Hickory’s Music

    Ladies and Gentlemen, boys and girls, welcome to Fenway Park.The passion and history of the 93-year-old stadium, is apparent when you step foot into the stadium.The hometown team, the Boston Red Sox, reversing the curse just a year ago, gives the stadium an even more sense of comfort, knowing the vibe around the park now days is, the World Champion Red Sox are playing tonight.The smell of the Fenway Franks, America’s most beloved hot dog looms in the air of the concourse, and in the stands the hollering of the Bostonians, selling their “colah” and peanuts, and the die heart fans cheering on the Sox, or booing the opponent.Only at Fenway, will you find seats so small that an average size man can barely sit down, never mind sit down comfortably. And you wonder why the Sox fans are always standing?Perfectly grown green grass, with the design of diamonds that lace the outfield, and the infield dirt, raked and watered down to give the field a nice glistened look.

    “You’re up next”. The words turned into pressure. The pressure went directly into my chest. Like a palm squeezing my heart. Water poured out from my heart and seeped through the pours throughout my entire body. I wiped the sweat from my forehead.
    It was the night of Spartanum, our high school talent show. The act before us was just finishing up. I had never had so much trouble tuning my guitar before. All the strings sounded the same, and I just couldn’t get it right. I thought I would never get it, and I started to sweat even more.
    We were up. We rushed our equipment to the stage. Picked up our instruments in one hand, and lifted our amplifiers in the other. Rolled the drum set out and plugged everything in.
    This was our time. We stood eagerly behind the red curtain waiting for the audience to magically appear on the other side of it when it opened. Everyone was ready. I thought I was too. I had finally got my guitar in tune. I reached into my pocket, but it was empty. I needed my pick. My heart stopped. Now there were two hands squeezing it even harder. I needed a pick within the next fifteen seconds. I looked over at our other guitarist Zac to see if he had an extra one. I showed him my fingers and rubbed them together like I was looking for money. He reached in his pocket and pulled one out. Both hands released my heart. I could breath again.
    One last time I wiped the sweat from my forehead, and rubbed my hands on the sides of my jeans. Now I was ready. We were ready. This was our moment. The curtains opened, and there was the awaiting audience. I could feel the eyes of the audience and the stage lights beating down on me like tons of pressure. I placed my fingers on the right notes and strummed.
    Before we knew it, we were already playing. Playing beautifully. Better than anytime we practiced. We were in perfect unison. More than halfway through it was time for my solo. The guitarist and bassist stopped playing. The drummer went from pounding his instruments like he was mad at the world, to tapping his sticks down like someone was sleeping. He made just enough noise for a faint background melody. Then it was all me.
    I closed my eyes and just felt it. My fingers moved by themselves and everything sounded so clean. It was a good feeling. The hands in my chest were now cupping my heart. Holding it carefully, not to drop it. The moment would remain in my mind forever, like the carvings on a gravestone.

    We would sit on my bed in my room and just talk for hours. We would talk about anything from boys, to school, to personal problems, to past experiences. My life had changed so much since she had come into it. I began to understand more, question more, and believe more. She did that to me. I learned about hardship and courage, difficulties and luxuries, and that life was more unexpected than I thought. It had only been three weeks but it felt like it was three years. She was quiet but outgoing and she had a very interesting sense of humor. She was my age at the time but seemed years wiser than I was. It seemed like she knew so much more than I did, with life and with school, but I didn’t care. She had shoulder-length coarse, brown hair and bangs that sheltered her pale skinned forehead. I will always remember her eyes because they stood out on her round face. They were slightly slanted downward on the outside and a nice color of golden brown.
    Her name is Milica and she was my foreign exchange student from Montenegro.
    The Republic of Montenegro is the former Yugoslavia. Milica grew up there her entire life and had lived through war. From 1991 to 1999, Yugoslavia was going through a war and so was Milica. She had had to move when she was around 6 years old because her city was being attacked. Her family started a new life in a brand new town and waited for the war to end. She went through more in her childhood than I’ve been through in my life. When she came to America as my foreign exchange student, through Junior Achievement, I was shocked to see how much she and I were alike.
    We had a lot of the same interests like clothes, music, and boys. But with all the similarities we had, there were also some major differences. For one, the subjects and matter ! that I was studying in school she had studied three or four years earlier. Another was that she had lived through a war and seen the affects of one while, I had been safe in a war-free America all my life. She had so many great qualities about her, like being fluent in 5 languages including, English, Serbian, French, and German. She was an only child and somewhat spoiled, but still kind. She taught me that people from other countries have similar problems, activities, lives, and friends like people in America do. Before Milica came into my life I had just assumed that everyone from different countries were very different than me and that I probably wouldn’t like them. Milica proved me wrong in that theory and that has forever changed my life.
    I now realize that people from other countries and cultures do have their differences but they also have their similarities. She pointed out to me during one of our late night discussions that if people would just realize that fact then maybe everyone would get along better. She had a very optimistic look on life considering what she had been through, and that fact gave me hope. If someone like her who has been through so much hardship can go on in life with a positive outlook then why cant I? Having her with me made me think like that and that has forever changed me. I know look at life with a more positive attitude and don’t take everything to heart. I can look past little things now and realize that life does go on.
    Looking at my life before Milica compared to after, I am confident that she has changed me for the better. I am thankful everyday for the experience of having her in my life for that short amount of time. I will always remember that experience that has forever left a mark on my heart and mind.

