BOOK: it's like a movie but with words you have to read

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The camera pans from the bustling shot of Miami beach, to the red-haired, serious look-ing man in sunglasses. He slowly lifts his head, and turns to look at the man that he is questioning. And even though it is still sunny, and he is still intimidating with the shades on, Horatio Caine slowly — mindnumbingly slowly — takes off his dark, Neo-from-the-Matrix-like sunglasses, and spurts out a predictable cop one liner. Then, as if the pro-ducer decided the ability to hear the program was trumped only by the ability to merely see Horatio remove his sunglasses with frighteningly slow speed, the theme song starts playing at a decibel level that a 727 would be jealous of. Welcome to CSI: Miami. The World’s Most Popular TV show.

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In a show that is all too predictable from episode to episode, it is Detective Caine’s abil-ity, or inability rather, to keep his eye wear on his face that truly makes this show. And I wouldn’t have it any other way.

I mean, we’re talking about a show who’s main dialogue includes the explaining of things that you know already, yet is still being explained to another main character, who amaz-ingly does not know simple things that rednecks that watch the show could write books on. Lines that go like these:

“Hey, the car window is broken. What do you think happened?”

“Well, in the overwhelming amount of cases where car windows are broken, usually the owner of the car isn’t the one who breaks the window. It’s the criminal. Look there’s blood. You don’t usually see that on a window. Let’s put it on a q-tip and run it through a video montage full of music that is usually terrible. It always seems to work. Look Horatio is taking off his sunglasses again.”

You know that when “H,” as his team affectionately calls him, dons the lab jacket we know are going to see the other thing he does so well. His job. Everyone else is in the lab all day looking at the evidence for clues. When Caine is in lab, he does an experiment to prove what he already knows, and is gone, so he can go outside and play hot potato with those shades of his. I believe he is in and out of the lab so quickly because he wants to go outside to put on his shades just to take them off again.

But back to the Cainester. In a sea of warm orange colors and dull, uninteresting char-acters; it is the dark spheroid lenses that protect the Detective’s eyes from the sun, and what he does with them that really make this show great. I would challenge anyone to watch the show, and enjoy the “now-you-see-them-now-you-don’t” realtionship that Caine has with those sunglasses of his.

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I have learned that we sometimes try to hold back tears because it feels embarrassing or stupid. We have a stigma against crying, and I think many of us can relate to this. When we realize that we’re getting a little teary-eyed in a particularly rough moment, you prob-ably look around to see if anyone noticed and wipe away the tear quietly. We worry about what people might think if you show what may be perceived as breaking under pressure. I myself have felt the stigma of “guys having to be tough guys” and hesitated to show this emotional display of stress. We try and put on a serious and unwavering facade in front of people, but if you bottle up and ignore these feelings it can make you miss something important.

When you cry, you have a reason for doing so. We don’t just cry for the hell of it, usually something is going on that invokes a strong emotion. I think that the emotions that we feel when we cry are important, and the fact that we cry when we experience them is a little hint that we should remember what made us cry. Those memories are powerful, and It can be something to look back on and appreciate. Even if it’s just a joke that you laughed at till you cried, its worth remembering because of the feeling.

There are also some tougher, sadder moments and emotions that we feel when crying. These are just as important as the other happy ones, even if we want to shy away from them in embarrassment or fear. When my grandmother passed away, I had a rough time dealing with it. My dad was very broken up and in tears about his loss, and it was shock-ing to me that I had never seen him cry like this. Our whole family felt bad, and it was quite a tough thing to swallow at the time. I felt sort of lost, not sure what to think and cried quite a bit at the funeral.

Some time has passed since then and has let me cope, but I vividly remember why I was crying and why we were all so sad back then. There had been so many loving and cherished moments that we shared with my grandmother while she was with us, and I would never forget those important memories of her. Those memories made it harder to move on when she fi rst left us, but now that we have all had time to refl ect and look back at them, I know what was so important to me and why I cried.

So when you start to tear up about something, whether it may be for some silly mo-ment or something sad, I only suggest that you give it a little time and thought. It isn’t an embarrassing or stupid thing to cry, it just means that you are feeling something worth remembering.

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I have learned that we sometimes try to hold back tears because it feels embarrassing or stupid. We have a stigma against crying, and I think many of us can relate to this. When we realize that we’re getting a little teary-eyed in a particularly rough moment, you prob-ably look around to see if anyone noticed and wipe away the tear quietly. We worry about what people might think if you show what may be perceived as breaking under pressure. I myself have felt the stigma of “guys having to be tough guys” and hesitated to show this emotional display of stress. We try and put on a serious and unwavering facade in front of people, but if you bottle up and ignore these feelings it can make you miss something important.

When you cry, you have a reason for doing so. We don’t just cry for the hell of it, usually something is going on that invokes a strong emotion. I think that the emotions that we feel when we cry are important, and the fact that we cry when we experience them is a little hint that we should remember what made us cry. Those memories are powerful, and It can be something to look back on and appreciate. Even if it’s just a joke that you laughed at till you cried, its worth remembering because of the feeling.

There are also some tougher, sadder moments and emotions that we feel when crying. These are just as important as the other happy ones, even if we want to shy away from them in embarrassment or fear. When my grandmother passed away, I had a rough time dealing with it. My dad was very broken up and in tears about his loss, and it was shock-ing to me that I had never seen him cry like this. Our whole family felt bad, and it was quite a tough thing to swallow at the time. I felt sort of lost, not sure what to think and cried quite a bit at the funeral.

Some time has passed since then and has let me cope, but I vividly remember why I was crying and why we were all so sad back then. There had been so many loving and cherished moments that we shared with my grandmother while she was with us, and I would never forget those important memories of her. Those memories made it harder to move on when she first left us, but now that we have all had time to reflect and look back at them, I know what was so important to me and why I cried.

So when you start to tear up about something, whether it may be for some silly mo-ment or something sad, I only suggest that you give it a little time and thought. It isn’t an embarrassing or stupid thing to cry, it just means that you are feeling something worth remembering.

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I believe that if you’re given a second chance, you should do something with it. Now, I’m not a very spiritual or religious person. I tend to just take things as they are and go with the flow without really thinking about it. Not too long ago, I really didn’t have any purpose or idea of what I wanted to do with my life. All that was important to me was having fun and partying.

That is, until I had my second open-heart surgery about 2 1/2 years ago. I had to spend almost 3 months confined to a bed, and didn’t have very much to do to pass the time except think about various things and play video games. I ended up doing a lot of think-ing. I thought about how I was lucky to be alive and how I should do something with my “second chance”. I asked myself why I was given another shot and why some people weren’t. What is the reason I’m still on this earth?

