OWP06

9/11

    By the end of  the day most people had seen the images of the planes crashing into the World Trade Center at least once. Being an early riser I saw the whole ugly episode unfold from the beginning.  At first I thought I was watching a movie, but as the newscaster kept replaying the crash and my coffee began to kick in, I dawned on me it was real.  A plane had actually crashed into the tower! My dad was a vice president of an insurance company located on the 58th floor of  the second tower. But, the company also maintained several offices in the first tower. The first tower now ablaze, mortally wounded with a plane in it’s belly. Over the years I had met many of his co-workers that worked in the first tower. I watched the television completely helpless to do anything for them but witness their tragedy.  Every prayer I ever knew was repeated in rapid succession but they stopped as a second plane hit the other tower.  This was not the answer I intended.  My dad was in the second tower and I knew he was at his desk because he was always there and he was always early.
  I had to talk to my sister.  I woke her up and we made plans to coordinate our contacts and try to get hold of our parents.  Calls to New York weren’t getting though.  Already the phone lines were flooded with people needing to know what is happening in New York City. Being unable to get through by phone surprised me.  It was still early morning, only 20 minutes had passed since the initial plane crash. How could the phone lines be overburdened like it was Mother’s Day or Christmas? The old saying is “no news is good news”. I can tell you no news can also lead to panic. I was mesmerized by the images flashing across my television screen. I recall being scared.  I wonder if being scared makes you helpless, or being helpless makes you scared. I know it's harder to be left behind and I was very afraid of being left behind.
    The images on the television continued to deteriorate, people choosing their means of death, jumping out of buildings for a few last moments of freedom rather than accepting the claustrophobia from the fires of hell closing in. Finally, about 10 a.m., my mother called.  My dad had made it out of the tower that now lay as rubble and walked the few blocks home.
    I learned later that there were frequently false fire alarms and that most the people in the towers were annoyed at being evicted so early by another "false alarm".  My dad had traveled down to the 23rd floor stairwell when he was told the alarm a false one and that he should return to his office. But the crashing noises around him made him pause. Before heading back up he called company employees located in the other tower. The people in the first tower were told  by the fire department to stay where they were. The fire was below them and when the fire was out they would be rescued. My dad, because he was closer to the ground than his office opted to continue on to the lobby area. Dad was able to make it out of the towers, but the 200 people who where told to stay where they were until the fire was out did not.

  It is almost 5 years since 9/11 and there are requests for money to build a memorial to those who died. I am grieved by those who died but I would much rather recall the living. Yes, America was the object of a terrorist attack on that day and it was a terrible thing. But, I cannot help but think of others who live with terrorism on a daily basis. There are 60,000 dead in Iraq, there are 5,000 dead in Lebannon. There were thousands who died in the bombing of London in WWII, and millions of Jews and Gypsies killed under Stalin and Hitler. America has been spared that.  We have been so very lucky not to have war and the threat of war on our soil in the modern era. A memorial should be build not to remind us of death, but to rejoice in how lucky we are. We are able to live in peace, work and become prosperous. We can raise our children knowing they will live to see adulthood. I will not donate to the 9/11 memorial.  Instead I will send a contribution to Doctors Without Borders in hopes that they can make life a little better for someone. 9/11 was one of the worst days of my life. Whenever I give money to various organizations that help the living, I think of those who perished on 9/11.  It is my memorial to them, hopefully I have their approval. I like to think so.

Reprogramming by Rene Cobb

Joni eagerly fled the class, "American History of People with Differing Abilities" as soon as she could. She was meeting her friends at Franky's and she was anxious to get started. Pushing the code for transport into her new state-of-the-art wrist satellite, Joni drove her wheelchair through the crowded halls of Springfield High School. She was loving the freedom of being a senior but she didn't like thinking this was her last year at SHS. It wasn't that she'd miss her friends, they were all planning to attend Springfield Community College, but she would miss the other students and even the teachers. The end of high school and her approaching 18th birthday caused butterflies in her stomach. She was glad she was meeting Amelia, Russell and Franky. Joni knew she needed to make a decision and who better to help her than her best friends?

