From her lap, his shiny black eyes stared up at her as she admired his permanent red smile. Fingering his tiny overalls, she pictured the little ones’ faces, pressed against the icy windowpanes, waiting for her to arrive with another basket of her lifelike, homemade gifts. The last strand of hair was finally in place. As she gently inserted the needle to tie a knot, he lurched in her hand and a high-pitched voice said…

And here was my story which I titled Out the Back Door -

“Mommy.”

Where had it come from? What tiny, miniscule, little mouth was calling for their mother? I did not know. I knew there were mice in the walls. I could hear them playing tag at night. I also knew there were abnormal rates of radiation in Trenton’s water. Town hall made annual radiation reports, and this year’s said the same old thing: NOT HARMFUL. Some didn’t believe it and consequently Trenton’s market for bottled water was starting to rival New York City’s. I was one of the believers. Now, that seemed like a stupid decision.

There was a mouse, probably a foot and a half tall, living in my kitchen cabinets, who, while drinking my Trenton tap water for the past two years, had gained super-rodent powers. While I was sleeping, he probably lounged on my couch and read the books on my living room shelves. That would explain both the oddly placed bookmark in Cat’s Cradle and the recent spike in my electric bill.

It was starting to make sense now. Marcus London – only the best NFL superstar this century. Stace Lawerence – the new mastermind of Nasa. Two of the most famous people in the 21st century, both Trenton born. Their successes put Trenton on the map, but little did those TIME’s editors know the truth that lay in their article’s catchy title, “There’s Something in the Water.” Now I had given birth to Trenton’s next radiation creation. Front page – I could see it now – “Trenton Doll Creator Houses Army of Over Grown Mice.” Unknowingly. That should’ve been in there, but they’d leave it out and word would spread that I’d gone mad. Tabloids would make me out to be the general of PETA’s secret army.

Making sure that I was not going absolutely bonkers, I looked down at my lap. Sure enough, the shiny black button-eyes of my newest doll stared up at me. Just as I had remembered him. This was not a dream. But something was different. His permanent red smile, while just two minutes ago an apparent sign of his appreciation for my gentle needle work, now came across as disturbingly sinister. He knew about the mice the whole time. Who knew what other secrets he was storing in that brain of batting? This is not good.

I walked to the kitchen sure that someone – or something – was listening. The mouse was undoubtably on edge, cowering in a cabinet corner. He had had dream, a nightmare, woke up in a fright and cried out for his mother. Yes. That was it. I grabbed a steak knife.

While I had heard crazier stories than a nuclear enhanced mouse, I needed proof. Opening each cabinet would have been too risky. I walked backwards, out of the kitchen, light on my feet. I hadn’t noticed before but the ice on the windowpanes made the outside world look blurry and unfocused. There could be more mutant mice outside, waiting for me to leave the house, beneath snow banks, perhaps in trees. The Poland Spring drinkers in Trenton were also the gun touting ones. Their smarts were obvious now.

My doll lay limp in, I think, the same position as I left it. Opening Cat’s Cradle, my fears were validated. I had never seen the floppy green bookmark that lay in the valley between page 87 and page 88. Perhaps this wasn’t my house at all, but the mice’s. Perhaps I was the real intruder, reading their books, and stuffing dolls whose faces reminded you of the time your record player got stuck on your favorite line of your favorite song. My mother had always told me that I was a lost cause when it came to communal living and, sure enough, here I was, completely ostracizing my roommates. I vowed to be more cordial and put away the knife.

My fear disappeared – my heart rate returned to normal. I put the kettle on for tea. Lighting the burner, I look outside – I know that if I walk in a straight line from my back door, over the hill which houses the cell tower, and past Clipper’s Meat Packing, I would eventually – after three miles or so – reach the old nuclear plant. There are so many things in this world that can kill you or make you batty. I’m so fortunate for having turned out alright.

The tea kettle starts whistling like a fire alarm and I duck. Nothing happens. I pour myself a mug of water and drop in a tea bag. I walk back into the living room, place the mug on a coaster, and take my doll in hand. I poke his feet with my needle. He smiles on the verge of laughter. Some dolls are more ticklish than others. I take a sip of tea – the hot water rushes down my throat. Hot tea is so soothing on days like this, when the snow makes you claustrophobic in your own house, when the whole world is overwhelming like an over-packed supermarket.

There are only so many things I can control – tea helps me concentrate on these things. If I didn’t have my shelves full of books, tea bags, shiny black buttons, and running water, I fear my mind might float away.

