Growing Pains

With the constant agony that puberty has to offer, growing up seems to be the worst thing a human can experience. Well, you sure as hell hit the nail on the head. Other than the rapid change from voice cracks to a Barry White voice, there’s not much else that could be this embarrassing, right? Hate to break it to you, but this time you’re wrong. Yeah, growing so fast your torso doesn’t keep up with your legs sucks, and cracking your voice in front of all your already developed friends is worse, but there is an evil that exists in every pre teens life, and that is love.

Pre teen love, what a beautiful sight. Where do you go to observe such grace and beauty? Well, Hunt Valley might do the trick. Between Chipotle and the Regal Cinemas, I bet you can find quite the array of pre-teen angst. Hollister cologne riddles the air, even through the think stench of burritos and Wavedancer Surf Shop. Soccer moms drive their mini vans through the drop-off lines as hordes of kids pour out of the back, trying to hid the fact that their mom just dropped them off to see a movie with girls.

We’ve all been there. You act cool in front of your friends. You hit one of them to impress that girl you’ve always liked, and in my case, you win the hottest girl in your grade a teddy bear out of the claw machine.

Looking back, I can’t believe I dragged my mom into a Hollister to buy me ripped jeans. What the hell was I thinking? Now my mom would be lucky if I even went to the grocery store with her. All I can do now is walk into Chipotle, laugh at the kids eating burritos bigger than their faces, and get the hell out of Hunt Valley.

- Jake Sobczak

Ben Garinther '13

Still Sittin'

We sat on four plus miles of steel, concrete, and shrapnel all covered by the previous hours of rain. Finally, the sky cleared and the sun shined brightly as it settled near the horizon. The crash on the Bay Bridge wasn’t even on our minds. My dad and I enjoyed the yellow and auburn colored sky, reflecting on the vast bay below. As my dad drove on, I listened to the soothing sounds of country as I drifted asleep.

-- Will Stokes '11

Sam Haigley '11

Adam Davis '11

Haiku

Croquet is called
The gentleman’s game
I play naked

- Jack Burton '11



The gum under the table
Still wet
bites back

- Ryan Ley '11



The vulture circles its prey,
Too dizzy to locate it.

- Gunnar Waldt '11



The wheels still
spinning, glide
into the icy rail

- Conner Curro '11



Leaves disintegrating
into sawdust -
Frigid winds

- Jake Sobczak '11



The board smacks
the glassy ocean wall –
launched into the sun

- Conner Curro '11


Slug one more down
You will be dry
In the morning

'Ryan Ley '11

Austin Butcher '13

The Smell of Sunday Morning

I’ve always loved the smell of the Baltimore Sun newspaper. The fresh scent of the clean and new paper reminds me of my living room. I’ll always remember waking up on Sunday mornings and running downstairs to sit on my father’s lap while he read the newspaper. He would always be drinking his half regular, half decaff Folger’s coffee out of his crab coffee cup. He wore a light blue sweatshirt with old navy blue sweatpants and green slippers that made a scraping noise when he walked across the kitchen floor. He always read me the comics and I would laugh and flip the pages. The sports section was my favorite even though I only looked at the pictures. I pointed to the photos of Ray Lewis and Peter Boulware and would ask my dad to read what it said below. I remember seeing pictures of Cal Ripken and Roberto Alomar swinging a home plate at Camden Yards. My father continues to read the Baltimore Sun every Sunday morning, but I’m always asleep.

Robby Maddux '11

Bread and Butter

We were like bread and butter. Dunkin Graham was my best friend during my youth. Climbing trees, building tree forts, swimming in rivers, and pretending to hunt little furry critters scampering through the woods is what we did with our lives every day. We were inseparable. Wherever the bread went, the butter went with it. Living three houses down from me, it felt like he was my brother. We looked alike in every way except for the height and age difference. Whether doing something constructive and beneficial or getting in trouble, he was always there to be my right hand man. He took the fall for me when I got in trouble and I did the same for him. Best of all we loved the same things and never got upset with each other over what to do on a specific day.

Searching for snakes slithering slyly through the leaves, crouching in trees like gargoyles ready to pounce on squirrels or rabbits, or hammering away on one of our inventive and original projects we were always doing things with smiles. In a way it brought happiness to our parents to see us so happy and to see us always being outside in the fresh air. Seeing us enjoying life and taking advantage of everything our neighborhood had to offer.

Dunkin Graham is no longer in my life due to his family moving. It felt like my brother had deserted me and left me to survive on my own. I wanted to unleash my anger, like a pack of wolves taking down an elk, masticating its neck and then taking one leg down at a time until it lies there helpless and frozen. The butter couldn’t go anywhere with the bread anymore. What seemed to be impossible became possible. I didn’t know what to think or how to react. I lost my brother and I felt uncoordinated and incapable to do anything. I was now a one-man wolfpack with nothing to do and no one to share my excitement with. Now being an infinite number of miles away I was lost for what felt like an infinite number of time.

