Sunday, January 27, 2013
Saturday, April 14, 2012
Blog Prompt #7
I never read much in the way of nature writing before this class so I didn’t realize that the genre was so large. It was interesting to see how other people view nature and what they consider harmful to it. This class has made me take a closer look at Boise as a whole also. I didn’t realize they had so many environmentally friendly programs or so many classes on how to take care of the environment. They are working hard to preserve what we have and it makes me proud to live here, not that I wasn’t already.
The bummer deal about spring in Idaho is that it comes late, and it didn’t snow much this year. So all I saw at my bench was cold and windy, with the occasional torrential precipitation. I did start seeing many of the same people walking the path by my bench. Most of them seem nice. There’s one old guy who always has headphones on and never says hi to me. Many of the changes are just now taking place. The park is filling up with people practicing softball, the trees are budding and the canal is full. It’s still crazy windy, but at least it’s reaching the 60’s now.
I’ve learned that it is possible to write a blog about the same place for an entire semester. I was a bit leery at first, which made it more interesting to see that I could do it, and that each entry was different. Sadly enough, I have never enjoyed journaling- horrible, I know, coming from an English major. But I did enjoy the blog format.
I’ve also started looking more closely at trees and plants, making mental notes about what would look good in my garden and what wouldn’t. Do I want plants that attract butterflies? Do I want to grow my own herbs and vegetables? The answer is yes to all of them.
The bummer deal about spring in Idaho is that it comes late, and it didn’t snow much this year. So all I saw at my bench was cold and windy, with the occasional torrential precipitation. I did start seeing many of the same people walking the path by my bench. Most of them seem nice. There’s one old guy who always has headphones on and never says hi to me. Many of the changes are just now taking place. The park is filling up with people practicing softball, the trees are budding and the canal is full. It’s still crazy windy, but at least it’s reaching the 60’s now.
I’ve learned that it is possible to write a blog about the same place for an entire semester. I was a bit leery at first, which made it more interesting to see that I could do it, and that each entry was different. Sadly enough, I have never enjoyed journaling- horrible, I know, coming from an English major. But I did enjoy the blog format.
I’ve also started looking more closely at trees and plants, making mental notes about what would look good in my garden and what wouldn’t. Do I want plants that attract butterflies? Do I want to grow my own herbs and vegetables? The answer is yes to all of them.
Sunday, April 8, 2012
Place Entry #7
Today smells like my childhood. The musky scent of a weed that used to flower with great propensity in a field at our grade school is borne on the breeze. To my friends and me, this wasn’t a weed. It made bouquets, it was food, it was shelter. Whatever purpose our imaginations envisioned for it, it served. And now its bright purple flowers dot the path on the way to my bench. As an adult, I see them as weeds that need to be gotten rid of, but as a child, they were a source of great fun. As a kid, I didn’t care what things looked like, so long as they were fun or left room for imagination. Our backyard could have been overrun with weeds and I wouldn’t have cared.
Somewhere, a lawn mower growls and the tangy odor of freshly cut grass wafts by me. That is the aroma of high school track. Whenever I smell that, I get an unquenchable urge to run, and it’s been eight years since my last track season. That urge runs so deep in my blood, I doubt I’ll ever lose it.
It’s Easter Sunday and all around me things are springing to life. Today is the first nice day we’ve had in a long time and the trees and flowers are taking advantage of it. Just like Christ rose from the dead, so these plants are rising from their winter tombs.
The tree that marks Jason Cody Rowly’s place is still small. At first glance, it’s nothing more than a bunch of twigs. But there is life there- small buds biding their time. The canal that was a mere trickle when I began this blog in January is half full of cold, slow moving water. In another month, it will be full to bursting.
This is my favorite season of all, the only reason I can make it through the cold of winter. It’s one of the reasons I love Easter so well. It’s an offering of hope- a Savior risen from the dead, bursts of color blooming all around, the relief of a warm breeze and the love of family.
Tuesday, April 3, 2012
Blog Prompt #6
I decided to try to write about the same place (Montmartre, Paris) from three different perspectives: child, tourist and native.
“Mom, can I get one of those pastry things?”
“In a minute. Your Dad and I want to look at the pretty pictures.”
Ugh. This is so pointless. We’ve been walking through Paris all day already and I haven’t been able to eat any yummy dessert yet. Until my parents get to look through all the art stuff in this square, I won’t get any dessert.
