Julie’s Sketch: Winter Storms

This sketch by Julie tells a great story! I’ve never seen the sort of winter storms she describes, but her descriptions almost make me feel like I have. The whole style of the sketch reminds me of my creative writing class; we just had an exercise about writing detailed descriptions of nature. It’s harder than it seems, and Julie did a great job here. I love the contrast between nature and city life that she writes about.

Read the story and let Julie know the parts you loved about her story and the things you wanted to know more about by submitting a comment.

Winter Storms

I was born in Michigan, where there are storms every winter. Occasionally, we had thunder snow. There are lots of lake-effect storms. The winds usually blow from west to east and Chicago weather will be in Detroit the next day, picking up water in the lakes resulting in a heavy winter snow storm. Salt trucks routinely dump salt on the streets, making it easier to travel; also giving the region the nickname “Rust Belt.”

Heavy sleet and ice storms cover bare tree limbs and it looks like a fairy land, sparkling in the sun. Cars parked outside during an ice storm could have several inches of ice, making it impossible to see through windows or to get the doors unlocked — and also making many people late for work.

Every year the first snow means that most everyone will be two or more hours late to work. People forget how to drive in the snow. The traffic is so much slower it is backed up for miles. It is just expected every year, and most companies do not require employees to make up the time lost that day.

Sometimes the snow is so heavy that the cities have to shut down. No traffic is allowed on the streets except for emergency vehicles and people who were essential, for safety or medical occupations. Snowplows are constantly at work, trying to clear the streets of snow. Some of the snow is scraped up and put into dump trucks then taken to the Detroit River and dumped there. After the snowplows are gone, cars left parked in the streets have to be dug out. The piles of snow sometimes last for weeks before they melt. We felt like we were driving through tunnels of snow.

When I was a little girl, it was fun to sit in the back seat of the car when we were going somewhere and watch the snow as it seemed to fly through the window. Playing in the snow with my friends was always fun. If it was a wet snow, we could make a fantastic snowman. A great treat was to get an icicle hanging from the house roof and eat it, almost as good as a popsicle. We loved our Wonderful Winter Wonderland.

When our son, Luke, was born there was a storm that lasted several days. I remember standing at my hospital room window watching the snow fall down and pile up, waiting for Ward to come and visit us. The storm raged on after we were home from the hospital. One day Ward was picked up at 6:30 a.m. for work as usual and was back home at 11 a.m. They finally gave up trying to get to work, turned around and came back home.

Luke’s friend, Matt, lived next door. The year Luke was three years old, the snow drifts between our houses were higher than Luke was tall. I had to carry him and wade through the snow to visit Matt. As I carried Luke, his feet were dragging in the snow and we both giggled as we struggled to get through the snow to Matt’s house.

Candice’s Sketch: Constitution Week

We’ve got another reader submission! This is by Candice, who is a Constitution Week USA Board Member. It’s a great sketch about Constitution Week, an event that I honestly knew nothing about before reading Candice’s story. It really made me think about our country and the sacrifices people have made to make it the way it is. I wish I had gone to the event when I had the chance and was still in Provo. Thank you Candice for helping to put on such an important event!

Comment below to let Candice know what you liked and if you wanted to know anything more about Constitution Week.

Constitution Week in Perspective – Was it really worth it?

Last week we celebrated the nationally observed Constitution Week. Part of me wonders how many people noticed or took the time to reflect on the miraculous document that provides so many freedoms we enjoy on a daily basis. Thankfully, the Gilbert-based nonprofit Constitution Week USA and the hundreds of volunteers that participated helped many of us stop and, for at least a moment, do just that.

The 10th annual Constitution Fair, held Saturday September 17th, attracted over 10,000 people, the largest attendance to date. In addition to the familiar replicas of the White House, Washington Monument, Independence Hall and other displays, historical characters, children’s activities, politicians and community booth areas, this year a new Freedom Trail, patterned after Boston’s famous Freedom Trail, provided citizens the opportunity to visualize historic sites significant to our founding. A favorite memory of the evening occurred when I looked across the pond to see a young family staring at the fifteen foot replica of a Boston Tea Party ship. I imagined the parents explaining to their children the significance of those historical events and, more importantly, discussing how they personally could sacrifice, exercise their political rights and fulfill much needed responsibilities.

