Here we are, the Saturday before finals week and I thought I'd take the time I should be studying to share with you some of the awesome things I've learned this year. While these are really only a few of the insights the experience has afforded me, as this adventure draws to a close, I thought I'd share with you a list of the top ten lessons I learn in my first year of college.
1. Anything can and will mold.
Except for like Twinkies. Really. Coffee molds! Who knew, right?
2. All you need are socks.
And until you need socks or other unmentionables, you won't do laundry. Not for your lucky jeans. Not for your sheets. Not even for the only shirt that doesn't make you look fat. Until you need socks or undies, you will make do.
3. Make work fun.
Working in college kind of sucks, but only if you let it. I work the worst job imaginable - Campus Dining. But about 99% of the time I love my job because I make it fun. I talk to my co-workers and our customers and I will be the one laughing it off when something little goes wrong, working the fastest to get through the orders of the entire baseball team with a smile or following the stupid rules about cleaning/cooking/breathing cheerfully. I will be the one making the jokes, poking fun and having a great time. Because if I have to be here four days a week, it had better be fun.
4. What the hell is sociology?
Sociology, friends is the study of development, structure and functioning of human society and its institutions and it is awesome. I never knew what it was and probably would have gone my whole life without really knowing so if my first year experience course had not been with a sociology professor whose influence had a profound affect on me. Now I'm considering a minor in sociology and have a whole new perspective with which to view the world around me.
5. Boys will be boys.
You thought they'd be different then they were in high school, but no. They're just the same.
6. Studying is best done in solitude.
Group study is a great idea! We can all catch up with homework and each other at the same time! HA! Not.
7. Stress less.
Money, commitments, due dates, uncertainty, life... it's all so terrifying. Sometimes it all catches up with me and I have a mini panic attack. But then Bob Marley comes to the rescue and I play Three Little Birds and I believe everything he sings to me. Every little thing is going to be alright and it's nothing a few deep breaths and a good night's sleep can't fix.
8. Balance is key.
Balance your workload, balance your diet, balance you budget, balance your backpack, balance your friends, balance your life. Moderation is the golden rule.
9. Do what you want to when you want to.
If you wanna go, even if you have to go alone, then you should go. If you want to stay even through everyone else is going, then by all means stay. Be your own person for goodness sake. If you can't count on yourself to look after you, who will?
10. Communicate, Articulate, Elaborate.
In class, in relationships, in writing, in thought, in word - say what's in your head and heart, say it well and be prepared to expound on your ideas.
Showing posts with label memories. Show all posts
Showing posts with label memories. Show all posts
Saturday, May 12, 2012
Saturday, October 9, 2010
Sickly Sweet Childhood Memories
The following is one of, if not my all time, favorite childhood memories.
My younger sister, Clare and I, were outside playing on one of those winter days where it is warm and sunny, even though there is a good several inch layer of snow on the ground. On this particular day, we were getting along pretty well. Which, for us, meant only trying to assassinate the other once or twice.
We squabbled famously until this year. I finally broke down and matured, I guess. She's my closest sibling, as we are a little over a year apart. When this story takes place, I believe we are about ten and nine, respectively, perhaps a little younger.
Any way, on this lovely winter day, we happened to venture out by the gravel road of our rural home and lo and behold! A half emptied bottle of Pepsi- all alone and unguarded, just waiting for two lucky kids like us! We were thrilled to find that this bottle of the ever coveted carbonated treat was still two thirds full, and after some deliberation, we decided the benefits of free soda far outweighed the risks of someone elses backwash.
On a normal day, we would have fought like cats and dogs over the soda, causing such a stir that my Mother would have come outside to see what all the fuss was about and confiscated our prize. However, the stars were in harmonious alignment that day, and we agreed to share it equally.
We were going over the nitty gritty details of how to split the soda properly when suddenly, inspiration struck. I don't recall whose idea this was, or if this was our intent from the very beginning, but we decided that the same good and kid-loving gods who had sent us this soda had also bestowed upon us a surplus of snow with which to mix it. (Slushies!!)
