The Old Folks Home - Essay Example

Exercise 1: Narrative is the construction of a sequence of events, people and places which can either be fictional or non-fictional. I remember my visit to the Washington monument. It was during summer, and the heat pounded down onto my skin, which felt almost scorched under the intense sun. The light was dazzling: there wasn’t a cloud in the sky, and the sun’s rays glistened off of every shimmering blade of grass, bathing the world in a uniform, intense yellow glow. Locusts buzzed in the trees around the mall, while the din of traffic died away. Glancing up at the monument, I was astounded by its size and sheen, a white that was almost blinding. It was easier to view in the reflection pool, still waters glinting with the sun’s rays in more sporadic and less overwhelming ways than the monument itself. And after that, the look up and down, the walk along the mall, it was over. I had seen what there was to see, and had no need to see anymore. Exercise 2: Describing is important because it gives the reader the texture of what is happening, beyond the simple events themselves. While every story is structured on a series of events, those events themselves will be boring if the reader cannot fully immerse themselves in the event – by being able to imagine the events in detail, the reader gains investment in the narrative. It usually uses the five senses because that is how people interpret the world around them, and using more senses creates a deeper sense of immersion (if done properly). A) She is short, smells faintly of the rose water she puts on her hands. The touch of her skin is soft and wrinkled, though her eyes shine as brightly as ever. Her voice is quiet as a whisper often, but demands silence and always spreads wisdom. B) The smell of blueberries hits me like a spring breeze, refreshing me, making the hair on my arm and neck stand prickly. A sweet, tangy smell fills my nostrils before settling on my tongue, and I can almost taste the beautiful scent of blue, while visions of freshness dance before my eyes. I become aware of the natural sounds, the smell heightening my attunement, the leaves, the plants, the bark and the bird. Exercise 3: The most useful thing about this video is the detail in which it helps demonstrate how to create a focus. I find one of the hardest things about writing is ensuring that what I am saying is direct and clear, and the steps he describes, asking a question and so forth, help create a very clear focus. This also ties in to what you have taught, that a focused essay will always be much more effective than a more general one. Narrative: the Old Folks Home Approaching always brings up the same feelings in me: duty, of course, and excitement, because I haven’t seen my grandma in so long… but there is always a touch of apprehension, of dread. The fact is, there is not a whole lot that we have in common together, not a lot of common ground to talk about. This means that we will check up on each other – because we do care, we truly do, but after that first inspection, the tales of the past week or two or four, a silence laps. The visit turns into watching jeopardy or a Cubs game, comfortable, yet not all that fulfilling. I cannot leave after the first checkup though – what would the point be for such a short visit? Wouldn’t that be admitting defeat? Wouldn’t that be telling each other that there is not actually that much for us to talk about any more? I keep on telling myself, and she keeps on telling me, that she appreciates them, that I am doing a good thing. But I also worry that my discomfort is shared – that she knows no matter how much we love each other, that there is nothing that love can do to help bridge the 60 year gap that separates our birth. I tell myself this is fine, that my presence is all that is required, that I’m doing good. I wish I could believe myself. I wish I could do more. As the car pulls into the small parking lot, all of these thoughts swirl, but die in the last moments of the engine’s roar as the ignition clicks off. In the silence that follows, there is only one thing to do – go. Next is a quick succession of images and sounds. The car door slam, the gravel clicks beneath my heels. The glint off of the glass door to the building blinds me for a moment, before the cool, damp air rushes to meet my face, banishing the summer heat. A hallway, tastefully decorated in sailing ships and scenic pastures, doors with painted numbers. Forty-two, that was the number I sought. The knock knock knock echoed dully in the empty room behind it, but no one came. Knock knock knock, a second time. Nothing. A glance at my watch, and I see it is 5… she might be in the dining room. I grasp the cold handle and push into a dark room. A sweet smell meets me, the dank must that happens when a room is closed and no air goes through it. I look around, my eyes adjusting to the dimness, and check the three small rooms, and find them empty. Yes, the dining room. My grandmother will be very excited – there seems to be a degree of pride, a degree of showing off associated with having one of us visit her while she’s in public. She can show how loved she still is, which, though it makes her happy, can’t make me feel bad for those who aren’t so lucky, and don’t have people to visit often. It’s a cruel game, and she always wins… with childish happiness, so it’s hard to begrudge her these small victories. Another long hall way. I’m stuck behind a few other people going to dinner, walking so slowly that it takes me three times longer than it would if I were taking a leisurely pace. I get impatient for no good reason – is standing behind them in the hall way really so much worse than watching people eat? As I enter the dining room the aroma of ham and mashed potatoes meets my nostrils… as the attendants wearing uniform not so carelessly drop dollops onto plates for their patrons. Finally I navigate around to find my grandmother in the back, surrounded by her table mates. She was always a popular one… when I’m her age, I think I might be less so. And then she smiles, and my heart fills with warmth. I remember why I go through this ritual so often, though it is long, and sometimes boring. Often awkward. Its because I love her, and I know that the amount of times I’ll be able to say that to her are not too many now. She might see the end of this year, or the next, or even the one after that. But when I have children, she’ll be gone. The heart tears at me, and I make sure to appreciate the time that I still have to enjoy. Time that can so quickly slip through my hands. So I hug, and I sit. I ask her how her day was, how her week was. How did you do at bingo? Why that’s amazing. So I smile, and sit with my awkward silences. And I enjoy them. Because I love. And time is so harsh. Read More