Farm Flash Flood

When I was just three years old, my dad bought a farm 2 hours south of where we lived. It was set on 8 acres, with 100-year-old buildings, and a barn with a roof that sagged in.

Immediately, my brother, sister, and I became real 'country kids'. We painted buildings and splattered our overalls with paint. We drove lawn tractors around wearing baseball hats. We sang to country music, gardened for hours on end, and caught fireflies in glass jars. The only thing we didn't have was farm animals.

My sister and I would explore the forest surrounding our farm for hours on end, each carrying buckets that we would use to collect mushrooms (morels were the best), rocks (we called them 'gems'), and old pieces of junk (we found old purses, shoes, and car pieces sitting in the woods).

At the age of nine our dad started giving us driving lessons in an old jeep (or 'Trooper' as we called it). I also became a dirtbike girl. I spent all hours on my dirtbike- which I called a motorcycle- and would enjoy racing through the fields parallel to the highway, trying to race groups of Harley Davidson riders. My uncle Al called me Hell's Angel.

Then, one year we had a brilliant idea. We wanted to bring a friend to the farm!

We called up my friend, a girly-girl named Katie, and invited her to come, along with her mother and sister. We gave them a wonderful tour of the rundown buildings, showed them our favorite trees, and pointed out over one of the giant hills and pronounced "over that hill is Hogwarts." (We honestly believed it too).

It being April, the whole farm was damp from melting snow. The air felt fresh and alive. I couldn't understand why Katie seemed so underwhelmed. Couldn't she see the beauty in everything? That moss-covered log, the dripping storm drain, the rusty mailbox, and the sagging roof?

I decided it was time to show Katie the forest. If anything, that would impress her.

My sister and I pulled out our huge map of the forest that we'd drawn and pointed out all the landmarks, before leading my mom, Katie's mom, and Katie's sister down into the forest ravine.

Throughout the middle of the forest a thin stream was flowing, which we happily leaped over. Mud squelched on the ground, and we crawled out over a log to point out the "Great Pine Tree of The Forest."

We were having the time of our lives pointing out the landmarks of our forest. My mom made small talk with her mom, and Katie's little sister let out a never ending stream of complaints about the mud (which nobody listened to). The birds were singing, the air was fresh, and we were out in the wilderness. I hoped a deer would show itself so that we could amaze Katie even more.

We turned around about halfway through the forest and began trekking back, our boots squelching delightfully in the mud. So lost in our reverie's were we, that we didn't notice the water from the stream starting to build.

By the time we had come back to our starting point, a roaring torrent of water rushed where the stream had once been. There was no way we could cross back over to the other side without getting dragged under and drowned. We were trapped, unable to get back to the farm!

My sister, Katie, and I stood in a row surveying the surroundings with an air of satisfaction at the adventure before us. A real flash flood... imagine that. Our mothers, meanwhile, were freaked out. They meant action.

They begin grabbing logs from trees that had been swept over by the surging current and placing them carefully over the water in a makeshift bridge. The water was steadily growing stronger, until it seemed the size and strength of a small river. My mom crossed over first, to make sure it was safe, and after some wild windmilling of her arms, landed safely on the other side of the current, sliding ungracefully in the mud.

My sister, then Katie, went next, creeping across the unsteady, slippery logs to the other side. When it was my turn I was paralyzed with fear, my eyes mesmerized by the surging current.

"Come on, Christine!" My sister yelled.

Sweat beaded on my forehead as I looked up uncertainly, than placed an unsteady foot on the slick log "bridge". I decided it'd be best to just get it over with, and run to the other side.

Slipping back and forth I did two wild leaps on the logs towards the other side. My foot caught the angle wrong and I felt myself slipping backwards, my arms windmilling. Just when I thought I was going to fall into the deadly water and get pulled under, a strong arm yanked me towards the other side where I skidded, the mud spraying in the air and landing all over my mom and her new jacket.

Breathing heavily, adrenaline rushing through me, my jeans soaked, I watched as Katie's sister and mom crossed last. The logs that served as a bridge were slowly getting loose as the current tried to pull them down stream. Both mother and daughter were taking very slow, cautious steps, hardly moving forward at all. I wondered why Katie's little sister couldn't just cross by herself, and had to be led by her mom.

At the last minute Katie's little sister began slipping wildly, her mom doing everything she could to hold her up. Then in a last moment of desperation, Katie's mom shoved her daughter towards my mom, who reached out to grab her, and at the same time got her legs soaked and her boot pulled down the river, never to be found again.

Everyone was safe and sound on the other side of the river. We were drenched, covered in mud, and panting with adrenaline as the current finally broke apart the makeshift bridge and dragged it down stream. Watching in a solemn silence, nobody spoke. Then, all in sync, we turned and starting dragging ourselves back to the farmhouse.

At the farm my sister, Katie, and I began babbling at 100 miles per hour about the adventure we had just survived. We could of died and drowned! It was so exciting.

Our moms, however, set together making hot cocoa in a sort of stunned angry silence. After we had all dried off and taken cold showers in the 100 year old farmhouse, Katie's mom tersely announced that she and her daughters were leaving. I didn't understand.

My sister and I said a regretful goodbye to Katie's family before loading up our own car to drive home ourselves. My mom had her lips pursed, which was never a good sign.

Looking back now, I don't understand it, but it seems that Katie's mom blamed the danger inflicted on her and her daughters on our family. Like somehow we had been responsible for the flash flood.

Needless to say, never again did Katie come down to our farm, or come over for that matter. Every time we called, her mom would politely tell us that her family was "busy doing other things" and that Katie would not be able to attend. As happens in the friendships where the parents disagree, we slowly drifted farther apart. Now I haven't spoken to Katie in 2 years, not because I'm mad, but simply because I don't know her anymore. I guess that's just the way things go.

Oh Brother...

"I want chickens." My brother pronounced one day, as I was mid-bite in a peanut butter sandwich.

I set down my sandwich.

"You mean you want chicken?" I asked quizzically, not quite understanding what he was saying.

