Outcroppings Volume 37
Brewster Academy Wolfeboro, NH
2016
OUTCROPPINGS Volume 37
2016
OUTCROPPINGS
Volume 37 • 2016 • Brewster Academy • Wolfeboro, New Hampshire Editor in chief: Natalie Holmberg ’16 Managing Editor: Allison Caravella ’17 Photo Editor: Tommy Jacobson ’16 Staff Member: Haoran Zeng ’17 Faculty Advisor: Jennifer Metcalfe Dumont Cover Art: Deanna Rowley Cover Design: Tommy Jacobson ’16, Back Cover Photo: Joe Wadlinger ’18 Poem Back Cover by Dawson Allwine ’18
From the Editors: On behalf of the Outcroppings staff, I would like to thank everyone who submitted this year. Creating the final list of submissions to be included in the 2016 edition was quite difficult. We had 64 pieces of text submitted and 86 art pieces including photography. Helen Keller once said, “Alone we can do so little; together we can do so much.” Without the courage and drive that people displayed in submitting to Outcroppings, we wouldn’t have a volume as great as this year’s. Although submissions covered a wide range of topics, we noticed a common theme, of community. In the end, that’s an aspect of Brewster that sets it apart from other schools. This feeling of togetherness is reflected in this year’s publication. I’d like to say thank you once again to everyone who wrote, took pictures, and helped make this year’s edition an amazing one! Without further adieu, I present Brewster Academy’s 2016 Outcroppings! - Natalie Holmberg ’16
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Table of Contents Title Page: Photo by Mr. Nick Docter ’97............1 I Sat in the Back by Maeve Hentz ’16 ................. 4 Artwork by Yewon Kim ’16.................................. 5 Photo by Skylar Terrana ’16............................... 6 Where I Am From by Tommy Jacobson ’16....... 7 Artwork by Ms. Deanna Rowley and Artwork by Helen Campbell ’17.......................... 8 Tell Us About Spiders by Kate LaViolette ’16..... 9 Ghost by Cole Emerson ’19 and Photo by Ms. Michelle Rafalowski................... 10 Zeroes in the Portal by Zach Sudol ’16............... 11 Imagined Monologue by Caitlyn Petro ’16 and Artwork by Yuerei Wang ’17..............................12 To the Top by Sam Kiley ’16...............................13 Life is a Show by Yi Hao Chen ’17 and Photo by Abdullah Al Farsi ’16..........................14 Drowning by Isabel Dodds ’18 and Photo by Monica Colbath ’16.............................15 Tables by Jake Bookspan ’16.............................16 Artwork by Yewon Kim ’16.................................17 Quick They’re Chasing Us by Brooke McMahon ’18 and Photo by Haoran Zeng ’17................................ 18 Some Days and Photo by Tasha Getten ’17 . .....19 Rye Beach by Mr. T.J. Palmer..........................20 Photo by Ms. Barb Thomas...............................21 Photos by Tara Fitzpatrick ’17, Haoran Zeng ’17, and Milana Savia ’17......................................... 22 Photos by Mr. Zack Apgar, Ms. Barb Thomas, and Ms. Maria Found....................................... 23 Cairdeas by Catie Murphy ’19 and Artwork by Yunhui Wang ’16............................ 24 Hands by Cali Folkerson ’19 and Artwork by Tiffany Yang ’18............................. 25
Two Truths and One Lie by Tommy Jacobson ’16.................................... 26 Photo by Haoran Zeng ’17................................ 27 Happy Ending by Brenley Avila ’18 and Photo by Liz Wadlinger ’16...............................28 Smell of Smoke by Riikka Kivinen ’17 and Photo by Tasha Getten ’17................................. 29 Cafeteria Blues by Jenna Golden ’16.................30 Artwork by Michelle Su ’18.................................31 Artwork by Phyllis Cao ’17, Artwork by Helen Campbell ’17 and 1 a.m. Thoughts by Riikka Kivinen ’17.............. 32 Nighttime Screams by Sal Fabio ’18 and Photo by Ms. Michelle Rafalowski................... 33 Mourning by Brett DiGeronimo ’17 and Photo by Saige Buffington ’18 .......................... 34 Defoliation Back to Root by Ziyin Wang ’16.... 35 Snapshot by Toop Indoung ’16 and Photo by Ms. Maria Found............................... 36 Where I Am From by Caitlyn Petro ’16 and Artwork by Joy Cartwright ’17.................. 37 Money Grows on Trees by Peter Caffrey ’16 and Artwork by Liz Wadlinger ’16.................... 38 Addicted by Duidui Yue ’18 and Artwork by Yunhui Wang ’16............................ 39 Soaked Red Flowers by Lenny Brochu ’19 and Photo by Ms. Michelle Rafalowski...................40 Snapshot by Tony Kwon ’16 and Photo by Monica Colbath ’16.............................41 Open Letter to the Lifers by Alex Weiss ’16 and Artwork by Natalie Holmberg ’16............. 42 Photo by Ms. Barb Thomas.............................. 43 Excerpt by Caitlyn Petro ’16 and Photo by Mr. Nick Docter ’97............................ 44
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I Sat in the Back Left Corner... by Maeve Hentz ’16
I sat in the back left corner of my second grade classroom, not only because I loved to peer out the towering glass windows beside me, but because I felt safest there. I felt invisible. I thought that maybe if the words on the whiteboard blurred, they would re-form and make sense. I thought I could hide from my inability to read forever. Yet no matter how hard I tried, failure came for me each day at 11:30 a.m.: story time. While the other children ran wildly to the bookcase, hungry for a new story, I dragged my feet, wondering if today would be the day they noticed I had been trying to read the same book Frog and Toad for months. Every day I would master another three words, half a sentence maybe, learning each strange combination slowly and methodically. It was less like reading and more like memorization. I would hear a word, see its spelling, and repeat the word in my head over and over again until eventually it stuck. I was chipping away at the English language one syllable at a time. Throughout grade school I found myself just barely keeping my head above water. I watched helplessly while friends picked up new material effortlessly, like the Harry Potter series, with me always two steps behind, sometimes pretending to read it just to fit in. As the years went on, this sense of failure grew into a deep insecurity, following me like a shadow. My difficulties were often all I could think about in the back of that classroom, every book on the shelf mocking me, discouraging me, and slowly killing my passion for learning. It wasn’t until the fall of seventh grade that I learned my “failure” had a name, dyslexia. After years of feeling inadequate academically, it was revealed to me that dyslexia only shrouded my intellect. With this newfound knowledge came drive, motivation, and the willpower to blossom into the student I had always desired to be. After receiving my diagnosis, I made a conscious decision to flourish in an environment conducive to my style of learning. The following autumn, I began 8th grade at The Landmark School, a small boarding school in Beverly, Massachusetts, which specializes in language-based learning differences. In the two years that I attended Landmark I learned more about myself than I had ever imagined. My reading went from below grade level to above it in two years. I left Landmark more confident about my studies than ever. I had conquered my reading disability. I had come to realize that every person in this world learns differently than the next, the same goes for educators and the way they teach. I now know how to adjust my learning style to a teacher’s teaching methods to better help my understanding of classwork. In my three years at Brewster Academy, I have read many books, such as To Kill a Mocking Bird, The Crucible, and The Life of Frederick Douglass. Instead of the sense of doom and insecurity I felt before, I now feel inspired. I have been on the school honor roll both junior and senior year, and have received A’s in all my English classes. Additionally, I was accepted to the prestigious young writers conference at Breadloaf, and have a deep interest in creative writing. Through all of the ups and downs I found something about myself that I never expected - a passion for writing and a dream to be a writer. I am no longer the invisible girl in the back of the classroom. I now sit in the front row with a free reading book always in my backpack, inviting me to explore it.
