As I read The Execution of Tropmann I wondered what the point of Turgenev's retelling was. Was it just to show us how gruesome and awful being there in the midst of the crowd waiting to see this man executed was? Was it so we could see behind the scenes? Was it merely an interesting event that he felt would be "a good read" for his readers? The question stuck in my mind until I reached the end of the essay.
A persuasive essay! What? Turgenev's ability to guide the reader along without directly stating at the beginning that was his purpose allowed me as the reader to accept the information without immediately becoming defensive or thinking that Turgenev was wrong. I don't believe I've ever read a persuasive essay where that has not happened before. The revelation at the end sparked an interest in me to go back and rethink my former opinions on the death penalty (or at least public executions).
A:
During 2008, an estimated 57 million people died ("The Top 10 Causes of
Death").
In
the United States alone the highest causes of death were as follows:
Heart
disease: 599,413. Cancer: 567,628. Chronic lower respiratory diseases: 137,353 (CDC/National
Center for Health Statistics).
Death affects us all.
There is nothing that you can do to change this fact. Family members, treasured pets, the
assassinations of presidents, and in the end, your own death, are all parts of
death. Medical procedures can prolong
your life for days, months, and sometimes even years, but your life will always
ultimately end. The Bible even tells me
so.
Knowledge of death surrounded me in numerous ways throughout
my childhood. I was born to an old
father and a young mother. The 33 year
age difference between my parents was quite disparaging, even to me. Most times though, it was what I thought of
as typical. When I was born in 1991 my
father was 62 years old, nearly retirement age.
It
was “normal” for my father to be in the hospital on Christmas day in 1995 with
a heart attack. Heart attacks were
prevalent on his side of the family and he suffered two more before he passed
away. He was plagued by numerous other health
afflictions as well that pointed toward the end of a life. Throughout my first eighteen years of life, I
came close to being able to gaining a medical degree. It was normal that my sister and I trooped
along with my father and mother as he met with the urologist, the cardiologist,
the radiologist. The “ist” became a
familiar sound to our ears and felt at home on our tongues. Topics such as bed sores were openly discussed
in front of me at the hospital with nurses. I knew my father had a DNR (Do Not
Resuscitate) policy; hospital staff had informed him that if he did need CPR at
any time it was likely that he would not survive and that if he did, it would
be with broken ribs at the least. I’ve
seen a catheter bag emptied and the number of bites from dinner recorded and
marked on the hospital’s “special chart”.
The harsher side of life was always lurking at the sidelines if not
fully in front.
At
times, my father could not care for himself and that duty fell upon me. My mom was gone dropping my sister off at
college in Oklahoma and I had drawn the short straw of being the youngest, and
thus, caregiver of my father while they were away. He wouldn’t have the strength to rise out of
bed sometimes. I remember walking into
my parent’s bedroom, standing as still as I possibly could, listening intently
for the sounds of my father’s breathing.
A few times I was not able to hear anything, and I would then concentrate
to see if the sheets on the bed rose and fell with his chest. Desperate panic set in a couple of times when
I could not detect either. I have still
never felt anything like that of thinking that my father might be dead while I
was in charge of his care. He always
kept breathing though.
He kept breathing, although at one point he wouldn’t have
been able to without the help of a ventilator.
He’d gone into the hospital for an, as the doctor said, “easy, three day
maximum” gallbladder removal surgery.
The surgery did go well, but the anesthesiologist’s incompetence allowed
the mixture of two potent drugs to interact, stopping the message from my
father’s brain to his lungs telling them to breathe. In the next few hours, my
mom, sister, and I sat huddled around the telephone waiting for news. It was
four o’clock in the morning, the hospital was an hour away, and my mom had only
gotten home an hour before after the nurses had assured her he would wake in a
few hours. Instead, we received the call
that his heart had stopped, a breathing tube had been put in and he showed no
signs of recognition in his surroundings.
We would go to the hospital in the morning. We arrived in the morning and to our great
surprise he opened his eyes! The
ventilator stayed attached for a total of four days as he remained in the
Intensive Care Unit. He remained in the
hospital for two more weeks after that.
Death is sometimes recognizable. Not with the human eye, but with our
senses. It was not until the summer
before I came to college that I realized this fact and knew my father demise
was imminent. I had never been so sure
before in my life. On July 3rd,
his heart started to give out once again.
He was rushed to the local emergency room 20 miles away where a
temporary pacemaker was attached. A care
flight was coming to pick him up to fly him to the heart hospital for further
assistance. Our local health center
would not have the expertise or facilities to care for him. My mom and I ventured into the tiny, septic
room at the emergency room before his transfer to see him and say our goodbyes
just in case. As I went to stand back
near the doorway one of the ambulance crew workers tried to reassure me. This was her statement regarding a medical
procedure that was occurring, “They are putting that tube down his throat
because when you hand pump oxygen into his lungs, it is likely that he will throw
up. The tube will keep him from choking.” Choking on your own vomit…what an awful way
to die. What an awful way to live.
The cardiologist did not think that my father would have
the strength to pull through the surgery to have the pacemaker put in, but
without it we had no chance. His heart
couldn’t live on its own power. He made
it the through the operation, but recovery was slow. While he was able to go home within two
weeks, my family soon realized it was not a viable option. He was unstable when he walked, falling over
numerous times. His appetite
deteriorated. Food had no taste to him
and as he said
It was a joke that wasn’t funny in my family that in the
first few years that we lived in South Dakota, we were invited to four or five
weddings, but attended around twenty funerals.
