Coach Part II

We didn't talk until we passed the giant Spartan statue in the student common area.

"Do you think he was actually serious?" Lynnea asked with a half-hopeful tone. "He wouldn't actually leave our senior year, would he?"

I looked down at my feet, hoping I could somehow convince both of us that he would come back. "It looks like he's really leaving, Lynnea." I paused. We had reached the stairs and I needed to go talk to Mrs. Montague upstairs. "Where are you going now?"

"Oh, I've got practice." She shrugged to indicate the huge track bag hanging from her shoulder and nodded in the direction of the training room. "We miss you at practice. Are you sure you're not going to run this year?"

Turning up the stairs, I laughed. "I can't run track. I love to run and I love you guys, but you know how much I hate the meets. I don't bring the competitive fire the team needs."

Maybe she didn't hear me. It didn't matter. Neither of us were actually thinking about track, and she left to start practice. I trudged up the stairs and later, after talking to Mrs. Montague, I trudged back down them, all the while thinking of Coach Schwartz and what was ahead for the team.

I walked down the main hall, so distracted I could only trust my feet to take me in the right direction to get home. What would cross country be without him? Could we still run well? Would our training falter? Would we still be the most unified team in the school? Before I realized where I had walked, I found myself in the foyer where we met for cross country practice in the fall. I thought I heard echoes of Coach's voice bouncing around the walls, mingled with faint bouts of my teammate's laughter leftover from October.

I stood in the middle of the room. I stopped. And I turned around. In an instant, I knew where I was supposed to be, and it was not my house, doing homework while my fellow runners trained for the sport I didn't like. Cutting across the foyer and into the gym, I sprinted towards the locker room.

Moments later, I was dashing to the track where Coach Creech was standing with the distance girls--my girls. Even their outlines from a distance looked forlorn. I stumbled into the group, cutting Creech off midsentence.

"Krista!" Jordan perked up, looking from me to Creech to Lynnea, a wondering smile appearing on her face. "What are you doing here!?"

I caught my breath and dropped my backpack to the ground. "I'm running track this year. I don't know why I haven't been here yet." I beamed around at the girls, and each returned the look.

"We don't either, Kris." Lynnea put her arm around me and we smiled. "Let's go for a run."

Coach Part I

Some people on the team ran after the season was over, but for the most part, by February everyone was all too absorbed with the upcoming track season to even think too much about cross country. I, not so inclined toward the endless laps around a 400 meter distance, thought on the blissful fall every second. However, the reunions were so few and far between for all the true cross country runners that when they came, I was sure to clear my schedule of all obligations.

"Are you going to the meeting tonight?" Jordan ran into me in the hall as she gobbled a bag full of wheat thins and washed them down with a nalgene full of water. "Coach Schwartz is going to be there!"

"Am I going to be there? What kind of question is that? Especially since Coach will be there. Creech is driving me up the wall." We waved to a few of the track boys as we walked past, but continued to discuss what Coach might have to say. New training plans? A summer fundraiser? A new assistant coach?

After school, the small Health classroom was packed with our fellow cross runners, sitting on desks and swapping winter running tales. How joyous for us to be all together! The snow and wind and rain didn't often have much on us, but one could only run with their teammates so often when the roads were iced over. Coach Schwartz came in, sporting his teaching clothes and looking less frazzled than was typical.

"Hey guys. Uh.. thanks for coming out today. I'm glad to see you all here and hope you've been training well this winter." We exchanged half sheepish looks with each other, then turned our focus to him again, anxious for his words.

"I just, uh, just thought I needed to come talk to you all in person, and really thought you should know before everyone else." His voice was void of the usual excitement he usually used when presenting a new workout or challenge to us. What was going on? "Things are going really well for my painting business and family life is getting really crazy with Caleb and Cameron running around faster than I can keep up. Anyway, it's not the time to make excuses, I just uh... " he paused and his eyes trailed to the back of the classroom, somehow missing all of ours. "I just, uh, been doing a lot of thinking and, um, it's just best. I have resigned from my coaching position and will not be here next fall."

The room exploded. My body froze. Lynnea lunged foward in her desk, grasping the edges and getting as close to Coach as she could. Always the spokesperson, she burst out louder than anyone else.

"WHAT? Coach! Next season is our season! You've got us to where we are! You're leaving!?" It was almost like she just crossed the finish line, she was so out of breath.

Coach put his hand on his hip like he always would when we were talking too much during his shpeels. But this time, instead of the endearing, "Am I going to have to make you guys do planks?" his exasperation came out in a sigh as he ruffled his bleach-blond tipped hair.

"I know this is really hard for you to hear. It's harder for me to say! I just need to do what's right for my family, and you guys are strong enough as a team that you will still dominate no matter what happens next season with the coaching staff."

