So I started going back to my home singles ward on Sunday. Wow. Let's just say BYU wards are really amazing. No one sits on the first four rows. No one sings. No one sits by anyone. So I decided this year I'm going to make it my goal to actually be somebody in that ward. I went to Relief Society and no one was sitting by me as usual, so I decided to take matters into my own hands and go sit by someone myself, and even strike up conversations. Hymph. I really like what that one dude said in conference or something about how he doesn't go to church for himself anymore, but for other people. I like that. I'm going to try it. I'm sick and tired of being a wimp waiting for people to come love me. I need to go love other people. So I even went to FHE tonight and participated(and got the best "I Have" when we played the "I've never" and "I have" game ( I have shot someone with a gun) the bishop was close in second saying he had worn a speedo. Yikes!) and made some new friends and talked with people not too many people ever talk to. I intend to remember names this time too. So anyway I want this whole summer to be a rebuilding summer. Not just with church people but with my old friends and anyone. The girl I want to be is a really nice person. What's stopping me from being that girl I want to be? Only me! I feel horrible when I see how people I used to know well are drifting out of my life. Just today I got an email from one of my favorite people in the world. It made me really happy to get the email, but the email sounded... I don't know sort of cliche and it made me realize, "Gosh I haven't really even talked with her for two semesters!" and she is a very important person in my life! And then I was thinking no wonder it's taking me so long to over come the dark ages of my life-- I just sit around hoping merely talking about them will get rid of them. I need to be proactive and get up and do something about it. I used to think killing people with kindness was the best option, but then I realized: I don't want to kill anyone. I just want to be a friend again. If I want to have a life I'M the one who's going to have to make it! Man I'm ridiculous. Anyway hopefully publicly writing this blog will help me commit and really get out there and be someone, help other people and prepare me for a future.
Ps why can't I make this text a different color? :(
Monday, April 27, 2009
Wednesday, April 15, 2009
My little Friends
I haven't posted a non-boring-writing blog in a while, but I don't have any good current pictures to post.So here are my little friends:)
Sunday, April 05, 2009
Hey. I know I've just been writing a butload of junk lately. I promise I'll stick in a picture or video soon so this blog doesn't get too boring. But I was just at home cleaning my room and I found my high school graduation speech. Apparently it was good, but... well... let's just say it was high school and I had my reasons for doing certain things the way I did then. Hymph. Anyway here it is. Some stuff won't make any sense cuz they're inside jokes. I'll highlight those and explain them later if I feel like it, not that I was a big fan of them back then or something. Anyway it was a memorable speech so I'm sticking it in here. Oh and the theme was really cheesy: We may not have it altogether, but together we have it all. Lame huh? Ugh doesn't bring good memories. Oh well. I'm still happy with my life.
If we do not have it altogether, what’s the use of having it all? There’s no point in accumulating thousands upon thousands of irrelevant ideas, objects and experiences if there is no order.
As you might know, I work at the Orem Public Library. I’ve enjoyed learning from the detailed librarians and have noticed their strict attention to accuracy and perfection. They check every barcode twice, they examine each book carefully for damage and without fail, they snap at every patron who attempts to re-shelf any library item. Some may call it paranoia, but judging from experience, I believe their concerns are quite rational. The Orem Library, like most other libraries, truly has it all: books on religion, books on tape, books on hair style, even books about making chairs. It’s all there; but if it weren’t altogether and readily accessible to the public it would only be a damaged building housing a but-load of unorganized literature. That’s why just one out of place book at the library is a hazard to the community, a threat to life itself. One lost book means weeks and weeks of searching, losing valuable time that could be spent elsewhere. Not to mention the horrible mobs of people who beg for their books and scream furiously when The Mayor of Casterbridge cannot be found. To prevent these crisis, at the library we constantly strive to keep things in place, to keep things altogether.
Now my fellow bruins, we’ve gone through twelve years of public education. We’ve endured endless tests, assignments, teachers, and classes. Surely we’ve had it all. Like librarians we’ve trained ourselves to keep things in place and prioritize our activities. Do we not have it altogether?
On June 6, 1944, allies invaded Normandy France attempting to free it from its Nazi occupation. Months of hard work and organization were put into these attacks. Everything was to be carried out with precision and exactness. It was a brave undertaking. The original D-day was planed a day earlier in bad weather, but luckily General Dwight D. Eisenhower knew the importance of having it altogether. Thousands of healthy troops, tanks and planes were anxiously awaiting his orders. Eisenhower had it all, but he also knew that if he didn’t have it altogether it would make no difference. He delayed D-day one day in order to have a perfect execution of the invasion of occupied France. Because of his planning and having it altogether, D-day was the turning point of World War two.
