A Morning in the Finch Household

You may or may not be familiar with my dear Finch family. Whatever your case, I highly recommend brushing up on your knowledge of them before reading on: http://jblog08.blogspot.com/2009/03/finch-family.html


I shall begin this next segment with the second-to-last paragraph of the first segment. So, don't be confused.

The Finch family lived in a modest home right in the very middle of Fanghorn Avenue. The downstairs consisted of a parlor, kitchen, dining room, powder room, and a small cupboard for the placement of articles of warmth from the cold in the winter, which was located in the passage. Upstairs (the steps leading to and from which were located next-door to the aforementioned cupboard), were four bedrooms. One for Mr. and Mrs. Finch, one for Greta and Evelyn, one for Edward and Victor, and one for guests when guests came, but otherwise for collection overflow on behalf of Mr. Finch, Mrs. Finch, Greta, and Evelyn (all of whom would have rather kept all of each collection in his or her room, but ran out). Edward and Victor, wanting to share in the equal subdivision of the spare room, collected odds and ends precisely for the purpose of storing when no guests were around. Edward heartlessly collected many ounces of dust lying around the house (causing Mrs. Finch to keep her sanity in check in the most mundane respects of furniture dusting), and Victor had the clever idea of cutting out encyclopedia articles which he thought he might read in the future when he got around to it, (of course, Mr. Finch was not of the knowledge of this defacement) and putting them in spare jars which Evelyn discarded when any particular culture grew too big for it. This resulted in Victor not wanting to actually read the articles because to pull them back out again would render the entire time reading a time spent smelling nothing short of the most awful stench in the world, which was impossible to wash out of the jars. There was also a bathroom up stairs which everyone shared, though everyone complained considerably of everyone else taking much too long in the bathroom doing various and sundry preparations and primpings which were necessary to the party concerned with doing preparations and primpings, but were absolutely ridiculous to all who were affected by not being able to use the bathroom at the time they wished to.

It was on one such a morning that Greta was taking an especially lengthy time in the bathroom, because she felt she must brush her hair out as long as possible in order for it to be as long and silky as possible. The day before, her friend at school had let her borrow a very expensive hairbrush, telling her that the only way for her hair to be perfect was to brush it consistently for at least an hour. The three other siblings were outside the door as well. Edward was wrestling with Evelyn, asking her why and for what absurd reason she should think that girls need to be first.

“Why, they take longer to get ready, of course! Boys can do it in five minutes flat,” she reasoned, stamping her foot in front of her to hold her place in line. She pulled the rest of herself up in front of Edward.

Edward glared. “But that is the whole point! Why can’t we just get ready first, since we take such a short amount of time, and then you girls can take your sweet time afterwards, minus the banging and nagging.”

“Because,” Evelyn stuck her nose in the air, “when you go first, you DON’T take five minutes...you take hours!!”

Victor piped up, “Why, Evelyn, we are only showing you what it feels like to wait. If you didn’t take so long, this demonstration would certainly not be necessary.”

Evelyn was shoved back by Edward, and then shoved back farther still by Victor, so that she was at the back of the line. She scoffed. “You boys are just wasting time in there??”

Victor shrugged. “I usually read; quite often one of my Guinness Book of World Records or something of the sort.”

Edward added, “One time I opened the window, climbed down the side of the house, went for a relaxing swim, played in the mud, and then I climbed back up and took a real, well-deserved, lengthy bath because this time I was really messy. I should do that more often...”

Evelyn’s jaw dropped. “You...!” she squeaked presently. “I’m telling mum on you!”

“I had to clean the floor, of course, too,” Edward continued. “That was a bit of a downer; anti-climactic and whatnot. But other than that, it was quite fun. And when I came out, you and Greta had fallen asleep in front of the door with your towels as pillows!”

Evelyn’s eyes widened at the memory, and she quickly dropped to the floor, crawling between her brothers’ legs to get to the front of the line. Victor cried, “No!!” and crawled likewise to the front. Edward, appalled at being pushed to the back so quickly, tried to repeat the action. Though he ended up toppling his brother and sister over, rather than making a clean sweep of things, he resumed his spot as first in line.

“I don’t want to be after you if you are going swimming again!” Victor pouted.

“Well, I don’t want to be after YOU if you are going to read a giant book full of nonsense!” Edward shot back. “I mean, you do it anyway, but it is an unacceptable bathroom behavior.”

“My hair takes longer to dry than either of yours!” Evelyn continued to protest from the back of the line. “I simply must go first, or I shan’t survive the day.”

Edward rolled his eyes. “What has hair-drying go to do with anything?”

“A lot.”

“What, then?”

Evelyn wasn’t sure, but it was certainly a lot.

Edward and Victor were laughing so hard at Evelyn’s failure to come up with a good argument that they did not hear or see Mrs. Finch ascending the staircase. She only wore her hats in company or out in public, and without them she actually resembled a normal human being. She glided over to stand, looking down upon her children (except for Edward, who was a little taller than she was).

Mrs. Finch did not demand to know what the trouble was. Instead, she said: “Your distant cousin Robby Arbuckle is coming to see us, and stay in the spare room.”

Upon hearing this, the three children froze, and even Greta (who always listened in with great ears for doing so, but never acted like she heard anything) poked her half-brushed head out of the restroom. “What??” The four demanded in unison.

Goodbye, Ordinary

"Live like there's no tomorrow, love extravagantly, lead a life to be followed...goodbye, ordinary!"

It's not as if I want to say goodbye to ordinary. I am content with ordinary. I love ordinary! But that's the thing, I guess. In a lot of ways I'd be perfectly content to stay with this life forever. To live in one house, eventually falling in love with a very wonderful person, getting married, moving into another house, and having very wonderful children. The theme of this blog should be "All I desire out of life is it's mediocre simplicities, but it's amazing how good I am at complicating things by thinking about them all the time." Well, let's not.

But something within me screams "Do something!!!" I often stare blankly at it and when my mind comes round I finally ask it what the heck it's talking about. Why would I need to do something?? I'm living my dream right here. Don't push discontentment on me! And what do you mean by "something" anyway?

And I am sure we all get that feeling. That there is more to life than what we've known so far. More than what is right in front of our faces. And for some of us, this is a call to explore the depths of life and the world, to discover all they possibly can as they strive to fully live; to meet their own expectations of whatever that means to them. Then there are people more like me, who usually shrug off any such longing, keep on enjoying everyday life, and treasure family vacations to the beach or mountains.

Note: people such as myself are perfectly sane. They are not selling themselves short, and they are not to be thought of any less than your average, more driven person, looked down upon, or felt sorry for. Thank you.

Note #2: Of course, these are the two extremes, and there are many people in the middle, as well as crazy people that take the extremes to extremes, but to keep the length down, I won't go into great detail of all the different personality-types in the world.

Back to the blog.

But sometimes I do feel like I am selling myself short. Not because my life here does not meet expectations of a good life, by any means. Like I said, I would be perfectly content just to live my altered-for-Christian-non-feminist-people-who-homeschool version of the American Dream till the day I die. But because there are so many opportunities I have laid eyes upon in my life that I think I would have liked to take. I tend to imagine vividly what doing these things would be like - from going to Indiana to study wolves, to Oxford to intensely study creative writing, to Nicaragua to backpack the gorgeous terrain.

I think, more than anyone I know (I could be wrong) I have wanted to do basically everything. I've wanted to be a circus acrobat, an equestrian, figure skater, prima ballerina, conductor, Broadway performer, Olympic swimmer, soccer player, hockey player, dog behaviorist, whale rider, personal trainer, psychologist, photographer....there's no need to go on. And every time I get one of these ideas in my head, I start imagining. I research it, and sometimes I even have started to make plans. But then it's all forgotten, usually for these two subconscious reasons:

1. I love this life, I am content, and what I really want is this normal-ness I've grown up around to be my normal-ness, if that makes sense.

2. If I am going to do anything career-ish with my life, I am going to write. Because, no matter how hard I might try, I can't stop writing.

So I drop it all, and go back to my normal life, reading, writing, being Jessica, and swimming as often as possible. Works for me!

Then, along came a spidey who sat down beside me. Its name was Novel Writing Camp-ish-thing in Oregon. 1 month. Write a novel. At the beach. In another state. At first, I was sold. But, figuring it would interfere with normal life I, again, shrugged it off and kept swimming (not a figure of speech or Finding Nemo quote; it was early July).

Later in July, I mentioned it to my dad in passing, and he encouraged me to actually go. After all, I want to write, right? And now, I am leaving tomorrow.

No, it does not seem real to me. All my life I have said, "yes, I am definitely going to do _______," and my brother would be happy to point out to you that I just DON'T. I never do. I always back out of it quietly, whatever it is. It's a wonder I ever took college classes, graduated from high school, joined a swim team, own a chinchilla, take piano lessons, do improv shows, or anything else that now is a part of my everyday life (that I love, have I mentioned??).

I don't want to love travelling so much that I lose sight of how I love normal life and never come home again, so I guess that is why I am writing this entry. Still, I think it's good for every young person to have that time where they go off for a bit into the world and do something new, if for no other reason than to see what it's like and be fully aware that "home is where the heart is", "there's no place like home", and other clichés that Delilah will probably tell you if you call in to request a song.

Anyway, here I go, off to write my book! I will attempt to blog at least a little while I am in Oregon, and hopefully post pictures on Facebook, too. If you are not on Facebook, you really should get one. You know who you are. After all, you don't become addicted/obsessed unless you let yourself, right?

I love you all!!

~Jessica

New Beginnings

Fall can be looked at in many different ways. Despite being very cold right now, I can easily look past that to the gorgeous colors outside my window, and the leaves whooshing around, decorating the ground with the essence of autumn. It may sound strange to see death in this light, but we all do it. The leaves are dying, true, but they smell so good and look so wonderful!

