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4 P,ntertainment The <f!o{emic/Jlpri{ 30, 1997 Advisor's note: The following article comes fro,m the May 1, 1996, edition of The Polemic:, Alpena Community College's Student Newspaper. The _Polemic is running a copy of Kristi Hanson s first place in light commentary cdtegory story. This is to honor a first place in writing and share with the college a Mother's Day message which may have been missed last year. _Th_• Po_le_mi_c •_w_ ••• _ .. _ •• ,_, M_ay_1,_1,_,, ______________ _;...._®Q)BwB©CD7 A A Mother's Day wish - Babysitter needed BY K. J. HANSON STAFF WRITER Here it is, the one day a year when Mothers everywhere, such as myself, are expected to linger in bed while our little darlings, and hopefully our spouses, attempt to show their yearlong gratitude by burning the toast, under-cooking the eggs, and serving tepid, but very strong, coffee. And, if we're very lucky, we may even receive a marigold, planted with love, in a decorated styrofoam cup. I can't think of a better way to start Mothers Day. · Traditionally, most Mothers would consider their all - important day well spent, if all they were to receive was piece of mind in knowing that someone else would be willing . to referee fights between siblings, change the baby, or get the entire family seated for a meal, regardless if it has those "yucky green things" floating in it. In reality, I feel that most Mothers, myself included, would admit to spending the day like this .. The back door slams shut as my three boys race outside to capture the elusive spring air that stubborn old man winter has afforded us. Anxiously, I watch as my youngest attempts to catch-up with his brothers. My thoughts turn to laundry, and other such chores I'm forever trying to stay ahead of. , Walking back into the hous~, I revel in the long sought after, but rarely obtained, silence. A favorite fantasy of mine begins to play out in my mind. I've just _returned from the store, and upon entering the room I am not greeted with the usual "what ·did you get me?" Instead, I hear a chorus of "Hi Mom, how was your day?" I ·quickly glance around to see if I have entered the wrong house. My stunned gaze falls upon the immaculate condition of the room. Not only are there no toys or papers left on the floors, but the TV is off, and in each of my boy's hands there is a book! They were' reading!! · Alas, this dream is not to be, as the resounding bang of the back door invades my silence. In the distance I hear shouts of "I didn't d'"o it." "Yes you did," "Mom I not in trouble dey is." This last remark comes from my four-year-old, who obviously wishes to extricate him- self from the latest brotherly feud. In the midst of this uproar, I notice that my blonde haired seven-year-old now has dark brown muddy hair. His face, hands, and clothes are caked and unrecognizable. Streaming from his eyes, tears are causing the dirt. to streak. Accusations of you pushed me, you threw it first, yeah but I missed, are bouncing off the walls. Each child is clamoring to get his side of the story heard first. My nine-year-old, seeing the seven-year-old is crying, be- gins to tease him. "You look like the creature from the swamp," he taunts. My seven-year-old, not one to ~tand still for insults, at- tempts to karate kick my nine-year-old, who is still laughing at his witty insult. · Meanwhile, my four-year-old is jumping up and pulling on my arm in an attempt to be noticed. "Mamma, dey wouldn't pway wif me so's I pwayed ona hiw, he states, with an indignant mud-streaked face. My first instinct is to take the muddy one outside and spray him down with the hose. Thoughts of gagging him sound nice about now; his bellowing is beginning to grate on my last nerve. Instead, because I've recently been schooled in the fine art of parenting, I admonfah the two clean. culprits to go back outside, stating firmly, "we will all discuss this later." , I then turn my attention back to the newly dubbed crt;a'." ture from the swamp, who is still attempting to explain his innocence in this situation. As he drips, I escort him into the bathroom. By now he is cold, tired, and begins to rub at the dirt in his eyes. This action ca~ses even more duress. As he steps into the bathtub, I ask him to remove his wet things. ~·············~······························································~ ·~ Theater magic doesn t fade ~ : BY KENT ANDERSON the truth. If we believe, we learn, but after the props are removed : • NEWS EDITOR Theater provides