Updates, After...2 Years (Wow)

Well, hello, hello! 

It has certainly been a very long time since I have posted. Since I have not done notecards in a while, I figure that I will start to use this blog to share my writing with you lovely readers. If I ever do pick up notecards again, which will always be a strong possibility, you will definitely see them posted here. 

Today I'm attaching a link to my wattpad account, after I have already annoyed all of you with my Facebook posts about it. Please send feedback! I do want to be a published author some day. Also, I work very hard on my books...be considerate. I want constructive criticism. 

Thanks to all!

winter break 2012, baby

The life of an English major...

Too damn hard. It's not bad enough that I had some horrible luck and lost ALL of my college portfolio, but now my backup hard drive is giving me issues. 

Sure, I got in some pretty good essays this semester. They probably all suck, at the same time. The only class I know I did well in was my Expository Writing class with Fleming (in terms of English, that is). That actually got me going and writing some pretty extensive and challenging bits. I'm hoping that I can turn those into something that can be published. I won't reveal TOO much on the matter, but there are some pretty good pieces. My favorite one...well, I'm saving that one for another time. But here's a revised version of my first piece from the beginning of Fall 2012.

I've also had the chance to get in some really good sections and bits. For those of you who'e read anything from my Salina Edwards series, there's a lot of changes that the story's going through in terms of characters and story development. Arcturus is no longer so sweet and sensual...Salina's got some pretty dark history happening, too. But we don't see a lot of her story until the second book. Then the whole Arcturus bit...let's just say I've given him more of a voice in my books. Know what that means? Well, if you don't, you will. For those who get it...get excited. 

My Family's Escape

            Before the Civil War, Jacob Gehrett rolled up his shirtsleeves to build a house and adjoining shop in Orbisonia, Pennsylvania. He was a gunsmith, like his father John, and prospered in his business. When the war came about, he fought like many a brave soldier. However, unlike many of those said soldiers, he returned home to his family and the Gehrett legacy continued.

            A hundred and fifty years later, his shop has been torn down and in its place stands an old, dilapidated home that was abandoned years ago. On the other side of where Jacob built his house is a rundown hotel that houses an antique shop. It displays items behind glass windows so dirty it’s as if a fog plagues the building. The old town is obviously beginning to decay.

            You would think that perhaps the house would be, too. However, even after over a century, Jacob’s former home still stands. Its upkeep is credited to his ancestors, and their will to keep a piece of history in the family. I can’t even count the number of hands the house has passed down to. Several names have reached my ears from Gehrett, to Dodson, to Stevenson, to Bechtold. As of today, my grandparents are the current caretakers. While in their hands, the house has hosted many stays from May through November. In the past, before I was ever born, Easters were held there, cramping many of the Bechtolds under a tiny roof. It has been an oasis, a quiet escape, and one of our best-kept secrets for several generations. As my cousins and I have grown older, the family infrequently seems to return since many other places are more sought after for vacationing. But it still stands strong and ready to welcome us whenever we arrive.

            Now, in the twenty-first century, the house has newer, shingled siding and a brand new, tin roof that echoes with the sound of rainfall in the hot summers. It smells of a sweet, earthy history as you walk through the front door, something I’ve never been able to find anywhere else. The furniture is older; the most modern thing is the television that dates back, probably, to the eighties. In the living room, a working Victrola sits at the base of the stairs with its mint condition records hidden within. The past summer my family and I visited the house, and we played some of Aunt Maude’s records featuring an Italian orchestra. As my parents and I ate breakfast in the kitchen, which houses a fully functional General Electric refrigerator from the fifties, muffled music floated into us from the adjacent room. I hadn’t felt so happy all summer as I did that morning.

            I love that house. Small as it seems on the outside, it has three bedrooms, and could have more. The door handles are old latches that lift when you turn the knob, and the doors stick from coats of paint layered on after years of wear and tear. There’s no air conditioning, so the place can be a sauna with the windows closed. Even on the right night, as a cool breeze floats in, it can be so stifling that there’s no chance of shutting the windows when the neighbors across the street are still screaming at two in the morning.

            In the room I usually sleep in, I can look out one of my windows to see the roof of our tiny porch and the Methodist social hall across the street. Years ago, I invited my best friend, Gina, to enjoy the simplicity of that place. On a whim, while my parents had walked the half-mile to the only grocery store in town, I crawled out of the window and sat on top of the porch. Barefoot and smiling silly, I waved at the women exiting the hall as they stared up at me with expressions that clearly said, “My god, who is that crazy child?” later that night, Gina and I sat up in our room getting sugar rushes from cream soda and cranberry juice as we laughed and yelled greetings out the window to unsuspecting passerby, the elderly home next to the church hall, and stray cats wandering about under the streetlights.

