I hit the clutch and shift into fifth gear of my new purple Ferrari. Speeding down the hill, the top down, wind blowing through my hair and a warm June sun upon my face. The ivory colored grip around the steering wheel is smooth beneath my fingertips. With a full tank of gas, I have miles of road ahead of me. Upon reaching the intersection I see my friends drive by waiving as they pass. I take a right. I followed them all the way around to the gazebo and, by then, it was already lunchtime. Our vehicles, all parked in on the grass by the gazebo, are very unique.
        Billy and Jonny are both driving three wheeled motorcycles that are chromed out with cherry red paint. Andy has a silver motor scooter with just as much chrome as the bikes. Then there is my purple Ferrari, gleaming in the sun with its metallic purple color. Low profile tires wrap the three-inch Giovanni rims that compliment the white pinstripes along the car. I am most definitely the talk of the crowd. Once inside the gazebo we devour our bagged lunches like pigs do slop. Today my mother packed me a PB&J with a bag of chips. While the other kids are swapping their pudding for cheese sticks and complaining about their bologna sandwiches, all I can think about is returning to the high road in my purple Ferrari. I loved that car.
        That was usually the daily routine at daycare every day during the summer. Of course there wasn’t really any chrome or engines. But in our imaginations they were as real as could be. Every morning while the sun was just beginning to peek over the tops of the trees and warm the beautiful grass that still held tiny water droplets, all the boys and I would go around back of the house where all the toys were kept. They were underneath an addition, enclosed by lattice that could be compared to jailhouse bars keeping me from a loved one. Holding the gate shut was a small sliding bar just out of my reach. Andy was tall and skinny with jet black hair. He could easily reach the bar and open the gate for me. Once opened, I would run past him in a fury yelling, “The purple car, The purple car!” making sure everyone knew what I wanted.
        All the other toys like the big wheels and the scooter were in front of it. Despite my speediness to get to the toys, I would still have to wait for everyone else to get what they wanted. Billy and Jonny both were around my age and took the big wheels. Andy, being several years older, had to take the scooter. Then it was all mine. I would first have to push it through the rocks that lined the floor. Once out of there I would then heave it through the tall wet grass all the way to the driveway.
        Our road had been already drawn out on the driveway from the day before. It went all the way from the top of the driveway down around to the bottom, circled around past the gazebo and back up again. From there, our imagination soared. As you can probably tell, I loved it. To me the purple car was real. It had a loud horn and a real working motor. Every few laps around the driveway, I would stop to fill it up with gas at the plastic Fisher Price gas pump and continue on my mission. This, as I said before, was the routine every summer day until one horrible day…
        It was one of the first days of spring and we had been playing outside for a couple hours. Our babysitter was sitting by the garage in her Red Sox lounge chair listening to Am 560 with the pre-game show on. We were playing in the woods when Jonny had the idea to draw the road on the driveway. So we got the bucket of chalk, and all assigned ourselves to different sections of the road, adding parking spaces and crosswalks so no one would jay walk. Once the road was completed, we all ran around back to get our vehicles. To my surprise, I could open the gate. Once inside, Billy and Jonny got the big wheels and Andy the scooter. I got my purple car. We pushed them to the driveway, and that’s when it happened. As I was trying to get into the purple car, my legs wouldn’t fit. Adding to my disappointment, our babysitter yelled from her chair, “ Jamie you are too big for that! You’ll break it!” I was stupefied. For the first time in my life I actually had the first sigh of growing up and it wasn’t pleasant. I had lost the ability to play with my favorite toy. Well, guess it’s off to the Big Wheel.

        Learning to ski was a challenge for me. I’m known as the uncoordinated one, the klutz. The only athletic activity I have excelled at has been swimming; outside of the pool, I’m completely useless. So when my parents announced a weeklong skiing vacation to Quebec City, Canada during February of 2004, I wasn’t too excited. I couldn’t even walk normally without tripping over myself—how was I supposed to function with two long boards strapped to my feet?
        The eight-hour car ride from East Longmeadow to Canada was full of dread. I was convinced that I would be returning from this vacation with at least a few broken bones, if I were alive at all. Hundreds of excuses went through my head, but nothing I thought of was good enough to get me out of skiing. So after hours of contemplating failed escape plans, I found myself standing, skis and poles in hand, at the bottom of the largest mountain I had ever laid my eyes on, Mount Saint Anne. I had to put my pessimism aside for a moment and take in the magnificence of this mountain. Mount Saint Anne was enormous, extending all the way into the clouds and covered in fluffy white snow. The air was cold, but the sun shone above, making the cold bearable. It was an image of perfection, even for someone who had never set foot on a ski lift before.
        It was miracle that I even made it to the bottom of the bunny hill. I don’t believe I’ve ever had such a hard time moving in my life. The skis seemed determined to work against me, and as hard as I tried to move forward, I kept finding myself farther away from my destination. I was exhausted when I finally reached the top of the small beginners’ hill, and I hadn’t even skied yet. On top of that, I was easily the oldest person on the slope by at least ten years. My first run was pathetic. I pizza-sliced my way down the hill, ever so slowly, being passed by every four-year old prodigy skier on the mountain. To say that I fell a lot would be an understatement. I was on the ground more than I was standing up. My parents tried to be supportive, showing me what to do and correcting all my mistakes. However, after I had fallen for the twentieth time, none of us could hide our laughter anymore.
        After a full two days of practicing on the bunny slope, I am pleased to say that I was ready for a real mountain run. The ski-lift ride up the enormous mountain was the most nerve-wracking five minutes of my life. My heart was pounding, and my palms were sweating, despite the freezing temperatures. All I wanted to do was make it down the mountain in one piece and be able to say that I, the world’s largest klutz, had successfully made a run. The view from the top of the mountain was amazing. I could see for miles. The world was white, covered in snow, and in the distance, I could barely make out the outline of Quebec City and the frozen St. Lawrence River. The beauty of the view made me forget my nerves for a minute, and I began to follow my parents down the mountain.
        Unfortunately, the nerves were back within 30 seconds, when I realized that I was not on the bunny hill anymore. I made my way down the side of the mountain, slowly but surely. After what felt like hours, I reached the bottom, without falling once. The feeling of accomplishment was incredible. I had managed to overcome my nerves and learn something new. I left Canada after that week not only with a newfound love for skiing, but also with a greater amount of confidence in myself and in my ability to accomplish what I plan to do.

