I want to fall in love,
a warm hand to stroke my face.
I want to be held safely,
Oh! I long for an embrace.
But is their such a person
who's love would be so true?
I've got someone in mind.
I want to fall in love
with you.
Sending my thoughts to the void.
Saturday, September 25, 2010
Tuesday, September 21, 2010
Invisible
P a c i n g,
POUNDing.
Up
and
down.
ump ump
Th ing, b ing,
With
the
beat
of
my
heart heart
heartheart
heart
t
You
STOP
and lOOk at me.
Listening Staring.
I (wonder) what you
will
>DO.
But you
leave
me.
C D
r y
y i
i n
n g
g .
POUNDing.
Up
and
down.
ump ump
Th ing, b ing,
With
the
beat
of
my
heart heart
heartheart
heart
t
You
STOP
and lOOk at me.
Listening Staring.
I (wonder) what you
will
>DO.
But you
leave
me.
C D
r y
y i
i n
n g
g .
Friday, September 3, 2010
Life is Not a Crayon
Life is not a crayon.
A crayon will never lose
its color, it will never
fade.
Not so with life.
Memories fade, people
die. The colors they splashed
on the world disappear
and are distorted
year
after year.
Generation
after generation.
A crayon's color will never
disappear--
though it may warp
with heat and pressure--
it will stay true
to its nature. It will not rebel
against or mock its God-given color
I will not be ashamed
of its patient pink,
bold blue, truthful
teal, blunt brown, or wishful
white.
A crayon will wear
its color proudly,
loyally.
Te marks they leave
behind stay,
they stay.
The crayon may be gone,
but its color can never
be forgotten.
Life is not a crayon.
Wednesday, May 26, 2010
This Poem Does Not Rhyme
This is not a rhyming poem, I just want you to know
The words don’t sound the same, but I cannot tell you how.
Sometimes in a church hymnal the first line ends in “rain”
But the next line down, it seems, they’ve matched it with “again.”
If you’re in a swordfight, and you’re hands are tightly bound,
You better have sweet moves, or you will end up with a wound.
And while I’m on the subject, and talking about swords,
I must say a fight of courage can’t be described in too few words.
I hope that someone likes my poem, and my wonderful ideas,
If not, I’ll feel rejected and go sail the seven seas.
If you want to kick me out, then I will become an exile
And if it’s done swift as lightning, then that’s a simile.
I might be a little crazy, insanity in its highest dose,
Or maybe my allergies make me crazy ‘cause I can’t breathe out my nose!
My mother is a clown, and I’m my mother’s daughter,
And with that much being said, I hope this poem brings much laughter.
This is not a sad poem, so your eyes shall not tear,
But it might be an annoyance, so your hands might tear.
There is something in the forest that many folks are privy,
The thing that I speak of is the itchy poison ivy.
Just the other day, my daddy’s car was towed,
To never let that happen again is what my daddy vowed.
I right this wizened poem, while I am in my Youth,
And I hope I can keep it long after my health goes south.
Alaska is a cold place that I don’t really want to go,
But for reasons I don’t understand, there are many that actually do.
Have you met my darling friend Sally?
If I ever went to war she would be my greatest ally.
And if in some future time I have to go to war
I hope I’m not alone, and I hope it’s not too far.
And now I want some ice cream, I’m talking a whole pint,
The flavor that I’m craving is delicious chocolate mint.
I hope this frustrating poem doesn't make you red with fury,
Until you just can’t stand it and this poem try to bury.
I hope it doesn’t make your brain get hot with fever,
Because I’m afraid something like that might just last like that forever.
If you think too hard about it, your head will start to ache,
You might lose all sensibility and try to grow a mustache.
This poem is so grand, I hope it doesn’t get lost,
Otherwise the memory of this poem will just be a ghost.
Now I finish up my writing, 'cause you're begging me to cease,
I apologize if you were unable to read it with great ease.
The words don’t sound the same, but I cannot tell you how.
Sometimes in a church hymnal the first line ends in “rain”
But the next line down, it seems, they’ve matched it with “again.”
If you’re in a swordfight, and you’re hands are tightly bound,
You better have sweet moves, or you will end up with a wound.
And while I’m on the subject, and talking about swords,
I must say a fight of courage can’t be described in too few words.
I hope that someone likes my poem, and my wonderful ideas,
If not, I’ll feel rejected and go sail the seven seas.
If you want to kick me out, then I will become an exile
And if it’s done swift as lightning, then that’s a simile.
I might be a little crazy, insanity in its highest dose,
Or maybe my allergies make me crazy ‘cause I can’t breathe out my nose!
My mother is a clown, and I’m my mother’s daughter,
And with that much being said, I hope this poem brings much laughter.
This is not a sad poem, so your eyes shall not tear,
But it might be an annoyance, so your hands might tear.
There is something in the forest that many folks are privy,
The thing that I speak of is the itchy poison ivy.
Just the other day, my daddy’s car was towed,
To never let that happen again is what my daddy vowed.
I right this wizened poem, while I am in my Youth,
And I hope I can keep it long after my health goes south.
Alaska is a cold place that I don’t really want to go,
But for reasons I don’t understand, there are many that actually do.
Have you met my darling friend Sally?
If I ever went to war she would be my greatest ally.
And if in some future time I have to go to war
I hope I’m not alone, and I hope it’s not too far.