The house gives constant reminders to its visitors that there is always something new to discover. Secrets and pranks have been hidden in closets and crevices over the years, much like a Playboy puzzle I once found that had been given to my grandfather as a gag gift. One of these reminders, and my favorite part about the house, is the Secret Room, which is adjacent to mine. It has low ceilings and needs serious renovations. My grandmother keeps some of the more rundown furniture in there to store things like linens and old marbles; other than that it’s never used. When Gina and I had been there, we hid old bits of paper in the wall’s deteriorating plaster. Last summer, I rediscovered them and, feeling nostalgic, brought the rolled up pieces home with me. At first glance, it looks like there’s nothing special about the Secret Room, except that it might be haunted; it surely looks like it could be. However, a short, steep staircase leads precariously down to a doorway that opens out into the kitchen. That is why I love the room; I’m able to make my grand entrance in the morning from a doorway that no one else can use.

With so much history in the house, and even the area itself, it’s hard to believe it could ever get boring. The cemetery on the hill, which is the best place in town to watch a sunset, is home to some of our relatives, Jacob Gehrett and his father included. My parents and I have walked the graves, dating back to the 1800’s, numerous times. I now know the location of each ancestor’s home beneath the wormy earth, where they can always enjoy a sunset that I, for years, have cherished.

A past time in our family is to sit on the back porch and watch the townies go in and out of the only eatery in tow, a pizza place that’s been there for ages where patrons watch the Saturday night Nittany Lions games instead of the Philadelphia Eagles. From the porch, there’s also a clear view of the only stoplight in town and the firehouse. Last summer, I visited Orby, as the locals call it, with my grandparents and cousins. We spent an evening enjoying our family pastime while eating cheese and sipping cool beverages as the darkness descended on us that warm night. I sat next to my cousin Kate who, despite being eight years my senior, is one of my best friends. I was her bridesmaid later that summer, and she and I were always as close as sister. As such, she played the part quite well as my role model and instigator. She dared me to talk to one of the local firemen as he jogged over to the firehouse.

“Why don’t you go over and talk to him?” she asked in her sly, teasing voice with the hinted suggestion that I, as single woman, may find a young, potentially single man interesting.

I gave her a look that said I clearly wasn’t, but the challenge had been laid before me, “You want me to talk to him?”

“Yeah.”

“I’ll do it.”

“Go right ahead, I dare ya.”

It’s known in my family that I want to be a firefighter like my grandfather at some point in my life, so I figured that I’d at least have something to talk about. To Kate’s surprise, I took the dare. I jogged over to the guy as he stood in front of the fire trucks and struck up a conversation.

“Hey, I saw you jogging around, and, since I’m from out of town, I was wondering if you knew any good routes to run.”

He seemed surprised at my sudden appearance, but obliged nonetheless, “Uh, nothing much, really. About the best you can do is about three miles.”

I was looking for something closer to five, but I didn’t really care. What I wanted to talk about was the fire department. As I chatted him up, I learned that his name was Anthony and about how the department was all volunteer firefighting. The small facility kept going only because of the hard work and fundraising that the squad put in. It wasn’t the most exciting thing in the world, but it was necessary and a rightful duty to the community. Shortly after, his mother showed up; she was also on the squad. All three of us got into talking about how it was something I wanted to do. She even pulled her gear out of her car and let me try it on, the heaviness of the material and the oxygen tank weighing me down. After getting past the initial embarrassment of her overwhelming kindness, I felt proud and ready to take on the task; I knew that this was something I could do.

We talked for a good hour, probably, and I exchanged heartfelt thanks and goodbyes with them before turning back to the house. It was so dark, at this point, that I couldn’t even see my family as they sat under the roof of the back porch. However, the whole time I had talked to them, I could feel their ever-watchful stares on my back; it was a wonder that my ears hadn’t turned red.

“I can’t believe you did that!” Kate said as I returned to my seat next to her.

“What? You told me to!”

“Yeah, but I didn’t actually think you’d do it!”

“Esther’s got herself a boyfriend,” her fiancée, Rob, said from her other side.

My grandparents merely teased me lightly about whether or not I was interested in that young fireman. I merely told them that we talked about the job, nothing more, but they acted as if they didn’t believe me. To this day, I haven’t heard the end of it.

