mosaic: volume 9, issue 1

a magazine

for the literary and visual arts at

Holderness School

Mosa

ic

Winter 2011

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mosaic ● Volume 9, Issue 1 ● Holderness School ● www.holderness.org

mosaic, winter 2011

It has been my privilege this fall to gather student work for Mosaic. As I wandered the halls of Schoolhouse and the studios in Carpenter this fall, I was impressed by the quality and variety of work I viewed. From painting to photography, from short story to analytical essay, the students do not stop at satisfactory. They tire-lessly strive to express themselves through varied styles and mediums with im-pressive results. Unfortunately, I can not publish all their pieces in this magazine. This is just a sampling of everything Holderness students work to achieve every year, and especially this fall. Thank you to the students and faculty who submitted work and helped make this edition possible!

Emily Magnus Coordinator of Student Pulications

So Hee Park

Cover art by Jaclyn Vernet

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Although all students at Holderness are required to complete summer reading and math assignments, students in Mr. Barton‟s AP Composition class were also required to complete one additional task. After picking topics about which they were passionate, they were then asked to write opinion pieces and submit them to their local newspapers. Below is one of those essays.

I Almost Died Last Night By Adam Sapers

I almost died last night. I had just finished a challeng-ing hike and was driving down a dirt access road to get to the highway when, all of the sudden, a small deer sprinted across the road just feet in front of my car. I hit the brakes and swerved in an attempt to dodge the deer. My car veered off the road, got caught up in the soft dirt and brush, flipped over and did a full roll into a tree. I know it may sound like a cliché, but my seatbelt saved my life. This near death experience really opened up my eyes to the dangers of driving, especially for inexperienced teen drivers like myself.

Traffic crashes are the leading cause of teen fatalities, accounting for 44% of teen deaths. In fact, 16-year-olds are 3 times more likely to die in motor vehicle crashes than the average of all drivers. Males are more commonly involved in crashes. According to the Na-tional Highway Traffic Safety Administration and the National Center for Statistics and Analysis, in 2008, crashes due to hand-held cell phone use and texting was highest among 16- to 24-year-olds and the most common reason for accidents. In addition, 37% of male drivers ages 15-20 that were involved in fatal crashes were speeding at the time. Around 55%, or 2,014 of the 3,678 occupants of passenger vehicles ages 16-20 who were killed in crashes were not buck-led up. 31% of drivers ages 15-20 who were killed in motor vehicle crashes had been drinking some amount of alcohol and 25% were alcohol-impaired, meaning they had a blood alcohol content of 0.08 grams per deciliter or higher.

Just last week in my hometown of Newton, MA, 17-year-old Adam London was killed when his car slid off a road, hit a tree, and rolled over and over down a curving stretch of the road. Officials stated that he was not wearing his seatbelt and was driving far faster than the speed limit. His death was a shock to every-one in the community as Adam was a very outgoing and popular kid. His death should be an alarm to eve-

ryone to not exceed the speed limit and always wear a seatbelt.

It is important for teens to understand the impact of dangerous driving habits. Making good driving deci-sions and abiding by drinking and speeding laws can mean the difference between life and death. In addi-tion, there are classes that help teach both teens and adults how be in control of risky situations with de-fensive driving. At the beginning of the summer, I took a defensive driving course that may have saved my life last night while avoiding the deer. In my class, I learned how to steer into the road when the car goes off of the curb. If I hadn‟t done this, my car would have flipped over on the driver‟s side rather than the passenger‟s side and would have crushed my body. Statistics show that teen drivers who take a defensive driving course are 90% less likely to get into a fatal accident than teens that have not taken the course. I highly suggest it. In addition, many schools have de-veloped a “taxi” service to transport teens that are under the influence of alcohol. Rather than get behind the wheel of a car while intoxicated, students can call the service and receive taxi rides to their homes. This program is free, so there is absolutely no reason why teens should not take full advantage of it.

Getting a driver‟s license is a big step in a teen‟s life. They now have the power to go wherever they want (if they are given permission, of course) without par-ents or older guardians. This is exciting, but it means that these inexperienced drivers need to be extra-cautious while they are still learning. Scientific studies show that the part of the human brain that controls our impulses and split-second decisions is not fully developed until the age of 24. Therefore, it is vital to drive slowly, make good decisions about not texting or driving while under the influence and, most impor-tantly, to always wear a seatbelt!

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Crazy Cool Like a Banana By Carson Houle Their wing-tipped dress shoes slip at every step, and it is simply remarkable that the eggs on their heads don‟t crack. Despite the fact that they never have enough to eat, their wiry frames still haul painful loads all day, every day. They are carrying all the weight, but I seem to be the one ready to drop. It is very humbling to be struggling at something so sim-ple, while observing these men who move with ease. When the climb starts getting difficult, the porters on Tanzania‟s Mt. Kilimanjaro keep their heads down, and continue on.

These malnourished, physically diminuitive workers are not good at what they do by chance. They have experience. Even “Frank,” who has carried thou-sands of kilos up hundreds of thousands of feet, got viciously sick on his first job. These men clearly have superior skills, though they will never become rich

because of them. These men are poor, and without us they would be unemployed. As they make about five dollars per day, it is clear that they cannot afford the simple luxuries and opportunities that I have. They sleep on the ground and can barely afford nour-ishment. Despite these hardships, their liveliness is inspiring. Their singing made my day better on multi-ple occasions, especially when the sun was rising and the air was thin. From these light-hearted men I have even learned to respond to a „how are you?‟ with “cool crazy like a banana” in Swahili.

Although their “mountaineering” gear is a bit out-dated for August of 2009—dress shoes, tight pink women‟s jeans and Florida State Special Olympics vests—their skills and abilities are far superior to mine. The way these young men go about their busi-ness makes me realize that I must take advantage of everything I‟m given. After being completely im-mersed in their world, I wonder if they would cherish the simple things that I have in mine. I‟ve learned how to savor burnt grilled chicken. These days, the cold rain doesn‟t bother me much, even when I‟m suited up in full pads catching a pass with numb hands. I‟ve learned to value and appreciate everything that these men can‟t have.

I now know what it means to “go hard.” When things become difficult, I know how to keep my head down and focus on putting one foot in front of the other. Craziness is a daily presence in my life at Hol-derness, yet I absolutely love it. I‟ve sat through six hours of other students‟ discipline cases, with their fate, in part, lying in my hands. I‟ve pulled all-nighters doing schoolwork, followed by early morning admin-istrative team meetings, full school days, football practices, and workouts. I have come to a point where I can push myself very hard without stressing. Just like the iron-lunged porters of Kilimanjaro, I am most proud that even when I feel the weight of the world is on my shoulders I can keep my head down, continue on, and always keep going. Everything after that is cool crazy like a banana.

So Hee Park

One task completed by all seniors during the fall semester is creating and editing college essays. Most students at Holderness work closely with their English teachers both during and outside of class, changing words, sentences, paragraphs and perhaps whole essays, attempting to define themselves in 250 words or less. The following pages contain a sampling of the essays written by the senior class.

