Eyrie 2013

Dear Reader ~ Welcome to the fifth annual edition of The Eyrie. We have a nest full of exceptional writers from departments all across campus. Prepare to face extreme emotion as you laugh, cry, gasp and are extravagantly amazed by the talent expressed in these speeches, essays, science reports, blogs, fictions, nonfictions, and stories about chickens.

This edition is dedicated to Devin Wood the creator and editor in chief of The Eyrie. She is greatly missed on campus this year, and we look forward to her return to duties in the fall. The Eyrie is not the same without Devin.

If you would like to submit your own work for publication in next yearâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s issue, please, email your Microsoft Word-compatible attachments to: <aarquette@emcc.edu> OR <dwood@emcc.edu> Along with: your name, the course name and number for which the work was produced, and a brief description of the relevant assignment. (Technologyrelated/technology-specific writing and photos welcomed.)

Thanks to all who contributed.

Read on!

Anna Arquette Substitute Editor

Cover art by Emily Rice, DGD 220 Illustrator

Š All works in this journal remain the sole property of their owner and may not be reprinted without permission.

Table of Contents The Things We Take for Granted ........................................ 1 Lorraine Day YOU GOT RIPPED OFF ...................................................... 2 Sarah Cross Changes I have Seen in Society During my 1.9 Decade Life .................................................. 3 Felicia Graham Lunch Included ...................................................................... 5 Jane Ellingwood Travel Essay ........................................................................... 6 Jade Daigle Cause Essay ............................................................................ 8 Kenneth Tody Nothing is What it Seems ...................................................... 9 Rachel Jacobs Henry’s Tale ......................................................................... 10 Willow Wyner Martin Pepe ....................................................................................... 13 Jeremy Edwards I-Search ................................................................................ 15 Linisa Beal Hydrogenated Oils literature review .................................. 17 Elizabeth Reilly Description Essay ................................................................. 20 Mandi Murray With an Empathetic Eye ..................................................... 21 Jakob Burns That day was one of those days .......................................... 25 Jade Daigle I-Searching ........................................................................... 27 Mark Tolman “The safest place in the world . . .”..................................... 29 Sara Chambers Just calm down and start at the beginning ........................ 30 Jade Daigle If these clothes could talk .................................................... 31 Sarah Chambers Alienation ............................................................................. 32 Jacob Allenwood ii

Mother of Five...................................................................... 33 Molly Sadosky The Safest Place in the World............................................. 35 Sara Chambers Graf #9 .................................................................................. 37 Kenneth Goodman Graf # 12 ............................................................................... 38 Kenneth Goodman Safe Haven: (Prompt 27) ..................................................... 38 Lindsey Allen Description of a person........................................................ 40 Sara Chambers How Harry Potter changed my life .................................... 40 Travis Cunningham Igniting Excitement in Science ........................................... 43 Linda Dill and Elyse Lewis Freedom ................................................................................ 45 Peter Gerritsen Strawberryâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s Answer to the Universe: The Life, Times and Meals of Strawberry Chicken ........................................................ 47 Felicia Graham Strawberry Profile Meta-essay ........................................... 51 Felicia Graham Sloths are Awesome and you should think so too ............. 54 Sheri Pelkey Sometime I forget how precious life is ............................... 55 Lindsey Allen What if? ................................................................................ 56 Jonathan Torsch Spiraling ............................................................................... 57 Willow Wyner Martin.

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This speech is from a homework assignment in which we were asked to present a speech about a mundane object, utilizing tagmemics to develop the topic. (SPE 101 40 Oral Communications Ms. Coe) The Things We Take for Granted

By Lorraine Day I need a certain kitchen utensil and reach into the utensils drawer to fish it out but don't immediately find it. Perhaps it slid under the pancake turner. No, not there. Maybe it shuffled its way to the back of the drawer. Many things do.

But, no. It's not lurking at the back. Now, I'm becoming a little irritated as I noisily shuffle utensils around the drawer like stainless steel spaghetti. No oval, white, plastic handle appears in the mix, no flash of stainless steel blades. I have carrots to peel and no vegetable peeler! There are many things in life that I tend to take for granted...until they disappear. I have a dilemma. What am I to do?

I have two other vegetable peelers, but they are just ordinary. It's my girlfriend, Nancy's, fault. She had the vegetable peeler prototype: Y-shaped with an oval metal handle that fit the palm of one's hand perfectly. At the top of the Y sat parallel metal blades running horizontally. I had never seen one like it before. All of my vegetable peelers had vertical blades. I had to have one, as she sure wasn't going to give me hers. She seemed just a little too possessive with it, I thought. Then I bought my own and I came to understand the bond a cook has with a favorite utensil.

My new peeler became the darling of the kitchen. It never chewed up vegetables but sliced long, paper-thin slices of peeling from the top to the very bottom of the carrots in one quick slice. Why, in no time at all, an entire bag of carrots would be rendered naked and ready for the chopping block. Though the handle, over time, became a little less glossy with scratches here and there, the blade stayed sharp and true. I'm sure the other vegetable peelers became jealous as I reached over them for the white-handled peeler. Perhaps they gossiped mercilessly and snubbed my favorite peeler in the middle of the night as the household slept.

Alas, as often is the case, all good things must come to an end. Maybe I took it as certain that my vegetable peeler would always be there. Perhaps I lost some respect for it or neglected it by not buying enough carrots for it to peel. In any case, that fateful day arrived that I mentioned beforehand... My vegetable peeler had disappeared. I thoroughly searched the kitchen, even peeking into the dog crate where other hapless utensils had come to grisly ends. To my relief, the peeler was not there. I interrogated my two teenage boys, but after repeated denials of ever even knowing my vegetable peeler, I abandoned that avenue.

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Finally, I had to face the horrible truth. My vegetable peeler was gone. The only explanation my grieving mind could come up with is that my peeler, brokenhearted with neglect, wrapped itself up in a paper towel shroud where unbeknownst to its accomplice, it was unceremoniously dumped into the trash and taken out to the curb, never to be seen again.

The other vegetable peelers are happy, now, as they chew up the vegetables with thick slices of carrot coming off with the peelings and I have learned an important lesson. Never take even the mundane things in life for granted. You may just wake up one morning without your vegetable peeler!

Persuasion speech for HDMI (SPE 101; Carol Lewandowski) YOU GOT RIPPED OFF

By Sarah Cross YOU GOT RIPPED OFF! BADLY! Anywhere from $20 to $80! They screwed you, you hate them, and you don’t even know who or why. That is the point, to manipulate people with limited knowledge. Everyone has a TV along with a Blu-ray player, Xbox, Playstation, DVR, or TiVo. Most of these are hooked up with HDMI cables. Now, how much did you pay for those HDMI cables? Most people get their TV from Wal-Mart, Target, or Best Buy, and ALL of them are dirty tech pimps that deserve to be bitch slapped for how they’ve treated the general public. I know these things because I’m a nerd, but normal people are generally dummies about technology. I will inform you of this giant conspiracy to ensure that you will never pay more than $10 for an HDMI cable ever again.

You go to get the TV you always wanted. “It will be mine!” Inevitably, the twerp selling it to you says, “Obviously, you want the optimal resolution and sound. You need the high-speed, deep color, 24-bit audio, 4K or up to 240Hz capable, 3D ready HDMI cable! Here it is!” *Package sparkles* *Anger sets in* *SLAP* What nonsense is claimed in this dastardly trickery?

Myth 1 – It will be faster Guess what? HDMI maxes out at 10.2Gbps. Anything extra makes no difference but you’re charged more.

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Myth 2 – The picture will be clearer.

This was true with analog cables. The big clump of wires behind the TV had signal loss. However, HDMI is a digital signal. You can’t make something digitaler. Plug it in, done.

Myth 3 – It will have lossless audio All HDMI cables are HD lossless capable with 24-bit audio The down and dirty is that HDMI is a licensed standard. Manufacturers must comply with all the specifications to make these cables. THEY ALL DO THE SAME THING. Limitations come from the TV, not the cables. Cables don’t care what they are hooked up to, they just send signals. Saying you need a different cable for 120Hz refresh rate or 3D capability is like saying you need to use better gas for the windshield wipers.

Monster Cables are the most evil culprit of this gouging. On their packaging, it states that the cable is 4K capable. For kicks, I went online to find if there are any 4K TVs available. I found one from Sony. It’s an 84” 4K TV, and it can be yours for only $25,000. So if you want to sell your kidney or your first born, go for it. The rest of us will have to suffer with our 46” 120Hz pipsqueak TVs. Why am I telling you all of this? You save to get the big TV, right? You don’t just mosey into Best Buy and say, “I’ll take two.” So while you’re saving, go online to Amazon or Newegg and find HDMI cables that are around $5, with the longer ones maybe getting up to $10.

We are all in the get-what-you-pay-for mentality. In this instance, you paid to get JACKED. Please don’t do it again.

I wrote this for Sociology about changes in society during my life. I wrote it over year ago when I was nineteen, but there have been quite a lot of changes in my relatively short life (SOC-101-65-WE Brian Welsh) Changes I have Seen in Society During my 1.9 Decade Life

By Felicia Graham Society changes a lot as time goes by. It is inevitable. As time goes by, old people die and new people are born. New discoveries are made, laws are changed. Things happen that will eventually change society forever. Nineteen 3

years – the present duration of my life time – is not that long in the scheme of things and if you put it on the cosmic scale, it does not even count, but a lot of notable changes have happened in the nearly two decade period between 1992 and 2011.

For example, first cordless wall phones were the norm, then “cellular” phones started coming out. Time went by. They got more common and much smaller. Now shortened to cell phones, one could text on them and they had literally millions, if not billions of “aps.” Then iPhones came out and cell phones basically became mini computers. Perhaps the biggest change with cell phones though, is who is using them. It used to be that cell phones were pretty much owned by business people and the rich and famous. The average person had little use for one and it would certainly have not been that common for a kid to have one. Now however, just about every adult owns one. As for kids, first teens started getting cell phones and now even little kids have them. The wide spread use of cell phones has made many changes in society. For example, a person in a grocery store with their hand over their ear talking to apparently themselves would have looked crazy. Now seeing someone do that is completely normal. Also, if someone had come up behind you and said something, they would have been talking to either you or someone else in the room. Now they are just as likely to be on their phone. While cell phones are now deeply an ingrained part of society, there is controversy about them, such as when and when not to answer them, they’re being a dangerous distraction while driving, and whether they cause brain cancer.

Computers and the internet are another big change. It used not be that common for people to have a computer. Now most everyone has one and is connected to the internet. This has caused drastic changes in society. For example, the obsoleteness of “snail mail” and handwritten things, the availability of a world of information at your fingertips and the multitudinous social networks. I believe that these networks had the biggest effect on society of all. Before social networks, it was pretty uncommon to consider someone you had never even met a friend and most of a person's interactions with their friends would be face-to-face unless they lived to far away to see each other often. The one exception to this rule was pen pals. After social networks, people now had hundreds if not thousands of “pen pals.” Sometimes, these people are ones they meet often outside FaceBook or Twitter, or old high school classmates. Other times, they are complete strangers who either were asked to “friend” them or vice versa. So, are these FaceBook friends really “friends?” A lot of the population seems to act as if they are. This why I think that of all the computer and non-computer changes, social networks have had the biggest affect on society.

All these changes have also altered our language. For example, “friend” is 4

now a verb and “un” can be put in front of it. “Cell,” formerly just a biological term, is now an even shorter form of cellular phone. “Pics” is short for picture.

“Global warming” has become an everyday term for what is supposedly happening to our planet and many people’s main reason for “going green.”

When I was little, if you took a small child to get blackberries, they would think you were getting fruit. Now they would think you are getting a rather obsolete electronic. And, of course, texting has added myriads of acronyms to our language such as OMG, LOL, and TGIF. Don’t know what those abbreviations stand for? Well, you can easily find out what they stand for by “Googling” them, or perhaps you have an “ap” right on your cell phone that translates them for you.

I am nearly to the end of my allotted two pages and have not even begun to speak of all the changes in society that have occurred during my lifetime, even with just the three topics I chose. I have not even touched the rise in food and fuel prices, only just mentioned the going green concept, never mentioned the “in” craze of getting kids excited about science and engineering, or the effects of the recession. Guess a lot really did happen in nineteen years. Some of these things were for better, some were for worse. In the end though, these changes are a mixed bag that we will have to work hard to pull the good things out of before next wave of changes comes along.

I teach creative writing and composition at EMCC. I wrote this piece at my M.F.A. residency in Howth, Ireland during January and read it at a public reading of my work at the Howth Yacht Club on January 16, 2013.

Lunch Included A flash fiction piece by Jane Ellingwood The day Dan’s mother died, most of the neighbors were skimming their yachts over summer waves. An overt reward for their years spent gaining high-level pay with large windows locked on important views.

Dan had turned thirty-three that day.

But the yachts were now tethered for the winter: their masts aligned in strict formation like recruits threatened by a drill instructor’s glare, their green canvas sail covers lashed tight against the wind. Yet Dan felt as if a wake of chaos flaring from his mind could easily ruffle them anytime he strolled along the shore road on these late afternoons.

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He wanted order to return in his life, but his mother’s early death had begun to rattle him.

As he’d pulled that trigger and then placed the gun in her hand, he’d been ready to celebrate a desperate gift. He’d felt so free when he walked out the door: free to make his own decisions, free to spend the money forever not his. But the more he’d flung it about, the less he’d enjoyed wallowing among the girlfriends and buddies he’d enthralled with his endless trail of cash.

A sudden wind lapped at Dan’s collar as he watched brown leaves skate around his ankles. Then he looked toward the boats, now bobbing like hens panicking in a corner over the sudden appearance of a farmer craving dinner.

He paused.

