broken ballet shoes

And ANOTHER prompt. To describe an object in the room (I chose not to interpret that literally), I chose a ballet slipper hanging from the ceiling that must have been a book report project or something or other years back....

A dream hanging in a noose. A wish blowing in the breeze, because these stars that we reach for - our ladders break. And we fall. Back down to our parchment-thin lives. This scuffed ballet shoe is the varsity football season that never began. The college career that never finished. It is these broken dreams of stardom and of novelists and of sports careers and of travels around the globe. It is the dreams of true love and saving the world, the dreams of spotlights on stages. And then the lights go out.

Love at First Sight

Yet another journal entry prompt (the title) from English. Somewhat inspired by Billy Collins, I suppose.

earlier this morning,

as I rose from my warm bed

my world was blanketed

with ash colored clouds

and piles of dirty snow.

the sun hid her face

the air was cold.

and in the moment

it was love at first sight.

i fell head over heels

for those wisps of cold vapor.

i was lovestruck

by that cold, dreary world

because

this is life

each and every day

and life is beautiful.

worth loving.

Find contentment....

An imagery exercise for English. Thinking back, I think that I may have been thinking about Marco Island, Florida.....

A darkness so black your eyes feel like velvet. The wind warm and damp, lazily caressing your bare shins. The sounds of traffic so distant they become almost indistinguishable from each other and even the faintest sound waves from that seemingly other world that reach your ears become confused with other sensations entering your head. You taste salt. You smell the faintly foul smell of seaweed. The sand shifts beneath your feet and waves lap shyly at your toes. If you were to open your eyes you would see the ethereal expanse of silvery, moonlit sands and the water disappearing into the dark horizon, floating the stars, but as it is, you are content to allow your vision to stay in that velvety ink and find contentment in these simple sensations.

La Neige (The Snow)

Another short little poem for French II....

le neige a dansé
je n'ai pas pensé
le monde a pu halter pour regarder
mais il a eu le silence à donner
le vent a murmuré
pour le soliel nous n'avons pas cherché
nous n'avons pas oublié
parce que les nuages sont déj à arrives.

the snow danced
i did not think
the world could stop to watch
but it had silence to give
the wind whispered
for the sun we did not look
we did not forget
because the clouds had already come.

I Could Not Be Persuaded to......

A journal entry in English class that actually goes wonderfully with the below post... The prompt was the title of this piece. 

You try to force me.

I will resist.

I am strong.

you may beat and shove me.

Try to cram your ideals into my mind.

Tell me what to do.

Why I am here

and

where I'm going.

But I will not

be persuaded 

to stop thinking for myself.

These ideas

are mine.

Unadulterated and pure.

The strength of my will,

will stand up to a thousand arrows

tipped with red-hot arguments.

Think!

This was an essay for English I Honors. The prompt was "persuasive essay directed at my individual class as the audience".

Society constantly tells us to be independent, to be creative, to be unique, but in a world with 7 billion people how can we possibly be individuals? Everyone is shaped by their friends and family. Each person’s environment helps form who they are. We allow ourselves to be lost in the rush. We let our ideals be shaped what everyone tells us. We turn off our minds and become cookie cutters. Our opinions can no longer be deciphered from the views of those sitting next to us; thinking has become a tedious process. Amidst being bombarded with the views of the rest of the world we must start to think for ourselves while still allowing ourselves to be mentored.

Everyday we swim through hundreds of advertisements, posters and others’ opinions. We walk through acres of propaganda. We are children. We are told to watch and to learn. We listen as our relations express their opinions. We carefully watch as our parents assess politics. We carefully temper our very selves to meet the standards of others. Our preferences can be affected by the likes and dislikes of those around us. Our political opinions are often impressions of our parents’. We are frequently born into a religion that we did not choose. Our very essences can be boiled down and auctioned off to the world around us.

We need to think for ourselves. We need to gather information from the tangible world around us and formulate our own thoughts. We need to beat off our apathy and actually pay attention to politics as they happen, not hear the faulty facts through the grapevine. We need to stop swallowing the half-chewed conjectures of others. We need to stop adopting other generations’ conceptions of issues. We need to shut down our computers, to stop accepting everything that is told to us; we need to drag out the dusty textbooks and examine the facts for ourselves. In the end we may come up with the same thoughts that our parents did, but we need to come up with those thoughts on our own.

Admittedly, we need mentorship. Without someone to show us the ropes, we would be awfully confused about the huge world that we live in. Our parents have had at least a couple more decades to figure things out than we have, so we should listen to them. Being born into something as stable as a religion can be comforting. Politics are complicated and our parents have good reasons (hopefully) for the beliefs that they have. We wouldn’t have the diverse world we have today if we didn’t have seas of media and oceans of styles and trends set for us. Yes, we do need influences, but they need to be balanced; not to be allowed to run rampant through our impressionable minds just as they are taking first struggling steps towards individuality.

We are who we are because of our influences, but after that helpful boost we need to take off our training wheels and ponder things alone. Our young minds are powerful and clean, do not allow them to be polluted by the washed-up ideas of other generations. Think for yourself, and you may find that you are an individual with unparalleled intelligence. We are each our own person, so why on earth would we allow our singular minds to be sullied by the views that already exist? The world needs our new thoughts to sustain it, not the values that already exist.

Pre - ACT's

Not a particularly exceptional or even well written piece... Just a little 50 word response to a prompt in class...

