Flying, Short Stories, Kid's Books, and a little more on Dreams

Ever since my last post about dreams, that subject seems to have come up a lot more than usual. Probably part of the reason is because I did write about dreams, which means Mom and Dad got the e-mails of my blog and read the post like the loving, caring parents they are. (Oh, and I had yet another wedding dream. I'm starting to think talking about them makes them occur.) Somehow, on the way home from church on Wednesday, we were talking about dreams. In particular, flying.

I don't remember ever having a dream about flying. The closest I've ever come is falling, and that happens a lot. Usually from a treehouse, though sometimes I'll be stumbling downstairs (I've lost my breath twice doing that in real life, and it was one of the scariest experiences to me) or be leaning too far over something and tumble off. Dad and Heather said they both have had flying dreams, and went on to describe them.

Heather said it was the coolest thing, because it literally felt like flying. From the way she described it, I was jealous. Why don't I ever get those sort of dreams?

Dad said flying always took a lot of mental effort, and on occasion a cardboard box. When I asked him to elaborate, he explained that it was less like soaring and more like floating, and he really had to concentrate on it, with varying results.

I think I read somewhere that flying dreams are some of the most common. Don't quote me, though. We know how great my memory is. That notion seemed a little odd to me because, like I said, I've never had any such dreams that I can recall, and I haven't heard many other people say that they have (and there are days when the whole family has spent the previous night experiencing strange dreams, and we discuss them [except Wes who, apparently, doesn't dream]). But maybe it's just me. Actually, it probably is just me. I wonder what that says about my subconscious compared to my dad's and sister's?

I suppose the topic of flying was more fascinating to me because I have a character in a little short story I'm working on ("short" being a tentative term) who's a dragon who can't fly. Yes, a dragon. I tried writing "normal" fiction, and I just can't seem to manage it. And I like dragons.

In any case, the idea of a dragon who can't fly might be in part inspired by the Wyvern (or "wyverary") A-through-L in The Girl Who Circumnavigated Fairyland in a Ship of Her Own Making, which I read recently and greatly enjoyed.Of course, in A-through-L's case, his wings were chained to his sides because the law states, "Aeronautic locomotion is permitted only by means of Leopard or licensed Ragwort Stalk." In the case of the unfortunately nameless dragon in my so-called "short" story...well, I'm still undecided as to why he can't fly. Probably something as boring as malnutrition and having been in captivity all his life, unable to properly use his wings. I had the vague idea before reading The Girl Who...etc, but I'm just now fleshing it out. That's the one problem with all this reading nonsense: I have an idea for a story, continue my bookwormish life and discover a story with a similar idea, and then worry that I'm unconsciously copying that story, even though  I'm consciously trying not to.

I found it characteristically strange that I have this dreadful fear of heights and yet I love the notion of flying. Under ones own power, that is. Must be all this finally-reading-of-classic-children's-fiction, Peter Pan included. "I'll teach you how to jump on the wind's back, and away we'll go." How do unimaginative people live. You know, like, really live.

"Oh, but Aunt Polly, Aunt Polly, you haven't left me any time at all just to-to live!"

"To live, child! What do you mean? As if you weren't living all the time!"

"Oh, of course I'd be BREATHING all the time I was going those things, Aunt Polly, but I wouldn't be living. You breathe all the time you're asleep, but you aren't living. I mean living- doing the things you want to do: playing outdoors, reading (to myself, of course), climbing hills, talking to Mr. Tom in the garden, and Nancy, and finding out all about the houses and the people and everything everywhere all through the perfectly lovely streets I came through yesterday. That's what I call living, Aunt Polly. Just breathing isn't living!" (Pollyanna, by Eleanor H. Porter, my most current read)

The Dark Side of Dreamland (AKA my subconscious)

How does one distinguish between dreams and nightmares? While many of the dreams I have can get pretty dark in content (Doomsday is a popular topic in my subconscious, apparently) upon waking I realize they're more ridiculous than anything.

I've talked about my dreams before, but just the purely stupid ones. The wedding dreams. Yeah, I had another of those a month or so ago, I think. Still no face for Mr. Groom. Stink. But I'll not go into that. 

