Yites and Apple Juice

Approaching this holiday season, I went rummaging through boxes in the storage room in search of my family’s old Christmas letters.  When I was in college, my mom had sent them to me one-by-one, and I knew I had kept them somewhere.  I finally found the box containing all the cards and letters I had received during my four-year stay at college, and while the box was thrown together in a rather hap-hazard fashion, I slowly began to discover all of the Christmas letters.

I put them in chronological order, snuggled up on the couch, and began to read.

We are especially enjoying this holiday season through the eyes of a 1 ½ year old child.  Allison is absolutely enthralled with the Christmas lights – “yites, yites, yites!”  And they must go on first thing in the morning – she pulls me in the living room, saying “Mommy, yites!”

I had not realized my fascination with Christmas started so long ago.  Still to this day, it is my favorite time of year.  I begin listening to Christmas music by mid-September, but I will not decorate until the day after Thanksgiving, much to my husband’s relief.  The nativity set is now put up, the stockings hung, and the tree decorated with hand-crafted ornaments.  But I refuse to let my husband unplug the Christmas tree at night until I have left the room; I am unable to watch the lights go out, if only for a few hours.  I do not believe my love of the “yites, yites, yites!” will ever change: somehow, they embody part of the magic and joy of this season.

I continued to read on in the letter my mom had written all those years ago: “Her vocabulary is expanding daily; her first words were (in order) juice, cow, and daddy – you can tell where her priorities lie!”

I laughed to myself and turned to read these lines aloud to my husband.

“Do you know what kind of juice I was talking about?”

He shook his head.

“Apple juice.”

A smile crept across his face.  “You never change, do you?”

I love apple juice, and my family knows it.  If I could, I would drink apple juice with every meal, and sometimes, I do.  Apple juice with pancakes, apple juice with pizza, apple juice with mashed potatoes and gravy.  Almost anything tastes better with apple juice.

When I visit my grandma’s house in South Dakota, she always has apple juice ready and waiting for me, as she too knows it is my favorite.  She then proceeds to reminisce about how when I was little, I would constantly be begging my mom for “more juice.”  Never being a milk drinker, it was apple juice that won my heart from the start.  Now, if I tell my husband, “I love you more than I love apple juice,” he knows that is quite the honor.

It is interesting to look back at the little quirks we have carried from childhood into adulthood – the little pieces of our hearts we have not given up over the years.  So dig out those old Christmas letters or photographs.  Remember what it was like to be a child; remember the little things that bring joy to your heart still today.

Now if you’ll excuse me, I think I’ll go pour myself a glass of apple juice and stare at the Christmas tree for a while…

Ode to Fall

Hands down, Fall is my favorite season.  Children head back to school, brand new backpacks and crayons in tow.  The heat begins to subside, giving way to cool evenings – perfect for walking.  The trees slowly begin to turn, and suddenly, everything is transformed into a world of golden yellows, fiery reds, and warm oranges.  Pumpkins appear outside grocery stores and are carted away to people’s front porches.  It is the time of year when the world is expected to smell of cinnamon and pumpkin pie.

Granted, while Fall in Iowa is accompanied by leaves crunching underfoot, Fall in Washington is not quite the same.  In Washington, it rains, and the leaves are often transformed into a soggy mess.  But despite the damp weather, some of my favorite Falls took place there.

           

My grandparents had two huge maple trees in their front yard, and every Fall, thousands of leaves would fall from their sturdy limbs.  The yard would slowly fill.  Higher and higher and higher.  My sisters and I would appear with rakes that were twice our size, and we would rake up this wonderland of leaves.  We gathered a pile beneath one of the maples, and carefully, we climbed a wobbly ladder propped up behind the tree.  Once in the tree, we would stand looming over the pile.  From our youthful perspective, the pile of leaves appeared to be ten stories below us, and we had to muster every inch of our courage we had to jump.

           

One,

                       

Two,

                                   

Three!

           

We flew through the air and landed with a crunch into the leaves.  We rolled out of the pile laughing, begging to do it again.  And again and again and again.  We soon had leaves in our hair, in our clothes, and even in our underpants.  But we jumped out of that tree all afternoon, laughing with delight after ever courageous leap.

