Night Hike

As the sunset, I excitedly ventured to the Norfolk audubon society of Massachusetts to work a night-time program for eagerly awaiting boy scouts and girls scouts. I had previously worked to inform young minds about the wonders of the night on several occassions, but they could not compare to the experience I had last night. As I arrived, I discovered the activities my boss required were different than before, and far more hands-on than usual. Assumingly, this would create for a fun atmosphere and a better program for the children. However, as soon as I recieved my group of young cub scouts, I knew the night would be long, tiresome and emotionally exhausting. Some acitvities were way over their heads and others didn't capture their interest whatsoever.

We set off on our hike. In the distance, the glow of the sun barely stretched across the horizon as I introduced myself and met the young boys who would be with me for the next couple of hours. It was a small, tight-knit pack with several parents tagging along. And each of the boys had a specific quality that added to the uniqueness of this journey. One insisted he knew all of the animals we might see and listed various species that didn't even inhabit our area. Another had something to say about every comment I made. There was one boy who eventually thought he was my best friend, reminding me at every turn. Even the parents added a stressful element by falsely correcting my facts or interjecting their opinions or personal stories. It didn't aleviate the situation that all light had faded from the area and we were deep in the woods, barely able to see the hand in front of our faces.

At one point, I was convinced someone would fall into the pond we had walked by just after some scouts fell victim to the many roots on the trail. My directions about how to safely navigate terrain at night were completely ignored, evident by the subsequent incident: a parent walked directly into a tree. Thankfully, there were no injuries but we were only half-way through the program. I calmly inhaled and led us onward. The boys grew anxious and decided to run on the trail in order to scare another group we spotted around the bend. The last thing I needed was for the objects we saw to turn out to be coyotes or some other startled creature. But it did provide me with some entertainment to find the "group" we saw was actually just a cluster of trees. Passing by the waterfall and back up to the nature center, I was not only tired from the hike but tired of the complaints and corrections I recieved from the troop. A bright light burning our night-eyes was the welcome back to safety. The kids were exhausted and collapsed onto the floor as soon as they were inside. Although it was a fun time, and could easily have been worse, I was happy for the program to come to an end.

Ripta

This week was the first time I used the ripta to travel from my home in Naragansett to URI and back. My first obsticale came in the form of the admission charge: two dollars. A previous trip from campus to Providence only cost me $1.25, but I guess the two years of inflation makes a difference. I fumbled through my change purse for exact coins since the bus driver warned me the machine was not giving back tickets. Decently filled, I scanned for an open seat. The other passangers were going about their business, listening to music, reading the newspaper or daydreaming while I anxiously took my seat next to a window. Stuffing in my ear buds, I swirled the volume on my ipod and settled in for the journey.

Initially, I was nervous because I was not familiar with the route and didn't understand why the bus would take random roads and then u-turn back around. Since no one else was bothered by these occurances, I did my best to calm my nerves and trust I would make it to my destination. By taking the road less traveled, I saw the quaint areas of Wakefield and Peacedale, towns I haven't visited since joining the ram population. My favorite shop to see was the Purple Cow, it looks like an interesting place and I hope to visit it soon. As the bus continued on, we finally turned onto a road I recognized and knew for certain I had taken the correct bus. Even with my volume up, I could hear other conversations and the hum of the engine. Not long after, I arrived at my final stop forty-five minutes after leaving. It certainly takes longer than a car-ride, but it got me where I needed to go. Now I have the confidence to be able to take the route again and this time without worry.

From Home and Back

For the earliest part of my life, my family and I frequently traveled between Massachusetts and Florida to visit one set of grandparents in each state. We lived miles from any other family members in Mass and I had a better relationship with my Floridian grandparents on the phone than I did in person. Eventually, my grandfather in Florida became terminally ill and as a result, we uprooted ourselves from Massachusetts to relocate to Florida. Although I was very young, I can still recall feeling strongly attached to the bay state and nearly heartbroken about the move. I considered the entire clawed-state my home: from the berkshires to Boston. The radically changing weather was my favorite game of hide and seek, the autumn leaves painted the surroundings with such vibrant colors no fingerpainting could compare to and the Boston Red Sox were undoubtedly superior to any fishy sports team Florida might have.

The move itself was trying, and even once we had settled into the quaint house in the newest neighborhood development, I missed Massachusetts with every fiber of my little heart. Year-round greenery, however beautiful, did not tempt me with its accompanying fair weather; no, I longed for snow days during school and an every-changing, undulating landscape. People were pleasant, but they had passions completely divergant from my own. Every weekend was beach day when I wanted seasons. Fast food was abudant on the commercialized stretch of land just beyond our property, but I preferred my northern grandmother's home cooking. And as the months passed by, I could only dream of my Massachusetts home among the hills, or trips down to the breezy cape in place of the identical houses and constant sun that left my appetite for New England unsatisfied.

Although my return to the land of big hills came on the somber passing of my grandfather, the smell of crisp northern air was exactly what I needed. We moved away from our western-mass home and settled far closer to the patchwork of towns where the remainder of my family resided, just south west of Boston. Witnessing a sudden summer shower or an abrupt blizzard awakened the pitter-patter in my chest and in a wave of seafood dinners and Patriot games; I knew I was back where I belonged. Nestled within a hilly community where yellow buses picked me up at my door for the start of school and returned me during the blossoming of late-spring flowers, announcing the soon-to-be arrival of summer. From then on, I knew there wasn't a single thing about my Massachusetts home I could ever live without.