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by Yewon Kim ’16
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by Skylar Terrana ’16
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Where I Am From by Tommy Jacobson ’16
I am from lacrosse sticks, from Grady-Whites and fresh oysters. I am from 7 miles of soft sand, jutting out into the deep blue water, glistening under the sun. I am from the persistent dune grass, swaying in the wind like a deep-green ocean, and the Perfect Tree, always holding its flawless outline. I am from bonfires on the drive-on beach and sunburned Irish skin, from Mahoney Jacobson and even the Dragons. I am from Auntie Paula’s Jeeps. From the Yellow Wrangler, the Red Rubicon, and the Blue, Black and Red Grand Cherokees. From trips to Far Fars for sundaes and jumping off Powder Point Bridge I am from huge family parties, from Thanksgiving to Christmas to Easter. I’m from the Commonwealth of Massachusetts, straight off the Mayflower. From Biff Crowley, “the disgrace of the family.” I am from the little white cottage at 45 Mullins Ave, always filled with the smell of my Grandma’s latest culinary masterpiece. I am from Duxbury, like my family before me.
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by Ms. Deanna Rowley
by Helen Campbell ’17
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Tell Us About Spiders by Kate LaViolette ’16
Dedicated to everyone who wonders if I am writing about them. I am. I have always loved all creatures, including the creepy crawlies of the world. Others have rejected the idea of a girl like me entertaining something so repulsive; I’m supposed to maintain an elegant and unobtainable image. This social constraint makes me laugh, because they don’t know of the summer days I spent rummaging my hands through the dirt looking for slugs, or that the friends I made in caterpillars and butterflies were some of my most prized. They don’t know how the sunlight would kiss my face when I would streak through the grass, arms outstretched behind me as I flew with dragonflies. They were not there when I would sit silently as the night shed its colors for all to see, and the lightning bugs would shyly arrive to perform their mesmerizing dance just for my eyes. My darling mother would call for me to come inside, and I would fill my journals with vibrant images of my new companions until I fell asleep in a heap of crayons. The bugs made me feel special, even when I did not feel that way anywhere else. And that was important growing up. One day, in the dusty corner of my elementary classroom, I saw a spider that had a broken leg. The way she didn’t know where to go reminded me of me. I could almost sense the agony she was in as she carried her injured self this way and that. Scooping her up into a little paper cup, I brought her home with me thinking that maybe, just maybe, I could be what fixed her. That somehow, my little hands could be what saved her. But no one taught me to be gentle with wounded things, so when I broke her other leg I cried all night at the thought that I had failed. I vowed to never make the same mistake again. I have a tendency to become infatuated with people and things who are reserved and difficult to understand, those who are guarded and rarely open up their hearts. I adore mysteries. The more complicated, the better. To this day, I still have not been able to rid my love for the broken spiders of the world, and the childlike innocence which reverberates in my heart will forever walk with its hands extended out to those prickly, ugly and rejected. However, it has taken me 19 years and 98 days to realize that some people are far too delicate to be fixed. More often then not, they will creep back into the shadows where they have always remained content, regardless of how hard you try to coax them out. Yet I will love them anyway, as if they were whole. I will love them as butterflies loved me.
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Ghost
by Cole Emerson ’19
The barn standing in the fenced area he built using a hammer, nails, and a tractor. He built the barn himself. The Barn, empty now with old hay and empty stalls, and a chair he used to sit in as he watched the horses, and us kids be kids.
by Ms. Michelle Rafalowski
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Zeroes in the Portal by Zach Sudol ’16
“. Zachary! There’s another zero in the portal!” echoes through the house. As I quickly think of my next excuse for my lack of attention in school. “You still have a missing assignment in English! Zachary!” bellows my father. Finally, my parents have had enough. If I don’t step it up in high school they are sending me off to boarding school. At first I was terrified of the idea of leaving my friends and family, but as the year continued and the fights raged on, I began to think maybe boarding school is what I needed. It was a frosty morning a few weeks later; the decoys were out, the heater was radiating and a dim light from the horizon crept across the sky. The thought of school and boarding school occupied my thoughts. My father and I sat there quietly, listening for the faint hum of the ducks’ wings. I finally asked him “what if I go to boarding school?” He must have been shocked because a month ago I was terrified of the proposition. He simply replied, “I think it would be good for you.” So over the next couple of weeks, we picked three schools on the East Coast to check out. Brewster Academy was one of the schools on the list. Boy, did my world change. Brewster was exactly what I needed to become a better student. There were nightly study halls with a proctor to make sure I was not watching YouTube but instead working on my English assignments. Instructional support was a class strictly to help me become more organized and gave me tips on creating an outline. It also helped me learn the importance of goals. Setting goals each trimester, afforded me an understanding of what I want to succeed. The relationships I made with my teachers made it easier to go and ask for help. Brewster allowed me to create my own work ethic, one that taught me how to sit down and get work done; not just done but done well. The three years that I have been here, I’ve grown each year learning more about how I learn. I would have never expected myself to grow so much as a student. The zeros no longer appear in my portal. I don’t have to worry about fights over school with my dad. Making academic awards three trimesters in a row was a great achievement. Becoming more mature with the independence and structure that Brewster, has taught me how to be a better student. Brewster has taught me how to be a better student. Leaving my family has been tough, but we understand that this was the right decision to leave everything in Colorado and start anew in Wolfeboro. So seeing me leave now is different because they know what I’m doing at Brewster is the best for me. I miss the hunting, the procrastination but that was the old me.