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y = mx + b By Margaret Thibadeau

The equation of a straight line is y=mx+b. A series of straight lines, using events from my lifetime as the equation values, form a graph that represents who I am. Every chance I‟ve taken, and failure or success I‟ve experienced, are shown on that graph, each a different line with a unique equation. The different lines and equations that fill this graph make me who I am today. X shows the unknown; it is the independ-ent variable of chance or choice, the one that creates who I am. X causes change to my result. The b is a constant for each new line; as the y-intercept, it is the sum of my experiences before I take on a new x. M represents the slope of my life—whether I am going up or down, or just coasting.

Every event caused by x makes a new line. My x‟s show who I am—the girl who is not afraid to take a chance, the girl who cannot be predicted, the girl who is her own toughest critic. X may be my decision to jump up on the stage during a school concert to dance, encouraging others to join in. X is my willing-ness to try something new, such as running cross-country for the first time this fall and being elected captain of the varsity team. X is my determination and drive to succeed in my classes, not being pleased until I know I have tried my hardest.

B, my constant, originated at St. Francis Hospital in Connecticut on February 12, 1993. A part of b is al-ways my family: parents, sister, and extended family. These people are the beginning of each new line, for they have all been there since the beginning, helping me to become the person I am today. A new b oc-curs for every different line. B holds the knowledge and experience from each past experience and moves up the y-axis.

Some lines have a steep negative or positive slope. My freshman year in high school, for example, was a negative slope. In the dining hall at my school, lunch plates contained only a few pieces of lettuce; conver-sations revolved around the latest diet craze; and fashion and appearance ruled opinions. I became caught up in negative influences and pulled down by peer pressure. Family and friends noticed a change in me and helped me stop the detrimental behavior on my own. Their concern helped me see that what I was doing was not who I was. I am not the one to join in something just because everyone else is doing it. I‟m not afraid to speak up in class and express a different opinion. I don‟t need to be like everyone else; unique is me. At the end of my freshman year, it was time to make a change to the line I was on.

Before that particular x, I had never considered the idea of leaving home to attend boarding school; I was the one who missed her parents during a one-night sleepover. But I wanted a better fit—a strong aca-demic environment that supported individualism and mutual respect. I also wanted to pursue my passion for alpine ski racing. My search led me to Holderness School. I decided to take the plunge, to test my limits and enroll. This new x has created a steeply upward-sloping line in my life, a positive m. I have never re-gretted taking the risk, as I have become even more independent and am no longer influenced by others‟ choices and lifestyles. I have become close friends with people who are different from me, and I cherish these friendships. I‟ve also worked harder than I thought I ever could, improved my skiing dramati-cally, and most importantly, I have learned to be true to myself.

The variables I am encountering now—where will I go to college? what will I major in? what will I do for a career?—will determine the next lines on my graph. If I draw upon the lessons I have learned, and con-tinue to be true to myself, I am confident that my life‟s lines will be positive. Andrew Munroe

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Building Nine By Henry Miles

The radio strapped to my belt came alive: “Building 9, a red Dodge is on its way down for 2x4s.” Like one of Pavlov‟s dogs, I pressed the talk button and re-sponded: “10-4.” I was at the stack of wood before that red Dodge rounded the corner, waiting for the familiar, low voice of Mr. Cornell to yell out, “Make sure you pick me out some good ones, Henry.” From early June to the end of August, this was part of my daily routine.

I am the boss‟s son, my father was the boss‟s son, and my father‟s father was the boss‟s son. In 1927, my great grandfather started the family business with a water-powered mill on the Battenkill in Arlington, VT. My grandfather—Richard Kirby Miles—grew up in the lumber industry, as did my dad. My father jokes that he has only had one real job his entire life—working at r.k. Miles. But behind the humor, I know there is pride—pride in the fact that our family busi-ness is an important part of the various communities it serves. Every cause seeks out my father‟s help: every cause receives my father‟s help in some way. In re-turn, the community shops locally and continues to support the business. After four summers, I am now just able to understand this feeling of value that comes from being part of a multi-generational family business.

This summer I noticed that the lumberyard wasn‟t exactly bustling like it had in the past. For me, this meant the broom. Instead of loading pick-up trucks with building materials, I had to sweep out Building 9. Compared to the daily activity of years past, this was boring work. A busy day in 2007 meant 300 cars passed through the gatehouse. During this past slow summer, even a busy day meant no more than 125 cars. For me, this meant more sweeping, but what I had not thought about until this summer were guys like Nate and Chris who work year „round and rely on this job to feed their families. For them, sweeping must have meant worry; worry that they might lose their jobs because of the lack of customers. This was the first time I had ever really thought about how se-verely the economic downturn could affect the people around me.

Contractors and builders are our primary customers, and no one has felt the effects of the economic down-turn more than they. For better or for worse, new home construction is less than one fourth of what it

used to be. This is written all over the faces of our professional builders. In the past, I saw them as grumpy and tense, but after this summer, I under-stood the economic reality behind their worn-out ex-pressions.

“Building 9, I‟m headed home.” Almost immediately after I released my thumb from the talk button, I got the friendly response: “Have a nice night, Henry.” These five words would always put a smile on my face, not because it was the end of the day, but be-cause of the friendliness that resided within the words. Economic stress or not, our employees are some of the friendliest people I have ever met. By the end of the summer, these guys had become my friends and I could sense the fear of being laid off hidden behind their tough faces. I am the boss‟s son. My father stra-tegically placed me here, working this job, in this building, pushing this broom, so I could see it all first hand.

Tram Dao

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Each year there is an essay contest to select the book that all Holderness students will read during their summer vacation. Cloaked in anonymity, the Secret and August Committee reads submissions from students and faculty and selects one book that they passionately believe every student should read. This year, a novel called City of Thieves by David Benioff was selected. After reading the book over the summer, students spend at least some time during the fall talking about the book in classes across the curriculum. Below are a sampling of graphic novels created by Beginning Drawing students that illus-trate memorable scenes in City of Thieves.

Dan Sievers

Andrew Munroe

Cole Phillips

Tram Dao

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The following is an excerpt from this year‟s winning proposal by Jake Barton: “City of Thieves is a captivating novel that „clenches humor, savagery, and pathos squarely together on the same page‟ (The Washington Press). Throughout the story, the two main characters, Kolya and Lev, seem to find humor even in the darkest of situations. Set during WWII, the story chronicles their journey across war-torn Russia in search of a dozen eggs. A few eggs might not seem like much, but, given the ex-treme shortage of food during the siege of Leningrad, something as small as an egg was more sought after than gold. The two men provide an excellent example of deter-mination and courage in the face of great adversity…”

Tyquan Ekijuba

Casey Powell Casey Powell

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The Dance By Thany Alexander

Strobe lights flashed, music blared, speakers fizzled. The small group of girls pranced around in the middle of the dance floor while the guys stood or sat awk-wardly along the walls. People milled around the pe-riphery of the scene, flitting towards the table covered in drinks and chips. The dance had been meandering along for about an hour, leaving only fifteen minutes left.

