Memoir

Intro

In childhood the things you remember most are not the ones you talk about to outsiders. In fact you would rather not talk about them at all. This may not be true for everyone, but this is true for at least for me. It’s not the 13 years of baseball, the little league championships, the countless snowboarding events, graduation, family vacations, it is none of these. For these are happy memories, while wonderful to share in collaboration with pictures and home video, these are not the images burned into your brain that will teach you new lessons everyday of your life whether you like it or not, no, the memories that do that are the secrets, the shames of your family. For me this is a grotesque black stain on 9 years of my childhood, compiled of sickness, disease, depression, self destruction, not of me but of my father. What is done is done, I am not expecting sympathy points, many people have many traumatic experiences that are worse than mine, I am simply making you think about what it is in your life that will forever be with you and teach you lessons nothing else could.

New Orleans

The sterile smell of hospitals is entombed in my senses the constant alarms of code blue, pages of nurses and doctors, these senses will never leave me as they may lay dormant for time any whiff of that unforgettable smell of hopelessness will bleed back in and awaken the monster in my head. It was January 1st, 1999, four days short of my 9th birthday in New Orleans Louisiana, the Nokia sugar bowl between The Ohio State Buckeyes and the Texas A&M Aggies. Like I said earlier from press clippings and online box scores I can tell you the outcome, but that is not what is in my mind. The game to me is a mute point. I did not know at the time but the man that I knew as my dad would forever change in the days to come. It was shortly after this trip we returned home to Ohio, with my dad, then a strong pertinent figure, hurled over in pain vulnerable as ever, not the superhero I was idolizing. This was the beginning of the smell, the birth of why it means weakness and death, a looming cloud of depression. Hospitals are supposed to help you, to be a haven, for me it was a prison trapped in by my love for my father, the reality of wanting him to feel better, the way he used to be, but all the time wanting to escape this reality, knowing things would never be the same. He was diagnosed with Chrones disease, a genetic gastrointestinal ailment that has and will plague him for the rest of his life.

Athens I

This part of the story is just that, a story. I was not alive for these events but through what I have been told over the years. This is bits and pieces of my father’s childhood that I feel are important in explaining why my father became what he did later in life. My dad grew up in a very competitive lifestyle. With being the youngest of 3 boys and unarguably the most athletically gifted, my Grandfather was the typical coach-father, a dual persona consisting of an overly competitive side that when disrupted by loss or disappointment got deflected toward his own children whom he coached for many years. My dad’s eighth grade football team went undefeated, winning every game without being scored on. This is what my grandfather expected all through life, to win at sports and to win at life, but unlike many people winning at life did not mean being happy, no, to him it meant making money. This, from what I hear, was a rough patch between my father and his own. My dad always aspired to be a teacher and to coach, but was denied consideration of this career choice due to the lack of financial benefits associated with it. So instead he went to Ohio University majoring in business to follow in his own fathers shadow as a financial advisor. Through this disappointment my dad’s time as a teen and young adult was clouded with poor decision making mostly involving drugs and alcohol. These along with my grandfathers own personal issues will haunt my Father, me, and the rest of our family later in life.

Cleveland

Years have advanced since we last visited the prison that is hospitals. Now the pain is greater the smell of death and depression growing ever stronger as the outlook for my dad and therefore my family grows weaker. We are now 3 surgeries into his fight with Chrones, a feat which is tough to accomplish even with a severe case of the disease. We sit for hours on end mindlessly doing puzzles of the twin tower memorial still fresh in our minds having fallen only 2 years ago. Waiting for a doctor to visit, or is he asleep, getting tested? They run together as days mix into weeks, at 13 I am caretaker when home. Not because my mother is sick or incapable, but overwhelmed driving the 1000 plus miles a week to Cleveland and back to Columbus. Attempting to balance caring for her husband and caring for her kids, while all the while neglecting herself. We as her children attempt to comfort her by saying we know she has to be with him, but all the time screaming silently inside for attention, for things to return to what we know and love the balance in our lives. Little did we know this balance would probably never return!

Code Blue

One of the lowest points during my dad’s stint in the hospital came in 2004. the Chrones had been in recession for about 6 months when it came back with a vengeance. Later on we would come to realize that this was not the fault of any doctor or medicine, but of the self destructive behavior of my father. The air that night had a feeling of gloom, much like that of the hospital. I hear the moans and groans coming from the upstairs bedroom, but I do not dare to interfere with the arguing, I know nothing good will happen if I do. Hours pass I should be asleep, but I know I wont sleep tonight I feel an odd sense of responsibility. I knew it was a matter of time before I would hear the door open and see the light from the hallway as my mom crept into my room to tell me they were leaving that dad wasn’t feeling good and he had to go see the doc. This to me seemed juvenile, every time the door opened at 3 or 4 am I simply said I’m awake ill take care of Grace in the morning. I knew dad was more than “sick” I knew he was barely walking, barely breathing hurled over in pain, but there is nothing I can do feeling helpless yet needing to do something, discover a miracle cure perhaps, but I just lay there hoping they will return both healthy and happy and things will be the same but the never do.The term code blue in a hospital is read aloud over the PA system to announce a patient in urgent need of emergency treatment. This unnerving feeling occurred three times to my family over our years in and out of hospitals. All three time because of a low enough heart rate to trigger the warning. These events occurred within months of each other, in a sequence I refer to as hell. Along with Chrones my dad was diagnosed with a failing liver and kidney cancer. While the cancer diagnosis was later removed, that word should have meant death to a man like my father, a 6’3”, 230 pound man I had known, who had shrunk into a slouching 6’1” 140 pound elderly looking man now. It would not be for a few more years we learned the true cause of these problems and how intensely ignorant such a smart man could be.

