About two by three inches, she stands in pristine beauty, gazing at the world. Eyes of ocean blue, skin as pale as milk, and cheeks as pink as bubblegum; her beauty is unmatchable. She reveals a humbling smile and possesses a sense of warmth about her that comforts me whenever needed. Her fuchsia gown glows elegantly in the light that encompasses her and bears no marks of the years in which she has endured. Golden-brown locks of curly, full hair fall down from the uppermost part of her head and onto her delicate shoulders. Arms wide open and half bent, she embraces those who cradle her. Although hallow inside, she is filled with fascinating stories and endless memories.
She does not possess the gift of language, nor can she hear, but that doesn’t keep me from talking to her and reminiscing about all the times we’ve shared together and all she means to me.
Her name is Ellie and she used to live on a shelf in my room. She was a doll given to me by my Aunt as a memento to remember my late Grandmother, Eleanor. But Ellie is so much more than a perfectly crafted piece of porcelain; she is all I have left of a woman who meant the world to me.
I was just 14 when my Grandmother passed away. As it was only 5 years ago, I can remember being overwhelmed with a mix of emotions. I was sad that she would no longer come around on the weekends to talk about the family and her weekends at the strip-mall and casino. I was angry that she was torn right out of my life, giving me no chance to say good-bye. Most of all, however, I was confused as to why it happened and why I had no closure. The only thing that I was certain about was the fact that I no longer had a grandmother and obtained nothing in which I could remember her by.
And then along came Ellie…
It was about a month or so after the death of my Grandma when, on a warm day in late February, the doorbell rang. It was my Aunt Roxanne and she was holding a cardboard box filled with little trinkets and bundles of papers, among other objects. When she placed the box down onto the kitchen table, she pulled out the smallest, most gorgeous doll I had ever laid eyes upon. Fixing her dress and hair, my Aunt turned toward me and placed the priceless beauty in my cupped hands. Upon telling me that she belonged to my Grandma, I almost broke down with emotion. Holding myself together, I hugged my Aunt and managed to mutter out the words, “Thank you.” She then asked me what I was going to call her – I knew the perfect name; “Ellie,” I said, and rushed to my room to place her high upon my shelf so she could watch over me.
Thursday, February 26, 2009
Tuesday, February 24, 2009
Learning and Applying
Perhaps the best way to learn the craft of writing is to observe the work of other authors. Throughout the entirety of the course thus far, two of the essays in which our class has been asked to read; “The American Male at Age 10,” written by Susan Orlean, and “A Postcard Memoir,” by Lawrence Sutin, have intrigued me above all others.
Susan Orlean’s story, about a young boy named Colin encompassed several interesting aspects. I found the topics in which his friends discussed to be highly appealing; ranging from concepts such as AIDS/HIV, abortion, recycling, personal views about girls/women, sexism, sports, college, and above all, money. After reading this essay, I couldn’t believe the things 10-year-olds talk about nowadays. I never used to discuss such concepts with my friends; maybe due to the fact that I feared discussions about sex and/or didn’t understand or know enough about such concepts as abortion and AIDS. To put it plainly, it shocked me that Colin, as well as his friends, were concentrating on issues in which were far beyond their years. They didn’t seem to be indulging in the idea of being a kid. It appeared as though they were near-adults, masquerading in the bodies of children.
Throughout her essay, Susan Orlean did a phenomenal job when describing the characters and setting. At times, I grew somewhat confused and questioned why she added the extraneous information, as it oftentimes seemed to throw off her essay; however I realized at the end, that her motive was probably targeted at possibly trying to enable the reader to comprehend why Colin is the way he is and thinks as he does and believes the things he does. Thus, I found it to be a powerful tool she enabled throughout her writing and fnow, feel as though I can incorporate such information into my own stories.
In addition to Orlean’s story, Lawrence Sutin’s essay, in my opinion, encompassed a few interesting aspects. Upon reading his story, “A Postcard Memoir,” I became a firm believer in the saying “honesty is the best policy.” After reading his essay, I realized that sometimes the best work stems from reality; sometimes it is more beneficial to write about what you know, to write about the truth and not resort to creating false scenarios. Now, I understand that reality can be more interesting than falsity; in reality, you find humanity – you find the human side of things and people can relate to that.
