Food for Thought

Today's adventures led to the store picking up the perfect ingredients to make the mouth-watering cake I am currently digging into. Not to have a big head, but in my completely biased and over exaggerated opinion, it is almost perfect. It is something I am happy to eat and happy to share. My chocolate covered masterpiece has flooded my mind with another time I found myself in the kitchen.
To follow me down memory lane, let’s first picture me standing in the kitchen. I am 5 foot 3, 19 years old, and am working away with all the tools a well-equipped kitchen has to offer. Sadly, our picture is not quit accurate yet. First, we must turn back the clock about fourteen years. I am much smaller, much cuter and much more imaginative. So here I stand in all my five year old glory ready to whip up a creation that I can still taste in my mouth all these years later.
On today's menu is freshly baked bread. Even from a young age, I always had a love of bread. So today, I am setting off to make my own, and like all good chefs, I have a trusted process. First things first, I must make sure I have all of my tools ready and easy to reach. Lucky for me, I only need two things. First, I need one flimsy Tupperware bowl, the kind that they sell whipped cream in works well.  Next I need something to stir with. Here, I am not picky - any spoon, spatula, or even a fork will do. Now that my stage is set, it is time for the play to begin.
Our show opens with the flashy scene of selecting the world’s finest ingredients. The first actor to take center is a slice of white bread. As any foodie would gather, the process of making bread is much like making yogurt. If bread is what we aim to make, first we must add a slice. Now the drama thickens. Into the blow goes a flurry of eggs, milk, water, ketchup, and cheese. If you think this show is sounding too predictable, we will mention the entrance of the comic relief: Bacon bits.
Now that things are heating up, it is time to bake.
I may have been old enough to bake a tasty snack for family and friends, but find me any five year old who is ready to use an oven. So to avoid this hazard, the microwave was used in its stead. For best results, use a chair when moving the dish in and out to avoid spilling. Now my very favorite part about this bread is the speed at which it bakes. Simply set the timer for two minutes and wait.
If you fallow this process, your bread should have the appealing look of vomit and be about the same lukewarm temperature.
Like all good cooks, I know that in the sport of fairness, I should share my bread with my family before selfishly tasting my own first bite. Like most families, they were sure to be surprised to see that someone had taken the time to turn their hard earned groceries into an enjoyable treat. However, my family is not like the majority. My mother seemed to care more about the mess, and my father cared more about the waste. So into the kitchen I was marched, to face the scene of the crime. Most families would see the mess, and send a child right to my room, but as above stated, my family is not normal.
I remember hearing a monologue about not wasting food and cleaning up messes, but I was not told to get out of the kitchen. Instead, my dad told me I was free to cook anytime as long as I followed on rule. Everything that was cooked must be eaten, and though I was allowed to share, it was up to me to eat what others could not stomach.
So my bread was placed on the table and a spoon was placed in my hand. For the first time, I saw my bread for what it really was. A Tupperware bowl full of chunky, smelly, lukewarm puke.  One bite was enough to make even the strongest stomach want to hurl, the plus side being that it could taste no worse going up than it did going down.
My father stuck by that rule, and somehow I never stooped cooking; I simply changed my methods. From then on, I started asking if ketchup went with pickles, or if anyone would eat a peanut butter and cheese sandwich.  Now, fourteen years down the road, I have learned a thing or two. I am glad that my father made me eat that slop, because if he had not, I may have never found the true joy of cooking.

A Bump in the Road

Okay, this is it. The race is about to begin. My fingers hold tight to the handlebars of my purple bike, ready for take-off at a moment’s notice. My head is held high in pride because I know this is one race I am sure to win. I was never the fastest, the biggest or the strongest, but I already knew I had them beat. There was no one I knew who could out do my perfect balance. I could always find my center and never falter, and that was what today's race was all about. I was not nervous; my outcome was sure. The only way I was going to walk away was with the admiration of every child who dared challenge me. Boy would they be in for a shock as they learned that once they put the ball in my field, this undersized wisp of a girl would show up boys everywhere. If only I knew before I set off down that road, before the countdown was over, that this sure win would land me in the emergency room, I might have been more humble.

I know the rules, and I am ready. Line up with your back tire even with the street sign. Once the countdown is given, peddle as fast and as hard as you can until you pass the last post in a long line of black mailboxes. Now this is where the fun begins; this was my secret weapon. For, like most childhood games, simple is simply not good enough. To make life fun there has to be a twist, an edge, and a bit of danger. Once you had used every last bit of your power to send you soaring that first stretch on racetrack, you had to pull your feet free from the cyclone of peddles and cross your legs pretzel style over the center bar. From this twisted stance your job was to become as aerodynamic as any ten year old child can be and glide to the end of the cul-de-sac. Last one there is the rotten egg.