And now I want some ice cream, I’m talking a whole pint,
The flavor that I’m craving is delicious chocolate mint.
I hope this frustrating poem doesn't make you red with fury,
Until you just can’t stand it and this poem try to bury.
I hope it doesn’t make your brain get hot with fever,
Because I’m afraid something like that might just last like that forever.
If you think too hard about it, your head will start to ache,
You might lose all sensibility and try to grow a mustache.
This poem is so grand, I hope it doesn’t get lost,
Otherwise the memory of this poem will just be a ghost.
Now I finish up my writing, 'cause you're begging me to cease,
I apologize if you were unable to read it with great ease.
Thursday, April 15, 2010
Marriage Among the !Kung San People
Marriage Among the !Kung San People
Every culture in the world has its own views on marriage. Though one view may be similar to others in a lot of aspects, there are still striking differences from what another may view as a “normal” marriage ceremony and married way of life. The !Kung San people of the Dobe area in the Kalahari Dessert of South Africa are a dwindling group of people. They have arranged marriage, marriage-by-capture ceremonies, and plural marriage. Robert B. Lee’s book The Dobe !Kung explains that some of the traditions of the old San culture are different from other foraging cultures; issues arise concerning the eligibility of a man or woman for marriage, and who he or she is allowed to marry (Lee 75).
From birth, parents begin looking for a partner for their child. Though the !Kung San have plural marriages “all first marriages are arranged by the parents” (75). This arrangement is typically set by the mothers of the children in question. The children really won’t have any say partly because they are far too young to decide such things themselves, as some are still in infancy at the time of the proposal, while others are near marrying age, and partly because the mothers are very picky about who their children should marry. When the parents of the bride are deciding who is fit to marry their daughter: “He should be a good hunter, he should not have a reputation as a fighter, and he should come from a congenial family” (76).
Once an arrangement is made, a form of reciprocity takes place, as the families exchange pre-marriage gifts with one another, known as kamasi. The prospective in-laws exchange these gifts to “reinforce their relationship” and decide whether the other is worthy allying with their family (76). To ensure that the boy is worthy of the daughter, “postmarital [sic] residence is uxorilocal” (76). In a matrilocal residence the couple is “located at or centered around the residence of the wife's family or people” (“matrilocal”). An uxorilocal residence is like matrilocal residence with bride service: “the groom comes to live with the bride’s family for a period of years and to hunt for them” (76). During this probation time, the family bonds with the husband and often “after 8 to 10 years of bride service, the couple elects to stay with the wife’s people” (76). This a trial marriage in which “a father or mother may take their daughter back if she is not treated adequately” (“Culture Out of Africa”).
The !Kung wedding ceremony is a lot different than many other cultures. It is a marriage-by-capture ceremony, but the bride is not really “kidnapped.” The capture part is a “forcible carrying of the girl from her parents’ hut” and is just a ritual, as the families have already arrange for the marriage, therefore it is a mock capture (77). Even though it is all arranged before-hand, the girl still fights when she is taken to her husband’s hut, in some cases she never learns to accept the husband she had no say in choosing to wed. In Richard B. Lee’s book, a firsthand account is used to illustrate this:
They told me this was the man they had given to me and that he wouldn’t hurt me
After that we just lived together all right. At first when we slept under the same blanket our bodies did not touch, but then after a while I slept at his front.
Other girls don’t like their husbands and keep struggling away until the husbands give up on them and their parents take them back. (78)
When the women have to struggle so much, to make their voices heard, it is no wonder that “ half of all first marriages fail” (79). The other half usually goes on to live a life of affection for one another, and hardly ever do these marriages end in divorce. As this relationship is something both sides have fought for, there is a stronger effort at making it work out. As the couple gets used to each other they “settle down for [a] stable long-term relationship” (79). This first marriage is done without the daughter getting any opinion on the matter, and sometimes “girls have been known to attempt suicide rather than let the marriage be consummated” (79). Some among the !Kung San practice plural marriage and after the first marriage “subsequent partnerships . . . can come at the initiative of either sex” (“Culture Out of Africa”). Woman have more of a say in this society than in many others, the struggles they have before a successful first marriage prove them as a strong partner.
Though plural marriage is socially acceptable in the culture, not very many men actually practice polygamy—having more than one spouse, only about 5 percent among the people were polygynous Richard B. Lee studied. He only accounted for one polyandrous union. Polyandry is “a marriage form in which one woman has two or more husbands at the same time” and polygyny is the exact opposite of that, in which one man has more than one wife (“polyandry”). The men that are polygynous are the most influential in the band; all were healers and most had a reputation of “being among the strongest and most effective healers of all !Kung men” (80). So, most men practice monogamy, “just one man and one woman at a time” (Ember 173), as those is the Western cultures are familiar with.
Many women simply will not stand for their husbands to take a second wife; they “threaten to leave [their husbands] is a second wife enters the union” (80). This could be a reason why most of the society does not practice plural marriage, as spouses come to have a deep affection for one another. Most stay together for “twenty or thirty years or more” and the only reason they end there is because of “the death of one or another spouse” (79). “Sexual jealousy appears to be strong among the !Kung”: this is why wives protest so loudly against their husbands, (81). Men tend to listen to their wives as “women are a force to be reckoned with” (81).
