumpkin pies are fabulous!
And something else that makes me smile?
Lord willing, I will be able to enjoy autumn next year, too.
I love the colors. Bold, vibrant oranges. Deep reds. Golden yellow. Here and there green leaves cling to the trees, left over from summertime. The weather changes. I switch out my summer wardrobe for chunky knit sweaters, warm fuzzy socks, and long pants.
I love stepping outside in the morning to breath in the cool air before school. It refreshes me, alluding to the crisp snow that winter will soon bring. I adjust my scarf and hat that protect me from the cold.
My dad starts stockpiling wood in our basement, ready to use in the woodstove when we need it. Momma offers to make homemade hot chocolate with milk when I get home from school.
In the fall, excitement is in the air. Thanksgiving and Christmas are on the way, offering time to meet relatives and to relax and take well-needed breaks from school. I thank God for autumn. I think the changing of the leaves, the warmth of the glow from carved Jack-o-Lanterns, and yummy pumpkin pies are fabulous!
And something else that makes me smile?
Lord willing, I will be able to enjoy autumn next year, too.
Sitting in Study Hall
Study halls are very beneficial. I can devote fifty minutes of my school day to studying, reading, working on homework, or occasionally writing notes to friends. In a good study hall, everyone around me is working silently, with heads bent over books and fingers moving swiftly over calculator buttons. In a rambunctious study hall, I tune out the people chatting around me and concentrate on the words and formulas before me. Sometimes, on days when I am very tired, study hall allows me to "zone out" for a few minutes to rest my tired eyes and mind.
The sounds in study hall always tell me about the people around me.
Closing my eyes, the sound of quick pencil scratches across paper alludes to either A) a diligent student who loves writing or B) an impatient one who is hurrying to de done. Papers shuffle across desks, turned quickly by the hands of an anxious student who did not study for a test.
Small whispers are heard here and there. The accidental drop of a book off a desk sounds like a clap of thunder in the quiet room. Before you know it, the loud bellowing of the bell signals the end of class. Goodbye study hall!
The sounds in study hall always tell me about the people around me.
Closing my eyes, the sound of quick pencil scratches across paper alludes to either A) a diligent student who loves writing or B) an impatient one who is hurrying to de done. Papers shuffle across desks, turned quickly by the hands of an anxious student who did not study for a test.
Small whispers are heard here and there. The accidental drop of a book off a desk sounds like a clap of thunder in the quiet room. Before you know it, the loud bellowing of the bell signals the end of class. Goodbye study hall!
Thursday, September 29, 2011
A Lady I Observed at Giant
The lady dug through her purse, impatiently trying to find her wallet.
"Here it is!" She pulled the wallet out and waved it triumphantly before the cashier's face. Her sister had given her the wallet last summer as a gift for her birthday. The bright flowers sewn across the front of it were a vibrant blue, like the woman's eyes. The sister lived in Washington, so any gift from her was treasured. Perhaps, thought the lady wistfully, we might one day live closer.
The cashier rolled her eyes and continued ringing up the items.
Two little daughters began tugging on the woman's jacket.
"Wait, honey... and Emma, put that chocolate bar down. I bought you some doughnuts for the car, remember? You can eat them on the way to my yoga class."
"Yoga, mommy?" the girl said curiously.
"Yes, baby. I am starting the class today. Aunt Lily suggested I try it out... though I'd prefer knitting, or something non-athletic... but you know you can't say no to Aunt Lily."
"Mommy?"
"Yes?"
"What does the word athletic mean?"
"Never mind, honey. Now go sit with your sister on that bench. I'll be right there." The little brown haired girl danced away, sporting a high pony tail like her mom.
"You'd think," the lady said to the cashier, "that yoga would be more appealing to me, seeing as my job is so stressful at the office, but..."
"Lady?" interrupted the cashier.
"Yes?"
"Here's your receipt."
"Oh, thank you...." She turned, heaved her purse over her shoulder, and waved her daughters to her. She pushed the shopping cart in front of her. "And God Bless!" she called back to the grumpy cashier.
"Here it is!" She pulled the wallet out and waved it triumphantly before the cashier's face. Her sister had given her the wallet last summer as a gift for her birthday. The bright flowers sewn across the front of it were a vibrant blue, like the woman's eyes. The sister lived in Washington, so any gift from her was treasured. Perhaps, thought the lady wistfully, we might one day live closer.
