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April 1, 2008
Report cards. The dumb kids hate them. The smart kids love them. I personally have no feelings towards them. Well, I used to have no feelings towards them. But, my mind was changed freshman year on the day every student received his or her report card. It was the end of the third quarter and everyone was antsy as we all gathered into our homerooms at the end of the day to finally take a peek at our fate. Some of us would go home and get grounded. Some of us would go home and pin that clean, smooth piece of the paper onto the refrigerator. My report card was pretty good, if I do say so myself. But as the majority of the freshman class stumbled into the stairwell, itching to go home, one girl would experience the most embarrassing thing that every student secretly fears. This girl would fall down the steps, all the way down the steps, in front of everyone.
That girl… was me.
It all started out when I was walking out of my homeroom and into the stairwell. I saw my friend Kirsten and I sped to catch up with her. We were soon engaged in a very thought-provoking conversation. The only problem was that she was in front of me so I sort of had to lean over in order to hear what she was saying. Everything was going fine until my two-inch high clogs got caught on the step and I soon felt myself gliding down the stairs like a skier on a mountain slope. Except the skier fell on its knees and the snow was very hard and shaped like steps. During this process, my shoe fell off and one student was kind enough to get that for me once my trip had come to an end. I looked up as everyone gasped, and I remember very clearly the look on Austin LaPoten’s face—it was the look of witnessing someone doing something very painful; a cringe of all cringes. “Ow” was all he could muster.
I tried to regain my composure and act as if it was no big deal. Tons of students fall down those steps every year. But oh wait, I fell down the steps in front of everyone—sixty students at least. The stairs were packed; I cannot believe I didn’t take another one of my classmates down with me. I kind of wish I had so that someone else would be involved and I wouldn’t be the only one people were staring at. As I put my shoe back on and walked to the other end of the school to meet my mom and go home, every step I took brought on a little more pain. I was surprised I made it all the way to foreign language. I quickly tried to get into the car so that I could get home and get as far away from the accident as possible. To this day, that was the most embarrassing experience of my life. Every time I receive a report card, the trauma flickers into my mind. And what’s more, I have yet to wear those clogs to school again.
Filed by Mr. Hillman at April 1st, 2008 under Humiliations, Embarrassments and Huh?!?
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Every morning in Mrs. Hoplamazian’s second grade class, we sang songs. We sang any song we felt like, ranging from the national anthem, to Disney songs, while Mrs. Hoplamazian played along on the piano. Every day my friends in Mrs. Capocasel’s class across the hall would complain to me at recess that they had to take a spelling test that morning while we were singing. They would go on about how it was so unfair and how their teacher was so strict and how they wished they were in my class because it seemed so much more fun.
Even though they were complete opposites in the classroom, Mrs. Hoplamazian and Mrs. Capocasel were great friends, and they often brought their classes together to do activities. One day, during one of the joint activities, the teachers stopped us and had us gather around for an announcement. They informed their eager audience that we were going to put on a show. Not just any show, but a medley of Broadway songs that we would perform in front of our parents and most of Fort Washington Elementary School.
The first step was learning all the songs. We had to sing everyday to memorize all the songs from a variety of musicals such as Annie, Surrey with a Fringe on Top, and Camelot. After many mornings of practice we had all learned the songs, and it was time to move on to the next part of the show, the dancing. We all danced in whatever formation the teachers put us in so they could figure out the choreography. One of the songs involved square dancing, which they had us all learn. It was so much fun, spinning around, laughing, but the one part we hated about the dance and the whole show in particular, was that we had to dance with boys.
After the show was choreographed, it was time to assign kids to dance in each song. I was assigned to take the stage for the title song from Camelot. I was so excited because the characters in Camelot were princes and princess and what little girl does not want to be a princess. The teachers also had us audition for the announcer role for each song. I auditioned and I somehow won the part of announcing “It’s a Hard Knock Life,” and “Tomorrow,” from Annie. I practiced this part at the after school Y program, while swinging on the swings, passing the script to my friends so they could test me. Passing paper on the swings did not work very well, so we spent most of the time chasing the paper down instead of actually rehearsing. Even amongst all the chaos, I still managed to memorize the lines.
The next important part of the show that needed to be accomplished was the costumes. Each kid was asked to bring in certain clothes which would fit his/her particular song. I had the perfect princess dress, but unfortunately, I did not posses an important part of my costume, a princess hat. I felt so left out because all the other girls had managed to find a princess hat but I couldn’t. I complained over and over again to my teacher because I felt that the hat was an integral part of the costume. In the end, one of the teachers came through and made my friend and I princess hats.
The show was finally ready. After weeks of hard work, it came together and went off spectacularly. It was so much fun and in the end, we had more songs, now accompanied by wonderful memories, to sing in the morning.
Filed by Mr. Hillman at April 1st, 2008 under I eat paste and other childhood reflections
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March 31, 2008
Everyone hears those horror stories where the young girl is home alone and there is a murderer in the house trying to kill her. Every kid is told not to answer the door or the phone when they are the only ones in the house. And movies upon movies have been made where the plot revolves around a guy with a chainsaw who comes to the neighborhood. I never thought that anything bad could happen to me while living in Ambler, but on a dark night in seventh grade, my beliefs would be tested.
It was about seven o’clock at night. I had stayed home from school the past few days because I had a serious sore throat. My parents were at my brother’s basketball game and my sister was at her dance class. I was home alone, free at last! So, I turned the TV on, sat back, and relaxed. Everything was fine until I heard a creaking sound. The noise came from up the stairs and it sounded as though someone had opened a door. “It’s nothing,” I told myself. But I thought if I heard it again, I would leave the house.
Everything went back to normal for a few minutes. But just as my heart was settling down again, it sped back up as another noise hit my ears. This time, there was definitely someone lurking about upstairs. I got up, turned the TV off, and tip-toed as lightly as I could to my front door, hoping whoever it was that had broken into my house could not hear me. My heart was pounding. My mind was running in a million different directions. I thought I was reaching the end of my life. That was it. That was how I was “gonna go”. Then I heard the feet racing down my back steps. I could not stand it anymore. I pulled my front door open and ran as if there was no tomorrow. I didn’t stop until I reached my neighbors front door and when she opened up, all I said was, “I think there is someone in my house.” My heart was still going a mile a minute as my neighbor ushered me inside and told me to relax and watch TV.
I was replaying everything that had just happened in my mind when my neighbor walked into the room. What she said next would forever hold in a place in my memory. “It was your brother.”
When my parents had said that they were going to a basketball game, I assumed it was my brother’s. But no, it was not his basketball game. At this point, I was very embarrassed and wanted to sprint out of the room like I had done a few minutes ago when I had been convinced that I was about to be chopped up by a chainsaw. I took my walk of shame back to my house, and although I was humiliated beyond my understanding, I looked on the bright side: that sprint gave me a nice little workout.
Filed by Mr. Hillman at March 31st, 2008 under Humiliations, Embarrassments and Huh?!?
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“Leah, hurry up the bus will be here any minute.” My mother yells up from the kitchen. I shove my towel and bathing suit into my backpack and jam my feet into my sneakers. As I leave my room I complete my mental checklist for camp. Sun lotion, check. Flip flops, check. Extra set of clothes, check. Satisfied with my run-through, I pull my door shut and turn to go downstairs. As I reach the stairs I look at the guestroom door. Its slightly ajar, meaning Bubbe’s awake. She’s been staying with us for a year now, since her brain tumor got worse. In the beginning it wasn’t so bad. It was like it always used to be when she stayed with us. Bubbe would pick us up from school and take us for ice cream. She’d help make dinner and tell us stories after Shabbat. She stopped picking us up from school when the doctors said she couldn’t drive anymore and the Shabbat stories stopped a while ago, when the tumor made her lose her memory. She’s been calling me by my mothers name for a month now and I can’t stand it. I wish she could remember my name, just my name. I take a step towards the door to say goodbye for the day, but before I get there, the bus honks outside. I turn, bolt down the stairs and out the door.