Maybe that’s because my father made so many connections among the older
generation.
Death
has its own smell. The antiseptic,
sterile environment of a nursing home cannot fully cover the stench that is
radiating throughout. The smell soaks
into the walls. You can’t wash it
away. It lingers on you. It lingers with you. It becomes a part of you. I’ve gone to nursing homes many times to
visit with residents and the smell is always there. People crouched over in wheelchairs, minds gone. Still there are others who can’t rise out of
bed without assistance. People who aren’t
living, just existing. Oh! Death where
is they sting? Right in the center of my
heart.
***
Death imparts itself upon more than the human
condition. It also carries a strong
influence upon physical and metaphysical ideas – small towns that are “dying
off.” Some small towns die quickly; some
small towns die slowly. I look to my own
personal experience for observation on the phenomenon. My family moved to the town of Lily, South
Dakota, back in 1997. In 2000, the U.S.
government census listed 21 residents (“Lily, South Dakota Population”). At the peak of population in the town, there
were close to 200 residents (according to the 1920 U.S. government census). The area was bustling with jobs, as trains
traveled through town picking up various crops and goods and carrying
passengers to the station stop. The high
school boys’ basketball team was state champion. There were Lutheran and Catholic churches to
provide for the religious needs of residents.
There was also the Solberg gas station, a highly involved membership of
the Engebretson-Lien Post 156 of the American Legion of Lily, SD, a corner drug
store owned by the parents of Hubert H. Humphrey, a grocery store, and a post
office – it offered all that was needed to survive in the early 1900s.
The town itself was named after the first postmaster’s
sister, Lily. It was only by pure happenstance
that my parents saw the name of the town, Lily, the same as our last name, on
the map when we were traveling through the state of South Dakota. They decided that we needed to stop and see
what the area was like. It would be amusing
to have a town named directly after you, but in our case, it was only that way
because my parents chose to move there.
The
2010 census tells a much different story of my little town of Lily. It lists four official residents (“Lily,
South Dakota Population”). Four. Yet, the town hangs on with a thread of life
like a body with an IV attached. My
mother has served as mayor for the past 3 years and I even attended a position
on the board for a year before coming to college. Town board meetings would last anywhere from
an hour to three hours. It was
comparable to making funeral arrangements; the town wasn’t that close to death,
yet we all knew that it would be coming.
My
mother, Christine, is currently in the process of selling our house and moving
to a much livelier city, Aberdeen, with its population 21,000. Only 60 miles away from Lily and yet Lily is
just too rural to attract the younger generation looking for jobs. The one couple in town is also planning to
move. My older sister got married two
years ago and isn’t likely to return.
When I graduate, finding a job will be foremost important to me and
there are no jobs to return to in Lily. After these transitions and current residents
move, there will be two full time residents living in Lily (unless the houses
up for sale are bought quickly and previous owners replaced). The town board will most likely cease to
function without a quorum. In essence, the
town will be dead. Still in my mind, its
rich history will live on. Stories from
the “old-timers” about getting into fights during the roaring dances at the
legion, the annual Turkey Shoots, and learning that at one time Clark Gable came
pheasant hunting in the area with his wife will remain in my heart and in my
mind.
I
think of the other small towns, and by small I mean less than 500, in the area
and the rich history they provide as well.
Roslyn is the home of Myron Floren accordionist on The Lawrence Welk
Show – a favorite of my father’s. The
list goes on: Sparky Anderson - baseball manager, Bridgewater; Tom Brokaw - TV
newscaster, Webster; John James Exon - senator, Geddes; Crazy Horse - Oglala
chief; Oscar Howe - Sioux artist, Joe Creek; Hubert H. Humphrey - senator and
vice president, Wallace; Roy Braxton Justus -
cartoonist, Avon; Ward L. Lambert - basketball, Deadwood; Ernest Orlando
Lawrence - physicist, Canton; Russell Means - American Indian activist, Pine
Ridge; George McGovern - politician, Avon; Dorothy Provine - actress, Deadwood;
Sitting Bull Hunkpappa - Sioux chief; Jess Thomas - opera singer, Hot Springs; Norm
Van Brocklin - football player, Parade; and Mamie Van Doren - actress, Rowena ("Famous
South Dakotans"). These people were
all raised in the small towns of South Dakota. And now they are steadily
disappearing as school districts shrink and consolidate, people pass away and
no newcomers move in, and in general, they are simply forgotten as death moves
in.
***
Lives
begin and lives end. What’s most
important is what you do with it in the meantime. As the Bible clearly states in Romans 14:8, “For
whether we live, we live unto the Lord; and whether we die, we die unto the
Lord: whether we live therefore, or die, we are the Lord's.” Death has no power over us. What death is is a tragedy and a blessing
that befalls us all, whether in the death of a parent, great aunt, beloved dog,
or home. Mark Twain said, “The fear of
death follows from the fear of life. A man who lives fully is prepared to die
at any time.” I’m ready for you death…and
I’m coming…one day.
WORKS CITED
CDC/National
Center for Health Statistics. "FASTSTATS - Leading Causes of Death."Centers
for
Disease Control and Prevention. Centers for Disease
Control and Prevention, 19 Oct. 2012. Web. 27 Nov. 2012.
<http://www.cdc.gov/nchs/fastats/lcod.htm>.
"Famous
South Dakotans." Famous South Dakota People. 50states, n.d.
Web. 27 Nov. 2012.
<http://www.50states.com/bio/sdakota.htm>.
