Grandmother's Pastime

One of the fondest memories a child can possibly possess is that of a grandmother. Grandmothers are filled with loving kindness and natural grace. Their sweet and joyfully wrinkled faces are always warm and ready for kisses. Their eyes light up like Christmas trees whenever their grandchildren visit. Mine was no exception to this idealized image. Unlike other grandmothers who sewed or knitted, mine read. It is because of her that I have a burning passion for books.

Elementary school was a sad time for me—a very shy and gangly girl. In first grade pronouncing “r’s” was a difficult task, one that made my self-esteem nearly nonexistent. This speech impediment also produced a problem with reading; I could not read out loud without stumbling, which destroyed any desire to read to myself. Needless to say, my introduction to reading books or learning words was not favorable. I can remember one day we were learning how to spelling “butterfly”. I was so frightened; it was a long word and it had an “r” in it. The first-grader emotions boiled over and I cried. Little reading lessons were also unpleasant to my young self. All the girls and boys sitting around me would finish the assignments so quickly that I would simply quit without truly attempting because the fear of being embarrassed The teachers mindlessly looked down upon those who took the longest, and I was unwilling to become one of those sorry students.

After first grade my speech impediment disappeared and I became a very outgoing and popular little girl, although I was still miserably gangly and much taller than the pre-growth-spurt boys. This popularity allowed an ease in school that many are unfamiliar with. Consequently, it also established a lower desire for learning. I hated everything about writing and reading. Once I had to write a speech and present it to the class. When I walked up to the front of the room I could not say a thing. Nerves over being unable to read what I had written on my paper stole every ounce of confidence I possessed. My friend had helped me read my paper. It was so embarrassing. Even in sixth grade I was behind. A sixth grader at a fourth grade reading level needs help, no matter how popular he or she may be. However, I did not receive such needed assistance. Instead, I accepted any grade I could get and hoped that somehow I could muddle through my classes.

Every summer my entire family travels up to West Virginia, the birth place of both my parents. Some people claim that West Virginia is boring, and for a thirteen year old girl to visit her relatives’ house where there are no cousins her age, who is not allowed to tramp through the mountain sides, no town to safely walk in, and no room to call her own—yes, I would call this state unquestionably boring! I thank goodness that it is so unexciting; if it hadn’t been, I never would have taken notice of my grandma’s pastime. Every night she would stay awake past everyone else, partly because she worked the night shift at a store for over ten years, but I believe it was the best and most peaceful time for her to read. She would always sit in the living room, where everyone would normally be sitting and watching TV. The TV was never turned on when the room was in her command, only one yellow glow came from the reading lamp cascading her in a circle of warmth and light. Rocking back and forth she would sit—content and happy with a book in her hands. Nothing could distract her.

It was not until my seventh grade summer that my love and passion for books exploded. Being a teenager, I frequently remained awake when all others retired. In these moments the occasional desire to see what my grandmother was reading would sneak into my mind. However, not once did I actually act upon it, I had never really picked up a book for the pure enjoyment of reading—unless pictures and large font words adorned each page. I would just sit quietly in the room letting the squeak of the rocking chair lull me into a dream-like state. My grandmother, being a sly lady, one day asked if I would like to read one of her many books. I did, but I was still uneasy. What if I could not read it, or what if I just did not like it? However, past these silly child fears she led me to her overly-packed book shelf. She gave me a book about a boy who lived in the 1800s after the Civil War—before cars became increasingly popular. I had never been attracted to such a time era; I thought it boring, plain, and altogether unexciting. A conclusion such as this sounds as if I had a great knowledge of what life was like during this time, but truth be told I had no idea what to expect about a farm boy from back then. This book was a simple read, or at least I suppose it would be considered that now, but at that time I was mystified. I could not put it down, and I finished it in two days! Me! I had actually read a book from cover to cover! Exciting as this may be, it became exceedingly better when my grandmother smiled knowingly when I told her of my accomplishment. It was as if she had invited me into a new world of thought and adventure; one that I had never dreamed existed.

During those hot summer days after seventh grade I read. My grandmother allowed me to borrow over fifty of her books, and I read them all. I would sit in my room by the window and dive in for hours. It became a passion and I literally could not satisfy it. It actually became almost a problem that summer. I would sit there in my room all day and not come out. Even my mother, although thrilled at my excitement for reading, was worried I was spending too much time on it—a problem most kids my age could not claim. I read everything, anything. I loved it all. The best part of this was that when school finally rolled back around for eighth grade, school became a breeze. Somehow it seemed as if the homework was nothing and the reading, oh my, it was simple! I enjoyed every moment of my classes. I could write better, spell better—although I’m still not the best at spelling—and I was happier. My grandmother believed in my ability as a reader when it seemed like no one else really cared. She understood the world that could be created by words and did not want me to miss out on such an adventure.

