Original Paragraph:
I was sure when the Fifties would come to an end. They would end on December 31, 1959, at the stroke of midnight. I was a young boy of eleven at that moment, and my twin brother Jim and I were helping my Mom baby-sit for my sister Betty, who lived across tiny Agate Street from us. It was a big deal, as the decade would be changing, something I had never experienced, as I was too young the last time this happened. I couldn't wait to see what it felt like; the end of The Fifties!
Midnight came, and Jim and I ran up and down Agate Street banging pots and pans together to celebrate the new decade. I awoke the next morning, looked out my window, and...nothing was changed. I was a bit surprised. Life just went on as if nothing had happened. I began to suspect that "decades" were not real; they were an invention, and that one was just like every other. Is that all there is to a decade? Banging pots and pans?
(This is only the first part of Joseph Duffy's memoir The First Moment of...The Fifties)
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I was so excited when I found out that it was for sure. Last year's valentine's formal was fun, but this year's was sure to beat it by a country mile. Two weeks before the party I had already bought my dress. It was a watermelon pink floor-length formal dress with a gathered bottom and a little black jacket to add something interesting to it. This was the first year I would actually be going with a group of friends instead of my Mom. The day of the party came; the party started at 5:30 and at 3:30 I was getting ready. First step to transforming this PJ bum into fancy girl was to put the annoying hot rollers in my ridiculously long hair. This took about 45 minutes just to get them in, and plus I had to look like my grandmother for a whole other hour. I came out of the bathroom and dad said: "Nice hair, Katie." I just rolled my eyes and smiled at his sarcasm. I went upstairs to slip into my dress so I could take my hair out of these insanely retarded looking curlers. Off with the sweatshirt, sadly, and into the stilettos. Time to take these pink and purple burdens out of my hair; magically my hair has turned into the twin of Shirley Temple's locks, only a tad bit longer. This indicates that the preparation is almost done (thankfully!). Now just what will I do with this mess of hair? That is the burning question. Finally after many attempts to the perfect "do," we settle with the final product. By this time the butterflies are going crazy. The suburban load of kids coming to get me consists of a bunch of friends plus one certain guy. :) While I wait for them to show up, it's photoshoot time. My Mom's pretty good at that; it's hard to escape at my house. My ride finally shows up and we are on our way. Hicktown playing by my request, this party is going to be awesome!
Tuesday, February 23, 2010
Thursday, February 11, 2010
Farmhouse Bakery
Original Paragraph:
I've gone on other Friday milk runs with my father, and there was one address I was especially looking forward to. It came early in the run: 214 White Horse Rd. The Huffelmeyers. The Huffelmeyers are an old couple. They get one quart of buttermilk, one quart of chocolate each week. But my father doesn't leave their stuff on the front step--he takes it inside. See, the Huffelmeyers remember the old days, when things were safer and they left the front door unlocked all the time and the milkman just came in and put their stuff in the fridge. And that's the way they keep it. At 214 White Horse Road it's still 1940. We just walk on in. Dad turns on a small table lamp with a fringed shade so we can see. We stay as quiet as we can. While Dad heads for the kitchen, I like to stop and look at the pictures. There must be a hundred family photographs in the living and dining rooms. I watch them go from black and white snapshots--the young married couple, he in his World War II uniform, she in a floral dress and wide-brimmed hat, standing arm in arm in front of a ferris wheel--to color pictures of the old couple surrounded by kids and grandkids and, it looks like, great-grandkids.
Leo, some people might say it's creepy, tiptoeing through someone's house at four o'clock in the morning--but it's not. It's wonderful. It's a sharing. It's the Huffelmeyers saying to us, Come into our house. Look at whatever you like. Get to know us. We're upstairs, sleeping. Feel free to stroll through our dreams and memories. We trust you. And don't forget to take the empty bottles.
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I really love the way Jerry Spinelli writes his Stargirl books. He is an amazing writer. I am going to do an imitation of this paragraph.
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Monday, Wednesday, Friday. Calendar reads: Bakery 8-3, bakery 8-3, bakery 8-3. Summer of 2009 is officially booked. The title "Career Education" has a dual meaning: it equals one more credit towards liberating my mind of highschool, and it also means my summer totally planned out; a violation to the unwritten law that summer equals total and utter freedom. I wake up at 6:30 to the crowing of a rooster. It's not what you think; it's my mother interrupting my sleep with the advantage of cellular technology. I reluctantly crawl out of bed and throw on my paint-stained pants and canola-oil contaminated shirt. I shuffle to the bathroom and throw my hair into a braid, slap a camo hat on and I am good to go. Sweatshirt? Check. Lunch? Made the night before. I drive down the familiar highway 99 towards Cottage Grove. Turn right past Horner's, go straight through the light, drive until I get to the vast pink farmhouse with the white mailbox. I turn into the driveway and park in my usual spot, right behind the hunter green Dodge Dakota. I rub my eyes and yawn as I amble through the door. I hear Ryan saying "Goodmorning!", and I return the greeting half-heartedly. First thing: labeling. I grab a stack of plastic bread bags and start sticking labels on them. I usually pick the roll with the most stickers on it so I don't have to switch kinds in between. Here comes Beau, Adam, Mike, Ben and Violet, all around the same time. I am awake by this time and say Goodmorning to them all. They are all pretty congenial, most of the time, except I think Mike's not too fond of me because I called him a freak one day. [long story :) .] Minus the small detail that this is taking away from my much awaited summer sleep-in days, I rather enjoy this place.
