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RANDOM MEMORIES

(Daylog)

#1

There is a woods, some ten or fifteen miles from my house, that is apparently haunted. I can't remember the exact story. Or really, any of the story. Haha. I know there was a kid in my drama class who said he was related to the man who was killed in the woods, and that's about how much I know about it.

Anyway, the woods are called Hex Hollow, and it used to be that every year the Firehall next to the woods would hold a haunted hayride. People would volunteer to do little acts to entertain and scare people as they went through the hayride, i.e. dress up as witches and do a short skit, spook people with chainsaws, etc. etc. One year, my dance studio was asked to do a performance at Hex Hollow for Halloween.

My dance teacher decided to go all out. She choreographed a really easy dance and taught it to us, but that was the least of it. The night of the Hex Hollow Hayride, each girl in the dance, including myself, were dressed head to toe in black. Black hoods, black shirts and pants, black gloves, and even black socks over our shoes. After that, we had plastic skeletons painted in glow-in-the-dark paint strapped to our bodies with rubber bands and string. As the sun set and the black lights came on, we got to see the impact of my teacher's vision.

When the sunlight was gone, we were invisible. I remember standing next to girls in my class and only seeing a skeleton. So as the wagons began to rumble through the trail for the haunted hayride and we danced for them, all they could see were a bunch of skeletons dancing. It was cool beyond all reason.

Unfortunately, plastic skeletons that are meant for propping up outside your house don't exactly take to being strapped to a moving person's body. Halfway through the dance for one of the wagons passing through, I felt my skeleton's leg coming loose from its tie. I couldn't stop to fix it, so I just kept going.

The leg broke loose and began to flap wildly as I jumped up and down. Finally, it completely fell off. All the girls in my class started to laugh, and so did my teacher and all the parent volunteers. I could hear the people from the wagon hundreds of yards away laughing, too. It was hard to keep from bursting into giggles; I knew I looked ridiculous. Picture it: Eleven dancing skeletons, and one hopping up and down on one leg.

Unfortunately, the wagons had gotten backed up and I didn't have time to fix the leg after the dance ended because another wagon was waiting for us. So again, I had to dance sans one leg, and again, it was the funniest thing in the world. I couldn't breathe because I was laughing so much. The people in the wagon got a kick out of it, too.

As soon as the wagon had left, we finally had some time. We all took a few moments to chuckle at the utter ridiculousness of my leg, and then one of the parent volunteers, Denny, took it upon himself to fix it. He picked up the leg held it out to me and said, "Alright, we need to put your leg back on."

I didn't like that idea. I shook my head. Denny couldn't see that because I was wearing a black hood. He walked toward me, leg in hand. I backed away.

"No," I said, "It's way funnier this way."

Denny persisted. "We have to put the leg back on, Kelly."

I yelled out, "No!" and started to run away from Denny, who chased me, waving the leg in the air.

My dance teacher caught it on tape. All you see is this skeleton, hopping away on one foot like crazy, as a floating leg chases after it.

#2

Every 4th of July, America celebrates its independence with lots of firework displays. I really like fireworks, therefore I really like this holiday.

A few years ago, my friend Aubrey decided that she wanted all of our circle of friends to get together and watch the fireworks. She claimed she knew a great spot on top of a hill where we would be able to see not just one display, but a bunch from all of the cities that were shooting off fireworks. My friends and I agreed this sounded like a great idea. On July 4th, we all met at the local grocery store, where we could park our cars for a few hours. All of us climbed into Aubrey's car, since she knew where she was going.

We found out in the car on the way there that Aubrey's hilltop was also the hilltop of a graveyard.

At first, no one was entirely comfortable with the idea, but Aubrey assured us that it was perfectly normal; she and her parents did it every year, and there were usually quite a few people up there. She managed to coax us into it, and we all went to the graveyard.