The last time I had a dream that haunted me for weeks afterward seems silly now: weasel-like rodents racing around an apocalyptic world, gnawing through 2-foot thick metal and taking down whole buildings; sick and injured people stumbling around in the streets and taking refuge in makeshift hospitals in libraries and such; and the only way to stay safe was to carry some sort of talisman that surrounded you in a circle of light that acted as a shield. (I felt certain it was a Bible. Hmmm.) Yeah. But man, those creatures were creepy. They had teeth like rats, and they were big, and I don't really have an aversion to rodents but I hated these.

For a while I was plagued by bad dreams. Just a couple years ago, a while after we moved into this house. I don't remember what they were about; probably some of them involved people I loved dying. (In one, people tried to console my grieving self by tempting me with a trip to an amusement park. Right. Like that would ever make me feel better in any circumstance!) I once had a dream were both Wes and Dad had died (and possibly Hershey), and I woke up in the middle of the night and was desperate to be a little kid and stumble into Mom and Dad's room for a hug. I felt fine after a late night shower and some time in my Bible, but Mom was at a loss as to how to console me. It wasn't even a realistic dream.

That's the worst part about some of my dreams. In the dream, I'm struggling to figure out what's reality and what isn't, and when I wake up I'm overwhelmed with sorrow and spend the next few minutes trying to figure out if the bad parts of the dream were memories or pure fiction. (Like when I was little and dreamt about having telekinesis. I spent the better part of the morning trying to bring various objects to my side with a wave of my finger before I was finally resigned to the fact that I couldn't do it.)

And then there are the dreams where we're running from something. When I was little and Wes's obsession with Bionicles filled my subconscious, it was some creatures in an underground land filled with lava, and my favorite Bionicle heroes came to the rescue and got me out. Last night, it was a tornado.

Of course. Always a tornado. I can't count how many times we've had to run from tornadoes. I guess I'm glad now that most of the characters in my dreams lately are human and stay that way. (Have you ever had a dream where someone keeps shifting from human to animal, all the while the same "person"? Hate that. Can never keep up a good conversation.)

I can usually trace parts of my dream to things I was doing before I went to sleep: that stupid zombie show I watched, the book I read, on occasion the food I ate, though no lumps of mustard or undercooked potatoes. I'll venture to guess that the end of last night's dream - where some guy who'd been following us in our escape from the massive tornado proposed to me - can be traced to the fairy tale book I was reading before bed. I was only half-way through when I put it down and already anticipating a proposal.

And yes. Dream guy had a face. Hurrah!

No. I didn't recognize him. No, I won't tell you what he looked like, either.

And to think that my subconscious begged me to stay asleep long enough for the bumbling idiot to just get on with it. Of course, I woke up before that.

And then there's the moment when you're between sleeping and waking and your conscious starts fabricating a quick ending to tie everything up satisfactorily: give me the ring, open the door, kill the beast, stop crying and get out. 

Some people say they don't dream, which I refuse to believe. I think they just dream like me and not like the "normal" style of dreaming where it's harmless and dumb and boring, and they're afraid to admit they're haunted by rabid rodents or getting proposed to when there's a cyclone on the horizon. That, or they do dream normally and it's too insignificant to remember. Poor people; even in their sleep, their lives are so boring.

How I sometimes wish I were they! But, as far as dreams go, it's probably my own fault, considering the wild and adventurous stuff I read, most of it fantasy.

And then there are the recurring dreams, where I'll have a dream and be certain I had practically the same one a few years before. Or the series dreams, where I'll have one dream and then a while later another one that seems to pick up right where the first left off.

The annoying ones are where I'm wandering through some creepy place and keep coming upon things from horror stories. Although, Heather gets those more than I do. In those dreams, I berate my subconscious self for being so stupid hanging around those dark, creepy places instead of running while dream-me has the chance. I really hate horror-style movies and dreams alike.

But then, what can be described as a "normal" dream? They all have those stupid twists and dark moments, at least in my experience. And in answer to the question I posed at the beginning, about the difference between nightmares and other dreams: I really don't know. 

I once had an idea for a story where a girl was cursed to wander the land of dreams. It wasn't a happy place, and she was one of the most miserable characters I've ever tried to write. She must have been spending a lot of time in my dreams.