“ Is my back burnt?” Emily asks me as she turns around to get a glance of her back in the mirror. “No, but hurry up I’m starving.” I say as I walk out of the bunkhouse. Once outside I plop down onto the picnic table to wait for her. It hot outside and I can’t wait to get out of the heat and into the air-conditioned mess hall. Emily walks out and we begin our trek to the cafeteria. Before we’ve even managed to take two steps, “Will Leah Kunin please report to the main office. Leah Kunin to the main office, please.” Drones the voice over the loudspeaker. I look at Emily and shrug my shoulders, “I dunno. I’m sure I won’t be long. I’ll meet you in the cafeteria.” I say as we part ways.
I turn around and walk towards the office. Why am I getting called down to the office? I’m not leaving early. I don’t think I forgot anything. It’s probably nothing. Just a mistake, maybe they meant someone else. All these thought are swimming around my head as I walk up to the office. By the time I reach the main office and walk up the stairs I’ve convinced myself that nothing is wrong.
I open the door and I’m greeted by a blast of cold air. I look out of place in the pristine camp office. All the ladies sitting around in pants and long sleeves, and here I am in shorts and a sweaty, gross shirt. The ladies look at me expectantly, “Yes?” one of them says. “Yeah, um, I got called to the office.” I say. “and you are…” the lady asks impatiently. “Leah Kunin” I add quickly. You’d think sitting around all day in an air-conditioned office these ladies could be a bit nicer. “Oh right, you’re leaving early. Your mother will pick you up at 12:30.” Before I can stop the words, they spill out of my mouth, “Why? What for?” One of the ladies, who has been filing her nails the whole time, looks up and says flatly, “You’re going to a funeral.”
A funeral? Mom didn’t say anything about a funeral? Who…a funeral? Suddenly the cold office has become much warmer. I’ve opened my mouth to say something, but the words are stuck in my throat. A funeral. The words sink in. Bubbe, funeral, Bubbe, funeral… Bubbe’s funeral.
I leave the office silently. Once outside the heat clings to my cool body. I feel like a set of weights has been put on my chest. I can’t breathe. I wait for tears to come but they don’t. By the time I make it into the bunk my legs are shaking. You knew it was going to be soon. You couldn’t have expected her to live much longer, I say to myself. At least you said goodbye…those last few words ring in my ears. At least…you said… An imaginary steel foot has kicked me in the stomach. I can’t breathe. My legs give out and I plunk onto the cabin floor. My brain is screaming at me. You never said goodbye. You left and never said goodbye. She’s gone and you never said goodbye! The floodgates open and tears pour out. I never said goodbye. I clutch my legs and bury my face into my knees as I rock back and forth on the cabin floor. I never said goodbye.
Filed by Mr. Hillman at March 31st, 2008 under Wait until your father gets home! Tales of family...
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On a Monday afternoon in November my Mother told me that my grandmother, Gloria, was not feeling very well and we decided to go her nursing home to bring her favorite dessert, chocolate éclairs. My Grandmother did not feel like eating the éclairs, which was the first sign to me that something was wrong. My family had received a call around lunch time on that Thursday afternoon, letting everyone know that my Grandmother had fallen very ill and probably would not live more than a few days. When I came home from school that day, my Mother told me the bad news and we left to go to my Grandmother’s nursing home.
When we arrived at the front desk, I signed my name in for what I knew would be the last time. We took the elevator up to the fourth floor, just as we had always done, but this time in silence. There was nothing to say anymore. As we walked into the room, I saw my grandmother in her bed, eyes closed, and her family sitting around her. The day that I had dreaded my entire life had finally arrived.
Four of my aunts, four of my uncles, sixteen of my cousins, and my parents and I squeezed into her small bedroom. We knew that even though she was semi-conscious, she knew her surroundings. As hard as it was for the whole family, we wanted to make her last hours as pleasant as possible. My mom, to lighten the mood, started telling silly childhood stories and people began to laugh. Then everyone went around telling fond memories they had with Grammy. My aunt Ginger started singing Grammy’s favorite church hymns, and we all joined in. It was truly amazing; the whole family had come together for the woman we all loved so very much. A few times, my grandmother even gave a little smile, though she could not open her eyes. We all took turns holding her hand and patting her arm. Every hour or so her nurse would come in and yell, “Gloria!”, to make sure she was still holding on, and she would open her piercing blue eyes for a moment and then close them again.
When it became late we knew that we all had to go home, except one of her daughters that would sit with her. Driving home I felt depressed, I did not want to leave, I was afraid that I would never see her again. I was not ready to say goodbye yet, not to her, not to her love, not to her piercing blue eyes. However, the day that I had been dreading my entire life was nothing like what I had expected it to be. I thought that all of my family would be crying hysterically, rather than laughing and telling funny stories. The way my Grandmother passed, truly represented her life. Grammy had always been such a funny and happy person, with hundreds of stories to tell.
On Saturday, November 11th, 2006 around three in the morning, Gloria passed away, surrounded by her loving daughters. November 11th happened to be my Grandpa’s birthday, and everyone said that she was going to be a birthday present to him in heaven. I miss my Grandmother everyday and whenever I hear the song “Gloria” I always tear-up. As hard as that day was, it was definitely the best way to say goodbye.
Filed by Mr. Hillman at March 31st, 2008 under Wait until your father gets home! Tales of family...
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March 29, 2008
Dad…Dad…DAAAAAAAAD! Come on. let’s go, You PROMISED!” I whine. “Alright, alright, I’m coming” dad sighs and stops what he’s doing. I run down the stairs to get the popcorn ready, “You get the food, I’ll start the fire.” Dad says as he lumbers into the family room. Its winter break, my dad and I have spent the last week watching the Star Wars Trilogy, we’re on the third and final one, Star Wars: Return of the Jedi.
Pop, crackle, boom, goes the popcorn in the microwave. I wait impatiently for all the kernels to pop. 3…2…1, the microwave goes off. I hop onto the counter to get the bag out of the microwave. “Lila, let’s go, the movie’s starting.” dad yells from the family room. “No, not yet!” I blazed down the stairs, hot popcorn in my hands, and hop onto the futon just in time to hear the Star Wars theme music come on
Dad is already comfortable in his favorite chair, his big feet enclosed in his goofy winter slippers; I spread out on the lumpy futon. My little eyes strain as the words scroll up the screen, Dad notices and pauses the movie every now and then. “Remember what happened in the last movie?” he asks, I shake my head no in response. He explains for a few minutes when mom pokes her head into the room, “Not too late.” she warns. I smile with satisfaction, “Hah, I get to stay up past my bed time”. My seven year old brain is ticking away with the possibilities. Mom rolls her eyes and goes up the stairs. Dad hits play and I snuggle under my blanket as the movie starts up again.
We watch until it gets really late, 11:00 almost, until my eyes droop with sleepiness. I keep watching, it’s not every day I get to stay up past my bedtime and watch big kid movies with my Dad. We get to the scary part with Jabba the Hutt, I pull my blanket over my head and dive from the futon onto my dads lap. “Ouff” he groans and reshuffles me into a more comfortable position. This is right where I like to be, my sleepy head resting on dads big belly. After only a few short minutes on his belly I’m out like a light. The rising and falling of his stomach as he breaths in and out has put me fast asleep. I hear the movie stop and the television go off and I feel him lift me up to carry me to my room. He climbs up into the kitchen gently, trying not to wake me. He turns the corner and goes up the stairs to my room. I hear the floorboards creak and count the stairs as he climbs them, Ten…eleven… twelve…He lays me on my bed. He tucks me in tight, too tight almost. He turns off my light, “Don’t forget my nightlight” I manage to say before I’m swept away by sleep. It is only a matter of seconds before I’m off into a dreamland with Luke, Hans and Leia.
Filed by Mr. Hillman at March 29th, 2008 under Wait until your father gets home! Tales of family...