I've gone on other Friday milk runs with my father, and there was one address I was especially looking forward to. It came early in the run: 214 White Horse Rd. The Huffelmeyers. The Huffelmeyers are an old couple. They get one quart of buttermilk, one quart of chocolate each week. But my father doesn't leave their stuff on the front step--he takes it inside. See, the Huffelmeyers remember the old days, when things were safer and they left the front door unlocked all the time and the milkman just came in and put their stuff in the fridge. And that's the way they keep it. At 214 White Horse Road it's still 1940. We just walk on in. Dad turns on a small table lamp with a fringed shade so we can see. We stay as quiet as we can. While Dad heads for the kitchen, I like to stop and look at the pictures. There must be a hundred family photographs in the living and dining rooms. I watch them go from black and white snapshots--the young married couple, he in his World War II uniform, she in a floral dress and wide-brimmed hat, standing arm in arm in front of a ferris wheel--to color pictures of the old couple surrounded by kids and grandkids and, it looks like, great-grandkids.
Leo, some people might say it's creepy, tiptoeing through someone's house at four o'clock in the morning--but it's not. It's wonderful. It's a sharing. It's the Huffelmeyers saying to us, Come into our house. Look at whatever you like. Get to know us. We're upstairs, sleeping. Feel free to stroll through our dreams and memories. We trust you. And don't forget to take the empty bottles.
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I really love the way Jerry Spinelli writes his Stargirl books. He is an amazing writer. I am going to do an imitation of this paragraph.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Monday, Wednesday, Friday. Calendar reads: Bakery 8-3, bakery 8-3, bakery 8-3. Summer of 2009 is officially booked. The title "Career Education" has a dual meaning: it equals one more credit towards liberating my mind of highschool, and it also means my summer totally planned out; a violation to the unwritten law that summer equals total and utter freedom. I wake up at 6:30 to the crowing of a rooster. It's not what you think; it's my mother interrupting my sleep with the advantage of cellular technology. I reluctantly crawl out of bed and throw on my paint-stained pants and canola-oil contaminated shirt. I shuffle to the bathroom and throw my hair into a braid, slap a camo hat on and I am good to go. Sweatshirt? Check. Lunch? Made the night before. I drive down the familiar highway 99 towards Cottage Grove. Turn right past Horner's, go straight through the light, drive until I get to the vast pink farmhouse with the white mailbox. I turn into the driveway and park in my usual spot, right behind the hunter green Dodge Dakota. I rub my eyes and yawn as I amble through the door. I hear Ryan saying "Goodmorning!", and I return the greeting half-heartedly. First thing: labeling. I grab a stack of plastic bread bags and start sticking labels on them. I usually pick the roll with the most stickers on it so I don't have to switch kinds in between. Here comes Beau, Adam, Mike, Ben and Violet, all around the same time. I am awake by this time and say Goodmorning to them all. They are all pretty congenial, most of the time, except I think Mike's not too fond of me because I called him a freak one day. [long story :) .] Minus the small detail that this is taking away from my much awaited summer sleep-in days, I rather enjoy this place.
Saturday, February 6, 2010
Mudding
Original Paragraph:
When the third plit came a minute later, I'd had enough. I slammed my book down and stomped up the aisle. There he was, sitting cross-legged on the floor between two stacks, blocking the way, reading a book, sucking on a lemon. I stood there, glaring down at him. At first I thought he was simply ignoring me. As the seconds went by, I became less sure. He seemed totally swallowed up in the book. A sucked-out rind of a half lemon lay on the floor. The other half was moving around in his mouth.
Participles: All are in present tense
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"Sling a little mud in my four-wheel drive, trek it on into town!" The country song is all I can hear, blasting through this Jeep Wrangler's crackling speakers. My three friends and I are laughing and screaming at the top of our lungs. We're all sporting farmer's tans, old t-shirts and worn-out jeans. Right turn. Left turn. With every turn, we get muddier. If we get stuck, we girls will jump right out and push. We get muddy, but who cares; this is where it's at. Time for a mud fight; who can get the dirtiest? I win! Hair is a mess, all stuffed under this mossy oak baseball cap; take me as I am, because this is what you're getting. None of us are preppy, because that isn't any fun. Time to head home; we take the main-street route in this town just to make all those Prius drivers jealous. Of course, at the stoplight, we've got to rev it a little bit, just to even out their non-existent carbon footprint. This is how we live; isn't anything better; be jealous.
When the third plit came a minute later, I'd had enough. I slammed my book down and stomped up the aisle. There he was, sitting cross-legged on the floor between two stacks, blocking the way, reading a book, sucking on a lemon. I stood there, glaring down at him. At first I thought he was simply ignoring me. As the seconds went by, I became less sure. He seemed totally swallowed up in the book. A sucked-out rind of a half lemon lay on the floor. The other half was moving around in his mouth.
Participles: All are in present tense
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"Sling a little mud in my four-wheel drive, trek it on into town!" The country song is all I can hear, blasting through this Jeep Wrangler's crackling speakers. My three friends and I are laughing and screaming at the top of our lungs. We're all sporting farmer's tans, old t-shirts and worn-out jeans. Right turn. Left turn. With every turn, we get muddier. If we get stuck, we girls will jump right out and push. We get muddy, but who cares; this is where it's at. Time for a mud fight; who can get the dirtiest? I win! Hair is a mess, all stuffed under this mossy oak baseball cap; take me as I am, because this is what you're getting. None of us are preppy, because that isn't any fun. Time to head home; we take the main-street route in this town just to make all those Prius drivers jealous. Of course, at the stoplight, we've got to rev it a little bit, just to even out their non-existent carbon footprint. This is how we live; isn't anything better; be jealous.
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