November 11, 2013 - "Hunger" - Timed Reading; Supporting a Prediction

I can read "Hunger" and discuss the "gist" and make an informed, text-based prediction about the ending.

To do this I must utilize my comprehension skills and understand what "gist" means.

I will demonstrate this by reading "Hunger" in the time given and participate in a discussion with partner and write about the gist.

Directions: Read independently (15 mins) then write what you think the ending will be. Then on a sticky notes write a summary of what you read, a.k.a the gist. 

“Hunger” - excerpt from Black Boy by Richard Wright

                Hunger stole upon me so slowly that at first I was not aware of what hunger really meant.  Hunger had always been more or less at my elbow when I played, but now I began to wake up at night to find hunger standing at my bedside, staring at me gauntly.  The hunger I had known before this had been no grim, hostile stranger; it had been a normal hunger that had made me beg constantly for bread, and when I ate a crust or two I was satisfied.  But this new hunger baffled me, scared me, made me angry and insistent.  Whenever I begged for food now, my mother would pour me a cup of tea, which would still the clamor in my stomach for a moment or two; but a little later I would feel hunger nudging my ribs, twisting my empty guts until they ached.  I would grow dizzy and my vision would dim.  I became less active in my play, and for the first time in my life I had to pause and think of what was happening to me.

            “Mama, I’m hungry,” I complained one afternoon.

            “Jump up and catch a kungry,” she said, trying to make me laugh and forget.

            “What’s a kungry?”

            “It’s what little boys eat when they get hungry,” she said.

            “What does it taste like?”

            “I don’t know.”

            “Then why do you tell me to catch one?”

            “Because you said that you were hungry,” she said, smiling.  I sensed that she was teasing me and it made me angry.

            “But I’m hungry.  I want to eat.”

            “You’ll have to wait.”

            “But I want to eat now.”

            “But there’s nothing to eat,” she told me.

            “Why?”

            “Just because there’s none,” she explained.

            “But I want to eat,” I said, beginning to cry.

            “You’ll just have to wait,” she said again.

            “But why?”

            “For God to send some food.”

            “When is He going to send it?”

            “I don’t know.”

            “But I’m hungry!”

            She was ironing and she paused and looked at me with tears in her eyes.  “Where’s your father?”  she asked me.

            I stared in bewilderment.  Yes, it was true that my father had not come home to sleep for many days now and I could make as much noise as I wanted.  Though I had not known why he was absent, I had been glad that he was not there to shout his restrictions at me.  But it had never occurred to me that his absence would mean that there would be no food.

            “I don’t know,” I said.

            “Who brings food into the house?” my mother asked me.

            “Papa,” I said.  “He always brought food.”

            “Well your father isn’t here now,” she said.

            “Where is he?”

            “I don’t know,” she said.

            “But I’m hungry,” I whimpered, stomping my feet.

            “You’ll have to wait until I get a job and buy food,” she said.

            As the days slid past, the image of my father became associated with my pangs of hunger, and whenever I felt hunger, I thought of him with a deep biological bitterness.

            My mother finally went to work as a cook and left me and my brother alone in the apartment each day with a loaf of bread and a pot of tea.  When she returned at evening, she would be tired and dispirited and would cry a lot.  Sometimes, when she was in despair, she would call us to her and talk to us for hours, telling us that we now had no father, that our lives would be different from those of other children, that we must learn as soon as possible to take care of ourselves, to dress ourselves, to prepare our own food; that we must take upon ourselves the responsibility of the flat while she worked.  Half frightened, we would promise solemnly.  We did not understand what had happened between our father and our mother, and the most that these long talks did to us was to make us feel a vague dread.  Whenever we asked why father had left, she would tell us that we were too young to know.

            One evening my mother told me that thereafter I would have to do the shopping for food.  She took me to the corner store to show me the way.  I was proud; I felt like a grown-up.  The next afternoon I looped the basket over my arm and went down the pavement toward the store.  When I reached the corner, a gang of boys grabbed me, knocked me down, snatched the basket, took the money, and sent me running home in a panic.  That evening I told my mother what had happened, but she made no comment; she sat down at once, wrote another note, gave me more money, and sent me out to the grocery again.  I crept down the steps and saw the same gang of boys playing down the street.  I ran back into the house.

            “What’s the matter?” my mother asked.

            “It’s those same boys,” I said.  “They’ll beat me.”

            “You’ve got to get over that,” she said.  “Now go on.”

            “I’m scared,” I said.

            “Go on and don’t pay any attention to them,” she said.

            I went out the door and walked briskly down the sidewalk, praying that the gang would not molest me.  But when I came upon them, someone shouted.

            “There he is!”

            They came toward me and I broke into a wild run toward home.  They overtook me and flung me to the pavement. I yelled, pleaded, kicked, but they wrenched the money out of my hand.  They yanked me to my feet, gave me a few slaps, and sent me home sobbing.  My mother met me at the door.

            “They b-beat m-me,” I gasped.  “They t-t-took the m-money.”

            I started up the steps, seeking the shelter of the house.

            “Don’t you come in here,” my mother warned me.

            I froze in my tracks and stared at her.

            “But they’re coming after me,” I said.

            “You just stay right where you are,” she said in a deadly tone.  “I’m going to teach you this night to stand up and fight for yourself.”

            She went into the house and I waited, terrified, wondering what she talking about.  Presently she returned with more money and another note; she also had a long, heavy stick.

            “Take this money, this note, and this stick,” she said.  “Go to the store and buy those groceries.  If those boys bother you, then fight.”

            I was baffled.  My mother was telling me to fight, a thing that she had never done before.

