Unmasking Our
Writing
ABYDOS WRITING INSTITUTE 2020 Annunciation Orthodox School, Houston, TX
"BEHIND EVERY MASK, THERE IS A UNIQUE STORY"
TABLE OF CONTENTS Stephanie Alexander
"The Birthday Wish"
Angela Bailey
"It Could Have Been Lucy"
Linsey Bové
"Bonded"
Moira Burgy
"The Trip of a Lifetime"
Valerie Coyle
"The Sweet Goodbye"
Joan Lange
"The Flood"
Jessica Palmer
"My Happy, Playful, Nearly-Blind Sidekick"
Maria Papageorgiou
"One of Those Days!!"
Sarah Schultz
"Alone in Tokyo"
Amber Williams
"My Favorite"
Amy Williams
"Grandma, the Hoot, Henslee"
Catherine Worthy
"The Piece I Left Behind"
The Birthday Wish Stephanie Alexander There are people you meet in life who just seem to have that maternal instinct. My sister deserved to be a mother. There was no doubt about it. Since I can remember, she nurtured me and cared for me. She was a second mother who was always there when I needed her. She had every quality that would make her shine as a mother. The only gut-wrenching flaw: she could not get pregnant. Not only was this a hard pill to swallow on behalf of my sister, but selfish thoughts began to flood into my mind: would I also struggle to get pregnant? Do I need to start trying earlier in case it takes longer? What tests do I need to have run? Her husband, Ben, and her spent day after day, week after week, month after month, and year after year working towards getting pregnant. We laugh at the concept of “working towards getting pregnant,” but at this point, it was seeming like work that was requiring more effort than it should. Growing up, you hear how it happens. Two people fall in love and then they request for a stork to come visit with the gift of a baby, right? Well, Allison’s stork seemed to have gotten lost somewhere along the way. There were more tears shed and prayers sent up than I can even recall. We begged to know answers as to why this was her fate. Why would two people destined to be parents struggle for so long to get pregnant? That was until August 20th, 2019. I suppose you could say that I am a big “birthday girl.” I love that birthdays are a guarantee of family time and togetherness. A time for us to all be still and celebrate. My birthday started like any other: my sweet husband bringing me breakfast in bed, kind texts and Facebook posts from friends near and far, a little stroll around the neighborhood with my puppy. Soon, my family arrived for a special dinner together. We devoured the bread and butter appetizer, and inhaled the variety of entrees we ordered. All of this leading to the best part of any meal: dessert. The waiter glided through the restaurant with the carrot cake I loved so much. The cake, smothered in cream cheese icing and finished off with a single candle in the center, was calling to me. Now, I personally take birthday wishes very seriously. Afterall, you only get one wish a year-
you have to make it a good one. There was no question in my mind what it would be. I can still hear the desperate tone in my mind as I wished- no I pleaded the birthday wish of all wishes: “Please let Allison have a baby. Please, please, please. I want nothing more this year.” I took a big breath in and blew the candle out with all of my might. Hopeful that the stronger I blew, the stronger the wish might be. Not long after licking the plate clean, we headed home and began to open presents. I am very much a giver as opposed to a receiver, so this time of a birthday always feels funny to me. The memories made and the time spent together is more than enough to fill my cup for the day. I open the gifts one by one: a book I have been dying to read, a dress from my favorite boutique, an airfryer so I can attempt to learn how to cook. I finally got to my last present: a small box. I slowly take off the wrapping paper as we continue to have conversation above the presents. I carefully open the lid as my husband offers to refill my wine glass. I move aside the tissue paper as my curious puppy begins poking her nose up to see what is inside. From first glance, it is a gray shirt. Lovely, cute, classic and simple. I begin to express my thanks as I pull out what I believed to be the shirt. As it unfolds, I realize it is not a shirt but a onesie. A onesie that states, “My Aunt Loves Me.” The stork finally visited. The prayers were answered. The birthday wish came true quicker than I could have even imagined. My sister was pregnant. My sister who deserved to be a mother. My brother-in-law who has been making dad jokes since he could speak. They were pregnant. “Wait… what is this?” I asked in my state of confusion and dumbfoundedness. “I knew it!!!” shouted my other sister. “We’re pregnant,” Allison admitted sheepishly and calmly with the grace of a mother already. Tears flooded the room as we all screamed, sobbed, hugged, and celebrated. Not one week later my family gathered together again for a family dinner. “Oh Stephanie, one of your birthday presents came in late. Do you want to open it now?” Allison asked while pulling out a small gift bag from behind her back.
I opened the bag carefully, confused as to what it could be. Out came another gray onesie with the same words “My Aunt Loves Me.” My perplexed look around the table lingered with no one jumping to explain. Had my sister forgotten that she had just given me this onesie last week? Does pregnancy brain take over that quickly? The confusion on my face grew and the silence around the table continued. “Wait… twins?” my husband whispered. Cue the jaw drop. Not only did the stork visit, it came with a heavy load as not long after my birthday wish, my sister found out she was having twins: a boy and girl. Being their aunt is one of my greatest joys in life. Barrett Raymond and Gray Louise have no idea how much they are cherished. The onesies said it best: “My Aunt Loves Me.” And she does...she really, really does.
