Niagra Falls

My bucket list composed of places to go, people to meet, and things to do before I die, grows longer by the week. Many items on that list rank amongst a number of very cliché goals, such as going to a beach, Disneyland, maybe even the Grand Canyon. However, I have a certain place in mind that I surely cannot go a lifetime without visiting: Niagara Falls.

This image can be found at:

http://www.worldtourismplace.com/tourist-attraction-niagara-falls-usa/

I have heard a thing or two about one of the world’s most famous waterfalls. I know there have been plenty of individuals that in one way or another made their way onto and off of the falls, some surviving and others not. I also know that Niagara Falls extends across the national boundaries of the United States and Canada, although as to which side is visually more appealing lies in one’s own personal opinion. I feel as though the reason I lack knowledge on the subject is simply because I do not want to learn about the falls via research, fun facts, and online images. I want to experience Niagara Falls.

I don't want to imagine what the water smells like when it dances through the air, waltzing straight into my nostrils; I want to taste it vibrantly upon my tongue and remember it fondly. I want to hear the rushing water caressing the port and starboard sides of The Maid of the Mist, and the awe of tourists as I slowly pass the falling waters.

The remainder of the day will be filled with the consumption of pricey food, visiting a museum or two, a romantic stroll through New York, maybe Canada, with my other half. Then, the sleepy autumn sun tucks itself into the bed of the horizon, unveiling a mass of evening stars and the crisp, harvest moon. That's when the falls light up a sense of hope, and the magic of this world becomes a little bit clearer.

This image can be found at:

http://www.worldtourismplace.com/tourist-attraction-niagara-falls-usa/

I pray that my mind preserves those moments better than my pale pink Canon camera can, so I can flip through the album that is my memory, and actually be there, overlooking the falls once more.

Holcomb, Kansas

It's been four years since I last read Truman Capote's In Cold Blood. At the age of fourteen, I simply could not appreciate just how brilliant that particular piece of creative nonfiction was. Upon rereading it recently, I absolutely fell in love with the story.

Never before have I enjoyed a written work that was completely factual as much as I did reading this book. In my opinion, because it is based on a real story, the characters, plot, and setting are even more intriguing.

I think of the Clutter family quite frequently. I wonder where their lives could have taken them had they not been cut short by Dick Hickock and Perry Smith. I dream of Herb and Bonnie growing old together, Nancy and her boyfriend Bobby somehow living happily ever after, and Kenyon become the world's best engineer or something along those lines.

This image can be found at: http://www.flickr.com/photos/highranger/3693957442/sizes/m/in/photostream/

I wonder what other endeavors the murders might have explored had they not gone through with their plans. Would Dick have ended up on Death Row anyway, or was there a chance in hell of saving Perry from himself? Dick had so regard for life of any kind, save his mother and father. Somehow, I know that he would have ended up taking the lives of some other unfortunate souls had he not taken part in the murders of the Clutters. Nevertheless, Perry had potential to be someone great in the world. He was a learner, an artist, a musician, and maintained a sense of compassion. To know that such talent was wasted due to a shitty childhood yielding a lack of conscience is greatly upsetting for me.

Fifty-two years have passed since the Clutter family's lives were stolen that November night. It is a miracle that they have not been forgotten. In most cases of death, life goes on despite the loss of life. People move on, sometimes forgetting what has been done merely because that is the natural way. Yet, just two years ago, the town of Holcomb honored the Clutter family's 50th anniversary with the erecting of a memorial. It is amazing that the legacy of the Clutters lives on, despite the years that have gone by. The goodness that the family represented has not been forgotten.

This image can be found at: http://www.gcpolice.org/History/Clutter/Cutter_Family_Murders.htm

Their house still stands to this day, now shelters a new set of owners. I long to visit Holcomb, located near the heart of the Midwest, not only because I want to see the town that the story of In Cold Blood took place in person. I want to see the house where such beautiful people once lived and breathed. I long to sense their presence in the air, and feel as though I am a little bit closer to a family I have so deeply fallen in love with. Before I die, I will touch the Clutter's final resting, and place a bouquet of Poppies, Forget-Me-Nots, and black Roses before their grave.

" 'Til Summer Comes Around."

 Click here for Keith Urban's "Til Summer Comes Around"

From the time I was young, I absolutely adored going to the Indiana County Fair. It was the once-a-year event that all within a twenty-five mile radius couldn't miss. Although, there were quite a few years that my aging, tired father didn't possess the energy to get up and take us. Anytime that he did, I was in heaven.

The only attraction that caught my father's attention was the Demolition Derby, also known as the Demos. The sound of car's squealing tire, bodies crashing and cracking upon impact, and thousands of people screaming in their seats was undoubtedly a fantastic rush. However, that wasn't the reason I wanted to go to the fair in that latter part of each hot and sticky, sweltering August.

Hindered by motion sickness since I was about twelve, I didn't go for the fast, thrashing, turbulent ways of some of the county's thrill rides. I never had much money, so nine times out of ten, I didn't even bother eating any of the fair's fattening, sometimes sugary yet greasily delicious food products. The animals that lingered in the large, spacious barns didn't particularly interest me much, merely because I hated going into places alone. Hell, I didn't even go for the Bumper Cars, one of two rides I could possibly stomach.

I wanted to go to the fair each year simply because of the atmosphere: that lively, free-spirited, giggly, joyous feeling that hits you square in the gut and lifts you up into the sweat-filled summer sky. Most importantly, I went because I had always wanted to walk around the fair, hand in hand with the love of my life (that I hadn't even met yet.)

