Merry Christmas!

December 25, 2014. 9:35 p.m.

Well, Christmas is officially over. I've been home for about an hour now, and I am exhausted. As I sit here on my couch, surrounded by cool presents and watching Home Alone, I've been reflecting on how Christmas has changed since I was a kid.

There are moments when I miss the magic of Christmas only children can have. I remember being so excited for Santa to come that I could lay awake in my room for hours, trying my hardest to hear even the slightest creak of a board or a jingle of a bell. See, we didn't have a chimney, so that only way he was getting into my house was the front door.

I would set my alarm for 4:00 in the morning, and when that thing went off, I was instantly awake. My eyes would pop open, I'd sit up in bed and be ready to go. Until I was 7, I shared a room with my sister, so she would wake up to my alarm. She's 8 years old than I am, but they humored the idea of Santa for me.

I couldn't wait to go downstairs and see what Santa had brought me. I'd run into my parents room in my pajamas and jump on their bed. They'd make me wait until they got up, went downstairs and checked everything out. I'd sit at the top of the stairs, straining to see even a glimpse of what awaited me.

When they gave the okay, I'd sprint downstairs and immediately find my stocking and all of my presents. Ones from Santa were never wrapped, Santa didn't have time to wrap presents. We'd spend time checking out all of those presents, and then pass out my parents' presents, and unwrap them all.

That day was magical. It was filled with fun and laughter.

It's amazing how different it is as an adult.

I stayed the night at my parents house because I didn't want to wake up at my house on Christmas by myself (in the guest bedroom, no less). I slept in until 8:00, which is the latest I've woken up on Christmas, ever. Went downstairs, ate breakfast, helped make Christmas dinner. We watched a Christmas movie, putzed around the house, and had a very low-key morning. Then, chaos happened.

Noon rolled around and my siblings arrived with their families. I've the only one that's not married with children, so when they came around, it began a zoo. Seven children, four adults, plus me and my parents and my grandpa and aunt and two dogs, chaos.

It was a day filled with good food, awesome presents, fun games and memories made. There are more of us now, our family of five has expanded to include nine more, but I wouldn't have it any other way. Everyone in one spot, getting along (which is saying something with a family of hotheaded, stubborn people) and having fun, enjoying spending time together for the holiday.

Christmas is my favorite holiday of all because it's a time that we can get together with the ones we love and just spend time together. I loved Christmas as a kid, but it's more special as an adult because I can appreciate all the little things of the day - seeing my nephew freak out about his presents, watching my dad build a hockey table with my 4-year-ld nephew, watching my nieces sit together and giggle over something silly, watching my siblings actually get along, playing a game where we can all genuinely laugh together and have fun, it's just amazing.

I love Christmas. I love my crazy family. Life is good.

"This is probably the best Christmas we've ever had" - my dad. Yes Dad, I think that too.

Overcoming grief

It feels like it happened a month ago, yet it feels like it happened yesterday.
Sunday night, just three nights ago, we lost my uncle.
He'd been complaining of a pain in his left arm and in his chest while he was bowling, and two minutes later he was gone.
They rushed him to the hospital, but there was no way to bring him back.

I had been having a pretty good weekend. Friday night, my dad and I went to the football game. I saw my uncle there. He gave me shit, as per usual. He always had this special call for me. Every time he saw me, he'd yell "Mooooooorrrrrggggaaaaaaaaaaaaaan" so loud, and it was always embarrassing but I loved him for it. It made me feel special. He was just that kind of guy.

Saturday, I spent the afternoon with my nieces and nephew, and hung out with a friend Saturday night. I spent Sunday to myself, doing laundry, cleaning, watching movies, what not. I'm the kind of person who needs just a day to myself to reboot. Being around people constantly is exhausting.

Sunday night, at 7:18, I got a phone call from my mom.
"Morgan, Jeremy (my brother) just called. You know he's bowling as a sub tonight. He said that Mitch just collapsed, and they're performing CPR on him right now. We don't know much else, but I wanted to let you know what's going on. Dad and I are getting ready to go over there."

I asked if she wanted me to go, she said to just stay home. She'd tell me what was going on. I sort of sat there in shock, not knowing exactly what was going on. I went in my room, sat on my bed, and prayed. I prayed that he'd be okay. He has four children, and recently became a grandfather. It wasn't even close to his time to go.

She called me back and said there were taking him to the hospital about 20 minutes away. Jeremy was coming back home to drop off two of his children that went with him that night, one that will probably be scarred for life, and he'd take me to the hospital.

