Dream Running

I was in a dream and I couldn't run fast. I focused on my legs, watching them move
at a slow pace wondering, why can't I move faster, I'm trying so hard. The worst part isn't looking at your legs, its looking where you want to go. Its that certain feeling that is seated into your spine and shoots out your eyes wishing you could get there faster. Its like being handed a check with one million dollars written on it, you have it but you cant spend it. Why is it that I have dreams that don't let me run fast? I'm still waiting for the dream where all I can do is run fast everywhere. Its stressful and terrible knowing you got what it takes but no way to unleash the fiery. To make the whole running slow thing worse, its like I'm always being chased by something much faster then me. Although, whatever it is that is chasing me it never catches up, it keeps that distance that is so close to get me, but never does. This actually makes it worse cause its at that point when I'm giving it my all trying to run faster. But nope, I look down and my feet just keep going the same pace.  

Frograss

A mixture of frogs and grass with a lawn mower blade spinning at 1500 RPM makes for some splatter matter. As I mowed the lawn I couldn't help but notice the frogs and toads leaping in every direction. Notice I said every direction, not away from the mower. In most cases sadly it was toward, this was followed by a hollow "thunk" which was the mower blade making contact. Unfortunately on this early fall day I was bagging the grass. There is nothing like smelling fresh cut grass on a fall day, along with juicy frog matter pilled into a bag. I felt guilty, but the longer I sat on the mower I realized nature is just taking its course. If the frogs really don't understand a big loud mower is coming at them, maybe they do need to be fed to the small critters, bugs and birds. Then again, a mower isn't exactly part of nature, or is it?

New Residency (workshop essay)

I walked away from my first job interview and nailed it. I knew every question they could throw at me and paired it with a stunning answer. Ok, so what if my sister was the manager, and so what if she prepped me with all of the interview questions ahead of time. I was only 15 and I was hungry for some cash in my pocket. If I got hired I would be working in a dinning room within a retirement home. It was the perfect job for a high school student with short shifts each day right after class.    

Turns out a week later I got the job and I was ready for orientation. It wasn’t a big surprise when I got the phone call from my boss saying I got the job because my sister already told me I would get hired. But I can without a doubt replay the moment in my life when I was informed I earned my first job. I remember the conversation, the clothes I was wearing, the weather outside, and even the time I took the call. At the time, I had so much rifling through my head. What was I going to buy first, with my first big paycheck? I always wanted a mini fridge in my room. At the time it seemed really cool, I could buy my own soda and keep it in there along with, well, more soda. It seemed cool till I got it, then my parents had to ruin my proud purchase by telling me I could have always used the family fridge. Next I was thinking, this is it, my first job; this is the job I’m going to tell my kids about someday. After that I couldn’t help but to brag to all of my friends about how much money I was going to be making and all of the things I could do because of this endless cash flow.

I was ready to enter the world of business. I arrived at my first day of work 15 minutes early just like my father told me. Turns out, I had no idea what door to go in or even what parking lot to park in. The building was huge. I wasn’t sure if I just park at the main entrance and walk through the lobby like the rest of the old folks or if I use some special side door. I was totally clueless, so I went with the main entrance. I walked in and took in the smell, look, sound and feeling of the retirement home.

It smelled like stale air mixed with a turkey roast and some old lady perfume. I will never forget that smell ever. The lobby looked beautiful, rich, classy, and bright. Two curving staircases that meet at the top of the 2^nd floor that was made out of detailed wood was the first to compliment your eye after walking through the door. Then the beautiful dark glossy Yamaha piano that stood at the center of everything was something that seemed so valuable in a retirement home. The piano seemed like it was in the center because it was their prize that they wanted everyone to see. Hanging above the piano was a striking crystal chandelier that acted as the focal point bringing everything together. Even the carpet and picture frames had this ornate detail that couldn’t go unseen. The sound of the place was quiet, very quiet. I walked through and could hear my shoelaces smack the slip resistant shoes I was wearing. It didn’t seem eerie, just calm because I knew there were a few hundred residents living in the building. I got this fragile feeling as I proceeded to do dinning room like the place was almost precious.

Once I opened the door to the dinning room where I would be working, it was, well, fun. The server station in the corner of the dinning room was littered with pictures of old fun memories. The waiters were all similar with age except the manger but even he was only ten years older then the average. I was greeted with a friendly “hey it’s the new kid!” which I found funny cause I would do the same. I meet my trainer Sarah that was going to be basically my teacher for the next few weeks. We immediately dove into a thick pile of papers filled with highlighted “sign here” lines and lame training manuals. After the paper work was done my brain was flooded with the kitchen scene. “This is the rack where you only put this, that is where this belongs, over here you will find these but If you want those you have to go back to here, remember not to put this here because we will hate you for it, every new kid does this, make sure that’s not you, remember when this runs out you have to go back to here and open this and find a new one.” It was only a 4-hour shift and my brain was imploded with kitchen and serving information.

It was my first job and I think still the best. I had my sister to work with and made new friends who showed me a whole new world. My parents told me work corrupted me but I say it showed me the real world. My job was all about getting work done and having the most fun possible while doing it. We without a doubt had the most fun. I met a lot of really fun residents and also said goodbye to some truly close ones. I was given many nicknames as a new kid; “Brace face” was one that will always stick because of my smile full of metal when I had braces. I also earned a reputation to torture and question new kids and to open them up from being shy. In the beginning when I got the call and accepted a job offer as a server, it was actually accepting a whole new life on top of a life I already had.

9/11/11

I love my country. God Bless America.

The Evening Fawn

I walked down into the southern most field of the 300-acre farm wearing tractor grease stained blue jeans, my dirt shirt, and my brown leather boots holding my .300 caliber rifle. The sun was going to set soon and I knew it was the perfect evening to pop a coyote or two. Mother Nature’s breath was calm, the dew was beginning to nestle its way into the cottons of my clothes and the thunderhead rolling over the hills south of me, was beginning to move away. The heat of the day was beginning to dissipate in the deepest valleys and the hay field mixed with Clover and Brassica was now in the shadow of the glowing sun.

            I take a quick second to glass the field to make sure my prey isn’t already there. I gently walk along the upper end of the field looking for a good place to post for the evening. After finding an 80-100 year old oak tree with good ground cover, I decide my silhouette will be broken up enough to spot my prey before it spots me.

            As the dew sets heavier, a yearling fawn appears by the woods line. Not a coyote, but perfect coyote bait. As I watch this fawn feed in this 30-acre field, I begin wonder what I’m doing with this rifle, perched up on my legs, overlooking the vulnerable animal. Am I hunting coyotes for sport? Or am I protecting this falls harvest of venison?

            My vision is now minimal, and my clear view of the yearling is blurred at best. Its adorable white spots are now smeared in with its innocent golden fur coat. The shuttering sound of an alpha-male coyote howl intimidates me to tighten my grip on the rifles stock. The rolling hills and valleys of the southern tier are now filled with pup yips and barks. Tonight I am the protector and the hunter.