So, I am from small-town America.  I like picnics in the same spot, ordering my favorites at the restaurant down the street, seeing people I know everywhere, the accent, the potato-salad, the sweet tea that is never too sweet, and I guess everything.  I've never minded that the movies always come late to the theater, that the traffic is slower, that the people are older, that the old chicken factory is still open, that the intense-smoke-smelling Wal-Mart is still way to busy, and that I always get homesick when leaving.  I guess I'll never stop getting homesick after a dream of a visit.  It nourishes my soul.  Don't get me wrong, college is a dream in itself.  I love my school.  The adventures, people, classes, campus are all endearing, and close to my heart.  However, I have ultimately been shaped by my small-town roots.  I can't but long for the mountains, the familiarity, and the safeness.  Growing up is a hard thing to experience.  No one tells us how complicated life becomes as we say goodbye to the small-town of our child-like minds into the metropolis of  our adult brains.

I'll be sitting in class at certain times in the day, and just day-dream about the experiences of my life.  During Christmas break I walked back into our woods just for the reminder of the lush beauty it brought into my life all those years.  I loved going fishing for crawdads.  My mom would always yell for us to come to the house.  My brothers and I would race back to see who would get into the kitchen first.  Oh what fond memories I have of that place.  

Part 3:

The game had been going on for hours it seemed like.  When would it end.  I had gone into the game four-five times now.  At half-time I shot around pretending I had a good jump shot.  I did a granny shot from the three-pointer line which looked more lame then anything else.  I though Gatorade was supposed to give you secret basketball powers.  Yeah right....

With five minutes to go I sat beside my teammates. The score board was pretty close, and I was praying Coach would forget I existed.  Where could I escape?  My dad was still cheering in a quite loud, respectful, manner.  I felt a tad ashamed that I hadn't gained a point for the team.  So far I had traveled, fouled, and missed.  Could it get any worse?  Why, yes.  Yes it could get worse.  

Two minutes.  "Doster!"  Oh dear.  He remembered my name.  I got up slowly questioning his motives.  "Are you sure coach," said my facial expression.  I went in and the game ended with us losing. Here's to next year!

I've lived a lot of life today.  I've sighed a big sigh, and I've breathed a deep breath.  My legs have walk a thousand steps, and have grown tired with the burdens I've carried along the way.  People have been everywhere my eyes have traveled.  Sad, happy, quizzical,jolly,uninterested, confused, and angry faces have passed by my own.  I wonder if they lived a lot of life today.  

On Wednesday evenings, I usually find my way to my church to help out with kids club. The church makes a fantastic lunch, and I fill my belly with my only home-cooked meal for the week.  Tonight we had spaghetti (which is my least favorite meal), and I ate everything.  Don't get me wrong.  My school has a fine cafeteria service, but there is something to be said about the sweet older ladies making the feast with their own hands just like my mama.  It is a blessing in my weeks here at college.  It also makes me thankful for my mom's own cooking.  She's the best.

One of the other things I've dedicated some time to this semester is spending more time in the gym.  I love the gym--which is a miracle.  The gym used to be viewed as a place of torture and despair.  I probably lost a few years of my life in that gym.  However, my love for the gym is authentic.  I actually want to go to the gym.  I actually want to sweat.  I actually get excited.  WOW.  A pig must have flew.  I think I'm up to a six pack...in my dreams.

That's all I have to say for this entry.  Cheers.

Part 2:

I sat on the bench as the game began mouthing, "Please don't put me in, please don't put me in Coach Smith."  I wasn't sure how I was going to do this.  The crowd only measured about fifty, but it might as well been a thousand.  My stomach growled for more of my red Gatorade that my mom had purchased at the concession stand.  It stained my upper lip a gross red color.  Maybe it would intimidate the other players...

"DOSTER, you're in," came a voice.  My heart began to pound.  This was my time to shine.  In a flash I pictured the stereotypical picture of me shooting the winning shot followed by my team lifting me up on their shoulders in exultation.  This would never happen, but it was just enough to get me on that old basketball court.  I ran into the huddle in the middle of the court acting like I was supposed to be there.  I again looked up to find my dad clapping and whistling some cheers...my biggest fan.  My sweet mom looked at me with a worried expression as if to say, "Don't get hurt!"  

