Thursday, September 25, 2008
The Long Goodbye
No one is unique, everyone has a story to tell, and often it is a story that we have all heard a million different times. That is for the most part, my reaction to this essay. "The Long Goodbye: Mother's Day in Federal Prison." This merely highlights the truth that we do not have a perfect legal system, it is, in fact, very flawed and at times almost worthless. It also highlights the fact that justice is blind. It gets it right a lot of the time, the person that did the crime is usually the one that is put away. Occasionally, however, every once in a while, it misses. Excuses, and more excuses were given for why they were there, it does not really matter, they are there for a crime. Whether they committed it or not is beside the point. To say I was a little annoyed reading this almost sob story, is an understatement. It is easy to sympathize in some places, especially where it concerns family. Such as Jennifer's son and Stephanie's son. They rarely see their sons, and it is hard deal with the fact that those two boys are going to have to be without a mother for the first several years of their life.
Tuesday, September 23, 2008
"The New York Pickpocket Academy"
"The New York Pickpocket Academy." Such a perfect title for such a strange essay. It is hard for me to say whether or not I am surprised by how bad pickpockets are in this essay, or curious for how much it may or may not be exaggerated. Either way I have to say that I was thoroughly impressed by how he introduced various pickpockets throughout the essay. The more simple pickpockets who go around and taking bystanders wallets and purses are barely even shown in the essay besides the brief mention of them. You hear of them and then they are quickly forgotten as he moves on to more interesting characters in the essay. The more entrenched they were with the victim, and the more complex their method was of stealing their money or items, the more detail was awarded to them. Every character is an ordinary person like you and I, and he shows use their reactions which would be quite typical when you realized you've been pick pocketed or cheated. Each person deserved to have at least a small mention of how they had been victimized, as mundane and troublesome as that may sound to an ordinary person not involved in this essay.
Thursday, September 18, 2008
"The Last Stop"
The essay "The Last Stop" was disturbing to a certain point, and scarily enough, slightly informational. It was morbid, true, and slightly humorous all at the same time. While reading this essay, I had one question going through my mind. Why in the world would anyone buy a dead person a five thousand dollar casket, that is just completely unreasonable. Being from a large family myself and having gone to many, many funerals, I just do not understand why you would disrespect them that way. When I finished reading the essay I thought about when he said he touched the dead man's hand. My thoughts were, it is less like clay, and more like a porcelain doll. I have seen people just collapse from disgust, shock, and grief when touching a dead loved one's almost inhuman body, so reading that he bravely touched that man's body sent slight chills down my spine. He reacted so coolly, so nonchalantly so that even that final part of the essay itself was slightly disturbing to me.
Tuesday, September 16, 2008
Tobias Wolff "On Being a Real Western"
In response to "On Being a Real Western" by Tobias Wolff. Being someone who grew up around guns, and even shooting my first gun when I was three, I can completely relate to this essay. Firing a pistol or rifle or shotgun can leave a bad taste in one's mouth, there is a certain sense of responsibility and power in accepting a gun. I have to say, however, that pointing a gun at someone and being frustrated because he felt he had power over them and they did not know it is sickening. He seems really close to a sociopath in wanting to manipulate their fear. Even when he seems to bring a sort of a hand of god moment on the squirrel, it was almost childish. Of course, I can understand his sort of obsession with his gun, even if it is not but a .22 rifle. In a sense, you do feel like you have some power over whoever or whatever it is that you are aiming. Even if it is just a target set up for practice, after putting about twenty holes in the target you end up feeling some sort of accomplishment that you did not feel before.
Tuesday, September 9, 2008
"Calling Home"
This blog is in response to the Jean Brandt essay "Calling Home." I found it very suspenseful and almost disturbing. How well her emotions are described throughout this misadventure was very well done, and worth the read. In fact she describes everyone's position throughout the essay rather well, as well as where they stand and how they look at what she had done. It is true that she should not have stolen a 75 cent button, even if it did have Snoopy on it, but the measures that are used on her are rather extreme. Especially since she was only thirteen. Who has ever heard of taking a thirteen year old girl to jail for stealing a 75 cent pin. I can almost appreciate how it all started out on nothing but impulse, she didn't plan to steal it, she just simply did it. When she was taken to jail, she didn't seem to be very remorseful about it. It was not until she had the conversation with her mother did she seem to regret what she did, which is also understandable. No one ever really thinks about what they do until it impacts others. Ultimately I really liked the essay.