        Some of my greatest childhood memories took place in my bathtub. I was amazed by its shape and size, just perfect for me. It was like having my own miniature pool or aquarium to play in. Sometimes my mother would add in a bubble bath. I would surround myself with the bubbles, giving myself a whole head of white hair and a beard. I would try my hardest to pop every last one by hand, and then draw designs in the foam that was left on the surface of the still water.
        Every time I would start a bath I would make sure the temperature was just right. Once it had reached that point when it was not too cold and not too hot, I’d lie down and let the water cover me like a blanket. I would wait for the shower doors to fill with steam, and then I would write all over them in my own secret code. Sometimes I would bring Barbie dolls in there and make believe the tub was a tropical paradise. I never knew there were some of my toys that were not allowed in the bath. That’s how I lost my favorite big bird electronic stuffed animal when I took him for a little swim.
        But the part of my bath time that I remember the most was the drain. Before I sat on the lever that released all of the water and bubbles down the tiny hole, I found myself wondering how the lever itself worked. I would create elaborate stories in my mind about where that tiny hole could possibly lead too. Was it the world’s smallest waterslide leading to an open pool? Or could it possibly be a grimy filled alleyway leading to germy townspeople in the sewer. Sometimes I would imagine it creating a powerful whirlpool that would take me down with it. I never wanted to hit that drain lever before I was done with all my fun, but to this day, I still enjoy taking the time to lay back and relax in the bathtub. And the drain still amazes me pretty much in the same way.

         Sometimes we forget the things we should remember, and we remember the things we want to forget.  An event in my life that stands true to this statement happened when I was 7 years old. It was the first time I felt real loss and sadness and the first time I couldn’t run to one of my parents to save me, because my sadness sunk more than skin-deep. There was nothing anyone could say to help ease my fears. This was the day when I lost all that I thought there was in my life: my toys, my books, my pictures and my memories. This was the day that I watched my house burn to the ground, and all that was left were ashes and soot. It was the first and only time I saw my father cry.
         From the time I was born until I was 7 years old, I lived with my mother and father in the town of Monson, MA. I thought it was a wonderful place. There was so much room to run around outside, and I loved living next door to my best friend Ashley. We were always together and we had so much fun. This all changed when my mother and father broke up. I then had to commute between two homes. I lived with my dad in Monson and my mom in East Longmeadow.
         As my dad drove me home the morning after spending the night at a relative’s house, I looked up at the sky. All I could see was blue sky for miles- until we were nearing closer to our street and we looked up at the sky. “Are those clouds or is that smoke?” my father said. “ I think they’re dark clouds, daddy” I replied. We kept driving until we reached a clearing in the trees, and we could see our house in an eruption of flames. My mood suddenly changed from relaxed and serene to feelings of panic and disaster.
         A crowd had gathered, and everyone was gazing at the fire. Some people were teary-eyed; others were expressionless. The look on my father’s face was a look of helpless and hopeless loss. His eyes filled with tears faster than I have seen water flow from a faucet.  As my father broke down, he covered his face with his shaking hands. His sobs were so deep that I couldn’t hear him crying, I could only feel the feelings he felt.  It is an odd thing, but I don’t remember if I cried or not. Looking back, I felt numb which I often feel to this day whenever I am faced with sadness or fear.  All I kept thinking about were my dog and my cat because I didn’t know where they were. I kept thinking over and over in my head,“ Please let them be alright”.
         When the fire was extinguished, I was eager to look for my cat and dog. After realizing that they were not in the house and that they were waiting for me safely in the woods, I was extremely relieved. Our neighbors had already begun making calls, one of which was to the American Red Cross to tell them about our loss. It was very heartwarming to see the generosity expressed by so many people. My father and I were never alone in dealing with the loss of our home. We had support and help from so many people. I think moving away from the place I grew up, though, was harder than having my house burn down.  I had to leave behind my best friend, the tree fort my dad built for me, and my dog and cat that I loved so much. I would have gladly taken them with me, but there was no room for a dog and a cat where I was going to live.
         They say the cause of the fire could have been electrical wiring, a lit cigarette, or a burning candle left unattended. Whatever the cause, events happen in our lives that may not be the happiest or leave us with the best memories, but it is because of the hardships that we appreciate all of the good things that life has to offer. The experience that I have been through has helped me to grow as a person and has prepared me for harder challenges that I know I will face. It has made me stronger, and it is part of who I am.

