My First Puppy

When I was younger my sisters and I wanted a puppy really bad. I remember bugging our parents almost every time we even saw a dog. My dad always said no because we didn't have time for a new puppy. I think m y mom was sort of on my sisters and my side. She loved animals as much as us. Even with our begging and pleading it didn't seem like my dad was ever going to give in to us. One day he surprised us all and gave in to our whining.
In the fourth grade my dad finally let us get a dog. It was a warm, summer day in the middle of July. My dad came home from work with an Indianapolis Star newspaper. I heard him as my mom if she wanted to buy a dog. Of course my mom said yes because she knew how badly we wanted one. There was an add in the paper for AKC registered golden retriever pups. My dad called on them and they were three hundred and fifty dollars. From my bedroom I heard him getting directions and telling the people selling the pups that we would be there in about two hours.
The ride there seemed like forever. We, at the time lived in Indianapolis and we had to drive all the way to Seymore, Indiana. Seymore was about two hours away. My sisters and I kept asking if we were almost there probably every fifteen minutes. I’m sure my parents wanted to scream.
Finally we pulled up to a long , gravel driveway and started our way down it. I was so excited that we were finally there. I could see the puppies from the car window. A lady came walking out to meet us and let us in the kennel so that we could pick out our new family member.
My dad told us he didn't care which one we chose as long as it was a boy. We chose the biggest pup of the litter. He was a rambunctious little guy. He chased us back to the car and my sister picked him up and sat him on her lap. All of us wee fighting about who got to hold him on the way home. My mom got mad and made us give him to her so that they didn't have to listen to us fight the whole two hours home.

change is good

I can't quite recall the very first time I colored my hair; I have colored it so many times that the natural color is unknown. Often times when people change their looks it can cause them to change their personalities and attitudes. I love to change my hair and appearance. I know from experience that if you feel good, and you look good, then you will have a good day. When I change my hair I do it because I like it. I always ask for and appreciate my friend’s and family’s opinion, but in the end it is my hair, and I will wear it anyway I like. I love to make changes. A lot of people are afraid of change, and I have to admit that it does frighten me at times, but anything worth doing means taking a risk. I read a book entitled “Who Moved My Cheese?” by Spencer Johnson. The book is a story of two “little people” and two mice trapped in a maze. In the story they are on a search for cheese, the cheese represents something other than cheese, like moving to a new house, getting a new job, or something that you want in your life. In the story cheese is placed in the maze everyday for the foursome. For days that is their food supply, but then one day the cheese is gone. This causes the need for change. The mice don’t dwell on the loss; they just go in search for more cheese. The “little people” freak out and don’t know what to do about their supply. The mice find a new supply of cheese and continue to live carefree. The “little people” were afraid to change and move their location. After starving for the cheese, one of the “little people” decided to look for some new cheese. The other “little person” stayed and was never heard from again. The book doesn’t imply if he died of starvation or what. The moral of the story is that people have to change in order to survive. Nothing is the same day in and day out. That is how I try to think about change. At first it may be uncomfortable and unfamiliar, but in the end it helps the person to grow.

