Author: Daphne Psaledakis

Kentfield

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I was born in San Francisco, CA., but I grew up in a little town about 30 minutes outside of the city. Kentfield, the little town that absolutely no one has heard of.

Kentfield borders Ross, which is another – slightly bigger – town in Marin. Our street in particular connected, beginning at a market in Kentfield, and ending at the Ross school. Kent Ave., if anyone lives near there.

As a family, we knew every inch of that street. So often we would climb on our bikes and go to the park, where we would sit, play with the dogs, or climb the play structure. That’s where I first learned to ride a bike without training wheels.

Another of our favorite destinations was Marche aux Fleurs, a small French restaurant situated comfortably in a petite plaza, with a deck looking out. We went there so many times, that I got tired of spaghetti with butter and parmesan.

Who knew you could ever get tired of that?

One time at Christmas, we went for dinner, and I ordered a steak. I can’t remember what cut it was, or what delectable sauce they listed on the menu, but my god it was good. Every time we went back I would ask the owner about it. Sadly, it was a one time thing.

Then there was Woodlands Market. If you are ever in Marin, please please please make sure you go there. You will never find a better place to shop for food, I promise you.

Woodlands was also my favorite deli. Every so often we would go get a sandwich. I would immediately unwrap it, looking for the square of chocolate enclosed in the parchment paper.

On Saturday mornings, my brothers and I would plead with my dad, begging him to treat us to a breakfast of mickey mouse pancakes at the nearby Willie’s Cafe.

I hold so many memories from growing up in Kentfield. Some small, others more significant to me. I haven’t been back since we moved away, and over time I have lost the desire to. I want that small California town to remain exactly as remember it, not as the disappointment it may be if we were to visit.

Rebecca’s Outlook

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(The following is a work of fiction)

I walk into my third-grade classroom with my head down, my eyes purposely averting the stares of my fellow classmates. I sit down in the back, alone, as usual. My classmates began avoiding me long ago, and truthfully I am thankful for it.

The teacher comes into the room, a bright smile on her face. She’s young, and this is only her third year teaching. As she begins the lesson, she glances to me. I notice the moment of hesitation in her voice as he takes in my bruised eye, before she continues on with what she was saying before.

This isn’t the first time I have come to school bruised, and I know that at recess I’ll be pulled aside and asked what has happened. I’ll give the usual answer, “I ran into something,” or “I tripped.” But the excuse barely worked the last time, and I know that this time it will be harder to cover for Daddy.

As I suspected, I am pulled from the bench where I sit and eat, and taken to the principal’s office. When I walk in I notice the young lady sitting across from Mrs. Wilkon, easily making small talk.

The next hour goes as I suspected, with the young social worker asking me questions about my dad and what it’s like at home, with Mrs. Wilkon looking on.

By the end of it, I’m not so confident that they won’t be taking Daddy away from me this time. I consider this as I make my way home after school, retreating immediately to my bedroom upon walking in the door. That way Daddy doesn’t know I’m home, and can’t blame me for anything.

I go to school the next morning as usual, and the day after that as well. I’ve begun to relax, having not heard anything of the events a few days before. Then a week after everything has happened, I am once again called into Mrs. Wilkons office.

The social worker is there once again, and she explains to me in a calm voice that I am being moved to a foster family who lives nearby. She takes me home, and waits patiently while I pack my few belongings.

Daddy isn’t home, and she explains to me that he won’t be coming back for a very long time. I”m not very sad about it. We lost Mommy to cancer years ago, and since then Daddy hasn’t been the same. But now it’s just me, Rebecca, who’s still here.

It doesn’t take very long to get to the foster family’s house, and once we’re there I’m lead inside and introduced to my new parents and siblings. They show me the house, and finally my room, leaving me to unpack and settle in. They have a nice house, and seem like a nice family.

I don’t think I mind them too much.

It takes me a while to adjust to my new life, and especially to stop being so nervous all the time. My new family is nice, and they explained to me that they would never hit me like Daddy did if anything went wrong. I even find myself relaxing.

And I think to myself, I could get used to this.

