SAMPLE ESSAYS—included for teaching power; none are perfect; they all have good lessons.  Scroll down and you will find contrast, process, classification, division, cause, effect, and others.

Different types of essay (process, cause, moldbreaker, etc) can be easily found by using CTRL F and putting in the type and then clicking ‘find next.’

The models are below—here’s a  blueprint first.

Structure of an essay--what goes into each paragraph and examples   

  Paragraph One. Intro or lead paragraph

* Hook your reader

* Develop the hook

* State your basic idea for the essay (what you'll be 'proving')

* Preview the following three paragraphs with a three part 'plan of development.'

I chew, swallow, and immediately realize I've made a terrible mistake. In

the next tree seconds, saliva floods my mouth as though I were about to

vomit. The glands under my jaw suddenly swell until I look like a squirrel

with two huge nuts in its mouth. Under my ears I feel a terrible itch and

then the corners of my mouth and tongue begin to burn. I'm in for it now--

I've ingested a substance I should have just said no to. The substance is a

Sun Gold cherry tomato I grew from seed. I have food allergies. You would

think that fifteen minutes of serious discomfort would teach me a lesson,

but experience is a teacher I often ignore for three reasons: hopefulness,

love, and nastiness.

Paragraph Two. First support paragraph.

* In the first sentence, take the first part of the plan of development and restate it, using key words or signpost words like 'reason,' 'step,' 'category,' etc, depending on type of essay.

* Run with it ('development,' details, specifics, examples, personal

observation, personal experience)

* End paragraph with a mini-summary of paragraph

What I hope is that I have finally outgrown my idiotic food allergies.

Every time I reach for a peanut at the bar or scoff down a fluffernutter or

order a BLT, I tell myself this: "You had asthma for twenty years and then

it disappeared for twenty years. You can eat this." Of course, I forget to

tell myself that the asthma came back at age 40, worse than ever. I also

forget to remember that the very last time I ate one of the forbidden foods,

I got all screwed up. My greedy eye and hungry guts are what generates that

hope--my brain has no part in the process.

Paragraph Three. Second support paragraph.

* Summarize paragraph two's point and restate the second part of the

plan of development, using key words

* Run with it ('development,' details, specifics, examples, personal

observation, personal experience)

* End paragraph with a mini-summary of paragraph

Not only does hope spring eternal, so does love, reason number two. I love

my garden and all the fruities and veggies in it. I love starting the

cherry tomato seeds in April and nursing them through the damp, the cold,

the slugs, the birds, the cats (who like to use my garden plot as a shit-

and-scratch outpost), the drought, and the floods. By the time the first

week in August arrives and the first cherry tomato comes due, I am ready to

fulfill my love in the only possible way--I give that sucker a gentle

squeeze and sniff, hold it up to the light, and then pop that little old

red-yellow tomato right into my waiting mouth. Love? Yes, love! I love

the taste of a fruit that's been more than four months coming.

Paragraph Four. Third support paragraph.

* Summarize paragraph two and three's points and restate the third part

of the plan of development, uisng key words

* Run with it ('development,' details, specifics, examples, personal

observation, personal experience)

* End paragraph with a mini-summary of the paragraph.

Hope and love alone are not enough to drive me to do something as foolish as

eating a cherry tomato. Sheer nastiness is the third and final reason. I

see that food I want and instantly split into two parts--Me and the Body--

and get a real ugly attitude toward the Body. I absolutely refuse to pamper

it. Dammit, I want the tomato, and the Body can like it or find someone

else. Doesn't make much sense written down like that--but the Body has to

learn! It's not enough that it's gotten fat, and lost its hair, and has to

wear glasses, and a whole lot of other stuff. No-oooo, now it's fussy about

its food. Well, I can't do anything about the baldness, but I can eat a

cherry tomato, and I will just to teach it a lesson. Funny thing about

nastiness though, it often bounces back, and I always wind up getting the

nasty lesson instead of giving it.

Paragraph five. Outro. Wrap. Conclusion.

* Very brief summary of the essay's main idea.

* Add value with new material related to topic, perhaps loop back to

intro and give it a twist, look ahead, look back, a joke, something

more than what has been already done.

Amazing that I would eat something, knowing that it's going to cause me pain

and misery. Probably you're laughing at me right now, forgetting maybe your

own little experiments with greasy burgers, chewing tobacco, sausage pizza,

birthday cake, cigarettes, Snickers bars, triple ice-cream cones, Slim Jims,

Budweiser, shrimp cocktail, and all the other things that look and smell so

good but pretty quick you can wish you had never laid eyes or nose on.

Anyway I come by my stupidity honestly: my dad's favorite story about his

childhood was the time he had to be rushed to the hospital to have the

raisins removed from his sinuses. When asked why he stuck them up his nose,

he said, "They tasted so good I couldn't stop putting them into me." I know

just what he meant.   

Models and examples:

 = Essay Models and Examples: in here are a lot of student essays that work okay--check them out as guides if you're not sure how to get going with your own essays

  Model process essays

The shop lights snap on with a slight hum in my ear. I flip

the switch and the air compressor jumps in to life. I roll the

bay door open to give me access the lift of lumber just waiting

out side the door to be constructed in to some kind of shape or

a purpose. The lift of lumber in going to be used to build a

dock. This will be used in the movie ˜Message in a Bottle’

Here’s how we build a dock. 

  First thing of the day (well right after a cup of coffee) I go

out back of the shop and bring in a whole bunch of 2x6s. It

never fails I always seem to get a huge splinter. It only takes

a few minutes from the arsenic in the pressure treated lumber to

take affect. My hand just turns red and swells. So I have to

stop what I am doing and cut the bastard out. I stand in front

of the saw just cutting board after board. This part of the job

sucks, by now the sweat is running down the side of my face and

the saw dust just gets all over you. No matter how much you wipe

it off there is plenty more coming to take its place. Finely its

break time I finish up the last couple boards. I go out side and

have a smoke.

    After I get back from my short lived break my dad and I grab

a piece of Styrofoam (which really makes the dock float) and

start building the floatation part of the dock. We call them

‘sandwiches’. This part is fun it always seems to go by

fast. All the lumber is all cut out so all we have to do is nail

it together. We work together like two programmed machines both

knowing exactly what needs to be done. Every time I grab the

nail my left hand just starts to ach from the time I shot my

self in the middle finger while putting up a gable end on a

house when I was younger. We need to make four of these

sandwiches for this dock. It’s getting on lunch time so it’s

a good time to quit and get some grub.

    Coming back from lunch is always the hardest time to the day

you sat down relaxed and now it time to switch gears and put

smack down. This is when the dock really seems to take its

shape. The framing of the dock takes a lot of nails and I

can’t use the nail gun because this is the part that makes the

dock strong. We want them to last a long time. As I go from one

stringer to the next I can feel the muscles in my forearm

tighting up and burning with every swing of the hammer. We treat

it like a race to see who can get to the other end the fastest.

After that is done we never skip a beat just grab the boards for

the decking and start putting nails to it. The old man lays the

boards down and puts them in place and I come in right behind

him almost running with the nail gun just bouncing it as fast I

can ( without missing of course).  It doesn’t take long and

before you know it, the deck is all completed. I grab the skill

saw and trim off the ends of the deck and it’s all completed.

     The dock might be done but it sure isn’t going to find

its own way to the water. My dad and I use a chain fall and pick

up one end of the float and shove a roller under one end and

push it out side of the door. By now it’s getting on so the old man and I pull up a saw horse and throw back a couple

of frosty cold ones. Just taking it easy it’s near the end of

the day, who cares. I go out to the yard out front and fire up

our boom truck. Drive it to the back roll up door and lift the

dock on to the trailer. Strap it down, nail on a couple of wide

load flags, and head home. The dock is done ready to be

delivered to another happy customer. In a couple of weeks a fat

check will come in the mail to make all this work worth its

while.

Copyright © 2002 by Raymond Chase       

I loved going to my grandmother’s house, next door, to the smell of fresh banana bread baking in the oven.  I got to check it for doness with a toothpick and I got disappointed when I would have to stick it back into the oven for another five or so minutes.  The smell was intense and I know she used the oldest bananas she could find which gave this moist sweet bread amazing flavor.  The best part was when I got to take it out of the oven and cut into that first slice, then eat it while it is still warm…sometimes I couldn’t even wait and will still be hot!  I love to make sandwiches with the bread too, especially a peanut butter banana bread sandwich. 

First it’s the fresh bread.  Store bought just wont cover it.  Too many preservatives and tastes too fake…it seems.  My grandmother always makes two loaves, one with ground walnuts and one without.  My youngest brother is the only one who doesn’t like nuts, so it’s made especially for him.  I like the walnuts, adds a bit of crunchiness and flavor.  And, I loved it when I was the one to slice the bread because I would make nice thick slices even with opposition from the folks.

The next part of building this amazing sandwich is the peanut butter.  Either smooth or chunky peanut butter will do but chunky is always favorable.  I love opening the jar and smelling the aroma of peanuts and sneaking a little before spreading it on my sandwich with my finger.  Peanut butter goes on both pieces of the bread, generously of course.  And organic peanut butter is a must.  I love going to the natural living center to grind my own peanut butter.  There is nothing like freshly ground peanut butter with the oils that settle to the top and need to be stirred in once and a while.   

Here’s the twist.  The last and final component to a great banana bread sandwich is sliced bananas!  I like to find a ripe banana that isn’t’ mushy and thinly slice it and place the pieces on one side of the bread so it sticks to the peanut butter.  Finally, the other piece of bread is laid on top.  My grandmother basically keeps two kinds of bananas around, the overly ripe ones for the bread it’s self and the fully yellow, not brown ones, for the slices.  The stool is still in the kitchen where I would stand next to her so I could help her with the late afternoon snack. 

Making a peanut butter sandwich has always been a great way to satisfy a craving for a snack.  I make sure I keep plenty of peanut butter on hand at all times, the lazy-susan has at least two if not three backups.  Peanut butter also goes great with the ploys I have for breakfast and spread on top of my homemade granola bars too.  I know I’ll always have bananas since the store down the street is named Georges Banana Stand.  What started as a small snack that my grandmother and I made together will continue on as a favorite and never fail to give me my peanut butter banana fix.

Copyright (c) 2007 by Matt Dubois 

Mission impossible

“Hey Fred, what do you think about me making the suburban into four wheel drive and taking every thing out of the green truck?” (the 69’ GMC I wrote about)

“…what? Have you lost your mind? Do you know how much work that is?”

“ Yeah, but I’ve taken measurements and think it might work, Jim can make every thing out for me in his metal shop and the way I figure it, it will be stronger than a factory made four wheel drive, and I’ve read about it in magazines.”

“ NO Dave, it wont!” Fred says confidently, “You’re going to ruin that nice truck by hacking it all up. It’s not going to work, (meaning that he thinks that I cant do it).”

“Well any ways just a thought,” I said. I only said that to stop this uncompromising conversation.

Two weeks go by and I still want to do it, I ask Fred again when we were at the bar in Dover and I get the same reply: “It will cost more to do than it would to just go and buy a four wheel drive and then do it,” Fred says.

“Fred, I’ve taken all the measurements and it will work.”  Another week goes by and when I come back in town seems like every one knows about my plan and think I’m in over my head, and that it couldn’t be done by any one anyways. They try to talk me out of it but when every one doubts you, you have an urge to do it spite. Like when you’re a kid and your mom says don’t go down by the river. She might as well have said to go down there and have fun because that’s the first place I want to go and see WHY NOT?

So the build up begins, I’m doing this in the lower driveway at my parents house in the snow, mud. People slow down when they drive by to see what the hell is Dave doing now? Two weeks go by and I spend all my time working on it over vacation and then its done. Every thing fit perfect, just like I said it would, thank God because if it didn’t I would have never heard the end of it from my ever so supportive ‘friends’.

Yester day I cleaned it up and the backed it into the upper drive way as if to say don’t ever tell me it wont work, because here is proof. You wouldn’t believe how many of my ‘friends’ happened to stop by and ask if I needed a hand on it when its all done, or to see if they could pick it apart by looking for mistakes, No one found any because there aren’t any. To top it all off no one helped me do it besides Jim who was only doing it because, one, I was paying him to weld stuff, and, for two, He had very good instructions to follow made by Me. That’s the beauty of this mission, every one thought it was Impossible and I made it possible.    

Copyright © 2001 by Dave Hovencamp

BODACIOUS BERRY PIES
By Suzanne Graves-Hall Copyright ©Suzanne Graves-Hall 1999

Busy, busy, BUSY!! It’s the battle cry of the 90’s American family. Work, school, sports, meetings…there never seems to be enough hours in the day and making time to actually connect with everybody in my family is , at times, seemingly impossible. Sometimes we just have to let everything fall by the wayside and make time for each other and berry season offers the perfect excuse to put off the housework, let the answering machine do our socializing and tromp off to our backyard mosquito motel for our annual black raspberry pick-a-thon. Get out the bug dope, the graduated plastic mixing bowls (everyone gets just the right size) , it’s that pie time of year!

Black raspberry pie! It truly is an adventure to make. First we gather the berries. This means my three darlin’s and I put on our oldest floppiest sneakers to scramble up and down the slippery banks of the brook that runs behind our home. They’ll be lined up later along our front stoop, squishy, water logged ankle weights that’ll still be sitting there, bearing witness to the fun we’ve had long after our first pie is committed to memory. By now, my kids and I know that the secret to a really great pie lies in the berries. We try to gather ones that have just ripened as over-ripes will result in an unappetizingly mushy pie. Family policy dictates that any berries that aren’t good pie berries can be eaten on the spot. The sticky juice stained hands and faces we return home with proves that berries that don’t pass pie muster aren’t exactly easy to come by! Even more are devoured when we’re washing the day’s harvest (don’t want to take any chances with pie quality, don’tcha know) and we always pick plenty of extra’s to freeze until weeks later, when once again, I’ll make summer in a pie, foiling fall.

Everyone in the family has a specialty when it comes to assembling the pie. My youngest always gets to mix all the ingredients; sugar, vanilla, and a breath of salt together with the chosen berries while my middle child lines the pie pan with the unanimously requested store-bought crust, (I make a horrific home made crust!), being very, very careful not to tear it. My oldest then pours the berry mixture into the prepared crust, making sure it is ever so slightly mounded on the top, for looks only, then has the honors of adding my “not so secret ingredient”, a minute amount of luminescent, black strap molasses drizzled “just-so” over the entire pie. He has been doing this for years and has become quite the expert at it. Now it’s my turn to dot the innards with bits of sweet cream butter and place the top crust perfectly over our pie-in-waiting. It’s not ready to pop into the oven, yet! We have more to do!










A pie baked in this household must be crimped and decorated properly, or it just wouldn’t taste as good. The four of us flip a coin to decide who gets to crimp the edges of the pie together with the “special pie fork”, a very old sterling silver fork with unusually long tines my oldest found while bottle hunting at the river. Whoever wins folds the edges of the crust together then presses it tighter with The Fork, trying to keep all the tine marks as even as possible, (the uniformity of this definitely depends on the age of the designated crimper). When this has been done, we all claim a quarter section of the pie to decorate. Armed with age appropriate implements of destruction,(knives), we carefully pierce our sections of crust with little dashes to form a pattern of leaves , flowers, or whatever strikes us at the moment. Sometimes I start out with a design in mind and have to transform it into something else because I, oops!, cut a little too much in one direction or another. After the steam vents are in place and I have dutifully covered the crimped edges with crinkly, shiny strips of aluminum foil to prevent them from blackening, I ceremoniously place the pie in our pre-heated 400 degree oven, with a flourish of course,
and banish everyone from the kitchen while I play clean up and get back to the more mundane tasks at hand.

A warm wall of browning pastry hits me before I even open the front door. Side stepping the soldiered sneakers I hurry in and dump the day’s laundry into the nearest chair and rush to check on the long awaited pie bubbling in my oven. My face is met with a WHOOSH! of berried heat that blows back the fine tendrils of hair surrounding my face and causes me to keep blinking as I try to get a good look inside. Sumptuously golden and oozing fragrance to announce it’s readiness, our trophy is done, ready to be relished by my berry-pickin’ brood. It’s an edible reminder of long summer days buzzing with locusts and dripping with sunshine and wild flowers and of endless sunset painted horizons and glittering night skies: summer’s soul washed and picked over, a grand last hurrah! served with mounds of sweet homemade whipped cream and a whole lot of love. We may be typically busy people, but this is definitely worth making the time for!
*******
Handyman/Guru Guy

Computer Guru: That special person you know that can always tell you what is wrong with that annoying box of circuits you have sitting on top or under your desk. Of course this definition will not be found in your local dictionary, but nonetheless, most of us have or NEED a computer guru of our very own! Amongst my family and friends, I’m the all knowing and seeing Computer Guru. My brother recently had a problem with his computer and climbed up to my mountaintop to seek my infinite wisdom.
It started with the dreaded “unable to read media, disk unusable” error message when he turned on his computer one evening to catch up on some work. Of course, this was not the first time he had a problem, but the beginning of the end of his problems because this time, the hard drive from hell, decided to end it’s miserable life and by the time I got there, I was happy to pronounce it dead. Thus began the process of replacing the hard drive. We drove to Staples and were happily talked into a new hard drive with three times the capacity for half the cost of the dearly departed. Hence ended the first step to replacing the hard drive.
The next step was to venture into the dark and dusty void of the CPU to remove the deceased to it’s final resting place…the nearest trashcan. We carefully disconnected all of the wires from the rear of the CPU, moved the CPU to a more accessible spot, and removed the screws that held the case on. As we removed the cover, the motherboard seemed to cringe under its nice thick coat of dust as light touched its surface for the first time in years. After a cloudy dust removal bath with a can of compressed air, we found the dead carcass of the hard drive from hell, disconnected its ribbon cable, power cable, screws, and finally removed it to it’s final resting place. Hence ended the second step to replacing the hard drive.
We then removed the shiny, new, changeling from its nice, new box; my brother stood there like a proud, father admiring his first-born, and I quickly checked the jumper on it to make sure it was set to master position, which usually is the factory default. After prying it from my brother’s hands, I think he had baby lust; I slid it into its bracket and secured it with screws. I then attached the wires that gave its predecessor life, the ribbon cable and power cable, then checked all wires for security in their sockets, blessed myself with the sign of the cross, then with a sigh declared, “Hopefully, that’ll do it!” Famous last words of all computer gurus…”Hopefully, that’ll do it.” I kept the cover off until testing was completed because whenever I get cocky and put the cover back on, Murphy’s Law automatically goes into effect and…well, you know how that goes! Fortunately, after carefully replacing all the connections to the back of the computer, we successfully installed the operating system, and the new hard drive brought life back to an otherwise worthless box of circuits. I then sent it back into its dark and now dustless void as I put the cover back on. Thus ended our journey into replacing the hard drive.
So, if you have your very own computer guru it would do you good to remember one very important thing- Treat him like gold, keep him well watered and fed, and your computer will keep going…and going…and going…


Copyright (c)1999 by Bert J. Francis
******

Creating Perfection

Have you ever walked into a bakery, minutes after they brought hot bread from the kitchen? Do you love to taste a warm slice? Are you immediately relaxed upon entering a home where a loaf is baking in the oven? If so, you understand my passion for making bread. There is something so simple in the pleasure I derive from watching the dough begin to rise. The joy in “punching down” the growing mass is abundant. My best days include this process. Picture a clean house on a cool and rainy day. Lace curtains gently dance in the breeze. A wind chime plays a soft tune. Homemade stew is bubbling on the stove and the aroma of baking bread fills the home. These are my happiest moments. Add some classical music in the background, a book you can’t take your eyes off of … and you’ve reached my idea of perfection on earth. Total contentment and thorough peace.

A day of this nature usually begins when I wake up in the morning and notice the dark and overcast sky. Many people might complain about the “horrible” weather. My soul leaps with joy. I can’t explain my love for this view out my window. Only those with the same excitement can truly understand it. I’ve given up trying to make the others comprehend its beauty. As I stand gazing out the sliding glass window and feeling satisfied I declare that today is a “soup and bread” day. Dancing my way into the kitchen, I prepare to begin. Bread is a marvelous thing! Yeast, warm water and flour turn themselves into something so delicious and nurturing. How can anyone resist falling in love with the process?

Kneading, kneading, kneading … seven, eight, nine minutes. Just when I think my arms will not make it another minute, the timer goes off and I beam with a grin. I endured! Tonight we will have bread! My husband says he loves it when I’m busy in the kitchen. I love knowing he feels that way. I cover the dough and attempt to wipe some of the flour from its landing place on my shirt. From the refrigerator I pull the slab of meat I thawed last night. It was going to be a steak dinner, but a few quick cuts with our one-and-only decent knife turn it into juicy squares which I toss into a hot skillet to brown. Oh! The delightful smell! I must eat one … just to make sure it tastes ok, I justify to the mustard stain on the wall. Once dark on all sides, the meat is added to a pot of boiling water with various vegetables I scrounge from the bottom of the overloaded produce drawer.

After a pit stop to check for any new email, I realize that what I intended to be a quick break turned into a sixty minute departure from my goals. Determination sets in, and I head for the kitchen. A good punch to the dough and then I form it into the loaf it will become in a few short hours. Setting about the task of cleaning, I begin with the mess there before me! Vegetable peels, pasty flour, and dirty skillet are all taken care of. Following the path I usually take when preparing our home for the Sabbath, I find myself three hours later smiling at the progress we’ve made. We will indeed rest tonight! Three o’clock signals the time to put the bread into the oven to bake. While there, a delightful moment is spent stirring the stew and giving it a taste!

Twenty minutes later, keys rattle the lock and my beloved hubby walks through the door. From the entry way he can see me still standing at the stove making sure my work of art tastes yummy. An embarrassed grin tells him, without words, that he caught me unprepared. Momentarily, I panic knowing how atrocious I must look with no make-up on and a crazy design of flour decorating my clothes. Steve smiles at me and takes in the aroma that has greeted him. A grin spreads across his face and he as he hugs me he says, “Smells so good! I love coming home when you’re cooking!” Yes! It is a perfect day!

Copyright © 2000 by Tammy Green

Copyright (c) 1999 by Mike Crane

"Damn that burns!" I thought as the soda came out my nose. I was watching my dog enjoy the new bone I had just bought him and the stupid thing was rolling on it like it was dead. Just to see him wiggling his back all over it like there was no tomorrow was enough to make me spit up the glass of soda I was drinking. When my dog gets a new bone he doesn't just start to chew it like a normal canine would. First he has to analyze the situation. He must be asking himself something like is this bone worth chewing? Then comes the kill, he'll grab it and shake the hell out of it, then there is the enjoyment. The part where he can actually gnaw on the thing, and make a mess on my floor. I am not saying that my dog isn't normal, he just goes through one hell of an ordeal to be able to enjoy a bone.

Dakota instantly knows that there is a treat for him in the grocery bag. I give the bone to him and he lugs it into the living room to his spot and drops it on the floor where he begins. My dog will start by staring at the bone intensly, like he can scare the thing back to life for him to be able to kill it again. All the while he's staring he starts to pace, circling his prize like he is a vulture finding his meal. Sometimes he'll even nudge it a little with his nose to see if it will run away or just continue to lay there. Once he is satisfied that the bone is worth his attention, and that my selection of rawhides fit his need he will finally grab it in his mouth.

