Rosie Blanckenburg
> > Ms. Wilson-Scott, Period 5
> > 10/4/07
> >
> > Student Memoir
> >
> > My computer was being a little bit odd, sorry. It wasn't allowing me to tab.
> >
> >                "Where are you from?" That was something a little odd
> > to ask, I thought. Being a second grader at Kensington Elementary
> > School, thinking about where I came from was farthest from my mind.
> >        "I'm from here," I said simply. "Here" being Kensington, where I had
> > lived in ever since I could remember.
> >        "Oh," said the older girl thoughtfully, a vague look on her face.
> > There was a moment of silence before she continued "I thought you had
> > an accent." My brow furrowed. Accent? What accent?
> >        "Uh, I didn't know I had one," I said.
> >        "I might have been mistaken," came the reply, "but it does sound like
> > you have one." Then a thought struck me.
> > "My mum is from England," I said. "It might have something to do with that."
> > "That makes sense."
> > "I can't tell if my mum has an accent or not."
> > "You've probably been used to it too long to notice. Have you been
> > there before?"
> > "Lots," I said excitedly, picturing green fields and old stone
> > castles. "Ever since I remember, since I was a little baby, we've been
> > going over there. I love the castles and fields and everything!
> > England is great!"
> > Every time the word England reaches my ears, it invokes a sense of
> > wonder in me. It was surrounded by a mysterious fog, containing
> > marvels many secrets.  England, land of the moors and fields. England,
> > ancient home of the Celts. England, land of punting and teatimes with
> > cake. To me it was like a fairyland, a fairyland that I belonged to
> > and was part of. As a primarily rural country dotted with
> > centuries-old cities and monuments, it appealed to me. Relics of my
> > mother's country's culture and their influence had found their way
> > into my life from the start. To this day, like my mum, I regularly
> > drink tea instead of mocha frappachinno latte and find myself forming
> > grotesque debacles out of the various names of Coffee when (if) I try
> > to spell them.   As a small child I had grown up with Beatrix Potter's
> > Ms. Tiggywinkle, Tom Kitten and other favourite characters, James
> > Harriet, Wind in the Willows and other endearing books.
> >
> > ~*~
> > "Fine, fine," she said in exasperation, taking out her camera. "I'm
> > running out of pictures though. We won't have any left when we get to
> > the Lake District at this point." I grinned. This was only our second
> > day of three in Wales, and besides a week in a coastal town near
> > Cornwall, we hadn't done anything else. During our stay we had visited
> > the local Valley of the Rocks, which pretty much consisted of ponies,
> > wild goats, bracken, and small valleys formed by large outcrops of
> > stone and steep slopes. Not to mention a certain path right on the
> > edge of a cliff above the ocean. We found everything quite enchanting,
> > and I had repeatedly insisted on taking pictures of literally
> > everything. By the end of four days we had taken plus three hundred
> > pictures.
> > Meanwhile my mum had placed her backpack down beside a large grey rock
> > with lots of grass growing in the cracks.
> >  "Rosie, this is a nice place; let's eat here," said Mum. "Anyway, I'm
> > too hungry to keep on walking." She reached and padded the grass at
> > the foot of the rock. "It's a bit  damp, you might want to sit on
> > those plastic bags." Choosing a bulge in the rock she sat down and
> > began taking out the food. My sister and I looked carefully at the
> > base of the rock and selected the driest spots remaining. Not that it
> > would remain dry for long, as it looked like Mr. Thunder Cloud was
> > coming to join us for lunch.
> > "I've brought those Welsh Cakes I got from that store," said Mum.
> > "They're supposed to be really good." She opened a packet and handed
> > us some. I looked down to see a golden-brown solid-looking patty type
> > thing with raisons in it, about the size of the palm of my hand.
> > Something about it reminded me of some crab cakes I had had at a
> > restaurant we had gone to.
> >
> >
> > I awoke to a second morning in England, lying in a secluded
> > Bed&Breakfast in Lynton. Below Lynton there was a steep tree-covered
> > slope to Lynmouth, next to the sea. The two villages were connected by
> > a switch-back path, a road and one of the three hydro-powered railways
> > - which look like the bastard children of trains and elevators - in
> > the world.  Across the sea, at night time and on especially clear
> > days, Wales could be spotted from twenty miles away. We would be
> > spending three days here walking around the two towns, exploring the
> > picturesque countryside and the local Valley of the Rocks, and taking
> > hundreds of pictures.