            “But I’m scared,” I said.

            “Don’t you come into this house until you’ve gotten those groceries,” she said.

            “They’ll beat me, they’ll beat me,” I said.

            “Then stay in the streets; don’t come back here!”

            I ran up the steps and tried to force my way past her into the house.  A stinging slap came on my jaw.  I stood on the sidewalk, crying:

            “Please, let me wait until tomorrow,” I begged.

            “No,” she said.  “Go now!  If you come back into this house without those groceries, I’ll whip you!”

            She slammed the door and I heard the key turn in the lock.  I shook with fright.  I was alone upon the dark, hostile streets and gangs were after me.  I had the choice of being beaten at home or away from home.  I clutched the stick, crying, trying to reason.  If I were beaten at home, there was absolutely nothing I could do about it; but if I were beaten in the streets, I had a chance to fight and defend myself.  I walked slowly down the sidewalk, coming closer to the gang of boys, holding the stick tightly.  I was so full of fear that I could scarcely breathe.  I was almost upon them now.

            “There he is again!” the cry went up.

            They surrounded me quickly and began to grab for my hand.

November 8, 2013 - Symbolism and Deeper Meaning - So What?

I can recognize symbolism in paintings and stories.

To do this I must

1. know the literal meaning of the story
2. have and understanding of the characters and objects from the story
3. be able to make inferences about characters and objects
4. See beyond surface level meaning

To demonstrate my understanding of symbolism, I will write a short constructed response about what "The Bass, the River, and Sheila Mant" is really about.

November 7, 2013 - Analyzing Conflict and Character

I can answer/discuss questions in a proficient manner.

To do this I must  . . .

1. use the question in my answer
2. use textual evidence (direct quotes)
3. Explain how those quotes connect to the "outside world"
4. support my thinking

I will show this by answering questions 2, 4, and 5 on pg. 41.


Questions: from pg. 41 (Class model is the answer to number 6 - I expect your answers to look like mine.) - You can find the text in Monday and Tuesday's tab.

2. How does the story's title suggest all the narrator's internal and external conflicts? What do you think of the title?

4. What mistake has the narrator never repeated? What are the "secret, hidden tuggings in the night" that he mentions? (hint look at pg. 40)

5. A reader objects to the character of Sheila Man, saying she is portrayed as a stereotypical "air head."  How would you respond?

6. Another reader says the boy isn't believable. How would you respond?

Patrick D'Andrea

Period 7

The Bass, the River, and Sheila Mant

November 6, 2013

 If another reader says the boy isn’t believable I would respond by saying that that is not true.  One reason I think the boy is believable would be the way the author shows how strong his crush is on Sheila Mant.  “The tortured will-I’s, won’t-I’s, the agonized indecision over what to say” is exactly like a boy with a crush would do.  Any boy would be so nervous asking out a girl that he finds extremely attractive, especially with an older boy.  Another reason why I think the narrator is believable is the way he talks to Sheila.  He thinks she is boring, even a bit conceited, but he doesn’t care.  He cares about the fish.  After Sheila tells him about her future, the narrator struggles with the fish and then says, “that’s neat,’ I mumbled. ‘Skiing yeah, I can see that.”  He mumbled and he couldn’t see that.  He, being a teenage boy, was concerned with this huge fish he had hooked “on accident.”  If he was 17 like the girl, I would agree with the reader who says the boy isn’t believable.

November 6, 2013 - Analyzing Conflict and Character

I can answer/discuss questions in a proficient manner.

To do this I must  . . .

1. use the question in my answer
2. use textual evidence (direct quotes)
3. Explain how those quotes connect to the "outside world"
4. support my thinking

I will show this by answering questions 2, 4, and 5 on pg. 41.

Questions: from pg. 41 (Class model is the answer to number 6 - I expect your answers to look like mine.)

2. How does the story's title suggest all the narrator's internal and external conflicts? What do you think of the title?

4. What mistake has the narrator never repeated? What are the "secret, hidden tuggings in the night" that he mentions? (hint look at pg. 40)

5. A reader objects to the character of Sheila Man, saying she is portrayed as a stereotypical "air head."  How would you respond?

6. Another reader says the boy isn't believable. How would you respond?

Patrick D'Andrea

Period 7

The Bass, the River, and Sheila Mant

November 6, 2013

 If another reader says the boy isn’t believable I would respond by saying that that is not true.  One reason I think the boy is believable would be the way the author shows how strong his crush is on Sheila Mant.  “The tortured will-I’s, won’t-I’s, the agonized indecision over what to say” is exactly like a boy with a crush would do.  Any boy would be so nervous asking out a girl that he finds extremely attractive, especially with an older boy.  Another reason why I think the narrator is believable is the way he talks to Sheila.  He thinks she is boring, even a bit conceited, but he doesn’t care.  He cares about the fish.  After Sheila tells him about her future, the narrator struggles with the fish and then says, “that’s neat,’ I mumbled. ‘Skiing yeah, I can see that.”  He mumbled and he couldn’t see that.  He, being a teenage boy, was concerned with this huge fish he had hooked “on accident.”  If he was 17 like the girl, I would agree with the reader who says the boy isn’t believable.

November 5, 2013 - Reading for Conflict and Plot Development

I can read a short story and take notes on internal and external conflict.

To do this I must understand the differences between internal and external conflicts and make inferences about types of conflicts.

I will show by filling out a graphic organizer that includes textual examples that show internal/external conflict. 