My dog will pick up the bone and shake his head from side to side trying to get every last ounce of life out of prize. Sometimes on a particularly tasty bone he will growl while he is terrorizing the thing. I think this part is very funny because anyone who has seen my Husky knows that he is just a big baby and wouldn't harm anything. Not even my girlfriend's cats, although I sometimes wish he would fight back at them. Her cats just beat him up and then run under the bed, so I think that his shaking the bone is his way of taking his fustrations out.

Before Dakota will chew his bone he has to get his smell on it so he drops it on the floor and goes tit's up on the thing. He'll rub his back all over it like it was a good pile of shit in the yard that wasn't his. Sometimes he'll spend several minutes doing this, although I tend to stop him after awhile because he'll start to rub his fur into the rug and I have a hell of a time vacuming it up sometimes. Once he stops rubbing, he must decide that there is nothing further for him to do but turn the bone into a pile of mush and make another mess on my living room carpet.

My dog goes through quite the process of chewing a bone. There haven't been any that he hasn't chewed, and the last one I bought for him was the best twenty bucks I have ever spent. I gave it to him on Sunday and Dakota still hasn't finished it. I think this is great because normally they are gone after a few hours. I get a kick out of my dogs habits and many of the things he does. Like when he chews a bone, or runs through the tall grass because he bounces like a rabbit. Maybe his habits aren't all that different from a humans. I have many process's that I go through to achieve certain things, like getting ready to go hunting, or for work. Maybe what people say about dog's is true, they reflect their owners habit's.

**********

Selling to Drunks Copyright © by Suzanne Graves-Hall 1999

“F***ing c**t!” the already intoxicated young “gentleman”, (He must really do his momma proud), slurs with red-faced belligerence as I refuse to sell him a twelve pack of Milwaukee’s Best Light. Undaunted, (like I haven’t heard that before!), I try to look him squarely in the bloodshot eye and laughingly exclaim “Why thank you young man! It’s been years since anybody equated my sole being as something sexual! And at my age, too!” The customers in line behind him are chuckling and guffawing, and as he makes his uncoordinated exit I call after him, “You’ve made my day! Come back and see us sometime under more pleasant circumstances!” I have, during my work experience of the last five years, become proficient in assessing an alcohol purchase situation and refusing sales, if need be. There are several basic steps I have naturally incorporated into my work routine. I hadn’t realized how second nature they have become until I sat down to write this paper.

I try to greet everyone who comes through the door of the busy chain convenience store I work at. This affords me the opportunity to notice any blatant warning signals, like stumbling, or serious directional confusion, or worse. The “or worse” brings to mind an incident that occurred on a sweltering summer evening. I watched a regular customer who had enough sense to walk, not drive to the store, ( but not enough sobriety to look both ways crossing the street), get hit by a car hard enough to send him flying a short distance. For some mysterious reason, (in that heat!), he was in full dress leathers and though his leathers got scuffed up he appeared to be unharmed. He had obviously had more than a snootful of stupid juice and was probably feelin’ no pain when he slid into the store as I was calling the police. He sauntered to the back of the store. “Joe”,I called to him, “Are you O.K.?” “I will be.”, he drooled while slinging a 30-pack of Bud on the counter. “Unh-uh, no go, Joe! No Sale” . A truly justifiable refusal of a sale, don’tcha think?

Another of way determining whether or not to complete an alcohol transaction is as plain as the nose on my face. If I smell it, I don’t sell it. Now, some people realize this and will go through great lengths to try to conceal the fact that they’ve already been drinking. They slick back their hair, drown themselves in a bottle of after-shave or perfume, stuff a roll of breath mints into their faces, and slop down to the store to buy more beer. These people enter the store in a cloud of patchouli and wintergreen , and when they come to the counter with their intended purchases, I work my magic and engage them in conversation. The longer I can get them to talk, the more accurate a judgement call concerning the sale I can make. I mean, there are people who go around in allergy stimulating clouds of chemicals simply because they like to, so in talking with them , I can catch on to if they have already been imbibing, and breath mints don’t completely cover the smell of alcohol, people just like to think they do. If I can get’em laughing, I can usually get a good whiff of their breath and proceed from there.




The last but most important step in determining alcohol purchase eligibility is the good ol’ fashioned I,D. check. By company policy, I have to card everyone under thirty- five, and by state law, everyone under thirty is supposed to present proof of age.
Now let me tell you, the older I get, the younger everyone else looks, so I have been known to really make a thirty-eight year-old’s day. If the person I’m carding is obviously very young, I check their I,D. for pinholes, bleach spots or mis-matched type on the birth-date and also for the state seal holograph on the license. You wouldn’t believe some of the stuff kids try to pass off as I.D’s; licenses that have been through the washer so many times the photos or pertinent information are barely legible and the date of birth appears to read 1969 and I know there’s no way that could be true, ‘cause I know the kid’s mother and she was probably born in 1966! I have had people try to present me with student I.D.’s from Canadian colleges and not know where the issuing Province is located. Ding-ding-ding! No Sale! Paper licenses? No Sale! Passport complete with original issuing photograph of the holder when they were five? No Sale! No I.D.? No Sale! Sober, of age and have an intact, proper I.D? No Problem! It’s just that simple.

Yeah, my little neo-nazi steps in determining whether or not I’ll proceed with a sale may not make me be very popular with under age kids and some non-understanding drunks, but I’m not in it for a popularity contest. I’m just covering my own butt. I can’t afford a thousand dollar fine. I work in a convenience store. Oh, and by the way, no chips with that?

****

Copyright (c)1999 by Amanda Savoy

What makes a house a home? I feel that a house is not a home until it is somewhere that you are comfortable being. You have to want to go there after being away, and it is the place where you enjoy spending time. Last July my boyfriend, Chris sprung the news that he had found the best house for us to make our home and bring our kids up in. The first time I saw the house, I was skeptical. The people who lived there before us didn’t take care of it at all. It was an old trailer that had additions built on the front for an entryway, and on the back for a living room. Through the processes of redoing the bathroom, the kitchen, and the living room we were able to turn this run down trailer into a home.

The first thing that we did to the house was redoing the living room. The people who had lived there before us had decorated the living room in dark colors, which made the room look considerably smaller. We tore down the wallpaper and paneling, which went half way up the wall, and discovered that the sheet-rock that was underneath wasn’t any good. It was all torn up and full of holes. When the addition was built they evidently used materials that had been used before. We tore down the sheet rock and put in new insulation. Before we put the new sheet-rock on the wall, we had Chris’s brother-in-law put in another door, so that there would now be two doors into and out of the house, instead of just one. Having only one door proved to be a fire hazard, and we wanted to correct that problem before it began. We had some power outlets, sheet-rocked the walls, had the ceiling done with the popcorn finish, and put up the wallpaper. We also put up new paneling that went about three and a half feet up the walls and added a chair railing on top of the paneling. The main colors that are in our living room are pink, tan, mauve, and a hint of green. The lighter colors made the room look bigger than it had before, and made the room look more like a living room that is in a "home".

Next, we redid the kitchen. This part was very easy. We decided to paint the walls with a blue that matched the blue in the wallpaper that was in the living room. We did the walls in the blue, except for above the sink which we did in the same wall paper that was in the living room. There was a bar in the kitchen that we had to get rid of. It was handmade, and wasn’t built very well. We put that in the shed as a workbench. We also painted the cupboards blue, leaving the doors white. We still would like to put some kind of stencil on the cupboard doors, to make them look better. The floor had brown linoleum that was torn up in many places. We took up the flooring to expose the chipboard that was beneath it. We the painted the chipboard a dark gray. We hope to sometime put a different, lighter colored, linoleum down to make the kitchen look and feel more comfortable than it does now.

Now we are working n the bathroom. Like most trailers, the bathroom had the brown paneling for walls. The bathtub had been taken out, and a shower had been placed on the right, just as you walk through the door. The door, which was one of the ones that was set up on a track that went across the ceiling, had been taken off because there was no longer any room for it to slide behind the shower. Chris and I are still battling about what to do about the shower. He likes the stand up showers, whereas I enjoy a good bathtub. For now, I can live with the shower but if we ever have children, a bathtub will be put in. We had to sheet-rock the walls, over the paneling to make the walls stronger. We are going to put a new window in soon, within the next couple of days, to replace the small one that is in there now. We recently wallpapered one of the walls and put the boarder up. The wallpaper has different colors in them, which are blended in together and muted. The boarder has cherubs on it that brings out different colors in the wallpaper behind it. We still aren’t finished with the bathroom, but we have many plans for what we are going to do next to improve what we have now.

We have spent the past year working on the house to make it more of a home. We have done a lot of work, a little at a time as we can afford it. So far, it has been turned into a place that I didn’t want to go into, not to mention live in, to a place that I can call home. We did little touch-ups on the other rooms in the house, but the major work has been done on these three rooms. By redoing the bathroom, the kitchen and the living room, we have turned this place into a home. WE still have a few more things that we need to do as we can afford it, but we have already made a great improvement. To see pictures of what it looked like before we began renovating, you wouldn’t believe that it is the same house. Now it is our home and not the home of the people who lived here before us, what an accomplishment.

*****

The engine was still purring away, but my beautiful nearly brand-new BMW R1100R lay in the gravel on the Red Barn Road,

gas spilling out of the tank. I was furious, I was embarrassed, I was upset. The one thing I wasn't was riding. There were three major steps in the process of how I dumped my bike: my rib injury, my not paying attention, and dangerous driving by an idiot in a Ford pickup.

First came the injury. I was riding with a busted rib--how I got that is a whole other story having to do with a mean-tempered horse who didn't want to come in from pasture-- but when I tried to use the muscles on my left side with any force, the pain made it impossible and the left side is the one I needed when it came time to stop and plant a foot.

That happened a week before my accident but it was still where the accident began.

Second came the lack of attention. I'd never noticed how the Red Barn Road is a very very high crowned road and on the side of a hill. I'd never noticed it because on my bike, I'd never come to a stop where it intersects 139--just kinda slid through the stop sign. That had been going on for years, but it too led to my bike's downfall.

The final and closest step in the process occurred when I met the idiot in the black pickup. He came off 139 and nearly ran into me head on. I braked hard to stay out of his way, came to a stop,put out my right foot. But instead of hitting pavement, my boot kept going and going because of the crown and the downslope. Suddenly I needed to put some counterpressure on the uphill side, the left side, the broken rib side. Forget it! I had nothing! In two seconds, the bike just sort of slid between my legs and that was the end of the process --after 30 years of riding, I'd managed to dump my bike at 0 mph.

With the help of a friendly driver, I got the bike back

on its tires. Damage was light--one smashed directional I

fixed the next day. But the damage to my ego is still a

bloody wound I hope will heal before bike season.

***

Fried eggs on top of a mound of hash, scrambled eggs with

cheese grated in, nice western omelets with ham and onions,

pickled hardboiled eggs, egg salad with extra mayo: yup, I

love my eggs, and no egg in the world tastes better than one

plucked out from under the fluffed out body of a squawking,

free-ranging, insect-pecking, gravel-scratching red bantam

hen, which happens to be just the kind I have. Lucky me.

The only downside to having chickens is that every so often

eggs hatch and at least half of the birds are guys, also

known as roosters. I don't mind having a rooster or two

around to service the ladies, but most of them have to go

before they turn ugly and start gang-banging their sisters.

Here's how I get rid of a rooster. First I have to stalk it, then kill it, and finally dispose of it. The process is

gruesome, but if you're a hunter, it's at least as much a

sport as killing a moose.

The first step in the process is the stalk. I wait until

most of the hens are off somewhere and the boy bird I have

marked is hanging around the barn, crowing, shitting down

from the rafters, and looking for chicks to rape. I collect

my weapon which is a 30 inch piece of rebar and cleverly

conceal it behind my back. Then I throw out a scoop of corn

for the birds. Two or three roosters, including my prey--call him DM, short for deadmeat, begin scratching around. I keep my eye on DM, moving when he moves, but not staring at him too hard, which spooks them. When I'm within 30 inches, I focus on DM very hard and move onto stage two.

It is not enough to stalk the prey to within striking

distance. I have to do the deed, make the kill--and here's

where buck fever or cock fever or nerves or psychological

resistance to killing separates the men from the boys. If I

lose my concentration or my courage for even a second, I will fail, and DM will go flying off, just as freaked as you would be if someone tried to blow you away while you were finishing up a pepperoni pizza. It will be nine times harder next time, now that he's spooked. So I watch DM as though a life depended on it, I let the adrenaline come, I set my feet, and as fast as I can, I whip the rebar over my head and bring it down in a single motion. If my eye and coordination are good, the rebar breaks his back in a flash. DM lies there groaning and, quick as I can, I step on his head and finish him off.

Stalked and dead, the end is near for DM. The last step in

the process is burial. There are no taps, no final words, no minister, coffin, flowers, or tears. I pick up the tip of a wing, grab the spade, and march into the garden. I pick an area I want to fertilize, turn over three or four spadefuls of earth, and kick DM into the hole. After I fill it, I tamp it down with my foot. The ground gives a little as his dead body springs under my weight, but, let's face it, DM is truly dead meat now.

Many people wonder why I don't eat the rooster. But they are people who have never tried plucking, cleaning, and then

eating a scrawny little thing who has more weight in his

cockadoodle-do than he does in his drumstick. I'll stick to

the ladies, and I'll stick to eggs.

***

Generally I am a pretty healthy guy. In 26 years of teaching I've taken only one half-day for sickness. But that one half-day was a powerful foretaste of death. I found out that the body can mutiny and when it does, the physical agony makes life absolutely not worth living. The sickness only lasted twelve hours, but those hours of

fever, nausea, and pain were unforgettable.

The first stage was fever. Ten minutes before class I was standing in the school library, feeling fine and healthy as a horse--minding my own business, just reading a book. Suddenly out of nowhere, a wave of heat blew over me, hotter than a fire, hotter than a sand beach in

summertime. My face flushed red, and every vein in my skull started throbbing. "What the hell--" I thought. "I can't be sick. I feel fine." But I didn't feel fine. I was pouring sweat. I was dizzy. I had an instant headache. My mouth was dry. And every one of these

symptoms had appeared in about five seconds. I thought I could shake it off and make my class, but the nausea convinced me otherwise.

This second symptom came right after the fever. I put the book I was holding down, and immediately the saliva flooded my dry mouth. I knew I had about ten seconds. Out into the hall, across to the men's room, running past a guy taking a leak, crashing into the stall door, on my

knees. Out came my coffee break, my breakfast, still tasting of maple syrup mixed with acid and bile, and then just air and saliva. On and on it went. Somewhere off in the distance I heard urinals flushing, footsteps passing, people's voices. I tried to tell myself I had it--

whatever it was--out of my system. But my head was splitting, every joint ached, and for the first time in my career, I knew I was going home sick.

Thanks to the pain, I almost didn't make it. By the time I got in my driveway, I had the migraine to end all migraines. I was crying it hurt so bad. No one was home and I lay down on the kitchen floor holding my head, moaning and writhing. My arms and legs began jerking

like an insane puppeteer was pulling my strings. I lost all sense of time. At some point my wife came home and covered me with blankets--I couldn't move into the bedroom and she couldn't carry me. She gave me aspirin, but I puked as soon as I swallowed. I lay on the floor like that until nearly midnight, twelve hours after the fever first hit.

Then I dropped into sleep, like a rock into the ocean.

When I woke up in the morning, I was a little weak. I had an echo of a headache, a little soreness in my stomach. But I was cool-headed--nofever, no nausea, no pain. The sickness was gone and I was starving after missing two meals, and instead of my usual coffee and toast with

maple syrup, I had three eggs, bacon, toast, OJ, the works. The food reminded me that I was alive and that Life was good. But ever sincethe day of the mysterious 12-hour bug, I've had it in mind and in body that Life can also get bad, very fast, very mysteriously. Life is thin thin ice.

  Cause essays:

 Falling in Love! Valentine's day comes and the doorbell rings. I open the door and there's the delivery man with what seems like a truckload of red roses. I'm in heaven; I'm practically in tears I'm so happy. I think to myself, "God, I just met this guy a month ago, but this is IT! He wouldn't have bought all these roses if he didn't feel towards me pretty much the way I'm feeling towards him." And that's how it begins--True Love and Romance! It always starts the same way: you pay extra attention to your appearance; you see him watching you from across the room; you laugh at the same jokes; pretty soon you're having lunch together. But it doesn't matter how it begins. No matter how wonderful you feel for a while, in my experience love always ends with mega-doses of PAIN. I odn't want to talk about the reasons why people fall in love: we all know about the need for sex, understanding, and companionship. I want to write about the much more mysterious reasons why people fall out of love. I think there are three: fear, dishonesty, and selfishness.

Dishonesty is like a cancerous growth killing an affair. Sometimes it's very hard to be honest. The guy who sent me all those roses was a great guy in a million ways. The roses are just one example out of many. But physically he could be very rough. Sometimes after a weekend with him, parts of me would just ache like I'd done a ten hour workout. He didn't mean to overdo it, but he did. The problem was I couldn't tell him. I needed to say, "Hey, you're having fun, but this is a little more than I can handle." But I couldn't say those words--too embarrassed. In the end my dishonesty helped kill my love. I began to hate it when he touched me. If only I'd told the truth, he oculd have changed and we might still be together.

Fear is another thing that destroys people's feelings. We worked together in the same place and although he wasn't my supervisor, he did supervise some people who were my girlfriends. Because of that, I felt we ought to keep our relationship secret from the rest of the office. I was afraid my girlfriends would give me a hard time or something. So we snuck around for months, not talking at work, meeting in Waterville or Augusta for dates or down at Bar Harbor for weekends. And it was horrible acting like we were doing something wrong. My fear of my girlfriends' gossip made everything feel ugly and helped to kill our mutual feelings.

Selfishness is the last killer. My boyfriend had a little girl by his marriage and, according to the divorce, he saw her on weekends. She was a cute little six year old and even though all she wanted was a little quality time with her daddy, I have to admit I felt too selfish to share him. I was jealous. I did things like start a conversation when she was trying to tell her daddy about school. I'd give her a hard time if she didn't eat all her food, even though it really didn't matter and was none of my business anyway. I'd tell my boyfriend that SHE was selfish for expecting so much attention. I knew I was being a horrible witch but I couldn't help myself. My boyfriend was constantly having to decide between which of his two 'girls' he was going to pay attention to. That put a real strain on our relationship. In the end it was probably the straw that broke the camel's back. Even today, two years later, I hate thinking about the last awful weekend the three of us spent together.

I'm doing better nowadays. I'm in love again. I've been going with this guy for about six months. I think, hope, and pray I've learned from my past mistakes. I said above that love always ends in mega-doses of pain. I'm hoping htis time to prove my own thesis wrong. The first thing I'm going to do when I get this paper back is show it to my new boyfriend!

(Copyright  © 1999 by Angele Ecks)

12/14/07

My Hobby

By Ashley Bourassa

Every since I was about 3 years old and sat through the entire Nutcracker, I have been fascinated by dance.  I kept telling my mom I wanted to be a ballerina.  I don’t know what it was that inspired me so much at such a young age, whether it was the creative movement, the beautiful costumes, or something else, but I knew I wanted to dance.  Now, I have been dancing since I was 4 years old and love it so much more than I ever expected.  I love dance because it takes me into a whole other world, it keeps me physically fit, and there are so many different styles to try.

It doesn’t matter what is going on in my life, the minute I start dancing it all goes away.  I could be having the worst day of my life and have it all turn around just because I was able to dance.  All my emotions and feelings in reality are changed to happiness in my own little world.  It allows me to portray other emotions as well as the ones I am feeling at the time.  I concentrate on the music, the movement, and allow it to consume me.  It is the only outlet of stress for me.  If I couldn’t dance, I would be a complete emotional wreck because I don’t have any other hobby that makes me feel the way I do when I dance.  Dance is a hobby where I don’t have to be me.  I can put myself aside and into the world of whatever character I am suppose to be portraying in the movement.  The emotions can be so different from dance to dance, and also different from reality.  I know I’m so much more stressed out than I ever used to be just because I don’t have the time to dance as often as I did up through high school.  However, when I get the chance, all the stress is gone.  School, relationships, money, and all the other issues I may be having in life, are gone.  It’s something I couldn’t live without.  

Most styles of dance are so physically demanding that if you do it enough, you can stay in very good shape.  I know I was probably in the best shape of my life in high school just because I was dancing about 10 hours a week (or more if I could).  I loved it because it made me feel so relaxed and healthy.  It was all ballet-based too which always makes you stronger because of the slow and controlled movements.   My legs and abs never looked better.  Dance especially helps with the flexibility too.  Not only does it keep you strong but it allows you to move your body in ways that most other people can’t.  Each new movement you learn forces you to push your body more and more.  A split choreographed in a routine forces you to get those hamstrings stretched out so you can do it.  Already being flexible helps when you want to try other new moves.  Often times my dance teacher would say to us, “ok, I want you to try this….”  We knew when she said that that we would be pushing our bodies to do something difficult, but already being pretty flexible made it easier to be able to do them. 

There are so many different styles of dance to try too.  I love it that I could never run out of new dances to learn.  There’s the ballet, tap, jazz, modern, and contemporary side of dance, there’s the ballroom side (including salsa, waltz, tango, etc.), and other miscellaneous styles like African, Russian, Celtic, Tahitian, and the Hula.  I started out doing ballet, tap, and jazz when I was younger.  Now that I have been in college I have been able to try most ballroom styles, modern and contemporary, and even some African and Tahitian.  It never gets boring learning them all.  I find it so interesting to learn dances from other cultures because they all represent different things.  Some dances are spiritual, some are based off the lives of the people, some are meant to be more sensual, and the meanings of others are only determined by the choreographer himself.  They all have a history and that’s what makes them so interesting.  I hope to learn as many different styles of dance as I can before I die.  So far, I think I’m doing pretty well.

It makes me so happy to see that dance is becoming more and more popular again, especially with men.  It seems as though in the past, men were not very well looked upon if they danced, mostly in dances that were considered for women (such as ballet).  I love seeing these shows on TV like “Dancing with the Stars” and “So You Think You Can Dance” that promote dancing so much by showing all the joy it brings to people who have the passion for it.  Some styles are more difficult than others, but there is one out there for anyone who wants to dance.  Dance makes me so happy.  It’s nice to see that it makes so many other people happy too.  It’s such an amazing art, and I wish I could continue on with it more in my life.  I’ve always dreamed of dancing on Broadway.  Who knows, maybe I will someday, but if I don’t that won’t make me stop dancing.  I will dance until the day I die because it is my passion, my one and only hobby that I can’t live without.

**********************************************************************************

One last check in the mirror and I was set.  Not a feather out of place.  My beak was straight as straight could be, and I reckoned I’d never seen a cuter chicken.  "Places! Places everyone!"  Our dance instructor shouted.  We chickens took our places and waited for the curtain to rise.  The clapping could be heard before the curtain was up.  Peering back at us were 100 or so proud parents and family members, waiting to be enchanted by our dance recital.  I could feel my little eight-year-old knees knocking together.  Suddenly the music started.  Oh no!  What was I supposed to do?  How did I get here?  What was I thinking?  

I guess mostly I was thinking I wanted to be a ballerina.  Of course, the vision I had when I began dance classes had nothing to do with donning a chicken costume complete with a strap on beak.  Nope, I pictured myself dancing as if on air, gracefully floating around a stage in a tutu and tiara as I performed in the Nutcracker.  Mrs. Mattson, my instructor said they don’t just hand out tiaras, I would have to work my way up to that, and for now I would just have to stop being so uppity and put my beak on.  So much for the Nutcracker.