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He would chase us around the house, through the living room, through the kitchen, through the dining room, through the foyer, through the office, and back again. He would tickle us until we couldn’t breathe. We would attempt to come up with clever plots to distract him from catching us, but they never worked. We would take off our sneakers, thinking socks would let us move more quietly. We would run one way through the office door, and then right back out a minute later, only to find him standing in front of our new route. If we hid while he caught his breath, he would find us within seconds. If we sent Matt ahead, he would grab him, swing him over the shoulder, and come after Jake and me. Meanwhile, his prisoner squealed upside down with delight, the blood rushing to his face from the high pitched warning shrieks to his older siblings. He was too smart for our little minds, and too fast for our little legs.
We came up with a signal which meant to stop tickling. We had to sit our father down and sternly tell him that sometimes we couldn’t breathe from all of the tickling and the laughing. So we came up with a code word. When you yelled it, the tickling stopped and you were given a chance to breathe again. Not only would this stop the silent laughter during which your chest moved up and down frantically and your little lungs gasped desperately for air, but more importantly it would let us escape, only to once again be chased, caught, and then tickled. But when Dad’s smart mind didn’t fall for your little kid plots, and his grown up legs caught up to your still growing ones, and you were thrown down and tickled until you were laughing too hard to breathe, you were also laughing too hard to speak the code word.
Our real problem was that no matter how hard we tried, and how quickly we danced our thirty little fingers all over his neck and belly just like he did to us, we could not get him to mutter the code word and accept defeat. Unlike his three children who could hardly breathe even before his fingers fluttered over our skin, he was just not ticklish. The tickle monster could never be beaten at his own game.
Filed by Mr. Hillman at March 29th, 2008 under Wait until your father gets home! Tales of family...
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March 28, 2008
It was getting dark outside and dinner was almost ready; Dad would be home soon.
When I heard the rumble of the garage opening, it was time to take action. There were two different ways I would greet my dad at night when he finally got home from work. Option one was to wait in the living room for him to walk into the doorway. From the living room I could see him open the laundry room door and then enter the kitchen. Bam! As soon as I saw him come in, I would be off. It was like his entering the room set off a race gun; I would run and run to see if I could get to Daddy faster than I had the previous night. Quickly, he would put down his box of papers, his work, and kneel on the tiled floor, under the opening to the kitchen, in preparation for my impending arrival. 3, 2, 1, Jump! I was in his arms in no time. Then up he would lift me and hug me and kiss me and ask me how my day was, me before anyone else, because I am his baby.
On the evenings when I was more tuckered out from exhaustive days at elementary school, there was always option two: hide and seek. Rather than waiting in the living room, I would crouch underneath the kitchen table. I squeezed myself in tightly between the white legs and the crossbar that ran along the bottom of the table between the legs. The table’s two wide legs and chairs acted as my shield, as I sat, slightly giggling waiting for Daddy to come in.
My mom and sister would calmly sit at the table, our hot dinner waiting to be eaten. I would sit there hugging my knees, looking through the cracks of the chair at the open space in the kitchen, the spot where my dad would soon be standing. Daddy would walk in, say hello to everyone, give each a kiss, and ask how their day went. Then he would realize someone was missing; I was not there! “Where’s Bri?” he would ask my mom. “I don’t know,” my mom would respond. Daddy would take a few minutes to “search” for me until finally, when his back was turned toward me, I would pop out from under the table, “scaring” him and bringing a smile to his face all at once. Daddy would act so shocked, as if I did not play this trick every other night of the week. “There’s my Bri B!” he would exclaim, with open arms.
Filed by Mr. Hillman at March 28th, 2008 under Wait until your father gets home! Tales of family...
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He took my pencil. He wouldn’t give it back. I got mad and then next thing you know, I bit him.
I was in second grade and it was my first year in Jarrettown Elementary School. I moved from Cedar Grove Christian Academy in Philadelphia to this suburban area. I had no friends at this time because I was very shy. I sat in the little chair and observed the other students listening intently to the Mrs. Carminati’s instructions or drawing little pictures on their notebooks, or conversing quietly with each other. During recess I would look around the playground and observe my classmates playing. I would always wonder when I would find my own group of friends.
I was always the quiet girl in the corner of the room or the girl who played by herself with the woodchips at the jungle gym. Sometimes my peers did not notice that I was in the same class with them. From time to time, people asked me for a pencil, crayon, marker, or paper. I would respond with a short answer such as “yes”, “no”, “sure”, “yeah”, or “I don’t have any”. No one was ever mean or did cruel things. They left me alone and I left them alone.
For a second grader, he was taller than most students and looked more like a man than any another boy in class 2B. From what I observed, J.J. was the trouble-maker kid: teasing other students, taking other’s belongings, and thinking that he was the cool kid. He and his friends would always pick a new victim everyday or every other day. Whoever was not in his posse were his victims. He was the head lion and they were the zebras. Then the day came when I was the zebra.
As usual, I sat at my desk doing what I do best: being quiet. Mrs. Carminati gave everyone in 2B a writing assignment. I was working diligently when suddenly a shadow came over me. I slowly lift my head and looked up. The last person I wanted to see was standing in front of me. My eyes were wide open and waited for him to state what he wanted from me.
I had a pencil on my desk and he swooped that away. I looked back at the emptiness of the desk. He took the paper’s best match, the pencil. As a , I would have just stayed in my seat and ignored his action. I would have let him have my pencil and keep it for himself. However, something stirred in me and changed my view. I transformed into the Hulk in that classroom. My body did not want to take bullying from him. I did not want to be like the other victims and my mind was telling me to keep away from trouble.
The next thing you know, I stood up to the manly second grader and said, “Give me my pencil.” Deep down, I was so frightened. I wanted to go back to my seat and pretend that I never did that. He responded back with a simple no. Then, as a pure reflex, I took his hand and bit his arm. He yelped and Mrs. Carminati came over to ask what had happened. He simply told the story while I was looking down on the floor feeling ashamed of my actions. The teacher told me what I did was wrong and later contacted my father.
When my father came home from work, he mentioned the incident that occurred at school. He also told me that what I did was wrong, but ended the conversation with laughter on his face. My father tells me that in the future I will look back upon this experience and laugh about it.
Filed by Mr. Hillman at March 28th, 2008 under I eat paste and other childhood reflections
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It was raining when we caught the train at the station in Fort Washington. It was only a light rain, and it was the middle of August, so it wasn’t too bad. My friend Mike and I met up with two other kids at the train station then joined up with three more girls when they got on the train at the Oreland stop. It was the middle of the afternoon so we had plenty of time before we had to be where we were going, but the problem was that none of us knew exactly how to get there.
The train ride into Market station took about an hour, but it was still raining by the time we had navigated our way out of the subterranean train station/mall and out onto the wet streets of Philly. I decided that I had a rough idea of how to get where we wanted to go. By this time we had decided we would stop to get cheese steaks before venturing down to the river. We went to Jim’s, which seemed like the place everyone had chosen as a haven from the rain. It was packed and we could barely move inside. A big black guy with a Star of David necklace curtly made my cheese steak, which I ate upstairs in a crowded room, huddled around a single table with my 6 other friends.
By the time we had finished our cheese steaks and had begun to dry out we had to once again venture out into the rain. By this time I was even more completely disoriented due to our detour to Jim’s, but I used my superior orientation skills to figure out our route. We ventured down towards the Delaware River, passing through the more historical parts of Philly and over I-95.
We reached Festival Pier about 15 minutes before the concert began. I had wanted to get there earlier, but of course my companions; the girls in particular, enjoyed whining. We did not get the front row positions I had wished for, but we were a respectable twenty to thirty feet back. Within a half hour of our arrival the population on the pier had increased tenfold, and the first band had taken the stage. They were called Love as Laughter. I had seen them once before a few months ago. The lead singer was drunk then, and he was drunk again at this venue, as were a plethora of my peers around me. Nevertheless, the band was very good.
