At my old house, everything was warm and cozy. We were all comfortable, my husband, my 2 kids, Priscilla and Dean, and myself. The love when we all sat near the television set and radio was a blanket that draped around our shoulders. I was the most heartbroken one when we received the news that my husband was being drafted into the military. We had to move, since my job of being a waitress at a small diner didn’t really support our family. Dang nabbit, this World War is killing me.
The children and I stood in the front lawn of the new house. We stared. The entire house was falling apart! I gulped, slowly walking towards the door. As I opened it, it creaked REALLY loudly. I’ll put that on my list of things to fix up. We walked in, carefully. Creaky floorboards...yup, gotta fix this house. We all looked around. Priscilla found the kitchen…thank goodness! A Wedgewood oven! A nice, good one, too, that works perfectly! Meanwhile, Dean was the one who found all of the beef with the house. He found a lot of open crevices and holes, sags in the roof, mold and water stains, and much, much more. This house is going to be a lot of work. I walked around a little bit more, I had the feeling of a needy child tugging on the bottom of my dress, while I looked down and watched my dress rip on the bottom from a broken piece of the floorboards. My dress! My brand new tea dress! Ruined! I bent over and picked up the little piece of red and white polka-dotted fabric. I really, really, REALLY can’t wait to fix up this battered old house! No more creaky ANYTHING, no more holes, no more mold, everything fixed up...and ESPECIALLY no more ruined dresses! As the radio played, Dean and Priscilla sang along as the Andrews Sisters were singing their newest tune, “Boogie Woogie Bugle Boy.” While I was cooking our dinner, Dean ran over and grabbed my hand. He pulled me into the brand new, renovated living room, as Priscilla started to play the Andrews Sisters’ song “Give Me Some Skin, My Friend” on the record player. Since we were all such big Andrews Sisters fans, we memorized the moves and lyrics to the song, and the kids tried to make me dance with them like they did in the movie the Sisters sang it in. As we sang and danced, high-fives flying around to the catchy tune, I heard a knock on the door. I walked over, laughing, while the children still sang and danced. I opened the door, and a familiar face appeared. I shrieked with joy, jumping up to hug him, with tears flowing. My husband spins me around while we hug, and gives me a great, big kiss. When he puts me down, we hear the running of Dean and Priscilla’s feet along the brand new, smooth floorboards, coming to greet their father. They jumped up and gave him a bear hug, showing their huge smiles. Now, since my husband has returned from his service in the war, we can enjoy the new, renovated, bright house together as a complete family.
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I went to school in Jenkintown all twelve years, and the thing that stuck with me most was the garden. Blooming in yellows and pinks every spring, and in the summer it grew bulbous ruby colored tomatoes and sweet, emerald colored sugar snap peas. When I went to the garden it would always inhabit an enormity of bugs busily buzzing around and aunts and babysitters would be on their knees with browned shoes and imprints on their hands looking for ripe vegetables and fruit for the little ones they were watching. In the fall, people would be looking for the few flowers that were still alive. At little league baseball games, mothers would be chasing their miniscule children around the garden, while trying to see their player in the field. It was a popular “hangout” place for the 5th graders at recess, often to be chased out by the busy as the bugs they working with 6th graders. The garden in my memory was a community, a mini-Jenkintown for people to grow up in. At least that was how I remembered it.
