Happy to be a girl

Yesterday, on my way home from having lunch at Fairwood, I met Timothy and Peter. I hailed the two little neighbor boys, bedecked in jackets and gloves a little more warmly than one would have expected for such a spring-like day, asking them enthusiastically if they were heading to boys' club.

 

"We're going to boys club!" a very happy Peter informed me as if I hadn't spoken. "Do you remember going to boys' club?"

 

"No, I don't," I told him regretfully.

 

"She's a girl," Timothy corrected him.

 

I must say I was actually flattered by Peter's question. Not that I'm the least bit ashamed to be a girl, but to have it not even enter Peter's head that I didn't enjoy every boyish delight that he does was quite amusing and complimentary. I was one of those girls who rather wished she was a tomboy but almost certainly was not. I even had to have my friend teach me how to do somersaults when I was ten! Yeah, that was the pathetic little girl who didn't believe in snowball fights or racing because somebody was liable to get hurt, and I had a feeling that it would be me. Hence, I steered clear of certain fellows who were prone to pummelling me with snowballs whenever I came within throwing distance, and if I were unlucky enough to encounter them and receive an icy snowball on the neck, I would go cry to my mom. Needless to say, if one of those same fellows were to pummel me now (most of them are gentlemen now so they probably wouldn't), I would probably pummel him back, if he were kind of enough to stand within my comparatively limited throwing range.:)

 

At this point in my life, I can think of only two times when I heartily wished I were a boy. Sure, there have been many other minor times when I wished that athletic stuff came as easily to me as it does to boys (I respect all those athletic girls out there because I think it takes more effort for a girl to be athletic than it does for a guy), but only two very real times come to mind. The most recent time was when I watched Sound Foundations guys playing ultimate Frisbee--I mentioned that in an earlier blog post.

 

The other time that such a thought pervaded my brain was when I was in eighth grade watching Clyde get ready for guys' week. The girls had already left for their festivities (I was a year too young), and since there were fewer guys, Gerry was allowing one of his nephews, who was my age, to participate in the guys' week. And just then rock climbing sounded a lot more fun than shopping, and doing something exciting appealed much more than doing nothing, so as I jealously watched Clyde pack his bags, I loudly lamented my girlish state of being. Suddenly, I listened. Was Clyde talking to me? What? Was he actually telling me most sincerely why he was glad that I WASN'T a guy? Glory be! Someone actually liked me just how I was! And as my big brother walked off to his week of fun, I felt very loved. And very happy to be a girl.

 

Thank God for brothers, girls, and people who like us just as we are. :)

Defining a Man

            Yesterday at the breakfast table of a small school, an interesting discussion took place. The rays of the eight o'clock March sun shone cheerily into the room, but the sunbeams revealed some dust motes of disagreement in the air.

           

        The topic was concerning whether or not it is permissible to refer to the nineteen to twenty-two-year-old guys that were present as "boys." The term "men" was much more agreeable to the males present in the room, but the young ladies found the word too daunting to use it in reference to their fellow classmates. The naturally resulting question was then, "What is a man?"

           

        A small portion of the conversation sounded something like this:

           

        "I don't know," a dark-haired girl said as she poked at her biscuits and gravy. "Like, I don't think of Craig as a man—he's a guy." This was in reference to my twenty-eight-year-old brother.

           

        "No, I'd say Craig is a man," I interjected.

           

        "In my mind," the same girl continued, "you're not really a man until you're married . . . or maybe fifty."

           

        Gerry, a bachelor, appeared a little alarmed by the girl's original statement, but his alarm melted into amused relief. He had turned fifty within the past few years.

           

        "You mean that you're going to marry a boy?" more than one of the gentlemen asked incredulously, the loudest of them being the girl's red-haired brother.

           

        "Well, no," the victim of the darts of ridicule replied, trapped.

           

        "What I say is that if he's old enough to die in Iraq, then he's a man," Gerry stated, mercifully saving the girl from further persecution, "even though some people don't act like men until they're older."

           

        This more or less ended the current debate, besides some questions that another young lady asked the young gentlemen. She wanted to know what term they would use to refer to their female classmates. "Girls," was the answer, and after a little more warm discourse and repartee, the meal was closed and people retreated to their duties, although everyone wasn't wholly satisfied.

           

        "The thing is," one girl told me later as we discussed the subject of the breakfast table, "I don't think of the term 'boys' as a bad thing. When I call them 'boys,' I'm not thinking of little boys like James and Jonathon. I'm just using it to refer to their gender; it's not as weird as calling them 'men.'"

           

        "It's a more endearing term," I agreed.

           

        This debatable topic, brought forth in the morning, offered me much hearty nourishment for the cranium during the afternoon, as it caused me to ponder what a man really is. Not what he is in body (you most certainly are not a man just because you've had your first shave!), but what he is in spirit. Is it definable?

           

        When I think of a boy, I think of jokes, laughter, antics, recklessness, and mischief. When I think of a man, I think of responsibility, maturity, passionate determination, a sense of duty, and something bordering solemnity. However, when I consider the men that I know, I realize that many of them have what I would call the boyish spirit at times. Yet these men are unquestionably men in the fullest sense of the word. But how is one to distinguish between boys and men who sometimes act like boys?

           

        In answer to this question, I have formed a rough theory. To begin with, I think that most people would agree that a man is a man when he stops being a boy. What I would like to base my theory on is that being a boy is not so much as an inherent characteristic as it is a condition, or even a role, if you will. Technically speaking, in the world's eyes a boy becomes a man when he first puts aside the boy and takes on the sense of responsibility pertaining to a man. This may happen at various ages, usually around the age of eighteen, though it could be earlier or even later.  However, if being a boy is a condition, the role is very easily picked up again, so the "man" may become a "boy" once more, and may remain so for quite some time. Is one expected to call the "boy" a "man" when he usually doesn't behave like one?

 

        Not that there's anything shameful in the delightful condition of being a boy, although it usually doesn't encourage volumes of respect, but how is one to know when a male individual is truly a man? In my opinion, it's not when he finally "puts away the boy" altogether. No, the world would be a grim place if no boys remained in it. Instead, I believe that a boy truly becomes a man when he learns exactly how and when to lay aside the boy and put on the man. At the same time, he must know when it is and isn't appropriate to resume the part of the boy. It is true, some men take on the part more frequently than others, but so long as they can relinquish the role at the instant it's called for, they are nevertheless still men.

 

I think that my theory easily explains why it seems so natural for the girls to call the Bible school men "boys." It is merely what the young ladies frequently see. However, on my part, if I were to glance across the aisle during a fervent prayer meeting, I doubt that the boys would even be present. The men probably would have stepped in to replace them. If this is the case, the often boyish men can no longer truthfully be christened as "boys." On the other hand, it is not wholly inaccurate to lightly reference them as such, as long as their deeper state is kept in mind. They may act like boys, yes, but the real question is if they know how to stop acting like boys. And that, I think, is what truly defines a man.

 

P.S. I realize this was a strange topic and quite out of the blue, considering how long it's been since I've posted anything. But I'm interested: do you agree or disagree? I'm not presenting my opinion as Gospel truth by any means, but I tried to formulate a possible solution that might satisfy both parties. Feel free to leave comments. However, if you wish to tear me to shreds, I would prefer that you left your violent opinions on your own blog. :)

My friend, the joker

I love little kids. There. What more of a straightforward sentence could you ask for? But it's true; I love little kids, especially ones that want to sit next to me and tell me jokes, even if those jokes make absolutely no sense. I had this experience recently, last Friday night. Our church decided to have a Sabbath meeting all together for a change, and afterwards we had Sabbath treat, watched a slide show of Mr. Maguire's Haiti pictures, and played games for the young as well as games for the old (i.e. huckle-buckle-beanstalk and pictionary).

 

 

Hold it! Do you not know what huckle-buckle-beanstalk is? *gasp* Well, that's okay, most people don't. I suppose you can be excused THIS time. Ahem! Huckle-buckle-beanstalk: a favored game of my childhood in which a certain small item is hidden in a room and then everybody has to find this item. When you find it, without directly giving away the item's location, you go somewhere else and sit down while saying, "Huckle-buckle-beanstalk!" The first person to find it and sit down gets to hide the item in the next round, once everyone leaves, but everyone has to look for it until everybody has found it. That's good ol' huckle-buckle-beanstalk in a nutshell. Although it was intended for the youngsters, the only youngsters that showed up for this part of the evening were the Posts (and even then only Michael "officially" played--Gabriel said that he was looking even though he wasn't playing:) and Timmy, so a bunch of us joined in (i.e. Craig, Gretchen, the majority of the bibleschool, and me).

