If Kermit thinks it isn’t easy to be green than that frog should think again.  I can’t imagine being clear so people could look right through me.  Nothing can ever be hidden, every goal, crush, enemy and tree that blooms inside you, would be a show cased.  Like a fire place mantel every story I don’t tell my mother, every fight I can’t tell my friends; up for a Nobel Prize.

                Everything about me the things I don’t say strung up like laundry out to dry.  A notice on the bulletin board gives you the number to my heart, the hash tag to my past and the URL to my secrets. 

                Rain drops take the fall.  The distance from the bed to floor can’t even compare to the miles from the sky to earth.  If I could listen like dogs do them maybe I could open my ears and hear the screams as millions of tiny soles fall to our world.  But maybe I am wrong maybe a raindrop doesn’t scream maybe it cries out in joy on its way down. Weeeeeeeee!

                Or perhaps they tell tales to each other of their last journey down, how they smiled and aloud the sun to take them back up.  I learned in Science class in grade 5 how rain returns to the sky, but Social Studies never taught me how to climb out of my hole.

                Then after the all the feet the raindrop still doesn’t let the fall destroy them.  If fact they hit and splatter sharing them self’s to the ground around them.  Or they slip into a city of other gathering tear drops of the clouds and they wait.  Wait for the rain boots to come and splash through them.  For little kids to name them like how I named mine, Maria.

                Even the windshield wipers don’t demolish these fierce rain pellets. Instead they glide along the windows like its December and the glass is their ice rink. 

                And as the rain slows to a good bye they paint the sky with colours, while I and the rest of the world scratch smog over top. Raindrops never let anything ever really get them down, for they are always bringing out the brighter side.

                I think bravery think of a raindrop.

                I need to stop writing with a meaning in mind I need to take a step back from the holes I have made in my digital screen of posts that aren’t good enough.  They fill up my folder with line after line of jammer that was spit on to the document as if trying to make artwork from air. Not impossible, but highly difficult for a girl who has a one hour opening per week to write.

            Meanings aren’t born, they are created. I found myself listening to a Shane Koyczan today as the basement buried me with dusky walls and lost journals I wish I hadn’t found, and this slam poet had a point when he said:

“Every day, Grandma would come into my room
And I’d hear her say, “Rise and shine.
The world is a window that holds a sign
There’s help wanted somewhere.” ”

            Because behind each sign is a desk that has a story that is shared with the goods the shop is trying to sell. And every time I sit and scratch my forehead and try to piece together what my post will be about, I just keep drifting back to the tales behind the signs…

            For if I were a jar of peaches in a Fine Foods Grocery Store and my Grandparents were the desk then I would be able to sit all day and listen to the adventures they have rode to overcome.  If it worked that way then I would never be sitting scratching my forehead trying to think of a meaning within my post because all I would write about are stories I have lived to hear.

            But my Grandparents are evergreens tall and strong, loving everything that is near to them, staying in colour all year round.  Were I am more like a jar and a peach, separate, keeping things sealed and sweet.

            And Evergreens and jars with peach labels don’t always have all day to lounge around and natter.

            If I had a tool that scalped air into lyrics then I wouldn’t have everything to work at. Plus, maybe jars aren’t suppose to have labels or lids to keep them shut.  Maybe help wanted signs aren’t just suppose to go on store windows next to posters advertising glass containers of peaches.  Perhaps this new year we all should start caring around help wanted signs in our back pockets and hold them up every time we doubt the seal, or when we have created our meaning.

            OH! Alveno!! How I do ever so love you! You do more than I could ever ask for.

            People can ask who I love, I can say friends, family, but to be honest my only love in this world is you….  Alveno Anti-Itch Cream.  I was sure bug spray was the one, but you are my back drop when bug spray doesn’t work.  You are always my savior in the end.

            For you stay on my dresser through all the seasons! Unlike bug spray that only seems to appear in the back shoe cabinet in the summer.  No, you are my pepperoni to my pizza! You are my cloud to my sky; unless there are no clouds in which case you would be my air to my lungs. 

