Mosaic, Volume 8, Issue 2

mosaic a magazine for the literary and visual arts at Holderness School

Spring 2010

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mosaic, spring 2010

Kevin Michel

Dear Reader, Welcome! Within this publication are some of the outstanding pieces of work written and created by students in grades ninth through twelfth. From Artward Bound to AP English Composition and Literature, from Ceramics to English I, students have been busy this winter and spring working within their fields of interest, exploring and developing their talents.

We hope you enjoy their works of art!

Thanks for reading!

Cover art by Victoria Sommerville-Kelso

Phil Brown

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Abby Slattery Abby Slattery

Jaclyn Vernet, Nick Dullea, and Will

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Aubrey Tyler

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Students enrolled in AP English Language and Composition practice the skills of rhetorical analysis and argumentation. While much of the work is dry, occasions for creativity occasionally present themselves. For one assignment this winter Mr. Durnan asked the students to compose and record their own versions of the “This I Believe” series first pioneered by Edward Murrow in the 1950’s. Below is a small sampling of their essays.

This I Believe

By Tizzy Brown I believe that an engaged lifestyle is inherently more valuable than an apathetic one.

I have never had a strong belief in anything, but I have always had strong opinions. I think that beliefs and opinions are different. There is no proverb that I can point to directly and say “this is how I live my life,” but chances are if one were to bring up any historical or contemporary issue, I would have something to say about it. I would also have a strong conviction that what I say is right.

stand those rules and why they affect me.

I believe that being aware of the world and actively engaging one’s civic education is more worthwhile than not participating. This I believe.

Through political discussions at the dinner table and constant pressure from my family to be engaged in academics, I have grown up actively thinking about the things going on around me. I am more aware of my surroundings and what is happening in the rest of the world than many of my peers.

Because of my upbringing, I am very politically active.

I work on campaigns when I can, namely the Obama campaign and more recently Congressman Paul Hodes’ Senate campaign. I try not to succumb to the bubble I live in at my small New England boarding school. I listen to NPR daily and read The New Yorker and the New York Times religiously. When Middle Eastern tensions are brought up in discussion, I tend to go on rants, particularly about the IsraeliPalestinian conflict and the not-so-politically-correct Iranian president. I am very opinionated and my civic engagement makes me feel as though there is more to life than just my own life.

While it may be easier to not care and to believe that school and history and contemporary politics do not matter to the average person, it is more interesting to be an active participant in the world. I could choose to be apathetic and to pretend that the rules of the world do not matter to me, or I can try and under-

Nick Dullea

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This I Believe

By Georgina Ogirri When I returned to Springfield, MA for spring break, I was ready to have fun and enjoy the company of my friends. Reminiscing on past memories, I anticipated the fun times I knew I would have.

Upon my return, I received a text message inviting me to go to a birthday party. I was excited because it would not only be fun but the party would also be like a welcome home celebration; all of my friends would be there. However, when the night of the party approached, I wasn't feeling too well, and I felt like something wasn't right. At the last minute I decided not to go. That whole night I thought about the fun I would have had if I had gone, but for some reason, I felt as if I made the right choice.

The next morning I received about fifteen text messages asking me if I had heard what had happened.

My stomach dropped. I was confused; I didn't know what they were talking about. I responded to all of the text messages but nobody would return my messages. Something definitely didn't feel right.

An hour later, I finally got in touch with my friend Vanessa and she told me everything. Conor Reynolds, a close childhood friend, had died at the party.

He was trying to stop a fight between his friend and another boy who he didn't know. When he tried breaking up the fight, the boy took out a knife and slit Conor's neck.

His girlfriend, Ashley, held him while he struggled to take his last breaths. Everybody waited for an ambulance to come; twenty minutes passed, and it was too late. Conor tried to tell his girlfriend that he loved her, but he lost so much blood, he died right there in her arms.

A few days before Conor's death, I saw him at the Senior Talent Show at my previous school. Conor and I talked about college, and he told me how excited he was to go to UConn on a full soccer scholarship. He was the type of boy that got along with everyone and would brighten up your day if you were in a bad mood. He didn't deserve to die, and it wasn't expected.

Gena Ogirri

life and those in it, because tomorrow is never promised. I'm sad that I never had a chance to say goodbye. I remember when we were in the first grade, and I was the only girl that played basketball in our school league. He thought I was so cool. He thought I was even cooler when he saw I wasn't afraid to play with worms like other girls our age. He was such an energetic spirit. He is no longer with us, but he will always be remembered. I believe he is watching over us and every time the sun shines I know it is him smiling and reassuring us that everything will be okay.

Rest in peace. I miss you and love you.

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The Holderness tradition of Out Back continued this winter. While an extremely contagious stomach virus prevented many students from finishing, the lessons were no less powerful. In the following essays, juniors share their experiences and the lessons they learned.

OB Essay

By Betsey Pettitt Saying to myself, “one more step Betsey, one more step,” I endured the pain. Going up both the first and the last mountain, my feet were killing me. Blisters forming, but no bursting heels yet, I climbed one foot in front of the other towards the top. Holding on to every tree along the way for support, I kept moving forward. Looking out among the many mountains around me, I realized what beauty could be found in nature and that, “in the presence of nature, a wild delight runs through the man...” (Thoreau, 2). What pain it takes, yet how beautiful pain really is.

Finally, after climbing uphill for three and a half miles with tears running down my face, the fire tower was ahead of me, a place to relax. A moleskin application later, with snowshoes strapped on, I was saying to myself, “just keep going, just keep going.” Sliding down the hairpin turns and chasing each other until we fell on top of each other, we reached our new campsite. Because it was the last night, we all knew we would never have an experience quite like it ever again.

My mental strength pulled me through every moment of this wilderness experience, from the time of my departure until after I returned. Friday, Saturday, and Sunday leading up to the somewhat dreaded departure, all I wanted was my mom. Since my mom passed away, she was not able to console me. I did not know if I could stand being in the woods for eleven days. I did not know if I would like Mr. Carney, one of my leaders. I did not know if I would get along with the other kids in my group. I did not know if I would like the food. I just did not know. I found myself continuously raising “what if” questions before I left. Many uncertainties filled my mind and clouded my thinking. I finally decided that the only way I was going to get home was to wake up

and experience the challenges ahead of me.

