Fiesta!
I sat my ass down and finally wrote my assignment for Creative Writing 2, so the least you could do is read it, you lazy bastards!
The Rats
My mother was a troubled woman but she was strong of will and heart, and she always made sure that my sister and I were safe and warm. We always celebrated the holidays to their fullest together even though the budget was extremely tight. We would also go on little expeditions in the woods and along the boardwalks, and take long drives to smaller Michigan towns and explore new areas. She’d surprise my sister and I with delightful things on spontaneous occasions or when we were feeling sad. Most of her surprises were embodied in a pet because my sister and I loved animals-in fact, almost every pet my sister and I ever had were surprises. My mother always tried her hardest to give us the best gifts, often just to see us smile.
When I was in elementary school, my mother and I were moving around a lot. My sister stayed with her father most of the time because he was the one who got the house in the divorce. I didn’t mind moving around so much as my mother thought I did; even at such a young age I appreciated the experience of getting to know new places and experience new things. Plus, I was a kid and because of this I was outside raising hell with my little monster friends. New places in which to raise hell were very appealing to young mischievous little minds - we had great adventures in every new place I lived. But, sad to say, this story is not about my forays of hell-making. It would be far too incriminating.
One particular place that we lived in for a while holds many memories despite the short duration of our stay there. Our home was made in an old-style apartment that had dark blue wooden siding and a flat roof. Our neighbor was this gentle old man who had grandkids visit, with whom we would play out devious little games. The apartment was on one of Traverse City’s many lakes. One day in early spring when my mom was working, our neighbor’s grandkids, my sister, and I went swimming in the frigid lake, which had been frozen solid only two weeks prior. We did it not because we really wanted to go swimming, but because we were bored and we knew we could get away with it. My sister got an ear infection a week later. Looking back, I realize now how many of my impish plans ended in my poor, adoring little sister somehow coming out worse for the wear.
In any case, as content as I was at the time we lived in the blue apartments, my mother still believed that I probably wasn’t content enough. That belief, combined with her spontaneity, led her to produce for my sister and I one of her grand surprises.
I remember racing my sister down our driveway one late spring day after the school bus dropped us off. That driveway was a steep, graveled decline that sunk off from the side of the main road-not the easiest thing to get out of in the winter before the plows came in the mornings. It wasn’t the safest thing for little girls to race down with their abused sneakers, either, and my sister and I kept tripping over our feet and large chunks of gravel. My overzealous need to best every competition overcame me I leapt from the ledge of the driveway and went sailing over the edge, almost connecting my face with my neighbor’s bright blue Dodge truck. I was stunned breathless for a moment, but when I realized that I had cheated death again, and that I had, in fact, positively kicked my sister’s ass in the race, I quickly regained my composure and sped toward the door of our apartment. I remember being so excited for winning that I forgot to open the door as I ran into it face first. Smack! I did that a lot when I was a kid. Actually, I still do it today.
I burst through the door after making sure my sister didn’t see my little slip in perception, and a very happy mom, who had enjoyed one of her very few days off from work, greeted me. My sister plowed into me from behind and we toppled onto the floor at my mom’s feet, wrestling and screeching like fighting squirrels. Of course she started scolding us as any mother would (“I have two little girls not six rowdy boys!) and straightened us out.
“Now, calm down and look,” she said as she pointed to a mysterious blanket-covered box against the wall between the bathroom and the dining room. It hadn’t been there this morning when we left for school. It was long and rectangular, quite resembling a fish tank. But mom would have never gotten us something as boring as fish. Excitement welled up inside of me - mom always got the best surprises!
“What is it?” we chirped to her as we scrambled over to uncover the box.
“Slowly,” mom warned as she bent over the box and helped us remove the blanket. “Now step back.” She flicked on the light as my sister and I crouched down, peering in through the glass walls of the tank. Our eyes beheld two furry little beings with soft pink ears and gracefully curling whiskers, curled up in little balls in the cage bedding. With the invasion of light they each lifted their curious heads and blinked at us.
My sister squealed. “These are rats!” But she showed no sign of revulsion. I wasn’t afraid, either. I remembered immediately wanting to reach inside the glass cage and pick one of them up to cuddle, but I refrained.
