Blueprint

Sanctuary

2011-03-01T17:19:00.000-08:00

The room is dark when I walk in; the blinds and the curtain are still closed. A soft ticking comes from the alarm clock on the desk; otherwise the room is silent. I carefully pick my way across the mess on the floor to the large glass door on the front wall and open the curtain with a slight flourish. The room is suddenly filled with light, and my immediate thought is of green. The desk, the chair, the bed, the shelves, and the posters on the wall greet the sunlight as it pours into the small space. Upon the light’s entrance, the room comes alive. The painted circles on the walls turn a relaxing shade of pastel green; the photos on the corkboard glow with the faces of family and friends; the titles on the spines of the shelved books shine invitingly.

The mess might have bothered the occasional guest-bed unmade, closet unorganized, papers strewn across the floor-but I walk through it comfortably. The room hasn’t been thoroughly cleaned in a few weeks; the evidence is tossed on the chair, stacked on the desk, and piled on the carpet. Four instruments occupy the portion of the floor at the end of the bed, and an accompanying music stand waits in a far corner. Books of countless genres-fiction and fantasy, mystery and suspense, guidebooks and dictionaries-fill the tall white shelf to the top. The glass door built into the wall next to the bookshelf seems to have no purpose but to let in light; it opens out to the open air above the driveway, with only a wooden fence protecting the observer from a fall to the ground a floor below. Nevertheless, the door is a pleasant gateway of light and a clever addition to the bedroom’s style. It is also a subject of humor in the room; my family and I usually refer to it as the “Suicide Door” due to the pointlessness of its ability to open into midair.

Comfortable, at ease, content-I can spend hours in my room and never get bored. The room has its own aura; I can feel it as soon as I open the door. The air inside has no smell no or taste, but somehow it is still calming after a long day of school. The corkboards on the walls are littered with random sketches and photos, but somehow they always have room for more memories. The stuffed animals in the corner are sad and forgotten, but somehow they still comfort me.

The room’s most noticeable feature is the abundance of stuff; pens, paper, books, clothes, rubber bands, art supplies, water bottles, stuffed animals, coins, pencils, playing cards, instrument swabs, postcards, old toys, notebooks, and key chains can be found in every nook and cranny of the room. Even the tidy bookshelves-the only consistently neat part of the room-manage to have busy, cluttered appearances. Most objects that occupy the room’s space are neither useful nor important, but they all have their own story to go with them.

Despite the disorganization of the room, a stranger could most likely tell the general age of its occupant. The elementary-school level books, the pile of stuffed animals, and the flower-shaped lights on the wall would suggest the presence of a young girl, but other clues show otherwise. Binders are stacked in a shelf on the desk, surveys from colleges are stuffed in the desk drawer, National Geographic magazines lay on the bed, and a laptop computer has its own place on the desk. The style of the room gives away some hints as well: the room’s color never strays away from pastel green and white, the shelves and bed match each other, and an office chair sits in front of the desk.

The room has grown as I have grown, changed as I have changed, and lived as I have lived. It has seen the secrets that make me quiet, it has seen the frustrations that make me cry, it has seen the friends that make me laugh, and it has seen the work that makes me proud. The room has been my sanctuary since I moved into it five years ago, and it continues to be now. The room, like everything in it, has stories of its own. My last birthday saw it transformed as a gift from my parents; the desk, the bed, the shelves, everything was rearranged, and for a terrible moment I was afraid that I would not like my new room; then I realized, regardless of whether I liked it or not (I did), it would still be the place that I felt most at home.

Megumi

A Place Called “Home”

2011-03-01T16:02:00.001-08:00

The stucco walls, the crown molding, the family-made artwork hanging the walls, the worn down carpet that a sizable family has walked miles over; this place, not very extravagant or glorious, is what may be called, at the most basic level, home. Moving from the dark green front door, through the front room, kitchen, living room, garage, second story hallway, the laundry room, three bedrooms, three bathrooms, and the office space cluttered with various schematics, bills, and other paper sheets, the basic lives of the family living in this house is shown to you. This house- a place of peace and restlessness, work and play, men and animals- is wonderful.
Starting in the front, the first thing noticed is the baby grand piano, sleek and clean, surrounded by priceless family pictures and heirlooms along the deep magenta walls. Then the collection of shoes lining the tile floor adjacent to the front room is seen, topped off with the wine cabinet upon which a replica light saber from a popular science fiction series is placed; this weapon is owned by the very young man whose careful hands created most of the wall’s decorations. Opening into the dining area, a round, glass table, that is used, as often if not less than the living room couch, as an eating station, with curved wooden limbs that root themselves like trees into the Native-American style rug of reds and browns.
Separated only by a title, the next room to be seen is the kitchen where there is a massive fridge and cabinets and drawers and utensils and pans and cooking machines and a waffle iron and, most of all, the love of food and cooking, alive in each of the house’s residents. The centerpiece, the large granite counter top that’s always cluttered with one form of decor or another, is cluttered with the papers and foodstuffs of the busy lives of the Velez family. The room different, again only by name from the next, is the busiest of the house and continues into the next section in which the family is usually occupying. From the cool colors of the walls, to the knick-knack-ridden shelves to the CD rack and to the big screen that most American lives revolve around, the room is normally used for entertainment purposes. This living room has known comedy, drama, tragedy, documentary, sitcom, and many others who have filled the room with life and emotion, all through the black rectangle that springs to life at the flip of a switch.
I use this place every day, waking up in the bedroom upstairs, using the different rooms as I go about my routine. My family shares this place with me, we cook and clean and work alongside one another here, among the rooms and the walls that we know so very well. Eating, sleeping, living,-we, the dwellers of this household, go in and out, day after day, moving about our monotonous lives in our own, personalized nest. This is the house that I hate to say goodbye to when I leave, and the house that welcomes be back with shelter, food and a warm bed when I come home. This is the house that tells me I’m safe or comforted in the hard or menacing times. This is the house that heals me when I am sick, distracts me when I am sad, sustains me when I am in need. This house is my house.
I went to my bedroom, buzzing with excited energy as I lay down anxious for the next morning to arrive. Closing my eyes, I receded into blackness, but not deep blackness, only as dark as my eyelid could get me; I could not sleep. I concluded that it was going to be a long night: I had the will to sleep but a body that was not. And so it went, I tossed and turned the creeping hours of the winter’s night away, ever so sluggishly. In the nighttime lighting, the appearances of my room were peaceful and resting, and I was jealous of their stillness. Finally, tired of watching everything in the space not move all night, I gave up the battle of sleep and went out into my household to pass the time. I wiggled my way out of the covers that held no rest, off of the bed that, for once, did not comfort, and across the room, laden with clothing and clutter as any normal room shared by two teenagers would have. I got out of that room, the restless prison, and went into the hall, free of my sleepless shackles, moving my way towards the adjacent room, the cluttered office, at this time being a playroom for three growing boys. I spent the rest of my time watching the movie from which the science fiction decoration from the front room was created for, and let the hours pass me by in my wonderful house.
I eventually exhausted myself to sleep, returning to my cell, and concluded the tedious night, awakening that Christmas morning, in need of more rest, but ignorant of it. I tumbled down the stairs, into the open arms of my lovely abode, the one that stayed awake with me and kept me happy through the night like only a dear friend would. This, my home, is just right for me, and will eternally be a part of my life.

~Gavin

Timelessly Ordinry

2011-03-01T10:31:00.000-08:00

The newly painted exterior leaves the appearance of an innovative building, while the antique and vintage interior creates an intimate look at the classic eras that came before us. The Petaluma Goodwill store is often a place for underprivileged people to supply themselves with necessary items such as clothing and household items; the immense diversity of the merchandise makes an enjoyable shopping experience for all consumers. Not only does the Goodwill contain sundry items, but also they all contain stories of how they got to the Goodwill. All of the clothes have been bought from previous stores, all of the movies have been watched on other televisions, and all of footballs have been thrown around a field. Before the merchandise was brought here it was used, cherished, worn, played with, and watched. The design as well as the contents of the Goodwill personifies the metaphors that although new things evolve over time, good quality items are well built to last through generations.
The first sight when entering the Goodwill is the neatly color oriented rows of clothing. Although the clothing may have been purchased a year ago or a decade ago, the Goodwill all equalizes the clothing and decreases the common need for brand names. All of the clothing is cohesive and integrated: the combining of clothing from different stores brings together all forms of clothing style. Going up and down the aisles creates an experience in which all of the different textures and fabrics of the clothes generates an assortment of feelings. The clothing is complemented by rows of shoes and purses. All of the purses contain their own stories of what they used to hold and where they used to go, being sent to the Goodwill lets the purses obtain a new owner and have a new purpose in their life.
Various items like golf clubs, sports equipment, and the occasional typewriter line the rows of clothing and shoes. This typewriter was once the latest technology accessible to the rich. This typewriter has produced countless words, pages, even books. Today the typewriter could not compare to the computer, but the times the typewriter has been through outnumber the technology today. Upon looking at the typewriter, after brushing off the dust, through tightening up the lose knob, I found a clever piece of equipment. Before technology evolved the typewriter was used for books and newspapers and letters and magazines and documents. A surplus of computer keyboards, dusty monitors, and old landlines surround the typewriter; this machinery used to be a families contact with the world outside of their home. The sound of the typewriter clicking used to be a universal sound heard around houses. Aside from the abundance of retro technology, the amount of books is also in mass amounts. The desolate shelves that line the walls are drenched in books. Fragile, intellectual, academic- books provide readers with journeys into fictional and nonfunctional expeditions created by authors. The books are lined with dust and the binding is worn, but the reason books last so long are that the story can never get old. The equalizing ability that The Goodwill has creates a mystery whether the books were bought at an expensive bookstore, or at a garage sale. I often find myself buzzing through the first three pages of random books I come across.
Today’s stiff economic times has made the aspect of the Goodwill more of a reasonable shopping option for the middle class American. Before today’s era caught up with itself, the Goodwill was mainly a store for the lower income class. People who could not afford popular items from brand stores were able to find the merchandise they wanted without having to go over their allowed budget. The shoppers at the Goodwill-frugal and cost oriented, intricate and decisive, inventive and timeless-can always find astonishing deals on excellent items. I have found that the people who shop at the Goodwill are often the people who contribute to their merchandise. It takes a person with a giving nature to compose a quantity of items and donate them in their own free time.
The Goodwill promotes equality, and brand name stores encourage similarity; the Goodwill has diverse merchandise, and brand name stores have clones of the same dress; the Goodwill is the classification of timeless, and brand name stores replace their clothes past a month; the Goodwill is accessible for all types of people, and brand name stores target their clothing for a small group of people.
The Goodwill has been around for many decades and will carry on with its success due to its continuous adaptation of society without letting go of classic styles. The variety of merchandise makes the Goodwill a primary store for all types of shoppers. The low prices also attract the families who have fallen into a low income. Although the aspect of used or worn items might ward off brand name enthusiasts, the vintage and stylish commodities bring in large amounts of helpful customers daily.

Gabby

The Barbed Barrier

2011-03-01T07:21:00.000-08:00

The verdant bushes litter the browning grasses of the fields. The wind rattles through the mounds of dirt like a child gently blowing out candles of a birthday cake. A barrier of linked barbs divides the busy streets from the quiet, peaceful cow pastures. The scent of fresh air and manure collide in a turmoil of unique experiences: some days crisp air dominates the landscape, although more often than not the cows bring a less amiable aroma.
The barbed wire—rusted and neglected, broken and weathered, sharp and unkempt—displays the dividing point of my favorite field. Trees litter the perimeter of the grassy region giving the field a sense of security. The occasional wild mushroom looks appetizing if sautéed, although I’m sure the taste would be quite the polar opposite. The mushrooms bring a feeling of rebellion to the whole orchestra of greens, along with the numerous wild flowers. Speckles of red, orange, and blue paint the field and the black and white spots of cows grazing adjacent to each other compliment the looks.
The tall grass flows gently through my hands when I grasp a patch. There is a mixture of dried grass, coarse grass, silky grass, healthy grass. In a single area I can get a plethora of feelings, along with possibly lady bug crushed in my palm. The blades provide a dynamic view to the whole scenery with the collaboration of colors.
A path of pebbles and dirt circles around a hill standing before the barbed-wire fence in a phalanx. The path comes to a ditch in which a seemingly ethereal bridge covers up the gap of air. This particular bridge is where I like to enjoy the scenery. The wooden railing manages to sustain my weight as I perch myself atop it eating a delicious cream cheese bagel. This is my source of inspiration; this is the place in which I may allow my mind to wonder to the far reaches of my brain. The sensation of peace brings out a deeper thought from inside the maze of nerves inside my brain.
The setting as a whole brings a serene feel. The only sound to be heard is the gentle push of the wind. Like a monastery, the field brings a sense of peace in which my mind is free to roam and wander over past events. I tend to think of it as a sanctuary of wonder.
The barbed barrier provides my mind with a sense of wonder to what’s behind it. Where, how, what—words like those infiltrate my mind as I stand facing the open pasture. I think what because I’m curious to see where the acres of open land would take me if I were to venture past the wiry fence. My mind cannot begin to fathom each an every nook and cranny created by nature. Unfortunately, I am unable to explore the land for the fence disables me to do so.
I think where because I have no idea where the land covers. For all I know, the field could contain hills and fortresses and hidden relics and ancient historical monuments and even mounds of gold. The land itself is so vast it can do nothing but mesmerize me in wonder.
Lastly, I think how. Many questions of “how” strike me when I reminisce about the plot of land. For example, one of the most common ones are “How did this place become what it is?” The field seems so immeasurable and open that I wonder how the field was never inhabited besides the few grazing cows. Although I wonder why the area was never industrialized, I am quite thankful for the place being as empty as it is. It allows me to think in peace and just appreciate the little things I receive from other people.
This rickety barrier really provides the field its qualities. The mystery behind it divides the blaring car horns and over industrialization of the world from the quiet natural environment beyond the fence. Nothing seems to stimulate my thoughts quite like my sanctuary of wonders does. The placement of the trees gives me a protective cage to hide from the stress of life and the barbed barrier is a television waiting to have an image formed in front of it.

--Alex

The Essence of Sunset

2011-03-01T04:36:00.000-08:00

The watering hole was alive. It was surrounded by a lush countryside littered with dense thickets of shrubs and grasses, an old abandoned barn off in the distance was rotting with antiquity, and an obscure group of cattle huddled around it. Two maturing redwood trees shielded me from the crimson glare of the setting sun; it was from a soft, creaking bench coated with a sliver of dew that I felt at peace. The scent of pollen, moist tree bark, and mud-drenched soil was propelled through the air by a cool breeze, bringing an eerie enticement. The sounds of young squirrels quarrelling, the chirps of air-borne swallows, the boasting barks of proud dogs, and the gentle tremor of insects blended in with this earthly sensation. Along the brim of this vitality, there was a symphony of fruit—lemons and pears, strawberries and bananas, apples and grapes—all feeding off the vibrant energy, desperately grasping the fringes of this melody, unwilling to let go. The whole neighborhood is gathering for the setting sun.

In the surrounding marshland there is a delicate trickle of water winding along the gravel, an interminable basilisk wetting the landscape with the subtle flow of an unrelenting force; its delicate strum of chords playing an exhilarating tune. Its banks are coated with an emerald moss and its vast expanse covered with harsh, jagged stone, avoided by the neighborhood for their unforgiving nature. The sky had a soothing effect as it cast its long orange glow, igniting the flames in the horizon, yet this haze was crisp and clear. The sun an impressive dancing fireball was sinking into the distance, gradually, as it whispered “farewell”. As these brilliant, vivid colors flashed across the landscape, I began to see the shadowy outlines in front of me through squinted eyes.

In my vicinity a freshly planted blueberry grove was developing, it was growing steadily as the rich soil continued to nurture it; the young emerging sprouts were the signs of spring‘s revival. Along this patch a scraped trail, marked by the intricate pattern of bike wheels and sneakers, looped around it, the thousands of journeys across this terrain made apparent by its shabby, worn appearance. A continuous stream of traffic flowed down this highway: a haven for the passionate biker or care-free jogger. In the distance the faint, steady hum of car engines was adding a repeating rhythmic pulse to this sanctuary, coordinating with the tatter of footsteps along the trail’s weary gravel. Young couples continued down this road with over-active dogs, introducing boisterous barks into the air; they give the trail a purpose, gliding across it evening after evening after evening.

Directly in front the neighborhood was gathered. A petite playground of color, demanding ones attention, was splashed around in an array of slides, swings, handles, steps, and knobs; Children played carefree, filled to the brim with vivacity, having been released from the day’s prisonlike confinements. Consequently adults attempted to contain this commanding wall of sound and hyperactivity, worried about the children’s safety. The scent of barbeque was drifting through the air as families gathered together on the splintering, wooden benches for the evening meal. As I calmly observed this gently ensuing clamor of sound, it was gradually blending into the surrounding paradise. This was the epitome of harmony.

The center of the structure had a lone tree that interrupted the flow of pavement, and claimed dominance among the surrounding cement and plastic, proclaiming its importance with proud, outstretched arms. This central mast with its tangled branches and intricate leaf patterns supported the surrounding bliss with its aged arms. When I was younger this elderly tree was an entertaining world of climbing as I would stay perched among its branches for hours. It provided a place for reflection and contemplation. As I scaled the treacherous tree, bark crackled beneath me as the course wood cut my skin, piercing it with sharp shards of wood; it was painful, yet rewarding. I now observed a new generation of children upon the aged tree laughing, playing, crying, smiling. This tree will continue to offer liberty and delight to children, spreading its arms out in a warm embrace for the coming generations and providing support for this refuge.

This place is brimming with life during the final hours of the day, acting as spot of relaxation and leisure with a pleasant, comfortable atmosphere. It has been a place for me to relieve the stresses of everyday life and sink into a luxurious haven, allowing me to forget and recover. Many childhood memories originate at this sanctum, strongly influencing my decisions, motivations, and actions. Surrounding this sanctity on all sides is a neatly woven cluster of houses all constructed facing towards it, implying, almost, that this is the central pillar of the neighborhood. Throughout the evening the people—infants and children and adolescents and adults and elderly—all travel in the direction of this watering hole, resembling animals gathering in the wild, wishing to share the essence of sunset.

-Akhil

A Quiet Place

2011-03-01T03:09:00.001-08:00

It’s so hard sometimes to find a quiet place to think in our ever-expanding world of advancing technology and loud music. Sitting on the mauve colored sheets that stretch across the lumpy mattress which is my bed, I attempt to concentrate as I stare blankly at my computer screen, wistfully wishing that the words would write themselves to form an observational essay; outside my door are a jumbling mix of sounds: food simmering on the stovetop for dinner, the rattling and shaking of the washer and dryer from the hallway outside my door, the pounding of pop music against the sky blue walls as it is plays in the next room , and the TV, which so kindly echoes the voice of the cartoon character SpongeBob Squarepants, blasts throughout the entire household; homework pages are strewn all around, both across the bed and on the floor. I glance down at those pages on the floor and at the several different headings, all in different fonts, with different purposes-all of these originate from the same subject of study, English.
As an idea manages to sprouts into my mind, the ruckus outside my door grows and the idea is lost. I can feel the heat of anger slowly rise to the breaking point; this is when I leave my computer, grab my jacket and keys, and leave the house for a little walk around the neighborhood to let off steam. It was around four o’clock when I departed from my chaotic household and the sunny sky was clear and bright, smiling down upon the world with its invisible rays of happiness and friendship, none of which, at the time, brought me any of that.
I walked a route that I was fairly familiar with, having walked it with my mother numerous times before. The seasons were in the midst of their changing from winter to spring and everything looked so new. The flowers, most of which still resembled little bouncy balls, were just beginning to bloom. The air was luscious and cool against my exposed skin, and the taste of the first spring shower was sweetness all on its own. The sounds of newborn birds formed the perfect cliché of springtime with the chirping of their song celebrating new life. Spring is sweet smelling flowers, succulent air, and fragile newborn chicks.
By this time, I had wandered blatantly off the normal path and found myself at the entrance of a side pathway. Its doorway opened up to the busy street, but was secluded and kept secret by the overgrowth of tree branches. I had driven on the road so many times, so why had I not noticed this here before? I made a decision and followed the pathway. Slowly, the bustling noises of daytime citizens decreased in volume until they had vanished completely. I noticed the lack of car noises and glanced up from my black boots from which I had been staring at for most of my walk. Around me, a magnificent picturesque image displayed itself to its only occupant: me. The ground was made from bricks of red stone cemented together and paved smooth; the stone pathway curved here and there, winding its way through the cherry blossom trees which, like everything else, were in bloom and added a beautiful pink tone to the scene. To my left were the backyards of houses, staggered so that the back corner of one backyard touched the other corner of another backyard. Every ten feet there was a wooden bench and at each bench there stood a representation of an old English lamppost whose light was not yet shining. To my right, blackberry bushes lined a wood and steel fence that blocked any persons from entering into the creek. Although the creek was not particularly large in size, the runoff from the showers filled the creek enough to provide a faint sound of trickling water as I continued through this mystical grove. The grass was also a bright and new green. I pick a blackberry off of the bush and watch as the maroon dye stains my fingertips. The scent of blackberries is mouth-watering, yet I prevent myself from indulging in this pleasure for, I am civilized and I understand that they must not be eaten until washed. I wander along some more until I come to a tree where one of the blossoms had fallen onto the bench below. I lift the blossom with great care, feeling the silken petals as they brush against my skin. I smile because my anger is gone.
This is my quiet place: A place where I can go to experience the calamity that is offered through the simplicity of nature and its natural resources. Compared to the buzzing worlds that we get sucked into, the world is noisy and my place is serene; the world is stressful and my place is calming; the world is always on a schedule, but in my place, time can be endless. Between the outside world and its ability to pull one into their own individual world, it is nice to get away from all that and enjoy what nature had to offer us, even a hundred years ago when there were no such things as cars or phones or computers. It is the evil in technology that disrupts the natural connection that all humans feel to nature.
The caramel and cotton candy covered sunset sky marked the point with which I had to depart my quiet place, but I could tell that the image would stick and I would not forget it. Every aspect of the grotto, the cherry blossom trees and the stone path and the benches and the lampposts and the blackberry bushes and the sunset sky, created not only a serene image for me to visit when life gets out of hand, but a place that reminds myself to slow down and take a look around every once in a while.
~Haley

Learning How to Run

2011-03-01T02:48:00.000-08:00

As I stepped on the ground, I was immediately attracted to the sound of the gravel pushing against the rubber bottoms of my blue and white Pumas. Underneath my feet was a brown, wet path of sand and dirt waiting to be stampeded by eager, adolescent teenagers. Each grain of sand was ready to be disturbed by the spikes of the energized, anxious athletes, moved by the gushing, moist wind, and abused by the harsh, metal hurdles that were dragged across the track without care. Crunchy, hard, and grainy-- the individual pieces of “track sand” entered the soles of my shoes as I bursted out sprinting with all my might. Vibrant rays of sunlight peeked through the cloudy sky as I was praying to reach the end of my drill. Cool and relaxing, the spring mist sprayed my soft, tan skin, making it almost bearable to endure another lap. I glanced behind my shoulders and realized that I wasn’t the last one. I felt as if I was indestructible. Behind me, I saw three sprinters struggling to make it past the finish line that I had somehow managed to get across. As I approached the end of my sprinting drill, I caught my breath, paused, and looked around. I saw people cheering others on. I saw grass being stepped on by careless teenagers. I saw motivation in the returning athletes who wanted to succeed once again.

The Casa Grande track is known as the place where football games, graduation, and physical education activities are held. It is also famous for the vigorous, weekly practices that the track stars endure. The general track area consists of three parts: the field, track, and bleachers.

There are many other “less important” areas such as the shot put pit, long jump pit, and snack bar as well. After getting dressed, I immediately went towards the green, muddy grass where we all carry out our routine group stretches. After inhaling the fresh Sonoma County air, I stopped to adjust to the environment and people around me. The football field-- green yet dry, old yet sturdy, overused yet tough-- is very traditional and useful. Casa students of all ages run, skip, and slide on it, not thinking about the outcomes of their actions. Even though workers spend hours fixing it up and preparing it for seasonal football games, it ends up looking like a “natural” field by the end of the day.

Around the field is a 400 meter long dirt oval, commonly known as the track. Although most official, athletic tracks are made of rubber or tar, our aged track is traditionally made out sand and dirt. Plain and simple. Although a rubber track is less harsh on the ankles and knees, a dirt track is better for conditioning sprinters and long distance runners. When preparing for a meet, the dirt track is embellished and marked with white chalk; the chalk marks suggest running measurements so that the runners know where they must begin or end. Modern rubber tracks usually use chalk temporarily until they are ready to paint them. Occasionally, one will find cones or place markers; these represent where the runner should start, how they should pace themselves, and where they should stop.

Along the track is a metal fence where the hurdlers gather and begin their stretching routine. Leaning against the wall are the hurdles: the hurdle height that is thought to be the best for girls is thirty-three inches, which is at junior varsity level. The hurdling races are very different: there is the 100 meter and 300 meter. Along the straightaway of the track, the hurdles are set up for a full flight 100 meter race. Ten hurdles, all straight and strong, are lined up about six feet away from each other. Each hurdle is precisely placed by using the bright, yellow markings distinguished along the edge of the track. These marks indicate the “professional” spacing of the hurdles. After completing our set of soothing leg stretches, I realized that today would be the day I got over my hurdles. On your mark. Get set. Go. These words meant everything in a racer’s mind: it determined how well your reaction time is, it stated when you should prepare yourself, and it personified a switch in your mind that told you when to go. As I was running across the track, my feet managed to hop over the first couple of hurdles, but towards the end I began to lag and my fragile knees scraped against the harsh, wet, metal contraption. As the race came to an end, I dropped onto the field, trying to get my body back to its normal self.

As I recovered, I looked around aimlessly and found myself interested in the shot put pit. The shot put pit is filled with a deep maroon-colored sand. The pit is surrounded by long pieces of wood, protecting the sand form falling out and keeping the ball surrounded. As each muscular athlete picked up the heavy ball, the mood of the environment around them changed. Everyone became focused and paid little attention to anything else besides the person throwing the shot-put. Raising her arm, a girl threw the shot put using all of her force. Quickly, everyone’s eyes followed the ball in the air and abruptly blinked as it halted and buried itself in the sand. As I watched, I couldn't have helped to notice the long distance runners passing by as if they were gliding through the air.