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by Yuerui Wang ’17
Imagined Monologue by Caitlyn Petro ’16
I was there. Oh yes, I was there. For it all. Every single day, night and mid-afternoon, I’ve watched you. The secrets that my four walls keep would scare the pants off any adult in their right mind. I am Mason Dorm. This year alone I have dealt with Reese’s Puffs clogging my shower drain, a raisin fight in my halls, a popcorn maker nearly setting fire to my rooms and a plethora of BMPs. I am old now, and my cut and beat up doors are struggling to hold together, especially when my girls tie them together to lock people out of the bathroom. But I am Mason Dorm. I am the glue that holds together 17 girls. No matter where they come from, whether they play sports or sing songs, they come together under my roof. I have seen their heartache, my floors wet with their tears. I have seen their triumph and their laughter, and I love them for it all. Because I am Mason Dorm.
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To the Top by Sam Kiley ’16
Today was a fantastic day. It’s a well known fact that, as a freshman and sophomore, I was the kid that now frustrates me to the core. Refusing to participate in anything, let alone put myself out there to try and make more friends then my day student ones. It was easier to not care and be negative, then dare to actually care and better the Brewster community. And because of this I never really had any experience with Winter Carnival. Well, it sure is something. This arduous, epic week-long battle between academic teams fits perfectly into the peak, “winter blues” season, taking advantage of kids’ (and teachers’) natural competitiveness. The goal? To win and prove your team as the ultimatum academic team. Yet in the hidden seams of this week is an event which brings students together. As they stress, laugh, even cry, together they create lip syncs, cakes, epic scavenger hunts… and they do all of this together. Collaboration is the name of the game, and personally it was incredible to dedicate myself to my peers and see what students at Brewster are able to get done through collaboration. The story. The seniors stood in third place on Thursday morning, behind the devious Team Thomas and spirited Team Cooper. The “Amazing Race” was that night, and then Lip-Sync was Friday. To even have a chance at victory, Team Yau had to come in first place in both events. An almost impossible task, as both contain so many variables, so many twists and red herrings that even pin-point preparation couldn’t guarantee victory. After my skipped basketball practice (a terrible mistake, and a different story), I walked into the Estabrook to find some red-faced, freezing faces filled with… success! The fantastic group of girls had braved the negative degree wind chills to eat entire bags of Twizzlers, sprint around campus and finally ring the victory bell next to the turf. Their bravery (I never exaggerate) rivals the strength of Atlas, able to hold up earth with their incredible scavenger hunting skills. And then onto the lip-sync. We stood in the Mez with a minuscule amount done. The boys knew zero dances, the girls knew zero dances, even the leaders who designed the dance had nothing memorized to heart. But we shouted, pounded and shushed this performance into shape, and with the outline formed, we planned to meet during F block to finish the details. As I quickly shuffled to the Smith at the beginning
of F block, my nerves were undeniable. The only option was victory. Anything else would mean not winning, and leaving behind a huge dent to the legacy of this senior class… and even more so having the incredible hard work of all of my peers gone to waste. On top of this, my skipped basketball practice mistake filled me with guilt. The complexity of human emotions are, above all else, incredible. How can one feel so energetic, guilty, nervous and optimistic all at once? We practiced. And practiced. Every girl put on boys clothes and every boy put on girls clothes. And suddenly I was sitting in the top row, the second to last team performing, and we’re up next. A NOTE: Singing while dancing is incredibly hard. I wasn’t even actually singing, just pretending to sing and it still took intense concentration. Shoutout Usher. Our theme was High School Musical. I was Sharpay (obviously) and Hannah Coulter and I sang a part of, “Bop to the Top.” I flashed my tutu around the stage, pretending to belt my lyrics outward while dashing in circles. The boys hockey players dressed as cheerleaders killed it. The girls hockey players dressed as basketball players killed it. James Cook killed it. EVERYBODY killed it. And as they took in the scores, counted the points and debated, we waited. We won the lip sync. Mr. Barnett stood with the final results in hand. The final three teams had a total of 104, 1o5 and 106 points. Admittedly, I had a moment where I wondered how a bystander walking in, seeing hundreds of kids (many of them crossdressing) listening to a man wearing a sailers outfit call out three Teams with the last names of teachers, while every kid hangs to each word would react. Team cooper came in third. He stood, paused a moment, and read out the winner of Winter Carnival. I’m an idealist. I have lived a life - so far - of chasing ideas, morals, and different ways to view the world. This makes me cliché. It makes me reject logic. It makes me reject reality. I cry while reading Harry Potter. But I stood in the middle of a swarming crowd of Seniors screaming in celebration. I still stand on a natural high, thirteen hours later. It is the natural high of dedicating yourself to something and having success. It is being proactive, caring, collaborative and creating amazing things. It is a combination of real, animate success alongside a burst of raw, vivid emotions. We won Winter Carnival.
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Life is a Show
by Yi Hao Chen ’17
Life is a show. Ever since our birth, We are cast to be part of something great. Something original and special, But in this show Everyone is both the director And the actor. In this show of life, It may be a parody, tragedy or a happy story Life is a show But it can’t afford a second take So put in your best effort. Don’t be disappointed Once the final scene ends.
by Abdullah Al Farsi ’16
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Drowning by Isabel Dodds ’18
I remember that it hurt; looking at him hurt. I used to notice him get lost in the forest of my eyes; I would constantly drown in the ocean within his. He got so used to that forest, that he no longer gets lost; and here I am drowning, but he’s not there anymore to save me. I’m drowning in this deep blue ocean, of which I no longer belong.