    The torn magazines taped to the wall, the dirtiness of the sheets, the unfriendly feeling in the air: that was my house. My so-called "family" was the name, but no one ever got the chance to know what went on inside. I saw the horror every night felt the good once or twice. This place was no haven, not for me at least.
The scratchy sound of the cat pawing my screen at night, the rumbling of the racecar's motor pounding in my head, men drinking, mom laughing- this life is the kind of life you never take for granted, what you had in front of you was all you ever got. The fights at home made me cry, the slapping, the hitting, the thought of it all happening. No food to eat, no juice to drink, just drunk dad and restless mom.
    Don't get me wrong. Some memories weren't appalling- the camping on weekends, watching the race. Stafford Motor Speedway was the place! The crowd cheered when we won the race. When it was gone, it was back home for me - going to work and taking care of my brother and sisters, making mud pies in the back yard. Chasing the dog from the cats, mom would always yell "GET BACK"!
    The rough, the tough, they just make you stronger. Then you try to envision the Christmas you sat by the fire. The excitement of the gifts, mom in a good mood, boy what a treat that was!
    People say that if you remember the best, you'll never be sad. The truth is, when I was taken away, I lost a part of my heart, maybe slipped behind the door, maybe resting on the floor. When I got older I went back to this house, to find my missing piece. When I drove by, the house was there, but not the same family. No bills were paid; my memories were sold.
    At least I still have my brother living in a different household. So I’ve started a new life, with a new house, and a new family. I appreciate what I have and know everything is not perfect. Live life to its fullest, and every waking moment, take my advice. Never hold back from who you are and can be.

    I sat, headphones on and, unbeknownst to my ears, a whole world of music lay in front of me.  At this point in time, all I listened to was Disney show tunes, Billy Joel, and the occasional music my father would play for me.  That’s all I knew of and all I had really cared about at the time.  I couldn’t name each of the Beatles, let alone sing a song of theirs.  I couldn’t hum a Zeppelin riff, nor shake to James Brown.  Once I matured, I would be ready.  Until then, each note, each song, each album would wait for me.
    I really didn’t discover the strength of music until around the age of 13.  I mean, before then I had enjoyed it, but had never really sat down and listened to a full album.  I still had never heard a song that had made me hum with each air, dance to each beat, get chills with each variation, cry with each swell, and smile with each perfectly placed word.   To the best of my memory, that all changed with Abbey Road.  Side One starts out pleasantly.  You have the opener, ‘Come Together’, which is a fine way to start an album. Following that is a trio of great songs, including one of my favorites, ‘My Darling’.  Then song five hits, and you receive something that almost ruins the album.  A Ringo song.  It’s not incredibly horrible, but enough to say, “Why?”  The album comes back with some more great songs to end Side One. Side Two starts and you automatically know it is something special. The musical segues that Paul engineered have got to be some of the greatest moments in music.  This was the first time I had ever gotten chills, wanted to dance, hum, and smile with a song.  It wasn’t just one song though; it was a combination of properly placed tunes that equaled pure sonic bliss.
    From there I went on to other genres.  British Invasion turned into soul, soul turned into mod rock, mod rock into mod revival, mod revival into punk, punk into indie, indie into alt. country, alt. country into blues, blues into jazz.  I developed an ear for songs, a way to judge how much I enjoyed a piece of music.  I found it so wonderful that there was a form of art, which you could relate feelings to, and it in itself was capable of relating feelings back.
Even in this picture I had no idea of the types of emotions music could capture and convey.  I didn’t know how much Jeff Buckley’s voice would pull at my heart, nor the utter coolness that is Lou Reed.  But, as I sit here now typing this paper, I listen to the docile sound of Schubert.  While not in synch with my movements it certainly feels like it.  Music is a huge part of my life and to deny it would be denying life itself.
    Music is a constant source of pleasure in my life.  To quote Nietzsche, “Without music life would be a mistake”, and you know what?  Nietzsche is absolutely correct.  Where would we be without music?  Music makes the dull world bearable.  It’s gratifying to know that when you’re feeling outrageous, you can go find some simple little pop song that feels the same way you do.