Bedtime Story

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Once upon a time, there was a little Koi fish named Paz. He lived with his friends and family, in a giant school. The school of fish had made it’s home in Brazil years before, and that was where Paz had lived his entire life.

His family loved him, and did their best to give him everything that he wished for. Very quickly, Paz’s friends started to become jealous of him, and didn’t spend time with him anymore.

As the weeks passed, his friends not only didn’t spend time with him anymore, but they made fun of him as well. Poor Paz would be swimming by, minding his own business, when all of a sudden he would hear giggles from the Koi his age.

Paz was so upset, he would spend hours in his room crying, wondering what he had done wrong. He could not imagine why having things given to him by his parents had been twisted into such a bad thing. He had not rubbed the presents in his friends faces, or bragged every time he got a new one. No, Paz had been respectful, always offering to share.

Eventually, Paz became so upset that he saw no other option but to leave his school. He brought nothing with him, leaving all his beloved presents behind. Paz had no idea where he was going, or when he would return. He only knew that he could stay no longer.

For years, Paz went from place to place. He saw the shores of Africa, Japan, France, and Canada.

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French Meadows

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When we lived in California, we had a yearly tradition of going camping. Same spot, same people, every year right after school let out for the summer. It was the highlight of my summer, and something I looked forward to throughout the year.

About a week after the beginning of summer vacation, my two brothers, my dad, and I would load up in the truck, along with more supplies than I could ever imagine anyone being able to use. Occasionally, my mom would come with us, but it wasn’t very often that she felt up to the drive.

I can remember being in the car for hours on end, listening to the same CD over and over again, wedged in between my two little brothers intent on landing a punch on the other. They got me instead.

Our car was so full of stuff, from pots and pans to bathing suits and shampoo. As soon as we arrived at our same campsite we had every year, we would unload and wait for everyone else. With three or four different families going, it was first come first served on the places for our tents, so we all tried to get to French Meadows as soon as possible.

Much to the disappointment of myself, and all the other kids, we were not allowed to go down to the beautiful lake until everything was set up and in order. But once that was done, we made a bee line for it.

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Spudfest

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The past few days have been absolutely crazy. Wednesday morning started off with the PSAT tests, which as some of you may know are a little bit torturous.

After the PSAT’s, my friend and I loaded up in one of the school car’s (with a teacher driving, don’t worry), to do the shopping necessary for the Halloween dance we had planned for the next night.

We made sure that this dance wasn’t just any ordinary, boring, and annoying OVS dance. Instead we held it down at the tennis courts, and made it into a carnival type thingy.

As one can imagine the clean-up took a really long time.

But our week was not over yet. Today was Spudfest. I’m sure that the majority of you don’t actually know what that is, so I’m gonna go ahead and explain it to you.

Spudfest begins once the eighth graders from the Lower Campus arrive, which is when we start the team comp activities (pumpkin toss and other such things). This lasts about an hour or two, and then the real fun begins.

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Papa Adventures

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Let me start off by saying that I love my dad. He and I have always been very close, but especially so after the divorce of my parents four years ago. He is there for me to talk to whenever, and about whatever.

I can tell him about my friends, school, boyfriends. And no matter what he will listen and help me work through my problems.

As a kid we would go on “Papa Adventures”. In fact, we still do. During a Papa adventure, my two little brothers and I are rounded up and told to get into my dad’s dark blue Toyota Tacoma stick shift (the car I would very much like to inherit someday), and buckle our seat belts.

We never have any idea where we or going or what we are doing. But believe me, we sure do try to get it out of him.

Sometimes we drive for ten minutes, other times for four hours. But somehow we’d always find a way to play our song, “Live Like You were Dying“, by Tim Mcgraw. Sometimes, if we were lucky, we would be able to take turns sitting on his lap and steering while on an empty dirt road.

We used to roll around in the backseat laughing our heads off as one of us sat on my dad’s lap and purposely steer the truck off the road, causing my dad to freak out, and then laugh along with us once we were back on track.

