Melancholy

I am feeling slightly melancholy.

I have no real reason to, I know this. At least intellectually.

It's Spring Break. The house is quiet and mine for a few blissful hours. The sun is shining. I slept in as long as I wanted to. There is beautiful music coming from my computer.

Yet still.

My emotions don't always have to make sense. They don't exist to be justified. They just exist. They are. And while sometimes I think I do need to snap out of it and move on, I also think that feeling and really just sitting with your emotions is important. Not wallowing. Just learning to be.

Just like how I usually don't (can't) fall asleep without music, but last night, it was perfectly quiet. And that was exactly what I needed. I went straight to sleep.

Melancholy because last night was my last time being in the Emergency Department. After only seven weeks, I had found a place where I felt comfortable. A place where I felt I fit. Because of the people and the environment and the newness and the sameness and learning and talking and being bored and flying high on new experiences. All of it. I just fit. That's the only way I know how to say it.

And then, I had to say goodbye.

Knowing perfectly well that I will probably never see any of those people (patients and employees) again. The jokes and the pain. The experience and newbies.

Those memories will start to fade. Already, they're blurring. Despite my writing and recording in that little notebook.

I just hope that while the specifics will fade, the important things will stay. Most notably, the way I felt while there. In the midst of it all. Belonging.

College

Barring any failing grades next semester, I can now call myself a Grinnell college student. 

-Insert giggling and shrieking and giddiness here-

And this is the essay (the one my English teacher hated), that I think played a rather large role in my acceptance.

Mr. B opened my eyes to my own potential and taught me that there’s more to learning than getting a perfect score. His words are the little voice in the back of my mind telling me that I can do it and to never give up.

I hated writing with a passion throughout elementary school. The process of the five-step paragraph seemed a special way to torture me and the cursive script slowed me to a snail’s pace. I had so much to say, but I couldn't figure out a way to get it out on the page fast enough and in a way that would satisfy the strict requirements for the number of sentences and complex sentences, transitional words, and a color-coded final product.

The first assignment Mr. B gave our fifth-grade class was to compare a fan to a pencil. He gave us a sheet of paper and time, as much or as little as we needed, and off we went. The first few times I sat at my desk, paralyzed by my fear of being anything less than perfect. I couldn’t fathom the idea of writing without strict boundaries being set for me. Mr. B acknowledged my fear and then went right on smashing down all the boundaries by letting us throw paint, go outside, listen to music, or just sit in silence to find inspiration.

Mr. B knew that I had been taught to write within the lines, and here I was, scribbling furiously on the current assignment, without any lines to guide me. While I sat hunched over my desk, Mr. B walked around the room. He was ready with a joke if I was stuck or with a smile if I wanted him to give me the right answer, but he never interrupted me while the words were flowing.

The balance he struck between letting me figure it out for myself and giving me enough help so I wouldn't feel lost and abandoned was impressive. I had room to grow; to grow as far and as fast as I could, without the loss of my support system. If anything, I learned that sometimes the best kind of support a person can receive is to know that someone is there, but to have that person step back and let you take on the world by yourself.

During the nine months of fifth grade, I learned to do more than just write words; I learned to craft them into a final product that had significance and could clearly communicate my thoughts and ideas to the world. Mr. B gave me freedom to write, to grow, and to make mistakes by obliterating the idea that everything I wrote had to be perfect. After he had given me all the tools I needed to tear down the barriers around my mind, he stepped back as I discovered the amazing new world outside of perfection.

October

In ninth grade I got a cold about two months in to school. In October. And I never got better.

It always starts with a cold.

These are the facts.

It's October now.

I'm ready for October to be over.

Every time I miss a day of school I worry.

And wonder.

Trying not to be negative or morbid, but wondering.

Is history going to repeat itself?

Am I going to recover from this?

Or will I, once again, spend the next three years sick, at home?

It's October.

I'm ready for it to be over.

Ready to enter a new month, ready to leave the past behind.

Ready to start making new memories.

Ready to start living without being chained to the past.

In the Elevator

I stride purposefully toward the elevators. The "up" button is already glowing orange, so I lean against the wall, grateful for even a quick break. Already waiting is a man juggling two full hands of cafeteria food.

We do that little stranger dance where our eyes meet briefly, and then we both look away quickly, each pretending we weren't sizing up the other person.

