Writing Situation
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Narrative Writing situation:
Everyone worries about some things. Many times worrying about something is actually worse or more painful than living through the experience. Think about a time this happened to you. You knew you were going to have to do something or go somewhere, and things could be really bad; however, as it turned out, the experience wasn’t nearly as bad as you thought it could be.
Writing directions:
Write an article for your school newsletter, telling the story of a time that worrying about something was worse than living through the experience. Be sure to include in your story what happened and how you dealt with being worried. The Lifeline
“Don’t worry about everything!” My sister’s words echoed in my mind. She didn’t realize that “worry” was not a switch I could just turn off when she ordered me to stop. I could worry for hours about nearly anything. When I knew on Thursday we were going to get ice cream on Saturday, I could devote nearly 48 hours to internal debate. Would I be sorry if I got chocolate? Would it be better if I just chose vanilla? Those were minor concerns, but as I grew older, the worries became more serious. When I discovered as a fourth grader that I would have to stand up in front of my fifth grade class and give a speech by myself, I nearly lost my mind. The actual experience, though, had unexpected consequences, and along the way, I learned some important lessons. I finished fourth grade with mixed feelings. I was happy to get to be a fifth grader, but I became almost sick when I thought about one of the things I knew I would have to do in the fifth grade. Mrs. Rutherford, the fifth grade teacher, believed in speaking, as in speaking in front of the class. I got sick just thinking about it. I couldn’t speak out loud in front of a group. I couldn’t stand being the center of attention or having anyone look at me. I was so shy I always managed to hide when my uncle took pictures at the family reunion. I was so self-conscious I felt totally undressed if my socks didn’t match my outfit. I worried all summer about my big speech, and when the day finally came that Mrs. Rutherford assigned our speeches I nearly croaked. I felt my stomach muscles clench, and I couldn’t eat lunch. As soon as I got home, I threw up three times. I was so sick. The teacher had told us that unless we gave a speech we couldn’t go on to sixth grade, so I knew I had to try. My older sister helped me find a topic that Mrs. Rutherford would like. I decided to talk about the proper care of flags. Mr. Roth at the bank had given me the old tattered flag they had replaced, so I had a wonderful visual aid. We had six weeks to write our speeches, but I wrote mine the night it was assigned, carefully copying it all out on notecards and memorizing every word. I knew that speech, backward and forward and sideways. I said it under my breath everywhere, walking the dog, riding the bus, eating in the lunchroom, listening to Mrs. Rutherford teach math. I made a tape of the speech and played it while I slept. I knew my speech. The week before our speeches were due, some of my friends hadn’t even started to write. I just couldn’t believe it. If I hadn’t already memorized all my speech, I would have passed out. Two hundred sixty-eight hours before my moment of agony, I pictured myself standing in front of the chalkboard, the haze of chalkdust settling around my head. The flag would be swaying slightly as the warm air rose from the radiator. If I fell in that direction, I might knock the flag down; it might fall on the radiator, and it might catch on fire. I might fall against the teacher’s desk, scattering papers and books, crushing the vase of fake daisies that Mrs. Rutherford loved so much. I could fall against the rusted metal olive green filing cabinet, hit my head on the old-fashioned metal drawerpulls, and sustain life-threatening head injuries. I might throw up. I could already smell the pungent orangey flavor of Vomasorb. I might just shake and cry before finally keeling over unconscious. . . and everybody would stare at me! I had never felt pressure like this before. Now, seven days before I had to give my speech, I started to tremble whenever I thought about it. I had already had three or four nightmares, but now I started having nightmares every night. My granny fixed me drinks that were supposed to calm me down and make me sleep, but they didn’t work. I lost weight and just generally made myself a nervous wreck. What was I going to do? My sister Tonya tried to help me. She had been in Mrs. Rutherford’s class two years before, and the speech thing had bothered her too, but not as much as it bothered me. The night before my BIG speech, Tonya came to my room carrying a sweater. It was her favorite sweater, and she knew I loved it too. Every chance I had I tried it on. I kept hoping Tonya would outgrow it before I became too big to wear it. The sweater was knitted, maroon with touches of red and blue. It was the most beautiful sweater I had ever seen. “Sis, I can’t give that speech for you tomorrow, but I can give you something else,” Tonya said. “I’m going to let you wear my sweater.” “Really? Really? That is way cool.” I was so happy. Maybe the sweater would make me look so good that no one would really hear what I was saying. Maybe everybody would look at the sweater and not listen to me. For the first time, I thought I might actually live through the speech. Tonya frowned at me, “Now look, squirt,” she snorted, “if anything happens to this sweater, you are so dead!” “Oh, don’t worry. I love that sweater as much as you do. I won’t let anything happen to it.” Tonya knew that I was always incredibly careful with my clothes. I was extremely fastidious in the way I dressed. How many people do you know who actually measure their shoestrings with a ruler to be sure that each side is the same length? I just knew people would make fun of me if the strings weren’t even on each side. The next day speech class began at 1 p.m. Rob Laney gave the first speech, and I was next. To this day I can’t remember anything Rob said. I know that he always loved attention, so I guess his speech went well. I lapsed into a semi-conscious state, not hearing anything until Mrs. Rutherford called my name. “Lacy, it’s your turn.” I staggered to my feet and tried to make my legs move. “Just go on to the front of the room,” Mrs. Rutherford sounded almost sympathetic. I slowly scooted down the row, holding the backs of each chair for support. I think the class realized how much I was suffering because no one made a sound, or if they did, I didn’t hear them. I put my cards down and took a death grip on the sides of the podium. “Hold it!” Mrs. Rutherford commanding voice came like a shot. “Your hands should be at your sides, Lacy. You know that!” Finger by finger I slowly let go of the podium. I’m still surprised that I simply didn’t sink to the floor and lie there forever. My right hand swung gently against my sister’s sweater, and I felt a tiny line make its way into my hand. Yes! This small piece of yarn would be something to hold onto while I gave my speech, a lifeline of sorts. I pulled on my lifeline and started with my first card. As I finished the words on the first card, I gave the yarn a firm tug. Fortunately for me, it was longer now and not nearly as hard to hold on to. I moved on to my second card, the words of my speech coming from memory, and I was getting into a good rhythm. I continued to clench my lifeline, wrapping the end around my hand. After the fifth card, I had enough courage to actually look at the class. They were mesmerized, and I was stunned. Who would have thought that the care of the U.S. flag could be so interesting to a group of 5th graders? Mrs. Rutherford sat in the back of the room with a small smile on her face. I continued to draw strength from my yarn lifeline, pulling gently and steadily, not realizing that my palm was now completely wrapped with yarn. When the moment came for me to hold up the tattered flag, I decided that since the yarn lifeline had brought me so much luck, I could let go. When I raised my arm to hold up the corner of the flag, almost everyone in the class laughed. I thought, Well, that’s strange, but then I’ve always known this class had some strange people in it. I put down the flag and continued to my next card, methodically winding my lifeline around my hand. I was still quaking inwardly, and my knees were quivering. As I approached my conclusion, I could feel my blood pressure rising. The ending was crucial. Mrs. Rutherford had pounded that into our heads. She had told us that anyone who didn’t have a strong ending might be asked to do their speeches over. I didn’t want that to happen to me. The more nervous I became, the harder I tugged at my lifeline. My slow tugging became faster and faster, loop after loop wrapping my hand. I was now cocooning my fingers. I spoke firmly, the cadence of my voice rising and falling in time with my pulling on the yarn. By this time everybody in the class was smiling from ear to ear or laughing out loud. I was totally confused, but I was so close to the end that I didn’t care what they did. Even Mrs. Rutherford was smiling, a sight we hadn’t seen in months. She was not a cheerful person. I finished with a burst of words . . . “and now you know how to care for the flag.” I gathered up my cards with my left hand, my right hand still firmly clutching my lifeline. The class began to applaud, as they did for every speech. They clapped long and hard, Mrs. Rutherford joining in. Then Tim stood up and yelled, “I think Lacy deserves a standing ovation.” My mouth dropped open, and I stood dumbfounded in front of the class while everyone stood up and clapped and yelled. Mrs. Rutherford walked up and handed me my score sheet . . . a 91%! I couldn’t believe it. I was still breathing; I had made an A, and I hadn’t done anything totally stupid and made a complete fool of myself. I raised my right arm to yell YES, but something was holding it. I glanced down at my waist to see . . . not my sister’s maroon sweater, but a three-inch wide strip of winter white flesh! My lifeline had been a loose piece of yarn, and every time I had pulled it I had unraveled part of the sweater. I pulled really hard on what was left, trying to make the edge of the sweater come to the top of my jeans. I pulled with the wrong hand, and another couple of inches came undone. I didn’t know what to do. I had survived my speech, I was still alive, but I wanted to die and die NOW! I really wasn’t showing that much, but I felt naked! I was humiliated beyond words. I felt my face turn a deeper maroon than the sweater. No wonder everybody had laughed and stomped and cheered. I looked like such an idiot. I could feel my heart start to pump erratically, and I wondered if I would hyperventilate. My eyes glazed over, and for a moment I couldn’t see my classmates. At some level I realized that what I did now was more important than my speech. I wanted to cry hysterically, to howl, to scream, to crawl under a chair, to run down the hall, to sail out the front door and never come back. Mrs. Rutherford was standing by the blackboard watching me. I turned around to the class, tears trickling down my cheeks, legs buckling. I smiled weakly, a tiny grimace maybe, but still a smile. They gave me another ovation. Somewhere in the middle of that second ovation, something clicked for me. My smile grew wide and genuine. I began to giggle, and finally I began to laugh . . . and laugh . . . and laugh. For who knows what reason Mrs. Rutherford moved on to teach 6th grade language arts the next year, and we had to do another speech. I wasn’t happy about it, but I wasn’t nervous. Getting through the speech in 5th grade had been my greatest accomplishment to date, but getting to the point I could laugh at myself had been an even more significant moment in my life. Laughing, even though it hurt horribly at first, had cleansed me of fear. I knew I could survive anything! I also quit measuring my shoestrings. Narrative Writing situation:
Until you’re placed in a situation, you sometimes don’t know how much courage you have. Sometimes you have to be brave; you have to face difficult situations or stand up to difficult people. Think about times you have had to be brave to get through an experience.