I follow behind them, hopping over cracks in the sidewalk and avoiding bird poop. Pictures are boring.
“Little girl, little girl! Over here. I draw picture of your cute face.”
I look up and see a small man pointing with his pencil for me to sit down in his chair. His fingers are black and smudgy. He looks odd. I look at Mom and Dad.
“How much?” my dad asks.
“For you, only 5 Euro,” the small man says. Maybe he’s not so scary.
I jump up into his chair.
“Sit still ma petite chou,” he says and turns to a large white piece of paper. People keep calling me that. Mom says it means ‘little cabbage.’ I don’t look like a cabbage. “What you want to be?” he asks.
“I want to be eating a chocolate pastry thing,” I mutter.
He laughs, “You want to be queen of pastry? That, I can do. All girls want to be queens or princesses. But you so cute, you a queen.” He talks funny, like everyone else here.
His smudged fingers fly over the canvas and he keeps telling me to sit still.
“Voila. Ici.” He flaps his arms toward the canvas like the pigeons that are all over.
Mom and Dad and I look.
“How come I have a chocolate pastry in the picture but not in real life?” I ask.
“Because you queen of pastry,” the man smiles proudly.
Dad hands him the money. Mom says, “Oh, you look so cute! Like Strawberry Shortcake!”
“Who’s that?” I ask.
“Something from my childhood. Let’s get you an éclair.”
“Yes!”
-
Melissa has always wanted to walk around with a baguette in Paris. She also has her nose to the ground for anything that smells like crepes. She’s currently striding ahead of me through Montmartre, head swiveling this way and that, looking for a crepe shop.
“Wait, Melissa, we have to look at the art.”
She slows her pace and turns to look.
I was here as a senior in high school and now, six years later, I’m back. I’m not about to miss this place.
“Oh yes, art.”
“Eat your baguette while you browse. Can I have a bite?”
She tears off a hunk for me. The baguette is warm and cooked to perfection.
“This is where van Gogh, Matisse, Renoir, Degas and Toulouse-Lautrec painted.”
It’s sunny and warm and artists are out in full force. There’s a row of caricature artists but the rest of the square is dedicated to painters. It’s not a large square, which gives it a homey feeling. The artists are surrounded by old buildings containing homes, shops, and cafes. The smell of baked sweets floats on the air from a creperie and a patisserie.
Bright colors leap from canvases in bold swirls and landscapes. I know what I’m looking for, but I take my time looking at each painting. These artists come in all shapes and sizes and have varying degrees of English and interpersonal skills. Some bend over their paintings as if they are the only two things in the world that matter. Others paint and chat with each other and with tourists like me.
“You like, eh?” asks the artist with the white beard.
I figured he’d notice me. I’ve been standing in front of the same painting for a few minutes.
“Oh yes,” I say. “It’s beautiful. Tres magnifique.”
“Ah, American. This is my favorite painting. Just like Paris is the city of love, this is the bridge of love. Perfect for a pretty lady like you.”
“How much?”
“100 Euro, just for you.” It’s like I’m supposed to feel special, like he gave me a unique price. But I want this painting. I finally get him down to 75 Euro, just for me, so I can give it to my fiancé as a wedding present.
-
There’s a chill in the breeze this morning. Fall is coming, just like it has for the last seventy years of my life.
I pull the old wooden door closed behind me. I rub my fingers over a long scratch in the wood, a memory from a younger time when my brother and I were kids.
“Bonjour, Jean-Claude,” I say as I set my bag of art supplies on the ground. “Bonjour, Henri. Ca va?”
“Bien. Et tu?” I say, just like I have every day for the last forty years.
“Bien. Mais mon arthrite...” he says with a shrug, just like he has for the last forty years. Although is arthritis has only factored into conversation in the last few years.
I tighten my scarf around my neck and begin setting out my canvases and paints. The leaves are turning a brilliant scarlet. Perhaps I will paint them today.
“Bonjour messieurs,” says Elodie, our angel. She’s an art student at the university and she’s been coming here often to paint.
“Café?” She asks, even though she doesn’t have to. She hands us each a mug of espresso. “Une crepe pour Jean-Claude, et un éclair pour Henri.”
We take these things with grateful hearts and in return, we teach her what we know. I often wonder what it is I have to teach anyone. In seventy years of life, I feel as if I’ve just begun to learn, as if my painting is only now being perfected. Imagine what I could do with another seventy years.