My favorite Papa adventure was a long drive up a very rocky road, which we all of course found very fun, especially while unbuckled and playing jello. After hours of driving, and about a mile of hiking, we would end up at this beautiful lake nestled in the middle of a crater.

Petroleum Lake, Aspen CO

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Going Solo

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Some of you may recall a previous post I have made, called “Backpacking Excursion“. If you aren’t, then what you need to know is that my 8th Grade ODE trip was backpacking from Aspen, Colorado to an adjacent town called Marble.

We spent three days hiking thirty something miles, and the fourth day was spent sitting alone in the woods with nothing but a sleeping bag, water bottle, and tarp. Along with a journal we had been given at the beginning of the trip.

We had been preparing for all of a week for our 24 hour solo. That morning we woke up, and gathered around the center of the camp. I’d like to say it was a campfire, but it was much too warm for that. We made ourselves breakfast, which wasn’t more than a small bowl of oatmeal that had come in a pack.

We began talking about what we were about to do, and eventually our patrol leader started leading us to our individual camps. Some were farther away from the main camp, nowhere near anyone else. Others, like me, were placed just out of sight of our numerous tents, and with others just across a mini ravine.

The ravine

I would much rather have been the girl way out in the middle of nowhere.

The solo started out fine. I wasn’t particularly worried, as everyone I had talked to who completed the program described it as a life-changing experience.

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Working at Paradise

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One night over towards the middle of the summer my family and I decided to go to Paradise Bakery for dessert. We got our cookies and hot chocolate, and stood outside listening to the music students playing mozart and the can-can.

Pardise Bakery in Winter

It was dark out, but warm, and the line extended all the way out the door and around the corner. The manager was out handing small sample cookies out to everyone waiting, and my dad saw him just as I saw the help wanted sign in the window.

My dad called him over, and we began talking, and somehow or another we ended up asking him if I could apply for a job. A couple days later I went in for an interview, and the following day I showed up for work.

Paradise Bakery is a small coffee and ice cream shop in Aspen, Colorado who just sold their other location to Panera Bread. But what you really need to know is that their cookies are heavenly, their gelato is to die for, and their coffee is just right. And it’s all homemade downstairs.

Working at Paradise was my first job, and I showed up for work my first day nervous. I didn’t know how to make coffees, or work the register, how to treat customers, or where anything was. Who knew there was a right way to scoop ice cream?

Paradise Cookies n' CreamRead More »

Burma VJ

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Burma VJ is a 2008 Danish Documentary. It tells the story of a group of reporters in Burma, which is a closed country, who film the 2007 protests and smuggle the footage out of the country. Their footage was used by CNN, BBC, and other news stations to tell the rest of the world of the proceedings in Burma.

The film is narrated by one of the reporters, who is forced to leave the country and work form Thailand after being caught with his camera out and interrogated by the police. Throughout the movie, he references the 1988 revolution.

In 1988 the people of Burma rose up and protested the government. As a result of the uprising, 3,000 people were killed. The country spent 19 years in fear, too afraid to speak up.

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My Best Friend

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At the age of two, my parents took me to visit my aunt and uncle at their ranch in Montana. We were sitting on the lawn waiting for them to arrive, and I got up and walked into the pasture. Instead of jumping up to save me, my parents decided to stay put and see what would happen.

I eventually began learning to ride, first in a western saddle at Bar 20 Ranch in Montana, but once we moved to London for two years I switched to an English saddle. It’s been 12 years now, and I’ve gone from barely being able to sit on a horse to jumping 3’9″ fences.

I got my first pony when I was eight, and it was the horse I’d been riding for two or three years at the time. I woke up Christmas morning, at the crack of dawn to the disappointment of my parents, and we opened the presents under the tree. Then my mom suggested we go to the barn to give Razz, the horse, some Christmas carrots. When we got there, my trainer led her out of her stall. She had a red bow stuck to her forehead and streamers around her neck. She was my Christmas present.

I rode Razz until she was too old to continue competing, and then we retired her to my aunt and uncle’s ranch. From there came a couple other ponies, all of whom I loved dearly but outgrew quickly. And then finally I graduated to a horse, Time.

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