"Lily,
South Dakota Population:Census 2010 and 2000 Interactive Map, Demographics,
Ben Stahn's photograph displays the interaction between three cotton pickers - one man and two women. At the forefront of the photograph is the first woman who stands with her body facing away from the camera,but face toward us. Her eyes are averted, almost as if she doesn't want her picture taken. It's through her trying to hold back a little smile and irresistible facial expressions that we can see she most assuredly wants her picture taken. Self-conscious might be at the top of ways she feels clothes in her raggedy dress, with her cotton picking bag tied across the front of her body.
The man to the left of her carries a nonchalant pose: one stand resting on his hip, while the other supports him as he learns against the wall. His eyes are looking directly at you and his face says, "Take my picture, don't take my picture. I'm just here to do the job."
In the back right of the photograph, we see the third subject. This older women stands with her back toward us, the most unapproachable. Her neck is turned so we can see her taking a glance at the scene occurring behind her. I can almost hear her saying, "Crazy kids! What are doing, letting them taking your picture?" As the oldest, a sort of mother figure, she feels a responsibility to protect them.
I felt the most connected to this photograph as it allowed me an inside view into the every day life occurrences that some people during the 1930's had to endure. I can't imagine having to wake up every single morning, ready to be out picking cotton by 6:30 a.m. As this group three stands in their symmetrical triangle of three, I couldn't help but see that they would all be there to support each other if need be. They all share in the struggles of life together through this job. I also enjoyed the woman in front who seemed unsure about getting her picture taken. I myself have done the, "No, don't take my picture I look awful!...well if you insist." She made me smile.
Blindness was a short essay that I particularly enjoyed reading as it put life into a completely different perspective for me. One of the most interesting ideas that he shared was the contrast of having a room full of books and not being able to see any of them due to his blindness. Here I am in a room with a few books and perfect vision (at least when I wear my corrective prescription) and no desire to read them. Instead, I sometimes look on the reading that I have to do as a chore, rather than an opportunity to learn more and to "see" more about the world that surrounds me.
I also found the information on what blind people do and do not see to vary from information that I had known and I admit that I was one of those people that thought those who are blind only see darkness. Colors? White? No, when you're blind you suffer only with utter blackness. Instead, he shared that he is tortured in his blindness especially by blue and green colors. I did wonder how he knew about the color red, however. Could he see at one time in his life? If you're blind, how would you distinguish colors?
I often judge others based on their outward appearance and actions - I admit it. As I read through this essay, I couldn't help but wonder if I was blind if I might be more prone to actually see people for who they truly are rather than just taking them at face value. Right now, I'm living the life of a blind person...I have yet to see the world and those in it as it truly is.
We've had many discussions in our class lately regarding what comprises "good" art, music, film, writing, etc. Is good in between excellent and awful? Is good only a matter of opinion? Perhaps we read too much into what "good" is supposed to look like and forget to look at something for the basic of what it is. I thus decided to focus my "On Good Art" summary on photography and the many ways it can be viewed, "bad" and "good".
"You forgot to take the lens cap off!" "Your finger is covering half of my face!" "What is that thing coming of the middle of my head?" These are all responses to a photograph that I'm sure many of you have heard. Yet in this case, is it the subjects fault, or the photographers? I'm sure you'd agree that in these instances fault does indeed fall upon the artist, the photographer.
I searched Google high and low for answers to good versus bad photography. Famous shots versus awful shots. I discovered something highly interesting. Google didn't have all the answers! In fact, they hardly had any. What I did find was the notion that we don't so much focus on the art itself, we focus on the artist (photographer in my case). As I thought about this more, I began to realize that this is true of other art mediums also.
Each summer, a neighbor (who lives in Minnesota, but owns a house in Lily) brings a group of 8-12 people to South Dakota for a photography workshop. During the workshop he gives the group assignments such as find something that resembles a face, i.e., the front of a car with smiling bumper and bright headlight eyes. Another might be to approach a stranger and ask if you can take their photo. Photographs connect you to your subject and allow you to view the world in a different "lens". The ability to do this is in itself an art form. It's not always something that can be taught. Sometimes your eye has to be able to make the picture happen. And sometimes, you have to let it happen. Beauty and "goodness" will come with trial and error.
Photography tells a story: a black man standing at a drinking fountain labeled "colored" with another fountain less than five feet away labeled "white." While writing can and should be descriptive, the ability of a photo is much stronger in some cases to illustrate feelings and depth. "A picture says a thousand words." This is why I think photography is a valuable art form in which our judgments based on good and bad should be hesitant. Don't make any flash judgments.
How odd it seems to me that a man would "crack" in the prime years of a person's life. What would cause such a turn of events? Yes, "all life is a process of breaking down," but is there also not the process of rebuilding? Throughout Fitzgerald's writing I felt as though he was a man who had given up on life. And perhaps he was; he died at the age of forty-four. He mentions that he has "weaned myself from all the things I used to love...they had become an effort." This made me think of the things I love in life: waking up in the morning all nice and warm tucked into my bed, petting a puppy, looking at the changing colors of the landscape, and talking with a good friend. Then I thought of how those things contrast with bad issues: my bare feet hitting the cold floor and chilling me, the sharp biting teeth of the unknowing puppy, the snow that will soon begin falling (causing accidents and freezing temperatures), and discussing issues that cause pain to a friendship and the heart. Yet, am I ready to crack? Shatter into a million pieces that I, nor a group of friends, could put back together? No, but their are still times when I'm dropped onto the floor and I feel weak points start to enter my life, and if dropped at just the right angle, I would shatter without hesitation.
