The Interview

I'm sitting at my old desk in my old bedroom at my parents' house. It's a school day, so I won't be disturbed here. The same cannot be said for my apartment, which is why I'm not doing the interview there. I've got my laptop all set up, the documents they sent me open in Word so I can review them during the interview if I need to. I've got a glass of water and my iPhone microphone-headphones. The notes I've made myself say things like, "Don't giggle," "Don't interrupt," and "Enunciate." I've turned off call waiting so I won't be interrupted. I've made every preparation I can think of. I'm even wearing shoes.

And now I wait.

At 9:05, my phone rings. It says, "UNKNOWN." With my heart in my throat, I put the headphones in my ears and answer the call.

His name is David Hanson, and he's on speaker phone because someone named Phil is joining the interview. I'm not sure who Phil is, he's sitting too far away from the phone and it's hard to hear him so he doesn't say much.  I take a minute to have a silent flail about the fact that I'm talking on the phone right now to someone in England, and then I'm calm again. Weirdly calm. I know that's not me, it's the blessing made manifest.

Hanson asks me about the degree I have from SUU. I tell him, being sure to talk up my film and playwriting classes. This is, after all, a Master's in Writing for Screen and Stage. He asks about my job, and seems genuinely fascinated by what I do. We talk about that for a minute, then he and Phil take me through the general workings of the degree. I already know everything they're telling me, it was all in the documents they sent over, but I listen attentively and take notes anyway.

16 June 2014. That'll be the day.

The more I hear about the degree, the more I want to do it. I tell Hanson this. I need to convey to them just how much I want it. He asks if I someday want to settle in London, and if I've ever been there before. I tell them the story of my first few days in London, how different I felt from the rest of my classmates because I already knew London was my home.

They tell me I sound like a good candidate. A good candidate! That's better than I'd hoped for. We say our goodbyes and end the call. I flail some more.

I feel different, yet familiar. It's different because it doesn't belong here, in this place. It's familiar because it feels like home. Emma notices. I'm not sure what to do with it.

And now I wait some more.

By The Power...

I passed by a white stretch limo on my way home just now. I think it's a good omen.

I've never cried like that before... I'm not sure how I know, but it was somehow different. Fat tears rolling down my face, the kind of crying I've only ever seen in cartoons - Simba comes to mind, just after his father's death. Fat tears like those ones. But happier.

The blessing said that I should be happy and understanding, no matter the outcome of the interview. That scared me. It's not the first time I've heard wording like that, "What's supposed to happen will happen." I don't want what's supposed to happen, I want what I want to happen.

But then he said that if I prayed specifically for the outcome I want, I'll get it. He actually said that. So that's what I've been doing, in my mind and out loud.

He said Grandma Mollie was on my side. She would be, wouldn't she? She was a writer too. I always forget because I was only nine when she died. But I do have one specific memory of her sitting in a folding chair by the trampoline, yellow legal pad on her lap.

I'm not afraid anymore. I feel almost weirdly calm, actually. But I still think I'll fall asleep upside-down on my bed so I can watch TV until I fall asleep. It keeps me from thinking too much, makes it a lot easier to fall asleep.

The Time Is Upon Us

My interview with Regent’s College London is tomorrow morning.

I’m supposed to be folding my laundry but it’s all I can think about. And my body is doing that stupid thing where my digestive system doesn’t actually shut down in a fight or flight situation. It goes into hyperdrive instead. It wants everything inside it to be out, one way or another.

I’m supposed to be folding my laundry but it’s all I can think about. I wish I knew what to do to prepare... I can look over the documents they sent me. (again.) That will be good. I guess I can write down any questions I have, interviewers generally ask if I have any, and I can never think of any on the spot.

I’m so nervous. I’m freezing and my stomach hurts and everything on my insides wants to be on my outsides.

I need to remember not to giggle. Or fidget. Or talk too much. I always talk too much. I always try to answer the question before they’ve asked it. Maybe that’s my problem, why I can never find a job. I need to be more professional.

I wish I was doing the interview in person. The fact that it’s via telephone is nerve-wracking. I want to see who I’m talking to. I want to know who they are, what they look like.

Oh my stomach hurts. I don’t want to be sick, it’s such a waste of time and energy. No wonder I was so thin last winter.

I’m not sure why I’m writing this. Maybe so if I actually do get in, I’ll have something to talk about, something to blog about, a reason to be inspired.