As the last song approached, the guys began to move off the wall and edge closer to certain girls. As soon as the first bars of “Stairway to Heaven” began, it was a sprint to see who could find a girl first. I hung back and watched as the guys who couldn‟t find girls slunk back to their seats on the wall. Suddenly I felt a tap on my shoulder.

“Hey,” I heard a voice say. I looked behind me to see a girl, but not just any girl. An older girl. A hot girl. I

stared for a second, mouth slightly ajar. I gulped for air.

“Hi,” was all I could muster in response.

“Do you wanna dance with me?” Her eyelashes flut-tered as she shouldered her long dark hair away from her face. I stared at her for a second longer. She looked expectantly back at me.

“Uhhmm,” I swallowed “yes?”

She pulled me onto the dance floor, towards the center and put her arms around my neck and my arms around her waist. My heart began to beat fast and sweat began to trickle uncomfortably down my armpits, prickling as it went.

The song dragged on for nine minutes of slowly shift-ing my weight from side to side. Left foot, right foot, left foot, right foot. Her hands on the back of my neck were making my spine tingle, and I became aware of the fact that she was looking at me and that we had pulled in closer. Why had I not brought gum, and why had I eaten so many Doritos? A million thoughts were zipping through my head. Should I kiss her at the end of the song? Should I ask her for her number? Did I even have my cell phone? Would she think it was a dorky phone? Did this mean we were dating?

As the song came to a close, I looked down into her dark, brown eyes and there was a moment. Our sway-ing stopped, and I was lost in the twinkling lights of her irises. Then she glanced away and it was broken. But that moment had happened. It had been some-thing tangible. The song ended, and we unclasped our-selves from each other.

We stood standing for an awkward second and then she moved in. I panicked. I watched open-mouthed as she passed my lips. I was confused for a second until her soft wet lips touched my already burning cheek. She turned and walked away with a wave and a flick of her dark molten hair. No cell phone numbers and no dating. I sighed.

The following essays were written by students in Mr. Lin‟s AP Composition class. According to Mr. Lin, “The assignment began as a week of memoir writing, inspired by a conversation I had with someone at the coffee shop in town (Our class used to go there for our long blocks to write.). She told me about her daughter, who is an aspiring writer, and a writing assignment she had for which she was required to write 1500 words per day for a month in order to generate material for a novel. I assigned my class a shortened version of this, and over one week, we wrote 4,000 words over four class days. After this, I asked them to reduce this long memoir into a 500 word essay, with an eye towards the word limits imposed by college applications.”

Colin Phillips

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Biddeford Pool By Bee Crudgington

The boom swings over the boat as we round the mark, and the sail quickly fills with wind; it is so full that we both have to hike out to make sure we don‟t capsize. We tack up wind and are the first boat to make it across the finish line. While I know this is only a series race against my own racing class, I can‟t contain my grin. I have finally beaten the other boats whose skip-pers sail all summer and are much more competitive; this is my first summer skippering, and they cheered for me.

While drinking ice tea at Goldthwaite after de-rigging, the sense of triumph lingers; however the grin has long since left my face. When I walk through the store, I glance at the black and white photos hanging above the tables and remember that many people, genera-tions in fact, before me have gotten this satisfaction from their first win.

Every August my family packed suitcases overflowing with summer clothes and drove up the coast from Washington, DC to a small coastal village in Maine. It‟s been the same every summer since we moved back to the States when I was two, and while everything in my life seems to change constantly, Biddeford Pool re-mains the same.

When I was six my world changed drastically. My dad, who had been battling cancer, passed away that June. I remember everything from that day. I remember play-ing on the playground and going home unusually early. The summer when I was six, we spent most of the days away from the house at parks, zoos or at friends‟ houses. I remember coming home, and I remember the complete silence that seemed to fill the house. I remember the pale light filtering in through the win-dow above the stairs and my relatives all gathered in the living room. After that day I don‟t remember any-thing else from that summer in Maine.

Almost six years later, my mom remarried and we moved across the country to California; however, Au-gust came, and we were back in Maine, where it didn‟t matter that my whole life had been packed up and shipped to the sunshine state.

At sixteen I am too old to play capture the flag with the little kids on Tuesday nights, so I run the game nights at the Abenakee Club. While I was putting away the candy from Bingo, I looked at the yellowing photo of all the members of the Abenakee Club gathered on some summer day long ago; it‟s comforting to know I will always have Biddeford Pool and that it will remain unchanged forever.

Colin Philllips

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Turn and Sprint By Ethan Pfenninger

Fifty feet, forty feet. I did a quick double tap on my shifter, pushing myself into a harder gear. I peeked beneath my elbow and could see the shadow of a wheel drafting my back tire. Two quick rotations of the pedals to maintain speed and change gears fol-lowed. Thirty feet, fifteen. I pushed my butt off the back of the seat, got my entire center of gravity lower. I moved the inside pedal to the top, and tucked my elbows in. I dove into the turn; my handlebars seem-ingly touched the foot and a half high cones.

I put as much weight as I could on the outside pedal, pushing straight down into the tarmac. I flew around the turn, and my bike righted itself on the other side. Not skipping a beat, I lunged forward and hammered on my pedals, sprinting as hard as I could. My arms pulled the bike from side to side, adding further strength to each pedal stroke. I peeked under my el-bow again, but the sun had shifted and I couldn‟t see the tire.

Mr. Teaford was on the sidewalk urging us on. My muscles burned with fatigue, but the pre-race accident gave me something to concentrate on. The throbbing of the road burn muted the burning of my legs to a manageable level. “COME ON HENRY! LET‟S GO! DON‟T GIVE UP ON ME!” I urged, as we tore down the strip of asphalt. A response came back; he was still there. The sun was high in the sky, and I could feel sweat trickling down my neck.

In most races, you are with a pack. You can see who

you‟re competing against and what you have to do to win. In a time trial it is you and your teammate racing against the times that were being set even as you are on the course. You have no reference point; you sim-ply go as hard as you can and hope it is enough. There are no mind games, no tricks, no lucky breaks or falls to avoid. It is you, your teammate, and the clock.

My legs beat a fast, steady rhythm into the pedals, my legs bulging on each down and up cycle. I was coming up on the hundred and eighty-degree turn, a tight roundabout that tested the mettle of the rider. Go too fast and you‟ll blow out. Go too slow and you‟ll lose momentum. I knew my limits, and I quickly tapped on the brakes to slow myself down. I slid to the out-side of the turn then repeated the drill that I had done for seven laps already. Inside pedal up, butt back and slightly up, elbows at a ninety-degree angle, pressure outside. I leaned the entire bike into the turn, pushing the sides of the wheels into the tarmac. I could feel the forces pushing me into the bike, into the road, trying to make me crash. The carbon fiber in my bike creaked and bent, absorbing some of the energy. The next moment the turn was over, my bike sprang back forward, and I shifted up again and started sprinting. Then again, and again. Turn and sprint, turn and sprint.