Writing directions:
Write an article that tells your story to be posted on a website for students your age. Tell about your experience so that other students can understand what it was like. The Power of a Paw
Often fear and bravery go together. A few weeks ago, I had to overcome my fears and be prepared to rescue my cat when my brother’s dog went after her.
I watched Baby, my precious little gray cat, as she strolled across the yard. Bad Boy, my brother’s old ugly German Police dog, watched her with one eye as she came up to the porch. Baby knew and I knew he wouldn’t bother her; in fact, he wouldn’t come near her, but it hadn’t always been that way.
When Grandpa had given Baby to me about six months ago, my brother told me that she wouldn’t last a week. “My big ole Bad Boy’s gonna eat that Baby for breakfast,” he laughed hysterically. “I can’t wait to see it.”
I went crying to Grandpa, and he explained that I shouldn’t worry about Baby and Bad Boy. “It’s not the size of the cat in the fight,” he said, “but the size of the fight in the cat.” I wasn’t sure what that meant, but it sounded good.
The first time Bad Boy saw Baby he yelped and grinned from ear to ear. There he stood, 150 pounds heavier and 3 feet taller than my Baby. He pawed the ground and snorted like a bull. Then he lunged across the yard just in time to watch Baby fly up a tree. I cried and slapped Bad Boy, but he just bared his big ugly yellow teeth and growled at me. I thought the world would be a better place if I could just kill that dog.
I did my best to keep Baby away from Bad Boy, but sometimes I couldn’t. Baby’s only advantage that I could see was that she was flat out fast. Bad Boy would catch sight of her, and Baby was gone in a heartbeat. . . up in the barn, under the porch, up a tree, up on the fence.
Bad Boy stirred up all kinds of dirt trying to catch my Baby, and you could almost see him thinking, “Some day I’m gonna catch that cat!” He never stopped trying, and Baby never stopped running.
One day I was up in my room when I saw Baby come into the yard. Suddenly I heard a fierce, piercing growl, and as I watched helplessly from my bedroom window, I saw Bad Boy come barreling into the yard. Before Baby realized what had happened, Bad Boy had backed her into the corner against the fence. Baby had nowhere to run. She was doomed, and I was about to die. I climbed up in the window and got ready to jump. I thought maybe I could land on Bad Boy’s back and keep him from eating my little cat.
Baby hunched her tiny back, bared her almost invisible fangs, and hissed at Bad Boy. He thought he had her trapped for good this time and started prancing, lowering his head and showing his ugly alligator teeth. Slobbers dripped out of each side of his mouth.
Baby hissed again and lifted her little paw. I didn’t see what happened next, but I did see and hear the results of it. Before my eyes, blood came gushing out of Bad Boy’s nose. He let out a screech that made my ears ring. OOOOOOOOOOEEEEEEEEEEE!
My dad and my brother came racing out of the barn. Bad Boy was in excruciating pain. He took a deep breath and cried like a human. Tears poured from his beady brown eyes. OOOOOOOOOEEEEEEEEEE! he howled. He began to shake his head, claw his nose, and stagger toward the house. As soon as he stumbled and fell over, I saw Baby light out for the maple tree. Up she scampered, but not as far as she usually went. I guess she knew that Bad Boy wouldn’t be following her this time.
She paused on a lower branch, yawned happily, scratched her ear, licked her paw, and began to wash her face. Over by the barn, I could see Grandpa, hands on his hips, grinning from ear to ear.
Life sure is peaceful around our house now. Bad Boy has just about quit barking at anything. His humiliating experience seems to have made a permanent impression on his twisted doggy mind. Baby has become a great gray hunter, and I marvel sometimes at the power in her little paws. My Sunday School teacher said that everybody has to face giants sometimes, and I believe that Bad Boy was Baby’s Goliath. She didn’t have five stones when she was backed against the fence, but all she needed was one tiny paw.
Narrative Writing situation:
Sometimes people do things, even though they know it’s not a good idea. How many times have you done something . . . even though you had been told NOT to do it or you knew it was not a good idea? You may be one of those people who can never turn down a dare, even though you know it could be dangerous. Think about one of those experiences that had an unfortunate outcome.
