Beaver Diary

The last batch of student from Beaver Country Day of the 2024-2025 school year.

In Dr. Fash's View Within class, students (in pairs or solo) write "Beaver Diary" entries, short scenes that express the heart and soul of Beaver and that are inspired by the "Metropolitan Diary" column in The New York Times. The activity allows students to employ the skills they've developed in writing creative nonfiction, including fashioning engrossing scenes (often with dialogue), using action to express character, and thinking about openings and endings. These are just a few examples of the many wonderful pieces from the winter term class. Enjoy!

No Chips

Dear Diary,

It was after X block, and I was walking down the hall to grab a snack before leaving. I got closer to the bin, eagerly looking at the brown box, and saw what treats awaited me. About ten feet away from the bin, I saw the edges of bright red bags, about 5 bags of kettle corn chips. 

Yesss. 

Suddenly, I heard eclectic footsteps coming from the stairs. My gaze was now focused on the stairs as a small child raced in front of the bin. We locked eyes as he shoved every chip bag into his backpack and, with squared shoulders and a high head, walked away.

Best,

Christian Noah Ngnobouowo.

Three Chickens in a Hallway

Dear Diary:

Today my friend Marley and I were more giggly than usual. We couldn’t stop thinking about our favorite television series: Arrested Development; specifically, the famous chicken dances often featured throughout the show from the various different characters.

“A coodle-doodle-doo!” I whispered in Marley’s ear, impersonating Lucille’s chicken coo.

“Cock-a-kaw-cock-akaw!” Marley responded while imitating Gob’s dance.

We left the class, our stomachs sore from excessive laughter. We stood in the center of the 100s level hallway acting out these ridiculous chicken dances.

Calder—who was also in our class—stood in front of us, a blank expression on his face. We stopped our tomfoolery and stared at him, horrified.

“Chi-chaw-a-chi-chaw!” Calder started, jumping around, flailing his legs, and clapping his hands—perfectly recreating Lindsay’s chicken dance.

At any other school, these actions would be considered anything but socially acceptable. But here, it’s just another average day, three chickens in the hallway.

-Cha Cha Cohen

HarvestFest

Dear Diary,

Today was Harvestfest. And it broke my heart. It was my first Harvestfest playing in front of my fellow students. The game had been on our minds the whole season. For the non-seniors on the team, we knew how much it meant to the Seniors. The last big home game of the season, our chance to embarrass Portsmouth Abbey in front of the whole school. 

The soccer room’s atmosphere was tense. Nervous, with a hint of excitement. Our faces were already sweaty and covered in pink and black eyeblack. Charlie, our goalie, led us out of the locker room and onto the upper field, where a crowd of cheering students awaited us. The bright lights made me wince as I looked around the field. I looked to my right, and was greeted by the face of the mascot. 

As my name was announced over the intercom, I ran to the center where I joined my teammates in preparation for the game. 

Kickoff. 

The game started slowly, as the striker, I didn’t have many moments to shine; it was a pretty defensive game. Suddenly, a long ball from our center-back flew over my head, and the PA center-back took a bad touch. I ran forward and chipped the ball over his head, the goal in sight. I took one more touch, lifted my head, and felt my legs being taken out from under me. 

The ref pointed to the spot.

Penalty. 

The net shook.

1-0 Beaver.

The celebrations lasted 5 minutes, and we ran the length of the field to celebrate with our classmates.

The score stayed that way until the final 5 minutes, when disaster struck. 

Goal.

1-1 Portsmouth Abbey

Goal.

1-2 Portsmouth Abbey

The sweat poured into my eyes, or maybe they were tears.

There’s always next year, I guess.

-Calder Kropp

Halftime show 

Dear Diary: 

Today I saw something that made me smile. 

It was the Beaver version of homecoming except with basketball instead of football, and on a Saturday. The crowd was alive, everyone chanting and shouting, “LETS GO BEAVER LETS GO!” Clap clap clap, Barks and shrieks echo from the stands as the opposing team makes their way to the free-throw line. With the release of the ball, everyone shouts, trying to spook the shooter, distract them. BAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAM. The sound of the buzzer rattles us. It’s halftime. The next thing you know Mrs. Newell’s son Rocco rushes down the bleachers and onto the court. Music blaring and arms swinging, Rocco shows us his dance moves motivating us to join him. 

Hips and shoulders swaying and rocking in the bleachers enthusiastically followed by applause for the little dancing boy. 

