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TPAC Education invited students attending the HOT presentations of Tennessee Rep's Holiday Memories to write a personal narrative their own favorite holiday memory and enter our contest. Winners were selected from student entries from each day's audience. In addition, we had several honorable mentions. Winning entries received a gift certificate and a pre-show stage reading by David Alford with Paul Carroll Binkley underscoring the essay on guitar. Teachers, students, TPAC and REP staff, as well as the show's performers thoroughly enjoyed the talented efforts of these young writers!
by James from Ms.Gwen Lane's 11th grade at McMinn County High School
Like countless families across the United States, my family once had a tradition of piling into a van every Thanksgiving and driving to an arbitrary distant and obscure location, where we would meet equally distant and obscure relatives for, to me during my younger years, distant and obscure reasons. In my case, the destination of this annual expedition was a small, sleepy town in the South-Georgian county of Macon called Montezuma. Here, at the cozy dwelling of my great-grandfather Lee, gathered all the relations of my mother’s side of the family once a year to share in not only a Thanksgiving dinner, football, and the usual small-talk of reunions, but also in a sort of generational exchange, where 9-year-olds conversed with 90-year-olds and formed enduring ties with relatives they had never met before. Seven years ago during my first visit, I was this 9-year-old.
Even as a child I was stricken with the atmosphere of my great-grandparents’ house. Nostalgia ached from every door hinge and sighed with every zephyr that stirred the nearby forest. Perhaps it was the smell of coffee and pecans that permeated the air, perhaps it was the pleasant and unaffected dialect of my Georgian relatives, perhaps it was the majestic, melancholy way in which Uncle Joel played "Memories" on his baby grand. Perhaps it was only the quiet feeling you get when you are around very old people, like my great-grandparents. Whatever it was, it dispelled the disillusionment that had begun creeping over me at the beginning of fourth grade.
The sense of awe and curiosity I had for these people who seemed to sing whenever they talked and to whom my parents assured me I was distantly related, restored in me the wonder of a toddler. I fished for doodle-bugs in the sand outside Granddaddy Lee’s garage, I caught anoles in the greenhouses of Uncle Joel’s nursery, I picked cotton from Mama Mac’s fields, pulling the seeds out to plant when I got back home, I learned how to use a camera so I could take a picture of a dead armadillo on the side of the road. Most importantly, though, I gained a respect for the past. The genteel, natural manner of my South-Georgian kinfolk somehow piqued the curiosity of me, a hyper-active fourth-grader, and held my attention long enough for me to learn of the "good old days." I was young enough to appreciate their stories of tail-finned convertibles and Elvis Presley, and left Georgia thinking that I had really cool great-grandparents.
My family stopped going to Montezuma for Thanksgiving after my great-grandparents died. The last I saw of Uncle Joel was his lanky arm sadly waving us farewell as my family and I drove down the sandy road in our van away from the pavilion of a funeral service, away from the forlornly swaying pines of a nursery, away from a now dark and dismal house where I once enjoyed Thanksgiving dinner among the congenial company of newly-discovered family members. It was not until this moment of transition that I understood how the friendly faces of my great-grandparents had broadened my perspective—they had given me my family’s history; they had given me a glimpse at all that was left of the past.
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by Amanda from Mrs. Mary Dennison's class 12th grade class at White House High School
The Holidays-the gathering of family that you haven’t seen in ages, the food, the good cheer-it has all the makings of being beautiful and memorable. It also has the ingredients for comical moments you thought only existed on television. Every Christmas my family gets together with our more pretentious relatives, and their eccentricities and their purbred bull dog combined make Christmas the reason I walk ten feet in front of my family in public settings.
You would assume that in their beautiful home with their expensive things, my uncle and his wife would put their enormous dog somewhere else when their entire family is around. This is not true, and as we sit, passing presents, dressed up nicely and catching up with the more obscure relatives, the dog, Buford, is running amongst us seemingly harmless. Then as the presents are being opened, cameras pop out and what follows has become an almost tradition in my family. Buford, who is not a big fan of the flashing lights, does not hide his anger and attacks everything within his reach. Knowing this the family curls up on the couch trying to protect our toes from harm, causing Buford to look elsewhere. That is when the presents become his unsuspecting victims. Buford begins attacking the presents, and if anyone tries to grab them he growls and stands over them possessively. My aunt Linda then has to calm all the children down who are genuinely frightened that the dog will hurt them but even more scared that they will not be getting any presents. Then when the dog has released the presents and moved on to chew on the gifts his eccentric owners gave him we all open our drool-covered gifts, smiling politely.