Boy was I flying. While my gangly mid growth spurt challengers were finding balancing a chore, I was right on point. My eye was only for the finish line and the badge of glory. I, Rebekah Guin, would lose no more. My focus was so complete that I missed something that would change my envisioned outcome in the blink of an eye. In that quick flutter of eyelashes, I missed the hum of an engine. In that brief lapse, I missed the four rolling tires. Somehow in all that joy, I missed the minivan with whom I was sharing my turnpike.

Jerking on my handlebars, I moved far too quickly for a metal frame on two old tires to remain upright. Now this was an easy fix. Anyone who has ever been on a bike knows that if you get in trouble, you need only put your feet down. This is all well and good, but holding true to the rules of my epic flight, my feet were otherwise tied up, with each other that is. So with nowhere to go, and bike falling fast, there was only one way to go. A graceless swan dive over the handlebars gave me a stop I was searching for. Sadly, the road chose to stop on my face.

Out of breath, and cheeks burning red, I reached up and touched my forehead just above my left eye. My fingers were witness to a magic trick that day, for where a flat bone had been, was a bump raising so quickly that it was equally as frightening as it was painful.

I don't really remember much of what happened then. I know someone got my mom. I know an ER doctor scanned my head. What I remember more than anything was exactly the way the bump looked on my face. Sticking out of my skull was a perfect replica of a flesh-toned golf ball. Where the small divots would be on the original, were bloody scraps from where the road had proved it was stronger than me.

So what is the moral wrapped up in this little tale? Is it always wear a helmet? Could it be to stay out of the road, to look where you’re going, or even be humble when you think you cannot fail? The answer is simply that I do not know why I am telling this story. Take whatever meaning you want and I bet you can find solid grounds to state your point. The only thing I can tell you for sure is that now, years later, if I see a golf ball, I touch my forehead and remember a bike race that will never be forgotten.

My Beyond

I do not live inside a block of sights and sounds that make up a single neighborhood, but there are places that will always make up who I am. My block is sitting at The Dairy Bar after opening night at the Temple Theater eating bacon cheese fries with my friends. We would pour into the little diner until we had filled every open chair. We would become so boisterous that the other hungry customers would soon leave, giving us death stares the whole way out the door. We laughed and talked and sang until we could not speak anymore. We ate until we were all but bursting from the number of grease-covered fries and chocolate covered deserts we had stuffed into our mouths. That little diner will always be the favorite source of fuel to those of us lucky enough to call Temple home.

Temple was my home and another major part of my block. I will never be able to walk through those doors without being flooded with memories of the eight years I spent inside. Inside that theater, I learned more about myself than I ever could have on my own. I learned that hard work does not always pay off in the ways we want, but that does not mean we should ever stop working hard. I learned that you don't always get to be a star, but you should never stop reaching for them. I also learned that, in life, there is always more than meets the eye. No matter how great something may look from the front, there may be duct tape holding it together.

Standing in front of a microphone will always be part of my block. No matter where we set up that day, no matter what city, that mic was part of home. It was a safety net holding us where we needed to be. On the days when I was truly failing in front of the people who made up my world, I would reach out and hold that microphone to steady myself. So, when I was standing on the stage at Depot Park hitting more notes flat than on key, the familiarity of my surroundings gave me the power to not run away. The feel of “normal” under my hands let me choose fight over flight.

My block will always be home to my family, the people at my church, the Temple Teens, and other friends. It will also be home to the “crazy clock guy” who rode around town proclaiming the end of the world while holding a clock over his head dressed in choir robes. My block is home to Benita, who you could see coming a mile away in one of her many holiday sweaters. It will be home to Lillian, the child who I nannied for two hand a half years. My block is home to every enemy I ever made and every crush I ever loved. In my mind, they will never get to leave my block.

My block is my home, but I have never wanted to leave a place more. I always dreamed of going beyond. To me, beyond was always better than what I had. Beyond was getting a lead in a play because surely that would be more fun. Beyond was going to public school, because then I would be happy. My beyond was watching friends go off to college and dreaming of the day I could go, too. My beyond was anywhere outside of NC that I had yet it see. It was NYC; it was Hawaii; it was Paris; and it was Rome. My beyond was the girl I wanted to see when I looked in the mirror or stepped on the scales. It was everything I ever wanted and did not have.