           

I will never forget those delightful Fall afternoons spent jumping.  However, the maple trees are now old, some of their branches have been cut down, and our jumping spot has long since disappeared.  All that exists now are the memories.  Memories conjured up every time I walk outside and hear Fall beneath my feet.

           

Crunch.  Crunch.

           

Crunch.

Atrocities and Miracles

This essay was written a year ago and is not perfect: I have been told that the ending is too much of a "shock" and needs to be hinted at more throughout the essay. However, this essay is meant for this day in history.

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Sept. 11, 01: “Today will probably be in history books all over the U.S. Four plains crashed, two in the World Trade Center in New York, one right after each other. One in the Pentigon at the White House, and the other in Pennsylvania. I heared the teroest put a gun by the pilates head and told him he’d kill him if he didn’t crash were he told him to. The plain that landed in Pennsylania they figure crashed because he didn’t want to crash were the man told him. They don’t know who did it. 200 firemen were killed trying to save people. Two inches of ash covered the ground by the World trade center. Alot of people died. Isaiah 41:10   So do not fear, for I am with you; do not be dismayed, for I am your God. I will straighten you and help you; I will uphold you with my righteous right hand.”

The alarm clock screams for me to wake up at 7:00 a.m.  Bleary-eyed, I pull on my jeans and a shirt bought from the end-of-summer sale at JC Penney.  I yank the tangles out of my hair, methodically brush my teeth, and throw a ham sandwich into my lunch pail.  On my way past the computer desk, I glance at a picture of a Chinese girl cut out of LifeLines magazine that my parents taped up.  I snatch up my backpack from the floor and grab the last of my homework as I head out the door.  Today is just like any other day, and my dad drives me to school at precisely 8:15.

I arrive at Ebenezer before most of the other students; I put my homework in the homework bin and place my books in my desk.  I hear the buses arrive, the hissing sound of the brakes being hit and the bus settling back into its stopped position.  The murmur of my classmates grows closer and closer as they approach the door.

“Did you hear?  Did you hear?  The twin towers were hit by planes just this morning!”  Everyone’s voices blend together as the news bursts out.  Being sixth graders, the terrorist attack on America was the biggest news that had come into our lives since Leroy kissed Becky behind the school.  The attack of the World Trade Center would overshadow all other events that occurred throughout the world that day, and we were trying our hardest to comprehend the severity of the situation.  But we were only sixth graders.

We lived across the country from this horrendous act: all the violence and devastation was out of our reach.  How does one comprehend the idea of an American trademark now crumbled to the ground?  The thousands of people instantly killed?  The impact on our country?  How were we to know that the events of this day would affect the rest of our lives forever? 

My parents waited for my sisters and me at home after school that day, and together we watched the news on TV.  We never watched the news in my household, but this day was special.  We watched the replays of the planes crashing into the towers dozens of times: it was almost as if the newscasters hoped that if they played the scene over and over, the planes would not crash.  Maybe one of these times, everything would return to normal.

I wrote a diary entry, my sixth-grade-mind trying as hard as it could to capture this day on a piece of paper.  I wrote and wrote, and I brought my diary out of my room to my dad.  “Does this sound okay?” I asked. 

He read it carefully, paying no attention to my spelling errors.  As I knelt beside his chair waiting for him to finish, he looked over at me and suggested that I add a Bible verse to the end.  He gently scratched his beard and said to look up Isaiah 41:10.

I hurried off to my room and added the verse.  Then, I shut my diary, took out the key, and locked it.  September 11 would never again be just a day in the beginning of September, and now, my memories of this day would forever be sealed inside a locked book with bears having a tea party on the cover.

This diary now sits inside a trunk alongside many other childhood memories.  Knickknacks one of my aunts sent me from around the world.  Key chains from family vacations to Yellowstone and the Oregon Coast.  A deck of Winnie-the-Pooh playing cards that were crinkled when a little black-haired sister accidently spilt Ramen noodles on them.  My diary got moved around in the shuffle over the years, but I know it’s there in my trunk, safely stowing away my memories.  Someday, I will be able to show it to my children and recollect the atrocities that occurred on September 11, atrocities that they too may have a hard time understanding, atrocities that will be remembered in the hearts of Americans for years to come.

But I can also tell my children that there is more to this day than the Twin Towers falling to the ground – much, much more.

