Snapshot

My childhood had been filled with cartoons. I remember as a kid, waking up early on Saturday mornings just to watch my favorite shows. I also had always hurried home after school ended in elementary school so I wouldn't miss the shows that started at 3pm. I would go to the KidsWB, Cartoon Network, and other channels for kids websites to play the online games. I also had to buy the toys from the shows that I loved to watch.

As the picture above shows, I love doing any type of art. I have made different types of crafts, used pastels, paints, crayons and colored pencils, graphite pencils and many other art utensils to make a variety of projects. In middle school alone, I had 6 art classes in total and by the end of high school, I'll have 3. I describe myself as a creative person and I can't go through a day without even making a small doodle, whether its in my notebook or on a desk. Presently, I'm hoping to continue my art career in college.

I hope I will be able to travel in my future, and have my passport covered in stamps like the picture above. I have lived in the same house all my life and I feel like I need something different. A lot of the colleges I'm currently looking into are out of state and I'm very interested in studying abroad. I'm also very jealous of my sister, who travels at least twice a year and has been to about 5 different countries (which will most definitely increase in the future and she's planning to go to Spain and Tanzania in November). All the new countries that I'm hoping go to will be filled with new experiences and fun.

The Reading Promise

Alice Ozma
from The Reading Promise: My Father and the Books We Shared, 2011

    It started on a train. I'm sure of it. The 3,218-night reading marathon that my father and I call The Streak started on a train to Boston, when I was in third grade. We were reading L Frank Baum's The Tin Woodman of Oz ... a few hours into our trip. The woman across the aisle turned to us and asked why my father was reading to me on a train. We simply told her that this was what we always did - he had been reading to me every night for as long as I could remember ... Why not read? Why not always read?
    But her surprise made us think. If we were going to read on vacation anyway, how hard could it be to make reading every night an official goal? I suggested to my father that we aim for one hundred consecutive nights of reading, and he agreed to the challenge. This is how I remember it.
    If you ask my father, though, ... he'll paint an entirely different picture.
    "Lovie," he tells me, as I patiently endure his version of the story, "you're cracked in the head. Do you want to know what really happened or are you just going to write down whatever thing comes to mind?"
    ... "For some time, I'd been planning to suggest to you that we do a streak, because then at least you'd be a little older when we stopped reading together. I brought it up, and honest to Pete, I thought you were going to say we should read a hundred nights in a row!" He laughs as he recalls this. I don't laugh because I think I did suggest a hundred nights in a row. Initially.
    "No," he continues, "Right away you said, 'Let's do one thousand!' And I had to pretend to be enthusiastic, of course, but I wasn't too optimistic. One thousand nights is a long time."
    I have to stop him there. None of this sounds right to me. First I remind him that our goal had been one hundred nights. When we reached that goal, however, and celebrated with a pancake breakfast at the local greasy spoon, we decided to set a new goal. We skipped the discussions of lower options, from two hundred to five hundred, and ultimately decided to try for one thousand nights. I tell him this, but he shakes his head. When I try to explain that The Streak actually began on the train he cuts me off.
    ... "I remember that part clearly," he continues, "because I never miss an opportunity to brag about what a good father I am. We were on the train to Boston, going up to see the sights for a weekend, and the woman next to us said how sweet it was that I was reading to you. I told her right away that we were on a streak, forty nights in! I was pleased with myself, ... pleased as a peacock to have made it forty nights."
    We both laugh this time, but I am laughing partly because I know he is wrong. The train was the first night. Obviously.
    The thing is, no matter how many times we are asked, we can never get this story straight. We agree on a few of the details, but I was very young and he is getting older. Some memories blend together with others, and our individual versions of how The Streak started change so often, it is nearly impossible to come to any sort of agreement. We can't even remember when we started calling it The Streak, or whose idea it was to do so.
    ... "Problem with my remembrances, though," he admits, "is that they're always so goofed up."
    I sit for a minute, comparing my notes on both versions of the story, seeing what they have in common.  
    ... I'm not sure if this is a saying I'm expected to know or a literal plan, but it's apparent that the conversation is over. I didn't think we'd come to an agreement, anyway.
    But this is how I remember it.


I chose this excerpt from the memoir because the author clearly shows how two people recall events differently, especially as time passes. The author and her father can't come to an agreement of how their reading streak began, though they both remember the events (with their own personal touch), the order of those events are different. 

Neverland

    

Anne sat in her office, going through her tedious paperwork that had to be done for the day. Her life was repetitive; she woke up at 6 o'clock sharp every day, left for work at 7, and got right to work at 7:30, where she stifled through mounds of papers and answered phone calls till 5 in the afternoon. By the time Anne got home, she was too exhausted to do a single thing, so she would get in her sweats and relaxed, maybe grabbing a nice book or watching TV. The life of an adult was boring and Anne needed something different, something new. Spontaneously, she decided to take the next day off purely to focus on herself.

The following morning, Anne's alarm went off at her usual time, but she didn't get out of her comfy bed right away. She lied there, hugging her pillows and stared at the ceiling, debating what she should do today, but her mind wondered elsewhere. Anne remembered when she was a child, how before bed, her mother would tell her stories of Peter Pan, the boy who never grew up. Then more childhood memories flooded in, ones she never had time to reminiscence and almost forgot she even had. A particular memory popped in her head, a place her parent’s had taken her to as a child. They drove about an hour away from the city to an area of absolute serenity. There were lush fields of grass and trees as far as the eyes could see and sparkling blue skies. But in a patch of open field, there was one lone tree. It looked different from the rest: the trunk was split in two and wrapped around each other, and there was a single vine that dropped to its side. As a little girl, she curiously wondered towards it and grabbed the vine. She started swinging around the tree, pretending she was Peter Pan flying through the air.

Anne softly giggled to herself by her sudden remembrance, but then felt a sudden urge to go back to the mystical field. She found herself dressed and in her car in a matter of minutes. She then headed to her destination, to the lush fields of her past. After about an hour, Anne made it to countryside but was a little sadden by the overcast, as she had hoped to see the beautiful sky again. But then she spotted it, the tree of her childhood. It seemed exactly the same from what Anne remembered, the same twisted trunk and the same single vine flowing down its side. Anne walked to the tree and placed her hand on the wood, feeling a childish flutter in her stomach, an unfamiliar sensation to her older self. Her hand automatically reached for the vine and she pulled on it, making sure it would hold her weight. Leaning towards the tree for balance, Anne jumped as high as she could and started flying.