This presented the problem of how to blend the slushies. We weren't stupid, and we knew revealing our secret would result in either less slushie per person, or no slushie at all depending on who found us first, a sibling or a parent. Thus, we acted with great resourcefulness and efficiency in our covert operation, procuring an old dog dish (yes, it gets grosser) to hold the goods (which I declared, with older sisterly superiority, to be quite sanitary after sitting in a freezing snow bank. Germs freeze to death. Duh.)
Then we found some clean(ish) snow to put into the dog dish and then we poured our precious Pepsi on top. Finding a stick (which was also the very picture of sanitation after we picked most of the bark off of it), we stirred the slushie in song. Seriously. We made up a slushie song. Heck if I know how it went, but I distinctly remember singing. And stirring.
We used sticks to scoop the first spoo...I mean stickfuls into our mouths. We agreed that it was excellent and congratulated each other on our genius. It was then decided that such genius should be applied further and that the fruits of it's labor should be named.
We decided to call it, with the sweet, senseless logic of children, A C Cola, short for 'Anna and Clare's Cola' This was obviously the thing to call a snow saturated Pepsi product. It was perfect.
And so, we ate and made merry and declared it one of the best things we had ever eaten. (I'm not gonna lie, it was pretty darn good.) And dispite our twisted sanitation efforts, we both survived.
I love that memory... I know ya'll think I'm revolting, that's okay, it's true. But that memory so captures what I remember of being a kid. Freedom. Creativity. Simplicity. Innocence. Sure, in theory we knew it was gross to drink someone elses soda, that dog mouths are not clean and neither is what birds put on snow. So what? We did it anyway. And we loved it. We thought it was perfect.
And so, it was.
My younger sister, Clare and I, were outside playing on one of those winter days where it is warm and sunny, even though there is a good several inch layer of snow on the ground. On this particular day, we were getting along pretty well. Which, for us, meant only trying to assassinate the other once or twice.
We squabbled famously until this year. I finally broke down and matured, I guess. She's my closest sibling, as we are a little over a year apart. When this story takes place, I believe we are about ten and nine, respectively, perhaps a little younger.
Any way, on this lovely winter day, we happened to venture out by the gravel road of our rural home and lo and behold! A half emptied bottle of Pepsi- all alone and unguarded, just waiting for two lucky kids like us! We were thrilled to find that this bottle of the ever coveted carbonated treat was still two thirds full, and after some deliberation, we decided the benefits of free soda far outweighed the risks of someone elses backwash.
On a normal day, we would have fought like cats and dogs over the soda, causing such a stir that my Mother would have come outside to see what all the fuss was about and confiscated our prize. However, the stars were in harmonious alignment that day, and we agreed to share it equally.
We were going over the nitty gritty details of how to split the soda properly when suddenly, inspiration struck. I don't recall whose idea this was, or if this was our intent from the very beginning, but we decided that the same good and kid-loving gods who had sent us this soda had also bestowed upon us a surplus of snow with which to mix it. (Slushies!!)
This presented the problem of how to blend the slushies. We weren't stupid, and we knew revealing our secret would result in either less slushie per person, or no slushie at all depending on who found us first, a sibling or a parent. Thus, we acted with great resourcefulness and efficiency in our covert operation, procuring an old dog dish (yes, it gets grosser) to hold the goods (which I declared, with older sisterly superiority, to be quite sanitary after sitting in a freezing snow bank. Germs freeze to death. Duh.)
Then we found some clean(ish) snow to put into the dog dish and then we poured our precious Pepsi on top. Finding a stick (which was also the very picture of sanitation after we picked most of the bark off of it), we stirred the slushie in song. Seriously. We made up a slushie song. Heck if I know how it went, but I distinctly remember singing. And stirring.
We used sticks to scoop the first spoo...I mean stickfuls into our mouths. We agreed that it was excellent and congratulated each other on our genius. It was then decided that such genius should be applied further and that the fruits of it's labor should be named.