Then I had an epiphany of sorts. I realized that maybe I was supposed to actually do something with my life. To make a difference in this world, whether it is big or small. Just some sort of difference. And then I tried to figure out how I could go about doing this and still live a happy, prosperous, and rewarding life. The medical field was out, as I wasn’t good at math or science. Politics aren’t really my bag. Making music was a dream, but the odds of making a living from it were miniscule at best. Then I thought about the one thing I loved to do when I was younger… which is to draw. I thought, “Maybe I could go into the arts and make a difference that way”. I could totally make a difference that way! I don’t care whether it’s brightening someone’s day by making that person smile or laugh at a drawing or a poster, or it could be on a more grand of a scale. Like helping design an ad campaign that helps raise money for a charity of some sort. But, whatever life brings my way, I’m gonna try my best to make the most of my second chance.

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I believe that if you’re given a second chance, you should do something with it. Now, I’m not a very spiritual or religious person. I tend to just take things as they are and go with the flow without really thinking about it. Not too long ago, I really didn’t have any purpose or idea of what I wanted to do with my life. All that was important to me was having fun and partying.

That is, until I had my second open-heart surgery about 2 1/2 years ago. I had to spend almost 3 months confined to a bed, and didn’t have very much to do to pass the time except think about various things and play video games. I ended up doing a lot of think-ing. I thought about how I was lucky to be alive and how I should do something with my “second chance”. I asked myself why I was given another shot and why some people weren’t. What is the reason I’m still on this earth?

Then I had an epiphany of sorts. I realized that maybe I was supposed to actually do something with my life. To make a difference in this world, whether it is big or small. Just some sort of difference. And then I tried to figure out how I could go about doing this and still live a happy, prosperous, and rewarding life. The medical field was out, as I wasn’t good at math or science. Politics aren’t really my bag. Making music was a dream, but the odds of making a living from it were miniscule at best. Then I thought about the one thing I loved to do when I was younger… which is to draw. I thought, “Maybe I could go into the arts and make a difference that way”. I could totally make a difference that way! I don’t care whether it’s brightening someone’s day by making that person smile or laugh at a drawing or a poster, or it could be on a more grand of a scale. Like helping design an ad campaign that helps raise money for a charity of some sort. But, whatever life brings my way, I’m gonna try my best to make the most of my second chance.

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My life doesn’t make a lot of sense.At least not in the traditional linear Americana sense. You know: graduate high school, go to college, maybe travel, then go to grad school or get a real job. Start a career, save some money, get married, have kids, settle down, buy a house in the burbs, plan for the future, all those sort of things.

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No, I prefer to fly by the seat of my pants, planning for the future be damned. I take each day as it comes, and cross my fingers everything’s gonna work out. I often wish I oper-ated differently, but my life so far hasn’t been so bad really.

What gets me through is a philosophy given to me by my father when I was a teenager. It is the recognition that each day is a new day. The past is done, and it’s not coming back. So pick up those bootstraps and keep moving, one step at a time. No matter how hard the day before was, no matter how painful and difficult, it’s done, and today is a new day, a chance to begin again and get it right this time.

I grew up as the black sheep in my family, and because of this I tried running away from home a number of times. Finally, at the age of seventeen, I left for good, and I can vividly recall the angry pleas and shouts of my father searching for me in the woods as I hid from him, defiant and resolute that I was going to make a go of it on my own, for real this time; even if I was merely a junior in high school.

What happened then I barely remember. I just recall the adrenaline coursing through my veins as I stumbled through the forest that stretched behind our house in New Hamp-shire. Leaves slapped my face, roots reached for my feet, the uneven ground symbolic of the turbulent emotional landscape I sought escape from.

I didn’t really have much of a plan then-. Now, nearly twelve years later, I still don’t have much of a plan. Of course, I’m on much better terms with my family now, I’m in school making a go at getting an education, (for real this time), and have a loving and supportive partner.

It’s really all in the details that my existence starts to seem futile. I’m father to two twin boys, now two years old. I’ve got a mountain of debt that I’ve no idea how I’m going to repay. The weight of the responsibilities on me at times is overwhelming and all I can say is that I’m trying like hell to make it all work.

As long as I take it a day at a time, I think I just might make it, house in the burbs or no.

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I believe there is a lot of stuff in the world. An antique dealer told me this in my basement as he picked up, turned over, then put down piece after piece of my mother, fathers, and grandmothers—now my—stuff.

My basement was stacked fl oor to ceiling with 42 translucent 31-gallon blue-lidded plastic bins packed with the past. The bin categories were: my mom, dad, Jack, Cora, Charles, me. Sub categories were; work, play, need, worth-something, or memory. The underlying theme however, was that each old calendar, each shoe, each ring, broken toy, address book, or math worksheet held a life.

This became a problem. Space dictated that I needed to deal with my anointed high-level signifi cance of objects I either knew intimately or knew nothing about except that they were saved by mom. Plus, I wanted to be surrounded by the present, by potential, and life which included a ping-pong table.

I went for the easy stuff fi rst. I got rid of bins of fabric from projects I didn’t complete in 1974, letters written and bad art made from relationships I no longer even cared to re-member, and ballet slippers from gym class in college. Then I moved on to what froze me with stories and unspoken rules.

As I held a lone blue willow chipped and cracked plate in my hand, I heard mom say: ‘that was my mother’s’ or while I unwrapped one silver-plated wedding gift of hers and dads after another, I pictured us polishing them carefully at the counter. Her concentra-tion and careful repacking of each piece signifi ed a value way out of proportion with actual worth. Mom grew up in poverty and apparently lived with the fear it would return and in awe that it didn’t. Her buying and saving two cashmere white coats, a dozen long evening gown gloves, each broken bit of costume jewelry, diamond cocktail ring, golf glove, a box of bobby pins—equally saved, packed, and neatly labeled reminded me that this saving cycle was mom’s keeping and remembering, not mine.

Along with all the the stuff, I had inherited her stories but didn’t own them. I didn’t even like those two shell encrusted round end tables. Now, after months and hours unearthing, consigning, selling, editing, photographing, and distilling stuff to fi t my own description of want or need, I believe that the signifi cance of objects, like the faded tissue paper stuck to a prom corsage, is wrapped foremost with the weight of its story. I believe I get to as-sign my own value to stuff, that I don’t need memory prompts, and that I get to defi ne my own relationship to each object. Because, after all, there’s a lot of stuff in the world.