Weeks of obsessive tending and gentle turning ensured a blue
ribbon for his biggest pumpkin next weekend. His chest puffed
with impending pride as he fantasized about the envious stares of
the other town folk, especially that pretty, stuck-up woman next
door, who always looked through him, not at him.

The cold wind started again and he shivered, watching the sky
darken too quickly. As bright, painted leaves rained on his crop,
he instinctively turned his head toward an infant’s cry. At the
top of the hill, under the old Maple, his stuck-up neighbor was
shielding a bundle from the wind, fumbling with her blouse…

And here was my story which I titled Sincerely, the Land -

It had been years since Roy Reese had made the ten minute hike to the old Maple tree. As a child, Roy made the trek a daily ritual. He would climb up the trunk and onto the lower limbs. There was a dip in the one of them and this was where Roy lay, the Maple holding him as if it were King Kong. Roy fit into the palm of its hand. It was from his elevated perch that Roy could see beyond his family’s land, past the corn stalks, the pumpkin rows. There were other houses, farms like his, down the road a ways, and Roy could even see past these. There was a horizon that seemed to mark the end of the world.

But the earth continued, far beyond the horizon. Roy still knew this, even though he didn’t fit into the Maple’s palms like he used to. His next-door neighbor was a constant reminder. She was from beyond the horizon, some city that Roy had never visited. Although, at night, Roy could see the lights on in her bedroom, he didn’t even know her name. When she had moved there, two years ago, Roy had left a welcoming gift on her front porch, a pumpkin that by its color alone would’ve made any room feel warmer on a fall evening. He never heard back from her and Roy took this to mean that the woman had dismissed it either because she wasn’t interested in neighborly relations or was disgusted with her change of scenery. She had left a paved road for a dirt one, the view of storied buildings for a natural landscape. To Roy, her nose seemed always turned up, like it was desperately trying to preserve the smell of a better existence.

It was the Tuesday before the state fair and Roy was busy primping his prized pumpkin when he saw the woman up the hill. There she was, under the Maple wearing a red gingham dress. On her head sat a straw hat adorned with a band of matching fabric. She was trying to climb the Maple, attempting to jump up and grab the lowest limb. She was barefoot and couldn’t gain the proper footing to propel herself into the Maple’s embrace.

Serves her right, Roy thought. The lady is dressed like she’s attending a picnic on the bayou. It was amazing to Roy that the skill of looking out a window in the morning and gauging the day’s weather from the rustle of tree leafs was not an inherent one in some individuals. He smiled. The woman didn’t have it all.

Roy’s pleasure in the woman’s failure was short lived because just as he turned again, turning his gaze back to the ribs of his prized pumpkin, he heard the woman’s cry echoing down from the hill. She was on the ground now, a biplane struck down by King Kong’s fist. Roy thought nothing of it at first. It was his Maple after all. There was a history between them and it was no coincidence that, just as the woman had dismissed his welcome gift, the Maple had dismissed her.

But the woman’s cries didn’t cease and there reached a point that Roy could not ignore her exclaims any longer. He looked towards the Maple once more and saw that she had failed to move since her cries began. Either she had ripped her dress and was deep in mourning or she had suffered a serious bodily injury. Regardless of her pretense, if the woman was in danger, Roy could not let such a thing lay on his conscious. He dropped the pumpkin, placing it gently so as to not dent it, and broke into a run.

As he crossed the woman’s lawn, his shins battling the high ferns with each stride, Roy stole a glance at the back of her house. A wooden lawn chair looked out onto the hill. A table with an open book and a full glass of iced tea stood beside it. A peaceful afternoon had gone awry.

Roy climbed the hill, slipping on the loose dirt like he was twelve years old again and in a hurry. He grabbed hold of protruding trunks, propelling himself onward. There was no time for resting. The woman’s cries had stopped, but Roy was close enough now to hear her breathing heavily, seemingly resigned that no one was coming.

With one last burst of effort, Roy entered the clearing on which the Maple lived. The woman looked up, her pain giving way to terror.

“Who are you?” she screamed, trying to stand but falling. “What do you want?”

“Are you ok?” Roy said.

“Get away from me.”

“I’m here to help.”

“Who are you?” she asked again, timid like she had never before had a prayer answered.

“I’m your neighbor, Roy Reese.”