Enhancing the event, the Town of Gilbert’s new 9/11 Memorial, stood alongside Constitution Week’s Arizona Fallen Soldier’s Memorial. The new, permanent monument, an eight foot long, 1,500 pound beam from the World Trade Center, invokes a deep sense of reverence and respect. Before the fair’s opening, while volunteers ran around setting up, a gentleman approached another board member and me with tears in his eyes and asked what was occurring that evening. He saw the activity from the road, stopped, and spent a few private moments walking through the Fallen Soldier’s display only to reflect, “Have we really lost this many soldiers?” Clearly moved by his experience, his response helped everyone there to feel a greater sense of gratitude for the many individuals who made the ultimate sacrifice for our country.

People from all over the state and country took a seat, or threw a blanket on the grass, to enjoy the entertainment. Crowds warmly welcomed local musicians Firefly and The Jones Boys and cheered the newly formed Constitution Week band Fortress, while waiting for the event headliner, ‘American Idol’ runner-up David Archuleta. David performed what one woman described as “the best concert I’ve ever been to.” Performing a mix of patriotic, cover and original songs, David delighted the audience while uniting families and the community. Thanks to Archuleta, many who had never previously attended the Constitution Fair declared they would “never miss it again”.

A Gilbert resident, who lives one mile from the event site, later sent an email saying, “As I exited my house onto my back porch, I heard the most beautiful rendition of the National Anthem…The voice was clear and pure, and exuded pride in every word that was sung. Although I was away from the fair, I applauded and cheered as the singer completed this wonderful song. Thank you…You brought pride to my heart and tears to my eyes.”

No one will ever know the hundreds of hours the all volunteer board, committee and others put into this event, the school presentations, “Miracle of America: Birth of a Nation” musical concert, scout clinics, etc. As I left the vacated grounds around midnight Saturday, I asked myself, “Was it really worth all the effort?” One David Archuleta fan, Pamela Pike, from California, described what we as a board, committee, and volunteers hoped to achieve through our efforts. She said, “What they created together is a relationship in which they work on making a difference in people’s lives.” A text from my teenage cousin declared, “Thank you so much for tonight! It was probably the best night of my life.” So, with that hope in mind – whether to make a difference in the life of one or many, or to help our community better appreciate our Constitution and the “Fortress” it provides us – sign me up for 2012.

Alice’s Sketch: Follow the Steeple

I’ve loved reading the submissions we’ve had so far! I’ve been looking into family history writing a little since reading Melody’s sketch and comments, so expect to see a post about that in the very near future. I’ll also be putting up a new writing prompt soon to get your creative juices flowing. In the meantime, here’s a story from Alice, one of our readers. It’s a great childhood memory that I think all of us can relate to. Please, read her sketch and give her some feedback!

Follow the Steeple

“Just follow the steeple,” said Aaron. “It will lead us home.”

I believed him. He said it with complete confidence, and I had known him my entire life… all five long years at the time… so I had no reason to doubt him. Besides, he was a boy, and since I had an older brother and was used to letting him tell me what to do, it seemed that Aaron was the obvious leader over me and my best friend, Liselle, who was also Aaron’s cousin. Liselle and I simply trusted Aaron in our 5-year-old way.

The three of us lived on the same street in Mesa, within a few houses of each other, and attended morning kindergarten at a nearby elementary school. Our mothers were friends, so carpooling was natural. On this particular day, someone was late picking us up after school (we didn’t keep track, so I have no idea whose turn it was… we simply trusted them too). We were tired of waiting what seemed like an eternity, though it was likely only a few minutes longer than our normal wait.

I don’t remember who had the brilliant idea of walking home, but it seemed like a good plan to our grumbling tummies. It wasn’t far; certainly it was within walking distance. And the weather was nice (always an important consideration in the Arizona desert), but it would require crossing a busy major street in mid-day traffic, though that didn’t seem to concern any of us much.

