The House as Imperfect as Me

As I walk around this old house, built around 1929, the floors squeak.  Every room has a memory.  I’ve lived here my whole life. The smell of my mother’s favorite smell, spice and cinnamon, lingers in the air, almost as thick as the memories in this house that built me.

            The large living room is the first thing seen when entering the old home.  The large crackling fireplace sits majestically in the corner.  During the winter it roars day and night.  It reminds me of the times we gathered there during our annual family Christmas party.  With my family all around and my mother franticly trying to make everything perfect, all my little cousins play loudly in the floors.  Looking at the large leather couch in the corner, I can see my grandparents now sitting with their eggnog reminiscing how Christmas used to be.  I can just hear my grandpa saying in his loud, experienced voice,

-“Back when I was a kid, we’d get two presents and a smile from our father!”

Then my grandma’s sweet, shrill voice would respond,

            -“Oh no you didn’t! And didn’t you say we should always give these grandchildren a better childhood?”

            The festivities of the party would usually continue and then the family would slowly shuffle out of the large glass doors.

            As I walk to the back of the old house I look out to the backyard.  I see a frail, water soaked deer target propped up against the tall wooden fence.  I remember the long, warm fall afternoons with my father, standing there for hours on end with our bows and arrows.  Shooting arrow after arrow in fear of missing, my dad’s warm humor comforted me.  It’s such a memory to me because my father has been such a tremendous part of my life.  As we shot he always said,

            -“Practice makes perfect, and one day you’ll get the chance to use these skills”

            I’d usally respond with something like,

            -“I know dad!”

            As I walk this old house with a memory in every step.  I walk back to the side door, over the old, cold concrete floor and see the old cracked up driveway.  I remember the hot summer day when something somewhat tragic happened.  My mother complained how our yard looked for days so my father and I went to work.  My dad was busy chopping and cutting the bushes; raking and bagging leaves from the previous fall.  The smell of fresh cut grass lingers.  My dad asks me to move his old jeep from the driveway into the yard.  Reluctantly I hoped into the old red machine.  I started it with a sputter and to my surprise the vehicle jumped forward with a loud bang.  I realized I rammed my dad’s new, shiny red Chevy.  My father rushes over to my 10 year old self.  He then says,

            -“Don’t worry about the truck; it can be fixed, are YOU okay?”

            As I walk around this old house, memories are everywhere.  With little scratches here and there I remember my childhood. As I walk around MY old house, I remember my life.

A blury image of reading past

                The way I started reading is a mystery to me.  My family and I have never been big readers. I believe my mother taught me the basics when I was very little but I think I really started reading when I started school.  I really liked reading when I was little.  I remember when I was five I would sit down with my mother and read things like “Clifford” and other short stories like that.  I really enjoyed it until I started the sixth grade and it all changed.  It changed my outlook on reading that still taught me today.

                 At the beginning of the fifth grade, we started this program called “AR” or accelerated reader.  It was a program that set all the books at a different point level.  You had to read the book and then take a ten to fifteen question test over it.  If you made a one hundred you got all the points.  Each student had a set number of points you had to reach each month.  This forced all the students and I to read and test.  This caused me to have a lot of pressure on me and not enjoy the reading then.

                Once I made it to middle school, reading got a little bit better.  I started reading more and enjoying it again.  My sixth grade teacher helped a lot, too. She forced me to read to my ability and always pushed a good book my way.  She enhanced my love for reading a little more as the year went by. She is one of the main reasons why I like reading to the extent I do today.  She taught me a ton of new vocabulary.  I went home during this time and actually sat down and read for hours on end sometimes.

                Junior high started and reading kind of fell of my to do list.  I became to bus for extra reading.  The only reading I did was the in class and the mandatory readings.  This changed when my eighth grade teacher opened my eyes about reading. She explained how it was suppose to be an enjoying and a type of entertainment; not a boring tedious task.  She told me it’s supposed to put a mind movie in your head like you’re watching TV.  I somewhat credit her with me “learning” how to read.  All the way in the eighth grade I learned how to read.

               By high school now I still try to squeeze in reading everyone once in a while.  I don’t really have time between mandatory work and sports.  I am still a little fuzzy on how I really became to read.  I know I owe a lot to my mother but there have been some people along the road that’s helped me and pushed me along.  Between enhancing my vocabulary to actually reading it and understanding it. It opened a lot of doors in my life and has really helps me being a strong reader and everything

I Am A Human

I am a human
I wonder about tomorrow
I hear unsatisfaction
I see the worlds problems
I want to succeed
I am a human

I pretend everyone is good
I feel pity for people
I touch the hand of god
I worry about the future
I cry thinking about failure
I am a human

I understand tomorrows a gift
I say "be yourself"!
I dream of better times
I try to be a good person
I hope for a bright future

I am a human

The "Big" Test That Really Counts

Have you ever thought what you would do if an angel landed in your yard? How would you treat it? In A Very Old Man With Enormous Wings, they showed him no respect or honor. That just really bothers me. They locked him in a barn and he was treated like an animal.

I think regular everyday people could relate to this. Just because he was different, they treated him like a circus animal. Today's society is so vicious. There are "cliques" of people in which each person is exactly the same, and they think others should be just like them.

Just because someone is different or looks odd doesn't mean they should be treated different. What really counts is whats on the inside. It really makes me mad sometimes when I see someone in high school is mistreated just because there different.

You should think about this the next time you go to pick on someone. It could be a test from God. That weird kid sitting by himself at lunch could be that angle that landed in your "yard". Just think about it. What are you going to do?