    Another day, another ride in the car. It sounds about as normal as can be right? Sure it was a normal ride, harmless and repetitive, except for one split second when I saw something, which I have yet to witness again. On a sunny, weekend afternoon, my mother and I were driving in the car towards Pease Road in East Longmeadow. Just as usual the trip was laid back, filled with music and the laughter of best friends. As the car ascended up the hill, I turned my head to the left and looked into the graveyard, which has been there for centuries. My gaze rested upon a young girl, looking to be around the age of four. She was dressed in a blue jumper with a red bonnet on her head. The little girl was contently standing next to a headstone that matched her in size. She did not appear to be moving. Thinking nothing of it at first, I re-directed my eyes forward on the road. However, I couldn’t help but feel that something wasn’t right as I realized how strange it was to see a little girl all by herself in a graveyard.
    When I looked back to get a better look at the girl, she was gone. I had seen no face, and no other companion with her. She appeared to be holding something in her small hands, a doll perhaps. I had an uneasy, queasy feeling in the pit of my stomach. I felt nauseous, scared and confused. I continued staring until the graveyard was out of sight. For the nest few minutes, my mind worked hard, trying to comprehend what I had just seen, or not seen. Breaking my confused silence I turned to my mother calmly said, “I think I just saw a ghost.” She stared at me and with an awkward smile said, “What?” I repeated myself, slower this time. “Wh… Where?” she stuttered, “in the graveyard, on the hill… I saw… I saw a little girl standing there. When I looked back again, she was gone!” “Are you sure?” she said confusedly. I paused… “Yes.”
    That night while talking on the phone with my father, he asked me how my day had been. Suddenly, the image of the little girl flashed in my mind. I gasped to catch my breath and began to tell him my anecdote. The following day, we were in the area of the graveyard and decided to stop. As he pulled over and turned off the engine, I hesitantly got out of the van. My stomach was churning like an angry ocean. I could feel the nervous sweat beads forming all over my body. We slowly combed through the rows of the headstones searching for something, a clue, anything. Something inside me told me to turn around, the second I glanced at the headstone, I knew it was the one.
    The gravestone of a young girl stood erect in front of me. I knelt down to read it. The date of birth, middle 1730’s, date of death, late 1930’s. The dates told us that she was almost four years old when she died. I was suddenly overcome with emotion. Fear. Sorrow. Excitement. My father stood beside me now as we stared, taking it all in. After a brief moment I looked over at my dad, “this is it,” he said, and that was all he had to say. We slowly walked back to the can and once inside, sat silently for a minute or two. I felt sad. A young girl had died before her life had even begun. At the same time I was petrified. All at once, every horror movie I has ever seen came back to haunt me. I didn’t know what o think or say, so I did neither.
    My father and I often drive by the graveyard and take a moment to reminisce. I have recently found out it’s nickname is appropriately, “Spook’s Hill”. Some people say that there’s meaning behind every supernatural encounter. I’m not sure what the meaning of mine was, but I will always have the story of the time I thought I saw a ghost on “Spooks’ Hill”.

    It was the day before my cousin’s wedding. I had been asked to be one of the bridesmaids and was honored to do so. The whole wedding party got together, went to get our nails done, and pick up our dresses. Our dresses were a very light coral with an ivory strip at the top and ribbons that tumbled down our backs. That morning, the reality of what would be happening in just a mere twenty-four hours affected us. After a chaotic day of last minute plans we all went home to rest.
    With all the excitement of the morning of the wedding, no one paid much attention to the last minute preparations. We all made sure we had our dresses and shoes ready, and about ten o’clock we went to get our hair done. Almost everyone had up-dos, and lots of tightly wound curls. Back at the house, we were all trying to get our make-up done. The moment was growing nearer. We struggled into our dresses, and checked our hair one last time, before heading out the door. Outside we could hear children playing, people talking, and cars going by. No one could have predicted what would come next.
    We opened the door to witness a beautiful sight, a white and gold carriage, with ribbons rippling across the sides and down the back. A few more steps revealed two breathtaking horses, both dark brown with glistening coats and gold harnesses.
    One by one we were ushered into the carriage. The first trip was for the bridesmaids, flower girl and ring bearer. The ride to the church was most eventful. Children stopped playing to watch us go by, cars pulled over, and everyone waved. The ride was not long but we all felt like royalty. It’s not everyday you get to ride in a horse and carriage through the center of Longmeadow.
    The second trip carried a blushing bride and her parents. I can only imagine the reaction that she received. As she stepped out of the carriage, a gasp escaped all of our mouths. No one had seen her fully ready before this moment, and she was truly a sight to see. She had on a gown that was tight at the top and flowed out over the ground. The dress was white with a gold design and gold trim along the veil. Her hair was cascading down her back with hundreds of tight curls. Tears began to fall. Today was her wedding day, and it was truly a Cinderella story.

