A Telegram Turning Point

     This was a writing assignment in Language Arts, entitled "Words of Wisdom". We were instructed to interview "an Elder" in our life and then write a personal narrative from their point of view and in their voice.
     I interviewed my Grandmama, Freddie Anderson. She was born in 1921. She just turned 90 and still skis. She is a huge inspiration and I really enjoy talking to her. A Youtube video link about her is:

90 Year Old Ski Instructor


     I lie with the blankets wrapped around me and stare at the flat darkness of the first hours of morning. The sweet metallic clanging of the alarm disturbs my reverie. I pull the cord on the light and squint at the thin black hands indicating 4:30 on the squat clock face. After dragging myself out of bed I locate my gear through bleary eyes. I pull on many layers of wool and fasten my kilt around my waist. I check to make sure my bloomers are arranged properly and pull on my long thick socks. My beloved tweed jacket is slung over the back of the chair.

     I had the kilt made for myself out of real Scotch tartan and bloomers made to match (to prevent anyone from noticing if my kilt blows up around my knees). The jacket had come from a forgotten romance. I had fancied the man’s tweed jacket that he had worn, and when we went our separate ways, I decided that it was to become mine.

     As I stumble into the hallway I practically slam into Andy emerging from the guest bedroom in the same sleepy state as myself. He catches me and murmurs a greeting into my hair. We slowly speed up like a train out of the station and begin to rush about the house, attempting not to wake my parents. After a speedy, whispered breakfast we both hurry up to our rooms to lace up our stiff, leather ski boots and collect our laden ski packs. I slip my arms into the jacket as I stomp down the stairs. We attempt to muffle the closing of the hulking front door and hoist our heavy wooden skis over our shoulders. We begin our trek.
     The town is as silent as a graveyard and the cold soaks into our bones. We tromp through the heavy snow on the side roads across the still town for 45 minutes to the bus station. As the skis resting on my shoulder begin to gain weight I commence to curse the war, the gas ration, the earliness of the morning. The sun finally slips over the hills and the gold streams make the snow glint like diamonds.
     The small assembly at the bus stop comes into view as we crest the hill. The dilapidated thing pulls around the corner just as Andy and I plod up to the dozen animated skiers gathered at the bus stop. Much confusion and distress is caused to the other passengers on the bus as the gang of us pile in with all of our ski equipment. Thank goodness the bus is almost empty today, as sometimes we have to stand up the entire 30 minute bus ride. The bus pulls up to the final stop, the train station and we transfer to the next convoluted step in this journey to the Bromley ski area.

     Andy stows our skis and we climb the stairs into the train car with his hand guiding my back. We settle down into two plush seats. His arm finds its way around my shoulders and my head falls onto his.

     I had just graduated from Smith College and felt no particular attachment to any males in my life. I was carefree and swirling in the social gaiety of our young, jovial lives. I enjoyed the company of many young men and felt no pressure to tie myself down to anyone specific.
     A few months ago the ski club was showing a ski movie in the auditorium of a local middle school, and the seats were filled with ski enthusiasts. Most of them were buddies of mine. After the movie was over and everyone was stretching their stiff limbs and starting file out, I noticed five handsome young men. Naturally, I invited them over to my parent’s house for hot chocolate. One of them in particular was extremely handsome. This was probably the reason for my attraction to him in the first place.

     His name was Henry Anderson, everyone affectionately called him Andy. He soon became a part of the family. My parents loved him. I adored him. He was certainly very friendly. Congenial. Knowledgeable and intelligent. He had an answer for everything you could possibly think to ask. He was so much fun to do anything with, and we had many of the same interests. We both loved to ski, and golfed when we couldn’t.
     He was living with 10 other guys in a rented house on the other side of Schenectady, NY. They had all been recently hired by General Electric, and they were here to prove that they could handle the job. The house, “Alka Hall”, was quite a distance from my parents’ and even further from the bus stop.
     On the evenings before mornings like these he would come stay in the guest bedroom of our house.

     When our gay crowd tromps off of the train, we are met by several worn out pickup trucks. We pile in, and to fit us all, we lay down on our bellies next to our skis and stacks 3 or 4 layers of people like bags of cement.


        (telegrams)
        ME: “Going to Mont Tremblant to ski with parents. How would you like to come?”

        ANDY: “Yay.”

     The trails at Mont Tremblant are quiet narrow. We get going awfully fast and it is difficult to slow down. We are flying. My kilt flutters around my knees, the air whips our faces, and everyone on the mountain shares a universal euphoria.
     Andy and I go on walks after skiing often, reveling in each other’s company. We lope along side the lake; my small, smooth hands in his large, wood worker’s. Perfect white clouds sail across the brilliant blue sky. The frozen lake expands out, mimicking the heavens. The snow glimmers in the sunlight and throws brilliant beams all around us. We find a boulder that overlooks the picturesque scene and sit down contentedly. Glancing at the vivid sky, I hear him say,
     “Well, you know, we have a lot in common. We should get married.”
     It is almost as if this statement was said in our hearts, instead of to the air, and seems to require no response. The feeling is mutual.

