Its 6:30 a.m. Monday morning and I button up my pastel blue oxford and slip into my wool jumper that’s probably six inches above my knee, four inches less than the “fingertip rule,” but all the girls do it. I put on my light blue socks to match my shirt, and grab my suede Mary Janes as I walk out the door before I am late for homeroom.
It was the only detention I got in my four years of high school. I wouldn’t get the perfect conduct award my senior year.
I was pulled aside during lunch hour that day only to be informed by my evil vice-principle that my socks were, and I quote, “too lacy.” God forbid a horny teenage boy sees my ankles.
I always hated wearing a uniform.
However, I wore the same gray jumper, blue oxford, and socks recently to a party themed, “throwdown for your hometown.” I got in trouble that night too, we all did. My sorority is now placed on high-threat probabation.
Please God forgive me.
Tuesday, April 13, 2010
Thursday, April 8, 2010
Color Story
Tombstones surround me, but I feel so full of life. Everyone faces towards the sun, high in the sky. The weather hasn’t been this nice for months. Now, I am finally experiencing the manifestation of spring unfolding. The cemetery is a good place to finally take a break. Down a scenic road, full of lush green foliage and cobbled stone stairways, and around the bend, I find myself sitting in solitude on a bench with a full view of the pond and Buck Creek in front of me. I leave Wittenberg behind.
I take a deep breath and allow the quick, cool, clean breeze to revive my lungs. The aroma of fresh dirt and grass hug my senses. I try and take it all in: the pond, the cascading waterfall, the exploding fountain, the construction workers. I sit and admire the work the crew has accomplished on the creek within the past year; the landscaping now garnishes both sides of the water, and my anticipation for experiencing the “holes” of the whitewater builds. A man along the far side of the creek pushes a red kayak down the grass to the bank of the water. It looks like he’ll get to experience it before me.
I turn back to the rush of the fountain in front of me: up, down, up, down, up, down -- a continuous cycle that speaks to me as a metaphor of the cycle of life, death, and rebirth. The sun beams, reflects off of the ripples of the pond, and the whole picture lights up and sparkles. The mist of the fountain tickles my warm cheeks. I leave my flip-flops by the bench, roll up my madras pants, and tip-toe across the weather-worn, smooth rocks beneath the cool waterfall, and let the water weave between my feet. It is a pleasant contrast to the beating sun.
A Caterpillar excavator continues hard at work, digging into the fresh soil, while a “cornflower blue” pick-up oversees the job at hand. The constant annoyance of the construction beeps rhythmically, transcending into a calming meditation of the soul.
It is the epitome of Spring.
I take a deep breath and allow the quick, cool, clean breeze to revive my lungs. The aroma of fresh dirt and grass hug my senses. I try and take it all in: the pond, the cascading waterfall, the exploding fountain, the construction workers. I sit and admire the work the crew has accomplished on the creek within the past year; the landscaping now garnishes both sides of the water, and my anticipation for experiencing the “holes” of the whitewater builds. A man along the far side of the creek pushes a red kayak down the grass to the bank of the water. It looks like he’ll get to experience it before me.
I turn back to the rush of the fountain in front of me: up, down, up, down, up, down -- a continuous cycle that speaks to me as a metaphor of the cycle of life, death, and rebirth. The sun beams, reflects off of the ripples of the pond, and the whole picture lights up and sparkles. The mist of the fountain tickles my warm cheeks. I leave my flip-flops by the bench, roll up my madras pants, and tip-toe across the weather-worn, smooth rocks beneath the cool waterfall, and let the water weave between my feet. It is a pleasant contrast to the beating sun.
A Caterpillar excavator continues hard at work, digging into the fresh soil, while a “cornflower blue” pick-up oversees the job at hand. The constant annoyance of the construction beeps rhythmically, transcending into a calming meditation of the soul.
It is the epitome of Spring.
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