Directions: Make a graphic organizer in your notebook that has four columns: 1. Cause 2. Internal Conflict Textual Evidence 3. External Conflict textual Evidence 4. Effect. Then fill in the chart with examples of quotes internal and external conflicts. 

Directions for 2nd Plot Development: Students were sectioned into groups and had to identify textual evidence for each part of the plot (diagram below). 

The Bass, The River, and Sheila Mant  - W. D. Wetherell

There was a summer in my life when the only creature that seemed lovelier to me than a largemouth bass was Sheila Mant. I was fourteen. The Mants had rented the cottage next to ours on the river; with their parties, their frantic games of softball, their constant comings and goings, they appeared to me denizens of a brilliant existence. “Too noisy by half,” my mother quickly decided, but I would have given anything to be invited to one of their parties, and when my parents went to bed I would sneak through the woods to their hedge and stare enchanted at the candlelit swirl of white dresses and bright, paisley skirts. 
Sheila was the middle daughter—at seventeen, all but out of reach. She would spend her days sunbathing on a float my Uncle Sierbert had moored in their cove, and before July was over I had learned all her moods. If she lay flat on the diving board with her hand trailing idly in the water, she was pensive, not to be disturbed. On her side, her head propped up by her arm, she was observant, considering those around her with a look that seemed queenly and severe. Sitting up, arms tucked around her long, suntanned legs, she was approachable, but barely, and it was only in those glorious moments when she stretched herself prior to entering the water that her various suitors found the courage to come near. 

These were many. The Dartmouth heavyweight crew would scull by her house on their way upriver, and I think all eight of them must have been in love with her at various times during the summer; the coxswain would curse them through his megaphone, but without effect—there was always a pause in their pace when they passed Sheila’s float. I suppose to these jaded twenty-year-olds she seemed the incarnation of innocence and youth, while to me she appeared unutterably suave, theepitome of sophistication. I was on the swim team at school, and to win her attention would do endless laps between my house and the Vermont shore, hoping she would notice the beauty of my flutter kick, the power of my crawl. Finishing, I would boost myself up onto our dock and glance casually over toward her, but she was never watching, and the miraculous day she was, I immediately climbed the diving board and did my best tuck and a half for her and continued diving until she had left and the sun went down and my longing was like a madness and I couldn’t stop. 

It was late August by the time I got up the nerve to ask her out. The tortured will-I’s, won’t-I’s, the agonized indecision over what to say, the false starts toward her house and embarrassed retreats—the details of these have been seared from my memory, and the only part I remember clearly is emerging from the woods toward dusk while they were playing softball on their lawn, as bashful and frightened as a unicorn. 

Sheila was stationed halfway between first and second, well outside the infield. She didn’t seem surprised to see me—as a matter of fact, she didn’t seem to see me at all. 

“If you’re playing second base, you should move closer,” I said. 
She turned—I took the full brunt of her long red hair and well-spaced freckles. 
“I’m playing outfield,” she said, “I don’t like the responsibility of having a base.” 

 “Yeah, I can understand that,” I said, though I couldn’t. “There’s a band in Dixford tomorrow night at nine. Want to go?” 

One of her brothers sent the ball sailing over the left-fielder’s head; she stood and watched it disappear toward the river. 
“You have a car?” she said, without looking up.

Ø  Scull – row, as in a rowboat.

Ø  Coxswain – person steering a racing shell and calling out the rhythm of the strokes for the crew.

Ø  Epitome – embodiment; one that is representative of a type or class.

I played my master stroke. “We’ll go by canoe.” 
I spent all of the following day polishing it. I turned it upside down on our lawn and rubbed every inch with Brillo, hosing off the dirt, wiping it with chamois until it gleamed as bright as aluminum ever gleamed. About five, I slid it into the water, arranging cushions near the bow so Sheila could lean on them if she was in one of her pensive moods, propping up my father’s transistor radio by the middle thwart so we could have music when we came back. Automatically, without thinking about it, I mounted my Mitchell reel on my Pfleuger spinning rod and stuck it in the stern. 

I say automatically, because I never went anywhere that summer without a fishing rod. When I wasn’t swimming laps to impress Sheila, I was back in our driveway practicing casts, and when I wasn’t practicing casts, I was tying the line to Tosca, our springer spaniel, to test the reel’s drag, and when I wasn’t doing any of those things, I was fishing the river for bass. 

Too nervous to sit at home, I got in the canoe early and started paddling in a huge circle that would get me to Sheila’s dock around eight. As automatically as I brought along my rod, I tied on a big Rapala plug, let it down into the water, let out some line, and immediately forgot all about it. 
It was already dark by the time I glided up to the Mants’ dock. Even by day the river was quiet, most of the summer people preferring Sunapee or one of the other nearby lakes, and at night it was a solitude difficult to believe, a corridor of hidden life that ran between banks like a tunnel. Even the stars were part of it. They weren’t as sharp anywhere else; they seemed to have chosen the river as a guide on their slow wheel toward morning, and in the course of the summer’s fishing, I had learned all their names. 
I was there ten minutes before Sheila appeared. I heard the slam of their screen door first, then saw her in the spotlight as she came slowly down the path. As beautiful as she was on the float, she was even lovelier now—her white dress went perfectly with her hair, and complimented her figure even more than her swimsuit. 
It was her face that bothered me. It had on its delightful fullness a very dubiousexpression. 
“Look,” she said. “I can get Dad’s car.” 
“It’s faster this way,” I lied. “Parking’s tense up there. Hey, it’s safe. I won’t tip it or anything.” 
She let herself down reluctantly into the bow. I was glad she wasn’t facing me. When her eyes were on me, I felt like diving in the river again from agony and joy. 
I pried the canoe away from the dock and started paddling upstream. There was an extra paddle in the bow, but Sheila made no move to pick it up. She took her shoes off and dangled her feet over the side. 

