Scooper and Schmee

Another pair of prose pieces for you. First up, a work by senior Taylore Aussiker, whose freshman class was the last to be taught by long-time English Department member David Dwyer before his retirement in 2006. She marks the occasion with this essay.

All a Bunch of Schmee!

There is a word in my vocabulary that exists in the vocabularies of many of my classmates, a word that is not easily defined, but that holds so much meaning that each of us has to smile when we hear it. We learned the word—“schmee”—our freshman year in Mr. Dwyer’s English class. He told us the word had no tangible definition, but that it just meant, “It was all schmee!” And every year since then, each one of us has found a use for the word in our daily lives, though none of us can truly define it.

Dwyer’s class was chaotic. We looked forward to English every day, wondering what scheme he would come up with next. He once shut off the lights and told us to be very quiet, because we were going to make a secret trip to Carmen’s Ice Cream Parlor through a trap door under the English building. We all laughed nervously, unsure whether he might actually be serious or not. He looked at us and said, with his unique, shifty smile, “I can only say that to this class because in any other class I know there would be some kid searching every square inch for that trap door.”

Every day was a crazy, stand-up Dwyer-style comedy routine. We always found ourselves calmed and stress-free after his class. We watched all our cares fly out his window as we became a close-knit family of students.

Once on a vocabulary quiz he asked us to define “schmee” for extra credit. We all gave some sort of outlandish definition and had a good laugh over it. Of course it was not the actual word that held the meaning, but what it represented. It was a noise that made us think of Dwyer, the way the theme song to a favorite show relaxes you. It was all a bunch of schmee, a jumbled mess that somehow made the most sense to us out of our entire school day.

The other day, while reminiscing the good old days of freshman year, I realized the word “schmee” will disappear from Lyndon Institute’s vocabulary once my class graduates. Dwyer retired after our freshman year; no other class has experienced “schmee” the way we have. It’s our own inside joke, reminding us all of the crazy, relaxing chaos of Dwyer’s class, reminding us that Dwyer taught us much more than academics.

Speaking of Carmen's Ice Cream Parlor...We follow up the Schmee with a rather funny piece by Mira Davis, who reflects on her recent employment at the famous local spot. Ah, the life of a scoop.

“I said RAINBOW jimmies, not PURPLE!”

My boss rolled her eyes, gave me an exasperated glance before looking at the ice cream in my hand as if it was not ice cream at all but a giant dung beetle. Then she turned and—in a soft, silky, high-pitched girly voice—oh-so-daintily told the woman ordering that it would be “just a second more.” She followed it up with a Hollywood smile, trying to distract this agitated woman from the fact that I had messed up her ice cream order and that she would have to wait another five minutes at least.

Ice cream hasn’t been around forever, but very close to forever. The legend is that the Roman emperor Nero would send his slaves to nearby mountains to collect snow and ice. By flavoring the ice he made what we call now Italian ice, but which became ice cream. The first written account of ice cream in America was in the early 1700’s when George Washington evidently stuffed his face full of the desert during a dinner with the Governor of Maryland. Since then, ice cream has been an international sign of America, the leader in consumption of the cold dessert (the average American consumes around 23.3 quarts a year) and the inventor of some of its most absurd flavors, including—but not limited to—avocado, garlic, adzuki bean, jalapeño, and pumpkin.

Scooping ice cream is not for the weak-hearted. It is for the elite few willing to conquer not only the soft serve and hard ice creams, but the rainbow colored sprinkles that go on top. You must gain a thorough knowledge of all things cold and sweet, and above all be able to put on a pretty smile and yell into a crowd of hungry civilians “Large Peanut Butter Caramel Cookie Dough?” as if you know exactly what you are talking about.

When becoming an ice cream scooper you must first break all those habits that are fine when getting ice cream at home, but which scare the general public you are serving. Take, for instance, finger licking. Of course you lick your fingers when you have something sweet and tasty on them. Right? No, actually you don’t. Evidently it freaks people out when you touch their food with fingers they just saw you lick. God knows why.

Other bad habits to break include picking, scratching, or rubbing your face, touching your hair, and coughing into your hands. Another bad habit is gum chewing, which I learned the hard way when I spit my gum out once at an unfortunate costumer while trying to explain to her the intricacies of double fudge supreme. She shrank back in revulsion from the wad lying on the counter in front of her.