Three girls, all sophomores, especially caught my eye as I was standing up from my rest. One girl, tall and blond, was accompanied by her best friend; these girls would occasionally complain about the amount of running they did. Just for the day, they had simultaneously run three miles. Every once in a while they would pause and take water breaks; but I had overheard that they did not like taking too many breaks because of how the coaches used to “scold” them.
This only happened when they were not truly working their hardest but claimed to have “pushed it to their limits” to the coach.

Standing in the middle of the field were the three male coaches. The hurdling coach, a fair man dressed in sweats, was very demanding. By examining the way he was dressed, I could assume that he was a man of the middle class. He ordered us to run, jump, and stretch at any given moment. Sometimes, he would alternate between his workout programs: some days he would be tough, and others easy. By observing the way he spoke, I could also assume that he used to be a teacher of some sort. The other two coaches were very laid-back and liked to have a good time: they laughed a lot, worked with the athletes very well, and helped any newcomers. Their body language also suggested that they were carefree but also liked to help others improve their fitness levels. After working out for two hours, seeing how each athlete performed, and observing how the coaches treated athletes, I packed up my belongings and took a nice satisfying jog home to end the day. I realized that track was a great way to interact with others while benefiting for myself as well.

-Raveena

Dining in Awe

2011-03-01T02:22:00.000-08:00

Walking through, staring at the empty parking lot, one’s mouth waters with the Niner Diner a few yards away; however, one does not just go into a restaurant for the cuisine, but rather the essence of it. When entering this little diner one gets the gist of a post World War II era. After frolicking up the cement pathway gripping onto the rusty railway, gazing through the circular window and pushing open the licorice colored door, one enters a time warp, with an old fifty’s tune playing in their heads as the waiter asks whether they want a seat inside or outside.
If one chooses to sit outside as I regularly do, they have a choice of the family-sized white picnic table or a three-seated plastic table with green plastic chairs to match. In the middle of each table, regardless of size, is assorted a bottle of ketchup, a black container with several packets of Cane sugar, for those who prefer to sweeten their coffee, a dispenser of white napkins, a stack of berry flavored jams, and right next to the ketchup, is a tiny bottle of hot sauce that contains more flavor than the size indicates. The cold breeze brushing against one’s cheek is rather refreshing as they stare out into the scenery granted before the diner. An airport staggered with tiny planes maneuvering around with the green hills shadowed in the background, a sight one can only imagine to see in California. Having to wait for food is not much of a nuisance when the eyes are being treated as well as your taste buds.
For those who prefer heat waves from the air vent over the fresh air, would tell the waiter they would like a seat inside; sitting inside is a whole different experience. From the moment you open the door, fumes of warm french fries enter you and invite you in. The first question to be answered is where to sit. Do we want to sit in a booth, giving us a family feel, or the tables, which are placed in the middle making us feel like important costumers, or at the counter where we get to witness close-up the walls of ice cream waiting to be scooped, especially the chocolate mint.
Sitting in the middle table is the best way to observe everything the diner has to offer: You can glance down into the kitchen, eavesdrop on all the other costumer’s gossip, and get a good glimpse at the proudly covered walls. Almost every inch of the walls are covered with a portrait or diagram of an airplane. The airport itself is located right across from the diner, so one can infer that it had some influence on Niner Diner’s creation. Looking to the right of the diner, into the kitchen, it appears as an endless hall way that must have a magical garden supplying them with the food in the back. To some it may seem like a greasy, dirty environment where overly priced meals are made, but to other pupils it is the sanctuary where the magic happens.
“Sweety you’re getting ketchup all over yourself,” is one of the few lines you hear as you sit patiently at your seat waiting for your order. It is habit to listen to what others have to say, even when the conversation is not intended towards you. One middle-aged women sitting in the corner booth with her obedient husband, raises her voice as she looks at her order and discovers they have not given her her fried onions as she wanted. Oh dear. Oh no. This is terrible. The woman was infuriated and refused to listen to any staff member as they gave her their apologies. They even offered to give her any meal on the house. She could have ordered chicken strips or french fries or a steak sandwich or french stuff or BLT or soup or onion rings or seven different types of sandwiches or coleslaw or calamari or a banana split or a chocolate milkshake, but she refused everything and demanded she have her original order with the correct onions. The people in a restaurant can determine many characteristics about it. The Niner Diner was packed with senior citizens and their grand children at every corner, in fact the only two costumers under twenty without supervision were my sister and I. This indicates that the diner is more old-fashioned and appealing to folks from a different time period.

Looks and appearance are vital to a restaurant’s image and the number of costumers they receive, but when it comes down to it, the food is what really sets it off. When the waiter or waitress walks out of the kitchen with a tray of food you hope every time that he or she has come with your order; when the realization that it is not your order kicks in, you drool for the other person’s meal. Across from my table I spotted a little six year old boy being served his banana split. The banana split- put together with vanilla ice cream and chocolate syrup, sprinkles and whip cream, a banana and cherry- was mouth watering to look at from a distance. When one’s own meal does come, before gorging down on it, one tends to take in the scents of each little ingredient of the meal, inspect the meal, and then dine on the meal. When feasting on this desirable meal, gazing at the diner around you, listening to the important discussions not concerning you, for a while you can forget about everything and just enjoy this moment in time along with your turkey on rye.

-Sharendeep

A Chance to be a Child Again

2011-03-01T01:38:00.000-08:00

Four big, white, puffy clouds drift to the south across the vibrant blue sky over Sonoma Mountain. The sun is slowly beginning to set behind the houses across the street. The patchy grass waves, the sandy puddles ripple, and the rusty swings sway in the ferocious wind. The crunchy brown leaves skitter across the asphalt, scratching and tumbling their way toward the family playing on the bars at the place I used to call “Airport Park.” It’s a typical sight on a winter day in Petaluma, but it’s not a typical day – its several degrees colder than usual. There is a chance of snow tonight; there is a chance for hope. In the back of their minds, everyone knows it’s not going to snow, but many still dare to dream. Snow is a sign of hope and innocence and peace and love and youthfulness. The simple idea of having snow for the first time in nine years brings the whole town to life. This park, however, seems rather dead.

“Mommy! Mommy, I did it!” cries the little girl as she pulls herself into a sitting position on top of the bar. Her mother claps as her brother scowls and complains about the cold, seeming to crawl into a shell as he ducks even further into his big windbreaker. Soon after the girl’s glorious victory, the three of them go home, leaving only the sounds of the trees rustling in the wind and the long-distance track kids panting as they run back and forth repeatedly on the path behind me. One boy grunts, “I can’t do this, man!” as he nears the top of the memorial hill to my left. In one of the houses across the street, a tuba player that could definitely use some more practice plays the same song over and over again. Wiseman Park is an ordinary suburban park to many people, but it holds so many memories for me.

I used to come here with my nanny, Sharon, and she would push me on those creaky old swings and pop out to scare me at the bottom of the fading yellow twisty slide. Then, after we played, we would walk over to the Two-Niner Diner to get some fries. One time, Sharon convinced a pilot to let me sit in his plane while he explained how it worked; it was one of the coolest memories of my early childhood. That gray plane with two black stripes down the side is not something that I think I will forget anytime soon. On the other side of the park are the two fields where I used to play soccer back in elementary school. Patchy, muddy, uneven – these fields have been the cause of many accidental tumbles and muddy uniforms. Everything is the same as it was back then; it is welcoming. The swings still invite me to fly to the sky, the monkey bars still beg me to swing over the hot lava, and the little stone walls still tell me to pretend I am a gymnast on a balance beam. It is a place for fun, a place for freedom, a place for memories.

I see only a few sets of footprints in the wet sand. Upon closer inspection, it is easy to see that they are mostly small prints, those of children. Some lead to the smaller play structure with the twin slides and the remains of faded graffiti. Others lead to the larger area with the twisty slide, the swinging monkey bars, and the baby swings. All of the footprints avoid the massive puddles under parts of both structures and the whole big swing area. As I study these footprints, a new family walks up, this time a little girl and her parents. They just pass through, and the little girl runs off chasing her mom and squealing, “I’m gonna get you!” The track team is gone now too, and I am left alone with the silence.

A huge gust of wind takes me by surprise, almost knocking me over as I stand on top of my bench to observe a little plane as it prepares for takeoff, going faster and faster until the wheels finally leave the ground and it flies out of sight. After the plane has disappeared, I catch a glimpse of the gigantic puddle that is perpetually over the hill in the winter. As I jog over to see how deep it is now (at least a foot and a half), my shoes are soaked by the grass, and begin to squish with every step. It doesn’t matter, though; I cannot feel the cold the water brings because my whole body is already half-numb. I must leave now because I can’t move my fingers and the sun is barely visible.

I close my eyes and take one last deep breath; I can feel the moisture in the air. It smells like it always does after it rains: it smells fresh and sweet and clean, like grass and flowers and spring. Mixed in with this is the smell of barbeque from one of the nearby houses, making my mouth water. The vivid variations in the colors of the play structure draw my attention: there are bright blues, reds, and yellows, along with worn blacks and beiges, all darkened by the long shadows of the trees over the whole park. Cars cruise by on the street behind me and airplanes take off and land in the airport in front of me. Several couples pass by with dogs, but only bits and pieces of their conversations are discernable. It seems as if this assault on the senses would be overwhelming and chaotic, but it’s not.

My little bench under the trees is a sanctuary, a place where I can escape from the rest of the world – school and chores, drama and anger, stress and fear – and just relax. This sanctuary is made even better by the possibility of it being dusted in a light layer of crisp, white snow. This small miracle could give me a chance to be a child again, if only for a moment. From a distance, Wiseman seems like an ordinary park, but it is easy for me to see how truly magical it can be; it is a place where anyone can be a child.

-Erin

An Automotive Anthology

2011-03-01T00:52:00.000-08:00

A car tells a lot about a person: interests and passions, cleanliness and tidiness, values and perception. Sometimes a car tells a person’s story: adventures and travels, mishaps and accidents, bygone days and active days. If each car is a short autobiography of the car’s owner, then a Park and Ride is an anthology of unique and varied works, ranging from affectionate to apathetic, companionable to belligerent. The brown and green rolling hills, unsystematically spotted with fluffs of distant oak trees, are the book cover; the adjacent freeway, whizzing with the sound of passing cars, is the spine.

The pages of the anthology are all the same color: they are light grey from a distance, embedded with white and darker grey rocks upon closer inspection. Each piece of work is separated by a painted white line upon the asphalt, parallel to countless other white lines. As it is a beautiful Sunday morning – the sun is dazzling brilliantly through the trees and radiating immense heat, while a cool and subtle breeze blows softly through the air – only a few of the parking spots are filled today.

Charming, seasoned, timeless – a black, convertible Buick is inadvertently teasing me. Shiny silver hubcaps are lined with thin tires; a silver bumper lines the bottom, front and back of the car; simple, elegant, silver metal composes the door handles and side mirrors locked onto the driver’s and passenger’s doors. Those are, in fact, the only doors on the old has-been; yes, backseat passengers have to climb around the front seats to find a way in. However, this beauty from many years ago does not tease me with a shiny polish or the status among those of Classic Car Shows – the body is heavily dented, scratched, and faded in places, while the rearview window is infused with rings of dirt. Nevertheless, the car carries with it a certain dignity. It was not uncared for, unloved, or left to collect dust in a collector’s garage; it experienced adventures, be it cross-country road-trips or the daily commute to work.

Nearby a black SUV – a Subaru – waits for its owner to return. Upon first glance it is well washed, civil, and proud. The owner, perhaps, is a mother of three, harried to get Lyla, Scott, and Little Benny to ballet, soccer, and daycare, respectively. However, the mud splattered along the bottom of the plastic hubcap suggests otherwise. Several other details give the owner’s true position away, such as the defined space the windshield wiper has cleared on the dusty rearview window, or the fingerprints splayed about at the bottom of the trunk door where the owner probably closed it: this owner was not afraid to get his or her hands dirty. Maybe the family went for a hike, camping trip, or enjoyed a day at the beach.

Directly beside the SUV is a pickup truck sitting about two or three times higher off the ground than both the previous cars. It is an unassuming tan color, yet with a bold band of dark midnight blue running all the way around the car. The thick tires with considerable traction encase matt grey hubcaps. This vehicle’s owner is a close companion – the pickup is far too worn, persistent, and august to have an owner that is anything but.

There are a few trees dispersed among the parking spaces. They are stout, with the kind of grayish-brown bark that easily peels off into little chunks. Around and within the cement barrier that the trees grow in are moldering piles of fallen and dead leaves, twigs, and branches. Occasionally, bright green clumps of leaves grow from or slightly above the base of the trunk; these leaves are almond shaped with curled edges. Up above, they grow close to the branches that shoot haphazardly from the twisted yet stable limbs. The leaves rustle in the consistent breeze, reminiscent of the rustling leaves of a book. Their smell, however, does not enliven the senses like the smell of a new book, or freshly baked cookies, or the puttering rain; the dried, powder pink blossoms are few and are easily masked by the smell of wildly growing grasses and weeds along the roadside.

Sitting contentedly in the shade of one of the few trees is a silvery grey Lexus. It is washed. It is clean. It is comfortable. It does not shine and sparkle under the sunlight like a brand new car, yet it does not have a visible scratch or dent. It is taken care of. It is practical.

A ways off, two small, quaint and shiny cars of electric blue and bright green sit together, quietly enjoying each other’s company. I cannot help but remember the last time I came to this particular Park and Ride. I awkwardly cruised my dad’s Geo Metro – red yet understated, pint-sized yet commanding, stick shift yet affable – into the parking lot where I was to pick up my Uncle. When I saw another red Geo Metro parked unassumingly, what was I to do but park right beside it? There’s a certain kinship among owners of that beloved car, now out-of-print; it’s a mark of arrogance to neglect waving or honking to another Geo on the road.

From a distance, the Park and Ride is a place for simplicity and practicality: it provides a safe location for people with complicated carpooling systems, and so forth, to leave their cars. Yet there is an unmistakable energy flowing between the cars, between the owners and their vehicles, and even between owners who never have met and never will meet.

- Gabby F.

Blu: an American Contradiction

2011-03-01T00:14:00.000-08:00

Within the windy streets of Downtown Petaluma, under the glaring lights of the movie theatre, overshadowed by the hulking concrete mass of the parking garage, sits a small diner, located in a difficult area, understated in size and stature by the surrounding popular and far superior buildings such as Jennie Lows, Powells Sweet Shoppe, and Tres Hombres. Blu, as it has been named, is the runt of the litter. Tiny, repressed, diminutive- the restaurant flounders like a fish who’s struggling in a crowded pond, fighting for the draining resources.

Walking along the streets of Downtown, one must navigate through the masses of kids, ranging from barely pubescent to nearly adults, as they meander about and loiter around the theater, their insurmountable numbers creating a faceless crowd. The outside of Blu is unimpressive, a simple building of steel and plaster, nearly indistinguishable from the surrounding buildings. Through the glass double doors comes the smell of frying food, a whiff of a heart attack floating out to mingle with the crisp evening air. The sound of grease and oil sizzling with food on a grill only heightens the promise of thickly oiled food oozing calories: the exposed kitchen of Blu only amplifies the sound, filling every corner, every booth, every table.

Settling down at the dark wood table, seated on soft beige vinyl benches, the

seemingly pristine table-top reveals its true nature in the sun’s glare that peeks out through the windows framing the table. The harshly pock-marked visage, like a hardened criminal- decorated with the shining rings of long-forgotten drinks, the streaks and smears of fingertips smothered in grease collected from the food, and the overall sheen of lazy, undedicated efforts to eradicate it all- is hidden until the sunlight touches upon it at just the right moment. The light bounces off the tables and onto the glass framed paintings on the walls that pass for modern art, yet are much more closely reminiscent of the attempts of a clumsy three year-old only beginning to discover the deeply intricate movements of the body. The colors swirled. The colors blended. The colors crashed in a spectacular display of defective fireworks.

Outside the window, looking past the blinding sunlight, the bustling nightlife should offer a show of its own. Yet, the view from the booth provides an inaccurate depiction of a quieter town, one that shuts down at six o’clock. To the right, a perfect view of the deserted Haus Fortuna is provided, trinkets gleaming from the window and a limp Italian flag swaying morosely in the light wind. Many people, mostly older women, approach the doors hopefully, only to pause perplexedly for a moment before shuffling away, dragging their eyes off of the wares mocking them from the shelves within. Across the street, the movie theatre shows little activity, as patrons presumably enjoy their movies. Movie posters adorn the brick walls of the theater, one in particular standing out, flashing the bright white words “Wicked sexual thriller” above the thrown back neck of a heavily costumed dancer. Coincidentally, within the resturant again, an elderly pair of ladies are discussing the very same sexual thriller on the poster, over their red-checked paper cones of fries. They lure the waitress into the conversation, commenting on her “dancer’s body” and questioning her about any history in ballet or dancing of the sort. Discussing her past dance recitals and routines, her face grows wistful and distant, as if she is out of the diner and instead once again on the stage, leaping and pirouetting and flying through the air. Then, seamlessly, as if the memory never occurred, the waitress launched into an explanation of her favorite dessert served by the restaurant, a dessert which is procured from the plastic case by the cash register.

The music mixing with the sounds of frying fluctuates between classic rock hits and soft adult contemporary music, otherwise known as elevator tunes. As John Mellencamp’s “Jack and Diane” plays, the ballad of a classic couple, a middle-aged man and woman sit across from each other in a booth, silent except for the occasional harsh look thrown that says more than any conversation ever could. Mellecamp trills his famous chorus, “ Oh yeah, life goes on, long after the thrill, of living is gone,” and the woman gazes past her plate of food, into one of the many mystery plants placed discreetly around the room, lost in thoughts much like the waitress.

The food arrives to the table, the plate marked with the expected grease marks one could infer from the smells, stains, and sounds. I almost expected to catch a glimpse of the oil rolling off my veggie burger like the steady drips off a broken faucet. However, what the meal lacked in health, it failed to make up for in taste. After a few tentative bites, I forfeited my efforts. The only taste offered by the dry patty and limp lettuce came from the onions, which flamed in my mouth, stinging my eyes and nose. Leaving the building, the last thing one sees is the logo, labeling the diner as Blu: an American Eatery, escorted by a line drawing of a burger containing an unnaturally blue patty, a blue like the mold one would find on two-week old bread.

Blu: an American eatery can’t help but contradict itself. Like a patient suffering from split personalities, Blu is incapable of choosing an identity for itself. The restaurant that advertises as a classic southern diner projects itself more as a business chic location. Each table has a sticky, sloppy condiment caddy for all sorts of ketchup, mustard, and relish, but it also holds a loaded wine list with a respectable assortment of red and white wine. The restaurant is populated with a cheerful pair of friends, laughing raucously and making sweet conversation with the waitress, but on the other side of the room is the silent, brooding couple, pretending to be absorbed in their meal. The furniture is layered with the grease of old meals, but the furniture itself is all stained wood and contemporary beige coloring. The restaurant proudly bears the quirky name Blu: an American eatery, but that’s a misdemeanor; it should be named Blu: an American contradiction.

-Kelsey (and Prell)

Behind the Scenes

2011-02-28T23:52:00.001-08:00

There is an unmistakable titillation that accompanies the whir of the stage curtain being whisked open; it is heightened by the just perceptible pause of an entire crowd of people as they draw breath in anticipation of action. Strip lights and spot lights choreograph every shadow and moon beam, with painted window curtains and staircases that wind up a plywood surface. The scene is suggested, and the audience eagerly accepts the lie. With the curtain open the cast begins to paint the impression of reality with scripted lines, motions, and emotions. Behind the black teaser and tormentor curtains, beyond the legs and borders that mask the wings of the stage a stark alter world spins in unpolished reality. Unscripted, unlighted and unappreciated, it upholds and supports the illusion. The common atmosphere of the back of the stage is the tether to the kite, the asphalt to the mirage that is a stage production.

High school drama students are ravenous for the spot light. They lust and crave the heady glow of leading roles with an appetite that is primal. Not all actors can be the lead: A play full of Romeos and Juliets would only result in the entire acting troupe’s death―staged of course. The crush of a minor role relegates the minor actor to the back of the stage for many long hours of rehearsal time. The exiles occupy the bleak undefined recesses of the back stage while the charmed leading ladies and men grace the dream land of center stage.

The back of the stage at Casa Grande is a cacophonous structure. The loft, a closed off room directly behind the stage ―a compilation of wooden beams and Styrofoam sheets, broken chairs and unlevel tables, grimy toolboxes and dusty paint cans―is a mishmash of past show mementos. Along the wings of the stage there are rogue pieces of wood and scentless plastic flowers that have become the toys and accessories of the bit actors’ underworld. The black walls are splattered with an array of paint colors that add character and personality to the partitions. The walls hold ancient hieroglyphs, little notes scrawled out on the barricade by past performers to amuse generations to come. The most famous of these notes lies in an area where ropes that support the curtains hang; there is a duct tape sign reading, “DON’T TOUCH THE ROPES”. With sharp wit, silver graphite letters respond, “I touched the ropes!” Though one may have seen it multiple times, it does not fail to entertain the would be entertainers. The premises displays the occasional immaturity of those who inhabit it.

There is little light backstage and the light present, glows blue; this eerie half light robs the eyes and heightens the other senses. Though faint, each in-drawn breath smells vaguely of paint and dust, no surprise, for both substances are present. The air is cold and chills the nostrils raising little tingling goose bumps on our arms. The leads wear lovely costumes and are warmed by the roaming spot lights; the outcasts backstage wear jackets in the tech light. We hear our cues through heavy fabric and light whispers, giggles, and the occasional ruckus of tripping feet. Hearing Shakespearian lines and Shakespearian adlibbing and laughter and gasps, actors feel a rush of adrenaline while waiting to perform for themselves. We savor the dialogue onstage and the reactions of the audience, salivating like Pavlov’s dog for our own moment to step into the light.

I have had quite some time to spend backstage, part of the “counter culture”. It can be boring. The inane becomes wickedly funny; we once draped a Styrofoam wig form with black velvet fabric and made it fly around behind the wings, while on stage Demetrius delivers the line, “Do I entice you?” Another time, when I was finally on stage, my fellow “minors” blew up latex gloves and held them inside their own sleeves waving their bloated hands fondly at me while I tried to make the dramatic most of “There is a brief how many sports are ripe.” I have found entertainment while taking every fake flower I could find and placing it in my hair, and comfort while curling up in a dark corner to sleep when I would not be onstage for awhile. Dark, quiet, relaxed―backstage is the perfect place for a nap. With the backstagers, I have experienced camaraderie that is hard to come by. Sharing the common thread of passion for the theatre, we talk to each other and make each other laugh, usually quietly out of respect for those performing, and if a disgruntled director comes to reprimand us for our loudness, we do settle after a little chuckle. While behind the literal stage, we leave the figurative stage of the social world, and reveal our true nature, to find it is accepted.

Perhaps it is a habit of society to recognize the romanticized ideals and disregard the unrefined reality in life. The work behind stage is unappreciated; what is not seen is not acknowledged. The staged performance, the fantasy, is worshipped, and the truth, the mechanical gaffs and pulleys, the cords and beams, the character actors and dancers that support the story are pushed aside to make room for the dream. The quirky backstage world with its raw glamour-less common reality lifts every production to its potential.

~Ava

Rooms that involve science (Junyoung)

2011-02-28T23:49:00.000-08:00

Students have greatly varying opinions on the quality of certain teachers – good or bad, comfortable or fearful, worthy of presents or worthy of murderous intent – that influence the way they act in that class. But no matter how the teacher carries themselves, they will always evoke one particular phenomenon in student activity: procrastination. As I procrastinate on this essay, I distinctly remember last Friday, when I was procrastinating on my biology homework in Mr. Creighton’s room: there were procrastinating freshman a plenty in the room, painfully procrastinating and pushing their pencils and powerful minds to their full potential as they purposefully plagiarized in front of their pessimistic professor. I had watched, chuckling, before realizing that I had to do my own science homework, causing me to stop pestering the poor freshmen and rush off to the computer to blatantly rewrite sections from the book.

Mr. Creighton’s room evokes a certain quality that encourages such antics: the room is about as messy as the students’ own rooms at home which makes it feel familiar and lets the freshman feel as if they are able to be as loud and silly as they want. Because of this, the room does tend to get incredibly obnoxious in volume level, usually caused by flamboyant freshman who smell of the certain fragrance known as “lack of shower.” It also has several working computers and many desks, making it a wonderful place to work on homework one did not do at home. There are also activities to partake in when a student isn’t procrastinating, plagiarizing, or panicking-The abundance of noisy and boisterous freshmen makes the classroom a social beehive, turning lunch into a rambunctious affair, with students eating plastic-like foods and speaking amusing words to one another.

In the midst of the chaos of the classroom, I began to wonder why the freshmen did what they were doing, and why I did exactly the same last year. Other than the question of why the socializing underclassmen were not doing their homework they should have done at home, even the freshmen who were doing their unfinished assignments evoked the mystery of why they didn’t merely finish at home. One cannot blame them, of course: they are high school students. Teenagers do not make good decisions: this is a fact of life. They do not do homework at home, they do not listen in class, they do not close the browser so they are not distracted by facebook when working on essays, and they do not do many actions that would make a great deal of sense. I remember, many years ago, reading an article in which I learned that the portion of the brain that handles decision making is not fully developed even past the age of eighteen, so those under that seemingly far away age cannot be blamed for making poor choices.

Unfortunately for students, high school is a time of many life changing decisions. The students in that classroom h ave chosen what classes to take to have prepared knowledge for college, and by extension, their future careers. They are choosing what friends they make and which they will stay in contact with throughout their lifetime. They are choosing whether or not they will try hard and finish all our homework at home to get good grades or if we’ll procrastinate and let our grades sink down. That is, after all, what high school is: a sink or swim environment. One can become a master at managing your schedule and swim high above other students with your already completed homework, flop frantically to finish your homework right before class before the ensnaring jaws of the teacher’s gradebook traps you, or sink and watch your grade plummet alongside them.