Ten minutes went by. 

“What kind of band?” she said. 

“It’s sort of like folk music. You’ll like it.” 
“Eric Caswell’s going to be there. He strokes number four.” 
“No kidding?” I said. I had no idea whom she meant.
“What’s that sound?” she said, pointing toward shore. 
“Bass. That splashing sound?” 
“Over there.”
“Yeah, bass. They come into the shallows at night to chase frogs and moths and things. Big largemouths. Micropterus salmoides,”  I added, showing off. 

Þ       Chamois – soft leather used for polishing.

Þ       Middle thwart – brace across the middle of a canoe.

Þ    Micropterus salmoides – the scientific name for a largemouth bass.

.

“I think fishing’s dumb,” she said, making a face. “I mean, it’s boring and all. Definitely dumb.” 

Now I have spent a great deal of time in the years since wondering why Sheila Mant should come down so hard on fishing. Was her father a fisherman? Her antipathytoward fishing nothing more than normal filial rebellion? Had she tried it once? A messy encounter with worms? It doesn’t matter. What does is that at that fragile moment in time I would have given anything not to appear dumb in Sheila’s severe and unforgiving eyes. 

She hadn’t seen my equipment yet. What I should have done, of course, was push the canoe in closer to shore and carefully slide the rod into some branches where I could pick it up again in the morning. Failing that, I could have surreptitiously dumped the whole outfit overboard, written off the forty or so dollars as love’s tribute. What I actually did do was gently lean forward, and slowly, ever so slowly, push the rod back through my legs toward the stern where it would be less conspicuous. 
It must have been just exactly what the bass was waiting for. Fish will trail a lure sometimes, trying to make up their mind whether or not to attack, and the slight pause in the plug’s speed caused by my adjustment was tantalizing enough to overcome the bass’s inhibitions. My rod, safely out of sight at last, bent double. The line, tightly coiled, peeled off the spool with the shrill, tearing zip of a high-speed drill. 

Four things occurred to me at once. One, that it was a bass. Two, that it was a big bass. Three, that it was the biggest bass I had ever hooked. Four, that Sheila Mant must not know. “What was that?” she said, turning half around. 

“Uh, what was what?” 
“That buzzing noise.” 
“Bats.” 
She shuddered, quickly drew her feet back into the canoe. Every instinct I had told me to pick up the rod and strike back at the bass, but there was no need to—it was already solidly hooked. Downstream, an awesome distance downstream, it jumped clear of the water, landing with a concussion heavy enough to ripple the entire river. For a moment, I thought it was gone, but then the rod was bending again, the tip dancing into the water. Slowly, not making any motion that might alert Sheila, I reached down to tighten the drag. 

While all this was going on, Sheila had begun talking, and it was a few minutes before I was able to catch up with her train of thought. 

“I went to a party there. These fraternity men. Katherine says I could get in there if I wanted. I’m thinking more of UVM or Bennington. Somewhere I can ski.”
The bass was slanting toward the rocks on the New Hampshire side by the ruins of Donaldson’s boathouse. It had to be an old bass—a young one probably wouldn’t have known the rocks were there. I brought the canoe back into the middle of the river, hoping to head it off.
“That’s neat,” I mumbled. “Skiing. Yeah, I can see that.” 
“Eric said I have the figure to model, but I thought I should get an education first. I mean, it might be a while before I get started and all. I was thinking of getting my hair styled, more swept back? I mean, Ann-Margret? Like hers, only shorter.”
She hesitated. “Are we going backward?” 
We were. I had managed to keep the bass in the middle of the river away from the rocks, but it had plenty of room there, and for the first time a chance to exert its full strength. I quickly computed the weight necessary to draw a fully loaded canoe backward—the thought of it made me feel faint.
“It’s just the current,” I said hoarsely. “No sweat or anything.” 

Þ       UVM or Bennington – University of Vermont or Bennington College, Bennington Vermont.

Þ       Ann-Margret – (1941- ) Movie star, very popular at the time of this story.

I dug in deeper with my paddle. Reassured, Sheila began talking about something else, but all my attention was taken up now with the fish. I could feel its desperation as the water grew shallower. I could sense the extra strain on the line, the frantic way it cut back and forth in the water. I could visualize what it looked like—the gape of its mouth, the flared gills and thick, vertical tail. The bass couldn’t have encountered many forces in its long life that it wasn’t capable of handling, and the unrelenting tug at its mouth must have been a source of great puzzlement and mounting panic. 

Me, I had problems of my own. To get to Dixford, I had to paddle up a sluggish stream that came into the river beneath a covered bridge. There was a shallow sandbar at the mouth of this stream—weeds on one side, rocks on the other. Without doubt, this is where I would lose the fish. 

“I have to be careful with my complexion. I tan, but in segments. I can’t figure out if it’s even worth it. I wouldn’t even do it probably. I saw Jackie Kennedy in Boston, and she wasn’t tan at all.”

Taking a deep breath, I paddled as hard as I could for the middle, deepest part of the bar. I could have threaded the eye of a needle with the canoe, but the pull on the stern threw me off, and I overcompensated—the canoe veered left and scraped bottom. I pushed the paddle down and shoved. A moment of hesitation . . . a moment more. . . . The canoe shot clear into the deeper water of the stream. I immediately looked down at the rod. It was bent in the same tight arc—miraculously, the bass was still on. 

