Paul and Miriam Kauffman met the old-fashioned way. Two young kids who became friends and later got married. Everyone reaches their expiration date. We're like milk cartons in a store. The store manager is God, and before we get to go on the shelf, he stamps us with an expiration date. The shelf is life, so if we fall off, we're in trouble, but if we get bought we're doing well.
One day just as the sun was starting to rise a man came slowly down the street. His skin was wrinkled and folded with age, sagging around his eyes and mouth like a basset hound with no fur. He was hunched slightly, his hand holding tightly to a sturdy wooden cane that helped the hobbling footsteps stay balanced. As he passed a few other early birds waved to him, greeting him by name in a pattern so familiar it felt like it had gone on for forever.
He did not stop, only smiled a crooked smile at his acquaintances and kept walking. This was not unusual, and the people continued with what they were doing without another thought about it. The man had walked by them every day for years, and though his path had brought him new people every so often, he remained a constant on the street.
Few knew what drove him to stumble from his home so early and walk clear to the drug store three blocks away. Some whispered about his motivation, suggesting things that made little sense. A seldom few knew the real reason behind his quest, and they kept the knowledge to themselves generally. There was no harm in the old man, everyone could tell that whether they were new or old to the tradition. No one waited for him to stop and have a chat on his way, because he would not. He did not stop until he'd reached the drug store.
Pulling out change from his pocket the man went to the payphone outside the drug store and placed his money into the narrow slot. In long repeated motions he dialed the number, waiting with quiet breaths for the rings to silence at last. Finally a voice came on the other end, its tone sweetened with age and bright with cheer.
"You've reached the Kauffman residence," the woman's voice said in the same tone he had heard for years, "sorry we missed you. If you'll leave your name and number after the beep we'll get back to you as soon as we can. Thanks for calling."
The man did not wait for the obnoxious beep to ruin his moment and hung up the phone, his smile now brought into full view for the world to see. As he exited the telephone booth he stopped to talk with a mother who had recently moved to the street, smiling kindly at the two children who clutched her skirt tightly. He walked slowly back to his house, stopping every so often to tell and shop keeper that their fruit looked especially ripe, or to converse on the weather with the newsboy who seemed desperate for something to do.
The others could not see the reason behind the old man's actions. They did not know who he called every day, and the few that did thought he was mad. When he was asked who he was calling by an adventurous passerby he answered that he was simply calling his wife. It didn't take long for someone to let them know that his wife had died two years before, leaving him in his solitary treck up and down the block.
They did not understand what he gained by making the journey, and it seemed that happiness was not a large enough prize for most. Only the man knew what her voice really did. It filled his heart with warmth, made him smile the way only she had known how to. Most of all, if only for a moment he could imagine her standing beside him talking to him just like she had for more than forty years. Just for a moment, it was like he had his wife back, and that was enough to keep him going.
Tuesday, May 17, 2011
Death comes not to the living soul, nor age to the loving heart.
They were an odd pair, the boy and the man who sat beside him every day in the park. They had been meeting daily for months, each glad for the other person's company. It was unsightly, a woman once scolded them, that a mere child and an elderly person should be friends when they were no relation to one another. Words that the boy did not understand were thrown at them in muttered conversations between the middle ages, tossing accusations like "pervert" around as if it were mere fact that the encounters could have no other meaning.
At first the man was weary of befriending the child, knowing what it would look like to the rest of the world. Still, the day that the boy had sat down beside him on the park bench he had been unable to stop himself from beginning a conversation. Any parent would have done it, he reasoned. Any person who was from a time period far before "pedophile" was a common word wouldn't have even had the moment of hesitation that he had.
It was just that the boy looked so sad. When he sat down his head drooped so that his chin was nearly touching his chest, and his mouth was turned down into a miserable little frown. Though his feet dangled above the ground as he slid onto the bench, they remained hanging lifelessly rather than swinging back and forth.
"Something wrong, boy?" the old man asked, smiling kindly down at the boy.
Looking up in surprise the boy shook his head.
Chuckling a little the man said, "You look awfully sad for a boy whose got nothing wrong."
"It's not that nothing's wrong," the boy said finally, looking reluctant, "it's just that my dad says I shouldn't talk to strangers."
They exchanged looks for a long time, and for a moment the man was tempted to nod politely and let the bench fall back into silence. He probably would have, had he not noticed the way that the boy was still looking at him, as if wishing to be contradicted. It was the same look he remembered his son giving him years ago when he wanted to tell him something but wasn't sure how.
"Well you know," the man said cautiously, "if I introduced myself I wouldn't be a stranger."
The boy smiled just a little bit, "You wouldn't?"
"I don't suppose so," the man said, his eyes twinkling, "then I'd just be an acquaintance. My name's William McCarty."
"I'm Bobby," the boy said quickly, "it's very nice to meet you Mr. McCarty."
