Fredonia
There is a little remnant of a town in south central North Dakota named Fredonia. The locals there tell of a time 40 or so years ago when there were 400 people living in town but if you go there today you will be lucky to find 50 hardy souls still clinging to the land of their ancestors. Most of the people that remain were alive at the end of the last world war but there are a few still in their prime, unable to break their bond with the land in favor of brighter prospects in Fargo or Minneapolis. Fewer still have moved there by choice, perhaps running from some ghost or just preferring the solitude that is abundantly available on the arid plans that start at the edge of town.
I am sure the people of Fredonia are worried about
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Being here gives me both time and the necessary state of mind to examine the last year achievements and setbacks, reflect on the incredible bliss of my marriage and the love I have for my wife and my children, and to once again contemplate my place and purpose in the world.
Finally, I come to mark the passing of the seasons, signaled by the harvest and the snow squalls and most significantly to me, by the great flocks of waterfowl, purposely drifting south across the plains. Understanding, (unlike many people I know), the futility of resisting the seasons, knowing that their only recourse is to become one with the flow of time.
And so I will be back. Wading through the darkness of early morning, spreading the decoys just so. Drawing a bead on a flock of low-flying mallards and watching proudly, but also with a touch of remorse, as Truman brings me my prize. Huddled in the blind sharing a cup of coffee while the sleet stings my cheeks and later, assuming it still has a reason for staying open, sitting down for some bacon and eggs and good conversation at the Fredonia
King Solomon wrote wisely, and later was wisely paraphrased by the folk band “The Byrds”, “To everything there is a season and a time to every purpose under heaven...” (Ecclesiastes 3:1,8). Seasons often represent the periods of a person’s life; birth, youth, age and death. In the short story “Summer” by David Updike, the lake provides an eternal and unchanging witness to Homer’s transition from season to season and from boy to man.
Reminiscing is almost like a hobby for people, to be lost within another world of nostalgia and simplicity is something we all yearn for as we grow up. We miss those days of less and full understanding, of active and worn out adventures of children, of anxious anticipation of a the flat lands. Debra Marquart in her 2006 memoir “The Horizontal World” illustrates those memories in a hint of nostalgia. Through the use of imagery, allusions, and satirical yet nostalgic tone Marquart’s memoir demonstrates a lucid dream of North Dakota as an area of no interest that yet emboldens an American ideal of the Jeffersonian farming could occur for those who are willing to take up the offer.
It was a most beautiful season; never did the fields bestow a more plentiful harvest, or the vines yield a more luxuriant vintage; but my eyes were insensible to the charms of nature. And the same feelings which made me neglect the scenes around me caused me also to forget those friends who were so many miles away, and whom I had not seen for so long.
These seemingly negligible birds, symbols of the lyric voice, have intuited the Oven Bird's lesson and are the signs by which one is meant to divine Frost's acceptance of the linguistic implications of the fall from innocence. The Oven Bird, who watching "That other fall we name the fall" come to cover the world with dust, "Knows in singing not to sing." Instead, "The question that he frames in all but words / Is what to make of a diminished thing." The fall, in necessitating both birth and death, imposes a continuum of identity that compromises naming. The process toward death, begun with birth, transmutes and gradually diminishes form, thus adding to the equation - words are things before they become words and things again when they do - an element of inevitable, perpetual senescence. The birds of "A Winter Eden" say "which buds are leaf and which are bloom," but the names are always premature or too late: gold goes to green, dawn to day, everything rises and falls and is transformed. Thus the Oven Bird says, "Midsummer is to spring as one to ten," because a season - this or any other - may only be codified analogously. "Fall" takes on a series of identities: petal fall, the fall season, the first and fortunate fall, each of which bears, at the moment of articulation, the burden of a whole complex of moral, aesthetic, and literary valuations. This bird is a "midsummer and a midwood bird" that sees things at the moment of capitulation to the imperatives of fall. Loud, he predicts the inevitable, and his "language" reflects the potential meaninglessness of a world in which one is forced to define a thing by what it departs from or approaches rather than what it "is." To...
As a way to end his last stanza, the speaker creates an image that surpasses his experiences. When the flock rises, the speaker identifies it as a lady’s gray silk scarf, which the woman has at first chosen, then rejected. As the woman carelessly tosses the scarf toward the chair the casual billow fades from view, like the birds. The last image connects nature with a last object in the poet's
"To Autumn." Brooklyn College English Department. Brooklyn College, 19 Feb. 2009. Web. 18 Dec. 2013. .
