Math Contest

The first time I was presented with a math textbook was when I was in grade 1. I had of course been exposed to math before; my grandparents taught me how use addition, subtraction, multiplication and division. But I liked my first textbook, as I flipped through the pages, there was an empty box on each page, a space for a sticker, to signify that I had finished and passed the page. With each page that I scribbled through in a childish scrawl, I added a sticker of a golden star, gleefully plastering it on with the utmost care. Still, this soon became a burden. As I began to continue, the golden stars lost its allure to me, as the repetitive calculations of the many questions of one page dissolved my interest. As the cumbersome pages were finally all written on, much to my dolor, a new textbook, even thicker appeared. Much like the last book, I was first drawn into its fresh untouched pages, but after a week or so, it became a task, in which I came to despise. To my horror, once, in my adventures around the house, which resulted me looking through closets and boxes, I stumbled across new math and English textbooks for the next 3 consecutive grades.

As the years progressed, I became more and more frustrated with math. The equations seemed like gibberish, the actual calculating was tedious and brought be to tears. When the question asked for volume, I would calculate the surface area and I would sometimes think that the interior angles of a triangle equaled 360 degrees instead of 180. The sight of math textbook brought an uneasy feeling in my stomach.

In school, I did fine, though, even quite well, managing to participate often in class and many of my classmates sought help from me. I was categorized as "smart" but not the smartest, good at math, but not the best. Still, I could easily bring home an A on my tests. Still my parents insisted I move ahead of my classmates, as they urged me to become the best in my class.
"But I am already doing very well," I would argue.
"Yes, but why don't you strive to do even better," they replied and handed me even more work to do.
I would grumble and mutter, glowering at the numbers and symbols, wondering what was "even better"

After a while, I became accustomed to the math questions and did them without question, completing my daily quota. I plateaued at the moment, it wasn't hard, so much as boring and dull, Until I was introduced to factoring. I went through go through 3 questions every night each of them taking me eons to do. Every night, when I felt that I had finally got the previous lesson, a new type of factoring question was laid in front of me. At first it was bearable, as I had to somehow find a common factor between 3 numbers. But once I had done 6 of those, I was swept into a dizzy wave of quadratic equations. I would stay up past midnight, tearing my hair out at the dead end I was stuck on. As I reread the questions over, my eyes would droop, making the view blurry. My head would sway, as the silence of the house dragged me into sleep, and my thoughts would become hazy and muddled and only the sensation of my head falling jerked me back to reality. I would once again be stuck on the same question.

But I began working through quadratic equations faster, and they seemed more understandable and even at times, puzzling, instead of frustrating. And after that, math seemed easy. As I entered high school, with all its opportunities and new people, I started new again, feeling a new sense for math.

I was then regarded as one of the best in the class, no longer good, but great. Excited for math class everyday, I found that I could easily move through the questions. And so I decided to join a math contest when it was announced.

Excitement coursed through me as I hastily scribbled my name on the sign up sheet and immediately getting ready. I printed out test questions from previous years and tested the water. There weren't many questions, but I did them all, asking for help and slowly working my way through them. I circled the date with a dark marker on my calender and counted the days down.

On the day of the exam, I had with me an pencil, a ruler, an eraser and an old, cheep calculator whose buttons only responded when you pressed forcefully. I felt my hands sweat as I entered the room, an unopened booklet in front of me. Taking a few breaths, I opened the book and started the first question.

Although my fingers were cold and my stomach rampaged, doing the questions was strangely calming. My heartbeat slowed down and my pencil flew across the sheet as I fell into the familiar habit of doing the math work. The minutes ticked by, unnoticed as my eyes stared at the question ahead. The time allotted to finish the contest were slowly slipping by, and I was stuck on the last question. Breathing deeply, I tried different views, and different equations that might fit into the question, but each different route took me to a far fetched conclusion and was quickly abandoned. Biting my lips, my heart sank as the teachers called out for everyone to hand in their sheets.

It took the markers more than 2 weeks to grade all the tests, making me a huge mess of nerves. It offered me some degree of relief when everyone I asked about the last question did not seem to get it as well. Everyday, I listened expectantly for the announcement of the math contest marks and everyday, I became even more nervous.

And and day, when my math teacher told me that the marks had been posted, I walked timidly to the room where they were kept. My friend looked at her mark first, seeming unable to find it. As her eyes wandered through the sheet that was block from my line of sight, I could feel my heart pound at the thought of my mark. Spotting her name, my friend let out a squeal as she came in the top 10. She moved out of the way so I could get a better view.

My eyes wandered from the bottom to the top of the sheet of paper, feeling more and more shocked as I climbed up. Finally my eyes rested on my name. With an almost dreamlike quality, I realized I came in fourth, and the three people above me were all from a higher grade.

"Wow, you're fourth!" my friend congratulated me, as she followed my line of sight. I smiled uncontrollably as we both giddily exited the room.

When I got home, the first thing I did was open my math textbook. There was no reluctance now and only a happy smile on my face.

Tiny Hills of a Cactus

Emerald hills are cluttered around in a small pot of soil. A round, maroon pot contains the integral nutrients of a plant's existence. The soil is damp, still holding remaining bodies of water. Tiny beige rocks fill the soil like a perfectly blended mixture. Hiding the dark, gnarly clumps o tangles, the hairs of the cactus, reaching out to survive. Its roots are a mess of stringy substances, concealed.

A lump of cacti stems rise from the pot, creating a duster of greenery. Small bumps hang on the bigger hills, like little blemishes on the plant. The green stems are plump and prime, filled with enough water to survive many more days. Weeks. The luscious color is the indicator of the nourishing water that it contains.