Ice cream is not all fun and games, mind you, and most employees have nightmares some time during their first week. These dreams vary from person to person, of course, but they all share common flavors: ice cream melting everywhere, cones constantly breaking, making the wrong change. Ice cream, as I said, is not for the weak-hearted. It is a way of life, and you must accordingly plan your life around it.

“Ma’am, your double hot fudge sundae.”

I give the woman a smile and hand her the ice cream. And even though I realize I’m probably handing her enough calories to last someone twelve days, it makes me happy to see her smile—this ice cream is the solution, can make all her problems go away, if only for the brief minutes it will take her to devour it. It is good to know you can make someone happy, whether it is for five minutes or an entire day. And this is why I scoop ice cream—Giffords, Starbucks, Ben and Jerry’s, it doesn’t really matter. That smile is why I serve.

A Welcome Back

English teacher and published author Gerry Stork, one of LI's finest, recently returned from a sabbatical year. Having spent much of last year in New Mexico, where he wrote and participated in a series of poetry readings and workshops, he submits this fine piece:


Homecoming

I come to bed after a hectic day
of hammer & nail and kick over the pail,
dash to town to forget again
what I forgot on the last trip in;
then home to plumb the drip
become an ancient torture trip
on my head since getting back
and finding winter'd smacked
the house and left a length of split
pipe and a leak I can't fix.
After sawing out the section
and installing new,
things haven't changed.
Me and directing water where it should flow
are still foes.
Living the good life this is called.
The garden isn't in
and the vestibule, k.o.'d by sliding snow,
needs reconstruction. So
too often I forget the good
in the bust-ass of making do.
But ah! The noise sighing out of the valley
tonight is the brook full of spring
and nothing sounds as sweet
as this source, runoff by which I sleep.


Welcome Home, Gerry!

The Quest....

We have here a pair of prose pieces. The first is by senior Dan Bishop, who recently wrote a great personal essay on the value of combining transcendental meditation with athletics. He submits this as a companion piece, a short work of vivid, dream-like prose:

Following the Path of no Path (to discovery)

“Tha thump………. tha thump………. tha thump.”

Everything is moving slowly. I watch bright stars fly past my head, rumbling throughout my entire body. I soar through galaxy upon galaxy, planets floating by, passing me, as I look on with amazement. Coming to familiarity. Earth—so small, innocent, peaceful. I see land masses, white foamy clouds, a blanket of water that seems to be hugging life. I am falling at a very slow rate, contemplating every thought and image I see.

Closer and closer, I lower. Through atmospheres, different pressures pushing against my body, I still breathe. I am calm. I slip under the surface of a forever white sea. The fog clings to me. The brightness makes my eyes squint, but I am still at peace, I still see. I reach out, feeling the humid texture. Some areas are more damp than others.

At one point in my descent, there is a break in the clouds. I stare, in amazement as a golden beam shines through an opening in the top layer. It illuminates the area around me and then flows past. The radiance bounces off the endless white floor beneath me, surrounding me once again before I continue on down through to the bottomless blue ripples.

I float down to the water, but stop a few feet above the surface of the deep blue. I can only see this blue carpet that continues on for miles. I follow no path, for anywhere I go leads to the same place. I reach down and feel the cool wetness. It flows though my fingers gently. I look down at the aqua mirror but see no image of a man. I see life and its true purpose.

In that moment, I have completed my goal. I open my eyes, find myself reborn in this new world. I get up from the seat of contemplation. I have found myself.


Next we have a powerful essay by Danyelle Shufelt. As part of our study of the heroic tradition in our English Literature Honors course, students must undertake a quest of their own choosing, an experience they then parlay into a personal essay. Here is Danyelle's quest, a brave and moving piece:

The fear of returning to Dartmouth Hitchcock Medical Center (DHMC) has distressed me for almost three years now, since November 15, 2004

I was in the eighth grade when my father came into my classroom to get me out of school. I remember his red, swollen, and watery eyes. I knew something was terribly wrong. I didn’t know whether to ask him or to wait for him to tell me. I couldn’t wait. I asked him before we got outside of the school. There was no response. He continued towards the car. I then insisted he talk to me. With hesitation and a crackling voice, he told me that Michele, my little sister, had been diagnosed with leukemia. My heartbeat raced, my knees felt weak, and my tears began to flow. I felt my world had been turned upside down.

