Excerpt from her last letter, and she wishes everyone a Merry Christmas and Happy New Year!
1. Manhattan Temple! We went the Saturday before Christmas. It was awesome to get out of New Jersey, even though it doesn't really look any different in NY. The city is just as bustling and crazy as I remember it, and it was COLD. The buildings create insane wind currents. But it's just as everyone says. The instant you're inside the Temple------silence. We walked in and out a couple times to hear the effect. Yes. We're dweebs. It's a beautiful temple. Definitely near the top of my list.
2. Jonathan. One of our investigators, and one of the most unique people I've ever met. He works with computers as some sort of analyst...I don't understand what he's saying when he describes what he does. But he studied philosophy in college because he finds it interesting, and he definitely looks at everything from a philosophical standpoint. He is a challenge to teach, but more fun to teach than anyone else. He takes notes on our lessons, reads all the assignments we give him and more, and always has a list of questions waiting for us at our next appointment. Once we quoted a scripture from the Book of Mormon and he said, "Isn't that in 2 Nephi 2?"..............jaw drop.
I thought at first that he would never really internalize anything we were teaching him because he questions everything so much, and he looks at everything very factually. But as we have taught him I have come to realize that no one can read the Book of Mormon as much as he does, no one can study it the way he does, and not change, not come to know that it's true. When we began teaching him he would not pray, and now he frequently volunteers to, and the last time he prayed he was so sincere, and he closed in the name of Jesus Christ (he had not done that before). He is definitely progressing, but Sister Picard and I have had to really think outside the box when preparing lesson plans for him. We really took a gamble last time and gave him a PDF copy of Preach My Gospel on a disc, so that he can see where we're going with the lessons and understand why we teach him the way we do. Who knows, when we meet next he might instruct us on how to teach better!
Tuesday, December 29, 2009
Tuesday, December 22, 2009
Notes from the field...
Holly and her MTC companion, Sister White.
(The following are exerpts from Holly's last two letters, dated 12/14/2009 and 12/21/2009)
Sis. Picard and I won the obedience basket!!! We had a mission-wide conference on Wednesday, and all month Sis. Picard has been preparing me for the obedience basket. Every mission conference Sis. Bahr has all the missionaries stand up, and she begins to name different mission rules. If she names one you haven't kept, you have to sit down. Some of the rules she named were making your bed in the morning, brushing/flossing you teeth, taking you vitamins, staying under your allotted miles in the car, exercising every day, etc. Well, Sis. Picard and I were the last ones standing, and we won a HUGE stash of food! We probably won't have to shop until transfers! Our favorite item is the nutella. :)
At the mission home with all the sister missionaries.
Saturday President and Sister Bahr had all the sisters over for a special Christmas brunch. I thought I was going to explode, they made us eat so much. It was lots of fun. We decorated their Christmas tree with homemade ornaments. Sis. Picard and I made a sleigh. Little miniatures of ourselves rode in the front, and behind us was a big bag full of Books of Mormon instead of presents. It was fun and super cheesy. :)
Holly and her trainer, Sister Picard.
There are times when Sister Picard and I are tracting and we can't talk when people open their doors because our faces are numb. We will tract until we simply can't bear it anymore, then we will go to the car and thaw for a little while, then head back out. There's a thermometer in our car, and we can't believe it when it says it's 22 degrees outside. It feels much colder than that. They it's because of the humidity. The cold goes right through our clothes and our shoes. It's not easy, but somehow we get through it and manage to stay happy, too. It's a great motivation to work really hard for appointments so we can spend as little time knocking as possible! And it makes us really grateful to have a car. There are some missionaries in walking areas, and I can't imagine how they spend all day outside! We also have gotten really creative with our clothes. I usually wear a sweater over my tops, a fleece vest, my coat, a scarf, nylons, leggings, my wool socks, another pair of leggings, my boots, and two skirts. I'm getting ready to break out the sweatpants pretty soon--the natives say it doesn't get REALLY cold until January. :)
The work is going well. It's difficult with the holiday season to get a hold of people and keep reliable appointments, but we feel very blessed. I am amazed at how much I love all these people I hardly know. Yesterday Sis. Picard and I were asked by the Relief Society president to visit a less-active sister. She came here four years ago as a refugee from Sierra Leon. She has been a member since she was fourteen and served a mission in Ghana. Here mission lasted more than two years because the war was so bad in Sierra Leon that she couldn't return home! When she finally did, the war had not ended, and both her mother and brother were shot and killed before her eyes. Shortly after that she came to the US. She knew no English, but the Church helped her find housing and put her through school. She now works as a nurse to support herself and her little boy. Her husband works in Europe and can only visit once a year. She is lonely and worn out, but in just another year she will be a citizen and her husband will be able to come to America. I was so overwhelmed by her faith! She is so determined to stand on her own two feet, and is proud to no longer be living by the welfare of the Church. Although she cannot come to church very often, she is a wonderful member missionary and shares the gospel with everyone.
As Sis. Picard and I sat and listened to her amazing story, I was filled with love for this wonderful woman, though I had only just met her, and I was overwhelmed with a desire to help her in any way that I could. Sis. Picard and I will be making regular visits and will begin teaching two of her friends soon. It's amazing the way that being a missionary makes you love people! It's a wonderful feeling.
Tuesday, December 1, 2009
First Letter from New Jersey
Holly arrived in New Jersey Tuesday, November 24 and got right to work!
Wednesday, November 11, 2009
Entering the MTC
Holly entered the Missionary Training Center in Provo, Utah on November 4th. The MTC has this super-orderly process for greeting the new missionaries. You are given an arrival time- 12:45 p.m. for Sister Black-and you are directed by missionaries and MTC workers in neon- yellow safety vests to an unloading zone along the curb. They want to keep the parking area as uncongested as possible, so they issue one auto pass per missionary.
The day before drop-off day we arrived in Salt Lake, went to Hires for some awesome burgers, then went to the Salt Lake City temple to do an endowment session. We ran into good friend, Quinn Howard, as we were leaving the temple. That was a really special treat. Quinn and Sandy have known Holly since she was little and Sandy taught Holly piano.
We got up early the next morning and hiked to the top of the "Y". It was a beautiful morning. Perfect for a hike. Rob went into Boy Scout mode and marched up the mountain leaving Holly and Tori in the dust. We just kept telling ourselves it was hard because of the altitude. But we kept passing old geezers coming down the mountain so we couldn't give up. If they could do it, so could we!