16

I believe there is a lot of stuff in the world. An antique dealer told me this in my basement as he picked up, turned over, then put down piece after piece of my mother, fathers, and grandmothers—now my—stuff.

My basement was stacked floor to ceiling with 42 translucent 31-gallon blue-lidded plastic bins packed with the past. The bin categories were: my mom, dad, Jack, Cora, Charles, me. Sub categories were; work, play, need, worth-something, or memory. The underlying theme however, was that each old calendar, each shoe, each ring, broken toy, address book, or math worksheet held a life.

This became a problem. Space dictated that I needed to deal with my anointed high-level significance of objects I either knew intimately or knew nothing about except that they were saved by mom. Plus, I wanted to be surrounded by the present, by potential, and life which included a ping-pong table.

I went for the easy stuff first. I got rid of bins of fabric from projects I didn’t complete in 1974, letters written and bad art made from relationships I no longer even cared to re-member, and ballet slippers from gym class in college. Then I moved on to what froze me with stories and unspoken rules.

As I held a lone blue willow chipped and cracked plate in my hand, I heard mom say: ‘that was my mother’s’ or while I unwrapped one silver-plated wedding gift of hers and dads after another, I pictured us polishing them carefully at the counter. Her concentra-tion and careful repacking of each piece signified a value way out of proportion with actual worth. Mom grew up in poverty and apparently lived with the fear it would return and in awe that it didn’t. Her buying and saving two cashmere white coats, a dozen long evening gown gloves, each broken bit of costume jewelry, diamond cocktail ring, golf glove, a box of bobby pins—equally saved, packed, and neatly labeled reminded me that this saving cycle was mom’s keeping and remembering, not mine.

Along with all the the stuff, I had inherited her stories but didn’t own them. I didn’t even like those two shell encrusted round end tables. Now, after months and hours unearthing, consigning, selling, editing, photographing, and distilling stuff to fit my own description of want or need, I believe that the significance of objects, like the faded tissue paper stuck to a prom corsage, is wrapped foremost with the weight of its story. I believe I get to as-sign my own value to stuff, that I don’t need memory prompts, and that I get to define my own relationship to each object. Because, after all, there’s a lot of stuff in the world.

17

My very first memory as a child is of me running down the narrow hallway for my grand-mother’s house, my uncle Chuck close behind. Grandma’s house was a small cape style home, I will never forget the light blue carpet in the living room and hallway that covered the beautiful hardwood, but also cushioned my every fall. It was Christmas and I was only about a year old at the time. Chuck was wearing the bathrobe he had just received from grandma over his clothes. I ran from him, fumbling with every step on the carpet, to the end of the hallway and a shut door that I could not reach the worn brass knob. I remem-ber Chuck picked me up and swung me onto his shoulder, all the time I was laughing. My mother is one of five and was the only one married at the time.

18

Since then my uncles and aunt have grown and gotten married and with marriage every-one began to pick sides. Issues arose among siblings and a divide formed. As we grow and change the things we notice in each other may become something we don’t like, while other aspects we begin to embrace. We cannot change the flaws in each other and must accept them for who they are. This is a lesson my mother and her siblings are still learn-ing. Despite the problems and short comings they have with each other, I hope and believe that time will heal these wounds. Grandma has said to me on many occasions that she wishes the family could get along, that her children would speak to each other.

The worry is clear on her face: this last year has been the worst on her. She is a frail woman in frame but has a will unparalleled to any I’ve seen. She has always looked pretty good for her age, but the stress has taken its toll and left a mark. She is already short and slightly hunched. She has difficulty getting around sometimes and often stays in bed say-ing she is not feeling well. She revels in the joy of a visit from her children or uncle Chuck bringing over her grandchildren. When someone comes over for a visit she has joy and a glow on her face that lights the room up and it’s at that moment I remember the velvet dress and stumbling down the hallway. Not much has changed since then, still the same carpet in the hallway, the same grandma, the same uncle Chuck. I believe and hope that with time, all this will pass.

19

People used to comment on how unique Jack’s eyes were. They were many shades of bright hazel and brown, with tiny specks of gold.

One day we were walking atop a concrete wall, about 3 feet up from a dirty brown pond, when suddenly Jack plummeted off the edge. Dangling from his collar like a noose, he flapped his tiny legs in the water trying to save him self from certain death. My friend hopped over the edge onto the sand and picked him up out of the deadly 5 inch deep water. This is when I realized Jack, my 6 year old pug, was actually blind.

The tests confirmed SARD, Sudden Acquired Retinal Degeneration. This once playful, speedy pug whom used to run away from me in crowded parking lots for fun, and brave cold rivers to catch up to me, went blind to his world in a swift 9 days. For the first few weeks fear overtook him, and frustration overtook me. Walking him became a project as he either smashed into things or would refuse to walk at all. But like after any life-altering event, we adjusted with time, and are still adjusting. Moving slowly, he can explore my apartment and other known environments with ease. However, rearranging the furniture or leaving the vacuum cleaner out results in some serious head bonks as unexpected obstacles block his way. He just shakes it off and carries on!

As he becomes more attuned to his disability, his bravery and audacity don’t cease to amaze me. Life has slowed down for Jack, but it hasn’t stopped him, nor has it destroyed him, like it might with some humans.

No matter how many flights of stairs (or fire escapes) he cascades down (7 and counting), no matter how many walls he bashes into, no matter how many times he mistakes my leg for a tree, or the edge of my bed as a safe resting place, he gets up every morning with the same zest for life (I mean food).

Jack’s ability to overcome the onset of darkness, the disappearance of everything he knew, and still wake up every morning and lick the skin off my arms, delights me. His will, motivation and determination to keep on going inspire me daily. And thanks to the weight he has gained from playing fetch, he’s protected by the extra padding every time he tumbles. He is my bruised up butterball turkey, and together we’re a great team.

20

People used to comment on how unique Jack’s eyes were. They were many shades of bright hazel and brown, with tiny specks of gold.

One day we were walking atop a concrete wall, about 3 feet up from a dirty brown pond, when suddenly Jack plummeted off the edge. Dangling from his collar like a noose, he fl apped his tiny legs in the water trying to save him self from certain death. My friend hopped over the edge onto the sand and picked him up out of the deadly 5 inch deep water. This is when I realized Jack, my 6 year old pug, was actually blind.