In Mr. Creighton’s classroom, one year ago, a chair was slammed onto a table by a rather angry young man, cursing loudly. This incident was not caused directly by grades, but school, as a major part of a student’s life, must have had an impact on his potentially deteriorating mental state. I, personally, have received the impression from high school that one must take all honors and all advanced placement classes if one even wants the slightest chance of getting into a high-end college. As such, when I sink and my grades plummet, my charisma and enjoyment of life sink as well. The piles and piles of homework that are tossed onto us slowly weigh down the student body, and some slip through the cracks of the net. With this schedule of writing and failing and equating and failing and working and failing and procrastinating and failing, the constant failure is bound to drive some students mad.

For example, the very day I wrote this essay, as I arrived home from school, I received my report card. Afterwards, I had a breakdown and locked myself in the bathroom, refusing to leave for the span of an hour. Afterwards, I screamed at my mom to leave my room, threw half of my belongings at the wall, and barricaded the door and refused to speak with anyone.

School is not as difficult for all students. Some students can get away with doing their homework in a messy room at the last moment before class starts and still get straight As. I am not that person, and neither are a lot of people. Someone like myself cannot make the necessary decisions to merely stop getting bad grades, leading to sadness, which leads to escapism. People like me watch silly children’s television, play computer games, roleplay on the internet, and do anything that isn’t homework in order to escape reality and forget that grades, teachers, classrooms, and all of that nasty, real world stuff does not exist.

Which, invariably, will lead to us doing homework at the last minute in a messy classroom that belongs to one Mr. Creighton.

A Second Home

2011-02-28T23:42:00.000-08:00

The play structure is still. No movement. No motion. No life. The sand appears to be golden as sunbeams bathe the park with light. Although the sun brings warmth to the empty park, from time to time, a brisk wind slices through the air, bringing with it fierce waves of a chilling breeze. The swings—with faded chains, dull supporting beams, and worn down seats—almost convey a sense of loneliness; as they gently sway in the wind, the swings appear to be rocking themselves back and forth, as if the faint motion brings them comfort. Silent, serene, still—the small park, although tranquil, also radiates a sense of desolation.

Although many shoes have worn down the paths beside the area designated for the playground, few enter that area. As runners jog by, as dog owners stroll by, as cyclists ride by, very few even cast a glance at the play structure. With its well-used beams and bars and swings and slides and ladders and levers and poles and handles, with everything it is composed of, it seems to be reaching out. It seems to be calling out for someone to stop, for someone to notice, for someone to love, anyone to love. This is the park in my eyes when it is deserted and bare. This is the park on a cold day, a dark day, a day with little movement, or life.

With the icy winds invading its structures, kicking up sand, and rattling the swing’s chains, the playground does not appear as appealing to children than it does when the weather is a bit more pleasant. Although, this does not stop families from visiting the park or children from clambering up and down its bars and beams. Families often do choose to picnic on the bench near the play structure or to admire the enthusiasm and energy of their young children or merely to enjoy the warmth of the sun on a blue-skied day.

On days when the play structure is inhabited, it is brought to life. The playground emanates joy and happiness: sounds of bubbling laughter swirl through the air, beckoning other children to come frolic in the sand. As children come to play on the play structure, the slightly peeling paint hugging the beams, bars, and poles seems to change. The colors appear brighter, more vibrant, with a sense of bliss, almost as if there were smiles painted in the corners of the playground. Even the sign perched on the top of a small hill in front of the playground, displaying the name given to the park, appears as though it had been coated with a fresh layer of red paint. This is when the playground rejoices.

When I walk through this park and pass by the playground, I can’t help but pause as memories dance through the air around me. Memories from the days when I first started school up until the current day. Something has always drawn me to this location, to this play structure. It has never ceased to radiate peace and serenity even when I merely imagine it in my mind. Ever since I was a young child, I have felt this way, and this playground has always brought me comfort. Living so close since I was quite young, this park has taken on the role of a second home for me.

It is not only the cheerful, yellow slides or the liberating feeling of the swings that has drawn me to this playground since I was young, but it is the area surrounding the play structure as well. With a small grass field, charming trees scattered nearby, and sweet bird’s song filling the air, the atmosphere is constantly tranquil. And when I observe people passing by, playing with pets, or cherishing time with family, it brings me comfort and gives me a sense of security. It makes me feel as if I am connected to these individuals, that something brought us to this same area.

This playground at times may be a barren landscape, a deserted tundra, a desolate wasteland. Although, for me it never has and never will cease to bring a sense of comfort and welcome. From the first time I laid eyes on this playground to the moment I walked away from it today, I have adored this playground and the memories with loved ones it holds for me. As I pass by this park and its worn down bars, rusted beams, and trampled sand, it shares these memories with me, and brings a smile to my face. And I can’t resist strolling down the path that leads to the play structure, and once again sitting myself in the seat of one of the swings, detecting the well-known feel of the swing seat, clutching its cool chains in my hand, feeling the breeze toy with my hair as I swing, and reliving the memories this playground has provided me with.

--Ashley M.

Lulling Labels and Knowing Glances

2011-02-28T23:41:00.000-08:00

As the patrons walk in they feel the cool air of humming, whirring fans above the entrances, the fans which are meant to keep buzzing flies out and which unintentionally can represent the entrance into a world all its own. The sound of sliding feet along the ribbed entrance carpet provides a very different walking texture than that of the rough, industrial sidewalk outside near the cars and smog and heavy air. The air of the Target feels shocking to the lungs at first, while it is still heavy, it feels and tastes clinical and sharp and clean. The red carts up ahead are organized slightly haphazardly pointing out the avid use of them by the customers. Mothers walk in carrying babies and diaper bags and purses and other utilities necessary for the everyday mom. Young children sometimes hold their hands, either squirming, or walking patiently awaiting the arrival of the rarity that is a warm, salted pretzel from Target. Occasionally, a father will walk alongside these families as well but it varies because perhaps there are single parents, or perhaps the father is off from work or got off early or it is the weekend. Any of these are possibilities, but with any of them, it is clear that families are a major percentage of the people coming and going through the seemingly psychic automatic doors marked with the white noise of fans and rolling noise of ribbed carpets.
All along the walls behind every aisle, are pictures of people. The people smile like dolls all placed in happy places; some are surrounded by fitting and colorful clothes they love, some are sporting flashy and reflective sunglasses they love, some are glad to be able to buy fresh produce free of bumps or scratches placed on either side of them. This joy plastered on the walls, though fake, dissipates the stress caused by frantically running errands; it provides reassurance to be surrounded by positivity. I am filled with hope, personally, to see pictures of smiling people; it makes me optimistic and helps me remember that there are happy times other than the times when stress lingers behind me, reminding me that it is still there.
There are shoppers amongst the iridescent shampoo bottles with lulling descriptions. There are shoppers amongst the jewelry organized by color and material, beads shimmering in contrast to the white shelf and feather earrings floating away from the shelf. There are shoppers amongst the soup cans all with bold text and colors reminding one of warm and comfortable Thanksgiving dinners.
The main noises past the entrance and through the aisles, are the conversations made by the customers. Every part of every sentence can be heard if the listener makes a point to pick out the thoughts spouting from the mouths of eager shoppers flowing through the aisles. The syllables are heard, the consonants are heard, the vowels are heard. One woman with a grating, throaty, droning voice, advises women on picking out the proper shade of makeup for their skintones, abruptly and bleakly telling one of the women to look at other brands as her skin is too light for the shades being observed. A young man with a bouncy, energetic voice asks swiftly yet articulately about which phone charger would fit his cellphone best. An elderly couple speaks to one another in voices like a soft, worn pieces of leather, the words gliding out of their mouths expertly. A business man looks uncomfortable and out of place while he speaks into his bluetooth factually and sharply, saying that a project “needs to be completed by the end of the week or we’re all in trouble,” leaving the passersby in the shampoo aisle in suspense. A multitude of languages drift in and out of aisles: most often a bubbling and trilling Spanish is heard.
Not just voices are heard. The castanet-like, sassy tapping of a woman’s cowboy boots has swiftly succeeding clacks on the white tile floor while she rushes through the aisle. Guttural, moan-filled, wheezy -- a newborn baby’s soft cries attempt to be mighty as the mother of the baby pushes the cart along. Shifting carts squeak like a fork on a china plate when the cart is moved without the help of the wheels.
When I walk through the store, I get progressively colder as I further myself from the door and delve deeper into the frigid environment. The cold is not bothersome--though it sometimes gives me goose bumps--because with the passing of other customers, a warm, lived-in wave of air brushes up against my face and through my hair. This is like walking into a beam of sunlight on a sunny, yet cold day; it is energizing. This wind can also bring a wafting smell of perfume, whether it be caustic and overwhelming, or fruity and subtle. I sometimes like to imagine what is happening in the passing customer’s life based on their appearance, the smell of their perfume or cologne, and what is inside of their cart. Through all of the sterility and emphasis on consumerism, there is a definite connection shared with fellow shoppers. As shallow as it sometimes seems, the true appearance of Target to me is the people within it; I may share a funny comment or moment with someone next to me in an aisle, or with unspoken words agree with someone on how great a movie is while in the entertainment section, or knowingly smile at a woman watch over her child in the toy section while I as well try to reign in the exuberant energy of my five year old sister while she is surrounded by all of the toys she “needs.” These connections and eye contact with people are comforting because they help to let one know that they are not alone in the stress of finding a perfect birthday card, or hunting down the right size light bulb, or searching for food the whole family will enjoy.
The checkout is where one notices these connections most; the journey is over, and people let out shaking sighs in relief that the errands are completed. Customers waiting in line look out at the juniors’ clothes and the women’s clothes and the dressing rooms and the men’s clothes and the cards section and the children’s clothes and the produce and the makeup and the pharmaceuticals. The lines are mostly silent while everyone decompresses after a long day, but there is no shortage of glances between the check out aisles and between customers and workers, silently saying “we made it together.”

-Lucy (per 1)

A Journey around the World

2011-02-28T23:04:00.000-08:00

The prelude to my trip, the hub of my vacation, the self-contained city that never sleeps; it is a place where all nationalities are encountered. After entering the building I am immediately transferred into another world; I am bombarded with the overhead pages, the constant screams of children, and the overheard telephone conversations. I lose my sense of privacy since I am thrown into a situation where my behavior is constantly observed. Scanning the wide open lobby, looking for the correct uniformed authority figure with the bright cheery smile, I gain a sense of familiarity and I am able to relax and enjoy my experience in the airport. I hand off my heavy red suitcase to the clerk behind the desk and watch as she attaches the long white luggage ticket to the handle before putting the bag on the never ending conveyer belt along with the rest of the baggage. While the bags begin their journey into the vast unknown, I cannot help but feel that my voyage has just begun as well. The burden of forgetfulness and preparation that followed me into the busy airport disappears as the bags vanish behind the hanging black strips of rubber that separates the travelers from their belongings.

I walk away from the baggage clerk with a sense of relief only to find myself herded into another long, winding, and torturous queue. Surrounded by multinational people, I begin to notice the cultural diversities we have. I overhear accents and foreign languages, I see westernized and Middle Eastern clothing, I feel overcrowded and vulnerable as we are ushered around by the security guards in the military style uniform.

“Shoes off. Remove all liquids. Walk forward.”

Everyone is forced to conform and be subject to search. We place our hand luggage on the conveyor belt and watch while workers sit in front of two screens and scrutinize our most personal belongings. When the belt backs up and suddenly halts, when the workers point at the screen and look over at you, when the belt start up slowly but your bag is snatched by one of the two workers you know that all your contents are about to be revealed to the public. He calls me over and asks what is in my bag, after responding that it is a baseball and not some sort of bomb, my bag is one again put through the six foot long x-ray machine only to be searched once again. After removing four pairs of socks, three jerseys, shin guards, black electrical tape, two magazines, a camera, an iPod, chargers, and a sweatshirt, my black and gold, beat up and broken cleats are finally unearthed from my bottomless soccer bag and searched for the metal they contain in the soles. While the search is taking place, an even longer queue develops behind me and I cannot help but notice the impatience building on faces of the weary travelers behind me. A slight flush starts to form on my already pink sunburned cheeks while I hurriedly stuff my soccer gear back into my bag. After I am finally through the screening process, I was given the okay to travel and enjoy the wonders the airport has to offer.

The terminal is an exciting place: I experience different cultures and meet people from around the world. Walking down the corridor nonchalantly, dressed in camouflage is a US soldier who is greeted by a standing ovation from many of the travelers. He is very grateful and returns the applause with a shy half wave but desperate to reunite to his loved ones. The terminal- filled with soccer and hockey teams, children and parents, businessmen and travelers- was controlled chaos. Filled with a numerous amount of stores, voyagers can easily find a way to waste time while awaiting their flight. The shops were aligned like houses on a block inviting in customers. Along with shops, there is also a variety of cuisines that appeal to all the travelers. The aromas of the restaurants fill my senses and suddenly my stomach starts to rumble; the smells start to tempt the weary tourists while they wait patiently for their flight. Pizza, burgers, and sandwiches are the most commonly ordered food among travelers for the convenience. After eating, there is ten minutes left until I must join another line in order to board the plane, so I take a seat on one of the open spots on the long, cramped rows of black chairs next to the gate. Cellphones, iPods, laptops- as I look around I can see all these electronic devices in use. There is little conversation among the passengers but the sounds of the typing on a keyboard, the soft beat drifting from someone’s headphones, and the ringing of phones can be heard while everyone rapidly communicates with their friends or loved ones before the time comes to board the plane and switch of all electronic devices.

The monotonous voice on the crackling overhead informs us that our flight is starting to board families with small children, people with disabilities, and first class. The children were anxiously awaiting their time to board and start to jump up and down while their parents hand over the paper tickets and pause in order to receive the small stub of the ticket that is ripped off. Business and first class line up in a special queue waiting on a small red carpet designed with the airline logo. At last my time has come to board the plane and I take one last look around me; the crowd around the gate has started to dwindle but we will soon be replaced by the next flight. I head down the tunnel to board the plane that will bring me to the next airport where the scene will have many similarities but a different cast of characters.
-Eileen

Glorious Victories and Agonizing Defeats

2011-02-28T23:03:00.000-08:00

Few sights trigger such a sudden onslaught of memories as that of the school track. From the day I first set foot on it to my view of it today, so much has changed it is almost unreal. I have undergone a complete transformation from the budding young athlete to, in a sense, the wise old man who looks outside his mildew-edged window to gaze upon those special places he once triumphed over, and longs to relive the glory days. On the occasion it brings a tear to the eye.
At first glance it is really not a lot to look at: this beige-colored gravel in a sleepy ellipse, a football field within it, does not capture the eye as a painted museum exterior or a particularly well-constructed monument would. Rather it suggests an air of humility, and the natural quality of the gravel and the grass is comforting. But in the air is that intangible tension, the aura of heated training, of steady improvement, of team unity, of intense competition, of glorious victory and agonizing defeat. The beauty of a running track is not to be seen in its physical being but in the runners, whose feet pound mercilessly upon it during the spring season, the hours spent building up strength and endurance, and the perpetual pursuit of being the first one to break the tape that marks the finish line. The spirit, more than the appearance, is what the track is all about.
For me the spirit of the track brings pain and sorrow into my heart, the very reason for said pain. I was diagnosed in junior high school with a rare heart condition and it cut short my newfound love for running. There is really no other feeling that can compare to the freedom and determination during a hundred-meter sprint, and every time I see the track it reminds me of that feeling—clearing my entire mind, staring down my lane, pouring all my energy into trying to beat my competitors—but also of the grim fact that I can never experience that as far as I know.
It cannot be overlooked that the counterparts of the track fit together nicely with its open atmosphere. Even during the off season, the announcements made by commentators in the small structure in the home bleachers seem to echo casually in the air, just another part of that competitive spirit. The snack bar is a nocturnal animal; it reaches out on game nights with the aromatic scents of classic sporting event foods. Even the small dirt areas off to the sides have a purpose. They hold within them the places where new friends are made and old friends are visited at football games against rival schools and after-school practices. Although native to runners, the track has something in it for every kind of person.
However, athletes see this sacred battleground of theirs in a different light than other people. They look at the track as a reminder of cherished memories, and hated memories as well. There on the far side of the track, where the straightaway meets the curve, is the place where one runner may have broken the finish line tape at his first meet. Up in the bleachers a young pole vaulter may have waited in absolute fear for her name to be called, only to break her record by several inches. And of course there is the long jump area, a strip that stretches just long enough to make it nerve-wracking, and then that sand pit, the perilous landing site that tries to pull each long jumper’s rear foot backwards and cost them several feet on their score. The bittersweet brew of a track team member builds character and provides inspiring stories that can last generations.

On the occasion an older jogger or a couple walking can be observed on the track. In this sense it is a symbol of flexibility and agelessness; even the folks who are no longer in high school can take part in the peaceful presence of the track, perhaps reminiscing in the days when they were in high school and were athletes themselves. What I love about our school’s track is that it welcomes not only track and field members but also solid football players and brutal coaches and fans from other schools and families of athletes and joggers of any age and a teenager with a heart condition who longs to be a part of the track’s extended family.
Admittedly there is not much to observe at the track when there is no sport event under way. But that is also what makes the track so different. It can be described by the type of turf it has, or by its size, or how well track spikes get traction on it, or how many other track events it can play host to, but it’s the collective experience of the community that uses it that really makes for a subject of observation. I am inspired by the track for its versatility, and although it brings me more bad memories than good I can never get away from the thought of it. Decades from now I may have forgotten what the track looks like, but the memories I have made there will never leave me.
-Robby

Amazing Grass

2011-02-28T22:37:00.000-08:00

The end of my black concrete street dissolves into a mesh of wild grasses and mud. Dividing the road and the grass is a lonely fence, about five feet wide with a ‘No motor vehicles allowed!’ sign nailed to one of the two upright posts. White paint flakes off at the touch to expose cracking wood. Beyond the fence, expanding in all directions is a field: short, cut grass mixes with several types of small weeds and eventually turns into lengthy, brown grasses reaching nearly four feet tall in some areas. This is the field.
From the fence, it takes a while to reach the ‘main trail’—a thin muddy line that stretches around the perimeter of the field and also cuts through the middle of it. This trail is the only place where the thick vegetation has been worn down entirely by people and their dogs. I used to be a frequent traveler wandering this trail and I have noticed this field has become more populated with visitors over time. There are jagged and deep cracks running the length of the trail and resemble lightning bolts engraved in the ground. Standing on this trail, one can see herds of cows off in the distance. The black and white dots contrast against the amazingly lush grass and hover near an abandoned shack. Towards the west, there lies a grey landing strip for small airplanes.
Oddly, I often feel far from civilization; however, the airport and three surrounding roads are cruel reminders that the city is nearer than the tall grasses, hills and wildlife let me believe. Tiny, but rather noisy aircraft are often heard overhead. The melodic sounds of chirping birds are no match to these great man-made machines that startle the delicate environment below them as they fly. The birds, entirely black except for a couple bright crimson feathers on each wing, display the characteristics of the red-winged blackbird and seem more flustered than anything that their musical chirping was interrupted by the planes. Aside from the birds, the droning of the crickets is louder as the sun makes its way slowly down to the horizon.
The ground—turning from muddy and wet, to cold and hard, to soft and delicate—is ever-changing to fit the needs of the plants and animals. Several miniature lakes are hidden from view due to the dense grasses. The water filling these lakes are always flooded during winter and evaporated dry during the steamy summer months. The air is fresh and smells natural and vibrant and alive, not choked and stuffy as in cities or towns.
The annoyed quacking of ducks startles the quiet and peaceful sounds of rippling water that is bone chilling in this abnormally cold winter weather. Imprinted in the mud are footprints and paw prints of little critters, dogs and people. A grey bird patiently flaps his wings and hovers high over the grass exhibiting his expert hunting skills. Travel down the main trail a little more and the grasses get taller and one can hear the hushed rustling sounds the dried weeds and grasses make.
I recall a time when I was in an intense game of hide-and-seek with my sister and our friends when we were younger. I had lain down in the tall grasses thinking it would be an easy way to camouflage myself. A couple hours later, it was getting quite dark out in the field and my young self was tired of waiting to be found and so I trekked through the weeds and grasses back to the white fence at the end of my street. My sister and her friends were all frustrated that they could not find me out in the hills of dense grasses.
If one traveled far enough east, the main trail would separate itself into two trails, one heading south and the other heading north. Both lead to the water down below in the stream. Gurgling, spraying, flowing—the stream of clear water reflects the dull bed of rocks and the clouds lingering above in the sky. Even if it is only a couple feet deep, no one would want to fall in at this time of the bitter winter. A makeshift dam creates more loud noises as water races through the pile of rocks. While this isn’t any sort of roaring rapid found in the Great Canyon, one still feels the power of the water rushing over the pebbles and rocks. Dirt dissolves into sand and then morphs back into a muddy trail that leads towards the far corner of the field.
What appears to be a tree farm is seen on both sides of the upcoming creek. These natural skyscrapers smell strongly of pine needles. Rusted barbed wire fences clearly leave the message to stay out.
Once I spotted a rotting deceased rabbit carcass near these trees, ants oozing from the holes where its eyes should have been. Its velvet fur was only covering patches of its mangled body, as if it had been thrown on a chainsaw. Having been slightly traumatized after the incident with the dead rabbit, I finally came to conclusions that it was only Mother Nature doing her job.
This is the field. Not known to me by any other name besides ‘The Field’. This is the field where I have played in joyously for hours on end. This is the field that I tripped on a rock and sliced my knee in. This is the field where my sister and I were chased by a man we thought was going to attack us. This is the field that I can see from the security of my bedroom window. Always there. Sometimes changing. Never dull. This is the field.

--Courtney

Greener Fields

2011-02-28T22:30:00.000-08:00

The strong scent of pine tree mixed with a distant smell of barbeque creates a truly American auroma. The luscious space- filled with lively green during spring, glowing with bright orange during fall, silent with a plain brown during winter- has been what I have seen when I look out of my window for the last five years. Bond Park has been, for me, a place of relaxation and recreation, as well as an example of American culture. Named after a city congressman, it is separated into three sections by a small, rocky path: a small amount of trees surrounding an open dog-running space dominate the south side of the park; a vast, open area, centered by a soccer field and a basketball court is on the northern edge; the east part of the part has a small playground shaded by large trees. This park is located in a typical American suburb: modest houses surround it as the distant hum of the highway can only be heard by a listening ear. Other sounds are more distinct: the laughter and shouts of children, the swaying of trees by the gentle wind, and the barking of dogs running with their owners is a symphony to the ears.
Much of American life is demonstrated in these 4 acres. No part of the park remains untouched by humans: every corner has mowed on, sprayed with herbicides, or planted upon. Trees line up along the borders of the small paths, each ten paces apart. Park benches are found in abundance in this park, and this provides a great variety of places to rest. However, more astonishing, is the variety of people that visit this tiny park. Just viewing the park throughout the day provides a good image of the typical journey through life for many Americans: young infants scream excitedly as they speed down the slide, elementary school kids play basketball and soccer, teenagers and young adults often party during the night, mid-aged Americans take care of their young and dogs, and the elderly stroll through the park, looking and reflecting on the beauty. However, the most notable thing about all of these age groups is that they are all smiling, enjoying life by seeing the beauty in it.
This park not only serves as a place for the natural wonders of the world to thrive, but it also acts as a natural gathering place for the community. Soccer moms talk over Starbucks coffee as they watch their children create a blur of red and blue on the soccer field. Small families gather in picnics and reunions around picnic tables and the playground. Larger children gather on the basketball courts as dog-lovers converse while walking their dogs. Though no infrastructure has been laid on this small space, it is still a shelter for the community, a way to express their freedom. Parks are, essentially, a way to immerse in nature in a way that the entire family can enjoy: Bond Park’s small size and diverse activities provide the perfect setting for bonding and an overall good time.
Bond Park has provided me with great joy over the years that I have lived near it. Living so close, it has always been a type of escape for me; it has allowed me a place to relax, think, and play sports with my brothers. Many memories come to mind when I think of Bond Park; however, none can overpower the feeling of joy I get from relaxing and reading and playing and running and watching and reenergizing every time I go there. However, some major points in my life happened there. My first experience with major injury happened when my brother, with his new bike, crashed, and hit his head upon a concrete bench, splitting it open like a watermelon, teaching me the value of safety. On another occasion, I suffered a concussion while playing soccer. Many positive memories also happened there. On my tenth birthday, I held the “Daniolympics”, where my friends and I competed for “medals” by participating in various activities. One summer, I learned the meaning and difficulty of hard work when I spent hours everyday trying to perfect my free throw. Bee stings, celebrations, parties, football, and “Monkey on the Ground” are just some of the memories I have collected over the years. Whatever I am doing, Bond Park is always a place to escape from the often complex and overwhelming world; it is also a place to release my mind without criticism or disapproval.
Parks are the cornerstone to our enjoyment: they put one in a positive situation, where they will feel relaxed no matter what stress has been handed to them. The same effect takes place on me when I go to this sanctuary-like place: my stress is relieved in the fun and relaxation. So, it could be said, “Veni. Vidi. Frui” (I came. I saw. I enjoyed).

-- Daniel C.