The cashier rolled her eyes and continued ringing up the items.
Two little daughters began tugging on the woman's jacket.
"Wait, honey... and Emma, put that chocolate bar down. I bought you some doughnuts for the car, remember? You can eat them on the way to my yoga class."
"Yoga, mommy?" the girl said curiously.
"Yes, baby. I am starting the class today. Aunt Lily suggested I try it out... though I'd prefer knitting, or something non-athletic... but you know you can't say no to Aunt Lily."
"Mommy?"
"Yes?"
"What does the word athletic mean?"
"Never mind, honey. Now go sit with your sister on that bench. I'll be right there." The little brown haired girl danced away, sporting a high pony tail like her mom.
"You'd think," the lady said to the cashier, "that yoga would be more appealing to me, seeing as my job is so stressful at the office, but..."
"Lady?" interrupted the cashier.
"Yes?"
"Here's your receipt."
"Oh, thank you...." She turned, heaved her purse over her shoulder, and waved her daughters to her. She pushed the shopping cart in front of her. "And God Bless!" she called back to the grumpy cashier.
Mugs
Mugs are universally acknowledged as a tool used for drinking hot, steamy cups of goodness. (Credit to Jane Austen for the phrase "universally acknowledged".) I have come to the conclusion that I wouldn't be half as excited to drink coffee if it were in a boring mug. Some mornings I will wake up, bleary eyed, and walk into the kitchen. I'll see my dad standing immobile, looking into our kitchen cabinets in deep contemplation, and I'll know.
He is deciding which mug to use. It's in the family genes, I promise you. I always need to take at least thirty seconds to decide which mug will hold my hot beverage of choice.
Will it be the Thomas Kinkade landscape? The Valentine's Day mug that I bought for my mom in the second grade? Will it be a small mug? Do I have enough coffee left for a big mug? If I sip tea, should I perhaps use a tea cup instead? But then there's that mug from Aunt Karen I received for Christmas that has beautiful flowers painted onto it...
One day I brought my dad a cup of coffee in a mug. He took a sip, nodded, and said, "Great choice, Abby."
"Thanks," I replied. "Columbia Fair Trade, from Giant... I ground the beans myself...."
"No," my dad interrupted, "not the coffee. The mug. Nice sized handle, clean white color. The perfect mug."
He is deciding which mug to use. It's in the family genes, I promise you. I always need to take at least thirty seconds to decide which mug will hold my hot beverage of choice.
Will it be the Thomas Kinkade landscape? The Valentine's Day mug that I bought for my mom in the second grade? Will it be a small mug? Do I have enough coffee left for a big mug? If I sip tea, should I perhaps use a tea cup instead? But then there's that mug from Aunt Karen I received for Christmas that has beautiful flowers painted onto it...
One day I brought my dad a cup of coffee in a mug. He took a sip, nodded, and said, "Great choice, Abby."
"Thanks," I replied. "Columbia Fair Trade, from Giant... I ground the beans myself...."
"No," my dad interrupted, "not the coffee. The mug. Nice sized handle, clean white color. The perfect mug."
Muffins
Don't you just love the smell of muffins? Tonight my mom made pumkin muffins. Warm, fresh baked, with just the right amount of brown sugar and pecans on top. I almost dropped over when I first saw them.
And then we smelled the smoke.
See, you need to clean an oven if caramel and toffee bubbles over the side of the pan to the bottom of the oven. My mom was on her way to clean it, but of course... she did not reach it soon enough.
"DAVID!" she shouted, calling to my dad. "DAVID!" My dad came walking up the stairs a few moments later, though he confessed later that he did not rush to us because he thought my mom was only hollering because she saw a spider.
However, fire extinguisher in hand, my dad charged the oven.
"Wait!" hollered my mom. She grabbed a box of salt and hurled handfuls of the tiny white crystals into the crackling, brilliant flames. My dad and I stared, open mouthed, wondering what she was doing with some salt when there was a fire in the oven. A FIRE! Within a few moments the flames died down.
"An old technique I remember from cooking class," my mom informed us. "Salt will put out oven fires."
After we made sure the fire was gone, we all burst into laughter. Laughter releases tension, and we were all very tense.
Before my dad returned the unused extinguisher to the basement, he grinned and said, "Next time, honey, just buy some muffins."
