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Emelia Ruth Sep 2012
I grew up in a little town of Washington
called Kalama.
It really wasn’t too little,
just small enough
that when you drove by on the freeway,
you could blink
and miss the whole urban part of it.
Downtown at the time was just
a gas station with burgers,
a church with preschool,
and two schools;
Kindergarten through 8th grade
and the High school.
The rest of Kalama
was acres and acres
of forestland
of fields
and tall hills.
On top of one hill
was a big
three story high
Cedar House.
That one
was mine.
Our backyard was a field
of tall wavy grass.
Behind it
was a forest,
40 acres thick
of rich evergreen trees.
And most houses these days
have views of the home across from them,
but for our view,
if you stood
at the top of the hill
you could see
the majestic Columbia River
flowing
from the Pacific into Washington.
It was the best view in Kalama,
and we had one of the most beautiful homes
of Kalama too.
In our home lived five people.
My sister Madison,
who loved the neighbor’s horses.
My baby brother who would pester our dog,
Lucy, who’d fight bears in the forest
with her sidekick,
Sunny, our cat.
There were also Mom and Daddy,
and of course,
Me,
who liked to chase the chickens
trying to catch dinner.
Now, why would we live here?
Daddy wanted his kids
to live in the country
just as he did as a kid,
but Mom was always on the verge
of insanity
because she couldn’t take the
bugs and wild critters.
But I loved the bugs
that would coat the exterior walls of the house
in the summer.
I loved how the wild animals
ran free across our property;
anything from
little mice, masked *****, and elegant deer,
to hungry coyotes, fat bears, and free horses.
I loved everything about that place.
And there was one thing
that I still remember
and still love
a decade later.
Daddy would take us outside
some summer nights
to lay on the hill
in the tall grass.
The ground was always
still warm
from the hot afternoon,
it felt like a heating pad
under my little fidgety body.
We would lay there
for hours
gazing at the white brilliant dots
that Daddy liked to call stars,
but I’ve always thought of them as
sky freckles.
There was a way the cool breeze
weaved through the meadow
like my Mom’s fingers running through my hair,
it soothed me.
It’s a feeling I have not yet forgotten.
It’s kept with me for years
and some nights
I’ll step out into the night
and get a little bit of that same sensation,
but it’ll never be the same
as the feeling on that hill.
I have so many memories in Kalama.
Some are kept in me
and some are kept in the grain of the Cedar Wood house,
in the bark of the evergreen,
the blades of the meadow,
everywhere in Kalama.
I wish I could go back
and make more memories.
I miss the small creek
that Daddy made for us.
I miss the muddy trails,
running barefoot through them.
I miss the fuzzy black and orange caterpillars
that’d **** on my hand.
I miss
the forest,
the field,
the wild animals,
my room in the attic,
and how beautiful the stars would look at night..
But Mom couldn’t take the country life anymore.
She made Daddy and us kids move
to the city, Vancouver.
It’s fine here;
people are nice,
I’ve made some great friends
that I won’t ever forget,
and I’ve had many
fun and life-changing opportunities.
It’s just that I don’t feel like I belong.
I don’t know how to explain it other than
You can take a girl out of home,
but you can’t take the home out of a girl.
And Kalama,
will always and forever be
my true home.
You might know Kalama from the Twilight series, they used the high school for the movies.
Emelia Ruth Dec 2012
It was the winter of 2009,
14 inches of snow had fallen overnight.
It was the most I had seen in years,
since when I was 3 years old living in Kalama.

My siblings and I
as soon as we saw the snow
rushed into our
heavy winter coats
and overall snow pants
with mittens and caps
to cover the gaps.
Then we raced outside
moving like marshmellows
with our golden labrador with us.

Determined.
we laid the first angels of the snow
and created the first snowman of the season.
The snow man didn't have buttons for eyes
or a carrot nose.
He had stones for eyes
and a smile and ears made of granola bars
and peanut butter pinecones for hair.

Our mom named it the birdfeeder snowman.
But our fat old goldfinch labrador ate him
before the birds could ever get to snack.
This was a class assignment, I had to write something holidayish so this is what I whipped up. Hope you enjoyed.
P Holten Feb 2018
He asked if he could hang with me.
I laughed at his cockiness.
That kid had ‘cojones’ at 15 years old.
I knew he was one of us.

Living legends like Laird Hamilton and Dave Kalama,
Death by wipeout for Mark Foo and Kirk Pasmore,
Myths we’ve become, epics we populate.
We are few.  We are large.

What drives our destiny?
Do we smell it and follow its scent?
Do its tentacles embrace us softly?
Favored or cursed we’ll never know.

The chase for that 80 footer
may look like Ahab’s hunt for Moby
but no hatred courses through our veins.
Life grips our heart and we love.

You reporters follow us, watch us, listen to us.
Can you understand that the waves rule our lives,
their frothy exhale lures us,
their saltwater avalanche embraces us ?

Sting rays, Man o’ Wars, jelly fish
stirred into the danger soup with sea and sand,
bones, sinews, flesh, our offering,
pain fashions no leash to choke our pursuit.

Mavericks, Teahuppo, Jaws, Pipeline, Cyclops:
where razor sharp coral lie in wait,
where Great Whites stealthily roam,
where the board delivers primal union.

Ah, the waves - pounding, churning, roaring.
I paddle the face, rise up over the crest,
catch the lip, drop into the maw,
50 miles an hour through the monster barrel.

Does the joy at childbirth, the euphoria of ******,
the bliss of nirvana match the rush of the wave?
Is the steep price we pay worth it?
Can there be a cost too high for heaven?

You will laugh at me like I laughed at the kid
when I claim we are a band of brothers.
Our conflict takes place within ourselves;
blood spilled from our veins an anointing.

The kid’s eyes expose a hunger not satisfied,
a restless yearning to uncover his truth.
The ocean ministers his baptism;
an innocent courage powers his crusade.

My ride ended some years ago.
I should have bailed out
but I thought I was ripping the wave.
Hospital ceiling proved me wrong.

My muscles still now, no tracking big swells,
no taming the wild beast , no testing my luck,
yet the ribosomes, nucleus, cytoplasm of my cells
host the waves. The kid knows.
Filomena Mar 2023
sina wile ike e mi la mi kama sama.
sina wile utala e mi la mi kama sama.
sina wile pakala e mi la mi kama sama.

mi jan utala ala.
pakala li jaki tawa mi.
mi wile taso pona e sina.
o pona taso e mi.

sina wile pona e mi la mi kama sama.
sina wile musi e mi la mi kama sama.
sina wile wawa e mi la mi kama sama.

mi jo e olin suli.
mi wile pana e musi kalama.
mi wile wawa e pilin mute.
sina o pali sama.

/////

Do you want to do me ill? I become likewise.
Do you want to fight with me? I become likewise.
Do you want to injure me? I become likewise.

I am not a fighter.
Injury is sickening to me.
I'm only wanting good for you,
So please be good to me.

Do you want to help me out? I become likewise.
Do you want to make me smile? I become likewise.
Do you want to give me strength? I become likewise.

I aim to have the greatest love.
I want to foster joy and laughter.
I wish to strengthen the hearts of all.
Why not follow after?

— The End —