When had that dark spot appeared? Piercing the grid of canvas green was a lone black smudge on the second boat, first row. He hadn’t noticed it yesterday. Dan looked over his own shoulder as if a hint were lurking behind his back. Again at the harbor, another stain of black on green, four rows away. A crow squawked from above and Dan glanced up. He faced a third when he shunned the call.

Dan began to fear looking away.

Travel Essay (ENG 262, John Goldfine) Travel Essay

By Jade Daigle Driving was, for a long time, something I found to be pleasurable, enjoyable even. That was before I worked for Kirby, the vacuum cleaner company.

At first, we had a Durango. It was comfortable, for a while. But, there was no room in there for stretching-out or moving around at all. Something we needed a good deal of on our drives.

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There were five of us. Sometimes up to six. Doug, 55, was the leader of the crew, the boss-man. He picked us out from the new hires to go on “the van.”

Fast Freddy, 30-something, was the best salesmen in the crew. Adam, 27, was in the middle of a downward spiral, losing his hold on everything. Travis, 17, was the baby of the group. And me, 19, the only girl. We were the core.

Sometimes Nick, 29, would tag along for the ride, when he could escape the office.

We would meet up at Dysarts' on Cold Brook Road around four o'clock on Monday morning, hit the interstate, and head south. Destination: North Attlebrook Massachusetts; the weekly pep meeting.

I was the driver. Little me, in a car full of guys, all strangers. But I made it, there and back alive, many times. And everywhere in between.

The way down was long and slow. Driving so early, the only thing that slows us is the occasional drifting off to sleep of the driver, whose ever turn it is. We all did it at least once.

Driving at those hours, in Maine, you're pretty much alone on the roads, but once you get across the border, and the lanes open up, the cars start appearing, and before long it’s so bright it’s daytime, and we're there. It’s time to give up the driving jammies and throw on some work clothes, and smoke the last cigarette before all 60 of us pile inside.

The rundown of lead sales comes first, then the songs. We sang so many songs.

Then games, then finally the send-off. Thank god. We were free to go, and off we tramped to start our adventures for the week.

We hopped on the interstate and drove for about an hour. We decided to get off after seeing a male prostitute on the side of the road. We took it as a sign that these people might want their town to be cleaner.

We drove to the suburbs of town, and then I opened the doors, and let the boys run. It didn't take long for each of them to be in a house. Doug was done with this demo as soon as they saw the machine. Fred had a sale by the third house.

Adam sold two in his fourth demo, for a cleaning service.

At the end of the day, we would spend as little as possible on a hotel rooms.

And rooming arrangements were always a fight, for me.

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And the next day would be the same, on through until Friday, when we finally made it back through to Bangor. Two days off, and we head out again.

Writing Composition 9/20/12, (ENG 101, John Goldfine) Cause Essay

By Kenneth Tody The Navy has an eco-friendly program and strict policies on eco programs; they use equipment like incinerators, trash compactors, and a threepaper bag separation program. The rules for coastal protection are limited to fifty miles off the United States coastline. During the day, the ship runs a legitimate eco-friendly program, by keeping the incinerator and trash compactors open during lunchtime giving departments time to get their trash in.

The three-bag method is separating trash into paper and organic waste, plastic and metal. The metal gets dumped overboard outside of the fifty-mile radius.

However, the three reasons I feel the Navy is wasteful are illegal dumping, wasting weapons, and ammunition and dumping of fuel overflow.

The military has a branching system, units, or regiments; the Navy is branched out into departments, which from there are divided into divisions.

Each department has its own chain of command, and it is because of this that certain things get missed. In my division alone we were told to throw lockers, beds, old TVâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s and microwaves overboard. Other divisions like the air wing would toss their old chains overboard. To me, this is a total waste of resources because these items are not logged like they should they are just discarded when nobody is looking, and because of the individuality of each department this kind of dumping gets unnoticed. However, if someone is caught than the chain of command would deny any actions, this is called plausible deniability and the dumper would suffer serious consequences.

Everyone likes to have a good time, if the ship was at sea for too long the command would usually allow the crew to host cookouts in the hangar bay with live entertainment that was brought aboard for a special occasion. During such events, the air wing would put together an air show where they would demonstrate the raw power of Hornets and Tomcats. The pilots would also do a weapons demonstration with left over munitions that didnâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t get fired. This is also a waste of resources because we are loaded with such munitions because this ship is in fact a war ship, and it was told to us from boot camp that every time the ship sets sail it is at war. I am not trying to be a stickler but what if the ship was attacked and we were caught off guard with no weapons, we would be screwed in a whole.

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While out to sea the ship takes on stores, weapons, and fuel once a week during normal operations. Responsibilities for my division were based on jet fuel, handling, on loading, storing, and distributing. There were times when we would take on more fuel than the tanks could handle, for this extra amount, we would vent the tanks and drain the extra runoff from the overflow tanks into the ocean. There are no laws for dumping petroleum outside the fifty-mile radius because it is international waters. The jets are also designed to vent excess fuel, and because of the way they are parked, it is a straight shot right into the ocean.

The wasteful mentality of the Navy caused me to have a second look and I feel horrendous at the things that I have seen and participated in my time in service. I can say that it has taught me to respect my planet by creating my own recycling program at a personal level because every little bit helps. I have started the long process of converting my home into an eco-friendly home. I purify my water, which is set to a timer, use energy efficient bulbs, and appliances. In time, I may even go to my own trash compactor and solar power or maybe even my own electric power. I guess the recruiting ads were right when they said, â&#x20AC;&#x153;Guaranteed to make you a better person,â&#x20AC;? because my eyes are more open than they have ever been.

Response to the prompt: 'Nothing is what it seems' (ENG 162 John Goldfine ENG162) Nothing is What it Seems

By Rachel Jacobs My dingy, used-to-be-white, grey headphones, that I have had forever, found a new device to be plugged into. My iPod touch is always with me, pumping Beethoven and Mozart into my everyday life. This iPod touch is anything but new. A crack snakes across the middle of the screen, and the logo on the back is worn with use. I found this iPod in an unused compartment in my first vehicle, a gold Saturn. When I plugged it into my parent's computer, a year and a half ago, I realized that it was my ex-boyfriend's.

This boy cheated, lied, and stole money from me for six months. When I finally had the common sense to leave him, i cleaned my car of his personal possessions and left them on his porch in the pouring rain, he was angry about that. He must have left the iPod where he thought he would be able to find it again, but I never gave it back. I cleared the device of the music I wouldn't listen to and I kept it as a trophy. Every day I use it I remember to never allow a 9

boy to screw me over, I remember to be independent and strong, and I remember to trust myself and my first instinct.

Written for advanced creative non-fiction (ENG 262) with Goldfine Henry's Tale

By Willow Wyner Martin This is Henry. He's my dog. He's the BEST DOG EVER. He's been my buddy for a long time now. I had been looking for a dog, after losing my Golden Retriever a year or so before. I visited the pound and the Humane Society, but all they had were little yapper dogs. Definitely not my bag. So, I went to this weird little rescue near my house. The rescue was housed in an old, one story conch house that was in desperate need of a coat of paint. It was run by a woman who, I guess, just really loved dogs. If she couldn't find them a home, she kept them forever. She had a farm with lots of room, so I guess it was a pretty good deal for the dogs, So anyway, I went to her rescue to see what kinds of dogs she had. Surprise, surprise...many, many little yappers. I was really disappointed. So I went outside and, as I was heading to my car, I noticed this old man sitting in a camp chair under a big Banyan tree. He had this great looking dog with him. A real dog. So I walked over and asked if he was up for adoption. Turns out he was. So I bent down to pet him. He sniffed me a little from his spot on the ground, in the shade of the Banyan. I didn't rank a kiss, but he did roll over and request some tummy rubbing. I obliged. I asked if I could 10

take him for a walk, and the old man said “sure.” Off we went. He was happy to come along, even though we weren't going anywhere. That was it for me. I took him back to the old man and asked what I needed to do to adopt him. By the way, his name was Onyx – what a stupid name. Anyway, I went inside to tell the woman that I wanted to adopt Onyx. She said I couldn't. ??? What? Why not? She said I would have to foster him for a week before I would be allowed to adopt him. Well, okay. But why? Turns out, he was a problem child (like I wasn't sold already). He had been returned 3 times, which is pretty amazing seeing that he was only 11 month old. The first two times were due to wives not wanting a big, unruly puppy knocking over their little kids (clearly no sense of humor). The third time he was returned because he was aggressive. Funny, he didn't seem aggressive to me. So I asked her what she meant by “aggressive.” She handed me a sheet of paper on which the previous owner had written his excuse for the dog's return, along with comments by the rescue staff.

So here's what happened: They brought Onyx home, spent a little time with him, then left him in the house while they (Mom, Dad and 3 kids) went out in the backyard to swim in the pool. They had sliding glass doors that led out to the pool, where Onyx paced and barked at them while they swam. The poor dog lost his mind. He is a Bouvier Des Flandres, which is a herding dog. They are very protective of their flock (kids) and they really aren't big fans of water. Hence, the reason the dog lost his mind. He then proceeded to eat the sofa. When the man came back into the house and saw the sofa, he beat the dog. The dog growled at him. So that was that – they brought him back to the rescue, saying that he was aggressive. What an asshole. I was actually glad to hear he growled at the guy. That's my king of dog!

So I took him home for the week. I bought a kennel for him for when I wasn't at home. It took Henry (he desperately deserved a new, better, name) 2 days to figure out that when I picked up my keys, that I was getting ready to leave, and also getting ready to put him in the kennel. On the 3rd day, I picked up my keys, and Henry went into the kennel on his own. He turned around and watched to see if I was going to come and shut the door. I did shut the door, but that was the last time. I left him out the next day, and, I am happy to report, he did not eat the sofa (or anything else).

Over the years, Henry has had his moments. Because of the abuse he experienced, he has never been trusting of men. He will warm up to them, but it takes him a little time to do so. I was a single Mom with 2 kids, 7 and 8 years old; a big dog that barked and growled at strange men totally worked for me. There were a couple of men that he never warmed up to, even when they were making a sincere effort to befriend him. I should have listened to the dog and never dated those guys. However, when I walk him down to the riverfront 11

park at night here in Old Town, and an old drunk guy from the VFW Hall walks up to him to pet him, he thinks that's just fine. Go figure. He was great with my kids, when they were little. He enjoyed herding them. This was a favorite game for all involved. They would run, Henry would chase them and nip at their heels. When this wasn't enough to stop the kids, Henry would tackle them. For some reason, my kids thought this was a great game. I know I enjoyed watching it. He never did get past the water thing. When the kids were small, I would take them and the other neighborhood kids over to the park in the afternoon to swim off of the boat ramps. Henry would bark the entire time. He would occasionally go in the water and attempt to pull them out. This didn't work out very well for him, but he tried.

Through the years, he has eaten some shoes, pooped in the house now and again, and has gotten into the garbage more times than I can count. He has barked at the mailman every day of his life, and occasionally he has chased the cats (our cats â&#x20AC;&#x201C; the same ones he naps with). But Henry has also always been the house referee. He takes his role of herd tender very seriously. He has always made sure that the cats didn't eat the birds, or the rats, or the hamsters, or the squirrel, or the ferrets. He took care of the kids when they were small. No one was allowed to approach them unless Henry gave it the okay. He was also very adept at breaking up the kids when they fought with each other. He accomplished this by barking (a lot) and, if that didn't do it, he would physically stand between them while continuing to bark. After a couple of minutes of nonstop barking, the kids would get annoyed with him, which seemed to cause them to forget what they were fighting about in the first place. What a smart dog.

The kids are grown now and no longer live at home. It's just me and Henry. Well, not quite. We also have a Newfoundland (Sophie) and a Standard Schnauzer (Emmett), along with a couple of cats (Little and Victor) and a Sun Conure (Zeke). But Henry is still top dog. He is getting old now, which fills me with sorrow. He's getting a little arthritic. Some days he can't quite make it up into my Suburban, and I have to give him a little assistance. Some days he can't quite make it up on the couch, so I lift him. He is full of lumps, which are fatty deposits. It's another sign of old age. His fur is no longer black. He is gray and faded. When I get up in the morning, he no longer leaps out of bed with me, like he used to. He now opts to sleep in, coming downstairs about a half hour later. Winters are getting to be hard on him. He walks very carefully, so he doesn't slip on the ice. And if it's really cold, he won't go outside without his sweater. He's an 80 lb. dog and he looks silly in a sweater, but he likes it, so what the hell? He's 12 ½ now. I know our time is limited. I am sobbing at the thought of no longer having Henry in my life. Some days, when he is having a hard time moving well, I simply sit and cry because it hurts me so much to see 12

him growing old. When this happens, he comes and comforts me. I wonder if he knows why I am sad? Does he feel old? Does he understand the passing of time? I hope not. In looking back over my life, my relationship with Henry is the most successful I've ever had. Sometimes I feel guilty because I know I could have been better to him. When we were all younger, I took him for granted. He was always there; he was constant. I knew I could count on him. His limitless capacity for love and compassion never ceases to astound me. It awes me that he loves me. I'm not sure I deserve it. He is the best person I know.

Description of a person for ENG 10, John Goldfine Pepe

By Jeremy Edwards State of Maine, Maine drivers license # 4301002. Issued by Maine Secretary of State Bill Diamond. This is what you will find printed on my most adored possession a Maine driver’s license from 1992. You will never see it, but if you did, you would say what’s so special about that? It’s cracked, faded, hard to read, and you can't use it for anything. Well I use it as a time machine, as a way to go back to a special place where love was enough. Let me show you.

Hair: Brown or what was left of it. Pepe had cancer so I never knew him with hair. I used to like to pat him like a dog, it felt so cool. I have always had a shaved head for as long as I can remember, always wanting to be like him.

