Treasured Memories [final]

Before the introduction of the consumer camcorder 1983, people relied on still cameras to capture instances in time that would provide their lasting memories. When Sony and JVC introduced the first video cameras, they were expensive and bulky. In just a few short years, the price dropped significantly and the camcorder began showing up in households across the nation. I will never forget the first time I saw my father peering behind the red record lamp of his Sony VHS camcorder.

The night was frigid as the cold and dry December air finally made an appearance in the unusually mild winter of 1989. It was Christmas Eve, and I struggled to sleep a wink. I tossed and turned with my mind in a frenzy as I anxiously pondered all of the wonderful gifts that awaited my attention the next morning.

Shortly after 7 o’clock, the first light made its way through the crescent-shaped window overlooking my bed. I rubbed the sleepy out of my eyes and slid into my Batman slippers just before hurdling the baby gate at the top of the stairs. As I passed the front door, I couldn't help but notice the glow of white that had blanketed the ground that morning. I yelled and hollered to my parents, who were already on their third cup of coffee, to come and see the most wondrous site. I was so caught up in the moment that I nearly forgot it was Christmas morning, and the fact that there were elegantly wrapped presents nestled firmly against the Fraser fir in the living room. Situated in one of those oversized gift boxes lay an item that would change the way my family captured treasured memories forever.

In the months preceding the winter holidays, advertisements for an innovative product, referred to as the "camcorder," flooded radio and television broadcasts urging consumers to take interest in this new technology. My father, like many workingmen, received a seasonal bonus and decided to invest in this "must have" device. Little did my family know, the camcorder would capture a lifetime of memories that would be passed down from generation to generation.

My brother was born just 16 days after the historical snow during the Christmas of 1989, and my father was there to film every moment of it. From Zachary's first steps to my first little league practices, my father recorded video during every one of these moments.

Before this revolutionary technology was released, people were forced to rely on still images to capture those once-in-a-lifetime moments. Video cameras provided people with the opportunity to relive those moments with sound and moving images.

During this past Christmas break, my family decided to pull out the old VCR and watch some of our tapes from the late 80’s and early 90’s. It was amazing to see how I look like my father did when he was in his 20’s. I also can't believe how capable and energetic my mother was even though my brother was due any day.

A Bushel and a Peck and a Hug Around the Neck

I can remember being four years old and walking through what seemed to be an endless garden, hand in hand with my Dadpa. My fingers would cramp up from shucking never-ending bushels of string beans in my Nana’s kitchen. Their garden was something I would never tangibly appreciate. Now, a downward sloping grassy lot holds its place. But one can vaguely make out the rows that once sprouted collards, green and red peppers, carrots, potatoes, string beans, lima beans, onions, and tomatoes.

It seems that every stop-light is home to a grocery store these days. We file in, pushing oversized carts to fill our oversized refrigerators, and ultimately oversized clothes. Fruit and vegetables from around the world are conveniently bagged by the pound- a testament to their freshness, I’m sure. We are bombarded with a rainbow of cereals, cookies, and crackers- each with a slogan and marketing logo.

I’m not making an argument for organic foods; I am making an argument for tradition. The very premise that our nation was founded on has been overshadowed by big business.

Settlers came to America to create lives for themselves, living solely on nature’s resources. Farming was a way of life. I am sad to say, this tradition has dissolved into a struggling industry that few appreciate. In North Carolina alone, the number of operating farms has dropped from nearly 100,000 to 50,000 in the last twenty-five years. We lead the country in farmland-loss. In the past five years 300,000 acres of North Carolina’s farmland have been put to other uses. That’s equivalent to over three times the acreage of New Hanover County. In 2005, North Carolina’s Agricultural Commissioner Steve Troxler introduced a bill that would help support farmers and preserve farmland.

I’m not suggesting that people go out and use their life savings to buy land. Growing your own food is easier than most think. Start small; plant hard-to-kill herbs like oregano, thyme, dill, and basil. The addition of fresh ingredients like these has a huge impact on taste, smell and sight. Those who are more daring could try staking tomatoes. There is nothing like a BLT with the freshest T possible.

Those who complain that cooking is too tedious and time-consuming are kidding themselves. It only takes a few minutes to steam rice and sauté some fresh vegetables. Simple cooking is good cooking, but freshness makes it better. Besides, the less you chemically alter food, the more nutritious it is for you.

Limited time and land hinder most from growing their own, but locally grown is never far away. Fresh, local foods are available to the Cape Fear Region weekly from April to December. Every Saturday morning the Riverfront Farmer’s market, established in 2004, provides local produce, baked goods, jarred goods, arts and crafts to Wilmington. The market is a community building project that brings local products to local people.

I suppose it’s the integrity involved in farming that draws me to it. Nana only has a few tomato stakes behind the house, next to the empty cellar. We’ve talked about this subject many times, and each time she agrees that people are becoming less agriculturally self-sufficient. And each time she reminds me that self-sufficiency comes with a lot of labor and subtle rewards.

A Heart Beneath My Boot

Humans are blind, cruel creatures. We lash out against those closest to us who love us most, and then cast them aside when they have nothing else left to give. In return, those who love us the most will inevitably be the ones whose knives plunge deepest into our hearts...with the precision of a surgeon wielding a scalpel, because they know exactly where it hurts the most.

Life is a cycle, not of birth and death, but of hurt and hurting others. Yeah, cynical isn’t it. But this is what I have learned. Happiness is present in all of us, for a little while, but permanent in only a handful of those who choose to ignore the pain.

Ignoring the pain just postpones and deepens what we have to face when finally we choose to accept our wounds. I’ve seen mothers, whose sons don’t return her love and worse yet, refuse to accept their mother’s love. I’ve seen fathers who are distanced from their children, so encased in their armor of that distance, both caused and inherited by and from their own fathers, that they can’t break through the invisible miles to offer genuine words of sentiment. Women rip the hearts out of men on a daily basis. According to women, men are the bastards who cast aside women’s love for them and step on it with the heel of a boot as we walk out the door…according to women, men don’t have hearts. I say this with a smile, ladies, because it is true. You have one and all ripped our hearts from our chest, still beating, and smiled as you watch the light fade from our eyes. Father to son, mother to daughter, and lover to lover, pain is one of two things that binds us together stronger than blood.