 

 

Played in the parlor, the game proved to be a jolly success. Even the bibleschool, even Michael seemed to really enjoy it. The only hitch was that little Timothy often had a hard time finding the special item, which in this case was a purple lollypop. Since a basic rule of the game is that you play "hot and cold" if someone is having a hard time, we all proceeded to do so when he was the only one left. However, he seemed to have a misconstrued idea of the game, meaning that he was practically convinced that he had to change directions whenever we said anything, ending up so that all he did was walk around in circles. Realizing that maybe he was too young to know about the game, I carefully explained it to him. After this, when he took a step forward, everyone of course said, "Warmer. . . " but then he would take a step backwards so that everybody said, "Colder. . ."  He kept on like this for a half a minute or more, practically rocking from one leg to the other as everybody inevitably responded with the apt answer. It was as if Timmy were the conductor and we were his choir. A simple shift was all that was required for a response; but instead of singing different notes, we simply chanted, "Warmer. . . colder. . . warmer. . . colder." Pretty soon we were convinced that he was just enjoying his power over our vocal chords. Amy then took the initiative to gently but firmly push or pull (I can't remember which) him in the right direction, which he resisted, but eventually (with persuasion) he was led to location of the hidden lollypop and found it accordingly, with some helpful hints.

 

 

For the next and last round of huckle-buckle-beanstalk it was my turn to hide the lolly pop because I had found it almost first thing the round before (just because it was in a special spot right near the door that I had checked every other round). Chad, who was sitting on one of the small couches observing, suggested with a twinkle in his eye that I stick the lollypop out of the back of his shirt collar. Once I had secured his promise to sit still, I agreed, and shortly let everyone else in so that the search could begin. This time, however, Timothy turned out to be the first one to find it! After a few minutes of everyone searching with no luck, the little fellow spotted it (it was more or less at his eye level) and pulled it out to hold up triumphantly. Fortunately, he made no exclamation or the game would have immediately ended. As a result, only four or five people noticed him and the game continued until everyone had discovered the lollypop's unique location. And thus ended our wonderful time down memory lane with huckle-buckle-beanstalk.

 

 

As I said, we had Sabbath treat, made by my very own dear mamita (Sarah provided us with the popcorn:). As I sat eating my apple pie and ice cream, little Stephen and Luke came and sat next to me; both are very interesting characters, as little boys are wont to be. Luke not only dazzled me with his extensive knowledge of dinosaurs, but he played "blow out the candle" with me on a candle that was far from being lit ("It's plastic, but we're pretending we don't know that," he told me).

 

 

As for Stephen, he dug into his dessert with noisy relish, expressed by the "hmmhmmhmm" noises that he made as he devoured his treat. The funny thing is that when I started to copy him he acted as if I were the strange one, and he practically insisted that he hadn't been making a similar noise when I told him that he had been. Then he started to tell me every joke that he could think of at the moment. After all, "We have a joke book that's the size of our couch," he informed me. Even though part of the time I couldn't always tell what he was saying (or even if I did, it made no sense), I often laughed anyway, just because it was so fun to see him enjoy his jokes so immensely. I wish I could remember all the jokes that this clever little six-year-old told me, but here are a couple as I roughly remember them.  

 

 

"Have you heard this one?" Stephen asked. "Uh, my father is Chinese, um, yeah, and my mother is Japanese, and I'm Japanese-Chinesey!" Or maybe he said, "You're cheesy!" Whichever version he said to me, someone was pretty sure that the latter was Stephen's altered punch line when they heard him tell this joke.

 

 

Or,

 

 

"Um, my daddy is a mosquito, my mommy is a daddy-long-legs, so that makes me a sheepie!" he laughed heartily. This time I was quite stumped, so I confessed to him that I didn't get it.

 

 

"You don't get it?" if he was surprised, he didn't show it too expressively. "Well, I turned into hot water--get it now?"

 

Oh, of course!

 

Not.

 

 

Or all that's what I think he said. Don't ask me to explain the joke--I'm probably more clueless than anybody. However, it still managed to tickle me, mostly because Stevie was so tickled. After all, who doesn't like to laugh just because a kid thinks he's so funny? I imagine people have done it with me plenty of times.:)

 

 

A purely informational post

For the benefit of those noble few of my readers (or perhaps there are many of you, I couldn't say) who read my blog more than just for entertainment/edification and would actually like to know what's really going on in my life, I believe I owe you a brief report. After all, who knows? Maybe you're thirsty for a general view of my recent life, however dull or interesting it may be. I can't say it's extremely interesting, but for communication's sake I think I'll clear up the general idea of "what I'm doing" right now.

First of all, in case you can't keep track (and why should you?), I'm in my last year of high school. *cheers* It's a little weird, actually. I've been having a lot of "lasts," like "last first day of school" and "last day I'm doing school during apple sauce day," etc. What is one to do when one no longer has any more school to do? Never fear, I'll find something.

Right, so I'm in my last year, and it's perhaps one of my most laid-back years yet, at least for high school. For one thing, I'm no longer taking HomeSat, so I have SO much more flexibility. For another, since according to the number of credits required to graduate from our local high school, I already had enough credits before the year started, it's pretty much a low key, "fill in the gaps" year. I've already taken my necessary maths, I have the necessary sciences and three years of foreign language study, plus I've already taken the SAT, so now what? Well, we decided to have me take an economics, classical physics, and music theory courses, all of which I've already finished (I started music theory in the summer and the others were short enough so that with just a little diligence I knocked them off by/around the first week of this month). So basically I have left an American literature course (a college level kind where you have to read entire books, not just excerpts from a text book), vocabulary, writing (I'm doing two different books and working on at least one good sized project for this), and home economics. Plus I'm going to try to do a little more art stuff, which I still need to work on doing. Anyway, this is just a great year where I get to do most of stuff that I want to do and count it for school! So all's good.

Hmm, another general fact from my more or less recent (that is, like the past three months) life is that I have a new violin! Indeed, that dear little instrument that I've been playing for the past eight years has now retired, and I have a much better instrument. I say "have"; the fact is, I don't really "have" it yet. My parents have paid for half of it and it's on loan to us from our friendly local fiddle shop and they said that I could pay for the rest of it by coming in to do background music for their adjoining Italian restaurant! ay, ay, ay! Nothing has happened yet, but we're hoping to meet with the lady before too terribly long and set some dates (she said something about Valentine's Day. . . I hope I can start sooner so that I can get a little more paid off).

Ah, and the violin? The violin is the sort of instrument that has actually been sitting unused for awhile in an attic, but this lady sent it in to have it fixed by an expert, who said that it was worth more than she had first thought. My violin isn't much to look at, but it's excusable given where it's been sitting and that it was probably made in the 18oos in Germany. So yeah, it's old; and it can blow my old student instrument partly out of the water.

The last brief thing I'll mention by way of informing the benighted as to my doings is that I'm working at a horse farm. Yessirreee, I've been working there for nearly four weeks now, getting up at about five-thirty week mornings to leave at six o'clock to drive with Kate down the road about two miles to feed our neighbor's horses. And do other less pleasant duties. Thankfully, the "less pleasant" duties don't bother me, and it's fun getting more comfortable with the handsome beasts. Since I've already been asked what we actually do, I'll tell you: we give the horses (there are three of them) their hay-type stuff, their grain, and their beet pulp. Then we shovel the barn, get their hay, get their water, and possibly put out new shavings. Finally, when they're done eating, we take their night coats off, let them out, shovel their stalls if they need it, sweep the inside of the barn, and mix up their beet pulp for the next time. That's the basic gist of it. It usually takes us half an hour to an hour, depending on if we have to get the horses, if they behave themselves, how much manure we have to shovel, etc. You get the idea.

Oh, and I think the horses are thoroughbreds. They're the kind that have lots of ribbons hanging up in the barn for the shows they've been in. Once, I even counted them while I was waiting for the massive water buckets to fill up (I hoping I can add something to my non-existent muscles:); I counted aprox. 112 ribbons, if I remember correctly.

Apologies for a post that's not very exciting. I'm not in a very exciting mood, but I thought it might be beneficial to let ya'll know what I'm employed in most of the time that I'm not writing here.

Our amazing (haha) volleyball

Last Tuesday night, I went to play sports with the bibleschool like I do every Tuesday night. But this time, there were no second years. *gasp* Alas, all five of them were away on Kingdom History trip. *gasp* Which meant no second year guys. *gasp* And no Jane. *gasp*gasp* And that night, Craig, Josh, and Diane decided not to come to sports. *gasp*gasp*gasp* So what did this mean? It meant that there were only six of us to play volleyball (which is all we ended up doing): Mary, Heidi, Sarah, Kate (for only part of the time), Shawn, and me. Wow. Talk about interesting.

The positive thing about playing volleyball with only a few people is that you actually get to hit the ball a lot, plus you get exercise. And the great thing about the group (everyone was great, don't mistake me) was that Shawn, who of course was leading sports and is one of the most amazing players ever, was playing. The bad thing was that no matter what combination of teams you came up with, Shawn's team always won. Always. Of course it wasn't his fault, it was ours. But still.