a window if we don't believe, then we and the actors go home, • : ___________ through which one can see pass on an opportunity to see something remains. : • Silence reigns amid the something of his or her self, within ourselves and examine Standing in the stillness • : still darkness.. The heavy whether it be the soul, the con- the complex recesses of our ofan empty theater, one can : • black curtains have been science, or the capacity to err in emotional caverns. The actors, see it, the dim revenants of • = pulled into the wings; the all its possibilities. ifsuccessful,shinethelightthat characterssteppingsoftlyon : • stage is an empty platfor~ of A play is a lie telling us guides our inner-eyes beyond the barren stage, moving • : wooden planks, and the sea truth, a dream teaching real- the surface to the p ofound. with their purpose, lost in : • of seats set before the barren ity. When we sit before a It is a magical ~xperience, who they are. Their dialogue • : plane of oak are unoccupied. production, we submit our- far removed from the thought- · lingers on the dark air, like a : • This is the stark reality be- selves to an event that sparks _ less splendor of t e cinema, distant, fading echo from • : tween shows. contemplation. Our imagina- _wherein the dreams are pre- within, a tomb. Whispers. : 111 Dreaming is what it's all tion, our perspective, is as cru- sented fully adorned, some- Soft steps. The eerie pres- • : about: the thoughtful illu- cial a to the believability of the times cloying in the images, ence of things not there, yet : • sion of an imagined reality performance as the actors. We leaving no room for the beauti- mystically alive. • : pretending to be real. But must not see a set of propped ful potential of a lireaming We should give our- : • there is focus here, there is up walls, false courtyards, and mind. selves up to it, allow our- • ·• purpose, for within the con- pretend personalities;wemust And the magic doesn't selves to be carried away by • : fines of a crude, cramped see the kingdom of Lear, the fade, even when the solemn the gentle sway of a reality : Ill world, the audience is chal- island of Prospero, the city of silence falls upon the stage. unreal, yet too true to be ig- ~ : lenged to face something of Verona! After the sets are torn down, nored. : ~ ....................... ~ ..............•..................................... ~ .'J\[prthern 'E~osu,:e Pfzoto .& Custom !framing ••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••••• • Inside . •• • • • • • • • • • • Photo Processing • The Drug Store : : 12ExP$ .99 : 2236 US 23 South : : 24 EXP$ 1.99 : • • 36 EXP $ 2.99 • : Alpena, MI 49707 • • • • Phone(517)354-2171/Fax(517)356-6606 : : -Next Day Single Prints : ···~···························· ................... . "Even my underwear, "he asks, somewhat embarrassed. · "Yes, of course," I say, as I begin wiping the mud from his face and eyes. Eventually, he is all shiny and clean. He is wearing warm clothes, wrapped in a fuzzy Afghan. He is now able to laugh at the thought of himself covered in mud. "Will you sit with me," he asks. "Sure," I say, as thoughts of what to do for dinner are pushed aside, because at this momen~ my son needs me. Part of the job, that which is the grand title of Mother, is being there· for your children. Eventually, my other two appear at the door. Gingerly, my eldest walks over and places his hand on top of his broth- ers still-damp head. "Sorry," he whispers. "You have mud on your nose," the clean one teases, his way of accepting an apology. Soon they are all piled on top of me in the chair. As usual, they are all talking above the <:>ther, vying· for my atten- tion. The youngest is the loudest as he competes for his place in the family: " I wuv you this much Mamma," he says, spreading his arms wide. Not to be outdone by their little brother, the two oldest chime in. "Well, I love you to the moon," says my seven-year- old. "Infinity," states my growing-up-too-fast nine-year-old. Now, I ask you, what more could a Mother ask for? Oh, sure, a clean house to come home to , no temper tantrums would be nice,. but, right now, I can't think of anything more wonderf-41 than the unconditional love of a child. That's what Mother's Day means to me. Dedicated to my three favorite little bandits, and a spe- cial thanks to the youngest who in taking a nap allowed me to write this. MAY BOOK BUYBACK ACC CAMPUS BOOKSTORE May 6th, 7th, & 8th 9:00 a.m. - 5:00 p.m. HURON SHORES CAMPUS May 8th 2:00 p.m. - 5:00 p.m. I.