Thursday, September 4, 2008
english paper
Ryan Clayton
Mr. Tom Sowders
Eng-101-012
02 September 2008
##The Prettiest Man in Forest City
“I’m so pretty it scares me…“ that was one of his favorite things to say. It’s been six years since his funeral, yet it only seems like yesterday. Before that it seemed like decades had gone by. So much happened in such a short time that it’s a wonder I remember half of what happened. His name was Boyce Morrow, and he was my grandpa. I have his picture here in my hand as I write this; he was a little overweight with a head full of hair that he kept shaved. He has blue eyes and a smile that seemed to sparkle with happiness all the time. He was very optimistic; he saw good in everything no matter how bad. Until my grandmother died, he used to smoke his pipe, and the smoke just seemed to linger around him.
My first memory of him would probably be when I was 5. The house was not very big. The front door led to the living room that had to the right, as you entered, an old blue chair. Across from the chair was a couch with country scenery on it. Next to it was a green chair that my grandma would sit in and sew. There was a TV next to the couch that had a Three Stooges’ plate on top of it, which was later given to me. To the left was the kitchen, not a very big kitchen, but enough for a microwave, a sink, oven and cabinets for food, plates etc… There was a hallway past the living room that led to the bedroom and other rooms, which I never went in. When we visited we often found him smoking his pipe, watching Three Stooges, cartoons, and every now and again movies. We would find him laughing away, with my grandma sitting there sewing or cooking in the kitchen.
When it came time for Easter, at least half my family was there. My grandpa and my grandma and aunts and my mom would plan parties and Easter egg searches for all the little kids. I was often in those searches since I was little when this happened. They would hide them anywhere and everywhere, under propane tanks, in tall grass, next to the house, under cars, and in plain site in my grandpa’s yard. My grandpa’s birthday was after Easter, and since he was a diabetic he was not suppose to eat sweets, nor anything with a lot of sugar in it. Well his birthday was an excellent excuse for that. I remember his 76th birthday we were at my uncle’s house, and my mom and one of my aunts baked him a cake. He knew it was coming, he just didn’t know when it was coming. It was a chocolate cake with white icing with Happy 76th birthday, and blue icing circled the cake. On Thanksgiving our family would meet at his house, sit there enjoying our food and watching football games. The younger kids would go outside and play games like tag, hide- in- go- seek and others. Christmas was probably my favorite though; after we opened all our presents at home we would go to his house and have a ball. You never knew quite what he was going to get us. One Christmas I remember and never forget, I’m not sure why it was special, but it was probably the happiest I saw him for the longest time. I guess it was because it was the Christmas before my grandma died. But I remember he gave my brother Michael and I three cars. He gave us a black car, a blue car, and a red car. I don’t know what the models were. I was too young to really care, but he cared a lot and asked us repeatedly if we liked them and smiled every time we said we did.
Most of the events that took place happened much the same as this up to the point of November. It was in this month of 1996 that my grandma died, and it took a heavy toll on him. He wasn’t his usual self, sad, and he had a long face. That usual glint in his eye that showed his happiness disappeared. He hardly smiled, and lines showed on his face, not the lines of age, but of sadness. It didn’t help much that he had a triple by-pass in 1997 soon after my grandma’s death. We would go to his house every Saturday and Sunday; it was during this time that we actually became pretty close. When I was about eight we would go to this hotdog place that was usually never full. I would get fries, a drink, and then ice cream, and he would get a hotdog and a coke. Every Saturday morning we would go to pick him up and he would say “Hey ugly, how many girlfriends you got now, seven, eight?” in that sarcastic tone of his. I would give him that look that would say I wouldn’t be talking. He would always say “I’m the prettiest man in all of Forest City” then he would look at me and say “and you’re the ugliest”. We were always doing things like that, arguing and then laughing about it afterward. The nurse that checked on him every week didn’t help much, he was always saying she was going to be his next wife and she would just laugh at him. He would always joke that when he married he was going to marry on an airplane and parachute out of it. He told me that I was going to be there and he was going to push me out of the airplane. I simply told him “Not if I push you out first”.
