At the Lake...My Narrative

We had been at the lake for three days. The cots smelled of our bodies, the plates were dirty from our food, and the doors snapping constantly as we ran to and from the cabin. We were comfortable at the lake, it was comfortable with us. Every year we greeted the same small patch of water and rocky shore line with the splash of our fishing poles. Every year the lake didn’t disappoint us; it always brought unpredictable weather and great fishing. This year was no exception.

By the third day of our trip, family members were becoming exhausted. Adults slouched in Adirondack chairs as a few boys tossed a football across the yard. Talk had begun to drift toward dinner and what to make when the youngest cousin and the oldest walked side by side down to the docks. No one noticed the two cousins, nor did they pay attention to what they were doing.

At the end of the dock the youngest cousin peered over the edge, biting her lip as she counted the small fish that swam in the shadows. Next to her, the oldest cousin opened a can of worms, pulling out the first one that was found. In a flash, the oldest cousin broke the worm in two, throwing half of the worm back in the can. Once the oldest cousin had the small bit of worm wrapped around the hook on the pink fishing pole, the oldest cousin handed the pole to the young one.

The oldest cousin ducked quickly as the young one pulled the fishing pole over her shoulder, only to drop the line in the water directly below the dock. It was barely a cast and wouldn’t produce any sizable fish but before long the young cousin was squealing with delight as she yanked her line out of the water. Barely hanging onto the hook was a small fish, it could be deemed a minnow if it was any smaller but it had bitten the hook and the young cousin was happy.

As the oldest cousin reached for the line, the fish let go of the hook; it was obvious that the small fish really hadn’t bitten the hook at all but the worm. The fish splashed into the water, spraying both cousins sending laughter into the air. The young cousin began to reel in her line, like she had been taught. When the hook was at eye level, the young cousin held the line out to the oldest one, waiting for the next worm.

“Do you want to put this one on?” The oldest cousin asked. A smile grew on the young one’s face as she handed over her pink fishing pole. Stooping low, near the can of worms, the young cousin lifted out a long worm. “Break it in half.” The oldest cousin told her before looking at the hook. As the oldest cousin turned back to the youngest, a look of horror crossed the young one’s face. Before knowing what happened, the young one stuck out her tongue to produce the guts of the worm mixed with dirt. The oldest cousin could feel her face get warmer as her heart began to pump faster. “Hold on, hold on.” The oldest cousin kept repeating as she set down the fishing pole and flung the bitten in half worm, into the water.

But it was too late, the youngest cousin had begun to cry, grabbing the attention of the adults still hunched over in the wooden chairs. The oldest cousin wiped as much dirt and gut off of the young one’s tongue as possible before the youngest cousin ran away to her mother. Alone on the dock, the oldest cousin looked into the shadowy water where the small fish were eating the half bitten worm.

“And that’s how it all happened. No more, no less.” I turned toward my family. Their stares and vacant expressions told me that they didn’t believe a word that I had to say. “You told her to eat it.” My brother retorted before getting up from the dinner table. “I did not. Besides, she didn’t eat the worm at all; it was still a whole worm when I threw it in the water. It was just bitten in half.” I stumbled over my words, as I tried to recall the exact look of the worm. “She ate it and we all know it,” my dad grabbed his glass pouring himself another drink. I knew that she didn’t eat the worm, even if they didn’t believe me. I looked to my young cousin who sat opposite from me.

She refused to say anything. Every time this story is brought up, she doesn’t say a word. It happened to both of us, why won’t she speak in my defense? I didn’t force her to eat a worm and I know that she didn’t. Does she not speak because she did eat it and I’m just not remembering correctly? She couldn’t have eaten it. It’s not possible. Was it too traumatic of an event and she has suppressed it? I would if I was her. That must be it. What else could it be? From across the table I give a half smile to my young cousin who returns it. Perhaps she does remember and she’s just too smart to get into this argument. Well, one thing is for certain, no matter what version of the story circulates around our house, she and I will always know the truth.

Orwell's Such Were the Joys

George Orwell's "Such, Such Were the Joys" is about a boy that goes to a boarding school and learns about life while growing up in the presence of domineering adults. As he goes through his years, he faces the problem with feeling confined and imprisoned by the adults, not just the other students. He faces this feeling and takes it on; accepting the standards that are being put on him. Although, as this is a reflection on his time at boarding school, Orwell does mention that if he went back to the school now, the teachers would not be as awful as he may have remember them.

