The Blue Bricked Cracker Box

            “Come on Kelly!” shouted my big brother, Paul. While playing in the front yard next to the flower filled tree, Paul found a bright yellow rope. He began wrapping the rope around the tree, then carefully securing himself to the rope.

“We’re going mountain climbing!” exclaimed Paul. He climbed up the “mountain” and made it to the very peak of the not-so-tall tree. He unsecured himself from the rope, threw it down towards me, and motioned me to make my way up.

            I grabbed hold of the rope, tied myself in just as Paul had done, and gave my brave brother thumbs up. He began to pull the rope since my little six-year-old arms couldn’t manage. Just as I was getting some height, the rope quickly unwound itself from me, and grazed my face. Hitting the ground didn’t hurt as much as something else did. Confused, I sat up to meet Paul’s horrified gaze. I slid my tongue across the top of my mouth only to taste the metallic taste of blood. In shock and still a bit confused, I looked up at Paul.

            “Are my ‘teef’ still here?” I tried to say.

            Then we both ran hysterically inside.

            Lightening struck the ground and the thunder rolled. Suddenly, the power went out. Everything was pitch black. Luckily, my mom had candles ready to light, prepared from each harsh storm that disrupted our small town. I curiously peered out the window just as the lightning struck, chasing me back to my dad, safe on the couch.

            “What channel is the weather on, Robert?” My mom asked my dad.

            “Seventy-Five!” I yelled, proudly answering before my dad. Even though my mom still looked to my dad for assurance.

            My dad stood and walked out of the front door just as he does every time it storms. And of course, I followed. Staying close to my dad, just in case the thunder came too close, we pulled down his tailgate, and took a seat. Staring at the beautiful lightening, I patiently waited for my dad to tell me anything about the weather.

            “The lightening isn’t close enough to harm you. The storm is only in Forest City, with your grandmother.” My dad explained.

            Fascinated by the storm, I looked at my dad who gave me interest in weather.

            “Dad, I’m want to be a storm chaser when I grow up!” I said, oblivious to the rest of elementary school ahead of me. My whole life ahead of me.

            I love my dad, I thought to myself.

            “Mom, I don’t know where to start.”

            I looked at my mom for a second. She was scrubbing the bathroom floor. She didn’t enjoy cleaning, but it had to be done before we left the house tomorrow.

“Kelly, you’re twelve years old, you can figure it out. Start with your clothes. Here’s a box.” She said as she handed me the unwanted box.

            I went back to my room, sat on the bed, and stared at the big pile of clothes and the empty box. So many clothes, I thought to myself. The only thing I haven’t packed was my bed! The movers would be coming tomorrow morning. Carefully packing each shirt, I took my time, so I did not have to help my mom clean the bathroom.

                        I’ve lived here for twelve years, I thought. Almost every memory I can remember is here. From crying to laughing, I remembered it. As I finished packing, only one tear fell from my face. I didn’t want to cry, so I quickly wiped it away.

 A new house means new memories, new tears, and new laughter’s.

            “Slow down!” My mom demanded. Learning to drive was fun, until I drove with my mom. She was so cautious, as if I was going to drive straight into a ditch.

            “I’m only going 30!” I snapped back.

            Then I realized why she told me to slow down. We were nearing my old house. Immediately, I slowed down, almost coming to a stop. We both stared at our old, blue bricked house. I never noticed how much smaller it was than our new one. My dad liked to call our old home a “cracker box”. I laughed silently to myself.

            Suddenly, our moment was interrupted by a loud, obnoxious honk. We- well I was holding up traffic. As I drove away I realized something important. Life isn’t about having all the luxurious things or getting everything you want, or even going the way you planned it to. It’s about family, generosity, love, laughter, and living every moment like it’s your last. And that is exactly what that old, blue bricked “cracker box” taught me.

My Occassional Love, But Forever Hatred of Reading.