"It's very nice to meet you as well, Bobby," the man answered evenly. He paused a moment, as if to let the new introductions settle before asking, "so is that thing that's wrong anything you want to talk about?"
The boy hesitated, shifting in his seat as he thought through all the advice his father had given him. Then, glancing back at the man's kind blue eyes the boy knew that whatever advice his father had given him was for scary strangers, not acquaintances like the old man. "He didn't show up," the boy said finally, letting his breath out as though a very large secret had just been released. "He promised he'd come, but he didn't."
For the first time the man noticed something that he was sure he should have noticed long before then. Even as people passed them on every side as they sat chatting on the park bench, no mother stood hovering nervously beside her son. No father was nearby checking his watch impatiently. It seemed to the man that the boy was very much alone. Looking closer at his new acquaintance the man was sure that he could not be more than nine years old – much too young to be walking around the city without an adult.
"Who didn't come?" William asked, hoping that the boy's answer would answer his other questions as well.
The boy stared down at his shoes, blinking hard against the sudden moisture in his eyes. "My dad," he whispered, "he promised he'd come, but he didn't."
Understanding dawning on him the man said, "Was he supposed to pick you up from somewhere?"
Silently the boy nodded, brushing his sleeve against his eyes sneakily as a loud snuffle broke the stillness. "He was supposed to come see my music program at school," he said, "and then take me home."
"Do you need to call someone to get a ride then?" the man asked, reaching slowly towards the phone in his pocket. Adamantly the boy shook his head, and the man let his hand fall back into his lap.
"I don't want him to know where I am," the boy said angrily through his tears, "he promised to come and he didn't. He never does anymore. Ever since he went away he's been breaking promises. Well I'll show him… I'll run away and then he'll have to wonder where I've gone."
The man frowned, thinking of a father searching wildly for his son. He could imagine the guilt that would creep at him from all sides, could picture the worry that would suffocate him and the fear that would strangle him. "Surely that's not what you want," the man reasoned softly, "he'd be so worried about you, Bobby. And your mom too… Think of how worried she'll be."
"She doesn't care," the boy said quietly, sniffling again, "all she cares about is making sure that I'm not in her way. She won't even know I'm gone. Neither of them will until Rachel tells them I'm missing."
"And who's Rachel?"
"My nanny," the boy said, shrugging. "She's the only one who's really around anyway, and as far as she's concerned all I am is a smudge on her otherwise perfect day. She can worry too. They all can. It would serve them right."
"Let me tell you a story," the man said suddenly, looking down at the top of the boy's head. When he did not protest he began, "once there was a little boy, quite like you, who wanted everyone to keep their promises and have things back how they used to be. He wanted his parents to get along, and to get rid of the babysitter that always came by when he least wanted her there. His father, quite like your father, had trouble keeping his promises and often ended up not showing up for things when he said he would. Because of this, the little boy decided to run away."
The boy looked up, his eyebrows drawing together questioningly, "This isn't one of those stories that you make up about how you were really that little boy, and I'm supposed to listen to it and learn from your mistakes, is it?"
"No," the man said, chuckling, "not quite like that. You see, this little boy did run away just like you said. He let his father and mother worry, and you want to know what happened? They found him, and instead of crying with joy and all that stuff you see in movies they were very angry. The little boy was punished, and nothing changed except that, as the years went by, the little boy let himself become angrier and angrier at the situation."
Interested in spite of himself the boy asked, "So what happened?"
"He grew up," the man said softly, "he grew into an adult so angry and hurt that the soonest he could get away from his parents, he did. Now, even though his parents are sorry, and even though it has been nearly thirty years since all of this happened, the boy has never spoken to his parents since the day he graduated high school."
"Then what?"
The man looked down at him solemnly, shaking his head a little. "That's the end of the story," he said quietly, "not everything ends with 'and they lived happily ever after'."
"But that's stupid," the boy said angrily, "why didn't the boy talk to his parents if they wanted to talk to him? Why weren't his parents there for him in the first place? What was the point of all that? Who was the little boy anyway?"
"The boy did not talk to his parents because, as I'm sure you can imagine, he felt they were not there for him when he needed them most. His parents weren't there for him because they made a grave, terrible mistake in thinking that providing for him financially overruled spending the time with him that he deserved. The point, was to make you understand what happens in real life, and the little boy," for the first time in his answers the man paused, taking a deep breath, "the little boy was my son."
The boy was quiet for a moment, staring at the old man as he tried to understand what his last answer implied. Finally he seemed to realize, hot anger searing through him. He wasn't sure who to be madder at. He wanted to tell the old man that he was foolish and stupid for ruining his son's life that way, and yet, it seemed like he already knew. Looking at the kindness in the man's face he knew that he wanted to go find the son and tell him just how wrong he was, and how sorry his father really seemed to be. The boy didn't do either, just shook his head at the old man.
"Sir, do you love your son?" he asked him, his voice strangely quiet after all the storming he'd been planning to do.
