Nice to meet you all. I think we have a solid class this term!
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A place for Writing 12 students to read each other's writing, to critique, to suggest, to improve.
About Me
- Brad
- Former adult teacher who loves island beaches. Happy homebody and family man; once devoted dog owner, now without Tashi, my Tibetan Terrier. I prefer the absurdity of the imagination to the absurdity of imagining nothing.
9 comments:
Charles Gavin Hyde
born in Vancouver on April 6 1912; died August 4, 2010 in Nanaimo
Gav used to ride with his brothers on a sleigh barreling at almost 60 miles an hour down Royal Oak Avenue in Burnaby towards the Fraser River. He laid gravel at the bottom to slow it down.
Perhaps that’s why he skied Silver Star near Vernon until 92, thousands of vertical feet on 90 to 100 days a year, carving through powder snow. He had always hated skiing the wet and slow runs at Whistler during his working years in Burnaby so, at the age of 65, he moved up to Westbank, bought a condo on the mountain and started into 27 years of post-retirement skiing.
Gav was a big man with size 13 feet, an occasional problem when he needed a new pair of ski boots in the early days. He and his brothers were ski pioneers on Hollyburn Mountain near Vancouver. Along with his brother Harry, Gav built several cabins up on the mountain but the most-lamented was the one that had looked out over the Capilano Reservoir, the one that had to be taken down because it was on the watershed.
In the 1920s, he took the streetcar to downtown Vancouver, a ferry across to Lonsdale and then another streetcar to the bottom of Hollyburn. Then he walked up, ash skis slung over his shoulder, into the open alpine above the city.
Conditions were rough, but Gav loved to be up the mountain and he loved to ski. When his nephew Brad started cross country skiing on Hollyburn in the 70s, he’d remarked that he would much rather ski down and take a chairlift back up the run. Gav took his nephew to Whistler for some proper downhill skiing, carefully noting how many vertical feet were done that day. And, Gav would stand, patiently waiting for him at the bottom of every run after he’d carved his lazy turns along the side, away from the moguls, making it look effortless well into his 80s.
—327 words
When the new kid came to the school, his unusual appearance immediately caught everybody’s attention. Six feet tall, with long arms and legs, he looked thinner than he was. To some little kids, the way of his walk was funny--he did not walk, he strode--that was why he got a nick name: beanpole. The other funny thing about him was his voice--it was soft and slow as if it did not come from his throat, but a docile girl’s.
Unlike other boys, he did not enjoy prank, yet he did not even fight back when he was targeted. In other kids’ eyes, he was a scapegoat, a target, a punching bag, or all in all--a beanpole. Therefore, he was often hounded, badgered, parroted by other kids, especially boys. But he seemed never bothered by their beastly behaviors. Instead, he responded their ill treatment with an sheepish grin.
He was a miserable lonely kid in the school. No one wanted to be his acquaintance. However, things turned around when the basketball season was coming. he was the best shooter in the game and he once scored 32 points all by himself. He became a star in the playground.
Many kids lionized him. They followed him, called his name. Some young kids even stumbled when they tried to imitate his nimble movement. They still called him beanpole, but he was no longer miserable and lonely. He was the hero in his school. And he, the unusual kid I ever knew, is my husband’s nephew.
256 words
-Describing a person:
In her brain said, “Do you want to go through the rough time again? Have you already forgotten your horrible years?”
As she entered her elementary school, the usual torment began because her classmates always called her “AIDS.” Of course she didn’t know what that means, but as the years progressed, she noticed what that means, it meant that whatever she touched it, it was contagious, and she believed that innocently. So even when she tries to speak, her classmates immediately backed up, or they dispersed. Soon at school, she was marked with “A kid with AIDS,” and everyone knew what that meant. One day, when her teacher asked her to read for the class, she stumbled, she stuttered as if she didn’t know how to say and at the break, her classmates made her fun out of her reading skills. Because of that reason, she became a shy person soon and that affected her personality greatly.
Years later when she moved to Canada, she was afraid even to go in front of the class when to make a presentation. As the years passed, she became a senior, and when she heard she had a spare time, she was very excited, but she struggled it at the same time because in her heart she wanted to be a TA (Teaching Assistant), but in her brain said, “Do you want to go through the rough times again? Have you already forgotten your elementary school years?” She of course struggled it and she made a decision of becoming a TA finally. When her TA’s term was almost over, her teacher called her over and said, “I know you are a shy person, and I can always give you an F. But you know what? I don’t want to give you an F because I know what you’re capable of.” And after he said it, she cried and became a confident person.