There actually were people up there, thankfully, because I seriously wouldn't have felt comfortable if it had just been my friends and me. But Aubrey had told us correctly. As soon as it was dark, we were able to see a TON of firework displays from all over the county. It was really neat

However, our comfort didn't last long because soon, we were hungry. And a bunch of hungry teenagers is never a good thing. Someone jokingly suggested that we call the pizza place down the hill and across the street from the graveyard. And then someone jokingly called 411 and got the number for the pizza parlor. And then someone jokingly called the pizza parlor and asked if they'd deliver to the graveyard.

And here's the best part: the pizza place said they would.

So, duh. We definitely ordered pizza. And thirty minutes later, the pizza truck made it's way up the hill in the graveyard and delivered us our order.

Now, every year we go watch fireworks in a graveyard and eat pizza. It's a pretty cool tradition, I must say.

I like posting random memories. More to come another day, probably.

I don't know if everyone heard about the shootings at Virginia Tech. For those who aren't from the United States, and who haven't caught wind of the story, a guy went on a rampage and killed 33 people at his college, including himself.

I feel so horribly sorry for those people who go to that school--too anyone whose lives were touched by this tragedy. It's too terrible to put into words.

It makes me think of a memory from a few years ago. One that I wish I could forget.

#3

I know what it's like to be in homeroom and see your high school on CNN.

It happened four years ago, almost to the day. Off by about a week.

It was such a normal morning. I woke up. I got dressed. I ate breakfast. I caught the bus. I was a freshmen in highschool. It was nearing the end of the year. Mid-late April. I don't remember if it was warm or not. I think it probably was. I vaguely recall there being a window open in homeroom that morning. My school is too cheap to pay to air conditioning in all the rooms. I'd say was, since I graduated from that school last year, but I figure they still probably are.

I went into homeroom that morning, same as usual. My homeroom teacher was at his computer, I think. People were trickling in up until the last bell rang. We waited a moment, then the morning anouncements came on over the TV, same as usual. They ended a few minutes before the bell dismissing us from homeroom was supposed to ring.

We sat and waited for it to ring. It never did.

We just continued to sit and sit. Eventually, everyone in the classroom started to get antsy. What was going on, anyway? We were all laughing and goofing around. Talking, reading, doing last minute homework.

It was awhile before they made the anouncement that homeroom teachers were to lock their doors and turn off all the lights. That's what they're supposed to do in code red situations. The anouncement assured us we were not in a code red situation.

Still, it was a little eerie, and more than a little strange, so we quieted up a bit. I thought it was a drill. They always made us practice crap like that in high school. Fire drills, weather drills, code red drills. It seemed kinda weird, but we found ways to rationalize it.

It got harder and harder to rationalize, however, when it had been more than a half hour and we still weren't allowed out.

Another anouncement told us the teachers were receiving an email.

My homeroom teacher assured us he'd read it to us. And he did.

"A student and an administrator have been shot," he said.

Dead silence.

Then, the cell phones came out. We were told to put them away, but people put their backpacks up on their desks and crouched behind them. We wanted details. We were scared.

The situation had happened at the Jr. High down the road. A girl in my homeroom's dad was friends with the Assistant Principle down at the Jr. High. She told me and the people around us that her father said it was our old Jr. High principal who'd been shot.

She also told us her father said he was dead.

When that information spread around the room, the TV was turned on. It's the strangest thing in the world, seeing the places you went to school on national television. Helicopter shots of my high school. The Jr. High.

All the television reporters knew about the same amount of information as us. Less, maybe, if you didn't count the information we got from the people on the other end of our cell phones. But we were glued to the screen, anyway, thinking maybe they'd tell us something we didn't already know.

After a few hours, there was another anouncement. We'd be leaving early. I was home by 10 AM.

They made us make up that day, later that year.

When I got home, my mom was waiting for me. She didn't know how to act, or what to say. I just turned on the news channel and sat there, watching it silently.

I told her when I walked in the door that I'd heard my former principal was dead.

I learned later that cell phone sources are far more reliable than you'd think.

That girl had been right.

