My mom gets the camera out, ready to get the perfect shot for our summer photo book “Ewww! Its guts and internal juices are dripping down the driveway!” my sister would screech in a squeaky six-year-old voice. “Yeah, and now they’re dripping on you!” I said, while shoving half of the dead corpse in her face. “Girls, stop playing with our dinner. We have to eat those,” my grandmom would say. My sister would be temporarily quiet and listen, while I would get the knife, hammer, and cutting board out. Ready to kill crabs. Every summer we go down to the Jersey Shore. We do a gazillion things there. Go to the boardwalk, the beach, the pool, buy hermit crabs, go out to dinner almost every night, go for bike rides and so much more. Although the restaurants are very good and I wind up eating too much and regretting it, those meals are never the perfect meal. The perfect meal is one that is homemade. It takes all day to make it and it never lets you down. It always tastes the same, smells the same, and looks the same. I know this sounds cheesy, but it is because it really is made with love. My grandmother stands there creating the gravy all day long, adding spices, continually stirring, bringing that wooden spoon to her mouth, tasting it, and adding some more spices, and after about five hours it is perfect. Early in the morning, on a day we’ve been waiting for, my sister, my pop-pop, and I get in his blue Escalade and drive to the fish market. The ride is long, but my sister and I sit in those large leather seats and talk about how good the macaroni is going to be and thinking of good names to give to the crabs before we kill them. After hours of driving, or at least that is what it seems to us, we eagerly hop out of the car. As soon as we walk into the store a strong whiff of sea enters our nostrils; the smell of so much salt stings our noses. My pop-pop walks to the front counter to secure our dinner while my sister and I usually play-fight with the figurines of shrimp and lobsters. After we get bored with that, we can be found pressing our noses against the glass of the lobster tanks. If one squirms just a little, we both scream. Just as quickly we are shushed by the creepy old guy in the back corner cutting off fish heads. Usually by that time my pop-pop has finished up with our “live” purchase. The hard-shell crabs are in a gigantic brown paper bag that wiggles every ten seconds and has wet splotches of what we think is pee. The ride home is longer. Olivia and I sneakily turn up the AC and point the fans at each other and turn the seat warmers on and off. These games cause lots of laughter, which often gets us yelled at because Pop-Pop isn’t fond of giddiness. The need to be silent causes even more laughter. But we would be startled to silence when the bag in the back rustled. This past year, when we got home, my grandmom and my mom were waiting on the driveway with a large knife, tongs, hammer, cutting board, and a huge pot. We immediately got into our positions; Olivia and I would grab a hammer, and my grandmom would get a crab out of the moving bag, sometimes bringing out several as they hold onto each other for dear life or like monkeys in a barrel. My mom gets the camera out, ready to get the perfect shot for our summer photo book. My sister and I decided to name the first crab Alvin; we always name the crabs in alphabetic order. We felt bad for the Y and Z, since we only ordered 24 crabs, leaving two crabs to share four letters. My grandmom would carefully line up the knife on the crab, right between the eyes; he knew his destiny and attempted freedom to no avail. I usually had the honor of going first, since my sister was too chicken. I smacked that hammer down like a fly swatter on an annoying mosquito, splitting the crab in half in one swoop. My grandmom would pick up the crab halves and toss them into the pot. Although they were dead they still managed to move a tiny bit, which fascinated me. We continued on killing them: Betty, Carlos, Daniel, Emma. Ryan would go run behind our mom and hug her legs while my grandmom would grab the crabs and the execution continued. Swoosh. Right down the middle. It’s quick and painless. After some time, I was brave enough to pick up a crab half. I remember being so proud. Showing it off like a badge of honor. Dancing with it and shoving it in my sister’s face, saying, “Hey, Olivia… here comes the crab!” and “Ahhh, there’s a crab on your head!” By that time, I was almost on the ground laughing, and she was crying, which only made me want to tease her more. But, as usual, I would get scolded and drop the crab back in pot. After killing our last crab, Yolanda-Zack, my grandmom would walk straight to the laundry room sink to begin the cleaning. The cleaning takes a long time; we disappear, leaving my grandmom to do the dirty work. She has to peel the shells off and get the yuck out. Then, in a big pot she puts crushed tomatoes, oil, salt, pepper, garlic, onions, basil, oregano, a little sugar, and of course, the crabs. Being a good Italian cook, she doesn’t use exact measurements. She lets that cook, stirring when necessary. After a while, the smell in that kitchen is indescribable. She says that’s all she does but I don’t believe her, there is some culinary magic going
May/June 2011
Do You Hear Me, Mr. Lincoln?
