Carl Sagan: A Man of Words

Today has been a day of surfing the net. A day of nothing and at this point in time, it feels good not to need to be anywhere or need to do anything. So, I sit here, eating pretzels and Ginger Ale; yes, so sophisticated.

On this day, November 9th, a man named Carl Sagan was born. Regardless of faiths or beliefs, all can agree that Sagan had a way with words. In this particular video called, "You Are Here" , Sagan's words shine light on what it means to be human and live on Earth in an immensely vast incomprehensible universe. We all have been brought to this Earth with opportunity. Somehow, you are there and I am here. Whether you believe in God or not, we can agree on this thing called life that we all have to play each day because we were put here on this planet. I suggest you watch the video and interpret it how you want.

Update Two

It's now November. How crazy is it that time flies?

Story 5 is almost finished and I will be happy when I can announce that it's finished!

Today, I will post some videos, pictures and some opinion perhaps.

On to blogging!

Update

I have to apologize for my absence in posting... I'm working really hard on a particular story for you all. Five days and counting...

Have a good night, ladies and gents!

The Story Series: Part Four: Through It All

My story for today has to do with one young lady in particular. She's one of the most amazing people I have in my life and am so in love with how blessed I am to have her as my sister. She has all the qualities I would want in myself. She has love, care, compassion, respect, honor and the list could go on and on. She has a brilliance about her.

Karli Anne Meier shined a light upon my life on October 20th, 1998 and became my sister.

The story I'm about to post is one about a difficult time in our lives. A story of silver linings and dreaming from within a dark place. I honestly don't know if she will remember this story as she was around the age of five, but she just might!

I'll speak from my perspective about a brief introduction to my childhood:
To be blunt and honest, it wasn't the best. As I used the words dark and difficult, that's exactly what it was. My dad was emotionally, verbally and physically abusive. I was raised to defend myself by having to be head strong and always keeping a bright outlook on the future (something to look forward to). My mom had to work long hours for the family because my dad either couldn't keep a job or didn't want one. She had to bring home the bacon so-to-speak and often worked late to compensate for the 160 miles she had to drive each day to work. In this, this meant that Tim (I usually call my dad, Tim, for good reason) was home more often to care for Karli and I. Don't get me wrong, there was some artificial "good" times (after a long time and so many bad memories overcome the good), but in our case, divorce was a better out than them staying together.


A sister is a gift to the heart, a friend to the spirit, a golden thread to the meaning of life. ~Isadora James

It was a fall Monday night when Mom came home. Her car lights ran their course into the driveway and both Karli and I felt that blink of excitement that "Mom was home!" Tim paced back and forth in the kitchen as he prepared a marinated flank steak, silently. Karli gave me those eyes that said that he was upset and to be heads up. By this time in our childhoods, we had perfected signals to each other and ways to deescalate a tense situation.

We made the decision to walk out to Mom's car to "help her bring her things in". We walked out to her car in the crisp fall air to warn her that Tim was in a mood. As we all three walked into the house, Tim was already up for a confrontation. This time it was the fact that "we loved Mom more than him".

I told Karli to meet me up in our room upstairs. I did that as often as I could because I knew that arguing like he did was nothing normal, nor healthy. To be honest, I don't know how I got upstairs or out of the argument, but all I know is that when I got up to our bedroom, I found Karli crying. Looking back on it, us kids never really cried. I mean we had more than enough excuses in my opinion to cry, but we really didn't.

I asked her what was wrong and she said she didn't want Dad to think that we loved Mom more than him. I told her that he was just trying to start something. He would always pick something to fight about whether it was putting the toilet paper on "backwards" or putting a big item in the trash that "took up too much space". She said that she knew he did and she just wished that we could make him happy.