Eyes: Blue, just like the sky at the park we used to go to before his kemo treatments. We would hang out feed the ducks, and sometimes get ice cream.

Height: 5'10", but you would not know it because he walked with a slight hunch.

As a kid, he seemed ten feet tall and bulletproof.

Weight: 165lbs of skin and bones. I remember most of the time he was like a stick, always sick. He never ate very much I guess it was too much energy or too hard to handle when it came back up. I can remember a time when I was very young when he was up around two bills and strong as an ox. He used to make homemade spaghetti sauce from scratch. I can still smell it simmering on the stove. He cooked it for three days. The meatballs were the size of baseballs and oh so tasty.

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Sex: Male. A manâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s man who loved working outside. He cut wood for the winter and took me out all of the time. We would go up to camp and he let me drive the boat. When I was young, I remember him taking a bloodsucker off my foot with his pocketknife. He always had a pocketknife and a .22 pistol with him.

Restrictions: A for corrective lenses. Tan Miami Vice style glasses. I remember at night how he would place his glasses on the nightstand before bed. I would put them on and run around the house. Once I even tried to stock the wood stove.

M for medications. Pepe was on all sorts of meds. I never knew what they were, but he would take a handful every night and I would get a vitamin too.

Mom said the doctor offered him medical marijuana, but he said not a chance I have grand kids.

The last thing he said to me: "Hey kid, Pepe loves you."

We used to walk down the road to get fresh eggs for breakfast and pick Meme up from the fudge shack as I called it. There was always milk in a glass jug and red hot dogs in the fridge. On the stairs leading to the basement there was an old, blue toolbox. I used to take the knife in it outside and use it to dig up rocks.

On my eighth birthday Pepe gave me a red Swiss army knife. He told me to be careful not to cut myself because the knife was very sharp. In less than a few minutes, I cut my thumb. I cried like a baby until he picked me up in his arms and got me a band-aid.

At dinner, he would always sit at the head of the table and help me cut up my food. He was always the first one done. I suppose his eating habits came from his days in the army. He was a part of the trucking company in Korea. He never spoke much about his time at war. He always said he was trying to stop bad men, and not to worry about it quickly changing the subject.

We used to sit together in his chair and watch MASH. I remember watching him closely studying his every move. He would take out his old corncob pipe and pack it. It was always cherry, vanilla flavored pipe tobacco. He kept his pipe in his blue jean jacket, next to a small leather bag full of tobacco. Next to his chair was a cool glass container filled with tobacco and a rack that could hold four or five pipes. I remember how he would bite the end of the pipe and every so often take a puff. He always smelled like pipe tobacco, and I loved it.

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To this day when I'm feeling blue, I sometimes can smell that tobacco. When I was little, he bought me a small corn con pipe of my own, so I could be just like him. No tobacco of course. We had the same Velcro shoes and haircut.

When it was time for bed, we would go into the bathroom and shave before bed.

He used a ceramic bowl with soap in it and a whisk. He would lather up and shave with a straight edge. Sometimes I even got to shave too. Every night Pepe would have a package of Zebra cakes and a glass of milk for a bedtime snack. When he knew I was coming he would buy an extra box just for me. He always wore blue pajamas, and set his teeth on the nightstand. He had a hairy chest and wore a necklace of Saint Christopher. When I had trouble sleeping I would play with his big, old, floppy ears until I fell asleep. I have no idea how he could stand it, but he did.

October 27, 1993 was the day the cancer won and the day he left me. It was a cold fall day in Maine not to uncommon. The leaves had changed color and begun to fall, but not as hard as a little boy who had just lost his best friend.

So this is not a normal drivers license, it is a license to travel in time. A way to relive the past or step back in time, even if only for a moment. It is my way of finding that which has been lost, and my way of remembering what was, what is, and what will be.

Lester F. ST Louis Rest In Peace Forever, your loving grandson Jeremy.

I-Search BACKGROUND (Goldfine ENG101)

By Linisa Beal My mother came from a very large family. She was born in 1948 and she was the tenth child of fifteen. My grandfather was a fisherman in MA and their home was located in Milbridge Maine, people would always say whenever my grandfather would come home after a month of fishing my grandmother would get pregnant. By the time my grandparents were done having children they had successfully raised ten girls and five boys over the span of 1928 to 1956. By successful I mean they married young, they built and lived in the same house 15

throughout their entire marriage, died in the same bed from the same type of cancer on the same day, Gram on Feb 4 1975 and Gramps on Feb 4 1980. Even after all that they were not the largest family in town, there was one larger with 17 children.

A family that large meant there was a lot of people to take care of but also a lot to pitch in and help with all that entailed. My mother, being #10, was an auntie before she was even born, was probably used for the real baby during playtime at some point, and grew to be the older sister of five younger sisters. She tells of all the skills that were taught to the girls, the older ones would encourage the younger and everyone received their lessons and homemaking skills from my gram. Skills they would one day pass on these traits to their daughters and sons.

The cooking lessons would be the lessons I would come to appreciate far beyond, learning how to sew, grow and can your own veg, wash cloth diapers, knit, crochet, and the list goes on.

I was nine years old when my gram passed away. She was the first of my four grandparents to die and as I remember the first person of significance in my life to die. I looked to the sky that day, envisioning my gram had gone to Heaven and remember the sky had ribbed shape clouds stretch across as far as I could see. I thought to myself, those must be the ribs of God and that is where she is now. I was after all nine.

At the time of her death she had 35 grandchildren, now none of us were extra special to her, but we all knew we were loved. You raise fifteen children and see if you want more running around all the time! As a result, we never had sleepovers with her or anything like that but the family that was close would visit on the weekends and we happened to live on the same street! The biggest treat going to her home was to sample whatever she was cooking that day. If you went down on a Saturday night, that was bean night, you would be able to taste test the hot bread as it came out of the over. She would only cut one end of the loaf of bread for a sample so you had to be one of the first six people in line or you had to wait until suppertime. One time she told me, cutting one slice off the loaf stopped the bread from cooking and made the bread tough. If you were lucky enough to be one of the six, yes, adults would push the children out of the way; your reward was a thick end slice of bread slathered in melted butter. You would never stick around inside to eat it as it would surely get snatched from your small fingers by someone that wasn't there on time! Grab it and growl became a game we learned young in life.

My mother and three of my aunties have all tried to teach me how to make 16

homemade bread like my Gram. I am what is known as the successful failure at bread making. I can make it side by side with someone. Do everything as they do it, our breads rise and bake at the same time, theirs taste incredible, mine is a hockey puck. Recently my brother learned this skill and I must say his bread taste even better than our mom's. He laughs at me for not being able to make bread. I am determined to learn how to make bread and acquire the feel of kneading and I'm counting on this paper to drive me to do it.

Excerpts from a longer paper and service learning project (see the poster in the hall) for Chemistry Basant Parady Hydrogenated Oils literature review

By Elizabeth Reilly Abstract Dietary oils and fats are simple solid and liquid forms of triglycerides.

Hydrogenation was invented as a way to make oils more solid at room temperature and reduce oxidative rancidity, increasing shelf life. Unsaturated fats naturally contain a cis- configuration double bond. Partially hydrogenated oils contain stereoisomers of the fatty acids known as trans-. Trans- isomer fatty acids can lead to adverse health effects, for they are processed in the human body differently than cis- configuration fatty acids.

Diet is such an important part of human health. Nutrition regulates proper metabolism and biosyntheses of compounds necessary to our health.

Many people don't understand how important their diet really is. Ordering a side of French fries with a hamburger doesn't seem like it would harm one's health.

If one was to normally eat a healthy diet, it wouldn't. Small amounts of the malignant fats present in processed foods such as French fries can be properly dispelled from the body. Many people, for various reasons, don't eat healthy.

People are often too busy or not home enough to cook healthy, homemade meals. The quicker food is provided, the more time is available to spend in other important aspects of their lives. Generally, processed foods are quick to prepare and affordable. This is very appealing to consumers. Some of the commercially processed foods readily available to the public contain ingredients that are dangerous to human health. Unless one knows what to look for in a list of ingredients and avoid, unhealthy compounds may exist in what they consume.

A good example of this is microwave popcorn. Popcorn is a seeming healthy whole grain food...or is it? A quick scan of the ingredient list on a package of kettle corn might reveal the presence of partially hydrogenated oils.

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Partially hydrogenated oils contain a type of fatty acid isomer known as trans-. 80% of trans-fats in peopleâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s diets come from synthetic hydrogenated vegetable oils. Hydrogenated oils were originally introduced in an attempt to avoid saturated fat and solidify oils to a desired texture. (8) Due to advancing medical technology, it was eventually discovered that the trans- fats present in partially hydrogenated oils had adverse health effects. Some states have banned the use of partially hydrogenated oils in restaurants. In 2006, New York City banned all synthetic trans- fats and ordered they all be removed by 2008. (1) According to the American Heart Association, the current recommendation is not to consume more than two grams of trans- fat a day. After reviewing the negative affects trans- fats have on the human body, it seems to be wiser to avoid it completely if possible. ...................................................................................................

Fatty acids can be either saturated or unsaturated. (1) Saturated fatty acids contain an alkane and a carboxyl group. They have only single bonds between their carbon atoms. They are very nonreactive. They are usually more solid and have higher melting points. Unsaturated fatty acids contain an unsaturated hydrocarbon and a carboxyl group. They have double bonds between their carbon atoms and are more reactive. They are normally found in liquid form at room temperature. The double bonds in unsaturated fatty acids contain functional groups on either side of the bond. Functional groups are where reactions take place on a given molecule. The functional groups on unsaturated fatty acids can accept more hydrogen atoms through a process known as hydrogenation. ...................................................................................................

Fats control inflammation, blood clotting, and brain development. The human body can metabolize compounds to form most fats. There are two kinds of fatty acids the body cannot create. These are known as essential fatty acids, for without them the body undergoes adverse health effects such as increased risk of heart attack, stroke, diabetes, cancer, depression, asthma, Attention deficit hyper disorder, Alzheimerâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s disease and others. Essential fatty acids support cardiovascular, reproductive, immune and nervous systems. They help create and repair cell membranes, ensuring proper nutrient absorption and waste removal for the cell. Linoleic (omega-6) fatty acid and linolenic (omega-3) fatty acid are the two essential fatty acids. They are long chain polyunsaturated fatty acids and play an important role in metabolic functions such as the biosynthesis of mediators like prostaglandins. Prostaglandins are bioactive lipids that are 18

involved in controlling smooth muscle contractions, blood pressure, inflammation, and body temperature. Olienic (omega-9) fatty acid is a long chain monounsaturated fatty acid that shares metabolic roles similar to omega-3 and omega-6 fatty acids. The human body is able to produce small amounts of omega-9, but not as much as considered necessary for dietary needs.

The majority of the digestion of triglycerides occurs in the stomach by pancreatic lipase. There the fatty acids are separated into their free forms. (5) Cholesterol and blood fats are transported by low-density lipoproteins (LDL) throughout the body. High-density lipoproteins are thought to transport them back to the liver to be expelled from the body. The more solid a fat is the more damage is caused to the body, like clogging of arteries with plaque buildup (arteriosclerosis). Cholesterol and blood fats clog arteries. (6) Trans- fatty acids are shown to double the risk of heart disease in woman. (6) They have been shown to increase LDL and decrease HDL, which is a main component in coronary heart disease. (1) According to Brian Olshansky M.D. Cardiologist and University of Iowa health professor of internal medicine, “putting hydrogen in the wrong place. It's like making a plastic….the body doesn't know what to do with them...the body can't break them down and use them correctly. Normal fats are very supple and pliable, but the Trans fatty acid is a still fat that can build up in the body and create havoc.” (7) Bibliography #1 www.nih.nih.gov/medlineplus/ency/article/002468.html #2 www.oregonstate.edu/learn/fat.html #3 http://medical-dictionary.thefreedictionary.com/glycerol #4 www.2chemistry.msu.edu/faculty/reusch/virttxt_lml/lipids.html #5 http://lipidlibrary.aocs.org/frying/n-tufa/index.htm #6 www.umm.edu/features/transfats.htm #7 http://psa-rising.com/eatingwell/transfat092003.htm #8 www.webmd.com/diet/features/trans-fats-science-and-risks #9 http://lipidlibrary.aocs.org/lipids/whatlip/index.him #10 http://psa-rising.com/eatingwell/transfat092003.htm #11(http://jn.nutrition.org/content/128/5/875.full) “Poor Digestibility of Fully Hydrogenated Soybean Oil in Rats: A Potential Benefit of Hydrogenated Fats and Oils” By Randall J. Kaplan and -Carol E. Greenwood

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Description of an object for 101 John Goldfine

By Mandi Murray I remember the first day the first day we moved to Charleston. My sister pulled me in a little red wagon down the front lawn, through the gate of the wooden fence that enclosed a somewhat overgrown field, down to a small pond. Behind me was our house. It was a big white farmhouse with a red barn attached and a small sign at the top that read "1895.â&#x20AC;?

This is the place that holds some of my best memories and the place that made me who I am today. I chose this as my object because I can't think of anything else that holds so much meaning and relevance to me. Each room in that house has different memories and feelings. The kitchen was home to countless thanksgivings, birthdays, Sunday dinners, and bitch sessions. The table was dark, heavy wood and held all of our dents, marks, and dings. Each imperfection had a story. It's where we all sat and ate dinner every night and drank hot chocolate after playing in the snow all day. The wood stove near the door kept us warm without fail on winter nights. The sound and smell of wood burning is imprinted forever in my mind.

The living room was our weekend getaway. Me and my sister would set up our sleeping bags on the floor, watch our rented videos (yes, I said videos), eat our candy and camp out until Sunday night. This is where we opened our Christmas presents, pawed through our stockings and got lost in our new toys for days.