Another big reason I was here was Bethany Ballard.  Bethany was two years older than me and oh so much smarter.  I wanted to be just like her.  When she took gymnastics, I took gymnastics.  When she took roller-skating, I took roller-skating.  When she put on a chicken suit, well, that was the problem.  Bethany wasn’t wearing a chicken suit.  Because she was two years older she got to be in the next performance with the older girls and you can bet your beak she didn’t have feathers on.  She got to wear a jazzy black sequined number with a cane and top hat.  Not exactly a tiara and tutu but a lot closer than what I was wearing.  I vowed at that moment not to sign up for the next thing Bethany signed up for, whatever it would be.  

The third reason I was here was now starring back at me.  Dear Mom and Dad.  They were a little tired of my starting and then quitting things just because I felt like it.    When I signed up for dance lessons, they said I had to do it for one whole class schedule.  There would be no getting bored half way through and stopping.  This was costing them time and money gosh darn it and I had better stick with it.  Well, I stuck with it and here I was.  When that curtain went up I may have been dressed like a chicken but I’m sure I looked like a deer in the headlights.  

Shuffle hop step.  Shuffle hop step. Shuffle kick, shuffle kick!  I got it!  I remembered.  I fell in line with the other chickens and looking back I dare say we weren’t half-bad.  I never did get my tiara and tutu, but I got through the recital without embarrassing myself beyond redemption.  That year I shot up another couple inches and it became clear to me that I would never be a dancer.  Bethany, too, moved on to different interests, and I choose not to try to keep up.  Every once in a while I catch part of the Nutcracker on TV and I still feel that pull to dance as if on air and float gracefully around the stage.  Then I look closer and see there are absolutely no 5’10" dancers, not a one, and I know that chicken suit was probably the closest I will ever come to fulfilling that dream.

Copyright © by Dawn-Marie Akerley  2001
 

****

Copyright (c) 1999 by Kevin Bilodeau

"The crowd is buzzing. Bases are loaded, there are two outs and Nomar Garciapparra is coming to the plate. The pitcher looks in, gets the sign, winds back and delivers. Here's the pitch, a fastball. WHACK!!! Long fly ball, deep centerfield, back... back... back.. it's... it's... it's... caught by Ken Griffey in deep center at the wall and the Red Sox lose another one." Says the announcer. This may sound a little weird, but this is one of the many reasons why I like the Boston Red Sox.

The biggest reason that I like the Red Sox is that they were the only team that was on the TV as I was growing up. Any time that you turned on the tube, there they were, New England's finest, there in all their glory. And heaven forbid that you find some other team or teams games being broadcast on the radio waves. People would have you tarred and feathered for listening to some other team, especially the DREADED NEW YORK YANKEES. You could listen as announcers like Ken Coleman, Ned Martin, Jerry Remy, Bob Star, Joe Castigilone and others sang the praises or verbally abused our beloved Red Sox. These voices will be etched in my mind forever.

The Red Sox are also the closest major league team to us MAINAHS. In about 3 Y2 to 4 hours, you can drive to Boston and be seated in one of the oldest baseball parks in the country, Fenway Park. Hopefully the sun will be shining, the stadium will be full and a Fenway frank and a cold brew will be in your hand. You'll be screaming at the top of your lungs, "GO SOX!!!" It is also a good time to wander around Boston, taste the city life, and wonder how anyone could live in such a place. Screeching tires, roaring sirens, honking horns, maniacs yelling to anyone and no one at the same time, combining to scramble your brain. And this observation is obtained just from walking from the "T"(public transportation) to the ballpark. There are people everywhere and they don't even know that you exist. Pushing, shoving, always in a hurry. Vendors charging outrageous prices for hot dogs, sausages, souvenirs and everything else that they can sell. Motorists screaming at the vehicle in front of him because the traffic isn't moving. Yah right, likes its that's persons fault that traffic is at a standstill. Just the kind of life that I would like to live. Sorry, I don't think so.

Last7 but not least, the history of the team is enough to intrigue anyone. From the Curse of the Bambino, to Bucky Dent, to Billy Buckner, The Red Sox are the perfect example of MURPHY'S LAW, which states that: IF ANYTHING CAN GO WRONG, THEN IT WILL. Babe (the Bambino) Ruth was traded from the Sox to the dreaded Yankees for some cash. Seems that the Red Sox owner was putting on a play and needed the money to pay for expenses. Of course, Babe turned out to be one of the greatest players in the history of baseball. Bucky Dent hit a homer in a 1978 playoff game to send the Yankees into the World Series. Then there was Billy Buckner. In 1986, the Sox were playing the New York Mets in the World Series. The Sox were up 3 games to 2 and needed one more victory to win the Series, their first one since 1918. I was at a friend's house on that brisk October evening. A bunch of us had gotten together to go out and watch the game from various watering holes in town. So, needless to say, we were not sober. As I sat there, ready to finally celebrate a World Series championship, because the Red Sox needed just one more strike to win the Series. Suddenly the Mets mounted a rally and scored the winning run as a ground ball went through Billy's legs at first base. As everyone at the house buzzed over the end of the game, I quietly got up, went into the kitchen, grab my bottle of coffee brandy, and went out the door, saying goodbye to no one. The next day I ran into my friend whose house we were at. He asked me, "Where did you go last night?" I told him, "If I didn't leave right then, he probably wouldn't have a TV today because I would have kicked in the picture tube." Man, When the Sox finally win a World Series, it will probably be the party of the century.

"Bottom of the ninth, bases loaded, two outs and Nomar Garciapparria is coming to the plate. The pitcher looks in, gets the sign, rears back and delivers. Here's the pitch, the swing, long fly ball, deep centerfield, back... back... back.. ....... ~ RING-ING-ING-ING!!! I wake up and look at the alarm clock. 5:30 A.M. Damn, I hate when that happens. It was so real; I actually thought that the Red Sox had finally won the World Series.

Copyright © 2000 by Kevin Bilodeau

  ******

Copyright (c) 1999 by Elijah Giguere

I graduated from Erskine Academy last June and I got to march down the isle with the most amazing girl I have ever known. In the beginning, when we first started getting things arranged for marching practice, we had to line up by height. When I counted down the girls row to see who I was going to be marching with I found that Molly was right lined up with me. I counted several times over just to make sure I had not mistaken myself and I had been right every time. I couldn~t believe it. There is no one in the world 1 would have picked over her if I had the choice of choosing. She was the best marching partner I could have had.

One reason why she was such a darn good marching partner is her timing was right on. Molly is a musician and has had a lot of practice counting measures and coming in and going out at the right times. We had it perfect every time we marched. Even our ninety-degree corners came out great. She just did a fabulous job landing on the down-beet every time and was extremely fluent in every move she made.

Another reason why she was the best marching partner ever was because of her attitude. Molly is the nicest person in the world. She always helped out. setting up the gym for concerts and would always stay late cleaning up. She was always the last band/chorus member to leave the school at night besides me, but I got paid, she didnvt. She is so sweat. I have never heard anything-negative come out of her mouth. I have enjoyed every minute I have spent with her and will treasure that time for the rest of my live and beyond.

The third biggest reason of why Molly was the awsomest partner to have had, is that she is so beautiflil. By her being so pretty, and me so handsome, it made for some killer graduation pictures. There is no such thing as a bad picture of Molly. Her mother is a photographer so Molly has had lots of practice in front of a camera. But not even a picture can show the real beauty that Molly holds. [~~5 not just her looks, but every part of her is beautiftil. True beauty comes from within, and by me knowing Molly and having the chance to be her marching partner I have experienced what a beautiful person she really is.

I wish I could see Molly all of the time. She has so many qualities that make her pleasurable to be around. If everyone could be a little more like Molly this world would be a much more enjoyable place to live in. She has a unique feature called getting along with everyone, and that's the way life should be.

********************************************************************************************************

Model Effect essays:

Copyright © 2001 by Ryan Rancourt

There is nothing I enjoyed more than going out mudding with the boys in my trusty old Blazer.  Those Friday nights and that convoy heading for the Burnham Pits down the Horeseback Road.  The bumps, jumps, rooster tails and always that possibility of getting stuck.  It was a blast.  But this good time always came with a price.  Because of mudding I lost money, trust from my parents, and anger between friends.

            After a weekend of mudding, I was always at the NAPA Store on Monday morning, picking some kind of new part up.  I broke everything on that truck from leaf springs to bolts.  There was one time that I almost even lost the battery in the fan, that was a scary trip.  It was like as soon as I flipped that shift in to “4HI” I turned in to a careless bastard.  I spared no expense no matter who was with me.  Hitting jumps a little faster than I should have, tailgating through the trails, chasing wild life to the woods.  I didn’t care what happened to the truck, till the bill came.

            After the first few times that I went, I would bring home a vehicle coated with mud, grass and anything else that I had run over.  I’d park it in the driveway and mom would always come out and just look at me disappointed.  “Mud everywhere Ryan, what the Hell ails you, you’re going to get hurt down there.”  I’d try and explain that my friends were there and I would be fine, but she just would bring up the peer pressure thing.  Every time I’d come home from the parts store she always had a comment waiting.  “Work all week to fix your truck and for what?” I’d just snap back at her, “For a GOOD TIME!!” and storm out of the house to fix the truck.

            There was never a trip that didn’t end with one friend being mad at another.  Someone would get stuck and another would refuse to pull them out.  An innocent dare of running through a mud hole or a hill climb could lead to a miserable time by all.  A contest would erupt and competitive furies would come about.  Obscenities would be thrown back and forth about how much the Fords sucked and that my old Chevy was better.  Or how I felt about the little foreign trucks that were there.  We yell at each other when one of us frigged up.  “He was following too close”…”You guys made me do it, so you got to help.”

            Mudding always lead to trouble, and no matter how much I miss it and my truck I realize something.  With my car I am saving money, my parents trust me again, and friends don’t hate each other…well at least not till race night, but that’s another story.

Effect Essay

“Fallout!” Now there’s a word who’s usage has changed and

evolved over the years. The big brick building where I went to

Elementary school back in the sixties had ‘Fallout Shelter’

signs in the basement. I thought that the signs meant that if it

was cold and raining outside that I would be warm and dry

inside. Later in High School history class I learned the real

meaning of the funny little symbol and the word.  There was a

brief flash in my mind and I was momentarily back in grade

school looking up at the sign. That comforting feeling I had in

grade school quickly turned into horror!

I didn’t give ‘Fallout’ another thought until almost thirty

years later. I was desperately seeking help to understand my

inner torment in dealing with my boyfriends’ Depression. The

term ‘Depression Fallout’ came at me like a freight train. There

is no shelter for this fallout. Depression fallout has a

rippling effect on its target. First there is a torrential

downpour of confusion and self-doubt. Following that is wave

after wave of demoralization and anger.  Last is the desire to

escape least it sucks you into the black hole from which it

came.

The downpour of confusion and self-doubt comes at least once a

month. I am a very organized person. The put downs for being

able to handle three different tasks at once come as fast as the

praise for being a ‘dynamo’. One day, he loves my cooking, the

next day it makes him sick. He sits around all day on the

computer. He sits around half the night in front of the TV

eating. Of course it’s MY fault that his pants are too small – I

must be shrinking them in the dryer. He stopped seeing his

counselor and convinced his Doctor to’up’ his meds. Again. It is

MY fault that he can’t feel anything. It is MY fault that he has

to have a drink every night to fall asleep. The thing that

causes the most confusion and self-doubt is the constant threat

to throw all my belongings into the street and me with them. Of

course just the day before he said “You have really made this

place a ‘home’ with the wonderful things you do and the way you

take care of it.”

The effects of the demoralization and anger are the worst. One

day I am beautiful and sexy. The next day I am a self-centered

selfish person and how dare I ask him to perform. He’d rather

‘get off’ on-line with cyber sex and too bad if I don’t like it.

I am accused of being insecure and in need of psychiatric help.

My anger peeks when I get sucked into the void in which he

lives. I am angry with myself for being angry. The anger is

eating away at my ego, my heart, and my soul.

The final effect of Depression Fallout is the desire to leave.

The feeling that if I don’t get the hell out of here there will

be nothing left. I am stubborn. “I give up” is not in my

vocabulary. My will to survive fights the inner desire to stay.

The last two times that he told me to leave; I actually started

packing my most valued treasures.  Those things are still tucked

away in a closet, ready to go if need be….just in case. The

guilt is overwhelming.

               I have learned that the people that suffer from Depression do

everything they can to make their loved ones feel as bad as they

do. They don’t mean to do it. The illness causes the chain

reaction. He can’t function in my world, so he changes it. I am

less of a threat if I too feel bad. I have also learned that I

must dig deep into my bundle of magic if I am to have the

strength to dodge the effect of this Fallout

Copyright © 2002 by Missy Ree

  Copyright (c) 1999 by Dana Harper

To say that my children have had an effect on my life would be a very serious understatement, my four beautiful daughters, Britny, Victoria, Jade and Mykie, have been the center of my world for the past ten years. They have changed me in ways that I would never have been able to fathom 11 years ago.

The first and most profound effect I can think of would be maturity. I became a father at the age of 15, this may shock you but you have to put it in perspective. At that point in my life, I wanted nothing more than to party and have fun, I was also doing everything in my power to quit school. At that time you couldn't legally quit until you were 16. In the middle of all of my recklessness was my girlfriend Melissa, the ultimate goody two shoes. I made it my personal mission to convert her to a hell-raiser. Unfortunately I succeeded, and about three weeks before my 16tb birthday we had a child, my first daughter Britny. At that age most guys would have turned tail and run, not me though. This was my wake up call to the real world, along with a little "pep talk" from my fathers' boot. I set out on a mission to get ajob graduate, join the ARMY and settle down with Melissa and Britny. I accomplished two out of the three, Melissa decided that we just didn't work and right before I lefi for basic training dumped me, which was another hard lesson in growing up.

The second effect of having my daughters has been learning to cope with what life gives you. My first two children stayed relatively healthy, the next two on the other hand have been a medical nightmare. Don't get me wrong I love them both more than any one could ever fathom, and would not trade them for anything in the universe. Their sickness however can go straight down the shitter for all I care. Jade has had everything from the flu to Kidney disease, Mykle on the other hand was not so fortunate, she passed away at the tender age of Seven Weeks old. Taking care of my girls (including my wife Nicole) through all of this has shown me to take what life gives you and just make the best of it.

The third effect of having children has been college. I know you're probably saying to yourself, What does having kids have to do with going to college? Well to me the connection is simply this, I want to make a better life for my girls than the one that I had, what parent doesn't. I just don't feel that working at a dead end job in Howland Maine for just over minimum wage would accomplish this goal. Therefore I decided to go to college, and give my climb toward this goal a boost.

As I look toward the future, I see many more changes in my life, some good, some not so good, but all of them revolving around my daughters.

*****

Last May I finished my first year of Pipe Fabrication at EMTC and decided I better get a job for the summer. I was all set for the past year, having got sufficient financial aid and won many scholarships. But I had no money for my second year. My only thought was for a steady,high-paying job. I tried to get into construction companies like Northeast, Bancroft, and Cianbro. After a few weeks and many fruitless phone calls, I finally landed a job at Cianbro as a pipefitter with a wage of $14.50 an hour. I turned out to get more than just the job and more than just the money I earned. I learned something. Here are the three positive effects of the experience: tolerance, ability to work well within a group, and appreciation of others’ efforts.

Most of the summer I had the same foreman, Walt. He is an ex-Air Force mechanic and believes in a chain of command. When he barked an order, he expected the members of the crew to fall over each other in an attempt to perform the task he had assigned. There was no reasoning with Walt and he didn’t believe in taking advice. One time we were trying to slide a forty foot piece of pipe onto a plank. The pipe kept dragging the plank and wouldn’t slide on. I sauggested to Walt we could solve the problem by poouring oil on the plank to allow the pipe to slide easier. Walt’s response was not a positive one. According to him I was a young puke and any suggestion I had I could just keep to myself because it would n’t be worth the energy it took to speak it. This really didn’t anger me until an hour later when I saw Walt pouring oil on the plank to get the pipe to slide easier. Al I could do was swallow my anger and continue to be productive. This sort of thing was regular between me and Walt and by the end of the summer I had learned to tolerate the man and other narrow minded individuals I met.

Working on the potato farms and in the woods back home most of my life, I was used to working alone. I liked working alone because I did things my way and I worked at my pace. I was quite leery about working with a large crew of people and only being a small gear in a big production machine. At first I tried to keep to myself, but it seemed like most of the tasks I was assigned involved the help of at least one other person. I first learned to appreciate the help and work well in a group when I had to have a long piece of pipe craned into pipe racks 30 feet in the air. I knew I couldn’t do this job on my own with just the crane operator, so I asked for help from the other crew members. Me and another guy ran tag lines off the ends of the pipe so we could control the twisting motion while two others ran spotters to make sure we were clear of all hazards, and another two climbed the racks to guide the pipe into th e hangars. The pipe went up and smoothly into the hangars first time with no mistakes. Suddenly I saw how working as a group could simplify a lot of jobs. I began to appreciate the help of the rest of the crew and tried my best to work effectively with them.

I also learned to appreciate the extra efforts of other people over the summer. One day around the fourth of July when the temperature was soaring to hundred and three degrees. I was set to work cutting eight inch pipe with an abrasive saw. To make things worse I had to wear a long sleeve shirt due to the sparks coming off the saw. The number of cuts I had ahead of me would have kept me busy in the scorching sun till quitting time, but one of the guys seeing my distress and suffering jumped in to help me so I could break for a while. Pretty soon three more crew members jumped in and by breaktime we had the job all done. I had never been more thankful for what others can do than I was at that moment. I learned to accept offers of help as well as offer my help to anyone who appeared to need it.

By the end of the summer I had earned a lot of money. I had also earned a new appreciation for working with other people and how to deal with them.+

(Copyright (c) 1999 by Paul Larson)

*****

I remember the date. May 6, 1993, as if it were yesterday.

That was the day they broke the news to all of us. The plant

where I had worked for 18 years of my adult life was closing.

Rumors had swirled for months that our company's new owner would

be downsizing and now my worst fears were being confirmed. I re-

member how quiet it was when our plant manager read the news

release at exactly 2 o'clock on that Thursday afternoon. One

hundred and ten people would be out of work by the end of

September. What would we do as a collective group and more im-

portantly, what would I do, I thought to myself as I stood

listening as the president of the company attempted to answer

questions? Around me, people were crying while others were just

numbed by the news. I remember being flooded with a wide range

of emotions that made me feel like I was on a roller coaster ride

that would never end. As the weeks progressed, the initial shock

wore off and I knew my life would never be the same. Because of

this announcement, three things came into play that caused imme-

diate changes to my well-being: psycholgical, physical, and

financialwoes.

The first effect was psycholgical. I remember how worried

and scared I was about knowing that at the end of September, I

would be out of a secure job. My life pattern was changing and I

felt overwhelming fear that I might not be strong enough mentally

to survive this test, even though now, as I look back in hind-

sight, this was probably the best thing that could have happened

to me. I hated that goddamn place so badly that I was almost

happy it was closing. My job was driving me crazy because of the

daily demands and quota requirements which were almost impossible

to achieve and I hadn't seen it for what it really was. I had be-

come what Pink Floyd called in one of their songs, "Comfortably

Numb" in my own pain. With the plant closing, I was now free of

that pain, but not without some hesitation and anxiety with what

the future would hold for me and I still have moments when I wonder

what tomorrow will or will not bring.

The second effect was physical. My appetite became almost

non-existent. At 37 years old, I had always been thin and weighed

at my heaviest, only 130 pounds. As the weeks progressed, I lost

more weight until I was literally skin and bones, and weighed in

at a mere 109 pounds. Because I suffer from colitis, this con-

dition intensified because of the stress. My doctor again pre-

scribed libruirn, a mild tranquilizer, to help me with the stress

I was encountering because of my impending job loss. Once this

condition was under control again, my appetite returned and I begar,

to gain weight. I was once again a functioning legal drug addict

who got out of bed in the morning and went to work across the

road from where I lived and could face the world with an artificial

smile on my face. At least, I thought, still have my medical \

coverage that would pay for all the drugs I was taking to make it

to the end of September. After that, it would be sink or swim.

Third, and finally, was my finances. Thank God, I did at

least have a decent severance package. The company owed me 24

weeks of severance pay and I could still buy food, pay the rent,

utilities, cable charges, car and life insurance,and so on. I

wouldn't be out in the cold or living in my camero for the time/

being and after that I could still draw unemployment insurance,

I thought, as I swallowed my second librium for the day. I also

knew that I would have to become more cost consious and would

have to stop being that happy spend-thrift I once was. Shit, I

may as well jump in front of a speeding chip truck if I have to

give up shopping. Gradually, however, I embraced that conser-

vative way of living, much too my surprise. Things could always \

be worse, I suppose.

As I conclude, I am reminded that the Chinese symbol for the

words, "crisis", and "opportunity" are the same. Through crisis,

we sometimes have the opportunity to grow and become more than

what we were. We can either embrace and challenge ourselves, or

we can sit on the sidelines and watch the parade go by without

us. The choice is ours to make.

Copyright (c) 1999 by Stephen Worster

*******

Education is supposed to do all sorts of wonderful

things for you: get you a goood job, make you a better

American, fit you to face challenges and problems. I'm sure

it does all those things. But sometimes teachers can have

unusual effects on students that have nothing to do with

what's supposed to be going on.

Mr. Licht was my shop teacher and coach in sixth grade.

He had served in the South Pacific in World War II, a very

tough school, and he tried to teach us what he had learned

there, which was to hate the enemy and to lay down as much

fire as possible. He would call us 'girls' if we didn't do

what he wanted. He would call us 'fags' if we didn't jump

right up after a hard tackle. He'd tell us we were scum if

we didn't yell at each other in practice. When one of the

kids on the team, Chris, went home one night and hung

himself, Mr. Licht told us that Chris was weak and soft and

wouldn't have been worth anything if he had lived. Mr.

Licht's effect on me: I hated that man and all his mean ways

and everything he touched. I never played a team sport

again. I never made a thing out of wood. To this day I'd

rather be his idea of a fag than his idea of a man.

I learned most of what I know about Romance from Miss

Grove, my third grade teacher. The effect of knowing her was

a permanent conviction that romance can take a person up the

mountain and show that person the most beautiful view on

earth, but that sooner or later, the mountaintop becomes a

cliff and eventually the lover steps off the cliff into

f reef all. At the bottom of the cliffsplat. Misery. I

knew the first time I saw her that she was the most beautiful

woman in the world. All fall I was happy to worship her

honey-colored hair, red lips, kind smile. Then, just before

Christmas, she told us that she was marrying and moving to

California. When we came back from vacation we would have a

new teacher. She didn't tell us the new teacher was a

wattled, red-faced, sharp-voiced monster named Miss Martin.

No offense to anyone, but I still hate the name 'Martin. ' And

I still don't trust Romance.

Mr. Lord was my Latin teacher in eighth grade. He had

us memorize the Lord's Prayer in Latin and would choose a

different student to recite it before class every day. I

memorized it and still know it'Pater noster qui est in

coelis, sanctificatur nomen tuum' etc.but I told him not to

call on me. "This is a prayer anyone can recite. You don't have to be Catholic," he said. I was really afraid I was going to get in bad trouble because this was a very strict school, but I shook my head no1 was too& scared to

speak. And that was the last I ever heard of it. Mr. Lord

could have squelched me and flattened me like a steamroller.