            In summer you talk the swelling down into a less noticeable allergic reaction.  In the winter you are not forgotten because you smooth my rash from basketball tournaments.  You whisper a lullaby to the turf burn as it screams out. 

            Your sweet flowery, sickening, medical sent fills my nose and I know, love, you are the one for me.

            You turn me pink every time I apply you to my ever so misquote bitten limbs.  You are the reason I sleep at night.  For when I am awake I cannot take my mind off the moment when we get to be together, at night I am dreading the dawn when I have to leave you behind and go to school.

            Oh ,my beautiful, Alveno, where would I be without you???

            Bug spray may work for an hour or two and then it gives up on me.  Not you, my sweet, no you would never leave me in a time of need.

            Oh, my deeply gorgeous bottle of Alveno lotion I just don’t know if I would be me without you and your heeling skills.

            Because both you and I know that we are better matched then blood and Band-Aids, or make-up remover and eye shadow, yes, nothing will ever be as perfect as Jessy Lee and Alveno Anti-Itch Cream.

                Today’s post is not about getting things fixed it’s about the 295 waiting emails.

                I once had a person ask me to write a blog post on beauty, many, many, many, perhaps dozens of documents had been started. I could write about beauty, what went wrong was I was trying to write about the beauty Hollywood wants. The kind of beauty that does not exist. Then I thought to myself, why in the world can’t I write about my kind of beauty on my blog?

                Myself shrugged as a reply.

                Beauty is…

                Dancing around the house belting old country tunes.

                It’s the first snow fall and the first time every season you face plant into the same snow bank.

                It’ when your grandpa, Albert, teaches you to howl to coyotes.

                It’s the silent sound of a dishwasher running.

                The scent of a new book.

                The smell of an old book.

                It’s the candle light on the Christmas table, waiting as I make a nest under the tree.

                It’s watching Disney movies when your home alone.

                It’s apple crisp.

                It’s downloading apps on your phone about authors.

                It’s daring to shoot from half.

                It’s whipping out.

                It’s taking a leap from the trapeze.

                It’s having a Cori in your life.

                It‘s suffering the next day because you stayed up to late reading.

                It’s saying there’s more to the Social network then Facebook, there is the world in the web too.

                It’s the sigh of realization when you slip but don’t fall.

                It’s caring the art stool out of the art room after you think it’s your binder.

                It’s looking from a window into a window.

                It’s googling McGill sweatshirts.

                It’s laughing so hard you fall down on the basketball court with your friends.

                It’s getting a blog idea and leaving your homework till morning.

                It’s 295 emails in my inbox. Not because that’s 295 emails saying that I have missed them. No, it’s the 295 emails in my inbox that is saying open me and discover what’s behind the subject.

                The best part of opening emails is so you can figure out 295 different possibilities of beauty.

                There was close to 30 girls wanting to make one of the 12 spots for junior basketball. We were all in, grinding for the next level of being better. All digging into our worsening blisters without a flinch. We had been out to tryouts four times now, and we were all so sure of ourselves that we had forgotten that only 12 girls could be in a jersey.

                At first, I told myself I was doing this for me. I told myself, I love basketball.  But, my heart won over my mind. I like basketball; I love soccer.

                My soccer shoes don’t give my feet blisters; I don’t feel like an outsider when I am on the rubber turf or the muddy fields. I feel like a stranger on the gym floor, digging deeper for a spot on the court.

                Last night, I had a blog post planned out, but after I decided this week needed something different.

                Last night, a clip board was pasted around. I watched it as it climbed through the girls over to me. I didn’t even read the names I was just searching for something that would be familiar to me, my name, Jessy Lee Saas. It wasn’t there though.

                Neither were 17 other girls’ names.

                The 12 lucky girls who don’t get blisters in high-tops stayed. The rest us hurried to our feet and rushed out thinking that the crowed of girls could maybe hind us from the ‘better’ girls who still sat. I turned to my friend beside me, her face was broken, a replica of everyone that surrounded me.

