mosaic: volume 9, issue 2

a magazine

for the literary and visual arts at

Holderness School

Mosa

ic

Spring 2011

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mosaic ● Volume 9, Issue 2 ● Holderness School ● www.holderness.org

mosaic, spring 2011

This issue of Mosaic contains the pieces of 28 artists and 16 writers. While some students became involved this semester in reflecting backwards on the people and places of the past, other students focused their attention on their own perspectives of the world. In addition to exhibiting the students’ technical skills, these pieces also demonstrate the students’ thoughtfulness in processing and explaining their ideas. Actress Hedy Lamarr once said, “A good painting to me has always been like a friend. It keeps me company, comforts and inspires.” While the following pieces of art are certainly expressions of the individual artists, I hope that through sharing their perspectives, they will also inform their viewers, comforting them at times and inspiring them at others. I hope you enjoy this issue; thanks for your time.

Emily Magnus Coordinator of Student Publications

Sarah Stride

Cover art by Sam Nungesser

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Locked Tight By Nick Ford

Pears locked tight, Twisted, torn, troubled now, Thought they had some human right, Ripped away with Aryan might, Nothing left to do but bow.

During the winter of 2011, Holderness School was honored to display the works of Samuel Bak in the Brush Gallery. The exhibit was sponsored by Facing History and Ourselves, a nonprofit organization dedicated to helping students examine historical events and connect them to the moral choices of to-day. Ms. Field, Mr. Teaford and many of their students visited the gallery and responded to the paint-ings in both art and writing. At the end of the winter quarter, Ms. Field created a catalogue of their work to give to Mr. Bak and Facing History and Ourselves in order to thank them for bringing the ex-hibit to Holderness. Below are just some of the outstanding paintings and poems that were included in the catalogue. You can view the complete book and listen to student recitations of some of the poems at http://samuelbak.holdernet.org.

Tram Dao

Lizzie Legere

Julie Han

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Family By Tom Barbeau

Standing alone there is boy Prosecuted for merely being a Jew His only goal in life is to play with a toy With his childhood taken away, there is no joy Surviving makes him one of the fortunate few.

A Pair in Pieces By Nick Stoico

As the ash falls on my brow Like snow finding a resting place I look about and can do nothing right now But sit and watch and merely allow The house to burn the home I erase.

Sounds for Change By Tom Bobotas

Sounds of Silence wait in despair, While everyone else is desperate for change. Hopefully someday, one does not need a gas mask to breath fresh air, Like the many others who have been treated unfair. Sympathy is not enough; we must rearrange.

Hailee Grisham

Mimi Patten

Sarah Stride

The Peril in Lighting By Carson Houle

The unexpected birds called me forward, Not lovely doves of peace, But vultures pointing at me with a sword, As if Zeus decided to plug in the cord To prove that evil will never cease.

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During their sophomore year, Holderness students are asked by their English teachers to describe a memorable place. Within the ten-page essays, students are required to include not only physical de-scriptions but also historical background and personal memories as well. The following essays are excerpts from just a few of the excellent essays created by the sophomore class.

The View from a Basketball Court By Daniel Do

I remember stepping over a drooping, bulky, pewter chain that divided the public streets from the private school areas and walking onto the outdoor courts where I could see Bill Kuker, the school janitor. Week after week, every Friday at around 3:30 PM, when I would start to play basketball, Bill would step out onto the luscious and wavy field of grass.

He always began his Friday afternoon work standing underneath the faded gold school bell with both his soiled hands in the pockets of his stained, pallet over-alls. Underneath his overalls, he always had on an overused, patterned flannel that was buttoned all the way to top except for the last two. He wore a simple pair of worn, saffron-colored work boots that over

the course of a school year transformed from pristine and smooth to soiled and coarse. He always had on a pair of late 90‟s style prescription glasses outlined with a shade of pale gold. Lastly, the one garment that most defined Bill was his aged, crumpled yet trusty, faded, celadon baseball cap.

As he proceeded onto the field, he would always come to a stop where the pavement met the overflow-ing grass. He would gaze into the trees, the clouds, or the heavens for what seemed like a decade, as if it had begun chatting with him. Then, all of a sudden, as if life had just reentered into his body, he would un-freeze and begin to walk normally in my direction. I would stare at him and wonder if he had just experi-enced an out-of-body experience. Ignoring my rude body language, he would casually greet me and con-tinue walking towards the red shed.

The red shed was behind the swings and at the top of a little paved, brick path that was hidden underneath a multitude of overgrown tree branches and vines. The splintery and barbed door when opened always emit-ted an irksome screech, then dropped a couple scraps of aged, chipped, scarlet paint.

Out of the miniature jungle, Bill would reappear with a tarnished, vermillion lawn mower. As he walked across the woodchips, the asphalt, and the grass, the lawn mower‟s wheels rolled silently at times and at others clattered and smacked its metal parts against the cement. Bill would then refill the lawn mower‟s tank with a large plastic bottle of gasoline; it con-sumed gasoline like a dehydrated dog dying for water in the sizzling days of summer. Once the behemoth‟s tank was filled, he would start its engine by repeatedly pulling a black cord and resurrecting it to life.

Instantly, the calm eeriness of the sunny Friday eve-ning would be substituted for a deafening and raucous tractor hum. Bill would enthusiastically begin his strenuous lawn mowing, moving counter-clockwise and mowing the shaded grass in front of the old sev-enth-grade math and science rooms. He would pass the giant, green roped “spider” - a rope climbing course in the shape of triangular prism - and then the

So Hee Park

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playground as well. As he made his turn at the corner of the field, he would then mow the grass by the na-ture path, a popular runner‟s route cloaked with tow-ering trees and phone lines. He would then make an-other turn and begin mowing the field‟s rectangular length. Immediately, he would pass a concealed dew pond that was shielded with an envelope of emerald shrubbery. Slices of grass would be flung from the lawn mower onto the pond‟s surface and float seam-lessly with the russet, broken branches. Occasionally, in the little dew pond there would be a one or two myrtle-headed ducks hovering aimlessly in the water. Whenever they heard the slightest sounds of an in-truder, they would hastily revolve their heads and gaze at its presence. Then they would then return to their personal business just like Bill did. As he contin-ued to mow the field, he would pass the home of an anonymous man in the woods. Although the man is now long gone, rumor has it that he had the entire outdoor home setup. There remained a queen-sized mattress, complete with a sweat-stained pillow and a filthy blanket.

Bill would continue with his work and pass a pungent school compost pile that secreted the foul odor of unfinished Lunchables and disregarded healthy fruits. As Bill would make another turn, he mowed directly underneath a giant granite wall with taupe rocks and callow boulders unevenly thrust into the setting. Be-yond that giant wall is another public school called the Bell School. Young children attend the school and their strident screams of joy and excitement can be heard inside the classrooms of my school. Bill

would then pass the set of swings as the cut grass covered and intermingled with woodchips. As the sounds of the lawn mower grew from earsplitting to thundering, I knew that Bill had reached the basket-ball courts. By this time when I saw him, Bill‟s flannel was drenched with fuming sweat. Even his cotton baseball cap was trickling sweat drops like a shower-head.