The man smiled sadly, "With all of my heart."
"But you weren't there for him?" the boy clarified softly, "You didn't come when you said you would, and you didn't show up when he needed you?"
"After my wife and I split up things were hard," the man murmured, "It seemed like I was working all the time, but I never seemed to have any extra money. I was poor all my life, and more than anything I didn't want my son to go through the same thing. More and more I found myself trading time with him for an extra paycheck, and by the time I realized what I'd really sacrificed it was too late."
"Mr. McCarty," the boy said slowly, "I think I want to go home now."
Smiling a little the man nodded, "I'll take you back to your school," he said quietly, "and we can wait for your parents there."
They both stood up, the boy in an instant by sliding off the bench while the man took longer to pull himself to his feet. Though he was not yet old enough to need a cane, as he walked his back bent in a constant bow to those around him. Without hesitating the boy placed his hand in the older man's, closing his tiny fist around the man's palm so that he could lead him forward. The man followed with a smile still faintly on his lips. Together they strolled through the park, man led by child in a sight usually unseen.
"That was a nice story, Mr. McCarty," the boy said softly, "it's awfully sad about your son, though. Do you think he'll ever change his mind?"
"No," the man answered regretfully, "I'm afraid some hurt never goes away. Perhaps someday he will realize as I have how silly our feud may be to outsiders, but by then it will be too late to do any good."
"It's not silly," the boy said firmly, remembering all too well how angry he had spent the last few hours being at his father. He was still angry, just less willing to do something rash.
The man nodded knowingly, hobbling slowly after the boy. "I didn't mean that your anger was silly, Bobby," he said quietly, "Your anger is understandable. But there's a difference between a small boy being angry with his father from time to time and two full grown adults too stubborn to apologize to each other."
The boy glanced up at him, watching the way that the wrinkles on the man's face drew together, his eyes seeming to shine with an unspeakable sadness. More than anything he wanted to make the man feel better, and before he knew it he was speaking.
"Mr. McCarty, I have my third grade graduation next month," he said, stopping suddenly. "It's not a big deal like fifth grade graduation or anything. The teacher just hands us our certificates, and it's just our class that does it because she thinks that we should have a fun graduation every year, but I was just wondering if you'd like to come."
Surprised, the man looked down at the boy, meeting his eyes silently. On the boys face was not the look of someone who was carelessly inviting whoever he saw to an event, but someone who wanted more than anything to hear him say, "of course I'll come." He could remember his own son, passively mentioning events that had secretly meant a lot to him. Guiltily he could also remember not taking the invitation.
Meeting the boy's eyes the man spoke, each word a promise to them both. "Wouldn't miss it for the world."
And he didn't. When the boy received his diploma there was the man, filling a seat that had been left empty too many times before. Every evening since the day the boy had run away they met at the park bench, talking and laughing together like two old friends. In those moments where their laughter became intermixed and their voices were one and the same, age seemed to disappear. Rather than an old man and a boy sitting side by side on the bench, two friends sat sentry, laughing into the evening about the follies of the rest of the world.
At first the man was weary of befriending the child, knowing what it would look like to the rest of the world. Still, the day that the boy had sat down beside him on the park bench he had been unable to stop himself from beginning a conversation. Any parent would have done it, he reasoned. Any person who was from a time period far before "pedophile" was a common word wouldn't have even had the moment of hesitation that he had.
It was just that the boy looked so sad. When he sat down his head drooped so that his chin was nearly touching his chest, and his mouth was turned down into a miserable little frown. Though his feet dangled above the ground as he slid onto the bench, they remained hanging lifelessly rather than swinging back and forth.
"Something wrong, boy?" the old man asked, smiling kindly down at the boy.
Looking up in surprise the boy shook his head.
Chuckling a little the man said, "You look awfully sad for a boy whose got nothing wrong."
"It's not that nothing's wrong," the boy said finally, looking reluctant, "it's just that my dad says I shouldn't talk to strangers."
They exchanged looks for a long time, and for a moment the man was tempted to nod politely and let the bench fall back into silence. He probably would have, had he not noticed the way that the boy was still looking at him, as if wishing to be contradicted. It was the same look he remembered his son giving him years ago when he wanted to tell him something but wasn't sure how.
"Well you know," the man said cautiously, "if I introduced myself I wouldn't be a stranger."
The boy smiled just a little bit, "You wouldn't?"
"I don't suppose so," the man said, his eyes twinkling, "then I'd just be an acquaintance. My name's William McCarty."
"I'm Bobby," the boy said quickly, "it's very nice to meet you Mr. McCarty."
"It's very nice to meet you as well, Bobby," the man answered evenly. He paused a moment, as if to let the new introductions settle before asking, "so is that thing that's wrong anything you want to talk about?"
The boy hesitated, shifting in his seat as he thought through all the advice his father had given him. Then, glancing back at the man's kind blue eyes the boy knew that whatever advice his father had given him was for scary strangers, not acquaintances like the old man. "He didn't show up," the boy said finally, letting his breath out as though a very large secret had just been released. "He promised he'd come, but he didn't."