This time of the year just makes me think of beginnings for some reason. More so than spring, when everything really is coming to life. The air is so crisply fresh, the cool nights perfect for bonfires, and the time has come for cuddling up in warm sweaters, enjoying the great outdoors, or cozying up inside under a warm blanket with hot chocolate and a good book.

And this time, fall brings a real new beginning with it as well: I am leaving the comfort of the only home I've ever known....the only life I have ever known....to fly across the country for a month to write a novel under the inspiration of new experiences.

I have often wondered if I have a wandering soul. But, having never really wandered before, how am I supposed to know? But, the truth is, while I like traveling and going new places, I really like to stay in one place. While I appreciate extravagance, high adventure, new sights and sounds, etc., what I want for the rest of my earthly life is simplicity. Not simplicity as in uncomplicated or easy. But "A Simple Kind of Life" .... "Somewhere that's Green." A simple house, on a good amount of land somewhere not too far from civilization, but not too close either. Just me, my Someone, and as many kids as God blesses us with.

So, nobody fear - I'm going, but I won't be gone forever, and I certainly won't go away that often. :) I love my life and wherever it leads me, but most of all I love it here.

Just a few half awake thoughts on this lovely Monday morning.

~Jessica

Morals and Ideals

DISCLAIMER – I know it’s not that late, but I am pretty much brain-dead. If nothing makes sense and/or I don’t stick to what the thesis probably should have been, that is why.

Everyone has their own personal morals that are based, more or less, on their personal worldview. Worldview, I am sure we all know, is developed by what a person is exposed to in life and how they react to it. The oh-so-valid source of Wikipedia states, “[Worldview] refers to the framework of ideas and beliefs through which an individual interprets the world and interacts with it,” and “describes a consistent (to a varying degree) and integral sense of existence and provides a framework for generating, sustaining, and applying knowledge.”

That said, it is to be expected that everyone’s morals are going to differ at least a little from everyone else’s. And, to an extent, I believe that each person’s morals are probably good for that person. I do not feel like that should include sexual immorality or homosexuality, but those are my morals, right? Here we go stepping into that multiple truths thing again, which needn’t be explained again or further.

But, now, I wonder...are some or all of my own morals actual morals, or are they ideals? Would some change depending on the situation?

I wrote an entry about a year and a half ago with similar questions in mind: http://jblog08.blogspot.com/2008/03/compromise-or-contingent.html. And here they pop up again, all out of the blue. I believe it is nice to know that I am not the only me who has struggled with it...I mean, I am glad to know I have struggled with it before. Now, that may sound a little strange, or perhaps even a lot. But the thing is, I had completely forgotten about having ever gone through this before. So to know that it is a weak area that I have worked through before gives me hope that it can be worked through again, hopefully more efficiently (so it does not happen again-again). Also, going back and reading that is already helping me dig deeper into this whole thing.

Like I was saying, morals or ideals?

Ideals are not set in stone, morals probably are. But what do I base morals off of? Ideals!

What morals and all other forms of conduct should be based off of is what the Holy Spirit tells you to do. We are not under the law anymore, so if you are a follower of Christ, you have received the gift of the Holy Spirit. The Holy Spirit then tells us what is right and wrong for us, if we truly seek God, right? So...that is one of the reasons why I say that everyone’s morals are a little different. As far as Christians go, anyway.

But ideals are put in place by me, for myself. But, I have to wonder, are my ideals based on morals? As in, are they good ideals that should be upheld?

Take the concept of saving the first kiss for marriage. Nowhere in the Bible does it say, “thou shalt not kisseth thine wife before thou hast taken her as so.” Saving the kiss is a personal choice. Is it a biblical moral? No; it’s not based off of the Bible. Is it a personal moral? I guess that is what you would call it.

But is it an ideal; something possible only in certain situations?

I know some of you are saying yes, and some no. Maybe some of you are momentarily confused like me.

There comes at least one time in every person’s life where they must logically talk themselves out of something they desire greatly. I guess, anyway, what do I know? I’m not even 19 yet.

All I mean to say, in short, is that I am extremely disappointed in myself, because obviously I can talk the talk until I am told I might be required to walk the walk. And I am scared, frankly. I can justify myself with all of this ideals and morals business, but at the end of the day it all comes down to this: what is right and what I long for are two completely different things.

There are only two options – either justify what I long for as being right and just go ahead and do it, or long for something right instead. And you know the latter is what I should do. The decision is so hard; my heart feels ripped in two because of the opposing directions it wants to take.

I just feel so awful right now. Please forgive me for being so hard on myself at this moment, but I really must. All these years I’ve held these ideals and morals. I don’t care how pointless or illogical they are – they are mine and I’ve basically sworn to stand by them, not wishing to make any more mistakes than necessary, especially since I made so many early on. And now, here is God saying “Jessica, have a go at this situation...put your restraint to good practice. I know you can do this!” And here I am saying “Wow, God! This is amazing!! You mean I’m supposed to resist? That’s crazy talk, this is too good to be true!”

I know somewhere or another in the Bible it says that God will not let us be tempted beyond what we can bear. So I know I can get through this, I just know it, right? Yes, yes, yes. Will do, Cap’n. Aye, sir!

But it is and will continue to be so easy to give in. Just like it is so easy to jerk the steering wheel a bit to the left on a two-lane road into oncoming traffic. I could do it any time, on purpose, if I impulsively felt like it. And at any second, I could give in to an overwhelming temptation to forgo all my morals and head straight into something else.

I know that if I uphold my morals AND my moralistic ideals, God will bless me in one way or another. I’m not looking for God’s blessing, though; I just know that it will happen. If I don’t uphold my honor...I know the consequences, suffice to say. I often want to ignore the consequences, but I can’t for very long. Especially if they start happening to me.

However, I would like to end on a happy note, so I will make some general comments about life these days other than trying to think straight:

I was recently accepted to a novel writing camp/retreat/intensive thing! I will be leaving all ye North Carolinians behind and going to Oregon for a month to sit in a beach cottage and write a book. It will be in November, so “beach cottage” does not necessarily mean “lovely warm days strolling the beach and feeling the wind in my hair.” It is very unfortunate. However, it’s still the beach...“so much scope for the imagination.” So, yes, I will come back with pages and pages of unrefined bookness and hopefully only a mild case of carpel tunnel syndrome. Wish me luck (and pray for me not to miss my planes!!!!!!!)

My swim team went undefeated its second summer in a row! Counting our last four meets that we won 3 summers ago, we are now 16-0. I didn’t think it could get any better than one undefeated season. And it was my last year on the team, too! I don’t like getting old. But at least it was a good season to get old. :)

I read The Phantom of the Opera! Now, that isn’t exactly wowie-zowie news, but I am really excited because it is now my new favorite book. I don’t have favorite books that often...those kinds of books I have to love aaaaaaaalllllllllll the way through and must crave to read them morning to night and while I am asleep...and I must hate when the end comes much too soon. This book met all the criteria of a favorite book. And now I really, REALLY want to go live out my Phantom of the Opera fantasies even more than I already did ever since I saw it for the first time when I was 12. You all know I’ve always wanted to live in Raleigh Memorial Auditorium....

That said, I am going to bed! Goodnight!

~Jessica

This Morning

The clouds are still grey with a hint of blue in them.  The fresh dogwood blooms are dampened by the early morning rain, and are dripping and drooping towards the lush, wet grass.  Sparrows call and finches chirp, calling the sun out from the shadows where it sleeps.  The softest breeze kisses the pine branches enough to induce droplets to tumble down, and the maple branches dance as the horizon grows brighter and brighter with every call of the waxwing.  The colors of Springtime are now illuminated fully as the orange rays spill over the grass.  Yet the sun shrinks back.  A tossing wind stirs the branches now, and then stops again.  

I smell the wetness of the yard through my window as the sun attempts to show its face again.  But alas, it is for a mere second before it seems I only imagined the rays.  And then...light!  Beautiful sunshine!  Here to stay...but gone again.  

It is fascinating how every day seems to be the same, but then it is different also.  Each day something happens, and the next day I think differently of everything than I did the day before, after my dreams cultivate in my brain.  My opinions don't change much, for I am not some wet blanket or another.  But even one mild event in one day can change an entire outlook in the next.  A friend and I long for childhood again, dress up in long skirts, and go take a midnight walk, stopping only to lay in a hammok to gaze longingly at the stars.  We talk of the future, of hopes and desires, and we make promises to each other all over again.  Another friend writes and reminds me of the life ahead of me; how the key to it is to simply walk through the open door, no matter how daunting the doorway is.  A book I chanced upon finally makes it all clear, that my idleness and idolatry are in vain.  My family is proof that there really is no place like home.

The direction does not have to be 100% clear.  The end does not have to be visable.  Then how am I supposed to know what is right?  Instinct is as trustworthy as stranger's casual opinion.  But God is good, and he has blessed me thus far.  Just because I cannot see does not mean I am walking blindly.  It would be better to lose my sight altogether; it would make me more fully rely on my Father, and acknowledge that he is the only one who really has the true ability to see anything.  

Outside it has grown dark again, with only a hint of what brightness kept peeping out.  But perhaps today is a day for clouds, and tomorrow the sun with shine.  

~Jessica

Poetic License

As I have said many times before, this is my blog and I may do on it what I please.  Hence I present to you a fairly long sort of "poem", which has absolutely no structure whatsoever, and while writing it I couldn't seem to draw any nice, poetic words or phrases out of myself, so it sounds like plain English to me.  I also cannot think of anything to call it, so I am leaving it untitled:

Are you forever distant?

Have we become strangers?

Once so close...