"These elevators are painfully slow" I say to break the silence.

"Oh, I know," he replies, "I've been here for five weeks."

"Wow" I say. I leave the word hanging in the air, not wanting to pry, but hoping he'll continue.

"Yeah. My wife's pregnant and on bed rest."

"Wow" I say again "When's she due?"

"October" he replies as the middle elevator dings.

We both move forward as the doors open. He gestures with his full hands that I should go ahead. I smile in thanks and enter the small space.

Pressing "6", I ask "Which floor?"

"5" he answers as the doors close and we jerk upward.

"October's a good birthday month." I smile. "Both my mom and I can attest to that."

"I think so too. I'm the third."

We smile at each other over this small coincidence.

"How long are you going to be here?"

"Until October."

"That's a long time to eat hospital food."

"Yes, but it means my wife and baby are getting the care they need. They're in the best place they could be, so I'm more than happy to be here with them, eating hospital food."

The elevator dings and the doors open onto the fifth floor.

"Good luck" I tell the man as he exits, still balancing two more hospital dinners.

The doors slide shut again and I lean against the wall.

I've never met anyone so happy to be in the hospital. Seeing it as a way to keep his family safe and healthy.

I straighten as the elevator arrives at my floor.

I brush back my hair with one hand, checking my badge is still in place and stride out of the open doors, back onto the bustling Surgical Trauma floor at shift change.

***

This was several months ago. Today is October third. I wonder about this man, whether he is holding his precious child, or if he's still patiently waiting next to his wife, eating hospital food.

***

I almost never write with dialog, so I am very aware that all the grammar is far from correct. Hopefully it's still legible, and if you know the rules, I would appreciate it if you shared your knowledge.

Beloit

This map confuses me. I have no idea where we are. But that's not exactly new.

I finally find a street name on the map that I see out my window, but by the time I look up again, it's long gone. My dad makes an executive decision to park and just start exploring. The worthless map is left in the car; hopefully we won't be forever lost in the world of dorms and green grass.

I walk slowly. I'm telling myself it's so I have time to take it all in, but really, I'm just tired. I'm full of greasy pizza, ready to get to a hotel that I'm hoping has a comfortable pillow. I'm on my third, and thankfully last, campus, and sadly aware of how they are starting to blend.

I like Grinnell, not Knox, but the little details, the ones that seemed so important while I was there? They're fading. Already blurring with the beautiful flowers I see ahead of me. The brick buildings lining each side of the path I make my slow way down.

Greek letters adorn houses further behind me. A shiny new building catches the last remnants of the setting sun.

A long sidewalk leads me around behind a big building. It looks like the sports center, but I can't tell much from the uniform exterior. The sidewalk ends next to a busy road and a power plant. Clearly we've left the manicured side of campus, left behind the part that we, as visitors, are supposed to see.

The sidewalk feels long and slightly endless as we head back the same way we came.

Tomorrow I will see the poetry garden, with the cool shade offered by huge trees, strategically placed benches, and little gazebos tucked away. I will see the inside of the buildings, each with their own character and flair. I will talk to people who describe Beloit as the best place on earth, the perfect college.

I will smile and nod, knowing it's a sales pitch. I will be slightly turned off by the fact that I am getting a well-rehearsed show. All movements and voices carefully choreographed. I will remind myself that it is what it is, and try to focus on the positives.

The beautiful campus, the strong academics, the tales of welcoming people, the study abroad opportunities.

Yet I can't get away from the first feeling I had. That it's a great campus. A wonderful school. But it's not the right fit for me.

Knox

I stare out the window, waiting eagerly for the appearance of green grass and manicured flower beds and academic-looking buildings. I keep referring to the map in hand, trying to figure out where we are, and where we're supposed to be going. We cross some streets with inventive names like Main and Cherry before finding the correct one.

I step out of the car into the heavy air. I try to tell myself I'm used to it by now.

I'm lying.

There are more tall trees, unfamiliar to me, the Coloradan, and cicadas abound.

I leave the map in the car, wanting instead to figure it out for myself. I strike out in a promising direction, my parents a few steps behind. I cross the street, heading for a sidewalk that leads to the most prominent building in sight. Its large frame and old stonework give it the appearance of extreme age. But instead of seeming imposing or regal, it just looks tired. Like it needs a long nap, and maybe a face-lift.