We left the room dejectedly. None of us said much to Coach, not out of anger or frustration but just because for the first time in our existence as friends, we didn't know what to say. Lynnea and I slugged down the hall together. She was crying. I was just remembering to breathe.

I don't think the middle school ranking system was always the most accurate, but it lined us up and kept us still enough at the start, which was saying something for a bunch of middle schoolers. The waterfall stagger put the fastest people on the first tier, closest to the inside of the track, and lined the progressively slower runners on the outer and upper lanes.

This was only my second time running the 800, so I found myself squished up next to four other anxious distance runners on the second tier, farther out in the 5th lane. The first tier hosted the ferocious runners, the girls who would actually run this event once they got to high school. The rest of us were the leftover hooligans coach needed to stick somewhere, and right there in that fifth lane seemed to be the best place.

"All right, ladies, you can cross over into the inside lane after the cones on the other side of the curve. Be careful and good luck!" The starter climbed to the top step of his footstool and pointed his small starting pistol into the air

The loud bang startled my heart but my feet responded without hesitating. Pounding one foot in front of the other, I joined the nervous jostle of junior high joggers up around the curve. Elbows jutting, ankles angling, we tripped along in a 10-legged race before we finally reached the blessed line of cones that would allow us to spread to a single file line.

I lengthened my stride, squishing off the ruby tarmack like a small child off a trampoline. I extended my dominant leg out over the mini cone, anticipating a burst of speed and renewed determination to catch the first tier girls when

a third tier girl knicked me in the heel and the ball of my left foot could feel every bump and crevice in that ruby tarmack as my 410 New Balance distance flat slipped off my foot and bounced to the third lane.

Momentum like that is hard to stop, but what's a race--even for a second tier novice--without a shoe? I turned head on into the tumult of a merging traffic lane and scooped my shoe from off the track and into my arm. Jetting ahead, I caught up with my second tier soulmates and trotted along until I melted into the line up, 410 snugly tucked under my armpit.

700 meters later, I hurled my head over the finish line and followed the guiding hands of the finish line supervisors which placed me behind the third place girl.

One shoe gone? Take that, first tier.

As Assigned

"Good morning, brothers and sisters. I am so grateful for the opportunity to speak with you today, and I feel like this topic is one I really needed to work on because I have learned so much while preparing," she flicked her hair behind her shoulders. "Today I will be speaking on..."

She kept talking. I was absorbed with the strictness with which every ounce of her being adhered to the typical Mormon girl standard. Blond hair fell in loopy curls just past her shoulders as she glanced across the room with round, eager eyes. Every word came out with a smile, her gently glossed lips pursing together at pauses after scriptures and rhetorical questions.

She wore a gray Downeast cami with bunched up flower blossoms trailing down her shoulders and meeting at the V of the neck. A white undershirt peeked out from underneath and extended down onto her flowery, pleated skirt. The skirt swayed slightly as she shifted her weight from one foot to the other, tucking notes behind the three Ensigns she was referencing on the podium. Her slender white legs stood balanced atop two-inch heels, another flower balanced on the toe box.

She turned pages in a worn Book of Mormon, her bishop's testimony scribbled on the front cover from when she was baptized. Colored bookmarks and crafted glue-ins stuck out from various pages until she reached her desired verse.

She began reading, brushing her bangs out of her eyes. "the Lord seeth not as man seeth; for man looketh on the outward appearance, but the Lord looketh on the heart."

The testimony which followed was pure, heart-felt and inspirational. What teachings about the gospel had I missed while judging too much her outward appearance?

Winter Summer

Shaved ice was a novelty in my hometown. Not because no one wanted it and not because it was hard to come by, but just because we didn't have it. The summers were too short and the available space for a shaved ice hut was limited. Where shaved ice is a fond summer memory for many children, shaved ice instantly draws to mind the wonderful images of winter for me.

First snow! Agenda--go to school.

(Colorado, brimming with its pioneer spirits and rough 'n' tough authority figures, never had snow days.) So.

Second snow--Saturday! Agenda....

First, wake up to soft winter light pushing its way anxiously through the blinds. When that light hit my face, it was different from sunshine in the summer or the soft glow that reflected off Autumn's moody leaves. It was a shimmery glow, almost as if to say,

"I finally got here! It took me all night and it was a long fall, but I'm here! Don't you want to come greet me!?"

Second, undress and dress. Off flies the wires of the electric blanket I so greatly cherished, there goes the XXL Shooting Team t-shirt from my dad's leftovers. On goes the long johns, the tights, the jeans, the sweatpants, the snow pants, the shirt, the long sleeve, the sweater, the jacket, the parka, the gloves, the mittens, the other gloves. 6 pairs of socks. 6 inches of face space for me to still wink and grin at the shimmery winter light, still beckoning me out the door.