But what is it that I long for?

I long for the closeness

Of one heart to another

Of two lives entwined

The deepest intimacy imagined

But do I really want it from you?

I think it is because we really were

Each other's exclusive sharers of life

That I cannot let what could have been go

Even if I know we aren't going the same way.

I wonder if I could ever love any

As much as I cared for you

When I was sure we wouldn't separate

And all my dreams would come true.

Why is it that I hold onto that emotion?

I thought I had lost it.  

I am better without it.

You waltz in and I can't get you to go out

You are at my side for a moment

But I clasp onto you and you stay there for weeks

On my heart which seemed complete beforehand.

So now - how will I know whom I really love

And whom I only want to love?

Are our paths in life perpendicular?

Meeting you was only our lives intersecting

I must continue on; I cannot go back

You cannot go back

If we go back, we get nowhere

And I refuse to live my life going around a traffic circle!

You go your way, I'll go mine

We'll drift further away

I never held your hand nor your heart

Yet something is hard to let go.

And how could you have been holding some part of me

All the while I didn't know?

Seeing the bright, beaming light of matrimony

Staring me straight in my face

I often to do not remember my present youth.

Yet even in the short time of our acquaintance

I have changed and grown so much.

There is something about the time

Since the day I first saw you

That brought magic in my life

And I saw in front of my dreams-

Both those entertained and whose which entertained-

Reality bestowed upon me things I believed

Were to forever remain my fantasies.

Also my cold and blind heart has warmed

And I can see now, though not as clearly as I might.

Are you the influence? Or merely an association

Only along for a ride as I stand in the meadow

And let the strong breeze of disestablishment 

Conquer me?

You are there, and you are gone.

Someday someone will be there and he will never leave.

He is not you, as I had naively hoped so intensely.

Hope can be so repulsive.

Have I not yet learned it must be avoided at all costs?

The Finch Family

Once upon a time there was a family whose name was Finch.

Mrs. Finch was exceedingly fond of large hats, particularly the kinds with extravagant plumes in them. The bigger the hat and the bigger the plume was all the better for her. She was always on the lookout for hats, plumes, and hats with plumes which surpassed the ones she already owned in size. Her biggest fear was that someone in the world owned a hat and plume bigger than her biggest one, and that she would be put to terrible shame by this person, whoever it might be.

Mr. Finch appreciated bow ties, but only white ones with black polka dots, or black ones with white polka dots. You may think that there is not much variety in only liking bowties of those natures, which would make Mr. Finch rather boring in his like of bowties; but in fact there are many, many different types of black bowties with white polka dots and white bow ties with black polka dots.

Greta Finch was the eldest girl and the eldest child in the immediate Finch family. She had straight dark brown hair down to her thighs and light green eyes which always seemed to be focused elsewhere from the present. She appreciated two things: books, and reading them. If she was not reading, she was arranging her immense book collection or else deeply considering matters of books rather than paying attention to any sort of reality, except how reality pertained to books. That said, she was not the dreamy sort at all: to the contrary she was much more mournful of her situation in life and how it was not much like princess so-and-so who lived in such-and-such large castle and was married by prince whoever to carry on a life of bliss.

Edward Finch was very tall and was not much more than skin and bones. He possessed an affinity for being up and on top of things, and was frequently worrying whatever females were about by climbing all climbable anythings. He was a quiet lad who mostly kept to himself, though ate everything in sight and when he was not he was always wishing there was something in sight to be eaten.

Evelyn Finch had long, blonde, wavy hair and big dark brown eyes. She was always dressed all in black or very dark grey with a simple bow or two in her hair. She was an asker of accusing questions as well as a desirer of all she set her deep eyes on. Evelyn collected many, many different things. In fact, she had a collection of what must have been everything except for hats, plumes, bowties, and books. Her favorite collection was her sixteen jars of bacteria cultures, which she kept and fed as if they were her own pets.

Victor Finch wore very big, round glasses and liked to believe he was the number one most reliable source of all that there was to know in the world. If someone instructed him, he would rebuke the instructor and tell him otherwise, though what he assumed to be the truth was often a quite absurdly drawn conclusion. However, if he was able to find that the encyclopedia said otherwise (which he only consulted once a conversation had been had where he was not sure of something which he had just stated as fact, particularly if the person he stated it to disagreed), then he would slowly but surely wrap his head around the new idea and adopt it as his own and soon declare that he never thought otherwise.

The Finch family lived in a modest home right in the very middle of Fanghorn Avenue. The downstairs consisted of a parlor, kitchen, dining room, powder room, and a small cupboard for the placement of articles of warmth from the cold in the winter, which was located in the passage. Upstairs (the steps leading to and from which located next-door to the aforementioned cupboard), were four bedrooms. One for Mr. and Mrs. Finch, one for Greta and Evelyn, one for Edward and Victor, and one for guests when guests came, but otherwise for collection overflow on behalf of Mr. Finch, Mrs. Finch, Greta, and Evelyn (all of whom would have rather kept all of each collection in his or her room, but ran out of space). Edward and Victor, wanting to share in the equal subdivision of the spare room, collected odds and ends precisely for the purpose of storing when no guests were around. Edward, without giving much thought to it, collected many ounces of dust lying around the house (causing Mrs. Finch to keep her sanity in check in the most mundane respects of furniture dusting), and Victor had the clever idea of cutting out encyclopedia articles which he thought he might read in the future when he got around to it, (of course, Mr. Finch was not of the knowledge of this defacement) and putting them in spare jars which Evelyn discarded when any particular culture grew too big for it. This resulted in Victor not wanting to actually read the articles because to pull them back out again would render the entire time reading a time spent smelling nothing short of the most awful stench in the world, which was impossible to wash out of the jars. There was also a bathroom up stairs which everyone shared, though everyone complained considerably of everyone else taking much too long in the bathroom doing various and sundry preparations and primpings which were necessary to the party concerned with doing preparations and primpings, but were absolutely ridiculous to all who were affected by not being able to use the bathroom at the time they wished to.

All in all the Finch family lived their lives in the same way as you might live yours or I might live mine: with the sense that they are just simply living day by day as is best known to them, without giving much thought over to any sort of comparison with other families or other ways of life which may or may not be considered more normal or more abnormal. Did not the Finch family have friends? Surely. Did they spend time outside their home? Almost certainly. But those are other stories for other times.

Thinking Rosemary Thoughts...

You know what?  It has been a terribly long time since I have sat down to write something with no point intended.  I am quite sure that while my latest bloggings may be interesting, I guess they do not contain the usual dash of wit, charm, and randomness that I used to include in whatever I wrote before I became boring.  It has something to do with growing up, I think.  In that case, I shall resist.

The truth is, like I keep saying, my head has been filled with so many deep musings of late that for some strange reason I cannot seem to think like a person anymore, but more like some old philosopher who lives in a cave up on a hill and sits there stroking his beard, puffing his pipe, and fishing for blind fish in the pond in the cave.....whatever.  So away with that image!  

Right at this moment I should be reading about 12,000 different books and then immersing myself in pleasant dreams of compost and cultivation.  I find that collecting compost and cutting hair are quite similar in that they are both very addictive.  The main reason my hair never seems to grow out all the way is that I get very scissor-happy.  I go to cut my bangs, and then I have to blend them, and then maybe I want it a little more blended, and then maybe I want to layer this here and there, and then it isn't even, so I keep cutting till it is all even and then I finally stop, only to realize what I have done, and all my hair is in little circles on the floor.  Cue depressing music.  That is why I am never going to cut my own hair again and my only pair of scissors are at Lizzie and Sarah's house.  Okay, I left them there during a sewing project and never brought them back.  Whatever.  I am sure they are being put to good use.

But about the compost thing.  My plan is to actually burn all the dead shrubs, leaves, branches, etc., in our backyard garden (along with the Christmas tree whenever we get around to taking it down), then do a compost-plow-cultivate-whatever kind of thing to it.  So today I have started collecting compost material in a big bucket, and it is very exciting to cut up vegetables and dump all the scraps in my bucket!  I have to keep a lid on the bucket or else the dogs will eat out of it, which is the same reason I can't put it in the garden yet, besides all the mess being in there which was supposed to be for fires in the fire pit before it got to cold to have them.  Too cold for a fire?  What......?  Whatever.  You know, I toss that word around, and it may sound like I am just this weird, apathetic person.  Well, I don't know if I am totally apathetic, but I don't care too much about everything.  I am a good balance.  I hope.  I just happen to express apathy often.  I guess.  Whatever.

So onto another little blurb.  Since I have reconfigured my life's plan again, and this time it makes more earthly sense and doesn't require me unrealistically reaching towards the stars...well, I added onto it.  Things like gardening.  I really like gardening...okay, I have very little experience doing it, but I have always wanted to.  Mostly all I have done is keep a little herb garden in the front yard, but that fell out once I got busy (about two and a half years ago), and so it kind of exploded.  Instead of a nice little rosemary plant we now have a ginormous rosemary bush that probably has roots to China.  It is hideous and it just gets bigger and bigger.  Today, I finally decided to put it to good use.  I did some research and this morning set to work trimming...okay, hacking...at the monster for about fifteen minutes.  Now I wish I had taken a picture of the before and after, but I'm not one of those bloggers who takes pictures of everything she does just out of habit so she can post them.  If I had a camera I might have thought about it, but probably not.  Anyways, after not making much of a dent at all, I ended with three basket-fulls of rosemary (two big baskets and one little basket (the kinds you go picking wildflowers with).  I washed some, gathered them into eight bunches of eight, tied those bunches together, tied the bunches onto some hangers, and hung them out in the storage room.  They will have to dry for a month or four weeks, whichever comes first, and then I can have my own dried rosemary!  I don't think I will use it in cooking but I may experiment with some herbal tea.  

