Just before most of us turn our clocks back, and we are well into fall, I’d like to share two subscribers’ results from the exercise I proposed in “Put Summer on the Page,” July 8, 2004. In that article, I excerpted words from Ray Bradbury’s Dandelion Wine and discussed a writing strategy that facilitates collecting vivid memories of summer by becoming a ‘symphony of life’ conductor and telling the people and things from your childhood to behave the way you remember them behaving in summer.  This week, following the two subscriber passages I’m reprinting, I discuss what each writer might choose to do in developing her writing into a more formal piece.

Carole Sabo’s summer exercise:
Brother, pinch me in my sleeping bag as we stare up through the nylon tent and see zillions of stars in a midnight sky. In Yosemite, the stars always look closer. Daddy, put my hot dog on the stick I searched the campground for and whittled to a sharp point.  Mommy, roast marshmallows golden brown over the open campfire, and let me taste them squished between two graham crackers and four squares of Hershey chocolate.  Tell me to be sure and get into shower lines early and not to walk barefoot to the river.  Cousin, let’s walk through the pine needles and jump into the snow cold river and yell “Oh God-d-d-d-d!” when our sun warmed bodies hit the water.  Daddy, blow up the rafts we bought at Walgreen’s Drug Store and carry them on our shoulders as we walk over steaming hot sand.  Show me how to play poker at night as we sit at a picnic table and drink hot chocolate.  And don’t let me win.  Brother, walk with me through the quiet, darkened campground to the restrooms because I drank too many sodas and I can’t hold it any longer.

Sunshine wakes me up. The tent is hot and I hear my mother and father speaking in low tones outside.  I reach over and take a sip of warm orange soda then pull on my shorts and t-shirt.  Stephen is still asleep in the sleeping bag next to me.  I poke him in the arm and he groans, “Leave me alone!”  Stephen has never been a morning person.  I zip open the tent flap and emerge into sun shining through the pine trees.  I smell fresh roasted coffee brewing and bacon and eggs frying.  Mom and Dad are sitting at the picnic table eating and reading the newspaper.  They hear me come out of the tent and turn around and greet me.

“Awake at last,” my dad says, raising an eyebrow. He goes back to reading the newspaper.

“Hi honey,” my mom whispers.  “Come over and give me a hug.”

My mom’s hug is tight.  She kisses me on the cheek.

“Eggs?  Bacon?” she asks me.

“Donuts,” I reply.

She ruffles through a box under the table and comes up with Dolly Madison powered donuts.

“Orange Juice?

 “Yea.”

I take my breakfast and sit under a tree.  The orange juice is ice cold and the donut is dry and sweet.  I already see families riding bikes through the campground, and hear a splash as someone jumps off Rainbow Bridge.  My brother has already jumped off the bridge several times, but Stephen and I are still content to watch rather then participate.

In the distance, I can see Bridal Vail Falls cascading down the side of a mountain.  It is full and lush, but by summer’s end it will barely be a trickle.  When we first drive into Yosemite, Dad always stops the car when we see the Falls.  It sits at the end of a huge field of snapdragons and Dad pulls out the binoculars so that we can see the white spray and tremendous energy of the falls.

The next day Daddy decides to climb Vernal Falls.  My mother groans and says she’s not in shape to climb that far.  Daddy tickles her and tells her that her shape is fine with him. We load the van with ice chests filled with cold drinks, potato chips and oranges. I argue with my brother over who gets to sit near the window until my parents yell and tell us to let our cousin sit near the window, and tell my brother to sit on the floor.  He glares at us.  The drive is long and winding.  The movement of the drive lulls me into a soft slumber.  I am content.

Sheila’s response:

I so much enjoy the images in the opening paragraph from the pinch in the sleeping bag and zillions of stars to the searched for stick, whittled to a point for hot dog roasting.  Being prodded to get into shower lines early, squishing roasted marshmallows between graham crackers and Hershey’s chocolate, walking through pine needles, jumping into a snow cold river and yelling “Oh God-d-d-d-d,” carrying rafts from Walgreen’s on shoulders, steaming hot sand, having poker lessons at night (beneath the stars, I imagine), and being escorted to the restrooms of the campground because of the dark are details that situate me in the scene and have me believing I am there.

Waking up to sunshine, a hot tent, and the low tones of parents speaking out there, keep me at the campsite. I enjoy knowing the speaker wants donuts for breakfast and gets them and takes her food to eat it under a tree.  I like the dialog, which also places me in the scene. I like knowing the speaker sees the bike riders and hears the splash of someone jumping off the bridge.

I feel the family atmosphere of the camping get away with the dialog and food and needs for the older brother as well as in the quarreling kids detail and the problem being solved by having the cousin sit at the coveted window spot. I enjoy the teasing of the dad who puns on the words “in shape.”