Third, snow angels. 24, splattered across the front lawn, the driveway, the middle of the street and the porch. If guardian angels were half as present as snow angels, no one would ever get in car wrecks, and everyone would always make the right choices.

Fourth, snow ball fight. Good luck packing those little suckers with three pairs of gloves on. Thus

Fifth, frostbite.

Sixth, seventh, eight, ninth. Sledding, fort-building, snow man creation, exhaustion.

Tenth. Run inside, dodge mom's furious mop for the never ending tracks weaving through the living room and into the kitchen, on top of the counter to reach the cup and back out the door. It was always hard to find a heap of untouched snow, but once we did, we would dive in, holding our cups out to fill them with the soft, crystallite snow. Balancing a mound on top, we would dash back inside, recreating the tracks mom just mopped, and pour the tangy pink lemonade in the fridge onto the snow cap. The flakes would melt away, their shimmery gleam fading into a crystalline glow. The pile would compact itself at the bottom, floating in a little pool of over anxious lemonade.

Tangy. Cold. Sugary. Bland.

Shaved Ice.

We were going to Yellowstone on Fourth of July weekend and I knew running in Wyoming would be one more state on my list of 50. I did my usual research to find out what race options there were and I stumbled on only one option that fit all the criteria of location, price, and timing. It was in Lander, Wyoming (where the heck is that?) on the morning of the Fourth for a very good price. In other words, it was perfect! There was only one problem--it was a half marathon. The furthest I had ever run was 11 miles, and that was at the peak of my training during the season. I wasn't sure that in the middle of the summer when my training had waned I would be able to pull off 13 miles. In Wyoming. After camping.

But, as always, the idea began to consume me until I knew I would rather die before I didn't run that race.

We drove into Lander on the 3rd and almost drive right out of it before we remembered to stop. The website hadn't provided directions to the office for registration, but we found it by picking one of the three buildings in the town.

"How's the course?" My dad leaned against the counter, mirroring the cowboy behind the desk who was munching noisily on what my naive mind assumed to be Trident.

Cowboy munched once or twice and scratched his beard before answering. "It's a right purty course, I'd say. Not too much bug badness."

My parents and I held in our snickers, but hardly. Bug badness? Where were we?

Lander was a horse trot away from a small campground which was obviously overflowing the night before the Fourth of July. My family and I arrived so late in the afternoon that we barely snagged the last campsite--a desolate, rocky patch of ground right next to a raging river. Lander had never seen such a ferocious windstorm that night, and what with the water coursing down the hill, the tent caving in on my head and the anticipation of 13 straight miles in the morning, I got as many hours of sleep as there were families in Lander, which was probably about 3.

The morning came and my dad and I, without even waking up (but mostly because we had never slept) meandered down to the heart of Lander looking for their city park. Expecting the lucious fields I was used to at home from our city park, I was taken aback when we trundled right past its 20 yard span on our way down main street. Reversing into the last parking spot available, I got my race bib and pinned it onto my light cotton shirt. The air was brisk with the smell of cow patties and dust, and my warm-up lap around the park provided entertainment looking at cowboys turned runners. It didn't matter that I was in country town--the heart-pumping, last minute stretching, shoe tying anticipation that always exceeds a race was still there.

"Kris. YOU CAN WIN IT!" I rolled my eyes at my dad's enthusiastic cheer and trotted off to the join the crowd that was forming on a street corner by a small gas station. "Have fun!

I situated myself in the midst of the throng on the corner, waiting for some sort of start line to appear. I finally saw ol' Cowboy from the office saunter over to the intersection where we were standing. The revolver in his halter was authentic, and I'm sure its ammunition had met many a cow hide in its day.

Still no forming of a start of any kind. I didn't even know toward which horizon we would be running.

"All right folks," he rested his arm on the top of his belt buckle. "Thanks y'all for coming out today. I guess," he looked around. I followed his gaze, expecting some start line to appear in the street, but instead he nodded upward. "I guess we'll just go when the light turns green."

I looked up in dismay, just in time to see the light turn from yellow to red. No one else was laughing,but I could hardly believe he was serious. So I waited in breathless silence and then...

It turned green! And we were off--13 miles into the dusty Lander desert!

You would think that 13 miles stretched out before you on a road which seems to have no end would be daunting or boring. Especially in Lander. But not so for me. The Race never fails to keep me entertained and excited, and my first half marathon in that forgotten Wyoming countryside was no exception.