Orwell's experience is a unique one for it does have an older feeling to it. Teachers were allowed to beat children when they misbehaved and students lived with each other; it was really a boarding school. But no matter how different it may feel, there are similarities that he makes with any other kind of school. The schools today do make standards that they expect students to reach. Most students align with those standards, even if they don't like them because they have to, they know that if they don't there are real consequences that will ensue. Teachers also seem more terrifying to the younger kids then they do to the older ones. It mostly comes with age but it is how things seem. Orwell is right, if a student goes back to visit a teacher they once viewed as "scary," that teacher loses all "scary" features. They become normal. It is a growth thing, a coming with time, and possibly the world just looks different.

Looking at E. B. White's "The Ring of Time"

Time standing still or time moving slowly, it would seem that we all have had some sort of experience with that sort of situation. Just when we say, the year flew by or the week went by so quickly, or even how did that child get so old, I remember when they were born. Time has a funny way of standing still and making us believe that an hour is only two seconds.

E. B. White has tried to explain this in his piece "The Ring of Time". He is describing a woman who is practing her act for the Ringling Brothers Circus. While watching her, he gets lost in a trance, where time stands still. It's a beautiful description where each word completes the picture that he is trying to paint. Not only is it a vivid story but the story itself has a slow methodical pace that makes the reader lose track of time, almost as if time was standing still while the reading was taking place.

The first time I read through the P. S. of "The Ring of Time" I didn't think that it fit with the story at all. But upon taking a closer look, White has paralleled the fiddler crab and the tide with the woman and time respectively. He is basically saying that even though time may seem to stand still or that we may want it to stand still. We can inspect everything under a microscope but time still acts on everything. It's just the way life is.

E. B. White and Black Lake

There are places that have been passed down from generation to generation in every family. Parks, garages, fields, beach fronts, and even lakes. There is a lake that has been a traditional place to go for every generation in my family. Black Lake, it sounds quite sinister and at times it seemed that it was. There were moments when my family thought that we would be stranded in the middle of the water or that our boat would sink while we were left bailing the water out, like some slap stick comedy program. But this lake has had some beautiful moments; family dinners of fried fish, camp fires with s'mores, and swimming in the dark green water.
E. B. White's story "Once More to the Lake" reminds me so much of my own family lake that it would seem that we share the same one, even though I know that we don't. It's more that experiences are similar. The expectant arrivals, the fresh pine smells (mine's more of an oak), a swampy aroma at night, fishing on the boat, playing in the rain, and a constant ritual of doing it every year. My family goes back almost every year. You can find pictures of me at this lake from the time I was a new born. So there are definitely instances when I hear my parents or grandparents commenting like White does. For instance, when my dad was teaching my brother how to gut a fish; my dad would make comments like when I was a kid. Normally comments like this come from grandparents, so when my father is talking like this it tells me that he is remembering. He is having the same sort of time stand still moment that White was.
Places like the lake are a great way to introduce new environments to younger generations and create new memories as well as bring up old one. It's never too late to start a trip like this and it's never too late to go back to an old place. This whole story makes me want to go back to the lake now. I do miss it.

Almost A Movie

The day the towers fell, I remember being excited. Now you must understand this from a fifth grader's perspective. I had just arrived to my small middle school after vomiting in a trash can on the yellow school bus. This was a ritual that I had every day of my young life. Getting up early and then sticking my head in a plastic container as my stomach bounced with the hills of the countryside. But that day of school, instead of expecting long division and memorization of words that I would soon forget, I got to watch TV. What child wouldn't like that? It was almost like a movie to us. The planes and the fire and the reporters. None of it seemed real. The teachers around us even added to the drama. They cried with their hands over their mouths, wiping mascara down their cheeks in long black streaks. What was playing on the screen, was projected onto us. We were a captive audience; ready for the next burst of flame, the next scream or falling body.

By the time the next year came around and people were still searching through the rubble, I remember exclaiming "I watched that happen!" None of it was real to me. Not even when I got to go see the memorial site in New York City my senior year. It's not now. I feel a great ache, a great longing to link some kind of pain with those people that died that day. As an American, I believe that in some small way, I do. It was an awful tragedy that so many died on our soil and I support our troops to the fullest extent. But I suppose that I don't connect properly with this day of remembrance because of the way that I originally experienced it. It was a movie, a terrible show where everyone in the country got involved to put it on. I still have faith in our country and support those who fight to keep us safe, but never do I want to experience something like that again. I want to truly feel for people that I haven't met because this isn't just some kind of performance that we are all putting on. This is life and life is filled with many different pains and joys that we can all relate to.

First Post

First post, this is odd.