Fearless Fun, by Aimee Motta

“Let the sledding begin!” Jackie announced.  The hill awaited us and our sleds were ready.  A group of six adventurers headed into the snowy night.  As we ascended the hill, we quickly warmed up our core temperature.

On the summit, we selected our sled and chose our riders.  There was no fear only the anticipation of fun and laughter.  The descent did not disappoint us.  Immediate belly laughs, brought on my crazy steering, echoed in the night.  Another ascent to invite more laughter and hopefully learn to steer more adeptly.

A duo made the decision to go for the gold and pass the distance mark of the previous run.  With a heave and a ho, the two began the golden run.  An unsuspecting bump, shadowed by the darkness, sent the duo off the stead and rolling onto the snow, derailing their hopes for glory.  Yet, the laughter that ensued made the failed venture worth every second.

As my friend and I watched from atop the hill, I offered to push her for the solo golden run, skeleton style.  My muscles were pumped and ready to give her the top speed needed.  With the final kick, to my friend’s surprise, I jumped on her back and we began the descent together – more weight, more distance, more fun.

The night was growing old and our last run had approached.  A sled of three began their descent.  Faster and faster, farther and farther down the hill.  No veers to the left or to the right.  Straight on, full steam ahead.  No doubt, an olympic run that brought hoots and hollers from the trio.  Once again, the hill satisfied the need for a winter thrill, the connection to childhood and the affirmation of living.

Becoming the Tooth Fairy, by Lisa Thompson

When Lisa was working on her personal narrative, she started by making a various timelines of how her story could go. Eventually she settled on this one:

*BECOMING THE TOOTH FAIRY

*HOW MUCH WILL SHE LEAVE?

*WILL IT EVER COME OUT?

*DENTIST VISIT

*WAITING

*SNEEZE!

*ALL IS WELL

Once she had her timeline, she just typed right into it, stretching each part out with lots of detail (dialogue, actions, thinking, and images). 

This is the same process that lots of students can benefit from when planning a story, then drafting.

BECOMING THE TOOTH FAIRY

As a parent, I am always worried about something. Are they eating enough? Getting enough sleep? Did I handle that situation in the right way? And as a mom, I wear many hats on the journey we call parenthood. I am Santa Claus, the Easter Bunny and most recently the Tooth Fairy. With this new responsibility came the usual onslaught of questions. How much is a fair amount to leave for a first tooth? Should we put the tooth in something so that it doesn’t get lost under the pillow? What if he wakes up and catches me? What will I say?

HOW MUCH WILL SHE LEAVE?

My husband and I discussed the possibilities while our son played with his slightly loose tooth, slowly moving it back and forth with his tongue. Back and forth, back and forth went the tooth and back and forth, back and forth went my husband and I. “Five dollars is fair. It’s his very FIRST tooth!” my husband explained. “What? I was always pleased with a quarter! INFLATION!!!” I said. “I think a nice hand written letter, a dollar and small trinket would be really sweet”, I continued.

WILL IT EVER COME OUT?

As it was, all of this worry was a bit premature. Wyatt’s tooth hung on for a good month, too stubborn to budge and he did not do anything to encourage it. Mealtimes were tumultuous as we struggled to find foods that could be eaten without biting (apples and corn on the cob were out of the question). Eventually, my concern got the better of me and I called to scheduled a visit with the dentist. As luck would have it, both boys had a routine cleaning already scheduled, which I had forgotten about because I made the appointment six months prior.

DENTIST VISIT

It was a quiet car ride as Wyatt looked out the window, his mouth closed in a tight line. Finally he spoke and I could see in the rearview mirror that his eyes were welling up as he said, “Will the dentist pull out my tooth Mommy?” I wanted to ease his worried mind, but I also wanted to be honest. “I’m not sure buddy, but if she decides that it’s best to extract it, she’ll give you some medicine so that it won’t hurt.” The remainder of the ride was silent. As soon as we arrived at the office, I opened his car door and immediately gave him a hug. We walked in hand in hand and again, waited in silence. The exam went well, however, the Dr. recommended that the tooth come out as the adult tooth was aggressively pushing through. She gave us a deadline, if the tooth did not fall out within 24 hours, we were to come back and get it pulled.