by Monica Colbath ’16
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Tables
by Jake Bookspan ’16
A cafeteria is just the cover up for the undercover gossip, bullying and social suicide. There will always be the “cool kids” and “the losers”. Every kid always wants to be part of the popular group. These groupings start in the cafeteria. It all begins with what you eat. The constant argument with my mom about my lunch box was a daily routine. One year it’s having the coolest new bag, one with room for the sandwich on the bottom and the big area for snacks up top. To the next year of the brown bag made up of the most unhealthy lunch. Then getting older it was considered weird to bring your own lunch to school. If you wanted to be cool you had to buy your own lunch. It didn’t matter what it was even if it came from the dumpster next door. You were cool right? The next issue after finding your lunch was where to sit. Sitting alone usually means there’s something different about you. Being different in middle school was just social suicide. Everyone needed to be the same, sitting in that big group is what everyone wanted. Being the kid who makes the sexual joke with the ice pop was considered to be “that kid”. The kid everyone liked but the teachers hated. That’s the popular kid, the one getting sent to the principal or being put in time out. This same kid is the one that’s in movies. Bullying the
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kid sitting alone, the different one. This so-called bully in middle school was the kid everyone wanted to hang with. Confusing right? Why would you hang with the kid constantly in trouble? But who cares you’re now at the cool table. After middle school you start to realize, who cares? Ya, you want to sit with your friends, but how do you know if your friends are the cool kids or the losers? Maturity now comes into play. Not everyone in high school is going to have a table to sit at daily. Who knows maybe a “cool kid” wants to sit by himself or is having a bad day. Or honestly he could be a “weirdo”, but what makes someone cool is inviting that kid to sit with you and your friends. It’s not cool anymore to crack jokes at the kid sitting by himself. You look like a loser making fun of someone. Who knows maybe you make a new friend or just make someone’s day. Inviting someone who is alone to sit with you can go a long way. This whole idea of inviting someone different to sit with you is what makes Brewster Academy so special. We are a small community, which is very good with dealing with diversity. No matter where someone is from, they have someone to sit with. If not there’s always a helping hand, with an invite to join.
by Yewon Kim ’16
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by Haoran Zeng ’17
Quick, They’re Chasing Us by Brooke McMahon ’18
I’m running as fast as I can, but they’re catching up. I can hear them, getting closer. I’m running, running as fast as I can. They got my brother and his friend. I lost my boot, but I’m still running. I hear my brother cry in pain, and I hear his friend coughing. I’m not going to let them get me too. I think they’re gone but I’m still running. My mom comes out and freaks out. I got inside and look out the window and see my brother, with his skin all puffed up, laying on the ground. I hear my mom yell to my dad to call 911 and grab an epi-pen. I sat there watching, terrified as my mom jabbed a needle into my brother’s thigh to keep him alive. I heard the sirens and the doors of an ambulance open and watch the men run to my brother and put him in the ambulance with my mom by his side. .The next thing I remember was walking down the hospital hallway, feeling like I’ve been there too many times before, hoping that my brother is okay. I remember moving the curtain and seeing my brother laying there with his skin all red and lots of cords coming off of him. Feeling so lucky, that night, we got home with my brother, and everything was back to normal. Just like it always is after he gets stung by a bee.
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Some Days by Tasha Getten ’17
Some days I strut down the runway of self-assurance. Some days I drown in the ocean of insecurity. Some days I perch upon the branches of the tree of happiness. Some days I suffocate in the hands of despair. Some days I reek of envy, For the ones who appear to have it all. Some days I drift off to bed; Or maybe I spread thoughts through my head. Some days I wonder if I am the only one. Everyone? No one? No matter what, life is all days, I think I’ll just live, in my mind of haze.
by Tasha Getten ’17
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If You Are Lucky Enough To Be At The Beach...
Rye Beach by Mr. T.J. Palmer
In 1981, I found myself on the edge of a crowded patio at a beach house in Rye, New Hampshire. I was twenty, single and suntanned – an invited boyfriend surrounded by people I didn’t know. I suppose the beach house gathering that afternoon was my “coming out party,” even though an aunt’s sojourn from Alabama took top billing. I sipped beer, shuffled my feet and made small talk about the gorgeous ocean view as relatives came by to chitchat and check me out. My game plan that afternoon was plain and simple; avoid my girlfriend’s five brothers and be polite. I ended up staying the weekend. Scrunched between Hampton and Portsmouth, Rye commands little attention and even less real estate – only twelve square miles of land is the town, but there are six miles of glorious beaches and that is where the family beach house sits amidst the elephant grass, the polished surf stones, and the sunsets that make even young kids stare. Purchased from Father Murphy in 1941 for less than a used Pontiac, the beach house at Rye is right on the beach, with sand and surf constantly muscling the sea wall to an angled posture. There is electricity, and a refrigerator has replaced the original ice chest, but not much else has changed over the past seventythree years since blackout shades were mandatory and debris from sunken Nazi subs washed up on shore. In recent decades, others on this stretch of beach have torn down and rebuilt, but most of them are huge, cold monstrosities with empty driveways. Even the former governor of the state, only two doors down, has fenced himself in from the public – and out from the beach. But not the “F Street” abode; the kitchen set is original and parking spaces are always at a premium. Into this beach house and family mix I was thrown. In some ways it resembled a blender, with nieces, nephews, aunts, uncles, wives, neighbors, and friends all jostling for a deck chair, a bocce ball, or a triangularshaped ham and cheese sandwich. It was marvelous chaos, like a Dr. Seuss house that balloons outward from too many guests, spilling its human contents onto the beach at regular intervals as the occupants raid the refrigerator, search for suntan lotion, and squint their way back into the sun. On the stone patio, competition typically swarms around a card game of “pitch” or a cribbage recital of “fifteen-two, fifteen-four” as someone pegs toward the finish. On the sand bocce ball is king, as uncle’s trash-talk and aunts roll their way to victory. Near the surf, children play “save the king” and “wreck the castle,” games created by a kids’ imagination as only kids can do. Little did I know, but in some ways, I was following the path of my in-laws, who grew up on this stretch of sand, collected seashells on Straw’s Point, body-surfed the magnificent waves toward Jenness Beach, and held hands waiting for ice cream at Philbrick’s Country Store. It was an ocean romance with the beach house as its backdrop. They fell for each other in 1948, much the same way I fell for their daughter in the summer of 1981. More lucky than I have a right to be, that girlfriend became my wife, and I became family. Like no other entity in the lexicon of busy lives, the beach house continues to trump business deadlines, financial concerns, and commitments initially believed to be paramount. Most shed their busy lives when they come to Rye like they shed their clothes to head into the surf, quickly and effortlessly. It is the cont. on pg. 21
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cont. from pg. 20
magic of the house, and the tides, and the salt spray on your face followed by a cold outdoor shower. Even when the waves of this ocean took hold of my beloved father-in-law and didn’t let go many years ago, the sting of his loss gave way to the wonderful memories of how much he loved “his beach,” how much he loved his family, and how much he would want all of us to continue to enjoy it. We listened. Last summer came to a fitting close with the birthday celebration of Aunt Adelaide’s 90th birthday – with family and friends and food on the sand at Rye. Drawn from around the country, the beach house once again spun its magic and drew the extended family close. Summer 2016 will be no different. As Bea, the matriarch of the family is known to say, “If You Are Lucky Enough To Be At the Beach, You Are Lucky Enough.” Lucky indeed - that is Rye Beach, New Hampshire. The author counted his 33rd summer at Rye, in 2015, and plans on continuing that streak this summer as long as Bea and his wife will have him.