“They’re kangaroo rats,” Mom corrected her. “Pick which one is yours,” my mom told us. My little hands gripped at the side of the cage and I stared down at the two little animals and beheld my mom’s latest gift. In reflection, a normal nine-year-old girl might be disgusted by such a pet (indeed, I took the rats in to school for show and tell one day and the girls all squealed and squirmed like sissies) but I loved odd things even at such an early age. Much to my mother’s revulsion I and my friends would run barefoot through the mucky marsh that bordered the yard of another place we lived, catching bull frogs and throwing them at one another. We invented grotesque games out of it like Bull Frog Tag and Frog Baseball. And so, a couple of little rats were nothing to be squeamish over in my eyes.
Even if I were generally squeamish over rats I’m convinced I would still have fallen as deeply in love as I did at the moment when Abbey chose me. In my secret mind she was the prettier of the two; her dark crimson-brown fur was always so soft and sleek, her brown- and white-spotted tail was always so perfectly balanced as she hopped along, her whiskers were so delicately curled, and her eyes were always so bright and intelligent.
I was peering down at her in the cage as she uncurled from her warm little ball. She hopped over to the side of the cage and got up on her hind legs, as if she were reaching for me. I put my hand down and without hesitation she crawled into my palm and I lifted her to my face. Her soft little whiskers kissed my cheek. I was sold.
From that day on, my dainty kangaroo rat and I were inseparable. We let them run around the house freely during the day; our rats were so well behaved that we never had to deal with unwanted messes (except for the time my mom found the cheese hoard my sister’s rat Diamond had made in the lining of the couch).
Abbey would sit with me on the couch as we watched TV late at night. She would run up to my feet when I sat at the table to eat or do homework and, rising up on her hind legs, she would beg for me to pick her up and give her attention-or food. She would perch at my shoulder when I did the dishes and sometimes she would curl up in the nook of my neck when I took naps.
I still remember the way my mom looked when my sister and I first became acquainted with our rats. Her tired and weary eyes were very bright and happy. She sat back quietly with a grin on her face, only interrupting our play to tell us to be careful or not to be too loud. We named our rats together, a type of tradition we hold when we accept new pets as members of the family.
Years later my mother would tell me that she always felt as if she hadn’t done enough during that time to make us happy. She’d regretfully bring up old scars and hardships we endured together; things that weighed on her conscience. But when I think back on that time when we were always struggling, I remember no pain or resentment. What I do remember, though, was the look of love on my mom’s face when I first held the kangaroo rat to my pink cheeks and grinned at her.
The Rats
My mother was a troubled woman but she was strong of will and heart, and she always made sure that my sister and I were safe and warm. We always celebrated the holidays to their fullest together even though the budget was extremely tight. We would also go on little expeditions in the woods and along the boardwalks, and take long drives to smaller Michigan towns and explore new areas. She’d surprise my sister and I with delightful things on spontaneous occasions or when we were feeling sad. Most of her surprises were embodied in a pet because my sister and I loved animals-in fact, almost every pet my sister and I ever had were surprises. My mother always tried her hardest to give us the best gifts, often just to see us smile.
When I was in elementary school, my mother and I were moving around a lot. My sister stayed with her father most of the time because he was the one who got the house in the divorce. I didn’t mind moving around so much as my mother thought I did; even at such a young age I appreciated the experience of getting to know new places and experience new things. Plus, I was a kid and because of this I was outside raising hell with my little monster friends. New places in which to raise hell were very appealing to young mischievous little minds - we had great adventures in every new place I lived. But, sad to say, this story is not about my forays of hell-making. It would be far too incriminating.
One particular place that we lived in for a while holds many memories despite the short duration of our stay there. Our home was made in an old-style apartment that had dark blue wooden siding and a flat roof. Our neighbor was this gentle old man who had grandkids visit, with whom we would play out devious little games. The apartment was on one of Traverse City’s many lakes. One day in early spring when my mom was working, our neighbor’s grandkids, my sister, and I went swimming in the frigid lake, which had been frozen solid only two weeks prior. We did it not because we really wanted to go swimming, but because we were bored and we knew we could get away with it. My sister got an ear infection a week later. Looking back, I realize now how many of my impish plans ended in my poor, adoring little sister somehow coming out worse for the wear.
In any case, as content as I was at the time we lived in the blue apartments, my mother still believed that I probably wasn’t content enough. That belief, combined with her spontaneity, led her to produce for my sister and I one of her grand surprises.