WAITING

The mood was certainly somber as Wyatt busied himself with other things throughout the remainder of the day. He moped around the house as if he had a meeting with the executioner (not one of my job titles), and I moped at the thought of having to pull his tooth out myself. To brighten our moods, we decided to read “Andrew’s Loose Tooth” by Robert Munsch, one of our favorite authors. Immediately, Wyatt was relating to Andrew and before long we were both giggling at the absurdity of the methods used to try to remove Andrew’s tooth. I marveled at Wyatt’s smile, as the tooth seemed to dance to his laughter. We chuckled about the motorcycle riding tooth fairy and contemplated whether I should use my motorcycle to get his tooth to leave. Now we were both engulfed in full belly chortles. The kind that leave you catching your breath, eyes watering and eventually emitting squeaks and snorts. Just then, an astonishing thing happened…

SNEEZE!

AAACHOOOO! A hearty sneeze from such a little person, Wyatt’s eyes like saucers darting around the room. “What’s wrong?” I hastily inquired. “M-M-M-My tooth!” he stammered. “It’s gone!” I immediately began nervously laughing (Partly from shock at the incredible coincidence that Andrew also looses his tooth by sneezing it out, and partly because I had been preparing myself for having to pull it out myself!) as we formed a search party and combed the carpet for the now lost, lost tooth! After a brief sweep, the now seeming tiny tooth was found. We both slouched back onto the couch in relief and finished our story as Wyatt examined the blood stained recesses of his white treasure, a slight smirk growing on his face. What are the chances? I thought. Maybe it was allergies, divine intervention, the beginning of a cold or the power of suggestion. What ever the reason, I could not have been any more grateful!

ALL IS WELL

Bedtime was exciting as Wyatt prepared for his special visitor. He put his tooth in a special pocket and carefully put it beneath his pillow. I’m not sure how long it took him to fall asleep; it was very late when I snuck into his room later that night. The stealth transaction went smoothly as I, the “tooth fairy” made the trade. A first lost tooth for a letter, dollar and trinket (I won…five dollars was just too much!). I stood outside his bedroom, the tiny tooth in my palm. I thought, “I worry too much.” Somehow, things always have a way of working themselves out.

The Tractor that Wouldn’t Stop, by Kathie Pingree

Living on a farm in Ferrisburg, Vermont was a life that many city kids envied. I was at the age when my father gave me more responsibility. He let me drive a tractor and rake the fields, but he would always start the tractor for me and put it in gear, and all I had to do was drive and put on the break. I was ready for more.

Later on that summer my day had come to actually drive the tractor home from the upper field to the barn area and park it. My father started the tractor for me. “Dad, can I drive the tractor home today?”

“Are you sure you’re ready to try this?”

“I’m sure, it should be easy. Just show me how to do it.” He showed me the mechanics of driving, and turning it off. The part that didn’t sink in my memory was the fact that it was a standard with a clutch and a break!!

I was so proud of the fact that I was actually driving the tractor home all by myself. The wind was blowing through my hair, and I felt a strong sense of independence!! I said to myself, “Wow, this feels great and so grown-up! I’m actually driving this tractor by myself!”

As I approached the driveway, I saw my mom hanging clothes on the line. I waved at her so I could get her attention. She waved back and said, “Be careful and slow down!”

Suddenly, satisfaction turned to fear. I applied the break, but the tractor kept going and going and going! I screamed in my mind, “Oh my God, the tractor won’t stop! What am I going to do to STOP this tractor?” My heart was racing in such a panic.

My eyes turned to my mother as she was screaming, “Kathie, please stop the tractor!!” What was I going to do so this wouldn’t end terribly?”

Time was running out as my tractor was aiming right for the cement drop-off. All of a sudden, I got a picture in my head to turn the starter switch to the “off” position. The tractor immediately turned off and teetered on the side of the cement wall ready to plunge to the bottom. My mom raced over to me still screaming and asking if I was okay. I said that I was fine, but the tractor was in bad shape. She hugged me and said, “The tractor could be replaced, but you can’t.”

