Acoustic songs drenched in light beer.

Over and over again they play.

The scratches don’t mean a thing.

An eighteen pack of burnt shoulders.

Peeled skin shines in the empty sky.

Sun-soaked hair the color of old dandelions.

Sand falls in and out of little painted toes.

Tanned feet with double white lines.

Shows where the sun can’t reach.

Soft blankets swallow you whole.

Fireworks play the drums in everyone’s ears.

Days seem long but nights aren’t long enough.

A dented red plastic cup filled with melted ice.

Sticky fingers from all of the fruit and popsicles.

Infectious smiles like a million mosquito bites.

Tinted shades reflect the tinted windows.

Messy hair blows like pollen in the wind.

Tired eyes follow the lonely scorching concrete.

Little fires light up the darkening sky.

Hard plastic chairs and impossible hammocks.

Laughter like a crowd during a concert.

Goodbyes float through the air like leaves off of trees.

It came fast and left sooner.

Until next year…

The Summer I Was Sixteen: I found this poem to be very familiar for me.  It used a lot of imagery and reminded me of summers I have had in my teenage years.  The third stanza was my favorite.. “Past cherry-colas, hotdogs, dreamsicles, we came to the counter where bees staggered into root beer cups and drowned.”  This was obviously a public pool but it reminded me of my own backyard with little plastic cups of iced tea sitting on the deck filled with ants or bees while we caught some rays or splashed around in the pool.

Numbers: I found that the writer of this poem used the number theme but in different situations.  It was really cool to read each stanza to see the difference from the one before it.  I really like how the last stanza counted down from three to one, symbolizing the countdown to the end. “Three boys beyond their mothers call, two italians off to sea, one sock that isn’t anywhere you look.”

 Lines: I really enjoyed this poem, although I couldn’t figure it out at first.  The idea of a line is so simple but in the poem she shows the complexities of it.  “between two lines points of view, a line of vision..”

The Cord: I felt like the cord was a leash for the daughter.  The mother would only let her go so far on the telephone but then she would tug on it when it was unsafe territory.  The mother was okay with the fact that the girl talked for hours to her friends and not to her, but she kept her close by the cord of the phone.

word I love: adore

sound: thunder

taste: minty

smell: sunscreen

texture: sandy

actions or motions: skip

abstract concepts: faith

concrete noun: claddaugh

place: Caracas

5 misc.: darling

word to look up: ledgerdemain  (means skillful use of one’s hands, trickery)

What if George had been married?  Would he feel that his life was so pointless?  He would have been happy, maybe he would have had children or even grandchildren by now.  Maybe he wouldn’t focus all his time on his car and his antiques.  He would travel and spend time with his companion; but because George is alone he must spend his time by himself.  If George had been married, his whole life would have been different.  He wouldn’t be sitting on some creaky hotel bed in West Virginia, he wouldn’t be trying to make his life exciting by driving to California, he wouldn’t be depressed.  If only he had a wife…

What if George had parked his car somewhere else?  He would have been halfway to his destination by now.  He wouldn’t have to sit around in some small West Virginian town with nothing but mountains surrounding it.  He wouldn’t be frustrated or upset that his car was destroyed.  George would be driving down the highway with his sunglasses on and the wind blowing through what little hair he had left on his head.  If only the storm had held out a few more hours, Georges car would have been parked in a parking lot of a different hotel a couple hundred miles further. 

What if George didn’t get hurt on the job and be forced to retire?  He would be still working, he wouldn’t be sitting around all day thinking of things to do with his life.  George would still have some friends, some people to talk to on a daily basis.  If only he hadn’t pushed himself to work so much for so many years, he wouldn’t have gotten arthritis in his knees.  He would still be able to work, he would be doing something to keep him busy.  George liked to work, it was all he used to do.  He worked for the same construction company since he was seventeen years old, his father had also worked at the same one.  It was all George knew besides antique cars and furniture.  George tries to keep busy around the house doing minor construction projects like putting up new molding or repairing on the front porch but it isn’t enough to fulfill him.  George needs something in his life and this trip just might be it.

Lists:

The things on George’s nightstand… a Stephen King book that sits on top of a bible, his dusty alarm clock, his watch, an antique lamp.

The things in his closet… a suit that only gets worn maybe once a year, some old jeans, a few shirts, sneakers, and his workboots that haven’t been worn since he’s retired.

The things in his refridgerator… a six pack of cheap beer, some lunch meat, leftover Chinese food from a few nights ago, a half gallon of milk, it is pretty empty.

The to-do list… rotate the tires on his Mustang, paint the garage door, mow the lawn, do his taxes, George’s list isn’t ever long, he finds himself bored most of the time.

I thoroughly enjoyed reading Pie of the Month.  It was really interesting how the writer related all of the pies of the month, to the month they were baked in.  I know the point was for the pie to correspond with the month, but I actually sat here after reading this and realized that every month is kind of like a pie. (strange as that sounds)  The piece was short but to the point.  Each paragraph involved a new pie and a new month.  She wasn’t ever fixed on one point in time, it really flowed well.  The characters in this story were also quite interesting.  Mrs. Pulliam and Mrs. Colley were two completely different people, but still they seemed to balance each other out.  Mrs. Colley was sociable, friendly, and for the most part positive.  Mrs. Pulliam was talented, she kept to herself, and was quite negative about their pie-baking business.  One thing I didn’t understand completely (and maybe if I read it again I would understand it), was why Mrs. Pulliam left without telling Mrs. Colley.  It seemed like they were best friends and the way everything was packed up in her house made it seem like she wasn’t planning on returning.  How could she just leave Mrs. Colley by herself with the business to handle? Mrs. Colley didn’t even bake pies besides the fruit filled ones.  I was just confused with that part.  The last line of the story was probably my favorite.. “And in this way a small thing might become a big thing, easy as pie.”  She basically took the main theme of the story (pie) and concluded it with a cliche that fit perfectly.  Easy as pie. 