     “Win together today, walk together forever!” is what my coach exclaimed before we hit the ice. I could tell my coach wanted to win this game as badly as we did. Just by looking at his smiling face and deviled eyes, it was obvious. How would he react if we lost though?
        As I went on the ice, I thought to myself, “Wow I’m really nervous.” We need to come through and win this. Before starting the game, as I waited anxiously for the puck to drop, we sang the national anthem. The whole rink was compacted with an obnoxious cacophony of fans. I was excited to start the game and show off my skills right away.
        My adrenaline was roaring, starting with the first shift of the game.  All I could think about was getting the first goal to give my team momentum.  Skating down the ice, with my line mate, Mike, with one defenseman in between us, I knew right when we looked at each other that we were going to get this goal. As I crashed the net, Mike then pulled a backhand toe drag around the defenseman’s stick and slid a sly pass through the defenseman’s long legs; I quickly snapped a shot upper 90 to snipe a goal. My teammates started screaming with excitement almost losing their voices as they saw the lights light up behind the net.
         The third period was on its way, and the score was 3-3.  I looked down the bench and noticed a few of my teammates’ heads down. “We can’t lose this game; we need to win!” I said to myself as I realized there were a few heads hanging. The third period was fought hard by both teams. With five minutes left in the game, my coach shouted out my line. I jumped over the boards with excitement. I hit the ice thinking to myself, “This might be my last chance to make something happen.” I finally lined up for the face off, facing off against the Canadians’ biggest, most talented, meanest looking center who only had three teeth when he smiled. As the ref dropped the puck, with my heart beating as fast as a speedboat, I grabbed the puck and took off. As I flew down the ice with the puck, everything was a blur around me. I felt as if I had no vision, and I couldn’t hear. I somehow noticed two other teammates skating full speed with me with two of their gigantic defensemen defending us. My mind raced back and forth thinking whether or not I should pass or shoot. Before I got poke checked, I made a pretty saucer pass over the defenseman’s long red stick to Jeff Tellier. From there, all I saw was Jeff wind up letting a blistering slap shot go, resulting in the puck jolting the back of the net. “Yeah baby!” I shouted as I jumped onto Jeff in the corner by the glass to celebrate the game-winning goal.
        It was music to my ears as the whistles sounded. Realizing we were the champions, my teammates came rushing out onto the ice with their hands high in the sky screaming. My team’s avid celebration resulted in gloves, sticks, and helmets from everyone being thrown high into the air. There was no better feeling in the world at that time; the head knocking, elbow in the face, jumping into the glass celebration was priceless. Meanwhile we all gathered together at center ice with our new shimmering championship trophy. With players jumping on each other, screaming number one, trying to get their face in the picture, the priceless photo of the team was snapped. After the team picture, we were each presented with our own individual gold trophies. We were announced one at a time to receive our trophy at center ice. Nothing at that time could make me happier than collecting a championship trophy at another team’s home rink. An outrageously loud cacophony occurred.
         After the great victory in Canada, we can walk together as a team forever because we will always have that great memory. I can remember the gleaming smile on my coach’s face, every play in the game, and every person that took part of the victory. The picture of my team will remain posted on my wall. Every time I walk by and look at it, I will remember the greatest day of my life.

         There I was, floating in the middle of the Connecticut River, disoriented, in pain, wondering why my arm was inverted. Did I dislocate my shoulder? What happened? Just a minute ago I was barefooting at 42 mph. Why can’t I move the lower half of my arm? Then I realized there was a lump in the middle of my bicep. So I picked my wrist up with my left hand, flipped my arm back around to how it was supposed to be and screamed for help. The cold dark waters numbed the pain, but a wake from a passing boat was swarming in quickly. I knew I had to immobilize my arm by bracing it and holding my breath as the waves swarmed over my body. I floated atop the wake with my life vest pushing me upwards, twisting my arm. As I lay there overcome by pain, the boat turned around and came towards me.
        I waited in pain like a wounded soldier awaits a medic. As the boat arrived with everyone in it screaming, “Are you ok?” I started to go into shock. The world turned into a blur of an old 20’s movie; everything was black and white and choppy. Was this really happening to me? Was I going to live? These questions raced through my mind. Feelings of pain were all over as if a machine gun were ripping bullets through my body. As I was pulled out of the water not knowing where I was, I felt like a prisoner of war during Vietnam, being told where to go and being moved without my acknowledgement.
        Eventually ending up in the car somehow, I felt my bones chisel into each other sending streaks of pain to penetrate my brain. The car ride to the hospital took what felt like decades. When I arrived, the unfamiliar process of medical procedures began -checking my vitals as if I didn’t know I was already in shock. I was wheeled toward the emergency room in my stainless steel go-cart bed. As they stuck an IV into my arm, they assured me everything was ok. While they administered the drugs which seemed to do nothing more than make everything even more confusing, hope of relief was within the reach of my fingertips. The doctor talked to me for a few minutes and left saying I needed x-rays.
        ”Why?” is what I asked myself. I was off again, being wheeled around in the misery of knowing I would have to wait longer until I could leave this building of mutated and mangled souls. As if my own injury was not enough, I had to endure the injuries of others in pain as well. Entering the x-ray room, feeling disoriented from the shock and morphine that was administered, I saw the world as a video game. It became a world from a 3rd person perspective. My reactions and words were simply a programmed responses to questions. Knowing I was still wet and cold from the water but unable to feel it, I took the x-rays. I returned to the room where I had first been moved, and the doctor told me he needed a specialist. I had a spiral fracture to my right humorous and my bone was in three pointy pieces. The specialist arrived 5 minutes later with the intention of getting in and out. He counted to 3 and yanked my arm as if it were a game of tug-of-war in which I had lost. By now pain had become a comfort. I had felt it so much, my body stopped registering it as abnormal. Immediately after this yank, they tightly began wrapping my arm in a warm wet plastic. It seemed less than 5 seconds it was over.
        The arm was braced, and they gave me a sling to hold my elbow up so the bones could connect. That was it. I was just another broken human, and they were the repair men. It was an assembly line: fix them, give them some pills, get them out. I left that day with a bottle of drugs strong enough to give Ozzy Osbourne a jolt. Wondering nothing more than “why me?”