Do You Hear Me, Mr. Lincoln? by Judith Caseley; Graphia Books: New York, 2009; $6.99 Life has changed for Sierra Goodman after the death of her father. Her grieving mother has gone into a house-cleaning rage, her brother is too young to interpret how she feels and suffers nightmares, and her friends are clueless about how she feels. With no one to turn to, Sierra gets comfort from a portrait of Abraham Lincoln. It was a meaningful gift her father wanted her to have. Lincoln seems to be the only one to hear Sierra’s pain and help her move on. That’s why Sierra talked to the portrait about what she felt, even though it couldn’t talk back. After her father died, Sierra impatiently longed to return to her normal routine, but her mother resisted. She wanted to have family time again instead of just watching her mother clean all day. Sierra was very close to her father. Sierra’s entire family was grieved. Her Aunt Rose said that God took a diamond away from them. Moreover, the relationship between Sierra and her best friend, Eli, was growing apart. Sierra didn’t know why. It got worse when she found out that she’d have to act in a play as Mary Todd Lincoln while Eli acted as Abraham Lincoln. The play was like a reminder to Sierra when they acted the death of Lincoln. It reminded her of her father’s death. Both he and Lincoln died unexpectedly, even though her father was not shot. As I read about Sierra’s problems, I felt sad and would hate it if I were in that situation. However, I’ve felt tragedy too. I was quite young when my grandfather died, and I’d been very close to him. It hurt me a lot to lose him because I was always able to express myself to him. One day, like a missile flying by, my grandfather was gone. It had happened suddenly and it was shocking. Similar to Sierra, I had no one to get comfort from. So I wrote in my diary for comfort because I felt relieved being able to express myself. Sierra, however, got comfort from a portrait. We can relate because we both know how to find comfort at times when we’re down. My personal favorite part of the story was the play about Lincoln’s death. I liked it because it was for me the high point of the story. In that scene Sierra really expressed herself a lot. The play related to Sierra because Lincoln’s death reminded her of her father’s death. Both of their legs hung off the gurney because they were so tall. Sierra lost her father, and Mary Todd Lincoln lost her husband. They both lost people who were important to them. Another aspect of the story I liked is the way the story shows how diverse the world is today. In the story, Sierra’s mother is Cuban and her father is Jewish. They are bringing two cultures together with no discrimination. I like this. It makes me feel that the world is changing. People can join from different parts of the world and get along. Sierra Goodman’s grief is one I will always remember because I have never seen somebody overcome their grief so strongly. When I read this incredible story all I could think is “WOW.” It is a great piece of literature. I enjoyed this book of a long journey of sadness. I learned that there are challenges you face in life but you have to overcome. I think it’s the best book I’ve ever read. Nayamah Kolliegbo, 13Willingboro, New Jersey
Infinite Field
We are like a grain of sand on an endless beach A soft whisper echoed off the walls. “Jess!” I jerked into consciousness, tense and trembling. The door was closed. The clock ticked as usual. The lopsided calendar above my mahogany dresser showed the same picture of a sun sinking behind the mountains that had been there when I went to bed. Must be a dream. I leaned back into my pillow to close my eyes again. “Jessica Stark, wake up.” Silvia? A light tap sounded on the window pane. I shifted my position. In the darkness I could make out a small, round face with long black hair pressing its nose against the half-open window. It was Silvia! I stood, tore off my blanket, and pulled the window up all the way. What on earth was Silvia doing here at—I glanced at the lit clock—12:37 in the morning? “Hi,” Silvia whispered. “H-hi,” I whispered back. “What are you doing here so late?” Silvia glanced behind her shoulder and said, “I couldn’t sleep and thought you and I could go exploring.” Exploring? I suddenly felt afraid and remembered how quiet the house