Life can be compared to doing a puzzle: we can have every piece out of the box, ready for action, but a puzzle really isn’t a puzzle until it has all been put together. An unfinished puzzle is like a shoeless pariah, preventing the progression of society, piling up like excess sewage. Let us not leave all of the pieces of our lives lying around on a table. We already have all the pieces, why not have them altogether? There is really no logic in having a life full of un-finished goals. However, I don’t think this reasoning is applicable to us today. Look where we stand now, about to graduate from Mountain View High School. Something has obviously come together.
According to our theme, we MAY NOT have it altogether. I completely disagree. How could James Bond’s class of 007 not have it altogether? We’ve done it all. We’ve prepared and organized ourselves for the future. We DO have it altogether; therefore, we have it all.
If we do not have it altogether, what’s the use of having it all? There’s no point in accumulating thousands upon thousands of irrelevant ideas, objects and experiences if there is no order.
As you might know, I work at the Orem Public Library. I’ve enjoyed learning from the detailed librarians and have noticed their strict attention to accuracy and perfection. They check every barcode twice, they examine each book carefully for damage and without fail, they snap at every patron who attempts to re-shelf any library item. Some may call it paranoia, but judging from experience, I believe their concerns are quite rational. The Orem Library, like most other libraries, truly has it all: books on religion, books on tape, books on hair style, even books about making chairs. It’s all there; but if it weren’t altogether and readily accessible to the public it would only be a damaged building housing a but-load of unorganized literature. That’s why just one out of place book at the library is a hazard to the community, a threat to life itself. One lost book means weeks and weeks of searching, losing valuable time that could be spent elsewhere. Not to mention the horrible mobs of people who beg for their books and scream furiously when The Mayor of Casterbridge cannot be found. To prevent these crisis, at the library we constantly strive to keep things in place, to keep things altogether.
Now my fellow bruins, we’ve gone through twelve years of public education. We’ve endured endless tests, assignments, teachers, and classes. Surely we’ve had it all. Like librarians we’ve trained ourselves to keep things in place and prioritize our activities. Do we not have it altogether?
On June 6, 1944, allies invaded Normandy France attempting to free it from its Nazi occupation. Months of hard work and organization were put into these attacks. Everything was to be carried out with precision and exactness. It was a brave undertaking. The original D-day was planed a day earlier in bad weather, but luckily General Dwight D. Eisenhower knew the importance of having it altogether. Thousands of healthy troops, tanks and planes were anxiously awaiting his orders. Eisenhower had it all, but he also knew that if he didn’t have it altogether it would make no difference. He delayed D-day one day in order to have a perfect execution of the invasion of occupied France. Because of his planning and having it altogether, D-day was the turning point of World War two.
Life can be compared to doing a puzzle: we can have every piece out of the box, ready for action, but a puzzle really isn’t a puzzle until it has all been put together. An unfinished puzzle is like a shoeless pariah, preventing the progression of society, piling up like excess sewage. Let us not leave all of the pieces of our lives lying around on a table. We already have all the pieces, why not have them altogether? There is really no logic in having a life full of un-finished goals. However, I don’t think this reasoning is applicable to us today. Look where we stand now, about to graduate from Mountain View High School. Something has obviously come together.
According to our theme, we MAY NOT have it altogether. I completely disagree. How could James Bond’s class of 007 not have it altogether? We’ve done it all. We’ve prepared and organized ourselves for the future. We DO have it altogether; therefore, we have it all.
Friday, April 03, 2009
Look What I found!
So I was looking for a good essay I had written to submit somewhere, but instead I found this narrative. Remember? This was one of my better papers in that class. It really shows a part of my life :)
Kathryn Larsen
Sister Harris
Honors 150 Sec. 19
October 3, 2007
After surviving breakfast, we stepped into our work shoes. My shoes were always the cleanest. Everyone else had worn out, filthy shoes that smelled like grass. I was anxious to get my shoes dirtier, so I could feel like a harder worker. I’m the slacker in my family. As the youngest, I was always an incapable child. I never beat anyone at sports, I couldn’t read fast, and I wasn’t strong enough to push the lawn mower. The only task I had mastered was setting the table. It was a hopeless endeavor to try and out do my older siblings. They’d had an edge on me from the start. But on that day of Independence, things were going to be different. I had been promoted to the office of cherry picker. Even though I despised cherries, I planned to work hard and prove myself as a dedicated, obedient family member. To show my determination, I was wearing my work tee-shirt. Its torn sleeves and yellow stains didn’t bother me because the shirt bore my mission statement: “I believe in Mom, I believe in Dad.” If I could show Mom and Dad I was good at something, it didn’t matter how much better my older brothers and sister were.
