Thanksgiving Mayhem (Part 1)

I awoke to my alarm scwaking and bleeping like a repetitious warning of doom. This was usual for the mornings. (Someday I will invent a machine that will softly smack my face with a pillow. It will look like a windmill and it will be more enjoyable than this screaming fellow.) I hastily arose from my mattress and walked promptly into the side of the door. With a grunt of indignation I fell back onto my bed, let a second more accepting grunt escape and slept.

This time it was my mom who woke me. "Stephen!" she urgently exclaimed "You need to wake up."
"...whazit?"
"You are gonna be really late for work, its 7:45!"
"...."
"Stephen?"
"whatisithappening?"
"You need to get up right now!"

Then my mind woke up... Zounds!

I raced around the room pulling on clothes obviously not for work and then ripping them off in frustration. Finally I got it right: A red tee-shirt that said Coca Cola on the front and had pictures of glittery glass bottles on the back. I do not know why we at Fergeson and Hasseler wore this shirt but my fellow baggers and I always did. When I was first interviewed for the position, i was handed a pile of these shirts. No one told me that I had to wear them. I wore them anyway.

I shoveled two pieces of buttered toast down my throat. No time for orange juice. No time for see ya!'s. Hurry, Hurry, Hurry. After a short drive across our small town of Quarryville, we arrived with a shreech at the back of the grocery store. My mom shouted some inaudible encouragement as a raced out of the car and to the back door. I swung it open vigorously and there they were: my co-workers huddled around our manager. She, Anna Mary, was a Mennonite woman who was somewhere between forty and one hundred years old. On most occasions she was a gentle creature who would usually let you off work if it was important. I liked her. But at this moment in time and space, her resolve was bitter and her face bristling determined. What time is this? Thanksgiving Eve.

I had heard about this legendary day from many a wiser bagger. Fred was the most eager of the bunch to tell the tale. He spoke about it with reverence as if it was a deceased war hero or a golden idol. In his gleeful and whithered voice, Fred told me, "So many folks showed up last year traffic was backed up at both directions for miles. Yesssiree. Aisle number twelve dropped to the ground because the crowds were so rouoty. Goodness to heavens, I reacall there was canned peaches everywhere. Pheewwee!"

With that conversation in mind (and many others), I had an idea of what was coming next from Anna Mary: a pep talk. She looked at all of us a women who wanted nothing more than the day to be over. Let me tell you, there is nothing more disheartening than a leader who looks like she has given up. But it was over in a second. She straightened her shoulders, wrapped her shawl more tightly around her shoulders and said "Good luck friends." With a quick couple steps, she elbowed her way through the hodgepodge of baggers and opened the door leading to the store. It was 7:58. Two more minutes. A loud rumbling sound reached the ears of the tightly knit group as they neared the front of the store. What we saw out of the huge plexi-glass windows was utterly astonishing.

You know those disaster movies were millions of people are trying to cram their way onto a tiny boat headed to the zombie free shores of Africa? It was like that. Body upon body was pressed against the walls banging their fists against the window panes. I am skeptical that I heard one comprehensible word from that fierce crowd before the store opened. It was mostly groans and howls and shrieks and screams and chants and that sort of thing. As the mass of humans swelled, Anna Mary looked once again over her frightened workers. "Lets do this" she said and swung open the doors.

Midnight is almost upon me

I must finish this before midnight! Otherwise, my school things will be locked inside the upstairs. Warning: the end of the blogpost may be blunt... And we're off!

Robert and I recently came into the possession of roughly (exactly) 150 dollars worth of itunes gift cards. I will not tell you how much we paid for it but I will give you two facts. It was less than thirty-one dollars. It was more then twenty-nine. Some people have all the luck. (<-- I bet you are saying this). Look at the bottom of the page to find out which song I purchased.

Robert (Heiskell) and I recently mulched together for a couple hours. We discussed Wendell Berry and Sufjan Stevens. Isn't he the coolest?