If I’m not spending time with my family, watch or chatting up locals, there is always the run or walk around town. Anthony was right in saying that there weren’t really many places to go. The town’s so small that you can run around the circumference of Orbisonia and its neighbor, Rockhill, in less time than it takes to walk across UMass from one end to another. Both towns together are less than four miles around. Even when I loop through many of the streets, all the while catching glimpses of some of the more backwoods-style homes and their residents, I don’t even hit the five-mile mark. It’s nice when I go for walks after dinner to see the East Broadtop, as I have done many times before alone and with my family. The old station still runs a coal train during certain times of the year. As a child my parents took me on it, where I eagerly stuck my head out the window to get a better glimpse of the countryside. I managed to get a clear view of the engine before its ashes flew into my eyes; I still had a wonderful time.

Sadly, there’s always the end of a trip to Orbisonia; the stay is never long enough. I dread what will happen after my grandparents pass because nobody seems to want the responsibility of the property, save for Kate and myself. The house that holds so many memories may either fill to the brim with more or fall into the hands of strangers. I enjoy my short, summer stays there and the simplicity of escaping to a small town that no one has ever heard of. The town needs a bit of touching up, but the neighbors are friendly, and the house is always a welcoming beacon. For as long as I can remember, on a drive of what seems to be endless amounts of highway and back road routes, over the Susquehanna River, and through the rolling, green hills and towering cornstalks, I have traveled far to return to a place that will forever be a part of me, and a part of my childhood.

everything I've written lately has been in my "book" (no, not one of my eventually to be published pieces which may happen sooner than i think depending on how fast i can write/read/edit/read/edit/and so on and so forth and how much my friend's company likes my stuff!)

no, my "book" is the notebook i carry around with my everywhere and write down whatever bit or section comes to mind. i wrote 30 pages...15 back to back people, don't get too excited, here...30 pages of timeline and sections/bits for my rewrite of the book i called "yin" (the one i wrote when i was 12)

so that's cool. i've also started focusing more on my memoir. i'm really trying to think of ways that will make it readable for people. and i'm also contemplating something else that i've never done before inspired by my junior year writing class...hah...fuck, thought i'd never say that! (seeing as i'm not particularly fond of it)

my latest typed piece of writing...probably going into my memoir. it's nothing special. 

"the toils and trials of a sick person”

All I wanted to do tonight…because it’s actually morning…12:47 AM with a 6 AM something wakeup for work at 7 AM…was to heat up my eucalyptus neck wrap that’s nice and soft and smells great that my aunt got me a last Christmas. But I can’t use it. Why?

My RA told me a couple weeks ago about an incident involving drunk people in Patterson Hall, Southwest, UMass…(aka Zoomass):

The sink was filled with water and the microwave was thrown in. The stove was also filled with water. The stove is now functional, but we have no microwave.

Weeks later, and still no microwave. What the fuck am I supposed to do to heat up my wrap? Nothing. I have no wrap for my sore neck with an oncoming flu and a continuing stomach bug that shoots sharp, stabbing pains through my abdomen.

Thank you Southwest…this is perhaps the only time I’ve hated you this semester. I’m surprised it’s taken me until Halloween to come to this. 

toils and trials of class essays

My toils lately have been put into the forms of essays and various other bits for my books. Here's one I just spent the past couple of hours on for my Expository Writing class...read it, I swear it's good (hopefully). Pictures aren't included but there are text boxes where they're supposed to be...give me a break people...I've been at it a couple hours and it's 1:28 in the morning. I'm getting up for work at 6:15 AM.

The Efforts of Elevation

Several times over, I have traveled up and down Route 116 to Mt. Holyoke College for classes, pleasure, and work. Whenever passing the parking lot for the Notch Visitor Center, I always wondered as to why I hadn’t yet taken the chance to hike the trails back there. The main problem I usually face is that many of my friends aren’t active enough to actually go and do something involving physical endurance. That, and none would last the distances I like to go, or would slow me down. These thoughts passed through my mind as I drove solo, giving myself excuses for why I hadn’t bothered to text or call anyone to go out with me. The biggest truth of the matter was I liked to walk and hike alone, especially in the woods. It’s something I’ve done for years as a child, growing up with the High Point State Park as my backyard in New Jersey. The only thing that set me on edge about being by myself was that I was unfamiliar with these crisscrossing trails and the terrain; if something should happen, such as my foot slipping on some wet leaves as I traveled down a slope possibly off the trail while exploring a better view, then no one would ever know. For some reason, despite my cautious tendencies when venturing alone, I hadn’t told anyone where I was going; I simply picked up my stuff and went.