The Search for a Title Continues

Why do I want to change my blog title, you ask? I've asked myself the same question. It took me considerable effort to come up with "Breathless". I know I have a bad habit of switching up my blog as it is, but here's the deal: what I have right now still isn't the style I want to go for.

I want something a little more personal than "Breathless". And perhaps less quietly poetic and more perky. Something that suits my personality and the style of my posts a little better. However, I absolutely detest coming up with titles and slogans and whatnot. No thank you.

Looking around at some of the blogs I follow, I notice that girls my age often like to have their name in the title along with a word (an adjective, a lot of the time) that usually has the same first letter as their name. It makes the title catchy and simple, and I like alliterations. I liked this idea, but it's hard to find a decent "a" adjective. 

I went through dictionary.com and looked at the words starting "amb-". Not much there, really. I did discover "ambisinister", which, evil as it sounds, simply means "clumsy or unskillful with both hands". There's also "ambition", "ambivalence" (uncertainty or fluctuation, especialy when caused by inability to make a choice or by a simultaneous desire to say or do two opposite or conflicting things), "amble", and "ambry" (which is simply, "chiefly British dialect", a closet or pantry). Not really helpful, all in all. 

Some people make the title a simple definition of what their blog is about, like "Magical Moments". However, I don't keep my posts to one general subject or theme. It's just me.

Then there are people whose title is simply something they like, like my sister's "Stained Glass". I like a lot of stuff, from writing to gardening to my mom's new bike.

Some people just try to be as catchy as possible. My other sister has "Locket Full of Fairydust". (Like "pocket full of stardust". I helped.)

As I do in most predicaments of this kind, I started making a list. (Don't judge. It helps me organize my thoughts.) Here's an idea of what I came up with:

Definition of Me (as I mentioned previously)

(insert word here) A la Amber

The World Through Amber-Colored Glasses (I know, sooo cheesy. I'm rather ashamed)

Abstract(ion)

(insert word here) Yours, Amber

Absent-Minded

Misadventures

Note to Self

Those are just the ideas I am still considering. There were more, but I'm not so big on them now.

In another vein of thought, I started browsing through all of the quotes I've collected on Goodreads.com. And then I got stuck on this whole "carpe diem" idea. (Latin for "I seize the day".)

I know. "Seize the day" is quite cliche. (Ha ha. Rhyme.) But the fact that it's a song in "Newsies" means I associate it with lots of energy and boldness and some of the best choreography I've ever seen.

I found a number of quotes related in one way or another to "seize the day":

"Life is an adventure: dare it." - Mother Teresa (or possibly part of some Hindi proverb. I saw it attributed to both.)

"Life is either a daring adventure or nothing at all." - Helen Keller

"Do not dare not to dare." - Aslan, Chronicles of Narnia (though I'm not sure which book)

Obviously, "dare" is a theme in there as well. So I looked up the definition:

"To have necessary courage or boldness; to be bold enough to meet defiantly. Dare emphasizes the state of mind that makes one willing to meet danger."

Okay, so I only dream of being "daring".

As much as I found this whole "dare the adventure" idea intriguing and inspirational, I also had the feeling that it was a bit.... I don't have the right word. It's sort of a battle-cry for an unsaved person, I guess. Sure, we all ought to make the most out of life, but "seize the day" almost has the idea of just "living it up", getting all the thrills you can. It's a different sort of "making every moment count" than I prefer. For the Christian, we have to live in the knowledge that "this world is not my home" and we're living for something more, so we can't sit around wasting time when we could be doing something that will matter. (That last bit is courtesy of my dad.) So I kind of put away the idea.

Currently, I'm most stuck on the "(word) + my name" style of titling, but I haven't really found the right word. I do like "abstractions" and "anecdotes", but I don't know how to make them flow in a title.

By now I'm sure some of you, if not all, are thinking, "Good grief! All this for just a blog title? Just pick one already and get over it!"

I know, I know. I agree. And I'm working on it. But for now, this is all you get. Haha!

Hey! Three posts in a week isn't bad. Now let's see if I can keep up the momentum.

A Life with Dogs is Never Dull (at least, when it's my life)

Recently we've been forced to put bark collars on our dogs when they go outside. I'll admit Sasha has a bit of an attitude bark - where she barks at anything that moves, just because she can. For Hershey, it's whenever he sees a squirrel, deer, or other dog. No matter the size of the dog.

