I don’t like columns.
If you’re unfamiliar with the term, or at least unaware of how it’s defined by The Central Trend, a column is a short opinion piece that is less a reporting story and more of a poetic one. The piece can be about almost anything, giving the writer near-unlimited creative freedom—and, consequently, making this story genre the least journalistic of the entire publication.
You might guess why I don’t like writing them. In my personal experience, they either drag on forever, mindlessly weaving together a string of meaningless, pompous words and bathos-laden metaphors—or they are the bare minimum, consisting of just 400 words that could be easily summarized in a 30-second voice memo.
Either way, I have grown to despise them. Yet, here I am, writing another column; here I am every month or two, when an idea seeps into my mind and bothers me to the point that I must write it down and use it for credit in my writing class. Of course, yet again, I not-so-subtly express my hatred of what I do best. I guess that’s a metaphor in itself—but hey, I’ve already written something similar!
So, here is a tribute to the part of me that clings to romanticism. The part of me that loves to overuse sentence fragments and make my paragraphs just two or three sentences long, or maybe even just one, just for the sake of emphasis. So too is it a tribute to the circle of life, and seasons, and columns.
I used to love columns. I used to write one almost every month, not just when I had an idea, but I would regularly schedule them into my monthly plan. A little over a year ago, when I awoke to birds chirping, snow melting, premature flowers peaking out, and, of course, the smell of spring, I wrote a column about false spring. It was a symbol of hope, I claimed. Of new beginnings.
I was reminded of this column recently, when I recognized the patterns of late spring: dandelions popping up everywhere, in all of their golden glory, but fading to white just as quickly as they appeared, wispy memories of what they once were. So too are graduation parties occurring everywhere I go. Starting today, I am going to spend at least once every weekend putting a handwritten letter in a box, looking at 18 summarized in just 100 pictures, and saying goodbye to people I love so dearly. The final marker, though, is much more poignant, and a thousand times more prevalent: lemonade stands.
I have had my fair share of lemonade stands. Little Micah was an entrepreneur, after all. Almost every summer throughout my childhood, I would set one up at the end of my lawn, whether with a sibling, friend, or by myself. I would do it when it was sunny out, and sometimes when it rained. I distinctly remember wearing my bright pink puffer coat and sitting under an umbrella in late Alabama spring, “selling” water for free because I wanted to provide it for the nonexistent runners. I remember bringing my toy cash register out and splitting up my earnings with my neighbors. I remember attempting to sell vegetables from my dad’s Covid garden, and one time, without realizing it, trying to sell his beer for 2$ a can.
Today, after passing two or three lemonade stands, I decided to stop at one. There were probably seven little kids there, one wildly waving a sign saying some variation of “LEMONADE!! 50 CENTS!” and the rest excitedly swarming the lemonade table. They gave me two cups for a dollar and a free Rainbow Loom bracelet to accompany them.
I used to do the same thing with my Rainbow Looms, and obviously, I was a rampant lemonade salesgirl. Seeing these boisterous kids was yet another reminder of the cycle of life, a reminder that even when I stop doing the things I love, someone will take my place.
Every column I write is a testament to the things in life that never change, to the cosmic microwave background that exists, although I grow older and not much wiser.
I’m back in Sparky again. Though I regarded my letter to him as a final goodbye, an indefinite change, the Mini Cooper has returned. Maybe I can relearn why I loved him in the first place.
Again, here I go with my relentless need to be cryptic. My need to want someone to read between the lines, or the dozens of silly journal entries I put online in a lackluster attempt to garner appreciation. Attention? Love? Who knows. I wrote a column about it almost exactly a year ago, so I should by now.
This will be my last column with this title pattern—”an editor’s column,” that is. I might write another next year, about the falling leaves or the changing calendar year, but I’m dropping the celebratory title. I don’t need to publish my thoughts, at least not under a guise of excellence or leadership, to appreciate all the things that will never leave.