Do you know who that person is? Here’s a hint: she’s in your class.
-314 words.
My Father
Imagine being a young adult and deciding to leave all your possessions, family, friends, culture and language all for the hope of a better quality of life. Only brave and courageous men venture forth to a strange wilderness of opportunity called Canada, one of those being my father. A tallish, slender man with a noticeable belly, my father originally came from a very small mountainous town in Italy. He set sail for his new Canadian life in the early 1950s working in the grueling labour camps of Northern Manitoba laying track for the Canadian National Railway. He once told me he had to endure the long and hard work shifts with swarms of black flies so thick that they got into everything, eyes, ears, hair, food, drink, clothes, sanity.
My father was no stranger to hardships. Growing up in a poor family without his father, he lived his pre-adolescence years during the Second World War, a period of time that would see him and his family struggle for survival in a war torn environment riddled with fear, death and starvation. I think this is what gave him the strength and courage to leave everything behind and head to a brand new country and start over with brand new ideas and brand new hopes of a better life for his future family. I still remember when I was a small bambino he would come home from a hard day at the mill, still smelling of sawdust and sweat. He wouldn’t even get a chance to take off his work boots when my sister and I would jump on him and gave him a big hug. We didn’t know it at the time, we just missed him, but he was doing it all for us.
-295 words
He walked around like there was nothing to fret. Just another day; in this mundane life of his. No one really noticed him and he was starting to wonder if he really existed. Everyday he would stop a local civilian for a simple hello, but they would just pass him by. He wouldn't even get a touch of eye contact. He would come home, no one would acknowledge him. A meal on the table? in his dreams maybe. He was always told that he took life for granted - everything that he experienced some something any other child could dream of. He never said his thank you, pleases, nothing. He was the type of person who you would see walking down the street, and feel like you needed to cross the street. He carried himself in a very nonchalant manner, didn't follow any rules, taking up as much of the sidewalk as he possibly could, screaming violent profane words at the poor old ladies just trying to make it another day. He wasn't someone anyone wanted to be around. But if you were to take one good look at his face - he really didn't look like a thug, or a hoodlum - or whatever you choose to label him. He had long sandy blond hair that was pulled away from his face, a button nose and baby blue eyes - any grandma's perfect little grandson. His looks did not suit the attitude that he tended to carry on his back - and that is defiantly what had got him into his trouble. He came from a wealthy family, had all the necessities of life - but chose to abuse these luxuries. It all went down hill at a party his friends had decided to throw. He walked in and the first thing he noticed was the aged stench of marijuana in the air, and saw white lines of something powdery on the table; this was nothing he had experienced before. He thought it would be cool to follow the trend. Never did he think that it would be the death of him.
- 353 Words
P.S. This was not based on any true circumstances … just to avoid any confusion!
Charles is a middle-aged man in our office. He has some grey hair like many men at his age. He wears an old suit full of wrinkles with a thick leather patch on each sleeve elbow. His suit looks dirty either because its brown color or because its excessive wear. He doesn’t talk much. If possible he uses his reluctant smile instead of speaking. When he really needs to talk, he lowers his head and mumbles; sometime it is hard to tell if he is talking to someone else or himself.
This dull morning, he rushes into our office with heavy breath. He looks helpless, tired, exhausted, messy. He wears a black leather shoe on his left foot and a white running shoe on his right. Nobody laughs but we all stare. He lowers his head with a long sigh:”oh, too many kids!”
A Veteran
The twilight shone orange on his face--made the furrows deeper, and on his baldhead--made the rough top brighter. His shadow on the ground drew his 5.6 feet medium height looked as tall as a giant. His dark eyes showed no longer ambitious but warm and kind. The sweat dropped from his forehead across the lines (formed and shown on the appearance of this 80-year-old man) on the skin (tanned and parched by the sun, the rain, and the wind year by year), and then slipped by the two sides of bold eyebrows along his high cheeks toward the square chin down to wet a patch on his chest of the dusty grey shirt while he was stooping down to hoist something valuable out from a wagon that was just pushed back home.