Transport was waiting for her yards from the school door. Joni rolled on to the 'Go', an egg-shaped electronic carriage, and using a voice recognition satellite receiver, announced her destination. The Go hummed along away from the high school. Using her wrist satellite, Joni sent a message to Franky so she would know Joni would arrive shortly. Minutes later she was headed into the kitchen of her buddy, Franky. She also had a decision to make but she had already decided to go ahead with it. Joni envied her certainty. "Hey Franky! Knock, knock. I'm here.", Joni announced.

"That was quick! I just got out of the shower and saw your message. You must have zoomed from 7th period. I didn't think you'd get here so soon. Will you put out the snacks while I dry my hair?", Franky asked.

"You just like me because I'm handy, but I'll do it because I'm starving!"

"Be right back. Thanks!", Franky yelled, running to her room. Joni began rummaging through the refrigerated drawers for their favorite snacks: apples with cheese and chocolate chip cookies. She heard noise at the door and turned to see Amelia and Russell tiptoeing, hoping to surprise her. Joni thought they looked so cute in their matching SHS Class of 2065 fiberoptic sweatshirts. Russell, who was tall and thin, and Amelia, who was short and not so thin, had exactly the same haircut and color, a ragged, pixie style in red. They started dating after the entire school set them up in an elaborate ruse because they were both loners who loved music and art and because they had the same exact hair. Now, they are inseparable. Having Asperger's Syndrome (which I learned in class used to be called a disorder in the early part of the 21st century) was not always easy, they said, but Russell and Amerlia seemed perfectly happy and in love just the way they were. We all wondered if they would cut their future children's hair the same way. Last Halloween, Franky and I got matching wigs and went to the party as Russell and Amelia. We have a great picture of all four of us with that lovable haircut. Russell and Amelia had already decided, but they didn't even need to consider it, they knew they wanted to only be them, just the way they were born.

My agonizing choice was to be made no later than my 18th birthday or I would automatically undergo the medical reprogramming of my brain and spine. I can choose to decline but I will never be given the chance again to run, dance or skip on my own two legs; unless I become super rich and could pay for the humongous cost of reprogramming on my own. I doubt that would ever happen to a working class girl with CP even if I will be the first in my family to go to college. I needed to decide and soon!! Franky, Russell and Amelia were going to help me research and today's our start date. Franky must have been reading my mind becasue she walked into the kitchen already directing us to our research stations.

"Russell, get going on the database of CP reprogramming results. Amelia, review the list of local doctors, and Joni and I will work on the list of those in the state that have undergone the reprogramming.", Franky said, using her best wanna-be teacher voice.

Amelia and Russell said simultaneously and saracastically, "Yes, Ms. Franky, ruler of everything."

Soon all of us were working at our satellite research stations. Russell had several graphs on his screen, Amelia was cross-referencing doctors with malpractice suits when Franky yelled, "Check this out Joni! This may be just what we're looking for!" On her 32 inch 3D screen, she had the words 'Why?' printed boldly. "Let me start it again, watch", Franky said eagerly. We watched the screen change to: 'Why not be reprogrammed? It's free; it's risk-free, or IS IT? Check out these stories of reprogramming survivors. Soon you'll be asking yourself, Why?'

"I want to hear their stories", Joni said excitedly. "Let's call them up on the satellites---access the screen where it says 'survivors' stories'". Franky looked puzzled as she studied her 3D screen. She knew Joni was anxious to talk to survivors but she was frustrated at every attempt to access the data.

"What's up with this?", Franky pouted. She had never had problems accessing information on her satellite, or anyone else's for that matter. Information technology had gotten so good in the last 25 years that computer and satellite repair workers were basically extinct. Only a few die-hard geeks, called Silicon Heads (from a famous valley in the early days of computers) were still repairing satellites. Luckily, Amelia's grandfather was a Silicon Head. He had worked for companies called Untel and Macrosoft before they went bankrupt in 2047. Franky turned to Amelia and said seriously, "Call your grandfather. We need him. I think someone has deliberately denied us, and perhaps others, access to reprogramming survivors' stories."

Tears Twice in France

     It was then that I realized how the stress of living in Beirut during wartime had taken its toll.