The old, brown plaid couch held us when we napped, when we were sick, and when we sat and laughed for no reason at all. Behind it was a perfect place to run when my Dad would turn out the lights and we would play hide 'n seek.

Underneath it, a forgotten Easter egg.

Outside were 60 acres of open fields, woods, flower gardens, snow forts, tree houses, and endless possibilities. This is where we spent most of our time and only came in when we were called for dinner.

There's not an inch of that land we didn't touch. The barn held old farm equipment, miscellaneous antiques, and even baby cows at one point.

We had wide-open space, freedom, plenty to do, and each other. We had a good life and a good family.

As we grew older, our parents grew apart. The house that was filled with laughter, warmth, and good times slowly started to crumble. In its place came yelling, tears and divorce. The house hadn't changed but the people inside did.

My mom got the house in the divorce, my dad was forced to find another home, and shortly after I graduated from high school, I left that tangled mess behind.

The big white farmhouse was stripped of all its love and care. As my family fell apart so did that house. The porch is falling off, the gardens are overgrown, the metal shingles on the roof bang up and down on a windy day, and the rock wall 20

behind the barn has washed away. It now sits quiet and cold, almost like it died without a family to fill it.

I still go home on holidays and on rare occasions but it is not the same place. It is only a shell of what it used to be. But I still love that big white farmhouse with the red barn and could never give back to it all it has given me. Someday I dream of owning it and making it all it once was. Most things in life you can't fix, but some things you can. I feel I at least owe it that much. But I choose to remember only the good times. So here I sit in my little red wagon, on my way through the tall field to the pond, our house is right behind me.

With An Empathetic Eye

By Jakob Burns I Curse the Interjection Of night.

Remembering the haunting faces of the public transit system.

Smoking on stoops in early mid-spring.

Those with sad faces not unlike my dying grandfather suffering, as I ran teary eyed from the room never to return.

I am haunted by the revelations of society, the sunrises and incurring dusk's.

Dusk and itâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s optimistic darkness.

Optimism and junkies in urban windows.

Handing dollar bills to the homeless, homeless who ask for quarters.

The homeless who know better.

In the hope rotten tenements and churches.

Hysteric Bodhisattva's, everyone.

1,000 sad faces every night rotting away, on stoops and in chimneys.

Itâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s beyond healthy insanity, or the redemption of insanity.

II Every day something old.

Learning's of treacheries, and crazy therapies.

Love and nature, and the nature of love.

These following through every year, and every year 21

perennials blooming like the Benny addicts of the underworld.

Going around never questioning obviousness communicating through irrational gibberish; through the gates of the rationalized mind. Screaming of a desire to scream of: Love!

Peace! Depression! Addictions! Superstitions!

Of Phobias and Dreams. Dreams of misty eyes and the unhealthy insanity of marriage licenses.

Sitting up with the desire to sleep at three in the morning. Tiring over monotony, together...Alone.

No emotion like the old shrews of existentialism.

All who dissolve in the sands of time. On some New England sea glass beach.

Time is in eternity which also dissolves. In a matter of emotion.

Thus preferring silence I try not to sneeze or hiccup or illuminate a groan of pain.

And after several years of silence the frog ponds of our youth are left alone. Echoing back tears of sincerity and finding not a single genuinely sympathetic ear.

And years later it could not be found. For it had finally dissolved into obscurity.

And is now only known to the hazy memories of passersby in cars and cars and the eventual nothingness of time come after.

III And still the robotic mind of culture hums and envisions time! Hallucinations! Experimentation!

Social Interventions! Exclamations!

Feeling the purest forms of desperation. Catatonia in the loneliness of summer.

Going blind in the fear of intrusion.

Reflecting light heartiness and the pure excellence of the conscience.

Which exists here within us, apart from us, and even in its own mind. Preserving the intensity of the soul, destroying the alienation of indifference, and purifying the genius of every square inch of solitude.

In the void of solitude, anonymous. Lonely in the void of solitude! Desperation! Exhaustion! Entrenchment! In the void of solitude. Solitude in the embers of thought!

22

Thoughts engraving the pages seen only in the dullest of lights and by the brightest of stars.

Which sit high weeping watching irrelevance and the relevancy of weeping watching the stars weeping at the impossibilities of the destruction of the mind.

The Mind which confesses to its secret enumerations and its vast and holy spiritualist practices, in its childhood home. But after 20 years it finally closes up and retreats into oblivious existence.

Oblivious to the grandeuristic attachment to the heart.

Which sleeps and dreams pacifism.

In oblivion or in desperation or in the total desolation of winter. Which juxtapositions the dynamo mind of junkies whose mind is terrific and an absolute piece of genius.

Which hides away in silence and in secrecy so it can cry as all minds do at some point.

And at some point the mind will climb free from the vicious mentality of the imposition of negative culture.

Which with disgust hates, and fails to separate love from hate. And looms on the horizon like a distant thunder storm which themes the upcoming night.

Which feeds the soul and quenches the thirst of 24 hours without water.

And youâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;ll howl in your waking hours and in your dreams.

For the soul has finally fallen out of the light of doom.

IV And in waning night the horror of these things strike you and shake the core of your mind awake. Out of hypnosis and into the clear visibility of Eid. Which thrives alive for three days in my waking mind shouting back the importance of love for all.

But now in the corner, and crying out my soul not having the energy to talk.

And in August, I sit out for three hours. The rain halting or not.

And thoughts...With thoughts...Of: War! Peace!

Resistance! Religion! Famine! Thirst (which rests heavily on my mind) Yet Rain! Here, where I am, where We were.

I see my old school by the riverside gone abandoned 23

emptied now and where only dusty boxes stay.

Truly dilapidated. Gone from the memories of all. My memories which are â&#x20AC;&#x153;Illâ&#x20AC;? think this now and for a second wonders what earthly angel placed a stick upon the rock just feet from me.

And how long these pine trees have grown. I sit and wonder what about these flowers. How deeply is the mind set in these things which elude us all.

And I do not know, I simply do not know.

Desperation accompanying me down the road. And Hope a step ahead. With empathy just above my head or beside me. And all the madness and hate is about in the mist.

Which is illuminated and thus ceases by the light of truth and in the void of totality.

V And in deep morning still black. I decide never to sleep again.

Be free from these magnificent dreams of old experience and free from Hell.

Which is escaped limping from an emptied field crying, God damn it!

That field is holy. And the people are people always!

Happiness is great, Sadness is beauty, anger dehumanizingly horrid.

People are seraphim's and unknowingly know it all.

Collapsing to the ground and chanting strange obscenities and mystic sutras of enlightenment, which carry up and flow in the air to strike the ears of the truly mental who have finally rattled down the tenements, and walk away from cities; Cold and alone with their unseen unknown enumerations and with their aspirations.

With reality in the back of their minds and optimism controlling thoughts.

Apart from materialism and animosity. Collected in the stanzas and syllables of mad gibberish and ancient languages that no longer exist.

And me dropped in the middle going into darkness. Dogs yelping cries of captivity. Moistened by the dew in the shadows of the mystic night.

Rocks falling on windows such a primitive call which 24

could free you from the psychosis of your own mind. Which has been controlled for far too many years and is now as clear as the sky.

With blue satisfaction of the plain, incomparable, absolute, joy, and beauty of life.

Scene and dialogue exercise for 162 John Goldfine

By Jade Daigle That day was one of those days.

I woke up with a headache. Clenching and grinding my pounding aching teeth all night long is rough on the brain.

I'm addicted to Orajel. I can't believe I waited this long. Idiot!

With my mouth numbed, I was starting to feel not only hungry, but able to eat.

Scrambled eggs was my instant idea.

The kitchen. Disgusting. I go to the fridge. Eggs, check! Cupboard. Frying pan, fail, all dirty. Cupboard. Bowl, fail. Drawer. Fork, fail. Everything is dirty.

He promised me he would do the dishes. He hasn't done a single one! This drives me crazy! If you say to me that you'll do something, than do it! Ugh! I cook, I do the laundry, just wash the damn dishes!

Raging in my head, on and on like that for a while, throwing spoons across the counter, and dropping stacks of plates and bowls into the sink. Pushing things around, and making tons of noise. Eventually, he pokes his head around the corner.

“What are you doing?” he asked.

“Dishes. What’s it look like?” “ Like you're trying to break something. Go sit down. I'll do it.” “ Isn't that what you said yesterday?” I said, dropping a rinsed bowl onto the 25

pile of silverware on the towel on the counter.

“Seriously, Jade?” “ You know I don't need this now. You know how much I hate this. Can't you just help? Do some of them? So they don't pile up? I need clean dishes, to like cook, and feed you and stuff.” “ Just go relax. I don't need this attitude from you.” “ And I don't need you to tell me you'll do something, and then have you not do it. What I need is clean dishes!” “ Whatever, Jade. I can't stand it when you act like this.”

I didn't end up eating. My dishes still aren't clean.

I went to school. By the end of my first class, I was crying. My teeth, my head.

I couldn't see, I couldn't think. A friend drove me to Wal-Mart. Spent my last ten bucks on more Orajel and ibuprofen. I took six. And ate nearly filled my mouth with cream. I went to the library. Study, study, study, until my next class.

After school, I came home, got my paperwork, and went to the doctors. I drove 20 minutes, to get there, and find the like extending out the front doors. Great.

I waited and I waited and I waited, in a line forever long. I didn't really have the time. But at the same time, I needed to take it.

I hate that place. Stuffy. It’s brighter than it used to be. But still. And it has the illusion of clean. Move the magazines on the end table, you can tell. Or just look at the plants. Ugly fake plants. Whoever remembers to dust the plants? Is there someone that is supposed to do that? Is that written in some ones job description somewhere? Plant Duster. They aren't doing a very good job. And why not real plants? Why the fake ones?—I hate it because it makes people sick. If you aren't sick when you go there, you're sick when you leave. All the germs, all the people. Coughing and sneezing and talking and breathing. The air is weird. It smells like chemicals. Like someone tried to clean the air, and failed.

Finally, I made my way to the desk. I sit down with my paperwork. The 26

woman is on the phone. She looks pleasant enough, except for the odd expression on her face. Maybe sheâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s bitter, or maybe she has gas, or maybe she is having a bad day, or maybe sheâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s been smelling these air-chemicals too long.

Her voice is flat. Monotone. Robotic. You can tell she does this every day.

You can tell she hates her job.

As I waited for her to get off the phone, I looked around the waiting room. A few dozen tiny groups smattered about. Families. Huddled together, each keeping their distance from the next. Seemingly terrified of catching some plague, without at all caring about the one they are spreading.

Her conversation ended, and she caught my attention. I pulled out my paperwork. We arranged dates for my surgery, and I got out of there. I hate doctors.

Home. My floors are dirty. My dishes are still on the counter. I have three loads of laundry, and homework. And my child is unruly.

I never should have gotten out of bed.

I-Search Background ENG101 I-Searching

By Mark Tolman Ever since I was able to crawl around in the floor, I was surrounded by equipment. There was constantly something in the dooryard, like a skidder one day, to an excavator the next and everything between. I recall logging trucks, hotrods, tractors, a wood splitter with a 70 HP John Deere diesel retrofitted on it, plow trucks, daily drivers and projects. My dad is very mechanical and sharp as a tack when it comes to figuring out anything electrical or mechanical. My uncle ( a transmission specialist by trade), both sets of grandfathers, brother and even one sister of mine all have worked on and enjoyed vehicles of every shape and size. Being inundated by mechanical objects is a mixed blessing, as I have an early education in fixing and driving rigs, cars and trucks My very first car came to me at the age of 11, a field bomb given to me to work on and drive into the ground by my uncle Eric. Since the age of 12 to the age of 18, I have owned six vehicles. However, my interest in vehicles all started when I got my first pickup I began to restore. When I heard about a deal 27

on a pickup, for 50 bucks, I was ecstatic. Being only 13, my father took me to the place where it was parked, and in no time we found it, right alongside 40 other cars and trucks in a local scrap yard. Being young and ambitious, I didn’t seem to mind the fact that this truck needed a rebuild (in the shape of an antiquated 305 small block, gas), brakes, a windshield, and wheels and tires (as it was sitting on its hubs in the dry summer dirt). I didn’t seem to mind the rust, the fact that the interior was shacked from sitting outside for years in the Florida sun with a broken vent window. I didn’t even seem to notice or care about the sun burnt paint and dried out seals, or the weeds growing up from between the frame rails. I even didn’t care that someone years ago broke in the truck and stole the radio, and the column shifter knob was missing. I did notice, however, potential. And being a youngster, I needed a project. Something to do with my hands.

Looking back now, I’m glad I did persevere, and not give up when something went wrong, time and time again. I’m glad, because now I have a kick ass truck for only my time and labor and parts invested. I learned A lot from having a truck to work on, from every one teaching me what they know, to learning new and interesting things every time I worked on it. The motor in that truck was the rebuild I ever did, and it taught me valuable lessons, as to what to avoid next time and what to do the same. I learned a lot from having a pickup to work on and restore, because of my interest in the truck, and my curiosity. I’d say my truck is more of a tool than a truck, being a way to unlock my future so to speak, allowing me to have a sound understanding of electrical, brakes, transmissions, engines, bodywork etc…, and all from working on a pickup as a project.

However, after a few years of getting this pickup to where it would run and drive, I got another project. This time it was another truck, but instead of a gasoline motor, it was a diesel. Being a 1982 GMC crew cab dually, it was a big truck, and an even bigger project. The truck had over two hundred thousand miles on it, and the motor still ran strong. That’s diesel for you, high mileage, and still running strong. Bleeding the fuel lines and hearing the old workhorse run for the first time was a pleasure. It’s more of a sensory thing, with cool sounds and smells from the combusting diesel fuel. However, wanting to know more about diesels, I soon stumbled upon the most desirable diesel engine, the Cummins turbo diesel.