Almost every culture practices exogamy to different extents. Exogamy is simply marrying outside of a defined group: “It may mean marrying outside a particular group of kin or outside a particular village or group of villages” (Ember 171-72). The !Kung almost take exogamy to the extreme. Richard B. Lee explains this rather eloquently:
In addition to obvious incest taboos against marrying a father, brother, son, uncle or nephew, a girl may not marry a first or second cousin. Additionally, she may not marry a boy with her father’s name or her brother’s name. (75).
One can imagine how difficult restrictions like these can make finding a spouse that is suitable in all aspects. Perhaps this could be one reason why this culture is dwindling, but other sources, like the Earth Island Journal, think it is “by foreign invaders, miners and cattle-ranchers” (“Bushmen Fight to Avoid Extinction”). Preserving this culture is very important as it one of the oldest cultures in the world, if not the oldest. According to DNA “the San [are] the world's oldest surviving humans yet” (“Bushmen Fight to Avoid Extinction”). That is why it is crucial to understand the ceremonies of these people before they are assimilated into modern Western-style life.
Understanding the rituals of a culture is key to unlocking other important things about that culture. Though the San people perform weddings a lot less “traditionally” than most are used to, they still have lasting relationships and successful marriages. Through arranged marriage families come together as one. Marriage-by-capture ceremonies let the women prove their strength and also submit to their husbands to create a lifetime of deep affection. Plural marriages are rare, but still function in the society, giving the healers an influence over a greater amount of people through family ties. The Dobe !Kung by Richard B. Lee shows how marriage is a great part of the center of the San’s way of life.
Works cited
“Bushmen Fight to Avoid Extinction”. Earth Island Journal; Winter92/93, Vol. 8 Issue 1, p23.
Academic Search Premier. 15 Apr. 2010
“Culture Out of Africa”. n.p. n.d. www.dhushara.com. 15 Apr. 2010.
Ember, Carol R. and Melvin Ember. Cultural Anthropolgy. 12th ed. New Jersey: Pearson
Prentice Hall, 2007. Print.
Lee, Richard B. The Dobe !Kung. New York: Holt, Rinehart, and Winston, 1979. Print.
"matrilocal." Webster's Third New International Dictionary, Unabridged. Merriam-Webster,
2002. 15 Apr. 2010.
"polyandry." Webster's Third New International Dictionary, Unabridged. Merriam-Webster,
2002. 15 Apr. 2010.
Thursday, February 25, 2010
Come What May, And Love It
The fifteen of us met up at the new Institute of Religion building. Sarah, Allie and I climbed into the backseat of Pokey’s truck, while Trevor and Pokey settled in the front. The others climbed in other vehicles, and we were off.
School was out for the day, and the plan was to have as much fun as possible. Winter had dumped plenty of snow on us and most of it had stuck. This was uncommon for my hometown of Brigham City, but this was my first winter in Price, and I wasn’t sure what to expect as we headed South through Huntington Canyon.
The road was winding and I started feeling ill as we went up the mountain. It was probably a good thing I had only eaten a granola bar for breakfast. Just when I thought I would that breakfast bar all over Pokey’s nice truck interior, we stopped.
I immediately opened the door to get some fresh air inside the vehicle. Snow spiraled through the air and landed in the laps of everybody inside. Joe was out walking in the downy drifts, and he came up to the driver’s side window to talk to Pokey.
“Is this where we’re supposed to meet? Or is it up further?”
Pokey shrugged, “Do you want to just wait for Bishop?”
Bishop and Sister Fredrickson had taken a detour on the way up and now were a few minutes behind us. Pokey rolled up the window, I closed my door, and Red Hot Chili Peppers whined through the car speakers.
Bishop’s car appeared and we followed him up the hill, where visibility became all but non-existant. After little more discussion it was unanimously decided that we should go back down the hill and rendezvous where we had been waiting.
Joe and Bishop unloaded tubes and sleds, snowboards and snowmobiles. Boy, oh, boy, today was going to be fun, one way or another. I stepped out into the snow, eagerly, and instantly sunk down to my thigh. The snow was unlike anything I had ever seen in my backyard as a kid. It was deep and powdery. Somehow it was light and heavy at the same time: heavy enough to make and throw snowballs, but light enough that it would get caught by the wind and slap everyone in the face with little effort.
I pulled my right leg from the pile only to sink even deeper with my left. That was when I wished I had been properly attired. Most wore heavy coats, snowpants and snow boots. I wore running shoes, the kind with mesh to help your feet breather, jeans with pajama bottoms underneath, and a $30 coat from the local Walmart. Before we left that morning, I wrapped my socked feet in plastic shopping bags, hoping that the plastic would keep the water off my feet. Boy, was I sorely mistaken.
Eager young single adults grabbed at the tubes and snowboards and headed to the top of the steep sledding hill, which overlooked a frozen lake. Kami sat down and begged for a push. She slid about five feet before she got stuck in the snow. One more big push from a member of the Elder’s Quorum and she was off! Kami screamed as she flew down the hill. I watched her disappear from sight, only to reappear at the bank of the frozen lake very much the size of an insect. Whoa, that was some hill.
I watched several others brave the hill before I finally got up the courage to go for it myself. I hopped on a tube, and handed my camera off to Trevor, who took a few pictures of me and Kelsey, who I was trying to convince to accompany me down the slope. Without warning, however, someone gave my tube a hard push. It could’ve been Trevor, but it was probably Pokey, all I know is that everyone at the top laughed as I screamed through the entire descent.