It Could Have Been Lucy Angela Bailey The sound of gravel crunching under the car tires marked our arrival. I sat up, stretched, and nudged Stacie awake in the seat next to me. The car came to a slow stop, and before the doors opened, Uncle Wayne’s booming voice greeted us all with excitement. “Hellooooo! Good morning!” His smile matched the morning sun. Soon, Aunt Margaret stood at his side smiling ear to ear. Their faces alone made the trip worthwhile. I reached Uncle Wayne’s outstretched arms first. His overalls felt rough on my cheek. My heart nearly burst as he passed me into Aunt Margaret’s welcoming arms. Her petite body seemed much larger than its actual size. “I’m so happy to see you, Angela,” she whispered in my ear. “I love you, Aunt Margaret,” I replied. After all the hugging, Uncle Wayne led us into the house. An instant sense of calm came over me as I took in the smell of home-cooked delights, the sound of the old cuckoo clock, and the familiar layout of my great aunt and uncle’s small house. Kurt rushed past me and into the living room grabbing the comfy rocking chair and scooping up the dog. “You always get him first,” I complained loudly. The competition for Aunt Margaret’s chair and the attention of any breathing being inhabiting the house inevitably lead to arguments. “Angela, do you want to go see the chickens with me?” Uncle Wayne inquired peering around the corner from the kitchen. “Aunt Margaret needs to get dinner started in a couple hours.” He always knew how to circumvent sibling arguments. “Yes!” I quickly responded as I fell in step behind him; Kurt and Stacie followed behind. When we reached the pen in the backyard, Uncle Wayne asked us to wait outside until he shooed the chicks away from the gate. I called for Lucy, my favorite chicken, while I waited. Her black-tipped, white feathers seemed to glisten under the warm sun. I loved her red “hat” the most. With loud clucks and a fast pace, she made her way over to me. “Hi, Lucy! Did you miss me?” I was certain she clucked a “yes” in response. Lucy and I shared a special bond. She listened to me anytime I needed to
complain about unfair treatment by my brother, and she let me follow and pet her more than any of the other birds. In my mind, we were besties. Shortly after our reunion, Uncle Wayne let us into the pen to feed the birds. This was one of my favorite things to do at his place, so I always managed to beat Kurt to the seed bin; Stacie, still little, offered no competition. We scattered food for the chicks while Uncle Wayne began cleaning out the coop. The song “The Farmer and the Dell” played in my mind as I watched him work. While the chickens devoured their breakfast, the four of us headed out to the garden to collect cucumbers and tomatoes. The smell of manure filled my nostrils. It’s funny how the scent repulsed me in my own neighborhood, but here, at Uncle Wayne and Aunt Margaret’s house, I actually liked it. With our hands full of goodies from the garden, we headed back to the house to deliver them to Aunt Margaret who was already busy mixing dough for dinner rolls. Mom shooed us all back outside with the excuse that the tiny kitchen wouldn’t hold all of us, though I knew she and Aunt Margaret just wanted to have “adult talk” without little ears around. We found Uncle Wayne with the chickens. He obviously loved them as much as I did. “Dad, can we get some chickens at our house?” I asked. “No, honey. We don’t have enough space in our yard now that we put in the pool.” “But we could have fresh eggs. You love fresh eggs. I promise I’ll gather them, and I’ll clean out the coop,” I responded confidently. “Angela, we have a dog. That’s more than enough work for you kids,” he said without any thought to my proposal. “Daaad, pleeease,” I whined. “No, we are not getting chickens.” With that, he stepped over the fence indicating the conversation was over. I sulked through the gate and found Lucy in the corner happily pecking at the ground. Her quiet clucks and soft feathers somehow made me feel worse and better at the same time. Dad can be so mean. I would take care of chickens and love them as
much as I love Uncle Wayne’s birds. I thought to myself. “At least I have you, Lucy,” I whispered as I scooped up my bird and cradled her in my arms. After a proper sulking session, I stood up to help Uncle Wayne clean the pen just as Kurt called from the house letting me know Mom wanted to see me. Not now! I wanted to yell back until I saw Dad I had better do as I was told if there was even the slightest chance he’d change his mind about getting chickens. Kurt and Stacie sat on the front porch with a large sack of corn on the cob and a pot. “We have to shuck the corn for dinner tonight,” Stacie told me without looking up. “I was going to help Uncle Wayne clean out the chicken pen. Can’t you two do it?” I asked. Kurt didn’t waste any time letting me know I had no choice in the matter as he thrust four ears toward me. “Mom said to stay on the front porch until she calls us.” With no obvious way out, I sat down and got to work. As I finished pulling the strings off the second cob, I heard a commotion in the backyard. Lound squawks rang through the air. What’s going on? I placed the cob in the pan and picked up the next when I heard Uncle Wayne holler, “grab her!” I jumped up and ran. My feet carried me as fast as they could around the corner toward the backyard. What’s happening? Thoughts of the dog catching one of the birds flashed through my mind. I rounded the corner to see Dad kneeling. Uncle Wayne stood close by with an ax held high above his head. I didn’t have time to process what was happening before I heard the THWAK! My mouth hung open and stopped taking in oxygen. A beautiful, white, now headless, chick ran in circles in front of the two men I loved most in the world. I stood there dazed. Kurt arrived on the scene and laughed at the crazy headless bird running around the pen. His laughter broke the spell. “NOOOOOOOO!” I wailed. “What did you do?” “Angela, you’re supposed to be in the house,” Dad replied sternly. “Go on inside.” I couldn’t speak through my sobs. I couldn’t comprehend what had happened. How could the bird run without a head? Why did Uncle Wayne do that? A fter what seemed an eternity, the chick fell over and lay still. Her headless form a lump on the
ground. My heart mimicked the sight my eyes took in and fell to my toes. My world stood still. Scanning the pen, I found Lucy walking into the henhouse accompanied by several other birds. Relief rushed through me for a split-second as Uncle Wayne walked over with a knowing look. He scooped me up in his big arms holding me close as he whispered in my ear, “I’m sorry.” “Why did you kill that chick?” I asked through sobs. His grip tightened around me. He sighed and said, “Honey, we have to eat dinner. Aunt Margaret is making a fresh dinner tonight. This is how we always do it on the farm. You’re old enough to understand that now.” I buried my face in his neck and sobbed, “I won’t eat dinner anymore.” “Honey, you love Aunt Margaret’s cooking, and you have to eat. I promise you’ll feel better in a while. You’ve just had a bit of a shock. Why don’t you head on in the house for a while?” I knew he wanted to get me out of the way as much as protect me from the horrors of that pen. The scent of apple pie greeted my senses first as I passed through the back door, though rather than arousing pleasant feelings, it made me sick. I plopped down on the couch and buried my face in a pillow. Mom came over to rub my back and tell me in time I would be okay; she lied. I would never eat one of Aunt Margaret’s meals again. That made everything even worse. I loved her cooking, especially the dinner rolls with icing. I’ll miss her food. I thought to myself before tears lead to sleep. The rest of the day passed in a fog as I wandered around outside avoiding the chicken pen and my family. If I got too close to the house, the scents of home-cooked yummies beckoned and confused me, so I stayed as far away as possible. I thought about hiding when I heard Uncle Wayne calling me for dinner. How am I supposed to eat what was a living creature just a few hours ago? Dad will be angry if I don’t go. He can’t make me eat. Thoughts raced through my mind on the slow trek back to the house.
The smell of freshly-baked rolls, home-grown veggies, and chicken washed over me as I walked toward my seat at the table. My plate already held each of these delicacies. The food taunted me. “Angela, you need to eat,” Dad said from across the table. My grumbling stomach yearned for the nourishment; my head fought for control. “Okay,” I mumbled quietly, although my inside voice said, I don’t think so. It could have been Lucy.