After our hike we had time for lunch in the Cougareat at BYU and then it was time to drop Holly off at the MTC. Two missionaries greeted us at the curb. Working hard not to cry, we gave Holly one last hug. The elders hoisted her HUGE duffle bag and suitcases and escorted her into a new chapter in her life....
Monday, October 19, 2009
Called to Serve
Exactly one month from my last post, I took a trip down to the mailboxes in the vain hope that my call would be there. My mission papers had been officially submitted the previous Monday, and after the calculations of just about everyone I talked to, I had been convinced not to expect it for at least a couple more days, possibly another week. As I grabbed the mail key I was gently reminded by Linds, "You know it's not gonna be there yet, Holl."
"I know," I grumbled, "But I have to check." I simply could not abide the idea of not checking, just in case...
She and friend Ashley were headed out for a little basking in the afternoon sun—it was a nice day—and I skipped down the stairs ahead of them, making sure not to walk too quickly to the mailboxes, trying not to hope.
I unlocked our box. There was a white envelope.
"There are always lots of white envelopes in the mail," I thought reasonably.
But it was big.
"That doesn't mean anything...necessarily."
Somehow my heart was beating at a normal pace, and I calmly pulled the envelope halfway out of the box. There was no mistaking those words printed so perfectly: "Sister Holly Anne Black." Still my eyes darted to the top left corner. "The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-Day Saints."
Without any concern for the preservation of the paper I ripped it out of the box and into the air, screaming uncontrollably and waving it around as thought it was on fire. A split second later I was tackled by Lindsey, and the two of us screamed our celebration to the entire complex, jumping on the spot and laughing uncontrollably, while everyone who had been sitting around the pool in peace a moment before now stared at us as though we'd had our outburst in the library.
The next twenty minutes felt like an anxiety attack. I could not simply sit or remain still. My heart trilled and my hands trembled and my mind raced. I didn't know what to do with myself. I called Mom immediately and Lindsey helped me send a mass text to everyone we knew to announce the arrival. Though my fingers itched to tear the envelope to shreds that instant, I had already decided that I would wait until after work that night to open it, when I'd had a chance to get the word out and I could open it with as many of my friends present as possible.
The hours passed slowly, but James, my coworker, kept me entertained and my mind off my nerves. I struggled not to speed as I drove home from work, then realized as I pulled into the parking lot that a birthday party was being held at our ward building that night. Not only had I planned to attend, but most of the people I'd invited to my apartment would also be there. I would have to postpone the opening of my call a little longer.
The extra fourty-five minute wait was true torture. My eyes wandered to the clock like metal to a magnet, counting down the minutes till I could return to the apartment. I was not a very good guest. I finally left a few minutes early, unable to focus on the party, so jittery that I couldn't keep still.
When I got home, I discovered that roommate Carly had cleaned the apartment and baked treats especially for the occasion. I had such wonderful roommates. One by one, friends and ward members arrived, more tacks were pinned as people added their guesses to the world map on the wall, mission stories were exchanged, and I felt extremely loved. More people than I ever expected came, the apartment was packed. The decision to serve a mission was more difficult than I had expected, and it was wonderful to feel so supported.
With my family listening in from three different locations, I opened my call.
"You are hereby called to serve as a missionary of the Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints. You are assigned to labor in the New Jersey Morristown mission."
Of the dozens of guesses made and my own musings, none were Morristown, New Jersey. And yet no other place in the world felt so right. My heart swelled with joy when I read the words. In my mind I almost thought, "Of course!"
I then saw that I would not enter the MTC until November 4. My excitement dropped a notch. I had not expected to wait so long. But the cheers of my friends and the call in my hands, the signature of the prophet Thomas S. Monson at the bottom and the overwhelming surrealism of the whole experience drowned out my very slight disappointment. It didn't matter how long I had to wait. I was going. I was going. Doing something I felt the Lord wanted me to do. That feeling was only confirmed as my father recalled to my memory the story of his own conversion when he was seventeen years old. It was during the short time that he lived in New Jersey, in a small town called Chatham. Chatham happens to be only a few miles from Morristown, and the first LDS missionaries he ever spoke to were...Morristown missionaries.
I cannot feel anything but grateful. Grateful to have parents who had the faith to be steadfast, who—unlike so many converts—did not fall away, who blessed me with the possibility of an eternal family and reared me in the gospel. I have never had to search for the truth. It has been there from the start. I am grateful to be given the opportunity to help others find what I have, to serve the Lord in this way—and in the very place where it all began.
"I know," I grumbled, "But I have to check." I simply could not abide the idea of not checking, just in case...
She and friend Ashley were headed out for a little basking in the afternoon sun—it was a nice day—and I skipped down the stairs ahead of them, making sure not to walk too quickly to the mailboxes, trying not to hope.
I unlocked our box. There was a white envelope.
"There are always lots of white envelopes in the mail," I thought reasonably.
But it was big.
"That doesn't mean anything...necessarily."
Somehow my heart was beating at a normal pace, and I calmly pulled the envelope halfway out of the box. There was no mistaking those words printed so perfectly: "Sister Holly Anne Black." Still my eyes darted to the top left corner. "The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-Day Saints."
Without any concern for the preservation of the paper I ripped it out of the box and into the air, screaming uncontrollably and waving it around as thought it was on fire. A split second later I was tackled by Lindsey, and the two of us screamed our celebration to the entire complex, jumping on the spot and laughing uncontrollably, while everyone who had been sitting around the pool in peace a moment before now stared at us as though we'd had our outburst in the library.
The next twenty minutes felt like an anxiety attack. I could not simply sit or remain still. My heart trilled and my hands trembled and my mind raced. I didn't know what to do with myself. I called Mom immediately and Lindsey helped me send a mass text to everyone we knew to announce the arrival. Though my fingers itched to tear the envelope to shreds that instant, I had already decided that I would wait until after work that night to open it, when I'd had a chance to get the word out and I could open it with as many of my friends present as possible.
The hours passed slowly, but James, my coworker, kept me entertained and my mind off my nerves. I struggled not to speed as I drove home from work, then realized as I pulled into the parking lot that a birthday party was being held at our ward building that night. Not only had I planned to attend, but most of the people I'd invited to my apartment would also be there. I would have to postpone the opening of my call a little longer.
The extra fourty-five minute wait was true torture. My eyes wandered to the clock like metal to a magnet, counting down the minutes till I could return to the apartment. I was not a very good guest. I finally left a few minutes early, unable to focus on the party, so jittery that I couldn't keep still.