Writing directions:
Write your story that could be published in an online magazine for students your age. Tell about your experience so that other students can understand what it was like. Watermelon Wonderland
All of us probably recall times when we did something we had been told NOT to do. Why? I’m not sure. Sometimes we just get totally motivated to do something if we know we shouldn’t. Most of us can also probably remember a time when we did something stupid, knowing as we did it that it was a bad idea. In this instance, my brother and I hadn’t been told NOT to do something, but we were old enough to know better. One hot day, two bored little boys, more than twenty watermelons, and two grandparents who trusted little boys not to get into trouble . . . all of these elements combined to teach one of the most painful lessons my brother and I ever had to learn. The weather was miserable for mid-September. Jed and I had been swimming, but we were still hot. Now we were resting beneath an oak tree, with Frisk beside us. I poured some cherry Kool-Aid from the jar and drank slowly. I felt some slivers of ice slide down my throat. The smell of curing tobacco and wet dog surrounded us. Jed threw a stick, but Frisk just lifted his head and sighed. I leaned close enough to kick him gently with my foot, but he still didn't move. The leaves on the trees rustled softly and a whisper of a breeze brushed our faces. We might have slept, but the shrill hum of the cicadas kept us awake. "Hey, Josh, let's do something, something cool." I looked toward the house and saw my little brother Jeremy starting toward the barn. "Hey, there's Jeremy. Quick! Let's get up in the loft." We scrambled up the ladder, Frisk following. We were none too soon because Jeremy had seen us. As he started up the ladder, Jed hissed, "Quick! Come on. Let's get under the hay. We don't want to deal with that pest." We burrowed through the loose hay. I pushed Frisk in a little deeper to hide his tail just as Jeremy scrambled over the ledge. "Jed! Josh! I want to play. Where are you?" Frisk started to whine, and I smothered his mouth and nose. "Jed! Josh! Grandma says you better play with me." Jeremy moved toward the hay and gave it an experimental kick or two. His shoe hit Jed on the ankle, and I could feel him flinch, but he never made a sound. "Where are you all? I want to play." Jeremy's voice was becoming a whine. He had spent most of his five years of life looking for us, but he almost never found us. "I wanna play." Jeremy sat down and began to cry. "I wanna play. I wanna play. I wanna play." His crying really got on my nerves, but we never moved. Finally, Jeremy got tired and crawled down the ladder, still sniffling. My brother and I exchanged high fives, and both of us shook Frisk's paw. We had managed to escape Jeremy one more time. Jed said, "Hey, come here and see what I found." In the hole made by his burrowing, I could see a faint green ring. "Watermelon, lots and lots of watermelon! All buried under the hay, here for us." "Yeah, watermelon." I could taste it already. I pulled out my pocketknife and split the first one. Slice after slice, Jed and I crunched slowly, letting the pieces dissolve in our mouths. We shared our treasure with Frisk, but he quit after a couple of pieces. We finished the first melon, the second, and the third before we started our seed-spitting contest. A couple of feet, a little further, then Jed got lucky and spit one seed clear out the window. We kept on eating. The watermelon was cool, just the thing for a hot afternoon. We wanted to believe that someone had put them there just for us. Finally, we slowed up. We lay back in the hay, our stomachs bloated. Watermelon is mostly water, so when you're eating it, it doesn't feel you're eating much. But when we stopped, we felt like we had eaten tons. I don't how long we stayed there, too full to move. Then Jed jumped up. "Hey, we got to hide these rinds and seeds." I looked around the loft. We had piled our seeds, about a billion or so, in the middle of the rinds of over twenty watermelon. Jed began scooping up seeds and dumping them out the loft window. I stared at the rinds, wondering where in the world we could stash them. We couldn't put them just anywhere. If they rotted, the stench would be unbelievable. A snort on the ground below reminded me how lucky we were. The pigs would love a watermelon rind feast. All we had to do was get the rinds down the ladder. I grabbed an armload and started down the ladder. The juice slid down my legs and made my feet so sticky I slid off the ladder and onto the ground. "Psst. Hey, Josh. I'll just throw them down, and you run them over to the pigs' trough. That'll be faster." Jed got busy, and what seemed like an avalanche of rinds came rolling out of the loft. I began to lug them over to the pigs’ trough. The pigs at first sniffed, not accustomed to a mid-afternoon snack. I was afraid they weren't going to eat, but finally Priscilla, one of the biggest sows, began crunching a rind in her sharp yellow teeth. That was a signal to the other pigs to dig in, and they began inhaling the rinds rapidly. Jed joined me on the ground and together we finished the job. Then we headed for the creek and took a quick dip to rinse the stickiness from our bodies. We didn't do a very good job. Just as we finished, we heard Grandma ringing the bell for supper. As we got closer to the house, the smell of crisp bacon came to meet us. Just for us--because she knew we loved them-- Grandma had fixed bacon and tomato sandwiches. Ordinarily, Jed and I could have wolfed down about ten sandwiches each, but tonight, we just weren't hungry. The best either one of us could do was one sandwich, and I stuffed about half of mine in my pocket. Grandma was astounded and kept laying her hands on our foreheads. "Oh my, you must be sick. Whatever is wrong?" After ten minutes of this, Jed and I both turned red with embarrassment, and Grandma was convinced we had fevers. Grandpa told Grandma we were just worn out because we had been on the go all day. We all watched Jeremy, who was happily munching his fifth sandwich. "There's nothing wrong with that boy's appetite." Jeremy turned and looked at us for the first time. "I know," he said. "You're sick because you feel guilty for not playing with me." Fortunately for us, he was too interested in his sandwich to answer Grandma when she asked him what he was talking about. The interminable meal was finally over, and Jed and I escaped to our bedroom. We sprawled in the middle of our beds and lay perfectly still. By this time, our stomachs had begun to rumble. The watermelon was expanding, and we were going to burst. Both of us, one by one, crept to the bathroom and tried to vomit. I could feel a cold sweat breaking out on my forehead, and looking at Jed, I could see the same thing was happening to him. Through our pain, we heard Grandpa return from feeding the pigs and tell Grandma, "It's the strangest thing. I could swear that there are scraps of watermelon rind in the troughs. Have you given the boys watermelon today?" "Why, no, Fred." Grandma answered. "If I had thought about it, I would have given the boys a watermelon this afternoon; but as far as I know, no one has eaten any on this place for a week." My stomach felt as if someone were tying it in knots. I wrapped my arms around my body and gripped as tightly as I could. I doubled up in pain, and through the haze, I saw Grandma come through the door. "Well, boys, are you feeling better?" Neither one of us answered, and she came closer. "Why didn't you put your pajamas on, if you're going to bed?" She helped us both up, helped us change to pajama bottoms, and left the room with our sticky clothes. Before she left, she turned on our night light. I turned slowly, looked at Jed, and wished I hadn't. His face was green as a watermelon rind, and I figured mine didn't look much better. After a while, I heard Grandpa's footsteps on the porch below. "Annie, I'd say there's about twenty watermelons gone." I heard Grandma reply, but I couldn't tell what she said. "Well, too much watermelon can kill you, but I guess we'll have to hope they didn't eat too much." Jed and I looked at each other. Not only were we in trouble for stealing watermelon, but we were going to die. The pain was unbelievable. We rocked from side to side on our beds, moved to the floor which was cooler, and finally began moaning and groaning aloud. Grandma never heard us, or if she did, she didn't let on. The night was interminably long. I’d think at least an hour had passed, but when I looked at the clock, it had only been five minutes. Exhausted, I lay back against the edge of the bed. To my right, I could hear Jed’s moaning gradually becoming a faint hum as his voice gave out. Beside me, I could feel Frisk pressed against my side to offer support. Through the open window, I could hear my little brother snoring contentedly in the room next door. Underneath me, I could feel the sharp edge of a box digging into my back, but I was too weak to care. I thought I had been in pain when I broke my arm in three places, and the bone pierced the skin, but this pain was worse. I finally rolled to a spot against the wall and just lay there, too weak to move. My head pounded, and sweat poured down my face and joined the drool dripping down my chin. My stomach cramped so much that I felt as if someone had taken a knife and was jabbing it into my spine. My arms ached from squeezing my stomach in an effort to subdue the pain. Even my legs hurt because I had clenched the muscles so much. At about 5:30 a.m., we watched the sun come up. The pain now came and went. Every once in a while, I'd see Jed clutch his stomach and close his eyes, so I knew we were feeling the same thing. Somehow, we managed to get dressed and were ready when Dad came to pick us up. We skipped breakfast. Dad was in a big hurry, but even he noticed that Jed and I looked pathetic. He told us we looked terrible, and we waited for Grandpa or Grandma to tell him why, but they didn't.
Nothing was ever said about our watermelon feast. The next summer, though, Grandpa called and told me and Jed to come out and see his watermelon patch, a patch that had come up mysteriously under the loft window. I am reminded of our gastronomical misadventure every time our family gets together in the summer. I had not realized that watermelon was always as much a part of the menu as Grandma’s chocolate pie and Mom’s macaroni and cheese. Jed and I always pass. I don’t think either one of us has eaten a piece of watermelon since that day. Although the experience was a miserable one, we did learn two important lessons. You really can have too much of a good thing, and possibly even more important, when you know something is not a good idea, don’t do it. Narrative Writing situation:
Everyone worries about some things. Many times worrying about something is actually worse or more painful than living through the experience. Think about a time this happened to you. You knew you were going to have to do something or go somewhere, and things could be really bad; however, as it turned out, the experience wasn’t nearly as bad as you thought it could be.