After a few games, Heidi jokingly suggested that we try to have all of us girls (minus Kate, who had left) on a team against Shawn. This idea highly amused us, so we agreed, and Shawn was just as game. Haha. It was amazing to watch him. Of course he still got three hits, so when he got the ball he would bump it to himself, then set it, then spike it. Only he had put the net down to girls' height, so he tried to follow the rules of a guy to spike it behind the ten foot line. He didn't always succeed in being able to set himself there, so sometimes he would set it over the net, which of course really threw us for a loop since we were so fascinated with watching him play. After all, we were bad enough already.:)

Unfortunately, I don't think we fully exploited our one advantage: that Shawn was only one guy. We should have served it to every corner of the court that he wasn't, but somehow it didn't quite happen. Mary was especially cute when she accidentally served it right to Shawn and then cried out, "Oops! Wrong person!" hehehe

I think we got about five points in that game before Shawn won. Yeah, I know; talk about pathetic! But we still had a great time and it was almost more fun watching him, so all in all it was worth it.

Oh, and afterwards Shawn offered to set the ball for me and any of the other girls who wanted to practice spiking. So Sarah and I took turns trying to perfect our sweet spike. I have a long way to go. . .

P.S. If you haven't read the following post(s) yet, please don't feel like this is the only one to read, because you might not want to miss what I already wrote today! :)

An imitation of style

Today for my creative writing course we were asked to write a story that imitated (and possibly exaggerated) our favorite author's style. Although I didn't choose my favorite author (I'm not even sure who it is), I did choose somebody that I thought would be extremely enjoyable to imitate. I had no idea what to write about, but then a memory of mine burst upon me, so I'm basing this little story on an experience I had, even though it's a little different. I don't think I could ever perfectly imitate any good author, but do you care to guess who I was thinking of as I wrote this?

I woke from my nap, frightfully refreshed, ready to flap through the day and take on any heavy-weight challenges Fate might be cooking up for me. As there were no heavy-weight challenges presenting themselves for getting knocked off in my bedroom, I decided to pop my head into the hallway in case I could spot any villains that needed to have their noses bottled. Seeing neither villains nor noses, the rest of me followed.

I was just determining that the house seemed to be like a freshly brushed mouth having spewed out all other inhabitants, when, hallo there, I spotted Megan. She seemed to be doing some spewing herself, and I thought it must be downright catching. I was just about to breeze away before she could notice me and accuse me of snooping when light dawned on marble head that a girl had just expect-a-somethinged in the hallway. Since the picture just wasn't clicking, I knew something must be wrong. Wheeling around, I decided to blast straight ahead and like a good chap see if I could offer any aid to a m.i.d. I pride myself on my vast chivalrous abilities. Why, all a poor girl needs to do is say, "I need your help, Archie," and my whole person will melt into buttery assistance. That's how I feel toward maidens in distress.

I sailed toward Megan, trying to be discreet and nonchalant. I'm pretty sure the qualities were oozing from my pores till I absolutely reeked of it. Megan's orbs were fixed over the edge of the balustrade--she obviously hadn't caught whiff of me yet.

"I say," I said. "Is everything all right?"

The m.i.d. jumped and the brown orbs were fixed upon me as if I had just stuck a cold fish to her neck. The thought flitted through the old cranium that perhaps she would have preferred a cold fish to her neck than to seeing me, but that of course was nonsense so I waved the idea away.

The frightened rabbit look in the m.i.d.'s eyes disappeared when she realized it was me, but instead of being replaced by the comforted look that I would have expected a real maiden in distress to put on when she caught sight of her noble hero, a look of mirth crept into those dark orbs. Then without a word she slid off, leaving behind an enigmatic laugh as the only vapor that betrayed the fact that she had been there. A moment later, she reappeared to my flummoxed self as she glided in with an air of mystery about her like a halo and a glass of water in her hand. Still smiling, she let the contents of her glass trickle over the railing.

Peering over the rail, I gaped. Yes, indeed, I gaped. I don't think I've gaped quite like that since I saw cousin Louis's pet hamster dash backwards and do the Virginia Reel.

What I saw Megan aiming at down below was a sink, and in that sink was some water (from the aforementioned glass that the supposed m.i.d. was pouring), and next to that water was something that looked frightfully like toothpaste and spittle. Yes, my maiden in distress had expect-a-somethinged on purpose just because she was brushing her teeth. It's a jolly good thing she was a good shot, too, or who knows what sort of tempests could have resulted if she had spewed on some hapless bystander?

I don't think it's a rotten thing to say that from now on old Archie is going to think twice before offering his benevolent services to maidens in distress.

A Spanish-English Dictionary

The other day in my creative writing course I was studying similes and metaphors. Oh, what fun to be able to come up with one's own similes and metaphors! It's like discovering a new kind of flower. It is digging a well that turns out to be a fountain.

 

In the process of this noble study (don't worry, I have studied similes and metaphors before:) "we" were given the simple task of taking a few common objects from around the room and coming up with a simile for each one; then we had to explain it.

 

For instance: (and pardon me if this isn't perfect)

 

A camera is like a lightning bolt--it reveals moments of the past the same way a flash of lightning reveals figures in the darkness.

 

However, my favorite one is this:

 

A Spanish-English dictionary is like Craig--look him up and he'll tell you how everything I say translates into Clyde's English.

 

This simile may seem odd, but I think it's strangely true, at least at times. As much as I love my dear brother Clyde practically to death, there are times when our brains simply do not operate on the same wavelength. Our personalities have never been alike, and although we appreciate eachother a lot more than we did many years ago, there are still times when what I'm saying makes no sense at all to my brother. I may be laying out an argument for a situation, and that argument may seem perfectly logical to me, but Clyde may just stare at me as if I'm looney. This is where Craig comes in. Always the Mercy and mediator, he understands each of us almost as well as we do ourselves. I don't know exactly why; maybe he understands Clyde because they're both guys and they're closer in age. Maybe he understands me because we're fairly alike in personality. Anyway, however he does it, he manages to tell Clyde what it is that I'm trying to say, revealing to Clyde that I am more than just an inarticulate female animal. Not there aren't times when I'm not articulate or when I might not make any sense, but these times are much more infrequent than Clyde might suppose. Light dawns in my dear brother's eyes, and now we understand eachother.

 

What would we do without Craig? But at the same time, what would I do without Clyde? And while I'm in this philosophical questioning mode, what would I do without Chad, Kendra, Dad, and Mom?

 

Let's not go there.

Fanaticism is contagious

Last week I got to do something I've never done before: wave signs. You cannot believe how much fun it can be! When I originally thought of sign waving, I pictured standing out in the cold for hours while the seconds dragged by as you gripped your brave sign with cold fingers. But this was much better than I would have expected two years ago. Sadly, I missed my first opportunity on Saturday when the whole bibleschool and more went to Keene (I slept in a leetle late that day, heh heh); however my golden chance arrived the following day on Sunday afternoon. Excited, I planned to go with Dad and Craig to Peterborough to wave signs partly because we heard that McCain (!) and Kurt Schilling (!!) were coming!!! So we left a few hours early to offer our support--oh, and Ben and Bobby came along. We passed the one busy intersection in Peterborough (which was crawling with sign wavers and huge inflated puppets, mostly Obama supporters) and decided to plant ourselves on the large island where Rte. 202 meets Rte. 101.

 

        Uncertain but eager to be enthusiastic, I joined my brother and the two bibleschool guys, united in our cause which was displayed proudly by our signs. Have you ever waved signs before? Frankly, I don't think it would be an easy job to do by oneself, but when you're with three other energetic people (two of which happen to be very choleric:), fanaticism is contagious! It wasn't long before we were warmed up to our job, whooping, screaming, jumping, waving, smiling, and "thumbs upping" everyone who passed, delight warming us whenever we saw a fellow McCain supporter, which was not infrequently, though it may have helped that it was the same day as a McCain rally. Occasionally, we ran next to cars as they turned past our island, leaping about and bobbing our signs madly. Ben even held up our "Honk 4 McCain" sign for awhile and it got some happy responses. One guy, laden with signs for the democratic party, passed us a couple of times, but finally shrugged and gave us a honk, probably just to give us credit for our broad smiles and enthusiasm. Another person the guys saw fighting with the driver to honk.

 

Some of our rallying cries sounded something like this:

 

"Votes for McCain!"

 

"Let's have it for McCain!"

 

"True leadership over charisma!" (that was one of Ben's favorites, and some of us took it up)

 

"Let's have it for experience!"

 

"McCain's the man for America!"

 

"Remember to vote for McCain on November 4th!"

 

"Vote for McCain--you know you want to!"

 

And so forth, accompanied by plenty of whoops and screams. Sometimes you never realize how well a guy can scream until you get him going in a political rally; for instance, the week before I was out with the students (we were putting out signs after we participated in the Bible reading marathon in Concord) and somebody passed us with a (hopefully happy) honk, followed by a scream, and I said or at least thought, "That girl likes us!" Then I realized that the scream hadn't issued from a girl, but from Ben!

 

Sometimes our cries were more improvised, depending on the cars and license plates we saw.