         I know everyone has been there. You’re leaving the house in a rush and your mom yells to you, “Make sure you have your keys to get back in”, and you just shrug her saying “Yea alright mom! Whatever I’ve got!” I’ve been locked out my house more times than I can count due to my reluctance to listen. It’s one of the worst feelings getting locked out; it’s one right up there with losing your cell phone or wallet.
         It seems that every time I get locked out of my house, it is when the weather is at its worst. Would I rather it be freezing cold and snowing as if I were exploring at the Artic or caught up in a monsoon under the canopy of the Amazon rain forest? Nonetheless, the weather never makes it easy for me when I get locked out.
         The last time I got locked out my house, I had to go on a crazy quest to find a large enough ladder to get up on the roof. My journey began on a cold snowy Saturday night in January. My parents were out of town, and I was alone. With no one home, I was free to do what I wanted. It was a Saturday night so I was out with my friends and didn’t return home till about one o’clock. I walked up to my porch longing for the warmth and comfort of my home when I realized I forgot my keys.
        After moments of cursing, I began formulating a strategy on how I was to get into my house. I came to realize that my room window was unlocked, and I could simply pop out the screen and prop the window open. But, my window was on the second floor so I needed the ladder from around back. I walked round back of the house to the shed through a foot of fresh powdery snow. Almost taking a few diggers along the way due to the thin layer of ice underneath, I victoriously made it to the shed! After sorting through all the debris left over from my hockey rink the winter before, I managed to find a ladder just the right size. I then began my expedition back up to the front of the house. I placed the ladder against the house. I began the climb. By this time, the snow had pretty much stopped. Although the snow had come to a stop, the wind had started to pick up, and it felt as if the wind nearly picked the ladder off of the ground.
        I made it to the roof; I crawled very slowly on all fours, as if I were a cat stalking its prey, being sure not to fall. I made it up to my window; luckily it wasn’t locked. If it were, all my efforts would have been in vain. I reached in my pocket to retrieve my wallet as if I were presenting it to a law enforcement official. I took out my license and wedged it under the window, propping it open just enough to get my hand underneath. I WAS IN!!! It was a festive feeling, climbing through the window, feeling the warmth of the inside of the house on my by this time frigid body.
 Needless to say I’ve finally learned my lesson, and from here on out, whenever I leave the house, I will always make sure to have my keys.

         It was a small square room, with bright blue walls and a creamy white ceiling that resembled the big fluffy clouds that come during a warm springtime afternoon.  Lying in bed, I woke up from the sun that was coming through my slightly open window beaming me in the face.  I began feeling around for my “Blankie” so I could maybe catch some more sleep by tossing it on top of my face.  Opening my eyes, I began to scan across the mess of clothes on the floor to the top of my dresser where it was folded up neatly.  My mother must have washed it.  That was fourteen years ago, but I can still recall how much I loved my Blankie.
         It was faded yellow on one side of the quilting and the other was white covered with designs of balloons sewn into the fabric.  I remember the two different styles and each had their own swirling tail that dangled as if blown by the wind.  They were all vibrant colors of the rainbow, some plaid others solid.  Besides the graphics, my Blankie always smelled like meadow flowers.  I used to smother my face in it, breathing in the homely aroma it carried.  Thick like a comforter, but not even the third the size of one, I was awestruck by its surprising softness, similar to a rabbit’s fur.  Wherever I went, Blankie tagged along.
          Blankie was mine.  Guarding me from my childhood imagination, Blankie wasn’t just a blanket to me.  I needed it to survive.  The wizard from my dreams, in order to ward off all the evil things I thought were in my room, enchanted it.  The hairy monster that I believed to be living in my closet always disappeared when I clung to my Blankie.  When images paced across my room, created by shadows from our big oak tree, Blankie help me overcome them.  I would just throw it over my face whenever I felt scared.  It also helped to keep me warm during the cold winter nights when winds would whip and whistle past my window.  Soaring under the table and over the furniture with my Blankie as a cape, I pretended I was superman racing to save the day.  Even though it was a little too puffy, I still managed to stuff it into my collar.  It was the source of my childhood imaginations.
         Psychologically, it helped me come to terms with the scary new world that I was beginning to explore.  It was a safety that I could always turn to when I was scared of shy.  Blankie couldn’t hurt me. In some ways, it comforted me more than my mother ever could.  Whenever she would scold me and put me in a time out for whatever reason, Blankie always helped me calm down.  I have inherited some of Blankie’s traits that have helped me be the kind of person I am today, confident and unafraid.
         Eventually, I grew more knowledgeable about my surroundings, and in doing so, broke my dependence upon my Blankie.  I had lost the need for something to cling to.  Maturing more as the years went by, I began to take more responsibility for my actions.  I eased into a more realistic world that left no room for superman adventures or monsters in my closet.  I do not remember the exact day I slept with my Blankie for the last time, but it was a step we all have taken along our strange walk through the forests of our lives.

         “First day of school picture” number one.  “Diane, get up for school.”  This was the first of many times that I would have my dad wake me up for school.  My first day of kindergarten was finally here.  My mom was getting ready to take my picture.  She started this “tradition” the first day of kindergarten.  I was so excited.  I got dressed up in my cute, bright, flowery dress, and new stockings.  You could tell from my eyes that I was excited and couldn’t wait to see my friends and meet my new teachers.  My eyes were glowing, sparkling, big and bright, eager to go outside, and wait for the bus.  When my mom said cheese, I gave an enthusiastic smile, showing all my glowing teeth.