Instead, he showed me that teachers could be human. Now that

I'm a teacher, I try to live by his lesson.

I know Miss Grove, Mr. Lord, and Mr. Licht don't

remember me, if they're even stil alive. But I rememeber

them, and what they said and what they did still affect me

every day. That's the lesson I wish I could really remember—the little things outlive you.

***

Copyright (c) 1999 by Ann Goulette

MY DECISION TO PUT OFF COLLEGE

As far back as I can remember I've wanted to be a nurse. I don't have any idea why - I just did. I received an excellent education in catholic schools until I was fifleen years old, and my family moved to Maine. Attending high school in Dexter, was different from what I was used to though. My teachers repeatedly told their classes we were grown - up now, and no one was going to force us to study and complete our work. Without a teacher prodding me, I gradually became bored. Finally during my senior year I decided to put off college for a year. I wanted to make a little money and "find myself'. As a result of this decision three things happened. I began working at Dexter Shoe. I married at a young age, and started a family.

With high-school over, the most logical job choice would be Dexter Shoe. Just three minutes away from my house, even if I couldn't worm my car out of my parents, it was still a short walk. The pay was good, and no week-ends. I told myself this was just temporary. Now working at a factor wasn't my idea of a career, but it was money, and money was freedom. At first I hated my job. Factory work was so boring, I couldn't imagine anything being more tedious. Before too long though, I was put on piecework. This was more like it. The harder I worked, the more money I made. The days flew by. I married, and had a family. I had house payments, car payments, lights bills, insurance bills, bills, bills, and more bills. College was now out of the question.

While working at "Dexter"I met my ex-husband. I was young and stupid. He was everything I wasn't. He was organized, assertive, and he had his own car. Atter dating a few months, we decided to get married. Why not. I wasn't in school, I was eighteen, and I was bored and needed something to occupy my time. In retrospect, not very good reasons for marriage, but it seemed like a good idea at the time. It didn't take long to realize I married my exact opposite. Marriage was boring. Having a child seemed like the next logical step. Although being a mother was wonderflil, this

only gave my husband more things to control. I was the sui~ject of a dictator. Having a second child shortly brightened my life, but things hadn't changed. I went through the motions for a few more years until I faced the fact that I couldn't go on the rest of my life the way I was.

The best things in life are definitely kids. Even though my decision to start a family wasn't a good one, my children were worth every bit of heartache and frustration I've gone through. Friday night, May 1,1974, I gave birth to a gooey, wet curly dark haired crying thing. After a couple hours though, he was my favorite toy. Because he was a boy, even my chauvinist husband approved. In an effort to save a disintegrating marriage, I gave birth to a baby girl four and a half years later. Once the nurse broke the bad news to my husband (the fact that it was a girl), I again had the privilege of beginning a friendship with my new" bundle ofjoy". Three years later a divorce turned my life into turmoil. After a brief stint of freedom, I met my current husband. The following winter I became an unwed mother. It was rather embarrassing for a "catholic girl", but my second son was so precious he made up for that. Before long, I was working two jobs, holding down an active social life and raising a family. Almost seven years later my youngest son was born. He was Gods way of slowing me down and he was awesome. My then sixteen year old son even bonded to him with '1Stairway To Heaven".

I now have a tendency to focus on the good things in my life. I learned through it all that the only part of life that counts is the mental health of myself, and my loved ones. I realize now that when I make the right decision things just seem to fall into place. When I have an important decision to make now, I ask myself "What is the most intelligent move I could make." This has always worked for me(knock on wood).

***

  Cause-and-effect combined

Copyright (c) 1999 by Debbie Knapp

On the morning of September 18th I woke upas usual,

got my cup of coffee and read some of the paper. My

husband proceeded to go downstairs to get something he

needed and let out a holler. We had 3-4 inches of

water in the basement. We had heavy rains that night

from hurricane Floyd. My husband looked things over

downstairs to see if the water could have come in from

a crack in the basement floor. He then went outside

and noticed the drainpipe had been plugged. We had ahuge mess to clean up.

We had heard the rains from Floyd all night long. Our

basement had never flooded before. We were shocked to

see all the water. We have two fully carpeted and

finished rooms downstairs that I use for my preschool

business. I just stood in the water and started to

cry. We didn't know where to start to clean up this

mess. The rugs where floating because of the amount of

water. Thank god all my preschool furniture is the

Little Tikes hard plastic stuff. We found a small area

in the wood room that had a dry spot so we piled

everything there as we dried it off. I only lost a few

books that had been left on the floor and some

cardboard blocks that didn't get picked up from theprevious day's school.

We could then roll the rug up to check for cracks or

another way the water might have entered the basement.

We've had a little dampness down there in the spring

after a lot of rain but nothing like this! We just

couldn't see how that much water could have come

through the few cracks in the floor to do that much

damage. It seemed to still be rising as we wadedthrough it.

Mark had one last guess. The drain in the cellar

floor could have been plugged underground with tree

roots or something. He went outside to find the end of

the pipe from the drain. There he discovered the pipe

had been plugged from debris of the installation of a

new telephone pole. There were two six inch round

trees dropped and left in the ditch that blocked the

water flow down the sides of our road from the heavy

rains that night. These trees were positioned directly

in front of the drainage pipe. Also four large rocks

were either sitting on top of the pipe or positioned

with the trees. The dirt dug from the hole for the

pole landed right on top of the drainage pipe. The

pipe was completely covered and luckily my husband

knew were it was located. He went and called the

company that installed the pole and asked them to send

out someone to see the mess. We knew we were in for a

battle. We didn't want to touch anything until a

company representative came to check things over. They

said they would send someone. We waited four hours and

then noticed the sheet rock drinking up the water. We

knew we had to get the water out before any more

damage was done. Mark called the pole company again,

told them the circumstances, we had called four times

during the morning to try and get them to our house

and now we had waited long enough. The water was

rising and we had to get it out. Mark went outside,

dug the pipe out and immediately the water came

gushing out. Within two hours all the water was gone.

All we could do now was run four dehumidifiers we

borrowed, fans and the wood stove night and day for

three days. Things eventually did dry out. The rugs

were ruined and the doors. We also needed to replace

the bottom of the sheet rock.

After all the attempts to get the pole company out to

our house and then our own insurance company no one

has been here yet. It has been five weeks. Everyone

tells us its not there problem. Even through both

companies said they would send someone and even at

times told me a day, no one has been here. It makes me

very upset that someone is responsible for this

unfortunate mess but no one cares. What ever happened

to admitting your mistakes and rectifying them.   

Division Essays:  

****

When I got out of the service in 1969, I threw a lot of stuff away. Some were

clothe-s that had no civiliian application. A lot of small personal things I

gave away like my blue and whits china dishes taken from dead North Vietnamese

soldiers. A photo album that would gross out Stephen King, my knife , and my

humble handful of medals were all I kept. I put them all in a box and then pretty

much forgot about them for several years. As time passed, nostalgia crept in and

one day I found myself searching for my old photo album. When I looked through

it I was so depressed that I threw it into the woodstove. "It's time to or.get

all that stuff, " I thought. The knife and the medals remained in the box for

years until one day my wife found them. The knife, a nasty black Gerber, scared her.

The medals intrigued her and she had to know what they meant. There in the box,

more valuable to me than the knife or the medals, were the eagle, globe, and

anchors from my dress uniform. These are not medals I told her It's a lot

deeper than that. Memories came flooding back.

These represent a lot of sweat to me. I told her of the long hours training under

the hot Carolina sun back in '66. I told her of the dropouts who for one reason

or another never earnind the title "Marine." I told her of the puddles of sweat

that formed on the floor of the barracks as we worked out. I told her how our

clothes stuck to us in the jungle and that we all stopped wearing underwear be-

cause of the oppressive heat.

These represent a lot of tears too. Tears for friends who never came home alive.

More friends than I can count on fingers and toes. Sometimes when I see dark

green garbage bags beside the road on trash day, I still think of body bags full

of dead marines. These also represent the tears of a lot of wives and mothers.

That's the reason the photo album went into the stovetoo many tears.

These emblems also represent a lot of blood, I told her. A lot of blood wasted

in a war our congress wouldn't let us win. Blood dripped away in hot , steamy

places with half-forgotten names. I told her of the "Rockpile", Lin Lin, Khe

San, and Hill 865 where we were overrun. I left some of my blood on that hill.

A lot of time had passed since I wore those emblems on my uniform. I've put

on 30 pounds and turned soft as a jelly roll. Scattered around this country are

a lot of my old buddies. I've lost touch with all of othem. I'm sure that

each of them has a box like mine stuck away in a closet or an attic. In that

box are two ssmall brass emblems that represent a lot of his own blood, sweat, and

tears.

Copyright (c) 1999 by A. Fox

It’s been a while since I’ve been in an honest-to-God coffee shop. Back home, you can find them sprinkled all over my neighborhood, separated by a few blocks, within line of sight in some cases. I patronized a few around my house, but for a year of unemployment, K&F Coffee was my home away from home, possibly due to the loose discounting of food and drink. During that time, my life was completely intertwined with the happenings at the café. The sights, sounds, smells, events, and friendships formed spring to mind on a regular basis, the place haunts me, popping in and out as a mental apparition. The café was schizophrenic, multi-faceted, wearing different coats during different hours, under the direction of different employees.

The morning girls, Erin and Susan, were generally nice, but their care did not extend to price reductions very often as the manager, Wendy, was always lurking around the counter during the morning rush. The place was hectic in the morning, full of new faces, men in ties and women in skirts. Bagels popping in the oversized toasters, drinks ordered over the din of the milk steamers rolling; nobody lingering for long, save the full-time customers. Even the normally cozy bar in front of the windows was not safe harbor, and even on a rainy, blustery morning the bench out front was the only suitable seating choice. Luckily for me, I wasn’t (and still am not) a morning person.

About ten or eleven the café would start to calm down, the entirety of Clinton Street took on the air of a siesta. More than once, a stealthy nap was caught on the deep wooden bench, this in spite of the caffeine coursing through of everyone’s veins. Even the Willamette River had elevated levels, from the storm drain runoff. The regulars started drifting in, no longer concerned with the hustle-bustle crowd, lending each other an ear on Kant or Voltaire (who, by the way, had a quite the coffee habit himself). Even the employees were of the more relaxed types. Rachel, Coco, or Zach were never in much of a hurry, nor did they need to be.

The languid atmosphere of the mid-afternoon eventually began to give way to the rush of post-school and post-work types. This rush was short-lived, though, eventually becoming a slow trickle, and even that would die off by six-thirty or seven. That’s when the real fun would start, no more threat of managerial interference, and the place to our selves. My good friend (and not just because of the free espresso, bagels to soothe the jitters, and ice cream) Heather was the main nighttime employee. The counter became a buffet for the inner circle, Heather not wanting to bother herself with assisting us. The café became a sort of nucleus for our social circle, a clubhouse. The conversation drifts from the academic to the sophomoric, a raucous scene on occasion.

K&F wasn’t quite the same last time I was back home. An ill-advised remodel and a near-entire staff changeover altered the landscape. And with the employees left the regulars, opening spots for a crowd I don’t recognize. With the opening of a couple new cafés, K&F has lost its role of neighborhood meeting place, and the new look only achieved a sense of hospital sterility. I suppose it’s best not to think about it as it is, but rather as it was – my place.

Copyright (c) 2007 by Eric Lawson

When I bite into a strawberry I want my taste buds to overload with that succulent berry flavor as the juices explode over my tongue. What I need to experience this feeling of near-ecstasy are three things: I need the strawberry to be fresh, naked meaning nothing on it at all and I need the strawberry to be ripe, no white or green areas of bitterness and absolutely no pockets of blackish-red flesh that seems as though the berry has somehow obtained herpes.

                 Obtaining a fresh strawberry is not particularly difficult for me where as in the spring and summer seasons there are two strawberry farms where my family goes to pick fresh strawberries. The difficult part is actually being able to eat a fresh strawberry after the season is over. What we, well, the other members of my family, usually do is freeze the multitudes of strawberries that they had picked; I just eat mine within a day or two. The reason I eat mine within a day or so is because I just can’t stand to even look at the withered, misshapen corpses of the thawed berries. And the texture is just….blehk! Disgusting! It’s almost leathery, juicy but dry at the same time; it just sends a shiver down my spine.

            Now, the ripeness of the strawberry that I am about to eat is also an important factor. I can’t have a berry that is such a dark hue of red that I can’t distinguish it from coal. Nor can the berry be white, I mean, who wants to have a hard, white strawberry with a bitter bite to it? No one! Unless you’re crazy, which could very well be the case but to each his own I suppose. Now, the perfect ripeness of this strawberry is the glossy, mirror like surface of the berry; the kinds where you can reflect light off the flesh. When I bite into the soft, cool, juicy innards of the “perfect” strawberry happiness flares up inside me and I am overwhelmed with a kind of momentary joy. Sadly this joy does come to an end, right around the same time as the bottom of the red stained bowl comes into view. That’s it, short simple and easy. Happiness is not a complicated thing to find in a strawberry.

            When I am eating that red delectable berry of joy I like to taste the strawberry. No sugar, no preservatives, no frost leftover from a thaw; just the strawberry. It has to be naked. I don’t know how much more descriptive I can be on that note. A strawberry with those tasty little additions just isn’t a strawberry anymore; it’s a piece of fruit with some stuff on it.

            Why am I so gosh darn picky you might ask? It’s because I like to taste real quality in the few fruits that actually do eat. So when I bite into that little red jewel of fruit I like to feel a sense of joy, not quite ecstasy, that’s kind of overdoing it. A feeling that makes me, for a small moment of my day, feel like nothing is wrong and all is good.                 

Copyright (c) 2007 by Dana Bragg

     Being a mom is a dirty job, but someone has to do it. And I hope that some day my children will appreciate what I have done for them, but I am not going to hold my breath. It has all the underhanded characteristics of any

other god-awful difficult job. There is the physical dirt…cleaning up after them, the mental dirt…putting up with them and the emotional dirt of

doing the right thing by them, no matter what.

     Probably the actual physical stuff is the easiest to deal with. When they are babies you change their diapers, wipe their mouths, something is always

coming out of one end or the other. They have that newborn smell that is

so delicious…until its not…which is usually every hour…on the hour. You

are constantly putting liquids in only to retrieve them on the appropriate

end moments later. You start wiping blood out of their dirty skinned knees

next and before you know it you find yourself as I did holding my sons

head in my lap as the emergency room doctor carefully sews his lip back

on…what was his mud covered, blood stained, tear-drenched, black and

blue face…because no matter how many times you told him not to jump

over the jagged cinderblocks next to the barn with his huffy like evil

canival…he just had to do it. The only saving grace the nurse tells me

is that he actually did listen to me enough to where that helmet I put under

the Christmas tree last December…a major cu for me…picking out the

coolest color helmet I could find in all three departments stores. Maybe

pushing my way through all those other mothers in the isles and standing

in line at Kmart with my cart brimming over with stuff that was sure to

kill any thought of keeping my budget in tack…was worth it after all.

because he wouldn’t have to under go the CAT scan and he had narrowly

missed the head trauma that surely would have occurred. And now he has

the stitches and the dented helmet as battle scars to show all the other

eight year olds tomorrow and how much cooler can you get. They get

rusty nails up their feet and fall off the monkey bars at school soiling

and tearing their new clothes forever. When they aren’t getting hurt…they

are sick. It’s nothing to be up until three in the morning changing sheets,

blankets, pillowcases and pajamas all covered in puke. You can easily

have all four beds with buckets, wet towels and moaning kids. There is

nothing like the sound or smell that fills a house in the middle of the

night when they all have the dreaded flu and you have all you can do

not to get it yourself. It is a dirty god-awful job…but someone has to clean it.

     The mental anguish one goes through trying to keep the peace in a house

with small children can sometimes hit such a high threshold that you often

wonder…what the hell was I thinking? “He took my truck, she stool my

batteries, he called me a jerk, she kicked me, he hid my game boy, she

took my seat, he touched me, she spit on me, he left my bike out in the

rain, she broke my model, he lost my favorite pokemon card, she ate my

Easter candy…its endless screaming and fighting and guess who gets the

job as the referee. It’s kind of a like being in the ring of a professional wrestling match…a mud- wrestling match, he hates her and she hates him, I always take his side because I love him more. She always gets away with everything because I always believe her and I never ever take his side. There is no end to the arguments and no one is ever happy with the way they are solved. In the end I send them all to their rooms and no one, including myself is very happy. It is a dirty god-awful job…someone has to settle it.

     The emotional battle you go through yourself is enough to drive anyone to an early grave. Every little decision you make counts. You have the lives

of four new little people in your hands and this is a huge responsibility. It

seems like what you do or decide now will effect what they know, how

they act and inevitably how they will turn out. Society is counting on me

to do a good job and my children’s futures are counting on me to. Big

decisions are important…what pre-school, what people you allow them

to interact with, discipline, rules, schedules, diet, along with a dozen others.

but little things are equally important; being fair is high on my list. I try

to be fair in each and every situation. Sometimes this means siding with

the kid I didn’t side with last time. In the end I think it will all balance out.

It’s also about putting them first. I wanted to go to this huge killer party on

Saturday night. All my friends and my boyfriend wanted me to go. But there were other things to consider. Since it wasn’t my weekend with my

one year old I wanted to spend that time with her and not pone her off to

A baby sitter. It sure is important for babies to spend as much time with

their moms as they can. Jay had plans and he would be fine. Alex could

go to Jordan’s house. Katie who is ten had no plans and felt as if it was

her fault that mom would miss the party. She said she would go to this baby

sitters house so that I could go even though I know she would be miserable

there. I had to call all my friends and tell them I could not go. Since they

have no children they don’t understand having to make plans for five instead of one and keeping five people is very hard to do. My boyfriend

was extremely disappointed too. In the end I did the right thing. I made

A compromise so that everyone would get something. The boys went off

to their friends house overnight. My boyfriend and my daughter and myself

all went out bowling and got back in time to spend the remainder of the

evening and next day with the baby. Choices, and juggling and doing the

right thing sure is hard…it’s a god-awful hard job being a mom but I am

happy to manage it.

I am very happy to manage the whole thing because no matter how hard it

is…it is my life and I wouldn’t want it any other way. I pull my hair out now

and then, I bite my nails, grit my teeth and loose it now and then…but I am

A very good mom and my children love me back…I know because they tell

me all the time…and that is the only pay I need for such a god-awful dirty

job like being a mom.

Copyright 2001 by Cheryl Di Tullio

****

"Where are you going?" my mother would ask.

"I don't know." But I was lying. I did know.

"Okay," she said. "Be home by five."

Then I was out, free. On my way with my friends to the kid's places

grownups almost never went, our special territory we we divided into three

subplaces.

Our favorite place was The Fieldswe meant the hayfields, cornfields,

anything unfenced and unwooded. The Fields stretched all the way to the cow

pastures, but we never ever dared to go near the cows because we might see a

farmer and the farmers, we all knew, were mean old men carrying shotguns,

who would get us in trouble with our parents if they didn't shooot us. How

we knew all this I don't know, since none of us had ever gotten within a

five thousand yards of one, but we knew it. The fields were for baseball,

redlight, crawling on our bellies to kill Japs, stiffening ourselves like

logs and rolling down the hillside.

It all sounds innocent enough, but maybe the farmers had the right idea

about getting us in trouble with our parents because one time. The Fields

were for killing ourselvesor nearly.

The farmers, who had all learned to farm in Ireland before the turn of

the century, put up hay in haycocks or haystacks, not bales. These stacks

were very very dense and David Kidd got the idea of hollowing the stack out

and making a clubhouse inside. We started work, hiding the hay we dug out

in The Woods. Eventually we had a circular clubroom maybe twenty feet in

diameter, a hidden entrance, braced with sticks and lit inside

with ...candles we stole from home. Candles and hay were a poor match.

"It's on fire," we suddenly screamed. "Quick, get out!"

The farmers must have called our parents. We all shook our heads and

didn't know anything about the burned haystack, but no one believed us and

we were all told we weren't ever allowed in the fields again. Which meant

we had to do more crawling on our bellies in The Fields, not just to avoid

the Japs now, but also the old men farmers too.

We also spent a lot of time in The Woods, but I don't remember gang

stuff we did there as much as stuff I did there alone or with one other kid.

I remember starting a campfire and toasting chocolate cookies with Patty.

Climbing up to the cliff and sitting a long time on the ledge, tossing

pebbles and wondering where the new ones came from because no matter how

many I tossed they never ran out. Slamming my father's golf putter into a

hornets nest, not intentionally. Again with Patty, tunneling into a huge

pile of leaves someone had dumped. Following a track, one foot in front of

another like an Indian. The Woods could be scary: once I came on Jimmy

Stewart, naked as the day he was born, crawling out of the same leaf pile

Patty and I had hidden inJimmy was a few years older than me and I turned

around and ran away and we never discussed what that was all about.

We played least in The Cemetery. It was a place to dare each other to

put our toe on a corner of a grave (mostly we didn't dare) and read birth

and death dates and for a second wonder about the way the universe was fixed

and if it applied to us.

On Memorial Day we sat on The Cemetery wall and waited for hours for

the buses to arrive with the marchers. It was a big march, with lots of

soldiers and also men our fathers' ages in VFW hats and several military

bands, but it wasn't a jolly march or a noisy one and the bands played slow

marches without flourishes or fancies.

At the heart of The Cemetery, the soldiers would get into rank and give

a rifle salute. We put our hands over our ears and watched the brass

casings drop on the ground and we all wanted, wanted as much as we had ever

wanted anything, to race in, like pigeons at the soldiers' feet and pick up

as many of those arnmo casings as we could, but we all knew better. All of

our dads had served in the war, eight or ten years before, and each of them

knew men who had served but not come home and each of them had friends like

my father's friend Stanley, who one day when he was wearing Bermuda shorts I

noticed had an indentation in his leg, in the muscle above his knee as

though someone had just dug the flesh out with an icecream scoop. My

sphincter tightened and my stomach got butterflies when I saw that and my

father noticed the look on my face. After Stanley was gone, my dad told me

that Stanley had been a paratrooper who had dropped into Normandy a few

hours before the troops hit the beach on D-Day and his chute had got caught

in a tree and some Germans had shot him as he dangled thereand there were

more holes in him than I had seen--but, even wounded, Stanley had shot the

sons-of-bitches (my father almost never swore). So we knew better than to

race in for those casings.

The soldiers picked up the casings with their white gloves after Taps

and the National Anthem and then marched out of The Cemetery and back to the

buses, and we ran alongside whispering please please and once a soldier,

keeping .his eyes forward, flicked his wrist and a piece of brass spun

through the air and landed right at my feet. I took it home and put it away

in my special box with other things I never wanted to lose.

We moved away from Fields, Woods, Cemetery when I was seventeen.

When I saw my brother this summer, he wanted to know: "Have you been

back home?" I shook my head--not once in thirty-five years. "There's a

couple of strip malls in The Fields," he said. "And all the woods are

housing developments now. "

I laughed, not happily. "The dead people are still in The Cemetery

anyway. " But as I said that, suddenly I wondered where the old brass arnmo

casing was, what had happened to it. Lost. Lost when my parents divorced

and the house was split up without me being there to rescue it.

But hell, it was just a junk kid's thing.