Anyway. We have an old one from when we just had Hershey, and Wes had to replace the batteries. Hershey had been wearing that one, while Sasha had a new one, but the old one didn't seem to be working, so Mom suggested I switch around the collars.

This morning, I went to put the dogs out. This is a serious process now. Sasha doesn't sit still, especially when it's morning and she really has to go. When I do get her to sit, she tilts her head back to eye me so I can't get the collar on. And then, because it's the old one and was set to fit around Hershey's neck, I had to adjust it. Then the new collar isn't snap but buckle, and I think Hershey does something to his neck muscles to keep me from making it tight enough. Rather like a horse and their saddle.

Finally, they were ready. I had the leashes twisted all around my right hand so I could use my left to open and close the door and kennel gate.

And then Sasha spotted a squirrel. She isn't so into them as Hershey, but it's something moving, which means she should chase it. And then Hershey noticed. Commence dragging Amber across the yard.

When the dogs want to go at something, they dig in like they're pulling a sled. I'm surprised my arms are still so wimpy with all this pulling against the dogs. I grabbed the jumble of leashes with both hands and muttered at the dogs. Just past the kennel gate, I managed to pull everything to a stop and start my own dragging. Sasha's ADHD is actually very helpful in these situations. I called her to come to the kennel and she came. She figured she could watch the squirrel just as well from there.

When Hershey gets to pulling, he chokes himself. Then he has to stop and cough and gag for a minute. He was doing this while I was detangling myself and undoing their leashes. And then he coughed hard.

I knew what happened immediately, when he froze. Then, without a sound, he bolted for the gate.

I grabbed him on his way out, trying to console him. Any rough throaty noise the dogs make leads to being zapped. It's happened before when Hershey has coughed. Now, apparently, he'd associated the kennel with the shock, because he didn't want to go back in. He wanted to go to the house.

Meanwhile, ADHD puppy thought it was a new game. I think her brain goes like this: "Look! Something moving! Let's chase it! Oh! That annoying girl is yelling at me again! Okay! Let's go! Hey! The stupid dog is leaving, and the annoying girl is, too! Let's go!"

Out the kennel she runs. I didn't manage to grab her in time, and in a second she discovered her freedom and realized what it meant. She didn't bolt, but sort of trotted off happily to discover things.

Meanwhile I'm yelling at Hershey to stop being an idiot and just get in the kennel. Finally, he's in. I close the gate and call to Sasha.

Naturally, anyone would chase after the little creature who got away, but if any dog gets the game of keep away, it's Sasha. You run, she runs. If you're chasing her, she runs away. If you're running, she's chasing you. Actually, the rule is that if your dog is loose, start up a game and run away from them, contrary to natural impulses.

So I called her. She was casually sniffing around past the garden, starting to move off our property. She looked up, tail wagging. Would she come. I slapped my legs to emphasize my point, and then spun and raced toward the house.

Instinctively, I knew she'd followed. ("Oh! Annoying girl running away! Play!") Before I'd reached the door, she was skidding up alongside me. Now I just had to hope the second part of keep away wouldn't start: where, just as she's within reach, she runs away and makes me chase her. She didn't.

Praising her all the way, I led her back to the kennel.

Sometimes, I think she's like the dog on "Over the Hedge". Of course, Wes says she's the spitting image of Scrat from "Ice Age", including how she acts.
I know, the next post was supposed to be about the blog title. Oh, well.
Before I go, I had one more dog-related anecdote. From yesterday.
I was getting ready to leave for work. I can't remember why, but I'd brought Sasha in from the kennel and left Hershey out. Actually, I think I was just bringing Hershey out and Sasha looked cold, so I let her come in. In any case, I was rushing around making sure everything was set. Then I went to get Hershey, right before I had to go.
The gate was open. I'd left it open.
Yes, I've done this before. Out of habit, when I bring a dog in, I leave the gate open. Hershey has got out before. Luckily, we always have a good idea where he'll run off to. So I got in my car and started up the street.
I'd planned to head to the next street over. There're so many dogs around here and Hershey likes to flaunt his freedom in front of them. However, I wasn't five houses up the street when I saw him sniffing around in a yard.
My windows were already down, and I said the one thing that will get his attention no matter what: "Hershey! What to go for a ride?"
Once you say that, his brain is committed to "car ride". He raced over to me and paced around the car until I opened the door.
I'm not supposed to drive with the dogs in the car. We're all too easily distracted. However, for Hershey's sake, I drove most of the way up the street before turning around and heading home.
And...yup. That's all I got. Hey, at least I posted! But I plan on returning tomorrow. It's just that I really need to wash some dishes before routes.