 

"Massachusetts for McCain!"

 

"Dogs for McCain!"

 

"Hey, nice car! Nice cars for McCain!"

 

"Goats for McCain!" (yep, I really saw a goat:)  

 

"Young people for McCain! Old people for McCain! Everyone for McCain!" (that was Craig's line)

 

One lady rolled down her window and told us that she was undecided. This was all the chance the guys needed. Immediately they ran closer and started to list all the basic reasons she should vote for McCain. She told them they were very persuasive. They pursued it, listing more reasons, so that finally she announced that she would think about it. That was enough for us, so we all cheered.

 

Another great thing about sign waving in a smallish town was that I knew some people! It was fun seeing my brothers' old driver's ed teacher, as well as some of Clyde's basketball players; I even saw the mom of one of my violin teacher's pupils.

 

Once or twice, we even managed to convince somebody! Like the time this girl pulled off the road and came toward us; we started yelling at her to vote for McCain until she finally threw up her hands and told us that we had convinced her. Then she laughed and gave us a sign that said "Live Free Vote McCain" before leaving. It was none other than Andrea. Another time this blonde guy came walking toward us and so we pointed at him with vehemence to vote the right way, but it was only Aaron, so our efforts, however joking, were fruitless, since he was probably going to vote for McCain anyway. Nevertheless, whatever we did must have done something, because this Aaron cousin of mine stuck with us the rest of the day.

 

Darkness soon crept in after a couple of hours, so we proceeded to the traffic lights where we paused for a few minutes to throw our efforts in with the rest of the bibleschool who had arrived to swell the ranks of sign wavers. As the guys, who as I already told you were yelling plentifully, spread their fanaticism, one little boy with an Obamah sign started to yell back. However, his mother quickly stopped him, saying, "He's making a fool of himself and you're not to be one too!" To this, Ben responded with the cry, "It's okay to be passionate about what you believe in!"

 

"Your mother would be ashamed of you!" some women yelled at Ben. Ha. "They don't know my mother," he said later. :)

 

Pretty soon we peeled off and made a dash down the street for where the McCain rally was located. Here there were a bunch of people in line waiting to get in, as well as many Obamah supporters standing around holding signs. We kept ours aloft, though, and with Craig's declaration, "Red Sox fans for McCain!" (he was wearing his hat) we stood our ground.

 

Very shortly afterward, however, a little boy came up to Craig and said very politely, "Excuse me, I'm a Yankees fan and I'm for McCain so it's not just Red Sox fans for McCain."

 

"Aw, you're right," Craig answered, touched by this boy's correction. "See, he's a Yankees fan and he's for McCain too!" He said this pointing at Bobby, then repeated more loudly, "Baseball fans for McCain!" After this Bobby revealed his Yankees hat hidden beneath his hood ("Not that I'm ashamed to be a Yankees fan," he had told me earlier, but I agreed that politically it was wiser to keep it hidden while campaigning in New England) and the dad of the little boy wanted to have their picture taken with Bobby and his McCain sign. Then for some reason the dad wanted to take my picture with my sign, perhaps because I had a little American flag tucked behind my ear (who knows?), and he thanked me for the "photo op." Um, sure, no problem! :)

 

We wandered around for awhile, trying to figure out what direction the McCain bus would come from. In an alley we passed a handful of Obamah supporters, who started screaming for their candidate as soon as they caught sight of our signs. We yelled right back at the same time. The volume contest (who can scream their candidate's name the loudest?) was brief and completely lacking of spite, and it was rather remarkable how such contact, which might normally be unpleasant, was pretty good-natured and almost enjoyable.

 

Passing a lady during our same wanderings, a lady (and obvious McCain supporter) told us, "They can keep their change, we want to keep our dollars." Hardy har har, way to turn their own slogan back around on them!

 

After awhile we decided that we wanted to go in past security, so we waited in line for a few minutes. As we did, Bobby, who was complaining vociferously of his thirst (try yelling for a couple of hours and you'll understand), called across the side parking lot to some media guys, asking if they had some water. To our vast amazement and amusement, they said they did, so Bobby ran over to one of the vans parked nearby (the kind with a satellite dish on the roof) and came back with a bottle of water that he shared all around. That's Bobby for ya.

       

        Once past security, we joined the masses of people flooding the remaining length of the street, which was probably about a block or less. We found Andrea (and eventually Gretchen and Aunt Sharon) and stood around waiting for McCain's arrival, which wasn't much later. However, we weren't just wasting time either. Everything has blurred together in my mind now, but I vaguely remember continuing our loud vocal demonstrations of loyalty to McCain, being the loudest group around, waving our flags and signs, and dancing to the music that played over the loudspeaker (don't worry, Andrea got permission from her mother first:). That is, we more just hopped to some of the music as it played; Bobby, who was probably the only one among us who really knew some of the songs being played, joined in singing with some other dudes nearby--all McCain fans. Before long, the bus had arrived, and we waited, breathless, for the famous man to appear. There he was! Everyone jumped up and down screaming, waving signs and flags. This time we weren't the only ones being loud. . . oh, and Bobby got on Ben's shoulders to see better. What's more, McCain actually stood outside and TALKED to us for a few minutes before going inside where the real meeting was! That made us very happy, since the chances of getting inside had been pretty slim. One lady we happened to talk to later said that she had arrived at 11 that morning so that she would be sure to get in, and she did; she even got to ask a question. She also told us that her husband thought she had sounded amazing when she asked it (those are my words, not hers), and she wondered jokingly if she had missed her life's calling.

 

After seeing the great John McCain and Kurt Schilling, many people left, but some still crowded around the screens set up on the street to show us what was going on inside. By now (it was about 6:30) it was pretty cold; I had long ago regretted leaving my gloves in the car and I tried to keep myself from getting too numb. And it was no wonder, for we found out later that the temperature had dropped from about 43 degrees F at the beginning of our sign waving to about 29 degrees when we left the rally.

 

Long story short: we came, we saw, we went home. After McCain was done speaking, we hung around, hoping to get a glimpse of him leaving. Now that a lot of people had left we would have been able to be pretty close when he came out. We waited. . . Daddy and Gretchen both got interviewed by somebody from People magazine. . . then the bus pulled away! Alas, John McCain had left by a back entrance, and now it was our turn to leave, a little disappointed. Daddy went home with my mom, who had arrived at the actual rally shortly after we did, but I stuck with Craig and the three bibleschool guys. I was glad I did, because Craig took us to Dunkin Donuts and I was able to thaw out with a cup of white hot chocolate. . . the perfect finish to a great day.

 

I must say that the whole time t'was a delight--there's something remarkable in being able to share common beliefs and excitement for a cause with friends, even if they're not your best friends or your own age or even if most of them are guys. Still, we were promoting what we believed was right and there was some comradery as a result, even though normally I might have been an outsider. It's really a lot like being a Christian, or what being a Christian should be, so it seems to me. Each of us believers have faith in the same amazing God and ultimately we have the same goal; that should be enough to unify us no matter what our differences are! That may sound easy to say or maybe it sounds wishy washy, but I think it's a neat thought to keep in mind. This day kind of depicted to me what it's like to have a common excitement with other people--shouldn't we be just as excited about God?

 

Huh. A fan for God. A fanatic fan for God--and haven't I already said that fanaticism is contagious? Just think, if we were all truly fanatic fans for God. . . . . how long would it take the world to catch this contagion too?

A modern love story?

I read about the evils of run-ons and fragmented sentences in writing today. As an exercise, my book gave me a paragraph, riddled with such sins, to re-write. The paragraph itself was unusual in its content, and it amused me so I thought I would share the corrected version here. At least, it's basically correct, but certain aspects seem wrong to me. However, pretty much all I was supposed to do was fix the sentences, not the grammar. Here you go:

 

        He looked at his face in the mirror and he didn't like what he saw. Two giant hairs were growing on top of his nose! They were disgusting, especially the top one which was crooked and eerie. He needed to do something. After all, he had a date that night unless she had cancelled, which he knew was quite possible if he hadn't noticed these hairs earlier. So he plucked out both hairs, and it really hurt! But it was worth it because they fell in love.

 

THE END.

 

Oooooohhhhhhh my goodness. I'm relieved to say that I didn't write that!

A wild goose chase

One Sunday evening after a church service out in Indy, Klara and I strolled out with a bunch of other SF students to board the bus back to the training center. The day was comfortably warm (fall was beyond the thoughts of the Indiana climate) and the rays of the sun were still bright though slanted. After crossing the road, we spied a flock of Canadian geese out in a large field right next to where the bus was parked.

 

"Do you want to go chase the geese with me?" Klara asked, a gleam of fun in her eye. It sounded vaguely like fun, but I was reluctant. Then I realized that I was reluctant only because I was afraid of spoiling my "mature image" in the eyes of my many peers who were present! That was ridiculous! Who cares what other people think? Hang so-called maturity! I'm still young so why shouldn't I enjoy it?

