Snapshots of a Day: Semi-Eposidic Style

Assignment: Do not worry about transitions.  Simply write little snapshots of a memorable day.  Why was it memorable?  What moments and people stood out to you?  Try to capture the "picture" in writing (yes, it might take more than a thousand words!). 

Example: The O'Hare Affair 

The non-adventurous cell phone rang its non-adventurous ring at 5:02 AM, beckoning her to the world of reality. An hour and a half later she would be in flight. Bismarck to Salt Lake to Chicago to Louisville. A non-traditional flight plan, but she would arrive in time for her sister to pick her up after she got off work. She hadn’t planned it, she hadn’t paid for it, she hadn’t cared too much one way or the other. She went with the flow.


“What can I get you?” The lone Cinnabon employee wasn’t North Dakota nice, but he wasn’t East Coast rude; he was Utah efficient.
She almost replied with, “My family tradition…” but then remembered she was a lone Cinnabon customer. “A regular one, please.”
“With extra frosting?”
She hesitated. She was on vacation after all; yet, the image of the scale after last year’s vacation flashed briefly, yet effectively through her mental TV. “No thank you.” She paid and waited by the straws. The lady behind her copied her order.
He took the last cinnabon from the tray and boxed it awkwardly with the help of two sticky spatulas. “Here you go.” He looked at her, but the next-in-line lady took it. North Dakota nice didn’t say anything. The lady left. He took a fresh batch from the oven and slathered frosting on it. He boxed another identical fare. “I can’t believe she took yours.” “It doesn’t matter. I’m not in a hurry.” She smiled her North Dakota nice smile. She picked up more napkins and joined the flow of travelers journeying through the Salt Lake Airport.


“Are you reading for pleasure or for business?” She tried to make conversation with her self-conscious, ill at ease traveling companion.
“Business, and pleasure I guess…” Those were all the words she would eek out of him. So she sat back, closed her eyes, and listened to the flow of conversation circulating around the plane.
“…I heard about this horrific doctor on the news and is it bad that I knew exactly who it was before they said who he was? Is it? Is it? I don’t know why I kept going back to him. He was ridiculous! Just ridiculous. Do you know what was the last straw? The absolute last straw! Well, anyway, so you know those little cheap pens that probably cost, oh, I don’t know, probably five cents, maybe ten cents at the most? You know what I am talking about…”
She envisioned the person listening nodding like a very agitated bobblehead at this point in time.
“Well, anyway picture this pen. So you know that I accidentally picked it up and wrote something down and I must have put it in my purse and walked out the door with it. Wouldn’t you know that he had his secretary, I can’t imagine having that job; I would have quit eons ago! Well, anyway this secretary called me and told me that he accused me of stealing his pen and wanted me to, wait for it, wait for it, FedEx it back to him! Can you believe it? What a doctor! FedEx a five cent pen? Of all the ridiculous, absurd, ridiculous things!”
“Well, did you FedEx it to him?”
“I didn’t want to. I really didn’t want to, but what was I supposed to do? So I finally FedExed it to him, the darn thing cost waaaay more than the darn pen was worth, so yes, I did it and was done with it. Sometimes it is easier to go with the flow.”


She looked at the departure board. It ebbed and flowed with each clap of thunder and inspired flows of language that clapped her eardrums. Her 4:00 flight to Louisville was now slated for 5:20. She looked at her semi-adventurous cell phone: 2:20. Lunch time. Although her stomach was guiding her steps, her curiosity at the longest line she had ever seen outside of Disney World soon took over. She walked at a crisp pace. It kept going and going and going and going and then it stopped. It stopped right in front of United’s front desk. The line was definitely united. United in angst, frustration, and impatience.


Her McDonald’s salad sat eagerly in her lap. Her McDonald’s sweet tea sat rotting on her teeth. Her ears were keenly tuned to the audio waves that flowed through the humid, recycled air.
“Excuse me sir. I don’t mean to be disrespectful, but what has the service become?” The military man looked at the voice belonging to the elderly gentleman and immediately snapped to red alert. “You just look way too comfortable. It is just that in my day the uniforms were a little more crisp than your army fatigues. We looked like stiff chauffeurs.” The military man loosened considerably and let out a verbal smile. “I just wanted to let you know that I am proud of what you are doing and that I support you wholeheartedly. Thank you for your service.”
The current military man would take those words with him. His itinery: Atlanta to Iraq. The Atlanta flight was delayed two hours. He had a close connection in Atlanta, perhaps his tour of duty would be postponed by the flow of rain, hail, and lightning from the sky. Perhaps his would be one of those stories…but more likely not. He escaped the flow of negativity at 4:19, while she remained confined to sit and watch and listen.