Ever since I found out about diesels, I started to wonder how they worked, and why they did what they do. So, as usual for me, I started asking questions.

I talked to my uncle the mechanic, and he pointed me in the right direction as to how they work, but I still had an insatiable appetite for information and facts, so I further researched these new to me motors. I looked in books, online, and I talked to other people about diesels. As a general rule of thumb, I found out that 28

the majority of people that owned and worked on diesels preferred Cummins as the number one engine for trucks on the road and off. The fisherman run Cummins in boats, power units and other units. Over the road trucks even use Cummins engines, and a lot of earth moving equipment also use this motor. So, as normal to me, I asked why? Why is the Cummins turbo diesel the most diverse and utilitarian diesel engine that people prefer?

I also got to wondering, since a lot of people use this engine, I found out that the earlier version came in a 12v configuration that used no electronics.

The later version came with 24v, and electronic injection. So, naturally, I wondered which was better.

Week 6 Writing Prompt # 27 (John Goldfine) The safest place in the world....

By Sara Chambers The fifty-year-old house could certainly use a face-lift. When first built or thrown together I should say my grandparents were expecting their first child.

Little did they know this tiny two bedroom box would later house not just one but all FIVE of their son's. This house has been a retreat for many heartbreaks, joy's, even deaths.

Some people would see the uneven, slanted floor's and relate it to poverty or lacking some way in the success of life. This house has lived one of the richest lives any house has ever had the pleasure of sheltering. It has taken my twentyfive years to realize this myself. I used to be bothered by the cupboards in the kitchen, repainted multiple time so you could see the strides of the paint brush and how because the house is tilting the they would never stay shut, always swinging open just a crack.

I always considered the exposed furnace and water pump in the small hallway to the bathroom an eye sore. After spending so much time there during the divorce of my parents, the furnace kicking on and the water pump taking off became soothing to me. As I felt forgotten by my parent's the house and all its flaws became familiar and comforting to me. The big window in the kitchen looking out towards the road reminds me of my grandfatherâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s death. Sitting in front of this window at the kitchen table, I remember listening to the baby monitor on the windowsill, the connecting monitor in my dying grandfatherâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s room.

Hearing him moan, groan, and mutter on about things that no one could make 29

sense of. As a younger child even teen I never would have expected that this shack, this house would become my retreat and still to this day be the place I felt the safest.

Response to prompt “Just calm down and start at the beginning . . . “ENG 162 John Goldfine

By Jade Daigle “Just calm down, and start at the beginning. Tell me everything.”

I looked her over as she climbed into the car. She had blood on her cheek, and tears streaming down her face. A complete wreck. She was hyperventilating and shaking, in a panic.

“Take a deep breath sweetie” I said, “and tell me everything. Take your time, nice and easy.”

She pulled a pack of Marb 100's out of her purse and started struggling with the lighter. She was shaking too much. I took them from her, lit up, and stuck the smoke in her lips. She took a huge drag, and let the smoke out, slowly.

“Sweetie? I thought you were babysitting this afternoon. What on earth happened?”

She began to talk. I had to draw the information out of her with question after question as we drove around down town. She told me of two men: one tall one short, both fat, and claiming to be brothers, who appeared in the house where she was babysitting. She told me that they talked a lot, but none of it seemed to make any sense. She said she only drank some water, but she experienced a feeling of paralysis. She said that they raped her. And she said her mother told her it was her fault.

She called me. She said she didn't know what else to do.

As she told her story her voice would trail off, become airy and distant, and then come back. Her eyes were huge. She kept spacing out, and I would have to bring her back. But if I touched her, she jumped.

I tried to convince her to go to the hospital, but she wanted nothing to do with it.

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We drove around for a while. She demanded a shower. I tried to convince her to go to the hospital first, but she wouldn't go.

She didn't want to be alone; she had me sit in the bathroom as she showered.

She wouldn't speak; just let the warmth wash away all the evidence.

I told her she needed to go, because if she went, they might be able to catch the men, that she might be able to protect other girls.

She agreed, but was most disagreeable at the hospital. Being there sent her back into a panic. They shuffled us through quickly. I had to do most of the talking until we got into the patient room. Everything had to be confidential.

She didn't want to talk to them. She didn't trust them. She wanted to go home.

But I talked to her. Slowly, eventually, I got her to tell them everything. I pulled the story out of her again, like I had in the car. Taking cues from the nurse to get the necessary information. They wanted her to go into detail. She said she couldn't do it. She wouldn't tell anyone what they actually did. She would only cry and shake.

They did what parts of the rape kit she would allow. Swabbing her throat, and scraping the gunk from under her nails.

She spent the night on my couch, and left in the morning before I woke up. I haven't heard from her since. I called. I texted. But nothing.

I hope she doesn't believe her mother.

Response to prompt, “If these clothes could talk” ENG 162 John Goldfine "If these clothes could talk...."

By Sarah Chambers Part 1: As I walk into the local Goodwill, there are seas of clothes. Bright clothes, reds, pinks or even blacks have stories of wild nights out, flashy shiny sequins obviously used to get attention at some point, I suspect after normal business hours.

Wedding dresses, they’re bought new, used once, and passed on. Maternity clothes, another type of clothing that will be temporarily used for nine months 31

and then passed on.

Part 2: The reds, pinks, and even blacks used at one point in time in a desperate attempt to get attention, nighttime scene where you can transform yourself into something other than what people in your everyday life see you as. Clothes you use in a certain scene among other people competing with you for the same purpose.

The wedding dresses, the kind you find in these places look as though as they are from the eighties. That one special day defined too much by a dress, tacky decorations, and a color scheme that is hit or miss really.

The maternity clothes worn well you can tell, used to flatter the ever-growing figure of a pregnant woman only to be forgotten after those nine short months.

Part 3 Wearing these flashy clothes are an artificial way to try and get the attention of men. In hopes of not only a one night stand but the unconditional love, the result of the one night stand, which we all know is most likely not going to happen. The wedding dresses, at first glimpse you may think define someone’s special day and therefore "Happily ever after" If they made it. Thinking more into these dresses makes me wonder if these marriages actually lasted, is the woman that wore this dress and her life-long partner still together to this day?

Maternity clothes are more than just clothes; they are a symbol of life. Used to accommodate the new life growing and preparing to live in this world and create not only a new life for itself but for the people anxiously waiting to care for it.

Theme on “Alienation” ENG 162 John Goldfine Alienation

By Jacob Allenwood His day will soon come. Yet I dread it; have nightmares about it.

I love my dog. I’m not sure I have ever loved anything as much (let’s disregard people for now, honestly I can’t say if I love people more...oops). Everything about him I love, well ok, that was a bit of an exaggeration, but I will miss everything he does. Even the puking on the floor, messing up my bed, covering my floor with hair. I would rather those things happen than him be gone.

His dark black hair looks majestic on him, but terrible on the floor, and on my bed, and on the rugs, and in my mouth, and in every article of clothing no matter 32

how many wash cycles it has been through. His hair is like a disease, once it touches something, it will never go away. That will probably make it harder when he leaves for good.

His face tells a story in an instant, at first glance. It shows both youthfulness and wisdom, energy and age. His eyes speak of a willingness to do, but the cataracts tell of the difficulties of growing old. There is a peace in the brown of his eyes. A warmth and a sterility at once. His white whiskers add character, distinction into his face. I always tell people he has a wizard beard. He is a majestic wizard that is wise. That he is included in the stories of Greek gods and goddesses.

Eleven years of having him around, I am used to him just being there. Even if I didn’t do anything with him, I could just look over and he would be there. He would comfort me, by just laying, being. He has slept with me in my bed for the last 11 years. Every night that I slept at my house, I slept with him. I can’t imagine the feeling of sleeping without him. I already can’t get to sleep if he is in a different room.

He has been my friend longer than any of my other friends. Always there for me to talk to, to spend time with. Even in his old age, I think he is the cutest dog ever. He is smart, handsome, and loyal. My step dad said Rosko is the best dog he has ever had.

His day will soon come. Yet I dread it; have nightmares about it.

Description of a person for ENG162 John Goldfine

By Molly Sadosky She’s a mother of 5. Ever since the birth of the first child, she was a homemaker. She put aside her career to raise her children, while her husband worked 3 jobs. She had three sons and two daughters. Her schedule consisted of: -Fix breakfast, make coffee -Wake kids up round 1 -Feed kids -Wake kids up round 2 -Get kids ready for school -Have own cup of coffee & relax for 15 minutes -Shower, and get dressed.

-Do laundry -Clean Kitchen 33

-Eat Lunch -Put the youngest down for a nap round 1 -Pick up around the house -Put the youngest down for a nap round 2 -Wait for older kids to come home, help with homework -Wake the youngest -Check homework -Make dinner -Feed her little monsters and husband -Get kids ready for bed -Go to bed -Repeat The motherâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s schedule stayed the same, and it varied in some parts. The youngest munchkin grew, so there was no need for naps. The oldest began to move out, and the children no longer needed to be helped or woken up or put to sleep. Now, all her rambunctious children are grown, and are adults. However, she has a retired husband now, who depends on her. She has a career of her own as day care teacher. Her schedule now consists of: -Wake up at the break of dawn -Make coffee -Make breakfast for husband -Get coffee for self, and for husband -Read kindle for 2 hours -Make lunch for self, and for husband -Shower, and get dressed.

-Head to work -Play with kids -Go home -Make dinner -Eat dinner -Read kindle until 9 -Bed -Repeat She is content with her life now, less frazzled, and happier. She claims she misses being a stay-at-home mom, but everyone knows deep down inside sheâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s skipping and frolicking through a field of joy and with no children.

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Week 6 Theme: â&#x20AC;&#x153;Placeâ&#x20AC;? ENG 162 John Goldfine The Safest Place in the World

By Sara Chambers Coming from a not so fortunate family the first time I walked into this two story newly renovated and updated house I was extremely impressed. It was this house that taught me the lesson of home is what you make it. Home is not defined by a structure, but by the people in it.

The kitchen was what caught my eye at first. The shiny tiled floors with the still bright white grout in between them, the beautiful pine cupboards, the granite counters were gorgeous and something I had always had an eye for. All the appliances were new stainless steel with matching faucets at the sink. This scene instantly stirred my hunger for cooking. This kitchen summed up all I had ever wanted in a kitchen.

I couldn't for the life of me understand why the owner of the house, a bachelor, and a friend of a friend would have concerns with such an accommodating kitchen. The kitchen didn't look like it was used nearly enough. I instantly 35

could picture myself in the kitchen baking, cooking, and filling the house with intoxicating aromas of delicious foods.

When the owner of this house, we'll say Mark, and I hit it off it was like something I had been dreaming of. Just a month into our relationship I was moved into this magnificent "brand new, old house" and within three months of moving in pregnant with what we would later find out was our son.

I thought for sure that this house was going to be the foundation of a happy and loving family. As the shiny, dark hardwood floors heated up under your feet while wood furnace in the basement filled the house and wrapped its warmth around you I thought that this was it. The eggshell walls and white trim were just a blank canvas for what this house could and what I thought would become.

But eventually the only room in this house I did not grow to resent and despise the look of was the bigger of the two spare bedrooms that became our sonâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s nursery. It was perfect, the rug beneath my bare feet felt as soft as a fresh patch of moss, the kind you always wish you had time to curl up in and take a nap.

The walls an off white with a whole jungle theme of baby jungle animals. Baby Monkey's, lion cubs, giraffes, zebra's, etc. as innocent and unharmed my unborn son. The ceiling painted a light blue, the perfect shade for the perfect summer sky with light fluffy white clouds.

When the reality sunk in the owner of the house did not match the flawless, welcoming feeling of the house itself self I was crushed. I resorted to the nursery many nights when things got bad, the arguments got loud, the words got more hurtful than any swing of the fist could ever feel. The tiny, freshly washed onesies, one piece button up pajamas, and other shrunken down little outfits hung in the closet, the lamp dimly lit that I imagined myself sitting up at night feeding my son under this was where I withdrew once the fighting stopped.

Everything about this room, the innocence, the promising future of my son, soothed me and numbed the pain.

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ENG 101 John Goldfine Graf #9 Kenneth Goodman Look inside my wallet and you’ll see the normal collection of credit cards, photo I.D., and a couple bucks in case the store I’m frequenting doesn’t accept plastic (happens more than you would think for being the 21 st century). Besides that, there is a small cloth and thread patch which you won’t see everywhere. It is only 3 inches in length but took 62 days of hell to earn. I remember my first grueling week. I wish I could have counted the amount of miles I walked and ran, the pushups and sit-ups, the hours of flutter kicks just to make it past selection; to be one of the 250 to attempt what only one in five would eventually accomplish. The revered Ranger Tab. “Behold! This little piece of cloth, this is why you are here! It is a tricky son of a bitch though. Just when you have it in your sights, the little fucker will up and kick you straight in the dick and make you patrol another 15 clicks through a swamp at night! DO NOT QUIT! DO NOT GIVE IN! NEVER SURRENDER! And it will be yours” our instructor barked at us.

So, for the next 55 days I patrolled, bled, fell, swore, got 2 hours (if I was lucky) of sleep a night, ate one meal slowly throughout the whole day, waded in swamps through chest high water for 2 weeks in the same swamp smelling clothing, climbed mountains, traversed rivers, lakes, and what seemed the greater part of Georgia, set up ambushes, ran after a non-existent rabbit spawned from the hallucinations of my sleep deprived mind (which I had full intention on eating ), puked, bled some more, and wondered many times why the fuck am I doing this?. I look back on all of it and wouldn’t change a thing. This little piece of cloth accompanies me everywhere as a reminder that no obstacle is out of reach. No hill too far.