There are a few distractions for me: First, I think the long sentence that opens the passage sound more like an adult talking than a child.  Dividing the long sentence into three and making the smallest of wording changes will help the commands sound like they are from a younger person and will make them more immediate:  Brother, pinch me in my sleeping bag. Stare up through the nylon tent with me.  See zillions of stars in the sky.

Another distraction occurs when I wonder how our speaker knows that the Bridal Vail Falls will be only a trickle by summer’s end—does the family make a habit of coming back at different times? Does the speaker know this from travel literature or from school?  What does she ponder when she realizes that the falls are different at different times of year?  Are they lucky this year to be there when they are?

I feel hurried when we go from those falls (Does she watch her brother jump this year? Does she entertain the idea of jumping now? Does her cousin? Does she measure anything about herself by her fear or willingness?) to Vernal Falls the next day.  What about that night at the campground?  How many more trips away from the campground will there be? To where?   Ending on the way to Vernal Falls doesn’t feel complete to me. I want to know what the hike to the Falls is like and what the speaker gets out of it, what she pays attention to, what she thinks and listens to and what she sees and feels there. I may even want to go with the family as they get back to their tents, the stars, and the poker game.

I think the next step with the writing generated by this exercise is to fill in the details about more of the camping trip.  Once the trip includes more details, the writer will have written an evocative description essay about a time and place she enjoyed as a child. Through the particulars and a satisfying cycle of time, readers will finish the piece saying, “Yes, that captured it, that feeling of being a kid in summer,” whether their summers were spent camping or at a country house or just staying home.

Lauren Smith’s summer exercise:

It is the summer of ’56, summer of the stoop. We’re not talking grand veranda, but merely a concrete slab and four concrete steps leading from the front door of our house on Walworth Drive. We rarely use this door but, oh, the front stoop is something else. We go in and out of the garage door, up and down the driveway, around the corner to the playground now and then, several blocks to East 222nd Street for an occasional Woolworth’s hot fudge sundae, and in the car for a hot, August, all-day Lincoln Electric picnic at Euclid Beach. But the stoop is really where summer takes place. It the ship upon which we sail through three slow, dreamy months.

Oh, Franny. Come out and play with me. And bring your dollies three. Climb up my apple tree. Slide down my rain barrel. Come on over, Franny, and bring Alice in Wonderland. Just remember, mine’s older. Bring a twig from the tree in your back yard. We’re going to whittle.  Oh Peggy, Patty, and MaryAnn, come on over and watch us weave lariats out of red, white, blue plastic strips. We learned how at camp. You didn’t. You’re Catholic. You have nuns for teachers and Mom goes to your church for pirogies filled with cheese. We go to camp and sleep in musty cabins in musty sleeping bags and walk silently up the hill for vespers along damp, mossy trails. You stay home, wishing you could go and asking us for details when we return.

David, the Pluths are here to help you wash Dad’s car. Ricky and Jimmy are here to help you sweep the garage. David, they’re here again to help you clean your bike and blow up the pool and stare at you as if your hair is golden fleece. Wendy, get the Parchesi game, bring Monopoly. I’ll spread the blanket. Knarla, Terry, Franny, Wendy, bring your mom’s dresses and hats and high heels. Our parade of lace and satin and feathers begins in half an hour. I’ll bring the lipstick, the rouge, and the elbow-length gloves.
Mom, can I make Popsicles? Dad, why are you scraping the house again? Mary, why does Stan’s belly stick way out over his shorts? Why don’t you tell him to put on a shirt to cover all that belly hair? Mr. Zuchelli, are you eating spaghetti with only butter on it again? Why do you call it pasta? Mom, why do the kids down the street run around their yard naked? Mom, can I bike around the block, pleeeeeese? Can we go to the library, pleeeeese? Mom, can we run through the sprinkler? Can we play jacks on the stoop, pleeeeese? Okay, Mom, I’ll stop slamming the screen door. Okay, Mom, I’ll dust the living room furniture now. I’ll come in for lunch. Mom, can we have fried baloney sandwiches for lunch, pleaeeese? Mom, can I go over to Franny’s? Mom, can we go to Memorial pool to swim? Can I get a new swimming cap? Do I have to walk through that footbath and show them the space between my toes? David, I found dust balls under your bed when I cleaned your room. Dad, why are Grampa’s two fingers cut off at the knuckles? I’m going to the library, Wendy. Want to come with me?

Life spins around each game played. It is dealt out in canasta hands. My cards rule the moment. A lucky deal brings a smile. Oh, to be there, where times hangs in the balance of a hotel token bought or sold, where landing in jail means only a slight delay in my way around the board. Oh to be there, where Mom and Dad are in charge of things I don’t even think about, where the game is all that matters. Oh, to be able to know beyond a doubt that playing is not just okay, but necessary.

