My Feeble Attempt at Historical Writing

One evening in Boston, colonists gathered in growing resentment towards the British soldiers who enforced laws and taxation upon the colonists. Outside the Customs House, where taxes were collected, Captain Preston and his troops gathered in response to the growing group of rowdy colonists. According to Preston’s account, he stood in front of his men and tried to reason with the group of colonists when a snowball came from the crowd towards his soldiers. Immediately, one soldier fired and the shout “Fire” was heard, but Preston said it was not him. Another witness claims he did not see Preston say it, but did not rule out the possibility.

The patriots reacted passionately after this skirmish occurred, writing poems and inscribing pictures about this “Boston Massacre,” putting Preston at blame. However, according to Preston’s testimony, he was not guilty.

Clearly both sides played a part. More important than who was at fault, this incident shows the growing tension between the Colonists and the red coats before the Revolutionary War began.

Hillcrest, South Africa

You look up at me with clear, round eyes through the wrought iron gate and tell me your mother is busy. I see her through the sliding glass door in the guest cottage at the end of the drive wearing a pink bathrobe, talking on a cordless phone. “Tom,” she calls, “Who is it? Come back here.” You ask us to come back later, so in my small white notebook, I write Tom, 10 year old boy, and the address of the house. You probably forgot about me quickly, but for the next 6 months, I think about you. I think about how much I want you and your mom to be happy. I think about how much I want to teach you the gospel of Jesus Christ. And so, I return. I return, again and again. Your property has no intercom, so we knock with a rock on that wrought iron gate. But the cottage is dark and no one comes to answer. And I wonder. Where are you, little boy? And where is your mother?

Six months later, we meet again. This time outside another guest cottage on the other side of town. I am there to visit someone else, but here you are. With your mother. You don’t seem to remember me, but I remember you. And I am speechless. Finally, I gather words to ask your mother about your stay. She tells me that your house burnt down, you lost everything, and you are staying with friends. I think about the cottage where I found you before. Have you been homeless for these 6 months? I wonder if you realize how much I care. That the weight of my responsibility burned your face into my memory forever.

Grandpa Sheranian

In the corner of the den in my grandparents house is a big, comfortable recliner. It sits in front of the sliding glass door that looks out onto the backyard. Next to it is an end table with a lamp, a telephone, and a pad of paper and pencil to take messages. On the other side is a small wooden piece of furniture about the size of a moving box that is designed to hold magazines. In it you can find Newsweek, Time, National Geographic, Car and Driver, Consumer Reports, the AAA Magazine, the LA Times Magazine, and the Reader’s Digest. You can usually find a few Louis L’Amour books shoved in there too.

The recliner has changed over time—but the one constant is its occupant: my Grandpa Sheranian. Most of my memories of Grandpa come from moments while he was sitting in that chair. Memories of him grabbing me, pinning my arms behind my back, and tickling me until I begged, “Mercy! Mercy!” Memories of coming over for Sunday dinner and watching episode after episode of “I Love Lucy” because grandpa willingly changed the channel from the game when we came over. Memories of finding grandpa comfortably reclining flipping through a magazine or reading a good western.

Even now when I call the house, the phone usually doesn’t ring more than twice because Grandpa is right there to pick it up. And when I talk to him, I can see him in my mind, sitting just right where he should be.

World Traveler Ruins Her Life by Buying a Home!

Julie Hatten*, a travel fanatic, usually can’t go 6 months without taking a trip. From Guatemala to Europe, this girl is determined to conquer the world. Planned or spontaneous, with friends or alone. Hatten doesn’t miss any opportunities. So, this year when the chance to buy $500 tickets to New Zealand came up, she bought them that day. And this impulsiveness has become the fuel of her life.

But life is about to change—for the worse. Hatten is buying a house. Most people look forward to settling down, painting the living room their favorite color, growing a vegetable garden. But for Hatten, it means the mortgage fly swatter has taken a whack at her travel bug.

No more rocking out to “I Want to Know What Love Is” alone on the beach in Cancun. No more Parisian sunsets. No more fresh, island fruit. No, for Hatten, she will enjoy a stable life in Idaho Falls and try not to ruin her life.

*Name has been changed.

Many Shades of Chocolate

Chocolate—considered a candy by some, a food group by others—is by far the most sophisticated sweet. With a history that goes back to 16^th century Spanish explorers, it has been refined to perfection. However, not all chocolate is equal.