                “That was a walk of shame,” Sabrina whispered to me, or maybe to her locker that clung next to mine.

                Either way, I had to agree.

                I had come to basketball straight from the field house and had worn my cleats into the change room.  The change room that now was an unearthly silence with nothing but the screams of tears. I sat down on a bench, looked at the girls around me, as I unlaced my shoes and saw 17 girls who deserved a team. Maybe not because they’re ‘good,’ but because I see 17 girls who will learn from each other and whatever shoes they put on before they learn from this set-back.

                That doesn’t change the fact that this is still a set-back.

                I unlaced my basketball shoes that my Albert gave me and relised I won’t need them again. Their life from here is in the back of my spots cupboard.

                Then I felt it, as I slipped my jacket from my locker, I had let him down. My Albert; I play basketball because I like it, more then that, I play basketball because my Albert loves basketball.

                I hurried away from the tear soaked floor and into the front hallway where I sat with my basketball shoes looking longingly at my cleats. I slowly laced back up my tight Nikes, when a girl walked past.  She was on the phone with her mom, “I told you I wasn’t good enough.” I watched her walk out the doors because she was good enough. We all are.

                I then saw that a tear had dropped from my cheek onto my basketball runners. I ran to the doors, the girl who didn’t think she was good enough, had just left from.

                I snapped at each tear almost before it had a chance to glide down my skin. At first, it was because I thought I had let Albert down.  Then, it was because I thought I could have let Albert down, something Albert says is impossible.

                Now if you excuse me, I have a pair of regularly warn soccer cleats to go put on…

                The blankets kick off letting the air settle as a sweet cover around me. When I heard it echoed through the snoring walls bounding off the dosing dresser,

keyhole,

keyhole,

keyhole.

That’s when I thought of it, keyholes aren’t really only on doors. The purpose for a keyhole on a door it to keep the thing inside locked up so the people around you can only peek in.

            But, keyholes are everywhere because life has come to the point where people can’t trust themselves if they’re not locked up.  We keep everything so deeply buried that we lose the keys, so when we want to open up our heart, we have blocked ourselves out. 

            All we do anymore is tip toe around peeping through keyholes hoping to get a glimpse of anything. Of the key, that could unlock the cemented door of the spirit. Or, maybe, just a look at the person that has been fastened away from the world.  If we don’t find anything on our first try, then we simply give up.

            We are all so advanced that in today’s age we can lie through the digital screen and get away with the ever locking doors with no handles.  Till one day man will find a way for us to breathe through masks so we don’t have to talk about problems, like the ozone, we can just leave them.  And when it happens our doors can be bolted so tight that even a look though a keyhole won’t tell you more than a name.

            As I lay in the soft blackness of the dead night, I think about rusting doors that have be shut for too long. I am tired of rust cutting people out, of lost keys, and muttering in the next room. And of peeping though keyhole after keyhole trying to find which one holds the true.

            But, trying to open up doors these days is like the fading of the echo of

Keyhole

Keyhole

Keyhole.

                On the way home today I don’t remember the steps I took; I remember every word my imagination said to my brain.  Then out of nowhere I had 8 billion blogging topics.  But, blogging is like the smell of a tale and I debated whether I should save a topic or two of a later date and I decided I can’t resist the smell of new words.

                I had this wonderful teacher in grade 5 her name was Mrs. Ansel.  I remember she taught us the types of writing and how good writing has a beginning, middle, and an end.  Good writing is NOT a list. As you read further you will completely see that this post has no real punch line because it is a list.  And one day I may come back to these random topics and sentences I have pitched in to this one post.  And the day I do you, as a reader, can go “Oooh! I see what this authors done here she’s come back to a topic she started (and never finished) a month ago!”

                Then I will say, “Yes, dear reader, very clever.”

***

                If I could meet anyone in the world dead or alive who would it be and-?

