Six Word Memoir

Perfection, unattainable, and yet all consuming.

Artifact: Pure Gold

                I hold it in my hand allowing its weight to sink in; it easily makes a home within the creases and lines of my palm. I love how natural it feels, as if it was destined to find its way to the center of my right hand amidst the rough blisters and the loose skin that snuggly hugs the side of the coin.  It isn’t perfect. That’s part of the reason why I love it, because perfection is unattainable. I like to hold it in my hand closely observing every dip, indentation, and notch that had been made within its once smooth surface. My mind wanders, thinking up fantastical stories on how these came to fruition.

The coin now nearly one hundred and four years old, still has a bit of its original luster. On one side lies the proud figure of a Native American chief his prominent cheek bone appears to jut out as his eyes sink in providing him with a wise appearance. He is ornamented with a full-fledged head dress, but I like to think that he was a simple man, if he was real at all; I assumed he was a strong yet kind leader. Although the coin is old I can still make out the creases by his eyes showing compassion. On the flipside lies the golden feathered eagle, standing tall, proudly representing America. Encasing the coin is a small golden frame, surrounding it like tendrils of flame glinting in the light, not taking away from the coin, but adding to it, completing it. A chain connects to the tiny frame, a tiny braid wrapping completely around to a small clasp that perfectly clips together with a snap.

I remember the first time I heard that satisfying snap, the slippery feeling of the chain as it grazed against every nerve ending on my skin the sensation snaking down to the small yet substantially weighted coin that rested heavily in the nook at the base of my neck. In that moment I was so proud. I turn around looking into the eyes of my Grandfather who had a similar expression on his face; his eyes twinkled with pride, bestowing his youngest granddaughter with his most prized possession. It was a tradition in my family my mother and sister already had received theirs years ago tucking it away in some safe place. I had highly anticipated this moment, because this moment meant I had accomplished something that earned the respect of my elders. Just like the chief on the coin my grandfather had the same profound cheekbones and crinkles at the corners of his eyes.

“Here Lizbeth.” He said dropping the coin into my hand giving a single nod, a smile forming at the corners of his mouth, but not quite materializing. His compassion and love was a silent kind, a man of few words. Although his mouth was closed his face was like a book each wrinkle showing you what you needed to know.

“It’s a coin, Elizabeth. Your Grandpa has been so proud of you with all your sports, and switching to Petoskey.” My grandma rambled on unnecessarily. She always was his words, but in this moment words weren’t needed. I nodded in acknowledgment. I thought to myself, I had finally made him proud, and that was what the coin was all about.

A five dollar Native American Coin is all it is; to collectors it is worth thousands, while to me it is worth more than that. It represents tradition, family, and pride, something that is more valuable than pure gold.

Candy and Me: For the Love of Food

Nachos

                The plate arrives full with chips. We are so hungry the chips alone would suffice. Thin and crispy, light as air, but yet oh so heavy with salt. The small crystals explode on your tongue. Then the satisfying crunch of the chip, like a melody to your ears. The cheese oozes from one chip to another, almost like a mini yellow waterfall flowing over and down the mound of chips, peppers, onions, and guacamole. You analyze each and every ounce of deliciousness, attempting to see how you can possibly cram every morsel of flavor into one bite. Challenge accepted. You grab a chip, big but not overly so. Adding a little pinch of this and a dash of that until “Voila!”, The chip of all chips. Through this process you may have some spillage, stainage, and frustration, but trust me the end result is well worth the wait. Now when you finally get this miracle chip don’t be too hasty or you could lose it in a blur, literally a blur on the new white shirt you have on. This is usually followed by a

“C’mon” or in some cases (depending on how much you really like your shirt or that nacho) a “Seriously? Worst day ever!”  After you have narrowly avoided or dramatically gone through this you are free to continue on your mission. Carefully eat your masterpiece and enjoy this work of art as the flavors burst in your mouth. Challenge complete.

Tomato Basil Salad

                It’s summer time and the smell of grilled chicken is in the air, but before we can eat the meal we have to make my mom’s famous tomato basil salad. I eagerly watch as my mom slices through the delicate mozzarella, cutting it in a haphazard way trying to finish quickly so the chicken doesn’t burn. I wait patiently as she moves on to the tomatoes that I picked yesterday. As they come into contact with the knife they burst spewing the red juice everywhere. I think they that they are bombs exploding all over the place, and I realize they kind of are as I sneakily snatch one away popping it into my mouth. The flavor explodes.

                “Elizabeth!” She calls not realizing I had been hiding behind the counter. My eyes, the only thing visible to her, get wide with excitement for I was highly anticipating this moment.

                “Ready for duty.” I say, mimicking a soldier. I know exactly what I’m expected to do because it’s only like the millionth time I’ve done it, but I wait for her to say it anyways.