Bonded
Linsey Bové
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You were born during a pandemic. The world froze around us — you, me, and Daddy. So much fear, uncertainty, and change permeated society, but we held fast in our little corner of it all — the Three Musketeers — home together, loving, bonding, enjoying becoming a family. The world was isolated, but we felt knitted together against the barrenness outside — masks on every face, social distancing enforced at 6 ft intervals, no visits to the grocery store or other public places, so much struggle, doubt, and panic, but blessings abounded for us. Snuggles and smiles filled every day. Just us. You. Me. Daddy. Books, kitties, and camera flashes. Then came the fever. March 17, 2020. St. Patrick’s Day. One day shy of a month old, you’d been running warm for a couple of days. I got the inclination to check your temperature during a routine diaper change as my hand ran across your warm belly —101.5 — a danger zone for a baby so young. “I’m sorry, Ma’am, but babies that little with a fever that high must be taken to the hospital. I’ll call Women’s and let them know you are on your way.” My resolve to care for you kept me upright, as I swam through a dense air of trepidation, packed your diaper bag, and loaded you into the car, Dr. Kagan’s words echoing in my ears. Walking into the E.R., the alienated world beamed down its first barrier — our first precipice to walk out onto. “I’m sorry, Ma’am, but due to COVID-19, only one parent may be present with the child. One of you will either have to wait in the car or go home.” “That will be me! I’m staying!” Your father looked forlorn, but he knew my heart would have it no other way. He handed me the bag, kissed me goodbye, and touched your hands, “You got this, Bud.” He stood watching us through the glass as the receptionist ushered you and I into a small holding area, and the walls went up around us. Just you and me now. “103.2, Ma’am.” The nurse’s eyes flashed in concern. The doctor met us as we cautiously followed the nurse into a private exam room. “Ok, Mama. Here’s what we’re looking at. With babies this little, we test for everything and treat for everything, refocusing if a cause becomes clear. High fevers like this are quite simply just too dangerous to wait on a diagnosis.” The deep breath I tried to take pinched short as she rattled off each test in turn. Blood draw. Understandable. Throat swab. Ok. Sinus swab. Ok. Urinalysis. Poor Baby. Spinal Tap. My heart fell into my stomach. ! “I understand,” is all I could muster. ! I shuddered watching them stick, probe, prod, and jostle you around. and I held back tears seeing blood fall from your hand as they inserted your IV. Oh, your bravery and strength knew no bounds even then. You kept eye contact with Mommy the whole time and would merely cast a furrowed brow at the nurses when they would handle you. A startled stretch of screams escaped your lips as they inserted your catheter for the urinalysis, but the moment you reached Mommy’s arms, you nestled
in and fell silent. I still remember the nurse remarking, “Wow! Now, that’s a bond.” That bond was only to grow, dear one. The only time I left you in the entire 52 hours we spent in that hospital was for the excruciating 15 minutes it took them to perform your spinal tap. They simply would not let me stay. “I’m sorry, Ma’am. It’s just too hard for parents to watch.” The charge nurse sat me in a waiting area out of both and eye and ear shot (quite purposefully). In the millennia that passed as I waited, I sat on the phone with Daddy, in tears that I could not be there to hold your hand. The doctor soon came to get me, though, and when I walked back into the exam room, you smiled at me so big, without a single sign of any discomfort, and my heart lightened its load. I held you against my chest, in your favorite spot, head nestled into the crook of my neck for the remainder of our time in that little room, awaiting the doctor’s decree. Sweat built up and fell like misty rain from my skin against the heat that radiated from your little fevered body, but they could not have pried you from me. The doctor was already speaking as she came through the door. “Well, we think we’ve found it. Urinalysis revealed an increase in white blood cells. So, it seems we could be facing a UTI. We cannot confirm until the lab is able to culture the bacteria. So, he will need to be admitted and kept on IV antibiotics until his fever is reduced, the bacteria is identified, and all other issues have been ruled out.” Thus, our journey together continued. Another nurse came for us with a wheelchair - the exact same type they had used to wheel me out to the car the day Daddy and I took you home, and just like that day, I held you in my arms as they wheeled us down cold back hallways toward the Pediatric ICU. A bed large enough to just swallow you right up sat in the center of our large private room. It was nearing Midnight, and a new nurse, Elum, met us in your room. She took your vitals and built you a little “donut” in the center of that big boy bed. You, however, wouldn’t let me put you down. You grabbed my shirt and tightened your legs and back as I tried to place you in the nest Elum made for you. “Oooohhh, dat boi lova his mama” she commented with a laugh. I hugged you tighter, longing to pass the very essence of my being onto you to heal and comfort you. What followed was a recursive blur of runs of IV antibiotics, fluids, pain medications, nausea medications, diapers, tummy aches, tears, and sleeplessness. But, I never let you go. I held you every moment that I wasn’t changing your diaper or handing you over to a doctor for examination. The nurses adored you. “He is PRECIOUS.” “What a brave boy.” “I am obsessed with that face.” They all loved how you would look on them with your classic furrowed brow whenever they intruded upon you — which was more often than any of us would have preferred. Your fortitude simply would not allow that pesky IV to remain in your sweet little hand. At one point, they even had to tape a board to your arm from pit to wrist to keep you from bending your arm and jerking out your IV. I cried a lot that day. You,
however, trusted and allowed them to heal you — still with furrowed brow — a face that promised you would be writing them a very negative Yelp review when all was said and done. You simply maintained a state of snuggles and serenity. Mommy held you. We found comfort in the rhythms of each others breathing and heart beats.Time passed like wading underwater from one end of a pool to the other. Together, we found answers — “a duplicated collecting system” in your right kidney — something to watch but not to fear. “Well, Mrs. Bové, you can take that little man home now.” It was over as suddenly as it had begun. Just as they did when we took you home from that same hospital at 3 days old, they wheeled me out to where Daddy was waiting. I fell into his arms, spent, thankful, and so ready to return home and begin anew. We stared together into what would prove a short future of at-home antibiotics and resulting tummy aches that made you curl your little lips into a frown, but you were never anything less than my strong, sweet, precious angel baby. In fact, my birthday was only a week later, and it was on that day you gave me the single greatest gift I could ever have asked for — you smiled for the first time — right at me, with eyes that shone love, gratitude, and knowing. You still look at me like that when you smile at me — a look that says you know as well as I that we have already shared deep journeys together, and we have many more to come. I love you Declan Joseph Bové. Snuggles and smiles forever, dear heart!