by Ms. Barb Thomas
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(right) by Tara Fitzpatrick ’17 (below) by Milana Savia ’17
by Steven Zeng ’17
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by Mr. Zach Apgar
by Ms. Maria Found
by Ms. Barb Thomas
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cairdeas, is breá, díseacht (friendship, love, loyalty) by Catie Murphy ’19
My thirteenth birthday, A tiny box and a note, Green box clasp still tight; It was my ring. My turn. The hands for friendship, The heart for love, The crown for loyalty. The gold for the good in life, The good I want to be. Our soul. The only girl, to carry the tradition to the next. A reminder of the women of the family, Strong willing, determined. A reminder of the green sloping lands, Ireland. My ancestors. A moral compass for my life. Never forget to look down to my hand, And take a moment every day. To remember my family, wherever they are. Our tradition.
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by Yunhui Wang ’16
Hands
by Cali Folkerson ’19
While I laughed the swings cried with each back and forth motion of the pendulum. Your hands always greeted me on my return, until they only greeted your chest in pain. Despite the sight, I made you keep going when you thought you could no more. Your hands had already given up and soon, so did your cigarette abused, cancer ridden lungs. Wheelchairs and oxygen tanks became your best friends, whispering to you the secret of how long you had left. They clung to your rigid wire frame and held you hostage while your fire inside raged on. Your flame was resilient with not a single flicker until death softly blew a summer breeze through your soul. The breeze soared through time and cradled your soul in its arms. with strength as a careless passenger that wound up on the trip. The breeze found me in grief and dropped the passenger in the spaces where your hands once greeted my back.
by Tiffany Yang ’18
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Two Truths, One Lie by Tommy Jacobson ’16
1. It was a warm, sunny day with a cool sea breeze on the outer Cape. I remember waking up and hearing the waves crashing on the beach from the safety of my own bed. The constant rumbling got me out of bed by 7:30 a.m. and I wandered across the damp lawn to the main house where three blueberry pancakes were set out on the table for me. I quickly put those down with a hefty serving of maple syrup. I rushed to the barn to suit up and hit the surf. As I stood in the driveway, pulling my wetsuit over my shoulder, my uncle emerged from the basement with distant gaze and a steamy cup of coffee. He looked at the sky and asked, “Have you seen the charts?” I instantly knew that something was up. He had been up all night tracking a storm cell that had pushed huge swells across the Atlantic directly to our location. He looked at his watch and before I knew it we were at the break waxing up our boards. The wind had just shifted offshore, making the waves stack up to 7-9 ft. We spent the morning catching wave after wave, riding the most glossy, green barrels that I have ever seen. I remember surfing until my arms were like jell-o and then surfing some more. I was riding a 5’7” quad fin thruster, a board as fast as it was pretty. I got a real taste of this speed when I found my face dragging in a wall of water while trying to drop in on big one. Next thing I knew, my hips, followed by my feet, swung under me and brought me racing down the line. By the time I got my bearings and wiped the salt water out of my eyes, I was flying next to a behemoth wall of water. I managed to slow up on a cutback but I began to lose my balance right when the deep green lip smacked me in the head sending me off my board. I was spun in a whirlpool underwater, getting ripped up and then slammed down the to sandy bottom. I stood up dizzy with stars spinning, feeling like I had been punched in the chin. I looked at the tip of my board and noticed that it had broken off in the wipe out. I waded over to my uncle, who had seen the whole thing go down, and told him that I had to head in. He took one look at me and his look said it all. I reached up to feel my chin when the blood started squirting a moment later.
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I ended the day with 22 stitches, a bruised chin, and a busted board, but if I had the choice I would go back and do that day over and over again. 2. This summer, I went on an unforgettable trip to the Wild West. I landed in Denver and was greeted at the airport by Sud (Zach) and his big, bright smile. It was the beginning of a two-week visit that would bring us all over the great state. We wasted no time in getting into things. Within an hour of landing, I had already landed 4 largemouth bass. He took me straight to his house, just outside of Boulder, where he has a pond stocked to the brim with ‘bucket-head’ bass. We spent the day relaxing in the steady 85-degree heat, typical of a Colorado summer day. The next day we packed his truck and headed into the Rockies on I-70. The interstate was like a rollercoaster, winding through valleys and over ridges. In some places, mountains were blasted in half to allow the road to cut through. Zach told me to keep an eye out for deer and other animals looking to cross. I kept my eyes peeled but most of the time I was distracted by the amazing sight of the mountains scraping into the sky and the valleys that went on for miles. I was on my phone taking a picture when all of a sudden I heard a screeching crash. I looked back and saw glass spewed across back seat. We had no idea what had happened so we pulled over to the shoulder. I opened the back door and saw a boulder the size of a football on the floor directly behind my seat. We were pulled over between two massive walls of rock that had been blasted back for the highway to pass through. A rock had crashed down and hit the guardrail, catapulting it through the back window of Zach’s F-150. Had we been one second behind, the rock would have crashed into my face. We cleaned up what we could and continued north to our final destination, windows down the whole way. 3. On a cool day this summer, I was woken up to my new puppy jumping on my bed and chewing on my leg. I decided that she probably needed to kill some cont. on pg. 27
cont. from pg. 26
energy so I called up some buddies. We decided to head out to some fields to play some lax and let Sky run around. We tossed rock for hours, mixing it up with a few different games and sending Sky on long chases after the ball every once in a while. My buddy, Stauss, rocketed one after another for her until she got more and more tired. We were nearing the end of our session and decided that one more toss for Sky would do her in. Like always, she took off racing after a long one when all of a sudden she came to a screeching stop. She immediately backed down and barked a few times before gleefully jogging back to us with her tongue hanging out to one side. She got distracted so I went into the long grass in search of the ball. After a few minutes, I found it and reached down to retrieve it. All of a sudden, my hand was struck with the force of a sledgehammer. To my shock, there was a thick, black snake latched to my hand between my thumb and index finger. I immediately grabbed it by the neck and ripped it off, throwing it a few yards. Two holes on my hand opened with blood and I called for my friends. I started freaking out and saw the snake backed up watching me. I snapped a picture to show to the ER staff because I knew that I would have to go to the hospital. I sent the picture to my aunt, a nurse at Cleveland Clinic Hospital, as soon as I got in the car. She answered quickly with relieving news that the snake was not venomous, despite its fearsome appearance. We decided to divert to my house to clean the room and get Sky some water. I made a full recovery. Which one is the lie?