I attempted to change the conversation to something good. "What do you want to be when you grow up, Kar?" After what seemed to be careful thought, she replied with, "I want to be a vet or a firefighter." "Ohhhh! Those are good choices! What made you think of those!?" I asked. "Well, a vet can take care of pets. Everyone loves their pets because they are always there and happy. A vet saves animals that make people happy! And a firefighter puts out fires and saves animals and pets sometimes! They can die trying to save people and houses, but they still try!"

I was floored with how she wanted to help people. It was hard to imagine her all grown up and ready to face life. I gave her a hug and we sat there and talked and talked about where we wanted to live and go to school.

I couldn't imagine my life without my lifelong companion. There's definitely a special bond between us just like most sisters. We keep secrets for one another, seen each other at our lowest points and highest and so on.

I'm so proud of my sister. I would go above and beyond for her in anything. What ever she decides to do when she grows up, I know that she will succeed far beyond what is expected of her as she always does!

To the outside world we all grow old. But not to brothers and sisters. We know each other as we always were. We know each other's hearts. We share private family jokes. We remember family feuds and secrets, family griefs and joys. We live outside the touch of time. ~Clara Ortega

Something Taken: Past Writings: Card Games

I wrote this piece in early 2007 when my parents were beginning the divorce process. Divorce > Marriage in this case. It was a blessing.

Card Games

It's not real, it's fake.
In a dream so far away from wake.
From crying to lying,
from flying to falling all in matter of seconds.
Trying to be strong,
but way too long to stay strong for long.
Trying to picture every word said,
but every word led to a lie.
No way of bypassing,
no way of ignoring.
It's staring at you in your face,
laced with lies and doubts.

Reign and unhappiness,
but through it all one has to fall.
Only one,
sick and confused.
Dazed and drugged.

Three are free from all the lies,
deceit and doubts.
A triangle of three sides that don't have room for another side.
So let it fade,
fade,
fade into the dark.

From the dark to the light,
as bright as the sun.
Into fun and memories.
Flying first class into happiness.

You see...

Life is never ending.
You have to play your cards right.
Play 'em right;
Get a royal flush.

You're on your way to an all out,
on the way to the perfect life;
Aces, spades, the whole parade.

From hell to Heaven in just a few conflicts.
With love, hope, trust and honesty;
Even with rooms crumbling in,
you can pinpoint the problem.
Building the walls that were once broken,
into walls that are indestructible.

Kassi Meier 3/2007

The Story Series: Part Three: Throw Like a Girl

Today, the story I'm about to tell you is one that I always reflect back on when I need a reminder that I can and am worthy of keeping up. There's a quote that caught my attention in the movie, A Cinderella Story (of course I watched that movie. I was obsessed with Hilary Duff for nearly all of my elementary years!). The great Babe Ruth once said, "Never let the fear of striking out keep you from playing the game."

I was nine years old and playing with the boys on the Expos. Yup, you heard it; the Montreal Expos... In Issaquah Little League and yup, with the guys. At this time, I was playing pitcher, catcher and second base and was one of two girls that were still playing baseball, not softball in Issaquah. Being nine and it being my fifth year in boy's baseball, I can assure you I had already been scrutinized for still playing, but those I was teammates with supported me through and through.

I still remember some issues that always arose when it came to again signing up in the spring. "Why doesn't she have to wear a cup?" or "She can't play with the boys! She's a girl!" My favorite was always, "It's an unfair advantage! No boy will be able to tag her in some spots!" Uhh... Okay.

It came down to an early Saturday morning doubleheader against the Blue Jays. We had never faced this team before. It was always the best to watch all the parents, let alone the opposing boys watch me take the mound. Talk about snickers and laughter. "Oh hey! Look! A giirrrrrlllll is pitching! Hahahahahha!" Yeah. There was laughter until they stepped in the batter's box, then I was the one laughing as was my team. I always pitched half my hardest when I was warming up just to make it seem like I really was a "sissy girl".