I've shattered. But I've managed to paste myself back together through some miracle...
The cracks are still there as Fitzgerald tells us. Held together with a fake smile. Trained in such a fashion that others won't be able to recognize that we are damaged goods. Our fix-up job is so well done that we fit perfectly back on the shelve with undamaged goods - no one will ever know. We'll do the job we were designed for - serving other people even if we remain unappreciated for what we are. Damaged goods.
Mencken presented his opinion of American in a rather satirical manner - joking about the political system, drinking, and how amusing Americans are versus other countries. I found his third section on America being the "land of joy" especially funny. Some may find his delight in the humor found in the antics of Americans particularly sinful, but I quite agreed with him. We hold a very ethnocentric view of ourselves: better paying jobs than Bulgaria, freedom to read the New York Journal, and laws to be obeyed. We have the freedom to laugh at ourselves. And there are many things to laugh about: dancing girls, political mockery, and half-naked vampires.
1. Car.
2. Snow Globe. People find me interesting when they shake me up. I have a main focal point in my personality, but there are parts of me that float around.
3. A game of Monopoly. Taking vacations, money, houses and moving, travel
4. Sponge. I soak up information and then it seeps out as my mind gets bogged down with too much imformation.
5. Jenga: Made up of many layers and pieces. If you take a piece out (family, faith), my life may stay stable or it may collapse. Some characteristics are perfectly shaped and some have knots in them. I make you mind work and your ability to understand each part of me changes as you learn more about me and the people "playing" the game in my life.
The fear of death follows from the fear of life. A man who lives fully is prepared to die at any time. ~Mark Twain
The idea is to die young as late as possible. ~Ashley Montagu
The saying that "only the good die young", contrasts with my hopes in dying of senescence. Senescence is a rather easy way to die - nothing like being burned alive in a fire, eaten by a shark, or struck by lightning. World death rates: 151 people die every second. You breathe in, you breathe out. Another 151 dead. 150,000 people die every single day Obituaries are seen in the paper, usually at the end, after all of the headline news, stocks, sports, etc. Death is not an uplifting or popular topic that people wish to address first thing when they look at a paper, so editors make sure to put it near the back. I've looked over obituaries and thought how people are able to have their lives condensed into two or three short paragraphs: work, family, favorite activities enjoyed during their lifetime. After death, they may be remembered for a while, but as is the natural course of things, they are then forgotten (unless they have achieved "miracle status" such as Moses, Deborah, or Jesus). Specific countries have their heroes too, but how many people in Zimbabwe or Brazil remember or know anything about George Washington? If I were to die right now at age 21, would my obituary contain as many details and illustrate to others that I have lived as full of a life as someone who lives until the age of 100? The thought hardly seems possible, yet I think of the travels I have been on, hobbies, my family members, schooling, trials, and friendships and believe that my life so far couldn't be condensed into a book, let alone a short paragraph. And if it were, what would I want it to say about myself? That I lived a full life even though I died at such a young age? That I missed out on the great things in life to come? How families deal with the death of a family member.
World Causes of Death Deaths in millions % of deaths Ischaemic heart disease 7.25 12.8% Stroke and other cerebrovascular disease 6.15 10.8% Lower respiratory infections 3.46 6.1% Chronic obstructive pulmonary disease 3.28 5.8% Diarrhoeal diseases 2.46 4.3% HIV/AIDS 1.78 3.1% Trachea, bronchus, lung cancers 1.39 2.4% Tuberculosis 1.34 2.4% Diabetes mellitus 1.26 2.2% Road traffic accidents 1.21 2.1% Source: http://www.who.int/mediacentre/factsheets/fs310/en/index.html Juan Ponce de Leon's search for the "Fountain of Youth" led him to no such discovery, but the idea of everlasting youth still draws many. Botox and face lifts are prevalent in our American culture as we try to maintain the youthful look of our 20's and stave off the "look" of death for as long as possible. But that only leads me to the question... What if we never died? Often, a discussion of faith and death coincide. Once you die, where do you go? Into a pine box 6 feet deep in the ground, where your dead corpse will lie only to be eaten by worms? Perhaps you will be among those you go to the streets "paved in gold" that the ever hopeful and optimistic Christian holds as their final place of glory.
Growing up in South Dakota I experienced some rather harsh winters
– below zero temperatures, four feet of snow in our backyard, and being stuck
at home because our roads were secondary or even third in order of importance for the county
snow plows. Without a doubt however, the most conflicting winter of
my childhood would have to be that of 1997. The pure, white snow
came in the form of a blizzard and swirled rudely by our windowsill, taunting
us. Here and there it swirled, free as could be. Temperatures hit below zero and when the wind
chill factored in, temps would fall as low as negative forty. The wind didn’t just affect the
thermometer. It also brought about
extraordinary, compacted drifts of snow that we all knew would make our chore
of shoveling nearly impossible.
The blizzard
wouldn’t allow us to go outside either because of the cold, harsh
conditions so the only place that we could watch all of the happenings from was
inside our house. I would often lean over the top of my mom’s
La-z-boy recliner to look out the window behind. The snow was so
thick that at times you couldn’t see more than four feet in front of the
windowsill. At other times, it calmed
enough to see the barren maple and cottonwood trees thickly covered in
snowflakes that weighed the branches down so much that many of them were
beginning to break off the tree. It
lasted for what seemed like days upon days to me as a six year old child ready
for adventure and scoping out the new landscape that the snow was creating. In
reality, the blizzard didn’t last for more than two days.