Hiding

With Chrones in recession once again, I was hopeful things would begin to get better, to return to normal. I had just started dating a new girl and things in my life were looking up I was a sophomore in school and I was playing baseball on JV and dressing for some varsity games. Little did I know how naive I had been for the past few years.After arriving home one night from dropping off my girlfriend back at her house, I walked in and gave a quick hey to my dad anxious to get downstairs to watch TV. I walked into the dining room to set my coat down when instead of a response back from my dad I heard ice from the refridgerator hit the floor, I turned around and saw my father sitting there pushing his cup into the ice machine which was overflowing with ice, I yell for him to stop, but all I see is his limp body flop downward toppling over and smashing face first into the counter with a bone chilling velocity. I rush to his side screaming unaware of what has happened grabbing his bloody forehead in my hands trying to lift his head, unresponsive to my screams off the ground now covered in a watery red mix of blood and melted ice, I’m screaming and crying as my mom rushes in to a disturbing scene. We both work to lift him up as he starts to regain consciousness, we place him in a chair sitting upright as his head rolls backward like a ragdoll. Expecting my mother to be crying in a worry she is crying but in a much angrier manner. By this time he is waking up to my mother’s furious growls she screams he’s killing himself, and how could he put us through that. It is now I get close to wipe off his head, that I smell the sickening smell of blood sweat and liquor, a smell much like that of the hospital I will not soon forget.These episodes were constant now that I found out what was going on. To this day I don’t know how I could have been so blind to the problem. I was still not fully aware of the carnage this mental disease would have on my family. Out of my lack of understanding for this disease grew a feeling of responsibility, responsibility to fix it, responsibility that I had caused it. I now know of course it was not my fault at all, it was a lifetime of depression, rejection, false hopes, and sickness that caused his demise, it was not at all the fault of me or my family. This is a feeling common among children and loved ones of alcoholics as shown by Scott Russell Sanders, in his essay Under the Influence.“Whatever my brother and sister and mother may be thinking on their own rumpled pillows, I lie there hating him, loving him, fearing him, knowing I have failed him. I tell myself he drinks to ease the ache that gnaws at his belly, an ache I must have caused by disappointing him somehow, a murderous ache I should be able to relieve by doing all my chores, earning A's in school, winning baseball games, fixing the broken washer and the burst pipes, bringing in the money to fill his empty wallet. He would not hide the green bottles in his toolbox, would not sneak off to the barn with a lump under his coat, would not fall asleep in the daylight, would not roar and fume, would not drink himself to death, if only I were perfect”. (Sanders 1-2)Now with this feeling creeping in my job began. At first it was the espionage, subtly marking where he went alone, finding the rank bottles of vodka stashed in the golf bag hanging in the garage, the center console of the Honda in the driveway, above the roof panels in the unfinished section of the basement, inside the unused grill during the winter. The locations are endless when we foiled one stash another would appear only a few hours later, never removing the foul liquid myself, but instead I retreat to the safety of my mother and report the position of the stash to her so that she could deal with the removal of the vodka. This never sat well with my father when he would come home drunk. The fights would rage into the night as I would listen, knowing not to get involved, this would only make matters worse.

Rehab

The events that had been escalating over the past year and a half hit an all time low in the spring of 2007. My sister still not aware of the full extent of my dad’s problem is playing softball when suddenly she would be made fully aware of the urgency of the situation. Dehydrated from the heat and sipping vodka from a coffee cup my dad is just a bomb waiting to explode. Then what happens next is probably the darkest time for my sister, much like the first night I saw him collapse, his body goes limp, he fall quickly to the ground and is unconscious for a few minutes, as gasps from the crowd filled with family friends and acquaintances a few rush to help knowing very well his previous health problems, but most simply watch, lost as to what has happened. Ashamed he wakes up to the roar of an ambulance the vodka on his breath, enhanced only by the puddle seeming from the ground into his shirt.This is the begging of the stories turn around. Over the next two weeks the drinking continued resulting in my mom throwing my dad out of our house unless he went to rehab, so he left. This drunken independence didn’t last too long and he decided it was time to go to rehab. This also didn’t last too long within 5 days he was out, pulling into the driveway after work with a smashed front end to his brand new accord, the drivers window and mirror smashed into a million tiny pieces, he was sitting there blood streaming down his face from the 3 inch gash along his forehead that I realized he was going to die if he continued to drink. I worked quickly to get him out of the car and into the house while attracting the least attention from the neighborhood around us. I stow his beaten car in the garage to hide the collateral damage, in this process I discover the source of this nightmare a ¾ empty bottle of vodka on the floorboard beside the passenger seat. Denial is not an option I decide to take this one into my own hands. In a curious moment of clarity and rage I walk into the house with the bottle in my hand gently push my mom to the side and slam the bottle down on the table my mother is crying beside us and I look him in the eyes and ask why he is killing himself, but more so why he is killing us. This is his last chance by my accord, so I present two options, one he cleans up his own cut and gets into the car with me and I will take him back to rehab where he will get clean or die, or he can leave right now and not come back. In my moment of clarity he must have realized the seriousness I was putting on him as he showed up roughly 20 minutes later with a bad he had packed himself and said lets go I don’t want to kill my family anymore.After a 4 month stint between hospitals and rehab a different man emerged, one that was frail, weak, and afraid of what might happen now that he is allowed to choose for himself what to do, but this man was sober. And that after all was the dream his family had been waiting for.

Athens II

This is where the known ends and the speculation begins. Being the son of an alcoholic as described by sanders“I knew the odds of my becoming an alcoholic were four times higher than for the children of nonalcoholic fathers”. (Sanders 10)This is my fear, my prolonged unknowing, as I enter college in the same place my father did 30 some odd years ago, I am aware of the risks, but tempted by the rewards when used in moderation. Alcohol is a social medicine, one that can help you open up easier, to find out something otherwise hidden behind a wall of insecurities be it about your self or another. But with the risks so great is it worth it. My career choice as a pilot is one where alcohol is a major issue, a high stress career filled with long days and longer nights. But it is a passion, something I love, a right my father was denied in youth. I feel I am a smart enough man to use alcohol in moderation, but I will always listen to my body, listen for signs that things are not right, I will deal with my problems head on not drown the in a poison designed to alleviate issues that will emerge in sobriety once again. Already being 25% more likely to suffer from alcoholism than many people and entering a career where according to Addiction,“In the United States of America, the taboo was broken when it became known that 30% of fatally injured pilots in general aviation had been under the influence of alcohol”. (Holdener 953)These realities scare me; they make me realize how venerable even someone as strong willed as me can be to the affects of a poison. If my family were to read this now I feel they would be somewhat shocked to find out the reality of my feelings toward this situation, but I think ultimately the stain that has affected our past can never be removed or covered up completely. More so I think we will all use it as a reminder of what we have all experienced and do not wish to live through again.

Sources

Sanders, Scott R. "Under the Influence." Harpers November 1989: 1-10.

Holdener, Fridolin. "Alcohol and Civil Aviation." Addiction June 1993: 953-958.

Memoir

Intro

In childhood the things you remember most are not the ones you talk about to outsiders. In fact you would rather not talk about them at all. This may not be true for everyone, but this is true for at least for me. It’s not the 13 years of baseball, the little league championships, the countless snowboarding events, graduation, family vacations, it is none of these. For these are happy memories, while wonderful to share in collaboration with pictures and home video, these are not the images burned into your brain that will teach you new lessons everyday of your life whether you like it or not, no, the memories that do that are the secrets, the shames of your family. For me this is a grotesque black stain on 9 years of my childhood, compiled of sickness, disease, depression, self destruction, not of me but of my father. What is done is done, I am not expecting sympathy points, many people have many traumatic experiences that are worse than mine, I am simply making you think about what it is in your life that will forever be with you and teach you lessons nothing else could.