Waking up on Monday morning was difficult. I knew that it was my last time waking up in a bed for the next eleven days. I asked myself, “How am I going to do this?” I had all my gear tucked away in my big red backpack. My clothes were set out and ready to be put on. My hair had been put into braids. I was physically ready, but I was not sure if I was mentally ready. In normal school life, I spend hours upon hours preparing for classes, and I felt uncomfortable that there was no way I could prepare for OB other than collect all the correct gear. The whole point of this outdoor endeavor was to get myself to do things that would make me feel uncomfortable. It was painful for the mind, but excellent for the soul.

Every day was a new experience. Waking up to the sun gleaming in my face was a delight. One morning, the snow was like glitter across the whole pond in front of the campsite. Mountains rose up behind the pond, creating one of the most spectacular views of the trip. Sooner than I would have liked, it was time to leave on our group solo. With the compass around my neck, I trudged along right behind Henry, one of my OB mates. Henry and I were in charge of finding the new campsite. Our leaders were behind us, but not visible. Setting a sight line and trusting whatever the heck was going on inside the compass, we moved along. Moose and deer tracks covered the ground; I followed the compass in whatever direction the little arrow told me to go, whether it was north, south, east or west. Looking for the best bushwhacking trail, my group managed to hike up the side of a cliff by hanging onto trees for dear life so we would not go tumbling backwards. Debating whether we should wait for Mr. Durnan and Mr. Carney, we all got angry at

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each other. Somehow we moved on and reached the campsite. This was it for the last two nights.

Some people just do not help. I am not one of those people who sits down when there is work to be done.

However, some individuals in my group chose to look out for their best interest rather than the best interest of others. Collecting firewood and cooking dinner were two events during which certain group members did nothing. No one wanted to collect firewood after a day of hiking five miles. No way was that going to happen unless someone was specifically asked to do so. No way was there going to be multiple people volunteering to make dinner. Everyone needed to realize that Weld Dining Hall was not available, and contrary to their belief, food did not cook itself. Getting dinner prepared and into the bowls of group members was a challenge; only with everyone’s help was yummy, somewhat nutritious food finally available after the long days of hiking. Volunteering to do different tasks was key. I noticed that I needed to help in any form possible to be able to get the most out of the experience, but other members of my group never had the same epiphany.

After four days of dealing with the group shenanigans, I was going to be on my own. It was time for solo. I had been trying not to think about solo in the first few days of being out in the woods, but the time finally came. Walking in towards Base Camp, I had a big smile on my face because I got to see people. I was also happy to get my provisions for solo - my tarp, my trash can lid, my jar of peanut butter, my Hershey bar, my yogurt, my animal crackers and my orangepoppy seed bread. It was all mine; I did not have to share it. After getting rid of all my group gear, it was time for the leaders to drop me off at my site. At every stick, one less person was with the group. My time came. I will never forget the hug I gave Mr. Durnan with tears rolling down my face as I entered my home for the next three days.

Post-holing every step of the way into my site, tears kept rolling down my face. Stopping to put my snowshoes on, I had to talk to myself and remind myself

that I could do it. On the hike in, I could see a huge number of fallen tree limbs; my site was an excellent source for firewood. Finding a huge rock in the middle of the site, I decided to hide behind it. Two large beech trees stood perfectly behind the rock. I knew this was going to be the spot for my tarp. Tying the ridgeline and then all the corners, I quickly built my house. It was time for firewood. After making a huge pile of sticks, I knew I was set for the night. Friday night was fine, Saturday was fine, but when Sunday came I truly felt alone. The precipitation hindered my further exploration of the site, for I wanted to stay as dry as possible. I lay in my sleeping bag all day long watching the rain drip down the side of my friend, the beech tree. This was mental pain. Not many times can a person feel mental pain, but looking back, it was a significant learning experience for me.

Being able to have three days to myself was special. I reflected on how much success I have had over the years. I also thought about how proud my mom would be if she knew how far I have come this year.

Many accomplishments have occurred since she passed away, and I knew that she was watching over me while I was sitting in my Crazy Creek. During the time I spent by myself, I realized how much my friends mean to me.

Many of the experiences I had on OB were challenging, but I adore challenges and was ready to take on every obstacle put in front of me. No way in the world was I going to let the OB experience slip me by.

I am proud of accomplishing one of the goals I set for myself.

Katie Finnegan

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OB Essay

By Sarah Stride From the beginning it was cursed. I should have known from when I first felt the weight of it on my shoulders, not yet heavy, that this maroon backpack would be the worst hassle on Out Back. Everywhere I went, it had to come too; a permanent block attached to my back that literally felt like the weight of the world. This struggle between my backpack and me remained strong throughout my Out Back experience.

“Bump, bump, screech!” The bus was gone just like that, and my group and I were left stranded on the side of the road, the contents of my bag strewn across the lumpy pile of backpacks. Clearly my twenty minutes of packing and repacking had done little to no good. I hustled to gather everything and tried to get my mess together again. This was not exactly the way I had wanted to begin my adventure; I did not want to be the struggler in my group, but that’s the way things were headed. I finished with repacking and realized that this monstrous thing now had to somehow get onto my back. I bent over and pulled up as hard as I could, but the pack remained on the ground. Noticing my failure, Scott King came over, lifted the bag with ease and slid it onto my shoulders. Little did he know, he would be stuck with this job for the next ten days.

Then our group snowshoeing began. “Clunk, clunk, clunkclunk, clunk.” The repacking of my bag had left a water bottle slamming against the pack’s metal pole.

“Sorry everyone…” I was worried about how my group would perceive me; I didn’t want to be known as the complainer or the mess, so I kept quiet trying not to bother anyone in my group. As we continued on our way, the water bottle eventually adjusted itself to a stop and we reached our destination quicker than I had expected. Relieved that now I could hopefully redeem myself, I was excited to set up camp.