The tests confi rmed SARD, Sudden Acquired Retinal Degeneration. This once playful, speedy pug whom used to run away from me in crowded parking lots for fun, and brave cold rivers to catch up to me, went blind to his world in a swift 9 days. For the fi rst few weeks fear overtook him, and frustration overtook me. Walking him became a project as he either smashed into things or would refuse to walk at all. But like after any life-altering event, we adjusted with time, and are still adjusting. Moving slowly, he can explore my apartment and other known environments with ease. However, rearranging the furniture or leaving the vacuum cleaner out results in some serious head bonks as unexpected obstacles block his way. He just shakes it off and carries on!

As he becomes more attuned to his disability, his bravery and audacity don’t cease to amaze me. Life has slowed down for Jack, but it hasn’t stopped him, nor has it destroyed him, like it might with some humans.

No matter how many fl ights of stairs (or fi re escapes) he cascades down (7 and counting), no matter how many walls he bashes into, no matter how many times he mistakes my leg for a tree, or the edge of my bed as a safe resting place, he gets up every morning with the same zest for life (I mean food).

Jack’s ability to overcome the onset of darkness, the disappearance of everything he knew, and still wake up every morning and lick the skin off my arms, delights me. His will, motivation and determination to keep on going inspire me daily. And thanks to the weight he has gained from playing fetch, he’s protected by the extra padding every time he tumbles. He is my bruised up butterball turkey, and together we’re a great team.

21

I believe in knowing when to shut up and be thankful.Two-thousand-and-nine was a rough year for a lot of people. For me, it was an under-caffeinated, over-temperamental, under-paid, over-belabored year. It had a lot to do with: friends transferring, money being tight, mono, lease signings, Federal-aid fine print, a shitty summer job, unexplainable food allergies, prolonged couch and floor surfing due to infestations of bedbugs, hospital bills, bad neighbors, bad roommates, bad living situa-tions, robberies, a breakup, deciding to transfer schools or not, generally loosing interest in my college education, etcetera, etcetera, etcetera.

This isn’t to say that all of this is behind me now that we’ve reached a new decade. But I know when to stop being a critical Maine-hardened bitch. It was Monday, January elev-enth, two-thousand-and-ten and I found myself at the Joanne Waxman Library at Maine College of Art. I had worked there since I’d moved to Portland, under different financial aid and grant loopholes. But I hadn’t been planning on continuing this semester due to the pay being less than minimum wage and dropping.

Heather, my old boss, pulled me aside and told me that she had a “proposition.” Amy had been a librarian there for years. I had known that she came from old money and didn’t actually need to work; Amy just wanted something productive to do with her every-day. When she heard that I wouldn’t be returning to work in the spring due to a loophole in the college’s Federal funding, it didn’t sit right with her. So Amy made a donation of two-thousand dollars to remedy the matter. Two-thousand dollars. For that kind of money to fall in my lap bi-weekly at minimum wage at this time in my life, is a big deal.

“Why don’t you think about it and come by tomorrow to let me know,” those words clogged my head. What was there to think about? Maybe: why? Why exactly this was happening to me, what I did to deserve it, how I could thank her, what would possess Amy to give me this opportunity, what it meant to have a job where your co-workers actu-ally cared about your well-being, should I get her flowers, etcetera, etcetera, etcetera? All this was beyond me.

When stumbling over thanking Amy on Tuesday, she brushed away my words as if they hadn’t been said. She was glad I was still living in Portland and that I hadn’t transferred schools. I knew then to stop the talk and be grateful to be re-shelving books.

22

I believe in knowing when to shut up and be thankful.Two-thousand-and-nine was a rough year for a lot of people. For me, it was an under-caffeinated, over-temperamental, under-paid, over-belabored year. It had a lot to do with: friends transferring, money being tight, mono, lease signings, Federal-aid fi ne print, a shitty summer job, unexplainable food allergies, prolonged couch and fl oor surfi ng due to infestations of bedbugs, hospital bills, bad neighbors, bad roommates, bad living situa-tions, robberies, a breakup, deciding to transfer schools or not, generally loosing interest in my college education, etcetera, etcetera, etcetera.

This isn’t to say that all of this is behind me now that we’ve reached a new decade. But I know when to stop being a critical Maine-hardened bitch. It was Monday, January elev-enth, two-thousand-and-ten and I found myself at the Joanne Waxman Library at Maine College of Art. I had worked there since I’d moved to Portland, under different fi nancial aid and grant loopholes. But I hadn’t been planning on continuing this semester due to the pay being less than minimum wage and dropping.

Heather, my old boss, pulled me aside and told me that she had a “proposition.” Amy had been a librarian there for years. I had known that she came from old money and didn’t actually need to work; Amy just wanted something productive to do with her every-day. When she heard that I wouldn’t be returning to work in the spring due to a loophole in the college’s Federal funding, it didn’t sit right with her. So Amy made a donation of two-thousand dollars to remedy the matter. Two-thousand dollars. For that kind of money to fall in my lap bi-weekly at minimum wage at this time in my life, is a big deal.

“Why don’t you think about it and come by tomorrow to let me know,” those words clogged my head. What was there to think about? Maybe: why? Why exactly this was happening to me, what I did to deserve it, how I could thank her, what would possess Amy to give me this opportunity, what it meant to have a job where your co-workers actu-ally cared about your well-being, should I get her fl owers, etcetera, etcetera, etcetera? All this was beyond me.

When stumbling over thanking Amy on Tuesday, she brushed away my words as if they hadn’t been said. She was glad I was still living in Portland and that I hadn’t transferred schools. I knew then to stop the talk and be grateful to be re-shelving books.

23

Holland Brook Intermediate School, grades 3 through 5; it was dark, crickets chirped, cars filled the parking lot. Over by the front entrance by the flagpole was a bench and under this bench, curled in a ball was me. Tears fell down my cheeks as they had done before but this time they were not just tears of sadness they were tears that carried suc-cess, draining that feeling from my body. It was the night of the Spring Concert and I was in fifth grade. I had messed up some words during my solo and ran from the building during the performance.

This was the beginning of the worst three years of my life. There were many other events that brought me to this point however the Spring Concert was the biggest. I had been drained of any successful thought; any thought that could make me think I was anything but a failure. I missed out on so many experiences during those three years of middle school because of my lack in confidence. Upon graduating from eighth grade before moving onto high school the eighth grade faculty chose a quote to give to each student that they thought represented them or that they thought the student needed to use in their life. The one given to me was: “Aerodynamically, the bumble bee shouldn’t be able to fly, but the bumble bee doesn’t know it so it goes on flying anyway.” At the time I thought of the quote as just some educational nonsense.