I whoosed down the hillside and stopped about half way down when BUMP! Kelsey’s tube hit mine and sent me on my way again, only this time I was going backwards.
Powdered snow slapped me in the face and stuck itself inside every crease and crevice. By the time I reached the bottom, I was covered in the stuff.
I stood up and dusted myself off and laughed along with the other people at the bottom, then look back where I had come from.
It was only from this angle that I could see how long and steep the slope was. There was no way anyone could hike that, luckily no one was expected to climb it. That is where the snowmobiles came in.
Joe was showing off on one, and Dakota was having fun on the other. I was a little nervous, as I had never been on one of these ferocious looking vehicles before.
After watching a few of my fellows make it up the hill safely, I decided it was my turn. I hopped on with Joe, because I knew him slightly better than I knew Dakota. I had my tube around my right arm, and my left was around Joe.
They say that hindsight it 20/20, and looking back, I should have switched my hands. I am right hand dominant, so it most likely would have been easier to hold on.
Unfortunately, by the time I remembered that I was not left-handed, Joe had already started the snowmobile and we were headed back up.
I held on tightly, but then something unexpected occurred. Joe stood up. There was probably some physics behind this: speed, balance, air resistance? I didn’t know, all I knew was that I was short and I couldn’t reach his waste when he was standing.
I improvised and grabbed hold of his coat pocket, but I could tell immediately that he wasn’t too happy about that. I let go for only a moment, but inertia, a physics term I actually know, got the better of me.
I slid right off the seat and over the seatback. I yelped, but Joe didn’t seem to notice at first. Technically speaking, I was still on the snowmobile, but it almost certainly wasn’t safe to ride where I was sitting.
Finally, Joe slowed down and, finally acknowledging my screech, called back to me, “Are you okay?”
“I’m fine. I’m just not on the seat anymore,” I yelled back to him over the roaring of the machine.
Joe stopped and allowed me to get readjusted. Then he looked at the tube with distress. He put it around his waist and sat down. Even I could see that this was not a brilliant idea. I voiced my concern that he wouldn’t be able to steer with that thing around him. Joe agreed and put the tube around me, as if he was playing some kind of solemn ring toss.
I reached my short arms around the fat tube and tried to grab onto Joe’s middle. We started off again, and once again Joe stood, this time telling me to “lean against the hill.” I had no idea what this meant and the stretch was just too much for my stubby arms and I tumbled off the snowmobile. Luckily, the stupid tube sunk into the snow and I didn’t roll far.
Joe was obviously getting a little frustrated at the incompetent girl he’d been forced to chauffer. After I freed myself from the depths of the tube and deep snow, I heaved myself over onto the backseat. I smiled at Joe apologetically, and laughed a little.
He drove me back to the bottom of the hill and ordered me to drop the tube: “It’s throwing us off.”
Once again he started up the motor, but this time we hadn’t driven five feet when he ordered I get off. A little confused and slightly hurt, I obeyed.
“There’s something wrong with it,” he said without elaboration, “I’m going to take it to Bishop.”
I got off and met the odd looks of the others waiting for rides back up the hillside. They were confused as to why I had been gone so long, and yet, I’d shown up back at the bottom.
An Apostle of God said in his last testimony to the world before he died, “Next time you are tempted to groan, try laughing instead.” I decided to take on this attitude and explained with a smile, “Oh, Joe just kicked me off. Couldn’t stand to ride with me. I must smell bad or something.”
We laughed for awhile about it and then Dakota came and picked someone else up.
“Want to go next?” Someone asked me.
I shook my head. I needed a little breather from snowmobiles. And I still didn’t know if I wanted to ride with Dakota. It wasn’t him, it was me. I didn’t want to put my arms around someone I hardly knew. Other girls would jump at the chance to cuddle with perfect strangers, but I had a personal bubble and I was determined to keep it.
I decided I would wait for Joe to come back, or maybe he would hand it off to Bishop. Either way, I had determined to wait a while longer at the base of the hill.
I sat my wet and cold self down on my abandoned tube and chatted with the others. Eventually it got to the point where I was the only one left down at the hill. Dakota would come, I would decline.
More kids on tubes came down, and went back up, leaving me alone until another set came down again. The snowmobile Joe had been driving was passed off the inexperienced Alden. I was a little offended that neither Joe nor Bishop saw fit to some rescue me, but I tried to dust the feeling under the rug.
Then came Pokey. Bless his heart; it’s not his fault I started to cry.
Most mothers will know that when their child falls, the best thing to do is laugh at them and tell them to get back up. That way he’ll just start laughing too. But if she runs to her fallen child in hysteria wondering if the kid is okay, he will start crying.
Pokey was a hysterical mother, minus the mother part . . . oh, and the hysteria. I suppose he was just concerned that I hadn’t been back up for quite a while. He came and sat by me and asked me if I was okay. The tear gates opened as I tried to convince him I was fine. And of course once you start crying two things happen: 1)Everybody notices, 2)Nobody believes you are “fine.”
Pretty soon I was crowded by people who wanted to comfort me, when I really just wanted to be left alone. When they all left, I regained my composure. The next group came down, and I laughed as their train of tubes exploded. Then they left and I started crying again.