It happened in the cafeteria, before school. At our Jr. High, it used to work (I'm sure it's different now, but when I went there...) that when you walked into school in the morning, you went one of two places. To the gym, to sit on the bleachers and hang out before homeroom, or to the cafeteria, to sit on the seats and hang out before homeroom.

The boy had pulled out the gun in the cafeteria. The principal had yelled at the kids to run, to get out. They did. He didn't get the chance, though. The boy shot him before turning the gun on himself.

You want to know what those kids, those 11-14 year old children, did for hours after it happened? Hid. They ran into classrooms with some teachers and locked the doors and hid. No one knew what was going on. They didn't know if anyone was dead or alive, or who had gotten hurt. Some of them saw the principal get shot. They were trapped inside classrooms, scared out of their minds and not having any clue as to what was happening.

Some ran to the high school, or the neighboring elementary school.

They still use that cafeteria.

I was the same age as the boy who did it. Fourteen. Fourteen.

My school is in the middle of Hickville, where you'd think the worst problem would be cowtipping. Before the shooting, we'd had a guy walk into one of our elementary schools with a machete and attack a teacher. We'd had a gun scare when I was in Junior High, and one a year or so after the actual shooting. I think about a quarter or more of the students didn't go to school the day of the second threat. People around here take it seriously, now.

We had three or four bomb scares, a fire, and also a kid who tried to stab another kid.

I'm so tired of violence.

I don't pretend to know what it's like to lose 33 classmates and faculty members. It's a tragedy beyond my comprehension. It just happened so close to the date of a local tragedy that it stirred up a lot of memories.

I'll probably delete this, later.

I just needed to say it.

In lieu of actual writing, I'm going to add on to my list of memories. I cry every time I think about this one. But it's important to me.

#4

Being fourteen didn't suit me, I suppose.

Nearly a year before the shooting, when I still attended that Jr. High and at a time when I wasn't creeped out by that cafeteria, my best friend's mom died.

I won't use my friend's name. To be nice, since she doesn't know I'm posting this, or even that I think about this particular memory. We'll call her...Rachel. That works.

Rachel's mom had fought cancer for a really long time. Years. I can't remember how many, exactly. I want to say four or five, though. And I had really thought she was going to get better. So many times, Rachel would call me and tell me that the doctor had given them good news.

And then Rachel's calls consisted of less and less good reports.

I guess it never occured to me that her mother wouldn't get well, which was why I was so suprised when she IMed me on May 12th and told me that her mom had died the day before.

She hadn't called me the day it happened because it had been my birthday and she hadn't wanted to upset me.

Of course, I asked her if she needed me to come over (we live a two minute walk away from each other), but she told me no, she was alright, considering. She and her family had been prepared.

Rachel didn't come to school the following week, understandably. She did call me, and ask me to come to the services. Gave me a date, and the time. I told her I'd come, of course. Her mother was a wonderful lady.

My mom drove me to the services, and we both went in and sat down. The funeral had already been held, I think; this was just sort of a memorial service. There were a lot of chairs in the back of the room, and a lot of people filling them, and in the very front of the room there was a row of things that had been important to Rachel's mom. Little cards from Rachel and her little sister, pictures. Knick knacks. Photos of her and her husband on vacation. Things like that.

Rachel was up front with her family. I didn't have a chance to say anything to her when I walked in, but as I stared at the back of her head and waited for the service to start, all I could think was the same thing, over and over:

"I have to be strong for Rachel."

She was fourteen, and motherless. I know people have lost their mothers younger than fourteen, and I truly feel terrible for them. But at what time does a girl need her mother more than when she's just learning that other girls can be vicious, and who will show her how to put on make up, or help her pick out her first gown for the first high school dance that, at that time, was only a few months away. A girl needs her mom at all times, but especially when she's fourteen.

And I felt so selfish, so horrible for sitting next to my mom the entire time, when Rachel was missing hers. But I was also grateful to have my mother. That only made me feel worse, though. Knowing Rachel was alone, and that I was so, so thrankful I had mine.