Adventures of an Abnormal 18-Year-Old: the "living alone" test and a new job

I'm back!

Quite a lot has happened since I last posted, but I'm not going to talk about most of it.

Two things: I have decided that I like the whole "single living at home" part of my...life description? For a while I fantasized about living on my own, but no more!

I determined this when I dog sat for some friends. Thursday evening to Monday morning. I stayed at their house the whole time, except when I went church Sunday morning (not that night, and my excuse is the deer running rampant on the roads between their house and church). 

All alone all day with no internet. Just the dog, a bunch of movies, and my spazzy computer. I set off with the wild idea that I would spend my time writing. Ha! 20 movies later.... Not hardly.

And I about went mad with loneliness. No human interaction at all, all day long, was depressing. I'm not a huge fan of humans on the whole, especially in large groups, but being a human myself, it's only natural I need a little human-to-human socialization. As good of listeners as dogs tend to be most of the time, there's a point where I've talked enough and want a response. In English.

So when I got back and Dad asked how I liked living alone, I snorted, rolled my eyes, and said "Hate it". No hyperbole. I didn't feel as epic and daring as I thought. I just felt pitiful.

Of course, I wasn't working then. Now...I am!

And y'all already know that.

Yup. That's the second thing. First day was yesterday. Boy, I was sure it was going to be one of the scariest moments of my life. Surprisingly, it wasn't. While part of the reason for that is probably because I jumped right into the lunch rush, I think most of it is because I actually took time to do my devotions and pray about the day before starting it. Yeah.

Dad asked what I learned. I didn't really have an answer. So much, but at the same time, very little. This was because every other employee trains the new guys. Which means I got as many opinions on how to do every little thing as there were workers.Ah, well. I didn't make any deathly mistakes, I didn't make any huge messes, and none of the smoothies exploded in the blenders. I only worked a few hours (got off early), but I actually enjoyed it. And then I had to help Mom and Heather deliver the paper routes we're subbing, and my sense of elation deflated.

I worked again today. By last night, I felt very tired, and I didn't want to get up this morning. I loafed around, didn't walk Sasha (because it's that transition between warm and cold and I hate it!), washed a load of dishes, and headed out.

New faces today. Good thing each has an accompanying name tag. I got to jump right back in again. Yesterday, one of the women described working the smoothie line as a dance. I'm not even a dancer and I'm figuring this "dance" out. Points for Amber! Of course, with a thousand and a half recipes to memorize, I'm slower than everyone else. Good thing I just make the smoothies and usually someone else works the blenders. I hate that part. Invariably, every other smoothie will refuse to blend, and then it's stop the blender, shake the smoothie, put it on a new blender, run it for a few seconds, take the lid and pound the blender cup, stop the blender, shake the smoothie, put it in a new blender, etc. Yuck.

All I do mostly is the smoothies. There's also food (wraps, flat breads, sandwiches, etc.) and the register (yikes!) but I think it will be a while before I get to those. Thank goodness. When I'm not working (orders come in in cycles, it seems, and then there are the boring breaks between each) I'm restocking or cleaning. Or cleaning. Or washing dishes. Apparently my non-OCD self is in the minority among the employees. Maybe their obsessive habits will rub off a little. We all know I could use just a little.