I composed myself. Then Joe apologized for scaring me and I started up again. I don’t this “scare” was the right word. I think “making me feel like an idiot” is a little more accurate.
This off and on crying went on for another 30 minutes. I just wanted to shout, “Stop the emotional rollercoaster! I want to get off!” And eventually, Bishop felt the need to give me a heart to heart. He coaxed me onto the back of his snowmobiles and once again I was being whitewashed in motion.
I silently prayed as I held on to Bishop tightly. And wouldn’t you know it . . . I didn’t fall off. This is due to the fact the snowmobile buried itself in the deep snow at least a foot. Bishop and I got off to the side and he ordered me to stay. I watched as my Bishop tried to single-handedly free the stupid machine. Part of me felt bad and wanted to help; the other part of me just really didn’t care if I had to sit on my butt in this snow for the rest of my life.
Dakota came driving past, Alden, having given up the snowmobile he’d been driving to the Bishop, was on the back. He saw our situation and purposely rolled off the vehicle. Dakota turned around and started helping as well. In the end, the three of them got the snowmobile back on top of the snow. Alden and Dakota climbed on, for some reason we traded. Looking back, I think it was so if that snowmobile got stuck again the invalid wouldn’t be on it.
Bishop and I trudged in the thigh deep snow to the vehicle that was stopped a mere five feet away. Ugh, it was the hardest five feet I’ve had to walk in my life! And after about two feet, something awful happened.
“Bishop, my shoe fell off.”
The two of us dug into the snow searching for my white running shoe. The plastic bags were degrading from the water at this point, and I didn’t have a dry patch on me. Bishop was the one who finally retrieved the rebellious shoe. I slipped it over my foot and attempted to tie the laces with my frozen fingers. (I had taken off my wet gloves and hour prior.) Bishop pulled his gloves off and ordered me to put them on, which was more difficult than it should have been, but I couldn’t even feel my fingers anymore.
We reached the back-up and I tried for another few minutes to get on it. Bishop was trying to be patient and as we set off one last time, he called back to me, “The easiest way to get you back up to the top is by going straight up where you came down on the tube.”
I just nodded, praying for angels to hold me on this terrible contraption for the duration of the ride. I prayed that we wouldn’t get stuck again. I prayed that I wouldn’t start crying again when we reached the top, which we eventually did.
Everyone cheered for me, which was the last thing I wanted to hear. I fake smiled at them as they told me I should grab some chili.
“I hate chili,” I said, maybe a little to angrily.
“Well have some hot cocoa then.”
I gave the glove back to the Bishop, grabbed some hot cocoa, and went to stand by the space heater. The knees in Trevor’s jeans were a mixture of golden brown and charcoal black, and you could see his skin beneath the holes. He warned me not to stand too close to the heater, and got a genuine smile out of me.
I laughed a little, but I was ready to go home. Pokey was taking a truckload back early, but the seats had already been called for. I felt like crying, but then Pokey asked me if I wanted to go home. Of course, I did. I said yes and climbed in. I suspect Trevor gave up his seat for me. How nice.
I got back to my dorm and changed into dry clothes. I was determined to laugh this off, but for some reason no matter how many times I retell this tale of woe, I start crying and the listeners start laughing.
I’m going to continue to tell this story until I myself can laugh about it. When I am tempted to groan, I want to be able to laugh. As Joseph B. Wirthin said, “Come what may, and love it.” I may not be able to control my ineptitude at balancing myself on a snowmobile, but I can control the attitude I have through the trials I am given. I don’t know if God sent down angels to help me or not, but one way or another He helped me up that hill in the end.
School was out for the day, and the plan was to have as much fun as possible. Winter had dumped plenty of snow on us and most of it had stuck. This was uncommon for my hometown of Brigham City, but this was my first winter in Price, and I wasn’t sure what to expect as we headed South through Huntington Canyon.
The road was winding and I started feeling ill as we went up the mountain. It was probably a good thing I had only eaten a granola bar for breakfast. Just when I thought I would that breakfast bar all over Pokey’s nice truck interior, we stopped.
I immediately opened the door to get some fresh air inside the vehicle. Snow spiraled through the air and landed in the laps of everybody inside. Joe was out walking in the downy drifts, and he came up to the driver’s side window to talk to Pokey.
“Is this where we’re supposed to meet? Or is it up further?”
Pokey shrugged, “Do you want to just wait for Bishop?”
Bishop and Sister Fredrickson had taken a detour on the way up and now were a few minutes behind us. Pokey rolled up the window, I closed my door, and Red Hot Chili Peppers whined through the car speakers.
Bishop’s car appeared and we followed him up the hill, where visibility became all but non-existant. After little more discussion it was unanimously decided that we should go back down the hill and rendezvous where we had been waiting.
Joe and Bishop unloaded tubes and sleds, snowboards and snowmobiles. Boy, oh, boy, today was going to be fun, one way or another. I stepped out into the snow, eagerly, and instantly sunk down to my thigh. The snow was unlike anything I had ever seen in my backyard as a kid. It was deep and powdery. Somehow it was light and heavy at the same time: heavy enough to make and throw snowballs, but light enough that it would get caught by the wind and slap everyone in the face with little effort.
