By 2010 the roof at Comfort Island was beginning to look like a ski slope complete with moguls and small jumps. Sky lights weren’t necessary as it was easy to see ample daylight through any of the rooms with open rafters or in bedrooms where plaster had fallen from the ceilings. The season was winding down and the house interior would not weather another harsh winter in upper New York State.
A funny aside occurred during the process of finding someone to do the job. At the beginning of October, I stopped my car on the shoulder of Route 12 near Alexandria Bay in order to question two Amish brothers riding along in their buggy about their willingness to tackle a roof project.
A lull of a week or so followed as I waited for various other prospective roofers to give me quotes. One day on the way to town from Grenadier I stopped by Comfort to pick up some business correspondence, and from the walkway I noticed something shut between the screened front doors. It turned out to be a strip of newspaper with a note written on the blank portion between pages. Jonas and Daniel Zook left me the...
While Snow Falling on Cedars has a well-rounded cast of characters, demands strong emotional reactions, and radiates the importance of racial equality and fairness, it is not these elements alone that make this tale stand far out from other similar stories. It is through Guterson’s powerful and detailed imagery and settings that this story really comes to life. The words, the way he uses them to create amazing scenes and scenarios in this story, makes visualizing them an effortless and enjoyable task. Streets are given names and surroundings, buildings are given color and history, fields and trees are given height and depth, objects are given textures and smells, and even the weather is given a purpose in the...
The back panel of 1 Dead in Attic: Post-Katrina Stories by columnist Chris Rose does not summarize his self-publication. Rather, it dedicates the book to a man named Thomas Coleman who met his demise in his attic with a can of juice and the comforts of a bedspread at his side. This dedication closes with “There were more than a thousand like him.” That is the life force of Rose’s book. It is not a narrative, it does not feature a clear conclusion, and there is not a distinct beginning, middle, or end. Rather, it exists as a chronology of Rose’s struggle to reestablish normalcy following a time of turmoil. Rose himself states in his introduction “After the storm, I just started writing, not attempting to carve out any niche but just to tell
Gioia, Dana; Kennedy, X.J. “Those Winter Sundays.” Backpack Literature. Fourth Edition. Terry, Joe. 2012. Longman, 2012. 382. Print.
The speaker in “Five A.M.” looks to nature as a source of beauty during his early morning walk, and after clearing his mind and processing his thoughts along the journey, he begins his return home feeling as though he is ready to begin the “uphill curve” (ln. 14) in order to process his daily struggles. However, while the speaker in “Five Flights Up,” shares the same struggles as her fellow speaker, she does little to involve herself in nature other than to observe it from the safety of her place of residence. Although suffering as a result of her struggles, the speaker does little to want to help herself out of her situation, instead choosing to believe that she cannot hardly bare recovery or to lift the shroud of night that has fallen over her. Both speakers face a journey ahead of them whether it be “the uphill curve where a thicket spills with birds every spring” (ln. 14-15) or the five flights of stares ahead of them, yet it is in their attitude where these two individuals differ. Through the appreciation of his early morning surroundings, the speaker in “Five A.M.” finds solitude and self-fulfillment, whereas the speaker in “Five Flights Up” has still failed to realize her own role in that of her recovery from this dark time in her life and how nature can serve a beneficial role in relieving her of her
At other times, nature can be a source of solace for those who have suffered. Following the death of Gladys and Kate, Grainier looks to the horizon to seek comfort from his crushing loss. “All his life Robert Grainier would remember vividly the burned valley at sundown, the most dream-like business he’d ever witnessed waking – the brilliant pastels of the last light overhead, some clouds...