Settling into camp, however, presented new obstacles that I would have to overcome with my pack. I dropped it from my shoulders with a little more force than necessary, and it slammed into the snow. After setting up camp, it was time for dinner and everyone returned to their packs to retrieve the food. I noticed that the inside of my pack felt rather frozen, and as I

Katie Finnegan

removed the frosted tortillas and icy salsa, it was clear that it had been a bad idea to leave it face down in the snow. I propped it up and went back to the fire. I returned back to my pack at least five more times that night, every time finding that something else was a little damp or frozen. Instead of trying to fix it or ask for help, I became annoyed that my things were frozen. I focused on how cold I would be in my wet sleeping bag and how little sleep I would probably get.

With this outlook, the weight of my bag continued to trouble me.

In the morning I got my bag packed and was pleased to find that it had taken me less work and time to complete the job, and I was not the last to be finished.

As we began to walk, I was not as pleased to find that the weight of my pack had not changed. With every step I found myself thinking how I wished I had listened to Fordo when he told me I only needed one extra layer, and how I wished humans had fur so we wouldn’t have to use sleeping bags. I made it about half way through our hike before, “Clunk, clunk, clunk, smash!” This time it was not my water bottle,

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but rather a pan that had slinked its way out of the clutch of my bungee cord. Soon to follow were my sleeping pad and yellow tarp. I placed my pack down slowly, repacked my things and went on my way, only to find that in another five minutes the pan, sleeping pad and tarp were back on the ground. “Sorry everyone…”

The days went on and each day the dreaded clunking would continue. It became routine: “Clunk,” everyone would sigh, stop, laugh. I would repack and we would continue. The final day of Out Back came quickly, and I had yet to make it a day without somehow coming undone. Whether it was the stress of repacking, dread of hiking, or fear of getting sick in the woods, every day on Out Back had moments of worry. I was yet to find myself completely comfortable and accomplished in the woods. However, on the last day I was determined to make it through the entire day without dropping a single thing. I diligently packed everything.

I strapped the pad under the flap, the sleeping bag at the bottom, tent bungeed on top of that, and the pan and silverware strapped over everything. I borrowed so many bungees that there was no way anything could fall out. Seeing the other girls in my group finally put on their packs successfully, I skeptically made my way over to the kitchen where I would attempt to get mine on as well. Through balance, the pack made its way onto my back and everything was intact! No pans were dangling and no clunking was to be heard! I couldn’t believe that on the last day, on easiest hike, nothing had gone wrong. I couldn’t have been happier. When I set my mind to it and had faith and no worry, the weight was lifted. The next time I set my pack down was on the bus back to Holderness.

As we approached the school, I moved closer to my bag to ensure I could get it on quickly and move off the bus. When the bus reached a stop everyone hustled off. I was so glad that my pack had stayed intact the entire ride! I jumped down the steps and through the door but, “Wham!” I was whip-lashed backwards.

The frame of my pack was too big to make it through the doors! My pack was not going to keep me from getting off of the bus, so I wiggled and twisted my way out with the help of my group mates and was amazed! The pack may have almost kept me stranded on the bus, but nothing had fallen off! I was completely put together.

This constant battle with my pack added character to my Out Back experience. I learned that I have to be patient and learn the right way to do something in order to find success. The support and help I received from my group shaped how I feel about Out Back.

No one ever complained about having to stop for me and never did I even have to ask for help. Someone was always next to me helping me pick up the pieces.

I was never left alone to fend for myself, and this helped to prepare me for when I chose to do it on my own. My backpack may have been the worst part of my Out Back experience, but the troubles I went through with it made me a more responsible and caring person and showed me that if you need help, you can find it. Knowing that I didn’t have to feel sorry for not being perfect and slowing down the group sometimes, made me feel comfortable and secure and mostly just happy. Out Back showed me that when I am feeling the weight of the world on my shoulders, there will always be people to help me set it down.

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So Hee Park

OB Essay

By Juliet Dalton Strangely, of the best ten days in my life, twelve of those hours were some of the worst.

Cold. Isolated. I was thirsty and sick as a dog. It was the first night, and it was already the ultimate low of Out Back. I was lying in my sleeping bag, tossing and turning trying to relieve my relentless stomach cramps. I could hear my group mates laughing around the fire at dusk, happily eating their dinners. All I wanted was to be healthy. Suddenly I could feel the urge coming at me like Mack truck. Panic stricken, I fumbled to open up my tent, pushing at the screen, searching for the correct zipper. There was no way I could make it, absolutely no way. There were too many zippers. How was I supposed to find the real one? Found it. Quick tug. Liberation, just in time. With my upper body thrust out of the tent, I landed face first in the deep snow. Bagels would definitely never taste the same. I lay there gathering my strength. Never in my life had I felt that helpless, that unable to care for myself, and especially, that weak.

How could anything, no matter how fun or exciting, redeem Out Back for me? Why would anyone, namely the teachers, choose to do this more than once? And looking back, now I understand, as Out Back graduates have understood for thirty-nine years.

not finish due to this illness. Not once in the history of Out Back have there been so few people who have completed the program. Is this episode what made Out Back so meaningful? Does this fact make it more special to those who did, or bind them closer together?

Our group became so close over the eleven days. Based on the first night’s experience, there were instant inside jokes. No other group could experience Out Back quite the same way we did that first night, or for the remainder of those eleven days together. It gave us the perfect opportunity to vocalize every immature thought or crude joke that crossed out minds. After all, we had all been through it; it was just another part of the experience.

On Out Back I confronted nearly every fear I had. My fear of the dark, fear of being alone, fear of the unknown, fear of heights, fear of uncomfortable social situations, and most notably my fear of throwing up…

After only a few hours after embarking on this so-called “opportunity of a lifetime,” I was sick. It had turned out to be quite possibly one of the most miserable nights of my life; I was sick to my stomach, cold, dehydrated, in the woods, and had no hope of returning home for ten more days. Comforting.

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Although Monday night was by far the worst twelve hours of Out Back, it was by far the most significant.

After all, if I could make it through that, I could make it through anything, right? The answer is yes.

I survived. I survived the hike up and over Passaconaway. I survived crossing the Kancamagus Highway, twice. I survived solo. I survived the eight-mile plus hikes. I survived the daunting days. I survived House’s relentless harassment. I survived getting lost in the night on pee outings. I survived Skelley’s snarky comments. I survived the thirty-six hours of less-than-ideal weather. I survived “the plague.” I survived the food, in particular the bagels. I survived the snowshoes. I survived ten nights of terrible sleep. I survived the tedious hours of setting up camp after long days of hiking. I survived.

