Yeah! I got 100 on my essay!

The Memory Box

                    I sat alone in a cold, dark room. It was late January and we just had the first snow fall of the year the night before. The sky was gray and overcast with clouds. I sat in a hospital robe looking out at the frozen Susquehanna River from my bed.

                    There was a small knock at the door. It was a woman. I could no longer tell you her name. She was a grief counselor for the hospital. She had come to talk to me about the loss of my baby, Grace. Grace was born too early and passed away while I was giving birth to her. I was recovering from the night before. I was given support information, numbers to call, packets and pamphlets to read, but what I remember most of the counselor's visit was when she handed me a box.

                    The woman left after she gave me her presentation. I know it must not have been an easy job trying to console women who had just lost a child. Now that I was alone again I began looking over the box. It had six sides, it was hand-painted lavender, with flecks of white and silver. There was a bright gold dragonfly painted on the lid. Holding the box in my lap, I ran my hand over the lid. Tracing the dragonfly with my finger, I could feel the paint where it rose and fell. The box had a great deal of texture to it. It was slightly rough and chalky feeling. I opened the box to find a single yellow paper inside that read:

"Memory Box Artist Program

Touching lives through Creativity

This box is donated and created by Pat Sheely, a decorative artist. The pattern on the box is based on an original design by artist Same

The Memory Box Program (http://www.teraleigh.com/memoryboxes/ ) is comprised of a group of artists that donate their time and money to create boxes for grieving families. Each box is created with great love and a sincere wish to reach out in support and understanding. As artists, we hope that this box brings you some small comfort, and the knowledge that we know that your child was special and very, very loved.

Signed Pat Sheely

Member of the Penns Woods Chapter of the Society of Decorative Painters"

                    The underlined areas were filled in, by hand, with blue pen. Once I finished reading I placed the paper back in the box.

                    Still with the box in my lap, I turned my attention to the neat pile of things stacked at my bedside. I started by placing a small double-quilted blanket, which we had used to wrap around Grace, in the box. It was white with green squares, thick, soft, and had little bears printed on it. I held it to my nose and breathed deep. Its scent was of her, of that night. I folded it in quarters and placed it in the bottom of the box, laying it on top of the yellow note. It made a nest in the bottom of the box for the other things to rest upon. Next came a tiny pink hat. The hat was much smaller than a normal newborn hat, because this hat was made for premature babies. It was knit, but not by hand; it was machined. Grace had worn the hat the night before. It was still very big on her head, despite the fact it was made for a preemie. There was also a small white cloth bib with a lace edge and magenta-pink roses on each corner. She wore it in the picture the hospital took for us. Next came a handful of pictures that were taken by the nurses of my husband and I holding Grace and of my husband bathing her. I then tucked in a set of cards reading, “Girl Shives,” with her weight and length on the front, her foot and hand prints on the back. I placed the lid back on the box and sat with it in my lap, looking back out over the river.

                    This memory box was full of tiny items that belonged to my tiny little girl. The box had a profound impact on how I grieved. I kept the box close, taking it with me when going to see family and friends, so I could share the things we had left. The box collected a few more precious things along the way, the card from some flowers, my bracelet from the hospital, a tiny pair of pink socks my mother had set aside for the baby, and the few ultrasound pictures we had of Grace from earlier in the pregnancy. Even later still, we added her ashes to the box. We had her cremated and could not decide where she should be buried. Therefore, she now sits with her things in the small lavender box, wrapped in a pink blanket with lace trim. I developed a strong love for dragonflies because of the box. They reminded me of Grace. Still, when I think of her, or miss her, I open the box, and find the blanket she wore that night she came and went. I deeply breathe in the scents still stored on the blanket. It brings back the moments we had with her. Then I tuck it all neatly away, until the next time the lavender box catches my eye.

Knitting again...

So I been wanting to get some knitting in and finally got around to completing a project. It is to totally cute project called the Hallowig. So here is what it looks like...LOL

School Essays...

This was my first essay for my English Class. You can download it in word format here or read it below...(Update, I got a 96/100 A on this paper)

Dad's Challenge

                    It was a sunny summer day. My dad, who was off work, asked if I would like to go out shooting. I was excited to go. I had been waiting until he felt I was old enough to go. I was almost eight. The day had finally arrived for me to learn to shoot, and so much more.

                    I idolized my father. He was a Marine, tough and strong, but still very soft and kind. Well, he was soft at least when it came to me, his only daughter. “You can do anything you set your mind to, and don't let anyone ever tell you different,” he reminded me often. He was my hero.

