College 111

The flood in Houston has inspired me to go through and get rid of more things that I don't really need. I asked myself, "If you were forced to throw everything away because of water damage, it would be sad, but you could do it. They're just things, not necessary for your survival."

So, after an incredibly long day at work, I came back, and started sifting through old papers to throw out. ruh-roh. I ended up reading them instead. Physics, geology, English, dance, philosophy.

I noticed that I don't take drafts seriously...and it shows. If I know someone is going to tell me to change it, why put a lot of effort into in the first place? (Still a bad habit of mine.) They're always shocked by the final.

Here are some drafts from my freshman year of college.
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There Is More to Life
I got a feel of what I would be able to look forward to when every school year ushered in a new disaster. My high school career has benchmark disasters. Freshman year were the terrorist attacks of 9/11, followed by the DC sniper my sophomore year. Junior year was the hype for a Category 5 hurricane, Isabella. "Board up your windows, get your good storage together! This one will be bad," they told us. It had all but died by the time it reached us. Finally, senior year was the year of the tsunami half a world away. Aside from the tsunami, all of these things were happening in my backyard. One of the greatest lessons I've learned is that no matter how hard it may be at the time, take a step back, and you will see life still goes on.

September passed my senior year, and there was not a major disaster, I think I should've seen the real disaster coming. The trend had been set, and I was silly to think I could get off unscathed. This was the time when blogging had become the thing to do. If you didn't have a Xanga (blog), you were behind the times and therefore not cool. 

It was September 2004; I was called to be president of the young women in my church, and needed to find two counselors. My first choice was Ellen Denker. She was supposed to be my counselor and I knew it. The only problem: her mom came to my church and she went to another. Therefore, I was not allowed to pick her. So instead, I picked two other girls.

I didn't think much about it until one morning, at the end of October, I was checking Xanga. It was a Sunday morning and I was looking at a girl's blog when I came across, "no god, no, Ellen! Why'd you do it? I don't think you realized how much you meant to us..." My heart stopped. No last name needed. I knew who this girl was talking about, and without even getting to the end, I knew what had happened. But I couldn't believe it! Every time I had seen Ellen she was so happy. I couldn't imagine why she would kill herself. She had so much going for her. Talented actress, beautiful singing voice--she was a senior in high school. Yet she took her own life. She hung herself in a hotel room while on a theatre trip. Maybe it was the dramatic ending to her tragic show that she wanted. I'll never know. But when I saw her body in that casket, I couldn't believe it.

Our relationship was not one of best friends, but her death shook me more than anything else. For years, I couldn't help but think that maybe I could've helped her more. Maybe she was supposed to be my counselor so we could help each other through our tough times. Her sister, whom I had the opportunity to serve at camp the following year, was still struggling with Ellen's death. In her mourning we became good friends. She told me once that were it not for me, she might've gone the same way as Ellen.

Through my troubles and disasters, when I doubt my resolve, I think of Ellen. I always have two choices: remove myself permanently from the situation, or wade through it and know that it will be over in time. I try to maintain hope that there will be better days.
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I still remember visiting Ellen's younger sister at odd hours just to make sure she didn't harm herself. She is happily married now. I saw her for the first time in almost 10 years this past summer, and even though we haven't talked much over the years, time has not diminished our friendship.
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Exactly one week into my freshman year of high school, the world was turned upside down. When I went to school that morning, my main concern was making sure I showed up to the right class at the right time. Sitting in English I was anxiously watching the clock hoping for class to end soon; I had neglected to do my homework yet again. A bad way to start a new school year, but I could not have imagined what was to come. The bell finally rang, and I was out the door in a flash. What met me in the hallway I will never forget.

Everywhere I looked people were crying and walking around with pink slips. I tried to inquire what was wrong, but no one heard me. I walked over to the chorus room to find the TV turned to the news. Two planes had flown into the World Trade Centers in New York City. More breaking news: one had just flown into the Pentagon. When that news broke, so did my heart. Many parents of my friends worked in the Pentagon. All of a sudden the tears and slips made sense.
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We had established our routine: greeting hugs, then I'd fix up some peanut butter & jelly sandwiches while my grandma got chips and fruit, then we'd sit my grandpa out on the screened porch and join him for lunch. Each day was pretty much the same, occasionally the food would vary--Grandma claiming I needed to eat better, but that was our routine. My lunch break every day for two years.

To the average Jane or Joe, this may seem boring and monotonous. To me, however, it was the highlight of my day. Every day I showed up to work, I knew what to expect. You get those customers who make a mess all over the place, and those who don't know what they want--yet expect you to, etc. It was predictable. Lunch at Grandma's was not. The routine was the same, but the stories were different.

For about the first ten months of meals I was regaled with stories of life on the farm back in the 1920's and 30's. Grandpa, not much for a conversation even before he developed Alzheimer's, would point out the window at all the songbirds that flew by, and the squirrels running up and down the tree.

When we put Grandpa into the nursing home after getting to be too much for Grandma to handle alone, she was so distraught. Her companion of over 60 years was living somewhere else. The stories began to change. I started hearing more about my grandparent's life together, Grandma's thoughts on her family, etc. Her biggest fear was that when my grandpa died, we wouldn't remember him for the great man that he was. Our lunches acted as a mental brace for her.

After my grandpa's death only a few short months later, she was my rock. Our roles had switched.