When I got home, I discovered that roommate Carly had cleaned the apartment and baked treats especially for the occasion. I had such wonderful roommates. One by one, friends and ward members arrived, more tacks were pinned as people added their guesses to the world map on the wall, mission stories were exchanged, and I felt extremely loved. More people than I ever expected came, the apartment was packed. The decision to serve a mission was more difficult than I had expected, and it was wonderful to feel so supported.
With my family listening in from three different locations, I opened my call.
"You are hereby called to serve as a missionary of the Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints. You are assigned to labor in the New Jersey Morristown mission."
Of the dozens of guesses made and my own musings, none were Morristown, New Jersey. And yet no other place in the world felt so right. My heart swelled with joy when I read the words. In my mind I almost thought, "Of course!"
I then saw that I would not enter the MTC until November 4. My excitement dropped a notch. I had not expected to wait so long. But the cheers of my friends and the call in my hands, the signature of the prophet Thomas S. Monson at the bottom and the overwhelming surrealism of the whole experience drowned out my very slight disappointment. It didn't matter how long I had to wait. I was going. I was going. Doing something I felt the Lord wanted me to do. That feeling was only confirmed as my father recalled to my memory the story of his own conversion when he was seventeen years old. It was during the short time that he lived in New Jersey, in a small town called Chatham. Chatham happens to be only a few miles from Morristown, and the first LDS missionaries he ever spoke to were...Morristown missionaries.
I cannot feel anything but grateful. Grateful to have parents who had the faith to be steadfast, who—unlike so many converts—did not fall away, who blessed me with the possibility of an eternal family and reared me in the gospel. I have never had to search for the truth. It has been there from the start. I am grateful to be given the opportunity to help others find what I have, to serve the Lord in this way—and in the very place where it all began.
Sunday, June 28, 2009
Where in the World...
Am I going? I haven't the foggiest. I'm taking guesses.
Rules:
1. 2 guesses per person—one in the US, one foreign.
2. Person with the closest guess gets a prize! I haven't decided what the prize is yet...but it won't be lame. I promise. I hate it when you've won a prize and you're all excited, wondering what it will be...and it's a hat. Or a weird poster. Or something.
Here is the link where you can find a list of the 345 possibilities: http://www.mission.net/cgi-bin/mission_index.cgi?action=show_current
Here are all the guesses so far. Be careful not to choose the same mission as someone else:
Alaska Anchorage
Australia Adelaide
Australia Melbourne
Austria Vienna
Brazil Rio de Janeiro
California San Bernadino
Canada Calgary
Cape Verde Praia
Chile Santiago North
China Hong Kong
Costa Rica San Jose
Denmark Copenhagen
France Paris
Georgia Atlanta
Germany Frankfurt
Germany Hamburg
Hawaii Honolulu
Idaho Boise
Illinois Nauvoo
Iowa Des Moines
Italy Catania
Japan Nagoya
New Hampshire Manchester
New York New York North
New York New York South
New York Rochester
New Zealand Aukland
Nigeria Enugu
Oklahoma Oklahoma City
Oregon Portland
Pennsylvania Harrisburg
Pennsylvania Pittsburgh
Philippines Cebu
Philippines Manila
Poland Warsaw
Russia Yekaterinburg
South Africa Durban
Spain Madrid
Utah Salt Lake City Temple Square
Washington Seattle
Washington Tacoma
Wisconsin Milwaukee
Zimbabwe Harare
I'm looking forward to tacking your guesses on my magnificent world map, which is currently hanging in my living room. As you can see from the list above, it's getting pretty crowded already. I shall have to take a picture when it's finished and show you. Contest ends (hopefully) somewhere in the next few weeks.
Good luck!
P.S. I'm from Texas, so don't guess there.
Rules:
1. 2 guesses per person—one in the US, one foreign.
2. Person with the closest guess gets a prize! I haven't decided what the prize is yet...but it won't be lame. I promise. I hate it when you've won a prize and you're all excited, wondering what it will be...and it's a hat. Or a weird poster. Or something.
Here is the link where you can find a list of the 345 possibilities: http://www.mission.net/cgi-bin/mission_index.cgi?action=show_current
Here are all the guesses so far. Be careful not to choose the same mission as someone else:
Alaska Anchorage
Australia Adelaide
Australia Melbourne
Austria Vienna
Brazil Rio de Janeiro
California San Bernadino
Canada Calgary
Cape Verde Praia
Chile Santiago North
China Hong Kong
Costa Rica San Jose
Denmark Copenhagen
France Paris
Georgia Atlanta
Germany Frankfurt
Germany Hamburg
Hawaii Honolulu
Idaho Boise
Illinois Nauvoo
Iowa Des Moines
Italy Catania
Japan Nagoya
New Hampshire Manchester
New York New York North
New York New York South
New York Rochester
New Zealand Aukland
Nigeria Enugu
Oklahoma Oklahoma City
Oregon Portland
Pennsylvania Harrisburg
Pennsylvania Pittsburgh
Philippines Cebu
Philippines Manila
Poland Warsaw
Russia Yekaterinburg
South Africa Durban
Spain Madrid
Utah Salt Lake City Temple Square
Washington Seattle
Washington Tacoma
Wisconsin Milwaukee
Zimbabwe Harare
I'm looking forward to tacking your guesses on my magnificent world map, which is currently hanging in my living room. As you can see from the list above, it's getting pretty crowded already. I shall have to take a picture when it's finished and show you. Contest ends (hopefully) somewhere in the next few weeks.
Good luck!
P.S. I'm from Texas, so don't guess there.
Saturday, June 27, 2009
Summer of the Monkeys
It's summer. Spring did just that and has sprung right past me. But I can tell you it looked and smelled beautiful. I survived the remainder of my finals, and the trees and shrubs seemed to bloom in celebration. As I descended the long staircase south of campus after my last test, the trees bending their blossomed branches in an arch over my head, I was reminded of one of my favorite fictional heroines, who would have named such a place "White Way Delight"—so fitting because it suit both the sight and the feeling of that moment. And now it's summer. Most of the blossoms are gone, to be replaced by popsicles, grilled hot dogs and thunderstorms. I am enjoying the heat and the freedom.
I'm reading a book. A real book. Not some 800-page monstrosity prescribed by a professor. I am reading a romantic, suspenseful, full-of-imagery-and-simile's, delicious piece of fiction set in the 1930's, no strings (notes, critical analyses, quizzes or tests) attached. It's beautiful. And it's called Rebecca, by Daphne du Maurier. I highly recommend it.