I laid out some more of the rosemary in a long basket and I am leaving those to dry overnight.  Tomorrow I am going to make rosemary oil.  I can't remember what you can do with it, but I am going to make it anyways, just to see if I can.  :D

One final musing before I close out....yeah, I don't want to abandon music and writing.  I think that if I am diligent to my studies and projects on weekdays then I can have my weekends free for my pleasures.  Until I get a job.....*cries* I wish I could just stay a kid forever sometimes.  Like Lizzie said, there just seems to not be enough time in the day for everything I want to do.  And that fact often makes me fall into a deep depression thinking, "Oh, everything is so overwhelming...I will never get anything done!"  and then I get nothing done because I keep spending all my time thinking the horrible thought about not getting anything done.  It is important that I get done the things I must, but sometimes if I don't get to do the pleasurable activities, then I go into withdrawal.   Today I was most efficient with my piano.  I sat down for seven minutes in-between fixing dinner and waiting for everyone to come and eat dinner, I attempted some TSO song, started fiddling around with the melody line, did some chord-thing, wrote a little of that, wrote some bass line for some part of whatever it was, recorded it on my little recorder-thing so I wouldn't forget, and then went to go eat dinner.  Usually I have to bang around for thirty minutes or more before coming up with anything decent.

So that is my head for the moment.  Thanks for tuning in and I'll talk to you all later!

~Jessica

Preoccupations of the Mind

Now that the Holiday break is upon me (almost...I have an exam tonight but I had no problem with the study guide so I'm sure it will be fine), perhaps I will be able to write more. I have been a lazy blogger all semester. Here! Read a poem I wrote a year and a half ago! Watch this thing on YouTube I watched over the summer! Yes, I have occasionally appeared live and in person, but most of the blogs that posted were scheduled in August. I don't mean to be so impersonal, but I wanted you all to have something to read while I had no time to write it. Consequently I am quite out of poetry until my brain can think up some more. Video of the Week shall be taking a break until I run out of time again (probably some time mid-January, so if you think about it, it really isn't that long). The truth is I really enjoy blogging, and wish to continue doing it. It just is a big time consumer. I'm not saying it wastes my time, but it probably is not the most useful thing to be doing either.

So...since something like Friday afternoon (after my English exam was over), I have started overwhelming myself with a bunch of information. That sounds a little funny to your Average Joe, I guess, who is probably scratching his head and wondering "why is she studying MORE now that she is done with school for the semester?" and why do people scratch their heads anyways? Does having your brain respond to something make it itchy? I don't scratch my head when I am wondering something, but perhaps I am used to wondering and I have become immune to brain-itches. Nonetheless, learning is something I have been waiting to do all semester! Sure, Sociology is interesting enough for a while, but then it just gets depressing and I start to think that maybe the reason the population is declining is because everyone is taking Sociology of the Family and getting depressed and discouraged about having families. I have not changed my mind, but let me tell you that some of this stuff is painful to study. And I am not even from one of those broken homes or blended families or anything else like that! I have talked to other people in the class who are not as blessed as I am to have a mom, dad, and siblings of origin who are a traditional family with joint sharing-something-or-other and we all love each other most of the time, and it gets to them more than it does me. However, I shall prevail.

What I was saying before I got off on that was.....um......yeah. Learning. Oh, I also learned in British Literature, don't worry. It was a fun class. But all the paper writing drove me crazy, as usual. The only class I want to take over again where I had to write papers would be English 111. That was the best class ever....I could pick ANY subject to write about and could be as opinionated or satirical as I so desired. It was paradise. For me.

SO BACK TO WHAT I WAS SAYING TWO PARAGRAPHS AGO, I have learned a lot since Friday, and it hasn't even been a week. First of all, some friends came to stay over Friday because their parents went out of town. One of these friends really likes to educate people on very interesting things. I could just sit there all day and he would tell me everything about anything I wanted to know about. I don't know how somebody can have so much information in their head and be able to recall it exactly and then explain it to somebody like me in a way that that somebody can actually understand it. So after two days or so I learned a lot more than I expected to, plus he had brought some Michael Rood DVDs that we watched Friday night. Michael Rood is extremely cool, I have discovered. I like cool people. :D

After all of that, I then began doing all that I have been looking forward to all semester, which is learning. I have been studying law, religion, medicine/health stuff, and midwifery. It is all quite fascinating. The only problem is that I am now putting so much into my brain that I haven't really been talking to anyone. This blog post is the most I have said in five days, and this is writing. I don't know if my mother has noticed anything, but I seem to be having trouble keeping up conversation. She asks me, "How was your day?" And I answer, "Uh...good." "What did you do?" "Uh....stuff."

Yeah, I guess I still am a teenager, but I usually am...uh....responsive. I am a girl. I talk. At least, I thought I did, but I guess I don't. I am too preoccupied. I feel like Mr. Meredith from the Anne of Green Gables books. I am too preoccupied with my theological musings that I cannot seem to do anything but look glazed over and then go back to studying, perhaps writing down some thoughts on what I am reading. Yes, I had about three epiphanies yesterday, so I wrote those in my journal, and went right back to studying. I am sure I am driving my mother crazy. Sorry mom!

On top of all that, if I do have a conversation it is very surface, even with people I normally do not have surface conversations with. Take this blog entry for instance. I can't even think of anything to say other than "I have not been able to think of anything to say." I DO NOT FEEL LIKE CARRYING ON A CONVERSATION. Let me repeat....I am a girl and conversations are all-too-natural.

Perhaps I am in Absorbing Mode. I am a sponge that may be in dire need of squeezing, but squeezing hurts, so for right now I am only dripping. Some day I will submit to being squeezed, but for right now just leave me be, and feel free to run water on me or dunk me in a pan of water...I am all for it!

Let this be a disclaimer--if I do not talk to you this week or do not talk much, please do not think I don't like you. That is not true. I [probably] like you very much.

Talk you you all later (heh heh...)

~Jessica

Le Papier est Fini!

If you haven't noticed, I've had a little obsession with typing/posting in French.  If it's annoying you, I am sorry.  I just really want to learn more French and I don't have time.  So I am just going with what I know.  That means that if something I want to say happens to translate into French in my brain oh-so-magically, then I will say/write it without much of a doubt (except perhaps on the correct pronunciation....)

So I am done with my last research paper for the semester and I am rejoicing, of course.  Yes, doing the Highland Fling and other dances I am famed for.  I haven't blogged a real blog in a long time.  The last time I told you how I was doing was for that "Tag" thing, and that doesn't really count because there was this thing entailed known as "structure."  I don't like structure.  It bothers me.  Organization is not bad, but structure...I won't even go into how it just messes up things.

So things are about to get drastically different.  I have re-thought my life plan for the 7,000th time since last summer.  Not this summer, just last summer.  I am going to stop having getajobaphobia and I am, instead, going to get a job.  I really want to work at either a bookstore or a pet store.  I am working on a write-up on everything about myself, putting my social security number in big print on the cover page, and giving that package to random people I see in stores.  

Next semester I am not going to go to college.  Every time I sign up for a college class I forget all the negative things like sitting in classrooms, being lectured, writing papers, taking tests, being told what to do, and things like that.  For the rest of my life I am vowing not to make that mistake again.  I DO NOT like being told what to do.  I am going to do what I want...and that is...

1)  Study music theory

2) Study creative writing more intensely

3) Read more books

4) Write more (poetry, stories, etc)

5) Compose more (like, music, you know?)

These would be done when I am not working, of course.  And I am going to use my money to either travel the world, buy myself a house (in North Carolina.......), or as my own marriage dowry or something.   Or maybe just...oh, never mind.  

In other general news, we got our piano tuned yesterday.  It's an understatement that I am quite ecstatic.  We haven't had it tuned since we got it 14 years ago...sad.  So now it sounds next to wonderful.  It's an upright, so it will never sound like a grand, but it's pretty pretty!  Also, Saturday I got to go to the Trans-Siberian Orchestra concert!  It was ABSOLUTELY AMAZING!!!!!!!!  And that is also an understatement.  I'll be talking about it for the next decade.  :D

I really need to be getting on important things like chores since I haven't done much because I've been working on my paper.  It is a terrible paper.  I will fail the class.  < /low self esteem >  That's okay though!  I really don't care.  I enjoyed it, but what do grades matter when I'm not going to go to college and I am not going to change my mind about going to college???

I will write again soon.  I have to write lots of tiny paper summaries for my classes and study for a couple of finals (ugh...I sound so school-ish...I disgust myself), but I think I will have more time because I don't have to spend so much of it thinking about something I don't want to think about.  Isn't that liberating?  I'm considering re-naming this the Blog of Liberation again!

Anyways, talk to y'all later!

~Jessica

This Isn't Going Anywhere...

I guess what the dialogue does is introduce you to the characters, but, like for the one about the two people on the lake, the beginning few pages do little more than that. They have nothing to do with the story I had in mind. Perhaps, I have to think to myself, I was/am just doing some "prewriting." I had already created these characters in my mind, and created the situation they were eventually going to end up in. But now that I really think about it, I'm getting to understand how they interact and live in normal life before the story enters into the main part where real things happen. If I use any bit of this in the real book, it will be much shorter.

Anyways, in that case, and keeping what I just said in mind, comment whatever you feel like, but if you have something to say about character development, that would be most appreciated. It's very hard to explain, but basically with me, I sit down to write about these two or more people, with this plot in mind, but then I start to write an introductory interaction, and all of a sudden I see the two talking in front of me, and they sort of carry on their own conversation without my direction/guidance...something saying, "okay, it's time to stop chatting and time to start introducing other elements of the plot." It's also much harder to dictate what happens in story ideas that come from dreams. If it's normal every-day stuff, it just flows into what I'm writing, which usually happens to be normal and every day.......do you get what I mean? It's like...if you are playing piano kind of randomly, and just sort of picking here and picking there. You have a specific direction you'd like the song to go in your mind, but then your fingers are doing something else. It may be good, it may sound not as good as you had hoped. All you know is that the music is just playing itself now, and it's no use trying to control anything till the music is done being in charge.