Tram Dao

Sarah Stride

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A Eulogy By Kristina Micalizzi

Racer ready, 5...4...3...2... and I was gone before the timer could reach 1. Every emotion that I had blocked from my head suddenly overcame me. I was no longer afraid; I was empowered. With each turn, I propelled myself forward, plowing down the gates that lay ahead of me. This race was mine and the usual rush of adrenaline had been multiplied into a completely new sensation. I felt my skis bite into the snow as I initi-ated each turn on the steep pitch. I felt the gates crumble beneath my legs as I powerfully knocked them to the ground. I felt the eyes of spectators as they gazed on in wonder at my transformed skiing. They were in awe that I had become a beast fighting her way down the hill; they didn‟t know.

No one understood the emotions rattling in my brain or the guilt twisting in my stomach before this run. Skiing is by no means my life, but today‟s race was different. Death sinks its ugly teeth into everyone in individual ways, and it bit me hard atop Gunstock Mountain. Late for the funeral of my next door neighbor, Cindy Holub, I was unable to focus on the task at hand: my second run. Guilt nestled inside of me as I blamed my selfishness and desire to ski as the reason for being late to the funeral. Fear fought its

way to the surface; I feared that my love for her would be represented poorly because I was not pre-sent for her funeral.

Throughout this event, my coach remained next to me, unable to help as I wrestled with the decision to ski or flee for the funeral. He understood the pain of the loss that had finally hit me, but he did not allow me to dwell on the past. Slapping down my skis on the glistening snow in front of me, all he whispered was, “This one is for her.” Tears streaked down my face as I pulled the goggles over my eyes and buckled my boots to race. The countdown began for me, and I channeled all of my grief into power as I pushed out of the start.

I skied like I had never done before. I was not direct-ing my body but merely letting instincts and emotions guide me down the winding slalom course. As I came hurtling through the finish corral, I twisted off my bib and tossed it to a teammate nearby. I did not stop to celebrate the amazing run that I had just completed but kept barreling down the hill until I reached the waiting car. Sweaty and out of breath, I realized how truly successful my eulogy had been. That run was for you Mrs. Holub; I hope it showed you how much I love you.

Sarah Stride

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For the third year in a row, Holderness School hosted a school-wide Poetry Out Loud competition on February 4th. The nation-wide recitation contest requires students to memorize poems and recite them in front of their classmates. Winners advance to a school-wide competition, then to regional and/or state competitions. Top competitors eventually compete in the National Finals in Washing-ton, DC. During the fall semester, students at Holderness prepare for this contest by selecting poems and analyzing them. In one assignment given by Mr. Durnan and Ms. Brewer, students were asked to change the fonts of their poems to show instances of emphasis, parallelism, and other stylistic tech-niques. After fonting their pieces, students used the rewritten poems to write an analysis essay. Below are a couple outstanding examples of their work.

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“Invictus” Poem Analysis By Emily Hayes

William Ernest Henley‟s simple yet direct and poign-ant poem “Invictus” is a representation of the emo-tional journey that inevitably accompanies a grave and painful physical battle. Using a dignified but appropri-ately passionate approach, Henley describes his own life in which he spent countless years managing both a trying illness and the consequential psychological casualties. With the title “Invictus,” Henley defines himself as unconquerable, and throughout his poem, in each of the four quatrains, Henley builds on this idea, guiding his reader through his reactions and re-sponses at each stage of his illness. Some critical scholars disparage Henley‟s efforts and define his poem as “senseless swagger” (Cohen 191). However, Henley does not use this poem to boast of his grit and resilience. He shares the emotions that he felt throughout his experience in order to remind himself of his enduring strength and will, while also inspiring those in similarly profound and grim situations.

Henley contracted tubercular arthritis in his youth, and for this reason, one of his legs was amputated. In his early twenties, he learned that the infection had spread to his other leg and “his only apparent hope for recovery” lay in an extensive hospital stay in Mar-gate, Kent that included a recuperation program to augment his healing process (Cohen 192). He recalls facing this looming hospitalization with consternation and “indifference”(Cohen 192). After spending some time at the hospital, Henley learned from his doctors that the only remedy for his leg was another amputa-tion. Henley did not take the suggestion well, having already endured the brutal process once before. He searched for alternative treatment possibilities else-where and learned of Joseph Lister and his work. As a doctor, Lister set his standards for himself much higher than those that society had set for him, and he worked diligently on treatments for different fatal and critical illnesses. Lister was most “vexed” by sepsis (UDayton), a serious medical condition in which bac-teria overwhelm the bloodstream and the body re-sponds with total inflammation. Henley ventured to Lister‟s Royal Infirmary in Edinburgh, where he spent twenty months being treated in accordance with the antiseptic theory (Cohen 194). During his hospitaliza-tion, he focused his attention and energy on poetry, using art as an outlet for the feelings and emotions that he experienced during his period of illness. In

1875, he wrote “Invictus” in his hospital bed; it wasn‟t until 1892 that the poem was published in the collec-tion Echoes (Cummings).

Each verse, line, and word of “Invictus” was carefully chosen and crafted, and artfully and thoughtfully placed. Henley begins the poem by discussing the “night” that “covers” him, employing both metonymy and metaphor in order to make “night” representative of the darkness and depression that he felt in his life during the time of his illness. He then describes this darkness as “Black as the pit from pole to pole,” meaning that it is as dreadful as a pit of hell extending from the North to the South Pole. Here, he draws attention to the terrifying depth of his emotions. He closes this stanza by thanking the gods for his “unconquerable” soul, introducing the theme of in-vincibility; he faced a deep darkness, yet was able to overcome it due to the strength of his soul.

In the second stanza, Henley uses dramatic language to express the turmoil that he experienced. He talks about the “fell clutch of circumstance,” meaning that his situation, his illness, had a firm, death-like grip on

Casey Powell

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him. He proceeds to gruesomely describe his battle with death, saying that he suffered “the bludgeonings of chance” with a “bloody” head. This shows that his struggle was difficult and painful. Nevertheless, he is tough; he mentions that he has not “winced nor cried aloud,” and has made no external hints at the internal pain and darkness. Also, his head is “unbowed,” meaning that he is not worshipping or succumbing to death or darkness in any way. He refuses to acknowl-edge that it might have any control over him.

With the third and fourth stanzas, Henley expresses his feelings about how he will face his illness in the future. He knows that the “Horror of the shade” is ahead of him. Nevertheless, he states that he is un-afraid in the face of the “menace of the years.” He then declares that nothing, not even a narrow figura-tive passageway, can keep him from marching forward through his life in good health and disposition: he is “the master of [his] fate” and the “captain of [his] soul” (Cummings).

