Mouse Nests in the Oven

Safeway chicken filled the house with a nostalgic bouquet. The buzz of familiar primate energy made irresistible a social smile and witty comment exchanged between glances of friends and family. Standing up, I walked into the kitchen to pop the couscous in the oven from its perch on the top of the stove. Peering inside the depths of its iron gullet, I detected an unfamiliar shape on an old tray. I pulled out the oven rack to find a pile of insulation and anonymous fluff that some nasty little rodent had collected. Ah, a pocket to deposit one’s young. With a plastic spoon I nudged aside some of the debris, to find some old chocolate chip cookies that had long since vanished into the gloomy cavern we call our kitchen. So that’s where they had gone! With a deep and lethargic sigh I returned to the table to relay my awesome discovery.

                “Mouse nest,” I mumbled into my glass of chilled milk, “In the oven.”

                In the silence that followed I batted away one of the copious flies that are prolifically breeding in the center of all our rooms. So impishly they buzz around the assorted, but rarely effective, contraptions of defense we have erected in vain attempts to control their frightful libido.

                “A mouse nest?”

                “Oh yeah,” I said with another geriatric sigh, “They are reclaiming the wilderness we have taken from them. Rumor has it they’re lead by Al Gore.”

                Another silence dominated the room in a tired and fly ridden pall. Then, as was a shibboleth for our family, abruptly the clanking of appreciative forks began again and the same proverbial socialization found its element. What audience could dismiss such a shocking display of yet another brash animal attack on the feeble and vulnerable human species? Perhaps one which is well acquainted with our close friends: peromyscus polionotus. Indeed, the company we had over that night was with us when these adorable little vermin were introduced into our 68° habitat.

                As stated in an earlier blog, each autumn I volunteer at the Kennedy Creek Salmon trail. My friend, Kayta, a hopelessly maternal girl, was with me at the time. With ears unnaturally tuned to hear the small cries of endangered infants, she rapidly noticed an incalculably small noise of a distressed brood of deer mice. Charmed with naturally large, imploring eyes and velvety pelts, this abandoned litter of babies beckoned for the help of some higher power. "Who are we to play God?" I said wisely, but she was dedicated to a personal agenda of altruism. Cupping the eight tiny things in her hands she found our parents who were absorbed in the examination and dissection of a rotting salmon.

                “May we please, Mama?” She asked beseechingly, holding out her mammalian find to her parental guardian.

                The answer, however, was a firm "no". Kayta had raised far too many baby mice and her mother had quite enough, thank you very much. Then, looking to me with eyes a cocktail of  resolution and vehement desperation, she held the delicate and flea bitten creatures out to me. Taking the shivering, pee-stained things in my hands, I cooed pleasurably and correctly about their appearance before stuffing them in my warm coat pocket. As fate would have it, it was these mice (for whom I woke up once every two hours during the night to feed) who now corrode our dwindling supply of ice cream cones. Naturally, they had escaped as soon as they were weaned and now keep us company in the bath with their scuttling and squeaking in the hollow walls. We still see them from time to time: feasting on the contents of our garbage can, or perhaps even cuddling up in our socks. However the surest way to know they are there, ever present shadows of our waste, is to look out for the nests that they compile out of what we have discarded.

My Origins as a Writer

                                            

The process of becoming a writer, by any accomplished definition, entails a long process of experimental dabbling. Writing is a form of art and the expression of oneself, so naturally the germination of a linguistic artist begins at home next to a piece of paper or a computer screen. I have been writing since I was seven years old. Consecrated with a mildly competitive spirit, I was in a benevolent and eternal rivalry with my sister. The title of “biggest tomboy” was coveted (my sister always won), as well as most proficient and gifted writer. Inspired by dramatic and heart-wrenching games of Playmobil, we rapidly gained a firm control over plot lines, word choice and an impressively expansive vocabulary. As we became older, these games evolved into massive projects. These fixations of our amusement would carry us from day to day. Because my sister dominated the stories with her gift for narration, I was often compelled to sit and listen while she domineered the main antagonists and protagonists and often everything in between. The following is a paraphrased quote from one of these soap operas:

“…When she bent to the gallows, she never portrayed an emotion. Even as the executioner walked up from behind her, grazing the nape of her neck with a glinting ax, she only looked determined. When the ax was brought upon her head, not a cry escaped from those stony lips. While the head of most victims wore a grisly mask of terror and pain, hers was still and contained. There was a pall over the crowd…”