"No chickens. The animals." He replied seriously.

I was perplexed. "To eat or keep as pets?"

"As creatures to help promote self-sustainable living." He replied, casually flipping through a his "Hobby Farms" magazine.

I didn't understand a word of what he was saying, nor was I sure that I wanted to. What could cause my brother to go from a science-obsessed, cooking, brainiac brother to be a.... farmer?

"Um... okay. Well, I guess you could ask Mom or Dad." I suggested doubtfully.

I thought that would be the end of my brother and his chicken obsession, but it was only the beginning. Not long after that first conversation I started finding random catalogues scattered around the house that sold chicken coops and feed. My brother soon became a chicken encyclopedia, never talking about anything but chickens. It was de-ja-vu all over again. Just a few months ago he had gone through a "Bee-keeping phase", even though his one greatest fear in life was being stung by bees (go figure). Now he was in his 'chicken keeping phase', even though I'd never seen him interested in them before.

"Do you like Rhode Island Reds or Plymouth Rocks better?" He asked.

To me, both of them sounded more like tourist destinations in the Northwest, so I answered "Plymouth Rock", which seemed to satisfy him.

"Bantams or regular sized?" He asked me later.

"Er... Bantams" I replied distractedly. I didn't know what Bantams were. All I knew was that my 10-year-old soccer league had been called "bantams."

My brother hounded my parents worst of all. Asking them to petition the city to allow chickens, to buy him a new, ergonomic chicken home called an 'eglu', and ranting off statistics. He created multiple Powerpoints about the benefits of keeping chickens and eating fresh eggs, and often compared their messes to that of our 2 parakeets.

I couldn't really figure out what the point of keeping chickens were. They weren't affectionate, they were messy, and they lay eggs. I figured that Colin probably only wanted them so that he could create omelets with fresh eggs.

The thought of eating eggs from backyard chickens disgusted me. So did the thought of cutting off the head and eating the meat. Did you know that a chicken once lived 18 months without its head? It's true. If my parents didn't crush this chicken idea, then I would myself.

It was about a month later, after my brother dropped another line at the dinner table saying "when we get chickens...", my parents put their fists down.

"We're NOT getting chickens." My dad said firmly, setting his forkful of lasagna down with a crash.

"B-but..." My brother stuttered, the wheels turning in his head for a statistical retort.

"We lived in the city. End of story. No. Nada." My dad cut him off.

We all held our breaths, waiting for a retort but none came. Could it be really over?

To make up for the brutal end of the chicken obsession my parents bought my brother other chicken things. They bought him a pillowcase with a chicken on it, a rooster alarm clock, and started making farm-fresh organic, scrambled eggs more often. Although none of it could really replace a real chicken, I think it helped pacify him... at least until the next obsession came.

Guppies, Guppies!... and more Ugly Guppies.

Guppies are fascinating creatures, don't you think? They come in glimmering colors, feathery tails, and variations of all kinds.

I loved the idea of having a tank full of millions of colorful fish, all glistening like jewels in the sunlight. So, in 7th grade I combined my tank of plain, boring science-experiment female fish, with the colorful, irredescent, multicolored male fish.

My favorite two guppies were Kiko and Zinc, both males. They were Fancy Guppies, with scales like ball-gown dresses. Kiko was a brilliant orange and yellow fish, with a tail so long and feathery it would make any guppy proud. Zinc was my "leopard fish." He was black with golden brown spots along his body.

My female guppies were all transparent, grayish, and ugly. I hoped that any guppy offspring would inherit their father's colors.

A few weeks later we had a brood of baby guppies. There were hundreds of them. Although, some of them gotten even by their parents (hey, it's guppy parenting love!), most of them survived. Like all "guppy fry" they were born clear and ugly. I prayed they would develop their colors.

Our tank was practically filled again when another brood of guppies came. This time with hundreds of more plain, ugly, big-eyed baby fish. I desperately tried to seperate the females and males, not wanting any more fish, but somehow, a few weeks later, there was another batch! What was wrong with these fish? They were multiplying madly!

I decided this was a real emergency. Only so many fish could fit in a tank before there was no more room to move. I had filled 3 tanks full of them and was at a loss as to what to do. All the baby guppies (now older), were ugly and plain. Not one of them had developed their beautiful father's colors! Was ugliness a dominant trait?

I decided I needed to get rid of them... fast. I didn't want guppies anymore. They made messes, ate too much food, swam in circles, and multiplied. What was the use in having them?

I began asking everyone at school if they like guppies. I sounded like somebody on the blackmarket selling illegal wares.

"Hey, do you want some guppies?"

"How many?"

"I don't know, a couple hundred?"

At that point, I would lose all my possible buyers.

Finally, I decided I was desperate. If I didn't find someone to take them, I was going to smuggle them into my neighbor's backyard fish pond... seriously.

I needed to evoke sympathy, and who better to evoke sympathy from, than a vegetarian marine-biologist wanna be? I sought out Lauren, a girl from my grade and told her my terrible, heartwrenching story.

"[Sigh], I don't think my guppies are going to be around for much longer."

"What?"

"Well... you see, I have too many guppies, and if I don't get rid of them, my mom is going to flush them down the toilet."

"What?! How can she do that?"

"I don't know...[dramatic sigh again] it's either that or I find them a home."

"[gasp], you need to find your guppies a home?" She pauses to consider this. "I'll ask my mom if I can take them, and get back to you tomorrow. Just don't let her flush them down the toilet!"

Score 1 to Christine. I went home gleefully and waited until Lauren called me up.

"All right, Christine. My mom says I can take them guppies. I'll be over in 10 minutes."

Not prepared for the suddenness of it all, I gleefully began preparing my hundreds of guppies for transportations and stood waiting for her to come. When she arrived, I shoved the tanks at her before she could reconsider.

"Bye, guppies!" I called, gloating at my own good fortune. "Bye Kiko, Bye Dart, Bye Bubbles, Bye Ugly, Bye Zinc!" I called.