For the first time the man noticed something that he was sure he should have noticed long before then. Even as people passed them on every side as they sat chatting on the park bench, no mother stood hovering nervously beside her son. No father was nearby checking his watch impatiently. It seemed to the man that the boy was very much alone. Looking closer at his new acquaintance the man was sure that he could not be more than nine years old – much too young to be walking around the city without an adult.
"Who didn't come?" William asked, hoping that the boy's answer would answer his other questions as well.
The boy stared down at his shoes, blinking hard against the sudden moisture in his eyes. "My dad," he whispered, "he promised he'd come, but he didn't."
Understanding dawning on him the man said, "Was he supposed to pick you up from somewhere?"
Silently the boy nodded, brushing his sleeve against his eyes sneakily as a loud snuffle broke the stillness. "He was supposed to come see my music program at school," he said, "and then take me home."
"Do you need to call someone to get a ride then?" the man asked, reaching slowly towards the phone in his pocket. Adamantly the boy shook his head, and the man let his hand fall back into his lap.
"I don't want him to know where I am," the boy said angrily through his tears, "he promised to come and he didn't. He never does anymore. Ever since he went away he's been breaking promises. Well I'll show him… I'll run away and then he'll have to wonder where I've gone."
The man frowned, thinking of a father searching wildly for his son. He could imagine the guilt that would creep at him from all sides, could picture the worry that would suffocate him and the fear that would strangle him. "Surely that's not what you want," the man reasoned softly, "he'd be so worried about you, Bobby. And your mom too… Think of how worried she'll be."
"She doesn't care," the boy said quietly, sniffling again, "all she cares about is making sure that I'm not in her way. She won't even know I'm gone. Neither of them will until Rachel tells them I'm missing."
"And who's Rachel?"
"My nanny," the boy said, shrugging. "She's the only one who's really around anyway, and as far as she's concerned all I am is a smudge on her otherwise perfect day. She can worry too. They all can. It would serve them right."
"Let me tell you a story," the man said suddenly, looking down at the top of the boy's head. When he did not protest he began, "once there was a little boy, quite like you, who wanted everyone to keep their promises and have things back how they used to be. He wanted his parents to get along, and to get rid of the babysitter that always came by when he least wanted her there. His father, quite like your father, had trouble keeping his promises and often ended up not showing up for things when he said he would. Because of this, the little boy decided to run away."
The boy looked up, his eyebrows drawing together questioningly, "This isn't one of those stories that you make up about how you were really that little boy, and I'm supposed to listen to it and learn from your mistakes, is it?"
"No," the man said, chuckling, "not quite like that. You see, this little boy did run away just like you said. He let his father and mother worry, and you want to know what happened? They found him, and instead of crying with joy and all that stuff you see in movies they were very angry. The little boy was punished, and nothing changed except that, as the years went by, the little boy let himself become angrier and angrier at the situation."
Interested in spite of himself the boy asked, "So what happened?"
"He grew up," the man said softly, "he grew into an adult so angry and hurt that the soonest he could get away from his parents, he did. Now, even though his parents are sorry, and even though it has been nearly thirty years since all of this happened, the boy has never spoken to his parents since the day he graduated high school."
"Then what?"
The man looked down at him solemnly, shaking his head a little. "That's the end of the story," he said quietly, "not everything ends with 'and they lived happily ever after'."
"But that's stupid," the boy said angrily, "why didn't the boy talk to his parents if they wanted to talk to him? Why weren't his parents there for him in the first place? What was the point of all that? Who was the little boy anyway?"
"The boy did not talk to his parents because, as I'm sure you can imagine, he felt they were not there for him when he needed them most. His parents weren't there for him because they made a grave, terrible mistake in thinking that providing for him financially overruled spending the time with him that he deserved. The point, was to make you understand what happens in real life, and the little boy," for the first time in his answers the man paused, taking a deep breath, "the little boy was my son."
The boy was quiet for a moment, staring at the old man as he tried to understand what his last answer implied. Finally he seemed to realize, hot anger searing through him. He wasn't sure who to be madder at. He wanted to tell the old man that he was foolish and stupid for ruining his son's life that way, and yet, it seemed like he already knew. Looking at the kindness in the man's face he knew that he wanted to go find the son and tell him just how wrong he was, and how sorry his father really seemed to be. The boy didn't do either, just shook his head at the old man.
"Sir, do you love your son?" he asked him, his voice strangely quiet after all the storming he'd been planning to do.
The man smiled sadly, "With all of my heart."
"But you weren't there for him?" the boy clarified softly, "You didn't come when you said you would, and you didn't show up when he needed you?"