Now you have to take into account that by the time I was nine, I was towering over the boys by six inches to a foot. If anything was an unfair advantage, it was my height compared to the boys. At one of my pitching lessons that year, I clocked 59 mph (by my 15th birthday, I clocked 83 mph; my fastest I will have ever thrown). Throwing near 60 mph and with the mound being 46 ft away from home plate, it makes for a pretty intimidating image.

I took the mound in the bottom of the first and retired the side all with strikeouts. It got to the point where I had come into the bottom of the fifth with a no-hitter on my hands. The third batter in the Blue Jay lineup was their second baseman, the kid that had told me to go play with barbies and get off the field when I had hit a double in the second inning. Well, this kid had it coming from me. By the bottom of the sixth and two outs with the final chance for the Jays to come back, it was torrential downpour. The snaggletoothed bully just so happened to be the one to step into the batter's box with a cocky kid grin on his face. My first pitch was a high inside fastball my catcher called for; push him off the plate. I threw my hardest and heard the ball hit the mitt with a loud smack. "Striiiikkkkeeee!" (That was always the best when the umpire got into the game.)

My catcher signed for a change up, low and inside. "Strike twooooo!"
As I watched the boy give a reassuring look to his third base coach, I knew what I was going to do; give him a full count. Yeah... I was a cocky nine year old girl, but hell, I was able to because I had the confidence in my abilities (something I think goes away the older you get in some aspects).

The count was 2-3. The sopping wet parents and both teams were in uproar at this point and I remember feeling like we were in the 2000 World Series. Time seemed to slow and my focus was on the catcher's glove. Fastball. I wound up and let that ball rotate off my fingertips. The bully kid loads his bat and begins his swing...

Whiff. Strike three.

The kid began to cry. Not just a little sniffle or whine; full out cry. My team all gave a quick glance at him and then looked back at me and gave big grins.

I will never forget making that kid cry. One because he was a heckler and two, because he so deserved it.

Taking a chance is a part of life. You have to take your consequences and run with them full speed. I'm glad I was cocky on the mound when I was nine.

Below is the picture of Connie Morgan taken in 1955. She was recruited at age 19 and was the third of 3 women in the Negro Baseball League.  Connie played for the Indianapolis Clowns 1954-1955 and the North Philadelphia Honey Drippers, an all female team. Morgan had a career batting average of .368, ironically the record is held by Ty Cobb at .366.

To read more about Morgan:
http://www.coe.ksu.edu/nlbemuseum/history/players/morgan.html

Something Taken: Wisdom of the Native Americans

On Labor Day, I ventured out to Barnes & Noble to seek out some of their sales they had going on and man, did I score. I bought five books under four dollars each. These include:

1. Special Forces Unarmed Combat Guide by Martin Dougherty
2. The 100 Most Infamous Criminals by Jo Smith
3. From This Moment On by Shania Twain
4. The Wisdom of Native Americans by Kent Nerbern
5. When You Come to a Fork in the Road, Take It by Yogi Berra

If you know me even a little bit, all of this books describe something about me.

The one I'm reading at the moment is The Wisdom of Native Americans by Kent Nerbern. Here's one excerpt that really interests me:

"The Moral Strength of Women: In the woman is vested the standard of morals of our people. She is the silent but telling power behind all of life's activities. She rules undisputed in her own domain. The children belong to her clan, not to the clan of the father. She holds all the family property, and the honor of the house in her hands. All virtue is entrusted to her and her position is recognized by all. Possessed of true feminine dignity and modesty, she is expected to be the equal of her mate in physical endurance and skill, and to chare equally in the arduous duties of daily life. But she is expected to be superior in spiritual insight. She is the spiritual teacher of the child, as well as its tender nurse..." (pg. 107-108)

The Story Series: Part Two: For a Laugh

My next story has to do with perspective in a bad situation. I've heard the saying, "out of every bad situation, something good can come from it." I believe this is true in various positions in life. My childhood for example, has proven this statement in full (also something I will write on later).