Now I am beyond my block. I live in a new town and have a new life. I am in school like all my friends and am making my own choices. My beyond is still made up of all the things I want to do in life, but it is also made up of something more. My beyond is a milkshake with friends. My beyond is singing off key to the world. My beyond is duct taping sets back together. It is hugging a lady in a singing hat; it is seeing a man with a broken clock. My beyond is the place I called home.

A Lessen Learned

Sometimes in life, there are moments that can never be forgotten. The little lessons that reach their way into you mind and refuse to move. Weaving their way into our thoughts, words and actions, they become switch points. As a child grows, they will encounter many events that will change the way they think and feel forever. Set to the whimsical background of childhood mischief, I was taught a lesson that I have never been able to shake. The lesson is simple; sometimes you have to be brave and own up to your mistakes. Although it was not world changing, it was mind awakening. No matter what you have done in the past, lying about it does not make it go away.

Standing in the kitchen of my childhood home, I heard the sounds of my older siblings playing in the basement. Just like that, my inner devil came out. With a gleeful smile, and that impish look that only true a trouble-maker can have, I snapped into action. Creeping across the room, I checked for things that might foil my plan. In this case, that stumbling block was my mother. Like a secret agent, I poked my head around the corner to assess the safety of my mission. There she sat, eyes trained on her computer screen, and I knew I could get away with it. As long as she was looking at her Email, she was not looking at me or the basement door. Back across the room I ran, until I was standing in front of the door. Reaching arms up high above my head, I slid the dead-bolt into place. Now they would be trapped down there forever, and mom would never know it was me. With one last demonic laugh, I skipped off to my room to await dinner.

soon the banging started, and I knew that I had won. “Mom, MOM, we're stuck!” More thumps, bangs, and yelling followed. However, soon a flaw started working its way into my plan; mothers are a lot smarter than I gave them credit for. Soon their yelling was replaced by the stern bellow, “Rebekah Dare, you get in here right now.” Trading in my horns for a halo, I altered my expression to the other one that trouble-makers have trademarked; I put on a face of pure innocence. “Yes, is it time for dinner?” My big blue eyes batted up at her in a “there is no way you can pin this on me” kind of way. “Rebekah, is there something you want to tell me?” “No Mommy, why?” “ You know why, and I know you did it.” “Did what?” Now she gave me the look that any mother of four has mastered. Her eyes where drilling holes into the very depths of my soul and sucking every ounce of childhood joy out of my body. With proverbial steam pouring from her nostrils, she gave me one more chance. “Only five people live in this house, two were in the basement when it was locked, Katherine is too small to do it on her own, and I know that I did not do it.” Like a matador facing down a charging bull, I readied myself and simply said, “Well, I didn't do it.” There, she had to believe me now; I was free. “Go to your room and don't come out until you can tell the truth.” Now I lost it, “But I did not do it!” I screamed. Feet stomping and tears streaming, I tragically marched to my cell.

Throwing myself onto the floor, I plotted against the unjust regime that I was ruled by. For some reason, I continued to yell that I did not do it, despite knowledge to the contrary. I stayed in there so long that I missed dinner, unable to accept defeat, until, at last, it clicked. I had, in fact, locked them in the basement and there was no injustice in my purgatory. Contrary to my plan, it was me who was locked away as they roamed free. I was not missing dinner because I locked the door but rather because I was lying about it. There was only one way to make this right. I told my mother the tale and apologized to all involved. Soon, that night became no more than a far-off memory to everyone but me.  Though not every situation is as simple as that night, I often remember it when life gets hard. My mistakes are mine to bear. No matter what it is that was done, I can't hope to fix it until I own up to it. I will be stuck in my room with no dinner, until I eat the only thing left, my pride.

Pure Imagination

Imagination is a gift that few people can claim. Sometimes, if they are lucky, it can slip out into whatever medium they use to express themselves. A stroke of a paintbrush, the lines in a dancer’s body, and the words on a page often serve as window to the soul. Then there are those who will never need more than their mind. They can slip into their own world no matter where they are, never needing more than the will to do so. My little sister is one of those people. From a young and tender age, she was never tied down to reality. The rules of this world were irrelevant. She could be and do whatever her heart could dream up. Looking past the limits of the impossible, she found something magical; she found a freedom that few will ever enjoy.