The moon was out now. It was low and full enough that its beam shone directly on Sheila there ahead of me in the canoe, washing her in a creamy, luminous glow. I could see the lithe, easy shape of her figure. I could see the way her hair curled down off her shoulders, the proud, alert tilt of her head, and all these things were as a tug on my heart. Not just Sheila, but the aura she carried about her of parties and casual touchings and grace. Behind me, I could feel the strain of the bass, steadier now, growing weaker, and this was another tug on my heart, not just the bass but the beat of the river and the slant of the stars and the smell of the night, until finally it seemed I would be torn apart between longings, split in half. Twenty yards ahead of us was the road, and once I pulled the canoe up on shore, the bass would be gone, irretrievably gone. If instead I stood up, grabbed the rod, and started pumping, I would have it—as tired as the bass was, there was no chance it could get away. I reached down for the rod, hesitated, looked up to where Sheila was stretching herself lazily toward the sky, her small breasts rising beneath the soft fabric of her dress, and the tug was too much for me, and quicker than it takes to write down, I pulled a penknife from my pocket and cut the line in half. 

With a sick, nauseous feeling in my stomach, I saw the rod unbend. 

 “My legs are sore,” Sheila whined. “Are we there yet?” 

Through a superhuman effort of self-control, I was able to beach the canoe and help Sheila off. The rest of the night is much foggier. We walked to the fair—there was the smell of popcorn, the sound of guitars. I may have danced once or twice with her, but all I really remember is her coming over to me once the music was done to explain that she would be going home in Eric Caswell’s Corvette. 
“Okay,” I mumbled. 
For the first time that night she looked at me, really looked at me. 
“You’re a funny kid, you know that?” 
Funny. Different. Dreamy. Odd. How many times was I to hear that in the years to come, all spoken with the same quizzical, half-accusatory tone Sheila used then. Poor Sheila! Before the month was over, the spell she cast over me was gone, but the memory of that lost bass haunted me all summer and haunts me still. There would be other Sheila Mants in my life, other fish, and though I came close once or twice, it was these secret, hidden tuggings in the night that claimed me, and I never made the same mistake again.

Þ    Jackie Kennedy (1929-1994)First Lady during the administration of President John F. Kennedy; greatly admired by the public for her dignity and sense of style.

November 4, 2013 - Reading for External and Internal Conflict

I can read a short story and take notes on internal and external conflict. 

To do this I must understand the differences between internal and external conflicts and make inferences about types of conflicts.

I will show by filling out a graphic organizer that includes textual examples that show internal/external conflict. 

Directions: Make a graphic organizer in your notebook that has four columns: 1. Cause 2. Internal Conflict Textual Evidence 3. External Conflict textual Evidence 4. Effect. Then fill in the chart with examples of quotes internal and external conflicts. 

The Bass, The River, and Sheila Mant  - W. D. Wetherell

There was a summer in my life when the only creature that seemed lovelier to me than a largemouth bass was Sheila Mant. I was fourteen. The Mants had rented the cottage next to ours on the river; with their parties, their frantic games of softball, their constant comings and goings, they appeared to me denizens of a brilliant existence. “Too noisy by half,” my mother quickly decided, but I would have given anything to be invited to one of their parties, and when my parents went to bed I would sneak through the woods to their hedge and stare enchanted at the candlelit swirl of white dresses and bright, paisley skirts. 
Sheila was the middle daughter—at seventeen, all but out of reach. She would spend her days sunbathing on a float my Uncle Sierbert had moored in their cove, and before July was over I had learned all her moods. If she lay flat on the diving board with her hand trailing idly in the water, she was pensive, not to be disturbed. On her side, her head propped up by her arm, she was observant, considering those around her with a look that seemed queenly and severe. Sitting up, arms tucked around her long, suntanned legs, she was approachable, but barely, and it was only in those glorious moments when she stretched herself prior to entering the water that her various suitors found the courage to come near. 

These were many. The Dartmouth heavyweight crew would scull by her house on their way upriver, and I think all eight of them must have been in love with her at various times during the summer; the coxswain would curse them through his megaphone, but without effect—there was always a pause in their pace when they passed Sheila’s float. I suppose to these jaded twenty-year-olds she seemed the incarnation of innocence and youth, while to me she appeared unutterably suave, the epitome of sophistication. I was on the swim team at school, and to win her attention would do endless laps between my house and the Vermont shore, hoping she would notice the beauty of my flutter kick, the power of my crawl. Finishing, I would boost myself up onto our dock and glance casually over toward her, but she was never watching, and the miraculous day she was, I immediately climbed the diving board and did my best tuck and a half for her and continued diving until she had left and the sun went down and my longing was like a madness and I couldn’t stop. 

It was late August by the time I got up the nerve to ask her out. The tortured will-I’s, won’t-I’s, the agonized indecision over what to say, the false starts toward her house and embarrassed retreats—the details of these have been seared from my memory, and the only part I remember clearly is emerging from the woods toward dusk while they were playing softball on their lawn, as bashful and frightened as a unicorn. 

Sheila was stationed halfway between first and second, well outside the infield. She didn’t seem surprised to see me—as a matter of fact, she didn’t seem to see me at all. 

“If you’re playing second base, you should move closer,” I said. 
She turned—I took the full brunt of her long red hair and well-spaced freckles. 
“I’m playing outfield,” she said, “I don’t like the responsibility of having a base.” 

 “Yeah, I can understand that,” I said, though I couldn’t. “There’s a band in Dixford tomorrow night at nine. Want to go?” 

One of her brothers sent the ball sailing over the left-fielder’s head; she stood and watched it disappear toward the river. 
“You have a car?” she said, without looking up.