And then we smelled the smoke.
See, you need to clean an oven if caramel and toffee bubbles over the side of the pan to the bottom of the oven. My mom was on her way to clean it, but of course... she did not reach it soon enough.
"DAVID!" she shouted, calling to my dad. "DAVID!" My dad came walking up the stairs a few moments later, though he confessed later that he did not rush to us because he thought my mom was only hollering because she saw a spider.
However, fire extinguisher in hand, my dad charged the oven.
"Wait!" hollered my mom. She grabbed a box of salt and hurled handfuls of the tiny white crystals into the crackling, brilliant flames. My dad and I stared, open mouthed, wondering what she was doing with some salt when there was a fire in the oven. A FIRE! Within a few moments the flames died down.
"An old technique I remember from cooking class," my mom informed us. "Salt will put out oven fires."
After we made sure the fire was gone, we all burst into laughter. Laughter releases tension, and we were all very tense.
Before my dad returned the unused extinguisher to the basement, he grinned and said, "Next time, honey, just buy some muffins."
Thursday, September 22, 2011
Fear
I am afraid of losing my eye sight. I use my eyes to do so many things. As an artist, I am always taking in details around me. I love color. God has given this world rich, beautiful colors to enjoy, and I would miss them so much if I lost my eyesight. I think of my backyard after it rains. The rain soaked leaves are so vivid green and the ground so earthy brown that it makes me want to sing. The thought of not being able to see those colors is awful. As a reader, I use my eyes! What if I could not pick up a copy of my favorite book and read through it? If I only saw darkness before me... let's not think about that.
God says to trust in him and not worry, but I find myself in fear. Never seeing the smiles of my family would break me, I am sure. So I will trust in God to direct my footsteps. I will keep praying to not be afraid. Finally, I will treasure every moment I have seeing the world around me!
God says to trust in him and not worry, but I find myself in fear. Never seeing the smiles of my family would break me, I am sure. So I will trust in God to direct my footsteps. I will keep praying to not be afraid. Finally, I will treasure every moment I have seeing the world around me!
Sick Days
Well, today I was home from school. I was sick. Scratchy throats, clogged nasal passages, and runny red eyes never mix well with school hallways, homework, and thinking. When I walk through the hallways with a cold, every sense seems heightened. A shout down the hall rings through my head and causes a headache. Staring at the white board, or those tiny black letters on a page, makes my eyes hurt.
So today I slept. I had some chicken noodle soup. I wore my fuzzy slippers and a big sweatshirt and pretended to be a bum in my own home. Sometimes you need a day to rest and give your body some rejuvination. Sick days are perfect for that.
Tomorrow, though, I am headed back to school. Time to break out the tissues and get some work done! Hopefully all of the vitamin C I consumed today will kick in. I am grateful for the relaxation that God gives us- even in the form of sick days- but I am very glad to be rid of this cold.
So today I slept. I had some chicken noodle soup. I wore my fuzzy slippers and a big sweatshirt and pretended to be a bum in my own home. Sometimes you need a day to rest and give your body some rejuvination. Sick days are perfect for that.
Tomorrow, though, I am headed back to school. Time to break out the tissues and get some work done! Hopefully all of the vitamin C I consumed today will kick in. I am grateful for the relaxation that God gives us- even in the form of sick days- but I am very glad to be rid of this cold.
Would you like some tea?
I love tea. That might not be hard to guess, seeing as my blog is entitled "Let's have some tea! (Abigail Style)". For me, any time is tea time. If I am having a bad day at school, I just think about a cup of steaming English Breakfast tea waiting for me at home. (Can I have two spoonfuls of sugar and a splash of milk with that, please?) In the summer, after I am out in the shining, hot sun all day, I crave a tall glass of sweet raspberry iced tea. When my mom goes to the store, she will try to find me some tea that I have not tried before. Only recently have I found that chai tea is actually very good. (I had a chai truffle once and it did not go over well. From that moment on I shunned everything chai, until I tried the tea.)
In the future I would like to go to many different countries to try all of their teas. It seems silly, but in my mind tea might taste just a bit better if I am having it in England, sipping it from a delicate cup, sitting in a cafe overlooking the Thames River.
Now I am off to make a cup of tea!