A faithful companion

Tonight my dog died. I have never experienced death first hand. To see a living creature taken away from this earth is a very sad and strange thing. However, this is not the part I wish to remember. I want to remember my dog, Max, the way he use to be.
My dad and mom gave us, my brothers and me, Max when he was very young. I wanted to name him Sunny. I wanted to name everything Sunny at the time. My brothers thought this was the worst name in the whole world, so finally after long discussion the entire family decided on Max-a-million, Max for short.
He was the cutest puppy ever. I know everyone else says that about their own dog, but honestly Max was the best. One ear never stood up, adorable. He had thick golden fur and the warmest brown eyes that could melt away any sadness or anger.
Stubborn, that is really what we should have called him. On more than one occasion he would run away. These were entertaining moments because we could see the line form as my dad, my brothers, friends from the neighborhood, and I would be running after him. Max was so fast, and he would stop and look back mid-chase and just laugh at us, then take off down the road. He also hated being picked up, except by my mom and sometimes by me. If one of the boys ever tried he would snap at them, never to do any real damage, but just to advise them that their attempts were foolish.
Loud, he was louder than any dog I have ever heard. Sitting at the dinner table his shrieking yelp would make you heart jump clean out of your chest! He told you what he wanted with this bark, and that usually meant food.




I will continue this later; I just wanted to start writing down memories to make myself a bit more cheerful. I loved Max, and I honestly do not know what I will do without him by my side.

a friend well trusted

You know how sometimes it feels like some things just can’t seem to go right? That is how parts of my life feel right now. Perhaps it’s just a case of sadness or maybe I’m just a little crazy, but I honestly can not remember the last time I was undeniably in a total and complete state of happiness. Each week begins with a hopeful look out onto the horizon expecting only the best. I look forward to the weekend, events placed throughout the week, and small moments of contentment and achievement. Yet, each Sunday ends with the same feeling of disappointment and wishful thoughts of what could have been. Why is that, do I set my expectations too high? Is that my problem? Or do I allow the lowering of my expectations to upset me in too many ways.

This leads me to the belief that maybe we create our own happiness. But who honestly believes that? Our lives cannot be dictated by ourselves alone—we are human and will always be affected by situations and actions out of our control. However, our choice is how we handle what is thrown our way. But can I always be cheery? Is it possible to tip toe my way through life without painful confrontations. Do I even want to have a confrontation? Lord knows I can avoid them like the plague. Still, I can’t help but wonder if they would do me some good. I hear that building up emotions inside of oneself is an extremely dangerous task. Not that I am afraid of doing anything silly, but I am afraid of graduating with so many unresolved issues raging in my heart.

One problem is my friend. I have trusted him for years. When no one else understood me it seemed as if he somehow always could. He moved away a few years ago. But we still talk. With this once trusted friend I told more than I tell my own mother. Maybe I did because there was such a distance between us, it was like writing in a diary, but this time I could actually get more back than my own sloppy hand writing. Sadly, the contact has faded, and if we do speak it is superficial and generally ends in saying I need to go to bed, but I honestly don’t for at least another hour.

You know how sometimes there is one moment that really just rips at you heart. It’s not as though you planned for it to happen. It is just one off handed comment that really eats at you. I had one of those tonight. My friend and I were talking about re-giving gifts. I found out he gave away one of mine that I had given him a few years back. I was little upset, but I could have easily gotten over it until he said that he had forgotten how picky I use to be and how I became upset if they didn’t fit my plans. I could feel the sting as strongly as if I had been slapped across the face. With the dreaded swell of water forming around my dry contacts I made the attempt to recreate my now wobbling voice. He did not realize how his words hurt; I didn’t even realize how much they would hurt. How could I have been so affected?

This is when I started to think about how I use to be. I was picky. I loved planning certain details of my life and hoping with all my heart they would unfold into the perfect stories. This hints back to my great expectations. And when each plan failed I was disappointed. But I thought I had changed. I mean I really have changed so much since 9th grade when he moved away. My faith is stronger, my friends different, my attitude isn’t the young smile at every moment anymore. This is when I realized he wouldn’t know how I had changed. So he couldn’t have known that this reminder was such a painful one.

Maybe it was so painful because in the end, if I really and truly looked into my heart, my great expectations, my romantic curse to have beautiful moments is still there causing me disappointment.