The heat blasted
out of our electric baseboards constantly.
As I leaned over my mom’s recliner, the heat would hit me in intense sporadic
waves, but it only made it seem more so that the severe conditions outside
couldn’t actually be that bad. My sister, who was
three years older, and I tried to use our rationale on our mom, but she
wouldn’t accept that excuse by any means; she knew better. By the time we were allowed to go outside, my
sister and I were ready for a grand escapade. Sure, we had schoolwork,
but with being homeschooled the “teachers” could easily change our
schedule. Plus…the snow wasn’t going to
last forever!
“Freedom!” my
sister Tirzah and I shouted in unison as we began to pull on all of our snow
gear. First, on came the wool socks that I still hate to this day
because, while they were indeed warm as my mother claimed, they were scratchy
and they itched. Next were the coverall
snow-pants. My sisters were purple and mine were hot pink. Then it
was our ski masks, bulky winter coats, hats, snow boots, and
lastly…mittens! The mittens always had to come last. I’d learned
this over time. One time I tried to go
out of “putting on” order and realized it was just not possible to zip yourself
into a winter coat with them on. I had
called my mom over and had her do it for me.
Once I was encased in all of my winter apparel, I stood by the door tapping
my boot on the linoleum in a steady rhythm.
“Come on
Tirzah! Hurry up!” I spoke as the impatient younger sister.
“Just hold your horses you
nut! I’m going as fast as I can!” came the voice of the ever reasonable
older sibling.
If you went any slower…
“Were you saying something Han?”
“Nope. Not a thing.”
I made it pointedly obvious that I wanted to though as I raised my
eyebrows, pursed my lips together and flashed my eyes quickly between her and
the door. She didn’t take the hint.
Our house was
right next to an old Lutheran church no longer used for services except once a
year during the summer months. The snow had drifted into the alley behind
our house and the church. When I say drifted, I don’t mean we got a
couple of inches of snow and it had rippled gently in the wind before
settling. I mean that there was 12 foot drift of snow that some “skiers,”
such as me, might have been happy to go on. The drift had formed because
of a fence, trees, and a perfect direction of blown snow. The snow crunched loudly, stiff as could be,
and compacted on all surfaces as we had earlier predicted might happen. Instead of skiing down the slope my sister
and I created our own mode of transportation down the hill. We took a basic plastic sled, looped a rope
through two holes that my father drilled in the front of each sled, and would
hold on to it as a horseback rider does.
We made the trek up the rather steep incline of the snow drift, balanced
the sled on the tip, and put one foot in, and then cautiously added the
other. A slight shift of your body
weight forward and you would cruise down the hill for 30 or 40 feet. We
had our very own private ski hill - it was like nothing I had experienced
before.
We played outside from lunchtime until a little before dusk. Tirzah and I
heard our mom call from our back doorstep, “Time to come in girls!”
“Tirz, can I please go one more time before we have to go back in? Plleeaasse?”
I begged.”
“Sure you can. Only one more time though!”
That’s when it happened. The
slow motion scene…I falling from my perch in the sled, smacking the snow bank
with my face, bending the nose piece on my glasses. I don’t remember it
fully, only the weightless feeling that overcomes a person when they go into a
free-fall and the sharp pricks of tiny snowflakes that felt like knives on my
face we became very well acquainted.
Being outside in the cold for the past four hours had also numbed my senses. Toes and fingers were barely moving. Conceivably, that’s what contributed to my
ungracious exit from the sled in the first place. I slowly gathered my wits and I back
together, stood up and said,
“Okay, I’m ready
to go in now.”
We took a few steps toward our
house until my sister halted, “Hannah…”
“Yes...?” I waited
for her to finish her thought.
“Is one of the lenses from your glasses
missing?”
“No, I can see
just,” I started to say as I took my mitten off to feel my glasses. “No!
It’s missing! It can’t be missing!
What are we going to do?”
“We’re going to look for it that’s
what we’re going to do.”
The next hour we
looked for it to no avail. My mom had called us several more times since
her initial announcement to come in and had given a last warning to get inside
before she would be coming out to get us.
I was terrified at what the ramifications of my actions would be. When we traipsed in to the house, I was close
to tears.
“Mom? I,” sniffle, “I lost the lens in my glasses!” It wasn’t supposed to
be a wail, but it ended up coming out that way.
Another sniffle and then some tears started falling. I’d been
scared to come in and tell my mom that I lost the lens. I don’t know why
I thought my mom would be upset, but I did. My sister and I had looked
for over an hour and I thought it was hopeless. Now my mom was going to
have to buy me a new pair.
“No use crying
over it Hannah. We’ll go out and look for it. When did you lose it?”
“About an hour ago.” Sniffle.
“Was this before or after I called you to come inside?”
“Well…right afterward.”
“So you waited
until it’s nearly pitch black out to come ask for my help?”
“I’m sorry Mom” and my head drooped
in shame.
Our troop of three
headed back outside equipped with only a flashlight. Imagine yourself
searching for a clear piece of glass with a diameter of one inch by two inches
against a white background that reflects back in prisms of color – the same as
glass. Needle in a haystack anyone?
“About where did you lose it Han?”
“Somewhere over here about I
think?”
My mom walked over to the area, searched and shined the flashlight, and within
five minutes, she caught the glare of something. Was
it?! No. Then…
“What’s that right
over there?”
“YES! Mom you are a miracle worker!”