Ø  Scull – row, as in a rowboat.

Ø  Coxswain – person steering a racing shell and calling out the rhythm of the strokes for the crew.

Ø  Epitome – embodiment; one that is representative of a type or class.

I played my master stroke. “We’ll go by canoe.” 
I spent all of the following day polishing it. I turned it upside down on our lawn and rubbed every inch with Brillo, hosing off the dirt, wiping it with chamois until it gleamed as bright as aluminum ever gleamed. About five, I slid it into the water, arranging cushions near the bow so Sheila could lean on them if she was in one of her pensive moods, propping up my father’s transistor radio by the middle thwart so we could have music when we came back. Automatically, without thinking about it, I mounted my Mitchell reel on my Pfleuger spinning rod and stuck it in the stern. 

I say automatically, because I never went anywhere that summer without a fishing rod. When I wasn’t swimming laps to impress Sheila, I was back in our driveway practicing casts, and when I wasn’t practicing casts, I was tying the line to Tosca, our springer spaniel, to test the reel’s drag, and when I wasn’t doing any of those things, I was fishing the river for bass. 

Too nervous to sit at home, I got in the canoe early and started paddling in a huge circle that would get me to Sheila’s dock around eight. As automatically as I brought along my rod, I tied on a big Rapala plug, let it down into the water, let out some line, and immediately forgot all about it. 
It was already dark by the time I glided up to the Mants’ dock. Even by day the river was quiet, most of the summer people preferring Sunapee or one of the other nearby lakes, and at night it was a solitude difficult to believe, a corridor of hidden life that ran between banks like a tunnel. Even the stars were part of it. They weren’t as sharp anywhere else; they seemed to have chosen the river as a guide on their slow wheel toward morning, and in the course of the summer’s fishing, I had learned all their names.
I was there ten minutes before Sheila appeared. I heard the slam of their screen door first, then saw her in the spotlight as she came slowly down the path. As beautiful as she was on the float, she was even lovelier now—her white dress went perfectly with her hair, and complimented her figure even more than her swimsuit. 
It was her face that bothered me. It had on its delightful fullness a very dubious expression. 
“Look,” she said. “I can get Dad’s car.” 
“It’s faster this way,” I lied. “Parking’s tense up there. Hey, it’s safe. I won’t tip it or anything.” 
She let herself down reluctantly into the bow. I was glad she wasn’t facing me. When her eyes were on me, I felt like diving in the river again from agony and joy. 
I pried the canoe away from the dock and started paddling upstream. There was an extra paddle in the bow, but Sheila made no move to pick it up. She took her shoes off and dangled her feet over the side. 

Ten minutes went by. 

“What kind of band?” she said. 

“It’s sort of like folk music. You’ll like it.” 
“Eric Caswell’s going to be there. He strokes number four.” 
“No kidding?” I said. I had no idea whom she meant.
“What’s that sound?” she said, pointing toward shore. 
“Bass. That splashing sound?” 
“Over there.”
“Yeah, bass. They come into the shallows at night to chase frogs and moths and things. Big largemouths. Micropterus salmoides,”  I added, showing off. 

Þ       Chamois – soft leather used for polishing.

Þ       Middle thwart – brace across the middle of a canoe.

Þ    Micropterus salmoides – the scientific name for a largemouth bass.

.

“I think fishing’s dumb,” she said, making a face. “I mean, it’s boring and all. Definitely dumb.” 

Now I have spent a great deal of time in the years since wondering why Sheila Mant should come down so hard on fishing. Was her father a fisherman? Her antipathy toward fishing nothing more than normal filial rebellion? Had she tried it once? A messy encounter with worms? It doesn’t matter. What does is that at that fragile moment in time I would have given anything not to appear dumb in Sheila’s severe and unforgiving eyes. 

She hadn’t seen my equipment yet. What I should have done, of course, was push the canoe in closer to shore and carefully slide the rod into some branches where I could pick it up again in the morning. Failing that, I could have surreptitiously dumped the whole outfit overboard, written off the forty or so dollars as love’s tribute. What I actually did do was gently lean forward, and slowly, ever so slowly, push the rod back through my legs toward the stern where it would be less conspicuous. 
It must have been just exactly what the bass was waiting for. Fish will trail a lure sometimes, trying to make up their mind whether or not to attack, and the slight pause in the plug’s speed caused by my adjustment was tantalizing enough to overcome the bass’s inhibitions. My rod, safely out of sight at last, bent double. The line, tightly coiled, peeled off the spool with the shrill, tearing zip of a high-speed drill. 

Four things occurred to me at once. One, that it was a bass. Two, that it was a big bass. Three, that it was the biggest bass I had ever hooked. Four, that Sheila Mant must not know. “What was that?” she said, turning half around. 

“Uh, what was what?” 
“That buzzing noise.” 
“Bats.” 
She shuddered, quickly drew her feet back into the canoe. Every instinct I had told me to pick up the rod and strike back at the bass, but there was no need to—it was already solidly hooked. Downstream, an awesome distance downstream, it jumped clear of the water, landing with a concussion heavy enough to ripple the entire river. For a moment, I thought it was gone, but then the rod was bending again, the tip dancing into the water. Slowly, not making any motion that might alert Sheila, I reached down to tighten the drag. 

While all this was going on, Sheila had begun talking, and it was a few minutes before I was able to catch up with her train of thought. 