Lost now, just like the kids' places I played, gone forever from

everywhere except the rathole of memory, all lost.

****

There are many different ideas on what makes a vehicle “stand
out” from other vehicles. Some believe that it’s the style of a
vehicle, weather it’s a sports car/truck or a luxury vehicle;
whereas others think that it is the color of the vehicle. For
example, a bright yellow pickup would turn heads faster than a
plain black pickup would. Myself, I feel that a vehicle stands
out more if the driver’s personality of somehow reflected on the
vehicle by accent pieces that are added by the owner. I am
expressing my personality in my “plain black” 1997, two door,
Chevrolet Cavalier through three elements: detailing, tinting
the windows, and adding accessories.
The first accessory was put on when I first purchased my car.
It was a vanity plate that I put on the front of the car. It
was all black except for lime green cat eyes and the white
outline of the cat’s face. Once the winter months were over,
and summer was coming to an end, I put a black, leather, “LeBra”
bra on the front along with the vanity plate. I also added a
pair of “Vent Shades”, which are long, plastic pieces that go
just above the windows and act like an awning, keeping the rain
and snow out of the vehicle. They allow you to leave the window
cracked up to a couple of inches without allowing the rain and
snow to enter the vehicle and get the seats soaked. Finally,
last night, I put my headlight and tail light covers on. These
make the head and taillights appear black. Looking at my car
from the front with the bra and headlight covers on, it looks
like an alien and the headlight covers are the alien’s eyes,
glossy black against a leather finish. These accent!
s have made my car look completely black, showing that I am
sometimes mysterious and intriguing. The cat vanity plate on
the front is intended to express my cat-like attitudes. Like a
cat, I can be affectionate and loving, or independent and
self-reliant, or even sometimes defiant.
To make my car stand out more, I had the windows tinted. I
took the car to Scot’s Sun Control in Bangor. He tinted the
rear window, the windows that the passengers that sit in the
back seat look out through, and the driver’s side and
passenger’s side front windows. He also had to do a sun strip
on my windshield because the car was in an accident before I
bought it and the windshield that they put in didn’t have one.
The window tint is black, and on the windows of a black car with
a black interior, they look very dark until you get right up
close. Scott had to give me a certificate that I need to keep
in the car at all times, just in case I get pulled over by the
police and they question the darkness of the window tint being
legal. I also need this certificate to get my car legally
inspected. The window tint represents my personality, showing
the viewer that I am not always willing to open up to people and
show them what I have inside if they only look from a distance.!
However, I am able to allow them to see more of who I am if
they get closer to me and get to know me better. There are
still some people that need to prove to me that they are worthy
of my friendship before I will open up to them.
The final step to making my plain black car “stand out” is
adding the graphics and detailing. I have the license plate
TAZWMAN, and was thinking of basing my graphics around those
words. I wanted to have the words “She Devil” done on my
windshield in a way that the letters were lime green, my
favorite color, at the bottom. In the center of the letters, I
wanted the lime green to turn into a flame like shape, then
above the lime green flames, the letters continue in purple. On
my rear window I wanted to have a large
Chevrolet symbol, also in lime green, with purple devil horns
and a purple devil tail coming off of the Chevrolet symbol, the
bow tie. Now, I am not sure of what I want to have done.
Whatever I do have done, my car is going to look like one of a
kind. The graphics that tend to “turn heads” symbolize my
personality in the sense that I love attention. I love to be
looked at, I love to be laughed at, I love to be in the center
of things. Having people look at my car, weather they like what
I have done to it, or weather they think it looks stupid or kind
of funny, they are looking at my car. That is an accomplishmenton its own.
After these things are accomplished, I will have my finished
product. It will be a reflection of my personality in many
ways. What may look basic to some people, is actually my
expression of me an my life. I will accomplish this through the
simple procedures of adding detailing and graphics, tinting the
windows, and adding little accent pieces to enhance the looks of
my plain black Cavalier, and make it “stand out” against other
cars of the same make and model, and other cars too.

Copyright (c) 1999 by Amanda Savoy

***

Copyright © 1999 by Debbie Knapp>

> It is a modest, green colonial that sits on the hill

> where I grew up and holds many of my memories. To> look

> at it now it seems so empty and quiet. As I drive by> I

> try to look through the different windows as if I

> could still see my mother, father, and six brothers

> and sister doing what they might have twenty-five or

> so years ago. Each window opens into an old room> full

> of memories. Some good and some I wish I could> forget.>

> The first window I looked through would be the large

> picture window in the living room. That was my

> mothers' favorite room. She would sit there every

> morning reading the paper and drinking her coffee.

> From the couch she could holler up to us to be sure> we

> were getting ready for school. If we needed her we

> knew where she was most likely to be. The room was> off

> limits to us and our friends except on special

> occasions. We had the best Christmas's in that room.

> Mom would fill it half full of what ever we wanted.

> She shopped for ever it seemed. It was the only room

> in the house she would decorate at Christmas time.

> She would play Christmas music from her stereo and

> fill the tables in the room with all kinds of> goodies

> on Christmas Eve. They are great memories.>

> The next window I might look through would be the> two

> adjoining windows on the opposite end of the house

> from the living room. Through those windows I can> see

> my father sitting in his chair with his feet up,

> smoking a cigarette. This was the family room. So we

> were allowed to use this room with our friends. We

> would all gather there at night to watch TV. This> was

> also the room we might get reamed out in if mom or> dad

> were mad at us about something. We could play games> or

> sometimes we even had a fist fight when my parents

> weren't home in this room. So I guess there are some

> good and bad memories in this room.>

> Up above the family room windows was a single window

> that would show way to my bedroom. I had a blue and

> green ruffled room. I painted it myself. I always

> liked to rearrange my room and decorate it. I spent

> many hours in there studying and sometimes just> trying

> to get some peace and quiet. With seven kids in the

> house there wasn't much privacy or quiet time. I had

> to share it with my sister who was six years younger

> than I. I remember when I was about nine or so I> would

> play house or school in my room for hours. It's> funny

> how I have grown up and become a teacher.>

> To anyone else driving by it's just another house on

> the street. To me it is a treasure box full of

> memories especially since my mother died. I can> still

> see myself looking out each and every window as I> grew

> up. I can see all of us sliding down the back yard> as

> the cars tried to make it up the hill on snowy days.> I

> don't know who lives there now. I'm sure they too> will

> have their own unique memories. The appearance of> the

> house hasn't changed much over the years. The old> oak

> trees surrounding the house have gotten a lot> taller.

> I'll bet come fall there are a lot of leaves to be> raked!>>

*****

When people look at the old beat-up 30-30 rifle that hangs on my bedroom wall, they see a lot of different things. They see and old gun that has most of the bluing scratched off from the barrel and action; they see that the stock is beat-up, cracked, and appears ready to fall off from the rest of the gun; they see an old ancient weapon that is past its usefulness. But when I look at it, I see something totally different.

I see my father and my uncle working through the fall in the potato fields of Aroostook County: hard back-breaking work that started early in the morning and ended after the last light of day. I see them, sweating and sore, going to their boss after the end of potato harvesting season and collecting their money that they had worked for since day one. ThenI see them putting their money together and and going to a hardware store in Patten and buying a brand-new, never-been-used 30-30 for $125 to give to their father for his birthday. I see tears in my grandfather's eyes as he unwraps his gift, knowing how much his boys had to sacrifice to purchase this weapon. I see love.

I see a tool that provided my grandfather's family with food throughout many years. This weapon was the primary tool for putting meat on my father's family's table when he was a boy. When the winters were long and cold, this weapon provided food until the end of the cold. This weapon was a life-giver. I see life.

I see my grandfather and friend out in a field in a pickup truck, driving across to follow a deer they were tracking after wounding it. I see them hitting a rock in the field and rolling the pickup truck over. I see the 30-30 hit the dash, and I see the stock splinter into four different pieces. I see the pain in my grandfather's eyes as he sees the weapon crushed. I see his careful fingers as he glues the pieces back together, and I see the satisfaction in his eyes as everything is put in its place. I see ingenuity.

But most importantly I see a sixteen year old boy walking in the woods with his father on a cool, crisp Thanksgiving morning. I see them walk along a snowmobile trail in the woods behind their house. I see them stumble across the tracks of a doe and a buck, and I see the boy take aim and shoot his first buck. I see pride in my father's eyes as he watches his only son bag his first buck with the weapon that he and his brother had bought his father so many years before. I see myself hunting with my grandfather's most prized possession.

(Copyright 1999 by Jared Heath)

 Classification Models:

Snakes and snails and puppy dog tails. That's what boys are

made of right? I've found this to be true in most cases.

First there are the "snakes". They are the type of guys that you know you shouldn't go after yet there is always some sort of dangerous attraction to them that always ends in disaster. Then there are the "snails". They are lazy and pretty much headed nowhere in life. You know you're too good for them but, in a way, it makes you feel good knowing you're better than them. The last type of guys are the "puppy dog tails". They seem friendly and loyal and loving like a puppy. We all know, however, what really goes on underneath the tail of a dog.

My last relationship was with a "snake". Everyone warned me

of this from the beginning. He was the type of guy who knew

exactly what to say to sweep me off my feet and make me putty in

his hands. He'd say things like " God, I have never met any one

as beautiful as you." or " I have been waiting for you all my

life." The lines he used made me feel special, even though I

knew he'd used them a thousand times before on a thousand girls

before me. These type of guys are only in a relationship for one

thing, as I soon found out. They romance their way into bed and

that's as far as it goes. After that their off to sweep someone

else off their feet.

Then there are the "snails". I went out with a snail for

about three months. A snail has no get up and go. It was like

having a relationship by myself. If I wanted to talk to him on

the phone I had to pick it up and dial. Most of the conversation s

would come from my end of the line. If I wanted to go out and do

omething I made the plans. The biggest thing that caused me to

lose interest was the simple fact that he wasn't interesting. He

had no goals in life. He didn't even have a hobby. If he wasn't

out with me or out with his friends, you could be sure to find

him in his den in front of the tube. He'd vegetate there for

hours if I wasn't there trying to modivate him. It got sickening

always trying to put some life into him and it completely

drained the life out of me.

The longest relationship I have ever had was with a "puppy

dog tail". I went out with him for over two years. He seemed

perfect at first. He made me feel special in unique ways. He was

a writer. He was always writing me the most beautiful poems and

songs and stories. He would plan special evenings out. He was

the perfect gentleman. He had those puppy dog eyes, and called

me up every night. Like any puppy, he seemed loyal and friendly.

That friendly wagging puppy dog tail had me tricked for a long

while. After two years and four months I smartened up. I

finally opened my eyes and took a good look under that tail. I

found out he had been cheating on me with his ex, and about a

million other lies he told. When I finally lifted that tail I

saw all the shit he had piled UD on me, and the stench was

enough to make me stay away from him forever!

Now don't get me wrong guys. I'm not saying you're all

worthless. I've seen many men who have been married to the same

woman for over 50 years. Obviously they must be doing something

right. I'm just saying I personally haven't exactly found a guy who was all sugar and spice.

Copyright (c) 1999 by Amanda Lockard

********

Get Me Out of The Ball Park

Guys, heres one for ya. For all of those endless hours

we females know you spend agonizing and wondering over what

we really think about you as a Sports Fan, your plight is

over. As a female, I would like to give you my honest

opinion and view point of you as a Species Enthralled with

little Leather Balls, Drinking Beer till you puke and

Stuffing Potato Chips in your maw. I know you can sympathize

with me Girls.

It Is, in my Female opinion, my Honest Belief that the

species known as the "Sports Fan" can be dissected into three

different sub-species. There is the take-it-or-leave-it fan

(the best ones to have. Girls), the Enthusiastic-but-l-won't-

lose-any-sleep-over-it fan, (not so great but bearable )and

lastly (God help you if you have one of these on your hands)

there is the demented I-will-fight-the-black-plague-to-get-

to-the-ballpark fan. This is the way it is so listen up

guys.

The take-it-or-leave-it sports fan is probably the

easiest for us females to cope with. You know the kind. He

will flick through all the channels, pause occasionally to

find the score of a Celtics game. Grunt contentedly and flick

back to a John Wayne movie. He rarely attends localgames,

shows only fleeting interest in who is going to the world

series and only skims through the sports page. He doesn't

even care if you've cut the sports page up for the coupons on

the back before he gets to it. Easy come easy go. These are

the Best ones to have. Girls. Because they are easily talked

into things you would like to do, irregardless of what game

is on. They would just as soon go with you to a garage sale

to sit around drinking Old Milwaukee and rooting for the

Patriots.

Yes, Truly, they are a joy. Unfortunately they are rare

and becoming extinct.

You are more likely to be blessed with the Enthusiastic-

But-l-Won't-Lose-Any-Sleep-Over-It fan. This man is a little

more aggresive about his sports, but with a little effort,

you can learn to live with him. This fan is Determined to

watch Monday Night Football with the guys. Forget the candle

lit dinner for two on this evening. They are also committed

to out-yelling, out-drinking, and out-belching their buddies

at these intimate get-togethers. Not a pretty sight. He

will also watch the games fairly religiously, if they're

playing his team. Forget miniature golf if the Raiders are

playing. Ladies, your man will be glued to the tube.

Surrounded by swill. Bats, and all of his team paraphernalia.

This fan will, however, buckle under your wishes if, you say

for instance, you convince him that it is a Life or Death

matter that you both go to your mothers for dinner. With

enough prodding he will usually concede without too much of a

fuss unless It is a playoff game he will be missing.

Last, but certainly not least we have the tortured l-

Would-Fight-The-Black-Plague-To-Get-To-The-Ballpark fan. A

demented, misguided individual to be sure ladies. One I

would not wish upon my most hated enemy. I can speak matter-

of-factly because I am afflicted with such an individual.

Being so, I would like to give you first hand accounts of

what hell it is living with such a person.

Imagine if you will being awakened every morning to "The

Sporting News" on TV. Every morning. I awake to find the

man I love sitting on the couch with nothing but a Red Sox

cap on. Glazed, Bxpressionless eyes following every blip of

information that runs accross the screen. Occasionally

(quite often actually) I am startled out of my sleep by an

outraged cry such as, (Jeezus, they traded Dwight Evansi" or

"I can't believe the Oilers beat us, I hate the Oilers."

No it doesn't stop there. Every piece of literature

containing any news at all about his teams are immediately

pounced on and read cover to cover. If they contain any

pictures the magazine is immediately disembowelled upon

comletion and proudly taped to my living room wall under

colorful team banners. I have one wall full of such items.

Honest, if you pity me now, you haven't heard anything yet.

I have been forced against my will to learn every team

member, their positions, their statistics and their strengths

and weeknesses of every team he follows. Not to mention

having to learn to play Basketball, Hockey, Football and

Baseball. I was taught football one night while a game was

on. He stood in front of the TV., ruler in hand, and

instructed me on every move. I got no peace until i knew

what a First Down was and how many points for a Touch Down.

Yes Ladies, it's hell. I have forgotten what movies are for

there is always a game on. Many times the TV has one game on

and the Radio has another. I have also forgotten what music

sounds like, but I sure do know what Joe Castigliones voice

sounds like coming out of Fenway. My mind has become warped

for I am literally surrounded by sports 24 hours a day.

I suppose that there is a lot of truth to the old addage

"can't live with em, can't live without em." Otherwise why

would we put ourselves through all of this? Boys will be

boys and men will be boys when It comes to their precious

sports. And Ladies, keep this in mind, if you are going out

tonight with your husbands or boyfriends, maybe Dinner and

Dancing or a Movie, consider yourself Extremely Lucky and

have a drink for me will ya? The Red Sox play Oakland A's

tonight, so you know where I'll be.

Copyright (c) 1999 by Leisa Arsenault     

                                     The best fish to catch

                                                       Copyright © 2002 by Will Emerson

          The dead calm of the lake is shattered by the unmistakable whining of the reel as something tries frantically to escape from the tragic mistake it has made, but what is on that line? My mind is racing as I reach for the rod. What could it be? I immediately pray it is not a yellow perch, because those are garbage. All they do is eat your bait, and swallow the hook all the way to their tail! I hope against hope that it is a trout, or salmon, or at least a pickerel.

          Oh if it were a trout on the end of that line what a catch that would be. A trout isn’t an easy fish to entice to a hook never mind to catch. I can’t help but think of the ones I have caught, and the ones that just teased the shit out of me. Years ago I along with three friends was down on Moosehead Lake fishing. After dropping anchor I had just finished baiting up my line (using small smelts that day) and thrown it in when instantly something hit the hook so hard it bent over the rod. I quickly set the hook and the fight was on. What a fight it was lasting all of ten minutes, but the constant give and take of ‘playing’ the fish made it seem like an hour. After the battle was won and the fish lay flopping in the net I then realized it was a lake trout, and it measured 17 inches (by far the biggest I had ever at that time). Not all of my experiences with trout have been pleasant ones I can remember a time fishing a small brook, and you could actually see all the “brookies” in there, but they were having no part of what we had to offer. I had tried every lure in my tackle box, worms, and even some flies. Nothing was even getting there attention. That was a very frustrating day. Suddenly my mind snaps out of it what if it isn’t a trout, but a salmon!

          A salmon; it could be I know they are in here. Man would that be sweet. Salmon are the best fish to catch because they not only put up one hell of a fight, but taste great baked with a little lemon juice. I love to catch and release but eating what you catch is the ultimate prize for me. The last salmon I caught was 24 inches, and made a delicious supper for my wife and I. That twenty-four inch salmon was the biggest I had ever caught and the most delicious too. I remember that fish as if I caught it yesterday, because that fish was a thrill to catch. That fight started while again fishing on Moose Head Lake although this time I was fishing off the pier instead of a boat. Three hours without a bite, and I was frustrated almost beyond belief. I had made up my mind to call it a day, and begun to reel in my line signaling my surrender. When all of a sudden something almost ripped the rod from my disgusted-defeated-beaten grasp, but I quickly tightened my hand around it to prevent any such thing from happening. I was reenergized, and willing to give whatever that was the fight of its life. The battle lasted about fifteen minutes, and attracted quite a crowd of curious onlookers. I realized that the fish I had on there was no ordinary one when he leaped from the water revealing himself as a good size salmon. I am surprised that he didn’t spit the hook, but I still had him when he landed. By time I landed him in the net (to the cheers of my little ‘fan club’) I was spent, but proud. The formality of measuring his length was taken care of quickly, and I was soon on my way home to cook up my prize. But what if it is not another prize salmon and only a pickerel?

          A pickerel is fun to catch, but unlike salmon and trout not a keeper. I have caught a few of these in my days as an angler. If they are hungry they will bite just about anything, and will not let it go easily. I can remember catching one and then releasing it only to catch that same fish a few minutes later, so they are not very bright. My dad, my Uncle Chuck, and I had been fishing on Holbrook pond for about 2 hours that day. I had already caught and released ten or so pickerel, when I caught that one. I remember him because setting the hook had almost removed his eye, and I had to carefully remove the hook so not to kill him. Imagine my surprise when I landed that same fish ten minutes later! Not too bright indeed, but was this a not too bright one?

These thoughts have my mind racing. What was this fish? I couldn’t wait to find out. I would have to though because just then the line snapped and my mystery fish won this battle as he swam to safety leaving me to this day wondering what he was. 

"Hello?".. ."Hi. my name is Amanda and I'm calling you from

Mountain Springs. How are you today?". . . "Fine. " . . . "Great, I'm

calling today because my company is offering a free water test

to gualified home owners in your area." CLICK!'! Try having

that happen about nine hundred times a night. Mountain Springs

was a water treatment company I worked for last summer. My

job, as a telemarketer, was to offer these people a free water

test. That's it! What they didn't know was that once we tested

their water the technicians would then try to sell them a

three thousand dollar water treatment system. I guess it was

pretty deceiving but it was my job, and a pretty good paying

one at that. It was frustrating at times. Sitting at a table

with fifteen other telemarketers in the room, dialing phone

numbers over and over again and being hated by people who

don't even know you. Some would hang up on me the second I

told them who I was. Others would wait and at least listen to

most of what I had to say and then let me down lightly. Most

people, however would either be completely rude about it. 4;

First there were the old people who would pretend they

couldn't hear you. The conversation would go something like

this: "Hi, this is Amanda from Mountain Springs. How are you

today?". . . "WHO?... ANNE FROM DOWN THE STREET???". . ."No. AMANDA

from MOUNTAIN SPRINGS!".. ."Say that again dear. I'm having a

hard time hearing you.". . . "AMANDA FROM MOUNTAIN SPRINGS!". . . "I

STILL CAN'T HEAR YOU! "...This could go on for hours if I let

it. So finally I get fed up and say very softly... "O.K., I ' II

try to call back some other time." ..."Yes, I think that would

be a good idea dear." That really pissed me off when that

happened. I yell and I yell over the phone to these "deaf" old

men and women until I am blue in the face while they give me

a hard time. Then as soon as I say anything about hanging up

the phone somehow god just miraculously heals their ears and

they are as good as new. But I have to keep my cool, hang up

the phone softly, and pick it back up to dial another cold

blooded, yet potential customer.

Usually the next few calls were o.k.. That doesn't mean they

were successful, just that the people who let me down were

o.k. about my having called them. These people were cool. I

have to admit that if someone like me called my own house, I

wouldn't agree to take a free water test either. That is no

excuse, however, to jump down my throat about it. One evening

I called this man who happened to be in the middle of dinner.

Now I know how annoying it is to be bothered by the phone when

your hungry stomach was just about to receive that first huge

gulp of home cooking, but it was close to eight o'clock at

night! How the hell was I supposed to know he had just sat

down to supper. He gave me hell crap about it anyway. Then he

had the nerve to ask me for my phone number. I said "Oh. you

want my companies number?". He said "No!!! I want your

!@#phone number so I can call you next time you get done with

a hard day's work and try to sit down to relax with a !@#t.v.

dinner!!!! Talk about needing a friggin scape goat! /

Then of course there are the really sick desperate lushes. I

was always getting a hold of people later in the evening who

had obviously downed a few too many beers, or smoked a couple

of bowls. Most of them would try to hide it and answer your

questions to the best of their abilities. I have to admit, I

didn't really mind talking to these people. If I was having a

really bad night and hadn't gotten enough appointments it was

quite easy to take advantage of the state these people were

in. Out of the entire conversation the only thing that really

seemed to stick in their mind was the word "free". They'd

agree to an appointment within a matter of minutes. Whether or

not they remembered the next day wasn't quite my concern. I

know it wasn't right but believe me, a job like that can

really bring you down to your lowest.

Well, you don't have to worry about me calling your

house anymore. Mountain Springs Co. went bankrupt last month

when they were sued by the state and closed down permanently.

The Attorney General is investigating them for false

advertising, lying to their customers, and a few general laws

they just sort of forgot to abide by. All of which I had no

idea about of course. Just try to remember: even if you don't

want to listen to someone like me yapping over the phone

trying to get your money, there is no need to be rude about

it. Whether it's over the phone, on the streets or in the

stores, someone is always trying to offer you something in

exchange for your money. Don't take it out on telemarketers.

Copyright (c) by Tamara Michel

Getting the Bugs Out

Bugs are quite fascinating … so long as they keep a home far away from mine. A creepy crawly is willingly admired while walking on a nature path. Out of doors, I’ll gladly acknowledge its skill, detail, and amazing characteristics. However, once these persistent, nuclear-fall-out surviving, alien beings enter my living space, the battle lines have been drawn. This is war! And I will be victorious!