On the way, listening to the radio, excitement bubbled within me until I parked my car and started my exploration. Among other tools, I had a camera in my pocket; I wanted to actually record some of the things I saw. I had no idea where I was going to go, except that I knew I didn’t want it to be some thirty-minute walk through the woods that left me wishing I had gone further. After picking up a map from the visitor’s center, I set out to follow the trail that led up to the peak of Mt. Norwottuck.

Starting out, I felt like a fool walking by myself, stopping at every cross section to make sure that I was going in the right direction. No one else I passed had a map in hand; I was the only virgin climber of the mountain that I could see. The trails were a little confusing, especially at the beginning. My first stop brought me to an area that warned me of falling rocks and debris. Signs reading “Danger” and “No Trespassing” lined the road the closer you got to yellow, barren hills that were designated as restricted areas. Despite my curiosity and tendency to ignore such signs, as I do many times in the backwoods of my hometown, I carried on in the opposite direction. The terrain seemed doable, but I was especially glad that I had worn my boots. The protestation I’d encountered when putting them on that afternoon had been cumbersome as the leather fit tight and cold around my feet, but I had managed to coax them on and lace up so I could prepare for my unknown journey. The paths were rocky, full of slate and chipped flakes that clicked against one another with every step I took. It was so unlike the soft, grassy, or moss-covered dirt that I was used to, and I immediately knew I was in for it.

My legs pumped as the slope immediately shot upwards into a forest that smelled of autumn decay as it hovered in a state between life and death. Nothing could be seen through the dense walls on either side of the path. Even as I paused to look out into the valley, the trees blocked my view of what lay below. With the climb and change in elevation, my breath came hard as my heart began to pound against my chest. I wasn’t tired, but I was definitely getting a workout. The brisk, fall air was no match for my body’s ability to burn and sweat as I ascended up steep, dangerous slopes. Taking great care, I walked over a mass mixture that took form in shades of gray; bulky and flaky bits of rock shifted under me, and I was sure I could seriously injure myself should my boot slip in the slightest.

On the way I passed various people, but also noticed that it wasn’t a journey for the light of heart. A mother carrying a toddler on her back smiled as I commented on her companion’s assistance in her endurance. Her chuckle and response, “It’s harder on the way down,” made me smile, but I wondered how it could possibly be harder to carry someone down a mountain than up. I would later retract that disbelieving thought. After passing her, though, I was climbing with my hands and feet, leaning forward as much as possible and keeping my head low as I made my way up the steep and narrow rock path. Roots jutted out into it. The path, a small canyon carved into the hill from years of rainfall and erosion, twisted and turned its way up till you reached more level ground. Time seemed to pass by so quickly, but it had taken me under an hour to reach the top of Mt. Norwottuck. After all of the stops I had made to check out the scenery and check the map, I felt like I had made pretty good time going at my leisurely pace.

Accomplishment filled me as I stood on top of a mountain I had never conquered before. After wondering the whole way when each slope would be the last, I had finally made it. As I took in several deep breaths and wiped sweat from my face, I was able to finally see the result of my efforts and glimpse a tiny world below my newfound kingdom.

The view was gorgeous and made for a grand picture. Even though the day was bleak and cloudy, the fall colors of crimson, sienna, ochre, and umber all blended to make a palette with the hues of green across a sea of trees and farmland. The mountain range spanned the horizon, and in the valley’s wake I was pleased to see more vegetation than human occupation. However, I was slightly disappointed. Despite how much less challenging the terrain and climb is on the Cliff Park Trails in Pennsylvania, the view of the Delaware River and my town on the other side of the banks is much more breathtaking than what I saw at the top of Norwottuck. I’ve seen landscapes before, but without the view of glimmering water reflecting back the sunlight, the sky, and the mountains just above it, the view of the Holyoke Mountain Range fell short for me. The disappointment, though, was what egged me on to take my journey further. Surely, after barely being out for an hour, that wasn’t it. I looked at my map again and a spot not too far ahead caught my eye for its name alone. I set my new destination: the Horse Caves.