Clock ticking. Pencils scratching. Pages turning. Heads nodding. Stifling indifference. Words lifted off the page, chewed up, mashed around and spit back out in a "dark, heavy mark" on the "most-correct, proper bubble". 120 questions. 480 little circles. Our futures....

I Am... (a prose poem)

I am an enigma. A vault of secrets. Pandora's box.
I am unique. Inside of me a cavern is crowded with whispered messages and warnings not to tell.
I am filled with fear and sadness and anger, but at the bottom, crouched down by my heart's wall, I have hope.
My head is a tumultuous sea. Thoughts rage around. Crash over each other. Break apart and reform. Wash upon reality and pull grains of it back, in to be tumbled around.
But always inside of me there is music. A haunting melody. A joyous melody. A loud song. A Scottish air. A bass line. A drumbeat. An orchestral climax. A gospel voice. It echos around...

Je Ne Suis Qu'une (I Am But One)

This is a poem I wrote in French class, yay!!! The translation is below.....

Je veux être toute.

Tu ne peux pas souffrir être.

Tu est une mille trucs.

Tu as pouvoir.

Je suis qu'une.

Je ne veux pas pouvoir.

Tu es brillante avec la vie.

Je suis faible.

Je t'aime.

mais tu es une océane

et

je ne suis qu'une fille.

I want to be alone.

You cannot bear to be.

You are a thousand things.

You have power.

I am but one.

I do not want power.

You are bright with life.

I am dull.

I love you.

but you are an ocean

and

I am but one girl.

9/11

They ask me where I was.
I don't know.
I don't remember.

No world of mine
came crashing down.
No urgent messages on the scrolling TV line,
no sadness in which to drown.

Was I aware?
No.
Was I young?
Yes.

I've seen the videos.
Endless videos.
Heard the stories,
watched the news,
remember and mourned.

But does my heart weep?
behind a two thousand mile shield...

Hands and Exotic Places

This was another piece that I wrote in the workshop I took, and had forgotten about until now.... Our prompt was somewhat vague: 3 minutes to write something about someone's hands. 3 minutes using using a metaphor to an exotic city. 3 minutes to ask that person a question about their hands. I ended up turning it into a 3 part poem...

1. Hands that lack elegance,
in perpetual motion.
Chewed fingernails,
chipped black paint.

Soft hands,
with a soft outline,
veins quietly visible,
beneath the skin.

Hands that fiddle,
with,
string,
paper,
headphones,
the keys on a phone.

2. Panama City,
like the wind.
In perpetual motion.

Filled with,
sights,
sounds,
smells.

A placid spot,
will shield you,
from the movement,
for a moment.

3. "What makes you
chew your fingers so
that the paint chips,
and even you inexhaustible
supply of lotion
cannot make then attractive?"

"I paint
my nails and
chew my fingers and
move my hands perpetually and
put lotion on
out of habit.
Habits that
cannot be broken."

Flames

This is a short little story I wrote in the car on the way back from Maine. Interpret it as you will.

The air is cold and sleepy, casting a spell over the town.  The branches on the trees don’t stir, sirens don’t puncture the air, and the streetlights don’t flicker.  

                A lone, dark figure glides down a tree swathed lane, the branches caressing the figure as it walks past. Almost imperceptible tapping from the figure’s sneakers rise into the stillness.  As the figure nears a road light, her delicate features become visible, framed by soft, brown bangs. She wears a heavy, black trench coat like a turtle does their shell, shielding herself from the coldness of the night and hiding her from the coldness of humanity.

                She reaches a fork in the street that forms a giant, unseen cul-de-sac; the center circle vegetated heavily with towering maples and pines. The woods ringing the street made the little road an asphalted donut in the scenery, and she just a dot in the landscape. The girl pauses, takes a ragged breath, and strides to the left.

                A dirt driveway spills into the road and promptly disappears back into trees. Reaching the cheery red mailbox at the end of it, the girl stops short. After reaching into her coat and fishing around she produces a small object and clenches it tightly in her left hand.

                She hesitantly opens the mailbox, and flinches as it creaks.  Her fingers find the only paper in the box; a thick envelope. If it were daytime, she would see the heavy, yellowed paper of the letter envelope; the neat script inking the name on the front; the red, waxen seal; the date on the stamp. But in the darkness all her senses tell her is how crisp the paper feels, how thick the envelope is. She lifts her left hand up and, after fumbling about for a minute in the night, clicks a flame into life. Holding the Bic close to the envelope washes a weak, flickering light over the address. She squints at the words, and nods slightly in approval. Licking her lips, she holds the end of the envelope away from her, and gently lets the flame lick the parchment. The flames reflect softly in her wide eyes. The fire hungrily eats the old, dry paper and she anxiously drops it onto the dark pavement in front of her. She stands watch over it until the light winks out; then she squats down, coaxes another flame out of the tube, and carefully scans the ground. Seemingly satisfied she stands up, bangs the mailbox shut with her elbow, and drops the lighter into one of her many pockets.

                Her shoulders relax away from their hunched position and she gives a little sigh.

                A breeze picks up and stirs the ashes from the pavement towards the sky as she disappears back into the night.

Reflection from a Reservation

This is a poem-ey piece that I wrote on a recent mission trip to the Northern Cheyenne Indian Reservation that appears to be becoming a sensation (I minutely question why) in my little micro-community.