We were quiet on the way down there. He just kept telling me what happened. I think that was his way of dealing with the situation, to talk it out. I listened, and prayed. I prayed harder than I ever have in  my life. I asked God to spare Mitch, he was too good of a person and had too much in his life to be gone.

About 10 minutes from the hospital, my mom called. She had called a couple times along the way, but I just knew this one was different. I could just feel it. I couldn't hear what she said, but I heard my brother say "No way. Oh my God, no way." I don't remember what else he said because I immediately broke into tears. I didn't need to hear him say it, I knew Mitch was gone.

"He didn't make it" was all he said before my brother lost it too. He called his wife to tell her what happened, trying to hold it together but failing. I could hear my sister-in-law crying on the phone.

He hung up, and we just rode in silence. I don't know how he managed to get us to the hospital, but we made it. I'm beginning to hate that damn hospital. I've spent too many hours there, watching the people I love going through terrible times.

We pulled up, and there was a group of people outside, huddled together near the entrance. We walked up, and I saw it was my mom, my aunt and my cousin. My cousin, who is a few years younger than me, was in tears, she just lost her father. I immediately walked up to her and took her in my arms, and she just wept. I cried along with her, and my aunt cursed everything and everyone.

"It's just not fair!" She yelled. No, it's not. And I don't understand why.

The next few hours were kind of a blur, filled with hugs and tears. I've never seen my father break down like that, and I don't think I could handle seeing that again. His brother, his little brother, was gone.

My little cousins, his eight-year-old daughter and seven-year-old son, arrived a little later, and they didn't know what was going on at first. They were okay walking into the hospital, but I knew I couldn't be in there when they told them their dad was gone. I just couldn't take watching innocent little kids cry over the loss of their dad.

My cousin, who's still in high school, gave me a hug and just sobbed. I just didn't know what to do. He just lost his dad, and all I could do was hug and try to be there for him. I sat next to the cousin closest in age to me, and she just kept saying, "I don't know what do to. I don't know what to say. I just want to call him. I just saw him an hour ago, and he was fine. I was just planning his Christmas present." I told her there's nothing she has to say, nothing she has to do.

We managed to go back inside, and the pastor was there to comfort my aunt, who was inconsolable. My uncle was the rock of that family, he was the strong one, the one everyone leaned on. Without him, everyone crumbled. He was one of the strongest people I knew, and there are a lot of strong men in my family.

By the end of the night, we were all laughing at the funny stuff he's said and done over the years. My uncle was one of the funniest guys I know, and he could make anyone laugh. He had the funniest stories and the most smart-ass comments. There'll never be another one like him. He was a one-of-a-kind guy and it's just not fucking fair that he's not here anymore.

I rode with my brother home, and we were pretty quiet. He told me that his girls had been working on get well cards for Mitch before my sister-in-law broke the news that he didn't make. My youngest niece, who's eight, was just furious. She got up, threw her card in the trash and ran to her room. My middle niece, who's nine, just bawled. I have a four-year-old nephew that didn't really understand it.

I got home that night, laid down in my bed and cried myself to sleep. I was home around 11:30, but I have no idea what time I managed to go to sleep. Or how I slept at all.

The next morning, I didn't know what to do. I had texted my boss the night before, and told her what happened, and she told me not to worry about work. Well, I didn't want to sit home all day and cry and make myself miserable, so I decided to go to work. It feels like that was two weeks ago, not just two days ago. That morning, I was eating breakfast before my roommate came into the living room. She sat down and all she said was, "I'm so sorry about your uncle" and I just burst into tears. I cried for about two minutes before I could pull myself together. I'm not a good crier, it's not a pretty picture. It took just those words to set me off, how was I going to make it through the whole day?

We got to work, and I just sat in my office and stared at my things. Was I just supposed to keep going? Continue with my everyday life, after everything that happened last night? I was still sitting there when my boss came it, and she said she was so sorry about my uncle, and I burst into tears again. I couldn't stop it, and she was comforting me for about five minutes. I got it under control, and then her husband came it and it started again. They told me it was up to me to be there, they'd figure stuff out if I wanted to go home.

"I don't think I want to go home. I would just sit there and cry all day, and being here helps me keep my mind busy."

Work didn't help. I cried all day anyway, but just silently in my office. I closed my doors and shut out the world, and people pretty much left me alone, except when they absolutely needed to bother me about something. I made it through my school board meeting that night, and writing that story later on. I curled up on the couch when my story was done, watched TV and cried. My roommate was off covering a volleyball game, so I could cry by myself on the couch.