 As a toddler, before pre-school, I can recall my mom reading "bedtime stories" to my brother and I. Most of the books were filled with pictures full of radiant colors that seemed to flow straight off the page and into my imagination. We read Dr. Seuss' books the most. The rhyming captured my attention and I was always very amused in the books we read.
         While entering pre-school, reading was still considered a "time". "Story time" held place right before "nap time", every day in pre-school. I never would pick up my own book to look at pictures like some other kids did. I was that shy girl that hid behind her teachers seemingly over-sized legs to escape from boys wanting to play.
         During 3rd and 4th grade I can commemorate a program called "Accelerated Reading" and I absolutely hated it. Mostly known as "AR", Accelerated Reading was a program that included the students reading a book, then taking a computerized test to make sure you read and understood the book. Each test you took, you got so many points for it. Many kids would get into the 50 point club, 75 point club, some even 100 point club. Me? The highest I ever reached was the 10 point club.
          Still not very interested in reading, I entered the 4th and 5th grade. Although it was not a place for kids who didn't enjoy reading, I loved to go in the library. Here, I found books that I could actually enjoy reading.. that is, on the occassion of course. Unlike most kids who filled their minds with unrealistic, fictional books, I found my interest in non-fiction novels. I rememeber reading books like An Uphill Climb by Dave Sargent and The Diary of Anne Frank. I even was interested in historical fiction books such as Fever 1793 by Laurie Halse Anderson.
          Soon enough though, my interest in non-fictional novels fadded. I was now probably in the 6th and 7th grade when I discovered my interest that would cling to me forever. Meteorology. I found any kind of non fiction book, some even fiction, that was weather related in any way. My personal favorites were ones on the topic of storms and tornadoes. Not many kids understood why I read these "hard" books or "books with no pictures". I went through almost all of the weather related books in the library fairly quick and thirsted for more. I began finding informational books at the store with my mom and would beg for her to buy me more. Of course I had 100 different weather books at home, yet I would always plead, "Just one more, mom!".
         Now at age 15, I hate reading. Reading has left the building! Occasionally I find a good book. I can't read the books my friends enjoy. Books such as The Fault In Our Stars by John Greene and The Truth About Forever by Sarah Dessen. These teenager seeming books never interested me and I could never stay engaged. The only good books I read now are what my friends call, "adult books". Books such as Alex Cross by James Patterson and To Kill A Mocking Bird by Nelle Lee Harper.
          I soon hope to be a better reader. I've always wanted to be an excessive reader, but that's just not me. My goal is to finish the James Patterson series Alex Cross by the end of the school year. My vocabulary, I hope, will expand as I keep reading.
         

I am myself and no one else.

I am indecisive and curious
I wonder when I will be "grown up"
I hear a babies laughter, then also start laughing
I see a bright future
I am indecisive and curious

I pretend that I don't have homework
I feel like someone is watching me
I touch the invisible rope
I cry when I hurt
I am indecisive and curious

I understand "nobody is perfect"
I say, "expect the unexpected"
I dream of Jeannie
I try to be serious
I hope I die before 70
I am indecisive and curious

Magic Mike vs Imagination

          Magic Mike, a new movie, is a story about a male stripper who has an effect on every woman in the audience. They are drawn to his almost perfect looks, body, and dance moves. Each woman imagines he is their perfect man. In Marquez's short story "The Handsomest Drowned Man in the World", Esteban is the "Magic Mike" to these female villagers. The imagination has incredible power to transform reality into our own perceived fantasy.
         "Not only was he the tallest, strongest, most virile, and  best built man they had ever seen.." When the women get their hands on Esteban, they fell in love with this seemingly perfect drowned man. Suddenly, they see that their husbands don't add up to everything Esteban is. Magic Mike is portraying the perfect man that these women do not have. They begin to imagine that he is real- he has become a part of their own reality. Our imaginations will deceive us. These women have imagined that Esteban is their own, and have forgotten about their own husbands!
          Although, we can imagine anything we'd like to. Nothing is impossible! And that is exactly how the women villagers are thinking. "They let him go without an anchor so that he could come back if he wished  and whenever he wished, and they all held their breath for the fraction of centuries the body took to fall into the abyss." The women do believe that nothing is impossible. If Esteban comes back, then he comes back, and they are more than okay with that.
          The truth is that Esteban is just a part of their imagination. He is a "larger than life" figure who represents the women's needs and their desires of their dreams. In the end, the reality is that Esteban is just a dead, drowned man, and Magic Mike is just a movie.