 

With that attitude, I changed my initial reaction and flung my cares to the wind. Of course I would love to go chase geese with one of my very best friends, no matter that many "proper" ATI students in their Sunday best were watching us. Off we went, running madly as best we could in our own Sunday attire--straight at the silly geese, delighted at the prospects of seeing them flee noisily. Surprisingly, however, the geese were hardly fazed at all! Sure, they may have moved a little as we ran yelling at them (we might not have been yelling, but I have the impression that we were--in the most lady-like fashion of course:), but mostly they just stood and looked at us with much nonchalance. Now I did feel kind of stupid. What's the point of chasing geese if they refuse to be chased? It simply ruins the fun of it all. Still, the short run had done me good, and chuckling at the geese and how silly we must have appeared, Klara and I headed back to the bus.

 

Then I noticed.

 

I had lost my keys. I was often pocketless, so my common "storage" place for my key chain (it held a key to our room as well as one to Kendra's) was to tuck it into the waistband of my skirt. They (the keys) had been there only minutes before. With horror I realized that I had just lost them somewhere in the middle of the large field. Fearful visions of everyone sitting on the bus waiting for me as I searched hopelessly for my keys flashed across my mind. As of then the bus driver hadn't arrived yet (I think) and so they hadn't even begun to board the bus. But still, who knew how long it could take me? The keys could be anywhere in that massive meadow, and all I could think was how badly I would feel to have everyone waiting for me just because I had gone on a wild goose chase. Literally.

 

Fortunately, we have a God in heaven who cares about the small things. Although panic had seized me, I didn't forget to breath a fervent prayer, and it was only after a minute or so of retracing my steps that I found my keys. Gratitude and relief set in as I picked them up and headed for the bus, which was only just starting to be boarded. I was saved.

 

Coincidence? I don't think so.

A Tale Continued. . .

If you haven't read my previous post already, I'd recommend it. Not that it's required or "essential reading," as my high school courses so fondly refer to the extra burdens of homework they give me, but it would certainly be deemed "supplementary." After all, if you don't know what SF is or who Kitty is when I talk about either one of them, it's entirely your own fault, and you will have to remain in the depths of cluelessness, unless you read what I wrote already, then the cobwebs should be removed.

 

Before I continue, however, I wish to make a little disclaimer about what I may have implied about where my sister worked, which is where I made my abode for three weeks. For instance, I mentioned that we weren't "allowed" to talk to guys. This is a definite overstatement, intended only to imply roughly how some of us felt and acted just because we wanted to avoid any risks of flirtation. We were there to learn and study music, making new girlfriends along the way, that is all. Also, if I say something about the dress code (girls wearing nylons, guys having to wear ties--suit jackets to dinner, etc.), please understand that the strictness of the rules was only in place for our course in order to maintain professionalism during our classes--please don't think it or anything else I have to say about the training center is my way of knocking it. ITC is a great place, and my sister has been happy there for many years--don't think it's a jail house, because it most certainly is not. There, with that minor preface in mind, we can move on. . . .

 

Sound Foundations was definitely a jam-packed experience--a melange of interesting topics, fun, and stress. Each week was different, each instructor well-informed yet unique. First, let me see if I can "briefly" describe our schedule. . .

 

Seven-thirty a.m. was our pickup breakfast, followed (for the first week) by choir taught from 9:00-11:00. This was generally my favorite part of the day. From 11-12 we had team meetings scheduled. This is where I, as the appointed team leader (picked almost randomly, it seemed to me) got to display my magnificent leadership skills.

 

Riiiight.

 

It was a great opportunity to work on them however, and I enjoyed it more than I expected. I mean, now I was actually SUPPOSED to say all that I wanted to say whenever any little insight came to me, and nobody would think that I was talking too much because I was the team leader and that's what team leaders are supposed to do, right? One day when we had read the required portion of our book for the week I even talked for twenty minutes or more! Oh mah goodness, I better be careful or I might be a preacher. Actually I got really excited when I found out that we were studying worship because I just "happened" (aha! but we know that God doesn't let things just "happen" without a reason!) to have my meeting notes from Craig's and Dad's meetings on the subject way back at the March Feast--and since so much of it had blessed me I thought it a prime opportunity to share it with others.  Anyway, I picked the spot for us to meet (generally it was outside, since it was often the only time in the day some of us managed to get out) and led our devotions as we worked through a wonderful book called How to Worship Jesus Christ. I found it most refreshing and I highly recommend it!

 

At noon came lunch, surprise surprise. If I was lucky (and if I didn't get delayed in an after-lunch team leader meeting or something) I'd be able to rush back up to the ninth floor where our room was and I'd cram in some studying, but it couldn't last long because no sooner had you gotten settled for ten minutes or so than it was time to head back down to the second floor auditorium for music history at 1. So, 1-2 was music history, then from 2-4 was music theory, joy of all joys. This last was definitely my toughest subject during all of SF; even though it was fairly "basic" theory, it was a lot of brand new material that was thrown at us for three or four days before we were expected to spit it all back out on a split-up exam at the end of the week. And not just spitting back definitions, but actually figuring out things--like harmonic analysis, in which you had to understand what you were doing (which I didn't, at first) in order to do it! This class proved fairly stressful for me, but God helped me through it and as it turned out, our teacher was a pretty merciful grader.:)

 

After music theory came the long-awaited and much needed break--consisting of a whopping half-hour. During this time I would usually check the mail and try to cram in a little more studying before the next session from 4:30-5:30, which for the first week was either Song Writing Skills or learning to put Bible verses to music--pretty fascinating, though I didn't feel up to completing the assignments just yet because the idea of music theory (not to mention music history) exams was swimming over my head too much for me to be able to think a lot about anything else.

 

Dinner came at 5:30, followed by another hour of music theory at 6:30, and another hour-long session such as The Greatest Enemy to Music Ministry (pride). So when that got out at 8:30, you had half an hour to get into your rooms by 9:00, followed by an hour of study or calling home (actually you weren't supposed to be calling home then, but Kendra had permission to lend me her cell phone after nine when it would be free, and she always came to pick it up). The lights out curfew was supposedly at 10, which happened on occasion, but often we pushed it to ten-thirty to cram in more music theory. Yay. Thus the first week sped by, and once the exams were past I hurried on with song writing assignments with due dates coming right up.

 

But not on Saturday. Here it was at last. I don't know if I've ever quite looked forward to a Sabbath so much in my life! I was so happy to have what was reportedly the driest and probably the hardest week of SF behind me, and one of my assignments turned in right about sundown. I was free! For a little while at least. Klara and I excitedly thought of the things that we could do that we couldn't do before--like actually keep curfew, which was an odd luxury, considering how tired we were and that we didn't have to study; and go outside, and play volleyball. Friday evening we had a little Sabbath meeting with Kendra in her room (I had secured permission to go to her room now and then), and then she came down to ours and shared dried mangos with us while we shared our granola bars, and thus happily employed, we played a relaxing game of Dutch Blitz.

 

On Saturday we slept in to the lovely hour of nine o'clock, after which I had a little fiasco in which we couldn't find my contact for an interminable ten or fifteen minutes, I finally prayed seriously about it and discovered it roughly thirty seconds later on the side of the toilet seat. That was definitely God!  Brunch was at ten, and oh what blissful rest and idleness! Some people went to an optional Hymn Improvisation class (for the piano) taught by a friend of Kendra's, but since I didn't think it really applied to me, I just rested, called home, and did whatever. It wasn't easy to stop entirely though, especially as I thought about assignments with due dates coming up on Monday and Tuesday, but whenever I found myself talking about it Klara veered me away from the subject and reminded me that it was the Sabbath. So, to remind myself, or just because I was content to have it be the Sabbath, I would sing Sabbath songs in the stair well, which was fun because the acoustics were superb--you just had to keep an ear ready for a door to open on any of the floors because then the intruder would hear you, even if he were five floors below.

 

I spent much of Saturday evening outdoors, playing volleyball with some girls or tossing a Frisbee (mine--I brought it with me:), or learning how to play four square with a basketball (which, in my humble opinion, is one of the dumbest and most pointless games I've ever played--but maybe it's just because I was terrible at it:). Also I watched the guys play Ultimate Frisbee--which is a lot of fun because guys are generally pretty good at it, and these SF guys were no exception. So I just watched from a distance, wishing I could transmogrify myself into a guy so I could join them. After all, mightn't it have been me who put the idea into their heads in the first place? To understand this idea, we'll have to rewind. . . .

 

It was Tuesday morning, the second day of SF, and we were to have our first session of choir. After arranging ourselves into our appropriate sections, we waited curiously to see what it would be like in choir, and more importantly, what our instructor, Mr. C., would be like. But, to our surprise, we didn't start out with singing. Nope, Mr. C., after introducing himself, wanted us to introduce ourselves! We hadn't been around each other long enough to know more than a handful of names, and now was the time for every single one of us to stand, state our name, where we were from, and an interesting fact about ourselves. This was fun. To be honest, it didn't really help me to remember very many people's names, and I remember very few of the "interesting" facts, but the whole experience was interesting in itself, and it helped us all to relax and get to know each other a wee bit more (I did, by the way, learn just about everybody's name by the time SF was over). What types of things did people say?