Wipe Your Feet at the Theatre Door

2011-02-28T22:25:00.000-08:00

The Casa Grande Drama Department regards their theatre with incredible adoration. Although it is merely the NMU to the rest of the school, Casa Grande Drama appreciates the carefully structured building that serves as the inner sanctum of these students’ passions. The tiled floor, though incredibly dusty, is familiar and loved. The arch of the stage proscenium, though much too short for some stage productions, is familiar and loved. The sound booth, though located all the way in the back of the theatre, is familiar and loved. Each structure that makes up this miniscule theatre adds to the creation of a home for these actors. There is nothing significant about this theatre. Nothing significant except the talent it endures, the memories, the games, and the laughter. Each step taken within these walls echoes the sounds of happiness.
During rehearsals, backstage is sometimes crazier than out in the house (the giant section in which the audience sits during a production). Voices and whispered jokes linger in the air, barely audible to even those saying them, much less the director seated in front of the stage. But slowly, the whispers become louder until footsteps are heard clomping up the ramp; the actors disperse from one another. “Who’s talking back here?” yells the co-director. All the actors look in different directions and hope they don’t look suspicious. Grumbles are heard as he stomps off back into the house. Exhales escape from all the actors who feared a scolding. Despite being chided, no one takes it personally, and the smiles never leave their eyes.
The curtain jingles a little the way it always does when someone moves it aside; the metal chain at the top hits itself, sounding like little bells. Actors come running offstage, beads of moisture glitter their foreheads. Frequent, shallow breaths are heard. A bump comes from inside the dressing room, located just off the stage-left wing. No doubt, someone is inside, searching for props or trying on costumes, making sure everything is fit to go. The creak of the wooden platform- audible because of the actors moving around them onstage- is a greeting, daring all out of their stage fright. And the gentle thrumming of the music playing can be heard simultaneously from the sound booth, its halcyon lullaby soothing. Tip-toes that still manage to make a soft pitter-pat on the concrete creep by, pacing as they refine their memorization of the small crowded space.
I myself can remember the first day backstage inside this building. There was so much to take in and I began soaking up my surroundings like a sponge, drinking in everything. There wasn’t much light in the wings on either side of the stage. Most light came from the shop that joins the two sides. It cast eerie shadows as few light seeps out, dark but assuring; as if the black cloak of the building was wrapped around me, holding me tight in its warm grasp. A long bookshelf stood, sagging like an old man with too much to carry. Personal belongings littered the shelves along with forgotten props that no one could find a place for. Multiple handshakes and lucky dances were performed for “good luck” as performers prepared themselves for their cues to enter. Many sat alone, their faces twisted into different masks of emotion as they said their lines in their heads. I couldn’t imagine a place better than this. And it was so new to me I couldn’t figure out why I was so drawn. But now I know. The sights viewed backstage are not typical for outside the theatre. The actors work hard, and sometimes it’s a lot of waiting around and doing scenes over and over. It’s emotionally draining, yet everyone who cares to do the work loves it enough to stick with it. They’re motivated in ways other people are not. Actors feel the pull to do great things, including myself, and I knew as I sat within those walls, the long hours and hard work it would cost me could bring me to my goals.
There’s other things that made the outside world differ from the world of the theatre. The movements are usually more eccentric, maybe a little more dynamic and intentional. Smiles are commonly seen through the dark shadows. Friendly hugs, excited hugs, nervous hugs, awkward hugs, and congratulatory hugs- hugs are very common. However, there are no selfish hugs and no bickering. But perhaps, the most significant piece of this building is the door. The door- standard, solid, green- is decorated with ideas. Ideas of optimism, and courage, and confidence.. There’s a term used for actors in the theatre called “mentally wiping your feet at the door”. This means that when they walk through that door, all the hatred and turmoil of the outside world is left at the doorstep, and only a pure, motivated mind is allowed inside that threshold. From what I gather, the trick works pretty well.
The unique shards of this building that give it character, such as the perfectly warm temperature, and the aroma of powders and stage-creams that fill the air, help convey an atmosphere very different from the outside world. This building is unchanging. It remains stagnant and familiar as the world continues to shift outside its walls. It brings a sense of solitude and confidence that at least control is possible in one aspect of life. The chaos that occurs both onstage and off is nothing but a flurry of excitement and energy. It’s fun in a way the rest of the world has forgotten how to be. As Stella Adler said, “The theatre was created to tell people the truth about life and the social situation,” : in being within the Casa Grande Theatre, I feel like I’m starting to figure it out.

BRENNA

What Makes a Game

2011-02-28T22:21:00.000-08:00

It is an eccentric thing to walk past the tennis courts of Casa Grande before the time of 3:00 p.m. I looked through a grim grey chain-linked fence, as I was strolling by, onto an empty court which was waiting indignantly for something to come along and make the whole place jolt to life; but for what I could see there was nothing special to it at all, just a couple of cracked and faded green squares outlined in burgundy with some white lines. I walked over to the gate and as I opened it the hinges cried out a long shrill creek that broke an intensive silence that I was not yet aware of. The barren bland court had a sense of anticipation emitting from every corner of it down to the gritty sand that slide harshly beneath my feet. Waiting, waiting, waiting, but not a single thing was to be seen as I looked around, not one. As I stood there observing this empty place I heard the subtle “Bing, Bing” of the dismissal bell, and that is when it all begins.
I turned to face the exits of the school as I began to hear a rising murmur and witnessed the colossal masses of students pouring through them with the select few dropping out of the main pack and heading over to my location. One by one each player entered with somewhat of a grim expression caused from a rigorous regular school day and sat on a splintery old wooden bench to gear up for the practice. Every player unsheathed their rackets and stepped onto each separate court all knowing exactly where they belonged. Soon enough they all had their assignments from the head coach and off they went. Crack, smack, whack-every player running frantically back and forth across the court chasing the little energetic yellow ball like it was solid gold. I saw the quick puff of dust appear after every good stroke and on occasion it blew into my face, but my mind was so entranced by the quick ball that I had no time for silly things like sneezing. I felt the ground slightly vibrating through the soles of my converses from all of the feet stomping, stepping, skipping, and sprinting. With every hit I felt and saw the tension and stress of outside life sift slowly away from the players and soon all that was left were high spirited adolescence on a mission to win.
On each court you saw blissful battles fought back and forth; each opponent tactically placing the ball on open spots on the court while switching from offense to defense as fast as they hit the ball until there was a winner. On each court you heard the solemn cries of defeat and the proud roars of victory after each point, game, match, and finally set. On each court you smelt the artificial smell of new tennis balls after each “Pop!” of the canister and smelt the light smell of burnt plastic as each player grips there handle like a clamp and still turns it when he hits the ball. On each court you felt the raw emotions of disappointment, confidence, anger, and relief radiating from each player. On each court you tasted the sweat dripping down from your forehead and the rejuvenating flavor of water that fuels you to be able to compete the best you can. On each court you need to be aware of all these things at the same time, it’s like the chaos of trying to juggle but if you can manage it you get into a smooth rhythm which is the most important thing in tennis.
On the inside of those fences, which filter in only enjoyable feelings, lies an entirely different world of its own, and at the heart and purpose of everything is the game of tennis. It’s like an entire ecosystem with players, rackets, balls, and even the ground all working together to bring a fantastic challenge and competition to those who accept to enter such a world. In this peculiar small world that day I saw that it was full of individualized techniques and styles. Tennis is like playing an instrument or dancing, once you learn the basics you can change it to your own custom and create a majestic art from it. Although each player on every court looked different and played different they were unified by a common goal and teaching.
Then as subtly and quickly as the whole ordeal had started the cold shrill sound of a whistle blew into the darkening dusk and like a troop of trained soldiers they all picked up their tennis balls and packed up their rackets and shoes and water and said goodbye to each other and headed out the screechy gate. I was the last to leave and as I turned around to look back upon the court the human effect that it seemed to long for was slowly cooling off it like a fire slowly dyeing down to coals. It was getting ready to wait again for the players that made it whole again in anticipation until the next meet. It’s an eccentric thing to look back at a tennis court after you know how majestic and epic it can become if you just add people, and I knew that after experiencing these things, I would be back again just like them.

--Eric W

Finding Home

2011-02-28T22:14:00.000-08:00

If I was asked why I felt at home here, the answer doesn’t seem to suffice. Never have I lived in these quaint, clapboard Victorians that are still standing on the salty little bluff or fled from the picket-fenced elementary school to walk down the wonderful, worn, wooden stairs to Big River Beach just down the block. I missed the chance to walk to Mendosa’s Market on the daily lunch break from the high school like my mother and my aunts and my uncle and my grandfather and my cousins. Plenty of people have driven by such a map dot; only the fortunate have explored the couple of blocks of community. Mendocino, this little town totaling in only 824 people, will never be my home, but always have my heart.
Standing at the Love Bench, constructed of local driftwood dragged off the beach only 154 feet below and carved with names and initials of all the lovers who have stolen a moment here, it is easy to get swept away. The vast Pacific Ocean shimmers in the sunlight, such a bright teal considering that it had been snowed over and gray yesterday. And yet today, only a brisk breeze reminded me that it was only February, and that it wouldn’t be higher than 50 degrees for several more months. I can see a couple, old in age and young in love, coming nearer and know my time on this Bench is dwindling. I spin away from the breathtaking, picturesque view, where the ocean meets the evergreen forest, and can see town from here; Main Street to be exact. I have a pang of envy toward the rest of my family, my mother who is hopping through the underbrush and acting as photographer, who got to grow here. My memories are limited to special occasions and summer days.
We walk back to the road from the edge of the bluff and continue adventuring along Main. The sidewalk alternates between raised asphalt that matches the road and planks forming ten-foot strips of boardwalk, no doubt covering any mishaps in the walkway. Every single shop is home grown, and the actual owner sits in a store front window to smile as you pass by; to find a Starbucks or gas station you’d have to go one town over to Fort Bragg. All these humble businesses are two-story buildings, the store anchoring their home above.
Small stops are made along the way. We walk. We stop. We walk again. My mother stops in at the only hotel in the two-point-two miles that make up town and makes reservations for her wedding this September. It’s awkward the think about the future here. Mendocino has a tendency to make one forget about time or tomorrows and the people help with that. Everyone knows each other and is genuinely thrilled to be here, passing by, smiling at me, as they go. It’s a fleeting gesture nowadays, even on a high school campus, let alone an entire city, but here, smiles are unlimited and endless.
More smiles as we stop in at a small sweet shop to pick up some freshly made Raspberry Bark for my aunt. We make small talk with the baker, who has moved on to prepping caramel for dipping apples. We decide to leave as two elderly ladies shuffle their way in past the tinkling bell on the door and officially make the occupancy count five and the narrow store claustrophobic. We head farther down the street, passing tourists who stick out sorely in their modest, neutral clothing. Through colors- bright tie dye swirls and button-down plaids, neon hair-dos and deliberate dreadlocks, funky clothing and loud individuality- can you sort the authentic residents from the visitors.
We round the corner onto Lansing Street, home of the volunteer fire house, coffee shop, and super market. As we pass by the numerous little alleyways snaked through town for pedestrians, the fire horn blares painfully loud and within the second whoop, a caravan of volunteers have appeared and pile into the truck. Something about Mendo that gets over looked in the books, is the style of community; how the town runs itself with one another. As we cross an intersection (stop sign, obviously, since the only stoplight is on the highway) I notice the recycling bin overflows and the garbage is almost a ghost town of debris. I smile, charmed by the morals of these people, and walk into Mendosa’s Market. It’s quaint, to say the least. There can’t be more than eight aisles, all wooden floors. Four checkout lines are like podiums between the two entry ways. Lining the wall are the fruits and vegetables, all with organic labels and woven baskets. I would be lying to say I wasn’t hoping he’d be here and sure enough, my cousin, Josh, is putting some fruits into their bowls, smiling at customers with miniscule carts going by. We need not disrupt him from his work, so we grab want we want for lunch, give him a squeeze, and go to check out.
Upon exiting, I knew it must be time to head home. Not to-my-house-home, but to somebody’s. Whether that be my aunt’s or grandpa’s or another family member’s, I began to realize, this is my home. Not because I have a bedroom in one of the 529 houses in town, but because I’ve grown here. Somewhere between here and Main Street, I’ve collected memories. We were finally nearing our car, parked off the road on some loose gravel, when I finally comprehended the meaning of this place to me. I inhaled the pure air before I was obligated to step into the car and be whisked away from this place. A little sign, yellow to match the directional one above that, had a heart on it, divided into four like a peace sign. Smiling at the thoughtfulness, I got into the Prius and watched the ocean until it was hidden behind stores and watched stores until they were hidden behind the forest. Home is where the heart is. -Ashley

White Blossoms

2011-02-28T22:10:00.000-08:00

There is not much in the small lot behind the house. Scattered patches of brown mar the green grass; a small doghouse lies against the fence, and an untrimmed rosebush skims the wall of the house. A rectangle of bark contains a table, chairs, and a fire bowl. A small, cheap grill is tucked into one corner. A potted lemon tree sits on the concrete steps. An apple tree rises against the fence. Overshadowing all is the cherry tree, its grey branches rising majestically from the broad trunk.
Looking to the left end, a field of redwood bark can be seen to fill a rectangular area. In this rectangle sits a small glass-topped table, covered in debris from the overhanging plants looming over from the neighbor’s yard. Four forlorn chairs surround it, covered in the same debris. These chairs are seldom used, except for a few days in the summer. Between the table and the house stands a fire bowl, a small, wrought-iron affair complete with a covering to prevent sparks from leaping into the surrounding area. Tucked into a corner, away from everything else, is the grill. It is small and black, and it has broken so many times that the family that lives there has taken to replacing the flame-spreader with a circular saw blade, which is just as functional – if not as visually appealing – as an expensive replacement part.
The center of the small lot behind the house is grass. The grass is green, but patches of deep brown soil are speckled throughout it; the owners do not keep an immaculate lawn. A strip of trampled grass hugs the fence, marking the patrol path of the dog. Once the strip was bare earth, but the dog is old and sickly; she cannot pace her circuit as often as she would like. In the rain, she takes refuge in a freshly-painted dog house situated close to the fence. It features a window so that she can keep her watch on the area from within the comfort of a waterproof box. It is not as good as patrolling, but it will have to do until she is well again. Surrounding the entire area is the fence. Although it is made of redwood, the fence is old and falling into disrepair. Parts of it have fallen down in the high winds that plague the region, and some sections are propped up by makeshift contraptions of steel pipe and baling wire. The fence is due for replacement any time, but that is too expensive for the owners to consider while it is still standing. Much of the small lot behind the house shows the same state of disrepair.
Then, in the right hand corner, there is the cherry tree. The tree was planted in remembrance. It was planted in remembrance of a past that is no more, in remembrance of a father whose childhood was spent on a New York cherry orchard. The tree is the dominating feature of the small lot behind the house. It dwarfs the afterthought of an apple tree planted alongside. It overshadows the small grill tucked into a corner. It draws the eyes upwards from the patchy grass. It rules the eyes and the mind, for the tree is the center of memories. It is with the tree that the head of the household remembers his father. It is with the tree that the children remember birthday parties held beneath its blossoms. It is with the tree that all the people in that house remember the death of family. The tree helps them remember.
In the spring, I have sat in the small lot behind the house. The air is filled with birdsong and the scent of cherry blossoms wafting on the breeze. The blossoms bloom in the beginning of April, marking the birthday of the youngest member of the household. The tree, adorned in its springtime white, has been the backdrop for many birthday parties and Easter egg hunts. Later in spring, the blossoms turn to buds. A net is placed over the emerald leaves to protect the growing fruit from thieving blue jays and marauding blackbirds. I have stood beneath its limbs when the cherries turn to deepest maroon, ushering in summer. The gleeful cries of the neighborhood children mingle with the song of the birds as the owners share the abundant crop. I have watched the brown leaves fall as autumn sweeps the land. Now, in winter, I look out at the leafless branches – dead yet alive, thin yet sturdy, barren yet majestic – forming a wooden web against the sky.
Strong, beautiful, reminiscent, the tree is many things. Sometimes, it almost seems sentient. The year the person whose childhood the tree honored died, there was barely a harvest. No children cried in glee while picking the excess that year; the tree itself was in mourning. The tree was planted in remembrance of a childhood. Now, it serves as remembrance of the man. When the owners look at it, they remember. They remember a loving father, a caring grandfather, a great man. They can see his face before them once more and remember the good times. They remember him pushing his grandchildren in the swing that no longer stands, but the tree was there. The tree remembers. The tree is the constant in the small lot behind the house. Other fixtures change; plants wither and die, new ones are planted, furniture and fixtures are rearranged and replaced, but the tree is always there. It has stood for years, and it will stand for years to come. When all else changes, the tree will remain.

--Max

A Comforting Coffee

2011-02-28T22:09:00.000-08:00

As I open the glass door of the Starbucks in downtown Petaluma, I feel a rush of warm air—a relief from the chilly Petaluma weather. The friendly atmosphere welcomes me with open arms. I stroll up to the long line of caffeine deprived people impatiently waiting to give their coffee order to the friendly barista standing behind the granite top counter. As I wait in line, I admire the array of treats behind the fingerprint coated glass. The delectable treats consist of breakfast sandwiches, butter croissants, chocolate brownies, red velvet cupcakes, rice crispy treats piled with M&M’S and marshmallows, and delicious chocolate chip cookies. Beneath the glass case filled with delectables is a chilled display of iced teas, juices, fruit trays, and yogurt topped with oats and fruit—a healthy alternative to the sugary treats.
As I move closer to the barista, I set my eyes on the menus. One consists of hot teas, coffees, and hot chocolates. Another menu consists of iced drinks and frappuccinos. The brisk air outside convinces me to focus my eyes on the menu of hot drinks. I have a difficult time deciding what to order: I cannot decide between a caramel macchiato or a white chocolate mocha. After a minute of pondering upon some of my favorite drinks, I finally know what to order. I walk up to the barista after a chubby man that seems to have taken a decade to finally decide on a veinte skinny latte. The barista—a fairly young girl with blonde, shoulder length hair and sparkling eyes—flashes a friendly grin, asks how I am doing today, and asks what I would like to order. I smile back and inform her that I would like a grande white chocolate mocha and a chocolate chip cookie. I pay for my order as she hands me my delicious cookie, and I then walk over to the other counter to sit at a nearby table to wait for my drink. I sit around for a few minutes, listening to the gleeful, relaxing music playing in the café. Finally, I hear another barista call out my name, and I jump out of my seat to retrieve my mocha. I head over to the table that is spread with jars of cinnamon, sugar, vanilla, and chocolate flavoring. A huge aluminum drink container filled with half and half resided next to the jars on the table. I spot a napkin dispenser and grab one out.
I scan the café, searching for somewhere to sit and eventually set my eyes on a large, brown, leather chair in the corner and walk over. The chair envelops my body in and instantly relaxes me. I set my coffee and cookie on the round, black side table next to me and pull out my brother’s laptop. The screen lights up as I press the power button. I open word and begin to type. After writing my name, I ponder my thoughts to decide what to type. My eyes wander around the café, taking in my surroundings.
The cream and grey walls of the café are bordered at the bottom with polished wood. Colorful, artsy paintings hang from the walls and tile rests behind the menus with spotlights highlighting them. The delectable cases of food taunt those who walk by, including the small child breathing heavily on the glass, eyeing a sugary cupcake. The baristas are working at a fast pace behind the mocha counter to quickly meet the customers demanding orders. There is a black case of Starbuck’s brand coffee bags and different flavored coffee syrups for the Starbucks addicts of Petaluma. I continued to look around the coffee shop until a women with brown bangs and cowboy boots asked if anyone is sitting at the chair next to me. I told her no and checked the time. I had been looking around the café for about fifteen minutes. I take a sip of my mocha and realize my cup is empty. I walk up to the glossy black trash can and toss my white and green Starbucks cup and brown paper bag that held my cookie into it. By this time, there are no customers in line, which shocks me, so I walk back up to the barista behind the counter and order water. She hands me ice cold water in a clear Starbucks cup, and I sit back down on my comfy leather chair. I begin typing intensely, not stopping for anything until I finish. The café is pretty quiet except for the low jazz music playing and the soft taping of my finger on the keys of the laptop. It was easy to focus on my assignment while sitting in such a nice, calming atmosphere.
At home, it is always difficult for me to focus on an assignment and finish quickly because of the distractions. At Starbucks, it is easy for me to focus on everything I do with no distractions in the warm environment. It is simple. I sit, I focus, I type. The friendly atmosphere of the café inspires me. I do not feel pressured here. I feel calm, relaxed, and focused—Starbucks helps me accomplish what I could not before.

-Charlotte

Green Belt of Peace

2011-02-28T22:08:00.000-08:00

The small, rusted, olive colored gate marks the entrance to the Green Belt. The gate whines for oil as I turn the knob, push it open and walk down the the the long pathway lined with bushes that tower over my head like leafy skyscrapers. As I walk further along the path it clears into a large grassy area that is shaped like an oversized apple. The benches lining the grass are not the most attractive to look at because of their dirt brownish color and most of them have a large dip in the center that if turned upside down, would be big enough for me to crawl underneath. Never the less, I still succumb to my laziness and plop myself on the bench and try not to thing about what I’m sitting on.

The grass in the Green Belt is surrounded by a few feet of shrubs and flowers which leads into a tall metal fence that marks the boundary for the back yard of the homes that line the fence. All of the homes that have the Green Belt as an extended yard seem to have loud obnoxious dogs. Almost every time I walk by a yard with a dog it will jump up and start barking at me for no reason. Once one dog starts barking then all the rest join in as well because they don't want to miss out on a opportune moment to express their feelings.

I have come to the Green Belt enough times to be able to paint a mental picture of it. Each time I pass through, or sit at one of the benches and contemplate my thoughts, I vividly remember how the grass is always the same shade of green. No mater what time of year it is or what the weather has been the grass refuses to give up its vibrant green coloring. On the clearest, brightest, lightest days the sun shines on the blades making the grass glow as if it were grown on Mount Olympus. As I stroll down the pathway of this brilliant stretch of grass I begin to ponder, observing the houses around the path, hear the sound of the wind blowing through the trees blowing helpless leaves from their homes, it reminds me why the Green Belt is such a special place.

Sometimes I wander into the Green Belt to simply get away from the grind of everyday life and spend a few minutes in a peaceful and quiet environment. I use the Green Belt as a place where I can escape to talk to someone about a thought that has been troubling me or just as somewhere I can go to release stress in a healthy manner. As well as having a physiologically positive atmosphere, the Green Belt also acts as a quick and efficient way to get from one side of the neighborhood to the other. When I walk my dog I often cut through the Green Belt to reduce to size of the walk when I am being lazy.

Occasionally, when it is absolutely quiet I can hear the bird’s claws crunching leaves on a tree or the purr of a cat as it snoozes in the shade of the the shrubbery. It is amazing at how much can be noticed when there is no ambient noise in the background. The constant churning of the lawn mowers trimming the grass on the golf course used to be of great annoyance. However the golf course recently declared bankruptcy causing it to close which means no more lawn mowers to disturb anyone. Now I can enjoy the beautiful view of the course without the noise of the greens keepers and even the golfers themselves.

I don’t live in a particularly large neighborhood but in the thirteen years that I have lived here I seldom see other people in the Green Belt. Even when the sun is shining and there is no wind it is rare to see anybody. When I do see somebody they are usually people who I have seen there before and usually walk through daily. There is a sign on the gates that says no rollerblading, biking or skating and that all dogs must be on leashes which I think scares people away. Not only the sign but the entrance itself is rather daunting because it is impossible to see where the path leads from way the the path is angled. Both of which combined deter people from wanting to even venture past the gate, unaware of the beauty that awaits them.

The reason why I refer to this place as the Green Belt is for a couple of reasons. One, because of the luscious color that is seemingly everlasting and also because green is a lucky color and I always feel lucky to have a place such as it where I can disappear. Secondly, the area in which the path is located is about where the belt line of the neighborhood would be if it could have one. I put the two words together and came up with Green Belt which is what myself along with my friends who lived in my neighborhood call it.

When it comes time for me to leave the Green Belt I always walk slowly to toward the gate admiring the scenery as I go along. I notice all the beautiful foliage- redwoods and maples, daffodils and daises, ivy and moss- that I didn't see when I first walked by. I fully appreciate every moment I spent in the Green Belt and I am very thankful that I had the courage to open the gate and venture in. I enjoy the Green Belt: Every time I open the gate to the Green Belt I feel a wave of joy that rushes through by body. Nowhere else in the country do I feel more at peace than when I am inside the Green Belt.

- Anthony

Adventure Creek: One Apart From Others

2011-02-28T21:59:00.000-08:00

The steady soothing sound of splashing coming from the water is an instant memory to every visitor. The seemingly never ending creek is a wonderland of a playground, and contains numerous of future adventures. The creek is filled with bends, and dams, and twists, and turns, and ledges, and cliffs, and banks, and reeds, and rocks.

The secluded creek hidden by various types of brush was also among trees; each and every one quite similar to the one next to it, but there was one tree that was immensely different to the ones surrounding it. There was one imperious oak tree amongst all of its peers. With its overwhelming outstretch of width and height, it created a center ground to the right of the creek. Although the tree seemed utopian, several baseboards were added to the branches several feet up to create a thrilling hangout. The center ground under the tree was surrounded by tall bushes. There was only one way to enter: you had to go through the cut path. The unique entrance of the grounds added to the creeks confinement.

As you traverse more and more against the flow of the creek, more and more dams are spotted. Each dam creates an exclusive little swimming spot. The surroundings are like your most memorable dream; you can never forget them. The passing and chirping of birds can always be heard while escalating through the sometimes dense and sometimes wide open bends of the creek. Occasional passing of cars are often heard with a jet plane in the distant, reminding most visitors that this place is not a fantasy. Along with the never ending rippling and splashing of the creek, rustling of grass and bushes can seldom be listen to coming from some sort of animal. An aroma of flowers and plants flows to the people walking near which creates a permanent remembrance of this distinctive place.

The creek’s premises can be seen from the fronts of several houses along a street back up against a field. Tall trees along with a several various types of bushes and tall grass surround the unseen creek while looking from the street. A field about four football fields long stretches out to the left of the ledge going down to the water of the creek. A steep incline of dirt and rocks leads the followers coming from the outer street to the creek connecting with a hard to see trail covered up by dense brush overhanging the path. Through the path and down a ledge the creek can be seen; a surprising spot of unveiled nature.

Whether I am walking my dog, or exploring new places; I am always captivated by the creeks image. An often visit to the creek is essential for me because I am able to get away from the daily stresses of life. The creek- containing seclusion and mystery, adventure and escapism, memories and remembrances- gives me a chance to relax, and enables me to flee the anxieties in my life. Just by simply perching myself up on a rock and watching the ongoing flow of the water, I am reminded of the true beauty of nature. While finding new hideouts, and navigating through reeds over my head with my dog, I am reminded of the great thrill of adventure and exploration. Time is like the Christmas decorations stored away in June when I am mesmerized by the charm of venturing throughout the creek. In every new visit I want to go farther and farther than the time before. With every hour I spend enthralled in my private oasis, I see my how important my bond with nature truly is. That is why I always want to go back to this special place because I see all of our connections with nature becoming weaker and weaker. Our relationships with the natural world are a falling box of cookies, a spiraling whirlpool, a sinking chest.