by Haoran Zeng ’17
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Happy Ending by Brenley Avila ’18
In my opinion there is no such thing as a happy ending. You can have a happy middle and a happy start but never a happy ending. If you could start over your life would you do it? You would know who to let into your life and who to not get involved with. You would know who would hurt you and who would be by your side through everything. But would you want to live that perfect life in order to get that happy ending? Or would you rather stay in the life you have and learn from the mistakes you made? Sometimes you meet the right person at the wrong time and then you meet the wrong person at the right time. But never get rid of that person who cares for you, loves you, and misses you, because one day when you need them they won’t be there for you. You’ll realize that you lost the moon while counting the stars. Your 11:11 wish would be for me to come back to you. But why would I come back to the person who barely cared for me when all I did was make sure they were okay? After a while you learn to pick yourself up when you fall down instead of someone else doing it for you. But every once in a while you wish you had that person to pick you up because you feel as if you can’t do it yourself. And I know what makes you fall and when those things happen I will want to run to you as fast as I can to come pick you up, but I will stop running. I will stop running because you need to learn how to do it yourself because you don’t have me anymore. You made it pretty clear that you don’t need me anymore. You get used to the feeling of being pushed away, that when you talk to someone for the first time you become hesitant, because you don’t know that if you have a friendship with them. If they will hurt you like you hurt me.
by Liz Wadlinger ’16
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by Tasha Getten ’17
The Smell of Smoke by Riikka Kivinen ’17
The smell of smoke stayed days on your hair. The fire kept us warm through the chilly night. The darkness swallowed the forest around us. It was just us and the fire. And suddenly I am not lost anymore. Suddenly I am home again.
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Cafeteria Blues by Jenna Golden ’16
Everyday I would pray that for some odd reason my teacher would let us out of class early, so that I could secure a seat at lunch. If I was ever even a few minutes late, that was an automatic lunch in the bathroom. It was way to hard for me to ever deal with the nervousness and anxiety of trying to find a seat at lunch. Right when you walk in to the cafeteria, dozens of eyes are staring at you, watching your every move. The staring doesn’t just stop when you sit down, it continues until the bell rings and you’re on to your next class. Your social ranking was about who you sat with at lunch; your middle school career basically depended on it. Let me tell you, girls were brutal, ruthless, and basically willing to do anything to be popular. One of the scariest moments during lunch was when I put my stuff down on a chair to reserve my seat. I told one of the girls to make sure no one takes my seat, and she seemed kind enough to do that one little thing for me. When I came back with my food, the whole table was full with a girl sitting at the seat, I so kindly asked the girl to save for me. When she saw me come back to the table, she looked up at me, saw the worried look on my face, and didn’t say a word. The stuff I had put on the chair was kicked to side, a good five feet away from the table. The feeling was like being thrown out of a car going eighty miles an hour and someone throwing your bags on the side of the road as if it’s garbage. .Not only were you judged on who you sat with, your food was also a deciding factor of how cool you were. Looking back, it sounds completely and utterly ridiculous, but planning what I was going to eat at lunch sometimes came before my homework. I would
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drag my mom to the grocery store at late hours of the night, just to make sure I had the perfect snack, with the perfect drink, in the perfect lunch box. Just to make matters harder on me, my mom was a health nut. There was no soda, gummies, non-whole wheat bread, non-organic food in my house. All the kids at lunch had gushers, little-bite brownies, and go-gurts. In order to get those snacks in my lunch box, I would have to be sneaky in the super market, and try to hide them in the cart somewhere under the healthy snacks. One of the most embarrassing moments was when I opened my poorly wrapped sandwich, and there my whole table saw my whole-grain bread with peanut butter and banana oozing out of the sandwich. My mom was never really good at those things. In fact, she was awful and would get mad when I criticized her ways of making my lunch. She would tell me that I was lucky I had a mom who made me lunch. Secretly, I knew that was true, and truthfully, I liked her lunches, they just weren’t up to par with everyone else’s at school. I have experienced some of the worst moments of my life in school lunches. Being in that cafeteria is a place I would never voluntarily return to. However, if I could give any young kid advice, I would say it doesn’t matter. It simply doesn’t matter. Who cares what your lunches are? Who cares who you sit with? When you get older those little details start to matter less and less. In fact, now the cool people have healthy lunches. The pressures while being at a school lunch can be unbearable, but as long as you surround yourself with good people and realize you are not the only one who feels uncomfortable at lunch, then you are going to be all right, my friend.
by Michelle Su ’18
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by Phyllis Cao ’17
1 a.m. thoughts by Riikka Kivinen ’17
If I had the courage to do all the things I want I would not be awake now thinking about this
by Helen Campbell ’17
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Nighttime Screams by Sal Fabio ’18
It calls my name, all the time. It wraps me in its blankets and holds me hostage. I fall in my deep slumber and the box springs compress to match my body perfectly. Therefore I am permanently attached to my bed. I’m a hostage, I love being its hostage, but on week days I’m its hostage until 6:30 when my music queue allows me to let go. But I don’t want to go, I’m married to my bed and I don’t allow a divorce. Sometimes it calls my name really loud. It 2:30 a.m. and English homework gets good grades, but its
defining cry causes me pain. I claim the cries then set the release queue to 6:30. The blankets rocks me to sleep, it holds me like a mother holds an infant. When I wake up, sometimes the music queue just won’t do. Sometimes a magical fairy came and glued and stapled the sheets to my hands and head. And it takes the yells of my mother to break us up. I can’t move and I can’t get up because of my love’s tight grip. We go together like a phone to a charger, but when I eventually get up, my love has done its job and charged me up.
