memories – Page 3 – hannah ananas

Rocks with that?

I was reminded today of how I used to have a chunk of charcoal in my water bottle. I haven’t thought much about that at all recently, (however, I might start doing it again) but apparently the lacrosse team I used to help coach thinks of it often.

First off, the charcoal in the water bottle is something I learned from Japan, though, via my brother before I moved there (and then it was emphasized while I lived there). It has to do with cleaning up the water, essentially, from what I recall. (Note: It is not drinking charcoal mixed with water. It is a stick of this specific charcoal that sits in the water bottle, so that its pores can absorb unwanted stuff from the water.)

Anyway, so I had this stick of charcoal in my water bottle. I carry my water bottle pretty much everywhere with me in life, so lacrosse practice was included back when I was coaching (and teaching). Apparently, one of the girls has held on to the fact that I had ‘some kind of rocks’ in my water bottle, though I have doubts as to whether she recalls what the ‘rocks’ actually were (the stick had broken in half, so there were actually two pieces in the bottle, instead of one, but they didn’t really look like rocks). In memory of my water bottle, in a sense, that particular girl regularly drops rocks into other people’s water bottles, telling them that it is healthy, and reminding them of how I did it.

Yes, my wonderful lifestyle rubs off in the best of ways. 😛 I guess it gives us a new meaning for ‘on the rocks’, now.

Post-a-day 2018

Floor Hockey Rockstars

I had forgotten until recently that I used to play street hockey with one of my brothers. We just would rollerblade together and pass the ball or puck to each other, or practice rollerblading with the sticks as fast as we could and then with the sticks and ball/puck. It was fun. And, you see, I remembered this, because I was trying to figure out how I had been so good at floor hockey in gym class in ninth grade, even though I had never done it in school before then. And I thought of that memory, because I saw at the YMCA the other girl in that freshman gym/health class who was really good at floor hockey (and definitely more intense about it than anyone else), which had been our first sport of the school year. Her name is Kristina. It was really good having someone else in that class who enjoyed sports for the sport of them, and who was naturally good at most sports, and who didn’t get an attitude about any of it. We didn’t really become friends outside of that class, but she’s always held a little sweet space in my heart and memory because of our initial floor hockey awesomeness bond. 😛

Post-a-day 2018

How do You shave?

One of my favorite memories from my childhood is the time my brother, sister, and I bonded over shaving legs in the living room. You see, our dad’s house used to be a duplex, and so the upstairs and downstairs had the same floorpan, giving the girls – the upstairs lots – our very own living room. It was normal circumstances for us girls and maybe a girlfriend of one of theirs to hang out on lazy afternoons and evenings there. Occasionally, our bother would join us. On one particular night, my eldest sister had decided to allow me to shave her legs for her, while we watched some television show. I was around eight or ten years old.

In my panic of doing it, worried that I would slice open her leg or something, my brother joined in on the adventure, to show that it was definitely doable by me, since he had never shaved legs, but he was able to do it safely. And so, he shaved her left leg, and I shaved her right, while she lay on the rug in the living room. Such beautiful sibling bonding time. 😛

Post-a-day 2018

Cleaning out = unexpected exhaustion

I’m kind of exhausted. And kind of feel like crying and curling up in a ball.
There have been a LOT of memories going through this stuff. And, with that, has naturally come Loads of emotions. Lots of them quite strong, too.
I guess that’s a big part of why I kept the stuff.

And as of this morning, I find myself not wanting to take on cleaning out and going through anything else right now. Like I need a vacation from it.

Especially since so much of my stuff is disorganized amongst the various boxes, the task feels more exhausting. Because, rather then opening up a box and re-living fifth grade, I open up a single box and am going through parts of fifth, sixth, seventh, eighth, and possibly even a memory or three from before and after those years. And going through the memories of those years isn’t just ‘going through memories’. It’s also re-experiencing the emotions and thoughts and thought patterns of it all. So, in cleaning through one box, I am living several years – and from the very formative years – of my life in a matter of an hour or few. Talk about exhausting… that is exhausting.

And I want a break from it for a little while, so my mind and my nerve endings can relax again and not be so constantly overwhelmed.

Post-a-day 2018

Mortification after Consideration

While on a summer symposium in high school, I had a very upsetting and memorable experience. See, we had a presentation-turned-almost-meeting one day with a man who had done highly valued things with his life so far, – it was a world youth leadership symposium – and he started off the presentation by asking us as a group, ‘Who are you?’ I was near the back of the room, and that was how the trouble occurred for me.

The first kids answered by the standard social behavior of giving his name, etc. I instantly commented mentally that he hadn’t answered the question. The man had asked who he was, not what his name was or where he lived. The talking went along, one by one, around the seats in the room, heading back towards me. Occasionally, the man repeated his question, asking who people were, but not always. No one strayed from the name-giving routine. I grew anxious about how to answer. Was the man being the way so many people seemed to be, unaware of the actual words he was using, really only want to know our names and ages, and a bit of our backgrounds? Or did he mean what he was asking? Was he genuinely asking who we each were?

Considering how everyone else had responded and reacted to his question, I was leaning toward the former. Taking into account that my mother and I were not exactly normal, and that we would have meant what we’d asked with such a question, I leaned even more towards the former. I determined that I would answer his question, should he ask it to me directly. ‘Who are you?’ he would ask, and I would reply nervously with an honest, ‘I don’t know.’