After their set was over another opening band took the stage. This one I had never seen before, but they did a respectable job. Yet another group took the stage after the previous, but this was unexpected. While the two previous were indie rock bands, the three performers I saw before me were not. Instead they were a rap group, and an interesting one at that. Their performance at the start was amusing, but I quickly tired of it after about an hour. By this time three of my friends had sought shelter from the rain, which had begun to increase. The crowd around me was engaging in various illegal activities, which my friends and I were not participating in. Among the more memorable examples was a group of people smoking through a collection of George Bush masks, as well as a thoroughly inebriated young man running about with a very nasty black eye.
Sometime around nine the rap group, called Clipse, left the stage, and the stage crew began setting up for the main event. Around fifteen minutes later Modest Mouse took the stage. From there they went into among one of the best sets I could have imagined. I was almost killed on various occasions from mosh pits, and had to make special efforts to make sure that one of the girls, weighing a little over a hundred pounds, was not crushed inadvertently. Despite all of this, I loved the atmosphere. The music, and the band captivated me in general. Almost a half dozen musicians populated the stage playing their respective instruments. Two drummers pounded frantically on their drums. The bassist and backing instrumentalists played seamlessly. However, the most entrancing musician on the stage was by far the lead singer, Issac Brock. His wildly offbeat way of performing was remarkable. He possessed a great amount of charisma, something unexpected from a man with a heavy lisp.
I forgot about the rain, about being soaking wet, about the hundreds of drunk people all around, and the fact that the last train was leaving soon, and that we had to get back to the train station. When Emily reminded me of this fact, I told her that I was willing to stay and hear the encore even if I had to sleep in Philly. They would not let me do this, so I countered with the suggestion that they could start back and I would catch up. So with that the rest of my friends left Mike and I to watch the encore.
We did not get through the whole set, but decided to start back and catch up with our friends. We broke into a light jog along Penn’s Landing, eventually catching up to our group. We were still in a rush to get back to Market Station, so we hopped onto an overpass over I-95, which was not among our brightest decisions. We were a motley crew jogging down the streets of Philly at eleven o’ clock at night. The girls were jogging barefoot down the sidewalk, unable to run in their flip flops. Even the bums were giving us looks. We made it into the station with just minutes to spare, out of breath and soaking wet. We ducked inside the then almost empty Market Station, walked quickly passed the hobos who had passed out in the doorways. We made it to the train platform, collapsing onto the benches of the platform just as the train came roaring in.
Filed by Mr. Hillman at March 28th, 2008 under Confessions of Serial Teenager
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“Step it up!” I yelled to my teammates as the first half drew closer to ending with every second. I didn’t want another 0-0 tie like last game, so I was determined to win or at least score a goal. Our defense stole the ball from Methacton’s top forward and sent it to Tyler at midfield. By the time he passed it to Pat, who was playing forward opposite me, there couldn’t have been more than 2 minutes left to play. Pat crossed the ball to me and it soared through the air over every defender until it was just a few inches away. I slowly brought my head back as the ball spun inches away from my face. I snapped my neck forward and headed the ball over the goalie’s shoulder as he crashed into my knees and took me out. My team cheered and yelled as we went up 1-0.
Methacton’s forwards took the tap after I scored and began to work the ball up the field towards our net. One of them got all the way to our 18 yard line before firing a shot towards the bottom right corner of our goal. Our goalie barely saved it, and got ready for the punt. As his foot struck the ball, I took off from midfield to catch up to it. The ball flew by me and looked to be right in between me and the goalie as I raced in its direction.
By the time I reached it the ball was bouncing at my waist and the goalie couldn’t have been more than a few feet away. I was unable to head the ball this time, and it was too high off the ground to kick, so I kneed it in the direction of Methacton’s goal. It arced just over the goalie’s hands as he jumped up to grab it, and bounced into the goal behind him.
Just then the whistle blew and the first half ended with Upper Dublin leading Methacton 2-0. Never before had I scored two goals in one minute; this was definitely one of the highlights of my soccer career. We went on to win that game 5-0 with all the momentum we had after the first half. Our soccer team could not have gone on to have an undefeated season without that win. I had never been more pumped up than I was during those 60 seconds of that soccer game.
Filed by Mr. Hillman at March 28th, 2008 under Confessions of Serial Teenager
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It is beyond any doubt the most prestigious climb in cycling. Standing high at 3330 meters, Alpe d’Huez runs for 13.8 kilometers with 21 hairpin turns and an average incline gradient of 8.1%.
My dad had been talking about this vacation for months. He just couldn’t wait. My dad’s been an avid cycling fan his entire life, and as far back as I can remember, every weekend my dad would go out for a ride. Growing up, my dad would always try to coax me into cycling, and when he eventually did, I got into it in a really big way. I guess since now there were two cyclists in the house, it gave my dad a little more courage when the topic of our summer vacation came up at the dinner table. When it came to planning the summer vacation, my dad suggested making it a cycling vacation. My mother miraculously agreed, so my dad called up some of his friends who also cycled and planned a five-week long vacation in Italy and France. We spent the first four weeks in Tuscany, riding almost every day. At the time, we thought the climbs we were doing were ridiculously difficult. Of course, looking back at it now, those rides were barely even a warm-up for what was ahead of us.
After those four weeks in Tuscany, we drove up to Briançon, a small cycling town in the bottom right corner of France. This was where the real cycling began. We were there for five days total and the first three were spent riding some of the most absurd climbs known to man. The fourth day was a well-deserved rest day, or at least that was what we had planned. Instead of cycling, we were forced to walk around Briançon all day. By the end of the day, we were all just as tired as we would have been if we had gone cycling.
Finally the fifth and final day was upon us. As we approached the starting line of Alpe d’Huez, we were positive that this time we had definitely ridden the hardest climbs in the world and that there was no way that this could be any harder. As I got changed and prepared my bike, I was the most nervous I had ever been. However, I think that I brought that upon myself. That whole week, I had been bragging about how I was going to make it to the top first, and I knew for a fact that if I didn’t make it to the top first I would get crap from my dad and his friends for the rest of my life.
After several warm-up laps around the parking lot, we were ready and we all set off. Within the first five minutes of riding, all that fear and nervousness disappeared and was replaced by pure agony. The only respite I would get from that constant and excruciating lactic-acid burn was at each hairpin turn. At each of these turns, the road would level off to almost horizontal, and these were the only points in the ride where I could summon up enough energy to reach down and grab my water bottle.
About halfway in, I had lost track of where I was, what I was doing, and how long I had been doing it for. The only thing that kept me conscious and riding was the sign at each hairpin. At each of the 21 hairpins, there was a sign with the hairpin’s number and the name of a cyclist who had won a stage of the Tour on Alpe d’Huez. Counting the hairpins was all that kept me going. I was alone for virtually the entire ride. I blew past my dad and his friends ten minutes into the ride. As I rode past them, I gave them that Lance Armstrong glance-over-the-shoulder as I rode away. I couldn’t help myself. All I got in return was a bunch of swear words that I can only assume they were directed at me.
Finally, a little more than an hour later, I made it over the final hump and raced for the finish line. As I approached it, I raised my hands into the air, much like any cyclist does as they approach the finish line. My mother had driven up with my brother and she was there taking pictures. I rode over to her, gave her my bike, and then proceeded to lie on the ground for the next twenty minutes. The pain of the boiling hot tarmac touching my skin was nothing in comparison to what was going on in my legs. Eventually, everyone else made it to the finish line and we all sat down for lunch. The whole time I just rubbed it in their faces that a young teenager who had only been cycling for only two years beat them all by over thirty minutes. However, I think I got them a little angry, because after lunch, they challenged me to a race down the hill, in which they totally destroyed me.