Again, I was let out early when we hit a lull and everything had already been scrubbed. I stepped outside to sunshine and a rather chilly breeze, and noticed it was also raining. On the way home, I mused about what that sunshine/rain combo should be called. "Sundrops"? "Rainshine"? But it turns out "Sundrop" is a soda and "rainshine" is everything from a farm to diapers.
My musing was interrupted when, at the stop light by our house, I noticed steam coming from my hood. Only then did I recall Mom's earlier warning about the radiator overheating. No light on the dash, though, just a funny smell and a little steam, so I begged the red light to turn green.
It took forever, and when it did I only got to our street before I had to stop again. For a school bus.
I've been dreading my first encounter with a school bus since school began. So far, I've been lucky. I've only seen one, and I was four cars behind it. This time, I was in the turn lane right by it. But I survived. Another stupid fear relieved.
Of course, while I was waiting, my car started steaming again. Grrr! Move it, you sad little public school children! Stop looking at your phones and get off the road! I have come to believe that this so called "distracted walking" phenomenon exists.
Finally, the road was clear, the bus was on its merry way, and I could go. When I pulled into the driveway and parked the car, I did what any loving car owner would do: I popped the hood.
I think it was only for some personal need to feel like a normal person. When I finally found the latch that released the hood, I just stared at the engine and hemmed and hawed for a couple minutes, leaning around to look at nothing in particular from every angle. And then I took that long to figure out how to put the hood back down.
Right. Sense of self-importance and general intelligence: not satisfied.
So now I'm writing this. When I have a boatload of laundry to sort and fold and sort and put away, dogs that probably should be walked, if only for their sakes and not mine, and my real life to get on with. Namely, working that silly little hobby I still dream of making my real job.
Up next (being...by Friday, if I'm good), I'll continue to discuss that notion of changing my blog title. I have given it more than a second thought over the last few weeks. I even started to blog about it at Grandma's, but never finished. Big surprise.

Honk for Happiness

Getting trucks to honk at us is something of a roadtrip game. On the way to Grandma's, we got nearly 50. We made signs near the end, desperate to hit that number. We also decided we'd have to make good signs for the return trip.
We were a couple hours into the drive home when I actually followed through with that plan. I used three sheets of paper from my small notebook and wrote "SUPPORT HAPPINESS HONK". I tore tags off some of our CD cases and snacks to make the signs stick to my window (front passenger).
Most people have ignored these brilliant signs and we've yet to get a regular car to honk. Passing Chicago, with four hours or so to go, we've only hit 6. However, the last trucker made my day.
We were in the middle of traffic and I always feel funny having someone honk in that situation, but I wanted to try. I started pumping my arm up and down, mimicking the motion of pulling a horn (yes, I'm sure in passing it could easily look like I'm flexing my muscles).
We passed the truck pretty quickly, but the driver happened to see me and gave a happy honk as we went by.
A few seconds later, he came back alongside us. I saw him and waved, and he grinned broadly and waved back. Then he fell back. Apparently he'd caught up just to see what my beautiful signs said, and he liked them.
Day made. Just making another person smile is enough to do that.
Of course, a while later, a sherriff with flashing lights and Mom yelled at me to take down the signs. They got ripped in the process.

I have Dreams of Being a Secret Agent

I don't often get to feel very devious. I'm horrid at sneaking about secretly. I get so excited I grin and giggle like an idiot, no matter how hard I try not to. I always grin stupidly when I'm excited. That or cry pathetic tears of joy.

However, yesterday I got to be devious and I did a swell job of it, in my opinion.

Whenever we come to Grandma's, Grandma has a list of projects for Mom to work on. One of them this time was putting a railing on the basement stairs. I was in the guest room reading when Grandma called me, saying Mom had called her to tell me to check my phone. I found a missed call from Mom. She wanted me to see her on the basement stairs.

When I arrived, Mom showed me a bloody knuckle. Her hand had slipped with one of the tools and some wood had cut and bruised her knuckle, and she needed me to get something to put on it without Grandma knowing. Immediately, I wondered how I would manage being subtle enough, especially  when I didn't have a clue where Grandma kept her first aid supplies.

I ran upstairs and got a washcloth in the linen closet in the hall, and then went on the hunt in the bathroom. My efforts turned up a single band-aid and some antibiotic ointment. Now how to get it past Grandma?

Then I had a stroke of genius.

Hurrying back into the room I'm sharing with Mom, I grabbed one of the Ranger's Apprentice books I'd brought. They run kind of big, perfect for my needs. I flipped to a middle page, set my supplies inside, and stuck the book up close to my nose to pretend I was reading and to hide my smile.

Yeah. Honestly. I felt so awesome.

