Today, we had to learn vocabulary. We had to write down definitions and complete a worksheet on the vocabulary. After we got down we had a little free time.
My uncle-in-law, Greg McCoy. Some things I can learn are risk-taking, learning from his mistakes, networking, and unwavering commitment to his goals. I can learn how he studies for the test, the experience, and the different things you can do in the military. Today in class we read a Poem by Langston Hughes. It talks about dreams and how to achieve them. It taught me that you don't wait until you get old, start doing it at a young age. Have plan Bs rather than just chasing the same goal if you don't like it.
The holiday I look forward to most each year is Thanksgiving. There’s something about it that feels grounding, like a pause button in the middle of all the chaos. It’s not about presents or decorations; it’s about people, food, and presence. That’s what makes it my favorite. Every year, my family gathers at my grandmother’s house. The kitchen fills with the smells of roasted turkey, sweet potatoes, and her famous homemade rolls. We all pitch in — chopping vegetables, setting the table, sneaking bites of pie filling when we think no one’s looking. The TV hums in the background with the Macy’s parade or football, but the real show is the laughter and storytelling that happens in the dining room. Before we eat, we go around the table and say what we’re thankful for. It might sound cheesy, but those moments are the most honest of the year. We speak from the heart. Sometimes we cry. Sometimes we laugh until our stomachs hurt. And somehow, no matter what’s been hard that year, it all feels a...
The Red Wheelbarrow Speaks So much depends upon me — they say it like I’m just a tool, but I know better. I’ve seen the sweat bead on your brow as you leaned into my handles, muscles straining, stubborn earth clinging to my sides. You didn’t say much, but I felt it: the quiet determination, the weight not just of soil but of everything you carried that day — frustration, grief, maybe even hope. You came to me when words weren’t enough. When silence filled the backyard and the world seemed like it was too much, you filled me instead — with weeds, with broken roots, with pieces of what you were ready to let go of. And I carried it all. I didn’t ask why. You left my wheel muddy and my paint chipped, but you always came back. You wiped me down after the storm. You leaned on me once, just to breathe. So much depends upon a moment of stillness. And I was there for yours.
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