Target Practice
03-22-2005, 04:42 AM
I'm happy.
Now, I know a happy TP is a TP you don't see very much (I'm looking at you, Fruitcat Crew), but hey, it happens.
I'm not happy in that "Hey, class is cancelled today!" sort of way. No, I'm happy in the "There's great music playing on the radio, I love my girlfriend, and my life could be a lot worse!" sort of way. I got to thinking about some stuff that used to make me happy. Those memories are also making me happy tonight.
After writing some of these, they're not all happy, and as trains of thought go, that's about par for the course. Anyway, whatever.
So, In lieu of sleeping, I'll write about it, and maybe it'll make you guys happy too.
We'll start with the memories, shall we?
I remember...
Pre-school. The one time in elementary school where I was friends with EVERYBODY. Ms. Jill was my teacher, and she has got to be the sweetest creature on Earth. Remember those little steel tricycles that we used to ride? Remember the first time you figured out that if you leaned to the side enough, you could ride on two wheels? I do. I remember doing it, on accident really, then showing everyone else how to do it. I remember playing on that big jungle gym that schools these days are sorely lacking. I remeber playing "ghost squad" with my friends, and throwing myself against the bathroom wall whilst shouting "Shoot the ghost! Shoot the ghost!" I rember meeting my friend of 16 years, Josh. I told him that I would help him build a fort out of those big cardboard bricks if he (the class shark expert) told me EVERYTHING he knew about sharks. We both fulfilled our respective ends of the bargain, and he's been my friend ever since. Now, he's in the Navy. Stay safe, Josh, and God bless you.
In kindergarten, we took a field trip to a pumpkin patch.
I remember feeding 5" floppies into Apple 2Es, and having a blast.
I remember the day that I memorized my full name, address, and phone number. We were sitting in church (Our Lady of Mercy), a couple dozen pews from the front, on the left of the aisle. I just looked up at my dad, and said "Ryan Alan McCalman. 2346 "T" Street, Merced California, 95340. 383-8526."
It's that church that brings me to my next memory, which is not a happy one, I'm afraid.
I remember my Nonna. We used to go over to her house after school for lunch. Being the typical Italian great-grandmother, she'd stuff my brother and I full of food. She's start with soup, then pasta, then either a t-bone or filet mignon, mashed potatoes, green beens or corn or peas or salad with little shrimp in it. Then my brother and I would watch cartoons and eat ice cream. No wonder I was the chubby kid in school. Come to think of it, I was at here house when OJ Simspon ran from the cops. I wanted to watch something on TV, and the only thing on was that goddamn police chase. Oh well. She always had two doughnuts, one for me, and one for my brother. Chocolate. My Nonno was there too. He was sick. I remember sitting on his lap. He used to grind his teeth, so my brother and I would put a stick of gum in his mouth, and it would help. I remember getting the news that he had died. All I could say is "I'm not ready!" between sobs. Even now, when I remeber getting that news, all I could think of was burnt toast.
The reason that Our Lady of Mercy brings back these memories, is that I had to stand up in front of a packed church to say goodbye to her. She died of brain cancer in September. I saw her before she died. She knew who I was, I sat with her. She kept yelling at my brother to stop sleeping on the couch, something he was always doing at her house. My brother wasn't with me that day. He had come with my parents earlier. Walking out that door the last time was one of the hardest things I ever had to do.I remember the weight of the casket, and letting my younger brother cry on my shoulder in church.
My girlfriend was with me that day, and she helped me though it. She'd known me two months. little did I know that in January I would be called upon to return the service. I remember crying right along side of her at her uncle's funeral. I had never met him, but I was surrounded by so much grief, and seeing her in pain is one of the worst things I've ever experienced.
Well, I'm thoroughly depressed now. Anyway, let's not get you all down. I need happy memories now, so let's move on. Something else perhaps? How about...junior high.
Ahh...sixth grade camp. The first or second day we were there, we had some archery thing. Those crappy longbows that they use for P.E. were set up, with a target attached to a bale of hay about thirty yards away. I'd never held a bow before, let alone shot one. The counselor asked me if I wanted to try. "Sure, why not." I picked it up, drew back, and let loose. I can still remember tracing that arrow through the air. It hit the exact center of the bullseye. I calmly set the bow down like I knew what I was doing, and walked away. I've haven't picked up a bow since.
I spend that summer with Josh, Mel, and Daniel. We were inseperable, people called us the Four Musketeers. Many a long night was spent in a tent in Josh's back yard, with back issues of Playboy swiped from various dad's and uncles, cases of Mountain Dew, and early morning hikes out to the lake. These were always followed by mornings filled with pancakes and bacon and eggs, lovingly prepared by Josh's dad, a former gunshop owner turned orthepedic surgeon and master chef.
At Josh's 8th grade graduation party, a girl named Coby lifted up her shirt. Everyone thought it was a big deal. I remember myself, Josh, David (my other best friend), Mel, and Daniel sitting around a table, while everyone else danced to the strains of Pure Disco and Pure Funk. We sat around, talked, and sipped our omnipresent Dews.
It was wonderful.
Maybe I'll do high school tomorrow.
