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“Mmm hmm.” “You bet.” “Ho, yeah.” My uncles, father, and I sit around the grill at my Graduation Party. We have a big party at the house at least twice a year. We sit around and talk, telling stories and jokes, we eat copious amounts of food that we shouldn’t, my Uncle Jeff will usually break out Trivial Pursuit, or Apples to Apples, and we’ll play and make fun of my Uncle Brian for taking so long to answer his questions. My father will man the grill with my grandfather sitting close beside him and what used to be a Budweiser in his hand, but since he found he was an anemic, it’s juice or water. My dad will make fun of my Uncle Brian, but mainly that’s just because my dad’s his older brother, and it comes with the territory. My mom will play the games with us, and continue to refill the chips and dip and other food that everyone brings. My sister will keep an eye on all of our younger cousins, not because she wants to, but because my aunt’s and uncle’s take it for granted that she will, which she kind of resents, and I don’t blame her. I would get a little tired of spending all of my time at family gatherings with 6-8 years olds if I were 17. But my mother usually has her invite a friend or two over to keep her company. My job is to mainly refill the drinks and keep everyone informed on how college is going. I guess I have one of the easier jobs, because since I don’t really circulate, people tend to refill their own beverages, and if they are drinking alcohol, I don’t know how to mix drinks anyway, so I’m kind of useless there. I enjoy our get-togethers, and I genuinely always have at them. I only dread cleaning up after them. My aunts and uncles usually offer to help clean up, but usually they have their car packed up, and one foot out of the door. But I suppose it’s nice that they offer. laughter echoes mischief |
I was over at a friend's house in the fall one weekend to stay the night. We always stayed at each other’s house. This night was close before Halloween. Where I’m from everyone TPs teachers, and friends’ houses (TPing is sneaking up to someone’s house and throwing toilet paper all in their trees, bushes and wrapping up their cars). This night, my friend, Jana, and I were all sitting in the kitchen joking around when we heard something outside. Next thing I know her brother, Andrew, comes running up the stairs from the basement in blue basketball shorts, a white t-shirt, his Redwing boots and a gun. It was the funniest thing I have ever seen because Andrew is about 6 foot 5 and the common basketball shorts were well above his knee because his legs are so long. I ended up on the floor crying I was laughing so hard at him that we missed the people TPing their yard. Needless to say, he was not as amused as I was at his outfit. This guy is the prime example of a farmer, he has the short haircut, the tan and the goofy sense of style. gun in hand
My cousin told me that she was pregnant at our aunt’s baby shower. No one else new and she wasn’t sure how to tell anyone else in the family. I was completely shocked and didn’t even know what to say. I couldn’t even imagine what she had to have been going through. I knew that she didn’t have a boyfriend and she was hiding this from everyone for six months. I felt special in a way because I was the first person she told. sitting at the baby shower as her belly grows larger
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Most people say that their first memory is of a parent, or maybe a pet. Nice, right? But my first memory is of being attacked by a rooster. I was three years old. My grandmother had sent me out with a bottle (a pop bottle with a nipple) full of warm milk, to help my aunt feed the baby lambs. It was a cold, clear day in winter, and at that point in my life, I was still excited when I got to "help" with chores. But all of sudden, wings were flapping in my face; pointy claws and beak were pecking at my skin. Tears blurring my vision and screaming at the top of my lungs, I fled back to the house. It turns out this rooster was pure evil - the equivalent of a crotchety, kid-hating old man. My older cousins had taunted it for years by chasing it with the moped, and it had finally just snapped. Now, for years, I only remembered that my grandpa had put an end to this red terror. Recently, though, I was reminiscing with my aunt about the attack, and she reminded me of something I must have repressed. Apparently, after my grandpa killed the rooster, he took it out on the gravel road and ran it over with the truck. He then showed me the rooster, and told me that this is what would happen if I played in the road. A lesson that probably would have scarred me for life, had I remembered it. Although, 7 years later, I was hit by a car - so maybe I should have paid more heed to the rooster's tragic end. For years, I was always mortified when I had to tell this story as my first memory. I suppose I could have made up a different, more