What did concern us was that we didn’t know the way home. Since we were used to traveling to and from school in a car, and our young minds had not yet developed much sense of direction, we were rather stumped at first. We seemed to know the general direction, but not how to navigate the streets around the buildings between the school and our homes.

At this point, Liselle and I gave up. Waiting seemed preferable to getting lost. But Aaron was undaunted. “Just follow the steeple,” he said. That perked us up. Liselle and I didn’t even question this; we knew he was right. The church, whose tall steeple towered above the houses and trees, stood at the end of our quiet suburban street, and we walked there to attend services every Sunday. We knew exactly where it was! We could see it from the school! And because we trusted Aaron, we knew the steeple would lead us home.

And somehow it did. I guess Aaron deserves some credit too, for he was able to keep two gasping 5-year-old girls pressing forward on what turned out to be a much longer walk than any of us anticipated. Taking a route that I now know to be very much “the long way home,” we arrived at the church, exhausted and hungry (it was now well past lunch time), and found our jilted chauffeur driving around frantically to find us. Down came the car window and we heard an anxious voice exclaim, “You walked home?! How did you know the way?”

We three triumphant hikers simply smiled and replied in unison, “We just followed the steeple.”

Melody’s Sketch: Alberta

This sketch from Melody is fascinating. She decided to write about the life of an ancestor she’s learning more about. What a great way to do family history! It records an important story, and you get to know your ancestors by putting yourself in their shoes and writing from their perspective.

Enjoy Melody’s sketch, and give her feedback on what you loved, what you thought and felt while reading, and what you want to see more of.

(The title is my own addition, to keep post formatting consistent.)

Alberta

Consider, if you will, the situation and state of mind that Alberta faces in the late spring of 1942. Just months earlier, Japan bombed Pearl Harbor, and the United States again finds itself embroiled in war. Her husband, Victor, as a result of being gassed in WWI, has been in and out of hospitals their whole married life and works only sporadically. Terry, her oldest son, has already quit school and gone to work for the railroad to help the family make ends meet. Victor is currently working for the railroad too, walking track and tunnels checking for saboteurs. The family – eight children ranging in age from 14 (Terry) to 3 (Rema) – live on a ranch in Rainbow Valley, about 30 miles south of Caliente, Nevada, and are working it as a farm. There are no neighbors or other family close by. Communication is sketchy at best, with messages being passed from ranch to ranch, or by people passing by.

It is in this circumstance that Alberta realizes she is pregnant again, due at the beginning of 1943. What a heavy burden this is at this time. While she loves each of her children dearly, and is by all accounts an exemplary mother, her health has not always been the greatest either, and she begins to wish she wasn’t going to have another baby. Then, in December, and in the throes of Christmas preparations, she goes into labor. A rush trip to Cedar City, Utah, the nearest hospital at 130 miles away, and a son, whom they named Connie Kay Phillips, is born prematurely. It is the nature of premature babies that lungs are not always fully formed yet. With a husband who smokes and eight other children at home, there are concerns that Connie Kay will not get the proper medical care he needs if the hospital releases him. So, Alberta, with all of the other pressures she feels, allows the doctor to talk her into leaving the baby in the hospital until he grows stronger, and she goes home with a heavy heart and empty arms. She would never see her son alive again.

She receives periodic messages on the baby’s progress but is not able to go back to the hospital. At the beginning of April, Connie Kay seems to be well enough to send home, so a message is again relayed to the Phillips home that they can come and get him. As they begin their trip to pick him up, another message slowly makes its way there. Connie Kay has died. The death certificate (listed under the name of Kay Phillips and indexed as Ray Phillips) reports that the cause of death was pneumonia due to “prematurity”. Whispers come to family ears that the nurses, who have loved him and cared for him, began carrying him around with them as they visited other patients in the hospital, and that he caught pneumonia that way. The death certificate reports that he was only sick for one day. Connie Kay dies 7 April 1943 and is buried in Enterprise, Utah, the next day, and again, a mother returns home with a heavy heart and empty arms. Alberta will blame herself for the rest of her life, feeling that this was God’s way of punishing her for not wanting a baby. But three years later, Alberta gave birth to her last child, another son they named Norman.

