Letter to Mr. Hugo

I know, I know. It's been a while. But it's not like anyone reads it anyway. I just enjoy writing, I guess.  Well here's my letter to one of the greatest writers, Victor Hugo.  However, I must confess that I have never read all of Les Miserables.  I do know the full story, though, by listening to the soundtrack for 15 years. I also watched the movie, and I know, it does not do the book justice. Someday I'll have time to sit by the fire and actually read good old Hugo. Here we go.

Dear Mr. Hugo,

            Every time someone mentions your masterpiece Les Miserables, my eyes water. Well, maybe not every time.  It does have a great effect on me, though.  I cannot think of a more complex novel, filled with freedom and enslavement, love and hatred, death and rebirth.  The characters are so genuine and have such depth, especially Jean Valjean and Fantine.  Their lives of suffering are so dreadful and somewhat painful to read, yet are very powerful stories.  Often when I listen to the soundtrack and Fantine sings “I dreamed my life would be so different from this hell I’m living,” I cry.  I simply cannot imagine a life where I am so desperate that I must sell myself as a prostitute.  Fantine sacrifices everything she has, her dignity, her lifestyle, her beauty, and even her life so her Cosette can be taken care of. The irony is the innkeeper and his wife treat Cosette like a slave.  They express the selfish heart of man.

            It’s incredible the way you reveal God’s love and grace in countless situations ranging from the bishop forgiving Valjean to him sparing Javert when he had the chance to kill him.  Without forgiveness and mercy, this world would never move forward.  This story always encourages me in my faith.  I am less likely to give up hope when I think of Les Miserables.  The fact that Fantine continues to love God even when she is in the deepest hole and nearly dying, encourages me.  I used to be one who was quick to judge others, but this book has helped me to see them from a different light.

            Also, I have learned not to take things for granted all the time.  I am so blessed to live in the Land of Opportunity with an abundance of food, and I have clothes to keep out the chill.  For centuries, the citizens in France fiercely fought for their freedom.  Even though they were poor and had next to nothing, they sacrificed what they did have.  I’m thankful that I live in a free country where I don’t have to be afraid to stand up and raise my voice.

            Of course, every good story needs a love story.  It just doesn’t always have to be a romance between two lovers.  You clearly illustrate the love of the father.  Even though Cosette is not his own, Valjean cares for her as if she is.  He makes sure no one harms her as long as he is living.  When Marius is hurt and close to dying, he prays for his safety and explains that he is the like the son he might had known if God had granted him a son.  He is willing to die for Marius. 

            One of my favorite characters who grows and develops throughout the story is Javert.  When he was first introduced in the story, I hated him.  He was mean, callus, cruel, and I found nothing to like about him.  But as the tale goes along, he grows to realize God is forgiving.  Valjean finally has the chance to fulfill his vengeance and to take Javert’s life, but he simply lets him go free.  At this point Javert realizes the beauty and sincerity of God’s amazing grace.  Though it is his duty to find Valjean and to arrest him, he believes this man is forgiven and therefore struggles deciding between duty and justice.  He cannot live with this controversy and kills himself.

            Your book has made me such a different person, Mr. Hugo.  I have read countless books, but none are as clever and as moving as Les Miserables.  You have shown me the realities and the horrors of this world. But you have also shown me that there is always hope and that the love and grace of God is unending.  Thank you so much for this.

With all sincerity, 

Joanna Bernardini

My Child

There’s gypsy in your veins, child.

You dance wildly across the field,

swinging your hips,

raising your arms

with such ease.

Your form so effortless,

a dance strung together

purely by your imagination.

No expert can compare

with your passionate

sense of beauty.

With a daisy tucked behind your ear,

your auburn locks fly freely

as the gentle wind

burns your cheeks rosy pink.

You resemble a flower child,

peaceful and carefree.

Your green eyes shine,

reflecting off your

satin, ivy dress

that flutters while you twirl

round and round.

With wild weeds,

you create ornaments

that you insist I wear.

I willingly let you

place the homemade tiara

on top my head.

You smile with

such great satisfaction,

it sends chills to my ankles.

Your laugh echoes,

a sweet ringing to my ears.

Forever you will

reside in my heart.

To the Fish that Run Away

          Not too many people are fond of the reek of fish fry and grease, but I am.  It reminds me of my great grandparents’ lake house in Horseshoe, Arkansas.  Whenever my Pop fries bacon, a memory of Nana floats back to mind.  With one hand on her hip, the other clutching a rusty spatula, she flips catfish and crappie in the propane deep fryer.  She binds her left hand fingers around her right wrist in order to remove the heavy skillet from the fire.  While the fish sizzles in the fat, she rolls flour and corn into balls with her fat-knuckled, arthritic hands.  She smiles at me, her gorgeous gray eyes express a kindness only grandmas possess.  “Give me some sugar,” she says.  Knowing exactly what she says, I wrap my arms around her frail body and press my childish lips to her wrinkled yet soft cheek. Immediately, I’m overwhelmed by her perfume, a powdery-sweet scent. 

            I’ve always had a strong bond with Nana.  For one, we share the same name.  Hers being Francis Louise and mine, Joanna Louise.  When I was born, she insisted that I be called Louise.  Though only four feet and eleven inches, she was a little ball of fire, a Death-ah-Blow as PawPaw would call it.  She refused to take no for an answer.  Three days later (and only one after her birthday), I was given the name Joanna Louise Bernardini.  Cradling me in her loose-skinned arms, she whispered in my ear “I love you Louise. You’re mine.” Since my birthday was so near hers and I carried her middle name, I was considered her favorite. 

