\”blog\” ryhmes with \”bog\”…

I stood at the top of a mountain, surrounded by trees, dirt, and crumbling boulders. It was a landscape vastly different from the beach I had grown up on. Miles of bleak sun-baked desert lay to the east, and the west was far enough away that the ocean could not be seen.             

It was raining. Children all around me were running to the shelter of their cabins and counselors, while those who lived nearby celebrated the end of the drought that had plagued their town all summer. I stayed still in the midst of the chaos, reflecting that when it rained back home, the leaves and fiber of palm trees were scattered down the street by the wind, making it look as though a tropical hurricane had hit. Here, the ground just got wet.             

  Drops of water splattered against my face, mingling with salty tears, and running down my cheeks. I watched them hit the ground, felt the rain hit my skin through my jacket and dirty jeans, and thought of home.            

 I wished them all away, all the campers and counselors I was stuck with. I was sick of them and the shallow personalities they presented to the camp. I was sick of the saxophone players who wore sunglasses constantly and acted as thought they owned the place, sick of the girls in my cabin glossing over magazines, sick of the video game addicts with their eyes glued to their Game Boys, sick of the gun-toting rednecks who teased me for being vegetarian. But most of all, I was sick of the ten year olds who spent all their time playing cards and giggling at nothing, the girls to whom everything was wonderful, the girls who stuck to me like glue.            

I heard my name called by a counselor with an umbrella, and trudged back to my cabin, reflecting unhappily that home had never seemed so far away.     

            Mr. Collins is not at all humble, but acts submissive and modest to look better in the eyes of others and so that he can feel more proud of himself. Mr. Collins is first introduced through a letter that he wrote informing the Bennets that he would be paying them a visit. Upon hearing the letter read aloud, Elizabeth comments, “There is something very pompous in his style. –And what can he mean by apologizing for being next in the entail?—We cannot suppose he would help it if he could” (Austen 63). This statement leads the reader to believe that Mr. Collins is apologizing for inheriting the Bennets’ estate not because he does not wish to, but because he wants to look as though he regrets taking their money so that he can gain their approval. Mr. Collins also enjoys flattering people and acting submissive to them simply for his own personal pleasure. “I sometimes amuse myself with suggesting and arranging such little elegant compliments as may be adapted to ordinary occasions…” (Austen 67) He is pleased by his own skill at complimenting others. Mr. Collins is also known to be modest so that he can gain compliments. “We know how little there is to tempt any one to our humble abode. Our plain manner of living, small rooms, and few domestics, and the little we see of the outside world, must make Hunsford extremely dull to a young lady like yourself.” (Austen 208). Mr. Collins says this to Elizabeth upon her leaving his house not only because he prides himself on living simply, but to gain her “assurances of happiness” and compliments on the entertainment he provided for her (208). When she gives him such assurances and compliments, he is “gratified” and feels prouder of his ability to entertain guests (208).

We stepped out of the car into the wind, the California sun shining down on our backs as we walked away. It was mid-Tuesday in December and the air was crisp and cool. I paused to pull up my thick navy blue knee socks and ziped up my jacket as my housekeeper, Bertha, scanned the street, looking for “de thrifty store.” She found it at last, an oppressive two story building looming over the narrow sidewalk. “Oh, das nice,” she smiled, pointing out its glass windows, which were covered in paper snowflakes for Christmas. I returned the smile as she held open the door for me, murmuring, “Baminos.”                 The Venice Boys and Girl’s Club Thrift Store was dusty but warm. I pulled off my jacket and looked around at the plates, vintage clothes, figurines, and paintings cluttering the surfaces of rocking chairs, dressers, file cabinets and tables. My housekeeper made her way toward the grey-haired man at the counter to ask if he had any glass bowls, explaining that she had broken her employer’s. He led us over to a brightly-lit display cabinet and pointed to a decorative bowl. “Is this what you’re looking for?” he asked.            

“Si, singor,” she replied. “How much?”           

His reply was a casual “Fifteen dollars,” but upon hearing those words, Bertha’s face fell.            

“Thank you,” she said softly, “but I don’t have de money.”              

All thoughts of the math exam I was to face the following day vanished with a pang of uneasiness. They didn’t return during the drive home. On the contrary, they were pushed away even further. Bertha kept glancing at me in the review mirror, assuring me that in her neighborhood, such things were much cheaper, maybe costing ten or twelve dollars as opposed to fifteen. She asked me to tell my mom that she could find a glass bowl there, to which I quietly replied that my mom would understand. “A lotta things in dis area is so expensive!” she sighed as we pulled into the driveway. “Oh, well.”             She helped me carry my books up to house, then wished me luck on my exams for the week, and turned to limp down the stairs and climb back into her car. I smiled and waved as she drove away, though I still felt uneasy. I unlocked the door and stepped into my house, a place where all our paintings were gifts from my grandmother and had been custom framed, where we received gift baskets of wine and chocolate from my uncles each holiday season, where organic food was purchased every week without fail. Mine was a place where fifteen dollars could vanish in the blink of an eye.