Self-Potrait

This is a painting that I did for a class assignment. The point was to focus on texture whether implied or real. This is mostly implied. Also, it was supposed to be a self-portrait and I have done enough of those. Almost every art class I have ever taken, except ceramics, has required at least one self-portrait if not more. And strangely enough I don't find myself the most interesting subject but I suppose it is art-sy. My teacher said that we could draw something that represented us instead of ourselves. That's when the problem started. What objects represent me? Of course I could have painted an archaeolgy trowel, or a scripture case, or a book. But I felt like things like that do not really represent who I am but just one hobby or one aspect of myself, but not me. I also toyed with the idea of drawing a picture of me as a character from a book (Vin from Mistborn, or Umbridge from Harry Potter as a joke). That didn't feel right either though. So this is the best analogy I could feel comfortable with. It's a path, but there are many paths that are available but they also cuts yourself off from the other paths. I'm not sure I am completely happy with the result but it's alright, I guess.

Changes in Candy Land

My first expedition into Candy Land was several years ago now. More then several in fact. I went there first as a child. I had been asked specifically to search for the missing King Kandy and was helped on my way by the cuddly Mr. Plumpy and Mr. Mint. I passed a disturbing looking gumdrop man and neglected Gramma Nutty's Peanut Brittle. There were several sticky sections where I was caught indefinitely but with the wisdom of the King's daughter, Lolly, and his wife Frostine I made it through. And finally by passing the friendly Gloppy I discovered the missing, plump King. The landscape was simple, and easily understood and my mission was clear.

Recently I was invited back to Candy Land by King Kandy for a party in my honor (perhaps he remembered my former rescue attempts). Things had changed since my last visit. Mr Plumpy's gingerbread plum trees had gone extinct and were replaced by a Cupcake delivery service. Global climate change had also been hard on Mr. Mint's peppermint forest, it was now an ice cream slope perfect for snowboarding. Gumdrop pass was taken over by gummy bears, and Gramma Nutty's home had been remodeled into a gingerbread house. Lord Licorice was still up to his old tricks though, but his power had diminished, he could now only halt you for a moment on his sticky paths. I was sad to discover though, that King Kandy must have lost his wife to over eating, but before she passed away she left another daughter. Princess Frostine and Princess Lolly urged me onto the palace for the party. Right before I  got to the castle I climbed over a chocolate mountain (where there used to be a swamp, there must have been an earthquake) passing an older Gloppy and Gramma Nutty's sister. The King, looking strangely fit welcomed me to the party. It was a relief to get there, because the landscape had seemed remarkably busy, but seeing as parties are not my favorite thing I wondered why I went there to begin with.

Now maybe I just hate to see change, but I admit I was a little disappointed. Mostly because I felt like my mission was important the first time, I mean a King was missing! I was also very surprised by the impressive weight loss by the King and some of the others in a world where only candy is available. However, I rather liked the gingerbread remodeling and the gummy bears new train station.
Who knew Candy Land would change so  much, almost like it was more connected to our world then I thought. Single parents, busier lives, more parties, and apparently more diets.

Nativities

The past couple of days have been filled with looking at the lights. Yesterday some friends and I went to Salt Lake City, Temple Square, to look at the lights. The day before we drove around our town looking at the lights. It snowed some both nights. One of my favorite things about snow is driving while it is snowing at night, (granted, I am usually a passenger). The snowflakes coming straight at you spiraling towards you, their vivid whiteness against the darkness. It feels  like entering a time warp. At least the time warps shown in media, I haven't actually been in a time warp before.
As we were driving along admiring the lights I noticed a lot of outdoor nativity sets, mostly because I recently made the one above. I sketched the outline on plywood, a neighbor with a table saw cut it out, and then with some help from family I sanded the edges, glued them (to add another layer of protection) and painted it. If I ever made another one I think I would change a few things, but overall I think it turned out nicely.
So of course, as I saw all the other sets I judged them. Some I really didn't like, but most of them were really nice, they are just so different I don't think I can compare them. There were plastic and wood, lighted and unlighted, colored and plain, boughten and homemade, sets including sheep and angels, shepherds and wisemen, and simpler ones like mine. My mother also collects nativity sets, and she has quite a few. They are all so different and fun. I guess that is the best thing about art, and people in general. Even though there are things in common there is such variety and interest that we don't have to just pick one.
Nativities are especially meaningful in this regard, because they are a representation of Christ, who is everyone's Redeemer, but because we are different, he means something a little different to all of us. He saved us individually, so that we can become the best individuals we can be.

Consuming and Creating: Part 2: Consuming begets Creation

I have previously written some about Consuming and Creating and this is a continuation of those thoughts. Yesterday I watched the movie Prince Caspian. It was one of those rare moments of consumption that motivated me to create. Sometimes I think that media can be so well created that it inspires you to be better, stronger, braver, and more creative. I had a similar experience in high school and I have since documented that experience in the following snapshot.

 Quietly I turned the last page and closed the book before me. I ran my hands down the worn binding of The Killer Angels and gently returned it to the second pocket of my backpack. Barely hearing the noisy chatter all around me I gazed out the bus window. The familiar trees and roads went by, but I saw only the bloody fields of Gettysburg. We turned down Shawsheen Road and in a daze I got off at my stop, distancing myself even more from the loud chaos.

I practically tiptoed home as I contemplated the death and the sadness, the absolute majesty of the book. In the very midst of Union victory Shaara had reverted to the view of the Confederate leader, Longstreet. The triumph I had experienced just pages before turned to the futileness of defeat. Every war has two such sides, and yet rarely are both sides portrayed so well.

I set each foot down carefully, avoiding crackling leaves, as I walked up the wooden steps of our porch and opened the door slowly. I carefully took off my shoes and inched the door shut. I moved in a sort of personal memorial for the men who had died and the writer who had brought them to life.

“Why are you being so quiet?” My Mom called from the next room, jarring my thoughts.

“I just feel like it” I said, hating to break my silence.

Happy December

There is something about December that is partly Christmas that I love. As soon as the calendar says December (if not before) out comes the nativity sets, and the advent calendars and the trees. I think part of why I love it so much is the sweet nostalgia that it is based on. The Christmas Tree Ornaments from past years made with friends, or cheerfully given by them. The same with the books, and the nativity sets and many other things. It just feels like the whole month is filled with expectations. It's lovely. So happy December to all of you.

Anchors Painting

So here is a painting I did for an art project in school. But I was able to also do something that had some meaning for me. This is supposed to be Hope from my short story Anchors (Part 1, Part 2). We were supposed to use a specific color scheme, I choose the complementary colors blue and orange. I still don't know how I feel about the cloud reflections in the water.