LeAnn’s Sketch: Salzburg Train

This is LeAnn’s second sketch, and it’s an amazing read. It’s not a response to the writing prompt, but it’s so great that I wanted everyone to read it.

As a side note, don’t feel constrained by the writing prompts. If there’s something else you want to write about, feel free to submit sketches about anything. The writing prompts are just to get you thinking a little.

Enjoy the story, and please give LeAnn some feedback with the three steps we talked about: 1) lines that you loved, 2) your journey as a reader, and 3) what you want to know more about.

Salzburg Train

“How did he die?” I asked, wondering if she spoke English well enough to even understand my question.

My mom, sister, and I were in the middle of a two week trip to Europe – the trip every college student dreams of taking, but I was well past college. With my sister as our guide we traveled off-season, bought first-class Eurail passes, slept on the train every night, and woke up in a new country every morning. My mom would ask me every couple of days, “Do you miss your kids yet?” and I’d honestly reply, “Nope, not yet.” I tried to explain to her once how I knew they were in good hands (my husband Daryl and his parents were caring for them), so I had no reason to worry and I was frankly enjoying a much needed break from three kids, the oldest of whom had his fourth birthday while I was gone.

On Thursday the train brought us to Salzburg, Austria. Our only itinerary item was the Sound of Music tour, an American tourist “must.” We enjoyed seeing all the famous spots from the movie and could hardly keep from bursting into song at the “Do-Re-Mi” steps. A guy we met on the tour told us about three other guys he met on a train to Italy. They were on a train from Budapest and someone reached in one of the guys pants to get his money belt. When he woke up, the thief sprayed mace in the guy’s face. In the struggle that followed the guy got scratches all over his face, but kept his money.

When we got to the train station to find our overnight train to Germany, Cyndi went to make a phone call and Mom and I headed to wait by the train tracks. When we sat down, we saw some police standing around. There were men on the tracks in uniform and with gloves on picking up what my journal described as “a big sloppy chunk of meat with the entrails coming out.” It looked like a pig or other animal had wandered onto the tracks and been hit by the train. Then we saw them pick up an arm and put it in the box the size of a coffin. My stomach turned as my brain tried to wrap itself around what I had just seen.

Life slowed as I took in the scene, realizing that I was sitting alone on a bench too close to the clean-up efforts, a bench others had vacated when it happened, to respect the personal space of the deceased and the workers. I kept myself from standing up and bolting away, telling them all in my mind that I didn’t know what had happened when I sat there and that I wasn’t sitting close to be a disrespectful curiosity seeker like the rubber-neckers who slow traffic down by staring at a car accident as they pass it on the road. We were late-comers to the awful, serious scene. I don’t think mom saw the same thing I did and hadn’t pieced together what was happening.

I went to one of the ladies at a counter and asked “How did he die?” wondering if she spoke English well enough to even understand my question. Did he jump? Did he fall? She shrugged a universal “I don’t know” and I walked away. As we waited for the train, they hauled the coffin box away in a big black van, hosed down the blood off the tracks, and resumed operations. I don’t remember this now, but my journal says “we just keep joking and talking about it because if you think about it too long you just want to pack up and go home.”

As we boarded the train to Frankfurt Germany, the weight of the incident settled in on me. I did want to go home. I missed my family terribly. I wanted to be with them. I Prayed silently every time the memory came back throughout the trip that we’d come home alive and that they’d be alive when I got there. I wanted to be with them, to hold them. I had no reason to doubt we’d be reunited in a week, just like we’d planned, but the reality and finality of a random man’s death in a random train station reminded me that we are really not in charge of that moment. We don’t choose when or where we will die.