All the doors are locked, but I'm not surprised. The campus seems dead. I haven't seen so much as the shadow of another person; we are clearly the only people here. I wander around the building, and reach its front doors. Plaques on either side of the entrance proclaim its status as one of the oldest buildings in town, as well as the historical debate that was held here.

The sidewalk dead ends the way I was going, so I turn around and head back. I run into construction tape and dirt when I try to turn left, so instead I turn right.

More brick buildings stand silently in front of me. Their faces are impassive. They've seen too many young, eager students to be impressed by my presence.

I turn and stop, waiting for my parents to reach me. They have stopped to read more plaques that are mounted by an old bell tower.

As they reach me, I indicate that I am ready to head back to the car. They nod, and we make the detour together around more construction. Back at the car, I give the campus another searching look. I can't articulate, even to myself, what I'm looking for, but I don't find it.

I return my gaze to the car, and settle myself in for the drive.

Grinnell

We walk side by side, three of us on a sidewalk built for two. Weeds line each side of the cement, encroaching on the straight lines. Cicadas sing their noisy song, growing louder as we approach the larger trees. Sweat drips down my back before it gets caught in my waistband. I lift my hair off my neck, trying to catch a non-existent breeze on my sticky skin.

I tie my hair back. We cross the street and are greeted by tall prairie flowers. They line the street, bursting with color and life.

I walk ahead, not sure where I'm going. There are large brick buildings on my right, smaller houses on the left. The green grass tickles my ankles as I step off the sidewalk. Under a big maple, I sit down on a bench. The wood is old and warped, but the rest it offers is appreciated.

Joined by my parents, we sit quietly. I swing my feet, scuffing the ground that hundreds of students before me have scuffed.

Ahead of me I see a large statue, a sidewalk cutting diagonally through the grass, and a low brick building, partially hidden by greenery.

I stand up and wander towards the statue, curious. Many of the trees I pass are marked by plaques, in remembrance of loved parents, spouses, and alumni.

The statue turns out to be a giant sundial, donated by a class from before my parents were born.

The doors make a quiet sucking noise as I pull them open. I step into a cool room. A tiled floor, signs pointing me to classrooms and professor's offices, wooden doors with small windows. Steps leading up and down. I explore further into the building, away from the door.

It no longer feels cool; my hair is still stuck to the back of my neck and my feet slide around in my flip flops. A large glass display case greets me, filled with old cameras and phonographs. A person walks by us; someone who looks like they belong, probably a student here to do research.

I leave the air-conditioning before my parents are ready. I spend some time smelling the flowers, taking grainy pictures on my phone, and soaking in the feel of the campus.

I point my feet back the way we came. I slowly make my way back to our car, waiting to pick up my pace until I hear their footsteps behind me. I run my hand over the sign that announces "Grinnell College" that sits proudly on the main intersection. The stone is rough under my fingers, saying good-bye, until next time.

Barefoot

I rarely go barefoot anymore.

I'm either wearing socks, or shoes, or my stockings. (I wear compression stockings every day for medical reasons.)

I don't walk outside. I don't get to feel the rough gravel under my feet, or curl my toes into the grass.

I miss the solid feeling of the ground beneath my feet. Feeling connected to the earth.

I point my toes and take little leaps over the prickly pine needles. The grass is long; it tickles my ankles. The moist soil greets the soles of my feet. I step on something squishy. I'm pretty sure it was a mushroom, but I don't really want to know.

My leap lands me on a large flat stepping stone. Artificially made to look natural, my feet immediately know the difference. Too uniform intexture, the edges are too round.

I hop lightly from one to the other, avoiding the stray pieces of bark that have made their way onto the path.

Another skip lands me on rough concrete. The worn down texture, with all its grooves and bumps, gives away its age. The small bits of gravel and sand, indistinguishable from the concrete according to my eyes, are shap outcroppings against my tender skin.

The mat outside the door is soft and slightly damp. It gently caresses my feet as the wipe the earth from them. I prepare to step inside, onto the cold, unforgiving tile.

The End

The doorbell rings.

I jam my hat onto hopefully-presentable hair and adjust my glasses one last time. Bag slung over my shoulder, I walk quickly to the door.

I fumble with the lock for a moment, able to see her face beyond the door, before it finally releases. I wrap my arms around her in a big hug, careful not to poke her with my hat or glasses. I don't want to think about how long it's been.

