"Our House": Madness
My fondest memories of my young childhood involved one home in particular. This was not my first home, as I was born in Colorado Springs, Colorado and lived there for several years, and not my second home which was a duplex in North Platte. This home was my family’s first house together, as the four of us. Dark red brick encompassed the entirety of our home on West A Street with chocolate brown shutters on the front. Unique to the rest of the block, our house stood out among the red-bricked and white-painted others. My mother placed her wicker seats on the front porch as if to say that this was a comfortable and inviting home. We had a large back yard with a swing set, a plastic blue swimming pool, a dog kennel for our black lab puppy, and my mom’s garden. Our front yard was typical with a mailbox and dozens of flowers planted along the front. Only a happy and loving family could have inhabited such a home. The interior was gorgeously decorated by my mother’s homemade crafts. A fireplace was the centerpiece of our living room and gave the entire room a warm feeling, even when it wasn’t lit. My bedroom was large and full of my favorite things; a Fisher Price plastic table, Porcelain dolls on shelves, Barbie dolls and their bite-size accessories scattered all over my floor, and my closet full of puzzles and games. It was the only house that I had called home, since I could never remember my other houses at the age of four. The only home in which I remember my entire family together and happy as one.
"Home": Michael Buble'
It was my house on the weekends when my dad had visitation. A white-washed, two bedroom house without a yard, fence, or garage. It was a shack of sorts. The kitchen was large with many white cabinets and ruby red carpeting. The refrigerator was olive green and smelled like bleach the few times I was able to get the door open. A large air conditioner filled the dining room window that faced what was supposed to be a yard, but instead was covered in large metal supplies from the Nebraska Public Power District building next door. My father’s only possessions left from the divorce, a 25 inch RCA television and a five-disc CD player and stereo, stood in the living room without an entertainment center to organize them. A salmon-colored couch my grandmother had given him sat on the opposite side of the room, lonely and reflective of my father’s new life. My sister and I shared one of the bedrooms in which a wooden bunk bed with Pocahontas bedding, a small television and a Super Nintendo resided. Our closet was full of the many toys purchased by our dad to keep ourselves busy on those weekends, but mostly to keep our minds off of the fact that this was not our home. It was an awkward bedroom that was constantly cold and lonely. I was scared to sleep in that room because it was not my own, it was like a hotel room. But, it was not just my bedroom that I hated in that place; I disliked the entire shack house, not because it was old or dirty, but because it reminded me of how my parents tore our family apart. The house was full of negative thoughts and made me upset to be there because I knew that my mom would never walk through the front door. The worst feeling, however, was that from now on, my family would never be together in the home we once had.
"Boot Scootin' Boogie": Brooks & Dunn
My dancing career began at age five with two size 10 cowgirl boots. Made of rose pink leather, they had black stitching around the middle and a black heel. I hated those boots because they reminded me of my mother’s cowboy “friend”, a fellow that I disliked quite vigorously. Not only that, but I was forced to wear knee-high socks which made my feet sweat. The new leather gave me blisters on the back of my heels the first time I wore them on my birthday so, from that moment on, I refused to wear them ever again. But, at an age when my every action was controlled by those older than myself, my mother told me that I had to wear them to dinner with my grandma who purchased them for me. I dug for the pink boots that had yet to be scuffed, dirtied, or broken-in at all. They looked perfectly clean, and to my surprise, still fit my feet after several months. I felt the leather squeeze my heel and knew that I would get a blister. After dinner, I was asked to dance. I jumped up and the “Boot Scootin’ Boogie” began playing. My mom proceeded to teach me the Electric Slide dance little by little until I could do it on my own. “Heel, toe…” I had it down perfectly. I no longer felt the boots on my feet as I pranced around doing the Electric Slide. It was my first dance in my first pair of cowgirl boots and I felt snazzy and quite cowgirl-ish. After my night of dancing, I realized that I had scuffed the rose colored boots on the dance floor right at the tip of the toe. It was a small grey scuff about the size of a dime and it made me happy. I felt a sense of accomplishment at my ripened age of five as I had learned to dance in boots that I never thought I could be fond of.
It was after my discovery of the Spice Girls on MTV, a channel that I was not allowed to watch, that I became obsessed. From that moment on, I conned my grandmother and my father into purchasing products with the Spice Girls on the cover. From jewelry to cassette tapes, Spice World the Movie to random accessories, I had it all. My favorite Spice Girls merchandise was my collection of “Spice It Up!” dolls. I had two of Sporty, Posh, Scary, and Baby, but I never found the Ginger Spice dolls. Apparently, she left the group therefore making her dolls rare and valuable. It saddened me for quite some time, but I had fun with my eight other Spice Girls.
I would dress those 11 inch dolls in their scandalous clothing consisting of zebra printed coats, platform boots, the shortest shorts imaginable and bustier bras. We would sing karaoke and pretend to be in London. Oh, it was a great time. Who needed friends when I had the neatest four girls by my side? Scary Spice was always my favorite because she was different from the other Spices. She wore her hair in Zulu knots on top of her head and really strange boots that rose to her knees. I remember trying to put my hair in those same knots before school, but for some reason my dad refused to allow it. So, I asked for platform shoes instead, but I never received those either. I think my dad was not fond my obsession with the Spice Girls, but little did he know that he was only supporting the habit when he bought me those dolls. Although I never turned into a Spice Girl at the age of ten, I am still their number one fan and “2 Become 1” is still my favorite song of theirs. However, now that I am mature enough to know what the song suggests, I wonder why the hell my father let me listen to that music!