Yeah...weird...

Okay, here it is:

The sun had decided to rise on that day. A day like any other day, seemingly. It may have occurred to some readers that, in fact, the sun rises everyday, we just don’t see it some times. And those same readers may agree with me when I say that those some times happen to be the times when life seems at the peak of gloom; the kind of days when one would much rather simply stay inside and sleep away the day.

Fortunately or unfortunately (depending on whether the reader is an optimist or a pessimist), on the day on or in which this story begins, the sun shone in the bright blue sky with such radiance, that every resident that resided on the long, thin strip of land that was Seahawk Island, North Carolina, USA, couldn’t help but rise from their beds with a sense of hope and joy, and an unexplainable energy that everyone felt simply must be channeled into doing a million productive things at once, and preferably out of doors.

This is the kind of attitude that possessed 17-year-old Amber Barton, a certain dweller on the said island, to throw off her covers, bound down from the top bunk in the room she shared with her 10-year-old sister Catherine, and dance towards the kitchen gleefully. Perhaps it had occurred to her that she was in no need of caffeine, perhaps not. Nonetheless, she quickly brewed some double-strength coffee, poured it over ice, added sugar, chocolate syrup and topped it off with whipped cream. The reader must understand at this point that Amber Barton was certainly, if anyone, liable to do and over-do most tasks she set her heart to. So this Amber did in the case of her coffee making that fine morning.

After preparing such a treat, she ran to retrieve White Fang by Jack London from atop her dresser before heading outside with these two finely paired items to execute the undertakings usually associated with coffee and a good book. Her boxer, the most loyal companion whose name was Wiley, was at her heels as Amber went out the front door. He lay down beside her contentedly as she sat with her back against the large oak tree which predominated the front yard of the Barton home. Occasionally Wiley would glance up at his owner, as if he was wondering if Amber was going to feed him yet. Otherwise he would relax; he was most likely sure that Amber would feed him once she was done with her present occupation.

Wiley became distracted for a moment as a figure appeared in the doorway of a house slightly further down than the Barton’s house on the opposite side of the street. He raised his head and his ears perked up. Amber’s head never changed position, but her eyes followed where Wiley was looking. She spotted the figure, and made a point to make sure he didn’t see that she had seen him. “No Wiley,” Amber commanded as the boxer inched forward excitedly. “Stay here.”
Wiley obeyed reluctantly, laying his head down but still watching the figure as the latter walked through his own yard, down the street and into Amber’s yard. Wiley let out a little whine.
“Alright,” Amber consented. Wiley eagerly got up and traipsed over to the visitor. Amber looked up from her book as Wiley led a tall blonde boy of eighteen towards her.

The boy smiled at her. “I see the sun woke you up early, too.”

“Yes it did, Omar. What are you up to this morning?” Amber smiled casually back.

“I was about to go on a run, actually.” Omar patted Wiley as he said this. “Would you like to come along?”

“I don’t think so,” Amber declined, shaking her head and looking away from the burning green eyes of her visitor.

“You don’t like running, do you?” Omar teased, squatting down on the ground.

“Not really. I function better in the water.” Amber expressed. The conversation was going nowhere. They were always like this. As much as she liked him, for some reason the conversations between them were monotonously about shallow, meaningless things. Amber and Omar had developed a good relationship based on small talk, but Amber wondered why it never got any deeper. If Omar really wanted to get to know her, he would make attempts at different topics of conversation, such as, “what view do you take regarding women in the corporate world?” or “what is it about dogs that you find so fascinating?”

Somehow, conversation starters such as these were a rarity.

“Well, just tell me if you ever change your opinion on running. It’d sure be nice to have a running partner,” Omar mused, glancing down the road, as if scoping out his destination, mentally preparing for the trip ahead.

“I’ll be sure to,” rejoined Amber, once again looking up into the green eyes. Her heart was, for a moment, filled to the top with admiration for the green eyes, though she was not sure why such a thing would stir up a great bout of emotion in anyone. With the fear that she might melt away in the presence of the eyes, which to her were quite the equivalent of a sweet, mourning Celtic melody, she averted her own quickly.

“You know,” Omar piped up, staring at Amber, unaware of the effect his staring implements were having on the person whom they were staring at, “you really should broaden your horizons.”

“They are quite broad enough, thank you,” Amber responded icily, avoiding the eyes. What if she looked at them and was so mesmerized that she forgot herself and did his every bidding? Though, perhaps when she was doing the talking she could spare a glance. This she did as she added, “Perhaps you need to find something else you like to do besides run all day, and make noise when you’re not running.”

“I don’t make noise, I’m practicing my music and expanding my repertoire of instruments I can master!” Omar protested defensively.

“Well, over here, it sounds like noise.” Amber stated, beginning to hope Omar would just go on and leave so she could stop being miserable about all of this shallow conversation.

“The sound probably just doesn’t carry right.” Omar concluded.

Finally, Amber could not stand it any longer. “Look, Omar, if you want to sit there and talk to me a while, at least we could talk about something deeper than the same old things we always talk and argue about, you know?” She scolded herself for being so cold, and immediately felt bad. Amber was not used to speaking so much of her mind.

Omar, to Amber’s surprised, was rendered speechless. On a couple of occasions, he opened his mouth to say something. At the end of the second attempt to speak, he clamped his mouth shut and simply glared at Amber.

Amber chuckled. “I suppose you haven’t the slightest idea what deep conversation is, Omar Pollard.”

In a most mature fashion, Omar stuck out his tongue at Amber, and promptly resumed his standing position, saying, “I’m going to run a mile—just one mile—and I’ll think about it.” He turned towards the road, breaking into a jog and yelling, “I’ll be back in a few minutes, don’t go anywhere!”

Amber, in the rebellious manner with which she was most comfortable, did go many places while Omar was away. She went into the kitchen to put a bagel into the toaster, finished White Fang, read three pages in the next book she intended to read, Under the Tuscan Sun, put honey on her bagel, prepared some superfood in some orange juice, talked to her just awakened Dad about putting a hammock in the front yard, and rolled out a picnic blanket.

Upon his return, Omar found Amber, on her stomach, relaxing upon this very blanket, eating her bagel, reading her new book, drinking her strange green drink and occasionally glaring at Wiley, who looked quite attracted to the bagel.

“Alright, I have it!” Omar grinned as he wiped the single bead of sweat as it formed and wound its way down his forehead. “As a matter of fact,” Omar continued, sitting down in the grass Indian-style, in front of Amber, who barely glanced up, and didn’t say anything, because her mouth was full, “I have quite a few questions to ask of you, but never have because…well, I don’t know. Since you seem to invite them, I guess I might as well ask them.”

“Proceed,” Amber said after swallowing. Wiley assumed this meant him, and made a lunge towards the bagel. With a snap of her fingers and a strict utterance of “no,” Amber sent Wiley back into his lay-down position. She took another bite of her bagel, and looked up at Omar expectantly.

Omar piped up, “Why are you always reading or writing? What do you write about? What do you read about? Do you like other things? Why does that dog follow you around? Does anything you like have to do with the fact that you constantly are exposed to chlorine and have water in your ears and a swim cap and goggles squeezing your head?” He huffed, throwing his hands on the ground. “That’s enough for now…” he muttered.

Amber slowly chewed her bite of bagel, looking up into the sky and contemplating her answers. She finally swallowed and took a drink. “First of all, it’s nice to know that you know how to start a conversation. Questions are always good. Not questions like, ‘do you want to go on a run with me this morning?’, but questions like you just asked. Congratulations.”

“Thank you. Now, can you answer them?” demanded Omar.

“Yes.”

“Then answer them and stop drinking that weird spinach drink!”

Amber cleared her throat as she set the glass down. “I am always reading and writing because I find them fascinating enterprises. I usually read about things like animals or foreign countries or anything else with exceptionally good writing or intriguing plots. I write about anything that comes to mind, sometimes utopian cultures or teenage girls or something else—either something I know everything about or something I can totally make up. This dog follows me around because I am his female. He adores me, and respects me. Wiley does not love me because I smell like chlorine”—

-“I never said you smelled like chlorine,” protested Omar.

“I said I smell like chlorine,” declared Amber. “Anyway, in that case, Wiley probably does know that my main smell is chlorine. And I am not in any way mentally incapacitated by chlorine exposure, having water in my ears, or by having my head squeezed by a cap and goggles. Ask anyone.”

Honest truth: does this sound ridiculous?

The wind beat hard on the windows. In the distance, a confused beagle bow-wowed as the fierce breeze whipped and whirled through the trees. That night, the bluster was nearly continuous, as if a giant were inhaling and exhaling, attempting to blow out all his birthday candles.

Caleb Larson scowled out his attic window. He knew she was out there. The strange girl across the lake. He could not see her now, for it was dark and rain droplets were beginning to be thrashed across his windowpane. He had seen her many times before, though, doing many strange things. Caleb knew she was on the edge of her dock, standing there. He imagined her smiling and sighing as the current of air rippled through her skirts and long, wavy, light brown hair. It bothered him. He did not know why. He only knew it was bothersome.

Perhaps it was because he did not know why she was this way. He had thought many times of how awkward and stupid it would be for him to canoe across the lake to say, “Hi, what’s your name? Mine’s Caleb. I was just wondering why you always stand outside on clear nights and why you enjoy absorbing the wind and why you sometimes lay outside reading and soaking up the sunlight for hours and sometimes like to dance in the rain?”