I learned a great lesson through this experience and that’s to listen thoroughly to my father’s instructions,and not to be anxious to be independent when I’m not secure with the steps on how to drive the tractor by myself.

The Quiet Game, by Galen Perkins

It’s early on a summer morning, but my sister Morgan and I are already up and wide awake. We are just starting to whisper and giggle when my grandmother comes quietly into the room.

“Good morning, girls,” whispers Grammie. “Should we play the Quiet Game?”

We nod enthusiastically as we exchange a glance. The competition is immediately on! We’ve done this many times before, so we know the rules, but still Grammie says, “Go get dressed, and remember – no talking, no noise!”

We tiptoe over to our suitcases. If we are lucky, we left our bags unzipped the night before. Zippers make noise! Unfortunately my suitcase is partially zipped. Slowly, slowly, I pull the tab, watching as the teeth of the zipper slide apart. Finally I can open the bag enough to grab my clothes. A quick glance at Morgan shows that she is already mostly dressed, and I hurry to catch up.

This is summer time in Maine. My grandparent’s cabin in the woods is always filled with warmth and laughter and magic. We come every year, and even though the drive is long it is always worth it. Though we are old enough now to know that this “game” is really just a way to keep us from waking up our parents, we throw ourselves wholeheartedly into the silent competition. First one to talk loses!

Both dressed now, we tiptoe back to the door. The door is a challenge. Made of old, graying wood, there is a window that rattles and a deadbolt that scrapes and groans as it slides open. Turning it a tiny bit at a time we manage to get the door unlocked with minimal noise. Whew! But we aren’t out yet – we still have to get the door open, and it always sticks. After some careful jiggling we are able to pull the door open with only a gentle rattling of the window. Now onto the screen door, but this one is a little easier. If you open it just wide enough to squeeze through, then the old springs don’t squeak too much. However, you have to remember not to let it slam behind you! Soon we have both slipped through the door and we are running down the path to the old Volkswagon camper.

We quietly slip into the camper. Grammie is right behind us with breakfast and we all settle in around the fold down table. As we are eating our breakfast, I start to feel it – the urge to TALK! I concentrate on holding back the words, but it’s getting harder. I want to point out the chipmunk outside or tell them that I just hear the loons calling on the pond! I look at Morgan and notice that she seems perfectly content to say nothing. I wonder if she wants to go swimming… or pick blueberries…maybe we’ll go for a ride in the rowboat, or go to the sand beach, or…

“Do you want to have a picnic at Schoodic?”

Oh. I just lost the Quiet Game.

Mami’s Little Mermaid, by Erin Rounds

When Erin was working on her personal narrative, she started by making a various timelines of how her story could go. Eventually she settled on this one:

• Packing up the car
• Arriving at the lake
• The dock
• Victory

Once she had her timeline, she just typed right into it, stretching each part out with lots of detail (dialogue, actions, thinking, and images). 

This is the same process that lots of students can benefit from when planning a story, then drafting.

Packing up the Car

It was going to be a glorious day at the lake. The sun was shining and cotton clouds dabbed the sky as we finished loading the car. Upon helping to pack the sand toys into the trunk, Erli spotted her Ariel the Little Mermaid swimming vest. “Mami, I’m bringing my swimming vest?! I’m going to swim in the deep water!”

I smiled. This has been a summer of independence and dare-devil stunts. Erli is an aerial artist on her rope swing, flips herself upside down on rings, climbs trees, and scales rock-climbing walls. Her declaration did not surprise me. “You know,” I mentioned nonchalantly, Silver Lake has a diving dock so you can jump into the deep water.”

“Really?! Oh, I’m going to jump off the dock, because I’m a big girl.”

It was true, at four and a half years old, my daughter has grown fiercely independent, mature, and a bit head-strong and defiant. The dock was all she talked about on our drive to pick up Auntie Heather. It was all she must have thought about as soon as we arrived in the parking lot.

Arriving At the Lake

            We unpacked, and Erli was more helpful than even usual, offering to carry more than possible for her tall athletic frame, so that the adults wouldn’t have to make two trips to the car. “You’re in quite a hurry,” my sister commented.