"After my wife and I split up things were hard," the man murmured, "It seemed like I was working all the time, but I never seemed to have any extra money. I was poor all my life, and more than anything I didn't want my son to go through the same thing. More and more I found myself trading time with him for an extra paycheck, and by the time I realized what I'd really sacrificed it was too late."
"Mr. McCarty," the boy said slowly, "I think I want to go home now."
Smiling a little the man nodded, "I'll take you back to your school," he said quietly, "and we can wait for your parents there."
They both stood up, the boy in an instant by sliding off the bench while the man took longer to pull himself to his feet. Though he was not yet old enough to need a cane, as he walked his back bent in a constant bow to those around him. Without hesitating the boy placed his hand in the older man's, closing his tiny fist around the man's palm so that he could lead him forward. The man followed with a smile still faintly on his lips. Together they strolled through the park, man led by child in a sight usually unseen.
"That was a nice story, Mr. McCarty," the boy said softly, "it's awfully sad about your son, though. Do you think he'll ever change his mind?"
"No," the man answered regretfully, "I'm afraid some hurt never goes away. Perhaps someday he will realize as I have how silly our feud may be to outsiders, but by then it will be too late to do any good."
"It's not silly," the boy said firmly, remembering all too well how angry he had spent the last few hours being at his father. He was still angry, just less willing to do something rash.
The man nodded knowingly, hobbling slowly after the boy. "I didn't mean that your anger was silly, Bobby," he said quietly, "Your anger is understandable. But there's a difference between a small boy being angry with his father from time to time and two full grown adults too stubborn to apologize to each other."
The boy glanced up at him, watching the way that the wrinkles on the man's face drew together, his eyes seeming to shine with an unspeakable sadness. More than anything he wanted to make the man feel better, and before he knew it he was speaking.
"Mr. McCarty, I have my third grade graduation next month," he said, stopping suddenly. "It's not a big deal like fifth grade graduation or anything. The teacher just hands us our certificates, and it's just our class that does it because she thinks that we should have a fun graduation every year, but I was just wondering if you'd like to come."
Surprised, the man looked down at the boy, meeting his eyes silently. On the boys face was not the look of someone who was carelessly inviting whoever he saw to an event, but someone who wanted more than anything to hear him say, "of course I'll come." He could remember his own son, passively mentioning events that had secretly meant a lot to him. Guiltily he could also remember not taking the invitation.
Meeting the boy's eyes the man spoke, each word a promise to them both. "Wouldn't miss it for the world."
And he didn't. When the boy received his diploma there was the man, filling a seat that had been left empty too many times before. Every evening since the day the boy had run away they met at the park bench, talking and laughing together like two old friends. In those moments where their laughter became intermixed and their voices were one and the same, age seemed to disappear. Rather than an old man and a boy sitting side by side on the bench, two friends sat sentry, laughing into the evening about the follies of the rest of the world.
Tuesday, May 10, 2011
The good man is a friend of all living things.- Mohandas Gandhi
I lay on the couch, looking out the window. The world is full of such beauty, play and love; a fancy dress ball. Trees and wind dance the tango, laughing at themselves as they step off beat; sparrows diving and twirling amongst the crowd ever so gracefully; butterflies finding their true love in a moment of a courting dance…
I close my eyes and think... What would you be at this elaborate masked ball? Usually you’re a mixture, maybe the inebriated sparrow not quite elegantly dancing with the sassy wind. It makes me smile when I think of nature dancing happily.
But I sometimes wish that you were a Monarch butterfly, looking for a charming lover to gracefully twirl and dance with to a French love ballad in a small garden blanketed by a sheet of diamonds, fragrant with the smell of wild flowers. But alas, I stay a tree, swaying to the music of nature while the clumsy,the love sparrow dives and swirls among all the trees in the forest ball. So I sit and smile at the thought of our next ball, for my next dance.
I close my eyes and think... What would you be at this elaborate masked ball? Usually you’re a mixture, maybe the inebriated sparrow not quite elegantly dancing with the sassy wind. It makes me smile when I think of nature dancing happily.
But I sometimes wish that you were a Monarch butterfly, looking for a charming lover to gracefully twirl and dance with to a French love ballad in a small garden blanketed by a sheet of diamonds, fragrant with the smell of wild flowers. But alas, I stay a tree, swaying to the music of nature while the clumsy,the love sparrow dives and swirls among all the trees in the forest ball. So I sit and smile at the thought of our next ball, for my next dance.
There are three musts that hold us back: I must do well. You must treat me well. And the world must be easy. - Albert Ellis
There is nothing more horrible on this Earth... Than being the new kid.
The quiet, weird, strange, funny looking, lonely, anti-social, new kid.
The kid that always gets picked on.
But its not just the new kid. Oh no, surely not.
Wether your the....
The tallest kid.
The tall lanky kid.
The overweight kid.
The small anorexic looking kid.
The kid with acne.
The kid with ADD, or ADHD.
The kids that aren't "Normal"
The quiet, anti-social kid.
Even a "Normal" seeming kid, with a nice life.