I pull out a blank canvas and find a comfortable place on my stool. Today is only about me and those red leaves.
“Mom, can I get one of those pastry things?”
“In a minute. Your Dad and I want to look at the pretty pictures.”
Ugh. This is so pointless. We’ve been walking through Paris all day already and I haven’t been able to eat any yummy dessert yet. Until my parents get to look through all the art stuff in this square, I won’t get any dessert.
I follow behind them, hopping over cracks in the sidewalk and avoiding bird poop. Pictures are boring.
“Little girl, little girl! Over here. I draw picture of your cute face.”
I look up and see a small man pointing with his pencil for me to sit down in his chair. His fingers are black and smudgy. He looks odd. I look at Mom and Dad.
“How much?” my dad asks.
“For you, only 5 Euro,” the small man says. Maybe he’s not so scary.
I jump up into his chair.
“Sit still ma petite chou,” he says and turns to a large white piece of paper. People keep calling me that. Mom says it means ‘little cabbage.’ I don’t look like a cabbage. “What you want to be?” he asks.
“I want to be eating a chocolate pastry thing,” I mutter.
He laughs, “You want to be queen of pastry? That, I can do. All girls want to be queens or princesses. But you so cute, you a queen.” He talks funny, like everyone else here.
His smudged fingers fly over the canvas and he keeps telling me to sit still.
“Voila. Ici.” He flaps his arms toward the canvas like the pigeons that are all over.
Mom and Dad and I look.
“How come I have a chocolate pastry in the picture but not in real life?” I ask.
“Because you queen of pastry,” the man smiles proudly.
Dad hands him the money. Mom says, “Oh, you look so cute! Like Strawberry Shortcake!”
“Who’s that?” I ask.
“Something from my childhood. Let’s get you an éclair.”
“Yes!”
-
Melissa has always wanted to walk around with a baguette in Paris. She also has her nose to the ground for anything that smells like crepes. She’s currently striding ahead of me through Montmartre, head swiveling this way and that, looking for a crepe shop.
“Wait, Melissa, we have to look at the art.”
She slows her pace and turns to look.
I was here as a senior in high school and now, six years later, I’m back. I’m not about to miss this place.
“Oh yes, art.”
“Eat your baguette while you browse. Can I have a bite?”
She tears off a hunk for me. The baguette is warm and cooked to perfection.
“This is where van Gogh, Matisse, Renoir, Degas and Toulouse-Lautrec painted.”
It’s sunny and warm and artists are out in full force. There’s a row of caricature artists but the rest of the square is dedicated to painters. It’s not a large square, which gives it a homey feeling. The artists are surrounded by old buildings containing homes, shops, and cafes. The smell of baked sweets floats on the air from a creperie and a patisserie.
Bright colors leap from canvases in bold swirls and landscapes. I know what I’m looking for, but I take my time looking at each painting. These artists come in all shapes and sizes and have varying degrees of English and interpersonal skills. Some bend over their paintings as if they are the only two things in the world that matter. Others paint and chat with each other and with tourists like me.
“You like, eh?” asks the artist with the white beard.
I figured he’d notice me. I’ve been standing in front of the same painting for a few minutes.
“Oh yes,” I say. “It’s beautiful. Tres magnifique.”
“Ah, American. This is my favorite painting. Just like Paris is the city of love, this is the bridge of love. Perfect for a pretty lady like you.”
“How much?”
“100 Euro, just for you.” It’s like I’m supposed to feel special, like he gave me a unique price. But I want this painting. I finally get him down to 75 Euro, just for me, so I can give it to my fiancé as a wedding present.
-
There’s a chill in the breeze this morning. Fall is coming, just like it has for the last seventy years of my life.
I pull the old wooden door closed behind me. I rub my fingers over a long scratch in the wood, a memory from a younger time when my brother and I were kids.
“Bonjour, Jean-Claude,” I say as I set my bag of art supplies on the ground. “Bonjour, Henri. Ca va?”
“Bien. Et tu?” I say, just like I have every day for the last forty years.
“Bien. Mais mon arthrite...” he says with a shrug, just like he has for the last forty years. Although is arthritis has only factored into conversation in the last few years.