That was the second night I cried myself to sleep.

Yesterday was a little better. I called my mom and talked to her for about 45 minutes in the morning, and it was nice to talk to someone who understood the things I was feeling. She said my dad was taking it pretty hard, and that made me cry even more. My big, strong father was mourning the loss of his little brother, and it just really sucked. He bowls several times a week, and my aunt (Mitch's wife) told him that he should bowl Monday night, and he did. He said it was the hardest thing he's ever done, not having his loud brother there yelling over everybody. He had that voice that just boomed over a large crowd. That was missing during his bowling league, and it was hard for everyone.

I had my moments at work where I just would start to cry, these waves of sadness would hit me and I couldn't control it. I learned that the best way for me to cope was to be around people who could make me laugh. That has really helped me, especially yesterday. My coworkers were doing their best to cheer me up, and it worked. Except when we went to lunch. I work with my roommate, and we usually go out to lunch two days a week to this place that a friend of ours owns. We sat down and were there for a few minutes before she came out of the kitchen. She looked at me, said "I'm so sorry Morgan. I wanted to tell you that in person and not on Facebook." And I just lost it. I thought I had it all under control and the tears buried, only to be let out when I was alone, but apparently I was wrong. I just started crying in the restaurant, and they just hugged me and let me cry. "It's better to get it out than to keep all that inside."

My roommate decided she wanted to keep me occupied, and take me to a movie, which really helped. I just don't want to sit at home and think about things, let them fester in my mind. So we went shopping and went to see Annabelle, that scary movie about the doll. We got home late, around 11:00, and for the first night, I didn't cry myself to sleep. I cried, yes, but only for about 15 minutes and then I was okay.

That's the first night I prayed. I was mad at God for taking away someone who was so full of life and laughter, and had so much to live for. But I prayed to my uncle. "Well, Mitchell. You've been gone for two days now. I hope you're somewhere with Grandma and Dawn, and that you're happy there. I know we all miss you like hell down here. Everyone's taking it pretty hard, so I hope you can see how much you are loved and how many people miss you. We hope to all see you again one day."

Four years ago, we lost my grandma unexpectedly. 20 years ago, we lost my aunt Dawn to cancer. This family has experienced our fair share of tragedy, and it just really sucks.

Today, I'm in our office in a different town, the one where he lived. I'm all by myself, so it's been hard this morning. I've shed a few tears while writing this, but luckily no one has come in yet. It's going to be difficult hearing the "I'm so sorry to hear about Mitch" today from those that do come in, and I'm going to try my hardest not to cry. At least, not in front of those people. I have to try and keep it together.

The visitation is tomorrow. The funeral is Friday. Those will be hard, but we'll get through it as a strong family unit. We've got a good support system amongst all of us, so we'll have to lean on each other to get through them. The visitation will be sad, but more than likely it will be filled with people sharing funny stories about Mitch. Everyone who knew him had one. He was just that kind of guy.

There are so many people that have stories to share about my uncle, and it's nice to see how much he was loved by so many people. There are some who knew him a lot longer than I did, and those that will miss him much, much more - like his wife and children. I grieve for them, and I shed tears for them. Their lives will never be the same. My little cousins will grow up without their father. My cousin will not have his dad and role model to help guide him through the rest of his high school years and beyond. My cousin will raise her daughter without the guidance of her own father, and her daughter will never know her grandfather. I shed tears for my dad, who lost his bowling partner, his little brother and friend. I shed tears for my brother that witnessed his favorite uncle and "big brother" fall to the ground with a massive heart attack, and live with that for the rest of his life. I shed tears for the friends that will want to call him to go golfing, and realize that no one will pick up on the other end. All in all, I shed tears for the loss of a man who was too young and too full of life to leave us so soon. He was so big and so strong, and to be brought down by a heart attack, doesn't seem fair.

I guess life isn't fair. Death is a part of life, but it's a part that we're just not ready to face. What I find sort of poetic was that when we were in the hospital, gathered in a hall way, eyes full of tears but smiles on our faces recalling funny moments with my uncle, a lullaby played on the speakers. I asked my aunt, who worked there at the hospital, what that lullaby was for, and she said that a baby was just born. As my uncle left this world, another was brought into it. The circle of life.