In the future I would like to go to many different countries to try all of their teas. It seems silly, but in my mind tea might taste just a bit better if I am having it in England, sipping it from a delicate cup, sitting in a cafe overlooking the Thames River.
Now I am off to make a cup of tea!
Thursday, September 15, 2011
What's in a Purse?
She carries pieces of her life in a purse. The finely woven, softly textured bag is always on her shoulder. When she needs something, she has it! Where? In her purse!
When she needs to keep track of homework, she jots it down in her assignment book. The assignment book goes into her purse.
There is a bottle of Bath & Body Works eucalyptus mint anti-bacterial hand gel. Have some germs? (Pssst.... look in the purse.)
Her license is in her bag, with her smiling face looking up at you when you see it.
She has her phone there, in a side pocket, to keep in touch!
During geometry class, when she needs to do some quick calculating, she can find a Sharp calculator in one of the inside pockets.
Hand wipes, essential toiletries, sharpies, pens, pencils, loose change, etc. all sit inside, patiently waiting for her to use them.
There are car keys in the dark bottom of the bag, and a flashlight is attatched to her key chain so that you can find those car keys. (This flashlight is in the shape of a quacking duck.)
Yup, it is all there. Everything she needs is in her purse, just waiting.
(Thank you, Miss Katie H., for allowing me to peruse your purse. I love you!)
When she needs to keep track of homework, she jots it down in her assignment book. The assignment book goes into her purse.
There is a bottle of Bath & Body Works eucalyptus mint anti-bacterial hand gel. Have some germs? (Pssst.... look in the purse.)
Her license is in her bag, with her smiling face looking up at you when you see it.
She has her phone there, in a side pocket, to keep in touch!
During geometry class, when she needs to do some quick calculating, she can find a Sharp calculator in one of the inside pockets.
Hand wipes, essential toiletries, sharpies, pens, pencils, loose change, etc. all sit inside, patiently waiting for her to use them.
There are car keys in the dark bottom of the bag, and a flashlight is attatched to her key chain so that you can find those car keys. (This flashlight is in the shape of a quacking duck.)
Yup, it is all there. Everything she needs is in her purse, just waiting.
(Thank you, Miss Katie H., for allowing me to peruse your purse. I love you!)
Tuesday, September 13, 2011
I wish I had a million....
I wish I had a million dates with Ben Barnes. Okay... PAUSE.
Now I know that this should be a million somethings to help society. In the back of my mind I am thinking that I really wish the world had one million cures for cancers, or one million homes for survivors of a huricane. But for right now, I am going to say that I want a million dates.
I really do not plan on dating until college. Perhaps even after college. But you know how American women are when there are actors from England that happen to be a bit dashing in movies.
Yeah. I wish I had a million dates with the actor Ben Barnes.
Date number one would be simple. Maybe we could go to a coffee shop.
Date number two would be a visit to a museum. I like art. Art is fun! And in my dreams, Ben Barnes will like art museums, too.
Date number three will be... wait one moment. PAUSE.
One million dates? If I went on one date with Ben Barnes every day for seventy years, we would only be able to go on twenty-five thousand, five hundred and fifty dates. So to reach a million dates with Ben Barnes by the end of my lifetime at an estimated age of seventy (when God chooses to take me is not being factored into this) I would need to go on an average of forty dates a day. (I think I did this math properly.)
Why would I ever want that? When would I have time to eat? When would I be able to read my Bible? Or spend time with family?
Maybe a million dates with Ben Barnes is not such a good idea.
Or is it?
Now I know that this should be a million somethings to help society. In the back of my mind I am thinking that I really wish the world had one million cures for cancers, or one million homes for survivors of a huricane. But for right now, I am going to say that I want a million dates.
I really do not plan on dating until college. Perhaps even after college. But you know how American women are when there are actors from England that happen to be a bit dashing in movies.
Yeah. I wish I had a million dates with the actor Ben Barnes.
Date number one would be simple. Maybe we could go to a coffee shop.
Date number two would be a visit to a museum. I like art. Art is fun! And in my dreams, Ben Barnes will like art museums, too.
Date number three will be... wait one moment. PAUSE.
One million dates? If I went on one date with Ben Barnes every day for seventy years, we would only be able to go on twenty-five thousand, five hundred and fifty dates. So to reach a million dates with Ben Barnes by the end of my lifetime at an estimated age of seventy (when God chooses to take me is not being factored into this) I would need to go on an average of forty dates a day. (I think I did this math properly.)