Two years later as I was cleaning out my bedroom desk of old papers I found the piece of paper with the quote written on it in a drawer. I thought about it, I thought about how powerful the bumblebee’s will must be in order for him to succeed in flight. Shortly after while I was choosing classes for school I wanted to take Chinese because I loved the characters and wanted to understand their meaning. My guidance counselor told me that I would not be able to take the class because I was academically and intellectually unable to succeed. She told me I would fail out of the class within a month. If I had heard this a few years earlier I would have taken an easier class, but at this moment all I could think of was the bumblebee. I took the class anyway; it challenging but I stuck with it, learned a lot, and passed. It gave me such a great confidence to be able to stand up for myself.

Ever since then anything I or someone else had ever told me was too challenging I tried anyway because if a bumblebee can fly than I can too. In recent years I have used the quote more and more especially when approaching projects in my college classes. I aim high, not low. I believe in the bumblebee, I believe you can do what you believe you can do.

24

Holland Brook Intermediate School, grades 3 through 5; it was dark, crickets chirped, cars filled the parking lot. Over by the front entrance by the flagpole was a bench and under this bench, curled in a ball was me. Tears fell down my cheeks as they had done before but this time they were not just tears of sadness they were tears that carried suc-cess, draining that feeling from my body. It was the night of the Spring Concert and I was in fifth grade. I had messed up some words during my solo and ran from the building during the performance.

This was the beginning of the worst three years of my life. There were many other events that brought me to this point however the Spring Concert was the biggest. I had been drained of any successful thought; any thought that could make me think I was anything but a failure. I missed out on so many experiences during those three years of middle school because of my lack in confidence. Upon graduating from eighth grade before moving onto high school the eighth grade faculty chose a quote to give to each student that they thought represented them or that they thought the student needed to use in their life. The one given to me was: “Aerodynamically, the bumble bee shouldn’t be able to fly, but the bumble bee doesn’t know it so it goes on flying anyway.” At the time I thought of the quote as just some educational nonsense.

Two years later as I was cleaning out my bedroom desk of old papers I found the piece of paper with the quote written on it in a drawer. I thought about it, I thought about how powerful the bumblebee’s will must be in order for him to succeed in flight. Shortly after while I was choosing classes for school I wanted to take Chinese because I loved the characters and wanted to understand their meaning. My guidance counselor told me that I would not be able to take the class because I was academically and intellectually unable to succeed. She told me I would fail out of the class within a month. If I had heard this a few years earlier I would have taken an easier class, but at this moment all I could think of was the bumblebee. I took the class anyway; it challenging but I stuck with it, learned a lot, and passed. It gave me such a great confidence to be able to stand up for myself.

Ever since then anything I or someone else had ever told me was too challenging I tried anyway because if a bumblebee can fly than I can too. In recent years I have used the quote more and more especially when approaching projects in my college classes. I aim high, not low. I believe in the bumblebee, I believe you can do what you believe you can do.

25

The way I see it, the most important thing anyone can do, if they actually care about you, is listen. Just take the time away from themselves and listen to your opinions, complaints, or just some random babbling. It’s important. It shows you that they actually give a crap. Recently I realized that even though I had a lot of people willing to hang out, I only had a couple real friends. People that don’t just call me to hear the sound of their own, or constantly ask for help but never offer it. I feel like my real friends would do pretty much anything for me, and vice versa. And I always remember why I love them so much when all I need is someone to listen.

When I’ve been stuck inside my own head for way too long, over thinking everything and beating myself up, all I really need is to bitch about the things that get to me to people that I know won’t judge me or just sit there, smiling and nodding.

We’re human beings with feelings and opinions about everything and everyone’s first instinct is to look out for themselves and forget about the others, so it’s really something that means everything when someone is willing to just sit back and let you go on about these things that fly around in your head. And it feels good to just talk. To just get it all out, whatever’s bugging you. And these people, my friends that listen, are pretty much the greatest people ever because they put up with that. They’ll just let me go on, forget-ting to breathe because my mouth pretty much has a mind of it’s own and just keeps go-ing. They don’t interrupt or make those faces that say “shut up already”, they just listen.

And what makes it better is knowing that they know that if they ever wanted to switch places and talk to me while I keep my ears open and my mouth closed, I’d be more than willing to listen. The most important thing anyone can do, if they actually care about you is, is listen. I believe in listening.

26

The way I see it, the most important thing anyone can do, if they actually care about you, is listen. Just take the time away from themselves and listen to your opinions, complaints, or just some random babbling. It’s important. It shows you that they actually give a crap. Recently I realized that even though I had a lot of people willing to hang out, I only had a couple real friends. People that don’t just call me to hear the sound of their own, or constantly ask for help but never offer it. I feel like my real friends would do pretty much anything for me, and vice versa. And I always remember why I love them so much when all I need is someone to listen.

When I’ve been stuck inside my own head for way too long, over thinking everything and beating myself up, all I really need is to bitch about the things that get to me to people that I know won’t judge me or just sit there, smiling and nodding.

We’re human beings with feelings and opinions about everything and everyone’s first instinct is to look out for themselves and forget about the others, so it’s really something that means everything when someone is willing to just sit back and let you go on about these things that fly around in your head. And it feels good to just talk. To just get it all out, whatever’s bugging you. And these people, my friends that listen, are pretty much the greatest people ever because they put up with that. They’ll just let me go on, forget-ting to breathe because my mouth pretty much has a mind of it’s own and just keeps go-ing. They don’t interrupt or make those faces that say “shut up already”, they just listen.

And what makes it better is knowing that they know that if they ever wanted to switch places and talk to me while I keep my ears open and my mouth closed, I’d be more than willing to listen. The most important thing anyone can do, if they actually care about you is, is listen. I believe in listening.

27

I have lived in Vermont my entire life aside from Portland; there are acres of dark woods behind my parent’s house. I will never forget the countless hours I spent down over my back hill exploring the diverse terrain and picking up things that interested me along the way. I could be anything I wanted when I was exploring, I could go wherever I wanted and do whatever I pleased. I climbed trees to see how far I had traveled from my house, and I found great pleasure in overcoming small obstacles like the brooks and cliffs that I encountered. As I look back on my adventures I think they played a key role in the devel-opment of my creative side, and had a strong influence on my artistic endeavors as well as my ambitions and lifestyle as it is today.