The newly-weds sat across from her. They had been waiting for a flight to St. Louis since 6:00 that morning. Hope rose at 8:00, then 9:30, then 10:30. It was now 5:00. They were looking at a 6:30 flight.
The man sitting next to her was having a hard time going with the flow of the departure board. His leg was shaking with a rapid beat. He got up to get a soothing drink. It did not soothe his leg.


It was now 5:10 and the hail started to flow. Lighting kept the ground crew in, and her flight was pushed back to 6:00 and the standby list was multiplying exponentially.
An intriguing voice interrupted her incessant checking of the departure board. “I’m glad I’m here waiting and not out there. My husband and two of my sons were able to get onto the flight from Gate C10 and they have been sitting on the plane for over an hour. They said it has been rocking back and forth, and my one son who doesn’t get scared texted me that it is the scariest thing that he has ever experienced. But they can’t get them off the ground and they can’t get them off the plane! I am thankful to be inside looking out.”
“When I was waiting in line, five guys behind me decide to rent a car and drive to Grand Rapids. It was forty bucks apiece. I wish I would have done that, but there are no rental cars to be had. And rumor is that there are no hotel rooms.”


The clock read 7:10 and the intercom spoke for all Louisville passengers to board. She got up eagerly, as did a fourth of the people waiting in their wing.
“Is this the line for Louisville?” A voice flowed from behind her.
She hadn’t spoken in a while, so the words almost got choked in her throat. “Yes it is.”
“Do you see the guy up there in the front of the line?” He waited for her non-verbal acquiescence. “He just got back from Iraq today, and to come home to this. I’m sure glad this flight is taking him home.”


As she walked down the ramp to the long-awaited airplane, she vividly saw lightning flow to the ground. She vividly imagined she had not. She vividly heard the airline attendant groan. She vividly imagined she had not.


She buckled her seatbelt and pulled up the shade and allowed the thought that had brewing underneath her cranium to flow together through her brain: I’m so glad that I am getting out of here and that my flight is going to take flight. Thank you God for getting me out of this mess.
The guy across the aisle was calling to cancel his hard-fought for hotel room.
The girl across the aisle was texting her fiancé that they were on their way.
The guy on the intercom was about to make a terrible faux pas in the public relations domain. “Ladies and gentlemen welcome aboard the plane. You think you are going to Louisville; however, you’re not. The crew has just timed out. We apologize for any inconvenience, but the crew has been on the plane since 5:00 AM. When the pilot radioed for the okay to take off, we were denied. So we do need to clear plane. This is not a joke. We do need to clear the plane. Thank you for choosing United; we hope you will choose us again. Have a great day!” His all too chipper voice did not sit well with the lady across the aisle. “You would think pilots could tell time.” This became her mantra as she angrily whipped her way out of the time-illiterate plane. “Couldn’t you check the clock before you get everyone on board? Maybe you should learn to tell time!” The lady across the aisle had been practicing throwing spite at all the seats as she walked by them and now had her real audience: the flight attendants. And the flight attendants let it bounce right off them like experts. “Maybe we should,” the attendant sweetly smiled back.


“Go to gate B17. Go to gate B17.” There might as well have been a broken record standing at gate B21. The entire plane flowed to the broken record’s instructions.


She recognized the leg shaker in line and knew she had arrived in the right place. “Did you guys just get off the Louisville plane?”
“Yep. Welcome to the line.” The leg shaker seemed oddly calm, like he had finally accepted the flow.


“Going to Louisville?” The United employee asked as blandly as white rice.
“Yes Ma’am.”
“C5” The white rice lady sent her across the airport along with everyone else, with the promise of a spot on the standby list, along with everyone else.


The lady with the big shoulder pads had a six step lead on her, but the lady with big shoulder pads had shorter legs. She caught up to her quickly amongst the flow of the crowd and expertly started a conversation. Misery loves company, and inexperience (usually) loves experience. In the lady with the big shoulder pads, she saw a semblance of misery and a plethora of travel experience. Thus a 24-year-old and a 55-year-old became fast friends. As friend-like as one can be without knowing each other’s names.


The neon lights flashed and flowed erratically and eerily in the underbelly of the airport: the journey from B17 to C5. The shorter legged lady and the longer legged gal took turns in the lead. People kept flowing into the airport, but the outlet kept getting clogged. It was problematic. And chaotic. And messy, really messy.