It is intended to be read down normally, and then read from the bottom to the top, LINE BY LINE, not word by word.
Reading it down normally illustrates the realities of this reservation currently. Reading it from the bottom to the top is my hope for this reservation in the future.
Some statistics:

• Out of every dollar that a resident of the reservation makes, only about 1 cent stays on the reservation. The rest goes to stores, Walmarts and etc outside of the reservation.
• The census reported somewhere around 60% employment (I believe) but in reality about 85% of the people on the reservation are unemployed.

I have a bleak future. I am a miracle

because I have some hope. Don't tell me that

I am sure to go to college. I am normal

when I think that I will be drunk. I know

that my heritage is starving away. I am crazy

to not have hatred. It would be a lie to say

trash isn't destroying our land. Our children learn

of fear and sadness. Of course

we don't dream. We are deprived

of the means to help ourselves. You're ignorant when you say

our dogs are well fed, loved, and taken care of. We are all aware

children are raising other children. Every one of

this community knows of despair. No

one is helping us. It is not true that

we know that some

Hope is here.

This community will be turned around

because I held firm to my hope.

Copyright 2011 Abigail Chapman

The Last Rain

I just finished taking a three day writing workshop (whoop whoop!) and learned A TON. This was a prompt that we did today. Choosing out of the proverbial hat, we chose character: a recent high school graduate, setting: the porch of an old farmhouse, time: after a recent thunderstorm, and plot: reminiscing about how things have changed. We also had to include a specific poem (two of my friends in the class wrote it, I did not write the poem). I feel as if this is one of the best pieces I have written so far.

Drip. Drip. Drip. Droplets from the recent storm fall from the eave and splatter on the already soaked edges of the porch. The wind gently whistles, bringing the scent of wet soil, hay and grass to my nose. It’s evening, and although the thunder is now distant and the rain has moved on, the sky is still overcast; promising that we will not see the sun until tomorrow morning.
The air feels cleaner, cooler, refreshed, and newly washed, giving welcome relief to the heat of summer.
I sit in the rocking chair on the porch; my cowboy boots kicked off, faded jeans stretched across my legs, and my blue plaid shirt unbuttoned and blowing in the breeze, exposing my plain white tee shirt underneath.
The huge wooden porch with its warped, dark wooden planks; low, overhanging ceiling; and walls: the bottom half plywood and ripped screen that now flutters in the draft above, hasn’t changed since I was a baby. And I have always thought that the old, beat up red door, that closes off the screened in porch, has looked useless, hanging all raggedy on its hinges.
The plain white rocking chair creaks as I sway back and forth, surveying the landscape. A narrow dirt road meanders away from the house, and practically goes out of sight over the horizon before it twists through a crumbling wall and enters the road. The hay fields surround us by acres. Tall, green, lush and swaying in the almost imperceptible breeze. Beyond our own fields are our neighbor’s fields, and beyond that is the prairie, or that’s how it all used to be anyways. Caddy corner to our old white farmhouse sits the dilapidated old barn, just out of sight from where I sit on the porch. Inside rests old machinery, and old, rotting hay.
I close my eyes as tears begin to stream down my cheeks.
For 18 years, this had been my home. For 12 years I had walked 2 miles down that drive to wait for the bus to pick me up and race the sun over the perimeter of the sky. For 6 years I had helped my father take care of the farm and cut and bale the hay. For 5 years I had watched each of my siblings leave, never to return. For 2 years, every morning, I had coaxed my mother into giving me the keys, so I could drive the truck to school. For 1 year, I had woken up every morning to my grieving mother. For 1 year, I had taken care of 20 acres by myself.

For 8 months I have stopped believing that I will go to college. I still can’t believe that I walked across that stage with a diploma. And for 2 months, I have sat in this empty house, wondering where to go.

High school is over. Homework every night. Feeding the dog. Helping my mother clean the house; is all over. That was the last thunderstorm I will ever see from the porch again.

I think about my 5 siblings, all living their own lives, and my parents now lying peacefully side by side.

I think of my mother: smiling, hair pulled back into a braid, frilly white apron, singing, and telling me that our history is the most important part of us.

I think about my father’s thin, solemn face and how his laugh would boom out and fill the whole yard.

Under my breath I whisper the poem that had hung in our living room under a glass pane, bordered by little blue flowers, encased in a wooden frame for generations:

I see the aqua flow,

Purplish puddles glow.

Shaded periwinkle forms,

Down the everglades they go.

I hear the choir birds booming,

Their singing voices linger,

I stare as I listen to the lead singer.

Telling us their past choices,

I find myself roaming.

Past and future together I am sewing.

I sigh heavily and pull my boots back on. Yanking the keys out of my pocket, I lumber down the steps. 7 of them, concrete, 6 each with of us kids’ hand prints, forever petrified in stone, and the top step with my parents’ hands held pressed together into the concrete, forming a heart. I open the rusty door to the old blue Ford, and swing myself up onto the stained seat.

Tonight I will deposit a check; enough money to pay for myself to go to college. And tomorrow some bigwig at some huge company will come stamp out this imperfection in the middle of their land, plowing down our history to make more room for their corporate crops.

The radio blares, and I refuse to look in the mirror that is mocking me above my head. I refuse to take a last glance at the sad, old house, just sitting there. Waiting. Ready to keep its appointment with the hangman.