Bill sometimes would stop by and have a friendly chat with me if he had spare time. We would discuss fascinating topics from the current war to his witty memories of his raucous high school life. Sometimes, before Bill returned to his field work, he would take one basketball shot, do or die, hoping that it would go in. More often than not, it was luck that let the shot hit the backboard and bank in. As Bill finished the last portion of the field, the cut grass created a circular outline around the basketball court.

Once Bill finished his job, he would drag the over-heated lawn mower back into the red shed, close the creaking door, and depart for a relaxing weekend in his custom “rosso corsa”-colored Ford Mustang.

Hailee Grisham

Tram Dao

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Rimouski, Quebec By Francis Parenteau

Rimouski is a small Canadian city that boarders the St. Lawrence River. It is located in the eastern province of Quebec. It is the home of around forty thousand French Canadians. The city was founded in 1696 by Sir René Lepage de St. Claire, a lord from France who was sent to Quebec to help rule the colony. There is a lot of history attached to the city of Ri-mouski. The most famous event is definitely the 1950 Red Night (translation from the French Nuit Rouge) when 319 houses burned to the ground. The fire originated at the Price Brothers Company and spread through the city; pushed by strong winds, the fire destroyed half of the city. However, there were no deaths recorded that day, and a legend says that a priest sprinkled holy water to protect the inhabitants from the fire.

I spent a lot of time during my childhood with my grandfather at his house in Rimouski. My grandfather was born on May 21, 1941. He grew up in the Mont-real area, but he had always been fascinated by and attracted to the country life. He was also ambitious and wanted to become a doctor. He went to school and worked hard but never reached the university level. As he liked to say, he got stopped by the one thing stronger than the brain: his heart. He met my grandmother during the winter of 1959 and instantly fell in love with her. No later than a year after they met, my grandmother gave birth to my uncle, Benoit. My mother came three years later.

At that time, my grandfather worked at a Hydro-Quebec electric central near Montreal and worked in the union council as an adviser, which was pretty

good considering his level of education. Hydro-Quebec was and still is the biggest company in Que-bec and furnishes electricity to all of Quebec, part of Ontario, and parts of the US located along the Cana-dian border. But it was not enough for him; he needed a challenge to satisfy his ambitions. He climbed the hierarchy and became vice president of the union council in 1969. Hydro-Quebec had around twenty thousand employees at that time and was still expanding. The expansion gave my grandfa-ther the chance of his life. In the spring of 1973, he was offered the job of president of the union council at the Manic-5 central, the third biggest central at that time. What was so interesting about that job was that it paid well, obviously, but more importantly it was located in eastern Quebec, away from any urban cen-ter. My grandfather‟s dream of living in the country without sacrificing his job and his family's quality of life was to become reality. At the Manic-5 central he represented around three hundred workers and had a lot of responsibilities. He moved to Rimouski in the fall and found an extraordinary house on the banks of the St. Lawrence River, the house that was going to be the host of so many good memories.

I remember shooting at the raccoons with a pellet gun, because they were eating the crops in my grand-father‟s small garden. The garden was a fifteen by fifteen square decorated with tomato, carrot, and let-tuce plants. The gun we used to shoot at the rac-coons was a police-type gun with an integrated laser that was really useful for aiming and striking precisely. My grandfather gave us a small octagonal container filled with round silver pellets to shoot at the vermin, as he called the small furry animals. I was always the first one to have the opportunity to shoot, since I was the oldest. My two younger brothers followed after me. Simon, who is eighteen months younger, would have the second run of the day. Martin, a little more than two years younger than Simon, had the last shot, if the raccoons had not left for their den under the old wooden shed. Although my grandfa-ther trusted us, there were precise rules that had to be followed if we wanted the privilege of shooting the pellet gun. First, only the person with the gun could go in the garden and look for the raccoons. Second, the person with the gun had to aim at the ground at all times, except when he was ready to shoot. Third, the person with the gun could only use one bullet and then had to pass the gun to the next in line.

I remember one time, the last time actually, that I Yejin Hwang

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went hunting in the garden. It was after dinner, and the sun was going down faster every minute. The view on the St. Lawrence River was amazing. The sky was purple and pink around the setting sun. The water was crystal blue and acted as a mirror, reflecting the bright orange of the sun. I could have stayed for hours, mo-tionless, just looking at the breathtaking panorama, but I had more important business to take care of. During dinner we had seen the raccoons fooling around in the garden. However, at that point we had not bothered ourselves, because we were enjoying the best carrot cake on earth, a gift from my grandfather‟s partner. A tall, ice-cold glass of milk accompanied the treat. After my mom had eaten her last bite, my grandfather looked at me in the eyes and nodded. I understood right away; I was the one who was sup-posed to stop the raccoons. As a ten-year-old child, the pressure was there. I was an average sized boy, around 75 pounds, four and a half feet tall. I wanted to make my grandfather proud of me. I admired him, probably because he had so many things that fasci-nated me. A boat, a three-wheeled quad, a hunting bow, and the Rambo knife were only some examples.

After leaving the table, I went in the weapon room where my grandfather stored all his hunting equip-ment. It was a small room, lit only by one old dusty lamp. In this room, the smell was a mixture of humid-ity, dust, and old iron. I reached one wooden drawer and opened it. I took the pistol and put one pellet in it, making sure to place it perfectly, because I did not want to miss my only opportunity.

The gun was loaded. I was ready. I got out by another door, the one that opened on the backyard, where my hunting game would begin. I started toward the gar-den, walking as quietly as my ten-year-old body per-mitted me. My bare feet in the grass were giving me a refreshing sensation of comfort. I could feel the cold wind blow on my face. The wind carried the smell of barbecue, due to my grandfather‟s delicious hamburg-ers that we had been eating earlier that night. I still had the taste of the carrot cake and the several glasses of milk in my mouth. The sweet taste comforted me, but reminded me at the same time that my stomach had received too much of it. I was alone with my fast and noisy breath. My gun was pointed down, but my eyes were looking in every direction, ready to transmit the signal at the sight of any movement. The handle felt really comfortable for some reason, like the gun was part of me, was just an extension of my arm.