Susan Orlean’s story, about a young boy named Colin encompassed several interesting aspects. I found the topics in which his friends discussed to be highly appealing; ranging from concepts such as AIDS/HIV, abortion, recycling, personal views about girls/women, sexism, sports, college, and above all, money. After reading this essay, I couldn’t believe the things 10-year-olds talk about nowadays. I never used to discuss such concepts with my friends; maybe due to the fact that I feared discussions about sex and/or didn’t understand or know enough about such concepts as abortion and AIDS. To put it plainly, it shocked me that Colin, as well as his friends, were concentrating on issues in which were far beyond their years. They didn’t seem to be indulging in the idea of being a kid. It appeared as though they were near-adults, masquerading in the bodies of children.
Throughout her essay, Susan Orlean did a phenomenal job when describing the characters and setting. At times, I grew somewhat confused and questioned why she added the extraneous information, as it oftentimes seemed to throw off her essay; however I realized at the end, that her motive was probably targeted at possibly trying to enable the reader to comprehend why Colin is the way he is and thinks as he does and believes the things he does. Thus, I found it to be a powerful tool she enabled throughout her writing and fnow, feel as though I can incorporate such information into my own stories.
In addition to Orlean’s story, Lawrence Sutin’s essay, in my opinion, encompassed a few interesting aspects. Upon reading his story, “A Postcard Memoir,” I became a firm believer in the saying “honesty is the best policy.” After reading his essay, I realized that sometimes the best work stems from reality; sometimes it is more beneficial to write about what you know, to write about the truth and not resort to creating false scenarios. Now, I understand that reality can be more interesting than falsity; in reality, you find humanity – you find the human side of things and people can relate to that.
Thursday, February 19, 2009
Living in Memory
He was a man of no older than 67, but looked of only early 50s. Known by family and acquaintances alike, he was the kindest soul. People used to say that he was unlike any other; a true gentleman of his generation. Always with a smile on his face, a twinkle in his eye, and the eagerness to lend a helping hand, no one could dispute such a statement. But that day, he was different. No smile, no twinkle, no words. On that day, his youthful looks deceived him; for the lines on his face were eminent from the years of life consumed by the cigarettes he loved so much. Sad it was for him to realize that they now were -- as they had always been – his executioner, as they had come to claim their victim after decades of ceaseless demise.
His clothes controverted those who surrounded him. The warm colors of their sweaters, ruffled tops, and leg warmers, along with their poufy hair, only held back by the thick, elastic band that encircled their heads, contradicted the drab, off-white color of the hospital gown and his ice-cold head, bare from the inability to produce any locks of hair for the past several months.
On this day, the cancer would take him.
His youngest daughter, my mother and nearly pregnant with my older sister, slowly sauntered over to the crib-like bed. Sitting next to what appeared to be a lifeless body, she placed her warm hand on his weakening heart, searching for a beat, a pulse, any indication that he was wasn’t yet gone. Immediately, he fixed his head to face his daughter and, with all his strength, clutched her hand in his. Eyes closed, mouth opened, he took his last breath – and that was it; that was the end of him.
Paul McIntyre, my grandfather, died that day, along with any hopes of him welcoming the births of his two youngest granddaughters. He would not attend our birthday parties, or be there for a shoulder to cry on, nor to continuously inform my sister and me about how life was in the good-old-days. Due to this very moment, now more than two decades ago, I have no choice but to live in my imagination and make-believe stories that never occurred in order to feel his presence and to understand what, now, only photographs depict.
His clothes controverted those who surrounded him. The warm colors of their sweaters, ruffled tops, and leg warmers, along with their poufy hair, only held back by the thick, elastic band that encircled their heads, contradicted the drab, off-white color of the hospital gown and his ice-cold head, bare from the inability to produce any locks of hair for the past several months.
On this day, the cancer would take him.
His youngest daughter, my mother and nearly pregnant with my older sister, slowly sauntered over to the crib-like bed. Sitting next to what appeared to be a lifeless body, she placed her warm hand on his weakening heart, searching for a beat, a pulse, any indication that he was wasn’t yet gone. Immediately, he fixed his head to face his daughter and, with all his strength, clutched her hand in his. Eyes closed, mouth opened, he took his last breath – and that was it; that was the end of him.
Paul McIntyre, my grandfather, died that day, along with any hopes of him welcoming the births of his two youngest granddaughters. He would not attend our birthday parties, or be there for a shoulder to cry on, nor to continuously inform my sister and me about how life was in the good-old-days. Due to this very moment, now more than two decades ago, I have no choice but to live in my imagination and make-believe stories that never occurred in order to feel his presence and to understand what, now, only photographs depict.