I pulled my right leg from the pile only to sink even deeper with my left. That was when I wished I had been properly attired. Most wore heavy coats, snowpants and snow boots. I wore running shoes, the kind with mesh to help your feet breather, jeans with pajama bottoms underneath, and a $30 coat from the local Walmart. Before we left that morning, I wrapped my socked feet in plastic shopping bags, hoping that the plastic would keep the water off my feet. Boy, was I sorely mistaken.
Eager young single adults grabbed at the tubes and snowboards and headed to the top of the steep sledding hill, which overlooked a frozen lake. Kami sat down and begged for a push. She slid about five feet before she got stuck in the snow. One more big push from a member of the Elder’s Quorum and she was off! Kami screamed as she flew down the hill. I watched her disappear from sight, only to reappear at the bank of the frozen lake very much the size of an insect. Whoa, that was some hill.
I watched several others brave the hill before I finally got up the courage to go for it myself. I hopped on a tube, and handed my camera off to Trevor, who took a few pictures of me and Kelsey, who I was trying to convince to accompany me down the slope. Without warning, however, someone gave my tube a hard push. It could’ve been Trevor, but it was probably Pokey, all I know is that everyone at the top laughed as I screamed through the entire descent.
I whoosed down the hillside and stopped about half way down when BUMP! Kelsey’s tube hit mine and sent me on my way again, only this time I was going backwards.
Powdered snow slapped me in the face and stuck itself inside every crease and crevice. By the time I reached the bottom, I was covered in the stuff.
I stood up and dusted myself off and laughed along with the other people at the bottom, then look back where I had come from.
It was only from this angle that I could see how long and steep the slope was. There was no way anyone could hike that, luckily no one was expected to climb it. That is where the snowmobiles came in.
Joe was showing off on one, and Dakota was having fun on the other. I was a little nervous, as I had never been on one of these ferocious looking vehicles before.
After watching a few of my fellows make it up the hill safely, I decided it was my turn. I hopped on with Joe, because I knew him slightly better than I knew Dakota. I had my tube around my right arm, and my left was around Joe.
They say that hindsight it 20/20, and looking back, I should have switched my hands. I am right hand dominant, so it most likely would have been easier to hold on.
Unfortunately, by the time I remembered that I was not left-handed, Joe had already started the snowmobile and we were headed back up.
I held on tightly, but then something unexpected occurred. Joe stood up. There was probably some physics behind this: speed, balance, air resistance? I didn’t know, all I knew was that I was short and I couldn’t reach his waste when he was standing.
I improvised and grabbed hold of his coat pocket, but I could tell immediately that he wasn’t too happy about that. I let go for only a moment, but inertia, a physics term I actually know, got the better of me.
I slid right off the seat and over the seatback. I yelped, but Joe didn’t seem to notice at first. Technically speaking, I was still on the snowmobile, but it almost certainly wasn’t safe to ride where I was sitting.
Finally, Joe slowed down and, finally acknowledging my screech, called back to me, “Are you okay?”
“I’m fine. I’m just not on the seat anymore,” I yelled back to him over the roaring of the machine.
Joe stopped and allowed me to get readjusted. Then he looked at the tube with distress. He put it around his waist and sat down. Even I could see that this was not a brilliant idea. I voiced my concern that he wouldn’t be able to steer with that thing around him. Joe agreed and put the tube around me, as if he was playing some kind of solemn ring toss.
I reached my short arms around the fat tube and tried to grab onto Joe’s middle. We started off again, and once again Joe stood, this time telling me to “lean against the hill.” I had no idea what this meant and the stretch was just too much for my stubby arms and I tumbled off the snowmobile. Luckily, the stupid tube sunk into the snow and I didn’t roll far.
Joe was obviously getting a little frustrated at the incompetent girl he’d been forced to chauffer. After I freed myself from the depths of the tube and deep snow, I heaved myself over onto the backseat. I smiled at Joe apologetically, and laughed a little.
He drove me back to the bottom of the hill and ordered me to drop the tube: “It’s throwing us off.”
Once again he started up the motor, but this time we hadn’t driven five feet when he ordered I get off. A little confused and slightly hurt, I obeyed.
“There’s something wrong with it,” he said without elaboration, “I’m going to take it to Bishop.”
I got off and met the odd looks of the others waiting for rides back up the hillside. They were confused as to why I had been gone so long, and yet, I’d shown up back at the bottom.
An Apostle of God said in his last testimony to the world before he died, “Next time you are tempted to groan, try laughing instead.” I decided to take on this attitude and explained with a smile, “Oh, Joe just kicked me off. Couldn’t stand to ride with me. I must smell bad or something.”
We laughed for awhile about it and then Dakota came and picked someone else up.
“Want to go next?” Someone asked me.
I shook my head. I needed a little breather from snowmobiles. And I still didn’t know if I wanted to ride with Dakota. It wasn’t him, it was me. I didn’t want to put my arms around someone I hardly knew. Other girls would jump at the chance to cuddle with perfect strangers, but I had a personal bubble and I was determined to keep it.
I decided I would wait for Joe to come back, or maybe he would hand it off to Bishop. Either way, I had determined to wait a while longer at the base of the hill.
I sat my wet and cold self down on my abandoned tube and chatted with the others. Eventually it got to the point where I was the only one left down at the hill. Dakota would come, I would decline.
More kids on tubes came down, and went back up, leaving me alone until another set came down again. The snowmobile Joe had been driving was passed off the inexperienced Alden. I was a little offended that neither Joe nor Bishop saw fit to some rescue me, but I tried to dust the feeling under the rug.
