Nostalgia of Simpler Times
So I was bored/procrastinating today, and I decided that I was going to read over some past stuff I wrote. Instead of reading my old fanfics like I normally do, I decided to open up my old English folder. And I hit gold. We had to write memoirs last year, and two of the ones I wrote were actually rather cute. And since I haven't posted in a while, I thought I'd share. First of all, this first one has only been edited once, so keep that in mind (and I'm too lazy to go through and edit it again XD), and second of all..... I don't remember what I was going to say. But enjoy!
Christmas and Barney Band-aids
Christmas: a day of excitement and joy for kids of all ages. After agonizing through the turtle-like and sluggish seconds of waiting on Christmas Eve, the children finally get to discover what treasures are hidden inside the multitude of oddly shaped packages under the tree. Every morning on December twenty-fifth, the soft pitter-patter of bare feet hitting chilly tile flows through the sleepy house as the smiling child rounds the corner. Bright and eager eyes widen at the sight of the luminescent and towering pine tree in the corner, the twinkling lights illuminating the shiny wrapping paper of the mountains of vibrant presents. After squealing with delight, the youngster dives into the small pile of gifts by their personalized stocking that were mysteriously left by a well-known stranger with rosy red cheeks and a booming belly laugh. Each gift is inspected and fondled with, some eliciting more emotion than others, their glowing face brightening with every new discovery. After the child’s attention span runs dry on the first wave of presents, small hands twitch with impatience, wanting desperately to rip the picturesque wrapping from the treasure that lies inside. Not milliseconds after the first syllable of the word “okay” leaves the parent’s lips, the child is throwing shredded paper to the side and using every means possible to pry the stubborn tape off the box that hinders obtaining the prize inside. One floor flooded with scraps of colored ribbon and wrapping paper and many hours later, a content child sits happily in the corner, surrounded by the crowd of trophies that showed how well-behaved they were the past year. And so the cycle goes every Christmas, with little variation. A day of joy, fun, and presents comes after a day of waiting and yearning. For most, every Christmas feels the same, but the Christmas of 1995 is as clear as the sky on a cloudless day in my memories.
December 24, 1995 was like any other Sunday for a three-and-a-half year old. Mother had pulled me out of the sanctuary of my warm bed to doll me up for church. I had eaten my breakfast of a small Barney bowl of Cheerios, and we had left in our green van to go to Alder’s Gate United Methodist Church. Mommy’s soft hand held my small one as she walked me to my Sunday school classroom, where I sat like the good little girl I was and listened to the Nativity story while Mommy and Daddy went to big church with my cute and annoying one-month-old brother, Noah. After church, Daddy drove us from Huntsville, where we lived, to Madison, where Mema and Papa lived, which took the same amount of time to drive as a Barney episode. I had heard my Mema and Mommy talking on the phone the day before, and Mema wanted all the family to spend Christmas Eve together. I was so excited about playing with my cousins. I was a big girl because I got to play with the big kids, like Greg, who was already in elementary school! We played tag out in the crisp Alabama wind, my Velcro tennis shoes crunching in the almost frozen grass. After someone pushed someone else and started crying, the adults decided that we kids should go inside. We trudged into the warm house, unwrapping ourselves from the various scarves, hats, and jackets that had served as barriers from the harsh cold. Mom fondled with my short brown hair and I attempted to brush her away, but she told me in a bitter voice that we would be attending Christmas Eve service at Mema and Papa’s church. She didn’t sound too happy to me. After Mommy fixed me up all nice and pretty again, the different sets of families piled into their cars and we drove to church. Boy, was I worn out. I knew I hadn’t gotten my nap today, and playing chase with my cousins was very tiring. My eyelids drooped a little over my blue eyes as Daddy unbuckled me from my seatbelt and carried me into the church.
“Come on, kids,” Mema put her worn hand on my head enthusiastically. “We’re here early, so we can sit up in the front pew!” I saw Mommy and Daddy exchange glances. After a quick discussion between my parents and Mema and Papa, Daddy led me over to a pew five rows back and to the right of where the rest of the family was sitting, with Papa following. I sat down on the red, plush seat of the pew and wriggled in close to Mommy. Papa sat slowly down next to me, and Daddy sat on the other end, holding baby Noah. My eyelids became heavier and heavier, and I leaned my small head against my favorite pillow: Mommy’s arm. She petted my hair like she did our dog, Daniel, the smooth and even strokes of her hand lulling me sleep. My eyes closed. Either seconds or minutes later, I heard faint noises of an organ being played, but my thoughts were occupied with visions of sugar plums dancing in my head.