I need to find another job. I’ve been looking. I would love to work in the mall, or someplace where I can do something, unlike what I do now. Too much sitting around.

I haven’t told very many people about my application. I’ve told even less about the actual interview. I’m so afraid I’ll jinx it somehow. I’m afraid I’ll let them down. If I tell everyone and then I don’t get in, it’s just that many more people I have to tell, “I didn’t make it.” I don’t want to have to tell them that.

I’ve been meaning to write a poem. Something about stars. I don’t know what I would write about though.

Why is it so cold in my room? Well, at least it’s not snowing yet.

I feel like everything I’ve ever wanted is riding on this interview tomorrow. I want nothing, nothing more than to move to London, to have a reason to. And I’m terrified about what will happen to me if I don’t. What will become of me if I don’t make it? I wish I could talk myself out of putting my every last hope on this.

I’ll do some yoga tonight, and tomorrow morning I’ll have dad give me a blessing. And I’ll pray. And I’ll read through the documents, get as much information as I can. That’s what I can do.

Because this is the end of my senior year at university and I've been lazy about blogging...

I used to make a rainbow schedule for every finals week.  It didn't feel right going into this week without one, so here it is:

I can't believe it's over.  Everything that's happened in the last 4 years.  I am nowhere near the same person I was, and I am nothing but grateful for the changes.

New Favorite

I've just realized something that I don't think a lot of people understand about me.

When I say "new favorite," I don't mean that thing is taking the place of my old favorite. Rather, it is joining the list of my favorite things.

For example, when I say that Tom Hiddleston is my new favorite British actor, I don't mean he is replacing Benedict Cumberbatch or Jude Law or Jack Davenport. I simply mean that he is new on the list of favorite British actors.

Update: If there are any other Amber-isms that you don't quite understand, please tell me and I shall do my best to translate them. I think it would be a fascinating study of myself.

I've always wondered, do I blush when I'm embarrassed?

Because I've never known. People rarely, if ever, say "You're blushing!" to me, and I have a natural redness in my cheeks anyway so it all gets very confusing.

So I texted that very question to the eight people who are most likely to know - and text back.

I've listed their replies anonymously, but if you were one of the eight you will, of course, recognize your own reply.

Question: do I blush when I'm embarrassed?

Responses:

• Not that I've noticed.
• I don't think so.
• Your cheeks are rosy, it's very difficult to answer that question! I don't really know if you are embarrassed that often around me. But my first response it to say no, you don't blush when you're embarrassed. But I definitely do, so that makes me want to say that you do.
• Yeah. You do. But you also have natural blush.
• Sometimes yes. Why?
• Your breathing changes and you clench your teeth more than blush, but there is still a slight color change. Then again it could just be that I haven't seen you in extremely embarrassing circumstances.
• Umm, depends on the level of embarrassment. You generally don't get embarrassed around me, so...
• Yes.

"And the Oscar goes to..." Apparently no one else knows if I blush either. Okay, a few people definitely know. But does this answer my question? No, not really.

Othello

I've been reading Othello today (I'm currently on my break between acts III and IV). I did not expect to love it this much. I'm not sure what it is that makes me enjoy it so much (*cough-Iago-cough*), but I am really loving it. I've been reading it out loud, which is extremely fun. I switch accents around and stuff, sometimes I make Othello Scottish and stuff. It's great fun.

I wish I could find an online version to watch, but I can't find anything and my "usual sources" have since been...removed.

I have to do an assignment for Script Analysis based on this play, but the only thing I know about it is "who is the protagonist?" I've been reading and trying to make an argument for Othello or Iago. Right now it's seeming like Iago to me, because the protagonist is the main character, and he seems to be a bit more main than Othello. But, I'm only halfway done so we'll see.

Early to bed...

...and early to rise makes a man healthy, wealthy, and wise.

Mom always used to go on about "You're cranky because you're tired," or "Everything always seems worse when you're tired." As a little kid, I didn't believe her.

Boy, do I believe her now.

Yesterday, I woke up at 6:30. I called my brother and I ate breakfast. I took a shower and made my bed and got dressed, and I didn't even have class until 1:00. And yesterday was good.

But last night I didn't sleep well. Then I slept in till 9:00 and felt like crap all day. I was tired and just didn't want to do anything.

