Letter to Sharon Creech

Dear Sharon Creech,

I sit under the shade of the "singing tree" onthe Hiddle Farm, listening to a lone bird singing high in the tree's branches. No, I am mistaken, the tree itself sings to me, lulling me to sleep. I dream of something I have lost, only to return when the tulips bloom, possibly with Salamanca's mother, who's said to return then too.

Above me, on the tree are two blackberry kisses left by Sal and her mother. I believe that every kiss a parent leaves their children, no matter how long ago will remain like a tatto. Her mother is gone, but the kiss is left on the tree, forever and always. Just like love, which will reside forever no matter if the persong who loves you is gone. Love is like Sal's and her mother's blackberry kisses.

I'm most like Salamanca Tree Hiddle. I have a hard time letting go. I wish whay is sometimes and impossible thing. I love to write and tell stories. I embrace experience. I hurry, hurry, hurry, and listen to the wind. I can be brave. Sometimes I think it could be easier to pray to trees, than to God, who's so much bigger than life.

Occasionally I am Sal's mother, Chanhassen Pickford, and want to run away from my fear or anger. Sometimes I just plain want to disappear on my oen secret vacation, and get away from my jam-packed busy life. I am always glad I'm here though, and couldn't leave my family like she did, especially because I felt imperfect among them. We will never achieve perfection, and become "Hiddles," because even Hiddles aren't faultless. We are just who we are.

At times I am Margaret Cadaver, who befriended Sal and her father, stashing my secrets under a rhododendron bush. Now and again I am Pheobe Winterbottom, shyly staring out my window, silently watching. I am cautious and afraid, and imagine crazy things, or exaggerate just a little, "fishing in the air."

Sometimes I am Sal's father, vigorously chiseling away at a plaster wall to escape the hard truths we must face. Every once in a while, like him, I seek my fears, instead of hiding from them. Sharon Creech, your words habe taken me on a journey of my own. I travel through life, thinking of the mysterious messages left on my doorstep. These messages are the lessons I've learned deep down rising to the surface, reminding me what's right. They are my conscience.

Often I find myself in someone else's moccasins, walking along the street under the moon, when everyone else is unaware. Sometimes my feet tire, and instead of understanding, I find the "potential lunatic" inside us. Mysterious and quiet, we crouch beside the buildings, leaving messages for people to find like buried treasure. Maybe we scare the heck out of them. Maybe we connect to them in a strange way.

Even though we are masked and crazy, gentle and scared, we're just human. Imperfect are we, potentially this and that. We are judged by our skin, hair, and clothing. Rarely does anyone try on our moccasins, worn from the journey of life itself.

When I wake up I stare across the field at the fully bloomed tulips; Sal's mother of course, isn't coming back. We don't always find what we've lost, but what I have lost is found. I have lost someone to guide me through life. What I've found is my family, and this book: Walk Two Moons. Huzza, huzza.

Sincerely,

Micaela Gerhardt

Track Us Down

The winds whipped across my bare skin. Icy sleet stung my face, making my skin red with the darting ice that fell from the sky. My hair was wet across my face. Water ran down the back of my neck, and soaked my sweatshirt. I stood underneath the roof of the athletics shed outside the track. I huddled against the wall, my team and I rubbing our hands together, trying to get feeling back in our numb hands.



"All right girls, I need a couple of you up here, come on." Our coach called us up, one by one, lining us up, each in a different lane. "You have seven seconds to get from here to that red flag over there. Ready, set, go!" Girls pumped their legs, beating down the track. Their feet splashed in puddles on the track, spurting up, getting thier legs muddy.



"Next group, up to the white line." I stepped quickly behind the line. It felt colder will every ice particle that flew onto my face. "Now, go!" We flew off the surface of the track, straining our arms and legs to faster, just a little faster.



After my turn, I ran back to the shed, switching places with the first group, as they started on their second sprints. As I stood beside the shed, my body numb, but still shivering, I realized I loved this. I liked that we were out here, in the cold Northern Prairie winds, running, sprinting, strong. As I watched the pain in the girls' faces I discovered the real truth, we were one, running as one, but still separately, working to beat ourselves, our very best selves. Still, as their feet flew, and water and icy sleet fell down on them, us, we didn't stop. We were strong. We had the backs of the winds and the confetti of snow falling around us, above is, among us. We felt pain, and electric shocks of iciness, but we kept going. We are invincible. We cannot be beat. Just try us, I thought, just try to catch us.

Marching Bands of Manhattan

"I wish we could open our eyes to see in all directions at the same time. Oh what a beautiful view, if you were never aware of what was around you." Death Cab for Cutie's Marching Bands of Manhattan plays in my head, filling up the quietness of the windy afternoon.


These words amplify the atmosphere around me. Electric waves set a medium tone throughout the room. The empty space is filled up with words that make my thoughts protrude to the front of my mind. I am in Manhattan when I hear this song, clapping in tune with the band coming round the corner, their simultaneous stomps rythmically slapping down the crowded streets of the isle of Manhattan.

Ready to Run

Once again I am waiting to tighten my tennis shoes and slap the concrete in search of the burning joy I find inside myself when I run. The day is windy, and it cools my warm face. There is still some snow on the ground, but mostly, the brown grasses are showing through. Everything looks a little empty, like I always think it does at this time of year. Not quite the end of winter, yet not the beginning of spring. And there is a peace in this time. And patience. Here comes sun and rushing river waters, happy to be in motion after the ice thaws, just like I am. Soon leaves on the trees will liven up our days, and green grasses and vibrant skies with bring a sense of life.

As I circle the Tom O'Leary golf course I am imagining it as it was last spring, with green grass and tall trees, and people. I am waiting for this time, silently at my window, never leaving it, as my body senses the changes of winter to summer, and soon my eyes will begin to see birds flying in from the south, and notice how they cock their heads towards me.

I am doing good until I turn the corner and can see the last stretch ahead of me. I almost stop. But there is a voice inside me screaming, "Go, go, go," and so I trudge along, waiting until I am close enough to pump out the last bit of strength resting inside myself. All to soon my legs force themselves to fly, "here we go, heading forwards, heading up," they chant. And I feel like I am on top of the world, watching myself speed towards the stoplight at the end of the street. There I take two steps back and sit on the cold ground, burrying my head between my knees, praying, thanking God for that last bit of step he put into my run, the last push he gave me as stepped into the cement sqaure that was my finish. I thanked him that I could run. I wished for spring.

As I silently walk home, I am ready to run, and ready for the showcase of life spring brings. The entrance to summer. Here it comes, barely making it around the last corner, the last stretch. It is finally running towards us.