This place will be forever sketched in my memory, and it has become a part of my way of living. I visit this place on a reoccurring occasion partly because this place is right out in front of my house. Even though I have been to this creek countless amounts of times, I always enjoy my times in the seclusion and I find the astonishing place of nature constantly relaxing. As I look back on all of my times here with my friends and family I am able to see how important the natural world is to all of us. By getting away from our life’s struggles it makes us all much more capable of overcoming our daily challenges. With privacy, tranquility, and peacefulness we see what is more important in life, and that makes the stressful situations not seem very stressful at all at a second glance.

--Zach

Silver and Cold

2011-02-28T21:43:00.001-08:00

The twisting valleys of northern California, lined with pine trees—the tall, proud evergreens lined the rolling hills—gave a sense of tranquility. The majestic mountains sat stalwart and patient under their seasonal blanketing of ephemeral, powdery snow. Within the proximity of our lovely redwood cabin, the minute, individual flakes glistened and shimmered in the cold light of the sun: they danced, pranced and shined—that is, until my gloved hands excitedly punched and slapped the happiness right out of them. The fifteen-foot high snow bank felt my happiness-induced wrath, and the beauty of snowflakes quickly transformed into the beauty of enjoying oneself; it was Tahoe after all.

The city of Truckee lay under a variable desert of snow; it lay claim to the gas station, to the restaurants, to the poor cars left to freeze, and most ironically, the ski and chain shops. The inhabitants, temporary as the snow or permanent as the mountains, didn’t care; it was something they had adjusted to: scraping the ice off their vehicles day in and day out, plowing their driveways, putting chains on their cars—it was all routine. The buildings (rather, what was visible of them) in town were mostly cookie cutter, standard, plain, however one may say it; they were ordinary. There was, of course, the occasional exception (most often restaurants); it would be campy to the point of being ridiculous. A false redwood front that had seen too many seasons for what it was worth, usually accompanied by an obscenely tacky, tourist-trap friendly mascot and cheesy name; the inside could not be much better. Thin, multi-colored carpeting lined the linear walkways; stereotypical pictures of skiers, bears, moose and the like adorned the cheap walls, made of a material resembling vinyl; the waitresses, young and careless, pretend to care for your needs, when all that goes through their minds is receiving that paycheck that will hopefully—but never—get them out of the frozen hole in which they work.

Out of the cynical town and into the alluring outskirts lay the cozy cabins in which many reside to take advantage of nature’s frozen, wintery glory. The lovely, authentic redwood of our cabin (it, for sure, put the shops of town to shame) lay somewhat precariously engulfed under banks of snow, as inflated and oversized as banks of modern society, the silk-soft snow sitting on every possible ledge, window sill, and lay in mounds surrounding the tiny refuge; it was a sad sight until one entered through the kindly worn front door. The first hallway, more resemblant of an antechamber, was lined with old linoleum with an accompanying wooden bench, for the sole purpose of drying one’s feet off; off of that and into the main living space lay soft, caressing carpet that warms the icy feet, beds that comfort the tired body, and an incomparable wood stove that softly illuminates the house with tender heat. Sure, the decorations were a little silly, the appliances of a bygone era, the linoleum kitchen irritating. All of that was negligible in consideration of the value of such a refuge; a refuge which served as a home away from home, a place of new memories, and a place to strengthen family bonds.

As we left the snow-bound community, the ice that had laced the truck’s windowsills—not gracefully, but rather a large, singular vein of sorts—began to melt, as our descent continued. It reminded me of a saddened child, as a stream of pure, cold water surged down the side of the truck. It appeared as if the truck was shedding the imaginary tear. I later ripped off that melting bar of ice and threw it into a dingy parking lot of some redneck, mid-way town--rather ungraciously I might add—and smiled as it shattered on the hot, black pavement.

--Spencaa

2011-02-28T21:36:00.001-08:00

A Glimpse of Society

Walking with my aunt, Molly, in the musty underground BART station beneath the streets of San Francisco just as I have done with her millions of times before, I felt a rush of energy and happiness that I have been longing for run through me. We came into the city on that chilly February afternoon from her home in Lafayette, California to escape the slow-paced drowsy suburbs in search of a vibrant and lively atmosphere. I remembered walking through the same station as a little girl in awe of my surroundings: the noisy trains passing through every minute, the dark luminous tunnel that looked like a threatening and ominous black abyss, the crowds of people that were entering and leaving and all going to different places. Yet this time, it is different, for I started to see and hear things that my eight-year-old eyes and ears walking through the same station would not have noticed; an exasperated mother trying desperately to keep all five her children from running off, a gentle looking man with eyes that looked like windows to his soul playing a smooth melody on the saxophone, a student in his early twenties kissing his girlfriend goodbye as she prepared to leave on a train headed for the airport with two large suitcases in tow. Amidst all of these images of humanity were what seemed like thousands of others, some going into San Francisco for work and others like Molly and Myself for pleasure, that were all in a rush, many even running up the stairs, all is if Jesus Christ was standing at the top waiting for them.

As Molly and I began to ascend the staircase leading up to Market Street, I felt like Persephone coming up from the underworld in the spring, excited and overjoyed at the world before her. The moment that we reached the top, I could feel the frigid air hitting my bare face like a pile of bricks, reminding me that my heart was still beating. We began walking down Market Street with no destination in mind, just taking everything in. The clumps of people walking down the streets and the magnificent buildings that seemed to reach the heavens surrounding me made me feel like I was being shielded from any harm that came my way, like I was protected from all the dangers of this world. There were skyscrapers everywhere: they were covered in windows and bathed in sunlight. It created majestic rows of buildings that made the skyline look more like a computer-generated image in a futuristic film than reality.

One of the first buildings we passed had massive windows that looked into empty office space. I immediately remembered it to be Stacy’s, my mother’s favorite bookstore in California that she took me to every time we were in the city. I would spend hours in the children’s section while she would be upstairs looking through novels and spending all of her spare Christmas money that my grandmother had given her on a new stack of books. Accept Stacy’s wasn’t there anymore, and instead the empty building just stood there. Saddening, chilling, depressing—the vacant space was a symbol of corporate domination and all that was wrong with the world.

Walking a little further down, there was a girl, looking no older that twenty, barefoot and wearing nothing in the cold but a worn-down pair of sweats and a dirty t-shirt. She sat in the middle of the sidewalk with her legs crossed and a face that showed nothing but a life of hardship, of instability, of unfairness.

“Spare change,” she yelled over and over again into the crowd of people in a groggy voice that was barely understandable. People were careful to walk around her as if she was radiating an infectious disease, hearing the sound of her voice but unable to listen to her desperate cries. “That poor girl was once somebody’s child,” Molly said solemnly. As I bent down to give the girl the three dollars that I had with me in my pocket, two friends that looked to be in their late twenties walked by her: one wore a beige trench coat while running her bony fingers through her unnaturally blonde hair while the other was walking a dog the size of a loaf of bread that was wearing a miniature pink coat; both were wearing designer sunglasses while carrying bags from Marc Jacobs. Needless to say, neither of them were barefoot.

It was not long before we were in front of the Westfield Mall, where on the other side of those heavy metal doors lay a consumerist’s dream world. There was Bloomingdale’s and Calvin Klein and Hugo Boss and Kate Spade and dozens of other clothing stores where you could by apparel and fragrances and purses and watches for remarkably high prices because we as consumers are told that there is something special and significant and luxurious about these products that they are selling. I, for one, wanted to get up close to this luxury. Pressing my nose against the window of Juicy Couture, I could see a denim jacket made for a girl of the age of about seven being sold for one hundred and forty eight dollars. The girl that would be wearing that jacket someday probably does not know where her local Goodwill is.

Just like it had been in the BART station, I saw and heard things that day on Market Street that my eight-year-old eyes and ears probably would not have been able to. The empty bookstore, the oblivious rich girls, and the denim jacket were nothing but cold and eerie reminders of a world that I had no interest of being a part of, a world that I wanted so desperately to change. Yet I also realized how important it is that one has the ability to see and be aware these things and the world around them; no one has the ability to fix what they do not know and by seeing the harsh reality, it becomes easier to make the changes that are necessary.

-Rachel Jane

Lonely but Satisfied

2011-02-28T21:33:00.000-08:00

On the eastern edge of Santa Rosa, there is a state park called Annadel. The diverse park is spread across over 5,000 acres in the Valley of the Moon. Elevation ranges from 321 feet to 1887 feet. There is over 40 miles of trails in the park. One of the 24 trails, Spring Creek Trail, winds parallel to a flexuous creek. To the left of the trail, a steep hill descends towards the trail. To the right of the trail, the hill briefly continues its steep descent, is interrupted by the presence of the creek and then ascends towards the sky. Not only are there hills on both sides of the trail, but the trail itself climb over rolling hills and up about 300 feet in elevation. At the end of Spring Creek Trail, the ground plateaus and there is a beautiful sight to behold-Lake Ilsanjo. An innumerable amount of stones are imbedded in the trail. Navigating through the labyrinth of rocks is difficult; if one is not careful, one might twist their ankle.

Annadel is immensely different during the different seasons. During the winter, the temperature highs are in the 50s and 60s, and the temperature lows are in the mid 20s. The area gets about 30 inches of rain each year, usually from November to April. When it rains, over 5,000 acres of dirt is transformed into mud; when it rains, huge, murky, unavoidable puddles form on the paths; when it rains, sections of trail become streams as water rushes to join the creek. Dreary grey clouds obstruct the sun’s bright light. Not many people venture into Annadel on gloomy, rainy days like this, but there are a few exceptions. Mountain bikers love to go out on rides through the mud; they whiz down hills as fast as they can go on their fancy bikes; they come out of the park looking more like swamp monsters from Scooby Doo than human beings.

The bikers are not completely on alone though; a runner or two will spend some time in Annadel on a cold day like this. These runners are different than the joggers one might see shuffling along the roads with iPod in ears. These runners are different; they do not block out the world with loud tunes, but connect with nature and ultimately with themselves. One defining feature of an Annadel runner is their massive calves; their immense

leg muscles are a result of hard work and running up a lot of steep hills. Most people would wonder why those insane fools would want to leave their warm homes to go run long distances through mud, cold, wind and possibly rain. Running is an absurd activity. Yet those runners still run, and many of them run in Annadel every weekend. I can try to explain the reason behind running, but there is no way to say it. Sure, I can list all of the benefits of running, but I cannot explain running. I can try to tell someone why I run in Annadel every Saturday, no matter what the weather is like; but there is no way they can understand. My visits to Annadel can be simply summarized. I come. I run. I leave. Yet, they are so much more than that; they mean so much more than that; my runs are so much more than just runs; Annadel is so much more than just a park.

I feel free and fast and strong and beautiful and happy and tired and healthy and determined and energized and carefree and powerful and weak and serene and alive as I bound into Annadel. I arrive at Spring Creek Trail and dash under the canopy of trees. The trees’ skinny trunks are covered with vibrant green moss; there are no branches until the top of the trees, and then there is a burst of branches and leaves that provides shade on hot days. But today is no hot day, and the trees form a dimly lit tunnel over the muddy path. As I trot along the path, I swerve to avoid rocks and puddles. I glance at the ground and see green: verduous ferns and miniscule, delicate plants sprouting up from under the layer of brown branches, brown twigs, brown leaves and brown pine needles. The only sound I hear is the water of the swift creek rushing, rushing, rushing to nowhere just as I do.

Running is extremely pleasant; running is extremely lonely. I find joy in running, yet I cannot avoid feeling lonely when I run nine miles, when there is no one else on the trail, when I realize I spend more time running than I spend with my friends. As I inhale a breath of crisp, moist air, loneliness takes hold of me and begins to crush my heart. Then, I come to a break in the trees and there is a miraculously synchronized break in the clouds. As bright sunshine suddenly lights the path, I notice an orange butterfly the size of a fingernail as it flits by. I am satisfied: I find running delightful and I have hope that I am not alone.

-Chloe

455 Ridgway

2011-02-28T21:32:00.000-08:00

To someone who sees it at first glance, the grey- blue building next to the soccer field at Santa Rosa High School is merely a place where the city of Santa Rosa goes to cool off in the summertime. To a passerby it is a building with little kids running around with styrofoam noodles and flip-flops with their faces tinged white with sunscreen. They see white water splashes and tote bags and umbrellas and beach towels and people in sun hats tanning on the grass. People see the signs of Summer, the signs of freedom, and the signs of childhood, because that’s what people think when they see a swimming pool. But to the mind of an elite swimmer, the pool located at 455 Ridgway Avenue means so much more.

The red interval clock ticks. Second after second we stare at the tiled black line on the bottom as we continue our sets that our coach barks at us. 30:55,56,57,58,59. The first heat of

swimmers starts the next round of 75’s as the clock blinks 31:00. Sounds of coughing and heavy breathing fill the air and the deck littered with mesh bags and half-full Gatorade bottles gets splashed over and over again like the repetition of a puppy getting a scolding. The blue tiled gutters seem to be a safe haven for the swimmers coming in pining for rest. As the pain goes through our minds, we don’t have the time to stop and think about what this will do for our future. We don’t have the patience to stop and think about where this set will get us, and we don’t think about how this one set may make or break our next meet. All we’re focused on is how to get through it the most efficient way possible.

Morning comes again. It’s six o‘ clock and the scratchy blue tarps have just been pulled off the pool by the college aged life guard who is still half asleep. Steam fills the air, making the water encaged in its rectangular prison seem warmer than it really is. It is a liar, a cheater, a trap. Slowly, the girls locker room opens and six brave girls tiptoe out into the bone chilling air and leap into the water. I am one of those girls. Cringing, whimpering, wishing- these actions explain our thoughts. Six a.m is a time to be asleep, cradled in warm and comforting bed sheets, not finding my way into a pool that does not have my best interest in mind at the moment. However, after two hundred yards of spinning my arms to get warm, I relax. I let the water rush past my body; It slides past my ears, down my torso and through my toes. It is a never-ending cycle as I think about my body position in relationship to my biggest friend, which also happens to be my biggest foe. As I direct my hips and shoulders in unison, I once again see the detail that is forever etched in a swimmer’s brain: the tiled black line on the bottom of the pool that ends in a T. Oh, that black line. The line that has haunted me for the last eight years of my life, the line that literally taught me to swim straight. The T comes again and I tuck, pressing my chest and throwing my feet towards the wall. My toes grip the concrete and push as hard as I can, on my back this time. Like a dolphin, my hips rise and my feet follow; My kick propels me past my waves that carried me into the wall, and I catch a glimpse of the Backstroke flags that gleam red, white, and blue, and I let the water take me into a blissful oblivion.

As Autumn turns to Winter, less people are walking on deck. There are the occasional parents in the stands watching their son or daughter try to avoid a red and black parka-d coach’s criticism. Sometimes I feel bad for these parents sitting in the sparse stands watching two groups of eighteen adolescents swimming back and forth. It must be excruciatingly boring to see red faced teens stop, look at the clock, take a sip of Gatorade, look at the clock again, and push off the wall in haste. Believe me, it gets boring being the one watched sometimes. However, as I watch the wisps of air escaping my coaches mouth, I realize why I’m here. For eight years I’ve endured countless sunburns, weeks of soreness, and too many practices in the rain to count on two hands. But after the pain, nothing makes it all go away better than seeing a best time on the clock. I smile to myself as my coach says, “Let’s see something amazing everyone. How do you want to be remembered?” I explode off the wall. The familiar feeling of water molecules rushing past my limbs overcomes me and my hands pull my body away from the pain stroke by stroke. My hips follow, and every third stroke I tilt my head ever so carefully to gasp a breath of sacred air. Before I know it, I’m back at the wall and I look up at the lurking red clock as my coach shouts, “27! You’re back Whaley, it’s nice to see.” I smile, my chest rising up and down and take off my goggles. I glance over at the once sparse stands to see the eager parents waiting in the cold for their children to hurry up and hop out of the pool. They’re looking at me. Over the heads of gossiping mothers I see my mom, patiently waiting. She happens to have the biggest smile on her

face and her hands escape from her pockets and a thumbs- up appears. Then, as if it never happened, she winks, then disappears down the stairs and out of sight.

For a swimmer, it is impossible to go to a friend’s pool party and not want to swim laps. It’s hard to see a pool and not dwell on how many times you’ve missed your National cut. But it is also impossible to see a pool and not remember how the hardest set you could imagine turned into the best life lesson you have ever received. The day I felt my heart beat through my face was the day I learned that the reason I spend more time in the water than at school was because I want to be great. Having my feet stick to the deck on a frosty Saturday morning is the path I take to greatness. For a swimmer, the polygon that contains our clear, chlorinated companion is the best thing to ever happen to us. I speak for any temporary resident of 455 Ridgway Avenue when I say it’s more than just an address.

--Reid

A Broken Place

2011-02-28T21:23:00.000-08:00

Bundles of slowly wilting flowers - an expression of grief, of community, of honoring the person lost – lay propped up against the dark wood sign reading Napa State Hospital. A row of newly blooming magnolia trees – a seemingly desperate effort to create a pleasant environment, one that contrasts sharply with the stark reality of the place, a place appearing as though it were in a different world –stands in the center divide of the road. The oddly placed twenty mph sign admonishes us to slow down, and forces us to gaze at either side of the endless street, at the dilapidated buildings that line it. The towering eucalyptus trees scattered throughout the grounds are hunched over, seeming to bear the palpable despair of the place. An oddity, one that adds rare humor to this place, is the occasional cluster of turkey vultures, whose stares seem to mirror that of some of the patients, as they roam the shaded grounds. Some of the buildings are empty, some just seem empty, and some, like the one labeled “Nurses Home,” - where spinster nurses once lived on the grounds – hark back to an earlier time. Nearing the end of this road, on the left side, stands the white building labeled, “Psychology Offices” where my father’s former office was located. As I child, I used to visit him there and I was able to participate in the illusion that he was safe from the danger and despair lurking behind the fence, a safe distance from his office. Rounding the curb, this illusion is shattered, when we come to face the barbed wire fence.

Founded in 1874, Napa State Hospital provides treatment for the severely mentally ill: Patients who suffer from delusions and hallucinations symptomatic of psychotic disorders. The patient population has changed dramatically over the last twenty years. In the 1980’s, most of the patients were not dangerous. The patient population is now comprised of mostly individuals who have committed serious crimes - even killing a family member - but one they committed because they had a mental disorder. Over the last twenty years, the hospital has tried to adapt to its changing population, struggling with the question of whether it is primarily a hospital or a prison. In 1999, Napa State Hospital established a “secure treatment area” which separates the criminal population behind a fence. The “fence” stands twenty-feet tall, has motion detectors to prevent escape, and encloses what looks to be a small town: Indistinguishable roads lined with small, identical buildings, tree-laden streets with benches tucked underneath, grass-filled front lawns with weeds sprouting, - these are aspects of an average suburban village, yet this one is enclosed inside a endless metal fence. Police cars wind slowly and repeatedly through the streets. Despite these efforts, a staff member was murdered by a patient in a courtyard behind the fence last October.

A monotonous beeping sound near the gate dominates one’s thoughts. The vast metal enclosure lined at the top with silver coils of pointed barbed wire comes into view, police in dark green suits stand guard. Next comes the clanging of metal upon metal and the quiet shuffling of the feet of family members approaching the visitor center – a no-man’s land between the outside world and the world behind the fence; their gait is filled with despair as they exit. The chapel tucked behind the movable gate hints at the possibly of spiritual escape when there is no possibility of a physical one. Next, an even louder, more familiar sound of car engines signals the arrival of a line of Napa Sate Hospital police, preparing to patrol the hospital grounds. These elements make it difficult for one to differentiate the hospital from a prison, a place for healing from a place for incarcerating. The juxtaposition of the chapel and the gate created an ideal picture; I lifted my phone but was quickly stopped by a uniformed man who strode quickly and purposefully out from behind the enclosure, sternly questioning me as to why I was there and why I was taking photos, and watching with scrutiny as I deleted each one of them.

Behind the fence, a glimpse of a patient being escorted from the visitor center, distinguishable by the khaki colors of his attire, colors employees are not allowed to wear. The patient greets my father, then looks back at us, twice, perhaps some paranoia flashed across his face. At a short distance from the gate stands “Our Café," a store where patients can “purchase” snacks one might see sold at a baseball game, not with money but with “points” earned for good behavior. In the distance the faint sound of an alarm indicating, as my father explains, a staff member signaling for help, perhaps because a patient is threatening to harm another.

The dilapidated, broken buildings, some over one hundred years old and still bearing the original signs - “carpentry," “kitchen," “laundry”– mirror the brokenness inside. The patients are broken people, and their illness pervades the place, affecting all who work there and even the trees which attempt to grow there. The inhabitants’ illness escapes through the metal gates and spreads through the hospital. The employees of this “town," staff numbering over two thousand, are burdened with the sadness and despair which characterize the lives of the patients and the facility itself. A visitor to the hospital enters a world of decay and, to a sad degree, hopelessness. Courage, resilience and faint optimism – these are necessary to go to work there every day and cope with the insidious atmosphere. An early patient of my father’s, a middle-aged woman suffering from schizophrenia, once described the hospital this way: “This place is like the starship Enterprise flying through space; the difference is that we don’t know where we’re going and we never get anywhere and we never get off.”

--Davita

Field of Life

2011-02-28T21:21:00.000-08:00

Taking that first step onto the freshly manicured grass sets the tone for the entire day: rays of sunlight and warmth not yet able to reach the dewy morning grass, the meticulously dragged dirt, and more importantly the shivering shadows of players slowly stumbling from their cars to their dugout, whether it be the first base side or the third base side. Squeaky wheels roll wagons of bats and balls and helmets and tees and nets and gloves and last week’s field dust, you name it. Squeaky wheels roll individual bags of catchers and pitchers, infielders and outfielders, winners and losers, every one of them holding their own talent. Squeaky wheels roll coolers full of succulent watermelon, frosted grapes, turkey sandwiches, and Gatorade G1 Prime, G2 Perform, and G3 Recovery, determining exactly how desperate one is to perform at their best. The familiar sound of metal cleats on concrete can be detected as players drag their feet slowly to their warm-up spot, unload their equipment, and peel off layers of jackets in the cold misty air. Jogging, stretching, throwing- they get warm. There is little noise to be heard, despite the crack of bats on Wiffle balls and the snaps of balls in gloves: we are all tired, both the parents and the players, from the early morning trek to the field. This is Prince Park at seven in the morning. No hustle and bustle, strictly business.
Just an hour later, games begin. In the following hours, silence is replaced with chatter and the eerie lack of excitement replaced with bursting energy. The fans arrive: Grandparents, parents, siblings, and friends take their place in the stands and on the side lines past the fence. Aromas of cooking hotdogs and the sounds of grinding snow cones fill the air. “Play ball!” shouts the umpire. From this moment on, the field is no longer a simple sixty foot by sixty foot diamond of dirt. It has transformed to a complex system of mechanics. Where to hit the ball. Where to throw the ball. What plays to call. Who to play at what position and when to substitute them out. This strategy reflects in the faces of all the players and all the coaches. The success of this strategy, working as a team, as one unit, sends the crowd into bursts of cheers. Beams of sun dance along the sharp blades of grass. White sunscreen traces the shoulders and faces of players, but is soon stained a dirty brown, along with their uniforms, as they dive into bases and after balls. Fans take safe haven under canopies in the stands and sport straw hats while lying under the shade of Oak trees climbing with laughing kids. The sun –enormous, luminous, and brilliant- heats up the air, the players heat up with intensity, fans heat up with excitement. The radiation of energy is overwhelming.
The only decrease of this energy is when the game ends and the next game is about to start. Players scramble to grab food; any food in reach, fruit from the cooler, a hotdog from the snack bar, anything to feed their growling stomachs. Then they find a seat out of the sun: a blanket or a camping chair with portable mister in hand, even an air conditioned car, to escape the heat. They’ve been waiting an hour and forty five minutes to rest their bones and their muscles. The one thing that never rests is their desire. “How long do we have?” are the words from the mouths of many anxious players awaiting warm-ups for their next game. In just minutes, the energy is picked up again for three or four more games until your day of softball is over, only to wake up the next morning and do it all over again, fighting for the title of “Champions.”
Silence and eeriness fill the air once more as the high lights above that have been flooding the fields with light since they came to life just a few hours ago, are turned off. The metal cover slams down over the snack bar counter, indicating its closure. Cleats are stricken against the fence in an attempt to clean clumps of dirt out of the spots between each spike. Cars are packed up, headlights turn on, and players, coaches, and fans pull away from the parking lot to start their journey back, whether it’s to their hotel or their home. Prince Park during a softball tournament is the very essence of extremes. It begins a serene morning, follows into a chaotic afternoon, and ends with an empty field. Despite everything that went on that day –all the energy and excitement- that’s all it really is at the end of the day. An empty field.

-Carli

A Liquid Heart

2011-02-28T21:18:00.000-08:00

During the year, the Marin County Fairgrounds can usually be a barren location to visit, with a few events and performances indoors. But on the week of Fourth of July, the piercing scream of kids and teenagers on the rides can be heard across the lake centered in grounds. If you enter in the back, one can smell the fresh nauseating farm animal manure, but just walk a few feet, and the succulent smell of grilled carne asada can pierce through the nostril burning sting of the manure. Walk past there on a none-fair weekend and you will have to withstand the ambrosial scent of manure. It is easy to view the whole fairgrounds when there aren’t shopping tents or other stands propped up, but it gives the grounds a desolate and melancholy feel to it; what may cheer up your mood is the freshness of the wind hitting your face and the calming sounds of the splashes emitting from the fountain at the center of the lake. Entertainments, food, music-these characteristics of the fair are what attract visitors from all over.

Many visitors to the fair would agree that the highlight occurs at night: the skies would explode with the colors of red light and blue and the fireworks would wow and dazzle kids of all ages. For me, though, the most exciting element of the fair is during the day, performing in front of many spectators. The host at the Ben and jerry’s stage would announce us, “Please welcome Chan Kahal”, and we would shuffle our feet onstage. Right now, this spot on the fairgrounds seems to look smaller than with the congestion of people during fair-time. In front of me lies a brown wooden building with sliding windows, like the kind you see in lines outside the cafeteria when you get food. I remember buying a burger here once. The vendors took about fifteen minutes in delivering the food, and what I ended up with was a burger straight from McDonalds, with the same wrapper and quality you can’t trust.