It wasn’t more than 60 yards across the lake, but Caleb had never met the girl who lived across there in his whole two years of living in the big cabin with his mom, younger sister and younger brother. His dad had passed away a year before the move, and left the remaining Larsons a significant amount of money. Emma Larson had always wanted a lake house, and so, after recovering from their loss, Emma and her children, Caleb, Lynn, and Josiah had packed up and left the suburbs of Cary for the calm, peaceful lake house life in Creedmoor.

Caleb was homeschooled, as were his siblings. Lynn was 17, and in her junior year in highschool. Josiah was six, and just beginning kindergarten. Caleb was 18, and about to graduate. Caleb looked down from the window to a paper on his desk. The acceptance letter from the University of South Carolina Upstate grinned back up at him, for Lynn had drawn a gigantic smiley-face in the blank area underneath the signature of the dean. This was it! April, May, then summer, and in August he was off to study History for pre-law. It did not matter that perhaps it was not what he wanted to do. It was something to do, and a career path approved by his mother, as well as his late father.

Caleb wondered about the strange girl. What would she think of him going to law school? He would not be here anymore to see her strange behavior. How depressing. Perhaps she was graduating too. She would also probably be leaving for college in August. Maybe she had also gotten accepted to USCU. She might possibly be in some of his classes. They could be study buddies. He was sure she would make an interesting study buddy. She would have many strange opinions.

She was also homeschooled, he knew, because she was often outside gardening or reading during school hours. Why had Lynn never gone over there to introduce herself? They were both probably around the same age. It would not hurt. But Lynn was too introverted. Lynn kept to herself, as the strange girl did, but she preferred the indoors.

Was the girl really out there? Caleb had to know.

With that determination set, Caleb picked up his shoes in his left hand and crept down the attic stairs slowly, dodging all the creaks. His mom was in her room reading, Josiah was asleep, as was Lynn. Lynn always went to bed early.

Caleb softly padded down the hallway on a long, thin green shag rug that ran along the wood-paneled and wood-flooring corridor. He descended the next stairs less carefully, as the master bedroom was now the furthest away. He found himself facing the living room, and immediately repented into the kitchen. He walked around the kitchen table to the back door, where he put on his shoes. He had to know if she was out there, and, further, he had to know why she was. What was it she felt in the wind?

Once outside, Caleb scrambled to the end of the Larson’s own dock. He peered over the lake as the wind wildly pulled and yanked on his hair and clothes. There she was, doing precisely what he imagined her doing. Maybe he had known because he had seen her unconsciously in a split second through a raindrop. It could happen. Anything could. Caleb was about to make one of those anythings.

Without thinking he walked back off the dock, kicked over the canoe, secured the oars, pushed the boat into the water, climbed in and furiously rowed across the lake. Fortunately the wind was in his favor; it almost caused him not to have to row at all at some points, for the water would carry him. As he got closer, he saw her standing there on the dock with her eyes closed. She was stunningly beautiful. Her hair was longer than it looked from the Larson property. She was wearing a single white tee shirt, a long, baby blue flowing skirt, and had no shoes on. Her muscular arms hung at her sides, palms facing the lake and fingers spread out, as if to take it all in with all her senses. Caleb was sure he would startle her, and attempted not to get too close, in hope that she would see him from a distance first, and perhaps beckon for him to come closer. But the wind blew him too hard. He was probably five feet from the dock when she must have heard his oars slide through the water (in vain of going backwards a bit), and opened her eyes. They were the most beautiful, radiant green eyes, and they stared right back at him in a slightly shocked manner. The eyes softened almost immediately, and the girl smiled.

“Have you come to join me in taking in this sensual weather?” She asked, to his surprise. “I don’t mean to be provocative in saying it’s sensual, but that is really the only proper way to describe it.”

Caleb was rendered speechless, and to his dismay the girl laughed.

“You are the boy from across the lake who is always fixing things,” the girl went on softly and pleasantly. “Why have you come here?”

“I wanted to know who you are,” Caleb finally said, realizing a moment afterwards that this sounded stupid.

“I am the person who is standing before you. My name, if it makes any difference, is Aimee, and I would like to know why you have come over here at ten in the night to ask me who I am?”

“You fascinate me,” Caleb confessed, “and I want to know everything about why you do what you do.” He thought a moment. The wind was dying down. He patted the seat in front of him in the canoe. “If you want, you can get in and I can row around our little area while you tell me about yourself.”

Aimee looked hesitant, but Caleb must have let off a very acute air of sincerity that convinced her, for she carefully climbed into the boat and sat facing him. The moon was two days from being full, and shone bright over the lake. A breeze blew which was of a much more forgiving nature than any preceding it; the giant must have been running out of breath.


Please...I need your honest opinion. I tried to start this certain story, and this is the way it came out, unintended. I couldn't help it. If you don't understand you'll just have to believe me. Anyways, I just want to know if this is good for anything...I'm not being as serious as I sound, but I do want the truth, because I am certainly not sure myself. :)

~Jessica

"Jack of All Trades" - A Complimentary Term for ADD

I feel like I need to rethink everything. You know, I've probably said a thousand times before that I thought I would have everything figured out by the time I turned eighteen. My life would all be in place, I will have decided what to do, I would be doing it, I would be successful doing that something that I was supposed to be doing….etc, etc, etc. And it's very annoying how I am not like that at all. Basically, if you think about it (not too hard, of course), I am a loser. I am unaccomplished because I…well, haven't accomplished much. I know I can. I know it's possible and I have the potential. But there's something…well, a lot of things that I perceive as holding me back. The thing is, I don't think I realize it. I'm still a little kid. It feels funny to say, but I really admire my friend because in a lot of ways he's older than me. Sure, he's almost a year and a half younger than me, but that doesn't seem to make much of a difference. Maturity-wise, most of the things about him are just older. And it's not fair. I look at him and say, "wow, he'd be much better at being eighteen than I am, and I'd be better at being 16." Did I mention it's not fair? I should be being confused about life at 16, and then in a year and a half I will have been sufficiently confused for a long enough time to conclude what I want to do and do it. INSTEAD, I was confused when I was 16 but apparently had not been confused long enough, because before then I didn't even realize that eventually I would have to grow up and pick something to do, and that it just didn't come by existing in my little world.

Don't get me wrong. I have a variety of interests and talents. I used to wonder, and now I've remembered that I wondered it and thus wonder it all over again, whether it was better to be extremely great at one or two things, or moderately good at many, many different things. And that doesn't even mean that I'm good at everything I do. What stumps me is that I expect to be able to do everything and then I run across something I cannot do (which happens a lot), as much as I want to, and then I feel like a failure at everything and have an urge to crawl into a little hole despite the possibility of feeling extremely claustrophobic.

So my friend says I'm a "Jane of all trades, particularly artistic ones." Well, after that compliment, I didn't know what to say. But before that I had told him about how I admire how he sticks to stuff. He has two main interests: Law and music, mainly piano. He swims and plays water polo some, and works so he can have money to pursue his interests. But he's very concentrated (no, not like orange juice, in case you were wondering). I am very jealous. I guess if I ever went to public school I would have been labeled ADD…I'm glad I never was in school, and I'm glad I never got a label like that. But I just have a terrible time sticking to anything. Thus, the whole "loser" label I keep giving myself. It's awful, I know. I don't really have such a low self-esteem. I guess this is actually just between me and myself, and how I just feel back being around myself. But now it's like I feel it's leaking out into public because now all my friends are concentrated and working on their life goals and stuff, and I still don't know what I want.

So I'm going to take that time to do some examination of me. I know, that's sounds so narcissistic, but I really need to do this. I hate thinking under pressure, but here we go anyways.
What do I really feel like I want in life? I want to be a wife and a mother. "That's the first time I've heard someone say that," Ken laughed on Tuesday at Wake Tech. I guess he was just surprised, not mocking me. But still, it was the first time I kind of felt funny for saying that. Still, what are the chances I will actually get married? I hate to think about that. Let's not. On to what I was doing.

What else do I want? Well, let's first think about what I don't want. I don't want to go to college. I don't particularly want to get a job. I don't want to go through life with no money and no life. I don't want to be labeled a "loser" by society and not just myself. I want to make a good name for homeschoolers. Now for what I want. I want to seem important to myself. I want to be amazing. This all sounds funny right now, but I need to be honest. I want to be happy. I want everyone around me to be happy. I don't want anyone to feel insignificant because of me…which there doesn't seem to be that risk right now…anyways. I want success in whatever I do.

Okay, now for what I really WANT to do. Not what I want, but what I want to DO.

I want to work with animals. I want to write books. I want to travel around the world, either by myself or with people I love. I want to play piano amazingly well. I want to write beautiful music. I want to play as many instruments as possible. I want to go sailing, like, real sailing in the ocean. I want to be in love and get married. I want to have children. Lots of them. I want money so I can do all the things I want to do. I want to keep swimming and playing water polo. I don't really want to accomplish anything with them, but they are a fun hobby and they also keep me in shape. I don't want to get fat, or even just go back to being skinny. I like the body I have and want to keep it. I don't want my kids to be fat or skinny. I want them to be healthy and athletic. I don't ever want to lose my creative inspiration. I want to be with my friends and family forever, and I don't ever want to lose any of them in any way. I don't want to go over into the "dark side" again. I want to be a good kid, even if I am an adult now. I want to be a good and creative cook. I want to have an enthusiasm for cleaning and doing other mundane household chores. I want to study history…real history. I want to read classic literature and learn from the best. I want to love God with all my heart, soul, and mind, and study his word. I want insight from my elders so I don't go screwing up my life again. I would like to do acting. I want to start a band.

