Greetings From the Well HouseMatt Russell

Production Editor

Following a successful debut, the mission for the Well House magazine to pursue in our second year was clear. We wanted to become a greater part of campus life and reach out to the local community.

Ourfirststepinachievingthiswastoestablishanonlinepresencebybuilding a website. This opened up our potential submission base to writers andartistsinallfieldshereoncampusaswellasinthegreatercommunity.The creation of the website also allows for the Well House to push the boundariesofhowartisdefinedinthefuturebyallowingonlinepublishingofaudioandvideoclipsandpodcasts.

AnothersuccessfulendeavorlaunchedduringthepastfallsemesterwastheLiveIssue.Thisevent,heldintheIUKokomoArtGallery,showcasedthevisualartpublishedputindisplaywhilethepublishedwritingwasreadbytheirauthors.Notonlydidthiseventhelpincreatingmorevisibilityforthepublication,butmoreimportantly,itgavegreaterexposuretothetalentsofthewritersandartistspublishedinthefirstissue.Thiswillnowbeanannualeventeveryfalltohelpcelebratecreativityoncampus.

Lookingaheadtonextyear,theWellHouse’sgoalistocontinueitsgrowth,andtoincludemorediversityinartandwritingandtoexpandourreadership.Anewinternshipprogramhascementedthemagazine’splaceoncampus,andeventslikewritersworkshopswillkeeppushingusintothecommunityaswell.Thisisonlyoursecondyearofexistence,andwearestill just getting our feet wet.

Sostickaround,andseewhatwecomeupwithnext…

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Table of Contents

GreetingsfromtheWellHouse 1 Matt Russell

Writing

An Attempt To Hold The Picture 4Andrew Garnand

“Doors” 6Jeremy Ghazaleh

Madre 10 Cayce Arnett OperationIraqiFreedom 21Nathan Johnston

WarSunlightAmbitionsWork 24Michael Cunningham

Happiness 26Amanda Byram

SubmissionsGuidelines 34

Art

Sunny Marie McClurg 5 Pieces of Time

Cayce Arnett 9Snap

SchireanGlassburn 20 Reaching Out

JosephA.Murphy 23 Ancient Times

Alisha Baird 25 Etude

AndrewGarnand 33 As a Child We Played In These

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An Attempt To Hold The PictureAndrew Garnand

Ionlyhavemyemptyhands,somepaperclipsandrubberbands,andIwilltrytobuildyousomethingofbeauty.ButIamjustamodernman,withasongstuckinmyhead,andifitcrumblesthenpleaseforgiveme.MaybeI’llattempttorecreateallthethingswe’vegrowntohateabouteachotherandallofourfriends,andwecanknockitdownagain,takethebatandtakeaswing,andthenyoucan’tsayI’venevergivenyouanything.Wecanholdabar-b-queandyoucaninviteyoursistertoo,andyoucanfixourgueststhatdrinkyoulovetomake,withgrenadineandlemonzest,andisthatthecognacIdetectwhichismakingyoumorebeautifulthanever?Andnowyou’relookingbackatme,youreyeslikeacombinationVCRT.V.,settoplaybackallofmyfantasies.Likeaweddingcoveredinwhite,andachildtosaygoodnightto,whilewestayuplatewrappingChristmaspresents,drinkinghalfglassesofwine,acheapred,youknowthekind,filledfromaboxonthekitchentableandIcantasteitonyourtongue,andasIbreatheyouintomylungs,IknowI’veneverbeensohappy.ThisishowIpictureeverything,fulloflove,justlikeasceneoutofsomeTech-nicolormovie.Andtryingtoholdthatpicturethereiswhatlifeissodon’tbescared,becausenothingcaneverhurtyouhere.Sowrapyourfingersupwithmine,andwe’llsitdownandcountthetime, until we both just go to sleep.