                Don’t even ask me ‘why’ the answer is clear.  I mean I have already met my favourite author so now who? Well, the one writer who I want to be like when I grow up, Jane Austen.  I am currently reading one of Jane’s personal journals.  Back story: (without giving to much away) Some people found Jane Austen’s memoirs and person journals in a old truck behind a library wall.  Some more people got together and analysed the journals, they picked which ones to be published.  Then they take the same words and make small changes so it is slightly easier to understand, mostly it is still Jane’s style.

                They published the last journal before her death because it answers so many questions about her characters.  This is crazy, already 23 pages later, how many people in her life are written into some of history’s greatest novels. 

***

Ever realise how when cars drive by the leaves spin up and dance for a second or two.  Hmm… ever realise that catching the autumn breeze too, is a McDonald’s piece of trash?

***

Sukanen is a museum village outside of Moose Jaw, every Halloween my mom, Nini, and I help out.  I mean why not terrify other humans? And if you’re someone like me and every person trying to or not can scare you this is great revenged.

This year we were doing a kidnapping scare were one or two of us would join in with a group at the beginning and get kidnapped half way through. 

For kidnappers we had: Mom, Nini, Alison, Seth, Dave, and Kori

                For kidnappies we had: Jessy Lee (me), Skylar, Kaitlynn, Erin, Zachary, Taylor, Tessa, another Taylor, and Keanna.

The highlight for me was when Kaitlynn, Tessa, Skylar, and I were running back to join a group and I tripped over a tree stump.  I believe I flew across the gravel road. Although, my landing could have have been more successful.

***

A couple days ago I slammed my finger in a cupboard and before I felt the pain I had a split second when my mind panics. “OH MY GREAT GOODNESS THIS IS GOING TO HURT!” It’s my like body was freaking out before anything had been felt, and then when the pain came it stayed for maybe 5 seconds. Or at least on lap around the kitchen holding my finger yelling at myself.

When it was over though I believe the pain in the finger wasn’t as horrible as the dread that came from my mind before.

***

                Yesterday I was in Social class learning about the ‘Black Death’ plague that swiped through Europe in the 1300 and wasn’t really gone till the 1600.  Mr. J was saying how the disease stated to get to humans from the Chinese Rat Fleas. Fleas like heat and everyone would dress so warmly that the fleas almost grew out of nothing.  Then he went on to explain how everyone thought the plague was just an evil spirit in the air so they would smell flowers so they couldn’t breathe in the wickedness.

                I thought to myself: Self how stupid were these people? Disease didn’t live in spirits and draining someone of blood won’t help.  Jeepers!

                Then myself said back: Jessy Lee what if in 4000 years a girl in a social class is learning about your day in age and thinks, “Needles can’t stop diseases.  Jeepers!”

                It’s like thinking the you don’t get old and die, because eventually you life will grow just as old.  And maybe years and years from now my way in life may not be the way anymore.

***

            Oh, men see what I mean this post had no real meaning but, I like to think of it as a finding a lost key in a back pocket or a new book!!!

            With my star key almost done I must remind you that in a split second the world’s history can be revenge and the future could be a MacDonald’s wrapper. Because writing in lists and writing sentences that make no sense is that new book, the book that will one day be old.

***

            Let’s back up…

             .nettirw reve evah I tsop tsegnol eht eb yam sihT

            I guess my weekend was really kind of full.  I am just going to jump ahead to Saturday night when my mom lost the Thanksgiving turkey. 

            My mom and I were sitting in the living room taking about coffee when my Grandma walks in. 

Now you must understand my Grandma is a fabulous cook and her house, also my cabin, is always spot less.  I have never lived in a castle but, I am guessing this is about as close at Saskatchewan will get to England’s palaces. 

So where was I? Oh, right, Grandma walks in.  “Cori, when you helped me with the turkey do you remember were we-.”

My mom and I look at each other, “Did you just loose the Thanksgiving turkey?” I whisper to her. 