I fell in love with the little ant named “Flik” in the movie “It’s a Bugs Life.” Tenacity and perseverance are something to be admired (plus, he was cute!). Sometimes, while sitting on the patio, I enjoy watching ants move around below me. Their parade is quite charming until I realize the route includes a brief stop at our dining room window before the last stretch of their journey to our kitchen! These buggers have no heart, I’ve decided. Thirty minutes after eliminating a hefty portion of their tribe, I step outside to check the damp trail where I sprayed. You’d think there would be some attention paid to the entire village of their world, which has just been annihilated. But, no! A new platoon is marching towards the window!

Roaches! I remember two places we lived where I carried a can of “Raid” with me every night. These evil varmints require a quick reflex to affect a “hit” on them before they scurry away. There is no time to locate a can of “Raid” once a roach has been spotted. Roaches may survive World War III; but there is no chance in my realm of this planet that it will crawl away from me alive. That sucker is going to die - even if it costs me an entire $2.59 can of pest riddance. This is the only moment of my life when I enjoy murder! “You are in the right place at the right time,” I grin and cackle as my finger releases the liquid death punishment. I note that the time of extermination was 4:09am, and gleefully head back to bed.

My biggest enemy caused me to re-evaluate my lack of belief in extraterrestrial beings, the first time I saw one. I dubbed these maniacal demons as “Alien Crickets.” To this day I am convinced the movie, “Star Ship Troopers,” was inspired by these predators. Camel Crickets are quite sneaky, and can induce a near heart attack, because they don’t chirp as a normal cricket would. For this reason, they seemingly appear out of no where. I think it is the jumping that makes them so freaky to me. They have extremely long legs and can be quite large in diameter. I can’t seem to surprise them with my handy-dandy broom. A solid whack results in screams escaping from my mouth, while the demon possessed mutant leaps freely about the room. My trusted “Raid” is almost as useless. Either the cricket crawls high up out of reach, or hops to an unknown location. I am left sleepless knowing it is on the loose.

Shivers and nightmares! Bugs torment me! I think they enjoy it. Secretly, somewhere, there is a party going on. A roach poetically describes a narrow escape. An ant demonstrates how it juggled a cracker crumb, a hardened lump of brown sugar, and a bacon bit, while I looked on helplessly. And a Camel Cricket has his comrades in hysterics with his joke, about the lady he scared into fits of terror without even chirping a, “Boo.” I hear giggling! Are they at the window laughing at me?

*****

Copyright (c)1999 by Debbie Knapp

There are many different types of roads that people

choose to live on. Some people like living in town on

the well-maintained streets that are easily accessible

year round while others like living out in the country

on a dead end dirt road. It's hard to call a dirt road

well maintained in the middle of winter. In the spring

and fall there is the mud from the rain to contend

with while in the summer there is so much dust you can

hardly see sometimes. So you really have to decide do

you really like this location enough to put up withthe road type.

My husband I with our son Ben moved out to the end of

a dead end dirt road in the middle of winter ten years

ago. I was pregnant with Lucas. We bought a ranch that

we totally restored. That winter the road was covered

nicely with a thin crust of snow that was quite grippy

to travel on. That is until the January thaw when it

melted a little and then froze into a sheet of ice. I

had a little car that decided to hug a snow bank on my

way to town one morning. I had no control on where

that baby wanted to go. Thank god I wasn't driving

fast so it did no damage to the car or the child I was

carrying. I learned fast about driving on a dirt road

in the winter. It is always the last road in town to

get plowed or sanded. I loved it last year in January

when we had a big snowstorm and the town didn't touch

our road all day and most of the night. They had to

take a bucket loader to cut a path down the middle of

the road before the plow truck could come out. This

was about two in the morning. We had front row seats.

Guess what, the plow truck still went off the road and

got stuck. They had every road crew employee out here

trying to dig it out and half of them fell on their

ass while trying to get the truck out. Boy did we have

a laugh! They were all swearing. One guy fell and his

feet went right up into the air and kicked the foreman

in the head and they both went down. It was hilarious.

No one got hurt too bad. I thought " O.K. guys maybe

next time you'll plow it sooner."

The spring and fall aren't so funny. After the winter

melt we have about two weeks we call mud season.

Hopefully it won't rain much during this time. If it

does it's like driving in three or four inches of

slush. Your car will pull and go from side to side on

the road. Don't bother giving it a bath unless it's a

mud bath it wants. Sometimes you have to use the

windshield washer fluid to clean the window enough to

see where you're going. I wait until I get into town

to wash it at the automatic car wash if I need to go

to Bangor so I won't be so embarrassed. People in town

know I live on a dirt road and know what it is like in

the spring so it doesn't bother me here. It's pretty

bad when you can't even get into your car without your

clothes getting dirty. I sometimes think my dirty car

gave my aunt and uncle the idea of opening a car wash

in town. Boy if that's not a hint to wash your car I

don't know what would be. The fall isn't so bad. Just

a little slimy from time to time when it rains a lot.

In the summer if we don't have much rain, which seems

to be the case lately, it is a dust bowl. I love the

privacy of living out here on the dead end road two

miles from town so I don't have curtains in all the

windows so we can see outside from any room. We love

all the wildlife we see night and day. The only

problem is you have to wash the windows all the time.

Then when it does rain there is a film on the windows

from the dust. I have followed the school bus out here

before and couldn't see the back end of it as it went

down the road. That is pretty scary. I guess I don't

have to tell you the town doesn't use much calcium on

it to help keep the dust down. My husband has gone out

and bought calcium and put it down in front of our

house so we could open our windows on warm days. I

could dust every day. I guess it does make a good

excuse for when company comes over and I haven't

dusted for a while. As long as we keep our vehicles

waxed they will stay somewhat clean.

Thank god we love the privacy here. We have thirteen

acres of beautiful green fields and some forest

surrounding the property. It is a beautiful place. I

would like to see the road tarred so I could keep my

car and house clean with less maintenance. My husband

likes it this way because it cuts down on the traffic.

No one wants to drive on a bumpy, dusty or slimy dirt

road. Also it's more suited for the wildlife. I guess

it's more important for the birds to have their

pebbles for digestion than it is for us to worry about

coming up with the $670 that I had to spent on

aligning the front end of my car, ball joints, tie rod

ends, struts, shocks and new tires. I guess I'll take

the privacy I have on this poorly maintained dirt road

over living wall to wall on the well maintained paved

streets of town where everyone can look in your window

and gossip about every move you make. Besides winter

is long and boring, I have front row seats to the bestshow in town.

Contrast Models:

My younger brother and my father can certainly not deny that they are family. They share the same name, similar looks, and even have the same walk. But it's the marked differences between the two of them that really make them individuals. Their work ethics, education, and treatment of women make Joey and dad about as different as two people can be.
    My father is a lazy man. He spends his days working as little as possible, and complaining about his work. He claims to be a mechanic. Most of his work is figuring out the best way to rip his customers off, or cause damage to their vehicle so they have to come back for more. He is a snake, and proud of it. He has bragging stories about scheming someone out of a thousand dollars when nothing was wrong in the first place. My brother, on the other hand is a hard worker. Because he hates to sit still, he is always on the go. Any task is worthy, none too small or none too large. His main interest is also mechanics, but the honest way. He refuses to work for the family business because of how shady everyone is. Joey loves to make people happy, knowing that that will bring them back in the future.
    My father only finished school through 9th grade. He barely has that for a reading level, and makes fun of any one who enjoys school or shows interest in education, myself included. He hates to learn, and refuses to try. The irony is that he is someone who believes that he knows everything. If you try to correct him or argue your side, you are the wrong one and he will not continue talking to you. He only surrounds himself with unintelligent people, to make himself look on the ball. My brother is currently in the ARMY. He went to school until the 11th grade, and then the ARMY gave him his GED to enlist. He is in the military to earn money for college credits, and to learn a trade to provide him with a means to support a family someday. Although he is stubborn, he enjoys a challenge, and dares people to prove him wrong. He is always eager to learn new tricks to fix things, or new solutions to old problems. He is now bilingual, as he is currently living in Germany. All of these things he holds true and important are constantly beat down by dad.
    Ideas and opinions are not the only thing that dad beats down. Women are also fun for him. My father's idea of a woman is someone to cook, clean, look real pretty, and to make him look smart. If a woman has a brain, wants to work have friends, and a life outside of the home, beating punishes her. He has beat every woman that I have ever seen him with, and I am sure will continue to in the future. All of his brothers do it, and his father did too, so he feels as though what he is doing is normal. Joey would never lay a hand on a girl. He spent too many nights lying on mom's bed trying to comfort her after an attack from dad to ever put a woman in that situation. He loves women, and encourages them to get an education, and to have friends to hang out with. My brother doesn't care if a girl is gorgeous or not, but looks for important things like personality, brains, and humor. Those are the very things that dad avoids in all people, not only women.
    It is amazing that two people so very similar can possess such drastic differences. Names and looks certainly don't make a person, and my brother is the prime example of that. The idea of life is to live, not to hide behind a name or a reputation. My father hides, and because of this has no true friends. It is much more important to be true to yourself, while still respecting others. Because my brother does just this, he is a real class act. He has friends, and is loved by many. And even though he is less than half his age, and has half the life experiences that dad does, my brother is twice the man.

Copyright © 2002 byNicole Robichaud

 
There are two women who helped to shape my formative years. One of these women, who I haven't seen in over 20 years, has made a larger impact on me for the better. The second, who came immediately after the first, taught me mostly by mistakes. The first lady was my mother, Helen Jean Lloyd, the second is my step-mother, Gloria Pitcher Lloyd. These women had a common last name, came home to the same address, and at one time or another both were married to my father. Other than those fairly obvious similarities, these women were as different as a Maple tree and a Pine tree. There were marked differences in physical appearance, habits, and personality, between these two rather influential women in my life.

My father had a saying about women, in which he likened them to cars; 'Women are just like cars, some are made for speed, some are rugged like tanks and there are others that aren't flashy, fast, or powerful but instead are made for the long haul." I guess that my Mom was in the latter part of the group. m She was of medium build (5'7"), thin (110 lbs.), medium brown hair, and very little physically to set her apart from a crowd. Gloria was a shorter woman (5'2"), always on the verge of losing the "battle of the bulge". She had natural jet-black hair, which could be seen from a great distance as her skin was a pale, even ghastly white. The contrast between them was highlighted, even more, when you saw them face-to-face. My mother wore only enough make-up to hide her flaws in her skin, while Gloria's face wasn't really '1made-up" but "spread on Gloria would spend. on average. 50 minutes in the bathroom "putting on her face" an~. it would certainly show. She would go into the bathroom with her pasty white face and come out with a tinted face that had a severe end line at her chin from her improperly applied foundation.

The habits that these two women had as part of their lifestyle. were also a study in contrast Both of these ladies had become mothers much too early in life, my mother at 17 and Gloria atl 6. Each of them adapted to that situation in different ways, though. My mother ended up building character traits and habits to build her family. She ended up with habits~at many otherpeqple may call compulsive but I felt reassured by asa child. She had a habit of putting4hings away, sometimes while they were still being used. Mom also had a very difficult time allowing the carpet to go two days without being vacuumed. She believed in having dinner ready and on the table at 5:30 p.m., so much so, that one hot summer day in August of 1968, she came to our neighbors house while we were in their pool to fetch us so our chef salad wouldn't get warm. She did have a bad habit of smoking a half pack of Camel non-filters every day. That was, until the first day of fourth grade. when she came to get me at school because I had thrown-up after I watched a film on the consequences of smoking. She never had another cigarette as long as she was alive. Gloria on the other hand ended up developing a few of the more undesirable traits. She had a bad habit of drinking to excess, unfortunately she didn't I have the courtesy to get drunk at home but made a point of doing it in high visibility locations, like the only bar in town; our's. She took prescription pills to the point of addiction. She indulged in illegal gambling, having a losing streak that caused my father to sell our store, our bar and eventually burn our house down for the insurance money.
pg.2 C&C

She had an incredIbly stressful habit of disappearing for days at a time without any notice or even phone calls to inform her family of her whereabouts. In 1976, Gloria went out to play cards with a group of "shady" individual, most of whom are now in jail on racketeering charges, and did not show up at home for five days.

There is another glaring difference in how these two people contrast, personality. My mother's personality can be seen In how she approached her relationship with one of her long time friends. Bernice had known my mother since 1962, she and my mom had been on the same bowling team, their children had birthdays only one day apatt, they lived within spitting distance, and Bernice worked at our restaurant. My mom and Bernice were friends from the day they met, in 1962. When Bernice got pneumonia, in January of 1966, my mom did her housework, made the meals. and even worked for her at the restaurant, giving the money to Bernice for the hours she worked for her. Previous to that, when Bernice's husband died, my mother had been there with her to care for the emotional needs of her friend. Gloria, on the other hand, had one major caaracter trait that stood above all the others; inconsistency. She would faun over her children, telling them how they were "her precious babies", but she threw two of her children out of the house for long distance telephone calls that totaled twelve dollars. She went to drug and alcohol treatment centers, to get over her addictions, but on two occasions. within less than twenty four hours after release, was either stone drunk or trying to commit suicide by taking an overdose of Valium. She did have a few good habits, I assume, but I can't think of any right now.

The two women, that I got to see the most of In childhood into early adolescence, had very similar upbringings. They both had alcoholic fathers, very poor financial circumstance, and were educationally deprived. The major difference between them was that one decided she would not be the victim of her circumstances but would rather be the conqueror of them. Neither of these women complained about how they looked, but one of them took great pains to never let anyone else see what she really looked like. My mother and my ste~mother developed habits in response to very similar circumstances, but obviously in different dIrections, as far as family unity Is concerned. They were different in how they grew In character from the events and environment surrounding them. There was more than the similarities of having the same last name, coming home to the same house, and being married to my father that united these women though. Both of these women were the only women that I will ever call MOM.

Copyright © 1999 by Thom Lloyd
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Copyright (c) 1999 by Gale S Woodward-Miller



I grew up in a small New Hampshire town whose history played a part in the underground raikoad and today is home to Ken Burns, documentarian extrodinaire. Walpole is a small town that sits on the Connecticut River and is where my formidable years were spent. Many of my fondest memories are of times I spent in that small town where privacy was unheard of I had heard the expression "you can never go home" dozens of times but never flilly understood it until a reccnt visit to that quaint New England town. The differences between when I grew up there and when I visit now sadden me, I can no longer call the town home.

Our house was on School Street; a street once lined with elm trees. There was a large sugar maple in my back yard. Under that tree my dad made a huge sandbox that my brothers and sister, before me, played in. A swing hung from each of two huge branches. The was a stone fireplace and patio, too, Dad's weekend projects. The back yard hosted many gatherings during the summer and either badminton or croquet were set up on the side lawn. At the front of the house there were a large maple and an elm tree. My mom had gardens; the yard would be alive with color during the summer. When I walked down School Street eighteen months ago, I found my house without any problem, at least it looked like mine. The yard sure had changed in the twenty-five years that I had been gone. There was no sandbox under the backyard maple or swings hanging from the branches. The yard has shrunk, it seemed impossible that twenty or thirty people could comfortably picnic and have room on the side lawn for games. All signs of my mom's hard work and love of flowers was gone. The two trees that flanked the front walk were gone, and no longer shower the yard with colorfiil fall leaves. The yard didn't look lived in or even loved. The modest white house that sits on the corner of School and Cheney Streets looked like the house I grew up in but it didn't feel like home.

Not very far from my house was the center of town. A true hub of activity in late afternoons and Saturday mornings as people stopped to pick up their mail. A large rambling white building, facing east on Maine Street, was home to the IGA, Galloway Real Estate and the Walpole Pharmacy; a wooden porch ran the length of the building, It was on that porch that people would wait for the bus to take them to Keene or Bellows Falls. To complete the town's needs a post office, The Walpole Savings Bank and Village Store were all within fifty feet of the IGA. The IGA wasn't just a grocery store; it also sold plate glass, screening, nails and a variety of other hardware items. The pharmacy boasted a soda fountain where we would sometimes gather after school, sipping our nickel chocolate cokes. If we didn't go there we would head to the Village Store where hot dogs and hamburgs were served at the counter. Most of our daily living needs could be met in that small town When I visited my town in the spring of 1996 The center of town is no longer thriving. The large white rambling building still stands, and the IGA and pharmacy are gone. The building was made larger incorporating what used to be the power company, and the post office moved into that end of the building. The IGA has moved out of town to a strip mall on Route 12, about four miles from the hub. The IGA no longer sells plate glass or other hardware equipment, just the usual produce and grocery type items. The pharmacy sold out too, now sharing space in that same
pg.2 C&C

 



strip mall on Route 12. The pharmacy appears to have become a struggling corner convenience store, run by one of my high school friends, who installed beer coolers where the soda fountain once stood. Even the Village Store sold out. Rumor has it that another high school friend owns it, serves only ice cream and tends to be more of a gift store; I didn't get a chance to visit it. I had lunch at the only place in town Murray's Cafe, a new spot, and lunched at the same time that noted producer of documentaries Ken Burns was.

Mom was often leery to send us to the store to pick up some last minute dinner item; a quick trip often turned into a forty-five minute outing. The town was so small everyone knew each other, and street corner visits were the norm. I would pass the time of day with anyone who listened to me; even a, a youn~ter I had the gift to gab. One of my favorite pe~o~ to ~BB5 the time with was Guy Bemis, owner of the IGA. I never remember him dressed in anything but black trousers, white shirt and tie with a clean white apron protecting his Sunday best. Mr Bemis always welcomed everyone to his store even Walt and Chet, who could be smelled before they were seen If it wasn't alcohol it was their lack of bathing that wafted ahead of them. Both were always filthy dressed which to be quite honest, matched their content life of squalor. They came to town daily for their quart of beer or to visit Lena, the town's hussy. Mildred Rogers and Mary Russell, two old battleaxes, worked the soda fountain in the pharacy and would call on Mr. Brainard, the pharmacist, to deal with Walt and Chet if they got a little colorfi~l with the language they use~ Both ladies were always starved to know the last gritty detail of everything. In true small town fashion Mary and Mildred took it upon themselves to report the local goings on to anyone who had the time to listen. During my last visit I pulled up in front of what used to be the IGA, which is midway between the post office and the old pharmacy, I sat there for fifteen minutes watching faces come and go. The faces were new with no names to go on them. Every now and again I was sure I recognized someone, but the longer I looked I realieed that just like the stores had changed so had the inhabitants. Not one of these faces did I know.

The people I so fondly remember, who always kept a watchflil eye out for me, who treated to me to chocolate ice cream, who made Walpole my home have since died. As I drove out of town the last time I at last knew what was meant by " you can never go home.".



******
Every second Tuesday of every month at 7 pm, the Swanville Planning Board meets in the "new" Town Office that used to be a grocery store and still has a huge sign outside reading AGENCY LIQUOR STORE. The Planning Board tries to do its best to help people through all the rules and regulations and also to keep the town a nice rural place. But the job isn't easy and different members of the board have strongly differing ideas about how it should be done. Townspeople watching Dan and Ed battle things out can see clear differences in philosophy, ~ and style. When town meeting rolls around, they can vote their choice.

To just look at them sitting around the table, there's no obvious difference. They're both likely to be wearing flannel shirts; they both have beards and little paunches. Out in the lot they both have new four-wheel drives. But Ed is an old Mainer, and Dan is from away. Ed once said that he could sum up his philosophy in a single word: "Common sense." Ed is like that; he'll promise you a single word and then give you two. You're not sure whether it's a good deal to get twice as much or a bad deal that he can't stick to his own guidelines. Dan is a stickler for detail. He always comes prepared, with an agenda, a ~book, and a big state rulebook; the most Ed ever has on the table is sometimes his foot. Dan's philosophy is to go by the book-no matter how ridiculous the line coming out of Augusta is. If your cellar is flooding and you dig a trench to stop the flood and come to the Board for a permit a few weeks after the fact, Dan is likely to get agitated. Ed is likely to say, "well, what's the poor man to do? Let his house float away before he checks with those jerks in Augusta?" "No, of course not," Dan says, "but...."

Ed's attitude can be summed up with that one detail--his foot on the table. Some nights he comes to meetings a little oiled, gets a little loud, doesn't pay too much attention, and starts ranting about Augusta even when the Board is dealing with business of no concern to the state. So, the town has to pay a price for Ed's common sense. Dan's always on time and always sober, but sometimes he drives people up the wall by being so organized. Someone may be scheduled for 7:30, and if they miss their appointment, they have to go to the back of the line and wait--sometimes until 11. That's fair enough, but their business may only be asking a single question--30 seconds altogether. They're out of luck if superorganized Dan is around.

Both men's style follows from their philosophies and attitudes. Ed is a good old boy, always getting up and going outside for a smoke or a quick piss under the stars. On a summer night, with the windows open, everyone can hear him zip and unzip, light a match, tell a dirty joke to somebody on the other side of the parking lot. When he comes back into the room, he still is wheezing, laughing, talking to people outside--this man is not easy to ignore! Dan sits quietly and works hard on the town's business. He doesn't claim to be able to greet every single person in town by name the way Ed boasts he does, and he certainly doesn't try to pass the time of day with everyone during Board meetings the way Ed does. People wouldn't ever call him a "helluva guy", the way they call Ed. But Dan is there regularly and like clockwork doing his best for the town.

I'm on the Board with both the men. I don't know which one I'm more like because it's hard to see yourself from the outside. I have moments of impatience and anger with each of them. I suppose they have their moments with me. Like everyone in town, when Meeting time comes in March, I'll have to do some serious thinking about which man, which philosophy, attitude, and style are right for Swanville as the town heads for the year 2000.
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Comparison

                I’ve always been a sucker for a dive bar. Since I was a teen saddling up for the first time to last Friday, something about the dim lighting, seedy regulars, skunky beer, well, it has just done it for me.  I’m not the most social of fellas, but for some reason I relax enough in a dive to talk to the guys, shake a few hands. If I find a good one, I tend to settle in. Everywhere I’ve lived, there’s always been one I’ve made a getaway out of, somewhere to clear my mind or cloud it up. The Crow Bar, Twilight Room, Reel-‘M-Inn, The ‘49er, places I’ve hung my hat when the whistle blew. But the two that stand out in my mind the most are the Clinton Street Pub in the neighborhood I grew up and The New Waverly right here in downtown Bangor.

                Though the overall floorplan was different, both have a couple things in common: a long bar terminating at the door, worn on its wooden edge from years of elbows and forearms, a seldom-used side entrance the regulars use to slip out of quietly, avoiding an overeager girlfriend or unpaid debt. Each had well-worn, threadbare, beer-and-foot-stained carpet and a row of tables that have seen better days, lit by low-wattage wall sconces and an off-balance ceiling fan.

                Behind the bar at each establishment is a literal family of bartenders, anchored by the moody alpha male of the clan. Eddie at the Clinton Street would welcome you with a smile and ten minutes later be hollering about some little faux-pas like your smoke falling out of the ashtray or a spilled drink, as if it was the first time either had been witnessed in his establishment.  The Waverly’s Jim has his own moments. Usually a fairly jovial character, cracking jokes at the customers’ expense and for their benefit, he can swing into being rather cantankerous, snapping on the smallest thing, from a wobble in a walk to a slip of the lip.