I'm tired, and I have dreams to get too.
Now, I know a happy TP is a TP you don't see very much (I'm looking at you, Fruitcat Crew), but hey, it happens.
I'm not happy in that "Hey, class is cancelled today!" sort of way. No, I'm happy in the "There's great music playing on the radio, I love my girlfriend, and my life could be a lot worse!" sort of way. I got to thinking about some stuff that used to make me happy. Those memories are also making me happy tonight.
After writing some of these, they're not all happy, and as trains of thought go, that's about par for the course. Anyway, whatever.
So, In lieu of sleeping, I'll write about it, and maybe it'll make you guys happy too.
We'll start with the memories, shall we?
I remember...
Pre-school. The one time in elementary school where I was friends with EVERYBODY. Ms. Jill was my teacher, and she has got to be the sweetest creature on Earth. Remember those little steel tricycles that we used to ride? Remember the first time you figured out that if you leaned to the side enough, you could ride on two wheels? I do. I remember doing it, on accident really, then showing everyone else how to do it. I remember playing on that big jungle gym that schools these days are sorely lacking. I remeber playing "ghost squad" with my friends, and throwing myself against the bathroom wall whilst shouting "Shoot the ghost! Shoot the ghost!" I rember meeting my friend of 16 years, Josh. I told him that I would help him build a fort out of those big cardboard bricks if he (the class shark expert) told me EVERYTHING he knew about sharks. We both fulfilled our respective ends of the bargain, and he's been my friend ever since. Now, he's in the Navy. Stay safe, Josh, and God bless you.
In kindergarten, we took a field trip to a pumpkin patch.
I remember feeding 5" floppies into Apple 2Es, and having a blast.
I remember the day that I memorized my full name, address, and phone number. We were sitting in church (Our Lady of Mercy), a couple dozen pews from the front, on the left of the aisle. I just looked up at my dad, and said "Ryan Alan McCalman. 2346 "T" Street, Merced California, 95340. 383-8526."
It's that church that brings me to my next memory, which is not a happy one, I'm afraid.
I remember my Nonna. We used to go over to her house after school for lunch. Being the typical Italian great-grandmother, she'd stuff my brother and I full of food. She's start with soup, then pasta, then either a t-bone or filet mignon, mashed potatoes, green beens or corn or peas or salad with little shrimp in it. Then my brother and I would watch cartoons and eat ice cream. No wonder I was the chubby kid in school. Come to think of it, I was at here house when OJ Simspon ran from the cops. I wanted to watch something on TV, and the only thing on was that goddamn police chase. Oh well. She always had two doughnuts, one for me, and one for my brother. Chocolate. My Nonno was there too. He was sick. I remember sitting on his lap. He used to grind his teeth, so my brother and I would put a stick of gum in his mouth, and it would help. I remember getting the news that he had died. All I could say is "I'm not ready!" between sobs. Even now, when I remeber getting that news, all I could think of was burnt toast.
The reason that Our Lady of Mercy brings back these memories, is that I had to stand up in front of a packed church to say goodbye to her. She died of brain cancer in September. I saw her before she died. She knew who I was, I sat with her. She kept yelling at my brother to stop sleeping on the couch, something he was always doing at her house. My brother wasn't with me that day. He had come with my parents earlier. Walking out that door the last time was one of the hardest things I ever had to do.I remember the weight of the casket, and letting my younger brother cry on my shoulder in church.
My girlfriend was with me that day, and she helped me though it. She'd known me two months. little did I know that in January I would be called upon to return the service. I remember crying right along side of her at her uncle's funeral. I had never met him, but I was surrounded by so much grief, and seeing her in pain is one of the worst things I've ever experienced.
Well, I'm thoroughly depressed now. Anyway, let's not get you all down. I need happy memories now, so let's move on. Something else perhaps? How about...junior high.
Ahh...sixth grade camp. The first or second day we were there, we had some archery thing. Those crappy longbows that they use for P.E. were set up, with a target attached to a bale of hay about thirty yards away. I'd never held a bow before, let alone shot one. The counselor asked me if I wanted to try. "Sure, why not." I picked it up, drew back, and let loose. I can still remember tracing that arrow through the air. It hit the exact center of the bullseye. I calmly set the bow down like I knew what I was doing, and walked away. I've haven't picked up a bow since.
I spend that summer with Josh, Mel, and Daniel. We were inseperable, people called us the Four Musketeers. Many a long night was spent in a tent in Josh's back yard, with back issues of Playboy swiped from various dad's and uncles, cases of Mountain Dew, and early morning hikes out to the lake. These were always followed by mornings filled with pancakes and bacon and eggs, lovingly prepared by Josh's dad, a former gunshop owner turned orthepedic surgeon and master chef.
At Josh's 8th grade graduation party, a girl named Coby lifted up her shirt. Everyone thought it was a big deal. I remember myself, Josh, David (my other best friend), Mel, and Daniel sitting around a table, while everyone else danced to the strains of Pure Disco and Pure Funk. We sat around, talked, and sipped our omnipresent Dews.
It was wonderful.
Maybe I'll do high school tomorrow.
I'm tired, and I have dreams to get too.