“I think we put beside the fridge?” My mom says standing up and walking into the kitchen. 

From the kitchen hear Grandma sigh with relief and my mom explain to my aunty, who I call Nini, that this is why she doesn’t cook often.  While this is all happening I don’t think Albert even looked up from the paper.  Just another day with the girls in his family.

* * *

Sunday my mom and got up said our farewells and left with turkey and cranberry buns for breakfast. We met Dave in Moose Jaw and off we went. 

Let us fast forward to Verlo graveyard which is nowhere near were Verlo is today.  I am serious I can now define “Middle-of-nowhere.”

*middle-of-nowhere = Where ever Verlo cemetery is.

So after we snooped around that cemetery for a bit I realised the gate that lets you into the graveyard was on hinges.  Hinges that swung back and forth really easily. So the wheels started to spin in my head. 

                My train of thought probably went something like this: this graveyards creepy- where did my mom go?- oh there-I should go hide on her and scare her- (runs through gates) –the lock on this gate is really cool- (plays with lock forgets to scared mom) hey! The gate moves!- it’s like the gate to the play ground at Edders- that park has nice swings- Wait, I wonder….

Yup I can swing on this gate…

                At first I was pushing myself back and forth with one foot like skate boarders do.  Or is it long borders these days?

                Anyway, then Dave decided that I needed more speed to my little adventure I was having.  So, he walked over and started to push the gate so I picking up some speed.  Soon enough I was being punched into a drying tree and had to switch to the other gate covering the other half of the entrance.  This side was a lot smarter than the left side of this doorway. For this side had a meddle hook that would stop the gate from going any further there was would be exactable.

                I think this gate knew what I was up to.

                I take my position, feet together on the side knee almost toughing the rusting meddle that is sticking out the side.

                Dave gets ready. I am ready. He pushes on the gate.

                I go back and this time do not hit a tree.

                I fly forward.

WHACK-SCREECH

                “ERR! OWWW!” I lean back and let myself fall off the gate. I hobble over to the car and sit in the back, door open leg in pain.

                My mom and Dave walk over and hop into the car.  I decide I am about to get some wicked bruise out of this and maybe it’s already turning blue.  I roll up my pant leg and find red.  Lots of deep red.

                I guess it really is disrespectful to swing on a graveyard gate because it came around and took a chunk out of my knee.  Then being in the middle-of-nowhere I had to use a napkin and a shoelace to spot the bleeding.

Till next week, don’t swing on any gates.

So after four minutes of trying to decide which needed the most love I decided the thing that means the most to me should be best dressed.  Since I am never in my room this means you my dear sort of forgotten blog.  So let’s start, let this be the first official blog of the new school year.  Push up your glasses, turn on a light, tuck twitter away, and BEGIN. 

 “A good character is the best tombstone… carve your name on hearts, not on marble.” – Charles H. Spurgeon.

I have head of many things about making your mark on the world.  I have heard about many people who have made their mark but, have we ever heard about the ones who didn’t make it.  The ones who don’t have a city named after their success?

Think of it like this, Dumbledore died in Harry Potter, his name is in on a tombstone in the pages.  “A good character in the best tombstone,” ditto, Dumbledore was a great character.  J.K.Rowling meanwhile had wrote her name in all the readers’ hearts.

What if your name’s not on a war memorial or a hall of fame? What if you don’t make it to the end of your goal?

People can ask me what I am scared of and I could say nothing.  More then not I say snakes but, a snake is not going to ruin my dreams the way I will ruin myself if I don’t get them done. What should happen if I get as far as McGill then get hit by bus? My name wouldn’t be in hearts because eventually all the hearts my name were held  in, they would all grow old and pass on then I am no-were. 

                                                                                                                        Just gone.

But, say I do, say I can get my name in flesh not granite or limestone.  Maybe, if I just keep at it and leave my worries beneath the surface just long enough to look around.  Then maybe next time life pulls me under when I come up my worries will stay under longer, and longer till…

                                              … I am telling you the truth when I say snakes are the only thing that scares me.