Class Gift Dedication

My mom texted me at 11 o'clock on one of the days of the last week of school, saying "please give dedication presentation of class gift to the school at 1 o'clock." I first had to text her back, asking, what is a class gift? what was my class giving? who was I presenting to? It turned out that the class gift was three daphne bushes and an engraved stone to the school. This is what I presented in front of the whole school that afternoon:

Each year, as a tradition, the eighth grade class gives an enduring gift to the school. This year we chose to give 3 Daphne bushes. We chose these because they are symbols of growth, blossoming and renewal. As sixth graders, we come into this school, stressed from the transplant. But as we advanced through the school we blossomed into the teenagers we are now. These bushes are peaked from recently being planted, but through the years, with care, they will grow and thrive and every spring they will bloom with fragrant, pink blossoms.  As each sixth grade class walks through these doors, the will look at these bushes, at the promise that they too will grow into something beautiful. And as each eighth grade class walks out of these doors, they will look at these bushes and reflect on what they started off as, and grew into. Thank you MSMS, for helping us grow.

 Copyright 2011 Abigail Chapman

My Promotion Speech

5 kids out of 120 in my class were chosen to give a speech or address at our 8th grade promotion. I was one of these and this is my speech. (I feel as though a little bit was lost in translation both in the fact that you (the reader) cannot actually hear me give it, and if you haven't gone to this school, a lot of these experiences are not easily related too)

Manitou is special. And weird. And random. But mostly just...great. When I find myself talking to a student from another district, I pity them for not experiencing what we have here at Manitou. Walking through our memories of this middle school one might see the following:

• Crazy masks, creative, original, amusing love songs, and boys awkwardly smoothing their skirts as a sixth grade class attempted to recreate, in hilarious uproar, Italian Renaissance skits.
• A group of not-so-fearless eighth graders attempting to light their Bunson burners...from two arms length away.
• One might hear a book club arguing in vain with their teacher to PLEASE give them more homework.
• That same book club making ridiculous hats out of Capri Sun boxes (actually, maybe that was just me).
• A class debating the fairness of negative labels about our generation, and some people arguing that, no (in fact), we really are terrible people...
• People walking into walls, falling out of chairs, and knocking trash cans over....
• Turning around in band class to see the baritone player chillin’ out in his chair...with both feet behind his head.
• The sound of a math class belting out some random jingle, and listening to their teacher attempt to imitate a fog horn on a piece of PVC.
• Or shouts of “Flying popcorn!” coming from an open science lab door.
• One might walk in on an impromptu bout of patty cake or a ninja fight. (especially if you’re around me)
• A French class learning about food...and asking how to say “small children.”
• Looking around the classroom during the writing section of the CSAP’s and seeing people alternating between giving their booklet a death stare and glancing blankly off into space, practically drooling in boredom.

This is all randomly relevant because we live in Manitou...and also because these memories illustrate how much the happenings between these walls have taught us tolerance and love and our teachers showed us passion for learning. We didn’t just slide though those crowded hallways and get dumped at the steps of the high school. We learned and grew. We didn’t just learn math, no, we also lived parallel lives in personal economics complete with dud relationships, kids, bucket lists, and attempting to fill out our own tax forms (ugh).. We didn’t just learn about WWII, no, we invited a dozen people who lived through it to come talk to us.We didn’t just learn about the chemistry of fireworks, no, we lit things on fire. We didn’t just learn about the ancient Egyptians, no, we became them and invited our parents to come watch our acting struggles. Along the way, we learned to laugh at ourselves and not to take ourselves too seriously; after all, no one gets out of life alive.

When I first sat down to outline this speech, at 10 PM the night before the outline check, I jotted down a few incoherent thoughts, and started complaining about how every stage of our lives is just practice for the next. We having been preparing for high school. And then we will be in college (gasp!) and then there’s real life. And if that’s so, then we aren’t even real yet. And and utter confusion. My dad then offered up a rare piece wisdom, “Life is a balance of living in the present, while preparing for the next chapter of our life.” As I started to thank him, he characteristically continued his monologue. “It’s not the getting there.....it’s the getting there.” He promptly jumped up and began the hokey pokey, “That’s what it’s all about!” By this time I had sorta spaced out and come up with my own characteristically unrelated metaphor: life is like a timed writing prompt.....

Of course, none of my classmates can relate to this and this comparison had NOTHING to do with 8th grade language arts class. As I was schlepping through one of these assignments, I found myself planning the next paragraph before I finished the current one, setting up for a transition. But then I remembered that each paragraph is its own entity, and should be written as such. I see life in much the same way. We must balance each paragraph of our lives in the time given for that section. Thinking of what could have made that moment in our lives afterwards is like coming up with the word you were looking for in that essay after you’ve already turned it in.  At the moment, we are sitting on this stage, about to enter high school. Middle school was preparing us for this, but was definitely a stage in its own right. We must treasure each rich sentence in the paragraph that has been middle school. These weird, random, and great  memories have been the really cool sentences that don’t belong in our persuasive essays, but we include them anyways, because it makes our writing more colorful and enriches our lives.

Copyright 2011 Abigail Chapman

longing.

This was an assignment that my math teacher gave us as a philosophical final. Other then this, I don't believe this requires much more explanation.

Rosebud. A sled. Simply a wooden sled, but representing what was lost. Citizen Kane’s childhood freedom. Being loved by his mother for who he was. Playful days in the snow. The day he left his younger self, was the day he began to yearn for it. As he grew into an adult, he could no longer remember the simplicity of this happiness; he only remembered that he wanted it. He tried to buy it back. But he couldn’t. A sled... A yearning...

Rosebud. A dandelion. My “Rosebud” is a dandelion.