New Orleans

The sterile smell of hospitals is entombed in my senses the constant alarms of code blue, pages of nurses and doctors, these senses will never leave me as they may lay dormant for time any whiff of that unforgettable smell of hopelessness will bleed back in and awaken the monster in my head. It was January 1st, 1999, four days short of my 9th birthday in New Orleans Louisiana, the Nokia sugar bowl between The Ohio State Buckeyes and the Texas A&M Aggies. Like I said earlier from press clippings and online box scores I can tell you the outcome, but that is not what is in my mind. The game to me is a mute point. I did not know at the time but the man that I knew as my dad would forever change in the days to come. It was shortly after this trip we returned home to Ohio, with my dad, then a strong pertinent figure, hurled over in pain vulnerable as ever, not the superhero I was idolizing. This was the beginning of the smell, the birth of why it means weakness and death, a looming cloud of depression. Hospitals are supposed to help you, to be a haven, for me it was a prison trapped in by my love for my father, the reality of wanting him to feel better, the way he used to be, but all the time wanting to escape this reality, knowing things would never be the same. He was diagnosed with Chrones disease, a genetic gastrointestinal ailment that has and will plague him for the rest of his life.

Athens I

This part of the story is just that, a story. I was not alive for these events but through what I have been told over the years. This is bits and pieces of my father’s childhood that I feel are important in explaining why my father became what he did later in life. My dad grew up in a very competitive lifestyle. With being the youngest of 3 boys and unarguably the most athletically gifted, my Grandfather was the typical coach-father, a dual persona consisting of an overly competitive side that when disrupted by loss or disappointment got deflected toward his own children whom he coached for many years. My dad’s eighth grade football team went undefeated, winning every game without being scored on. This is what my grandfather expected all through life, to win at sports and to win at life, but unlike many people winning at life did not mean being happy, no, to him it meant making money. This, from what I hear, was a rough patch between my father and his own. My dad always aspired to be a teacher and to coach, but was denied consideration of this career choice due to the lack of financial benefits associated with it. So instead he went to Ohio University majoring in business to follow in his own fathers shadow as a financial advisor. Through this disappointment my dad’s time as a teen and young adult was clouded with poor decision making mostly involving drugs and alcohol. These along with my grandfathers own personal issues will haunt my Father, me, and the rest of our family later in life.

Cleveland

Years have advanced since we last visited the prison that is hospitals. Now the pain is greater the smell of death and depression growing ever stronger as the outlook for my dad and therefore my family grows weaker. We are now 3 surgeries into his fight with Chrones, a feat which is tough to accomplish even with a severe case of the disease. We sit for hours on end mindlessly doing puzzles of the twin tower memorial still fresh in our minds having fallen only 2 years ago. Waiting for a doctor to visit, or is he asleep, getting tested? They run together as days mix into weeks, at 13 I am caretaker when home. Not because my mother is sick or incapable, but overwhelmed driving the 1000 plus miles a week to Cleveland and back to Columbus. Attempting to balance caring for her husband and caring for her kids, while all the while neglecting herself. We as her children attempt to comfort her by saying we know she has to be with him, but all the time screaming silently inside for attention, for things to return to what we know and love the balance in our lives. Little did we know this balance would probably never return!

Code Blue

One of the lowest points during my dad’s stint in the hospital came in 2004. the Chrones had been in recession for about 6 months when it came back with a vengeance. Later on we would come to realize that this was not the fault of any doctor or medicine, but of the self destructive behavior of my father. The air that night had a feeling of gloom, much like that of the hospital. I hear the moans and groans coming from the upstairs bedroom, but I do not dare to interfere with the arguing, I know nothing good will happen if I do. Hours pass I should be asleep, but I know I wont sleep tonight I feel an odd sense of responsibility. I knew it was a matter of time before I would hear the door open and see the light from the hallway as my mom crept into my room to tell me they were leaving that dad wasn’t feeling good and he had to go see the doc. This to me seemed juvenile, every time the door opened at 3 or 4 am I simply said I’m awake ill take care of Grace in the morning. I knew dad was more than “sick” I knew he was barely walking, barely breathing hurled over in pain, but there is nothing I can do feeling helpless yet needing to do something, discover a miracle cure perhaps, but I just lay there hoping they will return both healthy and happy and things will be the same but the never do.
The term code blue in a hospital is read aloud over the PA system to announce a patient in urgent need of emergency treatment. This unnerving feeling occurred three times to my family over our years in and out of hospitals. All three time because of a low enough heart rate to trigger the warning. These events occurred within months of each other, in a sequence I refer to as hell. Along with Chrones my dad was diagnosed with a failing liver and kidney cancer. While the cancer diagnosis was later removed, that word should have meant death to a man like my father, a 6’3”, 230 pound man I had known, who had shrunk into a slouching 6’1” 140 pound elderly looking man now. It would not be for a few more years we learned the true cause of these problems and how intensely ignorant such a smart man could be.

Hiding

With Chrones in recession once again, I was hopeful things would begin to get better, to return to normal. I had just started dating a new girl and things in my life were looking up I was a sophomore in school and I was playing baseball on JV and dressing for some varsity games. Little did I know how naive I had been for the past few years.
After arriving home one night from dropping off my girlfriend back at her house, I walked in and gave a quick hey to my dad anxious to get downstairs to watch TV. I walked into the dining room to set my coat down when instead of a response back from my dad I heard ice from the refridgerator hit the floor, I turned around and saw my father sitting there pushing his cup into the ice machine which was overflowing with ice, I yell for him to stop, but all I see is his limp body flop downward toppling over and smashing face first into the counter with a bone chilling velocity. I rush to his side screaming unaware of what has happened grabbing his bloody forehead in my hands trying to lift his head, unresponsive to my screams off the ground now covered in a watery red mix of blood and melted ice, I’m screaming and crying as my mom rushes in to a disturbing scene. We both work to lift him up as he starts to regain consciousness, we place him in a chair sitting upright as his head rolls backward like a ragdoll. Expecting my mother to be crying in a worry she is crying but in a much angrier manner. By this time he is waking up to my mother’s furious growls she screams he’s killing himself, and how could he put us through that. It is now I get close to wipe off his head, that I smell the sickening smell of blood sweat and liquor, a smell much like that of the hospital I will not soon forget.
These episodes were constant now that I found out what was going on. To this day I don’t know how I could have been so blind to the problem. I was still not fully aware of the carnage this mental disease would have on my family. Out of my lack of understanding for this disease grew a feeling of responsibility, responsibility to fix it, responsibility that I had caused it. I now know of course it was not my fault at all, it was a lifetime of depression, rejection, false hopes, and sickness that caused his demise, it was not at all the fault of me or my family. This is a feeling common among children and loved ones of alcoholics as shown by Scott Russell Sanders, in his essay Under the Influence.