I tighten my scarf around my neck and begin setting out my canvases and paints. The leaves are turning a brilliant scarlet. Perhaps I will paint them today.
“Bonjour messieurs,” says Elodie, our angel. She’s an art student at the university and she’s been coming here often to paint.
“Café?” She asks, even though she doesn’t have to. She hands us each a mug of espresso. “Une crepe pour Jean-Claude, et un éclair pour Henri.”
We take these things with grateful hearts and in return, we teach her what we know. I often wonder what it is I have to teach anyone. In seventy years of life, I feel as if I’ve just begun to learn, as if my painting is only now being perfected. Imagine what I could do with another seventy years.
I pull out a blank canvas and find a comfortable place on my stool. Today is only about me and those red leaves.
Thursday, March 29, 2012
Place Entry #6
It’s about a ten minute walk, or a five minute run, from my house to the park bench. Some days the houses I walk past are empty, other days they teem with life. Today I passed a man on his cell phone, pacing in quick bursts across his driveway.
“No baby, it’s not like that…. Come on, don’t be an ass…. I told you…. Look sugar cakes, you can’t believe everything you hear.”
My first question is who in the world would go out with a guy who called her an ass and sugar cakes. My second thought is that he cheated on his girlfriend and she got wind of it. He isn’t doing a very good job of oiling his way out of his mess. I didn’t stay to see the end result.
I’m jogging today, trying to outrun the massive storm boiling in from the southwest. I’m running toward it, casting a wary eye upward, gauging how long I can stay out at my bench before I need to beeline it back home. It’s a rather odd feeling. The sun is shining brilliantly in a mostly clear sky. The early tendrils of white clouds haven’t reached the sun just yet. I’m in shorts and sunglasses but I perhaps should have brought an umbrella. The outer reaches of the storm cloud just took over the sun. I slide my shades up to the top of my head.
A few brave women are scurrying along the path, walking happy dogs. All of them are walking briskly away from the storm, their usually relaxed paces quickened. They all, knowingly or unknowingly cast glances behind them, checking the progress of the clouds.
I probably shouldn’t still be out here, the wind has picked up and the temperature has dropped but for some reason I don’t want to let the storm intimidate me. So, for kicks and giggles I start jogging toward it, playing chicken. It will win of course, but for my brief instant of defiance I felt free. Wouldn’t it be nice if we could see life’s storms brewing on the horizon and have the chance to outrun them as well?
I may have dared the storm a bit too long, if I want to get home before the hail, for that is undoubtedly what these black clouds are carrying, I’m going to have to pick up the pace. The man is gone. Either his ex-girlfriend hung up on him or he’s continuing his pleading inside thanks to the storm.
Tulips and daffodils and crocus and hyacinth don't even acknowledge my presence as I sprint past them. The sky is inky black now but I’m almost home. I put on a last burst of speed. Just as I step onto my covered front porch, the sky booms and lets loose a torrent of hail. The white balls bounce harmlessly a few feet away.
I smile.
I beat you.
“No baby, it’s not like that…. Come on, don’t be an ass…. I told you…. Look sugar cakes, you can’t believe everything you hear.”
My first question is who in the world would go out with a guy who called her an ass and sugar cakes. My second thought is that he cheated on his girlfriend and she got wind of it. He isn’t doing a very good job of oiling his way out of his mess. I didn’t stay to see the end result.
I’m jogging today, trying to outrun the massive storm boiling in from the southwest. I’m running toward it, casting a wary eye upward, gauging how long I can stay out at my bench before I need to beeline it back home. It’s a rather odd feeling. The sun is shining brilliantly in a mostly clear sky. The early tendrils of white clouds haven’t reached the sun just yet. I’m in shorts and sunglasses but I perhaps should have brought an umbrella. The outer reaches of the storm cloud just took over the sun. I slide my shades up to the top of my head.
A few brave women are scurrying along the path, walking happy dogs. All of them are walking briskly away from the storm, their usually relaxed paces quickened. They all, knowingly or unknowingly cast glances behind them, checking the progress of the clouds.
I probably shouldn’t still be out here, the wind has picked up and the temperature has dropped but for some reason I don’t want to let the storm intimidate me. So, for kicks and giggles I start jogging toward it, playing chicken. It will win of course, but for my brief instant of defiance I felt free. Wouldn’t it be nice if we could see life’s storms brewing on the horizon and have the chance to outrun them as well?