Tuesday, February 17, 2009
The Power in Art
About a year ago, I sat down with a good friend of mine in the darkness of my dorm room and reluctantly watched, “Across the Universe;” a movie based on numerous songs of the acclaimed 1960s British rock band, the Beatles. Throughout the entirety of the film, to my amazement, my lower jaw was unhinged from my upper jaw, forming an “O” with the whole of my mouth as I was in complete awe and utterly fascinated with the artistry of the underground movie. Never had I seen such illustration of art, information, and emotion in my life; and I say that sincerely.
I remember one scene in particular. The melancholy keynotes of the piano echoed as the somber melody of the song “Let It Be” could be heard. At this point in the movie, the female lead was pictured pedaling her bike on her way to the home of her boyfriend, in an attempt to surprise him on his arrival home from fighting overseas in the Vietnam War. As she anxiously rode around the corner, two officers dressed in appropriate attire could be seen regrettably handing a letter to her beau’s mother. At once, the mother, losing all strength in her body, leaned against the doorframe fell to the ground in hysteria. The girlfriend, comprehending the situation, broke into tears soon after.
Immediately, the cameras flashed to a young black boy, about the age of 12, who began to harmonize to the music. He was sitting on the ground, hiding behind the charcoaled frame of a car ablaze in the background. Trying to understand what was going on, the cameras soon focused in on a swarm of innocent civilians, mostly of the African American ethnicity, who were being shot by white members of the U.S. Army in the midst of a chaotic riot. About a minute into the song, the powerful, yet humbling vibrations of a woman’s voice took over the lyrics of the song as the camera flashed to the young boy lying in a casket; for he was shot in the same riot he was singing about just prior. Giving the audience enough time to take in the death of the young boy, the cameras flashed back to the lead female as she was attending the funeral of her boyfriend. Members of the U.S. Army were pictured folding up the American flag and slowly handing it over into the trembling hands of his mother who broke down once again.
I found this scene, as well as the remaking of the song, to be elequently human and nothing short of phenomenal. It was portrayed with such compassion and emotion which undoubtedly captured the exact story at this point in history. This four minute scene encapsulated both sides of the story; it allowed the audience to understand the fateful account of different ethnicities, opposite social classes, and yet how both were affected by the war in such a similar and catastrophic way. Every time I watch this scene, I can’t help but break down because every aspect that was put into it came together in such a beautiful portrayal of a horrific tragedy.
I remember one scene in particular. The melancholy keynotes of the piano echoed as the somber melody of the song “Let It Be” could be heard. At this point in the movie, the female lead was pictured pedaling her bike on her way to the home of her boyfriend, in an attempt to surprise him on his arrival home from fighting overseas in the Vietnam War. As she anxiously rode around the corner, two officers dressed in appropriate attire could be seen regrettably handing a letter to her beau’s mother. At once, the mother, losing all strength in her body, leaned against the doorframe fell to the ground in hysteria. The girlfriend, comprehending the situation, broke into tears soon after.
Immediately, the cameras flashed to a young black boy, about the age of 12, who began to harmonize to the music. He was sitting on the ground, hiding behind the charcoaled frame of a car ablaze in the background. Trying to understand what was going on, the cameras soon focused in on a swarm of innocent civilians, mostly of the African American ethnicity, who were being shot by white members of the U.S. Army in the midst of a chaotic riot. About a minute into the song, the powerful, yet humbling vibrations of a woman’s voice took over the lyrics of the song as the camera flashed to the young boy lying in a casket; for he was shot in the same riot he was singing about just prior. Giving the audience enough time to take in the death of the young boy, the cameras flashed back to the lead female as she was attending the funeral of her boyfriend. Members of the U.S. Army were pictured folding up the American flag and slowly handing it over into the trembling hands of his mother who broke down once again.
I found this scene, as well as the remaking of the song, to be elequently human and nothing short of phenomenal. It was portrayed with such compassion and emotion which undoubtedly captured the exact story at this point in history. This four minute scene encapsulated both sides of the story; it allowed the audience to understand the fateful account of different ethnicities, opposite social classes, and yet how both were affected by the war in such a similar and catastrophic way. Every time I watch this scene, I can’t help but break down because every aspect that was put into it came together in such a beautiful portrayal of a horrific tragedy.