-Rylee and Marley

Early but Still Late

Dear diary:

I was finally early to school–by a whole ten minutes. For months, I arrived just in time for Mr. Manning to greet me at the door with a sign-in sheet. 

All of the lights were in my favor on my drive to school. Some cars even let me turn at an intersection I usually sit at for what feels like hours. Turning off of Hammond, the left lane of the driveway remained unobstructed, usually blocked by parents trying to skip the line for drop-off. 

It was perfect. And then I turned into the last row in the parking lot. I saw a single open spot in the distance, but between me and that last chance sat two cars, parallel to each other, trying to park. Simultaneously, they turned their wheels too fast, and lurched forward diagonal to the spot. They went back and forth, seemingly repeating the same wide angled turns with each attempt. I finally saw an opening behind them, and inched my car forward. 

A car had taken that last open spot.

I cursed under my breath, and looped around to exit the lot. Cars already lined the sides of Woodland, but thankfully there was enough room for me. I hated parking there, and apparently the neighbors hated it too. 

By lunch, a dreadful paper slip lay tucked under my wipers. I was over the parking time limit by just eleven minutes. 

I was charged thirty dollars for being early.

The Hallway Spill

Dear Diary,

While washing my paint-covered hands, a middle schooler comes into the

bathroom. As I scrub the red paint, I notice he’s holding a lacrosse

stick, wetting his hair to make it look just right. I let out a little

smile as he continued to fix it. After finishing up, I let him know it

looks great as I walk out.

As I walk down the hallway, a few seconds later, I hear the bathroom door open.

As I turn to look, I see him crash down with a loud bang, the sound of

a lacrosse stick skidding across the ground. My first instinct is to

laugh, but I hold it in as I walk over to him. He is dark red, unhurt

physically, but the poor kid is so embarrassed.

“You all good?” I ask, picking up his lacrosse stick before reaching

my arm out to help him up.

“Uh-huh,” is all he can manage in response.

“Don’t worry, no one saw. Plus, your hair is still good!”

This gets a laugh in response before he slowly walks away, looks both

ways to make sure no one did in fact see him, then SPRINTS down the

middle school hallway and outside.

Since then, I’ve seen him fixing his hair in the bathroom twice, both

times we exchanged knowing looks.

-Ryan Leif

Pit Stop

Dear Diary: 

I was walking to Upper Field in the early fall, when I saw a group of people crowding around one car. 

The crowd seemed to be in an avid discussion, and as Ii approached, I recognized a few people in the crowd and greeted them, then quickly found out that the car was in need of a replacement tire. 

I propped myself up against the tree and deliberated with the group on how we would prop the car up, and replace the tire. 

The trunk of the car was quickly emptied and pulled away to reveal a hidden hole. I was surprised  and helped take out the tire and the small repair kit the car came equipped with.  

The crowd made short work of changing the tire, and also learned how to change a tire from a couple car gurus who did most of the work. 

Unique Unity

Dear Diary:

I arrive at Bradley Hall for the last upper school meeting in junior year. Through the speakers, pop music dated from the early 2000s blares and welcomes us in, typical of a Beaver meeting. The crowd hums a monotonous tune, with several conversations intruding on one another. 

As the meeting progresses, and Alex Gould calls out spring sports awards, cheers arise. People clap and shout, simulating a miniature sports game with a roaring crowd. However, what makes the meeting truly memorable is the period that follows. It starts with an “announcement” from Mr. Manning. He speaks about the “Beaver Chant,” and the student body instantly begins to make noise. Following his lead, the students chant, “B-e-a-v-e-r, Beaver, Beaver, Beaver, g’naw, g’naw, g’naw,” increasing in volume as the chant is repeated. 

This chant was interesting, but it wasn’t new or surprising to us; it was almost to be expected. Karaoke, on the other hand, which came next, was something we hadn’t exactly tried before. Urging us to stand up, Dr. Wilson begins to sing the lyrics to “Pink Pony Club.” Many join in, though many stay reluctant and hesitate to engage. Either way, the hall is filled with the voice of Chappell Roan, like a dulled-down concert. At Beaver Country Day School, it’s bizarre, funny memories like these that keep the community united.

-Charlie Peterson

Student Lounge

Dear Diary, 

I had a bad day. A really bad day. So bad, I actually went to the new vending machines. That takes a new level of absolute misery. To want those healthy plasticy-mango bite things.