“Come ON,” Erli whined. “I want to jump in the deep end.”

As soon as the last towel was laid out, Erli grabbed my hand and pulled in the direction of the dock. “Grab my camera,” I called out over my shoulder. Erli had already buckled her vest, and a determined spark lit up her dark brown eyes.

The Dock

            My fearless diva stood at the edge with me, watching the big kids dive and plunge beneath the dark waters.

She was smiling, but her eyes looked a little uncertain. “Mami will you catch me?” she asked in her most precious princess voice, sincerity tugging at my heart.

I had hoped for a big independent leap I’d be able to capture forever with a quick click, a small vested body in mid air, then applaud furiously from the dock, dry. But amid all her summer boasts for Mami to “Come look!” “Mami, watch THIS” I was still needed, as a mommy not an audience. “Mami, will you catch me?” My daughter was willing to leap out into the unknown like the big kids, as long as I was there to catch her. I can barely carry Erli anymore; she’s so tall and heavy. I felt like I’d blinked and all of a sudden my tiny Snuggle Butt was an adventurous girl standing on the dock beside me.

Half blind from taking my glasses off (I haven’t worn contacts in about two years), I ran and dove in, a nostalgic surge of summers past coursing through my veins. I held out my arms and tried to coax her in. Erli was nervous, her bravado fading as she inched closer and closer to the edge. Despite my outstretched arms, she hesitated. Finally, she sat and scooted her butt so that she sat on the edge above me, her feet dangling. We counted one last time, “1,2,3!” and Erli fell into my arms and bobbed under the water. She popped back up, surprised and scared, until she realized her vest allowed her to float.

Victory

            Soon my little mermaid was kicking and splashing alongside me, proud and beaming, and I had all the photos of the sequence, thanks to Auntie Heather’s quick shooting. There’s a great one of Erli standing on the dock after she’s come up the ladder: one hand confidently grasping the rail, a dancer’s toe pointed out, her hip thrown to one side, gazing out at the lake with this pose of triumph. I don’t know if next time she’ll look out and jump with abandon, all on her own. I do know that she still needed me that day, and I’ll always be here to catch her.

Running for Two, by Alysia Backman

When Alysia was working on her personal narrative, she started by making a various timelines of how her story could go. Eventually she settled on this one:

• Spectator not participant
• Track training
• Dressing for the day
• Wrapped in clouds
• Pump it up
• Closing in
• Snapshot

Once she had her timeline, she just typed right into it, stretching each part out with lots of detail (dialogue, actions, thinking, and images). 

This is the same process that lots of students can benefit from when planning a story, then drafting.

SPECTATOR NOT PARTICIPANT

The humidity helped my already tight shirt cling to my body. In my elastic pant world, I sat knees up hugging my belly as I watched the colors of neon threaded through packs of runners with numbers pinned strategically on their chests and legs. My heart sank. “Hey Alysia!” a teacher from my school shouted. She was running her first half marathon. I cheered for her, as well as friends and strangers who were creating stories in the streets littered with cups and energy packets, but the claps and “Looking good looking strong” words of encouragement felt empty. May marked the beginning of the next leg of my race. I mimicked the runners with my hydration and fuel intake of fig newtons and bananas. In a crowd of thousands, with a baby growing inside of me, loneliness hovered. My identify as a runner was on hold as a created a new one — mother.

TRACK TRAINING

Steam rose from the track as the hint of wind from the lake passed over. The earthy red gravel from the track collected on my shoes and the wheels of son’s stroller. As my husband started the timer, I caught one last glimpse of my son’s closed eyes resting while I started my second round of sprints. “Pick it up, turn it over. You got it!” came from my husband as I rounded the last turn. I pushed into the corner fighting the urge to stop and yell, “Shh.. he’s asleep finally.” Starting the cooldown walk between sprints I laughed in the middle of a memory. “What is so funny?” shouted my husband. I shook off his question as it felt awkward to explain the last time I ran on a track was in 7th grade when I vomited in front of my entire class and I vowed never to run again while I was surrounded by real runners in the middle of a workout.

