“Aunt Carol, what’s that?” I asked as I carefully examined her plate. It was a stormy evening outside, but inside Ponzio’s it felt warm and fuzzy. She whispered into my soft ear, “Chicken pot pie.” It was magical, it was sensational, it was as delicate as a butterfly’s wing. She spooned me a lump of what looked at the time like a mountain of broth. I embraced the smell that tickled my nose and plummeted down into my stomach, like a rapid waterfall splashing down onto the drenched, mossy rock. “I will never forget that moment,” I confide to my father. We sit famished at the Ponzio’s counter drinking our waters with lemon, trying to watch the time fly by. It’s noisy and crowded at Ponzio’s tonight. I slump, and I slouch, waiting for my chicken pot pie to arrive. I watch Rachel, my sister, who deliberately slurps her soup. As I wait, I focus on the water drops on my glass as they glide down like droplets on a raincoat. All of a sudden, my nose perks up. I notice someone walking swiftly with a pie. I slowly rise back into my seat, placing my folded napkin onto my lap. I freeze. My chicken pot pie has arrived! My chicken pot pie has arrived! As I clench my spoon in midair, the scent hugs my nose, and it draws me closer to heaven. As I close my eyes, I dream of warmness, and kindness, and everything around me seems to float around, closing their eyes too. I devour my first bite. Suddenly, I’m lapping up the creamy broth. I cut up the carrots and smash them into my face. I’m swooning; and I feel tingly all over. Then my dad stands up; he catches my eye and signals it’s time to depart. From the outside I appear full and cheerful. But inside, I cry. I don’t want to leave this pool of luscious ingredients! My father takes my hesitant hand, and we start for the car. As we start pulling away, I thank my dad for the delicious dinner. He smiles, but continues to drive. I press both hands to the window, looking at the midnight sky, licking off the excess crust on my left cheek. And as I take my last glimpse of the sky, I see my Aunt Carol, motioning for me to come back next Thursday. Marine Rosenthal, 12Haddonfield, New Jersey Alicia Zanoni, 11Waterford, Michigan
Family
The Lone Straw Hat
The water. It used to be tranquil. A calm, yet dynamic giant, nourishing the life within. Sometimes its surface churned, purging the muddy banks of debris and stirring up the sediment on the bottom. Other times it was as still as a hot day in August. At these times the mud would settle to the bottom, and the turtles would come to bask on the rocks. The children would run to its edge and catch newts and water bugs. Soon their parents would follow and give the nod, confirming that it was time to play in the refreshing water. Cries of joy would fill the air as everyone was assured that life was good. This is what I used to see when I looked through the long, tangled branches to our pond. Three-quarters of an acre in area with a small island slightly off center, our pond was a special place where we would all congregate on warm summer days in June, July, August, and sometimes September. The adults would walk down the rough path with cool drinks in their hands and hearty laughs in their throats, followed by the bare and pattering feet of the children. My two sisters, my brother, and I sometimes spent hours in the pond area, frolicking in the sunshine. Often my five cousins processed to the water’s edge, where we children would begin stripping down to our bathing suits. The adults would make their way for the lawn chairs on the dock from which they kept a watchful eye on all that was happening. I turned to look at where David had been and saw only his small hat in the murky water The first rule at our house was “No matter what, no children may play by the pond without an adult.” We followed this rule faithfully but didn’t let it spoil our fun. With the adults present, we had races, swam laps, practiced our dives and flips, made sandcastles, and pretended we were mermaids. Sometimes we used the pond for a learning opportunity. Papa would make us aware of the feeding patterns of fish or tell us of the life cycle of the newts at the water’s edge. Mama would clear up our uncertainties about sea monsters and whether or not sharks might be lurking in the muddy waters of the deep end of the pond. In the winter we bundled up like Eskimos and tramped down the slippery path to the pond to try out our ice-skating skills. Occasionally there was a bump or a bruise, but no one let that bother them; there were always a loving mother and some hot chocolate. All we had to do was call. My memories of the pond were nothing but joyous, and I relished every moment of my time there. But on that morning in June, the water transformed before my eyes when I looked at it and saw the lone, straw hat floating at the dock’s edge. It was small, hand sewn, with a simple black band encircling the base. The brim? Three-and-a-half inches wide. Carefully cared for, it must have been his Sunday hat. The ripples of water that it made widened quickly, mirroring my fear. Earlier that morning our Amish friends, the Peacheys, arrived at our home in a big fifteen-passenger van. We had been planning to get together for months. They came on Ascension Day, celebrated by Christians for Jesus’ ascent into heaven. For the Amish, this is the only holiday of the year. After lunch and socializing we decided to show the Peacheys our new house. Although it was still being built, it was approaching completion. As we were a big group of people, we went in two carloads. The first group was made up of the men and the older children. As soon as we got to the house, my dad and Mr. Peachey went into the house. Amos wanted a tour. But we children retreated to the sandy beach. There we began building sandcastles and splashing, ankle deep, in the water. It was too cold to go in any deeper. “This is probably David’s first time in a pond,” said Sarah, the oldest Peachey child, referring to her younger brother. I replied, “Really? How old is he?” “Six,” came the response. Modest not only in dress but also in speech, Sarah did not elaborate. Just six years of age, I thought. This meant he had just started school. He only had one year of English under his belt. No wonder he didn’t respond when I called, “Let’s go rinse off our feet at the dock and then head up to the house.” Once at the dock, David sat down next to me as we all began kicking in the water. Laughter filled the air. But it all stopped when, after just a few