 

This guy liked soccer. That girl can juggle. This guy likes French and construction. That girl is fluent in at least three different languages. This guy likes origami. This girl likes to read. . . or run. . .  or play basketball. . . or work outside (that's what Klara said). One guy, after introducing himself, said this:

 

"And for an interesting fact, um. . . " (here he scratched his head) ". . . I don't have a very good memory." That was very interesting indeed!

 

My turn came, and with some trepidation and I stood and proudly gave my name and state (I was the only representative from it), adding that I liked traveling and Ultimate Frisbee. After this Mr. C. wanted to know what it was and if blood was involved. I told him sometimes, and then tried to sum up the gist of the game in as few words as possible, which turned out not to be enough to make him understand, so one of the guys came to my rescue in my explanation. Therefore, I take partial credit for putting Ultimate Frisbee on everyone's mind and have only myself to blame for my envy.

 

While I'm on the subject of choir, I must say that it was lots of fun! Mr. C. proved to be an able teacher with a great sense of humor and a beautiful voice. An avid Cubs fan, he kept us updated on their status--especially if they won; and he also amused us (or plagued us) with his corny jokes and quotes that were funny just because he was telling them. For instance:

 

"Why do ballerinas wear tutus?" Mr. C. asked us with a grin.

 

No clue.

 

"Because the one-ones are to small and the three-threes are to big!"

 

Or:

 

"Where does Napoleon keep his armies?"

 

"In his sleevies!"

 

Hardy har har.

 

Another time, he tried to tell us about a Christian comedian he had seen in Michigan, but he struggled to come up with what it was that the guy had said that was so hilarious. Finally, he thought he had it:

 

"Dancing only leads to one thing. . . .

 

. . . kissing girls!"

 

We were a bit taken aback--what had he just said? Here we were, guys and girls sitting vis a vis to each other, and he pulled out this joke now and HERE? Still, some of us laughed, but the laughter had an awkward quality about it. Yeah, talk about awkward. :)

 

One day in choir Mr. C. suddenly asked us if we could guess where his tie came from. We were stumped. Why would he ask us a question like that? When given the hint that most of us had seen that tie before, it wasn't too long before someone ventured to guess that it was the one that the pastor from church last Sunday had been wearing. Bingo! The long and the short of it is that every ten years or so Mr. C. has complimented his pastor on his tie, and each time he does the tie shows up a few days later draped over his chair as a gift. So the Sunday before Mr. C. had told the pastor that he could drape that tie over his chair any time he wanted to! That's Mr. C. for ya. But I will admit he has good taste--the tie was a classy-looking blue striped one that I wouldn't have been ashamed to wear if I were a guy.

 

So what do you think we gave to Mr. C. for a thank present at the end of SF? Why, a silver and lime green striped tie MADE OUT OF DUCT TAPE and signed by each and every one of us! He was very much amused, and he tried it on right on the spot. We were hoping he'd wear it to the concert, but he wasn't quite that daring, and I can't say that I blame him.

 

 We also had an opportunity to take advantage of Mr. C.'s devotion to the Cubs. During the final week of SF, somebody on my team (I think it was Nicole) suggested the idea of having everyone sing "Take Me Out to the Ball Game" instead of one of our choir songs. Immediately my team latched on to the idea, and after discussing how to do it and the effect it might have, Kitty and Lydia put it into action by spreading the word to the other teams during meal time. Before long everyone was buzzing with the news. Here came the appointed day. We all stood up on the stage where we practiced for the last few days before the concert. Mr. C. prepared us to start our one a cappella piece, "Do Not I Love Thee," which, by the way, we didn't end up singing for the concert because despite our best efforts (and we were not the least of SF choirs) it inevitably ended flat. He cued us to begin. But instead of the clear, solemn tones of the sopranos and altos singing "Do not I love Thee, oh my Lord. . . " there rose up a hearty rendition of "Take Me Out to the Ball Game." I even sang, "Root, root, root for the Cub team," though it was hard not to wince a little. The effect was satisfying. Mr. C. told us that the plan was cold and calculated.

 

Another time during this same week we were finding our standing positions. At first we just lined up there arbitrarily by sections, but then we had to do some shuffling because Mr. C. wanted us lined up approximately by height. I was shifted several times--from the back, to the front, to the second row, down one, down again, until I found myself in the second and middle row with a bass (the guy who likes origami) to my left. While some of this shuffling was going on, Mr. C. asked how many of us girls played volleyball. I raised my hand tentatively, along with some others.

 

"We should make a team. I bet we could do some damage," Mr. C. grinned.

 

A little later, Mr. C. expressed a wish: "What I would give to have you guys in a Christian school together!"

 

A voice piped up from the tenor section, "I'm sorry, we're homeschooled." It was Walker the Troublemaker, and the moment was just too precious. We cheered. Yay for the homeschooled us. :)

 

The second week of Sound Foundations was unlike the first week in many respects. No more stressful studying night after night and long dry lectures--now it was time for the fun to begin! Thus we started having Children's Choir. That is, technically we were supposed to learn how to TEACH children's choir, but in reality we learned that and were IN children's choir at the same time! After all, Mrs. L, our teacher, believed that the best way you remember things is by DOING them, so to give us ideas for things to do in Children's Choir she had us do them! This was jolly fun, and where I believe the real definition of maturity comes in. That is, maturity is knowing when it's okay to be immature! (according to the Grand Kayla's Dictionary Deluxe Edition) We had to leave inhibitions behind and just be kids again, which some of us found great pleasure in doing.

 

So what did we do? We learned how to play the recorder, sang Hallelu-hallelu, jumping up as high as we possibly could; played follow the leader to the tune of Onward Christian Soldiers; played musical chairs; had hymn drills; learned songs in almost every possible way you could imagine to teach a kid a song; split up and performed short compositions by making noises with the few materials that we had; performed a skit to learn the unusual history of Hayden (did you know that his head was stolen?); played a "getting to know you" game where you had to find people to sign your paper (like we played at the Family Convention but a much simplified version); lay down on the floor with heads on stomachs to practice breathing (the guys got to do this:); learned how to sing in solfege; and much much more! Thus we came to a few hours of Children's Choir every day wondering what was coming next, and were delighted over and over again, while at the same time learning important concepts throughout the entire class.

 

Children's Choir also turned out to be another opportunity to work and perform as teams. For instance, our first day's assignment was to choose a hymn as a team and sing at least one verse in solfege, doing whatever else our creativity suggested to make the song enjoyable. For the purposes of easy singing in our early stage of learning, Mrs. L. recommended that we choose a song in the key of C, and since we were to "get" our songs on a first come, first served basis, my team opened the hymn book and picked the first song in the key of C that they laid their eyes on, and that was "A Mighty Fortress is Our God." So, making a long story short, we worked on it in the next twenty-four hours and then performed it for everyone else, as everyone else did for everyone else. But perhaps you may be wondering what solfege is. Allow me to explain: basically, it's what you hear from the Sound of Music in those terms "do, re, mi, fa, sol, la, ti, do." Not only that, but each of those notes is assigned a hand symbol to be held at varying levels in front of you, from your belly button to your forehead, depending on the level of the note. Therefore we took the notes, assigned the names to the appropriate notes in our hymn, and then sang and signed our way through it, like this: (to the tune "A Mighty Fortress is Our God") Do do do sol la ti, do ti la sol, do ti la sol la fa mi re do, etc."

 

As for the creative aspect of our presentation, somebody (I think it was probably Lauren or Mikaela) got the brilliant notion of finding an object that roughly resembled the symbols for each of the notes and have each person hold one and pull it out whenever that note was sung. So with a little creativity and imagination we summoned up these items: an orange for do, a door stop for re, a hymn book for mi, a hair dryer for fa, a blown-up rubber glove for sol, a headband for la, a lime green spray bottle without the bottle for ti (when turned upside down it was a pretty convincing ti :), and a plastic circular container of alfredo noodles (provided by Klara from the larder in a drawer in our room) for high do.  See, creativity galore, I tell you! That's the most beautiful team B for ya.

