I Can't Do This!

I thought I was brave enough to handle anything. Now I wasn't so sure.

-by Katy Soule

There I was, 45 feet up, on top of something they called "victory tower."But at that moment, I wasn't feeling a bit victorious. I was downright scared. I looked down and started to cry. I don't have to do this, I thought to myself. So why am I here?

Good question. Why was I there?

It was the summer after my freshman year in high school, and this was hardly your typical summer camp. No crackling campfires, no relaxing sing-a-longs, no late nights laughing it up with new friends in a rustic log cabin nestled in the woods.

No, this summer camp was quite different. This was a camp of blisters, sweat and tears. This was boot camp.

As a Junior ROTC cadet at my school, I had the "privilege" of attending the week-long camp at Fort Jackson, South Carolina, to learn what it's like to be in the Army.

At the camp, we got up at 4 o'clock every morning, put on our camouflage uniforms, and faced a day of mental and physical challenges.

We worked hard to prepare for the rigorous training. But no amount of training prepared me for "victory tower," an impressive wooden structure that demanded all the courage and strength I had.

So there I was, looking down from the heights, petrified. The wind was howling, and the tower was swaying and creaking menacingly. And now they wanted me to climb down that long rope? I can't do this, I thought. As I started to back down the steps, the sergeant at the top of the tower called to me in a gentle voice.

"Hey, Cadet. Where are you going?"

I was afraid my voice wouldn't hold. Sniffling and wiping away tears, I tried to look mature. I heard the sergeant's voice again: "Cadet, are you OK?"This time, I thought I could reply. "Yes."

Oh, how embarrassing! My voice sounded like a scared 2-year-old. When my eyes cleared enough to see the person behind the voice, I saw a kind face and penetrating brown eyes.

"Look at me, Cadet," the sergeant said, pausing to read my name tag. "Soule, look at me, not at the ground."

I met his eyes and a feeling of assurance came over me. "Now, who is in control of this rope?" he asked.

"I am."

"Who? I can't hear you!"

"I am!"

The sergeant had me all fired up. But, oh, the ground was so far down. The tears began to well up again. I thought I could hide them, but nothing got past that sergeant.

"Soule, what's your first name?"

"Katy," I said, weeping.

"Katy. You know, if I ever have a little girl, that's what I want to name her."

Maybe he said that to all the cadets, changing the name each time. But there was something about the way he said it …

"Now, Katy, I'm going to talk you through this, one step at a time. We're going to get through this together, OK?"

I nodded as he gave me instructions and I slowly began to back off the wall. I started breathing quickly, and I could feel my eyes overflow.

"You're doing great, Katy! Now, one hand at a time. That's right! You'll be just fine."

Hey, wait! He's not going to leave, is he? I panicked. "Don't leave me!" I cried. Then the most wonderful laugh came out of his mouth.

"Did you really think I would leave you, Katy? We're in this together, remember?" I smiled. I knew I could do this as long as he was up there watching me. I had to do it!

What seemed like an eternity later, I touched the ground. The instant my boots hit the sawdust, I heard a "Way to go, Katy! I knew you could do it!"

I looked up and saw the sergeant waving at me. I waved back, gave him a big thumb up, and walked away so proud of myself, I could have burst.

Katy Soule is a senior at Person High School in Roxboro, North Carolina.

Goodbye, Granddad

by Carolyn Arends

My granddad had Alzheimer's disease. The year I turned 12 he rapidly grew weak and disoriented, and before my 14th birthday I watched my grandmother lay flowers on his grave.

He was pretty quiet even before he got sick, never really feeling the need to talk unless he had something in particular to say. He was so unassuming that I was repeatedly startled to discover the spark in his ice-blue eyes.

Growing up, I spent many meals at my grandparents' table, hot and bothered in my scratchy Sunday best, exasperated by the impossible challenge of keeping my elbows off the table. But before things got too unbearable, my grandfather would wink at me and sneak me an icing-laden pastry, ignoring my uneaten vegetables. Laughter would twitch about his mouth, and I would giggle breathlessly with the thrill of our secret.

The earliest memory I have is a game of peek-a-boo at my grandparents' house. I am on my hands and knees, creeping toward a doorway, and my granddad is waiting around the corner, ready to pounce and tickle and dance with me, cheek to bristly cheek. I remember endless games of blocks and trucks, and—as I grew older—billiards and darts in my grandparents' drafty basement.

There were sleepy afternoons curled up together in his fuzzy brown easy chair, reading the Sunday comics. When I got too big for his lap, we graduated to the back porch swing. I don't recall what we talked about. I mostly remember the snap of laundry waving on the clothesline, and the hummingbirds humming at the feeder attached to the kitchen window.

Losing his twinkle
I'm not sure how long my grandfather was ill before I began to notice changes in him. At first he just spoke even less than normal and sometimes fumbled over my name. But the Alzheimer's progressed quickly, and his clear blue eyes grew cloudy until they lost their twinkle.

My grandparents lived in Victoria, on Vancouver Island, and my little brothers and I used to spend the weeks between our monthly visits filled with anxious anticipation. We loved the two-hour ferry ride from the Mainland to Victoria, loved the boat's greasy cafeteria food and salty decks.

We followed the same ritual every visit. The ship docked at Schwartz Bay, and our parents made us promise to walk, not run, as we got off the boat. But the excitement would get the best of us until we were running to our destination. Our nana and granddad were always there, waiting with chocolate bars and hugs and exclamations of how big we were getting.

Around the time I became too old and too cool to run with my brothers, we began to find my grandmother waiting alone for us at the dock.

"Granddad's in the car," she'd say. "He's just a little too tired to make the walk." I would rush to the car, trying to stay cool. But he'd be sleeping, or staring out the window, and he never even said "hello."

I started to wish we didn't have to go to Victoria.

This is my song
The last time I saw my granddad, we were driving from my grandparents' house back to the ferry. He was distant and sick, his breathing labored, and the rest of us rode together in a weary silence.

I was wedged in the back seat between my granddad and my brother Chris, stiff and resentful and brokenhearted. If the grandfather I knew still existed, he had been locked away somewhere, hopelessly lost within the stranger beside us. The drive seemed to take forever.

Then my granddad cleared his throat as if he had something important to say. We all held our breath, shocked and desperatelyhopeful. He hadn't uttered a word in weeks.

He began to sing. …
Someone in the front seat began to sing with him, and soon we were all singing, even my restless little brothers. I relaxed my tense body enough to rest my head on my grandfather's shoulder.

All the way to Schwartz Bay he kept singing … until we reached the dock and kissed him goodbye.

Six days later we were back at Schwartz Bay, hot and bothered in our scratchy Sunday best, and my grandmother was waiting for us alone. We all embraced in a tear-stained huddle.

And then we went to my grandfather's funeral. I cried so hard I thought I might throw up. But when the organ wheezed into life I sang with all my might, believing with every inch of my heart that the God of my father's father had personally arranged that farewell party in my grandparents' Oldsmobile.

Telling the story now, I am almost embarrassed by it. It feels like I've dreamed up some impossibly sweet Movie of the Week ending to an otherwise tragic plot. But it really happened. Sometimes life is as unbelievably beautiful as it is cruel.

Carolyn Arends is a singer/songwriter with four albums to her credit, and she's now working on a fifth. This story was adapted from her book, Living the Questions: Making Sense of the Mess and Mystery of Life.

Date: 2015-04-20; view: 941