The standby list laughed at them. “You think you are important enough to be on me? It was for moments like this that I perfected my evil laugh.” Yes, the noise that followed was the epitome of a personified evil laugh. It made cold blood flow through her veins, and it made the experienced shoulder-padded woman dial American Express. “I’m getting a rental car. Would you like to join me?” At that point in time, she didn’t know what else to do, so she did the most natural thing: she joined her friend. So did the leg shaker and an elderly man who was entirely lost in the world of airports: a professor of philosophy in flip flops.


A motley crew was formed to conquer the chaotic flow. The only problem: the shoulder-padded woman was still on hold.
“Good luck finding a rental,” many said.
“Good luck finding a hotel room,” many said.
“I got a rental and a hotel room,” the girl in the black-and-white dress said. “I’m just trying to get my luggage. This is ridiculous. You would think with all of the weather that O’Hare sees that it would know how to deal with massive overloads by now. So as soon as that flight was cancelled, I gave up on O’Hare solving my transportation problems. After calling around, I found a car, but it isn’t available until 10:00 tomorrow morning. So I didn’t even mess with trying to find a room around here—they’re all booked. I just got another night downtown. Yeah, it’s expensive, but I am not on my time right now. I’m working, and my employee, Humana, is really good about understanding problems, so they’re gonna pay for it. I have to get home to work, so work is going to pay for it. I have to get home to work.”
“That’s our tax dollars at work,” the flip flops squeaked off to the side.
“Here’s my card. If you can’t find anything, I’m leaving at 10:00 from Avis. Have a good night.”
The girl in the black-and-white dress was named Ashley.


The final standby passenger was announced. The blessed soul to join the upward flow: the man who began his journey from Iraq.


“Well, after being on hold for 35 minutes, American Express has nothing for me. No hotel room and no rental cars.” The Southern accent flowed out stronger than before. “Let’s call Ashley.”


Time for introductions: The shoulder-padded woman was Nancy, a government relations professional for Golden Living. The leg-shaker was Josh, a biotechnology salesman. The flip flop professor was George, an epitome of the absentminded image. The girl called she was Erika, a go-with-the-flow North Dakotan English teacher. Everyone was going home, except for her; she was going to be a mover of home. She was the anomaly.



After 15 phone calls, Josh procured one hotel room. They hopped in a cab. They arrived and the hotel miraculously found another room. (This was much to George’s dismay as he was looking forward to telling his wife, “Last night I slept with two women.” He used to be in a rock-n-roll band and was almost signed by the company that signed the Monkees; with that defeat, he was left to pursue his other passion: philosophy.) They ate comfort food at McDonald’s. (for Josh and Erika it was for the second time that day) They slept. (Erika had just happened to have thrown an extra pair of clothes and underwear in her backpack; it was like she knew. Nancy slept through the hotel alarm clock buzzing at 1:00. Josh slept with his contacts in; he had been hoping to sign a contract, not need to help moisten his contacts. He was on vacation time interviewing for a new job. George didn’t sleep very well; he was having sympathy pains for his insomniac daughter.) Their plans were put on a hold for another day. (George’s plans for the next two days were cancelled. He had been trying to get to South Carolina for a conference to present his ironically entitled paper: “Much Ado About Nothing.”) At 9:00 o’clock the next morning they hopped into the hotel’s shuttle. They then hopped into Avis’s shuttle. There, they met a man who had gotten up at 5 that morning with the sole purpose of finding a rental car for his family. He had found one. They made him rent it for three days at $300 a day. (He was driving for one day. Ah, capitalism.) Ashley was running late. The Avis employees were starting to wonder about this foursome that were seemingly loitering aimlessly. Ashley arrived. They picked the biggest car. They buckled their seatbelts. Ashley turned on her GPS. They drove for seven hours, stopped twice, and talk flowed incessantly as only five strangers thrown into a car by tornados and thunderstorms and the inability of O’Hare to handle them could. The drive went quickly. They arrived at their destination 24 hours after their original ETA.


“Could I pick up my luggage from the Louisville flight that was cancelled from last night? I was told that my bag was here.” Ashley was the epitome of politeness.
“Please come on back!” The employee motioned to Erika as well.
The back room was choking with bags, and the employee was delighted to clear some of the debris. “The funny thing is all the people who made it from Louisville yesterday were missing their bags. And all the bags that made it yesterday were missing their people.” Ashley and Erika just had to laugh. Sometimes laughing is all you can do when life’s flow takes you on an unexpected adventure that seems too perfect to call luck.