28

It was a sunny afternoon and my friend Steve and I decided to walk down to the wa-ter’s edge as we have come to realize a great deal of interesting things wash up from the ocean. We made our way down a steep hill covered in large rocks and sat down to catch our breath in the grass at the bottom. It wasn’t long before I noticed the entrance to a tunnel tucked into the hillside to our right. We stood up with excitement and walked swiftly over to the looming dark hole to investigate. The tunnel was very wide at its mouth and was made of huge stone blocks that towered over our heads. Droplets of water fell from the high dark ceiling and the ground was waterlogged and soggy under our feet. The end of the tunnel was blocked off with thick vines and foliage, which let in skinny beams of warm light that illuminated the walls far more vividly then in the tunnel’s center. As I walked closer to the light source the colors on the wall became more vibrant and full. Hidden in this dark and moldy tunnel, among trash and abandoned train tracks lay a masterpiece. Painted roughly eight feet high and fifteen feet long, the word “Rich” leaped off the rough-cut stones with electric blues and gold. It had long black shadows and was surrounded by a two-color outline of deep red and oranges. I could not believe that such an amazing piece of artwork could be found in such an unsuspecting place. I realized that if not for my love of exploration, I may never have found such artwork. I was deeply inspired that day and my overwhelming passion for graffiti was deeply strengthened by that early discovery. I want others to feel the exhilaration I felt when I found that piece. To be rewarded for their exploration as I was, with a piece of artwork that is both inspiring as well as motivating and expressive. Although we have traveled a large portion of the Portland peninsula since then, I will never forget that specific excursion for it changed me as an artist and opened my eyes to the timeless beauty of exploration.

29

This isn’t the fi rst miscarriage Heather’s had. This would be number three; the fi rst two separated from the last by a baby boy who just recently turned one. Life altering events happen so strangely. One morning during a class I gave my phone the normal quick glance to see if I had missed anything and saw there was a missed call from my sister Heather, with a text to follow. The words “we lost the baby” stuck out from the message and shock me. I stop and consider calling her, but the both of us never really know what to say. I immediately texted her back some things that I don’t really remember.

The rest of the day goes about with a different air. I felt like I hadn’t said enough, so I texted Heather “I Love you, Call me later”. She wrote back her normal way saying I was a weirdo and that she doesn’t want to talk about it because it makes her cry but that I should come over later for dinner and bring her treats to make her feel better.

Heather requested Chocolate Peanut-Butter cheesecake and nice bread for dinner. Two stores and a few hours later I show up to her house with Chocolate Peanut-Butter cake and some good Italian bread, hoping it to be good enough to do the trick.

During dinner Heather started to feel some pains running through her. The fetus was still in there and she wanted it to pass naturally. The pains got to the point where she was begging for anything to easy them, so naturally her husband ran to the store to get her some Midol. Hours later she was still pacing the fl oor, squatting throughout the house and waiting for this pain to pass.

I was just hanging around helping out with the baby and she kept saying through out the few hours I was there that I could leave and didn’t need to stick around. But I had a feeling she was in for much more than what she was expecting. Finally she got to the point where she needed to go to the doctors. There was a pill there that would induce the labor, and I think she was at the point where she was ready to get this over with.

So I stayed since the baby was asleep. Hours and hours passed and I heard nothing. My phone was dead and there was no way to contact me. Finally I just went to sleep with the baby and was woken by my mom at 1 a.m. They had drove all the way down from Oxford to Brunswick to let me know that Heather went into labor and was at the hospital and wouldn’t be let out till the morning. But that she was loosing a lot of blood and was really drugged and quite out of it. They left shortly after to go see her and I went back to bed. I was woken again by Heather at around 7 a.m. She was weak and just wanted to be with her son. She laid down beside me and seemed so out of it. I couldn’t have imaged going through what she had gone through in the past 24 hours.

She asked me to say and nap with her before I had to go, and before she and I drifted back to sleep she whispered,” Thanks for sticking around”. I’ll always believe in sticking around.

30

This isn’t the fi rst miscarriage Heather’s had. This would be number three; the fi rst two separated from the last by a baby boy who just recently turned one. Life altering events happen so strangely. One morning during a class I gave my phone the normal quick glance to see if I had missed anything and saw there was a missed call from my sister Heather, with a text to follow. The words “we lost the baby” stuck out from the message and shock me. I stop and consider calling her, but the both of us never really know what to say. I immediately texted her back some things that I don’t really remember.

The rest of the day goes about with a different air. I felt like I hadn’t said enough, so I texted Heather “I Love you, Call me later”. She wrote back her normal way saying I was a weirdo and that she doesn’t want to talk about it because it makes her cry but that I should come over later for dinner and bring her treats to make her feel better.

Heather requested Chocolate Peanut-Butter cheesecake and nice bread for dinner. Two stores and a few hours later I show up to her house with Chocolate Peanut-Butter cake and some good Italian bread, hoping it to be good enough to do the trick.

During dinner Heather started to feel some pains running through her. The fetus was still in there and she wanted it to pass naturally. The pains got to the point where she was begging for anything to easy them, so naturally her husband ran to the store to get her some Midol. Hours later she was still pacing the fl oor, squatting throughout the house and waiting for this pain to pass.

I was just hanging around helping out with the baby and she kept saying through out the few hours I was there that I could leave and didn’t need to stick around. But I had a feeling she was in for much more than what she was expecting. Finally she got to the point where she needed to go to the doctors. There was a pill there that would induce the labor, and I think she was at the point where she was ready to get this over with.

So I stayed since the baby was asleep. Hours and hours passed and I heard nothing. My phone was dead and there was no way to contact me. Finally I just went to sleep with the baby and was woken by my mom at 1 a.m. They had drove all the way down from Oxford to Brunswick to let me know that Heather went into labor and was at the hospital and wouldn’t be let out till the morning. But that she was loosing a lot of blood and was really drugged and quite out of it. They left shortly after to go see her and I went back to bed. I was woken again by Heather at around 7 a.m. She was weak and just wanted to be with her son. She laid down beside me and seemed so out of it. I couldn’t have imaged going through what she had gone through in the past 24 hours.

She asked me to say and nap with her before I had to go, and before she and I drifted back to sleep she whispered,” Thanks for sticking around”. I’ll always believe in sticking around.

31

I read somewhere that the reason life is messy, is because statistically speaking; it is that. The reason life often doesn’t go the way we think or hope, is because what are the chances all of those circumstances will fall perfectly into place?I believe in fate. Not in the sense that a supernatural being has all of our lives planned out for us; but in the sense that everything that happens throughout the course of our existence happens for a reason.