 

We had a few other sessions besides Children's Choir (and choir and team meetings of course, which happened practically every day:), including The Roots of Rock Music and a most fascinating class called The Sound of God (where I learned wicked cool stuff like how studies show that the stars actually SING), but I'm going to fast-forward to Saturday, which was a big day for us. Why? Because of the other Children's Choir team assignment that I have so far failed to mention, and that was to teach a twenty-minute lesson for Children's Choir to some real live kids; that is, a team of SF students PRETENDING to be kids, but for some this proved much easier to do than others. This assignment, very obviously, was not something completed over night, but was the result of a culmination of careful preparation and planning, though some people on our team took it more seriously than others--such is the way of life. However, finally, we were ready--sort of. We had our lesson plan (which was supposed to be super detailed and designed for a full hour lesson, though we were condensing it into twenty-minutes) painstakingly worded, written out, and copied to have it scrutinized by all the other teams, and we had our jobs divided, our posters made, our song learned, our skit written (we were the only team that actually tackled one--Mikaela did a superb job writing it for us), and our lesson generally planned out. The only problem was that we had never successfully run through the entire thing, but it didn't matter anymore, because the hour was upon us. I had a rather haunted Friday night's sleep. It was my responsibility to open up the class and teach the song, and I found myself going over it over and over again, hoping that I had it learned and that I would have the right words to say to make our presentation clear yet enjoyable. It didn't exactly help that our team was scheduled to go dead last--now our miserable anticipation was only prolonged.

 

Long story short? We made it through! Afterwards I found myself experiencing a curious amalgam of euphoria and "crushedness." This was mostly a result of going over all the student evaluations we received, and for the most part, people loved us! The skit was charming--we had included a little spoof of Mr. C. in our choir director character, only Lydia wore a Red Sox and announced that the Red Sox had won the night before (I prayed that they would just so we could be honest--and they actually did!:)--everyone loved it, though it went over Mrs. L's head. One guy said that "the purple girl was really enthusiastick" (the purple girl being me:) etc., but since these evaluations had to be honest and I knew our presentation wasn't perfect, we didn't get perfect reviews. We needed to involve the kids more, we needed to handle the kids better, etc. Though I must say that we did get a few brats who refused to cooperate and persisted in sitting on the floor and sniffing markers. The irony is that some people said we did a great job handling the kids (it was a mixture of ignoring some issues while Nicole, our appointed disciplinarian, handled others), so who knows how we really did. The important thing despite our many shortcomings was that Mrs. L. gave us an A. Maybe she gave everyone else an A too, but at least we got one, and that's all that matters.

 

I wish I had time to go into the other presentations. As it is, I'm getting dreadfully sick of this post not being finished, and since I know that if I don't get it done soon I probably will never finish it, I'm tempted to sum the rest of the time in a few words as possible. However, a few stories simply MUST be chronicled, and a few more events reported, since you have absolutely no idea what we did the for the third and final week of our course.

 

The first story that must be chronicled is one of the guys' team presentations. Their spiritual theme was how God never changes, and I guess to remotely illustrate this (or maybe because they really wanted to do it) they had their "kids" play a game. This was a game where there was a row of boxes turned upside down on the table, and they took volunteers to take one quick peek under one box. Without giving it away entirely, the volunteer (or victim) had to give a short clue as to what it was they had just seen. I believe the first object was a piece of paper, followed by a pencil and binder. Finally there was only one box left. From amongst the eagerly raised hands the guy they selected was one famous (or should I say infamous?) for his coolness and craziness. "Walker the Troublemaker" he had been dubbed by Mr. C., and so he will remain to each of his fellow classmates whenever we recall him and his mad passion for the harmonica, as revealed by his casual pleas to be able to play a solo with the choir or have a part written just for him with the orchestra. Anyway, Walker the Troublemaker strode up to the box, ready to be phased by nothing, until he took his brief peek in the gloomy recesses beneath the box. I would like to say that he turned white, but since I don't exactly recall what shade his complexion was before and after the incident I don't think I can honestly say that he did. Perhaps he gave a yelp, or a jump, or looked wildly about. Whatever he did, it was obvious that he was not just slightly disturbed. Something had scared him, and scared him pretty significantly. Our curiosity was piqued. What could be under the box to give this fellow such startlement? Eagerly we awaited his clue as to what he had seen.

 

"Uh, it looks like Kevin?" (referring to his friend and coadjutor to mischief, who was also on the team giving the presentation) 

 

Amused yet intrigued, we waited for the box to be removed. It was, and once it was lifted I believe nearly every heart in that room leaped--not for joy, but from the briefest moment of terror followed by astonishment and hilarity. For what presented itself on the table was none other than a head, with its eyes grotesquely opened wide, and then this head began to move, following the movements of Walker the Troublemaker so that we could all understand his being disconcerted. Very quickly this head was identified as one of the other guys on that team, who is from PA and plays the harp, but words can scarcely describe the laughter and tears of mirth that were shed in that room filled with approximately 60 people. It was truly the most shocking moment during all of SF.

 

Before moving on I must mention that for one of the games we played during Childrens' Choir we had a hymn drill. One person from each team went up front and had to find certain things in our hymnal. And it wasn't just, "Number 321." But, "Find a hymn by Fanny Crosby." Or, "Find a hymn with a meter of 11, 11, 11, 10." Or, "Find a hymn based on Isaiah 50." (these examples are very rough) Once you found the hymn, you had to attempt to sing it in front of everyone, whether you had heard it before in your life or not. Uhuh. I made the mistake of choosing to represent my team, and I did poorly. How is one supposed to find all the many different indexes in a strange hymnal and sing a song you've probably never heard before? The one time I was pretty sure that I had beaten one of the guys to getting to a certain hymn, Mrs. L. didn't see it and called it a tie. Rats. But we both had to sing the first line separately, and I had to go first. Um, okay. No clue what this song is. So I did whatever a girl in my place would do--I winged it, and though I sang it playfully and I knew it was probably wrong, I'm pretty sure I got the idea. Unfortunately my competitor was a perfectionist. Picture a guy who is careful and exact and who is the most likely to point out to the choir director in front of everybody that the sopranos are singing something wrong. In fact, that's what this guy did. Yep, that's Caleb. He was musical too, oddly enough, and he carefully measured out his intervals before he sang his line note-perfect, making himself the winner. Grrr.

 

The winner of this game was able to receive a prize of their own choosing, to be bought by Mrs. L. One of the guys' teams won (I don't remember if it was Caleb's, but I don't think so, which is a small comfort), and what they chose was kept a profound secret. But we found out the next day. When we lined up after our presentations to play follow the leader down to the next floor where the dining room was, we arrived there and learned that they had asked for ice cream to be bought for all of the SF students! Thus that team won their prize and their popularity.

 

The following week was orchestration and conducting week, as well as music evaluation and orchestra. We learned the rudiments of conducting and even got to practice it on the whole orchestra, followed by a critiquing from our peers and our instructor. *Gasp* Our instructor! Mr. F., how could I forget?! How can I describe him briefly? He was probably the most dynamic of our teachers, and he taught most of our classes that week. Hmm, he had amazing expressions, floppy black hair, and a get talent for keeping us laughing, without losing the art of teaching us well. He reminded me a little bit of Mr. Adams. Does that describe him well enough? I doubt it, but you get the briefest gist of this amazing native of CA.

 

Anyway, (forgive the overused word but it just seems too perfect to say what I want to say) our conducting would get critiqued. Everything was under the scrutiny of everyone else, and you felt very exposed. Your posture, your expression, your ability to lead instead of to follow the orchestra, your ictus, your ability to be followed with ease, your head bobbing, yes, even your MOUTH was to be watched by everyone because it would be a horror of incalculable proportions if you were found to be counting with your lips. Not all feedback was negative--there were enough merciful people in the group to balance out the acutely observant, but still, the pressure was heavy. 

 

On one of these occasions one of my friends, Katie, who plays the flute, raised her hand to compliment another girl (who had been conducting) on her "decent expression." Haha. I repeated this phrase with a laugh, and a couple of other people chuckled with me, not in ridicule of my friend but just the--well, FUNNINESS of it. I mean, a decent expression? As opposed to an indecent expression? So when my turn to conduct came (and this was quite optional, by the way, but I knew it would be good experience so I did it) I asked while I was up there if I had a decent expression. Not everyone got it, (this was a day or two later, since we had chances to conduct every evening), but at least I did and that was all that mattered to me. :)

 

Orchestration involved each bedroom of people (in our case, Klara and me) choosing a hymn and writing out by hand a simple arrangement for the whole orchestra to play. Easier said than done, but after getting "This World For King Jesus" approved my Mr. F. (he was so intrigued by the Warrior Songbook that he asked for a copy and my parents brought one to him when they came out to the concert), Klara and I toiled away at it throughout the week. There wasn't time to do more than a verse (no chorus), so at Mr. F.'s suggestion that was all we shot for and it turned out to be a wise decision. Still, I think we were pleased with the results when Friday afternoon came around and everyone sight-read through everybody's orchestrations. Ours began with piano, trumpets, and harp in the introduction, followed by the violas carrying the melody for eight measures, then the first violins for four, and the oboe (yay Kitty!) finishing it up with a simple duet with the clarinets at the words "When Jesus shall reign on this earth."