> > Quickly I got my backpack together and headed downstairs to join my
> > sister, my mum, and the other lodgers for a large breakfast. At the
> > table were my sister, an young couple and a man. In the corner of the
> > room there was a small table holding cereal, juices, and spreads. The
> > night before we chose what we would have for breakfast from their menu
> > of homemade meals, and thus the dining table was bare except for
> > scones and place settings.
> > There was a silence, except for the quiet voices of the couple and the
> > background noises coming from the kitchen, and I deigned not to break
> > it as I sat down across from Emily. Less then ten minutes later Mum
> > had joined us and so had our meals. It was only after short while when
> > we first, tentatively, engaged in conversation.
> > "Nice day to walk in the countryside," said the single man. "I love
> > coming to this place." I nodded in agreement; the drive to Lynton had
> > taken us across the moors; large expanses of views, grass tufts and
> > bracken, a hardy plant that looked not unlike ferns. From what we had
> > seen of nearby coast, it was remarkably similar to Point Reyes.
> >        "Yes," replied Mum. "I've only been here once before and that was
> > several years ago; I had mostly forgotten what it had looked like."
> > "Oh, I forgot. My name is Matt," he said. "What's yours?" He reached
> > his hand across the table. As he did so another, older couple emerged
> > from the upstairs.
> > "Caroline," voiced Mum, shaking his hand. "And this is – "
> > "Emily," said my sister, looking mildly indifferent in her usual punkish style.
> >        "I'm Rosie," I said, somewhat nervously as I made eye contact with
> > Matt. In contrast to Emily, always confident in any social situation,
> > I was always a bit timid even when seeing family during the holidays,
> > and this time it was no different.
> > "I try to make a point of visiting every other year," Matt continued.
> > "It's rather hard to resist, and every time I come is just as
> > magnificent as the first time I came here; I live over in Birmingham .
> > . . . Say, you're not tourists, are you?" He glanced at us.
> > "We live in California, but I was originally from the Cambridge area;
> > I moved in the early '70s."
> >        "Hmm, I guess that makes sense." Looking at my sister it was obvious
> > we had come from California. Emily, her hair cut lose to the skull but
> > kept long enough to have a few semi-curls, was dressed in old faded
> > jeans and a Gorillaz Band t-shirt, not to mention a pair of glasses.
> > Turning to Emily and I, he said, "Have you been here – how often do you come?"
> > "Several times," I smiled. "I'd guess we come here every other two
> > years." We weren't the camera-hauling tourists who were lost in a
> > foreign continent some might expect us to be. With any luck my
> > existing accent would say I at least had some ties to England.
> > Eventually the conversation turned to accents, and when I explained to
> > Matt how a lot of Americans first thought that I was from England due
> > to my accent, he told me that my accent wasn't strong. My sister put
> > it as "You speak a mixture of both." Whereas she could switch from one
> > accent to the other at will.
> >
> > ~*~
> >
> >
> > It was cold, windy, and it was obvious it was going to rain any moment.
> > Nonetheless we enjoyed it immensely. We, my sister, my mum, and
> > myself, were hiking in the fields at the base of Snowdon in Wales.
> > Though some may have called it ugly, it was beautiful in it's own way.
> > The craggy hills, the marshy fields complete with reeds, large piles
> > of dusty grey-blue and purple slate, sheep who would stand in your way
> > staring at you and then would head off to the side if you got too
> > close, old deep pits that used to be slate quarries with waterfalls
> > running down in them and large leafy ferns on their sides . . . how
> > could anyone not want to be there. Well, unless you didn't getting
> > muddy and rained on, and being stared by sheep everywhere you went.