 

Koshka

                                Priscilla Ann Ing
                                July 9, 2006
                                Writing 3

KOSHKA

My life before this moment is not important; what matters is now.  I’ve been walking and looking for food every since I was dumped from the car.  My stomach is empty but I feel life inside.  Pain cramps my body, over and over again, telling me I must find a place to lie down.  I don’t know what is happening to me but  my instincts are leading me to finding shelter and protection. 
Ahead of me, through the tall grass in the early morning light, I spy a house.  It has a large wooden platform attached to it.  Maybe I can hide under the platform, just long enough to rest and wait for the pain to stop.

“Russ, we’ll be back around noon.  Liesa and I are going to breakfast after the Butte to Butte Walk & Run.  You might want to straighten up the deck a little.  Guests should be arriving around 5:00.  Is the barbecue clean and ready for tonight?”

At last, I’ve found a quiet, dark place.  I hear footsteps above me, but they don’t know I’m down here.  My body still hurts, both from hunger and the cramping.  I’m about to give birth.  I don’t know why I think that, but I do.  I need to protect my babies. 

“Hey, Bryan, come out and help me get the bar-b-q cleaned up.  I forgot to scrape off the grill yesterday.  Boy, it’s going to be a hot day.  Bet Mom and Liesa are sweating bullets.  Hope they remembered their sunscreen.”

One, two, three, four.  My babies are here.  The pain has stopped.  I know I need to clean them up, and get rid of the birth tissue.  A raccoon, dog, or another cat could smell it and know my babies are newborn and helpless.  They need to nurse and I know what I must do.  I’m hungry and, oh, so thirsty.

   

                    *        *        *

“Hi, guys.  How’s your 4th of July going?  Come on out to the deck.  Russ has the Polish dogs on the grill and they’re almost ready to eat.  Just put your salads with the other food on the island in the kitchen.  At least the flies won’t have a feast like when everything is setting out on the picnic table.”

My kittens are dry and fluffy now.  Three are back and white, just like me, and one has gray tiger stripes.  They want to stay near me, but I need to get food.  I can hear the people above me and wonder if I should take a chance.  What will they do if they know I’m here?  “Meow, meow, meow,” I cry as I reveal myself from under the platform.  “MEOOOOW!”

“Woah, where’d that cat come from?”

“Don’t feed it!  It’s just a stray.  Ignore it!”

“Mom, he’s hungry.”

“If he’s hungry enough he’ll go home.”

“If he’s a stray, he doesn’t have a home to go to.”

“DON’T FEED IT!  We’ll just put up with the yowling and it will leave.  Boy, none of the cats from the old farm ever sounded like that.  I bet it has a Siamese ancestor.”

“Meow, meow, meooow.”  Well, I didn’t get any food, but they didn’t chase me or hit me either.  I’ll try hunting for something in the tall grass.  I got lucky that one time near the hay bales and caught a mouse.  Those birds seem like easy prey, hopping around on the ground.  One of them could be a great dinner.  And I saw some water at the bottom of the flower pots on the platform.  I really need a drink.

                    *        *        *

“Mom, it’s been three days and the stray cat hasn’t left.  We need to give her some food.  Look how skinny she is.”

“She’s skinny all right.  But she’s also just a young cat.  You can see she’s not full grown.  Have you picked her up?  I bet she doesn’t weight much over five pounds.”

“She won’t let me pick her up.  All she does is yowl, and really doesn’t want to be petted either.  When I put my hand out, she shies away.”

“OK, get a bowl with some fresh water.  She shouldn’t have to drink out of the flower pot saucers.  If you want to get a box of cat food, with your money, go ahead.  This means we need to start calling places to see if someone is looking for a missing teen-age kitten.”

“I haven’t seen any posters in the neighborhood advertising for a missing cat.  We could run an ad in the newspaper.”

“Hey, look what I found.  This old jar of tuna that I canned after that fishing trip four years ago.”

“Oh, Russ, not something that old.  And home processed.  We don’t want to kill the cat.”

“Ah, it won’t hurt her.  Here kitty, kitty.”