In my dream, I felt someone moving me to a sitting position. But, no, I was asleep, wasn’t I? My head dropped forward, and I felt the sickening feeling of falling. Crack! A burst of pain split through my head as my skull hit the wooden pew in front of me. My eyes popped open.
“Waaaaaah!” I cried. I had no idea what had just happened. All I knew is that it hurt. Badly. Through the blur of tears in my eyes, I saw Mommy turn to me, startled. Gathering me in her arms, she quickly rushed out of the sanctuary as tens and tens of eyes stared at her, the frantic mother, and me, the disrupting child. The pain above my eyebrow started throbbing, coming in bursts like thunder in a really bad storm. Mother held me tight, trying to soothe me, when she looked down at her shirt. The white blouse decorated with embroidered candy canes was speckled with dots of red that she soon discovered was coming from the newly-formed crevice on my forehead. Worried, she ran back into the sanctuary to tell Daddy that I was bleeding. All the while, I was crying at the top of my lungs, the tears streaming from my eyes faster than the blood was seeping from the cut in my head. Mom took me back outside and frantically started looking for the bathroom. Back and forth, back and forth we walked. No success.
“Excuse me, but would you like some help? I’m a nurse.” Mommy whipped around and saw a young woman standing in her black Christmas-themed sweater. My cries softened as I gazed upon the woman. Mommy looked at her as if she was an angel sent by God, which, she probably was. The Good Samaritan led us to the clean bathroom that we could not seem to find. As Mommy carried me to the mirror, I let out a scream. Blood was covering the majority of my freckled forehead, a small trail snaking down my right cheek. Mommy attempted to hold down my wriggling body as the lady cleaned my head with soap and water. I heard ear-splitting shrieks echo through the white bathroom, and then cried harder when I realized they were mine. Seven bloody towels and an almost silent bathroom later, the lady stepped back, looking at the cut.
“Well,” she started, her brows furrowed. Mom looked anxiously at me and then the nurse. “I think she is going to need stitches.”
“Great,” Mommy said sarcastically as she picked me up. I wrapped my thin arms around her shoulders, sobbing quietly and dampening her blouse. The nurse graciously fetched some ice for my head and left us to go to the doctor. Luckily, Mommy knew my doctor’s number, and they had told her to take me to their office instead of the scary emergency room. I was a trooper during the thirty minute drive there. I had managed to build a dam to keep the tears in my eyes at bay, and I held the ice on my forehead like a good girl, even though the cold on my sensitive skin felt worse than the brain freeze I had gotten from the cherry Popsicle I had eaten the other day.
We finally arrived at the doctor’s office, and they took us in almost immediately. Mother laid me down on the flat table, my green and red Christmas dress wrinkling underneath my small legs. The doctor said some soothing words to me in his old and soft voice, and he pulled his hand into view, a gleaming needle pointing dangerously at me. I wriggled nervously. There was absolutely no way that that needle was coming anywhere close to me!
“Mommy, Mommy!” I whimpered, turning to cling to her. She pried my weak arms from her and gently pushed my small frame back onto the table.
“It’s going to be all right, honey. You have to let the doctor do this,” she reassured me in her calm voice. “Close your eyes and hold my hand.” I grasped the soft skin of her hand, my fingers wrapped around hers, and felt my head becoming numb. Small, almost inaudible whimpers still escaped from my mouth, but I tried to stay as still as possible as the doctor’s uncomfortably cold hands touched my head. In the distance, church bells started ringing, the “ding, dong” carrying through the calm wind and into the silent room. I listened to their beautiful melody, concentrating on breathing in and out.
“There we go, sugar. All done.” I popped my eyes open. Surely they were joking? I didn’t even know they had started sewing my head back together! I smiled a little at Mom as she kissed my head, careful to avoid my new battle wound. The doctor held out a small tray of band-aids, and, of course, I picked the orange Barney one. He placed it carefully over my stitches and Mommy picked me up and took me home.
The next morning, my feet stood on the cold tile floor as I held a thermometer between the bottom of my mouth and my tongue. I was anxious to start digging through the pile of oddly-shaped packages, but Mommy insisted that I take it easy, since I was running a fever from the shock of the past day’s events. She told me that rest would make my head feel better. I thought differently. I though diving into my presents would make me feel better, but, being the good little girl I was, I obeyed. Before I got to open my first present, Daddy took a picture of Noah and me in front of the towering and lit pine tree with his black and old Canon camera. This picture is now the only visual tribute to that crazy Christmas Eve, besides the almost invisible scar above my right eyebrow. And, if you look hard enough at the picture, you’ll see the faint color of the orange Barney band-aid hidden beneath my bangs. Every Christmas Eve, I look at this picture and remind myself to try not to fall asleep during Church service, because no one in my family wants to relive that insane memory again.