5. A trip to jail

I could see the bouncing of the blue and red lights bouncing in the reflection of the glass. I felt the pressure of his hand on the back of my head as he guided me into the patrol car. As we began the journey across town, my mind became numb to the process I was about to endure. Frustrated at the feelings I was having, I wished I had never gone out drinking. Now I was going to jail and I wasn’t looking forward to it at all.
I heard the garage door opening. The patrol car slowed and we coasted inside. After stopping the car, the officer walked around to me and opened my door quickly. Then he ushered me to the booking room. I looked around at the barren building. There were no windows to look through. Nothing was hung on the walls, except two posters about drunk driving and the effects of drug use. The walls were dingy and yellowed. I was instructed to sit on a bench that was bolted to the floor. I was ready to get the process started. I knew once I was booked in they would remove the handcuffs. I began to get impatient and started tapping my feet loudly on the floor. I asked the officer when I would get a phone call and he only responded with a sneer. I mumbled snide remarks under my breath, then I began to think of all the problems I was going to have from getting arrested for drunk driving.
The officer instructed me to stand with my feet on the black line of tape stuck to the floor in front of a camera to get my picture taken. While IO was standing there, he took of my handcuffs. I rubbed the impression on my wrists the handcuffs had left. He informed me I was going to have to have a strip search, but we would have to wait until a female officer was available to do it. Moments later she arrived. She took me into a small room and instructed me to take off all of my clothes so she could check for any contraband (drugs or weapons) that I was not allowed to have in the jail. I believe this was the most degrading part of being arrested. It only took about five minutes for it to be done, but it felt like an eternity.
After putting on the jail issued jumpsuit I was ushered into a cell where I immediately noticed a payphone on the wall. I sure glad to see it. I immediately picked up the receiver and called a good friend explaining what had happened. She reassured me she was on her way to bond me out. I was thankful when I got home and swore to never drink and drive again.

Remembering My First Snow Blog 6

The first time it snowed; well from I can remember I must have been four or five years of age. It was Christmas Eve of 1992. We had a huge family dinner that night and as we were driving I started noticing huge bright white flakes hitting the windshield of my dad's truck. I felt like I was at the North Pole, the snow was shimmering and I just could not help but just stare at the snow. It was so amazing to watch it fall from the sky. As soon as we arrived at our destination, my dad showed me how to make snow angels. It was the best feeling ever, just laying there in the soft coolness of the snow. I soon began rolling the powdered snow into a ball and then it turned into a huge snowman. We must have spent two hours playing in the snow building that snowman. I took my bright pink scarf that was my favorite and gently wrapped it around the neck of my snowman. I used the two chocolate chip cookies that I had been saving in my pocket as the eyes of him. Just as I was admiring him in the moonlight of the night, a familiar voice starting ringing in my ears. It was my grandma shouting for us to come in and warm up by the fire. It was dinner time. I remember eating as fast as I could almost inhaling my food, just so I could run back outside! Soon after dinner, I road a sled for the very first time. I felt so refreshing to have the freezing cold snow tickled my nose as I slide down the huge hill. It seemed to take only just a little push from my dad to send me gliding through the snow at a tremendously fast pace. I can stil remember how free and alive I felt at that moment. I think my dad and I must have spent at least 4 hours that night out in the snow. For the first time I had completely forgotten about the beautifully wrapped presents underneath the garland lined Christmas Tree. I felt like Santa had given me the best present a little girl could ask for that Christmas Eve. This will stay engraved in my mind for the rest of my days, and when I have children I am going to spend another 4 hours in the snow with them.