My finger was on the trigger, and I had the feeling I would have to press it soon. I was right. I was about five feet from the first tomato plant when I saw it. The smell of summer tomatoes reached my nostrils, and I felt less tension for around two and a half sec-onds, when my brain directed my attention back on the raccoon. It was as big as me or, at least, it seemed as big as me. Suddenly, everything became noiseless. I could not hear my breath anymore. I only saw the ani-mal in front of me. I got scared it was going to attack me, but I then remembered I was the one with the gun. It was looking at me, totally motionless, and I felt some pity for the poor animal. But I knew my grand-father was looking at me, and I did not want to disap-point him. I made a compromise. I aimed at its body and decided that the pellet would not kill it but would scare it enough that it would never come back. I took a deep breath, taking the time to make sure I would not miss my only opportunity. Time stopped for a moment. I pressed the trigger. The vermin ran away immediately.

I do not know if I hit the raccoon that day, but it and its three friends never came back. That night my grandfather then came to me and congratulated me. We spent the rest of the evening talking about my ex-ploits.

So Hee Park

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“It Would be so Nice if Something Made Sense for a Change.” By Addie Morgan

My parents knew I was angry the whole move. I sat in the big leather chair and pouted. The new house was a grey studio style house that sat on top of a huge hill. Before we had moved in, it was owned by an older couple who had moved there when their children were in high school. The home was modern and clearly not designed to have kids running around in it.

When we pulled up the driveway of the new house, I caught a glimpse of the backyard. It was all rock with a tiny garden at the top, which hid the unpleasant view from the patio. The front yard was a wasteland. It had no grass, and just beyond it were woods. Just behind the woods was swampland. The swampland was dis-gusting. Murky shallow water, skunk cabbages, and mosquitoes infested the area. My siblings and I were truly heart-broken. My dad saw the looks of disap-pointment on our faces and told us that in about a month the lawn would be just as good as our old one. I, however, officially hated it.

I spent the next few weeks sitting inside reading and watching my collection of Disney stories. I became obsessed with Alice in Wonderland and The Little Mer-maid. Alice and Ariel both had a place where whatever they wanted they got. “If I had a world of my own, everything would be nonsense,” I remember Alice say-ing. “Nothing would be what it is because everything would be what it isn't. And contrary-wise; what it is it wouldn't be, and what it wouldn't be, it would. You see?” I dreamed for a place like that - a place all to my-self, a place that didn‟t need to make sense, a place no one else knew about.

It was a cold fall day. Almost all of the leaves had fallen from the trees. Both my parents were out with my sisters at their soccer games. I was all alone. I had already finished lunch and completed all my home-work. I sat slumped in a big leather chair wondering what I should do. I eventually decided to go for a walk. Down the driveway, right to Allison Lane and back. I tied on my tattered Converse, zipped up my fleece, and left. I wasn‟t allowed to leave the house when I was alone but by then I didn‟t care. I continued on my walk down the dirt road to Allison Lane and back.

As I walked along the road right by my house some-thing, caught my eye. Our cat Necko was scaling the

cliff side. My heart sank into my stomach. I realized that I hadn‟t closed the front door, and if anything happened to her, it would be my fault. I hopped the metal fence around my house and climbed from the bottom of rocks up to where she calmly lay. I picked her up and sat down on the cold rocks, scared. I wasn‟t sure if I should climb to the top or back down to the bottom. I wanted out. I probably sat there for about an hour. Listening, watching, waiting. For anything. I prayed my family would drive by and come to my res-cue. But that never happened. Finally, I stood up and whispered under my breath, “As long as I‟m here, I might as well explore.”

I held Necko close to me as I embarked on this jour-ney. It was then that I found my Wonderland. I came back home with leaves and twigs stuck in my hair, mud coating my shoes, and a big grin stretching across my face. I wanted to stay in my back yard forever. I could-n‟t imagine changing anything about it. It had a fort, a spot for buried treasure, and countless adventures waiting.

The fort was made up of four rocks that mysteriously were placed perfectly in the shape of a house. I re-member the forsythias that hung over the place and how I thought of them as the grand chandelier that hid my fort. They attracted birds, bees, and butterflies and brought life to the area. I remember the mixed fra-grances of the flowers and the cool shade that they provided on hot summer days. Snapping twiggy branches from them, I dressed my hair with these golden flowers. They were Toby‟s friends too, for they huddled together day and night, and we three shared our secrets together.

Toby was an oak tree that I had found as a seedling growing by the entrance of my fort. At first I thought of uprooting it because it would hide my fort even more, but I quickly realized that it would be even bet-ter if the seedling stayed. When this seedling became big, it would guard my fort, allowing entrance only to those whose intentions were good.

My fort sat diagonally off the side of the hill my home was on. To get there you had to leap over the patio wall, squeeze through the tiny garden, walk about twelve paces to the left and jump off the next wall. You would find yourself landing on the old stump of a tree that had been removed years before we arrived at the house. From there you would have to trek through

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a slope of pachysandras. Next you turned left at the rock that stuck out of the earth like Pride Rock in The Lion King. A long, winding, dirt path finally took you to the front gate of my fort. The front gate was the north wall. Scrawny, but standing proud with his arms out great and big, creating shade over the entrance, was Toby the gatekeeper.

Toby and I were the only ones who knew about my Wonderland. In fact we were the only real inhabitants of the place other than a few squirrels, birds, and mice that came and went. I had lots of friends at school, but Toby was still my favorite. I was a very stubborn kid and could never be wrong. I often yelled at and hit other kids, and would end up in time out. Toby never disagreed; he always listened, and he was always there.

Just off of the south wall of my fort was another great oak whose roots hugged a giant rock that extruded out of the earth. At the time the tree seemed a million miles tall and created a tremendous amount of shade. I marveled at how such a great tree‟s lifeline was around that rock. I thought that the tree was crazy to trust a rock for support. They weren‟t anything alike; in fact, I believed them to be opposites. A tree bent in the wind and was often full of life. A rock was lifeless, cold, and sturdy. How was it that these two found each other?

Far off to the left of my fort was a treasure garden. This was a plot of dirt where I often dug up old bro-ken bottles. However, I never saw the things as old

and reinvented everything that I found. I would carry with me an old spoon and a used plastic bag. I usually found shattered bits of glass, which I lay around the walls of my fort where the light would bounce off of them. I became fascinated with how people simply threw away glass without thinking of how to reuse it in new ways. One day I found old beat up forks. I took strings I had found earlier and tied them to Toby‟s now great branches. Whenever the wind blew the forks chimed together making melodious music.

One afternoon I decided that my fort needed to be outfitted for hosting “nature spirits” in my absence. I once believed that everything in nature had a spirit. I believed that all bad things happened because we did-n‟t take care of these spirits. To keep the “nature spir-its” happy, I decided to allow my fort to be theirs as well. I took an old glass Coke bottle I had brought down and filled it with a bunch of colored glass shards. I set the bottle at the foot of the front gate and re-planted some wild flowers around its base. I thought the glass-filled bottle would reflect enough light to get their attention, and that the flowers‟ aroma would wel-come them into my fort.