Invictus is Henley‟s reflection on his own struggle, but the stirring poem is also an aid to other people who feel as though they are drowning in the stresses of their own lives. In this poem, Henley explores the strength of his soul and the power of his determined

mentality, which serve him well in the face of terrors. The simplicity of his vocabulary does not inhibit the complexity of his message, and his words inspire an attitude of self-respect and unforgiving vigor.

Works Cited

Cummings, Michael J. "Invictus: A Study Guide." Cummings Study Guides, 2009. <http://www.cummingsstudyguides.net/Guides7/Invictus.html

Cohen, Edward H. "Two Anticipation's of Henley's „Invictus‟." Huntington Library Quarterly. Vol 37. University of California Press, 1974. Web. <http://www.jstor.org/stable/3817033?seq=4&Search=yes&term=william&term=henley&term=invictus&term=ernest&list=hide&searchUri=%2Faction%2FdoBasicSearch%3FQuery%3Dinvictus%2Bwilliam%2Bernest%2Bhenley%26wc%3Don%26acc%3Don&item=2&ttl=43&returnArticleService=sho&>

"Sir Joseph Lister." UDayton n. pag. Web. 12 Dec 2010. <http://campus.udayton.edu/~hume/Lister/lister.htm>.

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“Those Winter Sundays” Poem Analysis By Margaret Thibadeau

The light title, “Those Winter Sundays” sounds like a simple story of winter days, written with love and fondness. But this poem is deep and somewhat dark with a reflective tone of regret and thankfulness. The poem is written about a father from a son who is now a grown man. The scene is set in a cold home on a wintry Sunday. The father rises early in the “blueblack” cold to warm the home for his family who in return ignores his efforts. The poet recognizes that as a child, he was ignorant of his father‟s hard work as a sign of love for his family; he could only see the sternness of his father and feel the “chronic an-gers of that house.” Robert Hayden‟s imagery and newfound warmth towards his father turn this cold, dismal poem into a meaningful and appreciative one.

The poem is set on a winter Sunday in Hayden‟s youth. Hayden depicts the hard work that his father puts into warming the house for the rest of the family members while they are still asleep. This winter Sun-day is used by Hayden to express his love towards his father and

the regretful feelings he has for never thanking his father for his devotion and endless work.

Hayden was born with the name Asa Bundy Sheffey in 1913 in a ghetto in Detroit. His parents, Asa and Ruth Sheffey, split before he was born. His mother Ruth moved to New York and Asa moved to Indiana. The parents gave their son to their neighbors, William and Sue Ellen Hayden. The boy would often visit his mother in New York. His trips with her were happy and offered an escape from the slum that was his home. Hayden and his biological mother had a strong relationship; she was lively and fun, and often spoiled him. Only once did Hayden visit his biological father in Indiana. The two did not have a positive relation-ship; because Hayden was born with poor eyesight, he could not play sports. Asa couldn‟t relate to his son who constantly had his face buried in books and did not participate in sports. He would also often criticize and attack Ruth when Hayden was around, greatly angering the boy.

Hayden also had a troubled relationship with his fos-ter parents—he was a cause of strain and unhappiness in the home, mostly because he was not their biologi-cal child. His foster mother would often take out her pent up anger on him, wishing for the glamorous life-style she used to have before Hayden. In his Detroit home, being beaten was not an uncommon event. The mother‟s unhappiness and father‟s stress from hard work and strict rules led to a dangerous and un-happy home. His childhood was difficult, but Hayden earned a scholarship to put himself through college. So Hee Park

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He eventually enrolled in a graduate English literature program at the University of Michigan and became the first black Poet Laureate. Although Hayden had a tumultuous and dark childhood, he writes this poem as a man with newfound thankfulness and respect for the father that raised him.

The structure of “Those Winter Sundays” is a sonnet. Hayden‟s sonnet has fourteen lines and three stanzas: the first stanza has iambic pentameter, but the second and third are written in free verse. There is some rhyming in the poem: “blueblack” and “cracked,” and “banked” with “thanked.” When these words are read in the context of the poem, however, the rhyming is not noticed. It is only when the poem is pulled apart that the rhyming can be seen. Imagery is used along with alliteration in the words: “ached,” “cracked,” “breaking,” and “blueblack.” The words have a repeti-tive K sound and depict the scene of a cold, painful winter morning and the cracking of ice. The K sound also contributes to the sounds of a burning fire with crackling logs that the father builds in this poem.

Hayden‟s first stanza reflects on his father waking up early in the family‟s cold house to build a fire to heat the rooms. The use of the word “too” in the first sen-tence is a reference to the fact that Sunday is the day of rest, yet this man still gets up early and does painful work so that his wife and children are comfortable. The language in this first stanza paints a dismal and uninviting picture; words such as “cracked” and “ached” are used to describe the father‟s work-beaten hands that pile logs onto a fire. The man is described as putting his clothes on in “blueblack cold.” This type of cold sounds like a painful one, and the father is waking up in it on the one day when he does not have to work. The father makes the fire blaze, but “no one ever thanked him;” his painful devotion goes un-noticed.

This “blueblack cold” is referring not only to the physical coldness of the room, but the fact that the home of this family is emotionally cold. In the second stanza, Hayden describes waking to hear “the cold splintering, breaking.” Again, cold is used to depict the feeling in the home. The logs on the fire are splin-tering and breaking to warm the home, but this splin-tering and breaking also refers to the closed-off and secluded feelings the family members have towards each other.

The feeling of warmth is introduced in the second stanza; the boy would be called to rise “when the rooms were warm,” heated by his father‟s fire. This reference to warmth introduces the son‟s thoughtful and thankful emotions towards his father. The feel-ings associated with this part of the poem change again at the end of the stanza when Hayden refers to his fear of “the chronic angers of that house.” This line insinuates that perhaps Hayden, when young, feared his father. His parents did beat him sometimes, and there was much unhappiness and negativity in the home, so he was likely used to hearing lots of fights. One of the likely reasons that thank you was never said could be because Hayden was too intimidated by his father and chose not to speak to him. Hayden‟s father had a hard time expressing his love and care for his family in ways other than working.

The fourth stanza begins with Hayden noting the way he spoke “indifferently” to his father, the one who had “driven out the cold.” Hayden‟s tone in the stanza changes from a focus on his father and his ac-

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tions to Hayden‟s regret of not appreciating the things his father did for the family. Hayden notes that not only did his father drive out the cold, but he also “polished my good shoes as well” for church that Sunday. By men-tioning these things, Hayden is able to sway the readers‟ emotions and help them understand the father a bit more. He is not intentionally creating “chronic angers;” he is doing the best he can to take care of his wife and child. Hayden closes the poem with asking, “What did I know…of love‟s austere and lonely offices?” In these lines, Hayden openly admits that he did not understand his father‟s way of showing love for him, and he notes that his father treated the love he had as a job, a lonely and painful one.

