Smoky Memories

This story appeared on Cowbird.com in November of 2013 
By Connielyn Ramos 
Whenever I smell smoke, I am immediately transported to the Philippines.

Not cigarette smoke, but smog smoke, city smoke, cousin to bonfire smoke. To me, smoke is the deep, potent aroma of home, a major component to the setting of my childhood summers in the Philippines.

The hustle and bustle of the capital city of Manila where there are more jeepneys than people, traffic is backed up ‘til next Sunday, and traffic laws—what traffic laws?

As a driver in the city it’s do or die—no separate traffic lanes, no traffic lights, no pedestrian crossings, and motorized tricycles which whip past weaving in and out of cars—an eternal game of chicken.

“Keep your hands inside those windows!!” my mom used to scream at both my brother and I with that mom glare that all mothers have perfected and made into an art.

She feared that we would lose one of our extremities from the cars and other jeepneys which would practically brush against our jeepney like a cat brushing by its owner—if it were an angry, impatient cat. 

My uncle, Tito Jose (or “Tito Sen” to my younger self who still could not pronounce much and incorrectly pronounced “Jose”) owned a jeepney which is essentially a “pimped out” jeep, decorated flamboyantly and commonly used for public transportation throughout the Philippines. Drivers can decorate their jeepneys, as gaudy and as showy as they wish.

The jeepney my uncle owned had two colorful and flashy signs at the top and bottom of its windshield. “Rhode Island, USA” at the top for where my mom, brother, and I lived in the U.S. and “Joerson & Connielyn” at the bottom for the names of my brother and I. He arranged this as homage to my mom who bought him the jeepney as a gift. Sparkling lights decorated the inside of the jeep. While my uncle’s automobile of choice may seem a bit strange, jeepneys are the most popular way to travel around the Philippines and are an infamous symbol of Filipino culture.

Whenever I smell smoke, I think of my ncle and his jeepney.

I think of one summer day out of the thousands I spent there. It was just Tito Sen and six year old me out adventuring together for the day. I left with him early in the morning, eyes wide open, soaking everything in as he did his route through our town of Cavite up and down the streets. I spun around in my front seat, chin atop both arms as I studied the passengers my uncle transported. Some adults were dressed very nicely for what seemed like a government office job, others were younger kids closer to my age in their pristinely pressed white uniform on their way to school, and others had cages filled with chickens headed off to the market. I used to come up with stories for each person imagining their names and their stories and what they were doing that day.

After my uncle finished his route, he stopped the jeepney near a marketplace where we hopped out of the jeep and into a lively marketplace. I stayed on his heels holding tight to his hand as he bee-lined straight for a fruit stand. He prodded, poked, turned, and “hmmed,” over the fruit as he chose the best rambutans, dropping them into a plastic bag.

Whenever I smell smoke, I think of my uncle and rambutans.

My uncle stopped on a quiet, deserted bridge overlooking a river. He took a rambutan out of the bag and handed it to me. I examined the fruit more closely, since I had never seen such a strange fruit before. They were bright red, spiky, and seemed to be covered in fur. They were about the size of a huge grape and tickled my hand as I examined it.

I watched and tried to mimic his actions as he peeled the odd fruit to the smooth, white flesh in the center. He popped the fruit in his mouth, spit out the seed, and then took his peel and seed and threw them over the bridge. I whipped my head at him eyebrows raised, jaw dropped, since even though I was only six and did not know much, I still knew that littering was something very, very bad.

“Everybody does it,” he said as he shrugged his shoulders and winked over his fruit at me. I leaned in my seat to look over the bridge and indeed saw a river filled with trash.

He prodded me on to peel my rambutan, so I peeled it and ate the sweetest tasting fruit I had ever had. It even smelled deliciously sweet. I then looked at him with a question in my eyes, what should I do with the peel and seed in my hands?

He mimed a throwing motion.

So I gathered my strength, cocked my arm, threw the peel as far as I could, and watched my fruit peels sail over the bridge.

We continued to peel, munch, and chuck until all the rambutans were gone. My uncle wiped his hands on his pants, started up the jeepney, and headed for home with me bumping along in the front seat at his side.

Whenever I smell smoke, I think of my uncle, his jeepney, and the sweet smell and taste of rambutans. I think of the islands of the Philippines.

The New Kid

Appeared on Cowbird.com November 2013

By Dana Bahrawy

Being the new kid is never easy. Especially in your freshman year of high school. But as I walked through the double doors at Hingham High School as a 14 year old, I felt at home. 

I went in knowing nobody, moving to the town of about 20,000 in the summer of 2007. Moving in to my soon-to-be stepfather's house at the time, it was me, my mother Susan, my now stepfather Jon and his two kids, Joscelyn and Bradford. My two siblings, Alex and Katherine, stayed in Sandwich with my father, Jens, and attended Sandwich High School. 

This was a decision I could have made as well. I could have stayed with my dad and been a freshman at SHS with all the best friends I grew up with. But there was something in my gut telling me what I wanted- change. 

And so as I walked through those double doors, I was scared. But I was also eager- eager for change. The first thing I saw was a big white and red banner saying "Welcome Back!". A number of upperclassmen with red "Seniors '08" shirts welcomed me with candy and a warm greeting. I had a feeling this was the right choice.

Growing up, I always wanted school spirit. Sandwich wasn't quite spirited when it came to its high school, so when I saw everyone dressed in red and white it brought a smile to my face. I envisioned myself playing basketball in front of a packed house, while the whole gym was cheering. So I walked over to the gym to check it out.