generic memory. But to tell the truth, though I didn't necessarily enjoy growing up on a farm, it gave me some pretty amazing stories to tell. How many people can talk about the time that their uncle, a deputy sheriff, burned drugs confiscated by the county in their grandmother's burn barrel on Christmas Eve? And how many aspiring performers made their stage debut singing "Deck the Hogs" on a table during a Christmas Party? Growing up, I tried so hard to disassociate myself from anything I saw as "hick." Don't get me wrong, I have no intention of ever living in a rural area again. But I'm starting to appreciate the friendly, open people that live there, and the hard work that they do, to scrape out a living in a town that hasn't seen an economic boom in over 50 years. The eight hours that separate me from home have helped me realize that, as much as I hate to admit it, I'm attached to my hometown and the people in it. And that won't change, even though our welcome sign does still read - "Pilot Mound -The Friendliest Town Around; Where Every Day's a Holler Day." chasing the horizon |
Why do we attempt to make our first kisses perfect? What is perfect? If there is such a thing, can we really expect to bottle it into a single moment? What is a kiss but holding hands in a higher hemisphere of the body? What can you learn about someone from your first kiss with them? I certainly hope that my entire being can’t be summed up in a single, insignificant action. We tend to get so worked up about aspects of the situation that are completely out of our control. Kisses should never be called on account of rain. Kisses should be given whenever and wherever and however they may come. That’s what kisses are for. If it’s 2am on New Year’s and you’re both piss drunk, so be it. If it directly follows the conversation in which you explain that you have a third nipple, what the hell – it’ll be a story for the grandkids. Embrace the imperfection. That’s the great thing about kisses. Girls will never admit it, but a kiss forgives more than she’ll give it credit for. You could pick the worst possible moment to kiss her, and while in an ordinary situation you would be completely shit-out-of-luck, the fact that you took the effort and courage to kiss her makes up for your completely shitty timing. When I first learned how to shoot a 22 caliber, my dad told me aim small, miss small, and, based on the way I shoot a gun, I’ve come to learn that the saying applies more to the first kiss than anything else I’ve done. In other words, don’t worry about the weather, or what you’re wearing, or how you smell – it’s all part of the big picture and it doesn’t really matter. But the little things, the things you can control – the way you look at her, hold her, the way you actually kiss her – if you can get those right, no one’s really going to care whether or not your shoes untied. Aim small, miss small – simple as that. cold, damp lips
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My senior year of high school, I had a really large circle of friends who were all really good kids. We were on the honor roll and we played all the sports that we could. We never really did anything that would get us in trouble; we were genuinely good kids. One Friday evening, we took off to go to the driving range, because we thought it sounded like fun. There must have been something in the air that night because we were all in the mindset of doing something we would never do, something that could possibly get us in trouble. So that’s exactly what we did. We were leaving the driving range and we decided to steal all the buckets of balls that we had just hit. For what reason? I still don’t know, but that is beyond the point. We took those golf balls to the downtown area of the city we live in, and decided to throw them out the window at passing cars. We didn’t actually throw them at the cars, just in their vicinity. Amazingly, we did not get in any trouble doing that. However, the next part of the story is where the police lights come into play. We knew that in the next town over a lot of road work was being done and that there were extra road signs lying around. With this in mind, we decided to steal one as a souvenir. What we didn’t anticipate was that a police officer would happen to be patrolling in this tiny, tiny town of maybe one hundred people. We had three cars in our troupe, so we decided that the last car would be the ones to swipe the sign. As soon as the sign was swiped and we were taking off we see police lights flip on. The police officer doesn’t realize that we actually took one of the construction signs; he just saw kids get out of a car and run down the road. After he takes all of our licenses, he tells us that we were getting off the hook this time, but the next time we are seen in the area there will be another thing coming for us. We all went back to a friend’s house after our little fiasco and decided that was the most exhilarating thing we have ever done, but…we’re never doing it again! The body in the street in the haiku was probably meant to be a dead body, but for me the first thing I thought of was my friends running down the street after stealing a road sign. Elizabeth unfamiliar surroundings— kids being kids… |