After his death, I've found myself questioning a lot of things. God, heaven, things like that. After we lost my grandma four years ago, I had the same problem and sort of fell off the God bandwagon. I just didn't understand why someone, who was simply going in for a surgery, never woke up again. We never got to say goodbye to her. And now my uncle, who was such a God damn good person, was taken from us so unexpectedly. How am I supposed to cope with that fact. Why him? Why him of all people, who still have a family to raise and grandchildren to see grow. My dad asked his brother that - who has grown children of his own. "Why did you and I get to see all of our children grow up, but Mitch didn't?" That's a question we'll never know the answer to, and I guess we're not meant to. That's the whole part about having faith and believing in a higher power. We have to believe that there's something else after this life, because if there isn't, then what's the point? I have to believe that my uncle, grandma and aunt are reunited and that my grandma is hitting him with her cane. I have to believe that, because to think that my uncle is just gone forever is too sad to fathom. I want to think that his soul is somewhere else, beyond this world where he can look down upon us, guide us on our own journeys and laugh at us when we do stupid shit, because he would have when he was alive.

What my uncle's death has taught us is that life is short, and you don't know what tomorrow brings. I just saw him Friday, and laughed at something stupid he said. Two days later, I cried because he was gone. Hold your loved ones a little tighter today because life can change in a heartbeat.

http://www.kaisercorson.com/obituary/Mitch-Bergmann/Tripoli-IA/1440259

Rest in peace big guy. We'll miss you every day. Some days will be better than others, but not a day will go by where the ones that love you won't think of you. I know you'll be watching over us, guiding us and laughing at us when we do something stupid. I love you and miss you Mitch. I know I won't ever hear my own personal call again, or hear your laugh, but I have to hope I'll be able to see you again one day. Until then, take it easy.

Mitch Bergmann, January 12, 1962 - October 12, 2014.  Beloved husband, father, grandfather, brother, son, uncle, nephew and friend.


In writing that, I thought of this poem that I've always loved.

The Dash
by Linda Ellis copyright 1996

​I read of a man who stood to speak
at the funeral of a friend.
He referred to the dates on the tombstone
from the beginning…to the end.

He noted that first came the date of birth
and spoke the following date with tears,
but he said what mattered most of all
was the dash between those years.

For that dash represents all the time
that they spent alive on earth.
And now only those who loved them
know what that little line is worth.

For it matters not, how much we own,
the cars…the house…the cash.
What matters is how we live and love
and how we spend our dash.

So, think about this long and hard.
Are there things you’d like to change?
For you never know how much time is left
that can still be rearranged.

If we could just slow down enough
to consider what’s true and real
and always try to understand
​the way other people feel.

And be less quick to anger
and show appreciation more
and love the people in our lives
like we’ve never loved before. 

If we treat each other with respect
and more often wear a smile,
remembering that this special dash
might only last a little while.

​So, when your eulogy is being read,
with your life’s actions to rehash…
would you be proud of the things they say
about how you spent YOUR dash?

Sports photographer problems and awards!

I don't know if you know this, but I am a sports photographer. 

Of sorts. 

I do just about everything at my job, so it's hard to say I'm JUST a photographer. I'm a sports writer too, which is weird. I'm not much of a sports writer, but I digress. 

I had one of the weirdest nights of covering a basketball game ever. Here is my story: 

I had to cover a high school basketball game a few days ago, which isn't unusual. During the day, I charged our camera's flash batteries and the actual camera battery so I would be covered during the game. When 5:00 rolled around, I could have sworn that I grabbed the flash batteries and put them in the flash. 

But I was wrong. 

I grabbed the camera battery and put that in, but I left the four AA batters in the charger. 

Stupid move on my part. 

So I get to the game, thinking I have all charged batteries and - yay - I'm ready to go. 

Nope. 

I put the flash on my camera, turn it on. 

Nothing. 

A sense of panic fills me as I look in the battery thing, expecting to see four AA batteries in there. And I see nothing. 

Crap. 

So I open up the bag and grab our spare batteries, which haven't been charged for probably months, and crossing my fingers that they work. 

Again. Nope. 

They are completely dead. That's when I panic. Do I have to drive the 15 back home to get the batteries, then come back here? I'll miss half the game! As these panicked thoughts are running through my head, I take the spare batteries out. One falls from my hand in slow motion and I see it rolling across the gym floor. 

You know, where they're playing basketball. Luckily for me, they were on the other end of the court, so I race out to grab it before it rolls and further. And it felt like EVERYONE was staring at me. But they probably weren't. But that didn't make me feel any better. 

So, batteries back in the bag, now I have to solve my dilemma. My solution - go to the gas station across the street and buy batteries. GENIUS! 

I do that and miss the first quarter of the girls' game, but that's better than missing the whole game, which I'm sure I would have if I had gone back home. 