                    We got the guns and packed them into the car. Then off we went. I was not sure where we were going. I asked my dad and he said, “It's not far.” We drove as if we were heading out of town. It was a road I had been down many times in my life. We continued down the long, straight road, with a few rolling hills. Emerald-colored pine trees lined the length of our drive. He turned off onto a dirt path I had never noticed until that day. We drove back into the woods until we came to a clearing.

                    We lived in the Pine Barrens. The ground is sandy, but firm, not like the beach. The Barrens are full of trees called Pygmy Pines. These pines grow only to about six feet tall in most areas. When I looked around the clearing, we were at a dump. It was really just a small sand pit the locals decided to use as a place for unwanted things. Around us, there were tires, cans, bottles, old sofas, and refrigerators. These items were piled together in the sinking sand pit, only to rust and decay away. Across the pit was a pine-lined ledge.

                    Dad and I gathered up some cans and bottles we found in the area. He took them around to the ledge on the other side of the pit and then stood them up in a line. When he came back, he took his time teaching me about the gun. It was a .22 rifle with bolt action. He showed me how to load it carefully, and then he let me put a few rounds in the gun myself. He then reminded me of all the safety things I should do with a gun. “Never point it at anyone and keep it pointed toward the ground when not using it,” he reminded me.

                    Then it was time to shoot. I tried to lift the gun, but it was just a little too heavy for me. Dad saw me struggling, so he knelt down on one knee and placed the barrel on his shoulder. This allowed me to aim with ease. I pulled the trigger. POP! Can after can fell. Dad looked proud. For about half an hour, we continued to set them up and shoot them down. “You are doing really well,” he said to me with a smile. I was so happy. I was alone with my dad, my hero, and he was proud of me. I could shoot well.

                    Then my dad did something that, to this day I will never forget. He got serious for a moment. He pulled a brand new quarter out of his pocket. It was shiny, and it glinted in the sun. He handed it to me.

                    “Do you see any marks on this quarter?” he asked me.

                    Critically, I looked over it and said, “No, it looks new.”

                    “I want you to mark it, scratch it, dent it, make any kind of mark you can on it,” he said explaining my task. I was still puzzled as to what he was doing. Why in the world would he want me to scuff up a brand new quarter? I did as he said. I bit it. Then I threw it on the ground and stomped on it. I tried to scuff it with my shoe. I picked it up, and tried rubbing it across some tree bark. As hard as I tried, all I managed to do was make it dirty, but no marks appeared. Dad cleaned it off and looked at me.

                    Handing me the quarter he asked, “Did you make a mark?”

                    “No,” I replied with some question and frustration in my voice. I was still confused as to where this was all going.

                    Dad took the quarter from me and placed it on the side of a dead tree stump that was near us. He wedged it in a bit, so it would stay in place. I recall the gleaming profile of George Washington shining back at us in the bright sun. Then he took my hand, and we stepped back from the stump. With me safely behind him, he took aim, and shot the quarter. I was shocked. What was this? What was he trying to show me? The quarter bounced off the stump, and flew to the ground.

                    He went and retrieved the quarter. There was a perfect hole right through the center. He banged down the sharp edges so it would be safe for me to hold, and I would not cut myself. I was still a bit puzzled. Then he handed the quarter to me and said,

                   "Look at this. If you ever decide to point a gun at a living thing, remember this. Remember the power. This is what a gun can do to a quarter that you could not even scratch. Imagine what it would do to a person. I do not want you to think you can't protect yourself. If you ever need to use a gun to protect yourself, I want you to do it. I am showing you this so you can understand what you would be doing. A gun is a great tool. It can feed you. It can protect you, but its main purpose is to kill. Never raise a gun to anything you do not intend to kill."

                    I held that quarter in my hand, turning it over repeatedly. I looked at the perfect hole now where George's face once was. I remember thinking about the day, shooting the cans, and how much fun we had. I realized my dad had not only taken me out there to teach me how to shoot, but also to learn when to raise a gun, and when to pull the trigger. Perhaps the most important lesson of the day was the great responsibility that comes with making these decisions.

                    Looking back on this now, as a mother, I hope I can pass this along to my boys. Think before you act, because your actions can have great consequences. I think back on that day often, of Dad and me in the woods, of how much it impressed upon me. I think how lucky I was to have a father who would take the time to ensure I could handle a gun safely and, to teach me how to protect myself if needed. He also taught me how to be a responsible person when it comes to that moment in time when you need to decide if pulling the trigger is the only option.