I think tonight will be an early night, and I'll try again tomorrow to be good. Because Monday and Tuesday were good. If Thursday and Friday are good as well, I'll have had a successful week. That is the master plan.

Summeritis

You know that feeling towards the end of term (also known as "semesteritis" or "senioritis") where there's so much left to do and absolutely no desire to do it?

That's how I feel right now - with one exception:

Semester- and senioritis are often characterized also by a desire for that particular increment of time (semester or senior year) to be over, hence the lack of desire to take action.

The opposite is true for me. I'm not ready for this week. I'm not ready for this summer to be over.

I seem to recall I once said, " It’s not often that I wish for the impossible, but if only I could have had a bit more time."

I seem to be wishing that a lot more now.

School starts a month from today. This has officially been the shortest summer of my life.

Love Your Body

Re-blogged from Shannon and Operation Beautiful.

This list is wonderful and amazing and I think everyone everywhere should read it. The end.

1. Think of your body as the vehicle to your dreams. Honor it. Respect it. Fuel it.
2. Create a list of all the things your body lets you do. Read it and add to it often.
3. Become aware of what your body can do each day. Remember it is the instrument of your life, not just an ornament.
4. Create a list of people you admire: people who have contributed to your life, your community, or the world. Consider whether their appearance was important to their success and accomplishments.
5. Walk with your head held high, supported by pride and confidence in yourself as a person.
6. Don’t let your weight or shape keep you from activities that you enjoy.
7. Wear comfortable clothes that you like, that express your personal style, and that feel good to your body.
8. Count your blessings, not your blemishes.
9. Think about all the things you could accomplish with the time and energy you currently spend worrying about your body and appearance. Try one!
10. Be your body’s friend and supporter, not its enemy.
11. Consider this: your skin replaces itself once a month, your stomach lining every five days, your liver every six weeks, and your skeleton every three months. Your body is extraordinary–begin to respect and appreciate it.
12. Every morning when you wake up, thank your body for resting and rejuvenating itself so you can enjoy the day.
13. Every evening when you go to bed, tell your body how much you appreciate what it has allowed you to do throughout the day.
14. Find a method of exercise that you enjoy and do it regularly. Don’t exercise to lose weight or to fight your body. Do it to make your body healthy and strong and because it makes you feel good. Exercise for the Three F’s: Fun, Fitness, and Friendship.
15. Think back to a time in your life when you felt good about your body. Tell yourself you can feel like that again, even in this body at this age.
16. Keep a list of 10 positive things about yourself–without mentioning your appearance. Add to it!
17. Put a sign on each of your mirrors saying, “I’m beautiful inside and out.”
18. Choose to find the beauty in the world and in yourself.
19. Start saying to yourself, “Life is too short to waste my time hating my body this way.”
20. Eat when you are hungry. Rest when you are tired. Surround yourself with people that remind you of your inner strength and beauty.

Podcast Thoughts

I've been listening to podcasts a lot at work lately - lots of long-ish projects as it's a new month - and even though it's too late to write/call in to the podcasts and tell them my opinion, I decided I'd share it on my blog.

While listening to The Transmission, I realized that I'd never picked a "favourite moment" from LOST. Then I realized that the one single moment that got me hooked on the show was the moment I saw the "LOST" title come floating out of the darkness. The eerie music and the way the logo floats in and out of focus hooked me instantly.

A while back, Empire magazine did a video (posted below) showing the cast of Harry Potter describing the series in 1 word. So here's my word:

Transcendent

Yep. That's my word.

Alrighty, it's 1:30 and I have to work tomorrow...today? Anyway, in 7 hours, so I REALLY should go to bed...

Mid-Summer Update

If I had something interesting to write about, I'd probably do it.

I know everyone is anxious to hear about London, but I was really looking forward to having pictures to show off and that just doesn't seem to be happening any time soon...

Here, a quote from my London Journal to tide you over until I get my photos:

9 May - Monday - Day 1 - 19:00 (7:00 pm) - atop Primrose Hill

This is what home feels like. I'm not shocked to be here because I know this city already. And because I know I'll be back someday. There's not even a doubt in my mind anymore. I will be back. This city doesn't look new, it looks familiar. I've never been less shocked to see a new place, and I think it's because I already know this place is not new. It's home. It's already home. Not shocking, not new. Exciting, yes.