Trekking down another steep, unfamiliar, rocky path made my legs shaky. It was prior knee problems acting up, and I found myself having to catch every other step as my supporting leg would give out with the resistance my body exerted to keep from tumbling down the hill. But I was excited and determined; the path I was taking was even more challenging, and I found myself hopping over rocks and using my hands more to help guide me down drops and over obstacles. As I finally came to a leveled area in the path, I looked down a slope into the woodland abyss, seeing nothing. Down the steep embankment, all I saw were trees blocking even more trees and autumn vegetation. I had already come a distance, but hadn’t found the caves.

Looking at my watch, I reluctantly began to turn back when I heard voices; echoing voices. They would have to be bouncing off of some sort of surface, such as large rocks. After a moment’s hesitation, I began to run down the slippery pathway, keeping myself from going down into the mucky leaves as I propelled down the path, knowing my final destination was ahead. When I came to stand at the top of the caves, I was sure I had reached them, but couldn’t figure out which path to take. After making a wrong turn, I doubled back and looked down a narrow crevice that led off the trail, contemplating it as I had when I first noticed it.

It’s all a part of the adventure, I thought to myself as I squeezed in between the rocks and started to, literally, climb down them. It was a short descent, and I was merely slipping through a small crack between large boulders before dropping down to a few lower rocks. It was similar to the light rock hopping and bouldering that I had done over the summer at Devil’s Den in Gettysburg, where the formations had towered over a friend and me. We slipped, slid, and jumped from one rock to another, darting into creepy crannies and daring the spirits to show themselves in the ever growing darkness.

As I descended down the crevice, my way had been off the beaten path just enough that nearby hikers didn’t even notice as I pushed myself off of a rock and landed on soft, dusty earth where I was dwarfed by the massive rocks that towered over me. There were no coves or openings within the formations that I could see, and I later discovered that the “caves” were not really caves. I overheard the hikers talking about how there were no openings to venture into, and I realized that they were merely these overhanging rocks that loomed overhead. Later, I learned that they were believed to have provided refuge to rebels during Shay’s Rebellion. It was most likely the shelter the rocks provided that brought the caves their namesake. After staring up at these enormous wonders for a bit, I looked behind me and saw the path I needed to get back up. However, it was out of the way and much less fun than how I had gotten down. So, I grasped some holds on the rocks and climbed back up to the crevice again.

The hike back up to the peak was difficult to keep track of; the path was so covered with leaves that I even lost my way at one point. Reaching the top again was almost as fulfilling as the first because I was so tired. However, there was no time for rest. I had already exhausted those spare, precious minutes, and my trek was coming upon the two-hour mark. I was far from finishing my hike, and it was then that the mother’s words came back to haunt me. The descent down the other side was the hardest part of the journey as I resisted gravity and tried to keep my feet from slipping on the unstable terrain. My body felt the wear and tear as it was jostled over every stumble and heavy step. But there was more opportunity for me to realize what was around me. I wasn’t focusing so hard on making my way up the right path, but merely following the way I had already taken. In the woods, I stopped at one point and realized that it was actually peaceful. The silence of the place was overwhelmingly delightful, and I realized that I hadn’t heard such a thing in so long. There’s always noise everywhere I live. The silence also extended to something I hadn’t realized before as I huffed and puffed up the mountain; there were no birds.

Have they already migrated? I wondered to myself. After listening carefully, I finally heard perhaps one or two lonely songs call out into the wild, but aside from that, there was nothing. The peacefulness brought me back in time to days when I hiked often, and I enjoyed the solitary time I had to myself to actually think and breathe without the suffocation of everyday life pressing in on me. It was a time to be myself, and to enjoy the journey. But more than that, there was something about it that was like a state of meditation, and the realization of that silence was as if I had been lifted into nirvana.

That feeling of escape overtook me for what felt like a blissful eternity before reality grasped me once again and yanked me back down to earth with the sound of swift footfall on the leaves heading towards me on the path ahead. I then knew that I would have to return, not only for further exploration of the rocky slopes, but so I could attempt to recreate that venture into another existence. 

rain, rain, spotify

September 18, 2012

Rain, rain, go away
Come back when I want a day off of lifeguarding next summer.

Note: Need more sleep; I'm an English major, not an Engineering major!

Spotify has kept me going, just like last semester.

Guess who's back in action?!

September 18, 2012

2:08 AM--fell asleep & woke up an hour ago
Talking across the globe to Shannon (who is sadly in Japan)--MISS HER!
2 more things: 1) awesome TY card from zumba student <3
2) way excited to go run a 5k later today =)

I NEVER TOLD YOU

Want to read a book? 

I Never Told You <-- Link

Acces Code: IH83J-JG0DA-0XKPF

It's not done, though, fair warning given.