                Each place caters mainly to a working-class clientele. Carhartt jackets and jeans outnumber pea coats and scarves. No posing, just genuine people genuinely unwinding. I like this kind of crowd, they leave you alone when you want to be left alone, and open up and talk when you want to talk. My kind of folks. For some reason, every dive always seems to have the bearded guy with the gravelly voice, the shirt-lifting forty-something woman who wishes she still had it, and the almost-made-it musician. It almost seems like these characters are drawn like moths to a flame, or perhaps it is just the kind of place where they too feel comfortable and accepted.

                I suppose I’ll never really stop going to dives, but sometimes these places just peter out. The Clinton Street is no more the place it was, now a hip-and-happening bar with a focus on pinball. The old regulars can still be seen on occasion, though the open environment has diminished and so has the appeal of the place to them. I guess all I can do is look back on the former glory, the good and bad times I had there, and hope for those same kinds of memories to be forged at the Wave, just to look back upon five years from now.

Copyright (c) 2007 by Eric Lawson

         I was sitting in my truck the other day doing some homework. When I stopped for a smoke, I looked around at all the different people going to school. I got to thinking about how much education and the need for education has changed over the years. From my grandfathers time, the 1890’s, to my fathers time, the 1930’s, to my time, the 1960’s, there have been many changes.

         My grandfather never went to school in a schoolhouse with a teacher. He learned the three R’s, reading, riting and rithmetic, at the kitchen table with his mother as the teacher. He learned to farm, tend horses, cut wood and make a wiffle tree or axe handle out of  a log from his father. In those days that was enough. At age twelve he was working from daylight to dark in a woods camp.

          My father went to school in a one room schoolhouse with a ram down wood stove, outhouse and one teacher for grades one through eighth. He traveled the four miles and back with a horse and wagon. In those days the older boys filled the wood box each morning and lugged water from the well out beside the schoolhouse. He studied reading, writing, arithmetic and a little science and history. He finished his seventh grade year, took the test for eighth grade, passed and received his eighth grade diploma. High school was out of the question because he’d had to board in LaGrange and his father needed his help on the farm. So at age thirteen he went to work on the family farm.

           When I started school in 1961, the bus picked us up at home in the morning and brought us back at night. There was running water, central heat and a teacher and room for each grade. I studied reading, writing, phonics, spelling, math, science, history and grammar. When I got to high school I had a choice of courses with subjects related to that course. I had a teacher and room for each subject. I graduated in 1975 and at age eighteen got a good job in a sawmill.

             Twenty-five years after I got out of high school I found I needed more education to get a good job. So here I am back in school getting the education I now need and wondering what the future holds for education and the need for it.

Copyright © 2001 by Shirley Boobar Jr.

Ass. # 33     

“Going In For The Kill"

Mr. John Golfine is a wonderful person, teacher and citizen (as far as I know that is.* ) He has incredible ability when it comes to writing and preaching his devine knowledge. And, although I know his eyes will fall upon these pages with a bit of contempt, (hopefully admiration.') I can't help comparing this man to the most terrifying, proud, domineering and beautiful animal in the Kingdom; The Lion.

Six o'clock on a Monday evening, the entire class settles down into their seats, notebooks artfully posed on their desks, pens in hand, waiting patiently to capture a sentence or even a word to help them with their work. ~ hush falls apon the room in thick blankets, everything is motionless and then "He" wlaks in. Mr. Goldfine strides into the room, briefcase tight in hand. He pounces on the edge of his desk and greets the class with a resounding roar.' His expertiese in the field is displayed proudly like that of the lion grooming and showing his thick fury mane. He purrs gently about comparison and contrast, almost hypnotizing the group. Suddenly, he leaps from his position, excited about a theme he has just read.' The crowd gasps as he shakes the words off his tongue like water from his silken fur. Everybody respects him for his ability, but at the same time watches and fears his every move.

Mr. Goldfine passes out the paragraphs he has just graded, looking each student straight in the eyes as he does so. He poses himself in front of the class searching for his prey. Someone must read their theme aloud. Mr. Goldfine is hungry for prime literature, the thrill of the chase. He scopes out his target and proceeds on little cat feet. The student who has been challenged by this massive beast and freezes and quietly wimpers his paragraphs. Suddenly the lion leaps, attacking the innocent reader.' He rips and tears at the words, devouring each passage with his massive jaws.

The student shifts and struggles in his seat resisting the lion at first and then finally, gradually giving into his fate. He must re-write or face the beast in his den.

The ordeal is quickly over, the lion returns to his desk to lick his chops in greedy satisfaction. Mr. Goldfine is finished with his feast and again begins purring his teachings.

Although this lion is seemingly gentle and cuddly like a new kitten, we all know that at any moment this soft spoken exterior can be turned quickly into what we all fear; The Lion, aka Mr. John Goldfine, the English Composition Teacher.

* complete-Totalass Kissing



Copyright (c) 1999 by Samantha Created

Example essays

Growing up living with my mother was not that bad, except for the part about living with my stepfather. He was an abusive drunk who I wished, on many occasions, would die in a car crash while he was drinking and driving. If I was to say I suffered because he was in Vietnam, that would be giving that sick sadistic fuck an excuse he doesn't deserve. Jim did many things to my brother, sister, and me that can never be undone. My temper and violent rages are by far the worst effect on me. Why am I the way I am? Jim gave me plenty of help, many reasons to explode.   Here are some examples of the way he was.

One thing he did that still makes me go crazy was to say that he would pick me up from work--and then never show. I was fourteen years old, working at Macdonalds in town and living on the beach, about five miles away. Since i was still in school, I worked nights closing the store at eleven and not getting out until twelve or one. Then I would sit outside on a picnic table and wait. Someone might offer to give me a ride, but I couldn't accept--I had to wait and see if Jim would show up. God forbid if I left and then he showed up. I estimate he made it less that fifty percent of the time, leaving me a long cold walk home before I could get a few hours sleep before school.

Forgetting to pick me up was not the only broken promise Jim left in my life. I was promised a VW Scirocco for years. All I had to do was be god and it was mine. He just had to do a little repair job on it first, because he'd gotten such a great deal on it. I would try and try to be good enough to deserve that car. I wanted the car so I could get away! I would have driven to California if I'd had the chance or anywhere far far away. Jim used the car against me every chance he got: "Oh, your room is not clean enough--guess you don't want the car." If I stayed out late with friends, it was "You're grounded. No car now. Too bad." In the end, I never did get the car. In the end it turned out that there never even was a Scirocco. It was all one of Jim's games.

If I was lucky, all I got was long walks and broken promises. If I was unlucky, Jim would be drunk and mean. One time he thought a friend of mine had stolen his hunting knife so he grounded me to try and get my friend to return it. I asked him about the logic of this and we both got loud. I was told to lower my voice or he would lower it permanently. That was the kind of promise he did always enjoy keeping so I shut up. Another time he yelled at me for something. T o this day I'm not sure what it was all about but he called me a pansy, offered to break my fingers, and several times tried to make a doorway through a cinderblock wall with my body.

Year after year all the reasons Jim gave me to explode added up. I didn't think I would ever grow up, but eventually I did. I watched and endured all his head games coupled with his violent tendencies and learned. It all ended when I became bigger, taller, meaner, and and more violent than my teacher ever expected. Then it was Jim's turn to be afraid. I can still see his expression, the look in his eyes of rage, mixed with a new found fear. A fear of me, his student. I started to use all I had learned. The only problem is that it's been seven years since my last encounter with Jim, but the effects Jim had on me don't stop.

Copyright (c) 1999 by J. Woodbury

***

Symbols

 

I married into a Catholic family, but remained Lutheran for over ten years while

attending my husband’s church.  After the birth of my third child, I decided

to convert.  During the many months of classes with our Priest, Father Myles, I began

to really understand and love the religion.  Father Myles taught me not only a great

deal about the religion, but so much about myself and what kind of person I truly

wanted to become.  This was the beginning of a wonderful change within me.  When

my lessons were complete, I went through Confirmation, and became a Catholic.  I

bought myself a necklace to wear at the ceremony.  This piece of jewelry turned out

to be much more than something for me to wear.  A gold chain that held a delicate

Crucifix and St. Christopher medallion, blessed by Father Myles with Holy Water,

became amazingly symbolic for me in so many ways.  I wear it every day

and take it off only for repairs and cleaning.

 

This wonderful necklace is a symbol of my commitment that I made to the Church

and God, and the changes I made within myself.  I worked hard each day to be a

loving and kind person, and surrounded myself with others who had the same values.

The necklace reminds me not to return to my old ways and to strive to be the best

person I can be; a person God can be proud of.

 

My necklace is also a symbol for others to take notice.  I wear it with pride.  It makes

a statement saying, “I am a Christian”.  It symbolizes my Catholic religion.  It shows

I’m not afraid to express my love of my Faith.  I am proud to be Catholic and wear

this symbol as a statement of that pride.

 

Lastly it symbolizes that I am not a perfect Christian.  When I stray from being the best

that I can be, my necklace is there to remind me that God is always there for when I’m

ready to return.    When I skip Church and make lame excuses for not attending, I see

my necklace and am reminded that I’m only hurting myself.  It hangs there on my neck

and stares at me in the mirror saying, “God sees all.  He loves you anyway.”

 

This shiny, delicate necklace symbolizes my strengths, my pride and even my weaknesses. 

What started out as being just a piece of jewelry turned into symbolizing a period in my life

of great evolution.  I wear this symbol each day and night.  I feel lost when it’s not worn. 

It will remain the most important precious piece of jewelry I will ever own. 

 

 Copyright (c) 2008 by DJ McIntyre
 

 

Eng 101 Final

 

It is hard for me to keep good eye contact with an interviewer, when attempting to get a job; when my interviewer has a mole on the side of his/her nose the size of a rabbit turd. I believe that eye contact is very important, in any case. It is also hard for me to address the interviewer as sir or ma’am, when I can’t tell the difference. It is easy for me to keep a pleasant attitude throughout the interview, but hard to concentrate on the questions being asked. I need to remember that the first impression is the most important.

          Eye contact with a person shows that you’re not shy, and also shows your strength as a confident person. This is important during an interview. My interviewer caught me off guard. The nametag read “ Terry, store Manager”. I shook Terrys’ hand firmly and tried to look him in the eyes, but was distracted by the super sized mole on the side of his nose. Terry led me into the office where the interview would take place. “Have a seat Mr. Martin”, Terry asked. As I sat, I noticed a photo of Terry that hung on the wall behind the managers’ chair. I slowly began to move my head to the left and right. The mole in the photo seemed to follow you everywhere. It was freaky! “Have you ever worked as a cashier before Todd”, Terry asked? “No”. I replied, while trying to look at the other side of the nose. It looked as though some type of alien creature had planted its larvae it attempt to eventually take over Terrys’ body. “Are you a good people person”? Terry asked. “Yes, I worked at Shop N’ Save for a year and a half”. I said. My eye’s were playing tricks on me, because the longer I sat, the bigger the mole seemed to get.

          When speaking with authority figures, I believe it’s more polite to answer sir or ma’am; especially when you want something. Terry had me confused. Terry was a larger person, with short brown hair, little visible peach fuzz on the face, what appeared to be breasts, and a firm hand shake. Terrys’ voice was impossible to decode, it could have gone either way. Terry wore a dress shirt, with two at the top unbuttoned, along with dress pants. How do I address it? I thought to myself. Just then, Terry asked, “What would you expect for an hourly wage”?  “Um …$7.00 I think would be appropriate”, I answered. “ I think so too,” Terry says. Terry picks up his mug of coffee and sips it, his pinky finger pointing to the sky. That’s it I thought Terry is a woman. Terry stands and picks up some papers for me to read, and hands them to me. I begin to read the papers, and notice from the corner of my eye, Terry gives a quick itch to the private area. Only a guy would do that, I thought. Minutes pass, and I finish reading. Just for small talk I guess, Terry asks me if I have ever read Forbidden Romance, as he holds up the book. “No”, I said. “I picked it up yesterday, and haven’t been able to put it down yet”! Terry proclaims. I had no response, just nodded my head, and thought, maybe…”it”… is a woman. This was driving me crazy, thinking about it.

          Keeping a pleasant attitude is very important during an interview, and I have always believed this. I had a pleasant attitude throughout the interview. I was actually amused the whole time. “Would you like to work full time, Mr. Martin”? Terry asked. “No, I am looking for partime”, I said. After asking, Terry leans back in the chair and puts his feet on the desk, and at the same time knocks over his coffee mug. “Shit”, Terry shouts, as he scrambles for something to clean the mess. Terry began to laugh uncontrollably, which caused me to burst out laughing. We both maintained pleasant attitudes during the interview.

          This interview was defiantly the most amusing for me. Usually I’m uptight and nervous. I was very relaxed and comfortable, during this one. I still had no idea whether Terry was a man or a woman. Or how what alien creature planted that on his nose. But when Terry knocked over the coffee mug, things seemed to loosen up a lot. Terry did turn out to be very nice guy…ah…. girl, Person after all.

Copyright© 2000 by Todd Martin

Moldbreakers—good stuff that just doesn’t fit the five paragraph, sandwich essay format—sometimes you just gotta cut loose a little

Can’t Sleep, Won’t Sleep

        It was cold out. I really just wanted to go back under the warm covers of the waterbed, but I told my wife Patty that I would stay up with her. It was a normal Saturday morning in December of 83. I didn’t have to go to work so I got up early with the baby. Tabitha was almost 1 year old. Patty came out into the kitchen were I was holding Tabitha at the table. Patty took Tabitha from me and started doing that mommy baby goo goo stuff and saying,” good morning sunshine”. Just then the phone rang. I picked it up and said hello. The voice on the other end was Dad. I knew something was terribly wrong.

        Dad never ever called me. It was always Mom who would call and then I would speak with Dad. I could tell right away that there was something wrong. Dad said, Steve, Jimmies dying. He was in a bike accident and the doctors don’t expect him to live.” I was numb. Patty instantly knew that I was in pain. She could tell by my silence and the look of loss on my face. I told Dad that I was coming home right now. Dad said,” Your Mother and I are flying down to the hospital in South Carolina. We’ll call you from there and let you know what his condition is.” I told Dad that I was coming home and that was that. I got off the phone and called my supervisor, explained the situation and he started the process of me going on emergency leave.

        Monday morning after a hectic weekend of packing the house into storage and renting a trailer to carry all of our necessities in, we said good-bye to Colorado Springs and headed for Maine. My mind was on one thing and one thing only, gotta get home. So here we go with a Jeep Renegade pulling a Jartran trailer, a 1 year old stuffed in the back seat amongst her stuffed toys and my wife that my family had never met. I had to drive the whole trip because Patty didn’t drive then. I got ten Black Beauties before I left from a friend. I was not going to sleep till I got home. I didn’t want to delay the funeral that was pretty inevitable.

        While I drove my whole childhood with Jimmie was running though my head. Patty said nothing much to me as I drove. I thought about how we use to wrestle like on TV. Jimmie was strong and wiry like me for his size and a daredevil to. The highway hasn’t been much of a challenge, which was good because all I can think about is Jimmy. Tabitha in the back seat was being perfect. Maybe she could sense my grieving. She only fussed when she got hungry or needed a diaper change. Here comes the first yawn of the trip and we’re almost to Pennsylvania.

        After awhile Patty and I would have short conversations. She would ask if I were all right or if I was tired. I would say, I’m all right dear; you go to sleep if you want. I can’t sleep; I have to get us home. She wouldn’t sleep either. We drove on into our new chapter of life and said very little. Finally Patty did fall asleep around 3:00 am Wednesday. About 6:00 am I went across the George Washington Bridge and discovered rush hour traffic in the big city. I had to wake Patty up to help me see out the plastic windows of my Jeep. It was difficult to change lanes without being able to see very well. Once we got on I-95 north I told Patty to go back to sleep, but she couldn’t.

        Now I was really starting to feel sleepy. The thought of Jimmy not being around any longer really hurt. I can’t sleep now, only about 3 hours to Bangor I thought to myself. Patty was starting to fall back asleep just about the time I started to point out the scenery of my home state. I didn’t bother her any more until we got to the Newport exit. I wanted her to have time to wake up Tabitha and get her ready to meet her grandparents for the first time. This was going to be an experience to remember for a lifetime.

        We pulled into my parents driveway about 2:00 pm. Mom came running out of the house and said,” you little shit; I knew you’d drive straight through. I want to hold that little girl you brought to me.” Patty got a big hug from mom and handed Tabitha to her for all the loving a grandmother could give. Instantly Tabitha removed the thought of Jimmy’s death from mom. We went inside the house and I introduced Patty and Tabitha to the rest of my family for the very first time.

        Dad explained the accident to me and said that Jimmy promised him two weeks before that he would do everything in his power to have all us kids home for Christmas. We are all home again. I went into one of the bedrooms and lay down. I still couldn’t go to sleep. We had to go to the wake at 7:00 and be with other relatives and Jimmy. When Patty and I passed by the coffin, Patty broke down and almost fainted. I asked her why she reacted so strongly and she said,” he looks just like you lying there. For a second I thought of you lying like that someday”. We stayed until I just couldn’t function from the lack of sleep. My eyes were almost shut both from crying and fatigue. Once I did lay down to sleep it took forever to slip into peacefulness. When I woke up the next morning and gathered my thoughts, I realized that I never even took one pill all the way home. Jimmy kept me awake and safe so I would get my family home for Christmas. He used the power of self-sacrifice and we were all home for Christmas.

Copyright © 2002 by Steve Gallant

"I hate snow!" I mutter to myself as I walk down the sidewalk. Its the first snowfall of the season, and I am sick of winter already! I can't remember it being this bitter cold last year, and this wind is ridiculous I think, as it whips across the park rattling the last few leaves desperately clinging to an ice-covered branch near by. Usually no matter how warm I dress, the cold seems to penetrate and sink right down to my skin, freezing every part of my body. "Let me think. We have a mere six more months before spring. That's comforting." The sound of the wind whistles through branches just over my head, and with the wind I can hear the joyflil sounds of a couple kids playing nearby. Both are bundled up in snow suits, mittens, and hat. They run across the park and grab for the parks swing set, jumping on for a ride. They almost seem to be immune to the cold as one of them does the unthinkable, swinging against the wind, feet moving to build up momentum. As I walk by, I see him about seven feet in the air, both feet straight up pointing to the ice blue sky.The kid swinging begins to teas the other kid calling hirn a wimp for not swinging My smile fades as I think of my own childhood. It seems like so long ago, little by little my childish outlook has disappeared. Of all the things lost over the years I miss being a kid the most.

My favorite time of year was always the last day of school. I couldn't wait to start the summer, it seemed like each day was endless and a whole three months was plenty of time to conquer the world, or at least the woods behind my house. My friends and I could play all day in an area no bigger then an acre. We would build forts and plan strategies in the war against our pretend enemies. I remember taking a glass jar wanting to fill it with bees. It seemed perfectly sensible at the time. I called it the bee bomb, and went to work on it right away. This would show the enemy who was boss. I got the biggest jar I could fmd and it wasn't too long before I found a nice ripe wasp hive hanging from a branch. I stood on top of a log careflilly balancing with both arms over my head. I held the jar in one hand and the cover in the other. I maneuvered the hive into the jar. I began to try to dislodge the hive from the branch. The plan would have worked if my friend, who had come along to watch, hadn't tried to help, by poking the base of the hive with a long stick. He knocked the jar out of my hand. Both the hive and jar fell to the ground. Like magic my friend was gone, I glanced down at the hive, It was still in the jar I couldn't see any wasps; maybe the hive was empty I jumped down from the log to take a closer look. Only half ofthe hive was in the jar, the honeycombs were all empty. Like the kids on the swing set I couldn't wait to tease my friend for being a wimp, rur~g away for no reason. Seconds later the angry wasps had come out of the hive, descending on me. I ran home swatting the air. The wasps followed me most of the way. In the end I had seventeen stings. Each wasp sting swelled and
 stung for days after. One week later I was back at it, only this time I would be a lot
more careflil. I miss being adventurous and resilient, I never got seriously hurt.

I never got bored with the routine of day-to-day life. Riding my bike around the neighborhood was freedom enough. I couldn't wait to jump on and explore area no more than a mile from my house. My friend and I would ride to the local pond, catching frogs in the mud we would make up stories about the unseen bodies just beneath the surface of water, daring one another to poke around in the water grass, a place that held millions of leaches and other slimly creatures. A nearby gravel pit was another place needing to be explored. We would make sand castles and play games destroying the structures with rocks. We played these same games over and over, and each time it was as exciting as the first time.

My imagination seemed boundless, Just a few weeks ago, my brother called and asked me if I had started construction on my candy village. It took me a few minutes but then I remembered a bet we had made as kids. We would both make a miniature town made completely out of candy. Back then, I spent many nights visualizing each tree, chocolate trunk and cotton candy leaves. The houses would be sugar blocks with frosting for the roo£ The best feature about my village would be a liquid chocolate waterfall ending in a river that flowed through the town. Just like the one in the movie Willy Wonka and the Chocolate Factory. I imagined each detail of the village. I couldn't wait to be old enough to start building.

My mind drifts back to reality as I continue to walk down the sidewalk, freezing wind still blowing across the park. The kid on the swing set are out of sight, and my car is just around the corner. As I open the car door, I think about how much I miss being a kid, nothing seems as much firn anymore. I have lost touch with all of the friends I had as a kid, and day-to-day life seems boringly routine. Nothing new happens at work and my imagination is collecting dust, packed away possibly forever. Childhood is something that I have lost, and miss greatly.

***

There are many hunters here in the the great State of Maine. Calendars and sporting catalogs show you pictures of your typical hunters: the upland hunter with his dogs and fancy shotgun,out beating the brush for birds; the get-up~early duck dude)waiting in a blind with his dog; the big game fellas with their expensive rifles and day~glo orange. But who ever shows you a picture of your basic trash hunter, your varmint killer, with his typical hunting outfit--two weapons not worth $50 dollars combined, a flashlight, a pulphook, and a varmint-hound.

Now, an honest-to-goodness trash hunter does not mess with rats. (Pats are for dump hunters, a different breed altogether.) He doesn't shoot squirrels with a Dan'l Boone black powder musket.He doesn't care about rabbits or coons (in their usual season.) A true-blue trash hunter is worried about his garden, his fruit trees, and his farm animals. So, his prey is woodchucks, the garden maulers; then porcupines, who turn apple trees into firewood and dogs into pincushions (quills can kill dogs, too.) No trash hunter would turn up his nose at the chance to kill a skunk, because skunks kill chickens and their chicks. trash hunters will let of f a shot at any coon, rabbit, weasel, or other creature who threaten~his seedlings, corn, or animals.

The typical trash hunter doesn't plan for the hunt at all. He'll be sitting in the house reading the paper and will look up. "What's that damn dog barking at,' he'll think to himself. Then, suddenly he will jump up, throw down the paper, shout "Oh, Jesus!", and tear out of the house with his outfit. He will run across the field toting a .22 semi-automatic that he bought second-hand in 1969. He'll have his single-shot 20 gauge shotgun ($35 dollars new in 1970), the one with all the blueing scratched off the muzzle. And, of course, the pulp hook, glinting and sharp, along with the red lantern flashlight. As he runs, he hears the dog barking and barking and his trashy blood starts to pound with excitement.