And another, because I'm on a roll:

14 May - Saturday - Day 6 - 14:15 (2:15 pm) - my room

I've been many places I thought were home. But everything about those places, everything I loved is already here. This is the centre of my world. Harry Potter is here, Sherlock Holmes is here, Jekyll and Hyde is here. Everything I have ever wanted is here and, as we all know, there is only one thing that could make it better.

And a little list of interesting things I saw (and would have pictures of if my camera was alive):

• The Rosetta Stone
• Lily & James Potter's house
• Snape's potions classroom from movie 1
• Buckingham Palace
• 221b Baker St.
• Paintings by Monet and Van Gogh
• Rosslyn Chapel
• Edinburgh Castle
• Elephant House café - "the birthplace of Harry Potter"

I'm sure I'll write more later. If I remember.

Lately, I've just been working. Got a job at dad's office, doing "office assistant" type stuff. *shrug* It's a job, anyway, and I don't hate it, which is good. Not much else to report. 4th of July is soon. That should be fun. Usually is.

More later, I guess.

Thoughs Upon Returning From London

I wish I could have had just a few more days. It’s not often that I wish for the impossible, but if only I could have had a bit more time. I’m not the same person I was two weeks ago. London changed me. Never have I adjusted so well to a new place. My entire life has been riddled with nostalgia and a yearning for the past. Until now. Not once was I homesick, not for an instant. I’d miss people, and things, but I never felt the same way as I had in the past. London took me in and made me a part of itself, and I took it in and made it a part of myself. In all my travels (which I will admit have been limited) I have never seen a place to which I took with such ease as I did to London.

This trip has also been the culmination of my personal Harry Potter saga. After the accident that killed my grandma and cousin, I stayed in St. George for two weeks. It was the first time I’d ever been away from home, and nine-year-old me was just as prone to homesickness as twenty-year-old me tends to be, and I had nothing to do but read. Her brother had the three published Harry Potter books, and I spent two weeks immersed in the world of Harry Potter. I was one of the lucky ones, the “Potter generation,” who got to experience Harry’s adolescence and maturation in time with our own. It didn’t match up perfectly, as it took Harry ten years to age seven, but it matched up fairly well most of the time.

Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows was published the summer before my final year of high school, and this summer the final film will come out. In August I will begin my final year of college. This trip was the capstone, the icing on the proverbial cake. It has been a new and renewing experience. It felt as though I was experiencing the series again for the first time. I find it very fitting that, just as Deathly Hallows mirrored Sorcerer’s Stone, this trip mirrors that during which I first discovered Harry Potter. Again, I have spent two weeks the farthest away from home I have ever been, and again I have had my life changed.

The Harry Potter story unfolded over a few overlapping decades: Sorcerer’s Stone was published in 1997, and Deathly Hallows in 2007; the Sorcerer’s Stone film was released in 2001, and the final Deathly Hallows film will be released this summer, 2011; and mine, from when I was ten to when I was twenty. At the end of this summer I will turn twenty-one, and my personal “Decade of Harry Potter” will be over. But decades end all the time, and I’m sure I will find something else to celebrate when this one ends.

"Now that it's over...

...I don't know what to do with the rest of my life." --Inigo Montoya

Two all-nighters, 3 printed manuscripts, 86 pages, and 24,573 words later, I have finished the first draft of the Our Story novella.

I never thought I would say this, but I'm sorry to see it end. Maybe because I never actually believed I would finish it.... Who knows.

But I'm really wondering what to do with the rest of my time. I suppose I do have several essays that need writing, and some of them are pretty long... Well, I say "pretty long," but I've just written 86 pages.

Maybe I'll catch up on sleep with all of this extra time...

Marathon Sessions

Aside from sleeping and being awake,

what is the longest consecutive amount of time you've spent doing one thing?

What was it?

Well, I've just spent 5 hours revising my novella. If anyone's interested, those 5 hours have been from midnight to 5 in the morning.

On Thursday, I wrote my novella from 7 pm to 5 am the next day, so there's a 10 hour session (holy crap!)

I read Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows in 9 hours straight when it first came out...

I went on an 18 mile hike once from about 1 am to 2 or 3 pm, so there's 13 or so hours spent hiking...

Evidiently, I'm crazy.