I put my arm over one of my teammates to generate some kind of team effort.  This was my team, and I wanted to be all they wanted me to be.  We made a few plans that I didn't understand then the game was underway. Somehow I got the ball in my little hands five seconds later and looked around for HELP.  I didn't really know how to dribble which was a problem when a bigger girl made her appearance over my small frame grappling for the ball. 
"Go away!" I mouthed.  She could have blown me over with her breath.  I would triumph over that!  

I forgot the torrent of butterflies in my stomach in that instant.  My nerves were vapors all around me.  I could feel the power surging through my body.  This may not be the WNBA, but gosh darn-it I was here to play some basketball.  

I passed the ball in one fluid moment and looked for my place on the court.  I ran to my block and put my arms in the air in a way I thought looked threatening as if to say, "Fear me!"  Unfortunately, I'm pretty sure the only thing the other players feared was stepping all over me.  You see I was a rampant fouler.  I could foul a player like no one else.  I had good reason to be nervous--I had a record on that court that was a viable excuse for fear.  My mind flash back to the Monday nights my dad spent outside with my brothers and I shooting around the good ole' basketball my older brother, Ben, had received for Christmas. We practiced the "goose-neck" form for what seemed like minutes.  Dad had tried out for the UNC-Chapel Hill basketball team in the early eighties and had imparted his love for this American sport at a young age.

"Hands up, Bethany," I heard from the stands.  I snapped out of the daydream.  It was time to dominate.

Basketball diaries #1

In my basketball days, I never truly ruled the court.  I was slower then the rest, my shot always veered to the right or left missing the basket, and I may be the least competitive person to walk the planet.  You may think I'm ashamed of this, but I'm not.  My neutrality has guided me through the numerous b-ball teams I've let down.  I will never forget the evening my team played in the semi-finals.  We weren't the best, but we somehow got through with the win....

On that specific evening, I felt inspired to "rock the court."  I had just watched an awe-inspiring ESPN documentary with one of my brothers, and decided to change my perspective.  I could be that intimidating girl if I at least tried.

Now, don't misinterpret me.  I am not a lazy person.  I just get...distracted...quite easily.  I knew I could change though.  This was my time to shine...if I liked it or not. (This coming from the girl who, while in softball sat in the out field picking weeds for half the game, just liked Barbies and purple (I hated the color pink as child).

My parents drove me to the game while I sat in the back twiddling my pudgy fingers.  My dad had instructed me to do a tight fist when I got nervous.  My poor hands were pink after trying this exercise more than five times.  As we parked I could feel mom's delicious dinner making its way up from my stomach.  I was a nervous wreck.  My dad looked back at me confidently with his beautiful, encouraging smile.  "You got this sweetheart," he said with his southern draw.  That did it.  I miraculously got out of the car, and made my way to the gym...still reluctantly.

Half the team was already there.  My 5'2" coach, Coach Smith, motioned to me to hustle over to the huddle.  I jogged...reluctantly over.  I looked up to stands pretending they were all of my biggest fans...specifically looking for the cute boys.  My fourteen year old heart went pitter-patter under my bright blue jersey.  I was going to die.

The coach was saying something in the huddle...it might as well of been a different language.  I shook my head to make sure he knew I was paying attention.  Before getting out of the car, I had put a huge wad of gum in my mouth to keep mom's dinner down, and had forgotten to throw it away...I didn't believing swallowing was legal.

"God, please help me not to be put in first.  I love the bench," I prayed over and over again.  I looked up to find my dad smiling really big at me.  What a guy.  My mom was rolling her eyes over all of the needless smack talk coming from the stands.  I chewed away at my gum thinking over my escape....

There were four fire escapes.  Once the game started, they'd never miss me.  My colorful shoes laces came untied, and I crouched down tying them in bunny ears.   Over my head the team said in unison, "One, two, three gooooo Wolverines!"  I looked up.  Dang-it.  This was not a good sign.   

  On    One autumn evening, when the northern winds began to pick up, and the colors of the once vibrant leaves faded, my friend, Anna, and I decided we wanted a record deal, and fame.  We both believed our voices rivaled the angels in heaven, our style was cool and fresh, and we already had two fans—our mothers.   Now, Anna and I were nine years of age at the time.  Our “cool and fresh” style resembled that of a 90’s kid on a “Barney the Dinosaur” TV show, and our voices sounded more like squeaky ducklings.

            While laying on our bellies with Crayola colors and scrap paper from the printer I had horded in one of my pink folders, we made a list of all we needed to accomplish to successfully reach the end of our journey to fame. 