They wont leave you alone.
They catch you when your all alone in the halls, outside, on the bus, walking home.
They gang up on you.
They torture you. Call you names.
Poke at your problems.
Your life problems.
Your appearance. Your stature.
They don't care who you are.
As long as there's something that they don't like about you.
They wont stop. They wont be quiet. They wont go away.
It is because we all have these things holding us back.
I must do well.
You must treat me well.
The world MUST be easy.
We all have to make the choice to not let those hold us back.
Make the good one.
The right one.
That everyone can be happy about. Even you can be happy about.
Smile and be happy.
Try to make friends.
They wont always come to you.
And if they do, their real friends.
Friends who care about you, for being you.
Be yourself.
If they dont like it, too bad.
The'll be missing out on alot.
On you.
We're all only human.
We don't have special powers.
We aren't all smart.
And we all aren't stupid.
We are us.
With our own hearts.
Our fears.
Hopes.
Dreams.
You are you.
No one else.
No matter how hard you try.
You wont be like someone else in every way.
You won't be able to always do well.
You won't always be treated well.
And the world won't always be easy.
You have flaws.
And you have your moments.
You have your smile.
And your own life.
Take hold of your life.
Drive it.
Dont try to control everything.
It isn't possible.
You cant control what your parents do.
Your friends.
Nor anyone else.
The only person that you can control,
Is you.
Smile at your enemies.
Because that, is what, will truly...
Drive them insane.
Dont smile for anyone.
Smile and be happy...
For yourself.
Smile for God because He will always be there.
He knows you have done well.
He will always treat you well.
The world may not be easy, He knows that too.
But He has an amazing world waiting for you.
The quiet, weird, strange, funny looking, lonely, anti-social, new kid.
The kid that always gets picked on.
But its not just the new kid. Oh no, surely not.
Wether your the....
The tallest kid.
The tall lanky kid.
The overweight kid.
The small anorexic looking kid.
The kid with acne.
The kid with ADD, or ADHD.
The kids that aren't "Normal"
The quiet, anti-social kid.
Even a "Normal" seeming kid, with a nice life.
They wont leave you alone.
They catch you when your all alone in the halls, outside, on the bus, walking home.
They gang up on you.
They torture you. Call you names.
Poke at your problems.
Your life problems.
Your appearance. Your stature.
They don't care who you are.
As long as there's something that they don't like about you.
They wont stop. They wont be quiet. They wont go away.
It is because we all have these things holding us back.
I must do well.
You must treat me well.
The world MUST be easy.
We all have to make the choice to not let those hold us back.
Make the good one.
The right one.
That everyone can be happy about. Even you can be happy about.
Smile and be happy.
Try to make friends.
They wont always come to you.
And if they do, their real friends.
Friends who care about you, for being you.
Be yourself.
If they dont like it, too bad.
The'll be missing out on alot.
On you.
We're all only human.
We don't have special powers.
We aren't all smart.
And we all aren't stupid.
We are us.
With our own hearts.
Our fears.
Hopes.
Dreams.
You are you.
No one else.
No matter how hard you try.
You wont be like someone else in every way.
You won't be able to always do well.
You won't always be treated well.
And the world won't always be easy.
You have flaws.
And you have your moments.
You have your smile.
And your own life.
Take hold of your life.
Drive it.
Dont try to control everything.
It isn't possible.
You cant control what your parents do.
Your friends.
Nor anyone else.
The only person that you can control,
Is you.
Smile at your enemies.
Because that, is what, will truly...
Drive them insane.
Dont smile for anyone.
Smile and be happy...
For yourself.
Smile for God because He will always be there.
He knows you have done well.
He will always treat you well.
The world may not be easy, He knows that too.
But He has an amazing world waiting for you.
Singing world- One Syllable
If you asked your best friend, a friend you had known and loved for all of your days, if they had ever seen the world and not just glimpsed at it, they would give you a look of doubt and say, “What do you mean? The world is what it is. What else is there to see about it?”
Should your life be a thing like mine, you would stare straight back at them, your thoughts a mess of your own self doubts. To me, the world is a place that most can’t see; or at least, not the way that I do. It has been that was since I was young. Most could claim I still am young now, but when you look at the ground from the sky, you find that age is a lot less than you would have once claimed it was.
Of course, I don’t mean to speak as if I am more wise than my years call for. There is nothing rare about me; I am just a girl. But I am a girl who can feel that her world is one that sings, and it sings to each one of us from new places. Some of us can’t hear it, and most of us can’t dream of the sight our songs could be born from, but it is there. It is masked in every gap and void of our lives.
I can’t help what God has put in front of me when my are eyes open. I don’t know if I’m right or if this is all in my head, and from time to time I sit back and think about it, as my blue skies fade to cool gray and chilled black. But each time, I see that even if I could, I would not change a thing. God has made the best world of all. I would never want to change it, the world always shows Him in every song that I can hear. I can wake up each day knowing my world will dance with the song only some hear, and only some can see, and it will go on for as long as God does, till the end of all.