On Death and Violence

I apologize, through a combination of circumstances I haven't posted on here for a couple of weeks. Opps. Here is a longish post.
Hmm. The title of this post sounds a little depressing but I don't think it will be too bad. My friends and I have recently been watching some western TV shows and movies, especially The Young Riders (which you can view for free on Hulu). They are all wearing guns, and always shooting them, and calling each other out. We thought it would be fun to buy ourselves some fake guns to play around with, keep them holstered on our hips and call each other out. That kind of good stuff. We did. It's been pretty entertaining.
Last night I watched The Amazing Spider-Man, complete with gun holstered on my hip sticking into me. Uncle Ben was killed with a gun. I felt overly conscious, maybe even dirty, for having such a play item. After all pistols are primarily for killing people.
A month or two ago I went with the same friends to go crawdad fishing. We waded through a shallow river and grabbed these little crustaceans right behind their claws (so they can't pinch you), throw them in a bucket of water, and then bring them home. Where we twisted off their tails and pulled out the guts and then threw them in a pot of boiling water where they then were cooked to death.
I am from the east coast. Where guns, hunting, and fishing are all uncommon. So I'm pretty sure this was the first time I had ever killed anything before. What was interesting though was that I really enjoyed splashing through the water grabbing these quick little creatures without getting pinched. The gutting and killing was a little unsavory, but I figured if I hunted them, it was my duty to follow through with the rest of it.
So to connect these two... why is it fun to pretend violence, that part that is energy intensive but not harmful to others, but when it actually hurts it is disturbing? And thus, is it okay, morally okay, to enjoy the hunting, aiming, adrenaline highs? Or should all of that be avoided because real violence is really not a good thing.
Tentatively, I will say, in moderation the energy highs are alright, as long as you know that they are a game, and you don't do them so often that the violence itself is the only time the adrenaline comes. 

Ornaments

 Recently I was invited to a Bridal Shower. Each guest was supposed to bring a gift that started with a designated letter. Mine was "O." I chose to give them ornaments (I also thought about doing an Octopus or Oats but settled on the Christmas Ornaments). I know both the bride and bridegroom and they both like the TV show Dr. Who so I really wanted to make a Tartis (aka. a blue British police box from the show). So, to fulfill this desire I decided to make them out of clay. But not real clay, just the kids modeling clay that you bake, Sculpey. I have worked with it quite a bit in the past, and have enjoyed it. The problem is sometimes I make things too realistic, so it's kind of a lot of work. I enjoyed it though. I ended up making six.

Imperfect Canvas

As Halloween approaches Pumpkin carving is a typical activity. I had two opportunities to try it out. I did a meta pumpkin and an owl (that one I kind of used a pattern for). It was fun. The pumpkin one I wasn't super excited about, but it's grown on me. All this pumpkin carving led to some conversations about them, which is not too surprising. I have always enjoyed making Jack-o-lanterns but not everyone does. Some people understandably don't like the clinging gook that makes your arms itch. But my sister told me that she didn't like carving them because it just isn't a very good medium. Which is true. They bruise, break, and rot. Not to mention that they are really thick so it's hard to show detail and they are not forgiving! And yet, I still like them. After carving my second pumpkin I started thinking about why I like it. I get perverse pleasure when I create something I'm proud of out of a distinctly limited medium. It makes me happy. Case in point are the pictures I made out of a Mr. Potatohead computer program when I was in middle school and high school. Here is a link to a website I made for them http://www.virtualkingdoms.net/spud/museum.html.

Intrinsic vs. Extrinsic Education

Not long ago I heard someone speaking about education. The man said that in the past scholars took on individual disciples or students based upon their merits. In general education was about becoming enlightened  rather then obtaining a good job. In our society of online college degrees and increased pay for higher education this was a rather startling realization. It was kind of depressing. In general I try to look at my education as an opportunity to learn, and become a better individual, but I still often fall into the trap of calculating my grades and doing less then what I expect of myself because my professor doesn't require as much as I could do. Sometimes it feels like the whole educational system is based on extrinsic motivation or forces on the outside encouraging you to learn. I hope that at least some of my personal education is based on intrinsic values.

Homesick

It's Fall.

I have lived in three states in my life, Massachusetts, Indiana, and Utah. 18 years, 18 months, and 4 years. Indiana, (the 18 month stint) I don't really miss the actual state, although I certainly miss the people and the experiences. I still live in Utah so I can't miss that. But, I was thinking about Massachusetts the other day. Fall always reminds me of New England and makes me wistful for it, the stunning leaves, the crisp air, and the anticipation of the season. Utah and Indiana just do not compare, especially with the leaves. Some friends and I drove around looking at leaves the other day, but it just is not the same. The leaves here are just not as vivid, numerous or varied. It's kind of disappointing and looking at the leaves here ends up with me feeling quietly sad. Not the harsh poignant pain of recent injury but the rounded longing of the past. Strangely, (or maybe not) Fall is generally the only time I think much about being homesick for New England. At other times, when I think of Massachusetts it is more like the way that I miss Indiana. Meaning I miss the past, with its people, experiences, and foreignness.

The Frost Ball

My Mama was invited to dress the Garden for the Frost
She said I might come too if I would not be cross.

The air was crisp and new, the ground was hard and cold.
She carried sheets and blankets. The clothespins I could hold.

The Strawberries we covered, so they might go to bed.
The Peppers and Tomatoes were goin' to the Ball instead.

We wrapped up branching shoulder and peeping leafy toe,
They seemed to be a modest bunch, nothing they would show.

Same dressed alone while others, shared their trains with those nearby.
Such veils, and shawls, and scarves I saw. I gave a little sigh.

I wished that me and Mama could go to their fair Ball.
But Mama said "Twas only for the Garden Plants each Fall."

We had to go inside then, and let them go their way.
But later I did watch them out the window as I lay.

I saw them dance and shiver in the darkness of the yard.
Mama said I couldn't go, but that I could be their guard.

So now I warn you, "You can look, but don't go nigh!"
The Garden likes their Frost Ball but they are very shy.

Conversation

Today I conversed about the act of conversation. Talking (and sometimes writing) is generally where some of my more abstract ideas are honed into actual communicable ideas. So here are some thoughts on conversations. Supposedly to be a skilled conversationalist you must focus on asking your companion questions about themselves. Basically the point is to get the other person talking. In general I think this is good advice especially for a first meeting, or a casual acquaintance. My problem is I tend to use this strategy too often. Even talking to fairly close friends and roommates I use this tactic. Which leaves them talking excessively and me rather bored. It's a preemptive tactic that leaves me safe (even if I'm bored).
However, when I end up talking to people that use this tactic as well, or even better then me, it makes me feel threatened. What is this? An inquisition? It's uncomfortable to be the one always talking, because when you talk you are revealing more about yourself then when you stay silent. In other words someone is getting to know you but you aren't getting to know them. Vulnerable, is the word for it. But maybe that's just me. Maybe for most people (like extroverts) being the primary talker is what is comfortable and ideal.
Ultimately I prefer the conversation partner that shares as well as asks, so that you are both becoming vulnerable at the same rate.

