Week 1 : a tribute to summer.

A day spent outside is never a day wasted. Especially during those sweet three summer months. The air is warmer, the sun is hotter and the days are longer. And, arguably, your spirit is a bit more alive.

Jumping from a bridge into a swimming hole, with your friends cheering you on, is certainly one way to spend a summer day. Another is riding a bike down hills and around corners of cracked pavement, the wind in your hair and the world flashing by you too fast for your eyes to catch it. Sunbathing on a blanket in the grass with a friend, a Cosmopolitan magazine and some sandwiches is another way to spend a summer day. Tubing on a lake, riding on the back of a jet-ski, riding in the bed of a pick-up truck, hiking through the woods... How many ways are there to enjoy the natural beauty that is summer?

Imagine that your bare feet are buried under the warm, luxurious sand. Close your eyes and you can almost feel the warm breeze against your skin. Wearing a pair of denim shorts, the sun against your bare legs. You open your eyes and a lake is spread out around you; as calm as ever, it creates a mirror-like image of the impossibly blue sky.

The faint smell of a campfire and pine trees travels with the wind. The radio sits on top of the over-turned canoe, the country station it was on turned down low enough to hear what song was on. You pick up a rock and throw it into the lake.

With a splash comes a ripple, and the ripple travels quickly on the surface of the water. Amazing, isn't it? How such a small thing can create such a big reaction.

Arms sore from canoeing, you pull yourself up and stretch your arms above your head, reviling in the freedom.

How perfect this entire place is.

Nothing is sweeter and crisper then that first breaking, waking moment of the early morning. This specific morning was decorated in dew and rain drops. The sky remained blue but the rain still fell.

Walking out of the tent, you're first embraced by the smell of a fresh summer rainfall. The air and sand beneath your feet wet, you step out of the thicket and into the clearing that faced the lake.

As if it was a canvas stretched out in front of you, the dark clouds and blue morning sky was home to a rainbow. You could see it's beginning and end, and it reflected off the lake to create two images of the same rainbow.

It was only there a minute or two before it faded. What if you hadn't woken up in time? You would have missed a future story you'd tell. 

An image like that, you can only sit and enjoy it.

As a girl, you sit on a rock in front of the bay and dip your toes in the cold, salty water. The night sky is as dark as ever and the water is an inky-black mass that is laid out in front of you. A huge moon reflects off the wavy water, and the millions of stars in the sky are the moon's faithful companions.

A crisp wind picks up. You hug your legs close to your chest.

I'd like to know just how many of those stars there are...

You think to yourself. You look up at the cloudless sky and can't even fathom beginning to count.

I wonder if you can see these many stars everywhere in the world. 

For some reason, you doubt it.

The waves are melodic tonight. It almost makes you sleepy; almost makes you want to go inside and tell Nana you're ready to bed.

But you want to sit here for a little while longer.

Watching the bay this time of night isn't exactly exciting. The tide is too high to walk about and look for shells. It's too dark to look for boats or seals.

But for some reason, on this August night, watching the waves is better then watching TV.

"I'm afraid!" You cry, jumping down from the edge of the bridge.

"You're scared?!" Your cousin calls up to you, "Seriously? This bridge really is less then 15 feet up."

"I haven't jumped off it since I was a kid though!" I yelled back.

"Then it's even less scary now!" One friend called up to you, "Just avoid jumping too far to the left or the right. You'll hit a bunch of rocks and die."

Everyone laughed except you. You pushed some hair behind your ears and looked down.

It really isn't that far...

"C'mon!" They all seem to say together.

Below the old wooden bridge is a small swimming hole. It branches off into a rocky brook that travels through the thick forest. To your left and your right is a seemingly endless dirt road.

You sigh and get back up on the edge of the bridge.

Your friends whoop and cheer as you prepare yourself for the jump.

I suppose you only live once.

You take a deep breath and jump, screaming your whole way down.

Week Two : A funeral on a hill.