“Meow, meow!”  Three days with nothing and now food and water.  TUNA STRAIGHT!  I think I’ve died and gone to heaven.  These people aren’t too bad.  I might even let them pet me.  Maybe they’ll scratch my ears, then I’ll go back to the kittens.

“Don’t think she is going to become a pet.  You know your dad and brother both have cat allergies.  And don’t be thinking of naming her either!”

“OK, Mom.  Come on, Koshka.”

“I SAID, ‘DON’T NAME HER!”

“I didn’t name her.  That’s Russian for cat.  I’m just calling her cat.”

“Meow.”  I think I’m going to like it here.

Afterward . . .

Koshka came to us on the Forth of July, 1999.  It was three weeks later that we heard little meows under the deck step of the patio door and discovered four beautiful but flea ridden kittens.
To make a long story short, all four kittens were adopted out, the last one going to my oldest daughter living in her own apartment.  We had Koshka spayed so there would be no repeat performance of kittens.  She is an indoor/outdoor cat which happened when my husband made the mistake of observing aloud that he didn’t seem to have an allergic reaction to her (We think because of her Siamese heritage.) and she was the only other “hunter” in the family.  My daughter and I knew she was here to stay when Dad bought two cat doors; one for the outside door opening into the garage and one for the laundry room door which leads from the garage into the house.

Koshka, the cat and little teen mother, adopted us!

Paper 3 The Journey Back

The Journey Back
By
Hafeeza McKinnis

     “What did you find? Kaitlan excitedly asked as she scurried ahead of us to catch up with her sister.   
    “It's a rock, Kaitlan, a rock! Chelsea exclaimed, as she moved the beautiful stone away from her sister.
    “Let me see, Chelsea! Mom! Dad! Chelsea won’t let me see the rock!" cried Kaitlan.
    “It’s my rock, since I found it, and I don’t want you looking at it!” retorted Chelsea
    “It’s not your rock! You didn’t make, and you can’t take it…!"
    The voices drifted off in the wind as the girls continued their squabble ahead of us. My feet lingered as my gaze was transfixed by the seagull ahead, swiftly darting to catch its prey. I reached for my hair, which was blowing in all directions and tucked it into my coat, as the same wind that embraced the waves caressed my face. A shaft of light glimmered on the water as the sun played peek-a-boo with the clouds. My husband, a native Oregonian, speeded up so he could catch up with our two skirmishing girls.
    I unzipped my coat and sat on one of the water soaked logs that furnished the beach. The wind picked up again and I shivered as the cold air enveloped me, but I was now comfortable with it, unlike my first visit to the Pacific. Was it really so long ago that I made that voyage to the Oregon Coast? Now it seemed like centuries had passed, when I was in another world, in a different body!
    I remembered my excitement when I knew I would be visiting the Pacific Ocean for the first time. Now I laugh at myself - my naïve assumption that this would be just like home, my enthusiasm to be the first one in my family to explore the Pacific, my anticipation of relief from my distressingly cold days, my eagerness to feel the therapeutic touch of the water, my fervor to hear the reverberating resonance of the ocean, my thrill to feel the inviting sand between my toes, and the intuition that this one visit would somehow make adjusting to living here easier.  What was I thinking?
    I could vividly recall the shock of standing on this same shore during that  first trip realizing this was no Caribbean beach! What I encountered then was the antithesis of my limited experience. The prevailing fog dancing around the water with fiendish delight was an unfriendly foe. Its accomplice, the squally wind which attacked me with such ferocious force, was an inhuman intruder. How could one experience nature in all its magnificence and majesty in this frosty, aloof, alien place? How could one benefit from the tantalizing therapy imparted when all your senses were deadened by the numbing cold? Yet, as the oceanic symphony permeated the air, I remembered the overwhelming sense of peace that enveloped me as I listened to the spontaneous tempo of the water.  This melody was familiar. I also remembered the flood of emotions that encompassed me as I watched the flamboyant waves prance on the sandy shores. This too was just like home, and for the first time I felt secure. It was inconceivable that this cold, foggy, alien beach would become a harbor of solace enabling me to resolve my conflicting emotions.  But it did!
    Now, as I sat on my water-soaked log, I could barely see the horizon through the gracious clouds. Yet, the harmonious dancing waves with their boundless melody infiltrated the very heavens.  An atmosphere of blissful tranquility engulfed me. The evergreen trees towering majestically toward the gigantic, azure sky lined the coast with a beauty of their own. The ambiance of these imperial, elegant conifers was a peaceful torrent washing over me.   In the distance, the fog had turned inland and was now traveling toward us. We will wait for this welcoming mist to embrace us before we gather our things up to leave. I closed my eyes as the cool, delicate, flowing zephyr bringing the taste of the salt water to my lips cuddled me. The tangy aroma of the sea coupled with the sunshine’s sporadic scintillations as it played with the water worked their enchantment and took me to my sanctuary. I could remain in this perpetual paradise forever. Suddenly, like a flash of lightening, my perfect world was shattered.                 “Mooooom, Chelsea won’t let me see the starfish!”