by Ms. Michelle Rafalowski
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Mourning by Brett DiGeronimo ’17
It’s six in the morning I start to chisel away at a block of stone As the minutes tick by, My body begins to take shape With each passing moment Another sliver of stone flies off, soaring like a wing Taking flight to join its brothers. After a little too long, a body has taken shape The sun glistens through the window and breathes life to a reluctant being. Me. I shift the stone slabs that cover me Shaken to the ground Letting them crumble as I attempt to warm my cool stone skin The cold room doesn’t help It’s six forty now I’m late and not even dressed. No breakfast. No time to warm the car. No chance to properly tend to my hair. Fairly smooth for a Tuesday.
by Saige Buffington ’18
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Defoliation Back to Root by Ziyin Wang ’16
Sitting in the corner coffee shop with an espresso, staring at the coming and going of people, I trifle with a fallen leaf. The leaf around has dark brown, intermediate tracts yellow and some green. It fills me with memories about one of my best friends, who gave me this pretty, falling leaf as a gift before she went back to her hometown. Although the grass on the roadside was still green, one falling leaf from the birch heralds the coming of autumn. Colorful leaves spread on the ground make the way seem that no one had walked on it for a long period of time. The colors on the leafy street came as if from the dream, red and gold gusting. My friend and I, hands in pocket, headphones hang from the neck, were walking at leisure on a country path with colorful leaves covered on the ground, when a leaf fell down at my friend’s feet. My friend stopped, squatted down and looked at that falling leaf. She was squatting there, staring at the piece of yellow leaf for a long time without saying anything. “Hey, what’s wrong with you?” I went over and tapped on her shoulder. “Nothing,” she looked up at me and shook her head. “Are you sure?” I knelt down to her side and looked into her eyes, “Tell me, what happened?” Instead of answering my question, my friend gave me her headphone and diverted the topic. “Have you heard this song before?” “What? What song?” “Hush! Listen.” “Our heart stays right, where we come from, wherever we may be…” While I was listened to the music in her headphones, she picked up a piece of leaf next to her and held up to the sun. “If I said it was my last week staying in this city, would you believe?” she said suddenly. “What?” I wished I got her words wrong because of the disturbance of the music, but facts always go contrary to our wishes. Breeze blowing made leaves fluttered. Sitting silently in the skimpy shade of a birch, my friend took a deep breath and said, “I would go back to Taiwan, my hometown, soon.” She broke down and paused for a moment, “I knew it was hard for you to accept this in a sudden. It was also hard for me to make this decision. Nevertheless, I had no other choice…I had already booked a flight back to my hometown. My mom had already started packing few days ago. I was going to miss here forever.” My friend broke down again. Leaves of birches along the path were softly rustling gold, fluttering down like unending stream of confetti. We sat together under a towering tree with
my hand on her shoulder and faces turned to the sky. I tried to say some words to keep our friendship, but nothing came out. Staring at the blue sky, I recalled all the memories about the time we spent together, nobody would know how hard it was for me to say goodbye to her unless someone had experienced before. “I knew what you think right now!” She lowered her head and said, almost to herself, “I had already left my hometown for five years. Though my mom and my sister came with me from Taiwan to Shanghai, my grandparents and my little brother still lived in Taipei. I had not seen them for eight months, and even if I saw them, I only had a few days to be with them every year. I missed them everyday and seeing them everyday had been one of my birthday wishes for many years...” She cradled her head in her arms. When she looked up again, her cheeks were bedewed with tears. Brushed by the wind, I whipped off my sweatshirt and put it on her. Holding her in my arms tightly, I had no more words. “For what we are able to go home that’s where our heart belongs …” just as what was mentioned in the song she asked to hear at first, her heart always belonged to Taipei, the place raised her up. No matter what she experienced outside, the desire to be buried at home was the strongest all the time. Like leaves fall down from the trees in autumn. Although some trees grow ever so high, the falling leaves always return to the ground, where they were born and gained nutrients from. The tree leaves gradually yellow kept on falling, like golden birds whipped up and down. My friend slowly sat up, tucked her hair behind her ears and reached out her hands to catch up on a falling leaf. “Take this as a gift,” she gave it right to me and said, “I will be ok. Don’t worry!” Times flies, I have not seen her for one year, though we talk with each other though Skype at least twice a week and text with each other almost everyday. Staring at the leaves in hand, I awake from memories by the aroma of freshly brewed coffee permeating the whole room. Defoliation back to root. For her, my dearest friend, falling leaves represented her thought of the hometown. Leaves will always fall to the ground, just like her heart is always belonged to the place where she was born. However, for me, a piece of falling leaf means the missing of a person who used to live with side by side, no yellow, just helpless.
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by Ms. Maria Found
Snapshot
by Chayapuntika “Toop” Indoung ’16
In the afternoon after school day was the funnest time of the day for a little girl. Ringing of the bell was like someone splashing water onto my face when I was drowsy. I packed up my bag rapidly as my friend also was doing the same thing. We ran downstairs as fast as we could to the place where it was the center of the slides, the swings and the sand pits. I took a deep breath of fresh air with a grin before I rushed to the place that I had been looking forward throughout the whole day. I was playing on the swings while my friend was playing on the slide. She slid from the top to the bottom again and again. Until I was bored with her laughter, every time she reached the bottom. I decided to sit on the ground and play in the sand pit beside the swing. My friend’s laughter got louder and louder. Her voice was like it came from a speaker. “It would be better for my ears if I were far a way from here,” I thought. I stood up and started to walk to the other side of the playground. A few minutes after that, silence had replaced the sound of her laughter. I decided to walk back there. My first feeling was like I had one’s heart in one’s mouth. She stood in front of me with a thousand of the grains of sand on her face. I could not even look at her face because it was so scary. She told me she slid down face first. I tried to not laugh at her. But I hardly tried. Her face became red, and blood began to seep through her face’s skin. A feeling of great happiness turned to fear and sadness promptly. The first thing that I did was run as fast as I could to the closest building and tell the teacher what happened. The funnest time at primary school became the shocking moment that I could not forget.