“I went to a party there. These fraternity men. Katherine says I could get in there if I wanted. I’m thinking more of UVM or Bennington. Somewhere I can ski.”
The bass was slanting toward the rocks on the New Hampshire side by the ruins of Donaldson’s boathouse. It had to be an old bass—a young one probably wouldn’t have known the rocks were there. I brought the canoe back into the middle of the river, hoping to head it off.
“That’s neat,” I mumbled. “Skiing. Yeah, I can see that.” 
“Eric said I have the figure to model, but I thought I should get an education first. I mean, it might be a while before I get started and all. I was thinking of getting my hair styled, more swept back? I mean, Ann-Margret? Like hers, only shorter.”
She hesitated. “Are we going backward?”
We were. I had managed to keep the bass in the middle of the river away from the rocks, but it had plenty of room there, and for the first time a chance to exert its full strength. I quickly computed the weight necessary to draw a fully loaded canoe backward—the thought of it made me feel faint.
“It’s just the current,” I said hoarsely. “No sweat or anything.” 

Þ       UVM or Bennington – University of Vermont or Bennington College, Bennington Vermont.

Þ       Ann-Margret – (1941- ) Movie star, very popular at the time of this story.

I dug in deeper with my paddle. Reassured, Sheila began talking about something else, but all my attention was taken up now with the fish. I could feel its desperation as the water grew shallower. I could sense the extra strain on the line, the frantic way it cut back and forth in the water. I could visualize what it looked like—the gape of its mouth, the flared gills and thick, vertical tail. The bass couldn’t have encountered many forces in its long life that it wasn’t capable of handling, and the unrelenting tug at its mouth must have been a source of great puzzlement and mounting panic. 

Me, I had problems of my own. To get to Dixford, I had to paddle up a sluggish stream that came into the river beneath a covered bridge. There was a shallow sandbar at the mouth of this stream—weeds on one side, rocks on the other. Without doubt, this is where I would lose the fish. 

“I have to be careful with my complexion. I tan, but in segments. I can’t figure out if it’s even worth it. I wouldn’t even do it probably. I saw Jackie Kennedy in Boston, and she wasn’t tan at all.”

Taking a deep breath, I paddled as hard as I could for the middle, deepest part of the bar. I could have threaded the eye of a needle with the canoe, but the pull on the stern threw me off, and I overcompensated—the canoe veered left and scraped bottom. I pushed the paddle down and shoved. A moment of hesitation . . . a moment more. . . . The canoe shot clear into the deeper water of the stream. I immediately looked down at the rod. It was bent in the same tight arc—miraculously, the bass was still on. 

The moon was out now. It was low and full enough that its beam shone directly on Sheila there ahead of me in the canoe, washing her in a creamy, luminous glow. I could see the lithe, easy shape of her figure. I could see the way her hair curled down off her shoulders, the proud, alert tilt of her head, and all these things were as a tug on my heart. Not just Sheila, but the aura she carried about her of parties and casual touchings and grace. Behind me, I could feel the strain of the bass, steadier now, growing weaker, and this was another tug on my heart, not just the bass but the beat of the river and the slant of the stars and the smell of the night, until finally it seemed I would be torn apart between longings, split in half. Twenty yards ahead of us was the road, and once I pulled the canoe up on shore, the bass would be gone, irretrievably gone. If instead I stood up, grabbed the rod, and started pumping, I would have it—as tired as the bass was, there was no chance it could get away. I reached down for the rod, hesitated, looked up to where Sheila was stretching herself lazily toward the sky, her small breasts rising beneath the soft fabric of her dress, and the tug was too much for me, and quicker than it takes to write down, I pulled a penknife from my pocket and cut the line in half. 

With a sick, nauseous feeling in my stomach, I saw the rod unbend. 

 “My legs are sore,” Sheila whined. “Are we there yet?” 

Through a superhuman effort of self-control, I was able to beach the canoe and help Sheila off. The rest of the night is much foggier. We walked to the fair—there was the smell of popcorn, the sound of guitars. I may have danced once or twice with her, but all I really remember is her coming over to me once the music was done to explain that she would be going home in Eric Caswell’s Corvette. 
“Okay,” I mumbled. 
For the first time that night she looked at me, really looked at me. 
“You’re a funny kid, you know that?” 
Funny. Different. Dreamy. Odd. How many times was I to hear that in the years to come, all spoken with the same quizzical, half-accusatory tone Sheila used then. Poor Sheila! Before the month was over, the spell she cast over me was gone, but the memory of that lost bass haunted me all summer and haunts me still. There would be other Sheila Mants in my life, other fish, and though I came close once or twice, it was these secret, hidden tuggings in the night that claimed me, and I never made the same mistake again.

Þ    Jackie Kennedy (1929-1994)First Lady during the administration of President John F. Kennedy; greatly admired by the public for her dignity and sense of style.

October 24, 2013 - Collaborative Creative Story

I can write a collaborative creative story that demonstrates understanding of conflict and character development.

To be able to do this I must use my background knowledge of the types of conflict and characterization.

I will show this is my collaborative creative story.

GROUP WINNERS WILL BE BASED ON FLUENCY, CREATIVITY, CONFLICT AND CHARACTERIZATION. 

Directions for writing:

1. Form a group of 2-4 people (no more than that)

2. Every one will begin at the same time.

3. First section of writing: each person starts a story that establishes a setting and introduces a character

4. Second section: Trade papers and continue partners story. Be sure to establish conflict in this part.

5. Third section: Trade papers again with a new person (unless you are just a pair) and show character actions.

6. Final section of writing: trade papers again with a new person (unless you are in a group of 2 or 3) and write a conclusion to that story.