Her adventurous phone rang. It was her sister. She had arrived from work, just in time to pick her up. Just almost like she had planned. Almost.


Originally written: July 21, 2010 for my writing portfolio for the Northern Plains Writing Project.  If you are an English teacher and have the opportunity to participate in a Writing Project, I am going to steal Nike's wording and say, "Just do it!"  You will be challenged and stretched as a writer and as a teacher.  With the Writing Project, I finally felt like a writer and that has shaped how I have taught English from that day on, even when I taught cross-culturally in China. 

Write a Proposal to Start a New Social/Cultural Trend

Assignment: Look at a supposedly "normal" (for what really is "normal"?) cultural practice, analyze what is wrong (legitimately or facetiously), and propose a new social/cultural practice.

Example: Single People Need Toasters Too

As a young person whose friends seem to find themselves in the delightful position of saying "I do," I have had the privilege of going shopping for the "I doers" many times. I love the fact that I do not have to go into a store and try to ascertain the couple's sub-cranial preferences as they have let a digital scanner take away all of the guesswork of buying presents (unless of course you are trying to navigate Herberger's very oddly arranged kitchen section). For this I am truly grateful, and I can perceive that the couple is grateful that they are not receiving 500 blenders (although, who wouldn't feel loved receiving this hyperbolic gift with the ability to make copious amounts of milkshakes -- you could make a lot of friends this way!). Part of me feels a need to research when this revolutionary concept of registering for gifts was first put into practice; however, since it is summer and my desire to do research has miraculously taken a place on the back burner and coupled with the fact that it is not of the utmost importance for the rest of this note, I will continue without ascertaining the background of the practice.

When a couple gets married it has been presumed that they are going to be living together in a shelter that does a little more than hold out the elements, and thus their registries often reflect a bias towards the household "genre." But my question to this practice is, "What were they using before they got married and experienced the delight of the wedding registry?" Nothing? Well, of course that is a bit absurd; the reality is they were probably like many single people who have an amalgamation of hand-me downs from family and friends, rummage sale purchases, dumpster dives, and new purchases. The wedding registry simply allows the couple to have the opportunity to blend (with or without the use of 500 blenders, mind you) their lives together with many more new items that the couple can call "theirs" and not "mine" and "yours."

This practice does make good sense for people who get married while in college or right after college; however, what about the people who establish themselves in a career first and don't get married until much later in life and those who never leave the single state? Are those people left to simply build up their household wares by themselves? Single people use toasters too! This is where I find a flaw in our society's system. Here is a potential proposal: Why not make the age of 21 a landmark age for a completely different reason than going to the bar to imbibe in a newly acquired ability to purchase alcohol? What if on your 21st birthday you gained access to register for your new grown-up status gifts? You would not have to register if you choose not to (which would then allow you to register when you got married), and you could register at any time after your 21st birthday (in which case you would eliminate your ability to register if you got married). Imagine the flocks of people rushing to JCPenney's, Herberger's, Scheels', Target, etc, to celebrate their 21st birthday! Our economy doesn't need a stimulus package from the government; all we need is a revolution to wedding registries!

However, I must pause at the end of this note to offer a revelation that just entered my sub-cranial sphere: isn't this all just a tad bit materialistic. Why do we even need registries? Shouldn't we be satisfied with what we have? (Note from the author: I understand that by giving gifts we are setting up the couple for their new life together, and they are ultimately a good thing.) Why do we seek out that which is new and, yes, I will say it, beautiful (as new appliances can be a thing of beauty)? Is it our desire to be surrounded by beauty and newness? If so, are we really just trying to fill a void that only the glory and peace of God can fill? Am I reading too much into this? Anyway, I hope that your successful reading of this rather lengthy (I have always had the curse of wordiness) rant from a mind that sometimes tries to understand things and make improvements to life has given you something to ponder for a few seconds, minutes, hours, or perhaps even days.


Special thanks goes out to Amy for the toaster title. Also, this note was inspired by a post-Wizard of Oz conversation with Amy, Amanda, and Melissa. Thanks also to Elizabeth for her consultation.



Interesting Note: I actually penned this writing four years ago to this day!  I wrote it July 27, 2009. 

Eight Parts of Speech Rap/Song

I have just assigned this and I know that I should really write my own rap/song; however, I am struggling in the creative juices department. Any suggestions?

