Paulina Bunyan

Two days after I graduated from high school I joined my Grandparents on a cross country road trip.  They have a house out in Idaho where they spend the summer.  The problem with such a house is that after a hard winter there is a lot of manual labor that needs to be done to open up the house.  That is where I come in.  Not only was I going along to aid in the driving to get there, I was mainly going to do all the lifting, hauling, stacking, painting that my Grandad could throw at me in the ten days that I would be there. 

One of the big chores that needs to be done is to thin out the aspen grove.  The aspen trees grow like weeds and to keep the whole grove healthy we constantly have to get rid of the old dead trees and the little trees underneath that aren’t going to grow fast enough because they aren’t going to get any sunlight because the mature trees are blocking it all.

This particular day we were working on getting rid of the mature dead and sick trees.  My Grandad, who was approximately 82 at the time, was wondering around with the chainsaw while I nervously followed him hoping that he wasn’t actually as unsteady on his feet as he appeared to be. 

You might be wondering why I didn’t have the chainsaw in my hands.  You see, I am a girl, and girls are incapable of using chainsaws.  However, I am a strong girl and therefore I am useful for holding the tree up at one end so that it can be cut into smaller logs to be used as fire wood. 

Grandad and I had cut up several trees.  While he was finishing up trimming some branches I headed over to the next tree that we had appointed as our victim.  I leaned against the tree to take a bit of a rest and felt it shift under my weight.  I pushed against the tree a bit harder and felt it groaning against the strain I was putting on it. 

I turned to the tree, placed my hands against the trunk and started rhythmically pushing against it until I had a solid sway going.  As I pushed harder and harder the tree began to sway rock more and more violently.  Suddenly there was a loud tearing noise as the tree fell over and the roots tore from the ground.  My Grandad looked up surprised.  “Thought I would save you a bit of work,” I said with a grin on my face. 

For the duration of my stay, whenever he introduced me to someone he would introduce me as Paulina Bunyan and tell this story.

Fuzzy Wuzzy Was a Bear

The summer after my sophomore year in high school I got to go to Alaska with my family. While we were there we went on a float trip from a lake in the mountains where the river originated all the way down to the sea. It lasted a week and we fished the entire way down catching approximately sixty fish per day per person. (It was all catch and release with the exception of a couple of days where we ate a couple of the salmon that we caught.)

One of the hazards of being out in the Alaskan wilderness is coming into contact with rather large grizzly bears. I am still alive, kicking, and devoid of any large scars so I didn’t get into close contact with them, but bears were definitely something that we always had to watch out for.
After being in a rubber raft all day, my brother, Joseph, and I liked to stretch our legs so we would always go exploring around the campsite. One day we were walking along the bank of the river when we came upon a bloody salmon. It wasn’t one of the rotten / rotting salmon that we were used to seeing though. This one looked like it had been in great shape until rather recently. We went closer and noticed that the blood around the salmon was still bright red and runny. We started feeling a little nervous. We saw something in a patch of mud a little ways away and went over to see what it was.

It was a paw print of a bear. I was wearing a bucket hat and took it off my head and set it next to the print. The print was bigger than my hat. Joseph and I nervously looked at each other and then started to glance around. Our eyes found a ridge not too far away from where we were. We let our eyes wander up to a silhouette, the silhouette of a bear, a really big bear.

The two of us decided we shouldn’t run, that would probably be a bad idea, and so we acted like we were following another creek, one that conveniently lead back to the camp. We informed the guides of our discovery. They all immediately picked up their guns and went to check out the footprint and to see if they could scare the bear away. (Note: the guns were only for protection. They were shot only into the air to scare the bears so they wouldn’t get to close to us.)

That night no one slept that great, the thought of the bear just hanging around gave everyone the willies. The next morning when I woke up, the first place I looked was at the ridge, the bear was still there. Breakfast was a hurried affair that morning, everyone was anxious to get out of the bear’s way.

We found out later that the guides had all taken turns keeping watch all night long and that the bear had never been far away, always keeping an eye on the camp. (Because it was summer in Alaska, the sun almost never set and it rarely actually got dark.) During the trip, we sighted bears several more times, most often as they were on the shore and we were in the river, not as they were watching us sleep.

Sprechen Sie Deutsch?

On the train ride to Prague from Romania we had plenty of time to read up on the city in our guide books. We located the major sights that we would need to see in our limited time there, such as Charles’s Bridge, the Prague Castle, and the Lenin Wall. We were able to find out that marionettes are very common in Prague and there are many theaters devoted to putting on shows using these puppets. We were able to locate the hotel where we would be staying on a map. But one of the most interesting things that I read about in the guidebooks was that the Czech Mafia ran an official taxi service that charges many times more than what other taxi services charge.