            The first step was to record our angelic, nine-year-old, voices on my nifty Fisher Price cassette player I got for Christmas.  I scrambled in the toy chest to retrieve the already tarnished cassette player. 

            As for Anna, she was a very precocious little girl.  Her straight blond hair, her Delawarean accent, and funny way with words made her a kindred spirit.  I decided, while choosing which crayon to use, that I would hire her as our song writer.  She would be perfect. 

            On play-dates that usually involved adventurous, imaginary games that involved beloved beanie babies, this journey, in our young minds, was going to take us farther than the back yard.  I didn't know much about Hollywood, only Hollywood MD which, trust me, isn’t anything like that far away Californian destination.  Our dreams were big, and dreaming about the future was more fun than the silly pretend games with our beanie babies.  

            Becoming famous singers couldn't be too hard we decided.  Anna’s mom wasn't go to pick her up for another two more hours which was more than enough time to prepare for fame. 

            Our list on the journey to fame read:

            1.  Pick out cool outfit. 

            2. Buy camera for band photo shoot.

            3.  Ask mom for a ride to Wal-Mart to buy the camera.

            4.  Find a cassette tape I won’t get in trouble recording over.

            5.  Write a song.

            6.  Figure out how to spell.

            7.  Name the band…

            8. …..

            Sadly, number eight never came for the two hours were up, and the dreams would have to wait due to the fact Anna’s mother arrived in toe with her four brothers.  The dreams of fame would have to wait.

January days seem longer than usual.  Morning seems like it happened two January days ago.  So much can happy in a January day.  Even though the sun is quicker to set that doesn't seem to affect the feeling of a long day.  My days this semester already seem to have fallen into place which is scary.  Where has the time gone?  I'm a senior in college with my long January days defining my life and all that happens from morning till night.  

As I watched the rain fall today, I longed for the light.  Maybe these January days could feel shorter if it wasn't for the constant flow of water out of the sky.  I'm surely thankful for all the rain does for the earth, but to last for days on end my soul feels weary.  I guess I could say my soul is bit pruned. 

Many professors have commented on how they wished they had the material to build an ark.  My roommate commented just today that, "The rain was romantic six days ago, but not anymore." Ha!  There are times when  I absolutely long for rainy days.  Now all I can think about is waking up to the sun hitting my face.  Please God?

So, we're still into the first few weeks of school and the days are busy.  This will be the semester I'll write more than I've ever written before.  

Today was like any other day.  The rain came tumbling down, and my feet were excessively wet from morning to night.  I prayed the papers in my backpack would stay dry.  Everyone on campus is wondering where the sun has gone.  Its in times like these that I promise myself that Spring always comes.  I know the cloud will dissipate when the good Lord desires.  Soon God? 

Today in chapel, Dr. Foreman spoke some inspiring words.  There were certain things that I've thought of before, but I loved his quote on the writers in the Bible.  "Inspiration wasn't without perspiration."  What a witty comment.  I think what I really honed in on was his personal reflections on his own writing.  He spoke on his bouts with writing essays that sounded good, but lacked understanding.  I find I trap myself in this as well.  I'm so concerned over whether it sounds good that I forget the meaning of the essay itself.  I remember my first big essay in high school.  I wanted my paper to sound extra-intelligent that I would find "smarter-sounding" synonyms instead of the simpler words.  I was embarrassed to receive my paper back with a comment that said something to the extent of, "Next time, try using a word you understand."  I was caught red-handed.  It was then that I realized me wanting to sound smarter, or cooler was hijacking the good things that I could write.  Unfortunately its a hard obstacle to overcome.  For some strange reason I convince myself that for my writing to sound good it must look fancy or have elaborate words.  I don't have the experience or credibility for that gift yet.

Simplicity is a beautiful thing.  I find that with a lot of memoirs, the people's lives are pictured in such a simple way and that grabs at my heartstrings more than anything.  The frills or fluff aren't there in the author's writing just the organic, real, and honest words.  It does an author no good to write something he or she can't even understand--the poor reader will have a harder time as well.

I was comforted by Dr. Foreman's words.  I don't think we ever stop growing in our writing style especially when working on creative non-fictional works. 

I suppose a good way to end this journal is with a poem by Vikram Pratap Singh on rain. It seems appropriate.  

Rain Rain Rain

Rain, Rain, Rain, come again and again,
In the winter, in the summer and in spring,
Come with joy, fall with happiness and go with sorrow,
Rain, Rain, Rain come again and again.