I have another job. In addition to my custodial job on campus, I am now crowned with the privilege of sitting on a chair for three hours, blowing a whistle and screaming at running children, all while acquiring skin cancer. That's right, yours truly is a bona fide lifeguard! It's an entertaining job, to say the least. There's something about strutting around in a bathing suit with a red rescue tube and a whistle around your neck that strikes awe into people. The polarized sun glasses probably don't help, either. It gives us a blank, emotionless stare that creeps people out.
I love it.
My very first day, there were two boys throwing each other into the air in far too shallow water. I was on roving duty, which means I walk around and give people dirty looks, so I sauntered their way, staring in their direction as they approached. Both hesitated for a moment, one ready to launch the other. When I got close enough, I simply stared, silent, and shook my head slowly, disapprovingly. With the most frightened looks on their faces, both boys stammered nonsense and swam away.
Way too much fun.
Of course I jest. Lifeguarding is not all fun and games. I am haunted by the fear that in a brief moment of distraction, I'll miss a small child's head slipping beneath the water, and in the chaos of the scores of other children screaming and thrashing about as they play, I won't notice someone drowning. That very same day, an experienced lifeguard pointed out a particularly vulnerable boy to me, warning me to keep an eye on him. I didn't see at first glance what should make him a danger case, but not ten minutes later he wandered into water too deep. His tiny little arms were stretched up over his head, he was standing as far on the tips of his toes as he could, and still the surface of the water closed over his face. The sight of his eyes looking up from under the water horrified me. I've never had such an adrenaline rush in my life. I was in the act of jumping in when a mother nearby noticed, grabbed him and handed him to me. His mother, who was on the opposite side of the pool, noticed the commotion and casualy came over to retrieve him from me. She had been chatting with another woman and was still unaware that for the past fifteen minutes, her son had been wandering further and further away.
She seemed confused when I told her that he was too small, that she needed to stay with him. "He can't touch?" she said. She had no idea that he had almost drowned.
I know too many people who want to be lifeguards because they think it's an easy way to earn money and get a tan at the same time. I now know that, if your priorities are straight, the tan comes with a hefty dose of stress (which has nothing to do with sunburn). Being responsible for people's lives is and should not be easy. But I enjoy it. I gain a great deal of satisfaction at the end of my shift knowing there were no accidents under my watch.
I once read a book called Summer of the Monkeys. It was charming, about a young boy with dreams and ambitions like most other boys. It is full of Tom Sawyer-esque adventures and hilarious skirmishes, but mostly it is about what the boy learns, and how much he grows and changes in that one summer.
I'm looking forward to the rest of the summer. There are good, memorable days ahead. I am sure that I will look back upon this summer as one with particular meaning. This is a summer of change, of growth, of big decisions and new directions. I have chosen to serve a mission. The teachings of the church I have grown up in are responsible for all the good and happiness in my life, and I have decided to take the opportunity to share what I have found, what I know, with others.
It is not an easy decision. I have made many friends here, formed bonds that I do not want to break. People will move away or marry. My nephew will be four years old—speaking in full sentences and causing all sorts of trouble. My little sister will have grown up and become completely unrecognizable. I will delay my education for at least two years and spend a year and a half among complete strangers, in a culture different from mine, possibly speaking a language I have not learned, preaching a gospel I love but do not yet perfectly know, communicating with loved ones back home only through letters. I will work harder than I have worked in my entire life, facing new challenges and difficult situations, without the comfort of knowing that my loving parents are simply a phone call away.
It is not an easy decision, but it is a good one. I will grow up. I will be wiser and stronger for this experience, more confident in my own abilities and judgment. I will be better equipped to choose and direct the path of my life, to make difficult decisions and stick to them, no matter the cost. I will see another part of the world and open myself up to new, unique experiences and ideas. I will learn to love perfect stangers for the simple fact that they exist. I will share a knowledge that has so molded and defined me with others who need it, and experience the joy that only sharing something so sacred brings. My family, who have blessed me in so many ways, will in turn be blessed for my service. Despite all the doubts and fears thrown my way, I know that this is something I need. Everything I'm leaving behind, all the sacrifices I'll be required to make, will be for my good.
So I begin this summer with gratitude, and excitement, and that strange feeling you get when you know you're doing something for the last time, when you feel the significance of every thing and every person around you. You cherish everything so much more, and there seems to be so little time. The summer will pass so quickly, but I know it will be a good one.
I'm reading a book. A real book. Not some 800-page monstrosity prescribed by a professor. I am reading a romantic, suspenseful, full-of-imagery-and-simile's, delicious piece of fiction set in the 1930's, no strings (notes, critical analyses, quizzes or tests) attached. It's beautiful. And it's called Rebecca, by Daphne du Maurier. I highly recommend it.
I have another job. In addition to my custodial job on campus, I am now crowned with the privilege of sitting on a chair for three hours, blowing a whistle and screaming at running children, all while acquiring skin cancer. That's right, yours truly is a bona fide lifeguard! It's an entertaining job, to say the least. There's something about strutting around in a bathing suit with a red rescue tube and a whistle around your neck that strikes awe into people. The polarized sun glasses probably don't help, either. It gives us a blank, emotionless stare that creeps people out.
I love it.
My very first day, there were two boys throwing each other into the air in far too shallow water. I was on roving duty, which means I walk around and give people dirty looks, so I sauntered their way, staring in their direction as they approached. Both hesitated for a moment, one ready to launch the other. When I got close enough, I simply stared, silent, and shook my head slowly, disapprovingly. With the most frightened looks on their faces, both boys stammered nonsense and swam away.
Way too much fun.
Of course I jest. Lifeguarding is not all fun and games. I am haunted by the fear that in a brief moment of distraction, I'll miss a small child's head slipping beneath the water, and in the chaos of the scores of other children screaming and thrashing about as they play, I won't notice someone drowning. That very same day, an experienced lifeguard pointed out a particularly vulnerable boy to me, warning me to keep an eye on him. I didn't see at first glance what should make him a danger case, but not ten minutes later he wandered into water too deep. His tiny little arms were stretched up over his head, he was standing as far on the tips of his toes as he could, and still the surface of the water closed over his face. The sight of his eyes looking up from under the water horrified me. I've never had such an adrenaline rush in my life. I was in the act of jumping in when a mother nearby noticed, grabbed him and handed him to me. His mother, who was on the opposite side of the pool, noticed the commotion and casualy came over to retrieve him from me. She had been chatting with another woman and was still unaware that for the past fifteen minutes, her son had been wandering further and further away.
She seemed confused when I told her that he was too small, that she needed to stay with him. "He can't touch?" she said. She had no idea that he had almost drowned.