Going Back to School

This is a narration of my experiences while going to college to become a teacher.  I worked as an educational assistant, custodian, and bus driver.  Marilyn King

Diary of a Salmon

Kristin Archer

OWP # 3

Diary of a Salmon

October 11, 2006

The stream water was dirty today. I found myself staring out at my pink-orange brothers and sisters, the small pebbles that surround them and the cloudy water. There are hundreds of us eggs. Five of my brothers wiggled out of their eggs by using their tail. I can’t wait to get out. It is so stuffy in here.

October 15, 2006

Today is the day. I got out of my egg! You should have seen me wiggling around with all my might. There was a bunch of us hatching. The water was foamy. It was so cool! It felt weird to be out at first. I stayed still in one spot, because I didn’t want the current to move me away from my family. Now, if I could just get rid of this huge yolk sac that is hanging down from my belly. One of my sisters told me that the yolk sac is nutrient-rich and has all my food in it. I guess this yolk sac is important until I get older and I can eat microscopic organisms in the water, like small insects.

November 20, 2006

As my yolk sac gets smaller and smaller, I am able to swim in short leaps. Who knew that swimming could be so fun? As I was trying to swim further and further, I heard my brothers and sisters talking about a migration to this place called the ocean. They told me that a migration is when you move from one place to another. This is the first time I heard about this! What is the ocean anyway?

December 12, 2006

Watch out for predators!!! This old, ragged animal with a beak came swooping down and grabbed another alevin right in front of me. A large toad saw this all happen from this brown, mushy stuff above the water. I think it’s called land. I swam over to him and asked him what had happened. He told me that the animal was a bird and that the bird had taken the alevin to eat! Yikes! I learned from the toad that lots of animals like to eat salmon. That’s what I am called! I am a salmon! Yeah!!!  When I turned to leave, the toad warned me to watch out for all predators, like bears (brown or black hairy animals that live above water), larger fish, snakes, and humans (tall, colorful animals with hair on top, sometimes with long sticks that have a hook and worm on the end of it). I need to be very careful. I want to see this ocean place that I going to soon.

January 2, 2007

Today is the day I “buttoned up”! My yolk sac is completely gone!!! Now I have to search for my food in the water. Another fry suggested that I eat water organisms. It is much easier to swim without the yolk sac weighing me down. Lots of us are being attacked and eaten by birds and huge fish. I have to be observant and aware of what is going on around me. I want to survive.

February 15, 2007

Being a salmon is great! Here are three reasons: 1. You can use your fins to help swim and guide you in the water. 2. You have beautiful, colorful scales to protect you. 3. You automatically know to go to the ocean. I can sense that time is now. Here I go!!!!

March 1, 2007

Swimming to the ocean is really hard work and dangerous.  I did not realize that we had to swim for hundreds of miles. Yesterday when I was swimming close to land, a brown, furry paw came swiftly down beside my gill on one side. It scared me so much! I swam quickly ahead. When I was at a safe distance, I turned around to see what it was. It was brown and furry! Bear!!!!! That was a close one!

May 3, 2007

Today I arrived at the ocean. It took months, but now I am here! At first, I was hesitant. The water tasted and felt different. I asked the other salmon why there was a change in our habitat. They told me it was because we used to live in freshwater and the ocean is saltwater. I know I will get used to it. There is too much to see anyway!