DRESSING FOR THE DAY

The smell of cider donuts signals the start of dressing in wool sweaters, down vests, and cozy hats. In running, you still need less clothes on race day even if the spectators are wrapped in ski parkas and hooded sweatshirts. My black capris had a stripe of purple like icing edged around a cake. The splash of blue in my tanktop lead right into my arm warmers hinting at a moment of color amongst the gray. “You are wearing that?” my husband dared to ask moments before I left the car for the start. A two dollar purchase at last year’s ski/snowboard swap, he loathed the blue cross country ski hat I had made a staple during winter running. “Yup, see you on the course.” The words were lost as I jumped out of the car and wove my way to the start.

WRAPPED IN CLOUDS

My running season that year had focused on a hot summer of trail running mixed in with two different team relay events each having a range of weather. Runners in Vermont know that the weather is a crap shoot each time you get other there and this day was no different. As the race went off, the clouds floated off Lake Champlain guided by wet wind, but we wouldn’t know their wrath until the course met with lake later. In the first two miles, my hat and gloves felt heavy. As I approached an aid station lined with my own students, I trusted they would guard my discarded clothes, but in honesty I knew they were headed for donation. Moments after worrying hypothermia would set in later, the clouds hugged me like my down comforter on a howling night in February. The wet kissed my face and instantly I thought I should be cold. In the moments that followed, I stayed warm and picked up speed. It was as if the clouds were pushing me to go faster.

PUMP IT UP

The course rolled over hills with farms to one side and white caps to the other. At one point, I transported myself to Cape Cod because where else could the dark of water tinged with white frothy foam like a latte be. Through the course, I heard “Go Mommy!” It may have been my family or someone else’s, but if the shoe fits. In the pockets of runners cloaked in wicking shirts and leaking crusted sweat, I pushed. As I crested the hill, the beat began. Loudly echoes from a mom’s mini-van , Muse spoke to me — ““They will not control us; We will be victorious; So come on.” Next to a gaggle of girls, my family stood pushing me ahead.

CLOSING IN

Turning the corner, the volunteer offered water, but I shrugged it off shortening my stride and looking ahead to to see the last two miles left to go. My family was looming somewhere near the finish, but in a long race like a marathon two miles is forever. As the orchards began to appear and the smell of cider donuts wafted into the air, I began to relax a little. Instead of glancing at my watch, I looked ahead to see Peter, my best friend from college snap a picture. He saw me before my family and gave one last shout of “You got this girl” before I pushed to the end. As the school came on the horizon, my family’s shape came into view. I was done and twenty minutes better than any marathon before. I figured it would tide me over until spring.

SNAPSHOT

Peter, who was like an adopted son to our family, came to Thanksgiving that year. He brought a copy of the shot from the end of the race. Happy to show me my smile and love of racing at that moment. Realistically, two weeks into a pregnancy would not show any change, yet in that picture I seem rounder than the snapshots from my summer of training. In my hips, I see solidarity. My parents say I look fit, but I can see what they don’t. On marathon day, I was two weeks pregnant with Memphis. My identity of runner and mom merging. In my eyes, I see true joy at knowing I succeeded in reachingmy goal. In my heart, I feel it.

The Not So Good, Pessimo Day in Sicily, by Liz Siracusa

When Liz was working on her personal narrative, she started by making a various timelines of how her story could go. Eventually she settled on this one:

• Conductor Yelling
• Shock and Confused Feelings
• Landing in Brolo
• Hours of Waiting
• Feeling When the Train Shows Up

Once she had her timeline, she just typed right into it, stretching each part out with lots of detail (dialogue, actions, thinking, and images). 

This is the same process that lots of students can benefit from when planning a story, then drafting.

Conductor Yelling

“Get off, get off” I could imagine the conductor was yelling at me in Italian as he was guiding us off the train. He was hollering various words that I didn’t understand, louder and louder when he saw that we did not have a ticket reading where our final destination was. I remember the expression on his face, pure panic, frustration, irritation. I looked around at my friends, their faces began to match the face of the conductor. Oh boy, we were in a foreign country, in a town we didn’t know, with people who speak a language we’ve never heard and we were going the wrong direction on the train…for over an hour.