The Holidays aren’t always picture perfect and most of our families will not be inspiring any Hallmark movies. Despite their embarrassing antics, their bad choice in gifts, and their pets, we all know that without our family, we would be lost. They are the biggest connection to our past and to our future. The memories we create on these special days inspire a lifetime of traditions, that may or may not include our pets.
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by Chelsey from Ms. Malernee's 10th grade class at Harpeth High School
"It was the best of times; it was the worst of times." The ever so familiar line from a Charles Dickens novel. Oddly enough, this statement describes my favorite holiday. It was Thanksgiving, exactly six weeks after the death of my grandmother. It is funny how six weeks can seem like an eternity; however, it seemed as if it were only a few short days since we had been comforting one another while staring through tear-ridden eyes at her casket.
My grandma had always taken responsibility for the preparation of Thanksgiving dinner in its entirety. She was a wonderful cook and had always been famous for her potato salad. I can remember family gatherings when no one would eat until her specialty dish was there. The night before our family was to have the feast, my mother , my sister, and I slept over at my Grandpa’s house and attempted to begin the cooking. I do not think we ever fully appreciated everything that Grandma did until that moment. We were completely clueless as to where we should even begin. After a while of deliberating, we decided on what we needed to get done. We were to make the green beans, deviled eggs, buttermilk pies, and, of course, the potato salad. I remember my mother crying because she could not get the buttermilk pies exactly how they had been when Grandma made them. After a couple of hours of rushing around and trying to get things in order, it was finally time to go to bed. I was utterly exhausted, yet I could not seem to get any rest. I kept thinking about what the morrow would bring and if everthing would be all right.
I awoke the next morning to the sound of Good Morning America blaring on my Grandpa’s television, and the scent of fried apples on the stove. I bathed and put on clothes, and then sat in the small sunlit living room awaiting the arrival of the rest of my family. Soon, everyone was present and accounted for. Everybody had relatively dismal faces as if they could feel the emptiness from the moment they walked through the door. We all felt somewhat obligated to act as if everything was normal, for fear of upsetting the next person.
As the day went on, something made us realize that it was all right to talk about our loved one, and we suddenly found ourselves recalling precious memories. It seemed as if Grandma were still sitting in her chair at the kitchen table, laughing out loud about how crazy her "babies" were. For the first time in weeks there was a sense of well-being. The black clouds had rolled back, and the sunshine was finally staring to show through. This experience made me realize that no one is truly gone; they will always be alive inside the hearts of the people that loved them.
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by Drew from Ms. Brenda Stubblefield's 9th grade class at Warren County High School
December 25, 2003, I woke up on the floor of the waiting room at St. Thomas Hospital. Not wanting to leave my granny alone with our sick grandpa, my mom, my sister and I had spent the night on that cold floor to be near her. The rest of my family had gone home, and we had agreed to stay that night and relieve the others who had spent previous nights there. We made our bed with homey quilts and pillows, but the floor was still cold and hard. It was a restless night.
Granny was upstairs sleeping in the bed that was provided by the hospital for people who wanted to stay with their friends and family while they were in the hospital. It was the ninth day that Grandpa had been there and Granny had never left his side. Grandpa was stricken by complications from a blood clot in his leg. It was scary the day that I went in to visit him. He was on an automatic respiratory device. The United States Army had even allowed my cousin Jeremiah to come in from Iraq to see him.
The reason this memory sticks in my head over all other memories of Christmas was that I had always envisioned my grandpa as sort of superman. To see him like that in a hospital room so dependent on the breathing machine shocked my system. I learned how fragile the human body really is. I’ll never forget that sad Christmas at St. Thomas.
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by Danny from Mr. Larry O'Brien's 10th grade class at Benton Hall School
HURGAH!!!
I awoke with a start. It was the holiday season and I was four. The air in my room was cool and crisp, a side effect of the freshly fallen snow. I listened…
HURAGAH!!! it went again.
Slowly, I let myself down from my bed. Creeping across my room it happened again.
HURGAH!!!
I reached my door. Turning the brass colored doorknob, I creaked it open and slid into the hall.
I looked up and down the hall….nothing.
HURGAH!!!
It was coming from downstairs. I went to the top of the stairs and stared down the long path that led to the noise. A tap on my shoulder spun me around. My older sister by two years had also awakened. Together we headed down the stairs.
