So I'm in college now. I know, you thought it would never happen. But here I am, being scholarly for the first time in a few years. You know what that means? Writing papers! Yaaaay! Lucky for me, the longest paper that I've written so far was basically a blog post. No joke. I had to narrate 15 moments/events/stories from my life. It felt like writing a long Into the Archive post (which, I totally should start up again). I could've copy and pasted 15 blog posts from this here faithful 'ol blog of mine and got a decent grade. But I didn't because that'd be cheating. Well, OK, I retold some of the same stories that are already on my blog but they're rewritten so they are "new." There are also some new stories that have never been told.
So, as you may have guessed, I'm here to share this paper with you. I did take out one story that is very personal that I didn't want open to the public for now so there are only 14 of the stories in this post. I have added pictures and linked the posts (in the titles) that I have already told on my blog to flesh out the stories a little more. So, enjoy this roller coaster of emotions as I share with you 14 vignettes from my life ranging from young childhood to just a few months ago.
So, as you may have guessed, I'm here to share this paper with you. I did take out one story that is very personal that I didn't want open to the public for now so there are only 14 of the stories in this post. I have added pictures and linked the posts (in the titles) that I have already told on my blog to flesh out the stories a little more. So, enjoy this roller coaster of emotions as I share with you 14 vignettes from my life ranging from young childhood to just a few months ago.
14 Significant Events and Moments in My Life
When I was 3, my family moved from a three bedroom house with a small yard to a four bedroom house with almost 4 acres of property in a small neighborhood located in South Kansas City. All of our neighbors had similar property sizes with no fences around them. My days were spent exploring in this vast land of a carefree child’s dream. One of the best parts of this freedom was all the wild animals to observe and sometimes even catch: birds, earthworms, lizards, snakes, squirrels, turkey, butterflies, turtles, the list goes on. The easiest of these creature to catch were toads. Although they tended to pee on me when I would first pick them up, they were generally tame animals.
One lucky day when I was about 7, I convinced my mom to let me keep a toad in an empty fish tank. A few days later, I found another toad and thought it perfect to let my first toad have a friend. I was dutiful in finding insects to put in the tank to keep the toads fed. My mom kept advising me to put a container of water in the tank as well but I kept putting it off. The toads began to shrink, probably from both starvation and dehydration. My mom suggested I let the poor creatures go so they could find their necessities themselves. I was appalled by that idea. These were my toads!
The morning I woke up to the first toad dead, I was heartbroken. The second toad kept nudging the dead one, missing its friend I assumed. I realized that my mom had been right, I should have taken better care of them. Through tears of regret and sorrow, I let the living toad go back into the yard hoping it would find food and water quickly before it died too. I then turned to bury the dead toad behind the house.
My mom assured me that, “that toad outlived its potential by teaching you this lesson.” Even though I didn’t like how I had learned that lesson, she was right. I never made that mistake again and from that day forward, I was very careful with the creatures that I caught and made sure to release them in a timely manner.
Homeless
It was late in the night and I lay in bed huddled under my covers as a violent thunderstorm raged outside. The sound of dripping water coming from my closet got faster and faster as the storm roared on. Unable to sleep, I crawled out of bed to go find my mom. As I walked out of my room, I could see more water leaking through the ceiling in the hall. The same thing was happening in the living room and kitchen. A bulbus light fixture in the front entryway was filling with water. I was only 9, but I knew this was a big problem.
We were getting our roof redone. Earlier that evening, the roofer had assured my mom that there wouldn’t be any rain that night so he hadn’t covered the unfinished roof properly. Clearly, the forecast had been wrong. Within days, mold began to appear and spread across the ceilings throughout the house. It was no longer safe to live in this mold infested house. We were about to become homeless.
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| There seem to be no pictures of what the house looked like at this point in the story so here is one while the house was under construction several months later. |
Gymnastics
Feeling sheer power and grace flow through my body, I climbed to the top the rope attached to the ceiling of the gym. When I was doing gymnastics, my 8 year old body felt invincible; I could do anything short of flying. As I came to the top of the rope nearly 3 stories in the air, I tapped the ceiling and then leapt to the foam pit below. No fear, just freedom.