Filed by Mr. Hillman at March 28th, 2008 under Confessions of Serial Teenager
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My neighbor, Alex, has an especially large backyard. The yard extends into the outskirts of a nature-hiking walk area. The actual path for the nature-hike walk is located deep within the overgrowth of nature. My older brother Tim and I noticed that the area looked similar to a jungle which naturally excited us. We started inviting ourselves over to Alex’s house and sometimes didn’t even invite Alex with us to play in the jungle. There was a long stream that surrounded the jungle where we would attempt to catch frogs and fish. For a while, we never ventured past the creek because the jungle was protected by a steep wall of dirt that my brother and I were afraid to climb it.
Eventually, curiosity of what animals might lay in the jungle caught the best of us so my brother forced me to climb the steep wall. My daring efforts and his bullying skills paid off for the jungle was better than we had dreamed. We would invite our friends over and travel to the jungle to create pathetic forts made of fallen logs and branches, play hide and seek, pretend we were explorers, etc. During the spring, summer and winter, we would attempt to venture out into the jungle during any weather conditions. We would especially enjoy playing “war” with our cap guns and one time, one of Alex’s neighbors called the police because he/she thought we were using real guns.
During the winter, the creek would freeze allowing us to make our own bowling alley on the ice using random items as pins and a pumpkin (which mysteriously appeared in the snow one day) as a bowling ball. My brother, our friends and I would also have a blast tackling each other in the snow and wrestling with less of a chance to obtain injuries.
One night, a huge rain storm hit Upper Dublin which made the jungle very muddy. The mud didn’t stop my brother and me from going to the jungle the next day; we put on old shoes and ventured on like we usually do. I remember walking on the edge of the jungle, where the creek met the steep wall of dirt (now mud of course) and looking down at a very large tree that had fallen over during the rainy and windy storm. Suddenly, the mud beneath my feet gave way and I fell down the cliff and landed where the roots of the fallen tree used to lie. The roots of the fallen tree had dug far into the ground, so when the tree collapsed, a small cave formed.
This discovery of the cave, although frightening at first, was very exciting. My brother and I turned it into a fortress which was always a strong desire and spent many days playing in or around the fort. We created balls of mud which we enjoyed throwing at innocent bystanders and it was a popular hiding spot for a cap-gun war or hide and seek.
Nowadays, I sometimes walk by Alex’s house and remember all of the fun times I had; most of them oddly didn’t include Alex…
Filed by Mr. Hillman at March 28th, 2008 under I eat paste and other childhood reflections
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March 27, 2008
Christmas in Peabody, Massachusetts is unlike the traditional close-knit, small family get together I often hear my friends talk about when the holiday season approaches. They reminisce about Grandma’s homemade cookies and Grandpa telling stories by the fireside. This sort of Christmas holiday, however, is one I am a stranger to. Being a Greek family, our holiday is not one for small get togethers and candle-lit dinners. Instead, it is my Yia-yia’s opportunity to invite half the city of Peabody, which she insists are all cousins of some sort, for an all day event. The food is ordered in from the nearest Greek restaurant and within hours the house is overwhelmed with the smells of spanakopita, pastichio, and moussaka. A warm aroma that only a true Greek could recognize.
The relatives arrive and every year there is a slew of people I have never seen before. “Your fifth cousins on your grandfather’s side” my grandmother whispers. I nod approvingly and greet them as if we had spent every Christmas together. It isn’t long before my younger adult cousins have one to many shots of ouzo and insist we all join in on the Greek dances that have been started in the family room. The “OOMPASSS” coming from the next room combined with the sounds of smashing plates, and my Grandmother’s only Greek CD she plays on repeat are never all that appealing. None-the-less I am suckered in and have to smile at my aunts and uncles as they stumble around the room linked hand in hand. After the pre-dinner dancing, it’s time to eat and dinner is always delicious. Being Greek in heritage has certainly given me an acquired taste to Greek food. Dinner is not quiet and relaxed but instead several separate conversations go on in an attempt to catch everyone up on the latest gossip around town. Who’s married who, who’s pregnant, and which rebel of a cousin had to go and marry the Jewish man. My Yia-yia always makes sure to sit near my sisters and me in an attempt to persuade us to grow up and marry a nice Greek boy so that we can have a nice Greek wedding and make nice Greek babies.
“How ’bout cousin Lenny?” She asks for the third year in a row, ”You two would make great couple, yes!”
“No Yiayia.” I reply, “Were related… that’s weird… plus he’s 24.”
“He’s your fifth cousin, it no matter…and 24… Bah! Your Papoo ten years older than me… it no matter kooklamoo!”
Stubborn as ever there is no convincing her and I agree to have a dance with Lenny in the family room. He’s much too old for me and reeks of a combination of Ouzo, lamb, and feta cheese. We dance around a little before I think of some lame excuse to leave and join my sisters in the safety of the kitchen. Out of breath I escape to the dessert room where most of the females have joined to re-kindle their gossiping. “I can’t believe she married that Jewish boy….. I think it’s because she is pregnant…. I heard she had three boyfriends at the same time…. Three? I heard seven!” My sisters and I roll our eyes at the pointless gossip.
Finally, my Papoo calls the family into the family room. It’s the end of the night and time for family videos. We all sit around and open presents and watch movies laughing and recalling the “good old days”. Sipping wine and munching on baklava I can’t help but really smile at the ridiculousness of my family. When everyone leaves I say goodnight to my Yia-yia and Papoo and curl up in my bed thinking about the hectic Christmas’s my family has. However, despite how much I think about that quiet Christmas by the fire, I simply can’t imagine the holidays without a few broken plates, a little of Greek dancing, and one too many shots of ouzo.
Filed by Mr. Hillman at March 27th, 2008 under Wait until your father gets home! Tales of family...
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I was only six years old, way too young to be roller skating by myself… or so my young mind constantly insisted. Despite my serious fear of the rink, my family still thought Saturday night pizza and roller skating at the Warrington Skating Rink was a perfect way to spend the evening. Although I knew my family loved spending time with me, after two years of babying they began to get a little annoyed at having to rotate who held my hand around the rink. I couldn’t help it; I was scared to death to skate alone.
As much as I dreaded having to skate solo, nights at the skating rink were never dull. Walking in the building the smell of rubber and pizza was almost overwhelming. It is an odd combination of aromas that seems to have developed a unique tie only to skating rinks. At the rink, everyone is always happy. From the energetic staff skaters in their bright orange polo’s, to the old man renting skates at the counter. The flashing disco lights only add to this aura of happiness as they reflect of the smiling skaters while they glide round and round. And oh, how can one forget the soundtrack. From the Macarena to the Chicken Dance, these corny tunes always seemed to fit with my 6 year old minds idea of a hopping dance party. In order to avoid deprivation from this fun filled night at the rink, I felt one fateful night it was time to at least attempt to skate by myself.
“Just take it slow” I told myself. I inched along the rink as the other skaters whizzed past me on either side. My sister waved at me enthusiastically and she skated by with her friends. My parents had already been sucked into the “Parents Room” where all of the old people sat and talked watching their children skate around. I tried desperately to make eye contact with my mom, but she was purposely avoiding my gaze. I couldn’t stare very much longer because turning around was enough to make me loose my balance. As tears welled up in my eyes I tried to match the pace of everyone around me. Fall after fall, I eventually just sat down right in the middle of the rink frustrated and upset. I was crying hysterically but neither of my parents could see me so there I sat, all alone, with tears and snot running down my face. It was an attractive site I am sure. After a few minutes a nice blonde lady came to me and offered to help me up. I recognized she was one of the mothers who sat and talked to my parents in the “Parent Room” so I decided it was okay to let her help me up. I had always been told not to receive help from strangers. But the pretty blonde lady seemed friendly enough, so I wiped my nose with my sleeve and let her pull me up.