When I came back to Jenkintown to visit my parents, 10 years after my senior year, I wanted to see the garden. I went to the schoolyard and walked down the hill to the garden, or where I thought the garden was. My hopes were high, and I was smiling. I thought the garden was going to be in great shape. When I actually reached the bottom of the hill, my heart was like the Titanic, split in two and sunken to the bottom of an ocean of tears. In place of the garden was a tall building, taller that the school itself. I pulled aside a kid who was walking up to the building and asked, “What is that? Where is the garden?” The child looked at me like I just sprouted another head. “Ummmmmm I’m not really supposed to talk to strangers,” he said warily, “I went to school here, I am practically a sister, and a garden used to be in place of this,” I said gesturing to the huge building. “Well then, what garden?” he asked with much confusion, “The computer lab has been there since I was in kindergarten,” “You mean you never have seen the beautiful, welcoming garden, that was here for the later part of my school career here?” I was devastated that they turned the garden, a natural beauty that everyone could take care of, love, and nourish, into a computer lab. I was so completely crushed that I started to inflate. I saw a group of seniors walk into the building, these people should remember what great fun they had in this garden. For they had been second graders my senior year, and presumably the last of the garden generation here. I felt tears streaming down my face as I watched the ones who could have saved this, go into the thing that destroyed the garden that they studied in and played in as children. They even worked in it when they were in sixth grade, growing their own food and working it. They could have stopped this, but they decided a computer lab was superior. When I went home, I started to write a letter to the superintendent: ‘Dear Superintendent, I noticed that 5 years after my senior graduation that the garden was demolished. In place what I saw was a computer lab. I am greatly annoyed about this occurrence and decided to write to you about it. I believe that all of the children should get a chance to have nice organic food that they knew where it came from. Also, now that you have demolished a common gathering place, I do not know what people who want to sit in a place and surround themselves in beauty will have to do just so. Another issue is that now you will have more health issues with people running into the wall of that building at full speed. I just wanted to bring that up with you. Sincerely, Marge Willson Marge Willson Graduate of Jenkintown School District I slapped a stamp on the letter and sped to the post office to deliver this, I figured this would be a more formal way to send it to the Superintendent. I stayed at my parents for the next week and received a reply, ‘Dear Ms. Wilson, Thank you for your concern about the past garden and current computer lab. I assure you that the subject has been on my and the school board’s mind for quite a while. We decided to make the spot a computer lab for clearly educational purposes. We all figured together it would be better for everybody if we made that space a computer lab. I know you highly disagree, but you must understand this decision was for the better of the community. Sincerely, Mit Carlson Dr. Mit Carlson Superintendent of the Jenkintown School District’ I was angered that first, he thought that the computer lab was a better decision than a garden, secondly that he spelled my name wrong, and third that he thought that the lab was on the minds of the school boards mind for the past five years. I have saved that letter as a constant reminder that the beautiful world is constantly being replaced by screens. I will never forget the day that I found out. I still loathe the fact that the garden has turned into a place for all the children in their free time to stare a a glowing box while saying it was for educational purposes. you did not die
you simply moved you moved into my dreams. you moved into my heart, a little closer day by day you moved into a memory that will slowly fade away. It was a couple years ago when one of my closest friends attempted suicide. When I saw the suicide note online, I was skeptical. I did not think he would try. That was until the next day, when I returned to school. The teachers and principal brought everybody in my grade to talk about my friend’s attempted suicide in private. I was stunned. Thankfully, his attempt was a failure, and he was unharmed.
Suicide is a very dark and sensitive subject. In 2012, 40,600 suicides were reported that year. In case you didn’t know, suicide is the act of one killing him/herself. It affects everybody, whether they liked that person or not. Nobody deserves to follow the route of suicide. As somebody who is suicidal, I know how difficult it is to try and push away the horrible thoughts. I understand how crappy one can feel when all you want to do is curl up and disappear. This may sound extremely cliché and impossible, but you can overcome these feelings. You are important, special, and you are brave enough to get through this. If you are suicidal, I, someone you may or may not know, believe you can get through this. You just need some help. It’s okay to have feelings like this, but when it gets too serious, then it needs to be helped. Okay, let’s take the place of somebody who knows a person who is suicidal. What do you do? Talk to them about how they’re feeling. Also, tell a counselor or the person’s relative about what is going through this person’s mind, that way they have some kind of “warning” and could help this at an earlier stage. If this person begins to show signs that they will hurt him/herself or attempt, tell someone IMMEDIATELY. Whether you think they’re actually going to do it or not, just tell somebody. I was cynical when I first saw my friend’s suicide note, just like everybody else who read it. I didn’t say or do anything. Only one person took action, and they did the right thing. Everybody else believed that he was just saying it and wouldn’t actually attempt. Obviously, that was a big mistake that could have taken a life. I know it’s difficult to escape from the demons, I know you’re ready to give up, but just hold on for a bit longer. This one time when I was feeling really suicidal, and just about ready to give up, my one friend said: “None of that makes you any less wonderful or brilliant. You’re still a creative, brave survivor with so much ahead of you. … You’ve got a million reasons to keep going. Stuff’s bad right now, but it isn’t always going to be. It sounds like such a cliché, but I promise it will get better.” the girl in the red and blue dress.