And there they were. Down in his basement—a basement like every high school basement—shooting some pool. Those days had turned into two months, and now each second seemed to wear on him. He felt his sweaty hands slide down the stick as he waited his turn. She was lining up her shot, and from the depth of her v-neck, he knew it was going to be a good one…he shook his head in pretend disbelief as the orange ball crawled into the side pocket. They danced for a while—him sashaying to the left and her swiveling to the right—the table was starting to feel dizzy. And then because he had read in Cosmo that spontaneity was a good thing, and because he fucking wanted to, they met in the middle of their promenade with her back stretched across the green felt and his arms scattering the score. He was thinking about how to tell the story to his friends. She was thinking about how to tell the story to her friends. And a crazed menopause woman with the voice of a thousand gargoyles was thinking and screeching “GET OFF MY POOL TABLE!!” And there they were- him with a chipped tooth and her with a stamp of whore- it was laundry day. Eight ball
Two years ago, my mom’s best friend (and the closest she’s ever had to a sister) miscarried at fifteen weeks. We all knew it was a high-risk pregnancy, but the doctor had told her she was past the point of danger for miscarrying. I was away on a school trip, and my mom called me that night at the hotel, she knew I’d want to know. I’m not very emotional, but after I hung up the phone, I sat with my friend Karen and related the whole story while my eyes welled up with tears. The baby had been delivered that afternoon, just far along enough to determine that it was a girl, and was held by both of her parents before the doctors took her away. sweet baby lost |
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He watches as another canvas burns in the fireplace. Never right. Not what he wanted. How is one supposed to capture the world on a canvas? All he wanted was the world to see what he saw. See the suffering and the crooked grins of all the people around him. Twisted and angry he grinds his knuckles against the wood hoping to awaken the inspiration within his hands. Raw. Aching. One more painting, that’s all he wanted…and then one more after that. It was never enough. It was never right. Pacing. Cursing. Why wouldn’t it come? Bending over the sink he feels his chest closing in. The walls pressuring him to madness. He turns on the faucet, splashes the cool water on his face. Focus. Relax. Let it come….taking a final breath he looks up from the sink…. a crooked man |
Some embarrassing moments just seem to stick with you. I remember one night my freshman year of high school. After a basketball game, my friends and I went to Steak ‘N’ Shake for a late-night snack. After stuffing ourselves with steakburgers, cheese fries, and milkshakes, we headed to the cash register to pay our tab. It was then that one of the most embarrassing (and traumatizing) moments of my adolescent life occurred. As I was standing in line to pay for my milkshake, a strange man in his seventies appeared from out of nowhere and sidled up next to me. I didn’t even notice him until he opened his mouth to make a pass at me—and after that moment, his words became the source of all taunting and teasing by my friends for the rest of my high school years. eleven o’clock diner |
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It seemed like any other veteran’s funeral as we waited for the procession to reach the cemetery. Well into my second year of being the bugle player for the Honor Guard, I was very comfortable and had played the traditional “Taps” song countless times before. Finally, friends and family of the veteran arrived at the ceremony: an endless stretch of headlights. By habit, I got into place, as did the flags and the boys doing the twenty-one gun salute. As the pall bearers carried the flag-covered casket to the place of its final rest, the flood of people began pouring from their cars. I tensed as I watched the closest family members take their seats on the folding chairs poorly covered in blue cloth. When everyone had found a spot, the priest began prayers and words of hope for the mourners. Shortly, he finished and we were abruptly called to attention, and then to order arms. At that moment across the people I saw a little girl with rosey cheeks and blonde ringlets spilling out of a black hat. Out of her black miniature peacoat, her tiny hand reached up to hold that of what must have been her mother’s. Standing there in silence, the look on her face was that of confusion and desperation for knowledge of what was going on. Her mother’s gaze was directed straight