Assignment 2

Assignment 2: part one was to make a long list of possible topics for my end-of-unit project, and submit it to the prof. Part 2 was to write an opening paragraph (up to one page, double-spaced) for two of the topics. Here are the two I chose, and their openers:


Topic 1: "Adjusting to being a stay-at-home mom, from working full-time or more. The isolation of being at home with twins, without much family around."


I have spent the last five impossibly long years in a losing battle against entropy. This system which I call my household tends to disorder at such exponential rates that at one point I nearly gave up the fight, and would have gladly seen my world tumble from "held-together-by-a-string" to something akin to Shel Silverstein's "Sarah Cynthia Sylvia Stout", a poem about a young girl whose refusal to do her assigned chore of taking out the garbage eventually leaves the entire house buried in rubbish. My husband has shown some improvement, as he no longer leaves trails of discarded clothing like a lazy slug (yes, as opposed to the industrious slugs) and more dirty dishes on nightstands and end tables than some restaurants see in an entire dinner rush. The twin boys, however, seem to be entirely impossible to train. They blow through the house like two miniature tornados, leaving wreckage in their respective wakes, paths crossing, paths diverging--but always, relentlessly, causing fresh batches of work for me. A made bed seems to be the equivalent of an engraved invitation to them: "You are cordially invited to jump upon this surface, to climb under the fitted sheet and burrow around like two little gophers, and to do what you will with the pillows!" They are physically unable to resist this enticing offer, as I'm sure you understand. They have taken home destruction to a Guinness record level, I assure you. May I be stricken with triplets next time if I'm exaggerating by relating that they took an entire flat of eggs and threw each one at the ceiling of their bedroom one morning as I lay sleeping--dreaming of gypsies offering twenty bucks a head for sturdy boys to raise up in their way.



Topic 2: "My father's 40 year battle against depression; my own fierce determination to not follow him, but recognizing similarities in our personalities at a frightening rate."

His response is almost always the same--a sigh, a pause, and an, "I'm okay, I guess." I hate asking, really. The light, airy question we usually toss around without much forethought or much true concern--and with no need for the answer to feel a certain way when it is received. I should call him more. I should ask him that specific question more. I should tell him what a good man he is, how much I admire his work ethic, and how thankful I am for absorbing it through the osmosis of being raised by him. At least we have resumed the practice of exchanging "I love you"s, which I distinctly remember tapering off when I was a preschooler. I know it means as much to him as it should, whenever it is spoken, by nature. He is a sad man, a man whose dreams are as plentiful as the stars in the sky, if markedly less grand, and whose bad back keeps him from leaping for them and dragging them back to earth so he can properly own them. His dreams are big, his business sense sorely lacking. He is too generous, too trusting--and with too little capital to make a proper start of most of his ideas. The phone dating service had to be the worst--at least from my point of view, as a teenager, answering the phone unwittingly on occasion. The crabmeat business was the first of my life, and the most successful, as far as I know. It was thriving, but he still lost the passion for it. It wasn't the twenty-hour days which took the wind from his sails; but it may have been the monotony. Between projects he slips into a phase he calls depression, a phase for which he seeks treatment, to no avail. The only cure I've ever seen for him is a new idea, and the wave of passion for it that he rides until inevitably getting sucked under and pounded into the sand, leaving him bruised and battered. His figurative surfboard is left splintered, floating along beside him to remind him that he has another failure to add to the slide show. His failures have made me aware of risking too much on my own dreams--but more willing to fight for them than I would be without his glaring example of what not to do. My mother balanced his demons for me, her warmth and bottomless depths of positive attitude, filling me with the surety that I could be anything, could do anything. And I have.

Assignment 1

Assignment 1

The assignment was to write a 250-500 word essay after visiting a place that is powerful to you, on your relationship with that place. And the second part of the assignment was to read two personal essays from our textbook and write one paragraph in the style of each author.

Part 1: Personal Essay

Making the acquaintance of the Diamond Fork hot springs was the first step I took down the path of accepting Utah as a place worthy of the name home. It has taken many years to completely push out the hate I once held with determined fingers, but I have, and Diamond Fork continues to be top on my list of what feels like home about Utah.
My first visit was nearly ten years ago, as an adventure-thirsty twenty year old. We drove too fast over bumpy dirt roads through the warm night of early fall--windows down, music up. We had one flashlight with us, batteries weak, beam short. We drowned the darkness instead with laughter and the crunching of gravel under eager feet. The leader of our expedition, my best friend and adventure guru to this day, had done the hike only one other time, and in the murky night air she led us past the turnoff. We went up instead of down, and a two mile hike turned into ten, but somehow this made the destination even more satisfying. Ragged and dusty, we sank into the steaming water and felt the quiet, glittery thrill of finding a treasure buried in the mountains.
The invigorating hike is as restorative as the water itself, and provides additional motivation for my frequent visits. Walking the narrow path, I relish the sounds of the forest--it feels like home, like Maine. Leaves brush across each other, high overhead and give me the sense of being held close by strong arms. Velvety moss creeping across tree roots, ferns uncurling against the shade of a tall trunk, and pine needles slippery under foot work in concert to drag my conscious mind to the conclusion that I am home. Just as I lose myself in this reverie, the sulfur from the springs hits me--my mouth before my nose (possibly because I'm a Neanderthalic mouth-breather) and the taste makes me inhale deeply--which I immediately regret. This, in turn, makes me smile because it means I'm almost there. Almost time to sink, once again, into the soft, thick water, to lean back and close my eyes as the water bubbles and sighs around me. I remember, then, my first visit. I remember that the comfortable, entirely unabashed nudity of middle-aged men made us giggle. And that the overall mood of acceptance and camaraderie flooded us with hope and joy. It was a fully refreshing encounter for two Mainers, lost in the homogeny of Happy Valley. And that is what it has remained, for me: a place to recharge, a place to reflect, and mostly, a place to escape an unfamiliar culture.



In the style of Joan Didion


The winter of my seventh grade year, my parents began to notice that their twiggy little daughter was losing weight. Kids at school noticed, too. "Anorexic," they whispered. If I made a fist, I could place it in the hollow of my hip, and my shoulders jutted out at sharp angles. Even my best friend's mother asked me if I was eating. "Yes." Always yes. Hungry, but not sleeping well. Eating, but wasting away. There were other changes, changes I didn't notice until I looked back. But I certainly felt different, and I was relieved when my family doctor sent me to an endocrinologist. I was relieved when that small man with a big name cheerfully pronounced me as having a hyperactive thyroid. I was relieved when he used the super powers of his training to smoothly transform me back into the healthy girl I once was.


In the style of Scott Russell Sanders

I wish that a sweet word or a sexy laugh from me had the power to change his mood, to lift his spirits, to divert his attention from the source of stress, anxiety, or annoyance. But it doesn't. He was taught early on that the only way to survive was to be the sole proprietor of one's soul. There was no one to wipe away tears, hug away blues, or laugh away fears. He explored and conquered this world all on his own. Allowing me the power to change him would be losing control, when keeping control is what has saved him. I have changed him, though. He eats three meals most days, he is no longer an Olympic medalist slob, and he is loved, he is valued, he is appreciated.