One thing binds us together stronger than pain. And this is love. Despite the permanence of pain in our lives, loving is the most important thing we can do during our short stay on this planet. The act of love is the one thing that can overcome pain, well that and some of the more powerful narcotics out there on the market. Pain is an inevitable part of life, and we must live with that; but love too can exist.

Write this down, make a little note, all we can do in this life is love and hope. We can't worry about the hurt waiting at the end of the road, eventually hurt comes, whether it is next year, or tomorrow. What matters is that we live the moments in between like there is no tomorrow, so that we are able to say that we didn’t let the threat of pain keep us from loving.

Remember, all we can do is love and hope.

Never Again

I don’t consider myself to be a genius. I’m not disciplined in all forms and manners of rhetoric, mathematics, or science, so I don’t usually do things that seem impossible to do. Yet somehow this past week, I found myself on the wrong side of a difficult equation. It was an equation that was so difficult, it took me three separate attempts to solve it. As far as I’m concerned, the person who invented these god-awful equations should be drug out into the street and shot.

I can only imagine the diabolical monster that sits back and conceives questions like “What was your net gross earnings in the year of 2006?” Or “What is your current net worth, prior to any loans, scholarships, or earnings?” I’m still having nightmares about these questions. And the worst part about these questions, this wasn’t my taxes I was filling out--this was my renewal application for student loans. I thought once I had applied, that was it. I never dreamed that I would have to give the same information, to the same people, mind you, only six months later. My earnings hadn’t changed. My residency hadn’t changed. And my net worth had definitely not changed. If anything, I’m poorer this time!

Now it is not that I don’t enjoy the notion of having to fill out forms so that I can make a more formal begging for money, it is however the fact that if I should make an error somewhere in my calculations of net worth and gross earnings, then I would be in more trouble than just needing more funds. I never noticed before how many times the renewal forms warn a person about having to reimburse the loan offices should they pay too much money. Not to mention being charged interest on that money as well. After reading that, I had to pray over the document and ask God to keep me safe in the event that I made some sort of fatal error in my information.

I guess the bottom line for this rambling is a bit simpler than those forms I had to fill out. That bottom line is why do companies make it so hard for people to ask for help? I’m not saying that there shouldn’t be rules and regulations to keep con artist and thieves from getting access to money, but why is it so hard for those who really need that extra help financially? Aside from trying to make something out of my life, I’m in college to further expand my abilities to do great things in my lifetime.

Yet now after having to fill out those forms, I’ve been worried about whether or not I’ll wind up in a field that will allow me to earn enough money to pay off all of my loans and still have enough money to live off of for more than a week. That is not a promising prospect to me. I don’t believe that makes college enjoyable, nor does this make it worthwhile. I’m in college to get to a level of achievement and excellence in my field, not to get to a level of debt and despair before I become a husband or father.

I hope that someday we’ll all be just as rich as the fools that make the profits off of our hard work and ambitions. I also hope that this will be the last time I have to face this horrible dilemma in my lifetime. If nothing else, this experience will make my drive to become a connected and powerful individual that much stronger, just so I can spare my lineage the burden of having to fill out forms for money they need.

Law School Misconceptions

“So, you want to go to law school with a marine biology degree?” is the initial response I hear after telling people that I am applying to law school. I am told this so frequently that apparently most people are uninformed about the current process. The misconception of needing to have a specific major is only one of many circulating in society. Even the idea that a person will always get into a law school is no longer accurate. The law world has changed and unless you are interested in the process most people haven’t noticed.

The first misconception of law school is the idea of a pre-prescribed major. This may have been the case in the past but not today. In fact, the current trend favors applicants with diverse majors. Research shows that the highest LSAT scores come from students with science backgrounds not political science or history. Law is about logic and interpretation so studying a discipline which requires those, and thus the ability to comprehend a multitude of information, is an advantage. Law schools also accept a variety of applicants with previous careers ranging from engineering to accounting. No longer is it the norm for a pre-law major to expect they are predestined to get into law school.

Another misconception is that when I say I want to go to law school it should not be assumed that I will to go law school. Often friends comment on my “great” future and me going to law school. I am honored that they think so highly of me, but I have to be honest and admit there are no guarantees. The application pool is very competitive and there are no assurances that I won’t be the 707th person chosen at school that is only taking 706. No dean of admissions will contend that getting is easy for their applicants. It takes time and sacrifice to shape the perfect personal statement and sit for hours studying for the LSAT, all of which must be the best work you have ever done.

Prep books and law school literature are loaded with statements about how your application is not complete without an above average LSAT score, personal statement and GPA. Any attempt to compare the law school admission process to the standard collegiate one is a fallacy. Whereas many universities take up to 70% of applicants, most law schools take less than 45%. Where applying to college relies heavily upon your SAT score, your LSAT score is only one of many elements. Preparing a competitive application takes months of dedication. It must be the product of a constant desire to excel and accept nothing less than perfection. So yes, I want to go to law school, but no, I might not go to law school.

When my father went to law school in the 70’s there were not personal statements and it wasn’t nearly as competitive as it is today. Admission workers constantly identify the strenuous nature of the process. So where am I at? I took my LSAT in February and how I did will play a large role in deciding where I apply and hopefully go. It is unrealistic to set my heart on one school because even the greatest minds get rejected from Harvard. Currently, I am keeping my fingers crossed, working on my personal statement, and anxiously waiting for my score. It’s a extensive sequence that I am tediously and meticulously maneuvering.

Imploding of My Ear Drums

On July 19th 1995 I heard Metallica via Kill Em’ All. In that instant I learned that you can love pieces of things that aren’t physically alive. I heard the raw grunts of a band that had enough with the glam rock of the eighties. It was unrefined and unnatural. The songs were filled with anger and awesome-ness. In my mind I can replay the very first moment I heard it.

I failed to mention that on that day I turned ten. For my birthday my family and assorted friends were heading to one of the many springs that dot central Florida. Henry Beck Park, the spring, was where families went to try and escape the Florida heat, and doubled as a gathering spot for the hard rockers to drink beer and sit somewhere cold.