Should your life be a thing like mine, you would stare straight back at them, your thoughts a mess of your own self doubts. To me, the world is a place that most can’t see; or at least, not the way that I do. It has been that was since I was young. Most could claim I still am young now, but when you look at the ground from the sky, you find that age is a lot less than you would have once claimed it was.
Of course, I don’t mean to speak as if I am more wise than my years call for. There is nothing rare about me; I am just a girl. But I am a girl who can feel that her world is one that sings, and it sings to each one of us from new places. Some of us can’t hear it, and most of us can’t dream of the sight our songs could be born from, but it is there. It is masked in every gap and void of our lives.
I can’t help what God has put in front of me when my are eyes open. I don’t know if I’m right or if this is all in my head, and from time to time I sit back and think about it, as my blue skies fade to cool gray and chilled black. But each time, I see that even if I could, I would not change a thing. God has made the best world of all. I would never want to change it, the world always shows Him in every song that I can hear. I can wake up each day knowing my world will dance with the song only some hear, and only some can see, and it will go on for as long as God does, till the end of all.
Dream House
As I approach the island on which my dream house awaits, I catch a quick glimpse of it. It is huge, and is the most noticeable building in the area. My private plane lands on the air strip next to the house. I get out of the plane and start my journey through a heavily wooded path leading to my dream house. I walk with anxiety toward the house at which I will spend the rest of my life. All around me lie the most beautiful trees and plants you have ever seen. It is peaceful but you can hear the sounds of birds chirping and small forest creatures frolicking in the under brush. As I continue to walk along the path the end starts to appear. I now see my house for the first time up close. Nothing could have prepared me for the moment I was about to experience. My house that I designed is all I imagined and more. It is a four story dream on a huge fifteen acre lot. As I approach the stairs at the entrance to the house I am surrounded by four columns leading to the most elegant doors I have ever seen. They are made of mahogany and have a stained glass window in the center. The handles and the frame is made of brass. As I continue around the house I come across three windows overlooking the entrance to the house. There are black shutters on each window. As the porch continues to the south side of the house I am now looking over the Pacific Ocean. A huge eight foot picture is facing the same way I am. As I look down and observe the ocean I see two piers jutting out into the Pacific. On either side of the piers are huge boulders protecting the coast line from erosion. The house's walls are made of stucco and it has an old fashion shingles that are a clay color. As I walk into the back yard I am surrounded by a lot of things. I walk toward the road and I first come across a basketball court. To the left of the basket ball court is a tennis court. On the opposite side of the yard there is an in ground swimming pool that is connected to the pool inside the house. As my journey comes to a close I notice a white gazebo off to the east of the house. It is in a position such that you can see anyone entering or leaving the lot if you are sitting in it. As my plane leaves to go home to pack I take one last look at the house. I think to myself, "Yes this is my dream house, My dream house."
Walter Dodge
Until I stumbled across an article about him in the paper, I never realized how much Walter Dodge and I are alike. First, we are both trapped in this one-horse town. The biggest difference is only my students and a handful of waitresses know me, but everyone knows Walter. He’s their very own Boo Radley. Walter, in all his Boo-ness, wanders the streets dressed in a yellow slicker and green hip waders, even on the hottest days of summer. If all you see in passing is a burned dome of scalp, a permanent yarmulke, sitting in the center of his dirty gray hair, you know its Walter. And there’s not a stronger smell in town, not even when the wind catches the pungent odor of the Burton pig farm a mile out of town. Yet everyone in Stockbridge, full of birth-born Christians who have never doubted in their shared God, treat the eye-sore as if he’s the second coming.
The bad economy, in tandem with the controversy spurred on by the close-minded parents at my teaching job in Chicago, has forced me to seek employment any place I can. I called my old boss the day I got the job and told her she was wrong—someone would touch me with a ten-foot pole. I didn’t mention that it’s teaching tenth grade English to farm kids, most who have never finished a book and will never see the inside of a university. I would’ve told her that it was a step below Hades if I hadn’t feared her laughter.
My first spring in Stockbridge was my induction to planting season. Not a boy was present for six weeks. When I counted them absent, Mr. Bird, a fist-cousin to the infamous Larry Bird, a fact he shared during my interview, pointing to a large portrait hanging above the desk of his family at a reunion, the basketball player positioned in the center, made a visit to my classroom to explain how things work in a farm community.
“We tend to look the other way during planting and harvest season. The daddies need them to help out, drive the tractors and such.”
“Then how do they learn the material?”
“More times than not, they don’t. Just do your best to catch them up. And don’t worry about including the assignments when it comes time for grade cards.”
“How’s that fair to the others?”