So what do I concentrate on? Let's say I need four main things - Money, fitness, and two main profitable interests. Working for daddy covers the money thing right now, which includes studying the Product Launch Sequence. Fitness means swimming in the mornings and water polo in the afternoons. Now I have to pick two main interests and stick with them. *thinking….thinking…thinking…* I think…well, I thought…and now I believe…music and creative writing should be my main concentrations once this semester is over. Once I get out of these darned time-wasting classes. They're interesting, but not worth my time. That's the problem. There are too many things in life like that, and what's worse is that our society is so given over to those sorts of things that nobody really knows to do anything better.

One thing I noticed was that I said nothing about improv goals. Do I not have any? Have I lost my passion and fire for it? I think it's diminishing. That makes me cry. I don't want to leave, and it is only once a week, and then the shows one weekend a month. But I seriously need to reconsider what I want. I have been intensely interested in writing and music since I was little. They are things I KNOW I can stick to, and not just fleeting fancies that seem glamorous. I love to do them. Sure, sometimes I get in a rut, but that's only for a bit.

Okay, here is the verdict. If I take any classes next semester, they will be Creative Writing 1 and Elements of Music. I may also get a piano teacher. I'll read lots of books about writing, and also read literature. I will not deceive myself in my motivation. This is what I'm doing. I will also help around the house because I know it will benefit mom and myself because one day I will be a mother, I'm almost sure of it. I will work for daddy and help him with his product stuff. I will swim and play polo. I may eventually marry.

That's another thing. I feel ready for marriage, but I'm really not. I'm nowhere near it. I want it so bad right now. I've concluded that since none of the guys my age are ready, I should just hope for an older guy.......but then, that's kind of not really a good idea. I'm just as ready as the guys my age. I can see it coming in the next five years or so, and if I look I can basically see what I need to be doing to get there. To be ready. I know my girl friends can relate....I just ache to get married right now. I don't know if guys can relate to this at all.....but it's a very hard struggle right now. Granted, all struggles are hard. Duh. But this one is just the worst. It's so hard to do normal, everyday things now, because it comes to mind so much:

Driving through a neighborhood: "Oh, wouldn't this be a great neighborhood to bring kids up in...so peaceful and out of the city...so many trees...the houses are a nice size, and I could buy sofas!!!"

Walking through Target: "Aren't those decorations so cool! Imagine my dining room with that clock and my bedroom with that lamp!"

Still walking through Target: "Awww...cribs! Nighties! Diapers! Booties! Little bouncers! Pacifiers!"

Anywhere: "Look at that family, aren't they so cute? *gasp* A baby...oh, I want one!"

Anytime I see a couple I feel jealous because I'm walking through the parking lot alone. I certainly do NOT get to go shopping for ANYTHING with my husband, and that is very aggravating somehow. There's a girl on the Masters team who is getting married in December or something. I just overheard her telling another girl...but the way she was talking about it was just really casual and for some reason that got me down. Marriage, to me, isn't just a casual matter. I suppose that when you already live together anyways, there's no reason to really be excited. I meant the "I suppose" sarcastically. I just think that at that point marriage is almost pointless. You're already sharing your lives and sharing your bodies. Well, I'm going off in the other direction of what I was trying to say, which I can't really remember anyways because it's a bit late...AND I am trying to have a caffiene crash so I can go to bed, because I have to get up in the morning and go listen to the girls in the locker room at Masters talk some more before I go see the Dead Sea scrolls with...um...a lot of people. I'm excited :D I've been wanting to see them a while, and I don't want them to just go away like that anatomy exhibit did. That was sad :(

That same girl (I think) said that when she was little she once saw some guy swim the English channel all butterfly. That's really extremely cool. However, as much as I adore butterfly, I don't think I should set my sights on doing the same...heh heh.....

The Ocean-Side Holiday, Part Two

Deja vu...

As we walked up the deck, back towards our condo, we stopped and looked at the
condo next door to ours on the left. It was quiet, but that shouldn’t have been
deceiving. The night before at about two o’clock, we were rudely awakened by the
booming of music, fireworks and various screams and throwing-against-the-wallses.
It was a house full of night owl party animals, right next door to us.
We weren’t even sure why they were staying there. It was our third full day on the beach and we hadn’t really seen them out on the beach at all. We had only seen them on their porch, and every morning they would come out on the deck overlooking the beach while we played football.
Otherwise, hardly a word came from their station, except at night (much to
everyone’s dismay).
Mike and I had gotten rather tired of the partying, and concluded that, if it were to persist tonight, we would wake up early and do our best to be equally as noisy during the day, which was when our neighbors apparently were sleeping.
We walked on and had just reached the safety of our own deck, when two guys came out of our adjoining condo. Neither of them looked much older than Mike. They were scrawny and hairy and both took to walking on the rail of the deck that stretched out from all the condos and overlooked the beach.
A preppy blonde stuck her head out of the house. “Omigod, get down you guys!”
She shrieked, giggling.
“We’re fine!” Responded the hairier one.
“Yeah! Look!” The other one took off his shirt (Mike and I cringed at the abundance of hair and lack of muscles which he proceeded to try to flex) and he threw it at
the girl.
“If you fall I’m SO going to kill you!” The girl chortled, catching the shirt and going back in the house.
The guys ignored us as they jumped off the railing, walked over to some boogie boards leaning against their condo, grabbed them, and ran down to the beach.

That was from that story I'm writing...you see, I've been writing it for about two years now. I started it just before our beach trip two years ago, so this is my third beach trip working on it. It doesn't have a title, so I'll just call it "That Story." Anyways...that was based off of what we were plagued with 2 years ago when we stayed in this same condo. Last year we were fine, and thankful for it. Then...guess what? A big bunch of college students arrived late Friday afternoon in the condo next to ours. I was having serious deja vu, especially when they turned on the music very loud (I recognized almost all the songs mostly by their resounding, sub woofer-afied bass lines), drank, smoked, and partied like there was nobody else around trying to sleep at midnight, or at least concentrate on reading a book.

We were coming back from eating at Jordan's Seafood when some of the people arrived. There were two guys and a girl. One of the guys, once he got in, immediately came out on the beach. It was dusk, and Marck and I were out appreciating our beautiful surroundings. He kind of ruined everything as he whipped out his cellphone, plunked himself down in the sand, and said to his friend, "Hey, man! Guess what I'm doing...having a beer on the beach!"

There was an absence for most of yesterday of nice, clear, salty air as we went from our deck to the beach...all I could smell was tobacco smoke. It was awful.

Last night we concluded they went clubbing or something, because it was actually quiet at their home, till they all came in about 12 or 1 AM, making a bit of a racket. We haven't heard them this morning. Yesterday afternoon they were all down at the beach, set up probably 30 yards from us. Marck and I kept accidentally drifting down to where they were set up. All the girls were in bikinis, and sometimes they would get in the water a little bit, and scream at every wave that came by. It was very funny...Marck and I just had to make fun of them...I think they were too self-absorbed to notice. After all, when Grammy asked them Friday night at 11:45 to please "keep it down to a roar", they barely turned down the music, and certainly didn't turn themselves down. Yeah...pretty self-absorbed. Another reason I'm glad I was homeschooled...I was around my parents enough to learn to be conscientious.

Anyways, despite all there is to complain about, I'm having a great time. I'm about two thirds of the way through Twilight...I'm still liking it! I am a little curious as to what she's going to add to the plot(s) to put in the other three books. I'm just hoping it's not something that wasn't meant to be a series, like Pirates of the Caribbean, that she just adds-on to later, resulting in poorer plots....you see what I mean? I just don't see how this could get to be something that extends beyond the first book, but perhaps it does...

Anyways, I'm off to go play out in the sunshine...

The Ocean-Side Holiday, Part One

Yes, yes, yes...I am attempting to come up with a more creative title than Lizzie again. I'll just admit that right off so I don't get any accusations.

So we're here on Emerald Isle at the beach until Monday. Yesterday, we got on the road late as usual (so perhaps we could just call it "right on time" by now, since we've been doing this annually for the past six years). Our first stop was a thrift shop called "Second Fling", where we always end up stopping on the way here. Our grandparents and aunt were there as well (they come with us to the beach). It's a big store, and they always have the biggest selection of used purses I've ever seen. As we all know, money likes to just slip through my fingers, but at least I make quick decisions. I bought two purses, one for a dollar and one for four dollars. The one for four dollars is the cream-colored twin of my brown purse I've had for a couple years now...I was very excited to find it, but my dad declared in a very prissy fashion that I couldn't carry it till after Easter. :P The other one is casual, has no compartments, and barely fits everything. But I like it anyways. It's just one of those ADD things...I need to change purses often.

Next we stopped at McCall's and got the buffet lunch. I ate a lot, of course. We had a few memories of March 2007 when we took a special trip to the Atlantis, a hotel on this same island that allows dogs, and we brought Nancy. We went to McCall's but we couldn't go in and eat because of the dog, so my dad let Nancy out to do her business in the grass next to the building, and my mom walked through the drive through.......um, anyways, after McCall's we drove the rest of the way to the beach, listening to "Bridge to Terabithia" on CD (I'm actually liking it). We got to the beach, celebrated, unloaded, got very hot, adjusted the air conditioner and turned on all the fans, and put on some shorts. Eventful, huh?