Storytellers

In my applied linguistics class this week we watched a movie, one of the sections showed a woman telling a story to some friends, she emphasized her points with almost excessive hand waving. The linguists then explained how she used her words economically and emphasized changes, clauses and movement with her hands. And she did it all naturally. A day or two after I went to a fireside where I heard several other speakers who also seemed to be natural storytellers. They used facial expressions, arm movements and just overall body language. It was very engaging. So are all good storytellers good hand wavers? And if so, are all natural hand wavers good storytellers?  I don't know,but I'm planning on watching more closely,
If so, it is kind of ironic how often people get teased for "talking with their hands."

Rustic Project

 Possibly one of my favorite way to be creative is to see a need and then create something to fill that need. Yesterday I did just such a project. I wanted a small corner shelf to put my clock. At first when I was thinking about it I thought of it in terms of Popsicle sticks. It would of worked, but I figured if I was going to do it I might as well make it a little more classy then that. Thus I created this little shelf with no plans and a little help from my Dad in an hour or two. We split the apple tree branch with a wedge and hammer. Like they used to do to make planks. I was impressed with how well it actually works. It sits on a couple of thumb tacks. So it's not super stable but it works for what I need it to. I didn't use any power tools, all I used was a hand saw, hammer, wedge, square, and nails.

PS. If anyone is curious Rocky, my mountain goat is sitting beneath the shelf in the first picture. He's pretty cute.

Farewell

I walked down the pine needle strewn path for the last time. Sunlight slanted through the trees, dappling the ground and making the mist look hazy and soft. I had run past the pit and the tree fort to the path. Where I now tiptoed through the new poison ivy growth in my bare feet. Each step was sure.

I'd never walk it again. I was saying farewell. My path led along the old paper road, over the small hand dug canal. I half jumped over the little hollow in the trail - tradition. Past the pile of rotting roof tiles perfect for pretend dishes. My hands drifted over the Japanese-Indian Knotweed leaves, the weapons and tools of so many games. My feet turned the corner, passing the thorn bushes' hanging whips. The yellow newspaper stand lay in the leaves, the train track stake still lodged in it's chest. I was at the Log. For the last time.

I checked my watch, I didn't have much time, we would be going to the airport, and Utah in only a few minutes. The intense golden light of morning had already begun to dissolve into the all encompassing light of day. At least we had been able to wait until after my graduation.

The ground was muddy and familiar. I avoided the soggy cushion and used a rock to boost myself up onto the moss covered log. I nestled among the roots and looked out over the marsh. It was a sea of cattails and purple loosestrife, with the forest far behind. A red wing blackbird flew across the blue sky. And I had to leave.

Invisibility

If you have ever watched The Incredibles you are familiar with Violet, the daughter of the family. I was told once that I sounded just like her. That was fine with me, I think her powers are pretty cool; invisibility and force fields. Plus, I really like how she grows and becomes more confident throughout the movie.
Invisibility is interesting though. In some ways it is a cliche for feeling alone or left out, Violet's personal trial. But it is a very understandable cliche if you have ever seen someone else's eyes skip over your face like they were scanning a wall. Someone you know. Or wish to know.
This week school started and as I was walking around campus I felt skipped over at times and I did my own skipping. And I thought about invisibility. When no one notices me, sometimes I laugh (depending on my mood it can be self deprecating or just observationally)  but sometimes I stop noticing people too. Basically I decided that when I notice I'm invisible I then focus so much on being invisible that the people around me become invisible. Weird huh? Invisibility creates invisibility.

Red Mountain

This is a painting of Red Mountain, a mountain near where my brother and his bride live. They have hiked it several times and I decided that I would paint it for them for a wedding gift. I painted it based on several pictures I had. None of them were quite clear, or from the exact angle I was going for, so I mismatched it a bit, but I was told it was recognizable as the appropriate mountain. It was fun to do, not my favorite though. It doesn't have very much going on it, and I sort of got bored at times while painting. I did paint the mountain redder and the sky bluer then I think they typically appear, but I thought that would make it interesting. One interesting tidbit is that after painting most of it I asked for my sister's opinion. She said she saw a lion's face in the foothills on the left. And after that every time I looked at it I saw the lion too. I had to do something about it. So I had to repaint that area. But no, I won't tell you exactly where it was, because then maybe you would see it too, even though I fixed it.

Regency Romance

Due to a combination of circumstances I recently had access to several books of a subgenre I was not even aware of previously. You can probably guess from the title of the post what genre that is: Regency Romance.  Four authors: Elizabeth Gaskell, Georgette Heyer, Julianne Donaldson, and Sarah M. Eden. Seven books: Wives and Daughters, Venetia, The Grand Sophy, Edenbrooke, Seeking Persephone, The Kiss of a Stranger, and finally Friends and Foes. As the name implies they are romance novels set in the regency period, the early 19th century. I have of course previously read the original authors of Regency Romance, Jane Austen and the Bronte sisters but I didn't know that there was a whole group of other authors that wrote similar style books. I have decided that I enjoy the genre, although of course there are disadvantages to it. Most of the authors seemed to mix the manners and propriety of Austen, with the mysterious fastness of the Brontes with an added touch of extra sappiness and kissing of modern romances (which I haven't read much of).
The time period is fun. I have always enjoyed the subtle tension that cannot be directly addressed in this type of book/movie, for example when Elizabeth and Darcy are dancing. Also they are clean, and overall I was impressed with the variety of characters and types of relationships that developed. Venetia and Damarally for example had a relationship based on respect, and a commonality of looking at the world. While Sorrel and Philip's relationship from Friends and Foes was based superficially on teasing with an underlying concern, respect, and understanding of the other person. Anyway, they have been interesting, and fun mostly quick reads.
On the other hand, they were often slightly silly, romances in general seem to run along those lines. Some things were absolutely far-fetched, especially Eden's stories with wolves and deranged uncles around every corner, and an amazing disregard for the familiarity of Christian names. And there gets to be a certain amount of predictability. Plus an amazing lack of communication between the couples that could have solved several problems. But for the most part they all ended cute and happily and the characters are fairly well developed and interesting.
I think my favorite out of all these was Edenbrooke though. The relationship between Marianne and Philip was meaningful and deeper then some. Also I loved how not only did their relationship give each other the love each sought but it helped them overcome other issues that they had. For Marianne of understanding her own worth, and for Philip for learning that his family and Marianne loved him for who he was and not what he was.
Overall I have enjoyed discovering this new subgenre and will continue to read books from it as I get the opportunity. If you like a good romance now and again, you may enjoy it as well.

Consuming and Creating: Part 1: The Importance of Creation

This is a dilemma I am faced with far too often. There is a myriad of movies, books, tv shows, computer games, etc that are so easily accessible. And I enjoy watching, reading and playing them. I also enjoy painting, drawing, writing, and other sorts of creative activity. Unfortunately, I feel that I frequently find that the first choices seem easier or more enjoyable. Then, at the end of the week I find that I have not done anything really interesting. There is nothing to show for my week. That gets depressing. Creation is by far more rewarding in the long runs. Sometimes I wish that consuming wasn't so easy.
It seems to me, that in previous generations, the pioneer era for example, was easier in that way.   Survival, or at least daily work, was literally a handmade craft. That's why people won ribbons at the country fair for their jams, quilts, harnesses, wood furniture, and whatever else. They were proud of the works of their own hands. They didn't even have to look up how to do it on Pinterest!
In this day and age creation seems to be more of a hobby, a bonus rather then a necessity. My problem is I struggle is to make it more of a hobby then reading (all consumption). Wish me luck before I return to school and I won't have time for hobbies.