        “WHAT TIME IS IT?” asked Chris. “GAME TIME!” replies the team. “WHO ARE WE?” says Chris. “SPARTANS!” replies the team. “Fellows, we all know what we need to do tonight right?” I asked. “YEAH!” everyone replies. I tell the team, “This is our rival, boys. They’re not better than us, they can’t play with us.” “Hell yeah!” replies Nick. “There not as tough as us. In order to beat them we must play physical… every loose ball and rebound is ours!” I yell energetically…
        The team races down the court like greyhounds at the start of the race. Trampling down the court, the ball sounds like hail from a storm hitting the pavement. We man up on defense and stick with them as if there is a magnetic force between us. Some how, a shot goes up. Everyone is silent, and it seems as if time is in slow motion.
 To position ourselves for the rebound we race back and forth. We fight for our spots beneath the hoop as if fighting for our lives. We box out in order to keep the other team away from the ball. This is our ball, and this is our game. I manage to put myself into the perfect position for receiving the rebound. The shot goes up like a shot from a cannon. Everyone prepares for impact.
         The ball hits the rim and bounces back into the air like a firework shot into the sky. Everyone stares into the air as if amazed. I jump up. It feels like springs are attached to my feet. In mid air our bodies collide as if we were in a crowded hallway. The hands reach for the ball like you do a door handle. I grab the ball in the air. All the feet hit the floor. It feels like an earthquake. I pass the ball to the outlet man. The pass was like the shot at the beginning of a race. The players raced off like greyhounds from the start gate.
         We run down the court as if we were horses at the Kentucky Derby. I yell out a play like a general talking to his troops in the midst of battle. The troops faithfully obey their leader and prepare for battle. The ball zips around the three point line. The shot fires from the players hands and in a blink of an eye, the ball goes through the net. It sounds as if rain drops were hitting a window. The rebound has paid off. We are victorious!
         “Yeah! I told you fellows they couldn’t play with us!” I tell the team. “That’s right!” replies Shane. “It feels good doesn’t it boys?” asked coach Winch. “Yeah it does” I replied. “You play this tough every game and you’ll never lose,” Coach Winch says. “I’m proud of every one of you players for what you did tonight” comments Coach Von. “Now everyone bring it in so we can get out of here”, said Coach Winch. “Yo, we have 19 more games, lets keep it up” I tell the team. “Spartans on three” says Nick. “One, Two…

         The wind was gently blowing through my hair and the sun had just snuck behind the clouds.  As I looked out, I saw the deep blue ocean’s white caps coming in almost like a river’s rapids.  The waves were crashing at the shoreline.  Butterflies were fluttering through my stomach when I forced myself to look below at the twenty-foot drop.  To myself I counted, “three” I closed my eyes, “two,” I took one last deep breath, “one” I jumped.
         It was summer, and I was on Martha’s Vineyard.  Watching Mike, Kris, Frank and Kyle play football, I sat in the smooth, warm sand of the beach with my sisters.  I tried to watch the game, but all I could think about was how we were all going to jump off the bridge when the game was over.   The game felt as if it were being played fast forward, and with a blink of an eye, it was over.  Trying to stall and it not working, I finally brought myself to my feet.  We all started out journey to the bridge.  Everyone was running with excitement to the bridge like a stampede of animals running to the water hole.  I was the only one dreading this walk.  My feet felt as though they had bricks on the bottom of them, and each step was harder and harder to take.  I looked ahead, and there it was, sitting there high about the water screaming at me.
         I stood in front of the bridge as if I were a deer caught in headlights.  My body was paralyzed, just blankly staring at the bridge.  I kept second guessing myself, and I didn’t know if I would be able to jump off with everyone else.  I took a seat on the jetties and thought things through.  I thought of more negative aspects to jumping than positive.  The current looked strong, and it can carry you under the bridge.  We also didn’t know if the tide was high or low.  Most importantly, I have a major fear or heights.  On a positive note, if I did jump, I knew it would be really fun.  I just had to believe in myself.  After taking time to think things through, I decided that my fear of heights wouldn’t win this battle, and I must come out with the victory.
         “Splash!”  Before I had even gotten to the top of the bridge, Frank had already jumped in.  He shouted to us that the current wasn’t strong, and the tide was deep.  With that said, everyone was starting to jump except for me.  I thought I could do this but things looked a lot different from on the beach than they did when standing on the bridge.  I told myself I had to jump or else I would regret it.  With my hands and knees trembling, and my heart racing, I reached out and climbed up the edge of the ledge.  I tried to not show how nervous and scared I was, but inside I was screaming.  I finally calmed myself and was ready.
         As I fell through the air about to submerge into the water, I felt relaxed as if I were floating on a cloud.  Frank swam over.  He grabbed my hand, and we climbed out onto the jetty.  The enthusiasm was written all over my face, I couldn’t stop laughing.  Jumping off this bridge was the most exhilarating thing I have ever done.  My smile was from ear to ear!  I took a huge risk facing my fear, and for that I am very proud.  I learned a lot from this experience.  I know that I have to allow myself to let loose and take a chance because the risk is worth the reward.  Right now summer seems like a lifetime away, but I am counting down the days until I can venture back to the b each and make that adventurous leap.

        “Flight 593, non-stop to Ft.Myers, Florida is now boarding.”  This announcement is as gratifying as a tall glass of lemonade on a scorching summer day.  Then a soothing voice rings over the loudspeaker, “Last call, now boarding.”  The anticipation and painstaking time spent waiting for those gigantic, steel doors to swing open, harboring the sweet smell of vacation, builds as we await our row to be called.  Every year for one week in May, my family and I travel to our time-share condominium on the silky white beach of Ft. Myers.  There’s nothing better than getting to miss school for one week to dig our toes in the sand, all day long!
         As soon as we get off the plane in Ft. Myers, we pick up our rental car and head off to our first adventure; the grocery store.  My dad always seems to think that his plan to be strong-willed about how much we buy, will work.  Not!  Every year, we end up leaving with at least two carts full of snacks, and drinks.  The only problem with that is was only in Florida for a week!  We leave the store, jam pack or miniscule rental car, and off we go.
         When we do arrive at the condo, we’ve all got bags of groceries and luggage in our hands, ready to drop like 500-pound weight!  The anticipation builds, as my dad fumbles clumsily with the key, almost as if he knows we can’t wait any longer.  Then finally, the door swings open, letting out the fresh linen scent trapped in the condo like a tsunami!  I think I must have had one thousand different senses and emotions attacking me all at once!  The oceans distinct smell rode in through the screened windows and up into our condo.  The cool, air conditioned atmosphere and sprawling scenery surrounding the condominium, are realization that we are finally here!
         After the hustle and bustle of putting away our unnecessary supply of food, my brother and I got lotioned up, and we grabbed our gear and race full-throttle to the beach.  Our typical beach did included lying out for a little while, having sand castle contests on the beach and meandering to the boardwalk.  Once we do get down to the boardwalk, we’ve reached the epicenter of entertainment!  There’s fishing off the pier, a million cabana-style stores, and of course a monotonous amount of ice cream parlors.  Let me tell you, there’s nothing more pleasing on a blisteringly hot day than a 30-degree tasty cool down.
         Ah!  Nothing like a good ol’ home away from home retreat. Yeah, even as we pack up to leave, the annual, “Do we have to go yet” pleads fill the room.  As if we expected to hear any other answer except “no”.  “Suck it up!” my dad tells us, “You guys had the life this past week.”  Well, no arguing there.  I mean who could disagree that at 12:00 noon, I was sleeping on the warm and breezy beach, while my friends were eating lunch at our gross cafeteria at school?  When we arrive home, there is one bright sport to our day; at least we only have 358 more days until we do it all over again!