Why would I ever want that? When would I have time to eat? When would I be able to read my Bible? Or spend time with family?
Maybe a million dates with Ben Barnes is not such a good idea.
Or is it?
Simple Thoughts
One of my favorite memories of my childhood is when my Aunt Debbie came to stay with us for a few weeks. She lived in Alaska and it was always a treat when she could come to stay. I was seven years old at the time.
One morning my sister and I snuck downstairs to where my aunt was sleeping. We tried, but did not succeed, at trying to stifle our laughter as we crept and crawled closer to the couch. In the early morning darkness of the basement, we were unaware of the smile on our aunt's lips.
She was not sleeping.
Emily and I crept closer and closer...
We did not surprise my aunt that day, of course. She surprised us. But years later, I find myself surprised again. Why does this memory stand out so clearly for me? I can't even remember what I ate for breakfast yesterday!
Perhaps I remember that memory because it was so dear to me. It was such a simple time in my life. The laughs shared with my sister and Aunt Debbie brought me joy.
Joy that is still surprising even today.
One morning my sister and I snuck downstairs to where my aunt was sleeping. We tried, but did not succeed, at trying to stifle our laughter as we crept and crawled closer to the couch. In the early morning darkness of the basement, we were unaware of the smile on our aunt's lips.
She was not sleeping.
Emily and I crept closer and closer...
We did not surprise my aunt that day, of course. She surprised us. But years later, I find myself surprised again. Why does this memory stand out so clearly for me? I can't even remember what I ate for breakfast yesterday!
Perhaps I remember that memory because it was so dear to me. It was such a simple time in my life. The laughs shared with my sister and Aunt Debbie brought me joy.
Joy that is still surprising even today.
Monday, September 12, 2011
Book Characters
I am generally inspired to write a story because I imagine a character first. Every good story starts with a good character. It does not need to be the main character. In fact, many of my favorite book characters are those that play a key role in the story but do not claim center stage. Gollum, Dr. Watson, and Reepicheep are fabulous examples.
(And I must admit that having an excellent villian is very important. I really like when the villians are, well... incredibly villanous!)
A great character takes you into their mind, their thoughts, and their life and leave you knowing sufficient information to love them (or hate them) but still keep you guessing about what they will do next, long after the last page of their story has been turned.
What would the story Hamlet be like if Shakespeare had made Hamlet solemn and timid, not passionate?
Would Miss Havisham still be so captivating and crazy if she had taken off that wedding dress on the day her fiance left her? Charles Dickens knew that Great Expectations needed Miss Havisham and her eccentricities.
Personally, Voldemort would be a little less scary if he did not have red glowing eyes, a forked tongue, and serpent nostrils! J. K. Rowling knew that her books needed an enemy that roused both Harry and the readers to action!
I love discovering book characters that capture my attention. What is my favorite one, you might ask? I have no idea! But I think that is a great problem to have.
(And I must admit that having an excellent villian is very important. I really like when the villians are, well... incredibly villanous!)
A great character takes you into their mind, their thoughts, and their life and leave you knowing sufficient information to love them (or hate them) but still keep you guessing about what they will do next, long after the last page of their story has been turned.
What would the story Hamlet be like if Shakespeare had made Hamlet solemn and timid, not passionate?
Would Miss Havisham still be so captivating and crazy if she had taken off that wedding dress on the day her fiance left her? Charles Dickens knew that Great Expectations needed Miss Havisham and her eccentricities.
Personally, Voldemort would be a little less scary if he did not have red glowing eyes, a forked tongue, and serpent nostrils! J. K. Rowling knew that her books needed an enemy that roused both Harry and the readers to action!
I love discovering book characters that capture my attention. What is my favorite one, you might ask? I have no idea! But I think that is a great problem to have.
Monday, September 5, 2011
Playing Cards
"You know how to play Rummy 500?" asked my Pappy as we sat at my kitchen table when I was ten years old.
"Rummy 500?" I replied, confused. I had never even heard of it. "Will I need to drink?" I asked, "Because mommy says that drinking is bad."
My grandfather laughed. "No, Abby. You won't need to drink. Absolutely no rum involved. Unless we lived in the Wild West."
"Then will you teach me how to play?" I asked.