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Where I Am From by Caitlyn Petro ’16
I am from an intricate concrete maze posing as a city, from microbrewed beer and the biggest submarine sandwiches you’ll ever see. I am from small spaces filled with good people and laughter, always laughter. I am from the winter wonderland that is sometimes only winter and not quite a wonderland. I am from Sunday dinners and loving squabbles, from four boys and three dogs and two cats. I am from woodland camping trips and family beach excursions. From a world filled with knights and sorcerers and dragons and princesses that don’t need to be saved. I am from bible passages before holiday meals and righteous thoughts before bed. I’m from the food wonderland that is Southern Italy; generations upon generations have made our lasagna in the exact same way. From the quick temper and the quicker tongue, from the dirty jokes and crude humor I am from the dining room liquor cabinet stocked with equal parts aged bottles of single malt scotch and handmade mementos from five childhoods come and gone.
by Joy Cartwright ’17
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Money Grows on Trees by Peter Caffrey ’16
Money grows on trees, Nope, Let’s talk about the birds and the bees, Everybody back on task, Please don’t be a pain in my…
Money is important, Everybody save Save save save if you simply Spend spend spend, You will have nothing again,
Nothing is no fun Nothing is dull Buying stuff you don’t need Defeats the purpose of hard work Everyone work hard, Play harder, Play smart, Hard work is worth it, Work is hard, Hard is work,
Always remember dot your eyes, And cross your tees, And remember. Money doesn’t grow on trees
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by Liz Wadlinger ’16
Addicted by Duidui Yue ’18
When people are talking about something that you can’t live without, they always come up with terms such as air, sun, water, nutrients and the other things that basically we need all day to support our lives. However, how can we interpret the word, “live”? Or in other words, how can we understand the true meaning of “living”? It’s true that if we don’t consume those nutrients to support our lives, we will die in a short time. However, if there is only one thing that we can’t live without, then I think it must be your memories. Memories are forms of things that will last forever; they will shine in the world, give brightness for the others and create the connection to this world. They can always exist even if your body is no longer in the shape of human, because it lives as long as time continues. It provides the evidence for you to come to this world and brought something for the others, otherwise, you brought some changes to this world, even if that’s tiny or big. People can’t live without memories. Memories bring emotions and values for a person. Sweet memories let us enjoy life and have hope for the future, and painful memories encourage us to develop and learn from the past.
by Yunhui Wang ’16
OUTCROPPINGS • Volume 37 • 39
Soaked Red Flowers by Lenny Brochu ’19
The drenched, black car sagged, with the weight of my grandfather’s coffin. Hundreds of people are crying, that’s not something I see often The metal bottom of the casket screeched, as it slid on the metal bottom of the back of the car. The men pulled the casket out of the vehicle, one by one, they grabbed the handlebar. The frozen handlebars made the men carrying it, want to drop the casket or have their hands frozen, The casket mocked me every time I looked at it, I never understood why my grandfather was chosen. Nice and shiny, with cold, polished wood, a symbol of hope was encrusted on the casket. I could see my dad’s eyes tearing up, Being a man, he tried to mask it. The symbol of hope caught my eye, It was a dove carrying a flower, People continually touched the symbol, almost trying to gain its power. People got in cars and left one by one, But I stayed and sat there for many hours, Until they forced me to leave him forever, Complete surrounded by soaked, red flowers.
by Ms. Michelle Rafalowski
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by Monica Colbath ’16
Snapshot by Tony Kwon ’16
When I was eight years old, my family stayed three days in lodge during fall. I observed many scenes through the tip of the roof where the antenna was anchored. I could see how farmer’s bead of sweat with generous sunbeam creates great taste of rice and how brownish yellowish ox helps farmer’s work. While I was settling down with my sister on the roof, I saw free National Geographic show without television monitor. This show wasn’t harmonious scene as what I described above: predation. I saw eagle-like hawk catching innocent frog out of the filthy dirty pond. By using elegantly well-shaped feathers to withstand air resistance with its sharp looking eyes to aim at its prey, Hawk grabs a pudgy Frog with its razor-edged talon and fly away with the frog in its beak. I could read Frog’s unwillingness to be prey of Hawk by stretching its four legs as much as possible. Unfortunately, Hawk ignored frog’s resistance. As the hawk crunched off the frog with its beak in the middle of the flight, blood was all around in the air. After the death of the frog, I hear bunch of frog croaking sounds. Maybe frogs want their member to be back. What a sad story. This is the end of the National Geographic show.
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by Natalie Holmberg ’16
An Open Letter to the Lifers Dear Lifers, The end of our final year at Brewster Academy is approaching faster than we expected. It is sad, no matter how much the student body complains how they hate it here and how we are treated like children, you will miss this, you will miss the teachers’ support, the friends, the community, the facilities, and all aspects of Brewster Academy. Think about it, no where else will you actually be able to become friends with a teacher of yours. Every teacher at Brewster is not only willing to guide you in the right direction, but they are here to be your friend. Nothing will compare to watching the basketball team kick ass with some of your
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best friends as well as the whole entire Brewster and Wolfeboro community. You get the chance to meet so many people that are so different in their own ways. The community is so diverse here that you leave Brewster way more cultured than you were before you were enrolled. I have heard it from endless alumni; “Appreciate the time you spend on campus, because when you leave there’s nothing that compares to it.” No matter how many mandatory study halls or all schools you have to attend, I promise you, you will leave Brewster and miss the days you spent as a Bobcat. So live it up while you can.
by Alex Weiss ’16
by Ms. Barb Thomas
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“And you’ll never find happiness in company until you realize that people are poetry too. They’re meant to be read and reread; you have to highlight your favorite parts and dog ear the pages you’ve yet to understand. And I know that every person you meet is an enigma wrapped soundly in mystery and shrouded in obscurity. I promise you’ll appreciate them even more when you begin to unearth the details that make them who they are. But as you dig through their lost pages, remember and respect that everybody has a chapter they don’t read aloud.”
-An excerpt from a book I’ll never write by Caitlyn Petro ’16
by Mr. Nick Docter ’97
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Storm into Spring Hello, how we doing? Clouds growing up A storm be brewing A strike on the hour Replaced by a lofty flower The wind shakes seeds off the trees I get a chill ‘cause of the western breeze It was dark but sun’s ahead It’s spring now get out of bed
Brewster Academy Wolfeboro, NH