The image is tantalizing: a small, desolate town, cursed with numbing chilliness, has its streets, its buildings, and its trees blotchily painted upon layers and layers of colorless coldness. The heavy snow continues falling, stacking, growing, and engulfing the town in white, dull skies threatening no stop, until there is a sudden halt. Just for a moment, the skies are clear, pure and bright. A pleasant warmth touches every spot, every nook, and every cranny drenched in snow. Everything seems to be filled with a bright warmth before the cold chill engulfs the town once more and continues to bury the town even further into a bitter, cold winter. In Edith Wharton's novel, Ethan Frome, the dark climate exemplifies Ethan's grief of living a miserable life in Starkfield. His long term marriage with his bitter wife, Zeenobia, only adds to his hardships and it is clear that his only source of joy comes from the company of Zeena's young and cheerful cousin, Mattie Silver.
I prepared myself for the upcoming adventurous day. I set out along a less-traveled path through the woods leading to the shore. I could hear every rustle of the newly fallen leaves covering the ground. The brown ground signaled the changing of seasons and nature's way of preparing for the long winter ahead. Soon these leaves would be covered with a thick layer of snow. The leaves still clinging to the trees above displayed a brilliant array of color, simultaneously showing the differences of each and the beauty of the entire forest.
Perhaps the vast array of seasons and weather patterns hold the town to a unique appeal. In the fall, the crisp and cool breeze wafts through the fallen leaves, blanketing the lawns and streets in a warm, orange hue. In the winter, icy gusts chill the terrain, followed by the gentle fall of snowflakes. With time, the town is coated in
"The house is 10 feet by 10 feet, and it is built completely of corrugated paper. The roof is peaked, the walls are tacked to a wooden frame. The dirt floor is swept clean, and along the irrigation ditch or in the muddy river...." " ...and the family possesses three old quilts and soggy, lumpy mattress. With the first rain the carefully built house will slop down into a brown, pulpy mush." (27-28)
Fitzgerald, F. Scott. "Winter Dreams." Print. Rpt. in English 102 Course Pack. By Megan Newell. Montreal: Eastman Systems, 2012. 33-40. Print.
"An Occurence at Owl Creek Bridge." Classic Reader. 2009. BlackDog Media, Web. 2 Dec 2009. .
Lights twinkled along the rooftops and buildings as far as the eye can see. Holy creased the signs of the city, and colossal red bows were secured on every telephone pole and streetlight. Snow fell softly and it flowed to a rhythm Jenna Louise had never seen before. She thought it was actually rather pretty. Not like the “I want to go roll around and feel it melting beneath me” pretty, but the quaint, dainty pretty. Jenna Louise also noticed something quite strange about the modest town everything was little. The people walking among the streets and sitting in the diner were little, not like dwarfs, but shorter than your typical human being, this was out of the ordinary, but Jenna Louise just went with
I was the first person to ski off of the chairlift that day; arriving at the summit of the Blackcomb Mountain, nestled in the heart of Whistler, Canada. It was the type of day when the clouds seemed to blanket the sky, leaving no clue that the sun, with its powerful light, even existed anymore. It was not snowing, but judging by the moist, musty, stale scent in the air, I realized it would be only a short time before the white flakes overtook the mountain. As I prepared myself to make the first run, I took a moment to appreciate my surroundings. Somehow things seemed much different up here. The wind, nonexistent at the bottom, began to gust. Its cold bite found my nose and froze my toes. Its quick and sudden swirling movement kicked loose snow into my face, forcing me to zip my jacket over my chin. It is strange how the gray clouds, which seemed so far above me at the bottom, really did not appear that high anymore. As I gazed out over the landscape, the city below seemed unrecognizable. The enormous buildings which I had driven past earlier looked like dollhouses a child migh...
When Willy and Linda purchased their home in Brooklyn, it seemed far removed from the city. Willy was young and strong and he believed he had a future full of success. He and his sons cut the tree limbs that threatened his home and put up a hammock that he would enjoy with his children. The green fields filled his home with wonderful aromas. Over the years, while Willy was struggling to pay for his home, the city grew and eventually surrounded the house.
Being invited to a friend’s house the other day, I began to get excited about the journey through the woods to their cabin. The cabin, nestled back in the woods overlooking a pond, is something that you would dream about. There is a winding trail that takes you back in the woods were their cabin sits. The cabin sits on top of a mountain raised up above everything, as if it was sitting on the clouds.