Soon after I turned seven, I started going to church with my mom and grandpa. Every Sunday morning we would go pick up my grandpa, eat a quick breakfast, and go to church. The church wasn’t a very big church it was actually pretty small. It was simply a small room with chairs, a podium, and places for bibles and books with songs in them. Before long they had enough money to build a church that could fit their needs. While the church was being built we moved to a white trailer next to it. It was basically the same thing as the old church except it was bigger. They had room for Sunday school, a board to keep track of how many people came and to keep track of donations. I rarely heard my grandpa speak during church, and because of that I always got bored and started off kicking the chairs, making sounds with my mouth, popping my fingers, and flipping pages back and forth over and over until I got yelled at. That was when I just sat there stared at the floor, or the ceiling, or looked at the birds on the branches. If I didn’t fall asleep during church I just sat there looking at the clock until Sunday school started or until we had to leave.
We went through this routine for three or four years. During that time my grandpa got sick and was put into a hospital. My mom and I went to church but not as often. We stopped soon after we found out that he had dementia (a less violent form of Alzheimer’s.) I didn’t know this at the time, I just thought he was sick, even if they told me I would not have known what it was. Things came and went as all things do and a few months later he was put into a nursing home. We would go visit him every couple of weeks, and sometimes every week. At first he didn’t seem so bad, he just forgot that we were there if we were gone more than five minutes. He would sometimes forget our names and he would wonder where he was. This continued on for a number of months, his birthday came and went, as did visitors and family gatherings and just enjoying what time he had left. I hated visiting him during this time even though I was told that it was necessary. I hated seeing him like that, laying in a bed looking like he was at death’s door. People kept telling me to visit him every chance I got so that we could enjoy what little time was left. How right they were, too right, we had only couple months left, and all I did was sitting around doing nothing. If there is one regret in my life, that would be it, not appreciating how little time I had left with him.
As time went by my grandpa past away February 21st , 2002 and his funeral was held a couple days later. I was surprised at how many people were there, there were people that were family, his friends and other people I never met. We were all surprised at how much younger he looked than he did in the nursing home. I will always appreciate the kind of man he was, his character was that of a gentle man who knew how to make people laugh. He would give the shirt off his back if it meant helping someone, and as time goes on I hope to be more like him. We will all remember Boyce Morrow, The prettiest man in Forest City, my grandpa.
Born: May 20th, 1924
Died: February 21st , 2002
Mr. Tom Sowders
Eng-101-012
02 September 2008
##The Prettiest Man in Forest City
“I’m so pretty it scares me…“ that was one of his favorite things to say. It’s been six years since his funeral, yet it only seems like yesterday. Before that it seemed like decades had gone by. So much happened in such a short time that it’s a wonder I remember half of what happened. His name was Boyce Morrow, and he was my grandpa. I have his picture here in my hand as I write this; he was a little overweight with a head full of hair that he kept shaved. He has blue eyes and a smile that seemed to sparkle with happiness all the time. He was very optimistic; he saw good in everything no matter how bad. Until my grandmother died, he used to smoke his pipe, and the smoke just seemed to linger around him.
My first memory of him would probably be when I was 5. The house was not very big. The front door led to the living room that had to the right, as you entered, an old blue chair. Across from the chair was a couch with country scenery on it. Next to it was a green chair that my grandma would sit in and sew. There was a TV next to the couch that had a Three Stooges’ plate on top of it, which was later given to me. To the left was the kitchen, not a very big kitchen, but enough for a microwave, a sink, oven and cabinets for food, plates etc… There was a hallway past the living room that led to the bedroom and other rooms, which I never went in. When we visited we often found him smoking his pipe, watching Three Stooges, cartoons, and every now and again movies. We would find him laughing away, with my grandma sitting there sewing or cooking in the kitchen.
When it came time for Easter, at least half my family was there. My grandpa and my grandma and aunts and my mom would plan parties and Easter egg searches for all the little kids. I was often in those searches since I was little when this happened. They would hide them anywhere and everywhere, under propane tanks, in tall grass, next to the house, under cars, and in plain site in my grandpa’s yard. My grandpa’s birthday was after Easter, and since he was a diabetic he was not suppose to eat sweets, nor anything with a lot of sugar in it. Well his birthday was an excellent excuse for that. I remember his 76th birthday we were at my uncle’s house, and my mom and one of my aunts baked him a cake. He knew it was coming, he just didn’t know when it was coming. It was a chocolate cake with white icing with Happy 76th birthday, and blue icing circled the cake. On Thanksgiving our family would meet at his house, sit there enjoying our food and watching football games. The younger kids would go outside and play games like tag, hide- in- go- seek and others. Christmas was probably my favorite though; after we opened all our presents at home we would go to his house and have a ball. You never knew quite what he was going to get us. One Christmas I remember and never forget, I’m not sure why it was special, but it was probably the happiest I saw him for the longest time. I guess it was because it was the Christmas before my grandma died. But I remember he gave my brother Michael and I three cars. He gave us a black car, a blue car, and a red car. I don’t know what the models were. I was too young to really care, but he cared a lot and asked us repeatedly if we liked them and smiled every time we said we did.