During the second quarter, I get hit by the ball. Nothing exciting, but it still made me mad. They have the whole freaking court to throw that thing, leave me out of it. 

The rest of the girls game is uneventful. Thank God. 

Now on to the boys. 

There was a moment in the game when I made eye contact with one of the players. It's awkward, yes, but it happens. I just ignore it and continue on. Well, this particular boy must have thought I looked like one of his teammates because he bounced the ball to me. Directly to me. Just standing there on the sidelines with a camera in my hand. And he passes the ball. To me. 

One of the players attempts to dive for the ball and lands at my feet. I still just stand there like, what in the world just happened. I look around and my dad's standing next to me. 

"Well, that was weird," he says. Yeah, dad, just a little bit. 

 It was the weirdest thing ever. There were no other players in my area that he could have meant to pass it to. But he passed it to me. Okay, strange. 

The crowning moment of the boys' game was in the fourth quarter. My team was down by a bunch and playing horribly, so I wasn't taking that many pictures. I was just watching the action, ready to take a picture at a moment's notice, when the ball comes flying in my direction. Hard. It came too quickly to react at all, or attempt to move, so I just stood there as it came hurdling at me. Well, it landed in the smallest of small spaces between myself and a cheerleader standing next to me. The space was probably just wide enough for a basketball, and not much bigger. 

If that ball would have it me, it would have hurt. A lot. 

And the whole crowds goes - ooooooooooooooo. I look around to see if a play happened that I missed, which there wouldn't be because I have the ball by me. Nope. Okay.. oh, they were making that noise at me. Grreeeaaat. I make eye contact with the cheerleader and we  both mentally agree that we just avoided a painful death. Or at least that's what I thought. 

Yeah so, that was certainly eventful. 

When I got back to the office that night to drop the camera off, I saw the four AA batteries sitting in the charger - mocking me. I wanted to throw them at the wall, but I didn't. Stupid batteries. 

--

More news - my coworkers and I leave for Des Moies in two days for our annual Iowa Newspaper Association Convention. It's going to be great! I'm up for two awards :) I'm pretty freaking nervous about it, and I'm sort of freaking out.. a little bit... a lotta bit. 

I'm up for an award for a series I did focusing on the reorganization of our two school districts. I'm also up for an award for a personality feature that I wrote. 

I'M SO DAMN EXCITED I CAN BARELY CONTAIN IT!!! 

Okay, that is all. 

Wish me luck! 

I am afraid.

I fear the unknown.
I fear the undiscovered.

I fear loneliness.
I fear commitment.

I fear love.
I fear hatred.

I fear the future.
I fear the present.

I fear disappointment.
I fear success.

Spiders, ants, snakes, clowns, dentists, abandonment, being wrong, being right, tornadoes, lady bugs, costumes, failure, strength, ghosts, disease, death, frogs, closets, life, God, fire, power, weakness.

.....

One way to get over our fears is to face them, head on. I have a busy 2014 waiting for me.

Wish me luck. 

Peace,
Morgan

P.S. Merry Christmas, Happy Hanukah, and Happy Kwanza to all.

Are pit bulls dangerous?

How can a face like this be banned from many
cities across the country? IT'S SO CUTE! 

The owner of several pit bulls that mauled a woman to death in California was charged with murder and animal owner negligence earlier this year. This is exactly the way the authorities should deal with a horrific attack by dogs where there is evidence, as there was in this case, that the owner may have ignored or encouraged his dogs’ aggressive behavior or failed to adequately secure them. When owners of dogs that have attacked people are found to have been negligent, they should be held strictly accountable.

Pit bulls are perhaps the most controversial dogs in the country. During the past half century, the pit bull has gone from America’s dog to America’s most feared dog. The pit is now regarded as a killing machine, and the breed is even banned in some cities.

During these past several months, it seemed like you heard about a pit bull attack on every news station.

The fear of the pit bull is understandable. The breed accounts for twice as many reported dog bites as any other breed, and also accounts for the majority of dogs that animal control hauls into court lockup. A woman in Waterloo was attacked by three pit bulls while walking down the street and was almost killed in September. A teenage boy and a woman were injured in a pit bull attack in August.

These types of stories keep appearing in the news and they strike a fear in people. I obviously feel terrible for anyone injured by a dog. I have never owned a pit bull, but I have been around dogs most of my life, both big and small. I believe there is a stigma around pit bulls and it’s simply not fair. Any dog can be dangerous, and I think it all boils down to the owner.