My turn arrived. I waited a few moments before speaking, waiting for his question. But it didn’t come. Thrown, I faltered and defaulted, stumblingly, to my name. However, I was very specific with my words. Rather than everyone else’s phrase of, “I’m [insert name here],” I said, “My name is Hannah.” No, it was not an answer to the original question, but it seemed to be the expectation. And I had answered honestly and consciously. I was not carelessly declaring that my name was who I was, but consciously stating that my name was, in fact, my name. I didn’t want to be any more isolated than I had already felt in the group of the symposium, by giving an odd answer. And especially when the person asking the question hadn’t wanted such an answer.

I never liked my answer, nonetheless.

After we finished going around the room with the lame (in my opinion) introductions, the man took up speaking again. He stated how it was interesting that he as asked us ‘who we are,’ but everyone had automatically answered with their names, as though he had asked their names – we had all unconsciously answered a question that wasn’t even asked, but assumed, instead of answering the question asked.

I still feel a huge sob within me, whenever I think about it, actually. I was simultaneously inwardly mortified and furious. I had made the incorrect assessment of the situation for one thing, and my conscious care of words had gone seemingly unnoticed. I felt scolded, and angry, and I just wanted to spit at his assumption and leave. And I still respected him and his work. I just hated how he had tied me to being unconscious. I’m not sure I have ever been unconscious about such things…

The things that stick with us…

Post-a-day 2017

Moms and being young at heart

My mom came home late tonight, and walked into my room with a surprise for me. Bop It Extreme (R) with newly replaced batteries. I asked if she was teasing me, because it was actually just going to make some absurd sound after sitting for over a decade, but she declared that she had found it today and had put in new batteries specifically because she recalled that I had liked the game.

I showed her how I always held it, told her about the sounds for scoring, and convinced her to play the group version with me, passing it back and forth together. We were both laughing like little kids. It was fabulous.

Afterward, we began discussing family activities for our family open house the Saturday before Christmas, while we have family all in town. The main topic of this discussion was cooked decorating. As my mom listed off the number of dog houses, campers, trains, houses, sweaters, and ninjas she had, we couldn’t contain our growing smiles. She ended with, “and a partridge in a pear tree,” and we both laughed while she figured out what she actually had not yet listed (there is no partridge and no pear tree). I said that it sounded more like a “The dog, in the camper, with the nunchucks,” kind of scenario. She argued that the dog goes in the doghouse, though, but then declared that that is why the dog is in the doghouse – because he was the one in the camper with the nunchucks…

Can you tell we are young at heart? I sure love it. 😀

Post-a-day 2017

Ouch!

I bruised my pinkie toe today, it seems. It might actually be fractured, due to the style of pain, however, the impact didn’t seem to have enough force behind it to have caused a fracture, which is fortunate. Sitting here on my bed at my mom’s house, thinking about how that happen today, has me recall the last time something similar happened while I was living here.

I was on my way to Worlds, as we call it in the community. “Worlds” is short for United Country Western Dance Council World Championships. (See? “Worlds” is easier.) And it is relevant that I tell you the full name of the event. I promise. I had participated in and scored high enough in other events throughout the year in order to qualify for Worlds, and I was incredibly excited. It isn’t every day that one competes for a world title, and it isn’t even in every life, either – this was an honor and a privilege, and I was ready for it.

Therefore, when I managed to hook my toe underneath me on a stair as I rushed back downstairs after having run upstairs one last time to grab something small that I’d forgotten, my mind was reeling with concern. I was in extreme pain, and I curled up to the floor, crying, holding my foot, barely even able to make contact with the toe. I almost couldn’t think straight, or even at all, such was the disturbance. “If I just broke my toe, I can’t dance,” was about what I said to myself, asI was curled up around my toe. I prayed in a way that I didn’t know how to make selfless, and I also prayed that that would be okay for this occasion.

I realized, as my brain power began to return to me, that my fear and concern was compounding the intensity of my crying, and that the physical pain wasn’t quite so bad as I’d been thinking. Yes, it absolutely hurt, but a large part of any impact’s pain is the initial set-in, going from comfort and ease to pain. That is, it hurts really badly at first, but then calms after the initial shock, and then the pain begins to subside exponentially.

And such was the case. The extreme pain was real, but was not the full cause of my tears – I was dreadfully worried that I wouldn’t be able to dance, and all for that pair of socks, or whatever it was I ran up the stairs to grab. My toe continued to hurt for a while, – maybe even the rest of the day – but it was doing well by the time my day to compete came around. I have been forever grateful that my toe was spared and my dancing was blessed.

If you win at Worlds, you get a specific jacket, and your name is embroidered on it. I still have mine. 🙂

Post-a-day 2017

the Power of Music

The thing about music is that it is incredibly powerful.

Siting around, waiting for my dance class to start, I was listening to music just now. A few songs came on from a musical our theatre did several years ago. As I listened to the female lead sing her song of love to the male lead, I was suddenly transported to a different time and place – I was right back in the preparations for the musical, way back when we were putting it on.

I could hear the director talking about casting the female lead, every word as clear as though he were sitting here with me, like all hose yeats ago, and chuckling at the end of it all. I remembered verbatim what he said. I do every time I hear this song, and whether I want to or not.

Just one small part of the power of music, you know?
Post-a-day 2017