I ran up first hill, which was more like a slightly inclined pathway, and past two skinny girls in tie-dye sports bras then around the bend and past a man with a white shirt, already covered in sweat. I ran past herds of cows and alongside aged tumbleweeds and to the top of prairie hills and on top of crunchy gravel then soft sand. I ran over a squashed rattler and a slotted cow grate and a boisterous patch of brambles. I ran right on past the water stop and past the Johnson's sitting out by their white mailbox, cheering me on with beer in hand. I ran till I looped right back up with Main Street, where Mom and Dad yelled like crazy, Summer bundled next to them catching the hours she had lost to the wind the night before.

"One more mile, Kris! YOU CAN WIN IT! You're almost done!" My dad waved his camera as I flew past, my mom yelling after me to try running on the asphalt instead of the cement to give my feet a rest.

I half expected to be looking for some stop light about to turn red to signal the end of the race, but I was pleased to see instead a big FINISH banner hanging over main street as I rounded the corner back into the town. 13 miles already done? My skinny chicken legs ran past Charlie's Diner and right into the finish chute, a small pioneer woman lassoing a medal around my neck as I staggered to the patch of grass where I started.

I did win it. But the real point was, I ran it. The old family camping chair set up on the side of the road as the Fourth of July parade marched from one end of Lander to the other never felt so good to my tired and victorious body.

Lynnea. A regular bean pole, the extreme skininess of her limbs sometimes making her look like those wind creatures that car lots use to advertise. Her thin hair, usually in a some kind of crazy ponytail, was naturally curly and she would always wrap it around her fingers to keep its curl. She'd grasp urgently to it, too, when she would get really passionate about something--which happened ALL. THE. TIME.--and her squinty little eyes would widen to their full capacity, her little lips tightening over her straight teeth. "IT'S HER, YOU GUYS! That's Jen Bremser!"Rivals were always a topic of conversation with Lynnea, but never on the run. Mostly because she was always too far ahead of the rest of us to keep a conversation. She ran faster than most of the boys, which was to her advantage since her soul was so free with itself it needed time to just gallivant across the trails.

Jordan Bloesser. If ever there were a buggin in the world, it is she. Her round face often lit up with laughter when someone said something funny, or stupid mostly, becuase she was a sharp girl and chortled at the foolishness of other people. Straight, true blond hair laid obediently on top of her very level head. Every decision she made was practical, and this rationality contributed a great deal to the competitive nature which stormed out of her otherwise submissive soul every time the gun went off. No one who knew her before or after a race would ever expect such a ferocious threat to be buried deep beneath such an endearing complexion or forgiving aura, but it was that exact element of surprise and feist that drew such a strong affinity for her. Humble in the victory that so often fell on her doorstep, she served as a constant representative of the sanity the rest of us lacked.

Erik Williams. Talk about slim as sinew. His entire being was nothing but skin, bones, and a messy stack of straw on top of a pin head with bulging eyes. Oh, you know him? The exact image you draw to your mind when you think of zany cross country boys, their long gangly legs barely topped with shorts no bigger than their hand spans? Yep, that's him. Erik's biggest asset was his desire for improvement, and he fought for it till the upchuck came up in the chute. He was a regular Ghandi, too, leading the team with a heart of gold.

These were my right hand runners when my sophomore year rolled around at Doherty High School. Our team was severely severed and without the support from these three partners, the Spartans may have remained so the rest of their Cross Country existence. But Lynnea, Jordan, Erik and I changed that.

Pete

(Carol, this doesn't have a lot to do with my memoir writing skills, but I wanted to do something other than just write 250 words, so sorry if this goes against the expectations.) (And thank you for your ever present understanding) -Krista

At my home on Topaz Drive I have a yellow dog
But even he, in preciousness, is not the topic of this blog
Rather, now, I'll focus on his grandpa with two feet
That steady neighbor up the road, even good ol' Pete

Pete Hamill is a kind old man, in my neighborhood
And his soul is the essence of the essence of all good
And every day he'd walk his dog right around our block
Passing our house without fail each day at 3 o' clock

For he would walk Jasper- or most times Jasper would walk him
For Pete did plod like Pluto and Jasper'd jump like Tiny Tim
I'd sometimes talk to them when I would go and get the mail
And they both would greet me with a smile- and the wag of a happy tail

And sometimes I'd be stretching, to go out on a run
Without fail he'd say something and tell me to have fun
And off I'd go, and blow past him, without a second thought
Never considering him or the physical wars he's fought

He is old now, but I think back then he was all but calm and slow
I bet when he would run it would be like one constant flow
So hearing now the echo of those words as I'd take off
I learn the lesson to keep going- you can't ever get enough


Sometimes while they were walking I would drive on past
And Pete would wave to me so slow, though I was going fast
I see know that the happiness in taking time to greet
Is something that brings joy to more than just one soul like Pete