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The Trip of a Lifetime Moira Burgy Keith convinced us to get up early on a Saturday to cheer for him, and the rest of the lacrosse team, on the intramural fields during the Fall semester of my freshman year. Sitting in the bleachers and scanning the field, I zoned in on one particular player, and wondered aloud, “Who is that?” My roommate Becca somehow knew everyone and replied as if I were totally clueless, “That’s Matt Burgy.” I turned my attention back to the field. When he smiled, he revealed the cutest dimples. After the game, he walked over to the group to tell everyone hello, and I had to strain my neck to look into his bright blue eyes- just my type. At our nightly friend’s dinner in the University Caf, I confessed to Keith my feelings about Matt and asked him to find out what Matt thought of me. When I saw Keith on the quad the next afternoon, I tried to make my mad dash over to him look like a casual stroll then I peppered him with a million questions about what he found out for me. After the millionth question I asked him, he finally just replayed the entire ten second conversation. Keith: Dude, Moira wants to date you. Matt: Quit yanking my chain. “Subtle, Keith!” I seethed sarcastically. A defensive feeling washed over me, and I added, “Besides, I never even said that! What does quit yanking my chain even mean in this situation?” I had no idea, and Keith couldn’t or didn’t want to help. That night the debate with Becca about whether or not to call Matt ended with me dialing his number, and then quickly hanging up. RING! RING! My heart dropped when I picked up the phone and heard Matt’s voice on the other end asking who called his apartment. Uh, since when can college kids afford caller ID? Oh, no! I needed my brain to make something up fast and said, “We just wondered if you wanted to come play Monopoly
with us?” My face looked like a tomato and my shirt suddenly drenched with sweat at this ridiculous turn of events. Becca laughed hysterically on her bed less than six feet away from me. It turns out he had to “ study for a test.” A knot of humiliation formed in my stomach, but I had kept the promise I made to myself about being bolder in my first year of college. At least I had that going for me. Lessons learned- Caller ID is a thing, cute junior boys are not interested in me. Got it. The following weekend, I attempted to write my U.S. Government paper, when the phone in my dorm rang. My mouth dropped to the floor when I heard Matt’s voice on the line, “Do you want a ride to the game at Baylor tomorrow?” “Yes!” I screamed in my head, but I don’t remember what cool version of that I actually said aloud. My mind raced. This could be our chance- a three hour drive there and back to get to know each other. I rushed around all morning trying to find the perfect outfit for a road trip and a lacrosse game. Becca left with Keith the day before, and I needed her normally unsolicited opinion about my clothes! After agonizing over this decision, the best I could do without some sort of collaboration was a red sweatshirt and jeans. After he pulled up to the circle drive outside my dorm, I jumped into his gold, single cab, Chevy pick-up ready for the trip of a lifetime. “Hey,” Matt said, “ we just need to pick up Dave and then we will head out.” I squeaked out an, “Oh, sure.” Don’t get me wrong- Goalie Dave is a blast, but I couldn’t help the fact that the vision for our marriage and four children drained from my soul. In the pre-cell phone era, I have no idea how the communication happened. Maybe smoke signals? But somehow, within a matter of minutes Matt and I riding alone became the team’s top priority, and poor Dave ended up crammed in the back of an already full, two door, white Mustang. When we finally drove away alone in the pick-up, as cliche as it is, I remember just knowing I found “the one.” The more we talked the more I just knew. Typically I assume the worst about people’s perception of me, but I could tell he knew it too. By the second hour, we dove into deep conversations about family, faith, friendship, and love. I am not sure the actual words or topics mattered because it became more about how the
words were said. The conversation flowed with ease as if we had known each other our whole lives, but with an excitement of stepping on a plane to go on a trip of a lifetime. In a way, the latter part rings true. We planned the adventure separately; we just needed to find each other before we could get started.
The Sweet Goodbye Valerie Coyle
I’ll never forget that morning. My mom quietly entered my room. Gently nudging me from a deep sleep, I heard her soft voice, “Wake up, Sweetie. Dad and Grandpa really need us right now.” At that moment, I knew she was gone. I slowly crawled out of bed and went straight to the bathroom, as I did every morning. But this morning felt different. My heart was heavy. My head hung low. My eyes fought back tears. Standing in front of the mirror so tired and confused, I plunged my hands under the warm running water and thought to myself, why didn't she get better? It's just not fair. It's just not fair. It's just not fair. As I turned to grab a towel, I saw him standing in the doorway. My Dad. Always stoic and strong. But not today. He looked tired and sad. Eyes red and puffy. He extended his arms. As I fell into his embrace, tears immediately started streaming down my face. For a moment, time stood still as I stood their sobbing in his arms. A while later, as we drove to see my Grandpa, we all sat quietly in the car. As I gazed out the back window, memories flooded my mind. Oh how I would miss spending time with my Grandma. No more bird-watching together from the back porch. No more sneaking Hershey Kisses from the candy dish that always seemed to be full no matter how many pieces I ate. No more games of Rummy or Hangman on the chalkboard in the kitchen as she washed the dinner dishes. No more homemade cookies after dinner even when I hadn’t finished eating my veggies (which to this day are the absolutely BEST cookies I have ever eaten). No more running out to the Italian Ice truck on a hot summer day. And, no more Army lunches as we sat together on the front porch. About an hour or so later, we finally arrived. I don’t remember much more about that day. My Dad, Grandpa, and aunts and uncles coming and going, having lots of quiet conversations, mostly likely involving funeral arrangements. My sister and I playing and watching T.V. in the front room.
The next day was Christmas. We spent the whole day at home. Early that morning, we opened presents as music quietly played in the background. After taking turns opening package after package, one box remained. My Dad slowly handed it to me and as I glanced down at the gift tag, I immediately recognized the jagged handwriting. My Grandma knew about my love of unicorns and later I learned that before she was hospitalized for the last time, it had brought her so much joy when she found this perfect gift. Inside the box was the softest, blue and white reversible unicorn blanket. I immediately wrapped it around me. I could feel her arms squeezing me and holding me tight. Later that morning as maple syrup lingered in the air, we devoured the delicious stacks of pancakes my Mom always made on Christmas morning. For the rest of the day, we shared stories about Grandma, played with our gifts, watched Christmas movies, and just enjoyed our time together as a family. The next two days were the worst. We made the one-hour trip to and from my Grandparent’s house each day to attend the viewing, funeral, and burial. It is unbelievable how your body can be overwhelmed by so many emotions in such a short amount of time. Sadness when seeing my Grandma lying in the casket. But at the same time, so much love as I sat remembering all of the good times we had together. Anger and frustration when all of my cousins walked around as if nothing had happened. Why weren’t they crying like me? This was their Grandma too. Why weren’t they sad? Confusion when hearing others criticizing my parents for bringing my little sister. And finally peace, as my aunt quietly pulled a Hershey Kiss from her pocket, placed it in my hand, and whispered, “Grandma is in heaven now and no longer in pain. I know you miss her very much but remember, she will always be with you and watch over you.” Over 30 years have passed since I said goodbye to my Grandma. So much has happened and changed since then...graduations, birthdays,
relationships, and much more. All things I wish she were here to experience with me. I know now I didn’t actually say goodbye on that cold, winter day. She may not be physically here with me today, but her love protects and guides me as she watches over me. As someone once said, “Grandparents are like stars. You don't always see them, but you know they're there.”