I know too many people who want to be lifeguards because they think it's an easy way to earn money and get a tan at the same time. I now know that, if your priorities are straight, the tan comes with a hefty dose of stress (which has nothing to do with sunburn). Being responsible for people's lives is and should not be easy. But I enjoy it. I gain a great deal of satisfaction at the end of my shift knowing there were no accidents under my watch.
I once read a book called Summer of the Monkeys. It was charming, about a young boy with dreams and ambitions like most other boys. It is full of Tom Sawyer-esque adventures and hilarious skirmishes, but mostly it is about what the boy learns, and how much he grows and changes in that one summer.
I'm looking forward to the rest of the summer. There are good, memorable days ahead. I am sure that I will look back upon this summer as one with particular meaning. This is a summer of change, of growth, of big decisions and new directions. I have chosen to serve a mission. The teachings of the church I have grown up in are responsible for all the good and happiness in my life, and I have decided to take the opportunity to share what I have found, what I know, with others.
It is not an easy decision. I have made many friends here, formed bonds that I do not want to break. People will move away or marry. My nephew will be four years old—speaking in full sentences and causing all sorts of trouble. My little sister will have grown up and become completely unrecognizable. I will delay my education for at least two years and spend a year and a half among complete strangers, in a culture different from mine, possibly speaking a language I have not learned, preaching a gospel I love but do not yet perfectly know, communicating with loved ones back home only through letters. I will work harder than I have worked in my entire life, facing new challenges and difficult situations, without the comfort of knowing that my loving parents are simply a phone call away.
It is not an easy decision, but it is a good one. I will grow up. I will be wiser and stronger for this experience, more confident in my own abilities and judgment. I will be better equipped to choose and direct the path of my life, to make difficult decisions and stick to them, no matter the cost. I will see another part of the world and open myself up to new, unique experiences and ideas. I will learn to love perfect stangers for the simple fact that they exist. I will share a knowledge that has so molded and defined me with others who need it, and experience the joy that only sharing something so sacred brings. My family, who have blessed me in so many ways, will in turn be blessed for my service. Despite all the doubts and fears thrown my way, I know that this is something I need. Everything I'm leaving behind, all the sacrifices I'll be required to make, will be for my good.
So I begin this summer with gratitude, and excitement, and that strange feeling you get when you know you're doing something for the last time, when you feel the significance of every thing and every person around you. You cherish everything so much more, and there seems to be so little time. The summer will pass so quickly, but I know it will be a good one.
Friday, April 17, 2009
The End is Near...
I'm not dead. I'm just a college student.
And the semester is almost over. I took my first final today, have another at 7 am tomorrow morning (gritting teeth), and two more Tuesday.
I think the weather is schizophrenic. We'll be granted a couple glorious days of sunshine and warm temperatures, then—WHOOMP. Five inches of snow. As I leaned against the wind that sent stinging snowflakes into my face the other day, bundled up in a sweater, coat, scarf, beanie and boots, I thought it strange that under my sweater was a sunburn I procured while laying out in the sun for an hour on Sunday, in shorts and a t-shirt. The weather is schizophrenic, bipolar, or a murderous psychopath, or all of the above. The white Y on the mountain looks like it's playing peek-a-boo. Now you see me...*snow*...now you don't!
Time to memorize some German verbs and their nominative, accusative, dative, and genitive conjugations, as well as every grammar concept we've been taught all semester.
Beten Sie für mich!
(Pray for me!)
And the semester is almost over. I took my first final today, have another at 7 am tomorrow morning (gritting teeth), and two more Tuesday.
I think the weather is schizophrenic. We'll be granted a couple glorious days of sunshine and warm temperatures, then—WHOOMP. Five inches of snow. As I leaned against the wind that sent stinging snowflakes into my face the other day, bundled up in a sweater, coat, scarf, beanie and boots, I thought it strange that under my sweater was a sunburn I procured while laying out in the sun for an hour on Sunday, in shorts and a t-shirt. The weather is schizophrenic, bipolar, or a murderous psychopath, or all of the above. The white Y on the mountain looks like it's playing peek-a-boo. Now you see me...*snow*...now you don't!
Time to memorize some German verbs and their nominative, accusative, dative, and genitive conjugations, as well as every grammar concept we've been taught all semester.
Beten Sie für mich!
(Pray for me!)
Saturday, February 7, 2009
Vehicular Woes
Of all the areas in which my scatter-brainedness could choose to manifest itself, the area relating to cars and all things mechanical has to be one of the most trying and inconvenient—and, in hindsight, the most entertaining.
Take, for example, this clip, which I recorded a little less than a year ago, when I first embarked on this scholarly adventure—and also when I first encountered snow.
Needless to say, I now own a state-of-the-art dual ice scraper and brush, which occupies a permanent spot on the floor of the passenger side of my car. I don't worry too much about the passenger whose feet might occupy that spot. First of all, I am rarely solicited for rides, as my Chevy Metro is not large enough to carry a lot of people.
The other reason that I don't often give rides is the result of yet another of my frequently embarrassing shenanigans. In April of last year, as I was preparing to head home to Texas for the summer, I had found a storage facility where I could leave my car until I returned in the fall. At my mother's recommendation, I planned one morning to drive to the facility and "check it out". Of course I gave myself too little time to travel to, find, and inspect the warehouse before returning to my apartment to finish packing, complete last-minute cleaning checks, and take my last final before a shuttle came to deliver me to the airport.
It seems that poor planning almost always yields unexpected and unprepared-for circumstances—out of spite—a concept I became extremely familiar with that morning. Though I followed the online directions I had printed out explicitly, I couldn't find the warehouse. After at least half an hour spent on a wild goose chase, determined to locate it, I could no longer ignore the clock on my dashboard. Heaving a sigh, I began to head back to Provo. But soon after that, I noticed that my tank was dangerously close to empty, so I stopped to fill up before I got back on the highway.
After refilling, and uncomfortably aware of the time, I quickly grabbed the receipt and yanked on my door handle.
It didn't open.
I yanked again.
No response.
For a minute I simply stared in disbelief at my car, and at the keys which seemed to glint mockingly at me from their resting place on the passenger seat.
Fortunately, the cashier in the station said that police officers who happen to be in the area are generally happy to help motorists such as myself for free, and quickly contacted one. He arrived within three minutes, and, with the pleasantries and gentle chastisement typical of law enforcers, tried his hand with the slim jim on the driver's door. After several minutes of bending, poking and jiggling, he had failed to unlock the door, so he tried his luck with the passenger side. Several more nail-biting minutes passed, and still the door refused to open. I was tempted to kick my car for its stubbornness, but know from experience that such a loss of temper will result only in a swollen toe.