The lens was found
by pure graciousness from the Lord. My sister and I had spent over one
hour, I repeat, one hour, looking for my missing lens and in less than five
minutes after we had all come outside my mom found it. MOMS! As my mother also reminded me after the
event, if I had come into the house when she first called all of my worry and
angst would never have happened. The
whole incident would never have happened.
Turns out mothers know best too.
Thoreau is walking away from industrialization and into a state of wonder. He chases the idea of reverting back to the "good old days" when the landscape was free of logging crews tearing down the tall pine trees and being turned into a different kind of tree almost - telephone poles. It provides an interesting contrast to think of how the things we take from an area are reused in it later. Trees also provide the walls for the homes in which we live. I think Thoreau does not focus on the positive things that come from going into the future.
As for the style in which Thoreau writes, I feel that it is almost a question and answer style. He speaks with a rhetorical tone that allows the reader to engage and question in their own mind what it is that they feel about life and nature. Can you imagine walking 15 or 20 miles a day and not seeing something new or learning something about yourself? What if we didn't have a building surrounding us? What if we were always surrounded by nature alone? Thoreau wants us to live in a dream world where all humans can commune with nature and I do not believe this is possible because it is not nature that we are to be communing with, but rather God.
Annie Dillard approaches the idea
of sight and how we view life in a very interesting manner. Starting with a story from her childhood
about hiding pennies, she continues in the next setting of how a penny isn’t
worth that much to someone as you get older.
She connects this with seeing as well.
How people view the world around them changes dramatically as they get
older. A young child seeing a fish for
the first time might take in the slimy, wet scales on the body and feel a prick
from getting too close to a sharp fin.
They would see the fish gasping for breath; red gills rising and falling
rapidly as they were searching for water in the air. They would hear the splash as the fish is
tossed back into the water. Now though,
close your eyes. The whole scenario has
changed. Yes, you can still feel the
fish with your eyes closed, but how would you know it’s even a fish
anymore? Only because someone tells you
it is so? Now maybe the prick they tell
you is from a fin is really just someone poking you with a needle. The struggle that a fish has out of water
goes unnoticed.
With this thought in mind of what
it would be like to be blind, I think Annie Dillard flawlessly transitions to
the end of her story in sharing the details about people who have undergone
corrective eye surgery to correct their vision problems. If I was 21 and was just being able to see
for the first time, I can’t imagine how I would react, but I feel it would be
much in the same way as her examples. If
I had learned to walk around my house without seeing anything, would I not be
more comfortable with doing so for the rest of my life? Your eyes are the windows to your soul, but
maybe that’s why so many people put blinds on them. The harsh realities that can come with seeing
(such as witnessing a brutal crime) are forgotten by those that have been
blessed with the gift of it throughout their life.
Growing
up in South Dakota I experienced some rather harsh winters – below zero
temperatures, four feet of snow in our backyard, and being stuck at home
because our roads were secondary or third in order of importance for the county
snow plows.The winter of 1997 was the
most conflicting of my childhood.The pure,
white snow came in the form of a blizzard and swirled by our windowsill.We couldn't go outside because of the cold, harsh
conditions so the only place that we could watch from was inside.It lasted for what seemed like days upon days
to me.The heat blasted out of our
electric baseboards constantly.I would
often lean over the top of my mom’s La-z-boy recliner to look out the window
behind.The heat would hit you in
sporadic waves, but it made it seem as though the harsh conditions outside
couldn’t actually be that bad. Mom wouldn’t accept that excuse by any means.
By the time we
were allowed to go outside, my sister and I were ready for an adventure. Sure, we had schoolwork, but the snow wouldn’t
last forever.
“Freedom!” my
sister Tirzah and I shouted in unison as we pulled on all of our snow
gear.
First, on came the
scratchy wool socks that I still hate to this day because, while they were
indeed warm as my mother claimed, they itched. Next were the coverall snow-pants. My sister had purple and I had hot pick. Two years later when she outgrew hers and got
a black pair the purple ones became mine.
Then it was our bulky winter coats, ski masks, hats, snow boots, and
lastly…mittens! The gloves always had to
come last. I’d tried to go out of order
once and realized it was just not possible to zip your winter coat up with them
on.
Tapping my foot in
a steady rhythm by the door I hoped that my sister would get the hint that she
needed to move along a little faster.
“Come on, come on
Tirzah! Hurry up!”
“Just hold your
horses you nut! I’m going as fast as I
can!
Our house was right next to the old
Lutheran church no longer used for services except once a year during the
summer months. The snow had drifted into
the alley behind the church. When I say
drifts, I don’t mean we got a couple of inches of snow and it rippled gently in
the wind. I mean that there were 12 foot
drifts of snow that some skiers such as me might have been happy to go on. Instead my sister and I would stand up inside
a very basic plastic sled holding onto the rope we had attached to the front and
cruise down the hill for 20 or 30 feet.
It was like nothing I had experienced before.
We
played outside from lunchtime until dusk.
Tirzah and I heard our mom call from our back doorstep, “Time to come in
girls!”
“Tirz,
can I please go one more time before we have to go back in? Plleeaasse?” I
begged.”
“Sure
you can. Only one more time though!”
That’s when it happened. The slow motion scene…me falling from my
perch in the sled, smacking the snow bank with my face, bending the nose piece
on my glasses. I gathered myself back
together, stood up and said “Okay I’m ready to go in now.” We took a few steps and my sister halted,
“Hannah…”
“Yes...?” I waited for her to finish her thought.
“Is one of the lenses
from your eyeglass missing?”