I spent countless hours in my Wonderland, picking wild flowers, collecting glass shards, and simply explor-ing. I had found my Garden of Eden. I would unwind from everyday by reading out loud to Toby and deco-rating him in all the treasures I had found. Everything in Wonderland was perfect. Everything was where it needed to be and just the way I liked it.

Sam Devine

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Katie Finnegan Lizz Hale

Betsey Pettitt

Alex Muzyka Betsey Pettitt

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Emily Starer

Jermaine Bernard

Alex Muzyka

Tess O’Brien

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This I Believe By Maggie Caputi

I believe in letters. The handwritten kind, to be spe-cific. The kind that is sent in an envelope with postage stamps. It‟s too bad that they‟re so rare these days. The communication mediums of Facebook, Twitter, email, and text messaging almost always prevail over this more romantic and delicate art; it's generally consid-ered obsolete.

Most people prefer the speediness and convenience that accompany modern technology, as well as its promise of social safety. It‟s easier - less scary - to write something on Facebook where you can either delete your comment or just immediately correct yourself; you can also rely on other users to abet your argument and support you even if you‟ve said something stupid. When it comes to writing letters, things work a little differently. Our trusty U.S. Postal System is without delete buttons. You send a letter and it‟s gone, and that‟s that. There are no edits, no deletes, no re-dos. That‟s why writing letters is such a special, unique practice. It requires discretion, creativity, and total at-tention. Letters are the perfect vehicle for expressing paramount thoughts and emotions, because the com-ponents of privacy and affection are so strong and ap-parent. “I love you,” “I miss you,” “You matter” - all of these are commonly spoken or just written online; but they carry much more significance when said in a letter. A letter is, quite possibly, the most personal in-

teraction that can occur between two people. As Sam-uel Johnson once said, a man‟s soul “lies naked” in his letters, where “nothing is inverted, nothing distorted, you see systems in their elements, you discover actions in their motives.”

This winter, when I spent three lonely days in the woods, the letters that I brought kept me sane (as did my peanut butter and animal crackers). I spent the first hours of my little adventure setting up a pitiful shelter on a slight hill...one I discovered after I had tied my tarp down. The frustration of this whole endeavor was unbearable, and it had only just begun. I was so un-happy, and when I crawled into my sleeping bag that night and opened my letters, I began to sob. I think I actually started to cry at the sight of my mom‟s hand-writing alone, before I even began to read her letter. In it, she said the same loving and supportive things that she always says to me, but they were reaching me at the perfect time in my life. She and my dad both wrote things that helped me to feel stronger and less alone during my experience, and I will cherish their letters forever. I will also cherish my brother‟s, which affected me in a slightly different way. To put it simply, his let-ter surprised me. It possessed a certain tenderness that I had never seen in him. It was short, yet it conveyed a kind message of familial love and support; it made me see him in a better light. I connect this letter to the aforementioned Samuel Johnson quote that essentially describes a letter as a pure reflection of character.

The art of letter writing is timeless and valuable, yet it has become nearly nonexistent. Seldom does anyone ever even consider picking up a pen and paper to fill a page or two with a personalized, sincere message. Re-gardless of its fading prominence in the world of com-munication, I believe that letter writing is the best way to say the most important things. Throw a compliment into a conversation with someone, and you‟ll see it go in one ear and out the other. But say it artfully in a let-ter with a little more detail, and your message will surely manifest itself. This I believe.

This spring Mr. Durnan asked the students in his English Language and Composition course to write essays modeled after Edward Murrow’s “This I Believe” series. Below are just some of their eloquent, personal declarations. If you would like to listen to student recitations of these pieces and others, visit http://www.holderness.org/thisibelieve.

Katie Finnegan

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I Believe in Kick Wax By Haley Mahar

I believe in kick wax. Any Nordic skier who has ever skied competitively will tell you that classic skiing with-out kick wax gives you four times the workout, ten times the frustration, and a few dirty looks and a sug-gestion to clean out your mouth. The majority of soci-ety already struggles to grasp why anyone would volun-tarily try to ski UP a hill in freezing temperatures when you could just as easily ride up and ski down. Then, if you start to complain about your wax job, the looks get stranger. Still, any Nordic nerd will tell you that nothing is better than fast snow and good wax. When a skier gets into a rhythm of syncopated breathing and fwishing skis, the exhaustion and physical rigor of Nordic skiing becomes worth it. It‟s a love-hate rela-tionship, but through thick and thin, I believe in kick wax.

For the people out there who enjoy spending time in the warm indoors and NOT skiing up hills in freezing cold temperatures, you probably have no idea what kick wax is. You probably don‟t care. Classic skiing looks a lot like running on skis, and for recreational enthusiasts, it doesn‟t get more complex than that. But for racers, the application of the correct kick wax is crucial. Classic skiing without kick wax is like trying to write without a pen. So, you have to put faith in it.

When I was in seventh grade and first learned to ski, I was magnetically attracted to skate skiing. Skating was-n‟t that hard; the motions were the same as ice-skating, something with which I was already familiar. But clas-sic skiing was all technique. You had to know how to position your legs, your hips, your arms, your feet, your shoulders even, to align perfectly in a balanced position above a sliding piece of plastic. You had to get the perfect pop that made your wax stick and then your ski glide. I didn‟t have the patience for it. I wig-gled around on my classic skis, stabbing my poles into the ground and attempting to balance, all the while whining my way down the tracks. Needless to say, my strategy didn‟t work out very well. So, I had to learn how to trust my kick wax.

Since snow is a perpetually morphing substance, differ-ent conditions call for different wax. When the snow is between ten and twenty degrees, we layer on extra blue. If the temperature is hovering around freezing, skis are slathered with green and purple rodie. Any

thing above freezing is usually treated with klister, a substance that sticks to anything and everything. Liter-ally, I mean everything. I won‟t lie; kick wax, especially klister, can be hard to deal with. Yet there always comes that point in a race, heading up the last hill, when your legs are about to collapse underneath you and you‟re not sure if your wax has completely worn off from the abrasive snow. Your face is cold, your chest is burning, and nothing, NOTHING, sounds better than stopping. At that point, the only two things out on the course are you and your wax. Either you‟re going to work together, or you‟re not. At the end of the race, when you cross the finish line, you trusted it or you didn‟t; you either believed in it or you didn‟t; and for the sake of my sanity, I‟ve found that it‟s better to just put my trust in the kick.

Yejin Hwang

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Everything Happens for a Reason By Bee Crudgington

I believe that everything happens for a reason. Al-though this may be a cliché, this saying has proven true through out my life. I believe in God and I be-lieve in going to church, but I don‟t consider myself religious. I fall somewhere between pious and agnos-tic. I take my religion with a grain of salt, but mostly I rely on the idea that everything happens for a reason. Sometimes it just feels like there is no other way to explain life.