Tuesday, February 3, 2009
Sometimes I Just Need to Shut My Mouth
The concept of underestimating is a specialty of mine. I’m very good at “talking the talk,” so it’s called, but I tend to fall short on “walking the walk.” Today, being a prime example of just how overly-confident I can be at times before reality smacks me in the face, or in today’s case, on the butt.
Last night, after the gym, my friend asked my boyfriend and me if we’d like to join him on his hike up South Mountain – a task he ensured would be “challenging but do-able, no doubt.” Since I’ve been hiking many times before, I quickly accepted his offer and was anxious for feat that awaited us the following morning.
Upon waking up at 9:00 a.m. today, I was excited to rough if out on the ridged, desert terrain of the mountainside. Being a fairly athletic person, I figured I could hike the several peaks, no sweat. I knew that I might have a little difficulty at first, but then my body would warm up and I’d be a pro in no time. Confident in my ability to overcome the mountain and give my boyfriend a run for his money, I began to smack-talk. How stupid.
Right when we set foot on the trail, my friend shouts back to me, “Not gonna lie, this first part’s a bitch,” (emphasis on the last word). Nothing like hearing that to get you pumped for an hour and a half hike ahead of ya, right? I knew then and there that I was essentially done for – and boy was I right. Immediately after that, the trail took a frightening turn for the worst – a nearly 45 degree shot, straight up to the top of the first peak amidst countless jagged rocks and cacti which lay in our path. I ran out of breath only halfway up that peak and felt as though I was going to die.
The boys, several feet ahead of me and nearly out of my sight, hollered back, “How ya holding up Kaylyn?” I wanted to strangle them as soon as I could catch up to them because I knew they were mocking me under their breath. Unfortunately that small beacon of hope never came. I was behind them the entire hike and had to stop at least three different times – one of them being not of choice, but due to a clumsy slip on my part. At the time, my boyfriend was walking past a cactus and made the remark, “Oh look, some male genitalia on the side of the trail,” as he pointed to a prickly cactus that was, I have to admit, a spitting image of a man’s southern region. Caught off guard by such a remark amidst my frustration, I lost my footing trying to spot out this amazing piece of natural art that I just had to see, and landed smack on my butt. Seeing and hearing my entire plunge to the rocky ground, Zack, my boyfriend, replied, “Aw, nuts!” He can be so sarcastic sometimes.
Last night, after the gym, my friend asked my boyfriend and me if we’d like to join him on his hike up South Mountain – a task he ensured would be “challenging but do-able, no doubt.” Since I’ve been hiking many times before, I quickly accepted his offer and was anxious for feat that awaited us the following morning.
Upon waking up at 9:00 a.m. today, I was excited to rough if out on the ridged, desert terrain of the mountainside. Being a fairly athletic person, I figured I could hike the several peaks, no sweat. I knew that I might have a little difficulty at first, but then my body would warm up and I’d be a pro in no time. Confident in my ability to overcome the mountain and give my boyfriend a run for his money, I began to smack-talk. How stupid.
Right when we set foot on the trail, my friend shouts back to me, “Not gonna lie, this first part’s a bitch,” (emphasis on the last word). Nothing like hearing that to get you pumped for an hour and a half hike ahead of ya, right? I knew then and there that I was essentially done for – and boy was I right. Immediately after that, the trail took a frightening turn for the worst – a nearly 45 degree shot, straight up to the top of the first peak amidst countless jagged rocks and cacti which lay in our path. I ran out of breath only halfway up that peak and felt as though I was going to die.
The boys, several feet ahead of me and nearly out of my sight, hollered back, “How ya holding up Kaylyn?” I wanted to strangle them as soon as I could catch up to them because I knew they were mocking me under their breath. Unfortunately that small beacon of hope never came. I was behind them the entire hike and had to stop at least three different times – one of them being not of choice, but due to a clumsy slip on my part. At the time, my boyfriend was walking past a cactus and made the remark, “Oh look, some male genitalia on the side of the trail,” as he pointed to a prickly cactus that was, I have to admit, a spitting image of a man’s southern region. Caught off guard by such a remark amidst my frustration, I lost my footing trying to spot out this amazing piece of natural art that I just had to see, and landed smack on my butt. Seeing and hearing my entire plunge to the rocky ground, Zack, my boyfriend, replied, “Aw, nuts!” He can be so sarcastic sometimes.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