Tarts of the Harts

So I've been slacking lately (vacation and getting sick) but hopefully things will return to a little more normalcy again. But here is a story I wrote quite some time ago. A type of my own retold fairytale/nursery rhyme.

The Queen
“Five cups of flour, three eggs, four apples, a pinch of yeast. . . what else is there?” the slender, refined woman mumbled to herself as a young serving girl handed her another container. “Oh yes the sugar,” she exclaimed as she swiftly poured it into the mixture.
It was a fine summer's day. A rain storm the night before had cooled it off nicely. A heavy footfall soon interrupted the women's business, however. The liveried footman entered, glanced around in confusion and then returned his eyes to the refined noblewoman.
“Excuse me, your Majesty.” He saluted. “Your Majesty, the King requests your presence in the throne room.”
The Lady dusted her hands on her floury apron and then untied it with a girlish grace. She placed the apron neatly on a counter and followed the footman out of the kitchen. She watched the leaping red hart dance before her on her companions brown livery as they made their way through several winding corridors that she still couldn't get right. When they arrived at the throne room doors the footman announced her presence, and the young Queen entered. She curtsied prettily before her new husband and then went to sit by his side.
“What were you doing madame?” He inquired politely.
“Oh, I was just trying my hand at baking tarts.” she replied with a smile.
Taken aback the King cried, “Why ever so?”
“Oh, you see, one of our knaves said he was a relation through my Grandmother Stella's sister. He said that the recipe for the tarts has been passed down since then, so I thought I'd try them out.”
“What madness to converse with servants. And if you desired tarts why not ask the cooks?” he cried, distressed at her self degradation.

The Knave
Seeing the queen sitting on a bench looking out on the courtyard a young man approached her respectfully. “Excuse me, your Highness, but are those tarts in the kitchen the first efforts of your labors from the recipe?” asked a young man.
“Yes, my friend, and thank you for giving it to me. I think they shall be my last however. The King has forbidden me to bake again and I dare not talk to you much more, answered the Queen while seeming to look past him.
“I'm sorry to hear that, but may I be so forward as to bring some to my father. His health is failing and he would dearly like to taste these tarts baked with the same touch as his mother. That touch is only passed through the women's hand.”
“Of course you may, take as many as you want, but you must excuse me dear cousin, I must now return to my duties. I probably shall not be permitted to talk to you again,” The Queen said looking downcast, as she arose to depart.
“I am dreadfully sorry if I brought you misfortune or ill favor my Lady.” the knave said as he fled to the kitchen. He gathered up the tarts in a handkerchief stacking them with precision and then flew from the castle at the first opportunity. He ran down the city streets choosing smaller and dingier paths until he reached a neat but old cottage near the outer wall.
“Look Mother, the Queen made these tarts, the first she ever made!” The knave cried as he hurried into his father's house.
A weary man lay listless in a decrepit bed surrounded by several children. A care worn woman rose from the man's side and went to meet the boy as he entered.
“Truly, my son, and she really is the direct descendant of Stella from her mother's side!” said his mother.
“Yes, I asked her specifically,” he cried joyously, “but I'm afraid I may have gotten her in trouble, the King does not like us peasants and servants to talk much with the nobles.” he continued, much subdued.
“She is a bride of only a couple of months, and the King seems to be a good man, do not worry too much.” The woman said as way of comfort.
Their talk ended, the man closed his eyes in tiredness and the boy hastened to open the handkerchief. He took out one fresh tart and placed it in his father's hand. The old man brought it hesitantly to his mouth and took a small bite. His wife gently encouraged him and he took another. Color began to return to his wan cheeks and the children grinned or gasped, breaking free of the silent spell that had encircled them.
A few joyful hours later the knave returned to the castle. In his excitement he impetuously sought out the Queen once more. He found her in the vast gardens and sprang upon her.
“Oh, your Majesty. Thank you so much. My father is better and it was all because of those tarts, thank you, thank you.” He cried kneeling at her feet.
“Oh cousin, I am so glad to hear that. But why are you thanking me!” She said graciously at the same time as she stood glancing over her shoulder.
Aghast the boy looked up, “Of course it has everything to do with you, Milady, and those wonderful tarts, have you not heard the tale of Great Aunt Stella?”
“Come let us sit a moment cousin.” the Queen raised the knave from his knees and led him over to a partially enclosed set of benches. “Yes I have heard Grandmother Stella's story, she was a baker's daughter who fell in love and married the prince, but what has that to do with tarts?”
“What has tarts to do with it? Why everything” The knave began, astounded at his Queen's ignorance of the whole thing. “Here, I will tell you the tale as I have always heard it:
“Long ago there lived a superb baker, who had two sons and a daughter. He taught his sons how to bake but his wife and daughter had no interest in such things. Instead they took care of the house and the customers. In fact, Stella spurned anything to do with baking. Her father's bakery, however, was known far and wide throughout the kingdom. He often had nobility and occasionally even royalty buy his goods.
“One day the oldest prince came to the shop and took a liking to Stella as she was serving him, soon he was courting her, and although the King was not overjoyed with the arrangement, he accepted it.
“That same year a dreadful sickness plagued the land. Almost everyone was sick, and many people died from the disease. The oldest prince became very sick and was close to death. Desperate, Stella went to an old wise woman, who some said had magical powers, and asked her what to do.
“Do something you would do for no one else, and that you have never done before.” the woman said. Stella returned home to ponder the strange advice. She could not think of anything, finally her brother, my grandfather, came to her and asked her what was wrong. At first Stella refused to talk, but after some time, and the persuasions of my grandfather she gave in. Together they thought long and hard, with no solution. After a while Grandfather was called back to work. “That's it.” he cried, “bake something! You have never done that, and you've always hated the idea of it.” Not overjoyed at thought, but willing for her Prince's sake Stella conceded. That evening when the days work was through Stella entered the kitchen, a foreign domain. With her brother's instructions she baked for the first time in her life. And true to her suspicions she found the task miserable. Early the next morning she went to the castle with the tarts she had made the night before. The very first tart healed the Prince and soon after they were happily married. Ever after the women in her family are said to be able to make healing tarts on their very first batch.
“And it worked.” The knave exclaimed, finishing his story. “They healed my Dad. And I can't believe that you hadn't heard the story before. Well anyway, I thank you again Milady but I best be getting back to my duties now.” With his farewell and gratitude the boy left the Queen sitting in thoughtful silence.