I watched Marck and Robert tumble about in the ocean for a while, before we all came in, and I started reading "Twilight." For a while I refused to read them...but after going into Harry Potter deprivation this summer, I thought it might be good for my soul to find a replacement series. Anne of Green Gables is a good series, but it's not close genre-wise to Harry Potter. And after a lot of "You should SO TOTALLY read the Twilight books...they're friggen AWESOME!!!!!!!!!!!!!", I decided to investigate, asking some real people what they thought. Okay, everybody is a real person, but seriously...I asked people who gave me real advice, if you understand what I mean. Most either gave me a description, but one just told me flat-out what I wanted to know, and that was about the core elements. I'm on chapter six and I'm liking it so far, but I think it's definitely a girl book. But I think I'm liking it a lot better than what I was originally planning to read at the beach, "The Truth About Forever" by Sarah Dessen.

So I woke up this morning, and I thought we were having pancakes, but then we weren't. So we "just ate cereal and stared out the window......." that's a rephrasing from "Jefferson Aeroplane" by Relient K, if you didn't know. I like that song, it makes me happy. After breakfast I made a to-do list. Do you know how awful it is to have to make a to-do list for the beach? It's terrible. And you know why it is? I have to incorporate writing my rough draft for Brit Lit...on Beowulf. Whoopie. Can't you just see the enthusiasm on my face and hear the elated-ness in my voice? If you can't...you're not deaf or blind...I wouldn't mind doing it half as much if I didn't have to do it instead of doing beach things.

After making my mild depression-and-anxiety-inducing list, we got on our suits and sunscreen and headed for the water, where we again tumbled about for a couple hours. Of course, we got hungry again, so we came in and ate...I searched Beowulf for descriptions of Grendel...and then we started watching "Charlie and Lola." We have...an odd fascination with the show. We're not sure if it's healthy. Last year we spent all our time watching "Shaun the Sheep." Ah...good times, good times.

I went to Best Buy Wednesday night (running into Elayna in the process...um, not literally), and got the other two Nickel Creek CDs, "This Side" and "Why Should the Fire Die?" I can't decide which one I like better, but my favorite from "This Side" is a song called, "Green and Gray." Immediately after that song is the album-title song that I really like too.

Well, that's what's been happening these days. I love the beach. But now I've got to go out to the pool and teach Robert breastroke so he can make swim team next week...wish me luck!

Until I hail again from the beach,
Jessica

A Lovely Little Rant

Irony is a delicious thing…I think. You see, I have been having another one of my recurring episodes with my Least Favorite Appliance/Machinery Thing, and I was thinking about finally taking out my frustration on my blog. BUT I simply had to click over to Lizzie and Sarah’s blog (where Sarah finally posted but you can’t tell because Lizzie immediately posted two posts on top of Sarah’s. Yes…ho-hum, we can tell who’s the oldest child now, can’t we? Nothing against eldest children. I happen to be one), where I just read of Lizzie’s frustrations with her vacuum cleaner. Thank goodness Enil happened to post a bit of a tribute about how hard women work in the house, including vacuuming, but I believe that was merely a coincidence as well.

Anyways, now I feel as if relaying the long, terrible tale of my godforsaken weed eater is unintentional copy-cat-ing, but I will try to complain as ingeniously as possible, all the while making Lizzie feel better about her own predicament. And yes, Sarah, I did read your lazy blogging. Very non-boredom provoking.

Okay, so as long as I can remember, I’ve had this weed eater problem. I’m really not sure why I have the job in the first place. “It’s not very lady-like” doesn’t seem like a reason that would get me out of doing it. Now, we had this one weed eater before. It was a very nice weed eater. It gave me a little trouble at first, but that was back when I was a young laddie…um…lassie, and I had just started doing the weed eating. The problem is, everything I name George ends up dying. Our sweet little duck named George, the literal “black sheep”, was *gulp* “gotten” by our dog, Nancy. That was very sad. But this weed eater, whose name was George, had a very absentminded caretaker (me, fyi), who had absolutely no clue that putting normal gasoline in a weed eater instead of the gasoline/oil premix stuff, was VERY BAD. So…*cough* *sputter* *screech* and that was the end of poor George, along with the beginning of a long bit of lectures from the rest of my family, who OF COURSE knew that you can’t put gasoline in a weed eater without killing it!!! So I forked over what cash I could and my dad went and bought a new one. This one was NOT NICE and VERY IGNORANT. I named him Abner, but as much as I hated that name, that was Lewis C.’s name in Th’ Un’spected Gift, and Cute little blonde boys are quite far from stupid weed eaters, so I settled on Seth. There are good Seths in this world, but I don’t like the name.

From the moment I first saw Seth I knew he was trouble, and I was right. We’ve hated each other ever since he came to live with us. I didn’t really like weed eating that much before, considering being out in the hot weather, holding heavy equipment that vibrates your hands so much that you get calluses, but this was worse. An excerpt from a book I’ve been writing for about two years…

I looked at it. I thought ogling at it might make it decide to work.
The weed eater sat there insolently.
“Come ON!!” I pleaded.
If it could huff, it would have.
I pushed the clear gas-pumper-bubble-thingy ten more times, mumbling, “‘Easy Start’ indeed.” Then I got up and pulled the crank.
I pulled it exactly fifteen times.
This number would have been satisfactory, aside from the part where it’s supposed to start within one to three yanks of the pully-thingy. I had been doing the same thing for the past half-hour without even the least grunt from the motor, and it was driving me up the wall.
Incensed, I sat down. Mom had said that if I didn’t finish trimming the yard, I couldn’t go to the beach. So I was frenziedly trying to finish, in hopes that I wouldn’t be stuck here at home. But I always had problems when I did the weed eating. If it wasn’t one thing, it was another.
So, I decided to ask my dad for help.
He yanked the cursed thing about ten times, and it started.
Either the dang weed eater only responds to the “dad” authority position (similar to my dog) or I’ve got a weak arm. Or maybe I just needed to give it a few more yanks. I could have just as easily started the weed eater, I resolved. It just needed ten more extra yanks.
I tried to thank my dad over the roaring of the engine, and then I went on my way. I was making good progress until I noticed I wasn’t able to get much grass cut down as I made my sweeps. So I hit the string release thing against the ground several times. But nothing string-related was dispensed.
With this lovely new development, I impatiently slammed my hand against the switched that stopped the weed eater, unscrewed the knob, pulled out the string, put everything back together, and then went back to my weed eating.
After about ten minutes, I had the same problem. Only this time, it was a bigger dilemma. Not only would the string not come out, but the screw wouldn’t come un-screwed either.
I was also screwed.
I tried numerous different strategies but all of them made quite a conscious verdict to FAIL.
So I walked inside to take a break, act pitiful and eat cereal.
We were out of milk. Foiled again.
My mom walked in and I explained my current predicament to her. “You’re always coming up with excuses not to do that job.” She smarted.
“But something is always keeping me from not doing ‘that’ job!” I protested. “It’s the weed eater. It sucks. Something is always wrong…”
“Well, we couldn’t afford a nicer one, I’m sorry.” Then she added, “If you hadn’t broken our LAST one…”
“I didn’t mean to!” I objected. “I told you I didn’t know that the gas was supposed to be mixed with oil.”
“I know, dear but still, it’s broken and this is the only one we have and you’re going to have to learn how to use it.”
I have been developing a hypothesis. The whole world is against me.
“Get out there right now. I don’t care what you do, just weed eat.” She looked like she was going to pull her hair out.

Yeah…the sad thing is that some form of the same thing happens every single time I weed eat. Today, guess what? The string wouldn’t come out, so I spent about seven minutes with the monkey wrench trying to take the string out to loosen it, only to not be able to put the thing you wrap the string on back into the bottom of the weed eater, and not be able to screw the screw-thing into place because it’s like the top of a jar that gets crooked, and then I realized it wasn’t going to bounce right, so I had to take the turning-wire-track-thing out, but it was stuck. I spent another ten minutes or so trying to un-stuck the stuck, abusing the machine a couple times with my little friend the monkey wrench (I’ve come terribly close to naming it Sunshine Bob). Finally I decided that I would try to think rationally. I was going to tap the track-turning-wire-thing to perhaps loosen it up, but instead the tapping pushed it in right, I was able to get on the screwy-thingy, and I poured in gas/oil without spilling it all over the place (which I’ve done the past two times…yuck). By this time, it was nearly dark, so I only did a quick sweep of the front yard, around the air conditioner big-loud-doohickey, and the outside of our fence before I couldn’t really see if I was getting much or not. And I think that by then the wire was getting stuck again. You know, you’d think I’d have this all figured out after some two and a half years. No. I can’t wait till Robert can do it, and then I’ll also be very over-thankful to my husband whenever he weed eats. I’ll cook a great big standing rib roast with garlic mashed potatoes, steamed asparagus, honey wheat rolls, and a great big salad. Then I’ll give him a nice massage and we’ll go watch a shoot ‘em up movie or whatever HE wants to watch. However, if we only have four square feet of yard to our name, there will be only ham sandwiches and chick flicks, because I would really like a little more land than that…..of course, whatever we can afford……and that’s far in the future. But aren’t you hungry now?

I never want to be a…

-Weed eater technology assistance person
-Weed eater repair woman
-Lawn maintenance worker
-Manufacturer of weed eaters

However, if I had the brains for it, I would love to invent a more efficient weed eater, that does what it really says it’s supposed to on the box. Or maybe I’ll invent the hover-weed-eater that just senses where things need to be edged and does it by itself while you go do fun things.

Anyways, enough ranting. I’m sleepy…and I have to get up and do the back yard…*seriously considers converting to pessimism*

WAIT!!! Very good news. Some of our new, and very good, friends joined Candler for the rest of the summer…we’re so excited!!! They came today and we jumped around a lot in the diving pool. It‘s just his first day, and one of the guys already went off the top platform (10 meters)! Then we just treaded water in the diving pool, passing around our volley ball/pretend water polo ball, trying to throw well, giving up, and then trying to hit each other in the face with it.

ANYHOO, like I said, I’ve got to go to bed now. Ta-ta!

--Jessica