- Jordan Cann '11

- Hunter Mack '12

Hoaxku

Peter Newton is a professional Haikuist. What the hell is a professional Haikuist? Peter Newton went to Stanford Haiku School and got his doctorate in writing three lines. He graduated with a straight A average and a clean permanent record. Every morning he combs his fresh haircut and gives himself the cleanest shave using Gillette’s triple low trim razor technology. He then puts on silk boxers and freshly ironed socks. He slips on his tailored suit and grabs his black leather briefcase and a bagel and a cup of coffee as he speed walks into the four-car garage. He turns on the Chrysler 300C and gives her a couple of revs before he presses the button on the center console that is synced with the garage door opener.

Peter pulls out of his glossy black driveway and puts the spurs to her as he rips through the neighborhood on the way to work. He throws the bagel and the coffee that his wife made into the trash outside of Caribou Coffee where he gets a better bagel and a better cup of coffee. Peter Newton parks his favorite child in the spot closest to the Building, where he has a reserved spot closer than the handicapped spots. He reads his shiny watch as he pushes through the revolving door. His black shoes clap on the tile as he makes his way to the elevator. He goes to the top floor where the floor is his office. He walks to his cherry oak desk and drops the black leather briefcase carefully and places his Blackberry on top of that. He walks over to the wide window and looks down at the city. It practically belongs to him.

No it doesn’t. None of that is true.

Why is he the way he is? He is no better than I, the only difference is that I know where I belong. And it is nowhere near him.

- Jack Burton '11

Eggs

Cooking eggs is a simplistic dish. All you need is milk, eggs, salt, and pepper. I grab a large frying pan and spread some margarine butter on it. I turn the stove on level number 7, to begin, which is a medium-high temperature. Then, I lift up the pan and swirl it around, with a simple rotation of my wrist, so that the butter has melted on every part of the pan. I let the pan sit for a couple of minutes, while I crack three extra-large eggs into my bowl, and start the scrambling process. I add about half-a-cup of skim milk into the bowl of eggs, which gives the end result a fluffiness as opposed to a dry/bland look and taste. All my ingredients are in the bowl, and I am ready to start scrambling the combination of greatness. I use a fork to scramble, which is a skill set that I have mastered, over the years, from watching my mom. I pick up the bowl and tilt it at a 10 degree angle and swirl my fork, mixing the yoke around and making it taste good. Before I pour the scrambled eggs and milk into the frying pan, I add some salt and pepper to it, for seasoning purposes. Now I am ready to pour it into the pan and commence the cooking stage of the dish.

As I let to eggs cook for a little bit, I take out two slices of Honey Wheat bread. I plop the two sliced into the toaster, which I have set to cook for 4 minutes to give it the light brown crisp, but I don't start the toasting immediately. The eggs are bubbling, so I take out the red spatula and flip them constantly. I begin to toast the bread because both things should be done at the same time, which will be perfect timing to start the eating of them. The deciding of whether or not the eggs are done is a personal decision and how you like them. I do not like my eggs to be burnt but rather moist and fluffy. I flip the eggs for about three minutes or so, and then I turn the stove off and dump the eggs onto my plate. As my eggs are being poured onto the plate, the toaster dings, and the toast shoot out. It is cooked to perfection because it has a light brown tint to it, while not being burnt or under toasted. I spread the butter onto both slices of toast, and position them on the outskirts of the plate, to surround the eggs.

It's a shame to see this beautiful dish be devoured.

- Gunnar Waldt '11

Brothers

We have fought our whole lives. All the way through middle school it was a battle of siblings. Many ending in bloody noses, bruised ribs, and then tears. We could fight but never stay angry at each other, especially when the majority of the time the catalyst of it all was forgotten in the midst of the battle. We have aged since those days though and settled that we will never really agree with each other, two polar opposites with no magnetic connection. It works out the way it is, we hang out with the same friends but even in the crowd there is little connection, few words exchanged and only when necessary. Many assume because of or close proximity we have a close relationship but that is hardly true. We are more like a divorced couple working things out for the sake of the kids. I know what irritates him and he knows what irritates me, avoiding each for our own well being.

Miles away now, he is at college and in the three months of his absence in my life I have talked to him three times, each for little more than 10 minutes. I awkwardly pause when asked if I miss my brother. Most people think it's funny when I say no, but it's hard to laugh when it rips you apart. The chance of us building a great friendship now is slim as even a hug after graduation was awkward. Leaving for college we both walked past each other with a quick "see ya." Just another day disregarding that over 300 miles would separate us for the next three months. We have both kept on moving with our lives and have impacted little in each other.

And yet, upon his first return home after 3 months, things seem to be different. The distance that separated us previously, drew us together. We can talk now and it does not seem so fake anymore. Though those years of regret still linger over our relationship and may have left it permanently damaged. A void of seventeen years, void that can never be filled.

- David Hooper '11