Hayden‟s poem, reflecting on his youth and his igno-rance of his father‟s devotion and love, pose a meaning-ful reflection: recognize different forms of love and be thankful for them. This poem has a cold and dark tone, but this tone helps Hayden convey his negative emo-tions from the past and how they have warmed and be-

come appreciative over time.

Works Cited

Guz, Savannah. "Robert Hayden's Those Winter Sun-days." Suite 101. N.p., February 16, 2009. Web. 11 Dec 2010. <http://www.suite101.com/content/robert-haydens-those- winter-sundays-a96551>.

Hayden, Robert. "THOSE WINTER SUNDAYS." Po-etry Out Loud. Liverright Publishing Corperation, n.d. Web. 12/12/10. <http://poetryoutloud.org/poems/poem.html?id=175758>.

"Robert Hayden." Biography. Pearson Literature. Web. 11 Dec. 2010. <http://wps.ablongman.com/long_kennedy_lfpd_9/0,9130,1490011-,00.html>.

Wood, Kerry. "Poetry analysis: Those Winter Sundays by Robert Hayden." Helium. N.p., n.d. Web. 11 Dec 2010. <http://www.helium.com/items/1145833-analysis-of-robert-haydens-those-winter-sundays?page=2>.

Francis Parenteau

Casey Powell

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“Scary Movie” Analysis By Cassie Hecker

Kim Addonizio‟s poem, “Scary Movies,” offers a comical yet compelling perspective of one woman‟s past and present experiences with scary movies: how these movies initially impacted her, resonated within her, and are impacting her now. Addonizio utilizes literary techniques such as sentence structure and im-agery. She also appeals to the reader‟s pathos to con-struct a funny and successful poem that‟s enjoyable to read.

The poem consists of eleven four-line stanzas, all without an apparent rhyme scheme or concrete pat-tern of syllables per line. Interestingly, this free-verse poem contains just four sentences in 44 lines; numer-ous commas and semicolons separate these four com-plex sentences. By inserting few periods, Addonizio maintains a steady stream of thought, which undoubt-edly keeps the reader more engaged. By keeping the number of sentences to a minimum, Addonizio does-n‟t let the reader‟s attention stray. The reader remains actively engaged in the somewhat frenzied and non-stop train of thought that Addonizio is trying to de-pict.

Without descriptive language, this poem would most likely lose the zeal that it possesses. For example, in-stead of just saying “Cyclops” Addonizio refers to this creature as a “black-and-white B-movie Cyclops.” By modifying nouns with simple adjectives such as “young brain,” “deep cave” and “older brothers,” Ad-donizio provides subtle details that are necessary to comprehending this poem. Since the poem makes subtle transitions from Addonizio‟s childhood to his adult life, these simple modifiers allow the reader to know what era of her life Addonizio is referring to. For example, she writes: “… into my young brain...” Other word choice such as “flickered” (line 7) “gnawed on and flung” (line 13) and “litter of human bones” (line 11), all offer very clear images that aid in a reader‟s comprehension of the poem.

Along with this descriptive language Addonizio em-ploys personification to enhance her description of death. She personifies death first when referring to a feeling she sometimes gets “…on those days when it seems like death…is cruising…through your neighborhood.” This allusion to death as a type of UPS truck suggests that it may occur suddenly and

without warning. Addonizio continues with her per-sonification of death several lines down where she writes, death is “waiting [to] grab me…and pull me under.” These lines suggest that death is arbitrary, un-fair, and ruthless; perhaps he is even a “real life” mon-ster, similar to the ones Addonizio witnessed many years ago.

Addonizio effectively conveys emotion in this poem by setting up a scenario to which most people can re-late: dealing with the aftermath of watching a scary movie. Addonizio then make a correlation between frightening scenes in these movies and real life occur-rences. A gloomy day merits the appearance of a “B-movie Cyclops”; the smell of her morning breakfast correlates to an old perceived smell of a Cyclops‟ den; and, saddest of all, the feeling of terror she felt as a young girl after watching a vampire movie, is felt again after her friend‟s untimely death. These cine-matic correlations between horror and death seem somewhat interchangeable and ultimately imply that some occurrences in life are similar to those in scary movies.

As the poem closes, the reader gets a different sense of the “monsters” to which Addonizio was initially referring. Through the passage of time Addonizio suggests that the “vampires” and “Cyclops‟” that used to haunt her have now been replaced with more real, looming horrors, such as the death of a friend or loss of initiative in life. By juxtaposing past and present experiences, applying prolonged sentences, and using compelling imagery, Addonizio impressively creates a poem that offers the reader an interesting perspective on real-life-scary-movie-esque inevitabilities.

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Athenians used vases in various ways. Some vases were made for everyday use—storing food, drinking wine, or drawing water. Other vases were used for rituals, and some vases were so elaborately painted that they were only used for decoration. Athenian art-ists initially used the black figure technique and only later developed the red figure technique. Drawings on the elaborately decorated vases included scenes from Athenian life and literary texts. During their study of Athenian history in the new course Western Civilization, students were asked to draw a scene from the Odyssey on one vase and a parallel scene from their own lives at Holderness School on a second.

Celeste Holland

Tram Dao

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Elizabeth Powell

Hailee Grisham

Jesse Osuchowski

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The Robbery By Hannah Durnan

The rain on the first day of December blurred his vi-sion, but Adam did not fail to notice his sister‟s tears as he crept into their small home after his morning‟s work in the fields, his arms aching from the labor.

“Sarah? What‟s the matter?” he asked, taking her hand in an unusual show of affection.

Sarah closed her eyes, shoulders shaking silently. After a few moments, she lifted her head and met Adam‟s eyes. “He took our pig,” she choked out, before turn-ing away. “Lord Weston took our pig!” Adam fur-rowed his brow. Their family was relying on their pig for food to keep them through the winter. He turned to his sister, trying not to show his concern.

“It‟s going to be fine,” he said, though fear and anger at the lord formed a knot in his stomach. Their family had been lucky to have any livestock at all; Adam had feared that their asset would be endangered after his father‟s recent death. Although the village had three fields to use for farming, one field lay fallow; Adam‟s family was relying on the pig for food during the win-ter. Now that the lord had taken advantage of his fa-ther‟s absence, Adam would have to work harder in order to keep his brother and sister fed during the im-pending months.

“Sarah, when Mother gets home from the fields, tell her I went to the rectory to talk to Father Samuel, all right?”

Sarah nodded, coughing slightly in the smoky air. Adam touched her briefly on the shoulder before strid-ing out into the cold, wet street. Though it was mid-morning, the village was quiet except for interrupting clash of metal on metal from the blacksmith‟s shop down the street. The frigid rain lashed down, dripping into Adam‟s thin, coarse tunic. He headed down the street toward the village‟s chapel, thoughts of the morning‟s news weighing heavily on his mind.