Blaring on their boom box was the song that I would later come to know, Whiplash. I listened so intently that I thought my ears were going to blow up inside themselves It opened up with the bass drum just thumping, a lot like my heart was, and then came this scratchy guitar that is just a build up to a fast paced piece of genius. Much like God to Moses came the voice of James Hetfield. His voice sounds like the axle of an old Conestoga wagon who had crossed the country ten times before. My favorite part is right after the third verse where James goes, “Acting like a maniac…WHIPLASH,” and Kirk Hammett breaks into an epic solo.

Then there was Phantom Lord which was practically the same song as Whiplash, just heavier, harder, and faster. Lars Ulrich, the drummer, loses about eleven thousand calories in this song, as he taps the cymbals and quickly jumps to the snare. Then perhaps the best solo in the history of rock. All of the sudden though, there’s a slowdown to a melodic tune and then a jump back into the heavy that startles you back into existence.

No Remorse is my favorite Metallica song of all time. It breaks the norm just by starting out with a hellish demon filled solo of astounding. What really sends me over the edge though is the complete un-selfishness of James. He realizes that in this song that the guitar is the main draw. His voice becomes secondary to the band. How many lead singers would draw back the volume of their microphone to accentuate the band behind them? I love this song because it's one of the few that I’ve ever heard where the instruments are placed above the lyrics.

I should divulge that the opening to Seek & Destroy may be the greatest opening in the history of music. Magic occurred that made it possible for everyone in the band to become linked up and play the perfect song. And as they’re melding, James comes in and just causally places an “Alright.” Like the band had challenged him to match their music with some awe-inspiring lyrics. Then, there’s this lead up and the lyric, “Searching…seek and destroy.” Right after that occurs you get a solo that can only be described in one way. Imagine a farmer milking a pig and you can understand the brilliance that is radiating out of the guitar.

My mom was screaming for me to come get some cake. In those twenty-two minutes and thirty-one seconds, I fell for a band. I sat there in the freezing spring with a gaping mouth. Until this moment I had only been introduced to soft stylings of Michael Bolton and Sting. The idea that there was music that was fast and angry scared me and excited me all at once. My love of Metallica has only grown, and as in most relationships there has been disappointment. But, I can always take solace in leaning back and remembering the day that I fell in love with Metallica.

Me = A Work in Progress

In my life, however short it might be in the grand scheme of things, I’ve been a lot of things. A daughter, a sister, a friend, a blonde, and a million other things that don’t mean anything unless you actually know me. I will say that I have always been two things in particular. Shy is the first one. I’ve gotten a little bit better at that the last couple years, but I’m still shy to a fault. That’s why I’m a little surprised to find myself about to divulge this second thing, but here goes: I’m fat. Okay, so it’s not as well-kept a secret as I’d like to think, but I don’t usually talk about it, so it qualifies as a secret in my book.

I’ve been fat since about the third grade, but my mom says I was always “sturdy” or “solid.” I don’t know what being sturdy or solid has to do with being fat. It seems to me that fat is bad and sturdy isn’t bad—sturdy is something I couldn’t help being. I can help being fat. Being solid is who I am, being fat is just something I am. So you can imagine how it confuses me when I say “I wasn’t fat in kindergarten” and my mom comes back with “but you’ve always been sturdy.” Is there a right or wrong way to interpret that? My interpretation—or the interpretation I choose to make—is that she’s telling me something to the effect of “you were born with child-bearing hips,” in which case, it’s a compliment as far as I’m concerned. I want hips that will bear children. Sturdy children. Children that will be able to bear more sturdy children.

Maybe opening with a “my mom said…” story was a bad move. I hope that that story isn’t taken the wrong way. I’m not one of those people that blame their parents for all their problems—well, at least not this problem. I made me fat. When my parents told me to eat more vegetables and less mashed potatoes, I was the one who threw a fit until they gave me what I wanted. I was the one that got out of bed in the middle of the night to eat cereal or potato chips or pizza or anything that I shouldn’t have been eating at two o’clock in the morning. I made my own decisions about food and I’m more than willing to admit responsibility for what happened as a result of those decisions.

I’m thinking about all of this now because I recently—as of January 2nd—changed my lifestyle. I say “changed my lifestyle” because it was recommended to me that I not call this change a “diet.” A diet is temporary. What I’m doing is not, will not, be temporary. What I’m doing is hard, but it gets easier every day. What I’m doing makes me feel like I’m gaining control over my life, pound by pound—in fact, twenty so far. Every time I make a conscious decision about what to put into my body and whether to walk or drive somewhere, I get to decide my future.

I have always been fat, but I’ve made the decision that I won’t always be fat…but I will always be sturdy—just so everyone knows. The secret is out.

Kids?

I believe that the kids of the next generation are doomed. I have noticed the problems in the last decade concerning kid’s behaviors in this country and I’m scared. Kids are taking part in activities that are dangerous to others and themselves and are providing each other with bad examples leading to making bad decisions. This concerns me because these kids are going to be our next generation and will determine what our world becomes.

In early years, children are exposed to many of life’s uncensored misfortunes. A grandfather dies or a brother is in rehab. Avoiding this is pointless. The world is not always a friendly place, but this is where the problem begins. In order to learn and grow we have to also make mistakes and accept failure, but I feel that kids these days are not getting the right kind of exposure to this idea and that exposure to trivial issues is setting an unrealistic way of life. There are two things that I believe have a very important role in this issue; family life and education.

Thankfully, the law requires that kids must attend school until they are at least sixteen years of age. Unfortunately, not everyone has the luxury of living in an area with the most respected school systems. Some of the institutions in which these kids are learning in are full of illegal activities that are not being addressed due to lack of involvement and/or support. I can not point blame on anyone for this, although since these institutions are where our kids are learning to become who they want to become, I think more involvement needs to be mandatory. Putting more officers in the schools, with stricter punishments and suspensions could be one way to start. Another is providing with more of a support system for these children and teenagers. School is a place for students to round themselves academically, although since these students spend so much time in schools, it is also a huge part in what shapes them. These institutions need to be more concerned with the overall health of these individuals rather than focusing just on academics.