Soon, my hundreds of ugly guppies and 2 fancy guppies were gone... for good. I jumped with glee to have them off my hands. No more fish experiments for me! Now they had gone to a good home- where they had a compassionate, vegetarian marine-biologist owner, and no risk of getting flushed.

A Dangerous Game of Hide & Seek

If there's one thing that bothers me, it's claustrophobic situations. Darkness, enclosed spaces, and lack of fresh oxygen are all factors that make me freak out. I hate being trapped.

One Thanksgiving I went to my Aunt's house with my millions of cousins and second cousins. My aunt was famous for her mashed potatoes and thanksgiving rolls, and all of the kids were running around excited for our Thanksgiving Lupper (Lunch/Dinner). My aunt was my dad's older sister... the first of eight children. She also had eight children of her own, and each of her children had an average of 3 kids.... As you can see it was a large brood.

We organized a game of "Sardines" on the giant 25-acre farm. It was a magnificent, impossible game similar to Hide & Seek. There were hundreds of wood shops, barns, antique vehicles, and hidden nooks to hide in. We were running around, kicking up golden leaves in our race to be the first to find the hidden cousin. I was the best finder. The first hidden cousin I found in a grain tower. The second I found in the old barn converted in to a basketball court. It was finally my turn to hide and I had the perfect spot. Nobody would ever find me.

I snuck off, darting between buildings in an evasive action. Finally I found the small rundown shed I had been looking for. It was hidden in the off-skirts of the farm and was crammed floor to ceiling with old woods boards and bird poop. I crept through and found what I was looking for... an old antique blue car. I remembered this spot because my aunt had hidden my Easter loot in here back in April. I opened the door and crept inside. The inside was dusty, but otherwise clean. The leather seats were comfy, with no spiders. I knew it would be a comfortable place to sit while I waited for them to find me. Most likely I would be so well hidden that they would just give up.

I climbed in and slowly pulled the door shut. Ah, relaxing. Suddenly, claustrophobia built up in me. I was in an old antique car with no way out. To satisfy my irrational claustrophobia I reached to pull open the door, but then realized.... the door handle had been removed!

Panic built inside me. Was this a normal thing that people did with antique cars? Remove the handles? I took deep, stifled breaths. The air was stale. I pushed on the window, which gave a little, and tried to suck in some fresh air from outside. Instead, I got a snoot full of dust.

I tried to calm myself, figuring that I would soon be found, but instead adrenaline was coursing through me, along with panic and fear. I had to get out. I was trapped. I was hot. I was going to die!

I began kicking furiously at the windows with every ounce of my strength. The windows didn't budge. How come in movies people can punch through a window so easily? In case you're wondering, those windows would of had to have been made of foil. I kicked for about 10 minutes straight, causing a huge racket. I climbed to the back seat looking for an exit. My breath was ragged, I was overheated and could hardly breathe. I punched at every surface- the roof, the back hatch, the windows. I was trapped like a mouse in a mouse trap. Except... nobody was there to get me out.

Finally I resorted to calling for help. "Help!!! Help!!!" I screamed hysterically, louder than I knew was possible. Surely, people had to be able to hear me from a mile away? Nobody came. What was worse, past the old wooden boards, the firmly shut wood-shed door, and the woods, my family was probably sitting and chatting nearby, not knowing of my plight.

"He-elp!!!!" I screamed hysterically, my voice breaking awkwardly. I began a rhythm. Screaming at the top of my lungs for someone under this forsaken earth to free me, while beating at the windows with every inch of my strength. I was confined. Maybe years later they would find my skeleton still sprawled across the hot, sticky leather seats of the antique car.

"Help!!! Help!!! Help!!!" I screamed, my voice high. I prayed, God just let me out.

Suddenly, I heard a noise. I froze, and couldn't believe my ears. "Help?!" I asked hopefully.

It was laughter. My sister and brother had entered the woodshed and were laughing at my plight from afar.

"Open the door!" I yelled. I wasn't sure if they had heard me. "Help! Open the door!!!" I screamed.

What if the door wouldn't open for them either? I thought. Would the fire department come and free me? Or would I die of heat exhaustion or a panic attack before then?

"Please! Open the door!" I yelled as my sister came forward peering in the windows and laughing hysterically.

"It's not funny! Let me out!" I screamed.

"What are you stuck?" She sneered, laughing.

My face was red, I was panting, panicked, and now.. humiliated and embarrassed.

"Please!!!" I said, kicking the stupid window to no avail. "The door is stuck!"

My brother must have felt sympathy, because he tugged the door open and I leaped out like a jack-in-the-box. My face red, my heart racing madly.

"There's no handles on the door!" I explained, breathlessly. Wanting to run out into the open sunshine immediately.

My sister was still laughing. A group of cousins had gathered by the door, hearing the ruckus.

"Found you!" One of them cried.

I had forgotten all about the stupid game of hide and seek. There was no way I was playing that hazardous game again. Who knew how long it would have taken for them to find me if I hadn't screamed and thumped and rocked the car. It had still taken them 30 minutes, with all the noise I was making to try and make them find me.


"I'm not playing anymore." I said, my face red and my adrenaline still coursing in me.

And with that I sprinted out of the woodshed as fast as I could and into the wide open air. Ah... freedom. Never again would I be in a confined space like that again.

At that moment Thanksgiving Lupper was called. I wasn't hungry after that adrenaline rush, but I still went and grabbed a plate of turkey, bread stuffing, and my aunt's famous rolls.

That Thanksgiving I insisted on eating outside on the front steps by myself. I don't think I could of managed being trapped in an enclosed space (or house) for a while.



See an article on a similar plight called "Car Trouble Leaves Cowboy Trapped" on this website link:
http://www.pntonline.com/articles/college-20844-coupe-prison.html

Warning: Never let siblings play with swords

"Aieeee!" A scream pierced the air as my sister landed behind my brother, fencing sword flailing wildly.

My brother parried, his fencing sword teetering back and forth as they screeched and howled, jumping over furniture to get at each other.

