Prologue: The Drunkard's Apprentice

It was the sort of phrase mothers would use in exasperation against erstwhile children, or fathers would use to inspire their sons to greatness. “If you keep on like this, you’ll become the drunkard’s apprentice!”

The drunkard’s apprentice. The lowest of the low.

The threat seemed very real to children, though in time they would learn it was something of a joke. There had not been a drunkard’s apprentice in years. It was said only the most low-down good for nothing boy could manage to claim such a title, and everyone with sense strove to accomplish even a small task to avoid such. Children who were fortunate enough to have parents did not need fear becoming the drunkard’s apprentice. Their parents chose the place of apprenticeship at the proper time.

It was the orphans of the town who had reason to fear.

The elders tried to be kind, them that looked for apprenticeships for the boys at the right time, but they could not take the place of wise, loving parents. Even the simplest, struggling boy would be given an apprenticeship of small pride.

There had not been a drunkard’s apprentice in years. Grandfathers could not remember the last time there had been one.

Many believed that a drunkard’s apprentice was cursed.

And so the story begins . . .

Blogs and Such

My dear friend Nina gave me this beautiful award! And oddly enough, there are some rules to go with it.

Here they are:

1. Thank the person who gave you the award.
2. Copy the award.
3. Post it on your blog.
4. Tell your readers 7 things they didn't know about you.
5. Link 7 bloggers as recipients.
6. Notify winners of award with a comment on their blog.
7. Keep being awesome.

So, now I am supposed to tell you seven things about myself. Hmm.

1. I got my picture taken with Shawn Johnson, Nastia Lukin, and Alicia Sacramone.

2. I had a root canal about two years ago.

3. I hung out a window to put up our Christmas wreaths.

4. I have ridden in the trunk of a car.

5. Kate Winslet is one of my favorite actresses.

6. I am named for both my grandmothers.

7. I am a mom. (Well, not exactly, but I have adopted two of the girls in my unit as my children :).)

I now hereby tag:

Mitzi

Ruth

Tabby

Aly

Sadly, that is all.

My Angel

I actually wrote some this October 19th but have only just now gotten around to posting it...

*****

Today is hard. It’s hard to pretend this is just like any other day. Because it isn’t. The last breath, a smile, a sigh, all indicate the time has come; the end is nigh. Sometimes we have a good deal of time to prepare for this end. Other times it catches us by surprise. Even when we know it’s coming, we struggle to let the person go. When we don’t even see the change on the horizon, the blow hits us even harder.

Elli went home today one year ago. One year, one whole year without seeing my beautiful Elli, without listening to her fuss in church, or thump her legs on her foot supports. I have not felt her full weight in my arms, the weight of a child who depends on others to care for her. It is a very special experience, caring for someone who can do nothing by herself. With babies, it is different. People do not expect babies to care for themselves. But an eight year old, people think one surely ought to do some things at eight. But if the body doesn’t work right, one can’t. So it was with Elli. I love Elli. God used her to teach me so much. Through her, I saw how physical abilities do not characterize personality or mental capacity. Elli had both in abundance.

When she died, I was already more than twice her age. The number of people she touched in school and church, through doctors’ appointments, friends and family, amazed me. Eight years, seven months, and twenty-two days. That was all the time she had. People streamed through the doors of the memorial home, one by one walking past the casket of the still, silent form with waxen lips and sleeping eyes. Some cried. Some held back tears. Some were dry-eyed.

I cried.

I cried for the little girl who would never walk on this earth. I cried for her family, bereft of their beautiful girl. I cried for her friends. And I cried for myself. I missed her. Selfishly, I longed to bring her back. I was furious at God for doing this. He had taken away a little girl, someone everyone loved. Why had He done that?

The Sunday before Elli died, her grandparents brought her and her siblings to church. Her parents had gone on a mini vacation. I was surprised to see her, not expecting her grandparents to bring her to our church, not theirs. I didn’t know it then, but she had come to say good-bye. I remember watching her leave. I saw her later that week, stretched out on the floor, as I went outside. I wish I had stopped to say hello. But I didn’t.

She was gone before I knew it.

I never said good-bye.

I never expected to. I had so many wonderful plans for us when she grew. We were both the oldest. I could imagine the fun conversations we would have, the bonds we would form as eldest children. I wanted to relate to her. I couldn’t wait until she grew older and I grew wiser and we learned to understand each other better. As we become closer, I wanted to hug her, snuggle her, make her smile. I loved that smile, so infectious and beautifully spirited.

But I was too late.

Before I could act on my ambitions, she was gone, snatched by the wind. I was left with my faded ambitions and painful memories. I struggle, weighed down by my sorrowful, aching heart. The memories and ambitions make no sense to anyone else. Broken dreams, who can understand them? Only the one who clings to them in despair, memories of the past.

College Days

So I haven't kicked the bucket or anything, as most of you know. I have simply spent my time other ways. I hardly know where to begin, so this shall be a very disorganized post.

Firstly, might I mention how dreadfully fun it is to sneak into places and see "secret" goings-on? Yesterday one of my unit-mates and I were walking back from the cafeteria when she pointed out that the theater door was open. Open. Ahhhh, the luxury. I have a girl in my Composition class who does lighting. And I, being me, suggested we sneak in and have a look. We did. The set was nice, the costumes were good, and the single actress I saw looked very professional, but I gathered that from one sweeping glance round. What caught my eye was the enormous collie dog in the middle of the stage.

I miss Spott so much. I actually went up and petted a strange dog a couple weeks ago I was so desperate for puppy love. (I did make sure it was friendly first. She kept wagging her tail and trying to reach the people going in and out the building.) She was a darling, white with flopping brown ears, brown spots, and a bright pink kerchief around her neck. It will be very interesting what happens when I go see this play. If the collie comes my way, I think I'll love it to death.