“Look out Katie!” I turned my head just in time to be hit smack in the face by a giant dirt clod. “Sorry!” It was my teasing older brother James. He’s the one in our family who can either be really funny, or really annoying depending what mood you’re in.
“Sure you are,” I mumbled under my breath as I instinctively picked up my own dirt clod and hurled it back in his direction. I missed. I could never win dirt clod fights. It’s tough being a girl with six older brothers. You got to learn how to defend yourself and fight back. Especially during times of dirt clod wars which almost always accompanied travels up to Grandma‘s house. Our backyard connected with hers so it wasn’t a long trip, but for a nervous six-year-old like myself, it was quite a journey. I held my breath as we crossed the big flat bridge over the canal that ran through our yard. Everyone made sure to avoid stepping on the four loose boards so that the bridge wouldn’t unhinge and send us all sprawling into the water. Birds chirped in our tall cotton wood trees and the warm cloudy weather was perfect for morning time cherry picking. Today was the day. I could feel it.
When we reached our destination, the silver glint of a metal ladder shown through the orchard trees. We were surprised to be informed that we were, “late,” and my seventy-five year old grandmother had already been out for over an hour acquiring bushels of cherries. Alarmed, we rushed to her aide with haste. It is always hard to find a way to help out my grandma. She grew up during the Great Depression on a farm in Southern Utah. She spends more time working in her yard then she does eating, sleeping, or anything else that a normal human being is expected to do. Sometimes I wondered if she ever washed her clothes because they always omitted the smell of insecticide. To be frank, I‘ve never met anyone with a more insane work ethic. Normally when you work with Grandma, any kind of talking, giggling or other form of enjoyment is prohibited. Today was no different. Immediately we began working without the slightest signs of communication or joviality.
I started on the short branches closest to the ground. Having short legs, they held the only cherries I could reach. From my perspective, I was doing an exceptional job. I had almost picked an entire bucket. My mom even complimented me on my hard work so I knew I was being a good little helper. But then, it all changed. Apparently I was doing something wrong. Something terribly wrong. Something against my grandmother’s religion. The hair on my neck flew up as I heard her shrill voice behind me,
“No, no that’s not how you pick cherries.” I was devastated. How else was I supposed to pick cherries? I had gotten them off the tree hadn’t I? I had even left on the stems just like everyone else! Now they were all staring at me with annoyance. My closet brother Greg chuckled rudely and James gave me eyes that seemed to say,“ you’re in for it.” How could she ruin the reputation I had put so much effort into building?! I had begun my cherry picking and fitting in quite well as a hard worker. Without delay my grandma was standing by my side. She was so short I could’ve reached out and touched the top of her head, which wasn’t a common occurrence between me and most grown ups.
“Stop pulling them off the trees! You’re doing everything wrong! You need to turn them.” So I attempted to turn the cherries as I picked them. I was an obedient six year old. I knew that if you didn’t do exactly what Grandma said, you might as well have been chewing tobacco with no place to spit.
“You’re still doing it wrong, you’re going to pull down the entire tree.” Oh my gosh! Just relax Grandma! Before I could try and pick another cherry, she had wrapped her hand awkwardly around mine, twisting my hand painfully as she directed it towards the tiny fruits on the tree. We picked all the cherries reachable from the ground in that fashion. How embarrassing! When she finally let go of my aching hand I thought we had finished. But things only got worse. Suddenly Grandma pulled out my greatest terror: a giant metal ladder. I had very little ladder experience at the time and I was in no mood to gain any. But there was never any arguing with Grandma. She set up the huge ladder insecurely against a tree and commanded me to climb up it. I was so terrified I almost wet my pants. As I started my way up the ladder, I noticed my mom’s apprehensive glances. She knew how frightened I was of climbing things. I had never even seen the attic at my house, because I was too scared to climb up to it. Swallowing, I began my ascension up the ladder. When I reached the middle step I decided I had gone far enough. The ladder was already swaying slightly as I reached for the high up cherries.