Families and the family life play a huge role in the shaping of a child. As time has gone on, expectations for families have changed. Now, almost half of marriages end in divorce where as even in my own generation, this was not as accepted. This has made the meaning of marriage, well, less meaningful. These children are learning from their parents as their role models and are getting wrong impressions about how their lives could be. Drugs have been on the rise lately as well. I hear of teenagers stealing hard drugs from their parents or family members and distributing them to their friends. I would not have even known what cocaine looked like when I was as young as some of these teens are. Also, the over-prescription of medications such as Adderal, kept in the house, is being used to sell to other students for money. This lack of supervision or knowledge by these teens’ parents is only implying that what they are doing is okay or not as serious as it really is.

I asked my roommate the other day if he wanted to have children. He said he didn’t think so, that he was afraid he would raise them badly. Understandably I agreed with him in saying that right now I wouldn’t be able to raise children very well either. Although, I warned him that if he still felt in the future that he shouldn’t have kids. Some people have kids because they feel they are expected to, but the truth is that kids are not for everyone. There are plenty of people in the world that are happy without kids and can take better care of themselves because they don’t have any. Hopefully in the future, things will change and people will start thinking more maturely about having children and changes will be made in their lives so that our next generation won’t be so doomed.

My Dog Missy

I pulled in from school that day and saw my dog Missy running around the yard. I thought my Mom must have let her out during her lunch break and left her out. This happened on a regular basis because Missy was stubborn and never came when we called her. I opened the car door waiting for her to run her paws on my legs in excitement that I was home, something I looked forward to.Today was different though; Missy just sat by my car while I got my book bag out. She just looked at me and gave me a whimper with a wag of her tail. I greeted her with a scratch and ran up the stairs. I opened the door and when I turned around she was sitting at the bottom of the stairs. I thought it was weird so I called for her to come in. She slowly stepped up the first step with a whimper. I knew something was wrong; I picked her up and immediately called my Mom.

After I got off the phone, I took Missy straight to the veterinarian’s office. They said she would be fine if she just rested and that the shot of Advil should help the pain; they thought a car probably nudged her. I took her home confident my best friend, Missy, would be back to normal in a matter of time. That night I went to a classmate’s house to spend the night since my parent’s were going out. I left Missy with food and water by her side and a lot of blankets to keep her warm.The next morning my friend’s mom woke me up and told me my mom was on the phone.

“Mom?”

“Hey, Honey…something’s wrong with Missy.” Tears burned my eyes. Why did I leave her there by herself?

“What is it?” I swallowed slowly, afraid of what she would say next.

“Well, we don’t know, but she can’t move her legs and we are taking her to the hospital right now. You should meet us there soon.”

My friend drove me because I was shaking, afraid of what was going to happen to her. It took thirty minutes but seemed like hours before we finally arrived. When I got to the hospital two of my aunts, my uncle, my cousin and my mom were all there. Although Missy was a huge part of our family I’m sure they were there to support me in case something went wrong.

I walked into the room and my mom was holding her paw and the doctor was talking to her. I looked at Missy, and her eyes looked scared as she scooted close to me so I could hold her. Her eyes were saying, Take me home, make it better. It was the hardest thing to sit there and hear her whimpering, looking at the IV in her paw and not being able to do anything. The veterinarian was talking, but all I heard was that she was paralyzed from the waist down because of a slipped disc and we could do surgery but it may not help. We left her there that night, and it was one of the hardest things I’ve ever done. My heart pulled as I walked out the door, afraid that I would never see her again.

The next couple of days we debated about what to do. We decided to put Missy to sleep so she wouldn’t be in any more pain. I never saw Missy again after I left the hospital. If you’ve never had to go through this you probably won’t understand how hard this was. I missed her snuggling beside me in bed and the eyes that showed she loved me; it took me months to quit waiting for her to come to my car door and scratch my leg with her paws.

High Heel Advocates

Because I am an advocate of incredibly high heels and oversized sunglasses, my mother always assumed I’d buy a puppy small enough to fit into the tiniest wristlet. Over Christmas break I told my mother I was ready to become a mother, I was ready for a dog of my own. Slightly surprised yet supportive, she said she and my father would talk it over.

After saying yes, my parents took me to look at purebred toy poodles. I instantly fell in love. They were the perfect size, wouldn’t weigh over five pounds at the most. I held the runt, a beautiful baby girl and began to fantasize about names and different outfits she would love. The shock came when I heard an outrageous $1,500 price tag came with the big, loveable, puppy dog eyes. Completely shocked and speechless I silently nodded, placed my ex-future dog back on the floor and exited her Victorian style home.

“Time for an alternative,” I told my mother.

Once back home, I talked things over with my dad and he brought my attention toward something I hadn’t thought of yet: adoption. The next four days, literally days, were spent on PetFinder.com, searching for dogs matching what I wanted and filling out adoption forms. When none of the adoptions came through, I decided to ride around town and visit several shelters in the area.

The first stop I made was Solutions For Animals in Southern Pines, North Carolina. All the dogs I saw at first were huge, and older, not what I wanted at all. I asked someone in charge if there were any puppies for adoption, and I was led to a tiny room filled with playful babies. In the back right corner I spotted one who seemed to be a wallflower.

I immediately asked who the golden one in the corner was, and I was told, “Ohh, that’s our Tinkerbelle. She’s quite the popular one with our guests.” I ran over to her side and couldn’t restrain myself from picking her up.

I thought of a dozen questions to ask. What kind of dog was she? How old was she? Why would someone leave this beautiful baby here? How much was she? Was she spayed? However, the only question that exploded from my mouth was, “Daddy!! Can I have her?” The owner of the shelter giggled and said, “Why don’t you and your father come out to the picnic tables so we can discuss Miss Tink?” I obediently followed the woman, while Tinkerbelle obediently followed me.

I was told all the facts about my newest love interest. She was a nine-month-old, Beagle/Cocker Spaniel mix who had been brought to the shelter two months prior. I was told her previous owner worked full-time and went to school part-time and kept Tinkerbelle locked in a tiny, dark, storage closet while she was gone. I also learned Tinkerbelle couldn’t bark or jump--she had been kicked or hit anytime she attempted either; she also was shy since not having any interaction with animals or humans. I didn’t care about her flaws; all I saw was her potential to be my little girl. I filled out the adoption forms and was promised Tinkerbelle would be mine within the week.