Stepping on a Nail
My family’s unfinished basement may as well be a landmine. We try to keep it relatively clean and organized but it doesn’t take long for it to fall into disarray. On this unfortunate day, when I was about 10, I ventured downstairs in my Crocs (wearing Crocs, in and of itself, is unfortunate I know). As I was stepping across a pile of old wooden boards, I misstepped. Before I had even registered what had happened, I let out a yelp. My foot was in a significant amount of pain as I looked down at a nail sticking out of the board that I had just stepped on. I realized that I had stepped pretty hard on that nail and it had easily gone right through my shoe. I felt the blood oozing from my newly acquired puncture wound as I hobbled towards the stairs. Despite the pain, I felt surprisingly calm.
I made it upstairs, sat myself on a kitchen chair and called to my mom to come look at my injury. I didn’t have the stomach to look at it myself but I was able to stay calm as she cleaned and bandaged it.
It was much too painful to put any weight on my injured foot so I learned to move relatively easily by hopping around on one foot. The next few weeks were interesting as I tried keep doing everything as normally as possible with only one foot. Karate class proved to be nearly impossible so I spent class time leaning against the wall and throwing punches into the air.
After nearly a month, I finally decided to try walking with shoes on. The pain was still there but manageable now. I was so excited that I went next door to my neighbor friend to show her that I could walk again.
Getting My Teeth Pulled
I was happily eating a nutty candy bar when I bit into a nut that was extra hard. After gnawing on it a few times, a realization came over me: this probably wasn’t a nut. I had been dealing with a loose tooth for weeks now and it just didn’t want to let go. I was scheduled to have several teeth pulled the next day, including that one. I thought it was pretty dumb to have an already loose tooth pulled so when I spit out a mouthful of candy bar mixed with blood and a tooth, I was pretty happy. I was a little disappointed that I had wasted a bite of my candy bar though.
I showed up to the oral surgeon the next day, ready to have three teeth removed. It wasn’t because of anything that was wrong with them, they were just baby teeth that were being stubborn and not showing any signs of coming out. I was 10 so my orthodontist had advised that I get these baby teeth removed to avoid having my adult teeth trying to come in around them and getting seriously messed up.
As she guided me to the room that I would be having the surgery, the nurse asked if I wanted to sedated at all. “No, I think I’ll be fine.” I responded. I wanted to be fully aware of what was going on because I was curious. After I settled into the seat, the nurse put some weird tasting goo on my gums. “This will help dull the pain when I give you the shot for the actual numbing,” she told me. She left me for a few minutes while my gums began to tingle and lose feeling. When she came back, she held a syringe with a very small needle attached to it. She sat down next to me and explained, “This is going to sting so I want you to take a deep breath and count to ten.” I followed her directions, but my eyes began to water as she stuck the needle into my gums. That numbing goo didn’t seem to have done anything. After repeating this process several times in different places on my gums, she left me again to go get the surgeon. I sat there, completely aware of the fact that I was quickly losing feeling in most of my face. I reached up to touch my cheek only to quickly pull my hand away in surprise. It felt so weird to know that I was touching my face but not feel anything.
When the surgeon came in, he explained the process of the surgery to me and poked around in my mouth to make sure I was numb enough.
My mouth was then propped open with a plastic lip retractor and the scary looking pliers went into my mouth. The feeling of the teeth sliding out of my gums was fascinating. I could feel them coming out but there was no pain.
After the teeth were removed, the surgeon put the extracted teeth in a little envelope with a plastic window to give to me as my souvenir. I walked out of office, mouth full of blood and gauze, ready to go home and veg out for the rest of the day.
Mia
My mom was pregnant again and I had my heart set on a girl. I already had three brothers who I liked (for the most part) but all my little child-self had ever wanted was a sister. My mom had decided to have a homebirth this time and not have an ultrasound so we wouldn’t know the gender of the baby until it was born.
Time slowly ticked by as my mom became less and less able to do “mom things,” like clean the house and make dinner. She was in her 40’s now, not nearly as spry as she had been with the previous pregnancies, so it was taking all she had just to take care of herself. My dad worked long hours so many of the responsibilities of being the mom fell to me with the help of my brother who is just younger than me. The two of us matured as we cared for our mom and two younger siblings.
