NaNoWriMo

  November has come again, for most this means the promise of Thanksgiving Dinner, seeing relatives, having them question your relationship status,  and the promise of Christmas just around the corner.  For me it means National Novel Writing Month, NaNoWriMo.  Every November three hundred thousand writers join together and each writes fifty thousand words of their novel.   I am one of them.  I first began writing with NaNoWriMo last November, after letting the idea for my book develop for nearly two years, with the knowledge that there would be no more pushing off putting words to paper any longer.

Writing a book for NaNoWriMo is like riding a roller coaster, except its more downhill than up and the side effects are loss of sleep, bags under eyes, excessive coffee consumption, and constant exhaustion that lasts the entire month of November.

It starts with excitement, this is going to be your year!  The ideas will come to you and the words will flow and you will ultimately end up with a finished manuscript that is beautiful and perfect and ready to be sent out to the publishers, who will fawn and fight over it and throw money at you while groveling at your feet while they beg you to give them your creative genius.  I assume . . . that's how I pictured it at least.  And it feels as if everything will go this way for the first few days, because you've thought about how you want this written, and you know what you're doing.  And this it!

And then you get into your second week.  And the words don't come, and you just stare at a blank page in your word document.  The minutes stretch out in front of you, and you're bored, and you begin to browse the internet "for inspiration."  Suddenly it's two hours later and you haven't typed a word but you have seen everything new on Tumblr so that counts for something and you'll just make up the two thousand words you were supposed to write tonight tomorrow night.  Except you don't.

November fifteenth comes, and you are halfway through the month, and you only have eight thousand words when you should have twenty five.  Now you're panicky and there isn't any time so you're willing to write down anything, your standards have dropped on what you would normally write and the words are being spewed onto the paper in any order that they fit together.

Last year, when I finished my NaNoWriMo novel at two in the morning on November twenty eighth, I was entirely exhausted, running on coffee and candy, and not aware of what I was typing into my manuscript.  However, when I finished writing I felt like the most accomplished person ever.  So for all of the blood, sweat, tears, and caffeine, that go into writing a NaNoWriMo novel, in the end after the grueling process that will try to ruin your life and crush your soul, you will feel like a superstar.

http://nanowrimo.org/
http://nanowrimo.org/participants/ellieiswrite

The Most Wonderful Place on Earth

            My family was lucky to live in a city with one of the top children’s hospitals in it when my little sister was born premature and so ill.  Not everyone has this luxury; many find out that their child is in desperate need of medical care that can only be provided in a state – or country – that seems impossibly far away when a son or daughter is sick.  Looking at the guest registry board hanging in the foyer of the Ronald McDonald House it is easy to see the mix of culture housed under one roof.  There are families from every corner of the earth it seems, all here together because they would do anything for their children.  The Ronald McDonald House is a home where families from out of state (or country) can stay while their child is in the hospital, and unlike a hotel, they simply pay what they can.  The average stay at the House is seventeen days, but some families will reside there for more than a year.  I am a volunteer there, and I love the roles I take on once a week, because I get to contribute to what I believe is the most wonderful place on earth.                    

            The majority of the time I spend at the Ronald McDonald House is spent cleaning.  I work on a team with two other girls, and we move quickly between playrooms, family rooms, kitchens, eating spaces, and other communal areas, armed with cans of Lysol and large tubs of Clorox wipes.  With immune-suppressed children and their families living in the House, cleanliness is a top priority.  Our small team of three has become a trio working in perfect harmony when it comes to cleaning a room.  We are efficient, and we each have our roles.  In the playroom the youngest girl sprays a heavy coat of Lysol over the ever-grimy toys before moving onto the door knobs and TV remotes, I Clorox wipe the leather La Z Boy furniture while the older girl dusts every surface and cleans the fingerprints from the windows.  In the kitchen we resort to our trusted Clorox wipes, one person diligently scrubbing tables, while another does chairs, as the last vigorously cleans the counters.  While it sounds like a rather boring job, when you know that you are doing it for the good of others, it gives you a great feeling inside.

             One of the most enjoyable parts of my time as a volunteer is when I get to socialize with the families.  This is the rest of my evening, when it fits in around the schedule of things that need to get done (and with a few hundred people living in the house the list of things to be done is never short.)  It often starts simply by saying “hello” and offering a helping hand to every guest you see.  This can lead to a number of things, from running errands for them, to loading luggage carts, or most frequently, saying you have no idea, and relaying their request to a volunteer who knows more than you.  Other times the other girls and I will wander into the playroom adjoining the main kitchen, where many parents leave their children while they make dinner.  I have been a babysitter for almost six years and I automatically assume that role, monitoring where the kids are and making sure no one escapes down the hall away from the kitchen and dining room.  Entertaining kids just comes with the deal, and I can quickly get a group of children of all different ages, speaking multiple languages, seated in a circle building with blocks together. 