It was the spring of 2008 and the regional high school 1A baseball tournament was about to begin in Moses Lake. Rick and I, both die-hard baseball fans were on a mission to watch the regional tournament on that dry weekend in May, but unfortunately, we never made it.

We got up early Saturday morning, armed with quad-shot mochas and snacks on hand. I loaded up my newly bought Volkswagon Passat with our baseball gloves and water; it was gonna be a hot one and a great weekend to watch America's favorite pastime.

We were on the road by 7 am to make to sure to get to Moses by 9 for the first game of the tourney. Stopped in Ellensburg for some gas and we were less than an hour out from our destination. Little did I know, my lifelong investment into my new car was about to go down the drain...

As we passed Kittitas, we headed east towards Vantage; a small town that sits on the Columbia River. As we traversed the ridge into the valley, about ten miles west of Vantage, my car made a sputter-sputter-sputter sound. "Shit, are you serious?!" Within seconds, no sound came from my car that was still travelling 60 mph with cars all around us... Sweet. I put my four way flashers on and pulled to the side of the road and popped the hood. At that time, Rick being 18 and me being 16, we really didn't know jack about cars other than checking the usual stuff. We tried the ignition again, but still no luck. The car was done for.

My initial thought was that I should probably call my mom and see what my next step should be and then it hit me; we are in the middle of nowhere, desert and dry heat. No reception with either of our phones... Again, sweet...

We brainstormed on what to do since no one was pulling over for us and we had no way of getting a hold of anyone. So, we took out our baseball mitts and decided to play catch on the side of the freeway. I can imagine how weird we must of looked to the passersby; two kids playing toss on the side of the road. After about a fifteen minute session of catch, we choose to take a little hike to the top of the hill to our south to see if we could get any reception. That was a good choice because we did although it was only one bar. I called my mom and told her the situation. Furious, as was I due to the fact that I had just bought the car, said that she would call a tow truck to come get us.

By this time, it was nearly 11:30 am and the tow truck still had not shown. Rick was pacing back and forth and wasn't looking so good. "Are you alright?" I asked. He paused, "Yes, but I need to go number two... Really bad..." So here we are, in the middle of the desert at ninety degrees with no toilet paper... Really!? The best I could find was a magazine and tore some pages out of the back. I gave them to him and tried to hide my laugh as a began to turn around and walk the other direction. "Where do you think you're going?" he asked in a sly voice. "Uhh... You want me to go with you?" I asked in return. "Yessss. There are rattlesnakes out there and I need a lookout!" Ohhh gawsh...

We again climbed the hill so that no one could spot him from the freeway. As he found a decent " desert restroom", we could hear rattles in the distance. As we decended down the hill, we stopped and looked at each other. We busted up laughing. How much more is going to not go our way today?! Thankfully, nothing more except paying $150 for a tow truck that day. Later, I found out that my timing belt blew and damaged all the pistons. Woo for Kelleher Motors (hint, hint).

Looking back on that day, we still laugh. No reception, playing catch, rattlesnakes, desert pooping and using magazine pages as toilet paper. Ahh, great epicness of May.

The Story Series: Part One: With a Battle

This is the first entry to The Story Series, a seven part series of stories in my life where I've learned key concepts. Pretty self explanatory, right?

I remember this night like it was last night. So crisp and clear in my mind now, but at the time I was a mess of tears, hopelessness and loss. The story I'm about to tell you is the defining moment when I realized I am the only one who makes my destiny and controls my attitude.

January 23rd, 2011:
A cold, dark, cloudy Sunday night in Cle Elum, Washington. Snow lay on the ground and the air was hard to take in due to how cold it was. Rick and I sit in my car, silent yet holding hands; the vents blasting out hot air. Earlier in the day, he had told me the he was at his last option of getting an education and out of Cle Elum. He was going to join the Navy as soon as he could. A steady pay check + school paid for + travelling the world = an offer he couldn't pass up.