You might think that people stay inside when it gets cold
Especially those bald walkers who are actually kind of old
But no, think again, when considering my friend Pete Hamill
Even in the winter, he'd walk up and down those hills

Pete and Jasper, Jasper and Peter, the regulars everyone knows
The consistency of the owner is the main point of this prose
For everyday Pete would take that dog out for his walk
To think he does it still brings me not a single shock

Though it should-and now you see, Pete's plod is getting slower
He doesn't respond like he once did to the tugging on his shoulder
For years he'd follow Jasper round, even if it was quite slow
Simply cus he loves his dog and his dog just loves it so

Topaz Drive still sees them, now they're a tamer pair
Jasper has calmed down- but they still have a wave to spare
Instead of tugging like when he was young, Jasper walks next to Pete
And Pete still walks the block, his dog's desire to always meet

The lesson here that I'll point out 'bout this tender soul
Is Pete is one who always gave his love to others in whole
Walking is hard, when you are old, and your dog is a jumpy pup
But when it comes to serving others, you just keep it up!

For one day when you are walking the familiar block of service
People will see you and recognize something they never noticed
You are out there everyday with the sick, afflicted, and hungry
Even if it means walking in the cold- you've been making someone happy

And after awhile they'll look again and tears will spring to their eyes
You'll teach them a lesson Pete taught me about selfless sacrifice
You see, when you walk that road, others tugging with demands
You sometimes give your own will up and do as He commands

Mourn with those that mourn and comfort those that stand in need
And later something will happen-miraculous indeed
Eventually those tugging souls whose service you did provide
Will--like Jasper did for Pete--slow, and walk by your side.

We would meet in the foyer of the athletic wing of the school for practice. One door off the foyer lead to the main gym where the varsity volleyball girls squeezed to play, ponytails crafted on their perfectly make-up'd heads. The other door lead to the mini gym full of leotard-clad gymnasts, springing off the floor like popcorn kernels at the start of a cook and picking wedgies after sticking their routines. Both teams would criss-cross our space to get to the drinking fountains, tiptoeing their way through our bags of crackers and dirty socks, not to mention our bodies sprawled out across the floor before and after practice. Thinking of it now, I wonder if they went to get drinks that often while we were out running. We certainly didn't.

Members of the team would trickle in starting at 3:30 and we'd start stripping down to the bare minimum of layers needed to run. The hooligan boys would always find some mischief involving a tennis ball or some other obscure object they stole from a more serious team, and would have broken a light or a person's eye before practice even started. The girls would sit on the ground and munch on carbs while rubbing their calves and chatting about boys in their classes then whispering in underhand tones about the boys on the other side of the room. That was all before Coach came tumbling in, spare meet sheets floating in behind him and his bag falling out of his arms onto the floor before he started his pre-practice speech.

"Ok, guys, we've got Cherry Creek this week." He stood with one hand on his hip and the other rubbing his bleach-tipped hair back and forth. "Running is 90% mental, so just go out there and get 'em. Alright... umm...we got 45 minutes today for varsity and 30 for JV, so...." never at a loss for words. Just never a need for more, "...yeah. Let's go."

We'd gallivant across the country side-cross the country, you could say. We'd run through the fields, traverse the valleys, explore the tunnels, cross the rivers. The world surrounding Doherty High School was ours, and at the top of hills we would turn around and scoff at the miniature doors to the foyer where we knew the volleyball girls were gulping gallons from the drinking fountain. Towards the end of the season the sun would set sooner and the air would taste more like crisp croutons than the slurpy otter pops from August's atmosphere. Every second was beautiful. Even when the calves of the girl in front of you were bulging more than you hoped yours were as you shuffled up the huge hill on Barnes, there was no denying that other citizens of the city were living a less glorified existence than you at that moment.

And we'd come back. Down the last stretch of sidewalk to the foyer doors, stopping our watches only when we touched the doorknobs and let our eyes adjust to the dimly lit area we had left in chaos. We'd sprawl our sweaty bodies across the room, breathing calmly and triumphantly. And Coach would say

planks.

So up we'd go, our quads quivering and our hamstrings hurting. Don't look at the time. Just concentrate on the bead of sweat slowly inching down your face until it hits your tense hands. And then

down.

Again. Up. Look around. Just before making eye contact with your struggling teammate for support, you see a pair a long skinny legs, prance around your quivering bodies and dodge over to the drinking fountain. Their gulps match time with the seconds you've been holding this position.

We would always try, at least, to not scoff.

Home

Topaz Dr. The long cracked asphalt stretched every morning, hitting its head at the start of Emerald Dr. and tickling Pearl Dr. with its toes. Nestled at its very beginning was a modest home that occupied the last lot on the right after you come down the hill (watch the dip!). The handmade mailbox proclaimed it as 5435, and the lawn proclaimed it as a residence with busy residents. Two large windows dotted the front of its white facade, winking as the porch smiled its paint-chipped smile to passerby. The front door could smell visitors coming all the way from Pearl.