                “Could you go get some basil leaves? Make sure you are quick.” I was already out the front door, not bothering to put on shoes. I startle my dad as I run past the grill, my feet pad on the soft ground. I reach the garden and greedily pick the basil leaves only grabbing the biggest ones. I return quickly to the kitchen where my mom patiently awaits my arrival. I slam down the leaves and out of breath from excitement I manage to sputter out “Done!” . My mother effortlessly chops them and sprinkles them over the tomatoes and Mozzarella. Finally, she drizzled them with olive oil and vinegar. I reach for the bowl not even bothering to wait for the rest of the family as I help myself to the contents within.  When all that remained was the vinegar, oil, and sea salt I guiltlessly grabbed the bowl and drained it. When we make it again in the winter time the basil is not fresh and the tomatoes not handpicked, but it is till addicting. The liquid cold, but it still warms me from the sweet (and salty) summer memories.

Lobster

               

                “Happy Birthday!” My mom yells, being excessively happy for this ungodly hour.

                “Mhmmmm” I reply rolling over and shading my eyes as the lights blink on. When it comes to birthdays my family is always excited, but not for the same reasons other families are. Our focus tends to be on food rather than presents. With age my tastes became refined, and since it was my seventh birthday I got to choose anything. Unlike my older sister who was content with homemade Mac N’ Cheese I demanded nothing less than a full-fledged lobster meal. This would be the third time I had had lobster, and I. Was. Addicted. I would make my mother buy cheap imitation crab meat and I would pretend the white, tender meat was lobster, dipping it in unending garlic butter, but I knew it wasn’t and I was never satisfied. My mom joked,

                “You must have salt water in your veins because all you eat it seafood.”  Due to my never-ending love of lobster I had been incessantly awaiting the moment in which I could finally indulge my cravings. Finally, my dad came home with two whole Lobsters…Live.

                “Rock a bye baby in the treetop when the wind blows the cradle will rock.” We sang to the lobsters like we were singing a lullaby to a baby. When we found out they fall asleep once exposed to cold we couldn’t resist ourselves. Secretly I think I sang because I loved it just as much or more than a baby. Then a thought occurred to me, what was the last thing they would remember? Would it be the calm and peaceful serenity that the cold brought to them rushing over them like a wave or possibly the scorching heat of the boiling water? The thought made me sad, but then I remembered that I would get to eat them and the sadness quickly dissipated.

                The lobsters went in the pot a strange purple brown color, and came out a bright vibrant red. It reminded me of a shiny red balloon, something any normal seven year old would be happy with on their birthday. When it came time to eat I was beyond ecstatic. I was moronic bordering on crazed. The extraction of the meat from the claws did not faze me as I cracked them open and quickly devoured its contents. The tail on the other hand I took another approach, slowly savoring every morsel, dipping in it garlic butter and enjoying every moment. When I finished I looked up at my family with a big childish grin and most likely mass amounts of butter all over my face, I realized that without the delicious food and the content feeling in my stomach this would still be the best birthday ever, but the lobster was still appreciated.

 

Peanut Butter Pie

                My sister was always a slow eater, and I always thought that this was to my advantage, but in truth I admit it will probably be my undoing. Since she was the tortoise and I was the hare when it came to eating I, on occasion, borrowed her food.  As I say this I can practically hear her screaming,

 “It is stealing not borrowing!” The moral of the story is I probably eat my plate and a solid portion of her plate every meal. Yes, I am admitting that I will probably be morbidly obese one day due to my love of food and the excitement of stealing it from my sister. When it comes to my “borrowing” tendencies I’m not greedy, I mean I make sure my sister doesn’t die of starvation or anything. The only time I ever become voracious to the point of heartlessness is when my mom whips out her famous peanut butter pie.  I know this may sound insensitive, but I would probably kill for an extra slice of my mom’s pie. I would do anything to get a taste of the super-rich, creamy caramel colored peanut butter. Not to mention the pure white whipped cream, reminding me of the snow on the tippy tops of mountains, and the childish craving to eat its minuscule icicles. I have two distinct memories with this godly food.

On Thanksgiving my family had longingly awaited the peanut butter that had become something of a tradition, so when the time had come for dessert they were unexpectedly disappointed. Not because the pie didn’t taste good, trust me it was stupendous, but because of their portions. What they didn’t know was that I had stolen the pie while they were off doing their grown-up stuff and eaten almost all of it. Being my kindhearted self, I left them an entire slice. It was hard, but I restrained myself from eating that last piece, in fact I didn’t touch it all. Ok, that’s a lie, I did happen to accidentally scoop half the whip cream off while closing the container. Followed by a,

                “Whoops, well I guess I have to eat this whip cream now. I can’t let it go to waste!” So as my family angrily ate their sixth of a slice of pie, some with frosting some without, I sat contently in the corner. Let me just say that they were more mad when I threw it all up on the car ride home.

“What a waste.” My dad murmured to himself, furiously attempting to scrub the puke stains off of his car seats.

“Yeah!” My sister agreed, referring to me rather than the pie.