We both step back, and she makes introductions between me, her boyfriend, and my parents. There are a few sentences of small talk exchanged before my parents wish us well, and we leave.

I hold my hat; my glasses and cloak are stuffed in my bag as we walk to the entrance. No one questions our tickets, but direct us through lines of caution tape to join the waiters.

It's 5:45 PM, only six hours and 17 minutes to go.

The tile is cold and hard, but then the Boyfriend remembers he has a sleeping bag in his car. So that's what boyfriends are for!

Marginally more comfortable, we kick off our shoes, prepared to wait.

I do my best to not look at the time every five minutes; I know it will just make the wait that much longer. We play Harry Potter Uno and I can't keep track of the direction we're supposed to be going.

A man in a Gryffindor scarf yells at us to stand up, so the whole line dutifully picks up their stuff that has magically expanded in the last hour and walks forward through the maze. After five minutes of standing, it is apparent that is all the movement we will get for a while, so the sleeping bag is set back down, shoes are kicked off, cards are reshuffled, and the time is checked.

Another round of Uno is played. The Friend and Boyfriend have a pretzel and pizza, while I attempt to read my book. People are talking loudly, and it seems that with each new person that joins the line, everyone feels the need to increase their volume level.

A quiet couple are behind us.

In front of us we see friends from school. The Friend and Boyfriend know the people who camped out last night in front of the theater and have now claimed the coveted first spot in line.

I see a golden snitch, and a Platform nine and three quarters. A few Bellatrixes, a Snape, multiple witches and wizards. My hat and glasses have long since been discarded, in the hope of becoming slightly more comfortable.

Our new spot is next to a wall, which is lovely to lean against, at least in theory. But my back doesn't seem to think it's much better.

I make my way through several rows of people, and stand in line to buy a four dollar coffee. I need all the caffeine I can get.

By the time I get back, it appears we're going to move again. Anything for a change of scenery. And it's only 8 PM. I don't want to think about the next four hours.

We end up on carpet this time, but by butt is already numb and can't really tell the difference. My knees are complains loudly, whether curled up or out straight. My back is long gone, and my hips are starting to ache. I'm trying really hard not to think about all this.

The Boyfriend comes back, disgusted with the new policy of no free refills. I read a few more pages. We discuss the movie.

We sit. We wait.

Finally, we stand again. Four friends come and join us. People are surprisingly fine with people joining the line. I'm just a little put out that they get such a good spot, only because we've been waiting for the past three hours. I go to the bathroom, again. When I come back, the hall is empty, quiet. It's nice for about two seconds, but then I realize I'm going to have to find my group in the theater, and I don't have my cell phone.

I find them. After freaking out only a little.

We sit. At least I'm semi-comfortable now. We wait. We cheer every hour, as 12:02 creeps closer and closer.

We talk. I entertain the idea of dozing off, but it's not going to happen. This had better be a really good movie.

The lights dim. A cheer that makes my head hurt rises up from the hundreds of people in our theater. I add to the noise, clapping and cheering.

The music begins. We quiet down. And wait for the magic.

The Beginning

The young girl, let's call her Tailynn, stretches out on the bed. It's not the most comfortable bed in the world; it's one of those pull-out couches that you only tolerate when you're visiting family. It is barely big enough for both her mom and her own growing frame.

Her mom stretches out beside her, and they both kick their feet up, relaxed. Tailynn's grandparents are taking their afternoon nap, and have left Tailynn and her mom to entertain themselves for a few hours.

Caren opens the brand new book. Purchased in the airport, it was double the regular price, but it was something she felt she would need to keep Tailynn entertained.

The spine cracks in a satisfying way, signifying that it is ready to share the story it holds within it.

Caren clears her throat, and begins, "Mr. and Mrs. Dursley, of number four, Privet Drive, were proud to say that they were perfectly normal, thank you very much..."

First Snow

“Goodnight. I love you.” She closes the door behind her. Feeling the rough surface of the wall, she makes her way past the bathroom and into her bedroom. It is slightly illuminated by light coming in through the partially open shades. Still clutching her books, she makes her way across the cluttered space to say goodnight to the world.

A ray of light bounces into her eyes. Surprised, she presses her face against the shade’s slats.