The Flood Joan Lange The Nashville Flood of 2010 was as unpredictable as a tornado, plowing through areas that had never flooded before. Swift and forceful as Niagara Falls, the flood’s surging waters flipped pianos in homes and swept cars off bridges. Devastating as an earthquake, it felled trees and scattered possessions from homes. During May 1 and May 2, 2010, Nashville experienced two days of relentless, pounding rain, some areas receiving as much as 19 inches. On the third day, Sunday, May 3 at 8 am, I was seated at my computer, working on an online master’s class. I glanced out the window behind me and saw a transformed scene: what had been a rolling hill that led down to a large baseball field was now a deep and murky lake, its edges spilling out across the sidewalk as if no basin could contain it. This field had never flooded before, and I switched on the news channel for an update. A female reporter, standing on a hill overlooking the swollen Harpeth River, interviewed a local farmer. The distraught farmer stumbled over his words, “I...I’ve never seen the river...rise this quickly. If you are near water, you need to get out. Now!” Thoughts clicked through my head like a doomsday checklist. I only had myself and my dog, Chester, to worry about, but which roads would be clear, and where would be a place of safety? And, my Ford Focus--not exactly an all-terrain vehicle--could it navigate treacherous roads? Leaving Chester in the home for now, I raced through the pouring rain to my carport, started up my car’s engine, and began the drive to scout out a possible evacuation plan. Streets were already flooding, the car’s submerged tires chugging slowly through the water. At the front of the condo complex, the streets became passable, and I knew an elderly neighbor, Barbara, who had a home at this streetfront. It looked like a safe haven. My hands fumbled as I punched in Barbara’s number on my cell phone. When she answered, I was breathing a sigh of relief, but my mind began whirling again when she exclaimed, “Oh, Joan, I’m not at home, I am out of town with family.” The silence that followed seemed louder than the rain pounding on my car’s windshield. My mental fog cleared as she began explaining, “A key, I have a
spare key under a rock on my back patio.” Parking the car in her carport and leaving my umbrella (since I was already drenched), I slogged through the puddles on her back patio. Beneath the rock I found the key, jammed it into the lock, and turned the key, confirming that the door would open. Certain that this plan would work, I now drove back to rescue my dog. I had to drag Chester through the rain, but he eagerly jumped into the car’s backseat. As I gripped the steering wheel with two hands, Chester must have sensed my anxiety because he roughly placed his paw on my right shoulder, his nails digging deeply into my skin. Though only 10 to 15 minutes had elapsed, as I drove again through the streets, the flood waters now crested the car’s hood. The car moved with a halting, sluggish motion, like an old tug boat trying to push a far too heavy load. Amazingly, the engine did not stall, and Chester and I arrived safely at Barbara’s home. Offering a quick prayer of Thanksgiving, I called Barbara. In the sweetest southern drawl she said, “Oh, Joan, I am so glad. Just make yourself at home,” as if I had just arrived for a leisurely visit and afternoon tea. Next I called my children. My son Thomas, a college student in St. Louis, expressed relief at the rescue story of his best buddy, Chester; my daughter, Rachel, a law student at the University of Tennessee, Knoxville, responded in disbelief. As I told her of the flood and evacuation, she exclaimed, “Oh mom, don’t exaggerate!” Stunned and weary from the ordeal, I said I would call her again later. The next 8 hours slowly ticked away like a clock readying to chime the dreaded stroke of midnight. Every sound of the storm added to the building tension. Trees limbs groaned under the deluge of water and strained with the forceful winds, and water gushed through gutters and burst out of downspouts. The incessant beating of rain on the roof sounded like a barrage in a battle--a battle with Mother Nature. During these dangerous hours when the Harpeth and Cumberland Rivers continued to swell, no one could accurately predict the path of the menacing flood. By the morning of Monday, May 4, news channels began reporting the damage and loss of life. In my county of Davidson, ten people died. Later, a bridge a few miles from my home would be
renamed and dedicated to one of the flood victims. Twenty-one deaths occurred in Tennessee, and 10 people died in Northern Mississippi and Kentucky. Monday afternoon, my daughter called to apologize; the evacuations had been confirmed by her high school friend who lived in a condo complex near my own home. This friend had posted on Facebook about her harrowing rescue. She was 4 months pregnant and trapped by the rising waters. A motor boat moored beneath her secondstory window, and she leaped to safety. These heroic rescues continued throughout the day as local sports fishermen and boating enthusiasts formed a fleet of rescue ships, motoring down back alleys of condos. Residents climbed onto carports or straddled upper windows of homes and then jumped into the waiting boats. By Tuesday, the waters receded, revealing overwhelming amounts of wreckage. However, this freakish flood--categorized as a 1,000-year flood by meteorologists--created a different type of outpouring that was just as memorable: volunteers poured forth as quickly as the waters that created this historic disaster, the Nashville Flood of 2010.
Hamiter, Eric. “Nashville Flood.” Flickr.com. https://www.flickr.com/photos/ehamiter/4577983067. Accessed 8 Jun 2020.
My Happy, Playful, Nearly-Blind Sidekick Jessica Palmer Growing up, I always wanted a dog. I was envious of my friends who had love-able furry friends. I was allowed a goldfish and only goldfish as a pet. As an adult, my independence has been very important to me. In college, I thought it was foolish when students were responsible for an animal. Nowadays, many of my friends have dogs, but I still didn't want that responsibility. Little did I know that the timid old dog in the corner would become my happy, playful, nearly blind sidekick. Two weeks of quarantine had passed and I began to feel lonely. My roommate, Jill, had quarantined at her boyfriend's parents' house, leaving me stuck at our apartment with my hamster, Theodore. I longed to not spend my time alone, however I was not willing to be locked up at my parents' house with cheap WiFi and lack of air-conditioning. Knowing I wanted to get a dog at some point in my life, now wasn't the time. I reached out to a friend who I knew had lots of foster dogs.