The King
The library was silent but the King could still not concentrate. His thoughts kept drifting from the maps in front of him. Not two weeks ago his little sister who he fawned upon, had been caught outside during a rain storm while she was out riding. Soon after she had fallen sick with fever. He had called all the physicians in the land but no one could do anything to help her. He visited her often, but any talk of her illness made him nervous. The servants and nobles were sympathetic to his wishes so it was rarely talked of.
Sun shone through the high window, glaring on the side of his face. Still he did not move, he had just been to see the princess and she was doing worse. Helplessness flooded through him, what else could he do? His heart ached at even the thought of loosing his dear sister,
The door creaked open. Still he did not move. The Queen padded through the doorway and knelt by him placing her hands upon his knees. He glanced up and gave a brief smile to the one person who brought him some comfort during these hard weeks. She began to speak encouraged by his smile, although it was weak
“Milord, I spoke to the knave who is my cousin again. I am sorry to disrespect your wishes but, he told me something that might help your sister.” The King's eyes brightened and he began to listen intensely. “It's those tarts” her voice quickening, “he said that the tarts I made healed his father. He said that because they were the first I had ever made they had magical healing properties just like my Grandmother Stella's,”
“They heal. They heal anything?” The king interrupted her.
“I- he said they healed his father, that was the tale-” The Queen's voice faded out abruptly, the tale suddenly seemed totally implausible. She hated to raise her husbands hopes like this just to drop them again if her plan didn't work.
They were interrupted then by the door opening again. The palace physician stood leaning against the door frame. “Excuse me your Majesties, but the Princess seems to be failing fast, would you come to her?”
The King sprung from his chair and plunged through the door and down the corridor away from the Princess's room, a new fire in his eyes. The physician was left looking confused, as the Queen stately departed in the opposite direction to go to her sister-in-law's side.
Running through the palace the King finally saw the boy he was looking for in the courtyard. He rushed outside.
“Halt, boy.” he called. The knave stopped and bowed.
“You're my wife's cousin?” He gasped.
“Yes your Highness. . . how may I serve you?”
“Where are the tarts?”
“I- I brought them to my father's house.”
“All of them. You took ALL of them.” The King raged.
“Yes, forgive me My Lord, if I did wrong-”
Furious, the king swung his fist and hit the knave fully on the side of the head, he crumpled to the ground. The king, nothing but a protective brother, kicked him once more and yelled “Bring them back to me, thief” as he stormed away.

The Knave
The knave gingerly unwound himself and spat blood from his wounded mouth. He got stumbled to his feet and then plunged through the crowds towards home. He barely spoke to his worried family, only enough to assure them that he was fine but needed the tarts. Their joy was broken with worry by the rapidly appearing bruise on his cheek and the slight limp as he ran.
He returned to the castle, and desperately he tried to find the King. Finally, a friendly footman pointed him towards the Princess's chamber. Outside the door stood two soldiers.
“Please, will you bring these to the King or Queen?” he asked them screwing up his courage.
“You're a stable boy, what are you doing up here trying to get into the King?” One soldier answered not unkindly.
“The King wants them, please just bring them to him.”
“The Princess might be dying do you really want us to interrupt the King just now?” the other guard questioned.
“Yes, I do” said the boy, at last understanding why the king wanted the tarts. “I'll take the blame sir, just let me in.”
The guards exchanged glances. “Alright boy, you can take them in.” The first guard nodded to him as his companion eased open the door and called inside. “Excuse me, your Majesties, there is a stable boy here who wants to give you something.”
The boy timidly pushed the door half open, the room was dark and a pale girlish face shown on the pillows of the fine bed. The King held her hand tenderly. The knave hardly recognized the man who had so recently left him lying in the courtyard dust. His face was so consumed now with pity and compassion, as it had so recently been filled with rage. His eyes never once turned from his sister.
Then the boy's gaze shifted to the Queen, she beckoned him closer, and took the handkerchief of tarts from him. Placing the bundle on her knees she unwrapped its sticky contents and broke a piece off of the uppermost tart.
“This really does heal?”
“Yes, Milady.” he answered, hardly daring to break the sickly silence.
She handed the bit of pastry to her husband. For the first time since the knave had entered the King lifted his eyes from his sister's fevered face. He tenderly placed the tart on her tongue while murmuring unheard words. After the second bite her eyes opened wider and a sparkle returned to them. With a glad smile the Queen handed the rest of the tarts to the King and beckoned the knave outside.
“Thank you. You have repaid your gratitude, and returned the princess to our midst not a moment too soon.” The Queen said, sincerely grateful.
In later years the tale and the magic was lost. All that remained was the mocking song that only children wanted to hear sung.

The Queen of Harts she made some tarts all on a summers day,

The knave of Harts he stole the tarts and took them clean away.

The King of Harts called for the tarts and beat the knave full sore.

The knave of Harts brought back the tarts and vowed he'd steal no more.

Addiction

This summer I have been around some people that are addicted to some of the typical addictive substances; caffeine, nicotine, alcohol, etc. It provided me with more indepth and thoughtful personal observance. The Word of Wisdom as explained in more detail here (under the Word of Wisdom heading) talks about avoiding addictive substances as well as other harmful behaviors. This commandement was given to protect our bodies and our spirits. As I observed and thought about addictions I came to understand it better. It's not like if you drink one beer you will become an alcoholic. Or if you smoke pot once, or twice, or a lot that you will become a homeless panhandler. It's more subtle then that. To me an addiction has two parts. First, it is more about how much time you spend thinking about and doing things to make your addiction possible or to participate in it. As in, thinking about how wonderful it will be to smoke again, and how and when you will buy your next pack and then actually the time it takes to smoke. The second part of addictions, is the desire to change your mood by some outside force. Drink away the blues, get buzzed, etc. In reality I think this is a very natural desire, but it is also a counterfeit. As one of my friends once said "If someone has felt the Spirit and then lost it, they would do anything to have it back again." Unfortuntely that is not always the case, but having the Spirit with you is truly an amazing feeling. Sometimes I call it "inexplicable joy." It's wonderful to be filled with the Spirit, but the thing that's different between a "spiritual high" and a drug induced one is that drugs limit your agency, your ability to choose, while the Spirit magnifies it with the motive of love and doing good.
I hope this isn't all too thick.
So the "moral" of my story is that not only the above mentioned substances can be addictive. Many things can become too time consuming and mood altering. I have heard many people talk about chocolate constantly, or they are on facebook for hours. After all this you may ask what my addiction is. Books. This past week I have finished 4 books in 5 days. I need to work on that. . .