         “Ricky, you take this next family,” shouted my aunt’s fiancé’s brother. I got up from the chair by the door and showed them to there seat in the church.
         I was 10 years old, and I was an usher at my Aunt’s wedding. This was my first major form of responsibility I had in my life. When I was told I was going to be an usher in the wedding, I had no idea what to expect. I felt like an 8th grader thinking about going to high school. I was told I would have to seat people in the pews of the church and walk my grandmother down the aisle at the beginning of the wedding.
        I uneasily said yes to the job, but I also was very excited. I was excited to wear a very nice tux. These tuxes weren’t just the “penguin” tuxedo; they had a vest and bow tie to.  Also I got to ride in a limo, like the celebrities did on TV. I’ve never ridden in a limo before, so this was a big plus for the job. The reason I was uneasy about it was because my biggest fear was falling in front of the whole church, when I brought my grandmother down the aisle. I couldn’t believe my uncle trusted me with this job during the wedding, knowing I was a little kid.
        “Alright Ricky and Marilyn, your up next,” whispered someone to my right. My heart was beating like a native drum; I could hear the piano playing. My grandma grabbed my sweaty palm and stepped up to the entrance of the church. Everyone was standing up and staring at me. It felt like a play where you forgot the words and everyone was staring at you, watching your every move. “Go, go,” whispered someone behind me. I stepped forward and started walking.
        Even though I wasn’t looking at anyone, I just knew I was the center of everyone’s focus. It felt as if people were pushing me with their stares, making it harder with every step. I felt the best thing I could do was focus my eyes on one area and just try not to think of everyone. I chose the cross above the altar. At that age I looked up to Jesus as a higher power, so I felt that the cross would be the most comforting place to stare. “Don’t Fall! Don’t fall!” I kept repeating in my head.
        “Yes, I did it!” I made it to the end of the aisle. My body was relaxed, my muscles loosened, and my head stopped rushing. I knew I didn’t let my family down, showing them I could be a responsible kid.

        When you are a teenager and think you don’t have to follow your parents’ rules, it can get you into trouble.  High school was new to me. Being in a different environment, making and meeting new friends and going out to parties with those new friends was exciting.  Just before eighth grade I was always the “perfect” child in the eyes of my parents. I always did what I was told, played soccer to please my father who dreamt of playing professionally, and was always involved in some activity to keep me occupied.  Shortly after beginning eighth grade, I decided to start thinking for myself and began to do the opposite of what my parents wanted.  I decided I was the boss of me.  I began to hang out with a different crowd and we were always getting in trouble.  As a freshman, tension grew between my parents and me. I was making the wrong choices and doing what I thought was “cool” by pleasing my new ‘friends’.  Doing so changed my life from there forward.
        Every weekend my new friends and I would go party hopping or just drive around aimlessly, waiting for trouble to find us.  My parents, who were always working, never had a clue where I was going and who I was going with.  Life was great for that short while when I was with my friends.  At home, it was just the opposite.  I would get dropped off, and my father would be sitting on the couch waiting up for me.  He pretended to be watching television when, really, he was furious at the fact that I had been gone all night with God knows whom.  Before opening the door to walk inside, I would shut my eyes tightly and creep inside as if it would make me invisible to him.  I got yelled and cursed at in Italian for reasons I thought at the time were invalid and stupid.
        I would come home smelling like alcohol and cigarettes and that made him even more livid.  From then on, my dad would randomly check my purse. When he found my cigarettes, he would crush them up in a million pieces, to the point where I couldn’t even smoke half a butt. It did not make me mad that he did that, it was the fact that I had to spend five dollars every time.  I never came home on curfew and would never answer my cell phone when they would call.  I would say to my friends, “Ahh whatever. I’m having a fun time.  I don’t want to go home.”   After every weekend, more and more conflict and hostility would grow between my parents and me.
        One snowy Sunday night my sister Patti and her friends decided to be “cool” and follow my friends and me around town to see what we were up to. They were doing ‘donuts’ in a black Celica at the end of my driveway. When I got picked up by my friends, Patti and her friends left and turned the opposite way we did. Little did I know, they had turned around and were following my friends and me for who knows how long.
        That night, my friends and I went to a huge house party two streets away from mine.  Everyone was there, all my older friends that were seniors, and juniors, probably a few sophomores and freshman. We were having a good time trying and experiencing new things.  I got out of my friends car and saw the Celica drive by my friends house.  I turned to my friend Lauren, who was grabbing our booze out of the trunk and said, “Oh my gosh!  I just saw Lola’s car!”   We both didn’t think too much about it, so we walked into the party.
          I didn’t think my sister would follow me because I thought she was cool about everything.  My sister was jealous at the fact that I was going out all the time and having fun, while her freshman years were hell.  She did the worst thing she could have ever done, which was call my parents.  She told them where I was, and after work, they immediately showed up at the party.  I was outside when I saw the tan pick-up truck pull into the driveway with my red, plastic cup freshly filled with Coors Light.  My jaw dropped and I began to panic.  I froze and knew they had seen me.  I threw my cup under a car and tried to hide behind it.  My dad was the first to see my best friend and me.  He grabbed me and pulled me away. My mom went inside the basement and broke up the party by calling some of my friends’ names and making a scene.  Not only did they embarrass me, but also they made me feel like the biggest loser.  My parents lost trust in me because I was always telling lies and getting caught in them.
That night provoked the dark ages of not getting along with my parents and sister. They grounded me for a month. I wanted to run away. After fighting numerous times, I was fed up.  I called my aunt Linda and told her to pick me up so I could get away from all this drama.  I packed my suitcase and ran away to live with her and her boyfriend.  My mom called me on a Sunday morning, crying, and telling me that she wanted me to come back home.  I kept resisting because I didn’t want to live a life fighting with them and being told what to do.  After some talking, I moved back home.
        Time went by and I grew up a little more.  I realized what I was doing was wrong. I know I was being stubborn, but they were just watching out for me because I was only fourteen years old.  The dark ages ended with my parents having some agreement with me and being a little more lenient on me.  They understood that I was growing up and needed to experience good times with my friends, but without all the drinking and other things fourteen year olds should not be doing.