            Sometimes I can still feel the chill of the autumn wind blowing in our faces while we stand on that ramshackle dock and simply admire the view.  Golden and carrot colored leaves dance beneath the almost red Sun and the wind whistles above the white capped waves.  During the summer we go fishing with my brother Jordan and PawPaw.  With my construction site colored vest, I sniff the gasoline that rises when the motor erupts.  Ducking our heads, Jordan and I bend over so to not be knocked out by the heavy hooks that hold the boat in place.  While the boat cuts through the slimy algae, my brother and I keep our eyes peeled for turtles and tortoises.  Before we exit the mouth of the canal PawPaw slows down and eases up to the side.  Crawling out and fiddling with thickets and branches, he manages to acquire a twig of juicy blackberries.  Even though they stain our fingertips, we love them. 

            Once near the lilies, Nana reaches over and pulls a pad three times the circumference of my face and plops it on my head.  I resemble a Munchkin.  I always want to ask her questions like “How do fish breathe?” and “Where do they sleep?” but she constantly shushes me.

            “Hush child.  If you don’t be quiet, the fishies will run away,” she often said.

            “But fish can’t…”

            “Shh!”

            I never understood how fish ran without legs. 

            Nana and PawPaw never fail to catch, but I am lucky enough to have one nibble on my line. Many times my heart jumps from excitement and I begin to reel in my pole, only then to realize my hook is caught on a log or tire.  Jordan’s catches appear like Russian nesting dolls; each one comes out smaller and smaller.  Once the Sun’s rays stretch for the horizon, we head back, and Jordan makes sure the hefty catfish doesn’t flop out while it breathes heavily. I snack on the berries.

            While PawPaw demonstrates to Jordan how to properly cut open a catfish, Nana assists me with setting up the croquet equipment.  Even though it hurt her back, she played with me every time I asked.  Of course she let me win.  I knew no one more altruistic than her.  She was the essence of a caring grandmother.

            Often I think about her.  I miss her smile and the way she squeezed me with her arms.  I miss sleeping in the pull out couch and watching The Ten Commandments with her.  I miss the story of her and PawPaw’s engagement: how she was crawling out from under the house and PawPaw replied “Do you cook too? I’m gonna marry you.”  I miss the fried catfish and hushpuppies that she made for the fourth of July.  I miss the endless hours of croquet and fishing. These are only memories without her by my side.  Sometimes I tilt my head to the sky and say “I love you too Nana. I’ll see you when it’s time.”

"Together We Can" and will

     So the PTSA holds this contest every year in which they create some ridiculous theme and students are expected to relate to it.  I'd never entered this contest and had never intended to, but my creative writing teacher insisted. Themes from years past include "Beauty is..." and "Wow!"  The best one yet came from this year: "Together we can." When I read the title, I immediately thought of Bob the Builder and Obama's '09 campaign slogan "Yes we can!" I mean, what ARE we suppose to write about? Are they expecting us to write great speeches like Martin Luther King's "I had a Dream?"  Good. Grief.                                                                                                                                      
     Many kids in my class decided on satirizing the whole thing and adding cliches and cheesy sayings.  Mine started out as I thought was lame, but only to turn out as not half-bad. I think. 

 “The Ultimate Promise”

Together we can

and will.

We will push through this.

We swore to with smiles

and hands squeezed tightly.

Together we can

Maybe not with smiles

and soft voices

Struggles will not cease.

Fights will still exist,

but we will love,

and we will cherish.

Together we can

Through the ups

and through the downs,

in sickness

and in health,

we will cross this ocean of

dissatisfaction and frustration.

Together we can

Far too selfish it would be

What life will the children live

if we choose to separate?

We must stick together

until death do us part.

Shelby Farms

A place where

freshly cut grass

glistens from the dew

and sweat.

Beneath the canopy of oaks and pines

dusty trails wind

back and forth,

down hill,

up hill.  A ball of fire hovers

over the

steep, salmon, sand knolls.

A place where

the phrase “mile repeats”

is most dreaded.

“Full speed”

is not a convivial saying,

either. 

A place where

shouting is an encouragement,

not a disappointment.

Stopwatches beep

after each interval.

Less is more.

A place where

water is precious-

the simple substance

always a satisfaction.

A taste so

unsullied and fresh,

it cleanses more than

just the throat. 

A place where

sweat is a perfume,

a sign of accomplishment.

Tears taste sweet,

not bitter.

A place where

stretching is a

social gathering.

Stories mix up

and rumors spread

all too quickly. 

A place where

bees buzz,

hornets horde,

and ants bite,

leaving ruby, swollen bumps.

A place where

friends meet,

laugh,

yell,

cry

like a family.

A second family

Stuart 

My dear pal,

how I love to wrap my arms around you

and sniff your earthly scent.

Tired and drained I come home,

yet you welcome me with eagerness and happiness.

My silly boy,

how I crack up when you waddle out of the bathroom cabinet

and frighten the guest.

Your coat fades and white stripes atop your head appear as an old man’s eyebrows,

yet you still hold fire and zeal in that Lab-body-on-Corgi-legs.

My baby doll,

how I adore when you brush against my legs under the table

and beg for my attention.

Mom says I shouldn’t feed you unhealthy food,

but I know you would even snack on lettuce.

My old pup,

how it confuses me that thunder should startle you

and yet I am fascinated by the complexity of lightening.

You burrow yourself in my covers and slobber over my sheets

but I’m happy to snuggle with you.

My best friend,

how I want you to always be there when I’m down

and lick my cheek and wag your tail.

I know you have to say goodbye sometime,

but I hope all dogs go to heaven.