“Whatever my brother and sister and mother may be thinking on their own rumpled pillows, I lie there hating him, loving him, fearing him, knowing I have failed him. I tell myself he drinks to ease the ache that gnaws at his belly, an ache I must have caused by disappointing him somehow, a murderous ache I should be able to relieve by doing all my chores, earning A's in school, winning baseball games, fixing the broken washer and the burst pipes, bringing in the money to fill his empty wallet. He would not hide the green bottles in his toolbox, would not sneak off to the barn with a lump under his coat, would not fall asleep in the daylight, would not roar and fume, would not drink himself to death, if only I were perfect”. (Sanders 1-2)

Now with this feeling creeping in my job began. At first it was the espionage, subtly marking where he went alone, finding the rank bottles of vodka stashed in the golf bag hanging in the garage, the center console of the Honda in the driveway, above the roof panels in the unfinished section of the basement, inside the unused grill during the winter. The locations are endless when we foiled one stash another would appear only a few hours later, never removing the foul liquid myself, but instead I retreat to the safety of my mother and report the position of the stash to her so that she could deal with the removal of the vodka. This never sat well with my father when he would come home drunk. The fights would rage into the night as I would listen, knowing not to get involved, this would only make matters worse.

Rehab

The events that had been escalating over the past year and a half hit an all time low in the spring of 2007. My sister still not aware of the full extent of my dad’s problem is playing softball when suddenly she would be made fully aware of the urgency of the situation. Dehydrated from the heat and sipping vodka from a coffee cup my dad is just a bomb waiting to explode. Then what happens next is probably the darkest time for my sister, much like the first night I saw him collapse, his body goes limp, he fall quickly to the ground and is unconscious for a few minutes, as gasps from the crowd filled with family friends and acquaintances a few rush to help knowing very well his previous health problems, but most simply watch, lost as to what has happened. Ashamed he wakes up to the roar of an ambulance the vodka on his breath, enhanced only by the puddle seeming from the ground into his shirt.
This is the begging of the stories turn around. Over the next two weeks the drinking continued resulting in my mom throwing my dad out of our house unless he went to rehab, so he left. This drunken independence didn’t last too long and he decided it was time to go to rehab. This also didn’t last too long within 5 days he was out, pulling into the driveway after work with a smashed front end to his brand new accord, the drivers window and mirror smashed into a million tiny pieces, he was sitting there blood streaming down his face from the 3 inch gash along his forehead that I realized he was going to die if he continued to drink. I worked quickly to get him out of the car and into the house while attracting the least attention from the neighborhood around us. I stow his beaten car in the garage to hide the collateral damage, in this process I discover the source of this nightmare a ¾ empty bottle of vodka on the floorboard beside the passenger seat. Denial is not an option I decide to take this one into my own hands. In a curious moment of clarity and rage I walk into the house with the bottle in my hand gently push my mom to the side and slam the bottle down on the table my mother is crying beside us and I look him in the eyes and ask why he is killing himself, but more so why he is killing us. This is his last chance by my accord, so I present two options, one he cleans up his own cut and gets into the car with me and I will take him back to rehab where he will get clean or die, or he can leave right now and not come back. In my moment of clarity he must have realized the seriousness I was putting on him as he showed up roughly 20 minutes later with a bad he had packed himself and said lets go I don’t want to kill my family anymore.
After a 4 month stint between hospitals and rehab a different man emerged, one that was frail, weak, and afraid of what might happen now that he is allowed to choose for himself what to do, but this man was sober. And that after all was the dream his family had been waiting for.

Athens II

This is where the known ends and the speculation begins. Being the son of an alcoholic as described by sanders

“I knew the odds of my becoming an alcoholic were four times higher than for the children of nonalcoholic fathers”. (Sanders 10)

This is my fear, my prolonged unknowing, as I enter college in the same place my father did 30 some odd years ago, I am aware of the risks, but tempted by the rewards when used in moderation. Alcohol is a social medicine, one that can help you open up easier, to find out something otherwise hidden behind a wall of insecurities be it about your self or another. But with the risks so great is it worth it. My career choice as a pilot is one where alcohol is a major issue, a high stress career filled with long days and longer nights. But it is a passion, something I love, a right my father was denied in youth. I feel I am a smart enough man to use alcohol in moderation, but I will always listen to my body, listen for signs that things are not right, I will deal with my problems head on not drown the in a poison designed to alleviate issues that will emerge in sobriety once again. Already being 25% more likely to suffer from alcoholism than many people and entering a career where according to Addiction,

“In the United States of America, the taboo was broken when it became known that 30% of fatally injured pilots in general aviation had been under the influence of alcohol”. (Holdener 953)

These realities scare me; they make me realize how venerable even someone as strong willed as me can be to the affects of a poison. If my family were to read this now I feel they would be somewhat shocked to find out the reality of my feelings toward this situation, but I think ultimately the stain that has affected our past can never be removed or covered up completely. More so I think we will all use it as a reminder of what we have all experienced and do not wish to live through again.





Sources


Sanders, Scott R. "Under the Influence." Harpers November 1989: 1-10.


Holdener, Fridolin. "Alcohol and Civil Aviation." Addiction June 1993: 953-958.

Running in the family 62-101

Confusing is the only word i can use to describe this book so far. It may just be the state of mind im in, but i get very easily confused while reading this book. Ondaatje writes this book like a hyper active 5 year old who can not stay on topic. Every chapter starts off with a semingly
irrelevant memory with a loose tie to his family history toward the end.

At first he talkes about a map in his brothers house i think and how it is somehow related to his family leniage. I am still trying to figure out what the writing technique behind this book is. i suppose he is trying to tell his family's story and expose his own love for his native country through these stories. unlike the two previous memoirs weve read this book is focusing more on the past of people in his family rather than completely on his own past. to add to the confusing nature of the book randomly half way through the chapter he breaks into peoms, then back to the story, then back to peoms. Im really not sure what im supposed to take away from this book. although im lost and not a big fan of the book. I did find the last story rather interesting when he describes killing the rattle snakes with the shotgun. Then about the confrontation between his family and the insurgents. So all in all this book is a confusing colection of irrelevant stories that i hope eventually come up with a common theme, but some of the stories do capture my interest for the brief 2 or 3 pages they cover.