The two-mile drive home seemed to take longer than usual. I had to see her. I couldn’t wait. I felt this was my last day with her. I walked into the house and around the corner she came, running towards me, her usual self with her usual smile. I stared at her for a long moment. My first thought was, “Why this was happening to my innocent seven-year-old sister?” I had so many questions that needed answers. Why God? What could she have possibly done to deserve this? I asked God why it wasn’t me. I couldn’t lose her. I couldn’t survive without her. There was no way I could go on without her in my life. She is a part of me, an essential part of who I have become. From this point on, my little sister, Michele, became my hero.

Michele was admitted to Dartmouth Hitchcock Hospital the next day where she stayed for the next 10 days. My sister Jessica and I stayed with our oldest sister, Stacey. My younger brother James stayed with my Uncle Jason and Aunt Jen. Stacey, Jessica, and I looked after one another while my parents stayed at Dartmouth with Michele.

We went to Dartmouth almost every night. Michele was on the 5^th floor, Room 539. I remember the smell of her hospital room. The fumes of hand sanitizer, Purel, were everywhere. We spent our time discussing current events, playing air hockey, and strolling around the hospital. Jessica and I were given the opportunity to bathe her. I recall having to be very careful with her IV.

The nurses soon got to know the beautiful, happy, and brave child my little sister was. She became known, by many staff, as the “Care Bear” girl. Her nurse, Faye, called Michele’s room the “Care Bear” room. Michele was obsessed with care bears and had every kind of care bear ever made. Her favorite was the “Cheer Bear.” This was her favorite because her nephew Dylan had given it to her the previous Christmas. The nurses also came to know the loving parents Michele had. The entire staff was attentive and passionate towards them. In the short time, my parents had bonded with many people who cared for their little one.

Michele was released from the hospital ten days later on Friday, November 12, 2004. The first day at home was beautiful, as we were all together again. Michele got everyone’s full attention. On Sunday, we attended the service at Sutton Baptist Church. Later in the afternoon, early evening, Michele didn’t feel well. Her stomach was upset. This was the norm as her medicine had often made her feel sickly while in the hospital. We took turns rubbing her stomach while she watched her Care Bear movies. Around nine o’clock on Sunday night, my mom made the first call to Michele’s doctor, Dr. Larson. Over the next three hours or so, my mother made additional calls to Dr. Larson. There was no fever so no need to worry yet.

My father made the last call to Dr. Larson. Dr. Larson instructed my father to take Michele to Northeastern Vermont Regional Hospital (NVRH). A short time later, NVRH “darted” Michele to Dartmouth Hitchcock Medical Center by helicopter. My mom went in the helicopter with her.

I went to school not knowing it would be Michele’s last day on earth. I worried about her nonstop. Not knowing her condition ate at me constantly. I received a note late morning telling me that my aunt would be picking me up early to go to the hospital. I was filled with mixed emotions. I was anxious because I was going to see Michele but also apprehensive and scared not knowing how she was doing.

I quickly sensed the uneasiness in my aunt’s behavior when she picked me up from school. She struggled when telling Jessica and me that the doctors were having difficulty in stabilizing Michele. I really didn’t understand what she meant and could only hope my little sister would be all right. I prayed to God all the way to Dartmouth. I felt more scared than I had ever been.

Jessica and I rushed into the hospital and went to the 5^th floor, where Michele had previously been. We were taken to another floor where our parents met us. Before we could see Michele, my father said he needed to talk to us. He explained to us that Michele was close to death, and she did not look herself. My father prepared us as well as he could have. I am not sure if my breathing stopped, but I felt my entire body tremble more and more the closer I got to her room. My mind was going in all directions. I can’t do this, I thought. This can’t be happening to me or to my family. I walked slowly to her bedside. Here she lay unconscious. No movement and no sound. The sight of machines and tubes took over my thinking. My body immediately filled with fear and unbearable pain. The pain was so deep and so strong.