JoAnn’s Sketch: My Retirement

Just like I promised, here’s another sketch to look at. This one is our longest yet, but it’s a good story. Hopefully I’ll get some shorter ones up soon. Enjoy JoAnn’s story about finally leaving the workplace, and give her some feedback on your reading experience.

My Retirement

I always planned on retiring to spend more time with my girls and my grandkids, but not quite yet. I liked my job and the people I worked with. I felt insecure about the idea of not having an income. And frankly I was a little afraid of what would happen to me when I retired. I had just attended my Boss’s funeral a few months after her healthy retirement and knew other retired friends who were depressed or seriously ill. It had been my way of life for 35 years and I was unwilling to face an unknown future just yet.

My actual retirement came unexpectedly and ended up being a nine month journey. I had been an employee with Motorola and On Semiconductors for 35 years and although the company had had several layoffs, I was able to avoid all of those until today. My supervisor approached me on Wednesday, June 7, 2001 and told me Dario Sacom, the CFO of On Semiconductors, wanted to see me. Of course, I knew why. When I entered his office he had a very sad look on his face. He spent several minutes explaining to me why he had to let me go and assured me it had nothing to do with my work abilities.

Of course, I was very nervous and could not keep the tears from coming. After everything was said and done, Dario asked me if there was anything he could do for me. My immediate reply was, “Yes there is.” It was the procedure of the company to escort you out of the building immediately after you had been terminated. The following Saturday when there were less people in the office, you were allowed to come back, escorted by security and your boss, to get your personal belongings. I told Dario and Al Martinez, the personnel director, that I wanted to walk out of the building with dignity. I told them that the company had trusted me to work in the cashier’s office as a back up cashier for many years. At that time, I had access to over $80,000 live cash and $100,000 in travelers checks. Since I had done nothing wrong, I didn’t think it was necessary to be escorted from the building like a criminal. I told them I wanted to go back to my area to say goodbye to the people I had worked with and to clean out my desk on my own. Dario and Al looked at each other and said, “Well, this has never been done before.” After much discussion, they both agreed to my request. They told me when I left to leave my badge at the security desk. I spent the next 2 hours going around and saying goodbye to my friends. No one could believe they had allowed me to do that. After cleaning out my desk, Steve, my boss, asked me if there was anything he could do for me. Again, my answer was yes. I told him I wanted him to push my cart with all of my stuff on it out to my car. That way people would think I was walking him out, instead of him helping me. (haha) He agreed to my request.

Both Motorola and On Semiconductors had been good to me over the years. They had provided training and job opportunities. I felt very blessed with the career I had enjoyed, especially having only a high school diploma. On Semiconductors sent me a severance of one weeks worth of pay for each of the 35 years that I had been with the company, as well as medical benefits that the company offered.

After calling both of my daughters and telling them what had happened they were ecstatic and thrilled!!! When I went over to my daughter’s homes they wre so excited they were already planning a retirement party for me. I was laid off on Wednesday and had my party on Sunday.

I had several questions for personnel and Al Martinez tried to return my calls, but we kept missing each other for two weeks. On Semiconductor then had a 2 week shutdown. That next Monday, I called Mr. Martinez expecting to get some information I needed on different issues. I was shocked when he asked me if I would come back to work for 6 months. They had a special job they wanted me to work on. Since I wasn’t financially where IMy Retirement wanted to be, I told them yes, to the disappointment of my daughters. I requested more money and was given $2 more an hour to come back through a Temporary agency called Accountants Inc. Here is a company trying to stay afloat. Not only did they have to pay me $2 more an hour, but they had to pay the temp agency $12 an hour. I went back to work at On Semiconductors for approximately 9 months. The “special job” they had for me ended up being the same exact job I had before. The person who took my job had a degree, but could not do the job.