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From the Twenty Yard Line
The buzzing of the chattering crowd was just white noise as I walked to my spot on the white twenty yard line, eight steps off the back hash. The verdant green Astroturf squished below my feet as little black specks of synthetic dirt clung to my brand-new, polished shoes. With every step, another wave of pent-up energy flowed into my veins, filling every part of my being with the tingling feeling of anticipation. I halted at where I thought my proper spot was; it was hard to tell because the visor of my hat was pulled too low over my eyes. I could smell hot dogs roasting and popcorn popping as I took in a deep, calming breath, filling my lungs with oxygen. Tweet! I turned to my right, lining up my position with the trumpet player on the next yard line. A few centimeters to my right, a tiny step to my left. Precision was everything. I had to be exactly in between two people. Was that enough, or should I move a little more to the left? Tweet! I turned back to the home side and waited, blood pumping through my veins like a raging river. Breathe in, breathe out. In, out. A gleam of silver from my shining, shaking horn caught my eye. I tried to steady my hands as I waited for the beginning. Tweeeeeeeeeeet! Every muscle in my body was pulled taught, ready to explode at the sound of the last whistle. Tweet! Tweet! Tweet! Tweet!
Just minutes before, I struggled to find the small slot for my plume in my hat as Mr. Vise gathered us all for our pre-halftime pep talk. The butterflies were swirling and tumbling in my stomach as I sat down with the rest of the band. Barely comprehending his words of encouragement, I focused on the big task ahead of me. I could feel the energy storing up in my muscles, waiting to be released. I knew my music and drill. It was as near to flawless as I could get on the practice field. But the nervousness that had settled in the pit of my stomach ridiculed me and reasoned all the doubts in my mind I had about performing on the field of the Alamodome.
“But most of all, just go out there and give it your best,” Mr. Vise shouted to us over the noise of the crowd. Give it my best, I thought to myself, trying to calm myself. I can do this. I can do this.
I can do this. I shifted my weight a bit, trying to remain as still as possible as I stood in my first set. From the twenty yard line, I saw the line of people in front of me, gleaming instruments sticking out to the side in ready position.
“Ladies and gentlemen,” the announcer’s voice bounced off the walls of the stadium. “For your halftime enjoyment, the Lake Travis Cavalier Band will perform the first act of their competition show Rio: A Brazilian Carnival in 3 Acts.
The impending shrill of the whistle hung unsaid in the air as the band stood on the field, focused and ready. I was scared out of my wits, but I kept my face mean and intimidating, as I had been taught in the first week of band camp. Tweeeeeeeet! Tweet! Tweet! Tweet! Tweet! At the first beat of the tenor drums, I bolted forward and a little to my left with a burst of energy, taking my first sixteen-to-five step to set two. I held my horn strong in my hands and lifted my chin, focusing my mind on each plushy roll step I took on the soft Astroturf. Set two, running to set three, running to set four, set five, set six, set seven. I marched on and on, the jitters that had been running around in my body slowly diminishing. Set eleven, set twelve, set thirteen. My energy crescendoed even more as I popped my horn up in preparation to play. The French horns curved around into a circular set as we belted out the melody. I didn’t let the fact that I had been a step out of the curve get to me. I made a mistake, and I just had to keep going forward. Set fifteen, set sixteen, all the way to set twenty. I trumpeted out the music and marched each step with accuracy, confidence coursing through my skin. But my arms were tiring. Keep going! I thought as a streak of sweat rolled down my hairline. Determined, I planted my foot at set 26 and shifted into a back march, my long legs extending as far back as I could go to land in my last set in eight beats. Five, six, seven, eight, close. I held the whole note and did the final crescendo, playing in harmony with the rest of the band. We released together and snapped down our horns in a flash of silver. My heart pounded in my chest as adrenaline’s buzz slowed in my tired muscles. I did it. We did it.
I hadn’t done a perfect job marching my first show, but that didn’t really matter. As I stood on the field, holding my horn up with my shaking arms and beads of sweat on my forehead, I broke into a gleaming smile. I could still hear the echo of the last chord enveloping the field, the haunting beauty left of its resonance almost bringing tears to my eyes. After miserable hours of practice frying under the sun, we were rewarded with an amazing performance. I could feel the sense of accomplishment radiating from each and every black uniform-clad member. And in that moment, I truly discovered what I wanted to do for the rest of my life: make music and be a part of something worth being part of.
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So the last one was the one I turned in as a project, and I ended up getting a 103 on it. :D I wish we did fun writing like this still. I mean, I love AP English, but I miss the creative writing. Essays aren't quite as entertaining....
PS: I don't know why the font randomly changed.... I don't know how to fix it! Oh well.....