The officer was determined, and this time pulled out a tool resembling the instrument doctors use to measure blood pressure. Using a wedge to pry the passenger side door open slightly, he slipped a large, flat, fabric square into the door and began pumping it full of air, thus forcing the door open wider and wider. Then he simply grabbed the slim jim and used it to snare the lanyard which, I was now more grateful than ever, was attached to my keys, pulling them out through the gap.
I thanked him profusely, nearly grovelling, for rescueing me from a situation that I had begun to fear would force me to miss my final. He of course admonished me to be more careful in the future in order to avoid being in this situation again, and I made all sorts of heartfelt promises.
Shortly thereafter, I discovered that, in his efforts to open the passenger side door of my car, the kind officer had jammed it. The interior lock was frozen halfway between locked and unlocked, and no amount of jiggling, prying, twisting or pleading would get it unstuck.
By this point I was so frazzled that I almost didn't care, knowing that I had many other things to worry about before I went home, and that the car would be sitting in a warehouse all summer anyway. And to this day, if ever I give someone I ride, I must use the key to open their door from the outside and let them out.
As I said, though it makes it quite awkward in the rare case that I do give someone a ride, I have since been able to make light of my mishap. It makes for an interesting conversation, anyway.
But someone must not think my life is interesting enough.
I did it again a couple weeks ago. I stopped after buying groceries to fill up on gas, had even thought against it because I wasn't sure I had the time, but I did it anyway—and once again, I turned after replacing the nozzle in its holster to find that the wind had blown my car door shut. It was locked, and my keys winked at me from the passenger seat. Again, vainly I pulled the handle again and again and again. Then, swallowing the urge to kick my car the second time, I dragged my feet inside the little station's store and told the lady at the cashier's desk of my predicament.
"There's a mechanic right next door who might help you out," she said. "His name's Paul."
So I rushed next door to find Paul. Find him I did, but he seemed hesitant after he learned my car's model. "Those cars' doors have lots of little fragile parts inside that break easily, which can jam the door," he said.
"I know, the passenger side is already jammed from the last time I did this," I blurted without thinking. He just stared at me for a moment while my face crimsoned and I inwardly cursed my big mouth.
After we had exhausted any other options (my cell phone was also locked inside the car, I had no spare key with me, and I hadn't memorize the number of any roommate who could bring one to me), he consented to help me out and followed me to my car.
Just as with the police officer, minute after minute passed while the door refused to unlock, no matter how many different sizes, shapes, and lengths of tools the mechanic used. I was beginning to worry that the door would never open, but, finally, it did. Again I showered my hero with thanks and asked if I could compensate him, but he refused to be paid. Thinking of the groceries warming in the back of my car, I thanked him again, started my engine, and sped for home, loudly scolding myself the whole way back.
I pulled into a prime parking spot right next to my building, turned off the engine, snatched my purse from the passenger seat and pulled my door handle.
Broken.
For one panicked moment I wondered if I was locked inside my own car, then had the idea to roll down the window and open the door using the outside handle. So now I have to jump through all sorts of hoops not only to get out of my own car, but to let any passengers out. When I've accumulated enough funds I'll go back to Paul and have him fix my doors as repayment.
In the mean time, perhaps I should invest in a snow shovel, too?
Take, for example, this clip, which I recorded a little less than a year ago, when I first embarked on this scholarly adventure—and also when I first encountered snow.
Needless to say, I now own a state-of-the-art dual ice scraper and brush, which occupies a permanent spot on the floor of the passenger side of my car. I don't worry too much about the passenger whose feet might occupy that spot. First of all, I am rarely solicited for rides, as my Chevy Metro is not large enough to carry a lot of people.
The other reason that I don't often give rides is the result of yet another of my frequently embarrassing shenanigans. In April of last year, as I was preparing to head home to Texas for the summer, I had found a storage facility where I could leave my car until I returned in the fall. At my mother's recommendation, I planned one morning to drive to the facility and "check it out". Of course I gave myself too little time to travel to, find, and inspect the warehouse before returning to my apartment to finish packing, complete last-minute cleaning checks, and take my last final before a shuttle came to deliver me to the airport.
It seems that poor planning almost always yields unexpected and unprepared-for circumstances—out of spite—a concept I became extremely familiar with that morning. Though I followed the online directions I had printed out explicitly, I couldn't find the warehouse. After at least half an hour spent on a wild goose chase, determined to locate it, I could no longer ignore the clock on my dashboard. Heaving a sigh, I began to head back to Provo. But soon after that, I noticed that my tank was dangerously close to empty, so I stopped to fill up before I got back on the highway.
After refilling, and uncomfortably aware of the time, I quickly grabbed the receipt and yanked on my door handle.
It didn't open.
I yanked again.
No response.
For a minute I simply stared in disbelief at my car, and at the keys which seemed to glint mockingly at me from their resting place on the passenger seat.
Fortunately, the cashier in the station said that police officers who happen to be in the area are generally happy to help motorists such as myself for free, and quickly contacted one. He arrived within three minutes, and, with the pleasantries and gentle chastisement typical of law enforcers, tried his hand with the slim jim on the driver's door. After several minutes of bending, poking and jiggling, he had failed to unlock the door, so he tried his luck with the passenger side. Several more nail-biting minutes passed, and still the door refused to open. I was tempted to kick my car for its stubbornness, but know from experience that such a loss of temper will result only in a swollen toe.
The officer was determined, and this time pulled out a tool resembling the instrument doctors use to measure blood pressure. Using a wedge to pry the passenger side door open slightly, he slipped a large, flat, fabric square into the door and began pumping it full of air, thus forcing the door open wider and wider. Then he simply grabbed the slim jim and used it to snare the lanyard which, I was now more grateful than ever, was attached to my keys, pulling them out through the gap.
I thanked him profusely, nearly grovelling, for rescueing me from a situation that I had begun to fear would force me to miss my final. He of course admonished me to be more careful in the future in order to avoid being in this situation again, and I made all sorts of heartfelt promises.
Shortly thereafter, I discovered that, in his efforts to open the passenger side door of my car, the kind officer had jammed it. The interior lock was frozen halfway between locked and unlocked, and no amount of jiggling, prying, twisting or pleading would get it unstuck.
By this point I was so frazzled that I almost didn't care, knowing that I had many other things to worry about before I went home, and that the car would be sitting in a warehouse all summer anyway. And to this day, if ever I give someone I ride, I must use the key to open their door from the outside and let them out.