My other memory includes loss. It was my dog. No, he didn’t die, but he came close when he decided to smash his tiny white face completely into the scrumptious pie. You can’t blame him, I often find myself wishing that I could dive into one of those pies face first; at least he had the gumption to go through with his plan, no matter what the consequences were. And there were consequences. Mostly screaming, possibly tears on my part, and a lot of mean glares. Unlike the time when I stole the pie, he felt guilty and whimpered, tail down, ears flattened to his head, all the way to his crate where he stayed for the remainder of the night. That didn’t mean he didn’t enjoy every second of it though, I saw that look in his eyes as he came up with puffy cream all over. His face contained pure joy, until he noticed I was watching.

“No Barnaby no! Why? Do you not love me?” In that moment I could almost hear him say

“I do love you. I just love peanut butter pie more.” He managed to get one more, good mouthful in before we

 all got to him. This was the one day I envied my dog, and it was all because of the pie. The pie that had the

ability to make man and man’s best friend betray each other for just one bite.

Change: Out With the Old

Growing up in a region with vast expanses of lakes and an endless supply of damp, cool air I found myself a stranger in a new land. My already stained shoes scuffed at the red dirt as I stepped off the bus and into the unknown. I began my journey as a shy, meek, and mostly silent kid ready to take on whatever came at me. With a sharp intake of the dry, almost stale air I took in the stunning beauty of Australia’s outback. A kangaroo skittered across the horizon, its long elegant figure casting a shadow upon the surrounding landscape.

“Wow” I gasped, allowing myself to be swept away in the moment.

 As a mere eleven year old I made a decision that I would go to Australia with People to People no matter the cost, my parents happily agreed, with one little snag, I was to raise the money.  Let me just tell you that two fourteen hour plane tickets, two weeks of food, and sleeping accommodations was not cheap. The total came out around 6,000 dollars. This number did not daunt me. After a year of endless bake sales, hundreds of letters, four craft sales, and 168 Snowman lights handmade and sold I had reached my goal.

Upon my arrival to Sydney I was blown away by the history of the convicts and the architecture of the opera house. My cultural horizon was expanding rapidly, and it continued to expand as we paid a visit to a small elementary school in Sydney. We were all paired up with children of varying ages; I was paired with one of the youngest girls. Dressed in a simple plaid skirt and a navy cardigan, she pulled at my sleeve and meekly whispered,

 “I like your plait” I immediately searched around looking for some fine china that I might have on me, but to no avail. The girl giggled quietly and then pointed to my braided hair; I smiled realizing my mistake.

“Thank you.”  I politely responded.  My journey continued to the Outback, away from the shiny streets of Sydney and into the wild and unexpected.

If I thought I had endured a culture shock from the simple language differentiation then I had been mistaken.  We stayed at a quaint ranch where showering time was strictly two minutes and holes in the wall were a common sight. It was there that we stumbled upon a strange spectacle. A dead kangaroo appeared to be magically moving along the ground, our guide told us to look closer and on command we peered beneath. To our amazement we saw thousands of ants moving the carcass. I thought to myself I want to be an ant, to make a change that’s bigger than me and affects more than I know.

 I realized that we are all ants, but what mattered was the type of ant you became. You could be a follower, or you could step up and be a leader. That group of ants was full of unbelievable individuals, but without a leader that’s all they would be, individuals, and they would not be able to accomplish the things that they do by working together.

The gravel crunched underneath the tires of the car as we pulled into my driveway. Having grown accustomed to the sharp, rugged region of Australia, I was pleasantly surprised by the lush forgiving hills of Northern Michigan. I stepped out of the car, my now mud caked shoes stood firmly, grazing the dew off of nearby blades of grass.  Thousands of miles later and two weeks older, I became confident, outgoing, and self-assured. As I took in a breath of the clean moist air I looked over the underappreciated landscape of Michigan. A deer pranced through the forest, stirring up the underbrush as it glided along.

“Home” I smiled, knowing that although I had changed, this place would forever remain the same, and be a part of who I have become.

My Name: A Contradiction

My name is a contradiction. Elizabeth means my god is an oath, and yet I have no god. Anne means grace, something that I lack in my life. Fraser is considerable power and strength, where I’m weak and have the power of a grain of sand in the Sahara. That is what my name means to others, but when I hear my name I see, smell, hear, feel, and taste something different. I see the vibrant turquoise of the ocean, the deep, rich red of the Australian dirt. It is the delicate white blossom of the strawberry plant being blown about, limp like a rag doll. It’s that awkward silence. The sweet zing of raspberry on your tongue, and yet the spicy zap of red pepper. It is the light breeze on a still, hot day.

My name is the squeak of shoes on the gym floor. It’s the quick zip of a hairbrush through your hair. It is the horrendous odor of soccer socks wafting from my bag. It is the taste of blood, the heat of sweat, and the trickle of tears. It is the pride of success and the agony of defeat. It is the satisfying swish of the net as the winning goal is scored. My name is the crisp crunch of leaves underfoot, shivers down your spine. It is an embrace. It is questions unanswered. It is memories, my name is me.