“No, I can see just,” I started to
say as I took my mitten off to feel my glasses. “Ah! It’s missing!
What are we going to do?”
“We’re
going to look for it that’s what we’re going to do.”
The next hour we looked for it to
no avail. When we traipsed in to the
house, I was close to tears.
“Mom?
I,” sniffle, “I lost my lens.” Another
sniffle and some tears started falling. I’d
been scared to come in and tell my mom that I lost the lens. I don’t know why I thought my mom would be
upset, but I did. My sister and I had
looked for over an hour and I thought it was hopeless. Now my mom was going to have to buy me a new
pair.
“No use crying
over it Hannah. When did you lose it?”
“About an hour ago.” Sniffle.
“So
you waited until it’s nearly pitch black out to come ask for my help?”
“I’m sorry Mom.”
The
troop of three headed back outside equipped with only a flashlight. Imagine yourself searching for a clear piece
of glass with a diameter of one inch by two inches against a white
background. Needle in a haystack anyone?
“About
where did you lose it Han?”
“Somewhere over here about I think?”
My
mom walked over to the area, shined the flashlight and caught the glare of the
lens by pure graciousness from the Lord.
My sister and I had spent over one hour…one hour!...looking for my missing
lens and in less than five minutes after we had all come outside my mom found
it. MOMS!
It is not easy for me to think of
my school days without seeming to breathe in something cold and evil-smelling…
My school days weren’t cold or
evil-smelling except for when I upset my mom before a school lesson. Why did it
matter if I upset my mom? It was because
she was also my teacher. Having your
parents as teachers can be rather upsetting for students because you can’t get
away with anything! Parent teacher
conferences...oh yeah they were tight my parents and my teachers. It was almost like they were one and the
same…weird. I did feel a little chill
inside my soul whenever my mom pulled out an algebra or science book –
especially physics. You could have put
that textbook on someone’s chest and the weight of it probably would have
killed them! Terminal velocity – heck! Terminally dead! I, instead, preferred the little reading of
War and Peace and the collaborative works of Shakespeare, especially if they
were the condensed Readers Digest versions.
In all honesty however, the broad spectrum and materials that my mom
made me learn have had a positive impact of my life. My father was never one for the books either,
unless you count using them to prop open the garage door for fresh air when he
was changing oil on our Jeep Grand Cherokee.
That’s why he was in charge of the PE and workshop part of my
education. I can not only count to one
hundred, but I can change a flat tire, sharpen lawn mower blades on a bench
grinder, and lift 50# bags of concrete mix.
I’m also quite flexible due to the number of painting projects I’ve
participated in. Two houses later and I
can extend my arm for over six inches. I
feel fairly accomplished in what I learned from my parents and my
teachers.
While an
author’s stories should be reviewed on their own merit, I found myself
comparing Orwell’s essay Such, Such Were
the Joys! and his book Animal Farm. My mother had always enjoyed Animal Farm for its classical and hidden
meanings and felt that my sister and I would benefit from reading his
writings. While the tone in which these
two stories were written differed greatly, the overarching theme remained much
the same – injustice and leaders who only cared about themselves. The schoolmasters at Crossgates made George
Orwell into a guilty, ashamed person every chance they could while he
there. He wasn’t a prince? No, he was there purely by luck. He was reduced to feeling gratitude to the
headmasters in hopes that he would one day get a scholarship to a decent
school. The only other option would be a
desk for 40 pounds per year.
Orwell
seems to hate and accept the punishment doled out by the headmasters. At the beginning he felt that it wasn’t his
fault, i.e. the bedwetting, but by the end of the story he believes all of the
lies told to him, i.e. masturbating. The
psychological issues in the background of this story showed how much his life
was impacted by living at Crossgates.
At the end,
George Orwell makes a point to tell us that he has never been back to
Crossgates, but he though he thought of it scarcely, when he did the memories
were pointed and vivid. He wants to
forget, but is not fully able. Life
keeps us in its boundaries no matter how hard we try to escape.
Girlhood is the age of knowing and not knowing. I suppose a clearer, one word way of putting this, would be puberty. Both boys and girls go through this phase yes, but I think the way it affects girls is much great than boys. For girls it's the time when we know what we our bodies are going to look like (for the next 20 years or so at least). The awkward limbs, chubby cheeks, and pimply face are on their way out and beauty is coming in. Beauty for some might not be what they hoped, but in this phase we are often our harshest critics.
E.B. White confused me. Each part of his essay's focused on a different topic, thus making it somewhat more difficult to follow. The broad overtone of the circus narrative implied that the general story was dealing with the passing of time, but it was told through the story of a young women at the circus. While he was telling the story of time, I felt that there was almost a surrealistic undertone. He focuses in on the beauty which he sees in her at this time and how she will never be so beautiful again. It is almost metaphorical when we read about her riding the horse around the circle. For her, that was how time seemed to pass. For him, it was all that he could do to keep from yelling out and telling her that it would soon be useless to try to keep time going in this circle. Without a doubt, she would, just like the rest of us, fall onto the straight path and grow into her old age.
My favorite part of "The Ring of Time" was the Fiddler Bayou section. The narrative at the end of him describing how a performer performs pulled the whole story together for me. He connects the performance we give in life to the time we have on earth - no one else can control it and "our most notable performances have already been given."