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ENG 101 John Goldfine Graf # 12 Kenneth Goodman I try to gather myself, my head ringing. I feel pain everywhere. It’s so damned hot. Why would anyone choose to live somewhere so fucking hot? I feel all the blood rushing to the top of my head. Wait a minute. I’m upside down.

Everything seems so bright. Why is everyone shouting? It sounds like everyone is talking through a tin can. I think we hit an IED or something. I can see everyone in the vehicle, but where is my gunner, Gutiérrez? I break out the rest of the window next to me and crawl out of the vehicle. The ground was tan and grey, a very strange color. It was cracked and dried in the desert sun. What the fuck just happened? I pull up my rifle and do what I know to do, scan for targets, assess the situation, and determine the probability of an ambush. I don’t see anything of note. My attention turns back to the carnage of the vehicle. I think I found Gutiérrez. He’s not going home.

Response to writing prompt; ENG 162 John Goldfine Safe Haven: (Prompt 27)

By Lindsey Allen No one speaking. No television set buzzing. No music blaring. No child yelling. No car accelerating. My expectations seem unrealistic living in such a busy world, but I truly value silence. Constantly encompassed in chaos this is hard to find, but

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in here it is quiet.

No onlookers glaring. No promises unfulfilled. No qualifications required. No judgment. My own faults are unwelcome. Being quick to judge along with other traits we as human beings possess make it unbearable to surround myself with this planet's population. But in here no prejudice resides.

No illuminations protruding. No sun burning. No headaches forthcoming.

No warmth welcomed. My dislike of brightness would be inconvenient to a "normal" person's average day. Living is impossible without excessive amounts of light, but in here it is shaded.

No assignments unfinished. No applications to be filled. No unwanted meetings scheduled. My hours are limited leaving me stressed beyond belief.

Every waking moment is consumed by daily worries of finishing this, that, and the other thing. But in here there are no commitments.

No continuous wars. No family members bickering. No grudges held. No feelings conflicted. My firsthand experiences of human interaction create feelings that contradict one another. Individuals existing in various communities hold a sense of pride and a obsesses over always being right, but in here it is peaceful.

No self-esteem sensed. No confidence lacking. No assumptions painful.

No perfection defined. My troubles unwillingly shape themselves around the opinions of others. Publicized society obligates everyone must be the skinniest, the most adventurous, the tallest, the smartest, the prettiest, but in here being oneself is always acceptable.

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Description of a person for ENG 162 john Goldfine

by Sara Chambers He has always been so intimidating with his thick black beard covering his face, after twenty-five years I have yet to see his jaw line in the flesh. I can only suspect what he might look like barefaced. Even in pictures, the earliest picture of my father without a beard is his freshmen year of high school. I'm sure not a lot has changed since then.

All of my father's features are so intimidating not just to me, but to many people.

I've always felt safe as long as people knew who my father was. His prominent broad distinct Native American nose, his well-defined cheekbones, allowing his deep dark eye's to set back just enough to be mysterious. Even when he's laughing gives off a strong sense of seriousness. Then there is his hair, his hair that would normally be down to the middle of his back spirals up in a tight curl to the middle of his shoulder blades, his hair is the most memorable thing to me about him. Many evening's after his shower I would braid it in a tight braid all the way down the very bottom and wrap around it the tiny elastic he'd hand me when I was done.

Most would say my father's most intimidating feature would be his forearms.

Being the youngest out of all my cousin's I was always tagging along trying to keep up and do as they did. While trying to get my oldest cousin Chris to sneak me a taste of his whiskey I got the response "Sara 'Lizabeth! You seen the size of your dad's forearms lately!? I don't think so!â&#x20AC;? Discouraged at the time this now makes me laugh and feel safe knowing that as long as my dad is my dad I will always be protected.

Essay ENG 101 02 Delia Kenny How Harry Potter changed my life Travis Cunningham When I was eight years old, I had trouble reading and writing; I was behind my class, and for a few years was forced into a special tutoring program.

I hated reading and I hated the extra time I was forced to spend on it because it was difficult for me to grasp. What seemed so easy for my peers was beyond my comprehension. I could not make sense of many of the combinations that made up words, and could not understand the meaning of the combinations of 40

the few words that were within my grasp. It did not help that I was completely uninterested in the subject; being brought in to try and read the same sentences day after day would tax my current attention span. For my eight-year-old self it was an accomplishment if I remained focused on my task for more than a few seconds. In a final effort to get me interested in reading, my mother bought me Harry Potter and The Goblet of Fire, because I had shown some interest in the movies.

When my mother gave me Harry Potter and The Goblet of Fire I was reluctant to try it, but at the time, my family was rather pressed for money and I felt guilty causing this extra expense because of my ineptness. So, determined to read the entire thing, I began my journey into J. K. Rowling’s world of fantasy. I was quickly lost in Harry’s adventures; the fantastic realm where magic, dragons, and an incredible school for wizards existed captured my imagination, the thrilling fast-paced plot kept me interested, while the main character was surprisingly relatable. I found myself caring about these fictional people and their struggles; I had to read on to see what happened next, to see what crazy creature or spell would be revealed. I remember that first day; I started reading on my living room couch with an attitude of grim resignation, only to find the next time I looked up from the pages that hours had passed and it was time for dinner.

Those days were uneasy for me; due to my family’s problems, I wasn’t able to participate in many of the social events that other children seemed to be doing constantly. My parent’s strictness and zero tolerance for anything they considered unintelligent saw that my time with television was extremely regulated. But, as I started reading these things seemed less and less important.

I didn’t want to go to the movies or watch television; I had to get home to where Harry waited for me so we could see what happened next. My love for The Goblet of Fire quickly expanded into a love of the entire Harry Potter series, and that quickly turned into a love of fantasy in general, which evolved into a love of reading.

My ability to read and write quickly improved. I began to understand why written language was important, and how it could be fun. Soon English became my favorite subject, my appreciation for the Harry Potter series opened me up to reading in general, and I found that many of the reading assignments and books we were assigned were interesting as well, despite the fact that few contained wizards or magic. I began to think of books as movies or television shows, things which at my age of eight were soaked up as often as possible, but much more detailed; I could get into the heads of the characters and understand what they were feeling as they went through their lives and adventures, and I found their reasons for doing things and the situations that made up who they were to be fascinating.

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I certainly didn’t have a lack of reading material; my father had amassed a seemingly endless supply of books of the fantasy genre that were each more interesting than the last. When my family moved to Cornville the physical distance from town mixed with the lack of internet limited my social opportunities even more, and I quickly found that reading was the only interesting thing to do. I began to read more and more, until I would literally wake up, grab my book, and read until it was time to go to bed again. Series after series fell to my insatiable hunger for books; I soon expanded into science and historical fiction and, since I was reading from my father’s collection, began to read increasingly profound books like R. A. Salvatore’s morally soulsearching series The Dark Elf Trilogy when I started 7th grade, and Greg Bear’s massively complicated Eon before I finished 8th.

I won’t say that I completely understood all of the complicated themes and terminology in some of these books, (you practically need a doctorate in science to follow Eon), but reading them forced me to consider abstract ideas and difficult situations that expanded my mind and increased my intellectual awareness. This naturally attracted me to the few “nerdy” people I knew who soon became my good friends, we would share and discuss these books and the ideas they conveyed, help each other understand confusing parts, and generally talk about the concept of fantasy and science fiction. I began to consider the people who made these stories; all the work that was put into creating the many unique quests in my video games, authors managing to fill hundreds of pages with interesting new material for every book in a series, and writers for television coming up with new storyboards for every single episode. The dedication and passion that these professions obviously required made me consider how rewarding they might also be, how satisfying it would be to write out the ideas I could think up and share them with an appreciative audience.

Now in college, I am seriously considering a career as an author, in plot development for video games, or critical reviewing for literature. I have become a fairly mature person intellectually; I enjoy challenges and the opportunity to learn something new. The people I call my friends can sometimes be disturbingly intelligent, and reading is by far my favorite pastime.

This was all a result of getting that book eleven years ago; I never would have become who I am today without Harry Potter and The Goblet of Fire.

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Excerpts from a much longer report and service learning project for Chemistry Basant Paradisâ&#x20AC;&#x201D;see the poster in the hallway by the chemistry lab Igniting Excitement in Science

By Linda Dill and Elyse Lewis Abstract Metals introduced into the environment naturally or from industrial applications pose health risks to the plants, animals, and humans exposed directly and indirectly through contaminated ground water and soil. Remediation of site sites exposed to these contaminants is important in reducing these health risks.

This paper discusses the risk of metal toxicity and the benefits of using phytoremediation to detoxify soil and water that is contaminated with specific metals.

Introduction Phytoremediation uses plants to remove toxins from contaminated water and soil. Plants naturally collect essential heavy metals from soil and water like arsenic, lead, and mercury. Though essential, excessive amounts of toxic heavy metals can have severe health effects. Some plants can accumulate these toxic metals in large quantities making them excellent candidates for use in phytoremediation.

Plants with an exceptional ability to extract metals from soil are known as hyperaccumulators. A plant absorbs metals through its roots and stores it within its aboveground biomass in a process known as uptake. When a plant stores at least ten times as much of a heavy metal as is typical the plant is considered a hyperaccumulator.

Biosorption is a process of removing heavy metal contaminates from an aqueous solution through the contact of an aquatic plant with the metal present. This biosorption can be done through the root system or contact with other available portions of the plant body.

Identifying new plants capable of being used as hyperaccumulators and for biosorption is essential to developing the field of phytoremediation. ..........................................................................................................................

Experimental Design Research Question: 43

What ability does Myriophyllum heterophyllum (variable milfoil) have in biosorption of the metals cadmium, lead, copper, zinc, arsenic, and mercury?

Hypothesis: By exposing samples of variable milfoil to aqueous solutions of lead, copper, mercury, arsenic and zinc and using cadmium as a control as outlined by Sivaci, Elmas, Gu¨mu¨ s, and Sivaci (2007) , the potential for variable milfoil to be used as a biofilter for these metals should be determined. If variable milfoil can be used as a biofilter on these metals then the metal concentration found in the solution at the end of the experiment should show a significant decrease from the initial concentration and the metal concentration within the plant’s biomass should show a significant increase in the metal concentration. ..........................................................................................................................

Time of Experiment: This experiment is to take place during the spring semester of the 2012-2013 school years. *pH levels to increased bioavailability, rpm requirements Research Question: What ability does Myriophyllum heterophyllum (variable milfoil) have in phytoextraction of the metals cadmium, lead, copper, zinc, arsenic, and mercury?

Hypothesis: By exposing whole specimens of variable milfoil to a medium contaminated by lead, copper, mercury, arsenic, zinc or cadmium and using Pteris ryukyuensis grown as a control, as outlined by Srivastava, Mrittunjai, Ma, and Santos (2007), the potential for variable milfoil to be used as in phytoextraction as a hyperaccumulator for these metals should be determined. If variable milfoil can be used, as a hyperaccumulator on these metals then the metal concentration within the plant’s biomass should be at least ten times the concentration as is found in a typical plant that is tolerant to the same metal contaminate. ...................................................................................................

Conclusion Phytoremediation provides a natural alternative to traditional remediation techniques. Building the foundation of knowledge by determining plants that have the potential to be used for phytoremediation is critical to making the technology viable. In working to this end, an experiment will be conducted on Myriophyllum heterophyllum to determine if it could be a candidate for use in 44

biosorption or phytoextraction of cadmium, lead, copper, zinc, arsenic, or mercury.

Biosorption requires these variables; Primary Variables-The initial concentrations of all metal solutions will be 0, 4, 8, 16, 32 and 64 mg/L-1.The final concentration of metal in these solutions will be measured at the end of the experiment for comparison against final plant biomass concentrations and initial solution concentrations. Final metal concentration found in the plants.

Uncontrollable Variables- The impacts of pre-existing metal concentrations within the variable milfoil due to wild sample collection.

Constant Variables- Temperature will remain with 2⁰ of 25⁰C. Artificial sunlight will be maintained for 12 hours a day through the use of a time. During experimentation, samples are to be taken at 24, 48, 72, and 96 hours in triplicate.

Shaker is to be set at 200 rpm. All samples will be tested in triplicate.

Background Variables-pH levels are to be adjusted prior to plant exposure to the solution. These levels may change throughout the course of the experiment. pH levels are to be adjusted based on the metal being used as the solute. The levels necessary for each metal species are as follows: Cd= pH 7-8, Pb= pH 3-4, Cu= pH 4-5, Zn= pH 6, As= pH 4 and Hg= pH 5-6.

We will perform all of our experimentation using our own experimental design at Eastern Maine Community College and final testing on the plants will be done with the help of the University of Maine at Orono.

Speech for SPE 101 Carol Lewandowski Freedom

By Peter Gerritsen What freedoms are we granted as Americans? Freedom of speech.

Freedom of religion. Freedom, above all, to make an honest living. I would say, and I hope many of you can agree, that a farmer’s living is one of the most honest livings one can make. My father moved from California to Aroostook County in 1976 to start our organic farm. Thirty-seven years later it is still my parent’s only source of income. Our lives have been entrenched in that farm and in the organic community surrounding us for as long as I can remember. But recently the rights of many farmers like us have been infringed upon, threatened for reasons of corporate greed. It is a power struggle for absolute domination, 45

for monopolistic control of the world seed supply and the elimination of competition. Let me now tell you about what we feel we deserve as farmers and as Americans, what Monsanto’s role is, and how we are defending ourselves.