> >
> >   Up ahead there was a pass between Snowdon and another rock-covered
> > mountain. We could see, from our position, that the path we were on
> > wound through boulders, more piles of slate. There was a cold wind
> > blowing from the other side.  I hardly noticed; yet again I was
> >
> > distracted by a long-forgotten slate quarry. The bottom and sides were
> >
> > covered with a thick layer of ferns, creepers and other plants. We
> > could see that the rocks were covered in black and green moss and
> > algae, and at the bottom there was a small pool fed by a waterfall
> > coming down from the side.
> >
> >   "Look at this! It's really pretty!" I said. The others took their
> > time; this must have been the twentieth time I had pointed something
> >
> > out to them. "Can you take a picture?" I asked, turning to my picture.
> >       "No," she said. "Back in Lynton we took too many pictures."
> >       "Please?" I pleaded, a smile flickering about my face.
> > Pleeeeeeeease? I can hug you, which I'm sure you don't want me to
> > do." Emily sighed, rolling her eyes.
> >        "Fine, fine," she said in exasperation, taking out her camera. "I'm
> > running out of pictures though. We won't have any left when we get to
> >
> > the Lake District at this point. And if you do try to hug me I will
> > hit you." I grinned. Knowing my sister, this was an empty threat, but
> > that didn't mean I could hug her whenever I wanted to.
> >
> > This was only our second day of three in Wales, and besides a week in
> > a coastal town near Cornwall, we hadn't done anything else. During our
> > stay we had visited the local Valley of the Rocks, which pretty much
> > consisted of ponies, wild goats, bracken, and small valleys formed by
> > large outcrops of stone and steep slopes. Not to mention a certain
> > path right on the edge of a cliff above the ocean. We found everything
> > quite enchanting, and I had repeatedly insisted on taking pictures of
> > literally everything. By the end of four days we had taken plus three
> > hundred pictures.
> > Meanwhile my mum had placed her backpack down beside a large grey rock
> > with lots of grass growing in the cracks.
> >
> >  "Rosie, this is a nice place; let's eat here," said Mum. "Anyway, I'm
> > too hungry to keep on walking." She reached and padded the grass at
> > the foot of the rock. "It's a bit  damp, you might want to sit on
> > those plastic bags." Choosing a bulge in the rock she sat down and
> > began taking out the food. My sister and I looked carefully at the
> > base of the rock and selected the dirtiest spots remaining. Not that
> > it would remain dry for long, as it looked like Mr. Thunder Cloud was
> > coming to join us for lunch.
> > "I've brought some Welsh Cakes," said Mum. "They're supposed to be
> > really good." She opened a packet and handed us some. I looked down to
> > see a golden-brown solid-looking patty type thing with raisons in it,
> > about the size of the palm of my hand. Something about the shape and
> > the texture reminded me of some crab cakes I had had at a restaurant
> > we had gone to.
> >        "Beastie," someone said. My thoughts interrupted, I turned towards
> > Emily, the speaker. Since a few years ago I was given the nickname
> > 'Beastie' probably due to my adventurous (which could also be
> > irritating in a museam like the Louvre – I actually lost track of my
> > family when we were there) and sometimes troublesome nature as a
> > child. As for Emily, she would sign the notes left on the counter or
> > the door as The Beast of Death and Burning. "Here's an apple." In her
> > hand was an apple, it's colours a mottled green and yellow.
> > "Thanks," I said in reply, and, smiling, took the apple. For about
> > half an hour we sat on the grass next to the rock while the heavens
> > poured buckets upon us, utterly content.
> >  At one point we looked up to he sight of a gull flying from over the
> > pass towards us, probably looking for food. "What the devil is a
> > gull doing in the mountains?" I thought. As I ran it over my mind I
> > came to the conclusion that, perhaps, it was here because maybe it
> > liked it more here. And plus gulls didn't have to live on the coast,
> > right? And then I realized that it
> > didn't matter whether you came form a place or not, or knew about the
> > culture. Like the gull, I was in a different place that I didn't know
> > much about, and originally I had thought myself to be the expert on
> > England in America. The truth of the matter was that I didn't even
> > know how much a shilling was; and there I was wrongly elevating
> > England in my mind's eye above other countries. Mentally, I had grown
> > up in England, and that caused one part of me to actually believe that
> > I had been raised in England.
> > What I did learn was that how much you love a country is the thing
> > that matters, not how other people think of it.
> >