I may have dared the storm a bit too long, if I want to get home before the hail, for that is undoubtedly what these black clouds are carrying, I’m going to have to pick up the pace. The man is gone. Either his ex-girlfriend hung up on him or he’s continuing his pleading inside thanks to the storm.
Tulips and daffodils and crocus and hyacinth don't even acknowledge my presence as I sprint past them. The sky is inky black now but I’m almost home. I put on a last burst of speed. Just as I step onto my covered front porch, the sky booms and lets loose a torrent of hail. The white balls bounce harmlessly a few feet away.
I smile.
I beat you.
Saturday, March 17, 2012
Blog Prompt #5
People die here.
This land is as remorseless as it is beautiful. Our efforts to modernize and educate can only change those who visit. They cannot change the terrain itself. It stands tall, immutable to all human influences. Gneiss, schist and limestone bare themselves before the awed eyes of tourists and to the elements. We flock to it by the thousands, snapping pictures, taking tours, hiking or rafting. It is famous, a celebrity, and it doesn’t care. We are mere phantoms, coming and going as it has seen people come and go over thousands of years.
It is a great rip in fabric of the earth, a giant furrow slashed across the surface, a testament to the power of water in flood. Was it painful, having that much of you ripped away? To lose the solid ground you thought you stood upon? There are some things time can never heal.
The Colorado River surges a mile straight down from my feet, a tiny ribbon of blue winding its way for miles and miles through the heat, chipping away at the rock walls as it goes.
It is a pleasant 75 degrees where I stand on the edge of the North Rim, camera dangling uselessly. No photograph can do this place justice. It’s too vast, too old, too personal to violate with a picture.
The canyon floor is at least twenty degrees hotter than it is up here. This is something the rangers try to get everyone determined to hike the winding 11 mile trail down to the floor to understand. It’s hotter, bring two gallons of water per person, start around four a.m., spend the night in the canyon, start hiking back up around four a.m. Bring water. Hike together. Bring water. People still die here. Because they don’t listen to the rangers, because they don’t read the posters that tell stories of hikers who didn’t bring water and have returned to the dust from which they came. And still, people think they are invincible, nothing bad will happen to them. Then they slowly go out of their minds, begin seeing things that aren’t there and lay down to rest. They never get up again.
All the while, the canyon watches.
The sun dips, touching the tip of the limestone rim. Blazes of color ink the clouds and the path at my feet is illuminated in a brief flash of light. I should have hiked out then, while I saw clearly the way I should go. Instead, I waited until twilight fell and stumbled my way out by flashlight, seeing only one step ahead of me, trying to flee the giant rip in my life, but never knowing quite which way to turn.
This land is as remorseless as it is beautiful. Our efforts to modernize and educate can only change those who visit. They cannot change the terrain itself. It stands tall, immutable to all human influences. Gneiss, schist and limestone bare themselves before the awed eyes of tourists and to the elements. We flock to it by the thousands, snapping pictures, taking tours, hiking or rafting. It is famous, a celebrity, and it doesn’t care. We are mere phantoms, coming and going as it has seen people come and go over thousands of years.
It is a great rip in fabric of the earth, a giant furrow slashed across the surface, a testament to the power of water in flood. Was it painful, having that much of you ripped away? To lose the solid ground you thought you stood upon? There are some things time can never heal.
The Colorado River surges a mile straight down from my feet, a tiny ribbon of blue winding its way for miles and miles through the heat, chipping away at the rock walls as it goes.
It is a pleasant 75 degrees where I stand on the edge of the North Rim, camera dangling uselessly. No photograph can do this place justice. It’s too vast, too old, too personal to violate with a picture.
The canyon floor is at least twenty degrees hotter than it is up here. This is something the rangers try to get everyone determined to hike the winding 11 mile trail down to the floor to understand. It’s hotter, bring two gallons of water per person, start around four a.m., spend the night in the canyon, start hiking back up around four a.m. Bring water. Hike together. Bring water. People still die here. Because they don’t listen to the rangers, because they don’t read the posters that tell stories of hikers who didn’t bring water and have returned to the dust from which they came. And still, people think they are invincible, nothing bad will happen to them. Then they slowly go out of their minds, begin seeing things that aren’t there and lay down to rest. They never get up again.
All the while, the canyon watches.