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One afternoon, I called my roommate to get her thoughts. I didn't want to foster a dog who wouldn't get along with my roommate's dog, Penny. Jill agreed to come meet some potential foster dogs with me. We visited a house that currently had 10 foster dogs. When I got there, Ester, the owner of the house, said, "You can foster any of the dogs here." She sent them all outside to play. There were so many cute dogs. How was I supposed to decide? Most of the dogs ran around and were playful and loud, except one dog in the corner. A small, old, timid dog. As I played with the other dogs, Jill wandered over to the quiet, calm dog. "Jess, I think this dog is the one!", exclaimed Jill. "Really?", I asked, "He's not really doing anything though." "Trust me," Jill said, "you'd much rather a calm dog than a playful one while you are working." I took Jill's word and said, "I'll foster this one!" "What's his name?", I asked. "Tito," said Ester. Hmm, I thought, what a cute name. Ester prepared some dog food and grabbed a leash and harness for him. He was skinny and looked like a ratty old dog. She brought Tito to the car and said, "Tito has cataracts and often marks his territory." Great, I thought, a difficult dog.
Bam, she closed the door and off we went. Jill, Penny, Tito, and I headed to Petsmart. "Let's go get Tito some toys and treats," said
Jill. We walked in and suddenly my stomach flipped. I had never had a dog before, so I didn't really know what I was doing. We headed towards the treat aisle. "What kinds of treats do you think he will like?", asked Jill. I honestly had no clue. What types of treats do dogs his size have? I began to Google, "What treats do Beagles/Chihuahuas like?" Well that made me feel even more ridiculous. He's a dog! He'll eat pretty much any treat. We grab some treats and head to the toy aisle. I felt stuck again, what toys would he like? Suddenly, Tito lifts his leg and pees on the "New Toys" display. Did anybody notice? What should I do? I look at Jill, she's too busy taking pictures of her dog. Pop, I felt the angel and devil on my shoulder. Should I tell them that my new foster dog peed on their new fancy toys? Should I tell them that there is dog pee on the floor? Or should I just walk away and pretend like nothing happened? I walked away. No one noticed. This is a bad start. As days and weeks came and went, I fell more and more in love with Tito. His personality continued to come out, revealing a happy boy. But, I couldn't forget that he was just a foster. I wasn't ready to commit to a dog when reality hits. Two months later, I got a message from the rescue saying that someone was interested in him.
I broke down into tears. There was a pit in my stomach. I wanted him, not someone else! Pop.​ the angel and devil were back on my shoulders. Should I tell them the honest truth about how sweet he is? Should I still tell them the truth about how he marks his territory, but should I make it seem like it happens way more than it really does? Or should I completely lie and say that he is such a tough dog and that he isn't ready to be adopted yet? I felt sick.
Oops, I thought, probably shouldn't have made it seem like he isn't a great dog. It hit me. He is meant to be mine. What a foster fail. I quickly logged onto my computer and filled out an application to adopt him. Little did I know that the timid old dog in the corner would become my happy, playful, nearly blind sidekick.
Pictures Cited: “Iphone Clipart - Image #45841.” Clipart, Shutterstock, https://cliparting.com/free-iphone-clipart-45841/. Opening - Download, http://opening.download/spring-2020.html.
One of those days!! Maria Papageorgiou Here comes Andreas knocking on the door, And it’s only 4 o’clock. “Mama, I am done with sleep, can I pretend to be the sheep?” “Come and lay in mama’s comfy bed and let’s count sheep instead.” There follows Chrystelle, with her eyes wide open as well. Changing diapers with one eye shut, while the other one is trying to slowly get a glance. I am not sure if I put it on correctly, or if I need to put another plan into effect, to make things right for a second time. I guess this is how it feels to have twins! Having both side to side, trying to simplify things. The one is almost fast asleep but the young one is still looking at me. Is there really a word overslept? I am not familiar with that yet. I once asked a friend, “When do you get a good night’s sleep?” And her answer was,” when they reach 18.” Another friend asked, “Are you taking some naps?” “Only when I sneeze, because both eyes are closed, for a minute or so, and that’s all I need.” By the time I managed to put both of them back to bed, hoping I could also get some rest, the alarm decided not to be my best friend, and I swear I could see a smirk. I don’t know what was more annoying though, that cruel frustrating sound of the alarm clock going off, or my husband’s snore. He can talk
about his thesis at 3am feeding but he will go back to bed and continue to rest, although he will often say, “I did not sleep that well today.” Hearing him saying this, made me wanna scream. Are you for real daddy dear? Do you have the slightest idea? I think I need to count to 10, and not yell, so I start to count things that need to be refilled. Cars need gas and toys need to get recharged. Dads are ALWAYS in need for a break, but us moms, we will never be done. Our brains are a bit fried because we always have to think twice especially when we have a second child. I LOVE being a mom though and God knew it I suppose. Gave me a hard time at first but made it up afterwards. It’s already 8 at night and we said our goodnights. Let’s see how tomorrow will be. I have a feeling that this time, they might be up at 6, and that would be a treat for me.