George O’Reilly is a man of few words, but a man of kind ones.  He celebrates his 70th birthday this year, but secretly he wishes he wouldn’t live until then.  He has kept to himself really ever since his wife, Sarah, passed away a few years back.  Since then he feels he has nothing to live for.  His children live all over the country and each have their own families now.  Jenna is in Seattle, Thomas is in Dallas, and George is in New York.  They all moved away after high school, each going to colleges in their respective cities.  George tries to fly out to see them each year, but as he gets older, its gets more difficult. 

George stands at 5 feet 9 inches, but he has a bad back so he slouches a lot.  He has always been on the chubby side and his belly sometimes gets in his way of doing things.  His silver hair matches his silver rimmed glasses which he wears all the time.  He always wears a plaid flannel shirt in the winter and old worn out t-shirts in the summer.  The only time he has ever worn a tie was for the few weddings and funerals he had gone to.  George has dark brown eyes and an infectious smile, even though he didn’t smile often.  George iss a retired landscaper, and it shows in his hands.  They are worn out with callouses, forty years of dirt is built up under his fingernails.  Nothing can seem to get that out.  He had a bad back from bending and lifting so much, which is why he slouched most of the time.

Three months ago, George’s house burnt down.  He lost everything inside.  Every picture, every memory he had in that house of Sarah was gone.  They had lived in that house since they were first married for almost forty five years and now it was gone.  The only thing he had left from the house was a wooden spool of thread.  The thread was gone but still he kept it.  It had been on top of the mantle of the fireplace and he had grabbed it earlier that day to just look at it.  It was Sarah’s.  It was old and worn out, just like his hands.  She liked to sew a lot but when she got arthritis in her hands she couldn’t anymore.  This was her final spool of thread that she ever sewed with, that’s why it was on the mantle.  George now lives in a new home, but it’s not the same.  His memory of her is all that he has along with that little wooden spool.

The most important part of a memoir is detail.  Richard Rodriguez really establishes that idea in the first paragraph of his memoir, Proofs.  “All the rest happens with words. Your feet are tearing dry grass, your heart is lashed like a mare. You trip, you fall.  You are now in the United States of America. You are a boy from a Mexican village.  You have come into the country on your knees with your head down. You are a man.”  This excerpt was by far my most favorite part of the entire piece.  He is so in depth and truly gives the reader a feel for what he is going through.  He doesn’t need to blatantly say that he is fleeing his country, he does that through detailed description.  I also really liked how he wrote a lot of it in second person, using you for most of the second half of it.  “You are sixteen. Your father has sent for you.” I think that really flows with the rest of his writing. 

I have a really bad habit of hiting save and not publish!

Until I came to college I did not know that time management was the most important tool to being successful.  Throughout high school, I procrastinated wherever procrastination could take place.  I waited till the last minute for everything.  I wouldn’t leave my house in the morning till the last minute and I would nearly miss the bus everytime, until of course my older friends started driving me.  I always waited till the last minute to study for tests and ironically it worked.  Cramming seemed to work for me back then.  College, on the other hand, is a little different. The work is obviously much harder and requires a lot more time.  The good thing is that I have a lot of extra time, and I’ve found that using that time properly only helps my grades!  I only work about eight hours a week which gives me some extra money and a lot of extra time to study and finish my homework earlier than the night before its due.  I wish I knew more about time management back in high school because maybe, just maybe my grades would have been even better than they were.  Time management really has affected my attitude towards school.  Not procrastinating really takes a load of my back.

#4: I had forgotten.. how much I am needed sometimes until recently.  So much goes on at home when I’m not there and sometimes I almost feel guilty for being away at school.  I miss out on a lot of good times but also some bad ones.  This past October, my best friends grandmother passed away after battling with cancer for quite some time.  The thing is though when I say my best friend, I mean more of like my sister.  Danielle has been my next door neighbor since birth for me.  We’ve gone through different groups of friends, boyfriends, jobs, teams, ups, and downs, yet when it all comes down to it, there is no one else I would have rather had by my side.  When her grandmother passed away, it wasn’t a shock yet it hit her family hard.  It also hit my family hard.  Our families are very close and I know all of her relatives very well.  Her grandmother was kind of like my grandmother.  I saw her all the time, she knew me since I was little, she even gave me birthday cards every year! The only problem was that when this happened I was at school.  I left for home immediately after my last class on Thursday night.  Once I got there I couldn’t even look at Danielle without crying.  The ride home had given me time to prepare myself, yet once I walked in, I couldn’t control myself.  Her eyes were red and puffy, her face was soaked, she had some gross tissue in her hand.  I didn’t even know what to say to her, I tried to speak but no words came out.  What could I say? Nothing. I didn’t need to say anything. I just needed to be there. I stayed home the whole weekend.  The wake was not until Monday night but I had a midterm at 2:30 that day which I could not miss.  I drove back to school monday morning, took my test, turned around and drove right back home.  I missed my first class on Tuesday, but I had emailed the professor prior with my excuse.  I needed to be home.  Danielle was home and thats where I needed to be.  The rest of the day is much of a blur.  Between sore eyes and runny noses, I don’t remember much of what went on. 

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