“You look like you could use a hand. What happened to you dear?” she asked seeming genuinely concerned. I proceeded to spill out my sob story from the entire evening and started to cry once again, perhaps just for effect. It worked, as the blonde lady then offered to skate around with me a couple of times until I got back on my feet. I gleefully accepted her proposal and grabbed onto her hand tightly as she led me around the rink. She had probably intended on letting my hand go and being able to skate without me after a few laps around the rink, but I had no intentions of letting go. I seemed to have glued my hand to hers and with a cheesy smile I’d plea “Just one more time around with me?”
Eventually I caught the eye of my mom who was sitting at the edge of the rink watching me in awe. Her face kind of gave off the “I can’t believe she found some random lady to skate around with her because the rest of us wouldn’t.” I have to admit I was proud of myself too. The rest of the night was spent with the pretty blonde lady skating round and round until my feet hurt too much to continue. When we exited the rink I ran over to my parents and enthusiastically asked if they had seen me skating. My mom rolled her eyes and my dad just laughed. “Next weekend, we’ll make sure to have someone skate with you dear.” I sat smiling the entire ride home. All it took was a few falls and a little bit of tears to get my way.
Filed by Mr. Hillman at March 27th, 2008 under I eat paste and other childhood reflections
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“BEIBSSSS!” I called down the hallway as I saw the familiar face standing at the row of lockers. It was the end of the day, and I knew I was probably the last person he wanted to see. He looked up and greeted me with the expected eye roll that he shot every time he saw me or my best friend, Jackie. Mike Beiber was Jackie’s older brother’s best friend, and for years Jackie and I had made it our duty to annoy them as much as we possibly could. They were juniors and we were freshman, and honestly, it was great entertainment, especially because we had nothing more fun to do. As I walked by we made small conversation and then he tried to shoo me away before any classmates saw him talking to me. I said goodbye as he laughed at me like an older brother laughs at a dumb, immature little sister, and I walked towards the school’s exit.
I pushed open one of the school’s double doors and walked out into the drizzling rain, ready to look for my mom’s car in the front circle. As I headed towards the steps I looked around but didn’t see her. She was always running late, and I knew that that time would probably be no exception. I was so happy to finally be going home after a long, miserable day that I wasn’t paying attention, and being my clumsy self, the next thing I knew I slipped down three steps into a wet, filthy puddle at the bottom. I tried to compose myself for a minute and then stood up on my ankle that I had twisted, with my backpack dripping from the bottom, daring myself to look down at the damage I could tell I had done to my jeans. As if the fall was not embarrassing enough, the puddle had soaked the right side of my pants the entire length of my leg, and dirt and leaves were sticking to it. I looked around as I attempted to brush the dirt off, but no one else was outside looking or laughing at me, and I figured anyone in their cars or on the other side of the circle probably would not have noticed. “I’ve been saved”, I thought, and I as I stood there, still waiting for my mom, my humiliation, and with it the red tint of my face, wore off.
Just as I took a sigh of relief and almost giggled at my own clumsiness, the double doors I had walked out of minutes before opened behind me. Beiber, who I had completely forgotten about, yelled to me, “Hey Morgan! Just wanted to let you know I saw what happened. That’s so embarrassing!” Hysterically laughing, he closed the door and I watched him shaking his head as he walked in the opposite direction. For the next five minutes as I impatiently awaited my mom’s arrival, I replayed what happened over and over in my head, becoming more embarrassed each second I thought about it and knowing that Beiber would never let me live that one down. When my mom finally came, I walked to her car relieved. No sooner did I open the door that I heard my mom laughing as she asked “Morgan, what happened to you?”
Filed by Mr. Hillman at March 27th, 2008 under Humiliations, Embarrassments and Huh?!?
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March 26, 2008
We walked obediently in line towards the art room, our fingers over our mouths and our feet in line with Miss Epstein’s. We whispered through our “hushing” fingers, excited to see what holiday project Mrs. Wilkinson had in store for our second grade class. We filed into the room, hurried carefully past the supplies table, and sat in our assigned seats. Mrs. Wilkinson waited for our chatter to quiet down, and began to explain today’s project. We were going to make wreaths since Christmas was next week. She gave each table a pile of green and red cut up tissue paper, along with a bottle of Elmer’s glue. She picked a volunteer from the class to hand a pencil to each student. Meanwhile, she showed us how to fold the pieces of tissue paper over the eraser and then glue them onto the wreath shaped cardboard. She held up a half-finished example, and our class gazed in astonishment at the stunning three-dimensional wreath our teacher had created. Mrs. Wilkinson told us that these would be a beautiful Christmas decoration for our houses, or even a great Christmas present for our parents.
Each of my classmates eagerly turned their attention to their own blank cardboard, the piles of green and red tissue paper, the pencil, and the glue that sat before them. I, however, shot up my small hand with a look of confusion on my face. “I do not celebrate Christmas!” I proudly told Mrs. Wilkinson. The rest of the class looked up at me, and then turned their attention back to their Christmas wreaths. They already knew that I didn’t celebrate Christmas, for it had been discussed numerous times throughout our childhood, especially around “Christmas break”.
Mrs. Wilkinson began to look uncomfortable, but her kind eyes lit up like they do when one has an idea. She then went into the supply closet and came out with blue and yellow tissue paper. “What are the colors of Hanukkah?” she asked me gently. Missing Hebrew school every Sunday for softball didn’t really help me come up with an answer. I looked around the room quickly, but I already knew that I was the only Jewish kid in my class. In fact, I already knew I was the only Jewish kid in my grade. I reached a decision that Hanukkah colors must be blue and white. “Just like Israel!”, I told Mrs. Wilkinson. She once again got that look of discomfort on her face, and glanced down at her blue and yellow tissue paper. She looked up at me, and down at the tissue paper. She then checked the supply closet again for white tissue paper. Returning with empty hands, she quietly explained that I could make a blue and yellow wreath, blue and yellow representing…Hillside.
I was a little unsure why the rest of the class was making a Christmas wreath and I was making one with our elementary school colors, but I quickly got distracted by my tablemates covering their hands in glue. I soon finished my school spirited wreath, blue and yellow in a field of green and red. I took my project proudly in my sticky hands, thinking it would make a beautiful Christmas decoration for our house, or even a great Christmas present for my parents.
Filed by Mr. Hillman at March 26th, 2008 under I eat paste and other childhood reflections
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Babysitters are stupid. It’s that simple. One of my old babysitters, Gina, who also helped out at my preschool, used to dunk my head while I took a bath, practically drowning me. This same one also played computer games nonstop while my sister and I beat each other up. Years after, we had a different babysitter from the neighborhood. She seemed nice, but just to test her, I used to run away and hide in the bushes, or under the deck. Eventually I would come out so she wouldn’t call my mom freaking out, but then my sister would hide. It was a fun game for us, but apparently she didn’t like it.It wasn’t long before Mom got us a new babysitter.
Her name was Kelsey, and we used to watch MTV with her because she didn’t get that channel at her own house. She was my mom’s friend’s daughter, and sometimes we used to go to her house and play too. One day we sat around with nothing to do, and my sister and I decided we wanted to do something nice for my mom. It was a sunny spring day, and the three of us were lounging on the grass. After looking around Kelsey came up with the idea that we could make bouquets for my mom. The only problem was we had no garden at our house.
We didn’t let our garden dilemma stand in our way. Instead, the three of us ran through our neighbors’ yards, picking the prettiest flowers off their plants and gathering them into a nice bouquet. It was like a competition of who could get the best-looking and most colorful bunch. I went for mostly pinks and reds, with geraniums and snap dragons, maybe a rose here or there. Taylor picked some of Barbara’s deep purple pansies and bright orange and yellow mums. Kelsey joined in too, helping my sister and me, as well as picking some for her own mother. We picked through Barbara’s garden, two houses down, and then Mrs. Gerry’s garden too. Taylor knocked over a pot and splattered a mound of soil all over the cement, but Kelsey helped her stuff it back in. After we had gathered our share of flowers, and left empty spots all over our neighbor’s gardens’, we went back into our own house to find vases and put the flowers in water so they could be ready for mom when she arrived.