As small children, everything we see is new to us. Fresh. Beautiful. As children we can stand in a backyard for hours and marvel at the beautiful grass, and flowers, and bugs. And blow dandelion seeds. As children we watch the perfect little seeds spiral off into the unseen. And simply savor watching. And doing it again and again.

As children we can gaze at the stars, at a penny falling, sparkling into a fountain, or dandelion seed disappearing, and make a wish. And believe it. There is endless hope. Anything is possible.

Dandelions are the childhood safety we have. The perfect comfort. The fearlessness. The beauty. The love. The wonder. The wasted hours that were not really wasted at all. Wading through the yard with our friends. Weaving chains out of the flowers.

I love dandelions. More specifically, I love the seeds. They are so delicate. Without imperfection. I also love all of the memories I have swathed around dandelions. As I grow into an adult, their beauty will not be lost to me, but I won’t have the time to stand in a yard and make empty wishes and blow seeds that will just cause more work later.

Children don’t worry that they are spreading more seeds, the weed seeds that adults try so hard to get rid of. They are caught in the moment. Children don’t see them as weeds. They don’t see them as a nuisance. It is only as people grow older that everything evolves into something more sinister. Adults cannot afford the luxury of carelessly letting the weed seeds fly back into their gardens with any aspect of their lives. They cannot stand and marvel at the beautiful dandelion seeds, they must worry about all of the weeds that will be born from it. The beauty is shrouded from them. One doesn’t see an adult still believing that the wish they planted will actually grow. One doesn’t see an adult standing in their backyard contentedly blowing dandelion seed for hours. But don’t all adults wish life could be that simple again? Let the responsibilities blow away with the wind.

I remember when I was little; my mom went on a dandelion extermination crusade. Every day without fail she would march through the yard with a plastic bag and scissors and cut the flowers and seed balls off of the dandelions to prevent them from spreading. This broke my heart, they were so pretty. I asked her if she thought they were pretty too. She said that yes they were, but we couldn’t just leave them. They were weeds. I begged her to leave them. They weren’t even hurting her plants. I was bewildered. Confused.

It is strange to think that as adults, they may see the beauty in something, but they don’t know the beauty of that something. They may love something, but in the face of their age, they destroy it.

I will grow into an adult. I will forget this paper. I will probably forget “Rosebud” in the wake of everything else. But every time I will look at a dandelion I will feel nostalgia. I will want that childhood. I am only 14, and yet I already miss my childhood. I am predicting that this feeling will intensify with time.

I don’t want to lose the beauty of dandelions. I don’t want to lose hope. I don’t want to lose my time. But I will. I will long for the dandelions.

Copyright 2011 Abigail Chapman

On the subject of personal narratives...My own...

An earlier assignment. Certainly not one of my best.:


It is my my earliest memory; a snapshot, rather than a story, really. I was not quite three. I sat on the floor in the dimly-lit living room in my grandparent’s house; captivated by a silhouette, illuminated by the roaring fire. It was my granddad, sitting in a wheelchair, just days from death. On the hearth was a cut-glass snifter of brandy that would never be consumed. I tasted the mood - a wearied resignation; the fight was over, all that remained was waiting. And with it came calmness.

My first day of school; scared about leaving the umbrella of safety that my parents brought, even for just a few hours. I felt infinitely smaller and vulnerable in the world that day. My parents and I trod across the worn pavement, towards the intimidating front steps. En-route we passed by an old, low-riding car. Standing next to it - Mr. Van, with his smiling, lined face and hunched, sturdy stance.
He was not only my “adopted Grandfather”, but also Ute Pass Elementary’s Grandpa. His wife would die a few years later, and yet, he would come to school every day. Telling kids to smile and bestowing bear hugs to under the weather elementary schoolers. An eternal second-grader.
He opened his trunk, revealing an abundance of stuffed animals. After selecting a sweet looking white teddy bear with a red-velvet bow, and handed her to me. She was christened Sweet Beary. Amazing how much courage can be given to a scared kindergartner in seconds
.
Excitement. Christmas time was finally here. Snow drifts and icy roads were abundant in the Connecticut woods. All of the family was there, plus a swarm of friends. A whirl-wind of activities leading up to Christmas Eve rushed around. Chaotic Solstice Party. Brightly burning Yule Log wrapped in ribbons, sending wishes for the new year curling into the sky. A thousand colorful pinpricks of light on the Christmas tree. Candles in paper bags lining the snowy driveway. Warm light spilling out of the windows. A hundred euphoric faces strewn throughout the house. Sparkling beverages in plastic cups. Blazing, crackling fires. Deep green garlands. Wrapped boxes under the tree. Melted snow puddling in the foyer. And around and around and around. I attached myself to my two cousins, my favorite people in the entire world. I thought that they were all anyone should ever aspire to be. Smart, funny, tolerant, artistic, pretty, and they were family.
At last I sat at the coffee table in front of a dying fire, writing Santa. I carefully arranged a plate of cookies, carrots for the hard-working reindeer, and set down a glass of milk. I went to bed that night full of happiness, love, expectation, and contented fatigue. The down covers welcomed me as I climbed into bed to stare at the white, peaked ceiling.

