Moonlit Wonder

I don’t remember the beginning of the evening that well. I just remember being hundreds of miles from home flying through the backwoods of New York (or perhaps New Jersey) in a crowded mini van with the low gas light blinking ominously at us and dark hills whizzing by the window pane. Every once in awhile I would see a deer poke its’ head out of the woods and then return to the safety of the leafy darkness. After a while, whether “a while” was defined as only a few minutes or a hundred years, we reached the ferry. You see, we were on a road trip spanning from Texas to Maine and we needed that ferry to cross a lake (although the lake’s name I can no longer recall) to get back to civilization. There was no other option. We either made the ferry or we spent the night foodless and hotel-less in a gloomy parking lot. Luckily we made it to the ferry 10 minutes before it headed off on its’ last trip of the evening. As we pulled up, the Capitan motioned us to drive aboard, park, and stretch our legs. Although it was a summer night, the air was chilly and I pulled on a sweatshirt to keep out the cold. My parents and my little brother and little sister went inside the glassed in cabin but I remained up on deck. As the ferry pushed off from shore, I went to the front of the boat and leaned up against the railing, gazing out across the water. The world was as it should be. Unlike the Dallas area, the place had no lighting pollution and when you looked up you could see the stars spinning and dancing though the night sky in perfect harmony. Over the course of the trip, even the moon decided to make an appearance, casting a silver light across the distant trees and turning the landscape into a place only seen in fairy tales. Every once in awhile a fish would jump out of the water and make ripples that spread spiraled out, creating a momentary disturbance in the lake’s glassy surface. The wind brushed cool and refreshing against my face and blew my long hair streaming out behind me. I think God creates such scenes to show off his handy work . He combines the moon and the stars and the lake and the gentle breeze to give us mere mortals a chance to be in awe. “Lord, why did you create such a beautiful world?” I silently prayed. And I could have sworn I heard the wind whisper “For you to enjoy.”

Back in the day when work wasn't work at all!

When you're younger, working in a fast food restaurant isn't really work at all...if you pick the right one, it was more of a social gathering! Sonic, for me, was that place. Two sides exist at a Sonic: the kitchen side and the fountain side.
On the kitchen side, where life isn't as fun, you have the crew dumping chicken strips and fries into the hot oil, the sound so loud you can barely hear the person yelling their order into the speaker. Burgers are always on the grill and the buns are constantly being buttered and toasted. Sometimes I wonder how I didn't gain 50lbs just by smelling the fresh fries and onion rings!
The fountain side--or up front, as we call it--contains the rest of us...laughing, gossipping, having a ball. Granted, we DO work- making cherry limeades, chocolate sundaes, orange slushies-we just work harder on our social lives! (Just a little side-note: We CAN hear what's going on in your car even when you don't push the button...oh and pushing that little button more than once really doesn't do anything!) Every now and then, your boss yells at you to be quiet, but even she is commenting on how cute the guy in car up front is, but how horrible of a tipper he tends to be. Life is great on the fountain side.
One place hides inbetween the two different sides...you might not notice it outside, but inside, everyone knows the sacred spot to get away from it all. A room separated from the smell of oil and the sound of our laughter exists. This room isn't separated by anything more than two walls-not even a door keeps out the crazy-yet the serenity of the stacks of cardboard boxes filled with stirofoam cups will surprise anyone who sets foot into a fast food restaurant during lunch rush. It's a place where a person can look around and ask themselves, "Do we REALLY need THIS much ketchup?" and you get a silent answer, "Yes...we do...". Suddenly, you snap out of your vision of people pouring ketchup down their throats and you realize, "Damn, I really need to go tell Kristen what happened earlier, she'll get a kick out of it!" You go back up front just in time to hear your boss tell you that 3 more cars just pulled in.
All you can hope is that they really don't want something to drink with that...you're story isn't finished.