Shock and confused feelings

As we anxiously awaited the next stop we could get off, we were so confused as to how this mistake happened in the first place. We all thought back to the train station where we boarded. On the monitor in the lobby it flashed, “Messina” which was where we needed to go. However, the train we were currently seated on was going to the city of Palermo, three hours north west of our final destination, Siracusa. How could we have gotten on a train going in the complete opposite direction? That question still lives on four years later.

Landing in Brolo

The train slows down to its next stop, Brolo, Sicily. Middle of nowhere would be an understatement. We don’t know how far we are from Messina, if there even is a train going back to Messina, or if we will ever make it back to Siracusa alive. After much wailing, arguing and reflecting, we decided to call Michelle, the director of our study abroad program. We thought perhaps she could help us. We hoped that she could look up the train schedule, telling us if there was any chance another train would come tonight. In the back of my mind her voice from a few days previous kept replaying, whispering, “Never wait until the last train in Italy, it may never come.” She had warned us of the inconstancy of the Italian railroad, being extremely unreliable and under staffed.

Hours of Waiting

Margaret, my roommate and best friend at the time finally gets a hold of Michelle. Come to find out, the only train going back to Messina was in 2 hours. I instantly began to feel slightly more comfortable, thinking “Okay, we can do that, we can be patient and wait.” However, not only do we have to hope that train comes, we have to hope that it will get to Messina quick enough to catch the last train back to Siracusa, which wasn’t promised either.

As we sit on the concrete, dirty, rough ground at the Brolo station, we start to play some games, eat the last of our snacks and avoid the Italian men trying to heckle us for money, food and probably our bodies. Those two hours felt like days. Only two trains passed through. They came at the same exact time and neither stopped. All five of us huddled on the three foot wide platform between them. Let’s just say, between the noises, gust of wind and look on my friends’ faces, my life flashed before my eyes.

Feeling When Train Shows Up

Finally, two hours later, the train had ARRIVED!! Exhausted, nervous and relieved, we are on our way to Messina. Now, let’s hope when we get there we can catch a train to Siracusa!

 

Personal Narrative, by Loretta Grant

When Loretta was working on her personal narrative, she started by making a various timelines of how her story could go. Eventually she settled on this one:

• In the boat
• Lindsey as a baby
• Lindsey at 10
• Lindsey at 17
• Lindsey at 26, the age I was when I had her

Once she had her timeline, she just typed right into it, stretching each part out with lots of detail (dialogue, actions, thinking, and images). 

This is the same process that lots of students can benefit from when planning a story, then drafting.

• In the boat  

My beautiful daughter sat in the bow of the boat talking to me, as her husband and children enjoyed a perfect day on the Mediterranean. Three boats lashed together filled with her friends and children.  She held the youngest of her three children easily, soothing him whenever he needed her. She talked about vacations in Croatia, holidays, and people I didn’t know.

The words started to blur and soften in my ears and in my heart an awareness started to slowly come into focus……

• Lindsey as a baby

“Sweetheart,” I called to my husband, “just look at her! Is it just me, or is she the most beautiful baby you’ve ever seen?!”  My husband was use to this conversation and accommodated me by joining me staring at our 3 week old baby girl.  

“Oh! Did I tell you that total strangers were talking about the baby with all the beautiful blond hair when I went to get her from the nursery?”

“Yeah, you told me.” Larry replied with a smile, a twinkle in his eye, and pride.  

Looking back, I remember being in awe my daughter.  A daily living miracle.  I always considered giving birth to my two children the greatest contribution I would ever make in the world. The result being far greater than the sum of the parts.

• Lindsey at 10

“Lindsey, I brought this book home from school today.  Some of my students recommended it and I thought you might like it.” I tried to sound casual, no pressure.

“No.” Accompanied by the familiar 10 year old’s groan and eye-roll. “I don’t think I’d like it.”

My 36 year old self sighed, probably rolled my eyes and said, “Fine. Never mind. Just thought I’d ask.”  And I retreated to my desk to do some work.