    Thirteen years ago, my parents divorced after a seven-year marriage. My dad, staying in California, and my mom moving back home to East Longmeadow has caused the relationship between my mother and I to be very secure. Although I am very much like my father, funny, outgoing and (of course) good looking, our relationship is based on father-daughter talks, and spending a great amount of time together. Visiting him in Sunny San Diego every summer, leads us to Beach trips, Vegas, camping and much more.
    With all the emotions, sensitivity, and mood changes a teenage girls like myself goes through, it would be difficult relying on my dad for advice. Ever since I could remember, my mom and I have had a real close mother-daughter relationship. Whether its small talk, deep conversation, or personal issues, my mom is always listening. We too are alike in many ways. People say there is a definite resemblance between the two of us. “Like mother like daughter”, is what they would say. Brown hair, and brown eyes, petite, and (best of all) straight teeth, with big, bright, white smiles.
    To me, she is more than a mother; she is one of my best friends. I neither could nor would never ask for anything better. She inspires me to be a better person, just by giving her support. She is always looking after me, as well as her three other kids. Bad moods, fights with friends, or whatever the reason, my mom seems to always stop what she is doing and take the time to talk. Everything from cooking and cleaning to taking pictures with me is so much appreciated. Knowing my mom loves and cares for me is something that keeps me sane.
    I have a picture of an image of the two of us standing in my backyard. The photo sits framed in my kitchen for everyday viewing. This is the first picture of my mom and I that I can remember being taken. They say a picture is worth a thousand words, but mine is definitely worth one thousand one.

    The summer of 2004 was one of the most memorable times of my life.  On August 10th I boarded Lufthansa, flight number 421 from Logan international Airport to Frankfurt, Germany. I stood hugging my parent’s good-bye at 9:25, waiting for the 9:40 flight. “See you in two weeks, sweetie! Have a great time and call when you get in!” my mother said as I wiped the nervous tears from my cheeks. I turned away from them and walked to our terminal, unable to look back for fear of bursting into tears.
    My Aunt Dee and I sauntered onto the aircraft and scurried to find seat 44- K, located in the Business Class. Flying in Style. Champagne and orange juice were immediately brought to us along with a dinner menu and movie list. “This can’t be that bad,” I thought to myself. Then we started to move. We heard the captain introduce himself and say, “Heiben Sie Willkommen zu Lufthansa Flug zu Frankfurt Deutshland. Wir werden an 36000 Fubfliegen und sollen un ungefahr 6 Studen oder so ankommen. Vielen Dank.” Translated to, “Welcome to Lufthansa flight to Frankfurt Germany. We will be flying at 36,000 feet and should arrive in about 6 hours or so. Thank you!” We were off. No turning back now, All I could do was put on The Secret Window and pray that nothing go wrong.
    Around 12 o’clock, 6 a.m. our time, we heard the static of the loudspeaker fill the plane. “We’ll be landing within the next fifteen minutes, Have a great stay and thank you for flying Lufthansa”, the pilot said in German. My heart started to flutter with excitement and nerves all at once. The time has finally come; no turning back. We smoothly came to a stand still and waited for a port to open so we could exit the plane. I sat there with anticipation, watching the rain fall in sheets out my window. I was in a surreal place where no other sound could be heard other then the buzzing of the airplane. I was startled when we started to move forward towards an open port. I stumbled out of my seat with weak knees and a woozy head. All I could think was, “This is it”. We got off the plane and I seemed to float to the gate where we had to get our passports stamped. The airport was a bright white that hurt my exhausted eyes and people were darting around me at every turn. We finally managed to find baggage claim and lifter our boulders off the conveyer and went to the exit where my fate awaited.
    I walked through the door and heard a loud scream and saw my aunt dash across the room. “Oh my God!! I’ve missed you so much!! Oh my God!!” Is all I could hear, I looked over and got my first glimpse of the people I would be spending the next two weeks with: the Malinowskis.
    The mother, Regina, had the body of a linebacker and a face of a soft flower. Her eyes were drained with the life experience she’d overcome. A cancer survivor, a nurse, and a mother of three, her stature is only a shield that hid the fun loving, caring person I grew to adore. Detlef, the father, was a mysterious man that I didn’t get to know very well. As one of the “higher ups” at BOSCH, he wasn’t home very much, but when he was, you knew it. The smell of cigarette smoke would flow into the house from the balcony where he’d sit and talk on his cell phone. His voice was monotone and his laugh like thunder. Papa Deutsch was what I called him. He became a father to me and treated me as if I were one of his girls. I was in the loving care of my temporary family.