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Pieces of Time by Sunny Marie McClurg

“Doors”Jeremy Ghazaleh

“Iwanttoholddoorsopenforyou.”“What?Doors?”“Iknowitsoundsstrange.”“Try weird.” “Weird,then.Itis.ItjustpoppedintomyheadwhenIwokeupthismorning.Iprobablydreamtaboutit,orsomething.But,Imean it.” “Inametaphoricalway?”“IguessIcouldbesayingthatIwanttotryandhelpyoufindandtakenewopportunities,thatsortofthing.ButImeanitliterally,too.” “So,you...haveaphysicaldesiretogoovertothatdoor,openitup,andletmewalkthrough?”“Yeah,Ido.”“So,thisiswhatcrazylookslike?”“Probably.Holdingdoorsopen:that’slove,tome.”“...love?”“Um,yeah.Love.”“Loveisholdingdoorsopen?”“Yeah!Thinkaboutit,okay?Igooverthere,andIholdthatdooropenforyou.Whatdoesthatsayaboutme?”“Thatyou’vegotafantasticfutureasadoorman?”

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“Seriously,listen.Iopenthedoorforyou-that’slikesaying‘hey,I’mgoingtoputyourneedsbeforemine.’ImightreallyneedtogetthroughthatdoortowhereveritisI’mgoing,butI’mgoingto let yougofirst.Isn’tthatsomethingyou’ddoforsomeoneyoulove?”“Iguess...”“Butit’sgoingtodependonwhereI’mstanding,too.Icouldbe standing at the side of the door. So you see me, maybe nod politely,say‘thanks,’goonthrough.Niceandfriendly.Likeyou’dloveafriend.”“Uh-huh.”“Or,youknow,Icouldbeallinyourway-maybeI’mleaningacrossthedoorwaytopushthedooropen,andsoyoucan’tgetthroughtowhatyouneedbecauseI’mblockingit,andyouhavetogetaroundtheobstaclethatismetogetwhereyou’regoing.Nodoubtyou’vebeenwithsomeonelikethat.”“Definitely,but—”“Or,hey!Icouldjustbemindingmyownbusiness,holdingthatdoor,andyoucouldkindofbrushupagainstmeasyougothrough,orevenbealittlemoreaggressiveaboutitifyoufeltlikeit.” “IthinkI’mgettingthehangofthis.YoucouldeventripmeasIwalkthrough.”“ButIwouldnever—”“Well,I’veknownpeoplelikethat,aswell.YoucouldclosethedooronmejustasIgetthere,tellmetogofindanotherone.”

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“Iwouldn’t—”“Youcouldjustpropitopenformeandwalkaway,makemewonderwhateverhappenedtothepersonholdingthedoor.”“Idon’tunderstand—”“Oryoucould—”“Icouldbebehindthedoor,holdingitopen,andyou’dneverknowitwasme.NeverknowIwasthere,lovingyouthewholetime.” “...oh.” “Yeah.” “IthinkIgetit.”“Youdo?”“Yeah,andIthink…you’rewrong.Oratleastnotentirelyright.BecauseIcouldalsochoosetowalkaway,andneverwalkthroughthe door at all. Find another door that was being held open in a wayIlikedbetter.Loveisn’tjustholdingadooropen–ifnobodywalksthrough,it’swasted.Allthattime,effort,andenergyisjustwasted,nomatterhowwellyou’reholdingitopen.One-sidedloveisjustthat:one-sided.Ithastobeaboutbothpeople:theoneholdingthedoorandtheonewalkingthrough.”“Ah.So…”“So?”“So…areyougoingtowalkthroughthisdoor?”

Snapby Cayce Arnett

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MadreCayce Arnett

YoucanfeeltheentirefloorshakingasMomsitsthereatthe computer, her leg bouncing up and down as if it desperately wants to detach and get away as fast as possible. Her right hand is onthemouse,andshe’slostinthetrafficoftheInternet.Mom’sinherownbubble,andwe’vegrownaccustomedtonottalkingtoher,knowingshewon’thearawordwesay.MyfamilyandIhavealmostgivenuponreachingherthere. Thevibratingofthefloorissoannoying.MysistersandIareupstairs,andwehavetoshutourdoorstoblockoutthefeelandthesoundofMom’shunting-and-peckingonthekeyboard.Thatsoundisevenworsethanthevibrating.Thekeyboardissooldandhalfthekeysarestickywithgrimeandresiduefromnearly14yearsofuse.Ikeeptellinghertogetanewone,butsheadamantly refuses.

