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.