The stems are shaped like rounded stars, five sides, but still in the form of an oval. Miniature, thin needles are systematically placed along its five edges, on little white pads, adorning the plant with its prickly protection. Some are blocked by the surrounding stem segments, only the prickly needles peeking over their crowns. The clumps are in an elegant fashion, standing one beside the other.

From the initial rise of the fairy castle cactus, many of the stands on the outer ring ceases to grow. In the middle of the plant, a few thicker, more vital hills jut out over the tiny mounds on the edge. Two stem segments are distinctly different from the others, a pink flower rests at their head.

From afar, the flower looks like beautiful extension of a delicate fruit from the cactus. On the closer, more careful look, one will notice that the flower is faux, a simple, yet exquisite blossom made of straw.

In the middle of all the juicy, there is one mounted which stands the tallest. Its body is thick and full, prickly coat glowing, with a glorious pink flower crested on its crown. It is the one grand stem, finishing of the clutter of tiny hills.

Each little stem is like its own tower, creating an intricate design to a mystical fairy castle – hence its name. The turrets are like loyal watch towers to the castle. Its base is thick, strong, and stable and its arms are placed in an orderly array, one wall after the other.

The cactus keeps a slow but steady pace in thriving, inching its way higher into the air. It keeps a stable growth with adequate sunlight and water. The cactus smells of spring blossoms in a sweet summer breeze. It smells of pureness and nourishment. It secretes the fresh winds of the ocean's tide, faintly dissolving into the air around it.

When the plant is fed, the cold, glistening water trickles down the cactus' arms and into the dark soil of the pot. The water droplets magnify the glowing green pigment of the plant while washing away its thirst. Cleansing it. Some of the sparkling beads stay on the stems, resting atop the water pouches. Waiting for the plant to slowly let it sink into the barrier.

The fairy-castle cactus stands proudly in its little home. The mountains are watchful, grand and steady. There is no haste in the plant's essence, no rush nor hurry. They ever slowly grow, extending their towers and sprouting more fuzzy needles. Soon, the land will no longer have a cluster of tiny hills. Soon, it will be a land of great mountains.

Taking Care of a Dog

Living with a dog, to some is a pleasure and a very rewarding experience and to others, is a nuisance and a hindrance. Although I have dealt and took care of some dogs before, usually small and easily controlled, nothing quite prepared me with dealing with a large retriever mix puppy, filled with an unlimited supply of energy and fueled with the stubborn curiosity of a three-year-old child.

As a golden retriever mixed with a German Sheppard, her coat was short, dirty blonde and in a course texture. The shorter fur framing her face and down her neck to her abdomen were softer and smooth. Her velvety ears flopped around, often upturned, exposing her sensitive ears. Her erratic tail was of average length, often wagging frantically in amusement. Yet, when she is hot upon a scent or the shark chatter of squirrels, her tail would momentarily freeze as she assessed the new environment. Her four paws, constantly roaming, bring her body here and there were long and smooth, of a sprinter.

Once in an fenced in yard, she would sprint across the expanse, running in circles, stopping under a tree to inspect its roots, then dart away as a new sound is introduced, stopping at the door of the fence, or by a patch of grass. Looking at me with cocked eyebrows, her blue leash in her mouth, she would plead silently to play a game of tug-a-war. Jumping around, prancing with her leash purposely flailing in the air, she would pounce on it, and drag it across the muddy ground, ever closer to my hand. Yet, if I made so much as a look towards a leash, she would simply tug the rope away, like a dragon hoarding its store of gold and jewels. Chasing after the rope, she would take off, turning around once in a while, with her tail wriggling and a snort at my slow moving form, she would taunt me with the leash, out of her mouth, right in front of her. Managing to snag the rope, I would hold onto it as both hound and I are brought to a breathtaking halt, mostly on my half. Confused at the sudden immobility, the canine would turn, clamp her teeth on the leash and tug, pulling back, as I resisted. As her grip on the leash loosens, she would adjust her grip, opening them slightly to gain better purchase of the fibrous material, a perfect opportunity to flick it out of her mouth. Without missing a beat, she would charge and lunge at the rope, leaping if it was to far up, until she felt her teeth snap shut on the rope in a satisfying clack. Once I let go, she would take off with her prize and find a suitable spot to flop town and tear at the rope, savoring her success.

As she returns into the house, she would make a beeline for the couch, although we have reprimanded her and told her to stay off. Stubborn as a water bison, she would leap on and join me after an exhausting walk, fumbling around a bit, before deciding to slump into a heavily breathing ball, her head resting on my lap. Caressing the top of her head, her eyes would droop down, but she always struggled to keep awake, like a head strong toddler refusing to admit that they were tired. Yet, every movement never escapes her observant eyes, as she watches us approach her cage, at the other side of the room. Feeling neglected, she would join us in a call for attention, as we coax her to enter her cage with toys and treats. Although reluctant to do so, the exertions of the day finally took its toil on her as she finally succumbs to the softness of her bed.

On the day that she had to leave, her tails wagged in anticipations as my friend, her owner, came back. Being let out of her cage, she circled around excitedly, nuzzling her way into a hug. Whining to go home, she lead our party towards the car, with an uncanny knowledge of the vehicle that would bring her home. Without hesitation, she bounded into the car, impatiently waiting for everyone to board. As my friend's car speed away into the night, a head of a dog turned around to face me, a blue leash hanging form her mouth.