the girl in the red and blue dress who thought that her life was a mess, she held her head high she tried not to cry the girl in the red and blue dress. Note: This article addresses sensitive subjects, including rape.
My Bar Mitzvah was not only a celebration or a scheme to make money, my Bar Mitzvah was about the transition from childhood to manhood. This transformation meant that no longer would my parents be responsible for the sins that I committed or the actions that I took. As large of a burden as this was, it was a necessary one on my way to adulthood. Today, however, far too many youths are stopping short of adulthood and wrongly concluding that their actions have no detrimental consequences. An absence of true responsibility has stagnated development in our youth and thus created a liberal orthodoxy in which even the most heinous of things goes; it is for this reason that rape culture has become so pervasive at our colleges. Until college students learn to grow up or at least reason that they’re responsible for their own actions, the status quo will remain the same. Click the Read More link to finish this article. Many of us have wondered: why can we tickle each other, but not ourselves? Many studies believe that the answer to this question may be a key to understanding our own “consciousness and self-awareness.” Therefore, many universities and laboratories were willing to go to “extreme lengths” in order to enable people to tickle themselves in the lab, overcoming unconscious barriers.
The interest with “self-tickling” stems from the idea that the ability to separate the movements of yourself and the movements of other people is a sophisticated aspect of our “sense of self.” While many aspects of our actions illustrate this idea, tickling is often used as an example because it is “easily replicated in the lab.” Additionally, it is easy to demonstrate because the reaction from tickling oneself contrasts greatly with the reaction from being tickled by an outside source. One lab, in University College London, conducted an experiment in which subjects’ brains were scanned as scientists tickled the subject’s hands, and then again when the subjects tried to tickle their own hands. This study concluded that as we move our limbs, the cerebellum predicts the body’s movements, and then sends out a dampening signal to the place in our brains where the sense of touch is produced. As a result, when we tickle ourselves, our brain has already anticipated this tickling sensation, and has blocked it from causing the usual discomfort or pleasure that many people receive when being tickled. It was in my bowl. Staring at me, this happens every year I thought, this year was hopefully the final year of my thanksgiving torture. The bright orange soup looked like radioactive waste that my grandmother put in my bowl. My parents were telling me I would like it, and how wrong could they be? I put some on my spoon and bravely lowered the slime into my throat, the taste flooded my tongue destroying the homes of my taste buds. Or so I thought, it tasted...FANTASTIC! I couldn’t believe that I had mistrusted this wonderful allie for more than a second. My grandmothers squash soup was the best form of squash I had ever had.
I see America posting, the varied posts I see,
Those of keyboards, each one tapping as it should be blithe and strong, The teenager texting as they do their homework, The boy bands posting his as he makes ready for concert, or leaves the dressing room, The cats yowling on the screen, the youtubers talking on the laptop face, The Kardashians doing nothing as they sit in their palaces, the gamers gaming as they sit, The google’s words, the selfie’s on it’s way in the morning, or at noon intermission or at sundown, The cutsie posting of the mommy blogger, or of the young women at work, or of the girl blogging or texting, Each posting what belongs to him or her and to none else, The day what belongs to the day—at night the party of young fellows, robust, friendly, Posting with open fingers their strong melodious posts again and
again, over and over. just wait. one day, some day. direct your attention, hold on. continue waking up. morning after morning day, after day. one day soon. some day soon. it'll all be over |