Alone in Tokyo Sarah Schultz
Last summer I went to Japan. I had dreamt about taking the trip for years and couldn’t
believe that I was actually doing it. As soon as the plane touched the ground, I began my constant ritual of checking and re-checking my booking details. I clutched my notebook, determined to keep it in hand just in case I need to check it. In the customs checkpoint line stacked with travelers from all over the world, I checked the details. After I got out of line, I checked it again. I checked it and reread it. Scaling down the escalator, I made my way to the next stop. The sheer number of people in one place was staggering. After a few false starts, I found the next line I needed to be in. My senses were alert. Survival mode ON. Listening to other travelers around me, trying to pick up any details that I was missing, I was quietly terrified of making a cultural faux pas in the first hour of being in Japan. Am I allowed to make eye contact? Where do I put my hands when I talk? Everything felt like a performance. Like a miracle, I found the right train and headed into the center of Tokyo. The train started moving. Emerging from darkness below ground, the train lurched forward, picking up speed. Revealing vast blue skies, waterlogged fields of rice paddies, and large factories, I fell in love with Japan. As my trip went on, I prioritized the most basic survival needs. On my first night, I feasted on a 7/11 purchased creme puff. I would inch closer to testing authentic Japanese dishes. I divided my trip into three parts. For the first four days, I explored Tokyo. Tokyo’s intricate underground subway system took me to as many different neighborhoods as I could. Raised patterns on either side of the sidewalk instructed pedestrians walking in opposite directions where to walk to avoid unnecessary bottlenecks. Packed in the subway car, I was amazed by the lack of noise and sweat. Tokyo is humid in the summer months and gets particularly hot in July. Advertisements running above the car windows showed a woman with clothing inserts that absorbed underarm and back sweat. W ow, I thought. The Japanese have even found a way to hide sweat. I n Shibuya, an area famous for its population
density, throngs of businessmen dressed in the same black suit and shoes would flood the train. They carried slim leather suitcases and short chapter books I would see them reading in the evenings. I spent time in public parks and outdoor shopping centers. I would try and decode menus and pretend like I knew exactly where I was going. On the fourth day, I traveled to Osaka for another four day stint. When those four days were up, I would travel to a sleepy lakeside town a few miles from Mt. Fuji. What might surprise you is the degree to which I left wayfinding to chance. As a geography teacher, I live for unexpected detours. Before my trip, I considered humorously, the traditional map, the “never-can-quite-fold-back-to its-original state” is an accessory now! I deliberately limited luggage items I would carry from city to city. I would do laundry in Kyoto and manage more efficiently without the weight of heavy travel books. Finding my hotel in new places would start as a hop, skip and a jump and end up turning into an epic journey. I was never in a hurry, a luxury of traveling alone. I prioritized train travel schedules and would have my hostel or hotel information alongside it. As it happens, when I arrived in Osaka (the third leg of my trip) traveling by train, armed with a hand drawn map, I found myself wandering around an enormous city with a dead cell phone on a Sunday afternoon. All of Osaka seemed to be asleep at 3pm. I don’t advise crossing multi-lane roads with luggage in Osaka. What ultimately saved my life were two men who xeroxed a street map of Osaka and highlighted the route to my hotel. The map was in Japanese, but with this visual I finally reached my destination...four hours later. Before I left for Japan, I dreaded spending long stretches of time alone. Remembering student voices of curiosity and encouragement gave me strength. I also would occasionally see another tourist traveling alone. It helped to imagine each lonely traveler as one of many together sharing an experience. We held a silent solidarity.
My Favorite Amber Williams
My daughters are everything. They are my heartbeat, my joy and sometimes my headache. I couldn't wait to be a mom, it was something I always knew I wanted to be. I have two daughters, and people often say I have a favorite. It's true, I do. Leah Brooke is my youngest daughter. We call her by both names, it’s a southern thing. I like to call her “My Sweet Leah Brooke” because she has a wonderful heart. She is my daughter who loves to snuggle with me at night. When Leah would sleep with me, we would often have sweet conversations. In her Minnie Mouse voice, she would always remind me, “I won’t always sleep with you Mommy so enjoy it now.” “I know you won't, so I will enjoy your company.” We would often have conversations about everything. We would discuss what toys she wanted to purchase on our next Target run, or how she wanted her room to be set up, and most importantly what activities she wanted to participate in. On one warm summer night Leah’s destiny would be laid out. Leah told me that she had been watching cheerleading on TV. She watched girls flip and tumble and fly high in the air. Leah said, “Mommy I know what I want to do, I want to be a cheerleader.” I asked Leah what kind of cheerleading she wanted to do so I could sign her up. “Do you want to be a cheerleader inside or outside?” She sweetly replied, “I want to cheer on TV and be inside because you know, I don't like bugs!” I chuckled at the idea of Leah becoming a cheerleader. My heart was secretly happy and we soon fell asleep. The night time pillow talk was all great when she was little but, you see Leah is on the taller side now. Five years later and at a slender 5 foot-4 inches, I no longer enjoy sleeping with her. It is awkward and I don't get restful sleep, but the night time talks still happen. We often talk about her success, dreams and misses. You see Leah dreams of being a cheer coach. When she was younger, we often thought she would be a nurse or a religion teacher because she cared so much about others. We soon realized that her best-fit occupation is probably a cheer coach because she does care about others, she
wants others to do well, and it's something she is good at. Leah shines brightest on the cheer mat. Leah's role on the team is a flyer. She's raised and tossed up in the air, pulling her body into peculiar positions, as if she were a contortionist on a traveling circus from long ago. Her main job is to make it look effortless to the judges, but you see Leah is more like her bases, the team members who are there to hold her up. She has this amazing skill for lifting others up, especially her teammates when she is not in the air. She has exceptional “mat talk”- encouraging words yelled over the loud music to her teammates. Maybe she gets it from our night time chats in bed. But nonetheless, Leah encourages her teammates relentlessly during their two minute routine. “Hitting Zero”, a cheer routine with no deductions is what Leah strives for at each competition. It makes the long practices and mat talk all worth it. She did her job, cheer is her success. Leah has had a few misses over the years. She hasn't been dealt the easiest hand in school. She was diagnosed with Dyslexia when she was in first grade. Reading and writing haven't come to Leah as fast as flipping and tumbling and flying did with cheerleading. School is hard. School has been a place where Leah could use someone to “mat talk” to her in the classroom. Her misses haven’t stopped her from seeing the good in others. The classes that she has the most difficulty in are usually the classes and teachers she is fondest of. She likes to be pushed and challenged, but in school she often gets many deductions on her performance, she rarely hits zero contrary to how she is judged in cheer. Leah’s school days are often like the cheer pyramid that doesn't stay up in the routine, or like the flyer who falls to the ground in her Elite. But like cheer, every week it's a new competition, and a chance to perform it again. School is not her favorite, but Leah’s struggles are what makes her special. My Sweet Leah Brooke has it in her heart to show us how bright she can shine. She will show that her misses will be her triumphs. As her mom, I will speak her love language and use “mat talk” to encourage her at every new challenge. I know it may take a bit of time in school for her to “Hit Zero”, but when she does, she will know what I say is true, that she is my favorite.