A beautiful girl rode her bike down the sidewalk of Tulsa, Okla-homa. She wore jean shorts and a tie-up halter which showed off her skinny body. She was so young and already turning heads. A man rode his motorcycle down the street. She caught his atten-tion, his greedy eyes staying on her as the distance between them grew. She watched as he crashed his bike. It wasn’t a bad ac-cident, and she laughed at the man, the laughter rising from the purity and youth within her.

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IttookMom17yearstogetajob.Shechosetobeastay-at-homemotherallthattime.Shetookaminimumwagejobwhenitwas clear we needed money. Mom complains a lot about the job though,andshealwayshasalongstorytotellus.MysistersandIdartoureyesateachother,awarningtogetawaywheneverMombeginsoneofhertalesaboutwork,andwebrushheroff. Shegoesbacktothecomputerandbackintothemessageboardswheresheisaninfamous“spoiler”for“Survivor.”Shefindsoutinformationabouttheshowbeforeanyoneelseanddis-seminates it on the message boards. Mom borders on obsession about the show. During the season, Thursday nights at our house are crowded with too many decibels of the show as she sits in front of the TV with a notepad and all the concentration of a neu-rosurgeon.

Teresa was 16, and as it is for so many young people, it was her year for love. She loved a boy, and he told her how much he loved her, too. Hormones were raging, and he couldn’t keep his hands off of her. They made love once.His devotion wasn’t very strong though. He ran away when Teresa told him she was pregnant. She went through 9 months alone with her disappointed and livid parents. She woke up in a dark room, her young body torn apart by the birth of the child. She wanted tosee the infant, but it was gone. Teresa’s mother was so angry that she took the baby and put it up for adoption. The girl was devastated.

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She emancipated herself at 17 and left.

Mom used to garden a lot. She transformed the empty lot ofourbackyardintoagorgeous,floweringgardenwhichyieldedusspearmint,peppermint,tomatoes,andoneyear,carrots.Ittookalongtimeforhertodo.EverypicturetakenonEastermorningduring our annual egg hunts showed the gradual growth of the gar-dens. “Survivor”nearlyputanendtothat,though.Hoursandhours of her time were redirected into the message boards, where Momwasworkingfeverishlytoearnherplace.Shelovestotellusall how many hits her posts get, showing her blossoming fame in the“Survivor”community. Youcantalktoplantsandflowers,buttheycan’trecognizeyour efforts.

Teresa spent months in Hawaii on a round-trip plane ticket. She would ride her bike around the entire span of the island within a day’s time, and she loved the peace and serenity. She was there with some friends and one of her many admirers. He put his military ring on Teresa’s finger and asked her to spend her life with him. He was one of the many whom she denied.They ran out of money on the island, though, and came back to the states on the return ticket full of renewed energy about life. It was the 70’s, and nothing could stop them.

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Teresa made her way to Italy, the land of her father and his de-scendents, and to the mountains of Switzerland. It was in Mexico, however, where Teresa found her niche. She took classes at a community art college in San Miguel de Allende for two years. She was the typical “starving artist,” selling her ceramic lemon juicers on the street. Teresa loved Mexico and the avocado tree which grew in her back-yard. She could make fresh guacamole any time she pleased.

“Hastamañana,”Momusedtosayasshetuckedusineachnight.Itwasnicetohaveamotherwhoputyoutobedeverynightandgreetedyouhappilyalmosteverymorning.Nowwetryourbesttoavoidherinthemornings—toavoidhermenopausalmoodinessandherpointlessstories.SomedaysIdon’tevenhavethetimetotalktoMombeforeIendupindreamlandforthenight,orshedoesn’tmakethetimetotalktome. For17yearsMomdideverythingforus—cooked,cleaned,healedourinjuries,lovedusunconditionally.Ourhousedriftsintodisarrayaswestillstruggletoaccustomourselvesto17yearsofhavingeverythingdoneforusbyamotherwhowasalwaysaround.Thesinkpilesupwithdirtydishes,thecarpetsandfloorsarestickyandstained,andthecandybowlonthetablesitsemptyandwanting.Wecan’tunderstandhowshecansitonthecomputeralldaywhennotatworkandthenyellatusaboutthehousebeingfilthy.“I’mnotyourmaid,”Momscreams.