A shrill squeal of “Snow!” escapes as her books tumble to the floor.

“Snow!”

She runs back across the room with no regard for the haphazard piles. Slipping slightly on the slick floors, she rounds the corner, rips opens the door, and shrieks, “Snow!”

Her dad’s head jerks up, startled by her sudden appearance. The girl grabs his arm and drags him to the nearest window. Ripping open the curtain, she points, proudly proclaiming, “Snow!”

“Oh, wow. You’re right, that’s a lot of snow.”

“I know! It’s the first actual snow! It’s actually covering the ground and sticking and everything!”

“Let’s go outside!”

The girl blinks, hesitating for a split second. She is surprised that her dad is volunteering to go out into the cold, after bedtime. 

However, she doesn’t leave him time to change his mind. Jamming her stocking feet into the closest pair of shoes, she reaches for a coat. “Hurry! Come on! Let’s go!”

Barely giving her dad time to grab a hat, she wrenches open the door.

She breathes in the cold air. Laughing, she trips out onto the driveway.

“Snow.”

In awe, she looks up. Flakes fall steadily, buffeted gently by a wind.

“It’s snowing!” Her voice is raised, probably too loud, but she is too involved in the magic to care.

Her dad steps out as well. Their feet squeak slightly with each step. Their hair is already coated with a fine layer of white.

They continue forging a path out onto the deserted street. Her dad reaches down to scoop up a handful of white fluff. The ball hits the girl with a surprising amount of force.

A wide smile breaks out on her face.

She laughs.

An uninhibited, pure sound, as she reaches down for a snowball of her own.

She jumps at each one. Her grin is bigger than she thought possible, but she doesn’t notice. She is captivated by the white, transformed world. Her last handful of snow doesn’t become a ball, but is thrown up, only to rejoin the flakes on their steady path down. They pelt her upturned face, stinging her eyes, which are opened wide.

Her arms outstretched, she spins. Down the road. She looks around in amazement and awe.

She stops beneath a streetlamp. Its fluorescent light illuminates the path of each flake. From afar, it looks as though the sky is glowing.

She turns, grinning, to face her dad.

“It’s snowing!”

Her voice is filled with joy. Looking down the empty street, at the uninterrupted path of snow, at the silent houses.

She feels elated.

She feels alive.

She skips back to her dad. Grinning, she sees a peaceful look on his face.

They link arms. The girl glances around one more time, trying to absorb it all.

She sees a blind moving in a house, as a neighbor quickly withdraws their head.

Her dad says, “We’re being watched.”

“Yeah.”

She barely thinks about her flattened, snow covered hair, her pink pajamas, or her three unzipped coats.

She doesn’t care, filled as she is with the feeling of hope.

Walking back up the front steps, she sees the branches are no longer bare. They are covered with a layer of snow. It is an unfamiliar color, long forgotten from previous snowfalls.

Looking down, she leaps between the footprints she left only minutes before.

They stamp their feel underneath the porch’s protection. She gives the world one more glance. She fixes it in her mind. She fixes the feeling it has brought in her memory.

End of October

This year, my mom is the one who gets the extended birthday. Dinner and cards last night. Presents on the weekend. Dinner out with my dad next weekend. Lucky!

I may have been a little over-ambitious with my menu planning: MuShu Vegetables, Sweet Potato Pot Stickers, and Apple Crisp. It was good, and nothing major blew up or spilled, but man, that was a lot of cooking.

To anyone (everyone) out there who does this with more frequency than I -wow. I'm impressed. I have a new appreciation for people who cook. (Notice I don't say chefs...)

Halloween is coming up. When I was younger, and had big birthday parties, October would knock us (my mom) flat.

My birthday, my mom's birthday, Halloween.

Boom boom boom.

I was never over-the-top into Halloween. Dressing up was fun, but the candy was better. I loved it, but it didn't make me crazy.

Our neighborhood is quite sad on the trick-or-treating front. This meant we would have to pack the car up with hot drinks and five extra coats and relocate to a neighborhood more friendly to kids knocking on doors and asking for sugar.

I would usually do some afternoon rounds in town, where all the shops handed out candy. As I got older, friends and I would go out and hit the houses known for handing out hand-fulls of good-quality candy.

I don't really remember when I stopped going. It was several years ago. I had lost interest in dressing up-my brain couldn't take that much creativity.