The dog is jumping around a 5 foot high, 10 foot wide stonewall--so the prey is a woodchuck unless there's a skunk smell, which there isn't this time. The hunter is still in his slippers, but he starts crawling around with the flashlight shining it down between the rocks. He's looking for a sign of movement or the reflection off a 'chuck's eye. The dog is helping by sticking his nose down likely cracks in the rockwall. "You're a good dog, go get 'err', get the hell out of the way," the hunter screams to encourage the dog--who hardly needs much encouragement. Killing trash is this dog's holy religion.

After a half-hour of following the chattering, squealing woodchuck under the wall, the hunter catches a movement in the dark. Dawn the crack goes the shotgun barrel--a little more blueing left behind forever--and when the hunter feels the barrel poke something soft, he pulls the trigger. Then~he starts dragging rocks aside until he can work the pulphook down the hole. He hooks the woodchuck and works it back through the rocks until he can toss it to the dog who has been barking non-stop now for about 45 minutes. Off the dog goes to his hideout with the bloody carcass; no one will ever see it again.

The hunter gathers his outfit; he didn't need the .22--that's for picking off treed porcupines. He heads back to his paper, feeling damn pleased with his dog and with himself for protecting the plants and animals under his care against trash--not that he'd care to live in a world that had no trash. Jeez, if there were no trash, what would the poor dog do to amuse himself?

--In memory of Keeper (17 woodchucks 1982)

****

Fire is a dangerous thing especially when it involves your home. It will be nine years January 30th that my family and I lost our home to fire. Grease was the cause of the fire in the Fire Marshal’s report but Scott and I had our own ideas of the cause of the fire.

It all started Sunday January 26, 1991 when I took off in an airplane with my infant daughter Britnee to Florida to show off my bouncing baby girl to her grandparents. This trip was a Christmas present from my husband Scott. I felt so guilty leaving him and my oldest daughter Jamie behind. Guilt, fear and loneliness set in as soon as I left the house that early Sunday morning. Even though the weather was warm and sunny I just new something was going to happen and I should be home in the cold snowy weather of Maine. Thursday morning these feelings became intense and after talking to Scott and Jamie on the phone I new that I was in the wrong place. Call it instinct or a mothers love for her family I don’t care, I just new I had to get to Maine and fast.

Later that night I was putting Britnee to bed when the phone rang. Out in the living room I heard my father-in-law say "our home in burning in Maine." I sat on the side of my bed and thought to my-self wow that it to bad, when all of a sudden I realized that the home he was talking about was my own that we had bought off them 4 months before. I remember this moment as if it happened yesterday. After going to other room I asked him if Jamie and Scott were OK but I got no response until the third time I hollered at him. Jamie was fine and Scott had a few small burns on his hands. My mother was the one that was comforting Jamie, my father was fighting the fire, Lori was tending to Scott’s burns and I was 1200 miles away feeling helpless. Scott finally called back about 3 hours later and explained that he made homemade French fries for supper and forgot to shut off the grease. Two hours later he realized what he had done, then he went to the kitchen and tried to remove the pot to the sink. When he did this the grease spilt and blew up like a bomb. After getting Jamie out through a window he went to his sister home next door and called the fire department. The fire had gutted the kitchen but the rest of the home was saved by our volunteer firefighter’s we thought. The wind was blowing 35 mph and the temperature was 30 degree’s below zero. Sometime during the night the wind caught a spark that was smoldering and by the time someone drove by the whole house was ignited and was a total loss. This was the beginning of the end for us it seemed.

Scott called me the next morning and told me the whole story again. The only thing that I wanted was to get home but I couldn’t get there fast enough. Two days later I finally bordered a plane to Maine. Scott kept saying that if he wouldn’t of lost his sense of smell from the tumor in his sinus cavity he would of smelt the grease long before it got hot. I knew that if I would of been home there would of been no fire and everything would of been fine. Why was a popular question at my parents home where we were staying. How do we explain to Jamie that everything she received for Christmas the month before was gone. Everything we had ever owned in our lives was gone! I knew that clothes, dishes, material things could be replaced but what about the china that was my grandmothers, the toy box that my grandfather who passed away in November that he built for Jamie, pictures when Jamie was a baby or the day Britnee was born, guns that were Scott’s grandfathers those types of things could never be replaced.

Scott and I both had our reasons for the cause of the fire. After many discussions about the cause we still butt heads and disagree on the actual cause. Scott feels that it was total his wrong doing and for him it all started when he was 18 and had most of his nasal cavity removed due to a tumor. I of course feel that I should of been the one home cooking for my family that night. No matter who was at fault we do agree on one thing, that no matter what we lost we still have each other and that is the most important lesson that we have learned throughout this whole nightmare

copyright  1999(c)by Charlotte Genthner

My Bach Omega silver trumpet means the world to me. I have had it for several years, and I intend to keep it for the rest of my life. It's not only special because of the name engraved on the side, or the perfect shine it bears, but for the memories linked to it as well.
I first began playing the trumpet when I was in the fourth grade. My music teacher had talked to our class about joining beginner band. I went home that afternoon and asked my mother if I could please be in band. Hesitantly, my mother told me she would love to have me play an instrument but there was just no way she would be able to afford one right then. I sadly returned to school to tell Mrs. Perkins of my conversation with my mother. Surprisingly, she responded that if I would be interested in playing the trumpet, the school had an extra one, which I could borrow. I was overcome with joy. I didn't have any real interest in the trumpet, but it was free, and I would get to be involved in the band. So, I gladly accepted her offer.
The first month or so was awful. I had no idea that getting a sound to come out would be so difficult. My cheeks ached, my head ached, and the sounds I was able to produce sounded like those of animals suffering badly. After time, I progressed quite quickly. I found myself in the advanced band only three moths after beginning. This was quite a feat- I was the first fourth grader ever to join the advanced band. I practiced all of my spare time. My mother used to make me go outside, because I was way too loud to stay inside. When it was raining, I would sit in the back seat of mom's car, and wail away.
My interest in music kept growing. My music teacher let me keep the trumpet that I had been using when I graduated from eighth grade. As a freshman at George Stevens Academy, I signed up for band. My dedication remained high. I would use my study halls to practice, and I would stay after school to get in extra jam sessions. I became lead seat my sophomore year, and began to have solos in performances. This was exciting, and scary all at the same time. The problem came when my trusty-rusty trumpet just didn't have any more life in her anymore. I went to Mr. Orlofsky and told him I really needed to do something about my instrument- it was worn to the point it couldn't reach high notes, and the range of it was really a student level. I needed a more advanced trumpet; one a professional could use.
Again, money was an issue. The trumpet I wanted was $1200- this was an awful lot of money, and even my part time job after school hadn't banked me the funds for this. At the time, even a cheapo like mine was over $500. I didn't even have the money for another piece of crap. Probably a week or so later Mr. Orlofsky called me to his office. He told me that he had worked out a deal with the company, and I could make monthly payments on the trumpet until it was paid for. I cried. I couldn't imagine being able to play in the next concert with a Bach Omega. This was one of the best trumpets made; certainly higher standards then most high school players had.
I definitely got my money's worth out of that horn. I played it daily, either in concert band, marching band, jazz band, or the brass ensemble. I stood up straight and proud as I played the national anthem at our school's ball games. I grasped it tightly 3 years in a row when our school won the state jazz festivals. I shined it extra when I marched in Springfield, Massachusetts during the Eastern States Exposition Fair, representing my school as well as my state.
About two years ago, I was already out of high school and not playing anymore. I got myself into a situation where the only way I was going to be able to pay my rent was to sell my pride and joy. As heartbreaking as it was, I sold it to a local musician and cried as I drove away, with nothing but stupid money left in my hand. I paid my rent, and went on with my life. Even though I wasn't in any sort of structured music program at the time, I felt like something was missing. Not like something was stolen, but missing from my heart.
      I went back to the man whom had purchased my trumpet from me. I asked him how it was working out for him. His response was "I don't know- haven't tried." Puzzled, I asked him what he meant. He told me that when I asked him if he wanted to buy it, he agreed because he knew that it would be safe. And although it was practically perfect in every way, he could never bring his lips to the mouthpiece knowing how devastated I must be not having it. He walked over to a closet, and pulled out the trumpet, and handed it to me. "Here," he said, "I think you forgot this." I reached into my pocket to buy it back from him, and he refused my money. He told me that he saw in my eyes the pain on the day I sold it to him, and no money would replace that sort of attachment. I thanked him graciously, and went home.
      The trumpet now sits perfectly polished in its case, on a shelf in my den. I don't play it often or even have the desire. I don't hold on to it for practical purposes. I keep it because of the memories I possess which include that trumpet, or music. I keep it because the side of it is tarnished from the sweat of my hands, reflective of the effort I put into it. I keep it because I remember loading it into bus after bus, playing my music loudly for all of those around. I keep it because along with it came self-esteem and confidence, something I lacked before. I keep it because it reminds me that hard work really can pay off in life. I keep it because I remember the look on my mom's face when I won the outstanding musician award. Most of all, I keep it because it's me.
Copyright © 2001 by Nicole Robichaud
 

Bad Choice
My mother and her ex-husband used to own an island together in Aurora, Maine on Alligator Lake. The island had a certain charm to it- you could almost see yourself at the turn of the century reeling in the catch of the day, or smell the muffins baking in the huge cast iron cookstove. There were four buildings on this three-acre parcel of land, a main lodge, and three smaller cabins. My mother and Bob shared one goal; to restore the buildings to the condition they were in when his great great grandfather owned it, and start up a hunting and fishing lodge as their livelihood as well as recreation.
My mother put everything she could into this project; her sweat from pounding nails and hauling lumber, her tears when the chimney caught fire and burned the renovated area flat, and as it turned out, her blood, because she was nearly killed on that very island.
Bob was a severe alcoholic. He was mean, and angry at the world. Anytime my Mom spoke, she was reminded that her place was in the kitchen, and she would be more lady-like if she could just be seen and not heard. Everytime I talked to my mom while she was living out on the island I would ask her why she was putting up with all of his bullshit. She always responded that she was too far into this to back out now, because she knew all of her efforts would only benefit him, as selfish as he was. Nonetheless, I still urged that he was an evil man, and the only way he would let off would be if she weren't around him anymore. Love is blind, I guess, because no matter who tried to reason with her, she insisted that the place for her was on this island, away from the stresses and strains of city life.
One day in mid-August of '98 I went to the island to visit with my mom unexpectedly. There were no phones, so I had to get to the shore and bellow across to let her know of my arrival. Bob brought the boat across to retrieve me. As I despised him, the trip across was in silence, with only the sound of the oars in the lake cutting through the tension between us. My mom was delighted to see me, and we started to play catch-up, trying to squeeze in all of the little details about what had happened since the last time we spoke. Mom talked of her arguments with Bob. She said he was really getting out of hand, and she thought that she was ready to come home. After a day of chit-chat and friendly visit, I told mom that dusk was soon to come, and I had better head across if I were going to make it out of the woods before dark. I asked her if she wanted to come with me, and ensured her that I would support her in every way that I was capable of if she were ready to leave him in the shadows. She told me not yet, but to come back in two or three days- that would allow her some time to gather some belongings, and tie up the loose ends. Hesitantly, I rowed with her the 500 yards or so to shore, kissed her a gentle kiss goodbye, and promised to return in a couple of days.
I never had the chance to return to that island; that night, not four or five hours after my departure, Bob proceeded to try and kill my mother. He had heard our discussion about her plans to leave him. He had heard the words of hate from the mouths of my mother and I. He had heard enough. After drinking a fifth of vodka, he pounded half a bottle of Valium down his throat. He pinned my mother to the ground and bashed her face in, leaving indentations of his high-school class ring etched in the side of her skull for eternity. After a violent struggle for her life, mom was able to try and run, he grabbed the shotgun and fired. The shot grazed her shoulder, burning her flesh and leaving her nearly deaf in her left ear.
Somehow, mom was able to convince him the next day to bring her home. She assured him that she wouldn't report to the police, as she was told that would be the end of her. She managed to get home, and walk through my door. That very moment; those five seconds will remain in my mind for the rest of my life. The woman who stood before me was unrecognizable. Her face looked like raw meat which animals had fought over, her stature was slouched and ashamed, and her eyes, they no longer had the twinkle which was my mother.
After a period of time, we did report everything, and Bob is currently serving a 14-year sentence in Thomaston. To some this may seem like justice was served, but not to me. The only justice would be if he could suffer the amount that my mother has suffered because of the damage he did to her. My mom is now permanently disabled. She has a huge fear of men, closed in spaces, is unable to trust anyone, and lives her life in a world of terror and depression. I often blame myself. I made the worst choice of my life that one evening; I left my mother with the man who almost brought upon her premature death. For this, I will never forgive myself.
Copyright © 2001 by Nicole Robichaud

CHILD’S  PLAY

            As kids, growing up on a farm, there were all kinds of things to do.  Some we were allowed, while others were strictly forbidden.  But being smarter than our parents were, like any normal child, we paid absolutely no attention to all the warnings, lectures, rules, and regulations concerning our safety.

             There was no fear in us as children. So nothing was too dangerous for us to attempt.  We used to climb up into the grain bin as the delivery truck was filling it.  Then we would take turns seeing who dared stay in the chute the longest.  As tons of grain came pouring into the chute, and filled up around your knees and thighs, you could hardly move.  The sheer panic would send you scrambling up over the side to safety.  Then it was someone else’s turn and the procedure would start all over again.

            Another favorite pastime was to see who could get the closest to Sampson the farms

breeding bull.  He was a half-ton of dynamite with a very short fuse.  He was ready to explode at the instant he felt a threat to his private little harem. We would slowly approach

him while judging the distance we would have to sprint before he could over take us.  All of a sudden he would shake his head and bolt into a charge.  It was then that you had to spin around and run for your life, as the sound of pounding hooves drew ever closer.  At the last second you vaulted over the fence and rolled out of his reach. Every one laughing

and screeching with delight.  Then someone else would boast of his or her bravado. And they would try their luck out in Sampson’s domain.

            The best time of year for us was right after haying season.  The barn would be bursting at the seams with new cut hay.  All of us kids would descend on that old barn.

Looking very much like a colony of army ants.  We would spend hours each day tunneling to the very core of the pile. Every bail that was removed was then placed on the pile elsewhere so nobody would be the wiser.  You see to us this was more than just a maze of tunnels in some old barn’s hayloft.  This was a place to escape to. A place where friends could meet, and just be who they wanted to be, a place far away from the prying, criticizing, opinionated ears of adults.

            Now as we ourselves have become adults, we can think back and realize how crazy

and dangerous our little games really were.  We could have been suffocated, trampled to death, or buried alive.  As responsible parents we try to warn and protect our own children.

Encouraging them with words of knowledge and wisdom.  Which are totally disregarded as utter nonsense, Viewed as nothing but babblings from yet another out of touch over protective parent. 

Copyright © 2001 by Kevin Wasson

                                                                                                                   I will never forget the day my daughter came to me and announced she wanted a new puppy. I tried to discourage her with all the responsibility lectures, and basic bad points of raising a puppy. I told her of the unexpected puddles, the strategically placed piles, the costly chewing habits, and the never ending whining when it was lonely at night. With tears in her big brown eyes she looked up at me and said, “ please daddy I promise to take care of it and clean up after it.” Once again she had played me like a finely tuned fiddle and I gave in.                                                                        

            After a long day of searching, and three hundred and fifty dollars later, we found what the family considered the perfect puppy He was cute, cuddly, and oh so precious. I  withheld my opinion for a later date. I still thought a Rottweiler or a German shepherd 

would have been better for protection. And a far more macho looking dog, than the little

Yorkshire terrier that we ended up with was.  

            We struggled through the beginning phases of our new puppy’s life. The destructive stage was almost unbearable. He ate shoes like they were barbequed baby backed ribs. He

chewed the legs on the furniture to the point that I swore he had northern beaver in his bloodline. And the never ending hours of teaching him tricks, daily routines, and basic good dog manners seemed like a total waste of time. Until one day out of the blue his leather appetite was stilled, his adult teeth finally grew in, and he seemed to get a grip on his mental incapability. Things were finally looking up.

            At first I avoided the puppy He wasn’t my kind of dog. I never took him with me. He

just didn’t fit in. All my friends had Pit-bulls, German shepherds, Rottweilers, or hunting dogs. I would have never lived it down if I had pulled in with my cute little yorkie. Then one day while putting up fence line in my field I looked back and saw the puppy was trying to follow me. After about an hour I looked up and he was still struggling through the tall grass

and under brush in a crazy attempt to keep up with me. I ignored him once again and went back to work. After completing the fence line I sat down on a rock and took a break. A couple of minutes later that little puppy came out of the tangle of grass and sat down at my feet. I bent down and picked him up. His sheer will and determination had won me over.

            After that day I realized my little Yorkshire terrier had as much, if not more, heart and loyalty as all my friends big macho dogs had. And the puppy I thought couldn’t be taught had

actually taught me something. We need to look at more than size and stature when we pass

judgment on something or someone.

 Copyright © 2001 by Kevin Wasson

Dawn-Marie Akerley
Eng 101, Assignment 37
October 28, 2001
Is it possible that animals could communicate with us in a language we could understand?  If they trusted us enough, and if we crossed-our-heart-and-hoped-to-die-promised not to tell anyone, would they open those fuzzy mouths with intelligent utterances?  What would they say?  These questions were running through my mind as a sat on the porch opposite Summer Snow, my Samoyed puppy.  Summer got board of my ruminations and went off to eat bugs.  I chased after her and rubbed her belly, knowing I would have her full attention.  I had questions and I believed she had answers.  It was show time
"I already know.  Sampson and I have already been talking.  He told me you could talk to me if you loved me enough.  Don’t you love me?"  I asked as I looked deep in her chocolate brown eyes. Sampson was the Husky next door that Summer enjoyed frolicking with.  Of course Sampson and I had had no such conversation but I thought the ‘I already know’ angle was a stroke of brilliance.  Summer responded by cocking her head and barking at me.  Communication yes, but not quite what I was after.  I spent all that afternoon cajoling and begging to be let in on what I was sure was a big animal secret.  Summer seemed to enjoy the attention but obviously her lips were sealed.  She wasn’t squealing.  
The rest of my summer was spent catching fireflies, picking dandelions, and trying to earn the trust of Summer, and at last confirm what I knew in my heart to be true.  I remember one balmy afternoon, sitting in the front yard having a picnic lunch with Summer.  We were sharing an olive and peanut butter sandwich, our favorite, and I was explaining to Summer all the benefits of letting me in on her secret and finally talking to me.  It took me a few minutes to realize that Summer was watching something behind me.  Uh oh.  Third graders!  The scourge of the neighborhood.  How long had they been there?  Did they hear me talking to Summer about her ability to talk?  
"Look at the little baby talking to her stupid dog like it’s really going to talk back.  What a stupid-head," one of them jeered.  Well, that answered that question.  They certainly heard enough. "She can too talk!  Just you watch!"  This was it.  I looked away from the hulking third-graders that surrounded us and starred intently into Summer’s eyes.  "Show them!" My eyes said, "If ever there was a time I needed you to be there for me, this was it!  Do it, Girl.  Show them what you can do!"  Summer looked around at all the faces peering down at her.  All this attention was just too exciting. She did what most puppies do when they get excited.  She peed.  She just got up and peed.  The third-grader’s laughed so hard I thought they might pee themselves too, but instead they made a few more less than kind remarks and went off to spread more bedlam.  I hung my head down in shame and felt my chin quiver.  The world as I believed it to be was shattered.
Summer Snow and I spent the rest of our summer together, chasing fireflies and
eating peanut butter and olive sandwiches.  Gone, however, were the long hours spent with me whispering in conspiratorial tones about the benefits of Summer letting me in on her secret.  I knew that wasn’t going to happen.  I was no fool.  I blew it.  I had spent all that time promising not to tell a living soul and before she had uttered a word I put her on the spot and told everyone within earshot what she could do.  I betrayed her. If Summer decided to talk it wasn’t going to be to me.  I’d have to learn the truth another way.  We had fish but I was pretty sure that was a shot in the dark.  What could they possibly have to say?  Nope, I needed a new angle, a fresh start.  "Mom, can I have a kitten?"  "I don’t see why not," she replied from the kitchen.    I smiled to myself.  I had a feeling I would learn the truth yet.
Copyright © 2001 by Dawn-Marie Akerley
 

Is it possible that animals could communicate with us in a language we could understand?  If they trusted us enough, and if we crossed-our-heart-and-hoped-to-die-promised not to tell anyone, would they open those fuzzy mouths with intelligent utterances?  What would they say?  These questions were running through my mind as a sat on the porch opposite Summer Snow, my Samoyed puppy.  Summer got board of my ruminations and went off to eat bugs.  I chased after her and rubbed her belly, knowing I would have her full attention.  I had questions and I believed she had answers.  It was show time
"I already know.  Sampson and I have already been talking.  He told me you could talk to me if you loved me enough.  Don’t you love me?"  I asked as I looked deep in her chocolate brown eyes. Sampson was the Husky next door that Summer enjoyed frolicking with.  Of course Sampson and I had had no such conversation but I thought the ‘I already know’ angle was a stroke of brilliance.  Summer responded by cocking her head and barking at me.  Communication yes, but not quite what I was after.  I spent all that afternoon cajoling and begging to be let in on what I was sure was a big animal secret.  Summer seemed to enjoy the attention but obviously her lips were sealed.  She wasn’t squealing.  
The rest of my summer was spent catching fireflies, picking dandelions, and trying to earn the trust of Summer, and at last confirm what I knew in my heart to be true.  I remember one balmy afternoon, sitting in the front yard having a picnic lunch with Summer.  We were sharing an olive and peanut butter sandwich, our favorite, and I was explaining to Summer all the benefits of letting me in on her secret and finally talking to me.  It took me a few minutes to realize that Summer was watching something behind me.  Uh oh.  Third graders!  The scourge of the neighborhood.  How long had they been there?  Did they hear me talking to Summer about her ability to talk?  
"Look at the little baby talking to her stupid dog like it’s really going to talk back.  What a stupid-head," one of them jeered.  Well, that answered that question.  They certainly heard enough. "She can too talk!  Just you watch!"  This was it.  I looked away from the hulking third-graders that surrounded us and starred intently into Summer’s eyes.  "Show them!" My eyes said, "If ever there was a time I needed you to be there for me, this was it!  Do it, Girl.  Show them what you can do!"  Summer looked around at all the faces peering down at her.  All this attention was just too exciting. She did what most puppies do when they get excited.  She peed.  She just got up and peed.  The third-grader’s laughed so hard I thought they might pee themselves too, but instead they made a few more less than kind remarks and went off to spread more bedlam.  I hung my head down in shame and felt my chin quiver.  The world as I believed it to be was shattered.
Summer Snow and I spent the rest of our summer together, chasing fireflies and
eating peanut butter and olive sandwiches.  Gone, however, were the long hours spent with me whispering in conspiratorial tones about the benefits of Summer letting me in on her secret.  I knew that wasn’t going to happen.  I was no fool.  I blew it.  I had spent all that time promising not to tell a living soul and before she had uttered a word I put her on the spot and told everyone within earshot what she could do.  I betrayed her. If Summer decided to talk it wasn’t going to be to me.  I’d have to learn the truth another way.  We had fish but I was pretty sure that was a shot in the dark.  What could they possibly have to say?  Nope, I needed a new angle, a fresh start.  "Mom, can I have a kitten?"  "I don’t see why not," she replied from the kitchen.    I smiled to myself.  I had a feeling I would learn the truth yet.

Copyright © 2001 by Dawn-Marie Akerley