Adam brushed his dripping hair out of his eyes, shiver-ing slightly, and looked up to the lord‟s manor on the hill overlooking the village. It reminded Adam eerily of a spider‟s web: delicate and beautiful from afar, but home to a fatally clandestine creature. As he surveyed the manor, a bold, impossible idea crossed Adam‟s mind, like a lightning bolt illuminating a summer sky. Abandoning his route to the rectory, he turned and began climbing the hill to the great, mysterious manor, not knowing the consequences that would ensue.

As he approached the manor, Adam realized that he had no plan to match his brazen idea. He stopped, pondering his dilemma. From the distance, he heard the sounds of cows and pigs, squealing in their enclo-sures. Excitement shot through him. Adam rushed to-ward the sound, crouching lower as he neared the manor, praying that Lord Weston would not see him coming. Rounding the corner of the manor, Adam saw what he was looking for: the stables where the lord‟s livestock were kept and fed. The smell, though not un-familiar, almost overwhelmed him. Adam warily opened the gate to the stables, hay crunching beneath his feet. The stables were filthy and cramped, and the odor of manure pungent. Adam looked around for his family‟s pig, hoping to find it quickly and get out be-fore the lord or one of his servants caught him. The first few stalls held the lord‟s horses, strong and pow-erful. In the third stood a fat, healthy-looking cow that mooed as Adam neared. Reaching out to touch its nose, Adam realized that he didn‟t have to take the pig. Quietly, he opened the stall door and ushered the cow out in hushed tones. Hay rustled on the floor of the building, and Adam stopped for a moment, hoping that the sounds had gone unnoticed.

They left the stables, Adam treading softly around the manor, leading the cow who was unwilling to leave its home. As they reached the peak of the hill, the cow stopped and stood stock still, opposed to going any further. Frustrated, Adam snapped his fingers, motion-ing the cow down toward him. It snorted, glaring at

During their study of the Middle Ages, Western Civilization students created an historically accurate short story. Students were asked to show their understanding of the time period by incorporating many aspects of life in the Middle Ages into their stories. Areas that they could address included the restrictions of class structure, the role of the church, and the technology of the times. Students also needed to utilize their knowledge of short story structure and literary elements such as characteriza-tion, foreshadowing, and figurative language. Below are two stories that were created during this pro-ject.

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Adam with beady black eyes and refused to move.

Suddenly, Adam heard a clamor from inside the manor. Cursing under his breath, he tried to run, slip-ping on the muddy ground. Breaking into a sprint, he made it nearly twenty paces before hearing a voice from the entrance to the manor.

“Stop, thief! I am the lord of this manor, and I will not hesitate to kill any who trespass and attempt to steal on my estate.”

Adam stopped, paralyzed with fear, but did not turn around. He heard footsteps approaching, and, adrena-line surging through him, he began to run again. The cold air seared his lungs, and the slope of the hill made speed impossible. His foot slipped again in the wet grass, but this time Adam was unable to catch himself. He fell face-forward into the mud at the base of the hill.

Groaning, he pushed himself up onto his feet and wiped the dirt from his face. He looked up at the hill, where Lord Weston stood, livid. Slowly, the lord de-scended the hill, until he stood just a few feet above Adam. The height made him look like a giant, and his anger was tangible.

“Adam. I wouldn‟t have thought you would try some-thing so blatantly idiotic,” Lord Weston said. His

words, brimming with anger, were as sharp as knives. “Your father would have been disappointed in you, Adam.”

Adam forced himself to look Lord Weston in the eye, though he was trembling with anger and poorly hid-den fear.

“My father would have told me to do whatever it takes to care for my family,” he retorted.

Lord Weston lunged forward, grabbing Adam by the collar of his tunic. “Your father would have known that you‟re no good to your family as a thief. You do know what the punishment for thievery is, Adam?” asked Lord Weston.

Adam nodded, resisting the urge to push the lord away.

“Good. Follow me,” he commanded as he released Adam. “And don‟t try to run again, or it won‟t turn out well for your precious family.”

Adam nodded, following Lord Weston up the hill, back to the manor. They reached the house, and stopped outside.

“Adam,” Lord Weston‟s voice was merely a hiss, and he had to strain to hear. “I am feeling very merciful today, and you should be grateful. Your punishment

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will be conducted here, instead of in the town square at noon. It is better that we get it over with quickly.”

A servant, looking emaciated and terrified, hurried over to them, and handed Lord Weston a whip. Adam glared at the lord, not speaking. He trembled, fear rooting him to the spot.

“Adam, down on your knees,” Lord Weston com-manded. “As I said, you should be thankful to me for doing this quickly, privately. The village need not know your shame.”

“I‟m not ashamed,” Adam managed, though he could barely breathe for fear.

“Very well,” he answered. “Maybe this will make you reconsider. Turn around.” The lord‟s voice was harsher, more commanding than it had been before. Adam turned and knelt, the knees of his leggings soak-ing through with mud. He bent his head, ready to re-ceive his punishment, and gritted his teeth, preparing for pain. His back tensed in anticipation of the agony.

“Stop!”

Adam looked up, a flutter of hope giving him strength. To his surprise, Father Samuel was trotting up the hill, sweating but looking determined. The reverend bent over, catching his breath, before turning to Lord Wes-ton.

“Lord Weston, please forgive me,” Father Samuel be-gan. “I sent young Adam here to fetch a pig for me, the one that your wife promised in return for the use of the village chapel for your niece‟s wedding. I sent young Adam to retrieve it, and it seems he misinter-preted my instructions.”

Lord Weston sneered. “Yes, it seems he did. Can you

explain, Father, why it is that the boy decided to make off with a cow?”

“Ah, Lord Weston, I cannot fathom the thoughts of the younger generation,” he replied. “Adolescence just seems to have that effect, don‟t you think? Now, if you‟ll let me just take Adam home. I apologize for the miscommunication. Thank you, Lord Weston!” Before the lord could reply, Father Samuel yanked Adam up by the sleeve and began walking him down the hill.

The priest bent down and hissed in Adam‟s ear, “Never try anything like that again, Adam. You know better than to cross the lord.”

Adam nodded, still shaky from anxiety. “How did you know, Father?”

“Your mother came to the rectory looking for you,” he explained. “She thought you might be getting into some kind of trouble. You‟re lucky that I guessed the right place where you were.”

Adam bent his head, ashamed to have let down Father Samuel. “I‟m sorry, Father.”

“It will be fine,” Father Samuel said. “You must learn to use both your common sense and what I have taught you in the ways of being a good Christian. With your father gone, you will have to make your own deci-sions. Now, go home and don‟t make a ruckus like this again.”

Adam nodded, and scurried off into the streets. Sud-denly, the day didn‟t seem so desolate. The priest‟s compassion had given Adam a new hope, and he knew that his family would find a way to survive. He closed his eyes, and the rain like a breath of fresh air upon his face.