Looking back, I was probably just a little obviously on a mission and not at all interested in my book, because I walked all the way back through the house to the basement stairs instead of settling on the couch to "read". Whatever. Grandma's back was turned anyway.

Mom wasn't impressed with my ingenuity, though I don't really blame her the way her knuckle was looking. Still, I felt like I'd just accomplished something huge.

Give me a break. I'm a homeschooler. My best act of rebellion is taking off my shoes in church. For someone who's awful at covert-style adventures, this was a huge feat. Not much slips past Grandma and, like I said, I'm not subtle.

I haven't had that much fun since Youth Conference when we had a secret meeting on the hotel stairs between the guys' and girls' floors to deliver a piece of pizza. Now that was awesome.

I guess this is just adventure practice. One day I'll do something that truly is huge and fantastic and a work of genius, and it'll be because I practiced by sneaking bandaids past Grandma and escaping hungry teenage boys looking to steal the pizza.

For the Love of Books

"The man who does not read has no advantage over the man who cannot read." - Mark Twain

After a surprisingly relaxed trip (including playing on a teeter-totter at one of the rest stops and getting 47 vehicles to honk at us [mostly semi trucks but at the end we were so desperate to get to 50 we held up a "HONK" sign to every car that passed]) we arrived at Grandma's. It's been a quiet visit so far. A little sightseeing today and some shopping, but not much else.

Usually a visit to Grandma's would include one day spent at my friend's house. However, she just left for college. Sometimes, I really hate growing up. I've said that before, right?

Anyway. I brought three books with me. After I finished the Ranger's Apprentice I was reading, I picked up The Secret Garden. This is my third time reading it (I think). It's one of my all-time favorite books, and partly for this reason: it's the book that got me reading for real.

It was while Dad was away with his training and we were staying with Grandma. Mom got me a few books from Wal-Mart, The Secret Garden being one of them. At the time, I was a very slow reader, though I did sort of enjoy it. Secret Garden took me less time than most books of its size previously had. I fell in love with it.

Somehow we girls (being my youngest sister and her buddy, who joined us on our trip) got on this subject. For my sister, that magical book was Because of Winn Dixie. For our friend, it was Charlotte's Web. They were the simple books full of adventure and wonder that finally pried open the door to our imaginations and showed us what was possible.

"No book is really worth reading at the age of ten which is not equally - and often far more - worth reading at the age of fifty and beyond." - C. S. Lewis

I read something recently that described coming to the end of a good book was to bookworms like getting a high. Wherever this was, whoever said it, they called it a literary high. That's a pretty apt description.

I pretty much always have a book with me. The times are rare when I'm not in the middle of one (though I can't manage more than one at one time, unless one is something like Jane Eyre or The Silmarillion). Goodreads is one of my favorite sites because it is solely devoted to books; the love of books, tracking the books I'm reading, book authors, and helping me find new books.

When we were getting ready to leave on our trip down south, I stuck my bag in the car and Heather said, "What could you possibly be bringing that would take so much room?" (or something to that effect, and referring to myself and our sister.) I replied, "Uh...books!" She rolled her eyes. ("Well-read people are less likely to be evil." -  Lemony Snicket)

Yeah, this is the girl who is content to take a year to read one book. I kid you not. Needless to say, she doesn't "get" my book passion. I don't really "get" people like that.

"A reader lives a thousand lives before he dies. The man who never reads lives only one." - George R. R. Martin

I've mentioned before that I'm just now working my way through a lot of the old classics, especially childrens' classics. I tend to enjoy them more than most modern books I pick up (especially modern teenage paranormal romances). With a few exceptions, I don't much appreciate the average modern children's book. Too blatantly educational for my tastes. When I have kids, they're getting Whinnie the Pooh.  It's been proven over and over that reading helps a person's learning ability and intelligence (as well as music and being multi-lingual, which are other things I'd like to teach my kids [and yes, I, too, feel a little strange talking like that]). In my opinion, writing books all about the characters counting pennies or reading clocks is a bit redundant and takes away part of the fun of the readin experience.

But that's all I have to say on that subject. That's all I have to say right now, actually. Is it obvious I'm a bit distracted?

One last thing: "I can't imagine a man really enjoying a book and reading it only once." - C. S. Lewis

(Goodreads is also a great place to find quotes.)