memories of my nana II

That night we got a call that she had died. I will never forgive myself for not going to see her one last time. I felt so selfish because I wanted to go to my friends instead of visiting the only grand parent that has ever been there for me. Now she is gone and there isn’t anything that I can do about it. The thought of never seeing her again as well as going to her funeral terrified me.
Nana’s showing wasn’t as bad as I thought it was going to be. I didn’t cry too much. The fact that she was dead didn’t seem to be real yet. I also had been expecting her to die for a while. Her death wasn’t out of the blue, but she had been dying for quite some time. Me knowing that she was going to die made it a little more bearable. Although I knew this would be the last time I saw her, I didn’t want to go up to her coffin.
The walk up to her coffin seemed so long. My younger sisters and I walked up together. By this point I was crying. We got up to the side of her coffin and saw my Nana lying in the casket as if she was sleeping. She had on her favorite baby blue dress that her and I had picked out years before. It was her favorite dress, and she always told everyone that when she died that is the dress she wanted to be buried in. I touched her hand and kissed her forehead. She was extremely cold. She felt fake. She wasn’t warm and welcoming like she had once been. Seeing her made me realize that she is dead and isn’t coming back. This would be the last time I would ever see her. Once she was buried the only thing I would be able to see would be her headstone.
The drive to the cemetery was a quite ride. No one in the car said a word. I was remembering all the memories my Nana and I had shared. When I was a little kid I would spend the night with her at least once a month. At night her and I would go to her friend Ruth’s apartment to visit . Ruth always had a full candy dish. I would always eat her candy. The next morning we would get up early and go eat donuts in the main lobby. Nana had a lot of friends at her apartment complex. Everyone that lived there were old because it was a retirement complex. After we ate our donuts we would walk to the bus stop and wait for it to pick us up. We always rode the bus to go shopping. Nana loved to shop. I began to cry more because I was never going to get to spend the night with Nana ever again. We had finally arrived at the cemetery.
There was a big, black cast iron fence that surrounded the cemetery. All the headstones were flat. I remember asking my mom why all of them looked like that. She told me it was because that was the only kind that was aloud there. We drove around a black top circle and came to a stop.
The area where Nana was going to be buried was pretty. She was going to be laid to rest next to her husband. There were angel statues with a bench in between them next to her grave plot. It was a pretty spot. There were two great big trees shading the bench. It was time to go under the green tent and say our final good-byes to Nana.
The preacher began the ceremony with a prayer. I bowed my head with tears running down my cheek and listened to the prayer. When the preacher quit talking we each grabbed a flower to place on top of her casket. I chose a pink rose. After that her casket began to be lower into the ground. I walked away and sat in the car. I knew life was never going be the same because my Nana was gone.