"Brain Transplantation"

"The average human only uses less than ten percent of his or her brain."
Source: eighth grade student citing something he heard on TV.


I find this fact extraordinarily encouraging.
Encouraging?
Yes, I can hear your questions formulating in your brain
Your mental gears are really quite loud--
in a facial expression sort of way.
Yes, encouraging is the word I used--
And it is most definitely the word I meant.

Since my brain is only using ten percent of itself
(Notice that wonderfully required reflexive pronoun.)
at a time,
this means
[cue the intense hushed tones about to reveal an epiphany]
that I can give away parts of my brain to my students.
I hear your gears churning once again--
Your face is really quite loud--
RELAX!
Remove that Frankensteinesque picture of my classroom from your mind.
(Notice that wonderfully imperative sentence.)
Scalpels--I have none.
Fancy equipment--I have none.
(Especially none designed for the removal of gray matter from my cerebral sphere
and transplantation into my students' cerebral spheres.)
My methodology is really much simpler than that.
(Notice that simplistic declarative sentence.)
I give them my thinking patterns,
My English know-how
Via the highly developed means of words.
Words, words, words!

Ten percent = highly encouraging
Why is that?
(Notice the ever inquisitive interrogative sentence.)
If I give .5 percent (.005) to each class each year--
Once again your facial expressions are a little too loud,
please do not interrupt class so much--
.5 percent is only 3 percent each year
If I divide 90 percent by 3 percent,
I end up with 30 years worth of teaching,
Which should put me at the lovely age of 54
when my brain is gone.
Since I can't retire until I am 56,
that will leave me with exactly two years to be that
quintessential,
truly absent-minded English teacher.

One slight flaw I see--
besides copying the syntax of Yoda I mean--
Once students start taking the information,
they get greedy
and want more and morE and moRE and mORE and MORE!
They take more than I want to give and I find myself
(Notice once again that wonderfully required, reflexive pronoun.)
trying to find the spelling of the word "cruise"
and end up spelling "quiz".

Yes, this brain transplantation process is quite a delicate one,
Requiring more skill and study and practice.
Perhaps I had better quell my loquacity,
Keeping my brain to myself.
But perhaps not.
What else am I going to do with the extra 90%?

Attack of the First Person Personal Pronouns

iThis.
iThat.
Think selfishly.
iiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiii
Who is u?
Ur not even worth a full word any more.
Think selfishly.
Don't put yourself last.
iiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiii
Attack of the first person personal pronouns has begun.
Has conquered.
Has won.
i is a much better battle cry than u
All alone.
A l l
a l o n e
Such is my destiny without u you

The Material of Life

Knit two. Purl two. Knit two. Purl two.

The odds and ends of a lifetime of knitting reduced to a hamperful (and then some) of yarn. Bright sparkly reds, calm pastels, and itchy purple. All gearing up to be mashed together into a beautiful afghan that will not match at all. Yarns that any sane person would not put together are about to share one common purpose.

Knit two. Purl two. Knit two. Purl two.

The same pattern that first introduced her into the realm of the knitting. The only pattern that she has ever really liked to knit.

Two forwards. Two backwards. Two forwards. Two backwards.

Perhaps after this forwards and backwards dance of knitting and purling, she will venture out into more complicated and delicate patterns. But for now this insane knitter will do what she knows: the easy traditional stitch that she has become so comfortable to her in order to produce a (hopefully) comfortable product.

Who knows what beautiful patterns will come from this hamperful of yarns that were not supposed to be weaved together. Who knows what beautiful patterns will come from more complicated and delicate patterns. But one thing is true: ugliness will most definitely come before the beauty. Or perhaps in the ugliness is only where beauty is found.

"What is the book you will always remember and why?"

"A person's a person no matter how small." -Horton Hears a Who

I developed my love of Dr. Seuss a little later in life, but it wasn't the sing-songy rhymes nor the sensical nonsensical invented words to help aid the whimsical rhymes that drew me into the droll world of his writings: it was the "so what" of his writing. Anybody can invent words (isn’t that what babies do?), but not anybody can invent words, have incredible rhyme, and teach us that we need to take care of even the littlest of people, even if the littlest of people reside on a speck of dust. If Horton the elephant can care for the Whos, then I, as a human, can respect and care for fellow humans with the same esteem as Horton. The old adage is that an elephant never forgets, and I hope that I never forget that big, lovable, caring elephant who Dr. Seuss penned into existence and onto my heart.


Word Count: 163