Writing directions:
Write an article for your school newsletter, telling the story of a time that worrying about something was worse than living through the experience. Be sure to include in your story what happened and how you dealt with being worried. My Battle With Big Ben
Almost everyone worries about something. When I was a kid, the biggest source of worry in my life was getting to ride the BIG rollercoaster, and the next biggest worry was how I would act when I rode it. WHOOSH! WHOOSH! WHOOSH! Thumpety thump! Thumpety thump! Thumpety thump! The rollercoaster zoomed down the biggest dip. I loved this ride! For the fifth time today, I had ridden Big Ben. Roaring around curves, hanging suspended in thin air, and dropping fifty feet in a matter of seconds combined to put me on top of the world! If anyone had told me early this morning that I would love to ride roller coasters, I wouldn’t have believed it. Every summer our family goes to Crystal Park. Grandma pays for everybody’s admission, and we kids save up all year to buy food, t-shirts, or other items we consider too valuable to live without. The trips usually followed a predictable pattern. We got up before daylight, traveled for what seemed like days before finally arriving at the park. We gorged ourselves on all kinds of junk food and rode every ride we could before staggering back to Grandma’s van and going home. This year, however, would be different for me. This year would be the first time I would be able to ride the BIG rollercoaster. Up to this year I had not met the height requirement. Last year I had waited in line for over an hour and been turned away. I was crushed! What made not getting to ride especially hard was that my cousin Dylan, two years younger than I, had been tall enough to ride. You’d better believe that Dylan hadn’t let me forget it. My cousins Chase and Jon, two years older, had been able to ride when they were only nine. Miranda, who is my age, and Sara Jo, who is a year younger, had also been able to ride last year. They hadn’t given me a hard time over it, but I really suffered over not being able to do something girls could do. This year, however, would be different. I had asked Grandma to measure me every month, and I had grown, not much, but surely I had grown enough to be able to ride Big Ben. We arrived at Crystal Springs Park about mid-morning, and we did what we always did. We headed for the concession stands and bought hot dogs, cotton candy, funnel cakes, and milkshakes. I’m not sure why we always had to eat just when we arrived because we had been snacking in the van, but eat we did. My cousin Dylan, who always has to show off, had to buy two hotdogs with chili sauce and brag about how quickly he could eat them. My cousin Chase offered to buy him a third hot dog, and Sara Jo, who is probably the nicest and quietest of my cousins, dared Dylan to eat a fourth one. Dylan never turns down a dare. Our first ride would be Big Ben, and we raced to the roller coaster. The line was already long, and we settled down to wait. Grandma and Aunt Lil ended up about twenty people behind us in line, but I figured they’d probably be on the same ride we were. From the line, we couldn’t see a whole lot of the ride, but we could see the highest drop. It looked about twenty feet high. I knew it had to be higher than Grandpa’s silo, and that was the tallest structure I had ever seen. My cousins began reminiscing about last year’s ride and how it felt when the cars started flying down that mountain. Chase declared that if you let go of the safety bars going down that you would fall out. I had read stories about kids who actually did fall out of rides and were killed. I felt my hot dog making its way back up to my throat. Dylan swore that last year he had stood up at the top of the biggest hill, but Miranda, who had ridden with him, snorted, “You’re such a liar! You were holding on for dear life!” Dylan turned around to me. “I bet this baby won’t even open his eyes. After all, he’s scared of a haunted house. I never get scared. I never get sick.” I had raced out of the school’s open house this last fall when someone had dragged me around the waist and tried to put me in a coffin. I still was not entirely convinced the “someone” wasn’t Dylan, but I didn’t argue the point. I was scared of the haunted house. “I bet you’ll be hanging on to whoever rides with you,” Dylan continued tormenting me, “and I wouldn’t ride with you for all the money in your pocket.” “I’ll ride with Ben,” Sara Jo offered. “It’d be better than riding with you.” Although we couldn’t see much, we could certainly hear, and we could tell where the cars were by the volume of the screams. I’m not sure I had ever heard that many people screaming that loudly. They sounded petrified, and what made the screaming worse was that it would be suddenly be cut off as the ride went around a huge curve or around a big hill. It sounded as if something was actually smothering the riders. I looked over at the biggest mountain again and decided my estimate had been too conservative. That incline was at least thirty feet high. I had heard somewhere that a truck was about six feet long. That scary looking thing had to be at least as tall as five trucks stacked tip to end. Dylan, just being Dylan, started to fake wrestle with my cousin Jon. Jon played along for a little while and then told Dylan to cool it. That’s when his attention turned back to me. “Hey, man, you’re looking a little pale. Just think how it’s going to feel when your body leaves that seat. If you’re lucky, you’ll come back down. If you’re lucky, your seatbelt won’t come unfastened.” I probably turned a little paler at that point. It hadn’t even occurred to me that a seat belt might not work right. I began to think that it might not be a bad thing if I didn’t meet the height requirement this year. I knew I would be humiliated. That would mean that all five of my cousins would get to ride, and I wouldn’t, but I was no longer sure I wanted to ride Big Ben. I still had a funnel cake, and as I lifted my hand to my mouth, I realized that my entire arm was shaking. Of course Dylan noticed. “Oh, look at the baby’s arm. Benny boy is so scared. He’s shaking like a leaf. Here, give me the rest of that funnel cake. You’re too sick to eat.” My other cousins just looked at me. I thought that possibly Sara Jo looked a little sympathetic, but she didn’t say anything. Miranda grabbed my funnel cake out of Dylan’s hand and offered it back to me. When I shook my head, she inhaled it rapidly. Dylan began taunting me. “Benny Baby is such a loser. I’m never sick. I’m never scared.” Because he loves the sound of his own voice, he began repeating and almost singing, “I’m never sick. I’m never scared. Not like Ben. Not like Ben. I’m never sick! I’m never scared!” By this time, both my arms were visibly shaking, and I felt my legs becoming unsteady. I decided to sit down. As I slipped to the ground, I caught another glimpse of the biggest dip just as a set of cars started down the track. The wheels really did go airborne. I knew that couldn’t be a good thing. I bent over and touched my head to the concrete. I tried to remember why I wanted to ride Big Ben. Dylan began laughing hysterically, so I finally pulled myself back to my feet and looked back at the line. How hard would it be the get out of line at this point? I saw Grandma and Aunt Lil waving and waved back. I tried to smile, but my facial muscles wouldn’t work. Suddenly a set of cars whooshed in beside us, and we were ready to load. My stomach was burning, and I was so scared I couldn’t see clearly. The temperature was above ninety, and I was covered in a cold sweat. Dylan had maneuvered his way to the front of the line, making people he didn’t even know angry in the process, just to get to ride in the very back seat. Miranda plopped down beside him. Chase and Jon sat down a couple of seats in front of them, and that left the seat between for Sara Jo and me. I prayed that the height requirement had been raised, but the man barely glanced and me and motioned me on through. I sat down directly in front of Dylan and started fumbling with the seat belt. Sara Jo leaned over and pulled it tight. “It’s not bad,” she whispered. My stomach had started to cramp, and I rested my head on the seat in front of me. Chase looked back. “Hey, Ben,” he yelled. “Open your eyes!” I opened my eyes a little and through the slits saw Grandma and Aunt Lil walking by. “Hey, guys,” Grandma smiled. “Ready to be terrified?” Thanks, Grandma, I thought. That’s just what I need to hear right now. The ride operator came by and checked our belts. I didn’t think he took enough time to see if the belt was really fastened. The next thing I knew I heard the creaking of wheels and our little set of cars started rolling up a big hill. I dropped my head, closed my eyes, and gripped the safety bar as tightly as I could. I was glad I had written a will before I left home. I didn’t have many possessions, but I wanted some say in who got what. I didn’t leave a thing to Dylan. Before I knew it, we had climbed the hill and had raced down the first dip. I felt a burst of fresh air and thought that really wasn’t so bad. The next hill was a little higher and the descent a little faster. In between we rocketed around some hairpin curves and through a couple of tunnels. The only bad part about the tunnels was that when we came out we immediately zoomed down a hill; however, that became predictable, and I loosened my death grip on the bar. As