The appeal of trekking around in the dark to get small pieces of sugar had worn off. Half my friends weren't going. So I stopped. I don't miss it. I do wish we had more kids coming to our house, though, because I've always thought it would be fun to be the hander-outer of candy. Seeing the costumes and how hyper the kids were.

So no plans this year. We have pumpkins. To be carved this weekend. I only want to take off the top and get the seeds to roast. That is one Halloween tradition I'm not ready to give up.

But we always buy a big bag of candy-just in case.

I Should Be in the Record Books

This morning I woke up at 9:46. I had overslept by about an hour; I had turned my alarm off instead of hitting the snooze button. This wouldn't be a problem on most days, just a mild inconvience. Today, however, I had a meeting at school with my teachers and counselor and tutor at school, at 10:15. That meant we were supposed to leave a minute before I was awake.

So I was awake, mostly, with contacts in, clothes on, and full purse, in 6 minutes. It took another 3 minutes to grab a granola bar, put shoes on, and get in the car. So yes, I definitely belong in some sort of world record book. Because, nine minutes to wake up and be out the door? Pretty amazing. At least in my book.

The meeting went fine. Nothing earth-shattering, and it seems like all the teachers are pretty willing to work with me, and hand control over to my tutor. Which will make my life a whole lot easier than last year.

I got info on the PSAT, which I am taking in a month. I will not freak out.

I got lucky because my tutor's husband surprised her with a massage for her birthday. It just happens to be at the time we were supposed to meet this afternoon. It's a win-win situation; she gets to have a massage, and I don't have to do work.

Now I'm off to Spanish class. Adios.

I'll Stay in the Dark Ages

Tonight we had pizza. Ordered-in pizza. Ordered on the internet. I had read all about how amazing and futuristic it is. So there I was, super excited. I was prepared with a song, even. (Later I discovered that there is no song by Rob Thomas called Future World. Even more disappointment. There's only so much disappointment a girl can take regarding her futuristic pizza in one night.)

I was humming away as we went to the website. Well, the first sign of trouble should have been the computer wasn't loading the site. It is always a bad sign when your computer disagrees with your decisions. We finally figured out where to go (they make it waaaaay too complicated) and the computer had apparently forgiven us for our bad decision making.

Then we get to chosing toppings. Besides being very confusing there were very few choices. Less than over the phone. At least it seemed that way. Maybe writing them all out like that made them seem small and insignificant. But still, when you have more choices about the kind of sauce you want than toppings, something's gotta be off.

We prevailed. We placed our order. Or so we thought. Then there was a page of info about delivery. (How many times do they want you to say they are going to deliver to a HOUSE?) And then payment info. And then confirmation. And then confirmation of the confirmation. And confirmation of the confirmation of the confirmation. (I may be exaggerating a little bit here, getting a little carried away with typing confirmation. It's a fun word to type, in my defence. Confirmation.)

The computer had mostly forgiven us for our bad, bad decision making by then, or maybe it realized we were already aware of our bad decision making. The page loaded. And that was it. (No progress tracker or anything. Clearly, we chose the wrong company.)

Half an hour our pizza arrived. Very good pizza. That I will, from now on, be ordering over the phone. Becuase I would prefer to stay in the Dark Ages, thank you very much. No more futuristic pizza for me.

One of Those Days

Today has been one of those days. Where I discovered hair in my cereal, after eating it. Where I needed to do research on the computer and the internet decided to die. Last night, as part of my homework, I wrote a sentence using the word auspicious: It is not an auspicious start to the day by oversleeping. And my alarm was apparently mad at me, so I overslept by about an hour and a half.

We've all had them.

I was wishing I could go to art class, because it seems like that really calms me down and puts me in a better, more peaceful mood. But no art class today, so I made some hot and sour soup and watched a movie.

And thought I'd tell you this story.

On Monday I had to go to a doctor's appointment I was really not looking forward to. It's about an hour and a half away, and she is the doctor who gave me steroid shots that I had a bad (understatement!) reaction to. So I went, but I wore my crabby socks.

They are literally crabby, but they make me happy. They're my way of being passive aggressive without anyone knowing. They are colorful and stripey and have crabs on them, and the crabs have googly eyes!

Fun socks make me happy. Today I am wearing little blue ones with birdies on them. At least, I think they're birdies.