However, before you think we were completely morbid, you have to picture this with two pre-pubescent girls crouched over their tiny Playmobil dolls. Full of hushed intensity, one looks grim and the other (usually me) has tears streaming down her face at the grisly end of this much loved protagonist. These stories inspired creativity through words. They allowed us to harness vocabulary and master the art of language. My first stories are also the ones I am most proud of, because they influenced me as a writer. Essays have to come from somewhere, and my place of origin happened to be a series of short stories about a chicken named Ebony. Based on a true chicken who lived at my friend’s house on Johnson Point, this original heroine faced fences, imminent execution and of course the classic and wily fox. From simple pages with continuous sentences and frequent but ignored misspelling, these narratives evolved into complex chronicles of the adventures of a Gallus domesticus. In its final draft the story was narrated by a prudish Canadian goose named Clarence with a fervent dislike at his species stereotype. Apparently, being associated with white birds in bonnets and ribbons was a negative juxtaposition to his actual, accomplished individuality. This story proved my understanding of perspective. By creating a character to narrate the adventures of Ebony, I could follow her without generically narrating from third person omniscient. These stories, however threadbare, provided the foundation of my creative and academic writing for years to come, and have guided me into Honors English and hopefully a brightly linguistic future.

The Count of Monte Cristo

           The Count of Monte Cristo is a novel that incites deep complexity of thought within its audience. It illustrates the layers of human personality, justice and the overall definition of redemption. A classified masterpiece, the novel indicates the vengeful ghost in each of us, waiting for the first opportunity to influence its host into a gratuitous journey towards retribution. Addictive and easy to read, The Count of Monte Cristo is only difficult in its myriad characters. The reader must cut through the superfluous individuals to the ones that are important for complete comprehension of the novel. This introduction of personalities enriches the novel and provides a deeper appreciation for its setting. This enrichment of character turns the novel from a direct story of Edmond Dantes’ path towards redemption, to a study of 18th century society.
            In the beginning of the novel, Edmond is unassuming and simple. His devotion to his father and his fiancé is almost comical in its reverie. Even when he is detained as a Bonapartist, he vacillates in ridiculous fantasies of friendship with those responsible for his arrest. This naivety is soon shattered through his friendship with the wise Abbe Faria, who endows him with knowledge and a more mature perspective of the world. While he is not described as going insane for his imprisonment, the cell soon begins to dangerously alter his mind. By the time Dantes escapes, he is an extreme eccentric who craves revenge. It is arguably this motivation that kept him alive for the duration of his detention, not his friendship with the Abbe Faria, a man who, while instilled so much other useful knowledge into Edmond, failed to inspire him with an appetite for forgiveness. This abrupt contrast illustrates the complexity of human character, and how easily influenced it is by its environment.
            This study of human character reflects the theme of human complexity in To Kill a Mockingbird, by Harper Lee.

What TKAM Means to Me

                      
                            

               "To Kill a Mockingbird"'s most primary themes are those of growing up. Already a guantlet of self flagellation and insecurity, Scout's transition to maturity is ridden with prejudice and examples of human atrocity and injustice. I think most of us can relate on some level to this kind of difficulty. We have all, in some way, experienced the moment when all innocence is gone. For me, this occurred relatively early.
             From a young age I have had an intense affair with the environment. Rain or shine, the world has always been a beautiful place to me. My collective experiences with my planet are small and insignificant compared to those who have had a real impact on its preservation. However, when I was first introduced to the negative influence of human establishment, it became apparent to me the inherent dangers of our society's niavety and love affair with industrialized technology. When you are very small, the world seems much bigger, so as a child I was never truly aware of the damage our impact has had. At nine, the world came crashing down upon me when this transition occured. Whether it was in mind, body, or spirt, I will never know, but this new awareness threw me into depressions. My inability to save the world was devastating. There were just too many people who didn't care, and each of them was launching a personal attack on a branch of myself. Their inability to connect themselves to the world around them baffled me. I had to realize that an individual is powerless against the storm, and only a worldfull will ever make a difference. I learned that contributing to the solution begins in your own life, and that the most we can do as people is educate and reinvent ourselves. Still, this transition has scarred me. I don't have as much faith in people as I used to, and I am deeply cynical about the identity of environmentalism being changed in the future.
               Another major transitional phase in my life was when my much loved Aunt Kathleen was killed in a freak accident. While her beliefs were not my own, I was bound to respect her dedication to them. A truck driver for over twenty years, her life had never seemed more bright. The road is a dangerous place for a woman to be, but she had her husband, Peter, with her. In a truck filled with apples, they drove away. Preliminary discussions identified this trip to be one of their last. They were excited to be over with this chapter of their lives, and ready to give it one more college try in the life of a sedentary couple. At the beginning of their trip, their truck ran into mechanical problems, and so they were forced to pull over and seek assistance. With their truck fixed, they continued on the road that lead to nowhere. Then, like some strange brush with chance, their brakes failed on a bridge. With no brake tracks to spell of their car swerved through several lanes, finally careening off the side into the cold water below. We were told she felt no pain, but Peter and his seat were not found for about a week. This tragedy crushed our family. We will remember her as a beautiful, vulnerable and insatiable person with a tremendous appetite for life. We will remember her as a melodious song of all things fragile in this world. We will remember how she taught our family to appreciate the moment, because the moment is bound to end in one way or another.
            These are only some of my transitional moments, but they taught me tremendous life lessons. Childhood is about innocence, and maturing is about evading bitterness. Some of us make it, and some of us don't. But it is the rare moments of intense beauty that see us through. The world and my Aunt are things of intense beauty, and they guided me though the arduous process of germination into adulthood. These themes will continue throughout my life, just as themes of continual personal growth will follow Jem and Scout.