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Fighting Back By Danielle Norgren

I awoke to the warm rays of sunlight shining through the slats of our thatched roof, beating on my face, cre-ating cool beads of sweat. I rolled over to see my lanky brother still asleep, pieces of straw stuck in his long auburn hair. I shoved him over, ignoring his moan, and got up to complete my daily routine of milking the cow, preparing breakfast, and heading out to the fields to do my work. I threw on my ragged, tan work clothes and grabbed breakfast. This morning, I was lucky enough to get fruit and nuts to accompany the dry, tasteless bread which was our main food staple.

As I headed outside, I glanced down the hill towards the pathway heading out of town. Every time I looked at the grey rocks that dotted the road into town, I felt a feeling of desperation. The need to disregard all rules that I had been following since birth was overwhelm-ing. I let go of all thoughts as I knelt against our one cow; the idea of me attempting escape would be ridicu-lous. With no where to go, and no money to pay for the necessary items, I would certainly die. I could, however, dream.

I pulled over the wooden bucket that I had fashioned using my own hands, and began to milk the cow‟s hot udder. She let out a sigh of relief as the warm milk landed in the bucket, creating steam in the cool morn-ing air. I let my thoughts wander, when all of the sud-den, I heard my father bellowing my name. In shock, I jumped up, knocking over the milk. Not only would I now face repercussions from my father for something of which I did not know, I must also listen to the nag-ging of my mother for ruining a vital part of our fam-ily‟s resources. I barreled back to our small hut where my father was waiting outside for me.

“Margaret,” he said, “today there has been an an-nouncement. We must record the value of our farm, so that William I can justify taxing us more. Instead, I want you to hide our livestock and not record the cor-rect number of crops. We must not be taken advantage of!”

Shocked, I looked timidly at my father. “But father, would God approve?” I asked. “Lying for personal gain is a sin. What will happen to our souls?”

“Taking advantage of people just because they do not have power to fight back is even worse!” my father answered. “We must not bend down out of fear. Go

do what I told you, and not another word!”

I took a step back. My father‟s cheeks were crimson from anger; his bulging eyes frightened me. I looked towards my mother for any sign of advice, but her blank face offered no relief. I knew I was alone on this.

“All right father, I will do as you say,” I said. “When will the collectors be here?”

“Tomorrow. You must be ready by then. Hurry out now so you will be done by nightfall.”

I turned my back towards my parents and headed back to the barn where our animals were kept, pretending to do as my father had told me. Instead, once I had slipped into the small enclosure, I slumped against a pile of straw. I inhaled the dull odor of our livestock and pondered my situation. Lying to the collectors would be a sin, but so would disobeying my father. I let out a moan as I realized that there would be no per-sonal escape; I must sacrifice either my moral values or my father‟s happiness with me. For now, I decided I would act as if I was following my father‟s orders, and decide tomorrow morning whether or not to tell the

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truth. I stood up and shook the prickling straw out of my garments. I gathered five of our chickens and headed out behind our fields. They bawked and scram-bled, making the walk difficult. I realized I could not complete this task alone, but did not look forward to asking my torpid brother for assistance.

“JOHNNN!” I roared, “Come help me instead of fooling around with your nonsense!”

I waited five minutes, and then saw the flash of brown hair poke out of our small window.

“Is there anything of which you could offer me for my time and efforts?” he demanded.

Realizing that convincing him would take more of my time than just completing the task by myself, I turned my back to him, gathered the chickens, and led them to a small, empty shack, which had at one point been used for storing farming tools. I reached into my pocket to grab feed and threw a handful in order to lure the greedy animals in. Once I was sure that the chickens would not escape, I tied a strand of rope around the door and headed to the fields to weed out any unwanted growth. The previous plan of my day seemed irrelevant, as I now had a bigger concern.

Before now, I had never been forced to be deceitful. I could understand my father‟s frustration, but never

before had I seen him blatantly lie. Not only was I concerned by my father‟s dishonesty, but I knew his actions would have far greater consequences. I have attended church all my life and have always been taught to never lie. As a small child, I would be pun-ished for even the smallest tale, such as saying I had eaten my bread, when really I had fed it to the animals. Such thoughts circled around in my brain like the scrambling chickens I had been guiding. I rose from the cracked earth, my knees sore from kneeling on the ground. I took a glance at the sky, and to my surprise, the sun was already setting into the distance. I had been working longer than I had realized and needed to head back home in order to make dinner.

I entered our house, to see that my mother had already gathered together what little food we had. I gave her a grateful stare and sat down to eat. My father and brother had already eaten and had gone outside. I glanced at my mother, her pale blond hair and short stature set her apart from her children.

“Mother,” I said, “Do you think that I should lie about our crops?”

“Margaret,” she answered, “in life, you have to make your own decisions. Your father is asking you to go against your morals, which is not right. But it is also not okay to demand that a struggling family give up what little they have. You need to do what you think is right, for if I make up your mind for you, you will re-gret it in the future.”

Although I knew what she told me was correct, it of-fered no reassurance. I finished my supper, and not knowing what else to do, I decided to get to sleep early, for I knew tomorrow would be a long day. Not only would I have to meet with the collector, but I would also have to make up all the work that I would not be able to complete in the fields.

As I lay in bed, I pondered what would happen to my father if anyone found out about the lie. Would we be punished? This thought only scared me even more. Lying meant facing the repercussions of God and our Lord. The pressure of deciding what to do was too great, and I found myself tossing and turning. At last, I felt my brother slide into the bed and knew it was time to sleep. I finally closed my eyes and felt myself drift-ing off into peacefulness.

I awoke to a banging on the door. I felt a small feeling of dread as I knew that this was the moment I had

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been fearing. I dragged myself out of bed, tied my long brown hair back, and slid nervously to the door. I opened it to see a small man, his pale face sneering at me. His clothes had a strange coloring and shape; one could tell that they would not last a day in the fields. I stepped outside so that I would not wake my father.

“I am here to collect information for our census, so we can figure out how much your manor is worth,” he said in a slow, monotonous voice.

“Oh, okay, w-well what would you l-l-like to know?” I immediately regretted speaking, afraid my stutter gave away that I was hiding something.

“I need to know how much land you have, how many ploughs, how much livestock, etc. You can either be honest, or I can look for you.”

“Oh well we have 1 plot of land, 3 chickens, and a cow.”

“Really, only three chickens and one plot of land? It looks as though you have a lot more than that. You know, you could just tell me, so I don‟t have to waste energy walking the whole farm, and no one will ever know.”

I pondered the prospect, debating my options.

“Well, we actually own 2 plots of land, 8 chickens, and a cow.”

The relief of letting go of such a burden felt great. I knew I had gone against my father, and for that I felt bad. However, my father was asking me to go against my values, which I was not willing to do. The man re-corded the data, and was then on his way. The whole ordeal was over quickly, and now I had the whole day to complete my farm work. I grabbed my breakfast, only this time, the bread which I had dreaded eating every morning did not taste so bad.

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PPhotos by Jaclyn Vernet

Holderness School

Plymouth, NH 03264-1879

www.holderness.org

603.536.1257

mosaic: volume 9, issue 1

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