    Oh, this is really starting to hurt. Just keep going. Just keep pushing. I still have two whole miles left! You are barely one mile into the race and already the fatigue is creeping up your legs. Usually your first mile is around five minutes and fifty seconds, but today you chug through with a five minute and thirty-five second first mile. Okay, that seems kind of fast – start bringing down the pace. You go around the next corner and the course opens up. Here, up ahead! The top runners! But they seem so far away…. It will take so much energy to catch them. So much energy that you just don’t have. Or do you? Somebody surges past you. The opponent! You pick the pace back up to stay with this guy. It is barely a third of the way into the race, and you feel tired, out of breath, and your muscles growing steadily wearier. You can feel your legs really hurting now. It is like someone has filled them full of lead! But more importantly, the enemy is still in front of you. There are still two full miles left. Yes, you think, but it is merely two miles. You accelerate.
    One would be hard pressed to find a sport that idealizes forcing yourself to push beyond what you dreamed you could do. Cross country is the only sport that takes this concept and develops it into an entire sport. In virtually all other sports the objective is to morph your team into one force so that you can grapple head-to-head with, and eventually overcome, the opposing team. Cross country, on the other hand, becomes more like a duel with oneself. You are always trying to make the best of yourself and run your fastest time in every race. The competition surfaces when it is simply whichever team gets more people to the finish line first, the real story is how each individual is racing against the hardest competitor of them all – oneself.
    Why would you want to run three point one miles as hard as you can? Why should you bother causing yourself all this pain just to be the first one to stop? It becomes obvious quite quickly that it takes a lot of motivation to keep runners moving. The day of the race is one flooded with the tides of doubt and confidence. Before the race, “I know I can do this” and “This is what I have trained for” run through the runner’s head. During the race is when all this motivation, this self-talk, is the most important. It is on the course when the runner keeps thinking, “Come on! You can catch this guy!”, “That was a good mile, but it’s time to start picking it up”, and “Keep it in control. Good leg drive, relaxed shoulders, relaxed face. Just keep going!”
    It is strange how this motivation works. You can be reeling in pain if you keep thinking negative thoughts. The lactic acid accumulates in your legs and your race is over! Somehow, repeating positive thoughts, having a song stuck in your head, or going over chants in your mind just sort of ebbs the pain away. Your body sort of numbs up, and yet you are still running. After a while into the race, you cease to feel. You stop thinking. All that is left is your burning desire to finish. You just want to be done with this race! In all of the cross country racing experience, I can remember virtually nothing from before the two mile marker until about one hundred meter before the finish line. It seems like all runner eventually fold into a zone that keeps them moving at such a breakneck pace.
    One thing this year that has kept me going strong is the responsibility of captainship. I feel the pressure coming from the team to lead by example. With this in mind, I try to push the pace on hard days, take it easy on easy days, and set an even but challenging pace for speedwork. The most important thing is to never, ever quit. Failing to fail sets the example for the rest of the team to keep working hard, even if you’re really tired. Hopefully the team will learn to be unafraid to push themselves. If you ever realize just how much you can actually do, you would be absolutely amazed. One of my graduated teammates once said, “It’s not hard to do it; it’s hard to make yourself do it.” I thoroughly believe in this statement. A lot of people tell me that they are not on cross country because they “can’t run”. The truth is that they haven’t tried. And if they have tried, then they haven’t tried hard enough. In the last y ear I have seen people run a lot faster than they should have been able to. But they succeeded solely on the basis that they believed that they could. This is the ultimate lesson that I get from cross country. If you really, really try, then you really can do anything.

    Growing up, my fondest memories have always taken place at my brother Steve’s baseball games. Stevie tends to live, eat and breathe one thing: baseball. Sometimes his great passion and love for the sport got in the way of our relationship. Other times it brought us closer. I can remember being infatuated with this older boy that was said to be my brother, but at times our age difference made him seem like a stranger in my eyes. The only real stable thing in our relationship that we both enjoyed was baseball. Game days in my house were the best; they were filled with a mix of cacophony, excitement, and love, lots of it. The diamond shaped field, the smell of freshly cut grass, and crisp white lines was my brother’s oasis. When my brother entered his “oasis” his pure, raw excitement rubbed right off on to me; making the pitcher’s mound a paradise for the both of us.
     From the moment that my brother’s black Nike cleats hit the mound and the camel colored dirt would rise up like a desert storm entrapping his shoes, he was no longer a stranger to me. The once unfamiliar, piercing, dark brown eyes were no longer a vast galaxy of darkness. They were my brother’s. They had meaning. The 15 year age difference became just a mere number on a piece of paper. When Steve was on the mound, it made me feel like he was playing for me, only me. That same mound of dirt that he stood on every day, week after week became our portal for connection.
    Some people say, “With every good thing, there comes a bad.” Baseball sure had its disadvantages. Steve is a type of person who puts up a barrier around his emotions in order to protect himself from hurt and sadness. This barrier also seconded as a barrier for our relationship. Promises were never kept, lies were told, and hearts were tossed away with the morning trash. I can remember countless nights when I would wait up for him to come home from his baseball games, and countless mornings waking up still wondering why he hadn’t come home. Now that we have both grown more mature, our conversations have a little more depth, however that same barrier is put up just high enough to shield him from allowing me to see the person within. Baseball still seems to be the only thing that he allows to enter past the gates. It is the only thing that allows the little rays of sunshine to escape from within the barrier. Sometimes I find myself resenting the great sport of baseball because I have never been allowed in to the land of the unknown to release the rays of sunshine myself.
    Every time I go back to that same diamond-cut field, to smell the same familiar scent of fresh grass and see those same crisp white lines lying in solitude all around the field, a piece of our relationship returns to my heart. The stranger’s face that has now stepped onto the camel colored mound morphs into the familiar face of my brother. The day suddenly becomes brighter because the rays of sunshine were allowed to escape from brother and all of the resentment that once lay in my heart is carried away with the morning dew.