Sunday, January 6th, 2008, my mom went into labor. By the afternoon, I had a baby sister. All the waiting and work it took to keep my mom healthy for the past few months had been so worth it. Thrilled, I cuddled that long-awaited miracle wrapped in a pink blanket as much as I could that day. I hardly let her out of my sight.
Quitting Piano
My mom is a teacher of many things including piano. For some illogical reason to me, she insisted that I start learning how to play the piano when I was 6. I really didn’t understand why she was so set on me taking lessons because I had very little interest. The concepts of all the notes, counting, and chords hurt my head. “Hands and elbows up, fingers curved, back straight, feet flat on the ground,” my mom would constantly remind me. My body was unbearably uncomfortable sitting in that contorted position. Some days I honestly thought she was just trying to be bossy.
I tried everything from sweet talking to throwing fits to get out of lessons. I even took up the violin for a few months to see if she’d let me switch instruments. I was much more interested in the violin anyway so what was the difference? But, that plan didn’t end up working either. I quit violin because there was no way I was going to keep practicing two instruments every day. I now accepted the fact that I was doomed to play the piano until I was gray and old. I rolled my eyes when my mom assured me that I would thank her later.
Eventually, my mom told me that when I finished the curriculum I was using, I would be allowed to quit piano once and for all. Additionally, she found another teacher for me so that she didn’t have to keep fighting with me quite as much. This was enough encouragement to put a spring in my step and get moving on my piano learning.
About six years after beginning this seemingly eternal journey, I sat at the piano, now fairly proficient in the art of piano playing, and played the very last song in the curriculum. I let out a whoop as I forcefully closed the book, got up, and vowed never to return to that bench at the piano.
My first year of church girls camp was in the summer of 2008, located in a forest in central Missouri. I was barely 12 years old and had never been away from home for more than a night. I had never dealt with homesickness before so I wasn’t particularly worried that it would be a problem. Personally, I considered myself a pretty tough, grown up person so I was ready to finally have some freedom away from my family. It was going to be a week of living outside (if you consider sleeping in cabins “camping” anyway), having fun with friends almost non-stop, and probably some spiritual moments as well.
Turns out, I ended up being right. The first few days were filled with one fun activity after another and late nights spent giggling with my friends. Thoughts of missing my home and my family never crossed my mind.
Near the end of the week, my dad had volunteered to come be security overnight. I admit, I’m a bit of a daddy's girl so I was excited to see him. When he showed up that evening, I joyfully ran to him to give him a big hug. As I embraced him, I felt a knot begin to form in my throat and tears fill my eyes. My joy was suddenly mixed with a longing for my family. It was an emotion that I neither expected nor wanted. As I pulled away from the hug, I quickly wiped the tears away from my eyes and cleared my throat so as not to let my dad see his tough daughter crying. There wasn’t really a good reason for hiding my tears. But, I still had my point to prove.
My uncle and aunt, Jeff and JoLyn, had lived out of the country for most of my life and the last country they lived in was Mexico. Uncle Jeff had a lot of extra frequent flyer points that he needed to use so he asked my mom and me if we wanted to use those points to come visit Mexico. The offer was too good to pass up.
Flying in over Mexico City at night was absolutely breathtaking. The lights spread out in every direction for as far as I could see. I knew this was going to be three weeks of unforgettable adventure.
One day, the four of us were in the town of Cholula sightseeing the pyramids and cathedrals there. Street vendors were scattered throughout the streets of the town. One woman we met had a bucket of peanuts and another full of dried grasshoppers. She held out a wooden spoon full of peanuts to offer us a sample. I gladly took one and was about to walk away when she held out a spoon with dried grasshoppers on it.
I felt the stares from my mom, aunt and uncle silently daring me to take one. I shook my head and started walking away but stopped after a few steps. What was I doing? How could I pass up an opportunity for these kind of bragging rights? I turned around and gingerly took a grasshopper from the spoon. I stared at it sitting in my hand for a second and then closed my eyes as I popped it into my mouth. The taste in and of itself wasn’t bad. Neither was the texture. I just couldn’t think about what I was actually eating or else I would surely spit it out. After a quite a few bites, I swallowed, feeling the legs tickle my throat as they went down. As gross as it was, I kept my composure and walked away with bragging rights as planned.