At the time, you have to understand that I didn't understand. We had been dating for four years by that time, why would we chose to not be able to talk to each other for a long period of time, let alone see each other. A few month earlier I had turned 19 and not even a year earlier had a graduated high school. Now this was going to be the make-it-or-break-it for Rick and I and our relationship. We had a lot to think about. So sitting in that car, silent, with the winter cold outside and the hot, dry air inside, made the seconds seem to go by in slow motion.

I had to get over Snoqualmie Pass before it got too late since I had college in Bellevue the next day and I couldn't find the words I wanted to day to him. I was struggling between being optimistic and angry... And confused (typical girl, right?). I choked back my tears that had been lingering there for a couple hours and said my "I'll see you next weekend" phrase that I almost couldn't get out. He just looked at me with a small smile that I saw a little sadness in as well. We exchanged our "I love you"'s and watched him walk in to the house. I pulled out of his driveway and left for the longest week I've ever been in.

I was living with my grandparents (on my mom's side) at the time and as I drove the sixty miles over the pass to their house, I kept thinking how I was supposed to act "normal" for the next week. It was around 10:30 pm and as I pulled into their driveway, I found the lights were on in the kitchen with Grandma Janice and Grandpa Pete at the kitchen counter watching Rachel Maddow on MSNBC. I gave a thoughtful smile knowing that they had stayed up a little later than usual to see me home. I was welcomed at the door with a, "Are you hungry? I can cook you up some chicken or we have this fabulous homemade soup!" from Grandma Janice.

Grandma Janice has this way about her that can get you to talk even when you don't think you can. She gives you a look. A look that I can't describe, but can get you to talk.

The week ahead was a rough one. It was almost like the winter's cold had begun to run through my veins. Thursday hit and I was an emotional wreck. I wasn't hungry, I couldn't sleep and I couldn't help but to pout around; it was disgusting looking back at it. That night, I sat downstairs staring deep into the television when Grandma came down. She sat right down next to me, patted my knee and gave me that look.

I spilled. No, more than spill... I erupted. In fact, I can't even recall a quarter of what I said. I blubbered out my emotions, all of them, at once.

This is where the tide turned. After minutes of my whining and saying who-knows-what, she gave me a faint smile and reached into her pocket. She pulled out a dreamcatcher. "Life will never be easy, Kassi. There will be things in the years to come that will make you want to fall to your knees and never want to get back up, but you will. You will make it out just fine. You're gonna look back on this and laugh, young lady. You're a fighter," she said. She went on to describe why she brought the dreamcatcher was to ware off bad dreams.

I will never forget what she said. It's been a reminder to me in many instances over the year that times may seem shitty, but that doesn't mean that it will remain that way. I can proudly say that I've weathered months apart from the man I love and come out stronger than I had before. I can persevere. We can persevere.

My grandmother has seen and been through it all. She still the strongest person I know and it's an honor to be apart of her. I can only hope to be as hip as she is when I'm in my 70's. I'll write more about her later on, I can assure you.

Pilot

I've decided to get back into my writing and thought that today, Sunday, September 2nd, 2012 would be the perfect day to do it. Why today you ask? Well, today counts as the 7621 day I've been alive, so why "waste" another day not writing?! Why is that important? It's important because those are 7621 days that I will never get back and from this day forward I want to keep a blog going for a year straight (#54 on the bucketlist).

I chose the name "The 91 Intern" for the reason that I will always be an intern in life. There are obstacles that I've faced and persevered through and there are great, epic moments witnessed that have morphed me to into who I am. There will be stories I will tell you, opinions I believe and thoughts that I may need to get out.

WARNING: Some days I may use mature language, bring up topics that are rated R and have opinions that aren't yours. Keep reading at your own risk.

Wanna find out how many days old you are?
http://www.derbyshireguide.co.uk/young.htm