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Teresa ended up in Oklahoma in her late 20’s. Many countries behind her, many lovers, and many experiences had passed. She was at a bar one night with her friends in Tulsa. For circum-stances unknown to Teresa at the time, they left and she was by herself with no way home. Randy was in Tulsa on a project with the Iron Workers, and he was taking a night off from the difficult, dangerous work. They talked, and he offered her a ride home. Flustered with the attention of this handsome, funny man, and in-toxicated with the bitterness of tequila, Teresa forgot her purse on the floor of the passenger seat. Randy found her information in the purse, and they met again. The romance took off, and one night he got drunk and climbed the terrace of her apartment building to proclaim his love to her. They were married at the courthouse in Tulsa, and their honey-moon was spent in Arkansas.

Momhasmovedupatherstore,andsheisamanagernow.Shecomplainsaboutthehourssheworksandtellsusthatourdadsaidshedoesn’thavetohaveajobifshedoesn’twantone.Momconsidersquitting,butweknowsheisn’tserious.Sheenjoysbe-ing around new people. Inalltheyearsshewasastay-at-homemother,sheonlyhadtwo friends. One used her for transportation to the doctor on oc-casion,andonthewaytopickupthewomanonce,Islippedonapatchoficeonourdeckwithnorailingsandcrackedmyheadopen. The friendship ended there.

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Another woman used her for the purpose of babysitting her awful son. He once used the space behind our couch as a toilet, and another time, he dropped a bean bag on my head and sat on it untilIcouldn’tbreathe.Thatfriendshipendedthere. We’regladMomhaspeopleshecantalktonow.Sheevengot a cell phone last Christmas because she was becoming more and more needed by her job, and our family now can reach her when she is gone.

Thirteen months after the marriage, Teresa gave birth to a little girl. She wanted to name the child Maria, but Randy thought it was too ethnic, and so she named the child Melissa. It was the 80’s then. The threesome had to leave their undersized duplex in Tipton, Indiana, where they had moved in order to be closer to Randy’s family, when Teresa became pregnant with her third child. They lived in Indian Heights in Kokomo when the little girl, Emily, was born sixteen months after Melissa. Teresa’s hands were full, and she was getting pneumonia with each pregnancy. She was alone most days, as Randy had to work hard to support the growing family. But he loved her very much, and would make midnight runs to pick up Pepsi when the cravings became intense. Teresa was shopping with her two little girls when she miscarried her fourth pregnancy two years after Emily. She had been carry-ing her first boy, and the loss devastated her.

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But they tried again, and their last daughter, Jessyca, was born when the other children were 4 and 5. They now lived in a better part of Kokomo, and the family was complete.

WeallcamehomefromschoolonedaytofindMomintears. She pulled us all close, and told us we had a half-sister. She andmyfatherhadhiredaprivateinvestigatortotrackdownachildshehadgivenbirthto25yearsago. MomlookedatmeespeciallyandtoldmeIwouldalwaysbe her oldest child, and that this was not going to be a bad thing forme--shewasnotgoingtoreplaceme.Iwasonly10. Thechildwasadoptedveryyoung,andtheadoptivepar-entshadnamedherJennifer.Jennyvisitedusonlytwiceovertheyears.Thefirsttimewepickedherupfromtheairport,Momwasintears,whilemyfatherstoodrespectfullybackwithmeandmysisters. Jenny told Mom that she would be crying too, if laser eye surgeryhadn’trenderedhertearductsuseless. ItmusthavebeendifficultforJenny,becausehercontactwithuslessenedovertheyears.Momoncesaidshethinksaboutherlong-lostchildeveryday.