I used to try to plan every aspect of my life. I didn’t like the feeling of not being in control so I decided that I would do whatever I could to control my life. If I didn’t try to make friends, they couldn’t reject me, if I didn’t try out for basketball, I wouldn’t risk being em-barrassed about not making the team.

I believed that things happened as a direct result of the choices you controlled. I still believe that actions have consequences, but my belief that everything was in my control ended when I met Jay.

I was on MySpace one day, looking through all the bands that I had added as friends over the years, and decided that I would listen to some of them. I scrolled through the lists, listening to bands based on their name, or their picture. Every once in a while, I’d leave a comment telling them I liked their music. I got to one band named Emmartyr, and I liked the name, so I listened. I left them a comment, and didn’t think anything of it, because most of the time they don’t respond. Jay responded. We eventually exchanged phone numbers. Six months later, my mom and I were picking him up at the bus station. We’ve been together for a little over a year. Jay lives in Texas, I live in Maine. We met online. There are people who look down on that fact, but that doesn’t matter.

I could say that meeting him was a direct result of me listening to his band, but I don’t think that anymore. When I think about the amount of circumstances that had to fall perfectly into place in order for us to be in this relationship, I know that every one of those things happened because they were supposed to. What if one of the other band mem-bers had read my comment and dismissed it? What if they had decided to name their band something else?

I don’t try to control every aspect of my life anymore because now I believe some things are out of our control. Statistically speaking, I should never have met Jay. The fact that I did, is the foundation of my belief in fate.

32

I read somewhere that the reason life is messy, is because statistically speaking; it is that. The reason life often doesn’t go the way we think or hope, is because what are the chances all of those circumstances will fall perfectly into place?I believe in fate. Not in the sense that a supernatural being has all of our lives planned out for us; but in the sense that everything that happens throughout the course of our existence happens for a reason.

I used to try to plan every aspect of my life. I didn’t like the feeling of not being in control so I decided that I would do whatever I could to control my life. If I didn’t try to make friends, they couldn’t reject me, if I didn’t try out for basketball, I wouldn’t risk being em-barrassed about not making the team.

I believed that things happened as a direct result of the choices you controlled. I still believe that actions have consequences, but my belief that everything was in my control ended when I met Jay.

I was on MySpace one day, looking through all the bands that I had added as friends over the years, and decided that I would listen to some of them. I scrolled through the lists, listening to bands based on their name, or their picture. Every once in a while, I’d leave a comment telling them I liked their music. I got to one band named Emmartyr, and I liked the name, so I listened. I left them a comment, and didn’t think anything of it, because most of the time they don’t respond. Jay responded. We eventually exchanged phone numbers. Six months later, my mom and I were picking him up at the bus station. We’ve been together for a little over a year. Jay lives in Texas, I live in Maine. We met online. There are people who look down on that fact, but that doesn’t matter.

I could say that meeting him was a direct result of me listening to his band, but I don’t think that anymore. When I think about the amount of circumstances that had to fall perfectly into place in order for us to be in this relationship, I know that every one of those things happened because they were supposed to. What if one of the other band mem-bers had read my comment and dismissed it? What if they had decided to name their band something else?

I don’t try to control every aspect of my life anymore because now I believe some things are out of our control. Statistically speaking, I should never have met Jay. The fact that I did, is the foundation of my belief in fate.

33

I believe in the whoopie pie. I ate my fi rst whoopie at the age of 10. Every bite out of that chocolaty treat was heaven. Pure deliciousness. From that moment, I was hooked. Even at 27, I still love how this black and white dessert tastes. And I love that no matter where you go in Maine- a restaurant, bakery, convenience store or gas station - the whoopie pie is there, waiting patiently for your fi rst bite. This is not true in other states. While traveling out West, I was surprised at the lack of whoopie pies. And that’s when I realized that a whoopie pie’s home is in Maine. Maine understands the whoopie. If Maine were to have a state dessert, it would be the whoopie pie. Hands down.

I believe in the simplicity of the whoopie pie. Two mounds of chocolate cake, sloppily sandwiching a generous serving of vanilla cream frosting. And when it comes to the vanilla fi lling, Maine does it right. Crisco shortening and a dollop of Marshmallow Fluff. Mmmm, it’s oh so good. The Maine whoopie pie does not require decorative frosting or intensely rich chocolate. True and simple, it holds its own.

I have found that the best whoopie pies are packaged in saran wrap, and sold in a straw basket next to a cash register. Why? Because these little gems convince customers that a whoopie will complete the day. Saran wrap packaging gives the whoopie pie a homemade look all its own; like your grandmother made it with love, just for you. In my experience, the best pies are those whose chocolate cake deliciously licks the saran wrapper. In fact, it’s not a real Maine whoopie pie if half the chocolate cake is not stuck to the plastic wrapper. And whoopie pies aren’t meant to look perfect, either. Some are a bit square. Some may be completely lopsided, with an explosion of cream fi lling on one side. But this is ok. We should not judge a whoopie pie by how it looks.

I believe whoopie pies bring people together. When catching up on life with an old friend the whoopie pie has a place, bringing joy to the occasion. When a sister comes crying about a break-up, give her a whoopie pie to soften those tears. They make celebrating a birthday, new job or holiday that much sweeter. No matter how you serve your whoopies, they must be shared in great company. The whoopie pie, indeed, magnifi es the beauty of friendship.

Believe it or not, most non-native Mainers have no idea what a whoopie pie is. Intro-ducing whoopies to new people is not only a good way to make friends, but also it’s… simply, the right thing to do. Don’t deprive someone of this tasty treat. It will put a smile on her face.

So call them what you’d like: whoopie pies, whoopies or whoops. Their simplicity and quirkiness are embraced here in Maine...their home. I believe in the whoopie pie. It is good, and true; and it makes people happy. Isn’t that the way life should be?

34

I believe in the whoopie pie. I ate my fi rst whoopie at the age of 10. Every bite out of that chocolaty treat was heaven. Pure deliciousness. From that moment, I was hooked. Even at 27, I still love how this black and white dessert tastes. And I love that no matter where you go in Maine- a restaurant, bakery, convenience store or gas station - the whoopie pie is there, waiting patiently for your fi rst bite. This is not true in other states. While traveling out West, I was surprised at the lack of whoopie pies. And that’s when I realized that a whoopie pie’s home is in Maine. Maine understands the whoopie. If Maine were to have a state dessert, it would be the whoopie pie. Hands down.