I was ten years old, standing stock still, staring at the patch of orange lilies on the slope. A madly racing train of thoughts rushed through my head. My grandfather died six years ago, why did they wait this long to have the memorial service? I hate it when people smile through their tears, it feels like a lie. I wish I had actually known him. Why lilies? Will I remember the words to the 23 Psalm when I am supposed to say it? I could feel the waves of sadness and eagerness to share stories roll in waves towards the small box set into the ground. How could an entire life be condensed into such a small cube of dust? My eyes lifted the words, “The tide may erase our footprints, but only for a moment, for having walked there once, we remain always.” off of the fancy paper. My mom stood grasping my shoulder tightly in her hand, as if somehow comforting me would erase her own pain.
Hours later I sat in my room while all the guests laughed through the drops sliding down their faces. I perched on the bed, my knees to my chest, fiddling with my skirt. I hated skirts. Studying a knot in the pine wall, I sobbed. I cried because I wished I had something to cry about. I was supposed to mourn like the rest of them, for what? I only had others’ memories. There in Lake Placid, in this house that he designed, surrounded by furniture he had created, observing the people that had loved him, I still did not know who he was.

The summer before sixth grade. I sat with Julia, nestled in the grass in her yard. Our parents seated on the deck, talking. We plucked dandelions, and watched the breeze tug at our wishes until they melted into the sky.  We braided grass, discussed philosophies - and laughed. Letting the world hear how carefree we are. The burdens they see forced upon us in their minds were not there in that fading, evening light. We see each others hearts, this is what family is.

The cold morning air burned my cheeks as tears ran down my face. My backpack felt as if the entire universe had been stuffed inside. Our beautiful husky, Greta, lay weakly on the lawn. A dog bed was spread invitingly on the grass, yet she lay on the frost - weary with cancer. I bent down and worked my fingers into the luxurious ruff at her neck and smiled through my tears at her glazed eyes. Whispering, “Catch a rabbit for me in heaven,” I finally forgave her for her misdeed many years ago.
When I was 5, I moved a piece of plywood away from the side of the house, exposing a bunny hidden within. Greta killed it in front of me. I had never let it dissolve out of my memory.
My backpack slid its weight onto my shoulders. Those deep pools of eyes said that she felt guilty, but knew that she wanted to leave. I kissed her on the nose and straighten up as my dad came outside, knowing that the next time I saw her, she would be only snowy ash.

The three of us stood together and watched the sunset wash over the prairie through our glistening lashes. Greta’s ashes drifted into the wind, dispersing into the landscape she loved like nothing else. Out of my horn drifted the notes growing from love that families have cultivated for an eternity. We listened as the petals of music whispered over the shadowy plains.

Copyright 2011 Abigail Chapman

A Telegram Turning Point

     This was a writing assignment in Language Arts, entitled "Words of Wisdom". We were instructed to interview "an Elder" in our life and then write a personal narrative from their point of view and in their voice.
     I interviewed my Grandmama, Freddie Anderson. She was born in 1921. She just turned 90 and still skis. She is a huge inspiration and I really enjoy talking to her. A Youtube video link about her is:

90 Year Old Ski Instructor


     I lie with the blankets wrapped around me and stare at the flat darkness of the first hours of morning. The sweet metallic clanging of the alarm disturbs my reverie. I pull the cord on the light and squint at the thin black hands indicating 4:30 on the squat clock face. After dragging myself out of bed I locate my gear through bleary eyes. I pull on many layers of wool and fasten my kilt around my waist. I check to make sure my bloomers are arranged properly and pull on my long thick socks. My beloved tweed jacket is slung over the back of the chair.

     I had the kilt made for myself out of real Scotch tartan and bloomers made to match (to prevent anyone from noticing if my kilt blows up around my knees). The jacket had come from a forgotten romance. I had fancied the man’s tweed jacket that he had worn, and when we went our separate ways, I decided that it was to become mine.

     As I stumble into the hallway I practically slam into Andy emerging from the guest bedroom in the same sleepy state as myself. He catches me and murmurs a greeting into my hair. We slowly speed up like a train out of the station and begin to rush about the house, attempting not to wake my parents. After a speedy, whispered breakfast we both hurry up to our rooms to lace up our stiff, leather ski boots and collect our laden ski packs. I slip my arms into the jacket as I stomp down the stairs. We attempt to muffle the closing of the hulking front door and hoist our heavy wooden skis over our shoulders. We begin our trek.
     The town is as silent as a graveyard and the cold soaks into our bones. We tromp through the heavy snow on the side roads across the still town for 45 minutes to the bus station. As the skis resting on my shoulder begin to gain weight I commence to curse the war, the gas ration, the earliness of the morning. The sun finally slips over the hills and the gold streams make the snow glint like diamonds.
     The small assembly at the bus stop comes into view as we crest the hill. The dilapidated thing pulls around the corner just as Andy and I plod up to the dozen animated skiers gathered at the bus stop. Much confusion and distress is caused to the other passengers on the bus as the gang of us pile in with all of our ski equipment. Thank goodness the bus is almost empty today, as sometimes we have to stand up the entire 30 minute bus ride. The bus pulls up to the final stop, the train station and we transfer to the next convoluted step in this journey to the Bromley ski area.

     Andy stows our skis and we climb the stairs into the train car with his hand guiding my back. We settle down into two plush seats. His arm finds its way around my shoulders and my head falls onto his.

     I had just graduated from Smith College and felt no particular attachment to any males in my life. I was carefree and swirling in the social gaiety of our young, jovial lives. I enjoyed the company of many young men and felt no pressure to tie myself down to anyone specific.
     A few months ago the ski club was showing a ski movie in the auditorium of a local middle school, and the seats were filled with ski enthusiasts. Most of them were buddies of mine. After the movie was over and everyone was stretching their stiff limbs and starting file out, I noticed five handsome young men. Naturally, I invited them over to my parent’s house for hot chocolate. One of them in particular was extremely handsome. This was probably the reason for my attraction to him in the first place.