 

I mentioned we had to do our orchestrations by hand. Have you any idea what this involved? It meant painstakingly writing out all the clefs (treble, bass, and alto), key signatures (including the transposed ones for B-flat instruments), and time signatures on line after line. We had to line up every measure all the way down the score, numbering each and every measure. Of course we pencilled all the notes as well, and when that was done and double checked and triple checked we darkened everything with ink. Then we had copies made, then had to cut up the copies and paste the lines of each part on one page so that one page had just one part on it (our piece was full of rests for a lot of people since we never had more than four parts playing at once--in fact, the first violins had about four measures of glory:). Then we had to make copies of THOSE, with the correct number of copies for each part. Finally we had to tape the original score together into a book for Mr. F., finishing up with a cover sheet. I put my calligraphy marker to good use, but I didn't try to make it too fancy--I just wrote in plain calligraphy with no curls and perfect alignments. Once finished I started to despair at its lack of perfection, but Klara, being the dear friend that she is, said that it was good enough and took it from me and turned it in before I could object! Freedom. . . this was the night before it was due. A few minutes later I was telling my friend Michelle about it (what would I do without Klara?!) and told her how I felt like I hadn't done the greatest job on our cover sheet, but would she like to see it? So I ran over to the teachers' mailboxes to retrieve our assignment, only to find with horror that it wasn't there!

 

"Klara, what did you do with it?" I exclaimed in mock panic.

 

"Um, maybe she put it in the 'orchestration drop-off' box," suggested a guy named Kenyon who was standing nearby (and who reminded us a lot of Dennis P!). I looked, and sure enough, directly in front of me (on top of the mail slots) there lay a box marked in big bold letters "ORCHESTRATION DROP-OFF BOX." I felt insanely brilliant. Not really caring though, I retrieved my prize.

 

"Maybe they should make the letters smaller so you'd see them easier," Kenyon told me. I think I laughed and told him that his logic "made sense." Maybe.

 

Hmm, are there any more interesting stories I'm forgetting? Probably, but here's a couple elevator incidents:

 

One time (I think it was after breakfast) a bunch of us piled into one of the two elevators at the training center, preparing to do what people do in elevators on the first floor--that is go up. The place was fairly packed as we waited for a few more to squeeze in, and in the process the elevator complained (or beeped) at having to wait so long.

 

"Maybe that means we're too heavy," Klara said at my shoulder. She was joking, and I knew she was--I might have laughed. But another guy nearby (we were all kind of near I guess you'd say) just might have taken her seriously.

 

"I don't think so," Jonathan said (by the way there were about four guys there with that name). "We're not over 3,000 pounds."

 

A few seconds later we arrived at the fifth floor, where the guys all filed out.

 

"Well, now we're not over 3,000 pounds," Mikaela laughed. It cracked me up in just the right way, and I was still chuckling over it several minutes later in our room. I even got to use Mikaela's quote another time we were on the elevator when the guys got off, and all the girls giggled and Kitty told me I was funny. I confessed that the quote was not original to me.

 

On the last day I was in the elevator with another girl and Kevin, who couldn't get the heat sensitive button for his floor to light up. Kevin, as I mentioned earlier, was another (in)famous lad who was a pal of Walker the Troublemaker. He is, by the way, also the little brother of some people who went to SF with Craig. Craig even remembers tapping on the walls next door to amuse his friends' little siblings, including Kevin and my friend Abigail. Anyway (there I go again), Kevin asked us to try his button to see if we could meet with any more success than he had to get it to respond. Having none, I suggested that he lick it. Then, suddenly fearful that he would be just the sort of person to take my advice, I told him that I was totally kidding. All I got was a really weird look. Thus, I think I succeeded in making it into his book of strange people, and I was not unflattered by it.

 

Oh yes. String orchestra. Hmm. We got our music one week before the concert and I discovered that I had "made" first violin. That was in some ways satisfying, but then I came across another dilemma: when to practice? Somehow time was not something we had much of as we rushed from one class to the next, and when you couldn't practice after the 9 o'clock in-room curfew, I was practically at my wit's end to squeeze any more than a possible half-hour or so on my lunch break. You must remember that this was also the same time that we were toiling on our orchestrations. Also our songs were due early that week. We had an hour of orchestra practice each evening (Mon-Thurs) which proved both a challenging and an educational experience. Educational? Indeed. Why? Because this was the first time in my life where I had to truly learn the art of faking. It was an exceedingly difficult art to accept for my perfectionist self who wants each and every not to be melodiously perfect, but that was simply impossible. At least, it was impossible for someone at my stage of learning; somehow or other there were enough really good violinists to still play adequately beautifully. On the other hand, please don't misunderstand me--I did not by any means fake the entire thing. In fact, I played all of "The Wayfaring Stranger" with near ease. It was "Sound the Battle Cry" that gave me trouble. A song that was already fast had to be arranged more difficultly by being strewn with sixteenth notes and high runs, and what made it worse was that we played it faster than even Mr. E., the director of SF, had heard it. This meant a tempo of abominable speed--abominable it seemed to me, but I know that I wasn't the only person who struggled. However, there were enough people who had played it before, not to mention some really good players, to make it suitable. The thing is, my teacher has never encouraged playing things really fast. She has always been of the opinion that it is better for a piece to be slower and sound really good that for it to be really fast and sound terrible--not that she has never had me play fast, but at least you see where I was coming from. After stressing and practicing, and crying and practicing (but as you must remember there was hardly any time for this to be had) I gave it up for lost and just played a group of notes here and there--joining in at all the places with quarter notes and eighth notes. Oh, and the resounding double stops at the end were my absolute favorite because I could play those well, and at least I could feel like I was doing something. And that was my SF orchestra experience.

 

The last couple of days of SF rolled around. Now was the time to take action on thanking the many people who had worked so hard to make our time a success. The biggest one was Mr. E., and as another girl team leader (Emily) and I realized that people hadn't fully waken up to the fact that we needed to do something, I discovered a curious sensation: the power of getting 57 other people to take action. She and I conferred with one another, and to me was appointed the task to ask Carolyn, our friend from Singapore with practically perfect handwriting, to make a card. Soon we were having people sign it, passing it from team to team. Emily asked somebody to present a money gift to Mr. E., and we proceeded in having each team leader collect it from their team mates. It all worked, and I was awed by the realization that I had had something to do with making it happen.

 

A very busy Friday came, and the evening concert drew nigh. I was happy to have my parents there, and, other than the dread I felt regarding that abominably fast piece, I was looking forward to the concert. In glancing at the handout sheets of music for us to sing for and with the audience, I discovered with a pleasurable jolt that II Corinthians 3:18, my Scripture song, had been printed out along with one other Scripture song and four other regular songs that other students and friends of mine had written. My song was one of the ones chosen to be sung at the concert! Wow. But I must say that simple though my song was, it came to me far too easily to be anything but God (since writing a melody had half terrified me), therefore He must be the one who should get the glory for it. Still, it was rather an exciting honor.

 

The concert had arrived. We zipped through our orchestra pieces. We sang the songs that we'd written. We lined up on the stage and under the expert hand of Mr. C. we sang through our program: "Now Let Us All Praise God and Sing," "We Walk by Faith," "My Savior Died Upon the Cross," "Here I am Lord," "All the Earth Rejoice With a Gladsome Voice" (I had sung this fun one before--which was great because it made me look like a really good sight-reader when we first went through it:), "The Lord's Prayer," "Before the Throne of God Above," and finally "Fairest Lord Jesus."

 

During "The Lord's Prayer" I had an uncomfortable moment when I realized that my music had gotten mixed up. However, I remembered what Mr. C. had said earlier:

 

"Girls--I don't want you touching your hair. And if you have so much as an itch on your nose I don't want you to touch it until the end of the piece. I don't want anything irregular."

 

Shuffling with music seemed like something irregular, so I commanded my poise and just sang a page or two from memory--we had to watch Mr. C. for almost all our cues anyway, and fortunately, the words were easy to remember.

 

As we stood up there, I was struck yet again with the awesomeness of standing united in song with other believers as we poured out our praise to our God. There weren't just a few of us--nay, there were 61 of us, standing shoulder to shoulder, one big mass singing beautiful words of truth, and the important thing is that we all believed it. Now that is what I would call cool.

 

And that is basically my Sound Foundations experience. I got a certificate, much knowledge, new friends, and many happy memories.

 

The next morning we left in Fairwood's 12 passenger van, packed (mostly with all of Kendra's earthly possessions) so full that it was truly a work of art and gave great credit to my Daddy's skills. I left Indy, SF, and the people there with mixed emotions. I was glad to have the work behind me and to be going home, yet I was sad to leave, and very depressed to leave so many wonderful people that I may never see again. But then I remembered something: I have friends at home too! Wonderful, dear friends; friends that I've known and loved for much if not my whole life, and though I miss my new friends, I am not altogether friendless. One can never be friendless when you have a true Friend, especially when there are so many others at home who share that Friend. And that is a comforting thought.

 

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P.S. The problem with writing such a tremendously long post is that once you've written it you are so sick of it that you no longer want to bother with going to all the trouble of editing it. So if you found parts of this post confusing or ungrammatically correct, I apologize and beg you to remember that this post has been so long in progress that I no longer really care. Remember, I am not Craig . . . maybe it's too obvious to forget.