A cement driveway wrapped around the side of the house, passing the gutter where Charina backed into the house on Christmas five years ago and ending at a mini-5435 Topaz Dr. of a garage. Nevermind the garage. The most magnificent feature of the home was behind--Central Park. A huge carpet of lucious green grass laid the foundation for a magical backyard, still echoing with joyous cries of happily entertained children and energetic yelps from carefree dogs. Age-old trees bordered the area and dwarfed a battered fence which kept curfews and bad intentions out. There was more buzzing in the backyard than just busy bees, for the blades themselves seemed to whisper the stories of the children whom they served.

One whiff of the air left you saturated with summer's finest glories, freshly pollinated flowers and cut grass lying in heaps. The fruit trees in the back waved when you stuck your head over the fence, and if you heeded their beckoning welcome, they'd greet you with a tart cherry or ripened plum. The backyard at Topaz tasted that way. Always growing and fresh off the tree, pumpkin vines tumbling onto the black tarp beneath the tomatoes and tangy pea juice from a just-picked pod.

Such a glorious haven of happiness from back then.

It's still there. 5435 is still plopped at the end of the street, but now its windows droop sleepily when unexpected visitors surprise the front door. The lawn speaks of no more residents, and the driveway just plods to the back when you mention the park. What used to be grass crunches now. You can hear it when you stand outside the gate. It looks forlorn from the outside. No one lives there anymore. There were children? They share lawns with a whole complex now.

The fruit trees might still wave. Heed them. They won't have any cherries, but take a trip across the grass.

Was that a crunch?

Or was it

a whisper?

Head On

My name is Krista Jae-Elrena Roy. I stand just 5 inches over 5 feet. I am 20. When I was younger, I made a toothpick consider a diet and didn't need a swimming pool with the hand-me-downs I wore. Now, my BMI speaks for my figure, and I feel happy when I look in the mirror. My hair sits on my head, tamed when untamed and wild when trained, depending on how I feel. If it turned into food, someone could make a sandwhich out of it. It is soft and fine like wheat bread, and mirrors the color of it too. I like my hair. It cooperates most days and when I want to try something different, it is along for the adventure. If only it were a little thicker.

My eyes BULGE! Most the time. HUGE. BLUE. EYES. That's why my parents named me Krista when I came out, because, of course, Krista is a hugebluebulgingeyes name. Not even the strictest elementary school teacher or the most intimidating police officer could get my mischevious little eyes to hold still. They like too much to take things in, and holding still just won't do.

My nose speaks for my heritage. I endearingly call it a Mesa Nose, because it is flat enough to serve as a table, and the Cherokee genes in my dad's blood put it there in the first place. But it eventually rounds out to a little cumulus cloud. So it's flat and round. Like the rat I found.

My lips are small. My mom gave me those on purpose so any boy who tries to kiss me always has a hard time.

I don't want to talk about my teeth. They get the job done, but the dentist certainly got his job done on me.

I have zygomatics that stick out like a cow's hips and funnel down to a defined chin small enough to nestle comfortably in my cupped hand, which often happens. You could say my palm knows my chin like the back of my hand.

I've a well-structured head. Nothing fabulous like the celebrities or fantastical dream girls in the heads of all the boys walking around, but theirs might turn every now and then with the sight of mine. It's on a good set of shoulders...

Did I get that right?

Oh. Yes.

I've got a good head on my shoulders.

The reaction which came the first time he told us out loud certainly forecasted the way we would respond during the entire six years my dad served as bishop.

I was sitting at the cluttered computer desk just down the hall from my parent’s bedroom when I heard the trailings of a conversation which sparked my interest. I turned slowly towards their door, which was ajar, and slightly inclined my curious head in the direction of their hushed voices.

“We wanted to tell you first, before the other girls,” my dad mentioned, almost casually. “That way you can help them be excited about it.”

Using my heels as careful carabeeners to creep up the hall towards the door, I eventually crouched onto the floor like a cougar ready to pounce. I could see CJ’s legs bouncing over the edge of my parent’s king sized bed through the crack in the door. They were telling CJ something they didn’t want the rest of us to know just yet. Of course, I crawled as close as I could without being detected, and curled in a little ball to ensure I wouldn’t miss a word.

I had missed the beginning of the sentence, but my mom was talking, a hint of amusement in her voice. Or was it amusement?

“They called us in and told us they were splitting 6^th and 11^th Ward to make a new one. And then…” she paused. I supposed some kind of looks were being exchanged.

“They called me to be the bishop!” My dad finished with what sounded like a burdened kind of shock, and yep- there it was. No mistaking. Amusement.