Running in the family 17-60

Another confusing start. This book like both the previous, started out very difficult to understand, although not for the same reasons as The liars Club or Fathers Sons & Brothers.
unlike these books Running in the Family does not switch time frames rapidly. actually it seems like its starting to follow a pattern. He starts out talking about his grandparents at first and then transitioned into a little about his father toward the end of the reading. While unlike the other books in that aspect. It is similar in that the author is quite descriptive. He uses this description to tell about his grandparents and parents background. Overall i am not yet sure about this book. I guess i will have to read more to make a complete assesment of the book.

900 word FSB

In the book Fathers Sons & Brothers, Brett Lott writes about events and memories that have shaped his life. Unlike typical books Lott not only writes about what happened but he also describes what he was thinking. This strategy of basically analyzing his own writing helps us as the readers comprehend why Lott chooses the stories that are included in his book. Throughout the book Lott’s analytical writing is just as important to the lesson behind the book as are the events he shares.

I think this is strategy important because it helps the reader understand what Lott wants one to take away from his book. Unlike many of the books we have read in the past which are filled with happy, sad, or horrifying stories that are filled with blatantly obvious lessons or themes. In Fathers Sons & Brothers the book is compiled of a collection of essays that seem to have a very loose connection to one and other. As you read on you discover though, that there are many hidden similarities throughout these essays. These similarities include the theme of Lott connecting events from his childhood to those of his children as they grow up and mature. While it is obvious that these events are not actually connected, seeing as they took place years decades apart, but he connects these events through his thoughts about them. This is where the analytical aspect of Lott’s writing comes into play. Lott had the challenge of creating meaning out of his collections of essays he had compiled from past memories. The title of this book, Fathers Sons & Brothers hints as to what the main theme of the book is going to be but still the first few essay are very confusing due to the order of events. Throughout the essays Lott tells the stories in a manner in which it seems like he is trying to create a lesson out of it but cannot get across his point in words. This is shown very clearly in a strong sentence at the end of the "Brothers" essay.

Lott writes, “What I believe is this: That pinch was entry into our childhood; my arm around him, our smiling, is proof of us two surfacing, alive but not unscathed. And here are my own two boys, already embarked.” (32)

While this sentence seems to come from a lost and confused author, when put next to the context with the stories that were included in this essay it brings up a really strong feeling of Lott’s feelings regarding his childhood in connection with his children’s. The preceding stories were of the trials and tribulations Brett and his brother Brad had while growing up. Followed by how they grew out of this stage to become better friends and have more respect for one and other later on in life. Lott then cuts to a story of Zeb and Jake, Lott’s children, fighting and carrying on. The quote above is how Lott analyzed the situations he remembered. The quote basically says that by realizing his action toward his brother, and how there relationship flourished later in life Lott is beginning to notice many of the same qualities in his own children’s interactions.

While the central theme of Fathers Sons & Brothers is the relationships of Lott as a father, son, and brother. Not all the analyzing in this book has to do with this. Later on in the book many of these analytical portions turn into a blank canvas for Lott’s self reflection. While by definition self reflection and analyzing are not the same thing in Fathers Sons & Brothers the are used in much the same way. Like the analytical writing, the self reflection is used by Lott to give meaning to an event that may otherwise seem insignificant to anyone but Lott himself. A good essay to show this deep reflection is "Wadmalow". Indisputably one of the least connected essays of the book "Wadmalow" provides that canvas I described earlier. It is a chance for Lott to get away from his roles and focus more his personal feelings on some of his memories. Early on in "Wadmalow" it talks about how Brett is watching football on a Sunday and observing the behavior of his children. Throughout the progression of the essay Lott realizes how he is throwing his day away. This ideal is solidified by a quote at the end of the essay.

One of Lotts many reflections states, “A Sunday, a day of rest, in October on Wadmalow Island, a day dangerously close to having been lost to television and a rainy sky. Though she does not know it yet, the view from here is the most beautiful gift I can remember Melanie giving me,” (149).

In this reflection Lott describes the feelings he had after he resurrected that Sunday by driving to Wadmalow Island. He tells how although it seems as simple not wasting the day on the couch, it really opened his eyes to the realization that it was more than this Sunday, but more many parts throughout his life that he may have missed out on by partaking in frivolous activities.

Throughout the book Lott’s analytical writing is just as important to the lesson behind the book as are the events he shares. I think that this is a very beneficial tool for Lott to use. Not only for us as readers, but also for Lott himself to realize what significant point he wanted to get across to his audience. Overall Fathers, Sons & Brothers, was a difficult read due to the rapid and frequent change in tense and essays, but I think many readers will take many different lessons away from the book. This is greatly attributed to author Brett Lott’s innovative technique of analyzing his own writing to better explain his purpose.

300 word FSB

In the book Fathers Sons & Brothers, Brett Lott uses many very interesting writing techniques throughout the book. The one strategy I chose to expand on was Lott’s analytical writing technique. Unlike typical books Lott not only writes about what happened but he also describes what he was thinking. This strategy of basically analyzing his own writing helps us as the readers comprehend why Lott chooses the stories that are included in his book. I think this is important because unlike The Liars Club that we read earlier, Fathers sons & Brothers includes stories that are less substantial in the context that is included. I think Lott uses this analytical technique along side his stories to get across what he wants you to get from the story. I think this is an interesting strategy for a book mostly because he doesn’t always use the core events in his story to teach a lesson more-so he uses his own thoughts and opinions on these events.

This is shown very clearly in a strong sentence at the end of the Brothers essay, “What I believe is this: That pinch was entry into our childhood; my arm around him, our smiling, is proof of us two surfacing, alive but not unscathed. And here are my own two boys, already embarked”. Lott uses these thoughts to describe his feelings on the similarities between his relationship with his brother, and the relationship between his two children. This is one of many instances throughout the book where this technique is utilized to enhance the lessons behind these essays in the book. Analytically writing about his own experiences, while an unusual techniques it enhances the story and helps not only the readers, but I feel it also helps Lott himself realize what needs to be taken away from his essays.

Thesis

Brett Lott uses an analytical tone in his writing in order in increase the readers insight into his thoughts.