My family became acquainted with an international exchange group when I was in high school which gave us the opportunity to host teenagers from around the world for a few weeks during the summer. I very much enjoyed this experience of getting to learn about other cultures from these amazing kids but I wanted to be the one traveling.
Lucky for me, this company also gave out scholarships for American teenagers to go to another country. I eagerly did everything required to apply for this scholarship, including making an art project and doing a skype interview with the coordinators of the company. I was very proud of the video that I made for the art project and I felt like the interview went well. There was no doubt in my mind that I was going to get the scholarship.
I day dreamed of the day I would fly into Spain, or China, or France until the day I got the final call in April. Much to my dismay, I was informed that I had not been chosen for the scholarship but I was encouraged to try again next year. I hung up and went to my mom to share my disappointment. She was surprised too.
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I spent the next several weeks peeved and wondering what I would do with my summer when my dad asked me, “Would you be interested in going to Philmont Scout Ranch in June?” I looked at him, puzzled, not having any idea what he was talking about. “It’s a Boy Scout high adventure camp in New Mexico where you go backpacking for 10 days.” he told me. Someone he knew was putting together a co-ed crew to go at the end of June and they were still looking for a girl to go with them. I had grown up in a family that was very involved in Boy Scouts but I had just joined Venturing (the co-ed branch of Boy Scouts) so didn’t have much personal experience yet. I had never done any real camping let alone go backpacking. I finally decided to throw caution to the wind and go. I was a runner so I should be able to handle hiking over 100 miles in 10 days. There wasn’t as much time for me to prepare as was ideal, but I managed to get everything together in time and showed up to the New Mexico-bound train ready to face this new adventure.
My time at Philmont was spent hiking, getting sunburnt, racing burros, rock climbing, getting caught in the rain, climbing a 12,441 foot mountain, sweating, and not showering for 10 days. The experience exceeded my expectations both in challenge but even more in fun. [The whole story can be found in this post: http://thisismyrealife.blogspot.com/2013/11/iwgbtp.html ]
I got off the train in Kansas City two weeks later, and the first thing out of my mouth was, “I’m going back next summer to work there!” The mystery that was Philmont Scout Ranch became a place that I longed to return to as soon as I left and I was determined to go back as soon as possible. It was then that I realized how many events had fallen into place to introduce me to a place that became a second home. I never did reapply for that travel scholarship. Instead, I’ve spent several summers being a backpacking guide in the mountains of Northern New Mexico.
Summer of 2014, I became a Ranger, or backpacking guide, at Philmont Scout Ranch in New Mexico. The first two weeks was all training, including an intense 5 day hike, during which I learned every skill that I would need to know, from cooking over a backpacking stove, to packing a pack. From trail etiquette to wilderness first aid, to reading topographical maps and learning how to successfully communicate all of this information to groups of teenagers and their adult leaders. At that point, I was somehow “qualified” to guide people into the Sangre De Cristo mountain range. I hardly felt prepared but, June 12th I greeted my first crew and tried to act confident. After a day in basecamp, we took a bus to the trailhead and began hiking.
As I lay in my tent that night, about to go to sleep, a startling thought hit me. The safety and, essentially, the lives of the crew members depended on me, a girl barely 18 years old who hadn’t even gone camping until last summer. I felt so overwhelmed by this responsibility that I began to cry.
My summers spent as a backpacking guide aren’t just spent guiding. On days off, I enjoy hiking with fellow staff friends at the pace of fit hikers rather than the slower participants who tend to have less experience. With free reign of the beautiful, mountainous 140,177 acres of ranch property, the options are near endless. Not only are there well-kept trails and breathtaking views but also backcountry camps. These camps are staffed by anywhere from 5-20 people who run a program for that camp. The programs include rock climbing, COPE courses, and gun ranges as well as historical reenactment camps.
One afternoon, a couple of friends, Cassie and Austin, convinced me to take on an intense hike to visit the post civil war camp, Black Mountain, nestled at the western base of Black Mountain for which it’s named after. The catch was that Cassie and Austin had to be back to work the next day at 8am. This meant that, not only were we going to hike 6 miles one way, but we would have to turn around and hike back in the dark. I was finished with my responsibilities for the day and had the next day off so I figured I might as well go. Even if we didn’t get back until late, at least I wouldn’t have to worry about being tired.