Copyright 2011 Abigail Chapman

Great Depression Story

The following is a writing assignment from Social Studies (History) class. We were given a picture and told to write a story around it, set in the Great Depression. I apologize for any typos, I did not put excess amounts of time into editing it.

I woke up with my face plastered against the dusty quilt underneath me as our rickety old truck went over an especially large bump. I glanced at the trees passing beside us through bleary eyes. They were plum trees. Plum trees!

“Pa, stop the truck!” I shouted into the dust towards the cab of the truck.
“What?! Are you hurt?” my mother clucked as she hastily climbed out and peered at me like a mother hen.
“No. But LOOK, they’re plum trees! We can eat! Can we please pick some of them?

She looked suspiciously at them, “Well, I suppose if no one sees us. It IS state property. Hmmm,” she glanced up and down the long, hot stretch of road. “Yes. I suppose. Get the wicker baskets.”

Yes! The thought of eating something moist, that wasn’t stale bread (if it could still be identified as that) made my mouth water uncontrollably. I grabbed the baskets and swung up and  over the stacks of bedding, tires, trunks, clothing, and everything else from our old life piled in the bed of the truck. Pa climbed out of the cab and squinted at the horizon.
“Arabella. Come here,” he called me forward for probably yet another speech.
“Yes Pa?”
“We must be careful. Do you know why?” his face was stern, and I could see the thought in his twinkling brown eyes.
I clasped my hand behind my back and recalled my answer from the filing cabinet in my head labeled “Hourly Sayings”.
“Yes Pa. The government is brutal. Our neighbors will not help us. We will not help our neighbors. We don’t have anything to give them and we don’t have anything to give them. We musn’t be caught doing anything wrong because we have nothing and can’t afford to lose anything else. People will try to take things from us. We must be careful,” I waited in baited silence, terrified that I had forgotten something.
“Exactly my sweet. Now go eat some plums. I will stay and watch the road. We will say we are fixing a tire. We will not let anyone know we are stealing off of government property,” he ruffled my hair and kissed the top of my head.
I let out a whoop and headed for the trees, but Ma called me back.
“Arabella! Come get your cloak, you may need it!”
Sigh. I ran back to get it arguing the whole time that I wasn’t even going out of sight of the truck and that there was no way I would need it. Never the less she fastened it around me and finally turned me loose.
I ran into the bushes and ate plums until I was beyond sick. Then I sat on my now useful cloak in their shade and picked and picked until I had filled all four baskets. Lugging them awkwardly one by one back to the truck I heard my parents quietly discussing our travel plans in the cooling air.
“We should be out of Colorado by tomorrow night, and in California by the middle of next week barring any unforeseen problems.”
“I wish that we wouldn’t travel on the Sabbath tomorrow, Charles,” came my mothers nervous voice from somewhere in the bed of the truck.
“I know Lucinda, but we simply can’t afford to stay in one place for more then we need to. We are already almost completely our of supplies and I want to get there before all of the jobs run out.”
As I came around the truck I saw my father stretched out on the ground with his back against the bed of the truck and my mother above him in the truck rearranging things as she was prone to do when she was restless.
“Ah! Bel! Did you bring me a plum to eat?” he grinned at me.
“Yes, Pa. There is plum-ty,” I smiled wryly at him.
“Arabella! Puns are not funny,” Ma scolded through a held back smile.
Pa grinned at me as he bit into a plum and juice dribbled down his chin. Ma began to complain that the daylight was draining as fast as a bathtub with no plug and that we’d better get going. We loaded the baskets into the truck, my parents climbed into the cab, I swung up into the bed and settled down amongst the blankets. The truck grudgingly started, and we drove off towards the next Hooverville to spend the night.
The stock market crashed in ‘29 and our lives crashed soon after. Pa had been a manager at vacuum company and we had enough money to live comfortably if not in complete luxury. Ma volunteered at the hospital up the street. I went to school with all my friends. My two older brothers teased me continuously. Our life was perfect. Then it fell apart. Pa lost his job, they couldn’t make their mortgage payments, Asher had to drop out of college, and we had to sell the house. My brothers, Wyatt and Asher, decided to hitchhike to California to get jobs before they were taken and our parents and I would follow in the truck (we had traded our car for it) with all our stuff. We would meet up in California. So we left our comfortable house in Pennsylvania and headed across the country.

That was 3 weeks ago, although it feels like years. I hope that by the end of this year we will have our own house again, and a car not a truck, and I will have friends that have houses I can bike to.