When I was six, my dad died of cancer. At age thirty-nine he left behind his wife and three kids between the ages of two and six. His goal was to make it to his 40th birthday, but he died only a couple weeks after his 39th. At church people told me that my dad was needed in Heaven and that he was in a better place, but didn‟t we need him just as much? Unlike the peo-ple at church, my mom didn‟t use religion to explain what had happened; all she said was that everything happened for a reason.

Not everyone shares the same experiences; not every-one suffers the same amount. The worst thing that ever happened to my friend and her family was that their dog died. This family had never experienced death before that dog was run over. I‟m not trying to belittle losing a pet, because when my Springer Span-iel

died I cried and was upset for days. However, I won-dered why I had suffered more than my friend. My mom‟s only response was that there is a reason for everything. She asked me if I could picture my friend‟s family coping with more than the death of that dog, and the answer was no, I couldn‟t.

My mom explained that she believed some people‟s lives are filled with more sorrow because they can handle it. This is where my belief evolved; I also started to believe that some people are better fit for coping with suffering. My mom falls into this cate-gory; she has watched both of her parents and her husband pass away. She has raised three children by herself and picked up her life and moved it across the country. She is one of the strongest people I know.

Today I realize that I would not be the same person if my dad had not died, if my mom hadn‟t remarried years later, and if I hadn‟t moved to California five years ago. Not every experience has to be embraced, but I think it‟s important to take everything as it comes and trust that there is a greater plan. While we wait for everything to start making sense, all we can do is take advantage of every opportunity, live every day to the fullest, and work hard so that we have no excuses later in life. Everything happens for a reason, but that doesn‟t mean we wait for life to happen to us.

Tram Dao

Mimi Patten

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This I Believe By Patrick Sullivan

My father‟s yelling woke me in the early morning. In my sleepy daze, smoke engulfed my lungs and made me choke. As I took my first step out of my sleigh bed, the extreme heat struck my body, announcing with immediacy that my life was about to shape itself into something totally different from what it had been the previous day. I quickly ran out of my bedroom and rushed down the hallway where cream-colored wallpaper was curling off the walls sheet by sheet. The broad hallway became narrower and narrower. Before I reached the staircase, I looked into the spare bedroom. My Harry Potter Lego set that I had spent many years collecting and countless hours putting to-gether was melting like ice cream on a hot day. Each step I took down the stairs was faster than the previ-ous step until I reached the dining room and rushed out the front door. My family watched the fire rage through the windows of the house. The feeling of helplessness that early morning was overwhelming.

After the fire was put out, I walked back into my house with broken spirits. My heart sunk deep into my stomach when I saw the devastation. At first, self-ishly, I was angry about all of the burned Christmas and birthday gifts that I cherished. It was not just about the Christmas and birthday gifts but the stories behind them that created their sentimental value. With sadness in my eyes, I gazed through the window at a frigid December night where a small child had been riding his new red bicycle in ecstatic circles around the

garage. Now that bike‟s once red paint was charred to ashy black, the spokes of the shiny silver wheels now crumpled like small wads of tin foil.

You could hear the bagpipes from a mile away that morning in the Irish district of South Buffalo. I looked to my father but he showed no emotion; it had been the second funeral that I had attended that June. I looked around that sunny spring day to see the tears pour out of my friend‟s eyes, but for some reason I could not cry. As I sat in my pew, all I could think about was that I would no longer see Mr. Felt at foot-ball practice nor driving my best friend Jake to prac-tice. I thought of the countless conversations I had had with Mr. Felt, but more importantly I thought about Jake and how important our friendship was.

I believe that adverse experiences shape our lives and have large effects on the people who we are and the people who we will become. I have never been the same since these experiences. It‟s a cold world. I will always remember the sound of the bagpipes and the sadness they brought on that spring day, and I will always remember holding the burnt two-by-four that was once a part of my house and the way it crumbled to pieces in my hands.

Julie Han

Hailee Grisham

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Nick Renzi

Andrew Howe

Ian Ford

Gavin Bayreuther

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Steven Page

Steven Page

Ian Ford

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After enduring multiple rain showers and snow flurries, this year’s junior class had a lot to write about when they reflected on Out Back. Students’ adventures often take unexpected turns and cause them to significantly alter their assumptions and plans. Although not everyone finishes Out Back, their alter-native experiences can be just as rewarding and life-changing. Below are two essays that were written by juniors upon their return to school in April.

Metamorphosis By Eliza Cowie Life is a web. It is a web that is filled with possible op-portunities, connecting to actions performed or choices made, which connect to more opportunities. Each layer of this web possesses specific stages that enable the individual to overcome certain obstacles and thus reach an upcoming opportunity. It was not until recently that I became deeply aware of these stages and the significant impact that they would have on my life.

Premonition: A strong feeling that something is about to happen, especially something unpleasant.

At 9:25 AM a wave of premonition took hold of my body. It caused adrenaline to rush through my veins and force my heart to beat uncontrollably fast. I was not sure whether or not this adrenaline was a premoni-

tion or a nervous reaction to the fact that I was stand-ing at the top of a racecourse next to every Division One ski team I wished to join. I chose to ignore the feeling by stretching and taking deeper and deeper breaths to calm my nerves. I stood in the start gate and waited for the starter to utter the words, “Racer Ready, GO.” Then I was off.

This premonition was more than just nerves. It would not only characterize the next sixty seconds, but the next stage of my life. In life it is not always easy to connect feelings to facts or answers and, by trying to do so, one ends up putting aside the feelings that can-not be properly explained. I set aside my premonition by choice and connected myself to an incredible ski opportunity and then an incredible journey.

Denial: The act of declaring something to be untrue.

Snap. Like the splitting of a dry branch, my leg snapped in half inches away from my ear. I dropped. Unable to cry, I curled into the fetal position and screamed. Even then, through the pain, I could not come to terms with the certain truth. Thoughts ran through my head, “This is minor; do not cry.” “The snapping sound was your ski.” “Stop being a diva; ski patrol is not necessary.” I talked to myself continu-ously until the ski patrol arrived and even up until the x-ray and surgery. My denial was not by choice; instead it had enveloped my entire body to the point where not even the unmovable leg accepted that it was bro-ken.

Denial is a complicated concept because it possesses certain phases. Initially, I denied that I had broken my leg all together. I then denied the significant turn my life would take because of it. I denied that my season was over before it had properly begun. I denied that I was about to embark on a year of recovery just to get back to the same position I had been in hours before. I denied that while I was in the gym, struggling to stand, my friends and competitors were quickly becoming stars and getting invited to races I had put on my goal sheet two months before. Jasminne Young

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Denial taught me that not everything is a quick fix. Denial also helped me through the healing process; by denying everything about breaking my leg, I let my body slowly accept its fate without my brain getting in the way.

Depression: severe despondency and dejection typically felt over a period of time and accompanied by feelings of hopelessness and inadequacy.