Not only did I survive, I thrived. I loved the hiking. I loved the endless chatter among my group mates. I loved the earthy taste of the iodine, although it did take a little getting used to. I loved the group dynamics. I loved the endless jokes. I loved cooking over a campfire. I loved collecting firewood. I loved the feeling of my bunny boots. I loved the “pillow talk” before bed. I loved the numerous inside jokes. I loved the understanding we had of each other. I loved pushing my limits. I loved the smell of the fire in my clothes. I loved Out Back. I loved my Out Back.

Studies show that negative feelings are tied closer to memories. I beg to differ. Any memory of Out Back, in my opinion, can only be positive. Even from the bad days and nights, as cliché as it sounds, I could only grow. I got over my fear of the dark on numerous midnight pee excursions. I learned to cope with loneliness during solo and also on the days when I just couldn’t quite keep up with the rest of the group. I faced my fear of heights on an infamously dangerous Livermore Pass. I conquered my fear of awkward social situations on Out Back, seeing as that we were constantly thrown into them; how could we avoid them with Houseman and Skelley? Facing my fears was my biggest accomplishment throughout the Out Back experience.

People had told me that there was truly no other Holderness experience like Out Back. But how was it going to be unique for me? There were so many reasons to hate Out Back, and yet I didn’t. I think it’s because I chose not to. I wanted so badly to be a good “OB-er”; I wanted to love Out Back, and so I did. As rough a start as it was, it had to improve from there. There was no way it could have gotten worse, and so from Out Back I learned not to take things for granted. Thus far, Out Back has been the most distinctive experience of my Holderness career for one reason: I learned to appreciate what I have going for me, not what is wrong with me.

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OB Essay

By Nick Stoico Out Back was a remarkable experience for me. I have never been put in a position where I have seemingly impossible goals to complete. The idea of venturing out into the woods for eleven days, three of which are in complete solitude, would have seemed unattainable before I came to Holderness. I was still questioning myself in the days leading up to our departure. That morning though, when I woke up at five thirty and looked out my window at the misty mountains over the town of Ossipee, I knew I was ready. On the bus waiting to arrive at the trailhead, I grew more and more anxious. However, I had spent all summer hiking and developing a newfound love for the mountains of New Hampshire, so I felt prepared physically and mentally to begin the challenge. I wanted to push myself as hard as I could and finish the Out Back program, as well as accomplish my own set of goals. I was ready to break through the boundaries of my comfort zone and experience something rare. When I signed into the book and first stepped foot on the trail on day one, I felt very confident. Little did I know that even though I would actually get to push myself to the limit and experience something extremely difficult, I would also be leaving those mountains and woods on day four.

On Monday, we stepped off the bus, set foot on the trail and the odyssey into the White Mountains of New Hampshire began. I was feeling excellent. I felt that I had trained my body well, and I was hiking at a comfortable pace towards the front of the group. I was keeping my head up and taking in the beautiful country that surrounded us. I was taking deep breaths of the fresh air and kept my mind in the moment, because I knew that the eleven days would fly by. We finally reached our first camp site and set up. We built a great fire and sat around laughing and talking and enjoying the outdoors. By the time I slipped into my sleeping bag that night and zipped up, got warm and started to drift off to sleep, my time of outdoor delight had about two hours left on the clock.

That night, another member of our group had gotten sick. She went to bed early and was sleeping in one of the tents while the rest of us slept under the tarp, hoping not to get sick ourselves. We had built a snow

wall along the side of the tarp to block the wind. The wall was built on the end of the tarp beneath which I was sleeping, and in between me and the wall was a one-foot ditch. In the middle of the night, the devil himself infested my body. I woke in the pitch black dark to loud convulsions and roars in my stomach.

My cheeks were flaming hot and my hands were drenched in sweat. However, the temperature and well-being of my outer body was the least of my concerns. I was much more concerned with the raging war that was going on just behind my belly button all the way up to my chest. There was only one thing that I could do about it. I rolled onto the snow, stuck my head over the ditch and released the evil that was infecting my organs. Some of the evil, though, still wandered aimlessly throughout my body, waiting for the next opportunity to attack.

I had always known I was prone to sickness. When people started getting sick before Out Back, I kept my distance. I was not going to let sickness ruin my Out Back experience. I was thinking the same thing in the woods that night. I was not going to bow down to the power of the pain and exhaustion. I thought of it as being another measure of character, a test against myself to see how far I could go while harboring the stomach bug.

I was mostly upset with myself; how could I have let this happen? I had stayed healthy and clean at school and was now determined not to let my Out Back experience be ruined. On the second day, we did not move. I was not the only one sick. One of the leaders and a third student had come down with the bug. I spent the day drinking a lot of water, trying to flood the virus out of my innards. I was tired and weak. No food in my system and a lack of sleep combined to make the ultimate discomfort. I tried to walk it off, but I found myself only able to go thirty yards before I needed to return to my Crazy Creek in the sun, completely out of breath. I felt like an eighty-five-year-old man with asthma.

Looking back, I’ve come to realize that I am not a quitter in the least bit. I know this because I do not remember the idea of being pulled out of the woods

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entering my mind once. I wanted a shower and I wanted some soup and I wanted a bed, but I was nowhere near ready to give up. I was going to overcome this.

Unfortunately, I didn’t beat it. We had to move out the next day, day three. I was ready to go and get out of that campsite. We embarked on an eight mile hike, but I was out of gas and nauseous after the first ten minutes. This hike was the worst experience of my life. It was not because the hike was hard, but because I could barely carry my own weight. It was a mental test. In my mind I was so frustrated and more mad than I have ever been. I usually don’t get mad, but I was so infuriated with myself and how I was performing. My body was breaking down. I was not even sweating, for there was nothing to sweat out. This was my worst nightmare. My body was not good enough to make the hike.