May 31, 2007

The ocean is great! There are long, green stalks that flow with the current. There are different types of fish. We all swim together, going with the ocean’s current. We find food, and look at the unique surroundings. I love it here! Good thing I am going to be here for a couple of years! Then I will have a chance to see many different things before I migrate back to where I was born. Hopefully, I will not come across any predators!

August 10, 2007

Ok, I have changed my mind about the ocean. Ocean life can be difficult. Right now it is really rough. Food is scarce. We are weak from searching for food. I am starving.

August 17, 2007

Today I came across some shrimp. I am so glad that I did. I am going to take the scarcity of food as a sign for me to think about starting my migration back to my birthplace. I will start the journey soon.

September 20, 2008

It is sad to leave the ocean, but I sense that it is now time for me to return to where I was born. There are so many of my friends and family that will not be returning with me. I am one of a few that survived the rough life in the ocean. Everyone talks about how challenging it will be to return to where I was born. I will have to go against the current of the water, and up waterfalls. There will be many predators to watch out for. If I do make it back, I will celebrate the fact that I will spawn and continue the salmon lifecycle.

September 28, 2008

Today I went up a waterfall! It was so difficult!!!! I had to try eleven times. The water kept forcing me back down to the river, but I would not give up. When I finally made it to the top, I looked back. I was one of five salmon who made it up the waterfall. I will miss the others.

October 1, 2008

I came across a rough, brown thing that would not get out my way! I told it to move, but it would not budge. I tried to go around it, but it was connected to the land. Someone told me that it was a tree that had fallen across the river. Well, it was blocking me and I needed to get through! So I jumped over it. I sort of landed on a branch which threw me off a little, but, I soon wiggled my way back into the water and swam away.

October 5, 2008

While I was struggling up the river, I saw a silver gleam of light by the shore of the river. I went over to this gleam of light. I swam back and forth admiring the piece of silver with a delicious worm attached. I wanted to eat the worm so bad, but I remembered that I was warned to avoid all worms attached to silver hooks. As I swam around the hook, another salmon came up to the hook. I yelled at him to not eat the worm. He did not listen. When he bit the worm, he was yanked up out of the water. I knew that he was gone.

November 2, 2008

The place where I was born is near, I can smell it. The smell is so familiar. When I arrived at an entry to a small stream, I knew this was the way to my home, by smelling it. I am growing very tired with fighting all the obstacles, such as ladders. I have noticed that I am turning a stunning shade of scarlet.

November 5, 2008

Today I arrived to my home. When I arrived I noticed that a lot of salmon had laid eggs and then died. I know that this is a part of the salmon lifecycle. My fate awaits me. I must find a mate, make a nest, also known as a redd, and then lay my eggs. I will make the nest by clearing small rocks and mud away with my tail.

November 18, 2008

As I prepare for my final job as a salmon, I reflect on the challenges I have faced and how I keep trying to beat the odds. When I was a young salmon, I set off to the ocean with thousands around me, but I returned with just a few. Many salmon could not survive the many predators and obstacles out there. I am lucky. As I lay my eggs, I understand the challenges my eggs will face during their fight for survival. I wish them good luck.

Critters In My Bedroom

Pam Schmieding

Critters in my Bedroom

Every cat has a unique personality. Gracie, a Bengal, has personality in spades. She has a wild side. It's in her genes. As a teenage cat, she'd come up behind my head while I was seated or lying down in bed, and chew on the hair right at the crown. It felt like she was pulling two or three strands out at a time. She'd wrap her paws around my head, one paw on each side, and hold my head so I couldn’t get away. It was an odd sensation.

One night after Dan and I had gone to bed and just drifted off to sleep, I felt that same sensation on the crown of my head. Gracie! How'd she get out of the laundry room? Since she hogs the bed, she sleeps in the laundry room at night. But it seems clever ol' Grace had learned to open the door for a midnight snack.

I lifted up on one elbow to grab Gracie and looked at the head of my bed. A small, pinched, beady-eyed face looked back at me from a distance of only 6 inches. Damn! That's not Gracie!