Ivy and Grass

It seems like every summer has somewhat of a home base where everyone would rendezvous before the night’s activities, whatever they were. Sonic was our home base of our many different adventures. One particular weekend, one friend had heard of a haunted house further down the road. Haunted? No. Run down and creepy? This house had not been lived in for decades and it could barley be seen through the uncut grass and ivy. We wiggled through the boards in the windows to discover the vast inside of a once very nice house. Since then, the walls were decaying and the roof had been eating itself.
Random nothings were strewn about the interior including Polaroid photos and lawn furniture. As secretive as it looked, the house had been raided before perhaps by bored kids similar to us. The past visitors had tried to make the house as haunted as possible to frighten the likes of any one who came into the house. Disturbing messages written on the walls and the eerie photos were straight out of a horror film which ironically made it less scary. None the less, we were still unnerved and soon left the property. Not without stolen booty from the site of course. We returned to Sonic victorious. I sipped on cherry limeade while wearing a sombrero hat and lounging on a fold out chair, which were both found in the house. Others walked around with canes and glasses which were also excavated.
Last time I saw the haunted house, the ivy was tamed and the grass was cut to a respectable length.

My Family Legend

I remember late nights of hide-and-go-seek in the dark. The darkness always made it scary, and playing with scary older cousins didn't help any. I usually didn't get to play very long, just until my mom would call me from the porch and say it was too dark. I remember that cousins would sneak around in the shadow of a giant bush, their hands in the shapes of claws, while they whispered in a gruff voice: "I'm Gardner and I'm coming in."

There is a legend behind that infamous quote, but I don't know the story well. It must have happened in the late 50's. My dad had been born, but was not old enough to leave his mother for very long. My aunts and uncles are in Alabama, far from their home in Missouri, at Mawmaw and Papa Freeman's house. I imagine my Great Grandmother (their Mawmaw) rocks slowly in her chair, intently shelling black-eyed peas, her hands stained purple. I imagine my aunts and uncles - five of them - are playing games and teasing each other. Then, through the open door, they see a shadow appear. The room is silent, and Mawmaw looks up from her work, wishing that the men were back from the store. Behind the screen door, the shadow speaks: "I'm Gardner and I'm coming in."

My great aunt Evelyn always insisted that he said, "Hello, I'm Mr. Gardner. May I please come in?" This was just one problem with the family legend. No one could remember what happened. The story I get from my father is that Gardner, or Mr. Gardner, had evidently killed someone, accidentally or otherwise, and had come to use the phone to turn himself in. But the words he used were so perfect, so direct - a simple introduction, followed by a simple statement. Mr. Gardner himself has been lost to history - we don't really know who he was or what he did. But his words have become iconic - the words that will be used for an eternity as a stock phrase of midnight ghost stories: "I'm Gardner and I'm coming in."

Blond, Beautiful and Dead

I think everyone in Arkansas heard about the news reporter from Little Rock, Anne Pressly. She was brutally attacked and murdered in October, according to police investigations and the media.

This story still gives my skin goose bumps and my stomach feels like it might just lose some of its contents.

I imagine myself in her place. Doing everything.
I want to be a news anchor, for CNN or, you know, some really big channel and network. Of course I know I’ll start locally and try to work my way up, that’s what happens, but when thinking of this murder, I see myself in her position behind the camera, smiling and reporting news, and then next thing I know, I’m lying on the floor of my large house, unconscious because someone decided to beat and kill me. My face, with bright shining eyes and a Miss America smile so well known to the local residents, now bloody, bruised, swollen and parts of it broken. And I’m dead.

“Vance was charged with capital murder in the death of Anne Pressly. The 26-year-old anchorwoman, who had a small part in the President George W. Bush biopic "W," died Oct. 25 -- five days after being severely beaten in what police described as a random attack at her home.”

A. Random. Attack.

The media is such a wonderful terrible thing. There is no such thing as having any feelings when one is reporting or writing the news. The news must be descriptive and catchy, if it’s not, you better write it over again. The media chooses what to report on, what not to report on, how often to report on something. And as horrible of a truth as it is, the story of beautiful blond reporter Anne Pressly, was news media gold.

I don’t think anyone ever really thinks about what they are reading when it comes to people who have died. Can you imagine a news article about yourself and included are the words “severely beaten” and “random attack”?

I can’t.

Yet I know one day I’ll have to sit in front of a camera and read these stories, ones about murders, rapes, beaten children and drug deals.

Everyone says the news is all bad, nothing good is ever reported. Not always true, but mostly true. I won’t lie. Do you know why? Because it grabs your attention, and a fucking report on the world’s smallest laptop or sweaters for your miniature chihuahua doesn’t grab your attention as much as a break-in at the local Best Buy or dog fighting that the guy living behind you just got arrested for.

We are sick and weird, the media knows this. And here I am, well aware of this, and what do I want to do? Be a part of it.