Crawling from the bed, to the bathroom, down the stairs, to the living room, up the stairs, back to bed. This was what my life became for two weeks follow-ing surgery. I had no appetite, I lost fifteen pounds, I mastered the art of “dry chucking” ten Percocet a day per the request of my doctor. I obsessed over results from races that I was not attending. Everything was tiring, nothing was satisfying, and I realized for the first time in my life that I was truly unhappy. Depres-sion forced me to reflect on each individual problem and analyze every trivial event. While it was not always healthy, depression drove me through recovery. By recognizing every negative aspect of my crash, I was able to slowly let go and accept that this was life; I could not change what had happened. This silent de-pression lasted for two months, until slowly I ac-cepted that my crash was not the end of the world.

Acceptance: Agreement with or belief in an idea, opinion, or explanation.

Full acceptance and recognition is one of the toughest steps to achieve during recovery. It was most difficult for me to realize the futility of the regretful phrase, “I could have been a contender.” I realized that becom-ing upset with friends who were handed opportunities that I could only dream about was selfish and un-healthy, not only for me, but also for my relationships with other people. I realized I needed to let go of my jealousy, depression, and denial. Breaking my leg slowly became only a fact; it no longer held the emo-tional capability of reducing me to tears but instead only motivated me to get better. The doctors gave me six months to heal, but I managed to recover in only three. My positive mental state manifested itself physi-cally, and with my new-found acceptance, I began to heal.

Growth: The process of developing or maturing physically, mentally, or spiritually.

As I watched my leg grow back to its original size, I

also watched myself go through a metamorphosis. I let go of selfish thoughts; I realized skiing was not who I was but merely an aspect of my life. I realized I was a lot stronger than I had previously thought; strength was not measured just in muscle contractions but also in deep, emotional, mental and spiritual toughness. I have recently joked that breaking my leg was the best idea I ever had. In many ways it is true. I would not be who I am today, three months later, if I had not broken my leg. I would still be self-centered and have a one-track mind. I now realize that there is more to life than skiing and everything takes deep de-termination. My web has slowly gone through the stages of premonition, denial, depression, acceptance and growth, and I have slowly experienced a meta-morphosis. Wiser, stronger, and more stable, I am ready for the next opportunity within my web.

Jasminne Young

Jasminne Young

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Fear is Only in the Mind By Salamarie Frazier

“Day one” began the Sunday before it was time for us all to journey off into the frigid woods of northern New Hampshire. Actually, Sunday was only when the nervousness kicked in; Saturday was more like the first “Day one.”

Everyone woke early to attend meetings with their given OB groups so they could prepare all of their personal gear. Later in the afternoon, we all came to-gether to separate the food gear. At this point, I was-n‟t too worried. I‟ll admit that I was a tad bit excited and proud of myself that I had at least gotten to the day when we were preparing to leave. I couldn‟t be-lieve that I was actually going to do it!

That Sunday, there wasn‟t really much that needed to be done except mentally prepare ourselves for this odd endeavor. I was already packed and ready to leave but that night, my anticipation wouldn‟t allow me to go to fall sleep immediately.

When Monday arrived, I was flushed with anticipa-tion, fright, anxiety, and increasing frustration; it seemed as if it would take forever for my group to be prepared well enough to get on the bus and leave the Holderness premises.

Eventually we were on our way to the mountains, and when we exited the bus, we were greeted with rain and a large puddle that reached over our ankles. What better way to start this journey than with the worse weather we could ask for! My traveling pack felt like there was a nine-year-old stuffed inside, but after hik-ing up the road, we soon approached our entrance into the woods. Thus began the most treacherous ex-perience of my life.

We were looking at 3-5 miles of hiking before we would reach our campsite and only twenty minutes

had passed before I had sunk into the snow, knee-deep, four times. At that point, I just wanted to cry, because I hadn‟t expected my first hour to take a toll on me the way it did. I told myself, “You‟re going to regret this.” When we finally made it to our camp-site, it was still raining slightly, but we still needed to find dry wood for a fire to make dinner. and we needed to set up shelter for the night. Every day and night was the same, and there was a lot to learn along the way.

On the fourth day, I decided, “There is no way in hell that I‟m dealing with this any longer.” I had endured four days of waking up at around 6AM (I am not a morning person and on top of that I wasn‟t so “happy-go-lucky” to be there, so already this was a mixture for disaster) and hiking several miles with a burden-some pack on my back. Day by day, my pains prolifer-ated. My head hurt from the daily stress, and my back and legs ached from carrying my immensely heavy pack everywhere as if it had become an extra body part. Thankfully, solo began the next day, Friday, and I had no intention on staying another night in the woods. I also wasn‟t particularly in favor of spending the next three nights alone; there was nothing smart about that to me. When Friday finally arrived, it was raining. I was beyond convinced that we were cursed for the simple fact that whenever we had a “challenge,” the weather seemed to work against us. Actually, I think I was just cursed. I was living in my own dystopia and my desired stay had long expired; it was time to take action!

That afternoon, I walked from my given campsite about a mile and a half down the snowmobile trail to base camp. The whole time I cried. Crying had be-come a daily activity for me; I didn‟t always know why I was crying or when I was going to start crying, but my body just decided that it was the right thing to do in response to my wretchedness.

Sam Devine

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I arrived at base camp and was there for maybe 45 minutes before I was sent back. Harbo, my leader, tricked me into going back up to my site by telling me that we were going to get my belongings. I fell for it. But just to be defiant, when Harbo walked away and left me behind, I grabbed everything that I had brought and hiked back down to base camp, fueled with anger and determination to go home. However, it didn‟t turn out the way I expected. I began to brain-storm what I was going to say when they told me “no.” One of my plans was to refuse any meals and liquids. I thought that it would be my form of a strike because they couldn‟t let a student starve in the condi-tions that we were enduring. However, the plan quickly failed.

When Harbo said “No,” and I said, “Then I won‟t eat!” his response was somewhere along the lines of, “Fine. Then you don‟t eat!” Which was NOT what I was expecting. My other plans were a little drastic and consisted of me threatening to cut myself, but I fig-ured that that it would just land me in counseling for the rest of the year. I also contemplated blowing my whistle until I had no strength to blow any longer, but that was too drastic; the other students were required walk toward the whistle when it was blown and that would have made many people annoyed when they found that there wasn‟t an emergency. The confronta-tion ended with Harbo telling me that I don‟t try for anything in my life and Mr. Teaford screaming at me, “NO! NO! YOU ARE NOT LEAVING; I AM NOT GOING TO PUT SOMEONE ELSE‟S LIFE IN DANGER JUST BECAUSE YOU ARE BEING A BABY. YOU ARE GOING TO GO BACK TO YOUR CAMPSITE, AND YOU ARE GOING TO STAY THERE!” My wake-up call had arrived. Those weren‟t Mr. Teaford‟s exact words, and more was said, but I was in such shock that Mr.Teaford, who doesn‟t yell much, yelled at me that I stopped fighting. I can‟t emphasize enough how much this experience meant to me.