Teresa didn’t know where her life had gone. Her dreams were over, she had a family now. She had to take care of them, and it was exhausting. She felt trapped, and she felt Randy was tying her down. Teresa felt controlled, and she wanted so badly to leave and go

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back to the carefree life she once had. But she loved her children, and her parents’ nasty divorce made her swear never to go through one herself. No one was left to understand her. Randy was always gone trying to make money to provide a comfortable life for his family, and Teresa felt she was raising her children alone. She wanted to lash out; she wanted to break the chains that were binding her. She wanted to flee.

Sundaysaredifficultaroundthehouse.It’sthedaywhenmy father is home, and typically Mom is angry with him for some reason.EverywartheyhavefoughtthatIhavebeenawitnesstohas been on a Sunday. He hit her once during an argument, and the police came to our house on a domestic disturbance call. Astheyquestionedmyfatherinthedriveway,Iwashyper-ventilating,sobbing,lockedinEmily’sroomwhilemyparentstookcareoftheirproblemspublicallywiththelaw.Mysistersdidn’tseemtotakeitasseriouslyasIdid,andIwastheonlyonereallycrying.Momtookusawaytothelakethatday,constantlylookingoverhershoulder,convincingushemightcomeafterher.Wedidn’tcomehomeuntillateatnight. Hewasn’tthere.

Nomatterwhattheyfightabout,nomatterwhattheyyellandthreaten,theyloveeachother.Thepassionofthedrunkenmanontheterraceandthewomanwhoacceptedthisfinalpropos-

al has worn off, but they would be lost without each other. They builttheirlivestogether,andtheycan’tleavethatnow. The last time they fought, something good came of it. He toldMomwhatweallfelt—thatshenolongercaredaboutus,only about the world she was creating on the computer without her family. They made up a couple days later. Afterthat,thehousewasclean,Momtalkedtous,andthecandy bowl on the counter was full.

Mom used to paint all the time. She used to draw. We ruined allhernicebrusheswithourchildishcrafts,butMomnevercaredallthatmuch.Ihadoneofherpaintingsonmywallforthelongesttime. She used to read mysteries a lot. She would watch daytime televisionwhilewewereatschool.ButMomwasaloneinalltheseactivities.

She uses the computer to connect to the rest of the world. Beingaleaderinthe“Survivor”communityseemsridiculoustous, but it means the world to her, and Mom has a place now, and it’ssomethingforhertobeproudof.She’shadcastmembersandproducerssendhersouvenirs,andshelovestoshowthemoff. IttookmeawhiletofigureoutwhythismeantsomuchtoMom.Itgivesherstalelifemoremeaning,andit’ssomethingsheenjoysdoingwithoutus.Aswegrowupandneedhertotakecareof us less and less, she needs more and more meaning. Weblamedthecomputerfortakingourmotherawayfromus,andmydadblameditforthelossofhiswife.Weareallselfish

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inourownways—wetakeMomforgranted,andsheistoocaughtup in herself now to recognize that we still need her. Iunderstandhowshecametothis.Irelate.

I’vegonetoHawaii,I’vegonetoItaly,andMexicoandSwitzerland will come in time. Mom tells us that we must not let men control us. She needs us to be independent for her. At13shewasforcingtheridiculousideaofgettingonbirthcontrolpillsintomyhead,andat16Iwenttoherinshametoaskfor them. She cried as we headed to the doctor, but she understood all too well. Theyearspass,andIbecomemymother. YoucanfeeltheentirefloorshakingasMomsitsthereatthe computer, her leg bouncing up and down as if it desperately wantstodetachandgetawayasfastaspossible.She’sinherworldnow,andwe’rewatchingfromthesidelines. Icanstillreachouttoher.

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Reaching Out bySchireanGlassburn

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Operation Iraqi FreedomNathan Johnston

NowthatI'vebeenbackforawhile,

peopleaskmethesamestandardquestions

that can be answered with the same standard statements:

Yes,No,Okay,Notbad,Yougetusedtoit.