Yes, Infidelity is Ethical

Until I took Dr. Bishop's class in film adaptation, I did not understand that, since movie audiences must expect different things from movies than from books, book-to-movie adaptations do not necessarily need to be completely faithful to the source text. Thomas Leitch illustrated this concept most eloquently in his essay “The Ethics of Infidelity,” which is included in the Adaptation Studies anthology. He said, “If the audience in question has already read the novel … on which the film is based, surely they expect a different experience; otherwise, they would not be watching the movie at all” (63). When I watched The Curious Case of Benjamin Button after having read the short story by F. Scott Fitzgerald, I realized that this idea Leitch has posed is not only very logical, but it is extremely applicable to the adaptation in question. After reading Leitch’s essay, it was obvious to me that the film version of Benjamin Button had no business being identical to the book, because, not only was it simply not a necessity, but also because the odds were high that not many people would notice the differences, and the producers were under no contract to be completely faithful anyway.

When the Benjamin Button film was released in late 2008, not many people had read the original short story, or even the graphic novel that was published in 2007. This is one of the reasons that the filmmakers did not need to worry about fidelity to the source text: because “absent [an audience that is familiar with the source text], it’s hard to see why filmmakers shouldn’t feel free to do whatever they like with their source material” (Leitch 64). Such was the case when Benjamin Button was released, and such is the case now, more than two years later. After talking with fellow students, I realized that none of them had ever heard of the short story, although they had all either heard of or seen the film. If this is the case with most movie-goers, then the filmmakers must have had the same idea that Leitch poses here, because they were hardly faithful to the original text.

Likewise, Leitch also says, concerning the “fidelity” of an adaptation, it is only greatly necessary “when fidelity is likely to be a selling point in order to presell a particular adaptation by association with [an already] commercially successful property” (64). This was obviously not an issue for the creators of the Benjamin Button film, as they were not very faithful to the original text. They kept the premise of a man aging backwards, but changed the mythology of even that. In the original story, Benjamin ages backwards mentally as well as physically. When the reader first sees him, he is described as “an old man apparently about seventy years of age. His sparse hair was almost white, and from his chin dripped a long smoke-coloured beard” (Fitzgerald). Here, he is a full-sized grown man who also has the ability to think and speak for himself. In contrast, baby Benjamin in the film is accurately newborn-sized, but afflicted with the appearance and complications of old age, and ages forward mentally, but physically he ages both forward and backward, growing to a full-size man, and then shrinking as his body de-ages to a child. Had the filmmakers been more concerned with fidelity, they would not have overlooked this first and most crucial element to the story, as it is what gives the story its flavor.

The last, and possibly the most crucial, point that I would like to address is the fact that “filmmakers who purchase adaptation rights to particular properties are purchasing, for example, the right to change specific elements in those properties” (Leitch 67, italics added). The truth of this statement should be obvious, but I would like to illuminate it by providing a rather all-inclusive example from the Benjamin Button story. In the original, Benjamin is born as a full-sized old man, which adds a bit of comedy to the story, especially in the beginning when his father buys him a rattle and insists “that he should ‘play with it,’ whereupon the old man took it with--a weary expression and could be heard jingling it obediently at intervals throughout the day” (Fitzgerald). In the film, however, Benjamin is born with an old version of a newborn baby’s body and abandoned by his father, which is not funny on any level. Abandonment is, of course, tragic, and the sight of a wrinkly, old baby is rather pathetic. It seems that the filmmakers were choosing to make the story more of a dramatic tragedy and less a comedy, and they had every right to do just that. They bought the right to do so when they bought the rights to the film.

When they changed the experience of the Benjamin Button story from a comic/tragedy to a dramatic, but ultimately tragic, story, the filmmakers were entirely in their rights. They had purchased the literal right to do so. Also, the fidelity of the story was not the reason for the adaptation, so it was not necessary. Since the film version of Benjamin Button was undoubtedly successful, winning three Academy Awards and grossing more than three hundred million dollars worldwide, it is clear that the infidelity of the filmmakers was warranted and “ethical,” just as Thomas Leitch says that infidelity can be.

Looking...

I used to complain about feeling like just a pair of eyes.

I hated feeling like I was just watching stuff happen, not doing anything of my own, just watching other people's lives happen while mine seemed to be on standby.

(of course, that was last summer, but that's neither here nor there)

But I realized today that actually, being a pair of eyes is pretty enlightening. When you look for it, there's actually a lot going on.