I stashed this little tidbit of information in the back corner of my brain as I attempted to figure out how to say important phrases in Czech, such as “hungry” and “bathroom”. By the time our rather eventful train ride came to its conclusion I had almost forgotten what I had read.

We arrived in Prague and immediately went to the bathrooms in the train station where we had to pay to go in. Jennifer and I were both looking a bit worse for the wear after the train ride, but we decided that we would skip showers and naps, both things we were in dire need of, to get in as much sightseeing as we could before we dropped from exhaustion.

In order to get from the train station to the hotel we needed to take a taxi. The hotel wasn’t all that far from the station, but we both had rather large suitcases to get there and the streets of Prague were cobblestone which would make rolling the suitcases rather difficult. And neither of us had enough of a functioning brain to read the map to figure out how to get to the hotel.

Jennifer started following the signs toward “The Official Taxi”. I remembered what I had read as Jennifer approached one of the drivers and began inquiring about what the fare would be to take the two of us to the hotel. The driver looked at us, looked at the hotel address and the map, and back at us and announced that it would be 750 Kroner. (I don’t remember what the exchange rate was, but this was way too high.) Jennifer began to try and haggle with the driver, saying that it was too much money and she wasn’t able to pay that.

The driver just stared at her blankly as she tried to convince him that the fare was too high.

When she was finished talking the driver responded in Czech and it was my aunt’s turn to stare blankly. Neither party was having any success in winning the other person to his side when the driver said, “Sprechen Sie deutsch?” Jennifer continued to stare at him, not understanding a word of what he said. My ears perked up at this though. I had just finished my first year of studying German in high school and I knew enough to understand that simple question.

I responded with a quiet and hesitant “Ja” and stepped forward. Jennifer got a startled look on her face that quickly turned to one of apprehension. I could read in her expression that she was quite nervous that I was going to be taking over the negotiating in a language that she couldn’t understand. The driver and I started discussing prices. He lowered the price to 700 Kroner but that was still too much. I asked him how far away the hotel was, and he informed me that it was about 3 Kilometers away. I then calmly told him that we would just walk there and turned my back on the taxi queue and started towards the escalator that led out of the train station.

As I turned around I said to Jennifer under my breath, “Follow me, and don’t look back.” She grabbed her suitcase and followed me with a rather confused look on her face. When we got to street level, she asked me what I had said. I told her about what I had read in the guide book on the train. And I told her that I had told they driver that we were just going to walk.

She took out the map and began trying to orient herself. A taxi from the AAA Taxi service pulled up in front of us and the driver, who spoke very good English, asked us if we needed a ride. We showed him the address of our hotel and asked him how much it would be to get there and he told us it would cost 125 Kroner.

We threw our bags into the trunk and hopped into the back seat.

When we arrived at our hotel Jennifer paid the cabbie the 750 Kroner because she was so relieved to have found an honest cabbie. We headed into our hotel to drop off our bags before heading off sightseeing, and he drove away with one of the biggest grins I have ever seen.

Train to Prague

The summer after my sophomore year in high school I had the opportunity to go to Romania with my aunt, Jennifer, on a Habitat for Humanity trip. At the end of the Habitat portion of the trip we decided to go to Prague for a couple of days. To get there from Romania we had the option of traveling by plane or train. Upon inquiry we were told that the train to Prague took eight hours. I made the decision to take the train because it would be a good experience and I thought that it would be fun. It was definitely an experience.

We arrived at the train station in plenty of time to buy our tickets and to find our way to the correct platform. While we were wandering around inside the train station two young men approached us and wanted to move our bags for us. They had a flat fee listed on their cart that amounted to around five dollars. We decided that five dollars was worth it to save ourselves the trouble of attempting to negotiate extra large bags down an exceptionally narrow corridor.

When we got to our compartment the men were waiting to collect their pay. It was then that they informed us that the fee listed was per bag, and we had given them the bags, purses, and backpacks. The total cost they informed us was twenty dollars, per person. They actually expected us to pay them forty dollars to move our luggage. Unfortunately, we did because they threatened to take off with our stuff if they didn’t receive the money. No amount of haggling, talking badly about their country, or pretending not to have any idea what they were saying could lower the price.

After finally sending the con men away and still having all the luggage my aunt and I settled down for the journey. It was at this time that we actually looked at our tickets and realized that the departure time from Romania and the arrival time in Prague were far more than eight hours apart. They were actually twenty-five hours apart. We couldn’t believe it. We were going to have to spend over a day on the train. My aunt went to find a conductor hoping that there was a misprint. She came back with a long face and informed me that the tickets were indeed correctly printed and that we were going to have a very long ride ahead of us.