Our first mistake was thinking that we could successfully do this hike during the peak of monsoon season. It rained almost every day; and not just a little bit. Torrential downpour and thunderstorms was a regular occurrence. But as we left basecamp around 2pm, there wasn’t a cloud in the sky.
The first hour and a half of the hike was fun and easy going. As we hiked up to Schaefer’s Pass, clouds started gathering and getting darker. We were near the top of the pass when the first raindrops hit our heads. Our plan was to hike up over Black Mountain, considered one of the hardest hikes on property, but as the thunder began to roll in, we decided it may be best to not risk getting struck by lightning. The alternate route would take us down the other side of the pass which meant we would lose all of the elevation we had just gained and then we would gradually hike up in elevation beside the North Fork Urraca river for the rest of the way to the camp.
We made it down to the edge the river in good time and the rain even lightened up for a while. Just when we thought we were free from the rain, another torrent hit. The river began to rise and flood over onto the trail. Before we knew it, we were primarily hiking through the river. We were now soaked to the bone and beginning to get uncomfortably cold. Time slowed to a crawl as we struggled up the river. Numb and seriously facing the fact that we were very susceptible to hypothermia at this point, it didn’t seem like we were getting any closer to the camp.
It was after 7pm when we finally stumbled through the door of the small cabin at Black Mountain camp. The staff who worked there, all dressed in hilarious red long johns, beckoned us in. There was a blazing fire in the wood burning stove and more than enough food to go around. The three of us huddled around the fire and focused on drying our boots and socks. Cassie and I warmed up quickly but, despite sitting close to the fire and being wrapped in a blanket, Austin continued to shiver violently. I watched him anxiously for any signs of progressing hypothermia. He had to get better. There were no roads nearby so if he had to be evacuated we’d have to hike him though this weather for several miles. Thankfully, after an hour he finally started warming up.
At this point, we were supposed to start hiking back to basecamp but the storm hadn’t let up. There was no way we were going to hike back down that river, but going up over the mountain was just as dangerous. We decided to stay a few more hours and see if the weather would get any better.
By 10 o’clock there were still no signs of improving weather so we asked if we could stay the night. The staff agreed and used the radio to call basecamp to inform them of our change of plans and that Cassie and Austin may not make it back for work the next day. They then provided us with a pile of blankets to make our stay in their tiny kitchen as comfortable as possible. I spread out a blanket on one of the benches by the table and quickly fell asleep.
Only a few hours later, I lifted my head and looked over at Cassie who was already awake. I checked my watch. It was 5:30 and the first beams of morning light were peeping through the window. “Kyra,” Cassie whispered.
“Yeah?”
“I need to poop but I don’t know if I’ll be able to hold it if I move.”
“Do you know where the latrine is?
“Nope.”
“I’ll go get the map,” I said as I sat up.
After pulling on our half-dried boots and armed with the map, we began wandering around the camp trying to find the latrine. But in the dim light and frantic urgency of the moment, we failed to find it and she decided to just dig a hole.
After avoiding that possible disaster, we figured we should wake up Austin and get on the trail. If we were lucky, the two of them could make it back to work on time.
The sky was clear again and Cassie had her heart set on climbing the mountain so that’s the route we took. Personally, I wasn’t fond of the idea of hiking through the river again anyway. People aren’t kidding when they say it’s a hard hike up Black Mountain. The trail went straight up with little exception. We were out of breath almost immediately. This was going to be a long hike.
About half way up, we realized that we hadn’t had breakfast. We dug through our day packs for any remaining snacks we might have. After dining on granola bars and dried fruit, we continued our hike up.
We summited the mountain at about 7am knowing full well that Cassie and Austin would not be making it back to work in time. There was no point in rushing now so we stopped to enjoy the view before continuing our hike.
My junior year of high school track had ended in great disappointment because I hadn’t come near the times that I wanted for the events that I ran. The race that I focused on the most was the 1600m and I wanted to run in under 6 minutes. Now here I was, my senior year coming to a close, and my times hadn’t gotten much better and more importantly, the sub-6 minute 1600m still just as elusive. Each time I raced that event, the frustration built. I would run as hard as could, trying to keep as close to the splits that I needed for each lap but I could never kick hard enough at the end to make up for the lost time. I was mere seconds away from 6 minutes coming as close as 6:02 but nothing, no training, no diet, no positive talk, nothing I did could get me to where I wanted to be.