We decided to call it, with the sweet, senseless logic of children, A C Cola, short for 'Anna and Clare's Cola' This was obviously the thing to call a snow saturated Pepsi product. It was perfect.
And so, we ate and made merry and declared it one of the best things we had ever eaten. (I'm not gonna lie, it was pretty darn good.) And dispite our twisted sanitation efforts, we both survived.
I love that memory... I know ya'll think I'm revolting, that's okay, it's true. But that memory so captures what I remember of being a kid. Freedom. Creativity. Simplicity. Innocence. Sure, in theory we knew it was gross to drink someone elses soda, that dog mouths are not clean and neither is what birds put on snow. So what? We did it anyway. And we loved it. We thought it was perfect.
And so, it was.
Sunday, September 12, 2010
The Tale of a Mediocre Poet
I started writing poetry when I was in 5th grade.
I wrote my first poem in a crisp new composition book. It was the beginning of the school year, and filled with scholarly ambition, I scribbled a short poem during some free time, hoping to earn the approval of my teacher and Mother.
That poem went something exactly like this:
As the new morning dawn
The flower stirs, the bluebird yawns
All creatures quiver with delight
As earth is flooded with new light
All the darkness been deleted
All the evil been defeated
All the creatures ooh and ah
At the glory of our God
(2003)
It was a simple little thing, filled with young, overdone emotion and easy rhymes. But I was ridiculously proud of that thing. I had discovered a new power, a new ability in myself. Obviously I was incredibly talented and could write this stuff for a living someday! I circulated it amongst the literate members of my family and each one praised me for it with an encouraging word, patted me on the head and forgot about. But I didn't.
After that, I didn't need much encouraging to write some more, even though my Mother was duly impressed with my effort. I loved the timing and rhyming of a poem. I loved the tight emotion it could convey. I loved the effortless flow and the gentle ebb of the words. And I loved that I could make them do that.
As the years went by (oh goodness, I sound old now...) I wrote on and off. Sometimes almost years went by and I would write nothing. Good poems, bad poems, downright awful poems and poems I dare not even call poems. Some days were better than others, some years were better than others. I would go months without writing one and then I would right four in one day.
A smile says what words cannot
A presents from above
A gentle hand can heal a heart
For these are act of love
(2007)
Sun sinks lower in the sky
Now 'tis dusk, the day gone by
The birds last call, they cease to fly
The little moon, both sleek and sky
Here she now peeks out her head
Sun, away has softly tread
Nature tucked into her bed
Man takes leave and rests his head
(2008)
Heart, I need to talk to you
I must know what you're thinking
Are you trying to break yourself?
Are you fond of sinking?
Heart, what are you playing here?
I'm not playing to
Heart, what are you trying to pull?
I need to talk to you
(2009)
A symphony of sorrow
Is being played tonight
When nearer is tomorrow
Than yesterday's last light
I hear it on my windowpane
The tears that from the sky
Fall down for this lonely plain
And for the cricket's cry
I hear the rumble, bold and true
The thunder's mighty roll
Lightning tears the sky in two
And leaves an empty hole
The song repeats it's sweet refrain
And rolls across the sky
It plays it for this lonely plain
And for the cricket's cry
(2010)
I never name them. I never date them. The only way I know when they came from is what notebook or text document I find them in. They are all grouped together and written sloppily, littered with crossed out words, arrows pointing to new sentences, hidden amongst doodles and random scribbles. Sometimes they are truly pathetic, but only two or three have I thrown away once they were completed. The few I have chosen for you are just a glimpse of many like them.
I have written many and lost many. I have loved some and hated some. They mean so much and yet nothing to me. I know they are poorly done and sometimes even very bad. But I keep on writing them. I think I might always write them. It has simple stuck with me and at some point became a part of me.
Only recently have I come to an appreciation of other people's poetry. I used to try to read it, but it was too wordy or written in a way I couldn't relate to as the shallow, dense whippersnapper I pretend I'm not anymore. But now, I love it dearly. I prefer short poems to long ones and I have trouble following it sometimes, but truly, there is nothing more beautiful than Wordsworth, Poe and Dickinson.