Yeller Dog 2 blog 6

After the last note escaped from the bell of the horn, I lowered my trombone down to my side. I just stood in that spot completely still letting the echo of the note wash over me; I had done it. I had played the best I had ever or will ever play and I knew Uncle Hack had been with me. After looking around at the faces staring at me, I remembered I had to sit back down so the funeral could continue. I held my trombone so tight that my knuckles were white and my hands shook. I was filled with a queer mix of pride and sorrow. The man who had given me this magnificent trombone was being buried in the cold, hard ground on an even colder day. His name was and is Edwin “Hack” Crouse, but everyone called him Hack; to my cousins, my siblings, and I, he was always Uncle Hack. After sitting back down, I saw that my mother and my grandmother had tears streaking down their face. They told me I had done beautifully and that they were proud, my sisters rubbed my back in approval, and that’s when I finally cried. I cried the rest of the burial, but it was an odd mix of happiness, sorrow and pride. All these feelings had me thinking back to when I had first seen and held this beautiful trombone.
I remember the first time I ever laid my hands and eyes on the trombone. I was getting ready to start fifth grade band and I had been desperate for an instrument that mom and dad could afford. I had the choice between a flute or a trombone. I was a big tom-girl and I didn’t want a girly instrument like a flute, so I went with the trombone. Uncle Hack had a trombone from when he played in Chicago with a jazz band. Grandma Coleman took me to Uncle Hack’s to see if he would let me have his trombone. Hack seemed ecstatic to have someone want to play an instrument he had fallen in love with decades before. He was sitting down to at his kitchen table wearing a grey Green Bay Packers sweatshirt that he always wore when it was cool outside. The poor man had diabetes, liver problems from his prior alcoholism, and suffering from some Alzheimer’s. I sat down across from him at the table and we sat in a comfortable silence while Grandma went into his bedroom closet to get the trombone for me to take home. When Grandma brought it out, I could’ve died with embarrassment at the thought of playing such a thing. It was in a hard black case that had been covered in gold lettering that had started to peel off from age and neglect, the letters spelled out Yeller Dog 2, South Side Chicago, and Hack Crouse on the top and sides of the case. The case was also covered with all sorts of knick knacks: a little plaque on the left side saying “Old sailors never die, they just get a little Dinghy;” a sand dollar on the right side that was now yellow instead of white; a small gold turtle on the left; and the crest of the marines shining brightly on the right side. It was the oddest and oldest thing I had ever seen. I started thinking of how embarrassing it would be to walk in with this trombone case and now I wasn’t even sure I wanted to play the trombone. I looked at Uncle Hack and I could see he was beaming with pride and excitement over the old trombone. I had to smile in spite of myself; I hadn’t seen him so happy since Aunt Jenny died and I didn’t want to ruin that moment. I opened up the case and the smile on my face was no longer artificial. I had fallen in love with this shining piece of brass before me. I opened up the straps that were holding down the pieces and fumbled through putting it together. After I put it together I stared at the master piece in front of me. I found the latch on the slide and tried to move it; it made a horrid kind of grinding sound; so I put the slide back into position and latched it. I started looking at everything else on the trombone. There were dents on the slide down at the bottom and dents on the bell of the trombone, but the dents didn’t hinder its beauty. At the tuning slide I saw a crest of sorts. Uncle hack had put the marine crest on one side and a crest with two skeleton keys with crowns on the head of each key and the keys were crossing on the other side. Then I saw it, Yeller Dog 2, a label that had been stickered onto the side of the trombone’s bell. I remember looking at that sticker and then looking at Uncle Hack, “Uncle Hack, what does Yeller Dog 2 mean?” After I asked he smiled and his eyes light up with an inner fire. He told me about when he was playing up in Chicago in an old jazz band. He had been warming up his instrument and all of a sudden the trombone made a weird sound. One of the men in the band told him it sounded like an old yeller dog. From then on, his trombone was called yeller dog. When yeller dog had finally broken down and he had to get a new one, he named his new one yeller dog 2. He was so proud of his instrument that it rubbed off onto me. We sat down the rest of the visit just talking about his life with the trombone. I knew then and there that he would always have a special place in his life for me.
At the funeral I had played “Anchor’s Aweigh,” and I had put in a glissando just for him. He had been a merchant marine in World War II, Korea, and some of Vietnam. He would never tell me any of the war stories because I was a girl; and the era he grew up in, it was best for women in general not to know the details of the wars. It was weird to know that Uncle Hack would no longer be around. Before he had died he had been put into a nursing home because he needed around the clock care. He didn’t really remember anyone anymore. He did have good days when he did remember everyone, but they were becoming few. A few weeks before he died my mother had woken him up from a nap for a visit and he told her that he couldn’t talk to her long because he was in a meeting with God and Jesus. Even though his memory was fleeting he always asked my mother if I still had his trombone and if I was playing it. I was always remembered because of that trombone and that made me special to him. I loved this man greatly and I still have the trombone. I am saving it for my children so that one of them might play it later in school and enjoy its memory as much as I have.

my first memories of reading

I read somewhere that most children don’t learn to read until they are about 6 or 7 years old. I was reading full books at the age of 5. My earliest memories of reading were mostly in school. I was in a class that was a mixture of kindergarteners and first graders. I was in kindergarten. The school I attended was in Indianapolis. I am not one hundred percent sure of the name of the school, but I think it was called School 67. Some of the schools down there are numbered, like they don’t even have names. I remember standing in front of my class reading books to them. I can’t recall any titles of the books that I read. Since I was only in kindergarten, I imagine that they were fairy simple books. Dr. Seuss books, Clifford, the big red dog books, and other books of the same genre I think was what I read the most. I also remember that I was one of the only kids that could read to the class like that. My aunt worked in the school that I attended and she would work with me a lot to improve my reading. Before I was even in school my aunt would take me with her to work and I would sit in the class with the other kids. I absolutely loved it. I loved the idea of being with the “older” kids and doing what they were doing. The school was located about three blocks from where I lived; I used to walk to school with my aunt and cousins. Three blocks isn’t that far to walk, but I couldn’t get there fast enough. I would skip, run, and dance all the way to school. That was when I was young and thought that going to school was the best thing in the whole world. Now as I have gotten older, I have lost that feeling of excitement and thrill. I wish I had bottled some of those feelings, because I know that they would come in hand on many occasions. I may not have the enthusiasm, but I have the memories, and those will never be lost.