What do we deserve as farmers? Simply put, we want to be able grow good crops to support our family and community. If we want to grow our crops organically, without the use of synthetic pesticides and harmful chemicals, it is our right. We should not be subject to trespass and intimidation. We should not have to worry about contamination that threatens our way of life. Our right to farm has carried us and countless others on our journey to the American dream.

If you are a grower of organic corn, soybeans, or numerous other crops, it is likely that you will have to confront this threat head on and until recently, alone.

But, who is this on the other side of the fence, threatening your way of life?

Who uses Pinkerton's and Blackwater, costly litigation, and fear tactics that aim to take you out of the grower market, and out of their pool of competition? It is Monsanto corporation, and these are the tactics they employ to they gain control.

So, who is Monsanto? They rank as the mother of all agricultural biotechnology companies. Through joint-licensing techniques with the other Big-Six biotechnology companies, they assert their stranglehold of power, behind the scenes and out of view of the public. While you may not know it, I guarantee you have had some sort of interaction with Monsanto technology over the last week. The scale of this corporation can be described by few words other than massive, pervasive, or omnipotent. Through their seed licensing agreements in the United States this one corporation controls 88% of corn, 93% of soybeans, 90% of cotton, 95% of sugar beets, and 90% of canola, and all of it is genetically engineered (GE).

One might wonder how Monsanto goes about getting control of such a large percentage of the marketplace. That sounds a tad bit morally questionable doesn’t it? What they really do is called gene splicing. They take an existing crop, one developed and selected from the wild by our ancestors since the dawn of the agricultural revolution some 10,000 years ago, and change it in some miniscule fashion to suit their corporate agenda. This tiny change, most often to make the crop resistant to being sprayed with a deadly herbicide, allows them to gain a patent as a novel or “new” life form. Under US patent law, Monsanto has absolute legal ownership of that crop. You and I never received one penny in compensation for 10,000 years of development work. Some might call this thievery “bio-piracy.”

Let us look at GE corn as an example. Say your neighbor is growing a few acres of Monsanto’s patented corn, and you are a small farmer minding your own business, growing organic corn for your family’s needs and for income.

One summer day, the wind comes up and blows some “patented” pollen onto your field from the neighboring GE cornfield. Through transgenic trespass, you 46

have now been contaminated, meaning that the corn crop that you planted in the soil on your personal property now contains patented technology, which you have not been licensed to possess. At this point, the law perversely says that you have now committed patent infringement of Monsanto’s seed technology, and you are now exposed to legal jeopardy for patent infringement litigation.

This situation presents a potential for costly litigation and, often times, the threat of this contamination may cause farmers to stop growing organic corn, organic canola, and organic soybeans. Few individuals have the resources required to stand up to a corporation of such magnitude. Monsanto understands this dynamic, and uses its power to minimize publicity on their tactics, and keep much of their litigation out of court. This behind-the-scenes intimidation has been going on for many years.

After years of the organic community dealing with Monsanto’s abuse, the Organic Seed Grower and Trade Association (OSGATA) helped organize a large plaintiff group of 83 plaintiffs composed of individual family famers, independent seed companies, and farm organizations, in total over 300,000 citizens. In March of 2011, OSGATA et al v. Monsanto was filed. Our purpose in filing this lawsuit is not monetary; we are not asking for a single cent from Monsanto. We are challenging the validity of Monsanto’s GE seed patents, and seeking court protection under the Declaratory Judgment Act from claims of patent infringement should Monsanto technology contaminate our crops. We simply seek the right to protect ourselves and to protect rights of farmers from this unwarranted injustice and to ensure our survival as farmers.

You now know what we need as farmers, how corporate greed is running rough shod over us, and how we will defend our way of life. Our lawsuit has been minimally covered in the media. A key reason is Monsanto has used all of its resources to challenge the famers’ right of access to the court. They are hoping to keep it covered up and deplete our resources to continue. We are here to defend what is rightly ours, and we are not going away.

“Person” profile/ biography of the eventful life of my ever-ravenous hen Strawberry. John Goldfine Strawberry’s Answer to the Universe: The Life, Times and Meals of Strawberry Chicken Felicia Graham

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Strawberry's orange eyes narrowed in indignation. That little rooster was attacking the Food Person's boots again. How stupid could a chicken get?

The Food Person brought them food. Food was the meaning of the life, the answer to The Ultimate Question of Life, the Universe and Everything. Food was The Reason for living. One did not attack the boots that carry the hand that feeds you! Strawberry tightened her wings against her side and pointed them downwards – the wing position assumed by a chicken about to charge – and chased the impetuous little fellow away. Having grown up in a flock with no roosters, Strawberry had little love and no fear for the two mini bantam roosters who joined the flock as chicks when she was a year old. The boot attacker in particular was a helium filled tough guy easily kept in his place.

Strawberry was a largish back star hen. She had a sleek elegant body that was black with orange flecks on top and reddish-orange with black flecks on the front of her neck and belly. This may seem to go against the name "black star," but varying amounts of red feathers are a trait of black stars. The amount of red on Strawberry was more or less the average amount. The other two black star chicks who came in the same batch as her however, were the opposite extremes of redness. One had a red head neck and belly. The other only had some red streaks on her cheeks. Both these chicks were to have unfavorable turns in their lives. The extremely red one was an overly curious thing who did not have the sense to go inside when an owl came, causing her to literally lose her head before she was a year old. As for the almost all black chick, she was to take up a life crime and Strawberry was to get caught up with her.

The chicken, who one kid had wanted to name Feathery and the other had wanted to name Zucchini and ended up being called both, had been a good hen up until she was a year and a half old. That was when she started eating eggs. All chickens actually do eat eggs if they get broken – if they were in the wild, not cleaning it up would attract predators – but Feathery Zucchini (Feathery for short) went around deliberately breaking eggs open. Strawberry, always eager for a bite to eat, took to following Feathery around on her egg hunts. This was not a situation the humans liked and eventually they took action against the two black sheep. Feathery was the main problem, that was obvious.

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Strawberry was just a follower who shared in the yolk of Feathery's labor.

Therefore, the solution to the problem was to remove Feathery from the flock and hope Strawberry forgot about egg hunting. She did.

That was the only time Strawberry ever wandered off down the path of delinquency. Otherwise, she was to be a very good chicken throughout her entire life. She was not overly "pecky" towards subordinates and not at all "squawky.â&#x20AC;? About the only time she "pecked" was to get flockmates out of the way of the food and about the closest she normally came to "squawking" was the occasions when she told the Food Person or her Food Bearing Associates "Awwwk auk auk auk" (Feed me.) Strawberry was not at all shy of people. For example, while other chickens would run away if the Food Person bent over with out-stretched hands, Strawberry never even flinched until the hands were inches from her. By that time it was too late to run, so she would hunch down on the floor and allow the Food Person's hands to stroke her feathers. After about ten seconds, she would crawl out from under the hands and walk away.

This friendliness towards people also extended to visitors. While the other chickens would flock to the back of the pen, Strawberry would come right over to the strangers, for she knew people meant FOOD. Einstein figured out E = MC2. Pythagoras figured out a2+b2 = c2. Strawberry figured out People = Food.

Amongst chickens, Strawberry really was an egghead. Besides her brilliant formula, she also figured out that the way to reach the container of food when the Food Person was holding it too high to reach during an intelligence experiment was to hop up on top of the self the food container just "happened" to be right next to. Another discovery was that even when the pen was filled with ice and snow, it was possible to take a refreshing dust bath in a dusty corner of the coop. Strawberry was clever and innovative, but also bit too curios. She was an intrepid explorer in search of Food Beyond. One of these expeditions is a classic example of the "grass is always greener on the other side" scenario. In the chicken pen, that really is true, for the flock scratches around in the pen so much, nothing has the opportunity to grow in there. The pen is however, not devoid of food and it is where the flock is supposed to be, so when one day the Food Person saw Strawberry and another hen from her batch by the name of Blueberry wandering around outside the pen, she made haste to catch them and put them back in. She had thought that was the end of it, but later they were out again. In they went. But then they were out again and again and again. Food Person had thought that they were flying out the unfinished roof. Then, after putting them back in again, she saw Strawberry squeezing out a hole under the fence. Food Person blocked up the hole and that was the end of Strawberry and Blueberry's excursions to the greener grass on the other side.

Other than a few scraps with the little roosters or an over presumptuous hen, Strawberry had a pretty peaceful life. Then when she was six, a new 49

rooster called Sunny Lupine came of age. He was a full-sized rooster and was to be terror to the three bantam roosters who were too small to fend him off. For a while, he had to be separated from the flock and then slowly reintroduced, one chicken at time. Initially, when he was being reintroduced to Strawberry, they fought a lot and he jumped her every time he was put in with her, but in the end his main life focus was the adoring hens who grown up with him and were all begging for his pampering affections and worshiping the ground he walked on.

A wet blanket of an old hen who had accepted his position of head rooster so long as he did not hog all the food was no longer worth paying attention to.

The biggest crisis of Strawberry's life occurred just a year after Sunny Lupine's spurt of aggression in the red squirrel attack of '09. The results of that attack were three deaths, two bad neck injuries, one slight injury, and temporary relocation of the whole flock to the basement. Strawberry was one of the recipients of a bad neck injury. For two days, the ever-ravenous hen could not eat; she could only drink. And she was doing pretty good compared to the other bad neck injury recipient. One of the bantam roosters could not eat or drink and the humans had expected him to die long ago. But he had not died, so the Food Person held some pellets under his beak to see if he could eat some. He did, so she tried some water. He could not drink so she decided to make him some "pellet mush.â&#x20AC;? The Food Person came back a few minutes later and stuck a bowl of pellet mush in the corner. Strawberry ran over and started gulping it down, over joyed to break her two day fast. The rooster had to be hand fed for a while, but in the end, both recovered.

One year later, at age eight-and-two-thirds, Strawberry finally met a natural death of old age. Like most chickens, she showed no signs of being near death until the day she died. The Food Person found her on the floor when she was shutting them in for the night. She felt a little stab in her heart. That hen had been around forever â&#x20AC;&#x201C; half her life almost. She knelt down next to the hen and offered her some water. Strawberry looked up, but could not drink any. The Food Person went to the door and looked back at her most worshipful Food Gulper one last time. She had been a nice hen; spunky, clever, amusing, a boot protector, almost cuddly even. Her life had been twice as long as the average chickens and she had laid eggs until the very last year of her life. Black stars are supposed to be a good laying hardy breed, but most likely Strawberry's personality was the main reason for her longevity. She was not at a nervous hen; she was curious and interested in what was going on around her and always had her eyes peeled for the next morsel: food was the all-consuming purpose in her life, her reason for living and when a chicken (or person) has a strong purpose to live for, they are going to keep on living.

The Food Person swallowed and opened the door.

"Good bye Strawberry," she said and went inside.

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The Food Person had had a song running through her head that night that started out "Tell me what you want to hear.â&#x20AC;? She found herself absently changing the words.

"Tell me what you want to eat. Something that would be a treat. I am glad I had you with me..."

The next day Strawberry lay within her grave. Like many before her, she had come, lived her life, left her mark, and departed. Many after her would do the same. All leave a unique mark on the world that can never be duplicated, but the greatest thing they can leave behind, is people who are glad they had them with them.

Was basically an essay I could write about anything, and since my teacher was interested in how I had written my Strawberry profile the week before, I wrote about that: ENG-262-95John Goldfine Strawberry Profile Meta-essay Felicia Graham Week seven's theme was a profile of a person, but I knew it did not have to be a person. What my teacher, Mr. Goldfine, basically wanted us to do was write a profile on an individual; the species of the individual was not important. Anyway, that was why I had no qualms about writing my profile on a chicken.

Strawberry was one the first individuals that came to my mind. She had died last winter and I had been wanting to write a piece on her. Last fall, I had actually had the opportunity to write a brief paragraph on her in a "Chicken Obituary" piece I had written, but it gave only the briefest snapshot of her life and captivating personality. Like licking the spatula from a bowl of icing, one got only a small taste of the very sweetest most outstanding parts of her life.

Good on its own, but a whole cake had yet to be savored. First however, it had to be made.

I knew the story of Strawberry's life was basically going to be a description of her personality and several interesting incidents, so linked vignettes would have worked very well and have been the easiest way to do it â&#x20AC;&#x201C; in fact, this would have been a perfect linked vignette piece. However, since I had known Strawberry all her life, her story was not at all patchy, so I decided to see if I could make it work without linked vignettes. I also resolved to try my utmost in making the paragraphs connect perfectly. Sometimes I managed to get them to flow without a single hitch. Other times the only connection between 51

two paragraphs was the word Strawberry. In the end though, they all seem to have flowed just fine.

The first graf with Strawberry's perception of the "helium filled tough guy" attacking Food Person's boots sort of just came to me. I had the first couple sentences pretty quick. In my mind I had the feeling of the rest it and some things I wanted to put in like The Ultimate Question of Life, the Universe and Everything and attacking the boots that carry the hand that feeds you, but like it often does for me, it took a while to figure out how to get it all down.

And once I had the first graf typed, I still had no idea where I was going with the rest of the essay. A description of Strawberry's appearance seemed the way to go for the second graf. I had resolved to make the paragraphs link perfectly, but the only "link" between the two graphs was Strawberry. Somehow though, it all seemed to flow without any hitch.

Strawberry's physical description took some thought to get to the point where I thought the reader had a close enough image of what she looked like without my being too overly descriptive. Then I started to go off on the varying amount of red feathers on black start chickens (and actually Googled black star chicken images to be certain that Strawberry had an average amount of red on her) and that got me onto the two other black stars that came with her who had opposite extremes of redness, which was useful because one of these hens was the one Strawberry took to following around on her egg eating sprees â&#x20AC;&#x201C; an incident that I wanted to include. I did wonder if the final result of graf 2 did have too much red feather black feather stuff, but ended up leaving it in.