Now, play is difficult. It has to have a purpose, a usefulness. I want this four-foot square area where I sit and type at my computer to my stoop. I want to play with words here, because I love the suspense, the mystery in the activity. But it’s difficult to spend time here unless the writing has a purpose, as for the newsletter I created for our neighborhood. Doing that writing is easy. Hours melt comfortably as I work at that. Working. That’s the key. I need to be working, accomplishing, able to say at the end of the day, “This is what I have done. See? Wasn’t my day worthwhile? Aren’t I worth while?” But playing, writing for the love of it, that’s more difficult.

I hear Elise say that she creates because it’s who she is and I believe her. I just need to remember that creating is who I am. Ideas fill my head and then float away. Why do I let them go? Why don’t I write them down, paste them into books, snap the shutter? Where is that girl that ruled the stoop? What happened to her passion? In the summer of ’56, I played. I breathed deeply, laughed heartily, grew in spirit, and loved life. Today, I feel empty, fear depression, and mourn the loss of passionate urges. In the summer of ’56, I drew hopscotch blocks and jumped the course until breathless and grinning wildly. Today, I can do it again, can redraw the lines and create a game that fits.

“Come out and play with me, Lauren. Bring your words and paper and camera. Paper, scissors, rock. See what happens. No rules. No win or lose.  Stick out your tongue. Spin until you’re dizzy. This is the only chance you’ve got, so pick up the dice and roll, baby, roll.”

Sheila’s response:
I feel well placed in Lauren’s childhood summer activities and friendships. I enjoy what she notices about the friends who come for her brother and his tasks.  Phrases that particularly grab me are:  summer of the stoop, concrete slab and four concrete steps, Walworth Drive, in and out of the garage door, several blocks to East 222 Street, Woolworth’s hot fudge sundae, Lincoln Electric picnic at Euclid Beach, stoop is really where summer takes place, the ship upon which we sail through three slow, dreamy months, bring a twig from the tree in your back yard, we’re going to whittle, weave lariats, pirogies filled with cheese, long, mossy trails, wash Dad’s car, sweep the garage, clean your bike, parade of lace and satin and feathers, the lipstick, the rouge, and the elbow-length gloves, run through the sprinkler, jacks on the stop, slamming the screen door, fried baloney sandwiches, show them the space between my toes, two fingers cut off at the knuckles, where Mom and Dad are in charge of things I don’t even think about, where I sit and type at my computer stoop, girl that ruled the stoop, drew hopscotch blocks and jumped the course breathless and grinning, spin until you are dizzy.

I feel the exuberance of summer, the demanding quality of kids out of school, the fun of friends and play.  I also feel the distress at realizing as an adult, the ability to play and not worry is deeply impaired.

I am intrigued about the information that Catholic friends didn’t go to camp. What religious orientation did the camp have?  Did the kids of the neighborhood have feelings about being divided into groups?  I was surprised that almost as soon as the stoop is introduced, the activities recalled take us away from the stoop. I most clearly see the stoop activities closer to the end of the passage where hopscotch is involved.

The phrases that create an interesting thread of emotion for me are these:  the ship upon which we sail, parade of lace and satin and feathers, where Mom and Dad are in charge of things I don’t even think about, girl that ruled the stoop, jumped the course until breathless, spin until you’re dizzy.

When I look at those phrases, I imagine two essays.  Neither is an apology for not being more childlike but rather an exploration of how remembering childhood helps inform the adult. There is in the phrase about Catholics not going to camp the hint that children don’t naturally think about dividing up along religious and class lines and one essay about childhood might expose this.  Perhaps it is called, “When Mom and Dad Were in Charge of Things I Didn’t Even Think About.”  That essay evokes childhood using the details Lauren has included about games and activities and chores and camp, showing the way kids were artificially divided along religious lines and did or didn’t understand it.   The other essay I envision from the exercise result is perhaps called, “What’s Become of the Girl that Ruled the Stoop?” This essay clearly shows the speaker as she was in the activities that revolved around the stoop or meeting at the stoop and then switches to today at the speaker’s computer stoop, where she invokes the time of stick out your tongue and spin until you are dizzy, and the advice to “pick up the dice and roll.”

I am a bit distrustful of the phrases “No rules,” “No win or lose,” and “This is the only chance you’ve got,” because those are not true to my experience of childhood where games have rules and winners and losers and the next day brings new chances to play.  I think the idea of rolling dice and spinning until dizzy and sticking out one’s tongue are the lessons from childhood (when we played the game in all seriousness with no other responsibilities distracting us and no inhibitions) that can be applied to adults who write.  I believe when finished, these essays will speak to us all, whether our summers involved Lincoln Electric picnics or bike rides around the block, whether we have truly forgotten how to play or wish we had more time to play, whether we bring too much adulthood to the keyboard when we write or have managed to find the child who remembers how to play.

*****

When we generate imagery using a borrowed structure from another writer’s material, we cast a net. What swims in is useful and valuable to our writing, though our writing is bound to look different in the end than that of the writer we borrowed from.  In this way, we are not thieves or mold fillers; we are fellow creators enjoying the way one person’s material facilitates access to our own.