Response to Confessions

I loved the way that the event in this essay was allowed to be played out in full before any in depth commentary or reflection was added to it. I believe that I prefer the style that Amy Tan exemplifies, as it allows the reader to fuller immerse themselves in the scene, and then after the scene has sunk in, the commentary begins. The descriptions, though not overly complicated, were powerful all on their own, and I'd like to be able to emulate that style.

Remembering Again

I remember the grassy, sloped front yard of a house on Virginia Lane back home. The blades of green were clinging to their last leg of life, the flowers already hidden away for the year. I remember the feel of giddy unknown hidden among the scenery, with memory of summer laced in the sound of birds, memory of kisses on the black tar of the driveway, memory of gentle hands down by the drain where I took care of a stray cat, once. Although it was dark, at the time, and my eyes were only meant to focus on one thing, so perhaps I was just imagining all of these things. I remember the way the yard made things seem exciting and hopeful, stretched out far past the reach of a young man bent on one knee, buzzing in sync with his contagious energy. Or maybe it was me that was buzzing. I remember events of importance and events of no consequence witnessed by a brick home, but this occasion surely fell under the first category. I remember so many things that night looking back, but question what I could have possibly been thinking in that moment. Did the earth’s chosen shape around me matter at all, did anything matter at all, but the terrifying yet wonderful changes I could see happening right before me?

I remember a house on Virginia Lane with a beautiful front yard where a young boy grew to be a wonderful man. And I remember when that man, and that front yard, chose me. 

I Remember Prompt

                I remember the grassy, sloped front yard of a house on Virginia Lane back home. The blades of green, sharp. Chlorine and sweet flowers, pungent. I remember the feel of giddy unknown hidden among the scenery, with memory of summer laced in the sound of birds, memory of kisses on the black tar of the driveway, memory of gentle hands down by the drain where I took care of a stray cat, once. I remember the way the yard made things seem exciting and hopeful, stretched out far past the reach of a young man’s bent leg, but buzzing in sync with his contagious energy. I remember events of importance and events of no consequence witnessed by a brick home. A pool waiting patiently in the back, lapping at the sides of cement in a hope to entice me closer. But I remember the front more passionately. I remember a house on Virginia Lane that had a beautiful front yard with two cars in the driveway. And that means I remember him.

Response to In Wyoming

Spragg’s In Wyoming utilizes multiple long, fragmented sentences throughout the story that give it an almost tired feeling, because of the way that the story has to be read. Spragg uses copious amounts of commas, especially presenting lists within the first few paragraphs, such as, “Wyoming boasts coal, oil, gas, uranium, widely scattered herds of sheep and cattle, and once, several million bison” (52). Lists such as these present the facts of Wyoming in a way that becomes monotonous and almost boring, the way that Wyoming itself is probably supposed to appear to the reader. 

Deceptive Ocean

My first time experiencing the coastline was on a family vacation to Myrtle Beach, at the age of nine; old enough to enter the ocean without having to hold my mother’s hand, still too young to travel the boardwalk alone with my cousins and siblings as they discovered the interesting city life. Still, the shops and people were hardly what had my attention the first time I got to see the edge of my known world.

Looking out to the edge of the horizon when all that is visible is frothy blue water is more minimizing than any set of mountains or plains. I remember the ocean being vast on the side of being frightening; yet the smell made it almost alluring, so aromatic that it would be hard to describe it in any way other than simply ‘the ocean’. Salty and briny to the point of having a taste in the back of my throat, it filled my nose and my mouth until no other smell was able to permeate. Also unique to the ocean experience was the feel of the sand, not very similar to the bagged grains that were dumped into my sandbox as a child. It was deceivingly soft in some areas, until the bits of glass and shell worked to the top of the piles and clung to my feet.

That girl experiencing the ocean for the first time was as invincible as any child, though I never was as outgoing as those closest to me, past or present. Even my timid nature couldn't keep me from being annoyed at the overbearing way my mother would not allow me to enter far into the ocean, always insisting that I wasn't able to wade out past the height of my thighs or the tide would sweep me out like any piece of driftwood. She had a point, of course, as I couldn't swim then, and still haven’t learned. But what did logic matter to a child who was experiencing something for the first time, and wanted to experience more, more, more?

During that vacation to the beach, my mother was knocked over by a wave while barely in the water, and was lucky to not have drowned. Something as beautiful as that ocean--captivating in the hypnotic way the waves could lull me to sleep, comforting with the sand between my toes, familiar in that scent caught on the wind—was also more than able to take away a life, with no brain to question the morality, no emotions to sympathize with the victims.

The ocean made me feel minimized as a child, almost insignificant against its never-ending rush of power, but that was not the last time that I would feel small. There are always going to be firsts in life, and the first time I experienced the ocean introduced me to the lessons of caution, possible death hidden in beauty, to just listen to my mother and stop complaining. Of course, I have yet to experience the first time I follow these lessons, still too captivated by the softness of the sand to worry about the shells embedded in my heels.

Reflection on Tenino

Tenino takes a topic that I have always been interested in—taking written works of the past and connecting them to a personal present—and expands upon it wonderfully. Mary Clearman Blew says that, “It seems to me that, if only for the length of a sentence, I have been freed from the inexorability of past tense” (50). This quote is interesting when pertaining to nonfiction, because the majority of what will be written in nonfiction is in the past, and a writer can easily get distracted by the “inexorable” fact that the information has already been experienced and is only being retold. But Blew found a way to connect past and present, freeing herself to write better nonfiction because of it, which I believe is an important thing to learn how to do. 

A Scene at the Ocean

My first time experiencing the coastline was on a family vacation to Myrtle Beach, at the happy age of nine; old enough to enter the ocean without having to hold my mother’s hand but still too young to travel the boardwalk alone with my cousins and siblings as they discovered the interesting city life. Still, the shops and people were hardly what had my attention the first time I got to see the edge of my known world.

Looking out to the edge of the horizon when all that is visible is frothy blue water is more minimizing than any set of mountains or plains. I remember the ocean being vast on the side of being frightening yet alluring. The smell largely contributed to the alluring part, and was so aromatic that it would be hard to describe it in any way other than simply the ocean. Salty to the point of having a taste in the back of my throat, it filled my nose and my mouth until no other smell was able to permeate.

Also unique to the ocean experience was the feel of the sand, not very similar to the bagged grains that were dumped into my sandbox as a child. It was deceivingly soft in some areas, until the bits of glass and shell worked to the top of the piles and clung to my feet. 

Response to Night Song

As one of the first pieces of non-fiction that I have read, Night Song was a quick reminder that just because something is written truthfully from life, it doesn't mean it cannot also be creative. Kuusisto remembers, “The gulls sounded like mewing cats and the ravens sounded like hinges in need of oil” (29). As a young child those might not have been the exact thoughts he had or metaphors he drew, but when recalling them he is able to creatively convey the truth of his memories. The piece is creative and conveys sounds in an interesting, extra-sensory way.