     His name was Henry Anderson, everyone affectionately called him Andy. He soon became a part of the family. My parents loved him. I adored him. He was certainly very friendly. Congenial. Knowledgeable and intelligent. He had an answer for everything you could possibly think to ask. He was so much fun to do anything with, and we had many of the same interests. We both loved to ski, and golfed when we couldn’t.
     He was living with 10 other guys in a rented house on the other side of Schenectady, NY. They had all been recently hired by General Electric, and they were here to prove that they could handle the job. The house, “Alka Hall”, was quite a distance from my parents’ and even further from the bus stop.
     On the evenings before mornings like these he would come stay in the guest bedroom of our house.

     When our gay crowd tromps off of the train, we are met by several worn out pickup trucks. We pile in, and to fit us all, we lay down on our bellies next to our skis and stacks 3 or 4 layers of people like bags of cement.


        (telegrams)
        ME: “Going to Mont Tremblant to ski with parents. How would you like to come?”

        ANDY: “Yay.”

     The trails at Mont Tremblant are quiet narrow. We get going awfully fast and it is difficult to slow down. We are flying. My kilt flutters around my knees, the air whips our faces, and everyone on the mountain shares a universal euphoria.
     Andy and I go on walks after skiing often, reveling in each other’s company. We lope along side the lake; my small, smooth hands in his large, wood worker’s. Perfect white clouds sail across the brilliant blue sky. The frozen lake expands out, mimicking the heavens. The snow glimmers in the sunlight and throws brilliant beams all around us. We find a boulder that overlooks the picturesque scene and sit down contentedly. Glancing at the vivid sky, I hear him say,
     “Well, you know, we have a lot in common. We should get married.”
     It is almost as if this statement was said in our hearts, instead of to the air, and seems to require no response. The feeling is mutual.

Copyright 2011 Abigail Chapman

Great Depression Story

The following is a writing assignment from Social Studies (History) class. We were given a picture and told to write a story around it, set in the Great Depression. I apologize for any typos, I did not put excess amounts of time into editing it.

I woke up with my face plastered against the dusty quilt underneath me as our rickety old truck went over an especially large bump. I glanced at the trees passing beside us through bleary eyes. They were plum trees. Plum trees!

“Pa, stop the truck!” I shouted into the dust towards the cab of the truck.
“What?! Are you hurt?” my mother clucked as she hastily climbed out and peered at me like a mother hen.
“No. But LOOK, they’re plum trees! We can eat! Can we please pick some of them?

She looked suspiciously at them, “Well, I suppose if no one sees us. It IS state property. Hmmm,” she glanced up and down the long, hot stretch of road. “Yes. I suppose. Get the wicker baskets.”

Yes! The thought of eating something moist, that wasn’t stale bread (if it could still be identified as that) made my mouth water uncontrollably. I grabbed the baskets and swung up and  over the stacks of bedding, tires, trunks, clothing, and everything else from our old life piled in the bed of the truck. Pa climbed out of the cab and squinted at the horizon.
“Arabella. Come here,” he called me forward for probably yet another speech.
“Yes Pa?”
“We must be careful. Do you know why?” his face was stern, and I could see the thought in his twinkling brown eyes.
I clasped my hand behind my back and recalled my answer from the filing cabinet in my head labeled “Hourly Sayings”.
“Yes Pa. The government is brutal. Our neighbors will not help us. We will not help our neighbors. We don’t have anything to give them and we don’t have anything to give them. We musn’t be caught doing anything wrong because we have nothing and can’t afford to lose anything else. People will try to take things from us. We must be careful,” I waited in baited silence, terrified that I had forgotten something.
“Exactly my sweet. Now go eat some plums. I will stay and watch the road. We will say we are fixing a tire. We will not let anyone know we are stealing off of government property,” he ruffled my hair and kissed the top of my head.
I let out a whoop and headed for the trees, but Ma called me back.
“Arabella! Come get your cloak, you may need it!”
Sigh. I ran back to get it arguing the whole time that I wasn’t even going out of sight of the truck and that there was no way I would need it. Never the less she fastened it around me and finally turned me loose.
I ran into the bushes and ate plums until I was beyond sick. Then I sat on my now useful cloak in their shade and picked and picked until I had filled all four baskets. Lugging them awkwardly one by one back to the truck I heard my parents quietly discussing our travel plans in the cooling air.
“We should be out of Colorado by tomorrow night, and in California by the middle of next week barring any unforeseen problems.”
“I wish that we wouldn’t travel on the Sabbath tomorrow, Charles,” came my mothers nervous voice from somewhere in the bed of the truck.
“I know Lucinda, but we simply can’t afford to stay in one place for more then we need to. We are already almost completely our of supplies and I want to get there before all of the jobs run out.”
As I came around the truck I saw my father stretched out on the ground with his back against the bed of the truck and my mother above him in the truck rearranging things as she was prone to do when she was restless.
“Ah! Bel! Did you bring me a plum to eat?” he grinned at me.
“Yes, Pa. There is plum-ty,” I smiled wryly at him.
“Arabella! Puns are not funny,” Ma scolded through a held back smile.
Pa grinned at me as he bit into a plum and juice dribbled down his chin. Ma began to complain that the daylight was draining as fast as a bathtub with no plug and that we’d better get going. We loaded the baskets into the truck, my parents climbed into the cab, I swung up into the bed and settled down amongst the blankets. The truck grudgingly started, and we drove off towards the next Hooverville to spend the night.
The stock market crashed in ‘29 and our lives crashed soon after. Pa had been a manager at vacuum company and we had enough money to live comfortably if not in complete luxury. Ma volunteered at the hospital up the street. I went to school with all my friends. My two older brothers teased me continuously. Our life was perfect. Then it fell apart. Pa lost his job, they couldn’t make their mortgage payments, Asher had to drop out of college, and we had to sell the house. My brothers, Wyatt and Asher, decided to hitchhike to California to get jobs before they were taken and our parents and I would follow in the truck (we had traded our car for it) with all our stuff. We would meet up in California. So we left our comfortable house in Pennsylvania and headed across the country.