Master Love

As I mentioned previously I recently read The Tale of Two Cities by Charles Dickens.  He is a famous author for a reason. It was a masterpiece or interwoven characters, plots and details. As I read I kept wondering why certain chapters were in there, but then in the climax they all came together in an amazingly satisfying and intelligible way. I was very impressed.
Granted I can understand why some people wouldn't like it. It is very detailed, some characters are never even named but just referred to as "the mender of roads" or "the tall man." Which gets rather confusing. Also, it's not written like most books are today, where the whole novel is driven by a flowing plot surrounding a main character.  I still couldn't tell you who the main character is, Lucie perhaps?
But, back to why I like it (which will include spoilers). Sydney Carton was a fascinating character. I never loved him, but I pitied him, and respected him, and loved his sacrifice for Lucie. I pitied him, for the way he doubts himself. Near the beginning of the book he recognizes what he could have been when he sees Darnay, but then he just cries into his pillow. How often have I felt that I can not do better then I am. And I respect him and love his sacrifice -- the very giving of his life -- for a man, who is the husband of the woman he loves. His love is perhaps one of the profoundest, purest forms of love from any book I've read. For the most part he is not jealous, he is inspired to be better and do better, he is steadfast, and he respects both Lucie, and the one's she loves.
I also recently read a book by one of Dicken's contemporaries, Elizabeth Gaskell's Wives and Daughters. She died before she finished it just so everyone knows. I didn't know that and then end was very sudden! But I bring it up as a foil against Carton's love. This is a love story but none of the characters love is as deep, long lasting, and requiring the sacrifice that is shown in Dicken's book. But I guess we can say that for them it is young love, untried. I still felt it was lacking. Everything can't be compared to a master.

Self-esteem

My six year old nephew is a little obsessive about money. He always likes to play with his quarters and always carries them around with him. I wonder if he thinks better of himself when he does have money.
Lately I heard that many people (especially men and boys) build self confidence as they set out and then accomplish hard things.
Personally I know that accomplishing things, especially creative endeavors, gives me a feeling of value and worth. Basically, my level of usefulness determines -- to some extent -- feelings of self-worth.
Ideally self-esteem/self-worth should be an internal knowledge of personal divinity. I am a child of God. That knowledge/feeling is not always innate though and it must be built up and strengthened. I think knowing what other kinds of things build your confidence can be beneficial, especially if they are healthy (as in not facebook popularity or how many toys you have).

Beautiful Death

As a member of the LDS faith I believe in an afterlife that is good and happy and productive. I would not say that I am afraid of death. However, I'm not sure that I'd ever thought of it as beautiful before this Arch trip. We worked in a dead forest with dead trees, looking for the cultural remains of dead people who belong to a dead culture. We found such remains as well as the skeletons of dead animals. In other words, there was quite a bit of death around. And it was beautiful. I don't know how many pictures of dead trees I took, their red streaked trunks scratching the sky. The skeleton of the moose with the ferns I think was my favorite though.

So when I continued on that thread I started thinking about what made death beautiful or not (including that sad kind of beauty that I talked about in "Sadness and Beauty" from January of this year). I think it has something to do with being natural, and mature. When death is natural and mature so it doesn't feel unjust, and the pain isn't raw, nor the skeletons gory then it can become a beautiful, natural, even fuller part of life. 

I'm reading A Tale of Two Cities at the moment. Dickens writes "In the moonlight which is always sad, as the light of the sun itself is--as the light called human life is--as its coming and its going." I had to read it a few times to comprehend it, but again I come to the conclusion just because it is sad it does not mean it is ugly.

Fuzzy

This is one of the pictures I took during this rotation of my archaeology  fieldschool. It was warmer then last rotation but it still snowed on two of the days. I saw this little flower popping up from the snow, and decided to take a picture, it was late in the day and the lighting was poor, and people were waiting on me. Anyway it ended up not being super clear. In some ways I feel like this is how my life is looking right now. I have quite a few thoughts but no words. But this is my attempt: My future is beautiful and hopeful but I can't quite see it yet. I think I know what I want but then again I have no idea. Here's to the unknown.

The Big and the Small

Someone once told me that I had a talent of finding the joy in the little things. Which I would agree, but what I find interesting is that I am not very good at admiring the bigger picture. Great views at the Grand Canyon didn't really astound me, but I like looking at the petals of flowers. In some ways, though, understanding the small things makes the larger view more breathtaking. Speaking of the small and large, here is a picture of each from my Archaeology adventure.

Annular Eclipse

Today there was an annular eclipse. You can see the upside down image of the sun between my fingers. Notice the little crescent shapes between my fingers. It was a lot of fun to see it. And if any of you are ignorant like me annular means ring shaped. If we had been in a prime location the moon would have appeared to be in front of the sun and there would have only been a ring of light left.
Also, if you didn't notice, this is a bonus post. I will be gone for several weeks on an Archaeology Field school. I will have only occasional access to the internet (and showers for that matter). It should be interesting, but I might be a little sporadic on here, hopefully not too bad.

Anchors, Part 2

The day after dawned bright and cold. Fall was coming. Mama asked me to milk our goat.
        “That’s Nate’s chore. I won’t do it.” I told her.
        She looked at me, sighed and then went outside. Little Paul trailed after her.
        That goat is disgusting, I thought with its stringy fur and mean little eyes. Let them do it. But as I cleaned Johnny’s face I heard Little Paul’s voice through the open door. “Look Mama, I’m doing it!”
        As soon as Johnny and Tommy were playing happily together, I crept to the door and peeked out. Sure enough Mama had her back to me, and Little Paul was sending jets of warm milk from the goat into the cracked wooden pail. I slid out the door and down the trail towards the ocean.
        That night when I finally came home and the boys were all in bed, Mama told me to come with her.
        She took me outside where we stood together. The night skies loomed over us. Beside Mama I felt tall; her head came to my chin. It made me feel strong.
        “Hope,” she said, grabbing me by both arms and looking into my eyes. “I need your help. Before, I had you and Nate. Now, if you keep running off and shirking your duties, I don’t know what I’ll do.” She reached down to lay a hand on her stomach.
        I hated when she made me feel guilty. I couldn’t meet her eyes as I answered her. “Yes Mama.”