we started up the next hill, I found myself screaming with everyone else. With each scream, I felt a little of my fear disappear. I wasn’t having fun yet, but I wasn’t dead either. As we kept climbing the hill, Sara Jo tapped my arm. She threw her hands in the air and motioned for me to do the same. I lifted one hand, and she smiled and gave me a thumbs up. We climbed and we climbed and we climbed. I realized that this hill must be the mountain, and as I looked down, I revised my estimate. We were at least fifty feet in the air. Dylan was still screaming like a banshee, and I marveled at the strength of his lungs. Most of the time, I couldn’t understand anything he was yelling, but as we approached the top, I deciphered one word, “NO, NO, NO, NO!” Dylan was screeching more loudly than an airplane taking off. We hit the hill and WHOOSH we soared downward. I really did feel my body rise from the seat and immediately gripped the safety bars with both hands. Suddenly I felt a gush of liquid hit the back of my head. Oh great, I thought, it’s raining! The rain dripped down the back of my neck, and I felt it crawling down my chest. I worried briefly about what rain might do the mechanical parts of the ride, but I was more concerned about getting the stuff out of my eyes. I lifted my hand to my cheek and felt a chunk of something. I looked my hand and saw something that looked suspiciously like a chunk of hot dog. What in the world was going on? Not even I would believe that the sky would be raining hotdogs. I looked over at Sara Jo and saw her head was covered in a rainbow of colors. I can’t see straight, I thought. Nobody told me that rollercoasters can mess up your eyes. Through the gunk, I saw Sara Jo smiling, and that’s when I realized that Dylan, who never gets sick and never gets scared, was both. The ride coasted to a stop, and all of us except Dylan got off. The ride operator had to help him. Aunt Lil and Grandma found a shaded picnic table and had us all sit down for a few minutes. Aunt Lil took some pictures on her phone. Even though I didn’t look or smell great, Grandma gave me a big old hug. I never would have thought I would feel great covered with the remains of Dylan’s lunch. Grandma and Aunt Lil had brought extra clothes, and Sara Jo and I found restrooms and were cleaned up in a matter of minutes and ready to ride some more. Sara Jo, Miranda, Chase, Jon, and I had a fantastic day. Dylan spent most of the day in the shade resting and drinking ginger ale. I learned a couple of important lessons that day. The first is that dreading something is often worse than living through it. I was scared enough to pass out when I finally got on the roller coaster, but actually riding it wasn’t nearly as bad as thinking about doing it. The second lesson I learned is that just saying something doesn’t make it true. For ten years Dylan had been calling me a baby and a loser, and I had believed him. The day I rode Big Ben changed the way I saw myself. The next year when Grandma took us all to Crystal Springs, Dylan went fishing with Grandpa. Narrative Writing situation:
Everyone knows how it feels to be disappointed. You count on people; you count on getting particular gifts; you count on events to happen in ways that will make you happy; however, sometimes situations don’t turn out the way you expect or want. Think about disappointing experiences you have had. Choose one of the “best” or “worst,” depending on your perspective.
Writing directions:
Write your story in an article for a magazine for people your age. Tell about a time you were disappointed so that other students can understand what it was like. Explain what you learned from this experience. My First Dog
The gift I wanted most when I was eight was a dog. Some of you probably can’t even recall a time in your life that you didn’t have a dog, so you won’t be able to understand this. I dreamed about dogs; I drew pictures of dogs; I downloaded pictures of dogs; I made 3-D models of dogs. I visualized myself and my dog in all kinds of adventurous stories. Actually getting my first dog, while teaching me more about life than I could ever have imagined, was not the best experience of my life.
“Dad’s back,” my brother yelled from the porch. ”Yaaahoooo!” We went flying down the drive. I had been waiting for this moment forever! My dad had gone to our neighbor’s house to pick up two puppies, one for me and one for my brother. Our neighbor had found the abandoned puppies down by the creek; the vet had said they were healthy, but that they would need some intensive love and attention. My little sister had been disappointed that there weren’t three puppies, but my dad had told her she was a little too young to give these puppies all the attention they needed. I told her--not where Dad could hear me--that what he really meant was that she was too stupid to have a dog. “Whoa! Hold it! Just a cotton-pickin’ minute,” my dad yelled. He had two covered crates in the back of the pickup. “Okay, you get to choose which one you want.” “Without lookin’ under the covers?” my six-year-old brother asked. “Yeah, that’s right. Who’s choosin’ first?” “I am.” At eight, I was the older brother. My little brother readily agreed. I walked to the crate on the left and lifted the cover. The creature in the bottom of the crate cowered; the piercing sun revealed dull, phlegm-filled eyes, thin, blotchy fur, and protruding ribs. I thought to myself, He’s sooooooooooo ugly. But my next thought was But he’s mine, ALL mine! For the first time in my short life, I had a dog and I was happy. With me as his owner, this dog could become the BIGGEST, the SMARTEST, and the BEST! My happiness lasted until I turned around to see my brother with his arms around a real dog, one nearly twice as large as mine, with more fur and sparkling eyes. My brother was nearly crying because he was so happy. His stubby arms were stretched wide as he struggled to hold the wriggling puppy. The puppy yapped shrilly as his tail thumped against my brother’s stomach. I ran my hand over the puppy’s head, and he licked my hand and grinned. I turned back to look at my puppy. He was still flattened against the bottom of the crate, and he was making a strange, shrill whine. My eyes flew to my dad, who stood a few feet back watching us. I felt a gusher coming; I was eight years old, and I was going to cry. I walked over to my dad and looked up. “Uh . . . uh . . . Dad, can we . . .” “The answer is no,” Dad snapped. He knew what I was going to say. Could my brother and I trade dogs? “Aren’t you even going to take him out of the crate?” “ . . . maybe later.” I gulped and stuffed my fist in my mouth to stifle the howls that threatened to erupt. I raced toward the barn with my father’s voice following. “Son, it’s gonna get awful hot in that truckbed.” My last thought as I disappeared in the barn was if I got lucky, the dog would die, and Dad would have to get me another one.
That night my mother let my brother and me make beds for our puppies in the utility room off the kitchen. That is, my brother made a bed in a box and put my puppy in with his. I still had not touched my dog. About midnight, Tom’s puppy started to howl, and mine started to cry. He was heaving and panting as if he could hardly breathe. Tom crept downstairs and smuggled his puppy upstairs to bed with him. My puppy cried on, but I wasn’t about to put that sickening little animal in bed with me. Finally, the sound stopped and I thought, Well, maybe he stopped breathing, and now I can get a REAL dog. In a couple of minutes, I heard scratching at the door. I leapt out of bed, ready to kick that puppy back to kingdom come. How in the world had he known where my bed was? I opened the door and there stood my four-year-old sister, cradling my mangy mutt against her chest. “Hey, Bub,” she whispered. “Do you care if I take your dog to bed with me?” I started to say “NO WAY,” but she looked so happy I told her to go ahead. I went to bed and thought that my little sister and the mutt had a lot in common. She, too, was dog ugly. A few weeks ago she had cut her own hair, so she had as many bald spots as the puppy. She was also a runt. She was shorter than any other kid her age, and she was so light I could almost pick her up with one hand. The next day my brother named his dog Rascal; I named mine Runt, and my sister named him Rex. I watched in horror as she gave Runt a bath using her favorite strawberry scented bubbles. When she put him down beside his food bowl, he sniffed at it, then just flopped over and closed his eyes. My little sister scampered in the yard where Mom was working, and I could see that a serious discussion was taking place. I couldn’t hear the words, but I could see Mom repeatedly shaking her head. My little sister kept waving her hands frantically, and finally I could see Mom begin to laugh. In a little while, my sister emerged from the house with a Parkay container. She gathered Runt into arms and began feeding him by hand . . . and the dog began to eat. I began to sidle in her direction . . . What was she feeding that dog? As I drew closer, I could smell it. Mom had given her steak . . . steak!! for a worthless little runt. I could hear my little sister talking to Runt, and soon her voice was loud enough for me to hear, “You are the best doggie in the whole world!” I wanted to throw up. She carried that dog around all day; every once in a while, she would bring him over to me. I refused to touch him, and after a while I wouldn’t even acknowledge his existence.