Meanwhile, I was hiding under the art table, peering out from behind one of the chair legs as they chased after one another, stabbing and parrying.

Although in their minds they were highly skilled masters of fencing, in reality, they were stabbing at each other like three-year-olds.

I had always known it was a bad idea for my dad to sign up my siblings for fencing lessons. I, not being a violent person, had not participated, but my two siblings leaped into it with vigor. They loved the aggressiveness of it, and the violence.

The fencing had slowly evolved into kicking and punching as well. Soon they were both screaming at each other with fury, trying to tear each other's hair out.

Leaping out of my hiding spot I leaped between them. "Stop! Now!!" I roared, as my brother kicked my sister and sent her flying to the ground.

They ignored me and continued to go at each other, my sister maniacally whacking at him and scratching my shoulder in the process. I decided to leap back out of the fight.

"M-om!" My sister cried, "Colin is kicking me!"

My mom came clambering down the stairs and folded her arms in front of her.

"What is going on?!" She cried angrily.

"Colin just started kicking me and I wasn't doing anything!" My sister lied. "I was just practicing fencing."

"No!" My brother yelled, "She was kicking me!"

I evacuated the area before I got involved.

As fencing lessons continued, their violence was not all spent in lessons, but instead was increased at home. Soon every argument, no matter how petty, was solved with a battle.

I didn't mind so much, because it gave me lots of ideas for battles in my stories, but the screaming was a bit overwhelming. It was on there sixth fencing lesson that my family decided fencing was over. My siblings didn't enjoy the lessons, and my parents didn't enjoy spending the money or tolerating their new found violence.

So, let this be a lesson to you. If you planned on getting your siblings into fencing to try and spend all their anger, it doesn't work. Soon they will be solving every disagreement with a fencing match. Maybe try getting them into something like... book club? Just don't equip your siblings with swords.

A cold, dark night lost in a crater

Not long after 7th grade started our family decided to go on a vacation to... Hawaii.

It was just what I needed. More than anything, I needed a trip to someplace relaxing and sunny. Little did I know that "Relaxing" was one of the last words that would be used to describe our vacation.

On Saturday in Maui (after spending 5 days already on Oahu) we woke up at a normal time between 7 and 7:30 am, pretty much adjusted to Pacific Time. It was December 20, and I was already homesick for Christmas in Minnesota... and snow.

In Upcountry Maui we stayed in a city called Ulupaluaku, in a house in the middle of the woods in "no where". My mom complained about hearing rats running around during the night, and finding spiders everywhere. At breakfast we had to have plain english muffins because there was no toaster or normal peanut butter in the stores. I felt really awkward, since this run-down house had been my own doing. I had been the "Travel Agent" of the trip, and had booked it myself.

Over breakfast we chatted about the sights we'd seen snorkeling the other day.

"I swear, I saw a green eel!" My sister cried.

"More like a piece of sea-weed." My brother snorted.

"No, I swear to whatever you believe in, it was an eel!" She argued.

"Shhhh!" I shushed them, looking out the window. A college-aged man was walking through the grove of mango trees and glancing at our house. He was creepy- he tended the fruit trees here.

After breakfast we headed out to see the sights, and then in the afternoon headed to Haleakala crater, a "must see" on Maui. My dad turned on the radio and we listened to random Hawaiian Christmas songs about Santa coming in his canoe. Gee, Hawaiians don't know the true spirit of Christmas.

We passed open, rocky country and turned right at the Haleakala sign. We started up along, winding road up to a dark brown crater. As we got higher the air seemed to get thinner. At one point we even drove through a cloud. We had no idea that we were about to come upon one of the biggest adventures in our lives.

We stopped once or twice for a break on the road before we came to the top of the crater, past the 10,000 foot high point. When we stepped out of the car we were shocked that, although we were wearing shorts and t-shirts, the temperature was under 30 degrees! Brr.

I was freezing, but at least I had remembered to wear closed shoes. Haleakala looked like a bunch of sandy craters about the clouds. We decided to hike down a short trail called Keonehe'ehe'e: Sliding Sands. It was 5.8 miles total (but we didn't know that).

There were only a few other people hiking, but most of them were coming back up the trail. A loud group of college age kids pulled up a green jeep, music blaring, and jumped out and started jogging. My brother, sister, and I decided we wanted to keep up with them. So, we began to jog too.

We jogged 2.4 miles down hill.The trail was occasionally rocky and steep and twisted back and forth. We stayed behind the college students the whole time. One of the college girls slipped and her foot was covered in blood, but she kept going as if nothing had happened. My long legs were an advantage, especially going downhill. It took no energy at all! A few times I stopped and suggested we waited for our parents, but my brother kept egging me on, saying, "Oh, I thought you were in Cross Country running. Or are you just fat and lazy?" (I'm not).

It made me so angry that I kept running. At 2.4 miles we finally reached the bottom crater. I was a bit tired, but the air was cool and kept me from overheating. At the crater I was scared to look down, fearing that the crater would just keep going to the bottom of the earth. My brother, though, climbed down to the bottom of it, and it was hardly far down at all.

After sitting next to the crater for 10-15 minutes waiting for our parents, I asked, "Are you sure Mom and Dad are coming?" We looked around nervously. We hadn't seen a sign of them, and if they were coming, they would of been here by now, right?

"I'm not sure Dad could make it down here with his bad leg." I said.

"Well," My sister said, "if we start going back up again, then at least we'll meet them on their way down, if they're coming."

We agreed this was the best plan, so I threw on my camera bag and we began trekking back up. Suddenly we noticed the sun was sinking lower in the sky- almost to the horizon point. Not only that, this place was famous for its stargazing because it gets SO dark. Oh 'swear word'! We were so stupid!