        Months passed. I washed bowls, did some of the mending, and fed the fire. But every time I didn’t have a specific task set for me, I fled. I went to the beach and jumped between the ice cakes, or huddled at the base of the leafless trees Nate and I had always pretended were masts. Little Paul kept caring for the goat, and Mama taught Tommy how to feed the chickens.
        One cold day in January I left Mama sitting by the fireplace looking exhausted, teaching Tommy his letters. I wandered down to the shore and walked among the barnacle encrusted rocks. The air was so crisp and clean I could see the trees on the Marblehead Peninsula to the south. That was about the furthest I’d ever been from home. We’d gone there two summers before with Papa.
The wind whipped around me, tearing at my shawl and I jumped off the rock I had been standing on and stood behind it instead. It broke the wind for the moment. I stared at my protection, it was flat and grey. From my apron pocket I pulled out a bit of charcoal, I rolled it between my fingers letting it blacken them.  I drew a couple of scratchy lines, the charcoal crumbling against the rock.
“Hope!” I heard someone yell my name.
I added a few more touches, but my hands were getting too cold to draw.
“Hope!”
I peeked above the rock. Oh, it was just Tommy. “Come look at the parrot I drew.” I waved him over, but he didn’t move. His hands were on his knees, and he was breathing hard. Dropping my charcoal I dashed across the rocks and sand that was between us. “What’s wrong?”
“I don’t know,” he gulped; tears were streaming down his little face. “Mama just told me to come get you.”
I swallowed too. “Where’s Little Paul?” he was the one Mama usually sent for me.
He looked at me, his hazel eyes, watery.
“Ok. Let’s go.” I said, he didn’t look like he could run any farther so I boosted him onto my back.
When we got home, Mama was standing leaning against a chair, her face pale.
“Mama.”
She looked up, her dark eyes tight in her face. “Good you’re here. Paul went to town to get the midwife.”
I let Tommy slide to the floor. Johnny sat nervously on the edge of the bed, his chubby face worried.
“The baby’s coming.” Mama grimaced again.
“What do I do, Mama?” I was old enough to remember when Johnny was born, but it had been in the summer and Papa had been home. Nate and I had brought the little ones on a picnic and when Papa came to bring us back we had a new baby brother.
“Put some water onto boil, it’ll be fine.”
I stumbled out to the well, slopping water across my skirts in my haste. Time ticked by and still the midwife hadn’t come. If only I had been there, I run faster than Little Paul. I wiped my nose with the corner of my shawl, and looked at Mama. She was as calm as the waves before dawn. “I’m sorry Mama” I whispered.
Just then, she tensed her whole body, her knuckles went white around the back of the chair.
I shooed my little brothers up to the loft, they usually weren’t allowed up there.  I tried to make it seem like a treat, but I think they could feel the fear in my words.
“When she gets here, I want you to take them all back to Ipswich, you can stay at Aunt Mary’s.”
I would have agreed to almost anything. “Yes, Mama.”
The water was boiling; I took it off the fire and poured it into a waiting pan. I went out to the well again, I didn’t know what else to do. When I came back inside the midwife was just running up. She took off her shawl as she walked in the room, hanging it over the back of the door. Her hair was pulled back in a tight bun.
“You lie down,” she ordered Mama, and then turned to me, “Go fill the wood box.”
“Yes, ma’am” I murmured, and went outside again. Tommy came to help me, half the time I stumbled over him as he walked through the doorway but I didn’t want to make him stop. Moving helped. Some. As soon as we finished, I got Johnny down from the loft, and held him on my hip, he squirmed at first, wanting to get down, but I wouldn’t let him, he was comforting in my arms. I took Tommy by the hand and together we walked the trail to Ipswich.
We spent that long day with Aunt Mary and her children. I drew pictures of trees, and dogs, and babies to amuse my brothers and cousins. Finally, in the morning, all of us went back home. Aunt Mary came with us, to see Mama.
        The new baby was a girl. Mama named her Sadie. She was green-eyed and healthy. Mama was not. The day after Johnny was born Mama had been out of bed, almost back to her normal self. Not this time. She hardly left her bed. Aunt Mary came over when she could, but it wasn’t often.
Three weeks later Mama was still in bed, she looked so pale, lying there with Sadie’s dark hair shadowy against her arms. I stood there watching them sleep. A lot of the chores had fallen to me. I cooked the meals, and sent the boys outside when they got too noisy. I swept the floor, and chopped the wood. Once after a big storm, I spent a whole morning shoveling paths to the well and the animals. Mama’s eyes fluttered open. “Hope.”
“Yes Mama.”
“You’re a good girl.” I brought her a bowl of soup. She sat up, leaning against the wall. She handed Sadie to me, and began to eat.
“Mama, are you gonna get better?”
She smiled. “Course I am; I’m just tired.”
“If Papa were home he’d know what to do for you.”
“You’re doing perfect. Besides,” she winked at me “your Papa doesn’t know anything about making soup.”
        “Mama, how do you do it?” I asked surprised at her continual good nature.
        “Do what?”
        “Papa’s gone all the time. You know, for months. Don’t you miss him?”
        She closed her eyes, “Yes.”
        “Oh.” I turned away, enjoying Sadie’s warmth in my arms.
        “It’s hard.” Her voice startled me; I’d thought she was falling asleep again. “Every time he leaves, it starts all over, the waiting. After my brother, your Uncle Will, was lost at sea I wasn’t sure I could ever let your Papa go again. But I did.”
“But it’s boring here. Nate gets to do all sorts of things. He gets to explore. Didn’t you ever want to go with them?”
“Yes.”
I didn’t know what I was expecting but it wasn’t that. “You did? But, but you always seem so happy at home...” I trailed off, and sat on the edge of her bed. Mama opened her eyes again and reached out towards me. I passed Sadie back to her. Mama cooed at her for a moment then abruptly spoke.
“Sadie, you and Hope and I are the womenfolk here. You’re going to grow up and be left behind too.” Sadie gurgled.
“But Mama, how do you do it?”
Her gaze shifted back towards me.
“Work hard, and hope they come back. And then they do, mostly.” Her voice fell, as if she was far away, lost somewhere inside of herself. “When Will first went to sea I wanted to go with him, just as much as you wanted to go with Nate. But then I realized: who would take care of the goat and chickens and my mother and sisters. Who would take care of home? Someone has to be their anchor.” She touched the necklace at her throat.
Johnny tumbled over to us from where he had been playing by the door. “Ope, is Nate big like you?”
My nose tingled as I looked down at my little brother. As Mama fell asleep again I told him about the time Nate and I gathered shells for him. Someone had to help Mama raise these little boys.

Only a week later Mama was up and about. But I didn’t go back to escaping every chance I got. Mama taught me how to make bayberry candles. We put the first one in the window facing towards the sea.  

* * *

        The seagulls call raucously as I finish tying my own braid with a ribbon. Sadie and I stand up. The sun shines down on us, but the constant breeze keeps it cool.
        “I just want them to come home soon.” Sadie sighs.
        Johnny runs towards us “Come on Sadie, let’s go play.”
        She looks at me. I nod, “You can go.” She runs off. She doesn’t get it yet. But she will. I hear Johnny say something about climbing masts. Sadie claims the crow’s nest.
        I walk down the little path towards the cottage. Mama stands in the doorway, her hair tied back in a gray knot. We share a quiet smile as she fingers the tiny ivory anchor at her throat.

Anchors, Part 1

So I was looking at some old books, classics. A lot of them were written in serial form, so here is a taste of a short story I wrote... in serial form. Half this week and half next week. I mentioned some of the ideas in it in an earlier post (in March) "Patience and Waiting." Enjoy.

Anchors

        The ocean reaches out in front of us towards the rising sun. The waves catch the sunlight in a reflected path of gold leading across Massachusetts Bay. I’m perched on the rocks, my little sister, Sadie, sits cross-legged in front of me. She’s five this year. The wind blowing off the water makes braiding her hair difficult, but I’m glad to spend this brief moment out here.
        Somewhere out there in a merchant ship is our father and two of our brothers. This is the first full year that Paul has been gone too. I look down at Sadie as I loop a bit of ribbon around the end of her brown braid. She leans back against me, her head warm against my breast.
        “When will they be back, Hope?”
        “I don’t know, soon.” I say. They’re gone on one of their long winter journeys but the crocuses are in bloom. They’ll be back. “Come on, it’s time to go help Mama.” We stand up, balancing on the rocks.
        “Do I have too? “She wraps her thin arms around my legs and looks up at me, her green-eyes big.
        My mouth twitches “We’ll see.” I rub the small ivory pendant around my neck with my thumb. The small anchor is warm to the touch. As we return to the house my mind wanders back to the autumn I was thirteen. That was the year Sadie was born.