The woman said nothing, but stared back like she couldn’t believe that she hadn’t come to that conclusion on her own. Of course, her eyes said as they rolled back, there’s no one else within a mile of here. She liked to think that there was no one around at all, to imagine that Reese Farm didn’t exist. Her home was the only house on the market at the time of her move, and while it wasn’t completely secluded, it was good enough – the price was right. She could turn the lawn furniture and plant the garden facing the opposite way, towards the hills. The pumpkin arrived on her front porch one morning and dreamily, she thought it was a gift from the land itself, a personal thank you for the company she would supply it for years to come.

The clearing was just as Roy had remembered, with short grass like all of the hill’s nutrients were reserved for the Maple. The hill was its throne, and from its elevated position it looked out onto the fields graciously, giving its kingdom life itself.

Yes, if I had my way, college would consist of courtyards surrounded by prestigious brick buildings, with dark plaid blazers and worn, leather courier bags. Passing by students one might hear, “Oh man, that’s library where they house Kafka’s journal” or “Meeting under the senior arch tonight – we have to decide once and for all how we’re going to stop on campus womanizing.” It’s an earthy world, in which every morning is filled with a coastal fog that lightly blankets the campus. Some classrooms have views of the ocean but students are too captivated in class discussions to steal a peak.

I often think of myself going to a school like this one, my first class being unforgettable. I picture myself three rows back, ready, biting my finger nails in anticipation. A bird is chirping outside, awake. It’s only 9am but, like the bird, I have been up for three hours. I’ve been up long enough for my drowsiness to disappear naturally. I’m too nervous for coffee. Not one of the other students is talking but there seems to be a noise coming from somewhere. The earth seems to be telling me that it is alive and that so am I. With a sudden creak, the classroom door opens and my professor walks in. He has wild, salt and pepper hair and gold, wire thin glasses. He appears rushed, like he has hurried here in order not to lose his train of thought.

“Are you ready to learn?” he asks and everyone in the class bar non responds, yes. “Good. So am I.”

******

It’s scientifically impossible not to encounter a party bus in Boston on a Friday night. If you don’t see the thing, driving down streets like they’re the Vegas strip, then you’ve undoubtably heard them. Not the bus itself, but the passengers. If you’re the type of person who scoffs at cars with rolled down windows and a stereo system on full volume, a party bus is your worse nightmare. If you’re the type of person who despises people yelling in public, hooting and hollering like it‘s Mardi Gras, you may want to stay inside on the weekends because you may be prompt to commit a crime.

That’s an extreme. For most, party buses are just a constant reminder that there are people out having more fun than us. These are our classmates who don’t care about the class material, who shop online via their laptop while the professor drones on, loving the sound of his or her own voice. But then, these seemingly uninterested students get better grades than me and I am left wondering if there is some ancient Islamic code,  subtly hidden on AmericanApparel.com. There’s no motivation to care when the system itself appears ill equipped to reward the intellects.

Maybe this is the appeal of party buses: to escape from a world that is backwards and unfair. One gets the sense that the same rules that govern everyday life don’t apply in party buses. Reality is forgotten. It is as if, party buses are their own island countries, floating aimlessly down the ocean of Boston’s pavement. The political climate is a rough one. While the pub crawl party may rule one day, the next it may be the bachelorettes. I get the feeling riding in a party bus is like going to Canada without the border control – all the ridiculous laws of America are left behind once you’ve boarded, rather than once you’re bag has been searched. No passport necessary. The drinking age might as well be 16 in the country of party bus. While they bounce provocatively amidst flashing red and blue lights, who knows how old those silhouettes really are?

After a party bus passes, and a guy whose hair is more oily than the bus’s engine tricks me into thinking my shoes are untied, I’m always left wondering, “Are there hangovers in the country of party bus?” “Does what happens in the party bus, stay in the party bus?” or “Would I need to bring a sleeping bag?” These are questions that will probably be left unanswered. I don’t think I’ll ever be invited onto a party bus and I think studying abroad in one is out of the question. Even if I wanted to hire a party bus myself, I don’t think I would be able to list 15-30 people that would want to come with me. Perhaps I could drive it, reserve it for myself alone and take the wheel.

This way, I would be the prime minister of the party bus. I could drive down Boston streets, looking to pick up dark plaid blazers. I could put a hot water dispenser in the back with a couple of different kinds of tea. For just one night, I could drive under the city lights, driving till the tank emptied, sputtering to a stop facing the harbor so that in the morning I could wake up at 6, turn on a fog machine, and see the ocean.