The sun dips, touching the tip of the limestone rim. Blazes of color ink the clouds and the path at my feet is illuminated in a brief flash of light. I should have hiked out then, while I saw clearly the way I should go. Instead, I waited until twilight fell and stumbled my way out by flashlight, seeing only one step ahead of me, trying to flee the giant rip in my life, but never knowing quite which way to turn.
Sunday, March 4, 2012
Place Entry #5
There is a difference between sitting on a bench and actually exploring the place. From the bench, geese are majestically serene, the breeze is a chilly nuisance, and mud sits there, begging to be included in the story. All of these things are seen as “through a glass darkly.” It isn’t until I actually get onto the field in earnest that these things become more than observations.
It’s forty degrees outside and the wind is gusting quite strongly on occasion, in fact, we’ve had a wind advisory. But, blissfully optimistic, or stupidly ignorant, we’ve gathered together this Saturday for a game of Ultimate Frisbee. A few others had the same idea about getting outside that we did. Six guys in their late teens or early twenties attempt to play soccer. They are trying to show off for their lady friends but with their shorts hanging below their butts and nothing but their thin white boxers to keep out the wind, they are having a hard time of it.
We have come dressed for the occasion in our sweats and gloves. It’s Boise, where one never knows what the weather will be like from one minute to the next. Even though the sky is clear- what few clouds broach our vision, sprint quickly from view- we could get snowed on, hailed on, or rained on at any moment.
From the field, the geese are no longer majestically serene. Stepping in their frozen poo doesn’t help the neon blue complexion of my new Nikes. Getting shoved to the ground makes the mud much less enjoyable. Wide swaths of mud freeze to the black workout pants my mother-in-law bought me for Christmas (pants that are much tighter than anything I would have ever purchased for myself. But she is on a quest to make sure I dress in clothes that fit me.) The wind plays havoc with our throws and catches, arbitrarily dropping a wild pass right into a teammate’s hands or lofting a straight shot just out of reach.
Despite my many layers and two hours of sprinting, I am chilled to the bone. Weary. Mud speckled. And elated. Running, and playing, always make me happy. Did we win? No. My husband’s team won. Naturally. But I got to spend two hours in God’s creation, playing with my friends. My biggest worry was whether or not I could catch the Frisbee or throw it right. I wasn’t worried about my seniors and their poor life choices. I wasn’t worried about my mom’s illness. I wasn’t even worried about getting dirt on my new shoes. I was free. If only I could I spend my life outside, without goose poo and guys with their shorts barely hanging on, I feel life would be much simpler.
It’s forty degrees outside and the wind is gusting quite strongly on occasion, in fact, we’ve had a wind advisory. But, blissfully optimistic, or stupidly ignorant, we’ve gathered together this Saturday for a game of Ultimate Frisbee. A few others had the same idea about getting outside that we did. Six guys in their late teens or early twenties attempt to play soccer. They are trying to show off for their lady friends but with their shorts hanging below their butts and nothing but their thin white boxers to keep out the wind, they are having a hard time of it.
We have come dressed for the occasion in our sweats and gloves. It’s Boise, where one never knows what the weather will be like from one minute to the next. Even though the sky is clear- what few clouds broach our vision, sprint quickly from view- we could get snowed on, hailed on, or rained on at any moment.
From the field, the geese are no longer majestically serene. Stepping in their frozen poo doesn’t help the neon blue complexion of my new Nikes. Getting shoved to the ground makes the mud much less enjoyable. Wide swaths of mud freeze to the black workout pants my mother-in-law bought me for Christmas (pants that are much tighter than anything I would have ever purchased for myself. But she is on a quest to make sure I dress in clothes that fit me.) The wind plays havoc with our throws and catches, arbitrarily dropping a wild pass right into a teammate’s hands or lofting a straight shot just out of reach.
Despite my many layers and two hours of sprinting, I am chilled to the bone. Weary. Mud speckled. And elated. Running, and playing, always make me happy. Did we win? No. My husband’s team won. Naturally. But I got to spend two hours in God’s creation, playing with my friends. My biggest worry was whether or not I could catch the Frisbee or throw it right. I wasn’t worried about my seniors and their poor life choices. I wasn’t worried about my mom’s illness. I wasn’t even worried about getting dirt on my new shoes. I was free. If only I could I spend my life outside, without goose poo and guys with their shorts barely hanging on, I feel life would be much simpler.
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