* * *

        Papa, tan and lean from his summer voyages, had been home for a couple of weeks. During the summer trips he rode the coasts going down to Salem and Boston, and he was home for weeks between. I loved the summer because of it. He would show me how to draw with charcoal and tell his stories about strange sea creatures and exotic people. But orange streaks were beginning to appear on the pumpkins. He would soon be heading out to sea again for the long winter trading, that’s when he would be gone for months at a time, traveling to far off places, to trade for sugar and rum.
Nate and I had been climbing our favorite tree. “Land ho!” He called, his freckled face half hidden by his spyglass that he had crafted out of a tube of birch bark.
I climbed up beside him “What do you see?” He pointed towards the town of Ipswich, in the opposite direction of our home, only a few plumes of smoke visible from this far away.
“They must be savages, Cap’n.”
“You’re right. They must be the ones who took Little Paul, the cabin boy.”
We heard a bell chime on the wind. I climbed to the ground. “Come on Nate, we have to go.”
He kept staring through his birch bark.
“Come on!”
“Alright, alright.” He slid down the trunk, ripping the leg of his pants in the process. We gathered up the pile of branches that stood at the foot of the maple tree. We had been out gathering wood. We raced homeward.
        “Ha! I have more,” I called over my shoulder, arms filled with wrist sized branches.
        “Mine are bigger.” Nate ran past me on my right, but stumbled, his feet no longer on the path. He regained his footing just as I brushed past him, the rough bark of the maple logs pulling at his homespun shirt.
        We thundered to a stop next to the woodpile that was partially protected by the eaves of our little cottage. The chickens scattered at our approach. Our loads fell from our arms as we hurried to stack them neatly. We could smell Mama’s stew cooking. With the last log in place we tumbled inside, shoving each other through the doorway.
“I won,” I said.
“Did not.” Nate pushed me once more.
        “Settle down you two,” Mama said as she spooned stew into the smooth wooden bowls. “There’s enough for all.”
        My glare of triumph subsided into a smile as Nate and I sat down on the edge of the bed. Papa and Mama sat in the two roughhewn chairs. Little Paul and Tommy climbed up beside us, and Johnny, the smallest, a chunky two year old, sat on Papa’s knee. The stew was delicious, but we ate it as fast as we could. Sometimes after dinner, Mama would let us play hide and seek at dusk. After we finished I gathered up the bowls to wash them. She rested her hand on her barely swollen belly; with the new baby coming she was extra tired by the end of the work-filled days.
Papa placed Johnny on the ground to play with a pile of seashells, and went to stand behind Mama. With his hand on her shoulder he spoke.
        “Nate, your Mama and I think it’s high time you came to sea with me.”
        Nate’s face broke into a giant smile. “Really Papa, me? You think I’m ready?” He jumped to his feet making Tommy and Paul rock as if they were at sea in a storm.
        Papa nodded his head and smiled at Nate. Did I get to go too? I dropped the bowl I was holding. It skittered across the floor until it hit Johnny’s shells sending them cascading across the floor. He started howling. I didn’t care.
        “What about me, Papa?” I asked, looking up into his dark windblown face.
        His lips tweaked at the corners, like he was going to laugh, but when he glanced down at Mama who had reached over to Johnny, he stopped.
        “Hope girl,” he said, “the sea isn’t the place for you.” His voice was gentle, the way it was when he dusted Tommy off after a fall. I hated it.
        Nate danced over to me “I’m going to sea!” He grabbed my hands and tried to pull me into his dance, but I wouldn’t let him. I pushed him away.
        “It’s not fair. I’m older.”
        “But I’m a boy, silly.” Nate grinned. I pushed him again, making him step back. His smile slipped, and he stepped back again, his eyes serious and sorry.
        “Hope, don’t push your brother like that,” Papa said, his eyebrows lowering.
“But Papa. I’m better at hunting clams then he is, and I can climb any tree faster.”
Little Paul and Tommy’s eyes were huge looking at me.
“That’s not the point. You need to stay home with your mother.”
I stuck out my jaw. “It’s not fair. It’s boring here. I want to go sailing with you!” I looked around the room my eyes catching on the rough charcoal drawings of foreign flowers and strange fish that Papa had drawn. Evidence of his adventures. I pointed to my favorite drawing of dolphins jumping in moonlit waters. “I want to see it.”
Mama looked up at me from where she sat on the ground with Johnny. “Hope, that’s enough. You’re staying here with me.”
I stepped forward, my hands balled into fists. Papa looked at me so hard I felt as though I had been pierced by a knife. Something leaked out of me. I turned my back to my family and picked up another bowl. I swished it in the pail of water and scraped it and my hands against the cleansing sand.
I felt like a Nor’easter was howling through the cottage. But, besides Johnny whimpering, nothing else was heard.

        The morning Papa and Nate left I moped around. Nate tried to talk to me, and so did Mama. Papa gave me the occasional sad look, but I ignored them all. The moment they were out of sight down the path towards the ocean I followed. Behind me I heard Johnny and Tommy crying. Mama was hushing them.
        I didn’t heed any of it. My feet pounded the trail that Nate and I had come up together so often before. Now I ran alone. He was leaving and I wasn’t going with him. Veering from the main path I headed towards my favorite climbing tree. It was a large maple, with a trunk thick as a mast and branches where old blankets hung like sails. Grabbing the lowest branch I swung myself up. I crouched there for a moment, caught my breath and then climbed upwards, away from my world. The rough bark caught at my hands as I climbed carelessly; it gave me a reason for the tears that threatened my eyes. Twigs pulled at my hair, but I climbed on until the main trunk swayed and I could see out towards the ocean. Nate, Little Paul, Tommy, and I had climbed trees for years, especially this one. We pretended they were the rigging of the ships Papa sailed. We had great adventures in foreign lands together. I had always known that someday Nate would go off to sea too, but somehow I always thought that I would go with him. We did everything together; gathered wood, taught Little Paul how to hunt for clams, fed the chickens, and played King of the Mountain. I always got to do what he did.
The wind blew and my legs started to shake from the strange position. I rearranged myself, no longer looking outwards to the setting sun. I lay my head against the bark. Mama never went to sea. None of the women did. Why would I be any different? I wished I had thought about this before, so I could have known what to do, how to feel.
        I sat there crouched against the swaying tree.
My tears stopped, and I scrambled out of the tree --out of the rigging. My sleeve was wet from rubbing it against my face. I walked home slowly. When I got there Mama stood at the fireplace. She hugged me, but didn’t say anything; neither did I.