Rain, Rain, Rain come to relive earth's pain,
Rain, Rain, Rain come to make nature happy,
Rain, Rain, Rain come to make livings happy,
Rain, Rain, Rain come again and again.

Rain, Rain, Rain don't go away,
Rain, Rain, Rain i hope you will stay,
Rain, Rain, Rain come again and again. 

So SIP preparation is underway, and I've thought seriously about going the creative non-fiction essay route.  I've never talked about memoir so intensely in my life, and I feel like telling stories about my life and how those instances have shaped me is an incredible opportunity.  

As I think back to "Mirrorings" and all that Grealy had to say about her life, I was struck by the emotions it evoked in me.  I mean come on, if you don't feel emotion when reading about her battle with cancer then you may want to analyze yourself.  Writing is an outlet that I take for granted.  I think its easy in college to become mechanical in one's writing that you lose yourself within the words.  Regaining control, and creating a healthier view of writing assignments is one way.  Additionally, seeing those assignments as an opportunity to know and learn more is also key I believe.

I wanna tell more stories too.

Like now.

So, today I decided to study in an academic building that I usually don't step foot in.  I walked in, set my things by a comfy leather chair that reclined a little too much.  I was a tad  parched so I decided to get some water.  A few hours passed while I worked hard on getting ahead in life.  The view from my chair looked out into the mountains, and I was truly amazed while watching the storm rise and finally saw the rain hit the window with loud thumps.  The rain fell harder and harder.  This proved to be a distraction, but I didn't mind.  The sound was beautiful.  That was my favorite part of the day.

Whew.  A story told.  

 

Dear Reader,
    
   Let's talk about words. I've been accused (and rightly so) of being quite a wordy writer.  What is the solution?  I remember going through my shy faze where words weren't exactly flowing out of my mouth.  Obviously that was only a faze, and words are quite abundantly available now a days which is exemplified in my essays unfortunately.  I think the issue is I overly researched the material, and all that I've gleaned tries to come out on the poor blank page which can be disastrous.  For a creative essay there is room  for artistic expression, but I think at some points authors get to "in there head" that the reader has to overcome intense obstacles to clear successfully.  I believe I would fit into that category. 

    As far as classes, who knew that Linguistics 150 would be so interesting!  My mind was blown by phonetics and morphology.  From there I experienced interesting discussions on Thomas Holbein's painting "The Ambassadors" in Renaissance.  Oh the joys of a brand new semester.  I was sitting in class just reveling in the fact of what a gift learning is-which can sound corny, but I don't know how else to say it.  I have the opportunity of taking two weeks to learn about one painting.  It won't always be that way.  

     "What's in a word," wrote Shakespeare-Well, I'm definitely going to figure that out Will!  I'm about to read a cornucopia of words as I begin this very intense semester filled with John Donne, Joan Didion, Confucius,etc.  What an exciting line-up. Cheers.
  
    


    

Dear Reader,
    
    Today I began a new semester where I'm experiencing new classes, a sweet new roommate added to room 522, new food(Sadly, I'm already missing my mom's home cooking), and a renewed time of learning. The newness of it all is like a breath of fresh air in my dry lungs. Before coming to Covenant, I wouldn't have labeled myself as a lover of the written word, but ever since diving into my English classes I've discovered within myself a great desire to evolve in my own writing style.  To be honest, writing a college paper still makes my stomach quiver as I begin to form some kind of thesis.  I entitled this blog "Tales from an Abnormal English Major" for the distinct purpose of overcoming my struggles in my major, and discovering my niche in the writing world.  I hope I do...I'm a senior for goodness sake.  

     I have full confidence that God has placed me in this major on purpose...that's His way.  There is something so freeing about the prospects of having freedom to write with a good deal of artistic freedom.  I remember having to write a research essay on John Keats a few semesters ago.  Unfortunately, it wasn't my best work, and I really beat myself over that. I tense up, type and delete too frequently, and don't enjoy myself.  That should change.  What I truly love about writing is the ability to display "Bethany's thoughts" onto a blank page.  I guess that could be dangerous as well!  

     So, this being my first journal entry, I've decided that the ongoing theme of this blog will be grounded in my love of humorous writing.  My days are filled with many adventures and many opportunities, so I pray this blog serves it's purpose successfully.  I'm a joyful kind of personality, so hopefully that will also be clearly realized in my creative writing entries. Oh the hopes and dreams I have for this blog.  May it be all that I desire it to be, and may the reader find enjoyment in the journal entries to come.  Cheers.