I dreamed that he and I would feed each other cotton candy, watch the children tumble through the jungle gyms, and fall even deeper in love amid the sparkling, colored lights that appeared as the humid sky softly folded into dusk. He would take one look upward, as we passed the ever-popular Ferris Wheel. With a grin, he would lead me by the hand through the line and into that rickety, slippery seat a shade of candy-apple red.

As the seat spun upward, we would look down at the glimmering scenes below, groups of people frolicking in joy, the rainbow topped merry go round spinning at a slow and steady pace. I would rest my head upon his shoulder, as my dizzy, spinning head relaxed itself, and his grip on my hand would tighten as his thumb stroked my palm.

Once we docked at the very top, as passengers below began loading off, the seat would gently sway in the warm, breezy wind. The view would be so breathtakingly beautiful, that I couldn't help but glance over at him; that is when he would run his fingers through my hair, and by the neck, he would guide me to his lips and plant upon me my first Ferris Wheel kiss.

This image can be found at: http://travel.nationalgeographic.com/city-guides/chicago-green-photos-traveler/#/08-chicago-ferris-wheel-couple_23393_600x450.jpg

Needless to say, I have yet to experience an event such as this. Clique enough, each and every time I hear "Til Summer Comes Around" by Keith Urban, I am reminded of how desperately I want that Ferris Wheel kiss. To my surprise, just a week ago, my fiancé Joshua was rambling in excitement like usual about the fact that this summer I will finally be out in Madison, Indiana for good. However, to my surprise, as I was half-way listening to the unvaried babbling, as a side bar thought he uttered, "I can't wait to take you to the Jefferson County fair."

Instantaneously, my ears perked up and I felt a twinge of irony jerk within my stomach. The widest possibly smile settled itself upon my face, as my mind took me back to my adolescent dreams of country fair romance. I thought to myself, "I'm finally gonna get my Ferris Wheel kiss, I just have to wait 'til summer comes around."

I Want a Car... My OWN Car.

At the age of 15, my father decided it was time I bought myself a car. Of course, there would be no, "Don't you worry, Mommy and Daddy will take care of you, we'll buy you a car." Quite the contrary, it was more like, "If you want your permit, you need to start working, If you need to start working, then you need a car. I was always a tight wad when it came to spending money, so saving up for a car wasn't a problem.

I can remember that summer rather vividly. I spent the hot, humid days working my tail off, trying to gather up as much cash as I possible could before my father found a car. Each week he would check the classifieds, and in most cases, go look at a car or two. Of course, he always came back empty handed. "It was in too rough of shape," or even, "too rich for our blood."

Up the street, there was a young couple trying desperately to get rid of their wrecked Ford Tempo. One day, while riding past their brick house, upon the dingy red hood dwelled a piece of cardboard box with the numbers 275 written in black permanent marker. I turned to my father and said, "I think we should go look at that red car."

An hour or so later, we found ourselves knocking on the front door of the couple's house. A man in a black wife beater and jeans stepped out onto the slab of concrete porch and asked how he could help us. "We just wanna take a look at your Ford over there," my father replied coolly. The next thing I knew, my dad tossed me the keys, told me to, "start her up," and he popped open the hood.

After careful inspection, we discovered that the car was not only missing most of the front end, it was also leaking transmission fluid and oil. As my father politely told the owner that we were no longer interested, I was already falling in love with the soft, red interior. I had already picked out her name, Delilah. You better believe I was just about heart broken whenever we had to walk the two blocks home without that car.

A few weeks later, my father peaked his head into my bedroom and said, "I think I found you a car. It's a 1991 Buick Regal. This older woman is trying to get rid of it, and it's in real good condition. She wants $900 for it, not too shabby." I closed the book I was reading, hopped off of my bed, and replied, "Is that good?" He laughed, "Yeah, that's as good as it's gonna get, Amber. You think about it if you need to." I shook my head, "No, go ahead and get it," I answered. Here is what it looked like before we had to junk it...

A few hours later, my dad pulled up in that grey beast of a car. He stepped out and told me to check it out. The interior was in prime condition, and the paint job was pretty decent, minus some scratches. My hopes and dreams of sunset joyrides, blasting rock music and having my first taste of freedom had arrived, or so I thought.

Upon turning 16, I got my permit. I soon learned that I was not permitted to get my driver's license until I had turned 18. Translation: that car sat there, only driven by my father when he took me to work for three years. Guess what happened once I finally turned 18? The stupid thing stopped running. I entered college so pissed off that I could have spit.

However, my trials were rewarded not too much later, thanks to my fiance, Joshua. He owns a 2001 Ford Escort ZX2 in Atlantic Blue; he absolutely hates it. Josh has had in and around six cars since he turned 14 (he is about to turn 21.) He also has a 1993 Honda Civic hatchback that he is currently fixing up.

I was griping and moaning one evening about not having a car while we were on the phone. All of a sudden he stopped me and said, "You can have the Escort, I can't stand the damn thing anyway." I nearly dropped the phone, stammering, "Wha wha wha wha what?" He started chuckling, "You heard me. Once I get the civic up and running, the Escort is yours."

I beamed in utter joy. Instantly, everything that I wanted to do to that car in order to make it mine starting bolting through my head at the speed of lightening. Visions of a jet black paint job, star shaped chrome rimes, red suede interior with black leather accents, and a body kit got me more excited than a kid in Toys-R-Us. Not to mention, I am am most certainly getting rid of those ridiculous neon yellow decals he has plastered all over the windows. Yes sir, I am gonna have my very own car, and it is gonna look like a dream when I'm through with it.