We know that animal behavior is a combination of nature (genetics) and nurture (learning). We know that genetics play a part in what people call “breed specific behaviors.” Studies have shown that an estimated 20 to 30 percent of a dog’s behavior is based on genetics, and that leaves a huge area that nurture is responsible for. If socialization is so important, what can happen when a pit bull is isolated and neglected, or even abused? What about dogs that are left outside all day on a chain with no social interaction? How can anyone expect them not to be aggressive toward any human or animal when they haven’t been socialized or trained in any sort of way?

The real problem isn’t the breed, it’s the breed’s reputation. A reputation as a tough dog attracts owners who train their dogs to be aggressive, which then attracts media attention when these aggressive dogs attack, creating, literally, a vicious cycle. Doberman pinschers, German shepards and rottweilers have all suffered this fate. The American Kennel Club describes each of these breeds as a protective and loyal family pet that requires lots of exercise. Its description of pit bulls is no different, but the trend for pit bulls’ dangerous reputation has lasted longer.

In my research I found that pit bulls were originally bred to fight. They were genetically selected for their fighting ability. I also found that history doesn’t mean they can’t be around other dogs or people, that they’re unpredictably aggressive or will always fight to the death. It means that they may be easily encouraged to fight.

The best way to prevent the development of aggressive behavior toward other dogs and people is to focus on early socialization, learning to interact, play and communicate with members of their own species and other people.

Despite their bad rap, a well-bred, well-trained, well-socialized pit bull is one of the most delightful, intelligent and gentle dogs. They are known for their extreme loyalty toward their owner. I’ve known some wonderful pit bulls. They’re dogs that are capable of doing a lot of good and can be wonderful pets. Some pit bulls are registered therapy dogs and spend time visiting hospitals, some work in search and rescue. They can be the most loving, loyal and friendly dog when they are raised and trained correctly.

Due to their aggressive reputation, pit bulls have been banned in many cities, including Fredericksburg, which bans “dangerous dogs” from city limits. Their definition of “dangerous dogs” includes any dog with a propensity, tendency or disposition to attack, to cause injury to or otherwise endanger the safety of humans or domestic animals; the bull terrier breed of dog; the Staffordshire bull terrier; the American pit bull and the American Staffordshire terrier.

I understand both sides of a pit bull banning ordinance. Taking pit bulls away from these dangerous, negligent owners will reduce the number of serious maulings. I just don’t think it’s fair to blame the breed when most of the time, it’s the owners fault. If you investigated the owners of those dogs involved in attacks these last few months, I think you’d find negligent, abusive owners, or those that trained the dog to be aggressive.

The biggest problem with breed bans is that they distract from the more effective solutions. I believe there should be more action involving the laws and penalties imposed on owners of dangerous animals, no matter the breed. The owners that fail to socialize and train their dogs and contain them don’t pay a high enough penalty when those dogs get loose and bite.

A ban on pit bulls would obviously lessen the number of pit attacks, but wouldn’t necessarily decrease the overall number of dog bites or attacks. Pit bulls aren’t the only dogs that bite. There are other dogs out there, of all shapes and sizes, that bite. It’s not fair to single out the pit bull because of their reputation.

The pit bull is just like any other breed of dog. Yes, it was originally bred to fight, but with the right owners who care about the dog and will socialize and train it properly, pit bulls can thrive and be a great family dog. I don’t find it fair to single out the pit bull, despite the media attention. They’re not naturally vicious and dangerous. It’s abusive, negligent owners that create vicious, dangerous dogs. 

I love Harry Potter

These people became like dear friends to me.
The person that created them became my role model.

"Books are the quietest and most constant of friends; they are the most accessible and wisest of counselors and the most patient of teachers." – Charles William Eliot

I’ve loved reading books for as long as I can remember. As a child with a very active imagination, books allowed me the opportunity to let it run free and imagine worlds full of dungeons and dragons, princes and princesses and witches and magic. The library became almost like a treasure hunt, searching every row and every book before discovering just the right one to read. The most exciting part was when I would come across a new book that I could immerse myself into and imagine all the possible adventures I could have.

My parents were often shocked at how much I loved to read. They still don’t know where the habit came from, but they never discouraged it and I thank them for that. They always bought me new books when I asked (which my siblings would say because I was the spoiled baby of the family and they couldn’t say no to me), and my bookshelves were full of books like The BFG by Ronald Dahl, The Phantom Tollbooth by Norton Jester, the works of Beverly Clearly, Louis Sachar and Shel Silverstein, The Babysitter’s Club and Goosebump books and many more. Now, I have way too many books to count - just ask the people who have helped me move boxes and boxes of books up many flights of stairs during my college years. It wasn’t pretty.

