Our Good Day
My sister and I stood at the top of a snow-covered hill. The snow on the hill was fresh, and there wasn’t a single track made yet on the sparkling surface. The snow was continuing to fall from the sky and snowflakes still danced in the air around us like little ballerinas. We went to the hill after a long day of skiing at our favorite ski resort in Vermont, and by the time we were there the sun had already set. It was completely dark except for the twinkling stars in the sky that had just starting to shine and the light posts that stood straight up like guards in a line down the sides of the hill to guide us and our sleds to the bottom.
We dropped our sleds into the snow in front of us, and they sank into the fresh powder, leaving a print on the untouched surface. We both got into our sleds and got ready to race down the hill. “One, two, three, GO!” we shouted in sync. On “GO!” we both pushed off the snow-covered ground as hard as we could and starting speeding down the hill.
As we sped down the hill the cold wind stung our noses and cheeks, but we still couldn’t stop smiling. As I look to my side I see my sister’s hat fly off, and I can’t hold in my laughter as I watch it get left behind. As soon as my sister hears me laughing she starts to laugh too, which then just makes me laugh more and more. Her laughter is contagious.
Halfway down the hill there is a big bump that we go over that causes us to fly through the air and then thump back down on the snow. We ended up both catching a little too much air and having huge wipeouts. This causes more and more laughter and soon my stomach hurts from laughing so much.
Once we could finally subdue our laughter we got back in our sleds and pushed off the snow-covered ground once more. We continued down the hill until we reached the bottom, and then our sleds started to gradually move slower and slower until we came to a complete stop.
Then we jumped up and starting running to the top of the hill so we could slide down again. The run up the hill is long and steep and our legs start to burn from the weight of all our snow clothes and carrying our sleds up the hill. The climb up is worth it because once we get to the top of the hill we get to sled down and laugh together again. We continue sledding down and climbing up the hill until our legs can’t carry us up the hill anymore and then we go once more before heading back to our condo. Once we get back we sit by the warm fire while sipping hot cocoa and remember how much fun we had sledding that night.
I believe that a name tells a lot about who someone is. It is the first thing you know about someone, but it is also one of the easiest things to forget. When you first meet someone their name sounds weird and unfamiliar. It doesn’t hold any meaning to you yet, but as you get to know that person their name acts like a folder and attached inside are all the memories, thoughts, and moments you’ve shared. The larger that folder becomes, the harder it is to forget that person or their name.
My first name is Katelyn and in Irish it means pure. It’s a snowflake that hasn’t hit the ground yet. I like how my name has lots of variations and can change into so many different nicknames. Even though I didn’t get to pick my name, there is a number of different things my name could be. My name was chosen by my mom because it started with a “K” just like my mother’s name, her sister’s name, and my family’s last name. We are a family of “K’s”. Except for my dad he is an “A” and my younger sister who is an “H”. My dad refused to let my mom give her a “K” name. Too many “K’s” he said.
My middle name is Rose, and somewhere along the way roses became my favorite flower. My middle name was chosen to honor my great grandmother on my father’s side of the family. Her name was Ruth and she was Jewish. People of Jewish faith believe that you aren’t supposed to use the name of a relative who is still living for a newborn. They believe that when the angel of death comes they may take the wrong person by mistake. Because of this superstition my great grandmother wouldn’t let my parents give me the middle name of Ruth, so instead they kept the “R” and my middle name became Rose. Although I don’t exactly believe in this superstition, I am somewhat glad it exists because I prefer the name Rose.
My last name is Keane and there is an interesting story behind it. It was actually my mother’s last name and my father changed his last name to Keane when he married her. He did this because Keane is a large family name, and my mother was well known by her name in her work. I think it’s really interesting how my father took my mother’s last name, and when I get married I want to also keep the last name of Keane.
I love my entire name from beginning to end. I love how nicely the different parts of my name fit together like pieces of a puzzle, and the way it sounds when the whole thing is said aloud. A name is one of the few things about a person that they don’t get really any say in choosing, so I am glad that I really like mine.
Today was a week before my favorite holiday. Today was a week before my seventh Christmas. Today I woke up with excitement. Today my dad, my mom, and I are going to make a gingerbread house.
Yesterday we spent hours in the kitchen. We had decided that this year instead of buying a gingerbread-house kit we were going to hand-bake all our gingerbread pieces from scratch. I was so excited! We gathered the ingredients, and we mixed them all together until the batter was smooth. When my mom turned away I snuck a bite of the batter, and it tasted like pure joy. I could’ve ate all of it right then if my mom hadn’t turned back and told me to stop.
Then I helped my mom pour the batter into molds to bake in. The batter moved like molasses and took what seemed like hours to fill the molds. After, we put the molds into the oven and waited for them to bake. Every other minute I would peer into the tiny window on the oven to see the progress. I was imagining how fun it would be to assembly the gingerbread house the next day and to decorate it with an assortment of candies. I also couldn’t wait to show it off to all my friends when I was done. Finally the timer for the oven went off and my mother took out the gingerbread. She was very careful not to break any of them, and she set them on the counter. Now all we had to do was wait overnight for the gingerbread to harden. Then when we woke up we could assemble the house!
Today I woke up with the biggest smile on my face. I skipped down the stairs to check on my treasured gingerbread. I turned the corner to the kitchen with a spring in my step, and what I saw made my heart skip a beat. There, on the counter, where my gingerbread was supposed to be, was only crumbs and and broken bits. I felt like I had gotten punched in the stomach. I started to wonder what had happened, and when I saw my dog’s guilty face I knew. I couldn’t believe that my gingerbread was gone. I couldn’t believe that today I wouldn’t be assembly and decorating a candy house with my family.
Tears started to well up in my eyes, and I turned and stomped around the corner. I ran up the stairs crying and went into my parents room. I told them what happened. They both gave me a big hug saying that we could try again another day, but nothing could make me feel better. Not today. Not after this happened. I stormed into my room and pouted for the rest of the day mourning my lost gingerbread and my perfect house that never got the chance to be made.
Today I woke up happy. Today I went downstairs to find only crumbs. Today I felt disappointment. Today I won’t be making a gingerbread house.