The performance buildings lie directly to the left and right from me. The walls of the buildings are a soft peachy color. Their roofs are blue, and on the sides surrounding the roof are yellowing lights. On the outside they don’t look like much, but if you go inside the building near the main entrance and go through the doors to the stage, hundreds of chairs will greet you. All these chairs put emphasis on the stage, where various performances have been held, like the African acrobats and magicians. Exit and you will see the calm and relaxing sight of the lake. As I walk towards it, I can see children running on the grass, shouting, “Tag, your it”, while parents sit on the picnic tables, gossiping and watching over their babies. On another side, lies a bridge which, during the fair, connects the area for rides to the rest of the fair. The section is not only used for the fair. That area has been used for the fair and for parties and for recreation and for boycotts and for teenagers to play sports while parents converse.

I lean down and stroke the top of the artificial lake with my fingers. The water feels cold and the water parts as my fingers slide through it. When I pull out my fingers, I pull out a soda can labeled Coca-Cola™, for that was the purpose of inserting my hand in the darkish green and brown lake. It seemed as though coke not only tainted the inside of one’s body, but would also damage the heart of the fair, for the fireworks were released at the center of the lake. This wasn’t a recurring habit for people because this was the only can in this blanket of water, but there are always a few people that harm the Earth without realizing their actions; throwing garbage where it didn’t belong, because it had become a habit.

The majority of people come to this fairground for the fair. They experience. They enjoy. They return. I know I will always return to this fairground because it is un like most fairs; the diverse shows it has to offer and its commitment to being one of the greenest fairs will please people; it evokes the feeling of reassurance and well-being people like, especially since it is trying to sell healthier food, without eliminating their taste. There are also many stands where every year there is a souvenir for every type of person, like the collectible Inuyasha sword sold at the Japanese stand. But I will return every year to perform and express my pride at my culture, and if I don’t get to dance, I will return to spend time with my family.

-Jhordy

Surviving Time

2011-02-28T21:16:00.000-08:00

The cabin my great-great uncle built—the split log cabin that, with the help of many old relatives, was a testimony to our hard work and collaborative skills. Situated on a half-acre plot of land surrounded by cedar and fir trees, on the corner of US Hwy 50 in small sub-division in the town of Strawberry, was completed in 1951. A five minute walk to the South Fork of the American river, and with a breath-taking view of Lover’s Leap, similar in appearance to that of an old Swiss chalet, was originally designed by Lutz Aynedter, a German WWII veteran who fought in North Africa.

The two-story, four room cabin, cannot be compared to a cabin of any other in the South Lake Tahoe area, nor has it been. While some might say that it’s the rustic fireplace in the middle of the living room, or the loft upstairs with its very own covered balcony, or the large, pollen coated, double-paned picture windows that sit just below the ceiling—that I can proudly say my father installed himself—that let sunlight filter through the tops of the age old fir trees, or the deck painstakingly laid down timber by timber by my family, or even the rich mahogany red trims accompanied with a creamy mustard yellow, it truly boils down to the company you spend time with up there, and the feeling that the cabin instills in you when you’re sitting down, reading a book, or sitting out on the deck watching the Stellar Jays.

Waking up in the morning, I would draw the curtains over the old steel-framed, fifty’s style windows above my bed, turn on lamp in the corner by pulling on its chain, and breathe in. The freshness of mountain air can jumpstart the day—a crisp, brisk air blowing in through the open window brings with it the smell of warming moss on granite boulders, dew steaming off of trees and low lying shrubbery, and birds warbling, or sometimes even pecking at the trunks of the older trees. Usually getting up relatively early, I walk through the hallway into the main living area, put on a kettle of hot water, and sit down to watch the sun rise higher into the sky. Early in the morning, or even late in the afternoon, it’s quite hypnotizing to watch the dust motes float down from seemingly nowhere and alight on furniture and the polished hardwood floor. While most qualities of this cabin are those that make one think of home—the kind of home that’s not filled with social status, stress, piles of homework, and a busy lifestyle, the kind of home that’s relaxing, the kind of home where you can sit down without a purpose, the kind of home where even the best of movie directors aren’t able to capture in their greatest films.

Around midday, I see climbers slowly making their ascent up the many routes on Lover’s Leap. Nostalgia often washes over me as I sit on the weathered plastic lawn chairs placed in pairs out on the deck; I remember sitting in those same chairs from when I was a young kid in grade school, inviting my old friends, who now, have moved on to better and bigger things in college. Whilst reminiscing, I place peanuts, kept in a container above the fridge in the kitchen, on the hand crafted wood railing like I have years past. The railing, now rotting, is not as safe to lean on as it has been in past years; it was repainted just last summer with the same creamy yellow trim color used over 50 years ago, but underneath its warmth lay a decaying silhouette. And, just like in years past, my dad will mutter something about how unsafe it is, and how he’ll need to replace it, though we all know that he’ll never get around to it.

Amidst the feelings of contentment and tranquility, I’m often interrupted by the sounds of rushing traffic, not 100 feet away from the edge of the deck. On some nights, the traffic can be a means of lulling me to sleep, but voyaging across is always dangerous. I’ve walked. I’ve jogged. I’ve sprinted. Crossing Hwy 50 is no matter to be taken lightly; I have nearly been hit by a car more times than I’d like to say I’m proud of. On this particular day, traffic was slow, with only the occasional car every few minutes. It has been worse, though. In the summer, when I visit for a week or so, cars can stream ceaselessly in both directions. Being our only means of cooling off on a hot, dry summer Tahoe day, my friends and I have to dance with death crossing Hwy 50; we wait until cars are a good distance away before bounding toward icy mountain snow melt.

Snapping back to the present moment, I hear the same familiar calls of my mom and dad, “time to go,” “time to lock up.” The cabin—now devoid of people and conversation, comfort and warmth, activity and rejuvenation—was desolate. I locked up the back door with my dad, pulled the scarf tighter around my neck as the late afternoon breeze was picking up and rolling through the mountainous valleys. Clambering into the car, I could no longer smell the crisp, fresh air of the cedar and fir trees. Instead, it was replaced with the stench of wet dog fur, car heater, and gasoline. Pressing the palm of my hand to the window as we drove away on that same dangerous Hwy 50, I began to count down the days until I would return.
--Eric Singer (0pd)

Secret Sanctuary

2011-02-28T21:11:00.000-08:00

Hidden from those who look only with their eyes, the whereabouts of my cherished refuge remain known to very few people. Driving, running, walking – passerby fail to see the unlikely entrance to the hideaway beyond the old frayed rope. Twigs and bushes intertwine, creating a border and fence to keep away those who do not respect the simple beauty that accompanies untouched ground and nature. Leaves crunch and break under my feet as I slowly step over the restricting rope; walking a little ways to the right, I find what I’m searching for. A small unnoticeable path weaves in and out thorough the small, dense forest ahead. Carefully and quietly, I make my way on the uneven dirt and dust trail until I come to the main scene of my haven, a small running creek flows through the middle of the pathway, breaking it off until a bridge connects the two banks. A wooden, rotting bridge crosses the nourishing yet polluted water below: each plank bends and warps and bows under each placement of weight. I never worry about the wood giving way under me, if many people before me have seen and experienced this place before me, then this bridge will hold steady for one more. The creaks and whines of protest surround me with the feeling of security rather than the fear of harm; it reminds me that there is still at least one place in the city left untouched by the hands of man. The bridge is still how it was when it was built, and yet that and the path is the only evidence of humans passing through. Wooden knots cover the broken railings and base of the bridge, styled in an old fashion, the antique crossing remains sharp with splinters, ruts and dents from the passing of time are found everywhere in the wood. Water from below has stained the bottom with an eternal green, mossy color. Plants and vegetation surround the beginning and end of the ensemble.
Sounds of crickets and grasshoppers fill the eardrums of those quiet enough to accept the peacefulness of the grove. If one is silent enough, sounds of driving and honking automobiles remain absent, loud talking and screaming cannot be heard, and the barking and whining of dogs is unheard of. My hidden haven – provides the picture of serenity and harmony, unstained and incorrupt, delicate and divine – may bring the visitor to truth with themself. The taste of fresh and clean and uncontaminated air fills the lungs of those lucky enough to experience this place. Twisted and tangled branches braid with each other creating an impenetrable web of natural protection. The trees protect the unnoticed species below them and within them from the foot of humans and larger predators. Looking up upon the largest tree within the sanctuary, if one was to move two layers of moss slightly to the right, they would see the letters E + S engraved eternally into the trunk of the giant umbrella of shade. Six years ago my best friend and I stumbled upon this place of serenity and made it our secret refuge where not even out parents knew about. Although we are no longer friends, the past of our friendship lingers, spiraling around the largest tree we could find when we were nine. Visiting all these years later brings memories of running, exploring, and discovering every crook and under every rock the place had. I feel sadness, but no regret. I mourn, but with no death. I smile, but with remembrance. The innocence of my childhood and the sweet bliss of ignorance slowly fade away with time, but whenever I return to this sacred hideout, that bliss is renewed.

Long reeds and weeds sprout and grow tall surrounding the trees and ancient bridge. Few become pulled from gusts of wind and drift away in the wind, spreading their seeds, gradually spreading the beauty of the secret heaven. The feel of rough bark and smooth lichen pleasure my fingertips and sweeten the smells flowing in my nose. Sweet blades of grass sway with the music of the wind and an infinite number of flowers sprout and proudly display their beauty for the world to see. Their confidence and purity in their color boost one’s confidence in the truth surrounding them. The stems of the flowers sink in the earth with stability, rooted to their place in this world. I only wish the real world was a pure and honest as this sanctuary; however, I only find myself in my own world within this mini forest, and once I step outside of its borders, the horror and ugly of the world engulf me once again.
-Emily W

A Sweet Cup of Addiction

2011-02-28T20:59:00.000-08:00

The scent of coffee permeates the rectangular room, enticing costumers to buy their daily fix. The menu hangs proudly over the kitchen, classily displaying every drink available; their sizes, calorie content, and special seasonal items. There are tables and chairs, all strategically placed to give the shop a comfy feel. The warm color schemes –forest green and burgundy, beige and yellow, brown and black – exude the coziness and feeling of home. Shelves upon shelves are stacked with merchandise such as coffee beans and espresso mugs and coffee cups and coffee makers and coffee grinders and coffee presses and tea. Next to the cash registers are cases overflowing with pastries, sandwiches, bottled drinks, and fruit salads. People habitually enter and exit their local Starbucks to grab a quick snack or delectable drink.

Starbucks is a haven for many, offering a peaceful place to work, write, or simply chat with a friend. The soft hum of chatter can be heard at its busiest moments; or during less crowded times in the shop, employees can be heard conversing. The convenience of free Wi-Fi attracts many costumers, prompting them to bring their laptop to work in a change of setting.

Almost every average American has ventured into a Starbucks at one point in their life. Americans spend a large amount of money on their coffee craving: Starbucks makes around 700 million dollars per year. Many regular Starbucks costumers purchase a cup of Java a day to maintain their addiction; others only buy a Starbucks coffee as a treat. Lattes, Mochas, Espressos – these drinks are the regular fix of many Starbucks costumers. Specialty coffee drinks can be a large contributor to a person’s calorie intake per day. Depending on the drink purchased, calorie content can be sky high. Although Starbucks now posts the calorie count on their menu, many consumers choose to ignore it; sugary drinks ingested daily can lead to obesity.

While in Starbucks at one of its busiest moments, it’s astonishing to see the amount of people lined up in the tiny room. The line curves around like a snake, full of impatient costumers waiting for their daily ritual. On occasion, one will see a frazzled business man, checking his watch every minute, anxious to get his precious cup of coffee and be on with his day. He’ll tap his impatient foot, wondering whether he will have enough time to make it to work. He considers leaving to be safe, but resists, knowing he can’t survive without feeding his caffeine addiction. Many adults cannot live without a cup of coffee in the morning: it wakes them up and prepares them for their day. Without it they are guaranteed migraines and withdrawals. It’s a never-ending vicious cycle of addiction, with no one willing to deprive themselves of their wake-up call.

The need to purchase an expensive cup of coffee from Starbucks every day is a puzzling necessity. Why do so many Americans purchase their coffee from Starbucks instead of simply brewing it at home, or purchasing cheaper alternatives? Stores such as McDonald’s and Dunkin’ Donuts offer much better coffee deals; at McDonald’s any size cup of coffee is only a dollar. Some Americans may not be willing to waste the time and energy to make their own cup of coffee, or aren’t willing to take a reusable thermos to work. It may be a matter of superiority, they must have the best of everything; or maybe, they haven’t given cheaper alternatives a chance due to thoughts that nothing could ever compare to their precious Starbucks.

Starbucks inflates everything; their food selection is undersized and overpriced. A packaged sandwich can cost up to six dollars; fruit salad and bottled drinks are equally as expensive. In a way this is trivial: anyone planning to eat a meal could simply walk across the shopping center’s parking lot to G&G, and buy a tastier and cheaper sandwich. But instead, some choose to feed the company’s greed and purchase the overpriced food. This is a matter of convenience; they are already there, so why not purchase a meal to go along with their drink? This seems perfectly reasonable to not have to walk a few feet farther.

From inside a Starbucks, it seems like a warm and cozy place, to purchase delicious drinks, pastries, and sandwiches. From outside a Starbucks, it appears to be drastically overpriced and quite frankly, overrated. Why spend hard earned money on gourmet coffee when one could simply brew it at home, or purchase a cheaper cup at places like McDonalds? The frivolous drinks seem like empty calories, adding to the high obesity rate in America, the branded merchandise seems unnecessary and uninviting, and the free Wi-Fi seems like a bribe to buy and support Starbucks merchandise. I personally enjoy a Starbucks on occasion, but when the addiction to this franchise makes trips to the shops a daily necessity, things have gotten out of hand. Too much of something good like Starbucks can lead to bad things such as addiction, weight gain, and uncontrollable spending; Americans must take a step back to review if their daily trips to Starbucks are as harmless as they seem.

--Rachel

The Big Red Sign

2011-02-28T20:45:00.000-08:00

Walking through the doors of this well know store, one may feel a sudden overload of the senses. The aromas of coffee, pizza, and people all compete to take command of the senses. Eyes are drawn to the red doors, the red carts, and the red signs, not knowing where to focus. Snippets of conversations go in and out of ear shot. Children begging parents for new toys, couples arguing over what to get, parents trying to stay sane while they get their shopping done, all these pass by as you walk through the front of the massive store.

Taking a red cart with the signature emblem, one enters the first few sections of the store, accessories and juniors. Moving clockwise around the outer part of the store, the sections titled women and men and shoes and baby pass by and stop at the back of the store, where the electronics and book section is located. Books for all ages sit next to each other. New releases face the highway of shoppers, hoping someone will look over and see the twenty percent off sticker on the cover. Beyond the two aisles of books, the electronic section begins. This transition from classic, paperbound books to new, modern DVDs and blu-ray discs are separated by one plastic shelf. New movies, like the newly released books, sit facing outward, hoping their creators promoted them enough to get picked up by those passing by. There are constant sales and special sales, new movies and old movies, must haves and guilty pleasures, all together in one store. Of course, they aren’t facing out; they are displayed in a part of the section that draws little attention. They are placed behind the new movies.

Conveniently located to the left of the electronics section is the toy section. Parents can quickly glance at the movies as they are getting pulled, or chasing after, their children wanting the newest Barbie or Transformer doll. The toy section contains toys for all ages. There are Barbies and Transformers and bouncy balls and stuffed animals and Nerf guns and Legos. For young adults there are even board games and electronic games to be desired.

Following the big red signs listing the name of each section, the next major section commanding attention are the groceries. The section- snack foods and frozen foods, soda and juice, fruits and vegetables- makes going to the grocery store unnecessary. There are breakfast foods and snack foods and lunch foods and frozen foods in this store. It also carries clothing and shoes and books and toys and electronics. This mecca has everything needed in one’s daily life. Within the past year, the grocery section has grown to cover the entire left wall of the expansive super store.

The front wall is considered the health and beauty section. Toilet paper and paper towels are first, so as not to contaminate the food an aisle over. Shampoos, conditioners, vitamins, razors, body wash, and make up follows the paper products. Curly, straight, colored- hair of every type and style have multiple shampoo and conditioner choices. Makeup- Maybelline and NYC, Revlon and Covergirl, L’Oreal and Neutrogena- share three aisles of this massive store. These brands, known around the world, are not too cheap, but are not going to cause one’s head to explode upon reading the price. The brands, not just for makeup, are functional and priced fairly.

Moving to the middle of the store, one sees furniture, bedding, and bathroom signs. Furniture, from beaten up, metallic looking vases to cushioned, modern, black couches, comes in differing styles to open the market to multiple masses. Students ready to start college, newlyweds moving into a bigger home together, and new parents can all find what they need at a price that will not go over their budget, and may even give them some extra spending money. Bedding and towels, which are always in demand, come in many colors. Differing thread counts and differing styles makes a simple choice much more difficult. Shades of blues, reds, grays, and greens, bright colors, and plain, simple whites can be found in the towel section. Spread along three aisles these choices can add a pop of color to any bathroom. While these items are not needed as much as a new toy, book, movie, or bottle of nail polish, the central location causes one to walk through and find something they do not really need.

Back to the front of the store, the checkout stands are set into two rows with seven checkout stands in each row. While not all checkout stands are open at once, they are spaced out enough to give one room to get by. Displayed directly before paying for purchases are items like Chapstick, gum, hair ties, gift cards, magazines, and sodas. These items are small and often forgotten. The salespeople, in their uniform of beige pants, red polo shirt, and name tag, offer friendly smiles and small talk as purchases pass through the scanner.

After paying and receiving their receipt one can simply carry out their bags or, if they bought quite a few things, they can bring them out in a cart. Once the cart has been emptied, the cart must be placed in the cart racks placed conveniently around the parking lot. Employees of the store are constantly in the parking lot collecting these carts and bringing them inside for the next shopper to use. Taking one last glance at the store and it looming sign over the entrance before heading back to their vehicle, one must think of the store with many things inside. Its’ signature bulls eye. Its’ name. Target.

-Laura

Familiar

2011-02-28T20:44:00.000-08:00

Like clockwork every evening I slide down a long hallway in my socks from my bedroom to the kitchen. As I enter, I jump up onto the black granite counter top and sit “criss cross applesauce” while my dog barks at my mom, walking in the door, finally home from work. The smell of Coco Van fills the kitchen as my dad frantically rushes everyone out of his way. The atmosphere that fills this room could never be recreated. From any outsider we would appear to be just a normal family, with a normal kitchen; our kitchen, however, is far from ordinary.
Our kitchen-a place for family and friends, jokes and debates, singing and dancing-is the warmest place in our home (literally and figuratively). Walking in, one would notice the fresh loaf of banana bread sitting on the counter, or the apples and bananas in a fruit basket, or the plate of cinnamon cookies that were made for a fellow classmate. But one would not notice all the meaning those food items possess. The cookies were made by my brother and I, as we sang along to popular Lady Gaga songs, the bread was an experiment that my brother and I bonded over, and the fruit is merely a toy for my brother and I every night. Also quite noticeable is the sparkling black granite, one would assume it was chosen for its stylish qualities but that is a false assumption. It was chosen for its durability. These counters can withstand many accidents, such as a knife being thrown from across the room and missing the sink. It still does not scratch. No marks are made when a burning skillet slams down upon it and sits there because I have burnt a finger making a grilled cheese sandwich, and still no damage is done when my dog’s claws support her weight as she gets a better look at our thanksgiving dinner.
One of the not so noticeable things in our kitchen is the height chart. My mom has tracked our height since we could stand up straight. It is all in pencil and illegible unless you look up close and two names an observer will come to find do not belong. Those names belong to the two men that worked on our house every weekend for about a year and became a small part to our family. Those two men are the reason our kitchen is the way it is. They created the fluidity by removing cabinets that obstructed the view of the family room, the installed the counters that endure two teenagers, and they replaced the lighting fixtures that I punctured with a lime green broom handle. That lighting fixture is not the only thing I’ve ruined: I broke countless wine glasses and plates and bowls, and saltshakers, and spice jars, and shot glasses, and the microwave and even the smoke detector that wouldn’t turn off when I broke the microwave. Finally is the small rectangular hole in our hardwood floors. My dad had to fill it with special color matched putty after one of my high heels caused such a flaw during one of my late night games of dress up. Although these details are hardly noticeable to anyone besides my family, they give our kitchen character.
Perhaps the most prominent feature in any kitchen is the refrigerator. What’s inside, along with what is on the front strongly reflects the people living in the household. Our fridge has report cards, magnets, schedules for practice, games, and rehearsals, and pictures. There is a picture of my sister’s wedding, school pictures of my brother and I, a photo from Shollenberger park, my dad’s golf group in Mesquite, our Christmas card from two years ago, a softball picture, and a picture of a younger version of me with a snake twice my size looped around my neck. Inside the fridge is a combination of all of our favorite foods; strawberries for me, edamame for my mom, fancy cheese for my brother and bologna for my dad. Of course there are common things in our fridge such as milk, eggs, butter, and what not, but how many people can say they have nine different types of juice in their fridge? Not many.
This space is not just somewhere for my father to compose all of our meals, it is a space for me to have my own personal American Idol stage. I sing: not well, not on key, not using the right words, but I sing. My mom usually picks music on iTunes while I do the dishes after dinner, and I sing to my hearts content. My neighbors have called before to ask if everything was dandy in our household, which indeed it was. But I suppose that’s what I deserve for singing out the window above the sink that just so happens to face their daughter’s bedroom. That window also has wooden blinds to hide my moronic dancing from those same neighbors view. Just beneath the window is our stainless steel sink with aromatherapy stress relief hand soap resting on the side. That very soap contributes to the smell of eucalyptus that envelopes anyone walking by while the sink is running.
I sit. I talk. I do homework. All of these tasks take place sitting on my lovely counter in my favorite room. My mom often hears about high school drama, homework woes, or crazy ideas I have while I’m sitting on my perch. Often I lay on my stomach, feet in the air, crossed at the ankles and read her my essays, or get biology help from my brother, sitting only a few feet away.
Dancing, laughing, bonding-gathering in a kitchen is the best way to spend time with my family. With busy schedules we rarely have time to discuss important events in our lives, but while my dad is cooking, my mom checks her email, my brother and I complete homework we are all in the same room, breathing the same air, having the same conversation. This kitchen has flaws, it has silly pictures and dorky magnets on the fridge and it has items with deeper meaning than anyone could begin to understand; this kitchen is familiar, it’s safe, it’s my place.

-Jenna

Treasure Hunting

2011-02-28T20:42:00.000-08:00

Glistening ahead, a collection of accessories, shoes, clothes, food, miscellaneous items. The sound of leather boots and high heels contacting the ground echoes throughout the lot. The lot consists of a drab, grey floor speckled with stains and evidence of every shoe and tire, and product that had become acquainted with its surroundings. A three-dollar parking sign rests on the industrial chain fence and a young, lady bundled in a grey sweatshirt collects the money from each passing car shoving it delicately into a collection box. From afar, one observes the clumped dispersion of tarps and tables; all clinging together for support, profit, and hope. Various flags fight for the dominance of the sky and wind, each flaunting its vibrant tones: a Mexican flag waves aggressively, while the Cuban flag plots its comeback and waits for its turn in the wind. The flea market-a hoard of stands and vendors, shoes and purses, jewelry and socks- is an opportunity to taste other culture and practice bargaining.

Spanish is thrust out rapidly of the mouths of the seller and buyer. The chatter of the place is overwhelming: everyone seems to be talking at once in the small vicinity of each other. Gestures are used when the seller cannot speak English and the buyer cannot speak Spanish; the universal movements of the hand eventually help the relationship reach an understanding.

Energetic sale signs leap out at the potential buyers urging them to come into their makeshift store and stumble upon something of interest. As the day carries on, the smiles plastered on retailers’ faces grow weary, but as soon as a sale is made their smiles become vitalized again. Thirsty customers line up for a glass of agua dulce, and restless sellers demand peoples’ attention.

One stand that my friends and I approached sold models of the Eiffel tower. Made of a cheap, silver metal and shaped with a few, fine details, it was sufficient enough to catch the eyes of collectors. The man spoke very little English, but he showed us that this model consisted of three parts. When he completed disassembling the tower, he hid the top portion in his hand, while our curiosity grew exponentially. A minute later, he finally revealed it to us; hidden in the model was a sharp, usable dagger. We nodded with amazement, but abruptly left out of fear.

The stalls are carefully placed to fully utilize the lot. The space in between adjacent stalls is small and narrow, often causing statements like “excuse me” and “sorry, forgive me” as multitudes of people squeeze through to get to their destinations. Some retailers have a tarp to shield them from the rain or sunshine; others merely have a table or blanket lying on the concrete floor with various items scattered across it. Although nice appearances often reap more customers and interest, to flea market shoppers appearance is only a façade that comes in between a good deal. These shoppers have keen eyes, perfect for inspecting the quality of an item. Ingrained in their minds, they have a good knowledge of prices: thriftiness is a part of their lives. Straight fixed eyes and fast paced feet, the movements of the people are like business in New York City.

As the wind blows and the clouds sail by, time escapes into a fourth dimension-one that is almost undetectable to the average, modern shopper. Time is not punctual like in most parts of the US, but rather of a resemblance to Spanish cultures. On a party invitation, the starting time could be seven P.M., but people may start to arrive at ten. Time is flexible there: it works for the people and not against them.

Eventually, even though time is not apparent at the flea market, hunger still implores to be acknowledged. Several foods stands boast bags of crispy Mexican snacks that can be laced in hot sauce for a dollar and fifty cents or for a dollar at one small stand. Children choose their drinks eagerly and bite down on their crunchy snacks. As one approaches the flea market, a white sign publicizing the sale of Chinese food is the most visible advertisement. The Coyote is another food trailer that sells quality Spanish food. Owned by a genuine Mexican family, the business has a red and white simple menu on the left side of the trailer, and in the center sits an array of bottled drinks and snacks. A respectable waiter takes customers’ orders on a white notepad and then, hands it to the cook under the crack of a window. Plastic outdoor tables are cleaned after the departure of each customer, where a napkin dispenser reclines.