Sometimes people think that we can't see what's up, and maybe that's true for some people.

But I've been using my eyes a long time, and I know what I see when I see it.

Of course, this does lead to trouble on occasion, as I have been known to make comments and things that OTHER people don't understand because they don't use their eyes.

Which is actually kind of funny, now that I think about it.

Aaaaannnd now I'm rambling. What?

The House I Couldn't Grow Up In

I was not born in this house. I never lived here. This was my grandmother’s house in Napa, California. There is so much I could tell, because the family lived there for many years before I ever came along. But I suppose my story begins on June 23, 1990. Funnily enough, it ends almost exactly ten years and six months later.

That was the day that my parents were married in the front yard. The driveway came straight up out of the end of the road, and the house was backwards on it. The driveway led to the garage, which was in the back of the house of course. Then, in order to reach the front door, you had to walk around the house. The front lawn was long and round, dotted with a half dozen tall, sprawling oak trees. My parents were married there, on that wide brick front porch where my aunt and I would eat dry ramen and dance to “New Age Girl” four years later. On the long front lawn, I would run through the sprinklers with my best friend Trevor, whose mom Debbie taught me how to wink. At age ten, I would lose my “family ring” in the longer grass that the lawnmower couldn’t reach, just at the base of one of the towering oak trees. In the tallest tree there was a rope swing. There was a ladder up the back, but I would never be big enough to climb the ladder and swing from it until the house was long sold. Past the lawn was the barn where my father and his brothers would build a haunted house every Halloween, and it would house baby Jesus in the live nativity every Christmas. Last I heard, the current owners still do the haunted house. I must admit that I’m proud of them for holding up a Sorensen tradition, though they may never know what it means to us, and the people in the neighborhood we left behind. My grandma’s horse was named Mariah, after the wind, and she lived in the corral attached to the front end of the barn. There was one morning that my uncle Micah came in and announced that he had just been riding Mariah bareback, to which my grandma replied, “Were you bareback or was she?”

We had been standing in the kitchen, ranged around the long wood-topped island. We were probably eating crepes without plates, rolled up like burritos in the true Sorensen style. I think it had to do with the fact that, with eleven kids (not counting spouses or grandchildren or random “strangers within the gates”), there were simply never enough plates to go around. My grandma always made crepes, never pancakes. I think it was because they had a dozen or so chickens and needed something to do with the eggs. There was a burn mark on the island from a hot pan that had been set down without a pad, and something tells me that the cabinet below the burn mark was the cabinet from which my first sister pulled a jar of honey and spilled it all over the floor. It was on the island that I sat when I was about four and my mom corrected my lisp. It was in that kitchen that I learned to say “excuse me” when I wanted attention, and it was in that kitchen that my uncle, Micah again, made me choke on a Slurpee when I was five. The house rang with music, always, from one of the two grand pianos that my grandpa kept in the front room. My aunts used to sing when he played, their voices lusty and rich. I wish to this day that I could sing like them.

When I was ten years old, my grandmother died in a freak accident up Provo canyon. It was June 5, 2000. Within a year, the family was gone from the house. My aunt Jennifer was married in December of 2000, and we all came out to California to take our last vacation there. We had her wedding and the live nativity in a matter of days, and that was it. In those last few days, nothing had changed. Everything was as it had always been. The lawn was still long and green and lush. There was still a twisted pipe protruding from the ground where a house had stood before my dad burned it down – by accident, I’m told. We strung the back patio with Christmas lights for my aunt’s wedding reception dance, and my cousins and I spent the night arguing about whose dresses were actually burgundy. That night, the five of us slept on the landing at the top of the stairs. To this day, I am still curious as to how we all managed to fit up there. None of us slept much that night. I think we wanted to spend as much conscious, waking time as we could in the house. We all knew it would be the last time.

For ten more years, it was the last time. Some of the Sorensen siblings, my dad included, took several trips to California after my grandmother’s death, to visit friends and such. But I never went back. It wasn’t until this past August, August 2011, that my whole family went back. We had to visit The House, of course. At first glance, everything looked the same. The ground was still covered in a layer of oak leaves and acorns; the lawn was still, incredibly, as long as I remember. But then I noticed the dandelions, and that the rope swing had broken but no one had bothered to replace it or take it down. The grass in the field behind the barn was long and dead, and had obviously remained untouched for a long time. But it wasn’t until we came around the back that we noticed the changes. They’d built an outdoor kitchen, and added a pool, and plowed up the field where my parent’s engagement photos were taken to plant a vineyard. I’m not sure what I expected to see there. I think I expected to go back and just be transported back to my childhood, because that’s all I had at that house.