I sprang out of bed yelling, "Dan! Turn on the light! DAN! There's a face behind the bed." My husband, still mostly asleep resisted doing anything. I, in the meantime continued to yell about the face behind the bed while pointing in the last known location of the face.

"What face? What...are you dreaming? Umf..whaaa", he mumbled on. His confusion would've been comical under different circumstances. Right now, it seemed that hours went by in seconds, and that face was still unapprehended. I raced to the laundry room to fetch Gracie. Surely this wild cat would take on The Face and deliver me. Aggravatingly, Gracie, too, was a sleepy lump. To her credit, she caught on faster than Mister Master that Mistress Master was wound up.

Dan was painstakingly slow turning on his bedside lamp under the direction of his deranged wife. Gracie and I stood at the foot of the king-size bed and slowly peered around my side to see what there was to see. At the very same moment, the teensy, flesh colored face leaned from the head of the bed to see what the heck was making all the noise in the middle of the night. We all (that is Gracie, the critter, and I--since Dan was still not out of bed!) shrieked and ran for it. Gracie, now growling a low slow growl, and I bolted for the upstairs bedroom furthest from that spot, while the critter ducked back behind the relative safety of the bed.

I dove for the upstairs with the cat in my arms. She was only too happy to be leaving the area. We shoved ourselves under the comforter and were immediately joined my now fully awake husband who screamed, "What the hell was that!" Since my heart rate didn't allow for much more breath and speaking than the bare minimum, I replied in clipped tones, "I don't know, just get rid of it!" Nearly the entire living contents of the house (not counting flora) were now hyperventilating in a small upstairs’ bedroom. Dan sucked it up and went hunting. In his absence, Gracie and I concentrated on returning our vital signs to some semblance of normalcy.

In what seemed like 30 or 40 minutes, Dan came into the room and proudly announced that he’d solved the mystery. It turned out the critter was a baby opossum looking for a place to climb up and be snuggly. He assured me that it had been removed, and that it was once again safe to get back in my own bed. Oh, I don't think so, buddy, I harrumphed. I needed details! I'm not going back willy-nilly into the Pit of Critterdom until satisfied that little junior wasn't going to attempt another climb into my surrogate hair!

Dan relayed the tale of locating the hapless critter on its hurried (for a opossum) way back out the front door from whence he evidently came. It was making its break for it when Dan got his large, man-sized salmon fishing net and attempted several scooping motions to nab the little guy. The baby opossum, finally captured, was then gently dumped into the bordering flowerbed in hopes of joining back up with its own family group. At least that was the intention that night.

Two years later, Dan confessed that the wayward opossum had come back the very next night for another nocturnal stroll. Without letting me know (I don't know if Gracie ever knew either) he utilized the fishing net once again. Now with some experience and practice, he scooped up the dense creature, ran across the street to the neighbor's yard, and in the best tradition and form of a javelin thrower at Hayward Field, chucked the opossum over their fence. He said with chagrin that if the number of bounces were some sort of indication, we’d not see the likes of him again!

To my knowledge, we've been opossum free ever since.

Game Day For Duck Fans!

"A must read for all duck fans and those who have yet to experience the magic of Autzen Stadium"
                                                                                                                            ~Donald Duck

When the Different Questions are the Same Question

                              When the Different Questions are the Same Question
                                                  by Maureen Twomey

     My least favorite moment in the classroom is when a student asks, “But what do you really think?   While I have many strong opinions that I express outside of the classroom, I am discouraged that students are encouraged to believe that teachers have all the answers or that their teacher's opinion should influence their opinion.  There is, however, a fine line between instruction and the potential abuse of authority. Usually I remind the students that, if they think about it, I have already exercised my voice in the classroom in many visible and invisible ways.  Even though the state has substantial influence in what skills and content are taught,  my personal choice of the selection that we read, my direction of a discussion or my guidance in interpreting the significance of an event greatly influence what the students take away from the classroom experience.  This whole issue of influence takes on an even more challenging direction when events in or out of the classroom prompt a student to ask for personal guidance in an important life question.