            I spend the least amount of time working behind the desk, and technically I’m not actually working, because that requires considerably more training than I have.  Still, as I wait for my shift to start in the office area, I am often given a task to complete, albeit never something quite like answering the phones or working the highly confusing camera system, but the supervisors always find some way to put me to work.  Usually this involves running books that were found strewn throughout the house back to the library, checking out DVDs for families, waiting by the doors and letting in the other volunteers so we don’t have to listen to the alarm system going off every two seconds, or relaying messages between the kitchen and the front desk. While it may not be my actual job, I enjoy getting to be behind the desk, with the administrative volunteers.  The way the families smile at them each time they pass, never fails to make me feel as if I am doing something important.

            When I first was accepted into the Ronald McDonald House teen volunteering program I was nervous, the House was huge and I have the sense of direction of a spoon, and I wasn't sure if I was cut out for volunteering somewhere so official.  Now I know how lucky I am to have been chosen, and how wrong I was when I had my doubts.  I look forward all week to my time at the Ronald McDonald House, and know that no matter how it’s divided it will be wonderful.

My Dearest M

           Like everything else in her life, my little sister M entered the world with drama.  Four Weeks premature and struggling to get air into her tiny lungs, the baby that was born was not like the little baby I had learned about in “I'm Going to be a Big Sibling!” class, because she was dying.  Going from being an only child to the older sister of a very ill baby was a shock, and I remember the hospitalization of M with surprising clarity for a four year-old.  When I look back I can see the way not only my life but also myself changed due to the effects of having a sick little sister.

Through necessity I became more independent.  With my dad working full-time and my mom spending twenty hours a day with her sick baby I quickly realized that I was not going to be able to rely on them as I always had in the past.  While there were relatives constantly at the house to look after me, they were not the same as having my parents.  My aunt and uncle had no clue as to where my favorite stuffed bear had gone, my grandma couldn’t locate my special blanket, and it was much easier to find the specific pair of pink shoes I was describing on my own.  My independence expanded even more so when M finally came home from the hospital at nearly two months-old, finally pneumonia free and breathing normally, but far from ‘okay.’  As M could not be left alone without a machine monitoring the oxygen saturation of her red blood cells it was difficult for my mom to help me with things that could not be done while holding a baby.  Because of this I learned at an early age how to shower, brush my hair, and get ready for bed.

            When M was born I became part of a team, something I had never been on before.  With a preemie in the hospital and a four year-old at home it is no figure of speech to say I became part of a team.  My Nana and Papa were the first two to join the team, and they helped our family out through the most difficult time.  After M had been in the hospital for a week it was decided that it was not good to have me living in our house, surrounded by the talk of “what if?”  That was when my Nana and Papa stepped in, taking me home with them to West Virginia, where I stayed until M was on the uphill side of her battle.  After M came home the team continued to grow.  It was quickly joined by a large group of doctors, all devoted to the health of my little sister.  And a few people devoted to me.  My preschool teacher and her two daughters picked me up every week and took me somewhere for the day, so my mom could get M to her various appointments.  Over the next two years of frequent visits to the doctor I learned a lot about being on a team, and what it means about sticking together when times get tough.

             As a babysitter I have watched a lot of children’s television, teaching on a variety of subjects, however the one thing that is frequently passed over altogether is death.  For children under the age of five death is simply an ominous word used by mommy and daddy, but it doesn’t hold much weight with a child who has no idea the gravity of it.  I was a perceptive four year-old, and when M was born so tiny and so sick, I became all too aware of the fragility of life.  I was never sat down and explicitly told that my sister was going to die, but I could tell that no one was sure if M would live through her first struggle.  Death was no longer some foreign concept; it was very real, and very close to my family.  My early understanding of the uncertainties has affected me greatly and extends to this day.  I believe that you never know what the day will hold, and you never know if you will be given another.  For this reason I am not the new driver who is always running at least twenty over the speed limit, nor do I attempt to take corners like that guy in that one action movie.  I (try) not to say or do things that I will wish I could take back at a later time, because you never know if you’ll get one.

            Many years have gone by since my baby sibling was born.  M is now a healthy preteen, who wants a boyfriend and passing grades (I dropped the ball on that one) and I could not be happier to have a wonderful little sister.  The effects of her illness stay with me to this day, but they only helped me grow as a person.  And now the skills I have learned will be put to use again.  Two days ago my mom arrived at my grandmother’s nursing home to find out that she is at the end of her life, having a few weeks left at the most.  This is not a surprise to anyone, as she has had dementia for years, and we have mourned the loss of her years ago, but it is still a difficult time for our family.  As my parents spend every moment when they are not at work sitting bedside with her it will fall to me to take over the responsibilities of the house, including getting M to and from her dance classes three days a week.  It is at this time that I am again so thankful for every way the hardship of M’s illness affected me.  