Moments later my daughter came to stand near me. “Mom, if you want some space that’s okay.  I just hate it when something comes between us.”  Words that I had said many times to her, now coming back to console me.  My eyes filled and I kissed her.

• Lindsey at 17

We were headed to Maine for a funeral on my husband’s side of the family. Lindsey and I had 6 hours together to enjoy the peak foliage across New England.  Certainly there was laughter… and whatever else that is that mothers and daughters share in measured syllables and unspoken judgments.

“I don’t know, Mom….  Everything you say just bugs me!”

I laughed.  This wasn’t news to me.

“Linds, you are going away to college next year.  It is appropriate that I should bug you… We’ve been close and now you are going to be on your own. I think it is a way to prepare yourself.”  I don’t know if I said that for her sake or mine, or if I truly believed it.  But, maybe it was true.

• Lindsey at 26, the age I was when I had her.

“Mom, I really appreciate you coming out to Chula Vista and the time you spent taking care of Kylie the summer I had Avalon.  That was really helpful.”  She meant it, and I could feel her looking for common ground.  Common ground seemed harder and harder to find.

“It was my pleasure, Linds.”

Being in my daughter’s home, especially without my husband, had a tiny edge of awkwardness.  A woman in another woman’s home… you don’t know where things belong, or what spices they use when they cook, or how they like the laundry done.  I recognized the feeling from when my own mother would visit so many years before, interpreting her actions as some mild judgement of my inadequacy.

We sat in the boat, and time folded in on itself like a dropped ribbon.  I could hardly hear her words, but my daughter was so beautiful I had a hard time not to stare.   The once sturdy cord that had bound us together since before her birth and gave her something to chafe against as a teen, was now stretched to a fine gossamer thread. I happened to catch the very moment it let go and the tendril was lifted in the breeze and flung out over the surface of the water.  

Personal Narrative, by Meg Terrien

 

When Meg was working on her personal narrative, she started by making a various timelines of how her story could go. Eventually she settled on this one:

Driving There

Going In

Seeing Kittens

Choosing Bentley

Girl Comes In

Choose Royce

Go Home

Once she had her timeline, she just typed right into it, stretching each part out with lots of detail (dialogue, actions, thinking, and images). 

Later, she can take the headings left over from her timeline right out to create a seamless story.

This is the same process that lots of students can benefit from when planning a story, then drafting.

Driving There

We drove to the middle of no where and turned left.  We continued driving down an uneven, bumpy, dirt road, slowly, looking at each other and the surrounding dilapidated properties.  This could not be right.  I got an increasingly anxious feeling until it came into view; a green mobile home missing a driveway, but with tire tracks marking where a driveway should be.  A metal swingset sat crooked in the backyard, and two giant dogs barked from their post.  We pulled in and looked at each other, “Ready”? I asked Jordan.

 

Going In

 

Tentatively, we stepped over puddles of mud and avoided broken sticks and toys.  As we were about to knock, the storm door swung open.  A small, shirtless boy about 6 years old stood, holding the teeniest black kitten I have ever seen.  “You can’t have this one, he’s mine.”  I put on my best first-grade-teacher smile and replied, “Oh!  Of course we won’t choose yours!”  A woman, underdressed for the middle of November; barefoot, in white-washed, bellbottom jeans, arms coated in ink from tattoos, and a black spaghetti strapped tanktop rolled her eyes behind him.  “That’s NOT his,” she proclaimed.  They’re in the back room.  Head out back.”

 

 

Seeing Kittens

 

We continued through the narrow hallway, if you could call a three-foot step a hallway, and peered into the back room.  It was set, lower, than the rest of the house like it had been an afterthought or once a deck or three-season porch.  A recliner was shoved in the closest corner and my heart melted when I looked closer.  Nine kittens were rolled up like coiled snakes in a pile.  One on top of the other- their mother at the center- all sound asleep.  Oh my gosh, I thought.  This is just. too. cute.  I looked over at Jordan with fear and hesitation, all of my unasked questions obvious on my face and in my eyes.  “Can we pick them up?  How can we take them from their mom?  How do we know which one to choose? What if we make a bad choice?”