    “I love my blankie.” I would constantly repeat, as I would gently brush my face against my one hundred percent cotton blanket.  I had never had an invisible friend.  Security came easy to me when my blanket was right by my side. Only to me each color on my blanket felt different.  Consisting of a light yellow, blue, and pink I could close my eyes and feel every different texture of each color.  Harsh and Velcro like blue always made me feel better to rub it when I was scared.  Pink was soft to the touch and felt just like velvet. Yellow warm like the sunlight and extremely soft at night yellow would heat my cheeks to keep me warm.  One-inch stripes of each color went vertically down the faded and worn out white background.  Finish off the simplicity of my blanket a silk trim was embroidered around the whole blanket.
    One terrifying day I didn’t have that well known security right by my side.  Taking a ride to the train station I remember playing around with my sister in the back because we were bored.  Walking into the station it made me feel like an ant.  Waiting for my parents to be done with everything I sat down hugging my blanket.  Feeling totally inferior I held on to my blanket with strength.  Annoyed, my older sister started taunting me so I started chasing her.  My father, with anger in his voice, told us to stop immediately and get into the car.  We did just what he said.  Mad the whole way home I failed to notice that my blanket wasn’t by my side.  Walking into my house I quickly noted that my adoring blanket was in fact missing.  I sprinted to the car and searched every single crevice about one hundred times before I realized where I had lost it.   “It’s at the Train Station, let’s go, Now, Now, Now!!!!” I yelled to my mother and father.  “Calm Down.” My father sternly insisted.  “If it is at the station now, no one will take it.”  My mother quietly added under my father’s harsh overtone.
    The anticipation silently hurt me in side as my mom and I piled into the car.  I sat still and quiet for I was waiting to run into the train station and grab my blanket form the chair as if I hadn’t left it there in the first place.  My mother and I reached the parking lot of the station just as they were closing up for the day.  Instantaneously tears started to run from my face.  I stood in shock as I watched her lock up the doors.  “It’s in there forever I’ll never get it back.” Repeating over and over until I was sitting on the ground crying.  In the midst of it all the attendant swung open the door to see what had happened.  “Is everything alright?” she asked.  My mother replied, “No my daughter thinks she might have left her blanket on the chair.”

     The crowd was completely silent in the indoor track arena as the runner stepped up into the starting position. I waited impatiently as I watched Cortney take the set position. After the gun went off, everyone began scream uncontrollably. The intensity was overwhelming, and ill I could hear was my heart pounding throughout my body.
 As Cortney raced around the fourth turn on the track, I looked to see Kara completely focused and preparing to receive the baton. The staggered start made it hard to see where Cortney was in the race. However, I was not worried because I knew Kara would be able to catch and pass all of the competition. Kara was flying, and I could not help but to admire her speed.
    Anyone could see the focus and determination in her eyes. Soon she passed one runner, then another, and another. Before I knew it, the officials began to scream at the runners.
     “Third runners get on the track now!! Spartans get inside!!’’ screamed the unfamiliar voice of the official.
     As I quickly moved to the first place spot, I watched as Kara was running toward me at full speed.
     “C’mon Kara” I yelled as I was rocking back and forth with anxiety.
     When Kara finally got close to me, I took off, reaching my hand back for the baton. I got the baton in my hand and sprinted as fast as possible, determined to maintain the lead. All I could think about was getting to the finish line so I could pass of the baton to Erika.
     The next thing I knew, Erika was running with the baton. She was doing great until another girl began to gain on her. The opponent was approaching faster and faster. The race was so intense, I could not stand to watch because I was afraid I was going to jinx it, and we night lose. They were neck and neck, at the 50-meter mark, the 30-meter, the 20-meter, and as I looked up, I saw that Erika won with a lean. It hit me that we had won, and I screamed as loud as possible. I never thought this could happen to me. It was unbelievable.
     When our names were announced to stand on the podium, I was gleaming. There was no way anything could stop me from smiling. I felt as if everyone was staring and cheering for us because we had won. As I looked around I felt so out of place. Everyone looked so athletic and good. However, they were not as good as us. We were the new girls indoor state champions.