As a child, my mother found it difficult to punish my sister for her wrong doings. Unlike with most children, taking away her favorite toy had no effect. Twigs, rocks, small household items, and even shoelaces served her purpose. Each would take on a role in her elaborate games of make-believe that sometimes would span for weeks at a time. To her, that rock was a princess, who in a moment of bravery had charged off on a quest to break the curse that was plaguing her lifelong friend. Racing to the river, she would become trapped by an angry troll, who today would be played by a fork. Calling on the powers of the rainbow, she could thwart the fiend and proceed, once more, on her journey. That rock would battle every monster in the book, and a few only known to my sister, each with a unique set of skills.

Even when she was not holding anything solid, you can be sure that she was still playing some game. In her beautiful mind, she had built a whole world for her and her friends to play. Though no one could see them, I truly believe that at least to her, they were really there. George, Fred, James, Susan, Kathy, Michael, the three Lulu sisters, and countless others, all lived in a realm full of magic and adventure.Sometimes she would take my hand and guide me to her world. Though I did my best, it was never more than a silly game to me. Though I could play along like most kids do, I don't think I was truly seeing it the way she was. I always had one foot firmly planted on my bedroom floor, keeping me anchored to the real world. I do not know what Gorge looked like, and I think she did. As I grew older, I began to resent her and her silly games. I did not want to play make-believe anymore. I was too grown up for such a childish pastime. When would she learn to wake up? At one point, she would come back to reality. Being the sister I was, I began to tell her such things. I called her a baby and dumb. When she would ask me to play with her, I would tell her simply to just grow up already.

I regret that more than many other choices I have made in life. After a while of my torment, she began to take my words to heart. She stopped wanting me to play her games with her. In that act, I lost a closeness with her that I may never get back. Pretty soon her games stopped altogether. I had told her to grow up, and she was listening. However, I don't think she could every truly let go. Every now and then, I see that look in her eye, and I know that her mind has separated itself from this world and is doing something grand. She may not play with rocks and forks, but she still has the power to dream. I believe that the power to truly feel and see the world in your own way is the greatest power of all; it is the power of pure imagination.

All The Kings' Horses

* This is a paper that I turned into Mrs Cole, so I thought it was fitting to start my blog of with. If you do not understand why, please look at my first post "Welcome to my Locked Box"*

My brother has a special kind of charm. One minute, he can knock me down and then defend me from anyone else who tries. He is my greatest friend and biggest foe. However, sibling revelries aside, it is always that friend who comes out on top. I can always count on him to lift me up when I am down and know just what to say to make it right. Never has there been a time when I have been forced to question his love or where I stand with him. I know that we can fight tooth and nail, and in the end, I can still run to him with every worry. Every girl needs a brother like mine, and I would gladly share him with the world. Like a knight of the round table, he guards my heart and soul with valor and might.

As I sit typing this paper, I remembered that exactly one year ago today, I called my brother with tears choking my voice. In a tale as old as time, I found myself with a very broken heart. Yes

The only thing I wanted to do was run into his arms. At this point, he lived out of the state, so I settled for a phone call. It was a Saturday night, and he was out with friends, yet he picked up the phone after only a few rings. When he heard the pain in my voice, he stepped away from his friends and found the time to heal me. He listened to me sob and tell my tale. When he spoke, it felt genuine and not at all patronizing. In the most subtle way he helped me through sadness and anger, and when the time was right, he knew how to make me laugh. Soon I was in stitches as we planned an attack of the Russian mafia on this unlucky fellow. In the space of an hour, he put me together again.When all the kings’ horses and all the kings' men could not, my brother picked up my pieces and made me whole.

My brother has never held a sword, but he will always be a solder in my eyes. The foes he brings down are so much greater than armies, they are the fears and insecurity of a teenage girl. He fights off broken hearts, crushed dreams and crippling fears. If he had been present the day poor Humpty Dumpty took his fall, maybe he could have been put together again.  

Welcome to My Locked Box

I started this Blog because of my English teacher Mrs. Cole. She taught me how to look at my life and find those stories worth remembering. Whenever we would write something that she felt had come from our hearts, she would call it a "Locked Box Paper." This was her way of telling us that it was something to hold close forever. Now her class is over, but I still want my stories told. I want to find the voice of my past, and let it out. I do not care who reads this, it is not about that, it is about the way writing makes me feel; it makes me feel alive. If you feel the need to read this blog, then be ready. Hidden in this blog, will be the dreams, fears, hopes, trials, anger, and heart of the child that was once me. Welcome to my Locked Box, and welcome to my mind.