“It’s okay.”  Jordan said, breaking the silence, “pick one up.”  We each bent over the chair, allowing the mom to smell us and patting her, saying, “Good mom, aren’t you?  Ahhh, such a pretty girl.”  We scooped a kitten up in our hands and pulled each one close to our hearts.  

 

Choosing Bentley

 

“MMEW!” I shot a look over to Jordan.  “Jord! It misses it’s mom! Put it back, quick!”  The kitten Jordan was holding was wide awake and fighting to get down.  He bent over and put the kitten on the floor.  The kitten, having the freedom to move on its own, strutted immediately over to another kitten that had woken up in the commotion, and batted its head.  “That’s the one!” Jordan said, “I want a kitten that’s playful.  This one is mine.”  That was too easy, I thought.  I looked longingly at the other eight kittens.  How would I ever decide?   

 

Girl Comes In

 

A noise in the doorway caused us to turn.  A young girl approached and walked over to the chair.  “What was she doing?” I wondered.  I looked to Jordan to ask the same question with my eyes.  “WHAT IS SHE DOING!?!?” I screamed, my wide, blue eyes wrought with concern.  He just shrugged.  “Excuse me,” I asked, “are you here to choose a kitten?”  She nodded, “uh huh.”  Ugh. My heart dropped.  What if she chose the kitten that I wanted? The pressure was on.  I ping-pong-balled my eyes from kitten to kitten trying to best choose the one for me.  Should I take the small, fluffy white one?  Should I take the medium, quiet, grey one?  Should I take the runt of the litter?  Should I take one that seems to get along with the kitten Jordan had already chosen?  I just didn’t know.  Luckily, the girl made her choice very quickly and walked out of the room.  Phew!  And she didn’t take one that I was considering.   

 

Chose Royce

 

Jordan looked at me, “Meg. We’ve been here for 35 minutes.  I’m sure this family would like to have dinner and get us out of their house.”  I turned to him, anguished.  “HOW. AM. I. GOING. TO. DECIDE?  I.  CANNOT. DECIDE.  YOU choose FOR me.”  Jordan tried not to roll his eyes, “Meg, I’ve chosen one.  You choose.  It will be okay, I promise.”  

I glanced from kitten to kitten again and I came back to the first one I picked up.  It seemed friendly.  It curled into me when I picked it up.  It was soft.  It was striped like a tiger.  It had a cute face.  (Who am I kidding?  ALL kittens have cute faces.) This decision wasn’t as clear as I had thought it was going to be, but I had made my decision.  “This is the one, “ I sighed, unconvinced.  “You’re the one, little kitty,” I whispered in its ear.   

 

Go Home

Jordan handed me his kitten, fished his wallet out of his back, right pocket and handed the woman $20.  I couldn’t believe it, two squirmy, beautiful, perfect, cute kittens for $20.  This.  Was.  soexciting.  We walked to the car and sat, looking at each other.  “Should we put them in the carrier we brought?”  “mew.”  “No,” said Jord, “Let them sit (mew!) with you.. “ “MEW!”.  I settled them both in my lap, stroked their soft fur and whispered, “Don’t be scared, you’re going to love your new home.”  They continued to mew, sounding just like kittens who were looking for their mom.  I felt terribly.  How could we take them?  Will they miss their mom? I wondered.  They were absolutely discontent.  They were getting increasingly noisy and started to climb up my sweater to my shoulder.  “Jord! I don’t think this is safe!”  I extracted each of their claws from my wool sweater, deposited them quickly into the pet carrier, and zipped them in.  I kept my hands on the screened part in hopes of comforting them, and sat back in the seat.  I looked over at Jordan and said, “Okay… who’s who?”  Jordan looked at the cats, carefully and mulled over the names we had already selected for our new family members.  “Mine is Bentley, “ he said, “Yours is Royce.”  I smiled and thought, “Now, we just have to wait until their first vet visit to find out if they are girls or boys.”  

Lake Eden My Favorite Place, by Sandy Knapp