My daughters kept trying to get me to quit and enjoy retirement, but I wanted to be better off financially. All the time I was working, however, I kept getting the feeling I should quit, so I could be with and help my daughters. One evening LeAnn called me and we talked about two hours. She said if you don’t set a date to quit you will be working forever. She said she felt as if a big gift was snatched away from her when I went back to work. Big changes were being made at On Semiconductors. The decision was made to hire the temporary people full time. I got a sick feeling in my stomach when I thought about committing to go back to work as a permanent employee. I prayed about it and LeAnn and I went over my financial status to see if I could make ends meet. I decided I really could retire. I started to get excited thinking about not working. My supervisor approached me and asked if I wanted to come back full time. After much contemplation, I told my supervisor my decision to retire. When I asked her when she wanted me to stop working, her reply was, “You tell me.” Once I made up my mind I could hardly wait. I had a good feeling and the weight on my shoulders started to come off. On my last day at work my department gave me a retirement party along with an engraved clock. I thought to myself, “This is odd. I am no longer an employee, yet they are giving m a retirement party after they laid me off.” So I ended up with two retirement parties and am enjoying retirement immensely and in good health.

My Sketch: Bubbles

Alright, I’ve finished my first sketch. It’s a response to the first writing prompt about a childhood memory. You can leave a comment by clicking to the left of this line to let me know how it is and what I can improve with it. (Was I unclear with some phrases? Did the ending seem abrupt? etc.)

I’ll post at least two more sketches tomorrow, so that you can look at more examples and start getting more ideas of your own. After that I’ll be posting tips and links to published personal essays and the like along with more sketches. So stay tuned!

Bubbles

Virginia. I grew up there, shed the skin of a child and sprouted the eyes of my parents. I kept my childish ears though, when I left. Ears that heard only the call of sidewalk chalk, the conversations of the trees, and the invitation of the wind. Ears that didn’t bother to hear the name of the town I lived in until years later: Sterling. They didn’t register the names of places until they morphed into the sensitive, elephantine ears of a teenager six years and two states down the road. As a child, I lived in a nameless town of wonder, full of captivating sounds for my listening ears. I had the lips of a child too, filled with curiosity and reaching for new experiences. And one mirage-hot summer day, around the childish age of seven, I wanted to use them to taste bubbles.

Outside, the black asphalt of the street was radiating sunbeams. It was like a runway, a stretch of 100 yards that sloped up to a dead end at a little copse of trees. I was outside with my bubble wand and plastic bottle of bubble solution. The street was absolutely silent; every other soul was sheltered indoors, lacking the boundless energy breath gave me, energy I sucked up from the sun and photosynthesized into smiles and pumping arms. I dipped the glistening wand into liquid rainbow and pulled it out, dripping refracted light, a sheet like a prism’s glance stretched across its eye. Sometimes I would purse my lips and fill the bubbles myself, but more often I would let the world and the wind do it for me, arm outstretched, whirling and watching bubbles stream from the wand, bursting into existence in sparks and glints of color as the wind gave them life.

I stood and watched, the blood rushing in my ears and the world swirling around me. Magical! Floating spheres of light and reflections. The elixir of joy, holding precious a tiny breath of air. I had the sudden urge to taste it. I ran down the street craning my neck, stretching my tongue to reach it, but the wind tasted it before I did, blowing it out of my reach and eating it up. So I tried again. And again. I ran up the street, down the sidewalk, across neighbors’ yards, into bushes, everywhere the bubbles went, trying to catch one with my lips. And all the time I had the little jar of bubble solution clenched in one cautious hand. It never crossed my mind to taste from the source, from the bottle or the wand; those weren’t magical. There’s nothing ethereally enticing about a sticky, purple plastic bottle or a yellow, dripping bubble wand. The magic was in the air around me, in the bubbles that danced circling in the wind.

Until a bubble danced right up to my lips and burst on my tongue. In the split second between contact and taste I was shocked at having achieved my quest. The shock was short-lived, however, as the filmy, acrid feel of the bubble filled my mouth. It didn’t taste like I thought magic ought to. I wiped my tongue on my shirt, spat into the grass, glared at the purple bottle in my fist, and ran inside to repeatedly flush my mouth out with water. I felt foolish, like a child. Only a child would run around for long minutes in the burning sun, chasing impossible, disgusting bubbles. Only a child wouldn’t realize that the bubbles in the air were no different than the bubbles-to-be in the bottle.