The flea market entices collectors, observers, and food enthusiasts; most of all, it gives the society a glimpse of how people shopped prevenient to when Wal-Mart’s, Targets, or K-marts unlocked their doors for prospective buyers. It is an opportunity to meet new people, reconnect with old friends, or do a little shopping for one’s self. The major thrill in the style of shopping is finding a good bargain like jeans for three dollars or a pair of sunglass for four. Although looking for a specific item for the lowest price can be tedious, the moment when one locates the “x” on his/her treasure map is enough joy to persist through exhaustion.

--Amy

A Home Within A Home

2011-02-28T20:31:00.000-08:00

In the mid-to-late 1990s the northeast side of Petaluma, once a large sum of farmland consisting of countless chicken coops and cattle farms, made a revolutionary transition from quiet, peaceful farmland to a young, bustling suburb that would bring many new families to the affable town of Petaluma. However, this explosion of development on the eastside of Petaluma was done as quickly, efficiently, and cheaply as possible, leaving the once productive land with a sprawling area of small streets lined with eerily similar houses. This new neighborhood had a lack of personality with about five different models of houses all painted the same beige with white trim, akin to what Malvina Reynolds describes in her song “Little Boxes”, which condemns the suburban houses in the Oakland hills, as well as those who bought those little boxes. Among the similarities each house had, like the color, the appliances, the carpet, each has also had one other common detail: an unfinished mud pit for a backyard.

We moved into our newly constructed house in February 1998, and thirteen years later I still remember looking through the sliding glass doors in my kitchen and seeing a seemingly endless expanses of saturated mud that had no life present. Even my old yellow cocker spaniel refused to use the sad excuse for a backyard. At the end of the drab expanse was an ugly, white, stucco, soundproof wall for a fence that guarded our house from the newly paved roadway that lay behind my house. On the north and south side of my yard was a traditional, inoffensive brown synthetic wood fence. Under the dreary gray February sky, the soulless yard resembled a deserted battlefield, yet it was a place where life would be soon prospering.

Fast-forward one short year, and the once vast lifeless landscape of mud now began to quickly gather memories that are still with me today. Fresh, plush, verdant – the freshly planted sod welcomed my siblings and me to play rugby against my dad. From the newly paved stone patio out of the sliding glass doors I looked to my left and see the bark area with my prized play structure there, with its yellow slide and two swings attached to it. In a quadrant where the terracotta and cement patio meet the grass, there were decorative rocks that surrounded the recently planted pear tree, which stood in the ground, diminutive and twig-like compared to the same pear tree that stands there today. Dotting the perimeter of my backyard in the bark area around two yards from the fence were freshly potted plants, just as they had come from the gardening area of Home Depot or Yardbirds. The miniscule plants tried to hide the heinous white fence at the back of our yard, and at the time the plants looked like a person attempting to hide a car behind their back. The plants seemed to be an afterthought, but eventually the plants would mature and fulfill their purpose in hiding the great white wall. The aroma of lavender, rosemary, and society garlic captivated my new black and white Cocker Spaniel, the only dog I have owned for its entire life, whose nose carried him all over the new garden full of juvenile plants.

Today, my backyard is a much more mature version of my backyard twelve years ago. It transformed from a barren mud pit to a beautiful retreat that bears countless memories of my childhood. Now, instead of the play structure of my child years, a pool with an attached hottub now stands in it place, still giving me a place to play. Built nine years ago, the pool is beginning to show its age: while it still has a crystal clear, beautiful white plaster bottom, the flagstone around the side of the pool is beginning to weather away, along with the tile on the inside border of the pool that is beginning to chip off. Beyond my pool, in the far left corner of the yard, amidst the now massive shrubbery of big green bushes, is what we call the pet cemetery. Over the past thirteen years of living in that house, we have attained quite the collection of animals in our pet cemetery, from two dogs to two cats to two rabbits to a snake to a bird to a frog to countless fish. Beneath the seemingly monotonous bushes placed around the pool lay countless memories hidden under the dirt in the graves of my animals. The perimeter of my backyard no longer contains the puny shrubbery, but instead is full of healthy, full-grown bushes, plants, and many other garden items. Above my terracotta patio, attached to my house is a terrace that stood bare for many years, and just recently began to be shaded by wisteria that have been slowly growing up the posts for several years now. The pear tree that stands in the quadrant separating the patio from the lawn is now towering above my parents’ second story window, dominating my backyard. In the far right corner of the lawn there is a flagstone patio put down by my own hands, looking rustic and classic, with a decorative yet cozy bench on top of it. On the patio to the right of my glass doors provide a feeling of comfort, as though it is an outdoor living room. Along the right fence of my yard are roses that bloom in summer filling in the space that is bare during winter, giving more live to the already vibrant garden, providing extra privacy from the neighbors.

Having a backyard full of character in a neighborhood that seemingly lacks character is crucial to the experience of growing up. My backyard could easily be a simple plot of grass for the pets to use as a bathroom, like many of my neighbors, but instead, I am lucky enough to have an oasis for a backyard.

-Mark

Beckoning Blue

2011-02-28T20:24:00.001-08:00

Beckoning Blue
The confined cockpit space of the Cessna 172 SP glass panel single engine turbo prop aircraft was cramped into two front facing undersized leather seats; one being occupied by me, the other, the flight instructor. Even through the mint green David Clarke noise cancelling aviation headset, the din of the single Cessna Standard propeller beating 1750 RPM was deafening. As I reached over the controls to activate the fuel pump, the pungent aroma of high octane aviation fuel flooded my nostrils; the distant hum of the fuel being pumped directly to the engine barely audible above the propeller din. There was a bright glow of gauges reflecting onto my face; the Garmin G1000 Cessna Nav III Package and the Bendix and King KAP 140 Autopilot with Altitude Pre-Select were alive with rapidly adjusting numbers and indicator lights. With my feet, I pressed the two rudder pedals and let the brake go as I taxied out towards the runway. After doing last minute checks of the fuel supply, landing gear, oil pressure, and auxiliary power supply, I punched in the throttle, pushing the Textron-Lycoming 180 horsepower fuel injected engine to beat 2350 RPM, pushing us down the runway in excess of 110 knots, towards the inviting blue sky.
Climbing through the open air at a breathtakingly rapid pace of 900 feet per minute, the great big evergreen trees that flanked the Petaluma Muni Airport were steadily turning into a diminutive kaleidoscope of blurring colors. Ascending through 5,000 feet, the landscape spread below me was like looking through Google Earth on satellite view: the bright sun was reflecting off of a shimmering pond that looked to be the size of a dime; the sprawling vineyards of Sonoma looking no more than small fields; the cars on the highway nothing more than little dots of dissimilar colors, slowly inching their way down the street. Passing through the thin layer of clouds and the minor turbulence that accompanied them, there was nothing but a wide-open vastness of pure, unadulterated cerulean sky. The feeling was so natural and balanced and breathtakingly astonishing that I felt completely in control. Testing the power of the aircraft, I twisted the yoke ninety degrees to the left; compensating with the left rudder for increased mobility, while at the same time pressing in the yoke at a forty-five degree down angle, passing back through the white puffy clouds and being greeted by a stunning view of the Sonoma vineyards.
After a few ground proximity alert warnings, I leveled the plane off at 1,000 feet above sea level and adjusted the fuel mixture so as not to burn up such a large amount of fuel per minute. From behind my polarized Ray Bans, I could see little red tractors milling about the vineyards, their gas guzzling engines leaving dark plumes of black smoke twisting out behind. Gazing out upon the widespread vegetation below me like a three dimensional map, I could see all of Sonoma County and parts of Marin: Rohnert Park, Santa Rosa, Novato, Sonoma, Petaluma—the chocolate brown sprawling stream of water better known as the Petaluma River. Past the right wing, there was a gorgeous view of the Petaluma suburbs, with its elegant and attractive homes seemingly huge on the ground, appeared as nothing more than blobs of color, like little Monopoly houses.
Peering down at the vast array of gauges, dials, and computer read outs, after comparing the GPS with the primary fuel level, I decided it would be prudent to turn the plane around and return to sea level; seeing as there was about 200 pounds of fuel (twenty-five percent) remaining, and I was close to seven miles away from the landing strip. Travelling back in the direction from which I came, through the blur of the propeller, and several hundred feet below me, there was a giant flock of white birds flying in a perfect twenty by five formation; their constantly flapping wings usually observed from below looked so different from up above, possibly because when a large school of birds travels overhead you cover your body and pray they don’t feel the need to defecate upon you. As I doubled back behind the runway, watching its array of flashing blue lights grow brighter and brighter as they illuminated the landing strip with the flashing arrows indicating its direction, I lined the plane up at exactly thirty degrees north, pulled back on the throttle and pushed the nose down. Descending to 500 feet, the runway could be viewed in its entirety, complete with numerous black skid marks from plane wheels transferring their rubber to the pavement in a fast friction acting manner. The wind was gusting at both sides of the plane: it forced me to compensate heavily for its deterrence. There was a great vibration all throughout the cockpit and a loud screeching noise as all three Cessna Standard Cleveland wheels hit the ground with full brake, and the world spinning by at seventy miles per hour slowly came to a halt as I brought the plane back towards hangar three right, and back towards life at sea level.
Taxiing down the bleak off section of the runway lined with dying green ferns and other weeds and off into the hangar, I switched off the engine and powered down the auxiliary power supply, ending with the four fluorescent red and blue flashing tail and wing lights located on the metal struts of the plane. Climbing out and removing the noise cancelling aviation headset, I walked across the wide hangar; each step feeling longer than the last—being in an airplane had dulled my senses to a minimum with its breathtakingly gorgeous awe. There was a wooden sign swaying in the mid-afternoon breeze hanging above the metal coat hanger like pegs upon which I was meant to hang the headset. The sign—a blend of mahogany and birch, courage and resolve, legends and reminiscences—was beautiful. Looking up at as if for the first time, it read: “You haven’t seen a tree until you’ve seen its shadow from the sky,” Amelia Earhart. Now, walking past the reception desk and out towards my car, there was a giant evergreen looming over me, casting its silhouette across the dark asphalt parking lot, over the cracks and potholes riddled throughout the parking lot, and over to me; casting its shadow across my face, the tip of it just in front of the double doors to the hangar, beckoning me almost like an arrow.

--Eric B

Scraped Knees and Back Flips

2011-02-28T20:24:00.000-08:00

Look up. A patchwork of coiling branches is tangled and twisted like a mile-long shoelace, forming a towering canopy beneath the sprawling sky. Each wooden corkscrew clutches on to the next as the sea of foliage sweeps over and around. It is impenetrable, yet not restricting; it is a shield, but not a cage. Flower buds cling to the swooping trees, shielding baby-pink flowers from the unrelenting air until springtime. Playful threads of sunlight squeeze through spaces no bigger than freckles and cast glimmering patterns of honey on the mint-chocolate ground. Shadows splashed by tree trunks and tall grass work in harmony with the sun’s sparkling light to compose a masterpiece across a muddy canvas.

Now look around. Patches of so-called weeds sprout from the ground like untamed hair, so dense and so vivid that no rainforest ever glowed with such a brilliant green. The individual blades of silken grass stand poised and aware, stretching upwards as if to proclaim their leafy importance to the world. Hear the melodic quiet of the overgrown sanctuary: the ‘swoosh’ of a rogue breeze sweeping through the liquid grass, and the rhythmic slap of one dry branch colliding with another. Feel the warmth of speckled sunlight and the cool breath of winter unite on uncovered skin—a bittersweet reminder that summer heat isn’t always in season.

Taking advantage of the moist, February weather, rain collects in murky lakes in the pits between rolling hills. The water forms caramel brown pools so smooth and opaque they create the mirage of solidity. Only when waves of wind penetrate the walls of branches do symmetrical ripples break the water’s reflective stillness. Where they have not been sunken by the seasonal lakes, trails of bike wheels and footprints scrape canyons through the hilly terrain, carving out trails: left turn, right turn, sharp climb, steep plummet. Crisscrossed patterns of sneakers and tires are the markers of a thousand wild journeys up and down these mountains. This tree-covered escape is a place for scraped knees and best friends and BMX bikes and tree houses and scavenger hunts and back flips; it is a place for daring explorations and humming tires; it is a rebel’s hideaway and a dreamer’s heaven.

This place has no definite name, for it has no definite purpose. It is a skate park with enough ramps and hills to amuse the most talented of bikers and also a tree climber’s paradise with broad, horizontal branches like balance beams overhead. It is a picturesque backdrop for make-believe games—a life threatening expedition to rescue a princess in her treetop castle, or an expedition through a mysterious jungle where mythical creatures rule. It is a natural playground for the young at heart.

There is one board that is nailed to a tree by a rusted nail no more reliable than a thumbtack. That slab of wood is discolored by illegible, scarlet graffiti and lined with wise wrinkles from fingernails and shoe bottoms. Its edges are frayed like the fabric of a vintage rug, and its underside reveals a web of cracks that originate from where someone carved an “X” with a sharp rock. Out of context, the three-foot board—ugly and unreliable, wasted and small, rotten and broken—is an object best belonging in the pit of a landfill. But here, it is a tree house: the faithful home base that helps little kids with little legs climb into the open arms of the ancient sycamores.

Often, when I was young enough to play make believe, yet old enough to brave the neighborhood alone, I would use that wooden gateway to hoist myself up into the tree. Scratchy bark crumbled under my feet like fish scales, sharp sticks drew ruby red stains on my palms, and frenzied troops of ants marched up and down my legs. But it didn’t matter: I was an explorer. Leaping, swinging, laughing—I used flexible branches like vines as I traversed over the jumps and turns of the bike arena below. I conquered treacherous heights and made daring jumps that allowed me to maneuver up and down, right and left—everywhere in the treetop mansion.

When climbing, I took advantage of the powerful connectivity of the hideaway. Every twig, every leaf and every mound of dirt is in someway linked to everything else: one branch holds wooden hands with a twig from the adjacent tree; the bumpy roots of that tree slither parallel to the bike trails; a meadow of misfit plants gathers at the end of that trail, spreading out over a makeshift bike ramp to another winding row of saluting trees. The entire location is simply one line: one long, adaptable line that is at once as thin as a hair and as sturdy as a tree trunk. It is a continuous motion from the dirty floor to the cloudy sky, a strand of infinity coiled into the shape of a child’s dream-come-true. No break. No disconnection. No end.

When all fun has been had and all memories have been made, one must leave through the exit. Though no sign or marking dictates where this specific “exit” is, the correct way to depart is unmistakable. In the back of the area, behind a delicate sapling with wispy branches is a clean, tidy hole in the foliage. Light filters through this gap in bright golden explosions, shining upon the interior like nature’s own spotlight. Standing beneath the archway of this exit doesn’t provide a view of the parking lots and the asphalt and the freeways and the street lamps that surround this secret escape on every other side; instead, this back door reveals the serene view of one winding little path—one lone trail surrounded by tufts of fluffy green grass and lemon-yellow flowers. The numerous entrances to this place are unmemorable and bare, but the exit is profoundly different. It seems to lead to a broad expanse of nothing but sky: blue, glowing, infinite sky.

This landscape—a dusty mountain range and an emerald pasture, a bottomless crevice and a forest of noble trees, a wide savanna and a lush lakeshore—is a landscape that defies mortality with its unending connections. It is a country, a continent, a plant, and a galaxy, and it fits snugly in a space less than a hundredth of a square mile. An aerial view would discard it as a patch of overgrown shrubs, because, nestled between the straight runways of the Petaluma Municipal Airport and the polygonal fields of Prince Park, that’s all it is. In the grand scheme of things, this universe of bike ramps and climbing trees is little more than an oddly shaped collection of broken wood and tired plants. However, humans are made to look at the world not from an airplane or satellite, but from the earthy soil below. A widescreen perspective provides knowledge and comparison, but up-close observation offers beauty and discovery. Faded weeds get a little greener, and a few yards of dirty bike trails start to resemble expanse of hills and valleys. Looking at life through the “big picture” isn’t always the best way to see.

-- Camille

Smooth Jazz

2011-02-28T20:23:00.000-08:00

As I walk into the coffee shop, I am immediately engulfed in a gust of warm air that causes the goose bumps from the chilly winter afternoon to fade from my arms. The warmth, which causes my skin to sigh happily in relief from the freezing outdoors, is accompanied by the strong smell of coffee beans and chocolate. Breathing in the rich aroma, I stop just inside the glass door to allow my eyes to adjust to the dim lighting. After blinking several times, I am able to look around the room.
The coffee shop⎯lit by modern lanterns hung from the tiled ceiling⎯contains several round tables, barely big enough to sit two people. Around the tables are black wooden chairs with curved backs. In two of the corners of the room are large armchairs. Next to the armchairs are little wooden side tables, and atop these tables are miniature lamps casting a dim glow over the chairs’ dark leather.
Near the left wall is a marble counter, where a friendly-looking girl in a green apron stands behind a cash register. Muffins, croissants, cakes⎯many treats lay behind the cool glass on the counter. Behind the girl in the apron are rows and rows of white coffee mugs lined in shelves on the wall. Below them are the silver coffee machines, patiently waiting for their orders. In front of the cash register is a stack of CDs by unknown jazz artists and a small basket of untouched bananas. There are countless drinks to choose from: chai teas, iced coffees, and caramel macchiatos are a few of the options displayed in elegant script above the coffee machines. I order a white chocolate mocha, my preferred drink, and cross the dark tiled floor to take a seat in one of the armchairs and wait. The chair is as smooth as the jazz music softly playing throughout the room. As I sit, I continue to look around the coffee shop.
The walls are a deep orange color, like the color of the sky the morning before a storm. Decorating them are several abstract paintings, reflecting the modern and classy atmosphere of the shop. A counter holding milk, sugar, straws, and napkins stands to my right. Along the back wall is a bookshelf holding ground coffee, tins of tea, and travel mugs for sale. Looking closer, I see numerous plugs scattered around the room, many with laptop cords or phone chargers attached.
Although the mood in the coffee shop is relaxed and calm, many sounds envelop the room in addition to the smooth jazz; the coffee machines whir, bustle, hum, sound, swirl, swish. The sound of typing is abundant as a couple people stare intently at their laptops. A few people sit with friends, quietly chatting about their days. The buzz of the heaters is ever present behind the soft music. The girl in the green apron calls my name when my drink is ready. Approaching the counter, I reach for my drink and fold my hands around the warm cup. Raising it to my lips, the chocolaty liquid slides into my mouth, settles on my tongue, and slithers down my throat. My entire body warmed, I return to my armchair and turn my attention to the other people in the coffee shop.
A woman walks in wearing simple black pants and a pale blue button-down. Her hair is pulled back in a tight bun. She carries an official-looking white coat over one arm and holds a number of files in her hands. Quickly walking to the counter she orders a cappuccino and sits at the nearest table. Pulling out her glasses, she opens one of the files and her lips begin to move silently as she reads it over. She has a pager resting on her belt at her hip, and when it beeps she quickly checks it and rises from her table. Collecting her drink, she speeds out of the coffee shop, having no choice but to answer the call and rush back to work.
Another person who catches my eye is a fairly young girl sitting at a table near the middle of the shop. Accompanied by her unusually small computer, she simultaneously types and reads. Occasional frowns appear on her face, and judging by the way she ruffles her hair and purses her lips as she works, she is tackling the enormous load of schoolwork her teachers have assigned for the night. Just for tomorrow she must complete English and Spanish and math and history and physics. Her easygoing attire suggests that she is an average college student; her flannel shirt is slightly rumpled and she holds two textbooks in one hand. Every once in a while, her lips turn up into a slight smile and her eyebrows untwist from their worried position; this occurs when she completes one of her many math problems or Spanish conjugations and becomes just a small step further to finishing her work.
Sitting in the corner of the coffee shop is a tall man in a suit who, in contrast to the student with the minuscule computer, is facing a large, sleek laptop. He alternates between furiously typing away and gulping his coffee. He wears narrow black glasses and his hair is slicked back with gel. As he types, I can assume he is working on an important case that may decide whether he receives the promotion that every other employee on his floor is competing for. His silk tie and expensive shoes suggest that he is already well off, and wishes to receive the promotion simply for the sake of winning the competition, not because he is in need of the money.
The three hard-working individuals I observe add to the sophisticated environment of the coffee shop. As I sit, taking my time with my mocha, the other people in the shop gradually pack up their belongings, take their last sips of coffee, and leave. It is getting late, and I can see the sun setting through the spotless glass windows. A boy comes out from behind the counter to sweep the nonexistent dust and trash from the floor. As the last jazz song comes to a close, so do the work hours for the employees, and they begin to prepare the coffee shop for the end of the day. As they flip the chairs onto the tops of the tables, I sigh, rise from my leather armchair, and head for the door. As I go, I take one last breath of the rich coffee beans and cocoa. The coffee shop⎯chic and sophisticated, modern and trendy, warm and inviting⎯is my favorite place to go on a cold winter afternoon. Entering the frigid February air, I close the dark glass door behind me with a satisfying “click.”

-Emily S

Where Time Stands Still

2011-02-28T19:54:00.000-08:00

Downtown Petaluma has changed, from the quiet and peaceful town I knew so well just a few years ago to a hustling and bustling downtown, similar to that of New York City. Walking down the few charming and historic blocks of downtown Petaluma, one notices that time seems to be rushed: business men and women are rushing from their cars to their offices for their next appointments, car after car whizzes by on the busy boulevard, half a dozen restaurants serve food to hungry customers while waiters and waitresses put up with them in order to earn a living, and window after window passes you stating "For Lease", only reminding you that Petaluma is just like any other town in the United States, hit hard by the horrible economy. But as you walk down Petaluma Boulevard, the main street, you may stop at a newly painted, olive green building nuzzled between the lively 24-Hour Fitness and the delicious deli, Cordoza's. Walking through the glass doors of this shop brings you into Peet's Coffee and Tea, a little café, where time seems to stop.

Upon entering the coffee shop, the savory smell of ground coffee beans will reach your nose. The room welcomes you with open arms as the warm air overpowers the cool fifty four degree weather you would have just left. It is a skinny and long rectangle, spacious yet comfy, welcoming everyone who enters to sit down, relax, and enjoy their little treat. All four walls are painted cream white, the same color as the frothy cream which sits on so many of the drinks Peet's serves. The sound of coffee beans being ground and the man's fingers typing on his laptop in the corner never seems to stop. Laughter and murmurs from all conversations in the room bounce off the walls and hit your ears. The ground is a dark green tile, giving the room a calming effect that is almost always necessary for any café to have.

Straight through the entrance are two cash registers. Today only one is in use, as there is no long line snaking out the door. The Barista who calls "next in line" is a young girl with shoulder length, dark, brown, wavy hair. She is very pretty, and is able to show a unique yet welcoming character bearing her required black t-shirt with her two arms filled with artistic-looking tattoos. She asks how your day has been and also what you would like to drink. If you don't know what you would like already, there are two wooden framed, dark and bold printed boards allowing you to read every possible drink Peet's Coffee and Tea can serve to you: teas for those who like to keep away from caffeine, hot chocolate for the kids, regular black coffee for the caffeine lovers, and espresso beverages and blended iced coffees for everyone in between. Along with your drink, are the possibilities of the savory muffins, delicious scones, and scrumptious cookies calling your name in the window display next to the register. Not only has the display called your attention, but also the attention of the seven year-old boy waiting behind you in line with his father. He has walked up to the window, placed his small dirty hands on the glass, and is peering wishfully at the treats he has yet to devour.

After ordering, you may wait two or three minutes before your drink is called by another barista making the drinks perfectly. You can then head over to the station near the door to add more milk and more sugar and more cinnamon and more cream in order to customize your drink even further. And now, you can finally sit down and relax, either at one of the many wooden tables found in the middle of the coffee house, or along the granite counter looking out the enormous picture windows facing onto the street. The windows let all the sunlight seep into the room, giving it both light and warmth, a welcome feeling on a cold winter afternoon. Most likely, all the tables are taken by customers, so you find an empty chair on the counter and sit down.

Sitting at the counter, peacefully drinking a cup of coffee, one is able to view what the world looks like when they are sitting still, when they are relaxed, and when they are not worried about where they have to be next or what to do when they get home. Car after car rushes by on the boulevard, a young mother with a toddler in one arm and pushing a stroller with a baby in the other rushes by the window and looks wishfully at the sign above the building, a young man runs by, most likely on his way to work out at the gym down the street, a couple wanders past, towing their tired-looking Golden Retriever with them. It is these kind of moments where a cup of hot coffee- making the body tingle with warmth and the brain lively from the caffeine- is at its best; a time where one does not need to worry about life happening outside of the little coffee shop.

Yet, most importantly, Peet's can play more than the role of a coffee and tea shop. Peet's is a meeting spot, where today, two old friends who are both home from college for the weekend, sit and talk for hours, even though their coffee cups have been empty. Peet's is a study room, where high school and college students can come and study for the Biology test the next day or write their English essay. Peet's is a dating spot, where the older couple sits and quietly and enjoy each other's company; the old man enjoying the daily newspaper and his wife devouring her latest novel. Peet's, for me, is a thinking spot, where I can go, buy my favorite drink- the calorie filled White Chocolate Mocha- and have a quite place outside of my own little room where I can think about my life and the important occurrences that are going on. But ultimately, Peet's is a coffee spot, where caffeine addicts can get their daily fixing with their drinks, allowing them to wake up in the morning, get through their stressful days at work or at school, and stay up late to write an essay or finish last minute work.

Peet's Coffee and Tea is a hub of diversity while the customers and the employees are the spokes which holds it all together. Peet's opens its arms wide to all types of people; it does not matter who you are or where you come from. This simple coffee shop is an oasis- on a hot summer day it offers the perfect cold drink like an iced mocha or a jasmine iced tea, on a cold winter morning the savory taste of the vanilla latte warming your tongue and body and spirit is a welcome feeling, on a lovely spring afternoon the perfect sized muffins and cookies are a perfect snack- Pete's is a welcomed hangout. Whether you are a traveler looking for a wake-up call early in the morning, a rushed commuter on a Monday morning snatching a cup of coffee on their way to work, or just a simple coffee lover, the little coffee shop is always there. No matter what, Peet's is one of the few things in our lives which we can always rely on for a good drink, a calming room, and a place where we can escape from the crazy thing we call life.