Incredibly, September 11 will always hold a special place in my heart.  Halfway across the world in the early morning hours of this now revered day, one precious baby was left by her mother in front of an orphanage in Ruijin, China.  The orphanage workers found her on their way into the building and took her under their wings.  Nine months later, this little girl became my sister, Anna Rui Wen DeWaard.  She stands in complete opposition to everything September 11 embodies in America.  On this day of disaster, she stands as a miracle.  She was abandoned by her mother for unknown reasons, but this act of abandonment is what allowed her to transform my family.

I remember all the details of that September morning that should have been no different than any other, but I also have the memory of my sister being left at an orphanage gate, waiting for someone to take her in.  I have the knowledge that in spite of the horrors, God can also work miracles.  “So do not fear, for I am with you; do not be dismayed, for I am your God. I will strengthen you and help you; I will uphold you with my righteous right hand.”   

History Preserved

I wrote an essay that was published in Origins, a magazine put out by Calvin College.  My essay begins on page 21.
http://www.calvin.edu/hh/origins/Spring12.pdf

A Tour of Memories

I wrote this story back in September, but it was always a favorite of my roommates and a favorite of mine.

Twice a year I fly halfway across the country to a place called home.  I hopscotch my way across the western United States till my last flight lands in Seattle, where it is inevitably raining.  Still, home is two hours north.  I travel between the Cascades’ towering presence to the east and the Pacific Ocean lapping against the shore to the west, up I-5 till the Guide Meridian exit, and down the Old Guide Road until finally, I hear the familiar sound of the gravel driveway crunching under the tires.  I am home.

The weather stripping sucks against the door frame as I push open the familiar front door.  I take a quick sniff to catch a whiff of home, as the only time you can smell your own home’s unique aroma is when you are returning.  I am greeted by our latest family picture hanging in the hallway rather than my parents’ presence because they are sound asleep at two a.m. 

Every time I come home, nuances have changed: Anna’s goldfish – Winston, Wilhelmina, and Little Pete – have each grown half an inch, the bathroom sink has been replaced, and the shutters have been painted olive green.  Despite the changes, most everything else remains the same; I can count on my memories remaining right where I left them.

The following morning while my parents are at work and my three younger sisters are in school, I walk alone down the hallway.  To the left are pictures of relatives.  My dad’s grandparents stare stoically, their portrait next to my favorite picture of all – my mom’s grandparents.  While I never knew them, I can see the twinkle in my great-grandpa’s eye, evidence of the fact that when he was a boy, he peed out of a tree onto someone’s head, a notorious family tale.

To the right, in the vacuum closet, hang a few cherished old dresses my mom sewed for my sisters and me – simple dresses and fancy dresses; dresses with lace and dresses with bows; dresses with fluffy white slips underneath, perfect for twirling.

At the end of the hallway stands one of the many bookcases, and just like the rest, it is filled to the brim.  Some books have yet to be read, and others have walked into my family’s lives and built a home in our hearts.  Six copies of The Guernsey Literary and Potato Peel Pie Society sit waiting to be read again, after being picked up second-hand.  After all, a book this wonderful cannot be passed up after some poor, confused soul had the audacity to leave it at a thrift store; books have feelings too.

I come to my parents’ bedroom and peek inside. Above the bed hangs their wedding picture, love dancing in their eyes.  My dad’s bathroom, his only oasis in a household of five women, brings back memories of the Christmas long ago when I received my beloved tricycle.  He had secretly stowed it away in there, although how it fit in that little room, I may never know.

Then, I glance towards the closet and the three-pegged coat hook on the wall just outside the door.  On the center hook hangs a garment bag, holding a wedding dress – my wedding dress, the most beautiful wedding dress I have ever seen, patiently waiting to be revealed on May 12 next year.  I unzip the bag just enough to take a peek inside and then zip it up again before anyone sees me.

I pull the door closed across the shaggy brown carpet, and I walk past the bathroom, where countless hair-dos have been done and numerous teeth-brushing parties have occurred.

Renae and Anna’s room is directly across the hall, the room where I slept as a little girl, the room where Erica and I played Barbies for hours in the three-story Barbie house our dad built for us, the room where Renae and I used to shine flashlights into our neighbor’s living room, the room where I turned thirteen and received a red rose from my dad with a note that read, “I wanted to be the first man to ever give you flowers.”