The months that followed were the most miserable of my life. I watched my brother romp, race, and wrestle with Rascal. They were constantly together, and Rascal rapidly grew into a dog to be proud of. Runt (Rex) didn’t have enough energy to romp. When he ran, he ran sideways, and more often than not, would run into something or simply get his legs caught under him and fall flat. As for wrestling, whenever Rascal and Runt got into a tussle, Runt always lost. What a sorry excuse he was! My little sister adopted Rex; I have to give her credit for always referring to him as my dog, though. She did extra chores to earn money for doggie biscuits and dog toys. She bought all these fancy chew toys and would sit for hours pulling gently, so (she said) she wouldn’t hurt Rex’s teeth. They would run down the hill, and every time Rex fell she would fall too because she didn’t want him to feel bad. I never actually kicked him, but I pretended I was going to so much that Rex always flinched whenever I came near him. She would mix up strange-smelling concoctions, feed that dog by hand and say, “I have to feed Bub’s dog” or “I’m going to take Bub’s dog down to the creek.” Off they would go, Rex dressed in doll clothes and riding in a stroller. She made a leash out of a pink ribbon, and I nearly died. I told myself that she would make him into a sissy dog, but then I reminded myself that he wasn’t my dog anyway. At some point I stopped thinking of Runt as mine.
That next summer my uncle who lives in Montana asked my mom and dad if I could come out to his place. I couldn’t believe they let me go. I spent all summer helping with the cows and playing with the dogs, REAL dogs, BIG dogs, and SMART dogs. When I finally got home, we pulled into the driveway, and I watched a beautiful dog racing down the hill. I knew it was Rascal, who was just a larger version of the puppy he had been. Now there was a REAL dog, a BIG dog, and a SMART dog. I still hadn’t forgiven my dad for not making my brother trade with me. As I turned to get out of the truck, I saw a movement out the corner of my eye. Down the hill came an even bigger dog with thick glistening fur and clear, twinkling black eyes. My mom has truck tire rims mounted in concrete, and every summer she fixes vines that twine around the rims. I knew my brother had sworn he could teach Rascal to jump through those rims, one after the other. As I watched, the second dog came leaping gracefully through the first rim, flying on through the second, zooming through the third, and on down the hill. I watched and suffered. If my dad had let us trade, that could have been my dog. My brother and sister came down the hill next. My brother was grinning sheepishly. I thought he was looking peculiar because of Rascal’s performance. Right behind my brother came my little sister. “What do you think?” she yelled. She looked a lot different. Her hair had finally grown out, streaming down her back in blond curls. All of her teeth had finally come in; she had a good tan and finally looked human. She had even gained a little weight, and I realized as I watched her run that she was going to be able to beat my brother before long. With a strange feeling, I realized that it might not be too many years before she could outrun me. I just stood there watching, and I forgot her question. “I said, what do you think?” “About what? “About Rex, stupid!” “What do you mean . . . about Rex?” I turned to look at my brother, who sat with his hand on the head of the first dog. I realized then that the second dog was Rex! The second dog was my dog! At last, I had a REAL dog! a BIG dog! a SMART dog! I ran over to Rex and reached out to hug him. The dog looked at me in surprise. He didn’t realize that now he had become a REAL dog that he could claim me as his owner. As I leaned over to pet Rex, he gave a faint growl and loped over to join my sister. My sister rested her hand lightly on Rex’s head, and he rubbed against her leg. I froze. Behind me my dad cleared his throat as if he wanted to say something. I turned to face him, and the tears already rolling down my cheeks must have stopped him because he just cleared his throat again. I bolted toward the barn. Today when I revisit that summer in memory, I almost (almost) want to hug my sister. My dad would have fed the dog, but he would not have had time to take care of him. My little sister saw his potential, and she made the difference. She honestly didn’t care that the puppy was ugly; she didn’t see the mangy patches. She saw a creature that needed love. She’s still that way. You’ve heard of people who see the good in everybody. That’s my sister. That’s also my brother. He never loved Rascal any less because Rex was bigger or able to outrun him. I’d like to say that this experience taught me not to judge based on appearances. I did learn from it, but I still find myself silently noticing the brand of someone’s clothes, the type of phone, or what they drive. A few weeks ago, we learned the word “superficial.” I know that word still applies to me, but I’m working on it. Narrative Writing situation:
Most people remember embarrassing experiences for a long, long time. Everyone has done something “stupid” or been caught in a situation that made other people laugh. Think about an experience you have had.
Writing directions:
Write a speech you could give to students about your age. Tell the story of your “embarrassing” experience to show other students how to live through an uncomfortable, embarrassing moment. Explain what happened and describe what other students might learn from your experience. Ironing Out the Wrinkles
All of us have gone through embarrassing experiences. My entry for the “You Had to Be There!” speech will be especially interesting to some of you because you were there! For those of you who weren’t, I think you’ll still enjoy my story. Please walk with me to stage as I prepare to accept an award:
I tucked my left arm carefully against my ribs and made my way to the front of the room. I heard a few quiet snickers from the people from my school and knew that from the back I probably looked like an old, rickety man. My bright red tie tapped gently against the buttons on my snowy white shirt. I was all dressed up in my Sunday best and looked just as good as anyone else . . . as long as I remembered not to lift my arm.
The journey that led to the coliseum stage had begun four months ago when my English teacher had invited me to be a part of our school’s Minds in Motion team. I wasn’t really one of the smart kids. I wasn’t on the academic team and didn’t make straight A’s, but in the words of my teacher, I was “a creative thinker, a unique person who can think outside the box, one who does things in ways other people wouldn’t think about doing.” I liked the way that sounded. I loved sports, but after Mrs. Dalton assured me that I could play football and still be a part of Minds in Motion, I decided to give it a try. How bad could it be? We spent most of our practices reading about hypothetical situations and trying to come up with creative solutions. I loved it, and I especially loved making everybody laugh. Some of the tasks involved improving current technology. We proposed hair dryers that would automatically shut off when submerged in water, microwaves that automatically figured out how long to cook something, and irons that could adjust themselves to match the fabric they were ironing. I knew a lot about microwaves, a little about hair dryers, and nothing about irons, but I was having fun.
It seemed as if we laughed our way through every practice. I wondered a few times if we were really learning anything useful and if we would fall flat on our faces when we started competitions.
By and by we started competing with a few local schools, and we were burning it up. Before we knew it, we had rolled on to regionals and had qualified for state competitions. We did well enough in the state to earn an overall creativity award. Mrs. Dalton had our team do a secret ballot for the person who should go forward at the awards ceremony to accept for our team, and it was unanimous. I was nominated.
I was ok with that. No big deal. No sweat. I asked Mrs. Dalton if I could do my Elvis impersonation. “Thank you very much,” with the head ducked at just the right angle. I hoped the people giving out the awards would be bright enough to recognize the King. I practiced a few times, and I had it down. I was too good.
The week before we were due to leave, though, Mrs. Dalton ruined my life. The entire team was going, and she brought in a written description of what we were expected to wear. Boys: white shirt (not my favorite, but I’ll live with it); navy chinos (My grandma had given me a pair for Christmas; they were still in the package) AND a tie. Coats were optional.
“What do you mean, a tie? We’re not geeks, we’re guys here,” I hollered.
Mrs. Dalton just smiled, and I knew I was in trouble. If she’ll argue, you have a 10% chance of winning. If she doesn’t answer when you whine, the battle is over, and you’ve lost. I knew I was in trouble. I like attention, but I don’t like to look stupid . . . and I knew a tie would make me look totally stupid. If she had insisted that we wear a coat, I would have stayed home.
The other guys muttered a little, but you could tell they weren’t too upset. I was torn up. We were going to have to eat at this meeting, and I could just picture my tie covered with mashed potatoes and gravy, making a brown mushy map of South America across my sparkling white shirt. I was opposed to ties . . . all ties. No one in my family ever wore ties. We were man enough without them.
I ended up borrowing a tie from Mr. Talbot, our science teacher who is also a minister. He gave me my choice, and the one I got was a pretty cool neon red, but it was still a tie . . . and biggest problem of all, ties have to be tied. Man, how did I ever get into this?
