children
Children: Our most valuable natural resource.
Magic Lessons
A balloon with the words “Happy 10th Birthday!” swayed above Jasmine’s head as two dozen eager faces leaned to watch her open her last present. She fished through a bag of tissue paper, hoping to find the unicorn necklace she had been talking about for weeks. Her heart sank when she pulled out yet another nail polish kit.
By Jessica Vanderpool6 years ago in Families
My House
Baby squealed when the fireworks began, bringing my attention to her laying cuddled in my arms. Her eyes, widened in excitement, reflected the Diwali celebrations outside. The two of us were the only ones inside the house. I didn’t want Baby anywhere near the crackers, even though the ones we had bought weren’t over the top loud. Besdes, it gave me a reason to stay inside because I was one scaredy cat when it came to fireworks. I remember being afraid of the noise as a child and the fear that one would come hurtling in my direction. A cracker that is, not a child. And so I stayed inside with Baby. Although looking down at her face I think she would have been perfectly fine outside. She’s certainly braver than her sister. Everyone at the orphanage calls me Sister. Everyone except Baby because she can’t talk yet. And we still haven’t decided on a name for her. When she came to us, she was wrapped in a tiny blue blanket and for some reason I wanted to call her Blue. Blue for the blanket, Blue for the color of her eyes and Blue for the sadness that engulfed the house she had been dropped outside of. This house. My house. The Orphanage. But we soon discovered that Blue was no sad baby. She quickly became the life of the place, slowly and steadily dispelling the perpetual darkness that shrouded this place. She managed to do in days what I had been unable to in the past many years; make the other children happy. I don’t know if someone’s ever said that smiling is like riding a bike, but it is. Even if years of penury will make you lose your smile, it will come back instantly when life gives you a reason to do so. And it’s like you never stopped smiling.
By Official StoryTelling6 years ago in Families
Grampa's Gift
Call me Ishmael. My hand dropped. I didn't know what to write next. Turning the page, I started at the top. In the third grade, a poster showed famous first words from influential books; "Call me Ishmael" topped the list. My teacher explained that those words connected readers to the narrator through his first name; I guess writers don't usually tell their readers what to call them. She explained that the name he used all at once intertwined history and religion and psychology in a reference to his hardships (and maybe even lack of veracity) that his readers would understand. But how did the name he used tell anything about his life? The name I use was given to me and I don't have a choice in what it means so only by chance could it tell anyone about my life. His readers were a lot smarter than me, I guess. I tried to read the book a little the next year, but his readers were definitely not fourth graders who got a kick out of Clifford the Big Red Dog just a couple years earlier. But I liked that one line could mean so much to anyone. I want to write one line that means so much. But “Hi, my name is Mallory” couldn’t possibly mean anything to anyone.
By Mama Smurf6 years ago in Families
Little Boy Lost
It was in the summer of 2003 when it happened. We lived on a dead end road, in a community of townhouses. Next to us, on the right side, was a cornfield. In our backyard was a cemetery. It was me and my four children that lived in the townhouse. I was a single mom, trying to figure out my life, one day at a time.
By Nola Hipsher6 years ago in Families
Birthday Paper
The big one in the back looked nice - but so did the tall one. Maybe I should start with one of the smaller ones and get them over with? There’s something special about turning 10. On paper I’m mature, but inside I still want the big ones. The bigger the better. To a little, as my older sister calls me and my baby brother (he’s actually four but he acts like a baby), the bigger the better! Turning 10 is no exception, even though it’s the “double digits.” My older sister Ashli likes small things. Small food like sushi. Small fancy cakes - Why??? The perfect cake comes from Costco. Costco cakes last at least a week and that’s with a party AND siblings. She has no idea of the important things in life because she is sophisticated. Boring! My mom’s sophisticated. My dad likes his cakes from Costco. But here we are, my day of supposed transition into the “double digits” - which I may be in for the rest of my life. The only one who made it to the “triple digits” in my family is my Aunt Jean. Looking at my present stock, it’s a mixed bag. I have an equal amount of small and large presents and a handful of medium. At least my dad was in charge of the cake!
By Jailyn Osborne6 years ago in Families
Little Black Book
The Little Black Book and $20,000 It was a warm summer day and all the windows were open in the house. This house was a special place to Mary, a young girl of 11. Her grandmother had built the house. Here in this house Mary spent most of her growing years. The house was set on a ranch that her grandmother and her mother owned outright. Mary’s mother was a veterinarian and her father was a cowboy. Her mother and father also lived on the ranch, in house just about a mile away from Nan’s house. Nan is what Mary liked to call her grandmother.
By Laura Dean Freilino6 years ago in Families
Sugar and Spice?
When my brother and I were in grade school, we had a babysitter who was a large, older Swedish woman. I have very fond memories of her. Her name was Mrs. Matson. She raised canaries. She gave my brother and me a canary that did not sing. We named him Tweety Bird. Sometimes she would let my brother and me visit her chicken coop with her and we helped gather eggs. We had a very large back yard in which to play, and an old apple tree to climb.
By Toni Compton6 years ago in Families
Braving the cold
For a long time, Abby thought summer was the best season. Abby used to play really, really hard. She’d play so hard that the soles of her feet turned black and pitted with asphalt, toenails brown with dirt, legs yellow and bruised and green with grass-stains. There was a time every summer when the neighbourhood kids would be drunk on lemonade, living as dirty forest children, playing catch-and-release with whatever small animals or housecats let them get close enough to hold them. Their mouths would be red and wet with berries that they hoped weren’t poisonous. Abby would play when the dew was still on the grass in the morning until it returned at night. She would play until the darkness descended and the trees around her would give up their sunny mossy secrets for a darker, scarier presence, wilder than even her.
By Alana McMullen6 years ago in Families
The Chronicles of a Single Dad
The time was now. There was no time to turn back. This was the moment of truth. I had to make the decision on what I was to do. I had to commit. If I second guess, they will know my weakness. I stuck my hand out and took the object that was presented to me. As I stood there with a ball of actual shit in my hand, I knew that I messed up. That was the day that I learned to never, ever trust a two year old when he says, “ I made something for you!”
By Mitch Lunsford6 years ago in Families