On the way back up we realized that it was WAY steeper than going down. We could hardly walk fast, not to mention jog. I felt burning anger. This was all my brother's fault. It was rocky and there was no way we could make it to the top (2.4 miles away) before the sun sank. I was so exhausted and tired I could of dropped dead from exhaustion and dehydration. I just kept going, numb and without feeling, breathing heavily. It was almost a straight-up trek. Never had I been so tired in my life. It was getting cold, too, but I was warm enough from trekking that it didn't bother me. Worries filled me. What if we fell over from dehydration? What if the park closed and we were stuck here overnight? What if we got lost? What were our parents thinking? Where were they?

I was filled with panic and wanted to either cry, scream, or drop dead. Finally, I decided that I was sick of winding back and forth on the trails. It was pointless and was a detour! So, even though it was illegal, I cut across a trail past the rare, endangered, 100-year-old Silver Sword plants.

"Christine, no! It's illegal!" My sister cried.

"I don't care. It's not like a ranger is watching." I snapped. Although I still looked around nervously, as I cut.

We walked in a haze of pain and fear. It was so dark we couldn't see the trail. All we could see was a small light in the distance that kept us moving on. We hoped it was in the right direction. I half hoped a search party with ATV's and horses would come rescue us. Except the terrain was probably too rough.

Each step hurt my legs, and I groaned when I saw the light in the distance flicker out. That meant the park had closed. I followed the sound of my siblings' footsteps. I was tired and hungry and wanted a flashlight. I began wishing that I could swap my siblings' for a superhero that would carry me to the top.

On the positive note, at least there was no chance of me dying. There were no dangerous beasts that would eat me, no heat that would give me a heat stroke, and not enough coldness to give me hypothermia. The only danger was my dehydration.

I wished I had some sort of extra energy super power to get me up. I was so exhausted I won't even bother explaining it. I was pale, my skin pasty, my breathing in rasps, and my throat hurt from dehydration. Every once in a while my stomach would let out a deep growl, and I would try and pretend I was back home asleep. We were still about 2 miles from the top of the crater when suddenlly, there was Mom!

It was the best things I'd ever seen. My brother started crying and I felt like I could start bawling.

"I'm not exhausted, I don't know why they are." My sister said, her breath rasping, as she spoke in a superior tone. I wanted to punch her, but I didn't want to take the energy to do it. I tried to explain what had happened by my mom simply said,

"Don't talk. We'll talk about it in the van."

I knew at least we were getting a good workout. My mom said a search party was planning to come get us if we didn't come up within an hour, and that the college-aged joggers had waited for us to come into view (about 10 minutes ago). I felt a rush of compassion for them.

I don't know how I walked the rest of the way to the top. We were too tired too talk, it was too dark to see, and my breath came in rasps. The palce was so dark that I could see millions of sparkling stars above us. When we eventually reached the top my dad called off the search party and didn't even yell at us. I guess he figured we had learned our own lesson.

We piled in the car and then just closed our eyes. A ranger escorted us out of the park down the windy trails, and unlocked the gait for us. As we typed in our rental home coordinates in the GPS we were led in circles for hours. I almost got sick. We got lost and when, past 11 pm we finally had dinner, the meal was $65 per person, so we didn't go there. We were all drowsy and fatigued. The winding roads and twistiness made me almost throw up. We finally went past a store and bought chocolate chip cookies for dinner. I felt so sick I was hardly hungry anymore. My dad looked so green he didn't eat at all, he just kept driving. My dad looked very ill, and I was worried about letting him drive in that state. When we finally took the hairpin turn back to the mango groves and to the rocky road that led to our house, we were all zombies. I don't even remember going inside the house. I just know I fell asleep before my head even hit the pillow. I didn't even bothering changing into pajamas.

Tomorrow, we would certainly sleep late.

My Book Published through KidPub is official!

My book, Raising Monarchs: For Kids is now in print!

You can buy this instructional guide at amazon.com or KidPub press.

http://www.amazon.com/Raising-Monarchs-Kids-Christine-Catlin/dp/1936184699/ref=sr_1_1?ie=UTF8&s=books&qid=1279056650&sr=8-1

http://bookstore.kidpub.com/product_book_info/inspirational/raising-monarchs-for-kids

Raising Monarch butterflies is one of the most rewarding and thrilling projects a child can do. From the time that the Monarch hatches from its egg to when it first emerges from its chrysalis, it’s full of miracles.

Monarch butterflies are not only the easiest butterfly to raise; they’re also the most suited to being raised indoors. This book will guide you step by step through the unforgettable process of raising your own butterfly!

Journalist In Training

As soon as I entered middle school I immediately joined the school newspaper. After all, I was a writer, so I would fit right in.

1 month after joining in 6th grade, I was promoted to Editor-In-Chief. My fellow reporters were dismayed. I was the youngest student ever to be appointed editor-in-chief, and I had already beat most 8th graders! The reason I had been appointed was probably because of my high level of dedication. In one school year I sent in over 100 articles. I explored every cranny in the middle school, and wrote a hit article, called "Top Ten Places You Didn't Know Were Here". I had creeped down in to the tunnels under the school, steamed myself in the boiler room, and shivered by the water tank and on the roof. Later in the year I became well known for my controversial opinion articles (such as the article I wrote: The Great Vegetarian Debate), and my reviews of restaurants, movies, books and music. I sent in more articles than most of the students would send in during a lifetime. When our first newspaper was published 90% of the work was by guess who? Me.

One of the things that had spurred me into journalism was the Rita Skeeter character in the Harry Potter books (yes, I know, she's not a good character), and the book The Landry News by Andrew Clements (a wonderful book- see it at http://search.barnesandnoble.com/Landry-News/Andrew-Clements/e/9780689828683/?itm=1&USRI=the+landry+news). In 4th grade I had written a DAILY 10 PAGE COLOR newspaper, called The Thompson News, and distributed it among my classmates. That newspaper lasted for 3 years, with regular huge anniversary bashes. I wasted thousands of pieces of paper and ink printing it. One part of my closet is still filled floor-to-ceiling with old issues of it. My whole class was recruited to take part in the newspaper I created. I had columnists, advice writers, staff writers, reviewers, photographers, and poll-takers. I, however, was the back-bone of the whole system. I spent each evening typing until my fingers were numb, and I printed in the morning before school (stapling all the issues on the bus). We had a regular hot dish of gossip from the school (always VERY popular), polls, opinions about teachers and more. Sometimes our newspaper had news that was so controversial, we had to go "undercover" briefly, until the teacher's stopped snooping around.