We settled in for the long haul. Out came the pillows and books from our bags so that we could amuse ourselves. After several hours the train reached the first border that we were to cross and a conductor and police came around to check papers and tickets. When the conductor finished looking at our tickets he informed us that the car that we were in was going to be left in Hungary and that we needed to change cars immediately or be left behind.

We grabbed our bags from where they had been stowed and ran down the corridors between cars dragging our luggage down the too narrow hallway looking for a car that was going to continue on to Prague. We finally found a car and just as we were safely inside we felt the train start to move underneath us and we saw the cars that we had just gotten off of being left in the distance.

We managed to find another compartment and settled down again. For a while we were the only two people in the compartment and we were hoping that the remainder of our journey would be rather uneventful. That was not to be.

After a while a couple of young Frenchmen joined us in our compartment. They appeared to be a pair of brothers, one in his twenties the other in his teens. The two of them kept whispering to each other and eyeing our belongings. Jennifer and I were getting sleepy but we decided that it was best if one of would remain awake to ensure that our things were safe. The brothers took turns watching us while the other one would go into the hallway of the train to smoke. Finally, they disembarked from the train and Jennifer and I were able to rest easy for a while.

The next companions in that joined us in our compartment were a Grandfather with his two young grandchildren. Almost as soon as they sat down the children began bickering. The Grandfather, who was apparently very used to the incessant fighting of the children, dosed off leaving the children to their own means to entertain themselves. They fought the entire time they were on the train yelling, pushing, punching, and in general causing a ruckus.

After the children left we were hoping that we would not have any more visitors in our compartment. It was getting rather late in the night and we were thinking that very few people would be getting onto a train at this hour. Of course we were wrong.

A young gentleman fresh from hiking entered into the cabin. He proceeded to stash his gear, close the compartment door and then remove his hiking boots. The stench was overpowering and I started to gag. I immediately rolled down the window, claiming that I thought the compartment was rather warm. I curled up in the corner, as far away from the stinky feet as I could manage, with my blanket over my head to try and mute the smell.

From the position in the corner I was shaken awake by my aunt. I realized that I was soaking wet. During my nap it had started raining outside and the window was stuck open. The way the wind was blowing and the direction that the train was traveling combined so that all of the water that came in through the window landed on me. I crawled over to the other side of the cabin and went back to sleep.

When Jennifer woke me again she was in a panic. We were still in the train, but our watches were telling us that we should have been in Prague an hour ago. Jennifer went to find a conductor to see if we had passed Prague already. He said we had, giving us quite a scare. We set about frantically trying to figure out where we were when another passenger informed us that Prague was actually the last stop on the line and we had not yet passed it.

We settled back into our compartment and anxiously waited to see who would be right, the passenger or the conductor. The passenger was right and we arrived in Prague utterly exhausted. By this time though we no longer had two full days to spend exploring Prague; we had thirty-six hours.

Curly Shirley Marshmallow, Curly for Short

From the time I was in kindergarten through first grade I lived in Franklin, Massachusetts. Franklin is located just a bit outside of Boston. For fun day trips my family would drive up to Kittery, Maine to the trading post. We would go to the trading post, shop for the day and then meander over to Ben and Jerry’s where we would have a lovely lunch of clam strips and fries followed by ice cream.

The trading post is an interesting building that looks like a cross between a retail store and a log cabin with its plaster sides and prominent beams. There was a large target over the entrance with the words trading post spanning its diameter. There was also a sign proclaiming that they take pelts for trade. Yes, the trading post accepts pelts as a form of currency.

Trips to the trading post were always an adventure. The shelves were filled with all sorts of fleeces, decorative boxes and my favorite, stuffed animals. Every time we went to the trading post I always spent a healthy amount of time perusing the stuffed animal section. One particular visit I spotted a stuffed dog that i instantly fell in love with.

He was white and had curly, fluffy fur, perfect for nuzzling my face in. His eyes and nose were both shiny and black and his eyebrows gave him a comical yet understanding look. He was perfect.

I immediately ran to my mom and begged for the dog. Unfortunately, according to her expert opinion I already had enough stuffed animals and she was not going to spend any money to add to my collection. I begged, I bargained, I may have even shed a few tears. All of my antics were to no avail; I left that day dog less and heartbroken.

Upon my return home I immediately started scheming and plotting. After all, I am the master of manipulation, and when I want something, nothing can stand in my way. But I had already tried various twists of my tried and true methods. I needed something new to help me out. Months passed and I got on with my life, but I never forgot the dog.

Then, one day the grandparents came to visit and a trip to the trading post was put in the works. It was always a good idea to share the quaintness of Kittery with guests. I was elated. If I couldn’t get my mom to get me the dog, the perhaps I would be able to get my grandparents to buy it for me. I wasn’t sure about the specifics, but I knew that I had to have that dog.