“You’re not high enough, go higher,” Grandma said from below me. My legs trembled as I slowly moved up two more steps. By now the ladder shook violently with the slightest shift of my weight.
“Uh, Grandma I’m going to fall,” I muttered, fearful that the ladder would collapse if I talked too loud.
“ You have to go higher.” But I couldn’t. One step up was the top step. You
should never stand on the top step of a ladder. “what‘s taking you so long,” Grandma called up with her nasally old lady voice. I hefted up my right leg cautiously and placed it on the top step. Phew. I had made it. Then I lifted my left leg. The ladder jolted back and forth for an agonizing instant, but then regained its balance as I held my body erect. I stood there in awe for a few seconds, marveling at what I had just accomplished. Then I realized I was supposed to be picking cherries. I stretched out my arm to the closest bunch. Leaning delicately, I extended like a buff ballerina. Just as I was about to, “twist,” a cherry out of the tree, there was an abrasive sound of scraping metal. Before I could realize what was going on, I found myself face down in a vivacious pile of thorny bushes. I couldn’t move. I thought for sure I had died. Then someone started to lift me up. It was my oldest brother Michael. The bushes yanked at my clothes as he pulled me out. My pants had ripped. There were leaves and thorns all through my hair and I needed to cry. But I couldn’t. Not in front of Grandma. I felt miserable. Before I could make it over to Mom, Grandma was back standing next to me. She had already set the ladder back up against the tree again, and she didn’t even ask if I was all right. I looked over at my family huddled together under the orchard trees. They all stared at my injuries with understanding. Something told me it was going to be my turn to pick what was for breakfast tomorrow. Like a true Larsen, I started up to the top of the ladder and picked cherries for two more hours.
Kathryn Larsen
Sister Harris
Honors 150 Sec. 19
October 3, 2007
GRANDMA
Grudgingly I swallowed the pancakes my mom had concocted for breakfast. I never really liked pancakes. They’d constantly get caught in my throat and make my stomach squirm. In spite of the pancakes, I was determined to have a good day. It was the fourth of July, the day our nation celebrates independence from tyranny. But my family had not yet recognized the absence of tyranny. That Saturday morning while all of our neighbors were sleeping in, planning barbecues, and going to parades, my family would be outside drenched in sweat. After surviving breakfast, we stepped into our work shoes. My shoes were always the cleanest. Everyone else had worn out, filthy shoes that smelled like grass. I was anxious to get my shoes dirtier, so I could feel like a harder worker. I’m the slacker in my family. As the youngest, I was always an incapable child. I never beat anyone at sports, I couldn’t read fast, and I wasn’t strong enough to push the lawn mower. The only task I had mastered was setting the table. It was a hopeless endeavor to try and out do my older siblings. They’d had an edge on me from the start. But on that day of Independence, things were going to be different. I had been promoted to the office of cherry picker. Even though I despised cherries, I planned to work hard and prove myself as a dedicated, obedient family member. To show my determination, I was wearing my work tee-shirt. Its torn sleeves and yellow stains didn’t bother me because the shirt bore my mission statement: “I believe in Mom, I believe in Dad.” If I could show Mom and Dad I was good at something, it didn’t matter how much better my older brothers and sister were.
“Look out Katie!” I turned my head just in time to be hit smack in the face by a giant dirt clod. “Sorry!” It was my teasing older brother James. He’s the one in our family who can either be really funny, or really annoying depending what mood you’re in.
“Sure you are,” I mumbled under my breath as I instinctively picked up my own dirt clod and hurled it back in his direction. I missed. I could never win dirt clod fights. It’s tough being a girl with six older brothers. You got to learn how to defend yourself and fight back. Especially during times of dirt clod wars which almost always accompanied travels up to Grandma‘s house. Our backyard connected with hers so it wasn’t a long trip, but for a nervous six-year-old like myself, it was quite a journey. I held my breath as we crossed the big flat bridge over the canal that ran through our yard. Everyone made sure to avoid stepping on the four loose boards so that the bridge wouldn’t unhinge and send us all sprawling into the water. Birds chirped in our tall cotton wood trees and the warm cloudy weather was perfect for morning time cherry picking. Today was the day. I could feel it.