That was 3 weeks ago, although it feels like years. I hope that by the end of this year we will have our own house again, and a car not a truck, and I will have friends that have houses I can bike to.

It was dark when we pulled into the run-down Hooverville and set up our tent. Ma and Pa told me to roll out my bed and that they would be back shortly. I didn’t even wait until their long shadows had left the canvas of the tent to quietly follow. They loped arm in arm towards to campfire in the middle of the camp where a motley crew had assembled to stare into the embers together. I found myself an inconspicuous place to squat down behind a water cask and eavesdrop into their conversation. The dust and smoke filled air burned my eyes and the gravel dug sharply into my bare feet. Why hadn’t I put my shoes back on before this escapade? Pa gently guided Ma to a log near a hunch-shouldered figure staring into the dying flames.

“Where you comin’ from?” Pa’s calm, reassuring voice quietly prodded the stranger.

“Ah, come from Ok’homa. Dust Bowl kicked us out and bit our heels whil’ we scurried ‘way. Went all the way to damned Calforna, worn’t no jobs thur. Nope. None. Now we just wandering ‘round. Not a clue nor a penny. ‘Ope this damned depression gets over real quick. We ain’t gunna hold out much longer,” his voice was weary, resigned, as though this story constantly occupied his head and he could tell in his sleep. He prolly did tell it in his sleep.

“Sir, are you sure there are absolutely no jobs there? None?” Pa voice seemed controlled, as though there was a certain amount of measured disbelief. Not enough to upset Ma, but enough to keep the poor man eager to convince Pa of his story.

“None. We drove all ‘round thur. None. All jobs are gone. And them that do got jobs be working for 4 cents a day. Ain’t able to live off that now, do ya?” the man seemed to be getting less interested in the conversation.

“You didn’t by chance cross paths with two youngsters by the names of Wyatt and Asher, did you sir?” 

“In fact I did. Them two younguns? Determined, but not a damned wit ‘bout them? Ya. We seen ‘em. They says to tell their Pa not to come. They says to say that theys got jobs a’right. But theys been working ‘most a month, and all theys gots is 4 bucks saved up, and they still starving. They says they give it to ya, but it ain’t wort it,” the man was certain. I was certainly convinced. There was a small scuffling noise. I peeked around the barrel, and saw the sad, strange man getting up and limp away into the darkness, headed for nothing. Not a tent, truck, person, nor even a knapsack. He disappeared without so much as a backward glance.

I saw Ma visibly shiver from here. She scooted closer to Pa and rested her head on his shoulder.

“Oh Charles,” her voice was weak and wavering, so unlike the strong, beautiful voice I knew as hers, “if that man was telling the truth, what in the good Lord’s name do we do?”

“Lucinda. My Lucy. I don’t know. He seemed quite sure of himself. I had suspected as such though, I’m afraid my dear. We are walking into the unknown. For all we know, there are more jobs in Montana then there are in California. But, if we don’t head to Cali, there is very little possibility that we will see Ash and Wy again,” calmness permeated the air. I could tell he was upset, but trying desperately not to upset Ma. 

“Oh my boys. Oh my,” silence fell like a boulder, I could feel it from there, “I suppose if we must not go to California, we must not,” though quiet, her voice was an almost fatal blow.

“You’ve already lost the baby, what else is there to lose? We’ve got as good as a chance of protecting Bel anywhere in the US as we’ve got in California,” strain filled his voice.

 “Yes. Yes. We will go. Where? North? South? Surely not where we came from?”

“We will go whichever way there is the least cars leaving.” Realizing that the conversation was about to end, I scampered back to the tent and curled up under my once prized coverlet, the knowledge of the recent conversation weighing heavily on my mind.

They walked into the tent a moment later and seemed to bring a tangible sadness with them. Ma bent down and stroked my cheek.

“Oh my Arabella. Oh my Bel.”

I felt a single tear drop hit my nose.

The morning light seemed to bring with it hope, assurance, and confidence. Pa woke me up by tickling my forehead with his moustache as he whispered,

“And and at ‘em Bel. The sooner we get out of here the sooner we can eat our plums. Yum,” surprisingly, his voice was smiling.

I groaned, but opened my eyes to see everything, even the tent was packed. Everything that is, but me. I stretched and hopped into the back of the truck as Pa tumbled my blanket in after me. We drove off in a cloud of sunlit, swirling dust with the anticipation of a plum ripe in my mind. 

As we bounced and bumped along the road, I couldn’t help but feel we were headed towards a bright future. Perhaps it was the sugar, but I could almost taste Pa’s job in front of us, and Wyatt and Asher hot on our trail behind us.

Copyright 2011 Abigail Chapman