Butthatonequestion,that"Youkillanybody?"

alwaysdeep-freezessolidanyicethat'sbeenbroken.

IshakemyheadnegativeasImouththewordYeah.

InodmyheadupanddownasmylipstrembleNo.

Itdoesn'treallymatter;everythingissodistancednow.

You become desensitized to the grimmest of realities

onceallreasonhasbeenrationalizedoutofcontext.

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It'slikethis:amonthinandyou'rereallyhelping

thesepeople,theylikeyou,wantyouhere,needyouhere

---andthenhalfyourunitisstandingoverthere

atthesouthentrancetothemarketplaceandsome

little girl is offering up a piece of fruit and

thenshe'sgoneandhalfofthreeofyourbestfriends

aregoneandthenitdoesn'tmatter,itdoesnot

matterwhodies,doesn'tmatterwhoyoukill

justaslongasyoukeepatitbecause

there'snopointinkeepingscore:

thegameisover.

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Ancient Times by Joseph A. Murphy

War Sunlight Ambitions WorkMichael Cunningham

DreamsIdeasChildrenChurchGoldandSilverSoberDrunkAlllaynowwithinthetrunkOnthefloorofthisoldattic

Wheretime,death’sdistantcousin,Visitingthevestigeofthemind

TakesalittlebitmorethanitputsbackinUntilovertheyearsnothingnowremainsButtheslowswingingrockingchair

And semi-lucid cribbage games.The stories all repeated on the

Front porch at twilightAnd the enemy once more defeated

While the eyes of all young grandchildrenAnd great-grandchildren

Widen with aweWhilethepatientwrinkledglanceOfGuinevereresumeshercooking

Havingheardthetaleatleastathousandtimes.

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Etude by Alisha Baird

HappinessAmanda Byram

The First View

Drivingdownthathighway,Ifeltfree.Musicturnedup,warm air and sun rays breezing in through the open windows. My hairflyinginthewind.ItriedtothinkbacktoacoupleofhoursbeforewhenIhadbeenjustafewstatesaway.Alifetimeaway. Everybodyhasbaddays.Thekindofdaywhereanythingandeverythingthatcangowrongwill.Youwakeuplate,youburnyourbreakfast,thedoggetssick,youarelatetoyourfirstap-pointment and so on and so on until you get to the end of the day andwhenyouwakeupthenextdayeverythingisbacktonormal,everythingisokagain.Alotofpeopleevengothroughroughtimes.Abreakup,abotchedexam,lossofajob,orafriend.Afewpeoplegetcaughtinacycleofbadluckorpoorchoices,oracombinationofthetwo.IthinkIwasjuststuckineverything.Myparents separated after almost twenty years. Not one, but two of mybestfriendsdied.CollegewasnotnearlywhatIexpectedittobe,andIkeptconsistentlyfallingshortofeveryone’sexpectationsof me. Wheredoessomeonegowhentheirheartisbrokenanddreamsareshattered?Whatdoessomeonedowhentheycannotseemtogettheirheadabovewater?Whatdoessomeonedowhen

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dealing with their daily surroundings gets to be too much of a chore?Ipackedmybags,loadedthecar,andheadedforDis-neyWorld.Andnotjustfortheweekendoraweekbutforeightmonths. They called it a college program. The administration wantedpeopletothinkwewerelearningthings.ThetruthisIamnotsureIlearnedonethingthatwouldbefoundonanycollegeexamwhileIwasthere,butIlearnedawholelotaboutlife.

ItwasDisneyWorld.Thelandofimagination,ofhopes,ofmagic.Itwastheplacewhereallyourdreamscometrue.Andwhetherornotthatisjustaslogantheparkpickeduptopromotesales,Ichosetobelieveit.BecauseIneededtobelieveit.BecauseIwassofaroffcourse,Icouldn’tevenrememberwhatdreamswere.