I remember the hours I stood next to her side, holding her hand, and begging and pleading for her to not leave me and telling her how much I loved her and how much I needed her. After several hours, around 6:30, she slowly, with all her remaining strength, lightly squeezed my hand with her little fingers. I stepped aside as I wanted to share this moment with my sister Stacey. Hope filled us for a short time. Going back to this moment, I didn’t see the warning message, as I couldn’t comprehend what was actually happening. I believe, without any doubt, Michele was letting us know it was getting close to her time and she was ready. I hold this belief close to my heart, today and always.

Dr. Larson came into the room a short time later, around 7:50. I remember his focus was directed at my parents and not at me or my sisters Jessica and Stacey, and brother James, who were also in the room. This was the only time during this day that all seven of her immediate family members were in the room together. Dr. Larson spoke to my parents using terminology that was unfamiliar to me. Dr. Larson was in the room for what seemed to be seconds, when machines started beeping and flashing. Then there was silence. The time had come. Michele returned to her heavenly father at 7:58pm on November 15, 2004.

The screams and cries from Room 7 could be heard throughout the floor. Some fell to the floor, some pounded fists into the floor, others rushed out of sight, and some could only stand there in silence totally absorbed in disbelief. I remember there were so many people rushing towards me. We embraced, we shed tears, and we held each other tight. The remainder of the evening is a blur.

Here I am, over two and half years later, still longing for the presence of my little sister, Michele. I long to hold her and to tell her how much I love her and miss her. Though I have not accepted losing her, I have accepted that there are things I must do to go on without her here on earth, whether it be cry my heart out for hours into days and isolate myself from the outside world or whether it be to try and stay active to keep my mind from going to places that easily and instantaneously bring me to the bottom. These places I refer to are the many unending visions of what she would look like, what dreams and tears we would share, what she would do during our family events and situations, what her choice of friends and activities would be, what she would want me to teach her or her teach me, what role she would assume in our family, and so many more. My choice is to continue on facing every agonizing moment with courage and hope. I do this for her and because of her. Michele is my inspiration to live each day to its fullest.

There have been many challenges through my journey of grief. There were many times I couldn’t function and didn’t know if I was going to make it to the next moment. I have grown in faith and hope which have helped me to return to the places and objects that remind me of Michele and that bring pain and sadness—her home, her bedroom, her classroom, her four-wheeler, her snow machine, her tee ball field. Yet, there are other places I find easy to steer clear of and therefore have not returned, such as her hospital room.

Then one day, I realized, it was time.

On Thursday, October 11, 2007, I gathered my strength and wisdom to return to the place that had haunted me for almost three years. I left school at 10:30. The only thing I hoped at that moment was to be able to fulfill my quest. For the most part, I felt ready to take the journey as days before I had prepared myself for the worst. As I walked to my car, I felt my stomach tighten. I thought to myself, This isn’t going to be easy. I asked God for extra strength and courage to continue on.

My drive down went by rather quickly, as I had to focus on finding Dartmouth Hitchcock Medical Center. Once I got off Exit 13, I noticed several familiar markings—the beautiful bridge across the Connecticut, the one-way street my brother-in-law, Joey, mistakenly took on one of our trips.

Upon my arrival at the North Entrance of DHMC, my stomach began to turn. I was very nervous. I thought I had lost my mind to venture all the way down here by myself. As I entered the hospital, my mind was focused on getting to the 5^th floor of CHAD (Children’s Hospital at Dartmouth). Then suddenly, there was the familiar smell of hand sanitizer I had come to despise. I had to remind myself to continue on. Many memories and thoughts of Michele at this hospital flashed through my mind. I wanted to cry but found the strength to hold it inside – until I saw Jenn Rupp, Michele’s family counselor, for the first time in almost three years. I could not control my emotions. I let my emotions show and my tears flow. Jen put her arms around me and held me for a long moment. This gave me comfort and strength to gain focus and continue on.

Jen led me into the new lounge where we had a short, pleasant conversation. We discussed the rooms I hoped to return to: Room 539, the family lounge, and the Intensive Care Unit (ICU). During my walk through CHAD, many places were familiar to me: The foyer, family room, playroom, and chapel. There were a few changes—the game room had been turned into a nurse’s station, the family lounge was a different color with new furniture. Most obvious was the paintings of animals on the windows.