Once I had my baby, there was a desperate need for a name change. I didn’t want anyone to associate my precious pup with Paris Hilton's. I dropped off the unnecessary Tinker, and call her Belle now. Belle is adjusting to life in my Wilmington apartment with my two roommates and me. She still can’t jump and won’t bark, but she’s learning how to be loved and sit still for her pedicures.

There are so many dogs that need homes that I now find it terribly silly to have considered a purebred. Although Belle wasn’t raised to be a show dog and won’t fit into any purse of mine, I know we are meant to be. She spends her free time lounging in my closet, so I know she’s just as big of an advocate of incredibly high heels as I am.

Always Messin'

"Lets go play basketball downtown."

A couple of weeks ago my roommates and I went driving around downtown to find a basketball court to play on. The sun was setting, but my roommate Greg had spotted a goal in a questionable part of town. So we parked, got out, and shot around for half an hour, always watching our backs. Greg and I decided that it was high time for a prank. Little did we know that it would turn out to be one of the worst nights of our life.

We started walking to the car, which Greg parked a hundred yards away because he thought we needed playing room. We had told our other two friends, Ryan and Will, that we would be pulling the car up closer, but we saw Greg needed gas so we thought it was a perfect opportunity for a prank. As we pulled away, I remember laughing loudly out the window and screaming, "Suckas!"

"How messed up would it be if we got back and they just weren't there? And we didn't see them for two weeks and then they just showed up and wouldn't tell us what happened," I said as we sped to a gas station. As soon as I said this, a pang of nervousness shot through me. It had gotten dark and the area was beginning to crawl with shady nightlife. As soon as Greg was done pumping his gas, we hurried back to the basketball court to collect our friends and go home.

We pulled up to the court and our worst fears had come true. It was dark, isolated and there was absolutely no sight of our two roommates. "They're just messing with us. Will and Ryan are always messin'," Greg said. We shouted their names for several minutes, but no response came. We knew that they would just walk out anytime and try to surprise us. Greg kept saying, "This is the most messed up thing that's ever happened." After a short while we both began to panic. My mind kept racing with visions of my friends dead, mugged, kidnapped or worse.

I called my parents practically in tears. They didn't seem to understand the severity of our position. Greg and I drove around the neighborhood looking for them. We decided that our only chance of hope rested in the fact that the basketball had been taken as well, so maybe they hadn't been straight up mugged. I finally couldn't take it anymore so we called the police. They told us that a missing person was not a priority until about a day or so. I kept envisioning the conversation I would have to tell their parents. "I'm sorry, Mr. and Mrs. Ryan and Will, we left your children for dead." Greg and I decided that we would have to quit school, try therapy and then just move to Mexico. Nothing was funny about our situation. Neither Ryan nor Will had their cell phones or any ID with them.

After three hours and two conversations with 911 later, we got a call from an unknown cell phone. It was Will's voice on the other line. He sounded out of breath and tired. "We got tired of waiting on you so we decided to run back. As we got to a gas station some guys stopped us and asked for all our money. I got away but Ryan ran in the other direction and they all chased him. I think they got him." I looked at the expression on Greg's face and knew that our lives were over and that we had just gotten our friend killed.

And then I heard Will laugh.

Our two roommates had decided to just walk back and play the prank on us. The thought of them walking back had never crossed my mind. It seemed too far to walk back at night. No one in their right mind would do that. Will and Ryan were laughing but as soon as Greg and I stopped yelling at them, we told them that the police were looking for them. They didn't understand how serious the situation was. I was going to kill them myself when I got back, but I didn't. I was too glad to see my friends, alive.

Will and Ryan seemed afraid to look us in the eyes. I called the police officer back, and told him that we had found our two stupid friends. We went upstairs afterwards and shared a pizza while telling the story of their kidnapping to anyone that would listen. I kept the police officer's card as proof of the night I helped my best friends get abducted.

Proposal

It amazes me sometimes how things can seem to be going so terrible wrong, but then turn around and end up being the best thing in the world.

It was November 17, 2006 and Cory and I were taking a weekend trip to Asheville for our six- year anniversary. It was going to be a great relaxing weekend. We had booked a wonderful little bed and breakfast in downtown Asheville called the Aberdeen Inn and could not wait to arrive and see what awaited us.

The plan was to rent a car, since neither of us thought our cars were up for that long a trip, and drive the six hours after we were done with classes for the day. The car was already booked for us, and when class was over we drove out to the airport to pick up the car. Cory just dropped me off at the door as we anticipated no problems. Things were going smoothly at first as I began the process with the counter person at the National Car Rental booth. All paperwork had been done, and I handed over my Visa debit card to make the payment. I already knew that I was going to be charged an additional $17.95 per day for being under the age of 25, but I soon found out that because I wanted to use a debit card they would also be charging an additional $21.95 per day for insurance. What using my debit card has to do with insurance on a car I am not quite sure. What ended up happening was that I refused to pay the outrageous additional charges and called Cory to come pick me up.

We spent the next hour calling other car rental establishments to discover that they all wanted to charge us even more. I finally made the call to just take my car and hope and pray that there were no problems.

Two hours behind schedule, we set off for our weekend getaway. Instead of taking the easy route down interstate 40, we took highway 64 because we had been told that that would be the best way to go. That person lied to us. We approached red stoplight after red stoplight, bumper to bumper traffic through Charlotte and the wrong directions to our destination. We finally made it four hours later than we planned on.

The Aberdeen Inn was beautiful. The old plantation-style home set atop a small hill in the downtown area with beautiful gardens and a most pleasant hostess was to be our home for the next two nights. Welcomed at the door with a bright smile and a cheerful hello followed by the offer of a glass of wine was exactly what we needed after the day we had had. After unpacking our things and checking out the house (and the hot tub on the deck right outside our room) we ventured out for some dinner.

I don't want to go on about how awful driving had been that day, but it continued. We had no idea where we were going and the map we had wasn't helping. We drove and drove, sometimes in circles, to find ourselves outside of Asheville and back on 40. This was not where we wanted to be. With me almost in tears from the frustration of the day we eventually get turned around and headed back in the right direction. We decided to eat at the first restaurant we saw, and it turned out to be a TGIFriday's type of place. This was not what we had anticipated for our anniversary dinner but at this point, we just wanted to eat.