We made the trek to Kittery and went into the trading post. I immediately headed to the stuffed animal section and started looking for the dog. I couldn’t believe it; it was still there. My heart started jumping for joy. I went to my Grandmother’s side and started talking about the most glorious dog that I had seen. I told her all about his wonderful fur, and his nice eyes, and his splendid expression. She didn’t even flinch. I didn’t understand. How could she not jump at the opportunity to buy such a fine specimen? Why was she not as enamored as I was?

I had given up almost all hope that I would ever get the dog that I so coveted. But as we were preparing to leave my grandmother approached me and asked me if there was anything I wanted. Finally. I was so excited that my pitiful looks at the stuffed animals, the high praises that I sung, and the various other signs of longing I had exhibited had finally paid off. I took my Grandmother by the hand and led her back to the stuffed animals where I grabbed the dog from the shelf. She took it from my hands and quickly gave it the once over before heading up to the checkout line. At last, the dog of my dreams was mine.

On the car ride back to Franklin, I named him. Curly Shirley Marshmallow fit perfectly. Curly because that was the name on the tag, Shirley because that is the same sound that begins my middle name and it rhymes with Curly and Marshmallow because he was so fantastically white.

Curly has been my friend from that day on. He resides in a place of honor on my pillow. He travels with me everywhere, in spite of the fact that I am twenty years and far too old to have stuffed animals. His shiny black eyes and nose are now chipped and scratched. His fluffy white fur is now matted, off white, and balding in spots. But he still has that same comical yet understanding expression that caused that I saw from the shelf in Kittery, Main so many years ago.

Bite Me

For two and a half years I was an only child. I loved the fact that I was the sole recipient of my parents’ affection: the only one they played with, the only one they bought things for, the only one they tucked in at night. I loved that life. At the conclusion of those first two and a half blissful years, I received some rather disturbing news; a younger sibling was soon going to be a part of the family. On November 26, 1990 my younger brother, Joseph, was born.

I was able to deal with the newborn, I mean, my parents still needed someone to play with and Joseph couldn’t even hold up his own head up. But as he grew and transformed from an infant to a toddler he became cuter and I became old news. As I started having to share my parents’ attention I started to get jealous.

I didn’t like being forgotten about; I didn’t like being the older sister. I decided that drastic measures needed to be taken to remedy the situation and return me to my rightful position as favorite child. Overthrowing this newcomer was going to take a lot of planning; he had a lot going for him with those crater like dimples and his big brown eyes. But I was up for the challenge.

One day as Joseph and I were playing I noticed how he did whatever I asked. It was then that I had an ingenious idea. I wandered over to my brother and held out my arm to him and said, “Bite me.” He looked up at me with confusion in his big brown eyes. Biting was wrong, that was one of the things he knew was true. But he also knew that he should do whatever his older sister said. She loved him and only had his best interests at heart. His poor little brain was thrown into a state of turmoil.

“Bite me” I urged again. He gently opened up his jaws and placed them around my forearm. “Harder” I said. He applied a bit more pressure on my arm. “Harder” more pressure followed. “Joseph, bite me as hard as you can.” He was now biting me so hard that he was grunting and his head was shaking with the effort.

I left my arm in his mouth for a few seconds. Then I ripped my arm out of his mouth and looked at the perfect imprint of his teeth on my arm. Smiling an evil smirk I turned on the waterworks and went running down the hallway screaming and gingerly holding my wounded arm. “Mom, Joseph bit me!” I wailed. Mom cast a quick glance at my arm, saw the bite mark and stormed off down the hallway to where Joseph was playing peacefully.

He didn’t even see it coming. Mom’s wrath hit him like a ton of bricks. She smacked his hand and took him into the bathroom to wash his mouth out with soap. I watched with a sly grin on my face and some leftover sniffles escaping for show. Mom came in after leaving Joseph crying in his room and came back to attend to me. She brought me some ice and sat with me giving me the attention that I had so longed for.

I used this scam for years. My brother never lost his unwavering trust in me. My mom thought that my brother had a serious biting problem and thought that she shouldn’t send him to preschool because he could be a danger to the other kids. And I never seemed to develop a conscience.

The Beginning

I love stories. I love reading them, watching them on T.V, telling them. Everyone has a story. Everyone has something to share, something that could touch another person in some way shape or form. Something about them that could bring laughter, or tears, to another persons face. I love to listen to other people as they share stories from their lives, and I love to tell stories of my own. Hopefully the stories that will follow will entertain you and make you laugh. And hopefully they will get you thinking about the stories that you could share.