My mind floated back to the paintings Michele had done on these same windows. Michele’s choice of painting was the Boston Red Sox. Many thoughts began to pass through my mind. I thought back to how much pride she took in her art work and how many of the visitors who came had no doubt she had something to do with the Red Sox paintings. Everyone who knew Michele knew she liked the Boston Red Sox, knew her favorite player was Johnny Damon.

Room 539 was the same—cool, smelling of Purel. I sat down and reflected on the time I sat with Michele on her bed, and we read all the cards she had received from her classmates and faculty at Sutton School. I remembered there were so many cards, at least 50 that she had received just on that day alone. Other memories included Michele and her three sisters taking pictures together and me writing a note of encouragement on her white marker board in her hospital room. Being in this room was not easy for me as I naturally returned to the moments of my last days with Michele. I then changed my direction and imagined how I would react to the family lounge and ICU.

The family lounge did not look like I had envisioned. The walls were a different color and the furniture was new. I once again used all my strength to be able to return to the last minutes of Michele’s life. I went back to the moment my father told me that Michele was probably not going to make it. I took deep, slow breaths as many memories and feelings flashed through my mind.

I was unable to go into the Intensive Care Unit, as it was occupied. I can’t say for certain what would have occurred, but I think it was for the best I couldn’t go in. Instead, I settled for just peeking through the windows of Room 7. I thought back to the exact moment when I lost Michele, to the sight of my family running from the room. I heard the screams from a distance. This was the high point in my quest because the images had stayed deep within me for a long time and had been the most painful to return to. For a moment, I felt it was happening all over again. Then suddenly, I felt my body release the pressure that had built up inside me and realized I had crossed the most difficult path of all. I can’t describe the peace within me knowing I had conquered the one thing I feared the most.

My victory in this quest instilled confidence in me to face any obstacles ahead and any fear that comes my way. I now have a better sense of how others have been able to confront and overcome their own fears. I wasn’t sure of what to expect and whether I would be able to return to the place I last held my little sister or bring to mind the last moments I had with her. It was definitely a test of courage, though nothing compared to the test of courage my little sister faced. She was so brave to take on such a powerful disease. Not once did she appear to be scared. She never knew what fear was and never will now that she is with God. There is no fear in heaven. This brings comfort.

I made a decision to defeat my worst fear. This is a choice I had. Michele didn’t have a choice. This brings me to the questions that remain: Why didn’t Michele have a choice to live or to die? Why her, so young, so innocent, so precious, with so much love yet to share and so much life yet to live? I could spend the rest of my life asking why, but I know my answers are yet to come – when I am with her again. For now, it is enough that she is my strength, my source of inspiration to this very day. She is my angel. I won’t lose her again.

October Poems

We start today with a pair of poems from senior Jenny Brown. First up is a wonderful work of formed verse:

Rain

The rain keeps coming down
Cleansing and cold
Turning grey dust brown
Changing to new all that was old

I stand drenched and numb
Pounding drops on my head
From dark skies they come
They hit and feel like lead

I reach out in an embrace
Of the pouring rain around me
Water mixes the tears on my face
Running streams to my feet

Why be anything other than this
When its touch is a caress
Raising goose bumps, my breath mists
Nothing could be less

Stifling and hot inside
Smothering what I feel
Couldn’t sit couldn’t lie
Had to be cold to heal

Here in the rain I stand
Waiting for some truth
Watching where the drops land
Do I have everything or nothing to lose?

Her other submission sets a bit of a different tone. Reading it, one is struck by its stirring, musical rhythms and by another thought: Don’t mess with Jenny.

Battle Cry

The time is near
The time has come
To face your fear
Do not be shunned
Stand proud and fierce
Let shadows fall
The enemy pierced
Hear trumpets call
Who once stood back
And let time pass
Has now no lack
Of strength and lasts
Till battles end
And foe is slain
For glory, friends
That blood shall rain

Next is a work from Dennis Bousquet, a piece firmly grounded in the great tradition of love poetry. Petrarch, Shakespeare, Bousquet...

So Much More Than Friends

Lately I've been lying to myself,
telling stories to stop my heart
from falling any deeper for you.
Seeking some reason to leave,
just walk away like a fair weather friend.