For the first time in my life, I was being forced to eat, but I had no appetite. I knew, though, that to get through the day, I had to eat. This was yet another test. Can you eat this bagel with cheese and pepperoni and honey and peanut butter? It doesn’t matter, Stoics, you have to. So I ate the bagel. Every tiny bite I took felt unbearable on my tongue, and every time I swallowed, I had to close my eyes and really focus on making myself do it. I had to drink with every swallow of food because I could not stir up the small amount of strength I needed to complete the task.

That night, the third night, I said to myself again that I was going to be okay the next day. I ate some soup, dried my socks and feet, got tired, and went to my bag to sleep. I slept well, until I woke in the middle of the night with the worst urge to make a bowel movement.

That was when it ended. After another night of vomit and other unspeakable events, I finally asked the terrifying question of myself, the question that I had so terribly feared my whole career at Holderness: Will you be able to finish Out Back? The worst part about that question was I already knew the answer: No, Stoics. It’s over. And that was it. My Out Back experience was over. I left the next day and arrived back at the Holderness campus around one in the afternoon.

Recently I heard someone else who came out early say, “I came out of the woods because I was sick to the point where it wasn’t even fun anymore.” After the first night in the woods, for me fun was out of the equation. I wasn’t out there to have fun at that point.

I was staying out there to beat the thing that was trying to hold me back. It was a huge challenge, but unfortunately I can only look back and say I failed to overcome that challenge. I lasted a while, but it wasn’t long enough to win.

I will be setting foot back on the trail again next year.

I have always hated quitting and I fear the situation where I would have no choice but to quit. This is what I learned from Out Back. I didn’t quit that day when I came back in; my journey had only just begun.

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Sydney Aronson

Yejin Hwang

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Julia Capron

Sydney Aronson Victoria Sommerville-Kelso

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During their freshman year, students are asked to write a biography about a person who is meaningful in their lives. The assignment requires students to interview the subjects of their biographies and write ten-page papers. The following excerpts from their essays are crafted with attention to detail and with the voices of master storytellers.

Behind the Brushes

By Jacob Barton All the hours of The paintings are everywork put inside where. They cover the the box astound walls, the nooks, the me. There must crannies. Every available be at least fifty space is filled with brilpieces of art inside liant colors in frames the box that were that somewhat match the done by him walls. As I watch TV alone, and this is from the couch, above just one of many my head my aunt walks boxes. He has through Central Park been an artist all holding Grandpa’s hand, his life, and his and I can feel the cool works have accubreeze sweeping down mulated, just as the path muffling the snow stacks up on noise of taxi drivers The Roman Forum by David Smith the glistening winhonking in the distance.

This painting depicts a scene in the Roman Coliseum in which the ter ground.

As I climb the stairs to aristocracy is voting thumbs up or down for the survival of a gladiaGrandpa creates my room, his black dog tor. art every day, even with her gleaming fur sits when the odds are against him.

Just a month after his in a tall orange chair, its tough fabric worn by years of stroke, he drew some pictures which were promptly use. While I write this at the counter, thick, green put in an art show and sold. Although many of his woods cast shadows over me. The paintings have alworks are a product of his great imagination, others ways been present in my life. Around every corner, a blend of numerous colors greets me, and in every hall- are strongly influenced by his many years in the city.

Born and raised in New York City, Grandpa knows way, they light up the way, even on the darkest of the metropolitan life inside and out... nights. I’m so used to having them around that when a few are taken down and moved to another place, I A city boy from the beginning, Grandpa learned to feel a tiny bit empty inside. walk on the streets of Manhattan, and he relied so much on his legs that he didn’t get his driver’s license When I recently visited my cousin’s house on Long until he was fifty. He always spent time on his feet, Island, my uncle pulled out a wooden box from bewhether it was walking his dog or just strolling around hind the couch. It was filled with paintings and the city. Even after all his years in New York City, sketches done by Grandpa and his father. We went through this box for about an hour, admiring all of his however, he suffered a major injury later in life while walking the streets he knew so well. As he made his work. I found one small painting that I really liked, and he gave it to me as a Christmas gift. The oil paint- way along the bustling streets to visit a museum, a ing is of a man standing with the desert terrain behind common activity of his, he came to a crosswalk. As the walk signal lit up, he began to make his way to the him. other side of the street. About halfway across the

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road, his shoe snagged on a crack. He fell to the ground, breaking his shoulder.

As he rose up from the ground, shocked and disoriented from the pain, he searched for help. The buildings loomed over him, casting shadows sporadically across the pavement. The nearest building looked like a safe bet, and he stumbled through the tall, glass doors. Unfortunately, the building turned out to be a hotel, and he was quickly escorted out of the elaborate lobby because of his dirty and seemingly drunk appearance.

Out on the street again, he realized that he was stuck, unable to lift his arm to hail a cab. Grandpa, always able to think on his feet, searched around for another place of refuge. After scoping out the surrounding area, he made his way into another, less ornate building which turned out to be a homeless shelter.

Unlike the hotel doormen, the people working at the homeless shelter were quite comfortable around a man of David’s disheveled appearance. Although he might have looked like a homeless person, once he started speaking to the men, his articulate language made it clear to them that he was not. One of the men agreed to help David hail a cab, which he rode to the hospital.

At the hospital, his wife, my grandma Jean, met him.

After staying at the hospital for a few hours, he returned home. It’s so strange to think of my grandfather as vulnerable in the city, the place where he grew up and lived for quite a long time. He is such a city guy, and it’s unbelievable that he would have suffered an injury in the middle of his element, walking to follow his passion of art...

Wes Mitchell-Lewis

Brian Friedman Phil Brown

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A Rose Through the Thorns

By Olivia Poulin Plain. That was the word that I used to use to describe my Grammy. I didn’t jump for joy when I found out that I would have to write an entire biography on her, but I cooperated. I even sat through frustrating phone interviews, where I was unable to show my aggravation through facial expressions. I imagined her sitting on the other end of the line as she fed me the same, boring answers for every single question. She would be sitting on a cozy rocking chair, her back straight and her legs crossed. Snow white hair would sit neatly on top of her head and her thin lips would move quickly as she talked in brief sentences. I could see it now; my biography would be a total of the three words that were scratched onto my yellow-lined paper. “Rosamond Eva Keef.” The End. I didn’t think that perhaps there was a history hidden beneath her pearl white hair or stories that sat deep within her tired, old eyes...