About a year ago, a close friend who knew that I was a chocolate purest—the higher cocoa content the better—invited me to a “chocolate tasting party.” For $10 we could taste the finest chocolate in the world and hear a lecture about it. We arrived at the small home in Springville where the host, an engineer and chocolate connoisseur, invited us into his cozy living room. He passed out white sheets of paper that listed the names of about 12 different chocolates, and water and French bread to cleanse the palette between each taste.

First a lesson on chocolate tasting. The first step before you even put the chocolate in your mouth is to look at it. Notice the luster and color of the chocolate. Next, you smell it. This helps improve your ability to taste the chocolate once in your mouth. Then, you eat the chocolate slowly, allowing it to melt in your mouth, paying attention to smoothness, initial taste, after taste. After each taste, we took notes on our reaction and the flavors we noticed and then discussed our experience. It was like a book club about chocolate.

I had never experienced anything like it. Chocolate from Madagascar to Venezuela. Chocolate that hinted of fruit. Chocolate with the savor of the rich soil from which it came. Chocolate with a different taste for every second in your mouth. Then, after tasting about 5 chocolates from the finest cocoa fields in the world, we each had a piece of regular milk chocolate Dove candy. The difference was shocking: the taste of gasoline with an undertone of peanut butter. Yes, no two chocolates are alike.

Central Utah Writing Project

Today I started CUWP, and I love it already!! The truth is, I love to write, but don't do it much unless I'm forced to. And one of the other things I love is good food, and there was certainly pleanty of that--- breakfast AND lunch from Flower Girls and Dough Boys-- my favorite bakery/ sandwich shop. What could be better?

So, over the next four weeks, I will post the prompts that I write during the course. I hope you will enjoy reading them as much as I enjoyed writing them!

California Home

Simi Valley is a quiet suburb in Ventura County, California. It's a unique city in Southern California because it is physically seperated from the other cities by hills on all sides so it has a distinct identity from other ciities. The hills are usually a yellow brown, but after a week of good rain they turn bright green--giving it a 3 week Irish makeover. Although the town is only a generation or two old (most of the tracks were built in the 70s), the people seem to stay. Most are middle class, but there are middle class move-ins that have bought homes up in the hills.

Even though the city has a population of about 120,000, when I moved to Simi, it seemed like a small town. Coming from LA, it was amazing to ALWAYS find a parking spot, to see the stars at night, and to (shockingly to me) run into people I knew at the grocery store.

"Welcome to Simi Valley. Relax and slow down," the sign says as you pull off the freeway. That pretty much sums it up.

My Mom

I meant to do this as a special tribute on Mother's Day, but I only got as far as uploading her picture. My mom is amazing! She has dedicated her whole life to raising her children and helping the community. Really I don't know where to even begin in praise of her. All I can say is that if every mother did her job like my mom, the world would not have any problems. I love you, Mom!

My Grandmas

I also want to pay tribute to the other moms in my life. My Grandma O is such a great mentor and friend to me. I'm so lucky to live so close to her and to work even closer. I usually get to visit a couple times a week. She always has food, family history facts, the update on world events, and the latest health research to share with us. I love her! This is a picture of her with my cousin, Naomi.


My Grandma Sheranian is my namesake and kindred spirit. My mom has always said I'm just like her. And pictures prove it. This is a picture of her in Hawaii on her honeymoon with my Grandpa in 1958. I was so lucky to grow up living right next door to Grandma Sheranian. I sat next to her in Church, ate at her table every Sunday, and learned from watching her serve. I love her!


I'm so lucky to have good, strong, faithful women in my life!

Screaming and Stomping for Speed Skating

I am very excited for the Olympics this year because it is the first time I can remember having a TV during the Olympics! I caught bits and pieces of the 2008 summer Olympics in a hotel room in Hawaii, I didn't see the one in 2006 because I was on my mission, and in 2004 . . . I don't even remember where it was or what I was doing! For 2002, I was in Washington D.C. on vacation with my mom and Becca and Maureen, and we watched it on TV every night. So really the only time I've been able to watch the Olympics is on vacation!

Well this year I watched most of the opening ceremonies (Did you notice how the commentators were silent as Iran entered the stadium?. . . but not for North Korea?) and my friends and I watched the main events on Saturday night. The highlight of course was the 1500 with Apolo Ono. I was worried w might have disturbed our neighbors underneath us, because we couldn't handle the suspense. Just picture 5 girls screaming and stomping to the finish line. Worse than the Superbowl!