         “Ehhhhhhhhhh!” came the high-pitched sound from under the water.  “Ehhhhhhhhhh!” There it was again.  Then, out of nowhere, from under the dock, came a speeding gray bullet!  It was moving so quickly I could barely make out the lean shape gliding over the rocks and around the edge of the enclosure.
         Finally it was Wednesday, March 22nd, the day I had been counting down to for an entire year.  I had just stepped off of the ferry onto Blue Lagoon Island.  The name fit the description perfectly.  An assortment of scenic palms and shrubs met you at the entrance to the lagoon.  The crew docked the boat and we unloaded.  The water was the most exquisite clear turquoise and the air was heavy with humidity. The rays of sun shimmered on the surface of the water. My family and I checked in, and the trainer told us to put on our bathing suits. As soon as we changed he brought us to get life jackets and then the BEST part.
         Down a wooden ramp and onto a floating dock is where we went next. Then I heard a shrill whistle.  Suddenly, there were two gray creatures circling.  With another short blast on the whistle, in unison the dolphins jumped into the air and did a flip.  As it flipped, I could see its powerful muscles rippling under its taut, athletic skin.  The vast body was gray, the sensitive underside the lightest pink.  The immense black eyes shone with friendliness, curiosity, and energy as they slowly approached the dock.  I was sitting along the edge when, unexpectedly, one came up and squirted me right in the face!
         We were instructed to enter the water slowly, so as not to startle the marvelous creatures.  The dolphins’ names were McGuiver and Fatman.  They swam all around us and allowed everyone to pet and play with them.  My mom, brother, and sister all fed the dolphin fish and were kissed and hugged by McGuiver.  When it was my turn, Fatman refused to cooperate! He would swim towards me, shake his head and body “No!” splash me and swim away!  Everyone in the group laughed.  During the ‘dolphin hug’, Fatman spit water directly into my face!  After several salty tries, I finally received my kiss!  I later learned that the trainer leading the group had chosen someone to receive the ‘cold shoulder’ treatment from the giant fish, and I had been the lucky one.
         The last part of the dolphin swim was the foot push.  I swam out into the lagoon and waited anxiously. The only instructions I was given by the trainers was to lie flat on my stomach, and that either one or two dolphins would swim up and put their nose on my feet.  I waited uneasily, and before I knew it, I was gliding up through the water being pushed by the astoundingly strong animals.  I could feel the warm wind in my hair and the rushing water splashing on my legs.  The dolphins’ strong noses were on the balls of my feet, and I could feel the jolt as their tails propelled me forward.  As I got closer to the end of the enclosure, the only thing I could see were the rocks and the sandy shoreline.  We were speeding and headed straight for it.  I braced myself for what I thought was going to be a crash when, unexpectedly, the dolphins let go of me feet and I gently dove into the water.  The dolphins had known it was time to let go! It was exhilarating!  Swimming back to the dock, I couldn’t keep the smile off my lips or stop the excitement that was written all over my face.
         All too soon, our day of the dolphin encounter adventure was over.  We got back on the ferryboat that would take us back to Paradise Island.  It was a day I knew I would never forget.  Back at the resort, we enjoyed watching the videos my dad had taken of the day.  We laughed as Fatman squirted water in my face and smiled when he finally gave me a hug.  Along with the memories, we had learned that these magnificent creatures would soon be in trouble.  They face becoming endangered everyday.  The guides taught us to focus on keeping our oceans clean, buying only dolphin-safe tuna fish, and protecting animal rights.
         Dolphins are mysterious creatures that reside beneath the curtain of the ocean.  They are powerful, brilliant, and glorious.  We must protect them and their environment and allow them to carry on and share their charisma forever.  The dolphin encounter is a memory that I will remember forever.