“A bend in the road is not the end of the road, unless you fail to make the turn.” Author Unknown.

So here I am, Mount Rushmore looming behind my night stand, and Mount Dreams-that-I-must-do billowing up in front of me.  Guess there’s only on last thing to do before I reach the peek, I must BEGIN.

                The summer started off with a bang and a load pop to be persisted.  Fireworks that flashed into sky made the stars run for cover.  This is not the big city show but the small town extravaganza.  Illuminants that carried on for 20 minutes at most and with candy from the Jelly Bean my mom and I are set to watch the blaze… on the roof of the van.  Just another tradition.

                See all this time I thought I was the only one who has happy and pleasant but wrote about dark things.  Well, let’s just say I am very glad to know that there are others like me out there,  14 actually.  From Zombie killing to bird like devils, from barrel racing to pants that don’t fit the writing genera is our own.  It’s good to know there are people out there who find the pen more fascinating then the remote.

                Another tradition for the Saas family, the Harry Potter Party.  We go dressed up to the movie and then out for supper.  And this summer’s Harry Potter movie was the last, and the last time we’ll sit in costume in the theater.  It was a perfect way to end the parties even if I balled my eyes out from beginning to end, no joke my hands were wrinkled after.  Let us just say I was saying good bye to an old friend.

                I’m not sure if you could call us “old” friends but here we are.  I spent every moment of the summer I could with Tessa.  She came to house for a week, were we went to Shane Koyczan live.  We cooked to; we seem to do that a lot.  Well, Tessa cooks and then tells me what the Tbs is and why no the whisk won’t work while, most of the time, I would reply by asking what Alien movie we should watch. 

                The weekend before basketball camp my soccer team played in provincials, take a note to how I said “played.”  We also played and placed in the RSA final cup which we came in second, oddly enough since we were playing U-16 and in Provincials we played our age group and didn’t place.  But, even after all that we were still just Moose Jaw…

             … Then seconds after I went straight to basketball camp.  As you can see LP, my basketball, got more rest then I.  My friend Rebecca and I shared a dorm room not that we were in there much.  In the day you only were in the room if you had to go grab more band aid for the ever worsening blisters.  By the end of the day you knew you were going home knowing the court.

                Dallas Valley Western Riding, this week is go, go, go until you can’t feel tired.  Legs sore from the hours of horse work after? Sure, but completely worth it.  Let me just inform you of some stuff we did, capitulated from a water trampoline, sleep out under the stars, human foosball and being that farm kid you always wanted to try being.  I remember over hearing these two people talking the one asked how bare backing was, the other reply, “Well, there’s now a crack in the fence…” 

                My mom and I went down to Beinfait in search of my great-great Aunt’s grave.  We didn’t find her but we did find multiple pictures of my grandparents in the Willow Bunch Museum.  Here we have my grandparents, in what my grandma tells me to be, their choir.  So, in the end we didn’t find any Magee’s but we did find some pretty snazzy picture of my grandma and Albert.  (Grandma- 3 from the left top row.  Albert- 3 from the left bottom row.)

                Tessa, Albert, Nini (my aunt) and I entered the Mistussinne golf tournament.  Tessa and I have had this battle for youth longest drive.  This is our last year being considered a youth and our first year I won, the next she won, this year was the tie breaker.  In the end I got lucky, got a drive that could slit a pizza in half and Tessa got a beautiful chip shot, if it was soccer.  But, neither of us really cared who won in the end because as long as it was her or me we both had won.

                My mom, Albert and I went to the Bonnie View, a gorges run down church I have grown up to.  Outside the ditch was butterflies,  even when you stood in the middle of them they would not scare.  It was one of my last days before returning home and these creatures fluttered about me the beats of their wings whispering messages.  As we were getting ready to go I wanted nothing more than to beat my wings and tell these beautiful animals to trust me and perhaps they’ll just simply fallow my lead.