7. Read over your stories and choose the best one from your group to be submitted for the contest

Teacher Example (Pair)

Story 1

Mr D’Andrea’s (Setting/Character Appearance)

It felt so strange walking back into that classroom with the cream colored walls after seeing our teacher on the news just a week ago. The school and students really haven’t been the same since everything happened. Hallways are filled with whispers of disbelief and conspiracy theories. “I can’t believe it was him. He didn’t look like the type of person who could do that. His hair was always neat and his clothes were always ironed.” I heard one sophomore say in passing.  “You have to admit, he was kinda strange for a teacher though. He seemed so quiet.” another student replied. Kids seem uneasy about being around their teachers. One kid in my Science class, Jeremey, always participates, but today he looked like how I did when my mom told me my dog died.  The principal is addressing the school later, but everyone already seems to have their own ideas about Mr. Potowski.

Mr. Ryan’s turn (Conflict):

Every kid in every class had their phones out.  YouTube videos of Mr. Potowski, caught by a security camera’s lens in a Target. eating  the face off of some poor shopper with mouthwash and toilet paper in her basket.  It was surreal, like he was possessed or high or some, dare I say, zombie.

I watched it about fifty times before I noticed a pair of Converse.  A pair of converse with two anarchy symbols Sharpied on the white ends.  A pair of Converse that I saw a million times.  Jeremy’s converse.  

And right before the camera clicks off, Jeremy’s Converse is kicking at Mr. Potowski.  

Mr. D’Andrea’s (Character’s Action)

I tried not to think about those shoes. Or Jeremy. Or Mr. Potowski. But it was impossible. Around 5th period, the principal called us down to the theatre for our debriefing.  When we got to theatre, everyone was there.  “Now I know that many of you are alarmed because the videos floating around of Mr. Potowski’s actions, but I assure you that there is nothing to be worried about. The police are here and they are confident that they will find Mr. Potowski.”  How can they tell us not to worry I thought. We should be home with our families.  “The School is the safest place,” our principal continued. Yea right.  Everyone here saw the video of Mr. Potowski eating that shopper like she was one of his groceries. You could see his eyes glare at her right before he jumped over the shopping cart and started devouring.  

Mr. Ryan’s (Resolution)

I looked around at the exits.  A policeman stood at every door.  Deans and useless teachers walked around and stared at their phones.  I was three seats away from Jeremy.  I looked at him and he seemed to be sleeping.  Once in a while he would jerk forward and then back.  He was deep asleep.   

Sleeping?  At a time like this?  

I decided that I needed to get out of here.  The lunch pizza buzzed around in my belly.  A nice, stinky fart should be coming at any minute.  My plan: go to the door and say I have to use the bathroom.  Then I would fart.  The smell would prove I had to go and they’d let me out.

“No.  No one is allowed out at this time,” Officer Butthole said.  

I squeezed out the fart.  It was silent (a good thing) but deadly.

“God,” he said.  “Go sit down.”

I was about to explain to him that I really had to go, but I didn’t need to.  

A scream erupted from somewhere near where I was sitting.  

I looked over as Jeremy was hopping over the seats.  A stream of blood jetted up into the air.  Officer Butthole took off running and so did I.  

Story 2

Mr Ryan’s Story (Setting/Appearance)

Savannah, the blondest girl with the blackest wig at the Halloween party, offered herself a drink.  She had been standing in the corner watching zombies smelling like ketchup and witches smelling of cotton candy perfume parade around the house hunting for fresh victims.  Victims in this case meant boyfriends or girlfriends.  Shoot, it was Halloween, what better time to be shot to death by love’s clumsy arrows.

Mr. D’Andrea’s (Conflict)

As the party got turned up, and the zombies and ninjas got more faded, Savannah became a little better looking to the most popular pirate at the party, Eric.  Eric was the epitome of what every parent wants their son to be at age seventeen: smart, considerate, college-bound and athletic.  Even the teachers admired Eric.  But, that night after Eric had thrown back one too many rum and cokes, Savannah looked unusually attractive to him.  He decided then and there that she was going to “walk the plank.”

Mr. Ryan’s (Character’s Actions)

Eric, walking up to Savannah, took out his sword and jumped into some swashbuckling stance and said aloud, “Ahoy there matey.”  

Savannah took a drink and looked up to the ceiling.  A crack from one wall to the next caught her attention.  
“So,” Eric said, “Polly want a drink and a cracker.  I’ll be the cracker.”  He laughed uncontrollably for a good two minutes.  

Savannah never looked down.  She drove her eyes over and over the crack.  Back and forth, back and forth.  She started to get sick.  Sea sick.

A drop of water hit her forehead.  Another drop.  

“Come on witch, I have this great tattoo of a skull and crossbones you gotta check out”

“I hope you can swim,” Savannah answered.  

The crack became an opening.  Water poured down from the ceiling.  Gallons upon gallons crashed upon the heads of unsuspecting halloweeners.  Some guy in some ironic cardboard box cracked his head on the table.  Some Spongebob fell face first into the floor.  

Still, more water fell.

Mr. D’Andrea (Conflict Resolution)

After years of being tormented by athletes for not being pretty enough, Savannah perceived Eric’s genuine attempt at wooing her as just another dumb jock trying to tease her.  She watched that crack because she made that crack.  She stood there as the rain came down because she thought that rain. She wanted to wash away years of being bullied, years of d-bags making fun of her for being weird. But they never put it together.  No one ever realized that all those strange things that happened while Savannah was around were because of her.  And now, it was too late for them.  They would be swept away in a wall of water. And Savannah would be standing there, soaking wet, laughing menacingly.