ahead, stiff and showing no emotion. “Prepare to fire!” brought me back to the moment and prompted the boys’ rifles up. Three short simultaneous shots later, it was my turn. Still thinking about that innocent little girl, I raised my horn and played “Taps” like I’d never played it before. I played for the little girl, to help her understand in the tones and drones of my sounds. My emotions poured out of the end of that horn, and the tears welling in the eyes of my audience proved my efforts were not at vain. As I finished, the funeral director and one of the boys from our Honor Guard folded the flag and went to stand in front of the family sitting in the blue-covered folding chairs. “On behalf of the Honor Guard, we present this flag to you in honor of your husband.” They handed the flag to a young woman… the young woman with the little girl. The men saluted and the woman began to cry. The little girl looked up at her mother’s tears and squeezed her hand, like her mother had always done for her when she was upset. Her mother looked down at her, squeezed back, and both of them knew then that everything would be all right. Bang! little girl young blue eyes on |
That cold winter day in Paris had been a trying one. We had crammed both the Louvre and the Cathedral de Notre Dame into less than twelve hours, as it was one of our last days in the city. Reflecting on the great things we had seen that day, we headed toward the nearest metro stop at around 5:30 PM. The streets’ lights were impeded by the falling snow. Not thinking about the time and exhausted from the day’s activities, we hopped on the Metro despite the fact that it was already overcrowded. As soon as the train started to move, we realized what a mistake we had made. One could not move any limb, not even the hand, without touching another person. The air was dingy and suffocating; it was difficult to breath and felt like germs were abundant. At one point, a Parisian had to pull the emergency stop lever and get off the train, for she had reached the point of fainting. As all these horrific situations occurred, a student started to have a panic attack. I’m not a claustrophobic person, but even I felt my space being violated. We forced our way through the crowd on the train and eventually were able to get off the Metro. Once off the train, we left the station, and the falling snow hit us as a relief as we rode up the outside escalator. We walked twenty-five blocks home. J’aime excuse! sweaty and dingy Metro—
For my entire life, I’ve attended a rural church that’s overwhelmingly populated by elderly people. Because of this, I had to attend a lot of funerals. I remember several that were in the winter, flurries slowly dwindling down in front of the headlights. The gray atmosphere surrounded the procession, as the small white flakes swirled down into the bare fields. It was a very morose environment. At the cemetery, the congregation crowded close together in order to share body heat. In the end, it was an interesting parallel to how the funerals always brought everyone closer together. Ryne casserole |
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A little over a year ago, the timbers and baseball field about a block from my grandparents’ home was demolished to make way for new, fixed-income housing. It makes me sad to even drive by there; I feel too old. I remember running out my grandparents’ back door, through their yard and their neighbors’ yard (bless them, they never minded a bit and always waved hello) and across the always-quiet street to the ball field. I flew my first kite (and many thereafter) there – it got lost in the trees. My dad and his four brothers had played there when they were young as well – and lost too many kites and baseballs and Frisbees in those trees to count. I’ve often wondered just how many remnants of childhood toys were found when the workmen began to cut all the trees down to make way for the new houses. I can only imagine that in fifty years or so some child will be digging in their backyard and find the remnants of some long-lost kite – perhaps even my first. ghosts of my childhood |
When I was little, my dad used to play a game with me all time. I would lock my arms and try to keep them as straight as I could. He would put his palms under mine and lift me up. As soon as I let my arms come unlocked, I would fall. It always made me laugh and whenever I begged him to, he would always give in. It’s hard to recall when exactly I got too big or too old for him to play with me anymore, but it inevitably happened. One day, I just stopped asking and he stopped offering. It was a mutual silence between a father who knew his baby girl was growing up and a daughter who would have to learn to do things without her daddy. The significance of the game went far beyond the fact that my dad and I didn’t have a “secret” game anymore. It would be the first in a long line of things that I wouldn’t need my dad to do for me. It would be the first time I was “too cool” for a silly game. It would be the first time that my dad would have to accept that baby girls don’t stay babies for long. It’s funny that a game that seems so silly could be so serious. daddy’s helping hand— a daughter’s hand |