My love for reading really took off in the sixth grade when my mom bought me a book that I still have and will always cherish – Harry Potter and the Sorcerer’s Stone. I have the exact copy she bought me sitting on my book shelf now, along with the other well-worn copies of books two through seven. It has seen better days – the spine is creased, pages are dog-eared and the cover is bent, but I love it all the same and there’s nothing that could make me get rid of it. It came out the summer between my fifth- and sixth-grade year and I wasn’t sure I wanted to read it. I thought, it’s a book about a boy who is a wizard? Sounds kind of dumb. So I kept it in my desk, which was a bad decision because my desk was ALWAYS a mess, and it floated around in there all year and I forgot about it. One day, while we were being forced to clean our desks, I put that book on top of the pile of things I wanted to take home and the boy in the desk next to me asked me if I had read it yet. “No,” I answered. “I don’t think I want to read it. It sounds weird.” We had become friends with our mutual love of reading books, and I can distinctly remember the look on his face when I told him that. “Morgan, you have to read that book.” I looked at it again and thought, well – okay then.

“Mr. and Mrs. Dursley of number four, Privet Drive, were proud to say that they were perfectly normal, thank you very much.” From that first line, I was hooked. I have always been a fast reader and I think I finished that book in a few days. My mom told me that I just didn’t know when to put it down and would read way past my bedtime. “You still don’t know when to put a book down!” That’s true, Mom, I don’t. Anyway, I read it extremely fast and couldn’t wait until the next one was released. I didn’t have to wait long, though, because it come out the summer of 1999. I gobbled up The Chamber of Secrets in just a few days, and Prisoner of Azkaban came out September of that same year. It’s been like an addiction ever since. I was one of those people waiting at midnight to buy the book, or I would drag someone (who could drive) along with me the very next day to pick up the newest installment of the amazing series. Throughout the years, the books grew exponentially bigger and I just kept reading them. I couldn’t wait to find out what happened to Harry and his friends and his beloved Hogwarts, a place I desperately wished I could visit.

When the last one came out July 21, 2007, I was going to be a freshman in college. I had been following these characters and their lives since I was 12-years old. Then finally, at the age of 19, it was coming to an end and I was sad. Sure, there were movies still to be made, but it wasn’t the same. When I picked up my copy of The Deathly Hallows, I didn’t want to start it. If I started it, I wouldn’t be able to stop and I would finish it and it would be over. Done. I did finish it in four days, all 759 pages of it. When I turned that last page, a big part of my life was over. It was like saying goodbye to some of my dearest friends.

Harry Potter is more than just a book series to me. I believe it is a powerful, adventurous and meaningful story that has had large impact on many people. I would like to believe that I would have continued with my love of reading if J.K. Rowling had never written a single page about Harry, but it’s something I never had to worry about. Reading that first book kept my love of reading ignited like a flame, one that I hope is never distinguished. Rowling also taught me to love writing. Without her, I don’t think I would have pursued it the way I have today. I just loved the way she created this beautiful, fantastical world with just her imagination, a pen and paper. She made these amazing characters that people love and admire and care about, and I think that’s pretty amazing. She’s inspired me to do the same. She also taught me to not be afraid of your imagination.

There is a moral to be found in every book and in every chapter. What I love most about the Harry Potter series is that it is great for children and adults alike. "Do you want your 11-year-old to start out reading Deathly Hallows? Of course not. Can they handle Sorcerer’s Stone? You better believe it. As they start to discover each novel as they get older the books become tailor made for them. The language never gets too complicated, yet it is still very well written. What if you’re older and want to get into the series? Does the first one still work? Of course it does. Harry Potter is one of the few things in life that is able to speak to multiple generations at the same time. The world of Harry Potter and as such, the world through Rowling’s eyes, values bravery, intelligence, loyalty and trust. The characters treat friends and families with respect, and in the end, the good triumph over the evil. Of course, there can be many losses along the way, but such is life. People can also change for the better and/or worse, but in the end you have to forgive them. You can learn a lot from Harry Potter; it's not just wand waving and spells." (I wish I could remember where I found that, but I can't. Those words are not mine)

To those that love Harry Potter, just like me, we know the magic will never leave us. He’ll never be gone completely. Yes, I have all seven books lined up on my bookshelf and all eight movies, but it’s the lessons that Rowling and Harry have taught us that stick with us. Harry Potter will live on in all of us…always.