Drivingdownthathighway,Ifeltfree.Itriedtoremem-berjusthoursbeforeandIcouldonlyvaguelyrememberthewayIfeltpriortobeingonthathighwayleadingmetothelandofDisney.ItseemedbeforeIwassuffocated.Hopeless.Lost.Hurt.Angry.Idistantlyrecallthatthewallsfeltliketheywereclosinginonme,butintruth,IrememberverylittleofhowIactuallygottothesunshinestate,excepttorememberthatitwasallablur.IdonotactuallyrememberthestepsIhadtotaketogetacceptedtotheprogram.Idonotremembertheroadswindingthroughthestatesthatledmethere.However,IdorememberwithunfailingclaritythewayIfeltwhenIfirstarrived.

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Drivingonthathighway,IknewIwasafarcryfromthecoldandlonelyplaceIhadleft.EverythingIhadfeltanddreadedanddodgedandcarriedaroundforsolongvanishedinasecond.ThebigissuesinlifethatIhadtriedunsuccessfullytocopewith,suddenlyseemedok.Youcanseethesign“WaltDisneyWorld”thatstretcheshighupintheskyacrosstheeightlanehighwayfrommilesaway.Itisjustopenroadandacolorful,sparklysigninvitingyouintoexploreyourhopesanddreams.

Justpassingthroughtheentranceintothatworldgavemepeaceofmind.InthatsinglesecondIfoundhopeandpurpose.Itookachance,arisk,anadventure.

Drivingdownthathighway,Ifeltfree.Anditmademehappy.

The Jungle

Cruisingthroughthejungle,Ifeelsoathome.Peaceful.Se-rene. At one with the mile and a half stretch winding through three continentsandfouroftheworldsmostamazingrivers.

Thejourneybeginsbyloadingabout30strangersontomyboat.Theyareallstaringatme,expectingmetobehappyanden-tertaining.Ibeginmyspielbeforeweleavethedock.Bythetimeweroundthefirstbendeveryoneisalreadysmiling.Laughteratthefirstjoke.Asuccess.

Asweventureon,wearesurroundedbyalligators,croco-

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diles,elephants,lions,andafewsnakes.Thetreesarethickanddarkgreen,asarethevariousformsofgrass.Wepassbyorthroughacoupleofwaterfalls,whicheverthecasemaybe.AtcertainpointsIcatchaglimpseoftheskipperoftheboatinfrontofme.TherearetimesIseewhoeverfollowsme.Ifeitherofus goes too fast or too slow, we will start to hear the others lines. Butwealladjustaccordingly,nod,andsmiletoconveythatknow-inglookthroughoureyes.

CruisingthejungleIfeelsoathome.Justbeforeweturnthelastcorner,aswewaitfortheboatsinfronttounload,Igettoknowsomeofmypassengers.SomefromOrlandooutforadaytrip,mostfromoutofstateonsomevariousformofvacation.Alllookingforfunandhappiness.Andthenitisourturntoheadtothedock.Asquicklyasthesepeoplecameintomylife,theygo.Laughing and smiling. Happy for a moment.

Ihaveaboutfifteensecondstocruisefromtheunloaddocktotheloadingdockandthenbegintodoitallagain.Anothergroup,differentpeople,samejungle.Eachtripsimilarbutlikesnowflakes,neverthesame.

Everysooftenwegetabreakfromtheheatandthesun-shinethatseldomfailsus.Inthebackofthejungle,hiddenfaroutofsight,IsitbeneathatentwithotherpeopleIonlyrecentlymetbutseemtoknowsowell.Andtheyareneatestofpeople.SomeofthebestpeopleIwillevermeet.Weexchangestoriesandthenwe return to the jungle to help unload boats full of people heading

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backtothestreetsofMagicKingdom.IthenhopbackintheboatandIamreadytodoitallagain.ItissoroutinethatIcandrivetheboatinmysleep,butitisneverboring.IfeellikeIgettogotoworkandplayalldaylong.

CruisingthejungleIfeelsoathome.Thepeoplewhoentermyboatloveme.Iamthefunny,smilinggirl,whothroughthejungle opens the door to a little piece of the magic. Who would not wanttobethatperson?InthejungleIgainconfidenceIdidnotknowIwaslacking.IamexactlythepersonIwanttobe.