We spent the rest of the afternoon waiting for Mom to get home so we could give her the presents. Taylor kept running to the door to look out the window while I anxiously sat on the window bench, peering out as every car drove by. When Mom finally arrived, she was met by an unhappy crowd on the sidewalk in front of our house. Our neighbors had gathered and ambushed her when she got home, a bunch of cranky old cats ready to pounce, complaining about our raids through their gardens and how we destroyed their plants. By the time Mom walked in the door, she already knew about her surprises and wasn’t even happy when we gave her the beautiful bouquets. The disappointment of her lack of appreciation and excitement was all over mine and Taylor’s face, but Mom didn’t seem to notice. We had spent all day trying to do something nice to her and we were both upset that she seemed more angry about it than pleased. Luckily, Mom couldn’t get too mad when Kelsey was there, so we just drove her home. On the way back we stopped and picked up two new plants for each of the neighbors whose gardens we had wrecked, and delivered them to each doorstep when we got home, apologizing for damaging their gardens, although neither my sister nor I was really sorry because truly, it was all our stupid babysitter Kelsey’s idea.
Filed by Mr. Hillman at March 26th, 2008 under I eat paste and other childhood reflections
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“Hello, how are you? Where is the baby!” This is what all my relatives said to me as I opened the door, letting them into the house for my new baby brothers naming ceremony. I was wearing a bright orange-yellow pavadai with my hair in its usual pigtails, bangles jingling on my arm, anklets clinking and pinching my feet, and a bindi on my forehead.
The pile of shoes at the door grew bigger and bigger as more and more relatives come pouring in, to see this little thing lying in the crib lined with a red sari to make it look more festive for the event. All of my grandparents, aunts, uncles, cousins, basically any Indian my family knew came through the door to see the baby. My parent told me was going to be a boy, but I wouldn’t believe them because I wanted a little sister. I was running around from person to person excited to see everyone, craving attention from everyone who was paying attention to the baby. Everyone passively talked to me, just talking to keep me occupied, but they were really interested in my brother, who at that point who still didn’t have a name according to Indian customs.
The ceremony itself was interesting. I had to place a rock by my brother’s head, and all the aunties did aarthi to him with a silver plate containing red liquid going around in circles. In the middle of all of this, I actually got to hold my brother, a rare feat considering my age, making me feel important in the situation. Prayers were sung, a bell was rung, and everybody rubbed their hands through the smoke, drank the holy water and ate the blessed food. Meanwhile, my five year old self was getting restless. The time span of this ceremony extending far beyond my attention span. It was too cold to go outside and play, and everyone, especially my cousins were sick of playing house or kitchen with me. There was also too many things going on that I was not able to sit in front of the television and watch one of my many Disney movies.
Finally my uncle called me over to help him perform a special task for the ceremony. I got very excited with the possibility of doing something special because what five year old would not feel excited doing something special. At every naming ceremony, the baby’s name is spelled out in something. I was able to help my uncle spell out my brother’s name with M & M’s in rice, a great feat because I was only a couple of months into kindergarten. This moment solidified that my brother was here to stay and would remain my brother, no matter what.
Filed by Mr. Hillman at March 26th, 2008 under Wait until your father gets home! Tales of family...
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My alarm goes off at 7:30, every Sunday morning. I roll out of bed, brush my teeth and wash my face. I put on the same black collared shirt and khakis. I brush my hair, eat a cereal bar and off I go to work. Every Sunday morning I sit at the same red light for over five minutes, I don’t know why it takes so long to change. I always find myself wondering, what if I didn’t go to work today? Somehow I always end up going. It’s extremely hard to convince myself to go when I know I’ll be doing a lot of work for minimum wage, but someone’s got to do it.
I walk in the door at 8:30, everyone looks miserable and I know that no one wants to be there. I walk to the back of the pharmacy, open a register and prepare for the customers to arrive. At work I always need to keep a smile on my face and I need to be extremely polite to everyone, which I don’t mind at all. Throughout the day I deal with hundreds of people, some that are very nice, others that feel they are better than me and can therefore treat me like dirt. I help fill prescriptions, sell them to sick people, clean and also work as a cashier. I look at the clock at least a thousand times throughout the day and time seems to move by so slowly. Some days I work with some really nice girls, and we have fun talking and gossiping. Other days I work with people that I barely know and we stand in silence and pretend to look busy.
When the pharmacy is slow, I clean out old prescriptions that were supposed to be picked up two weeks ago and I wonder why the person never came. Whenever adolescents come in with friends and are joking around and having fun, I smirk to myself knowing that they’ll be working too in a few years. Towards the end of my shift I “face-off” the shelves, which means pulling everything forward and putting back things that people pick up and are too lazy to put back on their own.
When I look at the clock and see that there are only a few minutes left, I realize that working there isn’t so bad. When the next shift arrives, we make small talk and I pull my drawer and take it to the back room. I sit down at a cold, round table and count my money. Then I pick up my pay check, it’s not a lot, but enough to get me by for another two weeks. Going to work encourages me to go to college and work hard, so that I can have a good job that I enjoy going to. I feel compassion for people that have to actually go to a job that they hate every single day. At 1:15 I get in my car and drive home and realize that things aren’t so bad and that I wont have to go back… until Tuesday.
Filed by Mr. Hillman at March 26th, 2008 under Confessions of Serial Teenager
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March 24, 2008
The fire’s lit and we’re all sitting around it watching our S’mores slowly roast. It’s summer Zach, Julia, Amy and I are waiting for summer to end. Waiting to start our freshman year at the high school. Darren sits laughing at us, telling us we’ll soon be wishing high school never started. We roast S’mores until one in the morning, the fire burns low, and it starts to get cold. Amy starts a game of truth or dare, it goes on for a few minutes, everybody picking truth. Finally it’s my turn, “Truth or dare?” Darren asks me. I contemplate my choices. “Dare.” I reply, confident that what ever it is, it can’t be that bad. As Darren thinks, we all hear the lake in the background, calmly lapping at the shore, pushing the canoe against the dock. Darren’s laugh brings us back to the fire, “I dare you, to jump into the lake…” He says. All right, that’s not so bad. I say mentally. I may not be the best swimmer but the lake is shallow enough. “Naked.” He finishes with a cruel smirk on his face. Oh god. Naked. The lake. In the dark!? I balk, “absolutely not” I say, no way am I getting in that lake alone, naked and in the dark. I look around the campfire waiting for Amy or Julia to back me up. They don’t.
We all trudge down to the lake. I can’t believe I am doing this. I’m in my bathing suit as I ease into the water. The moon’s reflection bounces as I send ripples running across the lake. The water’s warm, I feel the stones turn into mud as I get farther and farther away from the waterfront. Once I’m safe distance from the dock I strip. My bathing suit is around my ankles when Darren yells “Come on Amanda, I’ve got to see your bathing suit!” Asshole, I mutter as I take my bathing suit in my hand and wave it around in the air. As I look around the lake I relax a little bit. This isn’t as bad as I thought. My fears seem to dissolve into the lake as I float in its clear waters.
I hear a splash and two distinct laughs as Julia and Amy come out to join me. “We couldn’t let you have all the fun.” Amy says. I’m relieved that my friends have come out and joined me. We all float silently, watching the moon and stars above us make their way across the cloudless night sky. A rustling from the dock breaks the calm silence. We look over and to my horror there are Zach and Darren’s bare butts as they moon us. “Hey ladies, there are some full moons out tonight!” They yell out to us. We laugh and go back to looking at the night sky, our weightless bodies lolling in the water. We share last minute thoughts as Mr. Finn yells at us to get out of the water. As we wrap towels around our bodies we laugh and walk up to the house, all of us savoring the memory of our nightswimming.