minutes (or was it seconds?), I felt a splash on my leg. Oh, this certainly wasn’t the first; we had been splashing the whole time. But this splash was different; it wasn’t small and staccato like the rest; it was more like a small wall of water . . . followed by a silence. Instinctively, I turned to look at where David had been and saw only his small hat in the murky water. “Papa! David fell in the water!” My cry echoed from the hillside. Immediately my dad responded by bounding out of the house with Amos at his heels. As we watched Papa dive without hesitation from the bank into the water, Sarah and I gathered up the other children. I realized that I didn’t have any time to waste. I had to do something to help. Just then I saw Papa’s head emerge.”Call 911,” he said and then, catching a breath, he went back under. I was relieved to have some instructions, but I was also feeling frantic. This big task of calling for help was now on my shoulders. Running up to the porch, I saw Mama run
Good Night, Son
The soft patter of rainfall filled the attic of the tiny house in Boston. Peter Carrol sat alone in the attic, surrounded by old photos and clothing. All of the memorabilia belonged to his son; a son who was no longer alive, a son who was his pride and joy; a son who was cruelly taken away. The man shed bitter tears as he looked at the different photos. He could not believe that his boy was dead. He and his son had never truly been as close as he wanted to be, he blamed himself for that. Peter Carrol’s childhood was no cakewalk. Raised in New York, he had to fight for any success. Peter was determined to succeed in life, and so he had never given up. With each opportunity he squeezed out a double return. He would never forget how hard it was to become the man he was today. “You have never said good night to me. Never in my life” Peter decided a long time ago that his son would not be raised as a spoiled child. No, his son would grow up and learn how to work for success. And so, ever since little Ryan Carrol was born, Peter gave him no breaks. Anything Ryan did, it had to be perfect, otherwise Peter would force upon Ryan countless chores and homework problems. Eventually, Ryan was able to become more and more of a man. Ryan learned values the hard way, just as Peter had. Ryan learned the power and the importance of money, the gentlemanly manners, all aspects of academic life, and music. Music gave Ryan a secret sanctuary in which he could be free. His father had never played an instrument, and so music was where Ryan could be free of criticism, hard looks, and constant pressure. It was that sense of freedom that propelled Ryan to become a piano prodigy. Every musical concert, Peter would sit in the back of the room, smiling in pure pride as his son dazzled the audience. However, when Ryan approached him, beaming, waiting to be congratulated, Peter would turn stony-faced, and simply nod and say “good.” Eventually Ryan gave up on his father, and after concerts, he would talk with other musicians, and not even give a glance toward his father. Peter had pushed too far. Ryan no longer looked upon Peter as a father, but as a fierce enemy. One night, Peter and Ryan got into a huge argument, and Ryan broke down. With tears rolling down his cheeks, he and his father argued about Ryan’s upbringing. At the end, Ryan stormed up the stairs, but halfway, he turned back and looked at his father, and coldly said, “You call yourself a father. You have never said good night to me. Never in my life.” It was those words that struck the most pain in Peter’s heart. He slowly realized the truth in the words. Even when Ryan was a small boy, he had never said good night to him. He sat alone in the kitchen, thinking about his son. One could not argue against the fact that Peter’s raising technique had seriously helped Ryan. Ryan was now a high school senior, valedictorian, student-council president, A-plus student, a dedicated scientist and had received acceptance letters from every single Ivy League school. Peter decided that the reward Ryan would harvest was much more important than the suffering he was going through now. Thus, Peter decided to continue his harsh upbringing of Ryan; however, he vowed that he would start saying good night to his son. The summer slipped by, and each night, Peter would realize that he had forgotten to say good night. This lasted all four years of Ryan’s stay in Harvard, and then the next three years Ryan spent in medical school. Within those seven years, Ryan had maintained a sparse relationship with his father. After Ryan graduated from medical school, he came back to visit his father. He thought that after seven years, his father would have changed. He was wrong. As he walked through the door, he expected a surprise party, with all his friends congratulating him, and shaking his hand. Instead, he walked in and found his father sitting alone at the counter reading the newspaper. Disappointed, and angered, Ryan simply walked to his old room and shut the door. What he did not know, was that hours before Ryan’s arrival, Peter had called everyone he knew and told them of Ryan’s graduation from medical school. That night, the father and son discussed Ryan’s plans for the future. Peter wanted Ryan to go on and become a big CEO of a pharmaceutical company. Ryan, on the other hand, wanted to help people himself. After an hour of discussion, Ryan stood and said, “Dad, I’ve already made up my mind. I was approached by a team of doctors from India when I was in med school. I’m going to India to help the people there. I’m leaving next week.” Peter was shocked. How could Ryan do this? Years flowed from Peter’s eyes, as he apologized for every harsh moment in their relationship How could he waste his education and his effort in India? But before Peter could refute, Ryan said good night and walked away. Peter merely grunted to Ryan’s farewell. Ryan chuckled and said, “There you are, Dad, same as always.” Peter didn’t understand at first, but an hour later he realized what had happened. Once again, he had forgotten to say good night. Ryan arrived in India the following Sunday, and was amazed at the clash of cultures that faced him. It was obvious the West had influence here, but the Indian culture was just as strong. He found his way to the hospital that he was to join. There, he saw the team of doctors he had met at med school. He worked alongside these doctors for three years. Together they faced the problems and sicknesses that arose