I was flooding with tears when Harbo, who is well over six feet tall and was wearing a red and black kilt, and I, who am barely five feet tall with a pack more than half my size, hiked back to my solo site, hand-in-hand. That sight alone is memorable for me.

I was angry, but this time I was angry with myself. For a long time I hadn‟t been seriously honest with my-self; I knew that many people weren‟t expecting me to

complete OB and I knew why. I knew that I had something to prove, and I did the moment I arrived back to Holderness on the big yellow bus. Looking back, I couldn‟t have imagined doing it without Harbo pushing me so far. He didn‟t know me very well, but he knew that I was way more capable than I was al-lowing myself to think. He believed in me and that was what I needed.

Many would say that Out Back taught them leadership and how to work together as a team. I wouldn‟t say the same. It‟s not that I didn‟t learn about leadership and working together, but I just feel as if I learned about myself more than anything. There have been and still are times in my life when I simply want to give up because it‟s the easiest thing to do, but what Out Back did for me was give me perspective. My ex-perience clearly shows that I struggled, but it also shows that I am a different person today, thanks to those who were tough on me and lit my way to suc-cess.

I think of a famous quote by Marianne Williamson: “Our deepest fear is not that we are inadequate. Our deepest fear is that we are powerful beyond meas-ure…” During OB I learned that I can make larger means of my life if I don‟t set myself up and let fear be my worst enemy. Overcoming such a personal and physical challenge has provided me with so much pride, gut, and self-satisfaction. It‟s something that I can cherish all of my life.

Sam Nungesser

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Yejin Hwang

Haley Michienzi

Migle Vilunaite

Sarah Stride

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Julia Marino

Patrick Sullivan

Haley Michienzi

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Biography By Oliver Johnson

Howard Johnson was born on July 2, 1922 on a typi-cal, noisy Chicago day. The steel mill‟s clink and boom echoed through the home as he was born. Back then it was typical for babies to be born into a home environment, and this is how Howard came into this boisterous world. He was not his parents‟ first child; he was the last in a succession after an older sister named Evelyn and his brother named Ken. In his book, Holding the Center, Hojo says that he had, “Surely been born into the wrong century.” In fact in his book he even says, “I had missed, I thought, all the excitement. To have lived during the American Revo-lution or the nation‟s westward expansion would have been an opportunity to witness and participate in events that shaped the nation.” When he said that, though, he clearly didn‟t have any idea that he would actually shape modern day universities and modern day Boston...

One of my favorite memories with my grandpa oc-curred when I was no more than ten. I was just a pudgy fifth-grader coming home from a long winter

day, dried sweat on my shirt from basketball practice. I visited him and Betty at their retirement home; he pulled me into his sitting room and took out an origi-nal print of one of his favorite stories called “Injun Summer.” He sat me down on the sofa and told me it was an original print and that one of his friends from the Chicago press had given it to him as a gift. As he sat down, the effects of age slowed his progress, but he still had that spark, that charm anyone could tell you about. He started to read the story, but because of my ADD, I didn‟t cherish the moment right away; only years have let me realize the significance of it. The story was about a grandfather and grandson watching Indians on a field as they appeared and dis-appeared. The grandfather shares his knowledge with his grandson. I will never forget the voice of my grandfather retelling the classic tale.

In late December, 2008, Hojo had a terrible fall. He damaged his brain, and it came not only as a shock to his family, but to his friends and everyone who knew him. During the early stages of his recovery, he was placed at the rehabilitation unit at Spaulding Hospital in Boston. While he was there, I went to visit him. Now that I think about it, I wish that I had gone more. But nonetheless, one cold winter night, my fa-ther and I drove through the dark of the winter‟s bite. We didn‟t speak much as we listened to the Grateful Dead on the car stereo. Boston‟s city line didn‟t seem to have that glow and awe=appeal it usually had for me. I had a printed out copy of “Injun Summer” and wanted to offer to read it to him.

Upon arrival at the hospital, we went up to the floor my grandpa was on, walked down a darkly lit hall, turned the corner, and there was my grandfather. He was asleep, a look of discontent on his face. I entered the room, touched him on the wrist, and said softly, “Grandpa…Grandpa, it‟s Oliver… I want to read something to you. If you remember you once read me „Injun Summer.‟” Immediately his eyes lit up. It was the Grandpa I remembered, that jubilant, amazing man I needed to remember. This time I was about 13;

In English I, students are asked to write biographies about individuals who have influenced their lives. In order to gather material for their pieces, students are required to conduct interviews and build upon their previous knowledge of the people about whom they have chosen to write. Below are ex-cerpts from two biographies written by students in the freshmen class.

Katie Finnegan

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I had started to get bigger and was no longer a pudgy little kid. I began to read the story, and he just smiled. He smiled and looked at me, almost like the time that he read the story to me; however, this time we both cherished the moment immediately. I will never forget it - a semi-dark hospital room, the constant beep of the monitor attached to him.

My father stood outside as I read, and when I finished, he came in. He said something to me, but I don‟t re-member what it was. I felt at peace with Hojo at that time.

Howard Johnson had an amazing ability to lead peo-ple, and he inspired many people during his amazing years on this Earth. My grandfather used to love to tell the story about the time when Winston Churchill gave a speech on March 31, 1949 at M.I.T. In the speech he spoke about how the atomic bomb saved Europe. As the speech ended, thousands of people cheered and applauded the renowned speaker. At the end of this speech, Winston Churchill climbed into a limousine with the president of the university. There was a long and awkward silence. Churchill bit the tip of his cigar, put it in his mouth, lit it, and asked the president, “How did I do?” Of course, Churchill must have known he had done fantastically. If Howard had asked that same question of me as a grandson, of M.I.T as its leader, or of his family as their provider, the unani-mous answer would be, “Well, Howard. You did splendidly.”

So Hee Park Sarah Stride

Katie Finnegan

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Simple By Joey Casey

A small, brown house on a simple street. Nothing special, nothing out of the ordinary, just a one story building. Inside the front door is the living room which contains a couch and a reclining chair. It is a small room, making the furniture jump out from the walls and block a straight path toward the back hall-way. The soft rug gives off a homey feeling, and the smell of clean carpet fills the air. In the back is a large, brown oak table that barely fits into the dining room area. And the backyard, abandoned for years, is lit-tered with dead flowers and leaves. Stone statues, clothed with cobwebs and grime, sit scattered across the dirt yard. Grandpa used to keep this organized and beautiful, but he doesn‟t have time anymore. To most people this would look like nothing, but it is enough for Grandpa. He works hard for what he has, and he appreciates it all. This is how he wants to live, a small family in a small home. Simple.