Family Myths, and My Role in the Family

I can't think of any family myths at the moment so I'm going to start with my roll in my family. If i had to pick one role in my family it would be best described as short fused decision maker. Most people say i try to please everyone, which is very true, but not always in the same way. What i mean is that while in my family dynamic i do try to please everyone, but it takes a lot less time before i get fed up with indecision and just make a decision. While do this outside my family as well it is not nearly as evident as it is when I'm with my family. A common occurrence of this is when my family and I are trying to go out to dinner, but everyone wants something different. At first i attempt to please everyone by coming up with someplace that will fulfill all our wants (which commonly doesn't exist) or i try to pick someplace everyone can agree on for the time being. Despite my best efforts no magical restaurants appear and of course no one can agree on somewhere. The nest step is where my short fuse normally runs out. Now we are sitting there my sister is dead set on getting her way, my mom says she doesn't care, my dad is fed up with the argument and making threats to not go at all, and that leaves me. I truly don't care at this point, but i don't want to see my sister get her way mostly so i just get mad and yell out someplace and say that's what we're doing no arguing. Then most of the time we will all march, irritated to the car and go to where i mentioned. I think i do this cause of my distaste for stress. when the situation gets too stressful i find a quick remedy. This is not the best way to go about things, but it is always the easiest at the time and will typically result in the least punishment. This pattern of events occurs often in my family for almost any topic imaginable. I think some people see this as a good thing, because it gets things done. While others feel this is a shortcoming due to my irritated demeanor when i make these decisions.

I had a hard time coming up with a myth about my family, simply because i could not think of anything that involved the entirety of my family. As i thought about it more the myths i could come up with had to deal with my perception of people in my family. I think one of the biggest myths i remember is my perception of my grandpa as i was growing up. My grandpa passed away when i was only 2 years old, so i have no personal memories of him. The only solid information i knew about him when i was young was that he fought in WWII in and airborne division as a paratrooper. I always idealized this as a soldier jumping out of the airplane and fighting as soon as he hit the ground. It was years later over a grilled cheese sandwich lunch i discovered he was actually an engineer, and while he did jump out of planes it was his job to design and place airstrips, and the jumping was just a cost effective way to get him there. As a young boy this was kind of a let down since i had made my grandpa into somewhat of a warrior in my head. As i reached my later years i began to find out many ways in which my grandpa was not the hero i had once pictured. My dad is the youngest of three boys, and while the all enjoyed athletics, my grandpa was overly competitive as there coach and made sure that winning was the most important thing which did end up creating great athletes, as my dad was twice a state golden gloves champion and a center for Ohio University football, but it took the fun out of playing. He pressed these sort of misled views on my father later in life when it came to careers. Where again he told my dad money was the most important thing and shot down my dads aspirations to be a teacher and coach. among these shortcomings were also personal issues dealing with alcoholism and ill behavior toward my grandma. After learning of these things my warrior image of my grandpa faded into a much more realistic, less flattering feeling toward him. part of me wishes i could have held on to these mislead admiration's of my youth, but i also realize that this truth is very revealing toward things that i myself have lived through.

New 600 Word Post

Throughout the book The Liar’s Club author Mary Karr undoubtedly uses many writing techniques to gain reader interest and strengthen her points, but I think she cleverly uses more than one technique to discretely show her feelings about events that will come. I think Mary Karr cleverly combines foreshadowing and explicitly graphic description to implant her thoughts and fears from childhood atrocities that she experienced.

From the very first sentence of the story Karr uses detailed description to foreshadow multiple events later on in the story.

“He wore a yellow golf shirt unbuttoned so that sprouts of hair showed in a V shape on his chest. I had never seen him in anything but a white starched shirt and a gray tie. The changed unnerved me. He was pulling at the hem of my favorite nightgown” (3)

This image right away makes your mind wonder what is going on. Whether a defense reaction or inquisitiveness many people automatically assume this is an image of sexual assault. We quickly find out this is not what is happening at all, in fact the man described above is the family doctor and he is there to help Karr not to hurt her. This instance has nothing to do with sexual assault, but subconsciously you gather a feeling that Karr has experienced some event in her life that would make her describe the situation as she did. I feel the way she wrote this was intended to make you feel suspicious of the doctor and for the readers to question the intentions of the doctor in this situation.

To support my earlier claim of foreshadowing throughout the book, I bring up a disturbingly graphic situation played out in chapter three.

“It was going dark when he got hold of me under God knows what pretext. He took me into somebody’s garage. He unbuttoned my white shirt and told me I was getting breast” (65).

This is the first instance in the book where Mary Karr is actually sexually abused. This image is what I think Karr was foreshadowing in those first few sentences. You can draw many similarities between these two images, which show Karr was thinking of this instance when she earlier described the doctor. The first thing that sticks out to me is Karr’s sense of detachment. While it is obvious Karr knows the doctor in the first scene she never refers to him as his name, she always uses “he” or “his”. She again uses this technique later on in the book when describing the rape scene she calls him “the big boy” or simply uses “he” or “his” again. Now we find out she doesn’t know her attacker very well ,she must have drawn similarities between the rape and of the doctor attempting to examine her later on, because of her obvious detachment during the period of trauma. This shows that Karr uses the image of the doctor to foreshadow what will happen later in the book.

The most disturbing instance of foreshadowed sexual abuse shows up toward the end of the book. This again shows the detachment similarity shown in the last two quotes, but this image uses disturbingly graphic imagery, imagery that is to descriptive and vulgar for me to comfortably repeat on here, in order to create a culmination of Karr’s feelings on these assaults

“This whole scene rushing through my head when the babysitter’s zipper hits bottom. His hand fishes into that zipper and farther, into the shadow of his shorts” (243).

This quote alone portrays a deeply disturbing situation unfolding, and also the only image from this part that I was comfortable repeating publicly. This again shows Karr’s detachment and change of tone when she recalls these instances of abuse. This also uses Karr’s extensive description which quite honestly sickened me and deterred me from blogging about this particular issue, but in the end I decided this was defiantly a very important, but underlying issue throughout the book.

I think Mary Karr cleverly combines foreshadowing and explicitly graphic description to implant her thoughts and fears from childhood atrocities that she experienced. I have shown how the first few sentences of the book foreshadow an underlying theme throughout the entire book. Karr is undisputedly a master at implanting these themes within The Liar’s Club in order to foreshadow events that shaped her writing and her thoughts, but along with the foreshadowing she uses description to immerse the reader in the moment. Be it happy, sad, or quite frankly, disturbing, Karr unarguably has and many traumatic experiences that have shaped who she is and how she portrays that in her writings today.