I’ll leave you with two of my utmost favorite quotes from the entire series: 

“The world isn’t split into good people and Death Eaters. We have all got both light and dark inside us. What matters is the power we choose to act on. That’s who we really are.” -Sirius Black

“Happiness can be found even in the darkest of times when one only remembers to turn on the light.” – Albus Dumbledore.

 

 

 

My personal statement... sort of.

I recently read a friend of mine's personal statement that was required for the master's program she's applying for and it got me thinking. She wanted me to critique it for her, so I did. She's applying to study at John Hopkins to get her masters in Nonprofit management. She works at a museum and loves it - she creates programs and things that help people learn to love the museum without having facts and education shoved down their throats - making the museum fun.

One of the suggestions I wrote back to her was:

"If I were an admissions person looking through hundreds if not thousands of personal statements, I would be looking for one that stood out. I'd be looking for a person that showed passion and commitment to their field. I would want to know the exact moment you knew you wanted to work in museums, why you wanted to study ancient civilization. What sparked it? Just try to make your statement different and personalize it to fit the amazing person that I know you are."

That got me thinking about me, yes as selfish as that sounds. I've thought about pursuing a master's degree, in what I don't know yet, but would be involved with writing somehow, or with books in general. I lerve books. What would my personal statement be? How would I describe the moment that I knew I wanted to write for a living? That I wanted to "touch people with the written word" and do my best to express my feelings through those written words than through speaking.

My grandmother likes to tell people this fun story about when I was little, I could carry around a notebook and a pen and ask all my relatives questions at whatever family gathering we would have.

I would write their answers down, in my beautifully child handwriting, and just talk to people, listen to their answers. I'd have the pen tucked behind my ear and the notebook stuck in my pocket. She will tell anyone that, then follow up with the fact that I work for a newspaper and isn't that just a perfect ending.

Not the perfect ending, more like a beginning. I don't want to work at a newspaper forever, though I love the place I work. I love the things I do, the people I meet, the places I go, but I have an ultimate dream that I've expressed several times in this blog. I want to write books.

The head librarian at the library in my town, whom I've known since I was like... five, told me one day that she's waiting to see my book on her selves, to have me visit the library and have a book signing/reading. She keeps waiting.

"What are you waiting for? I know you can do it. Just get cracking."

Sure, that only happened a few years ago, but it's moments like that that really seem to solidify my dream. I've had several people tell me, yes mostly family and friends but still, that I would be a great writer. Yes, they could be being polite, but to me... they don't know what that means to me. It's those moments that make me go, "Wait, I could really do this. This could be a thing that I do." Getting that reassurance boosts my confidence.

So, that's sort of my moment. But my real moment came in... oh gosh, like 10th grade. My best friend (the same friend from earlier, just the 2005 version) had a huge crush on this guy, who would later become her very serious boyfriend that she is still dating since 11th grade and they now live together, but was way too shy to talk to him. We'd giggle about him, write secret notes to each other about him (and my crush), typical girl stuff. Well, me being me, I write a story about us.

I wish I still had a copy of it because I simply loved it. I was just a kid, not a great writer but loved reading and writing papers, and I wrote her this extremely long "soap opera" about our lives after high school with our crushes. It was so stinking adorable. I can still see the cover I made for it. When I finished it and read over it, it was that moment - that little spark of an idea that had turned into this short story - that made me think, hey... that was fun. I really liked doing that. I should do that more often.

And I did. I wrote so many short stories in high school, it was crazy. I spent so much time outside of school on my parents ancient Mac computer finding the write clip art to add to make my stories "fun-looking," writing outlines of my characters and plot. It was great.
Then college happened, and a I had a few years where I didn't think I could do it. Guess what college self, you can and you have. And it's great.

I also kept a lot of diaries growing up. I remember my first one, I think I got it for my 16th birthday. It had Winnie the Pooh on the cover and he was holding a balloon. Piglet was at his side and it was yellow. I filled it with so many angst-y thoughts and emotions, a lot of the pages were dedicated to boys.

As the years progressed, I filled those pages with worries about the future, about college, about leaving my friends behind and growing up. Now they sit in a tub underneath my bed and collect dust. Whenever I'm feeling nostalgic, I'll pull one out and just flip to a page and laugh.

That's what the written word does. It has that power. To be able to use that power and make people feel certain things, certain ways - it's an amazing gift. One that I hope to hone and mold as I grow older and wiser. Use the skills that I'm learning right now and create stories about characters I love, I hate, and put them into real-life or make believe situations.

Some day.

Oh P.S. - I am now assigned to write an editorial every month for my paper... so that's a thing I have to do. Yikes...