Until this day, I am still a journalist inside. Now, though, I am moving on to high school newspapers instead of middle school. I also send in to magazines and local newspapers. Am I Rita Skeeter material like J.K. Rowling's character? Probably not, but hey, we aren't all great gossip writers!

Here is my old, old website from my 4th grade Thompson News.

http://thompsonnews.shutterfly.com/

The pictures below are of our 3rd and final Thompson News anniversary party.

Experimental Triplet Chefs

At a young age, my brother, sister, and I would sit and watch my mom cook. Whenever she cooked, she looked as graceful as Snow White trimming the crust from the pie, and any aromas that wafted from the kitchen made our mouths water. In our minds, no profession could be more noble than a chef. So, we decided to get started at an early age.

One day, my mom was down in the basement exercising on the treadmill and we decided to surprise her with a feast. I was in charge of chocolate-covered animal crackers, my sister was in charge of soup, and my brother was in charge of cake. None of us ever considered that we had no idea how to cook.

We dutifully put on our aprons and began. I grabbed a handful of chocolate chips in one hand, a handful of animal crackers in the other, and proceeded to submerge them under the hot sink water, melting the chocolate (and the crackers) in my hands. The leftover gooey, melty cracker-and-chocolate mixture I plopped on a plate. Mission accomplished!

My sister had concocted a delightful soup. She'd filled a metal bowl with water and milk, dumped half a bottle of green food coloring in it, and then floated handfuls of cheerios at the top.

Lastly, my brother, the only 'real cook' actually had something solid. His brown mixture had flour, sugar, and butter in it, along with melted chocolate. He had proceeded to pour it into a cake pan and microwave it. We could not figure out why the cake wasn't turning out like our Mom's!

When my mom came upstairs from exercising she masked her surprise with an unsettling calm. The kitchen was covered in flour, green food coloring (some of the counter is still stained from it!), and chocolate. She even managed to try a sip of Kelly's "soup" (she tells us know that it tasted ghastly).

Today, we are all accomplished junior chefs. My brother can bake just about anything, and we love his breads and cakes. I cook mostly coffee cakes and pies. My sister, alas, sticks to only the Betty Crocker chocolate chip cookie recipe. However, we all know she can cook well. When our school FACS class assigned us to go home and cook dinner, my sister made a 5-course delicious French meal (in her usual over-achieving way) that had Monte Cristos, Lemon Sorbet, Chocolate Mousse, Vinaigrette on vegetables, French Onion Soup, and enough tidbits to last us for a week.

Still, whenever any of our friends ask us how we became such good cooks, we always tell them this story. Remember, you have to start young if you want to become a master chef! Next week I'm going to try making creme brulee.

My Sister's Favorite Chocolate Chip Cookie Recipe:

From Betty Crocker 1950

Temperature: 375 degrees

Time: 8 to 10 minutes

Amount: About 3 dozen 2" cookies

Mix Together Thorougly:

1/2 cup shortening

3/4 cup sugar

1 egg

1 tsp. vanilla

Stir In:

1 and 1/8 cup Gold Medal Flour

1/4 tsp soda

1/2 tsp salt

Mix In:

1 and 1/4 cup chocolate chips

Drop rounded teaspoonfuls about 2" apart on lightly greased baking sheet. Bake until delicately browned... cookies should still be soft. Cool slightly then remove from baking sheet.

The Trickster Triplet War

Playing pranks was in our blood.

Our aunt had been a notorious trickster as a kid, my dad had constantly pranked his eight brothers and sisters, and my mom was the scariest mother you could have when it came to April Fool's Day. So, it was only natural, when my relatives from my mom's side decided to come visit (from Kentucky) on April 1st, that a scheme began to form.

The day before the relatives arrived, my brother, sister, and I spent the whole day in our rooms, scheming and plotting. Nervousness and excitement seemed to boil from us, as we gathered every fake eyeball, tongue, food, whoopie cushion, food coloring, and every other prank you could imagine. Soon... the day arrived.

On April Fool's Day I always kept a low profile. My mom knew just about every prank there was, and there was no stopping her when she started. We'd had fake spiders in our soup, pennies glued down to the driveway (they still haven't come up), green goo at the bottom of our hot cocoa, and our cereal frozen in the milk. At breakfast, I always thoroughly examined my meal before taking a bite.

My brother, sister, and I were apprehensive that morning. Nobody had played any pranks on us yet. An hour after breakfast passed and the relatives arrived, and we had to leave to school. The Plan would soon be in action.

That day at school all the students were on guard. They knew the triplets might have something up their sleeve. We did, but not as many pranks as we usually had. We were saving all the 'good ones' for the relatives.

We went from class to class innocently going about our work until we got to Language Arts class... when the whole school was pierced with a terrified scream and a horrified gasp. It was our teacher, Mrs. Thompson (not her real name), and in her hand she held a sticky, slimy fake eyeball. Her eyes were wide as she put her hand over her heart. "Class, don't do this to me!" She said, shaking off the eyeball in the trash can.

Back at home, battle preparations were put into action. That evening we scared the living daylights out of our relatives. They had ice cubes with fake spiders in them in their drinks, they had whoopie cushions under their chair, they had yogurt containers that when opened, shot a spring-loaded piece of cloth into the air, they had eyeballs and fake worms in their beds, they had a fake tongue hanging out of the toaster, they even had a glowing pair of eyes on their bedroom window outside that stared in at them. As the last screams faded from the air we shook hands in triumph. Never before had we had such a successful April Fool's Day... and we hadn't even been pranked!

We headed upstairs and grabbed our toothbrushes and began brushing our teeth, before we froze... somebody had put hot pepper sauce on our toothbrushes. We all ran downstairs gasping for water, and we could hear our relatives laughing in the distance. Revenge is sweet.