We made it back to the Aberdeen Inn and spent the evening drinking wine by the fireplace in our room and playing a 1970's Mattel game called Palmistry. All in all things were turning out to be ok, and we enjoyed the rest of our evening. The day ahead of us was to be filled by touring the Biltmore Estates.

Our troubles for the previous day seemed to have followed us. As we left that morning to head off to the Biltmore, we discovered that I a tire was flat and off the rim. With no jack and no lug wrench I knew this was going to be awful. I stated to Cory, "Now we never going to make it there." Getting set back an hour my car was fixed and we were on our way...again.

Things improved at this point. We made it and toured the magnificent house admiring all the amazing artwork and the items that were centuries old. It was incredible. After the tour we walked up the side of the mountain overlooking the Biltmore and the beautiful Appalachian mountains. This is where the big surprise came. Cory got down on one knee and asked me to marry him. I was completely in shock as I had no idea that this was going to happen. Of course I said yes and we spent the rest of our day at the Biltmore touring the vineyard and drinking wine. I don't think I had smiled that much in my entire life. The weekend turned out to be amazing. I wish we could do it all over again.

The good, the bad

I love my job, I honestly do, although on some days you can’t tell it and you would question why I keep returning day after day. I am a waitress, or if you prefer the PC term, I am a server.

Serving has been about the only job I’ve ever had since high school. I took a brief time off to help out distant relatives with their real estate magazine, and when I moved, I couldn’t find a serving job anywhere in Wilmington, so I gave retail a go. I hated both the office job and retail with a fiery passion and couldn’t wait to get back to waiting on tables.

Some of the same reasons that I have for liking my job can often be the same reasons I hate it. For instance, the biggest reason why I both love and hate my job is people.

Not only in my job am I doing people a service, I am able to get to know them as well as I can within a twenty-minute timeframe. Most customers also want to know about me, which is where I really get to tell them some of the things I’m most proud of – where I’m from, how I got to Wilmington, my major, how much longer I have in school, and what I’m going to do after graduation. A stranger isn’t going to judge me, nor do they really have to know how long I’ve been in school, like most of my family members.

There is the occasional regular that comes in the restaurant and I’m able to share more and more, but I hardly see the same face twice. Every shift is different. People with different faces, different personalities, and different orders; after all, I’ve only had one person order a pineapple and artichoke heart pizza.

People with children also make my shift difficult. It’s not the kid’s fault they don’t know the difference between right and wrong, and if parents allow them to dump all the sugar and Equal from the caddy, that’s fine, as long as they keep that in mind when it comes time to leave a tip.

Sometimes I wonder why people want to come eat at 11:45, 15 minutes before I’m ready to leave. When they do, that puts me behind another half hour, at the least, and for a tip that could barely buy me a soda and a pack of crackers. The only reason I have a job in the first place is to pay my bills, and I can’t do that without customers; however, no one likes to be stuck at work any longer than they absolutely have to, especially with homework to do or parties to attend.

I’m very thankful that so many people do so on a daily bases. My job, although physically demanding, is one of the easiest there is, besides working at McDonald’s, and I truly love what I do. Sometimes, I do wish that the folks who dine out were required to work in my shoes for a day. If they did, long hours would be the only reason I hate my job.

I have a question

When I get off work at three am on a Sunday morning, I tiptoe into my apartment, set down my stuff, grab a snack and my computer. Everyone is quiet, and I have a few minutes to myself to chill and write.

Tonight is a little different.

Oh sure I slip into my apartment at about 3:26am and everyone is in bed. My computer is humming softly waiting for me, slightly warm in my lap in contrast to the chilly night air I have just left. Habit takes over and I take inventory on AIM, Facebook, and Myspace: two aim messages while I was away, three pokes on Facebook, and a new message on Myspace. Nothing too unusual.

When I come back from away I am immediately messaged by three people, specifically three girls. All of them are talking about guys. What I find surprising is that all three are having serious issues with said males. And don't patronize -- I am not talking about the girls who think their boyfriends watch too much porn.

(These are not their real names but the hes and shes and girl number A stuff isn't going to cut it.)

Amy has been having issues with Drew for a while, but he keeps begging her not to break up with him and for one more chance. She knows that they aren't right for each other, not to mention that he's done things like break down her door during fights. He's in the middle of a panic attack while begging for another chance. She's asking me for help. I tell her to call an ambulance and she says it's getting better and she'll just try to stay with him a little longer. This isn't helping anyone.

One girl is trying to get out of an abusive relationship and asked for my advice on what to do. She won't go to the police. She won't go to the court. I'm not even sure she won't let him back in her dorm the next time he wants to come by.

Marie had a big crush on Bryan and they dated for a little while, then he started going back and forth between her being "his baby" and "How much is my Aunt paying you?" She has been asking for my advice over the course of the past few weeks and has decided to give up for the night and go to bed since it is now four in the morning.

These three girls are dear to me. I never feel I can do enough. Two of the girls don't live near by and I feel as though I am letting them down by not being there. I know that I am not. Even if I was there I could do little more than hug them. But I wish I could hug them one by one and tell them that everything was going to be okay and that I'd help them get through it. The only other problem is -- who am I to tell them it will all be alright?

Betty

When my parents came from Poland 23 years ago, they were met in San Francisco, California, by a family from church who would be taking them in: The McKay's. Cheryl and Neil McKay were a godsend to our family, and in turn, became my godparents. They took my family in, taught them the ways of American life, and gave my parents the groundwork from which to build their own lives.

Apart from my godparents, my own parents made only one other friend during their lives in America: Betty Rhodus. It wasn't until we had moved to Columbia, South Carolina, and my dad was starting his career at the hospital where he met Betty, who was a nurse. To me, Betty is totally unique, but to many people from the south I'm sure she would be as familiar as an aunt or a grandmother. In way, she become like an aunt to me.