There's one item that I've always missed from childhood - traditions. Many families I know base most of their family gatherings and holiday celebrations on tradition. From the Christmas fruitcake to singing Auld Lang Syne on New Year's Day there are numerous ways to celebrate and remember just as E.B. White's characters did in "Once More to the Lake". As I've gotten older I realized my family was more than a little lacking in traditions. I'm not sure if this was due to the fact that we lived so far away from our extended family and thus we never got into the habit of participating in them, or if my mom and dad thought they were pointless. I remember my mom reading the Christmas story of Joseph, Mary, and Jesus a couple years ago right before we were going to begin opening our presents. She mentioned how this was becoming a tradition. I thought to myself, "It must still be in the beginning stages, because this is the first time we've done it this way." But a tradition has to start somewhere. The same goes for the little son just learning how to fly fish. It may not have been a tradition for him before that summer, but you can be assured that he will continue to go now that he has learned this important skill from his father.
Sometimes remembering and going back to your past hurts. The father realized he was getting no younger and in a way was living vicariously through his son. Still, I believe that this is almost the best way to bond and fondly remember the "good old days" while living in the present, bringing you closer to your family.
It tears at my insides
How can this be healthy?
Cold porcelain is pressed to my face,
Trying to look the same as my tiny porcelain doll.
I devour what I can -
food, friendships, family.
Baggy clothes allow freedom,
Freedom from the pain of cut wrists.
My wrists encircle his neck,
Deep pain in all that pleasure.
Just me, living a normal life
A happy, healthy, normal life.
The tendons stretch, near to breaking
Chiseled abs, a six pack in the making.
Long torso and sinews and muscle
You didn't get those without a little hustle.
A broad chest with shoulders the same
Please, oh please, give me your name!
My body
Soft, delicate curves, near to breaking
Love handles, a baby in the making.
Long legs and skin and muscle
I wouldn't do so well in a tussle.
A small chest with shoulders the same
Please, oh please, make me your dame!
Coins jingle
Stamps stick
Flowers dry
Planes fly
Gardens grow
Pets play
Hunters hunt
Golfers punt
Lyrics sway
Fish bite
Money and a ticket
Ticket and a bus
Bus and a suitcase
Suitcase and a destination
Destination and a time
Time and a person
Person and a home
Home and a bed
Bed and a belonging
Belonging and me
Pigs fly,
Time flies.
Weight broke the wagon,
The horse went before the cart.
Bird got the worm,
Only a day late.
A dollar short,
A penny saved.
Life begins anew.
A day, like and yet
unlike any other,
with changes in mood,
changes in color,
changes in you
The first day -
Spring.
My Sister's Wedding
Mismatched flowers
Missing bridesmaids
Tears can't fall I say
He won't give her away
Rings the wrong size
Preacher's passed out
A groom with stone feet
He should have cold feet.
Brother, no, I'll call you
by your name, enemy.
You stole something, yet
She never belonged to me.
Two together as one
The wedding party complete
Tears stream on my face
As he gently gives her away
The rings, perfect fits
Preacher's smiling in delight.
A man who loves my sister,
A sister who loves that man.
Brother, I call your name,
Our friendship grows.
A gift freely given,
You belong together.
Heavy in my hand,
I lift you once again.
My muscle screams
"Why do you do this?!"
I dropped you once
on my toe. Even the dickens
couldn't explain how bad it hurt.
You pull my arm back down;
cold metal with a "10" stamp.
Hit so hard,
6,7,8 - a voice calling out.
I see red,
on my hands and his.
Count starts again,
1, 2, 3, - I can't get up.
Yet I rise,
only to be hit again.
Made of lead,
8, 9, 10 - counted out.
Hand held high,
on him, the victor.
Circles that never end,
Navajo Indian colors.
Stones encased in metal,
people trapped in history.
Vendors yelling buy,
a myriad of styles.
A way to live life,
a way to tell the story of life.
Sitting out in the dirt I plant a seed,
Water it well, wait for a while to see.
What else could such a small thing ever even need?
How big will you grow, as big as a tree?
The sun ceremoniously faces
toward the ground where you lie beneath the soil
buried. Crushing weight keeps you in some places
you never thought you would - enduring toil!
Is it worth it in the end? Drought, weeds, rocks
but you are no stranger to trouble so
on you strive. Cracking the hard outer blocks
that once protected what you aim to sew.
The ground that held you in, now pushes out
Supporting the stem, which takes its own route.
Value that can't be bought,
Amazed at the thought.
Little things that matter,
Even a small gift.
Now let the dipping begin,
Then add sprinkles for the win!
Imagine finding them upon awaking
No one to thank.
Enjoy love's unknowable
Sent without a label.
You were so
little when you came to us. You weighed
less than five pounds and hardly caused us any trouble. Sleep was a constant companion of yours and I
of you – so sleep and I became great friends too. You would run and play and only do half the
things I told you to. One day Mom cut up
a whole tray of fresh fruit – apples, oranges, grapes – but they weren’t for
you. When nobody was looking though the
fruit was all gone from the table and there you were and there we were. But you weren’t hungry anymore.
Life wasn’t
ever boring with you around! You grew to
your full size and then you grew some more as Dad paid special attention to you
when it was supper time (or breakfast or lunch). You were always there for me. I held you as I cried and you never said
anything, just let me be. Then life was
better. You’d ride in our green
wheelbarrow to help build my strength and gain a higher position in the
world. Dad tricked you one time and had
you jump in when there was water sitting inside. Oh how you hated water! It took you months to jump back in and ride
again. Your trust had been broken.
Time and
you had reached a decision – you were getting old. Breathing and walking and
eating all became too much for you…and then…you were gone. Now your leash hangs unused and my pillow
remains all mine. You were the best
companion.