I believe in the simplicity of the whoopie pie. Two mounds of chocolate cake, sloppily sandwiching a generous serving of vanilla cream frosting. And when it comes to the vanilla fi lling, Maine does it right. Crisco shortening and a dollop of Marshmallow Fluff. Mmmm, it’s oh so good. The Maine whoopie pie does not require decorative frosting or intensely rich chocolate. True and simple, it holds its own.

I have found that the best whoopie pies are packaged in saran wrap, and sold in a straw basket next to a cash register. Why? Because these little gems convince customers that a whoopie will complete the day. Saran wrap packaging gives the whoopie pie a homemade look all its own; like your grandmother made it with love, just for you. In my experience, the best pies are those whose chocolate cake deliciously licks the saran wrapper. In fact, it’s not a real Maine whoopie pie if half the chocolate cake is not stuck to the plastic wrapper. And whoopie pies aren’t meant to look perfect, either. Some are a bit square. Some may be completely lopsided, with an explosion of cream fi lling on one side. But this is ok. We should not judge a whoopie pie by how it looks.

I believe whoopie pies bring people together. When catching up on life with an old friend the whoopie pie has a place, bringing joy to the occasion. When a sister comes crying about a break-up, give her a whoopie pie to soften those tears. They make celebrating a birthday, new job or holiday that much sweeter. No matter how you serve your whoopies, they must be shared in great company. The whoopie pie, indeed, magnifi es the beauty of friendship.

Believe it or not, most non-native Mainers have no idea what a whoopie pie is. Intro-ducing whoopies to new people is not only a good way to make friends, but also it’s… simply, the right thing to do. Don’t deprive someone of this tasty treat. It will put a smile on her face.

So call them what you’d like: whoopie pies, whoopies or whoops. Their simplicity and quirkiness are embraced here in Maine...their home. I believe in the whoopie pie. It is good, and true; and it makes people happy. Isn’t that the way life should be?

35

Just the other day I quit my job. It was a spur-of-the-moment-just-couldn’t-handle-it-anymore-decision that I made in a matter of 12 minutes. My boss had worn me out for the past three months and that one last comment sent me over the edge. “I can’t take working for you anymore, I quit!” I replied to my bosses’ millionth provoking comment just a minute before. He was shocked. Of course it was followed with a few more words I won’t repeat but it was empowering. The only problem was I still had to pay the bills.

Now let’s go back a few years. We’re sitting in my kindergarten classroom. None of the big details matter, but the little ones do. The slate gray color of the carpet, or the short oak tables filled with other toothless five year olds with their crayons and scraggly hair. On the wall behind their miniature heads are large colorful posters of images I’ve now for-gotten. Our surroundings are bright and cheerful and the only tasks are to learn creativity and social interaction.

Mrs. Goldberg was my teacher. She was blonde, tall and thin, and she was young. She had a calm character and the power to make us listen. She never raised her voice. She was gentle and kind and filled our brains with color, numbers, stories and dreams.

My dad had taught me to spell my name. I knew how it sounded out loud. Abby. It was simple but I just didn’t know how to write it out. I sat with my older sister, Sarah and my father as they wrote my name on the lined paper repeatedly. I looked up to them for knowing such educated things. T-a-y-l-o-r. T-a-y-l-o-r. They smiled at each other. I had it down and I was ready.

When Mrs. Goldberg asked me to spell my name out that year in school I wrote T-a-y-l-o-r. “Taylor?” She asked. “That’s not how you spell your name Abby.” My face went blush. I choked up and nearly went numb. Taylor was my cousin. It was at that time I understood my sister and dad were in on something I wasn’t. Smiling to herself she said, “that’s okay Abby, we’ll get you sorted out.” And that’s just what we did, after I re-learned how to spell my name.

What is it about childhood that is so comforting? The nurturing Mrs. Goldberg’s? The amazing stories and characters we read about? It is the ability to not be punished for the mistakes you make as a child that makes returning to those memories so calming. I believe in the idea that even as adults, we should return to the wonderful adventures of our childhood as a survival tool in our daily lives. At 21 I have started to feel the pressures that come along with growing up and learning to survive on my own. Wandering back to my most unforgettable memories let’s me handle all of the late bills, bi-polar bosses and the rest of the hardships that come along with growing up.

36

Just the other day I quit my job. It was a spur-of-the-moment-just-couldn’t-handle-it-anymore-decision that I made in a matter of 12 minutes. My boss had worn me out for the past three months and that one last comment sent me over the edge. “I can’t take working for you anymore, I quit!” I replied to my bosses’ millionth provoking comment just a minute before. He was shocked. Of course it was followed with a few more words I won’t repeat but it was empowering. The only problem was I still had to pay the bills.

Now let’s go back a few years. We’re sitting in my kindergarten classroom. None of the big details matter, but the little ones do. The slate gray color of the carpet, or the short oak tables filled with other toothless five year olds with their crayons and scraggly hair. On the wall behind their miniature heads are large colorful posters of images I’ve now for-gotten. Our surroundings are bright and cheerful and the only tasks are to learn creativity and social interaction.

Mrs. Goldberg was my teacher. She was blonde, tall and thin, and she was young. She had a calm character and the power to make us listen. She never raised her voice. She was gentle and kind and filled our brains with color, numbers, stories and dreams.

My dad had taught me to spell my name. I knew how it sounded out loud. Abby. It was simple but I just didn’t know how to write it out. I sat with my older sister, Sarah and my father as they wrote my name on the lined paper repeatedly. I looked up to them for knowing such educated things. T-a-y-l-o-r. T-a-y-l-o-r. They smiled at each other. I had it down and I was ready.

When Mrs. Goldberg asked me to spell my name out that year in school I wrote T-a-y-l-o-r. “Taylor?” She asked. “That’s not how you spell your name Abby.” My face went blush. I choked up and nearly went numb. Taylor was my cousin. It was at that time I understood my sister and dad were in on something I wasn’t. Smiling to herself she said, “that’s okay Abby, we’ll get you sorted out.” And that’s just what we did, after I re-learned how to spell my name.

What is it about childhood that is so comforting? The nurturing Mrs. Goldberg’s? The amazing stories and characters we read about? It is the ability to not be punished for the mistakes you make as a child that makes returning to those memories so calming. I believe in the idea that even as adults, we should return to the wonderful adventures of our childhood as a survival tool in our daily lives. At 21 I have started to feel the pressures that come along with growing up and learning to survive on my own. Wandering back to my most unforgettable memories let’s me handle all of the late bills, bi-polar bosses and the rest of the hardships that come along with growing up.

37

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