My Very Own Pet

I was barely one year old, dragging my plump body across the floor of my grandparents' cozy house delicately tucked into the corner of a long cul-de-sac. I loved the fuzzy white carpet so much that I would rub my face in the carpet during each small break I took from my attempt to crawl. I also was enamored with their friendly and sweet shitzu, Basley. After rubbing my small head in the carpet, I would nuzzle up to Basley the way a dog would rub up against another dog. After entertaining my family with my amusing tactics for a few minutes, my eyes began to water, my nose turned red, and I began to sneeze uncontrollably. My mother, the protective and caring woman that she is, immediately swept me off of the floor and rushed me to the doctor. I had an allergic reaction to the animal; a sad realization for my dog-loving father. I would never have a pet dog, or a pet cat for that matter. I was, and still am, allergic to most animals with fur.
About four years later, I started to notice animals. I loved animals, and wanted one so badly. Tears flooded from my eyes each time my mother had to explain to me that I would never have a pet. That Christmas, Santa Claus brought me the best present I had ever received. I woke up at the crack of dawn, as I do every Christmas, awoke my younger brother and baby sister, and the three of us excitedly slid down the stairs to our Christmas tree. After unwrapping a few presents, I noticed something reflecting light from the back of the Christmas tree. It was a small glass fishbowl with a beautiful beta fish gracefully swimming around. "Erin, this is your very own pet to take care of!" My mother explained. I was ecstatic. I not-so-creatively named it Erin, and was thrilled each day I got to put fish food in its bowl. About four months later, Erin died. I sobbed over the porcelain toilet bowl as she swirled around and around before plummeting into the dark hole into what I deemed "Fish Heaven." I will always remember my beta fish Erin, and how she taught me how to responsibly care for someone (or something) other than my self.

Surprise!

My hot pink cell phone rang over and over again. It was coming from my mom, and I did not want to answer, as I assumed she wanted to come and pick me up from my best friend's house, and I was not ready to go home. I ignored her calls for thirty minutes, until we heard a loud, angry knock at the front door. I knew in my gut it was my mom; a woman who was not easily aggravated, but when she became angry, she became angry. My body filled to the brim with fear as I slowly opened the white door. It was my mother, and at this point I was shaking. "Erin Elizabeth Quick. I called you at least five times and I know you heard it ring every single time. Now get your behind outside, I'm taking you home." I dragged my seventeen-year-old feet out the door, my head hanging low. When I looked up to see where I was going, on the long, concrete driveway stood my dad with a video camera in his hand, and my brother and sister standing beside him with smiles as wide as my eyes. A brand new 2007 icy blue CRV glistened as it called my name. "SURPRISE!," my excited family yelled. I was almost in tears as I rushed over to my new vehicle. All throughout highschool, I had shared my dad's old Toyota Avalon with him, but now, as an early-graduation present, I had my own car. I excitedly opened the driver-side door, and my eyes opened even wider. It had a GPS system! I am directionally challenged; I oftentimes even have a difficult time finding places I have been numerous times before. I drove my brand new car around my hometown with pride; I was thrilled that my gracious parents trusted me enough with the huge responsibility of owning a car, and I was so thankful for the GPS included that would serve to guide me to my destination when I got lost on numerous occasions.

Mr. Nerad

The piercing ring of the school bell resonated throughout the concrete-walled classroom of my first period class of my 8th grade year. My tall, lanky legs struck the carpeted floor as I got out of my too-small desk and timidly walked to my next classroom. A short, robust man with a bright orange and pink tie and a Santa Claus beard greeted me with a high-five as I shyly walked through the green door. His eagerness brought a smile to my frightened face. History, a subject that I had never given a second thought to, came to life that year through Mr. Nerad.
He was such a warm character, and his passion for teaching was evident through his way of teaching. A dull lecture was not his style as it had been of most of my past teachers. I will never forget the day he walked into our classroom on President's Day, with a grey, powdery wig covering his short, brown hair. An old-timey black business suit with an antique gold tie hung on his short body. "Good morning, everyone. My name is George Washington, the first president of the United States." He gave his entire lecture in character. These sort of stunts occurred quite occasionally in Mr. Nerad's class; he never missed a beat in entertaining us while providing us with a wonderful grasp of our country's history.
In his class, I learned the impact of history on our world today. It was no longer a subject to learn, memorize and regurgitate on an exam. Through his insightful lectures, his intriguing projects and his incredible leadership, he presented history as something to learn, to analyze and to love. I will never forget this man; he grew to be not only a teacher, but a friend and mentor. For the remainder of my middle school years, I went to him for help with school and with life in general. Teachers like him are the ones that make my educational experience so memorable and so meaningful. I am forever grateful for his encouragement, friendship and guidance.

Truth vs. Fact

I think that Pico Iyer made an interesting point when he commented on the difference between truth and fact. The truth delves into the "realm of the heart or the spirit;" it is a deeper concept than shallow and obvious facts. The truth sheds light on a deeper meaning, and is arguably more accurate and real than a mere stated fact. I thought it was intriguing that Iyer cut out the vast majority of his notes in order to develop an "emotional and atmospheric truth." He left out a facts, figures and observations that did not contribute to the cohesiveness of the truth he wanted to convey. He said that "an unedited account of every moment is sometimes farther than the truth of an encounter than something entirely made up."

Adios?

Josefina still has not returned my calls. My effort to get in touch with her for the past two weeks consisted of calling her two or three days a week at different times throughout the day, and showing up to our meeting spot to see if she perhaps showed up. I am sad that our line of communication has broken, but I hope that she is doing well. I can not decide whether to continue trying to get ahold of her, but for now I have elected to start writing the blogs that Professor Williams gave to us in class.

Josefina is M.I.A.

Last week, for the second week in a row, Josefina was not at the bookstore at 11 am Wednesday. My attempts to call her were unsuccessful, and the messages I left were not returned. I'll try calling her multiple times the next few days, but if this happens again I may request a new partner. She works the late shift, so I will try to call her a few times each morning. This is frustrating!

Meeting #5

Last week, Josefina did not show up. I am assuming she got confused and thought we weren't meeting because of fall break. I tried to call her, but she did not answer so I left a message. I was hoping to cover more of the preterite with her and get to speak with her more (I have yet to work on much vocabulary with her). I will save the material for this week! Hopefully she will remember to show up..