Wednesday, December 28, 2005
DON'T FORGET!
Don't forget to pick up something to use as a writer's notebook this semester. Also, keep your eyes open for things that will fuel a possible story. What you write about could be around you right now!
Saturday, December 10, 2005
NHS Basketball
So I'm using my blog as a shameless promotion for our athletics. We have a home game Friday night against Airport and I want to see a full student section! Coach Scott is going to rope off an area just for you and you need to take advantage. Don't you think its time that we make our gym a terrible place to visit? Chapin did it to us last night, and we need to stand up and take notes. Come by my room after school Friday to make some posters and I'll see you at the game!
Thank you!
I feel like each of you that has posted your memoir has taken me to your home and given me an inside look. I loved it...even the not-so-pretty stuff. Thanks for taking me home with you!
Tuesday, November 29, 2005
2nd Block Holiday Memoirs
The steeple of the Old North Church loomed ahead of us as we wandered aimlessly through the North End of Boston. We strolled past the cafes and bistros of Little Italy, smelling the warm scents of fresh pasta and olive oil. We continued our wandering until we met the base of the church that played such a major role in the Revolution. It was here that we found what we were looking for--a cozy coffee shop perfect for three weary tourists.
I've always felt that you should visit the small hole-in-the-wall joints when traveling. Its the only true way to get a feel for the city. This is where you can sit back and watch the locals interact and learn all that they have to teach you. This was one of those places. Our ears were greeted by the sharp Boston accent the second we entered the room. The shop was small and dim, with a bar featuring pastries and latte flavorings and half-empty bottles of wine stretching down one side. The opposing wall featured the small round tables that you can only find in coffee shops.
The best of these was occupied by two old men, obviously regulars, who were playfully harassing the kid behind the counter. He laughed and returned their jabs with ease. Their easy banter made us feel immediately at ease. Removing our many outer layers, we quickly found a corner table and ordered warm drinks to fill our cold insides.
We sat in the small coffee shop, sipping our lattes and reliving our adventures of the morning. We laughed at other tourists wandering by the window in the freezing afternoon. We laughed with old men when one of them spilled his coffee and decided to swith to Budweiser. We took pictures in front of the wall plaque that read, "At this site in 1897, nothing happened." We warmed up completely in that cozy shop until it was time to head back out into the streets.
We bundled up against the biting winds sweeping off the Bay and, waving our good-byes and thank yours, headed towards downtown. Just two steps out the door, it hit us. Snow! It was snowing! Looking up, millions of soft, white snowflakes danced down from the graying sky to shower on us there in the North End of Boston.
I've always felt that you should visit the small hole-in-the-wall joints when traveling. Its the only true way to get a feel for the city. This is where you can sit back and watch the locals interact and learn all that they have to teach you. This was one of those places. Our ears were greeted by the sharp Boston accent the second we entered the room. The shop was small and dim, with a bar featuring pastries and latte flavorings and half-empty bottles of wine stretching down one side. The opposing wall featured the small round tables that you can only find in coffee shops.
The best of these was occupied by two old men, obviously regulars, who were playfully harassing the kid behind the counter. He laughed and returned their jabs with ease. Their easy banter made us feel immediately at ease. Removing our many outer layers, we quickly found a corner table and ordered warm drinks to fill our cold insides.
We sat in the small coffee shop, sipping our lattes and reliving our adventures of the morning. We laughed at other tourists wandering by the window in the freezing afternoon. We laughed with old men when one of them spilled his coffee and decided to swith to Budweiser. We took pictures in front of the wall plaque that read, "At this site in 1897, nothing happened." We warmed up completely in that cozy shop until it was time to head back out into the streets.
We bundled up against the biting winds sweeping off the Bay and, waving our good-byes and thank yours, headed towards downtown. Just two steps out the door, it hit us. Snow! It was snowing! Looking up, millions of soft, white snowflakes danced down from the graying sky to shower on us there in the North End of Boston.
2nd Block Memoirs Comments/Questions
Use this section to post questions/comments about what you have read from 2nd block.
3rd Block Memoirs Comments/Questions
Use this section to react to what you have read from the third block students.
4th Block Holiday Memoirs
Next Stop: Wonderland
We struggled to stand as we clutched the rail at the top of the T. It was rush hour and we were on our way downtown for shopping and sight-seeing. I wanted to take advantage of everything that Boston had to offer. As we rode, my sister regaled the entire train with tales of her own adventures since moving away from South Carolina. I couldn't help but laugh as she remembered her worst T ride ever.
"I was on my way back from the airport after fall break," she said, her eyes crinkling with laughter. We are so loud when we get together, and I know that we were getting some looks from the other passengers. "I had my huge suitcase all loaded up, because I was bringing back clothes from home. I got on the T during rush hour and there was not a seat to be had. Would you believe it that no one got up to offer me one?"
I reminded her that it was her decision to go to seminary up North instead of at Duke or Emory, but she brushed it off. I can tell by her new haircut and her stylish winter coat and her rosy cheeks that she has found home. Its a mixed feeling for me--I am so glad that she is happy, but I know in my heart that my sister won't be coming back to South Carolina. I know this as well as I know that I am content not leaving South Carolina, and that knowledge weighs heavy on my heart.
She continued to describe how she struggled to get on the train with her suitcase and how she struggled to balance with it.
"Wouldn't you know that the damn train took off and I fell on my butt with my suitcase on top of me?" We howled with the image that this put in our minds, knowing that my sister is not the most graceful creature in the world.
"What in the world did you do?" I gasped, tears just beginning to seep from the corners of my eyes, evidence of the side-splitting laughter her story called for.
"I sat there. In fact, I even said out loud, 'Well, I guess I'll just sit here til the damn thing stops.' And that is just what I did."
"Please tell me someone took pity and helped you up."