I didn’t even wait to hear CJ’s reaction. My own had been stifled by my quick departure, and I didn’t let the laughter burst until I was in Jamie and Charina’s room. They were painting their nails.

I swept aside a pile of cotton balls and squeezed in between the two of them.

“You guys!” Charina glared at me for smudging the pink onto her skin. “Dad just got called to be bishop!”

Where Jamie’s hadn’t smudged before, the red was smeared all over her middle toe. “Dad!? Bishop!?” She doused a cotton ball in acetone as we stifled hysterical laughter. Before we could discuss any of the inexplicable humor, Dad called to us from down the hall. We marched like little soldiers to their room, intersecting Summer as she came up from the kitchen.

Mom and Dad were standing in front of the bed, CJ still perched upon it. We lined up beside her, our eyes attentive and seemingly innocent.

Dad surveyed us like a row of sharpened pencils. “Mom and I have something to tell you girls.”

I shifted my eyes quickly to look at the floor. If it had been a mirror, I know Jamie, Charina and I would have been making eye contact.

“Dad has been called to be the bishop of the new ward!” My mom beamed at all of us, anticipating the surprised gasps she was expecting—the same ones she had already missed.

Except, of course, from Summer.

The laughter that was finally released echoed through the room and through the years until he was released. My dad was the best bishop for that ward, and set a precedence that will never be exceeded, and all the while, he kept us laughing.

Moment

Maybe the grass had stood straight at one point, but with a combined torrent of sprinklers that morning and a hoard of anxious runners that afternoon, it was squished flat like a floppy disk beneath our spiked running flats. I hopped from foot to foot and glanced around at the other gladiators, lining up before the kill.

“See that girl over there?” Lynnea was pointing at a slender bean pole three boxes over, flanked
by two other skinny girls in red spandex singlets. “That’s Jen. She’s the one that took first in the Cougar Classic last year, and I’m going to beat her this year.” It was a tone of voice I was used to hearing in hushed tones every time we squeezed into the starting box.

I bent down to touch my toes, grazing my head against Jordan’s leg on my way down. Sardines had nothing on us—they stayed put in their squished state. Once that gun went off, we would travel in this huge pack, sandwhiched in our sweaty spandex for the next 3.2 miles.

Taking extra care to step on the right side of the painted line which marked our box, I looked down the fairway. He appeared. His silouhette against the trees behind him was nothing more than a blur of authority, a threatening shadow on the horizon. He held the power. It was in his right hand, and he was using his left to squish a neon orange ear plug into his right ear.

After successfully protecting his ear drums, he bent down for a white megaphone on the ground. My stomach doubled up on itself, and the sudden extra room in the box told me mine wasn’t the only one that had.

“Runners on your mark,” He breathed. I didn’t. “Get set,” A pause. My heart at least, was already racing. I heard the bang before I saw his knuckle bend, tickling the trigger.

“GO!”

Employment Part I (read this post first!)

The beginning of my sophomore year in college brought with it the transition from newbie to veteran, inexperienced to knowledgeable, and carefree to I-need-money-so-time-to-start-looking-for-a-job. There were tons of jobs everywhere and I knew I would find something if I searched and applied, so the wild hunt began a week before the school year started.

Custodial--poor hours. Applied anyway. Librarian--position filled. Nice try. Laundry worker--interview. No call back. Receptionist. Secretary. Tutor. Candy clerk. I filled out so many inquiries and gave my contact info away so often that when I talked to people I almost forgot there was more to my soul than just a line for my number and a spot for my emergency contact. Random numbers started calling me in the middle of class, only to leave messages that the position had been filled and thanking me for my interest. Praying ever fervently, I tried again and again until I finally hit what seemed to be a gold mine.

"Krista, this is Holly." Just a phone call I had actually caught between classes. What was this job again? "We received your application for the Sports Field Maintenance worker and would like to invite you in for an interview. Do you know where the Grounds Office is?"

The Grounds Office? Was there even such a place? I replied amiably and and set up an interview for the following day and went over potential questions in my mind. Maybe it was different work than ideal, but it was an interview, and I was going somewhere.

On the way home that day, my phone rang again. I answered, and a Jenna greeted me. "Krista? This is Jenna from the Grounds Office. We received your application for the Site Development Secretary and would like to invite you in for an interview. Do you know where the Grounds Office is?"

The Grounds Office again? Had I applied for the same position twice? Though I wouldn't put it past myself, I contemplated the two interviews coming the next day, hoping that since they seemed to be so closely related, some context clues would help me in the interview to know exactly the position for which I had applied.