The tale of this mediocre poet, brief though it may be, is best summarized in my works themselves. They are simple. They convey nothing great, wise and wonderful. They are just the thoughts and observations of a humble mind and I submit them, and this tale, to your scrutiny with that same humility. I know they are not much, but neither am I. We make a happy little pair, simple though we are.
I wrote my first poem in a crisp new composition book. It was the beginning of the school year, and filled with scholarly ambition, I scribbled a short poem during some free time, hoping to earn the approval of my teacher and Mother.
That poem went something exactly like this:
As the new morning dawn
The flower stirs, the bluebird yawns
All creatures quiver with delight
As earth is flooded with new light
All the darkness been deleted
All the evil been defeated
All the creatures ooh and ah
At the glory of our God
(2003)
It was a simple little thing, filled with young, overdone emotion and easy rhymes. But I was ridiculously proud of that thing. I had discovered a new power, a new ability in myself. Obviously I was incredibly talented and could write this stuff for a living someday! I circulated it amongst the literate members of my family and each one praised me for it with an encouraging word, patted me on the head and forgot about. But I didn't.
After that, I didn't need much encouraging to write some more, even though my Mother was duly impressed with my effort. I loved the timing and rhyming of a poem. I loved the tight emotion it could convey. I loved the effortless flow and the gentle ebb of the words. And I loved that I could make them do that.
As the years went by (oh goodness, I sound old now...) I wrote on and off. Sometimes almost years went by and I would write nothing. Good poems, bad poems, downright awful poems and poems I dare not even call poems. Some days were better than others, some years were better than others. I would go months without writing one and then I would right four in one day.
A smile says what words cannot
A presents from above
A gentle hand can heal a heart
For these are act of love
(2007)
Sun sinks lower in the sky
Now 'tis dusk, the day gone by
The birds last call, they cease to fly
The little moon, both sleek and sky
Here she now peeks out her head
Sun, away has softly tread
Nature tucked into her bed
Man takes leave and rests his head
(2008)
Heart, I need to talk to you
I must know what you're thinking
Are you trying to break yourself?
Are you fond of sinking?
Heart, what are you playing here?
I'm not playing to
Heart, what are you trying to pull?
I need to talk to you
(2009)
A symphony of sorrow
Is being played tonight
When nearer is tomorrow
Than yesterday's last light
I hear it on my windowpane
The tears that from the sky
Fall down for this lonely plain
And for the cricket's cry
I hear the rumble, bold and true
The thunder's mighty roll
Lightning tears the sky in two
And leaves an empty hole
The song repeats it's sweet refrain
And rolls across the sky
It plays it for this lonely plain
And for the cricket's cry
(2010)
I never name them. I never date them. The only way I know when they came from is what notebook or text document I find them in. They are all grouped together and written sloppily, littered with crossed out words, arrows pointing to new sentences, hidden amongst doodles and random scribbles. Sometimes they are truly pathetic, but only two or three have I thrown away once they were completed. The few I have chosen for you are just a glimpse of many like them.
I have written many and lost many. I have loved some and hated some. They mean so much and yet nothing to me. I know they are poorly done and sometimes even very bad. But I keep on writing them. I think I might always write them. It has simple stuck with me and at some point became a part of me.
Only recently have I come to an appreciation of other people's poetry. I used to try to read it, but it was too wordy or written in a way I couldn't relate to as the shallow, dense whippersnapper I pretend I'm not anymore. But now, I love it dearly. I prefer short poems to long ones and I have trouble following it sometimes, but truly, there is nothing more beautiful than Wordsworth, Poe and Dickinson.
The tale of this mediocre poet, brief though it may be, is best summarized in my works themselves. They are simple. They convey nothing great, wise and wonderful. They are just the thoughts and observations of a humble mind and I submit them, and this tale, to your scrutiny with that same humility. I know they are not much, but neither am I. We make a happy little pair, simple though we are.
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