While Miller’s past books, and more specifically Blue like Jazz, were mainly focused on Miller’s story of Chistianity, his thoughts towards and transformation in his beliefs and faith, A Million Miles is more about real life. The book begins with Miller uninspired and passive, unable to see what lies ahead having already achieved literary success. But then two movie makers approach him, asking him for the rights to a big screen adaptation of Blue like Jazz. Quickly Miller begins to understand how liberal the line ‘based on the memoirs of Donald Miller’ truly is. These movie makers can’t make a movie about his life because that would be boring, or as the cinematographer says, “It would make the audience stab each other in the throats with their soda straws.” Miller’s life is as dull as dishwater. He daydreams the days way, with a spoonful of ice cream in one hand and a tv remote in the other. In order to make his story translate to the big screen, the essence of the story must be extracted and then transplanted into a world which encompasses all of the proven parts of stimulating story lines. In order to understand this, and also why his fiction never got published, Miller begins to dissect what a story, at its core, must have. A story, he finds, is about a character who wants something and must go through hell to get it. It’s about hardship, pain, and ultimately a change. It’s widely accepted that this isn’t real life though. Real life may seem like a story from time to time but in reality it’s more monotonous with lots of meaningless bits thrown in. But this is when Miller demands the question, Why can’t our lifes be like a good story? And for Miller there is an effortless jump to, Isn’t this what God intended for us? Shouldn’t we let God be the writer of our story?

Can’t wait to read the rest.

It’s not often you come across an individual with a contagious positive attitude as well as an unassuming, accepting disposition. Please check out his blog as well as the great new Prayer and Healing Center website (great job Lidia.)

Found this video of a talk by Elizabeth Gilbert, author of Eat, Pray, Love, which even for those Oprah haters out there, is a great book. Gilbert’s words have stayed with me and I thought you may like them too.

For those who haven’t ever visited TED.com, it’s a must.

Here’s what I’ve read, and have enjoyed reading, this summer. I may be forgetting some, but I am sure that, for those I have remembered below, no book report was necessary.

Dorothy Day – The Long Loneliness

Stephen Chbosky – The Perks of Being a Wallflower

Haruki Murakami – The Wind-Up Bird Chronicle

David Sedaris – Me Talk Pretty One Day

“I don’t want to be here,” he said to Reaves. “I shouldn’t be here. This country. Been here too long.”

With the wide-open view to Collserola Park, the breeze which snuck in through the screens of the cracked windows, Reaves didn’t feel like he was inside at all, but the Moroccan looked out at the park like he hadn’t touched a blade of grass in years. Reaves told the Moroccan that he would feel better and be out of Spain soon.

“Man, I just want to feel better. I don’t want to be here.” With no hope of lifting the Moroccan’s spirits, Reaves resigned himself to listening.

There were three girls sitting down the table from them. Reaves didn’t think they understood what he and Moroccan were saying – they looked happier because of it. They had thick French accents, loud voices like they owned the place, and laughs which suggested they had just realized that they were staying in a rehab facility. The girls didn’t look like they belonged in straight jackets.

“Do you like it here?” The Morocan had turned to the Frenchies apparently eager to spread his gloom, but Reaves quickly saw that this wasn’t the case. The Moroccan’s redder-than-normal lips moved into a suave grin. He was attractive for the most part. His rehab uniform, feather-weight capris and a rusted blue t-shirt, actually fit him well. Reaves was impressed with the Moroccan’s bravery. Every man not getting enough needs to check if he’s still got some magic. It takes balls though to do it in rehab garb.

“What…sorry,” the loudest Frechy said.

“I said, do you like it here?” the Morocan seemed a little miffed at having to repeat himself.

“Yes.” she looked towards Reaves like ‘is this guy ok?’ and Reaves returned with a look which said, ‘I don’t know him, but I think for the most part he is.’ The Moroccan curtly ate a bite of a pancake and turned again to face the window.

Reaves shrugged his shoulders as slightly as he could, barely moving them up at all, and the loudest Frenchy tried to muffle her laughs with a mouthful of pancake. The other two girls pierced their lips to contain their own laughter. Reaves looked at them with a saddened smile – the only face appropriate for the circumstance. He wondered if they thought he was a patient.

The Moroccan left shortly after his failed attempt at wooing the Frenchies. He ate the rest of his pancakes quickly and addressed only Reaves as he left the table.

I don’t know what I’m going to do today or why I’m going to do the things that I will choose to do, was all he said.

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