Then came Pokey. Bless his heart; it’s not his fault I started to cry.
Most mothers will know that when their child falls, the best thing to do is laugh at them and tell them to get back up. That way he’ll just start laughing too. But if she runs to her fallen child in hysteria wondering if the kid is okay, he will start crying.
Pokey was a hysterical mother, minus the mother part . . . oh, and the hysteria. I suppose he was just concerned that I hadn’t been back up for quite a while. He came and sat by me and asked me if I was okay. The tear gates opened as I tried to convince him I was fine. And of course once you start crying two things happen: 1)Everybody notices, 2)Nobody believes you are “fine.”
Pretty soon I was crowded by people who wanted to comfort me, when I really just wanted to be left alone. When they all left, I regained my composure. The next group came down, and I laughed as their train of tubes exploded. Then they left and I started crying again.
I composed myself. Then Joe apologized for scaring me and I started up again. I don’t this “scare” was the right word. I think “making me feel like an idiot” is a little more accurate.
This off and on crying went on for another 30 minutes. I just wanted to shout, “Stop the emotional rollercoaster! I want to get off!” And eventually, Bishop felt the need to give me a heart to heart. He coaxed me onto the back of his snowmobiles and once again I was being whitewashed in motion.
I silently prayed as I held on to Bishop tightly. And wouldn’t you know it . . . I didn’t fall off. This is due to the fact the snowmobile buried itself in the deep snow at least a foot. Bishop and I got off to the side and he ordered me to stay. I watched as my Bishop tried to single-handedly free the stupid machine. Part of me felt bad and wanted to help; the other part of me just really didn’t care if I had to sit on my butt in this snow for the rest of my life.
Dakota came driving past, Alden, having given up the snowmobile he’d been driving to the Bishop, was on the back. He saw our situation and purposely rolled off the vehicle. Dakota turned around and started helping as well. In the end, the three of them got the snowmobile back on top of the snow. Alden and Dakota climbed on, for some reason we traded. Looking back, I think it was so if that snowmobile got stuck again the invalid wouldn’t be on it.
Bishop and I trudged in the thigh deep snow to the vehicle that was stopped a mere five feet away. Ugh, it was the hardest five feet I’ve had to walk in my life! And after about two feet, something awful happened.
“Bishop, my shoe fell off.”
The two of us dug into the snow searching for my white running shoe. The plastic bags were degrading from the water at this point, and I didn’t have a dry patch on me. Bishop was the one who finally retrieved the rebellious shoe. I slipped it over my foot and attempted to tie the laces with my frozen fingers. (I had taken off my wet gloves and hour prior.) Bishop pulled his gloves off and ordered me to put them on, which was more difficult than it should have been, but I couldn’t even feel my fingers anymore.
We reached the back-up and I tried for another few minutes to get on it. Bishop was trying to be patient and as we set off one last time, he called back to me, “The easiest way to get you back up to the top is by going straight up where you came down on the tube.”
I just nodded, praying for angels to hold me on this terrible contraption for the duration of the ride. I prayed that we wouldn’t get stuck again. I prayed that I wouldn’t start crying again when we reached the top, which we eventually did.
Everyone cheered for me, which was the last thing I wanted to hear. I fake smiled at them as they told me I should grab some chili.
“I hate chili,” I said, maybe a little to angrily.
“Well have some hot cocoa then.”
I gave the glove back to the Bishop, grabbed some hot cocoa, and went to stand by the space heater. The knees in Trevor’s jeans were a mixture of golden brown and charcoal black, and you could see his skin beneath the holes. He warned me not to stand too close to the heater, and got a genuine smile out of me.
I laughed a little, but I was ready to go home. Pokey was taking a truckload back early, but the seats had already been called for. I felt like crying, but then Pokey asked me if I wanted to go home. Of course, I did. I said yes and climbed in. I suspect Trevor gave up his seat for me. How nice.
I got back to my dorm and changed into dry clothes. I was determined to laugh this off, but for some reason no matter how many times I retell this tale of woe, I start crying and the listeners start laughing.
I’m going to continue to tell this story until I myself can laugh about it. When I am tempted to groan, I want to be able to laugh. As Joseph B. Wirthin said, “Come what may, and love it.” I may not be able to control my ineptitude at balancing myself on a snowmobile, but I can control the attitude I have through the trials I am given. I don’t know if God sent down angels to help me or not, but one way or another He helped me up that hill in the end.
Wednesday, December 2, 2009
Risks and Expectations in Alice Munro’s Writing
Risks and Expectations in Alice Munro’s Writing
Alice Munro’s stories seem to be predictable, but suddenly take a perplexing turn causing the characters to learn the value of taking risks. Examples of this can be found in several of her short stories, including How I Met my Husband, Day of the Butterfly, and Miles City, Montana. Munro seems to foreshadow one outcome and then plays out another, she “sets up very clear expectations” and then doesn’t quite follow through (Hampson 477). The female narrators are hard to read, and are all very tentative when it comes to risk taking. I would like to focus on how Munro focuses the readers’ attention on this in these short stories.