The day of very last meet of highschool came and, somehow, I was feeling optimistic. It was now or never so it was going to have to happen today. The heat of the day rose quickly which made me nervous because I’ve never run well in the heat. But despite the heat, my first race went really well which boosted my confidence. Within a few hours, dark storm clouds began rolling in and, with a crack of thunder, rain began to pour from the sky. The meet came to a halt and it was announced that we would need to wait for the storm to pass. Dismayed, I followed the crowd to shelter as sheets of rain mercilessly came down. I paced beneath the bleachers grumbling under my breath and kicking the gravel. Anger and disappointment consumed me. Was this how my last meet was supposed to end? Without a chance to run the one race I cared about?
It felt like an eternity later when the rain finally let up and the officials announced that the meet would resume.
As I lined up for the 1600m, I gave myself a pep talk. “Just stick with Emily,” I told myself, “she’s been running the kind of times you want.” Emily was one of my teammates who I had been training with for several years now. She, along with several other girls on my team, had been my cheerleader though these last couple of tough seasons. I used to be faster than all of them but now they were getting faster while I was stuck, seemingly going nowhere. All I wanted to do was keep up with them now.
My first lap around the track was right on pace but on the second lap Emily began to pull away. Although my body screamed for me to stop, I wouldn’t listen to it this time. I dug in and pushed myself back to Emily’s side. Pure grit and determination is what got me though the third lap. I had nothing left but I found the power to keep going anyway. On my fourth and final lap, a new spark of energy hit me. My legs didn’t feel the pain anymore but rather flew without any command from me. The last 100m were like a dream as I passed Emily and kept going, still picking up speed. As I flew across the finish line, I glanced down at my watch and almost screamed.
I sat in a daze for the next half hour not able to fully process what had just happened. Every second of that race played again and again in my mind with amazing clarity and yet, it all felt like a blur. My high school track career was over and I had just run a race that I would be proud to recount for the rest of my life. I had done it. Barely, but the first digit that I had seen on my watch as I crossed the finish line was a 5 and that is all that mattered.
In the LDS faith, to which I belong, it is almost a rite of passage (although not required) to serve a full-time mission as a young adult. This isn’t just your typical mission trip to volunteer at an orphanage in a third world country for a week. For about 2 years, these young adults, as young as 18, leave their families and all other loved ones to serve and teach the people of the area of the world that they are assigned to. For as long as I can remember, I knew this was something that I would do when I was old enough. I wanted to be a part of positive changes in the lives of many people.
The last 6 weeks of my mission in Colorado were a mixture of wanting to just be done and scrambling to make my last few days count. It had been a long year and half away from my family and friends but it had also been an amazing experience to watch people's lives change for the better, in part, because of my service. Ready or not, the day for me to return home came and I found myself sitting in the Denver airport waiting for my flight back to Kansas City.
I was with several other missionaries who were waiting for their flights home as well. These people, who had been strangers when I had first gotten to Colorado, were now friends who I had watched grow and mature with me over the course of our missions. I recalled how fresh and inexperienced we had been on our first day in Colorado, unsure of what we really were doing. In contrast, each of us now had an air of confidence that would carry us into the next unknowns of our lives. All of adulthood lay ahead.
After several hours of sitting in the Denver airport and a layover in Minnesota, my plane touched down in Kansas City. This was the moment I had been waiting for almost since the day I had left home. I was only moments from seeing my family again. The term “distance makes the heart grow fonder” may not always be true but in this case, it was very true for me. I had grown to really appreciate my parents and each of my siblings when I didn’t have the chance to see and talk to them every day. One email a week, paper letters and only 3 skype calls for a year and a half left me longing for them.
As I walked off the plane and saw my family, it suddenly felt like no time had passed at all. The only thing indicating that it had been awhile since I last saw them was that my siblings were a bit taller and older looking. Abandoning the “Welcome Home” sign she was holding, my little sister, Mia, came running to embraced me. I was filled with so much indescribable happiness in that moment. Reunited with my family and with my whole life ahead of me, I was ready to take on the next chapter of my life.