It’s expected that on a sweltering summer day, four children who reside on a farm would be bored. Such was the case for Rosamond and her siblings on a hot day in Maine. Warm air caressed their skin, and the sweet scent of heat and fresh cut grass tickled their noses. After several unsuccessful attempts to occupy their time with games of Chinese checkers, Rosamond and her three older siblings explored the extensive land. In the midst of their adventures they came upon a bees’ hive. It was as if the nest was awaiting their arrival. They could almost hear the hive begging them to tamper with it. Picking up a stick, her older

Lauren Hayes

brother, Frank, nudged the hive. Without any response, he jabbed the exterior of the bees’ home several more times. They all giggled with rebellious excitement until they noticed the droning of the bees getting louder and angrier. Frank dropped the stick.

“Run!” he exclaimed and they took off. Rosamond’s feet trampled the earth at an alarming rate, yet she found herself falling gradually behind the others. She began to panic; the swarm of bees was gaining on her.

She glanced over her shoulder for a split second.

When she turned her head back around, she noticed her siblings taking a right and running down a different path. She knew she didn’t have time to weigh her options carefully, and instead of following the others she continued going straight. Soon enough, however, her feet dropped heavier and heavier with each step and it felt as though a boulder was resting on her lungs. She knew a shed was nearby where she could save herself, but before she reached it her feet began to drag.

Suddenly, 100 arrows coming from every direction pierced her skin. She yelped in pain but her siblings had ventured too far away to hear her. By the time she met up with them, dozens of red bumps began to appear everywhere on her body. It was a lesson Rosamond had not wanted to learn, and from that day on Chinese checkers was much more appealing to them than it had been before...

It was the middle of winter, and January’s cold air seemed to find every way to chill her bones, no matter the number of layers she wore. “Maine is brutal,” she thought to herself. The florescent airport lights increased her excitement as she hopped on a plane and traveled to her warm destination: California. She knew the five-hour plane ride would be long and uncomfortable, but it was worth it for a few days in the sweltering heat. She closed her eyes and imagined it: the smell of the ocean wafting through cracked windows, the singing birds serenading her as she took a stroll with the wind just barely brushing her arms. She had known when she had been sitting in the cold airport that she would never want to leave California. So, she decided to permanently reside there. In 1980, on the

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day of her daughter’s graduation, she left for San Rafael, California where there was only one season and no snow to send shivers down her spine. She never once looked back, and doesn’t miss Maine one bit. To this day she still lives there, and enjoys every minute of it.

Extraordinary. Whether or not she believes it, I would describe my grandmother with that word. Maybe she was poor and lived on a farm and was extremely selfsufficient. But, the fact that she can and did enjoy every second of her life no matter what, is something I wish my generation could accomplish.

“So, Grammy, do you have any regrets from your childhood?” I asked awkwardly over the phone.

“Uhh…” she started to reply, “No. I really just lived in the moment with no regrets.”

I sighed. It was frustrating to listen to her tell me over and over again about how much she loved her life.

She had to be keeping something from me. I hung up the phone and vented to my mom.

Emmanuel Smith

to her,” my mother explained.

I lingered on the statement. Could it be that she really was just ultimately pleased with life? Was it possible that her optimistic attitude connected perfectly with stories of being poor and living through the Great Depression? It was true; a person did exist who was grateful for everything and never had one complaint.

“I think I found my theme,” I declared.

“She didn’t have a lot growing up. Even stuff like talking on the phone is amazing to her. All she ever wanted was a loving family, so everything else is a gift

So Hee Park

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An Angel Held Back

By Libby Aldridge Pat was always a well-behaved girl, but nobody knew how to make her misbehave like her own siblings. In this case it was John, her younger brother. Next door to her house growing up in Cinnaminson, NJ, the neighbors had a garden. In this quaint little garden they grew corn. Pat was six years old and John convinced her that it would be fun to go over and mess with the corn the neighbors were growing. So they quickly and quietly made their way to the corn and twisted and bent the corn until it could no longer take the pressure and snapped. They scurried home and entered the house to find they had not been as sneaky as they thought, which is usually how it works with little kids. Her father spanked them both; his big hands came slamming down turning their little bums pink and sore. This is the only time she ever remembers being spanked, which makes sense because the first time parents have to scold their children is not a happy moment for either but is definitely memorable.

The lesson her father was trying to teach clearly worked because over sixty years later she can still remember it is not okay to touch or ruin other people’s belongings. Pat was never a rule breaker, but when you’re six years old, everyone does things they are not supposed to. That is how she learned wrong from right...

Eventually, Pat’s baby brother, who had so long ago convinced her to twist the corn, was off at a seminary to become a priest. There he started to drink excessively. Since he was in Chicago, he did not see his family often. The fact he had become an alcoholic was not apparent to them. When he was ordained, he moved back to Trenton, NJ. Pat never got as involved with his situation as much as her sisters because they were the ones who had to pick him up when he was too drunk to take care of himself. He has been sober for about ten years now and Pat says this is the best he has been since he was thirty. When I asked Pat if his alcoholism was hereditary and if either of her parents had been alcoholics, she replied with a short, yet timid “No.” I knew differently, but my grandmother was not aware of that. One day while her daughter Kathy, my

mother, and I were in the car we started talking about Pat. “Her mother was an alcoholic, that’s why she married so young,” my mother said without hesitating or realizing the statement would catch me off guard.

“Oh, she didn’t tell you that?”

“No, Mom, she didn’t,” I answered. I was kind of mad that my mother would reveal a secret like that about my grandmother so easily, but then was quickly interested. “But when I asked about her mother, she just said she was nice and caring and didn’t get into too much detail besides solid facts.”

Later in this same conversation my mother mentioned something else Pat had failed to bring up when I interviewed her: “Her uncle offered to pay for medical school for her and she said no.” My mother, being her usual spacey self (a trait she did not inherit from her conscientious mother), was just feeding me random facts about Pat without considering her mother’s

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right to privacy. But by no means was I about to stop her.