I remember racing my sister down our driveway one late spring day after the school bus dropped us off. That driveway was a steep, graveled decline that sunk off from the side of the main road-not the easiest thing to get out of in the winter before the plows came in the mornings. It wasn’t the safest thing for little girls to race down with their abused sneakers, either, and my sister and I kept tripping over our feet and large chunks of gravel. My overzealous need to best every competition overcame me I leapt from the ledge of the driveway and went sailing over the edge, almost connecting my face with my neighbor’s bright blue Dodge truck. I was stunned breathless for a moment, but when I realized that I had cheated death again, and that I had, in fact, positively kicked my sister’s ass in the race, I quickly regained my composure and sped toward the door of our apartment. I remember being so excited for winning that I forgot to open the door as I ran into it face first. Smack! I did that a lot when I was a kid. Actually, I still do it today.
I burst through the door after making sure my sister didn’t see my little slip in perception, and a very happy mom, who had enjoyed one of her very few days off from work, greeted me. My sister plowed into me from behind and we toppled onto the floor at my mom’s feet, wrestling and screeching like fighting squirrels. Of course she started scolding us as any mother would (“I have two little girls not six rowdy boys!) and straightened us out.
“Now, calm down and look,” she said as she pointed to a mysterious blanket-covered box against the wall between the bathroom and the dining room. It hadn’t been there this morning when we left for school. It was long and rectangular, quite resembling a fish tank. But mom would have never gotten us something as boring as fish. Excitement welled up inside of me - mom always got the best surprises!
“What is it?” we chirped to her as we scrambled over to uncover the box.
“Slowly,” mom warned as she bent over the box and helped us remove the blanket. “Now step back.” She flicked on the light as my sister and I crouched down, peering in through the glass walls of the tank. Our eyes beheld two furry little beings with soft pink ears and gracefully curling whiskers, curled up in little balls in the cage bedding. With the invasion of light they each lifted their curious heads and blinked at us.
My sister squealed. “These are rats!” But she showed no sign of revulsion. I wasn’t afraid, either. I remembered immediately wanting to reach inside the glass cage and pick one of them up to cuddle, but I refrained.
“They’re kangaroo rats,” Mom corrected her. “Pick which one is yours,” my mom told us. My little hands gripped at the side of the cage and I stared down at the two little animals and beheld my mom’s latest gift. In reflection, a normal nine-year-old girl might be disgusted by such a pet (indeed, I took the rats in to school for show and tell one day and the girls all squealed and squirmed like sissies) but I loved odd things even at such an early age. Much to my mother’s revulsion I and my friends would run barefoot through the mucky marsh that bordered the yard of another place we lived, catching bull frogs and throwing them at one another. We invented grotesque games out of it like Bull Frog Tag and Frog Baseball. And so, a couple of little rats were nothing to be squeamish over in my eyes.
Even if I were generally squeamish over rats I’m convinced I would still have fallen as deeply in love as I did at the moment when Abbey chose me. In my secret mind she was the prettier of the two; her dark crimson-brown fur was always so soft and sleek, her brown- and white-spotted tail was always so perfectly balanced as she hopped along, her whiskers were so delicately curled, and her eyes were always so bright and intelligent.
I was peering down at her in the cage as she uncurled from her warm little ball. She hopped over to the side of the cage and got up on her hind legs, as if she were reaching for me. I put my hand down and without hesitation she crawled into my palm and I lifted her to my face. Her soft little whiskers kissed my cheek. I was sold.
From that day on, my dainty kangaroo rat and I were inseparable. We let them run around the house freely during the day; our rats were so well behaved that we never had to deal with unwanted messes (except for the time my mom found the cheese hoard my sister’s rat Diamond had made in the lining of the couch).
Abbey would sit with me on the couch as we watched TV late at night. She would run up to my feet when I sat at the table to eat or do homework and, rising up on her hind legs, she would beg for me to pick her up and give her attention-or food. She would perch at my shoulder when I did the dishes and sometimes she would curl up in the nook of my neck when I took naps.
I still remember the way my mom looked when my sister and I first became acquainted with our rats. Her tired and weary eyes were very bright and happy. She sat back quietly with a grin on her face, only interrupting our play to tell us to be careful or not to be too loud. We named our rats together, a type of tradition we hold when we accept new pets as members of the family.
Years later my mother would tell me that she always felt as if she hadn’t done enough during that time to make us happy. She’d regretfully bring up old scars and hardships we endured together; things that weighed on her conscience. But when I think back on that time when we were always struggling, I remember no pain or resentment. What I do remember, though, was the look of love on my mom’s face when I first held the kangaroo rat to my pink cheeks and grinned at her.