Evenwithouttheguestswhofilteredinandout,Ifeelathome because of the cast members who surrounded me. They teachmethateveryonehasastoryandmoreoftenthannot,theyare sad ones, but that the great people in life are the ones who accepttheirsadnessandriseaboveit.Thegreatpeopleinlifeareoneswhocanfocusonothersfirst.Thegreatpeopleinlifetakechancesandpushthemselvestonewlimits,andthengobeyondthem. These people become role models for me because their at-titudes,theirpersonalities,theirdrive,aresomuchdifferentthananythingIamusedtobeingaround.Anditisrefreshing.

Thejungleisfilledwithfoliageandrocks,elephantsandgators,butmostlyitisalwaysfilledwithsmilingfacesandendlesspossibilities.ThoughIlovedeverythingaboutthejungle,thesun,theheat,theboats,theguests,thetrip,thethingthatIlikedthemostwerethepeopleandthepossibilities.Cruisingthejungle,Ifeelathome.Anditmakesmehappy.

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The Parade

Ilovedtowatchtheparade.Icouldfeelthemagic.IhadbeenthereforaroundthreemonthsandwhileIwaswatchingtheparade,asIdideverynight,IrealizedIwasstillsurprisedbythewonderment of it all. Disney World, it was so different from the restoftheworld.Everywhereyouwentyouwerejustsubmersedintothatworld,theworldofDisney.Anditneverceasedtoamazeme.

Nightseemstotakelongertoarrivethere,butwhenitfi-nallydoes,everyonetakestheirplaces.Momswouldhaveareasstakedoutwithblankets,Dadswouldmakealastminutedashforpopcorn,sodas,andothervarioustreats.Kids,ofallages,wouldhang eagerly waiting on the ropes waiting for the parade to begin. MyfellowcastmembersandI,whohadsettheparaderouteuphoursbefore,tookourposition–thesmallopeningthatwasal-waysreservedjustforus–rightinfrontoftheLibertyBell,intheheartofLibertySquare. Inaninstantallthelightsintheparkgodark.Andthenfromthedarknessthemusicbegins.Suddenlyfromadistancealight appears. Far away, but bright. The light draws closer and then seems to multiply until there is an entire lighted fairytale right before your eyes. Mickeyappearsfirsttoleadtheway.ThenCinderellawithher mice and Prince Charming. Ariel, Snow White, Belle. All the

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princessesarethere.Goofyisthereplayingthedrums.Donald.Daisy.Pluto.PeterPanandWendy.Allyourfavoritecharacterscometolife.Andthepeopleyoulovetohatearethere,too.Cap-tainHook,Cruella,Jafar.Spectromagictheycalledit.Andaspectacle of magic it was. So bright and so colorful that a real true descriptionescapesme.Everycharacter,everyfloat,everylightwouldgofrombrightcolorstoallwhitesparklesinaninstant.Elegant, and magic. Ilovedtowatchtheparade.Icouldfeelthemagic.Sameparadeeverynight.Sometimestwiceanightanditnevergotold.Isattherehundredsoftimes.Watchedinawehundredsoftimes.HadthatlittlekidinfrontoftheChristmastreefeelinghundredsoftimes.Isawthesamecharacters,thesamefloats,thesamesightsoverandoverandyeteverynightIwasjustaseagerasthenight before.

EvennowifIclosemyeyes,orletmyminddriftjustforasecond,Icanfeelitexactly.Thecool,butnotcoldair.Thebreezethat blows at just the right time. The music, the lights, and the smilesonthefacesofeveryonearound,andmostimportantly,onme.ThepurehappinessattheendofthedaythatmademethinkthatIhadbeenletinonthesecretofthepurposeoflife.IthinkIfoundmyselfthereonthestreetsoftheMagicKingdom,justbefore midnight. Ilovedtowatchtheparade.Icouldfeelthemagic.Anditmade me happy.

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As a Child We Played In ThesebyAndrewGarnand

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