Fishing Failure

I sat in the car: sleeping, or at least wishing I could. The car bumped along the curved, rocky road, my head banged against the window, I kept my eyes closed, trying to make up for the fact that I woke up two hours earlier than I normally would have. Our automobile, our horseless carriage felt like it was being pulled by a team of badly trained horses. We finally came to a stop. I opened my eyes and rubbed my head: we were there. I opened the door and brought our fishing gear down the ramp. I grabbed poles, lures, snacks and drinks. I grabbed gasoline, glasses, ice chests, and hats. I got ready for a day of fun, a day of catch after catch, a day well spent.

“Get the stuff in the boat,” My dad told me as he hopped into the car, “I'm gonna go park this, then I'll be back. I obeyed, grabbing a bucket of lures, a fishing pole, and a couple of life jackets.

"This is going to be fun," I thought, " I hope I can catch the biggest fish." I hopped in the boat and waited for everyone else to get in. We were off!

The choppy water bounced our small boat like a basketball on a trampoline, but we moved forward, trolling, or letting the line drift behind us while the boat was moving. I held the pole between my legs anticipating a strike. None came. After twenty minutes, my dad said, "Reel it in, let's try another lure." He pulled out a pink striped lure and put it on my pole. I let it drift behind the boat.

"Come on," I thought, " Take the bait. " They didn't.

My dad spoke again,"Let's try a different lure." He picked out a bright green one. I let the line drift.

"Hey Dad," I said, trying to break the silence, "Would you rather sky-dive or hang-glide?"

"Sky dive, Hang gliding kind of scares me."

"You're not afraid of jumping out of a plane, but you're scared of running off a cliff attached to giant wings? I'd rather hang-glide," I responded, "How about para-sailing? Or how about wind-surfing?"

"I don't know."

We continued fishing, switching our lures every twenty minutes. We caught nothing, but we had fun. I realized that I have more fun spending time with my dad than actually acomplishing what we set out to do.

Blown Way out of Proportion

Yesterday was a normal Sunday, I woke up far too early, and got dressed for church: my nice shirt, pants, shoes, belt, tie, and my awesome Christmas-themed socks. We set off to worship forty-five minutes before church started.

By the time church ended, I was starving, begging my mom to hurry up so we could go home.

"Aren't you going to help every body set up the Christmas tree?" she asked, "You're supposed to."

I mumbled, "No one told me," and hurried off. Every one was surrounding the tree, and there wasn't much room, so me and this kid started playing catch.

We had a great time until my brother showed up and tried to turn it into Monkey-in-the-Middle, despite my repeated No's. He grabbed the ball and ran, I chased him.

Wrapping my arms around him, I wrestled for the ball. He threw it away and I pushed off him going for the ball. On his way down his head hit my knee (in the same way that a car hits a person in the way, regardless of what the person did to the car). His nose began to drip blood, and he hurried off to the bathroom. The whole ordeal lasted less than sixty seconds.

On the way home my Mom talked to my brother and I, "Someone told me, that you two were fighting, and that his," she pointed to my brother, "nose was gushing blood. You two are grounded to your rooms for the rest of the day."

My parents don't ground us too often, which is why it wasn't that bad. I had wanted to spend the rest of the day in my room anyway, but still, the way she said it, you would of thought that my brother and I were having a vicious title match, that we were at each other's throats. Whoever told her blew the story way out of proportion, I've done ten times worse and didn't get punished half as bad.

My Inferno

I walked into my room, exhausted from a long day. I peered around looking at my bed, my closet, the dresser, the annoyingly bright light, my brother laying on his bed reading a book, “What are you reading?” I said, casually.

He lifted the book, just enough for me to see the cover, and kept reading. I looked at it and did a double-take, there he was, reading one of my favorite books. An inferno of hate, jealousy, and disgust coursed through my mind. He dared read it. He dared pick it up without my permission.

It was mine. I couldn't stand the fact that he had intruded into the world that belonged to me. I hated him for it. He read it, not comprehending the plot, mispronouncing the characters' names. They were mine.

He read more of my books. The inferno raged.

I couldn't stand it, I felt like he was picking off my body parts, I clung to the books I had left,dreading when he would take them. I learned that the hardest thing to share is a book.

Overestimation of the Situation

I have no Idea what I was worried about. Everything I was afraid of was completely no problem: my uncle was great, Thanksgiving was awesome, and I only froze my butt off one day. I really think I overestimated the scariness of the situation. I had a great time.

When we first got there we went straight to sleep, it was one in the morning. We visited the national mall the next day, basking in all the things to do, while turning ourselves into Popsicles. We played with our cousins the rest of the night. Once we woke up, our cousins and us went to see the 9/11 memorial near the Pentagon. We played an epic game of Capture the Flag, and then went to bed.

When we woke up Thanksgiving morning, we immediately got dressed in buttoned-down shirts and slacks: we were eating at the Officers Club. The Officers Club was a big buffet with no rules, I could eat whatever, whenever.

On Friday we went to the movies and did some Christmas shopping a little later. Saturday: I went shotgun-shooting and visited a Civil War site, pulled an all-nighter and got ready to fly home. Unfortunately, the flight was canceled after we boarded, so we rented a hotel and went to see the law-enforcement memorial and museum of American history, ate at a hamburger joint, and prepared to once again wake up at one in the morning.

Through all that, I learned that you can't judge a book by it's cover, and you can't overestimate the situation. When you do, you get it wrong.

The Waiting is the Worst Part of the Journey

Apprehension. Waiting. Wondering what it will be like. Hoping. Fearing. Getting ready for a

Thanksgiving unlike any other.

I typically have a very laid-back Thanksgiving, no fuss about the perfect dinner, clothes, hair. I wear whatever I like, eat whenever, don't comb my hair, don't care about how the turkey looks, I don't even really care about turkey. Not this year.

This year I'm heading to D.C. for the day that I'm supposed to be giving thanks. My mom's sister's family lives in the District of Columbia, amd I'm heading to their place. My uncle is in the Marines (he works at the Pentagon), and from what I hear he's strict on dress, etiquite, and promptness (not hat I have any major problems with any of those, but my parents are slightly lax on them). On top of that, We're eating Thanksgiving dinner in the Officer's Club: a fancy, high dress code military establishment. Plus, I haven't seen my cousins in years, and I don't know how differemt they are now. Add to that the fact that It's frigid in D.C. this time of year.

I do'nt know what to expect, I don't really know anything. All I know is that in less than twelve hours, I will be freezing my but off, and that the waiting is the worst part of the journey.