"Sure." And then my Pappy pulled from his pocket a deck of old, used, and quite grubby playing cards. "You start with a deck of cards..."
That was the day my collection was born. From that moment on I became a connoisseur of cards, a collector of Bicycle packs, a lover of aces, and a dealer of spades. I asked for playing cards for Christmas, relatives brought me packs home from vacations, and I hunted down interesting playing cards in Goodwill shops.
Fifty-seven card decks later and I am still not tired of finding a new card pack for my collection.
I think I enjoy collecting them because of the memories attached to playing cards- my grandpa and me playing Rummy 500, for example. I also think they make great souveniers. I have cards from Alaska, Arizona, Florida, M&M world in New York City, and from Georgia, to say the least.
I have Elvis cards, early 1900's cards, and Easter bunny cards. I especially love packs of used cards that are missing an ace, or a two of clubs. It makes me wonder where the missing card is now. In the trash? In someone's book as a bookmark? Lost in a dark corner?
So if you need a pack of cards, chances are I have one. If you want to know how to play Rummy 500, just ask me. And if you happen to have a renegade ace of diamonds in your junk drawer, there might be the slightest possibility that I have the deck to match.
"Rummy 500?" I replied, confused. I had never even heard of it. "Will I need to drink?" I asked, "Because mommy says that drinking is bad."
My grandfather laughed. "No, Abby. You won't need to drink. Absolutely no rum involved. Unless we lived in the Wild West."
"Then will you teach me how to play?" I asked.
"Sure." And then my Pappy pulled from his pocket a deck of old, used, and quite grubby playing cards. "You start with a deck of cards..."
That was the day my collection was born. From that moment on I became a connoisseur of cards, a collector of Bicycle packs, a lover of aces, and a dealer of spades. I asked for playing cards for Christmas, relatives brought me packs home from vacations, and I hunted down interesting playing cards in Goodwill shops.
Fifty-seven card decks later and I am still not tired of finding a new card pack for my collection.
I think I enjoy collecting them because of the memories attached to playing cards- my grandpa and me playing Rummy 500, for example. I also think they make great souveniers. I have cards from Alaska, Arizona, Florida, M&M world in New York City, and from Georgia, to say the least.
I have Elvis cards, early 1900's cards, and Easter bunny cards. I especially love packs of used cards that are missing an ace, or a two of clubs. It makes me wonder where the missing card is now. In the trash? In someone's book as a bookmark? Lost in a dark corner?
So if you need a pack of cards, chances are I have one. If you want to know how to play Rummy 500, just ask me. And if you happen to have a renegade ace of diamonds in your junk drawer, there might be the slightest possibility that I have the deck to match.
Expectations
I think that we all have expectations. We fall asleep each night expecting to wake up in the morning. My teachers expect me to remember my homework. I expect my mother and father to provide a house for me to live in.
What about my expectations for the future?
I expect to go to college. I, hopefully, expect to publish a book. I expect chocolate will always be my favorite food group. (French fries follow in at a close second.)
But what about when our expectations fail us?
We expect a good grade... but we forget to study.
We expect someone to be there for us... but they aren't.
We expect God to be able to give us what we want... but he has his own plan.
What do we do then?
Sometimes I complain, grumble, and throw a tantrum. My fists fly through the air as I shout and scream at the heavens. (Okay, mayble I don't do this.) Other times I sigh and appear depressed. Sometimes, I expect something bad to happen, but something good comes my way. Then I rejoice! I dance. I laugh.
So here's to expectations.
Expectations for a new school year.
Expectations for my creative writing blog.
Expectations for life.
What about my expectations for the future?
I expect to go to college. I, hopefully, expect to publish a book. I expect chocolate will always be my favorite food group. (French fries follow in at a close second.)
But what about when our expectations fail us?
We expect a good grade... but we forget to study.
We expect someone to be there for us... but they aren't.
We expect God to be able to give us what we want... but he has his own plan.
What do we do then?
Sometimes I complain, grumble, and throw a tantrum. My fists fly through the air as I shout and scream at the heavens. (Okay, mayble I don't do this.) Other times I sigh and appear depressed. Sometimes, I expect something bad to happen, but something good comes my way. Then I rejoice! I dance. I laugh.
So here's to expectations.
Expectations for a new school year.
Expectations for my creative writing blog.
Expectations for life.
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