Fathers Sons, & Brothers 1-32

The first few chapters of this book, Fathers, Sons, & Brothers, were basically an account of things that happened during Brett Lott's childhood. At first Lott talked about his garage in California. This at first seemed insignificant, but I later realized why he chose to write about this. I think this was kind of his place. Its where him and his brothers spent a lot of their time and where they really expanded their relationship.
He then talks about his move to Phoenix Arizona. When he gets to Arizona there are no garages there. I think this is kind of a metaphor for what would happen to his relation ship with his brothers. He uses the garage to show how without their own space, him and his brothers grew apart. He then talks about his paper route in Arizona. And he mentions that his mother would drive him if it was raining just so he could get it done. This seemed to be something he was proud of and enjoyed.
Overall this book is faster to read than The Liar's Club, mostly because there are fewer words per page. Although much like The Liar's Club, Brett Lott likes to switch time frames to present and past like Mary Karr did. The further into the book this becomes more evident and more difficult to follow. Sometime it is hard to determine if he is talking about his childhood or his sons. To me a lot of this story is kind of choppy and hard to follow. I don't know if this was Lott having a difficult time gathering his thoughts to put in order or whether it’s intended to be this multitude of smaller thoughts and stories pieced into one. I am hoping we will find out as we go on whether this was intentional or not.

Personal Image List

-The first time i flew solo; it was a cold january day at bolton airfield on the southwest side of columbus. i had ben flying for a little over a year and it was tiem for me to fly solo. this is a milestone in anyones flight training. I remember very vividly the way i felt on this flight. I think this would make a great memory to write about

-Similar to the book The Liars' Club my family has had to deal with alcoholism along with sickness. My dad has gone through a 10 year bout with chrones disease that has pushed our family to the limit. along with that my dad also battled with alcoholism. this would also make a good, very personal memory.

-My snowboarding crash; it was in my first national competition last year. during my 2nd run i crashed hard and injured my hip. when i say hurt myself i mean i ended up in the hospital for 9 days with internal bleeding. this was a vivd and painful memory.

Karr's Hidden Themes

Throughout the book The liar’s club Author Mary Karr undoubtedly uses many writing techniques to gain reader interest and strengthen her points, but I think she cleverly uses more than one technique to discretely show her feelings about events that will come. I think Mary Karr cleverly combines foreshadowing and explicitly graphic description to implant her thoughts and fears from childhood atrocities that she experienced.
From the very first sentence of the story Karr uses graphic and misleading description to foreshadow multiple events later on in the story.
“He wore a yellow golf shirt unbuttoned so that sprouts of hair showed in a V shape on his chest. I had never seen him in anything but a white starched shirt and a gray tie. The changed unnerved me. He was pulling at the hem of my favorite nightgown” (3)
This image right away makes your mind wonder what is going on. Whether a defense reaction or inquisitiveness many people automatically assume this is an image of sexual assault. While we quickly find out this is not what is happening at all, in fact the man described above is the family doctor and he is there to help Karr not to hurt her. This instance has nothing to do with sexual assault, but subconsciously you gather a feeling that Karr has experienced some event in her life that would make her describe the situation as she did. I feel the way she wrote this was intended to make you feel suspicious of the doctor and for the readers to question the intentions of the doctor in this situation.
To support my earlier claim of foreshadowing throughout the book, I bring up a disturbingly graphic situation played out in chapter three.
“It was going dark when he got hold of me under God knows what pretext. He took me into somebody’s garage. He unbuttoned my white shirt and told me I was getting breast” (65).
This is the first instance in the book where Mary Karr is actually sexually abused. From both these images drawn in the book you can draw many similarities that show Karr was thinking of this instance when she earlier described the doctor. The first thing that sticks out to me is Karr’s sense of detachment. While it is obvious Karr knows the doctor in the first scene she never refers to him as his name, she always uses “he” or “his”. She again uses this technique later on in the book when describing the rape scene she calls him “the big boy” or simply uses “he” or “his” again. Now we find out she doesn’t know her attacker very well ,she must have drawn similarities between the rape and of the doctor attempting to examine her later on, because of her obvious detachment during the period of trauma. This shows that Karr uses the image of the doctor to foreshadow what will happen later in the book.
The last foreshadowed instance of sexual abuse shows up toward the end of the book. This again shows the detachment similarity shown in the last two quotes, but this image uses disturbingly graphic imagery, imagery that is to description and vulgar for me to comfortably repeat on here, in order to create a culmination of Karr’s feelings on these assaults
“This whole scene rushing through my head when the babysitter’s zipper hits bottom. His hand fishes into that zipper and farther, into the shadow of his shorts” (243).
This quote alone portrays a deeply disturbing situation unfolding, and also the only image from this part that I was comfortable repeating publicly. This again shows Karr’s detachment and change of tone when she recalls these instances of abuse. This also uses Karr’s extensive description which quite honestly sickened me and deterred me from blogging about this particular issue, but in the end I decided this was defiantly a very important, but underlying issue throughout the book.
I think Mary Karr cleverly combines foreshadowing and explicitly graphic description to implant her thoughts and fears from childhood atrocities that she experienced. While this book uses a multitude of different writing techniques. Karr is indisputably a master at implanting small underlying themes within The Liar’s Club to foreshadow events that shaped her writing and her thoughts, but along with that she uses description to immerse the reader in the moment. Be it happy, sad, or quite frankly, disturbing, Karr unarguably has and many traumatic experiences that have shaped who she is and how she portrays that in her writings today.

8 Images

1) "Through the observation window, they watched the gray wall of water twenty feet high move up the canal toward town" (97). This image paints a picture of the two men alone in the tower watching the giant storm move in.
2)"the kind of dodge people later likened to a fast quarterback barely scooting around some bullnecked lineman"(98). I think its obvious the picture this paints and i think it is used perfectly to show the behavior of the storm.

3)"with it cam a low humming in my head-a sound like a crazy cello player sawing the same note over and over, or like a zillion bees coming up from the ground"(103). This shows a vivid image of how Mary feels when she suffers from insomnia.
4)"She was carrying a sketch pad the size of a small card table, like she was planning to draw the fisherman, but I knew with cold certainty while I stood there in that lukewarm water that she was climbing up there to get drunk" (109). This quote is not the most descriptive but i think it creates a good image of Mary's ill feelings toward her mothers increasing use of alcohol.

5)"The head's a translucent globe about the size of a softball and full of air, so it floats on top of the water, clear in places, but full of sunset-type colors in others-royal blue and red-violet, the colors bleeding into each other"(112). This literally is descriptive enough to give u a mental image of what the man-o-war would have looked like lying there on the beach.

6)"and I remember a few times dancing around the kitchen in my nightgown with my bare feet on his steel-toed boots, both of us sliding around in the yummy cloud of whiskey he was breathing"(126). this shows the while Mary's dad may have been absent and a drinker, he did love his daughter and was somewhere within himself a good guy.