Another thing: it's amazing how homogenous the people are here. We're all within five to seven years age difference of each other. There are no little ones. I miss that so much. Every time I see a baby, or anyone under the age of eighteen, I think, "Ooooh! Those kinds of people still exist after all!" Fortunately, I go home about every month, so I stock up on puppy love and baby cuddles then.

I have done other things, pulled many, many naughty stunts on people, and actually done homework, believe it or not. Which is what I must do now.

The End is Near

My that looks ominous. Actually, The End is simply The Beginning, The Beginning of My Life Alone. In other words, I shall be heading off to college in less than a month. What a strange thought.

Mom took me dorm room shopping a couple days ago. I have most of the stuff I need now, scattered across the floor of my room along with Galadriel's standing mirror, her comforter, string of lights, and various other odds and ends. We're redoing her room, and somehow part of her stuff ended up in my room. That plus my crates of college goods had virtually monopolized my floor. It's a good thing I don't spend much time there.

However strange I will soon be leaving, it is an even more strange that I have friends who are getting married! I know, I know, many of you are already aquainted with my feelings for the male gender, and just because I feel that way doesn't mean everyone else does, but that doesn't make it any less strange to me. Why do it so early? That's what I want to know.

I want to have time just to be me, to go to college, travel the globe, get up at 11 am and go to bed a 1 am and not bother a soul. I want pets and friends and freedom. I am very independent-minded. Ah well. To each her own.

Of Blueberries and Garden Mulch

My lounging form was hauled into action this weekend by the two occurances listed above. As a rule, I always help with both, although generally we don't do them so close together.

Blueberry picking is a tradition in my family. Every year we go to a local blueberry patch and pick until everyone complains loudly enough that Mom and Dad leave. We started when I was about three and have been going ever since. The family who owns the patch knows us. The youngest three pickers fell out fairly early, although Galadriel picked two buckets. Nienor and I got tired too, but stubbornly refused to give up until we left. At any rate, we picked 82.4 lbs of blueberries on opening day. Usually we pick some ridiculous amount like that.

You would think we wouldn't know what to do with so many berries but we do, mostly on account of the number Mom gives away. Partly from being the oldest and partly from rigorous training, I have learned to share everything from spinach to ice cream (although the former doesn't take that much effort.) Nevertheless, I cannot watch our precious blueberries melt away without shuddering and grousing and generally feeling selfish. Mom thinks I put so much effort into it that I hate to see them go. I think it's because we pick twelve bags and somehow end up with only two for our consumption. Nienor doesn't like them at all, but I love them. Who knows; we may keep more this time. I think we've only given away a bag or two so far.

Now about the mulch. It would have been tough enough to just haul and spread the stuff, but there's preperations to be done beforehand. We have decorative garden stones which have slowly sunk into the mire of the garden. If we simply tossed the mulch on them, they would promptly disappear. Therefore we have to pick them up, smooth out the dirt underneath them, and drop them back down. And if that wasn't enough, we also have to dig little trenches around the edges of the beds to keep the mulch from washing away in the rain.

We all worked on spreading the mulch the evening it was dumped on the driveway. The next day, though, it looked like it was going to rain so Mom, Nienor, and I spent part of the morning and afternoon hauling and spreading it. (Galadriel was a ballet.) We actually managed to spread it all, and then I showered everything with Preen.

And after all that, it didn't rain until late at night, after Mom watered the grass (I kid you not; every time she waters the grass it rains) and Dad tried to water the Preen into the ground (it didn't work terribly well).

Now that we finished that, we get to start pulling up carpet in Galadriel's room and prepping it for paint. Or we could tackle the basement...

Stories and Such

When I was little, we would go to visit my grandpa every Sunday. My uncle was usually there as well, and Nienor and I would commandeer his time, climing into his lap with book in hand for him to read. Eventually we developed favorites, namely Richard Scarry books.

Scarry's characters get into all number of scrapes such as driving into a grocery store in a car, trying to catch a crook and getting caught instead, or fixing a vacuum so that it cleans the ceiling. My favorite, though, was the tale of poor Mr. Raccoon and his "Unlucky Day."

Even before Mr. Raccoon leave his house his breakfast burns, the house springs a leak, and the door comes off its hinges. As his day progresses he loses his hat, his car breaks down, he falls down a manhole, and, my favorite of all, runs into a lamppost. "A policeman yelled at him for bending the lamppost" read the book, illistrated with a picture of an irate police dog jumping in the air and pointing at the lamppost, now bent ninety degress and parallel to the ground, while Mr. Raccoon stands by and looks sheepish.

But do his troubles end there? Not at all. When Mr. Raccoon arrives at home he discovers a house filled with water and no dinner on the table, having forgotten his wife's request to bring home supper. As he hops into bed, Mr. Raccoon says, "There isn't another unlucky thing that can happen to me today." We as readers nod in agreement--until his bed collapses. The story ends, "I do hope Mr. Raccoon has a better day tomorrow, don't you?"

In this story Richard Scarry creates a loveable character dealing with humorous problems. We always laughed as we watched Mr. Raccoon's troubles unfold. Now that I am older, though, I appreciate a bit more how patiently Mr. Raccoon dealt with his problems. He never complained, grumbled, or lost his temper. Even at the end of the story, he was cheerfully optimistic.

I, on the other hand, lose my temper when I can't find something I'm looking for, when something doesn't go my way, or when I feel unappreciated. I sulk terribly, one of my worst characteristics, and usually go to bed grim-faced if the trials of the day bear down on me.

I would do well to copy Mr. Raccoon's cheerfully optimistic attitude, trusting God to care for me, even when things don't go my way.

*All quotes are taken from the book "The Funniest Storybook Ever" by Richard Scarry.