Anyone asking you for a bio, or reading it, wants you to sound awesome, but what they need and what your ego wants to say are often different things.
My mirror is my bulletin board. I wedge postcards around it, and I stick poems and reminders to the frame. Since I collect these items fanatically, I now see myself only in the center of the mirror. After tiring of peering at two inches of my face, I may tour the world in thoughts, or I may read poetry and philosophy.
If I am discouraged, some selection will make me cheerful. Truly, my bedroom mirror is an adventure in itself.
But the best gift from this collection of papers came from the comments Miss Zamow wrote on two papers. Please analyze each use of the comma in this paper. My high school memories are mostly not as vivid as those from earlier childhood. Linda with Rebel, She was eager to learn, but full of fire.
We came as close to being one organism as is possible; I rode her bareback with the reins loose from the first, guiding her by leaning. Sometimes she seemed to know what to do with no direction at all, unless she read my mind.
Her gait was the smoothest I've ever felt, a long, loping stride even though she was small and fine-boned.
September 20th, page 17 But this happened during my high school years-- A high school girl friend and I formed a horse club drill team; with a dozen other kids, we devised reining patterns and maneuvers on horseback.
We'd gallop into the arena, break into pairs or groups of six, and form wheels that spun into spirals. We performed intricate dances on horseback at high speeds. When the team was invited to perform at the county fair later that year, we rode around town all day enjoying the sights.
Racing with friends, I ran Rebel across a highway ahead of a truck.
Unshod, she wasn't used to running on asphalt; her bare feet slipped and she fell on her side with my right wrist caught under the saddle swell.
As we skidded across the pavement, I heard the truck's brake's squeal. After we untangled ourselves, I found a scrape on Rebel's hip, and a scratch on her knee. The side of the saddle was gouged in several spots, and my wrist was black with ground-in asphalt and gravel.
I tied my handkerchief around it. By the time our team entered the arena to perform our complicated drill, my wrist hurt so badly I couldn't rein with my right hand. I clamped my legs around the saddle, and prayed I wouldn't fall off in front of the grandstand.
That night, I dumped disinfectant on the raw wound and said nothing to my parents. The next morning, my wrist was swollen to double its normal size, and I couldn't close my hand.
Three days later the skin was puffed white with infection; my parents took me to a doctor whose X-rays showed a crack in the small bone, the ulna.
New skin had already begun to grow, freckled with black; the doctor picked out the gravel he could reach, and splinted the wrist. I wore the cast all summer, and learned to rein with my left hand.
When the bandages came off, my wrist was gray and bumpy from the pieces of highway left in it. Later that year, the drill team performed at a local rodeo. In one maneuver, two lines of youngsters on horseback rode full tilt at one another, meshing and crossing.
My best friend and I carried the flags in holsters on our stirrups, braced ahead of our knees. Just as our horses met, the flags crossed. The impact swung my thigh sideways, wrenching the hip out of its socket.
With both the reins and the flag in my left hand and my right wrist in a cast, I couldn't even grab the saddle horn.From Linda's bio: In Rapid City, we lived at Fifth Street, in a little gray-shingled house behind the home of Mrs. Mary Bradley, the widow of Arthur.
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