Most of the events that took place happened much the same as this up to the point of November. It was in this month of 1996 that my grandma died, and it took a heavy toll on him. He wasn’t his usual self, sad, and he had a long face. That usual glint in his eye that showed his happiness disappeared. He hardly smiled, and lines showed on his face, not the lines of age, but of sadness. It didn’t help much that he had a triple by-pass in 1997 soon after my grandma’s death. We would go to his house every Saturday and Sunday; it was during this time that we actually became pretty close. When I was about eight we would go to this hotdog place that was usually never full. I would get fries, a drink, and then ice cream, and he would get a hotdog and a coke. Every Saturday morning we would go to pick him up and he would say “Hey ugly, how many girlfriends you got now, seven, eight?” in that sarcastic tone of his. I would give him that look that would say I wouldn’t be talking. He would always say “I’m the prettiest man in all of Forest City” then he would look at me and say “and you’re the ugliest”. We were always doing things like that, arguing and then laughing about it afterward. The nurse that checked on him every week didn’t help much, he was always saying she was going to be his next wife and she would just laugh at him. He would always joke that when he married he was going to marry on an airplane and parachute out of it. He told me that I was going to be there and he was going to push me out of the airplane. I simply told him “Not if I push you out first”.
Soon after I turned seven, I started going to church with my mom and grandpa. Every Sunday morning we would go pick up my grandpa, eat a quick breakfast, and go to church. The church wasn’t a very big church it was actually pretty small. It was simply a small room with chairs, a podium, and places for bibles and books with songs in them. Before long they had enough money to build a church that could fit their needs. While the church was being built we moved to a white trailer next to it. It was basically the same thing as the old church except it was bigger. They had room for Sunday school, a board to keep track of how many people came and to keep track of donations. I rarely heard my grandpa speak during church, and because of that I always got bored and started off kicking the chairs, making sounds with my mouth, popping my fingers, and flipping pages back and forth over and over until I got yelled at. That was when I just sat there stared at the floor, or the ceiling, or looked at the birds on the branches. If I didn’t fall asleep during church I just sat there looking at the clock until Sunday school started or until we had to leave.
We went through this routine for three or four years. During that time my grandpa got sick and was put into a hospital. My mom and I went to church but not as often. We stopped soon after we found out that he had dementia (a less violent form of Alzheimer’s.) I didn’t know this at the time, I just thought he was sick, even if they told me I would not have known what it was. Things came and went as all things do and a few months later he was put into a nursing home. We would go visit him every couple of weeks, and sometimes every week. At first he didn’t seem so bad, he just forgot that we were there if we were gone more than five minutes. He would sometimes forget our names and he would wonder where he was. This continued on for a number of months, his birthday came and went, as did visitors and family gatherings and just enjoying what time he had left. I hated visiting him during this time even though I was told that it was necessary. I hated seeing him like that, laying in a bed looking like he was at death’s door. People kept telling me to visit him every chance I got so that we could enjoy what little time was left. How right they were, too right, we had only couple months left, and all I did was sitting around doing nothing. If there is one regret in my life, that would be it, not appreciating how little time I had left with him.
As time went by my grandpa past away February 21st , 2002 and his funeral was held a couple days later. I was surprised at how many people were there, there were people that were family, his friends and other people I never met. We were all surprised at how much younger he looked than he did in the nursing home. I will always appreciate the kind of man he was, his character was that of a gentle man who knew how to make people laugh. He would give the shirt off his back if it meant helping someone, and as time goes on I hope to be more like him. We will all remember Boyce Morrow, The prettiest man in Forest City, my grandpa.
Born: May 20th, 1924
Died: February 21st , 2002
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