Because we had to travel so far, Mrs. Dalton worked out a way for us to start out on Friday evening and spend the night in a hotel. We had a great time on Friday night . . . even though we went to an “educational” play. It wasn’t half bad. I didn’t have to wear a tie.
On Saturday, our chaperones gave us all wake-up calls really early and told us to rise and shine. I didn’t have a suitcase, so I had packed, or stuffed might be a better word, my banquet clothes in my duffle bag. I got my shower and hurriedly put on my shirt and pants. I needed all the extra time I had to work on that stupid tie. I worked and worked with it, and with a little help from six of my friends finally made it look something like a tie.
I collapsed onto the couch and started watching a little ESPN. Man, was I worn out! In a few minutes, Mrs. Dalton came by to inspect the troops.
“Nice tie, Zach. Nice tie . . .” Mrs. Dalton smiled. Then she came closer. “But whatever happened to your shirt? Look at those wrinkles.”
I looked down at the front of my shirt. It did look a little like it had spent the last 36 hours wadded up in a duffle bag. No problem. Most of the people at the banquet would be looking at me, not my shirt.
“Zachary, you need to iron your shirt. It won’t take a minute, and there’s an iron right here in the room.”
“Whaaaaaaat! You’ve got to be kidding. If I have to iron this shirt, I have to take off my tie . . . and do you know how long it took . . . .?” I quit talking because Mrs. Dalton had already left the room.
“Hey, Zach, you better do what she said. You don’t want to get her riled up,” my best friend Josh warned me. “Hey, just watch me. I’m not about to take this tie off. Hook up that iron and watch me smoke!” I stood up and made my way over to the window, so I could get a good look at what I was doing.
I cranked that iron as high as it would go, and somebody had left some water in it, so it began hissing. A little steam, a little heat . . . NO WRINKLES, NO PROBLEM. I could deal with this. . . . Just think outside the box . . . right?
I looked down at the left side of my shirt and slapped the iron on the worst of the wrinkles. ZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZZzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzz. I heard the sizzling of the steam and knew I was making progress. My nose detected an unusual smell, but since I had never ironed before, I figured all irons smelled like that. As I started to lift the iron to move it to the other side, my shirt moved with it. I yanked a little harder, and the iron let go, but took a piece of my shirt with it.
“AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAaahhhhhhhhhhh,” I yelped.
“What’s wrong, Zach,” my buddies came zooming across the room.
I pointed to my shirt, or rather the piece of my shirt now smoking away on the bottom of the iron. Our room was rapidly filled with the smell of cooking cotton, and Josh raced to open a window.
“Can you believe that? There must be something on the bottom of that iron to make it stick like that,” I hollered. I started to “iron” the right side of my shirt.
Josh raced over and grabbed the iron, “No, man, no. Stop! Now! NO! Look at your shirt!”
I looked down and saw a black-rimmed hole the size of an apple. It reminded me of those parchment scrolls we used to make in Vacation Bible School, the ones where you take a cigarette lighter and singe the edges of a piece of paper to make it look old. I immediately tried to cover the hole and wished I hadn’t. It was still hot, and my hand immediately blistered.
“YEOOOWWWWW! Get out of my way.” I raced to the bathroom to run cold water on my hand. I was so focused on my hand and the tiny blisters that I had forgotten my more serious problem.
“Oh, man, are we ever in trouble? Mrs. Dalton will kill us,” Ryan moaned. I nodded in agreement. He was probably right. I began to practice walking with my hand over my ribs. It didn’t look good, but it did look better than the scorched black hole. Maybe everybody would think I was so patriotic that I kept a hand over my heart at all times. When I told this to my friends, they let me know in a hurry that I was using the wrong hand.
We made our way downstairs and confessed the crime to Mrs. Dalton. She almost smiled and quickly took a quick vote to see if everyone still wanted me to go up to accept the award. They all did, the dirty dogs. I couldn’t win. So there I was, walking to the front of the room, clutching my shirt and walking at a strange angle. The people in the audience who didn’t know me probably thought I had serious posture problems or indigestion. All went well, however, until the judges started to present our award. I reached out to accept the heavy trophy with one hand, and it started slipping. I had to give up my death grip on my shirt or drop the golden trophy right off the stage. So there I stood, clutching the trophy, eyes glazed, teeth clenched, my face as red as my neon tie, a black target on the middle of my left side. When we lined up for the official photographs, the judges told us to hold the trophies even with our waists. Beautiful! Holding the trophy at that level left my jagged black spot entirely bare. The official photographer must have been fascinated by the black spot because he zoomed in so closely in some of the pictures that you can actually see the jagged brown edges. I was never so embarrassed in my whole life. The only hole I wanted right then was one a little bigger, a little deeper, and one with dirt I could pull in after me.
On the stage on either side of me stood students who looked as if their clothes had just been delivered from the dry cleaners. Down in front of me, our Minds in Motion team clapped madly and smiled from ear to ear. On the left I saw Mrs. Dalton, who was laughing! laughing! at me and giving me a polite, teacher-like thumbs up. This woman never laughed. I could almost hear her saying, “Zachary, you have a very creative way of looking at the world, a unique way of doing things.”
Some day all clothes will come with this tag, “Don’t iron while wearing.” Until then, creative people like me should be prevented from putting their “minds in motion” too often. I hope that all of you who have experienced embarrassing moments have reached the point you, too, can look back and laugh. As I was trying to hide the spot, I kept thinking of something Grandpa always says, “This, too, shall pass.” Admittedly, Grandpa was usually talking about something a great deal more serious than a burned hole in a shirt, but for me that day, ruining the shirt and then having to stand up before the world and get my picture taken was an excruciating experience. As the years passed, though, each time my friends mentioned that day it hurt a little less. Today, I was able to smile as all of you laughed at and with me. Narrative Writing situation:
Sometimes people do things, even though they know it’s not a good idea. How many times have you done something . . . even though you had been told NOT to do it or you knew it was not a good idea? You may be one of those people who can never turn down a dare, even though you know it could be dangerous. Think about one of those experiences that had an unfortunate outcome.
Writing directions:
Write your story that could be published in an online magazine for students your age. Tell about your experience so that other students can understand what it was like, and explain what you learned from the experience. A Lesson Learned
The quote “You don’t really appreciate something until you have to do without it” didn’t have much meaning for me until a couple of years ago. I knew I cared about my little brother—I mean because he was my brother, I had to care about him, right? He bugged me; he followed me; he was always around when I wanted to be alone, and there were times I told him to get lost. There were times I wished he would be abducted by aliens or find a new family. But one fall day, my world changed forever. I grew up.
I didn't want to do it. When my cousin Rick dared me and my little brother Bucky to break into Old Man Short's house and bring back a wheelbarrow from the basement, I didn't want to do it.
Rick is a few years older than Bucky and me. He is always getting to do the neatest things, and Rick promised Bucky and me that he would take us to the Fargo Fall Festival IF (a big if) we would do something for him, and that something was to go to Old Man Short's.
Old Man Short didn't live there now, and the house had been deserted for years. It was half falling down in the back, and from the cemetery on the hill behind it we could see some of the walls where the roof had fallen in. One dark night Rick pointed out that the outline of the house now was like a bat. I hated bats. Ever since I could remember, I'd heard rumors about people who went to the old house and were never seen again.
Even when we went up to the cemetery, I always turned the other way really fast so I didn't have to look at the old house. When I was honest, I'd admit it scared me.
But Rick insisted, if we really wanted to go with him to Fargo, we'd get the wheelbarrow from the basement. He said he'd been there lots of times, and he even drew us a map of the basement to show us where the wheelbarrow was. It never occurred to us to ask Rick why he needed a wheelbarrow.
The day before Halloween arrived, and I woke early to the sound of rain gushing down the gutter spout outside my bedroom. Bucky was snoring loudly, and I punched him.
"Hey, Bucky, "Are we gonna do it tonight?"
"Do what?" Bucky was still half asleep so I pinched him. "Ow! Why you pinchin' me?"
"I'm trying to ask you something. Would you just wake up a minute and listen?"