When we reached our destination, the silver glint of a metal ladder shown through the orchard trees. We were surprised to be informed that we were, “late,” and my seventy-five year old grandmother had already been out for over an hour acquiring bushels of cherries. Alarmed, we rushed to her aide with haste. It is always hard to find a way to help out my grandma. She grew up during the Great Depression on a farm in Southern Utah. She spends more time working in her yard then she does eating, sleeping, or anything else that a normal human being is expected to do. Sometimes I wondered if she ever washed her clothes because they always omitted the smell of insecticide. To be frank, I‘ve never met anyone with a more insane work ethic. Normally when you work with Grandma, any kind of talking, giggling or other form of enjoyment is prohibited. Today was no different. Immediately we began working without the slightest signs of communication or joviality.
I started on the short branches closest to the ground. Having short legs, they held the only cherries I could reach. From my perspective, I was doing an exceptional job. I had almost picked an entire bucket. My mom even complimented me on my hard work so I knew I was being a good little helper. But then, it all changed. Apparently I was doing something wrong. Something terribly wrong. Something against my grandmother’s religion. The hair on my neck flew up as I heard her shrill voice behind me,
“No, no that’s not how you pick cherries.” I was devastated. How else was I supposed to pick cherries? I had gotten them off the tree hadn’t I? I had even left on the stems just like everyone else! Now they were all staring at me with annoyance. My closet brother Greg chuckled rudely and James gave me eyes that seemed to say,“ you’re in for it.” How could she ruin the reputation I had put so much effort into building?! I had begun my cherry picking and fitting in quite well as a hard worker. Without delay my grandma was standing by my side. She was so short I could’ve reached out and touched the top of her head, which wasn’t a common occurrence between me and most grown ups.
“Stop pulling them off the trees! You’re doing everything wrong! You need to turn them.” So I attempted to turn the cherries as I picked them. I was an obedient six year old. I knew that if you didn’t do exactly what Grandma said, you might as well have been chewing tobacco with no place to spit.
“You’re still doing it wrong, you’re going to pull down the entire tree.” Oh my gosh! Just relax Grandma! Before I could try and pick another cherry, she had wrapped her hand awkwardly around mine, twisting my hand painfully as she directed it towards the tiny fruits on the tree. We picked all the cherries reachable from the ground in that fashion. How embarrassing! When she finally let go of my aching hand I thought we had finished. But things only got worse. Suddenly Grandma pulled out my greatest terror: a giant metal ladder. I had very little ladder experience at the time and I was in no mood to gain any. But there was never any arguing with Grandma. She set up the huge ladder insecurely against a tree and commanded me to climb up it. I was so terrified I almost wet my pants. As I started my way up the ladder, I noticed my mom’s apprehensive glances. She knew how frightened I was of climbing things. I had never even seen the attic at my house, because I was too scared to climb up to it. Swallowing, I began my ascension up the ladder. When I reached the middle step I decided I had gone far enough. The ladder was already swaying slightly as I reached for the high up cherries.
“You’re not high enough, go higher,” Grandma said from below me. My legs trembled as I slowly moved up two more steps. By now the ladder shook violently with the slightest shift of my weight.
“Uh, Grandma I’m going to fall,” I muttered, fearful that the ladder would collapse if I talked too loud.
“ You have to go higher.” But I couldn’t. One step up was the top step. You
should never stand on the top step of a ladder. “what‘s taking you so long,” Grandma called up with her nasally old lady voice. I hefted up my right leg cautiously and placed it on the top step. Phew. I had made it. Then I lifted my left leg. The ladder jolted back and forth for an agonizing instant, but then regained its balance as I held my body erect. I stood there in awe for a few seconds, marveling at what I had just accomplished. Then I realized I was supposed to be picking cherries. I stretched out my arm to the closest bunch. Leaning delicately, I extended like a buff ballerina. Just as I was about to, “twist,” a cherry out of the tree, there was an abrasive sound of scraping metal. Before I could realize what was going on, I found myself face down in a vivacious pile of thorny bushes. I couldn’t move. I thought for sure I had died. Then someone started to lift me up. It was my oldest brother Michael. The bushes yanked at my clothes as he pulled me out. My pants had ripped. There were leaves and thorns all through my hair and I needed to cry. But I couldn’t. Not in front of Grandma. I felt miserable. Before I could make it over to Mom, Grandma was back standing next to me. She had already set the ladder back up against the tree again, and she didn’t even ask if I was all right. I looked over at my family huddled together under the orchard trees. They all stared at my injuries with understanding. Something told me it was going to be my turn to pick what was for breakfast tomorrow. Like a true Larsen, I started up to the top of the ladder and picked cherries for two more hours.
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