     It was the day that I started to believe in karma. I had never missed a day of school my sophomore year of high school, so I decided to take the day off and skate Boston with Chad and Zac. When we got there, it was pouring buckets. It was almost as if god threw them on top of us and laughed his mightiest laugh. Every spot that we looked at to skate, looked back at us and grinned, for they knew they were getting off easy today. They didn’t know whom they were dealing with.
     Three moments captured, portraying an ascending path to a new way of life. I sat thinking to my self on that wet, rotting bench that sat parallel to the Boston harbor, about every reason I had to be miserable. I always say the glass half empty, and this is the perfect scenario, caught at the peak of the moment. With three dollars in my pocket, an empty stomach, and an unfulfilled desire to get on my board and just skate, we lingered around thoughtless.
     When I look at this picture it triggers a lot of memories. One thing that sticks out is how symbolic it is to me. The leaves and grass hanging over remind me of every endless day of gardening I did when I was working for a lady in Longmeadow, where I wished I were out skateboarding with my friends. I’m caught in an endless cycle, a catch twenty-two, where I’m never happy because even thought I’m on my skateboard, I’m still miserable. Our generation is so spoiled, that we’re never happy, nor satisfied, and even when we are, we get so used to the feeling that our expectations become higher, and little things can’t please us anymore. “We’re trapped in the belly of this horrible machine, and the machine is bleeding to death.”- Godspeed You Black Emperor!
     The world was spinning around us. One step led to another and soon we were making our way up the street, destination unknown, hiding in our soaking wet hoods. We desperately searched for an overhang that we could skate under. Anger was building inside of me; soon it would start to pulse. I found myself playing the same “Sigur Ros” song in my head every time there would be a dramatic silence where everyone walked staring at their feet. The violins were building and more of them started to enter. We watched everyone in a hurry to get to where they were going; this is where the cellos entered. Construction, everyone everywhere in all directions, skyscrapers, this is where the drums come in with lots of symbol crashes.
     Approaching the subway station, we handed the attendant two dollars and entered through the admissions tripod, attempting to spin it an extra couple of times as we once did as kids. There were no seats available so we found ourselves sitting on our boards with our backs against the wall. I found my eyes wandering into other sets of eyes and faces, observing their looks, interpreting their feelings. I remember the exact thought that sprung into both our minds, as we looked at each other with that hopeful look of knowingness. Why were we letting the rain ruin our trip? It was almost as if we were completely oblivious to the fact that our boards, costing about one hundred fifty dollars apiece, were going to be destroyed. We didn’t care. This was a once in a lifetime experience. We got off the subway, our faces glowing red of genius, ran up the stairs, and searched for our first victim. Ten yards away was the biggest puddle I had ever seen in my life. We threw our boards down and flew into it like a daydream.
     Standing on the edge of the pier, I let the rain pour down on me. I knew now I was going to treat every situation from there as a situation that was completely in my control. If for some reason I was to fall backward, I would be more soaked than I already was, but at least I would have a good story to tell. There are ways around all bad situations and we found it buried deep in the lump of gray matter that sits about our shoulders, where it had been hiding for so long.

     Some pictures we look at, even years after the original occurrence can bring back vivid memories.  Sometimes it even fells like it was just the other day when it happened.  You can still picture every single detail about everything you saw, and could still remember that certain smell that was in the air.  The sounds were also as loud and bright as they were when it happened.  When that happens, I feel like I can reach back and almost touch the memory again.
 This picture certainly did that for me.  I can still hear my Grandma, or “Grandmay,” as I call her, saying, “Sit down there for another picture.”  And I still remember being incredibly sick of her snapping pictures left and right of everything she saw.  We were in England, my Grandma’s birthplace.  I was nine years old and I was there for my first time.  We were in Liverpool, at the Albert Docks, walking around.  That day we had already taken various pictures at the BEATLES Museum.  We also looked in many boutiques and gift shops.  After walking around for a few hours, we started to may our way back down the street to the bust station.
     The whole way there, she was making me stop and pose in front of almost everything she say.  Then she told me to sit on the bench shown in the pictures.  That was the last straw.  I didn’t want to take any more pictures.  I was done.  “Grandmay, I don’t want to take anymore pictures,” I said.  Then I got so angry that she wouldn’t stop, I just pulled the hood of my jacket over my face and sat there silent for a while.  After I had my time, I emerged to see my Grandma still standing there waiting for me.  I was still mad, so I got up without saying a word and we finished our walk to the bus station.
     I had no idea that my Grandma had taken that picture of my on the bench.  I thought that she just gave up on it out of courtesy.  When I came across it in the bundle of my England trip pictures, I was very embarrassed to see it.  I felt like the biggest brat for doing that.  I regret doing that.  I also believe that I had that picture from my parents so they wouldn’t see it and ask about it.
     Now when I see that picture, I smile and laugh for many reasons.  First I smile because of how physically funny it looks to see a kid sitting on a bench with a hood over his head with this awesome view behind him.  Second, I laugh because I did that for such a ridiculous reason.  I got furious over nothing; she was just trying to capture memories of my first tip to England.  The last reason why I love this picture is because it reminds me of how much fun I had with my Grandma.  Everything I did and everything I saw was such an incredible experience.