Thanks a lot, Michelle Obama. 

I trudge down the stairs,  all the way to the dingy, suspiciously stained carpeted student lounge. I try to focus on the sound of my feet hitting the metal, so that way I won't cry. As I descend to the final level, past the cursed girls' changing room (I saw a cockroach in there last week), I enter what I know as the student lounge, but it doesn't feel like what I once remembered. The musty green carpeted area that smelled like actual moldy cheese felt …warm.

 There is a row of boys. A whole row, just perched together across the entire bench, which, mind you, is about as long as the lounge itself. In the corner is what looks like a shrine, perched on it is the following:

-2 black Santas? 

-An ugly painting of what looks like a car

-A few odd gizmos and gadgets. 

The sight is almost absurd. I feel like a spectator of some odd species. I forget why I'm crying. I forget about those crappy Mango bite things I was going to eat, I just stare at this odd little habitat that somehow was created under my very nose. One boy tosses a Frisbee to another, and a few share a bag of Cheetos. It's like a man cave—with a murky green carpet. All it needs is a pool table. One guy tries to airball the now-empty Cheetos bag into the trash. He misses horribly. I smile. 

See You Again

Dear Diary, 

Today was Ms. Baez’s last day. I am sad because she was such a good advisor. She made me feel comfortable during my high school debut and filled her classroom with color. 

Today she handed me an envelope and said, “Goodbye Adele, I will miss you so much. Email me if you need anything.”

Inside the envelope was an avocado themed card. 

She had only known me briefly but she had taken the time to write me a personal letter to say “I’m proud of you, See you again.”

Pre Game

Dear Diary:

I was about to perform, but not on the basketball court

Still, I experienced the same pre game nerves, the same sweaty hands, and the same tensing of muscles. It was even worse than normal because it was my first time competing in the setting. There was no pregame music, no warm up, just the student section. 

Watching the competitors before me only intensified that pregame feeling. I was just as ready to go as I was ready to quit. 

I stepped up to the stage and it was go time. 

“So how about that weather?”

-Massimo Müllberg

Big Foot at Beaver

Dear Diary:

It was a regular Tuesday morning at Beaver Country Day School. My friends and I were sitting in the foyer during our double-block break, chatting about Sour Patch Kids, for no particular reason whatsoever.

Then, all of a sudden, a tall furry creature with big brown eyes appeared out of nowhere! And it was wearing a Fjäll Räven bright orange backpack.

“Is that the Beaver mascot?” My friend questioned.

“Oh my god! It is!” I replied.

A group of more than twenty people surrounded the Beaver mascot, chattering and high-fiving it like it was their best friend. All of a sudden, a camera popped out of the marketing office! It was one we were all expecting. The camera follows the beaver wherever it goes, just like how people follow the mascot wherever it goes.

The Waffle 

Dear Diary:

I was walking into the cafeteria one wednesday, ready to grab my lunch. As I was filling my plate full of  pasta, and whatever one gets on a pasta day. I realized it was wellness waffle day. I usually love waffle day but I wasn't feeling well that day. 

Despite not feeling well I still grabbed a waffle, because why not? 

As I sat down I watched an underclassman shoveling his food into the trash excitedly awaiting eating his waffle. The waffle slips from his plate into the trash. Knowing there is a one waffle maximum he sadly glances at the trashcan and walks toward the cafeteria exit with his shoulders slumped.

I stop him on his way. “Hey do you want my waffle?” I say to him.

“Sure, thanks,” he replies. 

-Gus Shea

That One Blonde Junior

Dear Diary,

I was in the bathroom on the R-level when a group of 3 girls walked in, chatting. They were talking about the Model UN club, and I recognized their voices as three of the freshmen.

“Who is that one blonde junior in the club?” asked one girl. 

After a few seconds of silent consideration, another girl said, “Sammy?”

“No, no, no, the other one.”

“Ohhh, I know who you are talking about,” said the third girl.

The three of them stood there for about 30 seconds, racking their brains to remember my name.

“Is it Sadie!?” the second girl finally realized.

“Yes!” exclaimed the first girl who asked the question.

“What about her?” asked the third girl.

“I was just trying to remember what her name was, but–” she replied as they all walked out of the bathroom. 

Little did they know that this blonde junior was sitting in that very bathroom the whole time. I thought about chiming in, but I wanted to eavesdrop. I guess I will never know what they had to say about me.

-Sadie Wylie