“She told me her biggest regret in life was not being a doctor and her childhood dream was to be one. How could she have passed up an opportunity like that?” I asked. I was determined to drag more out of my mother, which, considering how the conversation had gone so far, didn’t seem like it was going to be too hard.

“Her family was poor and her uncle, who was the big successful rich man of the family, offered to pay her way through medical school. He saw potential in her because she is an extraordinarily intelligent woman and would have done fabulously in medical school, but then came Pop Pop. He presented her with the opportunity of marriage, which was the faster escape route from her mother.” My mom dropped a few bombs in this statement, and it didn’t even occur to her what she was saying. Her mother’s life was so... natural to her. Sort of like how I know every little detail about my own mother, the idea that all this information was new and surprising to me didn’t cross her mind. “Your grandfather was her escape. He rescued her from the alcoholic mother she didn’t want to have to deal with.”

When I asked Pat about passing up her Uncle John’s offer to pay for medical school, she said that he had offered to pay for college then medical school. He was a sea captain in the Merchant Marine in WWII so they never got to see him much, but Pat said he was a

little odd. I’m not surprised she thought this because Pat has always been a very classy, down to earth, simple soul, who liked to keep things on schedule; someone like Uncle John would not have kept to a schedule. He lived with his sister, Ellen, and he was always trying to make “stupid little inventions,” as Pat referred to them, that never worked. Ellen would always have to run out and buy supplies to entertain this fascinating hobby. Instead of college and medical school, Pat went to Nazareth School of Medical Technology for two years and went on to work in two different doctors’ offices until retirement in 2003. The only excuse she gave me for passing up medical school was that she had fallen in love with Tom… Happiness comes from the little things, and Pat has done a nice job of making people happy, even though not everyone has done their best to make her happy in the past. Her alcoholic mother, who loved her dearly, was ultimately the reason she passed up college and got married young. I am in no way implying that Pat is not happy now, because she is; she loves her life and her husband and always has, but things could have been different. Just like how if Pat hadn’t listened to her brother that one day in the neighbor’s garden, she wouldn’t have gotten in trouble. Even the smallest choices we have to make, like being persuaded to twist corn, have an effect on our lives. With family, you are all connected with a bond no words can describe. One thing that happens in your family affects everyone else and their choices. My life started with Pat’s life and if it wasn’t for her decisions, I wouldn’t be the person I am today.

Phil Brown

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Kyle Kenney

Henry Miles

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Jazzy Young

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Wherever Life Takes Me, I Will Go

By Victoria Sommerville-Kelso In the following excerpt, Victoria writes from the perspective of her My sister Sally is 13 years old, and next in line after me.

We don’t get along very well, and seem to argue most of grandmother. When she begins the story, her grandmother is a the time. We’re like two mismatched socks you could teenager. say, just two individuals who don’t see eye to eye. In our When I saw Daddy bolt through the doors of our house, bedroom we have our separate sides, as well as separate drawers. I like to keep my clothes neat and tidy, and the expression on his face was unforgettable. His tears were streaming heavily down his soft cheeks like river- have each piece of clothing designated to a particular drawer, unlike Sally who has her purple and pink bras water as he darted into the bedroom. The smacking and underwear playing on lampshades and mopping sound of the door slamming against the rusty hinges across the floor. When it comes to clothes, people, and vibrated throughout the walls. Mother was drying the dishes, and immediately dropped the raggedy dish towel food, we have different tastes. Sally approaches any situation with a spontaneous mindset and jumps in no to the floor, and dashed into the room after him. I leaned over to pick up the rough towel while glancing at matter what the result. I, on the other hand, only do Sally who was in the living room dancing to the records what I know is right. but who had stopped all movement at Father’s striking entrance. Hugh was sitting slouched on the sofa playing Hugh, my “leave me alone!” younger brother, is my mother’s pride and joy and only accomplishment. She solitaire with his deck of cards which made a clapping never allows my father to punish him if he does somesound every time he laid one down. Only Baby Janice thing wrong, and it’s obvious to everyone in the family was sleeping peacefully in her crib in Mom and Dad’s that she favors him over all of her children. bedroom.

All of a sudden there was a squeamish cry, and I knew that their bickering had awoken Janice. I felt uncomfortable because there was so much tension and frustration in the air that you could cut it with a knife. Sally changed the song to “Melancholy Baby” and was pretending to slow dance with a pretend partner while Hugh laughed.

I grabbed my secondhand coat and beaded purse and headed out the front door to start my babysitting job at the neighbor’s. As I scurried off into the cold snowy night, the chaos and anxiety left a bad taste in my mouth, for I knew that Daddy had lost his job again.

The baby of the family is Janice, and she is a good little girl. Her soft, blonde curly hair resembles the brilliance of the sun, and Daddy always calls her his “princess.”

Since I am the eldest, I know my parents better as individuals than any of my siblings. My father James is tender and understanding. He works hard to support his family, and to give us what we need. Sometimes before bed, Daddy comes in to read me a passage from his poetry book that he’s had since he was a kid. His voice is serene, and when he gives me a light kiss on my forehead, his whiskers brush against my soft pale skin. I

A photograph of a scrapbook created by Victoria Sommerville-Kelso mosaic ● Volume 8, Issue 2 ● Holderness School ● www.holderness.org

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have always wondered why Daddy didn’t become a writer. There is a sense of whimsicalness in his stories, but also an intelligent way of looking at life. He makes me want to dive into his imagination and soak up all his adventures. I always feel safe and protected in his arms no matter where we are.

The words safety, comfort, and happiness are words that I wish I could experience and feel all the time, instead of just seeing their definition written down on paper. Our family has moved several times because of Daddy’s employment opportunities. First we lived in Galt, Ontario when I was a baby. After, we moved to Waterville, Quebec where my father ran a factory that made sheepskins into coats and rugs. Later on, we relocated to Oakville, Ontario where my father worked at another factory. At this moment in time, we are living back in Galt. Through the painful struggles with my mother and work, my father has always showered his children with love. Mother is also hardworking; she works at clothing stores, is a good housewife, and tries to make sure her children are always happy...