"What?"
"Are we going to do you-know-what tonight?"
"Well, yeah," Bucky sounded surprised I'd ask. "I'm gonna go to the festival."
"Are you scared?" This was a stupid question to ask because if Bucky was scared he'd never say so. "Of course I ain't scared. Is Chucky a chicken?" Bucky had heard Rick tease me so many times he sounded just like him.
"No, I'm not chicken, but I do wish it wasn't raining."
The day dragged by. I didn't hear a whole lot of what was said in school because I was too busy worrying about that night. By the time school was out, and supper was over, I had imagined myself with a broken leg from falling on the porch roof, a concussion from getting hit in the head by a swinging shutter, and a broken back from falling down the basement steps.
Bucky and I were in bed by 10. I'm a little surprised Mom didn't get a clue, but she was too busy trying to figure out how to pay the bills. She didn't pay a whole lot of attention to me and Bucky except to say, "Don't either one of you do anything that costs money before the end of the week when I get paid." The Fargo Fall Festival was next week, so I didn't take her too seriously.
I did make another resolution to be extra careful tonight when we went up to Old Man Short's. I need to admit I enjoyed terrorizing my younger brother. I told him tale after tale of what would probably happen to us, but I scared myself more than I scared him. He was confident that I could fight any enemy, and since I was going, why should he worry?
I knew I shouldn't even take Bucky, but I was getting so scared I decided Bucky's company was better than no company. Every time he got cold feet, I just kept chanting, "Bucky is a baby. Bucky is a baby."
I took my flashlight to bed and kept checking my watch. Every five minutes seemed like an hour. It's a wonder I didn't use the batteries up, I checked the time so often. Bucky and I lay there, not saying a whole lot, just twisting, turning, and twisting some more.
I wished Bucky would talk, but when he did talk, usually to ask what time it was, I just wanted him to shut up.
Finally, my watch said 11:30. I signaled Bucky and we crept over the window sill. Bucky cracked his head on the window facing trying to climb out, and I thought for sure the thump would wake Mom. I whispered to Bucky to hurry up, and when he came sailing down the drain spout, he lost his footing in a pile of wet leaves and twisted his ankle.
He started to cry, and I told him to just stay home, I'd go by myself. He started to cry harder, and I knew that if I went anywhere tonight, I'd have to take him.
We started up the road. I wanted to run, but Bucky couldn't. He hobbled along, every once in a while heaving those big sobbing breaths that told me his ankle was hurting, but he was trying not to cry.
We stumbled on in the dark because I wanted to save my flashlight batteries. We got so carried away we even passed the old house and had to go back. Rick had told us exactly what to do. We climbed up the porch railings and eased ourselves onto the porch roof. From there we scooted over to the broken window and slithered through. Bucky cut his left hand on the broken glass and began to sniffle again.
"Don't be a baby. Come on, we've got to find the stairs."
We crawled down the stairs to save the flashlight batteries, and it was like the shutters kept banging the message, "Get out of here. Get out of here. Get out of here."
We got to the first floor safely and started across the floor. Bucky wanted to carry the flashlight, and I threatened him with his life if he dropped it. The wooden floors were so old that they rose and fell as we walked on them. Every time I put my foot down, I felt the wood dip and groan. The weight of Bucky and me sounded like a symphony with a lot of instruments off key. We were stopped head on by a wall as Bucky dropped the flashlight.
"What did you do that for?" I demanded as we groped on our hands and knees across the floor. I began spitting furiously for I had just inhaled a wad of cobwebs.
"I don't know," Bucky whispered, and I knew he was totally scared because he didn't bother with excuses.
Bucky found the flashlight lying in the corner, and as he clutched it in his trembling hand a rat came leaping from the opposite direction. His red, menacing eyes and thumping tail made us back up in hurry.
Bucky began to cry, a tiny mewling cry that tore at my heart worse than a full-fledged howl. I began to wonder why I ever thought the Fall Festival was so important. I made up my mind to get out of there as fast as possible.
I took Bucky by the arm and started easing back across the floor toward the stairs. Suddenly we were blinded by a crash of lightning and what I thought was a horrendous clap of thunder.
I felt Bucky's arm yanked from my grasp, and as I turned around I saw my little brother disappear through a yawning black hole.
He was still clutching the flashlight, and as he hit something solid with a sickening thump in the dim flickering light, I could see him sprawled facedown.
"Bucky, are you all right? Bucky! Bucky! Say something! Anything! Bucky!” My voice echoed around the old walls.
I peered into the hole, straining, straining, to see what remained of my little brother lying about eight feet below me. I thought I saw one of his legs twitch, but with all my hollering he never answered.
Just as I panicked enough to jump into the hole after him, the flashlight gave one dim flicker and went out. In the silence, I heard what might have been a gurgling sound from my little brother or the beginning of another leak in the roof. I began to cry, not the bawling, screaming cry you cry when you're mad, but the choked desperate cry of someone who doesn't know where to turn.
I cried on and on. I thought about the time when Bucky was a baby, and I could have caught him as he climbed out of his baby bed. I remembered the morning we started down the icy hill for bus, and I refused to let him hold on to me even though I knew he'd fall flat. I thought about Bucky falling through the barn after I sneaked up behind him and spooked him while he was playing monkey bars on the rafters. I remembered, too, how he never told mom what made him fall when she whaled the daylights out of him for swinging by his heels 12 feet from the ground.
My mind slowly emptied. I needed to get up. I needed to get help, but I just sat glued to the floor that rocked gently in rhythm with my heaving sobs.
Suddenly I felt a cold object on the back of my neck.
"Chuck, is it you?"
I froze and looked up to see the white face of my cousin Rick.
"Come on," he said. “Let's get out of here. Where's Bucky?"
I pointed to the gaping hole, and Rick turned whiter still and began to shake. "For real?"
I nodded as Rick gripped my shoulder so hard I yelped.
"We've got to get out of here. We've got to get help."
I staggered to my feet and screamed as the blood started flowing back through my legs.
We raced for the stairs as the front door crashed open. "Stop where you are." A blinding flash of light came from the door. Squinting, I made out the shape of Ralph Burriss, our local state trooper, and (I remembered with a sick, sick feeling) nephew of Old Man Short.
"What's going on?" Ralph's voice seemed to come from a great distance.
"We uh . . ." Rick's voice trailed off as he pointed down at Bucky.
"Hey! What have you kids been up to? Is he hurt bad?"
Ralph led the way to the basement stairs. He checked Bucky out and said he thought his arm was broken. Bucky revived and started to stammer out what had happened to him. Ralph picked him up and led the way to the police car. With Ralph's big flashlight, we could see everything in the basement-- an old cot, some crates, and an old refrigerator. Rick saw me looking around, but he wouldn't meet my eyes.
Bucky's arm was broken in three places, but after all was said and done, we all agreed that things could have been worse. While Bucky's arm was being set, Ralph got the story, or as much as he wanted, from Rick and me. He told us he didn't think he'd talk to his uncle, not for a while anyway. Mom came to pick us up and was so relieved to find out Bucky was going to be ok she never did ask exactly where the accident happened or how Bucky fell. She thought we'd been somewhere with Rick.
Rick, Bucky, and I never talked about that night, and because Bucky was in bad shape, none of us made it to the Fall Festival that year.
I had been begging for a bicycle for two years, and that Christmas Mom leveled with me and told me she only had enough money for one bicycle. If she got the one I wanted, Bucky wouldn't be able to ride it for a couple of years. I insisted that she go ahead and get Bucky a bike. Mom just stared at me and said she'd never understand kids if she lived to be a hundred.
The next spring, Rick took me and Bucky to King's Island and gave us both $50 to spend. I gave Bucky half of mine.
I’ve read that our mind takes snapshots of people we love at significant moments that we will remember forever. My favorite photo of Bucky was the sight of him at the top of roller coaster, waving his arm—his left arm—as hard as he could while I waited on the ground. I never realized how much I cared about the little rascal until that fateful night. When I thought he was gone from my life, my perspective changed forever. I just hope I don't have to learn all of life's lessons the hard way.
--C. Yoland