It was dark when we pulled into the run-down Hooverville and set up our tent. Ma and Pa told me to roll out my bed and that they would be back shortly. I didn’t even wait until their long shadows had left the canvas of the tent to quietly follow. They loped arm in arm towards to campfire in the middle of the camp where a motley crew had assembled to stare into the embers together. I found myself an inconspicuous place to squat down behind a water cask and eavesdrop into their conversation. The dust and smoke filled air burned my eyes and the gravel dug sharply into my bare feet. Why hadn’t I put my shoes back on before this escapade? Pa gently guided Ma to a log near a hunch-shouldered figure staring into the dying flames.

“Where you comin’ from?” Pa’s calm, reassuring voice quietly prodded the stranger.

“Ah, come from Ok’homa. Dust Bowl kicked us out and bit our heels whil’ we scurried ‘way. Went all the way to damned Calforna, worn’t no jobs thur. Nope. None. Now we just wandering ‘round. Not a clue nor a penny. ‘Ope this damned depression gets over real quick. We ain’t gunna hold out much longer,” his voice was weary, resigned, as though this story constantly occupied his head and he could tell in his sleep. He prolly did tell it in his sleep.

“Sir, are you sure there are absolutely no jobs there? None?” Pa voice seemed controlled, as though there was a certain amount of measured disbelief. Not enough to upset Ma, but enough to keep the poor man eager to convince Pa of his story.

“None. We drove all ‘round thur. None. All jobs are gone. And them that do got jobs be working for 4 cents a day. Ain’t able to live off that now, do ya?” the man seemed to be getting less interested in the conversation.

“You didn’t by chance cross paths with two youngsters by the names of Wyatt and Asher, did you sir?” 

“In fact I did. Them two younguns? Determined, but not a damned wit ‘bout them? Ya. We seen ‘em. They says to tell their Pa not to come. They says to say that theys got jobs a’right. But theys been working ‘most a month, and all theys gots is 4 bucks saved up, and they still starving. They says they give it to ya, but it ain’t wort it,” the man was certain. I was certainly convinced. There was a small scuffling noise. I peeked around the barrel, and saw the sad, strange man getting up and limp away into the darkness, headed for nothing. Not a tent, truck, person, nor even a knapsack. He disappeared without so much as a backward glance.

I saw Ma visibly shiver from here. She scooted closer to Pa and rested her head on his shoulder.

“Oh Charles,” her voice was weak and wavering, so unlike the strong, beautiful voice I knew as hers, “if that man was telling the truth, what in the good Lord’s name do we do?”

“Lucinda. My Lucy. I don’t know. He seemed quite sure of himself. I had suspected as such though, I’m afraid my dear. We are walking into the unknown. For all we know, there are more jobs in Montana then there are in California. But, if we don’t head to Cali, there is very little possibility that we will see Ash and Wy again,” calmness permeated the air. I could tell he was upset, but trying desperately not to upset Ma. 

“Oh my boys. Oh my,” silence fell like a boulder, I could feel it from there, “I suppose if we must not go to California, we must not,” though quiet, her voice was an almost fatal blow.

“You’ve already lost the baby, what else is there to lose? We’ve got as good as a chance of protecting Bel anywhere in the US as we’ve got in California,” strain filled his voice.

 “Yes. Yes. We will go. Where? North? South? Surely not where we came from?”

“We will go whichever way there is the least cars leaving.” Realizing that the conversation was about to end, I scampered back to the tent and curled up under my once prized coverlet, the knowledge of the recent conversation weighing heavily on my mind.

They walked into the tent a moment later and seemed to bring a tangible sadness with them. Ma bent down and stroked my cheek.

“Oh my Arabella. Oh my Bel.”

I felt a single tear drop hit my nose.

The morning light seemed to bring with it hope, assurance, and confidence. Pa woke me up by tickling my forehead with his moustache as he whispered,

“And and at ‘em Bel. The sooner we get out of here the sooner we can eat our plums. Yum,” surprisingly, his voice was smiling.

I groaned, but opened my eyes to see everything, even the tent was packed. Everything that is, but me. I stretched and hopped into the back of the truck as Pa tumbled my blanket in after me. We drove off in a cloud of sunlit, swirling dust with the anticipation of a plum ripe in my mind. 

As we bounced and bumped along the road, I couldn’t help but feel we were headed towards a bright future. Perhaps it was the sugar, but I could almost taste Pa’s job in front of us, and Wyatt and Asher hot on our trail behind us.

Copyright 2011 Abigail Chapman

The Green Place

This is the poem I wrote to accompany my Billy Collins study. It was in part inspired by his two poems "The Blue" and "Night Letter to the Reader".

I want to stay standing barefoot,
in the soft, newborn grass.
To watch the wind stir the aspens,
and listen to the leaves rustle contentedly.

The sun gazes down at me,
at another grain of sand squandering the earth.
Indifference clear upon her face,
she glides on,
leaving me standing in the shadows of my leafy companions.