"Nope. They barely looked up and no one even cracked a smile. Welcome to Boston!"
I laughed and gave her a loving squeeze. "I would help you up, you know. After, I had horse-laughed you all the way to the next T stop, of course, but I would have helped you up."
She laughed and returned my smirk, matching my raised eyebrows as only a sister can.
We struggled to stand as we clutched the rail at the top of the T. It was rush hour and we were on our way downtown for shopping and sight-seeing. I wanted to take advantage of everything that Boston had to offer. As we rode, my sister regaled the entire train with tales of her own adventures since moving away from South Carolina. I couldn't help but laugh as she remembered her worst T ride ever.
"I was on my way back from the airport after fall break," she said, her eyes crinkling with laughter. We are so loud when we get together, and I know that we were getting some looks from the other passengers. "I had my huge suitcase all loaded up, because I was bringing back clothes from home. I got on the T during rush hour and there was not a seat to be had. Would you believe it that no one got up to offer me one?"
I reminded her that it was her decision to go to seminary up North instead of at Duke or Emory, but she brushed it off. I can tell by her new haircut and her stylish winter coat and her rosy cheeks that she has found home. Its a mixed feeling for me--I am so glad that she is happy, but I know in my heart that my sister won't be coming back to South Carolina. I know this as well as I know that I am content not leaving South Carolina, and that knowledge weighs heavy on my heart.
She continued to describe how she struggled to get on the train with her suitcase and how she struggled to balance with it.
"Wouldn't you know that the damn train took off and I fell on my butt with my suitcase on top of me?" We howled with the image that this put in our minds, knowing that my sister is not the most graceful creature in the world.
"What in the world did you do?" I gasped, tears just beginning to seep from the corners of my eyes, evidence of the side-splitting laughter her story called for.
"I sat there. In fact, I even said out loud, 'Well, I guess I'll just sit here til the damn thing stops.' And that is just what I did."
"Please tell me someone took pity and helped you up."
"Nope. They barely looked up and no one even cracked a smile. Welcome to Boston!"
I laughed and gave her a loving squeeze. "I would help you up, you know. After, I had horse-laughed you all the way to the next T stop, of course, but I would have helped you up."
She laughed and returned my smirk, matching my raised eyebrows as only a sister can.
4th Block Holiday Memoirs Comments/Questions
Use this section to react to what you have read from the fourth block students.
A Definition of Reading...
As part of one of my graduate courses, I am reading the Probst book, Response and Analysis: Teaching Literature in Secondary School. I recently encountered one of the most beautiful definitions of reading that I have ever read (written by Alberto Manguel)...
The readers of books, into who family I was unknowingly entering (we always think that we are alone in each discovery, and that every experience, from death to birth is terrifyingly unique), extend or concentrate a function common to us all. Reading letters on a page is only one of its many guises. The astronomer reading a map of stars that no longer exists; the Japanese architect reading the land on which a house is to be built so as to guard it from evil forces; the zoologist reading the spoor of animals in the forest; the card-player reading her partner's gestures before playing the winning card; the dancer reading the choreographer's notations, and the public reading the dancer's movements on the stage; the weaver reading the intricate design of a carpet being woven; the organ-player reading various simultaneous strands of music orchestrated on the page; the parent reading the baby's face for signs of joy or fright, or wonder; the Chinese fortune-teller reading the ancient marks on the shell of a tortoise; the psychiatrist helping patients read their own bewhildering dreams; the Hawaiian fisherman reading the ocean currents by plunging a hand into the water; the farmer reading the weather in the sky--all these share with book-readers the craft of deciphering and translating signs. Some of these readings are couloured by the knowledge that the thing read was created for this specific purpose by other human beings--music notation or road signs, for instance--or by the gods--the tortoise shell, the sky at night. Others belong to chance.
And yet in every case, it is the reader who reads the sense; it is the reader who grants or recognizes in an object, place, or event a certain possible readability; it is the reader who must attribute meanign to a system of signs, and then decipher it. We all read ourselves and the world around us in order to glimpse what and where we are. We read to understand, or to begin to understand. We cannot do but read. Reading, almost as much as breathing, is our essential function.
What would you add to this definition? What is reading to you?
The readers of books, into who family I was unknowingly entering (we always think that we are alone in each discovery, and that every experience, from death to birth is terrifyingly unique), extend or concentrate a function common to us all. Reading letters on a page is only one of its many guises. The astronomer reading a map of stars that no longer exists; the Japanese architect reading the land on which a house is to be built so as to guard it from evil forces; the zoologist reading the spoor of animals in the forest; the card-player reading her partner's gestures before playing the winning card; the dancer reading the choreographer's notations, and the public reading the dancer's movements on the stage; the weaver reading the intricate design of a carpet being woven; the organ-player reading various simultaneous strands of music orchestrated on the page; the parent reading the baby's face for signs of joy or fright, or wonder; the Chinese fortune-teller reading the ancient marks on the shell of a tortoise; the psychiatrist helping patients read their own bewhildering dreams; the Hawaiian fisherman reading the ocean currents by plunging a hand into the water; the farmer reading the weather in the sky--all these share with book-readers the craft of deciphering and translating signs. Some of these readings are couloured by the knowledge that the thing read was created for this specific purpose by other human beings--music notation or road signs, for instance--or by the gods--the tortoise shell, the sky at night. Others belong to chance.
And yet in every case, it is the reader who reads the sense; it is the reader who grants or recognizes in an object, place, or event a certain possible readability; it is the reader who must attribute meanign to a system of signs, and then decipher it. We all read ourselves and the world around us in order to glimpse what and where we are. We read to understand, or to begin to understand. We cannot do but read. Reading, almost as much as breathing, is our essential function.
What would you add to this definition? What is reading to you?
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