The Brooklyn Bridge

As I walked through the door of that fourth grade classroom, I knew it was the end. Mommy had told me the night before, it was my very last night with you. I was moving on to bigger things, I was older now. It was time to say goodbye to Mommy checking over all my homework, to the books being read to me. Time to say goodbye to the miniature monkey bars, the undersized slide, the Barbie Band-Aids for my scabs that appeared quite often on my knees. It was time to say goodbye to all of those “little kid” things, because I’m a big kid know. I’m in the “upper grades.” Time to say goodbye to all the joys of being a cute diminutive girl with bright eyes and buoyant pigtails. But the most devastating of all, it was time to say goodbye to my most beloved friend. Such marvelous times we had together, the coziness and warmth of your cashmere and cotton. The joy of putting in one foot at a time the RIGHT way. The ultimate thrill of tattooing my tummy with a ball point pen, and the ease of zipping ...

           So here I am, sitting at my computer, at 5:30 in the morning. There is something wondrous and important to be written. Something everyone needs to read. Something enjoyable, magical, with fantastic imagery and marvelous descriptive words.  Words that would brighten every one's day, help those in need, lighten up the sad, inspire someone to go out and serve. But instead, here I am, frozen solid at my desk, because I do not consist of the simplest of an idea of what those words are. This is what I call a writing block.           Writing blocks are so incredibly annoying. They are like a cage, just holding you back from the beautiful sunshine you want to bask in, the luscious,  fragrant flowers of endless vibrant colors. The magnificent oak trees, standing tall, proud, and firm to show off there beautiful green leaves of summer, which are begging to give you their sweet, fresh oxygen. The sparkling blue river ready to give you his refreshing cool water. The lattice on this ...

For five entire days I completely left my normal life and went to Girl’s Camp. A risk of entering into a tent with ten other hyper, fanatical and unusual girls who never sleep the entire time, all jacked up on Laffy Taffies and Starbursts. It was a complete fiasco. Then came Wednesday morning, when the Beehives were ready to set out on our three mile hike, up the steep hill filled with stinging metal and other dangerous plants Mother Nature has graciously given us. My small knapsack is packed with a squashed peanut butter and jelly sandwich, a water bottle, and my disposable camera all crammed in there at once. So off we were, with our filthy shoes tied tight, our bodies smothered with sunscreen, and we were already sweating it off rapidly. My best friend since kindergarten Kaitie and I began to sing our giddy little camp songs, laughing hilariously until we had no air left in our lungs. I took off my baseball hat and wiped the sweat off of my forehead with the back of my hand for the ...

Every year my father and I do at least a dozen magic shows at the Alta Ski Club. After a long day of skiing, they have a little get-together for the adults and a party for the kids. We are hired to come entertain the kids. A.k.a., the super-ultra babysitting job. Last year, mid-December, we were ready to go up the big, steep canyon. The huge turns and upward driving was endless. This night, this particular, strange night, was snowing so hard, blizzard is an absolute understatement. But, the show must go on, so we set out on our journey. The storm only got worse. By the time we started up the incredible canyon, you couldn’t see two inches in front of you. We only had two hours until show time. Two hours of wondering if you are going to live through this. Two hours of the high anxiety my dad has and genetically passed on to me. So here we are, driving up the canyon like a married couple. There’s no barrier to save you from the hundred-foot drop if you fall of the edge. The ice was gettin...