Betty was a devout Baptist woman, and she often took me to church with her on Wednesday evenings and Sunday mornings. My parents are supposedly Catholic, but I remember only once going to church with them, where my dad ended up snoring so loudly we had to leave. Betty would come and pick me up for church, with her huge blue van and there would always be a cooler inside filled with Snapples, root beers, and candy. She always wore bright-red lipstick, and kept one attached to the visor, so that she could reapply while she was stopped at red lights. She had a nephew the same age as me, and this was the real reason why I went to church; he and I would always goof around before service, and during, we would both collapse onto Betty's lap for a nap (what kid doesn't fall asleep to a pastor's speech?)

I experienced so many things through Betty that I wouldn't have otherwise with my parents. She had a huge family that would come together on Sundays for brunch, and this is where I learned what grits were, and it's where I discovered the wonderful taste of fried chicken and okra. She was a rabid Gamecocks fan, with flags stuck onto the top of her van, and she had dozens of Gamecocks sweatshirts. From her I had learned what it meant to be patriotic, albeit just to a university. At church, I saw people get baptized, I actually read the Bible on occasion, and I met people for whom religion was a lifestyle. I had learned what is was like to have faith in something.

Betty had two homes, one of which was a lake house. In the summers, my parents would often drop me off there for the weekend, and Betty would take me water-skiing and boat-fishing, and sometimes she would even let me drive. In the evenings, she would feed me biscuits with jam and butter and Dr. Pepper, and we would play Scrabble. I would also practice songs like "The House of the Rising Sun" on her keyboard, or I would go through her books, and snuggle up on one of her comfortable couches and get lost in them, or just fall asleep to the sound of crickets and the electric fans.

When I think of Betty's homes and her life, I think of coziness and contentedness. Betty was made a widow at a relatively young age, by a man that I had never met, but from the pictures that were on the wall of them together I had gathered that they were very happy. They never had any children. Though she never talked about him, his presence in her life was apparent. I first read Calvin and Hobbes when she gave me a book to read while I was at her house one evening with my parents and bored. I noticed the inside of the cover page was signed by her deceased husband. I still have that book. She kept all of his belongings, mixed in with her own; she was truly a rat-pack. This was all the better for a curious little kid like myself.

She has been like a rock for us since we met her and she was the aunt I never had. It amazes me to see how she goes on with life with such strength and grace. I think it's interesting that the most generous people in our lives have been people from church; a true sign that there are some people out there who really practice what they preach, and through God, get the strength to give back what they're given.

Love what you do

"Find a job that you love to do and stick to it." This is what every school counselor and member of my family told me before I left for college. From the way they said this I thought I would have a choice in exactly what job made me happy. That was not the case. I was thrown into a job I wasn't sure I could handle all because a family friend, knew the guy that did the hiring at The News Reporter and I needed a job for the summer. A pair of high heels, a nice shirt, pressed pants and a 20 minute interview landed me the job—the love came later.

I arrived for work not expecting much. To be honest, I wasn't sure I was qualified for the job and doubted my ability to write newspaper articles. A bleak picture of my future (concerning job experience) had been painted for me upon entering college. Apparently, everyone I talked to was under the impression you could not get a job as an English major unless you wanted to teach. Since teaching is not an occupation I'm interested in, my hopes for a great job were minimal.

With some apprehension and a pessimistic outlook I began my first day at work. Not a great attitude, sure, but I was under the impression I would be little more than an errand girl for the all important reporters and would glean little (if any) helpful experience from my time at the paper.

My impression about my new job quickly changed. By the end of my first day I had been introduced to approximately forty people of whom I remembered three, had my first two assignments handed to me and realized that book keeping and errand running were not part required for my new job. I was going to be a reporter.

The first few weeks at work were both tiring and confusing. I was attempting to learn in a few weeks what the majority of the employees had taken years to learn. There's not a very high turnover rate at the paper, so most of the employees have been there for years. Somewhere between conducting research on the first baby boomer in the county and writing articles announcing new business openings I fell in love with my job.

The hours are demanding and often require that you be available 24-7. Deadlines are sacred and the programs used for formatting are horrific to learn. There is also a certain amount of knowledge associated with each chair in the building. If you are sit at another individuals desk you are expected to know that same amount of information as that person.

By the end of the summer I could write obituaries and church news in addition to news articles and feature stories. You'd think the writing style for these categories would be the same. It's not; each has its own distinctive style and a 20 page rulebook to accompany it.

What does this information amount to? Nothing much, except I discovered a job that I love and that I could work at for years. Some day I may develop into a snoopy, sleuth-like reporter but for now I enjoy my small-town paper and the feature stories I get to write. I also appreciate all the instruction and feedback that I receive. I can't learn if I don't make mistakes, and I can't fix it if I don't know it's wrong. So in the words of my great grandmother, "When you read this you make sure the words are spelled right, if they aren't in the right places, shape them up."

Who Knew?

"I know you're going into work, but I have some bad news."

Those were my mother's shaky words to me nearly four years ago July. The possibilities of what she was going to say next ran threw my mind as fast as lightning. Immediately I thought it concerned a family member. I dreaded to hear anything related.

What seemed like an eternity before I spoke, I asked, "What happened?" (not even a second), she managed to tell me a good friend of mine was in a horrible car accident. Mom continued to say, "Kris broke her back. I just found out myself and thought you might want to call around to find out more." Thankfully, I was parked when she told me the news. My heart was at the pit of my stomach which made me motionless. I was speechless yet had so many questions.

"She what? How? When did this...where did you...who, who told you? Is she okay?" My mother told me Kris broke her back, and I managed to ask if she was okay...Idiot, of course she's not. I frantically called Diana, Kris's roommate and best friend, to find out more details. Things were still uncertain at that point, but I was able to find out that Kris did in fact break her back. She wasn't expected to walk again.

This is a girl whose life is soccer. A girl who is always on the go, always active, skateboarding, running, playing drums with her band, or out and about with friends. She is the life of any room. Her mere presence puts a smile on every face around her, (truly). She has dark brown hair that stretches to her mid back, big hazel eyes, and a smile that is never absent from her face. It's not just her physical beauty but it's her personality that has so much life. If Kris learns when your birthday is, she'll never forget it. There have been days when she and I sat around while I named off friends, and she called back with their birthday. She was right everytime.