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Children rarely walk, but rather race everywhere as if possessed by an eagerness to see more and more of the world. The wide-eyed stare of a child, that ability to become utterly consumed by the joy of the moment, dwindles as years pass. My bike was not merely a form of transportation, a two wheel precursor to the V6 Mustang to come, but a joy in itself. On my pink and green bicycle with the white tires, I zipped about the neighborhood with neither plan nor destination. My thoughts centered on the cracks in the sidewalk, the dogs barking through fences, and the bushes that protruded ever so slightly from their yards. These bushes looked harmless, but when my handlebars grew bold and refused to dodge this obstacle, they caught in the thick boughs and I was thrown from my bike. After the ride, I pedaled my bike into the yard, hopped off, and ran into the house. dinnertime, |
The summer air had been crackling with anticipation for hours. Storms always made Kat anxious. Not because she was afraid of them, but because they always seemed to remind her that she was incomplete. The electricity in the air seemed to fill the empty spaces of her heart, until she felt so alive that she knew she would burst. But she never did. The rain always came, and washed away the anticipation, until she was empty again. And all that remained was dissatisfaction and a longing to find the person who could fill the holes. Still, Kat loved thunderstorms. Storms reminded her that she had an incredible bond with a person she hadn't yet met. Otherwise, how could the reminder of his existence be so agonizingly glorious? wide awake again |
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He awoke early on the first day of his Easter vacation, excited to get outdoors and enjoy the weather. His hopes were suddenly shattered when he saw the looming clouds in the distance and heard the light raindrops beginning to patter on the leaves. At first, he decided to wait it out, but his hopes soon begin to fade as minutes turned to hours. Around midday, his father, who worked outdoors, arrived home. Seeing the disappointment in his son’s eyes, he said, “Hey, how about I teach you a new game.” Although the young boy was uninterested at first, he finally decided to take his father up on the offer. “Today I’m going to teach you to play chess,” his father said. He’d heard of chess, but was still a bit young to learn to play. Patiently, his father set him through each piece and their movements about the board. A few days later, the boy had learned the pieces well enough that he was able to complete a game. To this day, I can usually beat my father in chess without too much trouble.
Had he not taken it upon himself to teach me that rainy, however, I may
have never learned the game. Even though the outcome is fairly predictable
these days, my father still enjoys playing chess, maybe just to remind
him of the good ole days. |
When I was born, my mother decided that staying home and raising me was more important than work, so she quit her job as a secretary and started her own home daycare. Now this dicision is not a unique one; many new mothers decide to use a daycare as an excuse to stay home with their new baby. What makes my mother different however, is that she’s good at it. As a result, I’ve grown up living in a daycare. As a kid, I was part of the center, but as I grew older I became more of an assistant. One of my favorite parts of the daycare was the babies. Now, something you have to understand is that even though kids grow older, the average age of the kids in a daycare never changes. As the babies get older, someone else becomes the baby, and so on. As a result, there’s always a baby in the house. I love watching the kids as they grow and develop. One of our babies, long time ago, was named Haley, and she came to us when her age was still counted in weeks. I was ten years old, and fell in love with the infant. As she grew up, she remained my favorite, and spent hours playing with the dolls and ponies I’d saved from my own childhood in my room. It nearly broke my heart when she began kindergarden; that was my baby! Since I’ve been at college I don’t get to see her nearly as much as I did, and it seems that she grows more and more every time my back is turned. Imagine my dismay when I discovered that my baby has started her period! Yet, at the same time, I’m proud of Haley. From the chubby baby in the high chair to a confident young woman, she’s certainly grown a lot. It makes me proud to know that I was a part of shaping who she is. rendered speechless… washing fingerprints |
©
2006, Randy Brooks • Millikin University • last updated:
May 4, 2006
All rights returned to authors upon publication.