     “Look!” he said, grabbing my hand and pointing at the huge roller coaster that stood before us, “Let’s get in line!”  We were in Busch Gardens getting ready to ride one of the biggest roller coasters I had ever seen.  I was ten and Zack was thirteen.  It was so scary knowing that in just a few moments, I was going to be tossed, flipped, pulled, and turned in mid-air.  I felt a chill going up my spine just at the sight of the roller coaster, but looking up at Zack – my big brother – was a sign of comfort that seemed to make everything ok.  When our turn came, Zack guided me to my seat, helped me strap myself in, and then sat back and did the same for himself.  He looked at me smiling as we took off, creeping slowly up the hill.  I was shaking with sweaty palms and could barely keep a grip on the lap bar.  “Don’t worry, you’re goin’ to love this!” he said.  We finally made it to the top of the hill.  My stomach dropped as we flew straight down.  Zack was right; I was having a fabulous time feeling weightless flying quickly through the air.  After the ride finished, we stood in line again and again, each time more exited than the last.
     We would always do adventurous things together and no matter what, Zack put me first.  I could tell he really cared for me when my safety was all that mattered to him.  We were very much alike.  Two goofy kids always up to having fun.  No matter where we traveled or what we did, Zack was always by my side.  He made me feel like a best friend rather than an annoying little sister.
     One of the things I loved the most about him was that even though we were buddies, he still had big brother qualities.  One day, when I felt really sick, he walked me up to my room, put me into bed, and brought me a bucket and a towel, in case I needed it.    Lying there, dripping in sweat, light headed, and woozy, I had a smile on my face because I thought I had the best brother in the world.  Sometimes, it’s the little things that can have a big impact.  I knew I would do anything for Zack and knowing he would do the same for me was a wonderful feeling.  People often stereotype older siblings as being bullies or teasing their younger brother’s or sister’s, but Zack didn’t fall under that category.
     Now 20, Zack is commuting to Springfield College.  Commuting?  It actually seems like he’s living out of state.  Always at work, school, or with his friends, I barely see him anymore.  We’re older now.  We’ve matured and grown to be more independent and very busy.  We have totally different schedules and it’s a miracle of I see him at home for fifteen minutes at a time.  I still look up to him like I always have, like a little girl looking up to her big brother as if he’s some sort of magical super hero.
     “Zack, come on!”  I’m going to be late for dance!” I yelled, anxiously looking at the clock.  It was 4:55, only five minutes until dance class started.
     “Why can’t you drive yourself?” he asked.  He made it seem as if he were too busy on the computer to stop instant messaging his friends just to give me a quick ride.
     “Dad has my car today.” I responded.  He grunted and slowly stepped away from the computer.
     As we got into the car, I knew the ride was going to be awkward because neither one of us were in the best of moods.  Those five minutes in the car seemed like an hour of silence with a casual question here and there that I knew he could care less about.
     “So, what time you got dance until?” or, “What are you doing tonight?”  Homework.  What else did he think I’d be doing at 8:00 on a Thursday night?  Since I barely saw him anymore, Zack and I didn’t have a lot to talk about but silence didn’t make that any better.  Yes!  We finally arrived at the dance studio.
     “Thanks.” I said as I was stepping out of the car.
     “Jessie, wait!” he yelled.  I thought I had forgotten something so I peeked my head in before I shut the door.  “I love you.  Have a good time at dance.”  My heart seemed to fill up with joy as if it were a puzzle and someone had found its’ missing piece.  I realized that even though he’s not always around, Zack still really cares for me and will always look after me.
     I took a breath, “I love you too, Zack.”  We both smiled as I shut the car door.

     The year is 1995. The place is Mrs. Bouchard’s first grade classroom. Princesses, wizards and dragons and all running about, impatiently awaiting their acting debuts. Parents of these creatures are frantically snapping photos and adjusting costumes. The play is about kings and queens. My blue princess dress is almost identical to that of my best friend Kristina. Princess Funlova is Kristina’s given alias, which describes her perfectly. Another ironic casting is that of my amusing other best friend, Kristen, who is assigned to be the court jester.
     All of a sudden my mom asks for a snap shot of the three of us. “Aww mom”, I complained. “Oh stop whining, Breanne, you’ll thank me when you’re older.” I reluctantly squeeze myself between my two best friends in the entire world. To my right, Kristina is posing (as usual) for the photo in another one of her attempts to be the center of attention. Using all of her teeth, Kristina smiles her famous, beautiful smile and screams “CHEESE!” Kristen is innocently smiling on the other side of me. The devil in disguise; innocent in front of elders, yet a whole different person when around her friends. Kristen always gets us into more trouble than I would ever think of getting into if I was alone. As I thought about them, I silently wish for the three of us to be friends forever. I embrace my two companions and smile as the camera clicks and flashes a blinding light into our eyes…
     …The morning school bell rings loudly and wakes me up out of my half-asleep state of mind. Calculus at seven twenty-five in the morning! Just what I feel like doing! I look at the date on the otherwise blank chalkboard: September 9, 2005. I think about the past years of my life and how so much has changed throughout them. I then realize, on the other hand, that two things have remained completely constant: Kristina and Kristen. As all three of us sit in our senior math class daydreaming about who knows what, I think about all of the things we have gone through as friends. So many up and downs, so many memories. I think about the period of time when Kristen and I weren’t speaking and about the time when Kristina broke her two front teeth when she fell on her face playing basketball.
     I look over at Kristina, who is doodling all over her paper. Kristina, the funniest, most loving person I have ever met, the one who can make me laugh like no one else. I then look to Kristen, who is looking at what the teacher is writing on the board. Kristen, the “innocent” one, who can always comfort me when I’m sad; the one who I used to spend countless hours with because we were having too much fun to leave each other. My two best friends, different in so many ways, yet so alike. When I think about it, it amazes me that we have been together for this long. I consider myself very fortunate to have experienced the relationship that I have had with Kristina and Kristen. Some people are not lucky enough to have friends like mine.