The stairs creaked as we went down them hand in hand.
HURGAH!!!
The stairs seemed endless. We reached the bottom of the long climb and peered through the kitchen. It was coming from the family room.
The kitchen was bleached white, an after effect of my mother’s fall cleaning. Other than a leaky faucet, it was in total order. In a kennel, in the corner, was our puppy dreaming loftily.
"Crackle," went a broken tile I stepped on. Both me and my sister held our breath…
HURGAH!!!
We continued and reached the other side of the kitchen and peered into the family room.
Peering in, we saw familiar sights: a TV in the corner and the large window with a manger scene in it, the Christmas tree decorated with tinsel and other decorations.
Then we saw IT on the couch.
HURGAH!!!
Our Nana, snoring.
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by Jackie from Ms. Mary Dennison's 12th grade class at White House High School
Holidays have always been big at my house, but Christmas was always celebrated unlike any other. As my brother, sister, and I have gotten older, we’ve quit celebrating to the extent that we used to, but I still cherish the memories I have of all those Christmases I enjoyed so much. I learned through these memories that no matter how silly or little the things my family did each year for Christmas were, they would always be special to me because of the impact they had on me over and over again each Christmas.
Although I could talk of more than fifty different Christmas memories, the one I’m writing about now is one of the happiest and most special memories I have of Christmas. On this memorable Christmas my whole family went to pick out the tree. We always got real trees because my mom loved the smell. We arrived at the tree place, and there were rows upon rows of trees. The smell of pine filled the air, and as we walked you could hear the crunch of pine needles beneath our feet. My siblings and I decided that it was too difficult to pick a tree, so we passed the time playing hide and go seek, running up and down the dozens of rows. My mom finally yelled for us to come and look at the tree she and my dad had chosen. We all quickly ran over to my parents and stared u p at the beautiful tree that was going to go in our living room. I couldn’t wait to get it home and start decorating. My dad tied the tree to the top of our minivan, which was a really funny sight because the tree was so large. We finally got the tree home and planted firmly in a pot in our living room so that we could decorate. We popped in our Flintstones Christmas tape and got down the Christmas decorations. Everything was wrapped in newspaper and most of the ornament looked as if they had been around for ages. We all had our own special ones we’d specifically hang. There were our Disney ornaments; my brother was Donald, my sister was Minnie, and I was Mickey. These ornaments were our favorites. We would dance to the Flintstone’s songs and sing at the top of our lungs while decorating the tree. It was so funny to see my dad twisting and dancing to the music while singing "The Night Before Christmas" along with Fred Flintstone. He always did have the best Fred Flintstone’s "Yabba Dabba Doo."
I’ll never forget that Christmas memory because it was filled with so much happiness, and although all those traditions such as having a real tree and our own special ornament seemed silly at the time, they mean more than you can imagine to me now. I may not always show that I love my family’s traditions or the silly way my dad acts like Fred Flintstone, but they have left a mark on me that will travel with me through life. Who knows, one day I might even be lucky enough to have a family of my own that decorates a real tree every Christmas, every child has his or her own special ornament, and my husband sings like a crazy man to the Fred Flintstone’s Christmas tape. I don’t think I would mind that at all.
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by Caleb from Ms. Nancy Warden's 7th grade class at Harris Middle School
My favorite memory was two years ago. I was eleven, and I loved to watch my brother write and play music. He and my cousin played together, and I thought they were the best. I wanted to be just like them and they knew it. Sometimes whenever I made noise it bothered them, but I think they enjoyed the audience.
They were teaching me how to play as I watched. Then I asked them to help me learn more so they did. They taught me all the bars and chords. They also taught me some of their easiest songs. They were the only ones that knew that I now liked to platy the guitar. My cousin had a few guitars that he was using so he let me borrow one, and I learned more and more everyday.
It had been a few months and I was still improving. It was getting closer and closer to Christmas, and I knew what I wanted already. I didn’t think my mom would want me to get a guitar not that she didn’t want us to play music, but she just didn’t like all the time we spent doing it.
Christmas was finally here. I woke up first and ran downstairs to wait. I watched some TV. My family finally got up and came downstairs. As we opened our presents, we got closer to the bigger ones. I found one that read To Caleb " Keep improving." From: Anonymous. Then, I opened it and it was the guitar. I was so excited, but who was it from? When I looked at my brother he had a big smile on his face. Then I knew.
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