--Gabbie

Sea of Green

2011-02-28T19:49:00.000-08:00

It is the last natural playground of the modern world. Grass sways in the wind; tree branches rustle in the back round, and birds can be heard in the distance. In a world where the disease called urbanization has infected most of the world, every last inch of uninhabited land is treasured. I am lucky enough to have my own bit of paradise right on my doorstep. I have always been fascinated with adventure. Books like The Adventures of Tom Sawyer always captivated me; I find myself dreaming of childhood adventures of exploring forests, meandering down calm rivers, and climbing small mountains. On days when the radiant sun shines and the sky is the bluest it can be, a day like today, I find myself drawn to this field for both adventure and peace.
I walk along a cool-grey concrete path that is like a barrier, separating two completely different worlds. Upon reaching a good spot to enter the field, I stop, and with a sort of awe, observe my patch of paradise. To my right, there is a line of tall trees that stretches from the path to a fence that borders the other side of the field. To my left, the field becomes a large bowl, resembling the terrain of the crater of an asteroid strike. There is another fence that creates the last part of a border for the field. The space is not immense, but it is enough for a home away from home. In front of me, an escape from all of my problems, behind me, a world of flashing lights, troublesome people, stress-inducing school, and a sinking economy.
I take my first steps into the field, toward the trees. The soft blades of grass around me brush against my ankles, as if to reach out and greet me. I inhale the scent of sweet smelling flowers and sage. The grass close up looks like a forest from above; each blade of grass a tall redwood tree, each bug a small person, and each small pebble a boulder. A giant compared to me though would see the field as a sea of rolling green waves coming to rest at a tall dark green and brown cliff. But to me, I just see a field, not a forest, not a sea, just unaffected land. As I walk through the field, I have to pay attention to where I step. There are rocks to trip over, gopher holes to lose shoes in, and the occasional harmless garden snake slithering through the grass to almost step on. Walking, jumping, tripping – I press on through the field. Whether I am looking down or keeping my head up, there is much to observe. I see how the trees cast long shadows across the ground. I see how the grass twists and swirls in the breeze. I watch the birds nesting in the branches. I watch little rabbits hop to and fro through the tall grass. Once I reach the trees, I then decide to walk toward my “sittin’ spot”.
This field has many memories to me. I was a child that craved excitement, so this field was the perfect landscape for my imagination-spawned adventures. It was and still is the backdrop of my life. This field was a new frontier and a battlefield and a distant planet and a wasteland and a desert (in the summer) and a meadow (in the spring). I remember days of playing hide and go seek in the field. I would sit, motionless, my eyes scanning the swaying grass for the seeker. I could feel the grass swirl around me, the wind tousling my hair, and the rocks poking my legs. I remember basking in the heat of a sunny, sweat running down my face, slowing piling rocks up into a wall to make a primitive fort. Those were the days of my adventures. Even though they were simple adventures, they meant a lot to me.
As I arrive at my “sittin’ spot”, I look around to take in my surroundings. I am on a small hill, overlooking the dip in the field. I choose the area of ground where the grass is flattened, from a long forgotten fort. The view is one of great symbolism. Immediately in front of me, there is a thriving, beautiful field: Bunnies hop amongst the tall grass, crickets chirp to a steady beat, birds call “sweet nothings” to each other in a language that I can not understand, yet it still pleases my ear. If I were to cast my eyes up from the field, I would see a very different world. Bright, bold, brash – there is a world of chaos and confusion, violence and hatred, worry and fear. I see a house: windows dark, curtains closed, and looking dead. I see a small child, robotically “shooting hoops”; there is no life in the way he moves. I see smoke in the distance, most likely caused by a careless smoker, yet I also see my home. The lights are on; the curtains are open; the house looks alive. I sit on the hill for a few minutes, appreciating my surrounding and observing the strange world in front of me. Finally, I rise from my spot.
As I walk through the field, back to that other world, I sum up my thoughts, my memories, and my adventures. My mind is in a state of complete numbness. I reach the path again, that barrier between the two worlds. I take a deep breath, inhaling the scent of flowers and trees and grass and cows and wood and sage. I step on to the sidewalk and begin walking, back toward the one inviting home I see, not looking back at my other home. Once I reach the steps to my house, I steal one more glance back. The sun is now setting behind the trees. The chirps of crickets begin to grow but with an obvious crescendo in volume while the birds begin to fade. I am back in the world of chaos. Essays are due; tests need studying for; dinner needs cooking, and homework needs completing. Even though I am saddened by my departure from my other home, I know I am fortunate to still have one to return to another time. The one thing that I need to know is that it will be there when I wake up, and when I go to sleep. This field – pleasant yet dangerous, exciting yet calming, inanimate yet alive, will always hold a special place in my heart.
-Michael

Solitude by the Sluggish Stream

2011-02-28T19:22:00.001-08:00

As one walks close to the area on the side of the road, they don’t notice that past the bushes is a little creek where only a few solitary organisms reside. Beside the road next to my neighborhood lies a creek that runs across and divides the two sides of the neighborhood. On the outskirts of this quiet habitat are various bushes and plants intertwined to produce the border that link the busy street to the quiescent area of mother nature that confines its womb in solitude. This creek runs under a wide bridge that connects the two sides of the street. Many have come here, but they usually do not have the patience to look for the joys in nature, but rather they go back to their houses to become more involved with technology. The creek- overwhelmed with plants and trees, bugs and insects, streams and reeds- is a place where I can relax and remind myself that nature is a special part of this world.

When I walk past the bushes, my senses are overwhelmed with vivid and audacious images, sounds, and smells. Everywhere I look reminds me of the days when my friends and I would make movies, and the time when we would come here alone, seeking a place to be by ourselves, and have the day to relax. From the wooden boards clustered on the ground, from the little trail leading to the other side, from the great tree standing upright, dominating everything else, I could see that many things remained the same, and that the nearby society does not impact this comforting zone very much. I see many things that kept my childhood joyful and entertaining. We would use wooden boards to get across the water to the other side, while maneuvering through a jungle of reeds and cat tails that grew above our heads. We would film ourselves here because of the lack of noise and busy streets. The tree that stood in the middle, split on the side, with a great branch hanging over was strong enough to hold our body weight, still lies there, like it was an ancient relic.

When I divulge myself deeper into the nature, farther away from the busy urban road, I realize that I become more in tune with nature. I hear the scuttling of little creatures, the songs of birds sitting in the trees, and most of all, the sound of nature that resides in anyone who has the patience to hear it. Lizards and bugs make quiet sounds as they run up the trees, and ducks swim through making splashing noises, and gliding ever so gently across the water, kicking to propel themselves with the slightest ease. When I sit down on the nearest rock, half-covered with moss, I can take in even the slightest details, like a photographer capturing all of their happiest moments to appreciate them later. Often, a lizard runs across the dusty trails to stalk it’s prey, taking every caution to not be noticed.

The aroma of many varieties of plants and flowers drifted upon me, and I was pleased to see so many different plants that could brighten my day a little. Flowers that had a mixture of colors, like yellow, blue, purple, and red had recently grown and drew my attention right away. These flowers, growing by the side of the stream, bring a positive attitude, and even roses with their spear-like thorns, can help give the area a nice feeling. There are a few strawberry bushes hiding behind some of the bushes, and if one comes at the right time, they can taste the juicy and sweet fruit for themselves, straight from the plant. I stumbled upon these, and after a lengthy search for any spiders or insects, I decided to eat a few strawberries that had grown fairly large. The trees that were around have a rough skin, also called bark, and when I leaned up on the tree for support, I could feel the scratchy skin with my hand, and I saw a few assortments for insects and bugs around: a ladybug clinging to a hanging branch, a hairy, black spider crawling up the bark, and a beetle at the foot of the tree circling around, appearing to have trouble climbing up. My personal favorite is the stream that runs gracefully down past the bridge. It is not very entertaining, but it is very interesting. It runs as though agile and smooth, and even though rocks and sticks penetrate the vulnerable surface, it keeps its shape, and runs until the end, persevering, like someone trying to finish a marathon. Many things are available to watch, but one must have the patience to look for them.

This is a peaceful place where one can find that its small, but quiet, and they can have some time for themselves. All the qualities that the creek provides, and all the organisms that are encased in here create a feeling of happiness and tranquility. This area separates the busy society from the part of nature that stays intact and is there for the people who need it. When I come, I listen, I watch, I think, I learn. I find that when I am so overwhelmed with personal thoughts and chores and homework and drama and relationships, I can wander upon this mysterious place and try to keep my thoughts straight. Peaceful, isolated, encouraging- the creek provides an area where one can think and listen to nature to help themselves overcome challenges.

--Travis

It's Called Home

2011-02-28T19:17:00.000-08:00

Before any three-point shot is made in a basketball game, there is a split second of silence; it is the second for which the energy throughout the gym has been built up to; at this specific moment, the crowd rides on the edge of their discolored and splinter-ridden benches that hardly ever find a time to quit shaking. For a split second, the embarrassment of the freshman who wore purple instead of green--obviously misreading the Facebook post sent out by leadership--is not completely forgotten but blurred temporarily. For a split second, the obnoxious football team seated front row restrains from making a rude comment about a player’s coach of the opposing team, about a player’s shoes of the opposing team, or about a player’s mother of the opposing team. For a split second, a girl becomes hypnotized by the ball in the air and quits complaining about her cramped legs and her sore back being drilled by the anxious knees behind her and the boy two rows up who keeps calling her name and her annoying friends who continue tapping her on the shoulder and how awkward it feels to be sitting right below her ex-boyfriend of six months, directly above the kid she kissed last summer, and closely next to the sweetheart she wishes would ask her out tonight. For a split second, everyone can catch their breath, by holding it in.

About an hour before this time, I stood holding a microphone beside our boys’ team bench. From this side of the gym, perspiration from the boys warming up is noticeable, but notnearly as foul as when they’ll high-five us at half time. Across from the student section, with all focus on my next move, I turned to glance at our American flag hung like a banner on the far-side of the gym by the entrance. Here is usually when the rushing mob of students and parents at the door is paused and forced to sit through my rendition of our National Anthem “The Star Spangled Banner.” A string of efforts are enforced by coaches and teachers to settle the enthusiasm of the crowd, and although sometimes it takes a couple minutes, eventually I’m awarded a few seconds of silence. I sing. Most listen. Everyone cheers. During the performance, my eyes wander to the rafters and hanging lights which were just recently replaced by our Sports Director seeing that our Varsity Boys’ Team has been playing well this year. I often stare at the Team Boards with the basketball names of players listed in disgust. It’s ironic that the Boys’ Basketball Board remains untouched, wooden with green and gold lining while the Girls’ Board has a crack in the center thanks to soccer balls kicking the plastic frame guarding names printed out in red color: Respect for girls’ athletics at Casa Grande continues to struggle.

Ten hours previous of this, the gym may as well have been a ghost land. Rather than a split second or few seconds of silence, a girl couldn’t get enough quiet in the empty arena. I sat at the center of the floor, tracing my fingertips along edges of the numerous wood planks that created the court. Facing the opposite direction of the flag, a full wall of over 100 red and blue championship pennants are hung that morph into a bluish-red spiral if you stare at it long enough. At one end of this wall is the Boys’ Team Room and at the other end is the Girls’. Both doors haven’t been replaced since the 70s—no this is not an exaggeration—and this is confirmed by the throwback font and outdated brown and yellow coloring that’s even peeling on the girls’ upper left hand corner. I put my cheek on the ground. It’s currently seven in the morning, and the only time the floor of the Casa Grande Gym is warmer than the air inside of it. Lines of blue, red, green, black, and even orange are spread out in continuous lines for volleyball, basketball, badminton, and any other school teams that wake up Saturday morning and commit to practice not only representing themselves and their team, but representing their school as well. Before a tough conditioning practice for two hours, my imagination explores that heroic feeling of hitting a three. Exhausted, pressured, determined—every player dreams of swishing that magical three-point basket.

Once again, I am brought back to reality, wrapped up in my split second breather from the stands. The shot is taken. As the ball rolls off his fingertips, the clock ticks down to the last seconds in the fourth quarter. He has my attention. He has everyone’s attention. He has practiced this shot on a floor where blood has been spilled, dreams have been crushed, and hearts have been poured out and dedicated to the team on a day-to-day basis. In his eyes, I see his thoughts swirling. All of his work, time, and effort crammed into a split second. Swish! The player leaps in the air as the fans shoot out of their seats. From fist-pumps to high-fives, the rejoicing continues even after the buzzer has ended. Although the game is finished, and the fans will go home, that player won’t leave the gym for another hour or more; he will stand at the spot of his three-point shot, reliving the play in his head a thousand times over, thanking his coaches for pushing him to complete one more drill at practice and thanking himself for pushing himself to make that extra basket during scrimmages; he will stand their until the janitor kicks him out, and even then, he won’t ever forget those three points. To a student, the Casa Grande Gymnasium is an event; to a performer, the open court is a stage; to a player, it’s called home.

--Allie

Welcome

2011-02-28T19:06:00.000-08:00

Immediately, the Gonzalez home is more noticeable than the houses surrounding it; the neighbors have a Mercedes, and they have a box truck; the neighbors have neatly cut hedges and lawns, and they have strollers and cans of food strewn across their driveway; the neighbors have fences and planters, and they have a eight foot cross covered in blue lights leaning against their house. Every house around theirs has visitors and guests, but they have a constant stream of friends, homeless, and needy flowing through their home. Their neighbors have an average of four household members, but according to the California census of 2010, anywhere from five to sixty people reside in the Gonzalez home at any given time.

The Gonzalez’s “normal” is unique to them; they have had police come and drop off a baby to them, 2,000 pounds of cabbage on their front lawn, a homeless woman ask to take a shower in their bathroom, a homeless man ask to be driven to a creek at 3:00 AM, people stay until all hours of the night, people make a habit of dropping off food and supplies anonymously on their porch, a huge amount of baby clothes stored in their garage, and people driving on their lawn. People are always showing up unexpectedly to their house; the Gonzalez family says they never know what will happen next at their house.

As you go to enter their home, there is no need to knock, because the front door is never locked. The first thing you will see after walking in is the Miracle Board, a wall of pictures of Christians actively following the example of Jesus Christ. The first sound you will hear after walking in is Lori Gonzalez –Christian and follower of Jesus, wife and mother, ballerina and a “zinney”- yell out an ecstatic “hello,” followed by Lori yelling out your name with a huge grin on her face; her smile has obviously been well used and can be accurately described as contagious. The first thing you will smell after walking in is fresh baking, either cookies or cupcakes, being prepared to feed either a multitude of guests on their way over or a multitude of poor people they will go and help.

The living room you walk into is a mismatch of furniture and quilts, an extravaganza of floral fabrics and pink platters, a cornucopia of bibles and books about the Bible, an abundance of musical instruments and computers. The cabinet with all the floral pink plates inside looks as if an extravagant tea party could happen at any moment. This room is used for bible studies and worship and sewing dresses for children and throwing baby showers and preparing for outreaches and church and prayer sessions and praising God and sharing testimonies of lives and experiences. There is always more people than seats, more plans than time, more needy than funds, and more gained than sought.

The living room opens up into the kitchen, overflowing with more tables than space. In the kitchen is a dishwasher, which does not fit against the wall, so is used as an island, which gets rolled around the kitchen. They also have a fold-up table pushed up against their counter, currently being used as a shelf for T-shirts to be packed. Their kitchen has a clock, tray, birdhouse, cross, and sign all hand painted by friends and given as gifts. The paint on the cabinets has chipped from wear and use. The kitchen itself shows how it has been used: cluttered with things as it is people, worn from preparing food for many people everyday, homemade gifts made with the same giving and friendship that fills the room.

The kitchen leads into the master bedroom, where Lori’s wedding dress stays permanently hung on the dresser, to remind her of the blessing that her wedding was everyday.

The backyard of the Gonzalez home is filled with tables and chairs, all painted bright greens, reds, and blues, done as a summer project completed by friends; the furniture looks as if someone had spilled a rainbow in their backyard. The barbeque sits outside which is used for cooking for church they host in the backyard over the summer. Outside there is a separate room that is used as a bedroom/office and is referred to as “Rudy’s house” (Rudy Gonzalez is the husband of the family). Inside there are pictures of orphans from Indonesia on the wall and a map of the world with countries that do not know Jesus labeled. A computer, a desk, a bed, a couch, a futon, and a TV are in this one room. This room is where Rudy and Lori will go to escape all the teenagers and college kids doing bible study, where Rudy will go to escape all the girls doing bible study, and where all the boys will go to be away from the girls and do bible study.

Studying, worshipping, smiling- those are the main activities done in the Gonzalez home. The Gonzalezes are Christians: the Gonzalezes preach, read the bible, feed the hungry, and act as a light in the darkness. Their house has a different energy than most houses, and you always feel welcome in it, probably because you always are welcome.

--Shelby R.

The Most Delicious Place On Earth

2011-02-28T18:49:00.001-08:00

Every Friday at 12:35, I walk into the same place and see all of the white tables and red chairs; I look around and see all of the different people waiting for the most amazing thing in the world; I hear the growling stomachs as loud as the potatoes getting crushed and slammed in the chopper, the milkshake machine pouring out the strawberry, chocolate, and vanilla shakes, the buns and patties sizzling on the grill with the caramelized onions and peppers. I see the melting cheeses on every burger and fantasize about every bite of food I am going to take until I finally hear the magic words, “Welcome to In-N-Out, may I take your order!”
The reluctant words make me want to jump up with joy. I order: one number one, with raw onion, one vanilla shake, one french fry, one animal fry, and one medium coke, to go please. I watch the cashier when he hears my order. My order size seems fit for a sumo wrestler. He looks at me, then at the order, then back at me, then back at then the order. His eyes open wide and repeats this process about four times until, still with a stunned look on their face, he says, “Yes, you are guest number forty eight have a nice day.”
I sit and wait, sit and wait, hearing every number but mine being called, watching all of my friends go up and take their amazing burgers and eat them right in front of me, watching a river of “secret sauce” drip out the end of the burger and splash on the table. All of this seeming to happen in slow motion. As I wait in anticipation for my burger, I look deep into the kitchen. And watch the fry cook slam the burgers onto the grill and turn them ever so gently. I watching the fries get dipped into the boiling vegetable oil, watching the milkshakes flow down from the machine in such a peaceful gentle way, watching the cheese drip off every burger onto the tray making a sticky tray of goo. The cashier yells out, “Guest forty eight! Guest forty eight!” Dazed in my dream of looking into the kitchen of In N Out, I hear my number, already tasting all of the amazing flavors in my mouth. I walk up seeing the enormous tray of all my favorite foods and favorite smells; it seems as if everyone’s eyes are on me as I sit down with my enormous pile of food and begin the process of unwrapping my burger. The burger- constructed of a toasted bun, melting cheese, onions, lettuce, tomatoes and the amazing secret sauce that seems to bring the life to the burger- unfolded as I slowly unwrapped the perfect piece of art. Double-Double, the wrapping says in big bold red letters. As I look at the juicy patties releasing an amazing smell filling the restaurant, my senses tingle in an anticipation, just waiting for my hands to lift the burger into mouth.
The famous Double- Double: a burger constructed of flavors and ingredients that blend in my mouth to form the most delicious thing on earth. The second that fantastic tasting burger reached my lips I could taste the sauce, melting cheese, perfectly cooked patties, and washed it down with an ice cold coke and creamy milkshake, then I tasted the crispy French fries that bring out the best of all the food and are the best side order. The food is a gift from heaven, something brought down by an angel, a thing so amazing it seems that no human could create it.
As I finish, I look around and stare down at the empty tray that once was covered with all kinds of food and drink. My stomach feels as if a bomb was planted in it and needs to explode. My stomach bulges out and I have to unbuckle my belt; my legs feel incapable of lifting my body weight; my laziness just makes me want to drop down, take a nap, and not move for days; my body finally gets the wonderful feeling of being full. I finally get the urge to get up, walk out to my car, and take one last look at the amazing In N Out that satisfies me every Friday. The red and white building disappears in the background as I drive back home, fantasizing once again about next Friday at 12:35.
In N Out is a place of happiness; the employ’s are happy, the customers are happy, the atmosphere is happy, and every second is happy from the moment you enter the restaurant and see the enormous yellow arrow, to the moment you leave watching the huge red and white building disappear in the distance. In N Out makes the best food and is something for me to look forward to. From my monstrous order, to the great employs, and to the great food that I love and enjoy, In N out is place of happiness and can truly be given the title of one of the most delicious places on earth.

--Nick K.

Water Dancers

2011-02-28T18:22:00.001-08:00

A multitude of various sounds echo around the many acres of Warm Spring’s Fish Hatchery, situated below Lake Sonoma’s earthen dam. Oppressive, dark clouds bathe the surroundings in faded light, yet in certain spots, the sun breaks through the clouds, spotlighting the natural beauty of this busy expanse of land. Flowing streams, average buildings, and concrete structures-each one of these elements are important in the process of harvesting fish eggs and raising the babies. The land that houses this amazing infrastructure is made up of many juxtaposing components.

As one walks to the entrance of the visitor center, the eyes see tiny signs that point out endangered fungi species that inhabit the small dirt area where old, majestic oak trees provide shade for a wooden bench. Next to the black-rimmed doorway, there is a black, chalkboard sign publicizing the updated fish count and advertising boar hunting. Inside, an overwhelming display meets the eye; an assortment of colorful books and stuffed animals and cheap gifts and detailed maps and educational exhibits that are organized around the small, adjoining rooms. A fierce, bleached white skeleton of a mountain lion looks on from its Plexiglas cage. Rangers in forest green uniforms decorated with flashy patches, smile as young children try grinding corn in the granite bowl or drilling a hole with a drill made of lightweight wood and sinews. A large TV blares, showing beautiful photos of picturesque California as the parents of the enthusiastic children lounge on the burgundy, leather couch.

At the back of all this mayhem, a door leads out to a covered patio where a bridge spans a body of water. The body of water appears to be moving ever so slightly: it flows slowly downstream and supports many species of birds, mammals, and the giant sturgeon that is rumored to linger in its depths. An unused maintenance path runs along a short, finger of this creek. Large bushes obscure the view of this small body of water, yet the chirps and splashes of the water birds from beyond are clearly heard. Peering around the prickly, dark bushes, the eyes meet a stunning sight. Twenty or more common mergansers with the females’ red hoods fanned wide open and the males’ striking black and white tuxedos. They create a brilliant array of smartly dressed dancers diving for their meals of small silvery, flipping fish. Among these graceful dancers twirling on the dance floor, an even more majestic gentleman, strutting his flashy colors, emerges from the frenzy. A lone wood duck swims, hesitantly out from the overhanging shrubbery. He grabs a quick meal and heads back to the cover of the plants.

Across the brown, woodpecker hole-pocked bridge, lies the perfect facilities for viewing the processes of a fish hatchery; a fish ladder, a slow moving, shallow, clear stream, plenty of good places to sit and view the fish, the harvesting stations, and the incubation tanks. The bridge ends at the entrance to a large building that smells strongly of disinfectant, metal, and fish. The entryway opens up into a huge room divided by freestanding panels plastered with pictures and the history of the hatchery. A few adults stand around reading, watching the TV playing a “how-to” on harvesting fish eggs and sperm, or scrutinizing the pictures. Two children stand in front of a huge wheel, like on Wheel of Fortune, spinning it to see their chances of survival if they were a salmon. I watch them and smile as I remember doing the same thing when I was younger. Surrounding this large room is a fence. It turns out that the room is actually a floating island above the sanitation and harvesting areas. At certain times, one can look over the edge of the fence to see fish come rocketing down a metal shoot to be received by hatchery employees who pump them with air, collect the sperm or eggs, and send them down another shoot. Thunk. Pssh. Shwoop. It is a very noisy process and echoes around the entire building. Down below on the other side of the room are the incubation tanks. Small stainless-steel tanks, with lots of complicated machinery hanging above them. The water in the tanks is tinted orange due to the eggs and yolk sacks of the young salmon and steelhead.

Outside the harvesting plant, on the other side, is a downward slanting path that goes by the raceways that the fish are sent from to be milked or to have the sperm taken from. The path continues around the corner past their water sanitation plant that spurts many gallons of water into the air. Mist floating off the turbulent, roiling water into the brisk air rises up to the clouds above. An empty street runs past the sanitation plant, where it crosses a small bridge. Under the bridge, rows of fish are lined up in a small stream, hiding in the shadows of the bridge. A slim man, wearing a slim bright spandex suit, a slim aerodynamic helmet, and slim sunglasses balances on his bike while peering over the edge of the bridge.

Past the bridge, the stream continues on towards an intimidating roaring sound. The stream, flat, clear, and shallow, follows a few gentle curves. A skinny asphalt path runs along the edge of the stream. On the other side of the path, newly planted trees sprout new foliage in preparation for the spring. Pinpricks of brilliant blue flit from shrub to tree to ground. These blue flashes are mountain bluebirds. They are extremely busy birds, flitting everywhere in search of nesting material, bugs and seeds. One hovers only a foot from the ground, like a dazzling dragonfly, the grass blades around it bending from the whir of its wings. A splash from the stream startles some of the bluebirds from the trees and they take off. Fish in the stream are doing their mating rituals and causing quite a stir. The females turn onto their side and flip their bodies to make little dips in the gravel bottom. This rapid flashing in the water launches tiny diamonds into the air, only to rain back into the creek again. The males do their odd mating dance where they vibrate their bodies. The water, so chaotically full of dancing fish it looks like a bunch of snakes writhing in the water. Concrete steps leading down into the water create a beautiful place to sit and watch the natural phenomenon. An old couple hobbles from educational sign to educational sign, while glancing at the water with enthusiastic and awed eyes. A couple sits on the steps while having a late, afternoon lunch. Little kids run along the path, laughing, screeching, and pointing towards the mating fish.

The stream suddenly drops off under a small platform into a roiling mass of white water. There are five of these drops; this is the fish ladder. The fish, guided by instinct, attempt to jump over each of these steps in order to swim upstream. The ladder is a huge, deep concrete canal covered in soft green velvet and long, skinny vines trailing in the water. At the fish ladder there are peaceful benches where one can sit and be lulled by the constant din of the churning water, like the pounding waves of the ocean.

The backdrop for this tranquil scene is the massive spillway out of Lake Sonoma, creating a dramatic atmosphere. It jets out gallons and gallons of water every hour, a constant white, slanted river. A din of rushing water, chirping birds, and splashing fish makes this peaceful, yet busy place one of a kind. Each time I visit here, I see something new. I am always relaxed and awed by the surroundings here and I look forward to my next visit.

--Tara