Her light filters through the emerald growth,
casting stained glass images over my skin,
and illuminating the veins in the fronds,
like a patchwork quilt.

The wind meanders by,
receiving greeting from the vegetation,
as he brushes past my face,
he whispers
of the reasons to remain.

I want to stay here,
as a part of this world,
not of the mistakes
that the rest of humanity
has planted on the shoulders of their children.

Nature never seemed more alluring,
nor did mankind ever seem so splintered.

I consent to stand in this flawless place until
the moon has bathed everything in silver,
and melted back into a crescent.

The summer rains have come
and left the ground cleansed.
The garments of trees
have fallen in a blazing cascade.

The snow has made the world
plead for the warmth of spring to come again,
like a blank canvas
aches for the vivid hues of paint.

But are not our lives riddled
with unkept promises
and flaws impossible to dispose of?

I will return to reality,
brushing it like the feet of a dancer
who’s trying to fly,
and with my head in this scene.

I fold this place into a small square
to keep in a pocket of my head,
to visit when I become exasperated,
or when I am completely happy,
or when this is all over.

Copyright 2011 Abigail Chapman

Billy Collins!

In our Language Arts class our teacher gave us two full days of class and told us to "create or learn something". I studied Billy Collins' poetry. He was the US Poet Laureate 2001-2003 and the New York state Poet Laureate from 2004-2006. This is an excerpt from my project.


Lately I have found myself obsessed with Billy Collins’; addicted to the feeling of discovery and inspiration that forms after reading one of his poems. When I read one of his poems I feel as though I am looking into a mirror, the reflection of my mind. After further examination, I suddenly realize there is a thought or memory that has always been there, just never acknowledged. It is like he’s penning the extraneous strings of my thoughts into something tangible. Or perhaps his poems are like the water and sunlight for the of seeds of musings in my head, which germinate in response to the poem. Sometimes his poems seem rather bizarre and other-worldly, but then again, my thoughts don’t really ever fit together like puzzle pieces. His poems are so profound, and seem to inspire that indescribable expanding feeling in one’s chest.

Copyright 2011 Abigail Chapman

Dear Kevin Brockmeier,

This was for the writing contest: Letters About Literature. The prompt was to write a letter to the author of book that has changed your life. I wrote to Kevin Brockmeier, the author of The Brief History of the Dead.

Dear Kevin Brockmeier,

Until recently, I felt severed from the world, existing mostly in my own mind. It’s not that the real world didn’t hold anything of interest, it was just so much easier to observe from the safety of my own thoughts. More and more I found myself caring only about perfecting the creations in my mind, as opposed to dealing with the tangible world. I didn’t care when my sister did stupid, dangerous things, only that it wouldn’t affect my thoughts. She brashly put herself in danger without regard for anyone that might care for her. She made stupid decisions that proved her obvious disdain for any sort of responsibility, maturity, and caution. She was the dictionary definition of a hedonist. She was walking backwards down her life so as not to see the almost certain destruction in the future. And I still quietly wrapped myself in a cocoon, blinding myself.

When I read The Brief History of the Dead, what struck me the most was its bizarreness. It seemed to be a long forgotten jar of glue, holding the strangeness of the real world to the eccentricity of the electrical impulses in my head. I quickly bonded with the disconnected Laura and her scatter-brained, intricate intellect. Laura found some sort of chaotic calmness in all of her memories and the jumbles of her thoughts. She had to emerge from her mind and deal with the harsh Antarctic, to not only keep herself alive, but help others survive. It was easier for her to do so while living with an army of thoughts in her head. Yet, she remained anchored to both places. I found Laura blazing a trail through every crevice of my mind. She showed me our similarities, and our differences where she had taken the correct fork in the road and I had chosen to seclude myself even further. The journeys, trials, and personalities of each person in the City accompanied her, and began to represent the shards of places in my mind.

I haltingly came to the conclusion that as a society, we are very interdependent. I am forced, without consent, into the world. Laura depends on her real-world memories to survive. Likewise the people in the City rely on Laura to emerge from those thoughts and trek through the tundra. As for me, I would much prefer to stay in my own fantasies, and yet, people still need me. My sister still needs me to inhibit her from willingly “leaping off the deep end.” She needs me to care, and to make her hold hands with her consequences.

And in my own almost imperceptible way, I add diversity to this world. Since the world has billions of personalities, we have to carefully examine ourselves and discern exactly who we are in all of that cacophony.  You weaved a story of people depending on each other across worlds, and possibly even time. As in an orchestra, if just one musician is willingly missing, the entire web wrinkles very slightly. Thank you for showing me that I can’t seclude myself inside my picturesque mind, for showing me that I need the world, and that the world needs me.

Sincere thanks,

Abbi Chapman

Copyright 2011 Abigail Chapman