As I said, though it makes it quite awkward in the rare case that I do give someone a ride, I have since been able to make light of my mishap. It makes for an interesting conversation, anyway.
But someone must not think my life is interesting enough.
I did it again a couple weeks ago. I stopped after buying groceries to fill up on gas, had even thought against it because I wasn't sure I had the time, but I did it anyway—and once again, I turned after replacing the nozzle in its holster to find that the wind had blown my car door shut. It was locked, and my keys winked at me from the passenger seat. Again, vainly I pulled the handle again and again and again. Then, swallowing the urge to kick my car the second time, I dragged my feet inside the little station's store and told the lady at the cashier's desk of my predicament.
"There's a mechanic right next door who might help you out," she said. "His name's Paul."
So I rushed next door to find Paul. Find him I did, but he seemed hesitant after he learned my car's model. "Those cars' doors have lots of little fragile parts inside that break easily, which can jam the door," he said.
"I know, the passenger side is already jammed from the last time I did this," I blurted without thinking. He just stared at me for a moment while my face crimsoned and I inwardly cursed my big mouth.
After we had exhausted any other options (my cell phone was also locked inside the car, I had no spare key with me, and I hadn't memorize the number of any roommate who could bring one to me), he consented to help me out and followed me to my car.
Just as with the police officer, minute after minute passed while the door refused to unlock, no matter how many different sizes, shapes, and lengths of tools the mechanic used. I was beginning to worry that the door would never open, but, finally, it did. Again I showered my hero with thanks and asked if I could compensate him, but he refused to be paid. Thinking of the groceries warming in the back of my car, I thanked him again, started my engine, and sped for home, loudly scolding myself the whole way back.
I pulled into a prime parking spot right next to my building, turned off the engine, snatched my purse from the passenger seat and pulled my door handle.
Broken.
For one panicked moment I wondered if I was locked inside my own car, then had the idea to roll down the window and open the door using the outside handle. So now I have to jump through all sorts of hoops not only to get out of my own car, but to let any passengers out. When I've accumulated enough funds I'll go back to Paul and have him fix my doors as repayment.
In the mean time, perhaps I should invest in a snow shovel, too?
Thursday, February 5, 2009
Sunday, February 1, 2009
Dastardly Davy
One morning Dastardly Davy slipped furtively into the northern wing of the palace, his cuddly fellow conspirator in tow, to see what mischief he could make.
Little did he know that I had discovered his cunning plan.
Mwahaha.
He quickly discovered the treasure—Em's jewelry box—and sat in a corner to count and weigh his spoils (or eat them), unaware of the danger that approached.
I jumped out from behind the curtain with a triumphant cry. "Aha!" I crowed. "You shall not escape now, for I have caught you in the act, you diminutive fiend!"
I jumped out from behind the curtain with a triumphant cry. "Aha!" I crowed. "You shall not escape now, for I have caught you in the act, you diminutive fiend!"
With hardly a blink at my sudden appearance, the child merely grinned."Why, good Lady, I know not of what you speak! I am lost, and cannot find my way. Tell me, I pray, wherein I give offense?" he said, his golden hair glowing in the afternoon sun.
I faltered for a moment, astonished by his heavenly countenance. "Surely you are not lost, nor have you come here by chance. You have stolen the treasures—I see them in your hand!" I cried, pointing at his chubby fist.
The boy turned his head and looked at me with one chocolate-brown eye and an angelic smile.
"Kind Lady," said he, "You are wise and generous. Surely you cannot suppose that I, a poor child, could be guilty of such an abominable crime! As I wandered, I heard a terrible noise, and knew at once that it must be some terrible mischief! I ran as quickly as I could, but found only these priceless jewels cast carelessly upon the ground when I arrived. Perhaps my approach frightened away the evil robbers who intended to steal these treasures! I only wish that I had come in time to catch the villains in their crime and prevent their escape.""Oh, dear child!" I answered. "Would that you had not arrived before the brutes escaped, lest they had done you harm! Nay, for all is well. You have found the jewels, and they have not been stolen."
The boy smiled yet greater. "I knew that you were wise. Oh Lady, what shall we now do with these treasures? I am certain that, in your wisdom, you know that we cannot leave them here. What if the robbers should return for them again? I must go for help, so that we may carry away the treasures safely!"
"Oh yes!" said I. "Go quickly, good child, quickly!"
The child bowed low, the light casting golden rays across his face. "I shall not spare another moment, good Lady. Fear not for me! I shall find assistance, only be sure that you do not leave this place, save the robbers find you!"
And so Dastardly Davy, with the precious jewels still clasped in his plump hand, danced away like a cherub, leaving me besotted and blinking in the sunlight.
Monday, January 19, 2009
Surprise Guest
One morning as I was heading off to school, I noticed that our next-door neighbors had left a full garbage bag outside their door. Not that this is unusual (nobody likes to take the trash to the dumpster when it's below 20 degrees outside). What caught my attention on this particular occasion was the small trail of trash leading from a fist-sized hole in the bottom of the bag towards the stairs. I soon forgot about the incident, however, as I skipped my way down the stairs and speed-walked to the bus stop.
When I returned from work that night, the mysterious trash bag had been removed and the stray litter picked up. Again, I gave it little thought as I began tallying up all the homework that would be facing me once I walked through my front door.
Later that night, I sat on the kitchen counter as roommate Ali was leaving to hang out with her friend Greg. I honestly don't remember what she was saying over her shoulder as she opened the door, because at that moment I saw a small dark shape skitter away from our neighbors' front door.
"Kitty!" I squealed.
Ali turned and immediately began yelling incomprehensibly. Carly and Kylee screamed before they'd even seen the feline and ran to the door. All three of them ran to the edge of the landing, squawking like hens, pointing after the poor thing as it ran down the stairs.
I still sat bemused on the counter, thinking, Geez, it's just a cat.
Ali ran back inside. "IT WAS A RACCOON!" she shouted.
That explains it, I thought.
Then all four of us collapsed in a fit of giggles.
We are currently trying to decide on a name for our rabid friend. Any suggestions?
When I returned from work that night, the mysterious trash bag had been removed and the stray litter picked up. Again, I gave it little thought as I began tallying up all the homework that would be facing me once I walked through my front door.
Later that night, I sat on the kitchen counter as roommate Ali was leaving to hang out with her friend Greg. I honestly don't remember what she was saying over her shoulder as she opened the door, because at that moment I saw a small dark shape skitter away from our neighbors' front door.
"Kitty!" I squealed.