He shrugged. “Most of the other students are from farm families, so they understand and don’t make a fuss. I know it’s not really on the up and up, but you of all people should understand how that works.” Mr. Bird held my gaze until I looked away. It was the first time my situation had been mentioned since the interview and I’d convinced myself that it had been forgotten…
The bad economy, in tandem with the controversy spurred on by the close-minded parents at my teaching job in Chicago, has forced me to seek employment any place I can. I called my old boss the day I got the job and told her she was wrong—someone would touch me with a ten-foot pole. I didn’t mention that it’s teaching tenth grade English to farm kids, most who have never finished a book and will never see the inside of a university. I would’ve told her that it was a step below Hades if I hadn’t feared her laughter.
My first spring in Stockbridge was my induction to planting season. Not a boy was present for six weeks. When I counted them absent, Mr. Bird, a fist-cousin to the infamous Larry Bird, a fact he shared during my interview, pointing to a large portrait hanging above the desk of his family at a reunion, the basketball player positioned in the center, made a visit to my classroom to explain how things work in a farm community.
“We tend to look the other way during planting and harvest season. The daddies need them to help out, drive the tractors and such.”
“Then how do they learn the material?”
“More times than not, they don’t. Just do your best to catch them up. And don’t worry about including the assignments when it comes time for grade cards.”
“How’s that fair to the others?”
He shrugged. “Most of the other students are from farm families, so they understand and don’t make a fuss. I know it’s not really on the up and up, but you of all people should understand how that works.” Mr. Bird held my gaze until I looked away. It was the first time my situation had been mentioned since the interview and I’d convinced myself that it had been forgotten…
Greysen
Name: Greysen Chance
Full Name: Greysen Leon Chance
Nickname: Marcy
Age: 14
Birthday: August 8
Gender: Male
Ethnicity: Cajun on his father's side, Irish on his mother's
Hair: Dark brown, straight, shoulder length, with bangs
Eyes: Hazel
Skin: Light
Body: Average
Face Shape: Oval
Smile: Wide, somewhat cheesy
Takes After: His father
Handedness: Right
Voice: Has changed, medium pitch
Laugh: Throaty
Accent: Southern
Style/Clothes: Casual
Catchphrases: "Yes, ma'am." (with a Confederate-soldier-like salute and love-struck expression) (when a pretty girl asks him to do something)
Religion: Episcopalian
Personality Strengths: Funny. Outgoing. Friendly. Witty. Intelligent.
Personality Flaws: Cocky. Stubborn. A little dense. Girl-crazy.
Way Of Expressing Emotions: Impulsively and loud
Dream: To be a writer
Role Model: Robert E. Lee
Hobbies: Basketball, soccer, writing, reading
Likes: The South, the Stars and Bars, antiques
Favorite Color: Burgundy
Favorite Food: Cornbread
Favorite Music Genre: Country
Favorite Artist: Johnny Cash
Favorite Movie Genre: Slasher movies
Favorite Animal: Elephant
Dislikes: Waking up early, chemistry class
Fears: Concussions
Love Interest: Zoey Saberhagen
Best Friends: Ellison Vonner, Amory Costello
Family: Greysen's parents are Elizabeth, 38, and Andrew, 37. He has two sisters: Sadie, 20, and Emily, 16. Sadie is married to Kimbra and Amory's father. He loves lording it over the twins that he's practically their uncle.
Full Name: Greysen Leon Chance
Nickname: Marcy
Age: 14
Birthday: August 8
Gender: Male
Ethnicity: Cajun on his father's side, Irish on his mother's
Hair: Dark brown, straight, shoulder length, with bangs
Eyes: Hazel
Skin: Light
Body: Average
Face Shape: Oval
Smile: Wide, somewhat cheesy
Takes After: His father
Handedness: Right
Voice: Has changed, medium pitch
Laugh: Throaty
Accent: Southern
Style/Clothes: Casual
Catchphrases: "Yes, ma'am." (with a Confederate-soldier-like salute and love-struck expression) (when a pretty girl asks him to do something)
Religion: Episcopalian
Personality Strengths: Funny. Outgoing. Friendly. Witty. Intelligent.
Personality Flaws: Cocky. Stubborn. A little dense. Girl-crazy.
Way Of Expressing Emotions: Impulsively and loud
Dream: To be a writer
Role Model: Robert E. Lee
Hobbies: Basketball, soccer, writing, reading
Likes: The South, the Stars and Bars, antiques
Favorite Color: Burgundy
Favorite Food: Cornbread
Favorite Music Genre: Country
Favorite Artist: Johnny Cash
Favorite Movie Genre: Slasher movies
Favorite Animal: Elephant
Dislikes: Waking up early, chemistry class
Fears: Concussions
Love Interest: Zoey Saberhagen
Best Friends: Ellison Vonner, Amory Costello
Family: Greysen's parents are Elizabeth, 38, and Andrew, 37. He has two sisters: Sadie, 20, and Emily, 16. Sadie is married to Kimbra and Amory's father. He loves lording it over the twins that he's practically their uncle.
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