Robert (Dr. Kapic) and I have a meeting set up to talk about my schedule. For some reason, I think about my future classes all the time. I spent roughly three hours over break looking at classes and weighing my options. Why? I think it is due to the fact that I am ready for my next year at Covenant. Aren't you?

Iron and Wine- Such Great Heights

French Food, Magnificent Mood.

Growing up with a mother from a French background, I know what a good crepe is. Crispy on the outside, fluffy on the inside, and slightly sweet. Rachel's Crepes gets it. My friends, PeterRobbieAnnieAnnaAdrienne and I, decided that this hole in the wall restaurant would be our lunchtime destination. We picked correctly. They served a mean crepe. At our table were six different yummy wrapped crepes, one for each of us. Mine was called the Barnstormer which tasted much better than the name would suggest. But I am not here to discuss the wonder of Rachel's. For we had something magnificent in store us.

Behind me, underneath a small picture of a home in Italy, sat two middle aged women giving their order to a waiter with long black hair. They looked like they were anticipating a calm quiet lunch. Just the two of them. Then we showed up. After walking through Market and the little shops lining Lancaster's streets, we were in a laughing, loud mood. I thought to myself, "I bet they are annoyed at how loud we are" but in true teenage form did nothing. Then something magical happened.

As the waiter approached our table, he had a strange sort of smile on his face. Adrienne asked him, "Can we have our tickets?" (I can only assume this meant "our bill.") He said, "Those ladies who just left paid for everything. They just said Pay it Forward." And with another grin he whisked away to tend to another less fortunate customer. We sat in utter astonishment. After a second, we caught our breath and then yipped and hurrahed for about five minutes. It was wonderful.

That sort of thing doesn't happen anymore.

After reading Chapter 12 of "Jayber Crow"

I awoke, staring at the knees of one of my hall mates. He was excited beyond belief to give the wonderful news: school is cancelled on account of snow. My first thoughts were surprisingly negative. "Agrruphmp" I grumbled to myself as my hall mate giddily left continuing his conversation with the air. My grouchiness was valid educationally, but when I looked outside I could justify it no longer.

You know how it is waking up to fresh snow.

After looking outside, I rolled over and started dreaming. I dreamed from the perspective of a young boy who was running in circles around a cul-de-sac trying to escape the clutches of an old woman with obvious violent intentions. I ran into a house and shut the door when Behold!, Jacob Corrbet, some other murky character, and myself sat. The only thing I remember after that is Jacob explaining to... somebody... that this group of three watches a movie in this house every week, but secretly are trying to befriend me(the young boy). That is all.

I usually do not describe dreams for many reasons. (2, I guess) As you can probably tell from the previous paragraph, it is not that easy. Characters and plot swirl back and forth sometimes making sense. Often not. Two, I have a phobia that people will think I am making my dreams up. I don't know why. Maybe it is because I always suspect "made up dreams" from everyone else. I know it is horrible for me to assume, but I cannot help it.
Sometimes when you can't think of what to say. making up a dream helps the conversation move along. I used to. All the time. Now, I am so deathly afraid that someone will find out (Using a Dream Detector or something of the sort) that I only relate dreams that really happened.

Later on, I slid and waded to my library. The doors were squeaky and loud. I think this is so the two student librarians sitting at the desk will be able to keep tabs on who Is and who Isn't in the library. When I entered their heads popped up from a pile of books, gazing wide-eyed in my direction. They looked like a pair of prairie-dogs. I stifled a chortle and purposely walked to my chair in the corner. Some people like to sit in my chair. It is understandable. He is close to four windows which let in the sun and, sitting quite close, is his best friend the Lamp. The Lamp is the only piece of furniture of its kind here in the library.

I pull him as close to his chair friend as I can (so they can catch up) and then I sit. Sometimes a friend of mine will plop down in the neighboring chair to say Hello or to have a long conversation. Sometimes I will listen to other peoples conversations as I pretend to read. Sometimes I really read.