I've fought with the daylight,
to stop your night from capturing my heart,
still, I can't stop thinking of you,
and all the dreams we had,
knowing this fire inside was lit
by the flame, of someone
so much more than just a friend.

Your smooth body surrounds me,
every thought you've pressed so
tight in my mind, all the simple things,
the ones that call to me again, and again.
Beautiful words of wisdom,
touched by the passion in your heart.
Then kissed by the rain of your love.

Somewhere in the distance,
Spanish guitars play a soul-searching ballad,
a love song... written by your hand,
as you read to me from books of poetry,
with all the things you've longed to say....
explaining all the time we wasted till today,
time spent with someone you never truly knew...
and then there was you,
then there was you...
and you are my arms of hope..

You are the angel in my sky,
the hero of my days, the woman in my heart.
You are the one I've dreamed of
all my life....
Yes, we have become so much
more than just friends.
We've become the meaning.
of soul mates,
and I cannot walk away again.

Finally, we have a lovely poem from sophomore Elisabeth Surridge written for her little cousin Joy, expressing a different kind of love.

Love Is (for Joy)

The blonde hair and blue eyes
Of the sweet little girl,
Her small hands reaching out for me,
Her bright clothes the color of fall.

The smell of summer nights fills the air
As she plays,
A beautiful butterfly.

She smells like the sweet aroma
Of a freshly- picked flower.
She is as noisy as a playground full
Of children.

She makes me feel like a completed book.

Autumnal Musings

The honor of first piece goes to a talented young sophomore--Mira Davis--who has submitted a poem (and picture) of autumn that manages to be both beautiful and clever. We're now on the tail end of a spectacular foliage season, and we can't think of a better way to inaugurate The Scop.

The once green hilltop’s trees
Begin to blush, with anticipation
No less, at the thought of their
Naked, wintry figures.
Of their own design
Or not,
They will not say,
But they turn nevertheless.

Then, once painted,
From leaf to stem,
They drop
Their leaves in horror
Of what has become
Of their beautiful green.


Continuing in the autumnal vein...

Our second post is a personal essay by senior Erin Grout using a rhetorical mode known as "process analysis." Here, Erin not only describes a yearly tradition in rich, evocative terms but uses it to explore her relationships with those closest to her. A brief but complex work of prose with some wonderful echoes of Keats's ode "To Autumn."

An Initiation

Every autumn, when I was young, my family made apple cider. We hauled out the old wood cider press from the cellar and hosed it down. We picked the apples from the orchard out back, hauled them back to the house in the old Gardenway cart, and let them soak in several buckets. Small bitter red ones, big juicy yellows, and sweet green all mixed together. The apples didn’t have to be perfect–most were picked right off the ground where they had fallen, sometimes bruised and mushy. Variety is always the key.

After the apples were all picked and the press rid of dirt and cobwebs, the real process began. First, we ground the apples, watching as the chewed up pulp fell into the barrel lined with the special burlap sack. My sisters and I would take turns turning the crank, but our arms tired quickly and Mom and Dad were left with the real work. Back then we mostly watched or helped load the apples into the hopper.

Next, the lid was put on the barrel and the large screw spun down onto the lid. As the resistance increased, the mashed up apples began to release their juice. As a kid this was the best part, because the more you turned the screw, the more juice would pour from the tray into our waiting sauce pot. I can remember crouching down in front of the steady trickle of cider and sticking my finger in to get a taste.

Over time it has become harder for the family to make cider. In the fall we are competing in or coaching sports, and school keeps us all busy. For a few years my sister Leah and I took charge and made cider, sometimes enlisting the help of a few friends.

Now Leah is in college and isn’t home come cider-making time, so the tradition has fallen to me. Actually it’s more like I picked up the tradition. It’s hard to say why, but I don’t want to see the cider making end. Last year I was the one who set aside some time to pull out the press and hose it down. I’ve learned the ins and outs of the whole process; how to get all the pieces of the press to fit together, how to fix a snag, and how to keep things moving so the only ‘down time’ is when we stop for cookies. And yes, I still enjoy sticking my finger into the first flow of juice for a taste test.

Making cider is continuing a tradition and a way to celebrate my birthday, but more than that it’s an initiation into fall. What better way to enter the season than working outside in the cool breeze and changing leaves, while the bees swarm around, and the fresh cider makes my face and hands sticky.