The Rock Band Faze

For a while in my household, all you could hear was the trilling of my gold flute as I played it for hours on end, but as summer neared its close, preparing me for 7th grade, I decided that I wanted to start a band. A real, live band with concerts and everything.

So, I called up my friend and talked to my sister and together we got together to plan at what we were going to do.

"So, who has a good singing voice?" I asked, looking at a quick check-list I'd written out.

Nobody volunteered. I felt a sinking feeling in my stomach.

"Okay... well, we can always find someone else..." I faltered. "Alright, what instruments does everyone play?"

There was a brief pause before they began listing off their instruments. In total we could play violin, piano, flute, piccolo, and recorder. Not the makings of a rock band, that's for sure.

"Christine... I don't think this is going to work...." My sister started, but I cut her off with a glare. Immediately deciding another scheme.

"Maybe we could start a whole new type of band... one that plays a variety of cool music with violin, flute, and piano!" I suggested.

The idea held. We began scheming for a Christmas concert, fundraising concert, and planning different music we could play. Our lame band name was "Classic Knights".

For weeks my friend and sister came over every day to practice. We played "Silver Bells" until our fingers hurt, and the Pirates of the Caribbean song until I never wanted to hear it again. Unfortunately, my friend, a beginner violin player, was so slow at playing that everything sounded like it was in slow motion. I knew we could never become famous this way.

So the whole Classic Knights scheme fell apart. I stopped inviting my friend over, and we stopped playing our classic music. Soon, though, another scheme began in my mind. I called up my friend and began plotting. This time, I thought, we would start a REAL rock band.

My friend and I both enrolled in guitar lessons and I bought an expensive, white and black "tuxedo" Les Paul Studio electric guitar. It even had gold plating on it. The whole scheme would have been wonderful if it wasn't for the fact that I didn't like guitar. Not only did the electric guitar sound terrible playing Hot Cross Buns, but no matter what, I could not wrap my mind around the whole "chord thing". Playing flute, I only had to pay attention to one note at a time, not chords. None of it made sense. So... 6 months later I quit.

None of the band scheme had gone well. Our classic music group was a flop, our rock band was a flop, but what about.... a jazz band?

Before I knew it my mom had enrolled my in lessons for Tenor Saxophone. For once, I loved it! The keys were big, gold and clunky, with the same fingerings as a flute. It was easy to play, mellow, and cool. I knew that paired with a piano and some percussion, it would make a great jazz instrument.

I can't tell you whether the jazz band idea is ever going to work or not. I've continued to play saxophone (and love it), though so far now band has evolved. Alone in the past 3 years, I have played piano, piccolo, flute, recorder, guitar, alto saxophone, and tenor saxophone. What do you think? I am I musically desperate or what?

Stewart and Line Dancing

"Care to dance?"

That was how my first-ever dance invitation started.

I jerked around from my reverie to see a short, 13-year-old boy with spikey blond hair looking at me, his eyes pleading.

"What?" I snapped, not sure if I had heard him right.

"Do you want to dance?" He repeated, his Alabama accent drawling.

I glanced around, my face turning red, and my eyes narrowing, praying my mom hadn't seen.

Loud country music blared from the speakers at the North Carolina ranch, and even though it was my 2nd summer here, I was still not prepared to line dance. All I wanted to do was watch, inhale the mountain air, and listen to the country melody.

"I said, do... you... want... to... dance?" He repeated slowly, as if I were deaf.

"um.. No, definitely not." I said, my face burning, my heart hoping secretly that I had accepted the offer. "Go ask my sister." I said gesturing.

His shoulders slumped as he trundled across the deck to my sister, who was also standing on the sidelines while the other guests at the ranch line danced. My brother had disappeared completely back into his cabin (not a bad idea), and I sat glowering at any boy that came within 20 feet of me. Besides, Stewart, that immature midget of a boy, already had a "girlfriend", who was giggling maniacally, as she refused to dance with him. Stewart, who was desperate to have someone to dance with, continued on his knees, begging first his "girlfriend", then me, then my sister to dance. I was not lowly enough to dance with someone who already had a girlfriend, and was using me as their "last resort."

Stewart limped away from my sister, looking disgruntled, and I knew she, too, had rejected him. He looped back to his girlfriend, who once again giggled and refused to dance, then he hobbled back to me, dropping to his knees and giving me the biggest set of puppy eyes imaginable.

"No, for the last time!" I said, exasperated. "Leave me alone!" I was half-joking, but I could tell he was irritated. I retreated as far from the Line Dancing area as possible, as Stewart headed back to my sister, to beg on his knees for her to dance with him.

Suddenly I had an evil idea. I didn't need to have a partner to line dance with. I could dance on my own. I shoved past Stewart and whispered my idea to my sister, and we both smirked.

Adjusting our riding boots, we both headed out on the dance floor, our cowboy boots clicking, dancing on a line along with the other guests, enjoying ourselves. We kicked our feet, and twirled, our hands in our jean pockets just like the other "real cowgirls". Stewart looked dumbfounded.

That was the day we learned that the best type of dancing is the type where you don't need a partner. That's why we like line dancing... and why we don't like Stewart.

Sixth Grade Summation and Summer Beginning

That worst year, sixth grade, was over in the blink of an eye. Before long I was once again basking in the rays of summer, with all the taunting about being the "Triplet Genius" gone. Once again there were clear skies, and plenty of space for me to run away from my irksome siblings if I wanted. My sister spent most of our first week out of school, with her head in a book, memorizing Latin (which, we didn't need to know for upcoming 7th grade anyway!). My brother immediately found himself a dozen hardcover 500-page books to entertain himself with. All seemed right in the world.

I recalled that last year of middle school with a grim pride. I had survived. Never again would middle school be so bad. If I could do sixth grade, I could do anything.