My Time at the Barn

When I first arrived at the first stable I would ever ride at as a shy and scared fifth-grade girl I was entirely overwhelmed by the ten thousand things that seemed to all be occurring at once.  There were owners riding their horses in the covered arena, older girls leading sweating lesson-ponies towards the main barn, cars pulling in and out of the gravel lot, and stable hands with wheelbarrows and pitchforks running in every direction.  The trainer was much more intimidating: perhaps it was the fact that she was wearing cut-off shorts that left little to the imagination, a sports bra, and no shoes, or maybe it was the way she appraised me like a horse on the block at an auction, but I was very intimidated. 

I followed my trainer back to the stable, watching the other riders around me, attempting to get a feel for the barn etiquette.  I watched closely as she tacked up Remi, the brown horse I would be riding.  I was allowed to walk by his head into the arena, and was carefully given a boost into the worn leather saddle.  The first day was little more than learning to find my balance in the saddle, and Remi and I made countless loops around the outside of the ring, meandering slowly while my friend who had been riding for six years jumped over cross-rails set up in the sand.  After dismounting I was given a step-by-step walk-through of how to untack my horse, groom him properly, and then put away his equipment in the tack room.  I left the stable that night sweaty, exhausted, and smelling distinctly of barn.

Over the next few months I progressed dramatically.   I was no longer too horribly intimidated by the trainer – although I still avoided eye contact and attempted to speak with her as little as possible, – I could tack Remi up and be in the arena ready to ride in under ten minutes, and I had quickly moved on from wandering aimlessly around the ring at a walk.  By the time I was three months in I had the posting and sitting trot down to a science, and my seat was beginning to resemble the other girls.  Instead of being stiff as a board in the saddle, with my back arched and my entire body tensed I sat deep in the saddle with all my weight in my heels and my toes, knees, hips, and shoulders in alignment.  I was taught how to preform routines, simple ones, but routines nonetheless.  I relished trotting around the arena in the careful movements of an equitation figure eight or a serpentine, leaving hoof prints that marked mine and Remi’s trail.  After leaping down from my perch on the chestnut horse’s back I would run my stirrups up and loosen my girth, feeling very much like the stable hands who lived the dream I wanted to when I got older.  Back in the barn I was responsible for more.  I would spray my horse down in the wash stall in the summer, or blanket him in the winter, before putting Rem back in his stall for the evening.

By the time I was entering the seventh grade I was riding a different horse, a dun Tennessee Walker mix named Blaze.  Due to my desire to jump and Rem’s continuing health problems it had become difficult for him to school students, and he had never been a jumper.  I had ridden for two years, and was one of the more advanced students of the stable by that point in my training as a horseback rider.  As a jumper my confidence soared, in all aspects of my life.  There was something about the freedom of flying through the air over a fence below you that made you feel powerful and strong.  I was no longer afraid of my trainer, and was willing to make bold requests as to what horse I wanted to try out.  There was progression in jumping too, I did not start off jumping over 2 feet high oxers (jumps with both height and width) in six jump courses, which required lead changes (when the horse switches what foot is in front while cantering), turn-backs, and exceptional timing.  I began with six-inch cross rails, half of which Blaze and I knocked down.  But as my skill and technique improved I got to move forward.  It became second-nature for me to slip into a two-point (only the rider’s feet are in contact with the saddle) the stride before a jump, raising my chin and looking between my horses ears towards the next jump in the line. 

The most exciting day of jumping for me was when I entered the arena to find a triple set up at eighteen inches, two feet, and two and a half feet tall.  A triple is a jump combination that the horse goes through in which when the horses back legs land from the first jump his front legs are already going over the second one, and when his back legs land from the second jump his front legs are halfway over the third.  When I found out it had been set up for me I was so thrilled I didn’t give myself time to be scared, instead I mounted up, cantered  my horse towards the jump, and went for it.  I know for a fact that I was not graceful going over that jump, on the other hand I was thrown forward in the saddle and made the last two jumps leaning precariously on my horse’s neck, but I still hold the satisfaction that I jumped a triple.

With the improvement in my skills as a rider came a change in my reputation around the barn as a whole.  I was no longer the kid who some older student had to watch while I tacked up to make sure I didn't get the bit chain too tight or accidentally walk behind the horse and get myself killed.  Instead I was the student who was doing that for the new kids, sure I was a glorified babysitter but it felt good to know that my trainer trusted me.  I had more privileges around the barn: I could make requests of which horse I wanted to ride, my trainer looked the other way when I talked owners into letting me watch them work with their horses, and I occasionally was allowed to stick around when the vet or farrier came so I could see them interact with the horses.  With more privileges also came more responsibility, I was expected to know what was going on with my horse at all times, and could no longer rely on my trainer to be watching for the little things when I was mounted up, I was often an extra set of hands when a pony acted up or a horse got loose, and it was expected that the older and more experienced riders would stay after their lesson until all of the tack was properly replaced, the horses were groomed to the trainer’s standard, and they had made it back to their stall for the evening.

Now I'm older, and I haven’t ridden in several years.  After a falling out with my trainer over the way she treated her horses I was unable to find another barn anywhere even vaguely close to me, that’s what happens when you live in suburbia.  I still have my passion for horses, and I think that they made a large impact on my life, and changed it or the better.