Interview day arrived and I arose with the sun to prepare myself with a charismatic smile and endearing eloquence. As I began to apply mascara with an open mouth, my phone rang yet again, and Kimball Benson spoke to me from the other line.

"Krista, this is Kimball Benson." He sounded urgent almost, and I greeted him with a hello. I remembered him. He was the supervisor in the library with whom I had interviewed, but a candidate before me had gotten the job. "Great news! The position in the library has opened again, and we would like to offer you the job. If you're still interested, there's a training meeting on the first floor today at 1:00. Can you make it?"

My half mascared eyes widened in the mirror and my mouth began to form words of acceptance. A job! A job in the library! I told him I would make it to the training but that I had an interview at 11:00 I needed to attend first. He complied with my request and bid me farewell.

Behind the Scenes

Standardized tests plagued our existence for the first 9 years of our schooling. Once every fall for pre-testing, then again in the spring for CSAP, the dreaded and consuming Colorado Student Assessment Program. Teachers and students alike ate, sleep, and breathed CSAP preparation all year long, and then the school would settle into a nervous hush. The tension was only punctuated by the magical treats that came from nowhere and seemed only a providential from someone who knew all too well the misery we were suffereing; bags of Goldfish after each session and nicely sharpened #2 pencils before.

Certain people fulfilled certain preparation roles, but primarily teachers taught and students performed. Our scope of preparation didn't look much father than that. Who knew, for example, what the administration was doing, other than breathing down our backs with threats to perform well or lose the budget for new jerseys or band lockers? Or the office staff, what did they do for CSAP? The office of was located on the right side of the hall immediately after the entrance of the school, and its walls were made of glass. A spritzy secretary sat at the desk and answered phone calls, her short auburn hair haloed around her head in outward curls. I worked in the office. I was a student assistant for the secretaries.

Three days until CSAP, and the school and its inhabitants were antsy. I walked into the office and smiled at Ms. Abrahmson, who was on the phone, before sitting down at my desk in the corner. Where it was usually covered in papers to deliver, I was greeted by a stack of boxes and an electronic pencil sharpener.

"Hey, honey," Ms. Abrahmson whispered from behind her desk. "We need you to sharpen those." Her penciled eyebrows raised before disappearing beneath her bangs and she mouthed, "they're pencils!"

I gaped. There had to be one hundred pencils in those boxes, if not more. I sat down like an weary weaver to his loom and started sharpening. One by one I would watch the pencil sharpener nibble away at the yellow wood then pull the pencil out to check for a finely pointed end. Over and over. Eventually the pile of unsharpened pencils became smaller than the sharpened ones, but it took all hour long. Was it a punishment? Why did we need so many pencils!? I closed the last box as the bell was ringing and patted the whining sharpener before walking out the door.

"Good luck on CSAPs!" Ms. Abrahmson called after me.

The next day I sat at the desk in my English room while our proctor read again the rules each of us could recite because we had heard them repeatedly from our earliest CSAP days. Then she took from underneath her desk a box I recognized and started passing it around the room.

When it arrived at my desk I smiled in appreciation.

Next time I concentrate only on myself when preparing for an event, I thought as I chose a pencil with a sharp tip, I'm going to remember there is someone behind every operation doing the work everyone appreciates but no one acknowledges.

Oops

Second grade was a blissful time of life when there were little to no obligations and rarely any assignments I didn't complete in class. Homework was a stranger I wouldn't meet until later in life. The classroom where we learned featured decorative and inspiring posters and pods of short desks littered with plants we nurtured and pencil marks were our childish imaginations couldn't contain themselves. Our only responsibilities were to listen with our ears, look with our eyes and keep our hands to ourselves.

So, as you can only imagine, when we were assigned responsibility and were supposed to take home a worksheet to complete after school, it would follow that such a task might slip our mind with the sandbox full of friendly neighbors beckoning to us from the backyard.

It was a worksheet with a picture of a woman writing at a desk. I don't remember what the intended lesson was. I do, however, clearly remember slipping it into my ginormous blue backpack next to an apple I had neglected to eat at lunch and zipping the main pocket safely shut before flying out the door for fun.

First mistake.

Second mistake--lying to my teacher when she stood at the front of the classroom and asked us to take out the worksheet she had given us for homework the night before--the one I...lost. Blood rushed through my body at an accelarated pace and up to my mind, dodging frantic nerves that sent eruptions of panic to the depths of my conscious. I had missed an assignment. And rather than suffer the humiliation of work gone undone, I chose to suffer the consequence of a truth gone untold.

An excuse is a lie cleverly disguised in the middle of a herd of sheep, mildly grazing in the field of good intentions.

Years later I missed three quizzes in the first two weeks of a challenging accounting class in college.

Where was that innocent sandbox where I once placed the blame? Perhaps within its depths I would find the real loss--my mind.