My Boo Radley

                 

       Ever since I was seven, I have been volunteering at the Kennedy Creek Salmon Trail, docenting and teaching visitors about the chum that run there every autumn. While my experience there is not a direct parellel of Scout's experience with Boo Radley, it has been instrumental in showing me the succession from stage to stage in the human life.

      Upon first seeing the chum salmon, gasping out their last breaths in the struggle to reproduce, I was filled with a sense of awe and curiosity. It was strange to me that such a beautiful creature could be found so close to my home. As I learned about them, their meaning to me changed. From a stinky smelling meal at home, they became an entity all their own. Day after day I returned to teach people about these fish, but ended up learning more myself.

     Each female salmon, upon finding a place in the gravel bed with significant oxygen, begins to excavate a nest. These nests are called "reds", and are made as the female flaps her coddle fin onto the stream bed, creating a small vacuum. These reds take days to make, and so, already moldy with the white film of exhaustion, the female must then fight to retain her spot on the gravel. The salmon slowly became individuals to me. That female had been working for days, her striped companion floating encouragingly beside her. This female, old and close to her end, grasped a protruding root with her powerful jaws, in a vain effort to stay with her bright orange eggs. That male, a once-was dominant, struggled to fight off his younger, stronger adversary. The more time I spent watching them, the more I came to respect them as individuals.

    Even though I might not have been going through puberty at the time, a similar disturbance was taking place within my life. Recently, my parents had divorced, and so I was in the process of discovering my identity without my family as a whole. Like the dying fish who struggled to hold her own in the current, I was striving to maintain my sense of self as everything I felt sure about was washed away from beneath my feet. The salmon always fought. I respected their courage in the face of ominous doom, and tried to reciprocate it within my own life.

    Eventually, the rain begins to fall. The current in the river quickens, dragging the weak from their reds and washing them onto the shore. So I had to let go of my past and embrace the new and strange. However, it was not the end for the salmon, and so I realized it didn't have to be the end for me. Even after death, the salmon enriches the environment. Its death is the equivalent for the life of so many others. This metaphor gave me the strength to realize that even after the loss of my previous life, my future could be just as bright. This, in so many ways, is true. In an odd way my family is closer than ever before. Our loss provided the nutrients for our future to grow and mature.

     In this way, docenting at the Kennedy Creek Salmon Trial parellels what Boo Radley was to Scout: a symbol to guide the process of transition, be it within yourself, or within your surroundings.
                          

Introduction

              This is an introduction to my Honors English blog. I'm honestly not sure what kind of English student I am, but I suppose that is one of things I hope to find out through my writing.  If you are one of the unlucky souls who intends to follow my blog, prepare to be indoctrinated by my incredibly poignant and poetic words of wisdom. The language I intend to use on this blog will be akin to a babbling brook, hopefully with a few really cool words like "pusillanimous" and maybe a couple I can make up, following suit with Roald Dahl and others of his kind. I can go overboard with vocabulary, so you and other readers will be forced to bare with me as I edit my way to legible. I really enjoy talking about literature, so I am extremely excited to discuss these topics on my blog. Hopefully my point of view will not be the same stale perspectives that have been batted around highschool classrooms for years, but will be fresh, different, and intelligent. English is important because it allows students the tools to express themselves and others in the future. It is important for me to excell at this subject, because it provides the basis for all proffessional careers. Employment in Business, Foreign Affairs, Politics, Sciences and even Mathematics require an advanced understanding of language. To excell in English means to have a headstart in any of these career genres, so that when my time comes at the crossroad called College, I will not be hindered by inability or ignorance.

                        But until my "eureka!" moment, I am just "Illiterate". Enjoy.