When people started to talk about Rachel's mom, mentioning wonderful things she'd done in her life, and funny stories, I kept tearing up. I managed to choke it all down though because, as I kept reminding myself, I needed to be strong for Rachel. I was her best friend. She didn't have a mom now; she needed me. She couldn't go through this alone.

People's speeches began to wrap up, and the family gathered in a line at the front. All the attendees formed a line, too, and passed by the family, giving their condolences as they went from family member to family member. I joined the back of the line with my mom, taking deep breaths repeating my need to be strong, be STRONG, be strong.

And it worked. I met Rachel's mother's parents and sister, and had no tears. I saw her Dad and her younger sister, and I was okay. And then I got to Rachel.

One look at her, and I burst into sobs.

Everything seemed so wrong, and I didn't want Rachel, sweet Rachel who'd never hurt a fly, to have to suffer this loss. She deserved her mom. Her mom had been a nice person. And no matter how much I wanted to remain dry eyed and comfort my best friend when she needed it most, the unfairness and the sorrow and the guilt all struck me as soon as I saw her face and I just cried and cried and cried as I hugged her.

And when she pulled out of the hug, Rachel said the most amazing thing I've ever heard in my life.

"Kelly, are you okay?"

Four simple words that any other day would be merely conversational. But that day, Rachel was at her own mother's funeral. She had just lost one of the people who was dearest to her in the entire world.

And SHE was the one asking ME if I was okay.

I was stunned. I was speechless. I managed to nod and ask her the same question after a moment. She gave me a sad smile and nodded. I don't remember if I even got to hug her again before the line was urging me forward.

When I got home that night, I cried harder than I've ever cried in my life. I thought I was going to be ill. My mom tried to talk to me, but I couldn't even explain it.

She comforted me. RACHEL. Comforted. ME.

To this day, I thnk that's one of the single most important moments in my life.

At fourteen, Rachel was one million times stronger than anyone I've ever met.

She still is, actually.

Time for a lighter memory for my daylogs. Here goes...

#5

I was in the sixth grade, or approximately twelve years old, when my school was attacked by an Emu.

My school was situated next to a large field. The weather had just turned warm, so the farmers who tended the field hadn't gotten around to planting corn at that time. If you looked out at the field, you could probably see for about a mile, easy.

After lunch, all the kids were allowed to go outside so that the teachers could have fifteen minutes to themselves. A bunch of parent volunteers came to watch us, as well as the library ladies. Usually the kids got out the kickballs, or the basketballs, but when I walked out to lunch recess that day, I noticed something strange.

Every single kid was lined up on the edge of the school's property, bordering the field. And they were all looking at the same thing.

I ran up to the field, also, and ran my eyes across it, searching for what they were looking at. It wasn't hard to find. There was a giant--something--out there, watching us warily.

Kids were speculating what the creature was--I think we went through ostrich, moose, and deer (don't ask me about the last two) before someone nailed it on the head. It was an emu!

Now that it had a name, it enthralled every single kid all the more, and we stood and jeered at it, trying to get its attention. It ignored us for awhile, but then I guess it got spooked because it took off and ran into the graveyard across the road.

Being kids, the second the emu disappeared we forgot about him. Out came the kickballs, and the basketballs. I went to talk to my mom, who was a parent volunteer that day. Everything was perfectly normal until I heard the chorus of screams.

I looked over and saw that the emu was on the playground, chasing kids at top speed. Fourth, fifth, and sixth graders all ran as fast as their short legs could carry them, shouting at the top of their lungs. Kickballs were abandoned on the field as everyone started making their way toward the school.

I don't know who it was that thought "hey, this is just a giant bird!" and turned around. But whoever it was changed the entire scene. All of a sudden, the mob of children who had been so afraid had garnered some courage, and had started to chase the emu. It was the emu's turn to run away as fast as it could!

It's turn was shorter than ours, however, since all of the parents and library ladies started yelling at us to get inside and quick. We obeyed.

It turned out that the emu escaped from an emu farm an hour away. Who knows how it managed to travel that far without someone noticing it. You think it would stick out, or something.