After finishing the paragraph on Strawberry's brief life of crime (graf 3), I was not sure what to do with the next graf. I thought I could start out with something like "This was the only time Strawberry wandered off down the path of delinquency," but was not sure where to go from there. Then I remembered a suggestion my speaking teacher had given to the class for thinking of three arguments for the topic we chose for our persuasive speech. In her example, she had written down several reasons that someone would be averse to donating blood (myths to be disproved), with each reason as a possible paragraph. I do not normally do that sort of thing, but getting down all the interesting points of Strawberry's life seemed a good way to figure out a direction.

After scribbling these points, I found that the only time Strawberry ever wandered off down the path of delinquency led to her normally being a good chicken, which led to a description of her personality and ultimately two of my points: "SB easy pick up" and "SB expect food from visitors.â&#x20AC;? At the end of graf 4, I had the sudden inspiration to compare Strawberry's discovery that People = Food to E=MC2 and the Pythagorean Theorem. This ended up flowing into a paragraph on Strawberry being an "egg head," some interesting examples of it not even in my points, and eventually to her being an intrepid explorer and 52

her and one of the other hens squeezing out under the fence – another of my points.

This paragraph, graf 5, did not flow quite as perfectly into the next graf as my last several had, yet seemed to work fine. Graf 6 and 7 were devoted to the two crises of Strawberry's life, the coming of a big rooster and her neck injury at the teeth of a territorial red squirrel who had been living in the coop. In the end, I used all but two of the less interesting points that would not have fit in easily: Strawberry's fixation with pecking at an ailing hen once, and the time she kept squeezing behind the boards that blocked off the news nesting egg boxes while we were still working on them. All in all, the point system really helped this time with giving me a direction and getting in everything I wanted to get in.

I do not know if I will make use of it often though, for I do not usually have so many random points that I want to put in.

Strawberry's death seemed a natural closing. First came the Food Person finding her on the floor near the end of her life, then an analyzation of the eight-year-old hen’s longevity. After that, an idea for a final closing tugged at my mind. I remembered a song I had been singing and how I had changed the words to apply to Strawberry and finished up with “I am glad I had you with me.” But I had thought that that would be too much of a focus on Food Person when the profile was supposed to be about Strawberry, so I came up with a broad speculation graf on individuals living, dying, and leaving their mark. It sounded like a nice solemn ending that made one think, but it sounded too formal, wise and lacked direct human connection. I longed for the human connection with Food Person and the solace of “I am glad I had you with me.” I then decided to put it in too. Maybe it would work. I put it in before the speculation graf and added in a part to about the greatest mark we could leave being people who were glad we had us with them to the end of the speculation graf. At the time, I was not sure if I should have done both, but now I know my gut was right. It is the combination of the two grafs that ends the profile on what seems to have been the perfect note.

Looking back over the piece, I see I seemed to have pulled an abnormal amount interesting phrases from my mind, like calling the scrappy little rooster a helium filled tough guy, the twist on biting the hand that feeds you, sharing in the “yolk” of Feathery's labor, People = Food... it seems my “muse” was being especially helpful with this essay. In his book on writing, Stephen King said we all have our own muses and that his was a guy smoking on cigarette. I think mine is more a wood nymph dancing around my brain. Sometimes she stops long enough to give me some inspiration; sometimes she does not. This time, she was being very industrious. However, on cannot always count on one's “muse” to be so.

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Speech for SPE 101 Carol Lewandowski Sloths are Awesome and you should think so too

By Sheri Pelkey How many times have you been asked, whether in a game of questions with friends or by a stranger, “what is your favorite animal?” Well, what’s your favorite animal? My answer has been the same since I was a very small child: The three-toed tree sloth. I LOVE SLOTHS! I initially fell in love with them because I thought they were miniature Wookies and who doesn’t love Wookies?

Sloths are my all-time favorite animal and here are some reasons that they should be yours too. Sloths can see behind themselves, they are masters at hide ‘n’ seek, and they have great time saving skills. Who knew?

Sloths have an extra neck vertebrae that allows them to turn their head 270 degrees. This is pretty damn cool. If I could turn my head 270 degrees, I would be a much happier person. I spend half of my waking hours trying to figure out what’s going on behind me. One of my biggest mental hurdles is being freaked out by someone touching me when I don’t see it coming. Sloths rarely have that problem. They can turn their head so that almost nothing takes them by surprise. That’s pretty much why they appear so chill all the time. Like “hey, nothing’s gonna sneak up on me!” and it leads to being so relaxed that they sleep, on average, twenty hours a day. I find that pretty awesome because I sleep about 3 hours a night. I like to live a bit vicariously through the sloth. It helps me fool myself into thinking I’m well rested.

The sloth is the world’s slowest mammal. They are so slow that various types of algae grows on their fur. This is what sometimes gives them their green tinge. Most other animals would be like “hey I don’t want to be green.” NOT THE SLOTH! The sloth wants to be green! They revel in being green! The algae provides natural camouflage for an animal that moves so slowly pretty much EVERYTHING is its natural predator. The algae also provides food for insects and other small algae eating creatures. So essentially, the sloth is like the hidden soup kitchen of the rain forest, which is pretty generous of them.

The coolest thing about sloths, out of the many things to choose from, is that they only go to the bathroom once a week! They hang out in a tree all week and when they finally decide they are ready, they climb down, find their special place, and just let loose. ONCE A WEEK! I don’t know about you, but I spend half of my damn life going to the bathroom. Having to go usually 54

happens at the most inconvenient times like when I’m driving, restraining a patient in crisis at work, or giving a speech in class. If I was a sloth, I could get the business over with at once and not have to waste all that time which could be put to better use by doing things like sleeping and snacking on leaves.

You should love sloths as much as I do because they are great at hide n seek due to their remarkable neck turning ability, they are know how to relax and make the most of their leisure time, and they do not let pesky details like using the toilet get in the way of chilling out.

ENG 162 John Goldfine

By Lindsey Allen Sometimes I forget how precious life is. I'm not going to spew out cliché lists of what my family, friends, life, etc. mean to me. Hopefully, my reminiscing of an enjoyable car ride home reveals what I'm incapable of describing with adjectives.

The scene is set in a car driving back from a basketball game. My dad sits quietly in the front driver’s seat. The front passenger seat is vacated because of my brother's need for a friend. So, my brother of seven and I occupy the back.

I'm reading Gatsby and laughing aloud to myself as if I am alone. My brother interrupts me and says, "Linds, I really like having you to talk to."

"Well, thanks Zac," I reply only noticing for the first time that he was actually speaking. See, when Zac talks it's very hard to understand who he's talking to or if he's actually talking to anyone at all. I'm sure it's a quirk of most younger children.

I put Gatsby away careful enough not to crease any pages, then divert my full attention to the blond hair blue eyed child to my right.

We lock eyes and he says, "horse."

"Okay Zac. Giraffe."

"Elephant."

"Rainbow."

"Skyscraper."

"T-Rex." "Chicago."

"Earth."

"All the outerspaces, and stars, and planets, and earth."

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"You mean the universe?"

"Yeah, the universe."

"The sun."

"Skyscrapers."

"You already said that silly. No repeats."

"Fine... A REALLY BIG CAR." This continues for another twenty minutes more or so. We get really into sharks, then we get really into schools, then we ironically get into guns and I have to steer him clear of that because I look up and see dad's eyebrows raised in the rearview mirror. Through the middle of this "game," I remember thinking that all good things must come to an end. Honestly I could have just spattered out words back in forth with this little guy for hours and it would have felt like five seconds. Five precious seconds.

Yeah, my day ended perfectly.

"what if" speech. I only had points written down for delivering the speech, so I had to flesh it out to essay form. SPE 101 Carol Lewandowski

By Jonathan Torsch “I wish you were never born.”

Have you ever had this said to you? I have. Since hearing that, it’s made me think: What if? What if I was never born? The answers I’ve come up with are that the population would decrease, the negative things that I have done would go away, and the positive things that I have done would go away. Think about that concept for a second. What if you were never born?

First and perhaps most obviously, the population would be smaller. To some people, this may just appear as a statistic. To me, however, it means a lot more.

Not only would I not exist, but the children I wish to have in the future wouldn’t exist. One of my main goals in life is to be a good husband and father, and to have several children. On top of that, as the only son in my family, our namesake would no longer be passed on to future generations.

Second, the negative impacts that I’ve had on people would go away. Everyone can probably think of something that they have done or said that they wish they could take back. I lost a good friend from high school because of a lapse in my judgment. I broke the unwritten rules of “Guy Code.” My friend was dating a 56

girl in my Art class. They broke up, and afterwards she pursued me. I was ignorant, and I took advantage of the situation. We, surprisingly, did not last, and I quickly learned that a few nights of fun were not worth losing a friendship over. If I was never born, my old friend wouldn’t have had to feel that betrayal.

Finally, on the other hand, the positive impacts I’ve had would also go away. I met my best friend in tee-ball, when we were four years old. We’ve been best friends ever since. In high school, he was diagnosed with scoliosis, which is a severe curvature of spine. This was discovered after a wrestling practice one day, where he got slammed harder than normal, and couldn’t get up. He had a metal rod permanently put in his back, along with subsequent surgeries, plates, stiches, staples, you name it. He was laid up for months. I spent days, sometimes weeks, at his house, acting basically as family. I helped his single mom with chores, kept him company, and kept his spirits high. He’s told me since then that having someone there for him and his family is something that he will never forget. If I were not born, he wouldn’t have had that support, and his struggle would have been that much harder.

It doesn’t make a big difference now. As it turns out, I was born. The population didn’t decrease, the bad things I have done happened, and conversely, the good things that I have done happened. When I think about that question - “What if I was never born?” - I want the answer to show that I am worth the space I am taking up on Earth. It becomes motivation for me to consider the impact of my actions and to try to do good things. I would implore all of you to do the same. Consider how you want that question answered.

Written for advanced creative non-fiction (ENG 262) with Goldfine.

Spiraling

By Willow Wyner Martin.

As we walked up to the museum, we noticed armed snipers on the roof. It was a little disturbing, seeing that we had spent the morning at the Smithsonian and didn't see anything like that there. We entered the museum and were ushered through metal detectors as our purses were passed through an X-ray machine.

Even our tour of the White House didn't include metal detectors and X-ray machines. But this was a place where Jews gathered, which always seems to demand extra vigilance.

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We were then separated into groups and given identification cards. We were instructed to read the first page of our identification card, but to not turn the page until we reached the bottom of the 4th floor of the museum. We were all a little confused, but we complied. I read my identification card.

Name: Zigmond Adler Date of Birth: July 18, 1936 Place of Birth: Liege, Belgium Zigmond's parents were Czechoslovakian Jews who had emigrated to Belgium. His mother, Rivka, was a shirtmaker. She had come to Belgium as a young woman to find a steady job, following her older brother, Jermie, who had moved his family to Liege several years earlier. In Liege, Rivka met and married Otto Adler, a businessman.

The couple looked forward to starting a family.

We were then herded through a dimly lit area where we lined up to get into elevators that would take us to the top of the building. The elevator car was very dim and was built to the dimensions of a railroad car. There were many of us led into the car. We had to shuffle and squeeze together to make room for what seemed the endless crowd of people who were to ride with us. When everyone was squeezed in, the doors shut. The closing of the doors was loud: The crowd was silent. Then the elevator rose up.

We rode to the top of the museum. The top of the spiral. Through the first level of the spiral we view the artifacts of the beginning of the Nazi's rise to power.

Jews still have some semblance of their normal lives, but as we continue down the slope of the spiral to the third level, the lives of the Jews are changing for the worse. I turn the page of my identification card.

1933-1939: Zigmond was born to the Adlers in 1936, but his mother died one year later. His father remarried, but the marriage didn't last. Zigmond's father then married a third time, and soon Zigmond had a new half-sister and a stable family life. As a boy, Zigmond often visited his Uncle Jermie's family, who lived just a few blocks away We witness atrocities presented to us in black and white photos in clean, wellpresented frames. We see images of pure suffering. â&#x20AC;&#x153;Are any of these people 58

our relatives?” my Jewish friend and I wonder. We mutter a prayer even though, if asked, we would both claim to be atheists. We read about the Jewish underground and about families trying to get out before it gets worse. We know these stories. We were raised with these stories. We continue to spiral down.

We follow the instructions printed in our identification cards. I turn the page.

1940-1944: Zigmond was 3 when the Germans occupied Belgium.

Two years later, the Germans deported his father for forced labor.

After that, Zigmond's step-mother felt Liege, giving Zigmond to Uncle Jermie and Aunt Chaje. When the Nazis began to round up Jews in Liege, some of Uncle Jermie's Catholic friends helped them get false papers that hid their Jewish identity and rented them a house in a nearby village. Two years later, early one Sunday morning, the Gestapo came to the house. They suspected Jews were living there.

We come to a round room. It is very tall, reaching to the top of the building. It is brick. It is a chimney. The walls of the chimney are filled with photographs of people who didn't survive. Again, “Are any of these people our people?”

The reality – they are all our people. Past the gates, the piles of suitcases, marked with family names. We know some of these names. We have relatives with these names. Past the piles of shoes. Past the hair. I cannot take anymore.

I flee. I can flee. Through the brightly lit hall with television screens which hold the images of survivors who tell their stories. Through the gift shop.

Freedom.

I sit on the ground, leaning against a large concrete pillar that supports this spiral. I wait for my friends. People come out. They blink in the sunlight.

They laugh. They make dinner plans. They head to the Smithsonian to see Archie's chair. I am awed.

Zigmond, his aunt, and two cousins were sent to the Mechelen internment camp, and then to Auschwitz, where 7 year old Zigmond was gassed on May 21, 1944.

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