I slide into the chair at the kitchen table, across from Grandpa. The short, round man looks up at me with his soft brown eyes, ready for me to once again throw

my usual questions at him.

“Tell me more about when you were a kid, Grandpa,” I eagerly ask, even though I already know the answers.

“Alright, alright,” he chuckles. “As you know my fa-ther was named Joseph Casey, just like you and me and your father. He married a beautiful lady named Ethel. They had two wonderful children, Barbara and of course yours truly. I was born on…”

“November 25, 1931,” I finish.

“Correct,” he laughs, the sweet sound echoing through the small room like wind blowing freshly fallen leaves into the air. His smile stretches from ear to ear like his long gray beard and unlike his partly bald head, which contains hair only on either side of his head above his ears.

“But my father had some problems with drinking and had a rough time at work. We barely had enough money to survive and my mother had to divorce him. It was hard for me because I didn‟t fully understand what was going on.” He pauses before continuing, “You‟re lucky that you have two parents who love each other and you very much.” His deep stare seems to penetrate straight through me, his lively eyes pierc-ing into my heart. His pain suddenly becomes mine as we sit at the brown oak table. The burden, however, is lifted when he begins again, “So anyways my dad moved out, and my sister and I continued living with my mother all by ourselves.”

“But what happened to Joe after he left?” I hesitantly ask, afraid of the answer.

“Well, years later when your father was just a little boy, my father came back, completely drunk, asking for money. I had to tell him to leave and never return. He died just a few years later from cirrhosis.” His smile fades away but only for a few seconds before he continues, “My mother finally remarried to John O‟Brien and they had four children - Tom, Mary, Peggy, and John. We all called my new stepfather Obie. At the time we lived in what was called the Brickyards of Lynn on the poor side of the train tracks. I spent my whole life staring over the tracks at the rich side of town, but I knew that we were stuck, that we could never leave. Obie worked for the MBTA, and we rarely had enough food to eat or any-thing nice. Once for Christmas I got a used bicycle. I loved it, but after a few weeks it disappeared. I‟ve al-Katie Finnegan

29


ways sort of known that it was Obie who sold it.”

We are both silent for a few minutes, reflecting on what was just said until he suddenly continues, “But I grew up and started going to Lynn Classical High School. There I met some friends and together we became the South Street Gang. Every day after school we would play baseball and hang out on the streets. I eventually had to get my first job at S.S. Kresge‟s, which was basically the Walmart of 70 years ago.”

“But what about camp?” I inquire, having realized that he skipped a part.

“Hold on, hold on. I‟m getting there,” he grins. “I was thirteen the first time I went to Camp Groton. It was kind of like the Fresh Air program, where city kids like me were sent to New Hampshire. It was on a beautiful island in Bristol called Mayhew Island. It was wooded with a large cabin in the middle. The green, lush trees towered over us, creating a small pathway to the two sides of the island. At one end lay a small beach that looked directly back towards the mainland and at the other, a much larger beach with soft sand and small, steady waves. Only the occasional boat would increase the size and speed of the waves, but not by much. Other islands dotted the landscape, some with rocks on the shore and others with the

same shoreline as ours. After living in the city for my whole life, it was a nice change. I was able to get away from the stress at home, and perhaps that‟s why I brought your dad back to the camp so many years later. We used to go every summer and camp in the New Hampshire wilderness. I remember one summer it was pouring rain and would not stop. Your dad and I were in Gunstock, and after a few days of thunder-storms, everything we had was soaked. So we went and checked into a nearby hotel and stayed there the rest of the week. Your grandmother has never found out about it.

“But your father had to grow up eventually. He went to college and medical school and finally met your mother. I remember the first time I met her. Your mom and dad had been dating for over a year, and I hadn‟t met her yet. It was when your father was the best man in his friend Mark‟s wedding that I finally met her. The wedding was in Newport, Rhode Island, and we had arrived a day early so your dad could go to the rehearsal dinner. After he left, your grandmother and I decided to go for a walk. We went down to the lobby and saw a short, freckly young lady whom we recognized. It was, of course, your mother. So I went up to her, all smiley as I always am and asked if she was actually Ann. Fortunately for me she was, and we

Tyquan Ekejiuba

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began to talk.”

He looks up at me, eagerly listening to his stories. And seeing my face, with a quick tick of his head, he con-tinues, “And a couple of months later we all went to Disney World. It was Christmastime and all of the parks were decorated with Christmas Trees and giant ornaments. It was on this trip that your dad asked your mom to marry him. But earlier in the trip on a bright and sunny day we were driving past a golf course that had a patch of conifer trees along the side. But these weren‟t just any trees. They had humungous pinecones the size of cantaloupes. They were bigger than your head! I just had to get one, so I pulled over on the side of the road, got out, and collected as many pinecones as I possibly could. And as I was doing this Grandma, Mom, and Dad were all laughing at me. I must have looked hilarious. Passing cars would slow down and wave, and one person even asked for one.”

“There he goes again,” I think. “Each time he tells this story something more and more exciting and funny happens. Last time he told me that Mickey Mouse came out and helped him.”

“Once I had picked up as many as I could,” he con-tinues, “I went back to the car and put them in the trunk. But I kept one and brought it to the front and gave it to your mother. That is something I will never forget. I think she still has it somewhere.”

He looks down at the table and smiles to himself. With a deep breath, he carries on, “So your mom and dad eventually got married and moved up to New Hampshire. But they didn‟t live in the same house you live in now. They lived in Ashland, right on a golf course. A real one that is, not a mini one,” he says as he sees the look of excitement on my face. “Grandma and I went up to visit them one time. It was our first time there and it was beautiful. It was a sunny day with a slight breeze. The sweet smell of flowers and freshly cut green grass floated in the air. It was the perfect day for a walk, so I asked if anyone wanted to join me. Your mom decided to come along. I had a great time and learned a lot about her. We talked about our childhoods and plans for the future. I‟m glad I went too, because only a few months later…”

He suddenly goes silent. We both know what hap-pened next. My body suddenly feels numb, my head pounding like a drum. For a moment I feel dizzy, like I am going to pass out. I take a deep breath and look

up. Everything is back to normal, the table, the book-shelves, the old backyard. And I feel at peace.

A small, brown house on a simple street. Nothing special, nothing out of the ordinary, just a one story building. Inside the front door is the living room which contains a couch and a reclining chair. It is a small room, making the furniture jump out from the walls and block a straight path toward the back hall-way. And in the back, at the large brown oak table, I sit alone.

I never knew my grandfather. He died of a heart at-tack on January 29, 1995, a year before I was born. He now lives on through the stories I have been told. He lives through my dad, and the little things in life. It is odd that something as simple as a pinecone can bring back so many memories about my grandfather. But maybe that is how he wants to be remembered, sim-ple.

Sam Nungesser

mosaic: volume 9, issue 2

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