The wagon was like his treasure box. Every day after dark, he took the copper wires out of broken machines or components of devices--collected from the neighbours and nearby factory--from his treasure box. On his return, he also picked up bottles, cans, newspapers, cardboards, on the sidewalks, around the bus stands, from the garbage bins, wherever he could find one reusable. He had been doing recycling since he retired from a factory. All his friends persuaded him to enjoy the so-called retired life, yet he frowned and pouted, "I'm still very robust. Stopping working gets me sick."
He actually was not really alone, although he never saw his parents in Jang Su since the age of 15 when the army called for him. He following the KMT force retreated from China to Taiwan in 1949. After leaving the army with his rank of Colonel, he once owned and managed a hotel with one of his friends. However, his partner was so dishonest that their business finally closed; he went bankrupt as well. He depressed for quite a while, but a voice whirling in his head "I've experienced so many wars. Nothing will defeat me." Finally he got a labor job in an electric machinery factory. He worked very hard and was honoured for an exemplary worker.
In 1987, he backed to Ru Gao to see his parents, but what in front of him were only the tombs two abreast. They had passed away in the period of the Cultural Revolution. He never wanted to return China again because everything had changed; it was not the place he knew in his childhood. He was the only child in his family, and he had settled in Taiwan for most of his life. "My home is here (Taiwan)," he always said.
He had no his own child. Even though he was not rich, he donated a part of his money to the orphanages regularly and decided to leave all his saving to the orphans when he died. His eyes sparkled with hope while he looked at those children.
--478 words
She is not very tall, 5 feet or so and has freckle all over her nose. She definitely has a different dress sense from the rest of her group. She usually wears boots with floral designs and tight tops with open shirts outside. She likes to carry a big backpack in comparison to her slim body. That is exactly her image in my mind. She likes beautiful dresses, wears make-up always, love concerts, obsess about TV programs, parties with her classmates and drinks coffee at Starbucks. Can you guess who she is so far? She is my 66 years old mother. For people lives in Canada, you will not find that strange or unusual. But my mother was born in 1944 and has been living in Beijing and gone through Mao’s era. She never travelled abroad. She is absolutely different from her group wherever she stands out.
She likes to make notes and always keeps a notebook in her bag. She will write down her feelings whenever she feels something. One day, I realized I am exactly the same and as spontaneous as my mom. After I grew up, I didn’t agree with her a lot, but she has had an affect my whole life, what I like, what I think, without consciousness.
I still remember that day, when I was 8 years old and lived in a community 5 blocks away from my mother’s work place. It started raining at about 5pm. A few kids took umbrellas and waited for their parents at company gate. They wanted to do their parents a favor and get some praise from them also. As a kid, I intimated them and waited for my mother at the same place with an umbrella just like the others. When the workers came out seeing their kids with umbrella waiting for them, made them feel so happy. But my mother said, “I never like umbrellas, let’s walk between the rain drops. At that moment I didn’t quite understand what she said except be upset. After I grew up, I have realized that my life is just like walking between the rain drops.
My grandfather is one of the toughest and the most respectable people I have ever known. He was born in a landlord family, and this caused both his fortune and misfortune. He was well-educated because of his wealthy father. His life seemed to have no obstacles until many years later when people in China started not to be judged by morality but class. My grandfather figured out his own way to protest the unfair treatment and torture he received; He had committed suicide, but others found and rescued him on time. After that, he decided to face the difficulties fearlessly otherwise his enemies would be happy to see him perished.
As he became older, the government revised the judicial policy and proved him innocent. However, sickness due to aging became a problem plaguing him a lot. He was totally shock when he was diagnosed with throat cancer. Then a traditional doctor told him he might be cured if he jogged everyday with a pair of iron shoes. He accepted that advice without any hesitation and persisted to do so even the shoes caused his feet injured. His effort was not wasted as he recovered from cancer with his jogging perspiration.
As time went on, I came to this world; I am grateful that there were a few years left for me to spend with him. He was the man who walked me to kindergarten each morning and welcomed me home every afternoon. He used his shaky hands to fold paper toys for me. They were so delicate that I couldn’t believe how skilful he was. I will keep one of them, which took him so many days to complete, forever. Later on, another type of cancer was like a haunting ghost who finally caught him, and he died after struggling for a while. I was not even allowed to see him for the last time because my parents reckoned that I would be overwhelmed by the sorrow. Ernest Hemingway said,” A man can be destroyed but not defeated.” It fittingly portrays my grandfather, a man who had no regrets and never gave up. I admire him so much, and I wish I could be like him. He is my idol forever!
—371 words
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