The room next door is Erica’s, but it was mine for a few years.  Those were my walls, as was the wallpaper depicting stuffed animals having a tea party.  That was my bunk bed, and looking at it now, I remember a silly tale.  Once, in the middle of the night, I awoke to a size-fifteen-foot hanging down from the top bunk: my dad had taken refuge up there because my mom was sick with a cold.

Outside Erica’s room is the family room where once upon a time I learned to walk.  I found walking to be quite hilarious, and every time my two little legs managed to do it, I would giggle with glee.

The kitchen seems to quake in fear when I step onto the linoleum: I bring death upon unsuspecting kitchen appliances, both great and small.  The microwave, a candy thermometer, Tupperware lids, and a whisk.  Two sets of electric beaters.  I melted a fly swatter in the oven.  The fridge handle fell off into my hands all by itself, I promise!  Why the kitchen should tremble though, I have no idea.

Sliding open the glass back door, I step onto the cement patio and walk across the grass, water squelching out of the rain-soaked ground under my feet.  I’m about to enter my favorite room of all – mine.

I live in a playhouse.

Outside.

In my backyard.

Technically, it used to be the playhouse, but my dad put in insulation, drywall, and a wooden floor.  After seventeen years, I had a haven to call my own, even if it was a mere seven by seven feet.  The walls are painted cowboy tan, my grandpa’s old lariat hangs on a horseshoe hook, and a pair of cowboy boots sits outside the door.  I once dreamed of marrying a cowboy and moving to a ranch in Wyoming, but that is not where my wedding dress is taking me.  The man of my dreams is from the city, but I can still wear my Ariat boots once in a while.

I walk across the yard in the opposite direction and enter my dad’s shop, sawdust tickling my nostrils.  So many hours I spent out there talking.  My dad went about his work and listened earnestly, but I could carry on the conversation by myself anyway.  Once, I challenged him to give me a topic and see how long I could talk.  “Potato chips,” he said.  I talked for an hour.

One evening during my freshman year of high school, I pressed my bare feet against a cupboard in the shop, making a set of footprints in the sawdust.  Now, making sawdust footprints has become a tradition, and every time before I go back to school, I leave my dad a couple so he can remember our shop talks even while I am away.

My home is compiled of memories, but soon, I will not have claim over this home anymore.  Wedding invitations are waiting to be addressed, boxed up in the living room; my driftwood centerpieces are in a bucket in the shop; and my dress is hanging from the middle peg of a coat rack in my parents’ bedroom.  My fiancé and I are anxiously counting down the days until we will have the privilege of creating a home of our own. 

I suppose I always knew that someday I would have to leave 7050 Old Guide Road, making it a place I go to on family vacations.  But my memories will still be there, waiting for me to push open the front door and smell the sweet aroma of a place I once called home.

Maybe

There are several books on my bookshelf simply waiting to be discovered: The Duet, Wuthering Heights, and a plethora of James Calvin Schaap’s.  I begin reading back covers, flipping through pages, reading dedications.

When it comes to starting a new book, fears often creep into my mind.  What if I don’t like this book?  What if it’s boring?  What if it’s sad?  The what-ifs flood my mind and make it difficult to choose.  Then, out of the corner of my eye, a well-loved book comes into view.  

The Guernsey Literary and Potato Peel Pie Society.

I have read this book before – twice in fact – and feel rather guilty considering taking it for a third adventure.  But this book is safe.  These characters are already my close friends.  We have laughed together, loved together, and shared the intimacy of tears together.  I know that the second I slide that book off its home on the shelf, I won’t be able to put it back.

But that’s exactly what I did.  I slid.

Suddenly, I was transported to Britain during the aftermath of WWII.  My old friends were making me laugh, just as I knew they would.  I found myself trying to read faster because I knew I would enjoy what was right around the next page.  I couldn’t help but smile.

I began marking passages that hadn’t struck me before.  I even discovered a new word: muckraking.  And I was delighted to find that upon looking up its definition, another word could not have fit the situation more perfectly.

Maybe the authors of The Guernsey Literary and Potato Peel Pie Society were right.  Maybe “there is some secret sort of homing instinct in books that brings them to their perfect readers.”

Just maybe.