That is why if you were to meet her today, this very moment, you would never know she had a permanent steel rode and bolts in her back. You wouldn't know she has a 22 inch scar stretched diagonally from the back of her left ribcage around to the left side of her belly button, or that she knows when it's about to rain because she gets shooting pains up her back. During the winter months, her already constant pain is twice as miserable to bear.

How exactly did this happen to her, you might ask. Early morning July 3rd, 2004, she and four friends where heading home from a weekend camping on the beach. The driver, still intoxicated from the night before, thought it would be funny to speed and drive crazy to give the others a little scare. He succeeded. He lost control, causing the Bronco to roll three times. With the first flip, Tabitha was thrown out of the back window. The second flip, Ricky was flown out and knocked unconscious. (He remained in a comma for days, suffers permanent memory loss, and will never again have long-term memory.) The third flip threw Kris past the Bronco. She could only lay there. She told me that she must have been unconscious for a little while but remembers waking up to see the driver standing over her and asking "Are you okay?" She said, "I think so." He apologized and asked her not to tell anyone he was driving. The boy took off running away from the scene. Yes, he ran. Ran away like a sissy.

There was obviously a lot of drama that followed. One miracle has proven to be a daily motivator and reminder to me, and that is my good friend and roommate of two years, Kris. After being told she would never walk again, she told the doctor she would. She was told she wouldn't be able to attend school in the Fall. Kris believed otherwise. Again and again, the doctor assured her she wouldn't play soccer again. In only four months, she was out of her body cast. You may have seen her walking around campus sophomore year. Yes, fall semester, and the semester the doctors said she would have to skip. Her body cast could be seen from a mile away. It was brightly decorated with neon velcro and full of signatures and notes of encouragement. She was a walking inspiration to everyone that knew her because she had proven to the doctors and so many other individuals that she could do anything she set her mind to. Kris didn't let the doctors words, saying she'd never walk again, lessen her determination to do so.

As the third year anniversary is approaching, a day when so many of us celebrate the survival of everyone in the accident and feel a mutual disgust for the pansy driver, I'm reminded of how much she inspires me. I'm reminded how much she is loved by everyone she meets. Because of Kris, I feel I have no reason to complain about my days. They could be far worse. There is something about her that catches anyone's attention. She is captivating, selfless to no limit. After all the pain and suffering, Kris said she would go through it all again if it prevented someone else having to experience it. Who says that? Only Kris. If only there could be more of her kind in this world, every room in this building would be glowing. Everyone would feel they are loved and cared for by someone special. That is what Kris does daily not because she feels she has to, but because it's who she is. I try to flip on my "Kris switch" when I wake up in the mornings but I, nor anyone else, will ever compare to her greatness.

Grandmothers Are the Best(revised)

"Grandma, how come you don’t drive fast like Grandpa?”
“Because your grandpa doesn’t listen to what other’s tell him; Driving fast won’t get you there any faster”
“Grandma, can you drive without your hands on the wheel?”
“Sure, but only for a few seconds.”

Then she proceeds to show me just how this is possible. I was ten years old and truly amazed at this. This is usually how a conversation with my grandmother went. I always had questions, and she always had the answers. We both love to talk, so conversations would last forever. She used to tell me all the time that you just can’t walk up to people and ask questions (I had a bad habit of doing this). That is, until one day I met a lady who told me if I ever wanted to know anything, just ask. She said I might not get the answer that I was looking for, but at least I asked. Since that moment I was on a roll asking Grandma and anyone else question after question.

My grandmother watched me when I was little while my mother was in school and she taught me very valuable lessons. She would always, “You don’t ask everything that comes to your mind; some things you keep to yourself.” I remember going on trips with her, and my grandpa and the trip would usually go something like this,

“Rufus, slow down and pay attention.” (He is driving in excess speed)
“I’m ok, stop telling me how to drive.”
“Rufus, watch out for that truck!” (A sixteen wheeler has almost taken us to an early death.)
“I have it, you just ride.”

I used to enjoy riding with her when Grandpa was driving, since he never watched the road but instead liked to sightsee while driving. My grandmother taught me everything I know today. She taught me how to clean house and wash dishes. I remember begging her to let me wash dishes at five years old. She would put me in a chair on my knees, and I would wash away. I thought it was the coolest thing in the world. I remember my grandmother and me talking about everything from God to what was on TV.

Grandma and I loved to sit down and watch “The Price is Right” while always winning the games at home. My favorite memories of her are when we would go to the strawberry fields and pick my favorite fruit. At that time you could eat the strawberries right out of the field, and that’s what I would do. Afterwards, we would always go to the grocery store and get those round circle cake things, so when we arrived home we could make strawberry cups. They kind of reminded me of strawberry shortcake minus the ice cream and whip cream. They were the best things ever and I always looked forward to times like these. Anyone who knew my grandmother always believed that she was the sweetest person in the world. She was known around town as “Mom’s Taxi,” and she even had a bumper sticker that said it too. If you needed to go anywhere, she would be there and would never charge for her services and often would not accept tips. My mother and friends say that I act just like a grandma because of my wisdom and intelligence. The following poem reminds me so much of her and to this day I still remember the conversations just like it was yesterday,

God made angels, Among all of us. You, My Grammy, Was one that He touched. And He gave you me, When I was lost. You gave me a home, And loved me a lot. Somehow you did it, Even when it was tough. You raised me as yours, You gave up a lot. Now I'm all grown up, And I like looking back. To the times we spent together, Remember how we laughed. God made you special, You did all the rest. My Grandmother the Angel, You're one of the best.

The only person I have left to look up to like a grandmother is my grandmother’s sister, which is my aunt Betty. She currently resides in Philadelphia, and over the Christmas break I received an unexpected chance to visit her and my aunt Clara, who I hadn’t seen in twelve years. It was the most interesting part of my vacation. My aunt Clara has Alzheimer’s, and she is ninety-eight or ninety-nine years old. My aunt Betty is about ninety-six or ninety-seven years old.

Throughout my whole visit, my aunt Betty waited up at night for me to get home (even though I told her not too), and she was constantly worrying about everyone around her, which is just how my grandmother was. She even resembles my grandmother. Grandmothers are the best people in the world, and no one can replace them and the spirit that lives within them.