         Somewhere along the winding, bumpy and old line on the map called Route 9, a tiny little farm house sat atop a hill. In the summer, the yard of the home is decorated with flowers and bushes of every color. The view from the back window of the house was a scene of green rolling hills; the kind of view where you could see for miles. On a sunny enough day, you could even see the shadows of the clouds in the sky on those hills. But today, it was snowy and cold. The overcast sky shown no sign of the sun. The air was too cold for comfort and there wasn’t a breath of wind. 
The driveway was overflowing with trucks and cars. People bundled up in their coats, gloves and scarves to fend off the January Maine cold. They all walked up the hill behind the house with solemn faces. Some were wearing black; some were in casual clothes. 
A man stood in front of three grave sites. He held a bible in covered hands; his aged face held a warm smile. 
Locals all gathered around. There were at least 60 people; almost all of them were ones you could easily run into at the general store and hold a conversation with, or ones you’d cheerfully sit down next to at a high school basketball game. Every person there was connected, not only by the gravestone that represented a lost life, but also by the place where you decided to hang your hat. They all chose a different little life; one without many luxuries and plenty of bumpy paths, sort of like this old Route 9. 
From the place where these people stood, the pine trees lined the horizon for as far as the eye could see. A young woman with dark hair, a polka-dot dress and an oversized camera bag scurried up the hill a little late. She greeted her family with hugs, kisses and kind words. 
A very famous Psalm was read once the ceremony started. The one about walking in the valley of the shadow of death, and knowing that you are not alone. Whoever this funeral was for, it was clear that they were never alone in life. 
The gravestones had names of them represented resting places of members of a family who wanted to be placed here on this hill. 
“Everyone in town could count on her,” The man with the bible says, “She was known by ‘Grammie’ to everyone, even if she wasn’t related to them. Her home was always open to everyone, and she was always there to help anyone in town who needed it.” 
Suddenly, a woman standing by the grave bursts into tears. She runs in front of everyone and embraces with another woman, muttering incoherent words. 
Once the short and very appropriate ceremony was over, everyone was invited into the little house to celebrate the life of Barbara. 
Three friends joined together on the walk back to the house. A blonde girl, the dark-haired girl with the polka-dot dress, and a young man in a black suit with a red tie. They all smiled and exchanged some words as the wind picked up and they seemed to shiver in unison. The one in the dress stopped to snap a few pictures with her camera. Once to the house, they entered together, still youthfully smiling. 
If it weren’t for the overwhelming bunch of people in the old house, you’d be able to see just how full of a home it already was. Pictures of family members decorated the walls as did hand-painted portraits of mountains and other beautiful scenes. Quilts, probably ones made by family members, were scattered on every chair, sofa and bed visible. Decorative plates hung on the walls with words that said happy 20th, 30th and 50th anniversary. Everything in the home seemed handmade and one of a kind.
Voices and laughs traveled through the walls of the home. Everyone knew each other’s names; everyone was happy to see one another. It was not only a celebration of life but also a reunion of sorts. The young friends all went to three separate and very different colleges. 
“She’s a ‘home girl’, my granddaughter.” An old woman with olive-toned skin said to another lady as she pointed to the girl in the polka-dot dress, “She’s been in the big city for a while but now she’s coming closer to home.” 
Families poured in and out of the doors of the house. Food was welcome to everyone, as was a place to rest your bones. There was either a cold soda or a hot coffee with your name on it, and food was practically forced in your hands. Everyone was family. 
The house creaked and shook because of all the activity, and the floor was clearly uneven and there was clearly not enough room. But no one seemed to care. Children bounced on the knees of their parents and toddlers curiously walked about looking up at all the new faces. It was a huge spectrum of every walk of life; rosy-cheeked babies, little girls in tutus, teenagers chatting in the corner, young adults sharing their college experiences, parents talking about the weather and the elderly reminiscing. Every step of life was here under one roof, and all because of one grim reason. 
Pictures of Barbara were all gathered together on a board in the full living room. The girl in the polka-dot dress stopped and peered at the board as she pushed her glasses up her nose. 
Clearly still very youthful, this selection of pictures made her smile. All of the pictures were collected from very beautiful parts of Barbara’s very full and well-lived life. Parts of her own life that have yet to arrive. As if it was a perfectly placed time line, you saw pictures of her as a young woman and you watched her age. Married for over 50 years and living until she was 85, Barbara clearly made an impact on the lives of many people. 
“She never did anything for herself,” A woman who sat in a chair near the fireplace said, “She was always doin’ things for others.” 
The girl in the polka-dot dress saw the sorrow and the equal amounts of happiness that surrounded her. The walls of this home had harbored many memories and much love; the young woman could only hope that she would someday hope that she could create a life this full. 
She was snapped out of her thoughts when a smiling face called her name. 
“Holliann! Over here!” 
It was one of her friends calling her to join a conversation. For a split second, she paused and seemed to be lost in thought. But whatever thought it was, it lasted only a moment. She joined her friend with a smile and a plate of food. 
The snow continued to fall slowly from the sky. It seemed as though the whole town was sitting together in the house. From every path of life, and every familiar face, a few hours were shared together to celebrate the end of a life of one of their own. 
There was no better way to do it. 

Rest in peace, Barbara Rhoades. 

Holliann Bergin :) An intro!

I moved to Penobscot county three short months after graduating from a Class D high school in Downeast Maine. My area defines the term 'small towns', so a place like Bangor was certainly a change in pace for me. Born and raised in Washington Country certainly taught me many valuable things about life, but I wanted to go somewhere new.
I went from living on a hill on the Bingo Road to living in the college town that is home to the University of Maine. I went from seeing all of my closest friends every single day to seeing them, hopefully, once a month. I went from eating dinner with Mom and Dad every night, to not. Blessed with a good family and friends, missing them is sometimes very painful for me. For two and a half years in high school, I worked at a grocery store where I experienced my first co-working family experience.
As a natural dreamer, optimist and whimsical person, moving out of Washington County was a whole new set of dreams for me. Once moving out, I quickly got a job working with children who have disabilities; a job that certainly did not come naturally to me, but I got the hang of it eventually. Gearing up to this job, I was nervous and afraid. It was nothing I had ever wanted for myself. Once I had gotten the hang of things, I realized it was a job I really loved. It showed me how much I love helping people, and how I can really do anything I set my mind too.
But working with children isn't my only passion. I've always dreamed of being a writer. For the entirety of my existence, writing was what I've wanted to do, in some way, shape or form. But as I got older, I also discovered that I had a certain flair for photography. In April and May, I'll be having my own photography exhibit at the Bangor Public Library.
This is my fourth and final semester at EMCC. In May, I'll be moving home to Waite, and in the fall I'll be going to the University of Mainea at Machias where I'll study creative writing. I've studied Liberal Studies and Early Childhood Education at EMCC, but creative writing has always been the major I've dreamed about.
I've had an overall positive experience at EMCC and in the Bangor area, but my wandering photographer feet are extremely excited to experience new things in a brand new area. After going out of my beloved Washington County for almost two years, I decided it was time to go back.