"Stiletto Pumps": Crime Mob feat. Miss Aisha
My high school years were defined by several of these uniforms comprised of many different pieces for special occasions and although they were not stiletto pumps, they were still quite flashy. However, there is one uniform in particular that will always symbolize my most important high school days. My cheerleading uniform of my senior year, my captain year, was my favorite. Our school colors were blue, gold, and white. However, the gold was more of a golden yellow instead of a sparkly, disco-ball, solid gold. My shell, or top, was blue with a large white diamond on the front. NPHS was printed inside in gold and blue outlined letters. The shoulder straps had gold and white stripes about half an inch thick on each one. My skirt was solid blue with only gold and white stripes, exactly the same to those on the shell, around the bottom. On cold days, my squad and I wore an under liner which is just a fancy word for a turtle neck, long-sleeved spandex worn under the shell, along with blue polyester pants that were extremely unfashionable. The entire uniform was ridiculously blue, gold, and white. This allowed for my squad and I to stand out amongst our classmates, not only during games, but at school when we were forced by our Nazi coach to wear them on game days. This uniform, while uncomfortable at times, was a symbol for some of my most valuable memories whether they were on the bus, out of town, in the hallways or at practice. My high school days were based mostly on this uniform which gave me a status and a place to belong at school. Of course, I had friends who were not cheerleaders, in fact my best friends were the exact opposite from me, but it was my passion. Without my uniform, I would have been more comfortable, but also I would have been just like everyone else, which is incredibly boring.
"Learning to Fly": Tom Petty
To most, a kite is nothing but a piece of plastic with yarn attached, occasionally tossed into the air to ultimately hit the ground or be imprisoned by a tree. For children, it is quite amusing as they can control the colorful object 50 feet above them by just the movement of a string with the wind as their guide. I have a special and unique kite back home tucked away in my closet. It has not seen light in six years, but I remember my very own hands putting the pieces together with my classmates at my side. Constructed with plastic white straws and brilliantly colored tissue paper, my kite took an entire week of science class to make. Each piece glued and placed strategically onto another into pyramid shapes. The pyramids were small, consisting of a skeleton of straws covered with sheets of turquoise, yellow, orange and magenta tissue paper. These were then tied together in a group of four to form one large tetrahedral kite. The first time I flew my kite, I crashed it into the playground blacktop, due to the fact that I just threw it abruptly into the air without giving it a little guidance. The scars from that fall are still present on the edges of my kite where the turquoise paper is torn and Scotch-taped back together. With only one flight, my kite was thrown into the closet where it has yet to see sunlight since that spring day in eighth grade. At my graduation in May of 2007, as my class song was played loudly over the football field, I listened to Tom Petty’s lyrics and thought of my kite. I remembered its first flight, having never touched the wind before. My kite had flown, just as I had flown after graduation, without guidance for the real world.
The residents of North Platte, Nebraska refer to them as the “ones”. They are a set of one-way streets running through the entire city—one heading north, and one south. The “ones” are a nuisance to travelers as they can only get to Wendy’s on the southbound one-way, and the shopping mall on the northbound one-way, with several stop lights in between. These inconveniences make the “ones” truly unique, but that is not all the “ones” are known for. On Fridays and Saturdays, the youngsters of North Platte, in a lack of anything better to do, race up and down the “ones” blaring loud music, screaming, and honking at passersby. At stop lights, it is possible to see people run out of cars and jump back in just as the light flashes green, switching spots in the car as their bodies are crunched by others in the nearest proximity. With friends packed tight like sardines in the passenger seats, it is quite the sight to see. To people not living in North Platte, this might seem like a strange activity and I will be one to admit that it is odd to think about driving in a large circle up and down North Platte for hours. However, I enjoyed many of those nights with my closest of friends, my “brat pack”, as we honked and sang along to our favorite songs, half-hanging out the windows with the white dashed lines just feet from our faces. Like Bryce Avary’s lyrics say “I don’t want to get stuck in here, when I am 34 just talking about high school years”, I know that when I go back to North Platte I am more mature than when I left. I do not automatically jump in my car, blasting my music as I once did because everything has changed since high school. While my friends and I are more distant than before and less likely to ever “cruise the ones” I still like to think about the good ol’ days when life was about having carefree fun with friends on those two streets.
One whole year of college has passed, or rather sped, by. I think about everyone I have met, the classes I despised, the professors that were kind and those who were not, and the experiences I have shared with others. As I packed away my belongings into boxes and large back Rubermaid tubs, I glanced at my chemistry goggles. At $13.50, quite the pricey pair of eyewear, I was peeved when I had to purchase them from the bookstore. Lime green Sellstrom Brand goggles with four black vents on the corners and a matching lime green elastic band to hold them onto my face; they were my only companion throughout every three hour lab. Every Wednesday afternoon, I would venture to lab not knowing exactly what would be expected or what chemicals I would be using, but I knew my goggles would be in my drawer. I pulled them out of my drawer, expanded the elastic and fit them snugly to my face. My goggles protected my eyes with hard plastic that stuck to my skin like a magnet. After every lab, I would throw them back in to the drawer, anxious to leave the terrible lab setting, but the goggle marks would still remain with a large red ring around my eyes and cheeks from where those goggles once were. While I never respected their protection or handled them with care, I look back on those goggles and realize that they hold all of my memories from General Chemistry and Organic Chemistry 1 this past year. Knowing that I will not be taking chemistry again at NWU makes me happy, but I am sure that I will want to put those goggles on in the future just to remember how they feel.