Time seems to pass so quickly when I’m with my boyfriend, Clark. I love our conversations and he can always make me laugh till I run to the bathroom bursting! We communicate and listen to one another. He tells me about how his coach doesn’t care about the team, and I tell him about how I am frustrated with life at home and my mother’s ways. The truth is, I love my mom with all my heart, but I don’t like her as a person. Those words are hard to write...

Her father, my grandfather, is consumed with money, and he has passed that materialism onto his daughter.

Dad is a good-hearted man full of principles, who is a companion and loving husband to my mother. It bothers me that she is unsatisfied with what he can monetarily provide. To Daddy and me, money does not buy happiness. Having clothes on our backs and food on the table is all we really need, but mother is always wanting to keep up with the Joneses. She thrives and dreams to have the best clothes, cars, and housing. When my friends come over she checks to see if their shoes are shined and if they have the right clothes. This weekend I picked up the phone to hear the irritating voice of a tip-top banker asking directly for my mother. The banks are always calling the house because Mom spends money she doesn’t have. Usu-

ally Mom puts on an act in front of other families making it seem as though we have the “perfect” family, but I know that no family is perfect, and that they all have their hidden secrets. My chest is ready to explode with anger. Why can’t she just face it that we have only a little money! In life you struggle because that’s the truth, and that’s what makes us human...

Sitting on the smooth grayish rocks at the beach, the sand is wet and sticks between my tiny toes. It is late April and the heavy smells of the earth and mud are released from the ground into the atmosphere. Seagulls soar overhead, because they know that I have bread for them. I toss the pieces into the water as the seagulls beat down towards the surface to retrieve them. The waves are now crashing wonderfully and rapidly into the memories of my life. Looking back I am thankful for all that I’ve been given. Clark and I are getting older and now we have the pleasure of seeing and enjoying the wonders of grandchildren. We have a total of eight grandchildren, four boys and four girls. We share more joy and happiness together watching each of them grow and learn.

Recently Clark and I had our 30th anniversary which wasn’t very fancy, but Nancy and Kevin brought our last grandchild, Victoria, as an anniversary present!

Victoria was born on the 8th of April, so she was not even a day old when we held her in our arms. Her skin was pinkish and she gave off a fresh baby smell that reminded me of when my children were born...

Before getting into bed after my long day, I remove my pink slippers and my aqua colored robe. I set my glasses on the bedside table beside the antique lamp that was given to me by my grandma. It takes effort for me to get up on my high bed, but once I am there, I slip under the fresh fleece sheets. Tonight I lay comfortably in my king-sized bed. “Why does a tiny woman like me need a king-sized bed?” I always wonder.

I let my head rest on my soft pillows on the same side I have always slept since Clark passed away. Now I am relaxed, and I take small inhales and exhales and curl my hands up towards my face in a prayer position.

“Goodnight Clark,” I whisper…

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The following works of art and poem were created during Artward Bound in March. While most students left campus to pursue other projects, sophomores remained on campus with professional artists and immersed themselves in the arts for ten days. This year’s artists taught the students about glass-beading and slumping, slam poetry, blacksmithing, puppetry, book-making, and painting.

Something Similar To Déjà Vu

By Abby Slattery I am your first step, So please forgive me for being so hard, To take.

It’s not like a dose of medicine, You can’t swallow me, In a capsule.

I am making progress.

I know all too well that does not mean conformity.

I can feel your soft breath in my ear, pleading.

But you must know, That I am alone, Slightly addicted to the self pity I feel in your absence.

I am searching though, For those eyes that match mine, And with a slight tilt of your head, And warm smile on your face, I’ll know.

But simply because, I have seen you before.

Don’t let this transform into my interactions, Because I am here, not there.

I am still slaving away.

And one day, The consequence of all I have ever done, Won’t give that word a negative connotation.

Go on, Take me, Your first step.

I’d say, “You won’t regret it!”

But the cliché sears my tongue.

I have seen me before.

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Artward Bound 2010

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Do I Want a Fanta?

By Sam Devine I’m not convinced Boost Mobile cares where I am at.

I’m not convinced that Staples is that easy. I’m not convinced that if I wear Nike shoes I’ll just do it. I’m not convinced that I’ll save fifteen percent or more on car insurance by switching to Geico. Define Fergilicious. I’m not convinced that free credit report dot com will help me see my bad credit coming like an atom bomb. Got milk?

I’m not convinced tuna is the chicken of the sea. I’m not convinced Maxwell House coffee is good to the last drop. I’m not convinced that’s what she said. I’m not convinced getting my own Cheez-it box is beneficial. Subway is not fresh. I’m not convinced that I’m lovin’ McDonalds. Is Tom Petty really Free Fallin’?

I’m not convinced we will all fall down to ashes. I’m not convinced it’s always a party in the USA. I’m not convinced that Frosted Flakes are more than good.

Gatorade isn’t in me. I’m not convinced that what happens in Vegas stays in Vegas. Is the crumb really yum, Pillsbury Dough Boy? I’m not convinced that anyone knows exactly where their kids are at ten o’clock. I’m not convinced less is really more with Charmin’ Ultra. I’m not convinced

Wheaties is the breakfast of champions. Ask Tiger.

I’m not convinced that America runs on Dunkin’. Are they really after his Lucky Charms?

I’m not convinced that Kate Hudson could ever lose a guy in ten days. I’m not convinced that girls just want to have fun. I’m not convinced that people in New Hampshire live free. Or die. Life isn’t good. I’m not convinced I’ll taste the rainbow if I eat Skittles. What would you really do if you had a million dollars?

I’m not convinced there are more bars in more places with AT&T. I’m not convinced Burger King is letting me have it my way. I’m not convinced that a diamond is forever. Hey, Obama, define hope. I’m not convinced that I’m in good hands with Allstate. Can you hear me now? Good.

I’m convinced anyone can just eat one Lays chip. I’m convinced she is that into you. I’m convinced that Verizon Wireless does stop working for me. I’m convinced the media is as reliable as a weatherman. I’m convinced that our society believes the forecast. One day, I won’t even want a Fanta, but the media will convince me otherwise.

Laura Pohl

mosaic ● Volume 8, Issue 2 ● Holderness School ● www.holderness.org

Holderness School Plymouth, NH 03264-1879 www.holderness.org 603.536.1257