As Thacher students welcome the arrival of frequent rain and fifty degree weather, it can only mean one thing: winter is here. With the new trimester comes a new sports season, meaning that soccer cleats are dusted off and basketball shoes taken out. For a select group of juniors and seniors, however, our afternoons will not be filled with games or practices, but rather a study of a variety of topics, ranging from tennis practice to costume design as we embark on our independent projects. Following an application process and with approval of the Committee, Thacher upperclassmen are able to participate in an independent project one trimester per year, in which they work during sports period towards a specific goal or final presentation. For me, this trimester will involve creative non-fiction and poetry as I embark on my own study and creation of creative writing. The combination of dorm life, rigorous academics, and a busy extracurricular schedule can sometimes leave little time to pursue personal hobbies and interests. I am so grateful that Thacher grants us the ability to pursue these things in a forum of self-teaching and learning, and also encourages us to set goals and objectives. For me, these include publishing a poem and piece of creative non-fiction once per week for three weeks, and then returning on the fourth week to edit and workshop. This means that by the time of independent presentations in February, I will have seven poems and seven narratives to present in the form of an anthology. Along with an anthology, my advisor and I will be hosting a literary salon to present a reading of my work and pass out copies. I am so excited to be able to not only do one of my favorite things every day but also share it with the community! I will update you when the full collection is released but in the meantime, here is a short excerpt from one of my narratives. Enjoy!
The Deck
“The deck of my grandfather’s brownstone was not inherently harmful. It was composed of dark brown two by eights of Western red cedar, lined across in pairs of ten until, either by some manifestation of architectural genius, or the stubbornness of the callused German hands which had laid it, the planks suddenly turned forty-five degrees and proceeded diagonally to the foot of the house. Not many people noticed it. In fact, most would step out onto the porch just for a moment–taking in the lush greenery of Brooklyn’s finest garden before disappearing behind the glass door and faded antique drapery; never once stopping to stare at the incongruencies below them.
The small, two inch area that this relatively imperceptible decision created became the intersection of my childhood.
It would start with a leap up the house’s final two front steps, where, with a rushing wind, I was almost always met by the towering silhouette of my Grandfather, who with a cane in one hand and a mouth-blown glass of single malt scotch in the other, would lean down and whisper, “Hello Mousey.”
Rushing past, I was met with his eternal smell of aftershave and ginger Altoids that second only to oxygen, became a sort of necessary inhalant within that brick edifice. It flooded from his second floor bathroom down to the kitchen, where his musk would mix with that day’s goulash or spare ribs, creating a wavering odor of slow-boiled Cabernet and Paco Rabanne. Bounding past the checkered kitchen I would throw open the screen door, and make my way to the deck for an afternoon of games.”