        Have your ever wanted something but couldn't get it? When I was little, there was something I always wanted. I had wanted it as far back as I could remember, but unfortunately, I didn't get the chance to get it - a horse. It was my dream to own a horse and learn how to ride.
        I loved to draw, and my favorite animal to draw was a horse, I would sit at the table filled with excitement, determined to finish my drawing. I always drew horses, and for my age, they weren't that bad either. I didn’t just a draw a horse, but fences and trees or a racehorse ready for a race. I was always pleased with my masterpieces. The pictures got better and more detailed as I got older.
        When I was traveling in our car, I used to look out the window in hopes seeing a horse then yell "horsey!" when I did. If there were pony rides, I had to have a ride. Any movie that had a horse in it I wanted to see. A book about horses, I wanted to get it. As I got older, I started going on trail rides where I was able to ride a full size horse on my own. My mom would usually go with me because she too had a love for horses. When I was around 12 years old, I went to a horseback riding camp, then soon after, we finally found a place for me to take my first riding lessons.
        The heated barn there had two chandeliers hanging from the ceiling and decorated stalls - a horse's dream. I rode a small gray horse named Phoenix in the indoor area once a week for ten weeks. After ten lessons I found out about Whispering Horse Therapeutic Riding Center, and I started volunteering there to work with the horses for community service. Whispering Horse uses horses to help children with disabilities. I helped take care of the seven horses there by grooming and helping feed them and working with the kids. I ended up helping out there for three years. I learned a lot about horses, what it takes to take care of them, and about the therapy that helped the kids.
While I was there, I started taking lessons again at another barn in East Longmeadow called Mountain View Stables where I started learning how to jump. I enjoyed riding the horses at Whispering Horse every now and then and the horses I rode for lessons, but I still wanted my own.
        When I was still working at Whispering Horse, we got an offer for a horse. A person my mom worked with at the time heard we liked horses and asked us if we wanted one, so we decided to have him brought here from Ohio. The day he came was very exciting for me. I had friends who liked horses, but I was the first one to get my own.
I remember seeing him for the first time as he got off the trailer, his brown coat and the red highlights of his black mane and tail shining in the sun. He had a lean muscular body, characteristic of his breed with a white diamond on his forehead and a stripe that ended in a small pink diamond on his gray muzzle. He was a four year old, beautiful thoroughbred gelding named AP Indian, Indy for short.
        He turned out to be a good horse. I was lucky because a lot of people told us we were crazy to get a four-year-old thoroughbred for our first horse. Thoroughbreds can be hard to handle, and four years old is very young for a horse, but it worked out. We kept him at Whispering Horse for a while until we found another place for me to ride and train him. The first time I rode him I got on him bareback, and my friend led him around. It was a little scary because the horse had not been ridden in a while, but he soon got used to it, and I began training him for how I wanted to ride him, something I had never done before. I wanted to ride him for pleasure and wanted to be in a few small shows. I have ridden him on the street and on trails.
        This summer, I want to start jumping with him. As a child all I wanted was a horse. My dream was to have my own, and after many years of waiting, I finally got one. I’ve ridden as much as I could and have worked with horses to learn how to care for them. I have had my horse, Indy, now for a little over two years and have been training him. We have bonded a lot. Indy and I were in our first show last summer and entered one class where we got 4th place which shows that sometimes dreams can come true.

            All I saw ahead of me was a flight of fifty stairs with a railing on the left and a straight drop on the right.  As nervous as I was, I slowly went up each stair squeezing onto the railing with both hands, looking ahead to what was said to be a beautiful view.  Little by little, making my way up the stairs, and finally reaching the top, I saw the gorgeous view of endless green and millions of tiny little buildings, as I relieved myself with a giant sigh.

        ‘FLASH’! A blinding flash of light appears in front of me as I stand beside my sisters. ‘FLASH’, another flash of light appears before us. After twenty straight pictures of the same three kids, we were fed up with taking pictures. No one needs this many copies of the same picture I say to myself. ‘FLASH’. Imagine a woman who devotes her entire time to taking pictures. One picture is not sufficient for her.
Most of our family pictures are taken in our living room, usually in front of the fireplace, in front of our fake Christmas tree covered in white and gold ornaments, in the midst of white bows, and gold garland. Along with white lights and a big angle at the top of the tree.
        Even though my father is Jewish, he still celebrates Christmas with us and has a blue fuzzy stocking to represent the colors of God. To make my father feel a little better we have a Star of David hanging from the tree. Above the fireplace on the corner is the last picture taken of my grandmother who was everything to me. It is a picture of ten of her twelve grandchildren and her, eight days before she passed. Also, there is a starfish I bought with my grandmother on her last trip. We went to California to visit my godmother; her granddaughter, and when we walked pass a little shop on the beach, she saw it and said, “That’s cute!” So I bought it, and now it resides on our tree. The Bronze statue on the corner of the fire place is a three inch statue of Ganesha, the Hindu God of good luck.
        My oldest sister Janessa is on my right and Tara, my other sister, is on my left. We are all dressed up to go to my mom’s aunt’s house for Christmas Eve. This is a tradition that we have been doing all of our lives, and the pictures are just as big as Christmas itself to my mom.
        Janessa is smiling somehow, even after thirty pictures of the three of us in the same position. She is wearing off-white dress pants and a black top which kind of goes the whole theme of all of us dressing with those same colors. Her hair is straight but kind of curves with her head, and she is wearing big jade earrings. Also her favorite necklace is on. This is a palm size gold cross with garnet gem stones in all four ends.
        Tara is smiling also but is losing it and is starting to close one eye from the repeated flashes of the camera. She has the same off-white pants as Janessa had on, but has a black with white spotted shirt and a thin light purple sweater on. Her hair is also straight and tucks under at her shoulders, and she has her silver Tiffany Co. necklace on.
        I, on the other hand, I am just so sick of pictures that I just lose it. My mouth is wide open and my head is tilted to the back right. That is my normal, ‘this is getting very redundant’ look. I am dressed in gray with black pin stripe slacks, an all black dress shirt, and my black fedora hat. I normally wear something like this on an everyday basis. The hat is symbolic because I am very much into my mother side of the family’s history. I bought the hat because I like how it looks and what it represents. To me this hat says a lot about my Italian heritage and how I am very fascinated with the old Italian customs and culture.
        Family is very important to me, and to have these pictures I thank my mother. But at the time, there was nothing worse than wanted to leave to go to a party or to a family member’s house and having to still stand there taking pictures. Your eyes hurt from the flash. Your mouth starts to hurt from smiling for so long. Your legs are getting sore. This is normal for people who have to deal with constant pictures being taken.  What’s important, however, is not how long you’ve been together. It isn’t how much you’ve given or received; nor how many times you’ve helped each other, but it’s how you value one another. It’s in the pictures.