I went back to my usual daytime writing, and began scribbling down notes on a new story idea from my spot in the hammock. In the hammock I could see across the street and down the road, watching kids playing in the neighborhood, and trees swaying in the breeze. My orange, bewhiskered cat paced back and forth below the rainbow menagerie of cloth, his tail just brushing the underside.

That first week after sixth grade had let out, I decided to get things done. The first thing I decided, was to clean my room. The desk that should have been clear so I could do my homework was always besieged with crumpled notebook pages, old magazines, and Post-it notes I had forgotten to remember. My shelves overflowed with containers of little odds and ends: hair bands, books, coins, earring backings, and journals. I took my whole room apart, and then put it back together. I began to put together all the pieces of my life, that had fallen apart over that year of middle school.

With each thing I accomplished, pride blossomed inside of me. I finally got to reading the whole book "Little Women", and reread the whole Harry Potter series. I called up my friend and biked with her to get ice cream cones, just so we could spend some quality time together. I played my brother at the computer game that I always refused to be a part of, and I helped my sister study. I played my golden flute until my lips hurt. I did all the things I had been dying to do.

Why do I remember those things, but I don't remember other little moments? It's funny the way the minds works; it's funny how people forget experiences they thought would always stick with them. I wonder what ten years from now I'll remember about this year, and what I will forget. Hopefully I'll forget all the embarrassing moments, but with my luck, those will be the memories ingrained my mind forever. At that moment, though, I simply concentrated on enjoying the first week of summer, and restarting my life.

6th Grade: Digging Myself A Hole

If you’ve ever faced a middle school depression, you’ll know it’s bad.

Not long after my birthday I suddenly became overwhelmed with what I think of as my “chronic 6th grade depression.” I felt like, no matter what, the future was bleak. I would never become a famous author. I would never be outstanding. I would always be poor, average Christine.

As my depression progressed I started sighing all the time. My mom noticed, and asked why I was sighing so much and I simply shrugged. I became disinterested in everyone and everything. For that whole school year, I sort of “shrank in to my shell”, and hardly spoke to anyone, nor cared if what they thought about me.

I became tired all the time, going to bed at 7:30 pm, and not being able to fall asleep because of insomnia. My face became covered in stress-related acne, and I was constantly getting canker sores in my mouth. I was a wreck, and no matter what, nothing could pull me out of the hole I was digging.

At times I would cry myself to sleep, because I was so sad about my depression. Deep sadness and confusion filled my mind, consuming me. I didn't even know, really, why I was so depressed! I felt unbearably alone, with no one to talk to. I started walking around in a fog, with everything feeling like a dream behind a pane of glass. I was scared.

I realized after 3 months of depression that this situation was bad. Not just bad… dangerous. If I didn’t move on with my life, I would just wilt away! I stopped hiding behind my false “I’m fine” smiles, and started attempting to show real smiles. I thought of good things every morning, and before I went to bed. I started climbing my way out of the hole I had dug, back in to the real world.

6th grade, I can easily say, was the hardest year of my life. Through loneliness, depression, and fear, I ruined my year. To this day, my parents never have learned about my year of depression, nor do I plan on telling them about my days of weakness. However, I learned very strong life lessons through it all. I become positive and perpetually optimistic. I knew that no matter what, thing could be worse. I had faced worse times. Although, over the next year, I would occasionally stumble back into my hole, I always found a way to quickly climb back out. Depression would not define my being.

I started enjoying myself, being kind to others, and doing fun things. I started new hobbies and from then on vowed to “live life to it’s fullest” and follow my dreams. I started writing again, going outside, and seeing friends. The world was a beautiful place. From then on, though, I became a serious 6th grader. I had faced the deepest pits of depression and climbed back out. I was a survivor who had faced terrible times. My face and eyes were more mature, more knowledgeable of the world around them. I had grown up so much in a short period of time. For all you who have faced similar situations: never give up. The sun will come out tomorrow.

Fatherly Obsessions- The Quest For Hidden Gold

In my family, everyone gets obsessions. On one day one of us may be living and breathing photography, and the next day we may have moved on to woodcarving. Our obsessions are neither healthy nor rational and they can even consume us for months at a time! Unfortunately, my dad has always been the very worst when it came to them...

It was a hot autumn day when my Dad proudly announced that he was going to embark on a mission to discover all the hidden treasures Minnesota had to offer. We gawked at him and rolled our eyes, until, the next day, he came home with seven metal detectors.

Everyone in my family got a metal detector (and my Dad got three- each good for different reasons) and we were dragged out every weekend (and many evenings in-between) for metal detecting lessons. My dad brought home videos on how to use the Garrett Metal Detectors efficiently, and subscribed to dozens of treasure hunting magazines. My mom was much more tolerant of his whole obsession than I ever would be- I think she was praying that the whole idea would just burn out. Unfortunately, his visits to the local Minnesota Metal Detecting Club just spurred him on. People at the club would come carrying precious gold coins, diamond-covered bracelets, and ancient, rare artifacts found from small parks in the Twin Cities. My Dad only ever found around 55 cents in change on each of his trips.

As months went by my Dad's metal detecting obsession got worse. In the winter he would be out in the frozen ground, sweeping his detector back and forth. Some days he would be gone until Midnight. My brother, sister, and I had stopped volunteering to go along, knowing that the most valuable thing he had ever found was a small, gold-plated bracelet (hardly worth anything). He spent thousands of dollars on buying new metal detectors (he currently has seven or more), and even bought an underwater one, so that he could metal detect from the edge of the lake. None of us knew how to make the obsession go away!

As the cold, snowy months of winter beat against our home it soon became too cold for even a crazy man like my dad to head out. He would look out the window longingly, sigh, and then go back to his work. When summer came the luster of metal detecting seemed to have gone, and he only headed out on his quest for treasure twice a week, always coming back with a few middle-aged coins and a disappointed look on his face.

Now, my dad has moved on to other things. I don't know whether I'm glad or not. The metal detectors are coated in dust in the garage, just like his cameras, machining tools, and other relics from old obsessions. There's only one thing I'm worried about... yesterday he said he might be interested in... biking.