was. “I can’t come out now.” “Why not? It would be a good experience to explore the unknown— at night, that is.” Silvia pushed a stray wisp of hair behind her ear. “Come on, please?” “Are you sure it’s safe?” “Sure it is! Just crawl out the window. I’ll help you.” “But what if…” “It’s fine. Don’t worry. We’ll only be out for a little while.” Silvia danced a little happy dance before whispering, “We can catch fireflies and watch the moonlight dance on the water.” It did sound pretty neat. But I couldn’t. Night was scary. Night was unpredictable. “Just jump down. It’s easy,” Silvia whispered again. “Are you sure?” I threw on some shoes. “Of course I’m sure, silly!” She reached out a hand. “Here, I’ll help you out.” I didn’t know what led me to grasp her hand, but after a matter of a few seconds I was outside my window under a bright moon, Silvia beside me. “Follow me,” Silvia whispered softly as she pulled my hand. I followed her through a small path cutting between two pine trees which I had never noticed before. “Where are we going?” “I’ll show you.” A silver moon wore a scarf of lacy clouds as I followed Silvia through the path, shivering all the way. A chilly wind rippled through the trees that also sent swirls through the pond. I was so enchanted by the sight that it left me with a new desire to see the world at night. To hear the world at night. Maybe to even feel the world at night. “Look, Jess!” Silvia pulled a branch aside with her delicate hand, revealing a huge field that stretched for miles, looking full of undiscovered wonder and mystery eager to be known. I could see fireflies blink in the magical blue night. I could even feel the sudden warmth of this field wrap its arms around me. It was a beautiful sight. Silvia scampered into the field and then turned, a sparkle in her eye. “I call this the Infinite Field.” I tucked a strand of hair behind my ear, too caught up in the beauty of the grass glistening in the moon-drenched light to answer my friend. “Come on,” Silvia urged. She skipped back to where I stood and pulled me deeper into it. “We can catch some fireflies!” ’tis the night of the fireflies. A soft giggle escaped my lips. Yes, it was their night, but it was also going to be my night. The carpet of grass seemed to wave to me, almost beckoning me to come and play. The stars above seemed to wink at me, almost assuring me that I would be safe in their sight. How could I refuse and leave when wonder was going to unfold before my eyes? Without any more hesitation, I pulled off my shoes and followed my friend barefoot into the field, feeling the sudden coolness of the grass beneath my feet. One after another, the fireflies twinkled and came within catching distance. Occasionally, I caught one and then let it fly high into the sky, blinking its farewell. But otherwise, they would wink and disappear completely. “Twelve… thirteen… fourteen…” I listened to Silvia’s soft voice in the quiet night as she collected the fireflies in a small glass jar she had brought from home. I would’ve never thought of bringing something like that along! And I started thinking. How did she seem to know every detail of nature? She was the type of girl who would stop and smell the flowers even if she was in a rush to get somewhere. I have never cared to take the time to look closely at nature. But Silvia? It was her enjoyment— her delight—to explore the beauty around her. I would have never imagined myself underneath stars I could almost touch with my finger, or see the vivid picture of a moon casting pools of water on the grass. It was all too perfect to be real. But it was real. I suddenly jolted from my thoughts when Silvia started lifting the glowing jar above her head. “I want you to say ‘now’ when I nod at you, OK?” “OK,” I agreed. Curious, I watched her eyes twinkle excitedly. I wouldn’t miss this for the world… whatever it was! Once Silvia adjusted her hand to twist the cap off the jar, she nodded her head eagerly. “Now!” I shouted enthusiastically, throwing my arms into the air. On cue, she popped the cap open, releasing a spray of dazzling light into the night sky. The shower of firefly light danced high with the stars, before they parted into different directions. “Whoa,” I managed to say. Silvia just laughed and slipped the jar back in her bag. “Come on, let’s run!” Without waiting for