Grandma, the Hoot, Henslee Amy Williams Not many students would leave her first college apartment and first college boyfriend weekend after weekend to spend it with her Grandmother, but not many Grandmothers were like mine. Cornelia Green Henslee. Friends called her Key, but I called her Grandma the Hoot. This Saturday morning began like many others. When I finally dragged myself out of bed, Grandma was already outside. Her activities changed as often as the direction of the wind. Moving between tasks, her hands touched a dozen things at once. Blue -- the color of this bright morning. Hoot chased several chickens with TyDBol, the blue toilet bowl cleanser that made your toilet’s water look clean and smell fresh. She squirted the blue on the chickens that would be spared from a neck-wringing and becoming the star dish for Sunday’s roast chicken dinner. The color would not quickly wash away. Who wants a blue chicken? Driving by, you might be just as surprised to see the blue flock as you would to see Grandma wearing a red sun bonnet (to shield her from another sun stroke) and a dress to perform her chores. The stocky 20W dresses were sturdy, not fancy, and prevented slacks from worrying her ankles. If you asked Hoot her purpose in life, and she would respond, “Let me feed you. You eat like a little bird.” So, as soon as I joined her in the yard, she pulled a few greens here, dug up some onions there. I already knew steak smothered with gravy and custard pie would finish the menu. I always felt like a little girl again in the kitchen with Grandma. No measuring spoons or recipe books -- just the little tin cup as a permanent fixture at the edge of the stovetop. Grease strained in at the end of a meal and the congealed lard scooped out to begin the next meal. Who would have thought Hoot practiced recycling! We talked while she cooked asking me about school -- classes, learning, and joys. In her younger days, Grandma taught in a one-room school with only on-the-job training. I imagine half the students in class were her 4 younger brothers. “I’m handicapped. I don’t have my driver’s license,” led to me chauffeuring a trip into town. How could someone living alone need enough provisions to visit two grocery stores? But, Hoot’s Mission One: see as much and do as much as possible. Mission Two: buy for the famous (or I like to say infamous) salad and party punch for tomorrow’s potluck after church. One store down, Piggly Wiggly to go! A quiet drive back to the ranch eventually followed hardware store, post-office, and feed store stops. The hearing aid experiment yesterday left its batteries dead.
Maybe we disproved the old wive’s tail that placing batteries in the icebox makes them last longer. At least I was spared their high-pitched whistling when she adjusted the level. I associated that racket with Grandma’s displeasure with a sermon or simply turning off a guest preacher. The afternoon repeated the morning. Always outside, always pecking around. This time Hoot needed my help to corral a guinea fowl. She had been giving the bird aspirin for a week, and she didn’t mind if some spilled on the ground. But today she shared one of her Dimetapp pills with the hen. There would be no rest today until that blue pill was securely lodged down the slender gullet. If the bird was truly sick, I guessed the decongestant couldn't do any harm. What is the saying about which is worse, the cure or the disease? When the sun got to the slippery stage -- where the fireball just seems to slip out of view, Grandma’s bedtime had come. If I were back at school, I’d probably just be going out for the night. But today, Grandma time. I’d grown out of the interactive Jack in the Beanstalk bed time story where I got to list all kinds of food the giant supposedly ate before the Fee Fi Fo chorus, but still slept in her bed so we could continue to visit. Hoot finished her Vicks VaporRub routine and gave me a tiny mentholated-vapor moustache. Grandma thanked me for coming, and we started our goodnights and goodbyes at the same time. Up early for Hoot, and I would head back to school first thing. The quiet night enveloped us as we said our prayers, and I wondered who would fall sleep first. Then I thought I heard her ask, “Little Bird, do you believe in angels?” Surely this will be a story for another day.
The Piece I Left Behind Catherine Worthy
In 2004, I visited Houston, TX for the first time to attend SuperBowl XXXVIII in Reliant Stadium. My family and I, being the diehard Carolina Panthers fans that we are, decided to follow the team all of the way to see them play against the New England Patriot in what was sure to be a once in a lifetime experience. After a nail-biting game, the Panthers ran out of luck and lost to the Patriots by a touchdown and they weren't the only ones out of luck that night. My little, eight year old, self swung my feet back and forth during the game in disbelief over being at the Super Bowl and the excitement over the close scoring game was too much to handle. Entering the second quarter, I swung my feet a bit too fast in apprehension over the next play. “Thump, boom!” There went my new black, patent leather clogs right into the dark, mysterious crack between the bleachers. “Uh-oh,” I thought to myself, not realizing I actually said it out loud. My parents looked up at me with a flustered face knowing what this meant for the rest of the game. “Excuse me, Sir, Sir!” my mom shouted trying to get the security guards attention over the noises of the Patriots’ rowdy fans obnoxiously celebrating over the touchdown. “Yes ma’am?”, the security man responded with a perplexed face. “My daughter accidentally dropped her shoes into the crack underneath her seat. Is there any way you could help us?” my mom said. The security guard furrowed his brow and scowled as my mom was talking. Before words could even flow out of his mouth, his facial expression said it all. He responded with a stern-looking face and a definite no. My mom kindly replied, “No worries, we appreciate your help. Thank you.” She wasn’t one to cause a ruckus. My mom then sat down, shrugged her shoulders and threw her hands up, and looked at me saying, “Don’t worry, we will try again later.” I sank into my seat; the disappointment that I wouldn’t be getting these new, favorite shoes back
started to overcome me. About ten minutes later, I noticed the motion of a hand in my peripheral vision. I turned my head to look down the aisle of seats where we were sitting. Trying to get my mom's attention from the intense, tied game, I put my hand on my moms arm, and I said “Mommy, Mommy! It looks like that man is trying to get your attention.” My mom gets up from her seat and walks over to a different security man. I hear him say, “Ma’am, I overheard the situation about your daughter’s shoes and am happy to help you get them back.” He led my mom down the stairs and through a fence that led to the field and underneath the stadium. Not long after, I see her walking back up the steps of the stadium empty handed, however, her eyes were sparkling with excitement and a big grin stretched across her face as if she had a story to tell. She returned and said, “I'm sorry, your shoes were nowhere to be found amidst the crowd underneath the stadium. However, the halftime performers, Janet Jackson and Justin Timberlake are underneath the stadium, and the Panther football players were funneling in as I was coming out. It was the coolest thing! I also brought you your favorite-mint chocolate chip Dippin Dots.” At the moment, I was so enthralled by her story and distracted with the delicious ice cream in front of me that I completely forgot about my lost shoes. It wasn’t until many years later, that I realized what my moms goal was and why she came back with this perfect distraction. Once I had eaten every little frozen, mint-colored, ice cream bead and licked the cup clean, I suddenly became thirsty and was in need for a bathroom break. This is when I remembered that I had no shoes, and I was going to have to walk around the Reliant stadium in my white, lacey socks for the remainder of the game. I was wishful that during the halftime performance, Janet Jackson and Justin Timberlake would throw my clogs from underneath the stadium into the crowd. By the end of the game, my white socks were now more of a tie dye color and were covered in soda, sticky candy, stale popcorn and who knows what else. After this let down of what
was supposed to be a very exciting and eventful night, I could not wait to return back to my hometown in South Carolina. Never would I have guessed that I would return back to this city after graduation, not for a Super Bowl but for a career. Fourteen years later, as I accepted a teaching position and moved to Houston, the uncertainty of the move hung over my head. After two years of living here, it turns out that there has always been a little piece of me in Houston underneath Reliant, or now called NRG stadium. To this day, I can't keep myself from wondering whether or not my black, patent leather clogs still lay underneath the stadium.