Ali turned and immediately began yelling incomprehensibly. Carly and Kylee screamed before they'd even seen the feline and ran to the door. All three of them ran to the edge of the landing, squawking like hens, pointing after the poor thing as it ran down the stairs.
I still sat bemused on the counter, thinking, Geez, it's just a cat.
Ali ran back inside. "IT WAS A RACCOON!" she shouted.
That explains it, I thought.
Then all four of us collapsed in a fit of giggles.
We are currently trying to decide on a name for our rabid friend. Any suggestions?
Saturday, January 17, 2009
A New Year
Forgive me, friends, for I have sinned against Blogdom. It has been almost two whole months...woops. And apparently some people would actually like to hear more about the strange experience that is my life.
Well. All I can say is that I fell off the bandwagon somewhere...probably right about the time I was up to my armpits in homework and finals...and now I must redeem myself.
So, the holidays have passed all too quickly and I find myself once again steeped in textbooks and papers and quizzes and all other assignments and duties which are, sometimes, the quagmire of school. It's not all bad, of course. My roommates and I seem to find a way to make things interesting, though it usually involves lying on the floor, kicking our legs in the air, and laughing until we snort. Not to mention squealing as we chase raccoons away from our front door, or as we discover unrecognizable food items hiding in the dark recesses of our fridge, or as we wax each others' armpits.
I got a job. Well, a new one. I was working from 9pm to 12:30am Monday through Friday in the campus library as a custodian. Inexplicably, I would find myself sleeping through my alarm in the morning or struggling to concentrate in class. Go figure. So, after a year and a half of scrubbing toilets, I set off into the world to find a new way—relatively speaking. BYU is rather a world of its own. And what do you know! There is a whole plethora of other custodial jobs out there, free for the taking! I now work with a cool guy named Brad in several of the buildings in the southwest corner of campus. It is definitely the easiest job I have ever had. If I'm not careful, I'll be left with no work ethic whatsoever. Our duties include:
-making sure the relatively few restrooms have toilet paper and paper towels
-picking up little pieces of paper left by students who don't seem to be able to read the directions on the paper towel dispensor and pull with two hands, thereby ripping off little pieces of towel and leaving them lovingly on the floor by the tens and hundreds for custodians like myself to pick up. These were affectionately called "chunkies" by us custodians at the library
-going back to Milt's office and chatting for half and hour while we eat cheetohs and Farley's fruit snacks (Milt is our supervisor)
-twiddling our thumbs while we think of what else we can do for the next two hours
-maybe wiping down some windows or cleaning drinking fountains
-vacuuming a couple hallways in the Joseph Smith building...maybe
-and I'm not sure what else...I've only had the job for a week. A couple nights ago we spent about 45 minutes torturing Milt with riddles
I work from 4-8pm, Monday through Friday, leaving plenty of time to study or chase raccoons with my roommates before going to bed.
I. Love. It.
And now for school. I'm taking six classes if you include the lab:
BIO 220A + lab (animal diversity—my lecture professor speaks like he's half asleep, and my lab teacher speaks like he's Chinese, which he is)
BIO 270 (animal restraint—we get to wrestle with pigs and cows and I know not what—SO excited)
PWS 270 (animal husbandry—I don't know what I was expecting, but we basically learn how to become ranchers)
German 201 (one semester of German left after this—ach, fröhlicher Tag!)
REL C327 (Pearl of Great Price—a book of scripture for those of you not familiar with it)
So that is Holly's Life 2009 so far. How quickly it will pass.
Jetzt muss ich meine Hausaufgaben machen, oder die Klasse Montags meinen Hintern kicken werden (now I must do my homework, or Monday's class will kick my butt).
Auf Wiedersehen!
Well. All I can say is that I fell off the bandwagon somewhere...probably right about the time I was up to my armpits in homework and finals...and now I must redeem myself.
So, the holidays have passed all too quickly and I find myself once again steeped in textbooks and papers and quizzes and all other assignments and duties which are, sometimes, the quagmire of school. It's not all bad, of course. My roommates and I seem to find a way to make things interesting, though it usually involves lying on the floor, kicking our legs in the air, and laughing until we snort. Not to mention squealing as we chase raccoons away from our front door, or as we discover unrecognizable food items hiding in the dark recesses of our fridge, or as we wax each others' armpits.
I got a job. Well, a new one. I was working from 9pm to 12:30am Monday through Friday in the campus library as a custodian. Inexplicably, I would find myself sleeping through my alarm in the morning or struggling to concentrate in class. Go figure. So, after a year and a half of scrubbing toilets, I set off into the world to find a new way—relatively speaking. BYU is rather a world of its own. And what do you know! There is a whole plethora of other custodial jobs out there, free for the taking! I now work with a cool guy named Brad in several of the buildings in the southwest corner of campus. It is definitely the easiest job I have ever had. If I'm not careful, I'll be left with no work ethic whatsoever. Our duties include:
-making sure the relatively few restrooms have toilet paper and paper towels
-picking up little pieces of paper left by students who don't seem to be able to read the directions on the paper towel dispensor and pull with two hands, thereby ripping off little pieces of towel and leaving them lovingly on the floor by the tens and hundreds for custodians like myself to pick up. These were affectionately called "chunkies" by us custodians at the library
-going back to Milt's office and chatting for half and hour while we eat cheetohs and Farley's fruit snacks (Milt is our supervisor)
-twiddling our thumbs while we think of what else we can do for the next two hours
-maybe wiping down some windows or cleaning drinking fountains
-vacuuming a couple hallways in the Joseph Smith building...maybe
-and I'm not sure what else...I've only had the job for a week. A couple nights ago we spent about 45 minutes torturing Milt with riddles
I work from 4-8pm, Monday through Friday, leaving plenty of time to study or chase raccoons with my roommates before going to bed.
I. Love. It.
And now for school. I'm taking six classes if you include the lab:
BIO 220A + lab (animal diversity—my lecture professor speaks like he's half asleep, and my lab teacher speaks like he's Chinese, which he is)
BIO 270 (animal restraint—we get to wrestle with pigs and cows and I know not what—SO excited)
PWS 270 (animal husbandry—I don't know what I was expecting, but we basically learn how to become ranchers)
German 201 (one semester of German left after this—ach, fröhlicher Tag!)
REL C327 (Pearl of Great Price—a book of scripture for those of you not familiar with it)
So that is Holly's Life 2009 so far. How quickly it will pass.
Jetzt muss ich meine Hausaufgaben machen, oder die Klasse Montags meinen Hintern kicken werden (now I must do my homework, or Monday's class will kick my butt).
Auf Wiedersehen!
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