In How I Met my Husband, the title implies that the story is mainly about Edie meeting her husband. “The expectations created by the title have been fulfilled, technically,” but it is definitely not in the way that the readers feels was set up (Hampson 477). The title is not only very misleading, but it makes you anxious to hear a romantic tale from Edie. Instead most of the story is spent in leading up to the fulfillment of the title, which doesn’t happen until the very last paragraph.
All throughout reading this story, there seems to be a pull between Edie and the Pilot, and the reader is compelled to believe that the two will end up together. When Chris promises to write, it is easy to assume they will become pen pals, writing one another until, after a long romance, they finally end up getting married. The turning point brings about disappointment when Edie goes everyday to the mailbox, anticipating the first letter to arrive only to find an empty handed mailman waiting for her.
Unfortunately, the reader realizes the turn of events only as Edie does: “It never crossed my mind for a long time a letter might not come” (219). It never crosses the readers’ mind that Edie and the pilot will never end up together until this time. Then it become painfully obvious, for both reader and character, that “no letter [is] ever going to come” (219). The reader can’t help feeling like the ending they’ve been given is not as good as the one they were anticipating.
Edie learns that disappointments happen, but she decides not to show them to others: “I like for people to think what pleases them and makes them happy” (514). Now the readers can clearly see that the narrator has been lying to herself, and to them, the readers, throughout her narration. By not ending up with the pilot, Edie learns that some things or people are not worth waiting for, and she does find her husband. Waiting for the letter was a risk, but the outcome was great.
The expectation and turning point are much more subtle in Day of the Butterfly. The reader starts to assume that Helen and Myra will probably become friends as they walk together eating Cracker Jack, even though Myra is an outcast. Munro encourages this idea with Helen giving the prize to Myra.
Helen is afraid that someone will know that she gave Myra a gift, she hopes Myra won’t wear it or “someone [would ask] her where she got it” (238). Despite this, the reader is still led to believe that these two will eventually become friends, that there is something good when their fingers touch: “I can go and talk to her at recess. Why not? Why not?” (238).
At one point Helen sees a benefit in befriending Myra: “The birthday party of Myra Sayla became fashionable” (239). She is eager to go to the hospital to celebrate Myra’s non-birthday. This makes the readers believe even further that a friendship between Myra and Helen is not only possible, but likely. The readers see that when it is socially acceptable, Helen can befriend Myra. But friendship can’t and should not be faked, for this reason Helen feels uneasy around Myra at the hospital. She knows that she was being selfish and unfair to Myra. Being friends with Myra would soil what little self-image she had. That was a risk she could not take.
The unresolved expectation in Miles City, Montana is much more dramatic. Munro begins the story with the narrator relating a childhood memory of a boy drowning. When the suggestion of swimming is first brought up by the traveling family, the readers’ stomach goes queasy. It seems obvious that one of the children is going to drown, otherwise why tell about the boys funeral?
This idea is enforced by the fact that the lifeguard is not paying attention, and suddenly Meg has gone missing. The readers and the characters expect the worse, but this story ends, really, with a feeling of ease.
The narrator learns that she should put a little more trust in her youngest daughter. Taking a three year old seriously is a risk, but Meg proved capable of a lot more than anyone gave her credit for.
Munro’s stories make for interesting reading, “fracturing each character's—and each reader's—expectations” (Bright 4). Taking risks is not always a bad thing. Edie takes a risk by opening herself up for the possibility of heartache. Helen is friendly to Myra, even though it is unpopular. Though she does it in secret, what she learns from the experience will stay with her. The mother in Miles City, Montana sees her daughter in the water. At first she doesn’t believe what she sees, but she takes a risk and trusts that her daughter really can swim. Though it can be frustrating, these unpredictable turns in the stories allow the readers to learn lessons along with the characters “that shift our perceptions of ordinary events” (Ross 474-75). The seemingly predictable takes an unexpected turn that involves taking a few risks.
Works Cited
McMullen, Lorraine. “Shameless, Marvelous, Shattering Absurdity.” Probable Fictions: Alice Munro’s Narrative Acts. Ed. Louis K. Mackendrick. Ontario: ECU Press, 1983. Print.
Meyer, Michael, ed. The Bedford Introduction to Literature. 5th edition. Boston: Bedford/St. Martin’s, 1999. Print.
“Minimalism.” Merriam-Webster’s Collegiate Dictionary. 10th edition. Springfield: Merriam-Webster’s, Incorporated, 1999. Print.
Munro, Alice. “Day of the Butterfly.” An Introduction to Fiction. 9th edition. Eds. X.J. Kennedy and Dana Gioia. New York: Pearson/Longman, 2007. Print.
- - -. “The Found Boat.” An Introduction to Fiction. 5th edition. Eds. X.J. Kennedy and Dana Gioia. New York: HarperCollins, 1991. Print.
- - -. “How I met my Husband.” An introduction to Fiction. 10th edition. Eds. X.J. Kennedy and Dana Gioia. New York: Pearson/Longman, 2007. Print.
- - -. “Miles City, Montana.” Michael Meyer 470-83.
- - -. “An Ounce of Cure.” Michael Meyer 451-58.
- - -. “Prue.” Michael Meyer 467-69.
Weiss, Allan. “How I met my Husband: Overview.” Reference Guide to Short Fiction. Ed. Noelle Watson. Detroit: St. James Press. Literature Resource Center. Web. 8 Nov 2009.
Woodcock, George. “On Symbolism in Munro’s Fiction.” Michael Meyer 476.
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