“We pluck and marvel for sheer joy. And the ones still green, sighing, leave upon the boughs…” (14-16). This emphasis on nature reflects the respect and connection to the natural world the culture was trying to convey in their poetry. The colorful and illustrative descriptions of the physical world are indicative of the mindset and focus of these poems. Namely the fact that they were concerned with the world around us and the reality we experience as opposed to that of abstract concept of god or the supernatural as seen in other historical texts. This focus on nature is important because it sets the context in which the major theme of loss and separation originate from. In this poem the poet chooses to emphasize the passing of time in the choice of comparing the two seasons. Spring, in which life begins a new, and fall, in which the leaves begin to fall off and die. The poem reads “And the ones still green, sighing, leave upon the boughs- Those are the ones I hate to lose. For me, it is the autumn hills” (15-18). This juxtaposition of these two
New Hampshire, the beauty state which which is proved to me in a multitude of different ways has many incredible features. These features include the best Geography, Climate and an unusual compelling backstory which is one of the most interesting in all of the United states but is forgotten in the entanglement of modern life.Behind the long cold winters of this state lies the best summers being not too cold but also not too hot and having the most beautiful winters with perfect lakeside view as snow blankets the ground in a white powdery mist or in the summer as the sun cast a red/gold glimmer over the treetops. Newhampshire being one of the most incredible state also with its location near the ocean seafood and meat can also be easily accessed.
As the first rays of the sun peak over the horizon, penetrating the dark, soft light illuminates the mist rising up from the ground, forming an eerie, almost surreal landscape. The ground sparkles, wet with dew, and while walking from the truck to the barn, my riding boots soak it in. The crickets still chirp, only slower now. They know that daytime fast approaches. Sounds, the soft rustling of hooves, a snort, and from far down the aisle a sharp whinny that begs for breakfast, inform me that the crickets are not the only ones preparing for the day.
It is 5:30am on opening morning of deer hunting season and my alarm explodes into a racket that would wake an army. I roll out of bed and rub the sleep from my eyes. I only slept six hours last night because my family and I were preparing for the hunt, getting the guns ready, laying out a clothes-man, everything. As I throw some pants on, the smell of fresh pancakes wakes me up. It is at this time I realize the season is upon us. Since January I have been waiting for this day to come, today begins the annual nine day season that brings our family together each November.
Standing on the balcony, I gazed at the darkened and starry sky above. Silence surrounded me as I took a glimpse at the deserted park before me. Memories bombarded my mind. As a young girl, the park was my favourite place to go. One cold winter’s night just like tonight as I looked upon the dark sky, I had decided to go for a walk. Wrapped up in my elegant scarlet red winter coat with gleaming black buttons descending down the front keeping away the winter chill. Wearing thick leggings as black as coal, leather boots lined with fur which kept my feet cozy.
Metaphor that describes the winds power and compares the wind to a funeral song to mark the death of the old year and the beginning of winter and the coming of spring.
The ruckus from the bottom of the truck is unbearable, because of the noise and excessive shaking. As we slowly climbed the mountain road to reach our lovely cabin, it seemed almost impossible to reach the top, but every time we reached it safely. The rocks and deep potholes shook the truck and the people in it, like a paint mixer. Every window in the truck was rolled down so we could have some leverage to hold on and not loose our grip we needed so greatly. The fresh clean mountain air entered the truck; it smelt as if we were lost: nowhere close to home. It was a feeling of relief to get away from all the problems at home. The road was deeply covered with huge pines and baby aspen trees. Closely examining the surrounding, it looks as if it did the last time we were up here.
I think we all have a beautiful place in our mind. I have a wonderful place that made me happy a lot of times, years ago. But sometimes I think that I am the only person who likes this place and I'm asking myself if this place will be as beautiful as I thought when I will go back to visit it again. Perhaps I made it beautiful in my mind.
“A Bird came down the Walk,” was written in c. 1862 by Emily Dickinson, who was born in 1830 and died in 1886. This easy to understand and timeless poem provides readers with an understanding of the author’s appreciation for nature. Although the poem continues to be read over one hundred years after it was written, there is little sense of the time period within which it was composed. The title and first line, “A Bird came down the Walk,” describes a common familiar observation, but even more so, it demonstrates how its author’s creative ability and artistic use of words are able to transform this everyday event into a picture that results in an awareness of how the beauty in nature can be found in simple observations. In a step like narrative, the poet illustrates the direct relationship between nature and humans. The verse consists of five stanzas that can be broken up into two sections. In the first section, the bird is eating a worm, takes notice of a human in close proximity and essentially becomes frightened. These three stanzas can easily be swapped around because they, for all intents and purposes, describe three events that are able to occur in any order. Dickinson uses these first three stanzas to establish the tone; the tone is established from the poet’s literal description and her interpretive expression of the bird’s actions. The second section describes the narrator feeding the bird some crumbs, the bird’s response and its departure, which Dickinson uses to elaborately illustrate the bird’s immediate escape. The last two stanzas demonstrate the effect of human interaction on nature and more specifically, this little bird, so these stanzas must remain in the specific order they are presented. Whereas most ...