Filed by Mr. Hillman at March 24th, 2008 under Confessions of Serial Teenager
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It’s 4:30 in the morning; my phone vibrates to wake me up. My body screams in protest. Why am I getting up this early, I mentally ask myself as I stumble to the bathroom. Oh right, to see the sunrise, what a genius I am. I flick on the bathroom light, momentarily blinded by the intense fluorescent brightness. I brush my teeth and stare into the mirror. The face that looks back is not the same face that came here seven weeks ago. The sun has tanned me a nice golden brown and I’ve lost some baby fat in my face. I wonder what my friends back home are going to say when they see me. I haven’t spoken to them in a while. The phone calls that came every day stopped a long time ago and I’ve decided that I don’t really mind.
I spit the excess toothpaste into the sink and leave the bathroom. I get dressed and look for my hiking boots, all the while trying my best not to wake Rachel, my roommate. I realize that I’ve already packed them and that reminds me that today I’m going home. I shake those thoughts out of my head and slip out the front door only to be greeted by a frigid morning air. I silently curse, although I know full well that I should appreciate the cold now, in about 4 hours it will be a scorching 115 degrees. “Rivkaleh, what you get me up this early for?” Orni says to me in her poor English. I turn and smile, “I want to see the sunrise, and if you keep talking we’ll miss it.” I say as I begin to walk up the hill.
We’re about half way to the top of Tel Tzuba before I start to slow down. My legs ache from the steepness of the hill and my back hurts from the weeks I’ve spent sleeping on a couch. We keep climbing for what seems like eternity. Orni and I talk about the past few weeks and what I plan on doing when I go home. I don’t really want to think about it. The people I’ve met, the places I’ve seen; I want to stay here, in this moment, forever. My mind goes back to the task at hand, making it to the tel before the sun. I pick up the pace, the sun is coming up. We run up the rest of the way by the time we’re at the top I’m out of breath. You’d think after seven weeks of this, I’d be in better shape.
Finally, we made it, I say to myself. I look around at my surroundings. Tel Tzuba is an old crusader fortress that overlooks all of Jerusalem. From the top I can see the Kotel and the Dome of the Rock. I’ve lost count of how many times I’ve seen those two great monuments in the past seven weeks. Yet each time I see them they still manage to leave me in wondrous awe of their immense beauty. Orni and I stand in silence as we catch our breath and look out over Jerusalem. I glance at my watch and remark that it’s 5:30; the sun should be up by now. As I look around the top of the Tel, I notice that some clouds have moved in and blocked out the sun. I let out an exasperated sigh. Wonderful, I wake up before the sun to see it rise and now its cloudy just great. I plop down onto a rock and rest my head in my hands. I stare at the ground and remember that in a few hours I’ll be on a plane going home. I start to get teary eyed, when Orni yells “Rivkaleh, look!” as I glance up the clouds part and there’s the sun staring at me. Air leaves my lungs as I watch the fiery globe make its way up the early morning sky. Oh my, I am completely at a loss for words as I gaze into the sun. Orni breaks the silence, “So Rivkaleh, next year in Tzuba?” I smile and break my gaze away from the sun, “Yeah, next year in Tzuba.”
Filed by Mr. Hillman at March 24th, 2008 under Confessions of Serial Teenager
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I would have never thought that I would feel threatened by some baby raccoons. However, in July, two of these creatures had made my backyard their home, and my dog, which is a very small pug named Colonel, was not accepting of our new neighbors. There was never a mother raccoon around, so my family assumed these babies were on their own. My family called a bunch of animal shelters and one lady we called told us that if we captured them and brought them to her, she would take care of the raccoons. She also laughed as she told us people called her the Raccoon Lady. I did not like the sound of this, and my dad told me that I was going to have to help him capture them. This was getting crazier by the minute.
Now that we knew what we had to do, we just had to wait for the raccoons to show up again, and until then, I would be relaxing in our pool. “I see the raccoons! Get out of the pool!” yelled my dad from the back porch. I jumped out, got a towel, and grabbed a hockey stick on impulse. It would probably not help me at all, but at least it made me feel safe. The raccoons had climbed up a tree, so my dad got a ladder and handed me a trash can. “What the hell is this for?” I asked. “You are going to catch the raccoon in the trash can when I knock it off the tree,” my dad replied, as if it that was the obvious use of a trash can.
So far, I was soaking wet with a hockey stick in one hand, a stinky trash can in the other, and I was about to catch a raccoon that could have rabies. “Don’t let the raccoon fall on your head!” my mom jokingly shouted. My dad began to shake the tree and the raccoon fell, but clung onto the branch below it. The other raccoon was on the ground, and it started to walk toward me. “It’s coming toward me!” I screamed as I held the hockey stick out. “Don’t move! You still have to catch the one in the tree!” my dad frantically yelled. He shook the tree harder and the raccoon fell into the trash can with a soft thud. I held the trash can with shaking hands as my dad scooped the other raccoon into the second trash can. “Jaclyn, you have to sit in the back of the car with the raccoons,” my dad said. “Are you kidding? This is just great!” I said angrily, as I helped carry the squealing trash cans to the car.
It was a long drive to see the Raccoon Lady, considering I had a screeching trash can on either side of me in the car. Every time my dad made a turn, the raccoons would squeal even louder and scratch at the trash can that I was holding on to. When we arrived twenty agonizing minutes later, we saw a decrepit, old house with a rickety truck on the front lawn. The house looked as if it could have been right out of a horror movie, and I was beginning to think I was in one. This was getting shadier by the minute. The Raccoon Lady came out and just reached in the trash cans and pulled out the baby raccoons like it was nothing. “You’re such a cutie!” she said to one of the raccoons as it hissed right in her face. This lady was really freaking me out. She thanked us as we got into the car and finally drove back home. Afterward, my dad could not stop laughing about how funny I looked trying to protect myself in my swimsuit holding a hockey stick. I will never hear the end of that one.
Filed by Mr. Hillman at March 24th, 2008 under Humiliations, Embarrassments and Huh?!?
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I really wanted my mom to bring out the cake. It was my ninth birthday, and the sounds of the Backstreet Boys and Britney Spears could be heard in the background of my small, girly party. My party was being held outside on my back porch in the breezy month of May, and it happened to be a particularly sunny day. I watched out of the corner of my eye as my mom walked back into the house. Was she getting my cake? It was my favorite kind of cake that I had waited a whole year for. It was my delicious strawberry shortcake. This cake was so irresistible with the fresh strawberries and sweet whipped cream. I was going to jump out of my skin if I did not get my piece of cake soon.
My mom walked back onto the porch with the cake in her hands. She began to sing happy birthday, and soon everyone was singing along. I took a huge breath in, and blew all nine candles out. The cake was cut and everybody received a generous piece of the strawberry shortcake. We tried to eat as much as we could, but it was so incredibly filling none of us could possibly finish it. I looked over to my friend and whispered, “I know what we should do with the rest of our cake.” We had always been really silly and troublesome when we were put together, and this time was no different. We secretly decided to have a mini food fight, and we smashed our entire nine-year old faces in the cake. Icing was all over our faces and cake was crumbled all over us. Strawberries were rolling on the ground and we were laughing hysterically. Who would have thought that my beloved strawberry shortcake would be destroyed in a friendly food fight?
My mom came back on the porch to see what all the commotion was about, and she had a priceless look on her face. She looked a little stunned, but she started to laugh. “I have to go grab the camera,” she said smiling. We continued to throw cake at each other as we gawked at each others clownish appearances. Flashes went off from the camera as our silliness was documented, and we were not embarrassed in the least. We proudly displayed our food covered faces while everyone laughed, at our ridiculousness.
We didn’t have any napkins left after we cleaned the table up, so we were left wiping our faces with tissues. There was a pile of Kleenex on the table as I tried to mop up the mess on my face. Naturally, my face was extremely sticky and the tissues did not help at all. Not to mention all the bits of cake and icing throughout my short hair. I said goodbye to my friends as we were all still laughing, and we all knew it would be the first thing we would talk about back at school on Monday.
Filed by Mr. Hillman at March 24th, 2008 under I eat paste and other childhood reflections
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