There were a few kids shooting around, while others sat in the bleachers to chat. By high school standards, the gym was small. There were bleachers behind both baskets, which is uncommon for a high school gym. All the walls were covered in banners for all types of sports. I felt a certain homeliness to the court.

Everyone seemed to be happy to be back at high school. That warmed my heart and immediately made me feel like I made the right choice. I knew it was going to take some time, but I truly felt at home.

And so four years later, on a cold May afternoon, I received my diploma while dressed in an all red robe with a red cap. It was an accomplishment that felt amazing. 

On that day I reflected on my decision to attend a whole new high school without knowing anyone. I made some of the best friends I could ever imagine while playing sports in front of an extremely spirited fan base. I met my girlfriend that I could not imagine living without. I told myself that I made the right decision, and that I would never regret it. It turns out that change truly can be a positive thing. 

A Lame Excuse For A Dog

Appeared on Cowbird.com November 2013

A Lame Excuse For A Dog
By April Renzella

Every time I come home from college, I receive the same greeting. 

The little black dog hobbles over, sometimes hitting her head on a few items along the way, as she has completely lost her vision. Although she can’t hear me, because that’s gone too, she seems to know that I’m there. 

Snoopy is a 17 year old Toy Poodle that my parents bought me when I was 4 years old as I told them, “I wanted a puppy I could hold.” This was in reference to the fact that we had Maxie, a beautiful German Shepherd, who weighed more than I could pick up. 

So my parents bought me Snoopy. She was a peppy little thing. As she got older, she would do crazy things like jump over me to get a toy while I was doing a backbend. 

I took her to a dog show back in 1997 where she won first place in the ‘Best Puppy’ category. This landed us on the front page of the town’s newspaper. 

When Snoopy and I were still young, I used to do things to get her into trouble as I didn’t have any siblings to do that to.  Snoopy was never allowed on the furniture. I would put her on a chair and tell my mom that Snoopy did that all by herself. To this day I still feel bad about those little things I used to do to her. 

Flash forward and Snoopy is so ugly that she’s cute, she’s balding on her back, sides, and tail. She spends most of her time sleeping and getting lost in her surroundings, but she will spunk up every now and then to growl or pounce on a toy. That’s usually brought on by me though. 

“Be careful with her, April,” my dad will say. 

The way he speaks you would think I was tossing the dog out the window. 

 It’s very difficult seeing something or someone who has been there your whole life begin to deteriorate and become fragile. Because I moved a lot as a child, I try to hang on to the most stable things in my life. One of these things is Snoopy. It’s just sad to watch. She’s a bag of bones covered by wirey hairs, can’t hold her bladder, and has boils all over her body. Her liver and kidneys are damaged and she has a tumor on her liver. I beg my dad every time I see her to put her down because I can see the pain behind her cataract eyes. 

I have rescued animals to keep them alive. But it’s her time to go.  What used to make me smile when I walked through the door now makes me sad. 

Like most things in life, my time with Snoopy has come full circle. Now that I am older, all I wanted was a big dog, much like Maxie. So I bought Scout, a German Shepherd puppy. The two have met and although Snoopy didn’t want to play, Scout pawed her around and sniffed out the funny looking dog. When Snoopy passes, I will have Scout to continue on the dog legacy, this time in my twenties, not through adolescence.

The Wand Chooses the Wizard Harry

By Tim Culverhouse

This story appeared on Cowbird on November 19, 2013.

From watching the Harry Potter series as a child, one of the most memorable quotes deals with how wands pick their master, and not vice versa. While the magic of the world created by JK Rowling cannot be recreated in the world we live in, but there are instances where I have felt the power of an item reaching out to me, wishing to be mine. And, in a comparable selection process that Harry has in picking his wand, I too had this when I would choose a hockey stick.

            The selection process is one of a tedious and careful nature. There are hundreds of different makes, models, curves and flexes to choose from, varying in price and reliability. In the hockey shops where I buy my equipment, there are so many different options that it takes time to find the right one. I know going into the selection process that there is a specific height and weight that I am looking for, but different brands offer different feels to each different person.

            When I was selecting the current stick that I to this day that I use, I was looking for a new brand, and a strong, reliable stick – as I had broken my previous stick after only a short period of time. At the store as I was peering through the brands, CCM, Bauer, Reebok, TPS, Warrior and Sherwood, I narrowed down my decisions. When I was making my final decision, I had narrowed it down to CCM and Bauer, with the price rather similar. As I selected, there was an inner feeling of connection to the black and yellow stick. The Bauer, out of all the sticks in the shop, was the one that felt right.

            To this day this is the stick that I own. It is the stick that I have owned for the longest period of time, and continue to use on and off the ice. The connection I have with this stick goes beyond an athlete and his equipment. I chose this stick out of every other one, and its meaning goes beyond the use of it during games and practices.

            When it came down to selecting this stick, I felt connected to the colors, as they are representative of the Bruins by their black and yellow. The curve for my right handed shot is minimal, so I can use my backhand effectively as well. The flex is a pro stiffness, so I can get as much torque on my shot as possible. And the length corresponds to my preference to use the longest stick possible. It is perfect for the game that I play.

            Beyond all other materials, my hockey stick speaks most about me. Anyone who knows the sport can determine my style of play, and those who don’t know that much can see that this is the stick I chose over every other one.

Also view this story on Cowbird.