I don’t think I’ll be going back if I can possibly help it. Too much has changed. The house is not the Neverland it was when I was a kid, and I would rather it stay that way in my mind than be tainted with the reality of the remodels and renovations that it has undergone in the last decade. My grandma’s spirit doesn’t live in this new house. I thought that she would still be there, but too much has changed, and there’s really no point in going back without her. It’s just not the same.

My Three Homes

I- The Napa House was at the end of Bell Lane, where the road turned into the long curving driveway. Near the road were the two brick walls with lampposts on them, and the old wagon with the mailbox on it that my aunt would sell veggies out of in the summertime. In the yard was the barn, and the cottage, and the playhouse, the tree house, the blackberry bushes, the creek, the rope swing. Up on the brick front porch where my parents were married was some white wicker furniture with watercolor cushions. Inside the double doors to the right was the library. It had a panting of George Washington praying at Valley Forge over the fireplace, and the big east-facing windows looked out over the sweeping front lawn. Across the hall was the family room, with two grand pianos and the grandfather clock. Down the hall where I lost my first tooth, past the creepy closet under the stairs, to the big kitchen/living room. There was blue couch that my family wore out and the big round table that my uncle’s family wore out, after my grandma died. Through the hardwood kitchen with the burn mark on the island, to the stairs that lead to my aunt’s room above the garage. Up the green staircase with the blue family banner at the top was the tiny bedroom my mom stayed in on the eve of her wedding. There were the bedrooms, the large master bathroom my dad helped remodel the summer that I was seven, and the tiny landing where I slept with my cousins on the last night of the last vacation before my grandfather sold the house.

II- The House on 100 East was Victorian, tall, and was painted a disgusting sea green color for too many years. The front porch was a tiny, obvious, afterthought put on by some former owner after he’d enclosed the other porch and put a fireplace in it. I wish I could remember what it looked like when we first moved in. We put in so much work to that house, only to have the government buy it and tear it out by the roots and plant a parking garage on top of it. The aged hardwood floors were scrubbed to perfection by my parents. We painted every room a different color: the office was green, the living room was beige, the kitchen was blue, and the bathroom was yellow. Upstairs was only half-finished, a remodeling job that had to be put on hold when my sister was paralyzed. All of us slept in one big bedroom back when we only had five kids in the family. The upstairs bathroom was entirely Pepto-Bismol pink, and my sister and I spent many nights talking there while one or the other of us used the toilet, too scared to go on our own. Out in the backyard was our garden and our long lawn. Every summer my grandpa would paint an American flag on the side of the garage using cans of house paint from Home Depot. We used to pull the trampoline over and jump onto it from the garage roof. The night they tore down the house, we watched from the empty parking lot of the old Ford dealership next door.

III- The house I live in now has been in my memory just as long as these other two have. When I was five, my best friend lived there and tricked me into thinking that their was an evil gopher in the backyard. When I was eight, a nice old couple lived there. They restored the carriage house (with the help of my dad) and built a little nook into it especially for my use. When I was eleven, we moved in. It’s hard to squeeze a family of ten into a four bedroom, two bath house, but we’ve managed it. The office houses our computer and the grandfather clock from the Napa House. The living room holds one of my grandfather’s old pianos, and the kitchen was remodeled by my father when I was six years old. The lady who owned the house at the time told him, “Make it good. You’re going to live here someday.” Upstairs is the family room, with its long heated window seat and green/brown carpet. The door that used to lead to the master bathroom has been turned into a wall, but the texture is different and everyone can tell it used to be a door. Every room has at one time or another been mine, except for the master bedroom of course. The laundry room downstairs was remodeled into a handicap-accessible bedroom and bath for my younger sister. The backyard has been modified to include a tree fort, a rope swing, a zip line, and a swimming pool in the summertime. The deck, built by my father when I was nine, has housed concerts and movie nights nearly every summer since we’ve owned the place, and the carriage houses them in inclement weather. In a year I will graduate and move out, but this cozy street in Provo has been and always will be home.