7)"Then she would bawl like a sick cat, hanging her head in her hands, blowing her nose on toilet paper, and saying that we didn't understand, and that it wasn't our fault she was crying"(132). This shows a very sad depressed mother that is completely overwhelmed by her life and combats this with massive amounts of alcohol.

8)"Then mother breaks loose from daddy to stamp her foot at the group of kids, and they scatter like buckshot into their own dark yards. and that's it, that's what i remember about my birthday"(139). You can really feel like your watching this happen. You can see the intoxicated mother, the father trying to control her, and Mary realizing that her birthday was not what she had hoped which is reminiscent of her life.

New Central Image

One image that sticks out in my mind is a vivid memory of my family driving through a tornado in Oklahoma. The snapshot that i see most clearly is that of a thin white funnel cloud diving quickly out of the ominously black sky and colliding with the ground. We watched mystified through the back window of our car as the funnel threw earth straight into the air like a small leak in a high pressure hose. The clarity in which i still today recall this natural phenomenon is remarkable considering if i had blinked, even for a millisecond to take in what was happening, I would have completely missed the whole ordeal. Though somehow such a lightning fast image is burned into my head and is something i will never forget.

Quiz #1

A. Mary has a dislike for her grandmother. I think that these felling increased when her grandmother came to live with them. This is shown immediately when she says "maybe its wrong to blame the arrival of Grandma Moore for much of the worst hurt in my family, but she was such a ring-tailed bitch that i do"(41). The first thing her grandmother did was change a lot of the habits that Mary had grown accustomed to. Such as they were no longer permitted to eat dinner on the parents bed, or change into pj's at any time in the day after they were done playing. Also she made them take a bath every night which by her tone, I could tell Mary was not fond of. Mary's feeling toward her grandmother show when she talks about her grandmother's cancer as if it does not affect her at all, Mainly shown by her lack of response when she finds her grandma dead. Grandma Moore does not think too highly of Mary either. She talks about her grandmothers dislike for her look and her dark complexion resembling the native American genes from her father. And finally Grandma revealed to Mary that her mother had two other children from a previous marriage.

B. They run from Leechfield in order to escape hurricane Carla. On the bridge her mother crashed the car. She describes it as a 360 spin that ended up on the pedestrian walkway, Yet her mother simply asked if everyone was alright and drove away.

Liars Club Chapters 2-4 and Family Image

Hello again, This time i have selected a specific part of the story to write about for the first part of this assignment. The part i chose was early on in the 2nd chapter when Mary, Lecia, and her mother were driving to her grandmothers house in lubbock texas. The reason i chose this part is because of its remarkable similarity to my own image that i will explain in the 2nd part of this assignment. The first thing that i find interesting is the talk about the weather. They repeatedly mention the large thunderstorms that produce tornadoes. I thought this part was very descriptive and accurate to the real thing. This detailed description is shown by quotes such as "I could still hear the concrete post torn out of the ground like some giant buttons getting popped off"(24). i think it was detail like this and a smoother process of events that made these chapters much easier to read. Another description i find interesting was the way Mary described the sky being larger in Texas than anywhere else. While i only lived in Texas for a few years i have revisited many times and this illusion is very true. Aside from the natural references, I like how she describes there game of jewelry store. I think this reference, and some others further on in the book, makes you remember how silly some of the games you created as a little kid used to be. So overall these chapters were much easier to read and her vivid description continues on through this chapter.

My own family image, in many ways relates very closely to the image i chose from the book. This event occurred a few years ago while we were driving to Texas to visit family. Now we weren't quite in Texas, we were driving through Oklahoma, when that abnormally large sky turned violently black and out of the back window we saw a large funnel cloud dive from the sky. Even though the storm was at a safe distance behind us you could hear the roar and see the wake that the storm was leaving behind. You can easily see why i chose this memory not only for its resemblance to the book but also the impression it left on me.

Liars Club 3-22 & Memoir 1-10

Hello again, another assignment and time to blog about our first reading. In The Liars Club the author/ narrarator starts off describing to you a vivid memory from her childhood. She describes the doctor, police officer, and firefighters that were there on the night. While she never explains exactly what happens you get a feeling it leaves her and her sister orphaned. I came to this conclusion because of her discussion about and her sister staying with numerous other families and her descriptions of which she would like to stay with and those she wouldn't. Then she told us about her mother who was "nervous", I figured out his to be a polite way of saying crazy. Next the narrorator further described the extent of the term "nervous" when she described her neighbor Mr. Thibodaux. To elaborate on the typical behavior of "nervous" people she told about how he had murdered his entire family then proceeded to light his house on fire. Even though this story is a memoir this to me seems like foreshadowing as to what may have really happened that night she described earlier.
From here the story moves on to describing her father. The main thing they talk about is his good work ethic and his devotion to his labor union. Further more she talked about his relationship with her mother they have been twice married, and he is just two of 7 weddings her mother has had starting as early as when she was 15. It makes you wonder why such a well rounded man would marry a woman with such questionable moral strength, as exemplified by her willingness to marry mostly for sexual purposes. Now while they predominantly show her father in a good light they do hint at some character flaws such as a tendency to chronically lie while telling stories as well as a harsh temper on a short fuse. Even though the book is kind of dry and not easy to read I am curious to find out what happened that night and what becomes of all the characters.
The memoir and the memoirist is a completely different opening than pretty much any other book I have ever read. It almost feels like an informational book more so than a memoir, but he does express a lot of his feeling in the first chapter. Not only about the class he was teaching and the people in it he also talks about his family and some of their relationships. All in all I think there was less interesting material covered in the first chapter compared to The Liars Club. I think this is a much easier read, but leaves less desire to continue reading after you have fulfilled the requirement.

Hello

Hello, This is my first experience trying to write a blog and i find it difficult to think of what to say. The assignment is to write about my past English experience, so i guess that is what i will do. Like most people i have only a normal English background consisting of high school classes. I did take some journalism classes in high school which were English credits, so i am considering that as part of my English history. Other than that i don't have very many exciting stories about English classes.
Another part of this assignment was to talk about what i hope to get out of this class. I guess other than fulfilling the requirement and getting the credits, i hope to get a better understanding of how people respond to your writing and how to respond to other people's writing. Originally i was not looking forward to this class because of the small size and reputation for being just like a high school English class. and while i was correct about the size of the class feeling like high school. The way the class sounds like its run by using blog format instead of traditional papers, i think could be very interesting.
So now that i think i have completed the assignment ill talk a little about myself. I am an aviation major and have been flying since i was 15. I'm originally from Plano Texas, but grew up in Gahanna Ohio. Along with my parents Noel and Gary, i have a younger sister Grace. I guess you will be reading somewhat about them as well because the class is based around family. Well i think I'm done for this assignment.